welcome to the dumpster fire

And look at them. 😭 The atmosphere, the intimacy, the way they’re looking at each other—this is so beautiful. I feel incredibly lucky that my writing could be part of the creative process that brought this piece into existence.

They meet at the ragged edge of an old highway, rusty pieces of rebar sticking out of the broken concrete. Husks of ancient cars litter the white-bleached road, long since stripped for parts. Jabber comes up here to smoke sometimes. When the smog isn’t too thick, he can see all the lights of the city, each one a twinkling window he might climb inside one day. This world of his is full of possibilities. He loves it with all his heart. 

Mr. Bad Attitude, he’d know anywhere. That guy has a distinctive look. There he is, kneeling at the edge, the big mean head of that staff poking out past a bent knee in her sweet little wooden stick form. Disappointed me twice, but he still wants a rematch? Jabber tisks to himself. Naw. I’ll just put him down this time. 

part 2 here and part 1 here

every separate convo is like. 2-3 weeks apart give or take some ish 😛 keep that in mind

Some songs I listened to while writing this:

Angel - Massive Attack, Horace Andy

Only You - Portishead

Me and Your Mama - Childish Gambino

Sour Times - Portishead

Stargirl Interlude - The Weeknd, Lana Del Rey

—

It’s only been about five minutes since Jabber dosed himself, and nothing interesting is happening yet. The mystery toxin today is some goop he found dripping from the wall of the caves he normally goes to for hallucinogens, most of the mushrooms there with an abundance of vision-inducing compounds. It glowed blue, a little bioluminescent like the rest of the fungi, so he figured it had to do something.

And it is doing something. Jabber feels the soft euphoria creeping in as his vision clouds with abstract colors, shapes and auras popping out from behind his eyelids when he closes them

Jabber huffs. “Boring.” He’ll look at a sample later, but he’s pretty sure there’s nothing new about this.

That is, until he starts feeling shit. It starts as a tingling on the tips of Jabber’s fingers, reminding him a little bit of how it feels to run hot water over frostbitten skin. It continues, spreading slowly up his arms and creeping across his skin, pins and needles enveloping Jabber’s body until it feels like he’s bathing in static.

This…this is different. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s uncomfortable enough to leave Jabber squirmy and excited as he reaches down to palm himself through his sweatpants. A gasp escapes him, or at least he thinks it does. He can’t really tell, all of his senses blending into a muddy, indecipherable mess as the toxin really kicks in.

It doesn’t take much to get him hard. It rarely does, but things are moving a little quicker today on account of the shit flowing through his system. That, and the the cute little cleaner he can’t stop thinking about.

Zanka hasn’t left his head since Jabber beat his ass in the trash beast. Jabber feels his lips twitch up as he thinks about him, about the way he rammed that long, beautiful staff into Jabber’s ribs hard enough that they cracked. The lingering ache from the still-healing injury paired with the pressure of his hand has Jabber arching into the sheets on his bed, color exploding behind his eyes in varying shades of blue.

“Oh, yeah,” Jabber groans softly, trying hard to remember the look in the cleaner’s eyes as they fought. They were so intense, swirling pools of murky seawater and completely, utterly captivating. Jabber wishes Zanka had gone all out on him, really fucked him up like he so clearly wanted to. Bared himself to Jabber like Jabber so graciously did for him.

Jabber’s mind conjures up visions of long, nimble fingers, complexion pale but flushed around the knuckles. Nails cut short and calloused palms, wrapped lovingly around indigo wood.

Jabber wants to be touched like that, wants Zanka to touch him like that, wants him to flay Jabber alive with those spikes and play with his fucking insides.

But Zanka won’t, not yet. All Jabber has is this. He bites his lip, and the pins and needles get stronger as he uses his other hand to pull up his shirt, reaching for the bruised skin on his side—

—Except there’s something already there. The touch of phantom fingers, pushing and prodding not at the bruise, but under layers of muscle and flesh to touch his actual skeleton. Something—a hand—is cradling his rib in its palm.

“Shit.” That’s new. That’s definitely new. And trippy as hell.

As he feels fingertips glide across his bones, he realizes who it is. Exactly who it is. Who else, but Zanka?

One hand becomes two. Zanka’s palms move softly, slowly, and Jabber feels bare, exposed; Like the skin and flesh on his torso is gone, showcasing his inner workings to the stale air of his bedroom. He doesn’t mind.

If it’s for Zanka, he doesn’t mind one bit.

Jabber feels himself shiver at the uncanny sensation, the hair on his arms and neck standing on end as Zanka takes his time, exploring Jabber’s anatomy studiously; learning him, knowing him deeply enough to figure out how to break Jabber for real next time.

And then, two fingers dip under Jabber’s sternum. Jabber gasps as they plunge deeper inside him—inside him, Zanka is inside him—moving around his diaphragm until he feels Zanka’s hand cup his left lung.

The air is squeezed out of Jabber roughly, escaping in a choked off moan as he writhes around his bed, gripping the sheets hard, trying to breathe in—but he can’t, not when Zanka won’t let him.

The lack of control is intoxicating. The shapes in his vision turn dark, swirling until Jabber can’t tell if his eyes are open or closed. Jabber feels him; on his lips, the smell of incense overpowering and soft breath ghosting against his skin as he mouths the word please over and over again.

Zanka doesn’t let up.

You’re so warm inside. Can’t believe it. How’s someone like you so soft in here?

The voice is deep and resonant but unmistakably Zanka’s, and it’s everywhere, in Jabber’s ears and his head and echoing across the static that dances across his skin.

Jabber can’t breathe. He feels Zanka playing with his lung, kneading the organ between his gorgeous fingers like a stress ball, and Jabber can’t breathe, he can’t get any air in and he’s going to pass out, he’s going to die, he’s going to come—

He wakes up an unknown amount of hours later with a wet stain on his pants and his torso completely intact.

What a fucking trip.

—