Brandon Moore é como qualquer homem comum. Ele tem um pai, e uma mãe, e os dois estão casados até hoje, ainda que ele desconfie que mais por comodidade do que por algum motivo profundo de crença em fazer uma união dar certo. Ele frequentou uma boa escola, tirou boas notas, fez bons gols e bons amigos que hoje não tem certeza do que estão fazendo da vida.
Ele tem uma boa esposa, a sra. Moore, que, naturalmente, é uma boa mulher. Belos cabelos, belas pernas e, apesar de dentes levemente tortos, belo sorriso, e ele costuma dizer que soube que a conquistou naquela noite no pier em que ficaram meio bêbados e falou que ela tinha caninos charmosos. Isso sempre a faz rir, e nessas horas o sr. Brandon Moore esquece que às vezes não tem certeza se fez uma boa escolha.
Brandon Moore foi um jogador de futebol excepcional no Ensino Médio, espetacular na faculdade e, para quem tinha um futuro tão brilhante no esporte, é um investidor até competente. Ele não tem muitos talentos, mas pode se orgulhar de conseguir multiplicar números com mais de 3 dígitos de cabeça, saber a ordem de todas as mãos do pôquer e de ser muito bom em fazer aqueles últimos três dedos de pasta de dente que ficaram no tubo durarem por mais um mês. Ele também é bom em ser um pai de família normal, com uma vida normal, e acha que logo não vai mais precisar se esforçar pra não bater uma pensando naquele cara moreno que acabou de ser contratado pelos Recursos Humanos.
Ele é como qualquer homem comum. Com uma vida boa, um emprego bom e uma esposa que tem um sorriso bonito de caninos charmosos. Não tem do que reclamar.
Brandon Moore tem uma vida normal, e é bom em acreditar que está feliz com ela, mesmo quando não faz a menor diferença.
“Why would you want a woman, if we both know what you really crave for? You like it better when you’re fucked, don’t you? Get hard by the thought of a cock buried into your pretty arse, want a prick being shoved past your lips, fucking this nice mouth of yours. I know it. You know it. So say it— say it, Kyle. And I’ll put you on your knees and fuck you until you fall apart, until you can’t take it anymore, until the only thing you can remember is my name and that you need only me.”
He heard it when Bob shouted a ‘fucking Jesus—!’ as soon as he turned the shower on. He kept hearing the annoyed swearing of the redhead under the sound of the water. Bob sounded obviously pissed.
He was still trying to guess which fourteen letters word was to fit in the last item of his crossword magazine when Bob bursts out from the bathroom, all wet and trembling from head to toe. Bob looks obviously displeased, pursing his almost blue lips, tight grip on his white towel. When he is about to open his mouth to say the heater broke this afternoon and he is sorry for having forgotten to tell him that, that he was just so busy checking the last restaurant’s expenses that he couldn’t remember to tell, Bob throws himself at him, limbs all over, and the ginger’s skin feels so cold against his that he himself shivers from the thermal shock.
“I’m sorry”. He says, moving his magazine away so it won’t get wet. Bob tightens the grip of his thigh around his waist, naked from hips to feet, towel around his back and shoulders. “I forgot to tell you. I was—”
“Shut up, Marley.” Bob mumbles, placing his freezing lips against Kevin’s neck. It slowly starts to feel warm against his skin, despite the initial coldness. The redhead curls himself better over him, until he seizes all of Kevin, like he is his own particular pillow. “I’m cold.”
Bob is still complaining, mouth moving against his skin, hands gripping his arms and chest, making him almost as wet. He doesn’t mind, though. He brushes his fingers on Bob’s red hair and just shuts up.
As a couple, they were never very lovey-dovey like. They don’t share affectionate kisses when they wake up in the morning, nor whisper sweet ‘get up already’ on each other ears. They have no pet names, no theme-song, no engagement rings with meaningful phrases written on the inner side of them. They don’t display a lot of public gestures of affection, either. It’s rare to anyone see them holding hands, hugging or kissing. People who don’t know them think they are too much of a weird, cold couple. Too distant, they say. Their behavior is too distant, and their talk is too defiant and provocative and almost mean.
That’s why, to people, they are this weird couple.
Cold, loveless couple.
But, oh, if people looked closer - narrowed their eyes, sharpened their minds. If they took their time to let their drinks to the side and look. Maybe they would see how the corner of those men’s mouths slightly lift up as they disagree about everything, how their fingers casually brush now and then when they walk towards each other on the dance floor. How Kyle complains and shows annoyance when Rowan gets dead drunk, but places his hand on the small of the cook’s back and doesn’t let him walk clumsily just because he knows Rowan would hate people seeing him walking without even a single inch of his self-assurance. How Rowan claims Kyle is a good-for-nothing twat and brags he doesn’t need the magician to keep his British class, but lets Kyle guide him anyway.
But people— well. They don’t look closer. And so they stay as the completely ‘couple-less’ couple. Weird, cold, loveless couple.
What they think about what people say?
Oh, dear. They themselves think they are exactly like that.
They can do nothing if they’re still a couple, though.
The spotlights love Dorian. And he shall say, sir, he loves them back.
He’s aware of how amazing, how beautiful he looks right on them, all his body glowing in utter glory as he moves on stage. Each movement smooth, each leap flawless, each facial expression catching. He is breath-taking. The audience knows that. Dorian knows too.
That’s why it is unsettling, almost disappointing, to be fucking himself on the cock of someone who is right under him, and that he cannot see. It’s upseting not being able to see. Not being able to be seen. For a man who lives from being looked at, from being glorious under lights and eyes, this is not a situation he’s used to.
But Joseph is stubborn. Has this crazy issue about not wanting to have sex with the lights on. To someone as adventurous and wild as him, it seems sort of ridiculous to Dorian. Almost chaste, as if he were some kind of little virgin who is insecure about his own body. Dorian can’t bring himself to be mean or to throw him a half-smile of mockful condenscendence, though. Not when he longed so much for that moment. Not while Joseph makes all these seductive throaty sounds, not while he grabs Dorian’s cheeks and part them wide, just to drive himself into him better, deeper, faster. Not while he feels Joseph’s long limbs bumping on his as he attempts to shift angles, to run moisted lips on flat stomach, hot breath against the ballet dancer’s skin as Agent Black whispers the dirtiest yet most flattering words he ever heard.
He thinks he wants the lights. Wants Joseph to see him. Wants him to see all of his smooth movements, of his facial expressions. Wants him to see how graceful and erotic it is when his lean body bows in a tight arch each time a jolt of pleasure strikes his spine. To see the small bruises that formed on his flushed lips when Joseph bit them. To see the pale curve of his neck, tempting and exposed, as he throws his head to the side. He wants to be looked at. Wants Agent Black to see how glorious he is under the lights, right over his eyes.
Because he is breath-taking. The audience knows. Dorian knows too.
He thinks Joseph must know that as well.
Robin loves sex because sex is love, and that’s all everyone needs to understand. Nothing more, nothing else. He needs love. He wants love. He seeks love. He may crawl his way to it if it is necessary. Because he is an empty boy with an empty life, and feelings are hard to deal with. Because it makes him want to cry and when he has someone filling him up he doesn’t want to cry anymore. Because there’s a person thrusting into him, inside him, and so he is not empty anymore. He is full. He is whole. In some way, the blank space has been filled and it doesn’t feel like something is missing anymore.
But eventually it gets to an end. It always do. It has to. And he needs to do that again. Because he is an empty boy with an empty life who wants to feel complete. Because he seeks love, and sex is the only route he knows to pursue it. Because feelings are shapeless little things, hard to deal with. He can’t taste them. He can’t touch them. He can’t grab them. They have no form, no body, no voice.
But Robin believes in them. He wants to find them. So he keeps seeking. He keeps seeking for love. He keeps kissing random mouths and sharing random touches and moaning random names. Because love is there. Right there. And in that moment, when he is throwing his head back and waving his hips and clutching his insides, love has a shape. Love has a taste. Love can be touched, and grabbed. It has a form and a body and a voice.
He knows - deep inside, where no one can see - that this is not enough. This is never enough. Because his need grows bigger each day that passes. Because he wants it. Badly. Desperately. Completely. Selfishly. And even though he is smiling, he feels something tearing apart inside him. Each time. Every time. And he pretends not noticing. Not caring.
Because he is just an empty boy with an empty life, who wants to feel home.
Domestic Meme, Red/ Yellow version:
Big spoon/little spoon: That depends of their mood. But I think Yellow usually ends up being big spoon just because he’s typically the one to sleep later, since he’s always in that “radioactive trash” of a basement, as Red calls, until late blowing up stuff…
He was going to sleep in the couch after all the work he had putting Red to bed nice and easy, really, but the still-very-drunk man wouldn’t stop pulling his sleeve and grumbling a lot of inconsistent sentences and, well, it wasn’t in an everyday basis that Red insisted for Yellow to just, you know, lay there on his bed, so it seemed stupid not to give in and just bury his face on that soft pillow that smelled like Red’s expensive shampoo.
The thing is that even if it seems good lying in a comfortable bed, head resting in a godamnit fluffy pillow, surrounded by surprisingly soft blankets, it doesn’t mean he in fact can get to relax and just sleep peacefully. Oh no. It would be asking too much, apparently. Because even if the man has thrown his stomach up and has taken a cold shower and has changed into warm clothes, Red is still Red, which means he is still obnoxiously drunk and still obnoxiously trying to get on top of Yellow, which turns out like clumsy and numb attempts to climb on him and fail.
“Come on. It’s time to sleep already.” Yellow says, because he knows the other man is too wasted to do anything anyway, and because he himself wants to sleep very badly and just wake up tomorrow’s afternoon.
“Sleep.” He hears Red sneering, and he knows the man feels this very drunk sense of achievement, because when he successfully throws one of his legs around the magician’s waist the corner of his mouth lifts up. “Who needs that?”
“You need that.”
“Bullshit.” But his voice sounds wrecked and throaty, so it is obvious his body is asking for a good night sleep. Yellow thinks he wants to ask how Red even managed to live up until now neglecting this much his biological needs and being such a careless drunk, but he gets distracted by how the agent buries the nose in the curve of his neck and mumbles that Yellow smells good.
“Of course I am.” He pauses as he speaks and inhales deeply on his skin and Yellow thinks it shouldn’t make him feel so weirdly warm inside. “But you will, y’know, still smell good when I get sober and shit.”
Then he stays kind of quiet for a while, not moving too much or talking too much or trying to climb on him, and for a moment Yellow thinks the cook finally slept. For a moment everything he hears is the heavy breathing of Red. When he tries moving the agent’s leg off of his waist, the grip tightens a little.
“Fuck me.” Red whispers lazily against his neck.
“I’m tired for this.”
“Then let me fuck you.” He insists and motions one of his hands. He seems to be trying to lift up the shirt Yellow is wearing. Red is failing hard but doesn’t even seem to notice that, since he keeps groping and fumbling Yellow’s chest and stomach.
“You’re tired for this too.” Yellow hears a small grunt of displeasure coming from the other man. He doesn’t care. He knows he is right.
“I’m not.” Red mutters, low and paused because he apparently has to keep reminding himself how the proper way of forming words is, then he mouths Yellow’s throat as if to show he is able to do stuff if he wants to. It was probably meant to be a hot and skillful gesture, but it is just very clumsy and sloppy and it really, really makes Yellow’s neck tickles.
Yellow knows he could do something to stop Red – maybe. Probably. – but decides it is better to just wait for the agent to calm down. He will give up eventually. He even stopped trying to climb on him, or trying to turn Yellow around and now he just started to—
“What are you doing—” He asks as he feels the insistent pressure of Red’s crotch on the side of his hip, leg still wrapped around Yellow. And Jesus, he doesn’t even know how the hell the man can get a hard on being so obviously sleepy and tired. Red seems to be trying to say something, but he only gets to motion his mouth against the magician’s skin as if trying to form the words, without success.
He tries not moving too much as Red bucks his hips forward, making his groin bump against Yellow’s hipbone over and over again, slow and fast and frantic and clumsy and completely out-paced. He is drunk and he has no sense of rhythm and he obviously is too weak and sleepy to even be doing that, but he doesn’t stop waving his hips again and again, thigh heavy over Yellow’s limbs.
It should be funny. Yellow knows it should, because, really, it is Red being dead drunk. It is Red being graceless and gawky and shameful. But Yellow looks at him and he is holding him so awkwardly and so tight and his breath is so broken as he insistently bumps himself against Yellow’s hip, and he can feel Red’s cheeks heating up against his shoulder blade and his fingers are closing so shakily on his arm and, and—and it’s is so—so awkwardly flattering and adorable and honest.
It should be funny but it is not at all.
That’s why Yellow gradually relax, muscles unstiffening as he cups Red’s shoulder and rests his chin against Red’s hair. He thinks it smells just as nice as his pillow. This is good for now.
Just because I’ve read this again and thought it was too worth reading to not post it.
(Written by sleepyshell and I)
I love my dads. They are very cool and I know they love me just as much. My dad Kyle is a magician. He is very good at it and he always picks the card I choose from the pack. My other dad says it is not being good magician if he has to guess three other cards before getting the one I have chosen, but I think he just says that because dad doesn’t say ‘thank you’ when dad Rowan throws away the frozen food in our fridge and put healthy food there instead.
We have two houses and they are both very nice. The one I usually sleep in has a lot of fun toys that dad uses to make magic. He lets me play with some of them, but he says I can’t play with the knives and handcuffs and ropes and saws. We also have a lot of bunnies and doves. I like the bunnies because they are white and fluffy, but I don’t like the doves. They have weird murderous eyes of bird. And they look at you. As if they want to buy your soul. And poop on your head. I don’t like when they poop on my head. But dad likes them because they are magic birds which come out from his hat, so I don’t complain. Because dad would be sad if he couldn’t make the magic he likes. Dad says he will be like Houdini someday. But I don’t think he should be like Houdini. He is the best magician I know already. And Houdini never read any bed time story to me, so I don’t think he is this great.
The house I usually eat in is very big. It is huge and pretty and I like the living room the most, because dad have let me help him to choose the new furniture. Dad and I always watch TV there when I spend the afternoon, or when I stay for the night. We watch Oprah under a blanket while we eat sandwiches and pineapple juice. Dad says the people that cry during the show is stupid for doing this, but he never pays attention to the phone ringing during Oprah, so I think he likes it after all. I really like the kitchen too, because there is always a good smell coming from there. Sometimes dad gives me more food than I can eat, and when I say I’m full already he always asks me if I’m sure and gives me another piece of pie. I don’t get mad at him because of this, because I know he thinks dad is starving me in my other house and he is worried if I’m eating properly. So when he gives me another slice of sweet I try eating some more and say it is delicious, because it makes his eyes go soft and warm and I think he should look like this more often because it’s very pretty.
I have two houses, two bedrooms, two TVs, two boxes of cereal and two comic books shelves in each one of them. I guess they want to show me how much they love me, giving me everything in double, but I don’t think I really need this much of everything. I think it would be enough having just one house with one room, one TV, one box of cereal and one comic book shelf. We could all move in together and instead of having two houses I could have just one and we could call it home.
I love my dads. Very much. And they love me too. And one day they should discover they love each other, so we could all live together in a house full of bunnies and fun toys and furniture I helped to pick and good smelling food.