Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Marked by Midnight

Christmas isn’t done with them yet.

By the time Zanka finishes rinsing the last of the mask from his hair and tugging his uniform back into place, the building has slipped into that late-morning quiet—no longer sleepy, not yet loud. He adjusts his collar out of habit, fingers lingering a second too long, then forces his hands down and steps back into the hallway.

They regroup where they said they would.

Rudo gets there first, bouncing on his heels, jacket half-zipped and energy already turned up too high. He’s got gloves on—even indoors—flexing his fingers like he’s testing them.

Riyo arrives next, tying her hair back as she walks, looking refreshed and far too put together for someone who just finished a face mask. She scans the hallway once, counts heads automatically.

Zanka comes last, quiet as ever.

Enjin is already waiting by the exit, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, keys dangling from one hand. He glances up when they all finally gather, eyes sweeping over them in a lazy once-over.

“Alright,” he says. “Everyone got everything?”

Rudo pats his pockets. “Yeah.”

Riyo nods. “I’m good.”

Zanka gives a short, “Mm.”

Enjin clicks the keys together. “Good. I’m not turning around.”

They head outside together, cold air biting just enough to wake them up fully. The city is quieter than usual—Christmas has dulled its edge—streets open, shops mostly closed, the sky pale and stretched thin above them.

The car waits where Enjin left it.

Rudo calls shotgun without even thinking and dives into the front seat. Riyo rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, sliding into the back instead. Zanka follows, settling beside her, knees angled slightly away out of habit.

Enjin climbs in last, engine rumbling to life as soon as the door shuts.

“Seatbelts,” Riyo says automatically.

Rudo groans but complies.

The car pulls away from the curb, tires crunching softly over the road as they merge into the empty street. Buildings slide past the windows—familiar, distant, calm in a way they rarely are.

Zanka watches them go, head resting lightly against the glass.

For once, there’s nowhere urgent to be.

No alarms.

No orders.

Just the quiet hum of the engine, Rudo talking too much, Riyo occasionally correcting him, and Enjin driving like he’s got all the time in the world.

The car hums steadily as they move deeper into the city, the road stretching open in front of them like it’s been waiting all morning. The streets are quieter than usual—no honking, no crowds spilling off sidewalks, just the occasional car passing by like a ghost.

Rudo presses his forehead to the window, fogging it up almost immediately. “It’s weird,” he says. “It’s too quiet.”

“That’s Christmas,” Riyo replies. “People stay home.”

Zanka’s gaze stays forward, unfocused, following the way the road curves. The rhythm of the drive is lulling—engine noise, the soft rattle of something loose in the back, Rudo shifting in his seat every few seconds. It’s calm enough that his mind starts to wander.

And then it lands on something obvious.

“…What stores are even open today?” Zanka asks.

The car goes a little too quiet.

Enjin’s hands tighten on the steering wheel for half a second—barely noticeable, but Zanka catches it. His eyes flick up to the rearview mirror, then back to the road.

“…Some,” Enjin says.

Riyo turns slowly to look at him.

Rudo lifts his head from the glass. “Like what?”

Enjin clears his throat. “You know. Stores.”

Zanka narrows his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

Enjin exhales through his nose. “Look, it’ll be fine.”

Riyo stares at him for another beat—and then she laughs.

“Oh my god,” she says. “You forgot, didn’t you.”

“I did not—”

“You forgot,” she repeats, grinning now.

Rudo twists around in his seat. “You didn’t check?”

“I assumed,” Enjin argues. “It’s a city. Something’s always open.”

Zanka looks away, lips pressing together—not quite a smile, but close.

Riyo wipes at her eyes. “Okay. Okay. This is actually kind of funny.”

Rudo laughs too, shoulders shaking. “So we’re just… driving?”

Riyo shrugs, completely unbothered. “Why not? Let’s just see what we find.”

Zanka considers it for a moment. The idea of wandering without a plan—normally inefficient, pointless—should bother him.

It doesn’t.

“…That’s fine,” he says.

Rudo nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Let’s do that.”

Enjin groans but turns the wheel anyway, taking the next street without hesitation. “You’re all impossible.”

They drive on, passing shuttered storefronts decorated with leftover lights, handwritten Closed signs taped crookedly to doors. A bakery with dark windows. A corner shop locked up tight. A café with chairs stacked inside like it gave up hours ago.

Rudo keeps commentary running. “That one’s closed.”
“Ooh—nope, that too.”
“That one looks open—never mind.”

Riyo leans back, relaxed, watching the city slide by. “This is kind of nice,” she says. “No rush. No mission.”

Zanka watches the reflections of lights pass over the windshield, thinking about how rare this is—how strange it feels to be nowhere in particular with people who aren’t expecting anything from him right now.

The car turns again.

They keep driving.

At first, it’s just more of the same—quiet streets, shuttered shops, the occasional flicker of old decorations still clinging to lampposts. The city feels like it’s holding its breath, wrapped up in itself. Enjin turns corners at random, sometimes slowing like he’s considering a place, only to keep going when it’s clearly closed.

Rudo eventually slumps in his seat, boredom creeping in now that the novelty’s worn off. “So… are we actually looking for something, or are we just wandering?”

“Yes,” Enjin says.

“That’s not—”

“It’s both,” Riyo cuts in, amused. “We’re killing time.”

Zanka shifts slightly, gaze catching on a small convenience store up ahead. The lights inside are on—dim, but unmistakably on. He straightens.

“There,” he says, pointing.

Enjin follows his line of sight and slows. “Huh. Would you look at that.”

Rudo practically vibrates. “It’s open!”

“Looks like it,” Riyo says. “Barely.”

Enjin pulls over without much ceremony, parking crookedly but safely. The engine cuts, leaving behind a sudden quiet that feels heavier after the constant hum of driving.

“Alright,” Enjin says, unbuckling. “Let’s see what Christmas mercy we’ve been granted.”

They step out into the cold again, breath fogging in the air. The bell above the store door jingles weakly as they enter, the sound too loud in the near-empty space.

Inside, the shelves are half-stocked, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A tired-looking cashier gives them a glance and goes back to staring at nothing.

Rudo’s eyes light up immediately. “Food.”

Riyo sighs. “Of course.”

Zanka lingers near the entrance for a moment, scanning the place out of instinct before relaxing just a fraction. It’s small. Harmless. Normal.

They split up loosely—Rudo beelining for snacks, Riyo browsing the shelves with mild curiosity, Enjin wandering aimlessly like he doesn’t know what he wants until it’s in his hands.

Zanka drifts down one of the aisles, fingers brushing along the edge of a shelf. There’s something surreal about this—about being here on Christmas Day, no urgency, no blood on his hands, no orders in his ear.

Just… this.

Riyo appears beside him at some point, holding a drink. “See?” she says quietly. “We found something.”

Zanka nods. “You were right.”

She smiles at that, soft and satisfied, and moves on.

From the other end of the store, Rudo’s voice rings out. “Can we get these?”

Enjin doesn’t even look up. “You’re already holding them.”

Rudo grins.

Zanka watches them for a moment—this strange, fragile normal they’re building out of nothing—and feels something settle in his chest. Not peace. Not exactly.

Zanka is halfway down the aisle when something shifts at the edge of his vision.

It’s subtle—just a flicker of movement reflected in the glass of a freezer door. A silhouette that doesn’t belong to anyone in the store. His instincts spike before his thoughts catch up, body tensing on reflex.

He stops.

Listens.

Nothing out of place. No raised voices. No sudden sounds. Just the low hum of the lights and Rudo arguing with Enjin about which snacks are “necessary.”

Still.

Zanka turns his head slightly, eyes scanning again. Near the back corner of the store, past the shelves of household junk, there’s a narrow side area—mostly storage, half-shadowed. He can’t see much from here.

But something about it feels… off.

“Riyo,” he says quietly.

She looks up from the shelf she’s examining. “Yeah?”

“I’ll be right back.”

She follows his gaze, then nods without question. “Okay. Don’t wander off.”

Zanka gives a short hum in response and moves before she can say anything else, steps light, controlled, already slipping into that familiar alert focus.

At the front of the store, Enjin stretches and checks his phone. “Alright,” he announces. “I’m gonna wait outside till you guys are done.”

Rudo looks up from his armful of snacks. “I’ll come with.”

“Of course you will,” Enjin mutters, but doesn’t stop him.

Riyo turns then, glancing down the aisle where Zanka had been standing just moments ago. Her eyes narrow slightly.

“…Zanka?”

No answer.

She takes a few steps forward, peering around the shelf—only to find the aisle empty. No sign of him. Not even the sound of footsteps.

He’s already gone.

Riyo straightens slowly, a familiar knot forming in her chest—not panic, not yet, but awareness. Zanka doesn’t leave without reason.

She exhales, steadying herself.

“Of course,” she murmurs.

Outside, the door jingles as Enjin and Rudo step out into the cold, their voices fading with the sound.

Inside the store, the lights buzz on.

And somewhere in the back, Zanka moves out of sight.

Riyo lingers a second longer in the aisle, then decides standing there won’t make him reappear. She walks toward the entrance, the bell chiming softly as she steps outside into the cold air.

Enjin is leaning against the hood of the car now, arms crossed. Rudo is pacing in small circles, chewing on something he probably didn’t wait to pay for yet.

Enjin looks up. “Where’s Zanka?”

Riyo slides her hands into her coat pockets. “He said he was going to go find something.”

Enjin raises a brow. “Find what?”

She hesitates for half a second. “…Didn’t say.”

Rudo stops pacing. “Is he buying something without us?”

“Probably not,” Riyo answers.

Enjin sighs, glancing toward the store entrance. “Okay. Well. Hopefully he doesn’t take long.”

There’s no real concern in his voice—just mild impatience. Christmas or not, Enjin doesn’t enjoy waiting.

He pushes off the hood. “I’ll pull the car up to the front. It’s freezing.”

Rudo immediately perks up. “Shotgun again?”

“You never left shotgun,” Enjin mutters, but walks around to the driver’s side anyway.

The engine starts with a low rumble as Riyo stands there for a moment longer, watching the door of the store.

“…Don’t wander too far,” she murmurs under her breath, though she knows he won’t hear it.

—

Meanwhile, in the back of the store, Zanka slows.

The corner he thought he saw movement in is empty.

Just stacked boxes. A mop bucket. A poorly stocked rack of discounted holiday decorations. No shadows shifting. No unfamiliar presence.

Nothing.

He stands there for a moment longer than necessary, eyes sweeping once more out of habit.

Still nothing.

His shoulders loosen slightly.

“…Ridiculous,” he mutters.

He turns, walking slowly along the back aisle, not entirely sure why he’s still moving. He told Riyo he’d be right back. There’s no threat. No reason to linger.

Yet he doesn’t immediately return.

Instead, he drifts. Past cheap toys. Past shelves of random items no one really needs. His eyes skim everything without actually seeing it.

What was he even looking for?

He doesn’t know.

Something caught his attention—but now that the adrenaline has faded, he’s left standing in a half-empty convenience store on Christmas Day, staring at plastic storage bins like they hold answers.

Zanka exhales sharply and rubs a hand over his face.

Maybe he imagined it.

Maybe he’s just—

He presses his palm lightly against his forehead, fingers sliding down to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“…Tch.”

He’s tired.

That’s all this is.

The last few days have blurred together. Missions. Late nights. The weight he carries without saying anything. Even last night—his jaw tightens for a fraction of a second before he forces the thought away.

He hasn’t been sleeping properly.

Of course he’d start seeing things.

He lets out a quiet sigh into his hand, shoulders finally sagging just a little in the privacy of the empty aisle.

“I need more sleep,” he mutters to himself.

It’s logical. Simple. Not some hidden threat. Not some unseen enemy.

Just exhaustion.

He straightens slowly, composure sliding back into place like armor. Whatever he thought he saw—it’s nothing worth dragging out.

The others are waiting.

Zanka turns and begins walking back toward the front of the store, expression calm again, footsteps steady while walking he starts to adjust the cuff on his sleeve his expression is composed, steps even. The bell above the door is only a few aisles away. He can already see the faint outline of the cashier’s counter through the shelves.

It was nothing.

Just exhaustion.

He turns the corner of an aisle—

And suddenly a hand clamps over his mouth.

Hard.

His back slams lightly against a shelf as he’s yanked sideways, dragged deeper into the store, into the narrow gap between towering stacks of poorly arranged merchandise.

His instincts fire instantly.

Lovely Assistaff is in his hand before his brain finishes processing the threat.

He twists, elbow jerking back, free hand already shifting to strike—

But another hand catches his wrist.

Firm.

Deliberate.

Fingers tightening just enough to disrupt his focus.

The grip throws off his concentration for half a second—long enough to stop the activation.

Zanka’s eyes snap upward.

And freeze.

Dreadlocks.

Sharp grin.

Bright, reckless eyes.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Zanka tries to snap—but it comes out muffled against the palm still pressed over his mouth.

Jabber.

Of all places.

Of all days.

Jabber tilts his head, eyes glittering with amusement, his free hand still locked around Zanka’s wrist. “Miss me?” he murmurs quietly.

Zanka glares.

This is bad.

No—this is worse than bad.

Because it’s not just Jabber being here. It’s not just the fact that Jabber’s hand is on him, that Mankira could activate at any second if he wanted to. Poison. Paralysis. That sickening rush.

It’s the rest of them.

Outside.

Enjin.

Riyo.

Rudo.

Most of the Akuta are nearby today.

All it would take is one of them stepping inside. One glance down the wrong aisle. One second too long.

And they’d see him like this.

Pinned in the back of a convenience store by a Raider.

By a certain dreadheaded Raider.

The thought coils tight in his chest.

Jabber leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Relax. If I wanted you dead, you’d already be on the floor.”

Zanka narrows his eyes.

He tries to speak again. “Get—your—”

Muffled.

Jabber’s hand doesn’t move.

Zanka growls low in his throat and wrenches his wrist, trying to shake free, but Jabber’s grip only adjusts—fingers sliding in a way that feels intentional.

Calculated.

“Shh,” Jabber whispers mockingly. “You’ll draw attention.”

That’s what finally makes Zanka go still.

Because he’s right.

If he struggles too much, if something crashes, if voices rise—

The bell at the door will ring.

And then—

His jaw tightens under Jabber’s palm.

He lowers Lovely Assistaff just a fraction—not surrendering, but recalculating.

Jabber notices immediately. His grin widens.

“That’s better,” he says softly. “See? We can be civil.”

Zanka’s glare could cut steel.

He jerks his head slightly, signaling for Jabber to remove his hand.

For a second, Jabber considers not doing it.

Then, slowly, he pulls his palm away.

Zanka inhales sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“What are you doing here.”

Jabber shrugs one shoulder casually, though he doesn’t let go of Zanka’s wrist. “Shopping.”

Zanka’s eye twitches. “On Christmas.”

“Stores are open,” Jabber replies lightly. “Sometimes.”

The absurdity of it almost makes Zanka snap.

“You’re insane.”

“And yet,” Jabber leans closer, lowering his voice even further, “you didn’t stab me.”

Zanka’s grip tightens on Lovely Assistaff again.

“I still can.”

Jabber hums. “You won’t.”

The confidence in that statement sends a sharp flicker of heat through Zanka’s chest—anger, yes—but something else threaded through it.

Outside, a car engine revs faintly.

Zanka’s thoughts spiral for a split second.

If Enjin comes in—

If Rudo wanders back—

If Riyo decides he’s taking too long—

Jabber’s hand shifts slightly on his wrist, thumb brushing near the tendons. A subtle reminder.

Mankira.

He could activate it at any moment.

Poison him.

Drop him.

Or worse—drag this out.

Zanka swallows, forcing his breathing steady.

“Get off of me,” he hisses quietly.

Jabber’s grin softens—not fading, just changing. Something sharper behind it.

“Make me.”

And the weight of being cornered—not just physically, but by circumstance—presses heavier around them.

And the air turns dangerous.

Zanka forces himself to breathe.

In.

Out.

He cannot afford to lose control—not here, not now. Not with Enjin and the others right outside. Not with Jabber’s fingers still locked around his wrist like a reminder of how quickly this could spiral.

He stills.

Not relaxed.

Just… contained.

“What do you want, Jabber?” he asks, voice low, deliberately even.

Jabber doesn’t answer.

At first, Zanka thinks he’s ignoring him on purpose.

But then he notices the shift.

Jabber’s expression changes—not into amusement, not into mockery. Something else. His gaze drops, sharp and intent, like he’s focusing on a detail that just caught his attention.

Distracted.

Interested.

Not in the way Zanka is used to.

Slowly—too slowly—Jabber’s free hand lifts from where it had hovered near Zanka’s face.

And moves.

Down.

His fingers brush lightly against Zanka’s collar.

Zanka’s body locks.

The touch slides lower—along the edge of fabric, over skin that looks unmarked at first glance. Covered carefully. Concealer blended in. Almost invisible unless you’re close.

Unless you’re looking for it.

Jabber’s thumb drags just slightly over the faint discoloration beneath.

Zanka’s breath catches.

Yesterday.

The alley.

The cold brick wall at his back.

Streetlights bleeding gold into shadows.

Jabber’s grin, too close.

Everything rushes back at once.

Zanka jerks his head to the side, trying to pull his neck away from Jabber’s grip.

But Jabber’s hand tightens instantly.

Not painfully.

Just firm enough to stop him.

“Oh,” Jabber murmurs.

That grin returns.

Slow. Sharp. Satisfied.

“I knew there were gonna be marks,” he says quietly, almost pleased with himself. “Did it on purpose.”

Zanka’s jaw clenches.

“It’s kinda sad,” Jabber continues, thumb tracing lightly over the concealed skin. “You covered it up. I really wanted to see those.”

“Let go,” Zanka warns.

But Jabber keeps going, words spilling faster now.

“Actually—wait.” His eyes brighten. “What if I just make more?”

Zanka’s pulse jumps.

“Then next time we fight—” Jabber tilts his head, clearly enjoying the thought. “Which is soon. I can already tell. I’ll be able to see them.”

His grip shifts slightly, fingers pressing just under Zanka’s jaw.

“I can see them now if I look close enough,” he adds. “But what about Zan-Zan’s little friends outside?”

Zanka’s stomach drops.

“They might be confused,” Jabber muses, almost thoughtfully. “Wondering what happened. Mmm. That sounds really good.”

His grin widens—dangerous, unfiltered.

“I’m already—”

He cuts himself off only long enough to laugh under his breath, clearly getting lost in his own rambling.

“…You’re gonna look so interesting walking out there like that,” he continues, eyes flicking toward the front of the store. “They’d have questions. I’d love to see your face when they—”

“Enough.”

Zanka’s voice slices through the air.

Sharp.

Controlled.

But there’s heat beneath it.

His face isn’t fully flushed—but there’s color rising faintly along his cheekbones, betraying just enough.

“Stop talking,” he says, jaw tight.

Jabber pauses mid-sentence.

For the first time since grabbing him, he actually seems to remember where they are.

The store.

The open front.

The people outside.

The situation he just created.

His gaze flicks around briefly.

Then back to Zanka.

And instead of backing off—

He grins again.

Slower this time.

Like he’s enjoying the reaction more than the threat.

Zanka glares up at him, breath steadying again through force alone.

“Let go,” he repeats quietly.

Outside, the engine is still running.

Jabber tilts his head slowly.

Not mocking.

Not quite smiling either.

Just… studying him.

There’s something in his expression Zanka can’t immediately read, and that alone unsettles him more than the grip on his wrist, more than the hand at his throat.

“Why, Zan-Zan…” Jabber murmurs softly, voice low and almost curious. “Aren’t you having fun?”

His grin returns after a second. Crooked. Sharp.

“Because I most definitely am.”

Zanka’s jaw tightens.

He is one breath away from snapping.

From raising his voice.

From yelling loud enough that the bell at the front of the store jingles and Enjin storms inside and this entire situation detonates in a way Jabber won’t find amusing.

He imagines it for a split second.

Enjin stepping in.

Rudo following.

Riyo seeing.

Jabber finally forced to let go.

The scene ending violently.

He could do it.

He could just shout.

And yet—

He doesn’t.

And that realization hits him harder than Jabber’s grip.

Because part of him doesn’t want Jabber to let go.

The thought disgusts him immediately.

Not comfort.

It isn’t comfort.

It’s something else.

Something sharper.

Something that sits just beneath his ribs and pulls tight every time Jabber gets too close.

He hates the idea of being caught like this.

Hates the vulnerability.

Hates the possibility of questions.

And still—

He isn’t fighting back.

They both know it.

If Zanka truly tried, if he fully committed to breaking free, Jabber would lose his grip.

Zanka is stronger.

More controlled.

More precise.

But instead—

He just stands there.

Allows it.

Allows the fingers around his wrist.

Allows the hand at his throat to shift slightly higher.

Jabber notices.

Of course he does.

His grin widens, slow and satisfied.

The grip on Zanka’s wrist tightens just a fraction.

Not painful.

Intentional.

Testing.

Zanka’s pulse betrays him with a slight jump.

Jabber leans in closer.

Close enough that Zanka can feel the heat of his body through layers of clothing.

Close enough that the air between them thins.

“See?” Jabber murmurs. “You’re not even trying.”

Zanka exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his expression neutral.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh?” Jabber hums.

His hand slides just slightly along Zanka’s neck.

Not enough to leave a mark.

Not yet.

His face moves closer.

Closer.

Until his lips hover just beside Zanka’s ear.

His breath is warm.

Slow.

Deliberate.

It trails down along the side of Zanka’s neck in a way that makes his shoulders tense instinctively.

Jabber doesn’t touch him there yet.

He just breathes.

As if savoring the reaction.

As if he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Zanka’s face heats—barely.

Just enough.

His fingers tighten around Lovely Assistaff, though he hasn’t lifted it again.

“Stop,” Zanka says quietly.

It lacks the bite it had moments ago.

Jabber notices that too.

“Or what?” he whispers.

His lips brush just shy of skin.

So close it feels like contact even though it isn’t.

Zanka’s mind spirals for a second.

Outside.

The car.

The others.

If they walk in now—

If they turn down the aisle—

He imagines the confusion.

The silence.

The questions.

And still—

He doesn’t move.

Jabber’s mouth lowers.

Just slightly.

Hovering over the faintly concealed skin at the base of Zanka’s neck.

“Maybe I should,” Jabber murmurs. “You covered them so carefully. That’s almost rude.”

Zanka swallows.

His heart is beating too loud.

“Maybe I’ll make them worse,” Jabber continues softly. “Then next time we fight, I’ll know exactly where they are.”

His lips ghost closer.

The heat intensifies.

Zanka’s breath catches before he can stop it.

He hates that.

Hates that Jabber can hear it.

Hates that Jabber can feel the way his body isn’t pulling away.

Because he isn’t.

He’s letting this happen.

Letting Jabber lean in.

Letting the grip tighten slightly.

Letting the air between them shrink to nothing.

His face flushes a shade deeper.

Not obvious.

But enough.

And Jabber notices.

His grin falters for the first time.

Just barely.

There’s something else there now.

Something less teasing.

More intent.

His lips lower—

Just before contact.

Just before skin meets skin.

Just before another mark is pressed into him.

Jabber stops.

Completely.

The breath against Zanka’s neck disappears.

The weight vanishes.

The hand at his wrist releases.

The fingers at his throat drop away.

Jabber steps back.

And the sudden absence is jarring.

Zanka’s body remains braced for a second longer, like it hasn’t caught up to the change.

His eyes snap up.

Confusion flickers there before he can suppress it.

Jabber is already a step away, grin returning—but softer now. Less feral.

“You look like you were about to explode,” he says lightly.

Zanka stares at him.

“You—”

Jabber lifts both hands casually, stepping backward toward the end of the aisle. “Relax.”

Zanka’s mind races.

Why stop?

Why now?

Jabber tilts his head, watching him closely.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin Christmas,” he says mockingly.

But his eyes say something different.

He saw it.

The hesitation.

The lack of resistance.

The way Zanka didn’t fight.

And instead of pushing further—

He chose not to.

That realization unsettles Zanka more than if he had followed through.

Because it means Jabber wanted him to react.

And he did.

Even if only slightly.

The bell at the front of the store jingles faintly.

Someone stepping in or out.

Reality snapping back into place.

Jabber glances toward the sound, then back at Zanka.

“We’ll finish this later,” he says, voice almost playful again.

Zanka’s throat feels dry.

“There’s nothing to finish,” he replies sharply.

Jabber’s grin widens.

“Keep telling yourself that but I will be coming over tonight just wanted to tell you that. We still have unfinished business that we need to discuss and I guess even more now.”

And with that, he turns and slips around the corner of the aisle, disappearing into the back of the store as silently as he appeared.

Zanka stands there for a long moment.

Alone.

The space feels colder without him.

His neck tingles where Jabber had been hovering.

His wrist still remembers the pressure.

He exhales slowly, forcing control back into his limbs.

Forcing the flush from his face.

Forcing the steady rhythm of his breathing.

He hates this.

Hates that he let it happen.

Hates that part of him didn’t want it to stop.

After a few seconds, he straightens fully.

Adjusts his collar.

Checks that the concealer is still intact.

No new marks.

Nothing visible.

Good.

He walks back toward the front of the store.

Each step measured.

Composed.

By the time he reaches the door, his expression is neutral again.

The bell jingles as he pushes it open.

Outside, the car waits.

Cold air hits his face the second he steps out, and Zanka welcomes it. It helps. It cools the heat lingering under his skin, dulls the phantom sensation still ghosting along his neck.

He walks toward the car without hesitation.

No one rushes him.

No one storms the store.

No one looks suspicious.

Enjin is in the driver’s seat, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel. He glances up as Zanka approaches.

“Well,” he says as Zanka opens the door, “took you long enough.”

Zanka slides into the seat, shutting the door with a controlled click. “There was nothing.”

Enjin snorts. “Yeah, I noticed. You went in there like you had a mission and came out empty-handed.”

Zanka stares straight ahead. “Not everything requires a purchase.”

“Hm.” Enjin shifts the car into gear. “Next time, warn me before you go on a solo expedition.”

There’s no accusation in his voice. Just dry commentary.

Zanka nods once.

In the back seat, Rudo is completely passed out. His head is tilted against the window at an awkward angle, mouth slightly open, drool slowly trailing down toward his collar.

Zanka blinks at him.

“…He fell asleep?”

“Five minutes,” Enjin replies. “Didn’t even fight it.”

Riyo is asleep too—but neater. Head resting against the seat, arms folded loosely. Peaceful. No drool. No chaos.

Zanka lets out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

No questions.

No suspicious looks.

No one asking why his collar looks slightly adjusted.

No one noticing anything.

Enjin pulls away from the curb, the store shrinking in the rearview mirror.

The city rolls past again—quiet streets, pale morning light, decorations still hanging like reminders of something softer.

Inside the car, it’s silent.

Just the hum of the engine.

The faint rattle of something in the trunk.

Rudo’s soft, uneven breathing.

Zanka rests his elbow lightly against the door and focuses on keeping his face neutral.

Calm.

Controlled.

Nothing happened.

That’s what it looks like.

That’s what it should feel like.

But his thoughts won’t cooperate.

They replay it anyway.

The grip on his wrist.

The breath at his neck.

The way he didn’t move.

And then—

The part that won’t stop echoing.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Zanka’s jaw tightens slightly.

He hadn’t expected Jabber to step back.

Hadn’t expected him to stop.

And he definitely hadn’t expected the last thing Jabber leaned in to murmur—low enough that only he could hear it.

“I’ll be coming over tonight. Just wanted to tell you that. We still have unfinished business we need to discuss.”

Zanka’s fingers curl slightly against his knee.

“And I guess even more now.”

The memory of those words sends a sharp current through him.

Tonight.

The audacity.

The certainty.

Jabber didn’t sound like he was guessing.

He sounded sure.

Zanka stares out the window, watching buildings blur by.

He should prepare.

He should tell someone.

He should prevent it.

Instead, a quiet part of him wonders—

Would he?

The car turns onto a more familiar street.

Cleaner territory.

Safe.

Enjin glances sideways at him briefly. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” Zanka replies evenly.

“Fair.”

The engine hums on.

Rudo shifts in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent. Riyo doesn’t stir.

Zanka leans his head back against the seat.

He’s glad it’s like this.

Quiet.

No one talking.

No one prying.

Just the steady rhythm of the drive back home.

But beneath that quiet, his mind won’t settle.

Tonight.

Unfinished business.

The thought coils tight in his chest.

The Cleaners’ HQ comes into view in the distance.

And with that—

They drive off toward it.

The Cleaners’ HQ comes into view slowly, rising from the quiet street like it always does—solid, familiar, steady. The building looks almost softer in the pale winter light. Decorations Riyo insisted on putting up earlier in the week still cling to the entrance: a slightly crooked wreath, string lights that don’t quite line up evenly, a paper snowflake taped inside one of the windows.

Enjin parks with a tired exhale. The engine cuts.

For a second, no one moves.

Rudo jolts awake first, blinking rapidly and wiping at his mouth. “We back?”

“Yes,” Enjin says dryly.

Riyo stirs next, stretching carefully. “Already?”

Zanka opens his door without a word and steps out into the cold air again. The day feels heavier now. Longer. Christmas somehow exhausting in a way missions aren’t.

They all climb out slowly, like they’ve returned from something far more strenuous than a short drive and a half-open convenience store.

Inside, HQ is warm.

The smell of lingering pine from the small tree in the lobby mixes with whatever leftovers from earlier are still drifting through the air. The lights are softer this time of day—afternoon tipping quietly toward evening.

Rudo immediately kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the common room couch, collapsing face-first into it.

“I’m tired,” he announces dramatically.

“You slept in the car,” Riyo reminds him.

“Still tired.”

Enjin scoffs and disappears toward his office for a moment, muttering something about checking something important that probably isn’t.

Zanka stands near the entrance a second longer, watching them.

The quiet hum of HQ feels different than the quiet in the car.

Safer.

But busier.

Because being here means being present.

And being present on Christmas means participating.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of small things.

Riyo insists on reheating leftovers from the morning. Rudo claims he’s starving again and hovers near the kitchen like a stray cat. Enjin eventually reemerges, sleeves rolled up, grumbling about how none of them can cook properly and taking over halfway through.

Zanka ends up helping without meaning to.

Handing over utensils.

Chopping something with precise, efficient movements.

Standing close enough to the warmth of the stove that the chill finally leaves his bones.

There’s laughter.

Not loud.

Not forced.

Just… easy.

Rudo says something ridiculous about how if they had gone to three more stores they might’ve found a secret Christmas sale for weapons.

Riyo throws a towel at him.

Enjin deadpans that he’s banning him from speaking for the rest of the night.

Zanka doesn’t laugh outright—but the corner of his mouth shifts.

And they notice.

They always notice.

Time moves strangely after that.

The sky outside darkens slowly, the windows reflecting their own lights back at them. Afternoon fades into evening without anyone pointing it out.

Dinner is simple but warm.

They all sit together at the table—no missions interrupting, no urgent calls.

Just plates.

Steam rising.

Rudo talking with his mouth half full despite Riyo scolding him.

Enjin pretending not to smile when Rudo dramatically praises his cooking.

Zanka listens more than he speaks, occasionally adding a quiet comment that makes Riyo snort into her drink.

It’s loud in a comfortable way.

The kind of noise that fills space instead of threatening it.

For a few hours, it feels like this is all there is.

No Raiders.

No looming fights.

No unfinished business.

Just them.

After dinner, they clean up together.

Riyo dries dishes.

Rudo attempts to help and mostly just splashes water everywhere.

Enjin takes over again with a tired sigh.

Zanka wipes down the counters methodically, movements steady and precise.

Eventually, the energy starts to dip.

Rudo yawns first.

A huge, dramatic stretch.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces. “If Santa shows up, tell him I’m cool.”

Riyo laughs. “Goodnight, Rudo. But sorry to tell you Santa only comes on the night of Christmas Eve and it’s currently the night of Christmas. ”

“Night,” Enjin mutters.

Zanka gives a small nod. “Sleep.”

Rudo disappears upstairs, footsteps heavy but fading quickly.

Not long after, Riyo sets down the towel she’s been holding. “I think I’m done too.”

She pauses near Zanka for just a second.

“Today was nice,” she says quietly.

“…Yeah,” he answers.

She smiles, softer than before. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Her footsteps are lighter as she heads up the stairs.

And then it’s quiet.

Just the two of them.

Enjin and Zanka.

The kitchen lights hum faintly. The rest of HQ has settled into a calm hush.

Enjin leans back against the counter, crossing his arms loosely.

“You holding up?” he asks casually.

Zanka doesn’t immediately answer.

“…Yes.”

Enjin gives him a look.

“Real answer.”

Zanka exhales slowly.

“It was… a lot.”

Enjin snorts softly. “Christmas usually is.”

A small silence passes.

“You did good today,” Enjin adds after a moment. “You were present.”

Zanka blinks slightly at that.

“I am always present.”

“You know what I mean.”

Zanka does.

He looks down at his hands briefly.

“…It was fine,” he says quietly. “I don’t mind it.”

Enjin studies him for a second longer.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.”

Zanka’s shoulders stiffen instinctively at that—but only slightly.

“I’m not.”

Enjin doesn’t push further.

Instead, he shifts the conversation.

“You liked the keychain.”

Zanka’s hand unconsciously moves toward his pocket where it now sits.

“…Yes.”

“Good.”

Another quiet moment.

Then Enjin reaches out and lightly knocks his knuckles against Zanka’s shoulder.

“Get some sleep tonight.”

Zanka nods once.

“I will.”

And for once, he means it.

They head upstairs together, parting ways at the hallway without another word.

Zanka steps into his room and closes the door behind him.

Silence.

He exhales and drops onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

The day catches up to him all at once.

Christmas is exhausting.

Being around people all day.

Laughing.

Talking.

Letting himself relax.

His eyes drift shut for a second—

Then snap open again.

Shower.

He still needs to shower.

He pushes himself upright with a quiet sigh and moves toward the bathroom.

As he turns on the water, steam beginning to fill the small space, one thought slips back in—uninvited.

Tonight.

He doesn’t know if Jabber meant it.

He doesn’t know if he’ll actually show up.

But the possibility lingers like the faint echo of breath against his neck.

Zanka steps under the hot water and lets it wash over him.

Christmas Day fades slowly into night.

The water shuts off.

Steam lingers thick in the bathroom, curling against the mirror and fogging the edges of the glass. Zanka stands still for a moment beneath the fading warmth, letting the last drops slide down his shoulders before reaching for a towel.

He wraps it low around his waist, secure but careless in the privacy of his own room.

His hair is damp—not dripping, but still darkened from the shower. Strands cling slightly to his forehead before he pushes them back with one hand. He steps closer to the mirror, wiping a clear patch through the condensation.

His reflection sharpens.

Sharp eyes.

Tired.

Water trailing down his collarbone.

And then—

His gaze drops.

Subconsciously, his hand rises to his neck.

The concealer is gone.

Washed away with the rest of the day.

The marks are still there.

Bright.

More purple now than red—deepening as bruises do after time settles into them.

They sit just above his collar line, unmistakable against his skin.

Zanka’s fingers brush lightly over one.

It doesn’t hurt.

Not really.

But it feels warm beneath his touch.

He stares at them in the mirror, expression unreadable.

“…It’s not that bad,” he murmurs under his breath.

They’re contained. Low enough that his uniform collar hides most of them. Concentrated in one place. Not scattered.

It could’ve been worse.

Jabber could’ve made it worse.

The memory surfaces again—unwanted but persistent.

That grin.

The way he leaned in.

The way he stopped.

The way he whispered—

“I’ll be coming over tonight.”

Zanka’s jaw tightens slightly.

Did he mean it?

Or was that just another way to get under his skin?

He exhales and rubs his hand through his damp hair, pushing it back again.

“There’s no way,” he mutters quietly.

No way Jabber could sneak into Cleaners HQ.

Not past Enjin.

Not past the security measures.

Not past him.

The idea almost makes him let out a soft, disbelieving breath that borders on a quiet huff of amusement.

Ridiculous.

He’s letting it get to him.

He drags his palm down his face and reaches for the bathroom doorknob.

As he turns it, something tugs faintly at his thoughts.

The room beyond looks darker than it should.

He pauses.

He could’ve sworn he left the light on before stepping into the shower.

He remembers the glow beneath the door.

Doesn’t he?

He stands there for a second, staring into the dim outline of his bedroom.

Nothing moves.

Nothing sounds out of place.

He sighs quietly.

“I’m tired,” he mutters to himself.

That’s all.

Just exhaustion.

He reaches to the wall beside the door and flips the light switch.

The room floods with warm light.

Zanka steps out of the bathroom—

And turns.

And freezes.

Jabber is standing there.

Right in the middle of his room.

Leaning casually against the wall near the window.

Smiling.

Wider than ever.

Eyes bright with something that looks dangerously pleased.

He’s watching him.

Watching Zanka standing there in nothing but a towel.

“Well,” Jabber says lightly, voice smooth in the sudden silence. “You took your time.”

Zanka’s body goes rigid.

Shock hits first.

Sharp and cold.

“How—” His voice catches, then hardens. “How did you get in here.”

Jabber shrugs lazily, pushing off the wall just enough to stand straighter.

“Doors,” he says. “Windows. You’d be surprised what’s possible.”

His gaze drifts slowly—deliberately—over Zanka’s damp hair, down his shoulders, lingering just long enough to be intentional.

Zanka’s fingers curl instinctively at his sides.

His pulse spikes—but not from fear.

Not entirely.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Zanka says, voice low.

“And yet,” Jabber replies, grin widening, “I am.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying him again like he did in the store.

“You didn’t really think I was joking, did you?”

The marks on Zanka’s neck feel suddenly exposed under the light.

Visible.

Uncovered.

Jabber’s eyes flick to them immediately.

There’s satisfaction there.

Pure and unfiltered.

“Told you,” he murmurs softly.

Zanka doesn’t move.

Doesn’t reach for a weapon.

Doesn’t cover himself.

He just stands there—tension coiled tight beneath his skin.

Outside the room, HQ is quiet.

Everyone asleep.

The hallway undisturbed.

Inside this room, the air feels charged.

Christmas night has officially begun.

The room feels smaller now.

Like the air itself has thickened.

Zanka doesn’t move at first.

He just stands there in the center of his bedroom, damp hair pushed back, towel slung low around his waist, shock still flickering through his chest in uneven beats.

Then his eyes shift.

The window.

It’s open.

Of course it is.

He left it open before his shower—just a crack, just enough to let the steam escape.

Now the curtains stir faintly from the night air drifting inside.

He exhales once through his nose.

“…You used the window.”

Jabber hums, amused. “You make it sound so dramatic.”

Zanka’s jaw tightens.

He should have checked.

Should have locked it.

Should have—

But he didn’t.

And now Jabber is here.

In his room.

Standing only a few feet away.

Staring.

And that stare—

It’s slow.

Unapologetic.

Jabber’s eyes drag over him without shame. Over his shoulders, the lingering moisture on his skin, the way the towel hangs dangerously low on his hips like it’s one wrong movement away from slipping.

He doesn’t try to hide how much he’s enjoying this.

“Well,” Jabber says softly, stepping closer, boots quiet against the floor. “This is new.”

Zanka’s fingers twitch at his sides.

They always see each other mid-fight.

Covered.

Armored in fabric and intent.

Zanka wrapped tight in his uniform.

Jabber lingering somewhere above or behind, watching from a distance with that infuriating grin.

But this—

This is different.

There’s no uniform.

No gloves on.

No Lovely Assistaff in hand.

No distance.

Just bare skin and a towel that’s holding on by a thread.

Jabber steps closer.

And closer.

Each step measured.

Interested.

Hungry—but not in the loud, chaotic way he usually is.

This feels quieter.

More focused.

“You know,” Jabber murmurs, eyes never leaving him, “I’ve never seen this much of you before.”

Zanka doesn’t answer.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears.

Not fear.

Not entirely.

It’s awareness.

Every inch of space closing between them.

“You’re usually all covered up,” Jabber continues, circling slightly, gaze tracing muscle and damp skin like he’s cataloging it. “All serious. All fight.”

He stops directly in front of him now.

Close enough that Zanka can feel his presence.

Close enough that the towel suddenly feels even less secure.

Jabber tilts his head.

“You clean up nice, zan zan.”

“Stop calling me that,” Zanka mutters automatically.

Jabber grins.

“There it is.”

Another step.

Now there’s barely any space left.

Zanka doesn’t back away.

He could.

He should.

But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

“Relax,” Jabber says lightly. “If I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve done it already.”

That’s not comforting.

Zanka’s eyes narrow slightly.

“You broke into HQ.”

“And you left your window open.”

Their gazes lock.

There’s a flicker of something unspoken there—something sharp and electric.

Jabber’s eyes drift upward again.

To his neck.

To the marks.

They’re fully visible now in the bright room light.

No concealer.

No collar.

Just proof.

Jabber reaches out slowly.

Not grabbing.

Not forcing.

Just brushing his fingers lightly along Zanka’s collarbone before trailing upward.

Zanka inhales sharply—but doesn’t step back.

Doesn’t stop him.

His fingers press lightly over one of the purpled marks.

“They’re darker now,” Jabber murmurs, voice softer than before.

Zanka swallows.

“You said you’d come,” he says quietly instead of responding to that.

“I always keep my word.”

Jabber’s hand lingers at his neck.

His thumb brushes over skin slowly, testing.

Zanka’s hands remain at his sides, fists half-curled—not resisting, not encouraging.

Just there.

“You’re not yelling,” Jabber notes.

“You’d be gone before anyone got here.”

“True.”

Jabber’s grin sharpens slightly.

“And you don’t actually want me gone.”

Zanka’s expression flickers—just barely.

Jabber sees it.

Of course he does.

He steps even closer, their bodies almost touching now, heat mixing between them.

“You could push me away,” Jabber says quietly. “You’re stronger than me when you want to be.”

He waits.

Zanka doesn’t move.

The towel shifts slightly as he shifts his weight—just enough to make Jabber’s eyes dip again.

“Careful,” Jabber murmurs, amused.

Zanka finally raises a hand—not to shove him—but to grab Jabber’s wrist lightly.

Not tight.

Not violent.

Just there.

“Don’t,” Zanka says, voice low.

Jabber looks at the hand around his wrist.

Then back up at him.

“And if I don’t?”

The question hangs there.

Charged.

Dangerous.

But the tension isn’t explosive.

It’s simmering.

Zanka’s grip tightens just a fraction.

“You came here to talk,” he says quietly. “You said we had unfinished business.”

Jabber studies him.

Then slowly—slowly—his grin softens into something more curious than cruel.

“You remember everything, huh?”

Zanka’s jaw shifts.

The alley.

The grip.

The marks.

The way Jabber always seems to know exactly how far to push.

“You don’t get to just show up,” Zanka says. “In my room. Like this.”

“And yet,” Jabber replies, eyes bright, “you’re still standing here.”

The air feels thin.

Zanka releases his wrist.

But he doesn’t move away.

Jabber notices.

He always notices.

“You’re interesting,” Jabber says quietly.

Then, unexpectedly, he steps back half a pace.

Just enough to give Zanka breathing room.

Just enough to prove he can.

“I didn’t come to cause a scene tonight,” he says, tone shifting slightly. “Relax.”

Zanka doesn’t fully believe him.

But he also doesn’t call for help.

The window remains open behind Jabber.

The night air drifting in.

The HQ quiet.

Just the two of them.

Standing in a room lit too brightly for something that feels like it belongs in the dark.

And Jabber smiles again.

Not wide.

Not manic.

Just certain.

“Miss me?”

Zanka doesn’t hesitate.

“How could I miss you?” he says flatly. “I don’t even want you here.”

There’s no tremble in his voice.

No crack.

Just that sharp, familiar bite.

Jabber stares at him for half a second—

—and then laughs.

It’s low.

Slow.

Amused in a way that feels almost dangerous.

“Oh?” Jabber says, stepping closer again, like he’s drawn forward by the challenge itself. “You don’t want me here?”

The distance that had barely existed between them vanishes completely.

Zanka can feel him now.

The heat.

The presence.

The way Jabber’s body angles just slightly, blocking him from the door without making it obvious.

Zanka lifts his chin instead of backing down.

“You broke into my room,” he says. “That’s not exactly charming.”

“Didn’t realize I was aiming for charming.”

Jabber’s grin widens.

He’s close enough now that Zanka can feel the faint warmth of his breath when he speaks.

Close enough that the towel around Zanka’s waist feels like the thinnest layer of defense in the world.

There’s a beat of silence.

And something shifts.

Because instead of stepping away—

Instead of pushing him—

Zanka moves forward.

Just a little.

Just enough that their chests nearly brush.

Jabber goes still.

It’s subtle.

But it’s there.

The change.

The flicker in his eyes.

Zanka doesn’t know what’s gotten into him.

Maybe it’s the long day.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion.

Maybe it’s the way Jabber keeps looking at him like he’s something to be unraveled.

Whatever it is—

He doesn’t step back.

Instead, he closes the gap completely.

Their chests touch.

Bare skin to fabric.

Jabber inhales sharply—almost inaudible—but Zanka catches it.

And that’s when he realizes.

He has control too.

“You talk a lot,” Zanka says quietly, eyes locked with his. “For someone who claims I don’t want you here.”

Jabber’s pupils darken.

“You’re bold tonight.”

“Maybe I’m tired of you assuming things.”

“Oh, I don’t assume,” Jabber murmurs. “I observe.”

His hands hover now.

Not touching.

Just close enough to feel like they might.

Zanka’s heart is beating faster—but his expression doesn’t show it.

If anything, he looks steadier.

Challenging.

“You observe?” Zanka repeats softly. “Then observe this.”

He lifts a hand—

Not to shove.

Not to strike.

But to press it lightly against Jabber’s chest.

Not forceful.

Just there.

Jabber freezes for a fraction of a second.

Not because it hurts.

But because it’s deliberate.

Zanka’s palm stays there.

Firm.

Warm.

He can feel Jabber’s heartbeat under his hand.

It’s not calm.

It’s not steady.

And that knowledge sends something electric through him.

Jabber’s smile fades into something else.

Something sharper.

More focused.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Jabber says quietly.

Zanka tilts his head.

“You started it.”

Jabber lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh—but it’s rougher this time.

His hands finally move.

One settles lightly at Zanka’s waist.

Not gripping.

Just resting there.

The other brushes against his arm slowly—testing, tracing, like he’s mapping unfamiliar territory.

“You’re not pushing me away,” Jabber murmurs.

“You’re not leaving.”

Their faces are inches apart now.

Close enough that if either of them leaned in—

Zanka’s fingers curl slightly against Jabber’s shirt.

His pulse is loud in his ears.

But there’s something else there too.

A strange steadiness.

A choice.

Jabber’s thumb shifts slightly at his waist, brushing against bare skin just above the towel’s edge.

The movement is slow.

Intentional.

Zanka exhales.

Not shaky.

Just controlled.

“You said we had unfinished business,” Zanka says softly.

Jabber’s gaze drops briefly to his mouth.

Then back up.

“I did.”

“And?”

“And I’m trying to decide how to handle it.”

Zanka leans in just a fraction closer.

Close enough that their foreheads almost touch.

“Handle it how?” he asks quietly.

Jabber’s hand at his waist tightens—not painfully—but enough to acknowledge the shift.

“You’re different tonight,” Jabber says.

“Maybe you just caught me off guard before.”

Jabber’s eyes search his face like he’s trying to figure out what’s real and what’s performance.

But Zanka isn’t performing.

He’s just not retreating.

And that excites Jabber more than anything.

“You keep pretending you don’t want this,” Jabber murmurs.

Zanka’s lips twitch slightly.

“And you keep pretending you’re the only one in control.”

That lands.

Jabber’s grin returns—but it’s slower this time.

Less manic.

More heated.

“Oh,” he says softly. “You think you have control?”

Zanka doesn’t answer with words.

Instead—

He slides his hand from Jabber’s chest up to his collar.

Grips it lightly.

Not aggressive.

Just firm enough to hold.

Jabber inhales again.

Sharper this time.

The air between them feels charged.

Heavy.

The window curtain flutters faintly behind them, night air brushing against overheated skin.

“You’re shaking,” Jabber whispers.

“I’m not.”

“Your pulse says otherwise.”

Zanka narrows his eyes slightly.

“Then stop standing so close.”

Jabber leans in.

Their noses almost brush.

“Make me.”

The challenge hangs there.

Zanka could.

He knows he could.

He’s stronger.

Faster.

But instead—

He lets his grip tighten slightly at Jabber’s collar.

Pulling him just a fraction closer.

Their lips are barely an inch apart now.

Close enough to feel warmth.

Close enough to taste breath.

Jabber’s free hand slides slowly along Zanka’s side, fingers tracing lightly up his ribs before settling at his lower back.

Still not crossing any lines.

Just heat.

Just presence.

“You’re dangerous like this,” Jabber murmurs.

Zanka’s voice drops.

“So are you.”

Silence falls between them.

Not empty.

Not awkward.

Just thick.

Heavy with everything unspoken.

Jabber’s thumb brushes slowly against Zanka’s waist again.

Zanka’s breath catches—but he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly.

Inviting.

Challenging.

Daring.

And Jabber’s grin slowly fades into something almost reverent.

“You don’t want me here?” Jabber asks softly again.

Zanka’s eyes flicker down to his mouth.

Then back up.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t handle you.”

And that—

That makes Jabber’s restraint snap just a little.

He leans in—

Not crashing.

Not rough.

But slow.

Measured.

Their lips barely brush—

Just a ghost of contact.

Testing.

Waiting.

Zanka doesn’t move.

Doesn’t retreat.

He lets it happen.

Lets the tension stretch thin as wire between them.

And when Jabber pulls back half an inch, eyes searching his face for resistance—

He finds none.

Only heat.

Only defiance.

Only the unmistakable spark of someone who decided not to run.

Their lips are still barely brushing.

Still testing.

Still hovering in that fragile space between restraint and surrender.

Jabber pulls back first.

Not far.

Just enough to look at Zanka properly.

To study him.

Because something has changed.

There’s no hesitation in Zanka’s eyes anymore.

No defensive sarcasm.

No tight, forced composure.

There’s heat there now.

And something sharper.

Deliberate.

Zanka doesn’t let the space stay open long.

Instead of retreating—

Instead of letting Jabber take the lead like he usually does—

Zanka moves first.

His hand tightens in Jabber’s collar and he pulls him back in.

But this time it’s not a test.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s decisive.

Their mouths meet fully.

Not frantic.

Not sloppy.

Just firm.

Intentional.

Jabber makes a small sound—surprised more than anything—and for a split second he doesn’t respond fast enough.

Zanka notices.

And something in him shifts again.

He presses forward.

Not aggressive in a reckless way—

But controlled.

Confident.

His free hand slides up into Jabber’s hair, fingers curling into the dreadlocks at the back of his head.

Not pulling hard.

Just enough to anchor.

Jabber’s hands, which are usually everywhere first, falter for half a second.

He wasn’t expecting this.

Wasn’t expecting Zanka to take control like this.

Wasn’t expecting the steady pressure.

The way Zanka tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss without asking.

Without waiting.

Jabber’s breath catches against his mouth.

And that’s when Zanka feels it—

The subtle tension shift.

The uncertainty.

Jabber is usually the one crowding.

Usually the one pushing.

Usually the one grinning through everything.

Now he’s the one reacting.

And Zanka leans into that realization.

His hand slides from Jabber’s hair down to his jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek slowly.

Measured.

Like he’s exploring something new.

Jabber blinks.

Actually blinks.

“You—” he starts against Zanka’s mouth, almost laughing. “What happened to you?”

Zanka doesn’t answer.

He just kisses him again.

Slower this time.

Deliberate.

Teasing.

He pulls back just enough to let his lips hover close, then brushes them against Jabber’s again—light, almost playful.

Jabber inhales sharply.

“Hold on,” he mutters, half amused, half thrown off. “Since when are you—”

Zanka’s hand moves lower.

Sliding down Jabber’s chest.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Just… intentional.

And Jabber’s voice cuts off.

Because he wasn’t expecting that either.

“You’re usually the one running your mouth,” Zanka murmurs quietly. “What’s wrong?”

Jabber huffs a laugh—but it’s weaker than before.

“You’re acting weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Bold.”

Zanka tilts his head slightly.

“And you don’t like that?”

Jabber opens his mouth to answer—

And then closes it again.

Because he does like it.

He just doesn’t know what to do with it.

Zanka steps forward again, slowly backing Jabber up a single step.

Not forceful.

Just enough.

Just enough to flip the angle.

Jabber’s back brushes lightly against the wall.

And that’s when he realizes.

Oh.

Zanka notices the exact second it clicks.

The exact second Jabber understands he’s not leading this anymore.

His lips twitch slightly.

“You’re quiet,” Zanka says softly.

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s new.”

Jabber narrows his eyes—but there’s no bite behind it.

Only heat.

Only curiosity.

Zanka leans in again, but this time instead of kissing him right away, he lets his lips trail lightly along Jabber’s jaw.

Slow.

Unhurried.

Exploring.

Jabber exhales slowly.

“Careful,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re playing with fire.”

Zanka hums quietly against his skin.

“I thought you liked that.”

“I do.”

“Then stop pretending you don’t.”

That lands.

Jabber’s hands finally move again—settling at Zanka’s hips—but they’re not as steady as before.

There’s a slight tension there now.

A flicker of something unfamiliar.

Zanka pulls back just enough to look at him.

Really look at him.

“You don’t know what to do when you’re not in control,” Zanka says quietly.

Jabber scoffs lightly.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

Zanka’s fingers hook lightly into the waistband of Jabber’s pants—not tugging, not pushing—just resting there.

Testing.

And Jabber actually flushes.

Just slightly.

He covers it with a grin.

“Oh, so that’s how it is tonight?”

Zanka shrugs.

“Maybe I got tired of you thinking you’re the only one who can make things interesting.”

Jabber’s laugh comes back—but it’s different now.

Less chaotic.

More nervous energy underneath.

“You’re freakier than I thought, Zan-Zan.”

Zanka steps closer again until their bodies are fully aligned.

Close enough that there’s no room for misinterpretation.

Close enough that Jabber can’t pretend he’s imagining the shift.

“You’re the one who showed up in my room,” Zanka replies softly.

“And you’re the one who didn’t throw me out.”

Their foreheads touch.

Jabber tries to regain some ground.

He leans in, brushing his lips lightly over Zanka’s again—slow, teasing.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he murmurs.

Zanka smiles faintly.

“Maybe.”

Jabber kisses him again.

This time softer.

Almost cautious.

Like he’s recalibrating.

Like he’s trying to understand the new rhythm.

Zanka lets him.

Lets him regain a little footing.

But when Jabber tries to push him back against the wall—

Zanka resists.

Just enough.

Not rejecting.

Just reminding.

They’re both choosing this.

Jabber pulls back, studying him again.

“You’re dangerous like this,” he says quietly.

Zanka shrugs lightly.

“You started it.”

Jabber laughs under his breath.

“Yeah… but I didn’t expect you to outdo me.”

Zanka raises a brow.

“Scared?”

Jabber scoffs automatically.

But there’s a flicker in his eyes.

A flicker that says maybe.

And Zanka sees it.

All of it.

The surprise.

The intrigue.

The slight awkwardness of someone who’s used to being the instigator suddenly having to respond instead.

He steps in again, brushing his lips slowly against Jabber’s ear this time.

Not biting.

Not marking.

Just close.

Close enough to feel the shift in his breathing.

“Relax,” Zanka murmurs. “I’m not going to break you.”

Jabber huffs softly.

“I wouldn’t mind if you tried.”

Zanka pulls back, eyes sharp.

“Oh?”

And for the first time tonight—

Jabber hesitates.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Zanka to notice.

Long enough for him to realize—

He’s not the only one off balance anymore.

The space between them collapses entirely.

No more teasing. No more testing the waters. No more slow, careful touches. That calm restraint—the soft niceness—is gone.

Jabber doesn’t do soft. He never has. Not when it comes to anything he wants. And Zanka? Well, he’s never shown this side, but it’s there. Beneath the sharp lines, beneath the stoic control. Beneath it all is someone who can match Jabber blow for blow, fire for fire.

Their lips crash together.

Instantly.

No preamble. No hesitation. Tongues dart, tasting, pushing, demanding, trying to map the other’s mouth, the other’s rhythm. Zanka’s hand snakes up into Jabber’s hair again, gripping tightly enough to anchor himself, while Jabber’s hands roam over Zanka’s bare chest and waist, testing the warmth, the tension. They’re both greedy, both claiming, both refusing to let the other take control entirely.

A growl escapes Jabber, vibrating through the contact, and it makes Zanka’s chest tighten. The sound is primal, hungry, entirely familiar yet shocking in its closeness. Zanka counters with a low hiss into the kiss, teeth brushing against Jabber’s tongue just enough to assert dominance without breaking the contact.

They move. Slowly at first, then faster, driven by impulse. Bodies press tighter together, hips aligning, shoulders bumping, heartbeats colliding. Zanka lets his hands roam further, brushing down Jabber’s sides, gripping the curve of his back, feeling the lean strength there. Jabber responds immediately, pinning Zanka’s waist, dragging him flush against his chest.

Zanka can feel the heat pooling low, the tension coiling in ways that aren’t entirely physical—they’re teasing, fighting, claiming. Every flick of tongue, every tug, every grip is both battle and surrender. And somehow, they’re both laughing, low and breathless, swallowed up in the chaos of it.

Step by step, Jabber pushes them backward, toward Zanka’s bed. The towel has shifted precariously, but neither of them cares. Zanka’s hands slide along Jabber’s arms, up to his shoulders, tangling fingers in dreadlocks, pulling him closer, demanding more. Jabber responds in kind, pressing his body harder against Zanka’s, lips never leaving his, teeth occasionally grazing, reminding, testing, marking without breaking the kiss.

Zanka bites, Jabber growls.

Zanka pushes, Jabber counters.

Tongues twist together, tugging, exploring, learning, trying to taste everything at once. The bed grows closer, and they don’t pause, don’t catch their breath, don’t break the feverish momentum.

Finally, the edge of the mattress is under their feet. Zanka stumbles slightly, caught and steadied by Jabber’s hands, their bodies still pressed tight, lips locked, teeth clashing occasionally in playful aggression. The energy is raw, urgent, all-consuming.

Jabber’s hands slide lower, gripping Zanka’s hips and pulling him flush, pressing the heat of him against the firm edge of the bed. Zanka arches into him instinctively, lips parting, tongue pushing against Jabber’s in a fierce battle for dominance. Neither yields, neither stops, neither lets up.

Every kiss is an argument. Every push is a challenge. Every gasp is both a surrender and a command.

The bed creaks under their combined weight as they finally let gravity take them, tumbling onto it with a mutual, breathless laugh, still caught in the frenzy of taste and touch. Zanka’s hand moves over Jabber’s chest, tracing, teasing, almost claiming, and Jabber responds in kind, dragging his lips from Zanka’s mouth to jaw, neck, and back again, each motion hungry and possessive.

It’s chaos. It’s controlled. It’s everything they’ve both tried to hold back—and now it’s unleashed.

Their bodies are tangled, movements frenzied but somehow coordinated in the madness of wanting and needing and testing limits. Zanka arches, twists, shifts against Jabber, and Jabber groans, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through Zanka’s chest, mingling with his own sharp intake of breath.

The bed becomes a battlefield, a playground, a place of dominance and surrender simultaneously. Neither willing to fully give in, yet neither able to resist.

And in the middle of it all, lips locked, tongues fighting, hearts hammering, heat pooling, they finally pause—just for a breath—and stare at each other, wide-eyed, flushed, hearts pounding like war drums, aware that neither one has ever been this undone by the other.

And yet neither of them moves away.

Because now—now they know. The fight is just beginning, and the battle belongs entirely to them.

Their lips meet again, harder, hungrier, as the night stretches long, loud with their shared chaos, every motion and touch a claim, a tease, a spark that refuses to be snuffed out.

The bed groans beneath them, the room is alive with their presence, and for the first time, both Zanka and Jabber understand fully: neither one has the upper hand—and maybe, just maybe, they don’t want it.

The frenzy of their first full-on kiss doesn’t slow—they’re still tangled, still pressing into each other, but now there’s a new rhythm emerging. Something slower, something heavier. Jabber leans in against Zanka’s shoulder, lips brushing over the sensitive skin of his neck.

Zanka freezes for a split second. The first bite comes—soft, teasing, intentional—and heat flares from the spot, a bright, sharp spark that makes him catch his breath. He swallows hard, forcing himself not to let it slip into a moan. Not here. Not now. Not yet.

Jabber seems to notice immediately. His lips trail along Zanka’s neck, soft then harsh, alternating between kisses and gentle nips, dragging teeth along the skin in a way that’s both possessive and playful. The warmth of his mouth sends shivers through Zanka’s body. His fingers tighten in Jabber’s hair, tugging lightly, coaxing him closer even as he tries to stay in control.

The bites deepen. Jabber grins against his skin, low and guttural, almost whispering. “You’re tense… trying not to make a sound,” he murmurs. The vibration from his voice hits Zanka straight through, and despite his best effort, his chest rises and falls faster.

Zanka’s hands start to move with purpose now. First, hesitantly, brushing against Jabber’s clothing, testing fabric and seam. Then more decisively, tugging at the edges, fingers working to unbutton and pull apart layers. Jabber makes a soft noise—a mix between surprise and amusement—but doesn’t stop him. Instead, he bites lightly again at the newly exposed line of skin along Zanka’s shoulder, leaving a faint but deliberate mark, and watches Zanka’s reaction, eyes glinting with both mischief and hunger.

Zanka’s breath catches. His lips part, and though he fights to maintain composure, there’s a flush spreading across his face, neck, and chest. He slides a hand under Jabber’s shirt, fingertips pressing against taut muscle, feeling the heat, feeling the pulse, feeling the sheer intensity of him. Jabber leans into it, grinding just slightly, teasing without fully giving in, biting Zanka’s shoulder again lightly as if to challenge him, to test just how far he’ll go.

The air around them hums with tension, thick and electric. Zanka’s other hand moves to Jabber’s belt line, slowly working at it, testing, tugging, and Jabber responds instinctively—tilting his head back, letting a low growl escape him, teeth grazing Zanka’s neck in a flash of fire, leaving more of those dangerous little marks that Zanka can’t help but crave and fear at the same time.

They pause for a heartbeat, foreheads nearly touching, breaths mingling. Zanka’s pulse is racing, every nerve alive, but the fire inside him keeps pushing forward. One hand slides under Jabber’s shirt, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, and Jabber catches it with one hand on Zanka’s hip, holding him steady, while the other moves to the back of Zanka’s neck, tugging him closer, pressing them even more flush.

“You’re… really bold tonight,” Jabber murmurs, voice low, rough, teasing—and it’s true. Zanka is moving faster, moving with intent, taking charge in a way that surprises both of them. Jabber’s usual dominance meets Zanka’s quiet insistence, and the clash of wills becomes a different kind of foreplay—heated, intimate, and entirely consuming.

Zanka finally begins to tug at Jabber’s shirt, forcing it up over broad shoulders, sliding it over his head in one sharp movement. Jabber hisses softly against Zanka’s skin at the exposure, teeth grazing his jaw, and then suddenly pulls back just slightly to meet Zanka’s eyes, watching him with a mixture of shock, awe, and desire.

“You’re… unreal,” Jabber breathes, almost inaudible. And he doesn’t pull away—he can’t. Zanka’s hands continue, deliberately unbuttoning, tugging, and sliding pieces of clothing aside, testing, claiming, exploring, while Jabber’s teeth and lips mark every bit of exposed skin, leaving an intricate map of heat, bites, and kisses along shoulders, neck, and chest.

Zanka’s back arches slightly, breath hitching despite himself. His hands roam lower now, pressing, feeling, testing Jabber’s limits as Jabber presses up against him, murmuring low warnings that only seem to egg Zanka on more. The roles blur—Jabber, who always teased and dominated, now finds himself reacting instead of controlling, and Zanka, who had always been contained, controlled, is fully unleashed, moving with confidence, with purpose, and with a hunger that Jabber hadn’t expected tonight.

Each kiss, each bite, each tug of clothing ratchets the tension higher, a silent war of wills and desire. The room is filled with the sound of ragged breathing, low growls, and sharp intake of air as they inch toward the bed, tangled, marking, tasting, claiming. And as Zanka finally drags Jabber fully onto the mattress, the weight of them together presses into something entirely unrestrained, something entirely combustible, and the night stretches long and wild with their chaos.

They’re no longer gentle. No longer cautious. No longer soft.

Now, it’s all fire, teeth, lips, hands, and hunger—a storm neither of them wants to end.

The heat in the room thickens even more as Zanka’s words slice through the chaotic haze. “It’s not fair,” he murmurs, breathless, chest rising and falling as he presses into Jabber’s weight, “you’re still fully dressed, and I’m… I’m just in a towel…” His voice cracks slightly, a low, flustered sound he can’t quite control, and the words hang in the air like an unspoken dare.

Jabber doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans down closer, letting his mouth trail over Zanka’s neck and shoulder again, teeth grazing lightly, leaving a string of marks that make Zanka shiver violently. The warmth of his skin against Jabber’s lips feels impossible to resist, and the tension coils tighter with every brush of contact.

“You think that’s unfair?” Jabber murmurs against the shell of Zanka’s ear, voice low, teasing, dangerous. He presses a deliberate kiss to the hollow of Zanka’s throat, dragging his teeth down in a slow, purposeful nibble. Zanka’s hand rises instinctively to cover his moans, pressing against his own chest to muffle the sounds that threaten to escape. His other hand tangles in Jabber’s dreadlocks, tugging slightly, a silent plea for a mix of restraint and release.

But Jabber isn’t having it. He lifts Zanka’s hand away, catching it in one firm grip. “I don’t want that to happen,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, a half-warning, half-command. “I don’t want you hiding how much this is getting to you.”

Zanka’s body jerks lightly at the touch, his chest straining against the towel, heat blooming in his veins. He swallows hard, attempting to regain composure, but the sensation of Jabber’s hands gripping his, pulling him closer, teeth grazing over sensitive skin, is too much. His breath comes in ragged gasps now, and he can’t entirely hide the way his chest rises and falls rapidly.

Jabber slowly shifts his focus. One hand slides down Zanka’s arm to his hip, pressing him fully into the mattress now, while the other trails over the edges of his towel, teasing the thin layer of fabric that still separates them. Zanka’s words come out in a half-breathless, half-frustrated mumble. “It’s… not… fair…”

Jabber smirks, pressing another firm kiss to Zanka’s neck and dragging teeth across his collarbone. Then, deliberately, he steps further into the boundary Zanka had set: his fingers hook under the edge of his own pants, slowly working them down while keeping the other hand firmly against Zanka’s chest, marking and teasing with his teeth and mouth as he goes. The towel does nothing to shield Zanka from the heat of contact, the precision of each bite and kiss, and the low hum of Jabber’s satisfaction fills the room.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jabber mutters, voice thick, letting his lips linger on a particularly sensitive patch on Zanka’s chest, biting down just enough to leave a sharp mark. Zanka’s hand presses instinctively to his mouth, a feeble attempt to suppress the moan that threatens to spill, but Jabber catches it again, holding it firmly in his grasp.

“No,” Jabber murmurs teasingly, his thumb brushing the back of Zanka’s hand. “Don’t hide it. I want to hear it. I want to know how much you’re feeling this.”

Zanka’s chest rises in sharp, uneven gasps, the restraint he had been holding unraveling under Jabber’s methodical, skilled teasing. Each kiss, each bite, each deliberate mark Jabber leaves across Zanka’s chest sends sparks through his body, igniting heat that spreads low and wild. His hands, now freed from the futile attempt to muffle himself, dig lightly into Jabber’s shoulders, tangling in his hair, anchoring, pushing, testing.

The towel slips further, forgotten, leaving Zanka almost fully exposed, yet he doesn’t stop Jabber. He doesn’t push him away. He allows the marks, the bites, the kisses—every slow, deliberate claim Jabber is making—to take hold. He arches into the contact, teeth grazing Jabber’s shoulder in protest, but it’s playful, half teasing, half surrendering.

Jabber notices every reaction, every shiver, every restrained moan, and it only fuels him further. He leans closer, dragging lips from Zanka’s chest to his neck again, biting, marking, and murmuring low praises that are almost unintelligible but fully understood by Zanka’s burning body. The intensity grows, deliberate and chaotic, hands roaming, lips claiming, the energy in the room electric with need and control flipping between them.

And Zanka, for the first time tonight, begins to embrace the chaos instead of resisting. His own hands roam more freely now, tugging at Jabber’s shirt, sliding across his back, exploring, claiming. The battle of dominance, the tension, the heat—all of it pulls them deeper into the spiral of their own making.

Every bite Jabber leaves, every kiss pressed with purpose, every whispered word to coax moans from Zanka—all of it mixes with the heat building in both of them. And Zanka knows, even as he struggles to hold back, even as his chest rises and falls in ragged rhythm, that this is only the beginning.

Because Jabber isn’t stopping. And he doesn’t want to.

And Zanka? Neither does he.

They are fully, entirely caught up in the fire now—hands, mouths, teeth, heat, and unrestrained need—and the room hums with the tension, desire, and chaos that only they can create together.

The last fragile barrier—the towel—is gone. It slips silently from Zanka’s hips, tumbling to the floor in a quiet whisper of fabric, leaving him completely exposed under the dim light of the bathroom. The sight catches Jabber completely off guard for just a heartbeat, though that shock is quickly replaced by a hunger that’s entirely unrestrained.

Jabber’s lips curve into a grin, low and wicked, eyes darkening as he takes in Zanka’s fully bare form. His hands trail over Zanka’s chest again, pressing, pinching lightly, leaving sharp, deliberate marks that sting just enough to make Zanka shiver and gasp. Zanka’s hands rise instinctively, trying to cover, to anchor himself—but Jabber catches them, holds them loosely, just enough to assert his control without fully restraining.

The kisses, bites, and marks begin to travel lower, slowly down the planes of Zanka’s body, tracing over ribs, stomach, and hips with meticulous care. Jabber knows exactly where to leave them, deliberate enough that Zanka feels the sting and pleasure in equal measure, but private enough that only he will ever see them. Every press of teeth along Zanka’s inner thighs, every kiss trailing just where Zanka’s body curves, is a private claim, a silent declaration that this is theirs alone.

Zanka’s breath comes in short, ragged gasps now. His hips arch into the pressure, pressing his body closer to Jabber’s as he struggles to keep quiet, hand pressing against his mouth, muffling the noises that threaten to spill. But Jabber, of course, notices immediately. He leans in, murmuring low, teasingly against Zanka’s ear. “Shh… I don’t want to hear you hiding anything,” he growls, lips brushing against the shell of Zanka’s ear, tongue teasing the curve of it lightly.

Zanka’s chest rises and falls rapidly, the heat pooling low and fierce. His hands roam now freely, dragging across Jabber’s shoulders, down his back, tangling in the fabric that remains on Jabber—just boxers now, the only thing separating them from full skin-on-skin contact. Jabber grins at Zanka’s touch, low chuckles vibrating through the kiss he drags down Zanka’s neck again. “You’re doing well holding back, but you don’t have to,” he murmurs, voice thick, breath warm on Zanka’s skin.

Jabber’s teeth graze along the tops of Zanka’s thighs, light bites that sting and excite simultaneously. Zanka catches a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, pressing back instinctively, though he doesn’t push Jabber away. He wants this. He wants the marks, the heat, the chaos—he wants the reminder that Jabber was here, that every bite and kiss is theirs alone.

The contrast is intoxicating: Jabber’s chaotic energy, his hunger, pressed against Zanka’s own controlled but slowly unraveling desire. Zanka knows every mark Jabber leaves is deliberate. The ones on his chest, the stomach, the inner thighs—they’re not just bites; they’re signs, proofs of claim, little secrets for only them to share. And that knowledge makes him shiver, arch, and press back into Jabber even more.

Jabber’s hands trace over the curve of Zanka’s hips again, one hand sliding lightly lower, teasing just along the edge, knowing exactly where he can leave the sharpest marks, where only Zanka will see, where the sting is private yet urgent. His lips trail over each place he touches, teeth grazing lightly, leaving heat and a sting that makes Zanka bite down hard on his hand, struggling not to cry out.

Zanka’s hands slide over Jabber’s back, feeling each muscle, each ripple under the skin, while Jabber continues to claim his body, mapping it with bites, kisses, and gentle nips that sting just enough. Every movement is deliberate, every mark placed with an intimacy that’s almost reverent, even amid the chaos.

The room hums with the energy between them. The bites, the marks, the teasing, the low growls—all of it blends into a rhythm that’s wholly theirs. Zanka’s body arches and twists, following Jabber’s hands and lips, surrendering entirely yet still in control in the subtle, internal ways only he can manage. He presses back, wants more, and Jabber obliges—each mark a private proof of their madness, a secret heat that only the two of them will ever know.

And as Jabber’s lips press low, tracing paths down Zanka’s inner thighs again, Zanka feels the fullness of their chaos, their intensity, and the thrill of every mark left where only he can see it. Every bite, every press of lips, every touch carries the promise of more—of private, reckless claiming that burns into his skin and memory alike.

They are fire and restraint, chaos and control, craving and claim—all at once. And as Jabber continues his deliberate work, leaving marks that sting and excite, Zanka knows this night is far from over, and neither of them will stop until every inch of them has been tasted, marked, and claimed.

The heat between them thickens even further, but Zanka’s mind sharpens in ways it hadn’t before. He can feel the burn of Jabber’s teeth along his skin, the sting of every deliberate mark—chest, stomach, inner thighs—and, at first, it’s intoxicating. He presses back, moaning softly despite his attempts to stay quiet, letting the pleasure ripple through him.

But as the moments stretch, as Jabber continues to claim every inch of Zanka’s body with his marks, a spark of frustration grows inside Zanka. Every bite, every kiss, every deliberate bruise is Jabber’s, his chaos, his claim—and Zanka, burning with heat and desire, realizes he hasn’t left a single mark of his own.

A low hum rumbles in his chest as he pulls back slightly, enough to meet Jabber’s gaze. Jabber’s lips are red, teeth glinting faintly from the bites he’s left behind, and he’s panting lightly, flushed, eyes wide and bright. There’s a spark there that Zanka recognizes immediately: the thrill of being marked, the rush of sensation, the tiny masochistic delight in being claimed.

Zanka smirks, slow, deliberate, and bites his own lip at the sight. He slides a hand along Jabber’s shoulder, down to the curve of his back, gripping lightly, feeling the tension in every muscle. He leans in, lips brushing against Jabber’s ear, voice low and controlled but carrying a dangerous edge. “You’ve had your fun,” he murmurs, letting his hand press just hard enough to leave a faint trace of pressure, “but maybe it’s time I mark you too.”

Jabber shivers immediately, a low, startled noise escaping his throat. His body stiffens slightly, but there’s a flash of something dangerous in his eyes—anticipation, excitement, the thrill of the unknown. “Y-you can’t…” he murmurs, breath catching, “I mean… you don’t—”

Zanka cuts him off with a sharp, teasing bite to the back of his neck, leaving a soft mark, just enough to sting. “Oh, I can,” he says simply, voice low, and begins to trail his lips along Jabber’s collarbone, teeth occasionally grazing, leaving subtle but deliberate bites that Jabber can feel burn even under the soft skin.

Jabber groans softly, body trembling under the dual sensation of being held and now marked. His hands find Zanka’s hips, tugging him closer, a mix of need and surrender, and Zanka feels a thrill at how easily he elicits this response. The thought sparks something darker inside him—a faint, sadistic edge, the thrill of seeing someone so wild and chaotic completely exposed to his control, willingly submitting to the bite of his teeth, the press of his lips, the heat of his hands.

Zanka’s fingers trail lower, teasing along the line of Jabber’s hips, pressing just enough to draw out a gasp, while his lips continue to leave marks along the chest and shoulders. Each bite, each press is a small reclamation—no longer just Jabber’s chaos; now Zanka is claiming, marking, teasing, leaving trails of evidence that Jabber is his, even as Jabber’s own masochistic pleasure only fuels Zanka’s desire to push further.

Jabber arches into every touch, every bite, every press of lips and teeth, low whines and gasps escaping despite his attempts to stay composed. “Z-Zan…” he stammers, voice rough, “don’t—don’t stop… I—I like it…” His words are barely coherent, but the message is clear: he wants more. He wants every mark, every bite, every tease, every deliberate sting that Zanka can give.

Zanka smiles, dark and deliberate, pressing his lips to Jabber’s neck again, teeth grazing softly, leaving another faint bruise that Jabber will remember long after this night. “I’m just getting started,” he murmurs, sliding his hands along Jabber’s torso, hips, and sides, feeling the shiver that travels down Jabber’s spine in response to every press, every bite. He lets his fingers linger where he knows it will sting, drawing a soft, breathless moan from Jabber that makes Zanka’s pulse spike.

The dynamic has shifted entirely now. Jabber, always the masochist, revels in the marks, in the sting, in the thrill of being claimed. Zanka, with a faint edge of sadistic delight, presses and bites and teases, enjoying the power of watching Jabber melt, gasping and arching beneath his touch. Every gasp, every tremble, every low moan fuels him further, driving him to leave more subtle yet intimate marks—places only Jabber will see, only Jabber will feel.

And even as the room hums with heat and tension, even as the chaos between them escalates, there’s a silent, mutual understanding: this isn’t just a fight of passion. This is claiming, this is play, this is a dangerous dance where Zanka is finally taking his turn. And Jabber, completely enraptured, can’t get enough.

Hands, lips, teeth, and heat merge together in a rhythm that’s wholly their own—an electric, messy, intimate storm of desire, dominance, submission, and need. Every mark Zanka leaves now carries intent, every groan and gasp from Jabber fuels the game, and neither of them wants it to stop.

It’s a dance of fire and teeth, of pleasure and sting, of masochist and sadist. And in this storm, Zanka finally realizes—he enjoys this just as much as Jabber does. Maybe even more.

The tension in the room reaches a new, almost unbearable peak. Jabber’s body is rigid, hips pressing against Zanka, the unmistakable heat pooling low, throbbing in rhythm with every gasp and tremor that Zanka lets escape. The tight, desperate press of Jabber’s hard length against Zanka makes the room feel impossibly small, the air thick with their heat, their need, their chaos.

Jabber’s lips trail along Zanka’s neck, biting, nipping, teasing, but there’s an impatience growing in him now, raw and urgent. He groans low and husky, hands gripping Zanka’s hips tighter. “I… I want you, Zanka,” he murmurs, voice rough, almost desperate. “I can’t wait any longer… I want—”

Zanka presses a hand to Jabber’s chest, holding him back just slightly, eyes dark and intense. His body is flush, breath ragged, pulse racing, but his mind is sharp, even in the haze of desire. “Not yet,” he says firmly, voice low but commanding, “if you put it in me like this… like you are now… you’re gonna rip me. I need you to stretch me out first.”

Jabber freezes, eyes widening, a mixture of shock and thrill flickering across his face. “Stretch… you out?” he repeats, voice rough, uneven. “You… you mean…?”

Zanka nods, teeth grazing his lower lip, fingers tugging at Jabber’s hair to keep him close while maintaining control. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice low, rough, deliberate. “I want you to take your time. I want to feel it before you… before you slide in. Otherwise—” he pauses, letting the threat linger just long enough, “…you’ll tear me, and I’ll hate you for it.”

Jabber groans softly, leaning his forehead against Zanka’s shoulder for just a second, chest rising and falling rapidly. His usual chaotic confidence wavers, replaced by a sharp, almost desperate need to follow Zanka’s instructions, to obey in a way that will drive them both higher. “Anything you want…” he murmurs, voice rough, breath shaky, “just… just tell me what to do, Zanka.”

Zanka smirks darkly, a faint edge of sadistic pleasure curling in his chest at the way Jabber is so eager to follow, so achingly ready to submit to him, even now when his body is practically screaming for release. His hands move with precision, dragging up and down Jabber’s sides, pressing, teasing, coaxing the tension in his hips, mapping the ridges of his muscles, teasing nerves, and wringing every shiver and groan he can get from Jabber without letting him actually lose himself yet.

“You’re too impatient,” Zanka murmurs, teeth grazing the shell of Jabber’s ear. “You’ve got to let me prepare you… let me guide you… before I let you put it in me. Otherwise—” he bites gently into Jabber’s shoulder, drawing a low, frustrated groan from him, “…I’ll take control in ways you won’t like.”

Jabber’s hips twitch against Zanka, throbbing and rigid, and he bites back a moan, just barely managing to nod. “Okay… okay, I’ll wait,” he breathes, voice low and rough, fingers digging into Zanka’s sides, trying to keep some control while utterly helpless to the heat, the bites, the teasing.

Zanka leans in, lips brushing Jabber’s jaw, whispering low, deliberately, “Good… now we’ll take our time. Every mark, every inch, every little tease… it’s for you. But you do exactly what I say, understand?”

“Yes…” Jabber gasps, face flushed, body trembling, entirely at Zanka’s mercy. “Anything you want…”

And in that heat, that rush, that chaotic storm of desire, they both know—this is just the beginning. Every mark, every tease, every careful, deliberate touch is only meant to build them both higher, tighter, more undone, until the moment Zanka finally allows Jabber in.

The room hums with anticipation, each groan, each breath, each press of skin against skin, marking the rhythm of what’s about to come—and the tension stretches, tight and electric, ready to snap, with Zanka firmly in control.

The room is thick with heat, every inch of Zanka’s skin still flushed from their earlier chaos, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he leans close to Jabber, who’s still panting and trembling, eyes dark and wild with need. Zanka’s smirk curls slowly, deliberate, as he pushes Jabber’s hands against his own body, guiding them where he wants, letting him feel every inch, every reaction.

“You’re gonna do exactly as I show you,” Zanka murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding, even as his own pulse races. He watches Jabber’s eyes widen, lips part slightly in a mix of anticipation and raw excitement. “I want you to feel… every part of me. Take your time, but don’t stop until I tell you.”

Jabber’s chest rises and falls erratically, a shiver running down his spine as he nods, biting his lip, nearly trembling with eagerness. “Y-yes… Zan… anything you want…” His hands move with a careful, almost reverent touch along Zanka’s hips, stomach, and inner thighs, yet there’s a flicker of impatience that only makes him even more desperate to obey. His natural masochistic energy thrives here—he loves every second of being guided, every command from Zanka’s low, sharp voice, every subtle flick of Zanka’s fingers teaching him exactly what to do.

Zanka leans back slightly, letting Jabber trace his hands over the most sensitive areas, his chest pressing against Jabber’s torso, teasing and encouraging him. Then, slowly, deliberately, Zanka shifts, pressing Jabber’s hand toward the area he’s been longing to feel, letting the tip of Jabber’s fingers brush him lightly. Jabber gasps, a low, throaty sound, eyes widening and darkening further with pure need.

“Now,” Zanka whispers, voice thick with control and heat, “slow. Gentle. But firm enough so I can feel every inch. Don’t stop, don’t pull away.”

Jabber shudders instantly, almost trembling, and with a low, thrilled groan, he carefully slides a finger inside Zanka. The sensation is electric, raw, and chaotic, and Jabber’s face flushes, lips parting in disbelief and excitement. He can’t stop the small whimpers that escape him, and Zanka smirks at each one, savoring the tension he’s creating, the way Jabber is reacting—utterly enthralled, utterly caught between control and desire.

“Good,” Zanka murmurs, voice low and teasing, biting lightly into Jabber’s shoulder. “Just like that… yes. Don’t stop. Feel it, don’t fight it. I want you to enjoy this as much as I am.”

Jabber lets out a low, almost desperate laugh, gripping Zanka’s hips harder, pressing closer, eager for every motion, every touch. He slides another finger inside, slowly, carefully, trembling with anticipation, with excitement, with the thrill of being taught, controlled, and allowed to explore in a way he’s never experienced. The masochistic fire in him flares with every careful movement Zanka guides, every low hum or groan that escapes him, every small correction from Zanka’s lips or teeth grazing his neck.

Zanka’s other hand drifts lower, teasing along Jabber’s thigh, leaving small, subtle bites along the skin, pressing against him with deliberate intent, savoring the way Jabber reacts under his fingers. Each gasp, each shiver, each moan from Jabber only drives Zanka further, his own desire spiking as he watches Jabber’s body surrender, almost overwhelmed by the stimulation and guidance.

“Just like that,” Zanka murmurs again, voice low, intoxicating, “feel me. Let me show you exactly what to do. I want this. I want you completely here, with me.”

Jabber groans, leaning closer, heat radiating off him, utterly consumed by the sensations, the slow but deliberate teasing, the control Zanka wields so effortlessly. Every touch, every movement from Zanka drives him further into his own frenzy, building the masochistic thrill that he loves—the careful mix of pleasure and torment, guidance and surrender.

Zanka smirks, eyes dark, pulse racing, as he watches Jabber gasp and shiver under his touch, finally taking control in a way that only he could orchestrate. And Jabber, completely captivated, groans again, breath ragged, totally absorbed in every lesson, every tease, every inch that Zanka allows him to explore.

The room hums with heat, tension, and chaos—the perfect storm of Zanka’s slight sadism and Jabber’s pure, masochistic craving—and neither of them wants it to end. Every touch, every gasp, every bite, every guided movement draws them closer to the edge, to a fever pitch that promises only more, hotter, and darker pleasure.

The heat between them thickens, and for a moment, Jabber seems almost reverent, following Zanka’s instructions, listening to every word, every sharp, low murmur that guides him. But the innate chaos that makes Jabber… well, Jabber, starts to bubble up, restless and impatient. His fingers, still inside Zanka, begin to move on their own, sliding and curling in ways that defy Zanka’s careful guidance. He’s no longer listening; he’s experimenting, feeling, searching—completely consumed by the raw, almost desperate need to find that one spot that will make Zanka shiver uncontrollably, gasp, and lose control.

Zanka’s eyes widen slightly as he feels the change—the shift from careful, obedient touch to wild, instinctual exploration. He can feel the precise pressure, the teasing curl of fingers inside him, and a low growl escapes his throat. “J-Jabber… wait—” he gasps, but it’s muffled by the haze of pleasure and tension building in him.

Jabber ignores the words, his lips brushing against Zanka’s neck, teeth grazing lightly in his usual teasing, chaotic way. “Mm… you’re so tense, Zan…” he murmurs, voice rough, low, and playful, almost mocking. “I think I can find the spot that really gets you.” His free hand drags lightly across Zanka’s chest and ribs, pressing, teasing, marking subtly, all while his fingers continue their exploration below, curling, probing, searching with a kind of reckless precision that only Jabber could manage.

Zanka’s breath hitches, a strangled moan caught in his throat. Every press, every curl, every slight flick of Jabber’s fingers makes a new fire flare inside him, tingling, electric, chaotic. His back arches instinctively, pressing closer, trying to ground himself while also surrendering to the sensations that Jabber is expertly evoking. The thrill of surrender, of chaos, of letting Jabber’s masochistic intensity run unchecked—it’s intoxicating.

“You… you’re not listening…” Zanka murmurs, voice rough, body trembling, trying to retain some control even as his own desire begins to overtake him. His hands dig into Jabber’s shoulders, tugging lightly, not to push him away, but to anchor himself, to make sure he doesn’t get lost completely in the tidal wave of sensations.

Jabber chuckles low, almost sinisterly, lips brushing along Zanka’s ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin lightly, “I don’t want to listen… I want to feel. I want to see what makes you…” he pauses, groaning low, “…lose it, Zan.” His fingers curl slightly more, pressing at just the right angle, testing, learning, teasing—finding that precise point that makes Zanka shiver uncontrollably, heart racing, pulse spiking.

Zanka gasps, low and ragged, chest heaving, trying to speak but finding his words lost in the chaotic storm of pleasure and heat Jabber is evoking. Every twist of his hips, every tiny shift of his body seems to egg Jabber on, every gasp and shiver pushing him to move faster, deeper, more deliberately, with a kind of teasing cruelty that makes Zanka ache in ways he hadn’t expected.

Jabber’s smirk is wicked, his eyes dark with fascination as he watches Zanka respond, the way his entire body reacts to just a curl, a press, a flick of fingers. “Mm… there it is…” he murmurs, low, almost reverent, “I think I found it. That spot… you feel it, don’t you?”

Zanka moans, back arching, hips pressing, hands gripping Jabber’s arms and shoulders tightly. The sensation is sharp, overwhelming, and exquisite. “Y-yes… Jabber…” he gasps, voice breaking, body trembling as the tingling spreads through him in waves, spine arching into Jabber’s touch.

Jabber laughs softly, low and delighted, still not listening to Zanka’s careful guidance, letting his fingers explore freely, pressing, curling, teasing, finding every nerve ending, every sensitive patch that makes Zanka shiver and gasp uncontrollably. The chaos, the tension, the madness between them escalates—Zanka is tingling, desperate, and achingly alive under Jabber’s deliberate, wild touch, while Jabber is consumed with the thrill of discovery, of control mixed with pure, chaotic desire.

And even as Zanka struggles to catch his breath, to steady himself, he can’t help the flicker of dark, slightly sadistic pleasure curling inside him. Jabber is so utterly invested, so wildly freaky in his need, and Zanka… Zanka loves it. Loves how completely he can push Jabber, how much Jabber needs it, and how this chaotic dance is only building the fire between them, hotter, darker, more consuming with every move.

The room thrums with heat, tension, and the chaotic rhythm of fingers, lips, teeth, and moans—their private storm, with Jabber fully embracing his masochistic thrill and Zanka leaning into his own subtle, controlled sadism. Every touch, every press, every groan is a step closer to a fevered climax that neither of them wants to stop—but both know they’re far from finished.

The tension between them reaches a peak almost unbearable. Zanka’s body quivers, slick and hot from every tease Jabber has delivered over the last several minutes. His hips are pressed against the edge of climax, precome already dripping, heart hammering in his chest, breaths ragged and shallow. Every nerve ending is alight, every inch of him trembling in anticipation—and just when he’s about to tip over the edge, Jabber suddenly pulls his fingers out.

Zanka freezes, eyes widening, lips parting in shock, and then tears prick the corners of his eyes—not entirely from frustration, but from the overwhelming intensity of the tease and denial. He swallows harshly, shivers running through his body, and looks up at Jabber, vulnerability and desperation mingled in his gaze. “J-Jabber…” he gasps, voice shaky, barely coherent.

Jabber smirks, eyes dark with a chaotic, gleeful cruelty that only fuels the fire in Zanka even more. “Nope,” he says softly, teasing, low, deliberate. “You’re not allowed to cum yet… not like that. Only I can make you cum, Zan. Only on my dick.”

Zanka’s jaw drops slightly, chest heaving, almost overwhelmed by the words, but he can’t fight the pulse of desire already running through him. He feels almost entirely exposed, utterly at Jabber’s mercy, trembling in anticipation as Jabber reaches behind him, hands gripping his hips with firm intent, and slowly turns him around.

Zanka stumbles slightly, shivering, but he doesn’t resist; he’s too consumed by the chaos of need and the heat of Jabber’s gaze. Every inch of him thrums with anticipation, every nerve firing as Jabber slowly positions himself, cock brushing against Zanka’s slick, sensitive slit, pressing just enough to make Zanka gasp, hips instinctively pushing back.

“You feel that?” Jabber murmurs, low and teasing, lips brushing against the side of Zanka’s neck. “Feel how ready you are… but you’re not mine yet. Not fully. Not until I say so.” His hands tighten on Zanka’s hips, keeping him close, guiding him slowly, deliberately, while his own cock presses harder against Zanka’s entrance, teasing, dragging over every sensitive spot.

Zanka gasps again, chest rising and falling, nails digging lightly into Jabber’s shoulders, trembling with anticipation, almost shaking from the ache of want and the pressure building inside him. “J-Jabber… I… I’m—” he breathes, voice breaking, barely able to form words as heat burns through him.

Jabber ignores the stammering words, smirking darkly as he slowly, painstakingly, begins to ease himself into Zanka. Every inch is deliberate, controlled, testing, teasing—Zanka shudders, eyes squeezing shut, breath catching in his throat at the sensation of being filled so slowly, so purposefully. The friction, the tightness, the heat is almost unbearable, and Jabber leans close, teeth grazing Zanka’s shoulder, a low, teasing groan escaping him as he feels Zanka’s body tighten and writhe around him.

Zanka gasps, shivering, lips parted, hands gripping Jabber’s arms, hips tilting involuntarily, desperately seeking more, needing more. “J-Jab… don’t—stop…” he murmurs, voice trembling, half plea, half command, and Jabber only hums, low and satisfied.

“Shhh… I’m not stopping,” Jabber says, voice rough, teasing, almost predatory. “I’m making sure you feel everything, Zan. Every inch. Every push. Every stretch. You won’t cum until I say so, but you’re going to feel it all.”

Zanka’s body trembles violently at that, heat pooling deeper and tighter with every slow, deliberate movement of Jabber’s hips. He arches, shivers, lets out a strangled, soft moan, trembling against Jabber’s chest as the sensations overwhelm him. He’s so close, almost breaking—but Jabber’s control, slow and teasing, keeps him on the knife’s edge, every inch of Zanka’s body tingling, trembling, desperate for release he isn’t allowed to have yet.

The two of them move together in a slow, deliberate rhythm, every push of Jabber’s cock inside Zanka met with a gasp, a shiver, a muffled moan. Zanka can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter, almost unbearably so, but he knows now—it will only release at Jabber’s command, and that thought alone sends heat coursing even faster through him.

Jabber leans closer, teeth grazing Zanka’s neck again, hands gripping tight around his hips, smirking darkly as he feels Zanka’s body press desperately into him, trembling and slick. “You feel that, Zan?” he murmurs low, almost possessive, “Every inch… every tingle… all for me. You’re mine now, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Zanka shudders violently, lips parting, chest rising, eyes wide, flushed, trembling with both want and denial. “Y-yes…” he gasps, voice shaky, “I… I’m yours… Jabber…”

Jabber groans low and dark, gripping him tighter, pressing harder, savoring every reaction, every gasp, every shiver, every flush of skin. He starts to move with more intent now, slow thrusts that stretch Zanka perfectly, letting him adjust, teasing, building, letting the tension coil higher and higher. Every motion, every low groan from Zanka, every trembling gasp, drives Jabber even deeper into his masochistic excitement—he’s utterly consumed, utterly captivated, utterly lost in this shared chaos of heat, need, and control.

The room hums with tension and heat—their bodies slick, trembling, perfect chaos—and Zanka feels himself teetering, riding the edge, desperate and exposed, knowing full well he won’t be allowed release until Jabber decides. And Jabber, consumed with both control and wild desire, smirks darkly, pushing them both closer and closer toward a fevered, burning edge they’ll ride together, a storm of pleasure, teasing, and madness that neither of them wants to end.

Jabber’s eyes darken, smirk curling wickedly across his face, and without warning, he stops the slow, teasing rhythm entirely. With a low, rough growl, he thrusts deep into Zanka in a series of hard, fast rams, his body moving with the raw urgency that is entirely Jabber—chaotic, relentless, dominating. The sudden shift makes Zanka gasp sharply, nails digging into Jabber’s shoulders as his back arches, breath hitching in ragged bursts.

This isn’t the slow, controlled teasing of before. This is full-force, wild, messy, and Zanka absolutely loves it. Every slam of Jabber’s hips drives him higher, every press against his sensitive spots twisting him, fraying his control. His body is alive, trembling, precome slick and pooling, heart hammering, and he can barely think beyond the fire of sensation racing through him.

“J-Jabber… I—I can’t…” Zanka gasps, voice strained, chest heaving, trying to ride the wave of pleasure without giving in completely. He’s right at the edge, trembling, almost overwhelmed, and the pressure, the friction, the chaos of Jabber moving inside him is pushing him closer to a peak he’s not allowed to reach.

Jabber, reading every twitch, every gasp, every shiver, presses his thumb firmly against Zanka’s base, right where it hurts and tingles most, making sure he cannot cum—no matter how close he is. “Not yet,” Jabber growls, voice low, rough, and dangerously amused. “You’re not allowed to cum, Zan. Not until I say so.”

Zanka shudders violently under him, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. “Nngh… Jabber… I—” His words choke off into a strangled gasp as another hard thrust drives deep, every nerve igniting, precome dribbling freely, tingling through him in fiery waves. He’s caught completely, fully, absolutely—every bit of control gone save for the ragged edges of willpower he desperately clings to.

Jabber smirks against his shoulder, low, teasing, almost playful even as he dominates him. “You feel that, don’t you?” he murmurs, voice husky, teeth grazing Zanka’s neck. “Every slam… every stretch… every little edge you’re clinging to. I can see it, Zan. You want it so badly… but you’re not getting it.”

Zanka bites down on his lip, moaning softly, trembling, trying desperately not to break, trying to hold back the storm of heat and desperation Jabber is drawing from him. But the harder Jabber drives, the tighter he grips, the more impossibly hot and unbearable it all becomes, and Zanka’s body betrays him with every shiver, every groan, every twitch.

Jabber notices, of course. His grin widens, eyes dark, teeth flashing as he leans close, lips brushing Zanka’s ear. “Look at you… so close, so tense… but I’m in control. You’ll only come when I say so… and right now, I don’t plan on letting you.”

Zanka’s chest heaves violently, knees trembling, hands gripping Jabber with all the strength he has, and yet he can’t help the low, strangled whines escaping his throat. He’s utterly undone, trapped between frustration, heat, and the wild, intoxicating chaos of Jabber’s intensity. Every slam, every press of his thumb, every teasing growl sends him spiraling, and still, Jabber doesn’t relent.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jabber whispers, voice rough, almost feral, against his skin. “Being so close and not allowed? Feeling every inch I give you and still… not yours?”

Zanka can only gasp, body trembling uncontrollably. “…Y-yes…” he breathes, voice broken, lost, entirely at Jabber’s mercy, “…I… I want…”

Jabber growls low, smirking, and drives harder, faster, relentless, merciless, the perfect storm of chaos and desire, pushing Zanka further and further to the edge—but still keeping him from release, still pressing that thumb, still teasing every nerve, every sensitive patch, every inch of Zanka’s body that he knows will send him spiraling.

Zanka’s entire body shakes, slick and trembling, utterly consumed, and he realizes—he’s never felt so simultaneously desperate and powerless, so completely undone, so entirely addicted to Jabber’s chaotic, merciless touch. Every thrust, every press, every whispered tease, every lingering touch keeps him on that edge, burning, quivering, aching, and knowing that Jabber alone will decide when—if ever—he’s allowed to fall over it.

The room hums with heat, groans, shivers, and the raw, chaotic rhythm of Jabber dominating, Zanka gasping, trembling, desperately clinging to the tight coil of denied release that Jabber is expertly maintaining. And neither of them will stop, will slow, will relent—this edge, this chaos, this fire, is all-consuming, and it’s far from over.

Jabber’s gritted teeth and low, guttural growls betray exactly how close he is, his eyes dark and focused on Zanka’s every twitch and shiver. He’s already riding the edge himself, fingers gripping Zanka’s hips so tightly the knuckles whiten, every thrust hitting harder and faster, relentless, chaotic, unrestrained. Zanka gasps, shivers, back arching, precome slick, burning, trembling—all of him alive in a haze of heat, anticipation, and desperate need.

“You… feel so good… Zan…” Jabber groans, voice rough, low, almost feral, “I… I can’t… I’m so close—fuck!” Every word is a growl, a moan, a ragged confession of the pleasure he’s barely containing, of the chaos roaring through him. Zanka’s chest heaves violently, arms gripping Jabber’s shoulders, trying to steady himself, trying to ride the tidal wave of sensation even as his body trembles uncontrollably under the pounding rhythm.

Jabber drives harder, faster, each thrust precise yet chaotic, perfect for unspooling Zanka’s tension, teasing, building, stretching him to the breaking point. Zanka moans sharply, nails digging into Jabber’s shoulders, body quivering violently, hips jerking in reflex, heart hammering, precome dripping freely. His breathing is ragged, his entire body trembling, almost screaming from overstimulation. “J-Jabber… I—I… ahhh!” he chokes out, voice breaking, body teetering on the edge.

Jabber’s grin is wicked, teeth biting into the curve of Zanka’s shoulder as he slams forward again and again. He can feel Zanka’s tightness, hear his ragged moans, see the flush crawling across every inch of exposed skin—and it pushes him past all restraint. His hips move faster, harder, an unstoppable force, and he knows he’s right on the edge.

“Fuck… Zan… I—mm—gonna…” Jabber groans, voice cracking, losing all control, “I’m so close… so fucking close…”

Zanka trembles violently, body pressed fully against Jabber, breath caught, spine arching as the overstimulation coils tighter, hotter. “…Nnghh… Jabber… I—” he gasps, losing all control, body trembling as the heat, the friction, the chaos overtakes him. His hips jerk involuntarily, quivering, precome dripping freely, every nerve ending alight, every inch of him burning with need and desperation.

And then, with a final, chaotic, utterly consuming thrust, Jabber releases—pulling his thumb from Zanka’s base, letting go just enough for both of them to crash over the edge together. Zanka shudders violently, muscles clenching, hips trembling as waves of pleasure rip through him, heart hammering, spine arching, breath coming in ragged, broken gasps. Jabber’s own moans fill the room, deep, guttural, and raw, his body shuddering violently as he spills into Zanka, the heat, the friction, the chaos of their shared climax consuming them both entirely.

For a long moment, neither moves. Bodies pressed together, slick, trembling, sweat-dampened skin pressed skin, chest heaving, hair sticking, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. Jabber rests his forehead against Zanka’s shoulder, smirking weakly, breathing uneven, still riding the aftershocks of his own release, while Zanka trembles beneath him, utterly undone, a quiet moan escaping him now and then as he gradually comes down from the intense wave of pleasure.

Zanka’s hand rests lightly on Jabber’s arm, weak but still gripping, as he finally allows himself to sink slightly into the warmth, into the chaos, into the shared intimacy of the moment. Jabber’s smirk curls, dark and pleased, eyes glinting with satisfaction as he murmurs softly, almost teasingly, “You were amazing, Zan… every inch of you…”

Zanka swallows hard, chest heaving, body trembling, face flushed, eyes wide as he finally exhales, allowing the tension to drain slowly. The room is heavy with the scent of sex, sweat, heat, and raw, unrestrained desire—a storm of chaos that only the two of them could create and survive. And for a moment, they simply stay like that, pressed together, trembling, connected, hearts still hammering, bodies still tingling, both basking in the aftermath of a chaos-fueled, wild, and shared release.

The quiet is heavy, intimate, and electric—two predators who’ve given in, even just for a moment, to the fire between them. And as their breaths finally start to steady, Jabber leans closer, brushing lips lightly against Zanka’s ear, whispering low, rough, and teasing, “Next time… we won’t wait so long to finish, Zan.”

Zanka shivers, heat still coursing through him, and just lets out a soft, almost breathless chuckle, letting Jabber hold him close as the room slowly cools, the chaos lingering in the tension between them even as their bodies finally start to relax.

Zanka exhales shakily, chest rising and falling as the aftershocks of their shared release still pulse through him, heat still clinging to every nerve. For a moment, he just looks down at Jabber, eyes darkened with a mixture of desire and a flicker of daring that surprises even him. Then, slow and deliberate, he shifts his weight, straddling Jabber’s hips, hands pressing down lightly on Jabber’s chest to keep him steady.

Jabber’s eyes widen in surprise, but instead of protesting, he smirks, letting Zanka take control. His hands rest lightly on Zanka’s hips, fingers brushing along the curves and dips of Zanka’s toned body, teasing, supportive, yet entirely expectant. His cock twitches under Zanka’s weight, already rock hard again despite the minutes of pure exhaustion and pleasure they’ve just shared. Zanka can feel the pulse, the heat, the hardness pressing against him, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

For a moment, Zanka just hovers, teasing himself against Jabber, letting the friction build, the tension coil between them like a tightly wound spring. Every movement, every subtle shift, makes Jabber groan, low and rough, his hands clenching slightly at Zanka’s hips, pulling him closer. Zanka swallows, a mix of anticipation and power coursing through him, and slowly sits up straighter, aligning himself with Jabber’s thick, hard length.

He hesitates just slightly, feeling the weight, the warmth, the sheer presence of Jabber beneath him, then exhales sharply and begins to sink down, inch by inch, letting the tightness of Jabber’s body envelop him. Jabber’s breath catches, low and ragged, and he groans softly, hips instinctively pressing up, guiding Zanka, urging him further down.

Zanka’s hands press against Jabber’s chest for balance, knuckles whitening slightly as he slowly takes more, inching down deliberately, savoring the heat, the friction, the feel of being consumed. His body trembles with the sensation, every nerve ending alive, every inch of him fired up by the intimacy and raw intensity of the moment.

“F-Fuck… Zan…” Jabber groans, voice low, strained, yet filled with eagerness, “Don’t… slow down… keep going…”

Zanka shivers at the sound, letting it fuel his own rhythm, rocking his hips ever so slightly, learning the angle, the depth, the exact friction that makes Jabber shiver and groan beneath him. Every movement is slow, deliberate, teasing, yet powerful—a mix of control and shared desire. Jabber’s hands tighten on his hips, pulling him closer, urging him to take more, and Zanka obliges, letting his body sink fully, savoring the weight, the heat, the tight, intoxicating grip.

Their breaths mingle, ragged and uneven, soft moans and low growls filling the room as Zanka rocks slowly, deliberately, testing, teasing, learning. Jabber’s cock throbs inside him, hard and demanding, and Zanka feels it pulse in tandem with his own arousal. Every shift of Zanka’s hips, every subtle lean forward or back, drives them both higher, igniting the raw, chaotic tension that’s always simmered between them into a white-hot, unstoppable flame.

Zanka starts to find a rhythm, slow and deliberate at first, letting Jabber adjust, letting the friction build, and then he begins to move with more intent—small, controlled bounces, careful yet hungry, teasing Jabber’s senses, letting the pleasure coil higher and tighter with every inch. Jabber’s groans deepen, head falling back slightly, eyes dark, teeth biting his lip, hands gripping Zanka like he never wants to let go.

Every movement, every press, every tiny shift sends sparks through both of them, a chaotic, heated storm of lust, control, and shared madness. Zanka feels it, knows it—he’s in command now, but Jabber’s reaction, raw and needy, only fuels him further. And as he starts to move with slightly more speed, slightly more force, a low, feral growl escapes Jabber’s throat, filling the room with heat, desire, and the inevitable promise that neither of them is stopping until one—or both—finally shatter under the intensity.

The tension coils tighter, the rhythm building, and Zanka knows they are only just beginning to explore this intoxicating, chaotic, all-consuming storm together.

Zanka lets out a sharp breath, feeling the heat coiling in his belly, the tension between them stretching taut like a wire ready to snap. Slowly, deliberately, he starts to move faster, letting his hips rock down harder, rolling with Jabber’s own thrusts beneath him. Each movement sends jolts of friction straight to the nerve endings, and the way Jabber shivers, groans, and claws at his hips only pushes Zanka to go faster.

Jabber’s voice is ragged, low, guttural, a mixture of frustration and pleasure. “F-Fuck… Zan… don’t… stop… not now…” His hands grip Zanka tighter, nails digging into his hips, urging him to take more, drive more, giving into the chaos building inside them both. Zanka feels every pulse, every twitch, every little shiver that runs through Jabber, and it’s intoxicating—this raw, chaotic power exchange, the desperate pleasure, the heat, the messiness of it all.

The faster Zanka moves, the harder Jabber rams up, hips slamming, chest pressing into Zanka’s, teeth gritted, muscles tense and trembling. The rhythm becomes messy, urgent, completely unrestrained—neither of them controlling, just giving in to the storm of sensation. Sweat glistens on their skin, mingling as Zanka rocks harder, hips slamming, chest pressed to Jabber’s, lips brushing the shoulder, neck, collarbone as he rides the wave of pleasure.

Jabber growls, voice low and hoarse, “You… you’re insane… fuck… keep going…” His hips jerk up, driving into Zanka with reckless force, making Zanka gasp, moan, and grind harder, matching every thrust with his own movement. Zanka’s hands slide down Jabber’s torso, feeling every muscle tighten, every shiver, every pulse, every twitch of need. He leans forward, chest pressing against Jabber’s, brushing lips over his shoulder, teasing the sensitive skin, teeth grazing lightly, biting softly—leaving marks, leaving evidence of their chaos.

The pace builds. Faster. Harder. Messier. Zanka throws his head back, letting out low, ragged moans, grinding down fully into Jabber, riding every thrust, every pulse, letting the friction, the heat, the chaotic pleasure build higher and higher. Jabber’s hands roam, gripping Zanka’s hips, back, shoulders, pulling him closer, urging him on, whispering low, hoarse words between ragged breaths. “Yes… that’s it… fuck… just like that… don’t stop…”

Zanka’s body trembles violently, precome slick and sticky, nipples hard and brushing against Jabber’s chest as he rocks faster, harder, hips slamming in perfect chaos, teasing, biting, moaning. Every thrust pushes them closer, every flick of his hips, every low groan from Jabber, every shiver and gasp, coils the tension tighter, higher, hotter.

Their rhythm becomes frantic, desperate, messy, intoxicating—a violent dance of need, lust, power, and chaos. Zanka’s face is flushed, lips parted, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded with pleasure, and Jabber’s breath comes in ragged gasps, body trembling, moaning, pushing harder from below.

“Zan… fuck… I’m—so close…” Jabber groans, hips slamming up, chest pressed to Zanka’s, voice rough and ragged. Zanka leans forward, biting and nipping at Jabber’s collarbone, shoulder, neck, letting his own pleasure ride the edge, teasing, pushing, spiraling higher with every chaotic thrust.

Zanka’s hands grip Jabber’s shoulders tightly, knuckles white, back arching as he hammers down harder, faster, building toward a crescendo neither of them can hold back. Their bodies are slick, trembling, pressed together, moving in wild, chaotic rhythm, moans and growls filling the room as heat, lust, and tension spiral out of control.

The friction, the thrusts, the heat, the chaos—they’re on fire, and both of them know the storm isn’t going to break for a while. Every motion, every gasp, every shiver, every pulse is driving them both toward a shared, inevitable climax, wild and unstoppable.

The world outside disappears. The only thing left is the chaos of their bodies, the raw, frantic rhythm, the heat, the sweat, the moans, the pleasure, the push and pull of dominance and desire, and the storm of sensation that neither wants to end.

Zanka leans down closer, brushing lips against Jabber’s ear, letting out a ragged, “F-Fuck… just… like this…” and Jabber growls, throwing his head back, gripping him tighter, pulling him fully down, both of them riding the storm, lost, wild, and utterly consumed.

They’re unstoppable, a hurricane of desire, heat, and chaos, moving together faster, harder, messier, closer to the edge, the rhythm building higher and higher until every nerve is alive, every muscle trembling, and every breath ragged, desperate, utterly lost in the other.

The climax is coming, inevitable, chaotic, overwhelming—and neither of them will let go until it breaks through in a storm of heat, lust, and shared destruction.

The tension that had been building—every thrust, every moan, every frantic, chaotic motion—reaches its breaking point. Zanka feels it first, that coil of pleasure tightening impossibly inside him, stretching, pulsing, ready to shatter. Jabber’s grunts and growls grow sharper, hoarser, more guttural, warning Zanka that he’s on the edge too, ready to explode, trembling beneath him.

With a final, chaotic thrust, Zanka feels himself teeter over, body quivering violently, hips jerking as a hot, overwhelming wave of pleasure crashes through him. His hands dig into Jabber’s shoulders, nails scraping lightly as his chest heaves and his breath catches in ragged gasps. Jabber groans, low and raw, voice breaking, and in perfect, chaotic synchronicity, he cums too, body shuddering beneath Zanka, hands gripping his hips, pulling him impossibly closer as every nerve ending screams in ecstasy.

Time seems to stretch as the climax washes over them both—hot, messy, unrestrained. Their bodies tremble together, slick and sticky, breaths ragged, moans fading into heavy, uneven panting. Zanka slowly collapses forward, chest pressing to Jabber’s, forehead brushing against his, still riding the aftershocks, every muscle slack and trembling, yet every nerve alive.

Jabber’s arms wrap instinctively around Zanka, holding him close, chest rising and falling against his, a soft, satisfied growl vibrating through him as he buries his face in Zanka’s shoulder. Their bodies are tangled, slick with sweat, hearts pounding in tandem, the chaotic heat of their encounter lingering in the room, thick and electric.

Zanka exhales shakily, a small, breathless laugh escaping him as he rests fully on top of Jabber, letting the warmth, the closeness, the chaotic intimacy settle around them. He can feel Jabber’s body shivering slightly beneath him, still tense with overstimulation, yet slowly relaxing, and he allows himself to simply exist in the moment—skin against skin, warmth against warmth, two predators finally spent, clinging to the only stability in the storm: each other.

“Mm… you’re heavy…” Jabber murmurs, voice rough, low, but it carries a softness that only comes after surrender, after chaos, after both of them have been completely undone.

Zanka’s lips press briefly against Jabber’s collarbone, a small, tired smirk forming as he murmurs back, “Yeah… I know…” His voice is low, breathless, but content.

And for a long moment, they simply stay like that—two bodies pressed together, trembling, spent, yet strangely at peace, the storm of their desire spent, leaving only the warmth, the closeness, and the quiet afterglow of everything they just shared.

Zanka groans softly, chest pressed to Jabber’s, feeling the slick heat of their bodies still lingering, sweat clinging to his skin. “…Ugh… I feel… gross,” he mutters, voice low and breathless, pulling back just slightly to glare at Jabber with half-lidded, tired eyes. “…I have… I have to shower… again…”

He shifts, trying to push himself off Jabber, but his muscles are still trembling, every movement heavy, uncoordinated. He grunts, frustration and exhaustion blending as he huffs, “…I can’t… even get up…”

Jabber’s smirk is slow, amused, but filled with warmth as he shifts his hands to Zanka’s waist. “…Oh… you really can’t, huh?” he murmurs, low and teasing. With a sudden, smooth movement, he lifts Zanka off him entirely, holding him bridal-style against his chest. Zanka immediately groans, burying his face in Jabber’s shoulder, trying to squirm, though he’s far too spent to put up any real fight.

“You… you know,” Jabber murmurs with a teasing chuckle, “if anyone saw this, they’d think we’re in some romance drama or something…” His voice is teasing, but the heat in his eyes betrays the satisfaction of holding Zanka like this, pressed close, completely vulnerable in his arms.

Zanka groans again, muffled into Jabber’s shoulder, “…Mhm… I’d… punch you… if I had the… energy…” His words are weak, breathless, interrupted by another shiver running through him, and he can’t even manage to glare properly.

Jabber laughs softly, the low, warm sound vibrating against Zanka’s chest, and starts moving toward the bathroom, careful but still firm in his hold. “…Relax, Zan. You’re heavy… but I can handle it,” he says, voice teasing, hands gripping Zanka’s back and legs gently, “…and besides, this counts as… uh… exercise? Yeah… bridal-style fitness… for Christmas!”

Zanka lets out a small, tired huff, muffled into Jabber’s shoulder, too exhausted to reply properly. He opens his mouth as if to make a snide comment, a protest, or a witty retort—but the words fail him. “…Tch… too tired…” he mutters, voice trailing off, almost a whisper.

Jabber grins, clearly amused, the corner of his mouth curling in satisfaction as he strides toward the shower. “…Oh, don’t worry,” he murmurs low, leaning closer so Zanka can feel his warmth, “I won’t let you fall… or… die of grossness. Don’t worry, Zan. I’ve got you.”

Zanka groans again, head resting heavily on Jabber’s shoulder, muscles slack but shivering slightly. “…Mm… you’re… insane,” he murmurs faintly, voice exhausted but carrying the slightest hint of fondness.

Jabber chuckles again, walking into the bathroom with Zanka still cradled in his arms, careful, steady, yet teasing with every step. “…Yeah… but you love it…” he whispers with a grin, and Zanka can only groan, too tired, too wet, too overstimulated, too utterly exhausted to respond, letting himself be carried entirely, feeling both defeated and… somehow… comforted.

Every step, every movement, every breath between them is electric, heavy with afterglow, tension, and warmth, and Zanka realizes, even in his exhaustion, that this—this closeness, this chaos, this ridiculous intimacy—is exactly what he never knew he needed.

The bathroom draws near, and Jabber finally pauses, setting Zanka down carefully on his feet, both still slick, warm, and trembling, just long enough for Zanka to mutter a barely coherent, “…You’re… ridiculous…”

Jabber smirks, leaning down to brush a damp strand of hair from Zanka’s face. “…Yeah, but you love it…” he murmurs again, low and teasing, voice soft now, almost intimate, and Zanka just sighs, eyes half-closed, muscles trembling, too spent to argue, too content to care, and slowly steps into the shower, letting Jabber’s presence linger behind him even as the water begins to wash away the chaos of the night.

Jabber stands just behind Zanka, still dripping with heat and sweat, as Zanka fiddles with the shower controls. The small bathroom is steamy already, mist curling around the tiles, clinging to both of them. Zanka curses under his breath, low and gruff, “…Why do I even… always have to deal with… this…” while fumbling with the knobs. Jabber’s hands hover just behind him, unusual tension in his stance, almost stiff. “…Careful… Zan,” he says softly, voice low, almost too serious for the situation. “…I’ve never… been this careful with anything… not even myself…”

Zanka pauses, eyes flicking over his shoulder at Jabber, eyebrow raised, “…Really? You’re… being careful?” His voice carries the faintest teasing note, but there’s something soft in it too. Jabber smirks faintly, just the edges of his lips curling, “…Yeah… don’t want you slipping or… burning yourself with the water or… anything else.” He shifts slightly, careful not to brush too close, but still close enough to be tangible, a warmth Zanka can feel in every nerve ending.

Zanka huffs, shaking his head, “…You’re insane… but fine…” He finally gets the temperature right, hot enough to be comforting but not too scalding, and the shower turns on. Water spills over Zanka first, running down the lines of his shoulders, chest, and back, making him shiver involuntarily. Jabber steps closer behind him, careful, slow, hands resting lightly on Zanka’s hips at first, letting the heat of the water and the closeness of their bodies sync.

“…Mm… you’re… so warm…” Jabber murmurs, voice low and a little breathless, unusual softness in it. Zanka shifts slightly, feeling the weight, the touch, the heat of him, “…Yeah… you too…” His tone is gruff, almost embarrassed, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays the faintest flicker of a smile.

Jabber slides his hands slowly, deliberately up Zanka’s sides, over the ribs, brushing lightly over his chest as the water streams down both of them. Zanka stiffens, huffs, “…D-Don’t… act like… you’re being gentle… I know you…” Jabber chuckles softly, low and warm, “…I know… but… just… for now… I can be careful… with you.”

Zanka’s muscles tense under the touch, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans back slightly into Jabber, letting the warmth of him, the steady presence, and the unusual gentleness settle against him. “…You’re… weird…” Zanka mutters, voice softening slightly. “…I don’t even know… how to handle this…”

Jabber grins faintly, lips brushing the shell of Zanka’s ear, “…Just… relax… for once…” His hands move methodically now, rinsing shampoo from Zanka’s hair, fingers threading through damp strands, careful not to tug, careful not to hurt, which is a kind of intimacy neither of them ever talks about but is understood deeply between them. Zanka sighs, leaning into the touch, “…Hmph… fine… but don’t… get used to it…” His voice is gruff, defensive, but the slight tilt of his lips upward gives him away.

The water streams down both of them, warm, cascading, steam curling around their bodies, and they fall into a quiet rhythm. Jabber carefully pours soap into his hands, lathering Zanka’s back and shoulders, rubbing gently in circular motions. Zanka tenses and relaxes with every touch, muttering low, “…You… you’re ridiculous…” Jabber hums softly, almost proud, “…I know… and you… seem to like it…”

Zanka snorts, shifting slightly, “…I’m… not admitting anything…” But the slight shiver he can’t hide, the warmth of his chest pressed to Jabber’s, betrays him. Jabber chuckles, voice low, teasing, “…Mhmm… sure…”

They move through the motions together, water cascading down their slick, muscled bodies, hands brushing in deliberate and accidental touches alike. Jabber rinses Zanka’s hair carefully, making sure no soap drips into his eyes. Zanka mumbles under his breath, “…You’re… a pain in the ass…” but leans into the touch anyway, letting himself relax in a way he rarely does.

For a few moments, there’s only the water, the warmth, the quiet sounds of the bathroom, and their low murmurs and breaths. Jabber leans close enough that his chest presses to Zanka’s back, hands lingering slightly on his sides. Zanka lets out a low, almost inaudible sigh, “…I… don’t hate this…”

Jabber’s smirk is audible in his soft chuckle, “…That’s… good… because I’m not done… being careful… with you…”

They continue in quiet intimacy, washing and rinsing each other, their movements careful, deliberate, and slow. The shower is warm, the room foggy, the world outside gone, and for this moment, the chaos, the fighting, the stress, the day’s exhaustion—all of it is replaced with soft touches, low murmurs, and the rare, quiet tenderness between Zanka and Jabber that neither of them admits to often, but both feel deeply.

By the time they finish, both are slightly sticky from the steam, hair damp and clinging, muscles pleasantly tired, but hearts strangely calm. Zanka leans back into Jabber, chest pressed to him for just a moment longer, muttering softly, “…You’re… still insane…”

Jabber’s lips brush the shell of Zanka’s ear, “…Yeah… but you… you like it… even when you don’t admit it…”

Zanka huffs a breath, face buried in Jabber’s shoulder, “…Mm… maybe… just… a little…”

And for the first time in a long, chaotic night, they let themselves just stand there, together, in the warm shower, neither rushing, neither teasing, just quietly existing, bodies pressed, water running, hearts beating, and a strange, fragile, chaotic peace settling between them.

The warm water from the shower has barely cooled when they finally step out, dripping onto the bathroom floor, towels clinging to damp skin. Zanka, still exhausted from everything—the chaos, the tension, the laughter, the fights, and, of course, Jabber—moves sluggishly, leaning into Jabber’s shoulder as they walk toward the bedroom. The room is dim, faint light spilling through the blinds, painting everything in soft shadows. Zanka flops onto the bed first, limbs splayed slightly, muscles still trembling with fatigue.

Jabber hovers for a moment, glancing down at him. His usual confidence, his chaotic energy, wavers for just a moment as he considers the practicalities: the cleaners will be up soon, someone might check on Zanka, and if they see him here—well… complications would arise. His hand hovers above Zanka’s back, just for a second, before he shakes it off.

Then he sees Zanka’s face, still flushed from the shower and the night’s events, small rises and falls of his chest as he sleeps silently, lips parted slightly, the faint purple of the hickeys still visible against pale skin. Jabber exhales softly, shaking his head, part amusement, part something softer, something unspoken that has no name but feels heavy in his chest.

Instead of leaving, he slides onto the bed, careful not to disturb Zanka, letting his body settle beneath him. Zanka, as if sensing the presence without fully waking, shifts slightly, turning until his chest rests comfortably against Jabber’s, legs tangling slightly, arms draped over him. Jabber’s hand comes to rest on Zanka’s waist, holding him lightly, securely, almost possessively—but there’s no pressure, only warmth and the quiet understanding that they’ll stay here, like this, until morning.

Zanka mutters something half-coherent, soft and muffled against Jabber’s chest. “…Mm… don’t… go…” His fingers twitch slightly against Jabber’s side, as if tethering him to stay, though he’s not even fully conscious. Jabber smirks faintly, brushing a damp strand of hair from Zanka’s face, murmuring in that low, teasing, almost intimate voice of his, “…I wasn’t going anywhere…”

The quiet is broken only by the soft sound of their breathing and the faint creak of the bed settling beneath their combined weight. Every now and then, Zanka shifts minutely, adjusting his head against Jabber’s chest, and Jabber feels the little shivers, the warmth, the subtle rise and fall of his muscles, the faint scent of soap and Zanka’s skin mixing together. It’s chaotic and raw, but it’s also calm—a rare moment that neither of them could ever fully articulate, yet both understand.

Jabber’s gaze sweeps over Zanka one last time before letting it fall closed, the faint smirk lingering even as his eyes relax. “…God… you’re ridiculous,” he whispers softly, just audible enough for Zanka to hear if he were awake. “…And I… I don’t want to leave.”

Zanka makes a small, sleepy noise, half a grunt, half a sigh, as if agreeing without fully realizing it. Jabber laughs softly, low and warm, and drifts his hand down Zanka’s side, fingers brushing over the curves and ridges of muscle, lightly tracing the marks he left on him, a faint reminder of last night that makes him smirk faintly, even in the quiet of the early morning.

Slowly, inevitably, the weight of exhaustion takes over. Zanka relaxes fully into him, the subtle tremble of muscles giving way to complete surrender. Jabber shifts slightly, making room, letting Zanka drape entirely over him, holding him close, the world outside the bedroom temporarily irrelevant.

The soft, rhythmic sound of their combined breathing fills the room. The faint hum of the cleaners’ HQ, distant and muffled, seeps through the walls, a reminder of normalcy, but here, in this chaotic intimacy, neither cares. Jabber’s hand traces lazy, absent patterns across Zanka’s back as he lets himself sink into the rare, quiet comfort.

Minutes stretch into hours without time feeling real. The warmth of the bed, the scent of soap and sweat, the gentle press of Zanka against him, all coalesce into a bubble of fragile calm. Jabber knows that soon enough, the morning will come, the cleaners will stir, and the world outside this room will demand their attention.

But for now, he lets himself stay. Zanka is soft in his arms, marked, warm, exhausted, and completely trusting in this rare, private moment. And Jabber—chaotic, relentless, unpredictable Jabber—leans into it, allowing himself a brief reprieve, holding Zanka against his chest, and letting the quiet wash over them both.

Eventually, even Jabber’s mischievous grin fades into relaxation. His eyes close slowly, hand resting lightly on Zanka’s hip, chest rising and falling beneath him. Zanka nuzzles slightly against him in his sleep, murmuring softly, “…Mm… stay…”

And so they drift together, tangled and warm, two chaotic souls finding solace in one another, letting the night—and the quiet intimacy—carry them into a fragile, contented sleep.

The rest of the world can wait. Tonight, for once, it’s just them.