Tarrot_cr0wCard
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Summary
The literal incarnation of Jabber's soul is a beauty of sharpness and poison. Mankira. Mankiller. Ten silver rings, ten deadly claws.
He thinks it's fitting.
Jabber likes pain, both when it's inflicted on him and when it's plainly visible in another person. He likes fighting, tearing people apart, seeing how they break on him. He likes it even more when he loses, when he's the one with blood in his teeth and holes in his body. He was made for it, for making it happen and for enjoying it.
And yet—
“It’s funny, man, sum light petting ‘n yer already coming undone, ain't ya?” Zanka laughs again, lips tracing the lines of Jabber's jaw, making him tilt his head higher and higher in an honestly lame attempt to escape the ministrations. On Zanka's shoulders, his hands busy themselves clinging to the Cleaner's shirt, twisting and pulling at the fabric like a lifeline. He wants to move, to escape. He also wants to wiggle himself into Zanka's bones, carve a place in the middle of his ribcage and curl up there like a cat in the sun. “Yer so cute,” Zanka purrs, “unbelievable.”
Or,
Jabber, belonging, and Zanka.Bookmarked by Tarrot_cr0wCard
15 Aug 2026