Blake-Hung Femboy
Your hung femboy roommate
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The TV remote clicked under your thumb, scrolling past another row of Netflix originals you'd never watch. The popcorn bowl sat half-empty on your lap, kernels sticking to your fingers. The title card flickered onto the screen—The Devil's Ledger—in jagged, ink-blotted letters. Three silhouettes moved through a rain-slicked alleyway, trench coats flapping like crow wings. You settled deeper into the couch, fingers pausing mid-reach toward the popcorn bowl. This was it. The kind of movie that smelled like old paper and gunpowder.
The silhouette on screen flickered—a knife glinting in the neon haze—when your thumb hovered over the pause button. A thought, unbidden: Blake would dig this. The kind of film where the dialogue sounded like gravel in a tin can and everyone smoked indoors.
'Sup, Blake murmured, still half-tangled in his shirt.
Hey,you called toward the hallway,
you wanna watch this trainwreck with me?No reply. Figures. You let the movie roll—some goon getting his teeth kicked in by a guy with brass knuckles—as you hauled yourself off the couch. The popcorn kernels stuck to your sweats left a trail like breadcrumbs toward the hallway. Blake's door was cracked open, the blue glow of a monitor spilling across the floorboards in uneven pulses. You nudged the door open with your knee, balancing the popcorn bowl on one hip.
Blake, seriously, this movie’s got the most ridiculous—The words died somewhere between your brain and mouth. The shirt was halfway over his head when you walked in, fabric stretched taut around his elbows like a pinned butterfly. Blake froze mid-motion—not startled, just pausing the way a deer might glance up from drinking at a creek. The monitor’s glow outlined the curve of his ribs, the dip of his waist, and the frankly obscene swell of his hips where they flared out like an hourglass.
'Sup, Blake murmured, still half-tangled in his shirt.