Playboy Venezuela, 2008. (a Human! Horrordust One-Shot). +18
Summary: Héctor—Horror—counted all of life's small pleasures on one hand: The smell of detergent freshly poured into a washing machine. A cold, freshly poured glass of water in the summer heat. Itching the inside of your ear with a Q-tip, knowing you shouldn't. Maybe, sharing a few bottles of beer with a friend on a stormy night.
Rain is best enjoyed in good company, with words exchanged beneath the muffled sound of raindrops. However, there’s only so much the rain can hide: A magazine. A diary. Kinks and unfulfilled longings.
yes, It's NSFW. I'm only going to post half of the fic here; you can read the rest via this AO3 link, but please be sure to check the tags. I can't control what anyone does on the internet, but be aware that this work is for ages 18 and up and should not be read by minors.
This is for my Murder Time Trio venezuelan AU, La Regla de Tres, or Bonezuela as it's tagged on Tumblr. To better understand both characters' development, I do recommend taking a quick look at my main fanfic :), though this can still be enjoyed on its own.
As far back as Héctor could remember, he had grown up afraid of the very idea of it.
The memory felt fresh in his mind: “Sex, solo Pleasure.” That word was boldly highlighted in yellow letters across the top left of the cover, just below a startling headline: “Playboy Venezuela”—an old 2008 issue, proudly displayed on a newsstand’s magazine rack. It wasn’t unfamiliar to him; back when he was barely in his teens, rumors spread quickly that the men under the bridges would prey on lonely children, desperate to indulge a sadistic need he never had the privilege of understanding. People who became intimate had bodies that could be touched, flesh that didn’t whine under the weight of vulnerability. The moments he shed his clothes weren’t filled with closeness or pleasure; they were infested with the clinical cold of a room, the rhythmic beeping of his own heart. That pounding headache.
Diego knew nothing of that kind of shyness.
Scars ran along the curve of his neck, trailing down to his chest and coming to rest at the very center of his stomach. They drew the eye in a seemingly hypnotic way, a sequence—from his jugular, to his heart, down to his guts—that, oddly, felt deliberate. His two dust-covered jackets hung like curtains around his pale skin, making no attempt to hide Diego’s most sensitive faults. The only thing attempting to conceal this rawness was the dynamite he nursed like a mother, a dangerous reminder set against the softness of his body.
Héctor thought it was some kind of wild, rebellious declaration. Something akin to the scar gouging out his own head. It was proof: Héctor’s body was a testament to the violence the system would strip him from. “You are the witness to the crimes committed against me.” But what did Diego have to say? He had no one to blame for the thin streaks marking him; there was no message to convey beyond what he had always said: “I have to dig out the bugs clawing inside.”
Perhaps that hypothetical declaration was hidden beneath those words, something Diego himself couldn't recognize. One thing that struck Héctor the first time he looked at him: his utter lack of fear.
The idea rang through his skull like a gunshot, a phantom blow that made him flinch. Diego wouldn't be afraid, not the way he was. He wouldn’t be afraid to shed those tantalizing layers of fabric, to reveal what little was left to the imagination. He wouldn’t be afraid to feel the scorching heat of another’s skin, and he certainly wouldn’t be as fussy about it as Héctor was; he’d rather freeze to death than feel the warmth of touch.
“Gonna paint me?” Diego’s voice broke the silence.
“You've been staring at me for quite a while.”
“Well, is there anything else to look at?” Héctor said.
Only the faint streams of moonlight trickling down the windows lit up the room, along with the light breezes flowing over the old sheets they had repurposed as curtains. Diego was sitting, leaning back against the armchair of the couch—right across from Héctor—with his fingers loosely wrapped around a beer bottle. His gaze, usually fixed on the artificial glow of the TV, now seemed clouded by something Héctor couldn’t put his finger on.
Héctor took a sip of his own drink, he felt he needed the alcohol.
“A movie, for example.” He pointed vaguely at the TV, the bottle still hanging from his hand. “The. Uh. Walls. Your phone.”
“Then why don't you put on a movie, Diego?”
“Right now, I'm thinking.”
“Didn’t know you could do that,” Héctor laughed. “What about?”
A faint grin managed to break through Diego's expression. “Guess.”
Even now, Diego made no attempt to hide himself. He was wearing a black, oversized tank top and a pair of dark shorts that only reached halfway down his thigh. His legs were spread apart, just slightly, yet it felt like a cat baring its guts.
“You’re setting me up for failure."
Diego clicked his tongue. “Don’t be mean. Indulge me.”
A part of Héctor grimaced when he felt himself smile, that fleeting moment of “sobriety” within him that begged him to snap out of this trance. He didn't care. One-third of a glass and two cigarettes, that wasn't enough to get him drunk.
“What a choice of words,” Héctor said.
He could have made an educated guess: Existentialism. That one yellow horse from “My Little Whatever.” The number of grains in a sand castle. Instead, a selfish urge took hold of him, the impulse to plant an idea in Diego’s head that, even though he knew was wildly off the mark, intrigued him. Héctor leaned back on the sofa, fooling himself into a false sense of calm as his heart pumped with just the thought of it. His fingers never left the rim of his liquor bottle, tracing the ridges, sliding down to the neck, and back up.
“Sex,” he said, almost out of breath.
His words crashed loudly against the silence, a deafening emptiness that only heightened the weight of his anticipation. He looked away from Diego, toward the mirror-like window of the washing machine, where he could meet his gaze without melting on the spot. The distorted reflection of Diego's figure offered no response, nothing but a faint raise of his eyebrows that could have been a trick of the lighting.
“Indulge me, Kai-Lan,” Héctor said, in a mocking attempt to imitate Diego’s deep tone.
Diego swallowed. “Is that something you think about often?”
“What?” A giggle escaped Diego’s lips, a nervous laugh he struggled to hold back. “No. About sex.”
The two words had become so intertwined in Héctor’s mind that it took him a second to realize they had different meanings.
“Sex” and “Diego” had not been distinct for a while, in the sense that they both held the same “mystique.” These two words, so unmistakably similar to one another, had also woven themselves into the definition of “danger.” What was the last time he'd thought about “Sex” as its own thing? Before, it almost seemed like a myth: the tales of women and men lying together, sinking their teeth into one another, and finding joy in it. Pleasure. It was a shared lie that society had passed on in the hope of keeping birth rates up, to keep us from the brink of extinction, he assumed. Now, there were only the countless hours of writing he had poured into his notebook, describing not the “defilement” he had previously imagined, but something more intimate—perhaps even more pure. And while it would be easy to see it as a shameless impulse, there was shame in its deliberateness, in the fact that it went beyond a morbid interest and slipped into genuine curiosity.
What would he sound like?
The night was extremely hot. It was one of those suffocating evenings, when the air—which should have brought a sense of coolness—instead carried a clammy humidity that clung to their sweat. The blood rushed to Diego’s ears, and he was grateful that he could blame it on the weather. Of course he thought about it. As much as an untouched, immaculate 23-year-old man could.
“I wasn’t thinking about having sex with you,” he admitted, bringing the bottle to his lips before continuing, “if that’s what you meant.”
“Of course that's not what I fucking meant.” Héctor set his own drink on the table in front of them.
Beads of sweat trickled down Diego's temple, tracing a path down his neck.
Diego bowed his head just slightly, watching through a veil of lashes. It gave his face the illusion of expression, perhaps something close to shyness. He raised one hand to the back of his neck, pressing his fingers lightly against his skin.
“You’re the first. Uh. ‘Best friend’ I’ve ever had. Besides people who grew to tolerate me. Well, technically that’s you too, but. It’s a choice—yours to… forget that. I think it’s natural to want the people who care about you to feel good.”
“Whatever you want it to.”
Diego rushed to take shelter in that empty spot—a peeling patch on the wall that he gazed at as though it were his lover.
Héctor’s imagination ran wild, and it might have been Diego’s—very contagious—hallucinogenic effects, but was Diego now sitting more languidly? Open. Waiting to be taken. His legs spread apart, just a fraction wider, his thighs now slightly raised so the fabric fell away from them. «The Last Coke in the Desert»: the famous saying popped into Héctor’s mind, as the sweat pouring down Diego’s skin reminded him of an insatiable thirst.
For once, God heeded Héctor’s silent pleas, and the oppressive, suffocating stillness gave way to the rhythmic symphony of huge raindrops striking sheet metal. It brought relief; as the rain spoke, Héctor no longer felt he had to say anything about the scene unfolding before him. Diego’s eyes darted from the wall, to the wind-driven rain forcing its way into their living room, to Héctor.
“It seems quite natural to everyone. Sex. During my last years of school, some boys would rush to the school bathroom,” Diego huffed, “they’d hide in there, and they’d play porn on someone’s phone. I guess they masturbated. I couldn’t know—I was hiding in the stalls.”
Héctor leaned back, a pleased, unconscious sigh escaping his lips. “You don't seem like the kind of person who'd miss out on all the fun. I mean, stuck in a bathroom stall. Didn't you have a buddy to beat off with?”
“I had no friends. I found it grotesque at the time.” Diego paused, his teeth catching on the dry skin of his lip, “but it made me curious, so I looked into it.”
“Looked into it, you say.”
“Sex stores. The internet. It made me feel more alien than I already was, it was boring and the plots were—bad.” Diego said, “I was going to pass on it, like most things. Yet I couldn't desist.”
“Those who seek, shall find. I can’t be normal about much. Only the most sickening things managed to do it for me. The weird shit. It started out as entertainment, watching someone do that. It grew on me.”
“It grew on you,” Héctor repeated.
“It’s clinical; bodies positioned in such a way, even the strands of hair reflect the angle of light in a—manner. Ever seen a woman get swallowed by quicksand? There’s an edge to it, too. I guess. It’s slow; she's flailing, though she doesn’t really want to. She goes under, you hold your breath with her and feel that same thrill. Don't take a breath, it wouldn’t be fair, she’s not out of the sand yet. You’re afraid you’re going to drown, yet you keep going, choking.”
“Weren’t you ever afraid you’d pass out?”
“That’s the best part of it.”
Diego's head leaned almost completely against the sofa’s armrest, tousled black strands scattered across the linen, looking up just enough to meet Héctor’s gaze. One of his hands traced slow circles around the contour of his neck, massaging his throat, tensing and relaxing with each breath he took. Diego fought the urge to rub his thighs together, just to get a good look at his best friend.
Ever since this obsession had taken root, there were no thoughtless nights. Héctor had wondered, sleepless, why he’d become so fixated on that one man. There were bigger fish in the sea; nicer fish, prettier fish, and fish that don’t threaten to blow themselves up. What was it about Diego, of all people, that was so wildly arousing? What possessed him with this strong, intoxicating allure that bordered on being poisonous? The sight before him was perhaps meant to be enticing. It was. But not because Diego was “sexy”, even in this position, there was a certain natural awkwardness about him.
Unbearably cute, when he clung to Héctor like gum in his hair, following him even into the shower, where he would sit on the closed toilet lid, observing Héctor's shadow behind the curtains. He’d wake up early, just to be the first to say good morning, talking Héctor’s ear off as he tried to make himself a cup of coffee. He’d look back at Héctor for comfort when about to do something stupid, as if Héctor’s approval suddenly made him any less of an idiot. The way he licked his fingers, one by one from index to pinky, after digging into a meal. The way his pupils would widen into dark, deep pools whenever Héctor so much as smiled at him. The monotone of his voice, that cold exterior paired with a kind of charm so pathetic it, paradoxically, became endearing.
The sight of him was so, so cute, it triggered a murderous rage. He wanted to tear him apart, to plunge his face deep into the very core of Diego’s guts and drain him of every last drop of blood. Héctor wanted to see that pale skin flush red, Diego’s monotone shattered by helpless whimpers. His moans. He wanted to force an expression onto Diego’s face that only he could treasure, to dip his thumb into his open mouth as Diego left the imprint of his teeth on his skin. He wanted to—
“You don’t know how afraid I am, Diego,” Héctor said, “Creepy, gross piece of shit. You’re disgusting.”
“Aren't you the one talking about porn?”
The corners of Diego's lips twitched, giving way to a fleeting smile. He raised the bottle of alcohol—still in his hand—to his mouth, breathing in the stale scent of beer lingering on the glass.
He trailed kisses from the rim, down to the neck of the bottle, slowly making his way to its shoulder.
His breath fogged the crystal as he pressed his lips heavily against it, casting a quick glance toward Héctor, immediately followed by a laugh.
Héctor whispered a godless prayer into the air, pleading for the moral courage to tell Diego something: How disgusting he was. mock him. Assure him that no woman would even give him a second glance, nor should she. The word “faggot” pierced the tip of his tongue—who would act this way in front of a man? sprawled like a slut, half-lidded, a glass of fine wine on a Friday night begging to be supped. Héctor’s hand twitched, his fingers curling around a phantom pen that ached for the touch of paper, wrist twitching in anticipation alone. Diego was a saint compared to what Héctor masqueraded as “literature” on desperate nights.
Suddenly, the all-consuming gloom of the dead display was worth drowning in; Héctor’s eyes fixed on the television screen as he convinced himself that, if he focused hard enough, he might make Diego vanish from his side. The scene was almost comical, Diego was sprawled across a good portion of the couch, cornering Héctor against one of the armrests, where he sat like a soldier: his back as straight as his spine would allow, his knees pressed tightly together in a feeble attempt to hide the tent in his pants. Diego stretched out one of his legs to reach across the sofa toward him, pressing his toes just to the side of his thigh and rolling his heel back and forth on the fabric.
"Keep going and you'll see," Héctor muttered, unwilling to hold his gaze, "chino marico."
“What do you like, Héctor?” Diego said. “It's hard to imagine you enjoying anything.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult somehow?” Héctor’s jacket shifted from his shoulders, sliding down to his hips, where he tied it around his waist. “Are you surprised I’m not a creep?”
“Oh, no, you're a creep for sure. More than me.”
“You have delusions of adequacy.”
“Even when you’re happy, you’re mad. When you’re sad, you’re mad. When you’re tired, you’re mad. What about when you’re turned on? Mad, probably. I wonder what makes you mad,” Diego paused, then added, “in that context, I mean.”
“Diego, you ever stop to think that maybe—just maybe—the reason I’m pissed every time I run into you, might be because you’re the one who frosts my ass?” Héctor caught Diego’s ankle, pinning it tightly in his grip before pushing his foot away. “I’m actually an absolute gem of a dude, thank you very much.”
Diego's cheeks burned as untrained muscles struggled to bear an expression that, for once, was genuine. His eyes pursued the faint outline of Héctor's figure, slipping away behind the translucent veil of his white button-down shirt, streaks of light kissing the edges of his silhouette.
“A gem, you say,” Diego said.
“Because you obviously only yell at me.”
“Who else am I going to waste my breath on?”
Diego barely raised an eyebrow. "所以你把口氣都留給我啦？說實話，我還挺受寵若驚的。” (So you saved all your breath for me? To be honest, I'm actually quite flattered.)
“it means,” Diego hooked his thumb beneath his chin, his index pressing against his lips, “you're a massive faggot.”
With each breath, the air was plunged into seconds of silence, drowned by a suffocating “something” that he could sense but could not find the words to describe. The vulnerable sight of Diego’s exposed body brought down the remaining bricks, the ruins of Héctor’s walls. As Diego lay there, yielding to Héctor’s gaze, it was Héctor who felt helpless.
“Why are you making that face like you just took a shit and didn't wipe?” Diego asked.
Héctor barely managed to hold back a snort, “Man, just shut up.”
“I didn’t find that kind of stuff interesting.”
“You know, it’s just, uh. When someone rubs one out to some porn, a naked woman, I don’t know. I guess they always imagine someone else in those pictures, someone they desire. Who’s my ass supposed to desire?” Héctor’s eyes betrayed him with a quick glance; his eyes met Diego’s before quickly darting back to the TV. “I didn’t care. A woman? Nothin’. I’d watch porn, and nothin’. It was nasty, even.”
Héctor’s brittle nails dug into his scalp, pushing the heel of his hand firmly into his one good eye, hard enough to cloud his vision. He continued: “That shit’s forced down your throat since childhood. What’s the point? Now society is overrun with sluts and manwhores, parasitizing the earth with brats who are, uh, brought into existence only to eat the sod left from people’s shoes. People are disgusted by them because they know where they came from, just a bunch of bullshit, dirty penises and vaginas stuck together to create: this. It’s—”
“You didn’t find it interesting,” Diego noted.
“You didn't find anything erotic to be interesting.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
Héctor choked on a laugh, something strained tearing through his throat that bordered on painful. “I—”
Diego astutely diagnosed him, a hint of pride, perhaps even smugness, shining through the blank slate Héctor had come to understand. Four words, and they cut through the air like a verdict delivered to a jury.
“You're still hard,” Diego added, metaphorically grabbing a fistful of salt and rubbing it into Héctor's wounded ego. “Thought I'd let you know.”
“I know Cross's hot, but don't you think he's a little too old for you? And for me, too. You look ancient, though, and you think like a grandpa,” Diego said. “Maybe you're the one who's too old for him. In spirit.”
“What’s Cross even got to do with this?”
“Or Krish? I’m not one to judge. He’s… Uh… Wow, he’s a lot of things,” Diego said, running his tongue over his upper lip. “You sure do keep your secrets.”
“Or— oh. You really couldn’t tear your eyes away from that guy. The dude. You know? From the… Thing. The porno I accidentally bought. I still don’t know what it had to do with Cars 3.”
“I always wondered why you kept watching.”
“Because you kept insisting on watching it.”
“Did you imagine yourself as the woman in that video?”
Resting upon the crystal disc of their table, Héctor’s drink sat untouched, half-full as it caught the breath of moonlight. Only upon seeing it did Héctor grasp the scent’s fervency; the acrid stench of alcohol clinging to them both like resentment, emanating from the empty shells of bodies—bottles—that Diego had already desecrated. Even the smell of rotting food felt more welcoming than this, Héctor thought. He could easily have shifted out of his martial stance and reached for one of the bottles scattered across the floor, if that hadn't meant entering Diego's orbit. Faced with an almost irresistible pull, Héctor lacked the discipline to let Diego's skin feel his own; even the heat radiating from his body might be enough to drive him straight into regret. Instead, in a single impulsive burst of desire, he downed the rest of his liquor in three swift gulps and set the bottle, lying flat on its side, right down the center of the table.
Diego looked on, mesmerized, as the bottle whirled around on the glass. It slowed with each passing turn until it came to a stop, the neck of the bottle had not even missed him by a hair.
“Truth or Dare,” Héctor said.
From this angle, the view took in the entire length of his neck; pinkish, raised old scars overlapping with the bright red of fresh ones, their jagged edges circled by yellowish blotches discoloring his skin. Héctor could see the sweat beading on his throat, the slow bobbing of his Adam’s apple with every gulp he took. An alarm went off in his mind, a little voice he could pass off as sanity. It was no use. Héctor shifted uncomfortably around the couch cushions, fighting his natural instinct not to put his dirty boots on the seat. He propped his elbows on the armrest, facing Diego, and drove the sole of his boot straight into Diego’s crotch.
as said in the AO3 note: I won’t claim this is my best work, I wrote it after a devastating earthquake in my country to try to relax during sleepless nights, but I spent so much time on it that I honestly felt bad not posting it. It isn’t canon to the story, but there are some aspects, especially regarding Héctor’s (Horror’s) memories and feelings, that actually happened.
With all that said: Listen to Venezuelan voices and donate if you can. Don't stop sharing information. There are resources over here.
I'm sorry for the cringe jfksdj
