Scrap metal screamed under their boots as Jabber and Zanka tore across the junkyard, clashing hard enough to make whole towers of trash quake. Sparks burst around them—bright, frantic, barely keeping up with their movements.

Jabber backflipped onto a teetering stack of car doors, arms wide, grin feral.

“C’mon, Mr. Bad Attitude,” he taunted, rolling his shoulders. “Hit me like you mean it. Handle me and throw me around!”

Zanka stepped forward, calm as a knife being unsheathed. The asistaff spun once, catching the light. His eyes narrowed—not irritated, but assessing Jabber like a problem he enjoyed solving too much.

Then he lunged.

A fast, ruthless surge of movement that tore dust off the ground.

“Oh?” Zanka scoffed mid-strike, tone smooth and cutting. “You want to be handled?”

Jabber dodged by a breath, sliding across cracked glass. He popped up, ready to run his mouth again—

—until Zanka followed, close, too close, voice dropping into something dark and intimate:

“You should’ve just said you wanted my hands on you,” he murmured.

“I would’ve obliged thoroughly.”

Jabber’s entire brain collapsed in on itself.

His smirk short-circuited. His mouth opened in a tiny, stunned sputter—

“H—huh?”

That single stutter was all Zanka needed.

CRACK.

The asistaff slammed across Jabber’s face with brutal grace, sending him flipping off the stack and crashing into a mound of rusted pipes. Metal shrieked around him.

Silence—

Then Jabber laughed.

Low. Breathless. Wild.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood at his lip. His grin sharpened, blood streaking across his skin.

“Shit…” he exhaled, laughing harder, “don’t get me started now.”

His voice dropped into something filthy enough to stain the air:

“You’re really turning me on.”