hello vonnie
Love Begins
ellievsbear
Sweet Seals For You, Always
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
The Stonewall Inn
Doug Jones
Game of Thrones Daily
blake kathryn
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
No title available
taylor price
YOU ARE THE REASON
Not today Justin
EXPECTATIONS
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
#extradirty
shark vs the universe
NASA
roma★
seen from Colombia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from India
seen from Ecuador
seen from Germany
seen from Greece
seen from Mexico
seen from South Africa
seen from Hungary
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Indonesia
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United Kingdom
@handsanitizer69
janka stalker x stalker au comic! full under the cut :D
hi there, party people! cheeky little update: this au has a fanfic now!
you can read it here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90149516/chapters/239596421
im a liiiittle nervous posting this because i haven’t written fic in years, but im giving it my all ^^ i just wanna continue to build up this au cause it tickles my brain so good :p
Fanart for Metallurgic Engineering(https://archiveofourown.org/works/87146421)
@hotghostmentality
scene from “There for you whenever” by @sickficideas fanart
sum jabs & ft lil zannie
details
(i rlly like these ones guys im finally winning)
sum jabs & lil zannie
“stuck in my head”
And then Jabber proceeded to absolutely beat Zanka's ass into the dirt
Thinking about Jabber's masochism.
His masochism is definitely heavily dependent on the idea of losing, he gets excited to be hurt because the pain means he lost, but from the aspect of trauma: he definitely was still likely physically abused. It's highly likely with his behaviors, and physical abuse, especially from those that are supposedly supposed to love you, like parents or a romantic partner can rewrite the way you view violence as a love language.
Jabber has a high likelihood of viewing violence as a love language. Every swing and bruise as a proof of their love.
He falls so quickly for Zanka and grows that obsession because Zanka was so *eager* to show his love for Jabber. He didn't shy away when Jabber wanted to play together all over again. Zanka's perfect for him, he just knows how to show his love for Jabber just the way he needs.
Jabber falling deeper into his masochism and pleading and begging for Zanka to hurt him, to leave bruises and scars, to *love* him. Zanka unable to help but to fall into the sick hate-love-lust that Jabber welled up within him that he couldn't ever tell where one started and the next ended, unable to help giving Jabber just want he needed, enable to grow addicted to his perfect little outlet that did nothing but beg for more, more, more.
everyone is allowed to make bad art. not me tho.
i took the xanax that makes me draw beat up jankas
*coughs so hard I shit myself*
Isn’t it so romantic how we’re all here rn…?
i absolutely love flustered jabber you dont understand
Zanka stitching up a wound on Jabber’s side (GINE WRONG GONE SEXUAL) ok people eat up. Warning this is not beta’d at all and also kind of rambly because I was drunk while writing half of it. Pay no mind ok just enjoy the show I guess
Warnings for blood/injury and mild dubious consent?? Perhaps?? And woundfucking briefly
—
We’re gonna get caught, is the first thought that goes through Zanka’s head as he flicks on the lights to the infirmary.
For some reason, Jabber is incapable of being quiet in any capacity—his entrance was loud, tumbling into Zanka’s window with the coordination of someone eight drinks deep, and his breath was the opposite of quiet as Zanka kissed him, pulling him onto his bed after chewing him out.
The sound he made when Zanka wrapped an arm around his waist, accidentally digging into the palm-sized gash on his side he conveniently forgot to mention? Downright pornographic. It will live in Zanka’s head for the rest of his life—rent-free, probably. That doesn’t also mean that it was discreet enough to not wake up half the fucking floor, because it wasn’t.
Thankfully no one came to investigate, all the bedroom doors remaining closed as Zanka dragged Jabber’s shirtless, groaning body down the hallway to the infirmary.
“Are you actually fucking incapable of shutting up?!” Zanka whispers harshly, setting Jabber down as gently as possible because jostling him too much means he will moan again. “There’s something actually wrong with you.”
“You love it,” Jabber croaks, and then launches himself into a fit of giggles that taper off into another one of those breathy groans. Great. He’s probably high off his ass, too. Zanka moves around the infirmary, gathering medical supplies on a steel tray.
“Wrong. I hate you. And stop fuckin’ moving, you’re makin’ it worse.”
Jabber’s wound is about the length of Zanka’s hand and deep, starting at his navel and stretching up the side of his torso on an angle; most of the blood is being caught by Jabber’s now ruined shirt that Zanka instructed him to keep pressed to the injury. Still, it’s in a place with a lot of muscle groups, so keeping still is ultimately the best way to ensure that Jabber doesn’t, you know, bleed the fuck out.
Jabber doesn’t speak anymore after that, but his breathing is loud, interspersed with low moans that Zanka tries his best to ignore.
Suture thread, needle, forceps, gauze, saline, isopropyl alcohol.
Zanka snaps on a pair of gloves—because if he’s gonna do this, he’s gonna do this the right way—and turns back to Jabber, who’s eyes are rolled halfway back in his head with a wide, listless grin spread across his face.
What a great day to be a masochist, Zanka thinks, and sits down on Jabber’s thighs so he can’t move his legs. The sudden pressure seems to make him come back to reality, his head perking up as Zanka sets the tray down next to him as softly as he can.
“Listen to me,” Zanka starts, looking into Jabber’s eyes because as much as he plays around, Jabber knows when Zanka needs him to be serious. There’s a light sheen of sweat on Jabber’s forehead and he looks dazed as he nods slightly.
“You ain’t gonna move while I’m touchin’ you, y’hear me?” He waits until Jabber nods again. “And you are goin’ to keep quiet, unless you want all of Cleaner HQ on yer’ fuckin’ ass.”
Biting his lip with some mixture of submission and excitement swirling in his gaze, Jabber nods one last time.
“Good. Lemme see it.”
Jabber’s bloodstained shirt comes away as he stops holding, and Zanka gets a good look at the wound under fluorescent lighting:
It’s straight. Which is good, but it’s also long, meaning that it’s gonna take a while to suture up. The wound bleeds sluggishly, flow partly tamped by the pressure, blood sliding in slow streams over Jabber’s torso and landing on the floor. The surrounding area is red, not only from the blood staining it, but irritation that brings a dark flush to Jabber’s skin.
Zanka swallows.
Do not lick it.
Truth is, Zanka’s always had a little bit of an oral fixation. And that’s fine, people are into whatever they’re into—but being with Jabber has made it exponentially worse, what with the biting and the hickeys and the…occasional rimjobs he always seems to be giving. Its instinct to have his mouth on Jabber at this point, and Zanka has licked over more open wounds than he can count.
And the worst part? He knows Jabber would like it if he stuck his tongue in that gash. He’d love it actually; writhing in pleasure as the agitation spills the taste of copper into Zanka’s mouth, hands fisted in Zanka’s hair the same way he does when Zanka’s tongue is in his—
—Okay. That’s enough.
Zanka chalks the heat crawling up his spine and the saliva pooling in his mouth as a Pavlovian response, and gets to work.
—
He has to stop five minutes in. Jabber’s heavy breaths turn into tiny moans and whines, and the wound is barely sterile when Jabber can’t be quiet anymore, a long low, groan slipping past the fist he has jammed in his mouth when Zanka presses an alcohol pad to it.
“You’re unbelievable,” Zanka hisses to him, pulling back and dropping his tools back onto the tray. He pulls off his gloves with a snap, throwing them somewhere behind him as he runs an irritated hand through his hair.
“ ‘m tryin’,” Jabber says, whiny but completely unapologetic. His eyes keep fluttering open and shut, trained on the ceiling. “Hurts—“
“I know, you degenerate—“
“Feels so good, Zanka, I can’t—“
“Shut the fuck up.” This isn’t gonna work. The longer Zanka keeps going, the louder Jabber is going to get. He picks up Jabber’s discarded shirt, turning it around in his hands to find the (mostly) dry side. “Y’know what? Open your mouth.”
Jabber does, obediently, and Zanka stuffs the fabric in there as tightly as he can, only acknowledging the way Jabber’s hips buck up under him to push them back down again. He takes the bottle of disinfectant, pours some on his hands, and picks up the surgical needle and thread.
“Do not move,” Zanka tells him, and Jabber responds with a faint hum, his free hand palming Zanka’s thigh now that he’s not using it to muffle himself anymore. His thumb rubs along Zanka’s inner thigh. “And tap out if ya need a break.”
The first few sutures go fine. Zanka gives his undivided attention into making sure they’re straight and even, touching as little of the needle as possible even though nothing about this is sterile anymore. Jabber squirms a bit every time Zanka pulls them taut—the sound he makes muffled by the shirt in his mouth—but it’s manageable, and Zanka can still him by holding him down.
Halfway through is when things start to fall apart. The stitches are fine, even and correctly tensioned because Zanka was tedious about it, but Jabber’s reactions do start to take a toll on him.
Zanka feels his dick strain against his pajama pants as he pulls on the surgical thread. Be for real—how could he not get hard when the guy he’s been fucking for six months is spread out under him, moaning like he’s getting railed?
It’s not my fault, Zanka tells himself, but his focus is starting to waver, arousal clouding his judgement as he pierces the needle through Jabber’s flesh again. He does it slowly, making sure that the exit point matches the first fifteen he did evenly on both sides. Jabber’s stomach muscles jump, and he groans, digging his nails into Zanka’s thigh.
“Stay still,” Zanka whispers, his voice a little hoarse. “Halfway done, ‘kay?”
Jabber throws an arm over his eyes and breathes harshly through his nose. Zanka continues his ministrations, going a little slower on the next suture; watching how Jabber’s hands clench, relishing the sound that escapes the cloth shoved between his teeth. His raider uniform bottoms are too thick to see anything, but Zanka knows that Jabber’s hard too—probably has been since the moment Zanka put a hand on him.
He tightens the surgical thread a little rougher this time, and Jabber’s back arches the slightest bit as blood oozes drowsily from the section of his gash that’s still open. Zanka cleans it up with a gauze pad, going over the edge of the wound in firm strokes—and if he’s pressing too hard, well, who’s gonna stop him?
Not Jabber. Certainly not Jabber, who’s probably creamed his pants two times over at this point. “You’re tense. Relax.”
Another muffled whimper, but Jabber obeys, loosening the grip he has on Zanka’s thigh and settling himself flat on the floor again. He pays extra attention to the stitches here as the wound starts to crawl up Jabber’s side, leaning close to adjust the tension accordingly.
This is where the widest part of the wound is, and Zanka has to keep patting it down with gauze to keep the glistening blood from obscuring his view. Jabber does stay still, but the sounds that he’s making get louder, more desperate; long, guttural, groans that his shirt has to work overtime to keep down.
Zanka tries his best to focus on the stitches, moving a little faster than before as he tries to get this over with because he’s dangerously close to putting his mouth somewhere that it’s not supposed to go. Faster also means rougher, though, and Jabber’s hips buck up in tandem with a muffled whimper when Zanka pulls the needle through again. Zanka looks up to see magenta eyes rolling nearly into the back of Jabber’s head, his jaw working around the fabric stuffed in his mouth.
Fuck. “Almost done, alright?” Zanka pushes Jabber back down with a hand on his hip, ignoring his own arousal in favor of getting the job done.
Zanka continues his ministrations, albeit a little sloppier, and Jabber keeps getting louder, abdominal muscles twitching as he tries to keep himself still. They’re one stitch away when Jabber taps on Zanka’s thigh frantically, hips jumping up in search of friction.
Zanka doesn’t stop. He knows he said he would if Jabber needed it, but they really are almost done, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the view at least a little. “Shh. One more. You can take it.”
Jabber whines, high in his throat and utterly pathetic. There are tears leaking from his eyes, and Zanka fights the urge to lean down and lick them off his skin.
“One more, I said. Don’t be a pussy.”
Zanka finishes the sutures, pulling them taut and tying the whole thing off hastily. It’s not his best work, but he knows that Jabber’s had worse patch jobs done to him. He plants a hand on Jabber’s hip and douses the wound with alcohol, whispering to him as he writhes, and then again with saline for good measure.
“That wasn’t so fuckin’ hard, was it?” Zanka asks him, unwrapping a roll of bandages after patting Jabber’s skin dry.
A rhetorical question, obviously—Jabber can’t answer with a shirt in his mouth, and Zanka makes no move to remove it as he starts wrapping Jabber’s midsection up tightly. “Moanin’ like a bitch while I’m stitchin’ you up. You’re dirty.”
Jabber groans at that, tossing his head to the side and reaching blindly towards Zanka. He manages to get a fistful of Zanka’s sleep shirt, and Zanka climbs over him until he’s level with Jabber’s face, watching the little crease between his eyebrows twitch in pleasure.
He rips the gag out and grabs Jabber’s chin to replace it with his lips. Jabber opens up to the kiss easily, and Zanka swallows all his stupid little sounds as he shoves his tongue down Jabber’s throat. He tastes like blood, unsurprisingly—when does he not?
Zanka pulls back eventually, pressing his forehead to Jabbers and squeezing his eyes shut.
“You’re disgusting. Can’t fuckin’ do anything with you—“
“Zanka, please—“
“No. no.” Zanka shakes his head, scrambling for the shirt again because if Jabber keeps talking like that, the things Zanka will do to him are gonna pop those stitches right back open. “Quiet,” He tells Jabber, shoving the damp fabric back in his mouth. “Stop it. You’re trouble.”
Although he can’t say anything Jabber’s eyes narrow as if he’s laughing, looking down between Zanka’s legs.
“Fuck you,” Zanka spits at him, still trying to ignore his own obvious boner. What is his life?
—
like I guess bro. Didn’t know how to end it sorry this drabble got way out of hand
Ok go my jabfuisms
that one s2 screenshot
Yaoi cocaine or qhatever they call it
