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    Summary

    "Oh." Jabber blinks. "Wanna makeout?"

    Zanka stutters, flushes, baffled at how he switches from fight to flirt with such a straight face.

    "Zanka…" Jabber's head tilts; a single loc swings across his face, shadowing one eye. The other burns a deep violet. His voice comes hauntingly even: "If you won't pick, then I will."

    Mankira glints. Zanka's side throbs at the memory of them. He's in no shape to fight — at least, not right now. But, if he doesn't answer soon, it won't matter.

    Besides… "Fine," Zanka drops his gaze, mumbles: "Let's… makeout."

     

    (or 'Zanka gets freaked out, but I'm the real freak here 😔')

    Language:
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