Chapter 14 #3
Caleb swears. He’s not going to last. He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking himself hard and fast, stomach tensing, vision blurring before it whites out altogether.
When his orgasm slams into him, it is like never before.
A wave crashing down against a breakwater, the roar of the ocean taking over drop by drop.
His ears ring as the knot of pleasure explodes like a flare gun—blinding and all-consuming.
Asher is smiling up at him when Caleb returns to his body, eyes delirious and foggy. He mumbles something, speech slurred, in a different space, but it sounds like, Thank you.
And Caleb?
Caleb is at church, on his goddamn knees worshipping the altar of Asher for he looks fucking filthy. Tear-tracks streak down his cheeks, pooling around his dark, swollen lips, and mixes with Caleb’s come.
Holding his breath, Caleb runs a thumb gingerly across Asher’s cheek, rubbing his come in Asher’s skin, and feels some primal instinct wash over him.
“Mine,” he growls. Asher nods sluggishly in agreement. “Not the world’s. Not the old man’s. Mine.”
When Caleb shifts, Asher whines. His hands come up to grab Caleb’s arms.
“I need—” Asher hiccups. Against his stomach, his cock twitches. Caleb’s attention alone is enough to make a drop out precome spurt out.
It will be a long, cold day in hell when Asher doesn’t take Caleb’s breath away. “You think you deserve to come again?” Caleb asks,
“Fuck, please. I’ll be so good.”
“Yeah, I know. Here—” Caleb catches the word of endearment, right before it slips out. He pulls his thoughts away from it, focusing instead on stroking Asher slowly, achingly, watching Asher drip all over himself.
If only he could take a picture of Asher like this: collar around his neck, lips plump, cock leaking obscenely and making a mess out of him, hips pinned beneath Caleb’s hands, side of his wrist drawn between his teeth.
“I’m—ah.” Asher’s breath catches, thighs trembling. "I’m close." His back arches off the bed as he devolves into incoherent babbling.
He whimpers when Caleb picks up the pace, tightening his grip, making Asher sob in a dizzying mix of need and anguish. Then, just because he can, Caleb slows to nothing but the hint of a lazy, tormenting stroke.
Asher presses his face into Caleb’s neck. Frustrated, his lashes are damp, body fraying with the effort of holding itself together and taking it, waiting for release.
Caleb kisses the top of Asher’s head. “You’re perfect,” he encourages as Asher’s hips stutter, still obediently trying to hold himself back. Trying to be so good for him. “That’s it, that’s good.”
Asher shudders at the praise, at the warm, velvety tone of it. “Yeah?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” Caleb hums. “Go on. Make a mess for me.”
Asher’s body lets go. He cries out, hair haloed against the sheets, spine bowing painfully as a mix of agony, pleasure, and overstimulation thunders through him, looking every bit like a tortured saint.
He makes a sated noise as Caleb reaches over and snaps off the collar, taking his mouth in another bruising kiss.
Then, the storm blows over. The air is still. There is peace.
It takes a long while for Asher to come back down to earth.
While he waits, Caleb pulls Asher against his chest. Aftershocks twitch through Asher’s muscles.
On instinct, Asher nestles his head into the crook of Caleb’s neck.
Caleb’s arms come up around Asher as he holds him impossibly close, rubbing slow, grounding circles into his skin.
“You with me?” Caleb asks eventually. He runs a thumb across the bruises already beginning to form on Asher’s neck.
“Always,” Asher rasps. Tilting his chin up, he leans in and nudges Caleb’s nose with his own. “Kiss?” he asks. It’s soft, barely rising above the hum of the air conditioning.
Gently petting Asher’s hair, Caleb slides their mouths together.
He brushes a few stray strands of hair away from Asher’s forehead.
His usually straight hair has begun to curl from the sweat and humidity.
His hands wander down to where Asher’s stomach is sticky with his release.
It makes Caleb’s cheeks heat up. He’s often more shy about sex when looking in the rearview.
Caleb roams careful fingers upward over the dimple tugging at Asher’s mouth, up the sloping bridge of his nose, under eyes that crease from a lazy smile, cataloging every single feature. Soon they’ll be separated again. He tries to memorize as much of Asher as he can.
Asher catches Caleb’s hand and presses a kiss to the paper-thin skin of his wrist. “I was good?” he asks.
“Very,” Caleb tells him. “You were perfect.” He winds their fingers together and kisses their interlaced knuckles, careful to avoid the wounds there. “That wasn’t too much?”
“Nah. You always take good care of me,” Asher mumbles. He sounds like he might doze off soon.
Asher protests sleepily when Caleb detaches himself and rolls out of bed. Ducking into the bathroom, he fills up a glass of water and makes Asher take a sip before wiping his face with a damp towel.
“Come back to bed,” Asher grumbles.
Rolling his eyes, Caleb sinks back down and gathers Asher back into his arms. He wades through the current between them. Not a trace of animosity. Not even indifference. Relief washes over Caleb.
“You killed it tonight,” Caleb says. He mouths gently over a bruise on Asher’s neck.
“You weren’t at my celebration,” Asher says. His lower lip juts out.
“It was your moment. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“But I didn’t get to thank you.”
“Me?” Caleb echoes.
“You were my favorite wrestler.” Pressed against Caleb’s chest, the tip of Asher’s ears redden.
“Past tense?”
“Eh. Past, present, maybe future if you don’t get cocky.”
Caleb chuckles. They should get up. They are a sweaty mess, clothes strewn across the room, sheets ruined. But who cares? Legs tangled together with Asher’s, Caleb finally feels safe in his own skin. The stone on his chest lifts with every breath Asher takes, already falling asleep in his arms.
Soon, Caleb’s heart will direct his legs over to the minibar where he will prepare a mug of manuka honey for Asher’s throat, then he’ll cajole Asher out of bed and into a warm bath that he will have drawn for him.
But for now, they lie there, curled together in a bubble of their own—a safe haven in an otherwise mean and scary world.
For now, Caleb lies there, and he breathes.
When Caleb wakes up the next day, his bones don’t feel like lead.
With a great yawn, Asher rolls over and blankets Caleb's body with his own, rubbing his nose against the underside of Caleb’s jaw where the skin still rough and unshaven.
“Morning,” he says, his ear pressed against Caleb’s chest where the frantic beating of Caleb’s heart must be echoing. He reaches up to trace a ridge on Caleb’s cheek.
Caleb pecks the corner of Asher’s mouth, the high of his cheekbone, the sharp hinge of his jaw. Lost in the melting early morning comfort, the words slip out. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Asher stutters for a split second, finger stilling over the bridge of Caleb’s nose. His brow arches before a grin splits his face in two. He shoves Caleb’s shoulder. “That’s my line.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“Thank you!” Asher clears his throat, shifting around to regard Caleb. “So, I think I’m bisexual.”
“Oh. Cool. New development?”
Asher shrugs. “There’ve been signs, but I never looked too closely.” The corner of his eyes crinkle. “Then I meet this atrociously obnoxious champion, and suddenly, just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom, I want to fuck a white boy.”
“My condolences,” Caleb says before leaning over and kissing Asher fiercely.
“Do you want to grab breakfast?” Asher asks.
His words come out a little breathless and he beams up at Caleb, one hand still resting on Caleb’s jaw.
The eye contact is so terribly close that Caleb has to look away, hide his face in the crook of Asher’s neck before he does something he can’t take back.
Because with his legs tangled with Asher’s beneath the sheets and the gentle glow of the rising sun pouring over bare skin, Caleb wonders if this could be real.
Is this something he could have? Not a life where the emptiness in his eyes reflects in every surface, roaming through cities like a ghost. Not a held breath, waiting for a bomb to fall.
Something real. A someday where he can boldly step out of those doors without fear of someone seeing, one where he gets to just live.
“I—we can’t, remember?”
When Asher’s face falls, so does Caleb’s heart. “Right. Sorry, I forgot.”
It drops quietly into the space between them: it’s not going to be easy. It’s never going to be.
“Would you ever come out?” The question is barely audible. “Not just you, but like, the Ice Prince.”
Caleb drums his fingers anxiously on Asher’s back. Would he?
The whole point to having an on-screen persona is to protect himself.
A shield between his heart and the world.
The less the audience knows about him—who he really is—the less their comments will sting.
Coming out would mean inviting the audience into the most intimate part of himself, being completely vulnerable with them.
His heart out in his extended hand, saying, “This is me.”
This world is a cutthroat one. People are inherently nosy.
They love to gossip, to pry, to look for any reason to raise pitchforks.
They are quick to point fingers and jump to conclusions.
All for one thing: attention. What they forget, however, is that their opinions can be enough to make or break a career.
And the pictures. Christ, there are so many.
Leaked images, texts, screenshots, phones and cameras whipped out at any point throughout their day.
Personal information dug up and plastered on a billboard for all to see. There is nowhere . . . safe.