⸺ ⟢ blade x fem! reader. pussy jobs. minors do not interact. soaking with blade in the hot springs. a little teasing and such but mostly just something to feed my friends. this is a little rushed so i apologise (i wrote this with one hand honestly).
⸺ ⟢ wc. 2.1k words.
You can just about make him out even from this distance. Perhaps it’s the sheer size of him, the mass of Blade’s muscled back and shoulders easily drawing your attention even as you slowly approach him from behind.
It had been your idea, to stop over in the hot springs while you were both nearby— hoping to lose yourself in a good, warm soak after all of your muscles were screaming at you for a break. Blade hadn’t put up much of an argument about it, and perhaps it’s because you think he could do with the soak too. Either that or he was just happy to oblige your request, but you’re not curious enough to question him on it.
Not when you get to admire the way the damp press of Blade’s hair clings to back of his neck, his body sinking lower into the warm water as you feel the warm air begin to brush over your own nakedness.
You try your best to stay as quiet as possible, even as you slowly creep over the cobblestone that leads you towards where he is, hoping that you may reward yourself with a few more seconds of being able to admire him unnoticed.
But you know Blade hears you, as he always does, acknowledging you with a subtle turn of his head as if his ears are perking up at your approach. He doesn’t move nor shift though, akin to the way a predator might remain still as to not alert their pray.
But if you’re the prey, you seem to be giving yourself up quite willingly.
It only takes a few more silent steps before you come to the lip of the springs, face to face with Blade and immediately you can feel it aswell as see it— the undisguised desire, hot and earnest in his eyes as he takes you in. He’s shameless in his admiration, much as you are to him.
Every look is slow and hungry, and the unwavering admiration is enough to make you shake when you take that first trembling step into the springs to join him.
Blade doesn’t miss a moment of it, not when he can watch how the water line clings to your breasts and molds to your bare straining nipples as you take a breath in. He watches you sink all the way down into the water, until you sit on a ledge at the other end of the spring where your thighs squeeze together and make an alluring, not so mysterious y-shape hiding your center from view.
It’s deliberate on your part, the distance. A detail that you know Blade won’t stand for, especially given the way his gaze is already devouring you completely. But it gets you the reaction you hope for almost immediately; a drop in Blade’s brows, a heat of something darker in his gaze and his jaw tightens before you speak.
You wave your hand through the water, transfixed by the ripples it creates beneath your touch, the shapes reaching all the way across to your lover at the other side.
“How does it feel?” You ask after a moment, “Better?”
“Mmph.” Is all Blade offers, stubborn. But it only makes you feel all the more playful, admiring the way his broad, scarred chest rests above the water.
His voice is much deeper when it calls your gaze back, and his huge body shifts. “Something wrong?”
“Nope.” You answer too quickly, tilting your head. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Is something the matter with you? You’re scowling.”
It takes Blade a second to respond, you watch the lines of his neck and arms flex before he’s relaxing again, and your brows rise at him.
“Come.” He grunts, obviously unamused as he motions to a place by his side. “Closer.”
“This isn’t close enough for you?”
You swear you see the muscles in Blade’s jaw clench.
“No.” He grinds out.
“Are you sure? I thought maybe you’d appreciate some alone time.”
“Don’t toy with me, girl.”
You can’t help yourself, can’t help but rile up the same man many would consider to be a weapon because you see the way he looks at you, notice the way his heavy, half-hard cock is already twitching beneath the surface of the springs.
You could keep going for longer if you wanted, but there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to deny yourself of what awaits you either. Not when you can see the way the temperature of the springs have caused parts of Blade’s features to take on a pink flush, and his chest is rising and falling with his deep breaths.
It’s mouth-watering. So although prematurely, you find yourself closing that distance in only a couple of steps— perhaps driven by your own eagerness as Blade spreads his legs a little wider in anticipation.
You take your new seat by his side before giving him a look.
“Better?”
Blade returns it with one that’s equal parts unamused and full of desire before he motions with his eyes again. To himself this time.
“Here.”
And without a second thought, you do as he says.
Blade sinks into the warm water as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and climb on top of him, placing your knees on either side of his hips as you situate yourself down. Too close to his hard cock for it to be accidental, but he’s more than eager to have you slink into his lap and rub yourself against him.
His body feels like silk beneath you, water sloshing as you feel the first silky grind of his hard cock split through your folds before it’s catching on your clit, making you gasp and moan at the wet, tacky sound that follows.
His eyes all but burn through you.
“How about now?” You ask in a dreamier voice. “Is that what had gotten you so upset?”
“I have no patience for your games.” Blade grunts and grips your waist as you shamelessly rub your pussy across his cock beneath the water. “Teasing me is a bad habit of yours.”
“I thought you liked that about me.” You giggle, but it breaks off into a moan with the next clumsy thrust of your hips, the shaft rolling languidly through your split folds in a way that makes your toes curl.
It’s incredibly intoxicating, the feeling of Blade’s larger body beneath yours accompanied by the temperature of the springs. He feels so rough and safe and warm. You whine his name, nuzzling down into his damp hair and you feel his mouth catch on your soft breast as you lean yourself back to offer him more of it.
Blade’s mouth works at you tirelessly, lapping and kissing at your perked nipples until your thighs quiver, accompanied by the lurid back and forth sway of your hips in his lap as he mindlessly helps you rock back and forth along the length of him. He presses along your lips and the bump of your clit catches on his swollen cockhead, making you both twitch and your whole body jolts when he nips at your tits with his teeth.
“You’re disobedient. This will not end well for you.” He murmurs against your breasts, full of want.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, leaning into your own arm with a lazy, lewd swirl of your hips. Blade’s brows come down as his kisses find their way to your jaw, lips parting to grind out another groan and tease skin with teeth while his rough hands curl into the plush softness of your ass.
You press slow, soft kisses against his forehead, down over his nose and mouth and neck, following the valley of each scar, old and new. Blade lets his head fall back and a deep, guttural growl vibrates against your lips. “Know your limits.”
You pet his shoulders and chest, hum in question that’s way more convincing than it should be for just one sound, and ask in a sweet tone, “And if I don’t?”
“Then when you surrender it will be amusing. Do not test me.”
The depth of Blade’s gaze, accompanied the deep tone of promise in his voice almost burns you, making your pussy twitch from where you’re pressing hard against him. You moan, your toes flexing as they curl up behind you and your nails dig into his arms.
You feel his cock throb at the eagerness of your movements, and then he’s helping grind you against him again.
But it’s almost too easy for Blade to make you into a mess. To make you whimper and keen, peering at him with your forehead against his.
The soft bouncing motion of your body on his cock alongside the saccharine rub of his skin against yours makes you feel delirious. The humid air of the springs fills your lungs with your next inhale, and your breaths turn to rushing pants that make your head spin.
But you can tell that Blade’s enjoying pushing himself up against you, to help you bob and thrust across the length of his cock while you struggle to keep his pace. The catch of his sensitive head and folds of his frenulum against the plush, slick petals of your pussy makes it easy to forget about his prior warning, to ignore the way water splashes over the edge of the springs, to not be affected by what would be embarrassment if anyone were to choose tonight of all nights to indulge in a warm soak.
You feel Blade slip down low in the water, applying pressure to a different angle all while he luxuriates in simply letting you ride him and take your pleasure and give him his. All while he gets to watch your breasts bob and your eyes flutter.
But it’s all too much, too much when the head of his fat cock is pressing through your folds just right and his huge palms are grabbing at your ass to ease himself through it. His hands are pulling you apart, spreading out your pussy from behind to make sure you can’t run from your fate and it makes your heart kick at your chest, you’re beginning to feel boneless above him.
“S-slow down…” You crumble, pleading against Blade’s jugular, but your hips never stopping their hypnotic motions. His chest jumps with an inhale.
“This is what has become of you?” There’s an air of something dark to his tone, his lips smearing against your cheek as he wills your body to keep moving. “Is this all it takes to whittle away one’s resolve?”
Your choked moans of Blade’s name ratchet up in pitch, but squeeze down to a whisper, almost like your whole body is twisting up. He gathers you close and squeezes strong arms around you, you’re gripping tight to the back of his neck and hair while he’s helping hitch your hips impossibly closer to his with a slap of flesh against water.
It’s all too much, the way the tendrils of your orgasm rush towards you with reckless abandon, the pleasure mixing with the rising temperature of the hot springs only making you more lightheaded and pliant. Blade takes in the almost helpless look on your face and all but craves to devour it; mouth smashing onto yours when your head falls forward to allow him the reach.
It’s an intense haze of messy kisses and moans, hands wandering and squeezing, shared growls and shivers despite the heat. The head of his cock catches on your hole, and you moan at the way the simple contact is enough to tease you with the stretch. It makes something grasp deep and agonizing in your gut at the hint of what you could have, hunger rushing fast and quick through his blood as you feel Blade’s cock throb and thicken against you.
“Please…. I—“ Your lips curl, legs shaking as your body bounces against his, you’re so desperate for him to just slip deep inside of you.
But before you can shift your hips just enough to position yourself to allow it, Blade grabs at you— deliberately applying pressure to your clit with the next tangible press of his cock through your folds.
“Not yet.” He almost barks, voice wound tight and cock throbbing as he holds your bleary gaze. “First, I will make something else of you.”
ⓘ zanka’s routine has been pretty concrete since he first joined the cleaners, but he’s not against adding in a new step whenever the opportunity calls for it and you’re an abnormality he could never deny.
pairing. zanka nijiku x fem!reader | wc. 3.4k. | genres. smut. minors do not interact. characters aged up to 20+ | warnings. fem oral receiving. somnophilia ( consensual ). zanka takes great care of you. written from zanka’s pov. | return to masterlist.
notes. i am so sorry this is just almost 3.5k of pure pussy eating lol! i hope you will atleast enjoy it - still getting back into the swing of writing after a short break! ✨
Zanka has a routine.
He wakes up, spends most of his spare time training, eats breakfast to fuel and repair his muscles, cleans himself up and then returns to his room at night.
That’s what it used to be like anyway. But now there’s you. You’re an anomaly in his routine but one that he was more than willing to incorporate, almost a little too eagerly actually. Because one thing about Zanka is he’s not one for doing stuff half-assed, he can’t afford to.
He’s not got some innate hidden talent or natural knack for picking up things after only seeing them once, so he works, hard. He puts as much effort into his relationship with you as he does everything else, he studies you, from top to toe.
There’s still work to be done here and Zanka knows that too, he’s nowhere near done yet. He’s just always been that type of person, he’s a hard worker, takes things seriously until he knows everything there is to know about whatever he’s focused on. Every smell, every reaction, every movement.
Which is why when Zanka’s finished with his morning sparring, brandishing the aches of his muscles like a job well done, he’s quick to return to his room to continue a different type of training.
You’re only barely noticeable as he steps into the dimly lit quiet of his bedroom, still lying all wrapped up in his bedsheets like he left you while he quietly makes an attempt to slip off his shoes and prop up his assistaff in the doorway. Zanka doesn’t think he’s quite used to this yet, even just seeing you sleeping in his bed still makes his brain feel like it’s about to short circuit at times, but he tries his best to remain composed as he crosses the room with big steps.
It’s a careful but important part of the routine, the way he brings himself to the edge of the bed and allows himself to admire you for a moment before he proceeds.
Even in the dimly lit room, Zanka can still make out every dip of your figure; the way the shirt you’re wearing falls along your curves, your lips pouty as your cheek smooshes against his pillow, your brows pulled into a cute frown like you’re lost in a dream.
He maps it all out, memorises every part of it and locks it away into his memory. This must be the expression you make when you’re at peace, when you trust someone enough to fall asleep in a bed that’s not yours. Surrounded by a scent that’s not yours, but his. All his.
The idea of referring to you as that makes a shudder rake through Zanka and he finds himself flushing at his own thoughts whenever he looks at you now. Staking a claim on you like he’s any right to, not yet anyway, not when he’s still got so much work to do.
But that’s exactly what motivates him.
So Zanka begins with a gentle grace, a trait that was no doubt picked up from his time at home as he shifts back the comforter that rests over your bare legs. He feels his mouth run dry when he realises you’re still in just your panties, like he’s not seen much more by now but the reality of it still flusters him more than he’d like to admit. Especially when you’re in his bed of all places.
“Pull yerself together.” He mutters to himself, sighing before the next shift of his body is followed by a creak in the mattress as he eases his weight down on top of it. He moves slowly, until he’s able to lie on his stomach at the bottom of your body and he gives you another look again, making sure he’s not woke you with the gentle shift.
Zanka fits between your thighs much easier than he used to as he guides them over his shoulders. First time he got into this position he was really clumsy about it, had the idea haunting him for days after whenever he thought about it too much, but he’s much more natural about it now. He’s able to move you so gently that you barely rouse, still sleeping softly with your head on his pillow.
But he gets you right where he wants you with ease because he’s learning.
Zanka’s hands wrap softly around your hips as he finds himself a comfortable position on his front, now face-to-face with your clothed cunt as he gives your underwear a once over. His hands offer you a squeeze and then a smooth, like he’s soothing you as his eyes narrow in on the cute fabric and then he leans in close. Just enough for his lips to barely be touching you.
“Mornin’, ain’t awake yet, are ya? So ya can’t even hear what I’m sayin’ right now.” Zanka asks, talking directly to the mound in your underwear with a hushed tone of voice.
“That’s fine, I ain’t against lettin’ ya sleep. Think ya can still react though?” He closes that distance with the next ask, pressing his nose against the fabric of your underwear and then he takes a loud, lewd inhale through his nose that’s followed by a full body shiver as he basks in the scent of your cunt. “Yeah. Can smell it.” Zanka grunts, answering himself.
There’s a certain confidence to him when he finally begins, slowly at first as he tests you out. Zanka noses through the fabric of your underwear before exhaling, deliberate this time as he feels the goosebumps flare along your cool flesh. He knows you like when he does that, picked up on it the second or third time he was down here and he’s stuck to it. You’ve never once complained.
So he keeps going. Zanka’s tongue peeks out from between his lips and he presses it against your underwear, dragging it in light, slow swipes across your cunt and making sure to focus more pressure over the bump of your clit. You’re sleeping still, but you’re reactive, sensitive.
Every roll of his tongue is making you twitch, your legs spreading a bit wider, the muscles in your thighs contracting with his movements. You make a little breathy, light sound in your sleep that makes Zanka’s cock throb from where it’s pressed against the mattress, and he takes that as a sign to move onto the next step.
“Yer bein’ real good about it today.” He huffs before taking a mouthful of your clothed pussy into his mouth this time, suckling lightly at the quickly dampening fabric before he’s moving his lips all over the surface and he feels you twitch. “Seems yer warmin’ up to me. No problem, can bet I’ll take care of ya.”
Zanka keeps going like that. He takes you into his mouth and sucks, feels the heat of your cunt even through the spit soaked fabric and he can tell you’re enjoying it. He’s used to these reactions, can tell by the way you’re breathing, the way your legs are beginning to shake. But he could give you more, he needs to.
Zanka shimmy’s himself a little closer before he’s hooking one hand beneath the fabric of your underwear and peeling them out of his way. The sight he’s first met with renders him breathless, leaking, flushed. You’re glistening with slick, wet and well-prepped and he feels like he’s about to bust a nut right there.
He has to take a few breathes to compose himself and then he locks back in, giving you another glance to make sure you’re still out cold before continuing where he left off. You won’t be asleep much longer judging off how you’re looking; the parted lips, the pinch in your brows.
Not long left but that makes no difference to him. You’re probably used to this by now anyway, not like you don’t let him do it.
Zanka’s calloused hands reach to spreads your folds this time, giving him a better angle to see the spots you took the time to point out when you first got together. He recognises them quickly now, locking onto your clit before leaning in and he takes it into his mouth with ease. He bathes you in long licks of his tongue, focusing on the bud as he spoils it with wet rolls of the muscle and he can feel the way your slick only seems to intensify.
Good signs. Definitely good signs. He’s getting better now, you’re responding faster. Getting wetter, it makes him twitch as he feels you begin to wiggle and rouse at the sensation of his wet mouth.
“I ain’t really into slackin’ off and I still think I could do more for ya, I ain’t nothin’ special yet.” Zanka grunts with his mouth in your pussy, half-like an apology as he feels you shift again. “Gonna put in the work though.”
It’s like how he’d kiss you, Zanka reminds himself, thinks back to the articles in those womens magazines that Semiu had left lying around. It would be way too awkward to mention it or give thanks so he’ll think up some other way to say it to her. But for now he gives your pussy another eager, messy lap with his tongue as he makes out with your cunt. The lower half of his face now slick with a combination of spit and slick as he buries himself deep between your legs.
“Ah—“ You eventually say after a stretch of silence, the room filled with only loud squelches from your cunt and Zanka’s own groans. He can already tell you’re awake by the way your thighs are suddenly clamping at his cheeks but he doesn’t rush you.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake ya so early,” He says, like he’s not eating you out right now and instead just made a sound too loud. The low tone of his voice must send blissful vibrations straight through your clit before he’s curling his tongue around your pussy and groaning when he feels the first greedy squeeze around the entrance to your walls.
You only respond with a sound that’s whiny and sleepy, still waking up but Zanka knows what your body wants without you having to say it anyway.
So Zanka complies, his tongue finally dips into your walls to explore what’s hidden beneath and he experiments by letting the muscle graze along the sensitive nerves he finds there. His nose grinds against your clit with every eager swipe as needy, breathless sounds fall from your lips and he takes note of that. Basks in the taste, the noises, the way your thighs are squeezing at his cheeks still as you wake up slowly.
“You’re earlier today.” Your voice shakes for the first time, hands rousing the sheets.
“Gotta train to get better or else I just won’t.”
Your body begins to shift restlessly, trembling beneath another eager suckle of Zanka’s mouth against your clit and he curls his tongue up through your folds once more. He drags it back and forth, presses it in and out of your hole again and then he draws back, swallowing loud as he slurps up the slick he finds hidden there.
“I—I figured you’d be tired after last night is all.” You laugh, deliberately broken off and pretty and Zanka feels his entire body flush at the memory of last night.
Much like he was right now, except you’d let him fuck you after it. He pressed you into the mattress, listened to you cry out about how good he was making you feel. How you were his, loved him, loved his cock and then he almost came too early and had to pull out to collect himself.
Proof he still ain’t good enough.
“D’ya really gotta bring that up?” Zanka buries himself deeper into your folds like he’s trying to hide.
You only laugh again, “Well I think it’s hard for me to forget. But I’m sure my reactions said enough of that themselves. I—I like when you seem to be having a good time too, it makes me happy.”
“Well when ya let me have ya like this I’m always happy, thought that was obvious.” Zanka’s words are probably too muffled this time for you to make them out, but he’s sure you feel every syllable vibrate from where he’s buried himself in you.
He’s learning, memorising, experimenting and driven by the way you’re beginning to twitch and shake for him. Your fingers reach forward to brush his hair back from his face and then you pull it, making him hiss while the searing pain only makes him feel dizzier, drunker on you.
“‘M gonna make ya feel better than ya even thought possible.” Zanka says again, mind cloudy from his arousal but still focused enough to lap at your folds between words. “Ya won’t even think about anyone else once I’ve memorised every part.”
“Zanka, that feels s-so good,” You gasp, hips twitching beneath his hands and words and he puts a little more strength into keeping you held down now. A telltale sign you’re getting close as you dig your head back into his pillows, whining. “You’re so good to me.”
Zanka doesn’t think he ever wants to stop training like this when he hears that praise fall from your lips, telling him how good he’s being to you like you’re not doing your best for him. He’s sure it gets tiring, letting him bury himself between your thighs every day until he gets better. Until you’re cumming so hard and good that you’ll never even remember anyone who came before him, and there certainly won’t be an after either.
Zanka thinks he’s addicted, so addicted to your pleasure that he’s dizzy with it. He’s so focused, so hellbent on becoming the best that he’ll do whatever it takes.
You pull at his hair, guiding him back and he knows what you want when he’s hooking his tongue around your clit once more. It feels firmer, more sensitive when he’s twisting and laving his mouth over the bud as you begin to meet his movements with eager, intoxicating humps.
Zanka remembers all the times he’s watched you touch yourself, remembers the things you’ve said that you like, so he pushes his tongue beneath the hood of your clit again and closes his lips around it. He suckles languidly as his eyes flutter closed in bliss and you rock yourself against his mouth, letting him bathe the bud in mindless licks and rolls with the wet muscle.
“Y’ taste good. Real good.” Zanka’s says and your body shivers so deliciously it’s like the praise rolls right through you.
“Yeah? You f-feel even better.” You bite on your lower lip, hands in his hair as your lips part, louder now you’re fully awake. “I’m gonna cum,”
Exactly what Zanka wants to hear as he notices your spine begin to curl with the first pinpricks of bliss, every eager roll of your hips chase that twist of pleasure in your abdomen that you crave from him as your slick coats all over his cheeks and chin.
It doesn’t take long for him to get you there, because he knows how to. A few more flicks of his tongue over your clit, accompanied by a big, rough squeeze of his hands on your thighs and you finally stiffen. You pull him deep into you when your orgasm suddenly rolls over you in waves and he only dives into you with even more eagerness, groaning shamelessly at the first taste of your cream on his tongue as his eyes roll back almost completely. There’s even a dangerous throb in his cock that almost knocks the breath out of him.
But Zanka’s focus on you is so unbreakable, he continues to slurp and drink you up greedily as he flattens his tongue against your folds. He bathes you in long kitten licks until you’re finally slackening and pushing his head away with an over sensitive whine. But not before he’s placing one more soft, wet kiss against your clit.
He’s completely flushed to his chest by the time he stops, his cheeks to his chin glistening with your juices while his chest expands with every shaky breath he takes to catch his breath. He probably looks more spent now than he did after a morning of sparring with Enjin, but then his wet, blown gaze is meeting your own and his cheek is smooshing against your thigh as he blinks up at you.
You look pleased with him and that’s enough to make his body feel lighter than ever.
You shift and stretch for a few seconds before talking, no doubt taking the time to properly wake up now that you’ve just came the hardest you have yet for him. Your smile says you’re satisfied as your hands begin a much more gentle movement through his slightly damp hair.
“What if I told you you’re already the best I ever had?” You say, words whispery and sweet. It makes Zanka shudder,
“Ya aint gotta say that stuff to make me feel better.” He shrugs, but he appreciates the sentiment regardless, if he wasn’t already flushed he’d surely be red. “Besides, I just ain’t one for skipping steps, I approach ya the same way I do all other sorts of trainin’ ‘cause there’s way more to ya than you’d think.” Zanka casts you another look, as if trying to make his confession seem more casual but still just as honest as he shifts from his place between your thighs. “Nobody knows ya like I do ‘cause I’m seein’ to ya with the time and care ya deserve and I can say that with confidence.”
He doesn’t know if that was stupid or corny to say but before he can begin to overthink it and lock himself into his room for a few days, you seem to pick up on his embarrassment. You choose your next words carefully. “And what have you learned so far?” You ask, teasing.
Zanka shrugs again, but he smiles this time, settles a bit. “That’s for only me to know and I don’t plan on tellin’ anybody.”
“I never thought you’d be the type to keep secrets.”
“Guess I gotta do whatever I can to have the upper hand. Not like it matters, nobody else is gonna get to test it but me.” Zanka moves when he answers you this time, shifting himself up onto his knees and moving your trembling thighs back down onto the mattress. He kneels across from you as you give him a narrowed look.
“I like when you get like that.” You smile, blinking at him,
He tilts his head, his earrings shifting with it. “Like what?”
“You know, all possessive on me.”
Zanka immediately shudders with humiliation at the idea of actually staking a claim on someone like you. Hell, he can’t believe he even managed to bag you to begin with considering his track record of losses but he’ll be damned if he lets this opportunity go to waste.
Gotta play it off, gotta seize the moment. Show ‘er you’re not just any regular average joe.
“Y-yeah, well it’s true.” Zanka responds after a moment in his head but he can’t look at you, “I like havin’ ya all to myself, is that so bad? I ain’t one for sharin’”
You grin even wider now as you push yourself up from lying on your back, coming to your knees until you’re able to reach forward and wrap your arms around Zanka’s shoulders. It’s like you know he’ll steady you, bringing you close enough until his hands are on your waist and your lips are by his cheek.
You giggle, “Definitely not. I’m not letting you away so easily anyway.”
Zanka thinks his heart’s due exploding, but there’s a throb in his cock aswell. His jaw tight as he holds you against him, “Yeah well I ain’t anywhere near bein’ done, but I think I’m gettin’ pretty close.” His hands stroke at you as he kneads at your body, groping at your skin and mapping it all out for the nth time before he feels you press a little kiss to his cheek. As if igniting something in him, he puffs out his chest. “It just ain’t nowhere near enough yet. Think ya could go another round? Don’t wanna push ya too hard.”
You pull away to eye him, but it’s with a certain flutter to your lashes that Zanka recognises immediately, “And what if I can barely handle it this time?” You say, breaking away from him before lying yourself back and spreading your legs. His mouth almost waters but he plays it off with a long, slow blink.
“Then that just makes it even more satisfyin’ for me.”
˖ ࣪૮₍ cw :: shameless smut , cock riding , little spanking , groping , squirting , reader is afab and have vagina ࣪ა ࣪˖
꒰ william afton ﾉ fem. reader ꒱
"a-ahh—!"
a sharp, stifled gasp catches in your throat, muffled only by the frantic rhythm of your own heartbeat.
you are perched precariously on his lap, your thighs trembling as you take the full, heavy length of him deep inside you. the sensation is overwhelming, a thick, stretching fullness that makes your head light, but it is the sliver of light from the door left ajar just by an inch that keeps your pulse racing with a delicious, terrifying dread.
any moment, a awkward child or a curious employee could wander in, turning this private indulgence into a public scandal.
william, however, seems entirely unbothered by the risk.
he sits back in his leather desk chair, his posture deceptively relaxed despite the way his hands grip your waist to steady you. his silver gray eyes are bright, gleaming with a predatory sort of amusement as he watches the panic flicker in your gaze. he isn't gentle—he drives his hips upward in a slow, punishing thrust that forces a high pitched mewl from your lips.
"shh, darling..." he whispers, his voice a low, melodic tease against the shell of your ear. he leans in, his nose brushing your temple in a possessive nuzzle, even as he increases the pace. "don't be so loud. we wouldn't want to ruin the show, would we?"
he lets out a soft, dark chuckle when you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for the sound of footsteps in the hallway. "oh, forgive me," he murmurs, the apology dripping with a mock, unapologetic sweetness that makes your skin flush. "is it too much? or is it just the fear that makes you so tight?" he doesn't slow down—instead, he hits a particularly sensitive spot, his hips snapping upward to claim you completely.
your lips purse, a sharp retort dying on your tongue as you try to muster the indignation needed to scold him. you want to tell him he’s being reckless, that his arrogance is insufferable, but the words dissolve into a frantic, wordless whine. your body has betrayed your pride; you can’t stop the rhythmic, desperate bouncing of your hips, your ass sliding up and down his thick shaft as you chase the friction.
"my, my..." william murmurs, his eyes dancing with a cruel, beautiful light. he watches your struggle with the smug satisfaction of a man who has already won. "you look quite ready to lecture me, darling. and yet, here you are, riding my cock like you never want to get off. are you defending your honor, or are you just terrified of how much you love the danger?"
before you can even attempt a huff of defiance, he delivers a sharp, stinging smack to your thigh. it’s just enough to sting, a sudden jolt of heat that breaks your concentration and forces a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat. you bite your lip, eyes wide, but the sensation only makes you clench tighter around him.
with a sudden, fluid movement, he shifts. he pulls you backward, dragging your spine against his chest until you are seated facing away from him. he hooks your legs up, pulling your knees toward your chest to change the angle, driving his cock into you with a devastating, deep thrust that hits a spot so perfect your vision blurs.
as he maintains that heavy, soul deep penetration, his free hand wanders upward, tugging your shirt up to expose the swell of your breasts, his fingers grazing your skin to keep the performance going.
you are trapped in a cocoon of his warmth, your back pressed to his chest, and the thought of a door swinging wide to reveal this sight makes your heart hammer against your ribs like a caged bird. you want to pull away, to reclaim some semblance of dignity, but he won't let you drift.
william is far too busy orchestrating your pleasure to allow your mind to wander toward the hallway or the risk of discovery. he is a master of distraction, his movements calculated to keep your entire universe narrowed down to the point where his body meets yours. he doesn't just want your body; he wants your absolute, undivided attention.
"you look so much cuter like this." he whispers between a purr-like sultry sound, his voice vibrating through your spine. his eyes are hooded, watching the way your head lolls back.
to him, you are a small, precious rabbit caught in the grasp of something much larger, much more capable of devouring you.
he leans forward to nuzzle the sensitive curve of your neck, his breath hot and affectionate, a stark contrast to the relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips. the tenderness of the gesture is a lie, a beautiful mask for the way he is claiming you, driving himself into you with a possessive force that demands a reaction. he loves the way you gasp, the way your fingers dig into his thighs, and the way you melt into him. he loves it because, in this moment, you are his—his beautiful, frantic little bunny, lost in the thrill of his command.
the sound is sickeningly sweet the wet, slapping rhythm of skin hitting skin, lubricated by the slick cocktail of your arousal and his sweat. every thrust is heavy and deliberate, sliding in and out with a friction that feels like it’s stripping the very soul from your body.
william has abandoned all pretense of gentleness; he is driving you toward the edge with a frantic, ruthless speed, his hips working like a piston to ensure you have no choice but to break.
you are drowning in it. your vision is a haze of white heat, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you whine, a high, desperate sound that you can no longer suppress. you are right on the precipice, your muscles twitching in a violent, uncontainable buildup, when the heavy click of the office door echoing through the room catches you completely off guard.
the door swings open— and there stands henry emily, a stack of blueprints clutched in his hand.
oh fuck.
the timing is catastrophic.
just as henry’s eyes land on the sight of you bent over, exposed, and trembling the climax hits you like a tidal wave. you let out a choked, broken cry as your body erupts, squirting wildly against the seat of william's desk, the sensation of your release clashing violently with the sudden, terrifying presence of a witness.
you freeze, your heart leaping into your throat, certain that the world is about to end in a flurry of embarrassment and scandal.
but william doesn't even flinch.
he doesn't slow his pace, nor does he look even remotely ashamed of the lewd, messy spectacle he is orchestrating. he simply tilts his head slightly toward the door, his expression as calm and composed as if he were merely reviewing a contract.
"ah, henry," william says, his voice smooth and utterly unbothered, even as he delivers a deep, possessive thrust that makes you gasp again. "you're a bit early. did you need something?"
synopsis. you'd have called him a gentleman, on any other day. but with what your lot was left with, there's precious little room for any frivolous appreciation. or in which, you are probably going to have to write an exam. maybe. ( wc : 9.4k )
tags and warnings. kong qiu x reader, ooc characterization ( still girlfailing too close to the sun ), reader is not referred to in a gendered way, crack taken very seriously, the premise is ridiculous but bear with me, depictions of dissections and organ trafficking and cannibalism, reader takes part in it, medical gore and the like, death threats and canon typical violence, very very slow burn, does this count as a 'meet cute' fic?, it counts as a 'meet cute' fic, if meet cute fics involve watching dissections in real time, the reader has been desensitized to the sight of gore to the point where it's concerning but fuck it we ball, life is not daijobu in the big big cityyyyy, reader is alluded to be in their early mid twenties and has witnessed the tail end of the smoke war, can you tell i'm in allied meds with all the medical jargon, don't read while eating ( as suggested by my friend ) if medical gore disturbs yo.
content and notes. something something something a jia qiu / kong qiu oneshot because we need more of these and i have a debilitating soft spot for men with beautiful long hair. while primarily sfw, i would rather not have minors directly interact with me. i do not condone the actions and the reader's choice of profession in real life nor the actions commited in this fic. please read the tag before proceeding. ✦ AO3 MIRROR.
foreward. latin nodus tollens, literally “the knot that denies by denying.” the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore.
“You know we close around this time.”
You say this to the wobbly kneed boy by the door, one a hair’s breadth away from buckling beneath the dead weight over his shoulders. The corpse does, admittedly, draw your attention first — still fresh post mortem, still bearing the ghost of a flush against its cheeks. Murthy doesn’t flinch against the statement, forcing a smile to his face as he waves it off with a flip of his hand.
“You’re sending me off already? That’s harsh.”
Bouncing on one foot first, then another for good measure, he wiggles past you and scuffs his shoulders while forcing his entry into the tiny room. Your fingers curl when you spot the muddly splotches he leaves behind on the floorboards. “Hey, where’s the light switch?” he calls. “I’ve heard you have actual running electricity in here. That’s freaking wild.”
You frown. You could be reasonable, a reasonable adult at least and send this foolish child off back to his home. You’ve told the boss this plenty of times: that you don’t want kids trodding up to your doors with dead people on their backs and their nails caked with putrefaction.
But then, when the fuck would it have ever mattered? Murthy is the annoyingly stubborn sort. You knew that from the passing complaints of his mother, when she’d meet you on her daily commute to the factories. “He’s gone and bitten the fingers off of a few ruffians.” She’d only said the other day. “I’ve been begging him to apologise but he’s sealed his mouth shut. Wings knows what I should do to him.”
And you also know this: your boss liked his money more than his morals — as sparse as they were ( a needle in a mound of hay, in your opinion…not that you were any better cutting people open for a living ), and he’ll choose his money over his morals, as expected. A child isn’t going to elicit any other sense of greater guilt or introspection.
( The city has a terrible reputation of drawing out the very worst and the lowest of the low in people, after all. The scrambling, scratching, biting sort of low, akin to hungry dogs leashed and muzzled and tied away in damp, dark corners of kennels to rot. )
( You look at Murthy.
You don’t want that for him. It’s not a prospect you are enthused by. )
Quietly, you tread after him, shutting the door behind you. You grope at the wall to your right and find the switchboard. The lights flicker on, casting a dull glow against the walls. Murthy flinches and turns around, staring up at the ceiling.
“Wow.” he breathes. “It’s not very good lighting, is it? I’ve heard the stuff you find in nests are bright enough to make your eyes water.”
He squints.
“My eyes aren’t watering.”
It’s his mother’s face — tired but earnest — that flashes across when you stare him down, then rattle the keys in your grasp. His head snaps your way as he drops the body. It falls with a wet thud.
“You shouldn’t even be doing this.” You state, walking up to him. The corpse is nudged against the toe of your boots, and you watch its head turn ever so slightly to the side. Rigor mortis is starting to set in.
His expression morphs to annoyance. “Why? Because it’s illegal?” he huffs.
“Your mother wouldn’t approve.”
Murthy flushes a bright red. “Amma isn’t thinking straight.” he snips. “No one here is getting by with a good record on their backs, you know. Some of my friends are already thinking about joining small time syndicates for the extra cash.”
You cross your arms, chest heaving out a heavy sigh. “There’s a lot more to this than getting a body and getting the money for it.” Sidestepping the corpse, you come to level yourself with Murthy — Murthy who only comes up to your shoulders with a pre-pubescent crack in his voice. You don’t even know how a fourteen year old like him managed to carry a dead body all the way here. You don’t think you want to. “Your mother is smart enough to keep away from places like these to begin with.”
He hunches his shoulders. “But you work here.” He counters. “And amma can’t keep at it in that stupid factory forever, you know. I need to start getting food on the table soon.”
The bulb flickers above the two of you. You click your tongue, eyes glancing up at it, then back on his face.
Then you speak up, “Help me carry this over to storage.” And you hope that some grand misfortune will strike you dead, then and there for even daring to suggest it.
One explanation is the fact, and a very simple fact, that you don’t want a putrefying cadaver left on the floor for somebody else to walk into. The organ harvesting here is an open secret but if a Fixer or two decide to poke their noses into this business under contract, then a literal body would just be a blinking neon sign to certain arrest.
Arrests aren’t all that fun. Most arrests here just involved having your head caved in. And that isn’t very fun either.
Murthy seems ready to burst any second. You’ll continue this conversation later. This sinking, prickling kind of feeling between your ribs won’t allow for anything else ( It won’t. You aren’t a good person — you hardly are. But oftentimes, you find yourself tripping over your fears of disappointing the kind of people who could so easily tear your heart apart. It’s not the kind of pain you’re ever prepared for ).
First, off with this then.
Murthy lights up, his hands gripping at the clothes on the corpse. It’s the usual garb of a backstreets dweller; clothes passed over and resold till the colour on the fabric had faded out. You hoist it up by the shoulders while Murthy takes the legs, stumbling over down the narrow corridor and into a darker portion of the little set up.
Somewhere in the pitch black, you hear a collision, and a barely muffled “Ow!” followed by a furious, “What was that?!”
“Canned food.” You reply.
“What?”
“It’s our front. We pretend to sell canned food.”
Murthy snorts. “Most of us can’t afford it though.” he half mutters. You’re inclined to agree. You’ve only recently afforded enough to buy a few tins of beans from one of the boxes out back. Your boss hardly cared for it as is; U corp’s singularity kept them from rot — something about them being the ‘perfect mannequin’. He just had to keep altering the manufacturing dates to keep up appearances.
You dismiss that train of thought, a grating frustration mounting out. It’s probably the tired from the long day you’ve had. “They taste alright. God be a little less watery, for my tastes…”
Another clumsy clatter rings past. This time it’s metal and you could only just make out the outline of tools strewn over the off white tiling. “If you break anything, I’m skinning you alive.” You additionally warn.
“Hey, I’ll be careful!” he hastily assures you. You can almost see the grimace splayed across his expression.
You take the lead in directing him through the room, then to the next, right down an even narrower flight of stairs. It’s muscle memory for you, at this point, navigating to the units by the wayside where the bodies were stored away.
The first clue was always the sudden drop in temperature. You can tell Murthy is put off when he lapses into silence and waits while you flick another switch.
These lights were no better than the one by the front. You’re relieved to see that he looks uneasy in the midst of this room; grimy against the corners, yet so disconcertingly sterilised at the same time. Fear is a good thing to cultivate in an environment like this — his mother made it her bedfellow and kept him alive for this long. Most children wouldn’t have lived up till Murthy’s age.
“Stop here.” You speak up.
The storage units are pushed up by the corner, taking up most of the wall space and even more beyond it. Your boss had mentioned the fortune he’d spent on these things, and in a gesture that you considered a brag, bought another set just a few months later to ‘maximise’ on the client base. Most compartments are full at this point, save for a singular one within the far corner. Murthy goes from uneasy to unsettled when you prop one open, spotting a shock of blond hair inside.
“This is very different from what the rats do.” he starts, nervously bouncing on his feet.
“It is.” You agree, pulling out the tray from one cabinet. “Gurney.” Murthy flinches and wheels it over and watches you set the tray on top, lowering the cot in line with the empty shelf.
There’s little fanfare involved with the process. You grunt a bit, hauling up the corpse onto the tray, gloveless and maskless. “Wash your hands on the way out.” you urge when he steps back. “I’ll handle the rest.”
Murthy nods. “You’ll write my name in the register, right?” he asks, wringing his hands as you flit around, stripping away the clothes and binding the limbs away to its sides. There isn’t much on it, save for a few punched tickets, spare change and an empty bottle. You feel stiffness under your fingertips. The flush and the residual warmth had been purged away, leaving deathly cold in its wake.
You haven’t answered his question yet. From your periphery, you can spot the impatient wrinkling in his forehead.
The fabric falls to the side in a heap. You fish out any identifiers; a piercing or two that strikes you a little odd and an employee tag to a nearby warehouse. Then you move down lower to spy any accessories round the wrists. You freeze.
Murthy tugs at your coat.
“Hey, I asked you — ”
“Where did you find this body?” you cut in.
He stutters, blinking once, twice, thrice in rapid succession. “What…what does that have to do with anything?”
You’ve mostly been led past the motions with a sustained sense of apathy till now. Some odd disconnect that let you waft and work through a routine that renders you robotic. Emptiness is welcome, so clinical, so easy to feel and to justify the lack of dignity in stealing a dead man’s clothes and a dead man’s right to a funeral — but those hands tore you straight from that cotton smothered headiness and right into the hard dirt.
And you’re angry.
You surprise yourself with it, at how easy it surges past and heats your ears up and trembles at your hands. Murthy stiffens when you grab at his scruff, pulling him in before he could afford a retreat back and cajole his way out.
“Murthy.” you level, your eyes bright. “Murthy, where the hell did you find this body?”
He fumbles. “Look,” he starts. “Look, I just…I just mugged the guy, okay?”
He yelps when you shake him down hard. “Bullshit.” you hiss out. “Where did you find him, Murthy?” And all he manages is a sputter in response, any building ire deflating in an instant. Murthy almost seems to shrink into himself, rattled and muted as the anger meets a ringing, almost persistent panic.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck it. That damned talk couldn’t wait. You should have sat this stupid boy down the second he waltzed up to this place.
He’s not let go of; not quite yet. But when you manage to register the terror and the way he’s tearing up, you try to reason with that heat smogging every legible thought screaming at you to calm down. And you wait for a second, then another, swallowing back a nervous lump in your throat.
You loosen your hold. Murthy lets out a wet little sob.
“Look at his hands.”
He wipes away at his eyes and looks. “They’re…”
“They’re…?”
He falls silent. Then his voice cracks and his head bows. “They’re…they’re…I don't know.”
You clench your jaw. “Look at them.” You demand again. He looks. “His nails are clean. His palms are smooth.” Even you, maintaining what little grooming you could from old habits, still have callouses littering your skin and a couple of badly mended scars. Only a certain kind of luxury, you think, would afford itself hands this untouched.
Murthy does look to be connecting the dots at least, if the encroaching horror is anything to go by.
“Oh.”
“Oh is a fucking understatement.” you grit out. “You’ve not answered my question.”
Murthy purses his lips. “I found him.” he mumbles. “He was in an alley. He wasn’t breathing right…so I just waited…and…and then he went still and I…I got to him before the rats could.” He pulls at the bottom of his sweater, tugging a few loose threads out in the process. “T-the boss told me to go find a new one for you by the end of the week. It…it was too good to just ignore — ”
Too good to ignore — you…you need to strangle that man the next time you see him. Cave his skull in.
“Does he know you’ve found this one?”
Murthy opens his mouth, then shuts it. “I…I don’t know…? I haven’t said anything, I think.” Your face warps into chilling stillness and Murthy catches on fast, his eyes wide. “I definitely haven’t. You’re the first person to even see the body apart from me — ”
You suck the air in between your teeth, letting the distinctive hiss draw itself out for a tense instance. For all intents and purposes, you should leave the body as is and wash your hands of the situation. But the heat seeping into muscle and tissue starts to fizzle out and that prickle of guilt slowly rears its ugly head. Murthy looks half ready to sink into the earth, his gaze glazed over and teary.
Walk away, you urge yourself.
You do not.
Maybe it’s Laxmi again — she is a good person; or at least as good as one could be given the circumstance. You’d shared living quarters during your contract with T corp. You know her well enough to consider her an acquaintance or a friend ( that thought is shot down immediately ). Or maybe it’s Murthy; hard headed as he is — having watched him grow with unsteady steps past the threshold of childhood. You’ve known him too, since he was a toddler with an annoying lisp in his speech.
It’s many things. Many things all at once you’d have rathered stayed buried.
( It’s the memory of lukewarm soup spent with the rest of your group — and the first actual winter you got to witness. You watched the pure white of it turn a dirty brown; logged down with slush and sewer water. Lalnunsiama was alive around that time, picking away at his bowl, draped under a tarp. You could remember it, as clear at peering through a glass window and how you’d told him his twitching nose reminded you of a rabbit, and how he would frown in response. )
You run your hand over your face.
After this is said and done, you’re tearing away any sense of sentimentality; tearing it away, tendons and all till brittle bones remains, and you don’t have to worry over fifteen other people apart from your own.
“There’s still time till the sweeping.” you utter. Murthy nods along emphatically, catching on to your intent.
“Do…do we go now?”
You glance over at the analog clock perched upon a table. “Not yet.” you reply carefully. “In fact, you need to head back. I’ll manage the rest from here.” Murthy mouths out a few words, looking between you, the body and the clock as you frantically work away at lowering it to the ground once more. He visibly wilts.
“Amma will be waiting.” he realises. He’s oddly cooperative. Good. You seem to have rattled him well enough.
“She will.” You give him a little push by the shoulder. It’s a little kinder this time around. “She’ll be worried. Go. You’re not going to run your mouth over to anyone about this, got it?”
Murthy curls his fingers. “Is…” he starts, stopping by the body with a trembling breath in. “Is he someone important?”
You pause. “People will be looking for him.” you admit. “I don’t know who he is or where he’s from but if he’s from a Nest…” You trail off, unsure of how to finish it. Murthy swallows, his head giving a little, affirmatory jerk and he shuffles over to the stairwell.
He turns around. “Do you need any help — ”
“Murthy.”
The foolish, foolish boy, he sways a bit where he stands, somehow steeling himself against your glower. “I…I made this mistake, right?” he urges. “I can help fix it — ”
“Murthy.” your tone holds no room for arguments. You don’t want to drive into the explicit details. You don’t want to tell him about slip ups in lines of businesses like these, of how two of your colleagues caught themselves between the ire of a syndicate and turned up the next day with their heads nailed against the front doors of their apartment. Murthy could be spared of the gruesome details for now, as you shove your hands into your pockets and throw him some ahn for his tram ride back home. “Just go. I’ll visit in the morning and I will make sure you’re home.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll tell your mother everything.” You finish, narrowing your eyes. He falters, horrified at the thought.
He rushes up the stairs. You listen to his footsteps, and when they fade out, you stand a little straighter, a new kind of fatigue weighing into your shoulders. You should be home at this point, you reason, but nausea starts burning into the back of your throat just as you start dragging the dead weight up the stairs.
With him gone, you think you might just collapse into a screaming fit. It started off as a small sting in your chest; imperceptible against your frustration and quickly silenced when Murthy grew more and more distressed. Then it batters in hard, quickly, a punch through the gut that has your thoughts start blurring over into a mess of gibberish and your heart starts racing against the coldness rushing through.
Oh god, oh god what the fuck have you gotten yourself into.
Whoever this man was had to have a warrant out at this point. No, he certainly does if he’s important enough to have lived in luxury — and lords, what will you do if you are caught? You can’t drag this corpse far enough on time to avoid the sweeper hordes, or far enough in general to throw any scents off of you.
You want to dig your nails into your cheeks, tear into your skin; feel anything but the spiralling that makes you shrink and the world around you a steep, never-ending drop. Anything to make your heart still. Anything.
So you scramble.
You haul it to the stairs. It takes a few painful, laborious moments, struggling against rigour mortis and the dead weight for you to get it up the first step. So you pull, pull, keep pulling, a please slipping out somewhere between the process as all you could think about were those damned, fucking hands.
He could have helped if you let him, a voice chimes into your ear unhelpfully.
The boy doesn’t need to be wrapped up in this any further, you tartly tell yourself, gritting your teeth as iron and bile starts to pool over your tongue. The corpse slides up to the second stair, then the third. And as you do, you drive away any lingering thoughts; of images of you being dragged into some basement, of your hands being nailed into and broken, of any and every worse case scenario your anxiety starts screaming into the shell of your ear.
No, no, that will not happen. You tighten your grasp, a tightness building away in your chest as you haul it up the last leg.
It would have taken another of huffing about and elbow grease to get it back onto the streets in time for the first wave of sweepers. But then you hear something overhead. You stop short, as if a bucket of ice water emptied itself onto you.
Perhaps…perhaps you’ve misheard, you tell yourself, so foolishly optimistic. So you prick your ears and listen for any occurrences, a tell-tale shuffle, a badly padded patter. You’re left in the following stillness, your chest rising and falling and your head spinning with frantic panic.
There’s nothing of note, for a torturously long moment.
You look down. You can barely even see your feet through the splotchy blur the world makes for itself. You nearly sink down against the wall and curl up into a small, weeping thing. You nearly do.
There are footsteps now, undeniably present.
Murthy? You almost call when another pair joins in. Soft, imperceptible — but the floors and the walls of this place have terrible acoustics and every purposeful tiptoe would run its course down to the basement — just loud enough for you to hear. Two footsteps, not one. Not Murthy; Murthy’s are soft. He’s not heavy, after all.
( A part of you thinks about some mad chance at escape. Running up, darting out and slipping away just fast enough to avoid the interlopers and escape. )
The air is caught in your throat. You pace back, stopping between the intervals as the shuffling and scratching grows louder, louder, louder still. Then you rush back down, slamming your hands into the light. The bulb flickers off and you freeze up when you hear a thud against the floorboards.
You hear a voice next and the tail end of a stern chiding.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Sweat beads against your temple and you jerkily reach out, curling your grip round the hem of the corpse’s pants. Slowly, ever so slowly, it begins to slide down the slope, closer and closer to you.
It’s not any of the drugged up residents from the next street over. There’s another purposeful crack and one of the boxes spilling over. One of the cans rolls by passage; you can see its shape cross over past the crack beneath the door. The corpse crumples at your feet and you reach behind you, groping around the dark wall till you brush against one of the worn aluminium carts.
You manage to grab hold of a scalpel in the drawers. The footsteps draw closer.
Your heart pounds against your ribs when you dip away behind the wall. You’d rather be anywhere but here. In the factories for your daytime shifts, poking gears into stopwatches with a pair of wonky tweezers. Perhaps down by the narrows, arguing prices with shady skinflints who would greedily eye down a fresh liver with a cannibalistic glee ( and then at you, hungering, trembling at the edges ).
“ — heard so…hing.”
“ — …ep c…ully.”
A scrape. “Down below.” The first voice calls, muffled. A pause. Your knees nearly give out. The door to the basement creaks open and the cold draft follows it through. The scraping draws closer, louder, heavy and metallic and grating. Your breath falters and you press yourself further in, scalpel grasped tight till your knuckles start to ache.
The eyes first, you think, trying to put up some facade of viciousness and floundering with the pieces that make it. Then the throat.
“I can hear your heartbeat.” The woman calls, her voice washed away and bereft of any telling emotion. It's unnerving to perceive, and worse off to be at the receiving end of. “Step out.”
You stay still as a mouse. She sighs, a shadow falling to view, eclipsing the light and she ventures down further with a “Coward.” that may have been a sneer on her part. Her descent halts, probably having spotted the body laid by the wayside, where she lets out an incredulous scoff.
And before you could comprehend the figure in your periphery, your world tips over and spins and you’re slammed against the shelves with a grip closing down round your throat.
You kick your feet out, driving them against her stomach, her chest, any conceivable part you could legibly reach. Beneath her hat, you spot the yellow glow of her eyes as warmth tickles against your cheek, timed with her exhales.
You stop, as if pinned to the spot, like a mounted butterfly in glass casing.
“Have you finished wriggling?” she asks, swatting the scalpel away. You choke, grasping and clawing at her hands when your vision spots and your lungs start wailing for air. The woman considers you, her singular eye narrowed down to scan your face, then blinks, a slow realisation flitting across her bandaged features.
This one’s hardly a threat, it seems to say. And you are inclined to agree.
She lets you go, smoothly scruffing you by the back of your coat to haul you over the ground. You are unceremoniously dropped on top of the corpse, and you cough and sputter, pushing yourself off and onto the tiles. You press your palms over the cool surface, then follow with your forehead, biting at your tongue before a whimper tears itself out and makes you seem more pitiful than you already are.
( Because you are pitiful, and it twinges away like a pulled tendon. You are pitiful, in how you cower beneath the thick oppression blanketing the air, in how she brings it with her. You are pitiful. )
She weaves over, her boots landing just within your line of sight.
Oh. Oh you’re going to die, aren’t you? You are, you're going to die where and now and selfishly, selfishly, some part of you wants to heave that protest out till your vocal chords fray and you choke out on your own blood. Hot tears start sprinkling and swimming against your vision and you make a pathetic attempt to push yourself up to a stand.
There were stories that sometimes break their way through the bleakness in the city. People who would try to make a change, or two or more, subjecting themselves to a suffering that people made a spectacle of in hushed up rumours over tables, and their consecutive deaths. Martyrs, monks, fucking idiots — and here you are, no better in the end.
Dammit Murthy, you curse. Dammit, you fucking brat.
Yet, even more foolishly still, you cannot let yourself stew in your anger for the child.
A responsible adult would have done this, you think. A responsible adult wouldn’t have thrown him into the gutter. You’re not your boss. You don’t want children in a place like this. You’ll never want children sinking their hands wrist deep into some poor, dead soul’s guts for another wad of ahn that would hardly last a fortnight in a household. You don’t want children to fall the way you have, chained into the business with your teachers debt and thirty other problems snapping at your heels.
So you’ll take it, even as a pang of regret lets itself unfurl and show its face and your terror nails your limbs down and turns them into lead. You wish you could have had one last smoke by the factory gates at the very least. Or a meal you could have enjoyed.
( You wish you had more goodbyes to say. )
“Milord.” the woman calls. You don’t bother looking up.
The woman, blessedly, stops manhandling you when she pushes you and the cadaver back upstairs.
You are not dead yet. It’s a little jarring, having lasted as long as you have now while the man she addresses wordlessly appraises you. But death comes with a sense of surety you can’t avail yourself to anymore. This situation was much worse.
An instinctual part of you bids you to run immediately the moment your gaze lands on his boots. You nearly do, jerking your body back to slide against the floor and make a break for the open door; but the woman only grabs you by the scruff, like you were a disobedient child, and pulls you back to your original spot.
You need to crane your neck up a bit from your place on the ground, just to glimpse the bottom half of his face and the inscrutable line his lips set itself to. You count to ten, listening for any shuffling outside. It seems the two were the only ones here — yet you still cannot shrug the horrific feelings of being staked against something too large to fight back against.
“Is this the one who secured Yan Shanghua’s corpse?” he questions. There’s a weight to it. You try to school away the terror that slips up through your features; the effort slipping apart and failing miserably the moment he so much as moves your way. You bite at your tongue and let out some unearthly whimper, freezing in the spot.
The woman shakes her head. Your eyes snap to the floor when you catch yourself staring, trying to quiet the dissonance breaking its fists into the walls of your head. “Nay. Eyewitnesses stated it was a child.” she brands down a little, tipping your face up. “Do you know anything about it?”
Murthy was seen.
It was foolish to believe in his naive assurance; and as the woman waits, you gather your words to piece in a comprehensible sentence. “The boy did it on my call.” you grit, digging your heels in fast. It’s getting harder and harder to articulate anything, let alone speak. And every stated instance is just you blurting out bullshit.
( Who are these people, you briefly ponder — because you see no markers of a syndicate on them. Are they Nest born residents? The man wears silk; the expensive kind that makes you go a little bog eyed at the very sight of. But what nest born would come down into the doldrums and the dirt for one corpse? )
The woman squints at you. “...They lie.” she states. She lets you go and you crumple back down into a heap, spying the body in your periphery and its blank eyed stare trained against the ceiling. Livor mortis is starting to leave behind splotches of purple over what exposed skin you could glean from here. “Shall I search his body?”
“Do so. We must not tarry.” he does not immediately bother himself with your presence for now, watching the woman get on one knee to pore over the corpse’s clothes and pockets. After some fumbling with the pockets, the woman seems to grow slightly peeved, if her clicking tongue is something to go by. “You, you are the surgeon, correct?” the man speaks up, finally.
How the fuck does he know —
“Yes.” you croak out, nails pressing into the palm of your hand. “I am.”
He considers it with a drawn out hum. Then he bends his head down and you catch the brown of his eyes bore right into you. Deep enough, perhaps, to scrape away at any clumsily hidden cracks and lies you try covering up with an impassive stare of your own. “Have you found anything of note upon his person?”
( You aren’t very good at it. You’re tense, you’re so tense and you look and feel every bit a frightened animal backed into a corner. He sees it too, you know he does. )
It’s easy to spill your guts out, cold sweat casting a sheen over your forehead. You are starting to have a headache. “That is all?” he urges, turning his head to watch his companion retrieve the empty bottle and sniff at it. She holds it out to him. “Hm.” he says nothing else when you slip back into relatively fitful silence.
The bottle is turned over once, twice once he receives it. “He’s already ingested it then.”
The woman raises her shoulders. “A coward.” The last part is hissed out under her breath, and you could imagine a very persistent anger smouldering beneath the surface, the consuming, white hot kind pressing up against one’s eyes. “I’ll cut him open.”
The man shakes his head. “We cannot risk damaging the bolus, Zilu.” And Zilu, if that is her name, looks to the side. It doesn’t cut away strain to her jaw or how her gaze narrows past to the window, like she wanted to break something then and there.
What the actual fuck is going on.
“Then — ”
“Surgeon.”
You jolt. The man gestures your way and you take that as a signal to approach, nearly tripping on your feet in the process. You keep your line of sight down ( and there is a candid thought — that you should have swept the floor of this place with how the dust coagulates under certain spots ). “When do you assume the time of death to be?”
“Ah — ” Your eyes snap to the body. “Nearly an hour. Sir.” You add that in for good measure. Men like your boss and men like the factory owner have the bad habit of pulling the teeth out of their employees; all on the basis of one unaddressed title of respect. Hell, you’ve heard members of the thumb shooting the brains out of subordinates and backstreet dwellers alike for smaller mishaps.
The white noise crashing into your ear and the pounding from your heartbeat drowns out the words exchanged between the two after your admission. You think it is wiser to keep to yourself, hands grabbing at the edge of the dissection table to steady the wave of nausea doubling down and flipping over in your stomach.
“...it would have dissolved by now, shifu. Zigong does not have enough time — ”
“I am aware. We take the body with us regardless.”
The-woman-named-Zilu levels you down with a sharp look. You find no safety in it. “And this one? They will talk.”
The man tilts his head, raising a brow. “Will they?” he challenges.
She hums, shifting on her feet. “As I am oft told, loose threads shall only come to suffocate us in the future…” Her fingers flex and you suspect she may just curl them round the hilt of that blade strapped onto her back and cut you down with it. Quickly, you back away, even though the meagre space would have done little to nothing.
“Wait — ” you blurt out, voice starting to quiver. “Wait hold on — ”
The-woman-named-Zilu huffs, then turns to the man. “Let them speak.” He sighs.
You stand straighter, gaze darting round the room, then onto the bandaged woman’s face, then on the man’s shoes. Think, you viciously broach and sink your nails into the crevices of your mind, digging away at any plausible statement to spit out. Anything to stay alive.
( Here you thought you were alright with the prospect of dying. But you are still seized by that unknowable terror and you struggle, choking and sputtering like an idiot. )
“I…” You begin, cheeks prickling. You look over at the corpse. ‘He wasn’t breathing right…so I just waited…and…and then he went still…’ — Ah. It’s a wild thought, but you quickly gather yourself and shakily point over to the corpse. “I think…I think I can still retrieve the bolus…thing…” That word momentarily elicits the image of a wad of chewed food stuck somewhere in this body’s esophagus. Disgust skitters across your spine. But here you are offering a modicum of usefulness. Wherever this thing is, ( chewed up food or not ) they clearly want it — and if you could reasonably aid in offering it then…then…
( Could you reasonably assume that they would be the honourable sort? It’s a gamble and it’s unlikely but you can still try, can’t you? )
The-woman-named-Zilu gives pause. You wet your lips. “He died via asphyxiation. If there is a chance that it’s lodged within his windpipe, then it wouldn’t be too hard to extract it…”
He exhales and slides the scalpel your way over the dissection table. You don’t give yourself the chance to question how he came by it, swiftly collecting it. It’s the same one Zilu flicked from you during that earlier scuffle and you turn it over your hands once, then twice.
“If you could place him here…” You speak up as you sanitise and pull on a pair of gloves and a mask. Your coat is shed as you fall into step; muscle memory taking over. Quietly, you will yourself to stop trembling when the corpse is hauled over the aluminium surface and you angle the head down over the edge, giving way to the expanse of its neck.
You roll your shoulders.
A corpse is not a human, your teacher had told you during the midst of the smoke war, when he’d haul back corpses of dead G corp soldiers to tear out the chitinous prosthetics tracing the surface and the insides of their bodies. There was a delicacy to extracting them, a steady hand gently threading away musculature and the delicate framework of their wings, carefully breaking away their modified jaws, and the multitude upon multitude of eyes from their sockets.
There were human soldiers too, and those ones required the traditional excisions. He had taught you how to cauterise the right blood vessels to prevent damaging fragile tissue, how to pump out the stomach acid from their guts, how to section out their intestines to sell as cuts of offal for the cannibal market.
A corpse is not a human. He’d told that to you when you’d thrown up on the floor on witnessing brain matter for the first time, half desecrated by a blow to the head. He’d grabbed you by your shirt and shoved your face at the dead man, forcing you to witness every harrowing instance of it. You were fifteen at the time, only just having picked up the scalpel under his tutelage.
You start with the u-shaped cut, working away at the epidermis and dermis. Your hold is steady, as their figures linger above you in silence.
Blood flecks the tips of your gloves, pooling over the sides of the cut while you carve the flaps out and pull the tissue open. It’s a little tricky doing it on your own. The process is ritualistic, robotic, even. You’ve extricated larynges before; mostly to section out the cartilages for your boss to sell to medical academies as samples for their students. Finally the adipose comes to view and you stuff a wad of cotton in till it’s soaked red.
After your initial misgivings, you’d learned to welcome in a sort of fever when it came to cutting bodies open for a living. It seeps out, glazing your eyes over just enough to do away with any lingering queasiness and dull out the roaring. You palpate for the hyoid bone, then move over down to pick at the strip muscles and divide the vascular pedicles.
Vaguely, you can make out the stares burning into the back of your neck. It’s intrusive, and you wonder what they think of the sight. Gore isn’t uncommon in the city; the older you got and deeper into this business you sank into, the more you saw it outside the surgical rooms. Sometimes it’s discarded bodies left to the wayside by the Rats. Sometimes the syndicates leave little keepsakes hung up on telephone lines with their skin pallid and drained.
You’d rather they didn’t; but being choosy over your audience is the last thing on your mind at the moment.
( You could die after all. There’s a vulnerability with your hunched back and exposed nape; an invitation to swing down and sever your head off completely. You hope they do not loose their patience and proceed with it. You pray they do not.
Please. Please do not. )
The fat usually cuts away fairly easily beneath your blade. You do not take long there. After doing away with the hemithyroids, dropping the clumps of flesh into a tray by the side, you work on loosening the hyoid first, slicing off the ligaments and muscle with your shears and working away downwards.
It’s easier to ease it off when you finish the larger sections first, you remind yourself, watching the blade sink in and out of the blood gathering and filling into the fissures below the opened flaps.
This is probably one of the more numbing parts of the procedure. Rigor mortis has toughened up the muscle to a point where you have to angle your scalpel over and dig just a little deeper to cleanly cut your way into the waiting flesh and loosen the cartilages off little by little.
“How much longer will this take?”
You gasp, unsure of who even asked it with how muddled your thoughts were. “A few more minutes…” you mumble, lightheaded. You can smell the tang of iron through your mask. It doesn’t help the sick wobble in your gut. “Please, I just need to — ”
The last ligament is torn free when you tilt your wrist. “Okay…” you mumble. “Okay…” This is progress. Good, good, you just need to do one more thing and you wash your hands of all this —
You stick your fingers in, feeling out for that groove between the trachea and esophagus. It takes a hot second to find, and your heart jumps into your throat when your hand slips past and lodges into the wrong junction just beside the cricoid, before properly piercing your scissors into the correct spot. You pull the cartilage up, discerning the vaguely cylindrical pinkish mass.
The scalpel slips and clatters onto the floor, right at the man’s shoes. A single drop splatters over his boot. You could loop this point like a tape — again and again, over and over with its speed turned down to show off every explicit detail. And as the room’s temperature drops, you momentarily wonder why you even bothered trying so hard anyway.
It burrows deep, that fraught feeling. Like maggots in rotting fruit in rotting flesh. Zilu’s pupils have shrunk into pinpricks, curiously . You wait. The disquiet stretches on and you press a nail into your thumb. “I…” you steady your voice. “I apologise…” As if it will fix anything.
His eyes burn over the top of your bowed head. You watch him bend and pick the scalpel up and a macabre question flashes across; if he’ll stab your eye out. A little extreme but doable from this distance —
He holds it out. “Finish it.” he states. There’s no room for argument with that tone of his. You must have shot him a stupid look because he sounds marginally amused when he speaks up again. “You finish what you have started.”
You collect it from him and ask, when you really shouldn’t have: “Won’t you kill me?.”
The man actually falls silent, tilting his head with what you can assume to be a thoughtful expression, from what you can see. “I never recall suggesting it. Continue.”
You stiffly shuffle back to the table, keeping your gawping to yourself, mostly. Running a tissue over the surface of the knife, you do as you are told and continue.
( It’s like you’re trapped in the midst of some joke you can’t quite get. The dissonance is there — and wings it may as well be a fucking nightmare to wrap your head around. Is this some new trend amongst the rich? Reverse psychology? A bait and switch? )
The trachea is cut away. Cradling the larynx on your palm, you test the give of it. Cartilage usually bends easier. There’s something wedged inside — and when the thyroid laminae are bisected and the trachea cut open, you spot a spherical object lodged down just beneath the true vocal folds; partially caved in at the side and slicked red from blood.
“...is…is this it?” you ask no one in particular.
You turn to the man. He inspects the object and nods. “It is.”
The-woman-named-Zilu produces a kerchief, and you place it upon the cloth. “Have it delivered to the medics to replicate its contents,” he states. “Be quick on your feet Zilu; one assumes there isn’t much time left.”
“I’ll see it through.” she promises. You barely blink and she is gone, the creak of the door being the only indication of her departure. The speed of it terrifies you, as the man turns to face your way now. Quick as a light, and you’re disoriented by the changing routine.
“Yes, sir?” you ask. You’ve come to be well acquainted with his shoes at this stage, enough to glean that he’s possibly from District 8, from its make alone.
“Your name.” Ah. You force it out, curling your grip at the hem of your shirt. The man falls silent. “You may look up.” And you do so, vision skilling over his jaw, then cheek, then to his eyes. On any other day, you’d have considered him a gentleman. Surly, perhaps, with a slightly wide mouth and a pinched brow, yet handsome all the same.
( Younger than you’d expected too. He’s probably in his early thirties, just a few years older than you are. )
But the fear doesn’t lose its edge just yet. Its residue clamps up the inside of your lungs and skitters a finger over your spine. You find yourself staring back with apprehension. He dips his head down and huffs again, knuckles coming up to brush against his chin while he hooks the thumb of his other hand into his sash.
“I would like to extend my thanks then, for your assistance.” he relays, his cadence smooth. Polite. So fundamentally out of place while you’re sliding bloodied gloves off and scrubbing your skin clean of the crusting around your wrists.
You do a double take. He isn’t joking. Metal clatters against the surface of the sink, and you watch the water drain out, stained a faded pink. “It’s fine.” you say in turn. You’re curious, but it’s best left shut up and its tongue cut off before it can question anything else. Clearly the situation is something you ought not to involve yourself further into. Your line of work is shady enough as is.
The man doesn’t appear to be all that interested to say any more either.
It’s a clean dissection, at least. Your mentor would be proud.
“And the boy?”
You purse your lips. “I’ve told you, he’s got nothing to do with this.”
The man shakes his head. “He does. He found the body of Yan Shanghua, did he not? He was the one who brought him here.” The taste of iron stands tart in your mouth. “You intend on protecting him then?”
“He’s a child, sir.” your voice lowers, dips in a way you don’t intend on. “I would rather he doesn’t get involved with whatever our business is.” Because you don’t. And look where you are now, working a pittance under an indentured cheque. He’s a tough kid, but bitter work like this can wipe away the best in people. Plenty of your colleagues forget they’re human. You don’t wholly believe you are anymore either.
( Like a corpse, and the irony of it sticks. )
He considers it. “He is. But if I may pose a question?”
You…you frown a little and nod. If he leaves after this, it’s all the better for it. The sweepers are due in another hour.
“Do you truly believe it? That by covering his tracks, you protect him or anyone else, for that matter?”
“Yes.” you reply without hesitation.
He nods. “Yet you met us today. If you are to be a bulwark, then you’ve set yourself up within a disadvantageous position upon this board. You’ll crumble before you can opt to be anything worthwhile.”
You flinch. “What?” The statement only just registers. You can’t even discern where he comes from, delivering that.
Whether blessed with patience or whether he hardly cares at all, the man elaborates regardless. “You,” he starts, emphasising the words carefully. “By continuing to work here, have you perhaps thought over the possibility that you are still putting him in danger?” Of course you have. But you are careful, aren’t you? You’re careful enough to keep to yourself for the most part. You —
He cuts that train of thought clean in half. “If I’ve come to know of your relations with him, anyone with a modicum of knowledge within these backstreets will know as well.”
…oh who are you kidding.
The man looks at you and you’d rather melt through the floor than be subjected to whatever flashes across his eyes then. It’s shameful, it heats at your cheeks and draws a sound that is strangled, and mutated, and angry. “I’m doing what I can here, sir.” You force out, geniality starting to fray. You will not cuss this man out. You will not. “And if calling myself a hypocrite sees it through, then that’s that, I suppose.”
He exhales, studying you with a slow rake of his gaze over your figure. You clench your jaw. “Then I propose this, as you have done one a favour.”
“I pulled a pill out of a dead man’s windpipe, sir.” You remind him, pushing the snideness down. “There wasn’t much to it.” You are certain that his companion would have just torn it out of cadaver’s neck anyway. She had the strength for it. You could tell.
“You’ve saved a student of mine in the process.” The name ‘Zhigong’ flits by and disappears just as fast. You only just comprehend the tail end of it. “In a year, from my knowledge, an examinee town will be hosting an entrance test. Should one pass through, you would be able to secure a chance at finding a place for yourself within a wing; or a lesser company, at the very least.”
What the fuck?
“The fee will be seen to. Should you require any study materials, I will arrange for a contact. My condition stands here: I do not want to see you within this room when the coming twelve months comes to a close.” he points down to the floor. “Is this understood?”
You open your mouth. When you can’t force a sound out, you shake your head, feeling dizzy. The ridiculousness only builds as his brow twitches. “I can’t just leave sir.” you state, your tone flat and your delivery forced. It’s excruciating, arguing back, and the offer is too good to be true to really trust or take. “I’m in debt.”
“That will be handled.”
The room spins. “I’ll fail.” A chance to write an entrance exam. Your teacher had tried once, once and it drained him of his money. It’s what threw you into this mess in the first place. It must be a trap, some inconvenient, twisted way to tie you into a larger mess. None of this makes sense.
He shakes his head. “You will not.” he assures you with an almost-gentleness. “You have steady hands. Good hands. And you have a notable stubbornness rooted in you. Do what you will with that.” he approaches the table, easily pulling the body off and hauling it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, the open wound lets out a wet sound and the head angles itself awkwardly, its empty stare facing your way.
“But my boss — ”
“It will be handled.” He mentions something along the lines of a drop and a fountain — a statement you can’t register as your head pounds and you watch, wide eyed and shaken. The man dips his head down, venturing past the hallway, ghosting through the stacked boxes with no flourishes. It’s sombre, in a sense and you follow him like a lost puppy, nearly tripping over yourself after flicking the lights off. Forty five minutes till the sweeping, you’d noted. He doesn’t appear to be all that concerned.
He wouldn’t be. You have a distinct feeling the backstreets could hardly shake him down as is. There’s a stab of jealousy when you realise that.
“This isn’t a joke?” you ask, your voice small.
He turns and frowns. “No.” he replies, a few steps away from the threshold. “My involvement after this will be minimal. I expect nothing in turn.”
The Nest — the idea of it is absurd. You reckon this is all empty platitudes and you let it stay that way, cutting back what meagre degree of hope you could thread through before it could hold any sway over your head. It’s a joke. It’s such a cruel joke. You’d have laughed at him then and there if you had a death wish. In what world, what fucking world could you have made a difference? In what world could you have escaped, repaid Laxmi for housing you, found a decent enough job and pay.
Not you. Never you.
But you humour him. You don’t have a choice in the matter. “Okay. I’ll take it.”
He closes his eyes for a second, then walks out. For a large man, he sticks well to the shadows — you barely see the red accents of his coat and soon, the rustling of fabric has faded as well. You hope to whatever being resides in the gutters of this City, that he never comes back here to haunt you.
Then, you break into a jog, avoiding the unlit corners. If you are fast enough, you could get to Laxmi and Murthy’s place fast enough before the sweepers arrive.
She opens the door for you with moments to spare. Distantly, you hear the roaring, and the heavy thud-thud of a multitude of footsteps racing across the roads. Murthy stirs on his mat, partially sitting up, only to shut up immediately and lay back down when he spots you.
He listened, at least. That’s good.
Laxmi frets. “He told me everything.” she says as you pull yourself to a corner of the small room, pulling your coat off to bunch up into a makeshift pillow. The high from your adrenaline rush and whatever unholy thing that drove you during that dissection crashing down upon your shoulders and letting the fatigue batter through right after. You nearly collapse then and there.
She purses her lips. “Child.” she urges, patting your shoulder. You hazily look up at her. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” you reply.
“Something happened.” she insists with a shake of her head. “He said he’d dragged the body of some rich man in, the fool.” She shoots Murthy a scathing glance when he tries to protest. “You don’t walk out of that unharmed. Paramathma, that place is going to get you killed one day.” A selfish side of you does enjoy receiving the finger waggling for once, but Laxmi spots your exhaustion and sighs.
“We have to work in another three hours.” she says. You know this. You do not look forward to staring into the monochromatic walls of that factory. You do not look forward to working those twelve hours. You do not look forward to walking back into the warehouse, with the possibility of your boss waiting there, knowing.
“Laxmi.” you mumble. “If I wind up going missing, I'll need you to move into another flat.”
She snaps her head over at you. Murthy shrinks into the walls. “What on earth have you gotten yourself into?” she mutters, aghast. She’s safer not knowing and you turn to face the wall, clutching at the sleeve of your coat like a lifeline.
A foolish part of you still drifts into that conversation. That voice echoes through: You have steady hands. Good hands. And you squeeze your eyes shut, seizing that squirming creature and killing that hope then and there with that child, with every possible fragment and scattered remnant you could seize and scrape together. You kill all of it.
When the morning comes you’ll have to cut away from these two. Hand in your two week advance; you’re expected to work full time at the warehouse as is; the pay will only be marginally better but you’re better off burning any bridges.
You’ve learned that sentimentality ties you down to this place. You can’t stay here any longer. You’re no monk or martyr. You never were.
So, you don’t bother holding on to those embers.
Wordlessly, you drift off to sleep.
( You have steady hands. Good hands. It clings on, still. )
AFTERNOTES ; okay, 'amma' means mother and 'paramathma' is the equivalent of oh god. i would like to add that after this, the reader's boss winds up letting them off the hook and jia qiu does, in fact see his promise through and they wind up spending the next few months going through hell for exam prep hashtagNEET style. only worse.
anyway fuck NEET. who even liked studying for NEET.
tagged on main by @johntonkin so i’m using it to stretch my luztoye legs and post my first snippet for @luztoyeweek 2k26. event of all time obvs
"Your sister doesn't like me, so she's trying to take us both out by sending deathtraps as birthday gifts."
"She gave me a percolator for Christmas that worked fine." Joe pointed out, "I think it's user error."
"Then you can make breakfast for yourself," George said, and he backed away from the counter. "And show me how I'm meant to do it."
"Alright," Joe said, and he pushed himself to stand up straight.
"Christ, obviously not." George said, and he shoved Joe's shoulder, just enough to rock him back on his heel. "Sit down and look pretty. I'll make you a coffee before I try this damn thing again."
"I can make it," Joe insisted, but he smiled.
"You're not winning this. You should know that by now."
"You made breakfast yesterday.”
"So? Today's your birthday."
"Before I shacked up with you, I didn't even bother to try taking the day off." Joe shrugged, "It's just a day.”
"Well it's a good thing I'm here to knock some sense into you, right? Go sit on the couch, turn the radio on."
"And leave you to burn yourself on a waffle press?"
George rolled his eyes, then pecked Joe on the cheek just because he happened to be close enough, "If you want to be useful, get the mail and read all the nice letters from your family."
no pressure tagging @rieweyrs, @gerhardtz, @freakvampire, @bell-swamp-fitzjames
