Work Text:
“Yes sir, yes sir
I need you in the passenger
You're a prize, you're a Pulitzer
Let's let go of the past, I'm sure
I'm sure (you sure?), I'm sure
I'ma keep going even though it hurts.”
Kwik Trip - Lightris and sero.
Zanka Nijiku climbs into his bed, turns off his bedside lamp, and wishes perhaps for the millionth time ever that he could just blow his brains out. The problem?
He’s horny.
It’s not the normal kind that can be ignored or willed away with a few minutes of meditation. No, no, no, because that’d be too much like right. Instead, his body blesses him with the aching kind of need, the type that settles between your legs and refuses to go unacknowledged. And of course, nothing’s helping.
Cold shower? Nothing. Polishing Aibo? Soothing, but ultimately unhelpful. Replaying the argument that got him disowned all those years ago? Something. But not enough. Fuck his stupid life. And the life of the person who keeps sending him texts about unpaid tolls. Stupid fucking data leaks. He doesn’t even own a car!
His vision goes staticky behind his eyelids as he grinds the heel of his palms into his eyes, hard. If Zanka were a normal person, this wouldn’t be so bad. A mild annoyance, even. Something bemoaned for a while and then simply dealt with.
But he’s not a normal person. Sure, he can smile at all the right times and say all the right things and keep his deep annoyance at the idiocy of everyone around him stuck in his larynx. He can crack and bend and break until he’s a nice, normal 20-something, but this? He can’t ever find a way to twist the neck off of this.
To declaw the want in him.
A deep sigh leaves him as turns onto his side to plug in his phone. The screen lights up, reflecting a photo of him, Rudo, Riyo, and Enjin into his eyes. It’s one of those candid photos that Zanka hates - he never looks good in them, never looks fun enough - with Enjin smiling cheekily as he captures Zanka and Rudo squabbling over whatever while Riyo snorts next to them.
At first, he had no clue that Enjin had even taken the photo until much later, coming upon it by chance as he scrolled through his gallery to show Rudo something. He was almost tempted to delete it, but something about it struck as comforting. A reminder of the family he’s created, soothing him through tough days and tougher nights during his training at the fire academy. His family. The fondness in his chest wars with the shame, battle valiant. His family.
What would they say if they knew he was like this? If they knew how rotten and despicable he was, deep, deep down inside?
Sometimes, Zanka thinks he should try taking religion seriously again. Doesn’t matter which one, at this point, any one will do. There’s so many, someone, something’s gotta have something to fix him. He’ll do whatever, read until his fingers bleed, pray until his knees give out, drink the fucking Koolaid, whatever it takes if it can guarantee that he can just be normal.
But he knows there’s no cure for this and he knows there’s no one to save him. And even that is news to no one. All of his bones aligned in the worst way possible halfway through 15 and he knew even then that he was really just an unsalvageable wreck wearing skin.
His finger hovers above the phone icon on his homescreen, a signal of temptation above the picture of Aibo. There may be no one to save him, but there is someone to lead him further down.
Tomorrow, he’ll feel bad about it.
Tomorrow, he'll feel like shit and be shit and say shit he doesn’t mean in the hopes that if he acts like it didn’t happen, then the mistake he’s about to make will unmake itself. He’ll smile and wave and defend his plate from Rudo and gossip with Enjin and let Riyo brush his hair into whatever hairstyle she needs to practice for cosmetology school. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, he’ll be upright and well-adjusted.
Tonight, he calls Jabber.
It rings 1, 2, 3, before he picks up.
“So, do you just not know how to text or…?”
“Are you busy?”
No need to waste time on formalities. That’s not what this is. Jabber snickers, unmistakable even through his consistently poor connection.
“Hello to you too! I might be busy. Might not be. Depends on what you callin’ for.”
“You know damn well what I’m calling for.”
“Nooooo-pe!” Jabber proclaims, popping the P. “Got nooooooo clue, Mr. Bad Attitude. Maybe you should tell me?”
“Jabber.”
“Sooooooooo confused. Not a clue in the worrrrrrrld.”
“Jabber.”
“Sooooo curiousssssssss.”
“I want ya,” Zanka pauses, catching the slip of his accent. Say it right, Zanka. “I want you to come over.”
He can practically taste the smile in Jabber’s voice as he coos,
“Aww, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
“Fuck off.”
Jabber’s annoying ass giggle is cut off as Zanka hangs up. He doesn’t need to hear him say that he’ll come. He knows he will. Just like Jabber knows Zanka will call, no matter how many times he says it’s the last time. It should be. It will be.
Now he’s definitely not going to sleep, so Zanka gets up and decides to be productive. First, he fixes the plant on his windowsill, messing with the leaf arrangement until it pleases him.
Then he vacuums his floor even though it’s already spotless. He considers setting mood-lighting, cycling through red, blue, green, until he realizes how fucking stupid it looks and then abandons that idea entirely.
Back and forth, back and forth, he paces back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back like a TV-show detective haunted by a case he just can’t crack while he waits for the fated knock on his door.
This is ridiculous, all this fuss over Jabber Wonger of all people. Some guy he met on God’s 3rd Least Holy Website, Grindr, whose first message to him was woaw you look lik you punch reaaaaaal hard!! Do you??? He’s pathetic.
He should call Jabber back and tell him nevermind and to never speak to him ever again, actually. Should delete his number for the 7th time and then chuck his phone into the nearest body of water. Maybe himself too, for good measure.
The doorbell rings and Zanka’s heart skips a beat, giddy and sick in equal measure. He will do none of the above and he knows it.
Jabber is just as infuriatingly gorgeous as the last time he saw him, smiling that seemingly permanent smile of his as he stands in Zanka’s doorway. He tilts his head at him.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You not gonna invite me in?”
“What are you, a vampire? Come in or don’t.” The grin on Jabber’s face grows wider, cockier.
“You’re a real ray of sunshine, Z, y’know that?”
Zanka says nothing, moving to close the door.
“Alright, alright!”
Once inside, Jabber toes off his sneakers and sits down on Zanka’s couch like he owns the place, shoulder back, legs spread. He props a bony ass elbow up on the armrest, resting his head on his palm as he watches Zanka watch him. Slowly, Zanka approaches him like one might approach a wild animal. Bit by bit, he makes his way over until he is standing in front of him. Jabber smiles as he bats his lashes up at Zanka, coy.
“Soooooo, what’s new?”
He is so fucking annoying. Zanka wants him so badly his teeth hurt.
One of Jabber’s hands graces his chest as their mouths crash together. Who leans in first, who reaches for who first, it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters now is that they’re together. That there's an outlet for this itch.
The press of their mouths together hurts honestly, their kiss a graceless knock of teeth and tongue. But then Jabber sighs, parting his lips slightly and Zanka’s tongue is in his mouth and it all falls right into place. Like it always does. Like it always will, if Zanka doesn’t find a knife sharp enough to carve this desire out of him.
But God, if it doesn’t feel good.
The disarming strength Jabber commands as he pulls Zanka, closer, closer, arms wrapping around his neck, legs spreading wider for him to settle in between. His vile, soft tongue, wet and warm as it slides against Zanka’s own. It feels so good.
Hands settle on either side of Jabber’s chest, nipples hardening into peaks through his thin shirt as Zanka rubs his thumbs in harsh circles around them. There is a thin string of spit that keeps their lips connected after Zanka breaks their kiss. For a minute, they just look into each other’s eyes, chests rising and falling in time with each other.
“Tilt yer - your head back.”
Incrementally, Jabber tilts his head back the slightest bit.
“This good?” Zanka’s eyes narrow.
Silence.
“Noooo? How ‘bout this?”
Another inch, accompanied by Jabber's teasing smile. Silence.
Slowly, Zanka drags his hand, up, up, up his chest, past his collarbone, until he reaches his neck. Gently, his hand comes to rest at the juncture just above Jabber’s Adam’s Apple, pointer and thumb pressing on either side of his neck. The quickening pulse beneath his fingers feels nice.
But nothing feels better than the sensation that runs through him as he roughly shoves Jabber’s neck back and plunges his teeth straight into delicate skin. The groan Jabber lets out goes straight down, and now the night has really begun.
Here’s a fun fact: breaking skin is actually much more difficult than people make it seem. Corny smut novels like the ones Riyo hate-reads really undersell the effort it takes to position your teeth just so and tear the surprisingly strong material that is human skin, even make it seem easy to do in the heat of passion. But no, it takes quite a bit of determination and meanness.
Meanness, of which Zanka has an endless amount. Small victories.
Really, the taste of blood in his mouth should gross him out and is definitely a biohazard, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Each bite and scrape of his teeth has Jabber whining, needy and breathless, squirming in his lap as he grinds against the leg slotted in between his thighs and he just might eat him alive. Zanka pinches the skin in between his teeth just to feel the graceful neck underneath his incisors jerk away from and then into his mouth and right then, he really considers it - eating Jabber alive, he means.
He’d savor him, chew slowly and really taste every inch of his exquisite body. Suck the blood from his lips and tear into the soft, kissable flesh on the underside of his knees as a treat. Relish the taste of marrow in his mouth, fresh from one of Jabber’s rib bones.
Holy shit, he needs to go to therapy.
Shame and desire and make their usual home in the pit of his stomach. Sweet, sweet moans fill the air as he tightens his grip on Jabber’s throat, convulsing in his hold as he swallows back drool. Briefly, inevitably, Zanka hates Jabber.
Hates him for making him feel this way, for bringing these terrible, terrible thoughts out of him. Hates himself more for thinking of them, for the way his cock twitches at the taste of his blood in his mouth, hungry for more.
When Zanka finally pulls away from Jabber’s neck, there is a dreamy smile on his face and multiple imprints of Zanka’s teeth anywhere he can reach.
Perfect, he’s so damn perfect. It takes a mountain of effort to convince himself to back off so he can stand up.
“C’mon.”
“But I don’t wannaaaaaaa.”
“Did I ask?”
“Carry me?”
“No. You’re heavy.”
“Rude!”
One pout later and somehow, Zanka ends up with two arms full of the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, their lips locked together in passion as he somehow stumbles them both to his bedroom. He's only human, alright?
Once inside, he has half a mind to drop Jabber on his ass and watch him scramble, tear into him for real - they've been almost gentle tonight - but his sleep pants are tight over his erection and his patience is wearing thin.
A dazed expression forms on Jabber's face, pupils blown wide, long, long lashes low, full lips parted, as Zanka sets him down onto his bed and he wants him, wants him, wants him. He kneels down and feels around under his bed for the slip of rope he keeps within reach for moments like this.
Stars twinkle in pretty pink eyes as he catches sight of the rope. Some part of Zanka’s brain registers that he’s working much, much less for Jabber’s submission tonight than usual. If he's as aroused by that as he is disappointed, that's his business. He tilts Jabber's chin up so he's looking right into his eyes.
“Beg for it.”
“Please, Zanka?”
“Not enough.”
“Please, please, please Zanka, I’ll be good, I swear.”
His voice has gone whiny and desperate in a way that it never has before and Zanka knows, just knows, that he’ll never be strong enough to give this up. It's a grim sort of acceptance.
Even his head is silent as he loops rough rope around Jabber’s thin wrists and secures the knot a touch too tightly. Suddenly, he gets an idea.
“Wait here.”
Very casually and at a normal pace, Zanka walks to his kitchen, curses his stupid fridge for being so slow, and returns with a cup of ice and an idea.
“Spread your legs and keep your hips still. If you move, I'll make you wish you didn't.”
He read about this once on a random kink site that popped up amidst a myriad of results from Google searches such as why am i attracted to the guy i beat up and what is a sub and why is my sub evil and why is my sub evil reddit. The wise people of r/BDSM still haven’t found an answer for him on that one but they do keep trying to stress how unsafe their play is to him, urging him to “set a safeword, for the love of God” and “take a class on proper dom techniques, even just one, please!!” Fuckin’ losers. They don’t get it.
That’s the worst part about all of this. Even when he does tell somebody, nobody gets it, gets them. Only they can understand each other. Only Zanka can chew Jabber up and spit him out the way he really wants and only Jabber can know his heart and how sick it really is.
The soft cotton of Jabber's sweatpants has nothing on the soft, smooth skin that meets Zanka’s nose as he drags it along Jabber’s now bare thigh, momentarily taken by a nasty sort of affection. It’s sad really, how the only place Zanka can truly be himself is between some weirdo freak’s thighs. Sad, so sad, he presses an ice cube to the rosy brown tip of Jabber’s cock about it. The moan it elicits is straight electricity, lighting the room up with a spark as he writhes.
Entranced, Zanka’s eyes track the twitching of Jabber’s dick as he drags the ice cube up, up, up and down, blowing gently as he circles his sensitive shaft. Pained whimpers spill from his lovely mouth, so beautiful and so hurt.
“Poor thing, does it hurt?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Good. Say thank you.”
“Thank you, ah, thank you.”
Good manners should be rewarded, and so Zanka pops the rest of the melting cube into his mouth and drags his tongue along Jabber’s inner thigh. His thighs tense and his cock drools and Zanka might just be in love with him.
Plucking another cube from the cup, Zanka laves his tongue over it before pressing it directly to Jabber's hole. The way he shivers as he caresses his rim is incredible. There is a suspicious amount of give when he pushes the cube against his hole again, so he decides to investigate by pressing ever so slightly and his suspicions are correct: Jabber prepped (prepped in heavy quotations) himself before coming over.
Mouth dry, dick aching, something like a gasp leaves Zanka as he watches Jabber's entrance stretch around the ice cube. The sight combined with the downright unholy groan of Fuckkkkk Jabber lets out as the ice enters him is just too much for him, and he has to touch himself or he’ll die, no really, he will.
His dick is embarrassingly wet as he reaches into his pajama pants to stroke it, so turned on he’s almost dizzy with it. Jabber clenches down, moaning miserably as Zanka pushes the ice deeper, deeper, deeper into him, but he keeps his legs spread and thighs still, just like he was told. Water trails out from where the ice is melting, warmed by his tight, perfect hole, leaving his rim glistening.
And well, it's not good to waste water, so it's actually kind of necessary that Zanka lick it up, lapping at Jabber's twitching hole. His tongue slips inside and he tastes so good, and really, he's just gotta grab him by the thighs to pull him closer so Zanka can eat him out properly. Sweet whines of More, more, fuck me, Zanka! let him know his baby agrees. They're fierce environmentalists, you see.
There's no finesse in the way Zanka greedily fucks his tongue into Jabber, just pure need and desire. Any other time, he'd be embarrassed by the loud slurping noise that echoes in the room, a clear attestment to how not cool he's being about this. Now, though?
He has to stop stroking his cock just to keep from cumming, so fucking hard it's all he can think about.
A wet pop sounds as he pulls away, the lean muscle of Jabber's thighs squeezing so, so temptingly around his head he might just let it slide that he moved. He's panting or maybe that's Zanka or maybe it's both of them. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this.
“Turn around.”
Pretty eyes blink at him, lost for a moment, Jabber's head tilting to the side, the jewelry in his hair clinking together as it moves. Cute.
So damn cute he can't help but steal a kiss. Jabber scrunches his nose up at the softness. Adorable. He makes it up to him by biting down on his bottom lip, just to feel its plumpness between his teeth. Yeah, Zanka’d start here if he were eating him.
“Turn around, beautiful.”
Clumsily, Jabber maneuvers onto his stomach, face down, ass up. It’s a difficult transition with his wrists bound, shuffling and struggling. Zanka does not offer help. Once he manages, he turns to face Zanka with a triumphant smile on his face. A sharp twinge of something pokes its fingers through his chest at the sight, stoking the flame of his arousal even hotter. So good, he's so fucking good for him and him alone. Nobody else deserves to even think about Jabber like this.
He's feeling nice, so he gently sweeps Jabber's hair out of his face. There's that pretty face. When you think about, it's not really Zanka's fault that they're here. It's Jabber's.
Like, just look at him. So stunning, so evil, who can handle all that? Real, pure evil from somewhere unknown. The sensual way he bites down on his lip, blinks slowly at Zanka, gone, just gone, and the gentle flutter of his hole is too inviting, too seductive for him to be human.
And the way he moans brokenly as Zanka shoves in, halfway down to heaven, clenching up tight around him is just too perfect for him to anything but pure, unfiltered evil. It's his fault for being so irresistible.
They really should use a condom, should never see each other again. Neither will happen tonight.
The stretch of Jabber’s underprepared walls - almost mystifying from how vigorously Zanka ate him out - around his cock as he thrusts in is delicious and hot, so, so good. It feels even better when he bottoms out, Jabber’s soft ass flush against his pelvis. Zanka doesn’t care enough to resist the urge to grab his hips, doesn’t care about anything anymore, so he latches onto Jabber with a punishing grip as he pulls out, out, out. And slams right back in.
It’s good, so good. So good he can’t help but say it.
“Yer so good when ya wanna be, baby, so pretty and useless when I fuck ya, aren’t ya?”
“Yes, yes!”
“So fuckin’ tight like you were made jus’ for my cock, jus’ for me to fuck you, huh?”
“I, ah, ah, I was, I am.”
He is.
It’s moments like this that lend Zanka full clarity, making it all so simple. Jabber was made just for him. Just for his cock, his fingers, his hurt. He has no clue what Jabber does for work, any of his hopes or dreams or aspirations and he doesn’t care either. None of it matters.
Not when this is Jabber’s true calling, being his perfect slut, whore on-demand, everything he’s ever wanted.
It's right, it's good, he's so fucking good. The desperate, ugly thing that lives underneath Zanka's skin rears its head and he lets it, lost in the beauty of this moment.
“Tell me how good I fuck ya.”
“You fuck me so well, Zanka, so good, so good.”
The slap that lands on Jabber’s ass rings out loud, audible even over his tortured moans and the sound of skin slapping on skin. He buries his face in Zanka’s pillow, arching his back even more, hands twisting where they're bound above his head, offering himself, and who is Zanka to deny himself heaven? A heady rush fills him as he hits Jabber again, again, harder, harder.
“Louder, slut.”
“Shit, you, you give it to me sooo good, nobody else fucks me like you do. I love the way you hurt me, oh my God, oh God, Zanka, fuck me harder. Please, please, fuck me harder!”
Somewhere in him, he finds it to go harder, faster. Graceless, sloppy, but still hitting Jabber's prostate as much as he can. Can’t disappoint, can’t let up until he gets his fill. Desperate, desperate, he's desperate and he's gotta hear it.
“Tell me ‘M a good boy.”
“Mm, wha’?”
Slurred, shameful, desperate:
“Tell me ‘M a good boy.”
“You a fuck, fuck, good boy, you so good to me.”
Jabber's hips cant backwards, meeting each thrust, giving as good as he gets. Close, close, he's close, just a little bit more.
“Tell me, fuck, say ‘M yers, say ‘M yer good boy.”
Jabber's voice is almost sweet as he says:
“You my good boy, Zanka.”
For a hot second, Zanka feels nothing. Then he feels everything. His orgasm knocks into him so hard that he actually trembles, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. The rocking of his hips is automatic at this point, out of his control. It’s like he can’t control his throat, groaning pathetically, but it’s at least less whiny than the way Jabber moans as he finally, finally comes, driving the pleasure into oversensitivity with how taut he goes around Zanka.
Helpless, he collapses on top of Jabber.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Silence. Jabber turns his head to the side, eyes still closed. He looks so content.
“Hope you know I'm gon’ use that against you.”
“Say one more word and I’ll kill both of us right now.”
“Pinky promise?”
The smell of sex fills the room. A crystalline sort of beauty immortalizes the moment, sweat on heaving chests, limbs tangled, hearts beating one right after another. The bustling world outside of Zanka's apartment window sings, cars honking, drunk people laughing or crying. It's all impermanent, illusionary in comparison to the real world safely nestled between the 4 walls of his bedroom.
From where Zanka is lying on top of him, Jabber's still bound wrists rest inches away from his lips. The skin is rubbed red, raw. He brings them to his lips, gently. His skin is soft and warm against his mouth, and briefly, he reconsiders his stance. Maybe he'd start here, nibble on the thin skin of his baby's wrists. Keep the bones when he's eaten his fill, maybe carve them into earrings and keep a piece of Jabber with him forever.
Yeah. That sounds nice.
“Promise.”