LOVE ME, NORMALLY.

# 𝐀𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 : an independent writing blog, featuring various canon + original characters. low - activity. 18+ only. heavily affiliated with @truthlie . affil. @lovehurried , @inblueroses , @wovetales , @understill , @mskwtz , @defenseonly , @fightonly , @t-errifier .

TXT ‹ ROBBY KEENE : was that flirting? were you just flirting with me?

and they've progressed out of the twitter dms to texting. ( they've got snapchat and instagram, and while they haven't been able to make time for facetime, just the fact that they've decided to make this leap ... that's a big deal, right? ) but axel's out of practice. that is to say ... he's had no practice. but that's okay, right?

behind a phone screen, he can hide the shaky breath. the blush that heats up his cheeks. it's an unfamiliar feeling, this specific brand of nerves. this specific burn, in his chest, in the pit of his stomach. is this a crush? probably. when's the last time he's had one of these? a few years, at least. definitely never this strong. god, what's happening to him?

but he can't stop the smile that plays on his lips when he turns over in his bed, propping his phone up on his chest. it's easy to type out a quick reply to @fightonly. like second nature. a weight crushing his chest, in a vice - like grip ... but he finds he likes the sensation.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ALIX !!!

he doesn't like to make house calls. they're messy, they're inappropriate. they're too personal. but he doesn't have a courier right now — god damn it, he really needs to work on that one. MENTAL NOTE , SORT THAT OUT ASAP. but the worst part about these house calls : shit like this.

doc stands outside the apartment, sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded in the car, arms folded ... the perfect image of professionalism. of a professional who's fucking tired. and then stands @truthlie, towel wrapped 'round his waist, dripping wet. like a pathetic kicked - puppy who was locked outside for the night. ( ... you've gotta be fuckin' kidding. ) and puppy baby is, all wide - eyed and dumbstruck.

eyes close, a deep breath drawn in, slow, measured. it wouldn't do to blow up here. wouldn't do to scare him away : he's like a baby deer, stupid and skittish. not stupid ... baby's smart ; naive doesn't fit either, but that empty - headed trait that prey animals have. surface - level simplicity. not now, not while baby has the home advantage. breathes out, slow, through his nose. tempered. firm, but not unkind : ' we need to talk. '

oh, he is going to punch roman roy's fucking teeth in. or — well, he would ... if he wasn't sure that @truthlie would be a little bitch about it, and call security faster than he'd be able to wind up for the second punch. roy's got that easy smile on his face, those hazel eyes shining, despite their deceptive cold.

' dinner's on me. we can work out our differences then. ' a napkin from craft services — a fucking ploy : napkin with a number scrawled on it, is this even a real number? or is this his secretary's number? what about a number to some call girl he met at some fuck party, passed onto him as a sick little consolation prize, probably, " get that stick out of your ass " or some other bullshit. the napkin'd been pushed into his hand with a slap on his back — probably since he couldn't reach aaron's shoulders — decent effort from munchkinland, before mr. big shit waltzes off to another investor meeting. what a dick.

and aaron, ivy - league educated genius he is, takes the bait. once roman's fully out of his line of sight, napkin is fished back off the floor from where he'd thrown it after him. ( shitty paper, even balled up, couldn't make more than a second of airtime. ) he takes for granted that that's roman roy's personal number, that wrinkleless brain of his taking control. number is tapped into his phone : no, he will NOT be saving that as a contact, fuck you.