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In the quiet corner of the University of Berkeley library, Miles Upshur and Waylon Park were buried under a mountain of textbooks and caffeine.
Miles, a junior journalism major with a reputation for a cynical mouth and a cheap camcorder always in his bag, is aggressively typing a scathing expose for the student paper. He stops only to shove a lukewarm coffee toward Waylon, who hasn’t looked up from his dual-monitor setup in three hours.
Waylon, a brilliant but high-strung software engineering student, is muttering to himself about encrypted servers. He’s the only person Miles trusts to fact-check his digital leads. “If you crash the campus Wi-Fi again, I’m not helping you hide from IT,” Miles deadpans, leaning back in his chair.
Waylon finally cracks a small, tired smile. “I’m not crashing it, more like securing it, Someone has to make sure your ‘anonymous sources’ don’t get us both expelled.”
They made an odd pair—a reckless investigator and a cautious coder. Miles kicked Waylon’s chair playfully. “Pizza at midnight? My treat if you can crack this password.”
“Make it stuffed crust,” Waylon replies, “and you’ve got a deal.”
“You know,” Miles says, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial drawl as he tosses a crumpled napkin at Waylon’s keyboard. “If we’re going to be up all night staring at code and corruption, we might as well do it with a little…assistance. Purely for the creative process, obviously.” He flashes a grin that’s a little too sharp to be a joke, leaning back until his chair creaks dangerously. “I know a guy behind the psych building. High-grade stuff. Might actually make your server logs look like poetry for once.”
Waylon doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even look up at first, his fingers hovering over the home row. The air between them shifts from library-quiet to something heavier. Waylon knows Miles—he knows the way Miles uses sarcasm as a smokescreen for when he’s actually spiraling over a lead or a deadline.
Waylon slowly turns his head, his gaze steady while catching Miles’ eyes before the journalist can look away. “You’re not joking, I can tell moron,” he spoke softly.
Miles’ grin falters, just for a fraction of a second. “I mean, it’s pizza and a movie, Waylon. Don’t be such a narc.”
“It’s not about being a narc,” Waylon counters, closing his laptop with a definitive thud. “It’s about the fact that you only ‘joke’ about getting high when you’re three inches away from a breakdown. What did you find in those emails today?”
Miles scoffed, the sound sharp enough to startle a freshman three tables over. “Fine, Dr. Phil. Message received.” He stands up abruptly, shoving his battered laptop into a messenger bag that’s seen better decades. “Forget the psych building. I’m heading back to the dorm.” He tosses his jacket over his shoulder, checking his phone with a twitchy thumb. “I’m getting that pizza delivered to my place. You coming, or are you gonna stay here and marry your motherboard?”
Waylon doesn’t hesitate. He’s already packing his gear, the heavy cables coiled with practical precision. He knows Miles is deflecting into his own space where the walls feel a little thicker and the world is a little further away. “I’m coming,” he says, hoisting his backpack. “Someone has to make sure you actually eat and don’t just stare at the ceiling for four hours.”
“I don’t stare at the ceiling,” Miles mutters as they push through the heavy library doors and into the crisp night air. “I stare at the floor.”
As they cross the quad toward the upperclassman dorms, the orange glow of the streetlights casts long, flickering shadows behind them. Miles is walking a step too fast, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, but Waylon keeps pace.
The door to room 302 clicks shut, and the muffled sounds of the hallway vanish. Waylon immediately drops his bag by the desk, pulling out his phone to navigate an app with practiced efficiency. “Stuffed crust, double pepperoni, and I’m adding those garlic knots you like,” he says, not looking up. “The delivery estimate is forty-five—”
The sound of a long, controlled inhale stops him mid-sentence.
Waylon turns to see Miles sprawled upright against the headboard of his unmade bed. The journalist hadn’t even changed. In his hand is a silm, matte-black vape pen, the tip glowing a sharp, artificial blue. Miles holds his breath for a beat, his eyes fixed on a peeling poster on the opposite wall, before exhaling a thick, sweet-smelling cloud that obscures his face.
“Miles,” Waylon sighs, his shoulders dropping. “I thought we talked about this outside.”
Miles coughs once, a rough, dry sound, and tilts his head back against the wall. The frantic, twitchy energy he’d carried across the quad is already beginning to melt, replaced by a heavy, glass-eyed stillness. He watches through hooded eyes, a lazy, knowing tilt to his head as he holds the pen out. “Come on, live a little. You’re always stuck in the back-end of some server—try being in the front-end of reality for a second.”
Waylon looks at the matte-black device like it’s a live wire. He’s the guy who usually reads the terms and conditions before clicking ‘accept.’ But looking at Miles—seeing him finally, mercifully still—Waylon feels the weight of his own anxiety pressing against his ribs. “I’m going to regret this,” he mutters, his hand trembling just slightly as he takes the pen.
“Only if you overthink it,” Miles murmurs. “Which you’re doing right now. Stop.”
Waylon takes the pen, mimicking the action he’s seen Miles do a thousand times. He presses the button, the blue light illuminating his hesitant face. He holds it for a second before letting out a thin, shaky exhale. He waits for the world to explode. It doesn’t. Instead, after a few heartbeats, the sharp edges of the room seem to round off. The hum of the mini-fridge softens into a gentle pulse, and the fluorescent light over his desk loses its aggressive bite.
“There he is,” Miles says, his voice sounding like it’s coming from a mile away and right next to his ear at the same time. “Welcome to the front end of reality, Park. How’s the view?”
Waylon leans back, his spine hitting the wall as he slides down to sit more comfortably on the mattress. A slow, unexpected giggle bubbles up in his chest. “Everything is..vibrating. Is the wall supposed to vibrating?”
“Only the parts that like you,” Miles jokes, reaching out to lazily pat Waylon’s shoulder.
They soon lay side by side in the hazy dimness, playing with fire. Waylon looks down at his hands, fascinated by how slow his fingers feel.
“Miles?” Waylon asks, his voice airy.
“Yeah?”
“We should definitely get the garlic knots next time, too.”
Miles chuckles loudly, closing his eyes. “You already ordered them.” He had sat up a bit straight, his eyes locked on Waylon’s with a newfound intensity that cuts through his earlier lethargy. He takes another long, slow pull from the pen, the blue light reflecting in his dark pupils.
Instead of leaning back, Miles leans in. He closes the distance between them until Waylon can feel the heat radiating off him. With a faint, daring smirk, Miles tilts his head and slowly exhales. He doesn’t blow the cloud into the room this time; he directs the steady, silver stream directly toward Waylon’s parted lips, the vapor lingering between them like a physical bridge.
Waylon freezes, his breath hitching as he inhales the secondhand haze. The world was already vibrating, but now his heart is hammering a frantic rhythmic against his ribs. The challenge in Miles’ gaze is unmistakable, stripping away the safety of their usual “best friend” banter.
Miles lingers there for a second too long, his face inches from Waylon’s, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle on the mattress right next to Waylon’s hand. “Better?” Miles asks, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum.
Waylon swallowed hard; the taste of the vapor sweet on his tongue, his head spinning from more than just the hit. The cautious coder is gone, replaced by someone acutely aware of the weight of Miles’ presence. “Much better,” Waylon breathes out, his voice barely a whisper.
Just as the space between them becomes electric, Miles breaks the tension with a lazy, lopsided grin. He pulls back, the heavy pull of the high finally winning over his bravado, and collapses back into his pillows with a contented thud. “Man,” he exhales, staring up at the ceiling where the vapor is curling into slow patterns. “I think I can actually hear the color of your laptop light.”
Waylon is left suspended in the sudden quiet, his heart still thundering, his lips still tingling from the proximity. He stays leaned forward for a heartbeat too long, the “what if” hanging in the air like the fading smoke. He looks at Miles, who is now completely relaxed, eyes half-closed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he just set Waylon’s entire world on fire.
The opportunity vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Waylon slowly sinks back against the wall, his hands tucked awkwardly between his knees. He feels a strange mix of relief and a sharp, nagging ache of disappointment. He had been right there.
Miles reaches out blindly, his hand grazing Waylon’s knees before resting there with a heavy, grounding weight. “You’re a good one, Park,” Miles mutters, his voice thick. “Don’t ever get an internship at a tech giant. They’ll ruin you.”
Waylon looks down at Miles’ hand, then at his peaceful, reckless face. “I’ll try not to,” he says softly. He leaned over Miles, caging him in against the pillows with his arms braced on either side of Miles’ shoulders. The sudden shadow makes Miles blink, his eyes fluttering open just as Waylon closes the distance. It’s a soft, clumsy collision—tasting of sweet vapor and suppressed nerves—but it’s enough to make the world stop spinning.
For a heartbeat, the friction of the kiss is the only thing that’s real in the room.
Then, the reality of what he just did hits Waylon like a system crash. He pulls back abruptly, his face flushing a deep, frantic red in the dim light. “I—Miles, I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice cracking as he avoids looking at him. Before Waylon could scramble away, Miles’ hand shoots up, catching him by the back of his neck with a grip that is surprisingly firm despite the haze. He doesn’t let Waylon retreat into an apology; instead, he pulls him back down, closing the gap Waylon just tried to create.
Miles kisses him back, and it’s not clumsy. It’s hungry and certain. He hooks his other hand into the fabric of Waylon’s hoodie, anchoring him there, effectively pinning the blonde over him. The tension that’s been simmering between them for three years finally boils over, turning the cramped dorm bed into the only place in the world that matters. Waylon’s breath hitches into Miles’ mouth, his heart doing a frantic staccato against Miles’ chest. He feels the brunettes grin against his lips—that same reckless, confident smirk, but softer now, meant only for him.
“Shut up,” Miles mumbles against his lips, his voice a low, rough vibration. “Stop apologizing. You’re overthinking again.”
Miles shifts, settling deeper into the pillows but keeping Waylon caged in close, his legs tangling with Waylon’s. The high hasn’t made Miles sluggish; it’s made him an honest man. He looks up at Waylon, his eyes dark and focused. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move for a long time.”
Waylon finally relaxes, his arms trembling slightly as he supports his weight over Miles, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I thought I broke something.”
The sudden buzz of Waylon’s phone against the nightstand acts like a bucket of cold water; though neither of them moves for a long, lingering second. The screen glows with a Domino’s Track alert.
“That’s…that’s the pizza,” Waylon breathes, his forehead still resting against Miles’. The adrenaline of the kiss is warring with the intense realization that he is very hungry and very much in Mile Upshur’s personal space.
Miles chuckles, slowly releasing his grip on Waylon’s hoodie, letting his hands fall back to the mattress. “Go. Save the garlic knots. I’m not sure I can actually stand up yet.”
Waylon rolls off the bed, his legs feeling like jelly as he smoothes his hair. He feels Miles’ eyes tracking him all the way to the door—a look that’s far warmer than the cynical stares he usually reserves for the rest of the world. Minutes later, Waylon returned, balancing two steaming boxes and a side of knots. He kicks the door shut and finds Miles sitting up, back against the headboard, looking uncharacteristically soft.
Waylon sets the boxes down on the edge of the bed and sits cross-legged facing him. As he flips open the lid, the steam rising between, he feels the shift. The tension hasn’t disappeared; it’s just transformed into something more comfortable for now.
“So,” Miles says, reaching for a slice and taking a massive bite. He looks at Waylon, a bit of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth. “About that glitch in the system. We’re definitely not debugging that tomorrow, right?”
Waylon smiles, finally picking up a garlic knot. “No. I’ll leave that feature in the final build.”
The pizza boxes had been cast aside on the desk after several minutes of the duo snacking and chatting. Miles once back leaned back on the headboard, a long, heavy exhale escaping him. The combination of the high, the carbs, and a sudden desire had stripped away the sharp, jagged edges of his usual anxiety. He felt lighter—relieved in a way that makes the silence of the room feel like a sanctuary rather than a void.
Waylon is busy folding a napkin, though his eyes kept darting towards Miles. “You feel better?” he asked, noticing the change in Miles' posture.
“Immensely,” Miles mutters. He watches Waylon for a moment, the dim light of the desk lamp catching the sharp line of Waylon’s jaw. “But you know,” Miles says, his voice dropping an octave as he reaches out, snagging Waylon’s wrist and pulling him back toward the center of the bed. “I think I’m still missing something. I skipped the most important part of the meal.”
Waylon tilts his head, his heartbeat starting to pick up again. “The garlic knots were right there, Miles. What else is there?”
Miles pulls him closer until they’re knee-to-knee, his gaze dropping to Waylon’s lips before snapping back up with a look that is purely predatory in the best possible way. “Dessert,” Miles breathes. “And I think you’re the only thing on the menu I’m interested in right now.”
Waylon doesn’t stutter this time. He lets the napkin fall to the floor, leaning into the space Miles has carved out for him. “I think I can help with that,” he whispers. He doesn’t hesitate with climbing back over Miles, caging him against the pillows just as he had before the delivery interrupted them. This time, however, the nervous energy had been replaced by focused heat. He looks down at Miles, seeing the way the journalist’s pupils are blown wide—half from the high, half from the steer intensity of the moment. “You were saying?” Waylon murmurs, his voice steadier than he ever thought possible.
Miles doesn’t answer with words. He reaches up, his hands sliding firmly into Waylon’s hair to pull him down into a deep, bruising kiss. It’s the “dessert” he wanted—sweet, intoxicating, and a complete distraction from the dark world he usually spends his days documenting. Waylon sinks into it, his hands finding purchase on Miles’ shoulder, feeling the tension finally snap. The rhythm they find is desperate but synchronized, a frantic attempt to make up for the years of silence. Miles' hands move from Waylon’s hair to the small of his back, pulling him flush against him until there isn’t a single inch of air left between them.
“Took you long enough,” Miles rasps against his lips, his breath hot and erratic. “I was starting to think I’d have to hack my way into your heart.”
Waylon lets out a low, breathy laugh, his nose brushing against Miles’. “I’ve already made up my mind.”
The dim light of the desk lamp casts long, dancing shadows against the dorm walls as their kiss deepens, turning from a tentative taste into something ravenous. Miles’ hands began trembling slightly as they slid under the hem of Waylon’s hoodie. The contact of skin on skin—Miles’ palms warm against Waylon’s ribs—is like a jolt of electricity that snaps the last of their restraint. Waylon lets out a low, shaky breath against Miles’ lips, his own hands fumbling with the buttons of Miles’ button up. He manages to undo a few, his fingers clumsy with a mix of adrenaline and the lingering haze of the high, before Miles simply pulls the fabric apart with a flush on his face. His pecs had scarring that didn’t bother Waylon the slightest as he had prior knowledge of Miles’ identity. The sound of the fabric shifting and the soft creak of the dorm bed are the only things breaking the silence. Miles tugs Waylon’s hoodie over his head, discarding it blindly toward the floor where it lands near the forgotten pizza boxes.
“Waylon,” Miles rasps, his voice breaking as he pulls back just an inch to look at him. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on the man caging him in. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to shut your brain up like this.”
Waylon offers a small, breathless smirk, his heart hammering against Miles’ chest. “Then stop talking, take it…”
Waylon leans back down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of Miles’ jawline, sending a shiver through the journalist. His weight pressed Miles deeper into the mattress with his lips hitting the pulse point at the brunette’s neck. He could feel the frantic thrum of Miles’ heart. Miles’ let out a sharp, hitching breath, his head falling back into the pillow as his eyes flutter shut. His fingers gripped at Waylon’s hair more than before. Waylon’s lips had moved lower, his lips grazing the collarbone he’s seen a thousand times through the gaps in Miles’ unbuttoned shirts. He maps the heat of the man’s skin. Every touch feels like a line of code clicking into place.
Miles arches his back slightly, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat as Waylon’s path continues downward. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured.
Waylon’s hands had soon reached the leather of Miles’ belt, pausing for a fraction of a second, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of the buckle. Miles lets out a shallow exhale, becoming rather nervous with his stomach muscles jumping under the blonde’s touch. He reaches down, his hand overlapping Waylon’s, his knuckles grazed and scarred. With a low, decisive click, Miles undoes the buckle himself, his eyes never leaving Waylon’s. It’s an invitation, a total surrender of the control he usually clings to so tightly.
“Don’t stop now, Waylon,” Miles rasps, his voice barely a shadow of its usual self. “I’m already crashing…”
Waylon’s breath hitches, finishing what Miles had started, discarding the belt completely onto the floor where it hits the linoleum with a heavy thud next to the University housing handbook they’d both ignored since move-in day. His hands began to wander, his fingertips tracing the jagged lines of Miles’ scars and the tense muscles of his thighs. He plays with the contrast of their skin, his touch light—almost teasing—as he maps out the reactions he can draw from the man beneath him.
Miles is a wreck of sensation. Every time Waylon’s fingers brush against a sensitive patch of skin or circle a hip bone, Miles lets out a sharp, choked-off sound. His hands grip the bedsheets so hard his knuckles go white, his head tossing back against the pillow as he tries to keep his composure. “Fuck, please…” he groans. He arches further into the touch, his body reacting in every way possible to Waylon’s exploration like a live wire. The control he prides himself on is gone.
Waylon had leaned down, his breath hot against Miles’ ear. “You’re always so loud, let’s see how much more I can make you.” He slides down the length of Miles’ body, using his fingers to delicately slide off his boxers by the hem of them. Waylon could feel how Miles was shivering underneath him with his hands resting upon his thighs, eyeing his clit that had been peeking out of its hood. It had been glistening perfectly; Waylon wasted no time with showing off what could be done with his tongue. Miles had quickly lost his battle with silence. A sharp moan broke from his throat, muffled only the back of his hand as he bit down on his own knuckles to keep from walking down the entire floor. His hips buck instinctively, seeking the contact Waylon is providing with agonizing precision.
“Damn…” Miles gasps out. His voice was becoming wrecked, his head thrashing against the pillow even more as he felt every nerve ending with a burning sensation. Waylon’s hands had gripped the man’s waist, anchoring him, his thumbs tracing the line where muscle meets bone. Waylon was carefully picking Miles apart; he watched every reaction he drew out of him with the way his breath hitches and the way his skin flushes a deep, frantic red. Miles’ fingers found Waylon’s hair once more, tugging with desperation.
“You’re killing me,” he managed to choke out. “More, fuck, more…”
Waylon’s tongue had focused upon his clit, knowing it’ll light the perfect fire within Miles. He looked up for a split second, his eyes heavy lidded and his face flushed with an expression that was determined. With a warm breath against his core, Miles' response to Waylon utilizing his fingers along with his mouth drove an instantaneous reaction from him. They curled, massaged, and teased his insides that were dripping full of arousal.
“Waylon—Jesus!” Miles chokes out. His hips move with a frantic search for more, his breathing becoming a series of broken gasps and moans. He’s never been this exposed, never been this quieted by anything in his life. “Wait, wait,” he gasped out, his voice cracking and thick with urgency. He tried to steady himself, his heels digging into the sheets, but the constant suckling of his clit and the two fingers Waylon trapped deep within him was going to kill him. “I’m close—fuck!” He let out a long moan that vibrated his entire frame, his body tensing as Waylon drank every bit of him.
Miles had laid there for a moment, his chest heaving and his skin slick with sweat, the ceiling fans spinning in a blurry haze above him. As his breathing finally begins to slow, he turns his head, his gaze falling on Waylon. Waylon sat back on his heels, slick dripping down his lips onto his chin. He looked devastatingly undone, but it’s the tension that is still radiating off his frame—the obvious, heavy ache of his own unfulfilled need—that catches Miles’ attention.
A slow, tired, but undeniably wicked smirk spreads across Miles’ face. He props himself up on his elbows, reaching out a shaky hand to hook a finger into the waistband of Waylon’s boxers. “You look a little…unfinished,” Miles rasps, his voice still a gravelly wreck. He lets out a low, teasing chuckle that vibrates in the quiet room. “What happened to the guy who likes everything through to completion?”
Waylon’s face burns a deeper shade of red, his breath hitching at the contact. “I was…focusing on you,” he mutters, though his body betrays him, leaning instinctively into Miles’ touch.
“Very noble,” Miles mutters, his smirking softening into something warmer, though no less intense. He shifts, moving with a newfound surge of energy as he pulls Waylon back down toward the center of the mattress. “But I don’t like leaving my sources hanging. And I definitely don’t like leaving you like this.” He maneuvers himself until he’s the one caging Waylon in, his hands sliding down him moments ago. “My turn to do the work,” he whispers against Waylon’s ear. He shifts with a sudden hunger, his movements heavy and deliberate as he pulls Waylon into the center of the bed. Miles straddles his lap, pinning his thighs to the mattress, asserting a dominant, grounding weight that makes the bed creak in the quiet room.
He leans down, his hands framing Waylon’s face as he peppers his forehead, his eyelids, and the bridge of his nose with soft kisses. When he finally reaches Waylon’s lips, it’s a slow, deep kiss. “You’re too quiet,” Miles murmurs against his mouth, a reckless glint in his eyes. He moves to Waylon’s neck, his kisses becoming more fervent. Waylon let out a low, shaky moan, his fingers digging into Miles’ hips as he arches his back slightly.
“Shit—” Waylon gasps.
“Shh,” Miles whispers, moving lower. He traces Waylon’s chest with his tongue, his stubble grazing the blonde’s pale skin. He doesn’t give him a chance to catch his breath. Leaning down, his mouth finds the sensitive flap of skin below Waylon’s ear, a touch that sends a shiver through the blonde. Waylon lets out a sharp, choked-off gasp, his head falling back against the pillow as he feels the intense sensation of Miles’ touch. His hands, which had been resting tentatively on Miles’ waist, suddenly tighten, his fingers digging into the journalist’s skin as a fresh wave of heat rolls through him.
“Miles…” Waylon breathes, his voice becoming a frantic and broken whisper.
“I want everyone to know who you’ve been spending your nights with,” Miles rumbles against his skin, his voice vibrating right against Waylon’s pulse. He moves lower, nibbling and biting at his neck. He held a possessive aura that spoke volumes without words.
Waylon’s body arches instinctively, his chest heaving as Miles continues his descent. The love-bites had continued to the center of Waylon’s chest, his hands pinning Waylon’s wrists above his head, keeping him trapped and exposed. Miles shifts his weight, the mattress groaning as he slides further down Waylon’s body. The playful teasing from a moment ago has sharpened into a singular, driving focus. Miles reaches the last bit of his clothing, his fingers working with an efficiency of removing his belt, pants, and boxers. The motion made Waylon’s breath hitch in his throat. His neglected cock had been hardened and aching for attention, Miles eyeing it with pure lust.
The slip had been quick and easy; each other’s mixed arousals made it comfortable and enjoyable that caused both men to moan out into the room. Miles started at an agonizing rhythm, watching Waylon’s face. He sees the way his jaw tightens, trying to reach up. His fingers twitched to touch Miles’ skin or pull him closer, but the brunette’s pressure made it impossible in the moment.
“Uh-uh,” Miles murmurs. “Hands stay where I put them…”
Waylon let out a choked sound, his hips bucking to meet Miles’ pace. The friction was slow torture; he never thought his best friend’s insides could feel so warm, wet, and welcoming. It’s like he was made for it. “Miles…please,” Waylon rasps, his voice breaking.
Miles pauses with his bouncing and rolling of his hips, “please what? You want to touch? Wanna get your hands on me…?”
Waylon nodded frantically, his hair a mess against the sheets. “Yes, please—!”
“That’s not quite right,” Miles teases, moaning as he finished his sentence due to him starting up the same pace once more. “I think you need to be a little more persuasive. Beg for it…”
Waylon’s resolve had shattered completely under the weight of being told what to do. “Please, Miles,” he gasped. “I can’t…I need to touch you. Please just let me…I’m begging you…”
Miles felt a surge of emotion at his vulnerability. He released Waylon’s wrists, his gaze softening as he looked into his eyes. “Then do it…”
The moment Miles released his grip, Waylon didn’t hesitate. His hands shoot out, fingers digging firmly into Miles’ waist with a desperate strength. Utilizing the grip, Waylon begins to drive the pace in his own manner. The sound of skin on skin became more apparent than before; Miles had been bounced repeatedly on Waylon’s lap, feeling every sensation to the max. His clit had gotten many forms of friction that made him gasp and whimper. Waylon had finally gotten what he wanted since freshman year.
“That’s it—” Miles rasps, his eyes hooded and glazed with a mixture of the high and pure adrenaline. “Fuck, yes—!”
The air had suddenly become stifling, thick with heat that spread between the both of them. Miles allowed his head to fall forward until his forehead rested against Waylon’s. His skin was slick, his muscles corded with a tension that’s about to snap. “Waylon,” he gasps, his voice a raw, jagged vibration. “Fuck…I can’t hold back anymore—”
Waylon’s eyes flutter open, dark and unfocused. He let out a shaky, high-pitched exhale, his own body tensing in a mirrored response. “Me too,” he chokes out, his voice cracking with the weight of the admission. “Miles, please…”
Miles throws his head back, his throat corded as he lets out a long, guttural shout that echoes off the narrow dorm walls, all his defenses finally shattered. At the same instant, Waylon’s grip on Miles’ waist tightens to a bruising force, his eyes squeezing shut as he cries out. They both shared a violent, shudder of their bodies that came from their inevitable orgasm. Miles collapses forward, his forehead dropping onto Waylon’s shoulder as his body goes limp. His chest heaved in ragged, wet gasps. Waylon doesn’t let go; he pulls Miles down into the tangled sheets, his own breathing coming in shallow hitches as they begin to sink into exhaustion.
“Holy…hell,” Miles finally rasps, his voice a wrecked shadow of itself. He shifts just enough to look at Waylon, a loving smile spreading across his face.
Waylon usually retreats into his shell after a moment of vulnerability, finding a sudden, bold second wind. He had desired more, maneuvering Miles onto his back, the mattress creaking as Miles is pinned once more against the pillows. Miles lets out a surprised, huffy laugh that quickly turns into a sharp intake of breath as Waylon moves back over him, his eyes dark with a renewed, relentless force.
“Damn,” Miles rasps, his hand coming up to rest on Waylon’s chest, feeling the frantic, steady drumming of his heart. “Hungry for more already? God, you read my mind…”
“I need…more,” Waylon murmurs, his voice low and more confident than it has ever been. He doesn’t wait for a rebuttal; he leans down, sealing the space between them with a kiss that is even more certain than the first. He rests Miles’ thighs on his waist, sinking deeply back into him that left him thrashing his head against the pillow once more. He lets out a slow, yet appreciative moan that vibrates through his chest. He reaches up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Waylon’s neck, pulling him closer.
“Fuck–! You’re full of surprises today…” Miles pants, his eyes fluttering shut.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Waylon whispers against his jaw. “I’m a quick learner.”
Miles pulls Waylon flush against him, his arms winding around Waylon’s back with a strength that borders on desperate. He buries his face in the crook of Waylon’s neck, his stubble grazing the skin he’d marked just sometime before. The thrusts grew desperate and rapid; Miles doesn’t hold back the sounds he usually swallows. He lets out low hums of pure affection and soft, broken moans right against Waylon’s ear.
“Waylon, oh god—” Miles breathes, the name hitching in his throat. It isn’t a command or a warning anymore—it’s a confession.
Every shaky exhale from Miles is a loving sound of relief he feels being angled and fucked into by the only person who truly knows him. He nuzzles the blonde’s hair, his breath hot and erratic, whispering incoherent, praise-filled murmurs that make Waylon’s heart hammer twice as fast.
Waylon shivers, his own hands tangling in Miles’ messy hair, pulling him even closer until they were breathing the same air. He can feel the vibration of Miles’ voice against his skin. “I’ve got you…” Waylon’s hand slid down with a slow intent that made Miles’ eyes follow his movements. He finds his clit that had been aching for touch, applying pressure to it with his fingers, rubbing it carefully.
Miles’ reaction is immediate and visceral. His back arches off the mattress, a sharp sound broken from his throat that he can’t even attempt to stifle. He turns his head into the pillow, his jaw tight, as a series of low whimpers vibrates against Waylon’s shoulder. “Waylon—stop,” Miles gasps out, though his hands are doing the exact opposite, pulling Waylon’s hips closer. His fingers dug into his skin. “You’re gonna break me—!”
Waylon hadn’t stopped. He leans in, his lips brushing against Miles’ damp temple. “You can take it,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the heat. He increases the pace, leaving Miles’ breathing to turn into broken noises, devolving into raw, open-mouthed gasps. Every nerve that came from his clit seemed to set his body on fire.
“Please!” Miles moans, his eyes squeezed shut before opening them once more, his vision blurring. “Waylon, please…”
Waylon’s breath hitches and a soft whimper escapes. It was a sound so thin and vulnerable it made Miles’ heart ache. “Miles, I’m gonna—” Waylon cried out, his voice crackling into another shaky whimper. He’s trembling harder than ever, his hands clutching Miles’ waist so hard his fingers ache. “It’s too much, oh god—!”
Miles isn’t faring any better. His hands were locked onto Waylon’s back, his fingers digging into the skin and clawing at it. They both let out keen sounds, their bodies tensing as their lips mashed together that left drool going down each other’s chin. Miles arched further into him, gasping with a shout of Waylon’s name. Miles had remained pinned under Waylon’s weight for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared up at the ceiling, watching the dust motes dance in the first silver of grey light peeking through the blinds.
With a shaky hand, Miles reached over to the nightstand, his fingers fumbling until they found his phone. The screen flares to life, the harsh artificial glow making him wince and squint. He stared at the digits for a second, his brain sluggishly processing the date. Suddenly, a chuckle bubbles up from deep in his chest, vibrating against Waylon’s ribs.
“Hey,” Miles murmurs, his voice a sleep-deprived wreck. He nudges Waylon’s shoulder until the blonde looks up, blinking blearily through messy hair. Miles turns the phone toward him, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Check the date.”
Waylon squinted at the screen. “It’s…it’s the fourteenth?”
“Ain’t that something,” Miles joked, his thumb tracing a slow, possessive line down Waylon’s spine. “What a way to start the holiday of love, right?”
Waylon let out a soft, huffed laugh, finally collapsing onto Miles’ chest with a contended sigh. “I didn’t even get you a card.”
“Forget the card,” Miles whispered, closing his eyes and pulling the duvet over both of them, cocooning them against the morning chill. He pressed a final, lingering kiss to the top of Waylon’s head. “Happy Valentine’s Day, you brilliant bastard.”
Waylon hummed, already half-asleep. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Miles.”
—
Miles and Waylon had been slumped in a corner booth later that afternoon, nursing massive coffees and trying to look like two people didn’t just spend eighteen hours in a sensory blackout. Across from them sit Lynn and Blake Langermann, fellow journalism students who usually share Miles’ cynical outlook on campus life. Blake was busy scrolling through his camera roll, but Lynn is leaning back, a knowing glint in her eyes as she watches Waylon try—and fail—to hide a very prominent mark on his collarbone with his hoodie strings.
“So,” Lynn starts, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm tone she uses when she’s about to break a story. “The walls in Dorm 302 are surprisingly thin. Did you guys know that? Blake and I were trying to edit that piece on the theology department, but the…soundtrack from next door was a bit distracting.”
Blake looks up from his camera, his face turning a shade of red. “Lynn, please. I told we weren’t going to mention it.”
“Mention what?” Miles asked, his voice like gravel, though he doesn’t even look up from his bagel. He’s trying to play it cool, but the way he’s leaning protectively into Waylon’s space gives him away.
“Oh, just the ‘investigative reporting’ you two were doing all night,” Lynn teases, a lopsided grin appearing on her face. She kicks Miles’ foot under the table. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of…vocal feedback, Miles. You usually keep your sources so quiet.”
Waylon looks like he’s about to vibrate right out of his seat and disappear into the floorboards. “It—it was a very intense…debugging session,” he stammers, his face a frantic scarlet.
“Right. Debugging,” Lynn laughs, taking a tip of her tea. “Well, whatever you fixed, it sounded like a total system success. Happy Valentine’s Day, boys.”
Miles finally looks up, a slow, defiant smirk, spreading across his face. He reaches out wrapping an arm around Waylon’s shoulders and pulling him close, right in front of the Langermanns. “Success doesn’t even cover it, Lynn. You should have seen it.”
“No thanks,” Blake mutters, finally finding his voice. “I think the audio was enough for one lifetime.”