mod robby comes home late. a long day of hacking into the government.
“alan?” he shouts out. he doesn’t smell food. he does’t see strings picked out of an ill-fitting dress scattering the floor.
he’s not there.
robby paces around the house, checking mod alan’s room, checking his room, the bathroom-
the basement is where he finds alan. curled up in a ball in the corner, eyes wide. his body looks wasted, used, vandalized. robby knows who did it.
alan cries something out weakly: “fuck me. please.”
robby shakes his head and raises an eyebrow. “what?”
alan blinks back tears. “please. fuck me.”
as robby unzips his jeans, alan bursts into tears, crawling on his hands and knees.
robby pushes down his boxers and closes his eyes. he clogs alan’s throat, he’s still crying, tears running down his cheeks, wet, cold.
it’s painful. robby doesn’t speak, he looks up, looks away from alan, digging his hands through his hair to force his gag reflex. he can feel spiders surrounding them, hatching eggs in the corners, in the doorways of the prison. he swears he can hear alan whimper a “please,” so he blurts out-
“your blood is cold.”
alan cries harder, mouth moving off robby. “what does that mean?” his voice is degraded by tears, moved to a childish plead. he shakes his head and swallows, “why can’t you just call me a slut or something, please-“
robby stiffens, “your blood is cold.”
alan rocks back and forth, “no!”
robby’s eye twitches, “housewife, your blood is cold. your skin is soft.”
alan wipes a tear, “i can be your housewife-“
the flood of emotions comes to a close.