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At night, the city came alive in a way that nowhere else could. There was a spark that gave Canvas City a unique kind of atmosphere, a vibrant, chaotic energy that hummed just beneath the surface of everything. Maybe it was the preservation of art that fueled the town, a desperate, beautiful rebellion against the trash ridden wastelands. Or maybe it was just all of the weirdos it drew in, the lost souls who found a home in the neon-drenched madness. But there was nowhere else like it.
Tonight, the sky was painted in just about every colour as fireworks exploded high above the rooftops, their fleeting brilliance mirrored by the glowing graffiti that covered every available surface. The music wasn't just heard; it was felt, a deep, bone-shaking thrum that vibrated up from the cracked pavement and through the soles of his boots. Convincing him that every speaker in the city was probably in use at this very moment.
Canvas City at night was a sensory assault. Neon graffiti, glowing with its own bioluminescent paint, pulsed in time with the deafening music that blasted from hidden speakers wedged in alleyways and rooftops. The air was a toxic cocktail of ozone, hard liquor, the sugary tang of energy drinks, and the sharp, chemical bite of fresh spray paint. Zanka could practically taste the creativity in the air, a metallic tang that mingled with the acidic smoke of countless cigarettes and the faint, sweet scent of chemical tang.
Zanka hated it.
He was perched on a rusted fire escape overlooking the chaotic plaza, a bottle of something strong and cheap clutched in his hand. Down below, his so-called friends were lost to the madness. Bodies everywhere were painted in different colours that glowed in the dark, their movements fluid and strange under the blacklights. He wasn’t quite sure what the city was celebrating, but nonetheless, there was a party.
Enjin was leaning over a makeshift bar constructed from pallets and scrap metal, whispering to a bartender with glowing piercings and a smirk that promised trouble. She was leaning right back, tracing the rim of his glass with a finger. Her body language a clear invitation that she was enjoying the attention just as much as he was.
Riyo was a whirlwind of motion in the center of the crowd, her arms and legs moving with a wild, joyful abandon as she danced to a rhythm only she could feel, her laughter a faint, happy bell even over the din. A few other cleaners and support staff were scattered about, their faces illuminated by the shifting neon, their usual grim expressions replaced by the city's frantic, chemically-induced joy.
He took a swig from the bottle, the liquid burning a familiar path down his throat, a taste like battery acid and regret. He scanned the crowd, his eyes sharp and practiced. He saw the flash of a can of spray paint, the glint of metal catching the light, the desperate, wide-eyed stares of the young and high. Someone decided to start painting in the middle of the crowd, their body a canvas for a moment. Nothing out of the ordinary.
What he didn't see was the pair of eyes watching him from the shadows of a nearby rooftop. Jabber crouched like a gargoyle, a predator perfectly still amidst the chaos. He’d been tailing his boy Zanka for over an hour, tracking his solitary path through the city's neon heart. He saw the tension in Zanka's shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched tighter than a rusted bolt. It was delicious. A tightly wound spring just begging to be sprung.
Jabber moved with silent purpose, dropping from the rooftop and melting into the throng. He was a ghost, a shadow slipping through the mass of dancing, sweating bodies. His target was the makeshift bar where Enjin was playing his game. As the bartender leaned in, giggling, Jabber made his move. A quick, fluid motion, a small crumpled paper packet palmed in one hand, and a dash of dark powder into the fresh glass being poured. The powder dissolved instantly, leaving no trace. Jabber managed to communicate to the bartender which cleaner the drink was for. It was easy to slip back into the crowd with so many people around.
Zanka decided he needed another drink. The one he had wasn't numbing the noise enough. He swung down from the fire escape, his movements economical and precise, and pushed his way towards the pallet bar, his face a thundercloud of irritation. He slammed his empty bottle on the counter and nodded towards the liquor. The bartender poured him a shot. Zanka tossed it back, the taste like battery acid and regret. As he turned to leave, he saw the drink waiting for him. It was a tall glass filled with a vibrant, electric-blue liquid, the kind of energy drink that was everywhere tonight, but with a darker swirl of something pooling at the bottom. A wedge of synthetic lime was stuck on the rim.
"From an admirer," the bartender winked, before turning her attention back to Enjin.
Zanka frowned. He hadn't seen who left it. But the drink was there, and the idea of the sugar and caffeine rush was appealing. He was tired, his nerves frayed. He grabbed the glass, the condensation cold against his skin, and downed half of it in one go. It was sickly sweet, with a bitter, chemical aftertaste that clung to the back of his throat, a taste that promised more than just energy. He finished the rest.
The effect was almost immediate. A strange, heavy warmth bloomed in his stomach, spreading through his veins like warm syrup. The relentless pounding of the music began to soften, the harsh edges blurring into a muffled, rhythmic pulse. But along with the lassitude came a new, deeply unsettling heat. It coiled in his gut, a low, insistent thrum of arousal that had nothing to do with his own desires. His skin felt too tight, hypersensitive to every brush of air and fabric.
He stumbled, his coordination shot.
The world tilted violently, and he braced himself against the wall, his vision swimming. He needed to get out of the crowd. He pushed away from the bar, his movements clumsy and slow, and began to shoulder his way through the throng. He felt a hand on his arm, firm and steady, guiding him.
"Whoa there, my guy. Looks like you're havin' a bit too much fun. Let's get cha somewhere chiller." The voice was calm, reassuring. Zanka, in his haze, didn't resist. He let himself be led, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he was steered down a progressively darker and quieter series of alleys.
The rave music faded to a distant thump, then disappeared altogether. They were in a service alley, narrow and smelling of damp concrete and refuse. The only light came from a flickering neon sign for a closed-down shop far at the other end, casting long, dancing shadows. The hand on his arm released him, and he slumped against the cool brick wall, sliding down to sit on the ground. Feeling practically paralyzed from whatever he’d drank.
"Feelin' it now, aren’t ya, ZanZan?" The voice was different now. The feigned concern was gone, replaced by a low, predatory purr that sent a chill through Zanka's drug-addled system. He forced his eyes to focus, his head lolling to the side.
Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, was Jabber. A slow, wicked smile spread across Jabber's face as he watched the dawning realization—and horror—in Zanka's eyes. "Took ya long enough. I was startin' to think you’d forgotten me, you know, that’s pretty rude. I thought we were friends.”
"You…" Zanka tried to stand, to lunge, but his legs wouldn't obey. They were useless, heavy as stone. "What did you… do?"
"Just a little somethin' to help ya loosen up," Jabber said, pushing off the wall and stalking forward. He crouched in front of Zanka. He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of Zanka's jaw, then trailing down his throat to rest on the frantic pulse point there. The touch was electric, and Zanka flinched, a useless, pathetic gesture.
"Shhh, shhh," Jabber whispered, his voice a silken threat. He leaned in closer, his other hand coming up to rest on Zanka's thigh, giving it a firm, possessive squeeze. "Relax, I'm not gonna hurt ya, and I’ll only bite if me ask real nice,"
He leaned in and crashed his lips against Zanka's. It wasn't a kiss; it was an invasion, a bruising, claiming act that stole the air from Zanka's lungs. He tried to turn his head, to resist, but Jabber's hand shot up, tangling in his hair and forcing him still. The aphrodisiac was a traitor, a warm wave washing over him, making his body respond with a shameful, unwanted heat. A low groan was muffled by Jabber's mouth, a sound of protest and pleasure tangled together.
Jabber pulled back, a triumphant smirk on his face. He was taking Zanka apart with his gaze, enjoying everything he saw. Zanka felt like he was on fire; his skin was so sensitive, he was positive that he must be blushing head to toe. This was a nightmare.
"Now that's what I’m taking about," he rasped a wicked grin crawling ear to ear came across his face.
His free hand moved with practiced ease, popping the button on
Zanka's trousers and roughly yanking down the zipper. The sound of the metal teeth parting was unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet of the alley. Zanka's mind screamed, a silent, frantic roar of denial, but his body was a dead weight, a traitor betraying him at every turn. Jabber's hand snaked inside, past the fabric of his underwear, and wrapped around his already-hardening cock, the heat of his palm a brand against Zanka's feverish skin. He hissed at the invasion at the sudden warmth. Screaming at himself for the way his body was responding.
"Look at cha,” Jabber chuckled, his voice low and mocking, a rumble that vibrated through Zanka's very bones. "All talk and no fight."
“Sh…ut up,” his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. The words couldn’t come out right.
Jabber began to stroke, his grip firm and unrelenting, a perfect, torturous rhythm. His thumb swirled over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it as lubricant. His other hand moved down to cup and roll Zanka's balls, tugging on them just hard enough to make him gasp, a sharp, involuntary sound of pained pleasure. He played with the foreskin, pulling it back and forth over the sensitive head in a deliberate, teasing rhythm that made Zanka's hips twitch and jump, completely beyond his control. The pleasure was a violation, a fire burning through the fog in his mind. He hated it. He hated his body for wanting it, for arching into the touch, for the whimpers that escaped his lips despite his best efforts to swallow them.
"What gets you going? I really wanna know," Jabber demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, a hot puff of air against Zanka's cheek. He tightened his grip, his strokes becoming faster, rougher, the friction almost unbearable. "C'mon, don't be shy. You like it rough, don't you? Like havin' your dick pulled like this?"
He gave a particularly hard tug, and Zanka cried out, his head falling back against the rough brick, the scrape a minor, distant pain. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
"Tell me," Jabber insisted, his breath hot against Zanka's neck now. Zanka wasn’t sure if time was still speeding up or if he was blacking out, the world dissolving into a series of overwhelming sensations. Then Jabber’s mouth was on his neck, tracing long, wet lines with his tongue. It sent a shiver down his spine that resulted in little whimpers that only seemed to encourage Jabber, each sound a reward for his efforts.
“God you love this, you’re so fucking needy,” he growled, the words a filthy praise that made Zanka's stomach clench. He bit down on the sensitive skin where his neck met his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, a sharp, possessive pain that bloomed into a dark pleasure.
"Or I'll stop. Right here. Right now. Leave you achin' and alone in this dirty alley. I can’t imagine you could handle that right now," Jabber’s assault gave way. His hands retreated and he withdrew from Zanka, crouching and staring back at him like he was a prize he'd just won.
Jabber’s eyes looked so excited, a manic gleam in the dim light, and the smile across his face was just as enthusiastic, a predator admiring its kill. The threat of it ending was more terrifying than the assault itself. The thought of being left in this state, burning and unsatisfied, was a new kind of hell, a craving so intense it overshadowed his humiliation. Zanka's resolve crumbled, his body's needs overriding his mind's fury.
"H—Harder," he choked out, the word barely audible, a broken plea.
"What was that?" Jabber purred, an agonizing tease. "Didn't catch it."
"Harder, you bastard," Zanka snarled, his voice ragged, the last of his defiance.
Jabber's grin was feral in the dim light. "That's my boy."
He obliged, his hand returning to Zankas cock becoming a blur of motion, his grip punishing and perfect. He twisted his wrist on every upstroke, his other hand returning to massaging Zanka's testicles with a possessive pressure. The combination of pain and pleasure was overwhelming, a white-hot tide that was dragging him under. Zanka's breath came in ragged pants, his body arching into the touch despite himself. He was trapped, violated, and hurtling towards an orgasm that felt like both a surrender and a conquest.
Jabber could feel it. The tell-tale signs that Zanka was about to cum: the way his breath hitched and caught, the frantic, helpless bucking of his hips. His poor paralyzed body trying to reach for friction, a desperate, instinctual dance. It was a symphony of surrender, and he was the conductor. He slowed his strokes suddenly, his grip becoming a loose, teasing caress that was pure torment.
"Where do you think you're goin', ZanZan?" Jabber's voice was a low, mocking rumble against his ear. "We're just gettin' to the good part."
Zanka let out a strangled sound, a mix of a sob and a growl. His body, coiled tight and ready to snap, was now left dangling on the precipice. The aphrodisiac sang in his veins, a desperate, demanding need for release that warred with the screaming humiliation in his mind. He tried to thrust into Jabber's hand, to regain that friction, that pressure, but Jabber just chuckled and pulled his hand away entirely.
"Nuh-uh," Jabber tsked, wagging a finger in Zanka's face. "You don't get to come until I say so. You gotta earn it."
He stood up, again leaving Zanka wanting more, desperate for his touch. Jabber stood looming over Zanka's slumped form, his silhouette a monstrous shape against the flickering neon. He looked down at Zanka, at his flushed face, his swollen lips, and his angry, leaking cock straining from his pants. The sight was intoxicating, a masterpiece of debauchery of his own creation. He felt so powerful having done this to his friend. To the focal point of his obsession.
"Look at you," Jabber mused, crouching down again. He didn't touch Zanka's dick this time. Instead, he grabbed Zanka's chin, forcing his head up. His other hand came up to slap Zanka across the face—not hard enough to knock him out, but sharp enough to sting, to leave a hot red bloom on his cheek. Zanka's head snapped to the side, the shock of it cutting through the chemical haze for a split second, a moment of clarity that was almost worse than the fog.
"You're a mess," Jabber continued, his voice a low, possessive growl. "I’ve been so fucking hard just thinking about how to plan this. Fuck, the last time you beat my ass, god, I came hard that night. You kept looking at me just like that. So full of hate and disgust. The only thing better now is seeing how god damn horny you are too. Fuck, Zanka, that mouth looks so fuckable and your cock is barely holding on. I bet you’d cum right now if you could even touch yourself.”
He leaned in and licked the stinging mark on Zanka's cheek, a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. The sensation was bizarre, humiliating, and it sent a fresh jolt of unwanted arousal straight to Zanka's groin.
"Please," Zanka whimpered, the word torn from his throat. He didn't even know what he was begging for. An end to it? Or the release he was being denied?
"Please what?" Jabber pressed, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. He finally wrapped his hand around Zanka's cock again, his grip just as tight as before, but perfectly still. "You gotta tell me what you want. You gotta tell me how you wanna be touched."
Zanka squeezed his eyes shut, shame and desire warring within him.
"Just... finish it," he gritted out.
"Not good enough," Jabber snarled, giving his cock a sharp, painful squeeze that made Zanka cry out. "I wanna hear the dirty stuff, Zanka. I wanna know what makes that stubborn brain of yours shut off and your dick take over. C'mon, talk to me." He began to move his hand again, agonizingly slow, his thumb circling the head, smearing fluid, driving him insane.
"Tell me you like it rough," Jabber commanded, his voice like gravel. "Tell me you like gettin' used in a dirty alley like the trash you clean up after."
The words were filth, poison, but under the influence of the drug and the overwhelming stimulation, they were also fuel. Zanka's mind, desperate for an end to the torment, latched onto them.
"I...I like it when you talk down to me…when you use me," he choked out, the admission feeling like a physical blow, a surrender of his very soul.
"Yeah?" Jabber encouraged, his strokes picking up speed, becoming rougher, more erratic.
"Hate you," Zanka gasped, his hips trying to jerk up. "Fuck, I hate you. I like pain.”
"Good," Jabber grinned, feral and triumphant. "Hate me while you come for me." He twisted his wrist viciously on the downstroke, his other hand moving up to clamp hard on Zanka's nipple through his shirt, pinching and twisting.
That was it. The final, violent push over the edge.
A raw, guttural scream tore from Zanka's throat as his orgasm crashed through him. It was a violent, shuddering thing, a seizure of pleasure and humiliation that ripped through his body with the force of a tidal wave. His back arched off the brick wall, the rough scraping a distant, irrelevant sensation against the overwhelming force of his release.
His whole body convulsed as he spilled himself over Jabber's hand and his own clothing, the warmth a shocking, final indignity. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of agonizing ecstasy that left him limp and panting, his head lolling to the side, his mind a blank, white-washed ruin.
For a moment, the only sound in the alley was Zanka's ragged breathing and the distant, muffled thump of the city's party, a world away. Jabber slowly pulled his hand away, examining the mess on his fingers with a look of profound satisfaction, a connoisseur admiring his work. He brought his hand up to Zanka's face, smearing the cooling cum across his lips, a final, possessive brand.
"Look at that," Jabber whispered, his voice thick with triumph. "Told you it'd be fun." Then Jabber did something Zanka didn’t expect: he put his own fingers in his mouth and, with an exaggerated, lewd slowness, began to lick off Zanka’s cum, his eyes locked on Zanka's the entire time. Once that was done, he leaned in and began to do the same to the mess he'd smeared across Zanka's lips. It quickly devolved into a kiss so messy and deep Zanka wanted to scream. Whatever he was drugged with didn't allow him his typical precise motor functions; instead, what was happening was some kind of sloppy, desperate mess that Jabber was enthusiastically taking joy from, a victory lap of saliva and conquest.
Jabber pulled away once again, taking in just how defeated his prey was. With a predatory grin, he palmed at his own obvious erection, the fabric of his trousers strained taut.
"Get up," Jabber commanded, his voice rough with his own unchecked arousal. He grabbed a fistful of Zanka's hair and yanked, forcing him to his feet with a grunt of effort. Zanka's legs were still unsteady, trembling and weak, and he stumbled, falling to his knees on the grimy, litter-strewn concrete. The position was perfect.
"On your hands and knees," Jabber ordered, kicking Zanka's feet apart with his boot, the leather cold against his ankle. "Ass up."
A fresh wave of shame washed over Zanka, cold and sharp, but his body, still humming with the lingering effects of the drug and the violent aftershocks of his orgasm, obeyed without question. He lowered himself onto his forearms, his head hanging, presenting himself in the most vulnerable way imaginable, every inch of him exposed to the cool night air and Jabber's hungry gaze. Jabber yanked his trousers the rest of the way down his thighs, and the sudden, unrestricted cool air on his exposed skin made him shiver, a visceral reaction to his complete exposure.
Jabber knelt behind him, his hands gripping Zanka's ass cheeks, spreading them wide. He didn't hesitate. He leaned in and dragged his tongue flat over Zanka's hole.
Zanka jolted as if electrocuted. A choked, shocked gasp escaped his lips. It was a wet, obscene, utterly intimate act that felt dirtier and more violating than anything they had done so far. Jabber wasn't gentle. He ate him out with a hungry, desperate energy, his tongue probing and circling, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. He was moaning, the vibrations sending shockwaves through Zanka's body, making his muscles clench and spasm. He was getting off on this, on the taste, on the power, on the complete degradation of the man before him.
"Fuck, Zanka," Jabber panted, pulling back for a second to catch his breath. "You taste good even here." He dove back in, his tongue stabbing inside, fucking him with it, a relentless, wet invasion. Zanka's own cock, which he thought was completely spent, began to twitch, a traitorous spark of life igniting in the pit of his stomach, a horrifying testament to his body's betrayal. He truly hated Jabber, silently he swear to himself he’d return this humiliation tenfold.
After what felt like an eternity of wet, relentless torment, Jabber pulled away. "Flip over. On your back."
Zanka growled under his breath his limbs still felt like lead. “How exactly should I do that?”
His movements slow and heavy, his knees trembling as he tried to keep himself up. He lay on the dirty ground, the grit and grime pressing into his back and shoulders, looking up at the sliver of night sky between the buildings. Jabber quickly peeled off the remainder of Zanka's pants, then shed his own trousers, his own cock springing free, thick and flushed, jutting out from his body with arrogant need.6 He positioned himself between Zanka's legs, hooking them over his shoulders, folding Zanka nearly in half.
He didn't prep him. He didn't ask. He just lined himself up and pushed in, hard and deep.
A pained cry tore from Zanka's throat as he was breached, stretched and filled in a single, brutal thrust. It burned. It was too much, too fast, a searing pain that stole his breath. But beneath the pain, that insidious heat began to coil again, his traitorous body already adapting, already craving more.
Jabber leaned down, his body covering Zanka's, his face buried in the crook of his neck. He began to move, a deep, punishing rhythm that stole Zanka's breath with every thrust, driving him into the dirty pavement.
"That's it," Jabber whispered, his voice a hot, ragged pant against Zanka's ear. "Take it. Take all of it." He was relentless, his hips snapping forward, driving into him over and over. The alley was filled with the slap of skin on skin, the sounds of their harsh breathing, a primal rhythm that drowned out the distant city.
"Tell me," Jabber growled, his teeth scraping Zanka's earlobe. "I wanna know what really gets you off. Not the 'I like it rough' bullshit. I wanna know the dirty secret, Zanka. The thing you think about when you're alone in the dark."
Zanka's mind was a fog of pain and pleasure, a swirling vortex of sensation. He tried to hold on, to keep that last piece of himself locked away, but Jabber's cock was hammering against that secret place inside him, and the words just started to spill out, a confession torn from his soul.
"Being... watched," he gasped, his voice cracking. "Fuck... I like the thought of people watching, of everyone seeing me like this..."
Jabber groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic, his control finally slipping. "Fuck yeah. Me too. Look at us. Put on a good show."
The admission, once spoken, broke something loose in Zanka. A new, darker thrill coursed through him. He was being watched. By the man who was destroying him. By the ghosts in the alley. By the city itself. The shame was still there, but now it was mingled with a dark, exhilarating pride.
"Harder," Zanka choked out, his hands coming up to claw at Jabber's back, his nails digging into his skin, leaving red welts in their wake.
Jabber's eyes widened, a look of ecstatic surprise on his face. He grinned, a wicked, beautiful thing.
"Oh, you freaky bastard," he laughed. He picked up the pace, fucking into him with wild abandon. "I'm fuckin' you senseless in a dirty alley! I'm stretchin' your tight ass 'til you can't walk straight! Gonna fill you up so you're drippin' me for a week!"
Zanka hissed, his head thrashing from side to side. The words were a revelation, a surrender so total it was liberating. He was no longer fighting; he was reveling in it. He was a spectacle, a piece of art being created by violence and lust.
"Tell me who you belong to," Jabber demanded, his voice strained, on the edge.
"I'm yours," Zanka whimpered, the words a final, shattering surrender.
That was all it took. With a final, guttural roar, Jabber slammed into him one last time and came, his body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside Zanka. The feeling of being filled, of being so thoroughly claimed, sent Zanka over the edge again. His own cock, untouched, spurted weakly onto his stomach, a second, smaller orgasm that was somehow more intense than the first, a final, convulsive throb of pleasure and defeat.
Jabber collapsed on top of him, his weight a heavy, grounding presence. They lay there for a long moment, a tangled, sweaty mess in the filth of the alley, the distant party music a world away. Finally, Jabber pushed himself up, looking down at Zanka's wrecked, blissed-out face. He smirked, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.
"Knew you had it in ya."