Twelve Days of Heat: Day Four

Twelve Days of Heat: Day Four

He wakes up with a pounding headache and a fever. Apparently his mother was on to something with that not going to bed with wet hair thing. Fan-fucking-tastic.

There’s no help for it, really. He drags himself from bed, heads to the washroom. He splashes cold water over his face, watches it drip back down his flushed cheeks. God, he looks like shit. Gord’s gonna give him such a hard time, his teammates are gonna give him such shit. Mel and the others know for sure he was drinking last night; Mel won’t let him live that down.

He exhales softly, then turns away from his reflection, his fever-bright eyes almost eerie in the low lights of the bathroom. He wipes his face on the towel, pitches it on the ground.

He waits for the tell-tale ache in his back, his chest, that peculiar tightness that accompanies illness and restricts his breathing. He inhales a few times, waits for the catch at the top of his breath.

It doesn’t come. If there’s tightness, if there’s an ache, it’s much lower, down in his belly, that weird pressure between his thighs.

Great, now he’s sick and horny. He kicks his feet into his shorts. He’s not sure this can get much worse.

He breezes into the hall, wobbles to the elevator and leans up against the mirror. He cranes his neck and stares at the ceiling—also a mirror, warped and strange, reflecting, again, the hollowed look he’s giving himself with his eerily blue eyes.

The box stops on the fourth floor and his teammates crowd in with him. Kat gives him a sidelong look, like she wants to say something. A glare stops her—she’s so kind, so gentle, that even his pathetic attempt at a glower silences her.

He can’t silence the rest of his teammates, however. Brody snickers, grinning broadly, and Mel rolls her eyes, slaps him on the back of the head. Hard. “You absolute twit,” she huffs. “Moron. What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Ow,” he whines, rubbing the spot she smacked. “That hurt.”

She lifts her brows, and he withers a little, sinks back against the railing. He’s pouting, he knows, but he can’t help it.

He crinkles his nose, presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. That strange floral scent again, lying thick over his tongue. “Are you wearing perfume?” he snaps at Mel, who jolts back, blinking.

“No,” she spits, “why would I? We’re going to the pool.”

“Just,” he says, crinkling his nose again, and he catches Gabriel’s eye. He frowns more deeply. The younger man looks away.

The elevator dings open and they head to the restaurant for breakfast. Reese stares at the buffet for a long time, but he doesn’t want anything. He forces himself to pluck up a muffin, picks at it at the table. It tastes like nothing, and he has no appetite at all.

Even the coffee tastes like nothing. Kat keeps giving him worried looks. “You can’t not eat,” Mel says finally, and Reese shrugs.

“’m not hungry,” he murmurs, stares forlornly at what’s left of the muffin. It’s even blueberry—his favorite.

“Pieces …”

“I know,” he mutters, then leans back in his chair. He feels so weird. Sick, but not sick. A little dizzy. Too warm. And the only thing he can think about is that weird pressure between his legs.

“You sure you should go?” Kat asks. Her voice is quiet, but it sounds like thunder.

“I’m fine,” he replies instantly. “’m not sick. I don’t feel sick.”

Brody’s laughing at him again, the dick.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, however, because they’re marched off to the shuttle, then to the pool.

The water is good, because he has to focus on not drowning. It takes most of his concentration, even though the pressure is building, even though his muscles contract with every movement and it doesn’t burn today—it shoots pleasure through him instead, which is so weird. It throws him off and he has to close his eyes, grit his teeth, think about how, if he fucks up, he might die. He could drown. He could sink to the bottom of the pool, he could get water in his lungs, he could choke.

Focus. He has to focus.

Ted drags him aside, shaking his head, mumbles, “What’s gotten into you?” through his waterlogged ears, and he pants, tries to pull himself back down, to ground himself.

The sensation of floating follows him out of the pool. He’s not sure his feet touch the ground at any point.

Gabriel drags him aside in the showers, and Reese has to bite his lip hard, swallowing down a groan, because yes, yes, yes—

But Gabriel just says, “Get it together, you’re acting weird,” and lets him go, leaves him squirming and wanting, so he turns the water on cold and tries to freeze his blood so he can’t feel any longer.

There’s four heats for the medley, and he gets put in the second-slowest group. It works to his advantage, because even though he does shit, he finishes first in his heat, which auto-qualifies him for semis.

That might be a bad thing, he thinks, because he’s slowly deteriorating. The world keeps floating away, his feet seem higher off the ground. His head swims, churning thoughts like a whirlpool, and he’s not sure he can see straight.

“Go,” Gord tells him after he finishes his heat and pads back to the locker room, dripping water everywhere. “Get back to the hotel, lie down, sleep it off. We’ll get you before the evening session.”

“Okay,” Reese murmurs, changes back into his street clothes hastily. He catches the next shuttle down to the hotel, clings to the handle for dear life. He rocks on the balls of his feet, swaying with the motion, scarcely feeling it.

Fuck, he’s so messed up. He definitely shouldn’t have drank last night.

He collapses into bed, closes his eyes and wriggles around in the sheets, trying to get comfortable—like there’s an itch he just can’t scratch.

What in the hell is wrong with him? He ponders that as he stares at the ceiling, but he has no answers. It’s like no illness he’s ever had before.

He sleeps, he supposes, because the next thing he knows, the shadows are long, the sun is low in the sky, setting over the harbor. He gazes out at it, swallows down the feeling of calm melancholy that accompanies early winter sunsets. He’s wasted pretty much the whole day in bed, and the idea flutters low in his stomach, then blossoms into need, and he rolls over onto his belly, buries his head in the pillows.

The fuck is wrong with him? He rolls his hips against the mattress helplessly, panting into the pillow, hating the heat of his cheek against the cool surface.

He can’t. The realization dawns over him incrementally, and he slows his motion, stilling at last. He’s still fluttery with pleasure, tiptoeing along a tightrope where he could, he almost could …

But it won’t come, he knows. It’s like waiting for a breaking wave to come crashing over you, but the tidal wave never comes—just the soft swells that rock you gently, even as you anticipate something more dramatic.

He groans in the back of his throat, rolls onto his back and grabs himself—already chafed, he registers with some annoyance. He tugs a few times, then releases his cock, relenting. The effort is futile.

He lays there, staring at the ceiling, scarcely registering anything more than sheer need. He spreads his legs, lets his hand wander back to his hole instead, wondering if he’ll get relief there.

He fingers himself, enthusiastically at first, but that’s useless too. It feels good, but there’s just not … the urgency, the need. He’s close to the edge, but not close enough.

He stops touching himself, just gives up. He curls his hands in the sheets, waits for the imminent feeling of need, pressure, want, to subside a bit. His dick twitches a few times, apparently wondering why he isn’t lavishing attention on it, but it doesn’t matter. He falls to half-flag, then rolls out of bed and dresses.

Not a moment too soon either, because Mel’s pounding on the door. He glances at the clock—it’s just after five. Dinner, then back to the pool.

Again, he can scarcely eat, which is the strangest, stupidest thing. Mel keeps eyeing him worriedly, but she says nothing. Everyone else seems to have decided nothing is wrong.

He had nothing for breakfast, and he swam earlier, skipped lunch. And yet …

He stares at food, simply toys with the pasta on his plate. He nibbles at bread and butter, but nothing tastes like anything and he doesn’t want anything. He’s full up on this weird pressure. If anything, he feels bloated, like his stomach is already distended, like he ate too much. It’s not comfortable at all, and nausea creeps up his throat when he thinks about much more than a bite or two of food.

“You should drop out,” Gabriel tells him, and he rolls his eyes toward his captain, doing the best he can to glare at him. It’s hard when the world is spinning drunkenly before him.

“You’re just saying that,” he sneers, “’cause you’re scared.”

“As if,” Brody snorts.

“We’re concerned,” Mel says, glancing toward Gabriel, then back to him. “Seriously, you’ve hardly eaten today.”

“I had lunch,” he lies, because he knows that will get them to back off a bit. “Honestly. Probably just nerves.”

“Nerves, huh,” Gabriel says, like he doesn’t believe him.

“Sure,” Reese says breezily, and offers up a dopey smile. He feels like shit, but he’ll blame it on nerves.

He needs something to blame it on, other than, “I’m horny as fuck, you guys, and I don’t know what to do about it or why.”

They don’t say much else as they pack up. They’re silent on the shuttle over too, and Reese tries to focus on the race, on maybe actually worrying about that and not that he could get any one of his teammates to stick him and he’d be perfectly happy. He’d been fine with Kat or Mel even—strap-ons or fingers or tongues, or—

He grinds his teeth together. He wants a locker-room orgy, he wants them all to go back to a hotel room—maybe Gabriel’s suite, that would be big enough—and as long as someone’s banging him, he wouldn’t care, wouldn’t care about a goddamn thing—

On the bed, on the balcony, on the sofa, on the kitchenette table, the coffee table in the living room, on the foyer floor with cold tile beneath his knees, someone pinning him up against a wall, someone putting him on his back, the shower, the bathtub, the bathroom counter, anywhere, everywhere—

Hollllly, he needs to stop. He chews at his lip, lets his fingers bite into his palms. This is ridiculous. He thinks about sex quite a bit—but never quite like this. The desperation scares him.

He’s never felt desperate, never felt deprived.

He’s almost angry with his teammates, maybe for not putting him on his knees or his back, maybe mad at Gabriel for not pinning him up against the shower wall, finger-fucking him right there, where they could get caught, and—

He blinks a few times, wonders if he can’t keep his mind out of the gutter for at least five minutes. He has to focus.

Usually, focusing becomes easier once he’s actually at the pool. Tonight, though, it seems even more difficult. He’s keenly aware of every bloody body around him, and swim meet could be just one giant orgy, they’re all almost naked anyway, and he wades into the warm-up pool, then just stands there stupidly, his gaze fixated on nothing as he contemplates asking one of his teammates for something, anything, after the race—maybe a victory fuck, if he does well enough, or a pity-fuck if he gets bumped out of the final.

Brody dumps water all over him and he snaps back to reality, giggles stupidly at Brody, and hey, how did he not notice how cute Brody is when he’s laughing like that, his brown eyes all lit up, like—

Gahhhhh. He dives under, grabs Brody’s shorts and yanks, then lets them snap back into place. Brody yelps indignantly, and then they start splashing, and Reese keeps brushing his hand against the other swimmer, tries to wriggle in a little closer, and he grins, bites his lip, turns his head just so—

A whistle. They’re told to get the fuck out of the pool, what the hell do they think this is? Amateur hour?

Gord’s pissed and so are the officials. Reese sits and sulks, but keeps glancing at Brody, wonders if he’ll …

They’re ordered back into the pool. Gord puts them at separate ends of it to do their warm-up laps, keep them separated. Reese tries not to boggle at his new lanemate, one of the British swimmers, and well, maybe

He contemplates bashing into the wall purposely during his backstroke. Maybe it will dislodge all these filthy thoughts.

His thoughts turn to the race at last, when they’re told to get out of the water and go to the ready-room. They’re all covered up a bit more there, so it’s easier to ignore hard bodies, try to focus on what he has to do.

Not what he could be doing. Not who he could be doing.

He’s in the second heat of the semis, so that’s good. This race will be a little faster, but he knows everyone’s going to hold back a bit—they have qualifiers in the morning, then races in the evening. He has three qualifying sessions, and maybe four races tomorrow. He has to keep it together.

Gabriel finishes first in the first group. Of course he does. Brody’s a close second. That’s awesome—one-two. If they can finish like that in the race …

But Reese needs to focus on himself. He has yet to medal. He has to. He can’t go home without any hardware. If he does, what the hell is he doing? He’ll have to quit, find something else to do …

That scares him a little more than anything, and he finally finds his focus as he’s called to the blocks. He needs a medal. At least one. More if possible. If nothing else, he has to prove to himself he deserves this, that he’s good enough to be on the world stage. That maybe he needs to go to the Olympics, that the dream isn’t too far out of his reach.

The gun goes. They dive into the water, and the water splashing up over him is enough to draw his focus, rein him in as he focuses on the bottom of the pool, the black line beneath him.

He breaks the surface to breathe, pulls harder with his arms, propelling himself to the end of the pool. Fingers on the wall, then turning, feet against it, pressing through his toes, his arches, his heels. He needs this one. He needs to win. He needs to make the final; he can’t get bumped off.

Maybe, maybe, if he wins—something, anything—maybe Gabriel will return the favor. Maybe he’ll stop being so cold, so standoffish. Maybe he’ll see Reese as worthy, maybe he’ll …

Wall. Flip-turn. Into the breaststroke. Fucking breaststroke. But he does it, bobbing his way to the other end of the pool. One more lap; freestyle now. He digs deep into his muscles, dragging himself through the water.

His head is pounding; his vision dances double. That floating sensation is back, even though he knows he’s in the water, hardly floating. He can’t get his breath. Holy hell.

He grits his teeth, sticks his face in the water, ignores the way chlorine burns. He can’t breathe. If he was waiting for that familiar ache between his shoulders, there it is—he can’t inhale.

He clutches at the wall, strips off his cap and goggles, chokes on air. He slips, almost falls backwards, tightens his grip. He needs out of the pool, and he needs out now.

A lifeguard accompanies Ted over to him. Ted crouches down between the blocks, tries talking to him. He just shakes his head, tries to get rid of the burn in his chest, between his shoulders. He still can’t breathe.

“Over there,” Ted says, points to the side of the pool. “Can you get over there?”

“Yeah,” Reese breathes, coughs a bit after it, gasps. “Yeah.” He nods once or twice, as though driving home his point, then slithers over the lane lines, toward the side of the pool.

He crawls out, sits there with his feet in the pool, coughing. “What happened?” Ted asks, and he just shakes his head, because he doesn’t know. Maybe this cold broke. That’s all he can figure.

He gets to his feet slowly, follows Ted off the deck, listening to the distant sound of his feet slapping the pool deck. Weird. He feels waterlogged. His head is throbbing, sharp pain stabbing through his temples.

“You shouldn’t have pushed so hard,” Ted says. “You’ve burnt yourself up, you got seven sets tomorrow, Pieces—you forget about that? You made the race, but will you have anything left now? You PB’d, just to get there, that was fucking stupid–”

He hit a personal best? He rubs at his face, wonders if that’s why everything feels so …

He doesn’t even know.

Ted sits him down on a bench, evaluates him again. “You wanna go down to medical?” he asks, and Reese shakes his head.

Ted considers that. “’kay,” he says at last. “You go on then—you’re gonna need your sleep. Get something to eat, go pass out for a bit. We’ll get you into ice and massage in the morning—think you need rest first and foremost–”

“Okay,” Reese mumbles. The ache is subsiding; he can finally breathe again. He’s worried though—what if it comes back? What if he wakes up worse in the morning? He might have to pull out of all the finals, and then he’ll have no medals …

God, he’s dumb. PB’ing in a semi-final is stupid as shit, and he knows it.

He doesn’t talk to his teammates, just makes his way back to the hotel as quick as he can. He passes out as soon as he’s in his room, hopes that he’ll feel hunger in the morning, because even after that, he feels absolutely nothing except that uncomfortable fullness in his abdomen.

Ted said he needs rest, but sleep is anything but restful. Instead, he dreams vividly about the locker room, about post-race tomorrow, about Gabriel pinning him up against the wall, whispering, “Fuck, Pieces, you did so good, you’re such a good boy” all hot and heavy in his ear, teeth nipping at his lobe, tongue rolling down his neck, and he trembles, groans, shudders in Gabriel’s grasp as the younger man spreads his legs, slides a finger into his slick, open hole, thrusting in and out lazily, and he clenches around him, wants that touch, wants more, craves it somewhere deep in his core …

And Gabriel gives him more, slides another finger in him, stretches him wide open, and then wraps his free hand around his cock. And then he sinks down on his knees in front of Reese, whispering, “You did so good, you beat me, fair and square, winners deserve their prize,” and Reese stands straight up, his cock twitching with the praise, with the promise. Gabriel flicks his gaze up at him, his eyes dark with lust, and Reese groans as he wraps his mouth around him. He makes quite the picture—eyes closed, lashes clutching at his flushed cheeks, mouth stretched wide over Reese’s cock, and he watches as it disappears into that warm, wet hole over and over again, Gabriel’s hand wrapped tight around what he can’t fit, jacking him. His fingers are still in Reese, plunging in and out of him, and Reese trembles with overwhelming sensation, and vibration turns to sound, which bubbles up out of his throat, deep, primal noises expressing bone-deep pleasure, every nerve of him singing with the way Gabriel’s working him over.

Gabriel’s eyes flick open again, meet Reese’s gaze, and Reese puts his hand on the younger man’s cheek, feels the heat, and Gabriel hums around him, vibrating Reese harder, down to the very center of his being, and he rises up on his tiptoes, swelling with it—

Gabriel slides off him with a pop, growls low and husky in a way that hits Reese right in the gut. “Do you want me to fuck you, Pieces?”

Oh God, does he. He only manages a whimper in response, but that’s good enough for Gabriel, who spins him around, presses him up against the wall.

The wall that is now warm and solid, but rising and falling with inhalations, and he looks up at Brody, who grins down at him, and Reese’s pulse flutters, that anxious, delightful feeling, and this might go exactly the way he wants it to, at last, at last, at last—

Gabriel sinks into him and, because it’s a dream, there’s no pain at all, nothing but pleasure, like sinking into a warm bath, the ache in his belly calming almost as soon as he’s inside, and Reese’s hips jerk forward, and Brody’s spreading him back (when did they get on a bench? No matter—it’s a dream, he knows. It’s not real anyway), and he’s inside too, and Reese groans and whimpers, writhes between the two of them, panting and gasping, his head lolling back under the weight of sensation. He can’t fight it any longer.

The best part about dream-fucking, he thinks, is that it goes on for a ridiculously long time—it’s both instantaneous and tantric, and he wakes up on the edge of orgasm, his hips working into the mattress and he’s scarcely conscious when orgasm threatens to drag him back under. He releases into the sheets, clutching his pillows to his face, groaning low into them, clinging to the dream, pretending it’s Brody’s chest, warm and solid and real.

The aftershocks shudder through him for what feels like eternity, his hips jerking erratically, his cock twitching as he finishes riding the wave. He sags against the mattress, exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Goddamn, he’ll get sick more often if it makes coming feel like that. He’s still tingling, right down to his toes.

He drowses for a bit, but sleep won’t come again. He tosses and turns, shivering and shuddering; he throws the blankets off more than once, only to gather them back up. He still has a vague headache, although it’s nothing compared to what he felt when he clambered out of the pool last night.

He’s still not hungry. He glances at the clock, stares at the numerals for a long time before they register.

It’s not even time to be awake yet. But he is awake.

He grabs his phone and scrolls through Facebook a little, tries refreshing his Instagram. There’s nothing, really. He looks at his messages.

Gabriel texted him—hours ago now, likely when he was leaving the pool. It just says ‘u ok?’ but Reese melts reading it, a kind of slack wending its way through his muscles, even as his heart starts pounding.

He debates sending a message—it’s way too early, and Gabriel will be a little bitch if he gets woken up. Reese should sleep too; it’s going to be a long fucking day.

But he taps out a response, thinks that if Gabriel questions him on it, he’ll just say his phone was acting up, that he sent that at a reasonable hour and it just didn’t go through …

But Gabriel’s up too, apparently. ‘cant sleep?’ he’s asked, and Reese responds ‘yea’ almost instantly.

[3.44am Flossy: me too, u ok? u seemed bad out of pool] [3.44am pieces: feel better now] Reese writes back, then slides his hand between his legs, almost unconsciously.

[3.45am Flossy: good] [3.45am Flossy: srsly hard day 2day dont b sick] [3.45am pieces: not sick] Although maybe he is; he’s working one of his fingers past his entrance. If that’s not some kind of sick, he’s not really sure what is.

[3.46am Flossy: good]

He debates for a moment, then writes back ‘hey wutll u gimme if i win’

He waits a moment, but Gabriel replies, ‘win what’

Fuck, he doesn’t know. ‘iunno man a race? medalgold’

The response takes even longer this time. He imagines Gabriel lying in bed with his phone in hand, the screen illuminating him in the dark as he contemplates what to send back. Maybe he types out a response, decides he doesn’t like it. Backspace. Write something else. Maybe he hovers over the send button.

[3.47am Flossy: like ull win]

Reese hates him a little. ‘cmon gimme insence’

[3.47am Flossy: incentive] Reese writes ‘w/e’ and sends it just as Gabriel’s next message arrives.

[3.47am Flossy: u can blo me agin] Reese wonders if his spelling has gone to shit because he’s now one-handed, jacking himself off with the other as he texts.

[3.48am pieces: u blo me] [3.48am Flossy: y???] [3.48am pieces: when i win] [3.49am Flossy: nah] [3.49am pieces: yea!!! Cmon i suked ur dick]

He wonders how advisable this is—if anyone gets a hold of his phone or Gabriel’s …

[3.49am Flossy: is that how this works now? We trad bjs when we win?]

‘could’ Reese responds, jams his finger inside himself and curls it up, letting his eyes roll back. He drops his phone; his fingers are nerveless.

He thinks about grinding another one out. There really is something wrong with him, he thinks.

‘might b fun’ he adds when Gabriel doesn’t reply.

[3.51am Flossy: wut if i win?] [3.51am pieces: u kno, ill blo u] [3.51am Flossy: is that all]

Reese squeezes his thighs tight, tensing, nearly loses it all over himself. Fuck. He wasn’t expecting that.

[3.52am pieces: wha u want more] [3.52am Flossy: maybe]

He groans low, slides a second finger into himself.

[3.52am pieces: like wut] [3.53am Flossy: dunnno what u got?] [3.53am pieces: tell me wut ur lookin 4 i c wut i got] [3.53am Flossy: i asked u, answer question puppy]

Reese grits his teeth. ‘fine,’ he writes back, ‘u win, u get 2 name ur prize’

[3.53am Flossy: fucker]

The reply is so instantaneous that Reese almost laughs, despite the fact he has two fingers crooked inside himself, rubbing up against that fantastic little spot and Gabriel’s basically propositioning him, which is exactly what he wants, and oh yes, he’s imagining the other swimmer jacking off during their convo.

His phone buzzes again.

[3.54am Flossy: wanna make u cum]  Reese almost drops the phone.

‘kay’ he returns, wonders if it seems nonchalant enough. He’s not gonna tell Gabriel that he’s on the verge anyway.

[3.55am pieces: gonna suk me off then?] [3.55am Flossy: no]

He inhales sharply. [3.55am pieces: what r u gonna do then?] [3.56am Flossy: dunno] [3.56am pieces: tell me] [3.56am Flossy: nah] [3.56am pieces: now.] He wants all the filthy details, wants it so bad he’s panting with anticipation. He’s shaking a little; trepidation.

[3.56am pieces: handy?] [3.57am Flossy: wanna lick u]

Reese cries out, then bites the inside of his cheek. [3.57am pieces: yea? givin head] [3.57am Flossy: no, lick ur ass]

Reese presses up against that spot, hard as he can without making himself come. ‘ass-licker’ he fires back, hopes Gabriel can’t tell how hot and bothered the idea has him.

[3.58am Flossy: justspread ur legs get my tongue up against ur hole]

He groans, drops the phone again. ‘im listening’ he replies when he can hold the phone again. His vision is still fading and out of focus.

[3.58am Flossy: mayb stick my tongue in u] [3.58am pieces: and?] [3.59am Flossy: … that’s it that’s the plan, justlick u until u cum] [3.59am pieces: could take a while] [3.59am Flossy: nah]

Reese snorts. ‘jackss,’ he writes back, ‘u think ur good at it?’

[3.59am Flossy: probably]

Reese rolls his eyes. [4.00am pieces: jerk u ever done it] [4.00am Flossy: gotta start somwhere] [4.00am pieces: i bet u suck] [4.01am Flossy: practice makes perfect] [4.02am pieces: i dont wanna be a experiment] [4.03am Flossy: if im bad at it, ill do it until im good at it. thats pretty good for u] [4.03am pieces: how?] [4.05am Flossy: do ihave to explain that u get this multiple times then? practice til i can make u come more than once]

‘nasty,’ Reese replies, then sets his phone aside, groaning low. He needs off now. The ache is back in his belly, crawling up his spine.

Then he grabs his phone back—Gabriel’s clearly into this, so masturbating is stupid. He can just call Gabriel up, or go down there, or … something. Whatever. He could basically invite Gabriel to come fuck him, and Gabriel’s down, very clearly down, and Reese squeezes his thighs together again because, fuck, yes, he needs some friction.

[4.08am pieces: fuck flossy, cmere and do me] [4.09am Flossy: nah] Reese almost chucks the phone across the room.

[4.09am pieces: y not?!?!?!] [4.10am Flossy: comp’s not over yet] [4.11am pieces: fuck. You.] [4.12am Flossy: later] [4.12am pieces: now] [4.13am Flossy: no]

Reese grits his teeth, then snaps a picture of himself—it’s shaky, blurry because of the low light, and he’s not even sure Gabriel can really see, but he sends it anyway.

[4.14am pieces: now] [4.14am Flossy: holy fucking shit pieces] [4.14am pieces: im horny] His resolve—if he had any to start—is completely going to shit. He wants Gabriel, needs Gabriel.

[4.14am Flossy: are u finger-fuckin urself?????]

He flushes furiously. [4.15am pieces: yea thinkin bout u tho] [4.15am Flossy: fuck] [4:15am Flossy: thats hot] [4.16am Flossy: send another pic]

‘come up here and see 4 urself’ Reese replies, partially because he can’t hold the phone steady enough to.

[4.17am Flossy: just send a pic] [4.17am pieces: no come up here and fuck me jackass] [4.18am Flossy: no] [4.18am pieces: yes, come up here and fucking stick me, i need u] [4.19am Flossy: fuck pieces]

He groans, scissors his fingers. [4.19am pieces: im waitin 4 u flossy, pls, need u bad need ur cock in me] [4.20am Flossy: tease] [4.20am pieces: im not teasing!]

‘after’ Gabriel writes and this time, Reese does hurl the phone across the room, because fuck. Him.

He shoves his fingers in deeper, crying out sharply, seeking relief.


 

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