#gachiposting

—

“Gimme a hurricane shot.”

Zanka looks the guy up and down; the same guy who’s been coming here for the past week, asking for the same thing over and over again. A Hurricane shot. And sure, they’ll get an odd customer or two with the request, usually dared to impress someone they came with—though it’s often Riyo who is asked to slap the shit out of douchebags. Zanka envies her.

That said, Zanka is confident this guy has no idea what he’s talking about. Especially not wearing that happy ass look on his face.

“Do you know what you been askin’ for?” Zanka puts a handful of straws into the near-empty container. Since Monday night, Zanka’s been sending him off with a shot of tequila and an eye roll, but he just…keeps coming back. Same slimy smile, same request. It’s starting to piss Zanka off, to be honest.

He just nods again. “Yeah.”

The guy sits leaning forward, elbow on the bartop with his chin propped on one ringed hand. He’s black, hair cascading in long wicks down past the bar—probably to his waist, if Zanka is estimating correctly. It’s hard to tell when he’s not standing.

“So, you gon’ put one right here for me or not?” He continues, eyes narrowing as he looks up, one finger tapping his own cheek. Expectant. Excited.

Well, Zanka thinks as he grits his teeth. He stands corrected.

He also thinks that, yeah, today has been pretty shitty—customers skimping out on tips, about ten of their new glasses shattering on the floor, and a sink full of vomit waiting in the bathroom for Zanka the one time he stepped away from the bar tonight—and slapping someone sounds kind of therapeutic.

Well, slapping this guy in particular sounds therapeutic. And, there’s no aggravated assault charges attached because it’s actually Zanka’s job this time. Wins all around.

So, Zanka turns around, fills up a cup of water, and then pours him a shot, setting it down in front of him.

The guy’s eyes widen. “You actually gonna do it this time?”

“Wouldn’t be holdin’ the water if I wasn't,” Zanka deadpans. “Stand up.”

“Yessir.” He stands, the gold threaded into his hair audibly jingling along with him even over the din of the bar. The jewelry he wears seems to change every day—chokers, earrings, long gold chains—but the silver rings on each of his fingers never move. Not that Zanka’s looking or anything, but making a living out of handing people shit means that he’s prone to noticing things.

Speaking of his rings, The guy finally picks up his shot, and then pats an empty spot on the bartop next to him. “I’mma need you to sit right here for me, then.”

A stupid request, and an even more stupid idea to oblige, but Zanka thinks: fuck it. The night has slowed down considerably, and Enjin’s probably too busy sneaking smoke breaks to actually do his job policing them. Why not?

Zanka makes his way around the bar, then hops up onto it next to the guy. “Why am I up here?”

“Don’t want you to throw your back out,” he says slyly, coming to stand in front of Zanka. “That’s my job, yeah?”

The audacity. Zanka almost punches him right then and there, feeling the heat of a blush climb up the back of his neck.

The man in front of him throws the shot back with a smirk, and as soon as the glass leaves his lips, Zanka flings the water at him and slaps him across the face as hard as he can. His head whips to the side so fast that Zanka is almost worried for a split second, and it stays there for just a moment too long, and then there’s nothing but the sting of Zanka’s palm and the sound of blood rushing in his ears until—

“God damn.” He turns his head back slowly, water dripping off of his chin as he exposes the too-wide smile splitting the bottom half of his face. “Agai—“

Zanka slaps him again with his other hand, sending his head whipping in the other direction. Zanka probably should’ve refilled the water and topped up the shot like he’s supposed to, but the idea of getting another hit in was too tempting.

The guy should be furious with him about that, but instead, he just locks eyes with Zanka, something Zanka can’t identify clouding his gaze. He crowds into Zanka’s space, bracing his hands on either side of him on the countertop. His cheeks have the barest tint of red on them from being hit, and the purple shirt he’s wearing is wet all down the front, dark and unflattering—but something about him(and this whole thing, really) is enamoring anyway, and Zanka can’t help but stare.

“My name’s Jabber.” He leans closer in. “When d’you get off?”

“Zanka. None of yer fuckin’ business.”

Jabber’s eyes narrow, and his smile grows even wider.

Zanka relents. “…One.”

“You wanna slap me around some more?”

Kind of, yeah. “The fuck’s your problem?”

“Find out for yourself, why don’t you?” Jabber’s hand moves over one of Zanka’s, and he can feel something thin slip in between his fingers. When he looks down, there’s a 50 dollar bill nestled between his pointer and middle finger and by the time he looks up Jabber is already slinking away.

What a douchebag. Zanka wonders if it’d be possible to fuck the sleaze out of him.

—

Was thinking about how the Ground probably has very little access to seeing the stars in comparison to the Sphere. Light pollution, haze and clouds from airborne pollution. Then it got me thinking... "Out of all the things Regto got Rudo to try, he probably gave stargazing a go with him." And that turned into "Ok but what if stargazing was one of Regto's hobbies? He'd drag Rudo out every once in awhile to come with him to tell him about the cosmos."

With Regto gone and the stars out of view... You think he still sits outside and stares at the sky, reminiscing on old times and mourning the man who raised him and showed him kindness when no one else would?

Then while listening to music, this came on and all I could think of was Regto talking to Rudo. Which just fed into the stargazing thing...

I saw a post where someone edited mymo without his glasses, and someone pointed out that the way they did it made it look like the eyes he had in his god form, which I liked! But once I drew it it got me thinking

When you look at the sunglass that covers his eye, it looks like regular mymo, but when you look at the one with the eye, he looks genuinely INSANE.

very improper description of glass breaking physics. like extremely wrong… this probably isnt how glass works at all. however i dont care bc its sexy

—

“You junkie bitch!” Zanka shouts at him, shaking in anger and looking for all the world like he’s about to commit aggravated assault. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious?!”

Jabber would be able to answer that question if he actually remembered what they’re supposed to be arguing about. He knows it was probably something serious, based on the lingering irritation in the back of his mind, but he forgot about it halfway through when Zanka started really, really screaming at him. Everything past that point is just sort of, blah blah blah, proper name, place name, Jabber I’m going to kill you, backstory stuff.

It might have something to do with the fact that the gas stove Zanka bought for the house last week is broken. Or the scorch marks on the ceiling of their shared kitchen. or both. Who knows.

All Jabber is paying attention to is how Zanka looks at him—fire in his eyes burning hot, hot, hot. Makes him feel all warm inside. Maybe if Jabber eggs him on enough, he’ll get a black eye out of this. Yeah…that sounds great.

So, Jabber lets a dopey grin spread across his face as he lets out his dumbest, most uninterested-sounding, “…What?”

Jabber can see the moment Zanka’s face cracks into pure, unadulterated rage, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life. Fists clenched, hair mussed to hell, jaw clenched with a look in his eye that spells murder.

“YOU’RE NOT EVEN FUCKING—“ Zanka cuts himself off, covering his face with his hands and scrubbing them up and down like he’s trying to rub his skin off all tweaker-like. He mumbles something unintelligible, then drags them through his own hair. “You’re not listening to me. You’re not listening to me. You never listen.”

“Nah, I hear you,” Jabber drawls, leaning against the counter to take in everything in front of him before the view slips away.

“Jabber, you fuckin’ junkie,” He mocks, using that stern goody-two-shoes ass tone Zanka’s always trying to reprimand him with. Seriously, where does he get off telling Jabber what to do? Someone needs to knock him off his damn high horse. “I hate you so much I that let you do coke off my back—“

“That was one time!” Zanka snaps, and it’s like there’s a crashout meter next to his head that Jabber is seeing fill up in real time. It’s amazing. What should he say next?

Well, how about, “I wanna punch you so bad even though I’m supposed to be—“

“Shut the fuck up!” Zanka shouts again, stepping closer to the kitchen island and raising a hand like he’s really going to swing—oh god, he’s gonna do it—

“Move!” Dissapointment washes over Jabber as Zanka shoves him roughly out of the way, then snatches a half full pack of Newports on the counter. “Can’t fucking deal with you right now.”

Jabber watches his ass as he stomps through the kitchen, and then out the door.

“Man,” Jabber whispers to himself as the door slams shut. He was so close, too. Curse Zanka for being a law abiding citizen, cause what they really need is a good fight to clear all this up—the scrappy, dirty shit that leaves both of them on cloud nine.

It happened once, actually, after Jabber spent their electric bill on PCP, and he thinks that’s the hardest he’s ever orgasmed in his life. Yeah, Zanka was fucking mortified for weeks after, but it was good. Really good. Plus, Jabber never touched the rent money again after that. Too bad someone’s too preeocupied with all that morals and ethics stuff to try it again.

Lately, all of their arguments have gone something like ‘Jabber why the fuck would you do that’, and ‘You don’t care about anyone but yourself,’ and Zanka screaming about his moral superiority until he pisses himself off enough that he has to either swing on Jabber or leave. Much to his dismay, Zanka always chooses the second option, coming back twenty minutes later all silent and broody—the kind of calm Jabber hates seeing.

“Ughhhhh.” What to do, what to do…

…and at that moment, rain starts to patter lightly on the windows. he looks over to the ceramic bowl by the door, where Zanka’s keys rest untouched.

Jabber gets a wonderful idea.

—

After around half an hour, doorknob jiggles. Jabber perks up from his seat at the counter, watching Zanka’s blurry silhouette through the frosted glass of their front door.

It jiggles again, a little harder this time.

“…Jabber.” Zanka’s low voice comes wafting through the door, just loud enough for Jabber to hear over the rain. He sounds pissed.

“Yeah?” Jabber responds, not bothering to hide the massive grin that starts forming. Why bother? Zanka can’t see him anyways.

“Open the door.”

No shot he thought that would work. What an idiot. Just to bait him even more, though, Jabber hops off of the counter, taking his time walking over to the entryway of their house.

He stops just short of the front door, pretends to think for a few seconds, then says:

“Nope!”

“Jabber!”

“Nah, since you wanna be all petty ‘n take ya ass outside, you can stay there.”

“Stop fuckin’ playin’ around,” Zanka growls, one hand pressed to the glass. “Lemme in.”

Ah, don’t laugh. Don’t laugh don’t laugh don’t laugh— “Who’s playin’? I’m not. ”

“You’re always pulling shit like this! Have you tried not bein’ an asshole for one second?” Zanka’s yelling now, and he continues with his spiel, but Jabber tunes him out because the way his voice cracked on asshole is about to blow Jabber’s cover.

Holy shit, he sounds like a squeaky toy! Or a high schooler. something in between those two.

Jabber snorts, and abruptly, the yelling outside stops.

“…Are you fucking laughing?”

Oops. Well. Cover blown. “Yeah. It’s funny as hell how you think I’mma let you back in.”

And there goes the screaming again, accompanied by occasional bangs on the glass and shaking of the doorknob. Yeah, Jabber achieved his goal of getting Zanka pissed, so theoretically, he should let him back in and get what he wants.

Counterpoint: Zanka standing on the front porch, soaked in rain and beating on the door looking like a wet rat. Oh, it’s too much—laughter escapes Jabber in unstoppable peals, and he slides down to the floor because he’s too giggly to keep standing.

Through his own manic laughter, he doesn’t notice when Zanka stops screaming. He also doesn’t notice how the pounds against the door get less frantic and more intentional, each harder than the last.

No, he doesn’t notice much, not until there are shards of glass raining down on him and Zanka’s hand is sticking through a fucking hole in their glass door.

There’s blood leaking from various cuts on Zanka’s wet forearm, bits of glass falling from it as he tries to feel around for something. He must realize he can’t reach it, because he takes his arm out, then puts his palm directly on the jagged glass of the opening to break an even wider hole in it.

And Jabber? Jabber has stopped laughing, on account of the fact that he’s so hard he thinks he’s going to bust out of his sweatpants. Holy shit. Holy shit. Has he died and gone to heaven? because that’s what this is looking like—either that or Zanka, rage-filled angel that he is, was just sent down to strangle the shit out of him.

Eventually, Zanka finds what he’s looking for: the door handle. he twists the lock from the inside, turns the knob, and there he is in all his soggy beauty.

Zanka looks downright murderous, one blue eye glaring at Jabber through the bangs pasted to his face by the rain. His navy T-shirt is sticking to him in all the right places, highlighting all the lean muscle that Jabber loves so much, especially around his heaving chest—and his nipples are hard. Oh, goodness. Jabber’s really gonna cum in his pants now.

Zanka steps forward, clenching his fists, and blood drips off of his knuckles as he kneels down and roughly grabs Jabber’s face in his injured hand. There are glass shards pressed in there. Jabber can feel them digging into his skin.

Oh, shit, Jabber thinks excitedly. I’m really in for it, aren’t I?

—