#crispycwriting

He’s had his encounters, some quick, some a night of passionate love and excitement; none ever do last as long as his current flame. Wondrous, a real thrill, the ribs he breaks, the fingers he bends, the way Jabber’s girls slide against his pretty boy skin, fair like those rabbits in fantasy books he scrounges up when he’s bored.

Jabber wishes he could slow it down, capture it the way Zanka’s skin rolls along his jinki’s blade like butter; he wishes he could inject himself with the feeling every-time they ain’t together, feel that passion burning hot like poison.

That isn’t a possibility, and dear Zanka hates him as much as Jabber adores their flings of enchanted love making; they speak through their jinki, his Assistaff biting, calculated, a powerful tool that clings to Jabber’s clothes like a girl would to his man, and he can’t help the high he gets from her.

Each time they meet, its more gruesome than the last, and each time Zanka looks a foot from hell swallowing him whole, that doesn’t stop him from giving his girls blood, the euphoria too great to stop their destructive relationship from furthering.

“Come on hot stuff! That can’t be all you got left in ya’, we’ve gone on for longer before!”

Jabber’s face is caked in blood, his blood; he’s sure something’s ruptured and crawled back up to spittle all over himself and Zanka’s. It smells rancid, the staff Jinki is wedged hard against his groin, and Zanka has his face in a grip that pulls his skin taut and opens the small cuts more.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Here i thought you liked me.” Jabber grins back, letting his tongue lick the iron from his lips, “Lovley Assistaff seems too.”

He shifts down, firm wood kissing him through his clothes and Zanka scowls, only too wince as Jabber’s Jinki shifts within the shallow wounds in his side, blood oozing down the metal and making Jabber’s fingers sticky.

“You like that?”

Zanka only manages to spit in his face, his own split lip adding to the eager shade of Jabber’s face; his discontent is apparent, but Zanka can’t seem to help himself with leaning in, letting the knives of Jabber’s jinki slide deeper into him, groaning through grit teeth. The blood comes more profusely, and Jabber rocks his hips against Assistaff and up against Zanka as well.

Nails bite into Jabber’s face, his fingers flex and Zanka nearly lets a moan through pink teeth. Its hot as all hell, it makes him lightheaded; he’s lucky to ride the staff, and Zanka better be grateful to bleed for his own girls.

Zanka wedges a thumb into his mouth, forcing it open and pressing hard against the back where the gum line ends. The nail rakes against the wet flesh, scratching before settling onto the pink muscle, far enough to force Jabber to gag; the noise makes Zanka pull the staff closer, painfully pinching, his own hips settling against Jabber’s sloppy thrusts.

Each edge of Mankira slides in and out with a muted squelch of blood, Zanka’s parlor turning pale with the motion, the flush on his face more pronounced.