wb Cassian finding his mate and she’s part of this insanely magically powerful family and she doesn’t have any powers or shadows like Cass and both of them bond over feeling unremarkable in remarkable families
this was such a sweet idea, thank you! <3 also i wrote most of this drunk so apologies if it’s weird idk i remember being so proud of it when i was drunk but i can’t make any promises
Cassian x Autumn!reader who feels unremarkable [1.6k words]
CW: fem!reader, the mating bond has snapped but nothing has happened between them, mutual pining, some sexual tension, a little bit of hurt/comfort, fluff
The heat of the pyres almost can’t reach you from the balcony you’ve sequestered yourself on.
Almost.
You slowly raise your hand and watch the way the light of the flames dance across the delicate skin of your wrist, the bones of your knuckles, the tips of your fingers.
The way flames dance across, but never on; never from.
You lower your hand back to your side which sees goosebumps immediately pebble in the heat’s wake.
You’re the daughter of Autumn yet you have nothing to show for it. Born from the flames yet unable to wield them.
Nothing reminds you so much of the fact than an event at the Forest House.
But tonight is an important night for your brother; it’s a night for celebration.
So, you’re moping alone.
Well, perhaps someone accompanied by a bottle of 400 year old whiskey can hardly be considered alone.
Moping? Yes.
Alone? … to be determined.
You bring the bottle back to your lips and take another swig.
“Are you up here hiding from everyone?” You don’t have to turn to know who it is; didn’t need to hear him speak to know that he was there. “Or just me?”
The sound of boots marks the slow approach he makes from the patio doors before halting beside you, close enough now that you can feel the heat of him against your arm, feel the disruption of air where his wing shields your form.
“Would you believe me if I told you it’s not personal?” you ask, blindly offering him the bottle as a pyre roars taller—brighter—under the laughter of surrounding fae.
He chuckles, accepting the bottle and taking a swig before replying. “I’d find that hard to believe.”
“Would I ever lie to you, Cassian?” you croon, offering him a smarmy look. He bumps you with his elbow as he offers the bottle back.
“I’ve learned not to accept what you Vanserra’s say at face value,” he quips back, and your demeanour shifts instantly.
You probably would have gotten away with it, what with Cassian’s attention on the pyres surrounding the property, the merry attendees, and the drink and dance.
But the bond must give you away.
“Don’t feel like joining the festivities?” he hedges then; careful, strategic.
The long answer? The long answer is that you’re not sure you have any right to join. What place do you have here? In this court?
For years you were tucked away from sight lest your inability to wield what you were forged from bring shame upon the family.
After your father died, you were tucked away from sight lest any of Beron’s supporters use you against Eris; a sure fire way to get the eldest Vanserra’s attention is through his baby sister, after all.
So, after years of never being invited to festivities, of being kept from festivities, you don’t know how to join. You don’t know where to go, what to do, or how to go about doing it.
You’re not even entirely sure that you want to.
The short answer? “Not really.”
“Not really,” he parrots, nodding to himself as he leans against the balustrade.
Before you can think better of it, you end up blurting, “I don’t think I should.”
You fall into a seat and fold in on yourself, sinking down into the chair and hiking one leg over the other before wrapping your arms around your middle in a sad approximation of a hug.
“You don’t think you should?” Cassian repeats again, turning to face you.
You shake your head no.
“Why not?”
“Don’t make me say it,” you sigh, pulling another swig from your bottle.
“Well, if you’re going to say something stupid, I’m going to make you explain it,” he counters easily, shrugging his shoulders as if it’s that simple.
“You wouldn’t get it.”
“Why wouldn’t I get it?”
“Because!” you groan somewhat petulantly. “Because! You’re Lord Cassian, general of the Illyrian armies, the Lord of Bloodshed, one of the High Lord of Night’s right hand men.”
Cassian scrutinizes you for a few moments, waiting to confirm you’re finished. “And you’re my equal in every way.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not patronizing you.”
“I’m nothing, Cassian,” you spit, temper flaring even when the flames won’t. “I hardly count as a Vanserra, I’ve inherited nothing from my court, I wasn’t good enough to be a daughter, I’m not good enough to be a sister.”
I’m not good enough to be a mate, is added silently as you fling your hand out at the festivities before you.
Cassian—in a rare turn of events—falls quiet, forcing you to look over at him to find him looking nearly murderous. The second your eyes meet, though, his face shifts from anger to determination.
“I am a bastard child from the Illyrian steppes with no father to my name. My mother was forced to fend for herself and died in extreme poverty trying to raise me. I…am only anything because Rhys’ mother was the kindest female and took me in.”
The temper that was keeping you warm moments ago shifts to a burning shame.
“There are…many Illyrians under my command that could probably do just as good a job as I can,” he admits then, speaking slowly as he parses out his next words carefully. “Maybe better, even.”
“That can’t be right,” you argue, embarrassed when his eyes return to you at your words. “Rhysand wouldn’t have given you the role if you weren’t capable of it.”
“Oh, I’m capable of it,” Cassian agrees easily. “And so is any other self respecting Illyrian warrior. My point is, my ability is not why Rhys gave that role to me over anyone else.”
“Then why did he?” you find yourself asking, shifting uncomfortably in your seat when Cassian smirks.
“Because I’m the least dickish.”
You almost choke on air. “You…what?”
He chuckles then. “I’m the least dickish Illyrian warlord. The least likely to riot against Rhys and his government and attempt a coup.”
“You’re joking,” you deadpan.
Cassian’s head tips backwards and exposes his strong neck as he barks a loud, sharp laugh. “‘Fraid not, gorgeous. I’m what they call a personality hire.”
“A personality hire,” you parrot.
“Or nepotism, maybe,” Cassian hums thoughtfully.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter with a grin, warming inside as Cassian returns it.
His eyes fall serious before his mouth does, though. “I know what it can be like…to be surrounded by strong, powerful people and feel out of place.”
Cassian allows that admission to sit in the air for a few moments before continuing. “I work for the most powerful High Lord in Prythian history; his wife rivals him in every way. Azriel is the only known Shadowsinger and possesses powers many can’t even begin to comprehend. Mor is the Morrigan, and Amren is a tiny ancient thing who knows everything. And I’m…Cassian.”
“You’re more than that,” you mumble, suddenly feeling a bit defensive of your mate though simultaneously chagrined knowing he’s probably experiencing the same emotion tenfold.
“But you are not nothing,” he continues, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes at you. “You’re everything.”
“Cassian…”
“You are a daughter because you have parents and were brought into this world by them, you are a sister because you have an older brother who has spent the first two years of his reign as High Lord dedicated to protecting you. And you’re my mate.” You wince at the word, but Cassian continues. “You’re my mate. Which means that I am yours and, honestly, I think that might be the single greatest thing about me; that might truly be my most prized accomplishment.”
“But I’m-”
“Everything. You’re everything, and it’s sort of killing me that you can’t see that.”
Your sinuses burn as you glue your gaze to the merriment taking place beneath you. You’re not sure why you admitted anything at all to Cassian; you’re not sure why you thought it would be a good idea to imbibe on a vintage bottle of whiskey when you knew he’d be in attendance.
You take another swig, and Cassian allows the silence to stretch between you.
“I can’t believe you’re the least dickish Illyrian warlord,” you comment eventually, wincing at the brief pause before Cassian throws his head back in laughter so loud that some of the attendees turn their attention to the balcony above them.
“If it’s any consolation, there’s really hardly any competition.”
You smile at him, and his responding one tells you he’s gracious enough to move on from the heaviness if that’s what you’d like.
“Thank you,” you tell him, because he’s been kind and patient with you and he deserves to know.
He does you the service of not asking what for. “You’re welcome.”
“You don’t have to sit here with me,” you tell him, gesturing towards the festivities. “You should enjoy your night. I’ve probably already soured Eris’, no point in ruining yours too.”
”Don’t worry about your brother,” Cassian comments then, grimacing as he continues. “I saw him with his…guest of honour; he’s fine.”
You grimace right back at him.
“Besides, I’m exactly where I want to be right now,” he admits, leaning forward and gently plucking the bottle from your grasp.
You pretend not to notice how he lets his fingers brush against yours, lingering for longer than necessary. You pretend like the contact doesn’t send sparks of electricity up your arm, pretend like you don’t watch—or appreciate—the way his throat bobs and flexes as he takes a swig of your whiskey before he hands the bottle back to you.
And you pretend like you don’t immediately bring it back to your mouth in the hopes of pressing your lips to whatever may remain of Cassian on the bottle.
