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Zanka had known Jabber for a solid chunk of his adolescent life, unfortunately.
He knew him when he was still scrawny, when he was even more annoying than now. Knew him when he took all of Zanka’s firsts in only eleventh grade. Knew him when he left the blonde for college, lips sealed tight, not saying one word about his departure. Even knew him when he came back months later, rocking the younger’s world in more ways than one.
That night in spring had been fresh in Zanka’s memory. The night that Jabber had promised — swore — he would come back, that he wouldn’t up and leave him again.
Yet, as Spring Break ended and everyone retreated back to their separate corners of the earth, so did Jabber.
Fuck.
Just the thought of it pissed him off, shoving a few crumpled t-shirts into a tote with a little more force than necessary.
“What? Packing for college is that bad?”
The voice startles him out of his head. He whips around to be met with his younger brother, propped in the doorway to his room.
Zanka sets his lips in a straight line, “What d’ya want, Rudo?”
He turns back around to continue emptying out his dresser, picking and choosing what to bring. Though his graduation was only a few days ago, he needed something to take his mind off of long locs, smooth brown skin, and silver piercings that tied it all together.
He wouldn’t dare to think about the fact that he hadn’t even come to town to see him graduate. Not even a text was sent. Jabber had forgotten about him again.
Zanka had messed around with him long enough to know how quickly he got bored. The way he would skip through boys and girls back in high school, none of them getting more than two weeks of his attention before he was moving along to the next.
Maybe that was the case. Jabber probably went back off to college and found someone better. Someone smarter, more handsome, on his level, a genius. He finally got bored of normal ol’ Zanka.
Is what his overthinking had brought him to assume.
Rudo stands up straighter in the doorway, “Nothing. Your little friend is here, though,” he jabs a thumb behind him, pointed towards the stairs that led to the front door, “he’s been parked outside for thirty minutes like a weirdo. I don’t think he knows we can see him.”
Zanka drops the hoodie that he’s been refolding over and over onto the bed.
“Who?”
“You know who. Freaking Wonger.”
His heart genuinely drops to his ass.
He clears his throat a little before slipping his feet into slides, nonchalantly moving past Rudo through the door.
“I’ll go see what he wants.”
His pulse thumps embarrassingly fast as he walks down the steps. He hears the sound of Rudo retreating back to his room, door closing with a click. Zanka also recognizes that Enjin is nowhere to be found in the house.
Thank God.
If he was here during Jabber’s impromptu visit he may have actually imploded on himself with no countdown.
Zanka steps out into the midday heat, the sun beating down so hard that he has to squint. Standing on his front porch, he sees it. Jabber’s car that looked like it had been from hell and back, which it has. Its paint was chipping with dents and scrapes littering the surface, but Zanka still knew the piece of junk all too well.
All the times he’d snuck away with the older was becoming more memorable now as he walked up to him parked alongside the curb. The man rolls down his window as Zanka approaches.
He flashes that same stupid smile, letting an arm rest out the frame.
“Hey, Z! Ain’t seen you in a minute.”
Zanka only squints his eyes harder at the man.
“Yeah, haven’t seen ya since you decided to disappear off the face of the earth,” he crosses toned arms over his chest, “what do ya want?”
Jabber’s smile doesn’t falter, yet he still sucks his teeth in retaliation.
“C’mon, don’t be like that.”
“What do you want.”
The older man doesn’t say anything for a moment. Nothing but the buzz of hidden cicadas and the rumble of his car fill the silence. Magenta eyes trail Zanka from head to toe, and he has to push away the heat that burns him from the inside at the notion.
Jabber hums, hand coming up to rest on his chin.
“I like your lil’ headband get up,” his eyes flicker down, “matches your shorts.”
If Zanka wasn’t already rendered pink from the harsh sun, he would be now. He had completely forgotten that he stormed outside with nothing but thin, light blue shorts on, plain white t-shirt, and a matching plastic baby blue headband to keep his hair out of his face. His fucking pajamas.
His arms fall to his side, fists tightening in the soft cotton material of his shorts subconsciously, “Shut the fuck up.”
“Still so feisty —“
“D’ya actually need something or did’ya just come here to waste my time again?”
Jabber fakes a pout, bottom lip exaggerating the piercings decorated there.
“What? I can’t just miss you now? Gotta have a reason for everything?”
Zanka resists reaching in the car and pummeling him through the window.
“Yes. If ya actually missed me and gave a shit, you would’ve been up here a week ago watching me cross the stage,” he says through gritted teeth.
The dreadhead’s pout was replaced with genuine seriousness, “Damn, that was last week? Growin’ up too fast on me, Zan-Zan.”
That’s it. He’s sick of his shit.
Zanka’s bringing a fist down onto the roof of his car, the entire hunk of metal shaking at the force.
“If you don’t give me a real reason why yer here I’ll call Enjin and he’ll beat yer ass.”
“C’mon, y’know I only like when you —“
He fixes him with a glare, “Jabber.”
The older man just sighs, finally putting down his defenses, “Shit, a’ight. ‘m just tryna talk.”
Zanka beckons him to continue with a quirk of his brow, now fully resting his weight on the fist planted on the car.
“I’on like how we ended things last time,” he hesitates, which is fucking scary because Jabber never hesitates, “just wanna wrap things up.”
And oh, did that make Zanka really feel it. Even though he’s standing in the middle of a hot day in May, his blood runs cold. Just the thought of him not being needed anymore, of the dreadhead finally moving on to bigger, better things, terrified him.
He doesn’t say any of this, of course.
Zanka simply shrugs his shoulders, fist slipping off the car in nonchalance.
“Fine by me. It ain’t like I care or whatever.” He does. He cares so much that it makes him look stupid.
Now it was Jabber’s turn for his brows to furrow.
“What are you talkin’ —“
“If you wanna talk to other folks ya can. ‘m not finna hold you back. Yer grown.” He interrupts. Not trying to hear another word from the man before he actually couldn’t keep up his façade any longer.
When Zanka finally meets his eyes, they’re filled with confusion.
“That ain’t what I’m tryna say, Z.”
His face scrunches in annoyance, hands motioning wildly in the air, “Then what are ya tryna say then? That yer tired of me? Trust me, I don’t give a fuck.”
He tries his best not to pout or seem affected by the words, but he knows he’s utterly failing. He’s only glad that the few neighbors who inhabit the houses nearby aren’t outside to see his outburst.
Suddenly, the car door is swinging open, making Zanka step back to accommodate. Jabber steps out in a black tank top and jeans that are far too big for temperatures like this.
Ringed fingers are coming up to close around Zanka’s shoulders, bringing him into an brace. And no matter how angry or disappointed he could be, he still can’t help but melt into it. The warmth of them pressed together is scorching and moist, but he never pulls away.
Zanka keeps his hands at his side, not reciprocating even when Jabber curls tighter around his shoulders.
“I ain’t tired of you, Zanka. You could run around my head all day and I’d still ask you to keep goin’.”
The sweet words are mumbled into his forehead, tickling the skin there.
Zanka allows himself to freely pout now since his face is hidden from Jabber’s sight, “Yer just sayin’ that.”
The hug ends but the older man still holds firm on his shoulders, stretching him out at an arm’s length so that he can properly look at him. Those pink irises flicker all over his face. From his eyes, lips, nose, like they can’t figure out what to focus on.
They settle on lips.
“You know me, Z. I mean this,” their eyes meet, and something rests behind Jabber’s that he can’t read, “I’on wanna just mess around with you no more. You’re better than that.”
Zanka blinks at the confession, eyes wide, “What?”
Jabber’s smile comes easy and slow, like a cat that’s inches away from tipping something off a table. He releases his grip on Zanka to peel open the backseat’s door. It opens after a few tugs, and the blonde watches on in confusion as he rustles with something.
He turns around with flowers. The cellophane paper was wrinkled and a few petals had fallen off, but they were flowers. It was a small bouquet that was filled with gradients of pink. Some were blushing and subtle while others grotesquely bright.
Zanka observed them for a second, two seconds, three. They weren’t perfect in the slightest, but they exuded Jabber.
He pushes the door closed before approaching Zanka again, this time flowers in hand.
“I said I’d come back, right?”
Zanka had known Jabber for a long time. Out of all the things he could remember, he should’ve remembered this: he always kept a promise.
The hug is overwhelming. Zanka rushed in so fast that it practically smushed the flowers between them, but he could care less.
He can hear the smirk on his face, “What? You like them?”
He buries his face deeper into the other’s neck, mumbling against the warmed skin, “I like you.”
Gosh. He never thought he’d see the day where he admitted, out loud, that he liked Jabber Wonger. He’s really lost himself and he doesn’t know if it's to a good or bad thing.
Jabber laughs and peels himself from Zanka, crumpled and sad flowers falling to the concrete. He settles his palms on the younger’s shorts before letting their lips meet.
It wasn’t anything like their last kiss, full of clashing teeth and tongue. This one was slow and fluid, like they both were trying to memorize every divot of each other's mouths. Zanka brings one hand to rest on his shoulder, the other one barely coming up to the base of his neck. Nimble fingers found his jaw, controlling the way Jabber would open his mouth.
The older man hums into the kiss before deepening it, eliciting smack after smack of their chapped lips. Zanka had never felt so cared for just through a kiss. All of their previous ones had been led with lust, urgency. But this one had no time limit, like they could stay here with each other for days and no one would interrupt.
Of course, that’s not true.
“What the hell?”
Somehow, caught up in the other, Zanka had failed to notice Enjin coming up the road. His car was stopped right by Jabber’s, window rolled down, getting a front row seat of his little brother being romantically ravished.
They separated at the speed of light, leaving only the smushed flowers between them on the ground. Zanka sees Gris in the passenger seat, smiling sympathetically like he knows what’s coming.
Enjin pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in disbelief, “I know that’s not fucking Jabber Wonger standing outside my house.”
Zanka goes to answer, but Jabber only adds literal fentanyl to the damage.
“You best believe it is,” then to make it worse, “how you been, Dad?”
His Cheshire smile is blinding and cocky, waiting for Enjin to take the bait. The tattooed man obviously hated him, but Jabber just thought it was so funny to see how far he could push the older man.
Enjin only gives a pointed look at Zanka, “You. Inside.”
He rolls up the window and continues to drive past them before pulling into their driveway. Jabber and him watch on in silence until they both retreat from the car and inside the house, Enjin still wearily eyeing the two.
Jabber bends over to pick up the ruined flowers, representing them to Zanka.
“So you like me, huh?” His brows waggle and his tone is teasing. His laugh is honey sweet, even when the blonde snags the flowers from his hand.
“And what if I do?”
Jabber’s smile flashes his pointed canines before he’s attempting to lean in again, being stopped by a hand on his chest.
“You must have a death sentence.”
“If it’s you that’s killin’ me.”
It’s Zanka’s turn to smile now, shaking his head and brushing a hand against his cheek. The heat outside had become more bearable, simmering down to a nice humidness. He could still feel Enjin’s eyes on his back, probably through the blinds from the living room.
“I gotta go,” his eyes travel behind him to see blinds quickly shutting, “I think they’ve gotta intervention for me inside.”
Jabber just hums before taking the hand that’s holding the flowers, pressing his lips into one of the bruised petals.
“A’ight. I’ma be in town for the week,” he announces, getting back into his car, “I’ll call you.”
Zanka nods and shifts on his feet, slides sticking to the concrete due to the heat. He watches as Jabber drives away, processing what had happened. Everything felt like it came straight from a fever dream. The only thing that proved it was real was the flowers in his hand and the tingle on his lips.
That, along with Enjin and Gris sitting inside, sure enough, waiting for him.
He could barely step foot through the door before the exasperated and dramatic sighs started from Enjin.
“Fucking Jabber?”
College wasn’t all too bad. Zanka relished in having a fresh start away from home. He felt like everything was being done right, efficiently. He managed all his courses, worked out, kept a tight schedule. Everything goes smoothly, perfectly orchestrated and controlled by him.
So, why when it comes to Jabber does it all seem to spiral out of his hands?
Things started off nice between them. Though there was no official label on it, Zanka could say they were teetering on the fence of being in a relationship. When he got tired of his roommate, he’d go to Jabber’s apartment and stay there instead. He actually found himself over there quite a bit, considering it wasn’t too far from the on campus dorms.
They hung out every Friday night, but he truly just thought of them as dates. Those nights would bleed into the weekend, curating domestic mornings followed by drowsy sex. They looked, acted like, played the role of a couple. So why couldn’t they just be one?
Zanka knew Jabber could keep a promise. And if he told him that he wanted more than what they had, then he’s going to believe it. He hasn’t exactly given him a reason not to. The blonde was comfortable with where they were. Sure, it was nearly the same as last time, but at least he’s here now. Jabber can’t run off anymore.
Is what he thought, at least.
Zanka knows he’s an avid overthinker, but what else could he possibly think when the older says he has yet another lab. Zanka knows how to count, and seven labs in one week seems a bit overkill on the professor's end.
He had brushed it off at first, chalking it up to it just being the first few months of school busyness. He really began getting bothered by it when Jabber started using it almost like an excuse.
Instead of watching a movie, he has a lab. Zanka wants to study with him? Oh, sorry, he has a lab. Want to get high and have wonderful sex? That sounds great but — lab. It got on his last nerve.
And he knows he sounds like a nut case right now, being jealous of a literal class assignment, but what if it’s not just that? This is college, there’s people all over campus who are probably Jabber’s type that Zanka doesn’t even know about. Who knows, these labs could just be an excuse to go see them.
Zanka wouldn’t put it past him. Jabber said he wanted more with him, yet still hasn’t made one move towards it. If he can’t keep up his word with that, then what will make him keep it with this?
The thought has him grimacing. He flips the page of his notebook with a little more force than necessary. The blonde talks a big game up in his head, but at the end of the day he still wound up in Jabber’s apartment, acting as if everything is normal.
Cue said man emerging from his room, “Hey, ‘m finna head out to work on this project. Lemme know if you need something?”
He says it so casually, like this is fine. Oh, yes, fifth project this week — it’s not fine.
Zanka bites his tongue before he answers, not even looking up from his page, “Whatever, bye.”
He expects to hear the sound of the door opening and shutting, but instead hears the shuffle of Jabber’s socks approaching him.
“Are you good?” He holds a genuine concern in his voice.
Zanka spits anyways, “Fuckin’ great. Are ya gonna leave or not?”
His eyes flick up and catches the look of confusion fused with irritation on the older man’s face. The blonde has half the mind to notice he’s being a pain in the ass, but he’s irritated, sue him.
Jabber moves to try and sit down next to him, but Zanka fills the empty space by extending his legs out.
He sucks his teeth, “What’s with the attitude,” and because he must want Zanka to punch him, “it’s worse than the default setting.”
“I don’t have an attitude,” he grumbles.
It’s silent for a moment, nothing but the whirr of energy filling the space. Jabber opens his mouth a few times in contemplation before settling.
“Okay, but forreal, what’s wrong with’chu?”
Zanka grinds his teeth at the question. There was nothing wrong with him. Jabber was the problem. Obviously, he can’t get himself to say this, but it all stands the same.
“I said ‘m fine! Can you leave?” He shouts. The notebook was long forgotten on the floor once it slid from his lap.
Jabber’s expression morphs from confused to straight pissed in seconds, “What’chu yellin’ for? And — mind you — this is my place. Fix your tone.”
Zanka gapes at the demand. Before, he was just irritated, but now he’s actually fucking furious.
He springs up from the couch, storming past Jabber, even clocking him in the shoulder. He makes a beeline for his room. Zanka doesn’t want to talk. Doesn’t want to even acknowledge the possibility that he isn’t wanted anymore.
“‘m not some fuckin’ kid,” he mumbles under his breath, once he gets to the door he finally raises his voice, “just go do yer project and get yer dick wet or whatever. I don’t give a fuck.”
His attempt at getting the last word fails miserably. The door he had tried to slam was now being yanked open with so much force he’s positive that it left a dent in the wall behind it.
Jabber is standing in the doorway, already shaking his head before the words come out, “Excuse me?”
Zanka tries to get a word out before he’s completely interrupted, conversation out of his control.
“Nah, don’t walk away when we’re talkin’. We’re grown, sit down and tell me what the fuckin’ issue is.”
Zanka is lost for words. How can he even begin explaining that he feels like trash, that Jabber doesn’t actually want him, that he feels inferior to a fucking project. He’d sound crazy.
There’s nothing to talk about, though. He knows where he is and isn’t wanted. And he’s felt not wanted for the past month. At least, not wanted in the way the dreadhead had promised he would.
He’s whipping around to face him head on, “Nothing! There’s no issue, just go.”
“Zanka—“
Gosh. He’s really not in the mood to hear all the shit today.
“Fine, if you won’t go I fuckin’ will,” he shoves past him, “I don’t wanna talk right now, get out of my face.”
A hand reaches out to grab his arm and that’s seriously his final straw. He swings around and shoves Jabber aimlessly, only the sound of him tumbling into something and shattering being the indication of the damage he’s caused.
Zanka doesn’t stop, though. He keeps walking to the front door, slipping on shoes, tugging on a hoodie, grabbing his bag.
He hears his voice from the other room, booming throughout the small space, “What the fuck is your problem? Come talk to me, Z.”
“Can’t ya see I don’t wanna talk to ya?”
When he turns around, Jabber’s in the living space. He looks just as done with this shit as Zanka is, “A’ight, fine. Get the fuck out. Text me when you ready.”
That. That has his blood boiling. He always expects Zanka to just come right back, even after he’s been forgotten, like he’s not the goddamn blueprint.
He opens the door until the hinges creak with the force before, childishly, getting the last word, “‘m not gonna text yer ass. Leave me alone.”
And with that he slams the door behind him.
Over some damn projects.
Zanka is a man who stays true to his word. He just never thought he’d stay this true. Sure enough, he hasn’t texted, called, even spoken to Jabber for almost two whole months. He could lie and say the thought hasn’t crossed his mind, but Zanka doesn’t lie either.
It flashes here and there, reminding him how much of an ass he was, only for the thought to be countered by remembering how much of an ass Jabber was as well. But, if he knows this, he doesn’t understand why he misses it. Misses him.
Despite it all, he’s found a good enough distraction to keep his mind from wandering to a handsome face, cheeky smile, pierced lips. A distraction who’s five-foot-nine, easy on the eyes, and surprisingly garners Riyo’s approval after sending her his Instagram.
He was nice. A good, normal guy who’d probably treat and so far has been treating Zanka better than anyone has. Which doesn’t say much since the list of people he’s talked to doesn’t exceed Jabber.
So, he isn’t quite sure why he’s so pissed at him. Even though he’s at his apartment, in his bed, under his covers, Zanka looks around the somehow foreign room and can’t help but be angry. It’s like every little thing this man does is borderline annoying. And not the cute kind that sends you into fits of laughter. He’s talking about the kind that has you faking a laugh then rolling your eyes once they look away.
It’s bad.
And it’s dangerous to feel this way about his somewhat boyfriend while simultaneously eyeing Jabber’s very unblocked, very easy to contact number. Every now and then his thumb hovers over the call button, contemplating if it’s worth it.
He squints his eyes at the screen in the dim room. This new guy’s place didn’t have the same aesthetics as Jabber’s, the complete opposite, actually. While the older man’s was filled with deep shades of purple, greens, and blues, posters, lights, quirky figurines from their favorite shows, this guy’s was beige, tan, bland. It’s like he paid the lease, threw a few succulent plants inside, and called it a day.
Zanka might be a little more harsh than usual, but it’s only because they had gotten into a minute argument earlier. It was over something stupid that the blonde couldn’t even remember, but apparently it meant enough for him to storm out, leaving Zanka alone to his devices.
He could do it. Press the dial button and listen to the deafening ring. All it takes is one slip of thumb.
What is he thinking?
He throws his phone onto the desolate nightstand, rolling his back to it. He is stronger than this. One little fight between him and his — whatever — shouldn’t have him running back to Jabber. He’s inexperienced, not desperate.
. . .
He rolls back over and grabs his phone anyways, pressing the call button. He sits up against the headboard, silky comforter sliding off of his body. Zanka secretly hopes that he doesn’t answer the phone, that he can make himself look stupid just the one time.
“Yo?”
He can’t count on Jabber for anything.
Zanka stumbles over what to say, before internally panicking out, “I didn’t mean to call ya.”
The older man hums before laughing, “Yeah, and I didn’t mean to answer,” then in a lower tone that has his mouth running dry, “wass’up Mr. Bad Attitude?”
He doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t necessarily call him for a specific reason. The heat of the phone against his face is beginning to feel like too much the longer he stays silent.
“Nothin’. Just haven’t heard from ya in a while,” he almost doesn’t catch the nickname, “and that ain’t my name.”
Jabber sucks his teeth over the phone, the sound coming through crispy into his ear.
“Geez, I don’t talk to you for a while and you forget how to take a joke, Z?”
Zanka wants to grumble at the response, asking what does the man want before remembering he’s the one who called.
“I can take a joke, yer just not funny.”
“Mm, yeah, a’ight,” and before Zanka can get a word out, “so why you callin’ my phone? You miss me that much?”
He doesn’t even know where to begin responding to that. The last time they had spoken was barely a conversation, leaving their relationship frayed at the end. Zanka didn’t miss Jabber, that’s what he’s going to continue telling himself. But there’s some other things he has missed.
Now, he wouldn’t call himself a lustful nor promiscuous person— but he’s just a man. A man whose wants and needs were being sorely ignored. As he said, this guy was nice, a little too nice for someone like Zanka. The blonde needed someone with tough skin, who wasn’t afraid of the back and forth or the occasionally rude comment.
This still doesn’t mean he misses Jabber.
“I don’t miss you,” he swallows, deciding if he should be more honest, “just wanted to hear yer voice.”
He shuffles around, adjusting in his place, fidgeting nonstop until that voice is vibrating through the speaker.
“You call me up after two months just to hear my voice?” He laughs, almost in disbelief. “If you want somethin’ you gotta say it, Zan-Zan.”
Zanka grits his teeth, “I don’t want anything.”
“Y’know, it’s rude to have phone sex without tellin’ the other person.”
His brain freezes at the statement. Phone sex? Is he fucking serious?
“I am — that is not what I called ya for.”
Jabber hums again and the sound has him subconsciously rubbing his thighs together, “I dunno, Z. You call someone out of the blue at nine o’clock at night sayin’ you just tryna hear they voice, I’d assume you got somethin’ going on over there.”
“Well, I don’t.”
The line runs quiet, nothing but static filling the void. Zanka can hear the other breathing over the phone, and he wants to strangle himself for finding it so damn attractive. The last time he even saw him was when he stormed out of his apartment, and now he’s getting turned on just from him talking? He needs to get a grip.
The silence is finally broken by Jabber, but by the words that Zanka was least expecting, “You wanna have somethin’ going on over there?”
He tries his best to sound disgusted even though the thought has him soaking through his briefs, “Yer such a freak.”
“That ain’t a no.”
Zanka internally curses him before deciding he can hear it out loud as well, “Fuck you.”
He can hear the smugness through the phone, “If you down, I’m down.”
Zanka doesn’t give him a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer, allowing him to pick up on the context clues of clothes rustling, blankets being kicked off, breath picking up against the speaker. Jabber’s a smart boy, he could figure it out.
And he does.
“Damn, yeah, I miss you too.”
The blonde hears similar rustles on the other end and has to fight back a smile. That smile is knocked right off his face once he realizes he’s naked from the waist down, sitting in his situationship’s bed, prepping to have his ex talk him through it. It’s all so backwards. Once he slips a hand down to mindlessly thumb at himself, those thoughts fade embarrassingly fast.
“I don’t miss ya.” He huffs out.
“Hm, maybe,” and of course, being as lewd as ever, “I know that pussy do, though.”
Zanka’s face scrunches at the absurdity even as his hand moves faster circling around his clit, “Can you shut the fuck up?”
Jabber sighs, a clear indication that he’s probably gotten a hand around himself now. Zanka takes that as a sign himself to slip a finger inside, pumping the intrusion.
“‘m afraid that ain’t how it works, Z. One of us gotta talk, and I know it ain’t gonna be you.”
The blonde sighs exasperated before it turns into a quiet gasp, introducing another finger to his entrance, “Whatever. Do what you do best then.”
“And that is?” Jabber fishes for the compliment.
“Using yer big ass mouth for something more useful than being annoyin’.” He spits.
The dreadhead groans over the line at the insult, something about it makes him pulse around his fingers.
“Y’know I wish I could. I’d eat you through the damn phone.”
Zanka exhales at the statement, speeding up his fingers with beckoning curls. They squelch inside of him obnoxiously loud, having his legs fall further and further apart.
The older man laughs airily, “I knew you missed me. I can hear that shit from over here,” then, just as breathily, “where you at right now? Dorm?”
Shit. Zanka hadn’t even thought to answer that question. And even though he didn’t think about it, he still doesn’t know why he answers truthfully.
“‘m at…”, his friend’s? Classmate’s? Rebound’s?
“‘m at my boyfriend’s place.” Zanka mumbles it under his breath, like he’s ashamed. Though, he’s more ashamed of himself for feeling this way not because of what he’s doing, but because he couldn’t even lie to the man.
There’s amusement in his voice when he speaks up, “Boyfriend? You on a different type of timing, Z!”
“Don’t—“
“Having me talk you through it in your man’s house? Insane.”
“Jabber.” He grits out, only to be ignored.
“What? He ain’t good enough? You gotta come back to what’chu know?”
That has Zanka gulping down his words, biting his tongue. They haven’t even gone past a simple kiss yet, and even that was pushing it. There was no reality where he could compare him to Jabber.
His fingers keep a steady pace, the speed not making his voice waver, “‘m not comin’ back to shit.”
His mouth is becoming more and more loose.
Another groan emits from the older man, “C’mon, Zan-Zan. You know you crave it,” then suddenly, the teasing tone had dissipated, “go ‘head. Get it ready for me.”
Zanka rolls his eyes, deciding that it’s from irritation and not the stuff Jabber is spewing into his ear. He’s sliding a third finger alongside the other two, cringing at the noise. The burn is there, but the image of him genuinely getting ready for the dreadhead is a decent distraction.
In reality, his fingers wouldn’t have done much for preparation. Despite them being nearly the same stature, the blonde would claim himself that the brown skin had freakishly big hands, with long, bony fingers to match it. Just the thought of them has him wishing for more than just his simple three.
He must let the thought slip from his mouth because Jabber is gritting out, “More? Don’t act like you dunno how to play with that shit. C’mon, Zan-ka.”
The way he drags out his name so perfectly officially has him pinning his phone against his ear with a shoulder, freeing a hand to rub cautious circles around himself. That paired with the constant curl of his fingers has his stomach swooping. He’s reminded of the small mess he’s making as his juices slip out, covering the insides of his thighs.
“Wish I was there, fuck.” He pants out. Zanka picks up on the slicking sound over the speaker, internally grinning at the fact Jabber was getting off on this just as much as he was.
“Yes— I want,” his voice catches in his throat as his pinky slides in, amplifying the stretch, “wanna use ya. Only for me.”
Jabber lets out a genuine moan at that, even knocking up an octave, “Yeah? Gon’ make me your glorified dildo? Wring me dry, ‘til I ain’t got nothin’ left?”
It’s dangerous how Zanka becomes ten times wetter at the sound of Jabber degrading himself. The thought of taking until he had nothing left to give, yet still finding a way to take more, forcing every last bit out.
“Shit, ain’t nothin’ glorified ‘bout ya,” his mouth keeps running, hands speeding up, hips canting along with it, “I’d — oh, fuck — use ya ‘cus yer disgustin’. Ya probably don’t even deserve to cum.”
Zanka can hear his hand speeding up, breaths growing more and more ragged, “So mean to me, babe. You keep this up we gon’ be finished reeeal quick.”
He can’t do anything but sigh out in agreement. There’s no doubt that the sheets under him weren’t adorned with a small wet patch. Zanka imagines him coming back later to his room, being completely oblivious to what his crush has gotten up to in his own bed. It’s downright evil. His head is tossed back with a throaty groan anyways.
He feels the telltale sign of his orgasm approaching if the squeeze of his walls meant anything, but Jabber didn’t make it any better.
“Who you thinkin’ ‘bout, hm? Me or him?”
He didn’t have the energy in him to lie anymore, “You. Fuck, it’s just you.”
He speaks like he’s a man on a mission. That mission being to get the blonde unraveled as quickly as possible.
“Mhm. This nut finna be just for me too,” a hitch of breath, “lemme hear you, Zanka.”
His body freezes as heat courses through him head to toe. Nimble fingers had stopped its insistent rubbing as his cunt finally contracted with the crash of his orgasm. He knows that the sounds he’s letting out probably sound pathetic. A mix of moans, whimpers, and throaty whines that don’t exactly escape his chest make its way into the once silent room.
Somewhere along the way his phone had slipped from the crevice it had been settled in, lying flat on the bed. He takes the time to stop the heaving of his chest, slipping his fingers out. Slick and wetness trailed out after them, adding to the mess that dripped down his ass.
Zanka grabs the phone with an unsure hand, almost relieved to see that Jabber hadn’t hung up.
“Hello?”
The line is filled with the older man laughing, even though they’re light and airy, “Tryna take my soul through the phone? And you say I’m the freak.”
The blonde can’t help but shake his head, brushing a few sweaty strands out of his face. The post-nut clarity was honestly hitting him like a bus. He couldn’t believe that he’s sitting there in this guy’s bed soiled in a mess that he wasn’t responsible for. Zanka digs blunt nails into his thighs, teeth nibbling at the corners of peeling lips.
“That’s ‘cus you are one,” he inhales a breath that is definitely not shaking, “and this ain’t gonna happen again.”
Zanka can only imagine the exaggerated pout from over the phone, “C’mon, Z. Didn’t you have fun?”
He was in no way denying that it was good. It was fucking fantastic, actually. And it was also quite disturbing that that has been the most intense orgasm he’s had in a while. But that still doesn’t subtract from the fact that it isn’t right.
Zanka wouldn’t catch himself falling into another cycle of sex with a side of disconnectedness with Jabber. The man himself had said he deserved better than this, yet kept him in that exact situation. It was stupid. Worse than that— it made Zanka look stupid. Like he’s fallen into the same box trap time and time again.
So, he’s grinding his teeth with a little more force than necessary, “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout this. Get off of my phone.”
“You called me, Zan-Zan.”
He doesn’t entertain the conversation any longer than need be, hanging up in his face. Realization hits him harder now that he’s completely alone. Shivers run up his bare legs as two thoughts come to mind.
One, he’s the biggest asshole alive and deserves to be put on multiple watch lists.
And two, what the hell is he going to do about his bed?
The latter is somewhat answered when he hears the jingle of keys and the creak of the front door. The universe is already getting its payback for what Zanka just did.
Zanka didn’t have to worry about Jabber for a solid week and a half before he was tumbling back into his life again. After that night, he had been promptly blocked. This way, the blonde couldn’t fall into another humiliating mistake like that.
He learns that blocking someone doesn’t turn off your shared locations the hard way when the older man turns up at his door unprompted.
When he first opened the door, Zanka blinked at him crazily. Jabber stood there, dingy pink flowers in hand, smiling that same smirk that he hasn’t seen in months. He can’t decipher if the feeling coursing through his body was from anger or a secret second option.
“What,” he slightly fumbles as magenta eyes flicker over his frame, “What are ya doin’ here?”
Charming as ever, Jabber wiggles his way past Zanka into his dorm. The blonde was glad that his roommate was out. If he just witnessed the sigh Zanka let out when he caught a whiff of the brow skin’s cologne, Zanka thinks he might have killed himself.
“Flower delivery.” He says smoothly, pressing the flowers into smaller hands. Blue eyes blink at the soft pink in his hands, then back up to the blaring pink of his eyes, completely unimpressed. Zanka reaches a hand behind Jabber to shut the door to his dorm before walking to throw the flowers carelessly on his desk.
With his back turned to him, “Why are ya doin’ this,” then in a lower, bitter tone, “ya never did this when we were talkin’.”
Jabber hums before walking towards Zanka, meeting him until his chest is nearly pressed to the younger’s back.
“What’chu mean ‘talking’? I’m your man.”
Zanka is whipping around to face the other, putting distance between them until his shuffling feet are meeting the desk.
“Don’t— don’t do that.” He spits out.
Jabber feigns innocence, head slightly tilting to the side in thought, “Do what?”
It aggravates the shit out of him.
Zanka groans, “Actin’ like we’re together. We’re not. Get that through yer thick fuckin’ skull.” He fights the urge to run a hand down his face.
The older man exhales, subconsciously shifting closer to where Zanka stands, “C’mon, Z. You know where home’s at,” then, suddenly too close, “I miss you.”
Zanka knows what this is. He’s experienced it too many times not to. Jabber is probably bored of yet another person, and he knows that only the blonde can scratch his itch. For a moment, it warms a place inside of him until he realizes that they won’t ever exceed a sexual relationship. That he won’t ever be needed past something to fuck around with here and there.
He’s tired of it. So, why not press the limit?
“Home is with my boyfriend,” the emphasis makes Jabber’s brows scrunch, “not with yer psycho ass.”
Now it’s his turn to run a hand over the wrinkles setting into his forehead, “Can we not talk ‘bout him right now?”
“I’ll talk about him if I want to.” He argues.
“Zanka, don’t piss me off.”
The tone and use of his full name has his fingers gripping the desk until his knuckles are white. He wills himself to not fold, even under the intense gaze. At this very moment, even with just them in the room, Zanka felt coveted, wanted, like he was only meant to be Jabber’s and Jabber be his in some type of fucked up way.
Though the tension was there, being thick enough to slice, it wasn’t enough.
“Well, if ya don’t wanna hear me talk about my boyfriend so bad then you can get the hell out.” He nods towards the door.
Jabber only grimaces, plump lips pressed into a tight line. His eyes flash all over Zanka’s body like he’s trying to scornfully memorize every bit.
He feels uncomfortably analyzed until pink eyes meet his, finally speaking, “His stroke game must be ass ‘cus you still got a damn attitude.”
The smile creeps onto his face, like he knew that would be the blonde’s last straw. It’s a shame that he knows him just that well. After that, Zanka is shooing him out and on his way. And he feels a little conflicted that he didn’t tell him to not come back.
Jabber’s flower deliveries had become more constant. It’d always happen at least once a week, every Thursday. Zanka began to reluctantly take the flowers after learning that that’d make him disappear faster. He tries his best to not acknowledge that he keeps each bouquet until the next one comes.
His roommate had begun to question the influx of said flowers in their space, which Zanka didn’t provide with a real answer. Luckily, he doesn’t have to worry about pressing questions when he’s at this guy’s place.
Surprisingly, he didn’t dump Zanka after the little phone sex episode. The blonde would like to believe that’s because he just likes him that much, but truthfully the younger didn’t tell him the full truth. The story had gone from ‘talking to my ex in your bed’ to ‘fingering myself because I missed you’. He got a kick out of that.
Despite them still being on good terms, their schedules almost never line up. One always being in class as the other is lazing around. More often than not this left Zanka alone in the apartment until later in the evening, which he’d prefer than having his nosey roommate hovering over him.
But, Zanka’s known Jabber long enough to know that once his mind is set on something, it won’t break. Even if that something is giving the blonde flowers every single week, without fail.
You can imagine the panic that sets into his bones when he opens the door on a Thursday afternoon to be met with an uninvited Jabber. Normally, he’d roll his eyes, snatch the flowers, and shut the door. If he was at his dorm.
This is his ‘boyfriend’s’ fucking apartment.
Zanka begins to hastily whisper even though there was no one but them there, “What the hell are ya doin’ here?”
Jabber smiles all too easily, flashing white teeth, “Why do you think I’m here, Zan-Zan?”
He shakes the hand that holds the flowers, this week’s being a gradient of soft blues, greens, and white. The wet floral dirt scent of them invades his nostrils. He can’t possibly take these right now.
“Okay, well— ya need to leave. Bye.” He tries to shut the door, only to be stopped by a foot nudging in just at the right time.
Jabber brings his face to the crack, “I just wanna talk to you, Z.”
“Well, ya can talk to me over the phone,” he grits out, still attempting to push the door close. He’s sure that he’s crushing the older’s foot right now.
Without seeing his face, Zanka can still hear the pout in his voice, “But you blocked me…”
Zanka sighs, weighing out the options in his head. If he lets Jabber in, grabs the flowers, lets him say whatever he needs to say, then sends him out, things will be fine.
He releases his hold from the door, allowing the man to walk inside.
Jabber wolf whistles, eyes tracing the space, “This is nice. Got’chu a lil’ sugar daddy get up.”
The blonde rubs at his eyes until shapes appear. He had to fight to turn the dreadhead right back around through the door. Zanka snatches the flowers from
his hand, tossing them carelessly onto the counter.
“Ya got two minutes. Talk.” His tone comes off harsh, arms crossing over his hoodie clad chest. He hadn’t even gotten out of his pajamas yet.
Jabber walks towards him until the space is nearly completely gone. Zanka can feel his crossed forearms pressing into the brown skin’s chest. He doesn’t try to back up like last time. Strange.
Two warm hands are set on his hips before lips are ghosting his ear, cool piercings brushing against the sensitive cartilage.
“I already told you. I miss you.”
The blonde tries his best to hide the subtle blush that reaches his ears, but Jabber still laughs. The huff of it against the side of his face sends a shiver down his back. Zanka must be the worst man alive.
He gulps, “So? That don’t mean nothin’.”
The hands grip becomes firmer, fingers digging into his sleep pants, “It does if you miss me too.”
“I don’t.” He lies.
Lips trail from his ear, down the side of his face, to the crevice of his neck, leaving small pecks all throughout. Jabber walked him back until they’re bumping into the counter.
“Nah, you do. If you didn't, you wouldn’t be letting me do this.”
Zanka hates how true that is. He’s always been a no bullshit type of guy. If he didn’t like something, he’d voice that clearly. So, the fact that he’s letting Jabber latch onto him, pressing barely there kisses into his skin, shows a lot about him.
He winces when there’s a sharp bite, followed up by a lap of his tongue. His arms fall from his chest, hands reaching down to grip the counter. Zanka doesn’t miss him, is what he’s going to keep telling himself. But he’s already proven that he misses the sex.
It would be so easy to let go right now. Bring down all the defenses and just let Jabber have him. He can’t deny that he has been thinking about it. About him.
The thoughts warm him, even when his lips leave his neck, coming up to look him dead in the eyes. The space between them was nearly nonexistent. Nothing but heaving chests, entangled arms and legs.
The words are wet, right into his face, “You want this? You miss me, Z?”
His brows crease the skin on his forehead. He can’t bring himself to say anything, so he supplies with a simple nod. Jabber waits not another second, bringing their lips together. Though gentle, it still held a sense of urgency, desperateness.
Their lips smacked together loudly, moving fluidly. Zanka brought a hand up to cup the older’s throat, the notion becoming a regular one. They tilt their heads every which way to find the perfect angle, tongues finally slipping into the other’s mouth. Everything about it was sloppy. Drool pooled in Jabber’s mouth that just transferred to his, causing a groan to rip from his throat.
They don’t pull away when he reaches down to cup Zanka through his pants. It has his knees nearly buckling at the sensation. He rubs the heel of his palm into his mound until he’s finally breaking free for air.
“Fuck— touch me.” He snarls.
Jabber doesn’t put up a fight, simply worming his hand into the front of the blonde’s pants. The loose elastic of his panties give easily, allowing his fingers to dip further, finding his clit. Even with the limited space, the older knows exactly how to touch him.
The firm, wet press has Zanka moving his hands up to his shoulders to grapple with the other’s shirt. The brown skin swiftly removes his hand to rip off his shirt, immediately bringing their lips back together once the article meets the floor. Jabber works off the sleep pants, hands moving to his ass only to be met with soft skin.
He moans against the blonde’s lips, “What’chu wearing these for?”
Truthfully, Zanka just grabbed anything and threw it in his overnight bag for the week, but that’s no fun.
He shrugs to the best of his ability, “Thought he’d be home early,” the grip becomes tighter, “turns out it’s just ya.”
Jabber bites his lip hard enough to get a yelp out. In return, Zanka purposely digs red lines into his shoulders. Sex for them is only a misstep from fighting, after all.
“Stop playin’ with me.” He reaches a hand down to begin working at his own belt, trying to release the more pressing issue at the moment.
Zanka’s hand goes to tug away at the baggy denim as well until it pools around his ankle, being swiftly discarded.
They’re both left there in their underwear, right back to chasing each other’s mouths. The cycle doesn’t end until the relentless palming of his ass starts to become too much.
Zanka’s slightly pulling away, muttering against moist lips, “Hurry up.”
Jabber only hums before separating, going to dig through his jean pockets. He comes back up empty handed.
He pushes a few stray locs out of his face before sighing into the blonde’s neck, “I’on got a mag.”
Zanka knows he doesn’t keep condoms here, they don’t even fuck. He’s going to have to rethink his plans of getting ravished. Or he could go with a secret second option.
The words are barely uttered from his mouth. So much so that Jabber springs up from his neck in surprise.
“What did you say?”
His mouth opens and closes a few times before repeating, “We don’t need one—“
He’s cut off with the dreadhead’s mouth. Their teeth clash messily before he brings his tongue to soothe it. Large hands press his hips into the cold counter top, his lower back facing the brunt force from the edge.
He places a few more wet smacks before speaking against thin lips, “Turn ‘round. Lemme see it.”
Zanka doesn’t even have the opportunity to do it himself before Jabber is moving him for him. He presses a hand between his shoulder blades until Zanka’s chest is meeting the surface.
The younger man twists his head back to see him running his palms up and down his hips, ass, thighs, then all the way back up. The attention makes his legs shut, only for it to be interrupted with Jabber’s knee between them.
Those attentive hands are then pulling dark panties to the side until his hot, wet middle is exposed. The cool air of the apartment sends chills throughout his body, but is replaced with warmth when fingers begin to prod at his entrance playfully.
Jabber slips two into the first knuckle, letting out a soft groan, “You so damn sexy. Out of this world, Zanka.”
The praise automatically has him pulsing around the fingers. He twists his head away from him, resting his chin on folded arms. Jabber continues to fuck his fingers into his heat, working down to the knuckle. Zanka fights the urge to drool at the feeling of his rings dragging along his walls.
He soon works his way up to three, then nudging in a fourth that has the younger man whining low under his breath. His hips cant back onto the intrusion as they stretch him out. Even though he could, sadly, cum just like this, he wants more. And he’s assuming Jabber does too if the length pressed against the back of Zanka’s thigh means anything.
“C’mon,” he pants, rutting back, “‘m ready.”
Jabber doesn’t put up a fight, slipping his fingers out. Zanka hears the moan he lets out as he wraps a hand around himself. He’s still trying to figure out where exactly are his morals for him to think it’s okay to get fucked by his ex in his situationship’s kitchenette.
That valid thought leaves his mind as soon as he feels his tip swiping along his folds. It spreads the wetness, leaving Zanka clenching around nothing. Jabber playfully taps it a few times, letting the plaps resound in the empty home.
Zanka rears a leg up to kick the older in the shin, “Fuckin’ put it in. If ya don’t wanna do this then—“
He’s cut off when Jabber sinks in with one smooth thrust, massaging thumbs into his lower back. Zanka’s burying his face into the plush of his hoodie as he pulls out to the hilt. The slam back in has his knees hitting the cabinets, disrupting the pots inside.
“So impatient, Z. Don’t worry, I know you missed this dick.”
The pace was steady, deep. Zanka swore he could feel every push inside in his guts. It made it no better that the edge of the counter was cutting into his lower stomach either. He kept his sounds to a minimum, allowing himself to feel relaxed in the push and pull. He wasn’t desperate by any means, but he was dick deprived.
Zanka could feel the satisfying drag of each vein and curve of his dick like this. Even before, they had never not used protection. But now, the thrill of it amplifies every nerve to one hundred.
The blonde can feel how tightly he’s clenched around Jabber, and apparently so can he.
The speed goes up a few notches, “Shit— you so tight. He must not be doin’ his job right.”
Zanka props himself up on his elbows to try and meet his thrusts. His head hands between his shoulders, only allowing the brown hairs on his nape to be visible.
He’s breathless already, “Shut up. We haven’t even— fuck.”
The next strokes has him sliding back down onto his chest, cheek pressed against cool granite. Jabber doesn’t seem to want any information slide, reaching down to cup Zanka’s cheeks with one hand. He guides him back until their eyes meet over his shoulder.
“Y’all haven’t what?” The sparkle in his eyes is evident.
He presses, “You tellin’ me this pussy still mine?”
Zanka grimaces, pushing away the older man’s hand, “No. We just aren’t there yet.”
Jabber hums like he heard something astute, fingers tightening around his hips. Suddenly, Zanka’s being yanked back to meet his hips. The sounds he was letting out was impossible to contain with the way he could quite literally feel the man in his damn rib cage.
He can feel his panties slowly shifting back into place, disrupting the motion. Zanka reaches a hand back to hold the garment out of the way, allowing Jabber full, uninterrupted access.
The man moans at the sight, hands leaving his hips to palm at his ass, “That’s right, hold that shit open for me.”
The cockiness in his tone almost makes Zanka let go in spite, but he brushes it off once those hands are back on his waist, this time pressing down. It rubs him a certain way, stomach warming at the heavy touch.
Each thrust is sharper now, sending him up on his toes, knees constantly knocking into the cabinets. The wet clap of their hips fills the room alongside wanton moans and groans. Zanka swears that the hold Jabber keeps on him will leave bruises in the shape of his fingers and rings.
The soft material of the panties are slipping from his grasp, knees buckling under the pleasure. A particular thrust has his legs trembling. They shoot up straight as he’s shimmying against the dreadhead until there’s enough space for him to slip out. He’s on his way to collapsing against the counter when those hands are back on his hips.
Jabber feeds himself back inside, picking up exactly where he left off. He presses Zanka’s chest back to the surface before lifting a thigh and pinning it there as well.
The new angle has the blonde mewing and writhing against him, hips uselessly fucking down, trying to get more. Zanka’s almost embarrassed by how easy he’s acting right now. But, as he said: dick deprived.
Jabber takes the hand on his hip off in favor of scrunching up the back of his panties into his fist. The one on his knee simply trails up to cup the front of his throat, bringing him up until his back nearly scrapes his chest.
The dreadhead tongues at Zanka’s ear, “You feel me, Z?”
He’s nodding to the best of his capabilities, tears clouding his waterline, “Fuck— yes, yer so good. So deep, shit.”
He lets the hand fall from his throat, snaking down to drum at his clit. Zanka’s a mess against the counter. He’s positive that every time he comes in here again, all he’ll remember is getting his shit nailed.
The feeling has his eyes whiting out. He can’t see him, but he’s sure that Jabber’s face is fixed into one of pure concentration. The blonde’s noises grow until he feels the sudden combined pressure of the counter and his dick against his bladder.
A hand is flung back to tap against his toned stomach, “Waitwaitwait— fuck, yer gonna—“
“Move your hand.”
Zanka wants to punch him in the stomach until he’s keeled over. He shoves harder anyways, which results in him abandoning the firm grip of his panties for his arm. He holds it behind him like a straight jacket, his thrusts shifting to a hammering pace.
His toes curl against the hardwood as the ministrations continue. There was nowhere to run to. The only thing he could do was lay there and take it. Even though he could easily struggle and break the hold, the approaching orgasm felt good enough to just let it wash over him.
Jabber’s fingers circle his clit faster, mumbling under his breath, “Look so fuckin’ good, creamin’ all on this dick,” then, on a more possessive note, “just me, right?”
Zanka can’t help but nod. It didn’t matter if he was in another man’s house, eating his food, in his bed, because it was Jabber who was here right now, fucking the light out of his eyes. It’d always be Jabber, in any situation. He has half the mind to find it irritating that the cycle won’t break, but that’s the last thing on his mind right now.
“Yeah. Fuck him,” he huffs out roughly, “say it.”
The blonde could barely piece together a sentence with how hard he was focusing on trying not to cum. The reply didn’t come instantly, not until he could process what Jabber was asking him to say.
It slips out as a murmur, “Fuck him.”
“Again.”
Zanka repeats it louder, expecting to be flooded with an overwhelming sense of guilt, but is only met with lust. He was so damn turned on right now, it didn’t make any sense. His hips are cramping from the knee propped up on the counter, but he keeps it there anyways.
Jabber is crowding over him until his lips are brushing the nape of his neck, whispering the filthiest words, “Mhm. My good boy.”
Zanka doesn’t know who he has to speak to about this, but the way just two words has him tapped out is concerning.
His body goes limp, falling victim to the pleasure of his orgasm. Each stroke has spurt after spurt leaving his cunt. The sound of it splattering to the floor would have him cringing, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care right now. He feels the way his walls pulse around Jabber, who’s still knocking every last bit of it out.
Zanka’s leg finally slips off the counter, his foot landing in a puddle of his own mess. That has him cringing. The older man had let go of his arm, hands reclaiming their spot back on his waist.
The pace had slowed down to deep, pressing strokes that had the blonde whining in overstimulation. Everything from the waist down was sore in some type of way, but he still moved his hips back to meet Jabber’s.
The sight has the dreadhead moaning, “Shit, ‘m finna nut.”
Now, that has Zanka perking up. Immediately. He’s on his elbows again, having caught his breath, looking back over his shoulder to glare at the man.
His teary eyes squint at him, “Pull out.”
Jabber lets out a low groan, lip poked out into a pout before listening. He wraps a hand around himself, and it only takes a few tugs to have him finishing over Zanka’s butt.
The blonde expects the clarity to hit at any moment now, but it surprisingly never comes. All he feels is content and relaxed. He can’t peel himself off the counter just as of yet, so it gives him time to think.
Even though he doesn’t feel all too guilty about this, it doesn't mean it's right. They still need boundaries.
The words must slip from his lips because Jabber’s questioning, “Boundaries?”
Zanka nods, eyes following the older’s hand as it reaches over him to grab a paper towel.
“We can’t do this. It ain’t fair.” He mumbles, face squishing up at the feeling of the napkin.
“To who?”
He sucks his teeth, “You know who.”
Jabber feigns a eureka sound, causing Zanka to roll to his front and face him, “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about your lame ass boyfriend.”
The younger runs a hand down his face before trailing it back up through his hair. His eyes trace Jabber around the kitchen, from him putting his jeans back on, to him wiping the mess on the floor, to helping the blonde back into his pants, each step having a small peck in between. He feels as if this is the closest thing he’d get to loving with him.
Once he’s done, and they're facing each other head on again, Zanka says with all the seriousness he can muster, “We are not doin’ this again. Understand?”
Jabber smiles like he knows something that he doesn’t, but Zanka thinks the same thing anyway: how handsome.
“Yeah. I understand, Zanka.”