Ronan comes into the room, looking around. He spots Kavinsky lounging on the bed and makes his way over.
"Wait." K calls and Ronan stops, not looking at him. The Bulgarian takes his time putting out his cigarette and fishes something out of the bed side table. He presents it to Ronan. It's a black collar with a silver ring at the base.
Ronan swallows but tilts his head for easy access. Kavinsky looks on down right gleeful as he clips it around Ronan's throat and then proceeds to secure a matching leash to the ring. "Well?" he asks, words scraping out from between his teeth with anticipation. "Why are you still standing, bitch?"
Ronan dropped to his knees. Kavinsky pushes his pants off his hips and helps get Ronan's shirt off. Then he did himself. He stared at Ronan, on his hands and knees in front of him, mouth open and wanting.
"My eyes are up here, sweetheart," he says. Ronan looks up, so much self-loathing and want tangled up K was sure he'd make a therapist rich with the visits. But when he tugs the leash, Ronan crawls.
Ronan should hate himself. He really should. But here they were. K's thin fingers digging into the back of his neck as he gagged on hot flesh, begging to have something up his ass, pleading for pain and degradation and bliss.
Kavinsky loops the leash around the bed frame, symbolic of his control more than anything else. Ronan knows that he ought to fight against it, ought to beat Kavinsky to a pulp and assert himself like he did that night at the substance party but, God help him, he wants this. He wants every single humiliating inch of it. That's the difference between Gansey and Kavinsky; Gansey insists on treating Ronan like a person and, sometimes, Ronan feels like so much less than that.
When they were finished Ronan curled up with K on his other side, so quiet Ronan thought he might be dead. The thought bothered him so he focused on his own breathing. He felt like crying but no, that wouldn't do so he forced the numb feeling to take over. That was better.
For a while it worked. He could imagine there was nothing beyond his bruised, sore body. For an hour his only problem was that sometimes K's drugs were too strong and the rawness he longed for floated just out of reach. But it never lasted. So Ronan always went back, tail tucked. He should hate himself for being eager. He should despise the way he wanted K's cock, hot in his mouth or the way for just a moment K was his world and later when everything jerked back into nauseating motion he'd have the bruises on his hips to help ground him.
Sometime he barely felt human. And K knew just was kind of God he needed.