He remembers the exact moment he thought of this, exactly when the idea popped into his head, like a big pink bubble of cotton candy gum finally bursting, sticking to every goddamn wrinkle in his brain.
It was Saturday afternoon, somewhere around 2:20, maybe closer to 2:25. Gerald was out with some clients, devoting a few hours to an extended chatty brunch, chatting them up until they can go over and sign a few documents while he leisurely pays for their meal. Shelia was out playing guest with her book club, as a part of her active role in the synagogue's women's club, undoubtedly bragging about her sons to the other ladies as they prayed for her to shut up. Ike was out with his Mandarin class, an extracurricular he pitched last year to finagle out of more years going to Hebrew school, either kvetching about being the only Canadian enrolled or boasting about how well his linguistic skills will dovetail with his interests in international trade. And with no one else home, all scheduled out until the sun slunk down low in the sky and touched the valleys between the mountain slopes, Kyle sent out a text—an innocent hey u free?, all lowercase to sound casual and unassuming, no emoji to keep his intent between the lines and up for interpretation—to see if Kenny would come over, keep him company like a good and loving boyfriend, and throw in a little good loving while he's at it. The phone buzzed, a good half a minute later, with a colon and an uppercase D, a simple message spelling out just what he wanted: D.
His cheek tingled, still enlivened from the friction, the carpet wearing away and stripping off the layers of deadened skin on his face. Each pore absorbed the static sensations, embracing the scratchiness as a deep red burn dyed his light complexion. His tongued the inside of his cheek again and again, letting the fibres of his bedroom floor graze the scar, smirking with satisfaction, already anticipating the questions.
What the hell happened to you? and Where'd you get that? and Why's half your face strawberry and the other half vanilla?
They'd ask and ask, and Kyle would listen. Maybe he'd let a blush dominate his face, turn him into a gradient from red to pink, or maybe he'd just smile at them, give a small and smug grin; either way they'd figure the answer out before a word left his lips.
They'd know that he earned his tender burn, his badge of honour, in another round of rough and sloppy fucking; the kind that Kenny and Kyle have been renowned for since prom, when no one could sway to Imagine Dragons, swoon to One Republic, or spin to Coldplay because the guitar riffs and the drum beats just couldn't blot out the moaning coming from the backstage. They'd know Kenny bent him over on his knees, with his ass raised in the air, one hand keeping Kyle's head against the ground and the other jacking off Kyle's throbbing cock. They'd know that slurred pleas of harder and more spilled from Kyle's lips, in between the harsh and heavy pants, Kenny giving him a muffled grunt just before obliging his desperate requests. They'd know Kenny fucked Kyle into his bedroom floor until he was a messy quivering puddle sprawled out a few inches from his desk.
But it was in the dizzied afterglow, drowning in the bursting endorphins and raging hormones, when it dawned on him, climbed the ladder of his vertebrae and crawled into his mind. He was coming down from the high, raw stimuli and sharp sensations fading as he deeply heaved, lungs inflating with sweet oxygen while his heart rapped against his chest. He floated in the pools of relaxation and refraction, and Kenny peppered kisses on his ass, chapped lips mouthing wet thank yous into the hot skin. His hands cupped his cheeks, callused fingers pressing against the curves, charting a map of Kyle with his mouth. Each time he felt Kenny's tongue flick over and plot another saliva point, Kyle let out a breathless laugh, one mixed with a groan, thinking how funny it was that people called him the ass-kisser; they'd probably be surprised just how many hickeys colour him there, all in varying intensity, some accented by teeth's impressions, Kenny's secret masterpiece forever a work in progress.
They'd probably be surprised by a lot of things, like how attentive Kenny, how nice and warm he gets, regardless of the mode he's in. They wouldn't get how, integrated in their steaming dirty talk, Kenny sneaks in breathy check-ins on how Kyle feels, or how, no matter how stern and strict his tone, Kenny asks for verbal confirmation before moving forward. They wouldn't get how, spontaneous as the two of them can be, Kenny reminds him that he'll only do what Kyle wants him to, or how, regardless of the type of screwing they did, Kenny praises him afterwards for any-and-everything he can think of. They wouldn't get how, after banging him against a cabinet, Kenny lightly massages the bruises and blows on his ear, or how, after pinning him to a table, Kenny gently laces their fingers together and kisses the tip of his nose.
What they would get is that their relationship has a dynamic. Kenny always did things to Kyle, and Kyle always had things done to him. Kenny got the control, and Kyle gave his away. Kenny was the dom, and Kyle was the sub. And every time they negotiated what weird shit they'd next, they never had to specify that that was the way of their world: Kenny on top, Kyle underneath him.
But that wasn't how things always were, more in Kenny's case than his. Before the day he finally swallowed down his anxieties and cornered that stupidly charming redneck ass in the boy's locker room after a P.E. period of too-much-contact sports, Kyle listened to Kenny rattling off about his randoms, the one-off affairs that seemingly walked right into his lap. He was always lucky—with ladies, with gentlemen, with genders lacking a formal address—and always up for anything. And while, really, Kyle benefits from the rounded experience—with well-trained hands and skilful tongue and extensive knowledge of how human bodies really work—he knew in that experience Kenny ended up taking rather than giving more than a few times. And he sure as shit didn't dislike it, from how he bragged about tricking Grandma Tucker into thinking he was Craig's twitchy boyfriend, or how he boasted about riding Token and his fancy sailboat all around Stark's Pond.
Kyle remembers distinctly how, in that moment, he thought they try to bend that, add something new to their mixing pot routine, an ingredient they he kept ignoring because he never thought twice. Not that there really was anything to complain about—oh God, nothing like that—but more it presented an untapped potential, a possibility for new satisfactions. Because maybe it'd be nice, he thought, if just every now and then, he stopped making Kenny focus solely on his salacious little thirsts, and instead gave him the chance to sit back, relax, and have Kyle do the work: to him, for him.
"Mmm…." He collected all the fragments afloat in his mind, scooping them from the mess of thoughts, shaping them into words. Before the malleable could harden into something articulate, teeth grazed his right cheek, Kenny biting into the soft skin of his ass. Lips coated in saliva complimented the indentation of his mouth, and the sensation crawled up Kyle's spine in electric tingles. When he finally spoke, Kyle's voice unfurled as a moan, unrolling from the way back of his throat, "Hmm… mmm… 'ey, Ken?"
Kenny responded with a hum, kissing him deeper. He wanted his voice to resound in his bones, make earthquakes tremble on his skin, frazzle the ends of already frenzied nerves. He'd leave a dark hickey right where only he'd know about it, the blotchy marker claiming his treasured booty. Then when they were done, when they were out in public with their jeans zipped up and shirts on right, Kenny would find the spot again with his hand, grab around the faded violet edges, and remind Kyle exactly where he'd been. Then, when they one started losing its lustre, he'd lay him down and make a new one somewhere else.
Kyle bit his lip, a twinging pinch peeking through the feelings tickling every part of him. It made him drop a few of his words, breaking pre-planned sentences into choppy bits, forcing him to rearrange and restring. As he matched parts to pieces, he wondered if Kenny ever felt this kind of static inside him, if that was one of those things exclusive to the brats on bottom, and if it was whether he could elicit it in Kenny, could make his heartbeat so erratic with nothing but breath. He let out a sigh, groan mingling in as half-baked words drawled out, "I was thinkin'…"
Partway through, his sentence collapsed, imploded when Kenny parted his lips, lessened his nip. He dragged his tongue over the fresh bruise, in one wide, broad stroke. He was signing his work, satisfied with the depth and hue, with the little ridges and moist finish. Kyle lost his concentration, falling victim to the slick tongue that talked him into getting plastered on Manischewitz before Ike's bar mitzvah and getting road-head on the way home from a debate tournament in Denver, into having phone sex on speaker at his aunt's house and fucking in the chair of that undeserving flautist just before a concert to spite that cunt for stealing Bach's solo from him. Kenny's lips curved into an open-mouthed grin, and from the back of his throat came: "Uhh-hhuuuhh…"
Another groan spilt from Kyle's mouth, his lips matching Kenny's smug and satisfied grin. He lazily curled his fingers, muscles loose and body languid, the kind of gooey feeling drugged up popstars put to catchy rhythms and sing about to their underage fans. The carpet turned to muck when he started lifting his head, laden with saccharine stickiness, air slapping his burn as he peeled his peeled his face from the floor. His curls frizzed, each strand of crimson still wired with static electricity, fro even wilder than usual. He licked the corner of his lips, and glanced over his shoulder.
From that angle, he could only really see the side of his bed, see the plain quilted comforter neatly dressing the mattress, its length concealing the wooden frame. One green denim pant-leg hung down off the side, shredded cuffs brushing the floor, his jeans sloppily tossed aside. The other leg stretched underneath a clump of faded blue, two pairs of underwear crowning the coil of Kenny's discarded pants. Hidden partly under his bed was his phone, flipped over so the spongy back faced upwards, only the stripes of orange and green decorating the rim of his case discernible from shadow. In his peripheral vision, he could make out an orange parka hanging off his bedpost, hood hooked around the top like it was a coatrack, along with the outline of Kenny's arm, shoulder capped with charcoal cotton, the rest bare and exposed.
Kenny carefully finished his lick, tip of his tongue tapping once before he leaned back. Kyle let out a sharp exhale, through his nose, watching shoulders roll, only seeing the messiest locks of gold sticking up from his head. No, no he couldn't tell him like this, couldn't talk seriously; not when Kenny's only half-listening, the rest of his energy channelled in goddamn ass-worshipping. With his foot, he blindly nudged Kenny's leg, then said in a slurred grumble, "My eyes're over here, asshat."
He narrowed his eyes, the sound of Kenny's laughter trickling into his ears, that stupid laugh that always made him buoyant. Kyle shut his eyes, let the lightness overtake, float on the notes. He felt a slap, three fingers hitting the base of his ass, stern and strong, a sting on the overly sensitive skin. He heard Kenny shifting, stretching, letting out noises which blended chuckles and grunts. Kenny moved over him, around him, crawling from behind to his side, lanky form fitting between Kyle and the bed. Kyle tracked his motions from his little grumbles, from the couple faint pops in his joints, from the thuds somewhat buffered by the carpet's absorption.
Kenny found his hands, the coarseness of his palms so gentle, comforting, warm. One hand rested over the back of his, the one Kyle left listless out above his head. Kenny filled the gaps between his fingers with his own, his thumb carelessly stroking over the bones of his palm, his wrist. He plucked Kyle's closer hand from the floor, holding it fully as he tugged it along, lightly manipulating his position, so they would be arranged exactly how he wanted. A gust of breath—hot and wet, like the steam given off from a simmering pot—blew over his face. His nostrils filled with the scents of canned root beer and cheap menthol cigarettes, with the musk of dirty mountain hick and sweaty gay sex. Lips pressed to his skin, and Kyle opened his eyes.
He lied on his side, using one arm as a pillow for his head, nicely holding Kyle's hand to his face. He still had on his tee—the white cartoony letters of Filthy Casual written across his chest—wrinkled in odd ways from his positioning. Darkened tips of blond hair, perspiration gluing the ends into ink-brush points, messily stuck up from his head, with locks of gold going every which way, some defying gravity, some clinging to his forehead, some just plain confused. He always had a pretty face, that goddamn-good-lookin'-son-of-a-bitch type of pretty, but his eyes always got to Kyle, the blue sky of sweet summer days caught in those irises.
Kyle's fingers twitched, as Kenny planted a kiss on each knuckle. He's good at that, good at seizing their moments of respite, and sprinkling them with silly lil' queer crap: the small displays of boyfriendly affections that always end up more faggy than the fucking. His nail tapped under Kenny's chin, feeling a few prickles of scraggly stubble, and Kenny smirked halfway through his final kiss. Kyle noticed the smile on his own lips, as Kenny lowered their hands to the floor, looked to him. His eyes were dew and Kyle's were grass, their gazes distilled together in the sunlight streaming through the window.
Kenny rubbed his cheek to his shoulder, bunching the cotton underneath. One eye winked, and a lopsided grin formed. He revealed a few faintly yellowed teeth in his goofy smile, as he light-heartedly teased, "Got lil' s'thing on y'r face there, Ky'."
"Ha ha," The laugh rolled wry and dry off his tongue, but the amusement etched on his face told how otherwise. Kenny fingers tip-tap, tip-tapped on his hand, while his tongue tip-tap, tip-tapped on the palette of his mouth. He was waiting, waiting to hear what Kyle wanted to say, wanted to listen to the funny little things going on in that frazzled little noggin after screwing his brains to stew. Kyle's always been talkative, with his speeches and rants often annoying others, but never Kenny; he's always been the listening type, listening to Kyle whether it's a coherent spiel pouring in intellectual torrents or absolute garble drivelling out after screwing. But for this, for this he had to be precise, exacting with phrases Kenny was far more familiar with, or else the whole thing would come out all wrong.
"I was… thinking..." Kyle let his head loll, and sighed. Concentration hardened his features, narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brows. He straightened his back, knees aching as he shifted from bending over to lying down. His teeth bit down on the inside of his cheek, smile waning and ebbing away, gradually replaced by a subtle pout. The seconds of silence ticked by, Kyle crafting and scrapping, crafting and scrapping sentences, recycling the same words over and over to no avail. He kept track by counting how many times Kenny's thumb swept over his wrist, his rhythm steadier than his pulse, more reliable. Once over, twice over, thrice, four, five, six times over…
God, how the fuck was he going to say this?
First thing he felt was the heat, when Kenny leaned forward, his blood still running hot. Kenny gripped his hands tighter, a reassurance sent out in his hold, delivering a message of trust, the come-on-you-can-tell-me-anything sort of squeezes friends give when they wanna hears another's deepest darkest secrets. Their noses bumped together, and Kenny's open mouth claimed Kyle's lips, another gesture of support, one of those I-care-about-what-you-have-to-say kind of kisses. Best friends, boyfriends, it all boils down to the same big L-Word feeling, just a few different words for a little different nuances.
Kyle stopped trying to hard making up phrases, instead parted his lips, let that sleek tongue in and roam inside his mouth. The wires in his brain fizzled out, melted from rapid current into simple stasis, only registering Kenny swiping over his teeth, brushing the ridges of his roof, pushing on his cheeks and pressing on his tongue. He felt easy—Kenny's good at that—natural. And, Kyle thought, if they were ever going to switch roles, if Kyle wanted to be the one holding the power, this whole conversation had to be just that: easy and natural. Without that, how could Kyle ever make him feel safe, safe the way he feels when Kenny does anything to him? How could he know, irrevocably, that he completely understands and entirely consents to what Kyle wants to do to him? How could he really enjoy anything that isn't easy and natural?
The gap between their mouths grew, Kenny drawing back, reluctance in his movement, wanting to linger in the kiss until it turned into another, and another, and another. His tongue licked over his lips, the excess saliva gathered on the tip of his tongue collecting at the corner of his mouth. A thick droplet rolled down the side of his cheek, and he looked Kyle right in the eyes.
Natural, easy, safe.
Kyle blurted it out.
"We should switch."
His voice echoed in his ears, realising it passed through his lips only after hearing himself say it. The thought sunk in his brain all over again, only this time with a new dimension, having given it life through sound. His mouth hung open, unable to close his lips, dumbfounded. Impulsive, he thought, just out-of-nowhere and on-a-whim, not even thinking. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Kenny held his gaze, watched the internal battle flash in Kyle's eyes, wash over his face. Caution crept into the blue, picking up on the bits of turmoil. Kyle knew that look, always getting it when he did shit like this, dropped an emotional Molotov on his own damn foot. The even thumb strokes paused, paused for a good three rapid beats of his heart, and during those three rapid beats Kyle felt the flames searing his toes, the blaze swiftly engulfing his body in the alcoholic uncertainty, like everything else going right to his head.
In his distress, he barely noticed Kenny toying with his fingers, adjusting his hold on the hand closest. He wiped over spit on his knuckles, the residue of his kisses, spreading it from bone along his veins, so it soaked into the pores. Then, he found a way to clasp their hands together, a kind of hold awkward in any other position, and gently guided Kyle's hand back to his lips. A kiss on the back of the hand—there was something vaguely chivalrous about that, about a queen playing knight after riding bareback. There was a sense of innocence to it, to the way he lingered in his pensive contemplation, something soft and light, fuzzy around the edges. He blurred them more, when he dragged his hand along, brushing over his cheek, all cuddly and snuggly and warm.
"Switch what?" He spoke thoughtfully, but there was something ambiguous there. Maybe Kyle was trying too hard to read his tone—so hard the lines doubled and he saw unwritten fine print—but it sounded too coy, deflecting, evasive.
Kenny could've just misheard, could've just wanted clarification. He could've wanted more context, could've assumed Kyle talking about something else entirely. He could've doubted his seriousness, in disbelief that the same guy who begged with or without a collar on suddenly wanted to be master.
Or, Kyle thought, he was overly analysing a two word question, instead of actually answering.
"Switch," He hesitated, rolling the tip of his tongue to his palette. His eyes didn't waver, even as his mind stumbled, faltering in articulating his thoughts. He inhaled, deeply, through his nose, and squeezed his hand. Every muscle tautened, as his fingers curled, pushed hard against the bones. He blinked, and pursed his lips, into a hard line: determined, decisive. Kenny cocked a brow, an inquisitive polish to his gaze, and Kyle said, carefully, deliberately, "Who's doing what… who's in charge…"
"Switch," Before Kyle could trail them into silence, before the echoes of his words tapered off, Kenny's voice replace his own. He moved their hands, dragging them along his jawline, along the smooth and rugged patchwork of his face. A hot sigh warmed Kyle's fingers, accompanied by a groan, reluctant in its timbre, sceptic in its tone. Something dulled in those eyes, sobering up from the sexed-up stupor, ready for a conversation, a real big-boy-pants-serious talk. The tip of his tongue flicked over his top lip, Kyle for a moment feeling the wet underside. Firm, like his hold, he said, "Who's fucking who?"
Kyle simply nodded, and that was all it took. A sigh, a heavy one, weighing on his fingers, hit the back of his hand. There was no insult, nothing mocking or deriding him or his suggestion, not a scoff or scorn embedded. But there was doubt, a brand of uncertainty which flattened the rise of his question, shadowed the sunbeam sounds, dimmed the lightness of his voice. Concern was the culprit—Kyle knew, knew from the low tide in his eyes—concerned over how ready he felt and how ready he was. True, Kyle had a talent of overanalysing, scrutinising and stressing over details whilst overlooking and jostling foundations, one only partially curbed by twenty milligram tablets. But for other people he could swallow that anxiety down, perform for an audience of peers, be a cool and confident leader when people called on. Maybe Kenny's an exception in a few ways, in those super gay feelings kind of ways, but no way of knowing without trying, right?
Kyle backed his hand to his face, bopping Kenny's nose, hearing a low 'fff escape his lips as he wrinkled his nose. Artful, really, how Kyle managed a gesture both playful and annoyed, hanging somewhere in the mists of contradiction. He can't say he was angry—no, he could never say he's made him mad—although the irritation nipping at him was more than just mild. Even though Kenny was willing to talk about it, wasn't saying it was a bad thing to bring up, Kyle couldn't shake that doubt, that doubt that said he couldn't. And if there's one thing—one thing in this whole goddamn world—that never failed getting under his skin, it was being told he couldn't before he even tried.
"Contain yourself, please," Sarcasm coated his words, sneering and snide, harsher than he wanted them to be. Acid soaked his tongue too quickly, spat out before it could be swallowed, and Kyle clenched his teeth. This was hard enough as is, hard enough when he only had the barest outline of what to say, when he prematurely opened his fucking mouth and had to roll with it. Slowly, his hand dragged Kenny's closer, closer to his body, so they could rest on the carpet, on the middle-ground where they couldn't distract.
"Kyle," Quickly, he said his name, tone apologetic, defensive. His eyes sharpened, whetted by his fixation, fixation on getting things right. His lips stayed parted, so Kyle could see the edges of his two front teeth as he searched in his brain. The proper words, exacting phrases, eluded him too, the loss clear from the way his tongue hovered just behind his teeth. A palm soon stroked over his other hand, fingertips tracing the bones of his little finger. Then, a frustrated sigh blew from Kenny's cheeks, "Y'know's not like that."
Kyle pulled his lips into a tight frown, sourness drawing a slant on his face. He rolled his thoughts between his cheeks, sucking on his jawbreaker ideas, so they didn't come out cinnamon hot or lemon tart. He saw in Kenny's eyes, saw that he was trying too, trying but still caught off-guard. Unsure whether his words bite and snapped or dug and prodded, he asked, "So what's it like, assmaster general?"
Kenny let out a laugh, sonorous and rich, a smile flashing on his lips. It softened him, from an ink vignette into a charcoal sketch, lines blurring to powder. Kyle's muscles eased, inhaling the dust in his laughter and letting it seep into his bones. Three fingers wrapped around his little finger, enveloped in tenderness.
"It's like…" Strands of frustration strained him, kept his voice from floating again, but he kicked off some of the weights, to make it fly the best he could. His eyes flitted to the ceiling, bit his lip, let a hum vibrate his throat. When he opened his mouth, he clicked his tongue, then finished, "Lotta prep 'n response."
"Prep, huh," Kyle wiggled his finger, the tip of his pinkie tapping on the floor, "Like when you couldn't find a blindfold and used a Naruto headband on me?"
"Okay that was an accident," He huffed, tinged with dilute bitterness, rolling his eyes. A pout appeared and disappeared, and Kyle's lips tugged into a smirk. Much as he despised it when it happened—remembering how his face went blank when he reached over his eyes and felt cool medal and swirly engravings, how he slide the band up to his forehead and saw Kenny's nervous well shit smile begging for forgiveness before a word got out of his mouth—watching Kenny grudgingly remember and regret always helped, even if Kyle's grinding did contribute to his sloppy picking. Kenny looked back into Kyle's eyes, serious, genuine, "Two, it's a really different mindset. I mean there's like prep in how the situation's probably gonna go. Then response to how the situation's actually going. Adaptability and quick thinkin' 'n shit."
"Yeah," Kyle put his tongue to his palette, thought about it. Critical thinking skills, versatility in decision making… Nothing especially novel, but never exactly applied like that. In school, at home, in a slew of social situations he's done just that: modified his actions to fit a scenario, based on what other people did and said. Sure, he wasn't half-naked and hard in those settings, but he sure as shit knew his way around negotiating.
"And it's not just you," Passion rose, underscored his speech. Both Kenny's hands squeezed his tightly, "You're thinking for you and the other guy. Anticipating what'll happen but, like, all the whats. If it's good, if it's not, if it's just okay, if it's just crap. Then proceeding based on whatever ya get."
He read the emotion in Kenny's eyes, the sheer amount of sincerity, the ardour, the spirit. And he couldn't deny Kenny was more experienced, not when Kyle only had one 'girlfriend' in seventh grade and one not-really-boyfriend in ninth. Kenny knew both ends of the spectrum, but Kyle didn't. But the longer he looked into those eyes, the more he concentrated, he thought about how nice it'd be, it'd be for Kenny to be the one to show him the other side.
In the silence, in the quiet fallen over them, Kenny scooted towards him, so their bodies could be close, so they could feel the warmth radiating off one another. Kyle felt Kenny's bare legs rub against his, Kyle stretching his toes as a knees and calves and ankles bumped together. Kenny got his face close, close enough for their noses to brush alongside, Kyle's curls to poke his forehead, for his breath to fill Kyle's mouth. He let go of Kyle's hand, left it on the carpet as he reached for his face. His palm was hot cupping him, thumbing over his cheekbone, holding his head.
Kyle hummed, in agreement, hearing Kenny's points, letting them register. But as he processed, as his brain recorded Kenny's words and formulated his own opinions in return, Kyle closed the gap between their mouths, stole a kiss of Kenny. All that talking made his mouth so wet, all that residue from sentences and statements transferring from his lips to Kyle's, so he could lick up the incomplete fragments and unrealised thoughts. Kenny's lips smiled against his, before he opened his mouth and tasted all the words still stuck on Kyle's tongue, suck on unspoken ideas and swallow omitted remarks.
Thoughts sunk in, settled, formed. Kyle reluctantly drew back his face, made enough space between their lips for him to gasp. He gulped down Kenny's pants, one after another, as he arranged letters into neat and tidy explanations, "So you don't wanna try, 'r…?"
"Didn't say that," Kenny assured him, with a jump, spring. A finger found one of Kyle's stray curls, twirled the crimson around, like a cat's cradle. He tugged lightly, pulled on the root, just to coax a soft little something from the back of his throat. Then, he swept in, kissed his lips again, cursory and swift. One and then another, and then he told himself to stop, pausing just before the third to say, "Just said it's... different."
He welcomed his lips, welcomed them with the invitation. That's what it was; Kenny wanted Kyle to know, know it was different. Something like when Kenny talked him through the fun, fun world of bondage or when he gradually introduced Kyle to the wonders of the Wartenberg wheel. He was making sure Kyle had as much intel as he could beforehand, so he could make the most informed decision he could. Like a good dom, like the kind Kenny was, like the kind maybe Kyle could be…
They broke apart for breath. The space between them was barren as the vast galaxies outside the atmosphere, but so, so much hotter. Oxygen depleted, but so much heat. They fed off each other, caught in a stroke, so happy they could choke. And Kyle realised, realised he could, realised Kenny would let him, let him try. Let him try and make him just as crazy, crazy as he makes Kyle, make him feel like he does, like he does when he gets him hard and makes him come and makes him so fuckin' happy.
"So," He energised bare air with sound, "We can?"
Kenny chuckled, breathless, before seizing his mouth again. Kenny pulled on Kyle's finger, as a sloppy kiss wetted his lips, his chin. The blood ran fast, pace speeding up under his skin, going straight to his head. Kenny blew hard in his mouth.
"How 'bout this," His sultry breath carried his words, carried them right into Kyle's mouth and down his throat before they reached his ears, "You use that sexy brain of yours to cook up something amazing that'll bend me over and call me when you're up for the test drive, yeah?"
Kyle remembers just how the rest goes, he remembers while he holds his phone, stares at the message app, stares at Kenny's name heading the subsection. He remembers how they kissed each other, the excitement and the eagerness. He remembers them now as he types out one word—Tonight—in the box, to the clicks of digital keys.
"Deal," He'd said, somewhere in between those kisses. How many, he doesn't remember, he didn't count, "On one condition."
The hmm Kenny made came out in a purr, one fluid sound; just like the electronic trill that tones from the tiny speaker, as a big blue speech bubble absorbs his message. Kyle chews on his cheek, watching the bity grey words appear: Delivered. He takes one hand, scratches an eye, then sees an ashy bubble show up, full of pulsating dots.
"You get the dildo outta my underwear drawer," He told him, told him with their noses pressed together, with Kenny's tongue waiting just beyond his moving lips, "'nd plug me up while I suck you off."
Kenny smiled at him, and as Kyle recalls the sparkle in those blue eyes, the taste of his mouth, the heat in his breath. His phone dings, and Kyle looks down, seeing the dots replaced by words. The same thing Kenny said then, said to him with his pants on the bed and his dick getting hard, is written in the little bubble. Kyle reads now the memory in his head: "Sounds good to me."
A/N: This is a two-shot! I really hope you enjoyed this first part and will tune in for the second! If you know anything about the title, you maybe know how this is going to end already. Hehe.