Tom’s apartment was a chaotic shrine to half-lived dreams and questionable life choices. Mismatched furniture crowded the tiny space—a sagging couch with a suspicious stain, a perpetually unmade bed shoved into the corner, and towering stacks of novels by Jim Carver that Tom swore up and down were just “research material.” Research, my ass, he thought, sprawled across the couch with Jim’s latest BL novel clutched in his hands. His face burned a violent shade of crimson with every page he turned, the explicit prose searing itself into his brain. “This guy’s a complete degenerate,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if that could erase the mental images of two men tangled in ways he refused to admit he was picturing.
The doorbell jolted him out of his reluctant reverie. Tom nearly flung the book across the room in a blind panic, his heart hammering like he’d been caught robbing a bank. He shoved the offending novel under a cushion, smoothing it down as if it were contraband, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Get a grip, man,” he hissed to himself, stumbling to the door with all the grace of a newborn deer.
Before he could even turn the knob, the door swung open, and Jim Carver sauntered in like he owned the damn place. A fresh manuscript dangled from his hand, and a sly, predatory grin curled his lips as his sharp eyes zeroed in on Tom’s flushed cheeks and disheveled state. “Well, well, well,” Jim drawled, his voice a low purr that sent an involuntary shiver down Tom’s spine. “What’s got you looking like a tomato, Tommy-boy? Been indulging in some... light reading?”
Tom’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. “Don’t start with me, Carver,” he snapped, crossing his arms defensively. “I was just—uh—cleaning. Yeah, cleaning. And don’t call me Tommy, you smug bastard. I’ll punch that look right off your face.”
Jim’s grin only widened as he kicked the door shut behind him and waved the manuscript like a matador taunting a bull. “Oh, come off it. I know my work when I see its effect. You’ve got ‘guilty pleasure’ written all over that pretty face of yours. Want a sneak peek at the new stuff? It’s extra spicy—just your type.”
“You’re insufferable,” Tom growled, though his voice lacked the venom he intended. He swiped a hand through his messy hair, desperate to pivot the conversation. “Anyway, what’s with you and these late-night writing binges? You look like you haven’t slept in a week. I’m not dragging your ass to the hospital when you collapse, you know.”
Jim heaved a dramatic sigh, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. “Ah, the suffering of an artist! You wouldn’t understand, Tom. I bleed for my craft. I burn the midnight oil for the sake of passion—unlike some people who just blush and bitch about it.”
Tom rolled his eyes, but before he could fire back, Jim flopped onto the couch right beside him—far too close for comfort. The scent of Jim’s cologne, something sharp and intoxicating, hit Tom like a punch. Then, with a devilish glint in his eye, Jim opened the manuscript and began to read aloud. His voice dipped into a sultry, exaggerated seduction as he narrated a steamy scene that was unmistakably inspired by the two of them. “And then, the stoic, brooding man found himself pinned beneath his infuriatingly charming companion, helpless to resist the heat of his gaze…”
“Stop it, you absolute creep!” Tom’s embarrassment hit critical mass. He lunged for the manuscript, but Jim dodged with the agility of a cat, snatching Tom’s wrist and pinning it to the couch with a surprisingly firm grip. Laughter bubbled out of Jim, bright and mischievous, like a kid who’d just won a playground bet.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Jim crowed, his eyes sparkling with delight. “You don’t get to escape the genius of my prose, Tommy. Admit it—you’re dying to know how it ends.”
“You perverted gremlin!” Tom spat, though his struggling was half-hearted at best. Their playful wrestling escalated, a tangle of limbs and insults as Tom grumbled, “I’m gonna throttle you,” while Jim gasped in mock offense, “How dare you insult a visionary? My genius is unrecognized in my time!”
The scuffle ended with them awkwardly tangled on the couch, Jim’s face mere inches from Tom’s. Warm breath ghosted over Tom’s skin, teasing and intimate, and for a frozen moment, Tom’s mind turned to static—a chaotic mess of irritation, confusion, and something dangerously close to longing. Jim’s eyes flicked down to Tom’s lips, and a wicked smirk played on his face as he whispered, “You know, we could test this scene for authenticity. Purely for research, of course.”
Tom’s brain short-circuited. With a flustered yell, his voice cracking embarrassingly, he shoved Jim off and scrambled to his feet. “Get off me, you lunatic!” he barked, storming toward the kitchen under the guise of making coffee. His hands shook as he gripped the counter, muttering to himself, “He’s a walking disaster. Needs a babysitter, not a boyfriend. Christ, what am I even saying?”
Jim, of course, followed like a shadow, leaning against the doorway with a possessive glint in his eye. “You know,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather, “I wrote you as the perfect submissive in this latest piece. Thought it suited you—all that gruff exterior hiding a soft, pliable core.”
Tom spun around, brandishing a spoon like a sword, his face a storm of mortification and fury. “Your delusions are a public health hazard, Carver! I’m not some—some character in your twisted fantasies, alright? Keep that garbage to yourself before I—before I—” He faltered, his stuttering betraying the rattled mess of his nerves.
For a rare moment, Jim’s playful facade softened. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a raw, unguarded edge that caught Tom completely off guard. “I write this stuff because I can’t stop thinking about you, Tom. Every word, every scene—it’s all you. I’m not just messing around here.”
Tom froze, his breath hitching. He turned away, hiding the inferno blazing across his cheeks, and gruffly muttered, “Get lost before I throw you out, Jim.” But he didn’t move to enforce the threat, and Jim didn’t budge either. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken tension, a simmering undercurrent beneath their sharp banter that neither was quite ready to name. Not yet.
Want to know how it ends?
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