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achaotichuman · 22 days

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Kidnapped by the Faery Queen

TAMLIN WEEK IS HERE AND I AM HAPPY

This is for Day 1- Prompt: Human Tamlin.

For this one, I decided on writing an AU where Tamlin and Feyre's roles are reversed, Tamlin is the human mortal and Feyre is the High Lady.

This fic is mostly Tamlin making dumb decisions and feylin fluff at the end as well as banter between Tamlin & Lucien & Feyre! It focuses mostly on Tamlin's first impressions of the SC and the gang. It doesn't follow the canon events of what led Feyre to Tamlin because idk I wanted to write this instead.

You can read on Ao3, or below the cut!

There was something thundering in his chest, urging him faster and faster and faster. Rocketing through the woods. Passing by trees bending at the trunk like they might keel over. An archway created overhead that dappled the silvery light of the moon. Splashes across the snow like pearls of light. It was clear above, not a cloud to remove the paleness of the mood from the world.

It was dark and cold, and never-ending snow, but he had to run. He had to feel the crunch of grass blades hidden underneath blankets of undisturbed white. He had to feel his muscles ache and burn with warmth as the chill of the air caused his face to flush. Heart racing, an owl cried overhead, its song breaking through the silence of the air. Cutting through like a sewing needle piercing intricate strings of fabric.

He only looked up momentarily to see the flutter of soft wings darting from a tree branch through the air, before the animal was long gone from sight. He quickened his pace. Until he must have been a blur in between the tree trunks. Running with shadows, in the darkest parts of the woods. Deeper and deeper to the heart, he must have looked to be a part of the forest itself. Some indiscernible creature running as if for its life. A spooked deer, a bird flying low to the ground. A lost spirit running through the inbetween of the realms.

Something inhuman and ghastly. Something that children would see from the corner of their eyes and quickly grab their mother’s skirts whilst pointing in between the trees. Only to find the shadow they had seen was long gone.

Eventually he was forced to stop. Legs burning so much the fire seemed to consume his muscles. It was a miracle he was still standing as he hunched over and panted, hands on his knees, heart thundering behind his ribs. Breath fogging in the chilled air. Strands of his golden blond hair fell around his face. Quickly he brushed them behind his hood once more. The rough wool of his gloves harsh on his sensitive, flushed face.

Taking a slow step forward, Tamlin looked through the treelines. Adjusting his thick coat before pulling the bow strapped around him off his back, and drawing an arrow. Instincts telling him he was a fool, an idiot for coming so far out at this time. But he had to get away. The wind that pummelled against the frail glass of his shared bedroom window called to him. Singing his name like a prayer falling from a devout believer. He was helpless but to strap on his weapons, excitedly gathering his gear. Only sparing a second thought to quickly shut the window, lest he wake his older brothers who laid soundly asleep.

But now as he looked around at the dark woods, he realised how stupid he was to come out here tonight. In the cold, where he had nothing but the footprints he made to track his way back home. Even that could quickly be eliminated by more snowfall.

There was a sudden noise from behind him, the sound of a crunch, like a foot on a stick.

Tamlin whipped around, drawing his arrow. Heart racing and preparing to duck for cover.

“Oh.” He whispered into the soft night.

A stag stared at him curiously. It’s beady black eyes shining in the pale light. The majestic antlers gracing its head stuck out in so many twining directions. It had one foot lifted above a broken twig. So still and watching.

Tamlin kept the arrow drawn. Never wavering and never lowering. His body stiller than a slingshot pulled back, ready to be fired. Like his muscles were elastic and stretched to the limit.

Then the stag…

Just turned its head, moving its feet finally, crushing the snow below it as it leisurely strolled back into the woods. Into the darkness and out of sight.

Tamlin’s eyes rolled as he lowered his bow, huffing. Puffs of white clouded in front of his face and he stomped the snow, digging into it until he saw blades of icy green, black in the little light. He must be truly going insane.

Lost to the sensations of cold nighttime, he left the cottage in favour of running blindly into a dangerous woods, where wolves lurked about in the dark hours of morning. He was stupid beyond comprehension. His mother must have dropped him as a child, because there was in no way that a normal person thought the wind called for them.

Unless..

Tamlin snapped up his bow again as a growl vibrated through the woods. Travelling through the air like claws reaching out. It echoed, as another growl joined it, followed by a third and a fourth.

They emerged from the darkness. With fur a dark grey that glimmered in the silvery light. Teether bared and eyes stoking flames. Four powerful wolves circled him slowly.

Tamlin was frozen in place. Muscles locked up as his body went into fight or flight mode. In a moment of utter terror, mind replaced entirely with fear. He ran.

It was a terrible decision, as then the wolves pounced.

Tamlin tried to duck down, screaming. Hoping someone equally as stupid as him had come out here during the night, hopefully with an axe or a mace. A large claw descended on him, and Tamlin screamed again as it slashed his abdomen. Blood poured from his stomach. Soaking his clothes. The four were on him, a pile of raw flesh for the taking. There was nothing he could do as he felt teeth sink into his arm, preparing to pierce flesh.

Then a roar more powerful than any of the snarling wolves shattered the night sky.

The large furred heads of the wolves jutted up, ears falling back, completely flat. The roar echoed again, similar to a snarled warning. They began to whimper and whine.

Then it appeared, and Tamlin felt all the blood drain from his face, nearly fainting on the spot.

Its fur completely white, with black spots covering its hide. Eyes yellow and gleaming. A jaw full of bone white teeth. Scraping black claws across the snow as it prowled forward. Snarling once more.

The wolves barked and whined, and fled. Leaving Tamlin a heap of bloodied human meat. He almost wished the wolves had finished him off, so he wouldn't be faced with the hulking beast walking slowly to him. Its pace taunting, knowing he had no way to get away from it. If he ran, it would catch him. There was no possible route that allowed his mortal legs to outrun this powerful creature.

Soon it was looming above him. Tamlin’s neck ached as he stretched his head up to keep eye contact with the creature. It cocked its head in an almost human manner, as if pondering something.

Only one thought ran through his head, and it just made the situation all the more terrifying.

This is a Fae. This is a Fae. This is a Fae. This is a Fae. This is a Fae.

It was undeniable. The creature was not mortal. It moved too gracefully. Was too pristine. Too big to be any kind of naturally occurring animal. This was a monster from the depths of the Faery lands. And it had crossed the border into these woods.

Horror coursed through his body as Tamlin thought that the calling from the wind was the Faery creature, he truly ran right into a trap.

“Please.” He begged weakly. Blood was rushing too quickly from his wounds. Splattering crimson across the pure white snow. A pattern of scarlet red. Something wet and horrible dripped down his face and Tamlin realised he was crying as he was faced with the terrible creature above him.

But it simply watched, making his fear grow, cold pressed into his body, as the wolves had torn his clothes and revealed skin to the freezing cold. For a moment Tamlin wondered if the monster would let him die first before feasting on his flesh. Faery cruelty. Maybe he would die from pure fear before the bleeding out could take him.

Black swirled in and out of his vision. Until his blinking was coming slower and longer. The beast just watched. Tamlin felt coldness spread up his back, neck and head. He had fallen back into the snow, his eyes could see nothing but darkness, silver and yellow eyes. Before they finally closed, tears dripping hot from the corner of his eyes.

I never said goodbye to anyone, he thought as darkness embraced him.

When he woke up, pain was spidering through his abdomen and arm. Lingering in his body and refusing to release him. He groaned loudly and shifted, trying to feel anything other than the horrid burning sensations in his skin. As he did, there was a flurry of whispering around him. He jolted almost immediately. Especially as he realised he was not in cold snow, but laying amongst the softest sheets he had ever felt.

Opening his blurry eyes he tried to take in his surroundings. First he saw a ceiling above him. Pure white, a large golden chandelier hanging in the centre, not lit as sunlight poured in through the large glass pane windows. Casting long shadows through the room. Tamlin tried to sit up, but his body would not part from the stinging pain that consumed him.

“He is awake, alert the High Lady.” A voice like silk whispered harshly from someone in the room.

“What?” He croaked out, voice rough from disuse, he grabbed the sheets in his hands, balling them in his fists. He was squirming as he tried to sit up.

“Hush child, you are safe.” That same silk voice murmured, now closer.

Tamlin managed to crane his neck to the side and there he saw the source of the voice.

He screamed.

Jumping up from the bed, the adrenaline briefing ridding him of the burning pain. He sat up quickly and scrambled away from the right side of the bed. As he stared and stared at the creature looking back at him with a sudden, shocked expression.

Tamlin fell off the side of the bed, onto a soft fluffy mat. He looked around quickly, hearing quick footsteps towards him. He tried to scramble under the bed, just to get away, but she was there again before he could hide.

“You…” His voice left him as he stared, and wondered if his sudden outburst would anger the undoubtedly Faery creature standing before him.

He swallowed hard, tears wetting his eyes, but he blinked them away the best he could. Trying to reach for anything that could be used as a weapon.

Instead, however, of being offended, the woman- or whatever she was- simply put a hand on her hip. Tilting her head to the side, causing wiry brown hair to fall down the side of her shoulder. Her bark-skinned shoulder.

Her skin looked rough to touch. Textured with some knots like in a trunk. As if carved from wood. Though her eyes were filled with life. She raised an eyebrow, causing the texture of her skin to shift as she did.

“I will not hurt you, human.” She said, gently but firmly. Like a mother coaxing a child to come to her.

Tamlin swallowed again, then managed to stammer out, “Why should I believe you, Faery?”

He spat the word with venom. Faeries were creatures that hunted, killed and tortured innocent humans for stupid crimes that could not be considered as such. Like walking into Faery rings, or accidentally getting involved with Faery deals.

She sighed heavily, chest rising and falling. Holding out a hand, she said, “Call me Alis, child.”

“Alis?” He repeated. Then cursed himself, he shouldn’t so much as speak to the creature before him. Yet he continued to stare at her.

She nodded, hand still held out, as if offering it. Tamlin bared his teeth and huddled further away, curling in on himself.

Her head shook and her length of hair shook with it. Turning away from the human man. She went for the door. Opening it up, Tamlin heard the sounds of shouting, crashing and swearing. He flinched hard and ducked further away from the door. Alis sighed lightly, then looked back over at him, “Someone will come soon to prepare you.”

“Prepare me-” Tamlin tried to ask, but before he could, she closed the door. As it clicked shut, Tamlin stared at the bronze handle. Then at the dark oak door itself, before looking around the room.

It was beautiful, that was for certain. All dark, polished wood, bronze and gold. The sheets of the bed were silk, emerald green and the curtains were sheer. The window closed.

Finally, on shaking legs, Tamlin stood, grunting as he grabbed the nearby nightstand for support as the burning pain returned in full. Though dulling as the seconds were by. When he touched his stomach where the slash had been, and found not only was he wearing a different set of clothes, but there was a bandage with some kind of salve over his skin.

Tamlin pulled at the new shirt. It was sleep wear, just a white shirt and soft green pants. He felt his entire body go completely red as he realized someone had undressed and redressed him.

What the fuck was this place? He wrapped his arms around himself, human instincts begging to run and find a place to hide.

Some kind of Faery world. Some kind of place he would no doubt be tortured or hunted for sport. As the stories all liked to go.

Slowly Tamlin sat down on the soft coverlet. Not quite sure where to go from here. What to do. Alis, if she had even given him her real name, said someone would come prepare him.

Prepare him for what?

Tamlin’s first thought was he was going to be turned into some kind of stew. His next thought was he would be dragged out for entertainment. Forced to dance on hot coals until he died or something like that. His toes curled and his body shook as terror seized him once more.

In a wave of energy and the need to get away, Tamlin stumbled for the large and, more importantly, unlocked, window. His bruised fingertips grappled with the frame for a moment before he managed to pull them open.

But when he looked over the edge, his eyes widened when he saw how far up he was from the ground. Far below him, gardens roamed the grounds. Large and spread out. Dappled with colours of all sorts and looking like chaos incarnate. Spread out like twisting, festering vines, roots and branches. With patches of sweet-smelling flowers hidden in between.

Tamlin tossed a look back over at the room. And decided a death by falling would be better than whatever the Faeries had in store for him. So with gritted teeth and while silently cursing his own stupidity. Tamlin leaped over the edge, grabbed onto a nearby ivy plant clinging to the wall and swung away from the window sill.

He swallowed a shout, and quickly found footing in the green netting like plant. Hands burning as he gripped the ivy. He began a quick descent. Even as the branches gave way under his hands, he moved as fast as he could so as to get away before anyone noticed his disappearance.

A cut, a cussing fit, and three new bruises later. The ivy gave out underneath him and Tamlin thumped to the ground with another hissed curse. Luckily he hadn’t been more than three feet off the ground.

Groaning quietly as he picked himself off the floor. Tamlin dusted his shirt from the dirt and wiped as much of the mud smeared on his cheek off as possible. Finally he got to his wobbling legs and looked around.

The gardens looked more like a labyrinth than gardens. Winding around and around, with walls of bushes and large trees bent over like they couldn’t handle standing straight. Moss collected on rocks and stone made pathways through the maze of sweet smelling lands.

It was Springtime.

But they had just been in winter. Spring wasn’t for yet another month.

Another Faery trick. Some kind of magic he wanted no part of. Tamlin snarled at the lily of the valley near him, as if they were directly responsible for him being in Faery territory.

A trick of some sort, to lead him to a trap. Tamlin squeezed his hands into fists and began to walk silently through the gardens. Treading carefully and making absolutely sure he would not break so much as a twig underfoot. His heart thumped behind his rips, rocketing through his body, pulsing in time with each step.

Soon, he turned a corner and was met with a sight more lovely than he had ever seen before.

A courtyard of some kind. Flowing fountains, and trimmed hedges lined the grounds. He saw the extent of the… mansion he had been taken to. Carved from marble and stone. Detailed carefully and so much larger than any house he had ever seen. Tamlin baulked at the sheer size of the place he was in. Everything seemed so much bigger than him, reducing him to the comparable size of an ant.

He nearly stumbled back, but was pulled back into where he was and the danger he was in. Tamlin’s mouth pulled into a snarl and he quickly ducked away from the open area, hiding in between bushes and trees and winding through the rest of the gardens. Trying to find some way out of here.

He found that the grounds were so large and trying to find his way out of them was like being trapped in a maze. As it was he wound up in some kind of small woods. Large tall oaks loomed above him, but he could still smell the pollen behind him, and didn’t know whether he had left the grounds or these woods were still part of the mansion.

Tamlin ignored the knots twisting tighter and tighter in his stomach as he marched forward in the general direction of South, (or what he hoped was South). He ignored the chill that spread over his skin, making his mind beg to turn back. He kept going further and further and further, until it was looking dark above, maybe that was the thick brush getting thicker and thicker as he went.

It was nerves he told himself, not real, just flight or fight making him jumpy.

But as he went further, he could have sworn something like a finger brushed his shoulder. Tamlin leapt away with a shout. Brushing off his clothes like he was trying tog et rid of a bug. His body kept washing over and over with fear so intense it paralysed him. Shaking, stumbling back he scanned the world but saw nothing at all.

Nothing, it was nothing, just nerves or a bug that had fallen on him. It had to be, there was nothing else out here.

Still he picked up the pace, going faster and faster and faster until he broke out into a sprint, heading further and further into the dark forest. Running for his life, trying to reach the border, to get back to his family, to his world. Not this place. Anywhere but this terrifying place.

Then more chills fell down his spine, rolling through his like waves lapping at a sandy shore. Tamlin stumbled but kept running, not turning back, not looking back for a single second.

Something like a hand reached out, brushing his hair and shoulder, wrapping around his neck. A scream curled in his throat and he grabbed a branch as he ran, tearing it away and keeping it like a sword at his side. Still whatever was behind him started to whisper. Cruel cold words he didn’t understand but knew anyway, threats, promises of eating him alive.

A roar, a roar that he remembered from the night, however long ago it was, he had been kidnapped.

It rattled the ground, Tamlin fell to the floor, scraping his knees and elbows, but not caring as the land shuddered. The trees around him seemed to bend to the sound. Whatever had shattered the sky once more had power here and it rippled through the world.

All at once the whispering ceased, and a shriek of terror and pain ripped through the world. Tamlin hid under a large root and curled in on himself, hiding away, not daring to even breath loud.

In a second it was over, and silence filled the air once more. But only for a single second, before a low growl tore the ground and footsteps followed, getting closer, and closer, and closer.

He didn’t have many options. None at all really.

Tamlin clung to the stick he had grabbed, and as a huff of warm air from around the shelter of the root breathed over him. A rush of adrenaline fueled his body.

Tamlin leapt up from underneath the root, with barely a second to spare he pulled the stick and launched it at the creature with all the might in his body.

It hit the beast’s jaw with a thud, followed by a roar of pain from the creature as it stumbled back, reeling from the hit.

Tamlin took no time in pondering how he had just signed his death warrant. Instead he took off through the woods. Rocketing through at lightning speeds, desperately forcing his way through the brush. The beast shouted a battle cry once more as it raced after him. He could hear it pounding behind him on all fours.

He was prey in a trap, little more than game to be hunted.

Tamlin ran faster and faster and faster-

He smacked into a very hard, very solid form and fell back on the ground.

Reeling with dizziness. Tamlin forced his way up, thinking he had hit a tree.

The idea he smacked into a tree was quickly shattered as a sly voice crooned from above him, “Well isn’t this interesting? We were looking for you, little fawn, and here you are running right back to us.”

Tamlin forced his eyes up and his eyes went wide. A tall man grinned wickedly down at him, dark skin gleaming in the sunlight above, red hair spilling down his back and shoulders like waves of scarlet. His face was half covered by a gilded fox-shaped mask. Underneath a scar over his right eye was plain to see, inside the eye socket instead of a normal eyeball, was instead a golden contraption that mimicked his other eye.

It seemed the tree he had hit was the man’s chest. Tamlin felt himself go very red, then white as he saw the long pointed ears sticking out from in amongst the locks of crimson.

He scrambled back, but the fox masked man just raised an eyebrow, “Don’t run away again, little fawn, it won’t go well for you.”

Tamlin snarled as he got to his feet and pulled up his stick with him, holding it like a sword, “Get the fuck away from me.”

Little fawn, they were matched in height, granted Tamlin hadn’t eaten a full meal in who knew how long so they weren’t quite matched in build. But Tamlin had never been a man to look down upon.

Except this creature wasn’t man. Rather Faery creature.

Tamlin tried not to let his fear show.

However, the Faery seemed less inclined to toy with him, instead turning his eyes to something behind Tamlin, “Feyre! I found your wayward doe, ran right to me.”

Tamlin went completely still as heavy footsteps thundered behind him. The beast, he had forgotten about the beast.

Tamlin bared a glance over his shoulder and there it stood. As terrifying and horrible as when he had seen it scare away those wolves from tearing him to shreds. It was so, so much bigger than him. With those glinting yellow eyes that glared down at them.

Tamlin felt like passing out. But held his ground as he tried to step away, to get away.

But he hit the Faery behind him again, and quickly reeled away. The fox-masked man cackled, and Tamlin kept looking in between the beast and the Faery.

Caught between a rock and hard place, with no escape.

Shit.

In a split second, as Tamlin considered just making a break and running for it. There was a sudden glow of gold, a brightness that had Tamlin shielding his eyes, it was gone in a moment, and suddenly he heard quieter steps coming toward him.

“Yes, yes, an applause for you Lucien.” A snarky voice quipped.

“I do try,” The fox-masked man, Lucien, said.

Tamlin, however, did not look at Lucien, supposedly, behind him as his eyes went astronomically wide as he saw who now replaced the form of the beast.

In the glow, fur had turned to skin and horns had disappeared. Paws were now hands and yellow eyes had turned to blue ones.

A woman stepped out towards him. In a green tunic with a quiver of arrows on her back, as well as a bow. Her boots thudded against the ground, and her braid of brown hair slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were cold as she walked towards him. Face half hidden, like Lucien, by a mask. This mask however, was gilded gold and shaped like the face of the beast. Her eyes kept glancing at the stick in his hand, a drop of blood welled on her jaw, the small scratch quickly beginning to heal itself.

It seemed Lucien caught quickly on to why the stick was in Tamlin’s hand and why the female Faery had a slight scratch on her jaw a sudden cackle was torn from him, “Oh, the human got you in the jaw, Feyre? Isn’t that something Alis will be dying to hear of.”

“Quiet Lucien,” Feyre, the beast, said, narrowing her eyes in a predatory way.

“But it’s so much fun to speak.” Lucien said.

Feyre ignored him as her eyes went back to Tamlin, “You escaped your rooms, how?”

Tamlin snarled, and lifted the stick again like he might try to strike her and run. His mother had driven it into him to never hit girls, but his brothers had driven it into him to give back what people gave him.

And in this moment, he thought killing a Faery in order to escape a kidnapping sounded pretty even for what they had given him.

“Feisty eh?” Lucien crooned.

Feyre let out a slow release of breath through her nose, then her eyes turned back to Lucien, “Take him back to Rosehall, have the servants prepare him for supper.”

So they were going to turn him into stew.

“Now, little fawn, no need to go so pale, no one will be eating you.” Lucien said as he prowled around to face Tamlin, practically reading the thoughts going through his head. Lucien then looked him up and down slowly before adding, “Not in that regard at least.”

“Don’t be crass.” Feyre chided, waving her hand, “I’ve had enough of hide and go seek, take him back and lock the windows this time.”

“Wait-” Tamlin started, but Lucien just rolled his eyes at Feyre and grabbed his arm. Tamlin tried to reef it away, but all of a sudden he was swept into darkness.

It felt like he was falling through flames, through dark flames that wouldn't burn him. It only happened for a few seconds before his knees hit wood and he looked around to find himself back in the room he had woken up in. Lucien was standing above him as Tamlin tried to catch his breath after having it stolen from his lungs.

“Get him dressed… and somewhat clean.” Lucien ordered someone in the room.

“Yes my lord,” A male voice responded. Tamlin looked up to see a sweet-faced boy with blue skin and fluttering wings. He had long black hair and black eyes. Despite the terrifying Faery features, he seemed gentle and kind.

“Good, have him ready in fifteen minutes, sundown approaches.” Lucien started to head for the door.

“Stop!” Tamlin shouted, causing the red-head to look back over his shoulder.

“Where am I?” Tamlin asked, needing to know, to have some idea.

Lucien gave a small smirk, “Why you’re in Prythian, little fawn, welcome to the Spring Court.”

Without another word, he opened the door and closed it behind him.

Tamlin looked up at the Faery servant, who smiled gently.

Tamlin met the gesture with a growl.

In hindsight, he made the poor man’s life so much harder than it needed to be. But either he expected it, or was used to it, as whenever Tamlin refused to cooperate, it was met with indifference and repetition of whatever order he had been given. Whether that be to take off his shirt, sit still for his hair to be brushed, or to even get into the sweet-smelling bathwater.

He felt a little like an obstinate toddler, but for the Gods sakes, they had kidnapped him. Who in their right mind thought he, of all the people in the world, would go along with this easily?

The blue Faery only said they had all night whenever Tamlin sat on the floor and glared at the wall. Tamlin reminded him with a snappy tone that they only had fifteen minutes, his words were met with silence, which only served to anger him further.

Somehow, through patience and a lot of counting to ten, the blue Faery had him clean and sitting at a vanity, glaring at him through the mirror as his nimble finger braided his unruly blond hair into a long braid.

“You know I was forced here too.” The blue Faery said. At that Tamlin blinked suddenly.

“What?”

“I come from another land, another Court. The Court of Summer. I was forced to leave when my village was struck. The bandits that plundered my father’s house killed every living person, but missed me as I escaped through the window with my sister.”

“Oh.” Tamlin said, not really knowing how to react.

“Mm,” he hummed, “We had not a mark on us. We didn’t know where we were going. Our village was the closest to Spring, we accidently crossed over here, into the Spring Court and had no choice but to go further in, hunger pushed us, and my sister died on the walk through the woods.”

“I…” Tamlin suddenly felt incredibly guilty for the way he had been acting, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I carried her all the way through Spring, until eventually the High Lady found me whilst she was patrolling with sentries. Her majesty, bless her reign, took me in and gave me a job in her household. My sister had a proper burial and I have lived here ever since.”

Tamlin fiddled with his fingers. Watching the Faery behind him as his fingers began to weave daises through the braid, “That must have been… scary.”

“It was, I didn’t like being here at first, even though I was just met with kindness. I snapped at a lot of people and worked as alone as I could. But after long enough I grew to love my new position. And I am thankful to the Lady for rescuing me.”

“That’s… that’s good.”

He smiled into the mirror, “Did you have any family?”

Did, as if they were dead, gone, as if he would never see them again.

He supposed he wouldn’t. Not now that he is here.

Not that the family he did have were much of a family.

“Sort of.” Tamlin mumbled, “My two older brothers and my father.”

He nodded, “I see.”

The Faery looked at him as if he expected Tamlin to continue, when Tamlin just stared back blankly he looked back down at the braid he was making. Tamlin cast his eyes down to his rough fingers, scarred from times he had nicked the skin with arrows.

“There.” He eventually said, “All ready.”

Tamlin looked at his reflection, and barely recognised it.

His skin was clean and gleaming with hydration from the obscene amount of creams and oils the Faery had forcibly rubbed into his body. His hair was for once, untangled and smooth, braided nicely with some curls peeking out. His hair was curly from his mother’s side, whilst he had his father’s pale complexion. He inherited the impossible curls from his mother.

The clothes he wore weren’t stained or torn, rather pressed. A white shirt and green waistcoat with golden detailing. Brown trousers, with shiny dark brown, leather shoes. All of it worth more than his brothers would say he was worth. Though his brothers liked to say if they sold him for two marks, someone would bargain for lower.

“It's time to go.” The blue Faery said, waving him up from the vanity. This time, Tamlin stood with no complaints, which the Faery seemed to be pleased with.

“What’s your name?” Tamlin found himself asking. Mentally slapping himself.

“Tain.” He replied, “Yours?”

“Tamlin.” Tamlin murmured.

“A pleasure to serve you, Tamlin.” Tain said, bowing his head.

“A pleasure to meet you, Tain.” Tamlin replied, awkwardly bowing his head, not quite sure what to do.

Tain quickly took him to leave the room. Opening the creaking door Tamlin saw the glorious extent of the interior of the manor.

It was all gilded and polished and glowing. Large windows with sunlight flooding the halls. Paintings filled the walls. And the white and black chequered tiles in the hallways were covered by handmade, intricate rugs.

It was all so expensive looking Tamlin found himself open-mouth gawking at it. More than once Tain had to snap at him to close his mouth and move quicker.

Tamlin obeyed, still reeling a little from Tain’s story.

It was in no time at all that they were going down a flight of stairs and walking to a room down a hallway, which had the large door wide open, and the sound of two voices arguing flowing from it.

“You didn’t think to lock the window!” A woman shouted.

“I didn’t think a human could scale down four stories!” A man shot back.

“I told you to take precautions-” The woman started to reply before she cut herself off.

Tamlin and Tain rounded the corner into the room, and Tamlin found himself staring at the two who had caught him earlier.

Feyre, the beast who had kidnapped him and scared him two ways to death, was sitting at the head of the table. Wearing a gold and green tunic with trousers similar to his own, only more tailored. Her hair, instead of in a braid, was flowing down in waves over her back, with a ring of gold around her head. She leaned her cheek against her head as she looked from Tamlin to Lucien. Her fingers tapping her mask.

Lucienn was standing behind the seat on Feyre’s right. His eye clicked as he looked over Tamlin. Wearing a blue, fitted tunic and black pants. Rings covering his fingers, and his hair braided back. He regarded Tamlin with a grin, “Tain you work magic once again.”

“Thank you my lord.” Tain bowed low at the waist.

“Thank you Tain, you may retire.” Feyre said.

“Thank you, my High Lady.” Tain said, still bowing. After a second, he stood straight and left the room.

High Lady. Tamlin whipped his eyes back to Feyre, who regarded him with a look of boredom.

So this was the High Lady, the mistress of this house.

Of this… Court.

Lucien slunk down into his seat, not seeming to need confirmation from his Lady. He crossed one leg over the other, and tapped his finger against the arm of his chair, he looked over at Feyre and half-discreetly cleared his throat.

Feyre shot him a withering glare before looking back at Tamlin, leaning back in her chair and she looked him up and down, “You didn’t manage to escape again.”

Lucien cleared his throat again, louder this time. Tamlin scrutinised him with big green eyes. Feyre glared at him.

The High Lady, or whatever she was, turned back to him, “What was your name?”

Lucien’s eye roll was made audible by the clicking of his eye. Feyre’s eye twitched rapidly.

“Why should I tell you that?” Tamlin spat with venom on his tongue.

“Because if you don’t this is going to be a lot harder for you.” Feyre snarled at him.

“My Lady.” Lucien murmured in warning.

Feyre let out something between a sigh and a hiss, “My name is Feyre, his is Lucien.” She said as she jutted a fork towards Lucien.

“I gathered.” Tamlin said deadpan.

“You know our names, so I must know yours.” Feyre said, “So?”

Tamlin wondered if that was some kind of Faery bargain exchange, he considered not answering but the look of growing frustration on Feyre’s face told him to just say it, there wasn’t much he would be able to hide for long if he was to be some sort of slave here.

“Tamlin.” He said, “My name is Tamlin.”

“Like the ballad?” Lucien asked, “The Ballad of Tam Lin?”

“Exactly like the Ballad of Tam Lin.” Tamlin watched Lucien from the corner of his eye.

“Something your mother liked then.” Feyre murmured as she watched Tamlin.

Tamlin furrowed his brow, “What?”

Feyre shrugged, “I am assuming your father didn’t come up with the name, so your mother did, meaning she liked the Ballad of Tam Lin.”

Tamlin swallowed, “It was her favourite.”

Feyre hummed in acknowledgment, and from the corner of his eye Tamlin saw Lucien give something like an encouraging nod.

The High Lady sighed quietly and jutted her head to the seat at her left, as she dug her fork and knife into the plate of steaming food before her, “Sit.”

Tamlin remained standing, after a minute passed, Feyre looked up at him through her eyebrows, “Sit.” She commanded again.

Tamlin crossed his arms and met her scowl with obstinance.

Unlike Tain, Feyre did not care for his antics, nor cared for patience.

Something that felt like invisible hands grabbed him, even when he screamed and thrashed, they didn’t relent, pulling him to sit in that seat, then tying him to the chair with invisible ropes. He struggled and pulled and kicked but Feyre just went back to eating. Only Lucien made a slow head turn to Feyre with a look of barely concealed anger. She just shrugged the red-heads expression off.

“Let me go!” Tamlin shouted.

“Eat.” She ordered.

“I refuse.” He said.

“Then starve.” She hissed, “Either way you are not moving.”

“I believe what the High Lady means.” Lucien cut in, “Is that you have to eat eventually, so please would you eat what has been prepared.”

“That isn’t exactly what I meant.” Feyre mumbled through a mouthful of thick steak.

Even through his stubbornness, Tamlin felt his stomach growling with hunger, he hadn’t eaten anything other than stale crackers and some boiled potatoes in two months. And what he ate before that was little more than tomato soups and salted meat.

Magic took the plate before him, lifting it with invisible hands and filling it with the meat, vegetables, breads and fruits from the feast before him, before setting it down before him.

Tamlin stared at the dinner, and his mind went back to what could be happening back in the cottage.

Remembering the inventory of their kitchen, there were a few boxes of crackers left and some jars of preserved vegetables he had managed to convince his brothers not to eat until the dead of winter, when they would undoubtedly get snowed in and be unable to hunt for any meat.

Those jars would be gone in a matter of days without Tamlin to mediate his hungry brothers from taking them. Neither had ever cared for long-term survival, not since they fell into poverty.

“Eat.” The High lady ordered again.

Tamlin scowled, but when he tugged his right hand, it was released. He took up a fork and began to stab at a roasted carrot.

“Does the carrot owe you money, Tamlin?” Lucien asked with a laugh in his voice.

Tamlin shot him a frightful glare and the laughing from his eyes fell away into annoyance, he looked at Feyre and mumbled, “God really did make two of em.”

“Shut your two-faced mouth, Lucien.” Feyre said as she too stabbed at her vegetables.

Tamlin breathed something of a laugh, at which both of their heads shot up to stare at him.

The almost laugh was strangled in a second as he growled low again and shoved the mutilated carrot in his mouth.

Feyre snarled something softly at Lucien and he just grinned at Tamlin, taking a fork and elegantly piercing a potato.

“So, Tamlin, you wandered to our side, where were you before that?” The fox like Faery asked with a sly look in his eyes. Tamlin didn’t trust it for a second.

“Why would I tell you that?” He nearly spat.

Lucien shrugged, “Making conversation.”

“Enough, Lucien.” Feyre said, “We don’t need to listen to your quibbling while we’re eating.”

“Says the great chatterbox High lady.” Lucien said with an eyeroll. Feyre answered with narrowed eyes and a claw appearing on the edge of her finger. Lucien quietened down but not without mumbling something about ‘dramatics.’

A few minutes past in a tense silence. One that had Tamlin’s muscles coiling tighter and tighter with every passing second.

Finally all the tension seemed to snap in him and he asked, “Why am I here?”

Both Faeries went still, too still, in a way that Tamlin couldn’t see a flicker of movement, not even in their breathing. It unnerved him and suddenly he wished he hadn’t asked.

Feyre glanced at Lucien before she ultimately said, “You listened to the singing winds and came to us, but that you are bound to our world.”

The answer made little sense to him. Tamlin found his eyes narrowing even further, “You tricked me.”

Feyre scoffed, “Tricked? The singing winds send out a song every seven years, it isn’t our fault that your kind doesn’t want against our magic playing.”

***

Sitting at the edge of a brook, Tamlin picked up a smooth, round stone. Briefly running his thumb over the surface. Barely a rough spot on its steel grey top. Casting green eyes over the gentle stream of crystal clear water running in between rocks and over slopes, heading downhill into the forest. He aggressively tossed the rock into the water, watching it splash. Droplets splattered across the sleeve of his white shirt.

Footsteps echoed behind him, making him jolt slightly, he cast his eyes over his shoulder and saw the form heading for him.

Her hair was in it’s usual braid, hanging behind her hair. Pretty face carved with lines of exhaustion, her stormy eyes were softer than usual, having a kinder tint to them. Her hands were folded neatly behind her. Wearing brown hunting pants and a green tunic with a bow and quiver of arrows strapped to her back. Her belt was filled with hunting knives, all carved to the handle resembled the bud of a rose.

Tamlin turned back around, another stupid decision, to turn his back on a Faery creature. But he had so far been here a month and they hadn’t killed him yet.

Feyre sat down beside him. Spreading one leg out and bending the other up.

“So.” She started, her voice a gentle hum, though there was an air of awkwardness as she tried to come up with what to say, “how has your day been so far?”

Tamlin threw her a suspicious look, narrowing his eyes as he hesitantly responded, “Fine.”

She nodded, meeting his glare with an almost glare of her own before she seemed to catch herself and turned back to the bubbling brook.

“You like hunting right?” She asked, seeming to find something to talk about.

At that he cast her a strange look, “Where did you get that idea?”

She shrugged as she leaned back on the palms of her hands, stretching out both legs, “You had a bow and quiver full of very sharp arrows that day I found you in the woods. You seemed to know how to handle them. Therefore you must hunt.”

He answered the Faery with a shrug of his own, drawing some kind of stick figure in the ground, “I hunt out of necessity.”

She blinked at that, tilting her head in a near animalistic manner. It caused Tamlin’s heart to start thumping against his ribcage, like an animal remembering they were prey in a dog’s kennel.

“Interesting.” She murmured. A ray of sun peeked through the folds of the leaves above and shone across Feyre’s face. Her freckles seemed to glow in the gold in the air. She lifted her chin up ever so slightly, as if basking in the added warmth on her.

Tamlin looked away again as his heart kept beating faster and faster.

***

“You’re kidding.” Tamlin hid his own laugh behind his palm.

Feyre flopped back into the grass behind her, crushing wildflowers. They framed the back of her glowing, locks of burnt honey hair. She grinned up at him with sparkling eyes, “Nope. I scared that fox so much he grabbed the chandelier.”

“I didn’t think he’d be so easily spooked.” Not at all, though it was a very fun idea to think of Lucien being scared shitless by Feyre appearing out of a closet so suddenly. Tamlin stared down at the Faery woman below him. She held his eyes as her hand lifted off the soft grass. Brushing a golden strand behind his ear.

“How are you faring here?” She asked in a quieter voice.

As the months had gone on, Tamlin had found himself getting more and more used to this new world. Coming to a deeper understanding that he wasn’t going home and quickly learning to not mourn that fact. It was nice that he didn’t have to share a bed with his horrible brothers any longer, but the fact that he could not know for certain if his family was fine did eat away at him a little.

“I am concerned for my family, but I am learning how to live here.” Tamlin revealed, a sliver closer into him. He had been letting her get closer and closer. Feyre hadn’t at first seemed someone to care about what went on in his head, but as the days went on, he found himself more and more drawn into her.

Feyre gave a small smile, “If it's of any condolences. I did have quite the sum of money sent to them.”

Tamlin’s eyes suddenly snapped down to Feyre once more, “What?”

“After I figured out about your family, and where they were located, I sent them money, a nice house and a carriage. They are well-cared for.”

“How…” How did she find them?

Feyre just winked, “Call it magic.”

“You are…” Tamlin let out a breathless laugh as he lightly smacked her arm. She laughed hard, as she forced herself to sit up. To look over the rolling hills, grazing the edge of the horizon. The sun setting in the distance allowed for oranges, reds, purples and pinks to pain the sky with a thousand different brush strokes. Tamlin watched it all with a cocked head, before he turned to Feyre. What he saw made him blink as he watched her.

Her eyes were set on the horizon and on the myriad of colours. The sheer amount of diversity in the sky seemed to make her light up. She folded her arms around her knees as she stared off into the distance. Seemingly oblivious to anything or anyone outside of it.

“I would paint this.” Feyre sighed.

“You paint?” Tamlin asked, another strange thing he had learned about the Faery. He tucked it away in the deep corner of his mind.

“Yeah.” Feyre hummed. Before she quickly straightened out and her face went blank.

“I used to,” She clarified, “then… then a blight came over Prythian and I just haven't had the time for such things anymore.”

“Why don’t you paint now?’ Tamlin asked.

“Excuse me?” Feyre reacted before Tamlin even realized he had blurted the words out. His stupid tongue revealing his own stupid thoughts. Only to be born with a filter.

‘I said.” Tamlin started to repeat, “Why don’t you paint right now?”

She blinked again at him, those big eyes boring into him as she studied his frame.

“Maybe,” A small smile graced her lips, “You think I should?”

“Yes,” Tamlin answered, “I absolutely think you should.”

‘I want you too,’ He was trying to say. ‘I want you too.’

“Okay,” she said, “Okay then.”

With a wave of her hand suddenly a sketchbook appeared as well as a tray of paints and water and brushes. She glanced over at Tamlin's curious eyes as she picked up a brush.

She smiled gently, more gentle than any smile he had seen from her yet, she grabbed a nearby brush and with another flick of her wrist another sketchbook appeared in her hand. Feyre handed it over to him, causing Tamlin to furrow his brows.

What's this for? He asked.

“For you,” she said with an eye roll to which Tamlin shook his head.

“I don't paint.”

You can try,” Was all she answered with.

Who was he to argue with that?

So he did.

He did paint and he was awful at it, in fact it was a monstrosity that they both laughed at until their stomach hurt. Tamlin let the sketchbook in his hands slip onto the grassy floor, not wanting to look at the horror of pink and blue he had created any longer. He glanced over Feyre's shoulder. Where she was hunched over herself, painting with quick, precise strokes that mesmerized him.

And the work she made, the painting itself... Dear God.

The brush strokes were never ending, and the color blended into the page creating a timeless, seamless picture. Near a replica of the ever-fading sunset before them. Tamlin stared at the picture, the rolling hills and dark trees on the horizon. The buttery sun fading away and giving off a gradient of colors that eventually etched the night sky and the twinkling stars started to spot like the freckles on Feyre's face.

Tamlin awe must have shown on his face for Feyre blushed hard and coughed, “It's not that good but I-”

“Feyre look at my painting then at yours and tell me yours isn’t good again.” He told her, never taking his eyes off the sketch in her hands.

Feyre laughed hard at that, and Tamlin decided something right there and then.

Maybe being kidnapped by a Faery Queen wasn’t all that bad.

@tamlinweek

#acotar #pro tamlin #tamlin #lucien vanserra #feyre archeron #feylin #acotar headcanons #acotar au #tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin week day 1

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agent-cupcake · 2 years

Text

Devil's Bouquet

Pairing: Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV) x f!reader

Synopsis: After spending your entire life sheltered from all evils in your mother’s palace, you find yourself in a very unfortunate situation where the only option is to make a deal with one of the dangerously powerful Unseen.

Warnings: explicit smut, semi-consensual kidnap/imprisonment, dubcon/noncon

Tags: alternate universe-fae/gods, minor violence, unhealthy dynamics, slow burn, angst, cunnilingus, blow jobs, mental manipulation

Notes: This has been kind of a coping fic for me bc I have not been doing great since, like, April. That might make it less appealing to some people, I’m not necessarily breaking new ground. It was originally the sequel to Vae Victis but then I decided I wanted to write my ultimate faerie contracted kidnap story and be Emet-Selch's pet princess. The only song I’ve listened to in the past month is 嘘塗 so that’s the tone.

Word Count: 41k

[Bloodied Geraniums]

Trying to escape on horseback had backfired. Running the whole way through the woods would have been impossible, but riding until the horse hurt itself and you had to abandon it had left you sore. It made running now that much harder, that much more painful. Not to mention that the boots you stole off of the body of a dead guard were too big, stuffed with his sweaty, rolled up socks in the toes so you could move. They were a twisted ankle waiting to happen. With each step, the charm hanging from your neck pounded against your sweat-slicked chest like a second heartbeat, matching the steady crash of your desperate escape. Those things only registered in the back of your mind. Terror and panic overrode nearly everything. Every sense, every thought, every bodily function, all of it fell away with the primal instinct of prey. Run. Run. Run, don’t stop.

If you didn’t, they would catch you.

They were getting closer, you could hear them even over the blood roaring in your ears, over the violent thumping of your heart. You had to keep running, you had to somehow find safety. But the ones that pursued you were catching up. Releasing the horse hadn’t bought you as much time as you hoped. You just had to run, keep running, as long as you ran, as long as you didn’t stop-

Your foot, loose in its leather and wool casing, snagged on a root. Just like that, you were tumbling and rolling across the painfully hard ground, the world tilting and spinning until a tree brought you to a painful halt on your side.

Red like fire. Red like blood. Your pain was bright, urgent, poisonous red and you choked on it, sobbing and gasping and shaking as you laid there. Everything hurt, biting and stinging and aching and awful.

You blinked tears from your eyes, trying to clear your sideways view of the woods. How far had you come? Where were you? A haze of light above the tree line was visible, evidence of the civilization you had the vague idea of running towards, but you didn’t know how close it was. You could count on your fingers the number of times you had left your mother’s palace, let alone navigated the frightening wilds of her kingdom in the dark. There was no time to try and puzzle it out. You needed to get moving.

Run. That singular, animalistic impulse had you forcing yourself upright. Onto your knees, your shoulder scraping against the bark. One foot on the ground, the tree ripping into the skin of your arm as you pushed yourself upward. You took a single step forward only to immediately crumple, an agonized yelp tearing out of your throat as you hit the ground again. Something was wrong with your ankle. Broken? Twisted? The pain was so aggressive, so fresh and urgent, that it made you sick. For a second, it was all you could do to sit there and shake, panting as you tried to get ahold of yourself. Then, tentatively, you tried to roll the foot. Even that slight movement made you sob. You couldn’t run anymore.

Crashing through the forest, you could hear the men who were chasing you, hear them closing in, uncaring about how much noise they were making for all they believed in your ability to evade. Tears filled your eyes and spilled over in hot streaks down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat on your neck and chest. Although you searched your brain for some sort of answer, some solution that would get you back on your feet, there was nothing. All you could feel was the encroaching doom, the oppressive approach of evil. What could you do? Shaking and panting, your head aching fiercely from hitting it and your hands and knees scraped up and imbedded with sticks and rocks, you couldn’t run, you couldn’t think. You were useless.

Voices began to reach you, their booming words difficult to make out over the roaring blood in your ears.

Hide. You had to hide. Awkwardly, painfully, you lurched onto your skinned hands and knees and circled to the opposite side of the tree. It was big, wide and heavy with summer growth, surrounded by a fan of thick roots rippling in waves above the spongy grass. You curled into a ball between the roots, your bloodied back scraping the bark and knees drawn up to your chest.

Another voice said something. How many of them were there? Two? Three? One would be enough to overpower you. You curled further into yourself, biting down your whimper at the pain caused by stretching the skin of your back. The rough bark had shredded it in places, tearing right past your thin nightgown. Stealing boots had been hard enough, in the initial assault, there hadn’t been any time for you to find proper clothes. You wouldn’t have made it out of the palace at all if your maidservant, Elsie, hadn’t hurried you through the servant’s passages behind the walls. You wondered if she was still alive. Her last words to you had been desperate as she slipped a chain over your head, a necklace with a charm. “Once you’re away from the palace,” she told you with a pale, grim face, “call to him, and he will come.”

In the frenzy of your escape, you’d forgotten about her final gift, but now you pulled it out from beneath the soaked collar of your nightgown. The charm was made from engraved bits of bone and metal, slick with sweat. You held it between your skinned palms, the sharp edges digging into the open gashes.

The Imperial Hunt was getting closer.

Call to him, and he will come.

Sweat slowly crawled into your open wounds, making your back sting. It wasn’t the sickening pain of your ankle, but something far more annoying and distracting. You wanted to move, but didn’t dare. They were still talking. Unaware of where you were? That wouldn’t last.

Call to him, and he will come. Elsie had been a heretic then. In any other circumstance, that would have been distressing, but now it was the least of your concerns. Now that you were no longer within your mother’s protective domain, the charm seemed to pulse softly, emitting a warmth of its own. After a lifetime of being warned of the Unseen threat, of the evil committed by the false gods, you shouldn’t have so much as considered the suggestion. Even holding it was wrong. Profane. Calling upon the aid of things best left alone was a cardinal sin, sure to damn the soul of anyone who tried. The Unseen weren’t gods who provided miracles, but powerful and dangerous entities that disguised their use of illicit magic as holy acts.

You held the charm even tighter, pressed right above your pounding heart. No matter how many times you were told of their evil, you had never been told that the Unseen lacked power. They granted wishes. It was in the details that their malicious intent manifested itself. But why would Elsie instruct you to call for help if it were too dangerous? She wasn’t just a maidservant, she was your friend. By the mercy of the star, you hoped she was alive.

The footsteps of your pursuers were right on the other side of the tree, crunching and crashing and careless.

Death should have taken you as a martyr, as the princess who refused to give in, who accepted that she had done all she could. But you were terrified, your skin prickling with sweat and head aching and tongue dry and the awful pinching sensation making you worry you would piss yourself. It didn’t matter if the miracle you received was false, as long as it worked.

“Unseen one,” you muttered, the words torn up with your gasping breaths, barely audible and thick with the taste of blood that clung to the back of your throat. Your lips grazed the warm, flat surface of the charm. It smelled of fire smoke and volcanic rock. “Hear me, heed me—”

“There you are,” a loud voice called, breaking off your near silent prayer. A scream left your mouth before the fear even registered, your body jerking away from the surprise on instinct and the charm dropping from your hands.

The other one said something you couldn’t make out with blood roaring in your ears, coming around your tree from the opposite side. Maybe they assumed you would run. If only.

The first Imperial pulled you to your feet before you could try to struggle. Your ankle gave out immediately, and you couldn’t help letting out a sharp yelp of pain. The soldier held your weight without any problem. Mindlessly, fearfully, you fought his grip, desperately trying to escape from him again. He had the gall to laugh, sour breath hitting your face.

“Please,” you begged. Not him, not the evil man that held you upright. No, you closed your eyes and reached out into the dark, into the unknown. “Unseen one. Please help me.”

The other Imperial soldier was saying something, but you didn’t know what. He’d picked up your charm, his expression twisting in the light of his lantern when he realized what it was. They were afraid of it, you could tell that much. He tried to ask you something, but you had no idea what he was saying. It had to do with the charm, you thought. Realizing you weren’t coherent enough to answer, he threw it as far as he could into the darkness. The other man, the one keeping you upright mostly by one arm, shoved you against the tree. You yelped, unable to get your footing to get out of the leverage he had. He took advantage of that to pull a gag into your mouth, roughly securing it along with what felt like a fistful of your sweaty hair. Gauntleted hands went to gather your wrists, likely meaning to bind them as well.

After the terrifying, exhausting, painful night you had endured, you wouldn’t have thought you had any energy to spare. But, for some reason, the idea of being tied and helpless brought out a final burst of fighting spirit. You bucked against the tree with all your strength, turning to strike out with your nails to the cheek of the man holding you, thrashing hard enough when his grip went lax to topple painfully to the ground. From there, you threw yourself forward on your elbows and knees, circling the tree to the other side in a filthy scramble through the dirt.

It was brighter in the clearing, moonlight illuminating the space between the trees. Even terrified past the edge of sanity, you had enough reason to know that what you had done was pointless. Pulling the gag down so you didn’t choke on your convulsing gasps for air left you with only one arm to crawl. That gave out quickly, sending you chin-first into the ground. You made an attempt to roll onto your back and sit up, but the dizziness was too intense. There was nothing but to wait the agonizingly long few seconds for the imperials to come out from behind the tree and punish you for your attack. You could only hope death was swift and that Elsie and your mother had managed to escape.

This wasn’t a terrible place to die. In the moonlight, in the tall grass, surrounded by the fresh heads of wildflowers and beneath the whispering leaves of the forest trees. You laid in the growth of spring, your senses filled with the thick green smell of it, the heavy earthy odor of dirt.

“Oh, dear,” someone said, a lilting accent that you could barely hear over the war drum thumping of your blood. “It seems you have met a most terrible fate.”

Your eyes jumped open, focusing on the figure rounding the tree where you expected your monstrous pursuers. Just one man. In the silvery lighting, the most you could make out was his startlingly pale skin and dark robes. But there was something odd, something that had your sweaty, bloody skin prickling. The way the dark crackled around him, the way it seemed to draw inwards in the same way pale colors could glow in the sunshine.

“There’s no need to look so frightened. Those that pursued you are a threat no longer,” he told you lightly. You squinted into the darkness at his back, but the shadows remained still. Did that mean he had killed them? The stranger held no weapons, but you had a feeling he wasn’t lying, something about the tingling sense of danger he invited made you sure he was more than capable. “You’ve naught to say to me?” he prompted.

That, at least, made you realize that this was real. Real enough. You cleared your throat, licking your dry lips with an equally dry tongue. “Who are you?” you asked hoarsely.

“You ought to know,” the stranger said. “After all, it was you that summoned me.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your mind scrambling desperately to understand what was happening, to decide if you were in danger or not. “You are the—one of the Unseen?”

“I am. Although, you might better know me Emet-Selch,” he told you, speaking as if you should have known the significance of his name. “I know you, of course. You are the beloved vernal princess of this fair kingdom, driven from her palace and reduced to nothing more than cowering prey begging for the aid of her mother’s sworn enemy. It truly is a pitiful thing to witness.” In contrast to his words, Emet-Selch’s tone was warm, almost playful. “But I have not come to gawk at your misery. You have a reason for calling upon me, do you not?”

Something broke within you at the vague offer. It didn’t matter who he was, not if he could help you. “Help me, please,” you begged, trying to get up, to not seem so powerless. Your body protested violently, forcing you back down. “They-they-they attacked… Im-imperials. You can stop them, can’t you? I need-”

“Calm down,” he said, holding up a hand. “I understand your predicament perfectly well.” He took a few steps forward, his tall form blotting out the moonlight. “You are asking me to cast out the imperial threat from your Kingdom.”

“Yes,” you agreed, desperately trying to stop crying, to get yourself under control. “And my-my mother. Please save her.”

“Have you no regard for your own life? With such dire injuries, your trek to safety would likely be an agonizing one. Who knows if you’ll make it.”

“Can you help me too?” you asked.

“Oh, yes. I can easily see your wishes granted,” Emet-Selch told you. “For a price, of course. What will you offer to me in return?”

“I don’t… I don’t know…” you said, your teeth practically chattering from how hard you were shaking. “Please, I’m begging you to help me.”

“And as much as I appreciate the spectacle, it is, unfortunately, of little value to me,” Emet-Selch told you. “Plainly speaking, the terms and conditions of mutually agreed upon deals—with some exception, as you should well know by now—are the guiding principles by which genuine power is necessarily bound. If you are not interested in forging a contract that benefits us both, I’m afraid I can be of no assistance.”

You looked up at him, your mind whirling with that explanation. Trying to work out exactly what he meant was impossible, but you understood enough to feel despair. “I don’t have anything,” you said helplessly. Which, maybe you did, but you couldn’t make your brain work. It sluggishly flipped through the same few thoughts, constantly skipping back to the fear and the pain and the bottomless confusion. “If you help me, my mother will-”

He sighed heavily, cutting you off. “If there was aught I desired from that infuriating woman, it would be to her that I offered my aid.”

More tears welled up in your eyes, indistinguishable from the sweat. Frustrated and exhausted, your body nearly convulsed with hiccupping sobs and your panicked, winded breathing.

“Please,” you begged. “I’ll give you anything.”

“Anything?” Emet-Selch repeated sharply, his expression changing as if that was what he was waiting for. Cast in shadows and looming above you, there was no pretense that would make you believe the figure you were dealing with had good intentions. But the world around you was sour, prickling sweat and pain and blood and you couldn’t think, not with your fevered, exhausted brain.

“Anything,” you said.

II.

[Spurred Petal Columbine]

An utter lack of understanding was the first thing you really felt. Rather, it was the first thing you were aware of feeling. Forcing your way out of the dark, you blinked once. Twice. Rapidly, trying to interpret the new sensory information as it flooded your mind. “Wha-ngh…” That was your voice, you realized belatedly. A question you weren’t coherent enough to know why you were asking.

Wildly, your eyes swirled across the ceiling, the walls, and the room you were lying in. It was finely furnished and decorated, oozing wealth and opulence. Art lined the walls and furniture dotted the large room, clothes and a random assortment of things giving personality to the place. Someone lived here, clearly. Focusing on those details helped you wake up a bit more, causing more memories to shuffle back into your consciousness. The sound of voices. Fear. The forest. Pain, agony, terror. Something else. Someone else. You shied away from those memories, shutting your eyes to the light and groaning in distress, your heart picking up its pace.

Breathing deeply to try and relax, you wiggled your fingers and toes, moving around a bit to get a sense of your body. Sore, but sound. Your ankle didn’t hurt at all, not like you expected it to. With another groan, you opened your eyes and forced your body into something like coordination. But sitting up made your teeth grit with dizzy pain, sending you back into the pillows.

Part of you wanted to close your eyes and go back to sleep, give into the hearty pull of exhaustion. Even though you had slept, it hadn’t been nearly enough to make up for the night of terror. But, no. That was a bad idea, you didn’t even know where you were. The fact that you weren’t in the palace alone was enough to terrify you because it was so completely and utterly wrong. Convincing yourself to wake up, you got your arms beneath you to sit upright. This time, you managed to remain sitting, even if it did make your head spin painfully. There weren’t any windows for you to tell what time it was, your only indication was the sharp pang of hunger in your stomach. You looked around again, trying to get a better read on the situation. The room was far finer than even your own, though much darker and elegant in style.

Maybe it was better to be exhausted. The layer separation from reality kept panic from really and truly consuming you. Or maybe that was just your brain’s natural inclination to deny the things that didn’t make sense, to create a stabilizing structure of normalcy so you could function, that happened sometimes when you fell asleep in the garden and woke up confused that the day had passed, the sun dropping low on the horizon. But this was different from that. Much worse. Much more dangerous. There was something you weren’t remembering, you could feel the anxious way it ate at the back of your mind, the alarm it invited. “Still in bed, I see,” a familiar voice said, making you jump. Your eyes snapped open to confirm the impossible. You had been all alone only seconds before, but now you weren’t. “I suppose I shan’t begrudge you that after all you endured.”

Just like that, everything that had happened, everything your brain had attempted to give you a moment’s peace from, returned in full force. The attack, your escape, being chased. The one you called to for help, and the deal you made.

Oh.

“It’s you,” you breathed out. Emet-Selch looked over his shoulder, meeting your eye for the first time.

“Were you expecting otherwise?” he asked, the question sharp on the edge of derisive.

“No,” you replied, stumbling over your thoughts as you tried to sort them all out. “I just…”

Emet-Selch waved away whatever explanation you weren’t giving. “I see that sleep had little effect on your mental acuity,” he said. Then, with a laborious sigh, “Mayhap a meal will help with that. All of the excitement must have left you ravenous.” With nothing more than a casual wave of his hand, a full plate of food appeared on the table. Just like that. The display of casual magic made your heart sink. This was real. You were in the domain of the Unseen.

But fear wasn’t strong enough to cancel out the animal instinct of base need. Although you wanted to believe that you had more self control, the smell of food had you scrambling to get out of bed, your stomach cramping with hunger. Your uncoordinated, sore limbs didn’t move the way you wanted them to. You all but fell onto the floor in a flurry of sheets, the impact only slightly lessened by the rug.

“Eager, are we?” Emet-Selch asked, amused as you stood up and steadied yourself. “Clumsy as you are, take care that you don’t injure yourself. Mending your wounds was tiresome enough the first time.”

“I’m just a little dizzy,” you said, trying and failing to hide the defensive tone as you straightened your clothes. You hadn’t noticed it before, but your torn, ruined dress had been replaced by a fresh nightgown. If you could call it that. Fine, flowing fabric and lace detailing elevated the garment in a way that seemed excessive for sleepwear, almost like an actual dress. But not quite. Without the underlying structure garments, even the relatively modest cut did little to feel proper. Especially when you were alone with a man.

No. Not a man, one of the Unseen.

Emet-Selch watched you walk to the table in a way that had your shoulders curling uncomfortably. He wasn’t a man, and it wasn’t your body that you should have been worried about. It was different. Not that such reminders lessened your embarrassment, or kept your hands from trying to smooth down what was probably a bad case of bedhead. You sat down, thinking that you shouldn’t have been so compliant, that there were far more important things you needed to do. But you didn’t know how to approach that, could barely string the words together in your own head.

“Thank you,” you said. The meal was simple, bread and some type of stew, but you were hungry enough that it didn’t matter what it was.

“I’d have nothing to gain by starving you,” Emet-Selch responded, as if annoyed by your thanks. An apology jumped to your tongue, but you bit it down. You were still trying to wake up, your thoughts sluggish and confused, and you had no idea what had irritated him in the first place.

Besides, you were painfully hungry, and the food was warm. If you were going to manage this situation, you needed every bit of strength you could get. Or, that’s what you told yourself to justify the fact that you didn’t even hesitate before tearing into the bread.

Emet-Selch sat in one of the plush sitting chairs, leaning back with his eyes closed. Waiting for you to finish? You needed to ask about what happened, but you couldn’t get a read on the mood to know if that was a good idea or not. Looking at him didn’t help. With his face entirely illuminated, you still found yourself at a loss. The Unseen were often depicted as either otherworldly beauties or wretched demons, but he looked very human to you. It wasn’t like it had been in the clearing, where he was illuminated only in the silvery outline of moonlight, wearing shadow like a cloak. Now you could tell that he looked older, his features sharp and severe. His terrible posture indicated an age that his face didn’t. Not unattractive, but certainly not angelic. There was something off putting and blunt about the curve of his nose and high cheekbones. Haughty, nearly aristocratic.

It occurred to you that this was the first time you had ever been alone with someone who wasn’t your mother or trusted servants, the first time you were out of the palace without the supervision of a strict guard.

“Do you see aught that interests you?” Emet-Selch asked, his eyes opening as if he could feel your stare, that pale yellow gaze meeting yours before you looked away.

“Sorry,” you muttered, daintily wiping your mouth now that you were finished eating as if trying to prove that you were a well mannered lady. It was fine. He wasn’t a man, the awkward shame you felt was unreasonable. After downing half the glass of water, you smoothed your hands over your hair again, unable to meet his eye as you carefully considered your question.

“You’ll be pleased to know that your kingdom has been saved,” Emet-Selch told you, answering your question unprompted. “With any hope, those in your mother’s council will rethink to whom their loyalty is best served.” A little smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “It is most unwise to rely upon powers better left well alone.”

“And my mother?” you asked, your voice cracking on the unspoken question. “And… And Elsie? My maidservant, do you know if she’s okay?”

“No, I do not. It is possible, a number of the staff managed to barricade themselves in. However, your mother is very much alive and well,” Emet-Selch said. “I saw to it myself.”

“May I see her?”

“No,” he told you without hesitation or remorse.

You blinked, taken aback. “Why?”

He hesitated as if surprised by your question. “What do you mean, why? That was not a part of our contract.”

The sharp rebuke threw you off, the coldness of his tone making your chest clench. “But-”

“If you recall,” Emet-Selch said, cutting you off. “Your conditions were that I saw your mother and kingdom rescued from the Imperial threat. Though it is the nature of your ilk to have considerable difficulty retaining truthful information in the face of an undesirable matter, bethink yourself of what it was you swore to me in exchange.”

You flushed at the petty gibe, frowning. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Aloud, if you will.”

You met his eyes for a long moment, eyebrows furrowed as you tried to figure out what he was looking for. What you had first thought was shadow now appeared to be kohl lining his eyes, adding even more contrast to the impossibly pale yellow of his irises. They sparkled with steady, expectant amusement.

“Me,” you muttered, looking away. Last night—assuming it had been last night—there had been a great swell of virtuousness in the self sacrifice of trading your soul for the safety of others. Exhausted and broken and terrified, you felt as if you were doing the only right thing, the only good thing. But sitting here, you felt dirty, and like you had done something very wrong. Something worth condemnation. Swearing your soul to be used by one of the Unseen would do worse than damn you. Although your understanding was limited mainly to cautionary tales, you knew the stories of what the Unseen did. He would corrupt your soul, twist it into unrecognizable shapes. A fate worse than death. And if you had been even the slightest bit cleverer, you might have been able to talk your way around it, to make a deal with a loophole big enough for you to slip through like a hero in a storybook. But you hadn’t. You had made a sweeping, blanket oath and now you had no way out.

“This conversation has illustrated quite clearly who benefited more from the arrangement,” Emet-Selch said. “Regardless, what’s done is done.”

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” you argued, trying to hide the wobble of your lower lip. “She’ll never know what happened to me.”

“Oh, you needn’t concern yourself with that,” he said, waving a hand. “I told her what became of you, her efflorescent and brave little princess. I am sorry to say that she took the news rather poorly. ”

“But I didn’t have any other choice,” you said. “I did it to save everyone. You told her that, didn’t you?”

“Indeed. I told her all about your daring act of heroism,” he said, speaking like it didn’t matter, like it was a trivial sacrifice. Emet-Selch acted as if everything terrible thing that had happened was nothing more than a game. “But I’m afraid that it changes little. So strong is her distaste for me that she would rather accept death or ruin.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “So petty.”

Your heart dropped, empty chest clenching. Of course your mother would think you had done the wrong thing. Your entire life she had kept you safely within the realm of her protective veil, a barrier that prevented the Unseen from entering. You should have found another way.

“Mayhap I did stray a bit too far into the lurid details,” Emet-Selch allowed a moment later. Before you could ask what that meant, he splayed his hands out as if to express innocence. “Not without reason, mind you. I assumed she would wish to know the fate of her beloved daughter. But my transparency was for naught. She has always been a proud, irrational woman.”

That threw you off all over again, a new tailspin with a new set of uncomfortable questions. “You know my mother?”

Emet-Selch’s head tilted, eyes wide in theatrical surprise. “Has she never told you?” he asked without a shred of curiosity, it seemed like he knew fully well that you had never been told of such things. Your eyebrows furrowed, a truly terrible cold sensation sinking deeper and deeper into your stomach you realized exactly how little you understood what you had gotten yourself into, what you had sworn yourself into.

“Told me what?” you asked.

“Oh, I see,” Emet-Selch said, drawing out the words with another smirk. “Well, it is a long tale, and one that I’ve no patience to tell. Suffice it to say, she has oft made a nuisance of herself.”

For a long moment, you didn’t say anything, trying to process that information.

“So that’s why you did this?” you finally asked. “Because of… my mother? You lied to me?”

“I do not lie,” Emet-Selch said sharply. “Least of all when a contract is involved. And in any case, it would be impossible for me to do so. Any additional benefits gleaned as a result of our deal are merely incidental.”

“But omission is a lie, isn’t it?” you pushed. “I didn’t know-”

“Do not blame me for your ignorance, girl,” Emet-Selch said, his voice twisting with disdain. “Need I remind you that it was you who called upon me for help? Help, might I add, that I gave in excess of any stated obligation. If you feel that strong a need to shirk responsibility, mayhap you ought to wonder why your mother would hide something as important as her own dealings with the oh-so wicked Unseen. Her hypocrisy is rivaled only by her self-righteousness.”

“Then tell me now,” you said, your voice stronger than you felt. “I deserve to know what this has to do with me.”

“You make demands of me?” Emet-Selch asked, his voice rising in pitch to follow your own. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Oh, you truly are your mother’s daughter. Entitlement fills the void left by your lack of sense. If you are displeased with the terms of our contract, it is an affliction of your own lack of forethought.”

“But I had no choice!” you exclaimed.

“Of course you had a choice,” Emet-Selch said, his irritation quelled in favor of readopting a lilting, mocking tone. “Nobody compelled you to call for me. You were not forced into accepting my terms.”

He paused to see if you would object, but you didn’t. If you were honest, you couldn’t deny either of those things.

“Besides,” Emet-Selch continued, “ours was a mutually beneficial deal, was it not? Unless you would have preferred to die in that forest, ravaged and left for dead by those boorish imperial thugs while your kingdom fell to ruin.”

“No,” you allowed, your posture drooping.

“Then you are of the opinion that your life has more value than that of all those that would be taken by an Imperial occupation.”

“I don’t think that,” you told him, your voice slightly stronger with conviction.

“Your dissatisfaction, then, is of your own making,” he said. “I have seen that you are safe and sheltered, I have even given you a measure of patience and care that far exceeds what I offer to others.” He paused. “If this is to be my only reward, I cannot help but to feel that my efforts have been for naught. I may as well not try at all.”

There was really nothing you could say in response to that. He was right. You had agreed to this, consented to swearing your soul away. In the moment, you barely had the capacity to think of living through the night, let alone what the future would be. Contemplating death now made you regret eating, a sick feeling swelling up in your throat. But a deal was a deal. It was almost more than you could handle. It probably would have been if you weren’t still clinging to the slightest shred of unreality, to the faintest notion that this wasn’t happening. But if it was, then you couldn’t cry and pout like a child.

“Where are we?” you asked, collecting yourself as best you could and moving on to an easier topic.

“Home, in a sense,” Emet-Selch responded calmly, as if his temper had never risen. “Or as near to it as is possible.”

“Your home?” you asked, surprised despite how obvious it was. Even with the opulence and strangeness, this place seemed too mundane, too normal for a being like him to simply live within. “Why did you bring me here?”

“It’s certainly more comfortable than other parts of my domain,” he responded. “I can’t imagine you would fare too well amidst the flames.”

The way he smiled while saying that struck a cold, uncomfortable chord within you. It wasn’t much of an answer, either.

“For how long?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Emet-Selch asked, head tilting slightly.

“Well, I…” You hesitated, the cold sinking deeper.

“Ohhh,” Emet-Selch said, drawing out the sound with dramatized comprehension that managed to embarrass you before he even spoke. “A girl of your bearing would find it inconceivable to live with a man to whom she is not wed.”

“No. I know it’s not like that,” you said, hating the blush that his words invited. He wasn’t a man, no matter how human he looked. He was aiming to embarrass you, that was easy to see. “I just thought that with our deal, you would…” You trailed off, unable to piece the words together.

“You will remain here,” he said with a sense of bored authority, like he was talking to a child. You felt your insides twist uncomfortably at the idea. Part of you wished he would just get it over with, that you didn’t have to suffer the tension of knowing your grim fate. But the other part was relieved, eager to cling to life in whatever form it took.

“What will I do until you… you know.” It was impossible to say it aloud. You cleared your throat. “Am I just to wait? How long will I be here until…Until then?”

Emet-Selch didn’t answer at first, staring at you with the strangest expression of befuddlement. “Until what, pray tell?”

“Until you take… take my soul,” you said softly, cringing at the words.

He stared at you, seemingly expectant for some elaboration. That look of confusion was new, although you didn’t prefer it over the knowing smug smile. In a way, the silence and slightly narrowed eyes as if he were trying to solve some sort of puzzle were worse.

“What?” you asked, getting more and more uncomfortable under the weight of that look.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious,” he said. “You are, aren’t you.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Yes, of course you’re wrong,” he responded. “But it is not your ignorance that I find so shocking.” Emet-Selch paused, shaking his head. “Have you truly been so cosseted that you would misinterpret what I desire of you? Forgive me, but I fail to see the ambiguity of my demand. If it were your soul that I wanted, I would have told you. No, I say precisely what I mean, and I mean what I say. As per my conditions, you have agreed to give me yourself entire. In soul and flesh.” He paused, giving you an uncomfortable once over. “I did wonder why you seemed so unconcerned with your vulnerable state of dress.”

That immediately drew all of your awareness to how little you were wearing, and the idea that he had been the one to dress you. You squirmed, crossing your arms. Your cheeks burned furiously, both with embarrassment and shame. “You don’t mean it,” you said, trying to sound firm. “You don’t really mean to say that you brought me here for such… such a vulgar reason.”

“Why ever not?” Emet-Selch asked casually. “Yours is a beauty known throughout the land. The beloved princess, a paragon of virtue, and the manifestation of spring itself according to those lucky enough to see her.” His eyes scanned you without shame, without pretense. And he smirked, looking back to your face to drink in your mortification. “Similarities to your mother aside, even I must acknowledge the appeal.”

You let out a heavy breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked. “I had no idea… How was I supposed to know? I wouldn’t…”

“I have made no attempts to obfuscate my intentions,” Emet-Selch said, brushing off your horror and discomfort. “I’m beginning to fear that my transparency matters not. If your innocence extends to all intimacy, mayhap you do not know what I desire of you.”

That stopped you dead, your thoughts forcefully redirected. “I… I do,” you told him, the words too loud, somehow. “I know…” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “I do know what you’re talking about if that’s-”

“You’re mumbling,” he said.

“I-I just,” you tried again, your throat tight. You could hardly think about him touching you, let alone talk about being intimate, knowing those uncomfortably pale yellow eyes were fixed on your expression. And you weren’t capable. Physically, mentally, “I—I can’t,” you finally got out clearly, your voice loud enough to be heard. “If you want me to… I can’t.”

“Tell me,” Emet-Selch asked, his voice light in contrast to your own forced speech, “what is it that you think I want?”

“I’m not stupid,” you said, glaring at the floor to avoid the way the statement made him smirk. “I know what men want.”

“While I would be most interested in hearing what it is you have been told men want and why you would even think to compare me to them, I feel compelled to point out that you’re conflating a lack of experience with a lack of ability. I assure you, the two are not the same.” Emet-Selch let that settle a moment before making a thoughtful sound, his eyes burning into your skin. “Though it is not my usual preference, your inexperience isn’t a problem. In sooth, I would rather you to be unsullied by the touch of another. You are mine to mold, to shape howsoever I choose.”

“Don’t say that,” you muttered, at a complete and utter loss for what else to say. Sex wasn’t necessarily a foreign concept to you. You were curious and decently well read and had nothing but time on your hands in the palace. Elsie, a woman far more experienced in the world than yourself, had always been forthright with material and information. She said it was better to know, that curiosity was normal, that it was important women knew what they liked because men didn’t care to learn. But it didn’t feel like that was what Emet-Selch was talking about. Or, not the only thing he was talking about.

“Why not?” Emet-Selch asked innocently. “I would hate for there to be any further misunderstandings on your part.”

“I told you that I understand,” you insisted. “What I mean is that I-I’m not ready.” You set your jaw with what you hoped was conviction, hands flat to keep them from shaking. “I can’t.”

“I should say not, worked up as you are,” Emet-Selch said, amusement warming his voice.

You shook your head, panicked. “This, all of this, is just wrong. I didn’t know, and I…”

“I find your reaction most fascinating,” he noted. “You remained calm when you operated under the impression that I had the intention to claim your soul, but object with such vigor to the idea that I desire you physically. Given your mother’s woefully misguided teachings, I would have thought the opposite to be true.”

That only made everything worse. He was right, your priorities were twisted. You should have been relieved, even if only a little. Compared to the soul, the body was nothing. A vessel, a housing of blood and bone for you to be a physical part of the star. “It’s-it’s different,” you got out. “This isn’t how I thought… How things should be…”

“Would you have me follow the rituals of your kind?” Emet-Selch asked.

“No,” you said, shaking your head in a panic. He laughed at that answer, at the way your eyes kept flicking up to him for stolen seconds at a time before returning to your hands, or the floor, or the empty plate, or anything that wasn’t him.

“Oh, I see. You would prefer that I woo you. Given your status and apparent inclination towards the romantic, I suppose you expect a suitor to lavish you with gifts, to recite poetry that expresses his undying devotion.” Emet-Selch studied your reaction, mirth dancing in his eyes. “That is the way things ought to be, is it not?”

“No,” you said, looking away in embarrassment. It wasn’t as if any man had ever approached you in that way. Your mother had never expressed any desire to see you married, or to even allow you to interact with men. You read about those things, sure, but they had no place in your life. “That’s not what I meant.”

“That rosy hue on your cheeks says otherwise.”

You looked away, hiding behind your hair. There was nothing to say, really. Denial would just make it worse. Emet-Selch sighed in displeasure.

“Very well. Come here.”

“What?” you asked, looking up. “Why?”

He raised an eyebrow, daring you to refuse. “Would you rather I fetch you myself?”

“No,” you answered, getting to your feet despite your apprehension. You approached him with halting steps, searching for any sign of danger. Emet-Selch hadn’t even stood up. You hesitated outside of arms reach, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

“Give me your hand,” he said, outstretching his own.

He had produced a ring. Shiny and smooth and black. It wasn’t set with any gems. Rather, the entire thing looked to be made of sparkling stone rather than metal. A ring like the type a man would give you when asking for your hand in marriage, a ring that symbolized love and union between two people.

“Where did you get that?” you asked, your mouth dry.

“Your hand,” Emet-Selch prompted, clearly put out with your hesitation. “Now.”

The dangerous tone of his voice pushed you into compliance, offering your left hand. It was frightening, not surprising, that his dwarfed your own. His fingers would easily overlap if he were to grab you by the wrist.

“You needn’t look so frightened,” he told you. “As long as you behave yourself and refrain from boring me, there’s no reason we can’t get along. In time, we might even come to take pleasure in each other’s company.”

“I will,” you began, unable to meet his eye, “I will honor the deal we made. But I will never like or trust you. Never.”

Emet-Selch shrugged. “Very well,” he said, nudging your finger upward to slip on the ring. Although a piece of jewelry made from stone should have been horribly uncomfortable, it was an easy fit, no less comfortable than the metal bands you occasionally wore when dressed up. The polished black stone shone and winked in the light, the otherworldly material contrasted oddly against the texture of your skin.

“Your kind use the word eternity without any idea of what it means. It is nothing more than another oath you so easily break,” Emet-Selch said, admiring the way the ring looked on your finger. It felt far more like a shackle than anything else. “In truth, eternity is far from a romantic promise. It is a curse.”

“You’re wrong,” you told him.

He hesitated before looking up at you, smirking. “Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on such things,” he teased.

“No, but I know you’re wrong,” you said, feeling a little spurt of confidence in the argument. “Real, true love is eternal. I will always love my mother, and she will always love me. Even if we die, that won’t ever go away. That’s not a curse.”

“It is,” Emet-Selch said, his voice softening. “If there truly is love in her heart for you, it will torment her to the end of her days.”

That made your chest clench painfully, a terrible reminder of your situation. “You’re wrong,” you said again, your voice softer. “I envy your ignorance,” he said. You pulled your hand away from him, frowning. There was something melancholic to those words, an edge of honesty that made you feel a pang of sadness. But that was wrong. Feeling sympathy of any sort for him was wrong.

“Well then,” Emet-Selch said, his voice returning to its unconcerned lilt. “It is customary now for us to kiss, is it not?”

Your stomach flipped. “Kiss?” you repeated.

“I’m merely humoring your wish that things be done the proper way.” He raised his arms in a welcoming sort of gesture. “We’re bound together. For better and for worse, as the saying goes.”

The bastardization of what was meant to be a spiritual promise sworn between two people in the name of love made you wince. Everything about this was wrong, certainly he could see that. But you couldn’t think of any way out of this that wasn’t to plainly say no, and you didn’t want to do that either. That was what you should have been doing. Deny him this, he owned you anyway. If he wanted more, he should have taken it kicking and screaming. But then you thought of the pain when you hurt your ankle, the terrible burn of sweat dripping into the shallow gashes of your wounds. You weren’t used to pain. You didn’t want to be hurt.

“That’s it?” you asked, stalling as you tried to get past the crippling indecision. “Just a kiss?”

Emet-Selch sighed. “If I desired more, I assure you that you would know.”

You hesitated, looking at him to try and determine what to do and scorning yourself for how awkward you suddenly felt. Being asked to kiss someone who owned you willingly wasn’t the awkwardly romantic scenario anyone would dream of; it was a nightmare. But you weren’t the one who should have been awkward, blushing and stomach flipping with nerves.

“Fine,” you said.

“Then come,” Emet-Selch said invitingly, spreading his legs as he sat back. Considering he sat in a single-seat chair, there was little mystery as to what he meant. It made your head rush, dizziness overcoming what resolve you felt.

“I don’t want to-to sit on your lap,” you said, stumbling through the words. “That’s too embarrassing.”

“Then refuse.”

The way he spoke made your stomach drop and breath catch. This wasn’t the sort of command you refused, matter what he said. And it was just a kiss. Just a kiss. You took a few steps forward, your knees wobbling, but managing to keep from buckling beneath your weight.

Emet-Selch didn’t seem the type to allow anyone to sit on his lap. He wore a cloak of haughty unapproachability that made the very idea somewhat odd. But he was not the awkward one as you gingerly placed yourself on his lap. Somehow, he seemed to be above it all. Uninvolved. That only made it worse as you tried to adjust yourself, your legs thrown sideways over his thighs, your weight awkwardly positioned in your attempt to keep as much of yourself away from him as you could.

“Sorry, I-”

Emet-Selch rolled his eyes. “Helpless creature,” he muttered under his breath, drawing you against him. Despite his words, he wasn’t aggressive. If you were of a mind to, you could have pulled away when he tugged your chin upward. But you didn’t.

“I’ve never…” you began, feeling the worst type of disgust and shame and nerves and fear and, worst of all, a sort of twisted anticipation. “I’ve never kissed anyone.”

“I am aware,” he responded, the words nearly brushing against your lips from how close he was.

When he closed the distance, your first impression was that Emet-Selch’s lips were warm. And soft. The feeling of them on yours sparked up a pleasant, or maybe unpleasant, feeling of heat in your core. The aggressive pounding of nerves in your stomach and throat and chest was distracting, fed by a sense of deep unease at the wrongness of allowing this to happen, of kissing a man, of sitting on his lap. It was lewd and suggestive and amoral and when you breathed in, ragged because you kept forgetting to do so, the scent of him invited an intoxicating flurry of unease and excitement, tinged in violet shame and a hazy dizziness.

With the vague impulses you’d gleaned from the stories of books and from hushed, giggling conversations with Elsie, you attempted to deepen the kiss, parting your mouth as an invitation. Rather than meeting it, Emet-Selch drew back with a frown.

“Not like that,” he muttered in displeasure. Your eyes widened, embarrassment stabbing you in the gut as you stiffened all over again. “I will not engage in the wet clacking of teeth so many call a kiss. Flattering as your zeal might be, it is unappealing to hasten such things.”

“I’m sorry.” Was that your voice? It didn’t sound familiar, breathless and weak.

Emet-Selch sighed, a sound of indulgence. “It is not unexpected. Try again, hm?”

It was difficult to relax, humiliation gnawing even more strongly at your stomach for the mistake you had made and the terrifying drowning sensation of inexperience. You didn’t know what to do. Or, maybe you did and you didn’t know how to do it? You didn’t know, and you wanted to ask but you also couldn’t help but feel that would be admission to a terrible weakness.

Without the active distraction, your mind returned to the panic response of thinking you should stop this before it went too far. But Emet-Selch didn’t look upset, nor did he seem to be mocking you. You couldn’t even tell if that was a good sign, not with him. This was intimate in a way you hadn’t ever experienced. The hammering of your heart in your chest was distracting, you could practically feel your pulse flutter beneath the thin skin of your neck. Even though you were hesitating, Emet-Selch made no move to force you. He was waiting. Watching your face. You weren’t entirely sure what he expected, but you leaned in like before, your shaking hands sliding up to his shoulders. The black ring caught the light, winking at you.

Tilting your head, you fit your lips to his, eyes squeezed shut. It was an innocent kiss. Sweet. Maybe the kind that you would share with a man who proposed to you, a man that you cared for. Emet-Selch responded in kind, his hand smoothing over your hair before cupping your cheek. The chaste press of his lips against yours pulled a shiver down your spine. He rewarded your patience a moment later, his lips finally parting, tongue tracing across your lower lip. Your fingers pushed upward without thinking, marveling at the warmth of his skin, dragging through the cropped hair on the back of his head. Emet-Selch did nothing sloppily, or carelessly. For all that it was so simple, the kiss felt like domination.

Distracted and breathless, it was shocking when Emet-Selch suddenly grabbed you, arranging you to straddle him instead. It was far more intimate--not to mention suggestive--than before. When you began to question the position, Emet-Selch made a low sound of displeasure and bit your bottom lip. It wasn’t hard, or even very rough, but the threat of it made the muscles in your stomach flutter and tense. When he kissed you like that, when he made sounds that vibrated through your chest, you found it a lot harder to care. When Emet-Selch ran his hand across your thigh, you were too dizzy and dazed by him to mind. It felt nice anyway, even with all those layers of fabric in between.

Alarm bells clanged with relentless violence in your head, and you ignored them.

His hand ventured a little further up your leg, dragging your skirt up with them. The brush of his breath when he broke the kiss to let you breathe made you shudder, the feeling fizzling out into a gasp. At the same time, Emet-Selch very deliberately moved his thigh, grinding it between your legs with just enough friction to cause a reaction. In conjunction with the mindlessly maddening way he was rubbing your thigh, it made your body jerk against his. You whimpered as he repeated the motion, a sound Emet-Selch stifled as he kissed you again.

Did he know what he was doing? You couldn’t tell it was purely by accident, but it was lewd and debauched and definitely more than he had asked for. Even so, it was so much easier to allow it to happen rather than stop him and say no, to lose yourself a little bit with the justification that you could blame it on a lack of oxygen or the intoxication of his touch or anything other than the idea that you would want this.

And then, just like that, it was over. He pulled away and you opened your eyes, blinking fast in the hopes of finding some better state of clarity.

Emet-Selch seemed to be lost in thought. His nose brushed against your cheek in an oddly sentimental motion. When his eyes opened, they were soft. Just for a moment, a flash of tenderness so quick you might have imagined the vulnerable affection. Then they focused on you, recognition struck, and they hardened with the defensively cold demeanor he’d adopted for you.

“That’s enough,” Emet-Selch said, his breathing uneven but words composed as he pushed you off of him. You got your feet beneath you just in time to avoid falling, but it was a close thing. He adjusted his clothes, wiped his mouth, and flicked the lock of white hair out of his face. You felt a stinging sense of betrayal, a feeling without logic.

“What?” was all you could say, your voice breathless and dumb. He looked at you like you were an idiot. You felt like an idiot.

“I’d hate to stray too far and do anything improper,” Emet-Selch told you, standing. You took a few more unsteady steps away. Even with the slouch, he was much taller than you. “I’ve no intention to force myself upon you.”

You blinked, surprised at how cold the rejection felt. “But I thought-”

“Yes, yes, I daresay I know exactly what you thought. But I am in possession of both time and patience—both of which enable me to choose the time and place for all things with the utmost care. For now, I do have other business to attend to. I’m afraid I may have lingered here too long.”

“Are you going to leave?” you asked, scared of the prospect for some reason. Not for any rational reason, you just very badly didn’t want to be alone.

“I can’t indulge you at all times, I’m afraid you’ll have to find ways to entertain yourself. Try not to get into any trouble.”

“Emet-Selch, wait-” You stumbled forward, meaning to grab his robes in a last ditch effort to keep him from going. All you got were fistfuls of miasmic purple drawing inward with whatever spell he’d used to teleport out. After that faded, you were alone. The ring felt very, very heavy on your hand.

III.

[Citrine Chrysanthemums]

Emet-Selch’s so-called “home” had the bedroom where you first awoke, a massive library, and a bathroom with seemingly impossible running water that came out warm or cool depending on which knob you turned. No kitchen, no dining room, nothing. No windows, only two doors. Somehow there was an airflow, but you couldn’t tell from where. In short, there was no escape. And if he didn’t come back, you would starve to death.

But you tried not to dwell on that, just like you tried not to think about what had happened or what had been said. You tried not to focus on the tingling sensation left on your lips and between your legs, the strangely fluttery mixture of shame and anticipation in your gut. On all counts, you failed. And so you cried. Once you started, it was a dam broken, you cried loudly and inconsolably, cried until your face was splotched in ugly reds and your eyes were swollen and you were on the brink of dehydration.

Eventually, you had no choice but to lay down. Exhaustion had worn your body into a boneless slump, your head pounding with each frantic beat of your heart, but it was difficult to think of sleeping. The sheets smelled wrong, and the mattress was too firm. You stared up at the ceiling with half-lidded eyes, unable to shut your brain off.

Even though he had barely touched you, you felt dirty. Filthy, the steady thump of blood through your body reminding you of the sensation of his thigh between your legs. You had tried to get the ring off, but it hadn’t budged. Somehow, the stone felt warm in a separate way from your own body heat and it wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was an unnecessary reminder. It was awful. Terrifying. Anger about the position you’d fallen into hung on the edges of your consciousness, but the helpless fear was much worse. This was, you realized, the first time in your life that you felt truly alone, unable to do anything to change or fix your situation. Tears welled up in your eyes at that thought, a little sob building and building in your chest. But you were too tired to cry again.

It was strange, certainly the delirium of someone not yet recovered from a harrowing series of events that had ruined your life, but you decided in that hazy realm of almost-asleep that you would wake the next day in your own bed, in your own room, having realized this was nothing more than a strange dream.

IV.

[Ivory Coriander]

Even under normal circumstances, waking up was a process, a product of being a heavy sleeper. At first, you rejected it outright. Morning meant sunlight and birdsong from the window you kept slightly cracked at night, and you weren’t aware of either. Besides, you were comfortable and warm.

But that in and of itself was strange, an anchor to pull you out of your stupor regardless of the lack of sunshine or birdsong. You opened your eyes, meaning to roll over only to realize that you couldn’t, something was keeping you in place. Not something. Someone. A set of arms wrapped around you, and a body against your back. Soft breathing behind your head, almost hypnotic if not for the wrongness. Shifting, you realized exactly how close you were to them, something hard pressed against your ass. Inexperience or not, you had a basic understanding of biology which was more than enough to understand that you had been sleeping in a man’s arms.

Then, and only then, did you have the sense to try and figure out what was going on. So came the memories, and the understanding of where you were, and then the identity of the person who held you.

You yelped, breaking out of Emet-Selch’s arms and scrambling to get as far away from him as you could. For the second morning in the row, you quite literally fell out of bed, hitting the floor directly on your tailbone and letting out another sharp yelp of pain. Wincing, you peered over the edge of the bed. Both of you were fully clothed, at least. And you didn’t get the feeling that anything was amiss. Physically, at least. You could feel the searing memory of his erection against you, although the blankets were ruffed up enough to hide it now.

Emet-Selch rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes with a frown. “Do you begin every day with such disgraceful displays?”

“You… I…” you stammered, looking at him with horror as you got to your feet. As your brain woke up, everything was filtering back in and the abject panic of waking up in a man’s arms had become the disquieting fear of waking up in Emet-Selch’s arms. “Why are you here?”

He moved his arm to peek at you with a single eye, thoroughly unimpressed. “Mayhap you recall,” he said, “that this is my home.”

“But why were you… I never said I was okay with-” You gestured towards him in a frantic way before folding your arms, aware of the fact that the nightdress you wore was conspicuously without proper undergarments which he definitely would have been able to feel.

“You would have me request permission to sleep in my own bed?” Emet-Selch asked, his voice rising in disbelief.

“No.”

He looked at you a moment before sighing heavily, his arm covering his eyes again. “I should note that I did attempt to wake you, but I’m afraid it was for naught. If it weren’t for the beating of your heart, I daresay you would make quite the convincing corpse.”

“But we… you… I…” You drew in a deep breath, pressing a hand to your heart to feel it thumping in a panicked beat, almost self conscious about it. “We didn’t do anything, did we?”

Emet-Selch didn’t move, but his lips curled up in a smirk. “No, we did not.”

Now that the immediate discomfort of waking up in his embrace had passed somewhat, you were forced to confront your situation once again. The two sensations, humiliation and despair, felt at odds with one another. Mundane slapstick at your expense contrasted against the terrible heartache of being held captive, of the acknowledgment that you had not woken up safe in your own bed. Or even in your world, for that matter.

“You, however, were able to make a nuisance of yourself while asleep,” Emet-Selch said, finally moving his arm and sitting up. His dark hair was only slightly untidy, his white streaked bangs flopping over his face. Despite having slept, he didn’t look very rested. Part of that was the way the kohl lining his eyes had become even more smeared, giving him a ghostly cast. “Most bedfellows have the good sense to stick to their own side, but I had scarcely laid down before you accosted me. If you weren’t snoring, I might have thought you were attempting to smother me.”

“I don’t snore,” you said halfheartedly. You couldn’t outright deny the rest, your mother often told you stories of how you slept when you were a child. She had drawn upon many octopus comparisons for reference. Emet-Selch didn’t respond, covering a big yawn with his palm. “I’m really sorry,” you told him, unsure of what else to do or say. “For the-” You gestured towards the bed vaguely. “It would be better if I slept somewhere else anyway, right? This is… very improper. And it would be-”

“I never said I disliked it,” he said, cutting you off. “If this arrangement becomes inconvenient for me, you will sleep elsewhere. Until then-” He shrugged casually, leaving the rest to your inference.

“You want me to sleep… in the same bed… with you,” you said, not a question so much as a need to confirm what you already knew.

“You had no reservations about it earlier,” he pointed out. “That’s because I was asleep,” you said, your voice tight and high. “It’s not like I would have... If I were awake, I wouldn’t have...”

“You needn’t look so distressed,” Emet-Selch said, rolling his eyes. “It is as I said, I have no intention to force you to do aught you aren’t prepared for.”

He slid to the edge of the bed, stretching his arms above his head and rolling his neck with his back to you. Rather than the many layers of coat and fine dress you had last seen, he wore a simple white shirt and loose pants. Covering, but still underclothes. The fabric was thin enough to leave nothing to the imagination. It seemed unfair that he would have a nice body, all things considered. It wasn’t as if he would need the strength lent by muscles to overpower you. You looked away quickly, disgusted with yourself for entertaining that thought.

“Is it not soothing to share in the comfort of another as you slumber?” he asked under his breath. “It is no different from keeping a pet that you allow to warm your feet.”

“Am I the pet in this situation?” you asked.

Emet-Selch looked over his shoulder, clearly amused by your reaction. “Oh dear, does that upset you? You will have to forgive me, I only meant to draw a comparison you might understand. To clarify, I do not view you as a pet. You’re far too undisciplined for my taste. If I were to keep an animal companion, I would prefer one that had been trained properly.”

“This is not funny,” you told him, unable to keep your voice as steady as you wanted it to. “Have you thought, for even a second, what this is like for me? I know it was my choice, I know-” You drew in a heavy breath, closing your eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

“I agree, as I said naught in jest.” You gave him a flat look that you hoped conveyed your displeasure. Emet-Selch frowned. “I lack both the inclination and the drive to imagine what it must be like inside of that head of yours,” he told you. “However, I’ll allow that it differs greatly from what you are used to, and while I don’t doubt that such a change is distressing, I assure you that it could get much, much worse.”

You didn’t say anything, unable to think of a proper rebuttal to that. It wasn’t fair, nothing about this was fair, but you knew he would only mock that mode of reasoning. And it could get worse. It was his right to do whatever he wanted with you, to you. Being a bed warmer was, all things considered, a kindness. But that wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair.

Emet-Selch sighed. “Sit down.”

You tensed up. “Why?”

“I would assume you wish to eat before I leave.”

“Oh,” you said, blinking in surprise. “Yes, I-I would.” It was weakness, you knew, but you didn’t think you had the constitution to starve yourself in protest. You took the same seat from the night previous. Emet-Selch sat across from you and, just like that, food appeared on the table. He was so unfazed by the casual use of magic that you could almost believe that it was normal.

The night previous—or, what you assumed was night given any indication of time—you had been so hungry that you would have eaten anything, but now you couldn’t help but feel annoyed that he hadn’t so much as asked what you liked. The thought to complain occurred to you, but you had a feeling that it’d make him even less likely to care about your tastes.

“Where are you going?” you asked instead.

“Never you mind about that,” Emet-Selch said, neatly picking up his utensils. He hadn’t eaten before, so you had assumed he didn’t eat all. Then again, assuming things about him hadn’t gone so well for you previously. Maybe the Unseen weren’t as dissimilar to people as you thought. That wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Silence passed as the two of you ate. You kept peeking up from beneath your eyelashes, waiting for him to break it, but Emet-Selch didn’t seem at all inclined. In some ways, you were used to silence. But you were not used to being ignored, and especially not being disliked. The awkward tension in the air set you on edge because you didn’t understand, and you weren’t sure how you were meant to understand. Was he the cruel face who insulted you, the inviting one who kissed and held you as he slept, or the imperious mask that displayed no emotion whatsoever? Why would he kiss you and sleep with you and then treat you so coldly? It didn’t make any sense.

When you could bear it no longer, you wiped your mouth and looked at him straight, deciding that trying to start up a casual conversation was your best option, or the one least likely to lead to you losing your mind.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Neither propriety nor courtesy has held your tongue so far, I doubt you will stop at my say so.”

You faltered, but the dry remark didn’t seem to express any irritation. “It’s a question about you,” you clarified. “It’s not important, I’m just curious.”

That got his attention for just a second before he dismissed any interest, shrugging in a way you assumed was meant as permission. That was a good sign, probably.

“I don’t know a lot about your kind,” you said. “But you sleep and eat and… and everything?” You stumbled on the final word, the unintentionally crude implications occurring to you only as you spoke.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that,” Emet-Selch said with a knowing smirk.

“Do you have to take care of yourself like normal? You know, like I do?” you asked. “Eating, sleeping, bathing… Everything like that.”

“Oh, I see.” Emet-Selch put a hand to chest. “Yes. Mine is technically a human body, so I must respect the rules it has imposed upon me just as I would any other.”

You blinked, surprised by that answer. But it also made sense, he had felt incredibly human. “Why would you use a, um, a human body?”

“It certainly has its uses.” The way Emet-Selch said that, staring at you with those luminous yellow eyes and smirking, just made you stumble, your face getting hot all over again.

“Do you have another form then?”

“Of course I do. I would offer to show you one day,” Emet-Selch said warmly, “but I worry you wouldn’t care for the experience.”

He was probably right about that. You weren’t even sure you liked this one, especially not when he looked at you like that.

“No, it-it’s fine,” you said, clearing your throat and looking away to gather your thoughts. “Can I ask one more? If that’s okay?” Despite the question, you didn’t wait for him to respond. “The Unseen all have roles, right? You said we’re in your domain. So, um…” You bit your lip, trying to think of how to phrase the question. “What is yours?”

He gave you an odd look, curiosity mixed with derision. “Do you truly not know who I am?” he asked.

“No,” you said with a frown, hating your lack of knowledge. Your ignorance. Your mother hardly ever spoke of the Unseen other than to tell you how dangerous they were, how important it was that you stayed beneath her protective veil. Even Elsie, the supposed heretic, never spoke of the Unseen. And you wanted to be bitter about that, angry about the ignorance that had landed you here, but you pushed it down.

“Well, well. Your mother has done you a grave disservice.” Emet-Selch shrugged. “As it stands, I shall remain, to you, Emet-Selch.”

“Is that not your real name?”

“No.”

“So what is your name?”

“It is none of your concern.”

You considered that, confused and frustrated by how secretive he was being. “Could I use it to hurt you?” you ventured to guess.

He smirked. “Your mortal tongue would wither and burn ere you tried.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

“I doubt your ability to comprehend the importance of names, ergo you cannot be entrusted with mine.”

“You want me just to call you by your title?” you asked, your eyebrows furrowing. “Isn’t that a bit awkward? Emet-Selch doesn’t even really sound like a name, it’s kind of...” The proper adjective evaded you, so you let the statement fade out. That was probably for the best. Insulting him in any way seemed like a surefire way to agitate him.

“I daresay there are forms of address I could require that you would find far less preferable,” Emet-Selch said, a mean edge of humor to the words.

“What about nicknames?” you asked. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. It was a look that said, ‘tread carefully'. But he didn’t tell you to stop. “I could call you Emet for short,” you said. “Or just Em, although that’s probably too feminine. Or-”

“If you are not so inclined to be respectful, you will address me as master,” Emet-Selch told you strictly. “You may choose which you prefer.”

That stopped you, his annoyed tone grounding you to the reality of the situation.

“I was just joking,” you said in what you hoped very much didn’t sound as sullen as it felt.

“You joke of such things now, moments after I tell you that names have power and while eating food from my hand,” he said, although he didn’t seem that irritated. “You’re fortunate that I am not as literal as others of my kind, nor as temperamental.”

You frowned, but there was really nothing that you could say to that, and the conversation died. After eating and disappearing the dishes, Emet-Selch retired to the bathroom. You heard running water. You very pointedly did not consider the fact that he had the body of a human man, nor did you entertain any ideas of him bathing. You briefly wondered what the other Unseen were like before deciding it was probably better that you didn’t know.

“You’re leaving?” you asked when he came out, dressed formally. Fancy, even. Intimidating.

For some reason, he looked surprised to see you, preoccupied with other thoughts. “I am.”

You nodded, standing up. “Goodbye, master,” you told him with as straight of a face as you could manage, bowing.

Your attempt at getting under his skin just made Emet-Selch smirk as he left in the same miasmic void as before, issuing no farewell and giving no explanation as to where he was going or when he would return.

Alone again, you sat back down, frowning. Then crying. Eventually you got up, gathering a few blankets to find a place to sleep that wasn’t his bed.

[Blushing Cyclamen]

In the following days or weeks—time may as well have stopped for all that it mattered anymore—you fell into a sort of rhythm. You didn’t dare call it your life and admit its permanence, but the fact remained that you were getting used to being here. You were getting used to him. Reading Emet-Selch’s moods became slightly easier, and so did knowing how to interact with him. Sometimes Emet-Selch hunted you down when you hid, insisting on your company. Sometimes he let you be, and you wondered if he remembered that you were there at all. He had an unnerving sort of comfort with you being there most of the time, and not as much modesty as you’d wish.

There were times that he was sociable enough, but there were other times that had you retreating to the little nook of blankets and pillows you’d set up amidst the shelves in the library to weather his thunderous mood swings. Ice frosted teeth and ravenous flames.

“I understand why I can’t see her,” you told him one day as he was getting ready to leave, your heart pulsing in your throat with nerves. “But I was wondering... I, uhm, I wrote a letter to my mother. Would you give it to her? Please.”

Emet-Selch raised his chin with a cold, unreadable expression. Something very unfriendly, imperious. He said nothing, holding out his hand out for the paper. You handed it over, relieved that he hadn’t rejected it outright. Perhaps naively, you didn’t expect him to unfold it so he could read what you’d written, his pale eyes jumping from line to line with an inhuman speed.

“Wait, don’t,” you said, embarrassed and angry that he’d read something so intimate, snatching it away in a panic. He didn’t get upset, or even comment on your reaction.

“Curious as I find your attempts to placate her,” Emet-Selch said. “I have little interest in wasting my time on an endeavor so trivial.” He paused, head tilting just a bit, eyes sparkling with something other than ice. “You are more than welcome to find another way to deliver your message. ‘twould be most barbarous of me to sever the sacred bond of mother and daughter.”

“Is there another way?” you asked.

Emet-Selch just shrugged. And then he was gone.

After that, you didn’t dare to ask him for a favor, but you couldn’t hold back your indignant anger when he started playing with you. In a way, it felt unavoidable that you would test his patience with your bubbling despair and frustration. A golden flame burned hot and horrid in his eyes when you told him how unfair he was being, how cruel it was to keep you locked up like this, how wrong he was about his low opinion of humanity. And, when you were done, Emet-Selch took every single one of your words and twisted them back on you like knives. And then he told you to leave his sight. That was the longest you went without food, hiding from him with a single thought clanging and echoing in your head.

He had asked you to consider if your situation now was truly that different from how you had been living before. Emet-Selch laughed at you as he meticulously broke down exactly how the palace was just as much of a cage as this place, how you would have lived and rotted within the safety of your mother’s protection from those who would wish you ill. He told you that you were lucky to be kept and cared for by him. And you told yourself that wasn’t true, that they were just evil words from a malevolent being, but sometimes it was difficult to extract yourself from the situation far enough to truly rationalize how wrong he was.

Those were extremes—ice and fire—but high levels of emotion and drama could only be sustained so long, you needed to make it normal so you didn’t burn yourself out. That was natural.

And your life was becoming familiar. Emet-Selch was becoming familiar.

When you were alone, and you spent much of your time alone, you thought about your mother and your kingdom. You thought about your home, your real home. You wondered if they were used to your absence in the same way you were getting used to this place where nothing ever changed or progressed. You wondered if the land was flourishing, and if someone was taking care of your garden. There were things to do when he was gone, of course. Having constant access to one of the most extensive libraries you’d ever visited was the next best thing to having a garden. The isolation was no less brutal for it though. Somehow, it seemed to make your ability to remember and think much that much harder.

Slowly but surely, the outside world was becoming less tangible, less insistent. Less important, even. That scared you, a soul-deep fear of losing that which was most important. But that fear had to stay locked up inside of your chest for fear of letting him see weakness, and even it was slowly starting to become hazy, far away.

Did Emet-Selch know that? He never said, he never asked why your eyes were red and swollen when he returned or asked how you felt about your confinement. He was smart and perceptive, and you had a feeling he knew anyway. But, for all else that he was or did, Emet-Selch stayed true to his word and made no further advances on you than he had that first day. He occasionally kissed you only to pull away just as quickly, leaving you in a confused tailspin of wanting more but afraid of going further. When the mood struck, he made comments on the wrong side of propriety, or invaded your space in a way that made your breath catch, and you often woke up curled around him or in his arms. But things never went further than that. In some ways, you got the impression that he was lonely, especially because of the other ways he found for you to entertain him.

At first it was, “Chess?” you asked, staring at the checkered board and all the intricately carved pieces he was setting up on the smaller table in the library.

“How very observant of you. I’m impressed,” he said, layering the mocking praise with sarcasm. “You have played chess before, I hope.”

“I have,” you said, sitting opposite him with no small amount of trepidation. ”I wasn’t very good though.”

Emet-Selch sighed dramatically. “I assumed that would be the case. I suppose I don’t mind aiding you.”

You frowned, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure. “Do I have to?”

“How ungrateful,” he scolded you. “It’s good for your mind, mayhap it will help to sharpen you up a bit.”

Emet-Selch always won. Sometimes, given his nearly obsessive need to instruct you on what moves would be better than the ones you were making, you wondered why he enjoyed it all. He may as well have been playing himself. But, on the rare occasion that you made a move on your own, usually taken from one of the dozens of books in his library about chess, he looked genuinely happy. He’d win anyway, and the praise was condescending, but you found yourself trying more and more, hoping for those few moments where he looked to be enjoying himself.

On another day, you had been reading in the chair you’d come to think of as your chair, draped sideways with your bare feet dangling. You heard Emet-Selch return in that dizzying swirl of magic in the bedroom, momentarily breaking you from your focus on the book. You waited, listening to try and figure out what sort of mood he was in. It was important to know before deciding if you would get up to greet him or just leave him be. But Emet-Selch saved you the effort, removing his coat and coming into the library. You looked up at him with a tentative smile, testing the waters.

“What are you reading?” Emet-Selch asked, eschewing any polite greeting. He looked tired, honestly. Worn down. Odd that you could recognize that.

“Poetry,” you said, your voice raising like it was a question because you weren’t really sure what he’d think.

“What type of poetry?” Emet-Selch asked, sitting in what you thought of as his chair.

“It’s an epic. Like, a narrative poem,” you replied. “About a hero, but more… uh, romantic.” That shouldn’t have made you blush, but it did. The idea of romance had become somewhat of a taboo to you. The last time it came up, he’d bastardized the concept with the ring you were unable to remove.

“Very well,” Emet-Selch said, aloof. “Read to me.”

“Read this?” you asked, caught off guard by the request. He rolled his eyes, opening his mouth with what was likely a biting comment about your intelligence. “I wasn’t sure if there was something else you would prefer, that’s all,” you said, cutting him off. “But if you want… this is fine.” You hesitated a second longer, watching him to make sure this wasn’t a joke of some kind. It didn’t seem like it. Swallowing against your nerves, you turned to the first page of the poem and drew in a breath. And then you began, starting with the flowery introduction of the brave hero.

After only a few lines, Emet-Selch waved for you to stop. “I can’t hear you,” he said. “Come, sit here.” He gestured to the floor at his feet. You thought about denying him, but you didn’t want to spoil the relatively pleasant mood. Or maybe you had just grown used to compliance. Or, worst of all, maybe you just wanted to please him because seeing that tired look in his eyes was a little upsetting. You stood up and walked over, dropping to your knees with the book propped against his chair so you could speak towards him. Sitting at his feet like a dog wasn’t as embarrassing as sitting on his lap. He smelled like the outside world, snow and fire smoke. And he smelled like himself, a distinct mixture of heady spice and old books. Odd how one of those scents was more familiar than the other.

“Good,” Emet-Selch said, looking down at you with a smile in his eyes. “Now start again.”

And you did. Before long, he leaned back with his eyes closed. And soon after that, his hand sought out the top of your head, almost petting your hair. That caused you to stumble, but you caught yourself, forcing focus on the words so you didn’t ruin the moment. You told yourself you did so as a form of self preservation, that you knew he would be unhappy if you made too many mistakes, but you knew that wasn’t it. Not entirely. The next time Emet-Selch bid you to read to him, he didn’t even have to say anything before you took your place in front of his chair, reading to him a collection of shorter poems you’d found that seemed to capture the magic of the natural world. His fingers dragged lightly over your head and a shiver worked its way down your spine.

How long had it been since anybody touched you like that? Your mother had always been too busy to give you that sort of affection, and you never knew your father. Everyone else, even Elsie, kept you at arm’s length. The easy, casual intimacy of having someone pet your head made you melt, made you want to lay your head on his lap.

“You speak so lovingly of a garden in bloom,” Emet-Selch noted at the end of one of the pieces. “Even more so than a budding romance between hero and his fair maiden.”

“What’s more romantic than a blossoming garden?” you asked, trying very hard to not sound too gutted about the reminder of your captivity, your isolation from the natural world. “I don’t think there’s anything that can compare.”

Emet-Selch considered that for a few moments before sitting back with a hum. “Are there more?” he asked, nodding at the book.

“Yes. Should I continue?”

He waved a hand. “If you will.”

VI.

[Amethystine Hydrangeas]

“You’re leaving?” you asked one morning, groggy and frowning at what felt like an early awakening. It was impossible not to wake up with Emet-Selch considering you almost always wound up entangled together in some form. Even though he occasionally had nightmares that neither of you mentioned, sleeping in his arms was better than being alone. The pile of blankets you called a bed in the library saw less and less use.

These days, you hated being alone. Detested it. And you knew it irritated him when you were too needy, but it was harder to control your true feelings when you were waking up, too bleary to stop yourself from expressing anything you felt. You knew your voice was a tone off from being a whine, and you knew it was pathetic and childish, but you weren’t awake enough to care.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Emet-Selch said, rolling his eyes as he dressed. Today he was back in bulky militaristic robes, something that would keep him warm for wherever he went that caused him to come back with snowflakes in his dark hair. “My time is unimaginably valuable—you ought to be grateful I indulge you as often as I do.”

And maybe he was right, but that wasn’t exactly why you were really afraid of his absence. When he was with you, you didn’t have to think as much. You could ignore everything else. But when you were alone, you had to confront that you no longer desperately wished for your mother or freedom, but for Emet-Selch to come back. You thought about his smirk and his voice and the way he touched you and the sensation of kissing him and you knew that, out of all of the things you wanted, you had begun to crave that the most. You thought about the overtly sexual tension and the times when you could feel that he wanted you and the fact that he never pushed and instead of relief, all you could feel was a deep sense of longing.

Emet-Selch left and you fell back into the pillows, your thoughts immediately becoming consumed with thoughts of him because you could smell him in the sheets, remember the warmth of his body against your own, the insistent press of his erection through the layers of fabric between you. Anxiously, you twisted the ring you still wore. Round and round, but it couldn’t come off, a constant reminder of him.

It was driving you insane.

He was driving you insane.

When Emet-Selch returned, you could barely contain your reaction. And it wasn’t relief anymore, not like it had been when you used to worry that he would never return and let you starve. No, now it was excitement.

And you could say you didn’t understand all you wanted, but you must have understood a little because with your willpower crumbling, that smirk of his just got more and more smug. And he didn’t push it, not in the way you wanted him to. Why did he stop himself from doing anything more than kissing? Why did he wedge his thigh between your legs in a way that had you soaking through your panties and boneless in his arms if not to prime you for more? Why did he ask you to read him poetry or play chess or sleep together in the most innocent of ways, always holding you close without ever demanding more?

Then again, why did you even contemplate those questions when the answers were so brutally obvious? It was the game. But the odds were stacked, and you could feel yourself cracking beneath the tactics he employed. Emet-Selch already owned you, body and soul. But to take you by force was beneath him. He didn’t just play to win, he played for keeps. For everything. A true, undisputed victory.

VII.

[Fading Nasturtium]

“I win,” Emet-Selch said, monotone. You frowned, staring at the pieces. You had come closer to beating him this time. Slightly. That is to say, your loss was merely overwhelming, not a massacre. A storm brewed with the color of pale gold behind his eyes, it had you on edge from the moment he returned. He hadn’t mentioned anything, only setting up the board when he returned.

“Do you want to play again?” you asked.

“I’m bored,” Emet-Selch said, drawing out the word dramatically, with an almost childish tone. “You’re boring me. I have provided you with ample material to advance your skill, you could at least make an effort.”

You frowned at him, a little hurt. It wasn’t like you were bad, you just weren’t as good as him. You doubted anybody in the world was. “I have been.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then it seems that all of my instruction and effort has been for naught.”

“You’re being unfair,” you said defensively. “I’m trying my best.”

“Well I suggest you try harder, otherwise I’ll be forced to find another way to entertain myself.”

You huffed indignantly. “Fine. We could play a different game. Or read something, or…” you trailed off, studying his expression. Emet-Selch was inscrutable on the best of days. “You know, if you’re really bored, we could go somewhere.”

He didn’t react other than raising an eyebrow, although you felt as if you caught a glint of curiosity. “Go where?”

You blinked, realizing you hadn’t considered that he’d ask. Where did you want to go? You dreamed of the outside world, read stories to remind yourself that it still existed, but the only place you had ever really been was in the palace. It was the only place you could imagine being. You couldn’t ask for that though, not even in a playful way. So you shrugged.

“I don’t know. Where do you go when you leave?”

“No place fit for a young lady like yourself,” he said. “Especially dressed as you are. Unless you’re prepared to make a scandal.”

“People would stop caring about my clothes the moment you opened your mouth,” you muttered, leaning back and crossing your arms in an attempt to hide yourself. It wasn’t as if you were dressed any more or less modestly than usual, just that the clothes he’d given to you remained consistently impractical. Light, flowy fabrics. Not sharp lines, everything draped and soft.

Your comment made Emet-Selch smile and, just like that, the mood changed. You couldn’t tell if that expression was the dangerous darkening of the storm clouds, or a break between them that let in the sun.

“Feeling bold today, hm?” Emet-Selch all but cooed. You pressed your lips together, trying to figure out what his mood shift meant.

“I was just thinking that if you’re bored-”

“Arguing, asking to leave, and now making petty jabs,” he listed, cutting you off. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

“Certainly not.”

He wore an amused look, but it wasn’t the sort of joke you were in on. You weren’t sure if the mood shift was good at all, not when it set your skin crawling so uncomfortably.

“I’m curious,” Emet-Selch said after a moment, his voice bright. “You told me once before that you knew the desires of men, but what of women? Given the confused look you so often wear, I cannot help but wonder if you truly comprehend your own desires.”

Your stomach tensed, a fizzling sense of dizziness making your head spin. “What?” you asked, feigning a vacant sort of tone to hide the nerves.

“There it is. So easy,” Emet-Selch said. “Well, I suppose ignorance can have its own appeal.” He picked up your queen from the board, admiring it idly. “’tis no small wonder. Those who don’t know any better can make for valuable and pliant pieces, susceptible to the machinations of those who do.”

“I’m not ignorant,” you told him.

Emet-Selch set the piece down, smirking at you like he’d won. “Why would you assume I was talking about you?” he asked.

You set your jaw, tempted to call him on that blatant half truth. But you knew where that would land you, talked in circles and playing directly into his confusing turns of phrase, looking just as ignorant as he was obviously accusing you of being.

“What does this have to do with anything anyway?” you asked.

Emet-Selch shrugged. “Nothing at all, but I do admit to finding it greatly entertaining.”

You huffed your unhappiness with that answer, standing up. Instead of acknowledging Emet-Selch, you busied yourself with picking up the pieces from the board to put it away. He was surprisingly messy, often just leaving things where they were to be magicked away or moved by you. And cleaning was better than looking at him, especially when you knew he was watching you.

“The truth of your feelings is and has always been simple enough to divine,” Emet-Selch said, unconcerned with your silence. “Your telltale heart gives you away each and every time. And if it didn’t, it would be that fetching pink burning your cheeks.”

You hid behind your hair, trying to breathe evenly in a vain attempt to calm yourself down. He was just teasing, trying to get a reaction. If he weren’t being so crude, you might have played along.

“Did you know, I saw you but a single time before you called to me,” Emet-Selch said, his voice light as if he were fondly reminiscing. That gave you pause, your eyes drawn to him in surprise. “’twas one of the few occasions that your mother allowed you out from beneath her oppressive thumb. The ingenue princess, her hair decorated with flowers and surrounded by a hoard of pesky attendants.”

For some reason, dread sunk into the pit of your stomach. You remembered what he was talking about. It had been a huge festival, and you spent most of the time in the large field collecting wildflowers and dancing. If he had been there, you were certain you would remember. But you didn’t.

“I had my doubts,” Emet-Selch continued, unconcerned with your reaction. “Finding a girl who can giggle and blush on command is all well and good, but capturing one who does so without so much as a trace of guile is a rare thing indeed. You maintain your obliviousness with such dedication that one might think you enjoy the luxuries of innocence. But I know better now.” He hummed to himself, smirking now that he knew he had your attention. “You poor, silly little thing. You don’t ask for more because you don’t know what you want.”

He stood up, surprising you into dropping the queen piece and taking a few frantic steps away. No matter what you told yourself, or how you tried to calm down, you knew your heart was pounding a frenzy in your chest, and you knew that he could hear it. But, like he said, it didn’t matter when you were blushing as hot as you were.

“I don’t,” you began to say, having to stop to swallow against your dry throat, “I don’t want anything.”

“If you must lie,” Emet-Selch said, “you could, at the very least, attempt to hide your clear and obvious reaction to even mildly suggestive remarks.”

“That’s not true,” you said, hoping you sounded appropriately chastising. “I-I’m not lying. And anyway, why would I? It’s not like I...” You breathed in, adopting a firm tone and standing up straight. “I don’t want anything.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said under his breath, exasperated. “A lie told with conviction is, nevertheless, a lie.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “On the bed then,” he told you, taking a step forward. “I will take it upon myself to expose the truth. Who knows, you could very well learn something about yourself in the process.”

A soft sound left your mouth in response, bypassing the logical part of your brain that insisted on rejection. He took another step, and you matched it with a backward stumble.

“I thought you,” you floundered for a moment, searching for the words to escape that blunt order. You had made a mistake thinking that he’d let this go if you refused to play along. “I thought that you were bored?” you said like a question, stalling as you sorted through the overwhelming nerves because you already knew where this was heading and you knew you weren’t arguing against him in the way you should have been.

“Yes,” he agreed, walking towards you. The trousers and looser, open shirt only added to the visual of him being a hunter. Although the slow and steady rhythm of his footsteps spoke more to the idea of an executioner. “And I’m sure this will be sufficiently entertaining.”

You’d positioned yourself between Emet-Selch and the bed so perfectly it almost seemed purposeful. There was nowhere else to go, unless you were to actively run away, and you didn’t think you wanted that either. A part of you wanted this, wanted this desperately, but it was wrong. It was wrong and the embarrassment and shame and guilt were going to eat you alive if you let it happen.

“I can’t help but wonder if you’re incapable of doing what you’re told. Mayhap you get a thrill out of undermining authority,” Emet-Selch mused, cutting off your wild thoughts as he closed in. “Honestly…” He took you by the hips and pushed you onto the bed, crowding you in further. You let out an embarrassingly high pitched sort of yelp as you fell onto the soft surface, caught off guard. In contrast, Emet-Selch had an air of dispassionate practicality as he joined you.

“Hey!” you protested, trying to scramble back and sit up. Emet-Selch caught you, pulling you up against him. His body was solid against yours, his arms too strong to squirm out of. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, you could feel exactly how warm he was. So human you could easily forget that he wasn’t. “You can’t just-”

“I can’t?” Emet-Selch asked, cutting you off. His face was close to yours now that the height difference was removed, the air of his words practically kissing your lips. “Why not?”

To that, you had no answer. Your wild eyes met his, panic and discomfort and uncertainty and a million other things rolling over you at once. The smell of him was heady, intense. Masculine, yet refined. Even in the warm lighting, even holding you, the straight cut of his jaw and sharp cheekbones made him look intimidating. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d held you, or even gotten this close, but it was the first time he had done it while looking at you like this. Like you were prey.

“Because…” You couldn’t meet his gaze, so you looked at his lips and their near constant smirk. But you couldn’t look at his lips because they were so close to your own, so you looked into his eyes. Pale yellow, almost glowing in the lamplight and offset so perfectly with his dark eyelashes. Piercing. Your stomach flipped. To consider the feeling desire was too lazy and superficial of an assessment, but you knew that it was near enough to condemn you. This was different than it usually was. He always seemed controlled, even when teasing you. Especially when teasing you.

“I have a better question that you ought to consider,” Emet-Selch said after your attempt at a reason lapsed into conflicted silence.

You licked your lips, overcome with a sense of dizziness. Maybe that was because you kept forgetting to breathe. Buying time, your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, tightening so you couldn’t feel how hard they were shaking. “What?”

“How would you stop me?” Emet-Selch asked. He wore that infuriating smirk, an eyebrow quirked as he practically dared you to answer.

That question sunk low and deep and hot in your gut. If you had any wits at all, you would have pointed out that you couldn’t stop him. You were utterly at his mercy, it was clear that you could only obey. That was a strong argument for your complacency, certainly enough to explain why you were allowing this, but you knew it wasn’t the truth. Not entirely. All you could do was wonder if you really wanted to stop him.

“I thought not,” Emet-Selch said.

There was a very small window of time between you realizing that he was going to kiss you and the action itself. You readily accepted his lips, glad to do something you were familiar with. He kissed you without violence or malice. His lips were soft, his domination even softer. Emet-Selch pushed you onto your back the moment you relaxed, following you down and catching himself with an arm that caged you in. That was too much, too soon and your breath caught, your body clunky and too hot as you tried to break away. It was futile, he just braced one leg between yours to keep you in place.

“Ah, do you want me to let you go?” he asked, his voice tinted with pure glee.

“Uhm…” You wanted to say yes, you should have said yes.

“A simple question begs a simple answer,” Emet-Selch told you, his fingers idly tracing up your leg, catching the hem of your dress to tug it upward. “Yes, or no.”

“Emet-Selch…” you said, your voice far too soft to be any sort of objection. You tried, halfheartedly, to push your dress back down, but that was about as token as the rest of your resistance.

“Left to draw my own conclusions, I can only assume that this is what you want.” To punctuate his point, Emet-Selch’s fingers dragged over your clothed slit, digging into the fabric and tracing upwards in a way that made you shudder and moan in something approximating protest. Certainly nerves, or embarrassment. Your hands went to catch his wrist, your stomach twisting at how forward he was being. Using his hand to touch you directly was new and different and it felt good, but the good was frightening too. Emet-Selch didn’t stop, nudging your clit with just enough pressure to make your body jolt against his.

You whimpered as he repeated the motion, a sound he stifled as he kissed you again. Part of you was surprised that he would give you more, but the other was too overwhelmed by the heat and the flush of pleasure as he rubbed your clit, the addition of your underwear only adding to the sweetness of the friction.

“Off,” he told you, his lips leaving yours just enough for the word to be audible. He hooked a finger beneath the hem of your underwear as an explanation for the command.

You should have refused. You should have insisted that if he wanted to defile your body, he do so with violence and force. If you did, it would be an excuse to hide behind, the cover of rejection.

“I don’t… don’t think…” you stammered instead, squirming in discomfort.

“Obviously,” Emet-Selch said, his voice tight and irritated. A second later he sighed harshly, clearly fighting to regain composure as he met your gaze. “If you wish for me to continue, you’ll do as I say. The choice is yours.”

Did you want more? Didn’t you? Why was he giving you the choice? There were no answers to be found in his eyes, just the weight of expectation. Lust won out against the shame and the embarrassment and the doubt. It was awkward, but you obeyed, adjusting yourself beneath him to shove your underwear down and kicking them off.

Above you, he smirked. “Good girl,” Emet-Selch cooed, endlessly smug. He eased the sting of humiliation by immediately seeking out the revealed flesh, his lips reclaiming yours.

The sound of his fingers dragging through the wet mess of your arousal was loud to your ears even with the heavy sound of breathing and kissing and the noises you couldn’t choke back. Just a bit of kissing and a few teasing touches had you wet enough to smooth out the path his fingers dragged from your hole to your swollen clit and back again. It made your hips jump, your legs fighting to close around his hand.

Feeling the press of his thigh between your own was good. The teasing drag of his fingers through the barrier of your underwear was better. But this, these focused little circles right around your clit, was unimaginable. You didn’t know what to do, or how to handle it. All you knew was that you wanted more. The desperate chase of pleasure, the tantalizing promise of release. What you didn’t expect was his fingers to trail back down, pushing against your entrance as if to test it. There was resistance at first, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from pushing in.

You jumped, pulling away from the kiss. “Wait, you-“

“Hush now,” Emet-Selch told you gently, his voice lowered like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “This is what you want, is it not?” To make his point, his fingers pushed just a little deeper, making you whimper. You weren’t sure if you did or didn’t, but you hadn’t done anything to stop him so far. You shook your head helplessly, clinging to him even tighter. And you didn’t stop him.

Nerves and inexperience made you too tight to accommodate the penetration all at once, but he wasn’t rough. No, he worked his fingers into you in short, smooth little strokes. So patient, almost casual. You couldn’t decide if the feeling was wrong or right because the pinching stretch countered the sense of relief that he’d finally indulge the aching emptiness you were so often left with. It sounded wrong, messy. And you were so over-sensitive, your inner walls tightening to keep him out, or to draw him in. All of that fell away when he curled his fingers as they drew out, your mouth falling slack in something like surprise.

“You ca-an’t-” your voice was breathy and high, tight in your throat, your hands finally going down to catch his wrist out of fear. Fear of him? Fear of what he was doing? Fear of the pleasure?

“So you’ve said,” Emet-Selch replied, far too smug and composed considering the fact that his fingers hadn’t stopped leisurely pumping in and out of you, easing to stretch with each maddeningly slow movement. “You still have yet to offer a decent argument as to what, exactly, is meant to be preventing me.”

“It’s-” You cut off with a whimper as he curled his fingers again . Your body jolted, the discomfort finally having reached the point of raw pleasure. “We’re not… A-and…”

“Yes?” he asked. “Use your words now, girl. I can’t possibly understand what it is you mean if you mumble.”

“This isn’t… how it-it should be,” you argued half-heartedly.

“If you tell me to stop, directly and without ambiguity, I will.” You opened your mouth, having every intention of doing just that. But the words got caught up in your throat, heavy on your tongue. Surely you wanted him to stop, but he kept casually fucking his fingers in and out of you and you were dripping around them, more than wet enough to ease his way. You didn’t think you wanted this—you didn’t think you could live with yourself believing that you wanted this—but you didn’t want him to stop.

“I-I don’t know,” you whispered helplessly.

“You don’t know what?” Emet-Selch asked. You could feel yourself tighten around him at the tone of that question, an embarrassing response you had sometimes when he mocked you that you never dared to acknowledge.

He smirked, slowly removing his fingers and leaning to the side, supporting his head with his other hand. You couldn’t stifle the little whine in the back of your throat, pathetic as it was.

“There’s no need for you to worry,” he told you, his wet fingers trailing up to lightly circle your clit. “I mean only to watch. I’ll save my direct participation for another day. Is that solace enough?”

You didn’t answer, his question whirling in your mind. Was it better that he had no intention of going further? Worse? Did it make this okay? You knew the answer, but the heat and desire and the crushing, all-consuming need that had been driving you insane was bursting at the seams, you weren’t sure you could handle it if he stopped now. You nodded, opening your legs a little wider to give him room.

“Aloud,” Emet-Selch said. Despite his casual posture, he hadn’t stopped torturing you with those maddening, almost mindless little circles. “To ensure that there’s no misunderstanding.”

“Please,” you said, unable to meet his eyes. He didn’t stop, didn’t say anything. Waiting for more. “Emet-Selch, please. Please tou-touch me.”

“Touch you?” he repeated. “Am I not already?”

You made a sound of frustrated despair, squeezing your eyes shut. Rather than try and piece together what he wanted you to say, your hands dropped to grab his wrist, to show him what you wanted.

“No,” Emet-Selch told you sharply, his hand landing flat between your legs, practically slapping you where you were most sensitive. It made you jolt, cry out in equal parts surprise and pain. “As much as I would normally appreciate your attempt to take the initiative, that is not what I asked of you.”

“That hurt,” you protested, trying to squirm away. You could only get so far, your leg still pinned and Emet-Selch’s arm draped across your stomach.

“Of course it hurt,” he said, amused. One of his fingers curled, dipping between your folds. He didn’t even need to say anything, you could feel that you were drenched. In spite of the pain, or maybe because of it. Emet-Selch hummed. “Shall I make it all better? You need only ask.”

“I don’t know… what…” you said, loathing the whine in your voice. You couldn’t look at him, didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes despite the way they burned into you.

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” he said, withdrawing his hand entirely and shifting his leg. “I know very well how difficult it is for you to think in times of stress. Well then, I will tell you what to do. But listen well. ‘twould be a shame for your disobedience to ruin the fun.”

You had no idea what he was going to ask of you, but you nodded. It was a wild, terrified sort of sensation, equal parts desperation and trepidation. There was no way out of this situation anymore, not now that you were aching for his touch, not now that you had committed this much.

Emet-Selch smirked, golden eyes half lidded. “Take off your dress,” he said. “Lie on your back with your legs spread and hands flat above your head.”

The casual tone of the demands completely contradicted the salacious image that popped into your head, an image that you mentally rejected just on principle. It was one thing to be touched beneath the cover of your dress, his hand hidden and your body concealed, but it was an entirely different thing to expose yourself to his eyes of your own free will.

“Why?” you asked carefully, the word coming out in place of the objection you should have given.

“Nothing I asked of you requires a single word,” Emet-Selch said, a warning. You could see in his expression, hear in his voice, that he would be more than willing to leave things here. As he’d proven, his control was immaculate. He wasn’t going to force you, that wasn’t the point of this.

If you told yourself you were acting in a haze of lust, not culpable for your own actions, it was okay. You could make this okay. Sitting up, you hiked your dress up by the skirt and off your torso. The draped, loose fabric was easy to remove at least. Without underwear, it left you bare. Your nipples were already noticeably tight, chills covering your body in an obvious tell of your nerves and desire. Everything within you rejected doing as Emet-Selch said and exposing yourself to him so entirely. It was worse that he remained where he was, silently watching. With the pants he wore, it was easy to tell that this had an effect on him, but you believed him when he said he didn’t intend to force himself onto you.

Why was that thought such an unhappy one?

“I’m waiting,” Emet-Selch said in a sort of playful way, doing nothing to conceal his impatience. Part of you wished he would stop looking and just push you down, force you to comply. This was far more humiliating for some reason, and he obviously knew that.

Averting your eyes, you laid back onto the bed. Raising your hands above your head first was easier, you pressed them flat into the pillows. It took more effort to convince your body to untwine your ankles and spread your legs. Staring hard at the ceiling and trying to ignore the uncomfortable crawl of his eyes watching you so intently, trying to block out the humiliation and shame and insecurity, you did as Emet-Selch asked.

“Well then. That wasn’t terribly difficult, was it?” he asked. You were still trying to think of an answer to that when you gasped in harsh surprise, caught off guard by the way his hand dropped to press between your breasts, fingers stretched to the hollow between your collar bones. It made your arms twitch with the impulse to cover yourself. Emet-Selch waited for that show of disobedience, watching you carefully, but you forced yourself to remain still. You expected him to touch you, to tease your nipples or palm your breasts, but instead he just dragged his hot, heavy hand downward, positioning himself between your open legs. “I’ve half a mind to leave you like this,” he said lightly.

“But,” you protested. “But you said—what are you doing!?”

“I did say half,” Emet-Selch said, settling the pillow he had retrieved beneath your hips so they were better angled and casually slotting himself between your legs. The imbalance of being naked while he remained fully clothed was almost too much. The press of his hips between your legs was the worst type of friction, the coarse fabric getting smeared with your arousal. “Let us try this once more. Do I have your attention?”

You opened your mouth to agree, but Emet-Selch chose that moment to grind against you. He was hard, you could feel how hot and solid he was and it made you ache with emptiness, nothing but a pathetic moan leaving your lips. So you just nodded. Your body was so tense you worried you would snap, your heart pounding all the way in your throat and chest rising and falling rapidly.

He smirked. Not for the first time, you couldn’t help but notice how imbalanced this whole thing was. Older, stronger, smarter—Emet-Selch wasn’t even human. And you were letting this happen. You weren’t safe, this wasn’t safe. This was wrong and terrible and sinful and-

“Keep your legs open and hands where they are,” he instructed patiently, his tone giving no indication as to the type of situation this was. “If you cannot, I make no promise that I’ll give you what you want.”

You nodded again, and he didn’t push you to agree verbally. For that, you were grateful.

Wet as you were, it didn’t really matter that he immediately started with two fingers. It drew a harsh sound straight out of your chest, your hips jumping. But you bit your lip and held your breath, forcing yourself to remain in the position he dictated. Emet-Selch was watching you as they drew out, you knew he was because this was a test. The uneven way he thrust his fingers into your pussy was meant to make you break, to surprise you into disobedience.

“I’m almost impressed. There might be hope for you yet,” he said, his voice far too dry to read as praise. It worked anyway, you could feel the way you tightened around his fingers.

“Please,” you asked pitifully, hoping he would take pity on you.

“Patience,” he scolded lightly, his fingers slowing down enough to make you whine. “You will take what you are given and be grateful for it.”

“I am,” you said quickly.

That made Emet-Selch smile, leaning down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. Hot and wet, threatened with the teasing bite of his teeth, you gasped aloud in surprise at the sensation. Good, why did it so good? In your limited experimentation, you hadn’t ever felt particularly interested in teasing your nipples but now it was different. Your back arched when his mouth moved to the opposite side, punctuating your pathetic whimper with a harder thrust that jolted your body up. Your fingers flexed, desperate to grab onto his hair to pull him off or make him stay. Instead all you could do was suffer the way his hair tickled your chest as he continued to tease you, only pulling off with a slick pop when your arms moved, fully intending to pull his hair.

“Ah, ah,” he chided, looking up and freezing you in place.

You exhaled sharply and lowered your arms back down. “Please, Emet-Selch,” you got out, the word tight and nearly pained, tears pricking in your eyes because you just wanted satisfaction. You didn’t think it would even take that much, your body was electrified, your inner walls squeezing his fingers and thighs jerking with the effort it to you to keep them open.

“So desperate,” Emet-Selch muttered, but he did give you what you wanted. Kind of. What you wanted him to take it slow and steady, to work you into the onslaught of sensations, but Emet-Selch had another plan in mind.

The abrupt intensity emptied your head altogether, the most you could do was twist your hands into the pillows, fingers digging into the feathers and fabric like claws because you were trying to be good. You were trying to stay in place as he moved down your body, finger fucking you without any of the teasing care of before. This was raw and messy and filthy, the sound alone was enough to be embarrassing if it didn’t feel so good.

When he used his other hand to expose your clit so his tongue could trace circles against it just like his teasing fingers, you felt as if something within you shorted out. Surprise, shock, pleasure, need, discomfort, embarrassment, humiliation, the feeling was everything you could possibly feel at once in one big flash. And you almost broke, the muscles in your thighs violently trembling and your arms twitching mindlessly.

“Nn-no,” you groaned when he did it again, more as a shock response than denial, although maybe it was an attempt at escaping the terrifyingly overwhelming onslaught of sensation.

“No?” Emet-Selch asked drawing away. He was still smirking. Of course he was. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“’s too much,” you told him. You were crying, you realized. Or maybe that was just the lack of ability to breathe, or the overwhelming rush of emotions and sensation. Suffocation. “I-I can’t.”

“That’s not true at all,” Emet-Selch said, curling his fingers as he pulled them out, dragging them purposefully across that spongey spot within you that made you writhe, your feet unintentionally kicking up before you forced yourself still. “While I freely admit that there a great many things of which you aren’t capable, coming undone beneath my touch is no great feat. There are few things as simple as accepting what is given to you.”

That wasn’t what you meant and he knew it, but you only shook your head, choking on another moan as he pushed his fingers back in. There was no resistance anymore, except for the way your inner walls sucked his fingers in, desperately seeking the promise of fulfillment. The sound was profane, utterly. Wet, the clapping of flesh with each heavy thrust. Whether or not he wanted you to respond, you didn’t know. It didn’t matter, you couldn’t respond. When his lips closed around your clit, you just moaned. Keeping your hands up and legs spread was all but impossible, you couldn’t help the way your hips bucked up against him, mindlessly trying to fuck yourself on his fingers, to get off.

Emet-Selch made a sound of displeasure, bracing an arm across your hips to keep you still. You were so close you could almost feel the sparkling coil of release, your body tightening in preparation as you recklessly sought that. Emet-Selch’s hair tickled your thighs and he was pressing hard against your abdomen to keep you in place and those things only made it more. That’s all pleasure was. More. Excess. The spiraling sensation of falling, of being consumed. The only thing that kept you grounded was the need to keep your body in place for him because you were certain that if Emet-Selch stopped now, you would actually combust.

But you did, and he didn’t.

Although you had been babbling and moaning and gasping the entire time, you were silent when you came, your mouth open and back arched and body finally becoming still, shot through with electric tension and the rapids of hot pleasure. From his tongue, his fingers, that sharp flash of heat and tension snapped and filled you. Everything at once was heavy and pressing and good. Emet-Selch’s hair tickling your thighs, his arm pressing too hard against you, the wicked slick sounds of his mouth against your clit, his fingers continuing to torture you with every heavy, hard thrust. And the pleasure, the tingling, sparking sensation that came with the realization of release. It was heavy and low and a lot, your cunt flaring and fluttering and clamping around him as he worked you through it.

All too soon, it was over. How he knew, you weren’t sure, but Emet-Selch stopped and shrugged off your thighs wider to sit up. The emptiness left when his fingers pulled out was uncomfortable. You wanted more, but you also didn’t. You shouldn’t have wanted it in the first place and as soon as that high faded somewhat from your mind, guilt and disgust took their place because you could hear how wet you were for him, the way you had exposed yourself, the way body had opened up so readily. The memory of his mouth was especially crude, very definitely wrong. It had felt so good, but now it just made you squirm.

You wanted it to be okay, and it wasn’t. But you couldn’t deny the feeling of loss. Almost curiously, Emet-Selch rubbed his thumb over your swollen clit, watching the way it made your hips jump with half realized desire.

“Eager for more?” he asked, far too pleased with the thought, far too composed. “I suppose I could be convinced. If you were to ask nicely.”

“I don’t… know,” you said, stumbling around the words because the idea of asking for more was nearly impossible, but you didn’t like the idea of leaving it here either. What you really wanted, deep down, was for him to push it further. To take away your choice so you didn’t have to admit what you wanted. He probably knew that. He knew he was driving you insane, that was the whole wretched point of this all.

“I see,” Emet-Selch said, letting you close your legs. You felt cold without him. He rolled his neck and brushed aside the lock of white hair hanging over one eye, fixing his shirt.

“Don’t you…?” you began to ask, propping yourself upright and pulling your discarded dress over yourself like a blanket. Your underwear had landed somewhere in the sheets, lost. Emet-Selch was still fully clothed. Not entirely as composed as he normally was, but not even half as bad as you. “Aren’t you…?”

“I am sufficiently entertained. Enough, at least, to remain patient.” He let out a heavy breath, dark eyelashes fluttering as he blinked a few times to steady himself. “I shall take my leave, however. I daresay a bit of space will benefit us both.”

VIII.

[Charcoal Pansies]

Emet-Selch was gone.

Usually, you found ways to occupy yourself. Even if only in menial, pretend ways. Learning new chess moves, reading, writing, drawing, organizing—anything to keep you from losing your mind in this seasonless, sunless prison. He had quite a few books on botany you’d been picking through, amazed to find sketches of plants you doubted even existed anymore, labeled in languages nobody spoke.

Concentrating on any of it would be impossible. You laid listless and still, staring up at the ceiling. All you could think about was the sensation of him touching you. The excitement, the anticipation, the pleasure. The filthiness. You bathed after he left, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a physical imprint, but a reminder he’d branded into your body. Lethargic tears slipped down into your hair. Your thighs tensed in a continuous switch up of remembered arousal and protective disgust. And then came the ache, the craving. Why had he left you? Why hadn’t he stayed? Part of you thought that you would have let him do anything to do so long as it meant you didn’t have to be alone. You’d have let him hit you and bruise you and take you as long as it meant he would hold you afterward.

That was all you could think, all you could focus on, all you could want. To the very marrow of your bones and deeper, carved like heretic glyphs into the pit of your being, he had claimed you in the way the Unseen were always said to. It wasn’t just a deal that shackled you to him. It wasn’t just the ring you had grown used to wearing.

You had to get out of here. You had to get out or you would be stuck forever, happy in your cage because you were in love with the one who kept you. You needed to return to the mother whose image was getting fainter with each passing day and the home that felt so distant. You weren’t sure how long it would take until you couldn’t remember any details at all, or how much you could handle before you broke down completely. But when you slept, you didn’t dream of your home or your garden or your mother. You didn’t dream of the green, fresh world of the living. You dreamed of devious yellow eyes and that dangerous smirk. And when you woke up, your tears came only because you were alone.

IX.

[Sunset Snapdragons]

After that day, Emet-Selch acted as if it hadn’t happened. You expected him to return with expectations or a lecture or even lust, but instead you silently sat across from him as your stomach twisted itself into confounding knots, your thighs pressed together and eyes avoiding his as you waited for him to say something, to do something. But he seemed just as content with silently watching. Those unnerving yellow eyes tracked the movement of your thighs pressing together, relishing the blush you couldn’t hide, the way you couldn’t seem to sit still. And you were more than aware that all of these things together were an embarrassing giveaway, but it wasn’t as if you were capable of hiding anything from him to begin with.

“Is aught the matter with you?” he asked lightly, knowingly.

“No, why?” you asked, too high, too defensively.

“Your face is the most peculiar shade of red,” Emet-Selch told you with a smirk. “Not to mention the rapid drumming of your heart. Mayhap you’ve fallen ill. Shall I administer treatment?”

You tensed up, unable to stifle the way your breath caught as ideas of what sort of treatment he had in mind rolled through your head.

Not good.

As long as you had been here, you knew how things were. You knew the game he was playing, and the eventuality. Escape or eternity. You laid in his arms at night and kissed him and sat at his feet like a kept pet, and you knew what it meant. And yet you didn’t. You had no idea of the aftershocks of sexual intimacy, how it would make your skin crawl with disgust and shame yet burn so desperately for his touch. The contradiction of wanting to escape that unreadable yellow gaze altogether while throwing yourself into his arms tore you in half. You wanted to talk about what had happened, but you felt like if you did, it would end in tears. Or worse. You wanted to scream at him, and you wanted to beg that he never leave you again.

Was that the game? Sometimes existing like this felt so natural, so obvious, so normal that you forgot to question it. But everything Emet-Selch did was calculated and cruel. Controlled. Him taking you was not an accident, him breaking you down more and more was not an accident. Him making you come before abandoning you to the confusing storm of post-orgasm emotions was not at all an accident. His behavior now was by some kind of design.

“I’m fine, thank you,” you said.

And Emet-Selch didn’t call you out on your lie. He didn’t need to, his smirk said enough.

[Black Ringed Poppies]

Emet-Selch was in a mood. Not angry, exactly, but certainly not in good spirits. Then again, you felt the same, caught between two minds. The monotony of isolation was grating on you more than usual, the tension and stress of playing this bizarre game with him becoming more intolerable by the minute. In the hours he had been gone, all you could think was that you wanted him to return. But now that he was here, all you felt was frustration and the smoldering need to express it somehow.

Things had gone too far. There had to be a breaking point, and you felt as if you’d reached it because every time you thought about coming on his hand, you wanted to tear your skin to shreds and you wanted to replicate his touch, to self-destruct with disgust and indulge in lust.

Why wouldn’t he do anything?

Why couldn’t you do anything?

These days, you cried a lot. You plotted and planned exactly what you would say to him, how you would broach the subject, and then when he returned, you couldn’t say anything at all. Emet-Selch expected you to choose between two intolerable options, and he had all the patience and time to wait for you to decide.

You lingered outside of the bathroom while he washed his face, perched on the edge of the bed where you were able to catch glimpses of him through the cracked door. Speaking to Emet-Selch when he was like this was probably a bad choice, but this hungry sense of desperation kept eating at you, a devouring need for interaction even if was negative. Part of you almost hoped it was negative. That was something tangible, at least.

Or maybe you were just afraid that if it weren’t negative, you would give in.

“Is something wrong?” you called to him. He definitely heard you. With only a sliver of the room visible, you caught the bend of his elbow going rigid at the question at the tone you used, but only momentarily. “You can tell me if something is bothering you.”

When he didn’t immediately respond, you looked down to pick at the hem of your skirt idly. It was another one of the many dresses that were too fancy to be sleepwear, but not appropriate enough to be worn in public. You’d grown so used to wearing them that it almost seemed strange to have spent most of your life suffering strict undergarments and toe-pinching shoes.

Emet-Selch finally emerged fresh faced, the front of his shirt wet where the water had dripped and that lock of white hair stuck to his forehead. Without the kohl lining his eyes, earring, and extravagant robes, Emet-Selch did lose a certain amount of severity. But he also seemed more intimidating, that aristocratic bearing intensifying significantly. His frown didn’t help.

“I don’t mean to pry,” you said quickly, not really meaning it, but feeling the need to back out just in case.

“And yet pry you do,” Emet-Selch said in a nearly dispassionate way. He sighed, his shoulders falling a bit. “I shall forgive you this—the source of my ill-humor is hardly a secret. While I enjoyed directing that self-important emperor in his noble conquest for a time, I’ve long grown bored of his idealistic drivel. There are few traits I find as unappealing as a fool who believes in his own lies.” His expression shifted then, dark humor twisting his mouth as he looked at you. “He and your mother have much in common, it really is no wonder they’re sworn enemies. ‘tis most unfortunate that those similarities manifest in increasingly infuriating ways.”

“The Emperor and my mother are nothing alike,” you said firmly, eyebrows furrowing with the slightest bit of the anger burning away in your gut. The admonishment wasn’t as strong as it should have been, you were completely taken aback not only by his substantive answer, but by the answer itself. Unconcerned with your response, Emet-Selch crossed the room to change his shirt, a process you very pointedly did not watch. Most of the time, you felt embarrassed by his seeming lack of boundaries when it came to changing clothes, or at least by his lack of care that you should see. Now you were too preoccupied to think about that, your thoughts whirling.

Emet-Selch never really spoke of the outside world, or what he did when he left. Your knowledge of the Unseen was limited enough that you had a hard time imagining what he could possibly be doing, but the idea that he was interacting with the human world shocked you. When you thought of the Empire, all that came to mind was that terrible, terrible night. The violence, the terror, fleeing through the woods. Being caught. Usually you just pretended it had been a nightmare, ignoring the shaky, nauseous memory of running and the pain and the fear. But now you forced yourself to remember, and then you thought about how it all came together. How convenient it all was.

Emet-Selch often made it a point to deride your intelligence. For the first time, you thought he might have had a point. Because you were stupid. How had you missed it? Or, at the very least, not thought about it being a possibility?

“Go on then,” Emet-Selch told you, breaking the tense silence as he turned around, dressed in a looser white shirt. “If there’s aught you wish to say, I suggest you avail yourself of it.”

That made your chest collapse with a heavy breath like you’d been hit. And you could have hemmed and hawed and hedged your way out of giving a direct answer, you could have stumbled your way through some explanation that he might believe.

“Were you responsible for the imperial attack the night we met?” you asked, the words too quick, tripping over themselves in fear of what they meant. You stood up to face his direction, but you couldn’t look at him, your eyes flicking every other direction for some anchor of safety. Saying it aloud felt ridiculous, but it also felt right.

“Was that not obvious?” Emet-Selch asked, unfazed. You turned around to look at him, your mouth falling open in shock at the easy admission.

“So, you were?”

“Are you really-“ he cut off the question, expressing a nearly theatrical display of his disbelief. “Certainly it would be clear to even the most dull-witted of men that I orchestrated the attack. Unless you are to believe in the convoluted workings of coincidence and fate, naught else makes sense.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice wobbling despite your best attempts to stay steady. “I thought that you were, that you...” That he was, what? A good person? Your friend? Your lover? You thought he would be honest with you? You shook your head, trying to clear it. “I could have died. My mother could have died. The kingdom could have fallen.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Emet-Selch chided. “The powers that be would have stepped in long before then. If I had any intention of toppling your mother’s ill-gotten crown, I wouldn’t have used such a crass method. An attack like that was certain to fail from the start.”

“It was like… like a gambit,” you said slowly.

“Ah," he said, drawing out the sound with dramatic glee, "so you have learned something after all.”

“If military domination wasn’t the goal, then why-why even bother?” you asked.

“Why indeed,” he said. You saw it in his eyes, the same mean red feeling that had been welling up inside of you, the same pent up well of toxic tension. It was often there, at least a little. Usually you took it as a sign to hide or attempt to appease him. You should have had the sense to leave.

"But I-I was a part of it?" you asked. The answer was obvious enough that you didn’t need to wait for Emet-Selch to say anything, you quickly moved on. “But how did you know I would call for your help?"

“It was hardly difficult. Acquiring you was a necessary step moving forward, but anything less than a fair exchange wouldn’t be binding. And to that end, only a genuine catastrophe would do.” Emet-Selch paused, his smile growing. “I had no idea you would play your part so spectacularly, I really didn’t. It was my hope that a suggestion from one close to you would inform your actions, but I hardly anticipated the zeal you would take to the task. As soon as you were free of your mother’s pesky veil, you called for me to save you. And I commend your performance, it was inspired. Moving. Even those ill-fated soldiers felt your desperation and passion. ”

“You did all of that just to get me?” you asked softly. Your throat had become thick, like it was swollen.

“Oh my, aren’t we conceded?” Emet-Selch asked. “Surely you’re not so vain to think that you would be worth that much effort. As I said, taking the crown princess was, of course, important, but it was a mere trifle compared to what that particular plan accomplished.”

“And what’s that?”

“You need not worry yourself about that now.”

“It’s not like I have anything else to worry about,” you told him, a hysterical edge to your voice. “Or anything to do other than wait for you, or listen to you, or let you...”

Just like that, the air was punched from your lungs. Because that was the heart of this, the sickly terrible innards of your helpless rage. A part of you must have known that he was responsible for the attack because you weren’t surprised. Instead you felt helpless, like the child you used to be pounding at a locked door, crying and begging to be let out. Only, you didn’t even have a door. If you were truly only here because of some practical reason related to his schemes, that meant that you weren’t important. That you, as yourself, had no value. And what were you supposed to do with that? With a sickeningly sharp slap of oddly visceral pain, you realized that you had entertained the idea that Emet-Selch actually liked you. You had allowed him to touch you and allowed yourself to grow more comfortable because, in your heart, you had the disturbingly romantic notion that you were something more to him.

But you weren’t. And you knew that.

It hurt. It hurt so bad you could have screamed.

“Why don’t you just kill me?” you asked, the back of your eyes burning with tears. “If taking the crown princess was all that you needed, why continue to torture me? You could have any girl, any-any woman…" That, more than anything, made you want to scream because the mere idea of anyone else taking your place was nearly physically agonizing. “It’s not like I—it’s not like I matter. I’m just a piece on the board, right? So kill me and be done with it.”

Emet-Selch studied you for an agonizingly long moment before responding. “Is that what this is?” he asked, his voice pitched high in disbelief. “You’ve worked yourself into a state of hysteria as a result of insecurity?”

“Shut up!” you shouted, nearly dizzy with the amount of anger you felt at hearing him reduce your feelings to the petty antics of a child. “That’s not it, it’s not like that.”

“Do not raise your voice at me, girl,” Emet-Selch said, approaching you with a decidedly stormy expression.

“Don’t come near me,” you told him, your breathing fast and shallow. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to leave right now. If you won’t let me then... then you might as well kill me. It doesn’t matter, right? So just...”

“You think death would free you from me?” Emet-Selch asked, amusement creeping back into the darkness of his expression.

“I don’t care!” you said, shaking your head. “I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate playing these games and being alone and… and I don’t even matter, I know I don’t. I can’t take it, I can’t or I’ll...” Something within you crashed, the anger stifled beneath the weight of grief, of self-pity, of shame. “Please, I want to go home. I have to see my mother.”

“Oh, not this again,” Emet-Selch said, exasperated. He was so much taller, blocking the light. His terrible posture didn’t make things better, either. If anything, it just made his silhouette more intimidating. And he was going to touch you, to grab you. Why not? You’d let him do worse at this point. You’d let him do whatever he wanted, you were complicit in it all. “I had hoped you were beyond this. You made an oath to-“

“Don’t touch me,” you demanded again, your voice becoming oddly shrill as you lashed out. Emet-Selch caught your wrist before your hand could make contact with his chest the way you intended, his entire body going still.

“This is-”

He stared at your hand for a moment before laughing, seemingly caught between annoyance and amusement, his grip around your wrist tightening to the point you were certain he would break it. The expression Emet-Selch wore when he met your eyes froze you to your core.

“Have I not given you aught I could in order to see your needs met? Have I not been honest with you—patient with you? I assure you, there are few others from whom I would tolerate such insolence.”

“Let me go,” you said, panicked as you tried to free your arm. It didn’t matter, his grip was like a vice. “I ought to remove this hand,” Emet-Selch told you. “That might stop you from attempting to attack your master in the future.”

"No,” you said, pulling even harder to get your arm away from him.

Before you could make sense of the shift, Emet-Selch pushed you flush against the wall. All the air in your lungs let out with a heavy sound and you squealed, pushing against his chest. It was easy for him to gather your wrists in his hand, pinning them above your head.

“Careful, now,” he advised.

“Stop,” you told him, trying desperately to pull free. “You’re hurting me.”

“And yet,” Emet-Selch said sharply, “it could get much, much worse. Shall I show you? Would you like to know what it truly feels like to wish for death?”

That made you go limp, all of your fight dying as you thought about the horrors he could inflict upon you. Everything you knew about true pain came from that night in the woods, and even now your memories were distant. All that remained was the sickening heat, the searing agony racing up your leg, the shredded bits of skin oozing blood into the soil. You shook your head frantically, terror filling you at the promise of pain in his eyes.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, please stop.”

“Do you think those tears will invite my pity?” Emet-Selch asked. “I’m afraid to say that they’re having the opposite effect. I’ve no sympathy for this pathetic display.”

You met his eyes with the intent to make an appeal, but you could see the truth. The coldness in his eyes, gold frosted over.

“It is as they say, spare the rod and spoil the child. You have been spoiled your entire life, no doubt by your doting mother.”

“Emet-Selch, please,” you said, knowing you sounded exactly as pathetic as he accused you of being but unable to control yourself. “I’m sorry, please.”

After a moment, it seemed as if your words, surprisingly, had an effect. Something within his gaze shifted. You realized a second later that it wasn’t in a good way.

“If you were sorry,” he said, his voice softer, “why would you instigate this petty quarrel in the first place? I’ve my theories, but I’ll allow you the chance to explain yourself.”

“I don’t have a-a reason,” you said. “I just…” You wanted to leave. You didn’t want to be here. It was driving you insane, you were losing your mind in the monotony of a place that never changed, losing your sanity in the company of a being as frightening and mercurial as Emet-Selch. And the fact that you wanted him to do more, to touch you, to care about you, was a sign of actual madness. If you were in your right mind, you could reject those feelings. You had to believe that. You couldn’t bear this anymore. And he had to know what you felt, he must have. But you couldn’t tell him those things, not looking into his eyes while he loomed above you, not with the fresh reminder that you were utterly at his mercy.

“Nothing?” Emet-Selch repeated. “That’s hardly a compelling motivation. Your actions tell a very different story.” He paused, as if waiting for you to ask. But you didn’t. “To wit, your behavior reeks of desperation and insecurity.”

He finally let you go, stepping away. You almost fell over, having to steady yourself against the wall.

“If you desired my attention, I assure you that this was a poor method of receiving it.”

Sniffing pathetically, you got your balance. Emet-Selch’s back was to you, as if he was already disinterested in your inner turmoil. That just made things worse. Angry, hurt, confused. Emotionally devastated. You couldn’t even say exactly why—why now, why it was so strong right then, what was truly the breaking point—but the barrage of pressure overcame all reason. Emet-Selch’s threats weren’t veiled, but you were too hot, emotion pressing so hard to get out of your skin that you felt like you would burst unless you acted on it.

“I don’t want your attention,” you said with as much venom as you could muster, your voice wobbling out of control. “I-I hate you. You took advantage of me and-and… You ruined my life.” Your words wavered uncertainly in the silence for a moment, drawn out and tinny.

Emet-Selch rubbed a hand across his face, shaking his head. “Would it be too much to accept my leniency with grace?” he snapped. He looked over his shoulder at you, genuine disgust in his expression. “Oh, yes, of course it would be. For you.” He turned to you in full, staring down at you with such utter contempt it made your breath hitch. “Tell me, what life is it that I ruined? Your pathetic, boring existence was to be spent languishing in your mother’s palace, keeping her kingdom intact and none the wiser to the ways in which she exploited you. You think she loved you? You poor, pathetic little fool. What do you think would happen if you returned—that she would invite you back with open arms? Nay, she would sniff out my scent upon your skin and have you cleansed in boiling water and clapped in cold iron.”

You shook your head. “That’s ridiculous and-and,” you stumbled on those words, your brain unable to come up with anything more apt than, “that’s ridiculous, I won’t believe your evil lies.”

“Must I remind you that I do not lie?” he asked. “More’s the pity, I don’t doubt that you would be happier if I were to lie to you.”

“I could never be happy with you,” you said, your hands clenched into tight fists at your side.

“Oh, but you have been happy,” he said, slowly and with emphasis. You shook your head again, rejecting the very idea of that. Emet-Selch watched your face with great interest, his eyes becoming alight with amusement. “Is that why you’ve gotten yourself so thoroughly worked up? Because you know, deep down, that you feel a sense of belonging here? Does it truly burn you so that you enjoy being with me?” You shook your head once more, blinking tears and beyond words. He smirked. “I understand perfectly well. You were, after all, the one who so proudly proclaimed you would never like or trust me.”

“And I don’t,” you insisted, taking a few awkward steps forward, your foot practically stopping with emphasis on the statement. “You know that’s not how I feel.”

“And again, you accuse me of lying,” Emet-Selch said, his mood shifting once more to a familiarly theatrical exhaustion. “I suppose if I expect you to be honest with yourself, I must bear the burden of proof.”

You should have known it was a bad idea. You had all but invited it by getting nearer to him. Because you were a fool, because you underestimated danger. Because, on some level, maybe you felt like this was the only way things could end. There was nowhere else to go.

“No—hey! What are you doing!?” you asked, putting up a decent struggle when he grabbed you, dread sinking hot into your gut as you squirmed and fought, trying to get away. Despite that, Emet-Selch had no issue turning you around and pushing you down onto the table, bending you over in an incredibly suggestive way. But you weren’t surprised either, not entirely. “He-hey stop!”

“Why? This must have been what you wanted, acting as you have,” Emet-Selch said, his hand wrapping around to the front of your neck to pull you up. You clawed at his arm, but it was pointless. His free hand lifted your skirt, pushing your panties down. You protested, pressing your thighs together, but he ignored that. “I wonder… Perhaps it comes from a subconscious desire to have your behavior corrected. It’s clear that you have been deprived of beneficially strict guidance, ‘tis only natural to seek it out in other ways.” He sighed heavily. “Such a bother.”

“No, I-“ Whatever you meant to say was cut off by the way he shoved his fingers into your mouth. Roughly, making you drool and choke on them. His other hand continued to hold you still by the neck, your body jerking and twitching in your pathetic attempts to free yourself.

“What a mess,” Emet-Selch said disapprovingly, sounding utterly detached to the muffled sounds of your protests as his fingers explored your mouth. It wasn’t entirely sexual, but it felt dirtier than anything else he’d done, saliva spilling out of your mouth and down your chin, your lips kept open for him to thrust his fingers in and out, mimicking something far lewder. You whimpered, closing your eyes, your legs clamped together as tightly as possible. For all the good it would do. He easily kicked your feet apart, wedging your thighs open with his knee. When his fingers pulled out of your mouth, that hand immediately dropped between your legs while his other pressed you flat to the tabletop. There was no barrier to keep him from touching you.

“Stop,” you protested, still fighting in your futile struggle.

“At what junction of human evolution was it decided that fear and arousal should so closely resemble one another?” Emet-Selch asked. You weren’t wet, but his fingers were. He used your saliva to slick his fingers between the outer lips of your pussy, easily finding your clit and rubbing against it. It didn’t matter that you weren’t wet because you were hypersensitive and frantic, and the promising beginnings of pleasure had your cunt clamping down hard around nothing in honest anticipation. Your body bucked against his, but Emet-Selch was heavier and stronger than you and your struggling barely displaced him. “The confusion could very well be unique to you. You do seem to enjoy protesting that which you desire.”

“I don’t…” you said, trying to reject the feeling of pleasure as he continued to work against your clit. It was too fast to be strictly good, but Emet-Selch knew what he was doing. Worse, your body remembered how things went last time. Already there was more give with each movement, blood rushing down between your legs to meet the demand of pleasure. “Please, stop, I—”

“This was… inevitable,” Emet-Selch told you, his hand tightening around the back of your neck, his fingers working tight little circles over your swelling clit that you had you writhing for completely different reasons. “Your kind is defined by so many unsavory traits, traits that you gleefully embody. Self-absorbed, consumed by emotion, and equipped with the belief you are entitled to act in any way you see fit. You only have yourself to blame now. But, by all means, continue to beg. You are most suited to it.”

You whined in distress as he teased your entrance. Between your saliva and your body’s natural reaction to pleasure, there was enough lubrication for Emet-Selch to work a finger into your pussy, quickly joined by another. You definitely weren’t wet enough for that, but that didn’t stop him.

“N-n-no,” your denial stuttered out of your mouth with a whine. He wasn’t being careful, or trying to work you into it. This was punishing, it was meant to hurt as he established a too-fast pace, keeping you pinned down so you had no choice but to take it. “Please, it... hurts,” you whined, hoping he would pity you.

“Tell me,” Emet-Selch said, ignoring your protests and the depraved sound of his hand slapping against you each time he drove his fingers as deep as they could go. And even if you didn’t want it, you could feel the way things were going, the way your body was responding. It hurt now, but that wasn’t going to last. And the roughness wasn’t doing anything to curb your body’s traitorous response. “How does it feel?”

“Stop,” you told him. Struggling just made it worse, made you feel his fingers more acutely. The way they thrust and curled into you, filling the room with the slick squishing sound as you became more and more receptive. “Please stop.”

He clicked his tongue. “That,” Emet-Selch said sharply, “is not an answer. Try again.”

“It hurts,” you whined, stressing the word as if you could make it true with your own insistence.

“It hurts?” he repeated, his voice higher with doubt. Mocking. His fingers twisted, curled, scissoring in a way that really did hurt, but it also didn’t. You couldn’t get in a breath. You couldn’t shut it out. Emet-Selch punished your silence with a few hard thrusts that had you rocking forward on your toes, saliva pooling thick on your tongue. The moan you couldn’t bite back was too honest to deny, loud enough to hear over the filthy sound of him finger fucking you. “Answer me, girl. Does this hurt?”

“Y—es!” The word got cut in half because Emet-Selch pushed you further forward and upward at the same moment, removing the pressure on your neck. Your feet were barely on the ground, your toes scrambling for traction as you tried to squirm away. He made an annoyed sound, pulling his fingers out of you and flipping you around onto your back. Your head hit the table too hard, a heavy sound punched out of your lungs.

“Let us have a look, then, hm?” Emet-Selch said, spreading your thighs apart. You tried to push your skirt down, to knock away his hands, but he easily pinned one of your wrists to the table, squeezing it so tightly that you feared he’d break it. When you stopped fighting, his grip loosened.

Realizing that you couldn’t stop him, you squeezed your eyes shut to the view of him peering between your legs. His fingers slid across your slit, nudging your clit in a way that made you gasp. When they slowly sunk into you, you swore you saw stars, your pussy clamping down like a vice to suck them deeper.

“S-stop,” you said, the word slurred and tight.

“Does it hurt?” Emet-Selch cruelly asked, pulling out slowly.

You just shook your head, nodding and moaning through your teeth when he roughly pushed back in, adding a third finger on the second pass. It didn’t hurt at all anymore. Worse, you wanted more. You wanted to get off, wanted to feel the build and snap of pleasure just like last time.

“I suppose it must hurt, what with the way you’re crying,” Emet-Selch mused. “It would not reflect well on you if you were able to find pleasure in despair.”

He released your wrist so he could touch your clit in time with each thrust, you choked on your cry, fingers bunching tight into your dress in search of some kind of anchor.

“No,” you got out, still shaking your head as if you weren’t getting closer and closer to coming all over his hand, splayed out across the table. His hand, the one casually playing with your clit, pressed heavy and firm right above where his fingers continued thrust into you. You felt delirious, panting and sweating and flushed and so desperate to get off it was the brink of madness.

“Do you hear this?” He punctuated the cruel question with a few distinctly sharp thrusts, the sounds graphic enough to make his point for him. You whimpered, shaking your head again. “If you admit the truth,” Emet-Selch began, “I may take pity on you.”

"I'm… I can't, I'm-"

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” you finally admitted, the word broken.

“Do you want me to let you finish? Shall I allow you to come on my hand and expose every pathetic lie you’ve felt so emboldened to tell?”

“Yes,” you said, squinting your eyes open to look at him through tear-coated eyelashes, your back arching because those terrible, awful words appealed to a feral sense of hungry, hot need within you. “Yes, please. Please-" It was too much. You gasped, thighs trembling and taut as you reached your limit, the fizzling threads of pleasure promising to snap with just a little more-

Emet-Selch pulled away at the very last second. Your hips jerked in an attempt to chase his fingers, a desperate and pathetic cry leaving your mouth. Fresh tears slipped down your cheeks, mingling with the sweat.

“Please,” you begged shakily. “I just want to… Please…”

Emet-Selch let your thighs drop, stepping away to pull you upright by the front of your dress. You swayed dizzily, your lower back painfully pressed into the edge of the table and legs like jelly. He loomed above you, but you stared at his chest rather than look at his expression, panting and mourning the loss of friction.

“Please,” you begged again. “Please, I was so close. Please, Emet-Selch, I-“

"Look at me,” he said.

You shook your head, closing your eyes instead because you knew what this was, and it was far too cruel. Emet-Selch grabbed your chin, forcing your face forwards with fingers that were wet and smelled musky like you. It hurt, and you knew he wouldn’t let you go unless you complied. Trying desperately just to breathe, you opened your eyes.

Emet-Selch held you there, searching for something. You weren’t sure what he expected. You didn’t even have the strength to look at him defiantly, yours must have been the most pathetic face he’d ever seen. Still half caught in a lustful haze, you mourned the shy attraction you felt, the way you couldn’t meet his eyes for more than a handful of seconds.

Eventually, it seemed like he found whatever he’d been looking for. Rather than being pleased with it, Emet-Selch’s expression darkened as he peeled his body away from yours completely. Without his support, your trembling legs gave out and you fell at his feet, your breathing uneven and body burning in humiliation and unfulfilled lust and disgust and hatred and self-pity. Without the carpet, your head would have bounced against the floor. As it was, all you got was a solid blow that had your brain knocking against your skull.

“Are you so desperate that you would grovel at my feet like a dog?” he asked. “It’s just as well, you make for quite the pathetic bitch.” That word ran through you like an electric shock and you began to sit up, fresh tears of rage and humiliation searing the back of your eyes and mouth open with some form of protest. Emet-Selch readily pushed you back down, the tread of his boot digging into the back of your neck until your face was all but smushed into the floor and all you could do was whine. “Stay there,” he demanded, his voice dripping distaste. “Although you don't yet seem to realize, it is where you belong."

“Emet-Selch, please,” you mumbled, your tears dripping down into the rug. He let up a bit, allowing you a few inches space from the floor.

“And so comes the begging,” he said with a sigh. “Very well. Beg.”

“Please,” you muttered, doing as he said regardless of the humiliation, too desperate to be let up to care about degrading yourself. “Please stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Please let me up,” you asked, your hands forming fists beneath you to stop their shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For-for misbehaving.”

“Be specific, girl. Tonight alone you have, as you say, ‘misbehaved’ a number of times in ways both petty and grievous. Given your limited capacity, I shall accept an apology for but a single instance.”

“I’m sorry for pick-picking a fight,” you said, hoping your regret and shame would read as apologetic. You sniffed pathetically. “I shouldn’t have. Truly, Emet-Selch. I am so so-sorry.”

“And to whom do you belong?” he asked pitilessly.

You closed your eyes in defeat, a different sort of shame working through you. “You.”

“What was that?”

“You,” you said, louder so he could hear. “I belong to you.”

That statement lingered for just a moment, the sound of it taking a very physical and sharp shape because it wasn’t just the contract you swore. It was the rapid thump and pulse of remembered denied pleasure between your legs, it was the heady weight of his disappointment and displeasure that struck you in the chest. It was everything, all of this.

"I believe I’ve proven my point,” Emet-Selch said sharply, the pressure removed from your neck. Moving slowly, afraid of being pushed back down, you sat up enough to look up at him through wet lashes. Emet-Selch looked down at you imperiously, no trace of affection or even lust in his eyes. “You may go.”

“Emet-Selch-“

“Your continued presence here will henceforth be viewed as consent to aught I wish to do with you,” he said, turning away from you. “If you have any desire to spare yourself, you will leave.”

The threat worked. At this point, you weren’t sure if he meant that he would fuck you or torture you. Afraid of both, or maybe afraid of the impulse that wasn’t afraid at all, you got onto your unsteady legs, shaking so hard you almost fell twice. He stood with his back to you, body tense. You hurried out of the bedroom and into the library. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t lit like it was during what you thought was probably daytime, you could find the pathetic pile of blankets you used as a bed in complete darkness. You had been sleeping like this less and less, all too accustomed to being in his bed. In his arms. Collapsing onto them, you wrapped yourself up in a blanket cocoon, staring at the thin sliver of light from the bedroom.

Not long after, Emet-Selch shut the door, removing the light altogether. And you were alone, free to cry in the dark as you pleased. As much as you wished for strength in that moment, to draw upon anger and hatred to steady you, all you could feel was the overwhelming oppression of heartbreak and the horrible, detestable yearning for him to comfort you.

XI.

[Cream-Colored Honeysuckle]

When Emet-Selch arrived, you didn’t acknowledge it, burying your face in the pages of the nearest book. When he greeted you, you didn’t answer. When he sighed in annoyance, taking off his coat, you stayed absolutely still, trying to discern his mood from only your peripheral view of him.

That was the way this went. He would become disinterested in attempting to force your attention, and you would run away and hide.

“What is it that you hope to gain by continuing to ignore me if not my ire?” Emet-Selch finally asked. You glared even harder at the pages of the book you weren’t reading, curling further into yourself.

“I’m busy,” you told him, knowing full well that he might get angry at your rejection but feeling too upset to care. Let him get mad, let him hurt you. It didn’t matter, it didn’t matter, it didn’t-

He pulled the book right out of your hands, moving too fast for you to stop him.

“I was reading that,” you protested, scrambling upright and reaching out to get it back. Emet-Selch pulled it away at the last moment, making you topple to the side. The sharp pain of landing on your tailbone was insignificant compared to the embarrassment of falling. Again. Your knees were bruised from falling twice before.

“Reading... upside down?” Emet-Selch asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” you said, stubbornly setting your jaw as you sat up. He rolled his eyes dramatically, setting it aside.

“Come now, let us be civil,” he offered, extending his hand to help you to your feet.

This was all wrong. Emet-Selch was supposed to be mad, or defensive. He was supposed to come with excuses or anger or something other than a smile and playful demeanor. After everything that happened, you wanted him to be upset because at least that would give you an excuse, at least then you wouldn’t feel so confused about the anger and fear swirling up hot in your head.

But he wasn’t.

Unable to think of a way to reject it, you accepted the help. Emet-Selch’s grip was firm and steady. His hand felt human, flesh and blood and bone. He had you fooled, sometimes. Thinking that hurt so badly it was physical. Yes, you were a fool.

Rather than releasing you, Emet-Selch pulled you even closer, causing you to stumble awkwardly as you tried to avoid colliding with his body. Anger pulsed within you, rage and betrayal, but so did the jittery nerves that came with being near him. You had spent every moment since he left contemplating on what you would do when he reappeared, what you would say to him. He deserved anger, and disgust, and to be yelled at until you were blue in the face. He had hurt, humiliated, and abandoned you. But now that he was here, you couldn’t string together a single sentence. You couldn’t even look at him.

“That racing heart of yours sounds fit to burst right out of your chest,” Emet-Selch noted casually, looking down at you with that unreadable half-smirk you’d become so accustomed to. It was more than you could take to meet his eyes, but there was nowhere else. Nothing else. Emet-Selch was barely touching you and yet your senses were overflowing with him. His smell, his warmth, his physically commanding presence, and the mere inches between the two of you, crackling with tension. “You’re frightened of me.”

You swallowed hard, feeling your breath catch. ”You said you wouldn’t do anything I wasn’t ready for,” you told him, staring hard at his chest.

“But you were more than ready to strike me,” Emet-Selch countered. “Not even I have stooped so low.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, closing your eyes. “I said I was sorry.“

“And I punished you in a way that resulted in no injury, doing naught that you hadn’t previously allowed me to do. I believe I proved my point well, given the circumstances.”

“Punishment?” you asked, pulling away from him . “That wasn’t punishment, that was... It was...”

“Mayhap I took things a bit far,” he allowed lightly, stopping you from finishing that statement. “For that, you will have to forgive me.”

Forgive him? To even ask that of you was so terribly cruel, so awful. He’d put his boot on your neck and made you beg like, as he said, a bitch. But you would forgive him, you knew you would. That had been the boiling point. Now you knew, and he knew too. It wasn’t up to you or him that you would forgive his actions, it just was. Thinking that burned hot at the back of your eyes because it wasn’t fair, but there was nothing you could do. He said it was punishment. Because you had been upset, because you lashed out. Because you were breaking apart and he thought it was a bid for attention and you weren’t even sure that he was wrong.

“Promise that you’ll never do it again,” you said, trying to hold out, to feign the strength you knew you didn’t have.

“Oh, gladly,” he said. “Assuming, of course, that you promise to never again behave in such a churlish fashion.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the unfairness of that answer, the impossibility of making such a promise.

“Thank you,” you said, the words coming out bitter and small.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Emet-Selch told you. “I’ve no use for your misery. Frustrating as you have proven to be, I confess that I’ve grown accustomed to your presence. You provide... well, decent entertainment.” He paused, drawing in a breath as if admitting something tedious. “I may go so far as to call you charming, on occasion.”

“I considered myriad gifts that might keep you occupied,” he continued, eyes narrowed slightly at your response, “but I doubted you would be easily entertained by trinkets or luxuries. Not you, the primavera princess.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you said, but your conviction was already faltering.

“What is it, precisely, that you think you have to gain by rejecting my generosity?” he snapped. “Surely it is preferable to my displeasure.”

“No, I-I’m sorry,” you said, your voice falling with defeat. “All I want is to know why I’m here. I-I know I overreacted, but I don’t understand what’s in it for you.”

He barely considered your question before shrugging. “I was bored.”

“But you said,” you began, forcing yourself to remain calm and steady, “you said that our—our deal was a part of your plan. Why?”

“Ignorance is bliss, girl,” Emet-Selch responded. He tilted your chin upward, once again forcing you to look into his pale eyes as he searched for something. The honesty of his expression frightened you, you couldn’t figure out whether or not to believe it.

“I want to know,” you pled. “Please, I won’t... I won’t be mad. I just want to know.”

“You should not make promises you have no intention to keep,” Emet-Selch chided you. “Know that I do this as much for your sake as I do my own. Truly, it is in your best interest to dispense with any concern you carry for the outside world. To be distracted by that which is beyond your control will only cause you unnecessary stress.”

Rejection welled up as an instant rebuke to his words, but Emet-Selch wasn’t being cruel in the way you could fight with indignance. He was right. If you were stuck here anyway, what was the point in knowing that bad things were happening? If you were given space, that might not have been your conclusion, but your thoughts were twisted around his proximity, confused and drifting and uncertain. A dozen different responses came to you—objections, arguments, demands, even threats. But it all fizzled out like ocean froth. You couldn’t argue, and you couldn’t be mad at him, you weren’t even sure you could remain frightened of him, not when your body was all too willing to melt in his arms. It didn’t matter what he did, or what he said. Even the information you wanted felt so far away and hazy, almost even unimportant. And he was here, right here. Physical and present and warm and familiar.

You breathed out, closing your eyes to center yourself before looking up at him. “Okay,” you said, grabbing his hand from your chin to take it in your own. He held you a moment, maintaining eye contact, before allowing it to drop.

“Good,” he said, like that was a matter settled and not the terrifying realization it truly was. “Well, this worked out splendidly. Now, come along. I have no doubt that this will brighten your poor mood.”

“What will?” you asked as Emet-Selch walked around you. You turned around to follow him, confused. It was short lived. Only a second passed before your eyes found what was different. Inset into the wall, a door. A door that, despite how naturally it suited its surroundings, hadn’t been there before. Even seconds before, you could have sworn it wasn’t there. You took a step toward it, your uncertainty becoming burning curiosity.

“That’s new,” you said.

“Indeed.”

“Where does it go?” you asked, your voice softer.

“Can you not spare even a moment of patience?” Emet-Selch asked dryly. You chased after him, waiting with bated breath as he reached out to open the door, all at once excited and nervous and frightened and curious. Nothing ever changed down here, but now something had.

The heady green scent of fresh grass hit you as soon as the door was pulled open, and then the natural fragrance of flowers in bloom. Growth and earth, the ancient and enduring smell of life in its purest form. You took a few steps forward while blinking rapidly, stunned into disbelief by the sight that greeted you.

“What is this?” you asked softly.

“It’s yours,” Emet-Selch said, pushing you further forward, just a bit. Just enough to get you past the threshold.

Lightheaded, you left the familiar room that had held you for so long, unable to fully comprehend the significance of freedom even in this minute state. The paving stones were cool and smooth against your bare feet, weaving a path through the garden to invite the passive enjoyer on a leisurely stroll. A short collection of steps took you to the grassy clearing, a verdant sea boasting nature’s finest art. It wasn’t just a garden; it was a paradise. Thick tangles that you only knew from the books you’d found in the library lined the path, their crawling greenery decorated with pearl-like white buds. Rich red roses climbed an arching trellis. The rainbow bulbs of tulips swayed below. Trees above formed a canopy of shade over the path, a stately white gazebo tastefully constructed amidst the plots. Between them bubbled and rushed a little brook, splashing along and over shiny rocks. Above, the sun glowed red like an ember in a sky of murky smoke. Despite that, the air was bright like mid-day, as if the light shone independently of any discernible source. Magic, most certainly. It didn’t make sense, but you decided that it didn’t matter. The air smelled fragrant and fresh, the grass spongy and soft beneath your bare feet. Flowers and plants and leaves danced in a gentle breeze that seemed to come from nowhere, whispering to one another.

You spun around to face Emet-Selch, blinking tears you only just realized had formed. He hadn’t followed you, remaining in the shade. Still, he looked pleased as he scanned the garden he’d created. Not the mean display of pleasure he often put on, but true satisfaction. He was handsome, you couldn’t help but focus on that. Sometimes you didn’t notice, or it didn’t register. But right then, it was all you could think. He was beautiful, and terrifying. The sight of him smiling slightly and framed in paradise struck you with a feeling far more lucid, far more powerful, than you had ever felt. Like a missive from on high, it came upon you as divine. Your chest swelled and heart ached, your cheeks warming up with an emotion other than embarrassment. In your stomach buzzed the angry flutter of hundreds of little wings. You thought you were going to scream, and cry, and laugh. Every single emotion you had ever felt brewed up hot and anxious, heavy in your lungs and throat and pumping hot in your veins.

All at once, you were overwhelmed with the strong desire to claw at the soil and dig up the roots of each plant, to rip the flowers apart with your bare hands and let the thorns tear your skin, to add your blood to the unnatural earth. To destroy his false paradise and reveal the horrible cruelty he had shown in creating it at all, to let out your helpless rage and anger and hatred and fear with the only form of rebellion you thought would hurt him.

At the same time came this weak, tremulous, affectionate need to throw yourself at Emet-Selch with open arms, to bury your head in his chest and weep with gratitude and pathetic desperation and the need for something far too intimate to name. For you, he created this beautiful place. Because he knew you, because he understood you in some way. You. For you. You wanted to cherish it, to thank him in every way you knew how, to drop at his feet and beg his forgiveness for being so difficult.

You wanted to demand to go home with the same breath you would use to beg for him to hold you, and you wanted it all so badly it hurt, so badly that it created a disastrous whirlwind held captive between your bones, something far too violent to withstand.

He caught your eye and you wondered if he knew, if he understood.

“Are you coming?” you asked him.

“Mmm, no. I best not," he said with a smile. "I shall leave you to enjoy it in peace.”

"No,” you said just a bit too loud, taking a few steps back toward him without thinking about it. “Please… Please stay?"

Emet-Selch’s head tilted, his eyes studying your face carefully. You saw something there, a consideration for your request you hadn’t seen before. You took a few more steps. Confusion made your head spin. Given a beautiful garden, the first new thing you had seen in who knows how long, and all you could think was that you didn’t want him to go. Pathetic.

“I don’t want to-to be alone,” you admitted.

Emet-Selch looked at you a moment longer before he shook his head indulgently. “Very well,” he said, coming into the garden. “I suppose I must not fault your weakness, foolish and feeble thing that you are.”

You closed the distance between the two of you, unsure of what you intended until you had already thrown your arms around his waist, clinging to him with all your strength. Emet-Selch was solid, steady. His body was familiar to you, even comfortable. You clung to him, feeling the grand swell of emotion become too heavy to stifle any longer. Tears rushed forth before you could stop them, your arms tightening around him in search of comfort.

For once, Emet-Selch had nothing to say about your pathetic behavior. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you.

How long had it been since anyone held you while you cried? But it wasn’t just being given that which you were deprived, it was Emet-Selch. Even if he was the cause of your pain, his were the only arms you wanted.

“Silly girl,” he muttered, running his hand through your hair in a contrastingly gentle way to the normally mocking words.

The feeling that swelled so heavy in your chest, the one that encompassed every emotion you had ever felt, it had to be love. Love for him.

You loved him.

XII.

[Wintry Sun Daffodils]

Emet-Selch was surprisingly delicate in the way he admired the delicate red blooms, nudging the bottom with the side of his finger to admire the striking color against the white of his glove. Nerves tingled through you at his inspection. Although he had been the one to create the garden, you had control over the design. The flowers seemed to spring up almost as soon as they were planted. In some ways, it felt cheap to have such complete control over what was meant to be natural. But you couldn’t say you hated it, either.

“If I’m remembering correctly, your inclusion of flowers such as these is most ironic,” Emet-Selch said.

You nodded, giving a shrug that he couldn’t see with his back still turned. Planting poppies might have seemed a strange choice, but they looked very nice alongside the petunias. “They’re very beautiful, don’t you think? Besides, I thought... well, they seemed fitting.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “More than you know.”

“It’s strange to be able to plant what I please regardless of the season, or even what would be possible,” you said, sidestepping that oddly pointed comment. “Everything here grows perfectly.”

“Fragrant, fresh, fair—yes, it is perfect.” He stood up, turning around to face you. “Your mother was clever to keep your abilities hidden behind the guise of the Unseen threat. If she hadn’t cloaked your gifts beneath the suffocating veil of that barrier, there’s no doubt that those of a particular sort would descend upon you in droves. Regardless of what she believes, you were most certainly her greatest success.”

You stared at him, confused. It was hard to tell when he was teasing and when he was serious. Playing into either never worked out well for you, it was best to answer as neutrally as possible. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Cultivation and preservation,” Emet-Selch said, gesturing as he began to walk around the garden, circling you. “Power imbued in you despite your very human form. Ingenious, really. I am more than capable of simple creation, but to sustain life is another matter entirely. Without my aid, these flowers ought to have withered and died by now, but your attention has been enough to see them thrive.” He paused in front of the trellis with its cloak of roses, dryly adding, “What a wonder.”

“Is this a joke?” you asked, hesitantly confused.

“No, it is not. Haven’t you ever wondered why your mother’s kingdom flourished where other’s lands became infertile and barren?” he asked. “Or why those within her palace seem to possess nearly supernatural longevity?”

You bit your lip, swaying on your feet as you considered what he was saying. “You’re saying that has something to do with me?”

“Not at all,” Emet-Selch told you. “I’m saying it has everything to do with you.”

“But that would mean that...” You hesitated, conclusions drawing in your head. Unhappy conclusions. “She was using me?”

“Of course she was,” Emet-Selch said seriously, not a trace of humor on his face.

“I-I never knew about anything like that,” you said, still confused, waiting for him to pull the rug out from under you.

“You wouldn’t. One does not relinquish an advantage when it is so easily maintained. Telling you the truth would be to shift control into your clumsy hands.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked him.

“I’ve learned all there is to learn by observing your passive use of these abilities, I see little point in keeping it from you now.”

“You’re using me too,” you said.

“Oh yes,” he readily agreed. “Such is the nature of our contract. But ere you work yourself into a fit, rest easy knowing that I’ve no interest in taking advantage of your unnaturally granted gifts. Fascinating as they are in composition, the magic is hardly unique.” He turned back to the roses, admiring them for a moment. “Still, maintaining a garden in the very heart of the Underworld is no small feat.”

“The Underworld?” you asked with a start. “Is that where we are?”

“Have you not yet realized...?” Emet-Selch began, turning to you with a condescending sort of smile that you would almost call fond. “No, you wouldn’t, I suppose.”

“What was I supposed to realize?” you asked, frowning at the insult. “You never tell me anything.”

“Do not mistake my words as a critique, I’ve come to find your straightforward approach quite endearing,” he said, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. “Would that I could enjoy that same serene vacancy of thought. I daresay I would be happier for it.”

“I wonder if you’d be any nicer,” you said.

“Oh dear, have I upset you?” Emet-Selch asked, saccharinely sweet.

“More importantly,” you said, brushing past his teasing , “if we’re in the Underworld, and this is your domain, does make you... King of the Underworld?”

He smiled and shook his head, clearly amused by the question.

“Why is that funny?” you asked, eyebrows furrowing because you could tell he was making fun of you, but you weren’t sure why this time.

He shrugged, looking at you with that same discomforting fondness. “I am struck once more by the synchronicity of your demeanor and title.”

“What does that have to do with anything? I don’t understand,” you said, frustrated.

“A feeling you’re well acquainted with, I’m sure,” he noted lightly. “But never you mind about any of that. I’m simply exhausted. Make yourself useful and draw a bath, hm?” Emet-Selch scanned you, his lips pursing. “You’ll have to join me, I suppose.”

Your stomach flipped. “Wait, that’s not-“

Emet-Selch held up a hand, stopping any protest. “I’m not inviting you into my bed covered in dirt.”

The thought to argue that you were not covered in dirt occurred to you, but it was an argument you would lose. You obediently turned and did as he asked, only sparing a second of thought to his very obvious misdirection before deciding it wasn’t that important. Outside of him, nothing really was.

XIII. [Lavender Spikes]

Emet-Selch sat up and threw an arm over his bent leg, leaving you in a dazed splay in the soft green grass. Your dress would most certainly have stains on the back. In another life, that would have been humiliating. But all you could feel was the shuddering remnants of pleasure as you pushed your skirt down, staring up at the unnatural sky as you caught your breath.

“That was,” you said softly, sitting up, “um... thank you?” It came out like a question, you weren’t sure what else to say. He hadn’t approached—though maybe the more apt word was accosted—you with much of a mind for conversation. Things had been trending more and more in that direction, his fingers constantly finding their way up your dress, his mouth mapping your skin, his words drifting like sweet smoke through your head. And you let it happen, even welcomed his touch. Begged for it, if he asked.

“I hope you weren’t engaged in anything too terribly important, I’m afraid you made too tempting a sight to ignore,” Emet-Selch said, looking over his shoulder with a smirk, showing no signs of contrition or being particularly affected by what he’d done. “Worrier that she was, I admit that your dear mother was wise for keeping you locked safely behind all those impenetrable walls, hidden from the prying eye of a poacher. Special talents aside, I have no doubt that spying the finest of flowers lazing amidst a garden in bloom—especially one so eager and ripe for the picking—would tempt even the most noble of individuals to thievery.”

You laughed breathlessly, a little awkwardly. As with many of the flattering things Emet-Selch said, there was a layer of insult to it. At this point, you could be content enough with the praise, even if it made you duck your head and shrug, shy despite everything you’d already done. “Thank you, although I doubt that’s true,” you said.

“That doubt demonstrates a dangerous naivety to the covetous nature that plagues your kind,” he lectured. “And mine, such as it is.”

“And you?” you asked.

Emet-Selch’s expressed became more amused. “Ah, but one cannot covet that which they already possess.”

You looked away, heat flooding your face at the reminder. It wasn’t a bad heat, you realized, although maybe it should have been. You toyed with the ring he’d given you, your mind returning to what you had been doing before his arrival. And then everything that happened after.

Even if Emet-Selch was perfectly content to touch you and move on as if nothing had happened, you couldn’t. Worse, your body couldn’t. You shifted uncomfortably, feeling the pulsing need that remained, the memory of his hand between your legs, his lips against your own. When he continued to say nothing, positioned perfectly in the shade of a tree, you worked up the confidence to speak.

“I made something for you,” you said before you could back out. You had intended to present it in a moment of romance, not while you were trembling and flushed with the thumping pulse of desire. But there was something about the comfortable silence between you, filled only by the sound of water and leaves brushing against each other, that gave you a bit of confidence. Besides, the post orgasm glow, such as it was, filled you with a hot swell of affection that you knew he wouldn’t accept in its raw form.

But this was fine, you thought. You hoped.

Emet-Selch didn’t ask about it as you leaned over to dig in the pile of books and half-finished flower garlands, merely watching. He had an uncanny habit of silence when you might have wanted conversation to ease your awkwardness. Luckily, you found what you wanted immediately. It was quite precious, after all.

“You gave me one,” you said, not meeting his eyes, “so I decided it was only right for you to have one from me as well. You don’t have to wear it. I wouldn’t expect you to, but I thought...” You shrugged helplessly, showing him the ring you had woven from the plant with its pearl-like buds. Not only were the stems delicate enough to take the dainty shape of a ring, the flower had flattened perfectly, mimicking a gem of some kind. You were quite proud of it, and Emet-Selch would never need to know how many attempts it took before you got it right. “It’s too late to do anything the proper way, but it’s tradition for both people to exchange rings before, uhm, con-consummating their marriage and I thought that, if we did, then I wanted to, first, um...” Again, all you could offer was a shrug, your words trailing off.

While you weren’t sure what you expected, it certainly wasn’t for Emet-Selch to laugh. Normally at first, or as normal as he ever was, but you could hear the edge of delighted madness on the edges and it made you regret every single thing you had ever said or done, rethinking your stupid proposal.

“Please don’t laugh at me,” you told him, flinching away from the sound. To your relief, he did quiet down, although his expression remained far too amused for comfort.

“How could I not?” Emet-Selch asked, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. “By now, I believed you would have exhausted your supply of entertaining antics. You do not cease to impress.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” you said, unsure of how that was supposed to make you feel better. That probably wasn’t the intention.

“And therein lies the source of my amusement. You are insufferably genuine. Adorable to a fault.”

Adorable. That word sent an instant stroke of heat through you, although you couldn’t help but scowl as you looked away from him to hide your embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t pout,” Emet-Selch said. “It is traditional for you to be the one who adorns my finger with a ring, is it not?” He adjusted his position so you could take his hand, moving as if it were some grand undertaking. “Well go on then.”

“You don’t have to humor me. It-it’s stupid,” you said. He said nothing, waiting expectantly. You huffed, gently taking his hand so you could push the ring onto his finger.

“It fits,” he said, as if surprised by the fact.

“It wasn’t difficult to size, I know your hands pretty well,” you said, admiring the way the green looked against his perfectly fair skin.

Emet-Selch’s lips quirked. “Yes. Quite intimately, I suppose.”

It took you a moment before the unintentionally dirty interpretation of your words made your insides twist with embarrassment. “That is not what I meant,” you said. He just smirked. “Anyway, I meant to do this before you... we...” you gestured helplessly, unable to say it.

“Did I foil your plans?”

“No,” you said. “Or, yes? It’s not like I had a plan or anything, it was just something that I wanted to do. I didn’t exactly expect for you to attack me like that, but-”

“I must disagree,” Emet-Selch said, cutting you off, “You were far from the unwilling victim of an attack. Unless you wish to argue that you weren’t shamelessly begging for me to-“

“No, no. You’re right,” you said loudly. “My point is that you surprised me.”

He just smirked. “I am... curious,” you said after a moment of silence. “Why do you, uhm...” You trailed off, unsure of how to finish the question.

Emet-Selch waited for you to continue and frowned with irritation when you didn’t. “Why do I... what?” he asked.

“Ah,” you looked down at the grass, petting it nervously. “Never mind, it was stupid.”

His eyes narrowed, burning into you. Emet-Selch said nothing, but you got the feeling that he wasn’t going to drop it either. He’d get it out of you one way or another. You sighed, kicking yourself for bringing it up. But the only way out was onward. You could do it fast, get it over with.

“When we do things,” you began, emphasizing the word in a way you hoped he would understand, “you never... I know it affects you, but you never...” You winced, shaking your head. “Do you not want me in that way? Or-or should I be... I don’t know. I understand, mechanically, how things work, but I don’t... If you want me to do something, I don’t know... I don’t know how.”

“Of that I am more than aware.”

That comment wasn’t at all helpful, making your heart sink. He said once that he didn’t mind your inexperience, but that didn’t lessen the shame. Emet-Selch didn’t make it any easier either, although you knew that was by design.

“If you don’t, then I can’t understand why you would... What you want from me? You gain nothing from doing... that...”

“If physical satisfaction was aught I desired from you, there would be no need for this mummery. Rather than suffering the various headaches you have caused me, it would be far simpler to play the conqueror and take as I please,” Emet-Selch told you in a matter-of-fact way. “Nay, what I seek is far more difficult to obtain.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. It wasn’t like you didn’t realize the sort of game he was playing, but it didn’t make any more sense to you. Even now. Especially now.

“I assume you haven’t embarrassed yourself with such questions idly?” he asked.

You stared even harder at the ground. Of course he would be able to tell. “If you wanted, I would... I-I want to. You know,” you said, unable to look at him.

“I can’t say that I do,” Emet-Selch said, his smug smirk audible, “you must be more precise.”

“I want to...return the favor, but I...” You tried not to wince again at your embarrassment, forcing yourself to look at him. “I don’t know how. If you would want that, will you... will you show me?”

XIV. [Amaryllis Belladonna]

There was no grace to the way you collapsed to your knees when Emet-Selch released you to sit. Despite your blazing cheeks, fuzzy thoughts, and wild breathing, he seemed none the worse for wear, lounging naked in the chair like it was a throne, looking down at you as his subject as he languidly stroked his cock. Your attention was caught between watching that or looking up at his face, unsure of which was more intimidating. While he seemed comfortable without clothes, you were painfully aware of your own nudity, the way your nipples had tightened and skin flushed, the wetness coating your inner thighs.

“Is this too much for you already?” he teased. You could have laughed. Or cried. There hadn’t been much time to figure out what you felt. As soon as you said you wanted him to show you, he made quick work of kissing away your embarrassment only to drag you back inside.

When you didn’t answer, Emet-Selch grabbed you by the hair. You lurched forward between his legs, steadying yourself against his thighs. You opened your mouth to object and Emet-Selch used the oppurtunity to shove his fingers between your lips. They tasted like you, and maybe like him too because it was definitely the hand that he’d been touching himself with. You made a sound in panicked objection, grabbing at his wrist to get away because it was just like last time, the last time when he shoved his fingers in your mouth while you cried and-

“No, no, calm yourself,” Emet-Selch said, tugging your hair as a reminder to keep you in place. “Clean up your mess.”

His tone was softer, not cruel like you expected. That got you to relax a bit, although the nerves and humiliation and doubt didn’t fade. Emet-Selch pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth, all the way to the back. At the very least, you didn’t gag, but you did try once again to get free, your eyes watering. He didn’t seem concerned with your reaction.

“Come now,” he told you. “You can do better than this. Close your lips and suck. Cleanse my skin of your essence.”

The instruction helped. Once you got over the humiliation and depravity of the act, all it came down to was doing as he wanted. Pleasing him. And that was what you wanted. Desperately. Your lips pursed and suctioned, your tongue cleaning the taste of your arousal from his skin as you sucked. He smiled, another smug look you could barely handle amidst the embarrassment burning you alive.

“Very good,” Emet-Selch said, pulling his fingers out of your mouth with a horribly lewd wet sound, saliva dribbling down your chin. Instead of giving you a break, he thrust them back in, his fingertips brushing against the insides of your cheeks, across your tongue. Your sound of objection vibrated against his fingers as they languidly explored your mouth, sounding almost like a moan and adding to the humiliation. He finally pulled his fingers away, smearing the excess saliva over his cock without any of the embarrassment that had you locked up and unsure.

It was your idea to do this, but you weren’t sure if you could. You had felt the hard press of his erection, gotten to know the general size, seen him naked on the occasions he shamelessly changed in front of you or you bathed together—but this was infinitely different.

“Your hand,” Emet-Selch told you. It wasn’t difficult to know what he wanted, and it was easier to do as he said, to let him to take the lead. You allowed him to replace his hand with your own, your fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, the side of your hand brushing the patch of dark pubic hair at the base.

It was impossible to know what you expected, but the shaft had veins streaking beneath the skin leading to the flushed head. The size comparison with your hand wasn’t comforting when you considered what was going to happen, but it made your pussy tighten desperately around nothing. If his fingers filled you up, satisfied that peculiar ache, then what would it be like to let him to take you fully?

“You needn’t be so meek,” he told you, squeezing your hand to make your grip more firm. His cock twitched beneath your touch, hot and solid and hard. “Yes, like this-“ Emet-Selch guided your hand up, showing you how to stroke him from root to tip. “I’d hate to overwhelm you all at once... begin by using just your tongue. You can do that, can you not?”

You nodded, almost too aware of the way your heart thudded against your ribs, the way nerves and arousal and excitement and shame got all muddied up inside, swirling in a miasmic swarm of sensation.

The texture of the head was different, pink and velvety, the tip shining with a little bead of precum. You reached out with your tongue, lapping that up curiously while Emet-Selch kept your hand moving, pumping back and forth. It was bitter, salty. You weren’t sure what you might have expected.

“That’s right. Good girl” Emet-Selch said, his voice slightly more affected. It was perverse that those words should have such a profound on effect on you, but they did. Emboldened by that praise, you repeated the action, this time using the flat of your tongue. The way he responded made you want more. More praise, more of an effect on him, more of the tingling heat that his voice sent through you.

Using the tip of your tongue, you licked along the underside, curiously feeling the ridge where head met shaft. Emet-Selch groaned, his hips pushing forward so the flushed head pressed more solidly against your lips. It made you feel powerful, in a way. So you did it again, this time with confidence. It was easier to ignore the embarrassment while hiding behind the excuse that you only did this for his sake. But you knew it was filthy. Drool dripped from your tongue and onto your bare thighs, your hand slick as it pumped up and down, holding his cock so you could continue to lick just like he told you.

Emet-Selch’s hand settled in your hair, distracting you into looking up. “Use your mouth now,” he told you. “The same as you did before.”

You nodded, licking your lips nervously and pulling back. At this point, you had a general understanding of his size. You weren’t entirely sure how you would manage, but he probably did, and you didn’t think he would purposefully hurt you. You braced yourself, but there was only so much of that you could do without backing out.

You parted your lips, admitting the flushed head of his cock into your mouth. The flavor was familiar at this point, salty and metallic and musky. You breathed out heavily through your nose, steadying your left hand against his thigh. His fingers weren’t any practical comparison to this. His cock was thicker than them, for one. Not to mention longer. But, trying to recreate what you had done with his fingers, you used the flat of your tongue to stroke the underside, earning yourself a soft noise of approval and fingers pulling with more purpose on your hair.

“Ah—that’s right,” he told you, his voice settled lower, deeper in his chest and breathy. Whether it was the intention or not, the sound of it made you squirm, heat flushing straight to your core. You wanted more of that. When Emet-Selch’s hand tugged you down further on his cock, you let it happen. Focusing on him rather than the discomfort of your jaw or gag reflex made it easier, you could even disregard the mess of saliva dripping from your suctioned lips because he groaned again.

With a bit of work and a forcible stifling of all of your body’s natural reactions, you could take about half of his length into your mouth. It had your jaw aching and throat protesting, but it was doable. You worked the rest of his cock with your hand like he showed you, using your own saliva to smooth the friction.

“You can do better,” he muttered, tugging you down a little further, disrupting your rhythm. You gagged, caught off guard, but he didn’t stop. The part of you that only wanted to please him allowed it to happen, trying to force your body to adjust, to take it without resistance. He moaned again, openly moaned, and that was incentive enough to power through because the sound appealed to something in your head. It was like an exposed nerve, it made your pussy squeeze hard around nothing, desperate for more.

Taking advantage of your submission, Emet-Selch pulled you down further. All the way, until your nose hit the wiry hair at the base of his cock, bruising your throat as it contracted around the sudden intrusion. Predictably, you choked. Panic overrode every thought and impulse in your head. Raw, red hot, urgent panic. For a scattered few moments, suffocation closed in on you and you fought, all sorts of animalistic sounds vibrating against his cock.

Emet-Selch didn’t hold you there long, allowing you to violently jerk back with streaming eyes and a gurgling sort of cough. Saliva coated your chin, tears wetting your cheeks, the sour bite of bile stinging your battered throat. You coughed again, wiping at your face as your brain tried to piece together what had just happened. For a moment, a part of you had checked out, given in to the situation. Now you were starkly aware of your discomfort. Emet-Selch scanned you slowly, intently. It made your skin crawl and face flush because you knew that had to have been the least sexy thing ever and even though it was partially his fault, you wanted to apologize, to beg for a do-over.

“Forgive me, I forgot myself for a moment,” Emet-Selch said before you could figure out how to speak, his steady demeanor at complete odds with your hammering heart. “’twould be unrealistic of me to expect that of you on your first attempt, regardless of the delightful fervor you brought to the task.”

“I’m... I’m sorry,” you said between your gasping breaths, fresh, hot tears of humiliation burning at the back of your eyes because you wanted to impress him, to make him feel good if for no other reason than in some twisted attempt to balance out the number of times he had touched you without asking for anything in return.

“You needn’t apologize, though I assume you cannot do that again.” You didn’t respond, pressing on the aching hinge of your jaw. Maybe you could, if you were willing to disregard the pain. But, honestly, you weren’t sure. “There are other ways,” Emet-Selch told you. “If I recall, you did mention consummation.��

You had, hadn’t you? You looked up at him through wet eyelashes. Emet-Selch had removed your silly ring, but the fact remained that you had spent what must have been hours weaving together delicate stems and leaves with the knowledge of what you were committing to. Sometimes, more and more often these days, you weren’t even sure why you held out on that final bit of intimacy, why you were so convinced that it mattered more than any of the other things the two of you had done. Even with the discomfort of choking on his cock, you could feel the way your pussy clamped down around nothing, desperate to feel the relief of being filled. And he was still hard, his length coated and shiny with your saliva.

Those thoughts fluttered through your mind quickly as your eyes averted from his dick to his face. Lips—stained red, a shade darker than the light dusting of a flush on his pale cheeks—held that small quirk of amusement as he waited for your decision. This wasn’t a game, but you felt oddly relieved to know he wasn’t taking it too seriously. Not yet, at least.

“What should I-I do?” you asked, meeting his kohl-lined, half-lidded eyes.

“That depends,” he said, smirking, “on what it is, exactly, that you want.”

For the first time, you allowed yourself to openly express your dissatisfaction at that unhelpful answer, refusing to back down or look away or even give yourself time to think about it. You sat up a little higher on your knees, a surge of pathetic desperation flooding through you.

“I want you,” you told him insistently, one of your hands tentatively landing on his knee and your eyes steady on his even as the rest of you trembled. “Whatever you say, that’s what I want. I-I can try again.” Your eyes flicked down to his cock, appraising it with a sense of determination that was stronger, if only slightly, than the pain and discomfort. “Or I can...” you looked back up, meeting his eyes. You weren’t sure what you meant to say, so you said the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll do anything you want.”

“Anything?” Emet-Selch repeated. “My, it seems as if you never learn. I doubt the existence of a more hopeless creature than you.”

“Please just tell me what to do,” you plead, looking up at him desperately.

“Eager to follow orders now, are you?” he asked gleefully

You blinked at him, your mouth falling open before you shut it and just nodded, determined. You could, you would. That’s the only way this was going to go, the only way you’d get what you wanted. He smirked, standing up. You scrambled to your feet as well, wavering on unsteady legs.

“The bed?” you asked hopefully.

“Hm, I think not,” he said, grabbing you by the hips to guide you in the other direction. “Not yet, at least.”

Turning you around before you could argue, you got a full frontal view of yourself in the vanity mirror before he pushed you down onto the tabletop, forcing you to catch yourself. Bending you over just like last time. Although this wasn’t really that similar. For one, Emet-Selch didn’t seem angry at all. For another, the slight violence made you keenly aware of how turned on you had become, how needy you felt.

“What are you-” you began, cutting off with a squeak as you were forced to brace yourself with your hands flat on the vanity tabletop as he pulled your hips up to be level with his own. It pushed you up onto your toes, most of your weight resting on the vanity to adjust for the height difference. He pushed your torso down further, giving him even better access. The mirror in front of you fogged with each of your panted breaths. You could feel his cock against your most intimate parts, right between your legs. So close to where you wanted him. “What are you doing?” you asked, your voice far softer because you knew, because you were excited and hopeful.

“Need you ask?” he asked, nearly playfully sweet in his mean Emet-Selch way. “I’m doing exactly what you wanted. That is, unless you changed your mind.” He rubbed the tip of his dick between the outer lips of your pussy, teasing the sensitive tissue and making you jump when it nudged your swollen clit. You squeezed your eyes shut, unable to stifle the choked gasp the sensation forced from you.

“I-I haven’t,” you all but whispered. “But this is... it’s...”

“What is it?” he asked, finally pushing the tip against your hole just a little, just enough that the head of his cock could rest between the nervously fluttering muscles of your entrance. If Emet-Selch weren’t holding your hips in place, and if there were anywhere for you to go when you were so thoroughly wedged between him and the vanity, you probably would have panicked and squirmed away.

“‘s embarrassing,” you told him, eyelashes fluttering because you didn’t want to watch yourself in the mirror, but there was nowhere else to look.

“Mayhap it is for you,” Emet-Selch said, managing to sound detached despite the way you were falling apart. “It’s your own fault for granting me permission to do anything I wanted. Lest you forget, I told you once that I like to watch. Do you remember?”

You made a sound that was meant as agreement, the only thing you could manage as he pushed in a little deeper.

“I asked you a question,” he said, giving you a little more, just a bit. Your inner walls clamped down around his dick and you weren’t sure if it was because you wanted more or wanted him out.

“I-I remember,” you said breathlessly.

“Ah, so you must understand why this is the perfect place for proper consummation of our vows,” Emet-Selch said. “Though, that hot breath of yours is spoiling the view.” With that annoyed comment, he tugged you backwards, away from the mirror that fogged with each of your panicked breaths and further down his cock. You squealed, your eyes popping open.

Frightened and surprised, you couldn’t help but meet Emet-Selch’s gaze in the mirror above you, hooded and intense and focused. He, for once, was not smirking. And below that, the flawlessly pale column of his throat, the lines of his collar bones, the plains of his chest. His hands, large and strong, holding your hips to keep you level. Considering how little traction your toes had on the ground, he was the one in complete and utter control.

No matter how many times you thought about it, no matter how ready you thought you were, the feeling of him sinking into you was nothing that you could have prepared for. On some level, you must have known that it would hurt because it took a bit of effort to adjust when he fingered you. This was different. Pinching, aching, his cock stretched out your pussy with each smooth little thrust and the sensation wasn’t what you expected. Your mouth fell open, eyes squeezing shut to avoid having to endure the embarrassment of watching yourself be deflowered,

“It-it... it’s too...” You whimpered, unable to say anything else because you didn’t want to disappoint him. Because, even though it hurt, the fullness was settling hot and so overwhelmingly heavy in a way nothing else had, that you craved.

“If you’ve something to say,” Emet-Selch began, his voice holding a hint of the strain you would expect, “you must speak up.”

You just groaned, whined. Despite his cruel words, he was being nice, taking it easy on you. You knew that and it wasn’t helping because the sensation was too much, too heavy. The tension in your body didn’t help, nor did the way your inner walls tightened as if to keep him from going any deeper, fluttering helplessly in an effort to adjust.

But then Emet-Selch openly moaned, a soft sound, and that appealed to the animalistic part of your brain that had your back arching, allowing him to bottom out with one final surge and the filthy clap of skin on skin and you felt so incredibly present at the same time you felt a stark and drifting cloud of disbelief. There was nothing else and you couldn’t believe in what was happening, or what you felt. It was too absurd.

Your eyes opened, taking in the truly disturbing scene playing out in the mirror in front of you. It was the sight of you—flushed with bright, wet eyes, your body bare and fingers desperately searching for traction on the smooth vanity tabletop—and Emet-Selch. He was inside of you, his fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh of your hips and hungry eyes watching intently.

“I-I don’t...” you whispered. But you weren’t sure what that meant. You weren’t sure of anything. You doubted the existence of a world outside of Emet-Selch and you doubted the existence of him. It was simply too ridiculous to think that this was what had become of your life. Trapped in the domain of one of the Unseen, living as a pet, letting him fuck you. It was surreal.

“Eyes on me, girl,” Emet-Selch told you, demanded of you. Obedience was instant, your eyes flicking up to meet his. He wasn’t smiling. There was no amusement in his face right then, only the imperious hunger, the dark and intense need that absolutely promised ruin. He pulled out of you slowly only to roughly thrust forward, grinding his cock into you as deep as it could go as you cried out and writhed. You closed your eyes against the feeling, you couldn’t help it.

“That’s-”

“What did I say?” he asked sharply, cutting you off. You gasped, pulling in as heavy of a breath as you could manage to steady yourself, and opened your eyes.

There was nothing erotic about the sight of your stupid expression, but you felt yourself tighten around him at the ravenous way Emet-Selch devoured the debauched image reflected right in front of you. Although you might have doubted his capacity for lust in the past, there was no longer any question. Whether or not that was a good thing, you weren’t sure.

As soon you met his eyes, he pulled out further, thrusting forward with even less consideration to the way you were still trying to adjust, filling you even more roughly. It hurt and it felt good and you moaned and gasped accordingly, trying to get a grip on yourself, trying to do as he ordered and keep your eyes on his to earn some leniency.

“You’re being mean,” you whined, your voice sounding slutty and utterly foreign to your own ears. That finally coaxed a familiar smirk out of Emet-Selch.

“Am I?” he asked, still smirking as he switched from the rough thrusting to using his grip on your hips to slowly drag you up and down the length of his cock.

Even if you weren’t entirely adjusted to his size, you were wet enough to make the motions smooth. The slick sound filled the room, as did the noises you couldn’t bite back because you didn’t think you could handle it. Pleasure, pressure, weight, intensity. The pain was there too, but the sensations only mingled, becoming a feeling far hotter and headier than any of them were alone. You were so full, there was so much weight with each press of his cock.

“And what,” Emet-Selch asked, forcing your attention back to him, “do you think I was trying to do?”

Trying to do? You couldn’t remember what he was talking about, you couldn’t remember much of anything right then and you had no answer other than open mouthed surprise at how sublime it felt. Every ridge, every vein, you felt as if you could feel every bit of him as he casually used you like an object, moving you up and down his cock rather than rolling his hips. It was so much heavier than his fingers, so much more, and whenever he bottomed out, he filled you utterly, threatening to split you apart.

“I asked you a question, girl,” Emet-Selch told you, his voice a shade darker, a little bit crueler.

“I don’t... I don’t know,” you told him helplessly.

“Yes, pleasure has a particular way of stripping you of any semblence of wit and coherence,” he said. “I’ll make it easy for you, so listen well. After keeping me waiting for so long, did you think I had any intention of being nice?”

He wanted an answer, you knew he did but you honestly couldn’t process his words with any degreee of rationality. It was too much to think when you were so full. “I-I don’t...” “No,” Emet-Selch punctuated that answer by forcefully pulling you back, thrusting his hips forward at the same time until skin violently slapped skin. Too deep, too much all at once, the pained pleasure made you wail. “I did not.”

Part of you wanted to escape his complete control, the other wanted to roll back against him, to force a steady rhythm. You couldn’t do either, only able to take what was given.

“After all this time of taunting and teasing and enticing me to take what is rightfully mine,” Emet-Selch said, “to use you to satiate my desires, did you honestly believe I would show you mercy when given the chance?” He had entirely lost his calm, sane tone in favor of unraveling madness, the sharper effect of pleasure. Rather than waiting for your stammered, breathless answer, he gave you another pitiless thrust, this one knocking the vanity into the wall.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whined, not knowing what else to say. But you knew that you didn’t sound sorry, you didn’t even sound like you were in pain. The words came out like a moan and you sounded like a whore.

Emet-Selch laughed. “I can scarcely believe that this is what you like best,” he said, the words punctuated with another hard thrust. You shook your head helplessly. “Oh no? Deny fact all you want, girl. Your body will always reveal the truth.” After that, Emet-Selch set a fast, deep pace. He was measured and controlled, but not holding back to ease you into it.

Too much, too hard, too fast, too good. He accused you of interpreting fear and arousal the same way and you worried that he was right because you couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. It was sensation and it was raw and it made you cry out and writhe, your hips jerked and back arching and inner walls fluttering around him, your body readily accepting the abuse.

Emet-Selch’s hand left your hip to snake around to your clit. The first little bump of pressure made you groan, the way your pussy clamped down around his dick causing his pace to stutter. Emet-Selch hissed through his teeth, adopting an even quicker rhythm as if to punish you for breaking it, fucking you in time with each adept press of his fingertips to your swollen clit. The whole thing was cruel, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care. It was him, it was pleasure, it was pain, it was your entire world dropped down to a few sparking points of sensation and aggressively blazing pleasure.

“I-I can’t,” you babbled helplessly, your sweaty palm squeaking as it fruitlessly sought traction on the tabletop. “I-I’m gonna-”

“Already?” Emet-Selch asked mockingly. “In the end, all that virtue amounted to naught more than a sweet façade. I suppose you were created with the sole intent to be used.”

“D-don’t,” you gasped, the denial so clearly a token rejection when his words only pushed you closer to the edge, made your pussy tighten desperately. Even if the sensation of being fucked was new, your body was more than acquainted with responding to the tight patterns he rubbed into your clit, the pleasure that was all to eager to build up beneath his touch. And the way you had to tense up to hold in place for him, your cunt squeezing his cock in a desperate chase for more, only added to it, your body eagerly preparing to come at his invitation.

“Come now, girl,” Emet-Selch invited you. “Prove your worth.”

It must have been the cruel way he uttered those words that sent you over the edge, the tight coil of pleasure with you finally snapping. White hot bliss rocked through your body, the steady, heavy weight of his cock only drawing it out, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing him, more slick arousal coating him and filling the room with the obscene squelch of each thrust. You’d never felt anything like it, nothing like the fever pitch pleasure invited with his fingers against your clit or the deeper, thicker sensation that came from being fucked. Your open-mouthed silent scream faded into a whimpery sort of moaning, your entire body trembling and feverish, slick with sweat.

He didn’t give you so much as a second to recuperate. When you were down from that high, Emet-Selch wrapped his arms around your torso, pulling you up against his chest. For the first time, you realized that you were drooling. And crying, although the pain had long faded.

“Wha-” you asked, trying to turn around to look at him. Emet-Selch gripped your chin, facing you forward towards the mirror.

“Look what’s become of you,” he said, scanning the reflection. You followed his gaze, your eyes dropping down to where the two of you were joined, the way your slick arousal dripped out around him. Then up, up to the flushed red covering your face and neck, the glassy haze of your eyes, the bright red of your lips. Making sure you were watching, Emet-Selch’s fingers traced where you were stretched around his cock, sliding up to press against your over-sensitive clit. You jerked against his hold like a fly in a web, unable to do anything more than mewl pathetically, your eyes shutting.

“Closing your eyes will not shield you from the truth,” Emet-Selch told you. Then, softer, amused, “Nor will it protect you from me.”

“Please...” you begged softly, trying to move your hips in an attempt to get some friction, to press yourself against his teasing fingers to get more, to feel more. Instead, he pulled out even further, leaving you even emptier, making you whimper unhappily. “N-no, please.”

“Yes, that’s it,” Emet-Selch said with a smirk you could feel, his breath brushing the side of your face and his fingers continuing to tease you. It was impossible for you to get any sort of leverage to sink down on his cock the way you desperately wanted. Even though you had come, you wanted more. “Claiming genuine dominion over another is to convince them that they’re content with their own subjugation. It is to have them beg for tyranny if only to gain the attention—or, dare I say, the affection—of their acting sovereign.”

“That’s not...” you shook your head, unable to actually process his words in any other way than superficial denial. “Emet-Selch, please.”

“Of course, ‘tis a two way street twixt the conqueror and the conquered.”

With that, he let you sink down all the way onto his cock, letting your torso drop forward so you had to brace yourself against the edge of the vanity, allowing him to go even deeper. You moaned loudly, openly, luxuriating in how deep he was inside of you, at how full you felt. The sensation made tears prick against your eyes, your mouth falling open. Emet-Selch gripped your hips, a relief considering that your legs were shaking hard, tired from having to stay up on your toes. He used his grip on you to force you off his cock. You tried to protest that he would move so quickly, but he thrust forward hard enough to make you see stars, to forget everything, and all you could do was squeal, once again searching for traction against the vanity tabletop. He did it again, quickly setting a pace that left you unable to do anything else than hold on. For a moment, you lifted your head to peer through wet eyelashes at the disturbingly lewd sight reflected, your eyes focusing only on him. All at once, he wore an expression that was unguarded and aggressive, his lips parted and kohl-lined eyes smoldering. When your gaze met, he smiled and it was borderline crazy, an expression of victory.

“Em-et…Emet-Selch, I-I want-” you gasped out desperately, unsure of what you were asking for, exactly. Because it felt good, because you wanted more, because that look frightened you, because that look only made your cunt squeeze around him tighter. His expression changed then, softening somewhat as he focused on your face more clearly.

“Hades,” he told you, his fingers digging harder into the soft flesh of your hips as he oh-so slowly dragged you to be flush with his hips, his cock buried so deeply inside of you it hurt.

“Wh-what?” you asked, blinking confusion and squriming.

“My name,” he told you, more insistent, demanding. “Hades. Say it.”

Meeting those unnerving yellow eyes in the mirror, you didn’t even think about denying him. “Hades,” you said breathily, pleadingly.

That made him groan, practically growl as he pulled out of you entirely. Some pathetic type of mewl left your mouth, a shameless sound, but your unhappy confusion didn’t last long before you were on your back, bouncing on the bed once, twice before he was upon you.

Not giving you so much as a second of reprieve, your legs were pushed up to your chest so you were practically folded in half to give him room. Rather than driving himself deep into you like you so desperately wanted, he stopped himself with only the angrily flushed head of his cock shallowly resting within you. When you tried to squirm, to get more, he roughly pushed you down, grabbing your face to make you meet his eyes.

“Again,” he demanded. “My name. Say it.”

“Hades,” you said, your eyes wide as they met his out of some stormy mixture of lust and fear. “Hades, please.”

His eyes closed and he groaned, sinking all the way into you. The new angle made you keen, writhe beneath him at the reminder of both your soreness and your pleasure.

“Yes, you do beg so sweetly,” he breathed, his words stuttered with each heavy, deliberate thrust. “I daresay it is your shining quality, you pathetic thing.” Emet-Selch—Hades—opened his eyes. They were mad, certainly, but focused. They blazed a golden inferno, watching you like he understood you down the very marrow of your bones. He took the opportunity to get your legs on his shoulders, the new angle allowing his cock to find the spongy spot within you that had your feet kicking pitifully against his back, your back arching. “Go on. Beg me to breed you like you so clearly need,” he demanded. “Beg to be claimed completely by the Unseen Ruler of the Underworld. ”

“Please,” you said, your mind far too hazy and lost in the daze of pleasure to feel any shame about letting the word pass your lips. “Please, Em-Hades. Please, breed me, claim me... I-I’m yours, so please.”

He groaned, setting a punishing pace that emptied your head altogether. But you still begged thoughtlessly, mindlessly, speaking just to speak because you were approaching another orgasm and you wanted it so desperately, wanted to come around him again and luxuriate in the intimate fullness, to take what he was giving you and be grateful for it. The room was filled with the filthy sounds of sex, the slapping skin and wet squelching and whimpering and moaning and growling and everything together that filled your head with a lethal combination of lust.

“Hades, I’m-I can’t...”

As if just to prove you wrong, he adjusted your hips to let him inexorably go deeper and said your name. That was it. You couldn’t remember the last time Hades had used your name, and hearing it in his voice, darkened with lust and need, made you snap beneath him. Your cunt spasmed, milking his cock as pleasure tingled through you. It was hard to tell if that was the thing that sent him over the edge, but you could feel the way his thrusts lost tempo, the way his hips snapped forward almost as soon as he pulled out, the way his cock twitched as he filled you with cum. It was awful, filthy beyond rationality, and it was perfect, drawing out your own orgasm to the point of pain. Beautiful pain.

“If there was any doubt that you exist for the use of those more competent than yourself,” Hades muttered, grinding his hips against yours as if to make a point of how deep within you he’d driven himself as he came. Breeding you, humping his seed into your womb. Could you even carry his child?

A particular shift of his hips sent that thought from your head, a soft groan leaving your mouth. The pleasure was too much, no matter how badly a part of your mind insisted you wanted anything he gave you.

“No-no more,” you said, your voice raspy and hand raising to press against his chest. “Please.” That got him to pause, his lips turning downward.

“Very well,” Hades said with a sigh after a moment, gently removing your legs from his shoulders and pulling out of you. You felt damp and deflated, painfully empty and cold now that the golden glow of lust and pleasurehad passed. He didn’t look that much worse for wear, swiping his sweaty hair from his face and stretching, looking at you through lowered lashes. His flagging cock glistened with a glossy pink-ish sheen, evidence of what had happened. Seeing it reminded your body of how sore you were, wincing as you closed your legs.

“Hades?” you began, your voice very quiet as you sat up and attempted to cover yourself. Just as pathetic as he often accused you of being because suddenly you realized that no matter how good it felt for you, he was different. One of the Unseen. He called himself the Ruler of the Underworld. Hades. In comparison, what were you? Meaningless. “Was that... was it okay?” you asked. “For you?”

He gave you a look you were very familiar with. The one that expressed exactly how stupid he found your words, how utterly empty-headed you were. “I’d have thought my actions would speak for themselves,” he said. His eyes trailed down your body. The angry red marks on your hips, the way you couldn’t help but wince again at the pain as you adjusted. “Though I admit I might’ve gotten a tiny bit carried away.”

“I didn’t mind,” you said, unable to meet his eyes. “I mean, I...” You bit your lip, feeling horrible awkward considering all that you had just let happen. Hades used the side of his hand to lift your chin. Rather than the lip kiss you prepared for, he kissed your forehead in a way that felt so tender and soft you got the ridiculous urge to cry, to weep with this overwhelming surge of affection.

“Now come,” Hades said, drawing away without any further elaboration on that action. “We could both use a bath.”

You didn’t have much to say for a bit, silently grateful for the strange mechanism that pumped hot water into the big copper bathtub. At your insistence, Hades rolled his eyes and added lavender scented salts. Your eyelids were drooping as soon as he pulled you against his chest in the hot water, lulled by the steadiness of his breathing and not objecting to his mindlessly wandering hands. It felt nice, soothing your skin with sweet scented water, and loosening your muscles little by little. The way his hands lingered on your chest made you squirm, but you didn’t mind that very much either. The soreness between your legs was uncomfortable and pinching, but you weren’t sure it would stop you from wanting more if he were to insist.

“Hades,” you said, trying to distract both of you by focusing on something else. “I’m happy you told me. It’s a good name. It fits you perfectly.” What you meant was I love you, but he probably knew that.

“Hm. Well, I certainly don’t mind the way you say it,” Hades responded. “If I may offer a word of warning. Weak as you may be, I did warn you of the power inherent to a name. Mine is particularly potent coming from your lips.”

You nuzzled against his chest, hiding your expression. He let you. Maybe this was a dream after all. “Hades,” you mumbled. Anybody would be able to hear the adoration in your voice, even hoarse and whispered.

He sighed heavily, water splashing as he turned you around to face him instead. “I did warn you.”

XV. [Bittersweet Nightshade]

Paradise was in bloom, a little pocket of Eden tucked deep within the Underworld. Above, a red sun burned, the dark sky brooding. Hades sat in the emerald grass, dappled with impossible light and shadow. Even in relaxation, he looked tired. Old beyond what you could possibly comprehend. And beautiful. The mere sight of him filled your heart with a storm of emotion. You wondered if that would fade, or if the feeling was as undying as the garden he had gifted you with, kept from withering by the preservation you unintentionally wielded.

“It’s impolite to stare,” Hades said dryly, his eyes remaining closed.

“How could I not?” you asked. Although you meant to sound playful, you knew your true feelings bled through, something soft in your voice. Hades snorted a laugh, otherwise completely still.

A breeze from nowhere passed through the garden, grass and trees and flowers swaying with the motion. The babbling brook that came from somewhere else and ran into no place at all continued to splash and gurgle.

“Will you ever,” you began, the question fighting its way out of your mouth before you could think it through, “care… Care about me? Is there anything I can do to make you… to make you love...” You let out a heavy breath, shaking your head. “I love you, do you...?” you asked. And your voice was so choked up there was a chance he might have missed the words beneath the distracted conversation between the water and the wind, but he knew anyway. He always knew your thoughts and feelings, woefully uncomplicated as they were.

Hades sighed as his eyes opened, fixing on you. He wore an expression far worse than disgust or anger or hatred or even rage. It was the worst of them all. Pity.

“No,” he told you. His voice was gentle, you supposed, in the same way freezing to death was gentle when compared to burning alive. There was something within him that felt bad, you could believe that. You needed to believe that. But Hades didn’t lie to you, by nature he could not. You almost wished that he could, just for a little while, that he could gather you up in his arms and lie salaciously and without restraint, fill your mind with sweet lies until it became some flavor of truth. His head tilted in consideration. “As I’m sure you well know, I am fond of you.”

You nodded, looking away from him in a futile attempt to hide your expression. If he couldn’t lie to you, perhaps you could lie to yourself. You could close your eyes and turn those words over in your mind so many times that eventually they sounded like the admission of love that you so desperately craved, hidden behind coded language and his dramatic pretense.

“The contract we made,” you muttered, twisting the ring he’d given you idly. It shined like obsidian in the magically synthetic light, flawlessly smooth. “It’s eternity, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Hades confirmed.

Your eternity—whatever that meant for you—was to be spent loving someone who would never love you in return. Remembering things wasn’t always very easy, time had become non sequential to the point of meaningless, but you remembered telling Hades that you didn’t believe eternity was a curse all that time ago. Your logic, your argument, had even been love. Surely love would never be a bad thing, it could never curse you.

Surely not.

“Eternity,” you muttered under your breath. “To have and to hold. To love and cherish.”

Hades smiled. It was a sharp, ironic thing. And you wondered about that smile, you wondered if it was at all regretful, or if it was only the cruel amusement of marveling at your pathetic antics. You hoped it wasn’t. You could convince yourself that it wasn’t.

“Till death do us part.”

#emet selch #ffxiv emet selch #emet selch x reader #ffxiv #not sfw #my writing #tw.noncon #tw. dubcon #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #if there are mistakes just know that i am also a mistake #he is hard to write dialogue for fuckin brits #archaic english??? bah #i might go back later and clean up some parts but i'm sick of reading

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