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Grandfather clock. Headache. Dark and lonely room. Shogo Makishima. Her.
The order of his thoughts was precise and rapid-fire, five bullets in quick succession. Kogami’s eyelids fluttered and he hissed sharply between his teeth as he came to. First came the mild jerk of his elbow to clutch at his head, stopped simultaneously by the rattle of handcuffs and a sharp pang of burning agony through every individual muscle that connected wrist to breast. Then the jerk of his ankle, finding it was in a peculiar position. Stopped silently with another ache to rival that of hell itself in his leg.
He barely had time at all to register that he was seated on a worn out office chair, hands cuffed behind his back and around the spine of the seat, ankles duct taped together and bound to the chair’s spindle; no sooner than he’d woken did a sound ring out above the dull ticking of the clock. A book snapped shut with a single motion of a hand. There he was, seated several feet away from Kogami in a chair of his own. One leg crossed elegantly over the other, the backs of his fingers rubbing in delicate thought against his jaw. It made him sick to his stomach. Sick with fear. With outrage and a desire to snap every bone in the man’s body.
Shogo Makishima. The maestro of the perverted orchestra he’d been chasing for so many years. Seated before him as one would sit across from a friend, observing him with the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. “Did you have a restful sleep?”
“Go to hell,” Kogami said, the words out of his mouth before he could even blink, gone and forgotten as fast as his next inquiry– the more important thing: “You aren’t gonna tell me what happened to her–” are you?
“I’m afraid not,” Makishima replied. He set his book aside and brushed the dust from his lap. “She is hardly relevant to either of us in this moment. I would say ‘focus on yourself’, Shinya Kogami, but with all the effort I’ve exerted I fear I must demand you focus on me.”
But Kogami had better things on his mind. Namely trying to deduce what on earth his purpose here was. His immediate thought screamed hostage, yet that didn’t feel right. The last time Makishima had baited a trap it had been for he himself; if he wanted to bait the entire unit into action, there were much better ways of doing so than dangling an enforcer in a location unknown. Not to mention Makishima’s presence here made no sense in that context. He ought to be long gone, or at least behind the scenes, ready to spring the jaws of his trap from afar. The final nail in that coffin was the realization that he could not feel the weight of his cuff– the most efficient way for his unit to track him.
Makishima approached. “How very fascinating to observe your train of thought via expression alone. I can read you almost as well as I was reading that book.” He took Kogami’s chin and tilted it up. An act narrowly tolerated until Makishima tired and opted instead to explore the body before him.
Delicate hands white as snow but deadly as steel travelled from the back of Kogami’s cheekbone down to his chest, dragging along his clothes in such a pointed way where he could very much feel the nails probing at the skin beneath, wanting to tear asunder what they could not touch. Kogami watched him, hawklike, face ironclad save for the way his lips parted for haggard panting, the corners of his eyes that twitched as Makishima ghosted past his nipple and continued down.
Kogami leaned back, the chair creaking with his motion. Who wouldn’t? But it was not far enough. His range so pitifully limited and his body too exhausted and spent to try and pry the cuffs off his wrists. “I thought you would be more… talkative,” Makishima said, almost disappointed, the neutrality in his expression melting visibly the longer they locked stares.
“Too busy tryin’ to figure you out. No… tryin’ to figure this out. Keepin’ me alive serves no logical purpose. And gettin’ this close in my personal space… well, a guy might start gettin’ the wrong impression.” Each word emerged a probe, and yet Kogami could make no deductions from Makishima’s reaction. In fact there was no reaction. Just a distant, calculating stare—
—and a straight razor slashed across his collarbone in the blink of an eye. The office chair groaned in protest with his violent shudder. Kogami threw his head back and choked down a yowl. And yet when he forced his gaze back down, one eye squinting in tandem with a curled lip and grit teeth, there was nothing particularly vindictive in Makishima’s demeanor. Even the way he pressed the bloody razor against his fingertip was more pensive than anything else.
“I would expect no less from you. How true your observations should be. In such a state I’m doubtful you could fight back in any meaningful capacity whatsoever. For all intents and purposes I should no longer find entertainment in a thoroughly conquered foe.” Makishima took hold of Kogami’s chin, tilted it up, that his throat might be bared and ripe for the razor to slowly ghost along its length. “But I have seen you come back from the brink time and time again, Kogami. Perhaps you will overcome this and surpass my expectations. Or perhaps you will not, and I will tire of you. ‘Til then I have simply determined that there is no harm in practicing what I preach… and indulging in the baser instincts of humanity.”
Kogami dared not even swallow. So close was the blade to his neck that any mild twitch had the potential to draw blood. He held his ground, stomped down the deep sense of unease that began to ooze into the pit of his stomach. A futile attempt further foiled by the way Makishima abruptly swapped blade for his lips, hovering at his throat so close that every exhale of breath went hot against his skin.
“There is a beauty to dismantling a thing down to its base components. Wouldn’t you agree, Kogami?” Full well did Kogami anticipate a kiss, but Makishima did nothing of the sort, not even making contact but rather hovering just close enough. “Dissecting a good novel… analyzing what compels the human mind to do what it does… even something as mundane and physical as disassembling a tool or a gun can be ever so satisfying. I wonder what sort of satisfaction I will find in dismantling you ?”
Involuntarily, Kogami bared his teeth. It was a sick and sudden lurch of his stomach that reminded him just how easily Makishima Shogo could dismantle a person. How many victims had found themselves in this exact same position before— or at least a close approximation? Though Kogami could not help but feel as though it had always been Makishima watching from the shadows rather than being the one climbing into the lap of his prey, caressing their cheek with one hand, staring into their eyes with something that felt more like lust than anything else.
“Can’t imagine you look at many people you’ve killed the way you’re lookin’ at me,” Kogami remarked. Damn it all; how difficult it was to remain detached in this circumstance. But snarling and barking had their purposes, and for a dog backed into a corner against a prey who knew it was all for show— meaningless. Even if it wasn’t merely out of self defense that he wanted to spit in the lunatic’s face.
“No… no, this is indeed an anomaly. Then again, most who find themselves at the end of the line at my hands do not behave as you do.” Makishima leaned back. If only to operate as he spoke, gingerly probing at the seam of Kogami’s coat where the sleeve met shoulder. “Well, you would know better than most, yes? That influx of panic and the loss of all rationality when death stares them in the eye… quite the rarity, this trait of yours. To stare back at the encroaching abyss in spite of your terror.” The blade in his hand sunk into the seam, and while Kogami braced for pain, there was no bite. Merely the initial forced nudge to pierce the weighty fabric before a small split formed. Makishima settled the blade in their collective lap that both hands might be freed to grip either side of the newborn gap— then tore with an ugly shriek of splitting fabric to fully separate the parts of his coat. Untethered from the suit jacket proper, his sleeve fell uselessly further down his arm. Makishima merely turned it to expose the seam of the sleeve that he might continue his work.
Quite the literal dismantling. Unnerved as it was, Kogami found his voice, albeit in a deeper snarl than he would have cared to give: “You’re givin’ yourself too much credit. Abyss would imply that you’re something primordial. But you’re just a man. Perfect at manipulating the world around you… piece of shit in every conceivable way… but still. Just a man.”
“Flattery isn’t your strong suit, is it?” Makishima replied, unbothered. One sleeve shed, left abandoned upon the floor, Makishima set for the other one. But blade hadn’t the chance to sink its teeth into that seam. Kogami jerked his shoulder back, reared his head, and slammed his brow into Makishima’s nose— or tried to. All he caught was the glimmer of anticipation that lit up in the madman’s eyes before Makishima was up and off his lap, behind him in a whirl, the back of his tie clenched firmly in one hand and pulled back so taut that in a single instant, Kogami’s head was thrown back against the neck of the office chair, jaw agape as he choked for breath that would not come.
“What a thrill it is to know that should I let my guard down the tables could yet be turned. You wanted to know why I let you live?” Makishima stared down at him, so very pleased in spite of the way Kogami’s eyes bulged, the spittle hacked up from his throat. “I doubt I will ever find a plaything like you again, Kogami. Everything good must end… but allow me the indulgence of drawing out my amusement. You… are a true oddity.”
He released his ironclad grip, and Kogami lurched forward, breathing deep into his lap. Cuffed hands curled into loose fists, and when Makishima dug at his sleeve again, his sole response was to jerk his elbow in protest before he settled. This was good. Makishima picking apart his coat from behind permitted him the grace of baring his teeth in private, brows pinched inward with insatiable rage.
Seam after seam undone at his hand until there was naught left but his rumpled undershirt. At least it was a reprieve as Makishima stalked around to his front to admire him as one would admire an art piece. Kogami kept his gaze mostly downcast— torn between Makishima himself and the crimson bloom at his ribs, springing anew atop browned bloodstains as some sort of wound reopened.
“I found myself rereading an old favorite of mine while I waited for your recuperation,” Makishima said, straightening out Kogami’s shirt before he began to methodically unclasp the buttons, “ ‘The Fox and the Hound’. A tragic tale of instinct and nature stamped out by human ‘innovation’. Of creatures who know no better backed into a corner after a long and gruesome hunt.”
“I’ve read it, asshole,” Kogami snapped back, blunt and low in tone. He gave his wrist a subtle experimental twist, but the cuffs were tight. He’d have better luck trying to get one of his ankles loose. The plan formulated on a subconscious level. Talk, and Makishima would have to devote some level of energy to a response. Talk, and he could try to test his bindings. “If I needed a lecture on the subject matter, I would’ve asked.”
“A lecture? You misunderstand my intentions, Kogami. I merely wish for us two peers to have a scholarly discussion. Men of learning are few and far between these days… at least in the realm of emotionally turbulent art.” Makishima worked as he spoke, reclaiming the blade once more to cleave through the thinner fabric of Kogami’s dress shirt, tearing it asunder piece by piece until it clung to his frame in tatters, then fell apart entirely around him. All the while he left Kogami’s tie, simple attire that begun to feel more akin to a noose around his throat with how exposed his flesh had become.
“Yeah?” Kogami replied. At least he didn’t have to feign irritation, the annoyed jerk of his body as he tried to swat Makishima’s palm away. “You got somethin’ profound to say about it? Doubt that. Any hound metaphor you’ve got up your sleeve I can see comin’ a mile away.”
“I suppose that would be the obvious parallel. But no, Kogami, in this story you are no hound. I would go so far as to call you my fox.”
Funny how he thought that. If anything Makishima was the fox— a creature that considered itself cunning and wily, driven mad with instinct. The hound’s bane until finally, in the twilight of their years, he underestimated the hound and the hunter one too many times and expired ‘neath the hound’s mighty jaws. If only, Kogami thought. Truly the fox’s jugular would be so satisfying to bite down upon after all the pain and suffering it put him through.
“No chance in hell you’re the hound,” Kogami shot back, “You think too highly of yourself. So what does that make you, then? The—”
“Yes, precisely.” Makishima’s eyes lit up. “I am the hunter, Kogami, and you are my prey. I’ve laid claim to your pups, your vixen, and now finally, I will claim your elusive hide as my own.”
There was a spark. Brief. Frenzied. Manic with intensity. It flashed in Kogami’s eyes, a fleeting lapse in composure before his lips quirked into a crooked smile that was more bared teeth than anything positive. Whatever possessed him to puff out his chest and hiss, “Start skinning,” he did not know. But it was a challenge that went unheeded— a challenge he knew would go ignored. Makishima wasn’t done with him yet.
Blood burned, and it wasn’t merely from the inflamed, split flesh that wept ugly scarlet tears. Something barely restrained beneath the surface of his skin whenever he thought of Makishima, of those he’d killed, of the enforcer who lost his life beneath Kogami’s charge—
A bottomless primal outrage that had to be put aside lest he could not function. Even as he stared Makishima in the eyes, if he allowed for it to win, there would be no hope of him ever putting this self-styled hunter down like the dog he really was. It was horrible, haunting, all consuming, and Makishima merely gave a soft laugh in response as though all of this were some form of game. “How very eager,” Makishima said, stepping around him while dragging a hand across his shoulder. “It will come. You need not worry, Kogami. For as clever as you are, you are still a fox. And the amusement and purpose you provide me… well, so long as you remain bound in my trap, that font will inevitably dry up and leave you spent.”
He remained alert, hyperaware of Makishima’s steps and presence. But Makishima had picked up the blade gently, silently; the first slash tore up his arm from elbow to bicep. A single dramatic stroke of a razor pen, words writ in crimson. Kogami’s body tensed; head snapped up in tandem with the way his wounded limb shrunk back against his torso, the clatter of handcuffs to accompany a yell chuffed between grit teeth.
“This is humanity,” Makishima murmured, awestruck by his own handiwork, running fingers across the fresh wound. His gait was nearly a dance as he rounded back to Kogami’s front from the other side to ghost his bloody razor across the width of his shoulder and down to his breast. “Unrestrained by the trappings of society. No suburbia to sanitize the splendor of desire and lust for the hunt. Would that you could free yourself from your animal shackles, Shinya Kogami. What a hunter you could be.”
He breathed heavily against the point of the blade and willed himself to try and ignore the potent sting in his arm. Eyes squeezed shut, Kogami reminded himself that every second he shouldered the burden of this pain was another second his heart kept beating. That he was alive– and however unlikely, there remained a chance he could tear free from Makishima’s bear trap. Though eyes flinched open when the razor dragged to the freshly reopened wound by his ribs, the tortured flesh swollen enough that the mere prod of a foreign object was pain anew.
Makishima gave pause. His head tilted to one side, pensive, as he drew the blade just close enough to poke gently at the lip of the wound. Kogami ground his teeth together, sat rigid, and waited for him to continue on his way. Much to his chagrin, however, the wound had caught Makishima’s eye. Blade fell back in favor of his other hand that caressed the crooked ridges of Kogami’s side, inching closer and closer to the damnable wound, circling around its inflamed perimeter like a vulture readying to descend upon its prey.
Though Makishima had claimed he was an open book, Kogami read his demeanour with ease. He knew precisely what was to come, but steeling himself for it did not make it even marginally more tolerable to bear. Makishima pressed his fingertips hard against the ugly gash and pulled slightly at the wound. Kogami winced hard.
“‘He knew well what would happen to him when the trapper returned’,” Makishima recited diligently, the ramblings of a madman before Kogami put two and two together and realized. “‘He had smelled the fate of other foxes caught in the bloody snow.’”
Idly, Makishima rubbed his fingers back and forth over the split in Kogami’s flesh. Droplets of blood rolled forth from the lips. Every breath Kogami took caught in his throat, on the precipice of pained sound. But Makishima paid him no mind, delicately stroking the wound like a tender clit. Until a finger found its way into the wound proper, fingernail barely probing the inside when Kogami jerked his torso as far back as it would go on instinct alone.
In a flash Makishima seated himself upon Kogami’s lap once more, the edge of the razor’s blade at Kogami’s throat while opposite hand braced firm against his hip. Commanding grip slid up, further and further, until it found the wound once more that he might rub harder against it, a clit that required a strong hand to elicit a reaction.
A reaction it got. Kogami hissed a swear, a most desperate edge to the word: “Shit…!”
Again he tried to flinch back, nicking his neck on Makishima’s blade. A realization struck his tormentor then, and wound was abandoned just long enough to flick the blade shut that he might instead have a free hand to sink into Kogami’s hair. A fistful to compel his head back and bare his neck for Makishima, who promptly breathed in the crook between throat and shoulder. A safer place for his head to rest as he resumed his methodical stroking. No chance then of another headbutt. “Do you wonder if they will have the opportunity to listen to their enforcer’s final moments as you once did, Kogami?” He murmured. A finger dug at his wound, unhindered by the tremble of Kogami’s body.
No. I wonder I’ll get loose before you kill me, if only long enough to watch you die.
Words kept to himself as his fingers clenched into fists.
Hope Akane and Ginoza don’t have to hear this.
His back arched against the seat, deeper and deeper as the foreign intruder pressed harder against his exposed flesh.
If she’s still alive.
Don’t think like that. He never said—
Then Makishima twisted his finger inside. Kogami jerked sharply into Makishima and choked out a distraught yell. Every nerve jolted with electricity; his body was a live wire and the sparks flew with every minute shift of Makishima’s finger.
He inched deeper inside. Blood spilled out. Not even one knuckle deep, and Kogami felt as though his ribs played host to an entire fist. Makishima smiled softly against his throat and forced his finger deeper. It was his index, Kogami realized, only because the other fingers diligently massaged the lip of the wound, determined not to let it rest for even a second. His abdomen shook with tension and his breast heaved with strained breath.
Kogami stared at the ceiling with wide eyes. Lips parted in a perpetual tremble, opening wider to gape when Makishima curled his finger in a way that would have been pleasurable in any traditional opening. Instead Kogami croaked out a tortured, strained scream to accompany the bite of Makishima’s first finger joint as it wormed completely inside of him.
“‘Spasms of pain ran up his leg, and he wanted to do nothing but lie still and suffer. Still, he forced himself to stand, and then made another rush.’” Perfectly calm words spoken tenderly against Kogami’s neck. Words he only began to process with every second Makishima kept his finger motionless. Indeed, his legs racked with spasms– every muscle in his thighs and calves pulled taut with tension. The crescents of his nails dug into his palms. Every breath he took was clipped, his body attempting to remain perfectly still that it might evade its agony. “...hm,” Makishima hummed after a moment, “...I don’t think it will go any deeper.”
A theory confirmed with another sharp jab and throaty howl. Lightheadedness overtook him, and Kogami wondered whether it was the pain or the blood loss. Would that Makishima allowed him to look down, but he didn’t need a visual to know it was running thick around Makishima’s hand, down his side, pooling into his pants. Warm but somehow simultaneously deathly cold. Just like Makishima’s lips against the crook of his neck.
What?
But there was no mistaking it. His shoulders trembled violently with burning ache. The cruel sting of Makishima’s incessant fingering made the bile rise up in the back of his throat. Yet through it all this deathly agony came hand-in-hand with passionate sucking against his neck. A grip against his hair so sharp his scalp stung, and the slow grind of Makishima’s groin against his own.
It shouldn’t have surprised him. Makishima was a creature so thoroughly twisted that no one in their right mind had any hope of ending his reign of terror. Kogami knew his sights had been set– and still, the flickering realization that the thing atop his lap overflowed with not just obsession, but lust…
“For– all– your talk–” Kogami replied, his every word strained. It would have been all too simple for Makishima to twist or jerk his finger and stop him before he could even truly begin. Yet he spoke, and Makishima went still to listen. Lips hovered above his flesh, and hands went deathly still. It didn’t make it much easier even then. To talk was to move, for his lungs to breathe in and out and for his torso to press into Makishima’s fingers all on their own. “And all my doubts– about Sybil… the more you talk, the… the less appealin’ it all sounds. If humanity is nothin’ more than– animal instincts– nothin’ more than what you are– I’ll take the damn leash.”
“Nothing I say is with the intent of swaying your principles, Kogami. Your conviction rivals my own. The fox and the hunter will never see eye-to-eye. It is a dance that ends with death. A joyous chase born from the fundamental difference between man and beast. No… I speak only my truth. ‘He who has ears… let him hear’.”
Kogami hissed through his teeth. A disdainful ‘tch’. “Thought you– were readin’. Not preachin’.”
“I didn’t realize you were enjoying my voice so much.”
There it came. The sharp twist of the finger, and another passionate kiss against his collarbone. “‘Again and again he made the effort,’” Makishima began anew, making every effort to force his finger in deeper past that first joint. Whatever short break Kogami had from digging his nails into the flesh of his palms in a vain attempt to draw his mind from the pain had passed. “‘...until his tortured brain refused to function and he fought in a haze of suffering without purpose or hope.’”
It almost hurt just as badly when Makishima abruptly yanked his finger from the wound and released his hair that he might grab Kogami by the chin and force his head back upright from where it hung back over the neck of the seat. One hand slick with blood, Makishima cradled his cheeks, thumb of the bloody hand hooked perilously close to Kogami’s lip.
“‘Yet always running the full length of the long chain to build up momentum for the final yank.’”
Makishima held his head firm as he leaned in to lock their lips together. The sheen of sweat that rolled down Kogami’s face bothered him none. He played a dangerous game, pressing in to muffle Kogami’s strained groans, but his was a gamble that unfortunately paid off. To be free of the immediate pain was blessing enough that while Kogami fathomed the possibility of biting Makishima’s finger or tongue, he chose against it.
Rather he closed his eyes and accepted the ravenous kisses, harmless as they were aside from the hard bite of his lower lip. Hard enough to draw blood and make Kogami’s brows pinch inward, but infinitely better than any alternatives. He struggled to catch his breath, involuntarily flinching when Makishima reached down between them in the fear that his wound would be probed once more. Instead a belt buckle rattled as it came undone, and with a single forward roll of Makishima’s hips, Kogami came to realize that his tormentor was fully erect against his lap.
And then that treacherous hand made for Kogami’s belt. There came that horrible spark of blinding rage, lit anew. The snake’s fingers unclasped his belt, undid the button of his pants. The taste of blood and foreign saliva upon his tongue were not enough to disparage him from jerking his head back as much as he could.
“The hell…?” Kogami could not help but hiss. Makishima kneaded his groin, clearly felt him up with one hand while the other ran down his shoulder in spite of his sharp recoil, a smear of crimson left in its wake. When that failed, he thrashed but once before Makishima took his tie and pulled it threateningly against his throat. If only he weren’t so damn exhausted. If only he weren’t bleeding from several unnatural openings. But as it stood he had no real choice other than to sit there and take it while Makishima breathed against the side of his neck and rubbed at his crotch methodically.
“You train nicely,” Makishima murmured, “Then again… even something like Sybil could see that in you. Hardly a profound observation.” Fingers stroked along the vague outline of Kogami’s cock, still soft in his trousers— and thank fuck for that. There was no chance in hell he would ever be aroused by a monster like Makishima. But Makishima was nothing if not determined. “Even the fox can learn through dissuasion. Perhaps you too would have eventually stopped prodding the iron traps in time. If it’s any solace, Kogami… I for one am grateful you persisted.”
Could a man rip out another’s jugular with his teeth alone? Kogami watched the steady bob of Makishima’s adam’s apple. He wondered. Though even if that were possible, more than just a desperate man’s fantasy, he had no doubt Makishima would have already accounted for that outcome.
Something in his ragged breath had to have given it away. Makishima smirked, then sat up wholly rigid against Kogami to gain height. “Are your animal instincts bothering you?” He asked, tilting his head to one side as he looked his devil in the eye with all the nonchalance of someone watching their best friend. “...my, you’re looking pallid. I suppose you have lost a great deal of blood. So… go on.” He threw his arms around Kogami’s shoulders and leaned in close. Too close for comfort. Intentionally pressing his neck to Kogami’s lips, baring his jugular, Makishima said in the gentlest of tones: “Take some of mine. You desire it, after all. I can see it in every fiber of your being.”
Bastard. Insufferable bastard…! Kogami bared his teeth, a feral scowl, full aware that even if he weren’t in the slow process of bleeding out, there was no chance in hell his teeth would ever be sufficient to do the damage he so desperately wanted to inflict. And that besides– the mere fact that Makishima himself had invited a bite made him want to deny him out of raw spite.
If only spite alone could win a war. Kogami hesitated. Then took the offering of flesh in his mouth and clamped down as hard as he could humanly muster. Makishima exhaled through his nostrils, a forceful breath, and laughed. I’ll give you something to laugh about, asshole, Kogami thought to himself, biting harder, fighting against the resistance of flesh and his own mortal weakness.
“Oh, come now, Kogami. Surely you can do better than that.” A taunt, and yet there was still a faint hit of pain in Makishima’s voice as he ran his fingers through Kogami’s hair, snuck a hand between them to take his own cock in hand and touch himself to the pinch of his throat between another’s jaws. “Imagine that I am your vixen, then. Presenting herself to you in submission. You would enjoy that premise, wouldn’t you?”
Kogami snarled, and pressed harder. There came the vague coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Fresher than the remnants of what Makishima had guided to his mouth. What little saliva he could still produce oozed from his lower lip, but he didn’t care. What he would have given just to have one hand free– one hand to force Makishima closer. For all his nonchalance Kogami felt him leering away. Flinching from the pain as any sane creature would. It hurt. But it could hurt harder. And he wanted it to. He pulled at his cuffs, ignorant of the skin rubbed raw around his wrists. Anything to taste more of Makishima’s blood. Anything to bring an end to the perverse motions at their hips, Makishima’s erection as well fed as it had been when it first emerged to press against him.
Makishima groaned– at first in low ecstasy, then sharp, a near yelp that he covered with smooth laughter. “This is the zenith of your anger, Kogami? Such squandered potential!”
No, his teeth were not the deliverers of his sick need for vengeance. His hand would be, yanking free from the cuff at the cost of skin, reaching abruptly to try and blindly gouge out one of Makishima’s eyeballs. His palm had barely made contact with Makishima’s face, thumb in the divot of his eye, when Makishima abandoned his cock to jab sharply at Kogami’s rib wound.
If only his jaws had the strength to keep clinging. Kogami gasped in pain. Just enough so that Makishima could separate himself from their entanglement, stumbling back several paces while Kogami frantically fumbled for the duct tape at his heels, desperate to find the start that he might rip some away.
One eye kept on Makishima. Ready and willing to fight to the best of his capability should he come to try to intervene. But the man merely stood a few paces away, fingers tenderly running across the gouged bite marks on his neck, the other slipping into his pocket to pull out something Kogami could not see. Something small, which he readily threw towards Kogami’s feet.
He half expected a grenade. A bomb. A weapon. Instead a small key clattered across the peeling linoleum. Kogami wrenched an ankle free and glowered at Makishima distrustfully.
“Don’t stop on my account, Kogami. It makes it easier for me.”
The bastard didn’t even bother to tuck himself away in his pants. How vile. In spite of Makishima’s nonchalance Kogami moved with purpose as though every motion could be his last– who was to say it wouldn’t be? Screw the other ankle. He wanted his hands loose. Desperately he fumbled, grit his teeth through the pain of bending awkwardly to snatch the gifted key. One– two– three attempts to jam the key in with his shaking fingers. Then a final jerk of his leg to tear free of the chair entirely.
Kogami stumbled forward, free of his bindings, a strip of the duct tape still stuck to his pantleg. Already he had several lines of thought to follow, half baked plans, all of which fell through the second he rose up on both legs only to have the world swim around him. Too much blood. He’d lost too much damn blood, and the pain of his wounds…
Kogami collapsed upon the ground, catching himself on his knees and one elbow. Makishima stepped past him and while he lashed out to grab hold of Makishima’s ankle, his grip was shaken with a single jerk of the leg. So he continued unhindered. Kogami tried to turn, to sit up– to do anything that wasn’t just sitting there, useless–
But a single heel to the small of his back was enough to press him flat onto his stomach. Damn it all. Damn it all! How could he be free, and not have enough strength to even crawl across the finish line? Makishima was right behind him, his vengeance so close at hand…
Fingers hooked into the waistline of his pants and pulled them down under his arse. Kogami’s breath caught in his throat. “Gonna rape me before you kill me? Just to get one last bit of salt in the wound? Pathetic.”
At least his vitriol sounded venomous. The last bit of threat he had in his system. Empty– meaningless. And Makishima knew it. “Aren’t we all pathetic in one way or another, Kogami? The hound, reliant on his master for purpose, for life… the fox, molded to the vixen’s whims? The townsfolk who care so very little for what came before, who live in blissful ignorance of the cost for their safety? Even the hunter is not wholly exempt of this fatal flaw. He who finds joy and satisfaction only in the hunt of his ultimate prey.”
A liquid, cold and wet, spattered onto the crack on his ass from above. Kogami tried to wrench around, but all it took was the sharp pull of his tie back like a leash to stop him, hands moving instead to try and pry beneath the choking collar. He should have taken it off before he fell over.
I should’ve done many things, Kogami thought, the controlling hand on his leash loosening that he might squirm for breath while Makishima focused instead on parting his cheeks. He was neither a friend nor stranger to anal. But it had been so damn long since last he’d done anything to exercise those muscles. Not to mention that even though he willed himself to try and relax– he couldn’t. Not with every fiber of his being in absolute rebellion against the inevitability that came next.
How many rape incidents had he seen over the years? With a strange vacantness Kogami wondered if this was how those women had felt. Their guts twisted into impossible knots of violent rage, helplessness, frustration, indignation. Forced in one way or another to grit his teeth and bear the intrusion that forced its way inside of him with all the finesse that could be had when the opening was simply too small and too tight for what wanted inside.
Fingernails scraped at the linoleum to try and find purchase. Makishima braced his hips and held him down as he pushed himself in one painstaking inch at a time. Through the grit-toothed groans, the feeble writhing, the blood of a ravaged passage, a warmth between Kogami’s legs that made his twisted stomach want to riot.
He wished with all his heart that his anus had teeth. Wished for a sudden final surge of strength to overpower the hunter. Instead Makishima went deep enough inside of him to thrust, and the way his too-large cock scraped against Kogami’s too-tight hole made him howl. A foreign intrusion that he could not escape no matter how fervently he tried to drag himself away. Not that his efforts amounted to much. Instead Kogami abandoned that plan of action and contorted himself to press a hand against his open rib wound to try to stay some of the bleeding with as much pressure as he could manage. The only thing he could think to do when another bout of lightheadedness struck him between Makishima’s thrusting.
If killing Makishima with his own two hands was out of the question, there was only one alternative. He had to stay alive. As long as possible. He had to give the bureau as much time as he possibly could to find him. Not for his sake– but to put Makishima down like the dog that he was.
Banking on them to finish the job did not fill him with confidence. Still, the mental image of someone finally bashing Makishima’s brains in was the only source of comfort he could muster while Makishima clapped his hips against Kogami’s rear over and over and over again.
Hang on just a little longer, Kogami told himself, a firm demand in the face of his swimming head and the way he could no longer lift his brow from his forearm. If there was anything to make Makishima forget himself and his elaborate plans, it had to be a crime of passion.
Oh, but he was fading fast. Makishima went harder, his thrusting unsteady and rapid. Nearing his climax, no doubt– but Kogami found he no longer had the energy to even cry out in pain. The sounds of the silent room went mute. No clap of skin on skin. No tick-tick-ticking of the clock. Kogami protested in labored breath and the mildest of moans. So very quiet in the face of the only sound that distantly made it through his haze: Makishima’s orgasmic groan as he finally stilled inside, relishing the bliss of release in his moment of triumph.
Kogami barely felt Makishima slip out of him. Barely even registered when Makishima collapsed at his side to tilt his chin up and look him in unfocused eyes. “‘He did not care what happened, for he had killed the great fox.’” Makishima murmured. Even in the throes of death Kogami’s nose wrinkled.
“Leave it… to you… to change the passage,” he snapped on fleeting breath. Lashes fluttered shut that his final moments might not be sullied by Makishima’s cunning, stony features. “To twist the… the whole metaphor to suit your needs.”
Makishima laughed and stroked Kogami’s hair. He seemed on the very cusp of reply, some sort of pretentious excuse no doubt, when his hand abruptly froze on the nape of Kogami’s neck before he sat up entirely.
Why–?
He heard it. On the brink of consciousness, ear against the linoleum, he heard the clatter of life below. Whether it was a misplaced footstep or a door that creaked too hard on the hinges, he couldn’t place it. In fact, were it not for Makishima's reaction, Kogami wouldn't have been certain if what he'd heard was real at all.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t expected. Makishima rose to his feet and made to turn. Something sparked in Kogami then. A hand lashed out to grab Makishima’s ankle, and this time he dug his nails in just long enough to throw his other arm around it.
He could not lift his head to exchange even a glance with Makishima. His grip would be deterred the instant Makishima recovered from his surprise. But these were such precious seconds… and during the hunt, every second mattered. Kogami hoped Makishima remembered the way his beloved passage ended– if he had the breath to spare, he would have quoted it himself.
In this miserable, fouled land there was no longer any place for fox, hound, or human being.
Somewhere in the room the grandfather clock kept ticking. The hounds were coming, and they had a taste for human blood.