Archive of Our Own

“Pull me off to darkened corners

Where all other eyes avoid us

Tell me how I mesmerize you

I love you and despise you

Back to the crowd, and you ignore me

Bedroom eyes to those before me

How am I supposed to handle?

Lit the fuse and missed the candle!”

Super Psycho Love - Simon Curtis

Jabber may have gotten himself into some trouble. Maybe. It’ll probably be fine. Right? 

Right.

Sooooo, there may or may not be a little Cleaner with big blue eyes and a mean right-hook that's got it out for him. He's like, 5’10, super cute, and filled with hatred. He's perfect.

He and Mr. Bad Attitude have been going at it for a couple months now. Fighting, brawling, jumping each other like two dogs fighting over a scrap of meat - whatever you'd like to call it. In the months that he and Zanki Boy have been flirting, he has:

Broken Jabber’s rib (and then punched it!)

Fractured both of his wrists

Dislocated both of his shoulders (twice on each arm!)

And as of today, broken his left arm. Soooooooo romantic!

But he's never done this: called him after a fight. Jabber was almost finished wrapping his broken arm up - he probably should have been more careful, this is gonna be a bitch to heal - when his choker started vibrating around his neck. Bzzzz, bzzzz.

Who the hell is that? He's tempted to ignore it so he does. The boss is the only person who rings him besides Cthoni and since he just saw her, he knows it's not her calling. Don't get him wrong, big dog Zodyl is one of his faaaaaavorite people, but he’s a major vibe killer and Jabber was hoping to stew in his now blessedly empty mind for at least an hour. 

So, he deigns to ignore the buzzing. It kind of feels nice around his abused neck anyway.

That was two minutes ago. Two minutes, and it's still buzzing. Guess he's gotta answer it. Damn. He taps the button on his choker.

“Yo.”

Silence. Zodyl must be in one of his moods. Great.

“Hellooooooooooo?” A cough, then a gruff:

“Hi.”

Zanka????????????

Now hold on just a second. Mr. I Hate You So Bad Ooooh I'm Gonna Kill You To Death never calls after a fight. Or in general. He only calls when he wants to fight, and even then, Jabber calls first most of the time. Does he wanna go again? Jabber could go for a round 2, but why wait until he's already gone home? Sumn’ ain’t right.

“Hi, Zan-Zan! What’s up?” Why are you calling me? There is a pregnant pause. Zanka clears his throat on the other line.

“I just wanted to… uhm.” Another pause. Weird. Zanka ain't no silver-tongued preacher but he never hesitates this much. What could possibly be tripping him up like this? Jabber can’t deny that he is curious. Plus, his brain is still rebooting, so he’s feeling particularly patient. He’ll humor it. Whatever “it” is.

“You wanted to…?”

“Did'ja get home okay?”

What?

“What,” Jabber says, intelligently.

Zanka huffs in annoyance, like Jabber’s the one being weird. “I said, did'ja get home okay?”

Did he get home safe?

Sure, Jabber supposes. Cthoni came and scooped him up about 10 minutes after Zanka left, which was very soon after he. Well. He's still processing that part.

One stomach-churning portal ride later, she dumped Jabber in front of his apartment in mostly one piece then fucked off to wherever she was before. The usual. 

At least, up until the point where she asked him why he looked so scared. But other than that, yes, he “got home safe.” That's not the issue here.

The issue is that Zanka's asking. They don't do that. 

They do everything else under the sun: fight, argue, and as of today, engage in ~relations~, but they do not talk about it. Jabber does not ask if Zanka is okay when he is bleeding from seemingly anywhere he can after their fights and Zanka certainly does not implore him to. Zanka does not ask Jabber where the scars that aren't from their fights come from and Jabber does not offer any answers. It's called balance.

Zanka’s not respecting the balance. That ain't right. Jabber should hang up to teach Zanka a lesson. But the ever-curious scientist in him can’t help but wonder why. What new variable has been introduced? And why is it changing up shit? Maybe he should just leave it be and right the status-quo. His momma did always say his curiosity took him, quote, “places I wouldn’t even go with a gun.” Jokes on her, Jabber's quite fond of such places.

“Stop zoning out on me, dumbass.” Oops. Jabber has a tendency to do that.

“Yes?” is Jabber’s tentative answer to Zanka’s question. Is that how you answer this kinda thing? Jabber's not sure. No one ever asks him that. 

“Okay. Cool.” 

“Okay?”

“Just, uh, okay. That's it. Bye.” Jabber is still deciding between saying bye to get away from this weird ass conversation or asking what the hell is up when Zanka hangs up on him. Okay…

The foggy late-night sky filters in through his living room window, bathing Jabber in a murky sort of glow. Muffled sounds of someone scolding their spouse break through the thin walls. No noise permeates his own apartment, save for the sound of the fan running and the tinkling of his wind chimes as the fan blows air through them. He picked them out specifically because he liked the way they sounded wrong - discordant instead of peaceful. Tonight, their tinkling is particularly ominous. 

Jabber is not thinking about it. Honest. 

He's got other shit to worry about besides Weirdo Nijiku. Bills to pay. Venoms to mix. Necks to snap. He's employed, okay? You don’t get Raider of the Month for two years straight by not doing shit.

So, he continues on with his week like usual. He smashes a couple shins on Monday. Dethrones a crime syndicate or two Tuesday. Passes out from a new toxin he's whipping up not once but twice Wednesday. Business shit.

By the time Friday rolls around, Jabber's totally forgotten about the latter half of Sunday night.

He's currently in the kitchen grinding a dried plant into powder to add into a poison for a date with a very special someone who owes Zodyl money. This shit is so strong that he, much to his dismay, is forced to wear a mask. He'd rather not but he kinda can't make the poison if he passes out. Again. Sigh. The burdens of being a professional!

He's about to pour in his liquid component (toxic water he collected from Monday's acid rainstorm!) when he's interrupted by buzzing from his choker. Probably Cthoni checking in to make sure he didn’t pass out a third time. He pulls down his mask to speak and answers the call.

“Hiiiiii. Kinda busy.”

“Busy doin’ what? Stirrin’ your witch's cauldron?”

Jabber blinks. Zanka? Again? This can only mean one thing.

“Hello to you too, bad boy! I missed you,” Jabber coos, honey-sweet in the way that he knows pisses Zanka off. He is already imagining the flustered response Zanka will give - Jabber estimates that there is an almost 99% chance it will include a “fuck you.” His Zanka’s so predictable he should start betting money on him. 

“Did you…  have you eaten today?” Or maybe not. Jabber frowns. Maybe he didn’t hear him right. The clanging of his pestle against the wall of his mortar is kind of loud. 

“Have I done what?” Jabber decides to stop mixing for a moment, opting to check for clumps with a gloved hand so he can hear Zanka clearly this time. That is how he is absolutely sure he heard what Zanka says next perfectly.

“I said,” the sound of a chair being pushed back fills his ears, Zanka must be in his room, “did you eat today?”

Okay. Now shit’s getting strange for real. Not only is that a weird question to ask - this is the Ground, meaning there is a high likelihood he actually did not eat and Zanka knows that - but it also makes him feel weird. Like something is crawling on him. Jabber thought they were over this weird little thing of Zanka asking him strange questions like, forever ago. Clearly not. The feeling amplifies the more he thinks about it. He does not like this.

“Ground to Jabber.” Oops. 

“Oops. Uhm. Yes?” 

“Well?” 

“Well, what?” Jabber’s not sure what Zanka is playing at here but it’s starting to piss him off. He’s no stranger to implication. The majority of their conversations revolve around it: Jabber says one thing and means one thing; Zanka says one thing and means ten other things. It usually gives Jabber a thrill to try and guess what Zanka really means. Now it’s just agitating him. What the hell does he want from me?

“Well, what did'ja eat, goofball?” Zanka’s voice comes out a huff, like he’s annoyed, but his tone is almost… fond. This, decidedly, is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. They don’t do that.

They don’t do casual phone calls. They don’t do check-ins. And they sure as hell do not do fond. This. Is. Weird! He’s gotta put a stop to this. Now. 

“Zankaaaaa. My man. You don’t gotta butter me up just to ask when we can fight. Y'know I’m always down for you, baby.” Jabber will keep his tone light no matter how weirded out he is. Zanka does not need to know that his feathers are ruffled.  

“Ain’t nobody buttering you up, jackass. I’m just askin’ ya what you ate. Don’t tell me them poisons make you deaf now, too.” Zanka is starting to get annoyed, if his accent is anything to go by. Good.

“Nah, just allergic to your bullshit. You and I both know damn well that you don’t give a fuck about what I ate. C’mon, man, just tell me what you actually want.” Jabber’s voice wavers slightly on actually, betraying his growing unease. He can feel sweat forming at his temples despite his fan running on high. His heart is going, going, going, might just be gone if he stays on this damn call any longer. Shit. What the fuck is happening?

“I want ya to tell me what ya ate today! Damn! Ya sign a fuckin’ NDA or somethin’?”

“You sign a… a… fuck, man, I don’t know!” Down, he needs to sit his ass down. It’s suddenly too much to stand. Is it hot in here? It shouldn’t be hot in here. His fan is on, always on - ventilation is important.

“Y'know what, Jabber, forget it. Ion even know why I asked.”

“Me neither. Shit’s weird, Z, real fucking weird.”

“Yer one ta talk. Sorry fer infringing on yer top-secret dinner.” Even through the haze of his… whatever the hell this, Jabber can tell that Zanka is pissed, dumb accent flaring thick as fuck. Good. Now they’re both upset.

“Man, whatever. I don’t have time for this shit. Buzz me when you're ready to be real.” 

Jabber does not wait for a response before removing his finger from the button on his choker. He gives it, 1, 2, 3 to make sure the call actually ends before collapsing in a heap onto his couch. It does not like that, groaning as he releases all of his weight onto it.

Jabber has tripped more than enough to know that whatever this is is not from standing too close to his mixing bowl.

What.

The.

Fuck.

Zanka Nijiku might just be the stupidest motherfucker on the Ground - and that's saying something. He thought he felt the extent of stupid when he first picked up Lovely Assistaff, like he’d picked the wrong dialogue option in a video game. Boy, was he wrong. There’s a reason average people and geniuses don’t mix. 

“Zanka, what do you think I can do with this aerosol can?”

Even if you apparently like each other, that doesn’t mean anything to a real, bonafide genius.

“Zanka! Look! I made a flamethrower!”

Nope. Here’s a fun fuckin’ fact: you can do whatever you want if you’re a genius. You can throw as many mixed signals someone’s way as you please. Totally fine! Invited, even! 

I really like you. 

Hah! Suuuuuuure.

“Oh wow, that flame is bigger than I thought it would be! A lot bigger. Uh… Maybe you should move?”

But you know what, Zanka’s over it. Yup. Couldn’t be less concerned. Actually, he’s relieved. Better to know now rather than later that nothing a genius says means shit. Not even if they look at you like you hung the Sphere. Not even if they praise you for your progress even as you’re thiiiiiiiis close to bleeding out on the dirty ground. 

Shit’s weird, Z. Real fucking weird. No sir, no ma’am. Doesn’t. Mean. Shit!

Geniuses, right? Zanka could become an expert on them if that sorta thing existed.

“Zanka, move!”

Rudo’s frantic voice finally snaps Zanka out of his reverie just in time for him to dodge being set on fire for a fourth time. Damn! What is with this kid and fire?! The end of his uniform sleeve is singed from the residual heat of the wave passing by. At least it wasn’t his eyebrows this time. Mama’s genes went bankrupt when it was his turn to have hit on that one.

Rudo slides down from the trash heap he was standing on for better leverage, careful to watch his calves, just like Zanka taught him. Zanka would tell him not to get up there - towering trash heaps are extremely unstable - but the kid’s like, five apples tall. He’s gotta make up for that height somehow.

“Are you okay?” 

Is he? Zanka’s sleeve is ruined, his hair is fucked up from all of the ducking and dodging that is inevitable when training with Rudo, and his enemy-situationship is mad at him. For some fucking reason.

“Couldn’t be better.” Rudo nods, sweeping dust off of his sleeves. He says nothing more but his gaze is downcast. He looks like a kicked puppy. Sigh.

“Look, it’s not your fault. I shoulda been payin' more attention to you.”

At his words, Rudo’s eyes suddenly snap up to him, bug eyes wide like he’s surprised that Zanka isn’t admonishing him. Jeez. He’s not that damn mean. 

“It’s late anyways, let’s start walking back. We’ll work more on limiting tomorrow.”

Rudo nods, falling into step with Zanka. Silence falls upon them like the setting sun, warm and easy. Zanka spares a glance at Rudo. These days, they’ve developed something akin to friendship. He’s still annoying as shit: always stealing his socks and asking him Are you gonna finish that? two bites into breakfast, lunch AND dinner, but somehow, Zanka has grown. Don’t make him say it. Fond. 

And maybe it’s just because the silence is particularly comfortable, or because his hands need something to do with Lovely on his back, but he risks a pat on his head. Rudo makes a face. 

“Don’t touch my hair,” He scowls, but the words have no fire behind them. Yeah. He ain’t that bad. Maybe. 

“Hey Zanka? Can I ask you something?” Zanka raises an eyebrow. Or well, the fragments of one. Look, his lack of eyebrows do not define him, okay?

“Are you…” Rudo pauses, gloved-hands fiddling at his sides like he's trying to pluck the words from the air. 

“Are you fumbling a baddie?” Zanka almost stops dead in his tracks. What.

“What?”

“Riyo says you’ve been so moody lately because you’re fumbling a baddie. Is that true?”

Zanka’s eye twitches. She’s so going on his list. Right above the stupid clerk in Hole Town who called Lovely a damn stick.

“Riyo’s full of shit. Remember that one time she convinced you that a bar of soap was a huge square of candy?” Rudo sniffs indignantly.

“It was kind of good. But I was coughing up bubbles for days.” Fatass. Why does he try with this kid? Zanka pinches the bridge of nose. 

“The point is, Riyo’s not the most reliable source of information.”

“Oh! Okay. So you’re… fine, then?” No.

“Yes.”

Rudo nods then, apparently satisfied with his answer. It takes them half an hour more to get back to HQ from the field because Rudo keeps stopping to collect trash. By the time HQ is in view, Rudo’s bag and arms are full of crap. They check in with Semiu, who does not even bother to look up, and then head their separate ways: Zanka to his room and Rudo to the landfill he pretends is a room. 

There’s still a bit of time before dinner and he’s covered in shit (at least not literally this time), so Zanka decides to take a shower. 

He’s not thinking about it. About him. For real. It’s just…

There’s a bottle of body wash in his shower. It’s the nice kind, scented and everything. Something Zanka would never buy for himself. And he didn’t - Riyo bought for him. Claimed it was buy 2, get 1 free but Zanka knows it was because she felt bad for him after The Incident. He uses it sparingly because it makes his stomach hurt to be reminded that people worry about him. Always worrying about him, in their own weird ways. Even though he’s weak and mean, they still care about him.

Who cares about Jabber? 

Why does he care? Why, why, why, can’t he not care? Clearly, Jabber doesn’t. They don’t do that. It's “weird” for Zanka to care.

Zanka can break his arm and cum on him like he’s nothing, fracture his wrist, say he hates him (and mean it!) but asking if he ate is a step too far. It’s too much for little ol’ Fenty Scissorhands. What the fuck ever.

The shower stream isn’t particularly strong but the melancholy mood he’s in makes it feel like a torrential downpour. He reaches for the body wash, lathering his washcloth with the slippery substance. It smells like vanilla, an artificial sugar-sweetness everyone on the Ground loves. Does Jabber like scents like this? 

Zanka’s not stupid. He knows Jabber isn’t going to suddenly be sweet on him just because he said he liked him. In fact, he probably, definitely shouldn't even take him seriously - Jabber is nothing if not an expert button-pusher. And he's constantly slamming his hands down on all of the ones in Zanka’s heart with the manic glee of a child left unattended in an arcade. But it didn't feel like that. It felt different. And if it was different, Zanka just thought… 

He just thought maybe, maybe Jabber was being vulnerable. Beneath his manic giggles and bright pink eyes, Zanka knows there’s something there. And he thought Jabber offered him a crumb. He wants him to. He wants him.

The sky is grey, barely anything grows on the Ground, and Zanka Nijiku wants Jabber Wonger. Nothing’s new. 

The bathroom is one of Zanka’s favorite places to be because it is one of the only places he is truly alone. One of the only places where no one is around to ask him any questions he doesn’t want to answer. Like: why do you have an erection, weirdo freak loser?

He takes himself in hand, not bothering to pretend like he doesn’t want to. The glide is instant from the soap, eliciting a hiss. Maybe it makes him fucked up to jerk off imagining his sworn enemy being vulnerable with him. Whatever. He’s done worse. Will do worse, when he gets his hands on him.

Zanka wants to crack open Jabber’s chest and press his fingers into his heart. Press and press and press until it splits open, wide enough for him to see into. Wide enough for Jabber to have no way to keep him out. Maybe if he hurts him well enough, maybe if he gets good enough, Jabber will let him. Let him, let him, please, Jabber, just fucking let him.

The music he’s playing on the shitty ass speaker Enjin got him is loud, voices rising high and low over the sound of the water. 

I’m telling you

Let me into your heart!

Zanka strokes faster, picturing lidded magenta eyes filled with tears and a deep, whirring vortex by the name of Everything. Soft, soft brown skin torn and bloodied by his hands. Vicious, lovely mouth open, expecting. 

Hey, Zan-Zan, I

Why can’t it be him? It’s never, ever him. It should be him. No one else can handle Jabber’s crazy ass. No one else deserves to. Zanka sees the scars from whoever else Jabber fights. Incensed as they make him, they’re never severe. Nobody can take him even on his worst day and they learn that one way or another. Nobody except Zanka. Only Zanka can handle him, take him and keep coming back. It should be him. 

So let me into you, woo

Let me into your heart!

Really 

His head hits the shower wall a touch too hard as he leans back, the knot in his core going so taut he’s sure it's his intestines twisting up instead. His breath is coming harder now, puffs of hah, hah, hah getting lost in the steam of the shower. Zanka is sure he feels something happening, something pull, pull, pull

Like 

and

You.

release.

The bathroom is anything but silent with his music still playing and the water still going, but it’s like Zanka has gone deaf with how quiet his head is. There’s only one thing on his mind. 

It should be him. It will be him. Zanka has worked too hard, gone too far, for Jabber to put another barrier between them. Zanka can accept that he’s smarter than him. Stronger than him. Better than him. But he won’t accept him acting like they’re not meant to be. Like they don’t need each other. 

The water stops at the same time his speaker dies, leaving Zanka in an almost opaque silence as he dries off.

Zanka will have Jabber. Whether Jabber likes it or not.

“Cthoni, if they leave anythin' else, I'm going to go fuckin’ loco.”

Jabber. Is. Pissed. No other way to put it.

This is the third care basket that's been left at his door. This one is small, featuring only a container of metal polish - the fancy kind, whoever this is has money - and a note that reads

Dear Jabber,

You are going to die in seven days. Stay ready, pussy.

in scratchy print. 

Jabber can't figure out who the hell is behind this for the life of him. Usually, something like this would be funny to him. But with Zanka’s little weird streak, he’s been feeling strange lately. Eyes on him at odd hours of the day, in random places no one should be. He’s been feeling real…

Watched. 

But y'see, Jabber doesn't have “enemies”. Any possible candidates are either dead and buried or know better than to try him. Then again, anyone who wants revenge would not be sending him gifts. But why the little love letters too, then?

“You sure it's not that guy you're messin’ around with? The one from the Cleaners?”

Zanka? Nah. Jabber knows that it can't be him. After their little disagreement about a month back, Zanka hit him up three days later to arrange a fight - his way of saying I'm sorry. And then Jabber folded him like a lawn chair, his way of saying I forgive you.

Things have been back to normal since then. Jabber knows that Zanka wouldn't possibly risk upsetting him again because he's well, Zanka! He tries so hard to act nonchalant and unbothered but there's no world in which Zanka knows Jabber exists and does not come crawling. That’s the fun part about them. They'll trade blows until they both drop dead - more than certainly by each other's hands. His boy wouldn't jeopardize that by pissing him off again. Right?

Jabber taps a pointed acrylic to his mouth. 

Right. So whoever this is, Jabber's gotta figure it out. 

“Nah, it ain't him. Think it's one of my exes?”

“None of your exes want anythin' to do with you.” Jabber slaps his hand to his chest in mock-offense even though she can't see it.

“Rude! I'll have you know the one with pink hair is still obsessed with me.” Cthoni scoffs. 

“Tryin' to blow you up with a bazooka three times does not count as bein' obsessed with you.”

“It does to me!”

Cthoni lets out a long-suffering sigh on the other end. 

“Whatever, man. Just be mindful. We got -”

“- shit to do, yeah, yeah, Mom. Hey, since you so worried about ya boy -

“No, Jabber, I am not takin' you to your nail appointment.”

“But it's sooooo far and I'm just a little guy! You just told me to be careful. You'd really leave a poor, defenseless little guy all by himself?”

“You are a six foot criminal wanted by the highest generals on the Ground. I think you can handle walking a few blocks.”

“But -”

“Bye, Jabber.” The call ends with a click! Booooooo. 

3 hours, a fresh set, a plate of extra spicy noodles and an impromptu shopping trip later, Jabber is no closer to figuring out who is sending him shit but he is now the proud owner of something called a “Labooboo.” It is the ugliest fucking doll he has ever seen in his life. He absolutely adores it.

He's halfway home, cutting through an alleyway, when he feels a pair of eyes on him. Sharp, laser-focused. He's smiling before he even turns around. 

“Hi, cutie patootie. What brings you to this side of paradise?”

Zanka is perched on a dumpster, trying and failing miserably to look casual, because Zanka Nijiku does not have a casual bone in his body. He's dressed down today, sporting a t-shirt with a blue long-sleeved undershirt underneath and faded navy blue jeans. His hair is pulled away from his face with a blue headband. With his earrings, he looks like a walking advertisement for the color blue. He looks good. Jabber can't wait to fuck up his outfit.

“Fuck is that?” Jabber follows his line of sight down to the newest addition hooked to his jeans.  

“Oh! No clue! Vendor said it was a protection idol or somethin',” Jabber says, waving his hand around on somethin'. Zanka snorts then, a quick puff of air that makes his nostrils flare. Cute.

“What do you need protection from?” Jabber gasps, crossing his arms in front of his chest. 

“I'll have you know that I am highly sought after!”

“Yeah, for revenge.”

“You're sooooo mean to me.” Jabber pouts, his bottom lip jutting out. He does not miss the way Zanka's eyes flit down to his mouth. Too easy. 

“Hey, Z, quick question.” Zanka rolls his eyes.

“What?” Jabber giggles. Friendliest guy on the Ground, this one!

“Where do I live?”

Zanka's Sprinkle Brows™  raise in confusion.

“How the hell would I know?”

Exactly! The weight on his chest loosens slightly. He knew it couldn't be Zanka.

“Just curious.”

“What, one of the trolls in the forest drop a brick in your hole? I didn't put ‘em up to it. This time.”

At that, Jabber throws back his head and laughs, really laughs, ponytail swinging from where its thrown up on his head. Unbeknownst to him, the ghost of a smile is haunting Zanka’s face, its ghastly tendrils lifting the corners of Zanka's mouth ever so slightly. After that, not another word is said as they get down to business.

Their fight is short-lived, Jabber ending it in one swipe of Mankira to Zanka's arm extended in an almost debilitating strike to his side. Unfortunately for him, almost isn't good enough.

Once it's all said and done, Jabber hasn't even broken a sweat or a nail. He’d really whoop Zanka’s ass if he did - nail salons are expensive down here! He's busy admiring himself in the reflection of Zanka's tears when his eyes suddenly focus on him mid-trip.

“Yer so pretty,” he slurs, still finding his tongue, “I wanna smash yer face in with a brick.”

Jabber giggles, swinging his feet back and forth in the air from where he's sitting on the ground next to Zanka, chin propped up on his hands. Someone's enjoying Mankira’s latest mix! At least he's speaking English this time - building a tolerance, Jabber supposes. Jabber likes to use a few base components for all of his shit - consistency and whatnot. Maybe if he recovers quick enough they can make out. 

Zanka brings his hand up, staring at it a minute like he's not quite sure it's his, and then clumsily plants it over Jabber's chest, right over his heart.

“‘M gonna get this. And then,” Zanka pauses to cough. Wetly. Ewww. “And then, yer never gettin’ it back.” Jabber smiles condescendingly at Zanka, flashing pearly white teeth.

“Yeah, bad boy, gonna rip it out?”

“Ya. ‘M gonna rip it out and then eat it in front of ya. Last thing ya see.”

“Type-shit? Careful, baby, y'know I love it when you sweet-talk me.”

Even in this state, Zanka’s face goes red. Then green. He might be about to throw up. Jabber reaches down to turn him onto his side when he gestures for him to lean down closer. Jabber waits for a moment to make sure he won't hurl on him - the last time he did that, Jabber was cleaning chunks of out his good cashmere for days - then lets Zanka gets all up in his business to hear him whisper:

“Mankira’s awful shiny today. I wonder why?”

All at once, Jabber's blood runs ice cold. He whips his head away from Zanka's face, mouth agape in shock. Zanka laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs, that sort-of breathless ha! of his loud as fuck in the alleyway.

It. 

Was. 

Zanka. 

It was fucking Zanka. This motherfucker! Jabber practically jumps to his feet. He should kick him. Shit, he will. Fuck his personal street-code of honor, he should fuck him up all the way up for playing in his face. 

Jabber kicks Zanka in the side that he knows is sore from him beatin’ on it earlier. Zanka coughs, looking up at him. Then continues to laugh in his face, descending into wheezes like shit’s sweet. Freakin’ asshole. He should beat his ass again.

And he will, but for some reason, the animal alarm in his brain that refuses to die is telling him to run! and he's suddenly feeling like that's a great idea. Jabber isn't one to duck a fade but he cannot shake the feeling of SICK! overwhelming him. He's in such a hurry to grab his bag that he doesn't notice the sound of something unhooking from his belt loop. He's down the street and gone in a matter of seconds, the sound of Zanka's laughter still ringing in his head.

Next week, Jabber receives another package. This one has a bottle of vanilla-scented body wash and his ugly protection idol. Protection his ass. He throws the note straight into the trash, not bothering to read it. Zanka does not call.

4 weeks go by like this: no call, no fights, just one package every week, containing things Jabber supposes Zanka thinks he'll like. Jewelry cleaner, hand lotion, measuring spoons, and even a shampoo and conditioner set designed specifically for locs. Jabber is this close to telling every beauty supply in the area that he's a thief.

4 weeks without fighting Zanka is a toll. The first week, he's fine, sustained by the violence of his job. By the second, he's beginning to get itchy in the mental, his brain bouncing around in his skull like a ping-pong ball from utter boredom. The third, he's mouthing off to randoms in the hopes that they'll swing first. Most of them do, mistaking his pretty face and tendency to make himself smaller by slouching as weakness and getting put on their asses. But none of them are like Zanka. Not as vicious or cruel. Not as strong, nowhere even close. Not even as handsome. Jabber is left victorious and bored by everyone he encounters. By the fourth week he's about to crawl out of his skin.

But Jabber will not call Zanka. He refuses. If it's one thing Jabber cannot stand, it's being backed into a corner. Zanka doesn't run shit. He doesn't get to push the limits of their relationship just because he's too weak to keep his lover boy antics to himself. Lines get blurry with them, sure, but they still exist for a reason.

Jabber has lost too many good sparring partners to feelings. Too many strong, incredible, horrible people turned soft by their love for him. Rough hands going from punching his lights out to cradling his face in their palms. Battle-roughened voices going from yelling at him to yelling Baby, please, don't go! It makes him fucking sick. 

They promise him nothing will change and then everything does. Everything always changes and it’s always for the worse, soft frou-frou loser nonsense.

He's known that vulnerable shit was for the birds ever since his momma took half of his heart with her in her venture under the dirt. He's above that now. 

And Zanka will have to learn to be too if he wants to be anywhere near Jabber again. All he needs is time. It's very simple: Jabber will teach. And Zanka will learn.

He's getting ready for bed now, dabbing eye cream underneath his eyes with his ring fingers (weakest finger, best for delicate skin!) when a knock comes at his door. Jabber checks his clock. It's 11 P.M. It's probably Cthoni, too tired to portal home from her girl's house and deciding to crash at his. Jabber closes the lid on his eye cream, then goes to answer the door, tapping gently under his eyes as approaches. He looks through the peephole, checking to see if his suspicions are correct. They are not.

Zanka's fish-eyed face stares back at him from where he is situated hella close to his fucking door. Bro. Ain't no way.

Jabber sucks his teeth with a tst! and turns his ass back around. Nope. Not tonight. 

Zanka knocks again. And again. And again. For 30 fucking minutes. He's gotta start leaving the crazy ones alone.

By minute 31, he can hear his neighbors complaining for him to just answer the damn door already through the thin walls, and he's getting sick of this shit too, so he does.

Jabber makes sure to swing the door wide open, hoping to catch Zanka right in his stupid face. Zanka steps back just in time. Damn his reflexes! Once the door is open, they just stare at each other. Zanka’s fit is wack as fuck, like he just thew some shit on and ran out the door. 

The look on his face is surprised. Like he wasn’t just banging on his door for half an hour. Like he wasn't expecting him to actually come out. He just stands there looking stupid as hell, not saying anything. Jabber's this close to biting him.

“Man, what?”

“Just surprised you actually live in an apartment. Sorta assumed you lived in a hovel of some kind.”

“You been sending packages here for a month and a half. You know I live here.”

“They deliver to hovels too if the price is right.”

Jabber’s about to start crawling up the walls. 

“Zanka, cut the shit. What do you want?”

“I just wanna talk.” 

“So talk!” 

“Not out here. I wanna talk inside,” Zanka says, gesturing past him. 

“Fuck no. I don't want your bad vibes up in my space.” 

“You want ‘em anything other time.”

Jabber spins the thumb ring of Mankira on his left hand incessantly, resisting the urge to call upon her and send his ass to Tweakersville for bothering him. His landlord told him that if one more unconscious person turned up in front of the building, she'd up his rent. Damn leech. Ugh.

“You start doing weird shit and I'm launchin' your ass out the window.”

Zanka scoffs, claiming “I don't know what you're talkin' about,” in that tone that says he knows exactly what Jabber's talking about. Jabber can do nothing but sigh as he steps aside for Zanka to enter. 

Once inside, Zanka slips off his shoes at the mat without having to be told, sets down his bag onto the floor, and pads over his soft spider-shaped rug to stand in the middle of the room. Blue eyes shift around the room bullet-quick like he's analyzing a battlefield. Jabber closes the door behind him, leaning on it as he crosses his arms and tilts his head at him like well?

Zanka clears his throat, looking put-out like he didn't actually expect Jabber to let him in. He coughs. Been in here 5 seconds and he's already getting his Zanka germs everywhere. Damn!

“Nice place you got. It's uh… cutesy. Didn't expect that from you.”

Most people don't, what with the whole top-criminal thing. Ground forbid a guy get his Hello Kitty on. Like, just because he's tall and at least 98% lethal, he can't also be cute? Wait, focus, Jabber. Ask this asshole what the hell he wants.

“What the hell do you want, asshole?” Nailed it!

Zanka takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for a big reveal.

“I like you.” 

Okay. Fuck? 

“Yeah, and you got a big ass forehead too.” Zanka blinks. 

“What?”

“Since we're saying obvious shit.” With a sigh, Zanka shakes his head, tassel-earrings swinging back and forth like Jabber’s wind chimes. 

“No, Jabber, I like you,” Zanka says, enunciating each word like Jabber doesn't get it.

“I know, you no eyebrow-having ass bitch!” Zanka’s Sprinkle Brows™ furrow.

“So what?”

“So what?!”

"So. The. Fuck. What?" Jabber lets out a loud laugh, anxious hands caressing his wicks that should be in his bonnet because he should be in bed. 

“Y’know what, how about we play a little game, Z? It's called 'Guess How Many Lovers Jabber Has Dumped In The River!' Can you guess? I'll even give you a hint: the number ain't zero!”

“Fuck do I care about those losers for? That’s their fault. They couldn't handle you.”

Jabber can't believe his ears. This shit is hilarious. So funny! Jabber can't control the fit of giggles that strikes him.

“And you think you different, huh, tough guy?”

“I know I’m different.”

“Hah! But see, the thing is, you not.”

“Jabber -”

“You gon’ go soft on me like everybody does. I know it. You gon’ wanna fight less and less and love on me more and more like I'm weak.”

“Now hold on -”

“You gon’ bore me. You already are. Boring, boring, BORING! You can keep all that weak ass, lovey-dovey shit to yourself. I ain’t - ”

“WILL YA SHUT THE HELL UP AND LEMME TALK?!” Zanka explodes. His face is red and pinched like he just swallowed a lemon. Jabber purses his lips.

“Damn! Ya think that just because yer pretty,” Jabber's left eyebrow raises, “and yer freakishly smart, and yer like, super hot and dangerous that ion know what 'M talking about!” Jabber is really struggling to see the connections between these items here.

“But I do. Ya have no clue how much time I have spent hopin’, wishin’, and prayin’ to stop likin’ yer crazy ass. Partially because yer well, you, but mostly because no matter how much I like ya, I can't shake the desire to hurt ya.”

Now both of Jabber's eyebrows are raised. 

“In fact, likin' ya has only made me want to hurt ya more. I train my ass off just to lose ya Jabber, do ya even think about that? Fuck!” 

Zanka runs his hands through his hair and displaces his bangs, blowing out a frustrated breath.

“I get my ass whooped on the regular - voluntarily, mind you! - just so that I can go home and train harder for the next ass-whoopin' in the hopes that one day, one day, I'll finally bleed yer ass dry. You inspire me to be better so that I can hurt ya better. Stronger, better, faster, so that I can kill yer annoyin', perfect ass one day. And make no mistake, Wonger, I will kill yer ass.”

Zanka comes closer, crowding him against the door. He drops his voice lower, like only the two of them exist. Maybe that's true. Maybe everyone else is dead and they're the last two people on the Ground. Jabber's not sure if that's better or worse.

“You can avoid my calls. Pretend I don't exist. Hell, you can move to the other side of the Ground and try to disappear. That don't matter to me. No matter where you go, who you fuck, who you tell, I will find you. And. I. Will. Kill. You. But in the meantime, you are gonna deal with me and you are gonna fuckin’ like it.”

Jabber's heart is racing, beating so fast and so hard that he's sure his ribcage is gonna crack open and spill all of this intense emotion right out onto the floor. He is looking, looking, looking into Zanka's crazy eyes for something, anything to imply that he's bluffing in the slightest bit but finds nothing. He is, truly and utterly, doomed. Something, something, curiosity, guns, places, wouldn't go. He hasn't felt so loved in years.

“Oh, Zanka.” He can think of nothing else. What else is there to say? Zanka comes closer then, fully invading his space to look into his eyes. 

“Jabber,” said less like Jabber and more like baby, sweetheart, slut, my worst enemy, "open your mouth.”

Jabber opens his mouth.

Unlike their first kiss, which was really a hard click of teeth and tongue cosplaying as a kiss, their lips actually touch this time. Zanka's plush mouth pressing gently against his sends conflicting waves of pleasure and anxiety through Jabber, worried that he's already going back on his promise. That is, until a sharp wave of pain shocks him out of his spell, Zanka biting his tongue. Jabber moans into his mouth, shoulders going slack as Zanka sucks on his tongue afterwards.

Zanka's strong hands pull Jabber flush against him, feeling him up all over. Rough, brilliant hands dance from his waist to his chest to his neck, pinching and squeezing anywhere he can. Zanka's right comes to settle on Jabber's right hip and squeezes hard. Jabber can't breathe. It hurts so good.

Reluctantly, they have to pull away for air. A string of bloody saliva connects them until Zanka breaks it, licking his lips. 

“Yer so bony,” Zanka starts, trailing his teeth along Jabber's jaw, “gotta feed ya more.” He rakes his teeth down his neck, not letting up even an inch. He pauses at his jugular.

“So we can fight more often.” He bites. Jabber can't even attempt to muffle the loud moan that tears out of him. His neighbors are gonna be pissed with a capital P - I - S - S - E - D. Whatever. Future Jabber's problem (as most things are).

Jabber tilts his head back, giving Zanka more access to fuck him up. Zanka’s sucking a hickey over a nasty bite when he suddenly reaches both hands down past his ass and picks. Jabber. Up.

Jabber yelps in surprise, legs sort of just hanging before he gets the memo and wraps them around Zanka's middle. No one has ever picked up Jabber and here comes Zanka, picking him up like he doesn't weigh shit. His warm, pink lips twist up in a victorious smile as he pulls away from his crime scene of a neck. 

“Where’s yer room?”

It takes Jabber a minute to process that Zanka's asking him a question. His brain feels like applesauce, all mush, no thoughts. He has to try real hard for a second to recall like he hasn't lived here for years.

“Door to the left.”

“What's the right one?” Another question? This is a lot for Jabber's brain right now. It gives up.

“Right what?” 

Zanka clicks his tongue, "The right door, genius.”

Oh.

“Oh! That's my bathroom.” Zanka whistles.

“Didn't know hovels had indoor plumbing. Look at’chu, fancy pants.”

Jabber disentangles one arm from where it's wrapped around Zanka's shoulder to swat at him. 

“Careful, Zan-Zan, I could still put you on your ass.” Mankira's rings, permanently sittin’ pretty on his fingers, shine threateningly under the light of his lamp.

“I know, baby. That's why I want ya so bad.” The goop in Jabber’s skull solidifies slightly at the use of baby, intrigued, but is quickly reliquified by the feeling of Zanka’s mouth back on his. They stumble through his kitchen/living room towards his bedroom. Zanka slams him into every available flat surface on the way, maybe or maybe not on purpose. Jabber is delighted either way.

One hand comes up from under Jabber to swing open his door and narrowly avoids tripping over all the shit on the floor. Oops. He probably should've warned him about that.

His boy hardly seems to notice, single-mindedly focused on launching Jabber onto his bed. Ow. 

Zanka comes to stand over him, unzipping his dumbass jacket. Then he tackles his other jacket. Now he's in his undershirt - black and long-sleeved. Damn! This man is allergic to showing skin.

Jabber decides to take his own clothes off since they’re gonna be here for 10 more years before Zanka has finished undressing. He would go slow, be a tease and work Zanka up even more, but that sounds like more time than it’s worth right now. What can he say, he’s a young ho.

Once naked, Jabber is all but tackled into his bed (ow) as Zanka presses him flat onto his back to attack his chest, satisfied with the damage done to his neck. In the meanwhile, Jabber feels Zanka all the way up, hands eagerly roaming wherever they can reach. Holy sleeper build. Jabber has never seen any amount of bare skin from Zanka in this quantity. Life really is amazing.

“Damn, Z, what they be feedin' you at the Cleaners?” Zanka pulls away from his nipple with a pop!, his lips slick with spit. 

“Do ya ever shut up?” 

“Not unless you make me! Y'know that, baby.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Bet?”

“Get on yer knees.” Jabber grins.

“Make me.”

Zanka does not hesitate even a second before slapping him across the face. Hard. 

He leans in close, trying again.

“Get on yer knees.”

Jabber's ear is still ringing as he says: 

“No thanks.”

Jabber is expecting Zanka to hit him again, so he is more than surprised when Zanka fully shoves him off of his own bed. He lands on his back with a thunk! It's not a particularly long drop from his bed to the carpeted floor, but with the whiplash from the slap and the suddenness of it all, Jabber's left feeling like he's just fallen off a 10 story building. His cock throbs.

Zanka hops down beside him, daring him to say something else. Jabber finally gets onto his knees.

Zanka stands up in front of him but does nothing else. He looks down on him, expectantly.

It takes Jabber a minute to understand what he wants.

When he does, he grins up at him, leaning in close to his crotch to take the zipper of Zanka's pants in his mouth. It is a bit difficult to unzip his pants with just his mouth, especially over Zanka’s raging boner, but it's so worth it to see the way Zanka’s eyes bloom electric with lust at the sight.

Once Zanka's pants are down, Jabber is faced with Zanka's clothed erection. Even through his underwear, Zanka's desire is noticeable. Jabber drools. He should make Zanka work for it a bit more, make him really earn it before he gives him what he wants. But he is finding it extremely difficult to pretend like he doesn't want this too. Like he hasn't been wanting this since even before Zanka shook him down two months ago.

Jabber leans his face in close, taking a deep whiff of Zanka. He smells so good. Like clean soap and something sort of musky and woodsy. Like… incense, maybe? He loves it. He presses a kiss to his erection through the fabric.

Zanka barely suppresses a groan, saying “Yer such a slut,” like his hips aren't twitching up into his mouth.

“Ya haven’t, hah, earned this.” Shit. Jabber’s gotta figure out how to wear down his patience - which, luckily for him, is not very high anyway. He bites his lip. 

“Zanka, please give it to me.” His lips graze fabric again, this time where the tip is. It's leaking so much pre-cum that the fabric is dark over it.

“Please,” kiss, “please,” suck, “please, baby?” Jabber looks up at him through his eyelashes as he places the last kiss, making sure to bat them for the full effect.

Zanka looks wrecked above him and he hasn’t even started yet. His chest is heaving and his eyebrows are furrowed. He looks two seconds from snapping.

“Zankaaaaaa,”

a breath.

“I need you.”

With a speed that even Jabber was unaware Zanka had, his underwear and pants are down around his ankles, kicked off to the side, and Zanka’s erection is hitting him in the face. Jabber doesn’t even have time to readjust before Zanka is tapping his stinging cheek with two fingers in a sign that he knows is open, holding his cock inches away from his mouth. The look in his eyes is downright predatory.

“If ya so much as think about bitin' me, I will snap yer skinny little neck like a twig. Am I understood?”

Jabber is about to reply with an enthusiastic yes! when Zanka shoves his cock in down to the hilt. Tears immediately well up in his eyes and his cheek is screaming from the stretch. His mouth is so full. Jabber can’t think. That’s okay. Zanka will tell him what to do. And he does, with a simple

“Suck.” 

So everything will be just fine.

Jabber lets his eyes flutter shut as he focuses on pleasing Zanka, bobbing his head up and down in slow, even motions. As much as he wants to provoke more violence out of his man, he watches his teeth, because he cannot risk Zanka taking this away from him. This is far from the first dick he’s ever sucked but it is definitely the nicest. Long and thick, filling up his throat just right. Fuck, he even tastes good. Unlike most people, Zanka eats well and is relatively hydrated, which is reflected in the mild taste of him on Jabber’s tongue. This is like, premium, grass-fed dick with no GMOs. Jabber just might be in love. 

Above him, Zanka sighs quietly, his eyebrows (read: sprinkles) drawn up in pleasure. He’s holding Jabber by the back of his hair gently, probably because he knows how seriously he takes it. The silent consideration makes something in Jabber's stomach twist. Praise floats down from Zanka's mouth to Jabber’s ears in the form of there ya go, sweetheart and needed it, didn’t ya? Still trying to slide that sweet shit by him, he sees. He’ll beat his ass later. Never mind that it makes him shiver, signals of goodbadgoodbad slinking up and down his spine. 

Right now, though, he increases his pace, placing both of his hands on Zanka’s muscular thighs to balance so he can suck harder, faster. Mr. Bad Attitude loves it if the jump from quiet sighs to full on, breathy groans are any indicator. Jabber regrettably has to pull off a bit to pay special attention to the head, wrapping his tongue around it. Zanka shudders.

“Ya seem very, fuck, very good at this.” Jabber backs off from the tip with a wet pop!, wrapping his hand around him to replace his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Jabber croaks. Fuck, his throat is sore as a motherfucker.

“True to this, not new to this, baby.”

“True ta what? Bein’ a,” Zanka moans as Jabber twists his wrist in the way that he is beginning to learn he likes.

“Bein’ a whore?”

“Mhm, just for you, baby.”

“Yer full of, shit, full a’ shit.” 

“I could be full of sumn' else.”

Zanka bites his lip.

“Do ya mean that?”

“‘Course I do, bad boy. Don’t think you got the balls, though.”

“Oh really?”

“Yessir.” It’s a lot harder to ragebait with a scratchy voice and a head full of cotton, but Jabber manages. Maybe a little too well.

The look in Zanka eyes tells him that he’s pushing his buttons, up, right, left, down alllll over on the nuke panel of Zanka’s control. His eyes narrow and his dick twitches in his grasp.

“Ya wanna repeat that?” Jabber smiles, baring his teeth at him. 

“I saaaaaaaaid,” Jabber drawls, “you,” a stroke.

“Can’t,” thumb pressed into the head.

“Handle,” a lick to gather the precum spilling over his thumb.

“Me.”

Zanka smiles, savage and full of teeth. 

“Okay. Let’s see.”

Zanka might be in way over his head. Just a little bit. Cut him some slack, he really didn't think he would get this far.

He just couldn't take it any longer. He's been bouncing off the walls for weeks now. Prior to Jabber, Zanka never understood how someone could let addiction get the best of them. 4 weeks with no Jabber taught him everything he needed to know. His lack of presence physically drained him.

He was irritable and snappy. Didn't want to eat. Could barely sleep. He was trying to play the long game. Then he remembered he was insane. After he enjoyed taking down a trash beast a bit too much earlier today, he decided that he had to see him. In a totally relaxed and normal way, though. So he snuck away to Jabber’s apartment later that night.

He was just going to see him and then leave, he swears! But then Jabber answered the door with his hair down and his nipples poking through his stupid Hello Kinky tank top and his pretty, annoyed face, and Zanka knew there was no way he could leave without taking Jabber’s heart in tow. So it’s really his fault when you think about it. And it’s also his fault that they’re in this situation now. Yeah. That’s Zanka’s story and he’s sticking to it. 

This situation is of course referring to Jabber Wonger (when is it not?): face down, ass up on his surprisingly comfortable bed. Jabber seems to like soft things. Zanka will remember that. And he will also remember to stab him in the throat 37 times once he gets his hands on the nearest sharp object. 

“See? Knew you couldn’t do it. Scary ass.” Jabber looks back at him with a condescending grin from where his head is resting on his forearms. 

“Ain’t nobody scared.”

“Didn’t know you changed your name to ‘Nobody,’ Zan-Zan.” That doesn’t even make sense.

“Shut up.” Zanka delivers a swift slap to Jabber’s backslide, which does make him moan but does not wipe that damn smile off of his face. 

He’s NOT scared, okay? He’s just a bit out of his element is all. Growing up in the Hell Guard, sex was the absolute last thing on his mind and Enjin’s ethical whore genes have skipped him, leaving him bereft of the sexual experience he really wishes he had now. Jabber absolutely cannot know that. Maybe if he keeps slapping him around, he won’t notice. 

Zanka tests this theory by slapping Jabber’s ass again. And again. And again. Twice on the same cheek he initially hit, once on the other just because he can. Jabber’s eyes flutter shut as he moans out, loud and slutty, just like Zanka likes. 

Bingo. A plan begins to form in his mind, ever the unorthodox problem-solver:

Step 1) Shut Jabber up.

Step 2) ????

Step 3) Fuck Jabber Wonger so good he will never, ever look for anyone else to hurt him. 

Good enough. He’ll fill in the blank when he gets there. For now, he has an idea.

“More, Zanka, more.” Jabber eyes are open now, looking at him with a pout on his pretty, plump lips, still swollen from sucking his cock. His ass, surprisingly round and deliciously firm with lean muscle, is enticingly red. If he looks closely, he can see the imprint of his hands blooming in the swollen skin. 

Zanka has forgotten the idea. And also everything that is not directly related to the vision in front of him. Fuck it. He’s been freestyling since the day he crawled out of that well and he’ll keep going until they cut the mic.

“What happened to ‘Please, baby?’”

Jabber’s pout deepens somehow, bottom lip still popping as he opens his mouth to say something smart. Zanka cuts him off with another sharp crack to his ass. Now the only thing coming out of his mouth is a whine.

“Y’know, I’m gettin’ real sick of ya forgetting yer manners when ya want somethin’. Ask me nicely.”

Jabber looks at Zanka. Zanka looks at Jabber. Jabber looks at Zanka. Zanka looks at Jabber. Jabber tilts his head at Zanka. 

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please hit me, Zanka-sama.”

Zanka is gonna die in this house. And it’s gonna be Jabber’s fault. Zanka thinks he is more okay with that than he should be.

Time blurs into nothing as Zanka spanks Jabber over and over, each hit matched with a Please, more, Zanka-sama! and a moan that goes straight to Zanka’s dick. Zanka guesses 5 minutes or maybe 5 years have passed by the time he decides he should switch gears. If he could, he would spank Jabber forever, but his hand is starting to hurt and he’s sorta, kinda, maybe becoming a bit distracted by the way Jabber’s hole is fluttering after each hit, clenching down on nothing. He could fix that. He could fix a lot of things, like the way Jabber’s long, long legs are not locked over his shoulders and the way he’s not screaming Zanka’s name. What can he say? He’s a Cleaner; it’s his job to fix things. And Zanka’s a top employee for a reason.

“Where's yer lube?”

Jabber blinks at him, slowly, like he's trying real hard to process his question. 

“Wha’?” comes his response, slurred. 

“I said, where is yer lube?”

Jabber frowns, wiping the trail of drool coming from his mouth with the back of his manicured hand. 

“For what?”

“To prep you?” Jabber lets out a long-suffering sigh, like Zanka’s being unreasonable.

“Just shove it in. Hurts more that way.”

“Wha- no!”

“Pussy.”

“I am not getting rugburn on my dick because yer a masochistic freak! Ugh. Wait here.”

Tonight, Zanka is gaining lots of new experiences, such as: walking through your enemy/boyfriend(?)/destined victim's freezing apartment butt-ass naked because he’s a weirdo freak with no lube or a sense of appropriate temperature. Definitely not his favorite part of the night.

Zanka crouches down to where he dropped his bag on the floor, opening it to see if he has something that can work. Maybe something from his med-kit? He’s weighing his options when he spots a bottle he has never seen before tucked into the bottom of his bag.

Attached to it is a note that reads

Zanka, 

I probably (definitely) shouldn’t advise you to do this but I’m at my wit’s end here. Please make up with Freaky Dreadlocks Man (yes, I know). You are terrorizing everyone with your sulking. Come back to us in one piece. We care about you.

P.S. Don’t forget to wrap it up! I’m too young for grandchildren.

XOXO, Big Daddy

Zanka is filled with so many different thoughts, his head goes from empty to fit-to-burst within seconds. His head is all Enjin knows? and How long has he known? and Jabber’s annoying voice chiming in with These locs, Z, not dreads - ain’t nothin’ dreadful about my hair.

Enjin knows. Enjin knows and he hasn’t kicked him out or dropped his sorry ass into the nearest well headfirst.

We care about you.

Zanka’s heart clenches. He takes a deep breath. He’ll deal with this later. Right now, he’s got something to do. 

When he returns to the bedroom, Jabber is exactly as he left him. Hasn’t moved an inch, not even to seek friction on his erection hanging by his hip. Something about that shoves the rest of the Zanka’s emotional moment down a steep flight of steps, arousal coming back full force. What the fuck. This can’t be normal. 

“Took ya forever.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know ya had something to do - I can come back another time?”
“Zanka, if you don’t bring yo' ass over here and fuck me, I will make good on my promise to launch yo' ass out the window.” 

Zanka swats his ass with an “Impatient brat.” Then does it again just because he can. Jabber moans. Fuck, he loves that sound. Focus, Zanka.

Look. It is very important that you understand that Zanka tried his best to do this properly. Really, he did. 

He settles between Jabber legs, lubes his fingers up real well, and begins to gently prod at Jabber’s rim with just one finger. Gentleman-like. 

But then Jabber begins to mock-snore, feigning falling asleep with an overly exaggerated yawn and a snorkmimimi and Zanka’s patience - veeeeeeery thin, did you know? - instantly evaporates. Jabber finds new ways to two-step on his nerves every day. 

He removes his finger, abandoning his plan to be gentle - for now, Jabber will not escape forever - and then roughly shoves in two down to the very last knuckle. Jabber lets out a startled ah! clenching around his fingers. Shit, he is tight. And he wanted Zanka to just "shove it in?” Yeah, this guy is insane. 

“Zankaaaaa.” And needy as hell.

“Zanka, it hurts soooo good,” and Zanka is reminded why he puts up with him. He can't help but be entranced by the way Jabber’s hole clenches up around every rough thrust of his fingers, tight as a vice. He wonders how it would feel on his cock, really, really wants to know. But in a lowkey, unconcerned kind of way. He is not drooling. 

“Baby, give me more.”

“Shut up, slut.” Zanka’s fingers brush past something that has Jabber gasping, hole fluttering around his fingers. Interesting. 

“You’ll take what I give ya.” The resulting whine Jabber lets out reminds Zanka how aroused he is, temporarily distracted by prepping Jabber - which he should probably continue doing. 

But.

Zanka is kind of the hardest he’s ever been in his life and he thinks he deserves a little treat for Jabber icing him out for a month. Just a little. 

Zanka pulls his fingers out, swiftly so it smarts, and taps Jabber on the ass.

“Turn around.” Jabber somehow has enough sense left to raise an eyebrow. 

“Don’t wanna do it like this?”

“Nah.” is Zanka’s response, opting to leave off the I wanna look into your pretty eyes while I fuck you because Jabber, even like this, will never let him live it down. Jabber blows out a breath. 

“Fine. Let me put my bonnet on first. I fuck wit’ you, Z, but I am not frizzing up my shit for you.”

Jabber reaches over to his nightstand, overrun by books and gum wrappers and hey, is that the metal polish he bought him? All that fussing and he still used it. And he’s the one with the bad attitude. 

We’re perfect for each other, Zanka thinks, unbidden.

Jabber puts on his bonnet, adjusting it the way he wants, gathering the strings in his hands but does not tie them. He looks over to Zanka.

“Tie it for me?” 

Zanka narrows his eyes. He knows in his heart of hearts that this is a trap of some kind. But Jabber is looking at him expectantly with those pretty eyes and titling his head to the side slightly, and Zanka knows he will do whatever he wants. Maybe Jabber really is a witch and he’s put a spell on him, some sort of sick magic that has him bending to his will. Zanka hopes it’s never reversed. 

He comes closer to Jabber, sitting up on his knees to tie a bow on the front of Jabber’s forehead, securing his bonnet in place. Jabber smiles at him, sweet and beautiful, and Zanka is definitely, definitely, going to die by this man’s hand. 

“Good boy.”

But Zanka is going to kill him first. 

Die, die, he’s going to die! Guns, places, wouldn’t go, Jabber’s going to fucking die!

He has got to learn to stop pushing Zanka’s buttons - but it’s just so fun. Zanka has zero patience and the worst attitude of anyone he’s ever met, it’s like he was made to be annoyed. Well, annoyed, enraged, murderous - they’re all the same thing to Jabber. He even has a new one to add to the list: lustful. Jabber would think of a better word if he could think of anything at all. He’s a bit preoccupied.

Within seconds of the words good boy leaving his mouth, Zanka has:

Put Jabber on his back

Spread his legs

And slammed his cock in to the hilt.

His hole is so not prepared enough for this. The stretch burns hot, hot, hot, molten lava replacing the blood in his veins. He can barely breathe, the feeling of fullness beyond overwhelming. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. His man is so, so, so good to him. 

Zanka’s eyes are currently closed, his cheeks, neck and ears flushed red. He is taking in deep breaths like he also can’t breathe, his chest rising and falling with each breath. 

“Fuck.” You can say that again. 

“Fuck! Yer so fuckin’...” He trails off, like he forgot he was talking. 

“What happened to allat -” Jabber is cut off by Zanka pulling out and slamming back in once. 

“You were sayin’?” Jabber feels like his breath has been punched out of him. He pants a minute before gathering enough to speak.

“I said -” Another thrust. And then another. Zanka has set a pace, fast and absolutely brutal. Jabber can’t breathe. Just like earlier, he can’t help the way moans are spilling out of his mouth. What the fuck. 

“Well?” Jabber blinks.

“Huh?”

“You were sayin’ somethin’, baby.” Another harsh thrust. “So say it.”

Jabber would love to but he has no idea what he was saying, no clue to even the concept. He can’t hold onto any thought that might tell him long enough for it to actually register in his brain. Every time he tries, it’s knocked free from his mind by Zanka’s next thrust. Zanka, Zanka, Zanka. Holy shit. How does he move his mouth again?

“I don’t, fuckfuckfuck, I don’t, ah, remember?”

“Exactly. So just shut yer mouth and be a good slut, hm?” And well, that’s just fine by Jabber. He can’t remember how to open it anyway.

He can’t remember anything. His head feels like he’s floating, connected to this moment by the thinnest string. He knows he is moaning, can’t stop moaning from the way drool is spilling onto his pillow from where his head is turned to the side, but the sound doesn’t register to his ears. All he can hear is Zanka. Each thrust, each squeeze to his throat, only drags him closer out to sea. But here, the water isn’t toxic. It’s clean and fresh and provided entirely by the ocean that is Zanka. Zanka, Zanka, Zanka. Jabber hopes he drowns.

He is about to put his head underwater when Zanka suddenly stops and pulls out. Immediate signals of no! go off in Jabber’s brain, cutting straight through his peaceful state. Is that the word? Peaceful? Jabber’s not sure if he even remembers what that means. Maybe Zanka can teach him. He whines, pulling on Zanka’s arm. Suddenly, Zanka not being inside him is the worst thing in the world.

He swallows heavily. “Calm down. I jus’ wanna see somethin”.

Jabber pouts. Zanka likes that, right? Likes him? He said he did. If he likes him so much, why’d he stop fucking him? Jabber’s eyes pinch at the corners like he’s about to cry, but that can’t be because he hasn’t cried since his momma died. 

A squeeze to his throat breaks him out of his thoughts, pain steadying him. He lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. 

“Relax. ‘M right here.” Zanka increases the pressure, and Jabber can’t hold onto the panic leaving him even if he wanted to. He releases his arm. 

Zanka releases his neck, shifting back to grab his… leg? First his right, then his left.  He’s pushing them up onto his shoulders, and then repositioning himself between Jabber’s legs to - 

Oh.

OH!

Zanka pushes in again, the slide eased by the almost obscene amount of precum dribbling out of Jabber’s hole. The new angle makes him feel as though he’s gone impossibly deeper. And it also allows for him to hit his prostate. Dead. On. 

Jabber screams.

“There ya go, baby, all better,” Zanka pants, never once letting up on his pace. His voice is as rough as his thrusts.

“Jus’ needed my cock, didn’t ya? Just needed me.” Jabber attempts to say yes, yes, yes! but is not sure how close he gets to achieving his goal, what with the way he has forgotten how words work. Judging by Zanka’s groan - deep and breathy and so, so sexy - he is at least somewhat successful. 

The new position is unbearable. His legs are sore from how hard he’s clenching around Zanka’s shoulders. His stomach muscles are tense from being folded into a pretzel. His cock is so, so hard against his stomach, pre-cum pooling on his stomach enough to spill over. 

He keeps trying, trying, trying to grip his sheets but his hands can’t find purchase because of how hard Zanka is fucking him. Zanka is fucking him. Zanka is fucking him, and he can do nothing but take it. Jabber knows then there is only man who can ever have his heart and it is Zanka Nijiku. No way around it. 

Like this, Jabber can hear a multitude of things: the sound of skin slapping against skin, violently, almost like when they leave their jinki’s unactivated and fist-fight instead. What sounds like the wailing of a pained animal, and that can’t be him, can it? Zanka’s voice, praising and degrading him simultaneously: “Yer, fuck, so perfect. ‘M gonna fuck like ya like the whore ya are until the day I kill ya. Gonna - yes, baby, just like that, let me hear it - gonna bury you with a buncha holes from Lovely and my cum in your ass.” His headboard, banging up against the wall with each thrust. His neighbors must be seething. 

Jabber could care less. He is back in the ocean, his head barely above the water, nostrils filling with the salty relief of something called Love or maybe Obsession. Same difference. 

He knows he is very close to going under by the way the pressure in his stomach increases, like it does when he is at the edge of something very, very steep, one wrong move away from falling into the depths. His vision is going white at the edges from the lack of air and one or both of his legs have gone numb. He is at peace. But he is not done quite yet.

He gathers all the strength he has left into forming a sentence, willing his lolling tongue to move properly with everything he has in him.

“Zanka, please,” he pauses to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth, trying to speak clearly but still slurs his words when he says “Come inside.” He remembered his manners this time. He hopes Zanka noticed.

He guesses he did, if the way he cums immediately comes mid-thrust gives any hints. He keeps going anyway, riding out his high with soft moans of Jabber, oh, Jabber. Damn, he came a lot.

The feeling of being filled to the brim is what pulls Jabber’s head underwater once and for all. He smiles and lets oblivion claim him with one final call for “Zanka.” He goes down easy.

Zanka Nijiku might be the luckiest motherfucker on the Ground. He just fucked his enemy so hard that he passed out. 

Holy shit. 

He’ll dump cold water or something on him in a minute. When his legs work again. Zanka knew that Jabber would be fucked for sure afterwards, but he never thought this would hurt for him too. His back is aching from sitting up while also bending over and his legs are on fire like he’s done a 10K. Wow.

Wow. No other thoughts can permeate the seemingly solid bubble of empty that is his brain.

Zanka takes a moment to catch his breath from where he’s admittedly collapsed on top of Jabber. In Zanka’s defense, his orgasm hit like a truck, sending him flying across the metaphorical highway in all ways but physical, and then the feeling of Jabber locking up around him right finished him off neat and tidy. He’s only human - painfully, wonderfully so. He’s not worried about his weight on top of Jabber - he’s skinny but absolutely not fragile in any way. He can handle it. Jabber can handle anything that Zanka throws at him, it seems. Anything except this. Zanka, 2, geniuses, well. He’s still got a ways to go. But he’s sure going!

Zanka pumps his fist. 

He looks at Jabber. His face is relaxed, long, dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks. Zanka has never seen him look like this. He has seen him calm, relaxed even, chemically-cool from whatever was in his system many times. But he has never seen him look peaceful. Is that the word?

Yes, peaceful. Jabber shifts minutely, reminding him that he never pulled out. Oops. It feels so right that he didn’t even notice, like they were meant to be intertwined forever, one truly and wholly for the rest of time. 

Zanka is only a little embarrassed when a gush of cum spills out from between Jabber’s legs. He whines in his sleep, quiet but very much so audible. Zanka’s dick attempts to twitch. This has to be some kind of evil. 

Murky moonlight spills in from the window in Jabber’s room, bathing one Zanka Nijiku and one Jabber Wonger in a glow of translucent victory. Later, he will arise and clean his lover’s skin, as gently and carefully as he likes. With time, he will train him into accepting his love in any way that he damn well feels like giving it. It’s simple: Zanka will teach. And Jabber will learn. He has no other choice. 

For now, Zanka places his head on his chest and admires him. His baby, his fatal enemy, his, his, his. Finally, his. Zanka closes his eyes and listens to the steady badump badump badump of his heart. He imagines what it will feel like to hear it stop beating. He smiles.