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The dorm room smelled like cheap instant ramen and Jabber’s gym bag, that familiar mix of soy sauce packets and old sweat-soaked wraps. Pink and red posters from the student council’s Valentine’s event were taped crookedly to the hallway outside their door, but inside, it was the same as always: Their bed shoved and messy, a tiny kitchenette counter littered with protein shake tubs, and string lights Zanka had hung last semester because “it looked less like a prison cell.”
Zanka leaned against the counter, stirring his noodles with a plastic fork. Steam curled up, fogging his glasses for a second before he pushed them up. He was still in the hoodie he wore to his lecture, sleeves rolled to the elbows, silver chain with Jabber’s ring tucked under the collar like always. Almost a year together, and that ring still felt heavy in the best way. They’d fought tooth and nail to get this shared dorm and practically begged on their knees to the housing office, filled out extra forms, even promised not to cause “incidents.” Now it was theirs, small and messy and real.
Jabber sat cross-legged on their bed, wrapping fresh tape around his knuckles. His long brown dreads were pulled back loosely, a few golden rings glinting under the overhead light. He looked focused, almost peaceful, the way he got before practice. Zanka watched him for a beat too long.
Valentine’s was in two days. The whole campus was buzzing about it, hopeless couples swapping chocolates in the quad, guys awkwardly handing over bouquets like they’d rehearsed it. Zanka didn’t want the whole production. He just wanted… something. A gesture. Proof that Jabber thought about it too.
He cleared his throat. “Hey. Valentine’s coming up.”
Jabber didn’t look up right away, just kept winding the tape. “Yeah. Heard the flower stand in the quad’s charging double this week. Idiots.”
Zanka poked at his ramen. “I was thinking… Maybe you could get me flowers? Or something. Not a big deal. Just once.”
Jabber finally glanced over, one eyebrow raised. That grin of his tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that usually meant trouble. “Flowers, Zan Zan? You turning soft on me?”
Zanka felt heat crawl up his neck. “It’s not about being soft. It’s Valentine’s. People do stuff for each other.”
Jabber snorted, flexing his taped hand. “We ain’t ‘people.’ We’re us. I gave you my ring, didn’t I, princess? Slapped it right on that pretty chain around your neck. That’s more than most of those normies out there are doing.” He leaned back on his elbows, eyes glinting. “Isn’t that enough? Or you need me to play pretend like the rest of ’em?”
The words landed heavier than Jabber probably meant. Like their thing was some bare-minimum setup, like Zanka was asking for extras he didn’t deserve. Zanka’s grip tightened on the fork until the plastic creaked. He kept his voice even, the way he always did when something inside started boiling. “Yeah. Sure. Forget I said anything.”
Jabber stood up, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder. The movement was casual, but Zanka caught the quick flick of his eyes, like he sensed the shift but didn’t know what to do with it. “Got practice. Coach is running us ragged tonight. Don’t wait up for me.”
He ruffled Zanka’s hair on his way past, a rough, affectionate thing that usually made Zanka roll his eyes and shove him off. Tonight it just felt… off. Jabber paused at the door, hand on the knob. “You good?”
Zanka forced a shrug. “Yeah. Go hit something like you always do.”
Jabber lingered for half a second longer, then slipped out. The door clicked shut behind him.
Zanka stared at the empty space where Jabber had been. The ramen had gone cold. His chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped tape around his ribs. Stupid. It was just flowers. Just words. But the way Jabber said “enough” kept replaying, sharp and careless.
He set the bowl down hard enough that broth sloshed over the edge. Tears stung unexpectedly, hot behind his eyes. He blinked them back, angry at himself for even feeling it. Then he crossed the room in three steps and flipped the lock on the door. The click echoed louder than it should have.
If Jabber thought their relationship didn’t need the “fluff,” then fine. Let him come back and figure out what “enough” really felt like when the door wouldn’t open.
The university gym smelled like rubber mats, old sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood from split lips. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the ring in the center. Heavy bags swung lazily from chains, and the rhythmic thump-thump of gloves on pads echoed off the concrete walls. It was late past ten and most casual students had cleared out, leaving only the boxing club die-hards.
Jabber pushed through the double doors, gym bag slung low, already grinning like he’d just heard the best joke in the world. His dreads bounced with each step. He was still riding the edge from earlier—the weird tightness in Zanka’s voice when he’d brushed off the flower thing. It itched under his skin, like a cut that wouldn’t bleed yet. He needed to hit something hard. Like real hard.
The team was already in the middle of rounds. A few guys nodded at him quick and wary then they looked away. Jabber didn’t care. He dropped his bag by the bench and started wrapping his hands, tape pulling tight over scarred knuckles.
Coach Zodyl stood ringside, arms crossed, indigo hair streaked white like frost on glass. He never raised his voice, never smiled. Just watched. Always watched. The team respected him for it and feared him a little too. He had that aura: cold calculation, like he could break you down without lifting a finger.
“Line up for sparring,” Zodyl said, voice flat.
The usual shuffle happened. The guys paired off quickly and they all wanted anyone but Jabber. He leaned against the ropes, grin widening as he watched them avoid his eyes.
One freshman, a lanky kid named Kai, hesitated too long. Jabber’s head tilted. “You. Me. Ring.”
Kai paled. “Uh… I got pads duty tonight—”
“Switch with someone.” Jabber’s tone was light, almost playful. But his eyes were bright, hungry. “Come on. Don’t be boring.”
Zodyl glanced over. “Kai. In.”
Kai swallowed hard and climbed through the ropes. Jabber followed, bouncing on his toes, already breathing heavily.
They touched gloves. Jabber’s grin split wider. “Hit me like you mean it, kid. Make it hurt real good.”
The bell dinged.
Kai threw a jab, cautious. Jabber slipped it easy, laughing low in his throat. “That all? Come on. I can take it.”
Kai tried a hook. Jabber ate it on purpose and let the glove crack against his cheek, head snapping sideways. Blood bloomed in his mouth, coppery and warm. His eyes lit up. “Yeah. Like that. Again.”
Kai hesitated. Jabber didn’t. He lunged, not with full force he was holding back, like always but enough to drive Kai back against the ropes. A body shot folded the kid halfway. Jabber followed with an uppercut that snapped Kai’s head back. Not a hard knockout. It was just enough to sting.
Kai gasped, gloves dropping for a second. Jabber paused, grin frozen. “You good?”
Kai nodded frantically, eyes wide. “Y-yeah. Just… winded.”
Jabber stepped back, bouncing. “Good. Keep going. I like when ya fight back.”
But Kai shook his head, backing toward the corner. “I’m out. Coach, I’m done.”
The ring went quiet. A few teammates muttered— “Told you,” “He’s an idiot,” “Every time.” No one else volunteered.
Jabber laughed, loud and sharp, echoing off the walls. He wiped blood from his lip with the back of his glove, savoring the sting. “Bunch of weaklings. Fine. I’ll hit the bag.”
Zodyl hadn’t moved. He studied Jabber like a specimen under glass. After a long beat, he spoke. “You’re wasting energy on theatrics.”
Jabber turned, still grinning. “I’m just warming up.”
“You enjoy the pain more than the win.” Zodyl’s voice stayed even, no judgment, just observation. “That’s why they won’t spar with you. They sense it. The lack of limit.”
Jabber’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew. “Limits are boring, Coach. You know that.”
Zodyl tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps. But control separates beasts from weapons.” A pause. Then, almost offhand: “Your footwork’s cleaner this month. And you pulled that last hook. Good restraint.”
It wasn’t praise the way normal coaches gave it, there was no slap on the back, no “great job.” Just a fact. But coming from Zodyl, it landed like a spark on dry grass.
Jabber’s chest puffed a little. “Yeah? Felt slow to me.”
“Still better than before.” Zodyl turned away, already dismissing the moment. “Hit the heavy bag. Fifty reps each side. Then cool down. Don’t break anything.”
Jabber hopped out of the ring, buzzing harder now. The ache in his cheek, the taste of blood, Zodyl’s quiet acknowledgment, it all fed the same fire. He slammed into the heavy bag like it owed him money, each punch cracking loud, chains rattling. Sweat poured down his back, mixing with the faint sting of old bruises. Every hit made him think of Zanka—how Zanka could actually match him, push him, make him feel that sweet edge of too much.
By the time he finished, the gym was emptying. Zodyl was already gone, like he’d never been there.
Jabber shouldered his bag, still grinning. The high carried him out into the cold night air. Campus was quiet, streetlights pooling yellow on the paths. He was riding high, the kind of wired that usually had him bursting through the door, flopping onto their bed, and demanding attention until Zanka shoved him off laughing.
He took the stairs two at a time, key already in hand. The hallway was dead quiet except for the low hum of the vending machine at the end. Their door looked the same as always—scratched paint, that crooked room number sticker Zanka kept saying he’d fix.
Jabber slid the key in. Turned.
Nothing.
He frowned, twisted harder. The lock clicked but didn’t give. He jiggled it. Still locked.
“What the…”
He pulled the key out, checked it, yep, his. He tried again. Same thing. A laugh bubbled up, sharp and confused. “Zan Zan, you messing with me?”
He knocked. Not too loud. Didn’t want to wake the whole floor. “Hey. Open up,”
Silence.
He knocked again, harder this time. The sound echoed down the empty hall. “Yo, come on. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”
Still nothing. No footsteps, no muffled “hold on,” no sarcastic reply through the wood. Just the faint buzz of the overhead light.
Jabber’s grin faded. He pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. No TV, no music, no rustle of sheets. The room felt… empty. Like Zanka wasn’t even in there. But where else would he be at almost one in the morning?
He stepped back, staring at the door like it had betrayed him personally. His phone was in his hand before he thought about it. He thumbed open messages:
yo zan zan u asleep or what
door’s locked wtf
Sent. He watched the little delivered tag appear. No dots. No read receipt. He waited thirty seconds. A minute. Nothing.
The post-practice buzz started to curdle into something tighter. He knocked one more time, louder, palm flat against the wood. “Zanka. Seriously.”
The silence answered back.
Jabber exhaled through his nose, sharp. Okay. Fine. Maybe Zanka had gone to the library late or crashed at a friends after some study group. Except Zanka hated the library at night, too many people coughing and he never crashed anywhere without texting. They didn’t do that. They told each other shit. Always.
He rubbed the back of his neck.The ache in his hands felt less good now. More like a reminder he’d been gone too long.
He glanced down the hall. Fu’s door was only three down. Fu never slept before three anyway. always tinkering with some busted speaker or modded controller. Jabber hesitated, then walked over and rapped his knuckles against the wood. Quick. Casual.
The door opened after a few seconds. Fu stood there in an oversized hoodie, hair a disaster, one earbud dangling. He blinked at Jabber like he was trying to place him in the middle of the night.
“Yo,” Jabber said, forcing the grin back on. “Our door’s being a bitch right now. Locked from the inside. Can I crash here tonight?”
Fu didn’t ask questions right away. Just stepped aside. “Yeah. The couch is free. Are you good?”
Jabber shrugged, stepping in. Fu’s room smelled like solder and energy drinks. A half-disassembled gaming rig glowed blue on the desk, fans whirring softly. The couch was buried under blankets and a couple hoodies, but Jabber didn’t care. He dropped his gym bag and flopped down, long legs hanging off the end.
Fu shut the door, leaned against it. “Did Zanka lock you out?”
“Dunno. Maybe he’s asleep. Or pissed.” Jabber stared at the ceiling. “We had a weird talk earlier. About Valentine’s.”
Fu snorted softly. “ Dude. He probably wants something. That’s the code for ‘I want you to do this for me just once.’ ”
Jabber’s jaw worked. “We’re not cheesy.”
“Yeah. And look where that got you. Locked out.” Fu grabbed a spare blanket from the chair and tossed it over. “You’re an idiot sometimes, you know that?”
Jabber caught the blanket, pulled it over his chest. “I heard that already today. Thanks.”
Fu shrugged, heading back to his desk. “Get some sleep. He’ll unlock it in the morning. Or he won’t, and you’ll have bigger problems.”
Jabber didn’t answer. He stared at his phone again. Still no reply. The delivered tag mocked him.
He rolled onto his side, the couch creaking under him. The high from practice was gone now, replaced by a low, gnawing ache that had nothing to do with bruises. He kept replaying Zanka’s face earlier, the way his shoulders had stiffened, the way he’d said “forget I said anything” like it didn’t matter. But it did. Obviously.
Jabber pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Fuck.”
Fu glanced over but didn’t say anything. Just turned the desk light lower and went back to his soldering.
Jabber lay there in the dim blue glow, listening to the soft clicks of tools and the distant hum of campus. Sleep didn’t come easy.
Tomorrow he’d fix it. He had to.
He just hoped Zanka would let him.
Jabber woke up with a crick in his neck and the faint smell of burnt solder in his nose. Fu’s couch was about as comfortable as sleeping on a pile of bricks, but he’d managed a few hours of restless dozing. Dreams had been weird—Zanka walking away down endless hallways, doors slamming shut. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and checked his phone first thing. No texts. No missed calls. The message from last night still sat there, unread.
Fu was already gone; he was probably at an early lab or something. Jabber grabbed his gym bag and slipped out, the hallway feeling too bright under the morning fluorescents. Campus was stirring: students shuffling to classes with coffee cups, the quad dotted with people setting up more Valentine’s booths. Red hearts everywhere. Mocking him.
He skipped his morning lecture. No way he could sit through econ right now. Instead, he headed straight for the library, where Riyo basically lived. She was predictable like that, third floor, corner table by the windows, surrounded by textbooks like a fortress.
Sure enough, there she was. Long red hair, A few strands tucked behind one ear, scribbling notes from some massive psych book. Jabber dropped into the chair across from her without asking, chair legs scraping loud enough to make a couple nearby students glare.
Riyo didn’t look up. “What do you want, Jabber? I’m busy.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in his hands. “Morning, sunshine. Miss me?”
She finally glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You look like you slept in a dumpster. What’s wrong?”
Jabber grinned, but it felt forced. “Nothing. I just need advice. You’re the smart one, right?”
Riyo set her pen down, crossing her arms. “Flattery won’t work. Just spit it out.”
He hesitated, then spilled it all. The Valentine’s talk, the ring comment, Zanka’s weird quietness, the locked door, crashing at Fu’s. He kept his voice low, but the words tumbled out faster than he meant and annoyance creeped in, like if he talked quick enough it wouldn’t sting as much. “So, yeah. He’s pissed, I guess. But why? I didn’t say anything wrong.”
Riyo stared at him for a long beat, expression shifting from neutral to something like pity mixed with exasperation. “You are such an idiot.”
Jabber leaned back, arms spread. “Whoa, harsh. Come on, Riyo-Riyo. Enlighten me, oh wise one.” He batted his eyelashes dramatically, trying to lighten it. But inside, his stomach twisted. He hated this feeling it was off-balance, like he’d taken a hit he didn’t see coming.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Stop being annoying. I’m serious. Think about it. Zanka asks for something simple like flowers, a gesture. And you basically tell him your relationship isn’t worth going out of your way for. That the ring you gave is ‘enough’? Like it’s some checkbox you ticked off and now you’re done?”
Jabber’s grin faltered. “I didn’t mean it like that. The ring’s important. It’s mine. From my family or whatever. I don’t give that to just anyone.”
“Yeah, and that’s sweet. But relationships aren’t one-and-done, Jabber. They’re ongoing. Little things add up. Zanka’s not asking for grand romance, he’s asking to feel special. Valued. Like you see what he wants and care enough to do it, even if it’s not your style.”
He shifted in his seat, picking at the tape still flaking off his knuckles from practice. The words hit deeper than he expected. Zanka was everything, the guy who matched his chaos without flinching, who could pin him down in a fight and make him laugh about it afterwards. They’d built this thing from nothing, shared secrets in the dark. And now? One dumb comment, and it felt like it was cracking.
“But we’re us,” he muttered, voice quieter. “We keep it real.”
Riyo leaned in, her voice softening a fraction. “Real doesn’t mean bare minimum. Real means showing up. Zanka’s tough, but everyone has soft spots. Maybe he’s been watching all these other couples and wondering why you two don’t do any of that. Not because he wants to be like them, but because he wants to know you think he’s worth the effort.”
Jabber stared at the table, tracing a scratch in the wood with his finger. Effort. Yeah. He’d given Zanka the ring months ago, after a night where everything felt too big to hold back. Slipped it off his own finger and pressed it into Zanka’s hand, no words, just a look. But since then? Practice, classes, hanging out. And maybe once in a while get frisky. The routine. Comfortable. Safe. But maybe Zanka needed more. Proof that Jabber wasn’t just coasting.
He thought about last night. The silence behind the door. How it felt like a wall he’d built himself. His chest ached, not the good kind from a fight. This was deeper, sharper. Like losing something he didn’t even know he could lose.
“Fuck,” he said under his breath. “I screwed up.”
Riyo nodded. “Yeah. You did. But you can fix it. Apologize. Mean it. And maybe… do something. Show him you were actually listening.”
Jabber looked up, forcing a smirk to cover the vulnerability creeping in. “Flowers? Me? Come on, Riyo. I’d look ridiculous.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s the point, dummy. Just do it anyway.”
He reached over and poked her arm. “You’re bossy today. What, no one is buying you chocolates?”
“Shut up.” She swatted his hand away, but there was a hint of a smile. “Go talk to him. Before he decides you’re not worth unlocking the door for.”
Jabber stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The teasing helped it kept things light but her words stuck like hooks. He ruffled her hair on the way out, ignoring her protest. “Thanks, smartass. I owe you one.”
“Make it two,” she called after him. “And don’t mess it up worse!”
He waved without looking back, but as he pushed through the library doors into the cold morning air, the grin dropped. Campus blurred a little, students laughing, couples holding hands and making out. He pulled out his phone again. Still nothing.
Time to find Zanka. And say sorry like he meant it. Because Riyo was right. Zanka was worth everything. Even the cheesy stuff.
…..
The lecture hall was too warm, the kind of stuffy heat that made Zanka’s hoodie feel suffocating. He sat near the back as usual, arms crossed, staring at the projector screen without really seeing it. Dr. Hale was mid-lecture on symbolism in modern short stories, clicking through slides of red roses and broken clocks like they were supposed to mean something profound. Zanka’s notebook stayed blank except for a single jagged line he kept tracing over and over.
Every few minutes his eyes flicked around the room. Couples. Always couples. The girl in the row ahead kept leaning into her girlfriend, whispering and giggling behind their hands. A guy near the door was scrolling through his phone, smiling at whatever message popped up, probably some heart-eyes emoji he got from his girlfriend or boyfriend. Even the two people sharing a textbook were touching shoulders like it was nothing. Zanka’s fingers dug into his arms. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly. It was just… loud. All of it. And after last night, it felt personal.
He hadn’t checked his phone since locking the door. Didn’t want to see if Jabber had texted. Didn’t want the apology (if there even was one) to soften him too soon. The ring chain sat cool against his skin, a reminder that Jabber thought one gesture a while ago should cover everything forever.
Rudo dropped into the seat next to him halfway through the lecture, backpack thudding, already chewing gum like he owned the place.
“Damn, you look murderous,” Rudo muttered, keeping his voice low. “Rough night?”
Zanka didn’t answer. Just kept staring ahead.
Rudo nudged him with an elbow. “Come on. Spill. You’ve got that ‘someone stole my last protein bar’ face. Jabber eat your snacks again or what?”
Zanka’s jaw tightened. “Drop it.”
Rudo grinned, oblivious. “Ooh, touchy. Bet it’s Valentine’s creeping up. You two gonna do the cheesy thing this year? Matching hoodies? Matching tattoos? Wait—no, you’d both rather die.”
That did it. The words hit too close to the raw spot Jabber had left last night. Zanka turned fast, voice low and sharp. “I said drop it, Rudo. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Rudo’s grin faltered. “Whoa. Okay, chill. I was just messing around.”
Zanka’s hands clenched on the desk edge. “Yeah, well, don’t. Not today.”
A few heads turned at the tone. Dr. Hale paused her slide, peering over her glasses. “Is everything alright back there?”
Zanka sank lower in his seat, face hot. “Every thing is Fine,” he muttered.
The professor nodded slowly and went back to her slides. “Good. As I was saying, the recurring motif of the discarded bouquet…”
Rudo stayed quiet for the rest of the lecture, which dragged on another twenty minutes. When Dr. Hale finally wrapped—“Group analysis papers due in ten days; check the portal for your assigned partner and story”—the room started emptying.
Zanka didn’t move right away. He sat there breathing through his nose, trying to unclench everything. Rudo lingered too, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.
After most people were gone, Rudo spoke quietly. “Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.”
Zanka exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Yeah. I know. Sorry I bit your head off. It’s not you.”
Rudo shrugged, small smile. “We all have days. You good, though? Like… actually good?”
Zanka rubbed the back of his neck. “Not really. But I’ll live.”
Rudo nodded, not pushing. “Alright. Offer stands, if you wanna talk shit about whoever pissed you off, hit me up. No questions.”
Zanka huffed a tiny laugh despite himself. “Thanks. Maybe later.”
They stood up together. Rudo bumped his shoulder lightly on the way out, gentle this time. “Hang in there, man.”
Zanka watched him go, then headed out alone.
The day dragged like wet concrete. Jabber skipped half his classes, mind too scattered to focus. Riyo’s words kept looping: “Show him you’re listening.” Easier said than done when Zanka wouldn’t even look at him.
First attempt: between morning lectures. Jabber spotted Zanka in the crowded hallway near the arts building his hoodie up, headphones in, moving fast like he had somewhere urgent to be. Jabber jogged to catch up, dodging a group of freshmen.
“Zan! Hey, tough guy—wait up!”
Zanka didn’t slow. If anything, his stride lengthened. Jabber fell in step beside him anyway, grinning like nothing was wrong.
“Come on, baby. Don’t ice me out. I know I was a dick last night. Let me make it up?”
Zanka’s jaw tightened. He pulled one headphone out just enough to mutter, “Not now,” then shoved it back in and kept walking.
Jabber’s grin slipped. He reached out, fingers brushing Zanka’s sleeve. “Zanka—”
Zanka jerked his arm away like it burned. Didn’t say another word. Just disappeared around the corner.
Jabber stood there, hand still outstretched, feeling like an idiot in the middle of the hallway. A couple girls nearby giggled behind their hands. He flipped them off half-heartedly and turned away.
Second attempt: lunch in the cafeteria. Jabber got there early, claimed their usual corner table, even grabbed Zanka’s favorite spicy ramen from the hot bar, extra chili flakes. He set it down like an offering, then waited.
Zanka walked in ten minutes later. Saw Jabber. Saw the ramen. Paused for half a second, long enough that Jabber’s heart jumped and then turned and headed for the salad bar instead. Grabbed a boring wrap, paid, and sat at a table full of random comp-sci kids on the other side of the room.
Jabber stared across the sea of trays. His own food went cold untouched. He texted under the table:
i got your ramen
extra spicy the way you like it
come sit?
Jabber shoved his phone in his pocket, stood up, and dumped both trays in the trash. The clatter drew eyes. He didn’t care.
Third attempt: outside the psych building after Zanka’s afternoon seminar. Jabber leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, trying to look casual. When Zanka came out, he pushed off the wall.
“Yo, sweetheart. Got a minute?”
Zanka stopped short, eyes flicking over him, cold and guarded. “No.”
He tried to step past. Jabber blocked gently, not grabbing, just body in the way.
“Please. Five minutes. I know I fucked up. Riyo already called me an idiot. She’s right. Just talk to me.”
Zanka’s gaze dropped to Jabber’s chest, then away. “Move.”
“Jabber’s voice cracked a little. “Zan Zan—”
“Don’t.” Zanka’s tone was flat, final. He sidestepped and kept going, leaving Jabber standing there like a fool again.
By late afternoon, Jabber was fraying. Practice was in an hour, but he couldn’t focus. He tracked Zanka one last time he was outside the gym, where Zanka sometimes cut through to the dorms after his last class.
There he was, backpack slung low, walking fast. Jabber jogged up, out of breath, no grin this time.
“Zanka. Stop.”
Zanka didn’t. Jabber grabbed his wrist—light, but firm enough to halt him.
Zanka yanked free, spinning around. Eyes blazing. “What part of leaving me alone don’t you get?”
Jabber held up both hands. “I get it. You’re pissed. You should be. But I’m not walking away until you hear me out.”
Zanka crossed his arms, breathing hard. “Then talk fast. I have shit to do.”
Jabber swallowed. The teasing was gone; his voice came out raw. “I’m sorry. Really sorry. Last night… I was trying to say we’re different, that we don’t need the same crap everyone else does. But it came out like your feelings don’t matter. Like asking for something was stupid. It wasn’t. I was being lazy. Scared, maybe. Of doing something that felt… soft. But that’s on me. Not you.”
Zanka’s expression didn’t soften, but the hard line of his shoulders eased a fraction.
Jabber kept going, quieter. “The ring? Yeah, it’s important. But it’s not a free pass forever. You deserve more than one gesture from months ago. You deserve me showing up every damn day. And I haven’t been. I see that now.”
Silence stretched. Zanka stared at the ground, jaw working.
Jabber risked a step closer. “It’s the 13th. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s. Let me fix this. Please. Forgive me?”
Zanka exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding it all day. His voice came out rough. “You hurt my feelings.”
“I know.” Jabber’s throat felt tight. “I hate that I did.”
Zanka finally looked up. Eyes still guarded, but not ice anymore. Tired. Hurt. But listening.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “But don’t think this means everything’s okay.”
Jabber nodded fast. “It’s not. I get it. Just… let me come back to our dorm tonight? Let me try.”
Zanka studied him for a long beat. Then, barely audible: “We’ll see.”
He turned and walked away. Not as fast this time. Not as closed off.
Jabber watched him go, chest aching in a way no punch ever caused. But it was progress. Tiny, fragile progress.
He had one night to prove he meant it.
♡ ♡ ♡
The dorm room felt smaller the second the door clicked shut behind them. The string lights Zanka had strung up months ago were still plugged in, glowing that soft amber color that made everything look warmer than it actually was. Right now, though, the warmth didn’t reach either of them. Jabber stood just inside the threshold, gym bag still dangling from one shoulder like he hadn’t decided whether he was staying or bolting. Zanka had already crossed to the desk, back turned, hands braced on the edge like he needed something solid to hold onto.
Neither of them spoke for a long beat. The only sound was the low hum of the mini-fridge and Jabber’s breathing, still a little heavy from the walk back after their tense conversation outside the gym.
Jabber let the bag slide off his shoulder. It hit the floor with a dull thud. He took one step forward, then another, until he was close enough to see the tight line of Zanka’s shoulders under the hoodie.
“I meant what I said outside,” Jabber started, his voice lower than usual, stripped of its typical chaotic edge. No grin, no nicknames it wasjust vulnerability he rarely showed. “I’ll really make it up to you. Whatever you want. However you need it. I’m not leaving unless you tell me to.”
Zanka’s shoulders tensed visibly. He didn’t turn around right away. His breathing was even, but Jabber could see the way his fingers flexed against the desk, like he was holding back from saying something sharp. When he finally spoke, his voice came out rough, laced with that lingering hurt from the night before.
“You keep throwing around words like that. Like ‘make it up’ is some magic fix. But you don’t get how much it stung, Jabber. Last night, after you left for practice, I sat here alone, replaying what you said. Like wanting flowers or something simple made me needy or stupid. Like our relationship was just… minimal effort from you.”
Jabber winced, the words landing like a punch to the gut. He stepped closer, close enough now that Zanka could probably feel the warmth radiating off his body. “I know. I was a complete idiot. I didn’t think. I hurt you, and I hate that. Let me show you it’s not like that. Not with words, with whatever you want from me right now.”
Zanka finally turned, slow and deliberate. His eyes met Jabber’s, still a little red at the corners from the emotional weight of the day, but steady, searching for any sign of a lie. He couldn’t find it. Jabber held his gaze, unflinching, his own eyes wide and pleading.
Jabber didn’t wait for more. He dropped to his knees right there on the thin carpet, the rough fibers digging into his skin through his pants. His hands came up, fingers curling gently but firmly around Zanka’s thigh, clinging like he needed the contact to ground himself. He pressed his cheek against the denim, right at the warmth of Zanka’s crotch, nuzzling in slow, needy circles. A soft whimper escaped him, it was low and broken, vibrating against the fabric.
Zanka’s breath hitched audibly, a sharp inhale that cut through the silence. His hand hovered in the air for a long second, uncertain, before settling into Jabber’s dreads. Fingers threaded through the thick strands, not pulling, just holding, almost like he was steadying himself too.
“What do you want, Jabber?” Zanka asked again, his voice quieter now, a little unsteady. It cracked slightly on Jabber’s name, betraying the mix of emotions swirling inside him. “You think dropping to your knees erases how I felt? Like it’s that easy?”
Jabber shook his head against Zanka’s thigh, the denim rough against his skin. “No… I know it doesn’t. And I’m really sorry.” His breath came out hot and ragged, soaking through the fabric in warm puffs. “I was wrong. I made you doubt us. Doubt me.I was an asshole. I made you feel like you weren’t worth the effort. Like our relationship was some bare-minimum setup. I hate that I did that to you.”
Another whimper came again—deeper this time, more desperate. Jabber’s hands slid higher, clinging tighter to Zanka’s thighs, fingers digging in just enough to feel the muscle tense underneath. He nosed higher, pressing his face fully into the crotch of Zanka’s baggy jeans, inhaling deeply, the familiar scent of Zanka grounding him even as his own arousal stirred. Zanka’s hips twitched forward slightly, a soft gasp escaping his lips.
Jabber’s teeth grazed the zipper tab. He caught it carefully between them, tugging it down inch by inch with his mouth. The metallic zip sound filled the room, slow, and teasing in its pace. Zanka shivered hard, a full-body tremor that Jabber felt through the contact. His fingers in Jabber’s dreads tightened reflexively, pulling just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a spark down Jabber’s spine.
Jabber nosed the waistband of Zanka’s boxers aside, exposing him. Zanka was already hardening, thickening under the attention, thick, flushed, and the head glistening slightly. Jabber didn’t rush. He leaned in, lips brushing the base first, a soft kiss that drew a quiet hiss from Zanka. Then his tongue darted out, licking a slow stripe up the underside, savoring the salty taste.
Zanka’s breath stuttered a low, shaky exhale. Jabber took him in properly then lips sealing around the head, tongue swirling lazily around it. He sucked gently at first, drawing out the sensation, letting the wet sounds of his mouth fill the room: soft slurps, the occasional pop when he pulled back to breathe. Jabber whimpered around him, vibrations humming through Zanka’s cock, making Zanka’s thighs tense.
“Fuck…” Zanka murmured, barely audible, his voice breaking on the word.
Jabber took more, inching down slowly, throat relaxing as he bobbed his head. He was good at this, too good, his tongue working the underside, cheeks hollowed for suction. Whimpers kept spilling from him, muffled around Zanka’s dick, needy and desperate. Each one sent a fresh shiver through Zanka, his hand guiding Jabber forward now and gentle pushes at first, then firmer.
The room grew louder with sounds: Jabber’s wet sucking, Zanka’s uneven breaths turning into soft gasps, the occasional slick pop when Jabber came up for air. Saliva dripped down Jabber’s chin, making a mess, but he didn’t care. He pushed deeper on his own, throat fluttering as he took Zanka to the hilt.
Zanka pushed deeper, holding for a second. Jabber gagged softly, a wet choke that vibrated around him, eyes watering as tears pricked the corners. He held it, nose pressed to Zanka’s skin, whimpering through the gag. When Zanka eased back, Jabber pulled off with a ragged, wet cough and strings of saliva connecting his swollen lips to the glistening head. He panted hard, chest heaving, coughs turning into whimpers as he looked up.
Zanka stared down at him, eyes glassy and tears welling but not falling yet, pupils blown wide with arousal. His lips were parted, cheeks flushed, a mix of pleasure and raw emotion twisting his features. He didn’t say anything he just reached down, thumb brushing Jabber’s wet chin almost tenderly.
Jabber wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand, voice hoarse and wrecked. “Let me make it right. Fuck me. Please… it’s been too long since you topped.”
Zanka exhaled shakily, almost a sob, his chest rising and falling fast. His hand in Jabber’s dreads tightened for a moment, then released with a tremble.
“Strip,” he said, the word coming out rough, like it took effort to get it past the lump in his throat.
Jabber stood on legs that felt unsteady, like all the blood had rushed elsewhere. He peeled off his hoodie first—slow now, drawing it out, the fabric whispering as it hit the floor. Shirt next, revealing the lean muscle of his chest, already dotted with faint bruises from practice. Pants and boxers came off together in a hurried shove, his cock springing free, longer than Zanka’s, hard and leaking at the tip.
Naked, skin prickling in the cool air, Jabber climbed onto the bed and sat in the middle, knees drawn up slightly, arms resting on them. Waiting. Eyes locked on Zanka, pleading silently.
Zanka stripped too,slower, and more controlled. Hoodie tugged over his head, messing up his hair. Shirt lifted, exposing the smooth planes of his stomach. Jeans shoved down, boxers kicked off last. His cock bobbed free, thick and fully erect now, slick from Jabber’s mouth.
He turned to the nightstand drawer, rummaged for a long moment, drawers scraping softly—before pulling out the lube bottle. He came back to the bed, kneeling at the edge.
Jabber’s eyes flicked to the empty spot in the drawer where condoms usually sat. “No condom?”
Zanka shook his head once, firm. “We don’t need one.”
Jabber swallowed hard, a fresh whimper escaping him. The idea of it raw, no barriers, sent a thrill through him. His cock twitched visibly. He nodded, no argument. Everything about his body was Zanka’s anyway.
Zanka knelt fully between Jabber’s spread legs now. One hand wrapped around Jabber’s length squeezing firmly at first, then harshly, twisting just enough to border on pain. Jabber hissed sharply, hips jerking up into the grip. The sound turned into a long, drawn-out whimper as pleasure chased the sting.
“Fuck… it hurts so good… Zan…”
Zanka stroked once slowly, thumb rubbing over the head to spread the precome. Then harder, faster. Jabber’s head fell back against the headboard with a soft thump, mouth slack, drool gathering at the corner of his lips and trickling down. His breathing turned ragged and loud pants filling the room, whimpers mixing in on every exhale.
They stayed like that for what felt like ages. Zanka worked him with rough, unyielding strokes, watching Jabber unravel bit by bit. Jabber’s patience finally snapped, a desperate whine building in his throat.
“Zan… I'm getting so impatient…”
“Shut up,” Zanka murmured, but his voice was softer now, almost affectionate under the command. His own breathing was quicker, matching Jabber’s rhythm.
Jabber huffed a breathless laugh. Then he suddenly rolled off the bed, legs wobbling as he stood. “Wait… just one second.”
He disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The sound of the shower starting up filtered through, water hitting tile, and steam building.
Zanka sat back on his heels, hand idly stroking himself, chest tight with anticipation. The minutes dragged, five, ten, fifteen. He glanced at the clock. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty minutes ticked by, the shower running the whole time.
Finally, the water shut off. The door opened with a creak.
Jabber stepped out dripping wet, his dreads heavy and clinging to his shoulders and back, water droplets tracing paths down his flushed skin. The towel was wrapped loosely around his waist, barely hanging on. He looked refreshed, prepared, clean in every sense, his body open and ready.
Zanka didn’t waste a second. He surged up, grabbing Jabber’s arm hard, fingers digging into muscle and shoved him face-down onto the mattress. The bed creaked under the force, Jabber landing with a soft oof, the towel falling away completely.
Zanka climbed over him, straddling his thighs. He popped the lube cap with a sharp click, poured a thick, glistening stream directly onto his fingers. Then added more pouring it right onto Jabber’s hole without warning.
“Spread your legs wider,” Zanka ordered, voice low and commanding.
Jabber obeyed instantly, knees sliding apart on the damp sheets, thighs trembling with anticipation. The lube hit cold— a shocking chill that made Jabber shiver violently, a full-body shudder that drew out a long, needy whimper.
“Its Cold… shit, that’s cold…”
Zanka didn’t respond with words. He leaned down instead, one hand bracing beside Jabber’s head, the other still slick. He captured Jabber’s mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, their tongues sliding together immediately, wet and messy. Saliva mixed, spilling over lips, the sounds of it loud: soft smacks, shared breaths turning into gasps. Jabber moaned into Zanka’s mouth, deep, his body arching up to press closer.
The kiss dragged on, turning filthier, teeth nipping, tongues battling for dominance that Zanka easily claimed. Jabber whimpered through it all, hands fisting the sheets, ready for whatever came next.
The kiss lingered long after Zanka pulled back. Their lips were swollen, slick with shared spit, breaths mingling in hot, uneven pants. Jabber’s mouth hung open slightly, tongue darting out to chase the taste of Zanka still on his lips. His body was already trembling, his skin flushed from the shower, from the earlier oral, from the anticipation that had been building since they walked through the door.
Zanka stayed hovering over him, one knee braced between Jabber’s spread thighs, the other planted on the mattress for balance. His hair fell forward, shadowing his eyes again, making it impossible for Jabber to read him fully. The lube bottle sat open beside them, cap discarded somewhere on the sheets. Zanka’s fingers—three now glistening with fresh lube, hovered just above Jabber’s hole.
He didn’t speak. Just watched Jabber’s face for a long second, thumb brushing once over the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Then he pressed the first finger back slowly.
Jabber’s breath hitched sharply. The stretch was familiar but still intense after the long break since Zanka last topped him. His hole clenched reflexively around the intrusion, then relaxed as Zanka pushed deeper, knuckle by knuckle. The wet sound of lube-slicked skin sliding in was obscene in the quiet room, soft and slick.
Zanka worked him like that for what felt like forever, back and forth, excruciatingly slow. Into the second knuckle, out almost completely, then back in again. Each withdrawal left Jabber feeling empty, aching; each push forward drew a fresh whimper from deep in his chest. His hips twitched, trying to chase more, but Zanka’s free hand pressed down on his lower stomach firm, grounding and keeping him still.
“Zan…” Jabber breathed, voice cracking. “Please…”
Zanka added the second finger without breaking the rhythm. The stretch burned sweeter now, fuller. Jabber’s head tipped back against the pillow, dreads fanning out dark against the white sheets. His hands fisted the fabric beside his head, knuckles white. The room filled with wet sounds: the squelch of fingers moving inside him, Jabber’s ragged breathing turning into soft, needy moans, the occasional creak of the bed frame as his hips jerked involuntarily.
Zanka curled his fingers slowly, searching until he found that spot. Jabber’s entire body jolted, a sharp gasp ripping out of him. His cock still hard, untouched since the handjob earlier leaked steadily onto his stomach, a thin string of precome connecting the head to his abs.
“There…” Jabber whimpered, voice high and broken. “Right there–fuck…”
Zanka didn’t speed up. He kept the same torturous pace, slow drags over that spot, in and out, letting Jabber feel every inch of the stretch, every press against his prostate. Jabber’s thighs trembled, muscles tensing and releasing. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes not from pain, but from the overwhelming build-up, the way Zanka was drawing it out, making him feel every second.
When Zanka added the third finger, Jabber’s back arched off the bed. A choked sob escaped him. The fullness was intense and borderline too much but exactly what he craved. His hole pulsed around Zanka’s fingers, clenching and fluttering. Zanka twisted them slightly, spreading him open, preparing him thoroughly.
Jabber couldn’t see Zanka’s face clearly, his hair still curtaining his eyes but he felt the shift in the air. Zanka’s breathing had grown heavier, more uneven. His free hand trembled slightly where it pressed on Jabber’s stomach.
Jabber reached up blindly, fingers brushing Zanka’s wrist. “You okay…?”
Zanka didn’t answer with words. He pulled his fingers out slowly, leaving Jabber clenching around nothing, whimpering at the emptiness. The wet sound of withdrawal was loud, almost embarrassing. Jabber’s hole fluttered visibly, slick and open.
Zanka lined himself up. The head of his cock pressed against Jabber’s entrance, slick with lube and Jabber’s own arousal. He pushed in slow at first, letting the head pop past the rim.
Jabber gasped, eyes flying wide. The stretch was different without a condom; it was hotter, more intimate, every ridge and vein dragging against his walls. Zanka sank in inch by inch, steady, unrelenting. Jabber’s hands flew to Zanka’s shoulders, nails digging in as he tried to ground himself.
When Zanka bottomed out his hips flushed against Jabber’s ass, both of them stilled for a heartbeat. Jabber’s hole tightened reflexively around him, pulsing hot and wet. The sensation was overwhelming.
Zanka exhaled shakily, forehead dropping to rest against Jabber’s shoulder for a moment. His hair brushed Jabber’s cheek. Then he started moving slow rolls of his hips. The sound of their bodies coming together filled the room: soft, wet slaps, the squelch of lube and precome, Jabber’s breathy moans, Zanka’s low grunts.
Jabber’s nails raked down Zanka’s back, hard enough to leave red lines. He clung to him, legs wrapping around Zanka’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back.
“Faster…” Jabber begged, voice wrecked. “move a little faster…”
Zanka obeyed. His thrusts picked up speed and still deep, but sharper now. The slap of skin on skin grew louder, rhythmic, obscene. Balls slapping against Jabber’s ass with every drive in. The bed creaked under them, headboard tapping the wall in time with Zanka’s rhythm.
Zanka angled just right, hitting Jabber’s prostate on every other thrust. Jabber’s moans turned higher, more desperate. His cock bounced against his stomach, untouched, leaking steadily. Pleasure coiled tight in his gut, building fast.
“Zan—fuck—right there—”
Zanka’s pace quickened further. The sounds engulfed everything: wet squelching, skin slapping, Jabber’s broken whimpers and moans, Zanka’s ragged breathing. Jabber’s hole clenched around him on every pull-out, trying to keep him inside.
“Rougher,” Jabber gasped, nails digging deeper into Zanka’s back. “be rougher with me…”
Zanka’s hips snapped forward harder once, twice, testing. Jabber cried out, back arching, pleasure spiking sharp and bright. Zanka took the cue. His thrusts turned punishingly deep, brutal, hips slamming forward with enough force to push Jabber up the mattress a few inches each time.
The room was loud now, their bed creaking violently, skin slapping wetly, Jabber’s moans turning into sobs of pleasure, Zanka’s grunts low and primal. Jabber felt every inch, every thrust stretching him wide, filling him completely.
He was close, dangerously close, his cock throbbing untouched, balls tight. Zanka’s hand slid between them, wrapping around Jabber’s length, stroking once, rough and fast.
Jabber shattered.
He came hard and his body convulsing, come spilling hot across his stomach and chest in thick pulses. His hole clenched rhythmically around Zanka, milking him. Jabber’s vision whited out for a second, moans slurring into incoherent whimpers.
Zanka didn’t stop. He fucked Jabber through the aftershocks chasing his own release. When it hit, he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering. He came inside Jabber. It was hot, flooding, and no barrier to stop it. Jabber felt every pulse, felt the warmth spread deep inside him, cum starting to leak out around Zanka’s cock as he kept shallowly rocking.
Zanka stayed buried for a long moment, panting against Jabber’s neck. Jabber whimpered softly, oversensitive, body still trembling.
Neither of them moved yet. The room smelled like sex, sweat, lube, come and their combined breaths were the only sound left.
Jabber was still trembling in the aftermath, his body loose and oversensitive, come cooling in sticky streaks across his stomach and chest. His hole pulsed around nothing now that Zanka had pulled out, cum leaking out slowly, warm and thick, trickling down between his cheeks onto the sheets. The wet, dripping sound was faint but noticeable in the quiet room, making Jabber groan softly, hips twitching like his body wasn’t quite ready to let go. His skin prickled with goosebumps, sweat drying in the cool dorm air, every nerve ending lit up from the intensity.
Zanka hovered above him for a long moment, breathing hard and uneven, skin slick with sweat that glistened under the string lights. His cock was still half-hard, glistening with lube and their combined release, a thin strand of it connecting to Jabber’s thigh as he shifted. He didn’t give Jabber much time to come down fully. Instead, he grabbed Jabber’s hips firm, and possessive, fingers digging into the soft flesh there and flipped him over in one smooth, forceful motion.
Jabber landed on his stomach with a muffled grunt, the air whooshing out of him as his face pressed into the pillow. The sheets were damp under him, they were sticky with come, sweat, and the scent of sex hung heavy in the air: musky, salty, intimate. Before Jabber could push up onto his elbows to catch his breath, Zanka was there, his knees bracketing Jabber’s thighs, chest pressing down over his back like a warm weight. One strong arm snaked around Jabber’s throat from behind, bicep flexing as he pulled Jabber’s head back and up until his spine arched sharply.
The choke was immediate, and firm, cutting off just enough air to make Jabber’s head spin. A low, gurgling moan bubbled up from Jabber’s throat, stars dancing at the edges of his vision. His hands scrabbled at the sheets, fingers clawing into the fabric, not fighting but clinging desperately as the pressure built. The sound of his own restricted breathing filled his ears, raspy, shallow inhales that turned into wet gasps when Zanka eased up just a fraction.
Zanka lined himself up then there was no gentle tease. The head of his cock slid through the mess of cum and lube still leaking from Jabber’s hole, the slick, squelching glide loud in the quiet. He thrust back in—deep, hard, bottoming out in one go. The stretch burned fresh, Jabber’s walls clenching around him with a wet, sucking sound that echoed obscenely.
Jabber choked out a broken moan, the sound garbled and muffled around the pressure on his throat. Zanka’s arm tightened fractionally enough to make Jabber’s next inhale even shallower, more desperate. The rhythm started brutal from the first stroke: hips snapping forward with a sharp slap of skin on skin, balls slapping wetly against Jabber’s ass, the squelch of cum being fucked deeper inside him loud and filthy. Each thrust pushed a fresh groan from Jabber—high and needy, vibrating through his chest.
The bed creaked violently under the force, headboard banging against the wall in erratic thumps that matched Zanka’s pace. Jabber’s cock still sensitive from coming once twitched against the sheets, trapped between his body and the mattress. Every thrust dragged it along the damp fabric with a soft, friction-filled slide, overstimulating him in sharp, electric bursts. He sobbed into the pillow, drool soaking the cotton in wet patches, the sounds turning messy: wet coughs when Zanka loosened the choke briefly, then gurgling whimpers when it tightened again.
Zanka’s free hand braced beside Jabber’s head, fingers digging into the mattress with a soft rip of fabric under his nails. He leaned down closer, lips brushing the shell of Jabber’s ear in hot puffs of breath. No words, just heavy pants that matched the slap-slap-slap of their bodies colliding.
Jabber’s vision blurred from the choke, pleasure spiking dangerously high with each restricted breath. When Zanka loosened just enough for him to gasp in a ragged, wheezing inhale, Jabber came again unexpectedly, untouched, weaker this time but still intense. Come dribbled out in thin, pulsing spurts onto the sheets beneath him, the wet splatter faint but audible. His body convulsed, hole clenching rhythmically around Zanka with sucking, squelching grips that drew low grunts from Zanka’s throat.
He sobbed louder now overstimulated, wrecked and tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and soaking into the pillow. The sounds filled the room: Jabber’s wet, hiccuping cries, the relentless slap of skin, the creak-creak-creak of the bed, Zanka’s ragged breathing turning into soft, primal growls.
Zanka didn’t stop. He fucked Jabber through the second orgasm, using the fresh slickness to drive in even rougher. The overstimulation hit Jabber like a wave: every thrust too much, too sensitive, too perfect. His whimpers turned into slurred pleas—“Zan… ah—too much—feels… so good…”—voice breaking on every word.
Zanka finally released the choke after what felt like an eternity, an arm sliding down to wrap around Jabber’s chest instead, holding him tight against his body as he kept thrusting. Jabber coughed harshly; it was wet and ragged, throat raw from the pressure and then moaned long and low, head lolling back against Zanka’s shoulder. The sudden rush of full air made his head spin, pleasure flooding back in waves.
Zanka pulled out suddenly with a wet, sucking pop leaving Jabber clenching around nothing. Cum oozed out in a slow, thick trickle, the dripping sound audible as it hit the sheets. Jabber whined at the loss—high and needy, hips bucking back instinctively.
Zanka flipped him again, gentler this time, hands guiding rather than shoving, onto his back. Jabber’s legs fell open automatically, thighs trembling uncontrollably, knees weak. Zanka settled between them, leaning down to attack Jabber’s chest with his mouth.
He started with bites along the collarbones. Teeth sank in slowly at first, pressure building until skin gave way to a deep, throbbing mark. Jabber arched, a sharp hiss turning into a long whimper as Zanka sucked hard on the bite, tongue laving over the indent to soothe and bruise at the same time. The wet sucking sound was loud, and slurpy leaving dark red welts that would turn purple by morning.
Jabber’s hands flew up to grip Zanka’s shoulders, nails digging in with scratching slides that left red trails. “Zan… fuck… more…”
Zanka moved lower, biting along the ribs it was short, quick nips that stung like fire, followed by longer sucks that pulled blood to the surface. Each one drew fresh whimpers from Jabber high-pitched, his body writhing under the assault. The sounds mixed: wet pops when Zanka released a mark, Jabber’s gasping breaths, the soft rustle of sheets as he shifted.
Then Zanka latched onto one nipple, sucking hard at first, tongue flicking over the peak in rapid circles. Jabber’s back bowed off the bed, a loud sob ripping from his throat. The suction was intense—wet, pulling and making the nipple harden painfully under Zanka’s mouth. Zanka bit down gently his teeth grazing, then clamping lightly, tugging until Jabber cried out, tears spilling freely now.
He didn’t rush. Spent long minutes on that one nipple alternating sucks, bites, licks. The sounds were filthy: slurping pulls, Jabber’s wet whimpers turning into sobs, the occasional pop when Zanka pulled back to blow cool air over the sensitive bud. Jabber’s cock twitched feebly, oversensitive and spent but still responding with weak pulses of precome.
Zanka switched to the other nipple and gave the same treatment, even slower. Sucked until it peaked, bit down harder this time and drawing a sharp, keening whine from Jabber. Tongue swirled, teeth tugged, lips sealed around it in wet, noisy pulls. Jabber’s hands tangled in Zanka’s hair, not guiding but clinging, fingers trembling.
Zanka’s hands roamed everywhere during it all: squeezing Jabber’s sides with firm grips that would leave fingerprints, dragging blunt nails down his ribs in slow scratches that burned red lines, thumbs pressing into the fresh bite marks to make them throb anew. Jabber writhed under the attention his body arching, hips bucking.
Zanka slid lower eventually. His mouth closed around Jabber’s cock–tender this time, slow licks along the shaft from base to tip, gentle suction around the head. The wet slurps were softer, more intimate and his tongue lapping up the mess of precome and earlier release. Jabber’s hips jerked, hands hovering uncertainly above Zanka’s head. He wanted to push down, to chase more, but he held back his fingers trembling in the air, whimpers turning into hiccuping gasps.
Zanka took him deeper, slow, careful bobs of his head, throat relaxing around the length. The sounds grew wetter: soft gags when he went too deep, slurping pulls on the upstroke, Jabber’s broken moans echoing. Jabber’s breathing hitched, turning into soft, hiccuping whimpers that built higher and higher.
When Jabber came again—small, almost dry, just a weak pulse of release, Zanka swallowed everything with a low hum, the vibration drawing one last shudder from Jabber. He pulled off with a soft, wet pop, lips shiny.
He didn’t give Jabber time to recover fully. Zanka climbed back up, lining himself up once more, his cock sliding through the slick mess at Jabber’s entrance with a wet glide. He pushed back inside, slow at first, letting Jabber feel the stretch all over again, the raw heat of it. A fresh squelch accompanied the entry, cum from before mixing with lube.
Then Zanka grabbed a fistful of Jabber’s dreads, yanking his head back with a sharp tug that stung at the roots. Jabber’s neck arched, throat exposed. The thrusts turned rougher, skin slapping loud and rhythmic. The bed creaked under the renewed force, headboard thumping steadily.
Jabber’s moans turned into sobs; he was overstimulated, wrecked, tears streaming down his temples in hot tracks. His hole clenched around Zanka with every thrust, sucking sounds wet and filthy.
Zanka’s own tears started then, silent at first, just a shimmer in his eyes. Then they spilled over, tracking down his cheeks in slow rivulets. He didn’t speak, just cried quietly, thrusts never slowing. Soft, inaudible murmurs slipped out between sobs—mumbled words too low to make out, like fragments of thoughts: “hurt… enough… why…” Jabber caught bits, but they dissolved into wet hiccups.
The tears dripped onto Jabber’s chest, salty drops landing on his skin, mixing with sweat and come. Jabber felt them, each one a little stab to his heart. He twisted as much as the hair-pull allowed, reaching up to pat Zanka’s back, gentle, and reassuring strokes down his spine. “It’s okay……”
Zanka’s sobs grew a little louder and wet, choking sounds that mixed with the slap of their bodies, the creak of the bed. He kept thrusting steadily his tears falling faster now. When he finally slowed, pulling out with a final wet squelch, his release spilling fresh inside Jabber, he collapsed forward.
His eyes were puffed up, red and swollen from the crying, lashes clumped wetly. Snot trickled down his nose, a thin trail that he didn’t seem to notice. Jabber looked at him, he was wrecked, vulnerable and a soft, affectionate laugh bubbled up from his chest, hoarse but real.
“Hey… come here,” Jabber murmured, patting Zanka’s back again, firmer this time, rubbing slow circles. He leaned up, pressing kisses to Zanka’s face: one on each puffed eyelid, gentle and lingering; one on his wet cheeks, tasting salt; one on the tip of his nose, wiping the snot away with his thumb before kissing there too. “You’re okay… we’re okay… I love you, Zan Zan. So much.”
Zanka didn’t speak, he just sniffled, tears slowing as he buried his face in Jabber’s neck. Jabber kept patting his back, holding him close, kisses turning into soft nuzzles. The room went quiet except for their shared, steady breathing and wet sniffles fading into calm.
…..
Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds in thin, golden stripes, landing across the tangled sheets and the two bodies still wrapped up in them. The dorm room smelled like sex and coffee a lingering musk from last night mixed with the sharp, fresh brew Jabber had just started. The string lights had been left on all night, their soft amber glow now competing with the morning sun, making everything look a little hazy, a little dreamlike.
Jabber woke first, buzzing with that post-pain high he always got. His body ached in the best way: nipples swollen and hypersensitive from Zanka’s relentless sucking and biting, dark purple bruises blooming across his chest, collarbones, and ribs, red scratch marks trailing down his back where Zanka’s nails had dug in while holding him down. His throat felt raw from moaning, begging, choking on Zanka’s cock earlier in the night, and his hole was tender, still leaking a faint reminder of Zanka’s release. Every shift pulled at the bruises, sending little sparks of pleasure-pain through him. He grinned at the ceiling anyway feeling refreshed, energized, like the night had scrubbed away every ounce of guilt and left only satisfaction.
He slipped out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Zanka yet. Shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, dreads messy from sleep and Zanka’s rough tugs, he padded to the kitchenette. The coffee machine gurgled to life. Jabber hummed under his breath it was some dumb, upbeat tune while pouring two mugs, moving like the bruises were badges instead of aches.
Zanka stirred slowly behind him, awareness creeping in piece by piece. First the ache was deep, throbbing soreness in his hips, thighs, lower back, and shoulders from thrusting hard, holding Jabber down, choking him, pulling dreads for leverage. His arms felt heavy, fatigued from the strain of controlling every rough snap of his hips. His throat was raw from growling commands, moaning, and the quiet sobs he hadn’t been able to hold back. His face felt puffy, cheeks tight from crying, nose a little stuffy. He sniffled once and winced at the lingering tightness around his eyes.
He rubbed his face with the heel of his hand, lashes still clumped from dried tears. The bed felt too empty without Jabber’s warmth.
The soft clink of a mug being set on the counter pulled Zanka’s attention. Jabber turned with two steaming mugs in hand, grin wide and bright, eyes sparkling like he’d slept ten hours instead of crashing after hours of being railed.
“Morning,” Jabber said cheerfully, voice still a little hoarse but full of that chaotic energy Zanka both loved and envied right now.
Zanka grunted, pushing himself up onto one elbow. The movement pulled at every sore muscle in his hips and back. He rubbed his face again, trying to wake up fully. “Yeah,” he mumbled, voice rough and gravelly. “Morning.”
Jabber crossed the room in a few steps, handing Zanka one of the mugs, black coffee, no sugar, no cream, just how he liked it. Jabber sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Zanka too much, and took a sip from his own cup. His eyes flicked over Zanka—taking in the puffy eyes, the faint tension in his shoulders and then down at himself, where his own bruises were on full display.
“You okay?” Jabber asked, softer now. No teasing. Just concern wrapped in easy affection.
Zanka took the mug, wrapping both hands around it for warmth. He blew on the surface, watching the steam curl up. “Sore,” he admitted quietly. “Hips are killing me. Shoulders too. Feels like I ran a marathon.”
Jabber’s grin softened into something gentler. He reached out, brushing a thumb lightly over Zanka’s cheek, right under one swollen eye. “Yeah… you went hard last night. You cried a lot too. Scared me a little, honestly. You good now? Like… really good?”
Zanka looked down into his coffee. The lingering hurt from before the misunderstanding, the locked door, the way Jabber’s words had cutnwas still there, but it felt smaller this morning. Dulled. Not gone, but not sharp anymore. They’d fucked it out, cried it out, held it out. Mostly.
“Yeah,” he said after a long sip. “Mostly. We’re… we’re good.” He glanced up, managing a faint, tired smile. “You look way too awake for someone who got wrecked like that.”
Jabber laughed, soft, relieved, a little sheepish. He rolled his shoulders, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at the scratches on his back. “Adrenaline, maybe. Or just happy you didn’t kick me out again.” He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Zanka’s temple. “Want me to run you the shower? Or just coffee and cuddles until your hips forgive you?”
Zanka huffed a small laugh, wincing as it pulled at his sore throat. “Coffee first. Then maybe ashower. If I can stand without my legs giving out.”
Jabber nodded, setting his mug aside. He scooted closer on the bed, careful, and wrapped an arm around Zanka’s shoulders—loose enough not to press on any tension, tight enough to feel grounding. Zanka leaned into him without thinking, resting his head against Jabber’s chest. Jabber’s heartbeat was steady, strong. Reassuring. The bruises on Jabber’s skin were warm under Zanka’s cheek, a tangible reminder of how thoroughly Zanka had claimed him.
They sat like that for a while, quiet, sipping coffee, listening to the distant sounds of campus waking up outside: muffled footsteps in the hallway, someone’s alarm going off down the corridor, birds chirping through the cracked window. The soreness in Zanka’s body settled into something almost comforting, like proof that last night had been real, intense, necessary. Jabber’s energy was still there, buzzing under his skin but he kept it contained, gentle, letting Zanka set the pace.
After a few minutes, Jabber spoke again, voice low. “I meant every word last night...”
Zanka closed his eyes, letting the words sink in. “I know,” he murmured. “Just… don’t do it again.”
“Never,” Jabber promised, kissing the top of his head.
They finished their coffee in comfortable silence. When Zanka finally tried to stand slowly, he was wincing and Jabber was right there, arm around his waist, helping him to the bathroom without a single joke or tease. The hot water of the shower helped loosen some of the stiffness in Zanka’s hips and back, and Jabber stayed close, washing Zanka’s back gently, careful of every tension spot, while Zanka traced the fresh bruises on Jabber’s chest with light fingertips.
The day dragged on after that, normal university rhythm, but softer around the edges.
Classes felt longer than usual. Zanka sat through his morning lecture half-distracted, shifting in his seat every few minutes to ease the ache in his hips and lower back. He kept catching himself smiling faintly at the memory of Jabber’s moans, the way Jabber had taken everything Zanka gave.
Lunch with friends in the cafeteria was the same old chaos, Rudo talking too loud about some party, Riyo rolling her eyes but laughing anyway. Zanka ate slowly, quieter than usual, but when Jabber slid into the seat next to him and bumped their shoulders together, Zanka leaned into it without hesitation. Jabber’s hand found his under the table–fingers lacing loosely, thumb rubbing small circles over Zanka’s knuckles.
No one commented. No one needed to. The tension from the last two days was gone, replaced by something easy and settled.
Still, part of Zanka lingered on it. He was glad they’d made up—glad they’d fucked and cried and talked it out until there was nothing left to say. But a quiet voice in the back of his mind still wondered: Did Jabber really get it? The flowers, the small gestures, the proof that Zanka mattered enough for Jabber to step outside his comfort zone. Last night was raw and real, but it wasn’t Valentine’s. It wasn’t the thing he’d asked for.
He pushed the thought down. They were good. Mostly.
By aftenoon, classes ended. Zanka trudged back to the dorm, backpack heavy on one shoulder, body still sore but moving easier. Jabber had texted him earlier it was something dumb and sweet about grabbing snacks from the vending machine. Zanka smiled at his phone despite himself.
♡ ♡ ♡
The campus was buzzing with Valentine’s day chaos as the sun disappeared behind the buildings and couples giggling under string lights in the quad, the faint smell of roses and cheap chocolate in the air, pink and red posters flapping on every bulletin board. Zanka walked back to the dorms slower than usual, plastic bag swinging from one hand, a modest bouquet of red roses clutched in the other. The flowers felt awkward in his grip and he’d never bought them for anyone before. He’d stopped at the little stand near the library after his last class, prices jacked up for the day, but the blooms were fresh and the vendor had given him a sympathetic nod when Zanka asked for “something simple but nice.”
He kept replaying the thought on loop: if he wanted Jabber to step up with gestures, he had to do the same. Reciprocate. Be an adult. Last night had been raw, tears (mostly his) bruises, apologies tangled in sex but it wasn’t Valentine’s. It wasn’t the thing he’d originally asked for. So today, on the actual day, he’d decided to start. Apologize properly for locking Jabber out, for icing him, for acting like a hurt kid instead of talking like a grown person. Relationships were two-sided. If he wanted affection, small proofs of love, he couldn’t just wait for Jabber to magically figure it out; he also had to show up too.
The plastic bag in his other hand held baking supplies: chocolate chips, flour, sugar, vanilla extract, and a cheap box of heart-shaped cookie cutters he’d grabbed on impulse at the campus convenience store. Nothing fancy, just cookies or brownies they could make together. A first step. Something quiet and affectionate. Something that said I’m trying too.
The dorm building was quieter than usual, most people out on dates or at the campus party in the student center. Zanka climbed the stairs slowly, thighs and hips still carrying faint echoes of last night’s soreness. Every step pulled at the muscles he’d used to thrust, to hold Jabber down, to pull his dreads. It was a good ache, grounding. A reminder they’d fixed things. Mostly.
He reached their door, key already in hand. The hallway light was dim; no light leaked under the door. Jabber was probably at late practice—Coach Zodyl loved running extra rounds on holidays when the gym was empty. Zanka exhaled, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He could set everything up first: put the roses in a cup (they didn’t own a vase), preheat the tiny oven, maybe surprise Jabber when he walked in tired and sweaty.
He turned the key. The door swung open into complete darkness.
Zanka stepped inside, fumbling for the light switch with his elbow while trying not to drop the flowers or bag. The overhead clicked on.
The room exploded into a warm, golden color.
String lights—way more than the usual ones—were looped across the ceiling, around the bed frames, even draped over the desk, twinkling soft gold and pink. Rose petals were scattered across the floor in a messy, lopsided heart shape leading straight to the bed. Balloons bobbed lazily against the ceiling, red, white, and a few metallic pink ones. On the desk sat a small, fancy box of chocolates (the kind with gold foil wrappers, not the drugstore stuff) and two steaming mugs that smelled like rich hot chocolate. And standing right in the middle of it all was Jabber.
Holding a massive bouquet of red roses, it was bigger and fuller than the ones Zanka had bought, wrapped in crinkly paper with a satin ribbon. Jabber’s dreads were pulled back neatly, he was wearing the dark button-up Zanka always said made him look good (the one that showed off his collarbones and the fresh purple bite marks Zanka had left last night), and his grin was wide, nervous, hopeful, and a little sheepish.
Zanka froze in the doorway. The plastic bag slipped from his fingers—flour and sugar thudding softly to the floor. His roses suddenly felt tiny and inadequate in comparison.
Jabber stepped forward first, bouquet extended like an offering. “Hey, tough guy.”
Zanka’s eyes stung instantly. He blinked hard, throat closing up. “You… you did all this?”
Jabber closed the distance in two steps, wrapping one arm around Zanka’s waist and pulling him in close. The roses squished between their chests, petals brushing Zanka’s cheek. Jabber pressed a kiss to his lips, soft at first, then deeper, tasting faintly of chocolate and nerves. Zanka kissed back automatically, free hand coming up to grip Jabber’s shirt, his own bouquet still clutched awkwardly in the other.
When they parted, Zanka pushed Jabber back gently, just enough to breathe to look at him properly. His voice came out thick, cracking. “How… When did you even plan this? You were at practice all day, weren’t you?”
Jabber rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish grin widening. “Riyo and Fu helped. A lot. Riyo basically bossed the whole thing. she texted me the plan at like 3 a.m. and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Fu let me borrow his extra lights and helped string them up this afternoon while you were in class. They knew I fucked up and wanted to help me fix it. I wanted to surprise you. Show you I get it now. That it’s not about grand shit, it’s about showing that you’re worth the effort.”
Zanka looked around again, the petals, the lights, the careful mess of it all. His eyes welled up for real this time, hot and sudden. He set his own bouquet carefully on the desk like it was fragile and turned back to Jabber.
“I… I got you these,” he said, nodding at the smaller flowers. “And stuff to bake. Chocolate chips, flour, cookie cutters. Thought if I wanted you to do something for me, I should do it too. Reciprocate. I’m sorry for how I acted. Locking you out, icing you, throwing a fit like a kid. We’re adults. I should’ve talked instead of shutting down. It’s a two-person thing. I can’t just expect you to read my mind and do everything. I’m sorry.”
Jabber’s grin softened into something tender, eyes shining. He cupped Zanka’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing under his eyes to catch the tears before they fell. “Hey. No. You don’t have to apologize for wanting to feel loved. I get it now. It wasn’t about Valentine’s being some big commercial thing. You just wanted to feel seen. Affection. Not silence. I was the one who made it quiet. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
Zanka laughed—wet, shaky, relief flooding through him. “We’re both idiots.”
“Yeah,” Jabber agreed, grinning wide. “But we’re idiots together.”
He leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to Zanka’s lips. Then another. And another, quick, playful pepper kisses across his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, the tip of his chin. Zanka huffed a laugh between them, hands sliding up Jabber’s chest to grip his shirt.
Jabber pulled back just enough to murmur against Zanka’s mouth, voice dropping low and teasing. “Can I have another? Different kind this time.”
Zanka’s eyes flicked down automatically at Jabber’s sweatpants and they were tented obviously, bulge straining against the fabric. Zanka groaned, half-laugh, half-exasperated, face heating up. “You’re so annoying.”
Jabber waggled his eyebrows, grin turning wicked. “But you love me.”
Zanka rolled his eyes, but he was smiling it was bright, no lingering hurt behind it. “Yeah. I do.”
He pulled Jabber back in by the collar, kissing him slow and deep, their tongues sliding, hands roaming. Jabber’s arms wrapped around Zanka’s waist, lifting him just enough to set him on the desk. The bouquet tipped over, petals scattering across the floor in a soft rain. Neither of them cared.
When they broke apart again breathing hard, foreheads pressed together—Zanka glanced down at the plastic bag on the floor, baking supplies spilled out in a small pile.
“We can still make cookies,” he said quietly, voice soft. “Later. Together.”
Jabber’s grin turned warm, eyes crinkling. “Deal. But first…”
He kissed Zanka again it was longer, sweeter and the room filled with the quiet sounds of two people finally on the same page: soft laughs, murmured apologies, the rustle of petals underfoot, the faint clink of mugs cooling on the desk, and the steady thump of hearts that refused to be thrown away.