Chapter Text
Jabber stared at the cloudy mixture in his flask. He’d already added the bitter root extract and the blackened seed oil, then sealed the glass with a practiced twist. He gave it a few sharp shakes, watching the now dark, viscous liquid swirl as if it had a mind of its own. Abortions were near impossible to procure in the Ground, the only real options being back-alley doctors or the kind of ‘help’ he didn’t want to owe anyone. And Jabber was not about that. He didn’t like being in anyone’s debt, especially not when the debt was his own body. So instead, he was trying a more…DIY method.
The mixture smelled like metal and rot, stinging his nose and settling in his throat. He inhaled, then forced himself to swallow the thought of what it would do. Unlike his usual experiments, he wasn’t doing it for fun this time. He was doing it because he didn’t really have a choice. Because something inside him was feeding. Something inside him was alive.
He sat at his lab desk, surrounded by vials of powdered toxins and distilled plant acids. He’d considered doing this somewhere else—a vacant room at the Raider HQ, a cheap hotel, even an abandoned warehouse—to save himself from having to clean up the mess. But every option came with too many uncontrolled variables: other people, other risks, other eyes. This was an experiment he couldn’t afford to mess up. Here, in his own apartment, the only person he had to answer to was himself.
It had been six weeks since he’d last seen Zanka.
Jabber could still feel the fight in his bones. Still remember the way Zanka’s hands had moved, the way the Assistaff pinned him down with her jaws, the way Zanka’s body had pressed against his like a living weapon. Even now, just thinking about it made his mouth water.
And the fight afterwards had been just as brutal. Stripped of their bottom layers, the Cleaner had pinned him down, thrusting into him with the same brutality he used on everything else. Jabber had been surrounded by blood and grime, the stench of the arena and the city clinging to them both. He’d felt the ache between his legs for days afterward.
He reminded himself to really thank Zanka for the beatdown the next time they saw each other.
But then, three weeks ago, something changed. A different kind of ache, low and constant, just beneath his lower abdomen. It wasn’t heat—Jabber had made sure his body would be incapable of that anymore.
A week ago, the vomiting started. At first, Jabber blamed it on the toxin he’d been working on, the one he’d spent weeks fermenting from the Tori plant. He’d crushed the leaves into a crude paste, then swallowed it with the confidence of a man who’d never met a chemical he couldn’t survive. But the reaction had been weak. Pathetic. Just a couple of minutes spent lying facedown on his couch, twitching and delirious. Absolutely nothing compared to the current poisons in his freezer.
Anyways, fun stuff.
But then came the nausea, an unrelenting, crawling sickness that made him feel like he was being pulled apart from the inside. Jabber had one of the strongest stomachs known to man. He’d injected himself with way too many substances to afford not to.
But this was different.
This sickness felt like it had its own mind.
And the smells—
Jabber was far from a prude. He really couldn’t give two shits whether people masked their scent or not. But he swore he could smell his teammates now from a mile away. When someone sat in the same room, their scent lingered, thickening the air until it felt like breathing through wet cloth. It hadn’t bothered him before, but when Cthoni’s alpha scent drifted past him the other day, he couldn’t help but feel a jolt in his gut.
Then, another scenario crept into his mind. The one he barely dared to imagine could be possible.
Pregnancy tests weren’t exactly a common thing in the East Ward. But Jabber wasn’t a man who let lack of resources stop him. He bribed a doctor—some nervous man with bloodshot eyes who wouldn’t ask questions—into grabbing a few HCG test strips. He’d expected them to be wrong. False positives were easy to blame on the chemicals in his system. He’d never had a situation like this before, after all.
Now, all five test strips, all different brands, were laid on his sink.
All of them were positive.
Jabber had spent the first couple of minutes after that laughing until his ribs hurt. He’d keeled over, clutching his stomach in a fit of giggles, thinking about the creature growing inside him. A monster inside a monster. What a hilarious, cruel joke the world had decided to play on him.
But the punchline stopped being funny the moment he realized the joke was on him. A cold, dark dread sank into Jabber’s stomach like a stone. He was losing control. A puppet without strings. He couldn’t be compromised, not like this.
He knew what happened to omegas after they conceived. The fatigue on their bodies. The slow, creeping loss of strength that would make him easy to break. The weakening.
Jabber loved pain more than anything, but it had always been pain he could control. Experiments he could design and orchestrate, with rules. The last thing he could be was a Raider and pregnant. And Jabber was no victim. So naturally, he did the only thing he could fathom
He was going to kill it and flush it out.
And the father—
Zanka’s blue eyes flashed through his mind.
He’d be disgusted, for sure.
Jabber’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He picked up the vial and gulped it down.
* * *
Jabber had never fit the stereotype of an omega. He had always been too tall, too lanky, all sharp angles and jutting bones. When he’d first presented, he’d thought it was a mistake—his body misfiring.
Zodyl had tasked Cthoni with taking care of him. She’d looked about as thrilled as someone handed a live grenade. Jabber decided to spare her the trouble. Instead, he dosed himself with one of the strongest black market suppressants he could get his hands on.
And that had been the norm ever since. Jabber didn’t think he’d had a single real heat in his life.
“You’re gonna kill yourself someday,” Cthoni had said once, watching impassively as he pressed a syringe into his arm.
“You wish,” Jabber had drawled back.
He thought it would’ve become common knowledge by now, but people were still surprised when they found out. He didn’t really blame them. His waist was bony, his skin carved up with scars from years of experiments and fights. Instead of the usual sweet scent omegas carried, Jabber smelled like the Ground itself—chemicals, rust, trash, and something faintly toxic. And instead of being gentle or compliant or soft, he had the temperament of a psychopath and a personality closer to a can of biohazard waste.
Honestly, he’d never given a shit about it. In the Ground, it didn’t really matter what secondary gender you were as long as you were strong. And Jabber had grown up a genius.
Being an omega hadn’t affected his work. Not until Zanka. Just another ‘average Joe,’ as the Cleaner would describe himself.
He’d known something was different about him after their first fight. Jabber despised weaklings more than anything, and Zanka’s glaring inferiority complex and abrasive attitude had been amusing at first. But the man had given him more trouble than expected. Enough that Jabber still wasn’t sure what had stopped him from delivering the killing blow.
Instead, he’d only nicked him with one of Mankira’s claws, leaving Zanka paralyzed while Jabber went after the Spherite.
They ran into each other a couple of times after that, clashing on routine runs or overlapping jobs. The fights never ended cleanly, always simmering with something unfinished. Jabber was still in the lead, winning seven times out of ten, and he relished every second of it. Fighting someone truly formidable was why he’d joined the Raiders in the first place—he still hoped, desperately, for another chance to fight Zodyl. Battle was the only thing that ever made him feel alive.
When Jabber won, his favorite pastime was pricking Zanka with one of Mankira’s claws and then explaining thoroughly all the ways Zanka could’ve done better. Zanka was practically a secondary test subject at this point with the amount of Jabber’s poisons he’d unwillingly been injected with. The last time, he’d poked him with extracted venom from a desert snail, the kind that left the Cleaner growling and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. It was absolutely adorable.
When Jabber lost, it was fine too. Zanka would usually pin him down with the Assistaff and kick him until he couldn’t move, until he was delirious and giddy with pain, jerking through the aftershocks. Jabber sometimes wondered why Zanka hadn’t just killed him yet. At this point, he’d had plenty of opportunities.
It wasn’t until one day—when Zanka had picked him up half-dead on the outskirts of the North Ward—that things shifted.
* * *
It had been one of Jabber’s rare days off. Contrary to popular belief, he was a stellar employee. He showed up on time, completed most objectives, and poisoned coworkers only when strictly necessary. He rarely used PTO—not because he couldn’t, but because the Raiders were the only place that had ever bothered to use him properly. He liked the fights and the structure. Liked being pointed at a something or someone and told to make it stop existing.
Before the Raiders, he’d just wandered. He’d get into skirmishes with whatever Trash Beasts or idiots crossed his path, brewing new venoms out of scrap flora and trash-heap runoff, and finding unfortunate things to test them on. It had been fun. On his days off, he tried to recreate that feeling.
Which was how he ended up scaling a trash ridge in the North Ward, humming to himself as he picked through fused scrap and half-buried debris. He was halfway up when the ground beneath him shifted. The surface gave way all at once, a cascade of loose metal and decomposing junk sliding out from under his feet. Jabber had just enough time to blink before gravity took over. He tumbled, bounced, and slid, the world turning into noise and impact and sharp, blooming pain. He landed just in time to see something massive push up from beneath the mound he had just been standing on.
“Ooops,” Jabber sing-songed weakly, spitting blood.
The Trash Beast roared. Jabber twisted, dosing himself immediately with his left claw to dull the pain and the splitting headache. As delicious as the burn was, he needed to stay clear-headed. This thing wasn’t just big—it was old. Built from generations of trash, neglect, and rage. A massive limb slammed into his side, hurling him through the air like a rag doll. He hit the ground hard, feeling something crack. He rolled, coughing, vision swimming with black spots. They were…kind of beautiful, he had to admit.
The Trash Beast reared back for another strike. Jabber had always flirted with Death like she was his favorite date, but he had to admit that in this very moment, he was a little bit scared.
A familiar weight cut through the air.
The Assistaff slammed down between Jabber and the creature, forcing it back with a sharp crack. The Trash Beast staggered, surprised. Then the world tilted. Jabber’s vision blurred. He faintly registered that he was now slung over Zanka’s shoulder.
“Hey, Mr. Bad Attitude,” Jabber croaked, lifting his head a fraction. “It’s yer lucky day. I think…the ground finally got tired o’ me.”
“Shithead,” Zanka snapped automatically.
Jabber grinned, then grinned harder as the pain spiked. “Missed ya too.”
The trash heap beneath them broke apart like brittle glass. A trashquake rolled through the area—an aftershock triggered by the Trash Beast. The world shook violently, and the ground opened in jagged fissures. Pieces of metal and shattered concrete rained down, and the air filled with choking dust. Zanka bolted. Jabber was carried, helpless, bouncing against Zanka’s side with each frantic stride. The weight of his body felt like a punishment.
The Trash Beast roared behind them, but the collapse had disoriented it, slowed it down. The real threat now was the shifting earth. They ran over mounds of unstable waste, through tunnels of crumbling debris, past sinking pits that opened like hungry mouths. Jabber tried to keep up with his eyes, but the world was turning too fast. His vision kept slipping into the beautiful black spots from earlier.
His body wasn’t responding the way it should. Mankira wasn’t working. His body was damaged too deeply for the toxins to repair him quickly. Jabber could feel the muscles in Zanka’s arm flexing as he carried him, the raw strength keeping them both alive. Zanka’s breathing was heavy. In. Out. In. Out. In…
It was with that thought that the black spots finally took over, the whine in his ears grew to a frenzy, and Jabber fell into something like sleep for the first time in days.
Much later, he came to, pain thrumming in his left side. The stupid beast really got him good. He palmed vaguely at the area, smiling and thanking the Trash Beast for the sensation. Unable to hold his brain up, he felt weird and feverish. Funny because he hadn’t had a fever since he was a kid. There was also a new pain altogether, a dull ache growing in his lower abdomen.
He pressed his thighs together, trying to hold the feeling in check. It wasn’t the sharp kind of pain he liked. This was…different. Everything felt really hot and uncomfortable, the sensation more dull and pressing, like a bruise in his gut. Radiating out to the rest of his body.
It was when he awakened again that he realized his back was against something soft. His mouth was dry as cotton, and his eyes were bleary with sleep. He still could barely move, his body wracked with injury and fever. The ceiling above him had a popcorn texture, and the room smelled like stale air and old carpet. He was vaguely aware of another presence. When he turned his head, he confirmed it was Zanka—standing by the desk, leaning over something like he was writing or checking a map. His Assistaff was propped up beside him.
Jabber blinked slowly, then smiled.
“A motel? Really?” he purred. “Would’ve preferred dinner first or something… never pegged you as the type to do it on the first date.”
Zanka startled, as if Jabber had snapped a live wire. “Shut up before I kill ya, bastard!”
“Ooo, and bossy too, I like that,” Jabber licked his lips for the extra effect.
“Jabber, stop playin’ ‘round,” Zanka said. “You n’ I both know somethin’s wrong.”
“The only thing wrong,” Jabber said, “is that yer being no fun to play with today. What’s with all this? Takin’ care of me? You gone soft or somethin’?”
“Because you fuckin’ passed out on me for half a day,” Zanka snapped. “Now try to explain that to my boss.”
“Oh? Why didn’t ya just leave me there?”
“Unlike you Raiders, we actually have consciences,” Zanka said, voice low. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe he was wasting time on this. “Couldn’t just leave you to die. Have to kill ya myself. Fair and square.”
“Huh,” Jabber hummed, half-amused, half-curious. “So, bad boy, why were you that far in the first place? Doing someone’s dirty work?”
“Scouting trash beast formations,” Zanka said, as if it were obvious. “Imagine my surprise when I saw you on that heap.”
“Mmm. I had a day off. Had to keep myself occupied,” Jabber said. “Hey man, how long’ve I been out?”
“Six hours, more or less,” Zanka replied. Jabber noticed the daylight was fading out the window.
The fever was getting worse now, along with the ache. He could feel it deep within his guts. He rubbed his thighs together instinctively, but that only made it worse. The sensation was only flaring hotter instead of fading. Jabber felt the need to grind, the need to make contact with something to get rid of the heady feeling. He thought about shoving a hand down there and taking care of himself, but there was still Zanka over there…
He swallowed, breath coming a little too fast. Everything felt wrong. Too warm. Too close. Like his skin didn’t quite fit anymore.
Zanka shifted. “Stop doin’ that,” he said sharply. “Seriously, man?”
“Huh?” Jabber blinked at him, genuinely confused. He glanced down at himself like he expected to find something obvious. “Doin’ what?”
“No, seriously,” Zanka went on, voice tight. “I’ve been spendin’ the last few hours makin’ sure you don’t croak, and you’re layin’ there—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”
“Realize what?” Jabber tilted his head, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth despite the sweat beading at his temples. “Wow. Ya sound real worked up, mister.”
Zanka took a slow step back. That’s when Jabber noticed it—the sharp, clean scent cutting through the stale motel air. The way Zanka’s nostrils flared, the way his grip on the Assistaff tightened like he was grounding himself. The air felt thick. Charged. Jabber swallowed.
Something twisted low in his gut, hot and aching. Not pain—not the good kind—but a need that made his thoughts slide sideways. He wanted something. No—needed it. To split himself open in a way that had nothing to do with blades or claws. And the solution to his ailment was right in front of him: in the form of a stubborn, blonde Cleaner. Jabber’s gaze drifted, slow and deliberate, trailing down Zanka’s body before flicking back up to his face.
“Jabber,” Zanka said finally, carefully. “You’re an omega.”
“No shit,” Jabber licked his lips, smiling wider. “You can do more than just stare, y’know.”
Zanka muttered something under his breath, sharp and disbelieving. “It can’t be… you don’t—”
“…Huh,” Jabber said. “This one of those alpha things? You gonna start rantin’ about how I don’t look like an omega or somethin’?”
That snapped Zanka out of his stupor. “Of course not, idiot,” he grumbled. “It’s just that…just that…”
He cut himself off, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere just over Jabber’s shoulder, locked in an internal battle. Jabber watched him fight it. “Are ya really okay with this, Jabber?” Zanka asked, quieter. “I really don’t want to… if you don’t want to. I can leave.”
Leave? Panic flared sharp and sudden in Jabber’s chest.
He’d be fine. Of course, he would. Jabber was always fine. He’d ridden out worse on his own—broken bones, poison burns, weeks without rest. He could survive this, too. But they were here. So close. The heat rolled through him again, heavier this time, and he didn’t bother stopping it. He let it spill out, pheromones bleeding into the room like a provocation.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m burnin’ up here,” Jabber said, voice low and rough around the edges. “Help a guy out, would ya?”
Zanka stiffened. “You can hardly move.”
Jabber laughed softly. “All the better for you. Don’t get all self-righteous now, bad boy.”
Zanka stared at him like he didn’t know whether to throttle him or bolt. Jabber only spread his legs wider. He wondered how big Zanka would be. He’d bet that he was long and thick, just like the Assistaff, would fill him up real well…
“You’re a real freak,” Zanka muttered.
Jabber’s grin sharpened. “Mmm. That’s more like it. Knew you liked me.”
Zanka moved closer despite himself, jaw tight. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just don’t want you losin’ your damn mind.”
“Ever spent a heat with someone before?” Jabber asked lightly.
Zanka’s eyes narrowed. “…That’s none of your business.”
Jabber smirked, amused. He’d take that as a no. He didn’t know why the thought brought him so much relief, and he didn’t linger on it long enough to dissect it. Truth be told, the closest Jabber had ever gotten to anything like that either was just his own hands or toys. He’d never really needed much beyond the rush of combat. Fighting had always been close enough. Bodies colliding, breath on skin, the thrill of overpowering or being overpowered. There was something just so intimate about it.
And now his body was demanding more. Much more.
“C’mon,” Jabber murmured, voice light but strained at the edges. “Help me take these off, would ya?” He shifted, pushing his trousers down just enough to make his point before stopping, watching Zanka closely through half-lidded eyes.
Zanka’s hands were cold and shaky as he helped finish the job, leaving Jabber bare in the hotel room. He was sure he probably looked obscene. Jabber could feel himself, puffy and throbbing and glistening with slick. He shifted up slightly on his forearms to catch the expression on Zanka’s face.
Zanka’s jaw was slack, his lips were slightly parted, and his cheeks flushed as he looked at the spot between Jabber’s legs. If Jabber were a different person, he might’ve felt almost shy under the intense stare. But Jabber was Jabber, and he couldn’t help the satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about Zanka in this way before. Maybe it started during their last fight, when he saw the sadistic glint in Zanka’s eye as he pinned him down. Maybe it was earlier, when Jabber had immobilized him and briefly wondered what it would be like the other way around. Or maybe it was the first time they met, when he first crept up behind him, feeling the thrill of the impending fight in his veins.
Now, as Zanka shed his own clothes, shrugging off his tunic, fumbling with his belt, and pushing off his pants to reveal a very sizable dick, Jabber couldn’t believe how much pure want was coursing through his body. All this time, and they could’ve been doing this instead of fighting…
“Can’t believe I’m really doin’ this,” Zanka murmured, his eyes not moving from where the head of his cock was pressing against Jabber’s entrance.
Just the feeling where they were touching was downright unbearable. Just the slightest bit of contact and his insides were screaming with need. Jabber squirmed despite himself, “Whatcha waitin’ for?”
Zanka just continued rubbing his shaft on Jabber’s clit in response, wetting his dick, and the omega keened at the sensation. It had been weeks since he’d last played with himself like this, what with the nonstop missions and fighting that’s been going on. He furrowed his brow, curling his toes at the feeling.
“C’mon already,” Jabber’s voice was close to a whine. “Hurts, man.”
“Patience, Jabber,” Zanka said, hoisting Jabber’s hips up, gripping his sides so tight he was sure they would bruise later.
Jabber sneered in response, “Ya gonna actually do anything? Or just smear myself all over your dick?”
“Don’t mock me,” Zanka hissed. “Let’s not forget who needs who in this situation.”
Jabber laid back down, looking back at Zanka’s face, still rigid in concentration. “Show me then…take me, alpha.”
“I’ll take ya however I please,” Zanka said, but he began feeding the tip in anyway.
Jabber let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “That’s right,” he moaned. “Ya don’t have to hide it anymore…” Zanka just continued pushing in—slowly, so slowly—really letting Jabber feel every inch. Not that Jabber really needed it. There was little to no resistance; he was opening up to Zanka just as his body had opened up to the Assistaff during their fights, welcoming the sensations, the pain, anything Zanka would give him.
Zanka bottomed out with a groan, falling forward so his face was buried in Jabber’s neck. “God,” he panted. Jabber would’ve said something else in return, but his eyes were currently rolled back in ecstasy the moment he was finally being filled. Jabber wrapped his legs around Zanka’s waist, pulling him even closer and even deeper, if that was even possible. Zanka draped over him like a blanket, locked inside the most sensitive part of his anatomy. His scent was everywhere at once.
“How’s it feel, bad boy?” Jabber stroked Zanka’s spine with his heel.
“Not at all like losing,” he felt Zanka’s lips curl into a smile against his neck.
Zanka fucked like he fought—with rough, harsh strokes, hitting his target head-on. Jabber met him with every single thrust, never shying away, not even when Zanka hit his cervix. Sweat dripped from his brow down onto Jabber’s cheeks, the liquid salty against his lips. Zanka’s blue eyes were unfocused as he continued the animalistic pace. The sounds they made together were downright obscene, each stroke pushing a combination of air and slick out of Jabber, and the slapping was sticky with sweat. Jabber distantly wondered if anybody else was in this motel. He couldn’t really find it in himself to care.
Zanka was palming at his clit now, swollen and heavy. Jabber placed his hand on top of his, applying more pressure, then more, and more—until it was borderline painful, and that’s when he felt the pressure building up in his core come to a peak. It was too much for a second, making his mouth fill with saliva, and his eyes sting with tears. He felt full, too full. It was too much—Zanka’s stupid cock, his weight on top of him, their sweat soaking the sheets. He had to release. The pleasure was building up, threatening to leak at any moment. He kicked at Zanka’s sides.
“What the fuck?” Zanka said as he pressed down harder on Jabber’s legs, holding him in place.
“Zanka!” Jabber tried to warn him. “Wait, Zanka—”
The sounds of their coupling suddenly became obscenely slick. “Out, pull out,” Jabber gasped, and Zanka actually did. He slumped down, body twitching and clenching around nothing. The rest of his release followed, soaking the bedsheets. Jabber’s legs shook uncontrollably. His limbs felt sluggish as he felt the aftershocks run through him. He closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of breathing and thinking. He hadn’t come that hard in ages.
“Did ya just—did you just piss on me?!” Zanka snapped, face burning red.
Jabber’s brain was completely short-circuiting. He blinked down at him, “Ugh…you really haven’t done this before, have ya?”
"What’s that supposed to mean?!” Zanka demanded.
“Ya see,” Jabber waved a weak hand. “When an alpha and omega are together, and the omega feels really good, sometimes the body will—”
“Stop it. Just stop already,” Zanka said, already bracketing Jabber again, planting his arms on both sides and pushing his legs back again. Jabber looked up at him, wide-eyed. Zanka reached between them and positioned himself before thrusting back in. Jabber yelped. He was still overstimulated and sensitive, and it began to hurt. It felt like Zanka was carving a permanent space inside of him, goring him open on his cock.
His mouth dropped open, tongue lolling out. The pain was making him go crazy. He was being speared, like a hunted animal on an arrow. He wheezed out a laugh in between whines of pain, to which he felt strong hands close around his throat, cutting off his air supply. Gawd, the alpha just knew exactly what he wanted. If the pace before was animalistic, right now, it was brutal. Jabber could almost feel the bed splintering underneath them as he was being dragged back and forth across the mattress.
“Hurts, Zanka,” he moaned when the alpha finally let up the pressure on his neck. He was only able to choke out a word between every thrust. “Such a…fuckin’...sadist…”
Jabber could still feel himself throbbing around Zanka in the aftershocks of possibly what had been one of the most intense orgasms of his life—when Zanka’s hips came to a stuttering halt, and he felt Zanka push deep, too deep, and let out a gasp like a dying man in need of water. They locked eyes again—magenta with cyan—before Zanka surged forward, and instead of biting his neck like he was before, he met Jabber’s lips. Jabber gasped in surprise, and Zanka’s tongue slid inside his mouth, warm and wet.
Jabber had never kissed anyone before. Zanka’s lips were dry and chapped from the air, and he tasted of something not entirely pleasant. Zanka was now invading both of his orifices at the same time, violating his mouth and pulsing inside of him. Jabber ran his hands down Zanka’s shoulderblades, digging his nails in as he dragged them up. Zanka responded by biting Jabber’s lower lip until there was the metallic taste of blood. Jabber kicked his back, and Zanka pulled hard at one of his dreadlocks. Jabber was going to hit him again, but then, Zanka moaned against his mouth, softening the kiss, and Jabber felt his eyes flutter closed.
Just as he was starting to enjoy the kiss, Zanka pulled back. Jabber stared up at him, slightly cross-eyed. They both seemed completely out of it. Zanka was looking at him with something close to adoration, and Jabber felt himself shudder at that realization. He thought about unsheathing Mankira and clawing that dazed expression off of the alpha’s face.
Instead, Jabber barked out a laugh, “Can’t believe you came inside me.”
Zanka’s face went crimson. “Uh… um. Sorry. It won’t— it won’t take, right?”
“Relax, man,” Jabber waved a hand. “I’m sure it’ll be fiiiiine.”
It was then that his choker buzzed.
“Jabber, where the hell have you been?” Cthoni’s voice cracked through the line.
Zanka froze, eyes wide—as if he’d just seen a ghost. Jabber just winked at him and bit his lip in mock seduction. He was still very much aware of where they were connected, how Zanka’s softened dick was still inside him.
“Gettin’ busy,” he answered casually.
There was a pause on the other end.
“What’s going on? You sound even more wrecked than usual.”
“What does it sound like, girl?” Jabber exclaimed. “I’m heatin’.”
“Huh?!”
Cthoni’s calm composure slipped for a second, just enough for Jabber to imagine her expression. He couldn’t help but let out a little laugh. “Give me your coordinates,” she said, voice suddenly sharp. “I’m coming to escort you back to headquarters immediately.”
Above him, Zanka looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Jabber toyed with the idea of going with Cthoni—imagining her surprise at finding him in this compromising position. And with the enemy, nonetheless. The thought made him grin even wider.
“What a lovely proposition,” he drawled, “but I’ve actually found myself a date. So won’t ya be a doll and tell boss man?"
“What?” Cthoni snapped. “You know what, I don’t even want to know. Just keep your comms open, and ring me if you need.”
“Ya treat me so well,” Jabber chirped.
“Whatever idiot decided to spend your heat with you,” Cthoni said, voice deadpan, to which Zanka made an offended face. “I won’t understand.”
“I’ll let the boss know,” she finished. The line disconnected with a click.
Zanka sighed in relief, finally pulling out and rolling off of him. Jabber felt some of his cum seep out and had another intrusive thought of gathering it and pushing it back inside, just to see Zanka’s reaction. He felt another stirring in his loins, a reminder that his heat was far from over. He turned over to Zanka, who was currently face down on the pillow.
“Zanka.”
Zanka didn’t move.
“Zan-zan…”
“Ugh, just be quiet,” Zanka finally peeked out at him. “It’s embarrassing enough as is, thinkin’ ‘bout what we just did.”
“Why? Ashamed of me?” Jabber fluttered his eyelashes. “Please, tell me more.”
“Of course, you’d have some weird thing for degradation. Can’t beat a masochist.”
“Didn’t seem to have a problem with my pain tolerance earlier,” Jabber leaned closer. “Can still feel ya leakin’ out of me…wanna fuck it back in?”
“Ah—what? How the fuck are you so—we just finished—”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Jabber said as he crawled over him. He’d finally regained enough sensation in his limbs, although the side where the Trash Beast got him earlier still stung at the movement. He straddled him, grinding down on Zanka’s dick, which was already beginning to harden. “Do ya even know what a heat is, stupid alpha? Or do ya have to report back to your little boss? Would be such a shame leaving me here all alone, with nothin’ but my hands…”
One of Zanka’s hands settled on Jabber’s waist, the other reaching down to stroke himself. “Already cleared with Enjin that I found a place for the night, shithead.”
“Ooohhh, so our stay here is comped by Cleaner money…”
Zanka rolled his eyes and began pushing in through Jabber’s folds, still wet from moments ago. “Just shut yer mouth already.”
They spent the next couple of days in a haze, having cleared with their respective teams that they were both on rut and heat leave. In the meantime, they desecrated the poor motel room. They’d done it three times in the bathtub, Jabber riding him while Zanka attempted to clean both of them up. Then, maybe two times on the hotel desk, where Zanka shoved the maps he’d been studying off the table and took Jabber violently, pressing his back against the wall. As for on the bed, Jabber had lost count. On day three, Zanka regained enough lucidity to go out on a food run. Jabber dragged him back to bed the moment he got back to the room, not even giving him a chance to make it past the doorframe.
By the end of the heat, Zanka looked like he had been mauled by a band of mercenaries, and Jabber was sure he didn’t look any better. Jabber woke up in the middle of the night to Zanka still snoring softly beside him. He pulled on his clothes, body still sticky with sweat and other fluids. He went to the bathroom and checked himself briefly in the mirror. There were bruises and hickeys all over his body—damn, the Cleaner really liked biting. He could barely walk without a limp, and there was a knot in his hair that he doubted would ever loosen.
Jabber slipped out shortly after, giving one last look at the alpha sleeping in the bed. He’d never really thought about this kind of stuff before, but he felt a strange fondness before closing the door. It wasn’t unlike his usual catch-and-release: when an opponent was too strong and too tough to want to kill. But in that moment, he felt a strange want to curl up next to the alpha.
Whatever, probably his dumb omega instincts, making him act all weird. He still needed to investigate just what exactly the Trash Beast had jostled inside him to cause that strange first heat. He’d just have to make sure that never happened again.
Nobody really questioned him when he got back to headquarters. Zodyl just handed him another set of assignments like nothing had happened. Cthoni gave him a look that said she knew exactly what he’d been doing, but she wasn’t about to ask questions. Momoa teased him a little, but the Raiders all knew to mind their own business. Nobody really cared about this thing anyway.
Jabber just focused his spare time on perfecting his own suppressant instead of buying the ones from the market again. He even went and pricked the dealer for good measure. He’d never let himself be weak and vulnerable like that again, not as long as he could help it.
Though he had to admit, the sex hadn’t been half bad.
Two weeks later, after the heat, Jabber’s choker had buzzed. It had been Zanka’s voice on the other end: gruff, annoyed, and unmistakable.
“If ya want to fight today, they’re sendin’ me to the river by East Ward. I’ll be there at seven thirty.”