Archive of Our Own

They're at their usual spot, Zanka half on top of him as they lay there covered in blood and breathing funny, when Jabber decides to take a leap.

They've been fucking around for a while now; getting handsy and shoving each other up against walls, putting each other in suggestive positions and sometimes even following up on those suggestions. They've even had full sex a few times, though he can rarely convince Zanka to actually put his dick in after he made Jabber bleed the first time.

(Not that he really needs to, Jabber is plenty satisfied with everything else they do. It's just that it seems like a waste to not get fucked by a dick that big when it's right there, y'know?)

(And it's definitely a waste to not get ripped open by it, but Zanka still hasn't quite accepted he likes that so even though he's just about given up on prep, he still insists on lube.)

(Jabber's working on it.)

Anyways. What's really crazy is that Zanka actually wants Jabber to enjoy himself when they go at each other like that. Not something he ever thought he'd want, honestly, because sex is better when it's done to him rather than with him, but Zanka makes it work. 

He does insane shit to Jabber, without ever asking for his input after the one time Jabber ditched his ass for making it boring, while somehow making sure he actually likes it. He's found things Jabber didn't even know he liked, and which things he hates in a good way and which ones he hates in a bad way, and exactly how to use each of them to make Jabber come apart.

Now, granted, some of those things took a liiiittle bit of training on Jabber's part, and a bit of angry screaming on Zanka's part once he realized he was being played like a cheap kazoo. But! It worked, and Zanka got over it, so it's fine now.

(He figured most of it out on his own anyways; Jabber was just speeding up the timeline on the others. Plus, the guy likes being good and getting things right! It's a win-win!)

The point is: Zanka has made things interesting or fun for Jabber that he never expected to like.

Hence why he decides to take the leap and say, “You should fuck my pussy!”

It tumbles out of him in the breathy, overexcited way that they both know at this point means he just latched onto something new and needs it now, now, now.

“Quit fuckin’ around,” Zanka scoffs, lifting his head to make eye contact. The sneer doesn't quite hide his surprise. “Y'ain't never let me do more’n swipe a little slick from it.”

Mm, yeah, Jabber thinks. That's always fun. There's something deliciously filthy about Zanka using his cunt like a lube dispenser to fuck his ass.

“You sayin’ ya don't want to? You'd be the first, y'know,” Jabber tells him with a sly grin.

Zanka processes that for a moment, then splutters as he lifts himself off Jabber’s chest with one elbow. “Wait, yer bein’ fer real? You said ya didn't like it!”

Jabber can see the insecurity in him. The belief that he got played again for the pleasure of his humiliation. The convert– no, conviction that he wasn't judged worthy of sharing that with, or perhaps that he's inadequate for not figuring out this particular desire.

Which is a lot of fancy words to say he looks angry, and hurt right beneath that. 

There's a million ways for Jabber to play this. He could twist the knife in that wound for instance, and get repaid with lovely pain in a hundred different ways depending on what he says. 

Except, well. Zanka’s been good today. His rare wins are usually down to his stamina, but today, fuck, today he wrecked Jabber's shit in half the time it normally takes him. Left a constellation of bruises and slashes across Jabber's torso and legs, and even dislocated Jabber's shoulders to finish the job. Popped ‘em back in, too, but that's forgivable.

So all Jabber says is, “I don't like it, really. Mostly ‘cause I damn near gave myself carpal tunnel last time I tried to get off that way, and it didn't even work.”

Zanka squints. “Okay, so why the fuck should I bother if ya don't even hate it enough to want it?” 

Ah. Yeah, okay, that's a valid question. ‘Cause see, Jabber likes twisting things people want to hurt him with into things he loves, likes taking that power from them, but there are times where he wants to do things he hates. Times where he wants to feel awful and scared and used. Times where he wants someone to prove that there's still something left in him to break.

(He'd felt so wrong the first time Zanka put him back together afterwards. But like so many other things, it feels right now when Zanka's the one doing it.)

Jabber doesn’t say any of that. Instead he shrugs as best he can while flat on his back, relishing the stabbing ache of moving recently dislocated shoulders. “You made kissin’ seem alright. Figured you might be able to make this decent too.”

Praise, a challenge to his ego, and a too-casual downplay of how good he makes Jabber feel, as if his enjoyment of kissing Zanka is a chink in his armor. Combined, it's a statement that's perfectly tailored to reel Zanka in.

The best part is that Zanka knows it too, but still can't help but take the bait.

“I can make it better’n just decent,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

“I sure hope so, seein’ as I don't plan on a repeat.” Jabber miiiight entertain another round in the future if Zanka is desperate enough, of course, but he doesn't see himself enjoying it enough to make it part of their usual play.

Seriously. He's about as sensitive as a brick down there and it doesn't even hurt enough to make up for that. Boring as fuuuuck.

“Gotta make it count then,” Zanka responds darkly. 

Awww, Jabber thinks. He's so cute, getting all competitive over something he doesn't even have any competition for. As if Jabber wouldn't gut anyone else who tried.

(As if anyone else has ever wanted Jabber this much.)

Taking a deep breath, Zanka gets his arms fully beneath him and pushes himself up to sit back on his heels, one of his knees grinding not-so-accidentally against Jabber’s cunt in the process.

“Oops,” he deadpans. “Can ya walk, or do I need to carry you to the bed?”

“Ay, what's wrong with the floor?” Jabber whines. He likes the floor! The warehouse they've appropriated is relatively clean, except for where they've bled on it, and the concrete is nice and cool and hard beneath him. Feels great when Zanka's got him on his knees. 

“...Wanna do this right,” Zanka mumbles, mouth tight and a flush rising in his cheeks.

Jabber rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Don’t get all precious on me now, Zan-zan. Do you seriously think that I’d be here with you if I wanted someone to treat my pussy nice? Be so fuckin’ for real right now dude.”

“Oh fuck off,” Zanka says defensively. “You haven't gotten The Talk from a man who self-identifies as a pussyhound!”

He looks so distraught Jabber can't help but let out an ugly snort. “Hah! Holy shit, does he really?” Gotta be the blond guy with the tats, he looks like the type.

“I ain't kiddin’ asshole,” Zanka snaps. “Him ‘n our receptionist'll wear my skin for fuckin’ boots if they find out I didn't at least try ta do it right!”

“What’s more right then, bein’ nice or givin’ it to me how I want it?” Honestly, Jabber thinks. Zanka might’ve heard that lecture, but unless Tats was giving him some seriously bad advice he sure as hell wasn’t listening. Like, come on man, not all pussies work the same!

Zanka huffs, but looks faintly relieved. “...I still wanna do it on the bed. You might like it when yer knees are bruised after, but I don't.”

Jabber concedes with a groan. “Ugh, fine. Carry me then.” If this is the hill Zanka wants to die on, he can put the work in. 

The fact that Jabber’s pretty sure his left leg won’t hold his weight right now is irrelevant.

Hilariously, Zanka goes for a princess carry. It's not impossible for him, obviously, he's strong as fuck for a guy who looks like he's half stick on his mama's side, but their relative heights and his center of gravity make getting Jabber off the ground look funnier than he probably intended it to.

He has to briefly kneel with Jabber's legs hooked over his raised knee to get a hand free and grab his Lovely Assistaff. Jabber snickers at how awkward the whole thing is, and gets a sour look in return.

He doesn't drop Jabber though. Just carries him easy as anything past the crates they stacked up to section off a cozy area, and over to the worn down mattress stacked on a busted ass frame, covered in shitty mismatched blankets and pillows.

Cradled up against his chest like Jabber weighs nothing at all.

Then he unceremoniously dumps Jabber onto the bed, rattling his humerus bones in their sore sockets.

“Ngh! Sadist,” Jabber hisses, delighted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Zanka grouses, setting Lovely aside. “Hands above yer head.”

Jabber just looks at him with pity. 

“Oh, fer–”

Zanka’s cut off by Jabber jack knifing up, having to throw himself on top of the Raider to keep him down.

“One time!” The Cleaner yells. “One time where I don't have to wrestle you to give ya what you wanted in the first place!”

“Sorry baby,” Jabber pants, grinning and trying to wedge his good leg between them. “But it's no fun to just give it up like that. You want it, you gotta take it!”

“Such a piece'a shit,” Zanka growls, managing to pin Jabber’s legs with his own.

“Hah! You can't lie to me, Zanka.” Jabber bucks his hips and squirms, but Zanka is completely immovable. “You like this. You like makin’ me struggle and scream and cry, and forcin’ me to take it till I can’t no more!”

“‘Course I do,” Zanka snaps, too focused on wrestling him into submission to watch his words. “Doesn't mean I can't bitch about it!”

Jabber's attempts to get his nails into Zanka’s arms falter for a second at the admission. There's always been this pretense sitting between them that Zanka isn't into what they do together like that, right? That all he's doing is trying to find a way to make Jabber hurt that he doesn't like. Or, when they actually do sex stuff, that he just wants to get off and he's only hurting Jabber because Jabber wants it.

They both know it's not true. It's obvious that Zanka never feels better than when he's grinding someone into the dirt and proving he's the best, and that being in control gives him a rush like nothing else. It's equally obvious that he's the same way about sex, and that he gets off on hurting Jabber and turning him into a drooling mess. He gets off on being good at it, too. On being special.

But he's never admitted that, is the thing.

The moment Jabber falters, Zanka gets a solid enough grip on one wrist to shove it down and get a handcuff around it. It's one of two sets they have, the other end closed around a bar they screwed into the wall above the bed frame, and it doesn't take long for Zanka to get his other wrist into the second set. 

(He does love that it's basically always over for him the minute Zanka gets any kind of grip. He just can't get enough of that crazy strength.)

Laughter bursts out of him, wild and delighted. “That's it Zan-zan! Chain me up and have your way with me. Show me that monster you got!” He tilts his head and flicks his gaze down and back up, to convey the innuendo properly and bait Zanka.

Aaand maybe-kinda-sorta to distract from his little slip. Not that it's a big deal; it's not. Jabber ain't weak like that, he reminds himself. It's just that it’d be annoying for Zanka to make a fuss about it.

“Sure,” Zanka says, exasperated but absent, focused on pulling off his boots and shredded haori. He's sitting sideways on Jabber's shins to keep him from moving. “But we are not doin’ a repeat of our first time. If I'm makin’ ya bleed it's damn well gonna be on purpose.”

Jabber is honestly torn between disappointment and a giddy sort of feeling at hearing that. He splits the difference by teasing him. “Makin’ me bleed is that special to you?”

Zanka freezes, and Jabber watches with delight as his ears go pink. 

“Don't get it twisted,” he snaps. “I just like provin’ that even geniuses like you bleed red!” He returns to folding his haori and tosses it onto the crate they use as a table. Then he unbuttons his shirt, shrugs it off and folds it, and sets that aside too.

Once Zanka's ready to move on, he carefully repositions himself to take off Jabber's shoes while keeping him pinned, and tosses them on the floor. Then he repositions himself again so he can yank off Jabber's pants and underwear and fling them on top of his haori.

“Ay, how come you ain't fold my shit?” Jabber complains, amused.

“‘Cause I already folded yer shit,” Zanka tells him smugly. “How do those shoulders feel, jackass?”

With his arms trapped above his head, Jabber has to acknowledge that both his rotator cuffs hurt like a bitch. He's gonna be feeling those dislocations for days.

“You're awful,” Jabber says, grinning. “Cuffin’ me with my arms up when you know it hurts.”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe I'd feel bad about that if it didn't get yer dick so hard.” Saying that, Zanka yanks him up by the hoodie he wore today and pulls his wicks out from under him, arranging them on the pillow above his head. Then the Cleaner pushes Jabber's hoodie up to just below his tits, casually making sure the creases of the fabric disguise them.

The gesture is– well, if they weren't both such unrepentant assholes, Jabber might call it considerate. They are, though, so he shoves down the flush of warmth in his chest.

Once his hoodie is out of the way, Zanka begins to slide his hand down Jabber's torso, then pauses and huffs out an aggravated sigh. 

“If I don't wrap yer leg up yer gonna bleed halfway to death before either of us cums,” he grumbles, reaching for their makeshift first aid crate. “Gimme a sec.”

Jabber whines and complains obviously, and fights through the whole process, but in the end it only takes about two minutes for Zanka to bandage up the gaping hole in his left thigh from a spike and the slice that very nearly hamstrung him. And it only takes Zanka ten seconds after that to get right back between Jabber's thighs.

“Surprised y'aint soft yet.” He presses his thumb down on Jabber’s dick, rubbing and then stroking it. Seemingly satisfied, he slips his thumb down into Jabber's folds, and then pulls his lips aside to get a better look past the tight curls of his bush.

“Hey now, don't go actin’ like I need a warm up just ‘cause we doin’ it in the front,” Jabber warns him. He bares his teeth in something that might look like a smile to the unwary. 

“Fuck off,” Zanka dismisses him. “I toldja that we ain't doin’ a repeat of our first time, not that I'd be nice about it.” Still holding Jabber apart, he slides the fingers of his other hand along Jabber's slit, and then, before Jabber can needle him again, shoves two fingers in all the way to the knuckle.

Another fun fact: Jabber doesn’t get very wet, generally speaking. Fucking Zanka is the wettest he ever gets, and even that isn’t much from what he’s gathered. (You learn a lot wandering through some places, and it’s not hard to figure out that the whole process usually involves a whole lot more slick than he produces.)

You'd think this would make it easier for Jabber to get off, being the masochist he is. But since that's got nothing on taking it up the ass, all it really means is that getting anything in there is a whole lotta hassle for a whole lotta nothing, and therefore not at all worth the effort.

Which means he's completely unprepared for the sensation of Zanka forcing his fingers in. The sound he makes at the feeling is somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.

“Damn,” Zanka grunts. “Knew you'd be tight, but this is somethin’ else.” He twists his fingers, knowing better than to let Jabber adjust, and pulls them out halfway to draw out a bit more slick. Then he jams them back in and curls them up.

Jabber's hips jerk and he reflexively tries to kick the Cleaner with his uninjured leg, but Zanka just grabs it and presses it back against his chest.

“Nfffuck, that's, unh–”

“Stay still, wouldja?”

Jabber can feel every fucking knobby knuckle on Zanka's fingers, like his cunt is molded to the shape of them. The promise of real pain floats just out of reach.

Zanka keeps his fingers slightly curled as he pulls them out, stretching Jabber's entrance. “That hurt?”

“Nah,” Jabber pants. “Still waitin’ on you to make this worth it.” He knows Zanka at this point; dumbass has had enough cooldown time from their fight to start holding back again, and needs another push.

Sure enough, that puts the vicious light back in those deep blue eyes.

“Foreplay is fuckin’ lost on you,” Zanka sighs, feigning nonchalance. Jabber can see the glint in his eyes though; has a perfect view of him rubbing his slick fingers together. 

The next thing Jabber knows, there are three fingers being pressed into him, an ache building as they spread him open. His hips try to jerk again, but with three of Zanka's strong and nearly immovable fingers buried to the knuckle in him all they manage is a violent twitch.

“AH! Fuck, yeah, it hurts, gimme more– hngh!” Heat pools in Jabber’s core as Zanka twists his fingers again, and he giggles breathlessly because this is already so much more than he's ever gotten out of using his own fingers. 

And oh, fuck, when Zanka slides his fingers out again, Jabber's cunt clings to them. It’s like the bastard child of friction burn and that first flush of a myotoxin hitting his system; hot and painful in a way that's sandpaper-rough to his nerves.

Then Zanka drives his fingers back in, and there's an undeniably wet sort of schlick.

“Droolin’ for it already?” Zanka mocks him. His tone makes Jabber shiver, even with the slight waver of his chronic insecurity. 

(Which Jabber will cure him of one day. It's standing between him and the fight of a lifetime, and that means it has to go.)

(Once he's done getting his back blown out. Priorities.)

“O-only for you,” Jabber coos, being deliberately irritating. 

Wait. Pause. Did he just stutter? That's not– Jabber don't fucking stutter. Before he can really get a spiral started, though, Zanka curls those damn fingers again and makes him lose his train of thought with a punched out uhn.

“Yeah, okay,” Jabber pants. “That's enough ‘prep’ bullshit.”

“‘Scuse me fer havin’ standards.” Zanka is clearly almost too horny to function, because even after he says that it takes him nearly five full seconds to stop staring dumbly at where his fingers are disappearing into Jabber's cunt and actually pull them out. Then he spends another five seconds fumbling through pulling down his pants and underwear because he's clumsy with lust. 

He's so lame sometimes; it probably says something about Jabber that he's not turned off by it.

Finally, though, Zanka gets his dick out, long and thick and red with arousal. 

When Zanka first presses the head of it to Jabber's pussy, the Raider thinks he's just going to push right in like he usually does. They've already done way more of Zanka's stupid foreplay shit than either of them needs, so it's a reasonable assumption.

But instead, Zanka tilts his hips and slides it through Jabber's folds, grinding their dicks together.

“C'mon, baby, put it in me! Want to feel you,” Jabber coaxes him, voice colored with the kind of false sweetness he knows Zanka hates. 

“Shut up. You said it was a one-time offer, sue me for makin’ the most of it.” Zanka isn't even looking at him any more. All of his attention is on the way Jabber is parting around his cock.

Hot. Jabber shifts his hips. “If you ain't up to it–”

Zanka presses down on his lower stomach with one broad palm, forcing his hips to still. “Nuh uh, I ain't lettin’ myself get baited this time. Yer just gonna have to sit back fer once in yer life and wait.”

The pressure in that particular spot sends a jolt of something through Jabber. It's the sort of swooping sensation that he normally associates with a burst of undirected adrenaline, though it doesn't have that almost nauseated edge to it.

Whatever it is, it makes his pussy twitch.

“Lame,” he complains to deflect. “You really gonna pull this soft and tender shit right now? I seriously gotta stop giving you chances, and just accept that you'd rather be boring than worth my time.” 

The cruel words do their job well; he only has a split second to bask in how sick that burn was before glorious rage washes over Zanka’s face. 

But Zanka surprises him. Rather than slapping him or punching him or even shoving his dick in him, he just keeps slowly grinding away.

“I toldja I ain't gettin’ baited,” he snaps, eye twitching. Then he takes a breath and smiles, nasty and vicious and threatening. “Y'know, part'a the Talk I got is that yer supposed to fuck pussy slow and sweet the first time.”

“...Don't play, man,” Jabber says, suddenly wary.

“Don't call me borin’,” Zanka shoots back. Then he sighs, all melodramatic and shit. “S'pose I should cut ya some slack though. Y'aint never had to learn ta ask nicely for the things ya want because they're always yours fer the takin’.” He looks at Jabber, eyes dark and half lidded. “Guess that means it's up to me to teach ya, huh?”

He doesn't give Jabber a chance to respond.

He just reaches down with the hand on Jabber’s stomach to pull his lips apart, and then presses his dick forward until the tip catches.

“Beg.”

Jabber’s face cracks open on an anticipatory grin. “Make me.”

Zanka's face twists with displeasure for a second, but then he takes a calming breath and lets it settle into something cool and knowing, with just the slightest curl of sadism to his lip. “You asked fer it.”

Jabber expects him to slam it in hard as retribution. This time, surely, he's angry enough. Right?

Instead, Zanka jerks back to sit on his heels and cracks his hand down right where Jabber's folds are slightly parted from being roughly fingered open. It lands with devastating force and another wet schlick, the sound hitting Jabber’s ears before the stinging red heat of the slap lances through his body.

He arches and shrieks, and before his back even comes down to touch the bed Zanka does it again. His body tries to curl up against his will, legs squeezing Zanka as they try to close, but his boy just lunges forward and rolls with the movement, pushing one knee up against his chest and lifting his hips off the bed. It gives Zanka a better angle to land a third slap.

Jabber yelps through a few more slaps, then gets it together a bit. “Th-that all ya got?” He gasps.

“No,” Zanka growls. His accent grows a bit thicker with bitter frustration. “But it is all yer gettin’. Your pussy'll tighten up again if I go too hard, and I ain't tryin’ to make it impossible to fuck.” 

His hand doesn't so much as slow down while he speaks, continuing to slowly, rhythmically, brutally beat Jabber's cunt. 

“So just fu- ah! Fuck it back open again,” Jabber dismisses him, panting. “When you gonna learn to stAH! Stop holdin’ yourself back ‘round me?”

“When’re you gonna learn that askin’ will getcha what ya want?”

Starving for more, Jabber magnanimously decides to humor him. “Harder.”

Zanka clicks his tongue. It's a good attempt at idle irritation, but it falls short of convincing. “Close enough.”

His next slap lands hard enough that Jabber outright screams, sharp and high. The next few are just as merciless, and true to Zanka’s word, Jabber can feel his folds growing tender and swollen under the onslaught. Almost as much so as his aching dick, even though it's only caught the edges of those bruising blows due to the deliberate spread of Zanka's fingers.

Riding high on the pain, Jabber gasps and giggles breathily between hits. He looooves seeing Zanka's true self; it's way more fun to draw it out organically, of course, but he's not opposed to playing nice sometimes if this is the result. 

(He's been sneaking in a bunch of fun toys and stashing them under the bed; which approach has a better chance of Zanka using them once he finds them? If Jabber whines just right will Zanka put that stun baton inside him?)

He uncrosses his eyes and looks at Zanka's face, hoping to see that wild look the guy gets when he lets loose, and feels himself freeze.

Zanka's eyes are dark pits, the low light obscuring any hint of blue. It's terrifying and beautiful all at once.

Not noticing Jabber's attention, he mutters, “Not fuckin’ fair that yer pretty here too.”

He punctuates here with one final slap, and then surveys at his handiwork while Jabber ignores another strange swoop in his gut at the words. 

Fuck, Jabber thinks. He can feel his pulse throbbing between his legs; can feel himself twitching beneath that dark gaze.

Then, finally, Zanka grabs his dick and guides it back to Jabber's pussy. 

Definitely forgot about making me beg for his dick, Jabber thinks with amusement. Anticipating the younger man (finally) roughly shoving it in on account of being pissy, he lets his eyes unfocus again.

That's not what happens.

Zanka pushes in torturously slow, the head alone enough to make Jabber’s abused cunt burn with the hint of a stretch.

Slow enough, in fact, that Jabber realizes he's trying to hold back so he doesn't come too soon. Man’s that turned on just from slapping the fuck outta him.

Jabber giggles shakily at the thought. Zanka sucks in a breath and stills his hips in response. Then he seems to steel himself, sweaty and flushed as he is, and starts pressing deeper.

“Suckin’ me almost as good as yer mouth,” he murmurs. 

The burn increases. Jabber makes a drawn out sort of gasping sound. Zanka continues to say filthy shit under his breath.

But the really terrible part is that Zanka’s stupid cock is now putting pressure on what has to be Jabber’s G spot, and it feels good for once in a way that’s so far from pain he can’t decide if he likes it or not. It’s bad-good. Good-bad? It’s too much and he hates it but he also thinks he might kill Zanka for real if it stops.

Then Zanka shoves Jabber's other knee up and starts to push in the last third of his cock, and a new wave of pain jolts Jabber’s mouth into action.

"Oh fuck, Zanka, it’s too– ah! It’s, it’s not,” he stutters out, trailing off into a gasp.

“Not– nh!– not what?” Zanka asks, pausing his movement. It leaves Jabber’s entrance stretched around the widest part of his dick.

“You’re too big,” Jabber gasps, biting his lip in euphoria as his pussy clenches in protest. “You’re gonna break it!”

Zanka is wise to his ways at this point. He knows perfectly well that Jabber is egging him on, not asking him to stop. And, in his amusingly predictable way, he responds to the idea of breaking Jabber with vicious enthusiasm.

“Oh please, don’t act like ya wouldn’t like it,” he sneers. “I could rip yer pussy in half ‘n you’d probably thank me for it!” He starts pushing in again.

Jabber is about to respond with something taunting, but then he feels Zanka’s dick press against something deep inside and chokes a little instead.

Is that–?

Holy shit.

“Not gonna fit,” he gets out, eyes wide and grin wobbly. He genuinely hadn’t considered the possibility, but that is in fact his cervix, and Zanka’s still got a bit to go based on what he can feel. Probably only around half an inch, sure, but that's not nothing.

“I’ll make it fit,” Zanka snarls back.

Which is the point where Jabber realizes that he’s played himself. He’s made Zanka push through every other bit of resistance Jabber’s body has offered during sex, and gotten him used to taking everything Jabber says as a challenge. He’s turned Zanka into his own personal pleasure dispenser, carefully and methodically removing every safety feature, and now the only one he has left is the big red button labeled STOP.

…He can’t bring himself to press it.

How can he, when he’s feeling that singularly intoxicating cocktail of fear and excitement stronger than ever?

It takes less than a second for Jabber to process all of this, and only a bit longer for Zanka to start making good on his promise.

The pain starts as a sort of ache, deep in his belly, and quickly morphs into something sharp and hot, sort of stabbing. Then he starts to cramp, waves of tension and nausea rolling through him and forcing his pussy to clamp down. It hurts almost as bad as Zanka fucking his ass without prep. He’s sweating and tearing up within seconds.

“Gonna break it,” he can't help but stutter. But it comes out so garbled and breathy Zanka doesn't even process it as words at first.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” the Cleaner groans instead of responding. “So fuckin’ tight, shit!” His breath is hot and heavy and fast against Jabber’s neck. In an attempt to shut himself up, probably, he sinks his teeth into the flesh right above Jabber’s choker.

The only sound Jabber can offer up in return is a high pitched keen.

When Zanka slowly pulls out, the cramps don’t stop; they only dull a bit. And then Zanka pushes back in, faster this time, and sets off another pulse of agony when he forces in that last half inch or so again. 

Fuck, it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. And the faster Zanka goes, the harder he slams his dick into that spot that makes Jabber’s everything squeeze and contract, until Jabber is involuntarily thrashing his head side to side and yanking at the cuffs, his legs shaking and twitching uncontrollably. 

Jabber has the sudden realization that his mouth is running without his permission, mumbling and stuttering through moans and wails.

“Gonna, uhn, break it, it's gon-gonna– you're breaking it– oh–”

Distantly, deliriously, Jabber wonders if Zanka is just gonna fuck right through that barrier and into his womb. Just tear him open deep inside and leave him ruined, all shredded and bleeding and gaping from being impaled on too much cock.

“P-please, I can't– I can't take, I, I can't, I can't I can't I can't–”

The thought alone is potent, pushing him closer to the edge, but then Zanka bites down again with enough force to break skin this time and he’s gone. Stars burst across his vision and his head starts spinning, legs now trembling violently as his body is pushed past its limits.

The pain gets all tangled up with the pulsing pleasure of orgasm, so even as he comes down he isn’t quite down down. He can’t tell if his pussy keeps clenching because he’s riding out the last of it, or if it’s because he’s still cramping, fuck. 

He has to let Zanka know he’s doing it right, he thinks dizzily. Zanka likes being told he’s doing good.

“Good boy,” is what comes out of his mouth, slurred but miraculously intelligible. Zanka goes tense, then groans loudly into his throat and starts fucking him harder. The Cleaner starts to mutter angrily, words like bastard and hate you filtering through the haze over Jabber’s mind. Giggles spill out of him in response, and it makes the next cramp hurt even worse.

Then some other things begin to filter through. First is that wet or not, Jabber is beginning to feel hot and raw on the inside too, the friction and stretch finally settling into the burn he craves. Second is that there’s an edge of pleasure creeping in that has nothing to do with the pain, and everything to do with how there’s near constant pressure on what is definitely his G spot.

He begins to squirm and struggle once he recognizes it. “Too– too much!” His voice is raspy and a bit broken, but clear enough this time to be understood.

“It’s not too much. Yer takin’ it, aren’tcha?” Zanka says darkly, accent thick with lust.

Jabber sobs, and almost considers pressing that big red button.

…But Zanka’s right. He is taking it. And he loves it when things are a little too much, even if too much pleasure is a lot when it’s combined with the delicious pain. So maybe, just this once, he can roll with it?

Then Zanka lets go of one knee to pinch his dick between two knuckles and dig a thumbnail into it, and he lets the sensation wash away his doubts, thoughts falling apart into a jumble of good-bad-too-much and sweet-sharp-slick and ow-fuck-more. The realization briefly surfaces that he’s probably coming again, but he loses it to the pleasure.

Jabber gradually becomes aware of tears and drool dripping down his face, and his thighs getting wet with his own slick. It’s being pushed out of him by Zanka’s cock with loud squelches on every thrust, and soaking everything. He’s never been this– this–

Something like embarrassment washes over him with the next wave of pain. Everything hurts so nice, in new and exciting ways, but he’s leaking all over Zanka’s dick because he feels good. The pleasure is amplifying the best parts of the pain, and throwing him off so bad in its unfamiliarity he can't control his responses. Hell, he can’t even hold onto the tangle of emotions that feeling good causes, because Zanka’s fucking his brains right outta his head.

He swallows thickly, mouth barely closing before it falls open again on a series of punched out moans.

“What happened to that mouth'a yers, huh?” Zanka pants into his ear, both hands back on his knees. “Thought you'd be runnin’ it by now, tellin’ me all the things ya want me to do to ya, but just about all I've heard ya say is how it's ‘too much.’ And I know that's a damn lie.”

He punctuates lie with a thrust that drives the breath from Jabber's lungs, making his sore cunt clench with another cramp. 

“P-please,” Jabber whimpers. “Need, uhn, I wanna– it’s–” He can’t find the words, doesn’t even know what he’s asking for; he just knows that Zanka will give it to him. 

Zanka curses, and then roughly folds Jabber completely in half, pressing his knees up to his goddamn ears and somehow managing to shove his dick in even farther. It hurts, and the position aggravates damn near every injury that Jabber has, but it also puts him at an angle that has Jabber crying out when he starts thrusting again.

Every thrust is slamming directly into his sweet spot, and then sliding right past it into the spot that makes him feel like he’s getting cored out. It’s like a one-two punch, except instead of leaving him with more bruises it leaves him moaning like a whore, breathless and teary-eyed and dripping. 

“Seriously, ‘too much’ my ass,” Zanka sneers. “Yer slutty pussy is takin’ every inch of me like yer made for it.” 

No, Jabber wants to say. I’m not made for it, you’re just making me take it anyways. Making it fit. All that comes out is a whine.

It feels like Zanka is carving out a space for himself. 

Like he's forcing Jabber's body to make room, to mold itself into the shape of him. 

Like he's making sure Jabber’s cunt will be ruined for anyone else.

“Can ya feel how deep I am inside’a you?” Zanka asks. His next thrust is slower, and when their hips meet he grinds down just to really drive it in. Then he does it again. “Can ya see where I am?”

Through blurry vision, Jabber tracks his lover's gaze to his own stomach, and oh. Oh shit. He wasn't imagining it. There's a bulge showing through the skin every time Zanka sheathes his stupid cock in him and grinds, where he's being stretched out from the inside.

A hiccup escapes him, followed by a disbelieving giggle. The fluttering of his diaphragm makes him flutter around Zanka too, which cascades into another wave of cramps and then into what’s definitely another orgasm, fuck. This one has his eyes crossing and head lolling to the side as his breathy laughter stutters into a pathetic little ah-ah-ah. 

“Yeah, that’s it.” Zanka’s breathing is harsh, and even though Jabber is too fucked out for details he can see that that pretty face is red, red, red. “Take it like the bitch you are.”

Jabber barely processes the words, too busy jerking and trembling and choking out screams as Zanka speeds up again.

The sound of Zanka pounding his poor pussy is obscene; loud and wet and filthy. It’s the sound of Jabber getting thoroughly fucking wrecked, the sound of him coming so hard on Zanka’s cock he’s practically gushing slick.

Then his sweet, perfect sadist buries himself to the hilt in Jabber’s tight heat and groans the exact same way he does when Jabber stabs him, strained and edging on a whine. His nails dig in and his cock twitches as he spills hot and heavy, come pooling deep inside until Jabber feels so full of Zanka he can’t fucking breathe.

For the next minute or so, Jabber drifts through a haze of delicious bone deep aches and something warm and fluttery he can’t quite name. Zanka says a few things to him, and lets his legs fall to narrow hips, but the only thing he can muster up a response to is the younger man trying to pull out, which he protests with a hiss and his best attempt at squeezing his legs around Zanka. His legs are made of jelly so his best attempt is kind of ass, but Zanka obliges and stays right where he belongs, keeping his come inside and keeping Jabber nice and full. 

He’s definitely too sore and raw for it to feel good the way it did earlier, but the discomfort is grounding. Though Zanka’s cock is small enough once he's soft that it doesn't truly hurt either.

Something floats to the surface of Jabber's mind. “Think 's gonna take?”

He feels the exact moment Zanka understands, because it makes his dick twitch inside of him.

“There's no way yer on birth control,” the Cleaner realizes aloud. 

“Yeah, ‘n T ain' exactly a guarantee,” Jabber agrees, words still slurring a bit. He feels Zanka let out a shaky breath against his neck, and giggles a bit. Who knew Mr. Bad Attitude would be into this kinda thing?

“Fuck.”

Eager to put off the reckoning he can feel waiting for him once the haze wears off, Jabber flutters his lashes. “I'd let you put a baby in me if you wanted, y'know.” Hah! As if. 

Zanka’s breath hitches. “That's not–”

“I hear your body's never the same after having one,” Jabber adds, just a bit sly. “I'd have to go the rest of my life wearing the evidence of what you did to me.”

Zanka makes a high pitched noise of distress. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I hate ya so fuckin’ much.”

Jabber makes his voice small, knowing it sounds hurt too from how bad he wrecked it screaming. “You don't wanna put a baby in me?” He sniffles a bit for effect, and then tries to clench around Zanka's hardening dick just to really fuck with the guy. 

Tries. But he barely manages to tighten up his ruined cunt for a second before his inner muscles go slack again, having been fucked into a fine paste. 

Zanka's hips twitch anyways, his groan covering Jabber's own hitched breath at having his body betray him.

(He's never had his body refuse to obey him before without being geeked out on some toxin or another. It's… intriguing. Will he gape there for a bit the way his ass did last time Zanka fucked it? Will he open up easier after this, his body remembering the shape of Zanka's cock?)

“This is a bad idea,” the younger man mumbles. His face is still tucked into Jabber's neck.

Jabber shakily crosses his ankles behind Zanka's back, pulling together his scattered thoughts with some difficulty. “‘S already too late. What's a little more cum now?” 

For all they know that first load is doing its job as they speak, after all.

“Really bad idea,” Zanka repeats, voice strained. Then he inhales slow and deep, and begins to grind; his dick is starting to fill out again. “I shouldn't let ya talk me into shit like this.”

“You wouldna given in if you didn't want it just as bad,” Jabber points out, breathless. The vague burn in his pussy is starting to ramp back up to stinging with the friction. It gets worse the harder Zanka gets. “Nh, ow.”

“Aw, ‘zat hurt?” The younger man's voice turns mocking. 

“Mmyeah, hurts so bad. Gimme more,” Jabber moans. He's not even putting it on; that's just how much this is doing it for him.

(Not that this is Jabber's kink, of course, but he can get behind how it's getting Zanka all hot and bothered. Like a pretty little poison in verbal form.)

And oh yeah, there it is, that stabbing ache in his core that means Zanka is fully hard and buried to the hilt. It hurts even more this time. Probably ‘cause the bruises have started to set in, making his insides as tender and swollen as his outsides.

“Painslut,” Zanka growls, finally starting to rock his hips instead of just grinding. 

“Yeah,” Jabber breathes. A slightly slack grin spreads across his face.

“Cumslut.”

Jabber shudders at the epithet. It's not new for Zanka to call him names, or fuck him raw, but damn if the combo isn't lighting up his brain like some sorta deliriant.

“I mean really, all that whinin’ about me breakin’ yer pussy, and now that it's fulla my cum y'can't get enough?” Zanka taunts him, panting. He raises himself onto his hands to look Jabber in the eyes. “If I'd known you'd be this much of a whore fer it, I'da got to work knockin’ you up ages ago.”

Heat spikes low in Jabber’s belly at the words. 

It's hard to think past the delicious pulsing agony in his core at each thrust when his brain is all syrupy slow, but Jabber manages. “Damn. I was jus’ playin’, but this shit’s really gettin’ you goin’, huh?”

“Gettin’ me goin'?” Zanka asks, aggravation warring with amusement. “You started this!”

“I was jus’ makin’ a li'l joke,” Jabber counters raspily. “You the one who got all bricked up ‘bout it.”

“Oh, so you ain't into this at all,” Zanka says sarcastically, stilling his hips and letting himself topple forward to plant his left hand on the bed. His right flexes, nails digging into Jabber's hip, then slides up over the bandage to hook behind Jabber's knee again. “Should I stop then, since ya don't want it?”

“No,” Jabber blurts. He can't stand the idea of Zanka pulling out any more than he already has, and his dick is at that perfect angle again to boot. “I wan’ it.”

Zanka’s eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah? What exactly do ya want?”

“Zan-zan, c'mon–” 

“Say it or I pull out right now,” Zanka threatens, hips already starting to follow through.

They know each other pretty well by now, so despite his lagging thoughts Jabber knows that even when Zanka's hard enough to pound nails, he would deny himself pleasure in a heartbeat to exert even an ounce of control. He's the most stubborn and spiteful bitch Jabber's ever met in his fucking life.

Which is why his mouth is moving almost before Zanka’s done speaking.

“No, don't! I want your cum,” Jabber rushes to say. “Want it in my pussy, want it so bad.” Zanka’s first slow thrust drags a long moan out of him. “Oh, fuck, yes–”

“Keep goin’,” Zanka snarls. He begins to pick up speed. 

“Want you to f-fill me up,” Jabber continues, eyes starting to cross as he scrambles for words. “Want you to– uhn!– fuck your cum into me until I'm– mm– ‘til it takes!”

“You'll never be able t’forget me,” Zanka says darkly. His breathing is harsh, and his voice is rough with lust. “Not with my baby in ya.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jabber breathes as something pierces the haze. Zanka is desperate enough for his attention to get off on babytrapping him. He has so much power over his cute little sadist, holy shit.

“Ya wanna know what I heard?” Zanka interrupts his thoughts, all sly and vicious. “I heard bein’ pregnant is supposed to suck.” 

Jabber's moment of clarity is short-lived, because that's when the Cleaner gets back to ramming his full length in and abusing the hell outta Jabber's G spot and cervix. Everything around them is a blur because it hurts, but it's good, but it hurts so fucking bad–

“Nausea, fatigue, heartburn, joint pain,” Zanka gleefully lists off. “And then, nh– at the very end, ya gotta, fuck, gotta go through some of the worst pain humans can experience.”

Almost against Jabber’s will, the scenario plays out in his head. Having to watch his stomach swell and round out as his body weakens, the weight of Zanka’s baby inside of him making it hard to move or even breathe. Having to face the fact that he let some guy who hasn't even told his family about them make him a baby mama for a stupid kink.

Having to go months without his toxins, until finally, finally, agony begins to ripple across his abdomen–

Just like it is now, fuck–

His narrow pelvis cracking and splitting to make room for the baby Zanka put in him as it rips his pussy open from the inside out–

“You'd fuckin’ love that, wouldn't ya?”

“Yes,” Jabber tries to say. It comes out more like y-yesth, his tongue refusing to cooperate. “Wan’ it, I wan’ it–”

“Yeah, that's– hngh– that's what I fuckin’ thought–”

“Inside–”

“Never gonna get ridda me,” Zanka snarls into the opposite side of his neck as before, setting teeth to flesh and biting down to give him a matching set of wounds.

Something about the words and the fresh pain cracks Jabber right open. Tears begin to well up in his eyes, blurring everything even further, and then spill down his hot cheeks as he lets out a shuddering sob. 

One last devastating thrust is all it takes to push him over the edge, crying and trembling as his brain gives up entirely. 

But it doesn't end there.

Zanka only slows down enough to let Jabber's clenching pussy really work his cock, using it to chase his own orgasm seemingly without a care for what it feels like to Jabber.

Except that he's still hitting that goddamn motherfucking angle, and every time Jabber's syrup-sticky thoughts start to actually syrup-stick together he loses them again to that sickening one-two punch of pleasure-pain.

Through his own stuttering moans and hiccups he can hear Zanka snarling things like take it and filthy slut into the shredded mess of his throat, wet mouth smearing blood and spit everywhere. The hunger drips from every syllable. 

Jabber wants to bottle it, he thinks between waves of good-bad-yes-no-yes-yes-YES. Wants to keep the bottle on a cute little necklace forever, so if Zanka even thinks about letting go, he can pop the cap and get his boy addicted to him all over again.

He clenches especially tight for a second at the thought, and Zanka makes a gutted noise. 

“Ssshhit– fuck–” 

Jabber chokes as Zanka’s thrusts suddenly get brutal as hell. The sound of him reaming Jabber's pussy gets louder too with each one, until it's impossible to ignore the obscene amount of slick he's leaking any longer.

Zanka sits back and moves a hand to rest on Jabber's stomach. “So fuckin’. Fulla me already,” he pants. “But that ain't enough for ya, is it?” And then he presses down hard, thrusting against the heel of his own palm through the skin and groaning loudly at how the pressure makes Jabber’s cunt spasm with cramps. 

A strangled, high pitched whine crawls out of Jabber's throat, and fresh tears well up. 

(It's like Zanka is using his body to jerk off. If he cut Jabber open, could he wrap a hand around his dick and stroke himself like that? Use Jabber's pussy like a literal fleshlight?)

“Gonna– hahh fuck– gonna make sure yer, n-never empty again–” Zanka's words trail off into incoherency, replaced with animal noises of anger and pleasure, and his hips start to lose their rhythm as he picks up speed.

With his hand still pressing down hard, it's impossible for Jabber to push away the picture he's painting. It's so vivid, in fact, that it feels inevitable at this point; like Jabber sealed his fate the moment he let Zanka get inside his pussy. 

Zanka is going to knock him up and there's nothing he can do about it.

This time he can feel the next peak rising in him, coming on slow enough that he has time to realize just how fucked he is.

“Wait, nuh, no it's. Too much, it's t-too– Zan–mm! ZankaAH!” 

His stuttering, slurred attempt to keep Zanka from turning what's left of his mind into goo dies almost immediately, dissolving along with his thoughts as he comes hard. His vision goes white and his fingers and toes tingle.

And then, with his brain leaking out his ears, a tight knot in his core he hadn't even noticed snaps like a taut rubber band. A feeling of release washes over him, accompanied by a gush of something warm and wet around the thick length stretching him open.

He goes completely limp. It feels like he's fucking pissing himself. The humiliation and euphoria of it chase each other in circles through the soupy gray matter sloshing around in his skull where his thoughts used to be. 

An itty bitty eternity passes in snapshots after that. 

.

The rough skin of Zanka's palm and fingertips on his stomach sending sweetly nauseated aftershocks shooting through him.

.

Warmth flooding into him and pooling low in his belly.

.

A drop of sweat landing just below the hem of his hoodie and a sudden spike of remembered agony as his arms twitch in response.

.

The aching fullness keeping him together slipping out, leaving him empty and hiccuping through tears.

.

Thumbs pulling him apart where he's already open and dark eyes watching cum and slick leak out in pulses.

“N-no, 's all comin’ out, I can’–”

Three– no, four fingers sinking into him, past the knuckles entirely, the stretch and weight of them soothing somehow.

.

Anchored by the fullness that's settled back inside of him, Jabber slowly drifts back into his own body.

The battered muscles in his core are still twinging with the memory of Zanka's cock, minor cramps flaring up here and there, but the pain has mostly settled into a satisfying burn. The bruises scattered across his skin and the wounds on his left leg are pulsing in time with his slowing heartbeat.

He's slick with sweat everywhere, particularly where his hoodie still covers him, but he's wet from hips to nearly his knees with cum and actual slick. He can feel a wet spot spreading beneath his ass and thighs.

Zanka is kneeling over one of his splayed out legs, two-toned hair shiny with sweat and falling in front of his eyes, hunched a bit to accommodate being buried all the way to the thumb joint in Jabber’s pussy.

Abruptly, Jabber can't stand the sensation of Zanka's hand in him. “Out, out, out!”

Zanka pulls it out as quickly as Jabber's cunt will let him. Once he has both hands free he then makes quick work of the cuffs. He doesn't say a word the whole time.

(Say something. Say anything, Jabber thinks furiously. Break this awful spell over him where he can almost believe this is more to Zanka than a way to prove he's better.)

(Show me I'm worth holding onto, he carefully doesn't think.)

The moment the cuffs come off, Jabber tugs his hoodie as far down as it'll go, tucks his arms close to his chest, and curls up into a ball on his side. He can feel cool air against his folds; he's so open and wet that with his knees up, everything is exposed.

He steels himself against the bad feeling it gives him. Zanka's already gotten a damn good look at his whole box combo, and Jabber has nothing to be ashamed of even if he hadn't. He's never been shy about letting it all hang out metaphorically, and if he still gets weird about letting it all hang out literally, well, that's stupid and he needs to get over it.

But he's barely exposed for two seconds before Zanka drapes a thin blanket over him. “Yer shiverin’,” Zanka mutters in explanation. “Never gonna live it down if ya get sick after the only time I fuck ya in the front.”

A snort of amusement bubbles up in the back of Jabber's throat, and when it spills out of his mouth a bit of saliva follows. 

Ah, shit, his face is a mess too, huh? 

Jabber belatedly swipes a sleeve over his face to mop up the sweat and tears and drool. There's blood too of course, from when Zanka split his brow and cheekbone with his knuckles, but he's less happy about removing that.

The blood is proof of how they fit together just right. It's what binds them to one another.

His heart trips over that thought, stumbling at how closely they're intertwined. And then the stumbling becomes weak fluttering as cold dread grips it, like wings beating against his ribcage as it tries to escape.

Because in the part of his brain that never stops, Jabber suddenly sees what they’ve done to each other. He's shaped Zanka, changed him, and Zanka has returned the favor. Has carved out a space in Jabber, beyond just the physical. Has cracked open the bones of who Jabber is and dug his knobby fingers into the marrow, scooping it out and slurping it down in his hunger for anything Jabber will give him, filling the empty space left behind with the closest thing to love either of them are capable of.

Zanka leaving him is going to tear him up. Jabber's going to be the dirt left behind when a plant is uprooted to be replanted somewhere better: dull and dusty with no more life to give, and gaping open where parts of him have been torn away and scattered across the Ground.

Fuck, he can't lose Zanka. 

How is he supposed to hold onto him, though? Everything Jabber's ever lost has had scratches on it, because he grips so tight his claws can't help but cut deep. But that just made it easier for them to fall apart and slip away from him. And even if he does manage to keep Zanka around, an upstanding citizen like him would wither and die with only the poor soil of Jabber's best attempt at love to sustain him.

(Just like everything (everyone) else Jabber touches.)

Jabber's only consolation is that before then, Zanka's the type to explode into riotous growth to try and preserve himself, just like Jabber's always hoped for. 

…Damn, his brain got fried real good if he's thinking in metaphors like this. And it's a bad metaphor anyways; Zanka's barely sunk his roots into Jabber at all, never mind deep enough to actually do any damage if he leaves. After all, Jabber's gotten attached to his toys before, but they're all still toys in the end. If this one breaks he'll just move onto the next one like he always does.

Zanka seems different, but he's just like all the others. All of them seemed different at first; the shine will wear off soon, just like it did for them. Zanka already regaining Jabber's interest one time doesn't make that less true.

And just like them, the bits and pieces he's laid claim to will be returned to Jabber once he's dead, so that Jabber can build himself back up and find the next seed to nurture.

Feeling centered again, Jabber laboriously rolls onto his back. His locs are still haloed around his head, so he doesn't have to pull them outta the way. 

(Which doesn't make him feel any typa way at all.)

“Don't-!” Zanka yelps, before finishing with a mumble. “...don't aggravate the hole in yer leg.” His hand hovers over Jabber for a few seconds. Then he sets it on his own rumpled pants (still open, though he's tucked his dick away) and clenches it in the fabric.

Staring at Zanka's faintly pink face and the constipated look pasted on it, Jabber comes to a decision. “I want that every day of the week and twice on Sundays,” he declares.

Zanka huffs in aggravation. “And I suppose ya want me to pay for the condoms?”

Jabber laughs. “Now why the hell wouldja do that? The risk is half the fun, baby!”

Zanka splutters. “Take this seriously, asshole!”

Before he can launch into one of his top volume rants, Jabber cuts him off with an, “Ugghhh, fiiiine.” Obviously he's gonna shred the whole box the moment he sees it, and Zanka’s gonna fuck him anyways. But if Zanka knows his intentions beforehand, it'll become a competition, and the Cleaner will somehow produce backups just to get one over on him.

Plus, he wants to see the rage when they're destroyed, and the delicious spike of guilty pleasure on Zanka's face as he chooses to fuck Jabber's pussy raw. 

Mm, yeah; that look might just be his favorite. The one that screams what the fuck am I doing, and why do I love it so much? Jabber loves watching it shift into pure hunger as Zanka forgets about all those little hang ups holding him back.

The man in question has his dark blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I can tell yer plannin’ somethin’.”

“Always, baby! But you don't hafta worry ‘bout this one,” Jabber assures him. It is to his benefit after all!

Zanka very clearly has zero trust in that statement, but lets it go with a sigh. “Wouldn't be you I s'pose if ya didn't have some kinda heinous scheme bouncin’ around in yer head.” He shifts his legs out of the kneeling position he's been sitting in and makes as if to get up.

“Now where the hell do you think you're going?” Jabber asks, displeased.

(Don't leave don't leave don't leavedon'tleave–)

“...to get somethin’ to wipe ya off?” Zanka sounds bewildered and pissy.

“Can't it wait?” Jabber imitates vulnerability again, and watches lust flash across Zanka's face. Ooh, got ‘im, he thinks with delight. He follows it up by reaching out towards Zanka in a silent request for a hug.

Despite undeniably seeing the trap for what it is, Zanka seems helpless to refuse. He shuffles over on his knees, braces with one arm, and leans down to slide his other arm under Jabber. And as soon as he's close enough, Jabber wraps his arms around his bare back–

And yanks him down to sprawl between Jabber's legs, right in the sticky mess slowly drying there.

“AGH! MY FUCKIN’ PANTS!” Zanka shrieks, struggling to escape.

“Oopsies!” Jabber sings out. “Guess we're both dirty now!”

“Sewer suckin’ sonnuva bitch,” Zanka hisses. He slowly but surely extracts himself, raising himself up. Except then he looks Jabber in the eye and… stops for some reason. And then lowers himself back down, tucks his face into Jabber's neck once more, and slides both arms fully under Jabber's back.

With the hoodie and Zanka's pants between them, keeping their skin from touching, the pressure of Zanka's weight and arms around him is. Kinda nice? 

Ew. No. Banish the thought forever.

“Already too late, right?” Zanka mutters.

…But they can stay like this for a little while longer, since Zanka was probably just looking for an excuse to do this anyways. Jabber can indulge him a bit.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Too late.”

(Too late for me.)