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Zanka practically throws himself out of Mankira's path landing in a fumbling version of his battle stance. Jabber can't hide his disappointment as he meets Zanka halfway. I'd been ages since they last fought and all he'd gotten were weak-handed attacks.
Jabber had to figure out what happened to the guy after their last fight, did he lose his edge? Did the hallucinogen fuck him up so badly he was playing it safe. Jabber scoffs as Zanka charges forward with trembling eyes.
Zanka zones in on Jabber's left foot, he spins Assistaff overhead before slicing down with enough strength to cave in a wall. Jabber dodges with ease, then charges into an opening at Zanka's left. Then—like something out of a movie—Zanka pulls a twisted expression that has the corner of his grin phasing past his cheek. His frenzy-like demeanor switches out for powerfully calculated aggression. Jabber quirks an eyebrow as Mankira whiffs past Zanka's shoulder.
Zanka watches Jabber stumble then, slams Assistaff into Jabbers side. Jabber follows Assistaff's path and sputters out a laugh.
"Zanka! You did aaall that so you could try and break my rib again?!" Jabber can't dodge from this close so he moves with the attack to lessen the impact, but he's still mid-fall with no ground for support. "Is that your favorite move or something?"
"So what if it is?" Zanka's formation changes drastically into something more familiar, "Yer' not scared of another broken rib, are ya'?" Zanka uses the crook before Assistaff splits into its jaws, to guide Jabber into his fist. The punch rams into Jabber's jaw, and Jabber almost bites off his tongue, when did he move like that? He rattles a laugh as he lifts his blades down on the staff user.
Zanka proceeds to dodge both sets of claws that cascade down, like Jabber wasn't trying to hit him.
The crazy bastard, keeps his hook on Jabber's waist and maneuvers Assistaff to spin him around then slam him into the ground.
Zanka must have planned this from the start. Lulling Jabber into the rhythm of the fight so he could turn the tides to his favor once he dropped his guard.
Its so fucking impressive, so strategically reckless, and so Zanka, Jabber wants to give the guy a pat on the back for dishing out those attacks so deliciously. Not yet though. Zanka has more than enough skill to one up that attack, Jabber would hold onto his praises for once he's been thoroughly mangled.
Jabber skids through trash and dirt before crashing into rubble, "Oh, that's good, but it ain't gonna keep me down buddy—" Jabber palms the dirt leaning into a back flip, only for Zanka to run over and snatch his ankle. Jabber watches Zanka crush it into the ground, he grits out a cry when his ankle twists and lifts a hand to send Mankira down on him.
Zanka, still cool-headed, anticipates Mankira and defends accordingly. This time he doesn't just deflect Jabber's claws he catches both of them in Assistaff's teeth and mounts her into the ground, holding Jabber's arms above his head. "Damn! What the fuck!" Jabber whines as Zanka springs over him and presses his shins onto Jabber's thighs and knees with practiced technique.
Zanka snarls at him, "seems it was enough to keep ya' down, shithead!" His pupils dilate when he looms over Jabber, he stares into his magenta irises like the pressure alone would be enough to gouge them out of his sockets. Jabber squeaks out broken giggles and squirms against his hold, but like a solid anchor, Zanka doesn't even flinch.
"Shit, Zanka, you cooked up this big ole plan and I made it tooo easy." Jabber's tendons are screaming with his arms twisting uncomfortably over his head. His fussing wrists drag and catch on Assistaff's teeth. If he squirms anymore he'd poke spike shaped holes into his wrists.
Zanka pays his struggle no mind, simply pressing Assistaff farther into the ground till his wrists are snug between her spikes and the dirt. He leans in closer, watching him with fierce intensity.
Jabber drowns in the deep hatred pooling in Zanka's eyes and wets his lips at all the horrors Zanka could inflict on him. He could only imagine how Zanka would wring calloused fingers around his neck with the same tight grip he held that staff. Jabber would be thrashing around like crazy while Zanka cut off his air flow. The real him he suppresses would come forth and spit, sweet, sound barrier breaking symphonies into Jabbers face. In his fantasy, Zanka would go on infinitely, until ethier Jabber went deaf or Zanka lost his voice, whatever came first.
For Jabber, well, he would fight through it all. He'd desperately pry his life back from Zanka's greedy fingers, palming his wet dick at the same time. As close as he can get to pure ecstasy.
Zanka makes a decision. Jabber can tell by the way the fire in Zanka's eyes flare and he sees the same things he saw in Zanka the day they first met; a mix of anger, resentment, and an unsatitable hunger. Jabber rapidly shifts and fusses, his excitement overflowing as he eagerly awaits his fate. This was the reason he spared him all those months ago, so he'd reign all hell on him, and return the favor back ten fold.
Zanka finally bridgs the gap, hardening his expression into cinched eyebrows and upturned lips—it seems irritation is one of Zanka's permanent facial features. Jabber goes to voice the teasing comment, but his voice gets caught in his throat when Zanka swarms his vision and there's a sudden brush of warmth.
Jabber goes cold, he loses connection like a news report playing on an old box tv.
The soft, ghost of a touch, dances across Jabber's lip and makes him curl in on himself like a dying roach. Zanka ignores his shuddering, to release a shallow breath and press deeper into the kiss he's planting on the side of Jabber's lower lip. Heat blossoms and Zanka pulls back a little to plant another to his upper lip.
Jabber's thoughts cease and he's left with a blaring signal in his brain flashing on and off like a patrol car, telling him something was claiming his lips, a kiss.
Not even claiming—but burning. The fire that festers in Zanka is derived not purely from his goals, but his very being. It's like he was born in the stiffling heat of his fury, not a mothers womb. Carrying a heart that pumps molten lava into every artery, not blood.
Zanka drums his fingers against Jabber's cheek, just grazing him, yet it feels like he's brushing up against a hot pan. He flinches, then instinctively reaches for Mankira only to be stopped by Assistaff. Even with Mankira being so close Zanka isn't threatened by her, he continues to explore the contours of Jabber's face, drawing lines, trailing over his lips, and kissing him where his fingers linger.
Under normal circumstances, simply restraining him wouldn't immobilize him this effectively. Jabber's movements wouldn't read like the small desperate twitches that they are, and his jaw wouldn't be locking up so tight he'd think his molers were glued together.
This was so different to what he was used to. It was a disorienting thing that stopped any plans of escape from coming to fruition. What really fucks him up is how painful it is, and that should be a good thing— Jabber derives pleasure from pain— but the sweltering warmth snaking through every one of his soft presses, peel back with steam, as if branding him.
Zanka trails kisses down his cheek and neck, chucking Jabber's choker elsewhere to clear his path. He licks and slobers all over him, but doesn't bite or suck his skin. He doesn't leave a single mark from his attacks, no visible evidence, but Jabber can still feel them. The warmth sinks under his skin and enters the deep visera of his soul, what Zanka brands on him is permanent.
Zanka's tongue laps his cheek and Jabber turns away, finding his voice again. "If you don't get your slobbering mouth off of me…" Jabber's words muffle when Zanka's lips lock his, Zanka doesn't register Jabber speaking, his attention is purely focused on imprinting Jabber's taste into his palate. He dips a soft tongue into his now open mouth, brushing his teeth, "…ugh, damn you, i'll kill—"
Zanka clicks his tongue, tipping his head back showing his scowl, "yer' so damn irritating, it can't be that hard to shut the hell up now can it!" Zanka's voice is dripping with venom. It's the shitty attitude Jabber knows so well, it brings him back into his body in a weird grounding way.
If only his words matched up with his actions. Even as he reprimands, his fingers never dig into him, he pierces nor skin or bone. Zanka cups him like he's fragile, like he would break if held on too tight—he couldn't wrap his head around it. Zanka should know by now that Jabber could withstand more than most people could. Being slammed into multiple layers of concrete, and crushed under solid earth, wasn't near enough to kill him. (How could Zanka's soft fingers and lips seem more lethal?)
Jabber tosses his head side to side and Zanka huffs, Feeling for the snaps on Jabber's vest and going back to kissing his neck, stopping right below his collarbone.
"You're foul—rotten! I thought you wanted a fucking fight—" Zanka's new solution to shuting Jabber up is pressing into his lips. Jabber slams his mouth shut, glaring at Zanka with wild intensity, ain't no way he's sticking his tongue into his mouth again. Jabber clamps down on the taste of whatever was on Zankas tongue, it's sugary. Probably one of those sweets the Cleaners were always being gifted. Jabber didn't hate sweets, but most of the time they were more sugar than anything else, it was sickening. It's half the reason he prefers spicy food.
The taste trails down his tongue and it's like the time he ingested battery acid, all pain and little reward—at least Zanka saliva won't burn holes into his stomach.
Zanka sucks on Jabber's lip and pulls back with a pop. He looks down at him panting, shallowly taking in air with a strangled expression that edges morbid curiosity. Then he thumbs Jabbers collarbone finding a spot at his exposed sternum to kiss at, and oh god, did Zanka get warmer? Cause every touch there blazes like a furnace and stays hot even after he presses elsewhere. Jabber's words died in his throat and a soft groan brushes past his lips. His heart drops to the pit of his stomach and his body instinctively begins to thrash against his restraints. The Cleaner's expression sours instantly.
Jabber can't scrounge up a laugh at Zanka's expression. He doesn't think humor or staying under these restraints is within his capacity right now. The heat from Zanka's touches—the sweet caresses that should never have hit his skin—made heat pool in his belly. The warm, searing, sensations spread through his body pervasively like an infection, eliciting a reaction reserved for the satisfaction of being assaulted by another's blade. Not for romantic, sweet touches from Zanka.
Zanka's disgusting affection started to feel…good.
"Hey, stop—RELAX—another minute then I'm done, fuck." Zanka grumbles.
Jabber keeps shuffling, he spits out yet another strangled scream, "Oh?!" He grinds his teeth as he continues, " I ain't gonna sit pretty, ya' foul mouthed, stick slinging, man kisser!"
"Ack—the hell'd ya' call me, Fenty kruger!" Zanka growls back, finding balance overtop Jabber's wobbling form.
Zanka barely contains Jabber, he crushes down on him and leans in even closer with aggression. And still, his lips don't rush. They slide like butter against Jabber's adamns apple, his tongue draws into his skin like writing poetry, his calloused finger feel against Jabber's faded scars on his forearm, and it takes Jabber everything to supprese the moan thats right under his lips.
Before it becomes too much Zanka pulls back his expression still hard, but his blush spreading under the collar of his shirt. He hastily wipes his sleeve against his lips and shakes his head to himself, smoothing out the creases in his uniform.
"Damn it, I'm fucking finished now." Zanka says, but doesn't move from his position, he massages his temples and sighs." I'm an asshole for springing onto ya' alright, I just needed ta' test something, and I got my answer," he raises his hands in surrender, "I'm sorry, and it won't happen again!"
"Oh, fuck you!" I'm sorry, and it wont happen—what kinda half assed apology was that. Forcing him into his bullshit experiment, and kissing him like he was someone special, someone that needs warm hands for protection—it makes him wanna hurl.
Zanka thinks over himself again and resolutely sighs,"I guess I should also apologize for what I'm about to do. You get it, can't have ya' following me back home."
Jabber watches Zanka pull back his fist before ramming it into the side of his head. Jabber's vision swims then straightens out to catch Zanka slamming another fist into his other cheek.
Jabber can't see anything but smears of gray and glowing cerulean as Zanka punches him. He can't hear much ethier, but he knows he's laughing and yelling up a storm, goading Zanka to keep going, to put his back into it, make it hurt, make it deep, make it—
—those burn marks in the shape of Zanka's lips color deep within Jabber's visera. It's not enough to bruise over those marks, he needs to pull them out from the root.
Jabber speaks up over the noise that are his thoughts and the blaring signal in his mind that is still flashing red.
"You will—" Zanka dosen't let Jabber speak, he sends another punch into the side of his nose, "—dig out those brands with your nails—" another one,"—Zanka, I promise you will—" another, "—take that garbage back."
Zanka continues to shower down punches for what feels like ages before the last punch rings through Jabber's skull and the rest of his body twitches numbly. Zanka will tear out those feelings he burned into him and crush them till they flutter away like ash from a dying flame…
…then Jabber will bury those ashes so he can deny what tearing those brands out really means.