Oct 8, 2025
The Lower Deckers play the best bird-themed strategy game this side of the Alpha Quadrant.
Commission for something-boring
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The Lower Deckers play the best bird-themed strategy game this side of the Alpha Quadrant.
Commission for something-boring
Wingspan
Pairing: Azriel x Reader (feat. Cassian)
Rating: Mature (Heavy Innuendo, Flirting, Humor)
Summary: Cassian tells you to ask Azriel a question about Illyrian anatomy. Azriel decides to give you a very thorough answer.
The House of Wind was unusually quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth in the library and the soft turning of pages as Azriel read a report from one of his spies. His shadows were dormant, coiled lazily around his shoulders like a scarf of smoke, content in the silence.
That silence was broken by the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
Azriel didn’t look up immediately. He knew your gait by heart—the rhythm of it, the lightness. "You should be resting after training," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble, his eyes still scanning the parchment in his hand.
"I have a question," you said, coming to a stop just on the other side of the desk.
He finally looked up. You looked innocent enough, though there was a furrow in your brow that suggested you were trying to solve a puzzle.
"About?"
"Illyrian anatomy."
Azriel’s hand stilled. The shadows at his neck flared, just an inch, before settling. He set the paper down slowly. "What about it?"
"Wingspan."
The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Azriel blinked, his hazel eyes darkening instantly. He stared at you, his face a perfect mask of indifference, though his shadows began to agitation, skittering down his arms.
"Excuse me?" he asked, his voice deadly calm.
"Wingspan," you repeated, leaning your hip against the heavy oak desk. "I hear the Illyrians tossing the word around constantly. Usually when they’re measuring each other up or arguing. It seems... important. A point of pride."
Azriel took a slow, deep breath through his nose. He was going to kill Cassian. He was going to drag him to the roof and drop him off the side of the mountain.
"It is a measurement," Azriel said flatly. "From one wing tip to the other. It is useful for aerodynamics and load-bearing calculations during flight."
You narrowed your eyes. "That’s it?"
"That is the literal definition."
"Then why did Cassian laugh until he cried when I asked him if his was the biggest?"
Azriel closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Because Cassian has the maturity of a pinecone."
"He wouldn't tell me," you pressed, crossing your arms. "He actually turned bright red after he stopped laughing. He said, and I quote, 'I can't be the one to corrupt you. Go ask Azriel. He's the Shadowsinger; he knows everything.' Then he shoved me out of the ring and told me to come find you."
Azriel’s shadows were no longer lazy. They were thrashing silently, whipping around the legs of the chair. Cassian is a dead male walking.
Azriel stood up.
The movement was fluid and predatory. He walked around the desk, stopping just a foot away from you. He towered over you, his wings tucked tight against his back, the Siphons on his hands gleaming in the firelight.
"Cassian sent you to me," Azriel repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "To ask about wingspan."
"Yes," you said, though your voice faltered slightly as he stepped into your personal space. "Is it... is it a ranking system?"
Azriel looked down at you. He could see the genuine curiosity in your eyes, mixed with a dawning realization that perhaps you had walked into a trap.
"In a manner of speaking," Azriel murmured. He took another step closer. You backed up until your lower back hit the edge of the desk. He placed a hand on the wood on either side of you, effectively boxing you in.
The scent of mist and cedar wrapped around you.
"Illyrian males are... primitive creatures," he said softly, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. "They believe that the size of one’s wings correlates to the size of... other parts of their anatomy."
You blinked. Once. Twice.
Your eyes widened. Your gaze inadvertently dropped to his waist, then snapped back up to his face, your cheeks flaming a sudden, brilliant crimson.
"Oh," you squeaked.
"Indeed," Azriel drawled. He didn't pull back. If anything, he leaned closer, his shadows caressing your arms, cool and phantom-like. "Cassian finds it hilarious to imply that he is the largest. It is his favorite joke."
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. "And... is he?"
The corner of Azriel’s mouth ticked up. It wasn't a smile; it was something sharper. Darker.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
"Cassian has an impressive wingspan," Azriel whispered, the vibration of his voice traveling straight through your spine. "But mine is bigger."
He pulled back just enough to see the shock wreck your expression. The shadows swirled triumphantly around him.
"Now," he said, pushing off the desk and straightening his jacket, looking entirely unbothered while you looked like you were about to combust. "I believe I have a General to murder. If you’ll excuse me."
He walked toward the door, his wings flaring slightly—just enough to show off the sheer, massive breadth of them—before he disappeared into the hallway, leaving you breathless and burning in the quiet library.
Hello birderblr, or whatever y'all are called.
I'm generally not too fond of posting on social media, but, does anyone have an idea what species of bird this might be? Crappy photo I know, it was a length outside my window, and it's a bit foggy this morning. This thing is enormous, bigger than any neighbourhood bird - or anything in this country as a whole. I live in northeastern Hungary, so that's where you should, beware of this creature.
Birds! Birds! Birds!
Last batch of bird illustrations featuring the likes of Cranes, Caracara, Cormorants, and Crows (who famously love to attend parties).
Mary McCartney interviewing Paul McCartney for the Wingspan documentary extras, 2001 (x).
I can't wait to read how Elain will test and confirm the wingspan theory🦇
The grey heron’s wings can stretch up to 2 meters—perfect for soaring over wetlands or making you feel like you’ve just seen a prehistoric creature pass by.
Things Measured in Wingspan
A cozy night, too much wine, and way too many secrets. Nesta starts the questions, Cassian starts the chaos, Rhys stirs the fire, and Azriel ends it—with one line that no one will ever forget.
⸻
The night had started innocently enough. Wine, laughter, dinner.
By midnight, it had devolved into Nesta leaning over the table, eyes gleaming like a cat with a secret.
“So,” she said, pointing her glass at Cassian, “how many women have you actually slept with?”
Cassian nearly choked on his drink. “That’s a terrible question.”
“It’s an honest question,” Nesta countered. “And you brag too much for someone who gets shy now.”
Across the table, Rhys smirked. “Careful, Nesta. He’ll start giving you details.”
Feyre giggled, swirling her wine. “You mean the way you used to, when we first met?”
Rhys blinked. “What?”
“Oh, don’t pretend,” Feyre said sweetly. “You told me that once upon a time, you and Cassian—”
Cassian groaned. “No. Nope. Don’t finish that sentence.”
“—used to bed women in the same room,” she finished anyway, triumphant.
The table erupted. Mor nearly spat out her wine, Nesta’s eyes went wide with mock horror.
Cassian held up his hands. “It was a big house. And there were curtains.”
“Oh, sure,” Nesta drawled. “Curtains make it fine.”
“Thank you,” Cassian said, as if vindicated.
Rhys looked entirely too pleased with himself. “In our defense, we were young. And competitive.”
“Competitive?” Feyre asked, laughing. “What were you competing for?”
Rhys sipped his wine, eyes glinting. “You really want to know?”
Feyre blinked, then turned pink. “No, I— actually—no.”
“Good,” Rhys said smugly.
The laughter was still going when the door opened and Azriel walked in, shadows trailing like smoke. His mate followed—a little flushed from the chill air outside, still smiling from whatever they’d been whispering about.
Azriel paused halfway to the table. “What are you all—”
Cassian grinned. “Perfect timing! We’re discussing our greatest hits.”
Azriel gave him a look. “Pass.”
Rhys smirked. “Oh, come on. You’re not shy.”
Azriel took a slow sip of his drink. “No, I’m private. There’s a difference.”
Mor fanned herself dramatically. “Oh, please. You have that whole ‘dark secrets’ aura. It’s unfair.”
Azriel’s lips twitched. “You mistake discretion for shame, Mor. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done—or anyone I’ve done it with.”
That shut them up for all of five seconds.
Cassian leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Including that one night in Autumn Court?”
Rhys choked on his wine. “Cassian.”
Azriel’s expression didn’t flicker. “What about it?”
Cassian’s grin widened. “Oh, nothing. Just wondering if Hellion ever recovered.”
The table howled. Feyre had her head in her hands, Nesta was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her chair, and Mor was gasping for air.
Azriel didn’t even blink. “He’s surprisingly flexible for his age.”
That only made it worse. Cassian had to clutch the table to keep from sliding to the floor.
Azriel’s mate covered her face, crimson from laughing. “You’re all horrible,” she said between giggles.
Cassian managed to wheeze out, “You’re not denying it!”
“I don’t deny the truth,” Azriel said smoothly, “but I don’t perform for an audience either.”
Rhys raised his glass. “Spoken like a man who knows his worth.”
“Or his stamina,” Cassian added under his breath.
Nesta kicked him under the table. “Behave.”
Cassian winced. “Ow. Okay, okay!”
Mor, gleeful as ever, leaned forward. “Fine, then. If we’re being bold—who here has ever been with a man?”
The room went still, then erupted again.
Nesta blinked. “What kind of dinner party is this?”
“The fun kind,” Mor replied immediately.
Rhys raised his hand lazily. “Experimentation is healthy.”
Cassian nearly fell out of his chair. “Oh, you did not—”
Feyre just smiled serenely. “I’m not surprised.”
Azriel shrugged, unbothered. “It’s not exactly revolutionary, Cass.”
Cassian pointed at him, delighted. “You too?”
Azriel’s mouth curved in that slow, infuriating almost-smile. “Next question.”
Even his mate was laughing now, shaking her head. “You’re all impossible.”
Rhys raised his glass again. “To honesty—mostly.”
“Mostly,” Feyre echoed, clinking hers.
Cassian leaned back, eyes glinting. “All right then. If we’re being honest—wingspan.”
“Cassian,” Nesta warned.
“What?” he said innocently. “It’s science. Research.”
Azriel groaned. “No.”
“Yes,” Cassian insisted. “Rhys?”
Rhys smiled like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “I refuse to confirm or deny.”
“Coward,” Cassian said.
“It’s called mystique,” Rhys replied.
Feyre snorted. “It’s called saving your dignity.”
Cassian pointed at Azriel. “Fine. Shadowsinger, you settle it.”
Azriel smirked. “There are some truths the world isn’t ready for.”
The girls all groaned. The boys looked smug.
“Typical,” Mor said, rolling her eyes. “They make it mysterious, we make it interesting.”
“Exactly,” Nesta agreed.
Azriel stood then, shadows whispering around him like laughter. “On that note—we’re leaving.”
Cassian raised his glass. “Enjoy your quiet night, brother.”
Azriel didn’t dignify that with a response, just guided his mate toward the door, his shadows curling protectively around her.
As they disappeared down the hall, Nesta leaned toward Cassian, eyes glinting. “Ten gold says they don’t make it to the stairs.”
Cassian laughed. “You’re on.”
Rhys smirked. “You’ll both lose.”
And as the fire crackled and laughter filled the room again, the night ended the way it always did—warm, mischievous, and full of secrets better left unsaid.