i don't know what it is about the fantasy high setting that drives me completely insane. the mall has an ice cream parlour owned by a djinn and a strudel place with direct supply from the strudel dimension. your gnome parents modified the lawnmower to have fun with their new "friends." death means nothing if you've got your spells prepared. generational curses that make your life miserable recognize that you're not the stepdad, you're the dad that stepped up. we wanted something else from our god, so we made her into something else. your wizard principal is on a time travel roadtrip with his half-phoenix daughter and spent an obscene amount of money on a jet ski. there's a strudel dimension.
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you have more thoughts on the tackling you say....? 🤔
i do!!!!!
sam has not cultivated his funny snarky guy personality just for misa and his big brown eyes to ruin it for him. sam cannot be seen falling over himself just bc misa has a particularly sincere look to him when he compliments sam’s new jacket, or bc misa starts pouting when sam pokes fun at him, or bc misa laughs particularly warmly, or bc— you get the picture here, sam has acquired an embarrassingly large misa-shaped soft spot that poses an even larger threat to sam’s reputation
sam has tried just walking away when he gets the urge to cup misa’s face in his hands but there’s only so far he can go when he’s in the toffoli house or the locker room. so is tackling misa to the floor in the hopes that sam can save face and squash his urge to makeout with misa center ice, the best solution? sam thinks yes
one minute misa is saying, you’re cologne is really good, and the next he’s having to fight sam off from pinning him to the ground. a horrifying consequence of this is the next day misa comes downstairs with a giant rug burn up his arm and when toff asks what happened misa says, dickie, and then does not elaborate. sam is now fending off violent threats from toff— what the fuck did you do? and there isn’t a great explanation for the light bruises on misa’s wrists or the rug burn on his back. what is sam supposed to say? sorry man, sometimes i think misa looks too cute and i have to resort to physical violence to keep up my cool guy facade. that would probably not go over well but also, whatever toff is implying seems even worse than what sam has going on
and yeah, toff is extremely disturbed by sam’s new found love of wresting with misa at seemingly random times. ekky and most of the other guys, on the other hand, find this extremely funny. reavo says it’s good for them, they’re training up. toff really cannot make it more clear that he thinks sam is an idiot loser who is going to ruin misa’s and his own life one day
the other problem with this system is that misa grows quickly comfortable with all the tackling and stops fighting back. having misa laughing happily underneath him whilst he lets sam pin his hands above his head is sort of exactly what sam didn’t want to happen. once in that position, sam has no clue what to do except jump away and then take a cold shower as soon as he’s misa-free
In a life properly lived, you’re a river. You touch things lightly or deeply; you move along because life herself moves, and you can’t stop it; you can’t figure out a banal game plan applicable to all situations; you just have to go with the ‘beingness’ of life.
— Jim Harrison, from "Jim Harrison, The Art of Fiction No. 104" in The Paris Review, Issue 107, Summer 1988
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Brother. Friend. Lover. General. Rival. Comrade. Shield.
Seven people tell their story of Cassian. But only one realizes they're all the same.
A series of ficlets for Cassian Week 2026.
Day Five: Home for @cassianappreciationweek
AZRIEL
Read below the cut or on ao3
(this takes place during the 50 years the IC was quarantined in Velaris by Rhys's magic while he was Under the Mountain)
It's weird to recognize your best friend by his belt buckle.
Perhaps it should worry him that the wings and giant, hulking size didn't register first. But the buckle gleams when Cassian strides through the door of the the Copper Lantern. He spears immediately toward the booth where Azriel's been slumping lower and lower for hours.
Azriel sighs. It was only a matter of time til one of them found him.
Holding up Cass's sword belt, it's just a simple wind rune. wind rune. The sigil of all Illyrian bastards, it's triplet spirals here wrought with defiance in silver and jet. The ruby eye in the center glares at him in condemnation, sickened by his weakness,
Azriel usually pays for a few companions to sit with him. They smoke, they gossip, they laugh amongst themselves while he drinks and takes slow pulls from the water pipe. It keeps the rest of the house from bothering him.
Occasionally one of them will slide a hand up his thigh. One in ten times he gives in.
The eye draws closer, it's gaze askance from the belt tilting toward Cassian's sword side, until it's staring him down from right across the table.
"What do you want, Cass?" Azriel asks, rubbing two palms down his face before looking up.
Cassian's beard is longer that the last time they saw each other. His brother snorts.
"You look like shit. Hello, Mirabelle."
Preening, the sharp-nosed fae to Azriel's right stands and kisses him on both cheeks,
"General. When are you coming to visit me again?"
Azriel feels woozy watching Cass smile down at her, twirling a lock of her silky red hair around one finger and pulling twice.
"Occupied every night this week, I'm afraid," he says before releasing her. Then he frowns down at Az, something darker flickering behind his eyes. "Get up. We're going."
Azriel thinks about arguing. The words get lost in the haze of his brain. Each scrap of his conscience wanders an endless maze—like the labyrinth of Velaris, their prison these last four decades.
"Nowhere to go," Azriel mumbles.
Cass clenches his jaw and grips the pommel of his sword for a moment, as if he's considering kidnapping as an option. His knuckles are bandaged from a recent bout in the underground fighting pits.
There's a bruise fading on one cheek.
"Humor me," he says, holding up both hands in surrender.
There's no point in arguing once he's made up his mind. But Azriel doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. Instead he hefts himself up and plods past him without responding.
Cassian's chuckle follows him through the parlor and out the door.
Stubborn ass Cass.
The sky above Velaris sparkles with starlight, a slipper moon shining off the inky bay. Azriel should feel freer stepping out into the night air, but the cold only reminds him of the chill above the clouds, the one he hasn't felt since Rhys was captured
The one time they tried to leave, Cassian insisted on going first. He got within ten lengths before he dropped from the sky.
How limp he looked, his unseeing eyes when Mor caught him just before he hit the ground. The memory makes Azriel's legs go weak. Makes the world spin, the cobblestones rush up to meet him.
Oh fuck.
His knees crack hard on the stone.
"Easy, killer," Cass chides, chuckling. Azriel manages to mumble something, but not even he knows what as a shadow falls over him and strong hands close around his ribs.
It's inconceivable, how Cassian can heft him over one shoulder like a sack of grain. Humiliating, except for the reality that Azriel couldn't walk right now if he tried.
He lets his arms dangle. Blood trickles sluggishly toward his head.
"You can't keep doing this, Az."
The curved sword smacks against his wing with every step. Cassian wears the stupid thing everywhere—Amren's idea—as a symbol of strength and order. The citizens of Velaris love it. Their general looks out for the city, and they preserve their sanity.
"You can't numb yourself out like this," Cass goes on, and he sounds like Mor when she begs him to give up playing the knives in the back of Rita's. "We need you. At least until Rhys returns, we—"
"He isn't coming back."
Cassian pitches forward suddenly, and Azriel's stomach drops out as he sprawls onto the cobblestones.
It takes all his effort for the contents of it not to follow.
"Don't you ever fucking say that to me again," Cassian snarls. He's terrifying like this, wings flared, his face in shadow. "I cannot believe you."
"Gonna court martial me for treason?"
"No, I'm gonna rip your fucking head off and stuff it up your ass."
Cass crosses his arms over his chest like he means it. He'll fight to the last shred of himself, as he always has, because he can't help it.
Azriel wishes he didn't love that so much about him.
Out of fight, Azriel flops backward, hearing more than feeling the thud of his skull against the pavement.
"I'm not made for this, Cass. I'm not—I can't inspire the people like you and Mor. I can't get out of here to find Rhys. I can't do anything but send spy after spy under that fucking mountain only to never hear from them again.
Shame is a river through him, rushing toward the conclusion that he might as well not be here.
"Hey."
Cass's face swims above him. He's crouching next to Azriel—when did he do that? It doesn't matter. His eyes are drenched with pain. But his voice is steady when he recites,
"Nephelle carried the queen across the sea floor, the water closing in on all sides, but her friend was not heavy."
Azriel breathes in sharply, though he doesn't look away.
So many nights they've whispered the words to each other. Shouted them jokingly when they're in their cups. Inked them on their skin in secret, the three of them, with only the Illyrian wolf moon looking on.
The next line comes to him as easy as breathing, like they're carved into his bones instead of his skin.
"For she was not afraid, and her wings did not fail her, and she outraced death itself."
Azriel's startled to feel tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Damned dreamleaf.
But he knows it's not the drugs when Cassian reaches out his hand, the phantom of an old smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The echo of the thousand times he's done this before, in the ring, on the battlefield. On the nights Azriel can't drag himself off the bedroom floor.
It's all he can manage now to swipe at his eyes. Cass reaches closer.
"We're not done yet. Get up," he says softly, though Azriel can tell it isn't a request.
They watch the sunrise on the roof of the townhouse. Trading sips of one of Rhys's last bottles, Azriel studies Cassian's profile in the growing light—the streaks of lighter brown in his beard, the scalloped scar on his left ear.
Cass catches him after a while.
"You think I'd be tired of it after all this time," he muses, staring out over the pinkening horizon. Azriel can't look away, but he can't disagree, either.
They stand there as weak winter sun spreads over Velaris, shoulder to shoulder, like twin pillars holding up the sky.
