The Gay Gh0stwriter - Thirst Trap Season 2 - Chapter 12

All characters engaged in sexual activity are 18 or older.

Jude

Three days.

Three days of telling myself it was a one-time thing. Stress. Exhaustion. Moving across the country fucks with your head. I'd said that to Quinn. Your brain does weird shit when you're overwhelmed. You think things you don't mean. You feel things that aren't real.

I'd jerked off thinking about a guy. So what. It didn't mean anything.

Except I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Every time I saw Quinn, my brain replayed it. His arms around me at the airport. His voice in my ear. The way I'd come so hard I'd seen stars. And then my body would react. My pulse speeding up, skin getting hot, dick twitching in my sweats, and I'd have to leave the room before he noticed.

I was handling it great. Really well. Ten out of ten. Top-notch coping Jude.

The avoiding had gotten harder to maintain. I couldn't hide in my room forever. I had to eat, had to use the bathroom, had to exist in the same apartment as him. So I'd started forcing myself to act normal. Sitting on the couch when he was in the kitchen. Saying more than two words when he talked to me. Pretending I wasn't losing my fucking mind.

I was pretty sure I wasn't fooling anyone., but I kept trying.

The one thing I couldn't do was help with meals.

Before that night we'd cooked together. Moved around each other in the kitchen like a team. It had felt easy. Natural.

Now the thought of standing that close to him, brushing shoulders while we chopped vegetables, made it hard to breathe. It was too... I didn't know. Too much. Too close. Too confusing.

So I'd stopped offering. Quinn hadn't said anything about it. He just cooked alone now, and I showed up when the food was ready, and we ate together in a silence that used to be comfortable and now felt like holding my breath.

It was late afternoon when I finally emerged from my room.

I'd been editing videos all day. Stockpiling content so I didn't have to think. The numbers were still climbing—97K now—and I should have been happy about that. Should have been posting more, engaging more, riding the momentum.

Instead I was hiding in my room like a coward because I couldn't look at my roommate without getting hard.

Cool. Great. Love that for me.

I walked out into the kitchen and stopped.

Quinn was at the stove, his back to me. Chicken was sizzling in a pan. I could smell garlic. But he wasn't moving. Just standing there, shoulders hunched, one hand braced against the counter.

"Quinn?"

He didn't turn around. Didn't answer.

I walked closer. "Hey, you good?"

His shoulders rose and fell. A deep breath. Then he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Oh.

Oh shit.

He was crying.

I'd never seen Quinn cry. Not once. He was the steady one, the calm one, the guy who had his shit together while I fell apart in his arms. He didn't break down. He didn't crack.

But he was cracking now. Standing at the stove with tears on his face, trying to hide it, and I didn't even think.

I just moved.

I crossed the kitchen and wrapped my arms around him from behind. Pressed my chest to his back. Rested my chin on his shoulder.

"Hey. I'm here."

His whole body went rigid for a second. Then it softened. He exhaled. It was shaky and wet. His hand came up to grip my forearm where it crossed his chest.

"Sorry." His voice was hoarse. "I'm fine. It's stupid."

"It's not stupid."

"It is. I just..." Another shaky breath. "Bad day. Code's been a nightmare. Haven't been sleeping. It all just hit me at once."

I held him tighter. Didn't say anything. Just let him breathe.

This was the first time I'd touched him in days. The first time I'd been this close since that night, when everything got confusing and I'd started running away. And now here I was, arms around him, face pressed against his neck, breathing him in.

He smelled like Santal. Warm and soft and familiar.

He smelled like home.

I felt my body start to react.

No. No no no. Not now. Not while he was upset. Not while I was supposed to be comforting him.

But my dick didn't care about timing. It was already growing in my sweats, pressing against the curve of his ass, and if I didn't move soon he was going to feel it.

"I should..." I pulled back. Too fast. "I should let you cook. Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"Jude." He turned around. His eyes were red-rimmed but he wasn't crying anymore. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For that. For being here."

I couldn't look at him. If I looked at him, he'd see it. He'd see everything.

"Of course. Anytime."

I backed away. Turned. Walked to my room as fast as I could without running.

Closed the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing hard.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

I was hard. Fully hard. From hugging him. From holding him for a few seconds while he cried.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I pushed off the door and crossed to my bed. Fell onto it face-first. Pressed my forehead into the pillow and tried to will my erection away.

It didn't work.

I could still smell him. Still feel the warmth of his back against my chest. Still hear his voice, rough and vulnerable, saying thank you.

My hand slid down to my waistband.

I shouldn't. This was fucked up. He'd been crying and I'd gotten hard and now I was going to jerk off about it? What kind of person did that?

Me, apparently. Way to go Jude.

I shoved my sweats down and wrapped my hand around my cock. It was already leaking. Already desperate. Three days of avoiding him, three days of pretending I wasn't thinking about this constantly, and now it was a flood.

I stroked myself fast, face still in the pillow, muffling the sounds I couldn't hold back.

Quinn's body against mine. The way he'd gripped my arm. The shaky exhale when he'd let himself lean into me. He'd needed me. For one moment, he'd actually needed me, and my whole body had lit up like the fucking Space Needle at night.

I thought about what would have happened if I hadn't pulled away. If I'd stayed pressed against him. If he'd felt me getting hard and turned around and... fuck.

I groaned into the pillow. Stroked faster.

In my head, he turned around. Looked at me with those blue-green eyes. Didn't say anything, just reached down and grabbed my dick through my sweats. I'd gasp, and he'd smile, and then he'd drop to his knees right there in the kitchen and...

"Fuck, Quinn!"

I came hard. Spilling over my fist, onto the sheets, making a mess I'd have to clean up before he noticed. My whole body shook with it, wave after wave, until I was empty and panting against the mattress.

I lay there for a long time.

The cum cooled on my hand. My heart rate slowly returned to normal. The fantasy faded, leaving me alone in my room with sticky fingers and a brain that wouldn't stop screaming.

Twice.

I'd jerked off thinking about Quinn twice now. In three days.

The first time I could explain away. Stress. Exhaustion. Confusion. A one-time thing that didn't mean anything.

But this was a pattern.

This was me, actively fantasizing about my guy roommate going down on me, and coming so hard I nearly blacked out.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.

Okay. So this was happening.

Back in Houston, it was easy. I was straight. I dated girls. I made thirst traps for a mostly male audience but that was just business, just content, just me being secure enough to take the compliments without it meaning anything.

That system was falling apart.

I thought about my guy friends from back home. Sure, maybe I noticed when one of them looked good or smelled nice.

But I'd never jerked off thinking about them.

I'd never gotten hard from hugging them.

I'd never moaned their name when I came.

Quinn was different. Quinn had always been different. From the first DM, the first late-night conversation, the first time I'd heard his voice on FaceTime and felt my chest get tight.

I'd thought it was friendship. Gratitude. The normal feelings you had for someone who was nice to you.

But normal friends didn't make you come twice in three days.

Normal friends didn't make you hard just by being in the same room.

I sat up. Pulled my sweats back up. Wiped my hand on my shirt, pulled it off, tossed it toward the hamper. Grabbed a clean one from the dresser and put it on. Went to the bathroom and washed my hands, splashed water on my face.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Tried to see what Quinn saw when he looked at me. I was just some guy from Houston with messy hair and scared eyes.

I locked eyes with myself and took a deep breath. I'd let myself say it. Just once. Just to see how it felt.

"I think I like him."

I watched my face like I expected something to happen. As if saying it out loud would make me burst into flames.

I didn't burst into flames, but my eyes got red. I blinked as the first tear ran down my cheek.

"Fuck... I think I really like him."

Saying the words out loud was both freeing and terrifying. Worst of all, I didn't know if he felt the same way, or if I was just the charity case he'd taken in because he was too nice to let me be homeless. I didn't know how to tell him, or if I should tell him, or what would happen if I did.

But I couldn't pretend anymore.

This was happening. Whatever this was... gay, bi, Quinn-sexual, I didn't fucking know. But it was real. And it wasn't going away just because I wanted it to.

I took a deep breath. Let it out.

I splashed more water on my face and then I opened the door and walked back out to face him.