#azandcas

[raayllum]

I SAW THAT UPDATE. I SAW CH 15. YOU FIEND HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME. I AM A STOIC WARRIOR. I DO NOT CRY. I WILL NOT.

it’s okay i can cry enough for all of us. this is basically me at the end of every chapter and/or emotional scene in “if time is money,” truly:

[azissuffering]

requests?

art prompt, anyone? i am drawing a blank. first come first serve.

[sunstone-nerding]

Nice drawings, @azandcas!

Welp. That concludes my entire afternoon.

_____

@azandcas, an afternoon most delightfully spent.

mmm that hug looks so nice

[ask-ethari-anything]

According to the creators, Ethari gets headaches from working in the forge. As per the genius of my muse @ask-ethari-anything, big dorky #cheerpods 

[hoothalcyon]

@poems-and-pillows-and-puppies @fizzylemones @azandcas Y’ALL PLEASE MAKE A GC I LOVE YOU BUT-

my dashboard is just you guys and ily but 🥺🥺

[azissuffering]

quick sketch of nehemia with new wacom tablet i mooched off my brother! thats what birthdays are for after all

[dragonnguard]

I haven’t done a fanfic shout-out in a while so uhhhhhhh thank you for your writing it truly makes me sooooooo happy

@beautifulterriblequeen

@jellyjay (saw this on your page but w/e)

@tenspontaneite

@zuppizup

@azandcas (you best be taking this compliment)

@deetheteadrinkingdragon

@generalsamayas

@galactiklance

@spiritypowers

@little-red-alchemist-of-doom

@raayllum

@funkytoes

That feeling tho when you find that fic writer that just absolutely fucking

understands the characters to their core

writes so well they–just so–they just—their writing is—-THEY WRITE GOOD

shatters your bad mood with a new update

writes a fic that you can read over again and still clutch at your heart like HOLY SHIT I FUCKING LOVE–I LOVE THIS FIC

writes a scene that has you all giddy in public and that one random stranger asks you like “ooo you are smiling :) :) is that a boy :) you are talking to :)” and you’re like “no I’m reading a Everybody Lives/Nobody Dies AU, please leave”

understands and portrays the characters better than the people who make MOVIES with those characters

amazing. just amazing. fic writers are awesome

[ask-runaan-anything]

The floofs return.

______________

And get up to shenanigans, I see. Time for a bit more training. Tethu has far more patience than I do for these cuties, @azandcas

[ask-ethari-anything]

Tethu and Runaan’s kittens.

______

Fluffy found family! Thank you for this precious softness, @azandcas! The kittens absolutely sit on Tethu’s shoulders so they can feel big and tall!

[azissuffering]

Anger is a Curse - TOG Fanfic (Rowaelin)

I’ve finally returned to the TOG world! YAY!

"Aelin, calm down."

Fae females were far more aggressive than males. That much, Rowan knew. Sure, males had the added effects of testosterone and instinct strong enough to require personal training, but as Aelin liked to say that was all "showy shit." Females didn't have shoulders big as melons, or arms they could swing (unintentionally) and wreck a door with. Their strength lay beneath the surface, in some strange concentrated form, as he knew from countless experiences in the sparring room, flying through the air and landing flat on his ass. Just because they were smaller didn't mean they were any less vicious, far more so since idiot men, enraptured by their beauty, were so keen on underestimating just how far that muscle went. Rowan had always liked to think of females as dogs — you know, the little rabid kinds that yip and bark at your heels before sinking a mouth chock-full of needles into the fleshy bits around your calf. Unfortunately for him, Aelin was a dog with one hell of a bite.

"I will not calm down!" She snapped her teeth, seemingly beyond words.

Rowan fought the urge to take a step back and forced his voice into a semblance of calm. "You're being unreasonable."

Aelin snarled and began pacing at a furious rate. The way she was at it, she'd set fire to their bedroom floor, or at least render it hot enough for cooking. The sunlight had squeezed in through the fabric draped across the broad planes of their windows, a weak thing so late in the evening. Even still, the fury was quite clear on his wife's face.

Another growl echoed through the room, louder and with frustration coloring every note.

He gave a little sigh. They'd been married for ten years now, and even now he was wary of her rage.

Aelin halted on the purple carpet, half-turned away from him, fists clenched. "I hate that man."

"Aelin, he —"

She whirled on him, eyes flashing. "He insulted my family," she spat.

A sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. He knew it wasn't his place to be upset, but he was just so tired of her temper. "Aelin," he massaged his temples, "I think I'm going to have to leave until you're out of this mood. I can't talk to you when you're like this —"

She was on him before he could finish his sentence, hands gripping his neck and abdomen caging him in against the wall. His lips parted at the sheer fury radiating off of her body. It was in the wild spark to her eye, the way her fangs hovered half an inch above his neck, her muscles trembling, as if she could barely keep her instincts at bay.

Rowan.

Her voice was a whisper in his mind.

Stop talking.

His mouth snapped shut.

In the following silence, he was acutely aware of the sharpness of her breaths, his own lungs straining for air, the unrelenting grip of her fingers on his neck. An abrupt thought left him dizzy and slightly nauseous. She could kill me, if she wanted to.

But just as he'd thought it, a jolt went through her and suddenly she was halfway across the room. Her eyes were wide, breaths short — in other words, the perfect expression of horror.

Rowan pushed himself off the wall, still a bit shaky. He drew his tongue across his teeth, tasting for blood. There was none, but... His hand tentatively brushed the skin of his neck, and he pulled back, hissing. So she hadn't let up at all, then.

"Rowan," she murmured and took a half-step towards him.

He glanced up at her, noticed that her face was still aghast, and then his own anger was bubbling to the surface. What right did she have to be worried when she'd damn near killed him? He was about to snap out those very words, but he hadn't lived three centuries only to let his mouth run ahead of him. So he bit down on his tongue and waited.

Aelin had not moved closer, had instead seated herself against the wall, knees drawn to chest, watching him. Her anger seemed to have abated, at least for the time being, so he felt safe in approaching. Silence was what he offered as he sat beside her.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Again, he was silent.

"I didn't mean to —" She took a shuddering breath. "I don't know what happened."

He was struck by a memory, of centuries ago, when the land had been greener and mankind lesser. Then, there had been more fae, and more fae meant more fae children. He had been one of them, and growing up had been...hard, to say the least. Instinct ran deep in his veins, just as it did in any other of his kind, and self-discipline was taught rather than expected. He'd been, oh, seventeen summers when he'd first killed someone out of pure, blind rage. He'd been having a bad day, the unfortunate lad had taunted him one too many times, and then he'd been dead. That was it. Magic aside, Rowan had been quite normal for a male: no malicious intent, no homicidal tendencies.

But even still, that had been cold-blooded murder.

Rowan brushed Aelin's hand with his own, willing her to continue.

At his touch, she seemed to find the strength to look at him. Her eyes tracked the lines of his face, the slope of his brow, his nose, lips, a pause...and then they slipped to just above his collarbone. Rowan suppressed a snarl when her fingers brushed that same sore spot.

"I left marks," she breathed. She retracted her hand. "Shit. Shit."

"Why are you so angry?" Rowan asked.

She swore again. "I don't know, Rowan. Maybe because I almost killed you."

He gave a half-smile. "You know I would've killed you right back."

Aelin opened her mouth, closed it. An incredulous laugh burst out of her. "You would say that."

"I meant why were you angry before," he clarified

She sobered. "He insulted my family."

"You've said that twice now, but he never once mentioned your parents." Rowan said this, ignoring the fact that it sounded crass because he was sure that Aelin would be aware that he knew.

"I..." A grimace. "I've never told anyone this. But my parents..." She sighed, faced him fully, and stated, "Well, I didn't know them."

"No shit."

She shoved him. "I'm trying to be serious, here!"

"Go on, then."

"So I didn't know them. Because of that, I think, the word "family" has always been a title designated only to those that really matter. From all the hundreds of people I've met, I could only call you, Aedion, Lysandra, and Dorian my family." The gold in her eyes gleamed when she said, "Not two dead people."

Rowan looked at her.

As soon as the words had left her mouth, she ducked her head and stifled an affronted giggle. "Shit. I didn't mean for it to come out like that."

Rowan squinted. "It kind of did, though."

She snapped her gaze to his, relaxed when she realized he was joking. "Rowan, I almost just killed you, bared my soul to you, and the most you've done is lay your obnoxious "I'm-too-stupid-to-understand-you-so-I'm-going-to-play-it-off-as-if-I'm-better-than-you" act on me."

He raised a brow. "I must be a remarkable actor. Didn't even practice that one."

Aelin let out a disgusted snort and stood up. "Ugh. I don't know why I even bother."

[hoothalcyon]

@sufferingsoup @azandcas @poems-and-pillows-and-puppies @kaia001 @dragonnguard @thenerdyalchemist @fizzylemones

i feel like u guys would enjoy this

[ask-runaan-anything]

Well, I drew Ethari’s shadowpaw, so I had to draw something for you as well! This is my first attempt at drawing in three months, so I hope you like it :)

__________

You don’t know how happy this makes me, @azandcas. The tiniest proof that Ethari and I ever existed moves my soul, and here you’ve sketched us together, staring deeply and lovingly, bound to one another by Ethari’s pendant. It’s beautiful. You’ve made us real once again. Thank you!

[ask-ethari-anything]

Here is puppythari enjoying the last snow of spring to console myself after art loss.

_______

@azandcas, I’m going to need that wake for myself, as I have died of the softs! Such an earnest little boy! I love and support him. Puppy! *buries my nose in his fur*

[illyriantremors]

UGH, I just, OMG I LOVE YOUR FICS SO MUCH. It's not even fair! I'm so excited for smutty smut week. Mm mm *eyebrows* I just wanted to say how much I love this stuff and it makes my day and I love you and now I'm rambling. Have a lovely, lovely day, and keep the smuts coming. ;)

LOL What have I started? I will try my darndest to make smutty smut week happen for you! Thank you for all the loveliness, babe. I hope you have a wonderful, smut-tastic day as well! I’ll be sure to keep the smuts coming.

[azissuffering]

Her Spark is a Flame, Her Fire a Blaze - ACOTAR Fanfic (Feysand)

I died for a month and didn’t post. This happens all the time. But suddenly I was struck with inspiration, and it pulled me from my comatose, and here I am. AU, I think?? But whatevs, super vague world- and plot-building as always. You figure it out.

The first time they met, she was dressed in white.

It really didn't suit her, he thought. Her skin was too-pale against the sheer fabric, her cheeks flushed an ugly red and her eyes dulled to gray pinpricks. Nobody else seemed to notice. The servants bowed their heads respectfully, some falling to their knees in what was surely an over exaggeration of propriety. Not even the square-jawed prince, the keeper of the Lady's leash, took note, nor the red-haired dog that lapped at his feet.

"I want a painting," said the Prince, voice cold as his eyes, emerald pools that went deep and dark and down.

Rhysand kept his tone demure, as surely the lady's was to be soon enough. "Of course, My Lord," he said from where he knelt on the marble steps. "And what would I be painting?" He said what, though he already knew the subject of his brush, for surely she was not a creature of this world to be so beautiful, even bedecked in such glib frippery. Even with cheeks hollowed thin and shadows framing her eyes, dark as her lashes.

The Prince pulled his wife towards him with a lazy arm about her shoulders, motion expectant and entitled. Rhysand almost missed her flinch. "My lovely wife," the Prince said, turning to gaze upon her face. She did not look back, jaw tensing when his fingers found their way under her chin, pulling her not roughly, but insistently, to face him. "Paint this...gorgeous piece of art." His eyes glazed.

Rhysand curled his lip. Did he not see what a horrible state he had put her in? Her dress should not fold inwards at the bend of her stomach, nor should his fingers be able to ensnare the thin bridge of her wrist. He had seen paupers that looked better than she, and living an estate as large as the city's half... Surely the Prince could provide?

"I remember the first time I found her," the Prince murmured, words a quiet musing, eyes intense and unseeing as he stared into his Lady's steel-gray orbs.

Rhysand glanced around at the gathered servants (slaves, more like). Was he the only one to see the shallow motion of their Lady's throat bobbing, or the barely-contained fury in the lines of her face? She was not even a good actress. But their heads remained stubbornly down.

"She was in the streets," the Prince continued. "The slums of that wretched city." Here, his lips pulled back, revealing teeth sharp as a shark's. "Velaris."

Rhysand froze on those steps, blood turned cold at the mention of his hometown, the place he had left six years ago, thinking it safe, a secret. A whisper on the lips. But apparently that whisper had turned to talk and then to shout and then to laughter at those who had not heard.

"Velaris," the Prince repeated, fingers tightening on his Lady's jaw, nails biting in hard enough to mark her flesh. She did not cry out, though her hands gripped her dress hard. "The same place that the old High Lord called me a fool." The Prince chuckled. "The cobbles were painted with his blood the next minute. I ought to think the civilians were taught a good lesson, not to disrespect me. But just to be sure I had to kill the rest of them."

Rhysand clenched his fist, breath sputtering out of his chest.

"Killed his daughter first. She was so little in my hands. She broke quite nicely. Next came his wife." The Prince drew a breath, hand squeezing tighter, and a drop of blood trickled down his Lady's cheek. "She was such a pretty thing. Her hands were so soft." A cruel smile suddenly replaced the wondering look in his eye. "And she screamed quite nicely when I had my fill of her. Much like you, my dear." He stroked his wife's hair. "Why do you not look at me, Feyre?"

Rhysand did not think the Lady was breathing.

The Prince stared at her for a long while, breaking his gaze with a small shake of his head, turning his eyes back to the figure stooped at his feet. "Give me something worthwhile, painter, and I will give you more money than you could ever hope to gain in your life."

His eyes burned, and for once he was glad that his head was turned to the floor. If he had to look upon the Prince's face, he would surely do something stupid.

"I shall paint you, Lord," Rhysand spat out. "I shall paint you."

#

The painting was a lie, a beautiful, flower-crusted lie, with roses encasing a man whose shoulders were unnaturally broad, golden tresses falling just past his shoulders, and eyes the same vibrant green as the thorns studding the roses' stems. He painted a monster, one that hid behind a curtain of sunshine, bright enough to blind any passing by, but never enough to make blind those willing to look closer.

The strangest thing was that nobody seemed to notice anything odd about it.

#

"It'll do." The Prince looked up from the portrait. "You've proven your skill. Now paint me what I wanted in the first place."

For her, he painted the truth. Beneath that horrible, demurring veneer of arched back and graceful neck, hands laid in lap and velvet skin wrapped in ribbon. When he painted her, his lines were harsh and jagged, a caustic, cutting thing, with colors black and gray and pale red. He ignored the way her legs crossed, dress wide and modest and too-long, the perfect model of feminine perfection. He ignored all that and focused instead on the fiery gray of her eyes, the powerful muscles that were visible beneath all that, the finery and the tautness of her flesh over her bones. And he painted the truth.

When she laid eyes on it, under the shadow of his ceiling, the slope of his walls, she only said, "An interesting interpretation."

And Rhysand gave her a knowing look, a smile wry, and said, "I can always see through a disguise."

#

"Well done, painter," the Prince said. "You've done good. You'll find your reward in the carriage out back."

Rhysand bowed graciously. "Thank you, Lord. It was a pleasure."

From behind the curtain, the Lady watched. She was not supposed to. She was supposed to be in bed, resting from her stroll, but as time passed she found it harder and harder to keep herself contained within that prison.

Curious eyes followed the painter as he gave his final goodbyes and made his way towards the exit. The very same place she stood at. She did not shy away, though. No, she was not afraid of him, merely intrigued.

He pushed aside the curtain and froze when he saw her. "Lady," he said, clearly surprised. A moment later, he had gone through the proper bow. "I had not expected you out of bed."

His voice was not prying, but there was the hint of something else. Something sad and more than a little angry, judging.

It sparked her own fury. "Perhaps I didn't feel like sleeping in the middle of the day," she snapped.

He blinked, and then the ghost of a smile quirked his lips. "Fair enough." His tone changed. "Lady, I had hoped to give you something." His hand fumbled inside his jacket, fishing out a thick roll of paper. "This is for you."

She took it. "My painting," she stated. "You didn't give it to Ta—to the Lord."

"No." Rhysand gazed at her. "I don't think he would be able to appreciate it as much as you."

Feyre looked up sharply. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, painter."

He stepped close, close enough that she could smell him. "I mean," he breathed, "that there is more to it than meets the eye. Just as there is to you."

She shifted just slightly, finding his eyes were right beside her own. She started at the shade, a violet so deep they were almost black. Extroardinary...

Her lips parted at the feel of his breath on her neck, the phantom touch of his fingers at her waist—

But then sense got hold of her, and she was pulling away, readjusting her skirts and catching her breath. "Well," she said.

Rhysand's face was unreadable.

"I...thank you."

He nodded, dropped into a graceful bow, and said, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat, Lady." He stood and dusted off his trousers before meeting her gaze. "But don't you forget, Feyre, I can see right through you. And soon, others will be able to, as well.

"

The painting was hung in the narrow end of the foyer, just before the great wooden doors that held the peasants at bay. The colors were dark and heavy, and they should've been near unnoticeable in the gloom of the hallway, yet somehow the eye was drawn straight to that area, and where the attention wanders the feet follow. An entering stranger would soon find himself standing before a great portrait, life-size, nailed to the wall. A black background framed the face of Feyre Archeron, the Lady of Spring and Shadow of Night. Her eyes were not dulled the way they had been that first morning, holding great wells of fire and spirit and something else that shouted I am not what you think, I am not what he thinks. Dark hair smudged about her head in a great halo, highlighted in the ray of the moon, and fading as it approached the bottom of her breasts. From the waist down, there was mostly black, and only the vague outline of something else: the silhouette of clawed hands and taloned feet, a curving tail, and at her temples, the barest hint of horns.

Shadowed above her head, and cradling the moon in a gentle embrace, were the outlines of two towering wings.

[ask-runaan-anything]

I know you’ve been feeling under the weather. Have this generous fluff at Ethari’s request.

___________

Yes, everyone should have a shirtless 6′3″ powerfully muscular nurse checking on them when they’re ill. He knows what that’ll do to your heart rate and temperature. 

Thank you, @azandcas. Very therapeutic art.  I feel much better already!