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Jabber×Zanka

This work is dedicated to my beloved wife, who likes this couple <3

⚠️A little warning ⚠️

In my work, I've tried to portray Jabber's obsession with Zanka as vividly as possible, so, the text may cause a feeling of discomfort and disgust

Please be careful and assess your condition sensibly.

Three and a half days had passed since the battle at the garbage dump, yet no one dared to enter Jabber's room. Well, Zodil couldn't care less, but the others were genuinely afraid. Judging by everything, Jabber was still under the influence of one of his toxins. Jabber's unpredictability was normal, but poisons rarely lasted this long, which worried the other Vandals. However, Zodil's calm assurance that there was nothing to worry about kept them from asking too many questions. Because this was a different kind of poison—not something he could willingly inject into himself, but rather born from his own twisted mind.

Jabber was in euphoria: it felt good when no one interfered with his brain marinating in dopamine, causing addiction and happy spasms throughout his body. And if someone tried... well, he wouldn’t mind being stopped; it would be sweet in its own way. Let them try words, let them try physical force. Let them beat the nonsense out of his head, let broken ribs pierce through until white spots danced before his eyes, let them drive his body into a trembling mass of pain, an exposed nerve… because then the toxin would absorb even better. His brain was already thoroughly poisoned, more intoxicated than ever. His body couldn’t develop immunity—and Jabber didn’t want it to. Why fight something that made every neuron spark, burning out in bright flashes? The overload caused nosebleeds, but it wasn’t frightening—it was amusing. It was beautiful. His body was so happy it splattered itself with the brightest colors life had to offer. A color of passion that could paint floors and walls while vivid images continued to swirl before his eyes.

His fingers and lips were long bitten raw. Food on the tray became collateral damage during his fit. Peaches turned into a dirty, sticky mess that began rotting alongside his sanity. The sour smell acted as another dose. So similar to the stench inside that garbage monster. On the plate lay a work of art—a portrait. HIS portrait. Jabber sculpted it himself. He also bit into it—because he hadn’t managed to do so back then. He chewed up the entire fork, scratching the metal with his teeth, because watching his blood mix with his creation was simply exquisite. How he wished to see him covered in blood from head to toe. Burgundy would suit him perfectly. The metallic taste on his lips would be oh-so-sweet. Just thinking about it made him bite down again on his barely healed lip. His toes curled in delight, the pain from the fork’s tines embedding themselves deeper into his thigh adding delightful goosebumps. His blood bubbled like acid, corroding vessel walls, and his heart pounded faster from the fizzy poison coursing through him.

They might call him sick. And yes, he was sick. Oh, how sweetly, madly ill he was! And he was thrilled it couldn’t be cured. He was a drowning man who wanted to drown. Because he was sinking into ecstasy, reveling in the process. Not everyone could understand this, nor did he need them to—he didn’t care. But… If kind-hearted Zanka-kun reached out his hand like some noble hero, attempting to save him… Then… Oh, then Jabber wouldn’t hesitate to grab onto that pure, pristine hand. And drag him down with him. He wouldn’t let go, clutching tightly enough to leave bruises, drawing blood. And drown him. Because Zanka was pure MDMA—the brightest component in his cocktail of endorphins. The missing piece in his sea of ecstasy. He induced addiction, provoked euphoria, sparked bliss. And Jabber was hooked. Long dependent. And loving every second of it.

Saliva pooled in his mouth, forcing Jabber to swallow the thick sweetness. Before his eyes stood that gloriously magnificent scene… Oh, Zanka-kun. His charming stubbornness. How adorably his brows furrowed, resisting the paralytic venom. How beautifully this strong man trembled in convulsions as toxins spread across his body. How pleasant it was to share a drop of his world of pleasure with this chiseled block of tension. How gently his body relaxed as neurotoxins killed off all strain.

And oh, the saccharine power this gave Jabber over him.

Oh, he could take care of him.

Spend hours mapping his skin, searching for delightful imperfections.

If none existed, he’d create them—with his teeth and nails.

He could gaze into those eyes, so close, so accessible. They wouldn’t look away, not even if Jabber wanted to touch the lovely blue hue with his fingers. Or taste them.

He could play with his hair. Braid dreadlocks or pigtails. Or stain those light, soap-scented locks with blood, turning the tips a gorgeous crimson red.

Oh, he could hurt him. Such sweet, sweet pain. But Zanka wouldn’t feel it. And that would kill him.

But killing Zanka wasn’t what Jabber desired.

He wanted to see him bloody, wanted to gift him pain, wanted to poison him—but not kill him. Because there wouldn’t be another like him. Zanka was unique. Stubborn, strong, alive. Modest. A clean canvas of nobility that resisted so exquisitely! You couldn’t tarnish him like the others, didn’t want to discard him. Wanted to preserve him, pursue him. This was a glorious dance, the most entertaining game. He was a drug inducing dependency, but also a venom that bit back, refusing familiarity. And it was perfect! His resistance kept things interesting.

And Jabber couldn’t wait to meet him again.

He CRAVED another battle.

He LONGED for new wounds.

He WANTED ZANKA.