#ahs kyle

The friend who dragged you there is upstairs, in one of the fraternity bedrooms, probably doing something she’ll regret. You tried to talk her out of it, but drunkenness reduces people to their basest desires. Connection, closeness—the belief that you have found someone who will touch you gently—is one of them. It’s half of why you agreed to come. When inebriated, people become shockingly transparent. Spying someone solid is a rare occurrence. 

One of the fraternity guys has a smaller boy pinned against the latticed porch skirting, both of them moving like puppets, the smaller of the two with his head buried in the larger’s shoulder, his cheeks pink as he’s bombarded with sloppy kisses. A girl in ill-fitting jeans and a tight top is pressed up against a guy with corded muscles and greasy hair who very obviously wants nothing to do with her. 

You tug your miniskirt down to cover your ass as you wander inside, through the throngs of people illuminated by pink and blue, incandescent with their own neediness. Leaning against the cold countertops in the galley kitchen, your hip digging into the slab of marble, you pour yourself a shot of vodka and down it easily, the clear liquid burning on the way down. You make a face and down another. 

The music changes to something more abrasive and you wander into the living room, your eyes flicking over the crowd in search of you don’t know what. You find it, though, in a group of frat guys standing near the fireplace, sipping from red plastic cups, slapping each other on their backs, laughing with an ease you want desperately. You adjust your skirt, pulling the front down to display more cleavage, and go over to them.

As you near them, however, something in your gut tugs you the other way, and you whirl around, coming face-to-face with another boy, who bears the same letters as the group you were initially aiming for. Your forehead smacks into his chin and you let out a little grunt, stepping backwards, your hand coming up to gingerly touch the point of contact. 

“Shit,” he says, eyes wide, his hands flitting anxiously around your shoulders as if to catch you. “Shit, are you okay?”

You nod, steadying yourself with your hand against a column in the center of the room. “I’m fine,” you mutter. “Ow.” As you open your eyes to examine him, you’re struck by the absurdity of the situation. You’ve run into him.

His eyebrows furrow with the beginning of a protest, but his face relaxes slightly once you take your hand off the column, stable without support. He’s blond, which is the first thing you notice, just because it’s uncommon. His hair is pretty, though—soft-looking golden waves that fall over his forehead and eyes like they’re shielding him from something. His eyes are dark and searching, still worried for you. “Are you sure? Shit, I’m sorry.”

Why is he at this party? He doesn’t seem like the rest of his frat brothers—he’s not particularly muscular, but he looks strong. The sleeves of his jewel-purple Kappa Lambda Gamma shirt are pushed up to his elbows, his hands clench and relax at his sides, like he’s prepped for animosity, prepped for persecution.

“I’m fine,” you repeat. It’s almost placating. A stand down. 

He half-shouts something you can’t hear over the music and pulls you by your arm into a darker, quieter hallway. With the soundtrack of the party reduced to a thumping bass and muffled lyrics, he comes into focus. His eyes gain clarity, his hair loses its plastic quality. “Are you sure? I could take you to student health—”

“Jesus, man,” you mutter, tugging on the back of your skirt again, but abandoning the effort after it proves fruitless. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” you ask, a little louder. In the relative silence of the hallway, neither of you need to shout anymore. 

The boy stares at you for a minute, seemingly trying to shake his worry. “I’m Kyle,” he says. You let the name wash over you, digging for meaning within the simplicity of it. But a name doesn’t tell you much about a person, only their parents. Which, you suppose, comes right back around to telling you about the person.

You nod, leaning against the walnut console table to your right. You tilt your head up at him, half-curious, half-hyperaware of your differences. “What’re you studying?” you ask. 

“Civil engineering,” he says. “Are you sure you’re oka—”

“I swear on my life,” you say. You giggle, the liquor in your belly bubbling out of your mouth as girlish laughter. “I’m fine.”

Kyle turns a little pink, one of his hands coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Are you drunk?” he asks. 

“Only a little.” You want to reach out and touch him, want to know him immediately. It’s a terrible impulse, one that consistently gets you in shitty situations. But being able to make these observations doesn’t make you exempt from them. 

“The sorority girls are usually wasted at these things,” he says, leaning against the wall, aligning his face with yours. You wonder if he shares their desire to escape a room they’ve put themselves in. “I end up holding a lot of ponytails. You know what I mean?”

So he’s kind. You suspected it—no one asks if you’re okay that many times without meaning it—but you can’t help but be surprised. In your experience, a drunk sorority girl reads like an opportunity to frat guys. But this guy—Kyle—kneels beside them in the bathrooms, keeping their hair from getting dirty as they retch into toilet bowls. You nod sagely. “Human hairband.” 

That draws a laugh from him, his eyes brightening. But there’s a stiltedness to the sound, like he’s trained his happiness to present a certain way and the laughter is pushing on his lungs, begging to be released honestly. “I’ll remember that one.”

“Y’should put it on your résumé,” you say.

He laughs, and then there’s silence (well, between the two of you. Music still blares in the main room). His eyes flick down your body and then to your face, meeting your gaze. He turns to the side, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Fuck, he really is pretty. Pretty enough to tell you it isn’t just the liquor blurring your reason. His cheeks flush when he turns his head back to you only to be met with your stare. But he doesn’t turn away. 

You’re touching his arm. Shit. Shit. When did that happen? This isn’t exactly new territory, and you’re no stranger to one-night stands but somehow this feels different. Heavier. When his eyes meet yours, framed by long lashes and deep enough to swim in, you feel the weight of desire in your chest. It’s not sexual, exactly. More…an intense urge to seep into him. This boy with ambition and gentle hands. 

“You smoke?” he asks. His hair falls across his forehead and he pushes it back mindlessly.

“Sometimes,” you say quietly. “Socially, I guess.” That’s a lie. You’ve never smoked with anyone before. Only ever alone in your car when the sound of rain pounding on the metal roof stops being a storm and starts being a lullaby.  

“I have some pot. In my room.” he says, not breaking eye contact. He nods upwards, jerking his chin towards the ceiling. “It’s quieter up there.” 

You hum, already poring over every freckle on his face. It’s probably stupid to go with him—probably a big fat mistake you’ll hate yourself for making in the morning. But it isn’t the morning right now, is it? And clarity might only be a hindrance. “Okay.”

His expression breaks into a soft smile, his pink lips curling upwards. He takes a step back, colorful LED light from the main room reflecting in his eyes like fireworks. He holds out a hand and nods towards the stairs. “C’mon.” 

You take it, your hand dwarfed by his. He has calluses on the tips of his fingers—a musician. He pulls you close to his side as you begin to weave through the throngs of drunk students. Your hookups don’t usually end up like this. Mostly, they consist of getting fucked against the bathroom door, blowing some distracted sophomore in a bedroom neither of you recognize, or some girl pulling your hair just a little too hard while you’re buried between her thighs. Not this quiet partnership Kyle offers.

Once upstairs, you push past people too lost in each other to move out of the way. It’s interesting, you think, that you find so much honest (albeit shortsighted) love in parties like these, where pleasure is coveted as something attainable, where the usual shame that impedes connection is muted by the collective desire to forget. 

Kyle’s room is neat, his bed not pushed up against a corner like in most of the boys’ rooms you’ve been in, but standing free in the center of the room. He flicks on a small desk lamp, bathing that corner of the room in warm light as he rummages in his bedside drawer for the plastic baggie he retrieves. Inside is a half-empty box of Elements papers, two cheap Zippos, and some loose pot. There’s a Trojan stuck to the bottom of the bag and Kyle flushes pink, batting it off and dropping it back in the drawer. 

“Sorry!” he says. “Not, uh…assuming anything.”

You giggle and sit on the carpet by the foot of his bed. “No, no. It’s good you’re prepared,” you say, drawing your knees to your chest before remembering your ridiculous skirt and straightening your legs. Your fingers twist in the carpet fibers. 

He grimaces and sits across from you. “Still,” he mutters before unzipping the bag. 

You watch as his deft fingers expertly roll a joint, his tongue darting out to wet the edge of the paper. Your heart beats a little faster.

He glances up at you through his lashes, dark eyes harboring a silent vulnerability that takes you off guard. “Are you okay with sharing?” he asks. 

You frown and quirk an eyebrow at him. “What? Yeah.”

He shakes his head and clamps the joint between his teeth as he turns his focus to lighting it. Once successful, he takes a long exhale before holding it out to you. “I dunno,” he says with another shake of his head. “It’s intimate.” 

You shrug and accept it, enjoying the way your lungs burn as they’re filled with smoke. “I guess,” you say. 

He leans back against the foot of the bed. “I hate these parties,” he admits. “I’ve got assignments an’ the whole house is full of drunks who keep tryna fuck in my bedroom.” 

You let out a surprised laugh. You flush and take another hit before handing it back to him. Do you count as one of those people? “Yeah. I hate the SDT keggers. Guess that makes me a bad sister.”

He shrugs, closing his eyes. “Dunno. I like some parts of it. Just not the…” he makes a wide, sweeping gesture with one hand. He exhales, a thin stream of smoke escaping his lips. “It’s fun sometimes.”

You hadn’t meant to start kissing him, but all of a sudden, you are, your mouth pressed against his, your hands on his shoulders.

He doesn’t reciprocate for a split second, his body frozen, before pulling you onto his lap as he deepens the kiss. 

You straddle him, lips parting to allow his tongue entry. He’s hot and solid beneath you, his hands on the small of your back refreshingly gentle. After a second, you pull away, opening your eyes.

His cheeks are pink, his hair fallen back over his eyes. He’s breathing heavily through his open mouth and his shirt is a little rumpled. He’s beautiful, you think. 

Your fingers drift to his groin, but his hand shoots out and he grabs your wrist, his eyes wide. Your heart stutters in your chest—did you do something wrong? Have you hurt him somehow?

“Don’t,” he says. “We can sleep together—I just…Y’can’t touch me there.” His expression is half-pained, but there’s something deeper, too. Something you’re worried about questioning. 

“Okay,” you breathe, retracting your hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He’s kissing your neck, his nose brushing your skin, his warm mouth making the hair beneath your jaw stand on end. “Don’t be. It’s fine.”

You’re lost. Shit, what now? Almost every guy you’ve ever slept with has happily accepted a handy—most of the girls, too. Your fingers curl around his shoulders, holding onto him, tilting your jaw up, allowing him better access. What’s your next step?

He seems to catch on to your hesitation, guiding your hand to the back of his head. Your fingers twist in the soft hair and his eyes close, lashes fluttering against your neck. “I like that,” he whispers. He guides your other hand to his hip. “And that.” 

When your mouth meets his again, this time more confidently, you moan into the kiss, tugging on his curls, your fingers digging into his thigh as you taste the smoke on his breath. 

Kyle’s hands move to your waist as he stands, twisting around to deposit you on his bed. You let out a squeak of surprise but grin up at him as he kneels at the foot of the bed, tugging on your hips, slotting himself between your legs. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes. “Can I?” he asks. 

“Huh?” You stare at him for a second, your train of thought slowed by the heady mixture of vodka, weed, and his presence. “Can you what?”

He turns pink again as he runs a hand through his hair while the other grips your thigh a little tighter. “Touch you,” he says. “Uh…with my mouth.”

Now it’s your turn to flush. You shake your head, clearing it. “Oh. Duh. Sorry.” Then you smile, propping yourself up on the mattress. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he echoes, sitting up a straighter. “Tell me what feels good, ‘kay?” Then he’s gripping your hips as he leans over you, one hand coming up to pull your shirt off. 

You help him eagerly, rocking your hips against his abs as he tugs it over your head. Your fingers work at unclasping your bra as his lips fall to your tummy, pressing soft but excited kisses on the warm flesh there, one of his hands anchored at your hip, keeping you in place, the other rubbing up and down your bare side. Your miniskirt bunches around your waist.

Slightly unsure of what to do with your hands, they find the soft hair on the back of his neck again. You scoot forward on the bed, seeking some solid part of him with your hips. You rock against his abs again but he pushes you back up and plants an elbow between your legs, keeping you from moving back down.

He meets your eyes. “Trust me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and fall back onto his comforter. Very rarely are you the impatient one. Boys tend to try to fuck you the second you get alone with zero appreciation for foreplay. Kyle, however, seems to fall on the opposite end of the spectrum. Maybe it’s ironic that he seems to think he knows better than you, but he probably does, based on the intense heat already pooling at your core that most guys never manage to elicit. “Yeah. Yeah,” you breathe. 

His hands drift underneath you, slipping beneath your skirt and panties as he cups your ass, his lips finding your hips and thighs. His tongue darts out, licking hot stripes up your skin. 

You give his curls a little tug and his eyes close, a groan falling from his lips as his shoulders shudder.  

He eases your legs apart, thumbs rubbing at the delicate, sensitive skin of your inner thighs. A kiss to your left. Then to your right. Then he’s kissing your soaking cunt through your damp panties.

You let out a gasp, tugging on his hair again instinctively. “Fuck—”

He disconnects, raising his head to meet your gaze. “Still okay?” he asks. 

You want to bash him over his stupid head. “Y-yeah…just…please…”

Thankfully, that seems to spur him back into action, this time with his fingers looping around your panties, tugging them off. The cold air hits your bare pussy and you shiver. The music from downstairs still thumps, the floor seemingly rattling with the intensity of the bass.

But his mouth is on you again, tongue teasing around your clit as his fingers creep toward your entrance. When he curls the first digit inside you, your back arches up off the bed and you let out an undignified whine. 

“Hold tight,” he says against you, sending delicious vibrations up your body.  

You oblige, fighting the overwhelming urge to clamp your thighs around his head once he begins working at your clit, pushing another finger inside you. The sensations in tandem cultivate white-hot shocks of pleasure up your spine. “Kyle—”

His fingers move faster, bumping your g-spot more consistently than you’re used to. “Can you—the nightstand—?”

You twist, fumbling with the drawer on the nightstand, uncoordinated in your current state, rummaging around for a moment before your fingertips find the Trojan from earlier. 

When you buck up against him, Kyle stands and shoves his pants and underwear down past his hips. You hand him the condom, taking the time it takes him to put it on as an opportunity to admire him. He’s got a nice physique, muscular but not bodybuilder hard, with a little bit of remaining softness around his stomach and thighs, light brown hair curling in a line down his front, leading to his groin. 

He army-crawls over you, moving you upwards on the bed by your shoulders until your head is resting on the pillows. His lips trail up your neck and jaw until meeting yours again, the kiss not quite as slow as before but still carrying all the same tenderness. 

You buck up against him again and one of his hands trails down to your pussy, callused fingertips working in circles around your clit before moving to touch himself with a few hard strokes. 

He aligns himself with you, meeting your eyes with a clear desire for yet another confirmation. 

You nod, your hands finding his hip and neck, respectively. 

His head falls against your shoulders as pushes in, his pubes scratching against your shaven privates. It tickles a little, but you’re too caught up in the feeling of him to giggle. 

You press your mouth against his shoulders, up his neck, under his jaw, the hand on his hip coming up to stroke up and down his muscular back, which shifts with each of his movements. Your orgasm coils tight in your belly but you manage to keep it from cresting by digging your fingernails into his skin, dragging them down his back.  

His hips jerk against yours as you both fall into rhythm. Such a familiar dance, but so different with the right partner. 

It becomes more than enough very quickly. When you come with a cry, your thighs trembling, he smiles against your skin. “I gotcha,” he murmurs as he fucks you through it.

You grab onto him with more ferocity, eyes shut tight as ride out your orgasm. 

He moves a little slower, one hand teasing your breast. You tug at the curls on the back of his head and that seems to do it. His hips stutter and he lets out a low moan as he reaches crescendo. You press your lips to his neck, his jaw, his ear. For some reason, you just want to keep him right here. You don’t really feel like going back to the party at all. Not like this—spent, shaking, worried that you’re falling into something unprecedented. 

Kyle rolls off you, chest heaving once his back hits the mattress. 

You both shut your eyes, enjoying how the music thumps through the bedframe. It’s soothing.

You trace your fingers over his chest, gently brushing over his pecs and abs. “D’you hook up with a lot of people?” you ask softly. 

“No,” he says, eyes still shut. “Not really.” 

It’s quiet for a few more minutes until the door bursts open, bathing you both in colored party light. Your friend is silhouetted there, hanging onto the doorframe. “There you are!” she shouts. “Get dressed! We gotta go!” 

Kyle lets out a tiny squeak, grabbing uselessly for a blanket or sheet before finally giving up and curling into a tiny ball in an attempt to cover himself. 

“What the fuck?” you yell at her. “Close the door! Jesus, I’ll be there in a second!”

She seems confused for a moment before shrugging and shutting the door. Once shut, both you and Kyle dissolve into giggles, your bodies shaking. 

Once you’re both dressed again, you stand awkwardly by the doorway. 

Kyle rubs the back of his neck. “Could I…get your number, maybe?” he turns to his desk and withdraws a black Sharpie from his pencil cup before handing it to you. 

You flush and nod, scrawling the digits on his arm. “Call me,” you say, before the door is thrust open again and you’re dragged by the bicep back into the party with a yelp.