Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction / Other Fan Fiction ❯ Protecting the Lion ❯ Sedating a Lion ( Chapter 30 )

Chapter Thirty

Sedating a Lion

 

Not getting enough sleep could make a person exhausted and tired, but sleeping for too long could make a person feel just as tired.

 

The lethargic veil that wouldn't lift, kept Squall from properly waking up. There were brief moments where he'd manage to glimpse beyond his heavy lids, but only long enough to see a small portion of the room he was in. Shortly after, his body would go still and his mind would drift again.

 

It was frustrating. With no sense of time or place, Squall's mind was quicker to respond than his body. The trouble was, he couldn't piece anything together very long before his body would get in the way and fall unconscious again.

 

After experiencing this several times, he was certain that some drug must be involved, but he'd blackout sooner than he could wager a guess.

 

At one point, his brain was able to retain some semblance of awareness upon waking up. So, while he struggled to stay conscious as he'd been doing for some time already, his mind told him to find the source of his troubles. Heavy and clumsy limbs fumbled about. Keeping his eyes open was too demanding, so his hands searched blindly.

 

As he felt himself slipping back under, his right hand grasped a thin rubbery tube that lead to his left forearm. With as much strength as he could muster, he tore the tube away. To his fleeting pleasure, there was a small sting of pain as a needle was pulled out.

 

**

 

Squall's eyelids squeezed together and a small groan escaped his mouth. The soft petting to his hair made him sigh with relief. It had been years since he'd last had a dream, but with everything changing so rapidly, he wasn't surprised.

 

No longer fighting against the hazy fog, Squall relaxed into the coaxing hand.

 

His better judgment caught up with him though, as he tried to recall what his fragmented dream had been. There weren't enough solid memories to put together, his mind hadn't retained any of it.

 

Searching his mind for memories brought an alarming realizing, one that he would have noticed straight away if his synapses weren't sluggish. He couldn't find Shiva. She was with him, but he couldn't reach her.

 

“Seifer,” he called out, his eyes fluttering open. The room was not one he recognized.

 

The ceiling held a large skylight that ran back beyond where he could see without moving his head. Bright light poured into the room, casting pinkish orange hews on the off white walls. A spacious area that was sparse of personal touches by the owner. No pictures aligning the walls, no items atop the dark cherry wood dresser.

 

Squall could feel the sunlight shining in on himself. The wall behind him must have been one large window, running up to the ceiling. It was a pleasant light, but dusk like colors lead him to believe that an entire day had passed without his recollection.

 

A shifting pressure in the mattress nearby startled him. He remembered that someone had been stroking his hair, and that Seifer hadn't spoken in response to his call. Gently his fingers smoothed over the soft cover of the bedding he rested atop of. White and soft, the material was airy, perhaps down. Blinking, Squall regarded his hands that touched the blanket.

 

Gray-blue eyes snapped to attention, his mind finally beginning to shake off the blockade of slowed mental processing. Jerking away, Squall felt tight metal cuffs dig into his wrists. Straining to pull his hands free he felt the cuffs cut into his skin. His hands were bound together in linked cuffs that were anchored with a chain like leash to the headboard.

 

He gave up trying to break the chain, the links were too thick. With cautious anger, he shifted to sit up. Glaring at the other form occupying the bed he was in, Squall waited for some explanation or revealing clue.

 

Sitting on the other end of the wide bed was a man he did not recognize. A broad form similar in comparison to Seifer's, the man sat leisurely over the edge, with a black dress shirt and slacks. There was a black tie draped around the man's neck. The stranger's sleeves were rolled up and the top most buttons of his shirt undone, revealing pale skin and what appeared to be one end of a nasty scar.

 

Dark eyes that remained near black even in the bright lighting, held his gaze. Not blinking, Squall tried to place the face he saw. A long narrow nose, thin lips, and angular jaw line.

 

Everything about the man held a dark overtone. From the elegantly combed back hair that was as dark as the black clothing. It was a grim feeling, as though the man belonged at a funeral.

 

Those eyes that didn't waver, but stared steadily into his own sent an unsettling shiver down his back.

 

Squall was taken by surprise when the man suddenly moved. His reflexes were terribly delayed, which was the only reason he was unable to dodge. A harsh slap stung his cheek.

 

Turning his head to lessen the blow, he stared with unmasked anger towards the stranger. With a face he didn't recognize, in an unfamiliar room, chained to a bed, Squall was far from grasping any of it.

 

Overstepping the stubborn nature that he was prone to having, Squall decided he'd need to handle this like a soldier and not a defiant man. “Who are you?” he asked, knowing that he couldn't just sit there and wait for the stranger to speak first.

 

Standing up, the man walked out of reach of Squall's limited area of free movement. “You dare speak another man's name in my presence?”

 

“Who are you?” Squall reiterated.

 

“My dear sweet boy, I'm hurt that you don't know me.” The man's voice was coaxing and smooth, as though he hadn't just hit Squall.

 

Holding his bound hands to his chest, Squall glanced around the room. He wondered if he might be able to break or unhinge the chain. It was a ridiculous notion, however, considering the amount of strength that would require, and his unnatural lack of power at the moment. His responses were dulled and his muscles felt weak. The demeaning leash that he was the captive of was bolted to a support beam running as a divider along window.

 

Outside he could see the clear expanse of the dusk sky. The buildings along the horizon assured him that he was still in Dollet. There were few buildings that stood so high as he must have been. The top floor judging from the skylight, and well above all other skyscrapers in sight.

 

Lazily blinking, Squall felt himself swaying to the side. Straightening back up, he shifted to find his balance.

 

With the sneaking suspicion that he was still drugged, Squall shook his head as if to rid himself of the impairing effects. “What is this?” he questioned, jingling the chain that kept him from leaving the bed.

 

Thin lips smiled at him. Stepping closer, the man held his gaze. “My pet, you have much training to go through.”

 

Furrowing his brows, Squall was unable to make any conclusions. So little information and so many contradicting elements. The man looked well dressed and didn't have the shifting eyes of the usual criminals, and yet there was clearly something not quite right.

 

Clenching his jaw, Squall skipped through the questions he would have asked and demanded for release. “Let me go,” he ordered.

 

Either the man was extremely fast or the drugs were far from wearing off, because Squall felt the bruising pain of a hard backhanded slap before he had any time to react. Having lost his balance, Squall sprawled against the soft bed. The coppery tang of blood met his tongue, his lip was split. Furiously turning to face the assailant, Squall glared harshly.

 

It was regretful that the man would be knocked flat on his unhinged ass if Squall hadn't been doped up so liberally.

 

A pleased expression contorted the man's face, as he stared down at the brunet. “You are beautiful,” he whispered longingly.

 

“Are you Epson?” Squall asked, biting back the urge to thrash against his restraints and pummel the man. With Lionheart gone and some for of Silence on him, he was no more than a common prisoner to this man's whims. His only hope was that equilibrium returned to his system as the drug ran its course.

 

Tutting, the man wagged a finger in front of Squall's face. “Now, now. That's not my real name, and you know it.”

 

Cursing mentally, Squall thought back to Fenrir's death. The Reaper's Angel was definitely the assassin. “The Reaper?” Squall ventured.

 

“You're getting there,” the man said, reaching out and drawing along the brunet's cheek with his index finger.

 

Turning away from the inappropriate touch, which caused Squall to swallow in disgust, gray eyes stared at the bare wall across the room. There was nothing within his short range of freedom. The bed he was on was centered in the large room. Chained to the wall, there was no place for him to go. He doubt that his captor held any key, that would have been foolish.

 

He jerked his head further to the side when the man's touch persisted. “So you were behind the missile launch in Esthar,” he stated, more for the benefit of voicing the facts than questioning.

 

At the movement he saw out of the corner of his eye, Squall rolled away. It wasn't necessarily helpful to have the freedom of his legs and most his body. Except for his hands held together, and the limited space he could venture in, he was not held down. However, his pathetically slow responses that weren't getting any quicker no matter how urgently he tried to will his body, canceled out any benefit he might receive from sitting up or kicking out at the man.

 

He'd hardly managed to roll to his other side when rough hands grabbed him. An attempted kick was thwarted with the heavy weight of the bigger man's body. A bruising hand squeezed his neck, stilling the refusing turn his head tried to give. Growling in anger, bucking up to throw the man's weight, Squall struggled futilely. “Bastard,” he cursed, “Get the fuck off me!”

 

The hand at his throat squeezed tighter, crushing his trachea in a very dangerous manner. Stubbornly, he stared into dark eyes that watched with glee. It wasn't long before he attempted to cough and breath. The convulsing manner in which his chest heaved with panic was infuriating. The more he struggled the more those eyes seemed to come alive. Gritting his teeth, Squall fought to control his body. It was a wasted effort to try and throw the man. Aside from his disadvantage of position and incapacitation, this guy was bigger and physically stronger. There was nothing he could do but glare defiantly into cold, dark eyes.

 

Eventually his vision grew dark, and with a final few curses that he couldn't vocalize, he slipped beneath the veil of unconsciousness once again.

 

**

 

With painful smack, Seifer punched the side of the building. “Fuck!” he cursed, scaring off a mangy cat picking through a garbage can nearby.

 

Taking a few deep breaths, he paced along the alley while organizing his thoughts.

 

When he hadn't managed to calm or collect his thoughts, Seifer raked a hand through his hair and tugged on the ends in frustration.

 

A few feet away, lying on the damp ground where he'd woken up, was the phone he remembered dropping. Striding to the small device, he stooped to snatch it up. Clutching it tightly, he turned and fled the alleyway at a mad dash.

 

Whether or not he could form a plan or fit together clues and find Squall, he knew he had to meet up with the others before attempting anything.

 

Sprinting through the streets, Seifer took every shortcut he knew, cutting through vacant lots and even going through a couple hotel lobbies to avoid going around a particularly long block.

 

Dawn was just breaking, the morning rays shedding little light on the world he faced. He didn't have time to berate himself and wonder how he could have possibly let someone get a hold of the Commander.

 

He'd failed. Squall was taken from him. He hadn't anticipated the lengths this Epson asshole would go to. A dirty attack that held no honor should have been the first threat he was looking out for.

 

Where was Squall? Hyne, where was Squall? He needed to know, he needed to find the brunet. It was a frightening need, hell, it was a frightening discovery that he could have such a need.

 

More than just wanting, he felt lost and panicked. Not simply in the other room, the brunet he'd become so fond of had vanished from his sight. It was maddening to know that somewhere in this crowded city, the Commander was hidden.

 

Hyne only knew who Epson was and what the man would do. It was already rather clear what the sick fuck wanted.

 

Lengthening his strides, Seifer sprinted faster, his blonde hair pressed back as he moved swiftly through the streets. He'd spill the bastard's blood before the day ended. That was his solemn vow. He'd make every person behind this suffer, and he'd take back was stolen from him.

 

As he neared Ragnarok, his mind had found solace in the goal of revenge he'd set.

 

Of all the people in the world to be kidnapped, Leonhart would give the most struggle and trouble. However, he did not rely on Squall's abilities as a fighter, as a source of comfort. Judging from the smoke bomb that emitted a rather concentrated dose of some incapacitating inhalant, he'd say the pale beauty had little chance of being able to fight back.

 

**

 

Squall's head lolled to the side as his eyes opened. To his distress, he had woken too late to stop Epson from administering an injection. He watched as a small prick of blood formed at the tiny mark left from the needle's entry.

 

Blinking, he felt frustrated beyond his ability to handle it. He wanted so very much to fight, but his body wouldn't listen. It was a struggle just to keep his eyes open, not to mention turning on his side.

 

“Ahh,” the darkly dressed man cooed in a deep voice. “My precious boy is awake.”

 

Swallowing dryly, Squall recalled how his throat had been squeezed, it hurt to carry out the small action. Dark eyes were fixed on his neck. A steady hand reached out to touch him. To his self-loathing, he instinctively flinched away.

 

Cringing in annoyance, Squall let his mind focus elsewhere for a relieving moment. Craning his head back as far as his sore neck would let him, he observed the sky outside. It was still daylight, but not for much longer. That meant he hadn't been unconscious for very long.

 

Cold fingers running along his neck snatched his attention back to the most pressing matter. The Reaper was Dollet's, and perhaps the world's, most infamous yakuza leader. With a face that mysteriously remained unknown and a nickname that far preceded him, The Reaper was wanted for countless murders and unseemly crimes.

 

The man's right hand minion, The Reaper's Angel, was known for her specific style of assassination. The shots to the heart and head were what suggested the involvement of the mob boss.

 

As Commander of Balamb Garden, the crimes of this man were not his business. The Governor had never hired them to take care of it, so it wasn't his problem. Until now anyway. Now, this man of influence and power, which could more than contend with his own, had taken some abhorrent interest in him.

 

It made no sense. What could a man like The Reaper want with him? The guy already had money and power, there was little else Squall had to offer.

 

An involuntary shudder wracked his body as those hands smoothed over his exposed neck. There was little hope to be placed in the fact that he hadn't been killed yet. As far as he could tell, the man was deranged and not to be held to any textbook standards of a murderer or crime lord.

 

Oddly enough, he didn't feel fear. He was royally pissed, tolerating it all as much as he could, waiting for the moment to lash out. The problem was, his moment didn't seem to be coming, and he had his doubts that if an opportunity presented itself that he'd be able to seize it in his sedated state.

 

His focus was pulled back again, when Epson gripped his jaw and looked down at him in displeasure.

 

“It's rude to ignore me,” the man stated, loosening his hold a bit. “Your beautiful skin,” he said sadly, kneeling on the bed and shifting to straddle Squall's limp form. Sitting heavily on slim thighs, he ran a hand over the darkening bruises on the pale, slender neck. Leaning over, he ran his tongue along the smooth skin.

 

Jerking away, Squall's head was held in place and he had no place to go, except to furrow deeper into the bed beneath him. The exhaling sigh of the man above him and the tongue that swiped across his neck caused him to feel an impending reality about the situation. Not wanting to know, but feeling more than compelled to find out, he ask, “What do you want? Why am I here?” His voice cracked, sounding terribly hoarse.

 

“Was it Caraway's child who gave you these marks?” Epson hissed out, sucking at the darkest marks on the brunet's alluring throat.

 

“Dammit, get the hell off,” he croaked out, his voice gave out the louder he tried to speak. As expected, his demand earned him a blow to the face.

 

Immediately after, a pair of icy hands cupped his cheeks. “Don't make me hurt your pretty face.”

 

Staring up into dark eyes, steely gray irises danced with fire. Clenching his jaw, Squall never yearned to feel the grip of Lionheart in his hand so badly. He could almost hear the luminescent blade sing as it sliced through the air and cleanly lobbed this man's head off.

 

Not caring about the consequences, Squall tried to use whatever leverage he could to push the crazed man around. “Ultimecia's knight gave me these marks when we fucked each other senseless.” Squall's cheekbone throbbed as he finally pissed the man off enough to make him use a closed fist. He couldn't suppress the grin that pulled his lips upward.

 

“I see,” Epson spoke solemnly.

 

Squall's small grin faded as an alarm started to go off in the back of his mind. Staring up, he saw a regretful gleam in those dark eyes. Perhaps the man had little tolerance for defiant tendencies, thus earning him a quick death. He'd rather his end come now than after some twisted, demeaning, and drawn out game.

 

It was a surprise, and perhaps even greater alarm, when the yakuza leader began to kiss him. It was not like a real kiss, but rather a painful mashing of lips. Gritting his teeth, he refrained from voicing his protests, lest he open his mouth.

 

The lustful comments of Seifer surfaced in his mind about how oblivious he was to his own attraction. He hadn't thought anything of it, but now as he considered it, Epson's actions were set into a new perspective.

 

Jerking back, he was unable to move enough to break the contact. A hand grasped his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks. Not relenting, he continued to hold his mouth tightly closed. Another hand fisted his lengthy hair, gripping it at the root and pulling fiercely.

 

Squall's head was forcefully jerked back, angled so his neck arched upwards. This was the action that caused him to give way. He tasted blood, his own, as he gave a violet jerk, trying again to break away from those lips. Failing, his jaw was wrenched open and gripped tightly so he couldn't efficiently close it again.

 

A wet tongue hastily entered him, sloppily running against his own and roving deep enough to make him gag.

 

The shortness of breath was affecting him, though he actually hoped that he might pass out. Futilely, his fingers clutched and attempted push the man atop him off, but it was no more effective than a tap on the shoulder would have been.

 

Too preoccupied to realize that the hand pulling his hair had moved, Squall was surprised to feel a hand groping along his side, moving lower. As the hand grappled with his pants, which were sadly missing the many belts, he gave off an instinctive whimper, as if in plea for anything but what was about to come.

 

With an unfair tradeoff, Epson ended the disturbing kiss and focused on undressing him instead.

 

“Cowardly prick!” he cried out as best he could between pants and limited vocal ability.

 

Collapsing limply, Squall didn't fall back, but his muscles lost all tension. He felt spent. It was too much of a struggle to keep up the resistance through the heavy claim the drugs had over him.

 

His white t-shirt was pulled up his torso and over his head by impatient hands. The shirt remained bunched over his hands, where the cuffs kept it from being removed completely.

 

Squall swallowed another whimper of pain as the psychotic bastard painfully tweaked his nipples. As the hands abandoned all pretense of forced foreplay, they pulled his pants down.

 

“Get the fuck away from me!” Squall gave a final shout before losing what strength he had left to fight with.

 

Epson sat back, admiring the lithe form exposed before him. The bright gray eyes that remained defiant to the very end. There had been so set plan for breaking the beautiful man, but starting right away seemed as good an idea as any. “I've waited too long for this,” he explained, “Don't worry, it's always painfully the first time, but you'll come to beg me for it each time.”

 

Blinking, Squall watched as his captor rid him of his pants, disposing them somewhere on the floor. Something snapped inside of him. It was as though everything just faded out. His mind couldn't absorb the event that his eyes were watching. His body didn't feel the rough hand squeezing his inner thigh, or the first press of fingers against the entrance, a place that only Seifer had ever touched in such a manner.

 

Lamely, Squall turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. His moment of opportunity hadn't come yet, and he was too weakened to seize it even if it did present itself. So, he'd wait. Following the textbook procedure on torture, he let his mind wander, focusing on anything but what was being done to his body.

 

His gray eyes focused impassively on the sky beyond the window above him. It was darkening, the sun was nearly set. With a final glance back at the man wedged between his legs, he watched long enough to see Epson unzip those black slacks and release the darkened flesh of an erect cock.

 

Blinking again, Squall pushed the sight to the back of his mind and turned his focus to the sky once again. If he stared intently enough, he could see a faint star.