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If cinching his fingers around Jabber’s throat until the bones crunched and splintered in his grasp would make the maniac shut up and not cum, Zanka would do it.
It pisses the Cleaner off to know that most of his sadistic fantasies—rooted in the sole goal of incapacitating the Raider for sycophantic do-gooder brownie points (Jabber’s words)—can’t be actualized because they’re Jabber’s fantasies too.
“Mr. Bad Attitude tryin’ sooo hard to hurt a masochist,” Jabber teased once in the middle of a fight, rutting against the rubble Zanka had flung him into. “Don’t’cha know it’s all just games, man? We’re just havin’ a laugh here.”
He tilted his head when Zanka returned to his ready stance, his eyes narrowing into crazed pinpricks that didn’t mask the longing and want in them. “But I don’t mind playin’ along, y’feel me? You look cute when you get all pissed for nothin’.”
It’d be so much easier if he was pissed for nothing. If his anger wasn’t as righteous as it is. Because then—maybe then—fucking Jabber in yet another pile of rubble wouldn’t make him as sick to his stomach as it does.
“Shut up,” he hisses at the Jabber who’s writhing beneath him now.
It’s pointless, really. He’s probably way too drugged out to control his vocal chords and Zanka would have to be delusional to think he’d listen in the first place.
As predicted, Jabber just grins up at him with every intention of talking back. He grinds his skull against the slab of concrete propping him up like a cat nuzzling its scratching post.
One stomp and his skull would shatter into shards of bone, turning his head into nothing more than a well-adorned rattle.
He’d probably have the best orgasm of his life.
“Make me, pretty boy. I know you’re dyin’ to.”
The part that pisses Zanka off even more is that he is dying to. He’s spent countless nights after everyone at HQ was fast asleep with one hand working around his cock and the other ticking off all the elaborate ways he’d shut Jabber up for good if that was a viable option.
Ramming Lovely into his throat so hard his trachea would cave in on itself. Making him swallow his teeth and then choking him on his cock. Shoving his fist inside his mouth and ripping out his tongue.
He’d probably lose his fingers if he attempted the latter.
There’s a part of him that’s willing to pay that price.
It’s the same part of him that’s pulling his pants down under Jabber’s hungry gaze, yanking his cock out and jerking it with calloused hands.
He’s never hard by the end of their fights the way Jabber is. He doesn’t get off on pain and exertion and humiliation the way the Raider does. He’s not the one who stays revved and ready to go (Jabber’s words), approaching every battle as his next fix.
No, what gets Zanka off is the momentary shudder of submission that runs down Jabber’s spine when he’s pinned beneath the Cleaner. The way that crazed look in his eyes gets a little more focused, like he’s finally aware that consequences are around the corner.
Right now is when the longing and want sharpens through the haze of toxins that would knock Zanka on his ass but only dull Jabber’s senses into something manageable. It’s when his breath quickens like the real pain—the one wrapped in a pleasure that no drug or fight can offer him—is about to start.
“Damn, no love for me?” Jabber asks, wagging his hips. His cock is tenting his pants, jutting out at Zanka as a reminder that nothing he can do will ever truly hurt him.
The way his hips fall still again when Zanka doesn’t indulge him, only spits on his hand to coat himself so his dick isn’t rubbed raw by the end of this, is unusual.
Jabber’s being a little too compliant. It makes Zanka’s cock throb just as much as it makes suspicion twist in his gut.
Sometimes it happens when he slips into subspace in the midst of their fight, blissed out on whatever well-placed strike finally did him in, on the smell and taste of blood that has him cumming in his pants before Zanka even gets between his legs.
Other times it happens because he’s trying to lull Zanka into thinking he won just so the masochistic brat can attack when his defenses are down, goading the Cleaner into hitting him even harder.
Mankira scrapes against the concrete like the blades itch to sink into Zanka’s flesh, to lay him out on some nasty cocktail of neurotoxins that would have him drooling while Jabber savors his defeat.
Maybe if he hated the idea more, he’d address the matter.
“It actually feels good, Jabber,” he replies, focused only on working himself to full mast. “You’d hate it.”
“Bet you’d make it hurt just right, though,” Jabber returns with another wag.
He can’t deny that he would.
Some of the fantasies that edge beyond strictly do-gooder goals of incapacitation include crushing Jabber’s cockhead between the harsh floor and his foot until he screams himself hoarse. Using Lovely as a cane that would bruise thick, purple lines onto his inner thighs and his shaft and his balls.
Another pointless effort, he knows.
Jabber would probably just beg him to rip his dick off.
The Raider rakes in a choked breath when Zanka yanks down his pants that has him wondering if he accidentally broke his femur somewhere along the way.
The part of him that is still a do-gooder—that has a strangely vested interest in keeping Jabber functional, if not lucid or intact—goes to check. He presses against his thighs, his hipbones, his knees, without so much as a hiss.
He concedes that Jabber is, in fact, intact. Then wraps a tight fist around Jabber’s weeping cock and digs his nails into the sensitive flesh like he can change that fact through wishful thinking alone.
The man moans loud enough that it reverberates throughout the empty battlefield.
Then he shudders and cums in his hand right then and there.
Yeah. He’s in subspace alright.
Zanka doesn’t move his hand to work him through it, doesn’t care that he’s cumming way too soon when he knows he’s just going to wring another three or four orgasms out of him before they’re done.
Oddly enough, the only thing that has Zanka pissed now is that he didn’t catch the exact moment it happened. The moment the pain was so great that it overwhelmed his processors and forced him into a fugue state to escape it.
Watching his eyes glaze over as he slips into subspace is one of the best feelings in the world—especially when Zanka is the one causing it. The haze forces out every other thought of his, overpowers even the toxin-induced fog. It pushes him into the perfect state of compliance, one that allows Zanka to take full advantage of whatever freaky trauma response or fucked-up biology allows the man to withstand so much pain and still enjoy every second of it.
“I always forget how pathetic you are when you’re like this,” Zanka muses, mostly to himself. He flicks his hand to the side to shake off Jabber’s cum.
The man’s breathing is low and slow in a way that would be concerning given his current state if he wasn’t him. But he is him, so Zanka pays it no mind. Just pulls off the man’s pants entirely and folds him in half.
“Nah, nah,” Jabber breathes, his eyelids fluttering as he lets himself be repositioned. Only he could still talk through every influence vying for his submission. “You got it twisted, man. What’s pathetic is how much you need me like this to get your rocks off. Don’t even front like it ain’t true ‘cause I ain’t buyin’.”
Zanka scoffs because it’s the only response he can give without lying.
His hands move to Jabber’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart and watching his hole wink open for him. He’s tempted to sink a finger in first, to offer some meager form of preparation before fucking him stupid, but Jabber would just call him a pussy for it. Try to lash out and make this harder on them both.
He’s not really in the mood to draw this thing out tonight. So he leans in close enough to spit on Jabber’s hole, enjoying the way it makes him twitch and groan, and leaves it at that.
The single bead of precum and quickly-drying spit on his own dick is hardly sufficient lube, but he knows there will be more than enough easing his way in a second.
He hates that the thought actually makes him groan out loud, his mouth watering. His own response sickens him.
Not enough for him to stop what he’s doing, though.
He braces a hand on Jabber’s knee and presses his leg even tighter to his chest. The anticipation of what’s about to begin has Jabber writhing again, claws scraping against the floor at his sides.
Zanka really should remove Mankira from their immediate vicinity. Even in subspace, Jabber can get handsy—if less coordinated. Which is only more of a reason to play it safe.
But his muscles ache with the reminder of how good it feels to be rendered motionless, drugs he’d never touch otherwise coursing through his veins and sapping his strength. Not thinking about control or power or victory or defeat. Letting himself be used—because no way would Jabber walk away from him like this. He’d probably bounce on Zanka’s cock for hours, doping him up every thirty minutes to keep him nice and pliant. Or else letting the feeling return to his limbs slowly just to gloat about him being too weak to stop.
Not that Zanka would anyway. They both know that now. Try as he may to resist it, Zanka is too addicted to… whatever this is… to do anything but give in.
So he leaves Mankira securely fastened as is.
Then he guides the head of his cock to Jabber’s rim and starts to press in.
“Don’t pussy out and go slow on me, a’ight? Need it as rough as you got it. If you still got any fight in ya left, that is.”
“Says the man who hasn’t moved since I got his legs in the air,” Zanka mutters. But fighting Jabber with words is always a lost cause.
Jabber only responds to one thing.
The same thing that has him crying out the second Zanka shoves his cock into his ass, tearing through the muscles that try to resist the intrusion as he bullies his way in.
“Oh fuck yessss,” Jabber moans even though his body has the exact opposite reaction.
He clenches up, which only adds to the friction inside him. His arms and legs spasm like they’re trying to escape. He twists violently despite the fact that his limbs are too heavy to get him anywhere that isn’t further onto Zanka’s cock.
Only his face reflects his words, a perfect picture of ecstasy with his eyes rolling into the back of his head, drool racing down his chin, lips quivering like they carry all the weight of the pleasure he can’t express.
Zanka’s pause at the hilt is entirely self-motivated.
The sudden pressure is as intense as it is violent, his cock buried in a vice grip that seems to want to tear him apart right back. It has his head spinning even harder than when Jabber lands a kick to the dome. He bites his lip to stifle the echoed moan of longing and want that he hates humoring but can’t avoid all the same.
Jabber cackles something delirious, squeezing between grit teeth.
“Hurry up!” he demands on a sharp inhale, the fucking freak. He’d be thrilled if Zanka dragged out his entrails. He’d probably make him fuck them back in.
“Alright,” he hisses back, and he pulls out with a reluctance that has his nerves buzzing as the tight heat of the Raider nearly refuses to let him go.
The next moan it draws from Jabber is so pained that if a member of his squad made it, he’d be rushing to their aid so fast he’d blur on his way there. It’s downright tortured, a sound Zanka never hears when he’s using his fists and staff to pummel the man alone.
His cock hits the air of their battlefield again and the blood that comes away when he pulls out is dark red and streaking his shaft like wet paint. A dribble of fluid runs down the cleft of Jabber’s ass and Zanka yanks himself out entirely for the sole purpose of meeting it and dragging it back up.
“You’re such a fucking freak,” he voices aloud when Jabber’s cock starts hardening in the puddle of cum on his stomach. The head of his own cock pops back in.
“Mm and you love it as much as I do.”
Hardly, he wants to say. But his cock is throbbing with every inch that sinks in, every clench of that tight, wet heat around his shaft. It has him worried that he might cum too soon. He’s only on his second thrust and already the way Jabber is clinging to him and loosening around him at the same time is driving him crazy.
He bottoms out and groans low in his throat at the wet schlick that sounds when he does.
Jabber mirrors his groan and tilts his hips, chasing the sensation of Zanka’s balls against his ass as he grinds deeper. “C’mon, freak-lover. Make me pay for bein’ such a bad boy. I know y’wanna.”
If only subspace rendered him mute as well as lame.
“I wish I could,” he grits out, just for the record. Both hands come to grip the meat of Jabber’s thighs and he makes sure he’s properly pinned before he gives a solid thrust that practically fractures his tailbone. He feels the bones and muscle give.
“Yes, yes, yes! Fuck! So good... Make me bleed, Z! Make me break.”
The way he swims in and out of the haze—passion driving his words higher and pain bringing him back down—feels like it’d be dangerous if he wasn’t so clearly committed to being fucked into the floor.
Luckily Zanka is just as committed and quickly finds the pace that has them both gasping. He’s pulling out and ramming in with long, hard thrusts that force a breath out every time he embeds himself inside the Raider.
Jabber’s hole is only getting wetter and sloppier with every second. Zanka can feel whatever tore inside of him getting wider as he keeps going and doesn’t stop. The Cleaner groans when the head of his cock hits tattered flesh, making Jabber shudder and quiver like he can’t take it and still needs more.
“I’m so wet for you,” he says, his throat thrown back in submission like that’s a thing he can actually offer. “Only for you, baby. Don’t get this wet for no one else.”
Disgust twists in Zanka’s stomach and he can’t determine if it’s the taunt itself or the thought of anyone else inside Jabber like this, rocking their cock into him and making him keen for more pain even as he’s at his max.
Whatever it is, it makes him thrust in even harder. He angles sharp thrust after sharp thrust into the deep cavern he can never escape.
“Mmm.” Jabber’s muscles—which were already feeble at the start—aren’t responding to him anymore. His hands are lax at his sides. His knees only stay drawn to his chest because Zanka is keeping them there. The fog of subspace must have him in a better chokehold than Zanka ever has because even the grin that always adorns his fucked-out face is slipping. “That’s the shit.”
The slick sound of blood and flesh pushing in and out of his hole is loud enough to nearly drown out the ringing in Zanka’s ears.
“How are you still so tight?” he asks, panting as his hips keep going, his balls aching with every heavy slap on the curve of his ass.
Jabber either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t care to answer. “Fuck,” he moans, his whole body twitching reflexively around a thrust that drags his back across the broken rubble beneath him. “Shit’s better than drugs.”
A spark of power blazes through Zanka at the confession. He can’t be sure he heard him right, his words are so damn slurred, but he needs to hear it again.
“What’s that?” he asks, the gloat barely concealed. “My cock’s better than drugs?”
“Mmmm,” Jabber moans noncommittally, his eyes falling shut.
That won’t do.
Neither of them are opposed to Zanka fucking him unconscious, but he’s not about to let Jabber fuck off to La La Land with an admittance like that on the table. At least not any more than he already has.
He keeps his hips pistoning into the Raider, keeps him lulled in the repetitive motion and how good it hurts.
Then he leans forward, winds a hand back, and slaps Jabber across the face so hard his whole body jerks to the side.
His eyes fly open and a groan punches out of him that turns into a whine of pleasure, a keen for more. “Fuck, do that again,” Jabber gets out before his eyes slip shut again.
This time Zanka backhands him, getting an even better noise out of the man. “Wake up, asshole.”
“‘M up, ‘m up,” he says without opening his eyes. “Just too good… fuckin’ me too good…”
“Better than drugs, right?”
“Mmmhm.”
“Look me in the eyes and say it. Tell me how good it is.”
If the Raider was, in fact, lucid right now he’d only tease Zanka for needing the praise like a neglected puppy doing a piss-poor trick (Jabber’s words).
But there’s nothing piss-poor about the way Jabber switches over to choppy breaths like he’s sporting a punctured lung. Because Zanka found that spot inside him—the spot that really tortures him every time his cock slams into it. Because as much pain as he can withstand, the pleasure is always what undos him.
What’s worse is that Zanka found it without even trying.
He hates that he just knows Jabber’s body that well.
That pisses him off more than it should at this point. That even when he tries to make it hurt, to push him further, to break him harder—he can’t keep from making it good. And Jabber, in turn, can’t get enough.
Not only does he always beg and cry and cum, but he always circles back for another round no matter how angry they get at each other between fucks.
Maybe he is addicted to Zanka’s cock. To him.
That’d check out.
Jabber doesn’t pull punches but sometimes when they’re really going at it Zanka catches a glimpse of sadness on his face when he lands a hit with all his force. Like he’d hate losing his favorite toy just as much as he’d love beating him once and for all.
Besides, addiction is obviously the bastard’s entire personality and he makes it clear that thinking with his dick is his MO.
Which should make drawing this confession out of him almost too easy.
The next time his hips retreat, he withdraws his cock entirely. Slips out of his hole easily with how fucked loose he is by now. And fuck, whatever’s got him this lost in the sauce keeps his ass nice and gaped, opened wide and dripping red.
He slaps the head of his cock against Jabber’s hole, delighting in the way he squirms.
“Why’d’y’stop?” Jabber gets out like it’s all one word. He arches against the slab behind him and cracks an eye open just to glare at him.
Zanka ignores him, rutting against him and painting the inside of his thighs red. When their shafts drag against each other, Jabber jolts in overstimulation.
His mouth falls open. “C’mon, quit playin’,” he says, bargaining. Pathetic. “Denial ain’t your thing.”
Which is true. Their whole… this would fall apart in two seconds if it was.
Sure enough, the sound of Mankira tapping against the concrete reaches Zanka’s ears and he figures, yeah, he may very well be playing with fire. Wait any longer and he’ll be out cold for the next who knows how long.
He circles his rim again, letting his cockhead slip in and out with a slick pop. Shit, he loves the way Jabber goes taut and then snaps all over again with every touch. The fire burns just as hot inside the Cleaner, humming at the base of his skull.
“Tell me.”
“Fuckin’ needy bitch.”
“Tell me.”
“If you think I’m singin’ your praises on your 10, think again, pretty boy. Fuck me or fuck off.”
“Fine.”
Jabber grins like he won but Zanka only teases his defeat.
He releases Jabber’s legs, letting them fall to the side like dead weight. Then he starts up again but he keeps his thrusts shallow, avoiding any punishing or pleasuring angle. He does it like fucking him is a chore and he’s after the bare minimum, not like it’s something he needs to feel whole.
Jabber can tell it’s a power play, the way his grin stretches a little thinner. Maybe he wants to hold out until Zanka gives in first but instead, he whimpers.
So fucking pathetic.
He probably can’t feel a damn thing, and that’s what he really hates.
Beyond the fact that his ass is so ruined at this point that Zanka is surprised there’s any grip left, when he’s in subspace he only reacts to pain. Quick, harsh, bruising, permanent. However he takes it, it needs to be too much to be felt at all.
Slow and steady isn’t either of their pace, but the sounds Jabber makes when he’s being fucked in limbo is making Zanka’s balls draw tight. Which means he could probably cum just like this and leave Jabber wanting.
But he needs to hear him say it and Jabber sounds so close to losing his tongue.
He doesn’t until Zanka grabs his dick and squeezes so tight his knuckles crack.
“Fuuuuuck, baby, fuck don’t stop! Rip my dick off.”
Zanka so fucking called that shit.
“Tell me,” he rams in with all his strength, “how good,” the hand on his cock twists so far his wrist protests the movement, “it is,” and he’s back in that punishing pace hitting that same spot like he never left.
Jabber screams and slams his head back against the concrete. “So good ’m gonna cum my brains out. Dammit Zan, you know how to dick a guy down.” Zanka can feel both of their cocks throbbing—Jabber’s from how little blood he’s getting, Zanka from the praise that’s bringing him closer to release. “You got the bad attitude and the pipe to back it up, fuckin’ hell. Drill that thing straight through me!”
Shit, his own eyelids are fluttering. It’s all going to his head. The words, the sensations, the sounds of Jabber whining between every word like Lovely finally rocked him to his core and he’s seconds away from his final breath.
Oh fuck, he’s so close he can taste it.
“Better than…?” He releases Jabber’s cock only enough to start stroking it with too much pressure to feel good to anyone but Jabber.
“Everythin’, baby,” the man practically weeps. “Drugs don’t fuck me up the way do, never leave me broken and bloody like this. Keep breakin’ me and puttin’ me back together, Zan. Or ruin me for good this time, I fuckin’ dare ya.”
So. Fucking. Close.
And Jabber whimpers, “I’ll always take whatever you dish out, man, all of it.”
And shit, that shouldn’t be what finally tips him over the edge but it’s so close to his ever-elusive submission that Zanka gives a final thrust and then cums so hard his vision blacks out.
He feels more than hears the way Jabber cries out when Zanka pumps a load in him that has to feel like pouring battery acid over an open wound. His cock jumps in the Cleaner’s hand and then Jabber is cumming in it a second time. His back arches, his ass milking Zanka for more cum that will probably ensure he can’t walk without pain or sit without tearing himself open again for days.
Zanka shudders into him, giving him everything, letting down his guard completely as he loses himself in Jabber’s ass and his own orgasm and fuck, it’s almost too good to come back down to the Ground.
He keeps fisting Jabber’s cock even after he’s done because he wants to hear those desperate whines at how much it hurts him to keep going. He wants Jabber to beg for him to stop only because they both know it’s the last thing he wants and that gets them off too.
He’d stay inside Jabber all night just to hold onto that glimpse of submission if he could. But eventually his dick softens enough that it slips out on its own and draws a string of bloody cum along with it.
He rocks back on his heels and waits for his breath to catch up with him.
Jabber speaks first, sobering up way too quickly as he always does.
“Damn,” he says with a grin. It looks like even the subspace has run its course, the movement returning to his limbs. “I love this shit we got goin’ on, man. Don’t never change.”
There’s something almost docile in his gaze that Zanka chalks up to a trick of the light. Because a second later, he’s got that look about him that means they’re definitely going another who-knows-how-many rounds tonight and Mankira is definitely going to be as bloody as his cock by the time they’re through.
The claws dance closer to the pair. “On the real though, Z, no games. Don’t know what I’d do without that fire of yours.” His lips twitch with hardly hidden intentions, but his voice is surprisingly genuine. “Keeps me goin’ somethin’ crazy.”
It’s probably the closest either of them will ever get to a confession with any real substance. And the Raider is probably only talking about the sex and pain Zanka delivers like his life depends on it, nothing more.
But something in him reacts to it beyond the stirring in his groin and the anima already inching to meet Lovely so he can block Mankira before Jabber strikes. It feels different than the praise that winds him up and the taunts that knock him down.
Part of him responds to it with a different kind of longing and want, like it actually means something to him. Something more than all the rest.
Fuck… the other part thinks as the Raider stirs and he lunges for his staff in turn.
Zanka really hates that he doesn’t hate Jabber’s words.