Moments (Cassian x Reader)
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: Moments with Cassian.
Authors Note: You asked, I answered. This is the first part of my ACOTAR version of my ‘Moments’ series. It’s always so much fun to write, I hope you enjoy!
(Thank you to @slytherin-pen for the divider)
The Court of Nightmares glitters with cruelty.
Black marble. Silver goblets. Smiles that mean nothing.
You’re halfway through a polite conversation when an Illyrian lord stumbles too close, leaning closer than necessary. His breath smells heavily of wine, his dark eyes glazed over with arrogance.
“And who do you belong to, sweetheart?” He drawls.
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
He laughs at that. Actually laughs. “Everyone belongs to someone down here. And a beauty like you will definitely belong to someone.”
You sigh heavily, not in the mood to entertain him. His hand shoots out suddenly as you try to move away with a polite smile, fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist — too tightly.
You try to pull away. His grip only tightens. You try to hide your flinch.
“You should smile more,” he murmurs, trying to draw you back too closely into his space. “It would make you more pleasant to look at.”
Ice crawls up your spine.
“I would suggest,” you say evenly, “that you remove your hand.”
He squints at you, clearly too drunk — or too stupid — to register the warning beneath your calm.
Then someone nearby calls your name.
You straighten instinctively, the lord’s brow furrowing as if he was trying to remember how he knew your name exactly.
His grip loosens just enough for you to wrench free, understanding dawning on his face as you step back into the crowd.
Your heart is racing. Your wrist aching.
Not when Rhysand had asked all of you to be on your best behaviour — as best as you could be in the Court of Nightmares.
You slip behind a column, breathing through the tightness in your chest—
—and thats where Cassian finds you.
He was smiling as he approached, Azriel at his side, laughing at something the Shadowmaster muttered to him.
But the second his eyes land on you—
The grin vanishes like it was never there.
His shoulders go very still. His wings shift slightly, posture straightening and becoming alert. His eyes sharpen into something ancient and lethal.
He crosses the rest of the distance between you in three strides.
Not a question. It’s a demand.
You shake you head quickly. “It’s nothing.”
Behind him, Azriel’s face is sharp, his eyes surveying around the room, his shadows mysteriously absent as they began to weave through the crowd.
“It’s fine,” you insist, lowering your voice. “Rhys wouldn’t want you to cause a scene.”
You subtly try to move your hand behind your back.
With gentle speed and precision, not giving you the opportunity to pull away, he grasps your small hand in his much larger one.
His gaze flicks to your wrist.
The air around him shifts.
You feel it — the change. The general. The Lord of Bloodshed. The male who has bathed battlefields in red.
You absolutely shouldn’t tell him.
But he looks at you imploringly, his thumb brushes your wrist — so gentle it almost hurts — and something in you softens.
“The Illyrian Lord near the east balcony,” you murmur. “Dark braids. Silver clasps.”
Cassian doesn’t say another word. Azriel dutifully takes a lazy yet protective stance next to you, before Cassian turns and walks away.
The crowd parts for him instinctively.
You watch from where you stand, heart in your throat.
He approaches the Lord slowly. Calmly. No raised voice. No spectacle.
The man turns, smirking at first—
Until he sees who’s standing in front of him.
The colour drains from the lord’s face so fast it’s almost comical. His goblet trembles. His shoulders sag.
Cassian leans in slightly, just enough to make the message intimate. Personal.
The Lord nods. Once. Twice.
Then he practically stumbles backward, turns too fast, colliding with a passing server — red wine cascading down his embroidered jacket.
Gasps ripple through the room.
Just flees. Gone within seconds.
Then he turns back to you.
The lethal stillness melts into something lighter.
He crosses back to you, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve like he didn’t just dismantle a male’s entire sense of security without raising his voice. Or his fists.
You search his face. “What did you say to him?”
Cassian waves a hand dismissively, sliding his arms around your waist like nothing happened.
He pulls you closer, lips brushing your forehead tenderly.
His voice is warm, easy, but you don’t miss the underlining steel.
“No one upsets my girl and gets away with it.”
His thumb strokes over your wrist— gentle, where the Lord had been rough.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, softer now. “He’ll think twice now before speaking to you — or anyone — ever again.”
Across the room, Rhys is pretending not to watch.
Azriel slinks back into the shadows, a look of amusement on his face.
But Cassian doesn’t care.
He kisses your temple, slow and possessive.
“Next time,” he says lightly, that charming grin returning fully, “just signal me. I enjoy educational conversations.”
And somehow, in the Court of Nightmares—
The door opens well past midnight.
You don’t look up immediately.
You’re perched back against the headboard of your bed, book in hand, fae lights flickering low around the room. The scent of lavender and cedar hangs in the air.
Cassian steps inside — and immediately stops.
He’s covered in the night. Body tense and exhausted. Wind-tossed hair. Dust on his leathers. Shadows under his eyes.
His wings sag slightly as he lays his eyes on you.
“…You’re still awake?” He asks, voice rough with exhaustion.
You stand slowly. “You’re late.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Patrol ran long.”
His bravado fades as he takes note of the scent in the air, noting the soft steam that emits from the adjoining bathroom where a bath has been drawn.
You were clearly waiting for him.
“You drew me a bath?” He asks quietly.
You walk towards him, reaching for the clasps of his leathers. “Of course I did.”
He exhales like everything he’s been holding onto suddenly loosens.
“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs.
You help him out of his leathers and clothing piece by piece, carefully placing his siphons in their spot on top of his chest of drawers. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tease. Just lets you. The general melts away under your hands, leaving only your tired mate beneath.
When you guide him towards the bath, he obeys easily.
“You’re spoiling me,” he mutters as you sit him on the edge and begin removing the bands he’d used to pull his hair out of his face that morning.
“You deserve to be spoiled.”
He glances up at you, softer than he ever looks in public. “Careful. I might start expecting this every night.”
You snort. “You’d be insufferable.”
He steps into the bath with a low groan as the heat hits his muscles. His wings drape carefully over the edge, massive and weary.
You kneel behind him, fingers sliding into his hair, massaging slow circles into his scalp.
A deep, rumbling sound leaves his chest, halfway between a sigh and a growl.
“Gods,” he mutters. “Marry me again.”
You laugh softly, working the soap through his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” he insists. “If this what I come home to…”
His head tips back to rest against the edge of the tub, eyes closing as you rinse him carefully.
You move to his shoulders next, strong hands rubbing slow circles into the knots there. He hisses at first, then relaxes into it, head dropping forward.
He hums low. “You’re so good at this.”
He reaches back lazily as you get to your feet, one large hand finding your thigh. It slides upwards just slightly.
“You know,” he says, voice dropping to a husky whisper, “if you really want to help me relax…”
You slap his hand away without hesitation.
He cracks an eye open. “Cruel woman.”
“Tomorrow,” you say firmly. “Tonight is about you sleeping before you collapse face-first into the floor. Besides, I don’t fancy being almost smothered again when you fall asleep mid-fuc-“
“One time that happened!” He huffs. “I’m not that tired, I swear.”
He proceeds to nearly fall asleep mid-shoulder rub.
You smile, helping him out the bath once he’s clean, drying his wings carefully — he’s too tired to protest the fussing.
When you finally guide him to bed, he drops onto the mattress like a fallen warrior.
A very large, very dramatic fallen warrior.
You pull the blankets up around him.
He squints up at you. “Are you tucking me in?”
“I am the Lord of Bloodshed.”
He opens his mouth to argue — but then you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
His hand catches yours before you can pull away, tugging you down beside him. Not demanding. Just wanting.
“You don’t have to stay up waiting for me,” he murmurs, half-asleep already as you join him under the sheets.
“I know,” you murmur softly.
You carefully run your fingers through his hair, in the way you know he likes.
His purrs of contentment quickly transform into soft snores as he falls asleep.
He really was your big baby.
You’ve been on the couch since breakfast.
Curled up, sunlight pouring in through the windows, completely absorbed in your new book.
Cassian tried to be patient.
He had his own duties to take care of first, but when he returned home and you were still sat in the same position, he proceeded to unwind from his day, thinking that you’d come to him on your own in greeting.
He sat beside you, arm draped along the back of the cushions, fingers brushing your shoulder.
He leaned closer. “Whatcha reading?”
He tried again a little while later. “What’s the book about?”
He scooted closer. His thigh pressed to yours.
He leaned over to begin reading with you. “Are there battles? Is there a devastatingly handsome warrior?”
You didn’t even look at him.
A little while later, he sprawls across the couch like a discarded cloak, one wing draped over your legs.
You adjust the wing without looking up.
“You’ve been reading all day.”
“It’s time to pay attention to me,” he protests.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?”
Before you can react, he plucks the book clean out of your hands.
Cassian stands, holding it high above his head like a prize.
“General’s orders,” he announces. “You’ve been ignoring me for too long.”
Gods, he loves it when you say his name like that — like a warning.
“I require attention and love.”
“Give it back! I only have a few pages left.”
“Not until you acknowledge your neglected mate.”
You huff, slowly getting to your feet — you barely reached Cassian’s chin when you were both standing. Despite that, he still lifts your book higher.
“I am deeply in love and starved of affection,” he replies dramatically.
He grins down at you, smug.
“Just give up honey, there’s no way you’re getting to it—OOF”.
He yelps in pure shock as you slam into his middle. He was absolutely not expecting you to resort to violence to get your book back.
The momentum carries you both backwards—
—and you crash on the floor in a tangle of limbs and wings.
The book flies somewhere to the side as you proceed to try and use Cassian’s momentary distraction to practically climb him like a tree.
Cassian quickly flips you over.
“You little menace—“ he laughs, trying to pin your wrists as you reach for the book.
You squirm, attempting to roll over.
He’s stronger, obviously— but you fight dirty.
You dig your fingers into his sides.
He jerks a bark of laughter. “Hey! No cheating.”
He flips you onto your back.
You twist at the last second, sending both of you rolling again until you’re half sprawled on his chest, breathless.
His hands settle instinctively at your waist.
You’re both laughing now.
“I can’t believe you tackled me,” he says between breaths.
“Because you ignored me.”
You try to reach for the book again, but he catches your wrist easily.
“Ah-ah,” he says. “I have terms.”
You narrow your eyes. “What terms?”
“You can finish your chapter,” he says generously, “if you sit in my lap whilst you do it.”
“That’s your compromise?”
“That’s barely a compromise.”
You huff — but you’re smiling.
His grin is victorious and far too pleased with himself.
You retrieve the book and settle back against him, sitting between his legs, your back against his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, wings curving around you both like a cocoon. He presses a kiss to you temple.
“There,” he mumbles. “Much better.”
“You realise this is exactly what I was doing before.”
“Yes,” he says. “But now I’m involved.”
You shake your head, but your fingers absently trace patterns on his forearm as you read.
After a few minutes, he rests his chin on your shoulder.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I care deeply,” he says solemnly. “Especially if there’s a devastatingly handsome warrior.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean back into him a little more.
“There is one,” you say, amusement creeping into your voice. “His name is Azrie—“
You shriek loudly as Cassian pinches your side playfully.
“Finish that sentence and I’ll throw the book across the room again.”
It started with you very confidently saying:
Rhysand stops mid-drink. Azriel slowly smirks. Mor outright cackles.
Cassian leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. “You want to try Illyrian training?”
He grins like a male who has just been handed the greatest gift in life.
“Alright,” he says. “But you don’t get to complain.”
You regret it immediately.
The training ring is cold. The weapons are heavy. The stretches alone feel like they’ve been designed by someone who hates happiness.
Cassian circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a smug instructor.
He laughs. “You begged for this.”
Your legs shake violently.
He steps in behind you, large hands settling on your hips to adjust your stance.
You glare over your shoulder. “If you grope me under the guise of training one more time—“
“This is professional,” he says solemnly, squeezing lightly before tapping your ass.
“Fine. Fine.” He steps back, though he’s still grinning.
You attempt a punch next.
He catches your fist easily.
“You’re pulling your strength,” he says.
He steps closer. Too close.
“Rotate your shoulder,” he instructs, guiding your arm. “And commit.”
He kisses your temple. “For effort.”
You shove him. “Stop kissing me.”
“That’s also motivating.”
He blocks it effortlessly.
You groan loudly. “Why are Illyrian’s like this?”
You’re sweaty, breathless and furious.
Cassian is having the time of his life.
“Alright,” he says, finally getting into stance. “One clean hit. That’s all I want.”
He smirks. “I highly doubt—“
You rotate your shoulder. You commit. You put your frustration and entire annoyed soul into it.
Your fist connects sharply with his jaw.
Cassian’s head snaps to the side.
“Oh my gods,” you repeat, horror flooding you as he stumbles to one knee.
You rush forward immediately. “Cassian! I didn’t mean—I thought you were going to block it—are you concussed? Say something—“
You crouch down in front of him.
He lifts his head at the exact moment you lean down.
Your foreheads collide brutally.
You fall backward onto the sand, clutching your head.
Cassian tips sideways, laughing in disbelief.
“You knocked me whilst I was down,” he wheezes.
He rolls onto his back, staring at the sky. “That was a good hit.”
You scramble towards him, clutching your forehead, still panicking. “Are you okay?”
He props himself up on his elbow, jaw already bruising slightly.
“I’ve had worse,” he says. “From you? Worth it.”
You stare at him. “You’re insane. Why is your head so hard?”
He studies you for a moment longer. Then he starts laughing harder. “Azriel was right, this was a terrible idea.”
You flop onto your back beside him. “Pfft, what does he know.”
He turns his head towards you, grin wide and adoring despite the swelling.
“I suppose,” he says dramatically, “I’ll just have to make sure I’m always around to protect you.”
You snort. “From what? You?”
“From everything,” he corrects, rolling towards you and tugging you into his chest. “Especially yourself.”
“You deserved that for almost taking me out with your skull.”
He kisses your forehead over the bruise already forming.
“You hit like a warrior,” he murmurs proudly. “Terrifying. I am deeply attracted to you right now.”
You groan. “We are never doing this again.”
“…Maybe not the training.”
His hands slides to your waist, pulling you closer.
“But I’m keeping the hands-on instructions.”
He laughs, wings spreading slightly in the sand.
And despite the bruises, you’re both grinning like idiots.
You’ve always loved how large Cassian is.
High shelves? Irrelevant. He just reaches over you without thinking.
Crowded markets or events? You can always spot him — dark hair, broad shoulders, wings that part people like the sea.
Danger? Nonexistent. When he stands in front of you, the world feels more manageable.
He makes you feel safe in a way that settles deep in your bones.
But what you don’t love is how much space he takes up in bed.
You had thought upgrading to a larger mattress would solve the problem.
Because the issue wasn’t the size of the bed.
The issue was Cassian sleeps like a territorial mountain.
He starts on his side, but by the end of the night he ends up halfway on top of you. One wing thrown over you. One arm hooked possessively over your waist. A knee wedged between yours. His chest pressed to your back like you might vanish if there’s an inch of distance.
But sometimes you hate it.
Tonight, you’re exhausted.
He’s sprawled diagonally across the mattress, somehow claiming ninety percent of it despite the fact you bought the largest bed available in Velaris.
He tightens his arm around you instinctively.
His leg drapes further across yours.
You stare at the ceiling.
“Cassian,” you mutter softly.
He grunts in his sleep and buries his face into your hair.
He makes a low, displeased sound and follows you.
Very carefully, you untangle yourself. Slide out from under his arm. Remove the wing from your legs. Inch towards the end of the bed.
He mumbles something unintelligible.
You escape into the living room, grabbing a blanket and settling yourself on the couch.
You’ve barely curled up when you hear it—
The faint rustling of wings and heavy footsteps.
You peek over the back on the couch.
Cassian is standing in the doorway.
Hair messy. Naked chest. Bottoms slung low on his hips. Eyes narrowed and very offended.
“…Why are you not in our bed?”
You stare at him. “I couldn’t breathe.”
“I wasn’t suffocating you.”
“How would you know if you were sleeping?”
He walks closer, expression slowly shifting from confusion to mild betrayal.
“You could’ve woke me up.”
You pull the blanket tighter around yourself. “You’re enormous.”
He looks down at himself like this is shocking information.
Then — without a word — he bends down and scoops you up.
“No,” he says firmly, already carrying you back toward the bedroom. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping on the couch because I exiled you.”
He ignores you completely.
Back in bed, he sets you down carefully in the centre of the mattress.
Then he climbs in beside you.
But instead of immediately smothering you, he lies on his back. Stiff. Deliberately keeping space between you.
“There,” he says. “You have your room.”
Wings tucked unnaturally tight. Arms folded like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you.
You last about ten seconds.
He stares at the ceiling. “You left me.”
“…You don’t like when I hold you?”
The vulnerability in his voice softens you immediately.
“I love when you hold me,” you admit. “I just also love oxygen.”
Then slowly, cautiously, he shifts closer.
Not on top of you. Just nearer.
His hand hovers uncertain over your waist.
“Yes. But no strangling.”
“I thought you liked it when I choked you?”
You roll your eyes. “Not when I’m trying to sleep.”
He huffs a laugh, but pulls you gently to his side. Not crushing. Or trapping. Just warm.
You tuck your face into his chest.
“See?” He murmurs. “It’s not so bad.”
You snort softly. “You’re still too big.”
“But,” you add, sliding a hand over his ribs, “I suppose you can’t be completely perfect.”
He gasps in mock offence. “I am devastatingly close.”
His arms tighten just a fraction.
“Next time,” he mutters into your hair, “wake me up instead of running away.”
“Next time,” you reply sleepily, “I’ll just suffocate you.”
But even as you both drift off back to sleep—
His fingers stay hooked in into your shirt, just in case you try to escape again.
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