TW: Psychological Torture, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

He sings, sometimes. Rythian can't describe it, when he sings. It's idle song, idiot song, sweet and meaningless against the blood on his hands. Songs about poppy fields and daisies and kittens out to play.

Rythian hates him, when he sings. Rythian hates him all the time but especially when he's being playful and sweet and kind. Sometimes, the scientist kisses his forehead after surgery, after an especially painful experiment, and Rythian's blood courses with anger and hate, bright as a thousand suns. If he could, he would rip him in two.

Lalna. Rythian has seen his name a thousand times, heard it a thousand more. Lalna's handwriting is tiny and cramped, a doctor's scrawl, and when he catches Rythian reading his papers he smiles and laughs and shakes a finger. It's a game, to him. Something fun. Rythian can no longer count his scars on fingers and toes alone.

Sometimes, Lalna sedates him, when he's making too much of a racket. Rythian grows to hate sedation: he cannot sense time passing, does not know what the scientist does in the period between one blink and other. Sometimes, Lalna doesn't sedate him, and Rythian screams and cries (he can't help himself he can't help himself he can't stop) and he hates that, too.

When Rythian cries, Lalna wipes away his tears, and his tone is agonizingly gentle as he describes what's going where and what's coming away. Lalna sinks scalpel into flesh and it hurts, words cannot describe how much it hurts, and sometimes he sings little lullabies. He runs gloved fingers through Rythian's hair and shushes him softly and kisses away his tears and Rythian growls, sometimes, or shows his teeth, but mostly he is too tired. Sometimes Lalna's kisses feel good, comforting, and Rythian hates that most of all.

What Lalna is interested in, he says, is how. And why. Rythian's eyes glow purple in the dark and sometimes when he is angry or upset enough black tendrils pulse over his skin and Lalna wants to know: why?

He has machines to rebuild, he explains, as Rythian cries, one hand over the empty socket of his eye. Not to worry, he says, peeling off bloody gloves, a day and you'll be right as rain! Rythian hates crying, but he cannot help it sometimes, and it is pitiful. He knows. He cannot do magic, in the depths of Lalna's labratory. Lalna has secured things to him to be sure of this, painful things, things buried deep in the meat of him. A collar around his neck, heavy and metal and burning with something darker than Rythian knows. Something in his spine.

He is not a mage, not surrounded by wiring and sharp things and Lalna. He cannot-- see. He can see with his eyes, of course, when he has them, but with his magic gone, the world becomes flat and colorless. Crackles of energy attempt to fizz out of him and die on his skin. He cannot touch Lalna with the tendrils of magic he would like to, to see the true shape of him.

The true shape of Lalna, he is sure, is something massively dark and deep, something with a thousand grinning teeth and glowing goggle eyes.

Sometimes Lalna forces open his mouth, shoves gloved fingers inside. Rythian bites down and tastes plastic and dirty skin beneath, and Lalna does nothing but pry open his mouth and laugh and admonish, gently. No. Bad boy. Like he is a dog, an animal, something dirty and inhuman. Lalna strokes fingers along his tongue and they taste like polymer and blood and Rythian wants to puke, wants to lean into them, wants to die.

Sometimes he has moments of weakness. Lalna touches his bare hip with an ungloved hand and the touch is warm and inviting, instead of repulsive. Lalna strokes fingers through his hair and Rythian leans his head back before he can stop himself. He thinks about kissing Lalna and the taste of blood in his mouth and he wants to die.

He wants to die and he wants to kill most of all. If he could, he would slit Lalna's throat, watch his life seep out. He would laugh. He is not sure if he can laugh anymore. He thinks about murdering Lalna a lot. Anyone would do, in his situation, but he thinks about sinking his teeth into Lalna's soft pale flesh, yanking out handfuls of his unwashed hair, gutting him like a fish. He wants to rip out Lalna's teeth and eyes and stomp his skull in.

Lalna threads a needle and makes one stitch, two. The pain is sharp but minuscule against the greater pain Rythian is feeling: he's not sure how much Lalna scooped out of him, this time. Lalna apologizes, offhand, as he drives his needle through Rythian's flesh, pulling it back together. He is not sincere. He is not capable of being sincere. Lalna keeps his eyes shrouded behind dark glass but when his goggles are off he looks amused, constantly, even when his mouth is a straight line.

Once, Lalna touches him with a hand that is not violent or mockingly soft. Once, Lalna touches his thighs, gently, and Rythian starts-- he is surprised, and scared, and confused. It is night and the implements are packed away and Rythian expects to be left alone, when the day is over. Lalna is not wearing gloves and his skin is warm against Rythian's and Rythian hates him, hates him, hates him, but he cannot cry out as Lalna slides his palms upwards. It feels good. He does not know why the scientist is doing this. Lalna's head is ducked far enough that Rythian cannot read his expression and his hands creep up, up, ever so softly.

What, Rythian manages, finally, feeling himself flushing. Lalna's hands still, stop at the junction of his hip and leg, caress tenderly. He should be disgusted, but he is not. The hands feel warm and pleasant and his body aches for them, craves touch that does not hurt. He does not want Lalna to stop. The thought is terrifying.

Shh, says Lalna, as if that's any sort of an answer. He keeps touching, softly, and the touch feels so good that Rythian wants to cry. Shh, he says again, and slides one hand down to caress Rythian's knee and slides the other hand eastward and-- oh. Oh.

Rythian is half-hard, already, just from a little touching, and Lalna's hand encircles him tenderly and strokes just right. Rythian's hands curl themselves into fists and he looks up, away, biting his lip. He will give himself one small victory, by not crying out.

It feels good, impossibly good. Rythian does not know how long he has been in Lalna's basement but he has missed touch so badly. Lalna's hands are skilled and Rythian bucks his hips, a little, trying to get him to go faster. He can't help it. He can hear Lalna snicker and his face heats up even further. He loses, too: the scientist bends down and licks the tip of his cock and Rythian breathes out, harsh and shuddering.

Should I continue? Lalna asks, and Rythian does not have to look down to know that he is smiling.

Rythian struggles with himself, for a moment. He should say no. He despises Lalna. He despises this. He wants to snap Lalna's neck with his bare hands.

Yes, he says, finally, voice trembling. Yes, please.

Lalna laughs and takes Rythian's cock into his mouth and Rythian moans, pathetically, hands balling themselves so tightly that his fingernails hurt. There is a second of scraping teeth and then Lalna takes it slow, carefully, sliding his head down with practiced ease.

Practiced-- who would have thought. Rythian almost laughs. Lalna does something amazing with his tongue and Rythian whimpers, instead, legs shaking, straining up as far as he can in his bonds to buck his hips up. Lalna uses his hands to push Rythian's thighs back down, keeping him still. Lalna snickers, again, and he can feel it, and the feeling is strange but not unpleasant. There are sparks going on beneath his eyelids as Lalna sucks him off, and his breath is coming in harsh little gasps as Lalna goes faster, taking as much as he can.

There is mounting pleasure, leaving Rythian squirming, and Lalna does something amazing with his tongue again, and he comes, eyes squeezed closed, whimpering one last time. He breathes out a tired breath and leans back.

Lalna swallows and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, quickly and casually. He pulls his goggles up to his forehead and observes Rythian and Rythian finally looks back, into his green eyes, surrounded by tired bags but still sparkling with interest and amusement.

Did you enjoy that? he asks, smiling.

I hate you, Rythian responds, finally looking away.

I think that's a yes, Lalna says, and leans over to jot something off on the clipboard next to Rythian. A definite yes, he adds, and pats Rythian on the leg. Good boy.

He walks away singing.

Credit to orphan_account on Ao3