𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙖. @gorechain : “ i would eat you, if i could, aki. ” to aki.
𝗺𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗴𝘀. this is well - known and documented. but women, too, can be trained and disciplined, so long as the hand does so with the right touch, and the one on the leash is ready and willing. aki bends his neck for the collar. he waits to be told which direction to walk in, and at what pace. when the target is in his mouth, he holds it gently until she says he may bite down hard and fast, severing a spinal cord or snapping a neck, and he never swallows, because none of this is for his own pleasure. he asks for nothing, and gets nothing in return. every night, he limps home, and savors the feeling of having been useful, or having been used. this is the best kind of dog to have.
“ that concludes my report. ” he says, as always, routine and without affect. syllables hang solid in the atmosphere as aki blinks the sweat out of his eyes.
her office is too hot. he’s still not used to the tokyo summers, which weigh the air down until it is sluggish and docile, almost like water, parting around their bodies in a slow stream. the air conditioning can never keep up. through the din of footsteps echoing down the tiled halls and a conversation happening the next room over, the cicadas trill their funeral dirges, and all at once, they’re all he can hear. synapses fizzle out, not with any popping and snapping of wires, but with an inaudible hitch of breath. the hand is extended, and in it, something sweet.
a full - body flush engulfs him. moisture gathers in aki’s underarms, leaving his clothes picking at his skin until it becomes an itch, the unbearable kind. he’d be squirming if the heat hadn’t gotten to his head just as much as makima’s words, which suddenly feels too heavy for his neck. “ — yeah? ” he wills his voice to not crack or shake or betray weakness, but makima must know, she has to smell it on him, that human fragility. fingers fidget at his sides, curling, uncurling, then digging into his palms. with his tongue useless in his mouth, his gaze is fixed on a vague spot in the window behind her, because he can’t meet her eyes, or even consider the reality of her body.
he holds himself very still, rolling her words over, feeling them wash over him in large waves full of foam and sediment that sticks to every inch of him; underfed by design, so these moments will always paralyze him. finally, big blue eyes turn to makima. they are damp, near - doeish. they are like the sky. “ i wouldn’t fight it. ” have you ever met cattle that loves the iron? you don’t let those ones go.
