#when cassian said that?

[romanticatheartt]

Inner Circle being protective of Feyre<33

Amren:

“Where is she?” Amren snapped one more time. “Go get her,” Amren hissed. “Right now.” “She’s your mate,” Amren bit at me. “Not your spy. Go get her.”

Azriel:

“Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.”

Morrigan:

“You mean to tell me,” Mor breathed, “that my High Lady is now surrounded by enemies?” A lethal sort of calm crept over her tear-stained face.

Cassian:

“Because … because as his mate, you were still … his to protect. Oh, don’t get that look. He’s yours to protect, too. I would have laid my life down for you as his mate—and as your friend. But you were still … his.” “And as High Lady?” Cassian loosed a rough breath. “As High Lady, you are mine. And Azriel’s, and Mor’s and Amren’s. You belong to all of us, and we belong to you. We would not have … put you in so much danger.”

[velarisdusk]

I Slept with Someone in Wings of Illyria

A Bat Boys Band AU

word count: 1.5k author's note: i have not been able to stop thinking about bass player az, nor have i been able to shut up about it (exhibits A, B, and C found here lol). i am so taken with bass player azriel that this was originally gonna be a one time thing to get the mf thoughts out of my head, but i may make this a collection of drabbles/one-shots/whatever the fuck. enjoy ! <3 ✦ . AU Masterlist . ✦ ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

The room is sweltering, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and wraps around your throat. Bodies pressed together, arms raised, the crowd surges with the beat, their cheers deafening as the final notes of the song fade out. 

Cassian tosses his drumsticks in the air, catching them with a grin as he leans back, his chest heaving from the sheer energy of his playing. His skin glistens under the stage lights, sweat dripping down the sharp cut of his jaw to his bare chest. Rhysand steps forward, guitar slung low on his hips, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the movement so casual it borders on taunting. 

The three of them are magnetic—untouchable—but your eyes are glued to Azriel. 

The bass still hangs low across his hips, his dark shirt clinging to his chest and arms, every inch of him shining with effort and heat. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, but he doesn’t seem to care. There’s a faint curve to his lips as he looks out at the crowd, their screams refusing to die down even as Rhys steps up to the mic.  It’s Wings of Illyria’s last song of the night, and the air is thick with anticipation.

“Alright, alright,” Rhys says, his voice rich and smooth, but it barely registers over the roar of the audience. He glances back at Az and Cass, shaking his head with a laugh, and you catch the way they all exchange a look—silent, knowing.

Cass twirls a drumstick between his fingers, grinning wide. Rhys throws a wink at the crowd, and Azriel… Azriel holds up a hand, palm out, a subtle watch this gesture that has your stomach flipping. 

And then he steps forward.

The moment his fingers graze the mic stand, the noise dips. He leans in, his lips brushing the mic, and inhales sharply. The sound carries through the speakers, intimate, like he’s right there beside you. The crowd freezes, the energy shifting into something electric, breathless. And then, he chuckles.

It’s low, almost a growl, and it sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment, the room is still. And then, chaos. The screams erupt again, louder than before, like every single person in the crowd had been seized by something primal and uncontrollable.

Azriel laughs, throwing a glance over his shoulder at Rhys and Cass. They’re laughing too, Cassian smacking a hand against his drums while Rhys shakes his head, mouthing something you can’t make out. 

But then Az turns back to the mic. 

Your heart stops as he adjusts it slightly, his hand steady, his expression calm but sharp, focused. The moment stretches, and you swear he looks right at you before his lips part, and his voice spills into the venue. 

It’s not Rhys’s voice this time, not the smooth, cocky tone that usually owns the opening of this song. No—this is something darker, rougher, saturated with a raw kind of emotion that makes your knees go weak. You know this part by heart—hell, you’ve screamed it in your car more times than you can count—but hearing Azriel sing it? It’s like hearing it for the first time. 

He owns it, every word dripping with purpose, with heat. His voice snakes through the room, curling around you, pulling you under. The crowd is a blur, the sound of their cheers distant compared to the way your pulse pounds in your ears. 

And Azriel knows it. He’s fully in control, commanding every single person in the room with nothing but his voice and the intensity in his eyes. When he glances over at Rhys and Cass again, they’re grinning like they know exactly what he’s doing—and exactly what it’s doing to everyone in the room. 

You’re breathless by the time he finishes the verse, and when he pulls back from the mic with that faint, wicked smirk, the crowd surges again, screaming louder than ever. 

You scream too, the sound ripping out of you without restraint, caught up in the heat and the pounding bass still thrumming through the room. But then Azriel’s gaze sweeps across the crowd, scanning the sea of faces, and it lands on you. 

Your breath catches. 

It’s brief, a flicker of his hazel eyes locking onto yours, but it’s enough. Enough to leave you wondering if he’s seen you before—if he’s noticed you at every show you’ve managed to get into, always in your usual spot near the edge of the stage, close enough to feel the pulse of the speakers in your chest. 

And then he turns back to the mic, and your chest tightens all over again. 

It’s the way Azriel shifts his stance—shoulders squared, leaning slightly into the mic as his fingers curl around the neck of his bass—that holds you captive. His voice joins Rhys’s in the next verse, a low harmony that wraps around the melody like smoke, rich and addictive. 

When the lyrics take a turn—something dark and suggestive, dripping with innuendo—you swear he looks at you again. His lips curl just so around the words, and the way his hand moves on the fretboard has your pulse racing. 

It’s stupid, you tell yourself. Ridiculous, really, to think that someone like him would single you out of a crowd like this. But as the song builds to its peak, the heat of his gaze feels too intentional to ignore. And then they hit the chorus, when Azriel takes over the melody for one shining moment, he sings a line that makes your cheeks burn, makes your hands curl into fists at your sides. It’s not subtle. It’s meant to be filthy, meant to tease and taunt, and he sings it like it’s directed straight at you. 

The crowd loses it. You barely hear the screams over the pounding of your heart.

He’s still looking at you when the song ends, sweat dripping from his temple as he lets the bass hang low against his hips, his breathing heavy. Cassian slams his drumsticks against the snare one last time, punctuating the end of the set, while Rhysand tosses his guitar pick into the crowd with a lazy smirk. 

Azriel doesn’t move for a moment. He stays there, on the edge of the stage, as if waiting for something. 

And then he winks. 

It’s quick—blink-and-you’ll-miss-it—but you see it. You feel it. 

Your knees go weak, your grip tightening on the barricade to keep yourself steady. By the time you process what just happened, he’s already turning away, laughing at something Cassian said as they disappear backstage. 

The crowd surges again, desperate for an encore, but all you can hear is the pounding of your pulse. 

Your knees are still trembling as the crowd surges around you, voices raised in chants for an encore. You try to breathe, to ground yourself, but the memory of Azriel’s smirk and the weight of his gaze keeps playing on a loop in your mind. 

And then, just as the noise reaches a fever pitch, you see him again. 

Azriel lingers near the side of the stage, his bass slung over his shoulder now, his hand reaching out to clasp the shoulder of a man in a black security shirt. You watch, heart pounding, as they exchange a few quick words, the guard leaning closer to hear him over the din. 

It’s casual—normal, probably—but then Azriel points.

Directly at you. 

You freeze. Your pulse spikes. There’s no way, you think. No way this is happening. 

But it is. His arm extends toward the crowd, his finger cutting through the haze of heat and lights to land right where you’re standing, gripping the barricade for dear life. The security guard nods, glancing in your direction as Azriel leans closer, lips moving again. 

He says two words, slow enough for you to catch even at this distance.

“Blue top.”

Your breath hitches, your gaze darting down to the shirt you’re wearing. Blue. Not just blue—bright blue, standing out against the darker tones of the crowd like a beacon. 

You look back up, your heart slamming in your chest as Azriel straightens, throwing one last glance your way before disappearing offstage. 

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen, every nerve in your body buzzing. Did that really just happen? Your mind races, replaying the movement of his hand, the way his lips had formed those words. Blue top. 

Your gaze darts around, scanning the crowd. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re losing your mind because surely he didn’t mean you. But your stomach flips again as you realize—no one else around you is wearing blue. Not a single person. 

It was you. 

Your fingers tighten on the barricade. He had pointed at you. You’re sure of it. And then you see him. 

The security guard is cutting through the clusters of venue workers. Your breath catches when his eyes land on you, sharp and direct. He doesn’t say a word, just jerks his chin toward the end of the barricade, a silent instruction. 

[yaralulu]

Honestly the main reason I keep pushing the tamcien agenda is because I just believe lucien deserves to be with a big sexy guy 🤷🤷.

[nestastits]

I know cassian had to hype himself up every morning before going and training the valks cause you can’t tell me they weren’t roasting him every five minutes lmao

[litnerdwrites]

Cassian: I'm sick of these games.

Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that trauma was a game to you. If it's so easy to just stop being traumatised, then you should've said something to Elain about that a whole book ago? Or perhaps said something to Mor 5 centuries ago. Since Cassian made it clear 50 times a day that he's 'seen it before' and 'knows what she's feeling' or whatever, he must clearly be the expert on the situation. Imagine how much easier life will be now that everyone can just stop being traumatised.

Let's be serious for a moment though, if it was that easy, Cassian might have actually stopped making himself the victim in every scenario regarding Nesta throughout all of ACOFAS and ACOSF.

The fact SJM wrote it so Cassian, who said shit like this, was the one in the right the whole time in ACOSF makes me wanna puke.

[feyres-divorce-lawyer]

ad infinitum

A teenage girl enters her father’s office, dreading the news she was raised her whole life to anticipate. She’s being married off to some influential noble. Her father will make new connections through her marriage. Her mother’s in charge of the wedding, tradition states. It’s a lovely cycle.

Her dress is quite pretty. Night Court black in silk, silver gems sewn onto the bodice and train of her veil, as well as the matching gloves. They’re what she imagines stars look like. Closest she’ll ever get to seeing them.

Her father-in-law makes a crude joke, his son will rip her stars away tonight. She wants to run. She doesn’t. Remembers what happens to girls who run, who disobey. There are no High Lords in her bloodline.

The wedding’s over. She has a new home. Night’s come. Her mother said to think happy thoughts. It’s over. He wasn’t all that rough, she supposes. It could’ve been worse. She prays to the Mother that once was enough. It wasn’t. A second night. Then a third, then a fourth, then a fifth, then a sixth, a seventh, an eighth. Nothing.

Her husband’s frustrated. He’s taken a mistress. The whole household knows. She says nothing.

A decade passes. The mistress has two children. She remains childless. Her bed remains empty. She’s glad for it.

Two decades. The mistress is dead. Her husband killed her in a fit of rage. She never sees those two children again either.

Her husband starts visiting her again. It hurts. She thinks happy thoughts. She’s pregnant, hopes it’s a boy. Women can’t inherit.

Ten months. An uneventful birth. It’s a girl.

Three decades pass. She has a son now. She’s planning a wedding. Her daughter’s lucky, she thinks. Her future son-in-law is only 387. Not all that old. She’ll attend a wedding soon enough, help her daughter plan it.

It’s a lovely cycle.

[daughter-of-lethe]

Nesta's fantasy *Cassian x her x Azriel *

The fandom "Yeah, Cassian Nesta and Eris"

Nesta "No, that's not-"

The fandom "Cassian Nesta Eris"

Nesta 😖

[nanstgeorge]

nesta really compared elain to a dog…

[acourtofquestions]

So Long, London is literally Feyre and Tamlin

[separatist-apologist]

Excuse me Feyre was the one who died under the mountain???? Please please elaborate!

It's a response to the "Feyre should have just COMMUNICATED- no one can read her mind, how should Tamlin have known she was traumatized" and "Tamlin was traumatized too, so his actions make sense."

Like okay. But Feyre DIED. Like SHE was the one who D I E D. She was tortured, her neck was snapped, and she was dead. And no amount of watching it compares, and frankly, I find it a dry, boring take but you know, the fandom will bend over backwards to empathize and excuse the actions of an old ass man while finding a million ways to hold a 19 year old woman accountable for not being perfect in her healing or holding his hand as she tried to navigate her own death.

And people like to send me little bait-y messages like, "but don't you think Rhys was worse? Don't you think Feyre had a responsibility to explain minutely to the very tiniest detail how she was hurt so Tamlin could make her feel better?" "His actions were sensible, he was just scared and he was traumatized from Rhys/UTM too."

Feyre died. Her pain, her trauma ought to trump everyone else's but it doesn't and she's held extra accountable for how everyone else reponds and for not managing their feelings/reactions when anyone with eyeballs could see she was doing very badly. Lucien and Rhys both recognize it, Lucien and Rhys both try and intervene, which always gets overlooked in the rush to blame Feyre for not being proactive enough.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

What's that I see in your tags about a canon Nessian kid fic? Mellie in canon?

Ha ha! I don't know if I would use the name Melinoe/Mellie again (although that would be a cute little cross Universe tie-in), but....

Listen, lovely Anon. LISTEN! Let me tell you about the circle of enablers that is @moodymelanist, @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk, and @dustjacketmusings

It all started with me having a weird pregnancy dream last night, and has since devolved into what if Nesta and Cassian had an accidental pregnancy in canon? Because you know with Nesta's upbringing thanks to Mama Archeron (may she not rest in peace, am I right?) and with Cassian never wanting his child to grow up a bastard like he did, it just gives reluctant marriage and co-parenting vibes!

Like Nesta is out here like I still don't want a mate, but I guess we're doing this together now, and Cassian is out here like protective instincts on over-drive. It could just be so delicious!

[stars-n-spice]

Crying,,

Told myself I should change my user because I don't actually post any "spice" here and my stupid fucking brain went, "Yeah but if you were in Star Wars they'd probably make you deal spice at one point."

[rotzaprachim]

Best post apocalyptic dynamic: man in his forties who needs reading glasses just soooo bad but every specsavers in the world is closed for zombie related reasons. And a teenage girl who no one taught how to read

[unproduciblesmackdown]

and i draw parallels solely on the cinematographic basis of “when my man is no more than a millimeter away from perturbation at all times but you give the Whole Right Half Of The Screen 3/4 Closeup of Harrowing Recontextualizations” like that’s right. we’re living it up

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

Drea starts a book club when????

OMG NEOWWWW

[astromechs]

I’m a little scared to ask but…what is time 2 suffer? 👀

LMAO A POPULAR REQUEST

ok, so, my basic summary of this story is it's a part one i have planned of many in one of those rebelcaptain survive scarif scenarios. this one has force fuckery going on, and that's as much as i want to give away before i actually finish writing this GHFJDKS. anyway, excerpt time:

“Kassa, come!” Her voice is as insistent as the tug on his hand. “You have to come!”

He should, every instinct he has knows that he should, but he makes no move to break away — not from this. Instead, as she begins to walk, he follows, ensuring that this connection, warm and real, isn’t broken, at least for a little longer. The path continues to expand with their steps, stretching into the void beyond what he can see, what he can comprehend, but still, he keeps in step.

In a place where time seems to have no meaning, there’s no sense of how long they spend winding this impossible path — minutes, hours, maybe days. Eventually, though, it comes to an end, in the form of a bright, blinding white light.

The grip on his hand squeezes before releasing, and Kerri turns her head, smiling; then, just as quickly, she’s gone.

There’s no time for his brain to catch up and make sense of any of this. Not when the void whispers to him again, in a way he feels more than hears, strange but somehow familiar, just seconds before the light overtakes him:

You will live. You have to now.

wip game!