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The air was dingy, soaked in memory, carrying with it the lingering heat of their exchange. The room had taken the full beating, demolished from pillar to stalagmite, and nothing—nothing—was safe from the fallout. What a pity. The battle had ended far too soon, before any real fun could even begin.
All that dormant filth clinging to the cold, eroded sandstone floor had been stirred up, swirling in a typhoon that blinded and exposed alike. Heavy, uneven breaths scraped through the chamber, bouncing off walls and jagged stones. Two bodies remained unnervingly still, locked in a silent dare, each testing the other without motion.
Jabber should have known better. Mr. Bad Attitude had claimed the advantage, leaving the room humming with the erotic sting of that small victory. Being mashed against the brittle walls of this unstable chamber should have been unbearable, especially while being forced to eat rubble as the strong, unwavering hand pinned him like the roach he undeniably was. And by any sane standards, it would be just that. Yet something about the situation evoked an oddly electric pleasure, sending nerves alight with a surge of adrenaline, coursing large quantities of blood to all the wrong, more intimate places. And hell, Jabber couldn't deny the thrill of being bested by a worthy opponent.
Every subtle shift, every flex against the chilling stone, was read as an attempt to escape—and met with adequate measures. The cruel, firm hand fracturing his skull pressed down harder, sapping up every bit of space with alarming satisfaction.
“Why so quiet all of a sudden? Thought you were enjoying yourself.” Zanka’s voice leaked venom, every word laced with taunting toxins, fractured only by sharp huffs of overexertion.
Bouncing back was no simple feat, not with a lethal cocktail of neurotoxins still flourishing in his system, crawling through every vein and artery whilst gnawing at his nerves. But then again, the luxury of choice had never once entered the picture. In his mind, it was either fight like hell and live to see another sunrise, or rot away with an unfit, wasted death staining his name.
“Damn… betcha you like messin’ with me, huh? Tryin’ keep me on my toes… gotta admit, you’ve got my full attention now, Mr Bad Attitude…” The muffled words made Zanka’s brows knit together, a flicker of distaste warring with the bittersweet victory still on his tongue. Even now, after having his ass handed to him, after taking the beating of a lifetime for some half-assed scheme, Jabber still had the audacity to spout such arrogant bullshit. Those electrifying blue eyes blazed with such fury that it was impossible not to notice how much Zanka was enjoying himself as well.
The cruelty lingered just beyond that fierce gaze, the kind that burrowed into him without warning or any form of consent. Jabber let out a grotesque grin, the corners of his mouth stretching ear to ear as a wicked chuckle wailed through him. Zanka ground his molars, the coiling heat in his stomach tightening with every breath, anger simmering through his veins like molten metal ready to burst.
“Funny, huh? You think this shit’s funny, asshole?” Zanka wasn't in the mood to ask twice.
“Nah man… you’re playin’ dirty, and if I’m bein’ real with ‘chu… it’s really turnin’ me on.” The restless grip burying into the roots of Jabber’s dreadlocks only tightened, insistent and punishing. A shallow whine tore from his throat as his head was yanked back. There it was, that look of pure disgust, pure repulsion, burning straight into him. The kind of look reserved for something slimy, crawling, vile, or utterly revolting.
Oh god… he was going to lose it. Jabber knew he couldn’t contain himself much longer, not like this. This rush, this relentless throb pulsing through him—fuck, it was almost too much, too sharp, too good to survive without breaking
“Ah, c’mon, Zan-Zan don’t be holdin’ back on me now. Y’know I like it when you’re rough with me….” Jabber teased, the plastered grin refusing to fade as he locked eyes with the one he wanted to put him in his place, where he belonged. Zanka didn’t look the slightest bit amused by the audacity, his face carved with annoyance as if it had been permanently etched there. He wrinkled his nose, unable to comprehend how someone could be grinning in a situation this tense.
“Yeah? You like that, you masochistic fuck,” Zanka spat, his grip unrelenting, fingers digging in like he wanted to crush, to destroy. His face twisted, disgust clear in every prominent line. “How revolting. I oughta chop your dick clean off just for saying that… then again,” his eyes narrowed, a smirk bubbling to the corner of his lips, “you’d probably get off on it, wouldn’t you?”
“Heh… y’know me too well,” Jabber purred, eyes gleaming an unstable magenta, voice raw with that feral amusement only pain and battle could resurface. “You and me? We’re not so different. Tell me… you’re feelin’ it too, ain’t cha?”
Zanka’s mood immediately soured. The mere suggestion that they were anything alike made his stomach knot, bile rising uncomfortably in his throat. This unhinged lunatic had no idea the kind of nonsense he was spewing. They would never be alike.
“Keep running that mouth, and I swear—nngh!”
Jabber, ever the cunning weasel, didn’t even need to lift a finger to prove his point. Just one—one little pivot is all it took, a modest raise of the hips, and already, Zanka was whimpering like a bitch in heat, even if he was just caught off guard.
“Go ahead, try‘n deny it all you want, my guy,” Jabber sang with that same dark grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he shifted just enough to make Zanka flinch, soaking up the tension crackling between them. “But I can feel every damn inch of ya straining, and I jus’ know it’s drivin’ you crazy.”
Zanka hissed through clenched teeth. Damn it all. Adrenaline surged through him, all hot and demanding, with nowhere left to go; his veins buzzed like a live wire rippling just beneath the skin. He hadn't clocked where all that leftover adrenaline had built up until now, until all that heat and pressure dragged his attention downward. A prominent bulge strained against his pants—hard, insistent, and downright impossible to overlook. It felt almost mocking. A painful reminder of everything he refused to acknowledge up to that point. And Jabber? He was getting far too comfortable. Grinding up against him like that. Bold as hell. Like he expected to walk away from this unscathed. The nerve of it made Zanka’s jaw tighten until it ached. Teeth grinding as irritation twisted into something darker, hungrier, and far more dangerous in its own way. If Jabber thought he was getting off easy, he was dead wrong. Zanka should teach this asshole some proper manners.
“Zan-Zan… c’mon, work with me here, yeah?” Jabber drawled, voice easy, almost laid back as if he wasn't knocking on death's door just moments ago. “We can help each other out here. Jus’ gotta make sure we’re vibin’ on the same page, ya feel me?”
Those words rolled off his tongue so seamlessly, all confidence and giggles, like he already got the answer he wanted. Zanka clicked his tongue; what kind of pitch was that? All smiles and half-assed promises, like Jabber thought he could talk his way into anything he damn well pleased. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Yeah, right. As if Zanka would ever agree to something so vulgar with a raider of all people, least of all one who looked this smug about it.
Well, that would have been the rational, sane response.
Instead, with that large dose of neurotoxins still circulating through his system, tangled up with adrenaline that refused to settle. His thoughts slipped, logic blurring at the lines as Jabber’s presence crept in on him, too close, too aware. Pressure pooled low and unwelcome, instincts flaring where reason should have stepped in.
“So… Mr. Bad Attitude, what's it gonna be, huh?” Zanka froze upon hearing those words, jaw tight, caught between the urge to shut this raging lunatic up once and for all, and the unsettling awareness that his body was already reacting. He stood there, breathing slow and measured, carefully weighing his options while Jabber peered over his shoulder, eyeing him like a man who knew exactly what kind of irreversible damage he was doing.
Jabber observed closely, actively drowning in the vast sea of blues as he bore witness to the last bits of restraint beginning to fray in Zanka’s eyes, worn to a thread as the fibers began to split. He could hardly contain his laughter, not now, not when things are just about to get far more exciting.
“Ever think about shutting that damn mouth of yours before it gets you in trouble?” Zanka spat, dense venom lacing every word, tone sharp enough to cut straight through rock.
Jabber snapped his head back, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips, reckless confidence oozing out of every pore. It's the kind of grin that made Zanka want to punch him again and again, except… also maybe do something else entirely.
“Heh… nah man, but I can think of a few ways you could shut me up,” he purred, voice low and teasing, the kind of levelheadedness that slithered under Zanka’s skin and refused to leave.
At the very peak of reckless abandonment, Zanka felt Jabber squirm beneath him, every twitch and jerk a tempting challenge he had no intention of letting go. The bastard was, in short terms, infuriating, but it stoked something dangerous inside Zanka, something that had nothing to do with logic or reasoning and everything to do with power: the need for control.
Jabber’s mouth smashed against Zanka’s in a greedy, messy press, teeth clashing and tongues possessively sliding over one another as if the fight from earlier had just taken root on a whole different battlefield. It was rushed, sloppy, and sinfully wrong—But oh, God… did it feel so fucking right.
Zanka had to clamp down on a growl that tore through his throat, the growing desire twisting in his gut at the sight of Jabber still smirking through it all, still teasing, still alive with that irritating spark. Saliva ran slick down Jabber’s sharp jawline, pooling in the hollow of his malnourished collarbone. He was coated in their shared mess, lips swollen and glossy; right then, Zanka knew he had him hooked. The kiss was chaos made flesh, devouring them both in the downright sinful display of filthy pleasures, born from hate, from thrill, from the undeniable grasp they held on one another’s noose.
Zanka should have seen it coming. He should have predicted this exact, infuriating stunt.
His eyes snapped open, wide with a sudden mix of dread and disbelief. Every attempt to pull away from Jabber’s mouth ended exactly as expected—helplessly, shamefully stuck. That mocking giggle vibrated in Jabber’s throat, deep and mocking, teeth still hooked on Zanka’s soft pink lip as if claiming it for himself, as if keeping him from leaving. Zanka wasn’t in the mood for childish antics. Fingers tangled deep in Jabber’s forest of tightly woven dreads, he yanked himself free with a rough tug, smoothing away the tenderness on his lip with the back of his palm.
Threaded through the grime and filth coating Zanka’s ivory skin, a thin streak of scarlet red stood out. The sight sparked something inside him, something he’d spent far too long trying to keep dormant. Jabber, ever the impulsive idiot, had no idea what he’d just stirred by stepping squarely on a sleeping dragon’s tail.
Zanka didn’t give him time to think.
One violent motion and Jabber was ragdolled into the nearest wall, a sharp wince tearing from him as his back met stone, the boulder biting into his bare skin. The rock cracked on impact. The only mercy in it was the view Jabber got in exchange—those perfect peepers, blown wide, rage-heavy and furious, finally locked on him.
Zanka’s hands constricted around Jabber’s throat, fingers digging into his windpipe, squeezing until Jabber’s vision bled white at the edges. “Pull another half-assed stunt like that,” Zanka snarled, voice low and venomous, “and I’ll gladly wring your neck.”
Jabber could have fought it. Anyone born with even a sliver of a sane mind would have. Instead, a strained laugh bubbled up around Zanka’s fingers, broken and breathless, rippling right against his grip. His fingertips clawed uselessly at Zanka’s wrists, more instinct than resistance, nails scraping skin without any real intent to pry free.
At that moment, Zanka felt it—it wasn't fear or sudden panic. No, it was a tremor.
Jabber bit down on his bottom lip, drawing beads of fresh blood to the surface. His body betrayed him, spine arching just a fraction into the choke, hips hitching forward as his pulse hammered wildly beneath Zanka’s palm. Those eyes fluttered, glassy at the corners, lips parting around a thin, wrecked sound that had no business existing in a moment like this. It was pure, entitled bliss.
Zanka’s grip loosened on reflex; he could feel the tense muscles flutter for a heartbeat before Jabber’s body went numb from the overwhelming feeling.
Zanka blinked once. Then again, like his eyes needed a second opinion. He didn’t just… no, surely not… did he? His nose twisted on instinct, nostrils flaring as the truth clicked into place. The realization hit like bile, thick and unwelcome, disgust rolling through his gut in a slow, curling flow that made his skin crawl.
“Did you just…” he paused for a second, unsure if he truly wanted the answer, “get off from me… choking you, you disgusting little fuck?” His voice was a perfect blend of crude and disbelief, a refined blade edged with poison, every word dripping with disdain.
“Heh… fuck… been a while since somethin’ hit me this… intense… came from you choke’n me out… damn… jus’ like that…” Jabber rasped, chest heaving. Fuck, this was just too good. Sure, Jabber had a casual routine for this kind of thing. After a mission gone sideways, after getting his ass handed to him and feeling alive with a surplus of adrenaline, his cock always remembered its own agenda. At times like those, Jabber had a nasty habit of disappearing somewhere quiet, somewhere secluded, wrapping his hands tight around his own delicate throat and squeezing just enough to make the world go soft at the edges. The numbness, the ringing in his ears, the messy, hot release—it was reckless, filthy, and exactly what he needed.
But this? This wasn’t his hands, and he definitely wasn't alone. It was Zanka’s. Solid. Merciless. The difference was the unknown; he didn’t know if he’d make it out of this chokehold still breathing, and that—the not knowing—set every vein in his body ablaze.
Jabber coughed, breath tearing back into his lungs in short, ugly pulls, and when he spoke, it came out crooked, breathless, and unmistakably pleased. “Haa… believe me now?” he strained, his voice weak but seemingly unfazed. “Told ya… I like to play rough.”
That did it.
Zanka shoved him forward, releasing his throat just long enough to grab a fistful of dreads and force him down. Jabber stumbled, knees scraping hard against the rubble before giving out completely, the impact knocking a sharp sound from his chest as he dropped. Not collapsed; sank.
Like it was almost intentional on his part.
Jabber stayed there, knees planted against the cold, unforgiving ground, head tipped back just enough to look up at Zanka through blurred pupils and half-squinted eyes, but the cherry on top? A grin that was still far too smug for someone who’d just been manhandled within an inch of blacking out.
Chest heaving, throat flushed, and skin undeniably marked. Just kneeling there as if he were… waiting.
Zanka towered over him, breathing heavily, His hand balling into a fist still curled like it expected a neck to be there. The sight hit harder than it should have. Jabber on his knees, messy and shaking, looking up like that—like he’d just been handed exactly what he wanted, not to mention the stain seeping through layers of fabric, dick still eagerly twitching beneath the confines of his pants.
“…You’re disgusting,” Zanka muttered.
Jabber snorted, dragging the back of his sleeve across his busted-up lip. “It’s ‘bout time you noticed,” he drawled lazily, swallowing down the knot in his throat. “if it really grossed you out, you’d’ve bounced already.”
His grin only served to spread wider, wicked, and teasing. “Or maybe… you’re kinda into it.”
In return for running his mouth, Jabber was given something far crueler than a strike.
The look swimming in Zanka’s electric eyes was pure, unfiltered disgust, cloaked in hatred and simmering rage. Not the kind that flared, but the kind that lingered. The kind reserved for pests. He looked down at Jabber like he was nothing more than a roach caught in the open, something he could grind into the dirt under his boot without a second thought.
And fuck…. Jabber wished he would do it already.
The ridicule made his body betray him completely. His cock throbbed insistently, already slick and ruined from his prior orgasm, pressing shamelessly against damp fabric as if it had a mind of its own. The sight of that scowl, those cold, unfeeling eyes boring into his flesh, being reduced to something disgusting and disposable, sent a vicious heartbeat through him. So painfully aroused that it bordered on delirium.
His body fluttering with anticipation, convinced he was teetering on the brink of orgasm once more, merely from the intensity of that gaze. It felt as though he were nothing but dirt, unworthy and degraded. Like he was filth. Like he deserved to get his ass beat.
“Keep talkin’,” Zanka growled, voice dripping with promise. “I’ll give you something to shut you up.”
Jabber huffed a breathy, choked-out laugh, his grin pulling wide even as his throat strained. “Mmn… c’mon, Zan-Zan,” he purred, voice ragged and downright playful, “You don’t go spoutin’ ‘bout a good time if you ain’t plannin’ to hold up to your word,”
Zanka cursed under his breath. How in God’s name had he ended up doing something so shameless? So filthy. So wrong. Unlike Jabber, he couldn’t hide it. Shame branded his face, dusting his cheeks with a bright, rosy hue. His trousers lay in a messy puddle around his ankles, leaving him utterly exposed. He winced as the brisk air of the cavern kissed the head of his cock. The tip burned a deep red, flushed, angry, and glistening with pre-ejaculate, and straining with impatience. Each vein that pulsed along his erect shaft was an agonizing reminder of his need and drilled on every spinal nerve.
Jabber was practically drooling at the delectable sight, mouthwatering as he gawked without shame, teeth flashing, eyes bright and hungry. “God damn… gotta give it to ya, Zan-Zan,” he cooed, “Didn’t think you’d be packin’ this much heat… been holdin’ out on me, hm?”
Zanka, trying not to damage his fragile ego, didn’t dare make direct eye contact; not now, not while color poured across his cheeks, blooming from the hollow of his collarbone to the points of his ears.
“For fuck’s sake… just get on with it already.” Zanka spat, teeth clenched as Jabber leaned in, grin gleaming in the light. “Lookin’ away already, huh? Don’t tell me you’re new to gettin’ your dick wet, my guy.”
Zanka did not need to respond. Not when silence spoke for him. He was a virgin not by the lack of female attention—many have damn well tried—but simply because he chose to be.
“Packin’ a monster like this in your pants, you’d think every hot chick would’ve been jus’ itchin’ to suck it dry,” Jabber sang as he limited the space between them, voice rough, dripping disbelief, and lustful curiosity. “Man… sittin’ on this goldmine all your life… and not a single fuckin’ soul’s even touched your dick? Heh… I’m just ‘bout the luckiest man alive.”
Zanka dug his talons into Jabber’s scalp, yanking a fist of dreadlocks, drinking in the wet, frayed whimpers that followed. "Do I have to repeat myself? I told you to get on with it already. Stop spouting bullshit and get to sucking."
Zanka yanked him forward, smashing his face into the slick, heavy weight of his sack. His hands firmly locked onto Jabber’s dreads, forcing his nose to kiss his scrotum, “Don’t waste my time,”
Jabber could taste the heat, the impatience, and the raw, manly musk. He stuck his tongue out, dragging it over one of Zanka’s slick, throbbing balls, tasting the tang of sweat as he hungrily sucked and nibbled, shameless and grinning through his grunts. He ate like a starved man, treating Zanka’s testicles like a five-star feast after weeks without food. Tongue marking every curve, lips sucking in the loose skin as Jabber pleasantly hummed, a muffled voice pressed into the warm flesh, sending jolts through Zanka’s very core. He slumped forward, arm outstretched and catching on the rock as every pulse, every slick taste, drove him hotter.
“F-fuck… wait… haa… hold on—!” Zanka hissed, teeth clenched, biting back moans that clawed at his throat.
Jabber didn’t wait; he didn’t even hesitate.
No. He had other plans in mind.
His hand palmed against Zanka’s tight balls, teasing them with nimble fingers, he dragged his tongue in a thin stripe from sack to tip, drinking in every quiver and tremble. The moans that escaped Zanka leaked out like a cracked dam, and Jabber buzzed, savoring every bite.
Jabber squashed his face harder, lips and tongue devouring every crevice, cheek pressed and stuck to him like glue.
“Mmm… fuck… tastin’ all this… god, you’re messin’ with me… fuckin’ nuts, man… I can’t get enough…” Jabber murmured, his fingers kneading and caressing as his mouth worked its magic, making certain that Zanka would recall every gentle breath, each tantalizing lick, every tender brush of lips—everything would be etched into his memory.
“Aaghh… asshole… don’t talk with my dick on your lips…” Zanka winced, sucking in air through clenched teeth, his face contorted, caught somewhere between strain and surrender as pleasure rushed through him in relentless tidal waves. The sounds he’d fought so hard to keep buried—the tight breaths and fractured, broken little noises—started spilling out anyway, slipping through every crack in his fractured composure.
Jabber hadn’t expected that.
Hadn’t expected something so damn simple to hit him that hard.
Just those sounds—soft, unguarded, real—went straight to his touch-starved dick, turning him on while heavy breaths merged with crackling moans. Zanka made it damn near impossible to form a coherent thought. They didn’t seem like much at first, just a faint squeak if anything at all, but hearing them burst out like this? Fuck... It had his cock twitching, blood pounding in his veins. Watching Zanka fight himself, jaw tense and rippling, eyes squeezed shut, and brows arched. It was almost cute in the most fucked-up way.
Jabber pressed in closer, cheek molded, soaking in every tiny reaction like a sinner at church. His tongue swept over the slit, tasting every slick bead that dared escape, sucking like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Bitter, salty, sticky, it was like heaven on his tongue. He hummed, shoved his face deeper, pressing just enough to make Zanka shiver and moan through gnashed teeth. As greedy as it might seem, he wanted more.
He worked with precision, the very tip of his tongue tickling the whining man’s urethra, brushing needily over every sensitive dip and flap, milking him like a dirty animal desperate for sound. Jabber lingered at the frenulum, dragging it slowly, teasing, humming, and groaning with each response he drew out.
He wanted to see Zanka's eyes on him, to feel the heat in that lustful gaze as his cock stuffed the hollowed-out cheek of Jabber’s mouth, swallowing him with deliberate, filthy greed.
He wanted to be seen.
Zanka felt it instantly. A sneering, white-hot jolt leapt through him, nerve sparking after nerve, chaos blooming deliciously in his mind. His urethra had been skimmed, grazed just right by something sharp, sliding over his overly sensitive tip and causing a shiver to run from head to toe. Did Jabber intentionally nick him with a careless slip to provoke a response? It wasn't overly out of pocket, considering who he was dealing with. Zanka didn't have to think about it for long because with Jabber, nothing was ever accidental.
So blindsided, Zanka failed to notice he’d stepped straight into one of Jabber’s carefully laid traps, a snare built for nothing but the rush. The thrill. The payoff this unhinged bastard lived for. “Watch those teeth,” Zanka hissed, voice tight and edged like a blade dragged too close to skin. “Don’t test me, asshole.”
He hadn’t meant to look down. At least, he didn’t plan on it. It just kind of… happened.
A collision of color, striking blue crashing into bright, unhinged magenta. There it was. Those cracked lips slide slowly and meticulously along his aching, vein-wound shaft, tongue lolling out shamelessly like a bitch in heat. Jabber’s eyes were barely open, heavy-lidded, looking up at him with that knowing, satisfied look, like this was his plan from the very beginning.
Like, this was always how it was meant to go.
Like he’d played Zanka from the start.
“Ah, you little shit...” he snarled, the words bitten off like a threat he was barely holding back. That smug little look snapped something hot and ugly in Zanka’s chest.
Zanka’s grip only tightened, harsher and more commanding than before, fingers digging in with unmistakable intent. He held firm, yanking Jabber off his cock and forcing his head back, dragging his gaze upward so he could really see him. The sight was almost laughable. Jabber on his knees like a devoted worshipper, pathetically obedient, slobbering over him with nothing behind those eyes except unbridled lust.
Jabber sucked in a sharp breath when he was pulled away, his mouth left agape and helpless, glossy under the light. He looked wrecked, dazed, lost in Zanka’s stare, like he might drift apart if left alone too long. His thighs steadily rubbed together, desperate for even the slightest friction, chasing even the smallest spark of relief for his relentless hard-on.
Zanka watched it all unfold with open ridicule, clicking his tongue as his gaze dragged over Jabber’s ruined mouth. Reveling in how utterly pathetic he looked. It was almost downright pitiful.
He put a stop to it right then and there. “Pathetic,” Zanka growled, pressing the sole of his shoe hard against Jabber’s lap and grinding it over his swollen cock. The pressure was cruel and relentless, sweeping roughly over the pulsating heat… it felt so impossibly good, too good—sharp warmth pooling low, every nerve ending screaming. Jabber’s mouth fell open on an instinctive gasp, a thin ribbon of drool sliding down his chin. His hips snapped involuntarily, thighs trembling, every muscle straining as the friction drove him closer to a ragged, desperate edge. His chest rose and fell violently, breath labored as the rough, unyielding pressure pressed him further into ruin, every touch, every rub setting his body ablaze in a way that left him dizzy, helpless, and so utterly lost.
Desperate to steady himself, Jabber’s hands flew to Zanka’s robes, clutching the fabric tightly as if it could anchor him. His grip was white-knuckled, arms trembling as his body fought the buildup of pressure, trying to hold himself still even as his hips betrayed him, grinding back instinctively.
“Look at you, ruined like this… can’t even hide how badly you want it,” Zanka spoke, sporting a grin of wicked delight, leaning close, eyes darkening with a presence sharp and gravely dominating. “Don’t think for a second that face gets you any mercy, you hear me?”
Zanka peered down through cornrows of lashes, anticipating a more broken demeanor from the way Jabber was absentmindedly grinding against his boot. Despite the hellish pain he should have felt, his grin only grew wider.
“Haa—harder,” he gasped, voice rough, eyes rolling back till only the sclera remained, “...I’ma ‘bout to bust.” Every jerk of his hips against the sole of Zanka’s shoe made a low, instinctive “hnngh…” escape him, raw and filthy, betraying exactly how undone he was, how desperately the pressure was tearing through him.
Zanka’s face cringed, reflecting his exact thoughts; the only thing swimming in those irises was pure, undisputed disgust.
He eased the pressure of his boot on the masochistic freak show, letting the heel relax, denying him the delicious suffering he so clearly craved. Jabber whimpered, hips jerking into the air in desperate little humps chasing the rubber heel, panting and slobbering like a feral mutt. Thin streaks of drool slid from his parted lips, mixing with the slick coating already there as every fiber yearned for release.
“Why… why’dya stop…?” Jabber gasped, magenta eyes softening in need, lost in helpless, desperate agony. “C’mon, man… don’t do me like this… I wanna—”
Zanka’s smirk tightened, voice low and cruel. “You want to cum?” Jabber nodded frantically, sweating, fingers clawing at Zanka’s robes as if silently begging for release. “Not until I’m done with you… so quit your whining and hold still.”
Jabber didn’t expect it, not even close; the last thing he imagined was this closeted sadist revealing his true colors so openly. Fingers curled tightly around the base of Jabber’s neck, shoving him down hard. He was gagged instantly, forced to take every inch of Zanka’s thick cock into that impossibly tight little opening. His lips and throat stretched, every wet, muffled gurgle spilling from him instinctively.
Zanka soaked it all in—the desperate noises, the twitching body, the ruined, helpless shudders—and a dark, cruel satisfaction coiled in him. He held Jabber there, relentlessly pressing, making sure he couldn't pull back.
“And maybe… if you do a good enough job. I might even let you finish,” Zanka affirms.
The fine hairs rose along Jabber’s nape, prickling into rows of goosebumps that spread along his kissed skin. Every small, sharp shiver wracked him, tension coiling tight and relentless within his body, impossible to ignore. The way Zanka’s velvety tip glided over every sensitive spot, pushing and grinding inside his airway, causing him to gasp and choke, his hips bucking in protest to the impossible fullness.
And fuck… it hurt. A sharp, punishing force that shredded through him—but it hurt so fucking good. Making him want more.
Jabber mashed his face harder against the pubic bone, nose brushing through the fine, prickling hairs as if burying himself deeper could somehow make it feel even better. The pain twisted like a knife, sharp, unbearable, and so damn good. It made his body tense up, made his hips twitch and grind, leaving him wetter, harder, and all the more desperate. He was lost to the filth of it, addicted to every agonizing, punishing rub that made his throat burn and his writhing cock throb with the utmost need.
He inhaled the thick odor, drinking in every overwhelming sensation. Every slick swallow, every ragged gasp, and every whine dripping from that ruined little mouth was a golden ticket straight to dark satisfaction.
If there was a god in this filthy, forsaken cum-gutter existence, he was doing one helluva job right about now.
Zanka let out a low, relieved sigh; all the tension coiling in his body, all the frustration he’d carried on his shoulders, melted into the pit of his stomach, building, waiting for the perfect moment to blow. And whenever his curiosity got the better of him, he’d glance down at Jabber, paying attention as the slick plops of spit slapped against the rocky floor.
Jabber always caught his gaze, magenta eyes bright, beaming with tears of unshed pleasure, lashes thick and dewy. It made Zanka’s chest tighten; seeing his cock buried deep in that filthy, hungry mouth—watching him gag, swallow, and take it all—was intoxicating, arousing, and humiliating all at once.
At last, he’d succeeded in silencing that noisy mouth of his.
“You should see yourself right now,” Zanka muttered darkly. “I mean… I’ve never seen anyone look so… fucking pathetic.”
Jabber tried to speak his mind, but with a cock lodged in his throat, it was easier said than done.
“Nuh-uh… mmhn—hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s… rude to talk with your mouth full?” Zanka teased, voice low and cruel, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips. He eased his grip on Jabber’s nape, holding with just the right amount of pressure to prevent him from fully pulling back, allowing him to gasp and wheeze, bliss dancing across his cracked expression, as if this was precisely what he was meant for.
Jabber’s tongue slid along the underside of Zanka’s shaft, curling around the thick base and tracing it slowly, savoring every slick, intoxicating inch. Each press, each little “mmm” that spilled past those entitled lips was like music to his ears, causing his own busted-up body to respond instinctively, alight with infectious pleasure.
Originally, Zanka hadn’t bothered asking how many men Jabber had pleased in the past because, at the time, it was irrelevant. However, now, it was obvious from the way his mouth moved, the way his tongue worked with a skill that bordered on unnatural. Whether it be natural talent or a long history of practice, it didn't matter; what mattered now was the way he made Zanka lose his shit in minutes. Already, the coil of need in his gut had tightened, and he knew—if Jabber kept this up much longer, he wouldn’t last.
Zanka’s hands slid from the back of Jabber’s neck to his cheekbone, firmly gripping the sides of his face to keep him in place. There was a sinister strength behind his hold as he pushed himself deeper into Jabber’s throat, using him as a perfect, broken fleshlight.
Jabber doesn’t resist. Why would he?
There's no reason to, not when this is exactly where he wants to be.
Zanka looks down and catches it, that crooked little smile that shouldn’t be there but is, soft and pleased in a way that feels almost reverent. Zanka notices. Of course he does. And gods, he loves it.
He begins to move at his own pace, unhurried and deliberate, guiding the head with quiet control. Each time Jabber gags and swallows, the warmth tightens instinctively around him, drawing a low, pleased hum roaring from Zanka’s chest. He purrs, eyes fluttering shut, savoring the sensation like something earned, something sinful.
Jabber works his tongue without needing instruction, slow and thorough, caressing from base to tip, devoted and eager in a way that feels almost captivating.
“Haa… mmnh… yeah… you like having my dick in your mouth…?” Zanka asks.
Jabber hummed around the shaft, his voice distorted and lazy with pleasure. Wet, sloppy sounds filled the space, skin meeting skin, echoing off the stone and stalagmites before curling right back into Zanka’s ears.
He made no effort to hide it. The groans, the strained, overworked grunts were all dragged out of Zanka without a hint of shame. He no longer cared what this bastard heard. All that mattered now was the chase, the dangerous teetering on the edge of orgasm, and the delicious torture of holding himself back just a second longer. He bit down on his lip, brows stuttering as his head tipped back, pleasure burning low in his loins and coiling tight inside him.
He drove his cock deep inside until Jabber was nothing more than a gagging, slobbering mess, eyes hazy and completely spent. With one final throaty groan, he braced himself, wrapping his arms around Jabber’s head to hold him steady, legs trembling under the strain of keeping him in place. Zanka’s entire body quaked, teeth clenched as his undone groan filled the silence.
Jabber was exactly where he wanted to be; he could barely breathe, barely think. This was his own twisted, fucked-up heaven, designed for him alone. Being used like nothing more than an object, something to be emptied, marked, and discarded, sent jolts of filthy thrill coursing through him like something hot and forbidden.
Jabber could feel the heartbeat, the pulse drumming against his tongue. Those weak little tremors had Zanka's cock tapping against his taste buds before finally letting go. The bitter taste of his load, thick and hot, settled on Jabber's tongue, drinking up every last drop of cum that shot in his mouth, and he groaned around it, helplessly suckling and wanting more.
His eyes rolled back, exposing only the whites, his body trembling as waves of pleasure tore through him, relentless and oh so suffocating.
Zanka didn’t ease up. Every twitching release from those swollen, pulsing balls splurged exactly where it needed to be. While attempting to maintain his balance during his dizzying orgasm, his boot stomped down on Jabber's eagerly anticipating cock, forcing him further into submission as his hips helplessly bucked and trembled against the merciless friction.
The cavern was thick with heat, with the smell of sex. Jabber was drowning, but he didn’t want to surface; he wanted to consume every filthy second.
Zanka regained his composure—for the most part—after riding out his high, sliding his spent cock free from those swollen, abused lips. It slipped out with a wet, lewd pop, still twitching from the aftershocks, still sticky and coated with saliva as he tucked it back in his pants. Jabber could finally breathe, though just barely. His tongue lolled out, panting heavily, tasting the pungent cum in his mouth as he greedily swirled it around, savoring it as if it now belonged to him.
Zanka’s face twisted, sharp and disgusted, like he’d just stepped on a roach.
“Oi, what the hell are you doing…? Spit it out already, you gross fuck,” he hissed, eyes flashing with controlled venom.
Jabber’s grin spread impossibly wide. “Eh? You talkin’ ‘bout this lil’ souvenir?”
Sticking out his tongue, he flaunted the load Zanka had so graciously dumped in his mouth. Zanka nearly choked on his spit, hand flying to his mouth as he fought back the urge to puke.
“Yes, that’s what I’m talking about! Spit it out. Now.” Zanka growled, eyes blazing.
“Relax, man. I’m jus’ doin’ a lil’ taste-test,” Jabber said, smirking like he knew how deep he was getting under Zanka’s skin. With curled delight, he made sure those blue eyes were glued to him before grinning wider, clearly savoring every second before gulping down the fresh load.
“Mmnh, tastes mighty fine to me,” Jabber murmured, licking the remnants off his chapped lips like it was a sweet treat.
“I… I think I’m going to be sick…” Zanka gagged, his face twisting as disgust etched into every line. He tried to stumble away, hunting for a respectable boulder to barf behind. Little did he know, Jabber was trailing him.
A sudden tug at his shoulder yanked him back before he could even react. Zanka wasn't even given a chance to process. Jabber’s lips—those same cracked, dry lips that had been greedily suckling on his cock—were now pressed against his. His tongue forced its way past sealed lips, sliding and claiming, mingling in a way that made Zanka’s stomach lurch and his mind reel. He tasted himself, salty and raw, as his own orgasm now invaded his mouth—it was revolting and maddening all at once.
“Mmngh!” Zanka gasped, shoving Jabber off, every trembling movement tangled with fight and irritation. To this, Jabber simply chuckled, his grin wicked and relentless. “Ya wanna know somethin’ Zan-Zan? You’re a helluva lota fun to mess with,” he said, voice dripping with smug satisfaction.
Zanka's entire body stiffened, his eyes wide with surprise, every line on his face twisting with irritation. He despised how much this little bastard got under his skin. "Are you fucking insane? "That's disgusting!" he snapped, his voice sharp and irritated and dangerous as he scrubbed his lips clean, but even as he growled, the twitch in his fingers, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and the faint pink blooming on his cheek belied him. He turned away, attempting to conceal the effect Jabber had on him, but it was hopeless.
“Oh Zanka…” Jabber’s grin stretched wider, tilting his head like a predator savoring fresh prey. His tongue darted over his lips, slow, deliberate, and teasing, and Zanka’s glare did nothing to stop him. “I think I might’ve… found my new high.”