Work Text:
You slowly enter
'Cause you know my room
And then you crawl your knees off
And then you shake my tomb
The creaking of Zanka’s window as it slides open has become a familiar sound to him at this point.
It’s often enough that he’s almost put off when he doesn’t hear it, and he has to wonder why Shikage hasn’t rung the alarm yet.
Jabber is quiet as he slinks into Zanka’s room, the sound of fabric rubbing against itself loud in the quiet of the night. Still, his heart beats louder yet, because he knows this game.
It proceeds as it always does. Jabber makes his slow way to Zanka’s bedside, drawing out the anticipation because he’s always been the dramatic sort. He slinks and slithers and slides along until he’s right there, right where Zanka can feel him, hovering. Because he can't help it, Zanka keeps his eyes shut, knowing that he'll be caught the moment he opens them. They both already know that he’s awake, but Jabber liked the thrill of pretending Zanka wasn’t, and Zanka…
Jabber’s skin tingles. The fabric of his shirt brushing against his arms has him shivering, and he practically trembles with it; he’s so sensitive. Spying the twitch of Zanka’s fingers from where they were, lying flat against the bed as Zanka imitates the dead in a coffin, he steps closer. He knows Zanka can feel him because he can feel Zanka, too. It’s a subtle pull at the base of his stomach, a sharp sting at the base of his neck, the ache in his cheeks as he smiles.
It’s as though he were made entirely of metal, and Zanka was the magnet that kept him from drifting too far, for his hands find their way to the side of Zanka’s neck. He makes sure to press Mankira against the Cleaner’s skin because he knows how much Zanka loves her.
Tenderly, he brushes the back of his hand against Zanka’s neck, over a scar Jabber knows he gave him. His thumb caresses the bobbing lump in Zanka’s throat, another clear indication that his Cleaner was wide awake. Moving his free hand, Jabber places it on Zanka’s other side, leaning over his Cleaner as he lifts himself into bed, shifting to hover over him, and Zanka can ignore it no longer.
Opening his eyes, he finds that they land first on Jabber’s lips, pressed together and pulled up into a grin so sensual that he’s immediately pulled in, irrevocably drawn to Jabber as he always was. The next thing he notices is the unmistakable desire to grab the Raider, to hold the warmth of him against himself, a hook cleaving itself into his chest and dragging him upward.
He can’t help the way his hands make their way to Jabber’s hips, pulling the Raider down so he lands into his lap. He can’t help the way he leans forward, pressing his forehead into the crook of Jabber’s neck and breathing in like he’s been starved of air until now. He can’t help the way his shoulders relax from the tense position he hadn’t even realized they’d taken on. He can’t help the way he melts in Jabber’s arms, which wrap around him and hold him close. The Raider’s hands come up to play with the hair at the back of Zanka’s neck, Mankira’s metal rubbing static into his skin and sparking warmth down the line of his spine.
Zanka can’t help how weak he becomes for Jabber in these late hours of the night, with only the darkness as their witness, a cover for Zanka’s fallibility.
Jabber’s fingers aren’t quite gentle as they thread themselves in Zanka’s hair, catching on little knots Zanka had been too tired to undo before getting into bed and using them to pull Zanka back, away from his neck and forcing his Cleaner to look him in the eyes.
Sticky, suffocating heat clings to the insides of his lungs at the sight of the haziness in Zanka’s eyes, eyebrows drawn together in an expression that Jabber couldn’t name even if he cared to.
Zanka watches him as if it hurt.
Zanka keeps watching him as if it hurt much worse to do anything else.
“Wanna do it again tonight?”
Jabber asks as he always does whenever he sneaks into Zanka’s room, a routine determined purely by his whim. Every time, Zanka makes the mistake of believing that this time, Jabber won’t. Won’t sneak into his room, won’t crawl into his bed, won’t look at him the way he does, won’t ask that treacherous question.
Zanka nods. Jabber’s grin widens, and he pushes Zanka to lie on his back.
“Good.” He croons, low in the tones of his voice and reminding Zanka of a siren. Low wails of noise that grab the attention of anyone nearby and force them to listen; Zanka has been a servant to Jabber’s particular tune from the moment he first heard it. It was meant to be a warning, but Zanka has always been bad at heeding them. “I’ve got somethin’ special just for you this time, Zan-Zan.”
Placing his hands low on Zanka’s stomach, he pushes aside the fabric of his kimono and slides his hands under his Cleaner’s shirt, pushing it up as his hands glide upward. His excitement is obvious—he’s never been good at hiding it—but so is Zanka’s.
Easily mistaken for fear, Zanka’s body has taken on a subtle tremble. The muscles of his abs have tensed in anticipation, and his breathing is stilted—it's stiff and manual, a conscious effort made on his Cleaner’s part. Jabber wonders if Zanka thinks it will help.
Once Jabber deems enough of Zanka’s skin exposed, his shirt pushed up to just under his chest now, he slides his hands back down. He makes sure to do so slowly, just to keep his Cleaner on the edge, because tensing up only makes it worse.
Then, lifting his right hand from Zanka’s heated skin, he unleashes Mankira. His anima glows brightly, and for a brief moment, it illuminates more of Zanka’s room to him, along with the complicated set of Zanka’s brow. He’s conflicted, as he always was in the seconds leading up to this moment.
He wants this. Badly. And that was what was confusing.
They’ve been doing this for quite some time now, yet at this rate, Jabber isn’t sure if Zanka will ever get it.
Oh well. Such turmoil only made Zanka’s reaction all the more entertaining.
Quicker than anything he’s done tonight, Jabber slices a thin cut into Zanka’s side, and the effect is immediate.
Zanka thrashes, his entire body winding tight for half a second before he jerks, jolting Jabber along with him, and it takes effort to keep from giggling the way he wants to. Zanka’s eyes go wide, and he stares straight up at the ceiling, clenching his jaw so tight that Jabber thinks he might crack his own teeth under the pressure of keeping any noise from escaping. The effort impresses him, and he finds himself leaning closer as he takes in Zanka’s face in its entirety, screwed up with pain and the strain of keeping it under control. Sweat dots his hairline, and his eyes seem to bore into the ceiling, then into Jabber when forces them downward, pools of turbulent deep blue waves crashing over each other. The only thing that could make this a prettier picture would be a bit of blood smeared across his face.
Zanka thrashes, yet his hands manage to latch onto Jabber’s hips, and he uses his hold on them as an anchor, a grounding force meant to keep him floating with the pain. Hot and searing, it races through his nerves like melted metal, and he cushions his teeth with his tongue, nearly biting it bloody when the pain seems to kick into second gear. He wants desperately to shut his eyes against it, but he keeps them open, keeps them on Jabber, and manages to keep half a mind on cataloguing the Raider’s expressions.
They catch on the excited glint in Jabber’s eyes, coast across the light flush coating the bridge of Jabber’s nose, and settle once more on the parting of Jabber’s lips, a distraction as they’d always be in these times, but an incredibly welcome one. If not for his incessant want to feel those lips, Zanka isn’t sure his mind would survive these…whatever they were. If there was a trait that ran among all givers, it would be their fervent obsession, whether it be with items or otherwise.
This time, the pain lasts for nearly a minute before it slowly dies off, bringing Zanka a crystal reprieve in the form of his body finally relaxing, and he pants, chest heaving. Finally, he allows his eyes to slip closed, and the darkness of his eyelids is another relief. The third one is the awareness of Jabber shifting on top of him, followed by the warmth of something like a blanket being draped over him, except it was a tad too warm and a little too human-shaped to be so.
Cracking an eye open, he finds Jabber lying on top of him now, an ear pressed to his chest and listening intently to the slowing of his heart from its galloping pace. His hair is splayed out around them, the metal of his gold cuffs seeming to glitter under the sparse moonlight, catching Zanka’s gaze and keeping him focused. He still feels a bit like he wants to drift away—to sleep, maybe—but Jabber’s inhales pressing against his stomach hold him on the very edge of wakefulness. He’s tired, practically being lulled to sleep by the warmth of Jabber’s body against his, but he wants to be awake when Jabber inevitably leaves. He always does after their sessions.
After delighting in Zanka’s perseverance, he’ll press his ear against Zanka’s chest to listen for proof of his wellbeing, then he’ll push himself to sit up before lifting himself off Zanka and disappearing back out of the window he entered through.
“You lasted longer this time, Zan-Zan,” Jabber says eventually, marking the start of his exit. Already, Zanka feels the chill seeping into him. “You’re gettin’ stronger.” Zanka doesn’t respond—can’t, really. All of his energy was going into committing every bit of Jabber on him to memory, as it always did. “So strong.” Jabber continues, not needing an answer. He pushes himself to sit up, marking the second part of his exit as he looks Zanka dead in his eyes and sighs, “My strong Zan-Zan.”
Zanka really can’t help the way he jerks at this, a tug low in his stomach that pulls heat up to his face, and his embarrassment didn’t care about his drowsiness, it seems. Horribly, Jabber’s grin goes soft. Gooey, almost. How terrible it was that he was still so damned mesmerizing.
Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately), it only lasts for another second before Jabber marks the third part of his exit by removing himself from Zanka completely, lifting himself off Zanka’s torso and exiting the Cleaner’s bed altogether.
“I’ll be back later, cool?” Here lies the fourth mark as he slinks back over to Zanka’s window, his grin never wavering. “Try not to miss me too much ‘til then.” And just like all the times before it, Jabber lifts Zanka’s window and, in his next blink, the Raider is gone as if he’d never been there at all.