Chapter Text
Red spills from the corner of Jabber's mouth, dribbling in a thin, wet line down his chin and throat. Zanka watches it, breathing hot into his own cup.
“Clumsy,” he murmurs, mouth thick with wine and want.
Jabber's smile is wicked. He runs the cuff of his sleeve up his throat, red stains blooming on the white lace like poppies.
“If I didn't know better, I'd say you got me wine drunk on purpose,” Jabber says, then drains the rest of his cup with one swift movement.
Zanka snorts. “It is most definitely the other way around.”
Jabber's smile widens. “Was I successful?”
“Well, I seem to have lost control of my tongue, so I'd say so.”
“I’ve always thought you are too guarded around me,” Jabber says. The decanter reflects shards of firelight when he reaches for it, topping both their glasses up to the rim. “I like this new honesty much better.”
“I'm not a dishonest man.” Zanka tastes his own indignance, and washes it away with another sip. “If anything, I'm too blunt for most people's tastes.”
Jabber leans across the gap between them, rests his elbow on the velvet arm of Zanka's chair. Jabber is the human here, and yet Zanka can't help feeling preyed upon by the sharp, hungry light in his eyes. His pulse quickens.
“But you hide, don't you, Zanka?” Jabber croons. “Lying by omission is still lying.”
“Tell me, then, if you're suddenly such an expert in my life—what exactly do I hide that makes me so dishonest?”
Jabber props his chin on his hand. When he laughs, Zanka can taste him on the air, wine and delicious warmth. His mouth waters.
“Your fangs, for one.”
Zanka stares at him, at the smile he knows to be a dare, a knife in the ribs to try and galvanise him into action, and knows he's already lost; he can't refute Jabber's statement.
What he can do, the wine whispers to him, heady and sweet, is rise to meet Jabber's challenge in whatever form it takes.
The press of his fangs descending makes Zanka's head spin. He tilts his chin up fractionally in an expression of defiance that makes Jabber crow with delight, then lets his mouth draw into a slow, wide smile, lips parting with a tiny smack. He feels naked like this, fangs exposed to Jabber's unhesitating interest.
“Zanka,” Jabber breathes, leaning forward so the chair creaks with his weight. “They’re even prettier than I imagined.”
Vampires cannot blush, but Zanka feels the ghost of heat in his cheeks. “Spent a lot of time imagining my mouth, have you?”
Jabber grins, catlike. “Darling, you have no idea.”
Desire tears through Zanka like a wildfire. He feels it tip his lids heavy over his eyes, sees it reflected in the black of Jabber’s pupils, tastes it like the black fruit and spice of wine on his tongue.
“Jabber—”
“Let me see,” Jabber cuts in. “Won’t you? Let me look at them properly, up close.”
Zanka is sure he has concerns about this, but then they’re moving to the thick rug in front of the fire, knee to knee as they drain the last of the wine from the decanter, and he has no more room to think because Jabber’s large, warm hands are on his face, coaxing his lower jaw to drop, thumbing at his upper lip.
“God.” Jabber’s voice is bright and husky, his gaze intent on Zanka’s fangs as he tilts his head from side to side. “God, Zanka. They’re so perfect, so sharp—if I had teeth like these I’d be biting myself every day just to feel them break skin.”
Saliva pools at the sides of Zanka’s tongue, gathering at the corners of his mouth. He tries to swallow, mouth open and throat clicking wetly, but it doesn’t help much. Jabber’s thumbs slip under his top lip. Zanka tries very hard not to groan.
“Does that feel good?” Jabber runs his thumbs along the top row of Zanka’s teeth, pausing to press on the shiny surface of his fangs. “Your face says it feels good.”
Zanka’s eyes flutter. “Ngh—” he manages, before realising how redundant it is to try and speak with Jabber handling his jaw.
“Really, that good?” Jabber’s breath is hot on his face. “They feel good to me too, but I’m sure they’d feel even better buried in my flesh.”
Wine and desire and hunger make Zanka sway under the force of Jabber’s excitement. He reaches for Jabber, grasps thick handfuls of his shirt to keep himself steady. Even with his hands fisted he can feel the thud of Jabber’s heart, the pulse of his bloodstream, the quick huff of his breath.
Jabber’s thumbs press harder, as though testing Zanka’s gums. A groan tears from Zanka’s throat, fangs aching deliciously with the almost-enough pressure, and he hears Jabber’s breath catch in a delighted sound.
“Please,” Jabber whispers, glee shivering on every syllable. “Please tell me this is—”
Lightning quick, he runs the pad of one thumb down Zanka’s fang, collects the bead of venom Zanka knows must be trembling there, and pulls away to stare at it. Zanka works his suddenly freed mouth.
“Venom,” he croaks. “Don’t—”
Jabber sticks out his tongue and presses his thumb to it, gratification shining from his expression. Zanka shudders. The venom isn’t as potent like this as it is in the bloodstream, but even so he knows Jabber must feel the slight numbing, the cool tingle of it on his tongue.
“Delicious.”
“Jabber,” Zanka whispers, aghast, and then abandons language entirely.
Jabber’s mouth is still open when Zanka pulls him in, hauling on his shirt until their lips crash together and he tastes his own venom on Jabber’s tongue. Jabber groans, cradling Zanka’s face, their mouths slick and hot against each other.
There is no gentle exploration, no easy slide into intimacy. Jabber kisses without restraint, searing the air from Zanka’s lungs, his clear enjoyment drawing out every bit of Zanka’s hunger until they're practically devouring each other. Zanka hooks his arms over Jabber’s shoulders to pull him in closer, and they fall back onto the rug.
Jabber kisses the corner of Zanka’s mouth, licks messily along his bottom lip, pets up his stomach and chest. Head spinning, Zanka gives as good as he takes. Jabber is deliciously warm, his body soft and firm and heart-thuddingly human under Zanka's cool hands.
“Do you know,” Zanka pants, “how foolish it is to kiss a drunk vampire?”
Jabber laughs, hair casting long shadows across the ceiling as he tosses it to one side. The movement exposes the long column of his neck, bared by the open laces of his shirt. His knees settle either side of Zanka's waist.
“Why? In case you bite me?”
Zanka props himself up on his elbows, every muscle in his body warring between being loose with pleasure and tight with restraint. He wants to kiss Jabber again, to taste the animalistic nature of his enjoyment. He wants to bite him.
He swallows hard, tries to look stern. “Exactly. You don't wake sleeping lions, and you don't tempt vampires.”
Jabber shrugs, and his shirt slips more to one side. He grins. “Those are my two favourite pastimes, actually.” His eyes burn like coals, hooded with lazy enjoyment. “Now which are you, my friend? Lion, or vampire?”
Zanka could blame it on the wine, on the ancient hunger that burns in his bones, on Jabber’s goading, but he knows the truth. It is pure, uncontrolled want that makes him sit up, wrap an arm around Jabber’s waist, and sink his fangs into the meat of his neck.
Blood wells up immediately. Zanka inhales sharply, eyes fluttering as it spills across his tongue, warm and intoxicating. Jabber laughs and then quickly groans, head lolling to the side as if to give Zanka better access.
“Fuck, Zanka.”
Long fingers curl in the back of Zanka’s hair, fisting tight as he presses teeth and tongue in, lapping at Jabber’s skin, at the beads of blood spilling past Zanka’s fangs. He hasn’t bitten deep enough to do real damage, but the effect is still the same. It’s better than any wine.
Zanka releases his fangs, lapping at the two puncture wounds left behind. Jabber’s pulse beats strong under his mouth.
“You taste incredible,” Zanka mumbles without thinking.
The sound Jabber makes is something like a purr, needy and pleased and rumbling against Zanka’s chest. “I want—” he says, and crooks a knuckle under Zanka’s chin, lifting his face into a kiss.
It’s greedy. Jabber licks his own blood off Zanka’s lips and moans like it tastes good to him too, like he can feel the euphoria and satisfaction Zanka does. They kiss like it’s impossible to stop, like breathing is secondary to tasting each other’s lips, licking into each other’s mouths. Jabber is strong and lean in Zanka’s lap, thigh muscles flexing as they push and pull at each other.
“Again—again.”
Zanka is helpless to deny Jabber’s demand when he wants it just as much. He groans, licks a stripe up Jabber’s throat, and sinks his teeth in again. Jabber’s blood is hot, more delicious than anything he’s ever tasted. This time, head spinning with the depth of his desire, Zanka sucks, drawing mouthfuls of Jabber’s blood and holding tight as he shudders and moans.
He doesn’t realise he’s moving until their positions are suddenly reversed. Jabber falls back, head hitting the rug with a dull thud, Zanka’s fangs still buried deep in his neck. It takes every last scrap of Zanka’s sense to unlatch his teeth and pull back.
“God,” he pants, mouth wet and bloody. “God, Jabber—”
He cuts off with a vicious curse. Jabber’s eyes are wide and glazed, his pupils blown so wide they’re like black pits pulling Zanka in. His expression is slack, mouth open in an ecstatic, drooling smile.
Zanka inhales sharply. “Fuck.”
“Why’d you stop?” Jabber slurs. He fumbles for the back of Zanka's head, tries to pull him back in. “Don’t stop yet.”
“No, enough. Enough!” Zanka scrambles backwards, putting space between them. Self-reproach is sour in his mouth; he’d told himself he wouldn’t do this. “It’s too dangerous, I won’t do it, I—”
“But isn’t that the whole idea?” Jabber sways upright, legs splayed out in front of him, blood smeared across his neck. “I don’t see the problem here—you want to devour me, and I wish to be devoured.”
He is such a temptation that Zanka has to physically turn his head away. His mouth waters, desperate to taste Jabber’s blood again, to feel his pulse against his tongue. He swallows, suddenly sick to his stomach.
Zanka stumbles to his feet. “No,” he grits. “Enough, Jabber. This is over, and it won’t happen again.”
When he leaves the room he slams the door behind him, not to stop Jabber from following—because little can stop Jabber when he is determined to do something—but as a signal to himself.
He made a mistake tonight, but he won’t ever go back and do it again.