gluing teacups back together

"Hank, I'm home," you call out into your apartment as you kick the door closed behind you, unceremoniously dropping your backpack against the wall and toeing your shoes off. Your fat grey tabby, Hank, is already waiting at the end of the hallway. He wastes no time in attempting to lead you to his pitifully empty food bowl, screaming the whole way.

"It's not dinner time yet," you inform him, which earns you another raspy scream. "Sorry buddy, you gotta wait a little longer." Your feline companion musters one more attempt at convincing you, but when you head for your couch instead of his precious food bowl, he seemingly gives up. You're left to check your phone in pointed silence while Hank glares at the back of your head from where he's sat next to his bowl.

You flop on your back onto your beat-up thrift store couch, grunting when the timeworn cushions fail to properly catch your landing. The stiff wooden frame digs into your middle back as you shift around in a futile attempt at comfort.

As you pull out your phone you shoot a glare at the armrest your feet are now propped up on, as if your couch might somehow understand the depths of your loathing. Honestly, you had never hated an inanimate object more than you hated this couch, but it was cheap and it was small enough to fit your cramped aparetment and it was what you could afford on your shoestring budget. You tried very hard not to think about the mystery stain that you had tried - and failed - to remove from the (what was now the) bottom of the left cushion.

You unlock your phone and see you have one missed call and one text from Ryland, both from a half hour ago. It's Friday, so you figure he's calling to make sure you're still on for your weekly movie night tomorrow. He's called or texted you nearly every Friday afternoon for the past three and a half years to ask the same question, and you've given him the same answer nearly every time. This semester you've been particularly looking forward to these weekly get-togethers after spending all week listening to Professor Maynard deliver the driest lectures on Biochemistry you've ever heard.

"Pick up, nerd," the voicemail starts, Ryland's tone somehow firm and teasing at the same time. You snort and roll your eyes, but the amused quirk of your mouth belies the exasperation in your expression. A brief pause, then Ryland's voice resumes: "Ugh, fine, I'll text you instead."

You press the home button on your phone, the voicemail screen banished to the background as you pull up your texts. Sure enough, there's one from Ryland: still on for tonight? There's no need for him to ask your place or mine because you both know you'll end up at your place - it's nicer than Ryland's, if only by the most minuscule of margins, and has the added benefit of being home to Hank. Hank and Ryland shared what you could only describe as an interspecies bromance. You tried not to be jealous of Ryland. Or Hank.

You tap out a quick yep, see you at 7 and send the text on its way. You glance at the clock - Ryland's always early, so you estimate you have about fifteen minutes till he comes knocking.

You're going to check your email when you realize you're still connected to your call. Huh. A quick swipe pulls the voicemail window back up. It's still playing, but there's been nothing but 30 seconds of silence. Curious, you listen for a little longer. Thirty more seconds pass with nothing but Hank's heavy breathing filling your ears. Then, a noise from your phone's speaker: a sigh, a metallic clink, and the rustle of what you think might be fabric.

There's a beat of silence. Then, a breathy "fu-uck."

You freeze.

What. The hell. Was that?

You clutch your phone tightly in your hand as you stare at the screen, watching the seconds on the voicemail tick by. One, two, three… another breathy noise meets your ears. A sigh, you think, that seems to take the shape of your name. Your fingers tighten around the edges of your phone, your mind spinning. Was Ryland-? Was he really-? No, he couldn't be. But then: another bitten-out a curse, followed by your name - for real this time, there's no mistaking it - that tapers off into an airy moan.

Oh. He definitely was.

You're still immobilized, stuck between throwing your phone clear across the room or bringing it closer to your face. Your fingers begin to ache with how hard you're gripping it, fingertips turning red under the pressure. No doubt matching the blush that has stained your cheeks and crept its way up to the tips of your ears. You should hang up. Yes, that would be the correct thing to do. A good friend would respect the privacy of their peers, even if that privacy apparently included fantasizing about you. Especially if that privacy included fantasizing about you.

Besides, this was Ryland. Ryland. The person you'd met at freshman orientation and forged a bond with over late nights at the library and shitty cafeteria coffee before a 7am class. He was your go-to lab partner, your Friday night movie buddy, your shoulder to lean on when things got rough. He was your best friend. And for as special as he was to you, he'd never been more than that: a friend. And that was great, you recognized how blessed you were to have someone like Grace in your life. You were happy, thrilled even, with just being friends.

Still, you'd be a liar if you didn't admit you'd had less-than-platonic thoughts about him. He was attractive, you were grown enough to admit that to yourself. He had beautiful blond hair and striking blue eyes and the pinkest lips you'd ever seen and so what if you had, on occasion, thought to yourself, 'I wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks' or 'I bet his lips would feel good on my-'

Nope. Nope. Nuh-uh. You stop yourself there, determined not to board that particular train of thought. You realize, belatedly, that the salacious voicemail is still playing. The timestamp indicates you've been listening to Ryland get himself off to you for the past three minutes. Another moan, louder than the others, makes its way from your phone to your burning ears. If you listen very closely (which you totally aren't), you think you can hear the slick sounds of his hand on himself, the tempo increasing at the same steady pace as the cries of pleasure that are flowing freely from him now.

Mindlessly, you rub your thighs together. You're wet - you can feel it soaking the gusset of your panties, the slide of fabric against your clit sending a shiver sliding up your spine. 'Hang up, hang up,' you think to yourself, but you can't bring yourself to. Ryland's moans and pants and sighs are growing in frequency and he's begun to babble on, his voice pitched down the most delicious way.

'Fuck, you feel so good,' you hear him groan to fantasy-you. A whimper bubbles from your throat and gets caught behind your lips. You can picture him there, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, his head thrown back and his pretty pink lips parted around a deep moan. A frisson of excitement crawls along your skin. You shudder and clench your legs together in search of friction.

The timestamp reads five minutes and seventeen seconds. You're seriously considering riding this out and seeing how long it takes Ryland to finish. And maybe how long it takes you to finish as well. You're just giving in to temptation, your free hand sliding down your stomach and slipping towards your waistband, when a knock at your door interrupts you.

With an undignified squeal you smash the end call button and throw your phone to the opposite end of the couch. Then you pick it up again and check the time. 6:47pm.

Fuck. Ryland is at your door. The same Ryland who just unknowingly left you the most delicious, debilitatingly erotic voicemail you've ever gotten in your entire life (not that there have been others). A voicemail that could have the power to ruin the friendship you two had treasured with one another for years. A voicemail you could never, ever unhear. And now you had to look him in the eye and sit through two and a half hours of a movie about some guy stuck on Mars, and somehow act normal about it.