In My Head (Kyle/Oliver) R
Another boner.
Jesus Christ, it's like I'm fifteen years old again. I can't seem to keep the frisky guy down. It has to be something in my diet. Too much... protein? Fuck! Getting a massive hard-on every other hour is starting to get a little bit annoying, if you ask me.
I risk a quick glance to my left. The tip of Oliver's pencil scribbles madly against his exam answer sheet. And the way his tongue pokes out of his mouth as he squints down in concentration is driving me totally insane. I have my own damn test to finish, thank you very much, but keeping my mind out of the gutter is something of an impossible task right now. Like climbing Mt. Everest. I'd like Oliver to climb Mt. Lewis...
Yeah. Thoughts like that? Not helping.
Okay, okay. Exam. Let's do this. Taylor's theorem. Taylor's theorem? Damn it. I know this. Oliver and I studied this one really hard the other night.
Somehow, thinking the words 'Oliver' and 'really hard' together in the same sentence does nothing to alleviate my... little problem. Shit. I hate calculus.
---
Big sigh of relief when I push out of the lecture hall doors and into to the cooling breeze of a pleasant autumn afternoon. I think I did pretty damn all right on that test, if I do say so myself. Once I got all calmed down and concentrated and put a certain tall, blue-eyed, tan-skinned distraction right on out of my head. My pants feel downright normal for the first time all day.
"You heading back to your room?" Oliver asks me. His backpack jostles against his shoulders as he runs to catch up with me.
Well, so much for my distraction-free afternoon. Not that I'm complaining...
"Yeah. You wanna come along? I think we need to relax. De-stress. Maybe watch a movie," I say, turning to face him, walking backwards down the sidewalk. "I downloaded Zombie Headcrusher IV, if you're interested...?" I hate the way my voice breaks when I get nervous.
"You have to ask?" Oliver grins, and I want to kiss him so bad right now.
Fuck it all. I am so screwed.
---
I know Oliver's straight. But... I still fantasize about him. A lot. About Oliver going down on me. Those big hands, those amazing lips, those heavy-lidded eyes, that big body underneath me, kneeling in front of me, taking it slow, working his way down my chest, my stomach, my pelvis, then tasting me, taking me in, slow at first, but getting better, learning as he goes. I cup the back of his head and guide him. It may just be the hottest thing ever.
In my head.
The whole straight-thing is kind of a problem. It's usually not that big of a turn-on. I'm not into straight guys. They usually don't do anything for me. Except Oliver. Everyone's allowed one straight-crush, right? There's no harm in that. And I keep it stored tight in my head, like a good boy. I don't openly flirt with him. I know how uncomfortable that would make him. And the last thing I want to do is lose Oliver as a friend. Because I really like him. A lot.
As a friend.
A really, really hot friend.
---
Technically, Kappa Alpha Delta isn't allowed to have parties. Which is stupid, because who punishes a frat for something that happened over a decade ago?
So, yeah. That's why we're calling this little get-together a "meeting"-with light refreshments and a little soothing background entertainment, that just happen to be in the form of kegs, hard liquor, and some pretty solid rap music. We have important business to discuss, like how many beers Jimmy Williams can shotgun in under five minutes and how many girls will reject Lincoln Bradford and his really corny pick-up lines before he gives up and sulks in the corner. Three and seven, respectively. We're racing through our agenda items in record time, I'd say.
In the kitchen, someone hands over a blunt. I take a drag, letting the hot smoke itch at my throat. The joint gets passed around a few more times, and my head feels light and good and warm. I'm getting a little hungry. And a lot horny.
And that's when I see Oliver.
God fucking damn, he looks good. Like, lickable good. Like let's-smush-our-bodies-together-right-fucking-now good.
He's gone casual for the night in an olive green jumper and loose-fitting jeans, and oh shit he's just caught me staring. I panic a little bit, but I don't look away. And maybe it's just the weed talking but I'm pretty sure Oliver's staring at me like he's the hungriest man on Earth and I'm the last cut of steak.
He looks as wasted as I feel, and I can't stop thinking about pushing him up against the wall and getting it sloppy-on with him. Tonight would be perfect. He's a little drunk, I'm a little stoned, and what could be more fun than that?
My chest gets all hot and I breathe hard. There's a shot glass full of something amber in front of me and I swallow it down as fast as I can. The way Oliver's looking at me, even as a girl stands in front of him and chatters away, is seriously turning me on. How easy it would be to get Oliver to do what I want him to do. My fantasy come to life...
Boldness takes over. I stride up to Oliver, then fake a stumble at the last moment, coming between him and the girl, crashing into his chest. He catches me in his big, strong hands. I drag my own hand down Oliver's abdomen, pretending I need the support, and level him with what I hope is a very seductive stare. I don't even know. All that matters is that Oliver closes his eyes and lets out a long, shuddering breath, like he's been holding it in his whole life, saving it just for me. He's turned on, too. I can tell. He wants me, almost as much I want him.
I don't want to take my hands off of him, but we can't do anything out here. I need to get him alone.
---
I wait in the shadows of the empty hallway. Oliver is just on the other side of the wall from me, barely talking to the girl who seems a lot more interested in him than he is in her. I feel kind of like a creep, listening in, but I don't really care. I'm just waiting for my moment.
"I've finished my drink," the girl coos. "Get me another one?"
Oliver grunts his assent, and that's when I make my move. I reach out and tug on the back of his belt, pulling him into the darkness with me. He's a little wobbly but I steady him up against the wall. Our chests move together and our mouths are close and he's so warm and he smells so good, even with his beer breath and the remnants of girly perfume wafting off of him.
It's so dark but his eyes shine.
"Hey," I say, because I don't really remember other words.
"Kyle," he breathes out, and it sounds like prayer.
"Come with me, okay?"
He nods quietly and I pull him down the hallway by his shirt. I open the first door I see, but there's already a couple of someones in the room, limbs tangled together, clothes strewn everywhere, fantastic noises of skin hitting skin and deep, gaspy breaths.
"Sorry," I say, quickly closing the door and moving on to the next room. This one's empty and dark and I shove Oliver inside before he decides to change his mind, because god damn it, I've been a good boy for so long and I'm getting what I want tonight.
---
I close the door behind us and turn on the light, because I want to see what's about to go down. I curl fingers into two of Oliver's belt loops and pull him toward me, swinging us around so I'm up against the door and he's leaning against me.
"I want you," I say. "I want you so bad right now."
It's cheesy and stupid, but I don't care because his eyes are filled with heat and darkness and just the look in them is sending shockwaves into my stomach. For some reason that makes me laugh, and I lean in to nip at his bottom lip playfully.
"I want you too," he whispers, so low and soft that I can't be sure he's said it all or if I'm just imagining things.
He presses his forehead against mine and breathes so hard his chest rocks my whole body. I stop laughing. It's now or never.
"Get on-" I swallow, and blink very hard, almost certain this is all some fevered dream. "Get on your knees."
Oliver follows orders like a champ.
---
The image before me is mindblowingly hot. Oliver Fish, All-American boy, the straight-laced, big-bodied jock, kneeling in front of me. Ready for me. My hands tremble a little bit as I fuss with my belt like its an uncooperative crackerjack box. It's almost too much to handle. Can something be too hot? I guess I'm about to find out, because my belt is undone and it's only a matter of pushing down my jeans and underpants and presenting Oliver with his prize.
It's so hot I'm already full-hard and he hasn't even touched me yet.
I lift one of his meaty hands to my hard-on, guiding him, letting him know exactly how I like it. And even though his hand shakes a little, and his movements are tremulous, it's still the best I've ever had. Because he's brand new. Because he's him.
---
The first touch of his lips on me sends my head back into a slight collision with the door. Oliver pulls away almost immediately and squints suspiciously at my dick, like he's never seen one in his life.
He appraises it for a few moments longer, a hand still around the base. I want to palm his head, make him do what I want and how I want, but there's something mesmerizing in watching him figure it out for himself.
He finally leans back in and takes me into his mouth and gives a little suck as if he were enjoying a popsicle in the summertime. His tongue flicks out and presses hard against the head.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," I groan out.
Oliver stops, pulls back, and looks up at me with surprise, almost as if he forgot there was a dude attached to the dick he just put in his mouth.
And that's when I see it. He's really fucking wasted. Way more than I am.
It's enough to kill the mood and make my insides feel heavy with guilt.
"No, no. Wait." I put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to-" I pull him up to his feet and grab him softly by the hand. He grabs back, squeezing my palm. His eyes glisten and he looks so confused, but not angry. Just embarrassed, maybe, and a little bit sorry that he couldn't perform the duty tasked to him.
And I hate myself for a minute, doing this to a friend. To someone I really care about. Taking advantage. What the everloving fuck was I thinking?
"You should go back out there," I say, quickly fastening up my pants with one hand. "I'll stay here for a while. I won't bother you." Ever again, I silently add to myself.
Oliver shakes his head. He's still holding on to my hand in a tight grip and he looks down at his shoes.
"Wanna... stay, too," he says. He's a little wobbly, a little unsure on his feet, so I pull him over to the bed and lay him down. It just seems like the right thing to do. Oliver doesn't let go of my hand, so I lie down, too. That seems right, too, even if I'm as confused as he is now. My buzz is wearing off but lying next to Oliver causes its own little buzz in my chest, in my head, in my arms, all the way down to my fingers and toes. It's a warm feeling, and less desperate than before, but it feels just as good somehow.
And then Oliver leans in and kisses me, and it's the sweetest kiss of my life. Soft and light and airy. He pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, his eyes still closed, and breathes out. There's the smallest smile on his lips when he leans in and kisses me again. This one is just as sweet, but it holds a promise. A very earnest promise of more to come. Much more, as long as I'm willing to be patient. As long as I give Oliver the time he needs to come to terms with whatever it is that he's feeling for me.
I consent to that promise with my lips, kissing Oliver back just as sweetly.
"Get some rest," I say quietly.
Oliver stays close, falls asleep in my arms.
It's not what I'd envisioned in my head at all, but, really, I can't think of a better way to end the night.
Story continuation: Out of My Mind