Archive of Our Own

Zanka rarely went to the bar—except on those days when he wanted to disappear into the crowd and forget his problems for a while. Almost three years had passed since he'd turned eighteen; the last five months had seen more frequent evenings like this: work was pressing, the city was pressing, and the loud, large bar provided that same impersonal anesthesia—a sweet cocktail, noise, and strangers' voices.

He was slowly sipping a green, chemical-infused drink when his gaze caught a purple shadow. His heart sank slightly, and a tremor ran down the hand clutching the cold glass. Jabber—they hadn't seen each other in a while. Their paths gradually diverged, and over time, the skirmishes died down. True, that happened after they'd started sleeping together. More than two years had passed since their first sex. Crazy, wrong, bloody, and at the same time incredibly pleasurable.

Back then, letting go had seemed a relief. The problems began when it happened again: the second, fifth, tenth time. Meetings were no longer random.

A heavy sigh escaped Zanka's lips. These were mistakes of the past, attempts to free what he usually kept locked away. Wonger had skillfully played on his inferiority complex. Damn psycho.

Meanwhile, Jabber, whispering something in the huge man's ear, took him by the arm and dragged him to the second floor. Apparently, there was some kind of private room there, practically a brothel, according to rumors. Zanka had never been interested in such things. "Disgusting," he whispered, wincing.

For the past six months, he'd heard strange rumors. They said Jabber had left the thieves, leaked information to third parties, framed someone, wandered around brothels—they'd said all sorts of things. And now he's a prostitute too? Why all of a sudden?

Zanka, of course, had been on top a few times, and Jabber would go crazy with the mixture of pain and pleasure; he even briefly thought he'd turned him into a whore. But that didn't bother Zanka then, nor did it now. It seemed he had done it. But was it for money or for a fix? Well... that was none of his business.

While pondering this, Zanka didn't immediately notice the flash of dreadlocks in the distance again—this time the former embezzler was coming upstairs, accompanied by two guys.

This was beyond his tolerance. Disgusting. Hadn't seen him for months? He wished he'd never seen him again.

After finishing his cocktail, Zanka tossed a couple of bills on the table and stood up. The "show" was over for him; it was impossible to watch any longer. As he walked away, he left behind the scent of sweet alcohol and the slightly sour taste of long-ago memories.

A couple of days later, there was a knock on Zanka's window. He knew it very well. It was leisurely, as if the person on the other side was confident he'd be let in. With a sigh of irritation, Zanka approached the window and, fully aware of the consequences, slid the latch open.

Jabber climbed inside without his usual agility. His hands rested on the windowsill, his shoulders slumped. He looked like a stray dog, drenched in rain. Once one of the most powerful burglars and a dangerous adversary, he now sat right in front of him, not daring to look up lest he meet those blue eyes. Zanka remained silent, trying to figure out how to react. He had two options: hit him hard, like old times, and throw him out the window into the downpour, or... listen to what brought him here. Zanka had made his decision, but then, to his surprise, he said:

"What do you want?" he said coldly, crossing his arms over his chest and casting an even more appraising glance at his guest.

"Toxin. We need to get rid of it." Jabber deigned to tear his eyes from the floor; his faded violet irises, now practically black, met the irritated and confused face opposite. Zanka winced. It was as if nothing remained of the old Jabber: his face was sunken, the predatory smile was gone, there was no longer a sense of danger. Everything about him spoke of absolute insignificance. Apparently, all the rumors about him were true.

Zanka's anger flared up again at this man, who had squandered all his power and any remaining significance; at this man who now had nothing left to respect. The one who had once been his equal now crawled to him with some kind of request, as if he had no one else to turn to. Although perhaps that was true. He had squandered everything.

His gaze was particularly drawn to the dark marks on his neck, visible beneath his open collar, which Zanka didn't comment on.

"You won't let me die, will you?" Jabber forced a weak smile.

Zanka slowly closed the window. The room grew smaller.

"Come in," he said after a pause, without explaining it to himself, much less to him.

Jabber looked up again. A flicker of relief flickered in him. Almost imperceptible.

"Show me where the wound is," he replied with a grin, lazily lowering himself onto the edge of the table.

Jabber looked at him for a few seconds with that crooked, irritating, indifferent expression of his, then silently pulled his pants down to his knees, letting the light cast reflections on his damp skin.

Zanka froze.

The wound was on his inner thigh.

Small but deep—a narrow puncture, around which the skin was already beginning to darken.

"...Why the hell is it here?" he said quietly.

"Badly dodged," Jabber shrugged, pulling his pants down completely, tossing the clothes aside.

Zanka exhaled briefly through his nose. Anger rose instantly, hot, familiar.

"You're an idiot."

He sat down on the chair in front of him, parting the skin around the wound with his fingers. The blood flowed slowly, thickly.

Not good.

"What was in the toxin?" Zanka muttered, looking up from the wound to his dark eyes.

"We'll find out later," Jabber looked down at him, narrowing his eyes.

Zanka said nothing.

The first aid kit clicked dryly: cotton wool, alcohol, bandages, and tweezers—a familiar set, but too clean for someone who had just been under someone else's hands. The smell of a heated lamp and recent rain mingled with the cold of the antiseptic.

"Don't move."

Zanka picked up the bottle of alcohol. The clear liquid splashed heavily onto the folded gauze, and he immediately pressed it to the wound.

Jabber sucked in a sharp breath—as if the cold had cut right through the bone. Nijiku pressed harder, forcing the blood to flow. Warm and thick, it slowly crawled across the skin, gathering into a dark trail.

“We need to squeeze out everything we can,” he said dully, squeezing his thigh so hard that the muscle trembled under his fingers.

Then Zanka took a pair of metal tweezers from the first-aid kit, flicked a lighter, and brought the flame to the surface. The thin metal slowly heated, darkening at the tip. The flame flickered, reflecting off the smooth steel.

"Seriously?" Jabber drawled. "Admit it, you've been fantasizing about pinning me to the table, cauterizing my poisoned flesh, and then sinking your teeth into it..."

The flame hissed softly, licking the metal. When the tip of the tweezers was hot enough, Zanka looked at the wound again, stubbornly ignoring this idle chatter.

"...and you'll gnaw until you reach the bone."

Zanka gripped his thigh, steadying it. The red-hot tip of the tweezers hovered in the air for a split second, the heat from the metal already palpable on his skin. Only then did he press it to the open puncture.

The thick smell of burnt leather assaulted his nose, heavy, almost sweet.

Zanka didn't even blink.

Jabber jerked, his whole body jerking, his breath hissing through his teeth, but he didn't push him away. His fingers only gripped the edge of the table tighter, his knuckles white.

"Damn... This is romantic," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Zanka removed the tweezers. The blood had stopped flowing, and the edges of the wound had darkened and tightened. He quickly swabbed the area with alcohol again—a chill ran over the skin again, slightly soothing—then tightly applied the bandage, wrapping it tightly around his thigh.

For a few seconds, the room was silent, broken only by the occasional, dull thud of rain against the glass.

Zanka felt something stubbornly tighten in his chest, and it wasn't sympathy. His gaze again caught the marks on his skin, the marks of someone else's lips, what had once belonged only to them. Fragments of them floated through his mind: their first nights, that strange attachment when only his touch had mattered. Now that meaning was being eroded by someone else's fingers, someone else's money, someone else's laughter in clubs where he never went. The thought burned, as if a burning fuse had been slowly pressed under his skin.

Zanka looked at him coldly.

"You let them fuck you?"

"Many. Are you jealous?"

The answer came without a hint of embarrassment, evenly, almost lazily.

Zanka was sickened by his humiliation—not by the rumors themselves, but by the fact that Jabber had willingly allowed them to become true. There was an insult in this willingness: it wasn't "him" who had been broken; he had given up pieces of himself. Zanka saw not just a man's fall, but his stolen exceptionalism; that was what seemed especially pathetic. Jealousy clenched his throat, equal parts anger; an icy reproach he kept to himself.

"I'm tired..." Jabber drawled, stretching.

"Tired of what?" Zanka interrupted, tense. "Of this new 'job'?"

Jabber gave a short smile, but without its former glint.

"I don't care what you think of my life, man." The sarcasm sounded weak, as if Zanka had just tried to kick a lame cat.

But this answer struck harder than any accusation, because it sounded familiar. Almost like the old one.

"The toxin is a warning. I've been exposed, so I need a place where I won't be found right away."

Zanka froze at these words, his face twisting in mild disgust. So Jabber went to such extreme measures just to hide? Nijiku snorted, frowning.

"I'll solve the problem. You just need to..."

"Me?" Zanka interrupted him. "Did you think I was a charity or something?"

He remained silent. Nijiku felt a strange combination of hatred and some kind of sharp, forbidden arousal—a mental blow to the threads that had previously connected them. Suddenly, simply kicking him out wasn't enough. That wouldn't be enough. He didn't want pity. He didn't want to be the one they came crawling to. He wanted to see definitive confirmation: that Jabber had become exactly what they were whispering about.

Zanka grabbed him by the dreadlocks and pulled him down, looking him straight in the eyes; anger was seething in his own.

"Does it still turn you on when I look at you with disgust? It's stronger than ever now."

A pause hung in the room like a heavy weight. Outside, the rain fell more slowly, and inside, it was quiet, save for the soft hum of the old lamp on the nightstand, casting a warm, dim light across the room. Jabber didn't answer again.

Zanka looked at him, and a dark glimmer of light flashed in his eyes for a moment.

"A deal," Zanka said sharply. "I'll give you a place to stay, just one night. But in exchange, I want to see how worthless you've become."

Jabber paused, then nodded.

The veins in Nijiku's arms tensed at how quickly he'd agreed to this disgusting offer. He felt neither pity nor weakness, only a dull, stubborn desire to close the old wound. In his own way.

"Take off your clothes."

Grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, Zanka pushed Jabber toward the bed. He barely managed to keep his balance, and the mattress creaked softly. Zanka turned away and went to the closet, rummaged around a bit, and pulled something out. When he returned, the lamp cast long shadows across their faces; that small flame seemed to burn through everything. A box and a couple of condoms fell dully onto the blanket.

"We can do it the same way, without them," Jabber's voice took on an almost mocking softness. The remains of his clothes fell to the floor.

Zanka didn't even smile.

"You're a fucking whore. I saw you at the bar," he said reservedly, not looking up as he unloaded the items from the box one by one. So he didn't notice the old, familiar shadow of a smirk slowly appear on Jabber's lips as he sat closer.

"Oh, how mean you are, Za-anka," the drawn-out name filled the air like a breath.

Unwinding the remaining bandage from the treatment, Nijiku decided to give it one last chance.

"You can still refuse and get out of here. I'll pretend this conversation never happened. And I hope we never see each other again."

Jabber froze for a moment, looking into the blue eyes filled with malice, and then turned his gaze to the things laid out before him. Coming here, he had expected the worst; Jabber hadn't expected kindness to appear out of thin air. Looking at the various sex toys and not questioning where Zanka had gotten them from, he nodded weakly again and lay on his back, raising his folded hands above himself.

So he had truly overcome himself, his habit of keeping everything under control, his fear of showing how vulnerable he truly was.

"Then don't complain," Zanka said quietly, his voice low and dull, as tight as the muscles in his arms. "I won't make allowances for the past."

"And you never did," Jabber retorted, looking up.

The folded bandage settled on his wrists without haste. The knots were neat, confident, and undoubtedly very strong. Zanka worked silently.

That was the difference.

There had always been something explosive between them before: excitement, anger, competition, passion. Now there was only thick silence.

"Not a sound," Zanka said sharply, pulling his hands tighter and tying them to the headboard.

A moment later, the whip cut through the air.

Strike.

Dry, sharp, like the snap of a broken branch. Jabber flinched, but didn't look away. He didn't see madness in Zanka's blue eyes, only concentration. Cold, almost surgical.

Zanka also looked not at the red streaks he was leaving, but at his face. Jabber's breathing quickened but remained even; his eyes twitched, his hands clenched. Zanka wasn't striking in blind rage. He was holding back, alternating his blows, maintaining his force.

For some reason, Wonger found this situation amusing. Zanka had closed off again. He was too careful, too controlled. All his progress was wasted. A quiet chuckle escaped him almost on its own.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, yeah, you know... Mr. Bad Attitude is hiding again. That won't prove my worthlessness, because your efforts are worthless in and of themselves..."

Without letting him finish, Zanka roughly flipped Jabber over onto his stomach, forcing a hiss out of him from the contact of his inflamed skin with the blanket. This bastard won't point out his weaknesses, won't stir up his soul and push his boundaries. That won't happen.

But Zanka was falling for it.

Frequent blows rained down on his ass, back, and thighs, searing the skin. The whip cut through the air and echoed in his ears. Zanka swung harder and more mercilessly.

Jabber's barely audible hisses grew into hoarse cries, which he couldn't suppress through his bitten, bloody lips. His nerves were jumbled, the pain surged sharply, coming later but stronger.

"I told you, don't make a sound."

The final blow landed on both buttocks simultaneously, sending a hot wave of pain through him, forcing Jabber to groan loudly and arch his back. His wet, tense dick twitched several times; if that slap had been any harder, he would have come.

"Fucking masochist," Zanka muttered, rolling Jabber over onto his back and noticing the precum dripping from his head. Disgusting.

Zanka hated himself for being aroused by Jabber even in this state. Beaten, with a bitten lip and reddened eyes, pathetic—he was still as beautiful as he had been three years ago. He had an unbearable urge to hit him even harder. Or kiss him. Zanka wasn't sure which desire was the greater irritation coursing through his chest.

As their gazes met, Jabber saw so much hatred in those blue eyes for the first time. He remembered Zanka's anger during their fights, the relentless desire to prove his worth. But there was something different about it now.

Cold. Almost sublime.

A sadistic angel.

And it was truly arousing, to the point of dizziness; Zanka lost his composure because of it. Again.

He straddled Jabber without removing his own clothes. His violet eyes swept over the cloaked figure, dimly illuminated by the warmth, terribly regretting that he couldn't grasp that slender waist in his hands.

"Still think I'm holding back?" He leaned close to his ear, the hot whisper burning it, and the soft earring tickled his cheek.

"Zan-Zan has deteriorated so much during our separation, but so far I'm not impressed," Jabber croaked hoarsely.

His body burned, his chest heaved with rapid breaths, the touch felt too intense, but he certainly didn't feel broken.

Zanka yanked Jabber's dreadlocks sharply, throwing his head back, revealing a thin, tense neck where, even in the dim light, the alien dark purple marks were clearly visible.

He paused for a second, examining them, until something in his chest twitched unpleasantly.

"Disgusting," he chuckled softly.

Without waiting for an answer, Zanka leaned over.

A sharp pain shot through the base of his neck. Zanka sank his teeth right into one of the hickeys, squeezing the skin, eliciting another hoarse sigh and wide-open eyes.

His fingers gripped the dreadlocks at the roots, as if trying to rip them out, holding his head in place. Another mark, and another. He pulled at the thin skin with such force that it seemed like he was about to tear it. Jabber arched his back and groaned softly, his lips parting in short, raspy gasps—he was barely holding his breath. With each bite, his teeth bit harder, until blood appeared on the skin. Zanka pressed his lips to the mangled neck, licking and nipping, tasting the steely aftertaste. He let go only when he felt the pulse twitch wildly under his tongue.

In an instant, Jabber's jaw was clenched and twisted. Knocking out the air, Zanka captured his lips in a wet, almost languid kiss, smearing blood along with their saliva. Dirty, disgusting, so good. Zanka felt his tongue penetrate so deeply that his head began to spin. Saliva mingled, their tongues parted and then came together again. He bit his lips, dominating his tongue, not caring that they couldn't keep up with his pace. Jabber's breath hitched into the blood-scented kiss.

Zanka finally pulled away, tugging at his lower lip with his teeth and loosening his grip on his chin, only to squeeze his neck tightly, restricting his breathing.

Wonger, trying to catch at least a drop of oxygen after the suffocating kiss, opened his mouth. Zanka immediately spat on his tongue.

Without resistance, Jabber swallowed the spit.

"Ha... I won't punish you with what you like," heavy breathing and heat engulfed them both.

But the fingers still tightened, suffocatingly, only for a moment.

A resounding slap cut through the air, throwing Jabber's head to the side.

Catching his breath, he felt movement above him. A folded bandage fell over his closed eyes, then was immediately tied tightly behind his head, pressing hard against his skull.

"What was that for?" Vonger shook his head involuntarily.

A blow.

Another slap left a burn on the other side.

Jabber was enveloped in darkness and silence; he couldn't discern where Zanka was, but he certainly wasn't riding him. He felt eyes on his skin, and anxiety stirred somewhere inside. The silence oppressed him and made his heart beat even faster. A whisper came from somewhere nearby.

"You're so aroused... what a pathetic sight," Zanka pressed his fingernail lightly against his urethra, where precum had been oozing for a while, running down his dick and dripping onto his pubic area. Incredibly disgusting. He ran his hand from the base to the head, almost weightlessly.

"Did you decide to jerk me off out of pity?" A chuckle. There was no response.

Jabber felt Zanka move closer, then felt the cold metal against his skin. He ran his fingers up his thighs and then touched the head; after that, the contact faded.

"Maybe you'd better give me a blow job? You were good at that." Jabber exhaled sharply and, feeling the danger recede, angered him again and again.

"Watch your tongue," Zanka warned quietly.

Squeezing his jaw, he inserted two fingers into his mouth, pressing on his tongue, forcing him to suck, scraping his nails across the roof of his mouth and pushing deeper, eliciting a cough.

Just as quickly, Zanka withdrew his fingers, soaked in saliva and residual blood, sliding them down his neck, collecting the red drops that had emerged. His fingers traced his protruding ribs, his stomach, brushed lightly against the dark pubic hair, and ran across his crotch. His other hand pressed firmly against the cauterized wound, hidden by the bandage. The contact sent a wave of heat down his spine.

"Remember our first time? My blood was the lubricant," Zanka continued softly, pressing on his entrance and forcing him to tense. "I'll be more merciful, even though you're not worth it."

The lubricant clicked, and two fingers immediately entered. Jabber winced in pain and cold, clenching his bound hands into fists, but Zanka held him down with his palm on his chest, pressing him to the mattress. He grabbed at the folds, stretching them, pressing against the sensitive skin.

Not letting him pull away.

Not letting him get closer.

Jabber's body accepted his fingers reluctantly. The muscles inside him clenched and ached, but Zanka wasn't about to be gentle enough. The lubricant allowed him to penetrate deeper and deeper, the pads caressing the smooth walls, and they gradually relaxed. Jabber squirmed, his lips pressed together, his eyelids trembled—and again a strange wave ran through his body, which didn't go unnoticed. Zanka touched the protruding bulge and pressed both fingers against it, returning the movement. Jabber exhaled in pleasure, arching his back, seeking that touch again.

That was a mistake. He instantly cried out in pain as the fingers spread apart, spreading his ass too wide. A sharp pain pulsed through the ring of muscle, forcing him to throw his head back to get some distance between them. Zanka laughed, clearly pleased with the reaction, and pulled his fingers out with a squelching sound, only to thrust back in with three, making Jabber gasp. The bandages twitched.

This time, the movements became faster and rougher. Each thrust pressed against his prostate, causing him to involuntarily clench and moan. A strong hand squeezed his waist in a painful vice; there would surely be bruises there tomorrow.

The ring of muscle contracted each time the fingertips grazed the edge, almost pulling out, ready to push deeper inside with a more powerful thrust. Jabber's vision would have darkened to stars if they hadn't been hidden by the bandage. He was just beginning to feel his dick ache for imminent pleasure, but the torturing fingers abruptly left his body. A frustrated orgasm twisted his lower abdomen unpleasantly into a tight knot.

"Fuck..." A loud slap on his bandaged thigh interrupted his whining.

"I didn't say I'd let you cum."

Jabber hissed as he felt the head of his cock enter, but not go any further. Zanka hadn't taken his eyes off his masked face the whole time. Torturing him was so pleasurable, but Zanka expected tears. He wanted to drive him to the point of frenzy, to make Jabber beg. A plea would be proof of his insignificance.

"I want to see at what point you stop liking pain," a quiet, almost soft whisper scorched his lips.

"I don't like it, Zank..." The air seemed to be knocked out of him as something sharp was pressed against his urethra. Was that a damn knife? Oh, in that case, Zanka exceeds all expectations. Even too much. So much so that Jabber can't help but freeze at the tension Zanka felt throughout his body as his dick was squeezed by hot, lube-slicked muscles.

"Liar," Zanka snorted, grasping Jabber's dick and holding it vertical. The lubricated urethral probe, its thin tip slid slowly into his urethra, spreading the channel. Each ball on the rod penetrated more and more smoothly, causing a burning sensation, a sharp, stabbing pain. This alien pressure, a cold, rough violation, was the deepest he'd ever experienced.

Jabber's back arched, his spine a tangle of screaming nerves as the metal pressed in, stretching him from the inside.

"Red!"

"We never had safe words," Zanka smiled contentedly. He devoured him with his eyes as his fingers carefully pushed the probe deeper, twisting it slightly. He loved the sight: the sweaty, battered, and trembling body, the bloody bite marks, the red cheeks uncovered by the bandage, the mouth opening and closing convulsively, and the drool dripping from his chin. "Don't worry, I'll return you to your clients in working order."

"Z... Zanka... it hurts..." he breathed out in a trembling whisper. Tears barely formed on his eyelashes; fortunately, his eyes were hidden from Zanka. Jabber gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to give in completely to the pain. His cock throbbed heavily, swelling and growing harder despite the agony.

"I'll gag you if you don't stop whining."

Zanka wanted to bite his lips to silence him, wanted to break into him and finally destroy him. But Jabber endured, still whining, though not revealing his true nature. Was it really painful? Zanka could tell by the bitten lips alone. But it wasn't enough. Absolutely not enough!

His own cock was ready to explode. He lazily licked his lower lip and pulled his hips back slightly. As soon as his hard cock brushed against the inner lining, Jabber's lips tightened.

"Oh, fuck," that small phrase sent a wave of cold through Jabber, not a good sign. Zanka rested his palm somewhere near Jabber's head and with his other hand pushed the probe sharply all the way to the end, until a hoarse hiss erupted. A tight, distending sensation filled Jabber's mind. The next moment, Zanka thrust, driving his entire cock almost to the base, eliciting a painful cry.

Jabber's entire body shuddered. A fast, brutal pace was set immediately, giving him no time to adjust. His buttocks and thighs collided forcefully, producing a loud, frictional sound. Long moans erupted from the depths of Jabber's throat. His cock didn't just fill him; it felt like it would pierce his insides. Every thrust hit his prostate, pressing so hard... but he couldn't cum because of the probe inside him. It was driving him crazy. Zanka, squeezing his hips until they trembled, entered at just the right angle, forcing him to the brink.

Jabber tugged at his bound hands, clenched his fingers, squirmed, trying to lift his hips, force an orgasm, but Zanka was adamant. He could see that if Jabber had the chance, he would break the deal and leave; this kind of torture brought him no pleasure, but there was no way to leave. It was infuriating. Zanka was so infuriated that he had sunk so low. And for what? A place to sleep? Stupid.

But now it was true. Damn Jabber had turned himself into this. The thrusts grew harder. Zanka tugged on the probe, pulling it halfway out, then pushed it back in. The body beneath him shuddered.

"Zanka, ah, I can't take it anymore," Jabber was completely out of his mind. Zanka didn't notice how Vongar began to buck his hips, impaling himself, moaning uncontrollably, how his legs wrapped around his waist, trembling with pleasure. "More... ah... Zanka..." He choked on his own saliva, drowning in pain and pleasure, arching, shuddering, and crying out.

Zanka was physically aroused, but his mind screamed with disgust. He remembered that all he wanted was to crush his former lover, make him cry and apologize. But he certainly didn't want to scream his name with his dying breath. He needed to see him fall. He waited for the final explosion—that very sound: a broken, pathetic plea, a helpless whisper of "stop."

But I saw something else.

When he gave that sharp thrust again and pinned Jabber to him so he couldn't move, Zanka pulled the blindfold off, looking into his closed eyelids, his trembling lips. And at the very moment when tears should have appeared, when he expected him to burst in agony, a tiny, tugging smile escaped from beneath his eyelashes.

And the moment Zanka considered his victory turned out to be lost.

He stopped moving his entire body; the sensation in his chest turned to stone. His heart still beat, but the rhythm had shifted: from anticipation to sharp, cold attention. The hands that had held control just a second ago felt alien in his own.

"It can't be..." he blurted out quietly, almost a whisper.

Jabber didn't open his eyes immediately. But the moment he raised his head and their gazes met, Zanka saw a violet spark he'd thought had long since died out. Thrill. Control. The old spark of cunning that once drove him to recklessness. That same smirk played at the corners of Jabber's lips—not from pain, but from pure, calculated joy. His ringing laughter cut through the silence of the room.

"You're still as delightfully naive as ever."

Zanka froze, feeling two things simultaneously flaring within him: rage—because he'd been deceived so easily and foolishly—but also a strange, cold delight—because he'd been deceived by someone he knew to the core.

Nijiku chuckled at his own thoughts, the naive idiot. He gently grabbed Jabber's chin, leaning in to kiss his lips.

"All this... so I could fuck you?"

"Framing all those rumors was sooo boring. But that tedious task was worth it, wasn't it?" He looked childishly pleased, as if Zanka actually owed him praise for his efforts. Unthinkable.

"Did you administer the toxin yourself?" A silent smile was his reply. "How does it work?" Zanka's calm tone made him tense slightly.

Jabber hadn't expected this; he was sure his wounded pride would flare up and force him to act even more aggressively.

"It wreaks havoc on the nervous system... the pain is stronger, the pleasure more intense," Jabber continued, trembling with the memory of the stimulation. "Every now and then the sensation fades, and then it hits like an explosion... I mixed it myself."

Zanka's almost gentle touch on the cauterized wound on his inner thigh made Jabber arch his back and groan convulsively. So it's true.

"But you enjoyed my performance, didn't you?" "Jabber stretched his head as far as his position allowed and playfully licked the other's lips. "Oh, that was really fun. A sweet start," he said, lifting his legs and locking them behind Zanka, who was still inside him, pulling him closer, forcing him to move. "Don't sulk, let's continue our little fun."

Purring, Jabber bowed his head, looking with pleasure at the glowing blue eyes.

Zanka had been tricked. They had played with his emotions, laughed at him, and forced him to fuck. And now all he could enjoy were the occasional groans of pain. If that was the case, he would get his comeback in full. Jabber would get what he came for.

Without looking, Zanka found the remote control on the blanket and pressed a button with a loud click. The rod in his urethra began to vibrate. At first, Jabber only shuddered slightly, then cried out. Violet eyes, wide with surprise, lit up. A scorching hot sensation washed over him.

"This thing even vibrates!" he exclaimed. Zanka didn't care whether it was admiration or indignation, so, ignoring his partner's writhing and trembling body, he pulled out and roughly flipped him over, forcing him onto his knees and raising his ass higher.

Anger, humiliation, and a hint of delight oozed through Zanka's fingers, burning his body, leaving red marks from his rough grip. Then a soft touch moved from his tailbone to his neck, relaxing him. A moment later, a hand twisted a mop of dreadlocks around his fist. Jabber hissed painfully, and his face was pressed cheek down into the pillow.

The powerful vibration seemed to transform the insides of his penis into a piercing wire. The sensations were so intense that they completely drowned out his thoughts. Jabber didn't even notice how the head of his penis pressed against his already ravaged entrance and penetrated without resistance. His muscles, so stretched, allowed Zanka to immediately thrust harder, starting with slow, almost agonizing thrusts.

Jabber hated this pace. They'd only had smooth, languid sex once before: Wonger was badly injured, but he wanted to experience the full range of pain, persuading Zanka to try being on top a second time. Zanka treated him like porcelain—absurdly. That, too, had its share of suffering. But after this experience, Jabber declared it the most unbearable sex of his life. A vindictive bastard.

His dick moved forward, pressing weakly against his prostate and sending a pleasant pulsation deep into his abdomen, then smoothly pulled back, leaving Jabber's body, trailing a thin thread of lubrication behind it. It was a stark contrast to the sensations inside his dick, driving him crazy. Afterwards, Zanka moved in again, allowing the muscles to tighten slightly around his head, penetrating almost painfully slowly.

"Zanka, please," Jabber moaned with a hoarse whine, ignoring the way his fingers in his hair tightened even more at the sound of his voice. "I can't... ugh... when you're so slow..."

"Too bad I don't care," Zanka snorted, continuing to maintain this strained pace. Jabber was driven beyond endurance by this pathetic stimulation. He felt his walls moving back and forth with Zanka's cock, something inside him twitching, the head pressing against his prostate, causing an unpleasant tingling sensation in his stomach, and then retreating, returning to a disgustingly slow pace. He wanted to cry. It was unbearable. This wasn't sex, this was pure torture, a horribly sophisticated mockery of him!

The vibrations within him intensified every movement, fragmenting the sensations into dozens of tiny flashes. The toxin coursing through his nerves transformed every touch into a distorted wave: emptiness, then suffocating heat.

Moments stretched into hours for Jabber. He wasn't just asking anymore; he was moaning and begging for him to move more vigorously inside him.

"Ah... fuck..." a breath escaped his lips, ragged and helpless.

Zanka watched him from above, and there was something almost predatory about it. A heavy, dark satisfaction spread through his chest.

There.

Not sarcastic. Not smug. Not the man who laughed in his face. Jabber—broken, trembling, gasping for breath with every thrust.

He wanted to see everything.

He wanted Jabber to feel everything.

"I so, ah, I want to c-come... Please, Za-anka," Vonger howled as Zanka deliberately changed the angle, deliberately ignoring his prostate, and tried to twitch, trying to regain some measure of control. But, chained to the bed, his movements were severely limited. "Please, Zanka... I just, ugh, haven't felt this in so long... So long... After you, everything was different, please..." Jabber was torn between emotions, burning inside him, exploding in his head, deafening him all at once.

Despite everything, delight sparked in Zanka's head like an answer to his slurred plea. And, in fact, he himself disliked the gentle pace; it was almost impossible to restrain himself. So when Jabber, drooling onto the pillow, his bound hands clenched, and hissing through clenched teeth, croaked out "please" again, he stopped. For a second, Jabber's body froze in fear, and his heart sank deep into his stomach. That damn sadist, Zanka, would leave him like this? Was this his chosen punishment?

"You should be grateful."

Click.

The vibration in his dick intensified. The sensations began to build so sharply that his jaw clenched with the scream he couldn't hold back. Then Zanka's cock abruptly thrust deep inside Jabber, knocking a half-breath from him.

The first orgasm washed over him like a disgusting storm. Jabber came in intermittent, desperate waves, but not a drop of semen came out, stuck by the inserted probe. Zanka didn't stop with one thrust. He pushed back with his pelvis as sharply as he had entered, and then practically slammed his groin against Jabber's aching thighs again. Tears leaked through his clenched violet eyes, no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

Jabber's body writhed in post-orgasmic spasms, amplified by the toxin. His limbs twitched, trying to escape the overstimulation as soon as the peak had passed. But the vibration in his dick didn't stop. It intensified again.

"Za-anka, s-stop." Perhaps he shouldn't have revealed himself so soon. Of course, he wanted to be fucked hard, but this was hell. A damn sadistic angel, indeed. This was all beyond Jabber's expectations. His cock spasmed around the shaft, trying to push it out and escape the burning sensation, but it was impossible. "Zan... It's already h-hurt, ahem... I don't like it..."

"Not my problem," Zanka snorted, thrusting into the spasming body with his next thrust. He continued to thrust inside to the base, then thrust back sharply, all the way to the edge, repeating the previous thrust.

Jabber felt his stomach throb painfully. Every movement, every tug of his hair, was met with a groan, a cry, a low grunt from Jabber. Zanka moved inside him, relishing every sound, every shudder of his body, every contraction of the muscles around his cock. Zanka savored the sight, regretting that the incessant tears from Zanka's eyes would remain only in his soul.

The sharp, deep thrusts and the vibrations in his cock, which mercilessly and callously cut into his flesh, made Jabber begin to truly sob. Every inch of his body craved rest, his skin burned from even the lightest touches, but the rod and the damned cock inside him continued to push him toward the abyss he had so recently crossed. He struggled to break free from these sensations, but his body continued to shudder in a frantic, involuntary rhythm. His muscles contracted and rolled; he didn't know what to do with himself.

"Please..." he sobbed loudly. "Zanka, stop... Pull it out... it's too much..."

Jabber tried his best to endure the sensation, gritting his teeth, but it didn't subside. A dull buzzing seemed to concentrate at the head of his penis, where it was even more sensitive. The overstimulation turned into an inexorable hum beneath his skin.

Beneath the haze of pain and pleasure, he heard a soft whisper.

"Resistance only makes the pain worse, try to relax."

Jabber laughed hoarsely:

"Try fucking relaxing with a metal rod vibrating inside your dick!..."

The next vibration interrupted his indignant flow. It wasn't just stronger—it was a maddening, unbearably suffocating hum that made his spine arch sharply. His dick was definitely finished. Zanka would blow him to bits, without a shred of remorse.

Jabber tried to simply breathe in rhythm with the pounding sounds echoing in his ears, and he didn't even notice the fingers in his hair loosening. Only in the second the pain from the stretched skin subsided did Jabber realize his freedom, which was short-lived. He moaned even louder as fingers penetrated his mouth, pulling his cheek back, pressing hard against his head, preventing him from even lifting it from the pillow. Zanka pressed him into the bed, which was already covered in tears and drool mixed with the remnants of blood, while he himself, almost selflessly, pounded into the yielding body.

Jabber's eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible. He no longer tried to speak; even moaning was difficult—the waves of sensation interrupted him.

The onset of his second orgasm was terribly wrong. A sharp, mounting pressure, like a spasm lodged somewhere deep in his groin. His entire body contracted, but the vibrations continued to pierce him. Rough thrusts continued to press against his prostate. Unbearable. His strength was almost exhausted. His nervous system was strained to the limit. His legs shook so violently that he would have surely collapsed if Zanka hadn't caught him, pressing against his back.

"Don't..."

When Jabber finally broke, it brought him physical pain. His pelvic muscles clenched so hard he howled. His vision blurred. His legs twitched helplessly as thick pulsations spread along his shaft. The expected relief never came.

"Zanka... I'm going to die..."

Slowing his pace, Nijiku watched Jabber's heavy breathing, each breath a labored effort, and finally, all control vanished. He was shattered. A glimmer of pleasure flickered in his blue eyes.

"Okay, poor thing, I'll help you." The words seemed distant. Jabber barely heard them, but the thought still flashed through his mind that never before had the sympathy in someone else's voice felt so pleasant. "Come for me... one last time..." Zanka's voice suddenly became soft and sweet, enticing him to trust completely.

His cock began to move again, the head constantly brushing against his prostate, brushing against it so often that Jabber could barely breathe between waves of pleasurable spasms. And just when he thought he was about to lose consciousness, Zanka abruptly pulled out the probe, eliciting a deafening cry. His third orgasm overtook him. A stream of whitish sperm followed, gushing onto Jabber's palm and the blanket.

Zanka seemed to have been waiting for this exact moment—as soon as Jabber clenched inside him again, squeezing his cock with his walls, he exhaled, thrusting harder and harder. He was on the edge. Jabber could feel it even through the throbbing orgasm pulsing in his head. A couple of thrusts, and Zanka let out that same pleasant, high-pitched sound he always made when pleasure washed over him. Jabber closed his eyes, not hiding his own pleasure from the hot sperm spilling inside him. Fuck, how he'd missed this.

The silence of the room was broken only by the ragged, scorching breaths of both of them. Zanka thrust one last time, reaching his limit, and collapsed onto his partner's back, pressing him against the soaking blanket. His heart pounded in his chest, and a white noise washed over them, giving them time to recover.

Zanka was the first to stir. Slowly, he pulled out of the hot, unwilling body, and immediately noticed sperm leaking out. The condom broke. He exhaled, deciding to deal with it later. Zanka tore the bandages, finally freeing Jabber's hands, and collapsed next to him, face to face. Looking at him, he no longer felt anger. He had been used, deceived, his heart and soul had been torn apart again, but there was no hatred. Only a warm weariness. He closed his eyes, breathing steadily.

"You're perfect," a barely audible whisper touched him. Squinting, Zanka saw bright magenta eyes looking at him with admiration. Apparently, he would never stop being drawn to those damn sparkles, to that sly, yet so satisfied smile, but especially to that sincere praise for how he was exceeding the limits of what was possible. Zanka was hopeless.

Morning came quickly. It seemed he'd only blinked, and the darkness of the night had vanished, and with it, Jabber. Only the rumpled sheets next to him and the bloodstains suggested that what had happened hadn't been a dream.

He'd created chaos... and left without even saying goodbye.

His gaze fell on a thin crease in the pillow, revealing something white beneath. Zanka frowned in displeasure and pulled out a scrap of paper.

"It was fun. Let's do it again."

He stared at the scrawled note for a few seconds, then groaned, slowly covering his face with his hand.

"Psycho..."

Despite his own indignation, a silly smile still flickered across his face. Brief, irritated, as if he'd caught himself thinking something he didn't want to admit.

After showering and changing, Zanka trudged to the kitchen; he desperately needed coffee. He had a workday ahead, and he'd slept only a couple of hours.

His head was heavy, his body ached, and not just from fatigue. Memories stubbornly returned: someone else's laughter, a hoarse voice, a look... He shook his head sharply, as if he could shake it all from his thoughts.

It didn't help.

Entering the half-empty cafeteria and nodding to his colleagues, Zanka didn't notice anything strange at first. Only when he reached for the coffee pot to pour the rest of his coffee did he notice two people staring at him too intently.

Suspiciously intently.

"Hm. So, you and Jabber made up?" Enjin said, completely calm.

Zanka froze. His hand, holding the mug, stopped halfway.

"What?" he turned around abruptly, his gaze sharp and wary. "Did you hear something?"

A sharp pain stabbed through his chest.

Could it be... no. Impossible.

"Maybe... yes, maybe not," drawled Enjin, unable to suppress a smile.

Zanka felt a chill in his stomach.

"Tsk, Enjin!" Riyo interjected. "Zanka, the entire headquarters heard you yesterday, and we've known about your secret affair with that stinking ragamuffin for a year and a half. You didn't even try to hide it!"

The mug in his hand trembled slightly.

Zanka blushed and turned away abruptly, as if that could somehow conceal what was happening.

"I don't understand what you're talking about," he clenched his teeth to keep from screaming in utter humiliation.

His heart was pounding so loudly it seemed like the whole room could hear it.

"Listen, Zanka," Enjin approached him from behind, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder. "We don't judge..."

Riyo's giggling interrupted his attempt to calm the cornered Zanka. He wanted to disappear right then and there, to rot in a pile of trash or break his neck falling into a well or... How much had they heard? Everything?...

"It's a specific choice, of course, but... You really beat him up yesterday," the mentor's hoarse laughter rippled through Zanka's tensed body. "I mean, it's great that you have someone you can be yourself with, or... whatever it is, you know?"

Zanka slowly looked up.

Shame burned his face so much he wanted to cover it with his hands. But instead, he met Engine's gaze, a perfectly contented, almost fatherly, gentle expression.

And that only made things worse.

"Hey, Zanka, come to the bar with us tonight! The gay drama is finally over, so stop hanging around and drinking alone," Riyo jumped up and quickly appeared next to him, peering into his confused face. "I've been waiting forever for you to come to your senses. You were completely impossible to talk to, you know that?"

Zanka tensed; every word Riyo said seemed to pierce his brain, making him writhe in awkwardness and helpless irritation.

"Enjin... What's 'gay drama'?" the obnoxious child's hesitant question echoed throughout the cafeteria. Rudo looked up from his mountain of sweets at the wrong time, determined to finish off the already half-fainting Nijiku.

Zanka closed his eyes.

For a second.

He inhaled slowly.

He really wanted to die.

But first, he definitely needs to strangle that damn Jabber.