#cassian crack

It’s likely due to a combination of factors. Your family was never overly affectionate in this way; hugs and kisses fizzled out rather quickly in your youth and now, hugs are merely reserved for hellos and goodbyes. 

It’s also probably in part that you’re a horribly shy creature and don’t wish to be perceived in any capacity, and Cassian’s hand landing on your knee only goes to alert you to the fact that you are, indeed, a perceivable being. 

If it’s at all possible, you shrink even further into yourself, hoping to eventually blend into the cushion of the loveseat that you’re currently occupying. You’re silently chanting don’t look, don’t look, don’t look as you scan the room to see who might be looking in your direction.

Cassian must hate you, though, because he lets out a sharp bark of laughter that has the majority of the room turning to look at him; sitting so close to him, you’re thus perceived by association. 

He launches into some story that apparently requires both hands to accurately recall it, lifting his palm from where it was warming your knee and leaving it cold in his wake.

Great, now you miss his touch. You – ever so slowly – shift in your seat, crossing one leg over the other in a poor attempt to recreate some of Cassian’s warmth. 

You fail, and you look up to find that Rhysand has witnessed your hopeless aim at self-soothing, the male sending you a comforting wink that brings you no comfort at all and sees you subconsciously shifting further into Cassian’s side, wondering if he might not extend his wing for you to hide behind. 

Cassian must’ve felt you thinking about him, or maybe he really does just hate you, because he chooses that moment to turn in his seat in order to look at you. It requires him to shift his entire body since you’ve all but melted into the cushions behind him.

“You doin’ okay, gorgeous?” 

You hum in the affirmative but the sound is all wrong; pitchy, high, and a little bit wobbly. 

“What’re you doing back there, hm?” 

Busted.

“Hiding,” you admit, knowing better than to lie to him (again). 

This time it’s Cassian who hums the affirmative, turning even further in his seat until his knees brush yours and you are granted the entirety of his attention. “Rhys said you look like you’re trying to figure out how to winnow.”

You turn to look at the offending male who has the audacity to wink at you. 

Squealer.

Rhysand throws his head back in laughter; you might have thought that particular thought a little too loudly. 

“Awe, don’t be mad at him, sweetheart,” Cassian chuckles, calloused fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before hooking underneath your chin and tilting your face up towards him. “He can’t help but notice the most beautiful fae in the room.” 

“Cassian,” you hiss, face heating at his blatant flattery and you’d like for his hand to move away from your cheeks lest he realize what effect he’s having on you. “His mate’s sitting right there.”

“I said what I said.” 

“Why are you doing this to me?” You whisper, closing your eyes in resignation though you can’t help the smile that dances at the corners of your lips.

“Doing what?” Cassian replies with a laugh that fans across your face. “What am I doing to you, huh?”

“Torturing me.”

“I’m loving you,” he counters proudly. “You’ve got a problem with that, sweetheart?”

“Maybe I do.”

Cassian lets out a huff of acknowledgement. “Yeah? Well, tough.” 

He punctuates the sentiment with a gentle kiss to your lips before he finally lets go of your jaw, but he takes a moment to bump his nose against yours before pulling away as a silent apology for any discomfort. You both know if you truly had an issue, though, that he’d back off. 

His hand doesn’t stray far, however, returning to your knee as he jumps back into the conversation happening around him, this time the touch is paired with the occasional squeeze or a stroke of his thumb along your inner knee.

And one thing that serving his peach cobbler is very good at is earning him a beaming grin from a certain little mate of his. 

So, yeah, Cassian might not be very good at much, but he likes to think he’s good at what’s important. 

Mainly, making you smile. 

Thus, he’s feeling pretty good about himself tonight, smiling at the other members of his family around the table as they devolve into their usual dinnertime banter. 

“Every month?” Morrigan asks Feyre with a grimace, theatrically shuddering when the High Lady hums in agreement. 

“They lasted anywhere from three to seven days.”

“Every month,” Morrigan murmurs into her glass, utterly horrified. 

Amren hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps humans are hardier than we give them credit for.” 

“Didn’t you just say they were the only species who could be taken out by a papercut?” you point out playfully, nodding and nudging your wine glass towards Azriel when he wordlessly asks if you’d like a top-up. 

“Two things can be true at once,” the ancient being huffs. 

Feyre hums as something occurs to her, and she quickly swallows her bite to ask, “Do fae have allergies like humans do?” 

Rhysand snorts entirely unelegantly for a High Lord as his violet eyes flash in Cassian’s direction. “You’ve seen the infamous Lord of Bloodshed in Spring, darling.”

Cassian glares, but Feyre merely rolls her eyes. “No, not like that. Some humans are allergic to certain types of food. There was a boy in the village we grew up in that would go into anaphylactic shock if he consumed peanuts.” 

Most of the family looks at her thoughtfully, but it's you who nods as you swallow your sip of wine. “Fae can be allergic to foods.”

“Really?” 

You nod at the High Lady again. “My mother couldn’t eat shellfish, and I’m allergic to peaches.” 

The entire room grinds to an abrupt halt, the only sound the echoing ticks from the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. 

“What?” Cassian rasps. 

You seem confused by the sudden change of atmosphere, looking around the table with furrowed brows and shrugging your shoulders helplessly. “I mean, not as severely as my mother or that boy from your village,” you explain. “But there’s a reaction.”

“A reaction,” Rhysand parrots thoughtfully, eyes narrowing over at Cassian as he puts the pieces together. 

“I’ve seen you eat peaches, though,” Morrigan argues, her brows meeting in the middle. “You eat Cassian’s cobbler all the time.”

Cassian watches the moment you recognize your slip up, your brows easing and shoulders creeping up towards your ears as you look at him apologetically from beneath your lashes. 

“Well, yes… but, I love Cassian’s peach cobbler.”

“But you’re allergic to it,” he argues then, finally finding his voice as he fights to wrap his head around the fact he’s been poisoning you for Mother knows how long. “What are the symptoms?”

“Oh, it’s really not a big deal, Cass. I-”

“What are the symptoms?” he repeats, his general voice slipping out unbidden. 

“I just…break out in hives, a little.” You’re clearly trying to downplay it, and certainly omitting details based on the way you can’t seem to meet Cassian’s gaze. 

“And?”

“And nothing,” you huff, clearly growing agitated by the interrogation this has turned into. 

“How long do the hives last?” It’s Feyre who asks, your eyes flickering over to her and leaving Cassian feeling bereft at the loss of your attention. 

“A few hours, sometimes less.” 

“Any other symptoms?” Rhysand continues, smirking when you swallow thickly. 

“I, uhm, I don’t know… I guess my tongue and throat get a bit itchy? But—”

“That means they’re swelling,” Morrigan interjects, clearly horrified. “Why do you eat it if it threatens to cut off your airways?”

“—But that only lasts like, twenty or thirty minutes.” 

Cassian says your name, but gone is the rough, barking orders of the Illyrian General; your name falls from his lips in a devastated plea that has the unanswered end of the mating bond between the two of you wrapping around his neck like a noose. “I’m sorry.”

Your face contorts in anguish. “No, Cassian. Please, I’ve always really enjoyed it; you’re very talented.”

“I almost killed you.”

“If I was deathly allergic, I wouldn’t have eaten it.” Your brow cocks at him as if daring him to argue. “You love making it, and you always seemed so pleased to serve it to me.”

If that isn’t the understatement of the millenia. Cassian loves anything to do with you; baking for you, shopping for you, going on walks with you, reading with you (where you read and Cassian holds a book as he watches you), topping up your wine for you which Azriel’s very much aware of meaning that the shadowsinger is reaching over to do it again now just to piss his brother off. 

It works. 

“Azriel.”

The shadowsinger’s lips twitch at the warning in Cassian’s voice. “Yes, Cassian?”

“Knock it off.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful,” Azriel offers innocently. 

“If you want to be helpful,” Cassian grinds out. “Go throw out the peach cobbler cooling in the kitchen.” 

A sound of dissent rings around the table, but nobody looks so crestfallen as you do. “But Cass-”

“Are you allergic to apples?” he asks quickly, placing his napkin on the table and making to stand.

“What?” 

“Apples, are you allergic?” he repeats, continuing when you shake your head no. “Any other food allergies?”

“No.” Your eyes track him as he makes his way towards the terrace. “Where are you going?” 

“To the shops, I think we’ve got the fixings for an apple crumble. Do you like apple crumble? I’ll be right ba- actually...” Cassian turns to round the table. “You should come with me.” 

You barely manage to let out a disbelieving exhale before Cassian is untucking your chair and helping you to your feet. 

“Real subtle, brother,” Rhysand huffs under his breath as Cassian ushers you towards the balcony doors. 

Cassian doesn’t grace the prick with a response, praying you don’t catch Feyre's parting comment as Cassian takes off into the sky with you in his arms. 

“Give the male a break, Rhys. He just found out he’s been poisoning his mate.”

“The ones who they deem too weak are put into their stew,” Kallahan continues as though you said nothing at all.

“They do not,” Ellora argues, though she shoots you a look saying she’s not entirely convinced of the fact. “Besides, they probably won’t even be here.”

It’s true; while you’re not one to frequent diplomatic meetings hosted in your court, you’ve only ever seen the likes of Morrigan haunting the halls of Dawn’s central building on Night Court business. 

You won’t mind talking to Morrigan you don’t think; she’s polite, finely dressed, and always wears a smile. 

And you’re quite sure she doesn’t hail from the race of fae who allegedly eat their young. 

She doesn’t have the wings for it. 

Unless-

“And they rip the wings clean off of females’ backs to keep them subservient to them and their whims.” 

“Kallahan!” Ellora finally shouts. “Don’t listen to him. Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.”

“It’s your funeral,” Kallahan shrugs. “But maybe Ellora’s right, maybe you’ll be fine…so long as there are no Illyrians in there.” 

The door to the hallway you’re haunting finally opens, a sentinel nodding at you expectantly. 

“They’re ready for you.” 

You suck in a breath and give Ellora a tightlipped smile, ignoring Kallahan’s sing-songy good luck before you follow the guard towards your impending doom. 

You weren’t sure who to tell when a strange male approached you in the woods along the edge of Dawn Court a few days ago, only that you ought to tell someone. 

You’d been collecting ingredients in the boggy lands bordering your home court and The Middle for medicinal supplies when you realized you weren’t alone. 

A male with pale—nearly grey—skin, blonde hair, and brown eyes crept up on you where you were harvesting ieiunium mushrooms, blocking the light of the sun and forcing you to look up at him. 

He was…handsome, you supposed, as most high fae are, but the sight of him had something heavy settling in your stomach, had a tickle at the back of your neck telling you to tread carefully. 

He asked what your opinion of the Night Court was.

He asked how you felt about Night’s High Lord; about their new High Lady.

He asked how you felt about a regime change. 

You’re not sure why he decided you were the perfect soundboard for his musings that day, save the fact that you were the only one around to listen. You’ve never been to the Night Court, have never spoken to anyone from the Night Court, can’t imagine a time you’d ever be invited to the Night Court. 

Turns out that the bad feeling you had about the male was more than just a bad feeling; it was evidence. And now you’re being called upon to answer questions about what exactly you saw in the woods that day. 

“Only answer questions that you know the answer to,” the guard directs you severely. “Don’t make anything up, don’t try to fill in any gaps. Just tell them what you know. If you don’t remember, just say that.”

You nod, clearing your throat when you realize he can’t see your response from where he walks a few steps ahead of you. “Right, yes. Okay.” 

“Thesan will be there as well, if you need anything.”

“Okay.” You feel a touch more relaxed knowing you’ll have a familiar face there. “And is it, erm, Morrigan who will be questioning me?”

The guard pauses with his hand on the door to the conference room, brows furrowing at you. 

“The High Lord and High Lady have come to question you themselves.”

You hardly have a moment to swallow past your gag reflex before the doors are swinging open and exposing the grand room before you. 

The captain of Dawn’s guards and your High Lord’s partner, Sylvan, stands at the ready behind his High Lord looking ever the stern soldier, but your High Lord graces you with a warm smile and a dip of his chin. 

You don’t manage to summon up a smile of your own in return, not when you’re so focused on keeping your knees from buckling. 

“Y/N,” Thesan greets kindly. “Thank you for joining us today.”

“Of course, my Lord,” you all but whisper, swallowing thickly and dipping your head in deference.

“These here are my friends, the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.”

“Oh, none of that,” the High Lady chuckles. “Rhysand and Feyre are fine.”

Yeah right, you think to yourself. They’ll be lucky to get a single word out of you today let alone the sound of their given names. 

You feel increasingly self-conscious that your fear might end up being interpreted as disrespect, seeing you lift your head and forcing yourself to look at the visiting High Fae.

Your breath catches.

Not because of the beauty of the High Lord and High Lady—Rhysand and Feyre—of the Night Court, though they’re undoubtedly so. But because of the silhouette of the being behind them. 

Illyrian. 

The statuesque male seems to recognize your attention being focused on him, which sees his giant, bat-like wings twitch behind his shoulders. 

Blue siphons pulse on his chest and shoulders and a few shadows stir at his side. The Shadowsinger…the Night Court’s Spymaster. 

A disbelieving breath sounds from your right and distracts you from the fearsome male stationed behind the rulers of the Night Court, finding you turning in its direction only for the ground to finally buckle beneath your feet.

What you thought might have been anxiety, indigestion, your stomach trying to flee to safety via your esophagus, turns out to be a golden string of light once loosely spooled and hanging uselessly behind your ribcage pulling taught and connecting your soul to that of the Illyrian general standing beside the female you thought—hoped—you were going to be questioned by.

Your knees are screaming and you realize belatedly that your legs have well and truly given out on you, seeing them meeting the marble floor beneath you with a crack. 

“It’s okay,” Rhysand states suddenly, holding out a hand to Sylvan who now has his weapon drawn. “It’s…it’s a mating bond.” 

“Y/N,” Thesan ventures calmly. 

The Illyrian—your mate—makes a devastated sound as though the syllables of your name make the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He’s larger, somehow, than the Shadowsinger, and his siphons—plural—glow an ominous red as he dares a step towards you.

You go scrambling backwards.

Thesan tries your name again. 

“You have nothing to worry about with Cassian,” Feyre supplies quickly. 

You don’t believe her, don’t believe any of them. You know exactly why Thesan has guards lining the doors; know why he has his own winged partner standing guard behind him with his weapon drawn. 

It’s because the Illyrians eat their young, isn’t it? Because they rip the wings of their females right off of their back. 

The Lord of Bloodshed, your mind supplies. That’s what they call this Cassian—your mate. General of those Illyrian brutes who have loyalty not even to their own kind let alone the fae around them.

What would happen to you as the mate of an Illyrian? The blades strapped to his side could probably gut you before you even blink. You’d be used as target practice, a sparring dummy, some kind of weird monkey-in-the-middle game that sees you being tossed from Illyrian to Illyrian while hundreds of feet in the air.

By the Cauldron, you’re going to throw up on Thesan’s marble floor. 

A hand lands on your shoulder and you startle, letting out an inelegant squeal and turning on the hand only to come face-to-face with Sylvan.

You give him a look that you hope translates to don’t let them take me; don’t let them turn me into stew. 

“You’re safe here,” Sylvan tells you slowly. “The Night Court’s Spymaster and General are honourable fae.” 

“I promise they look scarier than they are,” Feyre offers gently, shooting you an understanding and sympathetic smile. “It’s by design.”

“While I’m glad to hear their reputations precede them,” Rhysand adds with a feline smirk flashed at Morrigan. “I am sorry they scared you.” 

Your eyes flick to the Spymaster behind him, arms no longer crossed and his hands now tucked behind his back as if trying to make himself appear smaller. 

Then your eyes stray back over to where the other end of the bond vibrates with barely controlled restraint to find Cassian on his knees too, holding Morrigan’s hand like it’s the only thing stopping him from crawling to you. 

“Can I help you into a seat?” Sylvan asks lowly. 

You can’t even nod your head yes before a lethal sound vibrates out of the Lord of Bloodshed.

“Cassian, stand down,” Rhysand warns. 

The Spymaster disappears from behind his High Lord and Lady and reappears in front of Cassian which is not appreciated by the war general. 

“He’s touching my mate,” Cassian growls in response to whatever soothing words the Shadowsinger tries offering him. 

Thank the Mother for Sylvan, though, he doesn’t loosen his grip; you’re quite sure he’s the only thing keeping you from sinking to the floor completely at this point. 

“You need to control yourself, brother,” the Shadowsinger says. “You’re scaring her.”

“Breathe,” another voice soothes, surprising you at its proximity until you look over and see the High Lord of Night staring at you intently; his lips don’t move when he continues. “Just keep breathing.”

You didn’t realize you aren’t; don’t know when your breaths started coming out in short, panicked spurts that do nothing to quench your thirsty lungs or provide nutrients to your brain. 

The room sways.

Thesan calls your name firmly this time, standing from his chair which sees Rhysand and Feyre doing much the same. 

“Cassian,” Rhysand growls darkly.

And then the room goes black. 

You wake to the sound of graphite against paper and the smell of lilac and pears. 

Your lashes feel like they’ve gained several hundred pounds since you last closed them, and a scratchy groan escapes your lips at the effort it takes to open them.

You squint at the brilliant dusk light pouring in from a window of whatever room you've been placed in to find the High Lady of Night—Feyre—at your bedside. 

“You’re awake,” she greets, wincing when this causes a crash to sound from the other side of the door, followed by frustrated hissing before silence returns to the room. 

“Sorry about him,” Feyre continues, looking actually contrite on her companion’s behalf. “He…cares more than he knows what to do with.”

You swallow thickly and twist the fabric of your blanket between your fingers.

“I’m not sure what you might know about Illyrians,” she continues, worrying you that she might actually know just how much you know—or have heard—about the race. “But Cassian—and Azriel—are two of the most wonderful males I have ever met.” 

You let out a sigh, suddenly feeling disturbingly close to tears. Feyre’s eyes dart towards the door. 

“Do-” you pause to clear your throat. “-do you still want to question me?”

Her face falls soft and sympathetic. “No, I think you’ve been through enough for one day.” 

“I…I can. I can tell you what I saw.”

“Cassian would like us to let you rest for today,” she admits then, choosing her words carefully. “He doesn’t want us to upset you… more.” 

A tear finally slips. 

“May…I tell you something?” she asks then, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, sketch forgotten in her lap. 

With a nod of your head, you feel a gentle caress of your mental walls. 

You decide to take the leap and let her in, immediately flooded with images of Cassian playing with a babbling winged babe, him carrying a very drunk Morrigan home, him helping a limp-winged female up from the ground before holding his open palms up and smiling as they resume their sparring, holding a little winged male up in the air as he flaps his tiny wings and shrieks with joy, him and Feyre drunkenly decorating a massive home with Solstice decorations. 

“There are some…terrible males in the Illyrian camps,” she ventures, watching your face carefully. “None that turn their young into stew, as far as I know.”

You burn with shame, wishing you weren’t too embarrassed to pull the blanket up over your head. 

“But Cassian is certainly not one of them.” 

“I did not mean to bring any disrespect to your court, my Lady.”

“Of course; we know that,” she tells you, eyes narrowing playfully. “And I thought I told you to call me Feyre.”

You manage a gentle laugh. “Sorry.”

“Enough of that,” she laughs in turn. “Now, I’m sorry; I have to ask but you don’t have to oblige.” 

You return your gaze to her blue-grey eyes. “Can Cassian come to see you? Make sure you’re okay for himself?” 

You can’t help the way your heart rate picks up and you wince when you find Feyre looking at you apologetically.

“You don’t have to say yes,” she reminds you.

“I…I- yeah, he…he can come.” 

She searches your eyes for a few moments before nodding at you.

“We’ll check back in tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it? For our rescheduled meeting.”

You nod at her and flash her a wan smile as she lets herself into the hallway. 

You hardly blink before a towering Illyrian—your mate—ducks into the room.

It suddenly feels infinitely smaller now that he’s in here and you don’t miss the way he subconsciously steps sideways through the door, clearly forgetting that your court has winged soldiers to accommodate as well. 

“Hi,” he begins awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself as his eyes flit over your form, the bed you’re laying on, and then the small—tiny, compared to him—chair that Feyre just vacated. 

“Hi,” you return equally as awkwardly. He doesn’t seem to mind though; his wings lift in time with his hopeful smile before he realizes what he’s doing. 

Cassian shrinks back in on himself when your eyes dart to his wings, almost like he’s trying to make himself appear smaller. It’s nearly comical. 

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the chair you doubt he’ll fit on. 

You nod your head yes, if only just to see him try.

He just barely manages to fold himself into it, massive wings splayed awkwardly behind him.

“How are you feeling?” Cassian asks eventually, gesturing at the bed you’re currently laying on and reminding you that you’re just lying prone in front of-

You lurch upwards, the task more difficult—more disorienting—than you were prepared for.

Broad, warm hands land on your back and your bicep, finding your entire body seizing. 

“I- I’m sorry, just…are you okay?”

You will your heart to slow its stampede, force your muscles to relax as you allow Cassian to maneuver you into a comfortable seated position.

He’s painfully gentle. 

“Thank you,” you manage when Cassian reluctantly releases you and sinks back into his ill-fitted chair. 

“I’m sorry. For earlier,” he manages then. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You smile ruefully. “In fairness to you, you didn’t even really have to try.” 

He tries to chuckle, though it seems to take a great deal of effort. “I don’t want to scare you.” 

“You don’t, you won’t- I…I’ll be okay,” you stutter, fiddling with the bedspread again. 

“Maybe you just need some exposure therapy,” he offers carefully then, smiling hopefully when you look up at him. “Baby steps but, perhaps I can come…visit you?”

You grin at him; the first real one all day. “Well, I do think your court has some business scheduled here tomorrow.”

Cassian nods quickly. “Yes, yeah. We do- I- it does. Uhm…would it be alright if I came?”

You laugh. “It’s not my court, I’m not in charge of who comes and goes.”

“But it’s your bond,” he counters earnestly, not a lick of teasing detected in his voice. “You’re in charge of the speed that progresses, if it progresses at all.”

“I-” you’re stunned, honestly. You weren’t expecting him to be interested in pursuing anything with you—not after your cowardly display in the conference room earlier. You also didn’t expect him to hand the reins over to you so…seamlessly. “-really?”

“Yes,” Cassian agrees readily, leaning forward in his chair. “Yes, absolutely. This…this is up to you, I- I’m okay—happy—with whatever you’re willing to give me.” 

You search his face—very handsome, now that you’re getting a good look at it—for any signs of deception.

You don’t find any.

“Okay,” you agree then, watching his wings twitch in anticipation. “Tomorrow, then.”

His responding grin is nearly blinding, brightening his entire face—and perhaps even the room at large—as he beams at you.

“Tomorrow,” he agrees.

He hovers along the edges of the market like a dutiful sentinel, watching you bounce between stalls as you peruse their merchandise. 

Cassian is briefly distracted by a child scampering through the legs of various patrons—causing the Illyrian to have to lift his wings lest the little one get a talon to the eye—when he feels the bond thrum with a gentle anxiety. 

It’s taken some time since solidifying the bond between you for Cassian to react this way, but the familiar feeling brings a loving smile to his face. It’s no surprise that his sweet, shy mate is almost always experiencing some form of anxiety, but Cassian has come to learn which type of anxiety is which. 

For example, the anxiety you’re currently experiencing is likely because someone has dared to acknowledge you.

Sure enough, Cassian returns his gaze back in your direction to find your shoulders tightening as you smile politely at the merchant who has deigned to explain some of their products. 

He gives the bond a gentle tug, waiting for you to tug back before he makes his way over to you. 

“…and all of them are hand crafted!” the merchant explains proudly, smiling at you as he holds one of his delicate creations aloft. 

Cassian can’t profess to knowing what it is; doesn’t really care to know, either. He’s too busy admiring your face as you subconsciously lean in Cassian’s direction.

“It’s beautiful,” you agree softly, watching as the merchant lowers that one to hold another aloft. 

“Very beautiful,” Cassian agrees, seeing your gaze turn to find him gazing at you lovingly. 

You smile back, and Cassian’s just about ready to thank the merchant for his time and cart you away when you go ahead and completely blow his mind. 

The merchant returns with a larger sample of his works, jumping into an explanation of the piece as you reach for Cassian’s arm and pull it towards you, hugging it close to your chest and resting your cheek against his bicep as you continue dutifully listening to the merchant. 

Cassian turns to stone, afraid to move; he doesn’t want to ruin this but also doesn’t know what prompted it. Are you so nervous that you’re using Cassian’s arm as a shield? Have you turned him into an emotional support teddy bear? No complaints from him on either count, mind you, he’d simply like to know.

But you merely hum appreciatively at whatever the merchant is saying and squeeze Cassian’s hand in what he thinks might be a silent thank you.

For what? For holding your hand? Acting as your personal bodyguard against the horrors of being perceived alone? Cassian’s not sure.

Once again, he’s not sure he cares to know, he’s simply happy to be doing it for you.

Truly, Cassian is so distracted by your overt (and public!) display of affection that he doesn’t even register you’ve gone ahead and paid for one of the merchant's creations until you’re gently nudging his arm.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head up at him as a genuine divot of concern forms between your brows. 

He itches to kiss it away, but instead he laughs.

“Am I okay? Yeah, gorgeous, I’m perfect,” he tells you, returning the squeeze of his hand with a number of squeezes to your own. “Are you okay?”

And you—his cheeky little thing—fight against a smile as you furrow your brows at him as if you don’t know exactly how strange you’re being right now. “F’course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” 

“Because you’re touching me,” Cassian explains around a laugh. “Publicly!” 

But Cassian’s (loud) excitement clearly marks the line in the sand for you, seeing you recede back to the periphery of the goings on and glaring half-heartedly at Cassian every time he so much as winks at you.

Mother above, he loves the Hel out of you.

The heat of your body pressed up behind him, the scent of your contentment, the sound of your happy humming, the raking of your fingers through his hair—it all has him melting further and further into the cobblestone beneath him, caring less and less what the gathering spectators think of the Lord of Bloodshed’s new favourite pastime. 

“How do they look, gorgeous?” he asks, setting his now perfectly sharpened and polished blade down on his right—adding it to the done pile—and picking up a new one from his left. 

“I think this might be my best work yet,” you muse, dropping your hand down to his shoulder to give it a quick squeeze in thanks. Thanks for asking, thanks for letting him do it, he isn’t sure; doesn’t find he cares, he’s just happy to do it. “I think it’d be very pretty if I added flowers or something to them.”

Cassian hums in agreement. “Think you can find any red ones? They can match my siphons.” 

You like the idea, if the bouncing of your knees are anything to go by, reaching over him in an attempt to grab your tote only for Cassian to pause what he’s doing to hand it to you.

“Thank you,” you hum happily. He tilts his head back at you and shoots you an upside down wink before returning his attention to his blades.

You look very pretty, brother, Rhysand croons in his mind, followed by Azriel’s quiet amusement. 

No need to be jealous, Rhys, he quips back, never looking up from his current task. I’m sure she’d do yours too, you only have to ask. 

I think it’d suit Azriel better, he retorts. 

Only if she has blue flowers, Azriel adds. Because of my siphons, of course.

Oh, of course, Rhysand agrees.

“I think the males are jealous, gorgeous,” Cassian informs you then, smiling to himself when your fingers pause in their task, likely as you look up at the balcony above you. 

Cassian catches a quick glimpse of Rhysand offering you a wave while a single shadow comes to bump your elbow in hello. 

“I could make them flower crowns,” you offer thoughtfully, fingers slowly continuing in their task. “Do you think they’d like that?”

Cassian detects an insecurity in your voice he can’t profess to liking. “They’d love that, sweetheart. Thank you.” 

His eyes flicker up to his brothers, both grinning like cats that caught a canary. 

I’ll make sure of it, he threatens them, causing their grins to grow even wider.

It’s embarrassing, really, sitting here hiding from you as his heart tries to make a run for it. Cassian has faced death time and time and time again, they call him the fucking Lord of Bloodshed for Cauldron’s sake! Yet here he is, wings fluttering with obvious nerves, nearly wetting his pants as he waits for the female who has taken to avoiding him lately. 

It started the day after Starfall. The night had been beautiful- Mother, it was downright perfect. The entire family was there; happy, bright, and more than a little tipsy. He got to watch the colours bleed into your iris’, the look of awe on your face was simply otherworldly as colours painted the world around you. Jokes were made, stories were shared, tears were shed. Mostly by Cassian, but still. The night was perfect. 

But something must have happened, because the next day Cassian was left feeling empty in ways he’d never felt before. 

You were missing at breakfast; no dirty jokes shot or tinkering giggles shared across the table. Then you were a no show to training. In fact, Cassian didn’t get to see you until dinner, and even then you could hardly look at him – or anyone, really – before retiring to bed early. 

The next morning, you weren’t at breakfast but clearly had been, your scent lingering in the space like evidence at the scene of a crime. You still didn’t attend training that day, but he heard you in the library later that afternoon with Nesta. You did come to dinner, and while you were your usual quiet self you seemed even more so that night, speaking to no one unless spoken to and keeping your answers short. 

What really worried him, though, was that no one called you on it. No feline smirks being shot at you from Rhys, no gentle teasing from Mor, no breathy remarks shot at you from Nesta or gentle attempts at conversation from Azriel. Everyone just…accepted that you were checked out. 

Cassian decided then that he would intercept you as you went to bed that night, determined to get to the bottom of your obvious discontentment. 

Only for him to be held back by Nesta who grilled him about Valkyrie training and suggested changes to the current routine. She kept him into the late hours of the evening and by the time he freed himself from her grasp he couldn’t bring himself to risk waking you up. 

He decided to confront you the next day, but he woke up to find that Rhys had sent you and Azriel on a mission for the next few days, and Cassian chalked up his anger at the thought of you away from the safety of this house (and him) to the fact that you were simply not yourself lately. 

Things were different when you returned. Worse, somehow. 

Now you would finally look at him, but your eyes were always tinged with a subtle hollowness, like you were waiting for him to answer a question he didn’t hear you ask. 

You were quicker to join in discussions at the table, but Cassian himself could hardly get more than a few words out of you. If he didn’t know any better, Cassian would even go so far as to suspect you were avoiding existing anywhere with him alone, always leaving the room before the two of you could be the last men standing. 

Cassian felt like he was going crazy, so enough was enough.

“Enough is enough.” He whispers to himself as he hears the book club leaving the room.

You’re always the last to leave; sentient house be damned, you don’t like leaving empty plates and cups around and have taken it upon yourself to tidy up after everyone. It was so damn endearing that Cassian wanted to squeeze you for it. 

But he isn’t here to squeeze you. He is here for answers.

“Hey.” 

Now, it’s important to note that Cassian swears he was honest-to-gods going for light and unthreatening, but the sound of his voice has you letting out a shriek and sees a cup and saucer falling out of your grasp to the floor with a crash, porcelain splintering and shooting outwards from the point of impact. 

“Oh, I-” you suck in a breath, teetering on your tiptoes as you stare down at the mess by your barefeet, “oh gods.” 

Cassian is by your side in record time, heart returning to his esophagus at the thought of harm coming to you by means of splintered porcelain. “Hey, are you okay? No- don’t move. Are you okay?”

He stops you from bending over in an attempt to pick up the pieces. 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I broke it.” You inform him, your pout pointed at the mess beneath you even as Cassian lifts you effortlessly and carries you over towards the built in bar. He’s glad he does as he listens to porcelain crunching beneath his boots. 

“I’m the one who startled you into dropping it, Princess. I’m sorry.” 

You sigh, apparently unable to come up with an argument for that though you don’t seem entirely inclined to agree with him. 

“I’m sorry for upsetting you.” He continues, bending in an attempt to meet your eye. You meet his gaze for a brief moment before they flick back towards the mess.

“You didn’t upset me.”

“I meant at Starfall.” 

You freeze; your entire body tenses as you sit up straighter, refusing to meet Cassian’s eye. He’s clearly on the right track. 

“What do you mean?” Your voice comes out a touch too high, and he can hear the effort you make to sound unbothered. 

You’re clearly bothered. 

“You’ve been avoiding me like the plague since then, I can only imagine I said or did something to upset you, and if I did, I’d like to know so that I can apologize for it.”

The thought of you being upset with him, hurt by him feels so fundamentally wrong he briefly wonders if he might actually be experiencing what he’s quite sure is called a heart attack. 

But nope, the ticker continues its assault on his trachea as he pleads with you, and Cassian takes a moment to congratulate himself of the fact that he hasn’t reduced himself to a blubbering mess on his knees, begging for your forgiveness.

He would, mind you, no questions asked if that's what it took for you to forgive him, for you to look him in the eye, for you to grace him with your smile again. 

Fuck, should he get down on his knees? He should probably get down on his knees. He’s going to get down on his knees.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Cass.” You whisper almost woefully. 

“Then why are you so far away?” He whispers back, desperate to right whatever wrong has taken place here so he can have his favourite girl back. 

Your eyes fill with tears at that, and Cassian considers stringing people up first and asking questions later when he considers that someone else may have upset you. 

“I’m sorry.” You sob, and Cassian’s heart – still in his fucking throat – splinters at the sound, his arms move on their own volition and pull you into him as he folds his wings around the two of you, a veritable shield from the outside world. 

“Please don’t apologize. Just tell me how to fix this? I want to fix this.” It’s official, a female has reduced Cassian to begging. 

“There’s nothing to fix.” You groan, leaning back far enough to wipe at the tears now lining your face. 

“Then how do I get you back?” 

All his question does is manage to punch another sob out of you. 

“I’m desperate here, Y/N. What will it take? What do I need to do? Because I’ll do it, you know I will.” 

“Cass, please-”

“I’ll do anything.” 

“It’s not-”

“Anything, Princess. Anything.”

“I can’t-”

“Please.” 

“You don’t understand, Cass-”

“Then help me understand! What happened on Starfall?”

“I found my mate!” You shriek, sucking in a harsh breath and covering your mouth as though you might be able to retroactively keep the words from slipping out.

But it was too late.

Mate. 

You have a mate. 

A mate that is taking you away from Cassian. 

An anger the likes Cassian has never experienced before poisons his blood stream and circulates his body, siphons glowing at the picture of you in another’s arms, being loved by someone else, protected by someone else, cherished by someone else. The wooden bar top creaks beneath his grip and you let out a squeak of fear, the fight immediately leaving Cassian as that damned heart of his falls from its place in his throat into the depths of his stomach. 

“Your- you… you have a mate?”

You nod cautiously, eyes tracking across Cassian’s face as though searching for clues. Of what, Cassian’s not sure. 

“You…found them, you found them on Starfall?

You might answer him, you might not; Cassian can’t hear much over the sound of blood roaring in his ears. It was only his family at Starfall. It had to be someone from his family. Your mate was a member of the Inner Circle. The only person you’ve spent any extended amount of time with lately is Azriel on that mission Rhys sent the two of you on. You’re mated to Azriel. Cassian is going to have to kill Azriel. Cassian is going to have to bury one of his brothers. 

Oh this is awful, just awful. 

He can’t kill Azriel; that’s your mate. It would undoubtedly make you sad should Cassian kill your mate. No, Azriel will have to live. 

Dammit. 

“Cassian?” You venture slowly, tilting your head as you now try to meet Cassian’s gaze who has taken to pacing back and forth like a caged beast. 

“Yes?”

“Are you…okay?”

No. 

“Yes.” 

“Are you…sure?”

Positive. 

“I’m…happy for you.”

Liar.

Your eyes narrow at him, hearing or perhaps even smelling the lie on him seeing as it tasted so sour leaving his lips. 

“Fuck, I just- I mean….Azriel? Really? I thought-”

“What about Azriel?” 

“Well it can’t be Rhys – he’s already got a mate.” He explains easily. “Unless it’s Mor? I feel like if you mated with Amren she would’ve already gutted Azriel for stealing you away for a week, and Rhys for allowing him to.” 

He isn’t even able to explain why he’s quite sure it’s not the other two Archeron sisters when you start laughing at him. Laughing. 

You have the grace to slap your hand over your mouth as if that might hide the fact that you are, indeed, laughing at the Lord of Bloodshed right now. Unbelievable; it’s been one fucking thing after another with you lately. 

“It is not any of them, Cassian.” You inform him from behind your hand. 

Oh Mother, it is one of the other Archeron sisters? 

“Cassian,” you all but holler around a laugh as if you could feel the way his stomach dropped at the thought that he lost you to two brand new fae, clutching your stomach from the force of your laughter. 

Unbelievable.

“How did you feel when you thought it was Azriel? What was the very first thing you thought of when you came to that conclusion?”

“That Azriel had to die.” Cassian admits easily, hardly embarrassed by how quickly he resorted to homicide. 

“And why would you come to that conclusion?”

“Because you should be mine.” 

Your smirk doesn’t waver but your brows rise and you tilt your head at him as if encouraging him to go on. You’re almost there, Cass you seem to say. 

“You should be mine.” He repeats with more emphasis. 

“Yeah?”

Cassian thinks about it for another moment and decides that yes, that feels right. Simple, and right. “Yeah.”

You nod, smiling at him like he’s your favourite idiot before sliding off of the bar stool he’d plopped you on earlier and offering him two pats to his arm. Something in him sings at the contact no matter how patronizing or brief. 

“Okay, Cass. Good chat.” 

And he watches you leave the room and feels a little guilty at the way his gaze drops to your hips because he really shouldn’t lust after another person’s mate even though you should be his, even though you really ought to be his, even though you – oh my gods, it’s Cassian. Cassian’s your mate. 

“Y/N! Wait!” Cassian hastily storms out the room after you, following the sound of your tinkering laugh throughout the house in search of his mate.