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It doesn't start as a bad decision.
It starts as a good one, this time; doing what Enjin says. And if while they're righting a group of Raiders and a flash of magenta and purple light whizzes past, Enjin maybe nods his head and says 'go get your man', who is he but to do as he is told and disagree heartily with the phrasing?
And maybe Enjin has caught on that something is going down between him and Jabber. He's pretty sure Enjin just assumes he's sticking his dick in crazy.
Well, he's not. He's trying to stick his dick in crazy, and routinely failing.
---
"It's like a game!" Jabber says, sparks of light coming off Mankira's man-sized blades as they settle around Zanka's prostrate body, like a cage, or an avant garde coffin. "Or, no, you hate games, Mr. Bad Attitude. Like training!"
Zanka makes a real attempt to bite Jabber's finger off when it boops his nose, but the drugs have started to really kick in now. Not deadly, no, rarely deadly now- Jabber wouldn't risk his favorite toy like that unless he thinks Zanka is getting boring. But it leaves him loopy, and it leaves him defenseless.
If this blend ain't half bad beyond that, he's not about to tell Jabber that. Or anyone.
"What kinda game, freak?" Zanka spits, or tries to. It comes out lethargically, muffled by the cotton in his ears and floating. It comes out sounding genuinely curious in a way that makes him cringe, but that lights Jabber up like a deranged carnival.
"A fun one, man." Jabber says, his voice weird. His eyes are gleaming. "A real fun one."
—
This fight is a humiliating one. Humiliating in a way that burns. He’s been getting better, he has. But he’s had a rough few nights spent studying everything from swordplay to advanced chemistry, anything to give him an edge over Jabber.
The irony that the very thing he did to gain that upperhand is the same thing that cost him what little ground he’s scraped from the mad genius is not lost on him. The first person to bring it up, though, will be losing their teeth if Zanka doesn’t lose his head first.
Speaking of, Zanka ducks, Lovely Assistaff parrying as one of Mankira’s blades makes an attempt to do just that. That was closer than he’s let Jabber get in a while, and the fucker notices,
“ZanZan, baby, you’re regressin’ on me!” Jabber calls, bouncing off the walls with all the vigor of a freshly eighteen tweaker as Mankira makes sure Zanka can’t even breathe for how focused he is on evading the poison tipped claws aimed his way.
Zanka, a freshly eighteen cleaner, is tired. Tired in a bone deep way that suggests he needs to crash, and soon. He ignores the check engine light and snarls at Jabber, vicious and wired. He has it. This’ll be the time he has Jabber under him, screaming and moaning and panting as pain and humiliating pleasure crashes over and through him.
The fact the little freak would probably like that only rains on his parade slightly. A drizzle at best.
Zanka pulls himself back off the ground where Mankira had caught him, cutting through a part of his shirt and ensuring he won’t be making the walk home without awkward glances.
Today’s the day he beats the shit out of Jabber Wonger, and today is the day he fucks him.
—
“-and if I win?” Zanka asks wearily. He kicks himself for it. What he’d meant to say was ‘get off me you sex crazed freak’ as soon as he heard Jabber’s sick idea for a ‘game’, but then curiosity had taken over.
Letting Jabber fuck and hurt him every time he loses. He’d need to be even crazier than Jabber to ever fall for that, the entire idea is completely mad, and he’s wasted enough of his finite time alive listening to this drivel.
Except… Jabber wouldn’t offer unless he really thought Zanka would accept. Or maybe he’s fucking with him. Whatever answer he gets will confirm that, even if it’s rage inducing, humiliating laughter right in his face as Jabber hovers over him.
“If you win, ZanZan,” Jabber smiles. It’s softer than his usual smiles, even in its sharpness. Gleeful, but not manic. Key difference, “You get to do the same thing back.” Jabber runs his hands down his front as if to show off the goods. Zanka ignores the objectively pretty Raider in front of him to gag loudly. Jabber laughs, then laughs some more.
He slams a hand across Zanka’s mouth and smiles. Zanka’s eyes widen as Jabber leans in even closer, locs falling around them in a curtain, rings bouncing against each other with dings right by his head.
“One time offer, baby.” He holds one ringed finger up, black polish catching the light like the ring under it and making the pale brown skin between look paler still. “I win, I get to fuck you, and hurt you real bad. You win? You get your revenge!” He leans in, grinning a bit more wildly now. He smells overwhelmingly like a hospital during a disaster; blood and antiseptic.
“Whaddya say?”
—
“Jabber!” He gasps almost against his will as Mankira punches into his leg, a small trickle of blood under where the poison pumps in. It’s always a paralytic or a euphoric these days, and the latter more and more often.
Jabber likes when he can squirm and scream better than when he just has to take it, he’s learned. Zanka never meant to or wanted to learn that, among other things; like how many hits Jabber can land in one spot before he’s making sounds like an injured dog, or how Jabber’s cum tastes, hot and acidic as it gags him. But he’s learned them, and he remembers them suddenly, sometimes. Sometimes he’ll be training, or eating, or studying and doing his best to prove natural talent will beat a genius anytime, and then he’s thinking about geniuses, and then he’s thinking about his own genius.
Then he’s thinking about the weight of Jabber on his tongue, his cock or his claw, or he’s thinking about how close he was the last time Jabber got him. How close he was to burying his cock somewhere warm, how near he came to letting Lovely Assistaff taste Jabber’s blood, instead of the other way around.
—
“I thought you were some kinda masochist.” Zanka grumbles, his cheeks red hot but eye contact stubbornly maintained. Jabber smiles wider, if that’s even fuckin’ possible.
“I like both, ZanZan.” He corrects, voice closer to speaking volume than he has ever heard it. When Jabber talks like that… hm. Zanka’s too focused on not bleeding out while he and Jabber discuss some sort of ‘relationship’ to think about how he feels about Jabber’s normal speaking voice. “Ain’t you the same way?”
—
Jabber slams his hand against his ass, this time, and despite how cliche that may be in a normal bedroom, Jabber is far from normal and rarely hits where Zanka expects it.
He still flushes when he remembers how the soles of his feet had had him screaming. It’d been far from dignified.
“Please.” He pants into his arms, his face buried and hips arched up where Jabber had put him. He has to stay where Jabber put him, or he’ll make it worse, and he’s already so embarrassed.
He can hear the pleased little smile in Jabber’s voice when he pauses his ministrations, four fingers pulling out of Zanka with a wet, painful little pop as he cringes,
“Please what, ZanZan?” Jabber crows, wet fingers spreading Zanka’s ass and admiring his work, bloody toothmarks right next to the sore, stretched out hole trying and failing to wink at him. “I’m feelin’ real nice. You weren’t up to par today! Had me thinkin’ you were sick or somethin’.”
Zanka flushes. That’s not nice. Jabber is trying to humiliate him, and worse still, he’s succeeding. No matter how often they do this, Jabber never fails to have him red faced and squirming with mortification. He doesn’t bring it up in fights though, or, perish the thought, other people, so he can forgive this.
Zanka couldn’t live with the other Cleaners knowing about… whatever this is. He's worked himself into enough fits wondering if any Raiders know to think about that.
“So go ahead and ask, baby.” Jabber croons, slipping between his akimbo legs and pressing the hot head of his cock against Zanka’s loose hole as he tenses, twitching at the teasing pressure. “Whatever you ask for, you can have it.”
—
“So? What do you say?” Jabber asks after two hours of holding Zanka hostage until the drugs had worn off, a ‘low’ dose (or so Jabber had said) but not one he’d accept acquiescence on. Zanka can respect that.
He can’t respect being put on the spot, though, and he ends up fighting for his life to avoid magenta eyes desperate to catch his as he thinks.
It’s a horrible idea. If any of the other Cleaners found out, who knew what would happen? He doesn't even think they have a policy for fraternizing with the enemy. Not to mention his family. Oh, God, his family. It’s not a risk he can take, if he ever wants to make something of himself.
It’s not an offer he should want to accept. He should turn it down, maybe sock Jabber in the jaw to get the point across. He’d let his arms go an hour and a half ago. He can.
“Sure. It's a good training incentive.” He agrees without looking at Jabber. He still doesn’t look when Jabber gets up and starts to actually victory dance.
—
"Nah, you ain't heard me, baby." Jabber chuckles, voice low in a way Zanka wouldn't have guessed it could go before... all this. Hips barely lifted, cock thumping painfully against the ground as he's drug backwards and forwards over and over into hip-shattering thrusts. He still needs to walk back to the meeting point after this, and the injuries during the fight, and the injuries after are already fitting to make that a bitch. He squirms, trying to sturdy his arms up enough to pull away a bit and at least reduce the number of inches tickling his spine.
His attention drifts, and Jabber must not appreciate it because there's a dissatisfied suck of teeth, and then pain lancing his ribs. He howls like a trash beast, gibbering when he realizes there's now an open flap of flesh hanging off his side, sluggish blood making him even dirtier, and a salivating Jabber behind him. Inside him. He needs to run. He needs to defend himself. It's not like he can't, Lovely Assistaff is never far off. She's in his hands right now, sweetly letting him bear down on her as he's fucked from behind.
Speaking of, the next thrust has him crying harder, especially when Jabber's fingers flirtingly tease the wound he'd created, the largest today. A mild euphoric dripping off Mankira is the only reason Zanka's still taking this, still throwing his hips back.
He tells himself that, and does an alright job believing it.
"I said you ain't hearin' me, and there you go, ignorin' me." Jabber grouses into his shoulder, white teeth latching onto his shoulder so Zanka can agonize over the high pitched noise he makes later. Jabber's too busy to mock it, though, still trying to get his answer from a very nearly out of it Zanka. "What do you want, Zanka?"
What does Zanka want? What does Zanka want? He wants to fucking prove he's better than any genius, he wants to get off this dirty trash heap and get dressed, he wants none of the other cleaners to hear the harsh, wet smacking echoing around them, sounding more like a fight than any kinda lovemaking.
Mostly, he wants...
"To w-win." He sobs into the ground, fingers scrabbling desperately at Lovely Assistaff as Jabber starts fucking faster, somehow, "I wanna win, I wanna -hic!- win." He shakes his head in the dirt, debris and who knows what else clinging to his flushed, messy skin. His mouth tastes like blood, trash, and the antiseptic scent that clings even to Jabber's cock where it had buried in his throat while a cackling Jabber gleefully plugged his nose.
Jabber laughs now, and humiliation burns even hotter in his belly. This is worse than choosing weapons, this is worse than being scolded, this is so much worse than even meeting Hyo-
"Don't worry, Mr. Bad Attitude." Jabber says right in his ear, hips still pumping and claws digging into the open wound of his side even as he screams himself into a stupor, shaking with stupid little squeaks that make him sound like a battered whore. "You will, one day. And then you can…" Jabber trails off as his thrusts shorten and sharpen, beating a mean tattoo into Zanka's swollen prostate.
He only remembers his words a few minutes later, when Zanka has finally broken himself against the floor, wet sobs the only sound he has the sense to make. "Oh yeah, I was talkin'! Sorry, man, this ass is distractin’!" He smacks it as if to prove it, the claws digging little razor slices into tender skin. All Zanka can do is whine. "You'll win one day. Then you can do this to me."
With the last few pumps, he comes inside him, letting Zanka shake as gross, wet warmth is pumped into cramped channels. He feels so full, disgustingly so, like he had a full meal then got something unnecessarily large shove up his ass. Which he has.
His cock pulses limply between his legs, wrung dry, sticky and covered in the same dirt and blood as the rest of him. He feels every inch of his loss pounding in his wounds, head, and ass. He's such a mess.
He starts to feel a hot pulse against the back of his eyelids, his breathing picking up. He's such a mess, letting his enemy fuck him until he wins and gets to, what, fuck him back? What would his family think if they could see him? What would Kyouka think-
"There ya go!" There's a yelp Zanka will never admit to, and he's in the air. Jabber grins at him, a lazy thing now compared to the mania in it earlier. "Hate this part." Jabber says happily, definitely jostling Zanka on purpose as he walks across the trashheap that had made their arena and then, their bedroom. "But I gotta clean you up, or you might not play with me again!"
‘I'll do a lot worse than not play with ya if you don't put me down’, he wants to say, but it's... not half bad. Jabber could gain some weight, but his skin is warm, and his locs still smell like antiseptic, blood, and something herbal…
—
When Zanka wakes back up, Jabber's gone. The area is empty and quiet, since it's fucking nighttime, goddamnit Jabber- except for a few curious kids scrounging in a dumpster. He's dressed, incredibly sore, and has a lot of lies to figure out on his way home.
He slams Lovely Assistaff against the ground, scaring away the group of kids. He murmurs a sweet apology to her a moment later, brushing her familiar wood fondly with his thumb.
Maybe if he focuses enough on her, he can ignore the pain in his hips and, well, everywhere, and the impending doom hanging over his head like some sort of sword.
He’s fucked. Literally and metaphorically.