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"Come on, Zanka, harder," Jabber's breathless pleas mix with music pounding from the apartment downstairs. "Make it really hurt, come on, make it so that I can't sit for a week."
Zanka often wonders how they've come to this. It's been three times, they're currently at the fourth, only their first run-in was accidental. The sex is a lot like their fights, in that Jabber still seems convinced that Zanka is always holding back and going easy on him. The difference is that Zanka has a chance to let him believe it, at least for now. And that he's not getting beat up as well. Jabber's tendencies are laser-focused that way.
Although, maybe if he switched up and tried to hit Zanka, it would be easier to laugh in his face, walk away and not see him again until their respective organizations clashed again. It's impossible to resist when he only wants to get hurt in increasingly brutal ways.
"You're gross," Zanka says, and wow, it's easy to talk dirty like that to someone he actually hates.
But hating someone has never stopped him from trying to impress them before, so he grabs a handful of Jabber's locks and focuses on fucking him that little bit harder.
His hair looks thick and heavy, but it's light, and soft, and very convenient for grabbing and pulling.
"Come on, Zanka, come on, I know you can go harder than this."
Another way in which the sex reminds Zanka of their fights is that Jabber doesn't hold back, at all. He pants, moans, wails, and screams, and makes Zanka anxious that someone will bang on the door any moment now. It's probably why the neighbors are blasting music into the night. Chances are, they're used to it.
It's a part of the reason why he let Jabber take him home. Renting rooms together was making him paranoid. Forget being seen with Jabber — just being recognized at a discreet motel would have killed him.
It's a dark little place, a hole in the wall. The neighborhood looks like one of those places that have been abandoned and reinhabited tens of times, three rows of houses out of town proper, left unprotected from trash storms and people like Jabber. The only source of light is the Raider's purple lantern; if there's any electricity, it probably comes from stolen generators. Zanka tells himself that he's using this little trip for reconnaissance, but it's hard to lie to himself when all he can see is paint peeling off the windowsill that he has Jabber bent over. He can't even tell what color it is. The lantern laying on the floor is making everything purple.
Of course, he thought that it could be a trap. Jabber could flip them over right this second and kill him with his pants down. He's betting on honor among thieves — after all, Jabber's already had three opportunities to blow this whole thing up in Zanka's face, but he never did. The rules to this unspoken agreement are not the same as the ones over the rest of their lives.
Plus, he has a growing suspicion Jabber likes him, in his own fucked-up way. It can't be that hard to go out and find someone willing to hurt a pretty boy who begs for it, but he wants Zanka, specifically. Maybe what he likes is just the thrill of fraternizing with the enemy, who knows. Everything that Jabber enjoys is weird. (With every time, it's getting a little harder to judge.)
"Come ooon," Jabber whines and writhes under him, tied-up hands clenching, sweat mixing between their bodies. "It barely hurts at all… You can do better than that!"
He can't. That was the last bit of stamina Zanka had stored up. He's out of breath already.
Unsurprisingly, Zanka has found himself to be mediocre in bed, as well, but much like in their fights, the way to get a hand up is to get creative.
"Want me to hurt you?" He growls out, as if Jabber had said anything other than that over the past twenty minutes. The truth is, he enjoys taunting him like this. The less comfortable truth would be that he's still trying to make sure he's not doing something absolutely monstrous. "Yeah? Want it to hurt real bad?"
"So bad," Jabber squirms against him. He likes when Zanka gets talkative, too, since he usually doesn't say much during these meetings. "Make it hurt so bad I pass out."
"Suit yourself," Zanka grunts, with more effort than he'd like, and makes use of the fact that he's already got a handful of Jabber's locks.
He pulls his head back until he gasps, gets a better grip, then smacks his face against the windowsill.
"Ow!" Jabber screams, and they've done it enough times for Zanka to know that that's a good thing — relatively, of course. Another way in which the sex is not unlike a fight. "Zanka, that hurt!"
"Thought that's what you wanted." Zanka pounds into him, at a normal pace that maybe he will finally enjoy, if it's while getting his face broken. He'd probably bent over the windowsill hoping for something like that to happen.
"Yes! Yes, do it again!"
Zanka complies, and Jabber whines with delight. The sound goes right to Zanka's dick, drives him to push a little deeper, still, with every thrust, pressing Jabber's face into the surface. Jabber's voice used to be grating to his ears during their fights. If he's completely honest with himself, the reason for his irritation was probably that he'd always been into it.
"That hurts so good. Hurts so good. Come on, do it again."
Zanka pulls at the locks in his fist, takes a second to enjoy the weight of Jabber's head in his hand, and slams it down.
Something cracks.
Zanka freezes. The smell of blood fills the air.
"Ow!" Jabber screams in a wet, nasal voice. "You broke my fucking nose, you freak!"
It is freaky. It's bad, and new. During their previous rendez-vous, Zanka has hit, slapped, bitten, scratched, and choked, but he'd never broken a bone before.
"I knew you had it in you," Jabber laughs, but immediately starts choking on the blood, spilling from his nose down his throat. "You're the real deal, Zanka! A true sadist!"
And maybe he is, because he finds himself wishing Jabber would stop sounding so damn happy and go back to moaning. He pushes his face back into the windowsill, making sure to press his broken nose into its hard surface. Jabber hisses, complains and whines, and Zanka finds himself awfully, deliciously close.
He starts gagging on the blood in his throat, and the brutality of the sound is what does it for Zanka.
He pulls out; he doesn't like finishing inside the other, it still feels oddly intimate. He grabs Jabber, still sputtering and coughing, by his tied-up wrists. He quickly unties the knot and throws him on the floor.
The purple lantern is enough for him to see Jabber's face, covered in his own blood, his nose a darkening spot in the middle, eyes half-lidded and soft with pleasure. He makes quick work with his freed hands and strokes himself, looking Zanka right in the eye, as he mirrors the movement.
It takes Zanka about three strokes to come all over Jabber's ecstatic face, white strings mixing with the dark blood and dripping down his jaw. It doesn't take Jabber much more than that.
"Where do I sleep?," he asks before Jabber's eyes can properly roll back into his face to look at him.
There's only one bed. Zanka should have seen this one coming. He also should have rented a room to sleep in. They're three towns over, and making arrangements to get back to the HQ in the middle of the night would have been way too exhausting and expensive, not to mention suspicious, but there's no way this is the optimal solution.
He doesn't shower — he made a commitment to touch as few things as possible; Jabber will just have to deal with having his sweat on his sheets. Knowing him, he'll probably be sniffing them for weeks, the freak. There's really no right choice about anything in this relationship.
The bed in question is a mattress on the floor, but the sheets are soft and new. Zanka doesn't know what he expected. Definitely something weird and unhygienic. The apartment has its own bathroom, where Jabber has been for a long time now, patching up his face. After a while, he starts making strange, rustling sounds. When Zanka listens closer, he realizes it's the sound of brushing teeth, and that he probably should do that too. What they do together is so bizarre, so out of reality, that the concept of toothbrushes seems as distant as the Cleaners HQ.
This moment feels the most unreal yet. The neighbors have turned down their music, confirming Zanka's suspicion about its purpose. He lays on Jabber Wonger's mattress, while the other quietly brushes his teeth in the bathroom. Existing in the same space as him, peacefully, separately, makes it all seem like a fever dream. It should have been one. This idea should never have made it out of their heads.
There's a clicking sound in the bathroom — a lamp being switched off — then a door creaks, and Jabber reappears in his world.
"Ahh, Zanka, that was so good." He drops down on the mattress, full weight, as he stands, and Janka almost flies up on the other side. "You really went to town on me… Seriously, we should do it more often."
Zanka turns his back to him and waits for something strange to happen. Jabber is bound to still be weird in his sleep.
And sure enough, two strong arms wrap around his middle and pull him close, pressing him against Jabber's bare chest.
"So good. I wish you could beat me up like this for real."
He does it on purpose, to rile Zanka up. He does that sometimes, hoping for a fight, maybe, or that Zanka will at least fuck him again. If Jabber is one thing, it's insatiable.
And sometimes it works, because if Zanka is one thing, it's insecure. He's also nowhere near Jabber's levels of stamina, so he gives up.
"Leave me alone," he mutters in response and peels Jabber's arms away. He resists for a second, fingers tightening in Zanka's clothes, hot breath on his neck, then lets go. He only did it to annoy Zanka. Cuddling doesn't hurt, so it does nothing for him.
Zanka wakes up to the sound of humming.
He opens his eyes to some sort of tapestry on the ceiling, a colorful cloth with circular patterns, and he remembers where he is, to his surprise that he actually slept through the night. He expected to stay awake, waiting for his enemy-lover to pounce, but Jabber politely rolled away to his side of the mattress and left him alone. Zanka laid awake for a while, listening to him breathe through his mouth, but obviously succumbed to exhaustion pretty soon. Probably before Jabber did. Out like a light. Embarrassing.
He checks for Lovely first — still at his side, leaning against the wall — then checks if he can still move every limb, and sits up against the pillows. There's only one small window — the very same one that bore witness to their activities, still covered — but the room is bright. The ceiling is low, like in most building like these, but there's barely any furniture, so it doesn't look cramped. One corner has been separated by a white curtain. Zanka should check what's in there if he wants to keep lying to himself that he's using this for gathering intel. The only thing he would be able to tell about the owner of this room is that he probably moves quite a lot.
Jabber practically skips into the room, still humming to himself, two clay mugs in his hands, white gauze on his nose and a piece of bread with something pinkish-purple, oozing and disgusting spread on it hanging out of his mouth.
It's jelly. Obviously. It's jelly on toast. Jabber doesn't eat mysterious poisonous goo for breakfast.
Zanka knows that he's still in danger, even if his enemy is wearing a t-shirt and shorts and humming under his breath, and that he definitely shouldn't take the mug that's being pushed into his hands. Jabber urges him with a muffled sound, though, and Zanka holds onto it on reflex. It's warm, and full of coffee. And probably all kinds of substances that will guarantee he'll never leave this apartment.
"Rise and shine, baby," Jabber says with his mouth full. "Made you coffee. I can make you something to eat, too. Do you like grape?"
Explains the color of the goo.
"I'm good."
Zanka stares into the cup. It smells like normal, cheap coffee. He also hasn't had anything in his mouth since last night and he's positively parched.
"That's no good, Zanka," Jabber shakes his head, grabs himself a cushion and sits on the floor by the mattress. "You need strength if you want to actually beat me up anytime soon."
Jabber makes himself comfortable; he eats, sips his coffee, and doesn't pay much attention to him. If Zanka were to trust his gut right now, it doesn't feel like he's in danger at all. Honor among thieves, right? He takes a sip of the coffee. It feels heavenly in his dry mouth.
It's what old legends warn against. Even little children know this. If you wander into magic lands, you can never accept food or drink, cause then you might stay in there forever.
Good thing there's nothing magical about this place. It's just someone's apartment. Zanka takes another sip.
He looks at a shirt sleeve spilling out of a drawer, at the lighter and ashtray on the small table where Jabber sits. He spends a long time starting at the tapestry on the ceiling, wondering which part of Ground it came from. He pictures Jabber buying souvenirs on his way back from a raid and the corner of his mouth twitches. He finishes the coffee. If there was something in it, it's bound to knock him out now.
Jabber has finished eating and has been staring at him, probably for some time now.
"You look so surprised." He tilts his head, amused. "Did you expect me to live in a cave with walls oozing with poison?"
"Something like that," Zanka scoffs.
Jabber bursts out laughing.
"Now, that's flattering! Poor Zanka, you really think I'm some kind of evil villain!" Zanka almost opens his mouth to explain how that's literally what he is, but when he laughs like that, wearing just a normal t-shirt, purple lantern abandoned on the floor, somehow, it does sound stupid. "I have to eat and sleep somewhere, you know. I can't survive just off of getting beat up by you."
He crawls onto the mattress, and Zanka has half a mind to put his mug away. He has half a mind to reach for Lovely — and he consciously squashes that reflex. Even when Jabber's hands end up on both of sides, and his bandaged nose almost touches Zanka's.
"As much as I'd love to," Jabber hums, and presses their lips together.
His tongue tastes sour. His mouth is soft and warm. Kissing him feels good, even when the gauze on his nose rubs against Zanka's face. It's arousing. He wouldn't mind staying like that for a while.
"Bite me," Jabber pants into his mouth, impatiently, like Zanka was forgetting his lines.
"You really don't want it unless it hurts, huh." Zanka raises an eyebrow.
Jabber shakes his head. His locks move around his face. It's cute. He's still pretty with a broken nose. He's always quite pretty. Zanka has wondered if he tries to hide it, with the way he acts when he fights, the exaggerated expressions and off-putting comments. If he knows he wouldn't look threatening without it.
Zanka feels many things, but threatened isn't one of them, when he watches Jabber lick his lips. It's worrying. He got into this whole mess promising himself he'd keep his guard up, but he's proving to be no better than any other horny mediocrity on the street. Average in every aspect.
"But neither do you," Jabber continues, drilling holes into Zanka with his big dark eyes, and Zanka takes his lower lip between his teeth before he can say something that will keep him awake at night, more than this whole thing already does.
He scratches, pinches and bites, and Jabber giggles, a high-pitched, elated laugh, like a normal person would if they were being tickled. Zanka doesn't care for the display of joy. He'd seen enough of Jabber looking happy during this stupid parody of a peaceful Sunday morning. He wants to hear him scream.
He reaches for the lighter left on the table, and barely remembers to push Jabber off the mattress so they don't start a fire. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad way to end things between them. Fitting, for sure.
Zanka wishes Jabber wouldn't be so eager to help when he takes his clothes off. He wants to tear them off.
Jabber's skin is littered with scars, some of them white, standing out against the brown, some dark. Most of them are from fights, others are too precise to have been given in battle. It's impossible to guess whether they're self-inflicted or if they came from someone who played a similar role to Zanka. A lot of them are suspicious; the marks and the discolored skin around his buttocks and thighs, on his lower abdomen. Zanka chooses to believe those are from his predecessor, that Jabber had asked for them. Whatever the truth, it's a lot of history for someone who can't be much older than Zanka.
With a flick of the lighter, he decides to become part of it.
Jabber writhes, arches up against the flame, and Zanka pushes him down, holding him in place. It's something about the resistance, something about that tension, that he keeps coming back for. Jabber's wrists strain in his hold, his feet kick against the floor. His eyes flutter closed in bliss when Zanka holds the lighter up to his nipples, his sides, his inner thighs, looking for hairless, sensitive places. He hisses, whines, begs for more when Zanka realizes the scars match the criteria.
Even if it's the only way he can make him squirm, he'll take it.
Strong legs wrap around his back and it's one of those moments when Zanka is made aware that this is all a game, and how easily he could be overpowered, but Jabber is still not here for that. He grinds against Zanka's erection, forcing a groan out of them both. Zanka tosses the lighter aside to free himself from his trousers, for the second time within twelve hours. He's so easy. So average. No better than any other man.
While his wrists are free, Jabber grabs both of Zanka's hands and places them around his throat. It's harder for him to breathe with a broken nose — of course he wants the extra thrill.
Zanka's body sings in pure pleasure when he presses his hands against Jabber's pulse and grinds against his rock-hard dick, because if he didn't want the thrill too, he'd be training at the HQ like he was supposed to. Jabber's hands stay on his, urging him to choke him harder, until Zanka really puts his back into it; then he feels the ring-clad fingers sliding to his wrists, and staying there. He doesn't know why Jabber keeps holding on. Maybe it's to make sure Zanka doesn't let go of his neck.
Zanka adds a rhythm to it, removing the pressure just a little bit before adding more. Jabber makes little choking sounds in the back of his throat and his eyes start rolling back. His hips don't stop, though, meeting Zanka's at a brutal pace, a mess of sweat and pre-cum between them. It doesn't take long until they're both close.
Even if Zanka wishes he was special at least in this one regard, he can still get creative.
There's nothing exaggerated about the whine that leaves Jabber's throat when Zanka punches him in the face, right in the broken bone; or about the orgasm that lifts his shoulder blades off the floor and shakes his body against Zanka's.
While Jabber gets his new, impressive nosebleed under control, Zanka gets ready to go. He takes a peek behind the white curtain, and finds exactly what he expected, but he doesn't have the time to do anything beyond a quick look. He wouldn't even know where to start with the dozens of bottles and vials before Jabber noticed and turned it into a real fight — one that Zanka can't win the way he is right now.
He thinks that he'll just have to take a closer look another time, and almost bursts out laughing, because how typical to have an excuse to come back before he's even out the door. Not even trying to lie to himself that he'll end things anymore. One weird guy noticed him, and now he'll have violent sex with him until they kill each other.
At least if there was anything in that coffee, it would have kicked in by now.
He grabs Lovely — for once, he's glad that she can't talk, because she's become a witness to a lot of questionable things — and heads for the door while Jabber presumably still bleeds over the sink. Zanka doesn't care what he does with the rest of his day. Hopefully nothing more pleasant than Zanka's walk of shame back to the HQ. He's running out of alibis. The excuse of leftover school bureaucracy from way back is really scraping the bottom of the barrel. Riyo already teases him about his secret dates.
His hand is on the doorknob when Jabber's arms wrap around his waist again, firmly holding him in place. All this time spent together, two fights, and he can still sneak up on Zanka with no problem.
"See you next time, darling," Jabber whispers directly into Zanka's ear, and kisses Zanka on the neck.
"What are you— Let me go!" Zanka elbows him in the stomach. Jabber releases him with a chuckle.
"See? You don't want it, either." He tilts his head to the side, the rings in his hair ringing against each other.
"What?" Zanka frowns, rubbing the place where Jabber's lips touched his skin, hoping the other didn't find a new, exciting way to poison him. "What are you talking about?"
"This. Me." Jabber shrugs. "You don't want me unless you can hurt me."
It's such an objectively sad thing to hear, thank goodness the one saying it is Jabber Wonger.
Jabber, with his big, hollow eyes, his collection of suspicious scars and his extreme, obsessive masochism. Jabber, bleeding through fresh gauze over his nose. He looks Zanka down with a smug smile, as if challenging him. To what, to fight him on that? To admit that yeah, he's right, they're both insane perverts, totally made for each other? Shouldn't the things they just did speak for themselves?
Zanka looks at Jabber's bitten lips and thinks about watching him eat. He remembers the sour taste of his mouth, and that technically they had coffee together that morning. That they've shared a bed and nothing bad has happened to him.
An answer to Jabber's provocation appears in his head, uninvited, unthinkable, and exciting.
"Yeah." Zanka can barely hear his own voice through the rush of blood and his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. "You're right."
Jabber waves at him as he leaves, but it's a blur of light reflecting in the rings, and says something, calls him another pet name, but Zanka can't hear it. He rushes outside, tripping over his feet to get out, and at the same time, he feels like he could fly. Like if he just wanted to, he could sprint the whole way to the HQ. It's probably just because he hasn't eaten.
Or there must have been something in that coffee, after all, because Jabber's humming still echoes in his ears when he tries to catch a ride to the next town over.