Work Text:
The Worst Idea
I shouldn't be here.
Not like this.
Not with him.
I should leave.
Cardan stands a few feet away, too quiet, too still. No crown. No smirk. Just silence—and the way he watches me like he knows I'm about to fall. His black eyes with their unsettling gold rims catch what little moonlight filters through the high windows, making them gleam with an otherworldly intensity against his night-dark hair.
"You're going to ruin everything," I tell him. My voice is low. Bitter. A warning I don't believe. My hand instinctively moves to where my knife should be—but I hadn't come armed. Not tonight. Another mistake.
"Then why are you still here, Jude?" he asks, my name on his lips somehow more intimate than it has any right to be.
I don't have an answer. Or maybe I do, and I'm not ready to say it.
The space between us holds too much. Power. Hate. Something else we keep pretending isn't there—something that's been growing since that night under the influence of never-more, something that's taken root despite every attempt to poison it. He takes a step forward. I don't move, though every instinct screams to either flee or fight.
He reaches out, slow, like I'm something wild that might bolt or bite. His fingers graze mine. Barely there. And I let him. The calluses on his fingertips catch against my mortal skin—a reminder of our differences, of why this is madness.
"I hate you," I whisper, because it's easier than saying anything real. Because hate is safer than what truly burns between us.
He watches me, those gold-rimmed eyes gleaming with something dangerous, eyes dropping to my mouth. "Say it again." A challenge.
The words twist in my throat like thorns, but I force them out anyway. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you." Each repetition comes out harsher than the last, as if saying it enough might make it the only truth between us.
His lips crash against mine—hungry, rough, like we've both been waiting for this and resenting it. There's nothing soft about it. Just heat. Teeth. Need. The taste of faerie wine still lingers on his tongue, intoxicating in a way that has nothing to do with magic. His tongue slides against mine, demanding and possessive in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly.
His hands slide around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The hard length of him presses against my stomach, unmistakable even through our clothes. I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the restraint in his grip, muscles taut beneath my fingertips. He's holding back. Barely. His heart hammers against mine—proof that perhaps I'm not the only one affected. A soft groan escapes him when I arch against him, testing.
He breaks the kiss. Breathes hard against my cheek. "Tell me to stop," he says, voice ragged. A final chance at sanity.
"I won't." Two words that seal our fate.
That's all it takes.
He backs me toward the bed, hands never leaving my body. When my legs hit the edge, he lifts me with maddening ease—a reminder of the faerie strength he wields so casually. His mouth is back on mine—hot, focused, and full of every word we've never said.
His hands move under my shirt, slow and certain, and I freeze for half a second when he touches bare skin. The coolness of his fingers against my heated flesh makes me shiver.
"Well, well," he murmurs, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as understanding dawns in his eyes. "The mortal daughter of the High General, who has never hesitated to draw blood, hasn't done this before." It's not quite a question, but there's a hint of surprise beneath his mockery. His fingers pause their exploration, hovering against my heated skin as that calculating gaze studies my reaction.
The vulnerability of the moment burns through me, but I refuse to cower. "No," I snap, chin lifting in defiance despite the heat climbing into my cheeks. "Why? Disappointed you're not adding your name to a long list?" I force myself to meet his gaze, even as something unfamiliar and frightening twists in my stomach. This is a different kind of danger than I've faced before, but I refuse to show fear. Not to him. Especially not to him.
His thumb traces my lower lip, a surprisingly intimate gesture that contrasts with the mockery that usually drips from his words. He holds my gaze, something dangerous and hungry flickering in those gold-rimmed eyes. "On the contrary," he says, voice low and rough. "I find I'm rather... pleased about that." His fingers resume their exploration with renewed purpose, more possessive now. "I've always enjoyed being first."
I swallow hard, refusing to look away even as his words send an unwelcome thrill through me. The High King of Elfhame doesn't ask for permission—he already knows he has it.
He undresses me with careful hands—deliberately slow, as though savoring each new revelation. And when I'm bare before him, he just looks—eyes dark with hunger but mouth twisted in that familiar sardonic smile. "My Jude," he says, voice like velvet over steel. "Always hiding blades in unexpected places." His finger traces the scar on my side. "I've wondered what you looked like under all that armor."
When he finally does, his mouth finds the curve of my breast. His hands cradle my waist, and his lips are gentle, soft, until they aren't. His tongue circles my nipple before he draws it into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. His teeth graze the sensitive peak, sending shocks of pleasure straight between my thighs. He lavishes the same attention on my other breast until I'm writhing beneath him, embarrassingly wet and desperate for more.
"How unexpected," he murmurs against my skin, voice rough with desire but still edged with that familiar mockery. "The mighty Jude Duarte, trembling at my touch. If only the Court of Shadows could see you now." His words are cruel, but his touch remains anything but.
He works his way lower. Down my stomach, past the scar that marks me as survivor. Between my legs. His fingers hook into my underwear and slip it down. For a moment, he just looks at me, making me fight the urge to close my legs, to hide from his gaze.
"Curious," he murmurs, tracing one long finger along my inner thigh, getting closer but not quite where I'm embarrassingly wet. "I've often wondered what it would take to truly disarm you." His finger finally slides against me, making me gasp at the contact. He watches my reaction with that infuriating smirk, circling lightly, testing. "This seems... effective."
Only when I'm squirming under his touch, frustration building from his deliberately teasing pace, does his mouth replace his hand. His tongue slides through my folds in one long, deliberate stroke that makes me gasp and buck against him. He groans against me, the vibration intensifying the sensation. "Even here, you taste of mortality," he whispers against my center, the words somehow both an insult and a confession of addiction before his tongue finds my clit, circling it with maddening precision.
It's slow. Focused. He licks and sucks like he's memorizing me, building me higher and higher. My hand flies to his hair, gripping tightly as waves of pleasure build toward a peak. Just as I'm about to shatter, he pulls back completely, leaving me trembling on the edge.
"Not yet," he says, voice husky but edged with cruel amusement. "Did you think I'd make it that easy for you, Jude?"
When I open my eyes, fighting back a frustrated whimper, he's looking up at me, chin resting against my hip. His eyes gleam with wicked satisfaction—and hunger for more. The corners of his mouth lift in that infuriating smirk that makes me want to either slap him or beg him to continue.
He needs no permission anymore—not when I failed to stop him when this began, not when my body betrays me so thoroughly now. His eyes glint with triumph as he rises above me, the villain savoring his victory.
He undoes his pants, pushes them down, and I finally see him. Hard. Ready. His body tense with restraint, the lean muscle of his torso catching shadows as he moves above me.
He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against my slick heat. "Say you hate me again," he taunts, voice strained with need but eyes gleaming with malice. "Lie to me one more time, Jude."
"I hate you," I whisper, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears, betrayed by the way my hips shift toward him.
He enters me slowly. Carefully. The stretch burns at first as he fills me completely, my body struggling to accommodate his size. I hiss through clenched teeth, fingernails cutting half-moons into his shoulders. I hate that I'm inexperienced like this while he acts like he's done it many times before. Though, has he? For all his debauchery at revels, I've never actually seen him take a lover. The thought that I might be his first is almost as unsettling as everything else about this moment.
"Poor little mortal," he murmurs against my ear, his voice a cruel caress. His hips remain still as he allows me to adjust, but there's nothing merciful in his eyes when I meet them. "Is this too much for you, Jude?" The gentleness in how his thumb brushes my cheek contradicts the mocking in his tone. One hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit and circling with unexpected precision. "Perhaps I should stop..." he suggests, even as his touch deliberately stokes my desire, making it clear he has no intention of stopping. "Tell me it hurts again. I find I rather enjoy the sound."
The discomfort fades, replaced by a fullness that borders on overwhelming. Heat builds again as his skilled fingers work against me. He moves—tentative, shallow strokes at first, watching my face for any sign of pain. My hands find his shoulders, nails digging deeper. A bead of sweat traces down his temple as he struggles to maintain control. And something changes.
His hips snap forward—harder, deeper—and I gasp as he hits a spot inside me that makes my vision blur. He pulls back and thrusts again, the angle perfect, and I swear I feel it in every nerve, every cell of my body lighting up with pleasure. His name escapes my lips before I can stop it, a desperate "Cardan" that seems to unleash something primal in him.
It stops being slow.
He pounds into me now, the wet sounds of our joining filling the room along with our ragged breaths. One hand grips my hip hard enough to bruise while the other slides beneath me to angle my pelvis higher, allowing him to drive even deeper. His teeth graze my neck before biting down—not enough to break skin but enough to mark—as he establishes a relentless rhythm that has me clawing at his back. Every sound he makes is rough, primal—deep grunts and muttered curses in the fae tongue as he loses himself in me.
"Say my name," he demands against my throat, voice barely recognizable.
I bite my lip, refusing even now. A particularly sharp thrust makes me gasp, and his name escapes without permission. "Cardan—"
The sound of his name on my lips seems to drive him further into frenzy. He grips me harder, pace becoming punishing as if to reward my slip or perhaps punish me for it. The weight of him, the scent of him—night-blooming flowers, sweat, and something uniquely Cardan—surrounds me completely. Every thrust drives me higher, the pressure building like nothing I've ever felt before.
We're not careful anymore. Not kind. We lose ourselves in it—in this terrible, perfect mistake that will haunt my every waking moment.
Pleasure crashes through me without warning, a traitorous cry tearing from my throat before I can swallow it back. My release catches me off guard, my body surrendering while my mind still fights. my inner walls clenching around his cock with an intensity that surprises even me. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me, each pulse gripping him tighter, my body's betrayal complete and irrefutable. My back arches off the bed, vision going white at the edges as the intensity overwhelms me. He watches me fall apart with dark, hungry eyes, never slowing his pace.
"Is this what breaks you, Jude Duarte?" he pants, a cruel smile playing at his lips even as pleasure makes his voice strain. "After everything—it's this? Again," he demands, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Fall apart for me once more."
His thumb finds my clit, circling roughly, and impossibly, I feel another climax building on the heels of the last. He follows my third release with his own, my name torn from his throat like a prayer or a curse as he spills inside me, hips jerking erratically. His thrusts slow, becoming deep, languid rolls as he works us both through the aftershocks until he finally collapses onto me, breath ragged against my neck.
Silence descends, broken only by our breathing.
His head rests at my shoulder. My hand is still in his hair, gentler now. Neither of us moves, as though movement might shatter whatever fragile thing exists in this moment.
"What happens now?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His lips brush against my collarbone. "Nothing good, I imagine." There's resignation there, but something else too. His usual mocking tone returns, though weaker. "Though I do so excel at terrible decisions. Perhaps this will be my worst yet."
This changes everything. We both know it. The High King and his Seneschal. The faerie and the mortal. The two greatest liars in Elfhame, finally telling one truth—even if only with their bodies.
Dawn will come too soon, and with it, the consequences. But for now, this moment is ours alone.