A/N: My siblings were (re)watching POK on demand and of course I couldn't watch it without thinking about a sick and twisted relationship between Lanny and Mason. Hence this drabble. And even though I don't usually write fanfiction, I might be persuaded to write more if I get good reviews/a decent following.
Warnings: age gap, explicit language, graphic descriptions of sex between men, homophobia and more tba. Don't like? Don't read.
Note: This fic takes place in the time period between the first and fifth episode of POK. Lanny is still sulking from having to give up his room to the twins and his sullen behavior doesn't escape Mason's notice.
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Lanny
This is so unfair. I was supposed to be king. So unfair. Unfair. Unfair.
It kept repeating over and over in my mind, the raw unfairness of the situation. Months under the twins' reign had passed and I was still half-convinced, half-hoping that it was just a terrible nightmare and I'd wake up soon. The logical part of me knew better, of course, but I would pinch myself hard and often, just in case.
That same futile hope was the reason for the mottled bruises and scrapes that currently decorated a large portion of my body. I had asked Mahama to spar with me, claiming—falsely—to have an interest in self-defense. The idea was actually laughable, considering my preference to flee rather than fight, but the ruse had served its purpose in that it had proven to me that this was not, in fact, a bad dream.
It had also been a painful reminder of how I was so not warrior material. Not that I'd necessarily been in need of one, but Mahama had been extremely enthusiastic in his teaching. Bastard.
Unfair. Unfair. Unfair.
So far, all of my attempts to get rid of the stupid twins had failed. All forty-six of them. That kind of good luck shouldn't exist, damn it. It wasn't .. it just wasn't fair. I was running out of ideas, although to be fair—haha—my current condition wasn't very conducive to devising clever assassination schemes. I was sore all over, completely exhausted and .. lonely.
Yeah, that's right. I was lonely. My constant occupation with revenge and usurping didn't exactly leave much room for making friends. And that caused its own hurt, the kind that wasn't easily eased.
Rolling over onto my back, I let out a long-suffering sigh and stared blankly up at the ceiling. The bruised portions of my body throbbed with soreness and pain. I wanted to cry from sheer frustration. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep without finishing my nightly ritual of scheming. Unfair. Unfair. Unfair. It was all so unfair.
My mind had only just begun to cease its pain-filled whirring when I heard the door to the room—I refused to think of it as mine—creak slowly open. Light from the hallway appeared like a fiery orange wall, and I slitted my eyes against its brightness, until I was able to make out a fairly massive, broad-shouldered silhouette standing in the center of the doorframe.
"Still awake, precious?" The voice was a deep, husky tone that I knew unfortunately well, well enough to cause my insides to clench with a curious mixture of longing and relief. Outwardly, aloud, I groaned in exaggerated annoyance.
Ugh. Mason.