What You're Working With

It’s cold down by the docks, wet wind sweeping in from the bay to chill Arin down to their bones. It clings even inside the noisy warehouse. It’s humid here, where the press of bodies competes with the frigid air, too hot and too cold at the same time. And above all, it’s too loud. 

They’re used to loud; they’ve lived in the Cursed Apple most of their life. What they’re not used to is a hundred — two hundred? — drunk people cheering, calling out bets, shouting just to have a conversation over the din, like none of them even know what’s coming. 

There’s seating for a lucky few. One of Arin’s targets is up there, sprawled like a king on his throne as she oversees the proceedings. They’ve never been this close to her; maybe it’s dumb, but they didn’t expect Wraith to be pretty and definitely not younger than forty. Something like envy wriggles in their chest. Maybe when they meet, Arin will ask who her tailor is.

They’re not getting anywhere near her tonight though. Not with those goons she’s got flanking her, and not without a fistful of cash to catch her attention. 

Their other target is in the ring. He’s barrel-chested, with arms nearly as big around as Arin’s thighs, slick sweat gleaming under the sodium lights. 

Best Arin can tell, Jacob Lash’s day job is down here at the docks. Nights like these are when his real talent shines through. 

The fliers littering the warehouse floor are all covered with his face. Arin can't decide if it’s a handsome face. They can’t decide if he’s thirty or forty-five, either. He’s striking, at least, in a sort of squinty Neanderthal way. Heavy brow, strong chin, square jaw. The mustache verges on ridiculous though. 

In person, in the ring, there is a vitality about him that no photograph can capture. He’s a brutal fighter, faster than his bulk would suggest. He’s got a few flashy moves, but the quick jabs he uses to grind his opponent down are ruthlessly efficient. 

Arin’s never been one for needless violence. They’re not their father. It’s an ugly business, and there’s something nauseating about the crowd crying out for blood. But when the fight is finished, when Lash’s opponent falls, bloody-nosed and winded, onto the mat, the crowd chants Lash’s name and Arin’s heart thuds in time. 

Across the ring someone whistles sharp and high. Next to him is another man, big and mean-looking — and familiar. Arin tugs the collar of their shirt higher and hunches into their scarf and tries not to look like they’re doing either of those things. 

Another quick glance says they weren’t imagining things. Hank Renskill has worked for Arin’s father for at least a decade now. Long enough he might recognize them, presumed dead or not. They think a few of the men around Renskill might also be on the Fairfax payroll. Arin figures it’s a good time to make themself scarce. 

Outside the warehouse, there’s a handful of people lurking at the door. They press in when Lash appears, skin shiny and blood-free now. He flexes and flirts and signs whatever his fans have on hand.

Arin watches from a safe distance, back to the wall and collar pulled up to obscure their face. Their skin crawls with anticipation, but neither Renskill nor his buddies have come out here yet. 

When Lash breaks free of the fans, Arin follows him for a block or so before they announce their presence. “Jacob Lash, can I have a minute?”

“I’m done signing autographs,” Lash says, clouds puffing from his lips. His thin coat can’t be doing much, but he’s still flushed from the fight, so maybe he can’t feel how cold it is yet. 

“I don’t want an autograph. I want to talk. In private.”

Lash’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks Arin over head to toe, then he’s smirking. “Yeah, alright. My apartment’s right down the block.”

Arin falls into step next to him. They can sense the precise moment the cold finally catches up to Lash; his steps speed up, and he hikes his jacket around his thick waist. 

Lash glances at them sideways once or twice but doesn’t ask any questions on the way. It suits Arin just fine. 

It’s a short walk anyway. The door to the apartment building is barely hanging onto its rusty hinges, and it creaks horribly as it opens. The stairs groan beneath them. There’s a bucket in the hallway catching a drip from the ceiling. 

Lash’s door doesn’t creak so much in comparison. It’s sturdier. The apartment itself is cleaner than expected, but maybe that’s because he doesn’t have much in the way of furniture. Still, Arin’s seen a lot worse before. 

“Alright, sweet cheeks. How do you wanna do this?” Lash asks as he pulls his jacket off. 

“Do what?” Lash leers in response, and Arin realizes their mistake. “Oh, God. I didn’t— I’m not a woman.” They’re floundering, blushing too, and whether it’s from Lash’s proposition or the fact they somehow didn’t see this coming, it’s hard to say. 

“Didn’t think you were. Doesn’t matter. Everybody loves the Lash, and the Lash loves everybody.” His hands settle on the waistband of his trousers. “Besides, you got a mouth, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to blow somebody who refers to himself in third person.” Their face is on fire now. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to talk.”

Lash’s squint gets squintier. “Wait, was ‘talk’ supposed to mean just talk?”

“Obviously.” Their throat is tight, and they want to ask why he would assume that without clarifying, or ask if that strategy has actually worked, or maybe ask how many beatings Lash has taken to the head. 

Lash doesn’t seem embarrassed by the misunderstanding at all. He shrugs and steps into the kitchenette. “Want something to drink? We got water, whiskey, and—” He yanks open the refrigerator, sniffing at a bottle of milk. He pulls a face. “We got water and whiskey.”

The whiskey Lash pulls out is too expensive for this apartment. He serves it to Arin in a cup that doesn’t match the other one.  

“Alright. You got your one-on-one time with the Lash. Let’s talk.”

Arin watches Lash sip his whiskey before they taste their own. They don’t cough, but it’s a near thing. Then: “Another Maelstrom is coming.”

“Uh-huh,” Lash answers. 

“I need allies.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I can pay you. A little up front, and a whole lot if I get a Patron’s favor.”

“Uh-huh.” The suitcase at Arin’s feet ribbits. Lash doesn’t even look curious. 

“Enough to get a new apartment or let you travel anywhere you want. I can get you a new job if you want it.”

Lash looks exactly as bored as he sounds. “I don’t need any of that.”

Arin breathes hard through their nose. “I’ll pay off your debts,” they promise. 

That at least has Lash’s attention, even if he’s trying very hard to look like it doesn’t. “So what?”

“Think of your reputation if you win. People will come from all over to see you,” they try, and again, Lash looks more interested than he wants to let on. “I would prefer it to be you, but there are other brawlers out there. What about that robot? What’s his name? Beamer, Bimbo?”

“Bebop,” Lash growls. There’s a small puddle of whiskey on the table where it’s sloshed out of his tin cup. 

Arin pretends not to notice. “I hear he’s pretty good too. Maybe more useful, honestly, with all those tricks he has.” 

“Seriously? That rustbucket can’t help anyone. He sucks.” Lash stares at the ceiling for a moment, then: “Fine, fine, I’ll do it.” When he reaches out a hand to shake, Arin smiles as big as it’s possible to these days. “Think you’re cute, don’t you?”

“So do you, apparently.”

Lash rolls his eyes. “Look, you got your deal. The Lash will be there. Heads will be bashed, asses will be kicked, misery will be inflicted. Anything else?”

Arin thinks about the Fairfax muscle down at the ring, and they make up their mind right then and there. “You could let me stay the night.”

“And let you mess up my beauty sleep? Why would I do that?”

“For the same reason you brought me up here.” Before Lash can say something else rude or stupid, Arin pulls at the tie around their throat and says, “I won’t just talk this time.”

“You promise me you’re gonna pay for the job, and now you need a place to crash that badly?”

“I told you. A little cash up front, enough to drown in when we’re done. I’m good for it. If I’m not, you still get a favor from a Patron. And tonight, we can have some fun.”

“You don’t look like you know what fun is.” 

Arin feels their smile strain. “Is that a no?”

“Your seduction technique could use work, kid.”

First Lash only wants them here for one thing, and now he doesn’t want them at all. What an infuriating man. Arin is a quick study, but if their gut was always right about people, they’d be uptown sipping cocktails with the city’s elites, not trying to seduce some dock worker for the privilege of sleeping on his flea-ridden mattress. 

It must show on their face, because Lash says, “Ugh, I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?”

“You couldn’t.” They suppose they could tell Lash the truth, that they don’t want to run into the wrong person out there tonight. He’s full enough of himself that maybe he’d like feeling like a hero. But that opens doors for uncomfortable questions. They settle on a different truth, but one that will hopefully stroke the man’s enormous ego. “Look, of course my technique’s bad. It’s not like I do this all the time. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t find you, you know, acceptable, mostly.” It ends on a mumble. 

“‘Mostly acceptable,’ my ass. You know how many people would kill to get a piece of the Lash?” 

They know before it escapes that they shouldn’t say it, but something about this utter jackass makes it impossible to hold back. “I don’t see any of them here.” 

Instead of getting angry, Lash just laughs. “Ooh, kitten has claws.” Arin is going to die of embarrassment, or maybe reconsider their stance on unnecessary violence. Just as they’re ready to declare the whole thing a mistake, Lash says, “Relax, I’m just busting your balls. Do you have balls?”

“Is the answer going to be relevant soon?”

“Yeah, sure. You’re cute enough so far. Show me what you’re offering.”

Arin almost refuses. They have some dignity left. But there’s Renskill outside, and there’s Jacob Lash right here, with his huge arms and his thick torso and surely some way to get him to shut up. 

They shrug out of their coat before they can change their mind. It hits the table with a heavy thud, followed by their scarf. Tie, vest, and shirt go next, and here’s where Arin hesitates again. 

Lash is staring. Mostly appreciatively, they think, but his eyes follow the movement of Arin’s tattooed, discolored hand, then linger on the pale starburst scar in the dead center of their chest. The handful of times they’ve slept with someone these past few years, they’ve done it in the dark. The sense of exposure has nothing to do with their nudity.

Getting naked is the easy part. Arin has a good idea of what they look like; they’ve spent enough time in front of a mirror, trying to reassure themself that it’s nothing like they did five years ago. Aging has produced more angles to their face than there used to be. Circumstance has taken its toll too. They try to keep in shape, but they’re lean, narrowly avoiding looking underfed.

Lash could probably toss them out the window if he wanted. The thought isn’t entirely unappealing. Arin focuses on that while they finish undressing, until they’re standing naked in Lash’s apartment, trying not to look like they’re too cold or too serious. 

Lash comes closer, and Arin’s not sure if he’s going to try to kiss them or not, and not sure whether they want that or not. 

He spares them by reaching around to squeeze one ass cheek in a strong hand until Arin falls against him with a yelp. “Yeah, I can work with that,” Lash says, which is not as bad as it could be.

A quick pat where he’s just left a bruise, then Lash lets them go. While he’s busy unfolding the bed from the wall, they rub surreptitiously at one sore cheek. 

Lash yanks his shirt over his head without any ceremony, and Arin tries to appreciate it. He’s built exactly like they expected, with big pectorals and a pleasing layer of padding over the whole torso. It’s just a shame the head on top of it all is so bloated. 

When Lash’s trousers drop, the ego makes more sense. “Now, I know it can be intimidating,” Lash says. As he gives his cock a few rough pulls, it only gets bigger. 

“I’m not intimidated,” Arin lies. “Just surprised. You act like a man who’s compensating for something.”

“I should have warned you first. You’re obviously struggling to understand how lucky you are. Take your time.”

“I think I’ve got a grasp on the situation,” Arin says. There’s still time to back out. They could get dressed, find somewhere else to spend the night. Surely their father’s goons are gone by now. They really don’t have to do this. 

They take one last glance at Lash, and with humiliation sitting leaden in their stomach, they get on the bed. 

Lash digs around in a drawer until he produces a tub of petroleum jelly. They were ready to work off spit if they had to, but this is a relief. 

“Ready for me to rock your world?” Lash asks, and he doesn’t wait for an answer. He just pushes until Arin’s on hands and knees at the edge of the bed and shoves a slick finger into their hole. They aren’t ready for it, and they aren’t ready when Lash smacks them on the ass either. “Relax,” he says. “Let me in.” 

Another smack, then Arin says through their teeth, “That is the opposite of relaxing.”

“Aww, I like when you get all feisty.” 

“I like when you’re not talking.”

“Sure you do, sweetheart.” Lash laughs his stupid laugh and manages to hook a second thick finger inside. It’s too much too fast, but somehow Arin’s body just accepts it, and the drag of those bulky knuckles inside them is starting to feel good enough that their thighs drift apart. “There you go.”

The shiver that races down their spine at his praise might be the worst thing that’s happened all night.

Of course, as soon as Arin gets into it is when Lash yanks his fingers free. Then the fat head of his cock is nudging against them. There is no way their body is ready for this, but Lash bullies the first few inches in. It’s so much, splitting them wide open, and their breath comes thin and reedy now.

“I don’t think⁠—” Arin starts, before another slap stings their ass. 

“I said let me in,” Lash demands, and somehow it works. He slides in farther, and Arin stops breathing for a second. “That’s it, baby.” He gets both hands on Arin’s ass and pulls, thumbs on either side of their hole and stretching the skin so thin Arin thinks they’re going to snap. They want to get away from the stretch and the pain and the unrelenting pressure, but their arms won’t move and when Lash rocks his cock deeper in, they push back onto it instead of away. “Yeah, there you go,” he says again. “Fucking loving the Lash’s dick, aren’t you?”

Arin should protest, for pride’s sake if nothing else, but all that comes out is “I⁠— oh, fuck” and a whine they barely recognize as their own.

“Got you speechless, huh?” Lash laughs that dumb fucking laugh. “Don’t blame you. It’s a lot. But you’re taking it pretty good, baby.” Arin makes a sound that definitely doesn’t include words, and Lash shoves deeper, smacks their ass again until they squeeze around him. “Gonna have you begging for more by the time I’m done. You’re never gonna get another dick like this.”

There’s no way the whole thing is going to fit. Absolutely no way. Lash is going to split them right up the middle. Then he rears back and slams home, cock shoved so deep Arin’s not even sure it feels good. They’re shuddering along the whole length of it, arms giving out so they’re down on their elbows now, back arched, and that’s worse ⁠— or maybe better. It’s hard to say. Sweat beads on their forehead, breaks out all over their body.

“Bet nobody’s ever been this deep, have they?” He’s moving now, because of course he won’t give Arin time to adjust to that huge dick in their guts. “Have they?” he asks again, punctuating it with another stinging slap.

“Uh-uh” is the best Arin can manage. It makes Lash laugh. Of course.

“Yeah, didn’t think so. So tight now, but this cute little ass ain’t ever gonna be the same. Gonna pound that hole into the shape of the Lash’s cock.”

He moves in quick jabs, yanking Arin back into the rhythm when they try to go still, refusing to let them pretend this is something happening to them. There’s a steady drip of precome drooling from their own cock, forced out by the sheer weight of Lash inside them. 

Eventually Arin’s body can’t even try to fight it anymore, and that’s when Lash lays into them. He’s got one foot up on the bed for leverage and he fucks in deep, no resistance left to stop the slide. “Yeah, you love this dick. Gonna plow you so hard your hole won’t close again. You’re gonna need something inside you, and only the Lash will do.”

His hips slap against Arin’s ass in a punishing rhythm now, bruising them inside and out. “Gonna come crawling back, begging me for it.”

His cock feels like it’s going to punch through a lung, like they’re choking on it, like it’s carving irreversible shapes into them. They’re going to break. But they can’t get away; they don’t even try, instead pushing back on weak, trembling arms and straining thighs, helpless to do anything else.

They almost lose their balance when they get their fingers around their own cock, blazing hot in their fist and slick from root to tip. Their head spins, feels like it’s stuffed with something, ears ringing to finally drown out the sound of Lash’s endless stream of mortifying filth. It could be hours or days or seconds, but then they’re cursing, tensing, sobbing from their wrecked throat and coming with Lash’s cock pounding deeper than anything’s ever been.

Of course Lash doesn’t care, doesn’t let up or let them recover, just keeps fucking into their oversensitive hole while they fall apart around him. When he comes, it’s with one last slam of his hips, his fingers clenching bruises into Arin’s skin, and a triumphant “Fuck, yeah.”

Arin tries not to think about the aftermath too much, but everything feels too open and too wet. They’re also so, so tired, every muscle in their body finally relaxing. Lash is snoring almost immediately. 

Wincing and maybe limping, they creep across the room to their things. Lash is a lump in the bed, loud even in his sleep, and it’s tempting to leave. They’ve wasted enough time. The streets should be empty by now. 

They loop their discarded belt through the handle of the suitcase and around their wrist. Then they climb back into bed and shove the case under it, one arm dangling off the mattress edge.

Lash immediately crowds in to smother them. At least the change in position eases his snoring somewhat. He’s half crushing Arin, but the weight is warm and strangely reassuring, and sleep comes easier than it should.