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scarletaire · 3 years

Text

devil’s finery (Chapter 2)

Fandom: The Folk of the Air by Holly Black

Ship: Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Genre/s: Fluff, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

Rating: E

Tags: Post-Canon, Cardan visits the Mortal World, Possessive Behavior, Jude Torturing Cardan Without Even Knowing It, Jude Torturing Cardan AND Knowing It, Vivi and Heather Seeing Right Through Them, Starring: Cardan Greenbriar’s Tail and Jude Duarte’s Rage, Touch Denial, Lingerie, High Stress (only if you’re Cardan) 😈

Description:

Her husband, Jude swiftly realizes, has a thing for mortal clothes.

Specifically: her in mortal clothes.

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3

Jude executes her plan with such efficiency that even Madoc would be impressed.

First, she gathers her weapons.

She, Vivi, and Heather pull up at a storefront downtown, where the buildings are warm red-brick and the breeze from the bay is cool in the air. Jude looks to Heather in confusion.

“I thought we were going to the mall?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “Victoria’s Secret knows nothing about boobs except how to sell them on a runway. We’re getting you fitted properly.”

It’s surprisingly not an explosion of pink tiling, itchy synthetic lace, and ransacked sales racks inside. In fact, there are no posters of scantily clad women anywhere. It’s well-lit, wood-paneled, and spacious. There are the expected racks and walls of bras and underwear and many more things Jude can’t name, but they’re all tastefully arranged by color (among which beige and black are a long-lost fever dream), and the variety of textures and embellishments have her involuntarily running her fingers over a satin slip with a spray of hydrangeas delicately embroidered on the hem.

A blonde woman with horn-rimmed glasses greets them all, pulling Heather and Vivi into a hug. Her name tag reads ‘Ewa.’ Jude holds out her hand to shake when she turns to her. Just because she’s going in for a fitting doesn’t mean they need to get so up close and personal just yet. (She’s about to be proved very wrong.)

“My sister, Jude,” Vivi introduces.

“Ewa,” says the shop owner. Eh-vah. “What can I help you with today, Jude?”

“Revenge,” Heather says, already elbows deep in black chiffon. “Oh – and a real bra fitting. Stat.”

Jude looks to her in mild alarm. She hasn’t lived in the human world for years now but surely that ‘revenge’ comment would raise some questions? But, no, Ewa’s smile sharpens that little bit further.

“My favorite type of customer. You’ve come to the right place.”

To Jude’s continued surprise, Ewa does not pull out a measuring tape. Instead, she asks Jude to take her top off in a nicely furnished changing room, and then rattles off a combination of numbers and letters that Jude would never have put together for herself.

She waits in a ridiculously plush velvet robe — Cardan would love it here, and not just for the obvious reasons — while Ewa pulls a few size check bras and then inspects the fit on her. Jude’s hangover-addled brain does its best to keep up while she receives an admirably thorough crash course on lingerie fitting. Things like your band is supposed to do eighty-percent of the support, not the straps, see how it’s not riding up your back anymore and make sure the wire goes around all of the breast tissue, a good underwire never pokes!

Is this what most normal mortal girls go through, buying their first bra with their moms? Or is this firecracker of a woman with her exacting gaze and arsenal of hand-dyed luxury fabrics a one in a million courtesy of her sister’s girlfriend? She’s still deciding if she’s relieved or aggrieved that she never got the chance to find out for herself.

Jude restrains herself from making a face when Ewa demonstrates the ‘scoop and swoop’ method, first on herself (yes, really), and then on Jude. It involves way too much bending over and rearranging to possibly do in front of another person, let alone a near stranger.

But then she sees —and feels — the difference that it makes: a weight has miraculously been lifted from between her shoulders. Nothing’s poking or digging in. She feels herself standing a little straighter. She even takes a double glance at her reflection in the mirror.

Jude sends a grudging look of respect Ewa’s way.

“You’re good.”

“I’m Polish, darling. Now that we’ve narrowed down your size, any color in particular?”

Jude turns to face the indomitable racks of laces and silks. The ruby of her wedding ring glints under the bright, artificial store lighting.

“Red,” she says. Her lips tilt of their own accord. “To start.”

Ewa shares her smile. “I like you already.”

______________________

Jude and Cardan are set to return to Elfhame the next day, and to send them off, they all troop out for early dinner at Oak’s favorite Korean barbecue place.

A tidal wave of smoke and grilling meat assaults them when the doors slide away, swiftly replacing the cool, crisp air of Maine’s wettest month of the year.

“Halt. Do I understand correctly,” Cardan says after they’re seated and their grill is sizzling along nicely, “that you have to cook your food yourself?”

“Yes, your Royal Majesty.” Vivi shoves a pair of silver scissors into his hand. “Not everything magically appears at your behest.”

“I could arrange for that.” His free hand raises as if to snap.

Jude does not like what happens when Cardan snaps his fingers. Especially in a crowded room of mortals.

“Stop it.” She grabs his hand and arrests it under the table, in the space between their thighs. “Here, this is your job, okay?” She demonstrates cutting the strips of cooked, marinated beef into smaller pieces. Jude has learned that if she wants to get anything done correctly, she needs to assign her husband with a task that he believes to be of great importance. Yes, exactly like dealing with a child.

“I am the High King,” he says, as if anyone could have possibly forgotten. “Jobs are beneath me. Why do you cut it before serving?”

“It’s for sharing, Cardan. Everyone gets from the grill, so we cut it bite-sized.”

“How commonsensical.” He uses his specially requested fork to take a piece before anyone else.

“You have to wait for everyone,” Oak complains.

“The king waits for no one, nephew.”

“We can take away your fork.”

“You’re using one, too, Jude.”

“I can use chopsticks. I’m way better at it than you.”

“Oak is ‘way better at it’ than you. And he’s half your age.”

As their banter dissolves into the noise of the rest of their order arriving, Jude and Cardan’s hands finish twining in the secret space beneath the table. Warm skin, always, and a touch lighter than her own. Palm to palm, fingers tightening ever so slightly. Never letting go. She lets the contentment wash over her for just a second.

Alright. Maybe two.

But Jude has a mission.

As Vivi slurps her bowl of cold noodles and Heather digs into her red-hot kimchi jjiggae without breaking a sweat, Jude begins to drag their entwined hands over to her. She shifts as if she’s readjusting herself into a better position, while their hands clear the no-man’s land of cracked vinyl between them. The back of his palm lands against her upper thigh, where it brushes against the black lace of the garter she put on under her skirt.

Cardan misses his next piece of meat on the grill. By a mile.

To his credit, he doesn’t stop to look down, or even glance in her direction. Everyone else continues on with their meal, unaware.

Underneath the table, his hand tightens around hers once, then his fingers open against the swath of lace, stretching against the fabric. Exploring, reaching, she thinks, for where it ends.

He finds it a good distance up her skirt.

Jude gasps. Hides it behind a large sip of water. Forces herself to still.

She knew it was coming; she planned it herself.

But. The thing is —

She never thought the inside of her thigh was sensitive. Not like this. Not shivery, and distracting and leaving her wanting more.

Turns out she’s sensitive to Cardan touching her there. Surrounded by friends and family. In public at a mortal restaurant.

Cardan strokes once, the cool edges of his rings catching against her.

What does it feel like to him? The delicate skin of her inner thighs, interrupted by equally delicate lace, a pattern of vines and flowers weaving against a part of her body that only he has ever touched?

The fact that he’s using the backs of his fingers makes it feel illicit, almost. Like he’s not supposed to touch her directly, but he can’t possibly resist not touching her at all. She never planned for that. Or how it made focusing on anything else impossible. If she looks down, she’ll see the outline of his hand under the fabric of her skirt.

It stays there until the end of the meal.

Outside, the sky threatens heavy rain. The others want to pop in to get boba at the small shop next door, so Vivi asks if she and Cardan want to wait here or go warm up the car. She does so while pointedly looking at Jude.

She and Cardan are admittedly leaning a little closer together than usual. Gravity is working strangely this night, because no matter how Jude arranges herself, her body inevitably tilts in his direction. She’s on a mission, but right now she’s questioning who exactly is playing who; the lines blurred the longer Cardan kept his hand up her skirt. She needs to regain her footing, fast.

Carefully, she lets the neckline of her oversized shirt drop to the side. Just slightly.

Cardan’s eyes hone in on the embellished black strap of her bra faster than an Elfhame falcon.

“We shall wait in your moving vessel.”

“Vehicle, Cardan.”

He doesn’t try to argue back.

Jude barely gets the car doors unlocked before Cardan throws her into the back seat. She lets it happen.

“Treacherous mortal. What are you wearing?”

Jude brushes her skirt down with an impertinence that she learned straight from him. “It’s Heather’s. I ran out of clothes because I ended up staying longer than expected. No thanks to you.”

“My wife lacking clothes? It sounds nary a problem to me.” He leans over her, pressing her back down on the seat. “I was referring to this.”

Warm, urgent fingers brushing up against her thigh.

Cardan snaps the garter back against her skin.

“What, that?” Her voice is featherlight on a gasp. “Don’t you know, Cardan? It’s what all mortal girls wear under their skirts.”

When he shakes his head, the ends of his hair brush against her forehead. “I think,” he croons in her ear, “you’re lying to me, Jude.”

He moves over her in the cramped, dark space. He’s all she sees.

“I think you want something.”

“Is it working?” The words are a callback to that little moment in their bed, when he used his magic to lull her into doing what he wanted, into staying with him instead of leaving for the mortal world.

“Come find out.”

It’s a threat, a challenge, and the language of war is so familiar between the two of them that Jude doesn’t fight it when he pulls them both backward and lifts her into his lap. She lands, breathless at the sudden change in position, and at the sight of the most powerful being in all the realms looking up at her through messy, dark curls and bright, adoring eyes.

Cardan’s hands find their way under her skirt again, tracing over her thighs currently stretched over his. Her muscles strain a little when he widens his legs; she knows he does it on purpose, because when Jude drops a little, so does her skirt. Delicate black lace now completely exposed against her skin.

He sighs, as if he’s been granted his most indulgent wish. Both hands now, sliding farther than they did in the restaurant. Jude arches into the touch before she can think better of it.

“Pretty. You deserve pretty things, Jude. Pretty things to wear. Pretty things for me.”

The words melt over her. She does like pretty things, even though she doesn’t get to wear them for herself all too often. She always envied the fae their feathers and jewels and dustings of gold. She supposes, as High Queen, those things aren’t beyond her anymore. She just never got around to doing it for herself — now that they’re married, Cardan is always happy to spoil her. Pretty dresses. Pretty flowers. Pretty letters that she will never let him know she keeps locked up in a box like precious things. He always gives her what she never realizes she wants.

Like this. This feeling. A kind of power, if she’s being honest, that she didn’t think existed. The power to wear beautiful things, to feel beautiful in them, to know that he liked it. To like that he liked it.

Again, the situation begins to slip out of her fingers, slick like a satin ribbon pooling at her feet. She never expected it to be this tricky. She never expected to like it.

Focus. She needs to focus.

In one graceful motion, Jude peels her shirt off.

“Pretty like this?”

And, oh, this, he clearly did not expect.

She went easy on him — and herself, if she’s honest — for the first one: simple black polka dots. (Against gold satin. Of course.) There’s lace detailing along the tops of the cups and the straps, little things that shouldn’t matter, but make a strange difference when she knows that they’re there for no real reason but to embellish. It isn’t even the fanciest or the most extravagant of the things she bought, but it’s already a far cry from what she used to wear before. The way his hands freeze on her waist and his mouth parts and his eyes glaze over gives her exactly what she needs to set her plan in motion.

“I have a deal for you, High King of Elfhame.”

Cardan’s gaze is still stuck to her chest. She honestly doesn’t blame him: there isn’t any extra padding, but Ewa nailed the fit so well that Jude has never felt so lifted in her life. The oddest urge to preen slips down her spine, straightening it. Making her roll her shoulders back just a bit. A harsh breath leaves his throat. It doesn’t look like he heard her.

“Cardan.” She grabs him under the chin. Doesn’t do it gently. He fixes on her face with a distracted grunt.

“I said—” Her pointer finger traces down his throat and settles against the first button on his white mortal shirt “—I have a deal for you.”

And he finally hears her, because he leans back, and even though she’s currently astride him, he still finds a way to look down at her through his long, long eyelashes.

“Oh? Very well, wife. Make your offer.”

He has the audacity to look like he was expecting this.

Jude leans in, bracing herself against his shoulders. “Set a date for the tribunal with the Court of Teeth,” she says, fingers trailing down his arms with slow intention, “and I’ll let you touch wherever you want.”

His eyes flash, black skies and thunderclouds. “And if I don’t?”

She catches both of his wrists and pins them on either side of his face. He grunts when they hit the seat back behind him. “Then you can only touch wherever I allow you. If I allow you.”

“A game.”

“Give me what I want, and you can call it whatever you like.”

“Show me, then.” The tilt of his head is all fae trickster, everything she was warned against all her life.

“What?”

“Show me how we’re going to play.”

As Jude watches, he spreads his trapped hands in a show of surrender, and it is the worst play at concession she has ever seen. Warily, she releases her hold on his wrists, her eyes narrowed at his expression.

Eager. And hungry.

His hands settle against the seat of the car. Less than a second later, their faces are suddenly inches apart. Jude scrambles at his shoulders for balance.

“You’re not allowed—”

“To touch, yes, I know.” He closes another inch of space. Two. “But you never said I wasn’t allowed to kiss you.”

“That’s…” Cheating, she wants to say. It dissolves just like the space between their lips.

“You want me to play, don’t you? Your game. Your bargain.” He breathes the words against her mouth. “A bargain means that I get something in return. Make me beg for it, Jude.”

The first press of his kiss starts to pull her under.

You’re supposed to pull away now, she thinks. Get off his lap. Get out of the car. Make it harder for him.

And then, the skies open with a vicious crack of thunder.

Jude jolts away; she and Cardan stare at each other in the shadows of the storm. Rain pelts the roof of the car in a surging, mocking staccato. Lightning edges the horizon. They’re stuck inside the car until it clears: there is no escaping this even if she wants to. No pulling away from this now.

As she watches, one of Cardan’s hands lifts from where it was resting at his side. It rises, right there where she can see it, coming closer and closer to the curve of black polka dots against a shining gold background.

Testing her. Challenging her.

“No,” Jude says, and she watches the denial melt into the pitch black of his eyes. Watches his hand lower and return to the seat. Watches his expression shift and sharpen because this is what it means to make herself forbidden and untouchable to the only one she’s ever wanted to touch her. What it means to command his obedience with nothing to hold against him but his desire. What it means to turn his touch into the exact thing she despises and he adores: a game.

A game she plays with a spoiled prince turned powerful king who always wants what he can’t have, and does whatever it takes to get it. Tricky, and wicked, and a little fond of pain.

Dangerous.

Good thing Jude is the exact same way.

______________________

Later, the only way Jude remembers those stolen moments in the car is through sound. Not sight, because the car was too dim for that. Not touch, because their game didn’t allow for it.

Not his, at least.

So, it was only this:

The strained creaking of the leather seat under his fingertips as he clenched and clawed and wished it were her skin instead.

The snick of each button she unfastened, every single one a punishment for denying her what she wanted.

The rustle of his shirt as it hit the rubber matting of the car floor.

The hiss she drew from him as her nails dug into his shoulders.

The slide of his mortal denim against the cotton of her underwear.

The storm drumming a beat that her hips followed without thought, fever-pitch.

The rasp of the fabric of her bra against his bare chest as she moved against him.

The gasps she didn’t bother to hide in his neck as she rode him through their clothes.

The swish of his tail as it wrapped around her ankle (she tells herself later it doesn’t count).

The silence every time Jude asked him to set a date for the tribunal, each request more breathless than the last.

The strangled groan she wrung out of him when she denied him what he wanted.

The dark chuckle that told her he considered torture and pleasure one and the same.

The sighs from both of them when Jude eventually gave in and kissed him, needing his touch even as she forbade it.

The little whimper she couldn’t help when she finally came, breathing hard against his mouth.

The frustrated grunt as his hands fisted at his sides, where they remained the whole time.

The hum in her throat as she looked down at the sight of him, still hard and desperate and no less hungry beneath her, and considered her opening assault a success.

______________________

Jude deploys the rest of her arsenal following a carefully crafted plan of attack.

First, the night strike.

They’re turning in to sleep after their first full night since returning to Elfhame. Jude came in before him, and so she’s already removed Nightfell and the small army of knives from her body when he crosses the room and touches the back of her head softly in greeting. (It doesn't count either, of course. It's a new and diaphanous thought to consider, that some things between them are never a game at all.)

Some nights, they burst through the doors, their blood already pumping and voices hoarse from arguing, and it’s easier than nothing to transmute the anger and the frustration of the day into tearing clothes and rough hands and moans muffled into cushions of the chaise because they don’t make it to the bed.

But there are nights like this one, quiet and comfortable and familiar at the end of long meetings and infuriating council members, that Jude loves the most. They’ll usually come in together, because he’ll seek her out to amuse himself after boring paperwork, and she’ll roll her eyes and call him names, and they’ll ring for honeycake even though dinner is over. Then, it’ll be soft voices and the smoothness of his skin against her calluses and Jude wishing she had enough magic to just make moments like these impossible to wake up from. Of course, she’ll never tell Cardan that.

It’s later than usual when they come in tonight; the first whispers of dawn tease through the gossamer of the curtains. Maybe that’s why Cardan just gives her a tired smile as he begins to undo the cuffs of his sleeves.

Strangely enough, it’s moments like this that strike through Jude more than any other. The domesticity of being there when he dresses for the day, and then when he undresses at the end of it. It’s a simple thing, undoing his cuffs, but the intimacy of it is beyond anything she knows. There are no chambermaids to help either of them undress; they’ve been scarce since they started sharing a room. Knowing that no one else sees him like this, and that she’s the one he chooses to be there with him: she hoards the sight of him with shoulders loose and expression untenanted as the fastenings of him come undone.

“Lord Roiben sent a message,” she says. It’s empty chatter, mostly she just wants to hear his voice after being separated from him since breakfast. “The Court of Termites is preparing a revel for Lady Kaye’s birthday.”

“I heard.” He’s dispassionate. “You understand it will be a trifling matter compared to our revels, of course.”

“Of course. No one could dare match you in terms of excess.”

They haven’t brought up Jude’s bargain since the car, as if the mere mention of it will spoil the game between them. But it simmers unspoken, a secret that changes the landscape of the way they move around each other throughout their day.

Cardan tugs the rest of his shirt off, gives up halfway to getting undressed, and collapses bare-chested into the chaise with a melodramatic sigh.

“The council was merciless today,” he complains. He’s even thrown his arm up against his eyes.

“Poor thing,” Jude deadpans. They’d be easier to deal with if he just settled the tribunal date.

Which reminds her. She casts one last glance at him — tail swishing low and lazy, voice growing softer and drowsier as he tells her about Randalin’s insufferable pestering, guard down, his guard is down — before reaching into the bottom drawer of her dresser.

It’s heavier artillery, this one. She slips into the ensemble the way Ewa taught her, one leg at a time, and only doing the little straps after she’s tugged it around her body.

She tramples down on the smallest whisper of disquiet in her belly: he’s seen her completely naked, has certainly done much more than look, but putting herself on display like this, intentionally, is a strange vulnerability she’s never had to prepare for before. She’s not afraid, exactly. Just — bared. Bared to him, and the game they’ve woven deliciously between them.

It thrills down her spine.

“You should have been there, Jude, to see the way Randalin chased after me. He is rather a badgering sort, our Minister Cockalorum. Of course, you’d know all about badgering, wouldn’t…”

His words die on his tongue when she stops in front of him.

“…you.”

You.

She watches his expression, how it shifts in maddeningly complicated ways as he struggles to decide where to look first, until finally he is caught by her face. She can’t be sure what he finds there — amusement? encouragement? reassurance? — but whatever it is allows him to slowly drag his gaze down her body.

The whole thing is sheer black fabric, practically translucent. It flows loosely down to her upper thighs, and is held together by two thin straps that go around her ribcage. Two little clasps, or it would all fall off her shoulders — not that it would make a real difference. The only thing that really counts as coverage is the intricate black embroidery of flowers that travel across her breasts. They reminded her of bitterblack in the shop, and that was mostly why Jude bought it.

A babydoll, Ewa said. Barely.

She’s still looking at Cardan’s face when he finally reaches the bottom, which he can see through to the matching underwear with the same embroidered flowers. Whatever disquiet she felt earlier has been washed away by the way his mouth parts open on a shaky exhale. Jude stands before him now, a little cold but thoroughly entertained.

Cardan rises, like he’s moving through honey. Her neck tilts back when he reaches his full height.

She steps closer.

He leans in.

His chest brushes against the barest edge of sheer fabric.

She breathes in deep, the bite of dawn air and the sweetness of victory.

Cardan’s hand moves, unbidden, to graze the clasps holding it all together.

Jude grins.

“No.”

It slams into him, the weight of the bargain, the game. His hand freezes, caught between them. She sees him wade through the haze; it’s clear he forgot it for just that moment.

He confirms it with a choked off sound, low in his throat.

Still grinning, Jude steps away. Turns her back on him.

“Sleep well, Cardan.”

A strangled howl follows her when he sees that what’s in front doesn’t quite make it to the back.

At all.

This is going to be fun.

______________________

END NOTES:

Chapter 3 will be up 10/1 at 10AM UTC!

The scene in the car is directly inspired by this jaw-dropping piece by @alexandracurteart.

Our favorite lingerie store owner is inspired by real-life lingerie designer extraordinaire, Ewa Michalak. She runs an amazing shop of handmade lingerie for all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Not an ad, just thought it would be cool to mention.

Shout out and thank you to @admiral-ackbarista for the loveliest message that motivated this chapter!

___________________

Tagging: @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks @foreverscreaming @nee-naw-nee-naw-beepbeep @kpostedsum

* Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics (Jurdan or other fandoms!) and it would be my absolute honor to do so!

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scarletaire · 2 years

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glitterlight (a jurdan holiday fic)

For Jen | @booksandlewks, the bestest Knife Wife Ever! ❤️🎄✨ When you said, “As long as they love each other, I’m happy” I knew we were meant to be 💍(a ring fresh off the heist, just for you 😉)

Rating: T

Words: 8,375

Tags: Post-Canon, Fluff, Holiday Shenanigans, Basically A Hallmark Christmas Movie But Jurdan, Cardan Greenbriar in the Mortal World, Ice Skating, Hot Chocolate, Pregnancy Reveal

Summary:

“Jude.” Cardan’s voice is so bewildered she stops to look at him. “Why do those children have knives strapped to their feet?”

Or:

A mission in the mortal world takes an unexpected turn. The High King of Elfhame discovers the holiday season, makes a new friend, and unveils a wonderful, shining secret.

[Read Here] | [Masterlist]

Thank you to @jurdannet and @jurdannetrevels for hosting this year’s Secret Snusband Gift Swap!

#secretsnusband2021 #jurdan #jude x cardan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tfota #the folk of the air #tfota fanfic #jurdan fic #jurdan fanfic #jurdanfanfic #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #tcp fic #fandom: tfota #zita writes #jurdannet #jurdannetrevels

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scarletaire · 3 years

Text

devil’s finery (Chapter 1)

Fandom: The Folk of the Air by Holly Black

Ship: Jude Duarte x Cardan Greenbriar

Genre/s: Fluff, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

Rating: T

Description:

Her husband, Jude swiftly realizes, has a thing for mortal clothes.

Specifically: her in mortal clothes.

Links: Masterlist | Read on AO3

Jude doesn’t notice it right away, of course.

For the better part of their first year as a married couple, she and Cardan remain in Elfhame cleaning up the mess her wayward father and the cohort of the Undersea left behind. As a result, she spends most of her time in fae clothing — practical linen trousers, embroidered jackets, the increasingly necessary ballgown — and the remainder of the time, well, out of them.

It’s in such a state that Jude finds herself the morning she’s set to leave for a trip away from the brugh, her first since fully becoming High Queen of Elfhame. To make matters worse, it’s drizzling outside, the sound of the rain pattering and the ensuing morning mist so very close to soothing her back into a drowse, surrounded by the soft, silk sheets of their bed.

A situation that, she’s beginning to suspect, isn’t entirely by coincidence.

“Cardan, I have to get up.”

She’s still catching her breath, and it doesn’t help that her husband is an immovable weight on top of her, his face buried in her stomach, as if he never means to surface from her again.

“Later.” He’s tracing his fingers along her hip, up and down the length of her leg. Lazy patterns, meant to lull. Just like the rain outside.

“I know what you’re doing.”

She feels him smile into the curve of her waist. “Is it working?”

“No,” she lies.

He hums. The vibration of it washes over still sensitive skin.

“What will you do while I’m away?” It’s a leading question, because she knows the right answer. And he does, too, even if he doesn’t like it.

“Await your return.”

“And after?”

“Await your return.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘meet with the tribunal delegation sent by Queen Suren?’”

He waves a hand. “Yes. That.”

“Cardan, I’m serious.”

Dark eyes glint at her. “As wholly am I.”

Quick as a knife, her knee cuts up under his chin, pressing hard into his throat and tilting his head back in an uncomfortable angle. “This meeting has been planned for months. You’re going to show up and pass the agenda, with or without me. Do you understand?”

He smiles, sharp like glass, even as his neck strains. “Yes.”

“Good.” She drops her knee and wriggles, a little inelegantly. “Now get off me. I have to get dressed.”

Cardan does not get off her. Instead, he sends his grunt of complaint into the skin of her stomach, the tension of the previous moment melting back into something comfortable. It’s easy like that, with him. “How cruelly you abandon me.”

Jude shoves at his shoulder, unimpressed with his dramatics. “I’m not abandoning you. I’ll be gone for just a week.”

“A whole week. In the mortal world.”

“Yes.”

He holds steadfast around her waist. “I can come with you.”

“We’ve been over this. Someone needs to babysit Oak while Vivi visits Heather’s family in Seattle. And one of us needs to stay behind to oversee the tribunal for the disbanded Court of Teeth.”

“They can take Oak with them.”

“He has school.”

“Vivi doesn’t have to go.”

“She wants to. Heather’s introducing her to her family, again, and this is important to both of them. Now, move.”

She keeps her mortal clothes in the bottom drawer of their closet. It’s been months since she’s taken them out, and the polyester and denim feel more than a little foreign to the touch: she’s gotten too used to the spidersilks and brocades and velvets of Faerie.

Sighing, Jude begins to slip on her bra. She definitely hasn’t missed the feeling of underwires and stiff elastic. Breast bindings are the norm in Elfhame, but even then, their use isn’t much common outside of knights and soldiers. Fae clothing, she had noticed early on, seemed to be designed without the need of such things, anyway.

As if there wasn’t enough to begrudge the fae, they also somehow had self-supporting boobs.

No one seemed to mind, at any rate, even when she wore dresses and gowns that weren’t entirely intended for her fuller mortal body.

Cardan certainly didn’t.

It isn’t until he presses a kiss to her bare shoulder that she realizes he has come up behind her. His slyfooting has greatly improved, apparently.

“Is this a mortal garment?” He runs a finger over her bra strap, and then — when she doesn’t shove him away — under it, lifting the fabric curiously from her skin. “I’ve only ever seen it worn by you.”

“It’s called a bra. A type of… mortal underwear.”

“Bra,” he repeats, and the word sounds foreign coming from his full, swollen mouth.

He pulls them around, until they’re facing the mirror on the vanity. Jude watches their reflections as one of his hands folds across her stomach, while the other begins to trace the top edge of her cup, the swell of her breast. Watches him watch her, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.

“What?” she asks, warily.

“I like it.”

“I don’t wear it for you.”

His hand stills, warm against the thin fabric on her chest. “Oh? And are there — ones you would wear for me?”

Jude scoffs. “You wish.”

A knuckle brushes across her nipple. “Pity. I think I do.”

Jude tells herself not to dwell on it too long. Those thoughts lead to danger. Her jeans go on next, but Cardan has effectively plastered himself to her back.

“Cardan.”

“Yes? Need help with your clothes again?”

“What? No, just—”

She finally shoves him away with a hard jab of her elbow. He goes, laughing, even as he rubs at his bruised ribs.

The laugh drops off when he notices the jeans she’s stepping into.

“No.” He’s immediately at her side again, this time without an ounce of amusement. “Don’t wear those.”

She’s doing the hop that all tight denim jeans demand. She misses her easy Fae trousers already. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t, Jude,” he says, something urgent in his tone. He tries to tug at her belt loops, but she swats his hand away.

“What is it now?”

“I’ve seen you wear those before.” His eyes are dark, and wide. He almost sounds like he’s begging. “You need to wear something else. Anything else.”

Jude’s temper is swiftly reaching its end. “Quit trying to delay me, Cardan, I’m going.”

She turns and storms away to a short distance where she isn’t tempted to behead him, for real this time. She hears a strangled noise from behind her as she buttons up her jeans. Whatever his problem is, he can deal with it while she’s away. She pulls on her shirt and jacket, and fastens Nightfell and a few select knives to her body. That part of dressing up doesn’t change, no matter where or who she is.

The door is blocked.

“Jude,” Cardan pleads, hands outstretched like a child. Desperation has rendered him foolish.

Nightfell digs easily and eagerly into the hollow of his throat.

“Step. Away. From the door.”

His tail flicks once behind him, curling protectively over the door knob. “You don’t understand.”

“Nor do I care.” A second blade appears in her other hand, and she presses it to his side. “Move, dear.”

“I’ll trade you, anything, if you just promise not to—”

She feints a swipe of her knife hand, and Cardan, unable to move forward because of Nightfell, smartly recoils to the other side. It’s enough for her to wrench the door open.

“Nice try,” she says. “Have fun with the tribunal.”

__________

Unsurprisingly, her trip to the mortal world is cut short.

The Bomb waves cheerily at her atop a ragwort steed, which grazes heedlessly on the front lawn of Vivi’s apartment complex. “The High King requests your return, Your Majesty.”

Jude crosses her arms. She isn’t even halfway through the week. “Of course he does.”

“I believe,” says the Bomb, still in that cheery tone of voice, “that the request was of the urgent variety.”

“Oh, really.”

The Bomb dismounts, and offers Jude a small packet. “I’m afraid so.”

Inside is a lock of black hair, the tip of it wet. Dipped in blood.

“A gift from Suren’s delegation.”

Jude takes less than a second to think. “Take care of Oak. Don’t let him out of your sight.” She’s halfway up the mount before she turns back and adds, “And if he asks to have cake for dinner, do not give in. There are leftovers in the fridge.”

And then she flies.

All manner of horrible possibilities flood her head throughout the ride back home. The delegation had agreed to the tribunal without much complaint. Maybe too easily. Jude had attributed it to Suren and her fealty to the monarchs of Elfhame. But if they had come so that the Court of Teeth could gain access to the palace grounds…

Suren’s scarred face smiles in her memories, teeth filed into sharp needlepoints and stained red.

Jude’s knuckles turn white around the ragwort steed’s mane.

It feels like only heartbeats later when she slams through the great double doors of the throne room, Nightfell already drawn.

And pauses.

The entire delegation from the Court of Teeth is gathered, standing to the sides of the room. In formation among them are palace guards under the banner of Elfhame; Jude spots Fand and select members of the queen’s guard present. But that’s not what makes her pause. Across the throne room floor is a great mahogany table filled edge to edge with towers of pastries and jams and fruits. A feast, and in the center, a great roast boar.

And at the table sit Suren, and the High King of Elfhame.

Spreading cream on his scone.

“What is this?”

“This, I believe,” Cardan drawls, “was a coup.”

It doesn’t look like a coup. It sure as hell doesn’t look like a tribunal. It looks like high tea in the middle of the throne room.

“A sloppily arranged one, to be fair.” Suren’s voice has regained strength in the months since they parted, but she still speaks slowly and carefully, like she is enunciating around a bridle even now. She bows her head to Jude. “My queen.”

“Not one of my finest,” Cardan says to Suren, as if Jude weren’t there, sword drawn to defend him.

“You set this up. You set me up.”

Suren takes a measured sip of tea, yellow eyes flickering between the High King and Queen of Elfhame.

“You’ve come a long way, Jude.” Cardan slides the chair out next to him in a mockery of chivalry. “At least sit down to the table.”

Jude glares.

Members of the Court of Teeth murmur and stir uneasily. Suren sends them a glance, and they quiet down.

“Were you even actually hurt? Whose blood is this?”

“Blood? Oh,” Cardan blinks at the parcel of bloodied hair she throws down to the table. “Well, you know how the Court of Teeth like to arrange their feasts, Jude. Everything is done themselves, as an honor to their hosts. Especially the butchering.” He runs one long-fingered hand through his dark curls, grinning. “Messy affair, unfortunately. The gore goes absolutely everywhere.” Then he picks up his fork. “The roast came out splendidly, by the way.”

Jude drives her blade into the mahogany of the dining table, inches from Cardan’s plate.

More than a few gasps from their guest delegation. Someone almost draws their sword in alarm. Fand places a calming hand on their shoulder, a look of boredom clear on her face.

“I told you,” Jude seethes, “to handle this yourself.”

“And I told you, wife,” Cardan says, “not to wear those mortal trousers when you left.”

“What?” There is enough venom in her voice that Suren’s teacup stills halfway to her mouth. “You tricked me all the way back here because you didn’t like my jeans?”

“On the contrary.” He tilts his head at her. He’s wearing the kind of smile that tells her a good sum of his amusement is actually directed at himself. “My spies informed me that you took Oak to an event full of unruly mortal men. Wearing that.” His eyes rove over her and linger, heavy and dark, on the curve of her hips.

Jude’s head is beginning to throb. Not just because of the anger simmering with every word out of Cardan’s mouth, but because his words aren’t making any sense. He had spies on her? Why?

“Unruly—” Her hand comes up to rub at the ache forming between her brows. “Are you talking about the basketball game?” Cardan doesn’t say anything. “That was a school thing for Oak!”

He shrugs. “It matters not, seeing as there is only one solution to the problem at hand.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He nods sagely. “I shall have to chaperone you throughout your sojourn in the mortal realms.”

Suren must see Jude’s hand reaching to pull Nightfell out of the dining table because she swiftly interrupts. “Your Majesties. It would seem that a tribunal cannot be carried out while the two of you are away. It would be no trouble at all to postpone to a later date.”

“Trouble. Yes, we wouldn’t want any of that, would we, Jude?”

Jude grits her teeth as Suren and her infuriating husband work out an agreeable rescheduling. The young queen, despite her tender age, is a logical, if soft-spoken, negotiator. Jude marks this, and adds it to the tally of information she’s collected about her. There is precious little, and that leaves Jude uneasy. Then, the entire delegation of the Court of Teeth files out of the throne room, Suren’s expression inscrutable throughout it all.

When the two of them are finally alone, Jude stands in front of Cardan, hands clenched.

“I thought you were hurt.”

A flash of teeth as he sips his wine. “And you came for me so quickly.”

“We’ve been planning this tribunal for months.”

Cardan eyes her over the rim of his wine goblet.

“Cardan, some of them voted to have you bridled and enslaved. And today you let them get away.”

He sets his goblet down and sighs. “Yes. And today you saw how well Suren is handling them. They’re all much too afraid of her to even think about making a move against us.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to postpone the entire thing.”

“It also didn’t mean that we had to make Suren order a retinue of her people to their punishment.”

Jude narrows her eyes at him. “It’s her duty as queen.”

“She’s nine.”

“What does that matter?” The words are out of her mouth before she can think them through. And she knows: it matters. Nine years old. Barely older than the age she’d witnessed her parents killed. Barely older than Oak. Too young.

Cardan says nothing, only waits.

A long breath escapes her. “All right. I understand.”

“Good.”

“That means you have to find another way to charge the guilty.”

“Arguable.”

“Non-negotiable.” Her fingers find that throbbing between her eyebrows again. “You didn’t need me here to postpone that ruling.”

“Of course not. I needed you here for a different reason.”

Her irritation is a hot surge under her skin. Jude slams her hands on the armrests of his chair. “Care to elaborate?” Danger, soft in her voice.

A danger mirrored in the tilt of Cardan’s lips. He snags one of her belt loops in one hand, while the other drifts up her hipbone and then around. He squeezes. “These jeans, you call them? Wear them only when I’m around.”

She doesn’t need Nightfell to get her point across. Her fingers tangle in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss.

“If you pull something like this again, I’ll stab you myself. Are we clear?”

He smiles. His satisfaction is sharp enough to cut.

“Well, wife, you did say with or without you.”

__________

It’s the last day of Jude’s designated week of babysitting, and Vivi and Heather have just arrived from Seattle. She comes in from her evening jog with her sweat drying cold against her skin. It’s late October in Maine and her thin jacket and leggings were a mistake in the evening chill. With mild weather a near constant in Elfhame, Jude is out of practice dealing with extreme temperatures.

She rounds the hallway to find them all sitting around the counter having dinner.

“Cake.” Cardan is half-buried in chocolate icing, and is entirely too gleeful. “Jude, you should have told me mortals eat cake for dinner.”

She doesn’t respond.

“We don’t,” Heather answers when the silence goes on too long. “Not usually, at least. But our Seattle trip was a success and we wanted to celebrate.”

“Thanks for babysitting, Your Royal Majesties,” Vivi says with a grin.

“Not a baby,” Oak grumbles.

“It was our pleasure,” Cardan croons. His eyes track her as she moves to the sink. “Wasn’t it, Jude?”

She ignores him, again. Just like every other time he tried engaging her after he finagled himself into joining her in the mortal world.

Just the thought of it has Jude slamming the kitchen shelves as she retrieves a glass. Water sloshes as she drinks and sets the glass down hard against the counter. The other plates and glasses clink from the force of it.

Vivi raises an eyebrow at her, pulling her plate of chocolate cake away. “Shall I move some things, make some space for your rage?”

“We’ll be returning to Elfhame tomorrow,” Jude announces flatly. “We have a tribunal to move up.”

Cardan pouts.

“I thought he postponed that?” Vivi asks.

“Oh, he did. Indefinitely.”

“Ah,” say Vivi and Heather in unison.

“But, Jude.” Oak blinks up at her with frosting smeared across his cheek. “What about Halloween?”

Cardan immediately perks up. “Yes, Jude. What about Halloween?”

“What about it, Oak?”

Her brother shrinks back a little as she turns all of her intensity toward him instead of Cardan, but he soldiers on anyway. “We were telling Cardan about trick-or-treating tomorrow. How we dress up in costumes and go around getting candy.”

“Candy and costumes, tricks and treats,” Cardan says. “Almost all of my favorite things.” Dark eyes flash in her direction.

She grits her teeth. “Sorry, Oak. We agreed just for a week.”

“Oh, come on, Jude. What’s one more night?” Vivi says. “Remember how you used to plan out our routes to get the best candy?”

“Yes.” Apparently, scheming was long in her blood even before she came to Faerie. “But—”

“Slight problem.” Heather’s brows wrinkle. “We’ve had our costumes planned and ready for months now, and there might not be enough time to pull something together for you guys in time.”

“But,” Vivi says, “they won’t really need costumes for what comes after trick-or-treating.”

And here, Jude feels the conversation slip from her control.

“After?” The intrigue is almost too thick in Cardan’s voice.

A slow smile spreads on Vivi’s face. “A party.”

“A party,” he repeats with relish.

“A party,” Jude deadpans.

“No need for glamours,” Vivi tells Cardan. As if he needs any further convincing. “The devil walks the streets on All Hallow’s Eve. It’ll be the one night we blend in.”

Jude does not care for the mischief in her eyes. “Hey. Wait a minute—”

“You, on the other hand,” Heather says with an assessing gaze on Jude, “could do with some blending in.”

Jude sinks into the nearest bar stool, feeling a familiar throbbing building in her forehead. “You’re all impossible.”

And that’s when she feels it.

A featherlight touch against the top of her thigh.

The material of her leggings is too thin for her to ignore it. And besides, she is intimately familiar with what his tail feels like against her skin.

She sat down next to Cardan and didn’t even realize it.

The conversation fades out around her.

The tip of his tail brushes down her leg. Meets the fold behind her knee. The sensitive, delicate skin there. Unprotected by flimsy fabric. Jude holds her breath. Heather and Vivi are still talking but she’s not paying attention anymore.

It continues down the length of her calf, slowly, and every inch it passes, light as a whisper, she wonders if she’s dreaming it up, until — something feathers against the exposed skin of her ankle, and no, she’s not dreaming this at all.

She gasps, soft enough for just him to hear.

She can feel it like a physical thing, the wickedness of his smile.

His tail sweeps all the way up in a long slide against the back of her leg, and curls around her waist: its home for the moment. The soft ends of it tickle against the patch of skin he finds beneath her shirt. Everything hidden underneath the countertop. A secret tucked away.

He hasn’t touched her. At least, not with his hands. Not with his fingers. Not with his lips.

And yet, she feels the promise of them seared all over her skin.

“It’s settled, then.” She finally looks up when he speaks, and, oh, his eyes. They burn. “Tomorrow, I shall feast on all the treats the mortal world has to offer.”

__________

“Don’t you think it’s too—”

“Short?”

“No—”

“Tight?”

“N—”

“Boob-y?”

“Gold,” Jude snaps. “Too… gold. But thanks for letting me know how you really feel, Vivi.”

Her sister shrugs. “I’m the one in a black latex catsuit, so I guess I’m not one to talk.”

With her blonde hair covering her pointed ears and her feline eyes, for once unglamoured, flashing behind a black mask, she looks like something straight out of that French superhero TV show she’d seen Heather watching on more than one occasion.

“I told you, Vee, the catsuit does all the talking for you.” Heather is a flash of red and black polka dots around the corner. “Jude! Give us, like, ten minutes to change out of our costumes, and then we can go.”

The minute she and Vivi returned from trick-or-treating with Oak, Heather pounced. Jude quickly found out that by ‘blending in’ Heather actually meant a dress. A small, tight, gold dress. A definite far cry from her gowns in Faerie.

She actually doesn’t get to see much of the thing before Heather wrangles her in it with frankly terrifying efficiency, and she sure as hell doesn’t feel much of the dress, either, because it seems like there wasn’t much of it to begin with.

All she knows is that when Cardan sees her, he misses a step going down the stairs. It’s the first inelegant thing she’s ever seen him do, and the sight of it rings through her head. When he finally regains his balance, he gives her a look like she’s swung a sword at his head all over again.

Which she shouldn’t have noticed anyway, since she’s not presently speaking to him at the moment.

He takes a step forward, hand reaching out as if he can’t stop himself, and Jude tears her gaze from the look on his face and walks out the door.

They’re on the way to drop Oak off at a friend’s house for a sleepover — “Remember what we promised, Oakie?” Vivi never did develop the disciplinarian nature of her father, to no one’s chagrin. “You get to stay over at your classmate’s house as long as you keep the glamour on the whole time.” — when Heather sidles up next to Jude.

“Are you still giving him the cold shoulder?” she whispers. It’s not a very subtle one.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes,” Jude snarls.

“Okay. Then what’s with the royal goo-goo eyes?”

“What?”

“Cardan,” Heather says, unhelpfully. “Looking like a kicked puppy.”

She will not look back to where Cardan is walking behind them. She will not. “He’s the High King of Elfhame. He doesn’t do goo-goo eyes.”

Heather takes another glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Those look pretty gooey to me.”

“Ignore him.”

“I think he likes the dress.”

“Ignore him.”

“I can’t, Jude. I’m trying to prove a theory.”

“What theory?”

Heather gives her a long look that she’s sure she has seen on Vivi before. “That maybe it’s not about what you ask, but how you ask it.”

__________

They arrive a quarter to midnight on All Hallow’s Eve. The hour is loose, and the morals are looser.

The club is packed. Music thick in the air. She doesn’t recognize the song, much less understand any of the words. The dance floor holds the bodies of partygoers like a bowl filled to overflowing. There’s a machine belching out green smoke so heavy it’s almost like walking into a wall when they cross the threshold.

The place smells like a mixture of sweat, sugar, and bottom-shelf liquor, but it does nothing to stop the cheer that rocks through the crowd when the next song starts to play, the frisson of excitement reaching even the huge throng of people sloshed and milling in the entrance.

Vivi smiles at the bouncer and he grins immediately, expression glazed. No one asks them for ID.

Cardan’s eyes glint as he takes in the mortal revelry before him.

“We’ll get the drinks!” Heather has to raise her voice to be heard across the thumping bass. “You guys find a table!”

“Wait,” Jude yells after them, but it’s useless. Vivi and Heather are swiftly swallowed by the crowd. “I have no idea where—”

A sharp elbow slams into her side, a sticky body pressing against her, and she grunts. It takes her less than a breath to elbow back even more viciously, shoving what looks to be some wasted college guy careening back into his friends.

“Hey,” he slurs angrily, clutching his injured side and looking around with glassy eyes, “watch it—”

The crowd surges again, and she’s not sure which of the boys stumbles into her this time, jostling her, but she’s ready. There’s a needlepoint tipped in deathsweet hidden in her ring. He’s close enough for her to smell his stale breath, feel his perspiration on her skin. He blinks down at her, and she bristles at the way his eyes linger. Just one prick away from the worst hangover of his entire frat boy life—

A hand spreads across her stomach.

Cardan pulls her backwards.

Away from the rowdy group, the drunk boy. Into him.

Her back hits his chest. His palm holds her flush against him, warm through the thin material of her dress. She twists her neck to send him a glare. “I had it,” she hisses. “I didn’t need you to save me.”

He’s not even looking at her. Instead, he’s got his eyes narrowed in front of them. For a second, Jude swears she sees a flash of bared teeth in the dim lighting.

“As if I would even know where to begin.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. “Come away, Jude.”

She almost elbows him as he begins to lead her further inside, but his hand on her hip is firm, and they were supposed to find a table anyway.

He doesn’t let go of her as he weaves through the crowd, which seems to part for him for no other explicable reason than the fact that he’s radiating magic and mischief and the entire power of Faerie. If he hopes to dispel attention from himself, he’s not doing a well enough job of it without his glamour. A good number of people stare after him, jaws hanging, and she’s suddenly not so mad at the way he has her practically molded to his side.

All the tables are full, of course. Jude is already searching the bar for a flash of Vivi’s blonde hair when Cardan turns toward the section of secluded round booths near the wall.

She doesn’t catch him casting the glamour, because if she did she would have kicked him hard for doing that in front of so many people.

But it’s darkest in this part of the club, and everyone is too caught up in themselves to notice when an entire table of partygoers snap to their feet and march out of their booth without a backward glance.

Cardan throws himself into the now-empty, cracked leather seats, satisfaction curling the edges of his mouth.

Heather whistles when she and Vivi make their way to the booth. “Nice. Can’t believe you guys snagged a booth when the place is so packed.”

Vivi tosses Cardan a conspiratorial wink before setting their tray of drinks onto the sticky table.

Naturally, Cardan reaches for the most ostentatious one: it’s vivid pink in a shallow, diamond fluted glass, and its rim is dipped in crystals.

She slaps his hand away. “That’s salt,” she tells him, dryly.

Heather scoops it up. “And that’s mine, thank you.”

He scowls. “Where is my drink, then?”

“Oh,” Vivi says, eyes gleaming, “just you wait, Your Majesty.”

She arranges an array of small glasses in front of them and Cardan knocks back the clear liquid without hesitation.

“That’s foul.” He pushes the empty shot glass back across the table. “Another one.”

And so the night commences. Jude takes a few shots, the liquid burning down her throat in a way that reminds her of poison, but mostly she watches with exasperation as first Heather, and then Vivi drink enough to attempt the dance floor. Cardan decides to stay back in the booth instead of joining them.

“Never took you for the private type.”

His head snaps to her. She tries not to dwell on his immediate reaction to her attention.

He gives her a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “I find myself in extenuating circumstances.”

“Try not to let us mortals disgust you too badly.”

His gaze sweeps the length of her. Then he turns his eyes to the open floor, surveying the throng of people filling every last inch of the space. “How easily you misunderstand me,” he sighs.

Jude’s up before she can think better of it. “Fine. Guess I’ll go dance with them after all.”

A hand closes around her wrist: imploring, not restraining.

“I’d like it,” Cardan says slowly, “if you stayed by my side.”

“I’m your queen,” she bites back, “not your courtier.”

She sees her mistake far too late.

Cardan grins, a real one now. “And as my queen, you deserve the finest seat of all.”

And then he tugs on her wrist and drops her into his lap.

Jude lands in the middle of his leg, throwing an arm around his shoulders for balance. His arms come around her, and they meet across the top of her thigh, where her skirt has ridden up dangerously high. The press of their bodies is warmer than usual in the humidity of the club.

“Let go.” She leans into his face, trying to be menacing. “You’ll be surprised how many knives I can hide in a dress like this.”

Her plan backfires because he leans in, too, and it’s not menace on his face that makes her swallow. “And you’ll be surprised to know I’ve thought of little else except that dress of yours.”

She will not react to that. She will not. “Release me, Cardan.”

She can fight him off if she really wants to, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of unnerving her that far. He might see the heat crawling up her face.

“I don’t think I will. You’re finally talking to me.”

“Regretfully.”

“No matter. We don’t have to talk.” He starts to lean in closer, expectation clear on his smug face.

She stares down, unimpressed. “Be serious.”

“I am,” he says. The words dissolve into the smoky air. “Indulge me, Jude.”

“Only if you indulge me first.”

“Oh?”

“Move up the tribunal. Suren doesn’t have to be a part of it.”

He groans, finally leaning back a little. “Ask me another time.”

“Why.”

His fingers fist in her shimmering gold skirt. “Because I can’t think clearly when I see you like this. When I see how others look at you like this. Because the devil walks the streets tonight in all her finery, and I am forever at her mercy.”

Maybe the alcohol is finally kicking in, because she’s feeling light-headed. “You’re a fool.”

“And you mortals are more dangerous than I thought.” His face tilts up to her, and his voice is a siren song. “I missed you, Jude.”

Mercy, Jude thinks as she leans in to meet his kiss, has never tasted so good.

And if Cardan’s fingers find themselves wandering up the length of her thigh, testing the give of her quickly-disappearing gold hem, well. It’s much too dark in their booth for anyone to notice.

They depart from the club some hours later. There might have been dancing, but Jude can’t really remember anything besides the press of Cardan’s chest and the warmth of his hand on her back.

What she does remember is the staring. It’s like every pair of eyes turn to them as they emerge from the bowels of smoke and music.

And Jude knows, the same way she knows the weight of Nightfell in her hand, that they aren’t staring at him. At least, not just him. No, they’re staring at her, too, the two of them, together. A golden girl and her king of shadows.

Let them stare.

Cardan’s eyes are heavy on the sway of her hips as she walks ahead of him.

She grins.

Let them all stare.

__________

She’s on the couch the next morning, her head pillowed on Cardan’s lap as they watch Oak play video games. His fingers are gentle against her temple, but she knows he’s fighting back a smirk. The sun is a little too bright and the noise from the television a little too loud, but she’d sooner die than admit that out loud to anybody, least of all him.

Hands appear over the back of the couch, bearing a tray of beverages.

“Here, drink this.”

She almost winces, remembering the last time Heather had offered them refreshments. If six shots of cheap vodka counted as refreshing.

“It’ll help your hangover,” she offers.

“I don’t have a hangover,” Jude argues, but she lifts her head and sips it anyway. “Mm. Is there Sprite in this?” It’s been a while since she’s had soda. The carbonated fizzling on her tongue is a pleasant memory of a life she’s left behind.

Above her, Cardan chokes on his own drink. Some of it lands on her face.

“Cardan, ugh—”

He’s staring down at her in horror. “This decoction contains sprite?”

“What?” Jude pulls herself up gingerly, ignoring the way her head throbs at the motion. “Oh. No.” She can’t help the snicker that comes out of her at the sight of his wide eyes. “Not a sprite, I meant — there’s a human drink. A soda called Sprite.”

He doesn’t look like he believes her. He sets his glass down quickly and goes to join Oak in front of the console, as if he can’t distance himself fast enough. She grins while she drains her drink. It’s good. It’s bright and citrusy and it cuts through the pounding in her head enough that she can sit up for a while. No sudden movements, though.

The couch dips violently as Vivi throws herself into the space Cardan had left behind. Jude’s stomach swoops with it.

“Hey, little sister,” she says, cheerfully ignoring how green Jude probably looks. She shakes a bright orange pumpkin basket at her. “Care to partake of the spoils?”

“That’s Oak’s.” Jude’s conviction is weaker than she would like. She can’t remember the last time she’s had Halloween candy.

“He doesn’t mind. Right, buddy? Sharing is caring, and all that.”

Oak’s answer is an unintelligible gurgle, too intent on mashing buttons. Beside him, Cardan is bent over his own console, eyes focused on the screen. With both boys effectively distracted, the sisters dive into the sugary hoard.

Jude paws past a small pile of red-swirled peppermints. “Hey, do they still make those lollipops with the chewy stuff in the middle? Chocolate flavored?”

“Oh, Tootsie Pops? Hang on, I think I saw a couple near the bottom.”

A few minutes later, the entire basket has been upended over the carpet and thoroughly sorted through by enthusiastic, questing fingers. Jude settles back contentedly against the cushions, rolling her prized candy against the inside of her cheek by its white paper stick, and Vivi sits beside her, trying to fit as many M&M’s in her mouth as she can in a single go.

Jude tosses a packet of sour gummy worms at Cardan. “Here,” she says. “They remind me of you.”

His eyes flicker away from the screen at the sound of crinkling plastic in his lap, and he tilts his head in interest to read the packaging.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

His head snaps up a second later, a scowl etched across his face. “These are shaped like worms, Jude.”

She cackles. “Close enough.”

“These had better be as delicious as Taryn foretold them to be,” he grumps. “Otherwise, I will be sorely disappointed.”

But he pockets the little packet anyway, turning dutifully back to the game. Vivi finally swallows her mouthful of M&M’s.

“How is Taryn doing?”

“Her due date is coming up.” Jude keeps her eyes forward as she answers. “She’s settled in Locke’s estate, but she comes by the brugh during revels, when she’s up to it.”

“That’s good.” The unspoken question hangs in the air. Jude sometimes forgets how much of an older sister Vivi can be.

“We’re fine. I mean, we talk.” She shrugs. “But not about the important stuff.” Vivi’s silence doesn’t crowd her, and it’s this that lets her unfurl just a little bit more.

“Sometimes I feel like we should. Talk about the important stuff, I mean. I keep thinking I should reach out, maybe visit her one day, but I just…”

“Feel like it’s not your turn to apologize?”

“Yeah.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Vivi nods. “I feel the same way about dad.”

Jude lets the quiet moment wash over her. The sounds of the TV, Oak’s inarticulate mumbling. Vivi’s warm presence beside her, Heather washing their glasses in the kitchen. The lollipop sweet on her tongue, the promise of its soft, chocolate center tempting her to just bite through what little remains of the hard candy shell. She could just bite into it; when was the last time she’s had a Tootsie Pop? But Jude’s no stranger to the waiting game. She knows that there are opportunities to strike, and there are opportunities to draw things out for a better outcome.

She eyes the lollipop critically before popping it back between her lips.

Weakest spot is on its side, where the candy has been melting longest against her tongue. She delivers a carefully calculated blow: a long, slow lick up the now-flattened side, intended to cover as much surface as possible.

If only she could break down Cardan’s resistance to the tribunal as easily as this.

Another cursory check reveals it to have worked, but only incrementally. Jude deploys her strategy again, pulling the lollipop through her mouth using the quickly softening white paper stick.

She can just see the chocolate center peeking through. Maybe if she wrapped her lips around it more fully…

Oak shrieks his victory, voice loud and piercing to Jude’s sensitive ears, and wincing, she looks up to appraise the match. Confetti bursts across the screen as Oak jumps up and down, and beside him, Cardan is—

Cardan is staring at her.

Mouth slightly open, gaming console forgotten in his slack fingers, eyes caught on—

Her lips.

His eyes are caught on her lips.

Sucking on a lollipop.

The moment stretches.

And she realizes that she’s a little caught too.

“Cardan?” Oak asks. “Are you still playing?”

His jaw snaps shut and he turns quickly back to the new game that Oak has started, but not before Jude marks the traces of pink high on his cheekbones. Not before she catches the low sway of his tail. Not before notices the change in his breathing.

“Well,” Vivi says, a smile in her voice. “All’s fair.”

And unbidden, a vivid pink storefront appears in her mind: one that she’s seen in malls, selling sheer lacy things, with straps and slipties. Things she’s never given a second thought to beyond a disinterested glance. Things she’s now reevaluating through the eyes of her husband, always intent on her, but lately, even more so. Weapons, after all, come in many shapes and sizes.

And are there ones you would wear for me?

A plan begins to form in Jude’s mind.

She knows exactly how to get Cardan to move up the tribunal.

“Hey, Heather,” Jude says. “I like your theory. Let’s go shopping.”

_____

Tagging: @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks

* Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics (Jurdan or other fandoms!) and it would be my absolute honor to do so!

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scarletaire · 3 years

Text

crave his art (teaser)

For Prompt 9: “Love Potion Number Nine” + Prompt 16: “Accidental Summoning” of Folktober 2021 by @jurdannet @jurdannetrevels

The High King imbibes a different sort of poison. The High Queen has nowhere left to run.

oneshot. Nov 7, 2021. teaser under the cut.

_____

When Jude opens her eyes, it’s dark, a sudden monochrome contrast to the explosion of color and sounds of a Fae revel in full-swing. And quiet, just the barest whisper of grass rustling. Is there a breeze?

She must be outside, she decides, because there are trees everywhere she looks, looming tall and dark with barely a speck of moonlight to see by. Shrubs cover the roots of them, dotted with little violet flowers that provide the only color within the dark copse of trees. She can’t see to the tops of them, they vault so high that she has to tip her neck all the way back to make out the inky circle of night sky far, far above her.

It’s strange, how close the trees stand next to each other. There’s barely any space between them at all.

Suspicion spreads like a drop of blood in the water. She whips around to look behind her.

More trees line her vision.

She can’t see past them.

A curl of dread slithers across her spine.

She turns her head, left, right.

Bark, thicker than she is tall. A carpet of violet-speckled shrubbery. The shadow of the sky, miles and miles above her.

A whisper of wind across the back of her neck.

A breath.

A soft swishing sound against the grass: snssh, snssh, snssh.

She’s outside, but it doesn’t feel like she is. Because the trees—they feel like walls.

She’s surrounded.

Trapped.

Snssh, snssh, snssh.

And there’s something else here with her.

#jurdannetfolktober2021 #jurdan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tfota #the folk of the air #jude x cardan #jurdan fic #jurdan fanfic #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #zita writes #this probably won't make it in time for the prompt day but it is definitely on it's way #you could say #something's coming #😈

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scarletaire · 3 years

Video

10.1.2021 devil’s finery (E) final chapter

for Prompt 5: “She Who Pulls The Strings” of Folktober 2021 by @jurdannet @jurdannetrevels

Teaser under the cut!

One last heartbeat, swelling and safe, in the shadows under the table.

“Come out, Jude.”

She shudders. Something has shifted in the last few seconds, something vital and foundational and unnameable. Control is a riptide pulled out from under her; she’ll drown in the undertow if she’s not careful.

A memory slithers into her mind. Another time she was glad of her immunity to geases. In this no man’s land in the ebbing topography of their game, she sees it for what it is: an opening. One last piece to click into place, one last string to pull taut, sharp like a razor wire. She’s not weaponless yet.

He’s already told her what to do, once before, hasn’t he?

Crawl to me.

Well. Jude’s nothing if not an overachiever.

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scarletaire · 3 years

Text

crave his art (teaser 2)

Here is another tiny snippet in anticipation of this little Jurdan oneshot coming within the next few days!

Hint hint: 🥀🍷😱😜

When the song ends, she doesn’t go under right away.

There is an in-between moment, when the ballroom starts shifting into an unfamiliar forest floor, one place trickling into the other like grains of sand.

She can hear it.

Distressed shouting. Glass breaking.

Strange sounds. Vicious. Animal. Her name, riding on the edge of a growl.

Frantic voices. “The queen—where is the queen—”

And when she catches one last fleeting glimpse, right before the darkness takes over, she sees him.

There is nothing familiar staring back at her.

#jurdan #jude x cardan #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #tfota #the folk of the air #tfota fanfic #jurdan fic #jurdan fanfic #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #zita writes

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scarletaire · 3 years

Text

homeland (Chapter 6)

A/N: Here we are at the end! And Cardan isn't quite done surprising Jude just yet.

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Genre/s: Contains Fluff, Slight Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Smut

Rating: E

Tags: Post-QON, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Protective!Cardan, Bewildered!Jude, Jude and Cardan discuss the Undersea, but they get a little Distracted

Description:

Cardan’s eyes flash open.

“Why?” he repeats, and Jude feels the power shift between them. “Don’t you remember, wife?” he croons. “It was the Undersea who stole you away from me.”

And Jude has only enough time to think, danger, before he lunges at her.

or:

Cardan and Jude work on removing their armor. Taking off this particularly stubborn piece happens in varying states of undress.

Links: Masterlist | AO3

“This is a stupid idea.”

“Have you known me to have any other kind?”

He has her there. Jude tugs at the blindfold around her eyes. “Where are we even going?”

“To the beginning and the end of all this.”

“What does that –” Her voice cuts off as the boat rocks precariously beneath her. “I really don’t like the sound of that.”

“You like very little, Jude, and that is a problem of yours.”

I was stupid enough to like you, she almost says. Instead she asks, “Why did we have to take a boat? More importantly, why are you the one rowing? You’re the king.” The boat rocks again, and Jude finds herself thinking longingly for a ragwort steed. Steady, secure, reliable — or, well, as reliable as Vivi’s magic allowed them to be.

“Crossing the water myself proves a fine reminder of my position to those who yearn otherwise.”

“A power play? That’s what you woke me up so early for? Cardan, there are a thousand more things that need my attention back at the brugh.”

It was still light out when she’d felt lips behind her ear, nuzzling her awake. They had probably been asleep for a mere few hours at most. She’d woken up slowly and sweetly, like dragging a spoon through thick syrup, with Cardan curled around her — arms, legs, and tail — and his mouth soft on her neck. It was such a stark contrast to how she’d woken up the previous night that Jude melted right back into his embrace, her body heavy and worn out in the best way possible.

But then he was pulling away, coaxing her to get dressed, murmuring into her skin that he had something to show her.

Promising that she would like it.

The fae cannot lie, but that last part has yet to come true.

“I’m taking this blindfold off.”

“Jude –”

She can hear the petulance in his voice and that just makes her rip the stupid thing off even faster.

It turns out that “crossing the water himself” doesn’t much include actual rowing on his part. Instead, iridescent, aquamarine scales flash across the surface of the water underneath them, their movement rippling and propelling the boat forward.

Merfolk.

Pulling their vessel on his whim.

A power play, indeed.

Jude raises an eyebrow at him, impressed despite it all. He continues to pout at her and the blindfold in her hand.

Then, something catches in her mind.

“Salt and seafoam…”

“Hm?”

“Your nightmare.” She’s staring at him now, understanding how it fits together but not quite believing it. “You said that when you dove into the sea and couldn’t find me anywhere, it was because there was nothing left of me but ‘salt and seafoam.’”

“Yes.” The word is like water on burning coals.

“You –” The sentence is inconceivable even when she tries to form it in her mouth. “Have you… have you been reading fairytales? Human fairytales?”

He scoffs. “Nothing Faerie about them.”

A yes, then.

“So –” She’s known about him reading Alice in Wonderland and even wondered at the way he had kept the mortal book in his rooms. It boggles her mind like this next thought does. “So…” How does she say this? She has no clever ruse with which to coat her words, and so she gives up and goes for direct. “The Little Mermaid. That’s what caused your nightmare?”

He cuts her a look, like she’s being stupid. “No, Jude, your kidnapping and prolonged torture at the hands of my brother and the Undersea while I waited powerless and unable to help you was the cause of my nightmare. And many more of its kind before it.”

She doesn’t much like how he speaks to her like he’s explaining something to a child, but she holds her sharp tongue and wields her silence against him.

“But fine.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. “Yes. The mortal tale about the moronic mermaid and her wayward prince may have… exacerbated any woes I may have already been carrying. Don’t know why I bothered,” he grumbles under his breath. “I hate stories.”

“No,” she says, thinking of the way he fancies himself a villain even though he hasn’t truly been one in a long time, “you don’t.”

He looks pointedly over her shoulder. “We’re here.”

And Jude turns her head to see where it is that he has brought her this morning.

She has to shield her eyes a little from the amount of sunlight that refracts off the massive stretch of sparkling sand in front of her.

No, not sand. Ash.

She knows where they are.

Insear.

The beginning and the end of all this, he said.

When they disembark, Cardan holds out his hand to guide her from the boat.

She doesn’t need his help.

She takes his hand anyway.

There is still something of last night humming underneath their skin, and so if they lean into each other’s warmth and stumble across the shimmering shores of the Isle of Ash, a little lovedrunk while they walk — well. There is nary a soul to see.

It’s somehow even more beautiful in the daylight. And with Cardan here, the island seems to unfurl even further, coming alive just a little bit more the moment he steps onto the soil. The air turns sweeter the farther inland they go, the blues and ivories and blacks of the native flowers populating everywhere they turn. When Jude looks back at their footfalls upon the ash, she sees little sprigs of myrtle springing up from the indents they leave behind.

“There’s something I want to check on,” she says when they reach the thicker parts of the forest. “I’ll come find you again.”

“As you like.” Cardan’s gaze is caught on something up ahead. “Dally not, wife.”

When Jude returns to the clearing where they had encountered the fallen falcons the previous night, she finds no trace of them save a single, tawny feather in their wake.

A token.

She pockets it with a smile.

That same smile fades far too fast when she comes back to find Cardan reaching out a hand towards a shrub of suspiciously familiar, dark-petaled flowers.

She’s between him and the shrub in seconds, pushing him away a little too violently.

In that moment, she was more seneschal than queen. And in the next, when her fingers tighten around his lapels out of their own accord, she is more wife than seneschal.

“Did you touch it?” Panic raises her voice. “Did you get any of it on you?”

“No. I didn’t recognize the flora –”

“Idiot, that’s probably the flower that poisoned me.” She’s checking his hands, his clothes, for traces of shimmering, black pollen.

“Is it?” He plucks one and raises it to his face before she can stop him.

“Cardan –”

“Peace, Jude. It cannot harm its maker.”

And Jude pauses, because it’s true. This flower, this island and everything on it, is Cardan’s creation. He is the root, and as he has proven last night, he is also the remedy.

A beat passes between them, and then: “Did it really have to take a noxious, mood-altering flower for you to tell me about my brother?”

Jude scowls at the insinuation. “I was going to.” She weighs the next sentence in her head. “It’s just… easier to talk to someone when you don’t give a crap what they think.”

The human word is out of her mouth before she can reel it back in, but Cardan nods.

“Yes, I think I can understand that.”

She watches him twirl the flower in his hand. With his dark hair and eyes and clothes, it is without the shadow of a doubt that he created it, that it sprung forth from him and his magic. It belongs with him; it is him. She can imagine it pinned to his collar, petals of black glitter, an extension of his essence.

“We should inform the Bomb. Tell her that an antidote won’t be necessary.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Cardan grins at her like they are old friends trading a secret joke. “I can think of a few ways that an antidote could be useful.”

And Jude feels a thrill up her spine, because there is something conspiratorial in his voice, like he’s letting her in on his plan, like they are in it together, and maybe she enjoys that more than she thought she ever would. Having a partner.

“Scheming, are you?”

“I learned from the best.”

He is always more than what she thinks he is.

“That flower is connected to you. This whole island is, actually.”

“To us,” he corrects immediately, and she marks the strange note in his voice. “The island is connected to us.”

“Me, by extension,” she concedes. “But you raised this island with your own magic.”

He sighs then, as if a great burden has befallen him. “I suppose it now falls to me to name this flower, doesn’t it?”

“Well, you don’t have to name it now. We can always come back later –”

“Bitterblack,” he pronounces solemnly and somberly, and with a swiftness and surety that couldn’t possibly be borne of extemporization.“This bloom, flourishing upon the Isle of Ash, the land raised from my own bitterness, shall henceforth be known as bitterblack.”

“Um.” Jude blinks at his pomp. “Okay. Raised from your bitterness?”

“The birth of Insear marked the moment I deemed the crimes of the Undersea – against you, and against the crown — unforgivable. It was a bitter heart that sowed the seeds of this land. Perhaps it is only fitting that it was a full one that healed its poisons.”

Cardan casts her a sidelong look. He has a way of almost smiling, like the edge of moonlight peeking through the spidersilk canopy of their bed. A gossamer thing, but the light shines through.

A shame that this island will have to go belong to someone else, when she will forever remember Cardan here with her, looking at her like that.

“You brought me here to show me something.”

“Yes.” And oddly enough, his smile freezes a little. Jude narrows her eyes at it.

He leads her towards another clearing among the birches, tucking the bitterblack behind one pointed ear. There is more space here, and the air is crisp and clean, threaded through with the scent of salt and sunshine. The birches stand tall, but the sun reaches high enough to set the ash dusting the tops of the trees afire with crystal brilliance.

“What is this?”

His tail flicks once behind him. “The solution to the Insear claim.”

“What? Wait. You mean you knew how to resolve it all along? Randalin was right. You have been putting it off.”

“Not putting it off, waiting for the right time.”

“It’s been going on for weeks.”

Cardan shoots her a look. “I was supposed to ask you during the revel.”

The events of the revel — and the way it had ended, with Randalin bleeding in her chokehold — play out in her head. “Oh.”

He waves his hand. “No matter. It wouldn’t be the first time you caused a scene in front of the entire kingdom anyway.”

Jude crosses her arms. “Alright, let’s hear it, then. Tell me now so that we can put this whole thing behind us.”

He hesitates.

“Come on. Explain your solution.”

“This isn’t how I planned for this to go.”

“Planned for this to – Cardan. Just spit it out already.”

“Alright, fine,” he hisses. “I want to build a home with you. Here, on Insear.”

For a long moment, Jude wonders if she heard him right.

“Are you drunk?” Even though he couldn’t possibly be.

“I wish.”

“But the claim –”

“Is ours. Rightfully.” He raises his brow at her. “This island is connected to us, raised by my own magic. Isn’t that what you said?”

She stares at him.

“You know how this works, right?” Exasperation is clear in his voice. “I ask you to make a home with me on a new magical island, and you set yourself upon me, your acquiescence falling delightfully from your lips –”

“I do nothing delightfully, Cardan.”

“Oh, I could make a good argument otherwise.”

The entirety of last night, every sordidly delightful detail, flashes behind her eyes.

She clings to any rational thought she can find. “We already have a castle.” She thinks of the brugh, the entire sprawling mass of it. “A really big one.”

“Yes. And the Palace of Elfhame is the first place the High King and Queen should be. But often, it is also the last. A royal castle is just as much a royal warground.” He gives her a meaningful look. “As you and the rest of my family are well aware.”

Jude swallows. “What are you saying?”

“Our brugh will be the first place we make a home of, as monarchs. But it doesn’t have to be the only one.”

He turns her to face the clearing. His arms come around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as they gaze out into a landscape stolen straight from the pages of a book.

“We could build something. Right here, in this glade. Where we don’t have to worry about anything. Where nothing else can touch us. We’ll close it off. We’ll come whenever we want. No spies, no interruptions, no watching our backs.”

And Jude recognizes the way he is holding her, because it’s the same way he held her in their secret room behind the throne, confessing the truths of his nightmares. “This is about protection.”

She feels him shrug. “A part of it, yes. Mostly I just want us to never be interrupted again. But there is power in protection. Wouldn’t you like that, Jude?”

Her head is swimming, because he’s put ideas into her brain, of waking up to the smell of birchwood and of walking along a glittering, moonlit shore — and they’re wonderful, damn him. If she’s being honest, those ideas came to her the moment she first stepped foot on Insear, like something in her had taken root in its sparkling soil, but she hadn’t let herself linger over them, knowing that the land would soon be treatied away.

But now, it’s like Cardan’s words have opened the floodgates, and her entire being, connected to Insear through his magic – their magic – thrums with the song of I could live here, I could thrive here, I belong here, and she aches with the rightness of it all.

“It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had,” she admits, and doing so feels like she’s left her flank vulnerable during an open duel. She twists around in his arms quickly, before she can dwell on it. “But let’s get one thing clear.” Her fingers fist into his collar. “This nonsense about my being your weakness, that’s your problem. Not mine. I refuse to be held back by your fears.”

He nods with more gravity than is probably required. “And I could never ask it of you.”

“Then what do you ask of me now?” And because so much has changed between the two of them, because of everything that has led up to this moment, she adds, “What do you ask of me now and forever?”

He cups her face in his hands even as her fingers tighten on his shirt. “That you stay by my side. Through it all.” His mouth crooks self-deprecatingly. “And that you do not begrudge it too much that I miss you when you’re gone. That I worry. That I fear. Not because you are human, but because I hold you in my heart.”

She hates how swiftly her breath leaves her.

“Okay,” she says, more to steady herself than anything else, because this is a lot, and she’s never been good with dealing with a lot of feelings all at once. “Okay. I –”

“The rest of the kingdom belongs to the crown.” He presses closer, as if he can see her weakening. He takes a breath. “This… this could be ours. Just for us.”

“This island is too big for just the two of us.”

“No, Jude.” The look on his face is a little pained. “Us.”

A breath. A slice of time separating this moment into a before and after.

He isn’t talking about just the two of them. He’s talking about –

“Oh,” she breathes. “Us.”

“Only –” He’s scrambling a little now, she can see it. “Only if you want them.”

Them. Plural.

Jude sways a little. She’s not prepared for this. He should’ve warned her or something, because she doesn’t know how many surprises she can take in such a short amount of time.

Cardan is looking at her funny and she realizes she’s been quiet for too long. Something moves at the corner of her vision, and she realizes it’s his tail, flicking back and forth with the nervousness that he doesn’t show on his face.

“I want –” she begins, and he stills immediately, as if he could live or die on the next words that leave her mouth. “Okay. I don’t actually know what I want. I haven’t really had time to think about it. I want to talk about this. I do. And we’ll have to talk about it one day. But today, I don’t know if — if I know how, today.”

“Very well.” He says the words like he’s learning the shape of them on his tongue for the first time.

“It’s not a ‘no,’” she says quickly, before he gets the wrong idea. “It’s a ‘someday.’ Someday, you can ask me about children again. And in the meantime, I’ll think about when I can say yes. Deal?”

He touches her cheek, gentle, too gentle. “Deal.”

And all too late, she remembers the rule that she’s lived by all her life, the rule she’s broken time and time again when it came to this bewildering, beautiful boy that has made a place for himself between the stained-glass shards of her heart — never make a bargain with a faerie — because really, really, he shouldn’t be smiling like that, not like she’s given him the world when she’s barely even agreed to anything.

“Did you really plan a revel just to ask me about all this?”

“Yes. And you ruined it by taking a slice out of the Minister of Keys.”

Jude can’t help it. She throws her head back and laughs. “You’re a disaster.”

He glares, but there is no heat to it. “Only because you render me into one.”

Then something clicks into place. Something Tatterfell said while lacing her up in the dress he designed for her. For the king’s sake.

“Tatterfell knows.”

“She was most knowledgeable in your living preferences. How you like your room. Your furnishings. Your floors. I decided that I might know them, too.” He glances at the open space before them, at the sheer potential of it all. “Just in case.”

“We’ve been married for months. You could have asked me.”

“Would you have taken me seriously?”

She changes the subject, because he has her there. “How long have you been planning this?”

“A while.” Another shrug, less carefree this time. “Almost as long as the nightmares have come to me.”

Something hard glints in his eyes, and Jude recognizes the sharp lines of revenge if only because she has worn it too many times on her own face.

“All of this was as much a scheme,” he admits, “as it was a proposal to you. For to take a land borne of bitterness and remake it into a land of bliss, it would be –”

“The ultimate power play,” Jude finishes for him.

He grins down at her. It is heady, the realization that only she knows the true, full depths of her husband’s wickedness.

“I don’t have a lot of experience with blissful homes.” She feels the sudden urge to make sure he knows this. That he understands. It’s as much of a promise as she knows how to make. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about keeping one.”

“Nor I. We’ll have to learn together. Knowing you, there’ll be plenty of knives involved. But I think it starts,” he says, gathering her closer, “just like this.”

And when Cardan kisses her, Jude is sure that this is what conquerors must feel like. Because for years, she has fought for her place in Faerie, fought and bled and killed to belong somewhere.

And here it is.

Here it is, and she could dream entire worlds in his arms.

But she doesn’t have to. She has a whole world spread out before her already.

It’s a land of magic, raw and untested, ready to be discovered. A land of possibility, of infinite potential, waiting to be shaped by their hands. A land where sunlight grows and wayward falcons find peace. A land where the future blooms in full color, one amongst the thousands of flowers.

And it is theirs.

Their homeland.

______

Chapter Visuals:

Myrtle. (Love and partnership, marriage.)

End Links:

Everything: an edit.

His Door. (Cardan POV drabble, post-homeland.)

_______

End Note:

This fic represents a lot of firsts for me: my first completed multi-chaptered story, my first time (heh again) trying my hand at smut, but most importantly, my first time encountering some of the nicest, most thoughtful people as readers.

If you’ve read and followed this little fic of mine up until the end, let me thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s been an absolute honor to have readers like you. ❤️ I've learned so much from writing this little fic that could, and I hope to continue to grow as a writer. Thank you for coming along with me on this journey and bringing so much value to the fic writing experience – kudos, comments, and your wonderful insights and all.

As always, you can find me and my open ask box on tumblr.

Much love to you, always!

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Tagging: @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks

* Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future fics (Jurdan or other fandoms!) and it would be my absolute honor to do so!

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