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He’s lying on his back on the ground, one knee propped up. Naked. There is a gaping wound between his thighs. A deep messy gash carved through everything, weeping watery blood. No, not blood. Thick watery fluid, slick, tinged pink, pouring out of him like a river. So much of it, a trail in the sandy dust, ridges and whorls as it flows downhill and pushes the sediment aside.
I can’t move. The muscles in his abdomen don’t work. His legs, his legs won’t obey him. He curls and uncurls his hands. Mankira is sleeping; she won’t wake up.
More slick gushes from him.
“You want it,” says Zanka.
“Yeah.”
“You want me.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to fuck you.”
“Yeah,” he weeps, even as he tries to close his legs.
Zanka’s fingers are inside. They stretch him, prying the wound open further, rubbing over all the raw, torn edges, pushing his internal organs back in when they try to slip out. For a second, he can’t breathe. Then he starts to scream. The slick gushes out and eases Zanka’s way. Because it’s easier now, Zanka touches him more. Nails scrape his insides. He cries and cries and cries.
“Do it, do it already-”
“Shut up.”
Zanka takes his cock out and pushes in. It pushes in. It’s inside. Inside him. He gets wetter. His body wants it.
“Don’t,” he begs.
“I will,” says Zanka.
“No, no.”
“You’ll take it.”
“Not there. You can’t.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I’ll make you.”
Fucking him. Zanka is fucking him. Fucking him in the wound. In and out, in and out, over and over. It will never end. No, it will end. It will end too soon. It’s ending now. Zanka is about to be finished.
“No,” he cries. “Don’t.”
“Yes,” says Zanka. “You’ll take it.”
“PLEASE!” he wails. “I’M SCARED!”
“I know,” says Zanka. “I don’t care.”
Heat, heat fills him up. Glowing, hot, too hot, it makes him feel dizzy. It makes him feel weak. It makes him feel sick. It makes him come. Zanka touches his dick and makes him come. The more he comes, the more it fills him up. Into his body, into the wound. It burns. He hates it. He cries. He comes. Zanka touches him. He comes. It fills him up.
“Don’t-”
On his knees, arms and knees, face down, hips pushed up into the air, legs wide, that gaping wound dripping, dripping… Zanka pushes into him, stings like scratching an itch. He feels it in his belly button. “Don’t-”
Fucked until he’s drooling. Until he comes so much that his legs are soaked all the way down to his feet. When he tries to crawl away, Zanka grabs him by the waist and yanks him back onto that cock. Fucks him by pushing him forward and dragging him back, knees scraping in the dirt. It feels so big. Bigger than his body, bigger than should fit. Zanka fills him up again. He feels it in his belly. It stays there, makes him full. There’s too much.
“I’m scared,” he cries. On top of Zanka, Zanka’s arms around his waist, forcing him down onto it, he’s gushing. Zanka’s shoulders under his hands, Zanka’s face- he cringes away. It’s too much. Rips him wide open, he can feel it touching his insides, bruising him there, hurting all his secret, tender parts. It feels so good, he’s gagging on it. He comes again, screaming. His insides get tighter on Zanka’s cock, and it hurts them more. “Get out,” he cries. “Get out.”
Zanka fucks him deeper. Fills him up. The heat spreads through his abdomen. It’s everywhere, touching everywhere. Seeping through all the cracks. It’ll never come out. He can never clean it all out. He comes, soaking Zanka’s cock. Torn-open insides fluttering around it, every raw nerve lights up. Still it slides in deeper. He’s going to choke.
“No,” thrust, “ah- no-” thrust, “don’t, don’t, stop-” Deeper, deeper, filling him up. Everything is swollen. There’s no more space.
“I’ll make you,” says Zanka. “You’re never getting me out.”
It pulls out. Everything rushes out of him. His hips are jelly. He can’t clench, can’t keep it. It pours out. Hurts, it’s too big, a big stuck wad, no, no, it’s- He screams as it splits him open. Blood flows out.
Sunlight streams in through the windows. He’s holding it. The oven clock has green numbers. It’s heavy in his arms. Crying soundlessly, he can only hear it in his mind. I don’t have tits, he thinks. Facing the tile backsplash. His feet are in slippers. He cradles the thing to his chest. So small. He could crush it. Right now. He could suffocate it. Make its bones crunch. Throw it into the wall, make a splat. Arms trembling.
Do I love it?
It cries in his mind.
Do I love it?
The knife in the wooden block, he could chop it into pieces- the warm thing on his chest, he could cut it up and flush it down the drain.
Do I love it?
The door swings open.
Zanka steps in. Wearing a sweater-vest and glasses, he’s just come home from work. Tired, a weight on his brow. The house shrinks around them. Zanka steps forward. They kiss. Zanka touches his waist. Backs him into the counter. He’s afraid. The warm thing on his chest, it’s fragile. He opens his mouth and Zanka kisses him. Bile rises in his throat.
Then Zanka pulls back and looks at the thing.
Relief. He can breathe again. It was silent before, but now he can hear it, crying quietly in his mind.
Zanka looks up and smiles. So handsome, it hurts his heart. Relief pours through his belly like water. Maybe if he holds the thing out, Zanka will take it.
Do I love him?
Jabber bolts awake in bed, gasping.
“What the fuck,” he whispers into the depthless dark. Checks real quick—all four limbs, all ten digits, all can move. Sticks a hand between his legs—yep, dick where it’s supposed to be. Balls, too. Taint. Asshole. Yep, all good. No gaping wound or anything. No blood. Not even lube. Zanka must have taken him into the bath or something-
ZANKA.
He turns, slowly, to the other half of the bed.
There he sleeps, that little blonde devil. Well. Not so fuckin’ little. Jabber can still feel the burn in his ass from earlier. He eyes Zanka with the beginnings of a sneer. Or maybe a grimace.
—
“-anka.” Poke. “Zanka.” Poke. “Zanka.” Poke. “Zanka.” Poke-
Zanka seizes the offending finger in his fist. “Whuh…?” Blinking, blinking, he can hardly see a thing. Weight on his body, legs tangled up in another pair of legs. He reaches over and activates Lovely just for some light.
The soft blue glow caresses the shape of Jabber’s face—three inches away from his own.
“Zanka,” says Jabber.
“Yeah?” says Zanka through a mouthful of cotton.
“Do you want a baby?”
Immediately, Zanka sits up. Jabber is thrown off his chest, but not before their heads knock together, rattling both their skulls. Both of them exclaim, clutching the point of impact.
“What,” pants Zanka, “what do ya mean? What’re’ya talkin’ about?”
“Like, say you could,” says Jabber, sounding oddly serious, “say if you could get me pregnant. Would you get me pregnant?”
It’s like a big knife has been shoved directly in between the two halves of Zanka’s brain. “What- Jabber, what the hell? What fuckin’ time is it?”
“It’s a simple, ordinary, yes-or-no question,” says Jabber. “You don’t gotta know what time it is. You,” he sticks up an index finger, “me,” he sticks up the other index finger, “pregnant.” He smushes the fingers together. “Yes? No? Yes? No?”
Every gear in Zanka’s brain has ground to a screeching halt. “An’ yer askin’ me this… why?”
Jabber hesitates. Looks to the side.
Looks back. “It ain’t important. Yes or no? I’m losin’ my patience here.”
“No,” says Zanka. “Absolutely no. We can’t-” he’s going to hyperventilate- “we can’t take care of a baby! I’m- Yer- Neither of us got stable lives! An’ if yer the one gettin’ pregnant-” a thought which makes his stomach do backflips, “how the hell is it gonna- I mean, with Mankira, an’ me beatin’ the shit outta you all the time-”
Visions of a horrible miscarriage swim through his mind. He’s never seen one, or any birth in general, but his imagination paints him a lake of blood, Jabber at the center, looking at him accusatorily like it’s his fault. And it damn well might be- “Wait, why the fuck are we talkin’ about this? YOU AIN’T GOT NO UTERUS!” A terrifying notion occurs. “Right?”
Jabber’s face is blank.
Then it splits into a smile. “Naw, naw, I’m just messin’ wit’cha,” he laughs. “Oh, man, the look on your face!”
Oh. Of course. It was a joke. Zanka delivers an atomic roll of his eyes, even as he surreptitiously sets his insides back into proper position. “Remind me to beat yer ass extra hard tomorrow,” he grumbles, and settles back down onto the pillow. “C’mere. I wanna go back to sleep.”
Jabber starts to follow him, then freezes.
“Wait. Why?” he says.
Zanka squints. “It’s the middle of the fuckin’ night an’ yer wonderin’ why I wanna go back to sleep?”
“Yeah, I know you a good boy wit’ a day job,” says Jabber with a dismissive wave. “Why do you need me, though?” He twitches. Swallows. Laughs. “Like, why am I a necessary component of your hypothetical sleepitude?”
Huh? I mean, I guess yer not, but- Okay I know we don’t usually- But YOU laid down on ME- Fuck, it’s too late for this. “Are you or are you not in the bed with me right now?”
“You blind? Deaf?” Jabber smacks Zanka’s pectoral muscle. “Lost your sense of touch?”
“You tired?” asks Zanka.
“I mean yeah, I guess,” says Jabber, and immediately yawns. It seems to catch him by surprise, makes him blink.
“So lay yer ass down beside me an’ go to sleep,” says Zanka.
Jabber stares at him for a bit.
“Okay,” he mutters. His weight dips the mattress.
He doesn’t complain when Zanka pulls him into his arms. But when dawn comes, that side of the bed is cold.