Lust and Loyalty (MM)

CROSS

Cyrus Sinclair.

The one. The only. The legend.

Who else would arrive late to the soccer game for his own team and stride in like a boss with lipstick on his left cheek and corner of his mouth?

The blonde walking out of the tunnel where Cyrus emerged, staggered in her steps. She fixed her mini skirt and finger-combed her hair, blushing from the embarrassment and looking around if anyone else would notice what was already written all over her.

Must be one hell of an orgasm.

I moved my camera to take a picture of the cocky man running into the field now after substitutions were announced a while ago. So far, he has made no attempts to wipe the blonde's claim off the side of his mouth.

He wore their lipstick like a conquest for all to see. Boys his age still saw sex as a trophy and loved to add to their numbers like it was a resume for a future job application.

What was I saying? He was a boy my age yet his body count was triple my age, I could bet his manhood on it.

The crowd cheered him on as he intercepted a pass from our opponents. The ladies were screaming their heads off, probably to gain his attention-- it was always a struggle for who would end up in Cyrus's bed tonight?

Day after day-- maybe I should publish that, throw in a little interview from the legend himself. I'd finally hit that one thousand subscriber checklist I've been looking forward to all month.

I ran the departments blog and was tasked with coming up with new articles each passing day. The only time the ratings ever managed to go up was during match days and only when I got photos of Cyrus.

These girls would lick up anything about him and I was starting to see my future with him too. Not in the way you think. Once I manage to muster up the balls to request an interview with him, the Press club may finally let me join the department's radio.

Until then, I guess I'd have to deal with Patricia and her one thousand ways to keep your hair straight, sleek and shiny. The wonderful '3 S' that every girl needs-- God! I can even hear her fake gag voice. It's been a living nightmare since she was put in charge--

"Goal!" The crowd chorused and I captured the moment.

Cyrus's eyes brightened up as he ran across the field, spread his arms and basked in his glory.

Narcissistic prick.

The camera shuttered once, twice and then I just couldn't stop. The man knew how to give all the right angles.

Folded arms. Tongue out. A grin. A smirk. God! I saw what the ladies saw sometimes. Cyrus Sinclair was a walking sin and God, I sounded so much like an arse.

Men don't compliment other men. It was the first rule and guide of being a straight man.

I snapped out of it, went over the pictures and took some more shots throughout the match.

It was a friendly-- not so friendly-- match between our school's and the next. They stood no chance with our famous 'beast' on the field. At least he could multitask; a beast in bed, so I've heard.

"Hey, Damien. Got a minute?" I lifted my head to meet James who walked up to me looking nervous and hesitant.

Not again.

"The guys and I were wondering if you'd stay back and handle things-"

"No," I interrupted as soon as I realised where this was heading.

He grimaced and twisted his upper body to glance back at his crew-- the ones who sent him here to deliver the news. "Look, man, it's only for today-"

"That's what you said last week." try again.

"Patricia invited us to a party and we just couldn't say no."

No, what happened was that they were nerds who could hardly get a shot at a girl and now a hot girl was acting like she needed them and voila, she had them wrapped around her fingers.

"I'm not buying this. We both know she's only inviting you guys so I don’t get to publish my article. She's onto me."

The crowd erupted in another cheer and I cursed under my breath, angry that I missed a wonderful shot. I wouldn't pass up the opportunity to do nothing and come watch a boy my age pass around a ball-- the same way he shared his dick-- all for nothing!

"You think I want to be here too?"

He flinched, clearly feeling attacked and he frowned in defence. "Chill out, dude. What's your problem? You're just overthinking things. Patricia wouldn't want to sabotage you."

I knew that tone. It was a 'who do you even think you are that she'd notice you'. James and I and the guys were in the same category; nerds. Weird dorky nerds that hot girls didn't notice unless they needed us.

I guess I wouldn't be the one to break it to him or them. They finally wanted to be noticed and who was I to take it away from them?

He started to back away despite the conversation being far from finished. "Just… handle it. I'll make it up to you." and just like that, he was jogging back to where the others were.

I scanned the area for Patricia and held her smirking face. She looked away, rolling her shoulders with sass and laughing with her friends while holding a small fan to her face.

How the heck was all that in my head? I wasn't delusional or thinking myself to be important. She hated my guts, my hard work and obviously my goal.

"Ugh! Fuck!" I guess it was just me and the stupid printing machine tonight. I took some more pictures, telling myself I'd leave soon to get started on writing and editing my article for tomorrow's distribution but I ended up watching the match to the very end.

There was something enchanting and captivating about how Cyrus played. He stole every attention, commanded it and it didn't even feel forced.

"Shit!" It was past five when the match ended and I pushed through the crowd to get started on my work. I had to be home before seven for dinner or risk my mother's nagging about picking me up from school.

I got into writing the article first, then edited the photos. It was a battle of yawns, sleep and the stupid old printing machine that needed a few aggressive kicks to start up. I've written to the management a couple of times. Change the bloody thing already but no, they turned a blind eye to all my letters.

I'll write again or maybe drop an article this time for a faster response. I knew they got all my letters but they'd rather act dumb.

After kicking the bloody thing several times, the machine started again and I heaved a sigh until I heard a loud thud.

Looking around the dark but empty room, I paused and waited for the sound again.

Did someone else wait behind?

I walked closer to the door and this time, the sound was a moan. A very slutty and lewd moan. Only the kinds you hear in p**n.

"What the…" I slipped out through the door quietly. Who would stay behind just for sex? Didn't they have parents? The only reason I was here was because I had my parents' permission. Otherwise, I'd be looking for a shelter for the rest of my life.

The moans grew louder, lewder and I swallowed hard the indecent thoughts that rummaged my mind. I got closer to the Art room. They were truly making art. A fine baby if they weren't using any protection.

The air was thick with sexual tension and strangely enough my body reacted and I felt my dick jerk to life. I approached the door only to find it wide open.

They were either reckless or this was part of the play for them.

They'd be thanking me instead of letting the school's security find them here--

"What the…"

Right there, fucking Patricia on a desk was a man with solid body build, pounding into her hard with thrusts that shook the damn desk and a full fledged stretched out dark wings hanging off his back.

The room was dim but the shadows were hard to miss, especially when the wings twitched and stretched as he fucked her.

I was frozen from the shock, heart racing in fear. This wasn't real.

Oh God!

My hands twitched and I gripped my camera, swiping it across my eyes with a trembling stance.

"Yes, right there… oh fuck me!"

She cried, oblivious to the beauty behind her.

The lens adjusted to the darkness and I got the perfect pose. Until he suddenly lifted his head and my heart jumped.

I snapped the shot, capturing his shocked face and I raced out of there, disappearing into the night and leaving everything behind.

Gold glowing eyes.

I raced down the hall with heaving breaths.

That was Cyrus Sinclair. The goddamn playboy of Westbrook Academy.