3

SETH'S POV

“I’m no fag… I’m bloody straight,” I whispered to myself, standing at the door. My heart raced as the words left my lips, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my chest. Fuck. My hands were still trembling. My face burned with the memory of what had happened, the scene replaying in my mind like a twisted movie I couldn’t turn off.

I took a shaky breath and headed into the dining room, trying to orient myself. The stairs looming ahead promised some semblance of escape.

"Coming this weekend!" my sister Amara's voice rang out loud and clear, piercing my thoughts. I stopped at the first step, turning stiffly to face her.

"What?" I asked, my face an expressionless mask. I leaned my head to one side, furrowing my brow as she blew a wreath of smoke and casually dropped her cigarette into the ashtray. My frown deepened. I was running low on patience already, and my big sister was a bloody dickhead who just loved the tests.

"Why not?" she replied with a shrug. "She says it's her son's birthday. She wants to drop by… with her second husband, though. The first one's off in the States on a business trip or something," Amara said, her tone casual, like she wasn't lobbing a grenade into my evening.

I grumbled at her words. Not Clark. I couldn't handle him and his cool-headedness and incessant need to hover over me like a fucking parent. And certainly not Murphy, who had this way of treating me like a damn child.

"Tell her I don't need her or her husband around me," I snapped. "She can stay wherever the hell she is. If she cares so much, a check would be nice enough."

With that, I simply stormed back towards the stairs, my feet heavy with frustration.

“Be bloody grateful,” Amara called after me, the sarcasm clear in her voice. “She doesn’t give a shit about you, but she’s coming anyway.”

I ignored her, my hands balling into fists as I climbed the stairs. “I don’t bloody need her,” I yelled over my shoulder. “She can drive here if she wants, but I don’t see or speak to her. Pass the goddamn message, Amara!” I didn’t wait for a response before slamming my door shut and locking it with a sharp twist of the bolt.

Amara's loud yells still trailed after me, I heard her yells and curses along with grumblings; she might have said something about hanging out with some friends or stuff, didn't bother much about it, and felt partly relieved on hearing the slamming of the main door and her footsteps receding away from the house.

She was gone.

I flung myself onto the bed, slinging my schoolbag aside, staring at the ceiling. What a fucked-up day today had turned out to be.

Everything was wrong with it, bloody thing. I didn't take a holiday off like a normal person, studying, training, going through everything twice as hard so I wouldn't have to end up like this. And here I was.

I groaned, the weight of it all pressing down on me. Nineteen and a half, almost twenty. I should have had my shit together by now. But no. Stuck with this.

Amara had always been the golden child, even if she didn’t need to be. She worked part-time at a cinema, not because she had to but because she liked it. Mom adored her. Both of her husbands adored her too, calling her a goddess. And to be fair, she did look the part. Red hair, dimples, hazel eyes, a perfect set of teeth. She was beautiful, and I hated to admit it, but it was true. Although it was something she would never hear me admit, I'd rather die than praise my sister's looks

What I didn’t admire? Her smoking habits. She was addicted to the stuff—vapes, cigarettes, tobacco—anything she could puff into her lungs. No one said anything about it, not Clark, not Murphy, not Mom. After all, she could do no wrong in their eyes. Mom was still swooning over her remarriage seven years after Dad’s death. And not just one remarriage—two.

I’d gone to her weddings, seething the whole time. My friends had their opinions about it, but I didn’t care. They didn’t bring it up to my face, and that was fine with me. I had bigger goals to focus on—like chasing the NHL dream. I didn’t need their approval, and I sure as hell didn’t need Amara’s either.

My father had been a legend in his own right, and I wanted to follow in his footsteps. I admired him deeply, maybe too much. He built his wealth from the ground up, and while Mom had kept the estate thriving, and my siblings had steady careers, I wanted something more. I wanted my name to mean something.

But today? Today was a far cry from that dream.

I groaned, my hands again clutched in my head. The memory of this afternoon just wouldn't leave me alone. It gnawed in my brain like a persistent parasite. I hated him. I hated Miguel.

And still, he would linger. The colour of his eyes, the sound of his voice as he came… My stomach twisted into knots at this memory. The filthy words I had whispered to him urging him to cum for me. My hand was wrapped around him stroking him, causing him to fall apart.

"Bloody hell, what's wrong with me?" I muttered, my fingers tangling in my hair.

I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, then looked away. No. I couldn't do this. I hated him. I hated his goody two-shoes act, his perfect exterior hiding God knows what. He was bloody gay, a liar, a faggot who loved sucking cock.

And yet… my body betrayed me. I wanted his lips on me, his mouth wrapped around my cock. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

I shook my head hard, the image refusing to clear, but it was no good. I couldn't deny it, not really-between us today, something had shifted. It had hurt just how much jerking him off had turned me on.

My cock twitched in my pants; thoughts invaded my mind as I tried to restrain myself-think of counting sheep and all that-but nothing, I was still rock hard with a growing boner pitching a tent in my pants.

I curled my fingers, shutting my eyes to relieve the memories of his voice.fuck, I grew even bigger picturing his pretty lips wrapped around my cock. I imagined him on his knees now, begging for my cum, his tongue lapping against the pink cap of my boner.

His lust-filled blue eyes glazing into my soul, then his cock - his blonde fucking length, the way the veins bulged at the sides, his white tasty precum. I wanted all of it just as much as I wanted him to milk my cock dry.

Giving into the hunger, I wrapped my palm around my cock, throwing my hips up and fucking my fiss, biting on my lips to muffle my moans-playing pretend that Miguel was on high knees now, mouth apart, taking my cock down his throat.

I had to jerk myself off again just to ease the ache-and the worst part? It felt good. I'd cum harder and faster than I ever had with any woman.

And it was at his instigation.

Miguel. Those stupidly perfect blue eyes of his. His smirking be damned.

My cock twitched at that, jolting me back into the here and now. I pressed myself hard against the mattress, willing it away. I'd cum hard three times today, and still I wanted more.

No. It never happened. The goddamned thing never happened.

I squeezed my eyes shut to will myself to sleep. Tomorrow, it would all be forgotten. None of it mattered. We wouldn't talk about it. We'd shove it under the rug where it belonged.

Miguel was homosexual, and that was his weakness.

And I? I was good to go. I was straight. I was good.

That thought stays with me as darkness surrounds me and I fall asleep.

*****

Fuck, fuck, and fucking hell.

I needed meds. Anything. A sedative, a therapist-whatever it took-because this wasn't possible. There was no way I still felt myself swooning over Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, the perfect gay star pupil.

This was wrong. Completely wrong. He didn’t speak of it. He ignored me entirely. I held his weakness in my hands, but suddenly, it felt like *he* was mine. I’d told him not to bloody talk about it, but I hadn’t prepared for him to act like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.

It had been the last class of the day, and Miguel hadn't so much as glanced my way. He had ignored me through lunch and through every class before that one, and somehow, that irritated me more than anything else did.

His phone buzzed on his desk. A message popped up. Curiosity burned through me as I leaned forward, lowering my head over his shoulder to get a better look inching forward to see who it was, what this person wanted, was it the same guy with dick pics? Was it someone else? Miguel doesn't look like a player, a golden retriever one could call him, but he didn't look gay either. He must’ve felt me because he turned abruptly, our faces suddenly inches apart. My breath hitched.

“Don’t bother,” he said flatly, “I changed the password. Stop invading my space, Seth.”

The way he said my name in that low, deliberating tone made my chest ache, though I didn't know why. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to fake that nothing happened, but why wasn't he flustered, affected like I was?

I woke up late this morning. My body was a disaster, my morning erection so painful that I had to jerk off just to function in the morning. And my thoughts, my memories, all spiralled back to him: the kiss, his cock, his voice. I'd cum hard again and again, unable to stop myself.

I was like high on his drugs wanting more of him, wanting to taste him again, hold him again. Even when knowing how fucked up it was, I had jerked off four times in the bedroom, once in the bathroom, and a quick wank before finally coming to school.

Six times I'd already stroked my length and spilled my nuts, thinking of nothing of the bloody wanker, and this was all I got?

That  bastard acted like I wasn't even alive, ignoring me the entire day. When I pressed my leg against the edge of his desk, he didn't flinch a thing. He sat there coolly, indifferent to my madness.

By the time lunch ended, I couldn't take it anymore. I leaned close; my voice laced with sarcasm as I asked, "Your babe. you met up last night? Did the two of you get it off?" My voice was laced with venom, dripping with mockery, but at least I hoped it would get him to talk to me.

To my utter surprise, he smiled. Not just any smile, but a knowing, wicked smirk which made my stomach flip. He leaned in closer and his lips brushed my ear as he whispered, "Yes, we had sex all day and all night. He left this morning after giving me a blowjob and fingering my ass."

My face went pale. I bit my lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, trying to process his words. He pulled back, that damn smirk still plastered on his face.  Even now he had the upper hand, fucking miguel, how the fuck was he always doing this? Shoving me to a corner and having it all.

“What’s wrong?” he taunted. “Didn’t you want the details? You already know my dirty secret. What’s the harm in hearing more about the. Well, disgusting things gay guys do?”

"Fucking faggot," I snapped, giving him the middle finger. "You disgust me, Miguel. Wait till everyone sees what you really are-a dirty, cock-sucking slut."

For an instant, something flickered in his eyes. Anger, perhaps. Hurt. It was difficult to say. He opened his mouth to say something, but the door swung open and the physics teacher walked in, silencing him.

He then turned forward and proceeded to ignore me for the rest of class.

When the bell rang, I watched him pack his books, slipping his textbooks into his locker with practiced ease. I found myself trailing after him like a damn stalker. He laughed and chatted with others, his smile bright, his voice calm. But I could see it—the tightness in his jaw, the slight strain in his movements. He was faking it.

“You’ve been staring daggers at Miguel all day,” Jason said, starting me. I turned to face him, scowling.  He was on the same team as I was, a mutual friend of my roommate Jeremy and one of the pests in between my daily fucked-up life.

"What's wrong? You two fighting again? You look like you're about to jump him-or maybe fuck the frustration out of his bloody senses," Jason teased, a smug grin twisting his face.

"Shut up," I grumbled, turning away and rolling my eyes.

I couldn't let anyone catch on. It was easier just to pretend we were enemies. Only deep inside, I didn't know what I wanted-to hit him? To fuck him?

Fuck no. No. Not again. Why would I let him fuck me? If anything, I would certainly be the one doing the fucking.  I'd be screwed if Miguel was the topping it meant I'd eventually lost in all ways to him,  why was I even thinking about this?.

“I have to go. See you tomorrow,” I said aloud, suddenly needing air.

"Jeremy's party tonight. Are you coming?" Jason called after me. I shrugged, waving him off as I headed to my bike.

The day became fuzzy after that. I couldn't concentrate on anything. Without realizing it, somehow, I found myself opposite Miguel's house, leaning against the trunk of a tree. I don't even know how I got there. One minute, I was out jogging; the next, I was here.

The door opened and out came Miguel, his hoodie over his head. He didn't see me as he glanced around, acting suspicious as all get out.

Why the fuck was he sneaking out?

I followed after him, keeping my distance, as he made his way down the street: dim streetlights, the cool air against my skin, seventeen bloody minutes into his walk, acting like some mafia spy, he stopped.

A man approached him, their faces close, and then their lips met.

My blood boiled.

Miguel leaned into the kiss, his hands tangling in the guy's hair. My jaw clenched as I watched, rage simmering beneath my skin. My cock throbbed painfully in my jeans, but it wasn't lust—it was jealousy.

Those lips should've been mine. The next thing I knew, I was barreling towards them, ripping them apart with one furious shove. My fist connected with the guy's jaw; the satisfying crunch of bone was hardly there within my fury.

"Embry?" I spat, aware of a face that stared back at me in shock.

“Get the fuck away from him!” Miguel yelled, shoving me back. I ignored him; my hands wrapped around Embry's throat, fists pounding into his face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Miguel shouted, gripping my arm and pulling me off him.

"Is this one of your homophobes' games?"

“He’s two-timing you!” I snarled. “He’s dating Heather. Did you know that? My ex-girlfriend! This bastard is playing you.” Silence fell between us. Miguel’s eyes widened, pain flickering in those icy blue depths. I saw it—the tear slipping down his cheek.

“It’s none of your business,” he snapped, his voice trembling.“

Just leave, Seth. Stop messing with me.”

"You..scram, now!" I yelled at embry seething, he wasted no time running off too scared someone might see him, or probably scared of being bloodied by me.

"Stop fucking with me seth! Leave me alone!" Seth screamed, angry and broken, in pain in ways that I had never seen him. I reached for him, but he pulled away, his shoulders shaking.

"Don't cry, baby," I whispered softly. I stroked his cheeks with my thumbs, catching the streaks of tears. "Don't. I hadn’t meant to,  but before I knew it, I kissed him. His lips were warm, soft, and everything I’d been denying myself. For a moment, he kissed me back, his tongue stroking mine, before he pushed me away.

“Get off me, Seth,” he said, his voice breaking. But I couldn't. I pulled him closer, my hands digging into his waist as my lips found him again. And that is when I knew-doomed to him.