Twelve Days of Heat: Day Three
[A/N: I have nothing to say for myself. Enjoy.]
Reese wakes up and stares at the ceiling, his eyes widening with rage.
He’s still fucking horny, and he thinks it’s worse this morning. He rolls onto his stomach, pins his hard cock against the mattress and rubs.
He has no idea where he’s getting the energy to be this overstimulated. He should be exhausted—he ran three races last night, he’s been in competition for two days. Even if it had been building up, the sheer physicality of competition should have taken it out of him by now. Even if he was a bit hot to trot, his body should be fighting between that and needing rest.
But he’s hardly tired, so he rocks his hips against the mattress, because this has got to stop.
He’s not sure what else to do though. He’s jacked off the last two days, did it twice yesterday (once in the afternoon, and then after he blew Gabriel), and he’d love to tell himself he’s just a little wound up because of what he did with Gabriel last night, but there’s something more to it than that.
He bites his lip and grinds down against the mattress, just barely holding back a groan.
He rolls onto his back again and wraps his hand around himself, jerks it because he knows he’s not gonna get off by humping the bed—he can already feel that much.
He inhales deep through his nose, lets his eyes flutter shut.
He knows exactly what he needs, but he doesn’t want to.
He spreads his legs a little, digs his heels into the mattress, thrusts up into his hand. He’s gotten off this way before, and he doesn’t want to start a new habit or anything—
But the fluttery feeling tingling up along his spine, curling up from the very base of it—he can’t ignore it. He clenches and releases, then drops his hand because that actually feels better than getting pressure, friction on his cock right now.
Reese knows he’s omega. He’s known since he was eleven and a half. They had the test done early; he doesn’t really remember much, but he guesses he was an early bloomer. He knows a lot of guys who didn’t get tested until they were in their teens, some of them not until they were almost done high school.
In some ways, then, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he might occasionally have the urge to put something inside himself, to get off on anal play. He didn’t understand a helluva a lot when he was twelve, when they put him on suppressants, but he does know he understood a little more now, having read a bit more in school. He’s read over some of Gabby’s psych notes too, a few of Mel’s nursing notes. He caught bits and pieces—things that had never quite made sense are starting to line up.
The thing is, he’s never had the urge before, so he has no idea why it would crop up now of all times. And why it’s so insistent.
Probably hormones out of whack or something. This is his first exam period at university. He was sick. He was failing a bunch of his classes, has to really pick up his marks if he wants to pass, wants to stay on swim team. And then there’s training on top of that.
He’s been very, very stressed, probably for four to six weeks, if he really thinks about it. And then he got on a plane and flew halfway around the world, and now he’s competing. Of course his body is completely fucked up.
He presses a finger against himself, bites his lip furiously to keep from crying out. He trembles as he pushes his digit inside. He tightens around it, then relaxes and wriggles a second finger past tight resistance.
He fucks himself slowly on those two fingers, just sliding them in and out, nothing more, nothing less.
He can’t believe he’s doing this to himself. Shame burns at the back of his throat, like acid, tearing him up, but he can’t stop, clenches around his fingers again, sighs and closes his eyes as he rolls his wrist, rocks his hips into the rhythm.
He spreads his fingers wide, stretching himself open, wide and wider, until it almost burns. He’s riding the line between uncomfortable and ecstasy, and he tenses a little, rolls his hips up a little higher.
“Oh fuck,” he spits when pleasure explodes through him, so hard it knocks his vision out. Stars patch across his sight; there’s a momentary white out, before the world comes back into focus.
What was that? He’s got not idea, except he felt fucking fantastic when—whatever that was—happened, so he wants it to happen again.
He grinds to a near-halt, riding his fingers as best he can, groaning low, then picking up the pace. It feels pretty fucking good, and the shame that was trying to swallow him whole is gone now, burned away by better sensations.
There. He bucks up when he rubs along—whatever it is—twists around pleasure. He pushes in deeper, presses up against it.
“Oh fuck,” he pants, “yes. Yes.”
He shuts his eyes again, imagines Gabriel with his long fingers, imagines him working him over, one finger, now two, spreading them wide apart, opening him up, prepping him for—for—
And Gabriel’s face while he does it, he’ll be leaned over Reese, one hand planted firmly on the bed, sinking all his weight into it while he plays with Reese’s ass, fingers him, and Reese grunts, twists up with the thought—
He only grabs his cock because he starts spurting. He presses his hips up high, jerks himself a couple of times, coming all over himself, the sheets.
“Fuck,” he breathes, collapsing back to the bed, releasing his cock, pulling his fingers out of himself.
He should be satisfied now, he thinks. That was a mind-blowing climax, better than any of the three he’s had recently.
He reaches for a couple of tissues, wipes himself down lazily. He wads the tissues up and pitches them across the room. Then he rolls over to the other side of the bed, curls up, and goes back to sleep.
He wakes up again because he’s hungry, his stomach gnawing at itself angrily. He’s relieved; he was afraid he would wake up with a raging boner and need to whack off again.
He orders up breakfast, because he doesn’t feel like going downstairs. He tugs on a tee and shorts, wads up the sheets and pitches them in the corner. He makes coffee and sips that while he waits.
He contemplates the shower, but breakfast is only twenty minutes making it up, so he’s barely done his coffee when room service arrives.
He signs off on the bill, then worries about sating hunger. Then he’ll worry about showering.
He has another cup of coffee with breakfast, then checks the time. He has until seven tonight. It’s only ten, and already, the day seems too long. He’s slept in, had a wank, had a nap, and now had breakfast. Once he’s showered, he only has to worry about lunch and dinner, then a race.
He supposes he could watch TV or work on sponsorship. Maybe he could go … to a park or a museum or something.
He toys with the idea a bit, then finishes his coffee. He clears up the breakfast dishes, puts the tray in the hall. He starts stripping down as the door closes. He sheds his shirt, his shorts, as he travels to the bathroom.
He steps under the shower spray, intending to let it work out any lingering knots in his sore muscles. Maybe he’ll go take advantage of their massage team. He needs that shoulder to be in working order for tonight’s race. He has heats and a race tomorrow, and then he needs to be ready for Sunday—backstroke and fly in the morning, along with the medley relay. Then he has backstroke, medley, fly, and the relay in the evening.
The hardest parts of today and tomorrow will be waiting. He already knows that.
He stands under the spray for a while, then reaches down and finds his cock at half-flag already, slowly rising.
He doesn’t understand. That orgasm was full and complete; he was bone-tired after it, sated, completely fucked out.
But he wants more. He grips his dick and jerks himself roughly, letting his fingers catch over his head. He has not been this horny in a long, long time, probably not since he was fourteen.
Fuck, and he wants it in the ass too, and he wonders if that’s a thing for him now—does he need to have someone playing with him to get off? He fucking hopes not—how embarrassing.
But he needs it now, so he curls over a bit, slides his fingers back in. He’s pliant now, but he eyes the soap bottles and wonders …
He pulls his fingers out, dumps soap all over his hand. He feels stupid, but his fingers slide in easy, so effortlessly, and he rocks them in and out of his body, gripping the tiny ledge as tight as he can.
He glances at the soap bottle again.
He pulls his fingers out and replaces them with the insistent press of cold, hard plastic.
The bottle’s bigger. A lot bigger. It stretches him right out, and he mouths “ow” a few times as it slides in. But in it goes, and he clenches around it a couple of times, and pleasure sparks through him, like fireworks, and yeah, that’s good—
He tugs on the end of it, shoves it back in. His knees buckle. He clutches at the side of the shower harder, almost folding plastic under his grip.
He lets the bottle slide out, jams it back in. He slips a little, so he sits down at the bottom of the shower, leans back on his elbows.
He must look ridiculous, he thinks, but he reaches around and grabs the end of the bottle, pulls it out, pushes it in deeper, cries out, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care—
He comes a moment later, arching his back deeply, letting his head fall back as he shakes apart. Fuck.
He stares at the wall for a while. Shame comes creeping back at last, the full weight of his situation pressing on him. He’s lying on the shower floor of his hotel room in Istanbul with a plastic soap bottle shoved up his ass.
Pathetic. He slides the bottle out, pitches it across the room, then curls up there, arms over his head.
Shame is what keeps him focused going into the race. He takes another nap, gets a massage, naps some more. And then it’s race time, and shame is still burning at the edges of his eyes, the back of his throat.
They’re the second race of the evening, and Gabriel studiously avoids him during warm-ups, then in the ready room. He talks to Corey and Caleb, even Brody. Then he puts his earbuds in and pointedly ignores Reese.
Fine, Reese thinks, if he wants to play it that way. What a douche—he really should have known better. Sure, Gabriel had kissed him first, right before midterms started. And he’d been the one making all the overtures about how they should, how they totally could.
But now that he’s gotten something out of Reese—whether it was what he actually wants or not—he’s done.
Or maybe Reese was just that bad last night.
Shame roils in the pit of his stomach. He can’t possibly be expected to be any good; he’s a virgin still. He’s never …
Last night was his first time with anyone in any way, shape, or form. He’s made out with people before, but that was about as far as he ever got. His couple of high school girlfriends had found out pretty quickly he wasn’t really interested in going any further. That had been one of the reasons he was fairly isolated during those years; those girls spread vicious rumors. He was gay, he couldn’t get it up, he was into weird fetish stuff …
He’d made out with a few guys after that, mostly at parties, where he could claim he was drunk, high, something. Anything.
He’s never really had a boyfriend, though; he doesn’t count the girls as real relationships—they were idiot teenagers. He was fourteen, fifteen. The relationships were so … shallow. Like he knew, even then, that he didn’t really like them.
So he took the stupid celibacy vow, because it was an easier excuse to have, to explain why he of all people was still a virgin. He shouldn’t be—he usually gets shock or even disgust if it comes up.
That doesn’t mean there hasn’t been guys who want to try; there are always plenty of handsy guys at meets or at parties, always rumors about what Reese will do, how far he’ll go.
And yeah, he’s definitely been left, smacked around a bit by a frustrated guy when he refused to go as far as the guy was told he would.
So Gabriel got what he wanted and now ignores Reese. That makes perfect sense to him; he knows virtually every other guy who has ever expressed interest in him would have hit it and quit it, but he wouldn’t let them hit it—so they just quit.
Lucky Gabriel, he thinks bitterly, two gold medals and a silver, and he got Reese to blow him, he got further than any other guy on the planet, and now he can ignore Reese.
Fuck, he’s angry about it. Beyond angry, even.
He tries to channel that anger when they’re called to the deck, tries to focus on it, use it as fuel when the gun goes and they’re in the water. For the next 200 meters, he’s burning up with rage, letting shame and guilt and failure and ire incinerate him, combusting, igniting, every motion setting off a miniature explosion as he drags himself through the water.
He doesn’t see Gabriel. He doesn’t see anyone else; he zeroes in on his own strokes, his kicks, the fluid motion of his own body. That’s all he needs, he thinks, to be better than Gabriel, to prove to him that he’s not just some talentless fucktoy, some fanboy he can fuck with at will—
His fingers scrape the wall; he somersaults, his feet smashing into it and he’s headed back the other way now. Anger roils through him, but it’s softer now, quieter. He’s going to run out of steam, and they’re just halfway through the race.
Dread crawls out of the ashes of anger—maybe this was a mistake. He miscalculated and now he’s burnt up, used up. He’s not sure he can make it to the finish; his arms are heavy, sinking like a ton of lead every time they crash down into the water.
He grits his teeth and pushes himself harder, faster. If he doesn’t medal in this, he probably doesn’t even deserve to be here. He’s not good enough.
If he can’t podium in this, Gabriel’s right to treat him like a goddamn toy.
He finishes fucking fourth, and he sinks lower in the water, stares at the leaderboard for a long time, barely kicking his feet, arms slung over the lane line. He gave it his all, but he couldn’t podium.
He buries his head in his arms, rips off his cap and goggles. Then he comes up smiling, hauls himself out of the pool, like fourth is okay, like it’s almost as good as first.
He clenches his fists when Gabriel makes eye contact—the prick finished second, because of course he did. Of course.
They shake hands stiffly, murmur “good job” at each other. Reese hopes the strain doesn’t show in his eyes; he knows his smile doesn’t falter.
Gabriel and the other guys have another session. The girls have another session too, so Reese finds himself alone in the stands, brewing about yet another loss, about how Gabriel is such a dick.
He isn’t sure how they’ll go home after this. Maybe it will be better if Gabriel finds his own place—moves in with his mother or something. Reese isn’t sure he can look him in the eye now, not knowing what he’s like. It burns through him—not anger now, but a sort of nervousness, a sickness.
He feels so fucking used.
Kat and Mel join him in the stands for the final relay of the night, and they cheer the guys on. If Reese is less enthusiastic than usual, neither of the girls comment on it.
Of course they win. Reese smiles and cheers with the girls, hugs them close, plants a kiss on Mel and watches her turn such a pretty shade of pink, and he cackles evilly about it, because anything feels better than sinking into the ooze of self-pity, self-loathing.
Fourth. He can’t even get on the goddamn podium, and doubt creeps around him, wends itself around him.
Maybe he really isn’t good enough. He wants it, he wants it so bad, but …
If he can’t medal, what’s the point? Swimming skews young too, so if he can’t do it now …
He watches the guys collect their medals, pose for pictures, all the dizzying lights. He’s drowning, fast.
They say nothing as they leave the arena; Gabriel won’t even look at him, doesn’t acknowledge he’s there, and he’s desperate—why won’t he say something, anything? Is he really so callous?
He got what he wanted, and Reese is nothing but a loser …
It’s like he’s completely disappeared.
He slings himself into a seat at the back of the bus, lets his backpack fall to the floor. He curls one leg into his chest—he doesn’t want to hug himself, but he wants to compress his body, make himself as small as he can. This at least looks like he’s trying to stretch out a sore muscle, not like he’s trying to console himself after a loss.
He doesn’t want to be a sore loser.
Gabriel’s the last on the bus, because he has to stop and sign autographs—Reese watches him through the filthy bus window, presses his hand to his mouth to hide his expression as he watches Gabriel sign a tee for a girl who’s giggling and rocking on her heels. Her friends are right there with her, hanging back a little, all of them smiles, cutting their eyes at Gabriel, and he smiles back, so freely—
Reese can’t breathe. His chest constricts, like there’s a thousand tons of water pressing down on him, crushing him. He can scarcely expand his ribs enough to take another breath, exhales it just as quickly.
Gabriel pauses in his signing, looks up at the girls. He’s grinning; his shoulders shake. Laughter.
Reese swallows, looks away.
He feigns sleep when Gabriel gets on the bus at last, lets his head rest against the cool of the window, shuts his eyes. Gabriel must sit near the front of the bus; he’s scarcely boarded and they start moving.
Reese doesn’t bother looking for him; instead, he peers outside the window, watches the nighttime streets of Istanbul as they roll back to the hotel. It’s a short ride, thank God, but he knows he couldn’t walk it—not after running those races.
Between the ache in his arms and the ache in his chest, he’s pretty wrung out. He sits silent through their post-session meal, scarcely hears a word Gord says to them. He orders wine when Gord leaves, gets a few looks from his teammates.
“What?” he snaps finally when Mel won’t back down from her reproving glare.
She lifts her eyebrows. “Do you really think … ?”
“You didn’t win anything,” Gabriel says, and it stings—he hasn’t spoken to him in almost twenty-four hours, hasn’t said anything about the would-be blowjob Reese gave him, and that’s what he says? Those are his first words to him? “And you still have competition, you–”
“It’s just a drink with dinner,” he spits, then adds, “and it’s the first day of Christmas, it’s tradition.”
“Really?” Kat asks, blinking. “I thought–”
“It is not,” Mel interrupts, “the twelfth was, and–”
“You’re not Catholic,” Reese snipes back, then fills his mouth with wine to shut himself up before he comes up with another lie. First day of Christmas. Tradition. Huh.
Mel deflates a bit, because she isn’t Catholic and she probably knows fuck all about it, and she should just mind her own damn business.
Reese says nothing more during the meal; no one says too much. The sound of forks and knives scraping plates is pretty much all that fills the air around them.
They say good night shortly after that, and Reese heads up to the seventh floor by himself. He locks himself in his room and raids the mini-bar, downs the contents because he doesn’t give a fuck.
There’s a reason he didn’t get to college on a scholarship. There’s a reason he had to quit swimming. There’s a reason Gabriel didn’t remember him, even though he’d raced him before.
He sucks back gin, doesn’t even taste it, just lets it burn at his tongue. He wants to hurt in the morning. He wants a splitting headache, a dry mouth, a sick stomach. He wants to feel physically awful so he can’t focus on how fucking shitty he feels emotionally right now. He knows how to deal with physical pain.
Fourth. He can’t do any better than fourth, and he blew Gabriel and now Gabriel’s ignoring him and he’s lying if he says he’d never done anything with anyone ever before, because, because before Gabriel, there was always another guy, that one guy who …
Reese cracks open the bottle of vodka, downs it, then opens up another bottle—he’s not even sure what it is, just that it’s alcohol and he’s not drunk enough because it’s all coming back now, and he doesn’t want it to.
Really, he’ll take the sex dreams about Gabriel, who he’s pissed at, over that nightmare.
He pitches aside the last bottle in the bar around two in the morning, and the world is spinning. He sits in the middle of the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, willing the room to stop moving, but he’s been cast adrift and now he’s bobbing away on a sea of nausea. He’s going to puke.
And he’s still not drunk enough, because the memories, the thoughts keep intruding. He’s never been good enough. He’ll never be good enough. This is all he deserves.
He crawls to bed and watches the room spin around and around, and he pukes over the side of the bed, finally, barely has the presence of mind to scrabble for the wastepaper basket.
He has no idea how much ends up on the floor versus in the basket, just that he’s wrung when he finally stops, shuddering around his stomach clenching up.
He crawls to the bathroom and crouches over the toilet for the longest time. Every time he thinks the nausea has passed, it crashes over him again.
He’s such a fucking idiot. He has races tomorrow. He has to get up and go to the morning session. If he was going to get drunk, he should have done it yesterday, last night …
He strips himself down and crawls into the shower, turns on the hot water, hoping the spray will sober him up. He still reeks like chlorine.
The water going cold wakes him up again and he shivers and shudders, hauls himself out into the chill of the air, his teeth chattering. He wraps himself in a towel and pads back to bed, his gait unsteady, uneven.
He goes to bed with his hair wet, even though he knows his mother would scream at him; she’s always insisted that’s how you catch a chill, that’s how you get a cold. Reese thinks she’s ridiculous.
He falls asleep at last, drifting into an uneasy sleep, still rocking on the waves of nausea crashing over him.
He sinks deeper into sleep, finally, the world melting away, darkness replacing it for a little while.
Darkness becomes lighter and lighter, and he’s looking up at a sky streaked with gold and red, a sunset glowing through clouds scattered along the horizon. He doesn’t feel the wind, but he knows it’s blowing. He can scarcely hear anything over it. There’s sand beneath his toes, his feet sinking deeper into it. There’s salt in the air, so thick he can almost taste it, and the ocean is crashing around them. He hears gulls.
The wind tousles Gabriel’s hair, and Reese watches the other man approach him. He wants to scream, wants to yell. He wants to shove him away, throw him to the ground and hit him.
Even in his dreams, he’s angry.
Instead, he leans up into the kiss, Gabriel’s mouth warm and pliant over his. His arm against the small of Reese’s back is unforgiving, bone grinding into him, and Reese tilts backward over it, arching as Gabriel chases him down. His feet slip in the sand, and it’s not graceful—Gabriel practically drops him, and Reese thunks against the ground, pain blossoming through him, then fading away, withering like flowers in the intense heat of summer as Gabriel keeps kissing him.
A knee between his thighs, and he spreads his legs easily as Gabriel moves over him, still kissing him, and Reese wonders if they need to breathe—he knows both of them practice breath control and can hold their breath for a bit underwater, but the kiss seems like it’s been going on for eternity now.
He whimpers into Gabriel’s mouth and that’s enough to make him pull back, his mocha-colored irises dancing with unshed tears—or perhaps a trick of the light? And Reese is naked under him, and then he’s naked too, and Reese wishes his imagination was a little more on details when he’s asleep—he always knows it’s Gabriel, but it’s never … Gabriel, even though Reese seems him practically every day.
But he grinds down on Reese, and Reese pants and moans, suddenly wanton. He grinds up against Gabriel like a dog, desperation burning through him. He touches Gabriel over and over, reveling in his skin beneath his fingertips, groaning at every touch Gabriel gives him—between his legs, near his entrance, right at his center, and Reese groans and pants and bucks his hips, lets his head loll from side to side.
He’s never needed it so bad, and he’s groaning, “Gabby, Gabby,” and Gabriel kisses him again.
He’s on his knees, and now they’re in a bedroom, on a bed, and Reese knows, because there’s no sand grinding against his dick when he comes, all breathy and hot, moaning Gabriel’s name over and over again as he shudders apart.
His eyes snap open to the darkness of his lonely hotel room. His breathing is harsh on the quiet air; he’s by himself, alone. He’s on the floor, the sheets twisted around him, and he was humping the rug. He supposes he fell out of bed (when Gabriel dropped him on the sand), and then turned over when he ended up on his knees, getting plowed from behind.
Even when he’s mad at Gabriel and drunk, he still wants to have dream-sex with him. God.
He pads to the washroom and wipes himself down, forces himself to drink two glasses of water to combat the oncoming hangover. Already, he can feel the telltale ache, the dull pain at the base of his skull that tells him tomorrow is going to suck. He should have known better.
The clock reads 2:12 when he returns to the bedroom. He cleans up as best he can, trying to clean jizz out of the carpet. He makes the bed, then crawls back under the covers, settling and hoping he doesn’t wake up too hungover tomorrow. He knows it’s too late; he’s going to have to swim the morning heats hungover, a prospect he doesn’t exactly relish.
He shivers and shudders under the covers for a while, focuses on that and the room spinning—not on the fact he apparently wants Gabriel between his thighs so bad, he’d be willing to hate-fuck him.
He has no idea what’s wrong with him. He’s never felt like this before, and it’s pissing him off. He needs to focus on his races. He needs to do well tomorrow—and then on Sunday.
He can’t let anything distract him. Not feelings of doubt, not feelings of dread. Certainly not Gabriel.
He closes his eyes and settles his head on the pillow. Tomorrow is an easier day—Sunday will be brutal—but he needs to make sure he gets some sleep.
At last, he drifts off again, this time into a dreamless sleep.
You can wait for me to finish posting this … or you can read it all now in Going Under.