TW: Week of Terrible Fiction, Drugs, Dubcon

Lalna regains consciousness in the dark. Emerging from the drugs isn't quite like waking up; instead of welcoming him back, reality mercilessly sinks its claws into his brain.

First, there's that feeling of vertigo, crashing over him in waves that threaten to send him on his knees several times. This makes him realize he is standing up - has been for a while, if the stiffness in his limbs is anything to go by. Rough hemp ropes are biting into the flesh of his arms, burning against the delicate skin of the inside of his elbows.

Lalna waits. He's been taught patience. Time melds in a never-ending succession of inspiration-expiration.

How long has he been here?

He shuffles a bit. There's carpet under his feet. Is he in the office? In the bedroom, maybe? He tries to blink. It takes him a while to realize the darkness surrounding him is due to the piece of fabric tied against his eyes.

Once he's regained basic awareness of his entire body - cold, aching, terribly vulnerable - Lalna turns his attention on his location. There isn't much to say about it. It's dark, no light filtering through his blindfold. It's empty, judging by the absence of any sounds beside his own breathing - and he's sure he's alone, until he hears a huff of laughter.

"You know, I would never have thought you could stay that silent before you came into my possession."

Lalna does his best not to start at the sound of Rythian's voice a few meters in front of him - how long has he been here? Was he waiting, or did he somehow manage to teleport there without making a sound? He obviously fails at appearing unfazed as Rythian chuckles again. There's a clinking of metal on metal, the soft whisper of leather on skin as his owner - and the thought still leaves a bitter taste at the back of his mouth, almost a year later - takes a step in his direction. Lalna can feel the heat radiating off the other man, and he has to stop himself from leaning into it. Rythian's fingers brush against Lalna's throat as he attaches a leash to the buckle of the collar fastened snuggly around Lalna's neck. His hands are as cold as marble, and Lalna shivers at the contact.

The leash goes tight, making him bend forward. Fingers push against his lips - not a offer, barely a request - and he immediately lets them slip inside. He doesn't have to fight the impulse to snap his teeth down on the scarred knuckles anymore; the satisfaction of hearing Rythian hiss and curse in pain isn't worth the sanction that is sure to follow such an act of rebellion. Instead he lets the digits rest on his tongue and makes his mind quiet and compliant, trying to silence the small part of him still revolting against his predicament.

There is no use in resisting. Nobody will come to his help.

Rythian's thumb presses into Lalna's cheek, mirrored by his ring finger and pinky on the other side, effectively trapping Lalna's face in a cold iron grip. Pointer and middle fingers push past his lips, sliding in and out in an easy rhythm. Lalna moans lazily. Despite the coolness of Rythian's skin, the movement ignites a series of fires down his chest, into his stomach. It feels like millions of needles stabbing his back, each lighting up another spark of half-hearted pleasure.

Rythian pulls his fingers out, leaving a trail of spit across Lalna's jaw. The leash tugs once more at Lalna's collar, and he stumbles further into his master's space; he almost expects to be reprimanded for moving without a direct order, but then Rythian is kissing him.

It reminds him - briefly - of business meetings - so long ago it could have been another life altogether - and of antagonistic glares exchanged over papers and forms, of arguments for the sake of argument, of plotted downfalls.

And then Lalna has other things to think about.

They rarely ever kiss - Rythian has expressed many times his distaste for everything Lalna is, and kissing is far too close from a romantic act for him to indulge in it too often with his pet. But when he does - when he does, Lalna feels like he is drowning, breath stolen away by the mouth fitted against his.

It's a messy, spit-slick affair, tinged with contempt and possessiveness. Teeth bite down viciously on Lalna's lower lip, and he tastes blood on his tongue. Rythian kisses like he's trying to eat him whole, pulling Lalna closer still, towering over him, licking into his mouth, breathing into his lungs. The hand not holding the leash grips Lalna's neck, fingers digging into pliant flesh. He presses against Lalna, pushing back insistently, and Lalna can't help but staggering backward until the back of his thighs hit the edge of a table - they are in the office then, he thinks, but it stops mattering once Rythian starts mouthing at the edge of Lalna's jaw, teeth scraping on stubble. His breath is coming short against Lalna's face - it's usually a sign of irritation, and a way for Lalna to know he's either about to get reminded of the upsides of being a pet, or torn into bloody pieces for mistakes others made.

Although, given the events of the - afternoon? Morning? - so far, he can make a pretty good guess.

Rythian half-shoves him, half-lifts him on the desk. The glossy surface is chilled, and the thin fabric of Lalna's boxers isn't nearly enough to protect him from it. He yelps at the sensation, surprised. Rythian freezes against him. Lalna tenses up, expecting some kind of punishment. Instead, Rythian relaxes and pats his cheek.

"A bit stressed, are we?" he says agreeably. "Not to worry. I have a thing just for that."

The next second, he is gone, and Lalna whimpers at the loss of the heat of the other body.

Somewhere behind him, there's the noise of a drawer sliding open. Sound of wood hitting wood as a box is dropped on the table and opened. Lalna has no trouble recognizing the sounds that follow: faint screeching noise of a syringe being assembled, filled, tested out to chase the eventual air bubbles from its tip. Lalna hates the feeling of eager expectation those sounds awake in him; he has worked with chemicals long enough to get a pretty good inkling of which drugs Rythian keeps pumping into his veins just from the effects they have on him, and he is sure half those cocktails are at best illegal, at worst experimental.

He also knows they are going to quiet his consciousness for a while, kill the voices berating him for what he's become - a puppet, an instrument to be played with and thrown aside as soon as his owner tires of him.

He licks his lips. He can't wait.

Rythian is back in front of him, disregarding the leash to run his hand through Lalna's hair instead. Lalna sighs softly and leans into it, letting himself be petted. He winces when the tip of the needle presses against his neck and breaks the skin, exhales deeply when liquid ice makes its way to his heart.

With each beat, the narcotic spreads a bit more through his body. The initial coolness is replaced by a debilitating warmth that makes his limbs go numb and his head go empty. The contents of the syringe surround him in a cloudy absence of shame, of guilt, and he welcomes it with open arms.

He's vaguely aware of a shift in gravity as he is being laid down on the desk, doesn't react when the chilled surface touches his bare shoulders. He discards the unpleasant feeling of his arms bound behind his back, of the skin chafed and raw underneath the rope. Rythian's voice comes to him from far away, whispering in his ear words he can't begin to try to understand. There's a hand pushing one of his knees up, the other cradling his skull, thumb sweeping his cheekbone. Two digits push past his lips again, and he sucks on them absently, wrapping his tongue around them. Layers of consciousness peel off to leave him soft and supple under his master's hands.

What little he has of focus slips away until he feels entirely disconnected from his own body. His ties to reality snap once again, one by one.

Lalna sighs.

He feels at peace.

Credit to kalgalen on Ao3