Clawbite~ Jabber x Zanka lil story strip. Simply just mild angst. Enjoy!
This is after a some sex, mind you....Contains cursing, mild nudity, and death threats! Read at your own risk.
“Aight, aight, don’t get your panties in a bunch, Mr. Serious.” he drawled, stepping off the mattress and onto the cool floor. He stood there for a second, butt-ass naked and completely unbothered, just staring at Zanka with a look that was way too intense.
Zanka doesn't even flinch at the sight of Jabber standing there in his birthday suit. He’s seen every inch of that scarred, chaotic body more times than he’d ever admit to anyone, but right now, it just irritates him. The smell of incense—Zanka’s own natural scent—is being completely drowned out by the musk of sweat and... everything else.
It’s cloying.
It’s suffocating.
It's disgusting.
“Go clean yourself,” Zanka commands like some emperor, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous Kamuatari dialect. He finally risks a glance upward, but only to glare Jabber directly in the eye, refusing to let his gaze wander down to the body that was just inside him.
“you already have a natural smell that clings to you like a plague. It’s heavy enough on a normal day, Jabber. I don't need the smell of... ‘this’... added to it like some disgusting seasoning.” He aggressively tucks a corner of the fresh sheet under the mattress, his movements jerky and sharp. He points a trembling finger toward the washbasin and then toward the door. “Get clean. Properly. If I catch even a whiff of that filth when you get back in this bed, you can sleep on the ground with the rest of the trash, outside. I mean it. I’m not spending the rest of the night suffocating in your 'musk'. It’s repulsive.” He grits his teeth, his jaw tight as he watches Jabber out of the corner of his eye. Even as he calls it repulsive, his pulse betrayingly skips—a lingering physical response to the very scent he’s currently disparaging. He hates it. He hates how the incense of his own heritage has been stained by this Raider’s chaotic aura. He moves to the other side of the bed, snapping the top sheet over the mattress with a sharp, final ‘crack’. He looks like a man possessed, trying to scrub the very memory of their encounter out of the air through sheer domestic labor.
“Well? What are you waiting for? An invitation? Letter of resignation??” Zanka snaps, finally turning his head just enough to catch Jabber’s unreadable gaze. He stands tall, despite the ache in his lower back and the way his knees want to buckle. He won't let Jabber see him stumble again. “The water is right there. Use it. Use the soap. Use enough of it to actually make a difference for once, you beast.” He finishes the bed, smoothing out a wrinkle with a trembling hand, then steps back, crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive, rigid posture. Despite his smaller size in comparison, and for the fact he was just moan and crying like a bitch some seconds ago…along the get go, he bounced back with so much tenacity, Jabber was pretty impressed.
Letting out a soft scuff at Zanka's complaining and whining, a subtle eye roll given as he smirked, knowing that he absolutely was under his boyfriend's skin now, just the way he liked it.
Jabber watched the way Zanka’s fingers white-knuckled the fabric, pulling it so tight the seams started to groan. A low, raspy chuckle vibrated in his chest. He couldn't help himself; the sight of Zanka acting like a frustrated housewife was just too damn cute. “Careful dere, Princey,” he drawled, leanin’ against the wall with his arms crossed, unbothered by his own nakedness. “You keep yankin’ like dat, you gonna tear them right down the middle. Den we REALLY gonna be sleepin’ on the floor.” He expected a snarl, maybe a pillow thrown at his face, but he didn't wait for it. He saw the way Zanka’s shoulders were shaking—not from anger, but from pure, bone-deep exhaustion. The man was running on fumes, and Jabber, for all his psychotic tendencies, knew when he’d pushed his 'average cleaner' to the limit. He decided to just let him be for a bit.
Just for tonight at least.
He didn't say another word after that. No "concise" comeback, no more talk about smells or seasonings. He just pushed off the wall and walked over to the washbasin. He picked up the cloth, dunking it into the cool water and scrubbing the sweat and salt from his tan skin with a quiet, uncharacteristic focus.
Meanwhile, Zanka’s ears are ringing just enough from the blood rushing to his head that Jabber’s little comment about the sheets doesn't quite register—which is a mercy for both of them, because Zanka likely would have snapped the staff over his head if he’d heard one more word of teasing.
Instead, he just hears the splashing of water and the heavy, rhythmic sound of Jabber finally—mercifully—scrubbing himself clean.
Thank GOD.
The tension in Zanka’s shoulders doesn't disappear, but it sags at the very least, the rigid, noble posture finally giving way to the reality of his fatigue. He watches the shadow of Jabber against the wall, making sure the man is actually using the soap and not just splashing around like a child. Once he’s satisfied that the 'plague' of Jabber’s scent is being sufficiently dampened, Zanka finally sinks onto the edge of the freshly made bed. The cool, clean fabric feels like heaven against his overheated skin. He let out a long, shaky breath, burying his face in his hands for a moment. His fingers still smell faintly of that incense he’s so proud of, but there’s no denying the underlying metallic tang of adrenaline and the lingering heat of Jabber.
He was tired. But not of Jabber. He was just…tired.
Jabber finished up, wringing out the cloth with a flick of his wrist. He didn't bother with the whole elaborate outfit tonight; he just pulled on some loose, light pants that hung low on his hips, leaving his chest bare to the cool night air. He moved quiet—real quiet—stepping across the floorboards without a single creak. He saw Zanka slumped there on the edge of the bed, looking like the weight of the whole damn Ground was sitting on his shoulders. And all he could do was tilt his head and sigh. Softly, quietly. Making sure that itself doesn't start a second round of scolding.
He didn't make a joke. He didn't cackle. Instead, he slipped onto the mattress behind him, the bed dipping under his weight. He slid his arms around Zanka’s waist, pulling that broad, muscular back flush against his own chest. His touch wasn't demanding or rough like before; it was heavy and steady, like he was trying to pin Zanka down to the earth so he wouldn't drift off into his own head. He rested his chin on Zanka’s shoulder, his messy dreads brushing against Zanka’s neck. He stayed like that for a long minute, just breathing in the smell of soap and the faint return of that incense Zanka loved so much. When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't loud or boastful. Just measured and relaxed, groggy even. “You 'lready tired of me, Zanka?...” The words came out low, a raspy rumble that vibrated right through Zanka's spine. It wasn't his usual loud-mouthed talk; it was something heavier, almost real. He squeezed Zanka’s waist just a lil' bit tighter, his ringed fingers resting flat against the man's stomach.
“I know I’m a lot. I know I’m loud, an' I don’t shut up, an' I push 'til you're ready to break me in half... but you ain't lookin' for 'average' in here, are ya?” He turned his head slightly, his hot pink eyes catchin' the dim light as he looked at the side of Zanka’s face, waitin' for a reaction. For once, he wasn't looking for a fight or a moan. He was just... there. Existing. Waiting. Hoping…maybe praying.
“If you really wanted me gone... you woulda snapped me like a twig a long time ago. So don't go actin' like you hate the chaos now, Princey. We both know you'd starve without it.” He let out a tiny, quiet huff of a breath against Zanka’s cheek, a ghost of a grin that wasnt quite shit eating and more casual that stained his lips, splitting his face and exposing those sharp teeth of his to the light.
Zanka stiffens instinctively when he feels Jabber’s arms slide around him, his muscles locking up for a split second before the uncharacteristic gentleness of the gesture sinks in. He should pull away. He should tell him that he’s overstepping, that he’s too close, that he’s still "repulsive." But the weight of Jabber’s body against his back is warm, grounding, and—infuriatingly—exactly what he needs to keep from collapsing. He listens to the gravelly, soft rumble of Jabber’s voice against his ear. The question that came catches him off guard, and for a second he only stares ahead, a vacant stare in his eyes.
“Tired of you?” He lets the words hang in the air for a moment, his eyes pan to his own hands resting on his knees, fixed and unblinking. He thinks about the headache Jabber gives him daily, the constant noise, the sheer, exhausting volatility of being with a man who was once trying to kill him. “Tired of you?” Zanka finally repeats, his voice barely more than a weary whisper. He doesn't move to break the embrace; instead, he slowly leans back, allowing more of his weight to rest against Jabber’s chest. “Every single day, Jabber. I am exhausted by your existence. You’re loud, you’re crude, and you have the manners of a stray dog.” He pauses, the silence of the room stretching between them. His navy blue eyes soften, looking at nothing in particular as he feels the steady thrum of Jabber’s heartbeat through his back. It’s a rhythmic reminder that for all the chaos, Jabber is ‘here’ and staying. He isn't some distant "genius" looking down on him, and he isn't an enemy trying to tear him apart anymore.
“But…” Zanka starts, his voice regaining a bit of its usual composed steadiness, though the weary lilt is heavy with his fatigue. “If I wanted someone who stayed quiet and followed the rules, I would have stayed in the Academy. I would have surrounded myself with people who are ‘perfect’ and ‘refined’ and utterly hollow.”
He reaches down, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before he rests them over Jabber’s ringed hands at his waist. He doesn't grip them, but he doesn't pull them away either.
“You aren't average, Jabber, obviously. Nah, you're a headache actually. A persistent, agonizing migraine that I’ve somehow grown accustomed to.” Zanka tilts his head back slightly, his slicked-back hair messy and falling over his forehead as he looks up toward the ceiling. “So, no. I’m not tired of ‘you’. I’m just tired.”
Jabber’s grin shifted, the jagged, predatory edges softening into something almost... human. It was still wide, still showing off those sharp teeth, but the heat behind it wasn't about blood anymore. Hearing Zanka admit he was 'accustomed' to the headache was better than any confession of love he’d ever heard. It was honest. It was gritty. It was them.
“Migraine, huh? Well, guess you just gotta build up a tolerance, bae.” he chuckled, the sound deep and vibrating against Zanka’s back. He didn't let go; instead, he doubled down, pulling Zanka back until they were both laying down on the fresh sheets, tangled together like a mess of discarded wire. He buried his face in the crook of Zanka’s neck, nuzzling against the skin he'd just spent an hour markin up. He snuggled in close, wrapping his long legs around Zanka’s, claiming every inch of the man’s space. He didn't care if it was twisted or if the neighbors could hear ‘em fighting half the damn day. Zanka belonged to him, and he belonged to Zanka—
“A Raider and a Cleaner, two things dat shouldn’t ever fit together, but look at us now.” he murmured, his voice fading into a contented purr. He didn't mind the 'hate' Zanka liked to spice things up witth—in fact, he craved it. It made everything feel realer, sharper. He squeezed Zanka’s waist one last time before loosening his grip just enough for them both to breathe.
“Go 'head and sleep, Princey. I’m right here. Ain't nobody gonna disturb your 'royal' slumber while I’m on watch~” he teased, though his eyes were already starting to heavy up too. He pressed one last, lingering kiss to the back of Zanka's neck—not a bite, not a scratch, just a quiet claim.
He let out a long, satisfied sigh, closing his eyes and letting the silence of the room wrap 'round them. For a psychotic bastard who thrived on noise and gore, this quiet felt surprisingly good. As long as he could feel the steady rise and fall of Zanka’s chest under his hands, he was exactly where he needed to be. He wasn't going anywhere, and neither was his 'Average' (Ex)Cleaner.
Zanka lets out a soft, indignant huff when pulled down into the bed, his body naturally molding against Jabber’s despite his mental protests. The feeling of Jabber nuzzling into his neck sends a final, tiny spark of irritation through him, but he’s too physically spent to shove the man off. He feels the warmth, the weight, and the way Jabber’s heartbeat seems to sync up with his own.
“Go... fuck yourself, Jabber.” Zanka mutters, his voice lacking any real bite. It’s a reflex at this point, a habit of the pride he still clings to. He feels the kiss on the back of his neck and his eyelids flutter, feeling heavier than lead. “I don't need... your protection. I’m a Cleaner... I’m not some... helpless…” He grumbled in a sleepy tone, his voice trailing off, the sharp tone softening into a slow, incoherent mumble. He tries to shift his arm to regain some semblance of a 'composed' sleeping position, but he only ends up settling deeper into Jabber’s embrace. The scent of the clean sheets and the faint, now-tolerable musk of the man holding him finally lulls his overactive brain into submission. “...don't... wake me up early…” he mumbled again, but it was barely a whisper in the quiet of their room.
The night was still after that. Compared to the chaotic storm of some minutes ago…they both slept soundly.
A brief moment of peace.
-End-
Yes, my writing is very mid but I'm trying. Still will upload the Follo x Reader POV Male and Fem version concerning my last post. Ive just been busy. I've got a lot of work load cut out for me ya see...
Anyways, find the strip interesting? Feel free to check out the book on AO3! The link is below.⤵️
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