[zzankapilled]

hi you can call me nill/nillie. i’m an adult in my early 20s and this is my gachiakuta side blog (though i might also write stuff for other smaller fandoms). might be dark content prone so this is your heads up bc i'll post anything from sfw stuff to real freak shit. ok bye...

[zzankapilled]

sum. after defending you in front of others, you show him how much it means to you when you get back to his room

ᐟᐟ☆ cw. pre-established relationship, bulge worship, scent kink, humping, kissing, mild cumplay, mild overstim, everyone is 20+, mdni

ᐟᐟ☆ wc. 4.1k

ᐟᐟ☆ an. maybe this kind of sucks but I’m bored of working on it and ready to move on 🙏🙏

The door shuts behind you with a dull click.

Finally.

No more chatter, no more pretenses.

The staff is placed by the wall before he immediately begins toeing off his shoes.

The room is barely large enough for the bed, desk, and battered dresser shoved into the corner. On it is a simple wooden incense holder filled with powdered ashes as testament to the faint redolent fragrance mixed with the usual dustiness that hangs in the air.

Your mind is still on what happened out there.

It's no secret that you're average.

Maybe it sticks out even more in a HQ full of child prodigies—being new to the whole cleaning thing does that for you.

And somehow, you have always been his partner.

The chasm in your skill is more than noticeable but everyone in HQ knows better than to mention it—except these people weren't from HQ.

All they saw was a prodigy and the average person weighing him down from reaching the heights he's supposed to reach.

The conversation had started pleasantly enough—the Cleaners from the neighboring branch had been older, more established, the sort of people whose names carried weight.

The sort who looked at Zanka and saw potential.

One of them had laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

"You're even better than the reports said."

Another had nodded.

"Your handling of that Trash Beast was impressive."

"You've got talent."

"Discipline."

"Instinct."

The praise kept coming as you'd mostly stood to the side smiling politely while pretending not to notice how naturally the conversation excluded you.

"You've got a real future ahead of you," they finally told him.

The words should've ended there, but instead another Cleaner briefly glanced your way, then back to him.

"You ever considered switching partners?"

You remember feeling your stomach drop.

Not because the thought had never occurred, but because it had.

Plenty of times.

The Cleaner continued casually like they were simply discussing equipment.

"No offense."

Which always meant offense.

"You're operating at a level where partner compatibility starts mattering."

Another nodded in agreement.

"Someone closer to your level could probably push you further."

"You'd improve faster."

"You've already outgrown most people your age."

You'd already been preparing yourself for whatever annoyed response Zanka would give.

Maybe he'd tell them to mind their own business.

Maybe he'd ignore them entirely.

Maybe—most likely—he'd call you useless himself just so nobody else could.

Instead he stared at them, expression flat and utterly unreadable.

"I don't want another partner."

The Cleaner blinked.

"What?"

"I don't want another partner."

There was a laugh. "C'mon."

"I'm serious."

The laughter faded as the older Cleaners exchanged looks.

Someone leaned forward. "You really think she's the best match available?"

You remember wanting the floor to open beneath you, wanting them to stop—wanting him to stop, because every second this conversation continued felt worse.

Zanka didn't even hesitate.

"Yeah."

"So you're telling me there's nobody better?"

"There probably is."

The response came instantly and for one second you thought he'd finally agree with them.

Until he continued.

"…I don't care."

The Cleaner stared.

"So you're choosing to limit yourself?"

Zanka's expression hardened, just slightly.

The warning signs you knew better than anyone.

"I'm choosing my partner."

You don't really remember what happened after, just those last four words that seem to be playing in your mind on loop.

Even now, standing in the small room hours later, your chest swells at the memory.

Because Zanka—who hates when birds are too loud or people are "too happy"—explicitly chose you.

Behind him, he hears you humming faintly—never a good sign.

He tugs one sleeve off.

"I'm staying here tonight," comes your announcement.

He closes his eyes briefly.

Of course.

"…Do whatever you want."

His eye twitches when you actually gasp out loud.

"Was that permission?"

"No."

"But you didn't say no."

"I should've."

You hum smugly as you begin to undo the buttons at your collar, trying to remember which pair of your pajamas you'd left in his closet. "Well it's too late now anyways."

After that, the conversation simply... runs out.

The room settles into a comfortable quiet broken only by the rustle of clothes and the occasional sound of someone moving around.

It feels strange.

Most nights you would've still been arguing.

Or you'd be bothering him.

Or he'd be threatening to throw you out.

Instead, the edge seems to have worn off somewhere between the long car ride back and the moment you'd announced you were staying.

The mattress dips as Zanka sits on the edge of the bed, the shirtless frame of his torso on display.

A moment later he hears you moving around behind him, changing into something more comfortable.

You're quieter.

Not upset.

Tired, yes, but not just that either.

Softer, maybe.

The version of you that surfaces when you forget to be difficult.

Right now you're shimmying out of your pants, the fabric whispering down your legs to pool at your ankles, leaving you in nothing but panties and an old oversized shirt he recognizes as his once—now stolen and repurposed for sleeping.

His gaze snags on the curve of your hips before he forces himself to look away, heat coiling low in his belly.

"Want the right side?"

A pause, then a small hum.

"Mm."

Like you'd expected him to know

Maybe you had.

The right side had become yours somehow several trips ago. He can't even remember when, only that you always end up there.

The mattress shifts again, then there's a sudden weight against his side.

Zanka freezes.

You'd wandered over and leaned into him without a word, pressing your shoulder lightly against his arm.

Seeking warmth, comfort, something that he never expected anyone would come to him for.

For once you aren't trying to get a reaction out of him.

You simply stay there, quiet, the top of your head nearly brushing his shoulder.

He chooses not to say anything about how you still haven't changed into proper pajamas, just casually cuddling into him while you're in your underwear.

Like he isn't painfully aware of the silky skin of your thighs peeking out from under the hem of the shirt or that those panties ride your ass just right, leaving little to his imagination.

Instead, he stares intently at the opposite wall, his breath held tight in his chest.

"You cold?" he asks stiffly.

You hum no and he suddenly feels a light tickle along his side before it escalates into a gentle prod.

"Look," you chide. "You removed the sutures too early and now its gonna scar."

"It's gonna scar because you suture like you only have one working hand."

He half expects you to bicker back, half expects you to just make another non-verbal noise.

Instead you snort softly. The sound puffs against his shoulder.

"Maybe I did it on purpose."

His brow furrows. "What?"

You poke the spot again. "Maybe I wanted it to scar."

"That's stupid."

A pause.

Then you casually say, "I think you look hotter with scars."

For a single, disastrous second, his brain completely forgets what to do with that information.

Ordinarily, he'd have a response for this—you flirted with him often enough.

Not constantly or enough that anyone else would've noticed a pattern, but enough.

Enough that every now and then you'd lean over his shoulder and call him pretty just to annoy him.

Enough that you'd tell him some stranger had been staring at him.

Enough that you'd grin and ask whether he practiced looking intimidating in a mirror.

Usually he could deal with it—roll his eyes, call you ridiculous and tell you to shut up while pretending the comments bounced off.

Except that the problem was that he'd never disliked it as much as he should have—which was, of course, its own irritation.

But tonight feels different.

Maybe because it feels less like you making fun of him, and more—if not entirely—sincere.

And that makes something unpleasantly warm flip low in his stomach.

His shoulders lock, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

Fortunately you're still leaning against him and can't see his face.

Unfortunately he can feel the warmth threatening to reach his ears.

Zanka clears his throat. "You need better hobbies."

Smooth.

Very smooth.

You grin, and he can hear that too. "I mean it."

"That makes it worse."

"Why?"

"Because now I know you've put actual thought into this."

A quiet laugh escapes you. "I have."

"Obviously." His response comes a little too quickly.

You laugh again, and somehow that makes the warmth worse. He immediately decides he sort of hates this conversation.

A few more quiet, comfortable moments pass.

Then you're shifting, sliding off the bed until your knees hit the floorboards beside him.

You rest your cheek against the soft fabric of his pants, your eyes drifting nearly closed as warmth spreads through you, making everything slightly blurry.

Through the contact, you feel the muscle in his thigh tense as he straightens his posture.

"You were nice today," you murmur.

Above you, the expected sigh comes. You smile against his leg, nuzzling closer.

Your lips travel upward, moving toward the apex of his thighs where he's already begun to swell against the dark fabric. Your fingers glide up to hook into his waistband, pausing as your eyes seek his in silent question.

You've never seen each other completely naked or had sex, but there have been nights when your lips might meet in the dark when things got too close.

Sometimes the kissing would escalate into intense make-out sessions, grinding against each other until you were both breathless.

Like those times, even now this feels natural—the way he gnaws his cheek, trying to show restraint as he gives a curt nod, then quickly adds, "Just the pants."

Your smile catches on your lower teeth as you help him hastily slide his sweats down, tugging them over the tent he's pitched in his boxers.

As the sweats clear his ankles, he quickly folds them and keeps them on the bed.

Your palms are already running up his thighs, admiring the contours of muscle underneath smooth skin as you shamelessly press your face between his legs.

You feel him physically cringe and ignore it, lost in your own heaven.

His smell curls into your nostrils, clouding the edges of your thoughts.

Something shifts in the rhythm of his breathing—or perhaps it's the subtle tightening of his fingers in the sheets. Either way, you notice it.

The familiar ache sparks behind your ribs, dragging downward until you're squeezing your thighs together, slick warmth gathering between them.

Feverish heat spreads through you, blurring everything but the single, urgent thought of needing him.

Your lips trace the hard curve beneath the fabric, following it upward until you press your mouth directly against the evidence of his arousal.

A sharp hiss escapes him as his hips buck against your face.

He grows harder, his length straining so clearly against the fabric that you can almost map its shape with your eyes alone.

You hum, placing a lazy kiss against his shaft, smirking when it twitches in response.

Suddenly his fingers thread through your hair as he swallows, trying to regain control of his breathing.

You glance up, catching his expression—eyes half-lidded, brow furrowed slightly, color high on his cheekbones. A few ashen strands from his usually immaculate mullet have come loose, hanging across his face.

"What—"

The word collapses midway when you drag the flat of your tongue along the shape of his cock in one long stroke from base to just short of tip.

His grip tightens in your hair, his hips jerking again.

Better yet, that familiar addictive smell begins to thicken—his usual scent but with something deeper, more masculine layered beneath.

Your thighs clench again as the ache between them worsens.

"Fuck—"

The word slips out before he can stop it and he swallows immediately afterward, jaw tightening.

Then something shifts subtly, but noticeable enough that you hesitate.

The warmth that had been lingering between you falters slightly as his expression closes off, conflict and something else briefly surfacing in those deep blue eyes before disappearing behind the familiar mask.

You pull back just enough to study him.

"Something wrong?"

For a moment he doesn't answer.

His teeth catch briefly on his lower lip.

"You don't have to do this."

You blink. "What?"

"It seriously wasn't a big deal. They were just bein'—"

He gestures vaguely, as if the rest of the sentence isn't worth finishing.

Your brows knit together as genuine confusion overtakes you for a moment.

Then it clicks and the realization settles in.

You stare at him.

And then, despite yourself, your expression softens into something bright and faintly amused.

"...You think I'm doing this because—what? I feel obligated to?"

His lips part—whether to defend himself or deny it, you're not entirely sure.

You don't give him the chance either way.

"Because you weren't an asshole for once in your life?"

The words come accompanied by a dramatic roll of your eyes.

It was more than that. Much more than that.

The memory of him sitting across from those esteemed Cleaners, listening to them casually dissect your worth as a partner before shutting the entire conversation down without hesitation, still sits warm in your chest.

But you downplay it anyway, partly because he looks uncomfortable and mostly because watching him squirm is funny.

For half a second he's completely speechless.

The moment your smile widens, his eyes narrow.

"You're an idiot."

You grin, his scowl deepens.

"I'm doing this for me, not you."

For a brief moment he simply stares at you, the confidence in your answer seeming to throw him more than any teasing ever could.

Then he looks away first.

"Of course," he grouses.

The irritation in his voice would be more convincing if you didn't catch the faint flush along the tips of his ears.

"Or maybe… you just want me to prove how badly I want this?" you whisper, lowering your head again.

You stick out your tongue, pressing the tip right against the wet patch at the front of his boxers and swirling it around until you can taste the faint saltiness of his arousal.

He pulses against your mouth, fresh pre-cum soaking through the fabric as he curses low in his throat.

"Fuck—" he hisses through his teeth. "You're terrible."

"Why?" Glee bubbles in your voice as you watch him strain and tense, tracing patterns on his shaft until the your tongue is dry from friction and the fabric is damp.

You seal your lips around the swollen head as best you can through the cotton, sucking gently.

The sight above you is exquisite—his toned chest flexing and shimmering with a light sheen of sweat that catches the dim light.

And his face, expression contorted as if in pain as you lavish attention on his bulge.

"Mm, gonna cum already?" you tease. "Right in your boxers?"

His jaw clenches tighter as you caress him with your tongue while he glares daggers at you.

Because both of you know the answer—he's already pulsing so hard you can feel it against your tongue, clearly fighting to hold back his rapidly approaching climax.

Not that you're faring much better. It's only when his eyes drift between your thighs, narrowing slightly, that you realize you've been pressing your heel into your crotch to alleviate some of the ache.

And by the time you realize, it's too late. His eyes are sharpening, lips curving in a sharp smirk.

Shit.

"Well now," he laughs breathlessly. "At least that's better than getting off on your own foot."

"What?! I was not—"

"It's okay, I'll help you out." He bends over, hands hooking under your arms before you can protest. "…Since I'm bein' so generous today," he adds in your ear.

Then with one harsh tug that borders on painful, he exerts enough force to maneuver you on top of him, guiding you to clumsily straddle him.

You gasp softly as his hardness presses against your panties, now soaked with arousal.

He doesn't waste time on teasing—just grabs you with fingers digging into your hips to hold you in place as he ruts up against your panty-clad pussy.

You let out something like a breathy whimper that harmonizes with his low groan as the friction sends sparks flying through your throbbing clit.

Your eyes catch on his abs tensing and given how modestly he usually dresses, just seeing this much skin is driving you past the point of dignity or coherence.

Your fingers glide up to tease at the waistband of his boxers and the words fall from your lips so automatically you wonder who's speaking. "Take 'em off."

You're not thinking clearly.

Neither is he, because he only hesitates for a second before his fingers hook around the elastic to tug it down and free his cock.

The flushed head springs out, several veins mapping his normally smooth shaft from how rigidly hard he is.

Under normal circumstances, you'd take a moment to admire it. But right now you're so worked up that all you can do is whimper at the sight as fresh heat floods through you.

"C-Can I?" he asks breathlessly, already holding you by the hips and pressing his length against the soaked fabric of your panties.

You're not entirely sure what he's asking, but you nod eagerly anyway.

He exhales sharply as he holds you in place, grinding his drooling tip against the outline of your folds where the thin fabric clings to them. His pre-cum seeps through, adding to the growing mess.

"Shit." His hands slide down to the sides of your thighs, pushing them together. Intuitively understanding what he wants, you squeeze your thighs around his cock, cushioning his length between plush flesh. "Yea, perfect, j-just like that—"

Wanting to hear more of those sounds from him, you piston your hips slightly, just enough to create a crude rhythm of jerking him off.

Between your sensitive thighs and pressed against your clothed pussy, you're acutely aware of how warm his cock is.

Warm, twitching, dripping like it's alive.

And once again, in another decision that feels automatic, your fingers slide down as if with a mind of their own, hooking into the gusset of your panties.

This is probably a bad idea. You briefly think about condoms before the notion slips away.

Not that you'd use them even if you had them right now—what you truly want is to feel his cock directly against your skin.

You lift your hips slightly and tug the gusset of your panties to the side, exposing your folds.

They're swollen, glistening with arousal that beads at your entrance, practically begging for attention.

His cock jerks at the sight, another bead of pre-cum welling up at his slit.

"You—" His voice cracks, but he pushes through. "You sure 'bout this—"

You press down, letting his cock glide through your slippery folds, and both of you moan. "Well—ah!—maybe you don't need to put it in."

Your breath catches as you settle completely, peeking down to where his cock is nestled between your lips, only the ruddy tip peeking out from between them.

"This... this feels good."

He gives a curt nod, wasting no time before shifting his pelvis to slowly piston his length back and forth through your wet folds.

You sigh, breath hitching when he reaches forward, thumbing one of your folds open to expose the swollen nub of your clit before brushing against it.

Then he grabs his cock, angling it so the satiny glans rubs directly against your clit.

The sensation is even better than you imagined—warm, sticky, impossibly slick as he drags the head across that sensitive bundle of nerves.

Both of you stare intently at where you grind against each other, mutual sparks flying from the point of clumsy friction as you try to get off on one another.

Until he abruptly shifts, chasing his own pleasure at an angle that deliberately takes pressure off your clit.

Mindlessly, you try to press harder, to shift in response and align yourself so your clit rubs better against him, to chase that perfect friction—

"No. Stay," he mutters, not even bothering to look at you as he keeps you firmly in the position you're in, grinding his cock against you.

Right into the dip of where your hole steadily leaks, and just short of your clit, leaving you to squirm with frustration.

"I think my partner needs—mmh—to learn a thing or two about patience," he rasps between shaky breaths before clicking his tongue at your insistent squirming. "Unless you can't," he continues suddenly. "…And maybe they're right about getting an upgra—"

Your hand clamps firmly over his mouth, muffling his provocations as you scowl.

"Shut up," you snap, before realizing, "Wait—"

Leaning forward, you opt to shut him up with your lips crashing against his.

He doesn't even pretend—his lips part immediately to let your tongue slide in, claiming his mouth.

You lick the bed of his smooth tongue before it tangles with yours.

It's hot and wet and messy. Teeth clicking, saliva mixing and threatening to leak from where it gathers at the corner of your lips.

You shift, pushing down on him and finally letting your clit catch perfectly at the ridged edge of his tip.

Like this, you hump him desperately, and to your delight, he ruts up into you just as enthusiastically, matching your neediness instead of pushing you away or trying to shift angles.

He moans into your mouth and you swallow it greedily, feeling the pulse build in your clit with each desperate thrust.

All pretenses, all egos—shattered to pieces.

For once he's not posturing, not pretending he isn't as consumed by you as you are by him.

One hand digs into your hip, the other clutches your ass, holding you flush against his cock as his pelvis bucks wildly.

Somewhere in the frantic exchange, his tongue becomes the invader, his teeth capturing your bottom lip before you can process the shift.

You wince when he bites down hard enough to draw blood, and you can feel his lips curling against yours when you whine.

Your hips circle in sinuous motions, grinding your clit into his swollen tip, faster and harder until the rhythm breaks apart into something erratic and desperate.

"Mmh f-fuck yes—" he chokes out, suddenly clutching you so tightly it borders on painful. "I'm gonna—hah—!"

His words dissolve into a choked whimper as he holds you down, pinning you still while he presses his cumming length against you.

Liquid heat erupts against your sensitive clit and folds, a strange but utterly intoxicating sesnation.

It's the heat that consumes you—ropes of cum shooting onto your pussy as his cock twitches violently. He's cumming, he's cumming, it's so hot—so impossibly hot—you think you might actually pass out.

By the time the last weak spurts subside, your chests are sticking together with sweat. You feel him heaving beneath you, muscles tensing and relaxing, as you share warm breaths and his iron grip on you finally eases.

You're dizzy and your clit aches with need.

Without checking in, driven purely by your own desperate need to finish, you rock your hips back and forth, rubbing your clit against his softening cock.

He jolts from the overstimulation, lips breaking from yours, and for a second you're certain he'll stop you.

But he doesn't.

Instead his hands slide to your waist as his head dips, lips pressing against your throat.

"That's it," you think you hear him murmur against your skin.

You feel him tense and catch his breath as you continue to grind against his spent, overly sensitive cock. You slide, all slick and sticky from the drying milky cum you're using as lube to get yourself off.

Your clit, his reaction, the sting of his teeth grazing your neck—it's all enough to send you over the edge. Your orgasm hits you suddenly, crashing through you in a short-lived but intensely euphoric wave.

Then you collapse completely onto him, suddenly exhausted, not even bothering to put your panties back in place.

For a moment you lie there as he clumsily manages to tuck himself back in, bodies slick with sweat and cum, breaths gradually returning to normal. Boneless and languid, you wait for your mind to come back online.

And as soon as it does—

"Zanka your dick is so cute, I had no idea you were carrying that down there the whole time—"

"Quit bein' weird—"

"And you whimper so much!" you coo, pushing yourself up just enough to face him as you pinch his cheek, ignoring the deadly scowl on his face.

His lip curls, twitching in irritation.

"Who would've thought the big mean Zanka whimpers when he c—"

The words die in a muffled gasp as his palm clamps over your mouth, rough and warm.

His grip isn't cruel, but firm enough to silence you.

"Cut it out," he snaps.

Your heart thumps against his hand where it rests on your chest.

For a moment, you struggle against the sudden restriction, your tongue attempting to form another teasing remark.

But then the fight drains out of you as quickly as it came.

Your body goes slack against his, your breathing evening out into soft, rhythmic pants against his palm.

Zanka remains tense above you, waiting for some sign that you've learned your lesson.

But after ten seconds of silence, your breathing hasn't changed. He lifts his hand slightly, peering down at you.

Your eyes are closed, lashes casting faint shadows on your cheeks. Within a few seconds flat, you’ve actually fallen asleep.

With the taste of him still on your tongue and your cheek pressed against him like his angular shoulder is the most comfortable pillow in the world.

A sigh escapes Zanka's lips as he shifts slightly, careful not to wake you.

He had wanted you both to shower before bed, to clean up the sweat and other evidence of what just happened.

But looking at your peaceful face, he decides it can wait until morning.

His fingers gently stroke your hair before he settles back against the headboard, closing his own eyes to drift off to sleep.

[zzankapilled]

sum. maybe you shouldn't drink things strangers hand you? especially if you're an emetophobic... (cleaner!zanka x cleaner!reader)

ᐟᐟ☆ cw. pre-established relationship, singular j*bber mention, depictions of throwing up, reader has severe emetophobia, manhandling/threats of violence, bystanders get the wrong idea..., suggestive stuff, everyone is 20+, mdni

ᐟᐟ☆ wc. 4.2k

Around you, the auction hums on like nothing’s wrong.

Crystal chimes softly as practiced laughter stays low and polite enough to pass for genuine.

Voices blur together in a steady murmur as obscene amounts of money exchange hands over things pulled from places that people like this pretend don’t exist.

Cleaners have been disappearing for weeks and now you’re here, dressed for it.

Blending in.

Standing in the middle of a room that probably knows exactly why.

Of course, finding out the why for yourselves is the real challenge.

The assignment was simple on paper: you and Zanka, sent to one of the Ground’s more suspiciously affluent districts to investigate a high-end auction rumored to be a front.

Trafficking, most likely.

And if that’s true, the Raiders are never far behind.

But despite the stakes at hand, the least you can do is make use of the setting.

Zanka’s vanished into the crowd—off doing whatever it is he does when he’s being "useful"—which leaves you alone with a champagne flute that’s nearly empty.

A little alcohol makes him easier to tolerate—makes all of this easier to tolerate.

Besides, it’s not every day you get to sample the kind of opulence reserved for people who can afford to ignore what’s beneath them.

You tilt the glass, bringing the rim back to your lips—

The stem is ripped clean out of your hand.

You turn, startled, just in time to find Zanka already inspecting it—blue eyes locked on the faint smear of your lipstick along the rim, expression sharpening for a split second... before he tips it back and downs what’s left.

“…—”

A beat passes.

Then another.

His face doesn’t change immediately, but his jaw tightens.

Then he turns sharply and spits the champagne back into the glass, the tassles of his earrings swinging with the movement.

For a moment, you’re speechless.

Utterly speechless.

Unsure where to even begin processing whatever the hell that just was.

Before you can say anything—

“Did you drink all of this?!”

“…I was going to,” you say dryly.

He gives you a long, flat look before exhaling slowly through his nose.

“So you just drank something a stranger handed you?”

You glare up at him.

The scowl almost looks intentional on him tonight—like it belongs with the suit. Tailored black, sharp lines, the kind that lets him disappear into a room full of people who would never think to look twice.

If not for the tension stiffening how he holds himself.

His grip tightens slightly around the staff disguised, barely, as a "walking stick"—one he’d insisted on bringing in under the pretense of a limp, because, of course he did. (Your only other guess had been him pretending to be blind, which honestly wouldn’t have surprised you either.)

“It’s an event,” you snap. “That’s what servers do—hand out drinks.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed.

“Thought you, of all people, would know how these things work…”

The mostly empty glass is passed off to a server without so much as a glance before Zanka grabs your wrist.

“We need to get out of here,” he mumbles, already steering you toward the exit.

You stumble half a step, glancing between him and the room that continues on as if nothing’s happening.

“Hello?!” you hiss, resisting just enough to make a point. “Is no one concerned that the guy with the cane is just—abducting someone in plain sight? You’re not even pretending to use it!”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, tightening his grip as he pulls you along, “convincing people I need a cane isn’t exactly my top priority right now.”

“Have you lo—”

“It was laced,” he cuts in.

The words don’t fully land until you’re outside.

You blink.

“…Laced?! How would you know from one sip?”

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you.

Not at your face, but at your hands, your posture, your eyes.

Assessing.

“You already drank some," he repeats like he's confirming.

You grimace.

“…It was only a little.”

His expression goes flat.

“Define ‘a little.’”

“Just that one glass,” you snap. “I wasn’t chugging it, if that’s what you’re—”

“You got it from a circulating tray?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see them pour it?”

“…No.”

“Did you watch anyone else drink from the same batch?”

You hesitate.

“…No.”

He stares at you.

You glare right back. “Oh my god, don’t start—"

“Don’t start?” he echoes. “We’re undercover at a black market auction tied to Cleaner disappearances, and you’re accepting random drinks like this is—what—some charity gala? I leave you alone for two minu—”

“So sue me for needing a damn drink!” you cut in. “It’s the least I deserved for being assigned to this job with y—”

“Well congratulations—it's fatal.”

You stutter. It takes a second for you to register that word.

“…Fatal?”

“Means it’s gonna kill you.”

“I know what fatal means,” you hiss, already feeling panic begin to bubble up.

“Extended-release, if I had to guess.”

Your stomach drops—not sharply, but slow and heavy as you connect it almost immediately.

“…Jabber.”

“Probably.”

“So they know we’re here?” you press. “Or that we were coming?!”

Zanka’s gaze flicks around the alley. Empty—for now.

He lifts his stick and herds you further in anyways, fully aware of how much you hate when he does that.

“Yeah. And he’ll expect you to be dead by the end of the night.”

“Fuck—” You drag in a breath, forcing your thoughts to line up. “Okay. Extended-release poison… let’s see if we can get anything from Eishia.”

You’re already tapping the bangle at your wrist.

“Make sure to tell her how your dumbass got poisoned too,” he snarks from beside you.

You ignore him.

“Eishia. You there?”

“Uh—yeah?” her voice crackles through. “What’s—”

“Heyy Eishia,” you cut in quickly. “So, uh… let’s say—hypothetically—one of us drank something laced with one of Jabber’s poisons. And, um, let’s also say it’s extended-release... And that it's fatal.”

There’s a pause.

“…Fa— Did you get poisoned?!”

“Okay yes, I did,” you admit, a little too fast. “So if you could maybe help before Zanka’s face is the last thing I see, that’d be great.”

“Oh—oh dear… um…” Papers shuffle faintly on the other end. “I—I don’t know about an antidote without analyzing the compound first…”

“…We might not make it back to HQ in time,” you mutter.

“How long ago was it ingested?”

“Uh… ten minutes? Maybe?”

“I see…” A pause. “Well—since it’s extended-release… your best option might be to… induce vomiting as soon as possible. Before it fully takes effect.”

Everything in you goes cold.

Zanka watches you from the side, something in your expression shifting under the surface just enough to catch his attention.

“…What?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

“Are you sure?” you try instead, your voice coming out tighter than you mean it to. “There has to be some other—”

“Thank you, Eishia,” Zanka cuts in smoothly. “We’ll get back to you.”

The line goes dead and silence settles back in the alley.

You’re not looking at him, not really seeing anything at all.

Induce vomiting as soon as possible.

The words loop.

Again.

Again.

Your stomach twists—or maybe it doesn’t—you can’t quite tell.

And somehow that’s worse.

Your throat feels tight as your fingers twitch at your side.

No.

No, absolutely not.

Zanka’s gaze sharpens.

“Well? What’re you waiting for?” he snaps. “You heard her—get it out. Now.”

And just like that, the reality of it hits—not even the poison or the dying, but the other thing.

Your stomach drops so suddenly it almost hurts.

“I… I can’t—” you try, voice catching on nothing.

His expression twists, impatience flaring instantly.

“What do you mean you can’t? We’re runnin’ outta time.” He gestures sharply. “Stick your fingers down your throat. It’ll make ya—”

Heave.

The word lands like a blow.

Your mouth goes dry—achingly dry—while something thick and sour gathers at the back of your tongue.

Your throat tightens, like it’s already trying to close itself off.

No.

No, no—

You shake your head, stepping back.

Once.

Twice.

“Hey—” His tone sharpens.

You keep going.

Your pulse is spiking now, too fast, too loud—your body already reacting like it’s happening, like it’s inevitable, like it’s—

Stop.

Stop.

He steps forward, faster, longer strides eating up the space you try to create.

“There’s nowhere to go,” he mutters, irritation bleeding through. “Quit messin’ around and just—”

Your back hits the wall, solid and cold against your spine.

Nowhere left.

“I c-can’t—” Your voice breaks completely this time.

CLANG.

You flinch hard as his staff slams out, the metal arc caging you in around your neck and effectively cutting off any chance of slipping past him.

When you look up, his eyes are blazing.

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I do it myself—” He growls, sharp and furious. “Why the hell are you cryin’?”

You hadn’t even noticed.

Hot tears are already spilling over, blurring your vision, breath hitching in uneven pulls that won’t steady no matter how hard you try.

This is wrong.

All of this is wrong.

Your chest feels tight—too tight—like you can’t get a full breath in without something catching halfway.

“I can’t— I can’t, I can’t—” The words start tumbling out, thin and broken. “Please—Zanka, don’t—don’t make me—”

The use of his name only seems to make him bristle more.

“What do you mean you can’t?” he snaps. “I’ll show ya real quick that you definitely can if you don’t—”

“I have a—” Your voice snags, throat locking. You swallow hard, and it makes everything worse—makes you aware of it, of your throat, your stomach, your body—

“I have a phobia, okay?!”

The words come out rushed, barely held together.

“Of—of throwing up.”

For a second, he just stares at you like he didn’t hear that right.

His eyes flick over you—really taking it in now.

The shaking.

The sweat beading at your hairline, your neck.

The way your hands are curled in tight, like you’re trying to hold yourself together.

It doesn’t make sense to him, not even a little.

You—like this?

It’s so out of line with anything he’s seen from you that for half a second, something colder slips in—

Is it already hitting your system?

It would be alarming if he wasn't so damn pissed at the utter absurdity of the situation.

And there's certainly no time to even attempt to understand whatever distorted rationale lies behind your phobia.

“So you’re tellin’ me,” he says slowly, dangerously, “you’re gonna die… because you’re scared of throwin’ up?”

There’s a sharp, incredulous edge to it—anger threading tighter and tighter through every word.

“Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?!”

You sob harder, because you know—you know exactly how it sounds.

And that knowledge still doesn’t make your body unlock or your throat open.

Doesn’t stop the sheer, crawling panic at the thought of it—of losing control, of not being able to stop once it starts, of—

“I can’t,” you repeat, shaking your head harder now, pressing back into the wall like you could disappear into it. “I can’t, I can’t—please don’t make me—”

Your stomach flips again—

—or maybe it doesn’t.

You don’t know, and that uncertainty sends another spike of panic straight through you.

Zanka drags a hand down his face, jaw tight enough it looks like it might crack.

Unbelievable.

Completely unbelievable.

No time.

“Then I’ll do it for ya.”

With a sharp growl, the staff retracts—

Only for his hands to clamp down on your shoulders, hard.

Which does the exact opposite of calming you down.

You yelp, jerking violently in his grip, twisting, trying to wrench free—

“Stop—” he snaps.

You're gone.

Panic has already taken over, flooding too fast, too loud—your body moving before your thoughts can even catch up.

So he manages to spin you around.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs as your chest hits the wall—cold stone, rough, dust-scented.

And then he’s there, too close, behind you where you can't see.

Crowding you in, one arm braced beside your head, the other locking you in place. His frame cages you completely, blocking out what little light filters into the alley. Somewhere in the mix, the hard line of the staff further pins you in place.

Claustrophobic.

Like the air’s been pulled out from around you.

Your breaths come sharp and shallow, chest hitching, not enough, never enough—each inhale catching halfway like something’s stuck.

“LET GO OF ME, YOU ASSHOLE—”

“Thirty seconds,” he states, like you didn’t say anything at all.

Tone flat and final in a way that makes your stomach drop, because now you understand.

No.

No—

Your pulse is everywhere—your throat, your ears, pounding so hard it makes your vision flicker.

“No, not that—nonono—don’t—don’t you dare—Zanka, please—please don’t—” The words dissolve into something frantic, broken.

Your body lurches with the thought alone.

You twist again, harder this time—desperate, irrational, fueled by something deeper than logic.

It doesn’t matter.

One of his legs is pinned into the small of your back before you can even register the movement, locking you in place.

Unfortunately, Zanka’s a lot stronger than he looks.

And this is the worst possible way to find that out.

Because nothing you’re doing is working—not the kicking or the twisting or the way your hands push uselessly against him, trying to create space that isn’t there.

It’s all—

Pointless.

Your strength bleeds out of you in panicked bursts, each failed attempt making your chest tighter, your head lighter.

Trapped.

Your shriek cuts off abruptly as his hand snaps up, gripping the front of your throat—not squeezing, but firm enough around your trachea to hold you still, to keep you from thrashing yourself into something worse.

“Fucking—shut up,” he bites out. “I’m trying to help you—”

“Please—” you choke, the word barely making it out between breaths that won’t steady. “I’ll do anything—anything—just—please—”

“The only thing I want,” he grits, leaning in closer, “is for you to open—your—fucking mouth—”

Your head jerks side to side immediately, frantic, instinctive.

No.

No, no, no—

Your jaw is already locked, teeth clenched so hard it hurts, muscles straining as if your body’s trying to physically refuse the idea.

Even the thought of it—

Your stomach twists sharply again, making it worse.

A spike of pure, blinding panic shoots through you.

“No—!” The sound comes out strangled, muffled behind your own clenched teeth as you try to turn your face away.

His fingers press against your lips, rough, insistent.

You clamp down harder.

Your entire body tenses, shaking now, every muscle pulled tight like you’re bracing for impact as your breathing spirals, uneven, too fast—each inhale shallow, each exhale shaking, your chest starting to ache from the strain.

You’re dimly aware of yourself making noise—high, broken sounds forced through closed lips, something between a sob and a scream.

Zanka's officially at the end of his rope.

Because this is him holding back.

If there were no consequences, no reports, no aftermath to deal with, he wouldn’t be wasting time like this—he’d just shove the staff down your damn throat and be done with it.

But this itself already crosses lines he’s going to have to answer for.

“Alright,” he mutters, voice dropping—too even, too measured to mean anything good. “You asked for it.”

A beat.

“Just remember—we can’t fix poison.”

His grip shifts, fingers sliding up your throat to your jaw.

“…But we can fix broken bones.”

You scream—raw, panicked, muffled behind clenched teeth.

His hand snaps up, locking around your chin, the other bracing your jaw from the side—vice-tight and unyielding.

And then he pulls hard.

A sharp, grinding pressure shoots through your jaw, straight into your skull, into your ears—too much, too sudden—

“Open,” he growls.

No.

No.

Your teeth grind together harder, every muscle in your face locking, resisting on instinct alone.

The pressure increases.

Pain sparks—dull at first, then sharper, deeper, like something’s starting to give.

“If you don’t wanna break it,” he grits out, “I suggest you open the fuck up—”

Tears spill faster, blurring everything, your head shaking violently even as his grip keeps you mostly in place.

He wouldn’t—

Would he?

Your thoughts stutter, fracture.

Broken jaws can be fixed.

You know that.

And you know him, know that look.

He’s not bluffing.

The pressure spikes again—just enough to send a sharp, nauseating jolt through your face, your ears ringing faintly from it.

Your body makes the decision before your pride can catch up—your bite loosens just enough, and it's all he needs.

His fingers force their way in immediately—no hesitation, no gentleness—two long fingers pressing past your teeth, rough against your tongue.

Your entire body recoils in a violent, instinctive reaction—

A choking sound tears out of you, gag reflex slamming into place so suddenly it almost blacks your vision.

No—

NO—

Your hands fly up, grabbing at his wrist, trying to yank it away, nails digging in, but his grip doesn’t budge.

“I’ll—” you choke, words breaking apart around the intrusion, “I’ll never—f-forgive you—Zanka—never—”

It’s happening.

Your breathing collapses into panicked, broken gasps between reflexive gags, your entire body trying to recoil from itself, from him, from this—

“Good,” he snaps, completely unmoved. “Don’t care.”

His grip tightens, holding you steady as your body fights him, fights itself.

“You’re gettin’ it out whether you want to or not.”

You don’t even realize you’ve bitten down hard enough to break skin until he hisses under his breath and the tang of metal coats your tongue.

Not that it matters—you’re already gone.

Thrashing, choking, panicked beyond coherence as his grip holds firm and his fingers press deeper, searching—

“Like a damn—dog—” he grits out, trying to keep you still—

Contact.

Just a brush against the your pharynx and your body reacts, violently.

A gag tears through you, sharp and immediate, your throat convulsing around his fingers before you can even process it.

No—

Another one. Stronger.

Your entire body jerks with it, a strangled sound trying to escape but catching somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

You try to scream, but nothing comes out.

You can’t control it.

You can’t control it.

Your body doesn’t care what you want.

Your throat tightens again, spasming, saliva flooding your mouth too fast to swallow, too fast to think—

Your vision blurs, tears spilling freely now, your nose running, your breath completely broken into uneven, panicked bursts between reflexive gags.

Everything narrows down to that one point, that one unbearable sensation.

That one certainty—your body is about to betray you.

A full-body spasm hits, harder this time—your stomach pulling tight, something deeper starting to move—

Your hands claw desperately at his wrist, nails digging in, trying to force him away—

It does nothing.

Another convulsion.

Worse.

God, you hate this—you hate this, you hate this—

He feels the shift, the moment it changes from reflex to something deeper.

“Yeah,” he says under his breath, almost to himself. “That’s it—”

Your body seizes again—stronger, inevitable now—something rising, climbing, your muscles tightening in a way you can’t stop, can’t fight—

Panic spikes all over again.

You feel it coming, and that’s the worst part—that split second where you know—

Your grip on him turns desperate, almost frantic and he reacts instantly, pulling his hand out just in time.

You double over as your body takes over completely, a choked sound ripping out of you as the liquid comes up at once, sudden and uncontrollable.

“Finally,” he exhales.

He doesn’t let you drop completely—keeps a hold on you as you fold in on yourself, one hand braced at your side to keep you from hitting the ground too hard.

“There,” he mutters. “Let it out.”

Your body doesn’t give you a choice anyway.

Another wave hits—and you're lucky you didn't eat anything, because that convulsion is that last of it.

Your face is a mess—tears, saliva, your breathing hitching between weak, involuntary retches even though there's nothing left.

And then it stops, abruptly.

Your body finally stilling, though your chest still heaves, lungs dragging in air that doesn’t feel like enough.

For a second, you just hang there.

Then your legs give and messy sobs follow immediately.

Some of it lingering panic, but a lot of it simply relief that it's over.

It’s over.

Zanka keeps you upright, one hand firm at your shoulder—just enough to keep you from collapsing forward into the small, glistening mess at your knees because that's the last thing he needs right now.

He exhales, still catching his breath, irritation already creeping back in.

“All that over that? It wasn’t even a full—”

“HEY! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?! GET AWAY FROM HER!”

His head snaps toward the voice.

A man—well-dressed, outraged, standing at the mouth of the alley like he’s just stumbled onto a crime scene.

Zanka blinks.

It takes a second, then—

Oh.

Oh, this is perfect.

He lets go of you immediately, stepping back with a stiff, awkward laugh that convinces absolutely no one.

“Whoa—hey— you’ve got the wrong idea, sir, I swear it’s not what it looks like—”

“I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE!” the man shouts, already advancing a step. “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HER—”

Zanka glances down at you—still on your knees, barely holding yourself up, face a mess, breathing uneven.

Waiting—hoping—for literally anything.

A word or a gesture… some indication that you’re going to help him out here.

Nothing.

Either you’re still completely out of it, or you’re letting this happen.

Both seem just as likely.

He looks back up, forcing a tight, strained smile as he lifts his hands slightly in a placating gesture.

“We’re Cleaners,” he says, trying—trying—to sound reasonable. “I was just—”

“Zanka, I can’t believe you did that to me!” you suddenly wail from behind him. “That was so fucked up—”

His eyes snap wide.

You have got to be kidding him.

Now you find your voice?

He whips his head back toward you, incredulous.

“OH, SHUT UP, WOULD YA? I SAVED YOUR LIFE, YOU DICKHEAD—”

“Should’ve just let me die…” you mutter miserably.

He freezes for half a second and visibly restrains himself because right now he does not have time for you.

He turns back to the man—who is now fully committed, raising his voice, trying to pull attention from the nearby street.

“Someone call—!”

That’s it.

Zanka’s done.

He spins, staff snapping into his hand with a sharp metallic clang as he slams the end of it against the ground.

The sound cracks through the alley, loud enough to echo.

“LISTEN UP.”

His voice cuts clean through the noise—low, sharp, and suddenly very real.

The man flinches and so do the couple of onlookers starting to gather.

“ANYONE STILL STANDIN' HERE IN FIVE SECONDS IS GONNA LEARN REAL QUICK WE CAN KILL A LOT MORE THAN JUST TRASH BEASTS."

Silence drops over the crowd immediately.

Then his gaze locks back onto the man and whatever thin thread of patience he had left snaps.

“Especially YOU.”

He points the staff straight at him, fully seething now.

“You're gonna WISH your daddy whooped your ass JUST TO PREP YOU FOR WHAT IM 'BOUTTA DO TO YOU IF YOU DON'T GET THE HELL OUTTA MY SIGHT—"

A hand closes firmly around his arm from behind.

“Thanks for the concern, guys,” you say sweetly, voice still a little wrecked but composed enough to pass. “I know he looks like a sex offender, but I’m fine. Really.”

There’s a pause.

Then the man nods, uneasy, and the small cluster of onlookers begins to disperse again.

Zanka doesn’t move but you can feel the rage coming off him, barely held together.

When you step around him to face him properly, he’s still frozen in place, veins standing out along his neck.

“See?” you add, folding your arms. “I defended my partner.”

His head turns slowly.

“Sex offender?” he repeats, voice low and incredulous. Then louder— “Sex offender?! I didn’t get bitten by your freaky ass for this—”

He shoves his hand in front of your face, fingers flexing in emphasis.

You glare at them, then at him.

“Yeah, well maybe you shouldn’t stick your fingers in places they don’t belong—”

“What, you think I wanted to?” he snaps. “No—no, I did not want to go spelunking in your slimy throat while you drooled all over me and bit me like some feral animal—”

“I was not—”

“I’m probably gonna need a damn vaccine now,” he barrels on, wiping his hand harshly against his suit like he can still feel it. “Who knows where that mouth’s been—”

Your expression darkens.

“I would’ve been fine,” you shoot back. “Neither of us wanted or needed—”

“No antidote,” he cuts in sharply. “Brand new poison cooked up by that freak himself. Drops people before the day’s out—and you think you would’ve been fine?!”

You hesitate just a fraction, because—annoyingly—he might actually have a point.

“…And I was not dragging your corpse all the way back to headquarters,” he adds, like that settles it.

You roll your eyes instead of responding, turning away from him with a dismissive huff.

Behind you, he’s still scrubbing at his hand, nose wrinkled in lingering disgust.

You smack your lips once, testing.

Dry.

All that’s left is the sharp sting of alcohol and the faint, metallic trace of blood.

His blood.

"Let's head back... I need some water," you grumble. "I can still taste you in my mouth."

(obligatory zanka in a suit drawing, if anyone knows the artist please lmk :p)

[koitosoup]

today i sketched 2 zodyls