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Come
come (verb)
(uk: /kʌm ) (us: /kʌm/)
to move or travel towards the speaker or with the speaker .
"Come" can be used when your dog is off leash and you need them to come to you. Success in indicated through your pup returning to a determined recall position to wait on further orders upon instruction.
It is no secret that the Doctor preferred machine over man, for a laundry list of reasons. Efficiency, first and foremost. The man had invented his first, most notable creation as early as high school—his command gloves, a universal remote connected any machine of his choosing, most especially his own, within limited parameters—and he has little patience for anything that measured less than the reliable obedience with a click of his fingers.
His predecessors had called it an impossible standard to meet. Inhumane. Insane, and Stone had privately wondered how they had gotten this far. The first thing they had all been taught as soldiers was how to obey, and the Doctor was hardly unreasonable.
He finds it all so instinctive. Automatic. He hardly has to think, so long as he kept vigilant to listen.
The Doctor whistles, and Stone looks up.
The Doctor had his back to him, but his head was turned ever so slightly. Foregoing all other commitments, Stone looks, and he waits.
He pats his left thigh, two easy rhythms, and Stone is moving thoughtlessly, arriving soundlessly by the Doctor's left side in time for the Doctor to push a manilla folder straight into his chest with a definitative smack.
"I'll do what I damn well please, Major." He is saying to Major Buckles, who had jumped when he noticed Stone's arrival. "Don't you worry about that."
"What?" Said the idiot Major, eye-ing Stone like a spooked horse. He frowned. "Where did you come from, Agent?"
The Doctor doesn't let Stone answer, snapping his fingers in front the Major's face like he thought him a particularly slow horse. "Um, hello? I'm still talking? I'm threatening you, remember?"
This brief analysis of the conversation reassures Stone that the Doctor was in no particular danger. "The lab, sir?"
"Back with you," Said Robotnik, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "And hold on to that. We might just need it, after all."
Stone has no idea what he means by that, but he knows when it's important not to ask. He keeps the folder with him as he departs, walking back to the circle of coworkers he had abandoned thoughtlessly, half a lobby floor away. Still keeping vigilant, half an ear for when the Doctor will finally tire of their current obligatory social dance.
Agent Maslee looked at him with an expression of pure befuddlement. "Have you always done that?"
Stone's barely listening, flipping through the folder he'd been given. "Done what?"
"That," Maslee said, emphasizing nothing at all. "Just...go when he calls you, like that."
Stone frowned. "He gave me an order, Maslee."
"Did he?" Maslee asked, with a jerk of his own chin. "Did he really?"
What the fuck was up with this third degree? Stone blinked, politely exasperated. "Well, he didn't have had to say it,"
"No, I know, it's just-," the man exchanged an odd look with his companion, and now Stone feels annoyed. "It just looked like he's calling a-,"
Another whistle, and Stone turns away. On the other side of the room, the Doctor jerks his head towards the entrance, and the Major is red and shaking with rage.
"I have to go." Said Stone, forgetting about his co-worker entirely. He barely hears them calling him back, already priming his focus to adapt with whatever the Doctor needs next.
Heel
heel (exclamation)
(uk/us: /hiːl/)
The "heel" command teaches your dog to walk calmly beside you without pulling on the leash, especially if they are about to do something that could be dangerous. Success in indicated through your pup returning to a determined recall position.
The instances in which Stone is brought to the edge of control are few and far in between.
It has since become more often since his employement to Robotnik; though ironically, not by the Doctor himself--rather, the rage he feels by the men he surrounds himself with.
Walters had brought in a few Russian scientists today; already determining the mood for the rest of their meeting. Lab rats of their own right, although they had been inflated with more audacity and cocky self-importance than good old Uncle Sam would have allowed for themselves, and still—circumstances would demand the Doctor to play nice.
Stone is under the behest of no such similar orders. In fact, he holds himself in check for an impressive record of 45 minutes, and he considers this a point of pride.
"Иди на хуй," Said Anatoly— a bear of a man who had been on Robotnik's case all fucking day—in response to one of the Doctor's well justified arguments against current project specifications. "гомик."
Like so much compressed air straining within a poorly screwed metal container, Stone explodes.
He leaps over the table, a snarling thing with outstretched claws, and all around them—his superior jump and curse. The foolhard man in question leaps so quickly out of his chair that he knocks it back, pressing himself against the wall of the war room with an expression—yes there it is, the fear, the realization, his hubris thrown into his face like so much spittle, and it only gets better growing purple, eyes bulging and red against their sockets as Stone wraps his arms and elbows around his fat, straining neck.
"Stand down, Agent!"
"Agent Stone, what do you think you're doing-,'
"Agent Stone, you're going to-,"
"-do you think you're doing-,"
"Гнилая собака," Choked Anatoly, scrabbling against Stone's torso, his elbows, his knees and for nothing. Stone is a fuming brick wall, uncompromising, like a butcher tying down a squrming hog on the chopping block. "Ты кусаешь палку, как он?"
" Ты никчемный дурак." Stone snaps back, and Anatoly laughs, choking on his own lifebreath.
"Ivo!"
A whistle; a familiar tune, and Stone snarls. Uncharacteristically reluctant.
"Stone. Leave him."
The General grins, bleach white teeth on a bulbous face.
"He has to-," Stone starts, only for the Doctor to cut him off with a calm, stern voice.
"He needs to do nothing. I'll not say it again."
"Слушай своего хозяина, мальчик."Anatol wheezed, and Stone thinks he might break his neck anyway—a twist of his arm, pressure on all the right joints, entertains the thought of disobedience for a second, the next—
But he steps back, letting the man fall to his knees grasping for desperate breath. Stone wants to kick him in the chin, muscles taught and trembling like a steel cable. The man is still laughing, running his own hands over the front of his throat.
"Держите собаку на коротком поводке.." He barks, and it is clear who he is talking to. "Он делает то, что хочет.." Robotnik retorts, smoothly, though his tone still carries a tinge of annoyance.
"Perhaps all of us could use with a bit of fresh air before we continue," Walters said warily, and Stone does not need to look to know he is re-adjusting his tie awkwardly. He still keeps his own gaze locked on the man he'd almost killed for the sheer audacity of his foolishness. Stone paces, hoping for anything to excuse another beating, but he feels a tug on the back of his collar, dragging him out of the tersely silent meeting.
Fetch
fetch (verb)
(uk: /fetʃ/ ) (us: /fetʃ/)
to go to another place to get something or someone and bring it, him, or her back.
To play fetch, you will need a ball or another toy that your dog can chase after. Success is indicated by your dog retrieving the correctly indicated item; ie, a ball.
Every so often, Stone and the Doctor are deployed into field missions.
Technically, they shouldn't be. Robotnik is too valuable a commodity for needless risks, and he is not technically is soldier. Stone is, but he no longer answers to much of Uncle Sam more-so he does to Robotnik.
Nevertheless, the Doctor goes where he wants. Where the Doctor goes, Stone follows.
Stone is a sheathed weapon, kept on Ivo's hip. When they step onto no-man's land, Robotnik keeps Stone on a leash.
Clad in his standard issue combat-proof vests and armed to the teeth, he does not have all the easy access of a tie to tug him around, and the leash fulfils such a need. He takes much glee in lugging Stone around like a little showpony, and any wandering eyes regards the darkly brooding guard hanging 2 steps behind an already volatile man with nothing more than a single surprised glance before looking away quickly.
Stone totes it like a crown. It's largely form over function, but bared teeth goes a long way to keep pests out of their way. It boasts the Doctor's recognizable colours—black leather and crimson stitching It is not completely useless, however. It's metal buckles are forged in the very same laboratory that Stone serves, a bulletproof alloy type to withstand intense pressure and strain.
It's tested best here; as they were, surrounded by broken corpses of an ambush terrorist group. Stone, mindless with rage, straining against the tie that keeps him locked around Ivo's wrist. The balls of his feet, digging groves against blood-soaked dirt, and broken knuckles, tugging, tugging.
The lone enemy, a solitary survivor, cradles what is left of the scientific journals Ivo wants behind a loaded gun.
"Tell you what," Ivo mused, and the pressure keeping Stone back is irrefutable, the weight of his collar inescapable. "If you leave the books, I'll even give you a 30-second head start. You might sill make it out alive."
Stone doubts it, but the amusement that entails Robotnik's little game lights a fire in his breastbone, a twisting brightness. It almost feels like praise.
The loaded gun shakes, and Stone tries lunging again. Ivo pulls on his leash, waiting.
"미친," He muttered, but he doesn't drop the books. Ivo laughs. The man said, louder, bolder, accusing. "너희 둘 다 미쳤어!"
이제 너는 달릴 시간이야, 작은 쥐야," Ivo purrs, but when he does—he takes the books with him, heading for the exit.
When it comes to his own games, Ivo is a man of his word, but when the last second ticks off—a clasp, unclipped. Stone grins.
"Go on, Agent." He said, chuckling. "Fetch."
Quiet
Quiet (verb)
(uk: ˈkwaɪ.ət ) (us: /ˈkwaɪ.ət/)
to (cause someone to) become calmer or less noisy.
This command is used to get your dog to stop barking. It is important to teach your dog this command so that you can have a peace of mind in public places and at home.
Stone isn't actually much of a talker, but he does talk, and sometimes—times when the Doctor is looking for any excuse at all—it's enough.
"Shh," He says, shoving his gloved fingers into the back of his molars and tugs. It brings his face forward, and Stone's excuses peter down to a nondescript whine, enraptured. "Shh, shh, shh, shut up. Be quiet. Let the grown ups talk."
He's angry about something, Stone thinks. When wasn't he? But Stone finds himself unable to concentrate on his own scolding, not when his entire mouth tingles on contact, laving the smooth, rubbery texture over his suddenly oversenstitive taste buds. Oil, leather, rubber, and smooth cool metal that tap intrusively over the back of his molars. His tongue writhes below Robotnik's palm like a wet and sorry beast, and if it dared to stretch a little further, Stone could taste the smoothed-over pressure plates closer to the edge of his wrist.
"Am I understood, agent?" The Doctor hisses, shoving his fingers intrusively into his throat.
Stone gargles wetly, saliva dribbling over the edge of his mouth. The edges of Robotnik's own lips curl in disgust.
Bite, said something primal in the back of his head, identifying a threat, potential harm, predator. It would take so little—tension in his jaw, the repositioning of teeth, clamping down. It takes so very little, Stone knows from experience.
Robotnik himself seems to have forgotten what it was he was scolding Stone about, assessing the look on his face with abject, clinical, fascination.
Bite, Stone thinks. Robotnik waits. Bite.
Metal on bone, clacking. Stone whines again, his jaw slacking, loose.
Robotnik chuckles, retracting his fingers. His wet hand laves down the front of Stone's face, degrading.
"Clean yourself up, mutt." He orders, wiping it down Stone's lapels. "We have work to do."
Drop it.
Drop (verb) STOP
To stop doing or planning something, especially an activity :
Use this command if the dog is holding onto something that is harmful or if the dog needs to let go of something, especially in order to obey another command.
Stone snarls.
"Agent," Ivo points his index finger in Stone's face, and he feels himself cowering despite himself. He looks stern; not an ounce of approval or amusement to be seen. "Don't make me say it again."
Stone huffs, considering. The fool he'd trapped in a headlock for deigning to surprise them both on their way back to base had stopped squirming—although Stone himself couldn't be sure if it was on purpose, or he'd finally choked the last breath out of him.
The possibility of the latter mollifies him. He drops the headlock.
The fool drops to his knees, gasping dramatically. Both Stone and Ivo rolled their eyes. Before Stone could proceed with anything further, the Doctor takes action, pressing the sole of his boot to the man's newly freed throat, pushing him down, and keeping him there—cheek pressed into the finely crushed sand of the dirt road.
"Explain yourself," He demands, almost lazily. "5 words or less."
Five words, and no given timestamp? It was almost extraordinarily generous. Stone frowns. "Sir-,"
"Ah-bap-bap-bap," Ivo snaps, finger extended again. Stone flinched, metaphorical ears pressed to his skull. "I'll deal with you. Later."
So it is a punishment, for Stone. The fool on the ground starts whimpering and whining and Stone petulantly feels like kicking dirt into his eye, though with the Doctor's watchful eye he only retreats where he is commanded—2 paces behind the Doctor warily.
He listens carefully as the man justified himself as a messenger of sorts on Walter's behalf, trying to catch them before they retriet back to their labs to inform the of necessary health inspections the following morning. Credit where it is due, he does so in 6 words, mumbling incoherently into the ground, but Stone is almost viciously relieved he fails a direct order.
"Don't look so happy, mutt." Said the Doctor, once he picks his shoe off the man's cheek and he could scurry back to whatever hole he'd crawled out of. "You were hardly better when I'd told you to back off."
The feeling of relief dims significantly. "Yes, Doctor."
The Doctor doesn't turn to look at him as they proceed with their journey, letting Stone stew in his shae and the punishment that surely awaits once they retreat into the sanctity of their labs.
"Now that I think about it," Ivo drawls, head slightly tilted to indicate the squint of his eyes behind his sunglasses. "This hasn't been the only case."
Stone jolts. "Sir-,"
The Doctor whirls around, catching Stone's throat in white knuckled grip. It steals the rest of his words straight out of his throat, allowing only a single trembling gasp. "Perhaps my pet had forgotten to whom he answers, hm?"
They are standing still in public, where any of Stone's fellow agents and co-workers could pass by and see the abuse he was being subjected to—the abject humiliation of servitude spoken so blatantly.
Stone keeps his arms pinned dutifully behind his back, standing his ground, his face burning from the lack of breath and shame, combined. He sputters, lightheaded.
The grip tightens, and Stone feels his lips turning blue, his knees trembling, resisting the primal need for survival scrambling the recesses of his brain, trusting, trusting—
(He has no obligation no love no loyalty to you you could die here choking in his leather clad grip in the middle of one of the most secure places in the country surrounded by allies and for what? What is there to prove? He will crush the heart you've placed in his hands, he will crush you, he will crush you and you will die here he will kill you-,)
The grip slackens, and Stone gasps, breathing in sweet lungfuls of air—held up by a dubious anchor. The Doctor watches him with a detached sort of air—but there, in the twinkle of his eye-
Approval. Pleasure.
Stone had kept his feet beneath him and his arms clasped behind his back, throat open and bared and teeth locked behind his lips.
"No," Said the Doctor, and there is such a rush of chemical release into his brain that he might very well be drunk on it. "Perhaps he has not."
"Never," Stone rasped, desperate.
The Doctor coos. "I know, pup, I know you haven't. I'm just teasing, hm?"
Stone is painfully, debilitatingly hard. But when the Doctor turns his back on him, continuing on their walk, Stone follows—two paces behind.
"Still," Said the Doctor, tapping something into the screen of his watch. "You will have to be re-trained. Wouldn't you agree, Agent?"
"Always, sir."
Ivo laughed. "I know you will, Agent. You always do."
They make their way home.
Reward
reward (noun)
(uk: /rɪˈwɔːd/) (us: /rɪˈwɔːrd/)
something given in exchange for a useful idea, good behavior, excellent work, etc.
a feeling of pleasure in the body caused by an area of the brain being stimulated (= made to operate)
ie; reward system Endorphins play a role in the reward system which may explain addictions.
Stone huffs, breath fogging as the rest of him shivers in the crisp temperature inside Robotnik Labs.
The edges of his muzzle—2 inch steel, bent and broken and forged by hand, a labor of love—are slick from humidity, a climate difference between his ragged breaths and it's surrounding ambience adding condensation to the natural sweat and oil of his cheeks, but the discomfort barely registers. His chin is cushioned by an absorbent padding, a warm barrier between the skin and the shocking temperature of the floor.
The Doctor digs the toe of his boot into the sensitive skin of Stone's naked perineum, and he howls.
"Quiet," He scolds, and though his fingers do not breach the maw of his restraints, the command overcomes even the most primal, lust-addled parts of Stone's brain. Stone whines pitifully, eyes blurry with tears as he continues to rub with leaking cock over the top of the Doctor's shoe.
He'd extended it kindly, and Stone knows without looking the man still kept on tapping his way on the control panel listing the obsolete specs of his current project; the picture of composure and control as the agent continues to degrade himself by seeking selfish pleasure—not unlike a mindless animal—riding the intense tidal-waves like a kayak in a storm, anchored only through the thick collar around his throat, the spreader bar locking his arms painfully behind his chest, and the thick chains that manacles his ankles to the floor.
Ivo reaches over, bare hand extended to bury itself in the damp, sweaty mane of his hair, and it is only the virtue of his previous command that Stone does not whine, cock red and aching, waiting for —
"Go ahead, pup." Said the Doctor, almost gently. "Cum."
The ache behind his balls coalesce, hot and terrifying, and his orgasm keeps going, and going. His mind blanks with the white-hot bliss of it all, muscles straining, keeping him safe and contained while he floats amongst the physical wreckage of his person.
Stone whines, pressing closer to the affectionate touch of the Doctor's hand, hoping, pleading, begging—
"Good boy, Stone." He says, and Stone barks, metaphorical tail wagging. Ivo laughed. "Good boy."