
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3460211.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Shingeki_no_Kyojin_|_Attack_on_Titan
  Character:
      Armin_Arlert
  Additional Tags:
      Bestiality, Dehumanisation, Knotting, Petplay
  Collections:
      Shingeki_no_Kyojin_Kink_Meme_Fills
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-01 Words: 3127
****** Teach Them to Bite ******
by Anarhichas
Summary
     Armin's bullies decide that Armin, if useless in everything else,
     might make a good enough dog.
Notes
     Written for a prompt on the kink meme, here: http://
     snkkink.dreamwidth.org/13546.html?thread=9823210#cmt9823210
     This isn't betaed, but any concrit is more than welcome. Thanks for
     reading!
Armin doesn’t know where they took the idea from – at his age, it is
inconceivable. But when they find him, as they always do, and run him down, as
they always do, they are ready with everything they need.
This time there is just Karl, Otto, and Marie. Karl is holding a collar and
length of rope, and Marie’s arms are like sticks against the shaggy, muscled
neck of one of her father’s dogs, that he hunts deer and boar with. The dog
pants. Marie’s teeth in her grin look far more dangerous.
Otto takes Armin by the back of his shirt and drags him out of town, down into
the copse by the river where none of the adults go. Armin struggles. He has no
idea what’s about to happen, but long experience tells him that he doesn’t want
it. He thinks that perhaps they will let him go and the dog will hunt him,
catch him and bite him till he’s bleeding and broken. He thinks that maybe
they’ll kill him this time.
It doesn’t explain the collar or rope. It doesn’t explain why they kick him
down to his hands and knees after stripping him naked.
Karl attaches the collar. It’s heavy and obtrusive, like it’s strangling even
though it’s not; the metal buckle is cold and the leather slightly damp. It’s a
choke collar, and the rope, slack for now, swings from Otto’s hand. The ground
is rough with little stones and sharp twigs that bite into Armin’s hands, knees
and shins. It’s damp and dirty and Armin curls into a ball, face-down. His
heart is beating like a bird caught in netting. There’s a cold breeze against
his bare skin.
‘Please,’ he says, quietly, because he can’t help it even if he knows it will
do no good. ‘Please don’t.’ He flinches when Marie’s boot finds his thigh, and
the collar tightens around his neck for a second, then loosens.
‘Shut up!’ It’s Marie. ‘You’re a dog now. You’re our stupid dog and dogs can’t
talk!’
‘We’re just paying you back for what Mikasa did,’ Otto says. His voice is
strangely high, and rushed. ‘So – so maybe you’ll know for next time. But now
you’re just a dog so you’re not allowed to speak.’
For a moment, Armin is shocked into silence. Then, the same shock overcoming
his fear, he lifts his head. ‘You can’t do that!’ he says, as if they only need
to hear the truth before they realise it and let him go. There are tears in his
eyes, messing up his vision. ‘I’m human – we’re all human! We’re not even meant
to be fighting each other!’
‘Shut up! I told you to shut up!’ Marie grabs the rope and pulls, tightening
the collar. Armin can still talk, and breathe, so he says: ‘I won’t! I’m not a
dog!’
Marie yanks the collar again, and at the same time uses her boot at the back of
his neck to force his face to the ground. Very suddenly he can’t breathe at
all. Leaves and dirt get in his mouth and eyes. Armin kicks and rolls, prying
at the collar. Seconds pass, then more, then enough that he starts to think
she’s going to kill him right there and then. Then the animal panic takes over
and he can’t think at all.
When she does let go his eyes are streaming and painful. Armin coughs, fingers
around the collar, but he doesn’t try take it off and doesn’t try to say
anything. His throat feels like its on fire, and he doesn’t think he could
speak even if he knew what to say. He swallows, but every swallow is as
strangling as the collar, and soon he’s coughing worse and worse. He can
weather this out, he tells himself, as he gasps and cries into the damp brown
leaf-litter. He can. He’ll be brave. Out of the corner of his eyes he can see
Marie’s dog, tied to a young tree, with its eyes bright, alert, and directly on
him. Its mouth is open.
There is a long pause while Armin slowly recovers on his hands and knees, and
Marie, Otto and Karl stand around him, as if no one quite knows what to do
next. Eventually Armin’s breathing calms. The roaring in his ears quieter,
Armin feels his skin prickle with the cold. Then there is the sound of fabric
rustling and he jolts back as something small is tossed to the ground in front
of him. It’s a slice of salted meat, washed but still raw. Crumbs of broken
leaf stick to it.
‘Eat it, dog,’ Marie commands. ‘No hands, or else.’
Armin is tired; he puts his face down to the ground and eats.
Afterwards there’s a bad taste on his tongue, and a sick feeling in his chest
from wanting too hard for the same old worn-out things: strength, courage, and
friends who are always there to save him, and everything else he doesn’t have.
The humiliation has set into his bones and he can’t bring himself to care. He
tries to remember the clever and cutting things he’d thought up since the last
time, but they’re gone as if they’d never existed at all.
‘Good dog,’ Marie says. Otto’s hand finds its way to Armin’s head, patting him,
fingers threading through his tangled hair and scratching his scalp gently.
‘Good dog,’ Otto says. ‘See? You’re a good dog.’
Armin starts to cry. Otto tugs him close, so that Armin’s head is pressed to
his thighs, and strokes Armin’s neck and bare upper back. ‘C’mon,’ he says,
words soft. ‘Don’t do that. There’s a good boy. There’s a good boy.’
Armin only cried even harder. His fingers curl into the dirt and scratch
themselves on the little stones there. It’s not a good distraction – the warmth
of Otto’s skin through his trousers is an unwelcome, eerie comfort.
‘Hey,’ Otto says. ‘Marie, d’you have any more of the food?’ Then a pause, then
fingers and more salted meat are at his mouth, pressing lightly at his lips.
‘C’mon, boy. Here we go.’
Thoughts dull, Armin opens his mouth and takes it, chews and swallows. ‘Oi,’
Marie says. ‘Not meant to hand-feed dogs.’
‘What? Why not?’ Armin’s eyes are still closed, but he feels the hand slide
back into his hair.
‘They’ll think your hand means food, so you’ll just teach them to bite you.
Fucking stupid.’
Otto seems to contemplate this for a couple of seconds. ‘Huh, alright then,’ he
says, and there is a quiet rustle of something falling onto the ground. ‘Okay,
boy, no more hand-feeding.’
Armin doesn’t move, until the hand on his head starts to push down. Then he
bends and eats. He’s trembling as Otto pulls him back up to rest against his
thighs.
‘Hey dog, you like that?’ Marie’s grin is audible in her voice. ‘Say something.
Bark!’
Armin’s throat is stuck like there’s something wedged inside. It still hurts
from when he’d been choked earlier. Would Eren bark? No, of course not. Mikasa
wouldn’t. Why should he, then?
‘Bark!’ Marie is no longer grinning.
Armin isn’t Eren or Mikasa. He doesn’t know how to be them. So he barks, a
rough, high-pitched arf arf that sounds so utterly ridiculous it makes him want
to laugh and cry at the same time – or sink into the ground and die in the
darkness without anyone seeing. The third bark gets a little easier, sounds a
little more natural. The fourth is slightly better again. He doesn’t try a
fifth.
‘See!’ Marie is triumphant. ‘Knew he’d be a good dog. ‘S the only thing you’re
good at, right, dog?’ She bends and ruffles Armin’s hair. ‘Don’t know why you
ever tried to be anything else.’
Otto laughs as he runs a hand up and down Armin’s body, patting and slapping
his sides, but never hard enough to hurt. ‘You really are! Aren’t you, boy?
You’re a good dog.’
Armin leans his head into the warmth of Otto’s legs. He’s cold.
‘Hey...’ It’s Karl. Armin had almost forgotten he was there at all. ‘Weren’t
you going to… you know? You’re still going to?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Marie says, and lets go of Armin’s head. Her tone is flat all of
a sudden. ‘Karl, got the knife?’
Suddenly Armin is alert, as if jolting awake from dozing. One of Otto’s hands
tightens in Armin’s hair, the other grips his collar and holds him still.
‘Shhh,’ he says. ‘Shhh. It’s okay, dog. It’s not for you.’
Armin can’t help but press himself against Otto when he sees the serrated knife
Karl has, a long and sharp thing. His head is pounding and he is very aware of
the weight of the collar around his neck. Karl ignores him and kneels next to a
sapling a few feet away, trunk no wider than his wrist, and starts sawing at it
about a foot from the ground. The sound is loud – so is Armin’s panting. Otto
curls the rope connected to the collar around one fist, until it’s all wound up
but not yet tight enough to strangle, and tugs Armin along to the ragged new
tree stump, positioning him until the stump is underneath Armin’s belly and
Armin’s face is two inches from the trunk of a much larger tree. Then Otto
loops the rope around the larger tree and ties it there securely.
On his hands and knees, Armin isn’t touching the stump so long as he doesn’t
try to sit or lie down, and he can breathe easily enough if he doesn’t pull
away from the tree he’s tied to. He resists the urge to touch his collar or the
tree with his hands, instead getting a firm grip of the roots beneath him. He
can’t see anyone – they’re all standing behind him. The air all over his body –
the loss of touch – makes him feel distressingly empty.
Otto and Marie are muttering. Armin turns his head as far as he can and strains
to hear. He can feel something like a whine build in his lungs, but holds it
back.
‘Have you got the…? How do we…?’
‘Yes, here. Fuck’s sake, just use your hand. Like this...’
‘Is this really going to work?’
‘Better do. Shit, be rougher than that. You have a flower for a dick or
something?.’
‘Shut – shut up! Anyway, how’d you know so much? You do this all the time or
something?’
‘Shut it, shit-face, or that’ll be down your throat instead. … alright, done?
Get it over there then.’
Armin shuffles forward as far as he can without strangling himself. His throat
is dry and tender. Both words and the sound of barking mix up on his tongue,
spilling together.
He jumps as Marie appears at his head, crouching down to grip the collar and
choke him mercilessly. ‘Listen up, dog,’ she says as he struggles. ‘You try to
speak, I’ll make you regret it. That clear?’
Armin sucks in massive, painful breaths when she lets go. ‘So, dog, what do you
say?’
Armin looks at the ground, her feet in his peripheral vision as he barks: arf,
arf, rough and raw as the coughs at the end of a long illness. He thinks he
might be sick. His arms and legs feel shaky.
There’s fur brushing against the backs of his thighs. It’s not unpleasant, and
Armin doesn’t move from it. He still doesn’t understand what is happening.
Then the dog mounts him, thrusts into him, and the air is knocked from Armin’s
lungs – he can’t breath any more than when Marie had used the collar. The pain
spills over his body and into his head, cutting away all coherent thought, like
throwing sand on an old fire. The dog continues to thrust, hard and fast, claws
scratching his waist. It feels like he’s been split open with an axe.
Seconds pass and Armin draws a ragged breath. It escapes in a wail. He claws at
the tree in front of him, fingers scrabbling at the rope, but the knot is on
the other side of the trunk and out of reach. He tries to fall down, away from
the dog, but the stump prevents him. It digs into his belly, sharp and sticky
with sap. He doesn’t understand why the dog is doing this. He don’t understand
why it feels so terrible.
Words and screams and the weight of Marie’s hand at his collar twist about in
his head. Armin opens his mouth, but the only things that emerge are barks and
whines and pathetic gasps. He can’t speak. The dog is still thrusting, its hind
legs pressed against his, its body hot and heavy and powerful. Armin can’t get
away. He crawls forwards, but the dog only follows and now he’s pulled tight
against the collar and can only choke in thin, insufficient amounts of air, and
nowhere left to go while the dog still pounds into him like a knife in his
insides.
He’s sobbing, red-faced, gasping, open-mouthed. Saliva dribbles down his chin.
There’s a desperation and horrific sense of exposure that he’s never felt
before, a vulnerability and sickness infesting his guts that makes all other
pain seem gentle. There is agony. There is also betrayal, and the thought that
creeps in unannounced:but they said I was a good dog.
He can’t tell how long it goes on for. Inside his head he’s begging for it to
end – he doesn’t have the breath for anything but whistling gasps. The dog
stops, but only to readjust its position before starting again. Armin’s face is
pressing into the tree trunk, and the rough bark hurts. The collar tightens
again as he tries to scramble away from the dog, closing around his throat, but
he can’t not try to escape. He turns his head, hands braced against the tree,
and suddenly he can’t breathe at all.
Sound gradually dims, until its just his own blood rushing to the tap-tap-tap
of his heart. He screws shut his eyes. They feel like they might burst with the
pressure behind them. The forest floor and the cold sweat on his skin fades
away. He is still in unbearable agony. He wants to throw up but can’t. Is he
dying? He doesn’t want to die. Armin struggles. He doesn’t want to die.
Then he can breathe again, like hitting the ground after falling. His head is
spinning; his throat and lungs are on fire. Every breath is swallowing gravel.
Armin gasps and gags and can’t seem to get enough air. There is something
wrong. Otto is standing at his head, the rope loose in his hands, the collar
now slack. The dog is still behind him, pressed against and into him, but it’s
not moving any more.
Without the collar holding him up, Armin slumps to the ground. His cheek is
pressed to a root, forehead to dirty, broken leaves. A twig pokes into his open
mouth. His hips are held up by the stump digging into his stomach – his legs
have gone boneless.
The dog is still but something is else happening now, a swelling that stretches
out his insides.
‘There we go, dog,’ Otto says. His hand is in Armin’s hair and Armin doesn’t
have the strength to shake it off, only lie there and take it. ‘That’s the
worst of it. Well done.’ His voice is gentle; so are his hands as he takes
Armin by his waist and lifts him up off the stump and onto the ground beside
it.
Armin doesn’t have the strength to flinch when the dog growls. It’s still in
him, tugged along as he’d been moved, and the feeling of that makes his stomach
clench with disgust. Why is it still in him? It’s stuck? Will it be stuck in
him until he dies? The idea weaves through his brain, soaking into other
thoughts, and holding it back is like holding back spilt water. He can’t think
logically. His breathing still rasps, never enough. He feels like he’s been
running for hours and hours, non-stop. His skin is flushed as if with fever –
the sweat that drips down his nose and across his open lips is cold.
The dog shifts position and the movement pulls at him. Distantly, Armin thinks
that the feeling of being gutted would be preferable to that little tug.
Time passes. Otto’s hand remains on him, sometimes on his head, sometimes
across his back or shoulders. Armin can’t see where Marie or Karl are. His
breathing has finally calmed, but he’s shivering violently. The wind that had
felt cool earlier is now icy and violent. He wants very much to be sick but
cannot manage it. The dog is still there, still inside him, and Armin’s
shivering makes the stretch and pressure and pain of it inescapable.
How much longer? Or will it really last until he’s dead?
Armin is crying again; he can’t tell when he’d started this time. His head
pounds with thirst. Above him, Otto is making shushing noises, his hand rubbing
circles on the small of Armin’s back. The feeling of fur makes Armin want to
pull his own skin off, sheets and sheets of it until there’s none left.
More time and no one moves, save Otto’s hand. Then the dog pulls out and steps
away, disappearing before Armin quite realises anything is happening to begin
with. He can feel his own arse gape open, stretched, suddenly exposed to the
freezing air. Seconds pass and he doesn’t react. He can’t find any relief.
‘You sure he’ll be okay?’ Otto is saying as he stands up, his hand finally
leaving Armin’s skin. ‘The blood...’
‘’Seriously? That’s nothing.’
‘Well, if you’re sure. Huh, I almost want to keep him… we could build a kennel
out here or something...’
‘The fuck you on? ...’
Armin covers his ears with the palms of his hands. His eyes are closed as hard
as he can make them. He doesn’t open them for a long time, but when he does,
he’s alone.
He looks for his clothes. They’re not there. He tries to stand but a stabbing
pain drives him back down to his hands and knees. Armin’s hands are trembling
as he feels his throat. It’s burning hot. I’m not a dog, he wants to say. I’m
not a dog. The words are there in his head, fully formed, almost tangible. The
same words tangle up as they travel through his throat, coming to a stop behind
his tongue, and Armin thinks wildly that he’ll never be able to speak again. He
tells himself it can’t be true, that of course it’s stupid. He doesn’t dare
try, just in case.
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