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u get home okay?

Kat squints at the screen. It’s about 4am and still dark outside; her eyes ache against the cruel light of her phone as she lifts her cheek off the bedspread that she’s had her face mashed into for the last twenty minutes, trying to work up the supreme effort it is going to require to peel off her dress. Part of it’s the normal socializing hangover she gets from too many people and too much asskissing, and part of it is the exhaustion of being perched on fucking four inch heels for the better part of an evening.

The phone buzzes again, the same unfamiliar phone number popping up. kat?

Kat just does not have the patience for weirdos tonight. She really hopes that she’s not going to have to change her phone number yet again.

who is this?

The reply is almost immediate.

Haha, how quickly u have forgotten me.

Oh, yeah. She had programmed her number into Evans’s phone after he cornered her near the strange ice sculpture beside the bar. (Hilariously, he had handed over a Blackberry. Who the hell still owned a Blackberry?)

They’d met a couple times previously at the random get togethers that Marvel likes to throw to make it seem like the entire cinematic universe (or whatever pretentious bullshit they’re calling it this week) is one big family even though it is painfully clear who the stars of the show are. Natalie never comes to them, which earns her Kat’s undying love. Natalie has giant, steel cahones with zero time for bullshit. After they’d fired Patty Jenkins from Thor 2, Natalie had pretty much raised her middle fingers to Marvel and never lowered them.

Kat’s still on the grunt level of the hierarchy, so she usually goes for about a half-hour, talks to the people she needs to, gives Chris Hems a big fat hug (he gives the best hugs), and beats ass out of there.

She’s shaken hands with Evans a few times, said polite hellos. He’d always struck her as nice, but a little beefcake-y and fluctuating wildly between a little quietly standoffish and in-your-face tactile. She knows the type well: the actors that play the media into believing their nice boy schtick, but are fucking epic douchebags in private.

So she’d been really surprised when he walked over to her backstage at the People’s Choice Awards and said, “God, this thing looks like a scary 1980s paperweight,” and laughed. And then spent the better part of the evening being a delightful, excited weirdo about everything.

okay, you spelled out every word except for the SMALLEST ONE, dude.

sry is this btr?

She actually chuckles. What a smartass.

how are you this coherent after that much booze? By the time she’d climbed into her limo, Chris had been thoroughly lit. Although she’s never cared for drunk people, Kat hadn’t minded Chris, who was a surprisingly sweet drunk. He mostly just laughed a lot, talked about weird NASA shit she didn’t quite understand, and kept showing her texts from his mom about how proud she was of him. It was both incredibly endearing and surprisingly weird.

boston irish!

classy.

u know it.

omg, go sleep it off, buddy.

night denny.

you are so not allowed to call me that.

She checks twitter as she shimmies out of her dress, which rips around the bust, leading to an impressive stretch of swearing. She doesn’t bother with her mascara; she’ll deal with raccoon eyes tomorrow morning. Freeing the ladies from her strapless bra that has left delightful, angry looking marks on her ribcage, she yanks a t-shirt from the floor on and bellyflops into bed.

There’s a tweet from Josh wishing her luck followed by about half a million emojis. Then a selfie with her static image on stage paused on his TV, his free hand pointing directly at her smiling face.

Yeah, she’s got the cutest boyfriend ever.

 

--

 

The next day, Chris starts following her on twitter.

Kat has no clue until Beth corners her in the make-up trailer. “You bitch!” she yells, loud enough that Caitlin, their hair stylist cringes and shoots Beth a dirty look as she fusses around with some extensions. “How did this happen?”

Kat looks up from a wheatgrass and kiwi smoothie that tastes something between a freshly cut lawn and llama vomit (she has tasted neither, but she can imagine). “Listen, I’m functioning on an hour and a half of sleep, so you’re gonna have to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.” Award show hangovers are the worst. That much ass kissing and socializing makes Kat’s entire body ache; she has a bone-deep allergy to bullshit.

Beth drops down into the seat beside her, smiling as Andre begins brushing on her foundation. “Uh, Chris Evans. Your twitter. Following!”

When she checks out Chris’s twitter, she is, indeed, on the list of people he’s following. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t follow him back right away, but she shoves her iPhone into her pocket and makes a mental note to follow him during the evening break. (Okay, she knows why.) “And you know this how?”

“Um, I might check every day to see if he’s following me and has finally realized that we belong together. Or that he’ll let me lick his abs. One or the other, I’m not a picky girl. Plus, there might have been a post on that Lainey chick’s website with a photo of all of us looking like hot shit last night.” Beth takes a big sip from a coffee cup that smells like a glade plugin; Kat isn’t even sure that mocha vanilla hazelnut venti whatever still counts as coffee. She also fucking hates Lainey Gossip, so that’s an added bonus to her ever-darkening mood.

“So I’m assuming you wooed him. I saw him making those puppy eyes at you last night. Plus, he was doing that whole hand-hover thing on my back when we were posing for those photos, but I definitely saw him grabbing a little ass on your side of the metaphorical table, my friend.”

“There was no assgrabbing!” It’s true, though his hand had lingered - politely - on her hip long enough for her to remember thinking what large, warm hands he had.

“There’s a twitter following that says otherwise, Kat.”

Kat grimaces. “I have a boyfriend, Beth.”

Beth laughs, waving her hand in Kat’s face before leaning back in her chair. The smile on her face is goddamn lecherous.

“Dude, it is every girl’s patriotic duty to bone Captain America. Josh of all people would understand that.” Beth is picking the nuts out of her banana nut muffin, the crumbs being hoovered up by Chimichanga, Caitlin’s tiny chihuahua that scuttles around underfoot constantly. Personally, Kat doesn’t get the appeal; the dog does nothing but shiver, yap, and run into things in terror when you try to pet it.

Kat also doesn’t understand why Beth’s insinuations bug her as much as they do; coming back from the Thor 2 set had been nothing but so-you’re-banging-Thor jokes from Beth (which is hilarious considering she left the first set banging Loki), but something about Evans just sets her on edge. “He drinks and he smokes - not just cigarettes, either - and he’s a dog guy, and--”

“And you want to climb his flagpole.”

“Oh my god.”

“Sign his charter. Throw tea in his harbour. From pec to shining pec. God bless America.”

“Shut. Up.”

Then Chimichanga starts a screeching fit and anxiety-pees on Beth’s purse. It’s the best part of Kat’s day.

 

--

 

which team u rooting for?

Kat puts down the novel she’s reading (Deathless, which is turning out to be just as great as she heard it was, a rarity because her friends have seriously terrible taste in books) to type out, what the hell are you talking about?

superbowlllllllll! what the hell did u think i was talking about?

going with scott and pratt!

Truth be told, she couldn’t give two shits about football. She’s weirdly been more of a hockey girl, but sports in general don’t really ring her bell. But, she knows that Josh is rooting for the Seahawks, so she’ll go with that.

seahawks, i guess.

When he doesn’t immediately text back (Chris, she has learned, is not the guy to text and forget - he texts the way most people take phone calls, like he’s actually engaged in a conversation, rather than emailing over a phone), she assumes this was the wrong choice.

Men are so weird about what amounts to a really expensive game of fetch.

The phone trills a second later.

i don’t think we can b friends.

really? was the e that hard to press?

i only give e to my friends. u are not my friend.

there were two other es in that sentence, buddy.

u are no buddy of mine.

tom brady is going to fold like a cheap piece of lawn furniture.

HOWDAREU

She grins and tosses her phone down to the foot of the bed, listening as the phone trills with Chris’s vigorous defense of Tom Brady’s manhood or something.

It only takes another two minutes of non-stop beeping before her phone just stars ringing outright. She lets it go to voicemail twice before bothering to pick up, hysterical laughter bubbling up at his immediate, “And let me fucking tell you, Tom Brady is the best goddamn quarterback in the NFL.”

 

--

 

Kat learns that Chris has this thing for sending random photos by text. No comment, no context. The first is a shot of a hot sauce bottle with a mouse on the label that has been defaced in a decidedly indecent way.

A couple hours later, he responds to her, okay?? what’s this about? text with a photo of a cow standing under a tree that looks like it’s being taken out of a moving car. Before she goes to bed, there’s another one of an elevator call panel with both buttons pointing down.

So, the next day, taking a walk along the beach down the street from her house, she sends him a photo of a teenie tiny lime green croc stuck in the sand.

The next few days are filled with photos and absolutely no conversation. Photos of a young boy wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt, a fresca can run through the antenna of a car from the seventies, a woman walking six chihuahuas in identical pink camo vests, Chris’s kneecap with a giant bruise on it, a little lego man abandoned on a newspaper stand.

The last one is weird. The frame is mostly filled with what is probably skin, but there’s… some kind of line. Ugh. Yeah, she’s pretty sure Chris just sent her a photo of someone’s boobs. Cleavage, more like.

dude, i do not want tittie photos. if i want to look at those, i just look down.

She takes a call from her agent, who is trying to book her a movie during her show’s hiatus, although the scripts are fucking abhorrent so far. How many times is she going to be cast as a rebellious teen? She’s fucking twenty eight years old.

When she gets off, Chris has texted her back.

I bet. besides, its not boobs.

okay?

If youve ever wondered what renner’s asscrack looks like, wonder no longer.

“Oh my god!” Kat screams in semi-delighted horror, sending Millie scampering behind the couch.

 

--

 

Millie is particularly adorable one day, so she takes a photo of herself giving Millie a kissaroo right on the lips. She purrs, curling up into Kat’s lap after for a snooze as Kat reads through another script that’s been sent over to her. This time it’s for some space thriller that supposedly has Jennifer Lawrence and one of the dudes from Game of Thrones attached to it.

She wakes up the next morning to a text from Chris.

u have an unhealthy relationship with ur cat, kat.

cat kat. haha.

Kat rolls her eyes and taps her fingers against the smudged screen of her phone.

yes, please continue to thrill me with your clever wordplay.

Chris sends three little smilie emojis in a row.

plus, I’m not taking this shit from a guy who said he’d be his dog if given the chance to be anyone for a day. freak.

whatever. getting belly rubs and running around peeing on things seems like a happy life to me.

i bet it does.

you offering?

This right here is the problem with Chris Evans. It’s generally impossible to tell if he’s flirting with you, particularly over text and twitter and the weird emails he sends that never have a fucking subject line ever, mostly because he’s just such a nice guy. Most guys as attractive as Chris are assholes about flirting, but he just does this...thing where he has charisma and chemistry with everyone and you can’t really tell if he's hitting on you or just being Chris. He just has this effortless friendliness that doesn’t make Kat feel overwhelmed in the way that it usually does; it just feels comfortable and familiar.

She’s also spent more time talking and texting with Chris in the last three weeks than she has with Beth, her mother, and Josh. Combined.

She tries to remind herself of this when Josh misses two of their scheduled phone calls in a row. He apologizes and gets a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers delivered to her at work, and she feels like complete shit for the rest of the day.

Chris retweets the photo of her making out with her cat.

(Beth leaves her a voicemail that is just one long, fifteen second scream.)

 

--

 

Kat wakes up to her phone poking her into the ribs. The last thing she remembers is fucking Evans calling her in the middle of the fucking night and drunkenly yammering in her ear about the new PR girl they’re training to replace the one Marvel’s had for him for the last couple years who’s going on maternity leave in a couple weeks. He apparently doesn’t like her as much as Amy, and talked at length about the subject until he literally put Kat to sleep.

The phone’s dead, so she plugs it into the charger next to her bed, turning it on to a text from Chris.

NICE. thanks for listening denny.

sorry. don’t call me denny!

She’s surprised when he texts back almost immediately. He was completely shitfaced a little less than six hours ago, and he’s not sleeping it off?

i cant believe u fell asleep on me.

you called me drunk at one thirty in the morning, chris. ps: i bet that’s what you say to all the girls.

excuse u. no complaints ever. ps i totally whispered suggestive shit in ur ear while u were incapacitated.

well, unless your beautiful mental suggestions involved me craving toaster strudels, i’m afraid your experiment was a failure.

that was exactly what my btful mental suggest involved. success!

i’d like to point out you typed out incapacitated and yet shortened beautiful.

just 4 u, btful.

Kat laughs and flops back against the bed, then feels decidedly guilty and calls Josh, who’s in San Francisco for the week.

 

--

 

Kat is in Atlanta shooting a commercial for Maybelline when she notices Chris has tweeted something cryptic and slightly dramatic. She’s trying to come down off the ragegasm she’s still riding high on over the piece of shit director, who keeps makes blithely ignorant comments about the lighting accentuating the gap in her teeth when he thinks she can’t hear it. She’s thinking about how much she wants to tell Chris about her growing, beautiful desire to punch some of this fucker’s teeth out when she realizes she hasn’t talked to him in a while.

She opens up her texts and taps Chris’s name. The last text was from a week ago when he was complaining about the gross shakes the new trainer has him on that taste as bad as they look, apparently. (The photo had made the shake look like watered down cement.) They’ve gotten in to the habit of chatting almost every day now, but it’s been a week of development meetings and commercial shoots, and her agent trying to discuss how her tv career is murdering any chance of a film career, so she hadn’t really noticed until now. The tweet is a little ominous, so she texts him, just to make sure he’s okay.

you okay there, buddy?

not really.

That has Kat worried. Chris can be a drama queen sometimes, but he’s generally pretty positive even when he’s channeling his inner diva.

you wanna talk about it?

The high-pitched whine of the assistant director catches Kat’s attention. She rearranges her tits in the top that’s about two sizes too small for the ladies, drops her phone into her purse, and steps out of her trailer.

When Kat gets the chance to check her phone again a couple hours later, already past midnight, there’s two missed calls from Chris’s number. She hits redial and slumps back on to the pillowy hotel bed.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you called?”

Chris lets out a deep, bone-weary sigh. “I’m stuck in Berlin, and Chevy’s sick.” Kat grimaces, glad that Chris can’t see her face. Chevy is the Boxer puppy that Chris adopted when he was in Boston a couple weeks back, and while he’s only posted a few photos to his twitter, she’s got about thirty of them in their text history. “Mom took him to the vet and they think it’s some kind of infection. So he’s sick, I’m stuck out here, and Mom’s dealing with a ton of shit right now. Plus Scott just broke up with his boyfriend, so it’s nothing but drama with the Evans family.” He sighs again, and Kat can practically feel the weight of the world resting on his shoulders through the phone.

“I also hate Berlin.”

“Please, all those blonde German girls who can outdrink you and can’t understand the dribble that comes out of your mouth? I’d think it’s your valhalla, bud,” Kat says, going for humour and being rewarded when he lets out a sad little laugh.

“Blondes aren’t my type.” The way he says it is weird, but she chalks it up to his exhaustion. He doesn’t really sound like himself right now.

“Hey, listen,” Kat says, peeling off her fake eyelashes and sighing in relief. “Puppies get sick all the time. The vet’ll give your mom some antibiotics and she’ll spoil him rotten for a couple days. He’ll be back to pissing on her carpet and eating socks in no time.” She takes a deep breath and resists the urge to shove her face into her pillow. She’s so fucking tired. “When it rains it pours, dude. All you can do is try your best to give them support and take a little distance to not let yourself drown with ‘em. Just do something nice for your mom. I swear, there’s been days where I thought I could end the world with my fucking rage and anxiety, and all it took was some PA grabbing me a bagel and cream cheese without asking for it that turned my damn day around. Send your mom some flowers, give her a call, tell her how much her first born son lovesssss her.”

There’s a quiet huff on the other end of the line, like he’s trying to laugh, but can’t quite get there. It’s pretty depressing to hear him this way.

“Oh, and send Scott some dirty gay porn. Oh man, no way to brighten someone’s day more than a little man on man action.”

Chris lets out a laugh that finally sounds like him, and Kat feels her entire being brighten.

“Just what I need: pap photos of me buying Ass Bandit 12: Fully Loaded.”

By the time she gets off the phone, it’s nearly 4am and she has a 6am call time. Reggie’s gonna have to work some fucking magic with his foundation to hide the bags under her eyes tomorrow.

As expected, she looks like shit run over twice when she wakes up two hours later. Reggie’s plowing away at her swollen, sleep-tired face when one of the PAs runs in with a flower delivery. They are easily the most beautiful flowers Kat has ever received. Elegant, but not ostentatious, and the stress that’s been living in Kat’s chest about the slow disintegration of her relationship with Josh (thanks in large part to his tour) recedes a bit.

“Ooh, the boyfriend really must be missing you,” Reggie says with a shitton of suggestion laced into his voice.

“Yeah,” Kat laughs, tugging open the small envelope to read the card inside.

thanks for letting me unload. thought you’d appreciate this more than gay porn.
-C

 

--

 

A few days later, he sends her a photo of Chevy wearing the collar of shame.

doing better. mom loved the flowers. thank you. really.

Kat keeps the vase of flowers on her dining room table until they’re thoroughly rotten.

 

--

 

u around?

She’s reading the text message when her phone rings. Her contacts are linked with facebook accounts, but Chris doesn’t have facebook, so his call display brings up a custom photo she selected from the batch he sent her of him molesting random statues in Berlin.

“Hello?”

“I am watching Hemsworth bench press a Buick right now,” a voice says over the line. “Like, an honest to god Tahoe. Just bam bam bam, up and down it goes.”

“A Tahoe is a Chevy, Chris.”

“He makes me feel so inadequate as a man,” Chris sighs dreamily. “I think I’m in love. You think Elsa would maybe consider sharing? Or lending him out every once in a while? I just want him to hold me a little. Just a little.”

Normally, she’d be all over this, but she feels like someone has taken out her lungs with an ice cream scoop. So when she says, “There’s no harm in asking. She might be up for it if she gets to watch,” it lacks its normal bite, even to her own ears.

There’s a moment of quiet on the line before Chris says, “You okay?”

“Yep!” Wow, she oversold the fuck out of that.

There’s another brief pause on the line; Kat can hear the tink tink tink of weights in the gym in the background. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Had a shit day.”

“Well tell me about it,” he says, the background noise disappearing as he presumably moves into another room.

“Just…” Kat does not want to get into it, does not want to talk about it or think about it or have to deal with it like a big girl. Big girls approach their feelings head-on. Kat is approaching her feelings through a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. “Really, it’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” He’s got what probably comes closest to his Captain America voice on, that tone that just makes people want to obey. Little shit.

“Josh and I broke up.”

He hums, but the way he does it makes her extremely suspicious. Someone in her inner circle is an asshole because a few shitty gossip blogs have been reporting the break-up, but she also doesn’t see Chris as the type of guy that visits Lainey Gossip during his free time. Either way, she feels like he already knows. “And I had to do it over the fucking phone, because I wasn’t going to fly out to fucking Pittsburgh just to break up with someone. And it fucking sucked. I cried, he cried, we all cried, then he had to go sing for like a hundred thousand people and I spent the afternoon making jokes about my tits because the writers of my show are twelve year old boys.”

Chris doesn’t laugh, but his voice gets more sober as he says, “Sorry, Kat. Sucks, I know.” It’s quiet for a moment before he continues with, “I flew back from Prague to break up with Minka. For the second time. Nothing like a fourteen hour flight with layovers to make a break-up feel final, you know?”

She hums quietly, shoving another spoonful of rocky road into her mouth, listening to Chris console her.

When she wakes up in the morning, thoroughly bloated with the disgusting amount of ice cream she ate, there’s an email from Chris waiting on her phone.

It doesn’t have a subject or any text inside. Instead it’s filled with about sixty photos of kittens.

 

--

 

Her phone pings while she’s eating lunch with her mother at a small diner where all the meals are named after celebrities. Her meatloaf is surprisingly not named after Meatloaf. Instead, she’s eating Ben Affleck with a side of mashed potatoes.

Her mom’s enjoying Jodie Foster. (Salmon with asparagus.)

what’s the name of the 26th president?

do i look like wikipedia?

yes.

She sends him a little shit emoji, then eats a bit more Ben Affleck. Her phone vibrates a minute later while her mother’s telling her about cousin Sara’s new job at Google, which is really her mother’s quiet, clandestine way of dropping the hint that Sara’s a year younger than she is and has a husband and baby.

Does Sara have a goddamn tv show? Has Sara touched the epic man bosom of one Chris Hemsworth? No. No, she has not. So Sara can enjoy fighting anti-trust lawsuits while Kat makes out with famous dudes for money. Ugh.

please? Ive apparently got no data out here in gods country, so its texting or calling.

“Who’s that, sweetie?” her mom asks, eyeing the dessert menu. “A boy?”

Her mother adored Josh. Her mother gave her sixteen kinds of shit for breaking up with him. Her mother feels she is romantically indecisive and needs to learn how to compromise. Her mother feels that it is time for her to settle down with a nice boy that bubbe Litwack will approve of.

Her mother needs to learn how to mind her own business. She loves her mom, but god, sometimes…

“No one,” Kat says, running a quick search on chrome and texting him, theodore roosevelt, asshole.

“Doesn’t look like no one. Not with that face.”

Chris texts back. my angel.

Kat can feel her cheeks burning. “My face is my face, Mom.”

“I know my daughter, and that’s your I’m-interested-in-a-boy face.” Her mother orders a Will Smith (chocolate cheesecake with raspberry compote) from the harried waitress before she turns back around and smiles with her cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. “Remember Charlie Mather? Same face!”

Kat rolls her eyes and resists the urge to slam her face down onto the table. “Oh my god, Mom, I was twelve!”

 

--

 

Chris calls her on Friday as she’s getting ready for bed. It’s 10pm, and it’s days like this that Kat wonders if she’s actually one of the Golden Girls. (Bea Arthur was the shit. She’d be Bea any day of the week.) She spends the entire time she’s brushing her teeth listening to him talk about the new script for Infinity Wars that he’s seen the super early draft of and is “super stoked” about it even though he can’t really discuss any of the details. Kat may be Marvel, but she’s not Marvel.

(Looks like another barely-supporting role in Thor 3 unless her agent can work some magic. Whatever. She mostly takes it so she can be paid to leer at Chris Hemsworth, let’s be real.)

“What’s that noise?” he asks as she yanks back the sheets, scooting Millie from the bed, who expresses her displeasure loudly before jumping down to the ground.

“I’m getting into bed.”

“Ooh.” His voice goes low, the huskiness clearly exaggerated for effect. “What are you wearing?”

“Oh my god, really?” Kat asks. This evening is going in a weird direction already.

“I’m sorry, do you have anything better to do?” He lets out a deep sigh, like he’s settling himself, and then continues. “So give it up. I’m bored and need entertaining.”

“I’m wearing an Animaniacs t-shirt and a pair of panties so old that there’s a hole in the butt from washing them so many times. Sexy, huh?” Kat says, aiming for nonchalance, but missing the mark a bit. This is all a little uncharted and while she’s comfortable enough with Chris for this to not be awkward, it’s… still a little weird.

Chris laughs, and wow, she can feel that down to her toes. “Works for me.”

Kat can feel her face growing red, a dark blush across her cheeks.

“You?” she asks. She pretends it’s quid pro quo - if he can ask then so can she - but really, she just wants to get a picture of him in her mind. She realizes now that they’ve spent months chatting almost daily, but she hasn’t been in the same room with him for more than twenty seconds since the People’s Choice Awards. (They ran into each other at the Warner Brothers lot a few weeks ago, but he’d barely managed to wave to her before she was driven off to the Grove for an interview with Entertainment Tonight.)

“Hmm,” he hums like he’s thinking about it rather than giving a truthful answer. “Same thing I always wear to bed - boxers, t-shirt. Socks too. Cause it’s fucking cold here. I miss Boston, but my body’s getting too acclimated to LA weather. Shit.”

“Seriously? You just gave me shit about my grandma bedtime and you’re going to bed too?”

“Well, it’s three hours later here, babe,” he says, slipping in the endearment like it’s nothing, but it sure as hell catches her attention. “It’s one and I’ve got a wake-up call at six to catch a flight to New York for the press shit tomorrow. So technically yes, granny, you are still the only senior citizen on this call.”

“Suck it, Boston.”

“So tell me about these Animaniacs panties. Details, please. Skimpy? Granny panties to go with the theme of the evening?”

“The shirt is Animaniacs, asshole. Panties are… blue with white dots. Helps to hide the hole in the butt. Normal cotton panties for sleeptime.”

“Hot,” he says like he’s joking, but the words are strained and there’s no way to pretend the tension isn’t there. After a quiet moment, he asks, “This okay?”

Kat’s not an idiot; she knew where this was heading when he asked her what she was wearing. “Um,” she stutters eloquently, “yeah. Yeah.”

“Okay,” Chris says, sounding relieved, but still on edge. “Okay, good.”

She reaches down and presses her hand between her legs because goddamn, his voice has got her fucking aching; it’s been ages since she was turned on like this, that razor’s edge of want and nervousness. Before she can stop herself, she lets out a little moan before she gasps in horror and shoves her face into her pillow and whines.

“Are you--”

Kat is fucking mortified, but his voice doesn’t sound embarrassed or weird. Only hopeful. Excited. So... in for a penny, in for a pound. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His voice is thick now, a bit rough, and if she was a bit wet before, she’s soaked now. Her hand slips between her thighs again. “Good, keep touching yourself.”

Kat can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous; she’s always enjoyed a little dirty talk during sex, but she’s never been able to do it herself without feeling like she’s reenacting some terrible porno, so she settles with, “Are you?”

“Sweetheart, I started when you called yourself Bea Arthur.”

“Oh my god.” Kat descends into giggles, even as she’s still rubbing her fingers up against her clit. “I thought Betty White was more of your dream Golden Girl.” Chris laughs too, and for a second she wonders if it killed the mood, but Chris moans a little at the end of the laugh. It gives her a second to imagine him with his hand in his boxers, jerking himself off thinking about this. About her.

Kat bets his cock is super pretty, but bites her tongue. Guys are weird about their junk.

“You know, I think about what you’d taste like sometimes,” he says, and whoa, that gets her knees spreading more, her hips jerking to meet her fingers which switch between sliding over her clit and slipping inside of her to temper the ache. God, she wants something inside of her; she wants him inside of her. “Bet you taste so good. Want to put my mouth all over you.”

Kat whines. “Yeah, god.”

His breathing is a little rough into the phone, almost like quiet panting. It gets shaky when he hears her moan.

“Tried to figure out the way you’d like it best. On your back, legs spread. Or maybe hands and knees. Mmm, yeah, hands and knees, face in the bedspread, begging. Eat you out until you couldn’t stand it anymore, then just fuck you that way, fill you up, yeah.” He takes a huge gulp of air before continuing. “Feel so goddamn good, just make you feel so goddamn good. Make you come.”

At this point, Kat’s not sure she can form words. Instead, she just whines a bit, rutting against her hand, desperate for release.

“You want it?” Chris asks, and whoa whoa whoa, his voice is so wrecked and gorgeous that for a second she goes completely braindead, pleasure completely drowning out any reason or thought. “Kat. Tell me you want it.”

Chris--”

“Tell me you want it.” It’s hard, an order, exactly what she needs to tip her right over the fucking edge.

“Want it, want it so ba-- ah, ahhh,” she groans, her hips jerking as she rides out her orgasm. It takes her whining out his name in her post-orgasmic haze to hear him come roughly with a grunt on the other end of the line.

Then breathing. Just quiet breathing as they both come down.

She’s almost halfway to dozing off when she hears a light tinkle of metal on the other end of the line. Like… dog tags.

“CHEVY! CHEVY, GET OFF ME, GODDAM---” she hears Chris yell, the the sound of static and a heavy thump following, and Kat just fucking loses it, howling into the phone as she listens to Chris swear at his dog.

 

--

 

Kat’s worried it’s going to be weird after. It’s not the first time she’s had phone sex with a guy, but it’s the first time she’s done it with someone she isn’t explicitly seeing at the time. Does phone sex fall under weird shit that semi-attractive friends do with each other? Is he even going to call again? Is this going to be one of those things where they hook up (again, does phone sex count as hooking up?), not talk to each other again and then have to make painful chit-chat every time they run into each other at an industry party?

Thankfully, she’s put out of her misery a couple days later when Chris calls from what sounds like the runway of an airport but turns out to be the VIP room of some new club down near Sunset, which then turns into him ducking into a corner and running his mouth off about what he wants to do to her. She gets off on his ridiculous voice twice before his battery completely dies and she passes out because, Jesus, that boy has a mouth on him and orgasms make her sleepy as hell.

Then the next morning he calls her from Whole Foods and asks her if she understands the difference between those omega-3 enriched eggs they keep near the organic yogurt and the Burnam’s free-range ones.

“They’re all fucking eggs!” she says grumpily, not yet caffeinated. Then grumbles, “I don’t know, the Burnam ones taste better, though.”

He sends her a text with the strange sculpture the produce team made of out of mangoes, oranges, and cabbages.

What a fucking weirdo.

 

--

 

Her phone trills on a rainy Saturday night. She’s curled up on the couch watching reruns of I Love Lucy in yoga clothes she’s never once worn to an actual yoga class. She digs around under the covers to grab the phone, dragging her thumb over Chris’s message once she unlocks it.

knock knock

Kat’s head nearly flies off her shoulders when there’s a knock at the door less than ten seconds later. Trepidatiously, she walks to the front door and takes a look through the peep hole. She’s seen a lot a horror movies that have started off this way.

“Jesus,” she mutters as she opens the door to a smiling Chris.

“Nope, just me,” he drawls. He’s shaved the beard she saw in the last photos of him, just a little stubble, and he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans that leave little to the imagination. She’s always thought of him as attractive, but here, standing on her doorstep, he’s fucking breathtaking.

Millie hops over the door jam and purrs, curling around Chris’s legs until he reaches down and picks her up. The sight makes something inside of Kat’s chest clench up a bit; Millie is a friendly cat, but the only person she’s ever let hold her is Kat.

“You wanna come in?”

Weirdly, she expects a joke, the kind of sarcasm they lob at one another out of pure habit now, but he just smiles and nods, carrying Millie into the house and stepping past her down the hall.

Millie stares at her over Chris’s shoulder and mews.

Traitor.

They make it as far as the kitchen before Chris plops Millie down on the counter with a light stroke to the head. Millie whines pathetically when Chris turns his attention to Kat, stepping into her bubble slowly enough to let her say no before he urges her back until her spine hits the kitchen counter.

He smells so damn good. “Okay?” he asks, his mouth so close to hers that saying the word makes his lips brush up against hers. Instead of answering, Kat leans up and presses into the kiss, opening her mouth in invitation. He knows how to kiss, how to use his hands - cup them around her jaw, drag a thumb over her pulse point as he presses his tongue against hers - to make her entire body light up like a goddamn candle.

They kiss messily for a few minutes before he breaks away, trailing his wet and swollen mouth over her cheek, her jaw, her ear.

“I don’t want to wonder what you taste like anymore,” Chris whispers into her ear, smiling a little smugly when she nods. He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he slips to his knees, his fingers skimming until they find the edge of her yoga pants and tug down.

 

--

 

Kat’s woken up by a light thumping on her shoulder and the distinct tune of Anaconda ringing in the bedroom.

“Phone,” Chris whines, shoving his face into her pillow as he thrusts the phone in her direction. “Phonnne make it stop.”

Kat grimaces. “See? See what a dick move it is to call someone so early?” Chris whines at her and turns away, giving her an excellent view of his shoulders and fuck, the boy is built. And fuck, she definitely screwed Captain America last night. Twice. Three times if you count the fucking incredible orgasm in her kitchen.

The clock on her phone says it’s just before six am and the caller ID tells Kat that she is the lucky recipient of yet another of Beth’s I-just-slept-with-the-latest-CW-hunk-and-need-to-brag-before-the-hangover-steals-my-memory-of-it drunk dials.

She brings the phone to her ear.

“I am busy. It is fucking six am, go to bed and tell me about fucking Klaus later, okay?”

“WHO ARE YOU BUSY WITH?” Beth asks at a decibel normally reserved for fire alarms.

“Captain America. I threw tea in his harbour.”

Chris lifts his face out of the pillow and grunts, “Whu?” but all Kat can hear is Beth’s tortured scream as she hangs up the phone.