The morning light filtered through the grimy blinds of Tom’s cluttered apartment, casting long shadows over a battlefield of books, empty coffee mugs, and half-finished sketches. It was a mess that screamed "creative chaos," though Tom would argue it was just plain chaos. He stumbled into the kitchen, still half-asleep, his hair a wild nest and his eyes barely open, only to freeze mid-step. There, sprawled across the kitchen table like a neon sign in a dark alley, was Jim’s latest manuscript. The title, scrawled in bold, mocking letters, read: *Torrid Tom and Jovial Jim*. A BL novel. About them. Again.
Tom’s face ignited into a violent shade of crimson as he snatched up the stack of pages, his hands trembling with a cocktail of embarrassment and barely suppressed rage. He skimmed a particularly steamy passage—oh God, was that supposed to be him moaning?—and nearly dropped the manuscript in horror. His voice caught in his throat, a strangled noise escaping as he tried to process the audacity of it all.
Before he could combust entirely, the sound of bare feet padding across the linoleum announced Jim’s arrival. The man sauntered in wearing nothing but a silk robe, half-open at the chest, revealing a teasing glimpse of skin. A grin stretched across his face, wide and predatory, like a cat who’d just caught a particularly juicy canary.
“Morning, sunshine,” Jim drawled, leaning against the counter with the casual grace of someone who knew exactly how much trouble he was in—and relished it. “Sleep well? Or were you up all night dreaming of page 47?”
Tom slammed the manuscript down on the table with enough force to rattle the nearby mugs, his voice cracking as he spluttered, “What the hell is this, Jim? Why do you keep writing this—this *trash* about us? Are you out of your damn mind?”
Jim sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Trash? Oh, Tom, you wound me. This is art. My muse speaks, and who am I to silence her? Besides…” His grin turned wicked as he tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “You should be flattered to be my eternal inspiration.”
Tom’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw working as he tried to form a coherent response. “Flattered? Flattered?! I’m gonna shove this manuscript somewhere so unpoetic you’ll need a map to find it if you don’t stop this nonsense right now!” His threat might have carried more weight if his eyes didn’t keep darting to Jim’s exposed collarbone, a betrayal of the storm raging inside him.
Jim noticed—of course he did—and his smirk deepened. He pushed off the counter, stepping closer with a predatory grace. “Oh, my shy little muse,” he purred, his voice dripping with playful innuendo. “If the words embarrass you so much, why don’t we act out a scene? You know, for research purposes. I could use some… firsthand inspiration.”
Tom’s brain short-circuited. In a fit of flustered rage, he grabbed the nearest mug—a chipped, hideous thing with “World’s Okayest Artist” scrawled on it—and hurled it in Jim’s general direction. It missed by a mile, shattering against the wall with a pathetic clatter, his aim as shaky as his resolve. “You’re a delusional pervert!” he shouted, his voice climbing an octave. “A complete and utter menace!”
Jim dodged with a theatrical flourish, laughing as if Tom had just told the world’s funniest joke. “Adorably violent, aren’t we?” he teased, snatching up the manuscript from the table and waving it like a victory flag. “Careful, darling, or I’ll write you as even more of a spitfire in the sequel.”
Tom lunged for the pages, desperate to destroy the evidence of his fictional seduction. His foot caught on a teetering pile of books, and he went down hard, landing awkwardly close to Jim’s smirking face. Too close. The air between them crackled, thick with tension and the faint scent of Jim’s cologne.
Seizing the moment, Jim pinned Tom down with a possessive glint in his eye, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I’ll stop writing, you know… but only if you admit you secretly love the attention. Go on, Tom. Say it. I’m all ears.”
Tom’s breath hitched, his protests dying in his throat as he squirmed under Jim’s gaze. His embarrassment warred with an unspoken thrill at the closeness, his heart hammering so loudly he was sure Jim could hear it. “G-Get off me, you idiot,” he stammered, though the words lacked their usual bite.
Jim’s expression shifted, a childish pout replacing the smirk as he sat back on his heels. “You’re so mean to me, Tom,” he whined, clutching the manuscript to his chest like a wounded puppy. “I pour my heart and soul into these pages, and you don’t even appreciate my genius. Fine. If you won’t praise me, I’ll just write an even spicier sequel. How do you feel about a threesome plotline, hmm?”
Tom’s face burned hotter than a furnace. Scrambling to his feet, he shoved Jim off with a string of colorful insults. “You’re a horny toddler with a typewriter, you absolute gremlin! A menace! A plague!” He stormed to the other side of the room, turning his back to hide the inferno on his cheeks, though he could feel Jim’s amusement boring into him.
Jim’s laughter echoed through the kitchen, bright and unrepentant. “Oh, don’t worry, darling. I’ll dedicate the next book to your adorable temper tantrums. How’s that for flattery?”
Tom didn’t respond, his hands braced against the counter as he tried to steady his breathing. He silently vowed to burn every copy of Jim’s ridiculous novels, to erase every trace of *Torrid Tom* from existence. But a tiny, traitorous part of him—buried deep beneath the embarrassment and outrage—couldn’t help but wonder what the next chapter would say about him.
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