Topping the Jock

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT - REMY'S DARLING P.O.V

It was late, by the time I left Jaspar's. That was usual for me, though, staying at his until all ungodly hours of the night, even staying over sometimes. I was probably at his house a lot more than I was at my own, but there were more reasons for that than just Jaspar's lovely personality. My family were literally the worst. But there's time to talk about those losers later. 

The sky was already a dark lilac, the sun was setting, and everything around me on the streets were entirely still. Everyone else would be at home, having dinner with the people they loved, but not me. I was out here, on the bitter cold streets of Shitterton, Maine, walking home. Thinking. 

What Oliver and Jaspar were saying really got me thinking. Thoughts were coming into my head that I'd never even considered before, well, for longer than a few seconds. Even then, as I walked the graveled path in front of me, my mind kept flying all over the place. I kept re-thinking everything, from the day Milo and I met, every encounter, every interaction. 

Were we in hate? And what did that even mean? All I really knew was that he was hot and I was hot and he was hot. God. He was hot. I mean, yeah, he was definitely hot. 

Images flew right into my head. The way his body would feel under mine as I pinned him to the ground, the look in his eyes once he realised I'd actually pinned him down. The way his strong, hard arms would swerve and his entire body would push me down, switching our positions so that I was the one being mounted. I was the one being topped. 

Whoa. No. Never in my entire life have I ever thought of Milo that way. (Lies). Dylan O'brien, sure, and maybe even a little Troye Sivan. No, especially Troye Sivan.

First, picturing Milo writhing under me in English this morning, and now this. What the fuck is happening to me? The thought of sex with Milo caused me to shiver yet again, but that could easily have been the wind. 

I mean, everyone in this town knows I'm not exactly your All-American straight, sporty, good-at-everything boy. I never flamboyantly pounced out of the closet, because I was always that way and I'd never tried to hide it. But that didn't stop the questions from coming in. 

Was I gay? How can I like cock? It looks so ugly. Then again, prettier than the average vagina, I guess, right? Wait, what straight dude would prefer cock over vagina? 

I should've known I was a little bit puffy years ago - or, more appropriately, I should've accepted it. I'd known I was different the first I snogged a boy in my bedroom. We we watching Mean Girls at the time.

Yep, I definitely knew.

But in the back of my mind, I'd never thought about the labels before,I openly tried to avoid them, especially where Milo was concerned. I just fucked what I wanted, boy or girl, Milo or not Milo. But never actually Milo. Not even thoughts about him. Not until now. 

I forced myself to stop thinking about it, drowning out these sick thoughts of gayness and Milo and addiction and being 'in hate' by blasting my music so loud through my headphones that it was hard to think at all.

My butt took the majority of the blow when I fell to the floor. My forehead throbbing, I touched it with my hand, and looked up into the sky. The sun was just setting, its light growing darker in the late late Wednesday air. 

Squinting my eyes to see, I first noticed the hair. Ash blond, arching ver his face like an angelic hottie.  And his eyes, light blue, sharp, looking at me like I was an animal. 

It was kind of... sexy. You know, 'come ride me in the bushes' kind of sexy.

"Thanks for helping," I said dryly, raising myself off the floor, wiping any dust off of my amazing clothes. 

"Believe it or not, Rimjob, it was an accident. Now move, I've got places to be." I stood clearly in his way and refused to let him pass. He crossed his arms.

"Rem, move out the way." I remembered he used to call me Rem a long  time  ago. 

"You could at least apologise," I suggested, shrugging casually. Why was I even still talking to him? The real Remy would just let him skulk passed me and we'd both forget about it and that would be it done. But no, I had to make him stay. 

"Ha. No," he sniggered, trying to slide passed me, only to find our chests colliding with each-others. He stepped back right away, a little shocked. "Not today. I can't be bothered to fight with you."

"Cool shirt," I commented. What was I doing? Cool shirt? Ugh. I'm so lame. Am I trying to flirt? What the fuck is wrong with me? I had to remind myself that this is Milo, public enemy no.1, my arch-nemisis - the devil's ass-wiper himself. I did not fancy him at all. We were not in hate at all. 

He looked down at his shirt and shrugged. "Thanks. It's nothing special," he replied awkwardly, like he wanted this encounter to be over. And believe me, I wanted that too, but I still didn't walk away. 

What the fuck is wrong with me? This was Milo, I'd kicked the living shit out of him for years, and he's done the same to me. Now I'm afraid of hurting his feelings by walking off? Shit. 

His shirt was all black, like most of his clothes, except for the white logo, We Are the Weirdos, Mister printed across the front. That made me smile. It was one of my favourite quotes from that lame '90's movie, The Craft. It brought back Milo-memories I'd much rather forget. From that brief time when we were friends, years ago. 

"Your shirt is okay, too, for a queer." 

Was that a compliment, I heard? 

I was practically beaming at his compliment, bubbling like a teenage girl as I looked down at my bright blue tie-dye shirt (I was basically inviting homophobia) that had Get In Loser, We're Going Shopping on it. It was Wednesday, and while on Wednesdays, we wore pink, I'd already worn pink and changed earlier in the day after class because a true queen changes at least twice a day. 

Mean Girls and The Craft are my bibles, have I ever mentioned? So shirts with their preppy quotes and shit on, like the ones the two of us were wearing, were my whole world. We looked like total sassy losers, but at least we looked like that together. 

"Well, bye," I said, suddenly feeling nervous. I could be such a girl at times. 

He gave me an odd look before his lip twitched, maybe it was a smile, maybe it wasn't. Before I could tell, he swept passed me, thumping me on the shoulder with a firm grunt, and he was gone.

An image entered my mind upon hearing the grunt - the image of his naked body, his back arched, my hands on his waist, my dick in his ass. For a moment, I even imagined him grunting in pleasure, his body on all fours.

Fuck.

No. I wasn't addicted to him. I knew I wasn't. It wasn't possible. Not at all possible. Not happening, not true, 100% not real at all. Remy Rutherford was not addicted to Milo Young. I repeat, NOT. 

"Shit," I heard myself say, once Milo had disappeared. "I'm fucking addicted to him." 

- FIN, CONNE -