Mink doesn't even pay him heed, even when he screams — pain and frustration, anger, he doesn't care. He's already occupied with working up his zipper, fastening, looping his belt back through the metal, his cock still softening in his cotton underwear. Metal clinks, leather creaks, and through it he just barely sees Akira stir, sees his feet twitch, sees his chest rise and fall. His ass is still stretched from the cock that was pushed inside by force, and he can see clearly now where the blood flecks, where he's rubbed raw. The fascination and lust that overtook him is all pumped out of him, and all he can see now is meat on the floor. A used commodity.
Well. That's just how things are. Should he feel any other way? Maybe pity, at most.
Seeing how Akira came himself, hearing him helplessly moan — it was interesting at the time, when he still wanted him. And it was a just punishment, he thinks, for the man who wouldn't listen to him, to have to hear himself crying out that way. Whether or not he'll get the message, this probably won't be the last time he uses Akira like this. Not after what he's just seen of him.
But for now...
He lets him go. Getting up himself, he just stands there watching while Akira struggles with working his pants up his curled body, and he ponders whether or not this'll be adequate. If he'll return to Aoba again, if he'll keep pushing for this thing he's not allowed to have. He wonders.
He thinks of Aoba, as he saw him. Through the window, smiling, looking strange with an expression Mink rarely saw directed his way. Akira the same. Both of them looking at each other, oblivious to him, and the thought grates on him in some inexplicable, unpalatable way.
He pulls out his pipe and some fresh tobacco, strikes a match and lights it. The smoke wisps across his vision; the next time he looks at Akira, he's up, and he's moving at a crawl like the undead, looking thoroughly pitiful. And here Mink thought he'd move like the wind — whether he was ravaged or not.
When he falls in a crumpled heap, Mink pulls his pipe from his mouth and inspects it. It's only when that silence drags on ten, eleven seconds that he turns, looking at the broken shape near the doorway, and he exhales with audible irritation. Passed out, did he.
"... Where's your will to live." He turns, moving over with his heavy boots thump-thumping on the creaking wood, and he leans down, grasping a handful of Akira's shirt and wrenching him up so fast he rips seams under his arms. He looks at that blank face, the eyes closed and the space around them sore and swollen and red. Tears mark his face, only now really noticed.
"... I thought you were a fighter."
He was going to just let him go, wasn't he. Not because Akira isn't his commodity, but because he didn't want him, he was done with him, he was going to give him a chance to do the right thing while out from under his thumb. Wasn't he.
He looks at his slim neck, his narrow back, he feels the shape of him against his fist. And he just drags his exhausted, unconscious body back in, slamming the door shut behind him.
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Well. That's just how things are. Should he feel any other way? Maybe pity, at most.
Seeing how Akira came himself, hearing him helplessly moan — it was interesting at the time, when he still wanted him. And it was a just punishment, he thinks, for the man who wouldn't listen to him, to have to hear himself crying out that way. Whether or not he'll get the message, this probably won't be the last time he uses Akira like this. Not after what he's just seen of him.
But for now...
He lets him go. Getting up himself, he just stands there watching while Akira struggles with working his pants up his curled body, and he ponders whether or not this'll be adequate. If he'll return to Aoba again, if he'll keep pushing for this thing he's not allowed to have. He wonders.
He thinks of Aoba, as he saw him. Through the window, smiling, looking strange with an expression Mink rarely saw directed his way. Akira the same. Both of them looking at each other, oblivious to him, and the thought grates on him in some inexplicable, unpalatable way.
He pulls out his pipe and some fresh tobacco, strikes a match and lights it. The smoke wisps across his vision; the next time he looks at Akira, he's up, and he's moving at a crawl like the undead, looking thoroughly pitiful. And here Mink thought he'd move like the wind — whether he was ravaged or not.
When he falls in a crumpled heap, Mink pulls his pipe from his mouth and inspects it. It's only when that silence drags on ten, eleven seconds that he turns, looking at the broken shape near the doorway, and he exhales with audible irritation. Passed out, did he.
"... Where's your will to live." He turns, moving over with his heavy boots thump-thumping on the creaking wood, and he leans down, grasping a handful of Akira's shirt and wrenching him up so fast he rips seams under his arms. He looks at that blank face, the eyes closed and the space around them sore and swollen and red. Tears mark his face, only now really noticed.
"... I thought you were a fighter."
He was going to just let him go, wasn't he. Not because Akira isn't his commodity, but because he didn't want him, he was done with him, he was going to give him a chance to do the right thing while out from under his thumb. Wasn't he.
He looks at his slim neck, his narrow back, he feels the shape of him against his fist. And he just drags his exhausted, unconscious body back in, slamming the door shut behind him.