Chapter Text
Jabber’s not stupid.
He knows what Zanka was saying when he asked about him having a “routine“ with anyone else. If Jabber was nice, he might’ve cleared the air by explaining where the bruise came from, because he knows a gentle “no one other than you” wouldn’t be enough for Zanka’s…complex psyche.
But he’s not nice, and seeing Zanka jealous was so fun.
Jabber remembers the day so clearly: he’d been trying out a new trick with Mankira, using her claws to grip the very edge of a building so he could climb sideways. While he was getting the hang of it, he miscalculated a jump and fell in a way that knocked the air out of him and gave him a nasty bruise right next to his belly button. At the time, he didn’t think much of it—he was no stranger to accidental injuries. He never knew it’d be such a goldmine.
Zanka catches him in an alley one day, eyes lingering on his waist the entire time. Jabber very easily picks up what’s running through his mind.
As with most encounters, they start with a fight. There’s a quick round of hand to hand combat, which Jabber concedes. (Really, it’s only because Zanka’s a little more experienced in that area). He’s more excited for the good stuff anyway, because Zanka needs his staff to let his brutality out properly.
Now they’re sitting on the ground, legs splayed before them, both anticipating round 2. Zanka’s catching his breath and Jabber’s fidgeting with his clothes.
“What do you do to take care of yourself after?”
Jabber turns to Zanka with a curious look on his face. “Huh?”
“When we’re done. Do you ever get patched up after? Does anything ever…stick around?”
Jabber makes a show of tapping his chin. Take care of yourself? That’s new. “Sometimes Cthoni slaps a bandage on me. But do things stick around? Mm, not as much as I want it to. Most of my scars are from me. You make me feel really good though. The ache lasts for days.”
Zanka curls his nose up and turns his head away. Jabber doesn’t miss the blush on his face, or the way his chest puffs up at the complement.
Got him.
“Why would you word it like that.”
Jabber scoffs at the feigned disgust and pokes at Zanka’s knee. What a faker. “Cause that’s the way you want me to word it. Don’t get proper with me.”
Zanka’s still turned away from him.
“There a reason you askin?” Jabber knows the answer, but he wants to hear what Zanka might say.
“No. I just—you should really be takin’ care of yourself. If ya don’t heal right the next fight won’t be as good as you want it to be. Because things are broken.” He runs a line up the center of his torso. “Shit, even I go to a medic after and I still scar like crazy.”
Zanka’s not making any logical sense right now, but he’ll entertain it. “You got a scar from me?”
“Huh?”
“On your stomach. From that one time. That’s why you’re asking right? You got something from me but I don’t have anything from you.”
Zanka taps his fingers on the ground and doesn’t reply. Jabber wishes he’d be more upfront sometimes, but they're getting there.
“Well, if you’re curious…I leave scars on you because of my claws. You don’t leave as much on me because of the way you swing that staff around. Damn near like a bat. Has nothing to do if I’m patched up or not.”
Zanka’s face drops. “What’s that supposed ta’ mean.”
“Blunt force, dumbass. I’m not callin’ you weak, you can chill out. Why do you think most of my scars are from my own claws?” And a few from bang-bang girl, but he leaves that out for now. Could be fun to bring up later.
“So, if you want to leave somethin’ behind that stays…
“—I gotta slice you. Like you do me.”
Zanka drops the sane act. Finally. Intentionally or unintentionally, it doesn’t matter. The admission that Zanka wants to leave some evidence of their trysts behind makes a pleasant shiver run through his body. The thought puts a grin on his face, and the glee seeps through his next words.
“Bin-go! I knew you’d get it.”
Zanka nods eerily calmly. “Seems like We’ll have to put some more hard work into it, huh.”
The corner of his mouth pinches up into a sadistic smirk, and he looks like he’d unlocked the secrets of the universe. He runs a finger along the spiked edges of Lovely Assistaff head delicately, gives her an adoring look of admiration, then swiftly shifts his hand to clutch the body of the staff. Tightly.
With that, Zanka cranks back her back and swings. He’s a little faster than usual, so instead of dodging entirely, the strike clips Jabber’s side. He cackles, then jumps into action.
Their vital instruments clash, clang, and clamor. Amidst the chaos, Jabber can see the glint of Zanka’s grin, manic undertones mirroring the smile of his own. It makes him feel alive. Every time Jabber and Zanka fight, he’s reminded of how perfect he is for him.
Jabber’s delight at his attitude doesn’t stop him from calling out his shortcomings, though. He’s kinda missing a lot of the shots he’s taking right now.
“Zan-zan! You’re not faster than me, so stop actin’ like it.”
“The hell ‘m not! Stop—moving like that.” He grunts.
A giggle. “Hm. Nah!”
They continue their dance, accompanied by the echoing cacophony bouncing off the walls.
Despite his attitude, Zanka heeds his critique. He makes slower, more intentional strikes, and the few that are able to catch Jabber hurt. But his technique is still off. The strikes are too light to deal any serious damage.
“Zanka! I’m not gonna coach you how to beat me this whole time. You’re still off!”
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do, scuzzball.”
“Clearly you do if you’re still movin’ the same way you always do.”
Ironically, after that, Zanka manages to catch him off guard.
He swiftly grabs one hand and maneuver it behind his back. He places a thumb on the pulse point on his wrist, and angles his hand uncomfortably vertically so that Mankira’s claws can’t reach his skin. The other hand is hooked by Lovely Assistaff, and can’t move. Then, using that same staff, Zanka drags one of her spikes from one shoulder blade diagonally across his back. Jabber howls in response. The whole ordeal happens incredibly fast.
Fuck, that hurts so bad. It sets a line of fire across his back that overwhelms his senses. Jabber’s so proud.
Of course, all Zanka’s managed to do is subdue him. He’s not tired, nor is he even close to done fighting, and one shift in their positions could mean a pivotal shift in the “winner” of the fight. Right now, though, Zanka feels a little stronger than him, and he’s not budging.
With his face pressed uncomfortably (pleasantly) to the ground, he grins into the dirt and manages to turn to the side enough to see Zanka’s face with one of his eyes.
He looks other-worldly. He’s staring at Jabber so earnestly, a cocky smirk resting on his lips and a gentle flush on his cheeks. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are locked on Jabber’s upper back.
“Zankaaa, are you gonna do something else or are you gonna keep me down here for the rest of the time we’re here. I’m not against that, but you gotta pin me down harder. Maybe try pushing your knee more—“
Zanka’s smile flips into an agitated frown. “Shut up for a second, ‘m thinkin’”
“You can keep on thinkin if it gets me more of this.” He sighs deeply. ”Fuck, you’re so perfect. You give me everything I ever wanted. You do it so well.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Jabber can see Zanka’s eyes widen a bit.
“H-huh—?“
Then, there it is. An amateur would’ve missed it, but Jabber’s anything but. Zanka’s grip loosens just enough for Jabber to maneuver his claws and slice a line up Zanka’s forearm.
Zanka’s last word is “fuck” before he drops his conks out into Jabber’s shoulder.
Too easy.
Jabber positions Zanka so that he’s lying on his back on the ground. There are rocks in his hair. Jabber brushes them out.
Until recently, he would’ve left Zanka to wake up on his own and nagged him about the after effects via choker later. But now, he’s just staring at the delicate lines of his face and waiting impatiently for his eyes to open. Man, maybe he should’ve ran back the venomal hallucinogen. Maybe they would’ve had some fun laughing together again.
I hope he wakes up soon.
The poison in Mankira’s blade is new, but it’s nothing Zanka hasn’t seen before. Makes you see pretty colors for a few seconds, then you wake up later with a racing heart. It’s fun, which is why Jabber picked it today, but he’s not sure how long Zanka should be out for, considering Jabber’s tolerance is still much larger than his and Jabber’s only tried it on himself. Suddenly, Zanka’s nose twitches and his eyelids flutter. Jabber’s eyes lock on the motion.
He sits there for a minute, hypnotized. His heart is still beating fast, and every thump sends a throb through the gash that stretches across his back. The one that Zanka put there. There’s blood dripping down his back. There’s blood on Zanka’s face too, a scratch he got from falling in his face. Jabber brings his hand up to trace the wound.
Not long after that, Zanka’s eyes snap open. Jabber’s hand snaps back.
His eyes are incredibly wide, and his pupils are a little dilated. “Shit. Oh, fuck. What the hell did you give me?” His wide eyes dart around the abandoned lot they’re in. “Did I lose?”
Jabber shrugs. “I dunno if you lost. You definitely owe me a meal. But I think you got what you wanted.”
Zanka scrunches his eyebrows, confused. Jabber leans a little closer.
“You got me my back. Fuck it hurts so bad. I didn’t think you’d get me but you did. Real deep too, like—“
“Lemme see it.” His eyes are still wide, and Jabber can’t discern if it’s from the poison.
Zanka darts up and forward to get a better view of what he’s talking about. Jabber doesn’t see many other options besides tucking his head into Zanka’s shoulder and hoping that gives him the view he needs.
Zanka’s chin is on his shoulder now. He can feel it when he hums. When he gulps. Jabber can tell he spots his mark when he gasps. When he talks, the vibrations travel though his body and land on his finger tips. Jabber wants to be buried in his neck forever.
Zanka takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, then hums then and it tickles his neck. “You think this one’ll stay?”
Jabber turns his head. With the shift in position his nose brushes Zanka’s. Their eyes lock together. “Mhm. I sure hope so.”
Jabber can’t recall if he’s ever been so close to anyone before. From here, one could count the shades of blue in Zanka’s eyes, or the number of eyelashes on each eyelid. But his mind is blank, so he doesn’t think he could count much of anything right now.
Zanka reaches his hand behind Jabber and runs a firm finger along the gash on his back. The sensation makes him shiver and squeeze his eyes shut. He’s caught off guard. With another hand positioned behind Jabber’s head, Zanka takes advantage of the distraction, pulls him in, and plants a kiss directly on his lips.
Oh. Uh—
That might’ve been the last thing he thought might happen.
It’s a painful kiss—ego-wise, not physically. Their noses awkwardly bump together, and their lips are so misaligned they almost miss each other entirely. The entire ordeal lasts maybe two seconds, and each one is a pitiful display of their collective inexperience.
Zanka pulls away swiftly, and he looks horribly embarrassed. He tries to get up, but the untreated injuries make his body cringe, and he barley gets anywhere because Jabber is still sitting on him.
Jabber, who’s essentially frozen in place. There’s not much coherent thought in his head, besides maybe—
He kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me.
“Fuck, ‘m sorry, so sorry, I don’t even know why I even—“
He kissed me. He kissed me.
Jabber blinks at him again. Zanka’s still apologizing. The words float though his ears like
He kissed me.
Zanka stops muttering apologies and stares.
After what seems like a lifetime, Jabber leans in and kisses him back.
Their next kisses are equally inexperienced, but much more pleasant.
Jabber leans in a little more so that Zanka can relax a little his posture a little. His hands wrap around his shoulders, and he presses his lips more decisively (and accurately). They get the hang of it after a few gentle kisses, and somehow find themselves impossible closer each time.
Jabber licks along his bottom lip just because he can, and Zanka licks back. Then they’re kissing for real, and it’s messy, and wet, and fumbly, and Jabber doesn’t think he’s felt so eager in his life.
Zanka nips Jabber’s bottom lip hard, hard enough where they’re both tasting metal and staining their lips red. He pulls away to plant one, two, three kisses, on the corner of Jabber’s mouth, chin, and the junction between his chin and neck respectively. Each kiss, featherlight, feels like successive shocks to his system.
When Zanka starts peppering kisses and bites down his neck, it really registers to Jabber that Zanka kissed him and he kissed Zanka. Intermittently, Zanka will bite particularly hard and Jabber lets out a pleasant yelp and a bubbly giggle. Zanka is kissing him. Zanka is biting him. The alternating gentleness and pain confuses Jabber on how he’s supposed to feel. He ends up at a weird mix of vindicated glee.
Once satisfied, Zanka pulls back to admire his handiwork. He uses his hand to turn Jabber head to the left, then to the right, then finally tilts his head down presses his thumb into the bite he left on his lip. If he was a tad gentler, one might’ve considered the touch tender.
Zanka’s looking at him so…intensely, that Jabber can tell Zanka wants to kiss him again. Jabber kinda wants him to, but then he doesn’t. The kiss pushed them from awkward fight posters to something distinctly romantic, a notion that sends a shiver down his spine and drops his heart to his ass.
The feeling makes Jabber attempt an escape from his position on top of Zanka. A set of hands at his waist prevent him from moving.
“Wait. Stay here. Please.” Zanka breathes out the words. His voice is hoarse.
Well. How could he say no to that?
He dampens the weird feeling in his stomach with a tease. “Aw, Zanka—it almost seems like you like me!”
“No shit dumbass, I just kissed you.”
What’s gotten into Zanka that’s made him so direct? Jabber would’ve expected a swift denial before a confession.
“Zanka, buddy, What kinda confession is that?”
Zanka glowers. “Don’t call me buddy when your tongue has been in my mouth.”
“Sowwy.” He smiles and feels knots in his stomach.
Fuck, this is so weird. He thinks he’s doing a good job of coping with the discomfort, but then Zanka says something direct and romantic and it makes him wanna die. Jabber weighs the merits of lying, or hitting Zanka again, or perishing on the spot. He lands on telling the truth.
“I like you too.” The words are drawn out. They exchange a few glances. There’s an unreadable expression on Zanka’s face, and he does that thing where he looks away from you and purses his lips. Maybe he’ll ask a question to make Zanka uncomfortable, see how he likes it. Jabber’s sick of feeling like he’s on the spot.
“Is there a reason you asked me to stay in your lap?”
Zanka blinks. It looks like he didn’t think that far. “…Well. I was thinking. Uh, we could talk, or something. Like we do at dinner.” His eyes shift downward to where his hands rest on Jabber’s waist.
Zanka’s expression falls quickly, as if making a terrifying realization. He shifts his fingers just a smidge so that the tips of his fingers catch the edge of the bruise. It’s lightened to a different shade now, but Jabber’s sure the image had been nicely seared into Zanka’s mind.
“Or, I don’t know, you could tell me where this is from.” Zanka shifts on of his hands up to pinch at the edge of the healing bruise on his hip. Jabber yelps. He takes a moment to process Zanka’s inane question with a couple blinks, then a snort, then finally he throws his head back and cackles.
He laughs and laughs and laughs for so long that, by the time he finishes, there are tears streaming down his face. Zanka isn’t amused.
“Are you serious? I’m asking a simple question here.”
“Okay, okay, I’m calm. It’s just…fuck, you’re still on that? That’s so fucking funny.”
Zanka bristles.
Avoiding the question entirely, Jabber’s gaze falls to the side, where one of Zanka’s hands draws lazy circles on the side of his knee, which he didn’t even realize was happening until now. He grabs the palm and squeezes, the drags Zanka’s hand to rest on his lower abdomen. Right next to the stubborn bruise that refuses to heal fully. Zanka’s hand feels like it’s on fire, despite. He leans in carefully.
“Next time” He starts, pausing to ensure Zanka’s eyes are on his. “I want you to get me here. I keep it well protected,” a white lie, no he doesn’t, “so you’ll, really, really, have to earn it this time, bad-boy. You get it?”
Zanka inhales a few times, as if he’d just run a marathon and need time to catch his breath. He nods eagerly and curls in his fingertips, imprinting little crescents into the skin below his palm. Jabber sucks air through his teeth.
“Don’t think any of this sappy shit is gonna distract me from the fact that you haven’t answered—“
His sentences is interrupted by a crackly voice coming from his choker.
“Ah. One sec.”
Zanka looks like he wants to say something but Jabber places a slides over his mouth. Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue.
“Jabber. Where are you? You were supposed to be back hours ago.” A pause. “Don’t tell me you’re dead.”
“Cthoni! So happy to hear from you.” He glances down at Zanka, who squeezes impatiently at his waist. His thumb rubs almost tenderly at the bruise he’s been eyeing, and Jabber would be lying if it wasn’t a little distracting.
“I’m uh—what am I doing…” A pause, then an idea. “Oh yeah! I was taking—.”
“I don’t care. Come back.”
The line cuts.
Ah, the perfect escape! He was running out of ways to keep Zanka on his toes, and here’s comes Cthoni planting an easy out in his lap! Jabber might give her a kiss on the forehead when he gets back.
“Well, I think that’s my queue to go! Been an absolute pleasure Zanka, wow. You really know how to treat a guy.”
Before Zanka can react, Jabber swiftly hops up and makes three quick leaps to the side of the building. Mankira provides the extra grip he needs to stay in place.
“Wait—wait, Jabber, don’t—! Are we not gong to dinner?”
“Can’t today! Duty calls!”
“What fucking duty do you—“
Jabber doesn’t hear the last few words of Zanka’s complaint because he finds it funnier to scurry off before he finishes.
Fuck, Zanka wants him so bad. The excitement (or maybe the blood loss) makes him dizzy. Jabber swoons the whole way back home.