Closed RP Hot Singles in Your Area

This RP is currently closed.


“Please, as if you don’t know damn well I’d start chucking lemons at the back of your head.” Freyja fired back from her throne of bedding. It was actually kind of comfortable, which shouldn’t have been surprising. If Spork set their mind to having a comfortable fire escape spot, why wouldn’t they succeed?

She let out an ‘oof’ of surprise as her lap was suddenly full of Spork, certainly not an unwelcome experience. They flashed a grin at her and wiggled around, somehow replacing the muscled, somewhat-attractive himbo with a creature made entirely of elbows, knees, and various other sharp joints. She almost attempted to push them off of her, if she wouldn’t miss their weight.

Eventually they settled, pressed against her in a way that wasn’t full of desire, but wasn’t fighting for space. It was…nice, to just have them against her. They were warm, at least probably to normal people. To her they just felt less cold than most. She raised her body temperature, just a bit, when she noticed them wrap a blanket around their shoulders. She couldn’t really turn it down, not past a certain point, but hopefully this would warm them up a bit faster.

Focusing on her body temperature distracted her from their proximity. It wasn’t just that they were close, they’d been more than close before, but there wasn’t any heat to it, any deep need. They were just resting against her, content. They both were, and Freyja didn’t know what to do with that.

Did she actually feel something for Spork? That couldn’t be right, they hated each other. Well, hate was a strong word. Dislike was too, to be honest. And they’d both sought each other out, in the end, even if they tried to act like they didn’t. But whatever was going on between them was built on rivalry, on insults and competition, and that made this quiet moment all the better, a temporary lull in the noise of this confusing not-relationship. What was this, really? Freyja wasn’t sure, but she knew she wanted more of it.

A cloud of sickly-sweet vapor yanked her out of her thoughts, the perpetrator flashing her a sidelong smirk that made something bubble in her chest. Even still, Freyja wrinkled her nose at the smell. Eugh, watermelon. She liked the actual fruit, but the artificial flavor and matching scent were borderline offensive.

Reaching over, she deftly plucked the crayon out of Spork’s hand and brought it to her own lips and inhaled. She didn’t let the smoke sit for long before blowing it out, letting it dissipate into the air instead of into someone’s face. Because she wasn’t a total ass. Instead of handing it back, Freyja took the vape and placed it back in Spork’s mouth, briefly patting their cheek before settling back into the blanket pile.

“You know, you really shouldn’t eat crayons.” She mock-lectured, shaking her head even if they couldn’t see it. “They’re not good for you.”

Code by Reyn
 
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Spork rolls their eyes when Freyja steals their vape, bumping their shoulder into hers to express their mild displeasure. (Not too roughly, because they don’t mind all that much, but enough to jostle, because she could’ve asked.) Now faced with a tragic lack of anything to fiddle with, they return to ol’ reliable and pull their phone out of their pocket. They’d felt it buzz while they were running, but hadn’t had the time to check what Mari had sent.

They’re just clicking the phone on and tapping in their password when Freyja returns the vape, and they wrinkle their nose distractedly as they make the gesture that will make the screenreader catch them up on their notifications, forgetting that they’ve put their earbuds away right up until the moment when an exaggerated southern drawl reads, “Ball & Chain sent: Shaking it up a bit, are we? Stay out of my lab - if you two break anything it’s coming-”

They scramble to turn the phone off, but in their sudden panic they forget about the vape - the breath they take fills their lungs with smoke and fake watermelons instead of clean winter air, making them cough and nearly yeet their phone into orbit. Some long-forgotten synapse fires in their brain before they can fumble it that badly, luckily - they slap the phone into their lap, take the hell crayon out of their mouth, and finally (finally!) manage to slam their finger down on the ‘off’ button before the traitorous thing can blast any more of their private communiques.

“Fucking-” they cough again, face blazing red, and give the crayon the single most wounded look they’ve ever had cause to level at an inanimate object. They turn their head towards Freyja, then back to the vape, disbelieving. “Did you just put a curse on my vape?”

The humor is back, now, their grin sliding into place like it never left, confirmation that yep, they’re just going to pretend like that never happened. “My novelty crayon vape? You devious witch. How dare you.”

They bring the novelty crayon vape back to their lips, having apparently forgiven it in the five seconds it took them to recover, and prepare to do as many cool smoke tricks as it takes to distract from the questions they can feel formulating in Freyja’s brain.

 
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Freyja couldn’t help the malicious smirk that spread across her face as Spork almost chucked their phone off the fire escape and nearly choked to death on their own stupid vape. The smirk faded in concert with a single eyebrow raising as their phone rattled off a text message before Spork could shut it up. She batted away their question, raising one of her own.

“Ball and chain? Is that your wife?” She asked, confusion and teasing warring in her voice before the latter firmly won. “Are you married?” Her tone turned incredulous at that. Were they? Spork certainly had a large amount of homewrecker energy, that much was certain. Freyja was intimately familiar with what that felt like after all. But they also didn’t seem like the type who’d commit to a relationship, to being tied down.

The pitch within her chest stirred slowly at the thought. Was she just a passing fling, a side piece? She’d been in that position plenty of times before, relished in her ability to draw women away from their lovers and partners and leave them wanting more. So why did this cause the thing in her to bubble? Was it sadness? Anger? She brushed it off, a lid slammed shut on the vat of something that she refused to name, refused to give more than a passing thought too.

“Wait, was it that scrawny girl we passed on the run here? Are you two dating?” The incredulity remained prominent as she thought back to the twig she’d seen for only a few brief moments. She remembered her expression, that mild amusement, as if something tired and worn had managed to find a way to be interesting. She couldn’t imagine Spork, who was all fists and teeth and nails, being attracted to anything so thin and small and fragile.

“What did she mean by ‘shaking it up’, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re so chicken as to only chase women who won’t make you work for it.” Freyja teased, ignoring the nagging thought that she was guilty of the exact same sin she was accusing them of. “Is that why you brought me in the back door? Ashamed to be bringing a woman on the wrong side of the futch scale into the femme-slayer’s den?” She chuckled a bit, an auditory ‘lol’ added onto the end of a sentence to assuage any harsh feelings.

“Do you also accuse them of witchcraft and treat them to the world’s shittiest vape?” Freyja clicked her teeth as she once again snatched the vape from Spork’s grasp, involved in its saccharine services, spat them back out, and dropped it in their lap.

Code by Reyn
 


The smoke ring they’re trying to form goes wobbly when Spork starts laughing. Ah, what were they even worried about? This is the funniest way she could’ve misinterpreted things, and she doesn’t even sound all that offended, so they’re winning on all fronts.

“Pfff, no,” they manage, snorting indelicately and flipping the long bit of their mullet in casual dismissal. Them, married to Mari? Well, maybe for tax benefits, but they can’t imagine any other reason Mariko Ito would feel the need to tie that particular knot.

They only smile when she asks if they’re dating, their expression turning as transparent as a sheet of titanium. They don’t explain Mari to anyone. (And, yeah, part of that is that they can’t explain it, not really, not with the words from any language they know, but the other part is that they won’t. Anyone who hangs around them for a sufficient amount of time will eventually figure it out, and anyone who doesn’t isn’t worth their time.)

“Like it’s my fault that the femmes love a stone butch.” Their grin is still as sharp as steel, but it softens marginally when they sigh-laugh, lounging back against the pillows as they spread their hands in supplication. “I’ve got damsels falling at my feet every time I step outside. Just. So many damsels. It’s like snow, y’know? Exactly like snow, actually - they’ve blocked up the front door, and since I’m just such a good host I decided to spare you the trouble of wading through all that. You’re very welcome.”

A beat, then, “Also, I totally didn’t bring my keys. Mari - yes, the angry stick we passed on the way here - usually lets me back in. So. Hope you fit through the window.”

They catch the vape when she drops it, snatching it out of the air and clicking the button that turns it off in the same movement. It gets tossed back into the pile as they stand, finding the window by touch and sliding it open. Warm air drifts out through the opening, and they go to step through before visibly remembering something and pausing to remove their shoes. The sneakers get tossed into the room before them, landing with twin thuds as they finally sling a leg over the windowsill. Pausing there, they turn back to Freyja.

“Shoes off before you go through.” Is there anything else they’re forgetting? Hmm. They think for a second, fingers tapping at the window in a staccato beat intended to jumpstart their thoughts, and eventually drum up a few more points, counting them off on their other hand. “Feel free to mess with my things, but don’t touch anything that’s Mari’s. Stay out of the lab, obvs… I think that’s it. Welcome to the femme-slayer’s den. Try not to swoon too hard.”

Rules set, they step through, navigating the mess that is their bed expertly and stepping off on the other side. They wander unhurriedly over to the door, then out into the hallway, announcing, “I’m gonna hit the showers.”

Their head pokes back through the doorway a moment later, shades lowered so their wink is fully visible. “Feel free to join. Unless gym funk is your thing, I guess. Stinky.”

With that parting shot, they make tracks down the hallway, their goading laughter ending in a yelp when she inevitably catches up with them.

 


Freyja didn’t interrupt, merely rolling her eyes as Spork went on one of their many rambling monologues. She had a hunch that if she sighed to make her displeasure known, it would just urge them to double the length and intensity of their rant. They were nothing if not consistent when it came to being an annoying ass.

She cocked an eyebrow as they mentioned not having brought their keys, instead relying on the girl they’d passed earlier, Mari apparently, to let them in. That already told Freyja more about their relationship than what meager droppings Spork had allowed her to have. She hadn’t known them long, although some part of her hoped that would change, but one thing was absolute: Spork was fiercely independent. So the fact that they depended on someone else to let them back into the apartment, even if they apparently had their own backdoor in, was interesting.

Very interesting indeed.

Freyja rose from her lounging position, cracks cascading through her body as she stretched. Having a Spork jam themself into every conceivable nook and cranny really fucked up one’s joints. She followed them in through the window, shoes dutifully thrown onto the floor before crawling onto the sea of pillows and blankets that covered their bed.

She took in the sight of their room, and found it predictably messy. Various odds and ends were scattered across almost every flat surface, a form of chaos that was perhaps only controlled in the loosest sense of the word. The only notable exceptions were the bed, which was still a tangled mess, and the floor, which was remarkably spotless.

Her gaze turned upwards, to a shelf that displayed a rather remarkable arrangement of stuffed animals. She hadn't expected that to be their thing, but apparently Spork was more into the soft and fuzzy than she had expected. Then she looked closer and saw that they were all teddy bears, each bedecked in various leather articles.

Ah. That was more like them.

Freyja was pulled out of her thoughts and observations on the BDSM bears by the single most obvious flirtation in the history of homosexuality. Not since Sappho first put ink to parchment had such a homoerotic display been put on. Spork took off like a shot, cackling like a madman as they sprinted down the hall. Freyja snatched one of her shoes off the floor before launching it after them. They yelped as the projectile connected with the back of their head.

She wasn’t far behind.

Code by Reyn
 
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Freyja blearily opened her eyes as harsh sunlight streamed in from the window. She didn’t know what time she and Spork had ended up passing out, their shower only cleansing in the sense that they managed to spend a cursory few minutes clearing themselves of the worst of the gym stench before any pretense fell away.

For a few moments Freyja simply enjoyed the warmth of the sun and the familiar, welcome, satisfying ache that came after Spork. Even her most intense workout hadn’t even begun to scratch that same itch. She knew that her skin was a veritable mosaic of blacks and blues, reds and purples, felt the scratches and bruises deep in her bones. She let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment longer.

Then an elbow was jammed into her side, accompanied by what could only be described as a chainsaw being shoved into a pile of gravel. Freyja let out a groan as the other occupant of the bed somehow managed to drag three more blankets into their growing cocoon with a single turn.

Freyja guessed that was enough basking for one morning. She slipped out of bed, silently making her way over to Spork’s closet, or what passed for it. Digging through the clothes, she grabbed whatever would fit and wasn’t absolutely horrendous. Her workout clothes were still in the bathroom, to her knowledge, and what was a little petty revenge between…whatever they were?

She crept out the door, quietly shutting it behind her before stooping down to pick up her missing shoe. There had to be something vaguely foodlike in the kitchen, right? Or at least coffee. Freyja tread through the apartment with silent steps, scanning the space as she did so. She hadn’t seen much last night, and eyeballed the curtain separating part of the apartment before turning away, heading towards the kitchen.

“Sneaking out? Normally Spork’s sent them on their way before I get home.” A voice spoke up, the rhythmic tapping of keys suddenly deafeningly loud to Freyja. "That or they send them away in the middle of the night. No one stays until morning." She turned towards the couch crammed into the corner and saw the figure sitting there. Now that she wasn’t running, Freyja could get a proper look at Mari. She looked younger, long brown hair pushed to the side, a bored expression on her face as her dark eyes scanned Freyja. Not in the way Spork’s eyes would if they had sight, but in a way that felt more violating, as though she was being picked apart piece by piece.

“What makes you different?” Mari asked her, the question dropped in her lap like a bomb that Freyja wasn’t quite sure whether she should defuse or throw away.

“What?” She responded, the picture of eloquence. She didn’t know. Most of her visitors also left before the dawn, but she also rarely went to other people’s places. A single bubble broke the surface of the tarry thing that lived in her chest “I’m not sure what you mean.”




Mari hadn’t gotten a return text from Spork. While Spork would never allow her to impugn their honor by insinuating they were a quick lay, usually after a couple hours they’d sent her a text asking her to pick up some food on her way back to the apartment. So that was a second strike against this situation.

The first was the look she’d seen when the two had bolted past her. Spork, naturally, was the one being pursued. But the hungry look the other woman gave as she stalked them was like a starving lion chasing a particularly plump gazelle. Spork had looked like they weren’t sure if they wanted to be caught or not, and it seemed to excite them.

When she’d gotten home, their door had been locked. They never locked their door, regardless of who was in their bedroom. That had been the final strike. Mari never really took an interest in Spork’s escapades, this required further intervention. Besides, another all-nighter would give her some time to fix the latest flaw in her work. Hopefully without smoking the whole place out again.

She kept an eye on the door camera as she worked, waiting to see if anyone snuck out in the middle of the night. Apart from a particularly inquisitive racoon, the notifications remained silent until the morning. As the dawn’s rays began to stab into her eyes, Mari decided it was time for a break. That, and the siren song of espresso called out to her, begged for her attention.

So she instead grabbed her laptop and perched on the couch, an iced latte within arm’s reach. She was on her third one by the time she heard the door open and shut, a whisper of the latch clicking by someone who didn’t want to be heard. Spork’s mystery visitor, then.

Mari watched as she slunk by, eyebrow crawling upward as she eyes the various marks along her body. She looked, to be honest, like someone had lightly beat the shit out of her. It certainly answered one question, and raised a couple more. When Spork had come back from one of their last hookups, they’d been similarly roughed up, but had refused to elaborate on the reason. As Mari took an audible sip of of her coffee, she was fairly certain she had found the culprit.

She got some satisfaction watching the woman try not to jump as Mari made her presence known. She took that moment to observe her more, hints of tattoos poking out from all the edges that Spork’s shirt didn’t quite fit. She took note of them for later research.

Mari waved away the taller woman’s questioning response, instead turning her attention back to her laptop.

“Eh, I’ll figure it out later. Just don’t hurt them without their permission or you won’t even live to regret it.” Mari paused, letting the threat sink in before turning to lock her gaze with that of someone who was growing dangerously close to Spork in a way she genuinely hadn’t seen before.

“I kill people for a living. Trust me.”





Freyja wasn’t sure how to respond. The insinuation that she wanted more with Spork wasn’t wrong, as much as she tried to deny it to herself. But Mari’s insinuation that Spork liked being hurt spoke to something deeper. How much did she know about her roommate’s sex life? Freyja shook the conjured image out of her head. While she knew that she was probably a deviation from Spork’s usual tastes, she failed to see how Mari could be either their type or yet another deviation from the norm.

The threat was interesting, and Freyja wasn’t sure whether to laugh or bare her teeth in challenge. This girl was a twig, all bones and skin and eye bags. Freyja almost told her off then and there, eyes raising to meet her gaze.

But then she stopped. There was something in that stare, something that sent ice trickling down her spine. There was no doubt, no posturing in her eyes. It was a simple fact, a statement that had already been proven true, and all that was left was to simply bring it into being.

Freyja flinched first, jerking her gaze to the side before retreating back down the hall. She stepped back into Spork’s room, not bothering to attempt a quiet entrance before flopping down onto the bed and letting out a sigh. And if she aimed directly for the Spork-shaped bundle that was busy shoving blocks of granite into a woodchipper, well it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t see them.

Code by Reyn
 
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Spork sleeps like a rock. More precisely, they sleep like a boulder which is in the process of falling down a mountain, alternating between restless tossing and rumbling stillness at unpredictable intervals along their tumultuous descent.

Mari likes to say that they could sleep through the end of the world. Unfortunate, then, that when the woman-shaped meteorite collides with them, they’re jolted into bleary awakeness instead of being peacefully annihilated T-Rex style.

“Hrgh,” they groan, making their complaints known while their brain tries to both boot up and figure out why they’re being crushed under the weight of an entire person. And why that person isn’t Mari, who would certainly pull a similar maneuver but definitely doesn’t weigh as much as a small elephant.

Wait… it isn’t Mari. They can just push her off.

They do that, pushing their hands into the mattress for leverage as they squirm out from under the person, shedding the blankets they’ve accumulated along the way. The relief is immediate, and they sigh in sleepy contentment as the cool air of the apartment replaces the sweltering heat of the blanket cocoon.

They’re more than half-tempted to lay down again, maybe on top of the blankets this time, but first they have a mystery intruder to deal with. They reach over and smack their hand down on the person’s… face, yep, that’s a face, one with a strong nose and long lashes, and by this point their mind has caught up with them, and they remember enough of the last day-evening-night to know that it’s Freyja, but they still feign confusion and relocate their hand to her chest, squeezing contemplatively before letting overblown realization light up their features.

“Hmm,” they hum, voice still scratchy with sleep. “You’re still here.” They sound a little surprised, but not as much as they could be. They scratch the side of their face, yawn, and then shrug. “Alright.”

Then they’re clambering over her to crawl out of bed, stumbling to the doorway to poke their head out. “Maaaaariiiii.”

“Living room,” comes the reply, and they shuffle in that direction without a second thought, trailing a hand along the wall until their knees meet the arm of the couch and they can step over it and collapse onto the cushions, their head pressed into Mari’s side and their arm thrown around her waist.

“McDonalds.” they insist, mostly muffled by the couch cushion. They shift enough to be able to breathe before adding, “Get extra for Freyja.”

Their imperative delivered, they bury their face in her shirt and close their eyes, curling closer and asking in a murmur, “Did you sleep at all?”

 
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