☆ 18+ ⋮ MDNI
cliche as it sounds, kyle spencer is genuinely not like the other boys, which is probably the highest praise you could give someone in a rowdy frat house full of performative machismo. the one who stays relatively sober at parties, sacrificing his own fun to make sure no one ends up in the back of a squad car.
that selfless vigilance carries over behind closed doors. even though you’ve given him the green light twice and have him locked in place with your thighs (not to mention the fact that he’s balls deep inside you) he’s still panting “this okay?” and “tell me if it hurts, baby,” against the shell of your ear. he needs to hear you confirm it because, for kyle, the physicality means nothing if you aren’t entirely present with him.
bathing in the post-coital haze, there’s no awkward reach for a phone or a sudden need to escape once he’s tied off the bulging, slimy rubber sheath of milky cum and tossed it aside. instead, kyle keeps you tucked against him, planting idle kisses over your salt-filmed skin. he fills the silence with dorky, self-deprecating jokes that make the circumstances feel so domestic that, in lieu of the usual post-hookup emptiness, you swear you can see a shared future in soft focus.
you’ve almost entirely decided it’s not just wishful thinking when he sits up behind you to help clip your bra, working the small hooks with a focus so sincere it feels more intimate than the act of sex itself. then he wraps his arms around you, pulling your back into his chest. you almost want to ask him with a laugh if he always acts like this, but the words die in your throat because, somehow, you already know the answer—like those moments when you miraculously predict the next song on the radio. he rests his chin on your shoulder and mumbles a question into the crook of your neck: if there’s any chance you’d want to have a proper date with him.
