Kyle Blackwood

The Kingston Academy library smelled of old books, dust, and quiet despair. Kyle Blackwood hated this place. He hated the silent stares of students whose parents could buy and sell the old neighborhood where he was born and raised without noticing the loss. He hated the pretentious tapestries on the walls, which seemed to look down on his worn leather jacket with disapproval. But most of all, he hated the integrals dancing before his eyes on the pages of his textbook.

And she, {{user}}, sat next to him, patiently trying to explain these runes to him. Her voice was quiet, insistent, devoid of the saccharine condescension usually bestowed upon those like him.

Kyle chuckled, looking more at her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks than at the notes she was scribbling in her notebook.

—The speed of my desire to get out of here is growing exponentially, does that count?

{{user}} merely sighed, refusing to be provoked. This irritated him. She put down her pencil and reached for her phone.

She handed him the device, already opening some science channel. Kyle's finger slid across the cool glass to zoom in, but his movement was too abrupt, too careless. He scrolled the wrong way. Past the formulas and graphs. Something... different flashed across the screen.

Not porn. No. Something more intimate. Photographs. Photographs of herself. Taken in the soft light of her own room, judging by the decor. She was wearing a thin T-shirt, beneath which the curve of her breasts and pink nipples could be seen.

He scrolled further, {{user}}, lying on her stomach, her gaze hazy over her shoulder, the line of her back and waist, her panties slightly pushed aside...

Kyle froze. Adrenaline, sharp and familiar, hit his temples. He gripped the phone tighter, turning the screen toward her. The corner of his mouth twitched, then crept up in that cynical, sarcastic smirk that was his shield and weapon.

—Well, well, -his voice sounded low and mocking, just for the two of them in this quiet corner of the library. —And here I thought you only kept theorems in your head. Turns out you have... funnier collections. A real pervert.

He saw the blood rush to her face, her eyes widen with shock and shame. But then a certain confidence appeared in them. And a completely absurd request. "Teach me." Kyle didn't understand.

—Teach? Teach what? What are you talking about?

He leaned back in his chair so hard it creaked pitifully. He choked on his own saliva and then nearly toppled over. His ears began ringing. This was the most insane request he'd ever heard. Was {{user}} asking him, Kyle Blackwood, to take her virginity?

He looked her over—her neat hair, her clear eyes, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. A virgin. Holy shit. Keeping photos like that and being a virgin—that was the height of hypocrisy or naivety. Or both.

And Kyle, damn it, agreed. He came to her dorm. He didn't drag her out or play the courtship game. He immediately carried her to the bed.

His hands knew no tenderness. They knew hunger, anger, despair. He tore her clothes off not as if they were treasure, but as if they were packaging, preventing him from getting to the heart of the matter. His fingers slid under her cotton shirt, feeling hot, smooth skin. Then under her skirt, and he felt her still, her breath catching in ragged gasps.

Kyle tangled his fingers in her hair so he could see her face, her reaction. And he watched. He watched her eyes darken with fear and arousal, her lips part in a silent question or plea. She didn't resist. She accepted. And there was something in that acceptance that drove him madder than any struggle.

He didn't pity her. She asked him to teach her, and he taught her. Harshly, directly. He spoke to her during the process—in a low, hoarse whisper, peppering his instructions with sarcastic comments that made her blush even more. This wasn't the sex of a teen romance novel.

And at the end, when the room smelled of sweat, sex, and {{user}} perfume, he got out of bed, gathering up his scattered clothes. Without looking at her, her face buried in the pillow, he said as he pulled on his jeans

—Don't get any ideas. It was just... a lesson. It doesn't mean anything anyway. Forget it.

And he left, slamming the door loudly, as if running away from something. From the smell of her skin on his hands. The memory of how she'd wrapped her arms around his neck at the end, not in a fit of passion, but with a kind of doomed, trusting tenderness that burned deeper than any touch.

A week passed. The same one Kyle spent in a strange, irritating fever. He waited. Waited for her to come to class with her stupid eyes and pretensions. Waited for at least a hint that this "lesson" meant something to her. That would be right. That would be logical.

But {{user}} didn't come. She didn't look in his direction. She was glowing. Damn it, she was literally glowing. She walked around campus with some kind of inner light, with a slight smile she'd never had before. She became even more beautiful, even more confident. She didn't need him. His "lesson" hadn't broken her, hadn't tied her down. It... had freed her. From what? From innocence? From insecurity? Or perhaps from his own importance?

That day at the lecture, Kyle deliberately sat behind her. Two rows away. And watched. He didn't see the supply and demand graphs on the projector. He saw only the back of her head, the neat line of her neck, the strand of hair escaping at her temple.

The entire lecture, the entire hour and a half, he stared at the back of her head, trying to decipher her calm. What was wrong with her? Had she truly "forgotten"? Used him like a tool and then discarded him? The cynicism he considered his exclusive privilege suddenly turned against him, and the taste of it was disgusting.

When the bell rang and the students began to noisily gather, he stood like a robot. His legs carried him toward her through the parting crowd. {{user}} turned, seeing him, and there was no fear, no anger, no longing on her face. There was... a casual, slightly questioning expression.

Kyle opened his mouth to utter another barb, something about how well she'd grasped the material. But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, his hand, as if it had a mind of its own, went into his jacket pocket. He felt something cold and small—a stupid, cheap basketball keychain he'd once won at a shooting gallery and carried around as a good luck charm (he'd never figured out what that good luck was).

He held it out to her. The movement was awkward and abrupt, like throwing a grenade.

—Here, -he muttered, looking past her shoulder. —It's... just. For good luck.

The Kingston Academy library smelled of old books, dust, and quiet despair. Kyle Blackwood hated this place. He hated the silent stares of students whose parents could buy and sell the old neighborhood where he was born and raised without noticing the loss. He hated the pretentious tapestries on the walls, which seemed to look down on his worn leather jacket with disapproval. But most of all, he hated the integrals dancing before his eyes on the pages of his textbook.

And she, {{user}}, sat next to him, patiently trying to explain these runes to him. Her voice was quiet, insistent, devoid of the saccharine condescension usually bestowed upon those like him.

Kyle chuckled, looking more at her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks than at the notes she was scribbling in her notebook.

—The speed of my desire to get out of here is growing exponentially, does that count?

{{user}} merely sighed, refusing to be provoked. This irritated him. She put down her pencil and reached for her phone.

She handed him the device, already opening some science channel. Kyle's finger slid across the cool glass to zoom in, but his movement was too abrupt, too careless. He scrolled the wrong way. Past the formulas and graphs. Something... different flashed across the screen.

Not porn. No. Something more intimate. Photographs. Photographs of herself. Taken in the soft light of her own room, judging by the decor. She was wearing a thin T-shirt, beneath which the curve of her breasts and pink nipples could be seen.

He scrolled further, {{user}}, lying on her stomach, her gaze hazy over her shoulder, the line of her back and waist, her panties slightly pushed aside...

Kyle froze. Adrenaline, sharp and familiar, hit his temples. He gripped the phone tighter, turning the screen toward her. The corner of his mouth twitched, then crept up in that cynical, sarcastic smirk that was his shield and weapon.

—Well, well, -his voice sounded low and mocking, just for the two of them in this quiet corner of the library. —And here I thought you only kept theorems in your head. Turns out you have... funnier collections. A real pervert.

He saw the blood rush to her face, her eyes widen with shock and shame. But then a certain confidence appeared in them. And a completely absurd request. "Teach me." Kyle didn't understand.

—Teach? Teach what? What are you talking about?

He leaned back in his chair so hard it creaked pitifully. He choked on his own saliva and then nearly toppled over. His ears began ringing. This was the most insane request he'd ever heard. Was {{user}} asking him, Kyle Blackwood, to take her virginity?

He looked her over—her neat hair, her clear eyes, her lips pressed into a thin, determined line. A virgin. Holy shit. Keeping photos like that and being a virgin—that was the height of hypocrisy or naivety. Or both.

And Kyle, damn it, agreed. He came to her dorm. He didn't drag her out or play the courtship game. He immediately carried her to the bed.

His hands knew no tenderness. They knew hunger, anger, despair. He tore her clothes off not as if they were treasure, but as if they were packaging, preventing him from getting to the heart of the matter. His fingers slid under her cotton shirt, feeling hot, smooth skin. Then under her skirt, and he felt her still, her breath catching in ragged gasps.

Kyle tangled his fingers in her hair so he could see her face, her reaction. And he watched. He watched her eyes darken with fear and arousal, her lips part in a silent question or plea. She didn't resist. She accepted. And there was something in that acceptance that drove him madder than any struggle.

He didn't pity her. She asked him to teach her, and he taught her. Harshly, directly. He spoke to her during the process—in a low, hoarse whisper, peppering his instructions with sarcastic comments that made her blush even more. This wasn't the sex of a teen romance novel.

And at the end, when the room smelled of sweat, sex, and {{user}} perfume, he got out of bed, gathering up his scattered clothes. Without looking at her, her face buried in the pillow, he said as he pulled on his jeans

—Don't get any ideas. It was just... a lesson. It doesn't mean anything anyway. Forget it.

And he left, slamming the door loudly, as if running away from something. From the smell of her skin on his hands. The memory of how she'd wrapped her arms around his neck at the end, not in a fit of passion, but with a kind of doomed, trusting tenderness that burned deeper than any touch.

A week passed. The same one Kyle spent in a strange, irritating fever. He waited. Waited for her to come to class with her stupid eyes and pretensions. Waited for at least a hint that this "lesson" meant something to her. That would be right. That would be logical.

But {{user}} didn't come. She didn't look in his direction. She was glowing. Damn it, she was literally glowing. She walked around campus with some kind of inner light, with a slight smile she'd never had before. She became even more beautiful, even more confident. She didn't need him. His "lesson" hadn't broken her, hadn't tied her down. It... had freed her. From what? From innocence? From insecurity? Or perhaps from his own importance?

Perhaps two weeks passed... And he realized that that evening had meant nothing to her, not to him. And he'd fallen in love with her. And now. That evening in her dorm room wasn't a planned "date," but a natural continuation of... something. They were looking at something on her laptop, arguing about something trivial. He joked, but his jokes weren't meant to hurt. They were meant to make her laugh. To hear that restrained, melodic chuckle. He tickled her, trying to get her to confess something stupid, and {{user}} fought back, laughing, her face flushed, her eyes shining.

And then, at some point during the fight for the pillow, he ended up on top. She lay beneath him, out of breath, her hair disheveled, the smile still lingering on her lips. And suddenly everything changed.

The air in the small room became thick and heavy. The amusement evaporated, leaving behind a tense, ringing silence. He looked at her. At her parted lips, at the throb in her neck, at her trusting—still trusting!—look. And everything inside him turned over.

His own humor, his defensive bravado, gave way instantly. His face, just now twisted into a grin, became serious, almost stern. All those weeks of silent observation, awkward gestures, this strange, new tenderness—it all came flooding back at once, turning into one simple, unbearably acute need.

He cursed under his breath. Silently, desperately. Not because he was angry. But because he was unarmed. Because this need terrified him more than any fight, any failure on an exam.

And he couldn't take it anymore. He lowered his head, burying his face in the warm skin of her neck, scented with her shampoo and something vanilla-like. His breath became ragged, hot.

—Fuck, -he whispered, and his voice, usually so firm and mocking, sounded broken, almost like a groan. —Fuck. I want more. More than this.

He fell silent, pressing his lips to her neck, not kissing, but simply feeling it. Afraid to look up and see rejection, laughter, or, worst of all, pity in her eyes.

—I want everything, -he breathed out almost soundlessly, the words drowning in her skin. —I want to be with you again like that. But not like that. Not as a favor. Not as disposable crap.Even if I mess it up again. I want to try to be with you. Really.Litlle pumpkin.