"Please, just let me borrow one. Rent one, put it on our tab. I'm serious, please-- I'll do anything."

As soon as the magic words are out of his mouth, he knows he's fucked up, badly. The only 'anything' he's authorized to promise is protection and resources, he'd swap his own right hand for this; Chau can name his price but all in the future tense. If they don't get this thing he seriously doubts there'll be much of the Corps left for Chau's mooks to shake down. And it's not like he doesn't know that, and it's certainly not like he doesn't know the value of money. He'll capitalize on this somehow.

Something glints behind those dark glasses he really doesn't like.

"You know as well as I do that's a dumb thing to say down here. Christ."

Newt's pretty good at walking out of rooms backwards while arguing, but he only makes it a couple staggering steps before he's cornered between a tank with a segment of kaiju small intestine floating in it and an armed guard.

"Listen, I don't do that, why don't you just hey hey hey hey hey--"

The blade of that fucking knife, butterfly knife, whatever you call it, flicks down his cheek. It presses just hard enough under his jaw to make Newt lift his chin, slowly. Slowly. His mouth falls open.

Hannibal Chau has big hands; his other hand weighs heavy on Newton's shoulder, and Geiszler is acutely aware of his own mass and how one punch could send him flying. He's got a face like an old prizefighter and Geiszler is keenly conscious too of the fact that he doesn't even remember how he got here. If he phones for backup, like hell it's getting through. If he runs, he won't get far. The noose is tightening, fast.

Newton Geiszler, Ph.D. and professional smartass, is momentarily speechless. His decision comes pretty quick and all things considered...

"Okay, okay, okay. Put the knife away and I'll do it."

The knife goes away only as long as it takes for him to drop to his knees between Hannibal's golden shoes.

Chau settles back into an armchair that has to have been custom-made for him, looks like it's made with Kaiju hide. Newt tries to sneak-touch it as stealthily as he can, like he's just steadying himself, and Chau kicks him. Not hard, just enough to make his ridiculous fucking wingtips chime a little. Newt mutters an apology, casting around for something else to fix on -- isn't anybody here going to say something? A couple of his henchmen are all gathered around looking really bored, even the chick with no hair. Are they all watching, is this just a big spirited game of scare the little guy? He'd better be fucking with him, bet he does this to all Pentecost's ohgod the knife's back again. He traces a lazy line point-first down Newton's cheek.

"You're bluffing," Geiszler says. His voice is as firm and decisive as he can make it with minimal activity of his facial muscles and with his adam's apple jumping in his throat.

Hannibal inclines his head like he might be looking at him, and with kingly deliberation undoes his fly one-handed.

"Nah."

Chau gets busy getting his undoubtedly ridiculously expensive dick out, and Newton could balk right now but the part of him that's unbearable in locker rooms and completely unnecessary here is pretty impressed. Maybe his position and the pounding of his heart grant him a unique perspective, but... fuck, he's big. No tattoos, though the ones on his fingers catch Newt's eye again, as he gives the shaft a few bored pumps, but there's an eyecatching little hook of gold caught in the head of his dick, like stray drops of really expensive jizz. Go fucking figure. Kneeling between his broad thighs, Geiszler feels especially small.

"Well? Get to work."

Newt licks his lips and feels unprecedented sympathy for high school girls after school dances.

He takes it in his mouth, or at least starts, but not without difficulty -- Chau's dick is really warm, and he's just going to shut up and not think about taste -- he wants to take it out now, in the split second where he can't work out how to breathe through his nose with a mouthful of dick. Newt doesn't know what to do with his teeth, where he's supposed to put his tongue exactly with his mouth overfull and the tip of the blade digs in like an insistence against his skin. He can feel the cool burnished flat of it gouging its line.

His discomfort expresses in a tiny groan, muffled by flesh; he doesn't choke, but he coughs a little and his eyes sting. Whether it's from embarrassment or the premature chlorine taste in his mouth he's blinking away blood again and squinting through a blear of red. He can feel the knife paring a little sliver out of his throat, sees it start to slip, easing back in Hannibal's tattooed paw. Hannibal just needs to give one little flick and it'll open him up from adam's apple to ear. His sweaty hands rearrange themselves around the base of it, scrupulously avoiding touching his balls; he works with his tongue and his throat, inexpertly bobbing his head as little as he can with Chau's knife just under his chin and Chau's left hand on the back of his neck.

He's talking to him, growling encouragements like Newton's testing out new lab equipment (that's it, there you go kid, easy) but Newt's not going to think about that. Get in, do the thing, get out.

The edge of the blade is warming up a little. He flinches and it's gone, which comes first he doesn't know -- Hannibal Chau is idly swinging it around between his fingers like a fucking party trick and for that split second Newt's world halts in terror on its axis.

"Don't be shy. I'm not stoppin' you."

He opens his mouth wider, tries to hold his breath, tries to sink down for a bigger mouthful. Chau's knife settles back into place against the naked hollow of his throat and Newt's terrified little mmf makes him shake with laughter. He tries to remember technique while he's down here. Watch, he'll make it work; he'll just chop up the process into parts and steps and make it a science so he doesn't have to really feel it. Excuse him if girls aren't exactly lining up to suck his cock lately, what with the end of the world and all-- it's been a while and none of them were sharing any trade secrets. The Prince Albert keeps clicking against his teeth.

Sucking him off means pathetically clinging to his lap and working clumsily with his tongue; his mouth is really wet, and he's scared of what happens if he trails spit on Hannibal Chau's $400 underwear so he tries to swallow and it's definitely not all spit at this point. His throat tightens. Newt shuts his eyes and tries to make this good. Pray to god it doesn't last, terrified he'll fuck it up and he'll go soft and what the fuck then?

Newt's glasses are gouging a dent into the bridge of his nose and breath happens only with difficulty now, staticky little tugs of air that remind him as if he could forget that he's buried in someone else's crotch, chlorinated and rough-sharp. Hannibal shifts in his seat and grunts disapprovingly.

You know how people talk about throbbing dicks? And yeah, he's felt his own dick throb before, but it's different feeling somebody else's pulse battering away in his mouth, and he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Something miserable and too-hot runs through him like an electric charge, chasing the path of least resistance from his clumsy working mouth to somewhere below his hips and his too-tight designer cool-kid pants feel even tighter. Fuck, fuck it all, fuck everything. This is sick. Geiszler's going to fuck this up so bad, he's going to fuck this up and Hannibal's going to kill him right here. He's gonna die here and the Marshall's never even going to know what happened to him and good thing too because he died crying with a dick in his mouth.

Hannibal gets fed up at some point in this farce and presses his head down by the hair. Newt chokes and gags without any dignity, sliming his chin in the process as he suffocates on cock, and this apparently does the fucking trick; that big fat fucking cock hits the back of his throat and he comes with a rough hitch. Newton flinches from it and it all comes out on his face, down his chin, and he swallows and swallows with a throat rubbed blazing raw until he can breathe again. He's gasping.

Hannibal Chau rubs a big hand through his hair (too hard, a press of rings) and lets him up. Newt swipes at his rotten swollen mouth with the back of his hand and sinks back onto his heels. His cheeks hurt, his throat hurts, his head hurts like a symphony -- could keel over right here, have an aneurism in front of the whole room, and right now he'd welcome it. A nosebleed prickles him as it starts.

"I'm just fucking with you, God knows I owe the Marshall a big favor. Fix yourself up and get out of here, it's yours."