Archive of Our Own ^beta

Zanka keeps insisting, mostly to herself, occasionally out loud to unfortunate bystanders, that she and Jabber aren’t friends.

This is funny, because they interact like two stray dogs who keep biting each other but somehow sleep in the same alley every night out of habit. 

They’ve known each other for over a year now, long enough for Zanka to have a catalogue of everything Jabber Wonger is made of.

Long enough to know her habits, her rituals, her stupidly impressive brain, the multicolored stains on her fingers from hours in the lab, her disgustingly perfect GPA she somehow doesn’t give a shit about, how easy it is for her to get lost on campus. Long enough to know Jabber’s the kind of girl who can calculate an LD50 as fast as she can grapple an opponent to submission. 

And long enough for Jabber to know Zanka’s just as pathetic as she looks.

And, for the record, Zanka is a victim in all of this. One of Jabber’s many, she’s sure.

They met back when Zanka still believed in her so called discipline, and that her full scholarship meant something noble after she got disowned and went behind her family’s backs to pursue a different kind of law career.

And back before she understood that the competitive matches in the martial arts club their university offered was just some bullshit code for “let two mentally unstable eighteen year olds go apeshit in front of faculty.”

Zanka was new and they sicked Jabber of all people on her during her first official match? She really should’ve gone back there and set the place on fire (she’s sure Rudo would’ve helped her too), but Zanka can’t blame anyone but herself for her loss. 

Jabber snapped her wrist clean in the third round. But only after begging Zanka to beat her ass. And then having the nerve to pout about it when Zanka couldn’t exactly do that with her bone dislocated.

Zanka remembers lying on the mat, staring at her own hand dangling wrong, thinking, Huh. So that’s what that feels like.

Meanwhile Jabber hovered over her like a scientist who’d just discovered a new species and asked, “Does that hurt?” she said in the same tone someone uses to ask if you want a breath mint. “I’m so jealous. Thought you were gonna put up more of a fight.”

Zanka should’ve forced herself to get up despite the pain and drop kick her through the wall. Instead she went to the ER and managed to avoid her for exactly three days, until Jabber found her outside the criminology building, leaning against a pillar like she’d been spawned there.

“Hey, pretty stick lady!” she’d called out, twirling her lab goggles. “If your wrist aches later, lemme know. I can get you the good drugs.”

Zanka hugged her cast close to her chest and made the mistake of replying, “Are you medically licensed?”

Jabber grinned. “Not yet.”

That was the beginning of the end.

Because then Zanka found out Jabber’s a toxicology major on some kinda of genius level fast track (fuck her). Probably going to go into pharmacy, or making potions and finding out which rat poison is the most deadly for toddlers, or whatever it is that those graduates do. Which made far too much sense and yet, somehow, none at all.

Wouldn’t chemistry suit her better? Everything about her screamed volatile and unstable. Jabber liked talking about chemicals the way other girls liked talking about astrology. 

Zanka should’ve known it had nothing to do with academic passion or career aspiration.

It was the live test subjects. The human reactions and Jabber’s infatuation with causing them.

The thrill of watching someone’s pupils dilate, tracking the microseconds between dose and effect, like she was timing fireworks.

Of course she chose a field where she could legally create the exact chaos she already practiced recreationally. With a fat check to boot.

“Stimulants are dumb,” Jabber once declared in the library after hunting Zanka down to where she usually studied just to harass her. Zanka’s cast was freshly off, and she wasn’t in the mood. “Wanna know what’ll really get your blood pumping? A good fight.”

Zanka had glared over her case briefs. “I’m tryin’ to study.”

“Aw,” Jabber sighed, flipping a page in Zanka’s book and making he lose her spot just to annoy her. “Lameuhhhh.”

A series of terrible decisions followed her after that. Jabber would show up wherever Zanka was, classes, martial arts club, the grocery store, and Zanka pretended it wasn’t making her boil over like a neglected tea kettle just waiting to whistle. 

Zanka grew used to Jabber’s rambling. Poisons, antidotes, compounds, “Haha look I made something that can dissolve a kidney.” Fight me, fight me, fight me—

They are opposing forces. Oil and water. Magnets of different poles.

Yet somehow they kept mixing like two substances absolutely labeled Do Not Combine, that is, unless you want an explosion.

So that’s why having sex with her has always been a bad idea from the start, and Zanka won’t deny it. Looking back on it, she knows she could’ve done better. A lot better.

Jabber is reckless, indulgent, tactile, always pressing, nudging, testing how far Zanka can bend before she snaps. And Zanka, for all her discipline and her rigid persona, melts and reacts embarrassingly fast under the right pressure. Under Jabber’s pressure, specifically. 

She still remembers the first time they fucked, even though she’s tried very hard to mentally redact it, censor it, and bury it under several feet of academic shame. Unfortunately, her brain is less than compliant.

It started with Jabber texting her at eleven at night. Help. I need you. Studying emergency.

Zanka, in a moment of unsupervised optimism, thought, Oh. Finally. She’s struggling. She’s mortal. She’s human.

And like an idiot, she grabbed her stuff and ran across campus at midnight because the idea of Jabber Wonger failing at something lit up her cold little heart like a holiday parade.

Except Jabber wasn’t struggling.

She was sitting on the floor of her dorm room surrounded by beakers and lab sheets like a mad scientist at hour thirty six of a bender.

“Phew, you’re here,” Jabber said without looking up. “I need a warm body.”

Zanka blinked. “…A what?”

“A living sample,” Jabber clarified, as though that made it better. “My GI tract keeps rejecting this compound, so I need someone with a different enzyme profile.”

“Yer not studyin’?” Zanka stared at the mess of half filled vials around her. “You’ve been drinking these?”

“Studying? I just said that to get you here, you know I never study,” Jabber laughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, pushing a vial away from Zanka. “That one I inhaled. I’m learning in my own way, ya see.”

Then she pointed at a bucket. A bucket full of what could only be described as technicolor vomit.

“This is not learnin’,” Zanka said, trying not to gag as she pushes the bucket away with her shoe. “This is poisoning yourself.”

But Jabber just tapped the floor beside her.
“C’mere. You’re smart. Sit.”

And Zanka, dumbly, and maybe because she wanted to figure Jabber out the way a nerd couldn’t resist a hard question, sat.

She sat because she wanted Jabber to need her, and because Jabber’s voice did that thing where it wrapped around her spine and tugged, and she wanted to witness, firsthand, the miracle of Jabber being bad at something, if at all possible for a damned genius like her.

But Jabber wasn’t bad at anything (except maybe being a normal, average Joe like Zanka). Not chemistry. Not manipulation. Not getting exactly what she wanted out of people, whether it was pain or pleasure.

Especially not Zanka.

Jabber explained her project in that breathless, manic way she had, hands fluttering, eyes bright, talking about half lives and metabolism and permeability. Zanka tried to follow. She really did.

But Jabber is brilliant in that effortless way where knowledge doesn’t stick to her, it flows through her. Everything comes naturally to her, reactions, equations, instability curves. Zanka wants to strangle her.

Zanka hoped in her future career as a defense attorney she would never have to protect a client like Jabber. She’s not sure she’d be able to win if her client’s testimony was hell yeah I did that. 

Jabber picked up a small vial of something bright blue. “Okay. Taste this.”

“Absolutely not,” Zanka said, scooting back.

Jabber crawled after her on her hands and knees. “You trust me.”

“I do not!”

“You do,” Jabber said, smug. “Because if I wanted to kill you, I’d have already slipped something in those americanos you drink so much. C’mon, it’s not gonna hurt you, swear!”

It was meant to be reassuring. Somehow, it worked. Also, Zanka would rather die than get called a chicken for not biting the bullet. 

The vial touched Zanka’s lips before she could remember why she was supposed to be the sensible one.

So quickly did responsibility fall away like a snapped thread the moment Jabber’s thumb pressed under her jaw.

She opened her mouth, tossing back the vial.

Jabber watched Zanka swallow the tiny, (surprisingly) tasteless dose, watched the tremor in her throat, the way her pupils widened. And the worst part, the absolute worst, (like seriously, she cannot stress how bad), is how tender Jabber can be in those seconds. Her fingers smoothing Zanka’s hair behind her ear, brushing the edge of her cheekbone, murmuring, “That’s it. Hey, maybe you could be my new guinea pig?”

Zanka was about to argue, swear at her, push her away, tell her she wasn’t a rat in a lab for Jabber’s amusement, but then Jabber kissed her instead. She bit into Zanka’s bottom lip, licking up the residue of the chemicals from her mouth, the taste of her gloss like a chaser to whatever poison Zanka just drank down.

Zanka didn’t know where to put her hands, stunned, clutching the vial so hard she was sure it should’ve exploded into tiny glass shards.

Zanka remembers the moment right after the kiss almost more than the kiss itself, because it was the moment she realized she should never, ever trust Jabber Wonger with anything that goes into her bloodstream.

The warmth hit her fast. A flush rolled up her neck, her face went hot, her pulse kicked hard against her throat. She grabbed Jabber’s wrist painfully, which only pleased her, and pulled back with a string of translucent spit snapping between their lips, eyes wide.

“Jabber—What the hell’d ya give me?”

Jabber just watched her, lips shiny, pupils dilating like a cat who spotted a mouse walking directly into its mouth.

Zanka’s heart thudded. Her palms sweat. Her knees went soft. She was so dead. Wasn’t she the one always telling Rudo not to take candy from strangers? Why didn’t she heed her own warning. “Answer me! What’s in that?”

Jabber leaned back on her palms, head tipping.

Then she giggled. Actually giggled. Like Zanka had just told a joke.

“It’s food coloring,” Jabber said brightly. “In water.”

“Huh—?” Zanka sputtered.

“Just a tiny bit! Blue No. 5. Completely safe. Completely boring. I wanted to see if the placebo effect would do somethin’.” Jabber leaned in conspiratorially. “It did. You’re just turned on by me, that’s it. Blushin’ all cute like a tomato.”

Zanka slapped her off hard enough to express the full spectrum of her rage, and equal parts humiliation.

“Yer so—so—” she snapped at a loss for words, scrambling to her feet. “I’m done with this.”

She stormed toward the door with an angry huff, and behind her came a thud, Jabber dropping to her knees dramatically and grabbing Zanka’s ankle with both hands like a sailor clinging to a life raft.

“Wait—wait—Zan-Zan—come baaaack,” Jabber whined, being dragged a good foot across the floor as Zanka walked. “You trust me so much you just drink whatever I give you? That’s adorable—”

“Let go of me!”

“No! I have better poisons I want you to try! For real this time!”

“That is not a selling point!”

Zanka kicked her leg once, enough to shake the barnacle woman off, and stomped out of the room, face blazing.

Behind her Jabber called, deeply unapologetic, “I’ve got a new compound that might make your tongue tingle! Don’t you wanna tingle?!”

Zanka slammed the door behind her, yelling back. “The hell I do!”

She breathed heavily outside the door for a moment, thought about the ache between her thighs that wasn’t going to resolve itself for another twenty minutes for her to make it back to campus, and she said fuck it as she pushed the door open, spotted Jabber still flat on the floor, and yanked her up by her shirt to kiss her again. 

And that was exactly how the whole mess started.

She remembers the wall against her back. Jabber’s rings scraping her skin. Her own hands gripping Jabber’s waist, nails pressing hard enough to leave marks. The way Jabber tasted like acid and gum and blood when Zanka bit her lip open.

She remembers thinking, This is a bad idea. Then immediately, I don’t care.

Zanka, for the first time in years, wanted something without logic or discipline or permission.

She wanted Jabber. And once she had her hands on her, she couldn’t un-want her.

Zanka doesn’t know when they turned into unwilling acquaintances from that fight, then annoying training partners, then the vague, unspoken (mostly because Zanka doesn’t want to speak it into existence) thing they are now. 

But it definitely didn’t help that Zanka lost their last sparring match.

Again, for the record, she didn’t lose by much. It was one point. Maybe one and a half. The judge was biased. The lighting was weird. Zanka’s braid was too tight. Jabber distracted her by being in that sports bra.

Anyway, Zanka had said, in a moment of extreme weakness and mild concussion, “Fine. If ya win, I’ll buy ya whatever the hell you want.”

And Jabber, being Jabber, said, “Anything?”

Not that money was an issue for a Nijiku.

Zanka almost enjoyed spending her family’s money on stupid shit. It felt like revenge. Like pissing on the family crest for being a bunch of dickheads to her for her entire life. 

She’d sent Rudo candy so extravagant it came with a two page tasting guide. She paid for Riyo’s cosmetology classes upfront. She bought herself a whole set of premium polishers for Aibo, complete with microfiber cloths softer than any cloud.

If blowing her parents’ money annoys them, it delights Zanka. As long as it’s on anything but her own education, which she wants them to have no hand in.

Which is why Jabber’s request to take her shopping didn’t bother her.

What did bother her was that Jabber is, by design, by personality, by some elaborate joke, the complete antithesis of Zanka’s life.

Zanka grew up in a world where everything was predetermined. Posture, diction, what you ate, how you smiled, which after school activities made you look like a promising heir, and which ones made you look like a disappointment. A Nijiku’s life isn’t a life.

Meanwhile Jabber was raised in… whatever the opposite of that is. 

Someone uncontained. Unpredictable. 

Someone who laughs too loudly, breaks rules too easily, and pulls Zanka forward to be her accomplice every time she tries to pull away.

Someone who makes her feel like the structure of her life is a paper scaffolding one good shove could knock over.

So Zanka just has to hope Jabber forgets that promise and leaves her the hell alone.
____

Jabber pops back into Zanka’s life the way she always does, without warning and with an uncanny instinct for horrific timing.

Zanka is trying to enjoy her routine when it happens.

Lovely hums through the air in a clean arc, the weight of the staff familiar in her hands. The apartment is quiet except for the soft thud of wood against mat, her breath measured, controlled. She’s barefoot, hair tied back, mind finally settling into something that almost resembles peace.

Then a rapid knocking behind her. 

Zanka freezes. Another knock follows, sharper this time, then nails against glass as something screeches down her window. 

She turns slowly, dread crawling up her spine, and there’s Jabber, crouched on the fire escape like a gargoyle, grinning through the window with her palms cupped around her eyes. Her breath fogs the glass as she mouths something exaggerated and indiscernible. She drags her nose up and down like a pig, sticking her tongue out. 

Zanka’s eye twitches.

She lifts Lovely and points it threateningly at the window, shaking her head in a silent get the hell out of here.

Jabber beams wider and knocks again, louder.

“Zanka?” Enjin’s voice drifts from the other room. “You in there? I heard a noise.”

Zanka panics glancing from Jabber to her door. “Yeah!” she calls back, pitching her voice up just enough to sound normal. “Just—uh—trainin’!”

She swings Lovely a little too hard and clips the wall with a loud thunk on purpose.

“And I, uhm,” she adds quickly, “hit the wall with Lovely!”

Outside, Jabber’s eyebrows shoot up. Lovely? she mouths it slowly, scandalized. 

Zanka bares her teeth at her and stalks over, yanking the window up with one hand while keeping the other firmly wrapped around the end of her staff like a security blanket.

Before Jabber can say a word, Zanka grabs the collar of her jacket and hauls.

“Inside,” she hisses.

Jabber yelps, laughing as she’s dragged bodily through the window, boots scraping, one knee knocking against the sill. She lands in a graceless sprawl on the floor, still cackling.

“Hi!” Jabber chirps. “Miss me?”

“Yer gonna get me killed,” Zanka snaps, slamming the window shut and locking it. “Or evicted.”

“Worth it,” Jabber says easily, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. “Nice place. Very… you. Minimalist.”

Zanka plants Lovely against the floor with a sharp thunk. “What do ya want.”

Jabber props herself up on her elbows, eyes flicking to the staff. “So that’s Lovely. You know, the way you and your little friends talk ‘bout it I thought you had a girlfriend.”

Zanka stiffens. “Her name’s Lovely cause that’s what she is.”

Jabber snorts. “You named your weapon.”

“She’s not a weapon,” Zanka snaps reflexively, then stops. “…She’s a partner.”

Jabber’s grin goes soft around the edges and makes Zanka deeply uncomfortable. “That’s kinda hot.”

“Don’t,” Zanka warns.

“You,” Jabber continues, undeterred, nodding at the staff, “and Lovely. Very intimate relationship you got goin’ on there. I remember when you broke my ribs with her.”

Zanka grips the wood harder on instinct. “Stop lookin’ at her like that. Fuckin’ pervert.”

“Mmm,” Jabber hums. “You two looking for a third?”

“Get out,” she snaps, shoving Jabber toward the window with the blunt end of the staff. “Out. Right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Jabber laughs, holding up her hands. “Okay, okay. Business. We gotta meet up tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Yes. I’m cashing in your promise.”

“What was it.” 

Jabber rolls to her feet, dusting herself off. “Shopping.”

Zanka’s lips part. “…For what.”

“For my stuff,” Jabber says vaguely. “Don’t tell me you forgot?”

Zanka narrows her eyes. She didn’t forget, she just hoped Jabber did. “You have class.”

“I have a project,” Jabber counters.

“That’s code for kidnappin’ an innocent rat and injectin’ it with some kinda super serum,” Zanka says flatly. “Or whatever it is ya do in those labs.”

Jabber gasps, offended. “Wow. You make it sound unethical.”

“Ya say that like it ain’t.”

Jabber steps closer, hands behind her back, rocking on her heels. “C’mon. You owe me.”

“I do not.” Zanka keeps her at an arms length with her staff.

“You lost the match.” Jabber doesn’t seem to mind having a staff poke her in the ribs, because if anything she leans in.

“Barely.”

“You still lost.”

Zanka exhales sharply through her nose. Jabber is right. 

Jabber tilts her head, eyes glittering. “You gonna break a promise, Nijiku?”

Zanka’s pulse betrays her immediately.

“…Yer insufferable,” Zanka mutters.

“Tomorrow at noon,” Jabber says, already backing toward the window and prying it open. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Yer not pickin’ me up.”

Jabber grins. “You’ll see.”

She swings one leg out onto the fire escape, then pauses, leaning back in just enough to add, “Tomorrow. Noon. Wear somethin’ sexy for me.”

“I’m not goin’!” Zanka growls and grabs the nearest thing, which happens to be poor Lovely, and lunges.

Jabber squeals with delight and scrambles fully out the window, laughing as she takes the stairs two at a time. She hooks her fingers on the railing of the fire escape, hanging there for a second just to be obnoxious and blow Zanka a kiss that makes a vein in her forehead pop out.

She leans out further, watching Jabber hit the pavement, throw a mocking salute, and vanish down the street into an alleyway like she was never there at all.

Zanka stands there, breathing hard like she’s just finished a match.

Her staff rests against her shoulder, the fall air seeping through the cracks and raising goosebumps along her arms.

She exhales. “…Damn it.”

She wishes, not for the first time, that she had a tobacco addiction right now. 

Feels fitting.

She shuts the window slowly. The apartment feels so quiet now. She should be satisfied with the peace.  

Resting her forehead briefly against the glass, she exhales and looks down at Lovely.

“…She’s a psychopath,” Zanka tells the staff, like it might agree.

Lovely, wisely, says nothing. Maybe a warning would’ve been nice.

Not like Zanka would heed it anyway. 
____

Which is why she’s here now, trailing after Jabber like a dumb moth that keeps bumping into the same neon sign.

The afternoon sun hits the shopping district in hard, glossy slabs, everything too polished and expensive.

It’s a surprisingly warm day for October, which she’s sure if she mentioned out loud Jabber would either say yup, climate change, or why the hell are you making small talk with me, so she wisely says nothing.

She’s just overthinking, probably, and she knows why. She hates this place and how it still makes her stomach twist the way it did when she was small. 

Back when Kyouka hauled her here every year with the severity of a drill sergeant and the (lack of) tenderness of a disappointed mother, shoving her onto those stupid raised stools in the boutiques like she was livestock being measured. Tape snapping around her waist. Collar. Wrists. Knees together. Chin up. Hem too long. Hem too short. Fix it, again.

Meanwhile, the boys slouched in their loose uniforms, belts undone, shirts wrinkled, Kyouka giving them a single disinterested glance. Zanka remembers glaring across the aisle at them, a tiny middle school demon with arms crossed and eyebrows pre etched.

Now she’s back, older and taller and supposedly more mature, yet foolish enough to think she’d be immune to this place.

But Jabber is here. So of course she’s not immune to anything.

Jabber walks with her hands laced behind her head, hips swaying, humming some off key tune that somehow always has Zanka’s name snuck in it.

Even in daylight her pupils look wide, hungry. 

She wears a sleeveless cropped something, Zanka’s not really sure what to call it, a top that technically covers her chest if not for the very obvious side boob and the cut outs that leave her arms bare, roped muscle carved from fighting whoever pleases her.

Her shorts are low rise and way too tight too, dark purple and riding up her thighs with each stride, the mismatched patches straining against her powerful legs, leaving little to the imagination. Zanka works very tirelessly to keep her eyes straight ahead.

She feels underdressed in comparison, pretty much everything she has on has to be loose and comfortable. Her blouse hangs off her shoulders with wide, flowing sleeves, fabric soft and breathable but recently torn at the collar from Jabber’s claws twenty minutes ago when they grappled around the car because Jabber wouldn’t drop the conversation about Zanka’s family being in town after she heard about it on the news.

It exposes a hint of her collarbone now, marked with fresh bruises. Now she feels naked for anyone to see, because what kind of respectable Nijiku walked around with hickies all over them? 

She crosses her arms over her chest, seething. Why does Jabber always make her feel like this? Outmatched.

They haven’t even gotten to the shops across the street yet. Jabber insisted they eat first because “I need strength before I choose my armor, babe,” and Zanka pretended she wasn’t flustered by being called babe in public.

Food court. Plastic chairs. Neon menus. Zanka tries to act normal in such a normal place. Jabber does not. Under the table, she bumps their ankles.

Zanka shifts away, but Jabber taps again. Zanka nudges back. Jabber escalates.

Zanka retaliates harder, then pauses, feeling like an idiot for getting competitive over footsie. This is stupid. This is childish. This is something couples do. This is what those two idiots Amo and Rudo did all last spring whenever they thought no one noticed with their cringy puppy love and mutual crushes. 

Then Jabber kicks her hard, intentional. Zanka’s chair screeches as she jerks back. Jabber grins, propping her chin up on her laced fingers. “You're so fun.”

“Yer baitin’ me,” Zanka mutters, glaring.
Jabber just shrugs, lashes fluttering like she’s innocent, which is laughable the way her rings gleam like tiny weapons. 

The mankira on her ring finger, the only one with the spike, glints dangerously. She taps it against the metal table and the sound shoots straight down Zanka’s spine, dredging up the memory of being nicked by it one too many times. Her leg jumps, knocking into a chair leg. She winces and rubs at it, looking up right as their food arrives and the underpaid teenager in their uniform gives the two of them a judgmental look. 

Zanka feels a headache brewing. 

Jabber eats like the world is ending in ten minutes and she intends to taste every last second. A hedonist with no brakes, pure appetite, pure thrill seeking. 

She shovels fried noodles into her mouth, chewing while talking, sauce smeared on her thumb that she cleans with a lick of tongue and teeth.

Zanka looks away, jaw tight. The straw she’s sipping her coffee from is chewed up and doesn’t even work anymore, but she keeps it pursed between her lips to distract herself from the mess in front of her. 

“You ever think,” Jabber says between bites, “how chemicals make everythin’ happen?”

“…No?” Zanka grunts. “What’re ya on about now.”

“Nah, listen.” Jabber leans in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Poisons, synthetics, the natural stuff—love ‘em all. But our bodies? They’re chemical factories. Adrenaline in a fight, that dump of shit you get when you’re ’bout to die. Oxytocin when you’re gettin’—”

Zanka slams her knee on the underside of the table. “Jabber.”

“—fucked,” Jabber finishes sweetly.

Zanka inhales through her nose so sharply her teeth ache. Her nails dig into her palms until she feels half moon indents. She doesn’t know if she’s angry, embarrassed, or aroused. Probably yes to all three. 

Whatever imaginary multiple choice test she’s taking, she’s failing it. 

She’d probably be wondering what her dear Ma and Pa would think about their youngest daughter’s debauchery, if only she saw them more than ten times in her lifetime enough to care. Kyouka would probably hit her with a broom just for thinking something so disrespectful.

But her family, well, bloodline technically, the Nijikus?

Oh, they’d judge her for this for a different reason entirely.

Jabber tilts her head, gold jewelry catching the light. “Always wanted to be—” she pinches her fingers together, barely a centimeter apart, “—thisss close to dyin’. Bet it’s the best high of your life. Like, you get so buzzed you just stop fightin’ back and let the Reaper kiss you all sloppy on the mouth.”

“Ugh, fuck.” Zanka pushes her food away. “Ya really know how to make me lose my damn appetite with all yer yappin’.”

Jabber raises both hands in mock surrender. Her rings click together, metal on metal, sharp sounds like teeth snapping shut.

Zanka’s eyes drop to Jabber’s hands, strong, scarred, precise. Those same hands that grabbed her collar last week in a stupid argument and pulled her close enough that Jabber’s teeth nicked her lip when they “accidentally” collided. Jabber licked the blood off her own mouth and smirked.

Zanka hadn’t told her to stop. She really should’ve, maybe, but there’s a little Nijiku family legend that makes it impossible.

A thousand year old line, brought overseas generations ago as “honored guards” for some shrine or noble. Protectors, or rather disciplinarians, bound to service. 

And now? Now they’re a bunch of stuffy prosecutors who preach control and law, not giving a single shit about the innocents who are falsely accused everyday. Zanka wanted to be like them once. Once, not anymore. No way.

And buried somewhere in the family scrolls (the ones Kyouka made them read every New Year) is the pretense of no overindulgence.

Only one. One drink. One smoke. One fuck, (though obviously it didn’t say that, but it’s implied, implication was everything if Zanka’s learned anything from her legal classes). One of blah blah blah. 

One vice at a time, as proof of willpower.

As proof that a Nijiku could resist any temptation.

Zanka is very possibly breaking that law by existing within a ten foot radius of Jabber. Because Jabber is not “one drink.” Jabber is not “one vice.”

She might as well be all of them at once.

A bad habit formed instantly. A relapse waiting to happen. Shooting her up straight into the crook of Zanka’s arm like the purest drug, a needle prick of pain and the euphoria that follows.

Her ancestors are watching her from whatever cold, heavenly mountain hall they sit in, shaking their heads in unison.

She must be failing them even more than when she was disowned for running off to do pro bono defense.

Her great grandmother survived political imprisonment for six years and she’s over here losing every ounce of dignity because Jabber makes her feel something different from the monotonous emotions she’s felt her whole life? 

Please. Zanka is a pathetic excuse for a youngest heir.

Even when Jabber’s nails rake her forearm when they wrestle over remote controls or the last mochi. Or Zanka grips Jabber’s hair and pulls hard, just hard enough to make her gasp, not hard enough to loosen the locs, because Zanka enjoys living too much to die at Jabber’s hands. Just having Jabber mouthing at her throat, teeth scraping, claiming it’s “just messin’ around.”

Even with all that, Jabber pretends it’s all a joke.

But Zanka knows exactly what a joke looks like (Enjin has the worst dad jokes that she laughs way too loud at anyway), and this is not one.

Every kick, pull, and bite is intentional.

Zanka hates her. She hates that she has fun hating her. She hates that the hate might not be hate at all.

She was praised once for an inextinguishable flame, the kind that devoured weakness and burned through her failures.

But that flame does nothing here. Not when Jabber leans back in her chair, licking sauce from her knuckle with slow enjoyment, eyes half lidded and bright with appetite. Not when she taps her mankira on the table three times, an unspoken come on, take the bait already, Nijiku.

Zanka hates her almost as much as she wants her.

Passion’s fickle like that. It flips, burns, rewrites itself in ways she can’t predict, and Jabber knows it.

She knows it when she kicks Zanka’s shin again, gently this time, almost affectionate. Sweet for all the sour. There’s a lot of sour. 

Zanka’s throat tightens. She grinds out, “If ya don’t stop, I swear on my family, I’ll—”

Jabber beams. Her left canine’s a bit crooked, and Zanka’s eye always darts right to it almost every time she opens her mouth. “That’s it. Use that old family trauma on me.” She leans in, voice dropping to a low purr. “Betcha would beat me all nice and bloody if I ask politely.”

Zanka freezes. Jabber laughs, delighted at the reaction, at the horror and the interest flickering across Zanka’s eyes.

“Oh Zankaaa,” Jabber sings. “Chemicals. All chemicals. Mm. I can smell it on you.”

Zanka shoves her tray away, muttering, “We’re buyin’ yer damn stuff and then we’re leavin’. Before I do somethin’ stupid like deck ya in front of that mall cop.”

Jabber stretches her arms over her head, rings ringing together like chimes.

“Zan-Zan,” she coos. “Always seconds away from doin’ something stupid.”

Zanka doesn’t argue, cause she knows it’s true.

Because she can feel the chemical heat under her skin, rage, fear, desire, want, all fused into one jumble she can’t discern, and she knows exactly who triggered it.

And she knows it won’t stop. Not while Jabber is smiling like that. Not while she’s sitting beside her. Not while they’re heading toward the dressing rooms, toward satin and laces and tightness and breathlessness and—

Zanka swallows hard. 

One vice at a time. One. Just one.

She is already failing.

“You got that look again." Jabber points at her with a fry suddenly. "The I'm thinkin' too much for my own good look."

"I don't got a look," Zanka mutters.

"Ya do." Jabber's grin widens. "And it always shows up right before you let me do somethin' stupid. You look just like someone pissed in your coffee."

Zanka scoffs, “Fuckin’ tastes like it too. I just wasted seven bucks on this.” She tosses it a few feet into the trash can across from them, watching it sink into the mass of food waste.

Jabber stretches, satisfied with herself, with the food, with freaking Zanka out. "C'mon, Miss Bad Attitude. Let's go buy my corset.”

Zanka swallows. Her heartbeat kicks up, a chemical reaction or whatever bullshit Jabber’s talking about. Zanka will pretend she doesn’t listen, but seeing Jabber talk about something other than Mankira with genuine honesty was as rare as the girl asking for a painkiller.

So Zanka acts like she’s not listening, even though she is. 

She follows her toward the heart of the shopping district, both of them pretending they’re just shopping (if you could even call it that), and not two feral beasts circling each other like they’re lions seconds away from either fighting for the last dead gazelle in the field or just fucking right there. 

Zanka’s starting to suspect both would happen in the same breath.

Biology was never Zanka’s strong suit in school (though she forced it to be with five extra hours of studying a week in the academy), but even she’s smart enough to understand the hold it has over the human race. 

She’s learned and fought for longer than she could crawl properly, enough to know this. Humans act on instinct long before logic. And whatever instinct tells her to keep space from Jabber? It dies every time Jabber so much as looks at her.

So when she follows the faint, chemical trail of Jabber’s scent and that rich, earthy undertone of her lotion into the shops inside, Zanka tells herself it’s just instinct.

Blame it on biology.

“I gotta piss first,” Jabber says suddenly, yanking her towards the bathroom. 

Blame that on biology too.
____

The boutique is too nice for the both of them. Like velvet curtains, gold racks kind of fancy. The kind of place Zanka would never willfully step inside again if Jabber hadn’t dragged her by the wrist while chattering about the party’s nonexistent dress code.

It’s colder than the mall outside, all frosted air conditioning and soft focus lighting meant to make everything feel dreamlike. Racks of satin and lace line the walls, mannequins posed seductively. Zanka’s face pinches up like she just sucked on a lemon. 

Jabber does not fit right in, but it’s also not like she’s ever made an attempt to do so.

She stretches her arms high, making her hair sway in a lazy arc down her back. The ends brush her waist, rolled smooth.

Zanka hovers near the door like a bouncer deciding whether she should drag them back to the food court. “Don’t touch anything ya can’t afford,” she mutters. “Or fight anything either.”

“Why would I fight a mannequin? It’s not like it can hit me back,” Jabber laughs, already disappearing between two racks. “Actually—don’t answer that. If it looks at me wrong, we’re throwin’ hands.”

Zanka pinches the bridge of her nose. “Jabber.”

“Zankaaaaaa.” Jabber’s voice comes melodically from somewhere deeper inside the shop. “Come look at this one! They even have ‘em with cutouts.”

Zanka follows, she always follows, because some stupid chemical or primal survival instinct (or just whatever bullshit explanation she wants to pretend is the reason for her always chasing after Jabber) doesn’t work. Zanka rounds the corner and freezes.

She tries not to look. Tries and fails. Jabber tilts her head, letting all that gold decorated hair slide over her shoulder as she chooses a corset off the rack. She holds it up under her chin.

Black lace. Structured, boned, delicate in that sharp way, like a trap a winter fox would stick its head into thinking it’s finally going to fill its belly, only to get caught in the teeth.

Zanka swallows hard.

“It’s… fine,” she says weakly.

Jabber turns her head, eyes narrowing in delight. “You’re lyin’. You think I’d look real hot in it, huh.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Don’t gotta say it,” Jabber teases, stepping closer. “You’re lookin’ at it like you wanna put it on me yourself.”

Zanka’s ears burn hot enough she might combust. “Don’t say weird shit.”

“It’s not weird,” Jabber shrugs. “Corsets need assistance, duh. Somebody’s gotta tie ‘em up. Real tight. Right down the spine.” She traces a line down her back with one lazy finger, slow enough that Zanka’s eyes track the movement against her will. “Think your scrawny little arms can handle it?”

“I’m not scrawny,” Zanka hisses.

“Sure ya are.” Jabber flicks Zanka’s bicep with the spikeless ring, and Zanka flinches more from the touch than the tap. “But real firm. Dense. Betcha could pull these ‘til I can’t breathe.”

“Why’re ya saying this in public?”

“Because watchin’ your face go all pink is funny,” Jabber answers instantly.

Zanka grips the nearest rack so hard the hangers squeak. She needs air. She needs a new life. She needs a restraining order on Jabber Wonger, except she’d never be able to enforce it. She’d probably just keep showing up outside Zanka’s dorm window like a particularly obnoxious alley cat in heat.

Jabber hangs the black corset over her shoulder and drifts deeper into the shop, touching everything she shouldn’t, brocade here, velvet there, tapping her knuckles against the wooden drawers, the rings clinking, always making that sharp metallic kiss that turns Zanka’s spine liquid.

“They got black leather ones,” Jabber calls. “Oooh, and this one’s got steel in it. Bet I could cut someone clean while wearin’ it.”

“Yer not buyin’ it just to commit assault.”

“Is it really assault if they asked for it?” Jabber argues, holding up a red leather one that looks like it was sewn out of some kind of endangered dragon species. “Zan, c’mon. Look at this. Imagine me in this.”

Zanka does. Unfortunately vividly.

The leather clinging to Jabber’s waist. The laces criss crossing tight over her shoulder blades.

Zanka turns away abruptly, pretending to examine a mannequin, but her gaze flicks traitorously downward, to the rows of tied ribbon in the back. They’d have to be tightened one by one. Jabber’s bare back under her hands, skin warm and glowing under the boutique lights. Zanka pulling, the muscles in her biceps burning, Jabber hissing through her teeth and saying tighter, tighter, tighter—

Zanka reaches out to touch one of the displayed corsets, something to distract herself. The lace is soft but firm, structured, and very obviously expensive. She runs her thumb along the boning without thinking.

Jabber notices, holding up a deep wine colored corset that would reflect light off her skin like a bruise blossoming.

“Oho,” she hums, hanging it on the rack and sauntering over. “You’re touchin’ it like it’s me.”

“I’m not.”

“Ya are.”

“I am not.”

“You’re thinkin’ ‘bout me in it.” Jabber leans in until her breath touches Zanka’s cheek, sweet and warm. “Thinkin’ ‘bout how you’d lace me up, how my waist would look, all cinched in like—”

Zanka drops the corset so fast it almost falls. “Pick somethin’ and let’s go.”

“Nahhh,” Jabber purrs, stepping closer, her hair brushing Zanka’s forearm, the scent dizzying. “I like watchin’ you try not to look.”

“I’m not lookin’—”

“You’re always lookin’.”

She says it too softly, and Zanka doesn’t even get a chance to reply as Jabber immediately turns back to the racks, humming again, pretending nothing just happened. 

Jabber picks up the black corset Zanka was staring at. “Mm. This one,” she decides. “Help me try it on?”

“Hell no.”

“You afraid you’ll like what you see?”

“I’m afraid you’ll sexually harass me through the whole damn thing.”

Jabber grins, stepping backward toward the dressing rooms, wagging a finger. “C’mon. Let’s find out who breaks first. I wanna play.”

Zanka doesn’t move.

Jabber lifts her chin, pink poison eyes gleaming, bright, hypnotic like a snake mid coil.

It reminds Zanka of the antifreeze puddled under the cars in the junkyard Rudo drags her to often, the kind that tastes sweet to the wildlife but poisons them before they know they’ve swallowed.

“Zanka.”

Her voice drops.

“Come here.”

Zanka moves. 

The dressing rooms are tucked in the back, velvet curtains instead of doors, soft golden lights warming the edges. Too enclosed. Too much like stepping into a cage with a tiger that both of them see and neither avoids.

Jabber chooses the largest stall, flipping the curtain aside. “Ladies first.”

Zanka stays rooted to the tiled floor for a whole second too long, fighting instinct.

A Nijiku’s sense of self preservation, sharpened through bloodline and discipline, screams don’t go in there. Seriously, don’t go in there, she’s gonna eat you alive. Hey, hey are you even listening—

But Jabber turns her head, pink poison eyes glinting, and smiles with all her teeth.

Zanka goes in.

The dressing room is narrow, walls lined with mirrors. Too many angles. Too many places for Zanka to see herself staring directly at Jabber like a problem she can’t solve.

Jabber hangs the black corset on a hook, sleek, structured, leather matte and satin gloss interwoven. It looks almost like a gun in a strange sense. Of course she picked it.

“You’re gonna help me,” Jabber declares, already pulling off her cropped top and tossing it onto a stool.

Zanka makes a strangled sound as she’s faced with Jabber’s chest. Jabber, a chick who’s never worn a bra a day in her life. “Warn me before ya—”

“Why?” Jabber smirks. “You’ve seen me strip before.”

“That was after—“ Zanka cuts herself off. After sparring, or sex. She is not going to say that. “Not—like this!”

“Yeah, but ya still stared then too,” Jabber teases.

Zanka wants to walk out. She also wants to headbutt Jabber. She also wants to sink her teeth into her shoulder. These wants collide and fuse until she’s stuck, palms sweating, feeling like a dumbass thirteen year old boy with a boner while giving a class presentation.

Jabber grins as she reaches for the corset, sliding it around her torso. “Go on.”

“I’m not yer maid.”

“You’re my muscle,” Jabber corrects. “Now get over here.”

Jabber leans back on the dressing room stool like she’s on a throne, dreads hanging over her shoulders and rings glinting each time she wiggles her fingers.

“Hm, Zan-zan. Make sure it’s really tight though,” she purrs, voice syrupy. “I wanna have a waist like yours. Practically nonexistent.”

Zanka bristles, her tassel earring brushing her cheek as she glares down. “Shut yer damn trap,” she mutters, pulling the laces a little harder than necessary.

Jabber gasps theatrically. “Awwww… ya don’t like bein’ told you got a nice figure?”

Color flashes over Zanka’s cheekbones, an annoyed flush, visible in the light. She looks away, jaw working. “Quit sayin’ stupid stuff.”

But Jabber only grins wider, eyes bright and malicious. “Nah, for real. Bet I could wrap my hands around it and make my fingers touch.” She wiggles her fingers like some old pervert, rings clicking. “Tiny li’l noble lady waist on a big bad bitch.”

Zanka pushes her face back with one hand, feeling Jabber’s tongue dart out and wet her skin. “Enough. If anyone’s the fuckin’ bitch it’s the one in front of me.”

Jabber just does her hyena laugh, loud enough to echo, and she wedges a knee between Zanka’s thighs. That single distraction is all she needs to get her hands up Zanka’s shirt.

Jabber’s nails, sharp like carved obsidian, scratch down from sternum to navel, not enough to draw blood (yet, Jabber always eventually does), just enough to paint burning lines.

“Oi—!” Zanka flinches, grabbing her wrist.

Jabber just clicks her nails against Zanka’s bare waist, her rings cold until they warm up from skin contact. “See?” Jabber murmurs, leaning in to nip at Zanka’s earlobe and blow sharply. The tassel swings. “Told ya you’re teeny.”

Zanka growls low, shoving her off. “Are ya tryin’ to piss me off on purpose?”

“See? You can catch on quick,” Jabber teases. “Guess you’re not just a pretty face, Zan-Zan.” She pinches Zanka’s cheeks hard, stretching them. 

Zanka sighs and peels her hands off.

“Do the clasps.” Jabber gathers her dreads over her shoulder, exposing her entire back like an invitation.

Zanka steps in behind her, fingers brushing the cool metal clasps. Jabber’s skin is warm under her fingertips as she pulls the corset closed. 

She’s not sure why she always expects it to be cold like a corpse.

The muscles along her back are defined under her skin like strokes of charcoal, dipping and curling as she shifts in the half open corset. The black leather hugs Jabber’s waist immediately, framing the sharp dip of her hips.

“You’re breathin’ too fast,” Jabber murmurs without looking, watching Zanka through the mirror. “You nervous?”

“No.” Zanka’s knuckles are white around the bones of the  corset wrapped around Jabber’s torso.

“You are.”

Zanka clasps it up the last inch and steps back like she’s been burned. “Good?”

“Nah. It’s too loose.” Jabber huffs, impatient. “You have to do the laces.” She wiggles her ass.

Zanka sighs and reaches out, fingers trembling only a little, and wraps her palms around the strands of lace hanging down the back. Jabber makes a low oof sound when Zanka pulls too hard.

“Oops,” Jabber whispers, utterly unbothered. “Do it again.”

Zanka does. The corset pinches as Jabber exhales. “Tighter.”

“Yer already—”

“Tighter,” Jabber repeats, voice slipping into a breathless sound.

The corset tightens around Jabber’s torso like a second spine. Jabber’s hands fly up, bracing on the mirror, fingertips smearing faint sweat into the glass.

A flush starts to creep across Jabber’s chest and throat, darker, richer, like brandy warming in a glass. Her cheeks deepen from bronze to something with wine undertones, blooming under the strain. Even the tips of her ears darken.

“More,” she hisses, fingers bracing against the wall. Her palms splay flat, shoulders rolling back, back muscles flexing under the low lighting. “Don’t act scared now.”

“I ain’t scared,” Zanka mutters. “Yer just impossible to please.”

She hauls back on the laces.

Jabber jolts forward with a strangled sound, her rings scraping the mirror as she steadies herself. 

Each tug squeezes the air out of her lungs, making her ribs flare under Zanka’s fingers like something caged.

Zanka plants her feet, bracing the heel of her boot between Jabber’s legs from behind, pressing her thigh forward for leverage like she’s in a tug of war. Jabber’s palms slam against the wall, ass arching back slightly. “Ya want tight? Fine, ya masochistic freak.”

“Ohhh—” Jabber’s voice cracks, wheezy, pleased. “Zan-Zan, right there, c’mon, ya big brute—”

“Stop sayin’ weird— just— hold still!” Zanka snaps, yanking harder.

“Shit,” Jabber grunts. 

Zanka’s mouth goes dry. Jabber’s reflection is flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. Pink irises glowing like a neon sign.

Zanka pulls again, harder. She laces the strings through, pulling again.

Jabber’s knees bend. Her stomach hollows out. Her breath turns shallow and high, almost a whine.

“You okay?” Zanka murmurs, but her voice comes out rougher than she means.

Jabber laughs on an inhale that barely makes it past her lips. “Fuh—keep goin’, Zan.”

She does. She tightens the last three crosses so sharply that Jabber’s back arches. 

Jabber looks over her shoulder, that manic grin blooming slow. The shadows around her eyes deepen. Saliva wets her lips, glossy in the dimness.

“Yeah—” Jabber rasps. “A little more.”

“Yer outta yer damn mind,” Zanka snaps, voice rising with anger that feels too close to something else, but she yanks anyway, her whole weight thrown into it.

A sharp, wet sound escapes Jabber’s throat. Zanka hisses, pulling the laces harder than she means to. Jabber’s breath catches, then stops being breath. 

Zanka tugs viciously, pushing against Jabber until the corset goes vise like. Jabber’s inhale turns wheezy, body twitching. Zanka glances in the mirror and freezes. Jabber’s eyes are rolling back, drooling at the corner of her lips, her dark skin flushing a deep, bruised hue from the lack of air. She smiles like a madwoman, ecstatic.

For a terrifying second, she looks like she’s dissolving under her own pleasure, like the corset has wrung the soul out of her and left only the shine of her rings and the curl of her mouth. 

Something about her expression, half ecstasy, half madness, makes Zanka’s stomach twist in disgust at herself.

Zanka instantly releases the laces.

Jabber collapses forward, gasping, drinking in air like someone surfacing from deep water. The flush across her chest spreads, blooming like spilled ink.

She sounds like a beached fish. She coughs, wheezing back air. “Aww man…” she laughs breathlessly. “Why’d ya stop? I was so close.”

“Because I could’ve killed ya!” Zanka snaps, voice cracking between fury and panic.

Jabber waves a hand dismissively, leaning back on the wall with a grin. “Oh, relax. I’ve taken way worse than bein’ a little outta breath, babe.”

Zanka’s eye twitches. “Stop callin’ me that.”

Jabber leans forward, eyes gleaming, rings tapping Zanka’s thigh. She runs a ringed finger up Zanka’s thigh, leaving a little scratch. “Don’t be a pussy. Lace me up again.” Another sharp grin. “Make it hurt this time.”

“I ain’t lacin’ ya again,” Zanka says, but her voice is hoarse, frayed at the edges.

Jabber smirks without even opening her eyes. “You wanna.”

“I don’t.”

“Ya doooo,” she sings, tapping the mirror behind her head with her knuckles, rings making that little clicking rhythm Zanka now associates with losing her damn common sense.

Zanka steps back. Not much, barely a foot, but enough to make her spine hit the opposite wall. 

Her pulse is too loud in her ears. The dressing room suddenly feels too small, too occupied by one person who shouldn’t take up this much space in her brain.

Jabber’s still recovering at least, chest rising unevenly under the corset, which lifts every inhale, denies every exhale. Her skin glows deep, wine dark, blooming across her throat. Her pupils are huge, so dilated they choke out the pink irises.

“You really were gonna faint,” Zanka mutters, wiping her palms on her pants. “Ya absolute fuckin’—”

“Lightweight?” Jabber interrupts, breathless. “You think that was fainting? You should see me when I really go out. It takes a lot more than that to make me cum—”

“I don’t wanna see anything when ya ‘go out,’” Zanka snaps. “I wanna see ya alive.”

Jabber’s grin twitches, then she catches it, swallows whatever made it falter, and slams the mask back on with a bright laugh. “Ohhh? Zan-Zan cares. How scandalous.”

Zanka steps forward before she can think, grabs Jabber’s chin, thumb dragging along her jaw. Jabber’s hand clasps uselessly against Zanka’s wrist.

“I care,” Zanka growls quietly, “that I don’t get arrested for manslaughter because ya got off choking yerself in a department store.”

Jabber shivers. “Then don’t kill me. Simple.” 

“Yer makin’ it really, really fuckin’ difficult.”

Jabber’s expression falls flat, voice dipping into something that slides right under Zanka’s ribs. “You’re boring me, Zanka.”

Words, heavy as an executioner’s hand, drop into her bloodstream.

You're boring me.

As if it’s Zanka’s job to entertain her. 

Her heart hammers in her chest, a furious rhythm. She tells herself it’s pure, unfiltered rage at Jabber’s endless provocations, at the way this woman turns everything into a game even with her safety on the line, forcing Zanka to play at the same stakes against her will. 

But deep down, in the suppressed corners of her mind she rarely visits, Zanka knows it’s more than that. A sick fascination with seeing how far Jabber will really go, if she means it when she says she wants Zanka to be the one to play her pain like a harp.

Jabber chips away at Zanka’s structure, revealing cracks she didn’t know existed. Enemies? That’s what they started as, bouncing like sparks from clashing swords. 

But what is it that they want from each other to go as far as doing this over and over again? 

Jabber stands in front of the mirrored wall, hips cocked, corset hanging open around her ribs like a heavy black wing waiting to be folded shut. The dressing room is too small for them, and it’s stifling with the heat they bring out of each other. Zanka already feels her jaw clench.

She can pretend it doesn’t affect her. Of course it does.

It always does when Jabber is like this.

She’s baited again, hook, line, and sinker, and she hates how easily Jabber reels her in. Before she can think better of it, Zanka surges forward, grabbing a fistful of those dreads and yanks her close. Their lips crash together in a rough kiss that’s all teeth (and honestly resembles nothing like a kiss), no gentleness in sight. Zanka’s hands roam Jabber’s back, fingers tracing the warm, supple skin giving under the pressure Zanka grabs her with.

Jabber bites down on Zanka’s lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, the metallic tang blooming between them. She hums appreciatively at the taste, a low, vibrating sound that sends shivers down Zanka’s spine.

“Mmm, sweet, just like you,” Jabber murmurs against her mouth, her breath hot and minty from the gum she chewed earlier. 

Her tits finally spill out of the corset as Zanka presses closer, the lace giving way with a soft ease of fabric, exposing the swell of her chest fully, dark nipples hardening in the cool air.

Not one to be outdone, Jabber grabs Zanka’s hand, her silver rings cool and sharp against Zanka’s knuckles. One of the spiked ones nicks the back of Zanka’s hand, a quick, stinging cut that draws a bead of blood, but Jabber doesn’t apologize. 

Instead, she guides Zanka’s palm over her exposed breast, forcing her fingers to squeeze. The flesh is warm, plush, yielding like ripe fruit under Zanka’s grip, and Jabber moans, arching into the touch, her cheek brushing Zanka’s.

Jabber’s free hand slips down, deft fingers unbuttoning Zanka’s shirt with ease, pulling it open.

They dip down into her pants next, rubbing at Zanka through the thin fabric of her underwear, teasing the growing wetness there. Jabber chuckles darkly, her eyes gleaming. “You’re so predictable, Zanka.”

Without breaking eye contact, Jabber pulls the underwear aside, no need to see, her touch instinctive, like a pharmacist measuring precise doses. Her fingers slick up, gliding through Zanka’s folds with slow strokes, gathering the arousal until they’re coated. Zanka grits her teeth the whole time to not make any noise.

When she pulls them back out, she holds them up between them, the dim light catching the webbing of wetness strung like spider silk between her digits, clear, viscous, undeniable evidence that Zanka’s not so faultless.

Zanka’s face burns, a mix of embarrassment and fury, but mostly just from how turned on she is. 

Jabber laughs, that cackle echoing in the small space, head shaking with the motion. “Look at that, Zan-Zan. You gettin’ turned on over chokin’ out an innocent girl like me. What would your fancy law profs say?”

Innocent? She’s the devil. “You’re the opposite of innocent,” Zanka growls, shoving Jabber off with both hands. 

Jabber stumbles back, catching herself against the wall with a painful sounding thunk, “What gives? Not in the mood, Miss Bad Attitude?”

Zanka’s resolve crumbles further, she’s always falling into this trap. She steps up behind Jabber, pressing her body flush against her back, breathing against her neck. She smells like chemicals most of the time, and Zanka’s gotten used to that burn in your nostrils feeling that used to make her sick.

The scent hits her stronger here, that fancy gel Jabber conditions with, something infused with rosemary. It’s a shame it’s hidden beneath layers and layers of formaldehyde and ethyl acetate.

It reminds her of her family garden, when Goka would let her wander off by herself long enough for her to pick the ripe raspberries off their bushes and hide them in a handkerchief in her pocket.

Zanka’s fingers itch to touch her hair, to feel the deceptively soft texture under her palms. “Be quiet,” she murmurs instead, then bites Jabber’s nape, hard enough to mark, teeth sinking into the soft flesh that tastes faintly of salt.

Jabber gasps, but it’s laced with pleasure, her body arching back into Zanka’s like a cat seeking more. “That’s more like it.” Her hands reach back, pulling Zanka closer until they face each other again, their bodies dragging in a rhythm that’s as combative as it is needy. 

Jabber’s like poison ivy, beautiful and dangerous, wrapping around Zanka’s resolve until it crumbles. It makes her skin fucking itch. 

Zanka’s hands roam down Jabber’s sides, tracing the mismatched seams of her shorts until she grips her hips.

Jabber’s tits press against hers through Zanka’s bra, and Zanka really can’t stand it for one second more. 

“Turn around,” Zanka says, pulling away suddenly.

Jabber does, with a grin that shows too much tooth, but miraculously stays silent.

Zanka swears under her breath and steps behind her, because the alternative is walking out and never looking at her again, and she is absolutely physically incapable of doing that.

The laces slide through her fingers again, warm from Jabber’s body heat.

“Don’t make the same face as last time,” Jabber murmurs to the mirror, smirking faintly when their eyes lock in the reflection. “You get all serious like you’re about to perform open heart surgery.”

“Ya want it tight or not?”

“You know what I want.”

Zanka’s breath shudders with her anger. She definitely does.

She threads her fingers through the lacing and pulls once, testing. Jabber hums, rolling her shoulders.

Zanka’s pulse still thrums, but she shakes it off, her competitiveness flaring as she eyes the loosened corset on Jabber’s frame. “Fine,” she mutters, her voice low and edged with warning. “Ya want it tighter? I’m not holdin’ back this time.” 

Part of her is thrilled by the power rush, but another part screams caution. This is Jabber, the masochist who chases edges Zanka wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole and a hazmat suit on. Still, she falls into it, stupidly.

Jabber braces her palms against the mirror again, dreads gathered over one shoulder, and nods with that manic grin. “Do your worst, Zanka. You better not chicken out this time.”

Zanka’s brow twitches. “Who said I ever held back?”

She yanks.

Jabber gasps, body jerking, ribs drawing tight. The back of the corset snaps into a narrower shape. Her breath stutters, and she laughs a sharp, breathless, delighted sound.

“Shit—hurts,” she mutters. “Keep going.”

Her eyes gleam with that twisted want, pushing Zanka for more, and Zanka feels a strange thrill at holding that leverage over her.

She plants a hand between Jabber’s shoulder blades and pushes, slotting a leg between her thighs to brace against the wall. Jabber’s legs tremble and her stomach draws in as the boning forces her waist smaller. The shape of her body changes under Zanka’s hands, sharper lines, tighter curves, her ribs fighting for space.

“Tell me when it’s too much,” Zanka says right against Jabber’s ear, too close for neutrality. “I’d rather kill ya when ya put up more of a fight.”

“You think I’ll tell you?” Jabber whispers back, breath shivering. “That’s cute.”

Zanka pulls again, harder, feeling how Jabber drags herself down against her thigh through her shorts.

Jabber’s breath cuts off, stopping entirely for one terrifying beat. Then it rushes out in a shallow, rapid burst that fogs the mirror. Her fingers curl against the glass, nails screeching lightly on the surface.

“Aw, fuck,” Jabber hisses through her teeth, head tipping forward. “Feels like my ribs are breaking, man. Think you can break ‘em, Zanka? I didn’t think I could get this turned on, but—”

“Stop talkin’.”

“No, no, I’m serious,” she pants. “It’s like everything inside me is getting… pushed into a little pile. All neat and tight—“

“Do not mention yer internal organs while I’m touchin’ ya. Ever. Again.”

Jabber giggles. “But it feels so nasty in a good way. Like my stomach is pressed against my spine, and my other stuff is just—” She makes a hand gesture that is both vague and horrifyingly descriptive. “—getting cozy.”

“Jabber,” Zanka warns, forehead dropping against Jabber’s back. It must not be tight enough if she’s still yapping, so Zanka tugs again.  

Jabber’s whole body shivers from the shock of compression, knees buckling. Zanka pushes her upright. “Stay on your feet,” Zanka orders, tightening again.

Jabber shifts again, weight pressing back into her, not subtle about it as she grinds her cunt down thoughtlessly, chasing sensation with no regard for the fact that there’s another person behind he. The movement knocks Zanka forward half an inch as she’s pushes off balance, thigh braced tighter between Jabber’s legs without her consciously deciding to do it.

“Quit moving,” Zanka barks, but her voice comes out rougher than she expects.

Jabber grins at their reflection, eyes glassy. “You’re the one pullin’,” she says, breath hitching. “What d’you expect?”

“I don’t even know,” she utters, more to herself than Jabber. “Ya ever think about anyone but you?”

Jabber’s smile in the mirror goes lopsided. “Why would I start now?”

The words should roll right off. They usually do. Instead, Zanka’s gaze drops, to the way the corset pulls taut under her hands, to how Jabber’s body strains against it, to how Zanka is the one doing this. Holding the tension. Deciding how far it goes.

She looks back up and catches Jabber watching her in the reflection, like she’s interesting.

Zanka scowls deeper to cover the jolt that sends through her. “Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“Like what?” Jabber asks, voice too light. Too pleased.

“Like I’m…” Zanka trails off, jaw tightening. Like I’m just like you, she doesn’t say.

Jabber shifts again, slower this time, squeezing her legs around Zanka’s thigh.

This is stupid, she thinks. Reckless. Exactly how Jabber gets people hurt.

And still she doesn’t stop pulling.

Jabber’s breathing becomes high and uneven, each inhale a small, desperate catch. She arches back into Zanka, body humming like a wire charged on too high of a watt. Her head tips to the side, exposing her throat, a long vulnerable line.

Zanka feels something unnerving twist in her stomach. Fucking Jabber and all the bodies she liked to unbury. 

Jabber’s voice peaks to a delighted trill, “Fuck—Zanka… you’re… making me lightheaded…”

“Yer the one who wanted this,” Zanka murmurs, her lips close enough to brush Jabber’s cheek. “Don’t tell me yer backin’ out now.”

Jabber’s fingers smudge the glass, long purple nails clawing the mirror. Her reflection looks almost translucent, cheeks losing color. The corset forces her ribs inward until each inhale lifts only her shoulders.

Zanka leans in close, her mouth hovering near Jabber’s face, hot breath mingling as she listens to those ragged inhales, shallow pants that hitch and stop for too long, only to restart in rapid bursts each time Zanka eases the tension just a fraction. Jabber claws at the mirror, nails scraping glass with a screech, her hips rutting down against Zanka’s thigh in desperate, grinding motions. 

The corset molds her like a sculpture, waist nipped impossibly small, chest heaving with each strained breath, the lace straining against her form as sweat beads along her collarbone.

Zanka tugs longer, harder, her muscles burning from the effort. Jabber’s thighs tremble violently, and she folds slightly at the waist, suspended upright only by Zanka’s grip on the lace and her bracing against the mirror.

Zanka’s hands strain, arms burning slightly now, and in the mirror they look locked together, one leaning forward into sensation, the other braced behind her like an anchor, teeth clenched, eyes dark.

Zanka’s pulse roars in her ears. Her lips part, and she leans in to say something—

Jabber’s breath halts, just a second too long. Zanka hears it, feels it. Watches Jabber’s lashes flutter and her pupils slip backwards into her skull.

Her weight shifts oddly, too heavy, slack, the hum in her body cutting out like a wire yanked from a socket.

“Jabber?” Zanka calls sharply.

No answer. Just a thin, ugly wheeze that doesn’t fully become an inhale.

Zanka swears and releases the laces immediately, fingers flying, yanking them loose with none of the earlier precision. The corset slackens inch by inch, boning creaking as pressure gives. Jabber sags forward, forehead thunking harshly against the mirror.

Then the breath comes back fast, ragged, almost a heave. Her hips jerk against Zanka’s leg between her thighs, and her cheek drags down the glass.

Jabber’s legs buckle suddenly, knees giving way as her body twitches in silent release, her orgasm ripping through her without a sound, just a full body shudder and glassy eyes going all white. Then she goes limp, fainting in Zanka’s arms like a ragdoll. 

Zanka catches her quickly, heart slamming in panic, gripping Jabber’s face to tilt it up. Jabber’s head lolls against her shoulder, lips swollen and parted with drool slipping down the corner.

“Shit—hey—Jabber.” Zanka cups her face, thumb tapping her cheek. “Hey—look at me,” her other hand slides up to brace her chest. “That’s not funny.”

Jabber’s lashes flutter. Her pupils are blown wide, unfocused, like she’s staring through Zanka instead of at her.

“Breathe,” Zanka orders, pressing her palm flat between Jabber’s shoulders. “In. Do it.”

Jabber sucks in a shallow, shaky breath that sounds like it hurts. Another follows, uneven, but at least there. Zanka exhales, long and furious, resting her forehead briefly against Jabber’s collarbone in relief. 

Jabber’s pupils slowly focus before settling on Zanka. Her lips curl into a shaky grin. Zanka has no idea how anyone could smile after almost asphyxiating. 

“F–fuck,” she breathes, voice slurred and euphoric. “That was the best thing ever.”

Zanka’s grip on her jaw tightens. “Yeah? What poison is that supposed to be?”

Jabber’s eyes glint with feverish delight.

“The one your brain drops right before you pass out,” she says softly, “hypoxia from lack of oxygen, flooding the brain with endorphins when you’re about to die, a dopamine rush,” She sighs, leaning her forehead against Zanka’s. “Mix it with a lil’ orgasm? Nicest cocktail I ever tried.

She lifts a shaky finger, tapping under Zanka’s jaw. “Hm, Zanka, you should try it too. Bet I could choke you out real easy, you got a skinny little neck like a swan.”

Zanka drags her upright, refusing to let her slump again.

“Ya need air,” she snaps.

Jabber laughs weakly. “Aw. You’re worried ’bout little ole me.”

“Shut it.”

Jabber leans in before Zanka can pull back again.

Her mouth brushes Zanka’s throat, just under the jaw, where her pulse jumps too loud. A tongue there, followed by the barest press of lips, lingering like she’s testing a theory.

Zanka freezes. Every instinct in her lights up at once. Fight. Flee. Finish it.

She can feel her heartbeat against Jabber’s mouth, a frantic thing, betraying her. She thinks, distantly and vividly, that if Jabber wanted to, she could rip it out. Not metaphorically or poetically or whatever. Just… reach in and take it, the way she takes everything else, careless and curious and unafraid of consequences.

The thought makes Zanka’s stomach drop. It also makes her skin prickle. A lot of.. bodily reactions see to happen when Jabber’s around.

Jabber hums softly, pleased, like she’s found something interesting under a glass showcase and is getting ready to bid on it. “You’re hearts beatin’ so loud,” she murmurs. Zanka swallows. The motion makes Jabber’s lips shift, brush her skin again.

“Get off,” she snaps, though it comes out weaker than she wants.

Jabber pulls back just enough to grin at her, eyes bright and unfocused, still riding whatever wave she’s on. “Relax. I’m just saying hi to your vitals.”

“That’s not a thing,” Zanka says flatly.

“Sure it is,” Jabber replies. “I’m a scientist. And you’re a pretty little lawyer. You wouldn’t know nothin’ bout biology.”

Zanka scoffs, turning her head away so Jabber can’t do it again. Her neck feels exposed now. She presses two fingers to the spot of her pulse point instinctively, as if checking that everything is still where it belongs.

Her pulse is still racing.

Great.

She detests this part, where her body reacts faster than her brain. The part where she doesn’t know whether she wants to shove Jabber away or keep her exactly where she is. 

She must look ridiculous. Any sane person would leave. Any sane person wouldn’t let someone like Jabber get that close to anything vital.

Zanka has never claimed to be sane.

She drops her hand from her neck and glares at Jabber. 

Her fingers flex again, uncertain now. The rush she’d felt earlier is gone, replaced by something messier. Awareness, maybe, or guilt. Or the uncomfortable realization that she’d been enjoying herself just as much as the masochist in front of her.

Zanka unlaces the corset just enough for air to return. Jabber inhales like it’s the first breath she’s had in her life, color flooding slowly back into her cheeks.

The boning relaxes with a defeated sound, fabric collapsing inward the more she uncrosses it. Jabber exhales as it falls open and slides down her ribs, catching briefly at her waist before dropping to the floor in a black heap.

She’s bare beneath it, skin flushed unevenly, heat trapped and then released too fast. Along her ribs and waist compression marks bloom in muted crimson, darker where the boning pressed hardest, lighter where fabric rubbed instead of bit. 

There are faint abrasions too, irritated lines where the corset shifted while she moved. By tomorrow they’ll bruise at the edges, turn that slow, inevitable spectrum Zanka knows too well from training injuries.

Jabber makes a low sound, half sigh, half laugh, rolling her shoulders experimentally now that she can and looking over her back at her reflection. “Woah,” she says gleefully. “Really went for it.”

Zanka snorts despite herself, sharp and humorless. “Don’t sound so proud. Ya look like ya got into a fight with a piano wire.”

Jabber glances at her reflection, twisting just enough to see the marks striping her own sides. Her grin spreads, pleased. “Yeah? Think it’s a good look?”

“That depends,” Zanka says flatly, reaching down to grab the corset. “At least now we know it fits.”

Wait. Why is she standing here joking with this sicko? Is she stupid? 

She needs to escape this dressing room rabbit hole before she gets in over her head.

She lifts the corset, shaking it once before draping it over the back of a chair. The thing looks harmless now. Just fabric and lace. Jabber snickers, like she’s thinking the same thing, and then immediately sways.

It’s subtle at first, a lag before her weight catches up with her center of gravity. Zanka clocks it instantly. Sue her if she’s still worried that Jabber’s gonna die of hypoxia. 

“Hey,” she snaps, stepping forward. “Don’t play games—“

“Don’t what?” Jabber asks lightly, blinking a little too slow. “Fall over? Ruin the moment? Die tragically after a great nut?”

Her knees buckle halfway through the sentence.

Zanka grabs her by the arm, hauling her upright with a sharp grunt. “I said don’t,” she repeats, jaw tight. “Yer still dizzy.”

“Yeah,” Jabber admits cheerfully, leaning her full weight into Zanka like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Kinda… floaty.”

“Sit,” Zanka orders, steering her toward the small stool without ceremony. Jabber lets herself be manhandled, flopping down with a boneless sort of grace and immediately tilting sideways again.

She reaches out, fingers grazing Zanka’s wrist. “That was hot,” Jabber says. “You look real scary when you’re concentrated.”

Zanka jerks her arm back like she’s been burned. “Yer not dizzy at all. Just usin’ it as an excuse to make me pity ya.”

Jabber can only shrug her bastard shoulders.

Then, as soon as she can stand on her own again, she has the nerve to smirks. As if she’s the one who won in this equation, that Zanka is the one who submitted to her. 

Zanka wants to throw her. She wants to kiss her again and suck all the gloss from her lower lip. Zanka wants to run away until her lungs burst.

Instead she growls, “Get up.”

Jabber uses her arm as leverage, rising unsteady, cheeks flushed deep. “Hey,” Jabber utters suddenly, sliding her hand slowly down Zanka’s hip. “Your turn?”

Zanka freezes. “I—”

Before Zanka can refuse, she drags Jabber upright by the arms, pinning her against the wall again, hoping it’ll desist her. Jabber doesn’t hesitate, her hand dives back into Zanka’s pants, nails raking bleeding marks along her thigh first, sharp stings that make Zanka hiss in pain.

Then two fingers slip inside, surprisingly mindful of the sharp tips, but the stretch burns anyway as those silver rings, cool and unyielding, push past her entrance at the first knuckle. 

The pain makes Zanka tighten involuntarily, her breath catching in a sharp gasp. Jabber could tear her to ribbons if she wanted, the thought sends a twisted shiver through her, pain amplifying the heat building inside.

The only reason she even allows this is because she’s seen Jabber’s ring routine. The absurd, borderline religious care she puts into them.

Removed every night. Cleaned individually. Ultrasonic cleaner. Alcohol wipes. Dried carefully. All fucking thirty of them. They are infuriatingly spotless.

Clean enough to eat off of… Or isn't the saying about the floor? Kyouka used to tell her to make sure to clean her academy room until she could eat raw sashimi off of it. 

Zanka’s thoughts skid sideways as Jabber presses her fingers in deeper with a wet noise. One ring bumps a nerve just right, wrong, and Zanka stiffens, a moan breaking past her lips before she can zip them shut and pretend she isn’t close already. It’s not her fault she’s been pent up since they walked into this shitty shop—

Jabber giggles, leaning in to lick the blood from Zanka’s jaw where her lip had split earlier. “Yeah, that’s a pretty noise. Sounds like it hurts, huh?”

Zanka nods jerkily, biting her fist to stifle the sounds, but Jabber tsks and pulls her hand away, replacing the knuckles with her own fingers. “That’s no fun. I wanna be in on that.” 

Jabber pushes in another knuckle. “So tight,” she murmurs. “You clenchin’ ‘cause it hurts, or ‘cause it’s me?”

Zanka can’t answer. She bites down on her fist until Jabber tuts and replaces it with her own fingers, pressing them to Zanka’s lips.

“Open.”

Zanka does.

She bites down harder, teeth sinking into the flesh right below where Mankira sit on Jabber’s second knuckles, cold metal contrasting the warmth of her mouth as those same rings slide in and out of her, invasive.

The ridges catch on every thrust, warming too slowly against the slick heat of her cunt. The sensation’s evidently invasive enough to her body to make Zanka squirm, clenching tighter as if trying to keep the rings out and pulls Jabber’s fingers in all it once.

It’s too much, pain blooming sharp and bright where the edges dig in, mixing with the building pressure that’s got her stifling a pathetic sound into Jabber’s fist. 

She bites down harder on Jabber’s fingers in her mouth, tasting salt and metal, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh until she feels the give of skin, the faint copper tang of blood welling up. 

Jabber hisses, but it’s not pain so much as it’s delight, like Zanka’s just handed her a gift.

“Atta girl,” Jabber purrs, her voice a low rasp that vibrates through Zanka’s bones. She twists her wrist, curling those fingers inside Zanka, nails grazing just enough to sting, to make Zanka’s thighs tremble and her hips buck forward involuntarily. 

The spiked ring on her other hand rakes down Zanka’s inner thighs as she thrusts into her, leaving red welts that burn like fire, drawing thin lines of blood that seep through her shirt. 

Jabber pumps faster, her thumb circling Zanka’s clit with harsh pressure and raw friction that borders on punishment. “Hurts, don’t it?” Jabber whispers, leaning in to bite Zanka’s earlobe hard, teeth sinking in until Zanka yelps, the sound muffled by the fingers in her mouth. 

Blood trickles warm down her neck, and Jabber licks it up with a hum, her tongue hot and possessive. “But you love it. Look at you, drippin’ all over my hand.” 

She’s right, fuck her, she’s right. Zanka retaliates, pulling off of Jabber's fingers in her throat, her free hand shooting up to grab a fistful of Jabber’s dreads, enough to make Jabber’s head snap back, exposing her throat. 

Zanka lunges, biting down on the pulse point there, teeth grinding until she feels Jabber shudder, her fingers faltering inside Zanka for a split second before thrusting deeper in revenge.

She’s no masochist, and if she were she’d pale in comparison to the one currently knuckle deep inside her cunt, but she can admit that after years of brutal treatment she’s gotten an acquired taste for the pain. 

Jabber’s rings drag inside her, cold metal turning scorching against her sensitive walls, each ridge sending jolts that build and build. 

Zanka’s hips grind down, chasing it, her nails digging into Jabber’s scalp as she pulls harder, eliciting a gasp that’s pure ecstasy from Jabber. “Yes—fuck,” Jabber groans, lighting up like a flare. 

Jabber likes this part, the push pull, the bruises they’ll both wear like badges. She gets bored so easily, flitting from thrill to thrill, telling Zanka one day she’s “interesting” with that grin, the next dismissing her with a bored wave like she’s yesterday’s experiment. 

But right now? Zanka’s got her hooked, fighting back just enough to keep Jabber engaged, to make her obsess in that murderous way Zanka craves. Think about me, Zanka thinks wildly, her teeth clamped on Jabber’s neck as her moans staccato, high pitched and thankfully muffled. Obsess like I do, you psycho. Want me till it hurts.

Jabber curls her fingers again, hitting that spot deep inside with vicious accuracy, her thumb pressing harder on Zanka’s clit until stars burst behind her eyelids. She’s—she can’t—

The breath she meant to hold slips anyway, a thin sound tearing loose from her throat before she can swallow it back.

Zanka’s shoulders tense. Her breath stutters, chest lifting too fast. “Jabber—”

“Oh, I know,” Jabber interrupts cruelly. “You’re holdin’ it together. You’re always holdin’ it together.” She leans closer, voice dropping to a hum that curls right into Zanka’s ear before she nips at the lobe. “But your body’s tellin’ on you.”

“No—” she tries, but it comes out broken, the word dissolving into a breathy hitch that shakes on the way out.

Her chest lifts sharply. Another sound follows, softer, involuntary, a strained noise pressed between clenched teeth as her body tightens on instinct. The effort to stay silent makes her shake.

A breathy sound spills out again, longer this time, half a gasp, half a low, helpless whine she barely recognizes as her own. It vibrates in her chest, cuts off abruptly when she clamps her lips together, only to leak out through her nose in short, uneven bursts. She’s gonna—

The pain from the scratches, the bites, the stretch, it all coils tight, snapping as Zanka comes harder than she ever has, her body seizing up in waves that rip a muffled “Jabb—ah—” from her throat, turning into a raw, broken moan around Jabber’s fingers. 

Her cunt spasms around the intrusion, clenching so tight it hurts them both, the rings biting in as her thighs lock and tremble.

She can’t stop, heat spilling through her chest and down her spine, overwhelming and embarrassingly loud inside her own head. She feels slick drip down her thighs, Jabber murmuring something in her ear that she can’t hear over the ringing in her own skull.

For a few seconds, she’s not choosing anything. Her body reacts before she can argue with it. There’s a pulse, again, again, each one stealing a little more of her composure, until the tension finally snaps and drains away all at once.

She slumps forward, chin knocking hard against Jabber’s shoulder, shuddering through it like she’s being torn apart and remade. Jabber doesn’t stop, fucking her through every aftershock, drawing out the agony until Zanka’s whimpering, tears pricking her eyes from the overload.

Annoyance follows quickly, hot on the heels of relief. Unacceptable, she thinks faintly. Her body, traitor that it is, disagrees.

Jabber slips out once Zanka loosens up enough to pull out of, wiping her hand casually on Zanka’s nice white shirt, leaving streaks of wetness and faint blood. Zanka’s eyebrow twitches in irritation. “No amount of oxytocin is gonna get ya outta doin’ my laundry later.”

Jabber laughs. “Isn’t my A-plus fingerbangin’ enough payment, milady? Ask the butler to do it.”

“Yer givin’ me a damn migraine,” Zanka mutters, cheeks burning as she unlaces the corset with shaking fingers. She doesn’t look at Jabber until the leather falls loose around her waist. “Get dressed.” 

Jabber drags her feet, purposely slow, like she wants Zanka to watch the whole process. 

Zanka steps back abruptly, realizing how close they still are, bodies pressed, breaths shared, and her face heats up, a flush she tries to hide by unhooking Jabber’s corset with quick, jerky motions. She snatches up the discarded garment, buttons her own shirt haphazardly, and escapes the dressing room before she does something catastrophically stupid.

She doesn’t like how empty her hands feel.

“I’m at the front,” she calls over her shoulder, voice gruff to mask the tremor. Thank god the shop is empty, no prying eyes to witness her disheveled state.

Jabber joins her a minute later, perfectly composed except for slightly mussed locs and an evil little smile.

Zanka is already paying, the corset bagged and ready at the register as she fishes out her wallet. The only thing she feels good about spending Ma and Pa’s money on is stuff like this. She can only imagine their faces reading their charges for intimate apparel. 

Jabber loops her arms around her waist from behind, chin on Zanka’s shoulder. “I’m doin’ the broke boyfriend hug. Is it working?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s workin’.” Zanka rolls her eyes. “I don’t feel bad at all about spendin’ two hundred bucks on an ungrateful freak.”

Jabber pouts dramatically. “Rude. I’m delicate.”

“More like deranged.”

“Liar,” Jabber says cheerfully. “You gonna ask how I am, or do I gotta fake a limp?”

Zanka exhales through her nose. Is this bitch really asking for some kinda aftercare? “Yer breathin’. That seems fine to me.”

Jabber laughs quietly, the sound vibrating against Zanka’s shoulder blade. “Wow. Such concern.”

Zanka hesitates, then says it sideways, like she’s trying not to look at it directly. “Ya… still busted up?”

Jabber perks, clearly delighted she caught that. She tilts her head, lips near Zanka’s ear but not touching. “Ribs are a little sore. Not worse than that time when you broke ’em, though.”

Zanka’s jaw tightens. “You asked for that.”

“I asked nicely,” Jabber says. “And see? I got it. Y’know, Doc says one still hasn’t healed right, feels real good when I’m laying on my side—”

The cashier clears her throat. Zanka flushes, painfully aware of how close they look, Jabber’s arms loose but unmistakably intimate in the most irritating way, like she’s daring Zanka to acknowledge it.

Zanka adjusts her grip on her wallet, shaking her off. She clings like a barnacle. “Ya should’ve told me to stop.”

“And miss your bedside manners?” Jabber replies. “No thanks.”

“Then it’s not my fault and I don’t feel bad about it at all.” She shoves the bag in Jabber’s hands. “Merry Christmas.”

Jabber pouts, exaggerated and childish. her bottom lip jutting out like she’s auditioning for world’s saddest little angel.

Zanka doesn’t buy it for a second.

She knows better. She’s seen Jabber toss men twice her weight during martial arts practice, or when she broke Zanka’s wrist during a sparring match when they first met at competition, then Zanka had to awkwardly ride to the ER in complete silence with Enjin while the both of them stared straight ahead trying to figure out how they were going to lie to Gris about what happened. 

Jabber plays small only when she wants something. She plays pretty too, all colorful and shiny, the same way venomous creatures do, bright colors, the slow blinking of eyes that seem to study you, calculating the moment to strike.

When she was eight, Kyouka once told her the more beautiful something was, the more poisonous it would be. Butterflies, flowers, insects. If they made you want to touch, it was because touch is how they kill and eat you. Clearly a very appropriate bed time story for a child.

Zanka hadn’t really understood it back then, laid up in bed with a fever of one hundred, skin flushed, teeth chattering, stomach twisting like a knot of snakes. 

All because she’d eaten some unnaturally blue berries she’d assumed were just regular old blueberries, their perfect, glossy sheen too enticing to resist, and within the hour she’d been doubled over, Kyouka hovering with thinly veiled disappointment.

It had stuck in Zanka’s fever addled brain, abstract, distant, almost literary, like a proverb you might read once and forget. But looking at Jabber now, with her pink irises flashing with the light of someone fully aware of her own danger, Zanka finally understood.

Jabber is like that. Like one of those poison dart frogs that lure in their prey with a bright blue belly, or the pitcher plants that leak sweet nectar. Until you touch it and the neurotoxins make you foam at the mouth, or you fall in mouth first and get digested. Maybe she shouldn’t watch so much Animal Planet when it comes on the TV while she and Jabber smoke weed.

But Zanka knows it. She knows exactly what she’s getting into. She also, very unfortunately, can’t bring herself to follow her survival instinct rather than the one in her gut that swoops like she’s on a rollercoaster each time Jabber is near. 

Even now, with Jabber’s arm looped around her neck like they’re old friends instead of a public spectacle, Zanka feels that low alarm start screaming. She ignores it.

They burst out of the store together, the door slamming behind them, a bell chiming cheerfully like it has no idea what kind of bad decision just walked out of it.

The outdoor plaza is bright and loud, sunlight bouncing off concrete, people milling around with drinks and shopping bags.

Jabber’s silver rings and bracelets jingle, glinting in the setting sun, and Zanka has to squint her eyes at them as a ray of light blinds her. 

Jabber bumps her shoulder, proprietary. “Come to the Halloween party,” she wheedles. 

Zanka doesn’t even slow. “No. I got a test Friday. Halloween’s Thursday.”

“So? You gonna study?” Jabber snorts. “Who studies?”

That does it. That exact sentence. It lands wrong in Zanka’s chest, scraping something old and sore.

Zanka despises geniuses because they get to be careless.

They get to fuck up loudly and still be forgiven. Still be admired. Still be wanted. People bend around them like the rules are suggestions and Jabber lives in that space, where consequences bounce off her, where brilliance excuses everything from bad behavior to outright cruelty.

Who cares what Jabber did as long as she brought her stupid science competition the ammunition to win, or a new discovery, or if she was stronger than anyone else in the martial arts club. 

And the worst part is that Jabber uses it.

She knows she can skip class, skip studying, skip effort, and still land on her feet. She knows she can say things like that, who studies? and mean it not as a joke, but as fact.

So? 

“So I have to study—unlike you,” Zanka snaps, yanking her arm free. “Some of us don’t magically ace everything without trying.”

There is no safety net under Zanka. There never has been. Her family cut the cord the second she stepped out of line, and everything she has now, every class and credential and tiny piece of stability was clawed out with bloody fingers.

Jabber tilts her head. “Aw… you callin’ me gifted?”

She reaches out, fingers aiming for Zanka’s side, teasing.

Zanka steps out of reach like she’s dodging a strike, shoulders tight. “I’m not in the mood.”

And she isn’t. Not for this or for Jabber’s effortless everything, or even anything remotely related to naturally talented people. 

She hates them the way someone hates gravity, because it’s unfair, it just exists, it doesn’t care how hard you work or run against it.

She grew up surrounded by people who believed excellence was a moral obligation, and Zanka wanted nothing more than to meet those standards. Sweat was proof she deserved to be there in the academy, and the validation of her family and peers was all she needed to keep going, to believe she was as gifted as everyone told her she was, filling up her head with air until she deflated and came plummeting back down to earth because of that white haired son of a bitch Hyo. 

Jabber doesn’t sweat. She skims through life on raw talent and the sheer nerve to treat it like a party trick.

Zanka has to fight for every scrap of praise, every inch of independence. Jabber just shows up. 

And she somehow still has the audacity to act bored.

“Have fun at yer stupid ass party,” Zanka adds, heat crawling up her neck. “Hope someone there beats ya up.”

The words are ugly, she’s well aware they are. That’s part of why she says them.

Jabber’s smile falters, just a flicker, but then it snaps back on, too wide, stretching her plum colored lipstick like it might tear.

“I sure hope so,” she calls after her. “They’ll probably be way rougher than the gentle little Nijiku!”

Like she’s turning Zanka’s family name into a joke.

A vein throbs in Zanka’s forehead.

She doesn’t turn around. She just throws a middle finger over her shoulder and keeps walking, spine rigid, steps too fast.

Jabber laughs hysterically, and the sound chases her across the plaza, sticky and invasive, like it always does.

She doesn’t see Jabber’s smile drop the moment she turns.

But when she catches their reflections in the glass windows of the storefront ahead of her, she does see how Jabber watches her go, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, thumb worrying at the cracked edge of her lipstick until it smears.

For someone so gifted, so untouchable, Jabber looks strangely… dejected.
____

Zanka sits on the edge of her bed like she’s waiting for a verdict. Not innocent, not guilty, just stuck in that purgatory where everything she does will disappoint someone, and she’s so tired of it she could peel her own skin off.

Her thighs still sting from Jabber’s scratches. Her shirt is in the hamper, covered in purple lipstick stains, torn and probably irreparable. She feels like she’s still trapped in that velvet curtained coffin with Jabber’s breath on her neck. 

Every time her mind drifts, she remembers the way Jabber’s knees buckled, how her eyes rolled. Zanka presses her palms to her face and groans.

She should not be thinking about that. She absolutely should not be thinking about that.

But the thing is, she keeps hearing Jabber’s last line, the stupid taunt laugh when she walked away. They’ll probably be way rougher than the gentle little Nijiku.

Gentle. As if Zanka has ever been gentle with her.

Zanka groans and flops back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling. 

Her chest feels tight. Like someone wound a corset around her ribs this time and pulled until something inside her folded in half.

Why is she going to this damn party? Because if she stays home, she’s proving Jabber right, that she’s scared, that she’s too disciplined, that she’s boring.

But if she goes… she’s proving her sister right, too.

Kyouka’s voice haunts the back of her skull like a splinter. Your downfall will be attachment. 

She probably just meant Lovely at the time and not another girl. And look at her now. Covered in bruises. A head full of Jabber Wonger.

Zanka scrubs at her face again. “I’m an idiot,” she mutters.

Her phone buzzes. Enjin’s outside.

Of course she came early.

Zanka looks down at her clothes. She looks boring. She feels boring. Next to someone like Jabber, who’d probably show up to the Halloween party in something glittery and slutty, Zanka feels like a cartoon grayscale version of herself.

She gets up and crosses the hallway, knocking twice and peeking her head into Riyo’s room. “Riyo? You in here?” 

Riyo looks up from her phone, laying on her stomach, “Yeah? What’s up?”

Zanka hangs her head. “I need help gettin’ a costume for a Halloween party.”

Riyo sits up immediately.  

That’s how Zanka ends up here.

“Sit still,” Riyo mutters, gripping Zanka’s chin like she’s a toddler. “Your eyeliner looks like two parallel train tracks.”

“It’s fine,” Zanka grumbles.

“It’s not. Stop blinking like I’m holdin’ you at gunpoint.”

Zanka tries, she really tries, but something about Riyo being so close, their foreheads almost touching while she pulls Zanka’s eyelid taut, makes her jaw lock. She feels bad about not spending as much time with her as before while she went to school, but Riyo is nothing if not resilient. She understands.

“This is stupid anyway,” Zanka mutters. “Half this makeup is from middle school.”

“And you never let me use any of it because you said, ‘Riyo, quit bein’ weird,’” Riyo mimics in an awful, deep Zanka voice.

Zanka swats at her, which Riyo dodges by turning Zanka’s face with a firm pinch to the cheek.

“You’re going to a Halloween party and you didn’t even think to dress up,” Riyo clicks her tongue. “Anyway, I got you.”

She holds up a pile of black clothing.

Zanka stares. “That’s…that’s my costume?”

“You can wear it or you can show up looking like a loser. Some of it’s mine so it might be a little tight, but I rummaged through your closet and you had nothing.”

Zanka’s face folds into absolute distress. Riyo bursts out laughing, clutching her stomach. “You never dressed up as a kid, right?”

Zanka’s chest pinches. “Kyouka wouldn’t let me.”

“Exactly. So now you’re going to. You owe your inner child or whatever.”

Zanka looks in the mirror. Her eyeliner is sharp, a little smudged in an admittedly cool way, and Riyo even curled a few strands near her cheek where she had braided it in a long fishbone down her back.

It’s weird. Riyo catches the look on her face immediately, like she always does. “You could always take Rudo trick or treating,” she offers casually while fixing Zanka’s collar.

Zanka snorts. “Rudo’s too old for that.”

The second it leaves her mouth, she winces. She sounded like Kyouka. Awful. Distant. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Riyo pats her shoulder. It doesn’t make Zanka feel like any less of a silver spoon bitch. “Just saying. You get that look a lot these days.”

“What look?”

“The look of someone who’s putting way too much of herself into Jabber Wonger.”

Zanka’s whole body goes rigid. “I’m not—”

“Mm hmm,” Riyo hums, reaching past her to snag Zanka’s mascara off the counter. She twists the wand once, inspects it, then glances at Zanka in the mirror. “Sure. Did you find out where the party is?”

Zanka didn’t yet. She still has to call. She eyes her phone, then grabs it, thumb hovering.

She should not. She really shouldn’t.

She taps Fu’s name anyway. 

Fu, who is the only mutual “friend” she and Jabber have (though Zanka’s pretty sure Fu only stays around Jabber involuntarily because she’s told to), would know where the party is. The phone rings once. Twice.

Fu picks up in half a breath, sounding like she’s being chased by a pack of rabid wolves. That’s how she always sounds though. “H-Hello? Miss Nijiku?!”

“Uh. Hey. Sorry. I just—where’s Jabber?”

There is silence. Then, “S-she’s…she’s at the party. Like she—like she said.”

“Yeah, she didn’t tell me which house,” Zanka pinches her brow, trying not to let her anger rise. Fu’s a nice girl, and she doesn’t want to snap at her for no reason no matter how frustrating it is to get information from her. “Do ya have the address?” 

Fu’s voice wobbles. “Oh god, why am I involved, I don’t wanna be involved—please, Miss Nijiku, please don’t make me do this—”

Zanka blanches, eyes widening. “I’m not makin’ you do anything! I just asked a question!”

“I can’t—I shouldn’t—I wasn’t instructed,” Fu’s words tumble over each other. “If Jabber finds out I told you—”

Zanka exhales sharply, then says the first thing that comes to mind. “Look. You wanna make a good impression on Enjin, right?”

Fu goes dead silent.

“…E-Enjin?” Fu repeats, stunned.

Zanka seizes the opening. “Yer always goin’ on about her. About how cool she is. About wantin’ to be her—what was it—minion?”

There’s a small, reverent gasp on the other end. “S-she’s so competent…”

“Right,” Zanka says quickly. “So. If you give me the address, I’ll tell Enjin yer the best at followin’ orders. Maybe she’ll… I dunno. Promote ya. Or whatever.”

“…Conflicting orders,” Fu whispers, panic rising again. “Oh no. Oh no, this is bad. I don’t know what to do anymore. I need— I need to get Hii. Hii will know what to do.”

“Ya don’t have time for that,” Zanka snaps, immediately softening her tone not to spook the girl. She also doesn’t want Hii to beat her ass if she finds out she was mean to Fu. “Fu. Just—just give me the address.”

“I don’t want to be part of this!!” Fu’s voice cracks like glass. Zanka holds the phone away from her ear as another miserable sound rings loudly through the speaker. “Can I hang up now, Ja—?”

There’s a muffled voice on the other end that Zanka can’t make out, but whatever they say has Fu warbling in fear. “I’m hanging up now, okay?! Good night Miss Niji—hkk—ghh—!”

Zanka jerks the phone away as one last panicked heave crackles through the speaker before the call cuts.

Riyo is staring at her with both hands in her lap, expression deadpan.

Before Zanka can say something about the murder they just witnessed, her screen pings with an address sent by Fu. She lowers the phone slowly. 

Riyo sighs. “You’re really putting everything you got into her, huh?”

Zanka’s mouth opens, then closes.

She doesn’t have a real answer. Or any for that matter. Riyo stands, smoothing down Zanka’s hair. “Go change.”

Zanka grabs the clothes aggressively, and Riyo doesn’t even flinch. She changes into them in the bathroom, making sure not to mess up her braid. 

When she comes out and sits down, Riyo stands over Zanka like a judge, arms crossed as she inspects handiwork.

Zanka, for her part, sits on her bed stiff as an ironing board, wearing some makeshift tactical outfit Riyo threw together with stuff from her closet. 

Riyo grabs Zanka’s chin and turns her head side to side.

“Oh yeah,” Riyo breathes. “You look sick.”

Zanka tries not to preen. “It’s not even a real costume.”

“Doesn’t matter, better than going in nothing,” Riyo flicks the black stripe on her cheek. “You look mean as hell. It suits you.”

Zanka blinks. “…Really?”

“Yeah,” Riyo says, grinning. “Super hot.”

Zanka huffs. “I’m not tryin’ to be hot.”

“That’s funny,” Riyo mutters. “Say it again. Maybe someone will believe you this time.”

Zanka groans and covers her face with her hands. Riyo pries them off with a smirk.

“Trust me,” she says, touching up the lipstick, “usually your face just distracts anyone, so you don’t ever have to put much thought into your hair, but I definitely did my thing with this.” 

“Ya think Jabber’ll like it?” Zanka blurts before she can stop herself.

Riyo pauses.

She twists one of her red braids around her finger as she steps back to look at Zanka. The black cargo pants, the arm guards, the sleeveless top that shows off the definition in her shoulders, the single black stripe across her cheekbone. 

But Riyo’s expression isn’t just admiring as much as it is evaluating. Worried, in that Riyo way she tries to hide under her smiles.

“You look good,” she says finally, tilting her head. “Doesn’t matter what she thinks.”

Zanka shifts on the edge of the bed. “Ya keep starin’ like somethin’s wrong.”

Riyo hesitates, only for half a second, but Zanka catches it.

“It’s not wrong,” Riyo says, grabbing Zanka’s wrist to adjust her arm guard. “Just… complicated. You and her.”

Zanka freezes. 

Riyo lets out a slow breath. “Zanka, I saw you after you lost to her, remember? You were wrecked. I thought you were gonna quit the club, quit school, quit breathing—”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Zanka mutters.

“You were literally lying on the floor looking like someone slaughtered your favorite pet.”

“That was a year ago.”

“I’m not dumb. I know you care about what she thinks. I know it matters.” Riyo counters, rolling her eyes. 

Zanka looks down at her hands, palms calloused, knuckles healed over with old bruises. Riyo saw her at her worst, that hollow pit she fell into when Jabber beat her so cleanly she couldn’t even excuse her own failure. But she’s also seen Zanka at even lower points, when she first left her family and felt like the biggest excuse for a human being in the world, and everything she thought she knew was changing so quickly. Her loss to Jabber was nothing compared to that.

Riyo reaches over and smooths the edge of the face stripe on Zanka’s cheek, her touch gentle.

“But,” Riyo adds quietly, “just because something matters doesn’t mean it can’t mess you up.”

Zanka’s jaw tenses. “I’m not messed up.”

“Didn’t say you are,” Riyo says, raising her hands and turning in a circle. “Just saying I don’t like how she looks at you sometimes. Or how you look after.”

“I’m fine,” she insists.

Riyo studies her for a long second, one of those weirdly adult moments where she suddenly feels older than Zanka by five years instead of younger by one.

Then she lets it go. “Okay,” Riyo says, stepping back and smacking Zanka’s thigh. “Go have fun.”

Zanka blinks. “Yer not mad?”

“I don’t have to like her,” Riyo sticks her tongue out. “But you do. So I’m not gonna ruin your night.”

Zanka looks away, embarrassed by the sudden warmth in her chest.

Riyo grins, tugging the ends of Zanka’s hair. “Don’t get too hurt, okay?”

Zanka frowns and turns out of the touch. “I won’t.”

“Last time you said that,” Riyo reminds her, tightening Zanka’s hood string, “you came home complaining that your wrist was too messed up to use your staff at martial arts club.”

Zanka looks away, cheeks heating. “That wasn’t her fault.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Riyo tugs her bangs so they sit perfectly center. “Just… be careful, okay? Don’t let her eat you alive.”

“Riyo—”

“Have fun!” she interrupts loudly, shoving Zanka’s jacket at her and practically pushing her out the room. “And if she breaks your jaw or whatever, at least it’ll make a cool story.”

Zanka huffs, but she’s smiling despite herself. She steps toward the door. Riyo leans against the frame, watching her go.

“Seriously,” Riyo calls after her. “You look good. And be smart. I don’t wanna have to come get you like last time.”

Zanka nods once as she heads out toward Enjin’s truck.

Enjin’s truck smells like air freshener and tobacco, the exact combination of I’m responsible and I’m not responsible at all.

She’s got one elbow hanging out the window, a partially smoked cigarette pinched between two fingers, nails painted a chipped black.

“You look good,” Enjin says with a glance the second Zanka shuts the door, flicking ash into the wind. “I was worried you weren’t gonna dress up.”

Zanka does everything in her power not to preen at that. Enough to keep her upright for life if she’s being honest. She rubs at her nose, like that’ll physically stop the smile from happening, but it still creeps in anyway.

Enjin snorts smoke like she can see right through her. “I can’t lie, I’m pretty excited to drink some free alcohol like I’m eighteen again.”

Zanka huffs a weak laugh and slumps against the passenger door, forehead resting against the cold glass. The vibration of the engine hums faintly through her bones. Her stomach churns from nerves. 

Enjin takes another drag and exhales a long plume of smoke that drifts lazily toward the open window. She eyes Zanka sideways, “You want a hit?”

Zanka has spent her entire life being the good one. The controlled one. The one who doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t fuck around. The one her family paraded like proof they’d done something right. Their little puppet with straight posture and locked down impulses, who would grow up just like her older brother and sister.

That version of her feels very far away right now.

Until she met Enjin and Riyo at her lowest, and then again, when Jabber crashed through her life like a freight train of addictions, who didn’t ease her into them so much as kick the door in and laugh while doing it.

Right now, part of her wants to say yes. Wants to be someone else, not herself, not the girl who ran from Jabber like she’s touching a hot stove and flinching every time. 

Someone who lets things happen instead of bracing for them.

She wonders, briefly, what it would be like to hold a cigarette between her teeth, feel the paper dampen, the smoke scrape her throat a little on the way down. Let it mess with her lungs. Just a little. Like proof she exists outside of the squeaky clean expectations set for her.

Would Enjin laugh at her? Or guide her hands gently, call her cute for coughing? Would Jabber like the taste of smoke on her tongue and ask about it? Ask if Zanka finally let loose?

“Zanka.” Enjin waves the cigarette in front of her face, the cherry glowing red. “Hello? Earth to Zanka?”

Zanka swats it away. “I don’t want that.”

“You thought about it.”

Zanka doesn’t answer. Enjin rolls the window up halfway so the smoke doesn’t blow back in her face. “Okay, so be honest with me, why’re you even going?”

Zanka sits up straighter, pushing away the weird tightness in her throat. “Because—what, I’m supposed to sit at home? Hide? I’d be provin’ Kyouka and Goka and my whole damn family right. And Jabber. Both of them.”

“Right about what?” Enjin asks, genuinely curious.

Zanka picks at a loose thread on her jeans, jaw tight. “Right about me bein’ predictable. Controlled. Cowardly. Weak. Whatever.” She waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Zanka.” Enjin says it gently, which Zanka hates more than yelling. She’s still not used to it. “You don’t owe anyone shit. Not your siblings or your parents. Not that weirdo you keep hanging around.”

Zanka’s cheeks flare hot. “That’s—”

Enjin raises a brow. “Is this about her?”

“No.”

“That was fast,” Enjin mutters. “Gonna try again? Why’re you going?”

Zanka opens her mouth, closes it. The words get stuck somewhere behind her ribs, lodged between shame and want.

Finally she mutters, “I just gotta… go see about somethin’.”

Enjin barks out a laugh. “See about a girl, you mean.”

Zanka’s cheeks ignite. “No.”

“Yes. You’re seeing about a girl.”

“No.”

Enjin flicks the cigarette out the window. “Zanka. You are literally blushing.”

Zanka mutters, “I just need to talk to her.”

Enjin cackles. “God. I knew it. Don’t worry, I’ll steer clear. You can go find your ‘not girlfriend’ and do whatever freaky shit you two do.”

Zanka grimaces. She really doesn’t want Enjin to bring up freaky anything in front of her. 

She rests her cheek against the window again, the glass cooling her flushed skin.

Why couldn’t she just fall in love with Enjin or something?

Enjin is kind and stable. Funny. Responsible (sometimes).

The kind of woman who’d hold you when you needed it, not choke you until you nearly passed out or poison your lunch. The kind of girl who would never need Zanka to hurt her or hurt her back to feel alive. The kind of girl Zanka used to imagine herself ending up with.

But she doesn’t burn for Enjin. She never has. And that’s the problem.

She doesn’t want safe. Not with the mess Jabber leaves in her chest every time she smiles like she knows exactly how Zanka will cave.

Zanka closes her eyes.

She’s going to this party. She’s going because something under her skin won’t stop crawling until she sees Jabber again. That’s all.

Enjin glances at her again. “Hey. Seriously. Don’t worry. I’ll drop you off and then I’m gonna go do my own thing at the party for a bit and head back. You can call me for a ride if you need, but you do you, alright?”

Zanka nods stiffly, opening her mouth to say thank you, but Enjin grins and beats her to it. “Or rather, go do your weird little situationship.”

Zanka groans, covering her face in her hands.
____

The bass hits before the house even comes into view, some sloppy remix of a remix, the kind college kids blast when they want to pretend they’re having the best night of their lives. It vibrates through Zanka’s ribs, unpleasant and too loud and too alive.

Enjin parks half on the lawn like she’s allergic to the road laws, flicking a stray bit of ash off her sleeve. “Okay,” she announces, stretching her arms over her head. “If anyone asks, I’m the first blonde character you can think of.”

“You’re not even wearin’ a costume.”

“Exactly.” She winks. “Blonde. Get with the program.”

Zanka drags a hand down her face. “Be safe.”

“I’ll be safe, I’m getting two drinks and going to get Rudo so I can steal all the almond joys from her haul.” Enjin hops out of the truck. “Go find your chick before she sacrifices someone in the kitchen.”

Zanka shudders at the thought, and Enjin just laughs, disappearing into the crowd forming around the porch.

Zanka lingers at the edge of the yard, staring at the party like it’s something she should’ve been immune to by now. This isn’t her scene. Never has been. She’d rather be studying. Or fighting. Or sticking her head out the window of Enjin’s truck. Fuck, she’d even rather be helping snotty nosed Rudo fit through the doorway after she gets fat from all her candy. 

But here she is.

Because of a girl who should’ve been easy to ignore, who should’ve been nothing, is the opposite.

Zanka should hurry and get inside already. Jabber gets bored of things easily.

Zanka hates how the thought claws its way up the back of her mind. It’s true. Jabber burns bright for a week, a day, an hour, and then she’s off to the next thrill. The next body. The next thing that makes her feel alive enough to distract her from whatever it is she doesn’t tell Zanka.

She likes to play, to beat Zanka till she’s black and blue on the mats in the gym and then when Zanka fights back, she loves it even more.

Zanka swallows, fists tightening. She’s aware of how pathetic it sounds, wanting someone who throws her around like she’s just something to sharpen her fangs on. But she does. God help her, she does.

She tells Zanka she’s interesting, then not, then interesting again.

And Zanka pretends she doesn’t care. Pretends it doesn’t burn holes in her chest every time Jabber shrugs and says, “You’re boring me.” Pretends she’s not checking this damn party because—

Because she wants Jabber to think about her the same way she thinks about Jabber.

Zanka exhales sharply and pushes through the door.

It’s humid with bodies and spilled beer, the air thick with cheap cologne and vape smoke. People in half assed costumes spill from the living room into the kitchen. Someone’s wearing a sheet ghost that keeps getting caught on the doorframe. Someone else is dressed as a sexy supreme court justice. Zanka wants to gouge her eyes out.

She moves through it all like she’s undercover, shoulders tense, eyes scanning. People jostle her, laugh, dance, yell. She doesn’t respond.

She sees Jabber’s friends before she sees Jabber herself.

Cthoni is on the couch manspreading, utterly unimpressed by her surroundings. Hii is leaning over a table snorting something off someone else’s back while Fu hangs on her arm and looks worried as Hii tosses her head back and wipes powder off her nose. They look busy. Zanka doesn’t want to bother them with their… whatever that is.

But no Jabber.

For a second, Zanka wonders if Jabber lied about even coming. Or worse, if she’s already here with someone else. The thought jerks her stomach sideways.

She sticks close to the wall, shoulders brushing cheap decorations and dangling spiderwebs. Someone immediately bumps into her, spilling God knows what down their shirt. She pretends not to see it. Pretends she’s not regretting this already.

She shouldn’t be here. Every instinct in her body is telling her she shouldn’t be here.

Zanka moves deeper into the house, trying not to breathe too deep. Riyo’s words echo somewhere but it’s too late now. 

She’s halfway through the living room when a guy appears in front of her like a closed door, tall, wide shoulders, cowboy hat, cheap cologne that punches her in the nose.

“Hey, hey,” he says, leaning into her space with a grin that promises nothing good. “What’re you supposed to be, huh? Some kinda… ninja… warrior… thing?”

Zanka blinks once. “Are ya sayin’ that cause I’m Japanese?”

He laughs too hard at that, like she told a joke. “Lighten up.”

He actually reaches for her hair, fingering the end of her braid like it’s an invitation.

Zanka jerks her head back, scowl twisting her face. “Don’t touch me.”

But he keeps crowding, leaning in, breath hot. “Relax, I’m just admiring—”

And Zanka is about to shove him really fucking him hard into the wall, when something slices into her periphery like a shadow.

Someone’s hand clamps onto her wrist and another snakes into the base of her braids and replaces the dude’s hand, smoothing them out with territorial slowness.

A voice, silky, drunk, familiar enough to make Zanka’s knees lock, purrs right behind her ear. “You two itching’ to fight without me? No fun.”

Of course it’s her.

Jabber is dressed in the black corset Zanka bought her. Shimmering under the party lights like a mirage next to a desert of ugly frat boys.

Black feathers fan from her shoulders and hips, and her eyes are ringed in iridescent makeup, turning her into some deranged black swan ballerina who crawled out of a fever dream. It’s way better than that time she dressed up as that creepy dude from that stupid clown movie, but Zanka won’t ever admit that out loud. 

Her locs are pulled into a messy updo, gold cuffs glinting between strands. Glitter streaks the tops of her cheekbones. 

Jabber’s gaze skims the cowboy guy with the slow, offended disgust of a cat seeing a cucumber.

“You flirting with my…” Jabber pauses, eyes flicking lazily to Zanka’s face, landing on her lips, then her neck, then her wrist held in her grip. “…with this one?”

Cowboy snorts. “Didn’t know she was taken.”

Zanka opens her mouth—no idea what she’s even about to say (maybe something like I’m not taken, and if I was it definitely wouldn’t be with this lunatic), but Jabber talks over her.

“Now you do.” Her fingers tighten possessively in Zanka’s hair, smoothing the part where he touched like she’s erasing his existence from it.

The guy backs off fast. He mutters something about crazy dyke bitches and disappears into the crowd.

Jabber watches him go, chin lifted in triumphant arrogance.

Then she turns to Zanka fully, eyes bright like a child spotting its favorite toy.

“Well, hey there,” Jabber drawls, leaning closer, hips swaying with the music. “Look who crawled outta her study sesh to come see me.”

Zanka’s jaw clenches. “I wasn’t comin’ for ya.”

“Mhm.” Jabber’s grin widens and she looks her up and down. “You look good.”

She says it like a taunt. She shoves something cold into Zanka’s hand, a cup. A drink that is absolutely suspicious. 

Zanka stares at it. “Is this…?”

“Drink it already,” Jabber says.

“It’s not drugged, is it?”

Jabber shrugs. “Would that matter?”

Zanka actually loathes that she hesitates.

That she thinks about everything Jabber has slipped her before, the bad nights, the high nights, the dizzy mornings and cloud nine fucks, and then she thinks about how, no, it probably wouldn’t matter.

She also looks around the chaotic mess of sweaty college kids and decides—

Yeah. She’s probably gonna need something.

She downs it in one go.

Jabber lights up like she passed a test. “That’s my girl.”

Zanka scowls. “I’m not yer—”

“Okay! Sheesh.” Jabber loops both hands around Zanka’s hips and pulls her toward the center of the party anyway, head bobbing to the beat. “So the princess came to the ball after all. What changed your mind?”

Zanka can barely hear over the music, disoriented as Jabber takes her by the hand and spins her around. “Ya were a bitch the other day.”

She doesn’t know why she says it. Maybe because Jabber’s hands are too warm and she feels unsteady. Maybe because being around Jabber makes her guts spill out onto her shoes. She just wants her to know. 

“I thought you had a good time?” Jabber throws her head back and laughs, unbothered. “You were just bein’ all stuck up and shit. ‘S not my fault I don’t study.”

Zanka’s glare sharpens. “I wasn’t bein’ stuck up.”

“Goody two shoes Zanka,” Jabber sings under her breath. “Always so serious. Always so stiff. Like I gotta chisel the fun outta your bones.”

“I’m not stiff,” Zanka snaps.

“You are literally stiff,” Jabber argues, poking her shoulder. “Have you ever even jaywalked in your life.”

Zanka’s cheeks burn and she hopes the flashing neon lights drowning them in color are enough to hide it. “Ya don’t even care what I’m sayin’ right now.”

“Not really,” Jabber admits with a shrug, the most infuriating honesty on earth. It pisses her off to hell and back. “Just thinking how pretty you look right now.” 

Zanka stares at her. Then at the room. Then at Enjin across the way, leisurely leaning against a wall, drinking from a can and looking like the opposite of this entire mess.

“Ya know what?” Zanka mutters. “Maybe I’ll just go talk to someone who actually acts like I’m interestin’ instead of paint drying on the wall.”

Jabber doesn’t flinch or look guilty. She just smirks and follows Zanka’s gaze.

“Enjin? I mean, everybody knows you got the hots for her,” Jabber says lightly. It’s not hots, it’s just… unhealthy admiration, but she’s not about to tell Jabber that. “Knock yourself out.”

Zanka grits her teeth and turns, actually taking a step toward Enjin. “I don’t even know why I came.”

She gets halfway across the room when a hand clamps onto her wrist hard. Pain shoots up her arm, sharp and familiar, the healed over ache from the time Jabber broke it pulsing to life like a ghost.

Zanka gasps, twisting involuntarily. Jabber reels her back in, breath brushing Zanka’s cheek.

“You know why you came,” she murmurs.

Her fingers tighten just enough to make Zanka’s pulse stutter, enough to remind her of every fight, bruise, and night Jabber left her shaking and furious and starving for more.

Jabber leans in closer, voice low. “And it wasn’t for another playmate.”

Zanka’s stomach lurches. Something sick and thrilled unfurls inside her, the same chemical reaction Jabber always pulls out of her.

Jabber gets bored of things easily. Zanka knows that. But she’s not satisfied with the mundane herself, unable to rest knowing there are peaks to climb beyond her reach. 

Jabber likes to play. So does Zanka. 

Jabber’s grip slides down from her wrist to her palm, lacing their fingers like it’s nothing.

“C’mon,” she murmurs, tugging Zanka toward the rush of dancing bodies. “Don’t pretend you’re here for anyone but me.”

Zanka lets herself be dragged.

She realizes something’s wrong about three steps into the staircase.

Her legs don’t give out, exactly, but the floor tilts slightly, enough to make her blink slow, vision fuzzing at the edges.

Jabber has her by the arm, maneuvering her up the steps like she’s a drunk ragdoll, one hand braced on Zanka’s lower back.

The drink. It was the drink.

Of course Jabber slipped something into it.
Not enough to knock her out, Jabber likes her squirming, not unconscious, but enough to make her uninhibited.

Jabber’s got a bunch of vials on her necklace tonight, tiny glass things clinking together as she moves. Zanka uses the sound to follow her. 

Could’ve been from those. Or the tiny flasks inside mankira, maybe even straight up stolen from her pharmacy shifts, she’s done worse.

Zanka can’t think about it right now.

Not when Jabber’s breath is hot on her ear, whispering to her in amusement, “Watch your step—don’t fall,” as if she didn’t do this on purpose.

They hit the top of the stairs just in time to see a guy dragging a drunk girl down the hallway, her heels scraping against the carpet, her head lolling. Zanka’s the same right now, isn’t she? Except the only difference is she’s not defenseless. Her vision blurs, but her body reacts before her mind catches up.

Her fist rounds out so fast the muscles in her shoulder crack. She clocks the guy across the jaw and he drops like a sack of cement.

The girl slumps against the wall, mumbling something incoherent, but Zanka’s eyes are locked on the man on the floor, chest heaving.

Jabber whistles low. “Damn, babe. What’d he do to you?”

She steps right over the guy’s unconscious body like he’s an inconvenient wet spot beneath her shoes, tugging Zanka after her. “Over here,” she says giddily. “I called dibs on the room at the end.”

Zanka doesn’t want to think of the implications of that. She stumbles and Jabber catches her again, laughing.

Her head swims hard enough that the hallway doubles, edges smearing like wet ink.

Zanka blinks, slow, tries to pull her arm back. “Did ya—” Her tongue feels thick. “Did ya fuckin’ roofie me? In my drink.”

Jabber freezes for half a second. Then she laughs, bright and careless, like the question itself is ridiculous.

“Roofies?” Jabber says, scoffing. “That’s for little college boys who don’t know how to cook up their own shi.”

Zanka stares back at her, eyes swimming. “This better not make me sick.”

Jabber looks away first. “…You’re still standing and talking,” she says, defensive. 

Zanka laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Congrats. That’s a real fuckin’ low bar.”

Jabber exhales through her nose, feathers ruffling. “You always gotta make everything so serious.”

“And ya always gotta treat people like experiments,” Zanka shoots back. “I’m not one of yer test subjects.”

“You’re fine,” Jabber coaxes, pulling Zanka towards the last door. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“So why’d ya roofie me!”

“Because you get drunk too slow,” Jabber chirps, as if that explains anything. “And I wanted you loose.”

Zanka jerks her arm free, or tries to. Her body doesn’t listen as fast as she wants. “Ya can’t just drug me whenever ya please.”

Jabber scoffs. “It’s not a drug, it’s a—” She shrugs one shoulder, feathers rustling. “—a little fun enhancer.”

“That’s a drug.”

Jabber twirls in front of her, walking backward now, grabbing Zanka’s face with both hands. “Okay, Miss Bad Attiude. Relax. You’re fine. You’re not dyin’. You’re not puking. You’re not even passing out. I’m being so responsible and you won’t even appreciate it!”

“That’s not responsible.”

“Stop whining,” Jabber whines herself. “You came to a party, didn’t you? Act like it.”

Zanka feels the heat rising in her gut. The music thumps down the hallway from behind closed doors, but all she hears is Jabber, her stupid voice, her stupid laugh, her stupid everything. 

“Hey,” Jabber snaps a finger in front of her when Zanka doesn’t answer for… a minute? Was that a minute? “You with me, Nijiku?”

Zanka scowls like the question itself offends her. “Don’t—” She lifts a hand, misses Jabber’s shoulder by an inch. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like ya give a shit now.”

Jabber catches her wrist easily this time. Zanka despises that part most of all.

“Yeah,” Jabber murmurs, thumb pressing lightly where Zanka’s pulse jumps. “Okay. That’s kickin’ in.”

Zanka’s brows knit. “I’m not…” She swallows. The hallway tilts again, slow and nauseating. “You said it wasn’t—”

“I said you’d be fine,” Jabber replies. “And you are. You’re just… loud in your head right now. I’m trying to help you.”

Zanka lets out a shaky laugh that doesn’t sound like hers. “That’s not reassurin’.”

Jabber leans closer, lowering her voice so it’s just for Zanka, just between the bass thudding through the walls and the muffled chaos of the party. “You agreed to drink it.”

“I agreed ‘cause I’m stupid,” Zanka snaps, then winces like the word hit her wrong on the way out. “And ‘cause I trust ya, for some reason. Which is worse.”

Jabber stills. She angles herself in front of Zanka without touching anywhere else, blocking the hallway.

“You’re not stupid,” Jabber says, and Zanka has no answer to that. 

Her emotions don’t line up clean anymore, anger bleeding into want, want slipping into fear, fear tangling with something humiliatingly soft. 

Exposed, that’s what it makes her feel. Like all the walls she keeps bricked over and up are sweating. “I am. I’m a dumbass for even comin’ here at all. S’not like ya give a flying fuck about me anyway! Yer not even my friend!”

“See? That right there,” Jabber says, throwing her hands up. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Why’s everything gotta be so damn… conventional with you?”

Zanka blinks slowly. The word feels too big in her mouth right now. “What the hell does that even mean.”

“It means,” Jabber snaps, pacing a tight half circle in front of her, like a crazy dog, “that every time this starts feeling natural, you start looking for rules. Boxes to shove us into.”

She gestures between them, two fingers flicking back and forth. “Friends. Rivals. Whatever the fuck. Like we gotta slap a label on it or it doesn’t count.”

Zanka scoffs. “Maybe ‘cause labels tell ya what the hell yer dealin’ with.”

“Or maybe they just make people boring,” Jabber shoots back. “Why can’t we just be us. Together.”

Zanka laughs under her breath, ugly and humorless. “Together doin’ what, exactly? Ya drug me, drag me around like a chew toy, then get mad when I ask what the hell this is?”

Jabber stops pacing. Her jaw tightens. “I’m saying you don’t have to decide what it is. You don’t gotta kill it by naming it.”

“That’s easy for ya to say,” Zanka snaps. “Yer not the one who loses when it goes sideways.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jabber says immediately.

“Is it?” Zanka tilts her head. She doesn’t even want to have this fight right now, but she can’t stop her mouth from forming the syllables of each thought that passes through her head. “Name one person you didn’t burn through ‘cause they stopped bein’ fun.”

Jabber opens her mouth. Closes it.

Zanka presses, cruel now, because the drug makes everything too honest. “Or is this the part where ya tell me I’m ‘different’ like that’s supposed to make it better.”

Jabber’s eyes flash. “You are different.”

Zanka lifts her chin. “I’d sooner believe ya took an Advil before I bought that.”

Jabber’s grin tries to come back, fails halfway. “So what, you want me to say we’re dating? You want me to promise some white picket fence so you can feel better about yourself? You want me to be all prim and proper like the Nijikus?”

They stare at each other, breathing hard. The hallway hums around them, bass vibrating through the walls like a pulse.

Jabber breaks first, voice rough. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look at me like I’m some kinda bad habit you’re gonna quit once you get your life together.”

Zanka’s lips curl. “Maybe I am.”

Jabber’s shoulders jerk like she’s been slapped.

“Don’t act shocked,” Zanka continues, words tumbling now. “Ya don’t exactly scream ‘long term investment.’”

Jabber laughs, brittle. “So that’s it? You just slummin’ it with me for kicks?”

Zanka’s chest tightens. “I said maybe.”

Silence stretches, thick and ugly. Jabber leans back against the wall opposite her, sliding down just enough that her shoulders slump. For a second, she looks tired. Then she looks pissed again.

“You know what?” Jabber mutters. “Fuck your labels and your expectations. I like what we are. I like you like this. Right here. Why can’t that be enough?”

Zanka swallows. Her head swims, heart thudding too loud in her ears. “Because ‘right here’ keeps hurtin’ me.”

“Then leave,” Jabber watches her closely, “go get Enjin to sweep you off your feet. Nobody’s stopping you.”

Zanka pushes off the wall, steadying herself. “I’m not gonna leave. I’m here for a reason,” she says, quieter now. “I had to see about somethin’.”

Jabber's nails dig into her own arm. “Yeah? ‘Bout what.”

Zanka meets her gaze, eyes burning despite the haze. “Whether I’m stupid enough to keep bein’ around ya.”

And that finally shuts Jabber up for all of about a single minute before she continues, eyes clouded. 

“Y’know what I like about you, Zanka?” Jabber says after a pause of the two of them staring at each other, stripped of the teasing lilt. She steps closer instead of backing off, crowding Zanka into the wall. “Besides the fact that you could whoop my ass?”

Zanka stares straight ahead. She refuses to take the bait. Refuses to ask what did you like about me. She won’t be desperate, she’s not desperate.

Jabber clicks her tongue. “I like that your hot shot family’s opinions don’t mean shit to you.”

Zanka’s eyes flick to her despite herself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jabber continues, words tumbling faster now. “I see it. You managed to do what you wanna do and not what anyone else says you have to.”

“Jabber—” Zanka starts.

“I like that you never take credit for it,” Jabber cuts in. “You do all this hard shit, and then you act like you’re worth not even a dime afterward. Like it doesn’t count unless someone else says it does.”

It pisses Zanka off more than the drugs did.

“And when I beat you,” Jabber presses on, “you didn’t fold and make excuses or look at me like I cheated. That’s when I knew you’d be fun to play with.”

Zanka’s hands curl into fists. “Always talkin’ like I’m some toy.”

“Not a toy,” Jabber says. “A match. A good match.”

She reaches out suddenly, grabbing Zanka’s wrist. She flips Zanka’s hand palm up, dragging her thumb over the rough skin there, the callouses earned from mats and her staff and hours of work Zanka never brags about.

“And these,” Jabber murmurs. “Your hands.”

She lifts Zanka’s hand to her own face before Zanka can stop her, pressing Zanka’s palm to her cheek. Jabber leans into it, eyes half lidding.

“They’re all rough and scratchy,” Jabber says quietly. “I like when they’re on my face. Like this.”

Zanka’s breath stutters. For one treacherous second, she lets herself cup Jabber’s cheek. The warmth there startles her. Then she yanks her hand back like she’s been burned.

“Yer messin’ with me,” Zanka snaps. “That’s all this is. Ya get bored, throw people away, and I—” Her voice breaks, fury rushing in to cover it. “An’ I’m not gonna be next.”

Jabber laughs again, but it’s thinner this time, the sound scraping on the inside of her throat like she doesn’t quite believe she finds it funny herself. “Fine. Then should I say what I hate about you and make it easier for you to walk away like a pussy?” she asks suddenly.

Zanka stiffens. “I’m sure yer gonna tell me anyway.”

“Damn right.” Jabber shoves her shoulder, not hard enough to move her, just enough to make a point. “You act like you’re above it. Above me. Above all this.” She gestures vaguely at the house, the noise, herself. “Like you’re demeaning yourself every time you stay.”

“That’s not true.”

“And you don’t fight it,” Jabber continues, voice rising. “You just… endure. Like you’re so damn patient. Like you’re waitin’ for me to self destruct so you can say you were right. I was right, Jabber. I knew all along you were a failu—“

“Don’t put words in my mouth! That’s not fair—“

Jabber’s eyes flash. “Neither is the way you disappear on me.”

Zanka crosses her arms. “I don’t disappear.”

“You shut down,” Jabber says, waving a hand in her own face. “You get that look on your face like you’re already halfway gone.”

She steps closer again, crowding Zanka’s space, finger jabbing lightly into her sternum. “You’re always halfway out the door, even when you’re right in front of me. Like I’m some kinda contagion.”

Zanka’s mouth opens, closes. 

“Fine. Ya wanna know what I hate about you the most? It’s yer bullshit about playin’,” Zanka says, slapping Jabber’s finger off of her chest. “I hate that. I hate feelin’ like I gotta perform just to keep your attention. Like if I stop bein’ interesting for two seconds, you’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble.”

Jabber scoffs, but Zanka barrels on.

“Ya treat everything like a game,” Zanka says. “Ya push and push and then act surprised when someone finally snaps.”

Her hands shake now, fists clenched at her sides. “And ya scare the hell outta me.”

That gets Jabber’s attention. Her grin fades completely.

“Because I never know if ya mean it,” Zanka continues. “If ya actually want me, or just like seein’ how far ya can drag me before I break.”

Jabber swallows so visibly her necklace quivers.

“And I hate,” Zanka adds quietly, “that I still want to be here anyway. So much that I forced myself to come to this stupid party and drank the stupid crap ya spiked me with! 

Jabber’s breath stutters. She scrubs a hand over her face, locs shifting. “So why don’t you just get outta here? Have Enjin drive you home.”

“Yer not takin’ anything seriously,” Zanka mutters. “I said I wanna talk.” 

“Why should I?” Jabber spins again. “You said it yourself. This whole night is stupid. The people here are stupid. You’re the only thing—”

Jabber stops speaking and walking all at once, turns sharply, tilting her head at Zanka.

“Why do I gotta be like you for you to wanna be with me?”

Zanka blinks. “…Huh?”

Jabber takes a slow step toward her. “Why do I gotta be some stuck up little princess like you to make you happy?” Jabber’s voice rises, mocking. “Why do I have to stand straight, talk straight, fight straight, think straight—”

“I never said—”

“Why should I conform to your shitty rules?” Jabber snaps. “Why should I pretend to be normal when you’re not even normal—”

“Normal?” Zanka’s throat closes. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?” Jabber demands, stepping closer. “Because I’m really tryin’ to figure it out. One second you want me, next second you don’t, next second you’re lookin’ at me like you wanna put a knife in my ribs—”

Zanka opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know why she wants her so much. She doesn’t know why she feels sick thinking Jabber will get bored. She doesn’t know why she keeps coming back. She doesn’t know why she cares so much about what Jabber thinks. She doesn’t know why she’s so unbelievably pissed off right now.

Jabber’s lips curl cruelly. “Typical. Thought we really had something, Zan-Zan, guess not—“

Something inside Zanka snaps. Her body moves faster than her mind again.

Her palm hits Jabber’s cheek with a crack. Jabber’s head turns to the side.

Zanka’s breath comes shallow, chest tight. “Don’t act like ya can discard me after fuckin’ up my damn head.”

She knows why she did it. She’s trying to give Jabber what she wants, to make her chase, to make her burn.

Trying to make her want her the way Zanka wants her—

Obsessive. Hot-blooded. In all the ways she shouldn’t.

Jabber slowly turns back, hand lifting to her cheek. Her grin blooms like a wildfire.

“Zanka, my friend,” she whispers. “There she is. I knew you had a monster in you. I was just waitin’ to see it.”

Then she pounces. Jabber jumps onto her, tackling Zanka backward into the nearest door with full force, her legs hooking around Zanka’s waist, hands gripping her shoulders, body slamming into hers with ecstatic violence.

Zanka barely catches them both, her back hitting the door hard enough to rattle it in its frame. She makes a pained sound, but Jabber just laughs into her neck, electric. “I should kill ya,” Zanka curses under her breath, feeling Jabber’s thighs tighten around her. 

“Hit me again,” Jabber says, voice burning with excitement. “Zanka, show me you came here for me.”

Jabber’s never satisfied with just one round, she’s a hedonist to the core, bored of the mundane, always chasing the next bruise, the next high, the next person to hurt. 

She gets off on this, Zanka thinks in a storm of resentment and craving. Tossing me around like I’m her personal punching bag, then begging for it back. I should walk out, leave her wanting. But her feet don’t move. 

Instead, she surges forward, grabbing Jabber by the shoulders and slamming her back against the wall with a thud that shakes the foundation to get her off of her waist. 

Jabber gasps, but it’s laced with laughter, her hair whipping as her head snaps back, eyes lighting up like she’s just been handed a challenge.

“Ya think that’s enough?” Zanka growls, her voice low. Her hands fist in Jabber’s corset yanking it down so she can see her chest. 

Jabber doesn’t resist, hell, she arches into it, her silver bracelets clinking as she grabs Zanka’s waist, nails digging in deep enough to draw blood through the fabric of her shirt. “What’s yer obsession with this anyway?”

Jabber’s grin is feral, teeth bared as she hooks a leg around Zanka’s thigh and flips them with surprising strength, years of fighting dirty paying off. Zanka’s back hits the opposite wall, the impact jarring her teeth, but she doesn’t yelp, she retaliates, shoving Jabber hard in the chest, sending her stumbling back onto the bed.

She sinks in precariously, but Jabber catches herself as she lunges forward. They collide. Jabber loves this. The pain, the fight, it’s her drug. Fuck me, it’s mine too, Zanka thinks as she bites down on Jabber’s collarbone, teeth sinking in until skin breaks, the metallic taste flooding her mouth.

Jabber moans, deep and guttural, her hips grinding against Zanka’s as she claws at her back, nails raking long, burning trails that she feels even through the shirt.

“Harder, Zan-Zan,” Jabber taunts, voice breathy, her skin flushing deeper. She twists, using her leverage to toss Zanka sideways, Zanka hits the floor with a grunt, the carpet rough against her palms as she scrambles up. Jabber’s on her in an instant, straddling her hips, pinning her down with her thighs. 

Her rings press cold and sharp into Zanka’s wrists as she holds them above her head, leaning down to bite Zanka’s lip again, reopening the earlier cut. Blood wells up, and Jabber licks it away with a hum, her free hand slipping under Zanka’s shirt to pinch a nipple hard, twisting until Zanka arches off the ground with a strangled cry. 

She’s a monster. Tossing her like she’s nothing, but she looks at Zanka like she’s everything. It feels like enough for the moment. 

Zanka bucks her hips, using her core strength to flip them over, slamming Jabber onto her back with enough force to knock the breath out of her. Jabber wheezes, but her eyes sparkle with joy, legs wrapping around Zanka’s waist to pull her closer. 

“That’s it—hurt me,” she gasps, her nails scraping down Zanka’s arms, leaving bloody furrows that sting like fire. Zanka growls, pinning Jabber’s arms down now, her knee pressing between Jabber’s thighs, grinding hard against her under the skirt. 

Jabber ruts up shamelessly, her breath hitching as Zanka leans in to bite her earlobe, tugging until Jabber whimpers, a rare, vulnerable sound that sends a power rush through Zanka. 

They grapple like that, tossing each other around the room echoing with thuds and grunts, the air thick with sweat and the metallic scent of blood. 

Jabber flips Zanka over her shoulder in a move straight from their club, Zanka landing hard on her back on the bed, wind knocked out. But she sweeps Jabber’s legs out from under her, bringing her down too, and they roll, scratching, biting, grinding in a frenzy on top of the sheets. 

Jabber’s rings nick Zanka’s cheek during a wild swing, drawing a thin line of blood that she immediately licks clean, her tongue hot and teasing. Zanka’s on her stomach now, still dizzy and feeling way too exposed. 

She tries to retaliate but Jabber pins her face down, her hand fisting in her braid and tugging till it comes loose, making her strain her throat to stop the sting of it being pulled. 

She bites the nape of her neck until Zanka shudders, feeling Jabber’s hips pressing against her ass. 

Jabber’s free hand slips into Zanka’s pants, fingers rough as they try to pull them down, making Zanka buck. She twists free with a burst of strength, tossing Jabber aside, her breath ragged.

The back of her head aches from how she headbutts Jabber in the scramble, cracking against Jabber’s nose again, vision spinning as pain explodes through her skull.

Jabber reels, blood gushing anew from her nose, eyes watering. She looks stunned, eyes glassy and unfocused for a beat, but fuck, the look in them isn’t pain, it’s pure, unfiltered want, glassy and feral, like the pain just amps her higher. 

“Love it when you fight back,” Jabber pants, pouncing again to straddle Zanka, nails digging into her shoulders as she presses down hard. 

Chase me. Want me. Hurt for me like I do for you. 

Blood drips from Jabber’s nose, pooling on her full lips, then trailing down her chin in a messy streak, staining her skin with glossy red. She touches it gingerly, smearing the flow, and laughs, a wet, breathless sound. “Fuck, Zan… that’s what I needed,” she gasps, eyes locked on Zanka, like she’s the only thing keeping her from boredom’s edge.

Zanka leans in, drawn like a magnet, her tongue tracing the fresh drip. Jabber shivers above her, a low moan escaping as she grabs Zanka’s hair, pulling her into a bloody kiss.

She starts at the low slope of Jabber’s nose, lapping up the warm, metallic trickle with slow strokes on her tongue, savoring the taste mixed with Jabber’s skin. Down to the lips, where she lingers, licking the smeared crimson off those, nipping to draw a noise from Jabber. Then lower, to her chin, her tongue following the drip in a hot trail, cleaning every drop as Jabber’s hands clutching Zanka’s torn shirt like she’ll never let go.

Jabber’s watering eyes flutter as she pulls Zanka into another kiss, saliva mingling in a frenzy, like sharks smelling blood in the water. 

“God, your eyes’re so blue, Zanka… I just wanna pop ’em outta your pretty head and keep ’em in a jar,” she whispers against Zanka’s mouth. She’ll never get bored of her. Not if Zanka keeps hurting her like this. Zanka bites hard into her lower lip, hoping it’ll scar, that she’ll leave a mark permanently etched into her. “Bet they’d still glare at me from in there.”

“Stop talkin’ like a serial killer,” Zanka says gruffly, the sting in her lip a bright starburst of pain. 

Jabber’s not one to stay down, she surges up, flipping Zanka onto her back with a growl, her hands everywhere, rough and demanding. The fight simmers into something hungrier, Jabber’s fingers tearing at Zanka’s shirt as she yanks it over her head, exposing her pale skin marked with scratches and bites.

Zanka reaches behind herself to snap her bra open, letting the straps slip off her shoulders. Jabber grabs those too, pulling her bra off and leaning up on her stomach to bite around Zanka’s nipple, the other hand groping her tightly, nails pricking the soft flesh.

Jabber’s got her pinned now, dreads framing her face like twisted vines, those hot pink eyes gleaming with that feral hunger that always pulls Zanka under. It’s kinda like when they fight, but with woozier edges and a lot more bare skin. Jabber’s hands splay across Zanka’s chest, shoving her shirt higher, cool air hitting the fresh scratches. Zanka’s arms are trapped above her head, wrists locked in Jabber’s ringed grip, the metal biting cold and unyielding like manacles.

Zanka sinks back into the mattress, accepting her fate like a lobster about to be dropped into a pot of boiling water. She can get one last pinch in before her doom. 

She’s been undressed in front of Jabber before, more times than she’ll admit out loud in fear of divine punishment and a giant bolt of lightning striking her down right now, but this feels different.

Maybe it’s the drug humming low in her blood, melting her edges, or the way Jabber hovers over her like she owns every molecule of oxygen Zanka’s trying to breathe.

Jabber plants a hand on either side of her head, caging her in. Zanka feels the mattress dip, feels the heat off Jabber’s stomach, feels her own pulse stuttering in her throat.

Jabber’s smile stretches. “Hm? Feelin’ shy today, Nijiku?”

Zanka scoffs, though her voice comes out thin. “Shy? In yer dreams.”

But her chest rises too fast, skin prickling under Jabber’s stare. Jabber’s eyes flick down, linger, drag back up with her favorite kind of leisurely delight. Zanka’s stomach clenches, her fingers twitch against the unfamiliar sheets, unsure if they want to push Jabber away or grab her closer.

“It’s alright if you are,” Jabber leans down until their noses almost brush. “Yer blushin’.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You are,” Jabber croons, tapping her cheek with one cold ring. “Right here.”

“Cause yer pissin’ me off,” Zanka scowls up at her anyway, refusing to give her the satisfaction. “Hate yer annoying face.”

Jabber beams like she’s just been handed a birthday cake. “Awww. Love you too.”

“Didn’t say that.” The mention of love makes her feel hungover already.

“Didn’t have ta.”

Zanka tries to twist her face away, and Jabber follows the motion, staying right in her space like static cling. Their noses brush lightly. Zanka tenses. She’s waiting for a kiss that never comes, and it only infuriates her even more. “Back up,” she grits.

“No,” Jabber says sweetly.

“Yer heavy.”

“Calling me fat?”

“Callin’ you impossible.”

Jabber leans down until her forehead almost touches Zanka’s. “Good,” she breathes. “I’d hate to be easy for you.”

Zanka’s stomach clenches. “Yer not easy for anyone.”

“One of us is.” The smirk she wears is unbearable. “Just gotta look at you funny and you start meltin’ like ice cream.”

Zanka shoves her shoulder. Jabber doesn’t budge an inch, she's stronger than her, but the gesture makes her laugh, low and mean and oddly affectionate.

Zanka sits up a little and immediately regrets it because the motion makes her very, very bare chest brush Jabber’s corset. She flinches and Jabber locks onto the motion. 

“Look at you,” Jabber croons, eyes dropping. “Are you still thinking ‘bout running off to Enjin—”

Zanka’s fists curl in the sheets. “Finish that sentence and I’ll knock ya out.”

“Promise?” Jabber grins, And Zanka swats her hand away but it’s useless, and Jabber just laughs like she’s a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. 

She moves one hand to Zanka’s jaw, thumb hooked under her lip, tilting her head back. “Gonna make you scream,” she murmurs, leaning close enough that Zanka feels the shape of the words against her skin. 

“Yer makin’ me cringe,” Zanka tries to pull back, but Jabber doesn’t seem to care at all.

She leans in, breath hot against Zanka’s collarbone, and sinks her teeth in, slow at first, a scrape of enamel that drags down her sternum, leaving red welts blooming. The blood from her nose smears all over Zanka’s pale skin, her chest, her belly, even her neck, hot and sticky and still freshly flowing, because it’s not like she’s doing anything to staunch the bleeding. She likes it, the freak. 

Zanka grits her teeth, fighting the urge to gasp, her heart slamming against her ribs as Jabber’s thumbs circle her nipples roughly, nails flicking just hard enough to sting.

“Ya think yer the shit, don’t ya?” Zanka huffs, voice strained but defiant. “Yer not all that.”

“Dont play hard to get, Zanka my friend,” Jabber hums. “I know what you crave better than you do.”

Zanka rolls her eyes, opening her mouth for a snappy retort, but Jabber’s tongue flicks out, and then she bites hard around the swell of Zanka’s breast. Zanka chokes on her inhale, a sharp “Fuck—” escaping as sparks shoot straight to her core, her hips twitching involuntarily.

The dim bulbs in this cramped room cast shadows that make Jabber’s eyes look like a wolf stalking its dinner, blood from her nose still crusting at the edges.

Jabber grins, teeth flashing wicked. Zanka scoffs, that cocky smirk pisses her off more, and it amps when Jabber slides a hand under her belt, yanking her hips forward. The tender skin of her abdomen meets Jabber’s incisors again, a graze that turns to a chomp.

She’s being devoured. Nipped and laved from neck to navel. Zanka’s never been one for staying put, but this is agony, squirming under the assault, trying to grab back, to feel the curve of Jabber’s shoulder, to yank those dreads and test if they’re as tough as they look, but every twitch gets her hand slapped away, and Jabber clamps harder.

“Shit!” Zanka yelps. “Damn it, ease up.”

Those claws at her waist dip lower, and Zanka’s gut knots as Jabber palms her ass, squeezing with bruising force.

“Are ya gonna fuck me or just nibble me like a piranha,” Zanka snaps.

Jabber pauses, like she’s mulling it over on her own fucked up schedule. She’s still hunting Zanka’s weak points, probing for the spots that make her jolt without warning. A nerve gets hit at her hip crease, and with a twist, Zanka lets out a ragged breath.

Jabber hums, staring at Zanka like she’s dissecting her under a microscope. 

“Toxicology’s all ‘bout making things happen in our bodies,” Jabber says. Zanka hisses as a wet kiss lands on her ribs, followed by a scrape of teeth that ignites her. It’s fucking confusing, getting one of Jabber’s weirdly calm lectures right now as she’s topless and currently getting slobbered all over. “…but highs like this don’t come synthetically. We gotta make ‘em. You and me.” 

Jabber grips her right tit and kneads, but now her mouth’s involved, the drag of fangs making Zanka writhe, held fast by Jabber’s thighs. She snakes a hand to Jabber’s neck, squeezing it tight until Jabber makes a giddy sound. “This yer fancy way of sayin’ ya got a bite kink?”

Jabber narrows her eyes, patience fraying. She yanks Zanka’s belt open with a snap, hauling her closer till their hips grind. “It’s way more complicated than that.”

“Right, sure. Ya love gnawin’ on me and I—ngh—” Jabber’s hand dives into her pants, pressing against her through her panties, and Zanka’s vision whites out for a beat, “—fuck. And I need my head straight again.”

Zanka pushes her off roughly, watching as Jabber slides further down the bed, undeterred, grabbing her waistband. 

She shoves Zanka’s pants and underwear down her thighs, not bothering with finesse, the fabric scraping raw against her (Jabber inflicted) wounds. Black lace bunches at Jabber’s waist, boning digging into her skin as she moves. Her tight skirt follows after the sound of a zipper sliding down, kicked off in a tangle, leaving her bare except for that corset and her black thong to match.

Zanka stares between her muscular thighs, wondering if she was already dead and this was her purgatory, trapped in an endless, shameless fuck with her worst nightmare personified in a random frat boy’s bedroom that smells like weed and fireball. 

Jabber pushes Zanka flat on her back, dropping to her knees with a wicked grin, blood still trickling from her nose but ignored in her hunger. 

She pries Zanka’s thighs apart, nails pricking into the soft inner flesh. 

“Hold still,” Jabber murmurs, her breath ghosting over Zanka’s exposed cunt, but there’s no gentleness, she dives in, tongue flat and insistent, lapping at her folds with rough, hungry strokes. Her teeth graze Zanka’s clit, nipping sharply, the bite painful and hot and so fucking good, sending jolts that make Zanka’s hips jerk. Jabber soothes it with her tongue, alternating pain and pleasure in that damn rhythm only she can pull off.

Zanka’s woozy, high off whatever chemical cocktail Jabber’s stirred in her drink, making her head spin like she’s floating. She makes too much noise, low moans she can’t hold back, her usual restraint crumbling as she grinds back against Jabber’s mouth, hips rolling shamelessly into the heat of her tongue. 

Her mouth is a furnace, lips sealing around Zanka’s clit in a suction that’s almost too much, and stars burst behind Zanka’s eyelids. Jabber’s teeth graze the swollen bud, nipping sharply, first a teasing pinch, then harder, the bite painful and hot and so fucking good, a jolt of lightning that arcs straight to Zanka’s core, making her hips jerk involuntarily. 

Jabber bites again, this time on the tender crease of her thigh, her teeth sinking in like she’s claiming territory, the sting radiating outward.

She tugs Jabber’s head back, golden rings clinking like chimes in a storm. She pulls her up just enough to see, Jabber’s mouth completely wet with her slick, plush lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with a mix of arousal and saliva. 

And the blood, dripping like a faucet from her nose, crimson rivulets cascading down her face in unchecked streams, pooling at her lips and chin before spilling lower, staining her neck and the tops of her breasts in glossy red trails. Their eyes meet with electricity, a crackling charge that zips through Zanka like a live wire.

She giggles then, a light, unhinged sound bubbling up from the drug flooding her system. Jabber watches her for a second, then starts laughing too, till their cackles are bouncing off of the walls. 

With a rough yank, Zanka pulls Jabber’s face back down, smashing her mouth against her cunt. The wet flow and smear of blood hits her directly, warm, sticky crimson blending with her slick, making everything wetter, sloppier, a viscous mess that coats her. 

It drips down her thighs, mingling with Jabber’s saliva. The flick of her tongue, quick, darting lashes that tease her entrance before pressing in, curling to taste deep, feels like fire, slicked by the bloody lubricant. 

And then the fingers, two of them pressing in without warning, rings cold at first against her heat, ridges catching on her inner walls as they thrust, the metallic edges adding a bite of friction that borders on pain. 

Zanka makes another breathless, giddy sound that echoes strangely in her ears, her head lolling back as she looks up, and the ceiling spins, a slow, hypnotic whirl like the room’s tilting on an axis, lights blurring into streaky halos, everything fuzzy and dreamlike.

Feels like flying, she thinks woozily, grinding back harder against Jabber’s face, hips rolling in insistent circles that smear more blood and slick across Jabber’s cheeks.

Jabber moans into her, vibrations humming through Zanka’s core like an electric current, her free hand, nails still pricking Zanka’s thighs, spreading her wider for better access, then she lets go. 

Zanka barely registers Jabber’s own fingers working behind herself, slipping between her legs to press into herself with urgent thrusts, rings clinking faintly as she fucks herself in sync. 

Zanka feels it in the way Jabber’s tongue falters for a beat, a muffled gasp against her clit before redoubling, sucking harder, biting with that perfect edge of cruelty. 

The spinning haze makes her hands tighten in Jabber’s dreads, cool rings brushing her knuckles as she tries not to fall off. 

It's too surreal. Jabber, bleeding, eating her out like she’s starving, fingers deep in herself just from tasting Zanka. 

Zanka shudders and clenches around those invading fingers, feeling the blood gushing from Jabber’s nose in a fresh flood that coats her mouth. Zanka’s hips grind harder, chasing it, and the ceiling spins faster, a kaleidoscope of lights and shadows that makes her feel untethered. Zanka’s hands stay buried in those dreads, holding Jabber close like she’ll never let go.

Why is she like this? Zanka wonders through the fog, her hands threading into Jabber’s dreads, golden rings cool against her fingers as she grips, not pulling too hard at the roots but enough to guide, to hold on. Someone like her—on her knees for me? 

Zanka’s not used to letting go, her discipline an iron cage, but here, in this random stranger’s bedroom, with Jabber’s mouth devouring her, bites turning to sucks turning to nips, a loop of pain-good-pain building, she feels it, a warmth spreading from her core, soft and enveloping at first, then slamming like a punch to the gut. 

Her orgasm crashes over her, deep, rolling through her body in shuddering pulses, making her thighs quake around Jabber’s head, her moans turning to breathless cries. She clenches around nothing, grinding harder as the release floods her, leaving her limp and trembling.

Jabber doesn’t stop immediately, lapping through the aftershocks, her own fingers pumping faster until she stiffens, a muffled groan against Zanka’s thigh as she comes too, body twitching in release. 

Jabber pulls back finally, lips shiny and smeared with a cocktail of slick, blood, and saliva, that manic grin returning as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her own orgasm leaving her flushed and trembling. “Taste like heaven, Zan-Zan.”

Zanka slumps against the sheets, chest heaving, her hands still loosely in Jabber’s hair. Why you? she thinks again, woozy and sated. 

Jabber rises, sliding her skirt back into place with that same unapologetic shamelessness she carries through everything. The black corset still hugs her waist like a second skin, constricting in a way that makes Zanka’s gaze stick even when she wants it to flinch away.

For a long moment, Jabber just watches her. Eerily quiet and still how she gets sometimes like she’s assessing if her game was fun, if she wants to play again. 

And Zanka swallows hard, tense, waiting for the punchline she knows is coming. Then it arrives. A low, rolling laugh. “You think you get to have all the fun by yourself, Zan-Zan?” Jabber says. Her pink eyes glint, sharp as shards of glass. “Nah. I got something special for us. Hand made, ya see?”

Jabber lifts a small vial from her necklace, swirls it in her hand, and tips it back. Something acrid smelling kisses her lips for a second before she leans forward. 

Before Zanka can blink, Jabber is kissing her. She presses closer, tongue brushing, hand cradling Zanka’s jaw until all the liquid is transferred, then she pulls away. 

She slides her hand over Zanka’s mouth, pressing forcefully against her lips when Zanka tries to cough up the bitter liquid. Her fingers stretch along Zanka’s jaw, palm cupping her cheek as her other hand pinches Zanka’s nose just enough to force her swallow it all down. 

Zanka’s eyes widen, a flinch that doesn’t turn into real resistance, her body pliant and off guard, tuned to Jabber’s whims.

“Relax, it’s just a little hallucinogenic,” Jabber mumbles. She pets the hollow of Zanka’s throat, feeling her swallow. 

Zanka writhes instinctively, struggling as she loses air, and Jabber pulls her hands away. There’s a strange, sweet tingle running through her, pulling at the edges of her senses. Her muscles go heavy, her chest rising and falling in sync with Jabber’s.

“What’s it like? C’mon, I wanna know,” Jabber asks excitedly. She slides down to lie beside Zanka. She clutches at her stomach, letting out a soft groan that somehow makes Zanka feel both pleased and vindictive. “Shit, I think you kicked my spleen.”

The world tilts, colors bleeding, the room blurred into messy focus. Zanka’s head feels light. Every breath tastes metallic and sweet from her blood and chapstick, tinged with the sharp tang of whatever Jabber just forced into her. And all of it might scare her if not for the solid heat of Jabber’s body against hers.

“See? Isn’t this nice?” Jabber murmurs, eyes twinkling, pupils almost completely dilated. Her laugh bubbles up again, echoing in Zanka’s skull. 

It isn’t frightening. Not exactly. Every crease of her smile, every flare of her nostrils, Zanka sees them all more clearly than she ever has in her life.

She wants to push away, wants to scream at Jabber for being reckless, for this ridiculous idea, but her limbs won’t cooperate. 

Her eyelids droop, flutter, and slowly Zanka drifts into a strange, shared haze. The last thing she feels is the warmth of Jabber beside her, the rapid beat of her heart pounding in her chest, the faint scent of liquor, and the sound of that crazy laughter echoing in her skull.

Somewhere deep in her head, Zanka thinks, this isn’t funny. Nothing about this is funny. And yet she can’t stop laughing too, tears burning behind her eyelids. 

She feels like a mouse skittering along a forest floor, frozen when the bright, dangerous plumage of a bird of paradise swoops too close. She needs to run, scurry into shadows, and yet her body betrays her, rooted to the spot, heart hammering as though it’s thrilled by the threat.

Or maybe she’s more like a moth, drawn helplessly toward a flame, each flicker of light catching in her eyes. She knows she’ll burn if she touches it, and yet she flutters closer, warming in anticipation of the scorch.

Jabber is a predator, and Zanka is the prey, but the lines blur so completely that she can’t remember which she wants to be. 

She knows she is being lured, and her body burns with it. A rush of adrenaline prickles up her limbs. She feels every thread of the corset, every finger on her throat, every flash of gold in Jabber’s hair, and she knows she is trapped in a snare that is as beautiful as it is deadly.

And in that trap, she can’t stop thinking about how she wouldn’t run even if she could. She wouldn’t escape if she had the chance. She wants it. Wants the rush, wants the danger and the fight for survival. 

She is prey, yes, but at least she’s being caught alive.

Jabber likes to play with her food. 

Jabber’s eyes catch hers, glinting with the pleasure of a good fight, and Zanka realizes that, feral or civilized, she is already lost. 

The poison has her, and she would welcome it every time.

Her ribs ache from laughing too hard.
____

Zanka comes to slowly, like someone dragging her consciousness out of deep water by the ankle.

At first it’s sound she hears, muffled voices, low, annoyed, familiar. Then it’s the pounding behind her eyes, a migraine blooming sharp and vengeful. Then it’s the ache in her thighs, the soreness between her hips, the faint sticky pull of dried blood on her inner knee. She winces, inhaling sharply through her nose.

She’s lying on a bed. A stranger’s bed. A stranger’s room. A party. Right, there was a party. Music. Lights. Jabber’s hands everywhere.
Jabber’s rings. Jabber’s mouth. Jabber goading her and Zanka, idiot, idiot, letting her.

Her eyelids crack open.

The first thing she sees is ceiling paint peeling above her.

Then a face hovering above her. Light falling across smooth cheekbones, thick hair spilling around a tilted head like some kind of halo. Long lashes casting shadows over eyes she can’t fully see yet. A mouth curved in a faint smile.

For one delusional, feverish second, Zanka thinks, …an angel? Did Jabber really kill her with that poison? The disgrace of dying to a drug overdose in her family must be—

Then her vision clears and she realizes exactly who she’s looking at.

Full stop. Not an angel. Not even close. Definitely not a fucking angel. Zanka feels nauseous for even thinking about it. 

Jabber is leaning over her, lips glossy, eyeliner smudged, pupils blown wide from excitement. Her head is all frizzy, catching the overhead light that is now way too bright, and her nose is sprinkled with a few faint freckles only visible when you're close like this. 

She’s sitting right beside her, legs crossed, looking way too awake for someone who kept Zanka pinned to a mattress for the last two hours. 

Enjin. Enjin is there too. Sitting in a chair beside the bed, arms folded, glaring at Jabber with the disappointed fury of a saint watching someone kick a puppy.

“…so,” Enjin is saying stiffly, “you just thought it’d be fun to dose her? At a party? Wonderful. You’re insane.”

Jabber shrugs, kicking her heels. “She said yes.”

“She was high—”

“So was I!” Jabber chirps.

Enjin buries her face in her hands. “Seriously stop talking or I’m gonna kick your ass—”

Zanka tries to move, but she’s made of cement. The room tilts. The mattress shifts and Jabber’s head snaps toward her instantly.

Her face lights up like someone plugged her into a socket.

“Heyyyy. Look who’s awake.” She crawls over immediately, knees digging into the mattress, tilting Zanka’s head up and easing it into her lap with surprising tenderness. “You good?”

Zanka groans something nonverbal.

Jabber beams at Enjin. “See? Told ya she’s perfectly fine.”

Enjin bolts upright from the chair, leaning over her. “Zanka? Zanka, can you hear me? I don’t know what this freak gave you, but it’s fine, we’re gonna get—”

Zanka rubs at the migraine spiking through her skull like a hot nail. “Ugh. I just need some quiet—please.”

Enjin stops mid sentence. Jabber smirks like she’s won.

“She wants quiet. You should try that sometime,” Jabber says sweetly.

“Shut up,” Enjin deadpans.

Jabber puckers her lips. “Make me.”

Enjin stares her down. Jabber stares back, unblinking. Zanka kind of wishes she was dead like she thought she was five minutes ago. 

“Stop—both of ya,” she mutters, covering her face with her hand. She tries to sit up, realizing as she shifts that she’s… fully clothed? Her shirt buttoned, belt on. Even her pants are zipped.

Her cheeks burn as she glances down at herself.

Jabber must’ve dressed her, cleaned her up so at least she wouldn’t have blood and cum dripping down her leg. 

Her ears flame red.

Enjin, noticing her posture, looks between them slowly, and sighs, long and bone deep. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it in the middle of this random person’s bedroom like she couldn’t give a shit.

“We’re leaving,” she announces, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Zanka, come on. I’ll getcha an Advil.”

Zanka pushes herself upright, hair a tangled storm around her shoulders. She tries patting it down and fails miserably. She looks like she’s been dragged through a portal to hell and back, which, honestly, is not far from the truth. 

She swings her legs off the bed. Jabber catches the hem of her shirt between two fingers, tugging lightly.

Zanka stills as Jabber leans in close, cupping her hand over her ear like she doesn’t want Enjin to hear a secret.

“Thanks for coming tonight, Zan-Zan,” she murmurs. “Wouldn’ta been no fun without ya.”

Heat detonates across Zanka’s face. She jerks away with a muttered, “Cut it out,” willing herself to keep her expression neutral.

Enjin is already halfway to the door, muttering to herself as Zanka pushes away from Jabber. 

Jabber sprawls back on the mattress. “Call me!” she sings out. “It’s your baby!”

“Shut up!” Zanka snaps, immediately tripping over her own feet in mortification as Enjin grabs her wrist and drags her out.

They’ve been driving ten minutes in silence when Zanka finally notices the way Enjin’s jaw keeps ticking, like she’s still fighting off the ghost of a migraine. The streetlights pass over her face in pale gold stripes, carving shadows down her cheekbones.

Zanka clears her throat. “Sorry you had to babysit me again.”

Enjin snorts, rolling the window down another inch and flicking ash out into the wind. “Babysit? Please. You’re like—at least half an adult. Mostly.”

Zanka groans. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Enjin shrugs, steering one handed. “I wasn’t doing much anyway.”

Zanka raises a brow, skeptical. “Really.”

Enjin exhales smoke and mutters, “’Cept for trying to have a threesome.”

Zanka chokes on her own spit.

Enjin keeps talking casually. “Yeah, some redhead and her blonde twin sister, stupid hot, actually, but then I saw Jabber wandering the hallway like a lunatic looking for towels, and I was like, ‘What did she do now?’” She pauses. “So I followed her. And… there you were.”

Zanka blinks hard. “Wait. Twin sisters…?”

“Yeah?” Enjin glances over. “Why.”

Zanka stares straight ahead, horrified. “Uh. You mean Hii and Fu?”

Enjin’s face goes utterly still. “You.. uhm, you know them?”

Zanka makes a small, strangled noise. “Enjin— they’re in my year. They’re students. Fu’s obsessed with you.”

Enjin slams her palm against the wheel. “No. You’re telling me…” She shivers dramatically, shoulders curling in. 

“Yer a cougar,” Zanka mumbles, sinking into her seat. She gets the awful visual of Hii and Fu on either side of Enjin and sticks her tongue out in disgust. 

Enjin whips her head toward her. “Excuse me?!”

Zanka holds up a hand limply, eyes drooping. “Nothing. Forget it.”

Enjin glares at her for another five seconds before slumping back in her seat and muttering something about why is everyone at these parties born after 2005.

“You know, even if I was busy doing more than hitting on really hot chicks, you’re not an inconvenience to me. Never,” Enjin says behind her palm, looking away from her. 

Zanka hides a tiny smile behind her sleeve.

”Guess we both made some bad decisions tonight,” Enjin adds, and Zanka’s smile falls.

Having Enjin disappointed in her was a fate worse than dying to Jabber’s gross poisons. 

Enjin blows smoke out the cracked window.
Zanka stares out the other one, clutching the seatbelt like it’s a rope on a sinking ship. Maybe she could figure out a way to hang herself real quick, or just open the passenger door and bail out completely onto the asphalt.

Finally, Enjin exhales a long stream of smoke and says. “So.” A beat. “Did you have fun?”

Zanka doesn’t answer immediately.

She thinks about the music. Jabber’s nails at her waist, whispering filthy things against her ear, the sense of relief in being high. Not having to think more than an animal tearing into its dinner.

She swallows.

“…Yeah,” she admits quietly. “I did.”

Enjin taps her cigarette on the edge of the window. “Good. You deserve that. Even if it came in the form of…” She waves her hand vaguely. “…whatever the hell that was.”

Zanka rubs her eyes. “I don’t even know what that was.”

“No one does,” Enjin snorts softly, shaking her head, and holds out the cigarette. “You’ve earned it.”

Zanka raises a brow. “I don’t smoke.”

“You earned it anyway.”

Zanka takes it, holds it, turns it over in her fingers. She gives it back.

“I’m good,” she mutters. “I think I’ve got a bad enough addiction already.”

Enjin pauses, and for once doesn’t try to argue. She nods, understanding more than she says, and stubs the cigarette out in the car’s coffee holder with a little smile as she blows through a red light without slowing.

“Rudo’s out cold,” she says casually. “Chocolate coma.”

There’s a pause. “…You wanna stay up to watch a movie and eat her Halloween candy?”

Zanka leans her head back against the seat, passing by a neon pink sign glowing through the window, the color almost exactly Jabber’s shade. 

She scoffs under her breath, lips curling in a tired, half imitation of a smile. 

“Ya know I can’t say no to that.”

Enjin grins back, turning the wheel with one hand.

As the city lights pass over her face one by one, Zanka knows, with the sinking, inevitable clarity of someone watching a fuse burn down or their ship head straight for an iceberg, that Jabber Wonger is going to ruin her.