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Overactive Imagination

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"Dear God, Des, yes!"

"Rodrigo? What the fuck?"

Rodrigo opened his eyes as the man above him suddenly stopped moving, Desmond's lovely eyes replaced by Jacob's piercing stare. "Really? It's come to that?"

"Can we just continue? Your complaining is really the last thing I need to hear right now."

"Not if you keep imagining you're having sex with that fucking asshole instead of me. What's next, you gonna make me grow out my hair and pierce my ears?" Jake got off of him and stood beside the bed, giving Rodrigo one of his trademark death glares. "Get the fuck out."


"Come back when you're done fantasizing about the bitch who took my role."

Sighing, Rodrigo got up, took off the condom and threw it away, not looking at Jacob. "Can I at least have the rest of-" Jake drank what remained of the bottle in a single gulp, staring at Rodrigo defiantly. "-the vodka..." With another sigh, he walked up to the door.



"Put on some fucking clothes!"


Fuck Rodrigo.

Fuck Desmond Omah too. First the bastard steals his role, and now Jacob can't even get laid without having the guy's name slapped to his face. The sooner he gets his role back the better. He ran through his lines, growing increasingly frustrated as he kept making the same mistakes over and over again. When he started mixing speeches from different scenes, he threw the script across the room. Fuck Laertes too.

“Jacob? Are you alright?” Emily called from behind the door, startling Jacob out of his rage.

“I’m fine! Rehearsing,” he answered, hoping she won’t come in. He really doesn’t need to explain why his room is trashed right now.

“Just call me if you need anything okay?”

“Yeah sure,” did she have to be so fucking nice and polite all of the fucking time? It was sickening really. He sat down at his computer, and opened Othello’s webcam feed, a decision he immediately regretted. There was Desmond, also rehearsing. Jacob’s angry and sexually frustrated Laertes is oscar worthy compared to the boy’s Hamlet: a pale copy of every tired and unimaginative performance by whatever pretty-boy mediocre white actor is invariably chosen for the role in the latest adaptation. And the way things were looking, he’d have to deal with that for the next six months, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. His phone buzzed, and he didn’t have to look to know Rodrigo should have arrived at his house by then.

'dude we need to talk' Fuck him. Jacob opens the message, but doesn't answer. Rodrigo hates when he sees his texts but doesn't reply. They keep coming, in increasing levels of urgency and use of caps lock, until they stop altogether. After a couple minutes of silence, Jacob grins and switches from Othello's webcam to Rodrigo's. Just as he expected. The man is boringly predictable, but he should at least be smart enough not to jerk off in front of his webcam. But still, Jacob was incredibly frustrated, and Drigo makes quite the spectacle. Though his friend seemed to be taking his time, Jacob wasn't interested in edging, and he was already passing his breaking point, two fingers up his ass and one fist desperately pumping his cock, when the other man's moans turn into words.

"Oh, Desmond!" Jacob has never been less aroused at the moment of orgasm.