Between the Lines | ✓

Cliche 1: Badboys Are Unrealistically Attractive

I woke up with a scream, body clammy with sweat that cooled under the whir of a fan. It was sweltering, the room humid and damp and smelling like something stale. I could hear the distant ring of smashing glass and grating metal, mirrored in the faint taste of iron on my tongue.

Gagging, I tumbled out of bed, tripping on some clothes that littered the floor and falling on my arms with a pained thud. Groaning, I flipped onto my back and blearily blinked up at the ceiling, taking in unfamiliar dark green paint. 

"What..." I murmured to myself, startling at the rough tone to it, the timbre nothing like my normal voice. Was I sick? That would explain the sore throat, the feverish nightmare, the cling of sweat on my body, the general feel of lethargy and the sense of something... different. Uncomfortable, prickling under my skin.

Groaning again, I pulled myself to my feet, blinking to clear my hazy vision. My confusion only began to grow. This room was wholly unfamiliar to me, completely different from my own; the dark green ceiling blended into walls littered with posters filled with... cars and... an abundance of scantily covered breasts. A desk, clearly unused, was pushed against a wall and piled with  clothes and junk, fabric spilling from it like a waterfall and across the ground in a river of dark colours.

Whirling, I rubbed my eyes, trying to piece together where I was.

'I was... getting Thai a second ago, wasn't I...? And then... And then...'

My eyes widened, and I looked down at myself, shaking slightly because I remembered how it felt when my car flipped and rolled across the bitumen, how the glass rained down in a storm. 

How I died.

"Oh my God, oh my God," I chanted, patting myself down and releasing a screech as my larger-than-normal hands didn't meet the familiar soft slope of my rounded belly. Instead, they groped the hard and smooth planes of... actual, real-life abdominal muscles.

'Holy shit, are these real abs?!' I thought to myself, patting my stomach before blanching, surveying the room for a mirror. Spotting one across the room, I stumbled towards it, grabbing it by the sides and staring at the reflection peering back at me with panicked, wide eyes.

"Are you motherfucking kidding me?!" I yelled, bright green eyes bugging out as a strong jaw clicked open, revealing picket-straight white teeth that were so bright they could glow in the dark. Platinum blonde hair, messy in a sultry 'I just woke up' way and shaved close at the sides and highlighting sharp cheekbones, was pulled away from blemishless skin. A light smattering of dark stubble lined the... stranger's jaw, crossing over sharp angles and towards naturally sharp eyes in a startling shade of emerald, so bright they didn't even seem real. 

When I looked in the mirror, I was used to seeing an average-at-best face - a little babyish in the way my cheeks were rounded and flushed, slightly crooked teeth with pointed canines and definitely not the refrigerator white fluorescence they were now. Flat brown hair, plain brown eyes. Not ugly, just normal, and most definitely not like this.

Because this face was...

"Motherfucker."

My eyes quickly dropped from that face which was beyond ridiculous, and my mouth only widened when I saw that body, that was...

"Motherfucker," I swore again, staring at the body.

Well, all those models in GQ magazine?

They had nothing on this body.

If I were one of those writers online, I could probably dedicate a whole chapter to a description of this guy's body alone. The indentations of his abs, the slightly raised planes of shapely pecs, the provocative trail of dark hair that dipped into briefs that did little to hide what was held within them. This body had big hands, and everyone knew what they said about people with big hands...