FIC: GLEE: Blaine/Kurt - Put Your Hands on Me (and magic sparks) - (NC-17) - [WiP] 2/10?
Title: Put Your Hands on Me (and magic sparks) 2/10? [WiP]
Pairing: Blaine/Kurt
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,854 / 20,100 [so far]
Summary: AU. Faeries exist, but are a rarity. Slavery, and more specifically, sexual slavery, is a way of life for many people. || When a boy is lucky enough to get his hands on a half-Faerie boy in an auction, he ends up falling too deep into something he doesn't understand. // When a half-Faerie boy is unlucky enough to be sold off in an auction to an ignorant human boy, he is sucked into a life he never wanted and forced to deal with an aspect of his species he didn't know existed.
Warnings/Contains: Non-explicit rape. Explicit dub-con. Slavery/sexual slavery. Fantasy-genre alternate universe. Dark!fic. Magic. Non-human species. PoV switches. General creepiness on Blaine's behalf. A fucked up society. Ear!porn? || More detailed warnings: ( skip) Magic-made-them-do-it, falling in love with your captor/Stockholm syndrome, mentions of torture.
Master Post / Previous Chapters
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I simply dabble in this toybox.
presently
"And you go to school here?"
Déjà vu.
"What? You were expecting three to a room, communal showers?" Blaine laughed.
"Something like that," Kurt said dryly.
Blaine didn't have his own room at Dalton Academy, technically speaking. He had entire suite to himself. Many of the students did. Most of them, in fact. Usually scholarship students roomed together in groups, but if there was a surplus of empty rooms available, even they tended to spread out.
"Dalton is very exclusive-"
"Expensive," Kurt interrupted, distaste coloring his words so expressively that Blaine imagined he could actually see the way Kurt warped his words with his tongue.
It wasn't just the way Kurt accentuated certain syllables, or even his emphatic delivery. It was reminiscent of magic; when Kurt was irritated or annoyed, his words sounded sharp like glass; when he was tired, the words were heavy and weighted down.
It was an intriguing enough idea that he was too distracted to be annoyed by the way his pet continued to speak out of turn.
"That too. A very exclusive, expensive private academy. The majority of the students here are heirs to some of the most wealthy and influential people in the nation."
Blaine wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that he enjoyed Kurt looking so astonished and out of place. He especially enjoyed the way Kurt's jaw dropped ever so slightly, lips parted and looking welcoming.
"You're looking at me like that again," Kurt protested half-heartedly. He didn't sound pleased, but he didn't look displeased. Blaine chalked it up as one in the winning column on the imaginary chalkboard in his head as he continually kept score.
"Like what?" Blaine asked, crowding into Kurt's space and drawing him in close.
But Kurt shook his head helplessly, refusing to look Blaine in the eye. He was looking at a wall hanging instead. Kurt was wont to look away from people above him in station, but never down, never demure and tucked away and afraid. He didn't act like a frightened little mouse.
It was one of Blaine's favorite things about him.
"You're not going to tell me?"
Blaine could, of course, demand that Kurt tell him what was on his mind. However, it did not mean that Kurt would do as he asked. Blaine really didn't want to go about the tediousness of trying to draw it out, only to be forced to punish Kurt for disobedience when he inevitably bucked against Blaine's hold over him.
Blaine doubted it was anything important, and he knew how to pick and choose his battles.
Why bother to fight a hard battle over something so trivial, Blaine thought to himself, when it would only make things harder for himself in the long run?
If he pushed too hard now, Kurt would only end up pushing back even harder in protest. Blaine was smart enough to figure that much out by now.
A sculptor didn't try to hammer out the fine details right off the bat. He started with a general shape, an idea of his vision realized, and then refinements were made as time went on.
It would be the same with Kurt, and when Blaine was done, he would be a masterpiece.
- - - - - - - - -
four days ago
That first night had passed in a confusing blur. I think I had been in shock, because when I woke up in the morning, I couldn't remember where I was.
I was in a bed: the largest and more comfortable bed I'd ever been in. And I was blissfully warm. These were the only two thoughts in my head as I began to wake. I heard the noise of another person in the room and felt a shiver run down my spine.
"Brih'tt'ny?" I mumbled, refusing to move from my cocoon of warmth. When I felt a weight on the bed beside me, I opened my eyes.
To my surprise and horror, it was not, in fact, my sister, whom I had shared a room and bed with for my entire life.
"Hey, good morning, sleepyhead," said Blaine. He ran his fingers through my hair, which I could feel was cropped shorter than I usually wore it.
The night before came rushing back to me. The ride back to Blaine's family home, the multiple baths and scrubbings I had been forced to endure, having my hair cut, being thoroughly inspected by the family doctor.
I'm pretty sure I tried to kick him in the face when he started to touch my most intimate of places. I remembered being held down, but I couldn't be entirely certain if it had been a precautionary act, or if I had actually kicked out in fear and in turn, restrained.
I had spent so much of the night before in a state of quiet panic that my memories were already hazy.
Blaine's fingers caressed the outline of my ear and I couldn't hold back a whine of pleasure. Toes curling beneath the blankets, I turned my face into the bedding so that he would not see my blush.
"So you like that, do you?"
I shook my head, but it was futile. He was obviously amused by my reaction.
When he leant down to lick my ear, I reassessed that idea. Amusement didn't seem like it was at the top of the list.
"Please, don't," I whispered. It felt too good. My skin felt tight, stretched out too far and my stomach felt fluttery with excitement. I didn't want it to feel good. I didn't want to enjoy this violation.
"You don't mean that," Blaine said. His voice had grown heavy; it made me uncomfortable to hear it.
"I don't want this," I protested as he pushed the blankets off of me, rolling me back over onto my back. I stared up at him. He didn't look like a monster. He didn't even look frightening, in a general sense of the word. But here he was, holding me down with nothing more than a hungry stare.
"You will," he promised.
I shivered. This time, it had little to do with being cold, despite the sudden lack of warmth.
I clenched my eyes shut, only to regret it a moment later. I hadn't been expecting him to pull down the too-big pair of boxer shorts I had been given to wear to bed. Not that being able to see would have made it a less horrible experience, but at least it wouldn't have startled me so badly.
I scrambled to get away, but he pushed me back down with his free hand. I tried not to shake, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how fearful I was.
"Shh," he said, leaning down over me and kissing my face: soft kisses, wet kisses, his mouth sliding down to my ear where he must have decided I tasted best. His tongue tickled the shell of my ear, his teeth tugging on my sensitive earlobe.
I wished he smelled bad, or were ugly, or was much less intent on making this pleasurable for me. The last thing I wanted was for this to feel good, to want this on any level. This was a violation.
The worst was the fact that he was assaulting my ears. My ears. It felt electrical; I could feel it all the way down through my body, my extremities all tingling. Worse, he knew the effect it had on me and was taking full advantage.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised me as he undressed himself.
I'm not going to hurt you.
But he did. He broke something in me, that morning in bed, and it hurt. It hurt more than anything I'd ever felt before. For all his tenderness, his care, his attempts to make me desire him, he had damaged me irreparably. There was no physical evidence of it, but that didn't make it less true.
When he finished using my body, I was crying.
"Kurt?" He stroked my hair and wiped away my tears; a part of me wanted to turn into him and take the comfort he offered, but a much larger part of me felt only revulsion for him, his actions, the way he mangled my name.
Unable to bring myself to attempt escape, I laid there limply, wishing he would leave me alone to wallow in my misery.
"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," he said. The fact that he could sound so kind after an act so cruel tore at me.
My body seemed to move of its own volition; I no longer had any say over my limbs. He walked me into the adjoining washroom and ran a tap of warm water. A few moments and a soft cloth later, the sticky evidence of my release was gone from my body. Something unclenched in me, just a bit, as I could now pretend my body hadn't enjoyed the act he had forced upon me, that I didn't find pleasure in what he had done.
I stood there, lost in my own thoughts, the cold of the tile floor prickling at my feet. Normally, I would have found the chill nearly unbearable. This morning, I relished the physical pain it caused me, grateful for the way it overwhelmed my senses. I felt only pain: the icy prickle of air against my damp skin, the hard and unforgiving cold below my feet. My flesh ached, and it was all I could think about.
I was so absorbed in the feeling that I didn't notice him filling up the large, claw-footed tub on the far side of the room. It wasn't until he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me over to the steaming bath that I realized he had planned on a more thorough cleaning.
"You're shivering." He sounded confused. Concerned, even. "Come on," he said, pulling me in with him, "this will help warm you up."
The water burned, and I gasped reflexively.
"Is it too hot?"
I refused to respond. I stood there, knee-deep in a bath of hot water, feeling returning to my feet far too quickly as the rest of me was wracked in full-body shivers.
Soon, he was in the tub with me, and we were both sitting down, the water high enough to lap at my shoulders as we sat. He was behind me, surrounding me, legs on either side of my own and his arms wrapped around my waist. I even allowed him to draw me back to lie against his chest.
I still hadn't spoken since I told him I didn't want his touch. I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to say. I didn't think it much mattered, in any case. It wasn't as though he was going to listen to anything I had to say. He hadn't, earlier.
"Are you going to sulk all day?" he asked me, picking up a bar of soap on the shelf beside the tub. He washed me with care, neither scrubbing me harsh enough to cause me discomfort, nor so soft enough to cause a tickling sensation.
I resented the implication that I was sulking. Offended, I refused to so much as look in his direction and closed my eyes. Well, perhaps some sulking was involved. But for the most part, it was a simply matter of being unable to bring myself to respond to him in any fashion.
He made me feel filthy, and not even the soothing warmth of the bath could help erase that feeling.
I quickly grew to regret shutting my eyes. The surprise of his hand on my privates startled me so badly that a wave of water went crashing out of the tub and onto the floor.
And then he had the audacity to laugh at me.
I started to climb out of the tub, wanting nothing more than to get away from this idiot human. Before I could even stand, he managed to tug me back down into him and he pinned my arms to my chest, his own wrapped tight around me.
"I'm only washing you. Calm down," he ordered. My fists clenched, aching to hit him or use my nails to claw at his face. I struggled, but he only held me tighter.
He was stronger than he looked.
Unable to free myself from his hold, I passively sank back down. I gave up.
The rest of the bath passed without further incident, Blaine washing both me and his own self. I even allowed him to wash my hair without kicking up a fuss. Every time his hands brushed against my ears I was forced to endure the most torturously pleasurable sensation. He was driving me mad.
By the time we were both clean and dried and back in his bedroom, it was evident that someone had been in to tidy up and change the bedding. A surge of gratefulness swept through me. I didn't want to have to look at the crumpled blankets and messy sheets where I had been laid out and taken against my will.
I pulled the robe Blaine had given me tighter around my body, trying to ward off the cold as he rummaged around in a closet for clothes for himself.
"Why do you always look like you're on the edge of hypothermia? Just looking at you gives me a chill." He was joking, trying to keep his words sounding light, but I couldn't help but take offense. Humans could be so thoughtless.
"Faerie folk aren't meant to be this far north," I said, aware but uncaring that my tone was even icier than I was at this point. "We get cold easily."
"The seller said you've lived in this area your whole life." He looked suspicious.
"I did," I said crossly. "I also lived in a house that wasn't drafty, and was given decent clothing to wear, too."
Morbidly, I wondered what he would do to me if I made him too angry.
So far, Blaine hadn't brought up anything about punishments or expectations of any sort. He just sort of pushed me into things and I went along with it, unhappy, but doing as I was told. I had grown up with strict rules, and strict punishments to follow if I broke those rules.
I didn't want to find out that Blaine whipped his disobedient pets, or worse. My imagination sometimes got the best of me, and so I had been very pointedly not allowing myself to think about it.
But I was feeling belligerent. I was sick of being this boy's new toy and I wanted to stop feeling so used and pathetic.
"Were you, now?" Blaine said. His tone was ambiguous. I couldn't tell if he was angry or if he found my attitude funny.
Part of me, the scared part, wanted him to think me sulky and amusing, to write off my behavior with ease. But the other part of me, the proud, furious part of me, wanted to insult him, to make him angry with me.
"Any idiot," I said scathingly, "knows that Faeries can't tolerate cold weather. The fact that you don't is appalling."
He dropped the clothing he held onto the back of a chair and marched over to me. I knew I was trembling, but I held myself up tall even as he crowded me backwards, pushing me into a wall. I felt a mixture of satisfaction at being taller than the boy, but I wasn't stupid enough not to be fearful of what he might do to me.
"Is that so?" He frowned.
"It is," I bit out.
He lifted a hand to my neck, wrapping his fingers around my throat. It didn't hurt. It wasn't even uncomfortable. He wasn't gripping me, just… touching. I felt myself trembling, but refused to look anywhere but defiantly into his eyes.
"Then I suppose I ought to find you something warm to wear for now," he said at last, pulling away from me and walking straight back towards the closet.
"What?" I gaped. I hadn't meant to say anything, but my confusion couldn't have been plainer.
"I have a tailor coming to the manor later today to take some measurements so that you'll have a decent wardrobe, but I don't think you'll have too much of a problem fitting into some of my clothes." He was acting as if my confusion was in his meaning, rather than in the bizarre way he was treating me.
I slid down the side of the wall, uncaring of the way the robe bunched up. I ended up sitting on the floor, only the robe I wore separating me from the cold hardwood below.
I wanted him to be angry with me. I wanted him to prove himself a monster.
And he wouldn't.
At this rate, he was definitely going to drive me mad.
NEXT
Pairing: Blaine/Kurt
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,854 / 20,100 [so far]
Summary: AU. Faeries exist, but are a rarity. Slavery, and more specifically, sexual slavery, is a way of life for many people. || When a boy is lucky enough to get his hands on a half-Faerie boy in an auction, he ends up falling too deep into something he doesn't understand. // When a half-Faerie boy is unlucky enough to be sold off in an auction to an ignorant human boy, he is sucked into a life he never wanted and forced to deal with an aspect of his species he didn't know existed.
Warnings/Contains: Non-explicit rape. Explicit dub-con. Slavery/sexual slavery. Fantasy-genre alternate universe. Dark!fic. Magic. Non-human species. PoV switches. General creepiness on Blaine's behalf. A fucked up society. Ear!porn? || More detailed warnings: ( skip) Magic-made-them-do-it, falling in love with your captor/Stockholm syndrome, mentions of torture.
Master Post / Previous Chapters
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to any of these characters. I simply dabble in this toybox.
presently
"And you go to school here?"
Déjà vu.
"What? You were expecting three to a room, communal showers?" Blaine laughed.
"Something like that," Kurt said dryly.
Blaine didn't have his own room at Dalton Academy, technically speaking. He had entire suite to himself. Many of the students did. Most of them, in fact. Usually scholarship students roomed together in groups, but if there was a surplus of empty rooms available, even they tended to spread out.
"Dalton is very exclusive-"
"Expensive," Kurt interrupted, distaste coloring his words so expressively that Blaine imagined he could actually see the way Kurt warped his words with his tongue.
It wasn't just the way Kurt accentuated certain syllables, or even his emphatic delivery. It was reminiscent of magic; when Kurt was irritated or annoyed, his words sounded sharp like glass; when he was tired, the words were heavy and weighted down.
It was an intriguing enough idea that he was too distracted to be annoyed by the way his pet continued to speak out of turn.
"That too. A very exclusive, expensive private academy. The majority of the students here are heirs to some of the most wealthy and influential people in the nation."
Blaine wasn't ashamed to admit to himself that he enjoyed Kurt looking so astonished and out of place. He especially enjoyed the way Kurt's jaw dropped ever so slightly, lips parted and looking welcoming.
"You're looking at me like that again," Kurt protested half-heartedly. He didn't sound pleased, but he didn't look displeased. Blaine chalked it up as one in the winning column on the imaginary chalkboard in his head as he continually kept score.
"Like what?" Blaine asked, crowding into Kurt's space and drawing him in close.
But Kurt shook his head helplessly, refusing to look Blaine in the eye. He was looking at a wall hanging instead. Kurt was wont to look away from people above him in station, but never down, never demure and tucked away and afraid. He didn't act like a frightened little mouse.
It was one of Blaine's favorite things about him.
"You're not going to tell me?"
Blaine could, of course, demand that Kurt tell him what was on his mind. However, it did not mean that Kurt would do as he asked. Blaine really didn't want to go about the tediousness of trying to draw it out, only to be forced to punish Kurt for disobedience when he inevitably bucked against Blaine's hold over him.
Blaine doubted it was anything important, and he knew how to pick and choose his battles.
Why bother to fight a hard battle over something so trivial, Blaine thought to himself, when it would only make things harder for himself in the long run?
If he pushed too hard now, Kurt would only end up pushing back even harder in protest. Blaine was smart enough to figure that much out by now.
A sculptor didn't try to hammer out the fine details right off the bat. He started with a general shape, an idea of his vision realized, and then refinements were made as time went on.
It would be the same with Kurt, and when Blaine was done, he would be a masterpiece.
- - - - - - - - -
four days ago
That first night had passed in a confusing blur. I think I had been in shock, because when I woke up in the morning, I couldn't remember where I was.
I was in a bed: the largest and more comfortable bed I'd ever been in. And I was blissfully warm. These were the only two thoughts in my head as I began to wake. I heard the noise of another person in the room and felt a shiver run down my spine.
"Brih'tt'ny?" I mumbled, refusing to move from my cocoon of warmth. When I felt a weight on the bed beside me, I opened my eyes.
To my surprise and horror, it was not, in fact, my sister, whom I had shared a room and bed with for my entire life.
"Hey, good morning, sleepyhead," said Blaine. He ran his fingers through my hair, which I could feel was cropped shorter than I usually wore it.
The night before came rushing back to me. The ride back to Blaine's family home, the multiple baths and scrubbings I had been forced to endure, having my hair cut, being thoroughly inspected by the family doctor.
I'm pretty sure I tried to kick him in the face when he started to touch my most intimate of places. I remembered being held down, but I couldn't be entirely certain if it had been a precautionary act, or if I had actually kicked out in fear and in turn, restrained.
I had spent so much of the night before in a state of quiet panic that my memories were already hazy.
Blaine's fingers caressed the outline of my ear and I couldn't hold back a whine of pleasure. Toes curling beneath the blankets, I turned my face into the bedding so that he would not see my blush.
"So you like that, do you?"
I shook my head, but it was futile. He was obviously amused by my reaction.
When he leant down to lick my ear, I reassessed that idea. Amusement didn't seem like it was at the top of the list.
"Please, don't," I whispered. It felt too good. My skin felt tight, stretched out too far and my stomach felt fluttery with excitement. I didn't want it to feel good. I didn't want to enjoy this violation.
"You don't mean that," Blaine said. His voice had grown heavy; it made me uncomfortable to hear it.
"I don't want this," I protested as he pushed the blankets off of me, rolling me back over onto my back. I stared up at him. He didn't look like a monster. He didn't even look frightening, in a general sense of the word. But here he was, holding me down with nothing more than a hungry stare.
"You will," he promised.
I shivered. This time, it had little to do with being cold, despite the sudden lack of warmth.
I clenched my eyes shut, only to regret it a moment later. I hadn't been expecting him to pull down the too-big pair of boxer shorts I had been given to wear to bed. Not that being able to see would have made it a less horrible experience, but at least it wouldn't have startled me so badly.
I scrambled to get away, but he pushed me back down with his free hand. I tried not to shake, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how fearful I was.
"Shh," he said, leaning down over me and kissing my face: soft kisses, wet kisses, his mouth sliding down to my ear where he must have decided I tasted best. His tongue tickled the shell of my ear, his teeth tugging on my sensitive earlobe.
I wished he smelled bad, or were ugly, or was much less intent on making this pleasurable for me. The last thing I wanted was for this to feel good, to want this on any level. This was a violation.
The worst was the fact that he was assaulting my ears. My ears. It felt electrical; I could feel it all the way down through my body, my extremities all tingling. Worse, he knew the effect it had on me and was taking full advantage.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he promised me as he undressed himself.
I'm not going to hurt you.
But he did. He broke something in me, that morning in bed, and it hurt. It hurt more than anything I'd ever felt before. For all his tenderness, his care, his attempts to make me desire him, he had damaged me irreparably. There was no physical evidence of it, but that didn't make it less true.
When he finished using my body, I was crying.
"Kurt?" He stroked my hair and wiped away my tears; a part of me wanted to turn into him and take the comfort he offered, but a much larger part of me felt only revulsion for him, his actions, the way he mangled my name.
Unable to bring myself to attempt escape, I laid there limply, wishing he would leave me alone to wallow in my misery.
"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," he said. The fact that he could sound so kind after an act so cruel tore at me.
My body seemed to move of its own volition; I no longer had any say over my limbs. He walked me into the adjoining washroom and ran a tap of warm water. A few moments and a soft cloth later, the sticky evidence of my release was gone from my body. Something unclenched in me, just a bit, as I could now pretend my body hadn't enjoyed the act he had forced upon me, that I didn't find pleasure in what he had done.
I stood there, lost in my own thoughts, the cold of the tile floor prickling at my feet. Normally, I would have found the chill nearly unbearable. This morning, I relished the physical pain it caused me, grateful for the way it overwhelmed my senses. I felt only pain: the icy prickle of air against my damp skin, the hard and unforgiving cold below my feet. My flesh ached, and it was all I could think about.
I was so absorbed in the feeling that I didn't notice him filling up the large, claw-footed tub on the far side of the room. It wasn't until he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me over to the steaming bath that I realized he had planned on a more thorough cleaning.
"You're shivering." He sounded confused. Concerned, even. "Come on," he said, pulling me in with him, "this will help warm you up."
The water burned, and I gasped reflexively.
"Is it too hot?"
I refused to respond. I stood there, knee-deep in a bath of hot water, feeling returning to my feet far too quickly as the rest of me was wracked in full-body shivers.
Soon, he was in the tub with me, and we were both sitting down, the water high enough to lap at my shoulders as we sat. He was behind me, surrounding me, legs on either side of my own and his arms wrapped around my waist. I even allowed him to draw me back to lie against his chest.
I still hadn't spoken since I told him I didn't want his touch. I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted to say. I didn't think it much mattered, in any case. It wasn't as though he was going to listen to anything I had to say. He hadn't, earlier.
"Are you going to sulk all day?" he asked me, picking up a bar of soap on the shelf beside the tub. He washed me with care, neither scrubbing me harsh enough to cause me discomfort, nor so soft enough to cause a tickling sensation.
I resented the implication that I was sulking. Offended, I refused to so much as look in his direction and closed my eyes. Well, perhaps some sulking was involved. But for the most part, it was a simply matter of being unable to bring myself to respond to him in any fashion.
He made me feel filthy, and not even the soothing warmth of the bath could help erase that feeling.
I quickly grew to regret shutting my eyes. The surprise of his hand on my privates startled me so badly that a wave of water went crashing out of the tub and onto the floor.
And then he had the audacity to laugh at me.
I started to climb out of the tub, wanting nothing more than to get away from this idiot human. Before I could even stand, he managed to tug me back down into him and he pinned my arms to my chest, his own wrapped tight around me.
"I'm only washing you. Calm down," he ordered. My fists clenched, aching to hit him or use my nails to claw at his face. I struggled, but he only held me tighter.
He was stronger than he looked.
Unable to free myself from his hold, I passively sank back down. I gave up.
The rest of the bath passed without further incident, Blaine washing both me and his own self. I even allowed him to wash my hair without kicking up a fuss. Every time his hands brushed against my ears I was forced to endure the most torturously pleasurable sensation. He was driving me mad.
By the time we were both clean and dried and back in his bedroom, it was evident that someone had been in to tidy up and change the bedding. A surge of gratefulness swept through me. I didn't want to have to look at the crumpled blankets and messy sheets where I had been laid out and taken against my will.
I pulled the robe Blaine had given me tighter around my body, trying to ward off the cold as he rummaged around in a closet for clothes for himself.
"Why do you always look like you're on the edge of hypothermia? Just looking at you gives me a chill." He was joking, trying to keep his words sounding light, but I couldn't help but take offense. Humans could be so thoughtless.
"Faerie folk aren't meant to be this far north," I said, aware but uncaring that my tone was even icier than I was at this point. "We get cold easily."
"The seller said you've lived in this area your whole life." He looked suspicious.
"I did," I said crossly. "I also lived in a house that wasn't drafty, and was given decent clothing to wear, too."
Morbidly, I wondered what he would do to me if I made him too angry.
So far, Blaine hadn't brought up anything about punishments or expectations of any sort. He just sort of pushed me into things and I went along with it, unhappy, but doing as I was told. I had grown up with strict rules, and strict punishments to follow if I broke those rules.
I didn't want to find out that Blaine whipped his disobedient pets, or worse. My imagination sometimes got the best of me, and so I had been very pointedly not allowing myself to think about it.
But I was feeling belligerent. I was sick of being this boy's new toy and I wanted to stop feeling so used and pathetic.
"Were you, now?" Blaine said. His tone was ambiguous. I couldn't tell if he was angry or if he found my attitude funny.
Part of me, the scared part, wanted him to think me sulky and amusing, to write off my behavior with ease. But the other part of me, the proud, furious part of me, wanted to insult him, to make him angry with me.
"Any idiot," I said scathingly, "knows that Faeries can't tolerate cold weather. The fact that you don't is appalling."
He dropped the clothing he held onto the back of a chair and marched over to me. I knew I was trembling, but I held myself up tall even as he crowded me backwards, pushing me into a wall. I felt a mixture of satisfaction at being taller than the boy, but I wasn't stupid enough not to be fearful of what he might do to me.
"Is that so?" He frowned.
"It is," I bit out.
He lifted a hand to my neck, wrapping his fingers around my throat. It didn't hurt. It wasn't even uncomfortable. He wasn't gripping me, just… touching. I felt myself trembling, but refused to look anywhere but defiantly into his eyes.
"Then I suppose I ought to find you something warm to wear for now," he said at last, pulling away from me and walking straight back towards the closet.
"What?" I gaped. I hadn't meant to say anything, but my confusion couldn't have been plainer.
"I have a tailor coming to the manor later today to take some measurements so that you'll have a decent wardrobe, but I don't think you'll have too much of a problem fitting into some of my clothes." He was acting as if my confusion was in his meaning, rather than in the bizarre way he was treating me.
I slid down the side of the wall, uncaring of the way the robe bunched up. I ended up sitting on the floor, only the robe I wore separating me from the cold hardwood below.
I wanted him to be angry with me. I wanted him to prove himself a monster.
And he wouldn't.
At this rate, he was definitely going to drive me mad.
NEXT