Because You Asked (Nicely)

by the corrupted quiet one

Not that many people really think about being tied up, or think they want to be. When Kyle discovered Kenny's cache of 'toys', he found himself asking that question. His answer was a little different than expected. But Kenny is fine with helping him experiment his kinky side. Contains rope bondage, light power play, frottage, and begging. Also on AO3 under the pseud corrupt quiet.

To think this started out as a joke. Alright, maybe not a joke, more of an offhand comment.

Something like, "I bet you have a box full of kinky shit hidden under your bed you haven't told me about."

Not thinking that under Kenny's beat-to-hell mattress there'd be a sorry looking Amazon box stowed away, with some duct tape barely holding the bulging cardboard flaps together and a message on the side in sloppy black Sharpie: Not A Toybox.

And it isn't a toy box, at least not the kind made for kids 12 and under. More like made for age 18 and up. Warning: choking hazard. Keep out of reach of small children and anyone who hasn't been trained in the arts of rope tying, flogging, wax play, caning, electrocution, etcetera. Clean before and after use.

Yeah, pretty funny joke.

A better one: Boyfriend Kyle, operating under the bland label of 'vanilla', finds out the age-old rumours of Kenny's 'sexually deviant' tendencies are not just made-up murmurs hyping up a small town sexual reputation; but actually a very tangible, very real thing that a lot of people joked about without knowing it was true.

What does Kyle do?

.

"You're sure about this?" The question rolls off his tongue, tenderness softening his voice. Kenny threads the bamboo-string words into a fine line, smooth and straight. Understandably forward, considering how off-guard Kyle caught him when he first proposed this. Who would've thought, huh?

From Kyle's lips, a sigh, full-body, head rolled back, eyes shut. By his count, this is the fourth time Kenny's asked this. In those exact words. Counting variations in syntax and word choice, this is the eighth time. Not counting the utterances outside this room.

Kyle straightens up, shoulders level, head lifted. His eyes open, immediately meeting Kenny's unblinking blue gaze. His deep, deep gaze, eyes boring into him, no attention diverted, all focus on Kyle's eyes of green, and whatever minor doubts might flash or flicker within them.

It's not that they never try anything new and exciting, not that there's some sense of innocence being stolen and warped, and definitely not that Kyle hasn't done his share of reckless and stupid exploits over the seventeen years they've known one another. More, this isn't the kind of thing to be done with a shred of disregard or inattention; the sort of thing defining trust and commitment and all those serious terms that never come across in the flash-player pornos or the silver-screen movie adaptations or the poorly written fanfiction.

And it sure as hell isn't the type of thing you half-ass. This is something that has to be done right.

Kyle blinks one, two times before his eyes wander. Down from the intent eyes, the too concerned face—somewhat perplexed at a lack of uncertainty—to the length of black hemp rope. The two ends curl around his forefinger, the tails held secure by his thumb. His other hand glides over the rope, running down from his hand to his opposite leg, then stopping. He lifts it, twirls the around his forefinger, and repeats. Eliminates any unwanted knots and extraneous twists. Stays soft and supple through the absorption of body oils. Warms the fibres up that tiniest fraction.

Why Kyle picked the rope first, why that sounded like a good place to start, why the embrace of a few lengths of rope coiled around his limbs appealed so much… Maybe that's the more impulsive side telling him something about himself.

Something that probably wouldn't've come out without the blond, parka-wearing asshole who somehow became the object of his affections. And to think everyone said Stan and Kyle brought the best out of one another. If the desire to be bound and restrained can be considered 'the best' of him, anyway.

"Yes, Kenny," Kyle says. His eyes flit up, returning Kenny's questioning look with a stern, sure stare.

No trace of ambivalence, not a glint of hesitation. Just coolness and calm, with the low-key electrification just waiting for a jump-start spark.

That buzzing, frizzy feeling shouldn't be a good thing; it really should mean something like anxiety, or nervousness, or panic. Not some curious wanting, bubbling to the top of his thoughts, his piqued interest manifesting as that ever so slight acceleration of his pulse, that miniscule rise in his body temperature, that sudden dryness of his mouth. Definitely not something any good influence might encourage. Of course Kenny's never been known to be one of those.

Kenny wraps the last loop around his finger, the whole bundle dangling loosely. His other fingers wrap around, squeezing the hemp as he puts his elbows on his legs and leans forward. Closer to Kyle. Close enough to really look at him, close enough to only see his face bordered by deep red curls sneaking out from under his ushanka, close enough to smell the hint of Manischewitz potato chips and Sprite lingering in his breath.

"You're really sure, though?" This time it comes across more dumbfounded than anything. Because Kyle's into it? Because Kyle thinks he's into it?

"Fuck," He laughs, dry and piecemeal. He lightly hits Kenny's legs, "Are you seriously having second thoughts?"

A roll of the eyes, and his palms rub Kenny's kneecaps. Fingers rest, clasp, thumbs massaging the muscle beside the bone, "It's your goddamn shit."

"And," Kenny places his free hand over Kyle's left hand, the tips of his fingers curling under his palm. He leans in, almost to a kiss, stopping just before their lips meet. Then, a small, teasing smile, "It was your goddamn idea."

Hard to say who moves that last little bit closer first—both of them, maybe—drawing out the moment, when a flush of warmth flows to their heads. Like a sugar rush. A grin curves on Kyle's lips, somewhere halfway through. It only fades when Kenny, reluctantly, starts to pull back. Quickly, before he can back away too much, Kyle lightly kisses him again, feverish. A modest behest for just a little more, for just a little longer, just a little warmer. Then again, once more, with feeling. How easy it is to get lost in the encores.

But not now, or at least not right now.

Kenny reclines, the worn springs of his chair—an old swivel found next to someone's trashcan—whining as his weight shifts back. With a bend of a finger, the loops of hemp start to fall, landing in a one-by-one succession on his lap until only the tails remain. He brings them to his mouth, and puts the thick lacquered tie between his teeth, the frayed edges blooming from beneath his canines.

Slowly, his hand lets go of Kyle's, fingertips trailing over his veins, knuckles, bones, and nails. The sensation of skin and keratin replaced by the fibrous hemp. He fiddles with the mass of overlapping coils on his lap.

Kyle leans back, hands reluctant in returning to his side, not ready to separate, out of aroused impatience, out of a keen desire. Just as his palms press into the mattress, creaking underneath him, Kenny lifts the rope up, by the middle, bent in a smooth curve. One hand pinches the midway of the curve, the other holds the two parallel ropes together. Through the hole between one half of the rope and the other, they catch a glimpse of one another: Kenny focused, Kyle intrigued.

The rope crosses, two lines become four. The loop transfers from one thumb to the other. There's enough light given off from the bulb of the dim second-hand lamp sitting broken on the table to illumine the thin spaces between each line of rope. Miniscule fibres, small as the hairs that stand on the back of the neck; only these stand from excitement, from repeated use, anticipating the flesh of another to hug and cling to.

Then, it's one quick, fluid motion. Sliding down the loop, so fast, then stopping, finally taut. The rows pull apart, one-by-one-by-one-by-one becoming one-by-one and one-by-one, with a hole between them big enough to slip through two hands.

Kenny holds the rope up, checking that none of the lengths cross over, then looks at Kyle. His mouth starts to open, before he even forms the words, and the tails roll off his bottom lip and back into the tangle. Where to start, that's where he's at a loss.

They talked about this before, a little, when Kyle first brought it up; albeit Kenny spoke half-jokingly then because he didn't think Kyle was serious. And even when it came up again, before the rope left the box, it was more of a way to dissuade than confirm an actual plan.

That's the thing no one ever mentions with kink: it isn't the spontaneous spice it's pitched as.

"So since you aren't exactly experienced, I'm gonna talk you through what we're gonna do," He uses a more didactic tone, hoping it masks the trepidation looming that something will go wrong, or Kenny will somehow screw up, or, worst of all, Kyle will hate it and hate him for this. Even with the experience gained from past playmates and the cool and cocky persona Kenny plays up, genuine nervousness lurks in the recesses of his mind. Because this is the first time with someone who matters, "And if we're gonna do this, we're gonna do this right."

"So what did you have in mind, sensei?" A smile teases at the corners of Kyle's lips. Kenny's brow twitches; and it says something when Kenny McCormick acts the slightest bit sensitive over a poke at his softcore anime fetish. Maybe Kyle's pushing it. Just a little.

"I was thinking we'd start simple," Kenny says, looking straight into Kyle's eyes. His words come out like something's stuck in his throat. He bumps his hands together as he leans closer, the loop warping into a lax U-shape. He nods his head a bit as his eyes flicker over Kyle's body, visualising and revising before speaking. He doesn't start until his eyes meet Kyle's, "Wrist bind and chest bind. They're a little more on the restrictive side, if that's okay…"

"Isn't that the point?" Kyle says, frankly.

"Well some people want to look pretty and tied up without losing their ability to move," Kenny rolls his eyes, "But from experience I know you're one of the squirmy little fucks just begging to be tied up."

"I am?" His voice cracks, not too noticeably, just enough to chip his calm and cool aura. A slight red tint colours his face, nothing drastic, just a hint. A flash of some emotion that mixes compulsory embarrassment with brazen pride. One of those rare blends Kyle feels probably too often.

Just that little show brings a smirk of Kenny's face, chips away at the lurking anxieties. Then, casually, a laugh embedding in his words, "You should probably take off your shirt."

A groan leaves Kyle's throat. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head as he grabs the back of his collar, then yanks up the plain white tee. As the shirt slides over his head, his ushanka falls off, onto the floor.

"You and that damn hat," He mutters, letting go of one end of the rope to pick it up. That's just one of those little things. If a piece of clothing can be counted as an idiosyncrasy. And it comes off during sex. Usually.

"Hey," A head, an arm, another arm slip out of the holes in the shirt, and Kyle looks up. He tosses the tee onto the wire bedframe before snatching back his hat, "At least you can see my face, hoodrat."

Kenny scoffs as Kyle adjusts the cap, doing his best to hide most of his hair—a self-conscious tic at this point—hiding his ears under the flaps. To think that seemed to be Kyle's bigger issue than, well, this whole first-time bondage thing. The priorities of a—

"Bratty sub," Kenny slurs his words; hoping stringing them together might help them pass unnoticed.

Almost instantaneous, Kyle's heel slams into Kenny's shin. Leaning to the right, weight favouring one arm, his straightens, eyes darting up. Between his teeth, "I heard that."

"Well it's true," His tongue flickers out of his mouth, a childish reflex in response to a childhood friend. Really, Kenny didn't think much of it until the words left his lips; but come to think of it, Kyle's smart mouth, strong will, and occasionally self-righteous tendencies do fit the profile. To a tee.

"Stop looking so smug; I thought we were doing this."

Maybe his picture will end up in the dictionary next to the term. Or already is.

"Christ, fine," Kenny's smirk doesn't fade, "Hold out your hands."

Kenny lifts the rope up again, positioning a hand on either end of a double length circle. Now Kyle can see Kenny's sleight of hand: one loop crossed overtop the lower lengths of its body, a snake eating its tail. He watches as Kenny widens the hole a little more, keeping the rope stern, advancing only little by little, balancing size with force.

Kyle complies, sitting up and, elbows tucked at his side, wrists twisted to show off his palms. To avoid braising the rope, his fingers curl inwards, instinctive. His pinkie twitches, "Like this?"

"Facing down," Playful authority creeps in his voice. Yes, this is a pleasure in its own right, "And, uh, fingers flat."

Kyle's eyes narrow as Kenny's grin grows. A soft groan, voicing Kyle's annoyance—or something else?—barely audible. He cooperates—obeys?—revealing the backs of his hands, his fingers unfurling until they're stretched out completely.

"Happy?"

"Very," Kenny stops himself before pushing it with a teasing 'good boy' or other cheeky jab at overused power-play scripts. With Kyle, better to wait on those. At least until the wrist bind. His eyes lock with Kyle's, earnest, deep, devoted, "Ready?"

"Go ahead," Somewhere along the way, between his mind and the air, Kyle's words soften, a quieter tone than expected. The gleam in his eyes just made things so much more, comfortable. Not the calm from chill, but the special gentle calm arising from warmth. Sappy, really. Kyle lightly bits the interior of his mouth; all that was missing was a stutter.

Kenny nods. There's something a little tense about his movements as he widens the loop, guiding it so Kyle's hands fit through. Then lowers it, so the fabric rests just below the bone of his wrist. He lets go, letting the hemp dangle off Kyle's wrists a moment, then starts adjusting so the loop meets in on the bottom, in the gap between left and right. Once in place, Kenny puts a fist between, measuring the distance, making sure there's enough room for the knotting later on. The heat of his hand inspires a tingling across Kyle's thumbs, tempted to turn his hands and clasp onto Kenny's.

"Uh, also," Kenny shakes his head, blinking wildly. He cocks his head to the side, gesturing towards the bedside table. Kyle turns his head. Blocking bases of the flashing block numbers of the digital clock, a pair of scissors lies on the wood, the blade glinting dully. Next to those, another, seemingly longer length of rope—this one a ruddy wine colour—still tied in a neat bundle, ready for later, and a bottle of water. Kenny doesn't continue until Kyle's gaze returns, "I can cut you free in case you, like, lose feeling in your hands after two minutes or have a panic attack or something. Like, major emergency stuff when I can't untie you."

"Safety first," Kyle grins, small but sure. Warmth appears in his eyes, "Wouldn't Scout Leader Al be proud."

With that smile, he notices a wave of relief wash over Kenny, the small little sweep smoothing the edges, subduing any doubts. This is starting to get easier, now that it's moving out of theory, into practice. He has Kyle's trust, and that's the most important thing, the most vital thing, the heart that pumps life into something like this. And with that, it's getting harder to second-guess, because there's such certainty here that simply dwarfs all those measly worries crafted by the mind.

"He'd probably be prouder of the gay sex," With one hard pull, Kenny tightens the rope, twirling the spare length around two fingers. The fibres hug Kyle's skin, tight but not constricting, snug but not uncomfortable. Kenny slides his hand out from the gap, spreading his fingers out as he unclenches, brushing against the sides of Kyle's hands.

With all the rope lying flat, Kenny yanks it to the side. Cords wrap over one another, securing the loop in place. Then, two at a time, lines of rope slink around his wrists, fine black rows with no twists, no knots, no overlaps. They grow on him like vines on a branch, but are far too organised, too conscious, too neat to be governed by sprawling chance, by organic development, by anything but steady guidance by a practiced force.

As the band around his arms thickens, Kyle notices his breathing: slow, heavy, weighted by something he—the supposed 'smart one' of the lot of misfits—can't really articulate. And that makes it even harder to explain his quickening heartrate, a pulse escalating a half a beat more with each inhale, more noticeable with each exhale. All he can do is watch inches of his skin be taken, claimed by the black, mesmerising him as two lines become four, then four become six, packed together.

Then, halfway through the next cycle, Kenny freezes. He stops right at the empty space, the hole between wrist and rope. But there's a density in the air that makes all the vacancies feel rich, animate, an energy in the atmosphere. Was it there before?

His eyes flit up. And when Kyle feels Kenny's eyes on him, he returns the gaze.

"Doing okay?" It was already in his eyes, but Kenny asks anyway. His jaw hangs a little, as he waits for an answer. His tongue presses against the back of his front teeth.

Kyle blinks, then nods, "Yeah, fine."

His mouth shuts, melting into a smile as his jaw relaxes. Confirmation.

He threads the rope through, tightening the bands around Kyle's wrists more and more as the remainder of the length passes from one side to the other. Once the tails cross over, Kenny pulls down, then back, then up and over both lines. The two parallel rows collapse in, enclosing Kyle's hands in two loops, two cuffs. The gap soon hosts its own mass of rope, with the ends pulled over, pulled tight, and then pulled over. Again. And again. And again.

"Too tight?"

Kyle twists his wrists a bit, the hemp holding his skin. Within the confines of his snug binds, he can still move, at least that much, with only a minimal roughness as a reprimand from his restraints. But when he tries to pull his hands apart, he realises the true limitations; any force against the bind absorbs into the threads, fortifying more than weakening, keeping him trapped. But, that's not exactly a bad thing.

"It's… good," Kyle feels more like he's listening to himself talk than actually speaking. Now is when the reality proves the surrealism of the idea. This is happening, not theory, but in practice. Only it isn't weird because he wants to shy away: it's weird because he still doesn't.

Was he, all along, expecting to just back out at this point? Earlier than this point? Call it off and get back to the regularly scheduled programming?

Did a part of him before now somehow still think this would end up as some kind of joke?

Maybe this is the full-on epiphany that occurs somewhere in the course of every kinkster's life. That pinpoint moment when everything clicks in that semi-arousing, semi-relieving sort of way.

Joke's on him.

He can't help but smile as Kenny's finger slips under one of the tighter lengths, pulling it up just enough to push the two ends through to the other side, then a pull. He's still a little cautious, in case tacked onto that assertion is some form of 'never mind', as he teases the hole little wider, making more room without relieving any tension. The lengths sneak under again, a loop forming, then they dive through. He holds the bulk down, and draws the knot, a neat, secure finish.

"Now," His fingers run up the hemp, from the base all the way to the tails. As he pulls, the knot in the middle tightens, without putting any extra, unwanted pressure on the cuffs. He tucks the tails under his fingers, clenched in a fist, "You're my bondage slave."

Kenny gives one, strong tug. Kyle's arms jerk up, just as Kenny cranes his head down. His lips meet the Kyle's fingers first, pressing hard, hungry. He plants a trail of wet kisses, a sloppy serpentine path from the joints to the knuckles. He savours the seconds, lingering after every peck, the seconds ticking by on his leisurely trek.

Kyle lets out a low hum. His fingers tingle, his fingers wiggle. The blissful weightlessness found in the sweet prelude of foreplay.

His head lolls back as Kenny kisses each knuckle, one by one. Then, half-breathless, as Kenny crosses to the other hand, "Bondage slave? Really?"

One, two, three more kisses before an answer.

"Too generic?" He laughs. Kenny's mouth hovers over his hands, warm breath brushing Kyle's skin. He lays down one, final, long kiss before sitting up. With his free hand, he grips the tips of Kyle's fingers, "How about, the Jewish Bettie Page?"

"I think you should just stick to knot-work," Kyle tilts his head to the side, flashing a smirk—precursor to another snarky remark, "Before you start referencing Fifty Shades."

Kenny makes a face, of genuine insult, "I would never spout that fucking abusive as hell bullshit. You know me way better than that."

Kyle laughs, soft, to himself, "At least you haven't started singing Britney Spears yet."

"Oh baby, baby."

Another strike to the shins, only this time Kenny manages to somewhat dodge, Kyle only hitting the side of his leg.

"Keep it up and I'm hogtying you." An idle threat, but interesting idea. If this goes well…

"Psch," Kyle rolls his eyes. He leans back, fingers slipping out of Kenny's hold as he shifts. His hands rest on his lap, and his shoulders roll back.

Kenny reaches for rope on the table, grasping it by the bottom loops. He pulls on the tail, bringing it out from under the coil, inevitably loosening the entirety. Like with the other length, he draws the hemp out, running his hands over, ensuring no kink or knot remains. He goes faster this time, now that Kyle's waiting, now that this is serious and happening and real. Now that Kenny can really get into it.

"So for my next trick," Kenny makes the same loop he did for the wrist bind, just much bigger this time, large enough to fit a torso. A wide grin forms on his lips, and a new brand of enthusiasm echoes in his voice, "I'll need my lovely assistant to raise those hands up high."

"For fuck's sake," Kyle mumbles, with forced annoyance, masking the twinge of excitement, of satisfaction, of straight-up goddamn delight. Because now the shakiness is fading and the real Kenny McCormick is coming out.

He obliges, lifting his bound hands high over his head, arms unbent. He grabs the loose tails, bunching the soft hemp in one hand, keeping them out of the way.

For this, Kenny stands, looming over him with the rope raised. He bites the inside of his cheek, out of focus rather than anxiety, as he positions the loop so the joint lines up with Kyle's spine. Then, almost ceremoniously, he slowly lowers the rope, watching hands, wrists, arms pass through the deep mulberry circle. He keeps his eyes at the same level as the rope, bending his knees as he goes down bit by bit.

Then he gets on Kyle's level, eyes on the same plane. Kenny stays on par, but continues lowering the rope. He only stops when he reaches the base of Kyle's chest, the double-line of rope pressing against the bottom of his chest. It sits there, holding his skin, but Kenny doesn't cinch the loop, not yet.

In fact, he doesn't move at all, not an inch. His hands grip the hemp, thumbing the twine, keeping it tight without quite securing it. He's stuck, stuck staring into Kyle's eyes, those stupid green eyes. Those stupid green eyes that just look back without hesitation, without any shred of judgement, without anything but literal, pure exhilaration. Gleaming with elation, glinting with that fiery passion that always comes into Kyle's eyes when he's really involved. The sort of look that, in all honesty, Kenny did not expect to see at all in this scenario—outside his dreams, anyway.

As he breathes, he feels something heavy in the air. The air is heavy. He's making the air heavy. Weighing down each particle of oxygen with his overwhelming emotions, desires leaking out, bleeding out of him.

And that makes focusing really, really hard.

"Still good with this?" Each word comes out slow, calculated. Because the thickening atmosphere keeps pressuring his lungs, some bodily cry to do something. Something to relieve. His eyes flicker briefly to Kyle's lips, then in a blink return to his eyes.

A swallow—was his mouth really that watery?—and a blink. Kyle takes a breath in, feeling his muscles tense. And then exhales, smiling. And with that all of his body relaxes, languid but lithe. That degree of comfort when everything is fine, is going fine, will go fine. Something that Kyle, with chronic anxiety issues, feels on a fairly irregular basis. And he's not one to let that just stop.

"Dude, yeah, are we gonna do this every—"

In a second, one sudden split, Kenny claims Kyle's lips, rough and rugged, unrefined emotion transforming into a raw, open-mouthed kiss. Kenny starts leaning his whole body on Kyle, every ounce of strength mustered and utilised, making Kyle angle back. His tongue sneaks through Kyle's lips, then accepted when Kyle opens his mouth and returns with his own, welcoming force.

Just as the rope looped around his wrists, looped around his torso, Kyle's arms loop around Kenny's neck, resting limply on Kenny's shoulders. He rolls his wrists, pulling lightly on the restraints, the hemp embracing his skin as he embraces Kenny. He scoots closer to the edge of the bed, every inch of his body aiming to be as close as possible, longing for the heat, for the touch, for the presence.

Yes, Kyle's instinctual movements translate clumsily, each shift of his body altering his sense of balance—his centre of gravity already made fragile by Kenny's advance—but that doesn't matter. Not when Kenny's kisses feel as intoxicating as vintage whiskey and his head feels clearer clouded by this breed of dizziness. If anything, he just appreciates this all the more, the sensation of another tongue sliding against the interior of his cheek, the collection of saliva swelling at the corner of his lips, the pure messiness of their needy, greedy kissing.

His fingers stretch, searching for the back of Kenny's shirt. He takes a bunch of cotton one hand, weakly yanking—off, off—as he pushes closer—more, more—torn. Between the immediate satisfaction of those sweet lips on his, the hot and indulging exchange, that tongue, and the delayed gratification of having Kenny's chest against his, another barrier between their bodies eradicated, embracing more of the burning skin. A regular Stanford Marshmallow Experiment.

Kenny kisses him one more time, slow and hard. Drawing it out for a long time, covering any and all ground before even considering pulling back. The drool collecting in the pocket of Kyle's lips adheres to his cheek, a sluggish path running down towards his chin. He passes off the hemp to the other hand so he can cradle the small of his back, squeezing Kyle closer. Through the threadbare tee, the hemp on Kyle's chest brushes against him.

Then the retreat, his lips withdrawing as he tilts his head. He presses his forehead to Kyle's, a few coiling curls caught in between, compressed between lightly flushed flesh. Kenny licks his lips—tasting more like Kyle than him—and lets out a real exhale. The pressure lifts, the cavities inside him no longer bloated by the intangible. Yes, he needed to do that.

Kyle inches in again, hoping for one last kiss, a dampened signature. But Kenny merely adjusts, Kyle receiving a gentle head-butt. Rain check.

A frustrated sigh exits Kyle's lips, the gust of torrid but humid breath caressing Kenny's cheeks. Kyle's hesitant, grudging acceptance that, for now, that's all he'll get. Now, Kenny wonders, why is that so damn satisfying?

"Just checking in," Kenny sounds breathless, still, speaking in an almost pant. His hand moves up Kyle's spine, finding its way back to the rope. A cocky grin tugs at his lips when he discovers the loop, snug against his vertebrae, then cinches.

The hemp hugs Kyle's body, and just then a small shudder tickles Kyle's back, emitting tiny electric currents through his nerves, through his veins, his body. His breath hitches, a gasp at the sensation, one without good or bad connotations. Sexual realisations aside, this is still his first time at this; not everything feels natural right off the bat.

But one more bump of their heads tempers the tremors, reassures him, validates him, encourages him. Says those feelings are okay, they happen, and they're weird because they're new. And if he likes them, well, even weird feelings can be good feelings.

Kenny ducks his head from between Kyle's arms, slipping out his vice-like hold. His shirt drags up his back as he starts backing out, Kyle refusing to release the bunch of cotton from his grip. When the collar of his tee creeps up the back of his head, alerting him that he's not going to be able to take off the shirt without 'help', he lets out a muffled grumble.

"You know," He lets go of the rope, leaving the tails on a clump of bedsheets. He wriggles his arms as he starts leaning back, adjusting his arms to fit his elbows through the holes in his sleeves. His head pops under the collar, blond hair concealed by white cloth, and he pulls his forearms through, "I can do this myself."

"Yeah," Kyle shrugs. He clutches the shirt tighter, fingers pulling more and more of the fabric into his palm. As Kenny moves backwards, Kyle pulls his hands towards him, dragging the shirt over Kenny's head. Cotton separates from skin, and Kyle lays his hands on his lap, "So?"

Kenny stretches, awakening every muscle, a call to arms, warming up. And, while his build leans more on the lanky side—a combination of mismatched genes and less than ideal home life—Kyle still can't take his eyes off of him, off his slender shoulders lolling, his back arching, his arms flung outwards. His eyes scan the entirety of his body. He clenches his fists, balling more of the material in his palm, knuckles whitening.

Maybe his type is more softcore twink with dominant tendencies. It would explain Ezra Miller.

"God," Kenny says with a faux scoff. He catches Kyle's eyes just as they flit away, as though there's something secretive about his admiration. No, just a part of another game: who can catch the other staring more? Kenny leans in, snatches the shirt from Kyle's grasp, and promptly discards it to the floor. Then, he looks Kyle in the eyes, dead-on, "You're so goddamn annoying."

"Excuse me?" Kyle feigns offence. His artificial tone is only reaffirmed by the smirk on his face, "I'm what, now?"

"Sorry, my bad," Kenny lunges. His arms wrap loosely around Kyle, and his hands find the tails once again. As he collects the rope, he leans in, with his head just short of resting on Kyle's shoulder, his mouth hovering next to Kyle's ear. Kyle can hear Kenny lick his lips before, in a breathy whisper:

"So goddamn motherfucking annoying."

Kyle chokes out a laugh, sardonic amusement stifled by ticklish arousal. Laughing like there are feathers in his throat. Teetering between two shades of jubilee.

And Kenny laughs too. Like a goddamn loser, laughing at his own joke. Or because Kyle's laughing at his stupid joke. Gives a lot more credence to Craig and his group calling them dorks.

He lays one, smooth kiss on Kyle's shoulder—oh, so tempted to just let his lips rest against the bone, remain pressed to the skin, maybe meander to the hollow of his neck—before leaning back. His hands, all the while, guide the hemp up Kyle's back, starting across one side, then bending around the top of his forearm.

The full concentration is back. Kenny's eyes follow the rope: over Kyle's arm, across his chest, and back around the other arm. Staring so it doesn't stray, going too low on the forearm where it could pinch a nerve, or twisting so it creates an uneven marking on his skin.

Kyle watches, the new line of hemp running across his chest. Feeling the rope gradually increase in pressure. First just brushing, the little hairs tickling. Then pushing, the twine revealing its texture. Then hugging, imprinting the fibrous pattern.

He guides the rope back down Kyle's back, towards the main knot. His tongue presses against his cheek as his fingers spread out, grazing his back, familiarising himself with the scape. On his back, a one diagonal stems upwards from the baseline rope, up to his arm. And now Kenny takes his rope down from the opposite side, back to the baseline, creating a nice letter V. He crosses the rope over the first diagonal, and tucks it under the base, running the whole length through.

"This good?" Kenny looks into his eyes. He sticks a finger between the crossed ropes, finding the hole naturally created, ready to run the rest of the rope through, "Or…?"

His eyes flicker down. He can't even say it.

"Tighter," Kyle doesn't skip a beat, barked out, like a reflexive response. There's a tingle on his tongue just after he says it, like there's magic in the word.

And maybe there is, since Kenny nearly jumps in his seat. Because he wasn't expecting it? Because Kyle responded so quickly? Because he's so undeniably giddy about this? Maybe all three?

It takes a moment to fully register. But once it sinks in, Kenny's whole face lights up. And, practically beaming, "Tighter it is."

He gives one strong tug, and in an instant Kyle feels it. The hemp digs in, moulding with his body. A little bit of pain—the low burn typical of rope dragging against the skin—yes, but good pain. Like the fire smouldering in the throat after a shot of vodka, or the thorns pinching the skin when a sweet peck turns into a playful bite. The addictive type of pain, the one there's just never enough of.

"Tight enough?" So sweet the way he asks. And so smooth, like cream. Dripping with honey, flowing like milk. A voice of milk and honey… This probably isn't the time for Hebrew school perversions.

Kyle nods his head. His mouth waters, noticing only when he opens his mouth to speak. Can't talk without spitting, can't breathe without drowning. His lower lip folds in as he swallows. Then, with a renewed, crooked smile, "Perfect."

There's a moment, when their eyes lock , like one of those snapshots. Neither of them can say anything, a glitch in both their brains inhibiting language, a temporary lapse in their verbal repertoires. They're only robbed of silence by the air conditioner, rattling as it dully blows cool air through the vents, and the broken television set in the other room, loudly broadcasting static until the speakers fade out again. Kenny regains his speech first:

"A tight tie," He folds the rope over and slips it through the hole. As he pulls down, securing the knot and ensuring all the ropes remained snug and taut against Kyle's skin, Kenny inches closer, so their faces are level, noses nearly touching, "For a tight ass."

"Do you want me to kick you again?" If he had a dime for every ass joke…

"Na na na na na come on," Kenny chimes, to the tune of Rihanna. Or is it the remix with Britney Spears? Kyle has the same reaction either way.

"Fuck you," Kyle tilts his head as he rolls his eyes, pretending to look away in second-hand embarrassment. Like this isn't a daily occurrence.

"C'mon," He purrs, warmth in his voice, mixed with self-satisfaction. He sneaks a kiss on the corner of Kyle's mouth before his head turns away quick and repressing his laughter, "I'm setting the mood."

"Yeah, 'cause the whole bondage thing wasn't 'mood' enough," Kyle mutters, under his breath, while Kenny manages another kiss on his jawline.

And another, on the upper neck.

And another, on the jugular.

And another—oh—right there. On that spot. Where the hickey always deepens in colour just when it's about to fade away. Permanently purple, particularly sensitive.

Kyle lets out a soundless laugh, nearly choking midway. He absent-mindedly starts moving one hand, ready to playfully swat Kenny away; only to remember his cuffs when his wrists chafe against the hemp, one hand struggling as it drags the other behind. He ends up instead just jabbing at Kenny's ribs with both hands.

"Ow," Kenny whines, pointedly loud. He backs up, letting Kyle turn towards him again before his face shifts into a frown. One of those exaggerated, childish pouts. Like when someone says no ice cream before dinner or only one cookie or bedtime right now. The you spoiled my fun sad face.

"That's cheating," Kyle narrows his eyes. He rolls his shoulder, a wiggling attempt to disperse the feeling, shake the sensation, ignoring the light film of saliva drying on discoloured or discolouring skin.

"I didn't even nip you," Kenny retorts, pout intensifying.

"You're not done tying me up, asshole," His arms wriggle in their restraints as he raises his hands. Two outspread palms, evenly spaced, brush Kenny's chest, lightly, like spectre. Kyle carefully watches Kenny purse his lips and suppress a shiver before going on, "And you're not doing anything else until you're done."

Kenny looks up at the ceiling, then lets out a sigh. It's one thing to be needy, it's another to be demandingly needy. And a tease on top of that.

"I take it back," His gaze returns to Kyle, "You're not annoying; you're just plain mean."

"You're the one saying we need to do this right," Smugness sneaks into his voice. Yes, using his own words against him, that'll show him.

"Oh we are," Kenny says, nearly glaring, "And when I'm done with you I'm gonna make you beg for that kind of attention."

Kyle rolls his eyes. Big talk, for the overly affectionate PDA-hound. Just a bluff, to 'set the mood'. Obviously.

"Whatever."

Kenny hides his smirk. Sure, Kyle doesn't believe him. But they've never played together like this before. And, surprisingly, he does have a degree of self-restraint. Specially reserved for occasions like this, when certain payoffs vastly outweigh the concessions to temptations. And Kyle thinks he's the master of self-control.

Oh, is he in for it.

"You know I'm the dom here," Kenny teases. He brings both ropes over one of Kyle's shoulders, keeping them flat and untangled. He runs the rope over the first line of hemp, then under the second, making the tuck at the centre. Then he does the opposite, over the lower line, under the upper line, and then back over the other shoulder, "You're supposed to listen to me."

"Then—" Kyle starts, some snarky comment incoming.

"Tight enough?" Kenny cuts him off, looking straight into his eyes. And with a devilish smile, because he knows Kyle hates being interrupted, "Or tighter?"

Kyle blinks, then slowly narrows his eyes, "Tight enough."

"Good," Kenny fastens the rope, weaving it in to the master knot in the back. His hands split apart, with one tail in each. He sets one rope down, then withdraws his hand back to his side, "This part is probably gonna be a little weird, not gonna lie."

"Why?" He raises a brow, eyes following Kenny as moves from the chair to the bed, sitting on the side with the rope he's still holding.

"Because this," He holds the tail up for Kyle to see, "Is gonna go through here."

With his free hand, he points just above the higher rope line, at Kyle's armpit. With his gesturing, he 'accidentally' pokes him. One finger quickly tickles, and Kyle nearly falls over in his reflexive squirming.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding," Kyle hovers somewhere between an irked glower and a dreading grimace.

"Oh so my dick can go up your asshole but I can't string a rope through your armpit?" Kenny twists the tail in his fingers. The frayed ends spin round one way, stop, then the other.

"One of those things is enjoyable," Kyle says, further aggravated by the own hotness in his ears, "And armpits don't have prostates."

"Well I'm not allowed to cheat, am I?" Kenny sneers. His expression doesn't relax until Kyle wrinkles his nose with a huff, unable to spit out a response, or admit defeat. Kenny takes the small victory, "So do you want me to do this right?"

Kyle stares a moment, lips pressed together in a fine line. Yeah, Kenny using his words against him is considerably less fun. But if Kenny gets to play huffy kid, Kyle can too, at least a little.

Even if this reaffirms the whole 'bratty sub' accusation.

Finally, "Go on."

Kenny's face melts into a smirk, and then with a wink, "I'll be quick."

Luckily, the girth hitch cuts the awkward armpit part in half. Just take the rope, and run it under the upper line. Then double back, leaving a loop behind. String the end over the line, through the armpit, and down the loop. Pull tightly and check in before repeating.

"How's that?" Kenny keeps his eyes on Kyle's arms, monitoring the rope constricting his muscles, cautious as to what's too tight. He presses a thumb under the hemp, pushing down the skin and watching it change from white back to normal complexion. Practically instantaneously, meaning the tie isn't impeding circulation. It's just a matter of comfort, now.

"Not as ticklish as I thought," Kyle says flatly, not giving a real answer without eye contact. His eyes glimmer when Kenny looks up, only slightly piqued. Only then does Kyle say, with a hint of satisfaction, "It's fine."

Kenny shakes his head, giving a casual eye roll as he redoes his process, stringing it through twice more. As he completes the third hitch, he thinks aloud, "And people think that smartass attitude doesn't carry over in bed."

"And people used to think we were straight," Kyle rolls his eyes. And even after that cat came out of the bag people still wondered why Kyle didn't end up with Stan. Not that the whole drunken make out incident from ninth grade helped. It only took a week of extremely open public displays of affection following the more official reveal of their relationship for those questions to go away.

"Don't remind me," Kenny snickers, securing his last knot. People somehow still thought that even when he was everyone's experimentation partner. Oh, the power of the heteronormative in small town America.

He drops the tail, letting the remainder of the rope dangle down from the knot. There isn't much left, barely bridging the span between two ribs. He gets up and moves to Kyle's other side, pushing the chair—now unnecessary—out of the way. The bed frame creaks as he sits down, box springs protesting his presence. He repeats his actions, making the first knot, checking the pressure, surveying the comfort level, then tying twice more.

"And that," Kenny says, giving the third knot one last tug, "is the chest bind."

"So you're done?" Kyle asks, trying not to sound too excited, too desperate. Hey, maybe that sex addicts test from fourth grade did have some truth to it.

"Well, one more thing," Kenny folds the hemp, crossing the tail on top hanging limply down, "Bringing it all together."

He places his other hand over Kyle's still balled fist, still clinging to the remaining rope from the wrist bind. Kenny's fingers deftly pry open his grip, relaxing his hold on the two black tails. His fingertips glide over Kyle's palm as he searches for the tail on the matching side. The hemp swiftly slides from his hand, as Kenny lifts the tail and moves it towards the dangling end. As he moves, Kyle's hands lag behind, towed from his lap to his chest.

His laser focus returns, blue eyes glinting as he holds the black to the loop of mulberry. His fingers hold the mulberry tail above the rest of the length, keeping them from crossing. Kyle sees him mouth "Under, over, bend," to himself, briefly, before continuing the knot. The ebony tail runs under the bottom, then bends over and crosses back. He then carefully manoeuvres the mulberry end under the black loop, and gives a strong tug from either side. The gaps disappear as the knot draws to a close, a technicolour connection. Kenny stays silent, concentrated, as he goes back to Kyle's other side, duplicating the knot with the remaining tails.

Then he leans back, hands off but attention still consumed. He cranes his head at different angles, an artist reviewing his work, scoping out any imperfections. He reaches out and lays a hand on Kyle's, his palm to the back. Then, he tugs on Kyle's arms, eyes on the knot as it bobs from lax to taut to lax again.

When he sees it's secure—really secure—Kenny smiles, triumphant and proud. His eyes shift back to Kyle, staring for a second, intent and careful. He narrows his eyes, seeing something not quite to his liking, blinks, and snaps his fingers. He grabs the ushanka by the ear, and swings it off, letting it fly somewhere else across the room.

"'ey,"Kyle snarls. He jerks as his hands try reaching out, fingers stretching in the hat's direction, following the path it was sent sailing on. His efforts lead only to a hemp rebuke, unable to stray farther than an inch from his chest. The true limitations of restriction.

Anger flares in his green eyes as his attention turns back to Kenny. With his beaming face. Twinkling eyes. Stupid grin.

"Now I'm done," Kenny hums, melodious and content. Like a goddamn Disney princess about to break into an epic operatic aria.

Kyle growls, low and guttural. The rage smoulders, and his eyes look like a bomb about to explode. The second before it blows, during the vicious chemical reaction, when everything spills together and spells out the end. No hope to salvage, the destruction accepted. Ready to KA-BOOM.

Yet Kenny is undeterred, maintaining his carelessly happy aura. Rather than act like any normal person, who'd run and avoid annihilation, Kenny moves closer, putting his hands on Kyle's head. His fingers weave through crimson curls, manipulating the bushy mess, all tangled and quirky.

"Even your goddamn hair is kinky," He jokes, voice too pleased. Maybe the jewfro was a sign all along. If it's an accurate measurement of the extent of his kinkiness, well, that would be a nice development.

"Shut up," Kyle says, eyes turning to slits. His lips pucker, like he's sucking on something sour—Kenny's comedy—and his nostrils flare. He hides one foot under the other, supplementing his upper body's lack of mobility. Not all body language is transferred, his shoulders still shifting, nails digging into the bottom of his palm.

"You're so cute when you're mad," Kenny chirps, constrictions unstressed, with more emphasis on the ending so it comes out like yer. He ruffles Kyle's hair, the whole mop affected by the slightest movements, like a topiary rustled by the eventide breeze.

Kyle groans, head shaking. Rather than spit out another comment Kenny will likely ignore as part of their banter, he simply raises both middle fingers, attesting how actions speak louder than words. The fruits of nonverbal communication: the silent, double fuck you.

The only rise he gets out of Kenny is a staccato laugh, followed by an intense hair-fluffing, "You should go back to that strawberry conditioner."

"Ha, ha," One time. The one time Kyle mixes up shampoos and uses the shit Shelia left in the shower from when the master bathroom was getting the drains unclogged. And suddenly Kyle becomes Strawberry Shortcake, "You're a dick."

"And you…" Kenny lowers his hands, disentangling from the coils of red. He caresses Kyle's cheeks, his warm, furious cheeks. All the blood rushing to them, greeting his touch.

A quiver trembles through Kyle, his hands falling back into fists, his toes curling. His teeth pinch the inside of his cheek as Kenny sweetly presses his lips to his forehead. Something about that kiss, gentle and tender, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, aroused.

Kenny stays glued to him, drawing out his kiss until he feels fully satisfied. He thumbs over Kyle's cheekbones just before he pulls away, and then looks right into Kyle's eyes. His words are mellifluous, Kyle hearing the smile in his voice when he shuts his eyes a moment, then seeing it curve on his lips, "…love me for it."

"More like you're a really good lay," Kyle counters, lightly. His hands can only go up so far, fingertips barely brushing Kenny's jaw, tracing over the stubbly patches missed by the disposable razor, the uneven terrain of teenage skin.

"Oh so that's why you've kept me around?" He acts like the words wound him. His voice strains more from biting back amusement than true malice.

"Well, maybe your personality doesn't totally suck."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"Eat shit."

He laughs, right into his lips, quieting as the small bursts of hysteria transform into an eager kiss. He cups Kyle's cheeks, the tips of his fingers toying with a few renegade curls, bringing his face closer. He needs to be closer, together, warmer. Seeking out his heat, ready to fan the flames, like a goddamn pyromaniac wanting them both to ignite.

Kyle wants the same, the proximity and passion, driven by his own proclivity of playing with fire. That's what this all is, right? All the hemp just there to kindle, sear in the burns, intensify that which is already present. And knot-tying aside, this is all just its own form of playtime. A lot more perverted than a couple of kids playing doctor, but the same basic rules applying. Or something.

His nails graze Kenny's neck, just scarcely, not even enough to leave behind a white superficial trail. A real signal to the hardship of the bound, the restriction of touching. Normally, Kyle digs out entire pathways on Kenny's back, scratching during the sweetest parts, a somewhat sadistic indication of his own delight. Not that it's really pain, but it's not like the pride he feels seeing the red etchings afterwards isn't very real.

Kenny's front teeth catch Kyle's lower lip, benign in his biting, a cat nibbling in play. He takes Kyle's moan as a gesture of enjoyment, always vocal but only articulate in protest; the verbal is saved for the argument, and the brusque for the approval. The beauty of communication, and two friends who know each other all too well, from the embarrassing incident from third grade to the cruder manifestations of lust and happiness.

When Kenny draws back, he drags Kyle's bottom lip with him, stretching until his teeth lose their grip and calls the kiss to an end. His tongue flashes over the top row of his teeth as he observes Kyle's mouth, seeing the shallow indentations left behind. Not enough to cause real damage, but enough to prompt that minor swelling, kiss beaten lips.

"Before you get too excited," He says, in one breath. A hard ball of spit rolls down his throat, "We need a safe-word."

Really, this should've been the first thing on his list.

"Hmmm," Kyle nods, taking a minute to find his words again, let logic lord over once again. Because as important as all of this is, raw desire still dwells within, gnawing on his patience. Begging for more touching, kissing, attention. Satiate the cravings that borderline on plain animalistic, "Like what?"

"Something you wouldn't say normally. Like, so we can definitely stop the scene," Kenny pauses, pensiveness cast over his face as he brainstorms himself. He berates himself, internally, since this is coming up now, late into it, but better do it at all, better than skipping it and risking something going wrong, "Like yellow for hold on and red for fucking stop. Or, like, lemon and apple. Or whatever."

Kyle looks up as he thinks, folding in his lower lip. This shouldn't be hard, by any stretch. But something compels him to be creative. Something special and different for the whole first bondage sex adventure. Something memorable.

"Or," Kyle switches his view back to Kenny, "GX and 5D's?"

Kenny shoots Kyle a deer-in-the-headlights face, all trains of thought derailed at the suggestion. His mind entirely blanks, freezes, and reboots. After a few moments, following the recovery of initial shock, he lets out an undignified snort.

"Fucking Christ."

"What?" Kyle pipes out, flashing red. He ignores the slight crack in his voice, "Ike got the new Xbox One game and played through half the campaign yesterday!"

"Dude, Ike hasn't touched a console since he discovered Twitch," He's not sure what's funnier, the nostalgia trip from childhood games past or the goddamn ridiculous idea of using it for a safe-word. Not like that wouldn't stop a scene dead in its tracks, which is sort of the point, "You're such a fucking nerd."

"Fine, then how about Ryuko-chan or Yoko-kun? Or Panty-sama?" Kyle pitches his voice higher as he enunciates each name with the worst Japanese accent he can mimic. His 'kawaii' voice.

"Don't bring my waifus into this," Kenny blurts out and, great, now he's feeling warmth flare in his cheeks.

His words are met with a wall of laughter, Kyle sent into hysterics. And that certainly doesn't curb his embarrassment.

"Yeah, but I'm the nerd," Kyle barely gasps the words out. His rib cage collapses in, or so it feels, each laugh shooting sharp pangs through him. But even the pain can't stop him. Not during a moment like this.

A moment when they act like complete and total losers. Because, yeah, maybe they are, but they're losers together, always catching one another outdoing their last low, like there's a competition as to who can be worse and they just want the other to win.

Finally, after enduring an eternity of boyfriend bullying—real time, about a minute of Kyle laughing—Kenny clears his throat, as loudly as he possibly can. He softly beats on his chest for dramatic effect, like he's choking on something—arguably, his shame—and gives Kyle a dirty look from under his lashes.

Sure, it's all fun and games until someone gets a tiny bit over defensive of exceedingly complex and deeply individual (but also extremely well endowed and scantily clad) female protagonists.

Remember the part about wanting to make Kyle beg for it?

Kyle takes a deep breath, at last tempering his laughter. He gulps down the few stray giggles, before they leak out, and curls his lips into a grin, to lock them in like gold bars in a safe. Kenny squints at him, taunted by the smile, but Kyle brushes it off. Like they've never cracked jokes at someone else's expense, let alone one another's.

This'll be really funny looking back on it. Really.

"So is that good enough?" He asks, edging closer. He tries to balance words with breath, a trick to coax him into another kiss. Outright blowing on his lips would be too obvious, but a little light waft still tantalises, "Or do you just wanna spend an hour making fun of me when you could be fucking me."

"First," Kenny hesitates, tongue tying as breath skims his lips, the invitation enticing and titillating. It's always the details, the little things. He hates how well Kyle can do that sometimes, "I think you were making fun of me."

"You started it," Kyle says frankly. His fingers brush Kenny's neck. The tip of his tongue pushes against his right canine, sensing the nearly negligible tremor. Most would miss it, because they aren't trained to look for it, not seasoned in the war of attrition and passions. Not the way Kyle is, having perfected his art and statecraft over the endless elongated school hours when there's little better to do than try and incite a boner from the very bored boyfriend across the room. Who then, after the bell rings, is the very horny boyfriend begging to 'talk for a minute' in the janitor's closet.

"Second," The word sounds loaded, packaged with a punch of authority. Kenny adds the assertive 'back to business' tone to offset his weaknesses. And distract himself from his own minor dizziness, the kind that comes coupled with those thirsty yearnings, "That's fine. Start talking about children's card games and hard stop."

"Hmm," Kyle happily hums. A finger traces over a shallow cut under Kenny's ear, running down the rough line, feeling along either side an alternation of normal skin and prickled spots. He leans forward with each passing moment, reeled in, and reeling him in.

He stops just short of Kenny's lips, the gap between them thick as a strip of film. He can taste his mouth already—stale strawberry pop-tarts, cheap menthol cigarettes, and flat diet Mountain Dew—but he resists going all the way. Resists giving Kenny the satisfaction.

Considering his bound limbs, psychological warfare is all he has left, more or less. The small teases and provocations are his prerogative, the one last bind he has on him, the last vestige of control he has. The final thing he'll surrender.

So, for now he has the upper hand. For now, not for long.

"So are we gonna start?" He says, susurrant and saccharine. He talks in a flutter, the sound of loose feathers falling from a tear in a pillow. Casual, even a little innocent, but somehow salacious, with a hidden bite. The trickiest way to ask something so straightforward, if only to get his way.

The tone reminds Kenny of candied liqueur, distilled and infused, custom flavoured. Rock sugar sweet with a hard alcoholic burn. A double shot, filled to the brim. A promise of the whole bottle if he can down just one glass straight.

Conniving son of a bitch.

Kenny blinks, once, twice, three times. His mouth opens a crack, but refuses to lean forward. True, Kyle's clever—dangerously so—but Kenny won't play into his crafty traps.

Kyle has to give in first, he decided, not the other way around.

No, he won't grant his stratagems an ounce of credibility; lend credence to that 'I dare you to' attitude. This is when that arsenal of ploys and temptations of his stop working, when he no longer gets what he wants by pulling on strings, by utilising his wit and charm, by playing the cheeky brat.

If Kyle wants something, he's going to have to be nice about it.

"Kenny," He talks right into his mouth, and Kenny feels all the heat with none of the touch. Entirely unfair.

Okay, maybe just a taste of indulgence before he learns.

Kenny kisses him, rough, thrusting their lips together, coarse and unrelenting. One hand moves and supports Kyle's head, fingers twisting within a clump of hair, allowing him the liberty to kiss harshly, holding nothing back. A temporary lapse in his discipline, because if he's giving Kyle this he might as well give Kyle all the messy overflow, the bits he can't contain. Spend a few more moments in the preluding foreplay, when he's still the kindly responsive boyfriend, acquiescing to the whims of a spoiled boy, with his dulcet entreats and enticing suggestions.

He may as well present an easy reward system, perpetuate the illusion that affections can be earned easily. Right now they can be, because Kenny's fortifications aren't entirely solidified, not fully erect, but when things become more critical, well, the stricter aspects of power play can be emphasised.

Yes, better to give him what he wants so he knows what he can have.

Kyle loves what he has, melting into the sloppiness, the ferocity, the rugged interlocking. The charm lies in the crudeness, how this nature is pure nature, because true purity is the mess, the grit and grime only accentuating the beauty at the heart. And this kind of passion—fresh and wild—tastes best just that way: unbridled, unleashed, and presented in this barest form.

Their lips smack together, and he opens his mouth, granting further access. His blood heats, streaming through with a poignant charge, a shock picked up from Kenny's lips. He feels like static, fuzzy and electrical, all over, buzzing and buzzed. Kenny is his remedy, his catalyst, his conductor. A tingling wave washes over him as Kenny's tongue cuts over the bottom row of teeth, gliding over his tongue, poking at each cheek.

His hands slide down Kenny's neck, searching for a better anchor, something he can hold despite his condition. The hemp bites into his skin, reminding him with each movement that, no, he cannot do whatever he please, he has to abide by the knots' dictation, no wandering or straying from the desired position. But this encourages him, necessitates finding a place for his fingers to rest. He settles on Kenny's collar, splaying his fingers across the bone, seeping in the heat that greets his touch. With his tongue licking over his lips, pressed down by the other tongue in his mouth, Kyle smiles.

Kenny's other hand meanders, ghosting his arms, his chest, his torso, his hips, any stretch of exposed skin he can possibly pet. Occasionally he brushes the rope, so firm against the skin, and pride flows through him. It fosters a sense of accomplishment, today marking the day Kyle Broflovski defied expectation and crossed the threshold into the wonderful world of kink. And fucking loves it.

His next kiss nearly misses Kyle's mouth, covering only one side. He tongues the inside of his cheek, caught at the corner of his lips. Dribbles of saliva gush down, a mixture of both theirs, a syrupy glob squeezing from the tight corner pocket, then rolling down Kyle's chin. Kenny smears the rest on the side of Kyle's cheek, lips plastering the spit overtop his skin. It barely dries before a new coat daubs on.

Kyle moans, sound warped by the kissing, and it rings in Kenny's ears, like a thunderous bell, alerting of something more important than the hour, than the mass, than any wedding or funeral. Kyle's nails scrape his lower neck, then curl against his palm. His knuckles nudge his chest, urging him to go on, continue, and for God's sake don't stop.

His tongue slips out of Kyle's mouth just as his hand, after much wandering, passes over the top of Kyle's evergreen jeans, somewhere on his flank. His little finger latches on an empty belt loop, tugging quickly, dragging the trim as the rest of his hand keeps moving down, to the thigh. The denim dips down his waist, and Kenny's lips draw back.

"Wait," He says hoarsely, the voice of someone relearning to speak, but with enough force to warrant compliance. Kyle shuts his mouth, gulping while he still has the time, while he has a break.

His fingers follow up his thigh, advancing towards the groin. He releases the loop, the elastic lining freed from the tension, denim slowly returning to its former place. He listens to Kyle's heavy breaths, each one weighing more the closer he gets, the more warmth he senses under the material. He stops short.

Kenny grips Kyle's leg as he moves, prompting a sharp inhale from Kyle. He bends so his mouth is right up to his ear, so his words are all Kyle hears. Kyle closes his eyes—something dewy about them now, he notes—and leans against Kenny's head. He channels all his focus into listening to the words Kenny puts in his ears.

"Lay down," Kenny instructs, speaking carefully, tenderly. He shuts his eyes, too, so he can think clearly, imagine perfectly how he wants to do this, "On your back. With your legs spread."

Oh, orders. So they really are going to toy with the dominant-submissive dynamics. This'll be fun.

Kyle lets a smirk tease at his lips, and he feels high. Positively high, off the possibilities, of explicit power play, "You're fucking with me."

Kenny groans, nails scratching the denim. He licks lips, then lets out a whistling sigh, preparing his next move. Then, in a low, low purr, that makes the hairs on Kyle's neck stand on end, he says, "You want me to make you, Broflovski?"

A subdued chorus of laughter, and he lolls his head back. How he could get drunk and drown on this, drink up every drop and invite the siege like the foolish Trojans, beguiled by the sly charisma and too attractive offerings. Kyle's cheek rubs against the blond hair, matted and just a tinge greasy, then says, definite, in his ear, "Try me, McCormick."

Kenny grins, a soft "Heh," slipping between gritting teeth. Quickly, he sits up, back straight, perfectly poised. His hand disentangles from the curls, passing leisurely over Kyle's neck before returning to his side. He stands, sidestepping to face him. Only the palm of his thigh remains, the last point of contact, the sole connection, Kenny bending over to keep them together at this singular point.

He monitors him, watching Kyle, support absent, catch himself, before he topples to the side. His chest rises, falls, a slow heave. Kenny bites the tip of his tongue. Then the eyes flit from the invisible presence, the lingering body heat, back to Kenny's. His stare is a challenge, something outright bold embedded in the green, fiery and brassy. And his smirk—subtle curve, with a thin line of enamel peaking between the gap—goads him even more.

But neither of them move.

Not for a long time.

The air conditioner switches off, and someone unplugged the television set some time ago. The laundry machine thunders, banging wads of damp cotton and flannel and denim against the metallic walls of its circular chamber. Kitty claws scratch against the peeling wallpaper in the hallway, drilling bity holes in the plaster.

"Do it," Kyle says, to break stalemate, scarcely a whisper. His heartbeat is louder than his voice, and if he didn't think it he might not have known he said it, a thought whisked into the ether. His teeth chatter softly together, tempering his impatience.

The words are inaudible to him, but Kenny reads his lips, all his movements, and understands with crystal clarity. He concedes a smile, warm and endearing, as he squeezes his thigh, just once, for a second; the briefest expression of approval, the first foray into their novel dimension, their shiny new playground.

His hand rushes down his leg, along the inner thigh, over the knee, midway down the calf. And he stops, fingers pressing into the muscle. His other hand clasps his other leg, mirroring the position. Then lifts, up and over.

No, Kenny isn't all that strong, not by any stretch; he can barely shoulder a twelve pack of Blue Ribbon without whining about it. But he can sweep Kyle off his feet, at least when that entails just spinning him on his ass and tossing his legs on the bed. Not exactly graceful, but elegance isn't a necessity, especially with more pressing matters at hand.

The motion displaces Kyle's centre of gravity, his perception of balance, with everything normal one moment, and all switched around the next, in a flash, a blink. His back hits the mattress, and all the rope crossings on his back bore into him, finding his skin more absorbent than the box springs. His hands slap against his chest, coupled with a dull thump. The only cushioning he has is a crumbled up fleece blanket, lopsided and lumpy, right under his head; not that it provides much comfort, his head on an incline, neck craned at an angle.

Kyle laughs, short and terse. He rolls his head to the rhythm of the creaking springs, feeling Kenny climbing on bed, climbing over him, leaving craters where his hands push down. He lets Kenny nudge his legs apart, and rest his knees in the gap. Then, he looms over, placing a hand on either side of his shoulders. One hand sits too close to the edge of the bed, two fingers limply skirting the coversheet.

When their eyes meet, Kenny flashes a toothy smile, fingers tapping the mattress. His eyes gleam with avid contentment, the type of glint found in a cat's eyes after cornering a mouse. It's not deathly predatory, nothing creepy or discomforting. Just precisely pleased, pleased to have Kyle caged to the bed, and bound under him. Even though he's going for the tougher dominant persona, in this light he just looks like a goddamn stupid kid, too happy about things going his way; and Kyle finds that, oddly, adorable. Not that he'd say that aloud, of course.

"Not very romantic," Kyle remarks. He shifts, adjusting his hips. One leg brushes against Kenny's, and Kyle isn't sure if that's intentional or accidental.

"I don't have to be," Kenny shrugs, speaking as-a-matter-of-factly. He lowers himself, more and more of his body pressing down, pressing Kyle further into the mattress. The springs squeak, and Kenny stops right over his lips, taunting Kyle with his open-mouthed breaths, "Unless you ask."

Kyle moves to meet his lips, but Kenny draws back, keeping them at the exact same distance.

He chuckles, and Kyle feels his upper hand slipping away, "That's cheating."

"Cheating?" He echoes, speaking in a grumble. His eyes burn with outrage, shiny and sharp, and his teeth grind together. Kyle can't tell what makes him madder, the throwback or the denial.

"Yeah," Kenny rolls his eyes, rocking the bed as he bounces his knees. He talks the way an all knowing adult explains basic knowledge to a toddler, and that's one of the things Kyle just can't stand. Which is probably why he's doing it, "It's fucking manners, dude."

"I have to ask for you to kiss me?" The words sound surreal as the roll off his tongue. Not that it's inherently weird, per say, but it still dumbfounds him. Asking for it, literally. As opposed to it being a given.

Kenny nods. He puts on a pensive face, to mask his amusement at Kyle's perplexity, but some of it bleeds through regardless.

Not that Kenny cares; it lends in furthering Kyle's annoyance.

Kyle furrows his brow, and purses his lips into a fine, flat line. He takes a minute, just to glower at Kenny, see if he can cut through that stupid façade. Make him go back to the way things were, when he still had that drop of power, the strength in distraction.

Yes, he knew he'd be giving up control—it was never a question where he stood on that—his submissive inclinations and bottoming preference made that obvious even before he heard specific terminologies for his sexual natures. But this is… just plain mean.

Okay, in terms of payback, it's pretty ingenious. Aggravatingly so.

Kyle swallows, his pride pushed down his throat with the spit.

"Kiss me?" He asks, filtering out frustration. He licks his lips, and his eyes widen as he waits for an answer. His toes curl, placing energy elsewhere so he can resist moving closer, risking being denied.

"Ask nicer," Kenny flatly replies. Again, his knees bounce, and the whole bed shakes and screeches. The smile disappears.

"Are you fucking for real?" Kyle raises his voice. He stops himself from yelling, but the reddening of his face clearly shows how he's losing his temper.

"Do you want me to fuck you or not?" Kenny uses the same tone, the same volume, severity darkening the blue. Kyle sees anger flash, if only for a second, the type that stems from pent up frustration, from holding too much back, from struggling to keep desire in check.

Because Kyle isn't the only one who wants to get off today.

Kyle's mouth hangs open, but he can't force any words out, not even a sound. It might be stupid, having to make an extra step, to ask for everything; but it isn't terrible. Hell, it just reaffirms consent. And it could be… fun. Not making demands or bossing around, but requesting and receiving.

He collects his thoughts, closes his eyes, and tries again:

"Will you kiss me?"

Kenny's whole body relaxes, Kyle only realising how tense he was when he starts melting. His eyes brighten as his smile returns, smaller than last time, but present once more.

"Ah, ah, ah," He says, softly, gently, "What's the magic word?"

Kyle bites his tongue, preventing another snide comment. If anything, this is an exercise in how well he can watch his mouth.

But if Kenny thinks he's in any way subtle about getting a kick out of this, he's a goddamn idiot.

"Will you," Kyle speaks slowly, every word deliberate, carefully and clearly pronounced, "Please kiss me?"

There really is something magic about that word, at least when it reaches Kenny's ears; it's the most melodious, musical, enchanting word in the whole universe. He lets out a sigh, a sigh of pure relief. Full body, radiating through him, filling in every cavity of his being, and running off on the other body underneath him.

"Whatever you want," He leans in, their lips touching but not quite kissing. First, he needs to get in one more word, "Brat."

There's no time to be offended, to come up with a counter, to even care what he tacks on. Kyle closes his eyes, taking in the full force of the kiss, the kiss he asked for, no, earned. He deserves every second of the glorious sweetness, of the flavour of his mouth, of the tender warmth.

His hands lurch up, as far as their binds allow, and his fingers wrap around his neck. His nails burrow, and he drags Kenny down, closer, for a fuller taste, a longer kiss. His palms press to his jugular, feeling the blood coursing through him, fast and hot, liquefied fire. He can taste the flames in his lips, swallowing smoke. He could suffocate and he wouldn't mind, because he's in love with the feeling, and in love with him.

Yeah, gay as it sounds.

Kenny shuts his eyes, falling into the acting embrace, under his spell. He may have told him to ask, but Kyle still wields a lot of power, even if he doesn't realise it. He makes it hard to hold back, because there's something he has that, however he uses it, nearly floors him every time, makes him stop, and stare, and think how lucky he is, and how badly he wants to kiss him. Or maybe that's just Kenny, realising just how deeply entrenched he is, caring too much and somehow, somewhere, falling in love.

God, maybe he really is a dork.

Kyle sneaks his tongue into Kenny's mouth, needy, eager. He covets the taste too much, too much to be content with just lips and tongue. Call it a craving, an addition, anything that sounds fitting; nothing satiates the aching quite like this, like gorging on delirium. That's what it feels like, whole body a fever, whole mind in ecstasy, whole soul an ardour.

The fervour infects Kenny, fighting Kyle's tongue, just to force enough room for his own to sneak in, an equivalent exchange. His hands crawl closer to his face, bystanders walking to the blazing inferno. He just wants to touch, for his thumb to wipe his cheek, or his knuckles to move the stray curls from his forehead, or his fingertips to follow the lines made by his veins. His heart throbs, and each pump feels more like another splash of gasoline, tempting an explosion.

The box springs whine as their bodies press together. Kenny, without noticing, starts rocking his hips, right against Kyle's, to the rhythm of some silent hymn, some song they wrote in their dancing movements, their abstract courting ritual. Kyle's leg swings, crossing over Kenny's lower legs, hooking around the opposite ankle. Not quite as awkward as it sounds, not for Kyle, whose main aim is eliminating the spaces between them, namely those at the crotch. Be close as possible, feed off the swell, feel the other grow and harden. Present for every moment, rise to crescendo to climax.

And Kenny's entirely cognizant of Kyle's goals, what he's doing when he grinds. He's going for the same thing, anyway, make him hard, make him come. And as the blood rushes from his head, rushing down, he knows it's working. It's working really well. Like Kyle thinks he's a genie, granting all his wishes, and needing a summons from the lamp.

Like Christina Aguilera said, genie in a bottle, gotta rub me the right way.

And that is definitely the right way.

He kisses him deep; tongue travelling far as it can, focusing all his weight into pushing him down, into the springs and fleece. Give him enough to warrant a break, a chance to breath. Because he's losing air fast, and he needs a second to think. Which is not easy with a tongue exploring the interiors of his mouth and a half-hard cock thrusting against his own.

He carves an imprint of Kyle out in the mattress, the springs underneath succumbing, allowing him an indent. Kyle tries to keep him down, make Kenny follow him; even if they tore through the bed he'd drag him down. But he can't, his fingers losing their hold, and Kenny free to push up, a luxury of both being on top and unbound. He looks up, with a wet lips and wide eyes, breathing loudly from his mouth. Nearly hyperventilating, like he's having trouble breathing without Kenny's mouth.

Kenny lifts one hand, wiping his mouth of the spit, some sticking to the back of his hand, some smeared on his left cheek, some missed entirely dripping down the corner of his lips. He breathes like nearly drowned, each intake of oxygen heightening the high. He gulps down air, then looks back down, to the glimmering green and dropped jaw.

Giving in wouldn't be that hard, ceasing the sport of politesse and the rules of mandatory request. He could easily allow impulse to take over, think with his other head, get to the pleasing without hearing a please.

But he won't. He won't because that denies him the gratification of hearing the inquiries grow more desperate, seeing his face flush at each pause between appeal and reply, feeling his body writhe as the wait becomes too long and he nearly cracks right then and there.

A little sadistic, but he'll make the interludes worth it.

"Wha'do you want me to do?" He rasps, voice urgent, severe. His tone borders on those apocalypse flicks, where the fate of the world is resting on their shoulders, and his whole being demands an answer immediately. It spares him mentioning the pain of his constricted boner, ready to burst through the zipper.

Kyle's lungs collapse, caving in as he struggles to breath, get enough air to spit out an answer. He already knows the answer, it tightening his jeans, robbing him of logic and composure.

He knows what he wants, and this time, he doesn't need instruction on how to ask for it.

"I want you to…" He croaks, with a quiver that starts in his heart and spreads. One foot starts shaking, like a rabbit thumping at the ground, involuntary outlet for the anticipation. But not a sufficient distraction.

The rope—god, he nearly forgot about it—constrains, about to cut in and cut through, triggering some sense of claustrophobia. Nothing to send a panic, just enough to apply pressure, even more so, when he's already having difficulty concentrating enough. He runs out of breath, already, now of all times, freezing his speech. Talk about timing.

"To what?" He sounds a little desperate now, but he talks with enough authority to offset it. He runs a hand down Kyle's lower torso, over the bare skin untouched by slicing hemp.

There's nothing special about the touch, not really. But it still maddens him, stirring storm clouds in his mind, with thunder and lightning and pounding, endless rain. Kyle moves his hands, needing to meet the touch—and then attended to other matters—but he barely moves a few inches from his chest before he cannot move further, damned by ropes.

Pleasuring himself is out of the question. But his arms still search for a miracle, challenging the hemp. Rope burns, but that just emboldens him.

His eyes flutter, wildly. His lungs fill up and he chokes on his words. The only way to clear them out is to screaming them out, "Please fuck me."

Why does it sound so much like music? Is it because Kyle really does have some symphonic charm? Or because the power trip influences his brain?

If he wasn't hard before, there are no doubts about it now.

"Didn't catch that," Kenny says. His fingers tug the front of Kyle's jeans, thumb rubbing the metal button, but daring not unfasten. Even though his nails scratch the threaded hole, and one motion could undo. Teasing Kyle is synonymous with teasing himself.

But he endures, because it's worth it: "Louder."

Kyle lifts his head, for a better view, to see just how Kenny's torturing him. His eyes move down, following his arm, and staring at the ready hand. An idle hand, doing nothing but taunting, jeering, provoking. His teeth grind, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. His expression distorts, frowning, frustrated. The words stay caught in his throat.

Kenny, understanding of the hardship, decides some inspiration will facilitate his answering. His fingers deviate from the button, travelling along the fold of the zipper, up the incline. He generously applies more pressure upon approaching the top, the tip. An extension of benevolence, proving him a merciful soul.

In the most merciless of ways.

"Fu…u-uck…" He only gets that far, before the tension overtakes him, fighting too hard against the natural quavers. His head plops down, keep from overexerting useless muscles, wasting energies on insignificant movement. He breaks into a moan, unable to censor, and winces at another, rougher touch. A breath sifts through his clenched teeth.

"I could do this all day," He bluffs. He supresses his own discomforts, at his own cloth limitations. He channels them into tracing Kyle's head.

Bullshit, Kyle thinks, a momentary flash. And then pleasure assails and overwhelms. His legs stretch, feet turning to ballerina points, just for the cresting wave. His back arches, hips thrusting to the hand that treats him, and his arms cling to his body, retreating into his knotted prison.

"C'mon," Kenny's voice strains, and he rolls his shoulders, "These are nice jeans."

"Shut up," He hisses, abrupt, not even realising the words left his thoughts. Is that even possible? How could he talk through the cotton in his mouth and the storm in his head? He's on another plane, dancing between two spaces. One normal, usual, and the other… not unusual, not that different from normal, but still… A subspace. Sub Space.

He bites his tongue, by accident. Pain doesn't detract from the pleasure, which prepares to mount another assault. And Kyle doubts he can survive another one.

Kenny bends over, minding his movements as not to disturb the fragile balance he maintains, that keeps him from succumbing to impulse, spoiling the fun and rendering any pleasure received lacklustre. He squints, giving Kyle a long look and barring his teeth. He readies his thumb, "Excuse—"

"For fuck's sake," Kyle's eyes sharpen, glassy and keen. Still fierce, despite the thoughts his light trembles promote. He remembers how to breath, but forgets how to control his voice, "Just FUCK me!"

One, two, three blinks. Shock, that's it. That's what freezes every muscle fibre, empties his mind, blocks out all sound except Kyle's breathing. Shock and awe. Because that was loud, even for Kyle.

The initial aftershock, only a blip in time but for that atom-sized time, he gains hyperawareness. A droplet of sweat dribbles down his forehead. Something sticks in his throat. He notices the sound of bloodstreams; they're like river rapids and waterfalls. Is this euphoria?

What ends the moment, what brings him back, is a soft, quiet, weak whisper:

"…Please?"

Kenny blinks, thrice, and meets Kyle's gaze. People always call eyes windows, and through this one, he sees a lit fuse. Crackling sparks at the frayed edge of oxidised hemp. Running out of rope. Every second eaten away, a second closer to explosion. But he wants to control the bomb.

He smiles. He will control the bomb.

Kyle opens his mouth, about to say something, but forgets, immediately. Because that same second Kenny claims his lips.

All he thinks is tender, the only word he can describe it as, the only one he can recall. Everything else is images and emotions—a low flame in the fireplace, a massage at the end of a long day, an arm slung over the shoulders in a cuddle—Tender.

The ache vanishes, and he relinquishes his nominal power, muttering four words between kisses, "Make me come, please."

Kenny presses his lips to the side, wet, practically drooling, making Kyle turn his head. He licks along the cheekbone, stopping at the temple. He wets his lips before murmuring, "Only 'cause you asked nice."

His fingers, dexterous and quick, return to the button, pushing it through the hole, sliding it undone. The zipper glides down, metallic teeth opening and tearing apart. He undoes the one button the fly of his boxers and finally, finally Kyle feels a sense of relief. No longer stifled by the trivialities of clothing.

He waits for Kyle's hum of approval before unbuttoning his own jeans, popping the button and unzipping. The fastenings on his boxers disappeared ages before—fallen off in the tumbling cycles of the ancient laundry machines, or rolled off in the turnings of uneasy slumber, or maybe purchased at Goodwill without second thought to the mechanism's viability—cock out and ready. He adjusts, optimising position, so they rub together, lightly, just a brush. He rests his hand at Kyle's base.

A sharp inhale, and green eyes widen. Such sensitivity, prompt reaction, lightning piercing the earth. Then it strikes again, palm creeping up, up the length. Reluctant touching, fingers that ghost the shaft, little contact but a lot of feeling. Only at first, only until he can join too. Beat two cocks with one hand. Talk about his talents.

Kenny heaves long, controlled breaths, to keep in check. Can't even smile, too much at stake. Gentle thrust, and—"Shit,"—yup, right there, Kyle's right there. Side by side, tip to tip. His hand wraps around Kyle, and—"Fuck,"—he surprises himself with his own touch.

"One more time," A lecherous shadow casts in his eyes, but not the self-serving sin born-and-bred in seedy backwater towns like this; it's a shared indulgence, mutual, and the lusty look is not an assertion of his pleasure but the guarantee of another's, "Wha'do you want?"

Kyle's chest rises, falls, rises. He blinks, back in Sub Space. He enunciates each word as it rolls off his tongue, "Please make me come."

Up, down. Hard tug. Swift stimulation. Surges of the feeling, straight injections of sensation. A moan from Kyle, hitched breath from Kenny. Synchronised.

But just the once.

"Again," Kenny growls, then kisses his temple. They'll do this back and forth, one request equalling one jerk, do this until he comes. It doesn't count unless he comes.

"Please make me come," He murmurs. A lackadaisical smile appears, so far in bliss, careless and enraptured. The contradictions that make up paradise. Then a gasp, another motion, another rousing of the emotional and hormonal whirlwinds.

He presses a moist kiss to his neck, "Again."

"Please make me come," The latter half repeats, providing back up for himself. Kenny counts it as two—because he benefits too.

Kiss to the hollow, "Again."

"Please make me come," He says the whole thing twice over, once breathing in, again breathing out. Up and down, up and down. His head drips, clear and colourless, and the trickle gets on Kenny.

On the spot, "Again."

"Please make me come," Now Kyle can't shut up, the phrase spilling out his mouth over, and over, and over. Mechanically, a record on loop, or an addict hooked to the system. Creating the tempo for Kenny to follow, conducting the movements, orchestrating the pleasure that blends and bleeds.

Kyle repeats, repeats, repeats the words, going faster, faster, faster each time. And Kenny keeps up, with the recitations, one for each time, one for each time. Kyle's voice wavers into a moan, nearly falls into unintelligible, but he manages it out, without skipping a beat, even if some of them sound a little awkward, a little funky.

Kenny has no such outlet, no vocal chorus, no incantations. What he has is a neck to kiss, to suckle, to bite. His teeth leave behind little indentations, some popping right back to place, some lingering, others stuck etched in his skin. Borderline vampirism, but with come instead of blood.

"Please make me come. Please make me come. Please make me come."

Clear liquid dribbles, drips, gradually collecting first at Kyle's head, then Kenny's. A couple of the tiny streams mix.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

From there, it's a race, to whose turns white first.

"Please make me come. Please make me come. Please make me come."

A competition to climax. Awaiting orgasm.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

Both edging closer. Only a matter of time.

"Please make…"

As soon as Kyle hears his voice trail, his words drift off, he knows he met his limit. He knows he's over it. He knows what's next: A taste of utopia and sweet, sweet release.

The tension in his body, everywhere, ebbs away, absorbed and imbibed. He's fluid, buoyant, floating. Hovering in Sub Space. Kind of like an astronaut, or maybe that's the giddiness talking. He may as well be in orbit, on another planet; he's out of this world.

A cupped hand catches most of the white, Kenny ever attendant. His palm isn't straight, and his fingers spread out too soon, letting some of it seep out through the gaps and spill over the sides. Dotting Kyle's torso, with a few spots on the denim's edge. Kyle just lets out a groan, one of his happy sounds, and shuts his eyes. Lies in the moment.

Kenny lays one more kiss on Kyle's neck, a goodbye to purpling blotch, and rests his head there. An ear pressed right there, he listens to his heartbeat, his breathing. Both arousing and calming. His hand still covered, Kenny finishes himself, going the rest of the way, only on the noise and the heat.

Another coat paints his palm, and rolls to the side, off of Kyle, giving him more air. He finds the covers, shoved to the opposite edge of the bed, and wipes his hand. Better not forget about that one, or those crusty cover nightmares may come to fruition.

"Kyle," His voice is warm, inviting. While he waits, he starts the untying, beginning with the square knots. One side, the next.

"Yeah?" Kyle opens his eyes, slowly, a sleepy cat. The world looks a little blurry for a moment, but soon Kenny's bedroom comes back into clarity.

Then the wrist bind, sneak the excess back through, unfurl the centre mass, then slide off when loose enough.

"Are you good?" Kenny tosses the black hemp to the side. He can organise later, when the aftercare is done.

"I'm…" Kyle realises he can separate his wrists, but doesn't believe it for a minute. He takes one hand—yes, one without the other—and shoves the blanket from under his head to under his back, balling it into a clump that can support him lying on an incline. When he finally looks at his wrist, really looks, he sees the depressions in his skin, the twisting twine leaving him with deep, red markings. It's the same on his other wrist, "Whoa…"

Kenny takes advantage of Kyle's accommodation, sneaking his hand to the back knot of the chest bind after undoing the arm hitches. He loosens it enough to slide it safely overhead, then puts it with the other hemp.

"You're gonna have those for at least a day," He puts a hand on his wrist, to feel the impressions Kyle is so fascinated by. He doesn't mention the equally dark lines across his chest, over his arms, on his back; he can discover those himself.

"I like them," Kyle says, with a small smile.

"Had a feeling you would," Kenny kisses the side of his face. The fire in his cheeks still smoulders, but it's nothing compared to the warmth in his eyes. Kenny can't tell what he's more proud of, the marks or the admiration, "So do you, like, need anything?"

"What?" Kyle turns his head, taking his eyes from the marks to the blue.

"Aftercare," Kenny snakes an arm around Kyle's waist, pulling him close, "Like, do you need water? Or are you hungry? Or do you want me to, like, leave you the fuck alone?"

"I don't know…" As he pauses, he starts leaning on Kenny. His head rests on his shoulder, pondering. He's not tired, just tame. He just doesn't really want to do anything. Or think about having to do anything. Or even about anything beyond this room.

"I mean, you kinda deserve whatever you want," Kenny's other hand finds Kyle's, and he weaves their fingers together, hands interlocked, "That was pretty fucking amazing. Like, pretty sure I have the best boyfriend ever amazing."

"Fuck you," Kyle lets out a shaky laugh. His vocal chords ache, a sign that he might not talk well for much longer. He pushes his fingertips on Kenny's knuckles, "Can I… have milk and cookies?"

"Pfft," Kenny knocks their heads together, "You suck."

"I'm serious," He whines, rolling his wrist, gripping his hand harder. He kicks the air, then bumps his toes to Kenny's leg.

"Are you though?" He lightly kicks back, and half his face is buried by Kyle's mop of curls.

"You said I kinda deserve whatever I want," Kenny doesn't even need to look at him, he can hear the smug smirk in his voice, "Plus you got come on my jeans."

"Fine. Fucking milk and cookies," He rolls his eyes, "Is that all you want?"

"Can we…" He doesn't want to move, doesn't want anything to change. This—leaning on each other, lazing around after sex, not even cleaned up—is perfect, "Stay like this a while?"

"First, I need the magic word."

Kyle grumbles, though it's more like a laugh. He rolls his eyes, then moves his head, so he talks right into Kenny's ear, "Please?"

"Hmmm…" Kenny turns to face him, noses bumping, looking right into his eyes, "Ask nicer."

Kyle bangs Kenny's hand onto the mattress. Purposely showy, stupidly dramatic. A miniature temper tantrum to coax out an equally childish whine. And they'd fight like they always do.

But instead, Kenny laughs, deciding to let Kyle have his way. He steals one more kiss, and whispers his real reply into his mouth: "Whatever you want."

.

---

Author's Note: No clue if anyone still remembers me, but, uh, I always said I'd be back. Consider this me trying to get back in the game.