Chapter Text
Zanka's already got his hand on Jabber's throat and his dick up his ass when the other taps his shoulder twice.
"Wait, wait, wait," Jabber urges him in a breathy voice, making a motion to get up. "Timeout."
Zanka has been wondering about Jabber's limits lately; namely, if they even exist in the first place.
Disgusting him seems impossible - at least to Zanka, who's squeamish even by fellow Cleaners' standards. If there's an insult that wouldn't only make him want to jump Zanka's bones, he hasn't found it. Jabber's always pushing him for more, still convinced that Zanka is going easy on him. There's pain that turns him on and pain that he enjoys out of curiosity, but Zanka has yet to see the third category — pain that he would avoid.
Zanka has been wondering if Jabber has a limit, because if he does, he wants to find it, and he wants to push it.
Jabber's enthusiasm for submission had successfully dominated Zanka's fantasies, pushing boundaries has been their latest running theme. He'd always wanted to know what it would be like to defeat him, but now that they've been doing more fucking than fighting, those daydreams have changed their form. Jabber's half-lidded eyes, suddenly widening in shock; his anger, when Zanka finally takes it too far, commanding to stop it, let me go; hands pushing him away. That voice, that low, smug voice, always in control, crying out no. Don't do this. His body surrendering to Zanka's will.
Jabber calls him a sadist. Zanka has been coming to terms with it. Or maybe he's just waiting for something to finally put a stop to the insanity that is their affair; Zanka knows that he won't. Jabber's apartment, foreign and scary like a lion's den not so long ago, has become the familiar background to their escapades. Zanka knows every scratch on the walls and every dent in the floor, Jabber's every shirt and the contents of his underwear drawer. He knows how to make his way back to the Cleaners within an hour. He'd seen Jabber's impressive toxin collection up close - and he'd done nothing about it. It's hard to do reconnaissance work while balls-deep in the enemy.
"What happened?" He swiftly pulls out and lets go of Jabber's neck. He doesn't move from the position where he's straddling him, though.
He can't help being curious what happens next. Jabber's never asked for a break before, but he doesn't seem angry or upset — more amused.
"Move, move." He sits up, sliding his legs from under Zanka. "I have to piss."
"That's it?" Zanka blurts out before he can stop himself. "That's your limit?"
To his own ears, his voice sounds like Jabber's when he says it. It scares him. If they've started to pick up each other's mannerisms, it can't possibly lead to anything good.
Jabber freezes, purple eyes carefully studying Zanka's face, and ugh, he's going to know that it's been on his mind. He's way too good at reading Zanka.
"It's not." Jabber tilts his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. "But I'm surprised it's not yours."
Zanka's been surprised with himself for so long — starting from the moment Jabber approached him for the first time, all sultry whispers and hot breath on his neck — that the feeling has largely lost its bite. If he went through the same horror and self-loathing every time he indulged Jabber and discovered a hot new perversion, he'd have killed himself by now. And he's not going to do that over Jabber Wonger.
They're really affecting each other. Zanka would have shivered with disgust at half the things he's done a mere few months ago.
"I'm not as prissy as you think," He scoffs, but if he can feel his face turn red, then Jabber can definitely see it.
"No, you're not." Jabber's eyes stay fixed on Zanka, wide and sparkling with excitement. "Sometimes I think you're worse than me."
"I doubt that there's anyone out there who's worse than you."
"Then you haven't seen anything." Jabber shakes his head and starts laughing, but then abruptly closes his legs and hisses in a breath. Zanka's face turns a little hotter, and his hands itch to do things to him. Squeeze him, push him, make him squeal. "I'm not kidding, by the way. If you fuck me now, I'll piss on both of us."
Good, Zanka thinks, that's great, I want to see that. The voice in his head still sounds suspiciously like the man under him, low and dripping with sticky, filthy want. But that's not what Zanka would say. Not yet.
The want is real, though. It gnaws and eats at him, now that it's found this boundary, something that prompted Jabber to tap out. He needs more. He needs to feel it on his skin.
He takes a deep breath.
"So, you wanna do it?"
Jabber bares his teeth in a wild grin, shifting his hips from one side to another. Zanka hates what seeing him rubbing his thighs together does to him. The anticipation of something indulgent, decadent and filthy makes his skin tingle.
"Not on the bed."
The bed in question is a mattress on Jabber's floor, and Zanka's in so much hurry that he practically rolls off of it. Jabber will never let him live this down — unless he shuts him up. When he gets up on his knees, Zanka grabs him by the shoulder and throws him to the floor.
"Wait! Fucking hell, at least put a towel down first," Jabber complains, and scrambles to all fours. Zanka swallows. He should have been the one to think about the towel. It feels very freeing that it never even occurred to him. "You wanna mop the floor later? Crazy bastard."
"You own a mop?"
"No," Jabber snickers. He pulls a towel down from a clothesline spread in the window, where it hangs between two old t-shirts. "We'd use your coat."
He ties his hair at the base of his neck and lays down on the towel, jittery, restless and half-hard, Zanka's for the taking. His skin turns a gorgeous shade of brown in the late afternoon sun, the countless scars like a treasure map; his legs, long, muscular and slender, wrap around Zanka's waist. He's so lovely. He's also horrible. Both are easy to forget when he's being one or the other, and the combination is impossible to stay away from. So happy to be hurt, so pretty when he takes it.
Zanka lifts his hips to align himself at his entrance, and Jabber's lower body shifts at the change in position.
"Ah, fuck," he hisses when Zanka slowly thrusts inside. "Oww, it hurts."
"Then it should be right up your alley."
"Damn right it is. Ow."
Zanka takes it slow, taking in the way Jabber tenses up on each thrust, how his hips twitch, trying to close, and how his muscles relax when Zanka pulls out. If he hits his prostate, it'll hurt more, right? Zanka tries a better angle, and sure enough, Jabber whines, hand shooting down to his crotch.
"Ahh, fuck, you're gonna make me—"
He bites down on his lower lip, brows upturned in a frown. His body tenses up around Zanka, clenching around his dick, wound up like a string. Zanka doesn't get why he doesn't just let go, after all this talk about wiping piss off the floor. Maybe this is new to him. Maybe Zanka just found some kind of limit after all.
"Stop holding back." His voice sounds like Jabber's, again. Stealing his lines. And in the worst situation possible, too. Would have been much cooler to say it during a fight. Apparently, he doesn't crave victory nearly as much as Jabber's piss on his chest.
"I don't—" Jabber gasps, fists clenching around the towel under them. "I can't—"
His face twists in desperation. His lower lip bleeds, worried between his teeth.
"Go on." Zanka pounds into him, listening to the little whines and complaints. "Let go."
Jabber clenches his eyes shut. His eyebrows twitch, furrowed closely together. Zanka wants to see the string snap.
He brushes his hand over Jabber's hard abdomen. It's hot to the touch, and the skin feels stretched tight between his hipbones.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
On a particularly hard thrust, Zanka presses the base of his hand against his abdomen. The pressure on his bladder from both ends is too much to take. Jabber throws his head back with a cry, and a short, thin jet of liquid shoots out of his dick, shining gold where it lands on his abs.
Zanka's dick throbs between Jabber's clenching walls. He is mildly disgusted — the sound, the smell, all too real and too carnal — but the feeling takes a backseat to the red-hot arousal of having broken the boundaries of Jabber's body. He slows down his thrusts, eyes glued to the shimmering liquid on the other's skin, mesmerized.
"That was sick," Jabber pants, wiping sweat off his forehead and looking at his own wet dick like it just betrayed him. "Do it again."
Zanka looks into his eyes, shining with anticipation and dark with desire, as he pulls out for another violent thrust. He digs his fingers into the skin of Jabber's abdomen, trying to feel for his full bladder and pressing against the distended flesh. He's rewarded with a short, tinkling stream and a long moan. Jabber shakes his head and writhes under Zanka, legs tightening over his back.
He's different than usual. For once, he's not trying to push things ahead, or provoke Zanka into being even harsher. Along with the control over his bodily functions, Jabber seems to have passed the reins to him in terms of what happens next.
"How's that?," Zanka asks, pausing to return to his senses more than anything, entranced and weirded out by what they're doing.
"Good." Jabber nods, eyes closed, focused on all the sensations in his body. "Hurts like hell when you press on my stomach."
Zanka feels for the swollen curve of his bladder and presses with his full palm, softly — enough to draw another scream from Jabber. Only few drops leak from the tip of his dick this time.
"I told you to stop holding back," Zanka grunts. The line still sounds uncanny in his mouth.
"I can't!" Jabber's eyes shoot open. "You piss yourself on command, see how easy it is."
"I thought you were about to, anyway."
Jabber pointedly looks down at the little yellow trail, currently trickling down his side, then back to Zanka. It is, indeed, a larger amount of piss than Zanka ever expected to see during an intimate encounter.
But if he learned anything about himself from Jabber, is that if he allows himself one little indulgence, he'll never stop looking for more.
"Suit yourself," Zanka utters. "Then I'll just make you."
Jabber's eyes widen, and his dick twitches, when Zanka pulls him up and maneuvers him into his lap. He's light for a man his height — it's what makes him so devilishly speedy - and he loves being manhandled, which makes it easy. Zanka doesn't mind feeling like the stronger one of the two for the brief moments when Jabber entrusts his entire body weight to his arms.
The little rivulets on his abs, cooling, but still warm, touch Zanka's stomach, and the dormant feeling of disgust resurfaces. What the hell is he doing, again? It's piss. Jabber's piss is on his skin. He should be pushing him away and screaming.
All he can think of instead are the goosebumps on Jabber's thighs and the choked-up breathing on his neck, when the other wraps his arms around his neck.
Zanka grabs onto his hips and fucks into him, deeper in the new position, bottoming out. Warm liquid flows between their joined bodies with a soft hissing sound, staining Zanka's abs, his thighs, soaking into the towel under them.
That's exactly how warm Jabber's body is on the inside. That's the heat of his internal organs. The thought is bizarre and visceral, and Zanka finds himself palming Jabber's abdomen, pressing on his abused bladder, just to feel more of it.
Jabber's nails dig into his back, not the other way around like usual. Zanka doesn't care for the pain, but the way Jabber gives in to the pain and pleasure unravels him. He presses their bodies closer together, fucking into him, enjoying the feeling of nails dragging down his skin and Jabber's legs desperately squeezing around his waist.
Jabber has gone quiet, reduced to whimpers and moans against Zanka's neck. Zanka digs his fingers into his hips. He's lifting him up and impaling him on his cock, or Jabber is riding him, probably some combination of both, a mismatched, rough rhythm, focused only on pounding into his prostate as hard as possible.
"Fuck, Zanka." Desperate, whiny whispers feel warm and wet against his neck. Everything feels warm and wet, and golden. "Fuck, I'm gonna-"
"Do it." Zanka drags him down on his cock, looking for the spot that will undo him. "Do it, I wanna see it."
He grunts when Jabber's teeth dig into his shoulder, hard enough to bruise; his nails hook into Zanka's skin, and his entire body shakes with the final reflexive effort to hold back.
The liquid meets Zanka's skin with a soft splashing sound. Zanka's orgasm takes him so quickly and suddenly, he couldn't stop himself if he tried. Jabber shivers in his arms as it happens.
It's not the explosion that Zanka expected. At first it's just three short, violent squirts, rapidly hitting Zanka's stomach. Then the release floods both of their bodies, warm and steady, like a tap that's been turned on, pooling between their legs, dripping down their skin and onto the towel. Zanka can't take his eyes off Jabber's twitching dick and the streams of urine pouring down both of their thighs. It's a strange, hot and heavy moment, warm and wet and bathed in dimmed sunlight, quiet save for their breaths and the sound that goes from splashing, to sprinkling, to dripping.
Jabber, who might have been holding his breath the whole time, takes a deep, shaky inhale when it's over, releasing Zanka's skin from between his teeth.
Zanka wishes he could see his face. He reaches for it, but is quickly distracted by Jabber grinding his hips against him. The movement releases the urine trapped between them, making an obscene, wet sound.
He takes Jabber's soaking wet dick in his hand. It's piss. He's covered in someone else's piss. He just put his hand in it.
There's no disgust left in him. Instead, his own softening cock twitches at the sensation.
He moves his hand up and down, finding Jabber's ear to gently nibble on it and whisper into it.
"Look at you. You're so filthy," he whispers into the quiet of the room. Jabber's hands wrap tighter around his neck. "You made such a mess."
"Mmhm," the other whimpers into his shoulder.
"Does it turn you on?" Zanka continues, carefully ommitting the fact that he's currently getting hard all over again, still inside Jabber. "You like being gross? Getting your piss all over?"
"Ah. Yes."
"You're so gross," Zanka sighs, and resigns himself to hearing Jabber in his own voice again. "So dirty. So nasty for me."
Jabber comes quickly, and slumps in Zanka's arms, resting his head on his shoulder. It's what Zanka had imagined, sort of. The point past which he'd genuinely need to stop remains undiscovered; but Zanka had taken him by surprise, for sure, and did things to him that maybe he wasn't fully prepared for.
Zanka pulls his cock out and takes in the mess around them. The towel soaked through at some point, so they're sitting in a small puddle. Zanka makes a move to get up, but Jabber keeps him sat. He seems more shaken than Zanka. To be fair, he was the one whose body was just physically pushed past its limit.
Zanka's idea. Maybe he does have a natural talent, but only for being a sadistic pervert.
"Did you like it?" He asks, rubbing Jabber's back with his dry hand. At first it horrified him, when Jabber would ramble about how much he loved getting hit by Zanka and how he should do it even harder next time. Then he started to enjoy it. Now he's at the point where he's fishing for the compliments.
"I don't do shit I don't like," Jabber murmurs into his shoulder, voice hazy, but firm. "You give yourself too much credit sometimes."
Of course, he knows that Zanka wants praise, and humbles him just to be a little shit. Zanka tries not to let it bother him. He just made the guy piss on him.
"You seriously never thought about this before?" He asks, before Jabber can take the opportunity to say something that will send him spiralling. Like, maybe some other Cleaner would have been kinkier than Zanka. He probably keeps that one saved for when the younger one really gets under his skin.
"I did. More about you pissing on me, though," Jabber takes the bait. He loves to go on about all the crazy things he wants Zanka to do to him. "You should do it sometime. Ooh, make me drink it?"
Zanka doesn't know how to feel about that, which probably means he'll jerk off to imagining it within the next three days.
"This was sooo fun, though." Jabber leans back in his lap, looking him in the face at last. There's still traces of redness fading away from his cheeks, and a burst vessel in the white of his right eye. He raises an eyebrow, familiar wickedness returning to his exhausted face. "Wait, have you thought about it?"
"Nope."
Every single thing that humans can possibly do to each other, he'd probably thought of doing to Jabber.
"Lying to me," Jabber berates him with a laugh. "You little freak."
Jabber takes his cheeks in both his hands. Zanka still doesn't fully trust having Mankira so close to his face, but it's easy to forget with Jabber's haunted eyes drilling into his. The sun is setting behind the raggedy curtains, bathing his pretty face in gold. Zanka should be getting back soon. He'll steal just a few more seconds, before he needs to be a Cleaner again, and enter the HQ with the weight of a new, filthy secret on his mind.
"You do have running water in this place, right?," he asks, suddenly brought back to reality by the horrifying thought.
"Sometimes." Jabber's mouth spreads in a grin that would usually precede some sort of carnage, and it sends a cold chill down Zanka's spine. "Let's find out."