Work Text:
Jabber wakes up when his bedroom door unlocks with a controlled and decisive click.
It's the sound of Zanka trying hard not to wake him, ironically. But Jabber knows him, knows how he unlocks the door when he's relaxed and knows damn well this ain't it. No, this is the sound of a man who is too tired to rage like he wants to and is settling for the sharp, snappy movements of control.
While Jabber could try to find out what's wrong and comfort him, he… kinda doesn't really care what's wrong, since it’s probably something only Zanka could possibly give a shit about. And he's shit at comfort anyways. But he does care about Zanka, strange as it is sometimes, so he wants to do something.
He's just not sure what. Even after all the time he’s spent getting used to the way Cleaners do things, it’s not like Zanka expects normal gestures of care from him that he can imitate to convey sincerity. Man probably wouldn’t even know what to do with a normal response.
While Jabber is considering all this, Zanka sets Lovely Assistaff against the wall and crawls into bed behind him, boots off but jeans still on, and presses into his back, arm wrapping around his waist tight. Zanka buries his nose in Jabber's bonnet and breathes deep, no doubt trying to smell the eucalyptus of his hair products through the fabric to calm down.
He's too riled up by whatever’s got him angry, though. And with Zanka, anger has two outlets, so intertwined they're basically the same: fighting, and fucking.
This, at least, Jabber knows how to help with.
Jabber himself is too sleepy to start a proper fight, still halfway to dreamland, so he goes for the next best thing and grinds back on Zanka where their hips meet. The denim is deliciously rough against his bare ass; Jabber has been enjoying the man's foray into clothes that aren't based on Kamuatari attire for more than one reason, that's for sure.
Zanka inhales sharply. “You awake?”
“Mm. You’re angry. Take it out on me,” Jabber replies.
“‘M too tired t'play right now,” Zanka mumbles. Despite his words, he's already getting hard.
“So don't. Just stick it in me.” Jabber reads the protest in Zanka’s silence about not wanting to get up and figure out where the lube ended up last night, and cuts him off before he can say it. “You can use the front.”
It's a rare offer, and they both know it. Jabber prefers anal most of the time for a number of reasons.
But he's not awake enough for the vestiges of his dysphoria to rear their head, and for his man he can go without their usual play just this once, even if it'll probably leave him a bit off balance. Not like Zanka ever lets that part linger anyways; he's always chasing it away with his bad attitude.
Fortunately, Zanka knows better than to second guess him. He just groans into the fabric of Jabber's bonnet, undoes his pants, pulls down his briefs, and gets down to it.
He rolls Jabber onto his front and tilts up his hips to expose his cunt, not yet wet. Then he begins to slide his cock through Jabber's folds, obviously watching the way they start to darken with a flush and slick begins to glisten.
“You just gonna stare it at all night, or are ya gonna fuck it?” Jabber asks, voice low with something that's trying to be annoyance.
“Maybe I wanna do both, jackass.” Zanka finally presses the tip to where Jabber's wettest and pushes in achingly slow.
It doesn't hurt, per se. But it is tight, the stretch of Zanka's cock in his underfucked pussy aching. It feels so damn good and he hates it almost as much as he loves it; this shit is why he hardly ever lets Zanka fuck him in this hole.
Zanka's hips slow down as he gets to the thickest part of his cock, and Jabber just knows he's taking a good long look at the way Jabber's pussy is straining to take it. Probably torn between lust and worry knowing him. Jabber wants to tell the Cleaner to stop staring again, to quit stressing and get on with it, but if he opens his mouth he won't be able to hold back the whine caught behind his teeth.
All he can do is try to even out his breathing as his cunt is spread open and his spine is turned to liquid.
“Look at you,” Zanka murmurs, somewhere between angry and horny and reverent. “How can every part of you be this fuckin’ pretty? It's seriously unfair.”
Jabber is just about ready to say something appropriately mocking, getting used to the feeling of his pussy being stretched halfway to breaking, but as he opens his mouth to speak Zanka moves. The younger man pulls out just a bit, spreading Jabber's slick onto his lips, and then slowly, steadily, buries himself to the hilt.
A long, shaky moan falls out of Jabber's mouth instead of a baiting comment.
He feels fucking– cored out. Stuffed. Like Zanka's cock is taking up every bit of space in him, leaving no room for Jabber's mind. The best he can manage is scattered thoughts and a vague sense of. Embarrassment maybe? Fear? Something warm and fluttery that makes him glad he's facedown in the cool satin of his pillow, fingers clutching it in place.
There's an ache deep in his core where Zanka is just slightly too deep, and it's the only thing keeping him tethered. That shadow of almost-pain is the one distraction he has from the heat melting him from the inside out.
He desperately grasps at it when Zanka begins to rock his hips, but it keeps falling out of his reach. Swallowed up by the awful pleasure that's hollowing him out.
Fuck.
Fuck.
It's too good. He doesn't know what to do with it. He needs to kill Zanka now– but no, he can't, Zanka makes everything better– but that's the whole problem–
No, no, no, Zanka is filling him up in too many ways right now, it's too much–
“No?” He hears, as if from underwater. Then he realizes that Zanka has stopped moving, and started to pull out for real.
“NO!” He cries, arching his back to press Zanka back inside. He can't stand how full he is, but being empty would be so much worse. If Zanka leaves him like this he'll kill them both.
He even starts to call out to Mankira, feeling her vicious, offended agreement as pink light blooms in the darkness, but then Zanka slides home again and they let it wither away. The weight of him sits heavy on Jabber's back and in his pussy, almost comforting in its immovability.
For a moment, Jabber is absolutely certain that if he could look down right now, he'd be able to see Zanka through his stomach, stretching him out from the inside. He thinks of reaching down and feeling it, feeling the shape of his lover cradled in his body. Then Zanka begins to move again, in that slow, inexorable roll of the hips, and the thought dissolves.
All he can focus on after that is the pressure inside of him, sweet and overwhelming, coming and going in waves as his cunt clenches beyond his control.
It's too much. It's seriously too much.
Jabber's body is sending him too many unfamiliar signals at once. His mouth is dry but drool is pooling in it. His thighs are raw and sensitive from the denim but wet with his own slick. He's tight but Zanka is sliding in and out smooth as anything.
It has him jerking and squirming and making broken sounds against his will, trying to release some of whatever it is that's building in him.
He thinks, dizzily, that the cliff he's heading towards might be death.
Just as he thinks he's about to burst, Zanka pulls the mass of his locs in his bonnet aside and presses dry lips to his neck. “Doesn't matter to me which hole I use, but I do love how fuckin’ easy for it y'are when I'm in yer pussy.”
A nip at Jabber’s ear.
“Love the way it sucks me in like ya can’t get enough.”
A swipe of his tongue at Jabber’s pulse point.
“Love how ya get so damn overwhelmed ya can't run that smart mouth'a yers fer once.”
Then Zanka bites down hard, and the familiar silver-sharp brilliance of pain unifies every conflicting sensation into an orgasm that wipes everything else from Jabber's head.
It washes over him slow and sweet, liquid heat rising in his belly and then pulling him under, making him squeeze tight and throb around the cock still buried in his cunt. He can’t seem to muffle the loud noises coming out of his mouth, faintly aware even through the white haze over his mind that he sounds like he’s being gutted.
Zanka moans into Jabber's neck, heartbeat fluttering between his sharp teeth. He has to pull away to catch his breath as his hips stutter.
“Fuck–!”
His next few thrusts are hard and fast, pulling out almost to the tip before slamming back in, and each one squelches obscenely with the way Jabber's still twitching pussy is gushing slick.
Jabber can't tell if he's still coming, or if Zanka is just drawing out aftershocks.
He can tell when Zanka comes, though. The younger man spills so deep it feels like it might never come back out, hot and wet and filthy, and moans so long and loud that Jabber's ears go hot with something he can't name.
They lay there for nearly a minute before either of them moves, just panting and waiting for their heart rates to slow.
That shitty awful hollowness begins to creep into Jabber's chest–
(Pleasure can't be trusted unless he's the one chasing it, that's why he's so lucky to love pain. How could he let anyone make him forget that?)
–but then Zanka's bad attitude enters the conversation, and reminds him that Zanka's not just anyone.
“I just fucked ya stupid and came my brains out, and all I can think is that it would've been even better if we'd beat the shit outta each other first. Ya really are some kind of poison.” He kisses Jabber's pulse point. “If y'ever get bored of me and try t'leave me now that ya put all that poison in me, I'll kill us both.”
“Yeah?” Jabber feels warm again at the thought.
“Yeah,” Zanka promises. “I'll put Assistaff’s spikes through yer lungs and watch ya aspirate on yer own blood, and then I'll drink everything in your stash.”
“You'd let your girl touch me where you haven’t?” Jabber asks coyly, turning his head to catch Zanka's eye.
“Wouldja really miss the chance to let her make love to ya one last time, when she likes the taste'a yer blood almost as much as I do?” He replies, left thumb stroking Jabber's hip while his right hand slides up under Jabber's chest to press a broad palm against his sternum.
The threat is implicit, and the image Zanka paints is downright romantic. Jabber giggles.
“Mmf.” Zanka sounds almost pained at the feeling of Jabber fluttering around his mostly-soft dick as a result. He goes to pull out, but Jabber flings an arm behind him to hold him in place.
“Stay,” he demands. He feels raw and sore and overstimulated, and he deserves to luxuriate in that a bit.
There's a doubtful silence behind him, because the few times they’ve done it this way Jabber has wanted as much space as possible afterwards, but he's sleepy and warm and tender in all the right-wrong ways. He's not gonna question what his subconscious wants right now.
After a moment, Zanka relents, trusting Jabber to know what he needs. He resettles on Jabber's back, resting heavy and warm both inside and out.
They both breathe deep and exhale slowly as they relax into the bed. Zanka makes a happy sound, no doubt pleased that Jabber's hair products are doing the job this time.
“Fight t’morrow?” Jabber slurs out, already finding it hard to keep his eyes open.
“‘Course.” Zanka yawns in his ear. “How else ‘m I s'posed t'prove my love?”
That warm, floaty feeling from earlier sweeps through Jabber again. Zanka really is so fucking perfect for him. He thinks, for a split second, of the Jabber he might've been if he'd never given Zanka a second chance, and concludes that that guy's life would suck ass. Current-Jabber is one hundred percent winning that competition.
Content, smug, and just a bit proud of how well he can handle his man, Jabber lets himself drift off into sweet dreams of him and Zanka ripping out their own hearts and exchanging them as tokens of their love.