#verryberries

He gripped the handrail of the stairs tightly. His fingers squeezed the metal at intervals, trying to make his descent as slowly as he could. Elderberry vodka and mirthroot clouded his senses. The combination was too strong for his fae blood to metabolize quickly enough, but Cardan took in that fact with appreciation. 

He was finally able to make his way down the stairs and was soon joined by two nymphs. The two leaned against his frame and looped themselves around his biceps. He looked down at their faces, scrutinizing their features. One of the nymphs had a too-large nose and overzealous blush; she purred seductively and blinked whimsically at him. The other pushed her breasts up against him, her clawlike limbs grazed him in a playful manner. Cardan didn’t mind their advances, probably due to the fog in his mind that clouded much of his reason, but he wanted to get into the crowd, and “dance the night away” to rid himself of the events of today.

With the two nymphs dangling from his form, he eased them towards the mob. He felt one of the nymphs tug on his arm and with a breath of honey wine, she whispered, “Prince, instead of going into the throng of revelers, shall we escort ourselves into some place… more private?”  

Cardan paid no heed and continued his way through the crowd that parted in tune to his entrance. He allowed himself to sink into the rhythm of the dance floor. He closed his eyes, immersing himself into the music that was still muffled, the colored lights that flashed insistently, and the groove of bodies that rocked to and against him. 

Someone tapped his shoulder. Cardan opened up his eyes to perceive a lit, tightly-rolled joint of mirthroot displayed in between fingers extended out to him. He didn’t care who had offered it to him, but he sensed that his high was coming to an end, so he took the mirthroot and placed it in between his lips and inhaled. He felt it invade his lungs and further clutter his brain in the midst of the effects of the substances he had taken earlier. Exhaling, he instantly felt at ease, letting himself loosen. Cardan placed his arms around the two nymphs and pulled them closer against him, positioning them so he was in between the two of them, ignoring their eager gasps as he placed himself at the rear of one of the nymphs. He rolled his body against the two of them, wanting to feel the friction of their bodies against his.

Cardan opened his eyes slightly, surveying the chaos of bodies and the savage energy of the crowd. While he rocked against the bodies against him, he inspected the individuals surrounding him with the little slip of reason he had left. He caught sight of some individual with auburn hair, styled in a horn updo and curls that cascaded down the back of her form. His eyesight perked up a bit and his mind sharpened. He gave a push to the nymphs around him and met them with a glare to their protest. They immediately scattered.

He pushed further in vexation, dismissing scowls and venomous eyes. He had disturbed their highs and disordered the movement of the dancing, but his mind had sharpened towards only one goal at the moment, so he ignored the disapproval of those around him without much thought. The alcohol and mirthroot in his veins both furthered and hindered his resolve. It furthered him towards the direction of those auburn curls without discretion, but hindered him in which he acted before he could fully gather at what he was exactly doing. 

He finally made it towards her. 

Golden glitter smeared the eyelids and cheekbones of her feminine face. Painted in a dazzling, cherry tint, her lips slightly parted as if breathing in the energy of the crowd. She moved in tune with the music and Cardan, who didn’t care that he stood at the mercy of the rock of the crowd that shoved and bumped him, was finally able to take in her full form. She looked amazing, ethereal almost, despite the lawlessness of the room. Her tiny, skin tight teal blue dress clung to her curvy form; its neckline plunged in a deep V that showed off the cleavage of her breasts. Cardan was in awe. He almost always saw Jude in court dresses that although cinched her waist, flared down the length of her legs so they, unfortunately, couldn’t be seen. The sight before him left him without breath, immobilized him, and heart speeding.

He stumbled towards Jude further. Right now, reason was his foe. He was aware of Jude’s hostility towards him, but courage and stupidity currently fueled him. He now stood before her, and placed his hands upon her exposed shoulders. 

Cardan watched Jude slowly rise from the hypnotic rhythm of the room. She must have taken something as well. He watched as her eyes gradually met his and further examined the blown pupils of her eyes. Cardan, too, was in a drunken stupor, so before he could stop himself, he lamented, “Jude…” 

Cardan watched her, drinking in the sight of her in this way. There was some kind of tension between them that was better left unspoken of. 

They were in the middle of the dance floor, but this time, the surrounding mix of fae and human dared not to get in the prince’s way again, lest they wanted their wings ripped out. Cardan silently thanked his reputation for allowing him to savor this moment. 

Jude unexpectedly met him with a sad attempt of a glare but continued to sway her hips to the beat of the bass, “Cardan, stop staring.” 

To his chagrin, his brain had failed him. His brain had shut off, he could barely form a word, until he spouted indignantly, “Did you think you could escape me? I can spot you from miles away.”

“You have no reason to bother me here. Stop your glowering, your narrowing eyes.” Despite whatever substances were within her system, Cardan was surprised at the proficiency and fight in her speech.

“And if I want to continue to admire the dullness of your being?” He countered.

 Cardan focused further on Jude’s face. He could imagine the amount of concentration that it took for her to focus on him, his own head pounded from its desire to be left to idleness again. 

So he obliged it. He let his body do the talking: surrounded her frame within his and placed his hands around her hips. He let them settle there for a few moments, giving Jude time to pull away or not. Unexpectedly, she had pulled him in further, accepting his gesture. Her hands slid up and down his body, feeling the rich fabric of his blouse, attending to the gemstones that rimmed the lining with little touches. In response, Cardan’s hands grazed down Jude’s figure, rested on the cup of her ass, and squeezed. He grabbed her ass and brought Jude closer to him, angling his body so that he fit against her frame perfectly. Her forehead fell into his chest and her hands were tangled in his hair this time, fiddling with his black strands. 

Cardan felt a modest tug, so he looked downwards towards Jude. He took in her suddenly shy exterior, and was caught off guard when Jude came towards him and united them at their lips. Those cherry soft things that parted when she spoke left a bit of residue of golden gloss that stained his own. He felt a sort of vigor that abolished any sort of influence that was on him. His mind was clear, and now only focused on one thing: the mortal woman in front of him that pulled him out of his drunkenness and foolery. This kiss was like a sort of message, and he loved it so much. Felt addicted to decipher the code behind this unfamiliar language between them. He pressed himself harder against her: his lips against hers, her body against him. Those damned lips parted again and Cardan let himself in. It was another battle between them, fueled by uncovered truths and drugs and alcohol and the scent of sweat and heat that circulated around them.

The two came off of each other, only to catch their breaths. Panting, their hot breaths added to the already warm air. Cardan wasn’t intoxicated anymore. He was far from it. And glad. Glad that he was going to be able to remember this moment in full. While Cardan held Jude at her sides, breathing heavily, she whispered, “Kiss me, kiss me until I am sick of it.” 

Cardan turned Jude around so he faced her back. He ground himself against her, rolling themselves akin to the music. He clasped his hands around her middle. No escape. He bent his head at the crook of her neck and leaned in, starting to kiss along Jude’s jaw and down the length of her neck to the exposed space of her collar bones. They fell into the cadence of the crowd in that moment. Their bodies rolled against each other accordingly. 

Cardan felt Jude reach up towards him, her height angled so that she reached his ear and whispered, “I am so high.” Cardan could hear the smile in her words, the purr of her whisper had sent him into a shiver. 

“What did you take, sweet Jude?” Cardan whispered into her hair.

“Nevermore,” Jude breathed. Nevermore was a white powdery substance that was to be inhaled through the nose, intended for faerie use. For faeries, it was strong. Cardan could not comprehend the extent of Jude’s response to the hard drug, how she was still standing and speaking right now, nor of however she had gotten a hold of it. 

But Cardan felt a little sad, however. Was she standing before him because she was lost in its effects? Would she remember this encounter at the end of tonight, tomorrow? Must he go back and sneer at Jude tomorrow, forgetting this momentous tryst between them? 

Cardan held Jude within his arms. He didn’t care that his court saw him mingling with the human girl he used to taunt, that the crowd had pretended to ignore the spectacle between them only seconds ago. He just wanted to cherish how this feeling felt. How being wanted felt.

“Jude,” Cardan spoke softly.

He felt movement within his arms, as Jude suddenly slackened.

“Why do you even care? ” Feyre had yelled at him. The frustration she had felt in that moment was undeniable. “Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and even Mor, are on board. What? Do you think I’m incapable? Because I’m not. I am not weak, Rhys. ”

“What do you mean, why do I even care?” Rhys replied, angrily. He had never been this out of control with her. The words were out before he could stop them. “Damn it Feyre! It’s because I love you!” 

His eyes had widened as he realized what he confessed. The instant regret was clear on his face as he cleared his throat, watching Feyre’s reaction hesitantly. 

She immediately stiffened, jaw dropping in shock. The frustration that filled her moments before was gone in an instant. She was suddenly disoriented, unable to speak, to think; all of her movements rendered to a stop.

She must’ve heard him wrong. 

But…

Feyre took a step backwards, clenching and unclenching her fists. Repeating the movements kept her grounded, kept her from panicking. She continued, taking another step. And another. That is, until she ran into the wall behind her. The wall seemed to have broken Feyre out of her initial shock, because she looked up, surveying her surroundings. She could see Rhys, still standing there, trying to say something, but everything seemed to be muted. She turned, horrified to see the wide eyes of Mor, Cassian, Amren, and Azriel. 

She could only imagine what she looked like right now. 

Without another look back, she ran to her bedroom, slamming the door shut.                               

- - - - -

Feyre remained locked up in her room, refusing to face reality. She spent her time curled up in bed, accompanied by a few pillows, a blanket, and a book. She would occasionally get out of bed to paint-- her favorite pastime. Painting allowed her to visually manifest her frenzied thoughts. In her current state, her fingers had physically tingled for an outlet. Only, when she did let her fingers put her into practice, they seemed to take orders from her heart. She immediately regretted the hours that she had painted from her heart. But... that time had also allowed her to put some things into perspective. Her paintings showed her what she had deeply yearned for. What she had been convincing herself otherwise of. 

Once she broke out of her reverie that was her painting, she realized what she had painted on the past three canvases. All of the three paintings had one thing in common: they undoubtedly showcased her true feelings. 

However, Feyre’s third painting stunned her the most. She had painted into life one of her utmost private dreams. It was a close-up painting of her and Rhys entangled with the sheets and with each other. Her arms hung around his neck, as she lazily settled around his torso. Feyre studied the gaze of the girl in the painting, whose blue-grey eyes stared at Rhys with a passionate intensity. An expression full of so much emotion, one would be considered stupid to misidentify it. It was so plain and obvious. It was love. 

And the look on Rhys’ face mirrored the girl’s own. One hand held the side of her face, cupping her jaw, tilting her towards him for a kiss. 

How she wished the painting was actually reality. She was envious of her own painting.

But now one thing was for certain…. And it only took her to paint what she had truly desired, deep down, what she had always known. 

Feyre’s thoughts were shaken by a soft knock at the door. She persisted to lay in bed a minute longer after the knock sounded, weighing her options in whether or not to open it. She already knew who was behind the door, but she didn’t know if she would ever be ready to confront Rhys ever again. 

He loved her, and she had turned away.

She now recognized what she felt for him, but she had run away. Ran away like she had always done in her life. Ran away from the person she’s finally acknowledged her feelings for because she had originally feared to face them. And yet, now she craved his presence. She wanted his warmth, the safety of his wings. She wanted to smile back at his crooked smile and to reciprocate to him all of what he’s done for her. But she was scared. Feyre was so scared she had ruined that chance with him. All because she had run away. 

Ultimately, Feyre made up her mind to answer the door. She tugged herself out of the sheets and hopped off the bed, quickly making her way to the door. She leaned herself against the door, preparing herself to see him. Reaching up to the knob, her fingers closed around it, gently pulling open the door to reveal a tired-looking Rhys.

Sallow-eyed with dark circles rimmed underneath, Rhys stood before her looking much less like her usual, powerful high lord. There was no gleam to his eyes. The stars that usually flecked in them-- dead. His stubble had grown out, and his hair was so messed up, as if he had run his hands through it a thousand times in the last few days. He faced Feyre with his eyes downcast, his mouth pressed into a grim line. 

But slowly, he looked up, “Feyre, I…” Rhysand stopped himself, seeming to choose his words carefully. “You’ve been avoiding me,” Rhysand said softly. It wasn’t a question. 

“I’ve just been thinking.”

Once again, the immeasurable silence swallowed up the words of their unspoken conversation. Words had been stolen from the both of them. They didn’t know what to say to each other.

“Rhys,” Feyre felt her eyes well up, deep inside. She struggled to keep them from flowing, but she felt, too, too much. They spilt over, coursing down her cheeks, like a never ending flow. “I was thinking about when times were simpler, thinking… what if four days ago had never happened?” 

Rhys immediately winced from Feyre’s words. He looked pained.

Feyre wondered how anything could ever go back to normal between them. She wished to go back to those simpler times, where she laughed with everyone, smiled so easily, and the sole thing that united her and Rhys and everyone else was their determination to save Pyrthian. But she knew how naive that was now, especially now. Although those times were only a few days ago, before Rhysand had said anything, before she had really forced herself to put her own feelings into perspective, it seemed like an eternity had passed since then. 

Despite herself, Feyre realized that what she had wished for was selfish of her. There was simply no going back. Because going back to those simpler times would have meant she would be ignoring Rhys’ feelings again. It meant continuing to pretend that what she felt didn’t exist. And it meant that she would continue to hurt Rhys.

“Feyre, look at me.” Rhys called, his voice cracked. 

She refused. She was scared to look up at him, afraid to see the pain in his face. Because it hurt her. His pain was hers. 

Before she could comprehend what had happened, Feyre was pressed against the wall. Rhys’ arms caged her. His arms extended besides her head to lock her in place. His torso leaned onto hers, pressing Feyre into the wall further; her palms laid flat against the surface. Rhys leaned forward, his breath tickled the tips of her ears as he whispered, “I’m not leaving until we talk.”

Feyre could hear her heart raging. It pulsed in a uniform fire of rapid beats, so loudly she felt like its animated fervor would explode out of her chest. She could feel her cheeks redden, her insides getting increasingly hot. She focused on the suddenly interesting-looking ground, trying to steady herself against Rhys’ gaze. This was Rhysand’s effect on her, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it.

She felt one of Rhys’ hands cup her face gently. He tilted her face upwards, so she faced him directly.

“What do you want me to say Rhys? These past few days, I’ve had a lot of time to think.” Feyre started, “About how my heart beats ten million times faster whenever I’m around you. So fast that I feel like it might just beat right out of my chest.” She closed her eyes and took a breath, “That I can’t feel anything but fear whenever I look at you, whenever I’m with you.”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes at hers. He had the twinkle in them again. His violet eyes laced with stars flickered in amusement. He had the audacity to be amused now?

And now it was just them and the silence again. But… something in the atmosphere had changed. 

Rhys leaned in further against her and folded his arms around her form. Feyre tried to struggle against his grip, but he was too strong. He pulled her into him, against his own chest, so she wasn’t alongside the wall anymore, but with him, within his arms. The tension in the air had been replaced with a different kind.

The navy blue chemise barely shielded her body against the rough, hard surface that was Rhys. Enclosed within his arms, her heart picked up, as if it wasn’t already so fast only seconds ago. He allowed her room to look up at him, so she met his eyes, which burned with some all-consuming fire that it was too hard for her to look away towards anything else. 

He softly inquired, “Feyre darling, why must love feel the same as fear?”

And then it was out there.

Once upon a time, Feyre loved. And the person she thought she loved had loved her back twice as much, so much so that their love had mutated into something else. It had begun to poison her. At the time, she feared for her own person, afraid of what she was going to turn into. But she still slowly lost herself. Sometime in the process during those days, she didn’t recognize the girl who looked back at her in the mirror. Her loss bloomed its own ugly in her: emptiness, indifference, blindness. 

The person she was now, was in thanks to Rhys, who had saved her from that terrible, deep, dark hole. In Rhys, she had another chance-- for peace, and love, that is. So, that is why she would trust him. She would let down all of the walls in her mind for him, let her invade her heart, and would honor him with her own rendition of love for him. 

Feyre reached to trace the contours of Rhys’ face. Her thumb gently caressed his cheekbones, having her knuckles skim across the sharpness of his jaw. She let out a shuddered sigh, expressing, “Then I am scared of you, and in love with you at the same time.”

Rhys buried himself in her long, wavy locks, to breathe in her scent of lilac and pear. 

“We can’t ever go back-- back to four days ago. Because I want to move forward with you, Rhys. ” 

Feyre didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly her body was tugged against Rhys’ once more and her fingers were tangled into his ebony strands. His kiss came upon her like a storm. Their locked lips was one that evoked lust, a certain primal hunger for each other that couldn’t be sated by any ordinary means. No, she couldn’t get enough of him from this kiss alone, even when her tongue danced with his in an outrageous tango that left her unable to breathe. She silently wished she didn’t have to take these needless breaths of air-- wished she was born without the need for this suddenly useless ability that impeded her desire. They moved in a synchronized rhythm, their heads angled in a way to complement the other person, in tune with each other’s movements. 

Feyre hopped up, using the momentum to wrap her legs around his waist. She clung to him as he stumbled forward to set her on the dresser. There was not one moment where they weren’t connected. They continued their reverie of kisses, but Rhys had neglected her mouth only to keep the rest of her body accompanied. He started down her lips, trailing downwards to her chin, the edge of her jaw, down to the crook of her neck to sample the flesh of her shoulders. He was relentless in his attacks; every time she needed to take a breath, she had to skip to her next gasp of air. Nevertheless, she couldn’t deny the fire in her veins. It felt as if someone had extinguished all of the dread and ugly from inside of her and filled her up to the brim with happiness and love and everything sweet. She was so alive. Feyre was home.

“I love you, Rhys,” Feyre gasped, unable to contain herself any longer. She was so happy.

Rhy slowed his movements, leaving ghosts of his kisses haunt her being, “Say that again,” Rhys breathed.

Feyre tugged Rhys’ face towards hers, beaming at him, and repeated her words, “I love you, I love you.”

Rhys lifted Feyre’s chemise from her frame, ripping the offending fabric and casting it from his path, so she was fully naked, besides the lacy underthings that she had donned earlier that day. “Again.” Without delay, Feyre had slipped off Rhys’ loose, black shirt, tugging it off his bulk, over his head. No longer separated by the thin barrier the fabrics of their clothes had unknowingly established, they were free to roam the other’s bodies, touching and feeling as if the other was make-believe.

In a whirlwind frenzy of pleasure and sweat, the sound of wingbeats boomed. Feyre opened her eyes a fraction, realizing that Rhys had let out his wings, his magnificent, glorious wings. They flapped once, twice, leaving rushes of air around them. Undeterred, Rhys advanced to lick and kiss his way all around her, and Feyre obliged him. He continued his journey down towards the apex of her thighs, carefully laying upon kiss upon kiss as if in a silent prayer to her grace. She was his muse, after all. Feyre prompted, “I’ve loved you for so long and I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize it, but I love you Rhys, my mate.”

Rhys stopped all movement. Stunned, eyes wide, he descended upon her, in a ravenous, animalistic rage, and closed his wings around them both.

- - - - - - 

Tags: @maastrash​ @b00kworm​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​

...

Cardan thought how utterly surreal it was since then. To think that he had spent thousands of nights since the coronation with this mortal woman that was his sweet nemesis, that he used to scorn and ridicule her just because she was disgustingly always on his mind. No, he couldn’t betray himself anymore. It wasn’t disgusting at all. He had welcomed those thoughts, and remembered how his eyes always seemed to find her form in the crowd, trailing after her, no matter the area or size of the crowd. And when she wasn’t in sight, her wicked presence had infested his mind, occupying the back of his thoughts like a parasite he would do nothing towards to resist. But now, she was next to him, besides him always. His wicked queen.

...

He joined her in the tub. The water, infused with a few dozen oils and scents he never took the time to learn the names of, lapped at his skin. 

“The depths of your desire is very apparent right now, Cardan.” Jude remarked.

“As always, dear wife.” He smirked.

---