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A pill to make you numb
Story Notes: This story contains graphic depictions of sexual situations between adults and minors, and may be offensive to some readers. Written for the Flash Rider LiveJournal community in 2010.
A pill to make you dumb
A pill to make you anybody else.
-Marilyn Manson, Coma White
It was a beautiful arrangement, really.
Alex Rider lay sprawled on the low black table, a red satin sheet spilling out from beneath his warm, nude body. He was sleeping off the rest of the diazepam, his head turned to the side and tendrils of his blond fringe spilling over his forehead, gently brushing against his eyelashes. His arms lay extended beside him, his wrists laced to his ankles in the intricate, artful style of kinbaku. The thin hemp lines crisscrossed from his legs—bent at the knee and spread apart—all the way to his neck, weaving diamonds and trapezoids over his chest and belly. He looked like a golden gem tangled in a dreamcatcher; a comely boy-god trapped in a mortal net. His body seemed to radiate sexual energy, even at his young, exploitable age.
Yassen Gregorovich sat on the adjacent leather sofa, brooding over a ceramic cup of saké like a watchful tiger. He was dressed in comfortable black judogi-style pants and a loose-fitting robe; it hung open, revealing his toned, graceful physique and 36-year accumulation of faint scars, the most recent of which was a jagged-edged circle in the middle of his sternum. About the size of a .40 caliber bullet.
Yassen sipped the wine between thoughts, and his cool blue gaze never left Alex’s prone body. When the boy began to stir, Yassen set down his cup and reached for the tanto knife on the cushion beside him. He moved to the edge of the sofa and leaned over the table just as Alex’s sleepy brown eyes batted open.
Yassen smiled thinly when the boy turned his face toward him, his eyes glassy and his gaze miles away. He blinked languidly and murmured, “I must be dreaming.”
Alex shifted drowsily and tried in vain to lift his arms. The ropes held fast—painlessly yet securely. Not that Alex was capable of feeling very much pain at this point. He seemed to waken as he realized his position and predicament. He looked up at Yassen accusingly, fearfully, as if he had just been betrayed by someone close to him.
“What is this? Where am I?”
Yassen studied his tanto knife, slipping the smooth, lacquered scabbard on and off with a secure click. “Our objectives had been the same: the Yamaguchi-gumi boss Yoshide Daichi and his—” The Russian licked his lips. “—interesting new casino venture. But do not concern yourself with that now, Alex.” He smiled. It was disturbingly genuine. “I am glad to see you again.”
The fifteen-year-old spy clenched his teeth, his muscles quietly straining against the ropes binding him from neck to ankle. He didn’t know how to feel right now. All he could think about was the last words Yassen had said to him on Air Force One, the uncle he had robbed from Alex’s life, the terror he had inflicted upon his friends and loved ones. The man was responsible for so much grief and pain and confusion, and yet Alex couldn’t deny that he felt strangely satisfied to know that Yassen Gregorovich had not left this world. It wouldn’t be the same without him.
“What are you going to do to me?” Alex asked quietly. He had already begun to detach himself from reality as subtly as he could—for his sanity’s sake—because he seemed to know what was coming. The thought of the act didn’t frighten him nearly as much as the thought of becoming emotionally attached to a ruthless killer. Though, he supposed grimly, he already was.
Yassen combed Alex’s fair hair from his eyes. “I’m going to give you a dream, Alex,” he murmured, and held his hand above the teen’s mouth; between his thumb and forefinger was a small green pill. “And I’m going to make you love me.”
“The same way you loved my father?” Alex asked bluntly, opening wide.
“No.” Yassen placed the pill on Alex’s tongue, then lowered his head until his lips brushed the boy’s. “Better than that.” He sealed the promise with a kiss, his tongue dipping into Alex’s mouth and working the pill into his throat. Alex swallowed and kissed Yassen back, abandoning his last bastion of control and accepting the inevitable.
Maybe it was because he knew that no matter what Yassen did to him, he would live to see tomorrow. Or maybe it was because the 85 milligrams of ecstasy he had just swallowed was beginning to react with the diazepam, muddying his judgment and reducing his virtue to a vapor-thin curtain separating him from madness.
The drugs were cruising through his blood like stardust by the time Yassen pushed the oil-greased scabbard of his tanto blade into Alex’s ass, hovering above his helpless quarry and fucking him slowly with the shiny lacquered wood.
And Alex, in a drug-induced euphoria that felt like the most real love in God’s great universe, begged Yassen for more, rolling his hips and taking in another inch and fuck, it just wasn’t deep enough, it just wasn’t Yassen.
“Yassen, please,” Alex moaned, wishing he wasn’t bound so he could wrap his arms and legs around this man and just love him as hard as he could. “Yassen. Ya . . .”
The world seemed to pause when the robe slipped off of Yassen’s shoulders and he exposed his hard, blood-swollen cock, standing rigidly from its wiry nest of honey-colored curls. But it was nothing compared to the delirious rush of joy Alex felt when that impressive length pried into his body and Yassen began thrusting.
Alex let his head fall back, his sweaty blond hair glowing platinum-gold against the red satin cloth, and he gasped Yassen’s name as the Russian bit his throat, claimed his virginity, and burnt his brand upon Alex’s heart. “Ya, Yassen . . . ah, Yassen!”
Yassen had been right. Alex would love him long after that night, and the dream he had been given was more beautiful than he could have imagined, stained with gauzy shades of chemical-black and coma-white.