#i. can barely type correctly right now and have pressed the wrong button like five billion times while posting this so im just leaving it he

[club-prideguin]

Oh my god there is something Wrong with me. N0 rebl0ggy pwease owo ecks dee.

[bungou-stray-dingus]

I love the one you write about Dazai having a new infant. Could you do the same with Fyodor(・∀・)

a/n : Fyodor is both a baby and an asshole and I love him wholeheartedly. He deserves to be happy too. Thank you for the request!

Fyodor Dostoevsky

You were the purest thing in existence according to Fyodor. He loved you, that much was clear even without him verbally saying so. You didn't have an ability, and you always took care of him  whenever he came home both physically, mentally and emotionally. He worked himself too hard, and it worried you deeply considering his anemia. You'd check in on him constantly to make sure that he was getting enough sleep, that he was eating and he was drinking enough water. Whenever he came home you made sure to give him enough love and affection to make up for the time he missed when he was away.

He was just waking up, always the early riser and he gently kissed your temple before scooting out of the bed, making sure not to wake you in the process. He loved the way your hair would curtain your face, your lips slightly parted as you slept peacefully. He always thought you looked beautiful, but there was something so mesmerizing to him about the way you looked when you slept, he couldn't explain it. You rolled over, your hand absentmindedly reaching out to his side of his bed, feeling around for him, a small pout forming on your face as your eyes slowly fluttered open. "Good morning, dearest." His voice was still coated with sleepiness, and mixed with his accent it was beyond sexy.

You rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand, it was only five in the morning, the sun hadn't even risen over the city yet. "You're leaving already?" He nodded to you as he began dressing himself, his fingers carefully buttoning his shirt as his eyes stayed focused on you. "Hmph... well, I'll make you some breakfast before you go." You moved to get out of bed and he shook his head, softly pushing you back down on the pillow, pressing his lips to your temple.

"Get back to sleep. I'll grab something before I go. I promise." He wrapped his pinky around yours, something that you had begun doing with him whenever you promised something. It showed that you were serious about it, you never break a pinky promise, and he took it just as serious as you did. You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips as he brushed your hair out of your face.

"When will you be back?" You asked, reaching up to brush your fingers against his face, his skin was always so cold, but you had long since gotten used to the temperature difference between the two of you. He shrugged after pressing one last kiss to your lips and then pushing himself up off the bed. "What do you mean..." You mimicked his shrug as you propped yourself up on the bed, your eyes following him around the room as he grabbed his cloak, ushanka, and boots.

He hesitated next to the door, you heard his sigh before he turned to look back at you. "I don't know, but I'll keep in touch, and I'll try to be back as soon as possible. Now go back to bed." He walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. You grabbed one of his pillows and held it over your face as you fell back onto your own pillows and started crying. You hated when he left, you never knew if he would come back, and that terrified you.

One Month Later

Fyodor hadn't returned home yet, but he wasn't the only thing that hadn't come to you as you thought it would. You sat on the edge of your bed, a bed that seemed ridiculously large whenever he wasn't there with you, and you swiped through the calendar on your phone. "One week, two weeks, three weeks, four weeks... five weeks... six weeks... seven...?" You counted the weeks over and over again, just to make sure you weren't miscounting. "Shit." You groaned, getting up off the bed and grabbing your shoes out of the closet. He hated when you left the house without him, he always made sure the house was properly stocked before he left so you would be able to avoid leaving at all, unless it was necessary. This seemed pretty damn necessary though, and the store was only a block away.

You walked in and made your way to the aisle with the tests, grabbing four boxes, just to be sure. It didn't hurt to be 200% sure, you know, just in case the first test was a fluke or something. You weren't really sure what you would do if they came back positive, and you definitely weren't ready for Fyodor's reaction if they were positive either. He didn't seem like the type of man that would want a child, especially not right now considering the mission he was on. He was barely ever home, the kid would barely ever see his or her own father.

When you got back to the house you ran to the bathroom, sitting on the lid of the toilet and reading the directions of the tests. Sure, they were pretty simple, but you just wanted to be sure that you took them correctly so there weren't any false results. You were stressed, and you cursed Fyodor for not being there with you right now when you needed him the most. You would feel a lot better if he was there to comfort you in the moment, to make you feel like it wouldn't be as bad if those tests came back positive, but no, his work came first.

The tests sat on the back of the toilet, your phone was in your hand, the timer set for five minutes as you paced the length of your bedroom. You picked up on the habit of biting the tip of your thumb from Fyodor, and you were biting it so hard that it had started to bleed. "Dammit..." you sighed, walking into the bathroom to grab a band-aid for your freshly self inflicted wound. Your eyes were immediately drawn to the tests on the back of the toilet, and you immediately forgot about your bleeding thumb, your eyes scanning over all four tests that had a combined total of eight pink lines. "Oh... shit...." You mumbled, your heart was racing and your vision became cloudy as tears began to build on your lower lashes.

You had to call him, you had to let him know, but you didn't even know if it was safe for you to do so at the moment. He hadn't texted or called since last night, and you were sure that he was out somewhere, if you called him it could draw attention and he could get hurt. So you had to wait, you had to wait for him. You were left alone with your thoughts for God knows how long, and your anxiety would only build more and more until that moment comes.

By the time he called five hours later, it was nine o'clock at night and you were sitting on the couch curled up in one of his cloaks, angrily eating a tub of ice cream while crying about the movie on the television screen. You hadn't realized how quick the hormone charged emotions would kick in, but they were evident now. You had never cried at a movie before, and here you were ugly crying into your Rocky Road while still internally fuming at your fiance who was no where around when you needed him most.

You grabbed your phone and answered it quickly, holding it up to your ear. "'Bout time you called." You said snidely, but the sound of your sniffles was what got his attention.

"You're crying. Are you alright, my love? Is there something wrong?" He chided, hoping to pull an answer out of you, and you let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"Is there something wrong? Well I sure as hell think there is! You're never around when I need you, and I'm stuck going through shit all by myself and there's tears in my ice cream and you're not fucking home!" You shouted at him through the phone, your voice cracking whenever you reached octaves that you were unaware you could go to.

"Hmmm, my love is upset. What can I do to possibly make her feel better?" His voice was soft and velvety through the phone and as much as it used to comfort you before, it was only upsetting you more now.

"You could come home so I can talk to you in person."

"You know I can't do-"

"Fyodor, I'm pregnant." You said, closing your eyes, bracing for his reaction. He was quiet, and you wished that you could see his face right now, but all you got was silence. It was deafening, and his silence was much more scary right now. You wanted him to say something, you needed to know that he was still there.

"Are you sure?" He asked after what seemed like an eternity of silence, and you sighed, letting your head fall back against the cushion of the couch. Of course he would ask that, he wasn't here to see the four tests that all showed positives, he wasn't here for anything.

"Yes. I'm sure." Your anger hit you again. This wasn't a conversation you should be having over the damn phone. This should be an exciting time for you and your fiance, but instead, due to his constant absence, you were scared, and you were alone. "But you know what, I'll handle it myself, just like I handle everything else. Hope your mission goes well. I'm going to bed." You hung up the phone and placed it on the coffee table. You shrugged out of Fyodor's cloak and turned off the television, grabbing the empty jug of ice cream off the table and tossing it into the trash as you made your way to your bedroom.

You shut the door and locked it behind you before undressing and changing into your pajamas, climbing into your bed and pulling the comforters up to your chin. You finally fell asleep as the tears formed puddles in the divots of the pillow.

The sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen startled you awake, the smell of pancakes, bacon, and eggs filled your nostrils, the sun was shining brightly into your room, you saw dust particles floating around in the large beam of light. You stretched as you got out of bed, sliding the slippers onto your feet and wrapping your robe tightly around your body before you left the room to inspect what was going on.

When you opened the door, the first thing you saw were the rose petals that created a trail down the hallway. You hummed to yourself as you followed the trail around the corner to the kitchen, and you could have sworn that your heart grew three sizes at the image. A bouquet of white roses, lavender, and purple hydrangeas. They stood in a beautiful crystal vase, and sitting in front of the vase was a large white teddy bear with two smaller teddy bears, pink and blue, on each side.

"What are you doing home so soon?" You asked as you leaned in and smelt one of the roses. He turned to face you, a small smile on his face as he took you in. Whenever he came home, it was like falling in love with you all over again. He could never get over how absolutely gorgeous you were. He placed the spatula on the counter as he made his way over to you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you close against his chest.

"I know I'm gone a lot, I apologize for my absence. I wasn't here when I should have been, but I'm here now."

                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fyodor was never one to express his emotions well, but your pregnancy had changed him, and he began trying. He wanted to be there for everything, every moment of your pregnancy he wanted to experience it with you. Not only was it exciting for him, but he also found it fascinating. He still went out for his missions, but he was never gone quite as long as he used to be. The longest he was ever gone since your pregnancy became known was two weeks, and even then he called every hour, on the hour to check in on you.

When he was home, he was actually quite over bearing. You never complained though, it was nice having him around so much. Every step you took, he was right behind you. He didn't want you to lift a finger. He learned how to cook so you wouldn't have to, he even did the laundry, although you had to help him at first so he wouldn't destroy any of your clothes. He was very invested in your pregnancy, learning everything he needed to know so that he was prepared for everything and anything.

Your morning sickness came later in your pregnancy, and it was a scheduled occurrence, one that he knew very well. Whenever the time came he was already helping you off the couch to get you to the bathroom, holding your hair behind your back as he rubbed soothing circles into your back. He had a cup of water and mouthwash prepared on the counter for afterwards, and he'd help you back to the couch after you were done. He'd bring you a couple saltine crackers to fill your stomach and another glass of water and he'd sit next to you on the couch, holding his hand against your forehead, helping to cool you down after you worked up a sweat from your retching.

He came to every doctors appointment, although he had to wear a disguise due to being one of the most wanted terrorists in Yokohama, it made you happy that he was there. If one your appointments fell on a day that he was out for one of his missions, he would be found waiting outside the doctors office for you to show up. He wouldn't miss a doctors appointment for anything, he would be caught dead before that ever happened.

When he found out you were having twins he became extremely over protective of you and your stomach. He always had a hand on your growing abdomen, tracing your stretch marks with his icy fingers. Whenever you felt self conscious about them, he would place kisses across your stomach and remind you how beautiful it was that you were growing and glowing with two of his children.

Whenever he did have to leave for missions he brought the ultrasound pictures with him, he would look at the pictures and they were a constant reminder to him that the world needed to be ridden of its sin before they came. He needed to cleanse the world so his children could grow up in a society free of sin.

During one of your doctors appointments at six months the doctor told you that you had high blood pressure and needed to be on bed rest for the safety of the babies and yourself. Fyodor enforced that rule, and he stopped going on missions completely. He had his "rats" do his work for him, and they would report to him at the end of the day. He refused to leave your side. When you had to use the bathroom, he would help you onto the toilet and then stand in the doorway with his back turned until you were done, and then he'd help you up. It was embarrassing at first, but you ended up getting used to it, and you knew that he was only doing it because he worried so much. He helped you bathe, sitting on the edge of the bathtub to wash your hair and your body, always murmuring to himself how beautiful you looked. He would only leave the room to cook your meals, and then he would bring those meals to you in bed and feed them to you.

Since you couldn't do shopping at the store, he would lay with you in bed, his laptop on his lap as he scrolled through websites, ordering everything that your eyes lingered on for longer than two seconds. Your front door was filled constantly with packages because according to him, money wasn't a problem if he was spending it on you and the babies. Their bassinets were both a pristine white and they were set up in the corner of your bedroom. He said nurseries were useless until they were about a year and half, that they needed to be with their parents until then because there's a lot of complications that could occur with a child that young while they were sleeping and it would be safer for them to be as close as possible if anything were to happen. You did not argue, there was no point in arguing with that logic.

When he found out that the children were a girl and a boy he was overjoyed. He got both a son and a daughter in one try, it was truly a blessing to him. He started making a list of potential baby names and you both stayed up late at night looking through the names until you both agreed on two.

Elizaveta for your daughter and Iosif for your son. Picking their names made it more real for him, it was more concrete now. He would often lay his head against your stomach, cooing in Russian to the children. They would usually kick when he did this, and whenever they did he would quickly look up to you and ask if you were okay, and then lay his head back down and talk again in his mother tongue, probably scolding them for kicking you.

You had no doubts about him as a father, he truly loved his children. Before you had gotten pregnant he had rarely ever said the L- word, but now, every night, he would press a kiss to your lips, and then lean down to kiss your stomach twice, once at the top, and the last kiss at the bottom. He would whisper that he loved them both and then tell them not to move too much so you could sleep. Then he would move back up and place one more kiss to your cheek before whispering that he loved you.

                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The snow coated the ground, building up against the windowsills. It was a blizzard, and it was beautiful. Fyodor had helped you move into the living room, lighting the fireplace and handing you a cup of hot chocolate as you both watched the snow fall. His legs were stretched along the couch as he leaned against the arm, you were laying against his chest between his legs. His finger traced hearts over your stomach and you both sipped on you drinks enjoying the view. "It's beautiful, I wish the children were here to see it." Fyodor murmured before taking another sip.

Just then you felt a sharp pain in your stomach, you shot up straight and he quickly grabbed your cup out of your hand and placed it on the coffee table. His brow furrowed and his forehead creased with worry lines. "They... they might be... fuck..." You squeezed your eyes shut and gripped onto the couch cushion as you tried to breathe your way through the pain. You felt the wetness build between your legs and you turned to look back at Fyodor. He nodded and helped guide you up off the couch.

He grabbed your coat and helped you put it on and button it up, then he draped a large wool blanket over your shoulders as he led you to the door, grabbing his keys on the way over. "Fyo, there's a blizzard, you can't drive in this."

"My dearest darling, I'm Russian." Was his only explanation, and you rolled your eyes. His arm was wrapped tightly around your waist as he helped you walk down the front stairs. The snow was deep and the wind was strong, it felt like it was lashing against your face. You shivered as it hit you, and he held you closer, helping you walk through the snow to the car.

It must have just been a coincidence that he had just traded in his small sedan for a larger SUV with four wheel drive only the week before. Surely if he still had the smaller car you would have been delivering these babies at home. Your luggage was already packed and stored in the back of the truck, the carseats were hooked up in the second row as well. He was more prepared for this than you were.

He slipped off his cloak and placed it over your lap and as soon as he started up the car he blasted the heat. The contractions came steadily and you felt the pressure building, you were panting heavily as you held onto the handle above the door. He drove slowly through the snow, trying to get there as quick and as safely as he could. "You're doing great, dear. Keep breathing." He said softly, his hand on your thigh squeezing it gently to try to calm you down.

"How much longer... Fuck! Please go faster." You pleaded with him as the next round of contractions came on. You clenched your teeth and you whimpered as the tears threatened to fall. You had never been in so much pain, it felt like every single bone in your body was being broken, it was torture.

You were checked into the hospital and wheeled to your room. Fyodor watched as the doctors worked over you, checking how dilated you were, hooking you up to heart monitors and other machines that you didn't quite understand. You got hooked up to an IV that would help ease the pain of the contractions, but nothing seemed to help as much as you hoped it would.

Fyodor stood by your bed and held your hand as you labored through every contraction. You had been clenching your teeth so hard that they actually hurt, your head was throbbing and you felt nauseous. The doctors had come in and told you and Fyodor that you would need to have a C-Section which was something that you didn't really want, but opted to do just so you knew both of the babies would come out safely. You had done enough research to figure out that even if one was delivered naturally, the other would most likely come out through a C-Section anyway.  

He was quickly suited up, and if you weren't in so much pain you would have giggled at how he looked in the blue scrubs, they definitely did not accent his beautiful dark purple eyes. The doctors began wheeling you down the hall and he walked quickly next to you, refusing to let go of your hand for one second.

You had been given sedatives through the IV and you were numb, it felt strange because you could still feel a dull pull whenever you had a contraction. There was a blue curtain blocking the view of your stomach, so you found comfort in looking up at Fyodor, staring into his eyes as he looked down at you. You could tell that he was smiling, even behind the mask, as the corner of his eyes would crease slightly.

He would occasionally glance around the curtain and hum as his interest was peaked, watching as the doctors carefully sliced through the skin and muscles of your abdomen. You could still feel it slightly, the sensation of the tugging and pulling, but it never actually hurt. His hands were on your shoulders, and although you couldn't actually feel the circles he was rubbing into your skin with his thumbs, there was comfort in knowing that he was touching you, that he was there with you.

The birth itself took not much longer than thirty minutes, and by that time you felt like you were going to pass out, so you weren't sure how much longer it took for the doctors to stitch you back up, and none of that really mattered anyway. When you forced your eyes open, the only thing you were looking for was your babies.

Elizaveta Fyodova Dostoevsky, born January 15 at 5:28PM, 5lbs 8ounces.

Iosif Fyodovich Dostoevsky, born January 15 at 5:30PM, 5lbs 2ounces.

They both had jet black hair which contrasted against their skin perfectly. They were tiny, but they were healthy, and they were beautiful. It was love at first sight as soon as you laid your eyes on them. Seeing Fyodor hold both of your children in his arms though, that hit different. You never thought you could love the man more than you did in that moment, but there was something about seeing him in that arm chair, smiling down at both of his children, the look in his eyes spoke volumes. He absolutely adored his children, that much was obvious.

When you were finally discharged from the hospital, he took extra care of you, making sure that you didn't push yourself too hard. He was worried about your incision, and he knew that you would have trouble walking for the next couple weeks. He made sure that you took your medication at the right time every single day, he continued to help you shower even though you told him that you didn't need help anymore, he insisted.

He took stayed home with you, refusing to go on missions until you were fully healed, and if any of the "rats" complained about his lack of focus on the mission he would write their names down to "handle them" later.

Fyodor was strict about scheduling their feeding times and nap times so they wouldn't affect when they went to bed. He was honestly such a devoted father to Iosif and Elizaveta, it was almost shocking to you. You hadn't known before the children came that he could sing, but you learned one night that he had the most beautiful singing voice you had ever heard. He would stand over their bassinets and gently brush his thumb across their heads as he lulled them back to sleep, singing in a hushed tone a gentle Russian lullaby.

He ended up teaching you Russian, you had asked him after you heard him crooning to them while he fed them their bottles. The children seemed to find the language relaxing, and they would often fall asleep listening to their father talk. He wanted his children to know their heritage, to know where there father came from.

Fyodor wasn't one to spoil his children either. When he finally went back to "work" about two months after their birth, he would stay away for only three days, maybe five tops. Whenever he would return, he would bring back something small, something that reminded him of you, Iosif, and Elizaveta. The items didn't cost much, sometimes they cost nothing at all. One time he returned with a small rock, a leaf, and a bird feather. The rock was shiny and a dark grey color with purple streaks going through it, it had reminded him of the beauty of Elizaveta's eyes. The leaf was small, but it was a bright green, it reminded him of Iosif, who was the smallest at birth, but was intelligent and bright already at only two months old, already attempting to hold his own bottles. The feather was pure white, and it reminded him of you. You were still, and always will be the purest thing in his life, the most amazing and beautiful woman he had ever met. You made him feel like the luckiest man on earth, he was so happy, so over joyed with you and the small family that he had, it felt like he was flying.

If someone had asked you in the beginning of your relationship if you thought Fyodor Dostoevsky would ever want to have children, you would have scoffed and said no. Fyodor was a man who, at the time, didn't seem like he would ever be capable of being a father. That hadn't bothered you, because you loved him enough to want to be with him no matter what. Now, here the two of you laid, both of your children between you on the bed, and you couldn't imagine him not being a father to your children. He was the most amazing father you could have ever wanted your children to have.

He pressed quick kisses to the tops of the children's heads before smiling up at you, brushing his fingers along your cheek. "YA lyublyu tebya, moya dorogaya."

a/n : Thank you for reading! I got really really really into it, and I love my baby Fyodor so fricking much. He deserves so much love. Also daddy!Fyodor is a whole ass mood, love me a big Rat Daddy. Okay but seriously, I love him so much. He's just *chefs kith* Also, what he says at the end is "I love you, my dear" because Russian is hot and him speaking Russian would just *kaboom*

[dropsofletters]

you feel like magic.

— summary: byun baekhyun offers the nicest services for anyone who needs it—call certain number and be prepared to spend the best night of your life with a call boy, ready to meet the expectations of your wildest dreams. the golden star of his business, kim jongin, also known as kai when seducing his clients, thinks there is more to it, much more when he accidentally gets a call from someone who doesn’t know about his call boy ways. is sex really everything in this era?

— title: you feel like magic — pairing: kim jongin x reader — genre: call boy!au ; web designer!au ; strangers to friends to lovers!au ; meeting through the phone!au ; meet cute!au ; slice of life!au — type: fluff ; angst ; suggestive ; drama ; romance — word count: 12,910

His sweetener tongue meets the roof of his mouth, plush lips parted to welcome the coldness of the night. It’s at moments like this that he wishes to be like the walkers by this horrid side of the city, sporting long coats and hands hidden in the depths of his pockets; perhaps, they rush out of their nine-to-five jobs, seeking for the warmth of their homes once they reach them. Jongin lets his shiny boots roam over the concrete-made sidewalk, kicking a rock to make it roll to the center of the street. A lonesome moment leaves the pebble in tranquility before a car moves it further away, or dissipates it into the thin air. He doesn’t know anymore.

What he knows is how to keep the buttons of his shirt opened enough to capture the glimpses of a few women, four to be exact, rushing to stay away from the cold night that ventures into the possible rain that has yet to appear. They cup their mouths to speak beneath themselves, and he takes this moment to run his fingers through his bleached blonde locks, barely sending a smile before they widen their eyes and laugh beneath themselves. Not his usual clients, but he’s made to charm people, right?

The leather of his pants rubs against his thighs, doing nothing to protect him as he waits for a fancy car, perhaps a expensive-looking woman to pull up in front of him and invite him to the nearest hotel. Made to please those who pay him, is how Kim Jongin would describe himself. A mess of seduction that ended up in various sheets just because of his words. Visual matters aside, the real key to getting someone to have the time of their lives while laying in bed and trusting another person with sex comes with the talent of speaking. Dulcet, sweet, with the right amount of spice and a vibrato after his tone. Goofiness aside and exchanged for something desirable—never quite enough to sedate, for he wants his clients to see him one more time.

One more time means more money.

It means a recurrent client.

That, in the call boy world, simply translates to a phrase: sex sells and you have to make them obsessed with your sex, your shared nights, whatever it is that they desire.

The few sprinkles of rain fall when he takes his phone out of his pocket, the black device matching his clothing and the grayness of the night, a little bit over ten and yet, left abandoned to wait for whoever the fuck knows how long. What he needs right now is some money for the week, the recognition that comes with a newcomer, and the promise of excellently paid nights that had been the only thing his boss, Baekhyun, had talked about for the entirety of the afternoon.

Instead, his phone lights up with an unknown number, calling him at the peak of night. It’s rare for clients to call him directly—hell, and he doesn’t even think about the option of a real hook-up calling him. Jongin hasn’t had one of those in a while; maybe over eight months, if not more. Something about sex isn’t quite as appealing anymore, at least, not in his personal life. Not in his free time.

Byun Baekhyun, with his black hair and big pockets filled with money coming from the men he assesses, wouldn’t man up enough to give his number around. He had done it in the past; something about a new way of making money he had been speaking about (“Seriously, Jongin.” The man had said at the time, crossing one leg over the other as he sat on the edge of his pristine glassed desk. “Phone sex is the new it-thing. People are just too busy to spend hours having sex…or, I don’t know, you could sext people? I’m sure you can make your dick look nice for a picture.”), but he never pulled through with it. Too personal, as well as too risqué—someone could record him, send the pictures to someone else, taint his name as a call boy (if he can even do that, he’s already socially tainted), and if that’s what he wanted, he would’ve been a porn star instead.

He could just ignore it.

But there, in that dangerous side of the crowded city, with his back pressed to a concrete wall, hiding in the shadows, he finds nothing better to do. If the call is some woman trying to get inside his pants, he may as well ask her to meet up with him and just get tonight’s worth in money. Clearing his throat, he lifts his eyebrows, using his arm to support the elbow thanks to his lifted hand, speaking into the phone with certainty.

“Hello, who’s this?” Jongin doesn’t have time to lose, tranquility and sweetness long exchanged for something more serious. The timbre of his voice remains seductive, knowing the difference between his character as a call boy and who he really is. Kai promises a good night, while Jongin thinks a good night is being able to crash in his bed without having to worry about getting out at midnight and fucking someone. And doing good at it, which is even worse. It’s not as easy as people make it out to be.

“Oh, you don’t sound like a girl.”

The voice is much too innocent, one would call it aloof, and with the rain pouring down on him, he can only hide beneath the smallest roof, looking at the droplets of rain that pool by his feet. It’s not the first time someone has called him with that tone, as if she’s ready to get over the pure side of her and exchange it for something else, but it is the first time someone tells him he doesn’t sound like a girl, as a sentence starter at that.

“I’m not one, that’s why.” Jongin breathes out, eyes widening when he sees a car pull up in front of the street, he finds himself in. However, a man rushes out of one of the buildings and enters the platinum car, leaves with a harsh pull of the door, and the car pulls off. “Were you looking for a girl?”

“I’m—Uh, I was trying to call my friend Hyuna.” The woman on the other end breathes out. “Are you her boyfriend?”

A girlfriend. He hasn’t had one of those in a while, and it’s mostly his fault. How does one tell the woman they love that he is a call boy? That each night, when he said he was going out to work, he went out with other women to be able to give himself a respectable life? The way his ex’s face fell when she discovered everything, from his job to how it started, still replays in his head from time to time. An asshole, he has been, and yet, he doesn’t have enough time in his life to sit down and regret it, tearfully reminiscent of the way his entire world had changed.

“Unless I have a girlfriend I don’t know about, I would tell you you’ve got the wrong number, sweetie.” He doesn’t know why the last part slips from his tongue. Maybe, because something in her tone tells him that she is having a bad night, just like him, one of those moments where it feels like everyone lives their lives correctly, and you’re the only one that hasn’t quite fit in the adult world.

“Oh.” She breathes out, the sound of a door closing following her statement before she clears her throat. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“I think it is.” And he should leave it at that, but given that his ‘date’ for the night is nowhere in fucking sight, he may embark in some conversation with the melancholy made woman over the phone. “Did you need anything from your friend?”

For a moment, she pauses, hesitating, and Jongin really thinks he has fucked it up. You see, small talk is not normally something he takes part on unless someone pays really well. He goes out to dinner, holds their hands for a while, makes them feel beautiful and then, he’s off towards the natural route. Sex in whatever way his client wanted. “…Kind of…” She breathes out, a ragged sigh following her statement. “I mean, I hoped that we could have a girl chat, but I’m over here talking to some stranger while I can’t even talk to the love of my life—”

Oh, someone who likes to rant. He hasn’t met one of those since the afternoon when Baekhyun was talking wonders about the client that has yet to appear. He doesn’t know if he still likes it. “You can’t talk to your significant other?”

“That’s the thing, he’s not my significant other.” Well, this is taking the casual route of ‘high school problems that shouldn’t be present in adult life, but for some people, they do’. “I’ve been in love with him since college and, uh, well, now we’re very much graduated, very much into our adult lives and he just started working at my workplace after years of not seeing him. And he’s single. H—Hot, too.”

See?

This is the issue one would have in high school, when you’re a teen and you don’t know better, meaning that Jongin should be laughing at this matter. Cackling at the stutter in her tone, had he not found it refreshing. Have people continued to be adorable in this era, or is it just her?

“Did he make a move on you in college?”

“Kind of.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, Donghae was not quite ready for a relationship then, so…I didn’t even try to continue the flirting. We just became friends.”

“Has he made a move now?”

“…No…”

“Then, show him who’s boss and who’s taking the reins now. You have more balls than him and you get to make the shots. Nothing sexier than a woman who knows what she wants and gets it.” Jongin looks over to the street one last time, a small smile appearing on his face when he sees a woman over her forties getting out of a red convertible. That stage of unknowingness that comes with the forties doesn’t only affect men, he thinks, but by the way she quirks an eyebrow, wrinkles a little bit more prominent than his usual client, and how she licks her red lips, he knows he won’t have to do much.

“Oh, wow, I would’ve never thought about it that way. H—How do you know so much about relationships?”

Jongin starts walking, one leg in front of the other as he gets drenched in rain. If he’s lucky, that will get him naked sooner, and the job will be over before he knows it, able to go back home and have a nice night of sleep. “Well, baby,” He whispers, a smile on his face. “You’ve just called a call boy. I know what both women and men find sexy. One, because I’m a man. Two, because I go out with a lot of women.”

“Fuck no?” She questions, and Jongin has to chuckle at her tone.

“You swear?”

“Sometimes.”

“Sounds cute in your voice, honey, but—” He speaks into the speaker, getting closer to his client of the night. “I really have to hang up. I have a client, you see.”

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry!” Though, he feels like laughing at that moment—something he doesn’t do often when he’s in the job, more like he has never done such thing, but soon after, their communication cuts short with a brief goodbye. “Thanks for the advice…I didn’t get your name.”

“Kai.” Though, he says it to the woman in front of him as well, extending his hand for her to take before he presses the pillows of his lips to her knuckles. A classic for older women.

Just at that, he hangs up, putting his phone inside his pocket before speaking again.

“Owe me a phone for being late, young lady.” He speaks up, biting down on his lip when the woman chuckles.

“With that smile I’ll buy you two, hon.”

That’s always better.

###

What connects Baekhyun and Jongin is that they were once both strippers. Not at the same time. Not under the same circumstances. And definitely not with the same conclusions. Baekhyun ended up with his own call-boy business, with men he recruited from his group of friends or from strip-clubs, never once tangling himself in the sheets of other women, becoming a husband and a magnate after dancing on tables and poles. Now, that’s a good ending.

His white denim jacket remains open, abdomen in full display as he hooks his fingers on the necklace around his neck. He knows what he is doing—these parties that Baekhyun invites him to go to are simple business moves. Jongin looks more like a boy-next-door, easy hook-up, an Angel in Hell, when he’s in the strip-clubs. Stealing someone’s clients’, for sure, but also embarking those clients that don’t know much about him. It makes Baekhyun earn more; it gives him the benefit of looking like a party-goer and getting more money than intended. Life is good when they attend these big events with heirs over heirs fighting just for some love.

The bass thrums against his ribcage, the hands of some woman ending up on his belt, his plump lips parting to connect with her pink mouth, tongue coming forward just the slightest as his hand becomes one with her neck, thumb touching the column of her throat and stealing a breath away from her. Smaller than him, definitely a bit above twenties, wearing a golden dress that she had talked about when they had just met—Louis Vuitton, something of the like, but Jongin prefers Gucci, in his own opinion. His client for the night, now fully aware of the call boy he is, sucks on his bottom lip, cornering him against the entrance door, the red lights of the strip club shadowing him, the white ones falling on the women and men scattered across the stage, all in their own poles.

She pushes her gray hair off her shoulders, when the elongated strands are moved away, he can see the figure in her eyes, grasping his fingertips to tighten his hold around her neck. “Where’s the nearest hotel, call boy?”

“Like twenty minutes away.”

Hwa groans from the back of her throat, the necklace around her neck swinging to glisten its diamonds right at his face. Oh, money, that’s what everyone loves, ain’t it? “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“I can do the job in the car, but the prices are higher for lack of comfort.” Jongin jokes around, though he’s using his eyes to his favor. A glisten of those almond-shaped majesties and he can get everything he wants. “But I can wait for you, Hwa.”

The woman takes her keys out of her bag, shaking her head at his antics. “No, Kai. I’m getting you in that car as soon as possible and you’re doing your job. I can’t wait.”

You see, when Jongin was younger, something like twenty and twenty-one, he would’ve loved this kind of response. He used to love having someone for a month, rubbing that spot of romance before letting it go for lust. It was fun, until it wasn’t. Until working as a bartender had developed into something stronger—being promised to dance, ending up taking his shirt off in front of everyone, making appearances in bachelorette parties, translated into women wanting to be with him. With taxes to pay and a roof to maintain, Jongin promised himself he’d do it once—once to get a ring for his then girlfriend. Once and it would be over.

Once.

Once and a thousand times.

Once.

Once and then, again.

Hwa swings her hips as she tries to find her car in the parking lot, and Jongin follows suit. He takes the time to button his jacket up, the glances of a few partygoers getting through him. When it’s out under the lights like this, he doesn’t feel quite as confident. People judge him for what he does, he knows this, but when he’s left in the shadows, existing in solitude, the smoke waving his vision into nothingness, it’s all he has to do. Easy money to live the life that makes him feel more complete; beer in the freezer ready for him to take when he’s stressed, an apartment bigger than the one he used to have, and all his taxes paid.

A white car opens its doors when she presses the red button on the keys, a big smile appearing on her face when Jongin leans forward and captures her lips once again. What does he have to think about to feel better? He always tells himself this is going to be the last client, but it’s never the case. It doesn’t feel better to kiss someone else, to end up in whatever surface doing the nastiest thing he can imagine.

It’s not fun anymore.

Was it ever fun to start with?

His phone rings inside his jeans, making him frown as he tries to concentrate on the kiss. It must be Baekhyun trying to ask him how he’s doing, but after one missed call, the phone rings again. This time around, Hwa pulls away, looking at him with a scrunch of her nose before rolling her eyes.

“Aren’t you going to get it?” Annoyance rips from her throat and Jongin sighs. That’s why someone as pretty as her goes to a call boy, maybe, because that attitude of hers definitely isn’t a good thing. Taking his phone out of his pocket, he stares at the unknown number that somehow feels so familiar to him. Another sigh rips from his throat when he puts his phone up to his ear, speaking into the speaker with intent.

“Hello?”

“Kai!” The cheery, pure, somehow adorable tone in the other end almost has him pressing red, but instead, he tries to hide the smile on his face. “Uh…how are you doing?”

“I’m at the job, honey.” He replies, something that doesn’t quite settle well with Hwa, pushing at his belt and trying to get him closer to her. Pushy bitch. “Is there anything you need? Why did you call me again? Thought it was Hyuna?”

The golden skin of the back of his neck creates goosebumps when she chuckles softly, falling into soft silence. “I actually needed advice. You know, from someone who knows much more about the subject than me. But, if you’re busy—”

Somehow, he can’t bring himself to say no. This is the only person that looks for him without actually looking at him. If she’s interested in talking, it’s because that’s the actual truth.

“Baby, I can call you later if you really need to, but right now, I’m trying to earn some money…”

“Y—Yeah! I understand!”

Hwa doesn’t understand, however, pushing herself off him with a hiss coming directly from her pretty lips. Not all that shines is gold. “Listen, you bitch, are you going to fuck me or not?”

You know, Jongin works for money. There is no way in hell that he enjoys being someone’s toy, having Baekhyun direct him the clients that he’s going to grasp, sending him to parties, putting his life at risk by sleeping with married women, taken women, women who don’t take care of themselves sexually and so on and so forth. He’s done things that he would have never thought about liking in his sexual life, all for the sake of having some green in his vision. Though, at this very moment, all he can see is red.

He’s not a toy. Much less Hwa’s.

“You know what? I’m leaving.” Jongin replies softly, taking her hands out of his jacket before huffing into the phone.

“Kai!” Hwa calls out for him, and he hears the sound of a high heel falling on the floor. Someone had just thrown a high-heel at him. “Kai, get the fuck back here! Do you want your money, bitch?”

“I’ve already got money.” He answers, turning around to look at her as they talk. “Thank you, though. I’m sure someone will gladly take it, but it’s not me.”

Life had never felt quite as liberating as that moment, when the breeze doesn’t bite at his naked chest and he can finally let go of a night without feeling used. The expensive cars are left behind him when he walks towards the street, hiding himself in between the groups of people after such drama. “Oh my—What just happened?” Just then, he remembers he is on a call, and he can only chuckle at the sound of this woman’s voice. This stranger that just made him lose a client, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“Clients are rarely good to me, you know?” Jongin spits out, losing himself in the city for a second, listening to the cars passing by and the people talking beneath themselves. Somehow, with this phone call, he feels like a normal person. “But, enough about me. What kind of advice did you need?”

“The sexy kind.”

Jongin laughs at her antics, at the whisper of her statement and the way he can hear the TV on the background of her call. “Oh, so you come to the call boy because he’s more knowledgeable about sexy stuff?”

“I don’t know you, Kai, but I know you’re a thousand times sexier than me.” She initiates, only to continue with her train of thought soon after. “I am always in an office, wearing a hoodie, looking at pictures of men on Instagram and liking them intensely. I just can’t do sexy.”

“Why not?” Jongin questions, a smile petrified on his face. “Being sensual is all about acting. No one is sensual naturally.”

“Lies.”

“What?”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s the truth!” It has been a while since he has raised his voice from his usual deep tone. It’s the kind of voice he speaks to his friends in, but not the one he uses with women. Something must be different about this one. “Do you really think people go around biting their lips, flexing their muscles, talking all deep, and all that shit? That’s an act. I’m an act.”

“But that’s the problem…” The whine in her tone has him turning to the corner, needing the walk as well as getting home. He’s not going back to that strip-club. “I need to be sexy to get Donghae’s attention.”

“What? No. Sexy doesn’t cut it. If sexy is all that cuts it for him, he’s…he’s wanting you for the wrong reason.” Jongin thinks back to the last time he had gone out on a date. Beautiful stylish, a lover of coffee and elongated readings. She put too much cream on her strawberries and then, would hide away from him. Excuse him, but holding onto her waist, onto the imperfections that made her real, made him feel like the connection was stronger. “You know? A real man, the one that you should give the time of the day to, wouldn’t mind seeing you in a hoodie or with a crop top. He will look at your ass, but will also love your eyes.”

She cackles at his antics, and he imagines her shaking her head. Perhaps, she’d look somewhat plain—the kind of beauty that blends in the background but is enchanting in its own way. “I just want to be sexy, that’s all. I want him to desire me…because I kind of texted him thanks to you and I think we’re going to meet up outside of work.”

“Like a date?”

“…I guess so. Is it a date?” She speaks to herself and he wants to ask her to stop. That voice will be the death of him, like ice cream cake—dulcet but freezing him at the same time.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“Ugh, I guess…” She replies, sighing deeply. “But I don’t know. What do men like? Low cut shirts? Boobs? Ass? Both?”

“Men love confidence.” Jongin tells her, trying to reassure her. “Just know that how you look doesn’t matter and wearing a sexy shirt is not worth a thing if you don’t feel good using it. Besides, if he really thinks you’re hot, he’s going to think you’re hot as long as you’re comfortable.”

“You’re just saying that—”

“You want to have his attention?” Jongin interrupts, getting closer to his apartment complex by the minute. Still, it’s perhaps twenty more minutes of walking. “Like, my only advice here would be to tease him. Flirt with him but then, cut it short. Let’s say you’re kissing him, and he leans in for more, just smile at him and ask him—” He clears his throat then, going back to his seductive tone. “Why should I keep kissing you? What’s there for me if I do?”

For a moment, she stays silent, maybe pondering, but then, a shuddering breath leaves her. “…Now I know why you have so many clients. That was hot.”

“And you didn’t even see me while saying so. I could be the farthest thing from your type right now, and you wouldn’t even now. You didn’t even see my boobs and you still thought I was hot while speaking.” A blush creeps up on his face, and he doesn’t even know why. It’s been the longest time since heat has appeared within him from mere words.

She laughs at his antics soon after, melodious, like she gives all the cares to this world and yet, doesn’t hold grudges for how badly it treats her. “You have nice boobies?”

“Ah, uh—” Taken aback, his laughter comes out high pitched. “Somewhat.”

“Somewhat…” She whispers, a brief chuckle coming after that. “Thank you for the advice, Kai.”

“You’re very welcome.” He replies, though, he stops her before she could say her goodbyes. “But you could thank me by telling me your name?”

It’s unfair, he knows it. To her, he’s Kai. He’s not Kim Jongin, a dancer that ended up being a stripper out of need, out of lies that were told to him, crafted especially for people like him. But it doesn’t feel quite as unfair when she says it with honesty, perfect for saying it out loud. Like a poem, like a song.

“…Good night, Kai.”

“Good night, baby.”

And he doesn’t know why he wishes she would say: Good night, Jongin.

###

While laying down on Baekhyun’s couch, he swings his legs back and forth, his stomach fully pressed to the blanket on top of the brown leather. His cheek is squished against the fabric, though, a small hand presses further into his free cheek until his lips pucker up, pressing a wet peck to his mouth. With his eyebrows very lifted and a flutter of his chest, he hears Baekhyun speaking from his kitchen, stopping all chances of snooping at what his wife is making for dinner to send a glare towards his eleven-months-old daughter.

“Choonhee, what do you think you’re doing?” Baekhyun, who is normally lively and over the moon to make people laugh, now has his hands placed on his hips, strutting over to his daughter to stare down at her. Their eyes are fairly similar or, at least, to how Baekhyun’s eyes looked in those pictures he displays on his coffee table, where he was much younger and less of a mess. Jongin will always say Choonhee is far more adorable, and maybe, that’s thanks to her mother, Lia. “You don’t kiss me but you kiss Uncle Jongin?”

Choonhee makes grabby hands at her father, and Baekhyun relishes on the feeling of being needed, forgetting his attire of a businessman and basically the manager of over twelve call-boys to something simpler. Jeans and a white t-shirt, as if he’s in his early twenties. “Dada.” She utters softly, the only thing she can manage to say, and when Baekhyun puckers up his lips, she pulls away.

It’s almost one of those silent comedies they used to watch in the sixties.

“You get all the ladies, and you also get my daughter. It’s unfair.” Baekhyun speaks out, a dramatic turn on his heels making him sit down on the couch across from him. For someone whose bank account is well filled thanks to his business, his home is a little bit on the warmer side. Beige tones, a lot of yellows, and a bunch of pictures of his family and friends. Jongin could find himself somewhere in there if he looks close enough.

Jongin sits up then, extending his arms over his head before clearing his throat. “I always said I would like some children of my own.”

Baekhyun’s legs is bouncing his daughter rapidly, smiling at her after he made a few mocking faces. “You’d make a great father, that’s for sure.”

If only he had a different life. If he could date people freely, or do something else that isn’t feeling like a marionette. Jongin looks at the ceiling, then off to Lia, whose black hair is wrapped tightly in a low bun, wearing baggy clothing and humming one of Baekhyun’s songs under her breath. They love each other, and he can’t have what they created. Not with anyone. “…It would be easier if I just quit.”

His boss stops his motions with his daughter, his face falling in concern when he looks over at his friend. “I—Jongin, didn’t you like your job? You’ve always been one of the best members of our business.”

It’s not about being the best, it’s about how he feels like the worst person while doing it. “I’m tired of it, Baek. It just…sucks. You don’t know because you don’t do it—”

“We used to work on the same thing—”

“One thing is dancing on poles, another thing is…you know…” Jongin trails his voice, concern lingering on Baekhyun’s face as he thinks.

“So, you came here to quit?”

“I came here to talk about it with you.” Jongin replies, cracking his knuckles while he puts his arms down. “I—I would like to pull away from this mess I got myself into, but I wouldn’t know how to start again. I don’t have a resume; I don’t have a reputation as a dancer. I’m just some…call boy.”

Life should feel like each breath brings him closer to a happy ending, not like his lungs only bring him further into a life he can’t control. His time has elongated into torture, and he can’t stand it one minute longer. Choonhee is playing with the brown strands of her dad’s hair, pulling it to various sides, and yet, he doesn’t react.

“I’ll find you a job. As some dance teacher or something, I don’t know. You do well with ballet, I think.” Baekhyun answers, blinking rapidly. “But if you want some good money, I could give you a grand finale. Find a client that would give you so much cash that you wouldn’t have to worry for a while. That is, until you find the job of your dreams.”

“One last time?” Jongin ponders, licking the inside of his cheek.

“For old time’s sake.”

Jongin’s phone vibrates inside his pocket, and before he takes it out, he nods delicately. “Only if it’s nothing extreme. Just one final goodbye with some good money, and in a good place. I’m tired of cramped cars and stupid hotels.”

Baekhyun lifts his hands in the air, laughing joyfully. “Damn princess, what else do you want? Satin sheets? A pretty girl?”

“Baek—”

“Okay, alright. I got it. I’ll take all your conditions into consideration.” Baekhyun says, puckering his lips once again to try and steal a kiss from his daughter, and his groan is enough of an answer. “Choonhee! Kiss! Come on, kiss dada!”

His phone screen welcomes him from a series of texts from a number he had saved two weeks ago, under a name he wouldn’t want to forget even if he tried.

To: Kim Jongin.

Hello, Kai!

How have you been?

As polite as ever, he can imagine her sweet tone speaking directly into his ear. Heaven in hell.

From: Kim Jongin.

I’m doing great, baby.

How are you?

To: Kim Jongin.

Fine. Thank you for asking!

Then, the line falls eerily silent.

From: Kim Jongin.

May I help you with something?

To: Kim Jongin.

I have a sexy question.

From: Kim Jongin.

There’s nothing less sexy than saying sexy question.

To: Kim Jongin.

Sexy question.

Sexy.

Question.

S-E-X-Y.

Q-U-E-S-T-I-O-N.

From: Kim Jongin.

Donghae’s lucky.

To: Kim Jongin.

You remember his name!

From: Kim Jongin.

I sadly have good memory for stupid things.

What’s the sexy question?

To: Kim Jongin.

I’m too shy to say it.

From: Kim Jongin.

…Really.

Are you really?

To: Kim Jongin.

I’m in Donghae’s bathroom as of this moment.

Hiding.

Well, not hiding.

Googling stuff.

From: Kim Jongin.

What kind of stuff?

The picture that pops soon after has him widening his eyes. It’s a screenshot of her current situation, looking up on Google how to suck someone off, and at that very moment, he looks up. Choonhee is still in Baekhyun’s lap, and Baekhyun is chatting with Lia peacefully. Somehow, he feels like a teenager hiding his screen from his parents. He wouldn’t hear the day of it if Baekhyun realized he was talking to someone and giving them sex advice.

From: Kim Jongin.

How old are you again?

To: Kim Jongin.

26.

From: Kim Jongin.

And you’re googling this.

Oh.

My.

God.

How?

Why?

Wait, how?

What?

Are you sucking him off right now?

Ew.

Or yay?

To: Kim Jongin.

Stop spamming me, please.

I’m on the verge of throwing myself out of the bathroom’s window.

But it’s too goddamned tiny.

From: Kim Jongin.

Haha.

If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to do it.

To: Kim Jongin.

I thought I wanted to.

But it’s too complicated.

I haven’t done that…ever…

His eyebrows raise, enough to capture Lia’s attention that is flipping something on a pan when she asks: “Jongin, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I’m just reading an article…Don’t mind me.”

“You’re staying over for dinner, right?”

“O—Of course.” Though, his eyes divert towards the screen once again. So, the beautiful voice behind the phone is much more innocent than he thinks.

What does she think of him as a call boy? Probably that he’s the dirtiest man she knows.

To: Kim Jongin.

Jongin, he’s asking if I’m fine.

Teach me.

Give me tips.

I don’t know.

From: Kim Jongin.

I don’t know eithr!

Either*.

I have never sucked anyone off.

Well, not a…guy.

To: Kim Jongin.

But you’re a guy.

From: Kim Jongin.

And?

To: Kim Jongin.

You should know what men like!

From: Kim Jongin.

I know what I like, not what other men like.

We’re all different.

To: Kim Jongin.

Google said the same thing.

Fuck.

From: Kim Jongin.

Language.

But wait, did you want to do this?

Or what?

To: Kim Jongin.

He asked me to do it.

And isn’t that how things should go?

I’m an adult, after all, and I’ve wanted to be with him since college.

If I lose my chance with him now, he won’t want to go out with me anymore.

Why, oh why, do people enjoy being with absolute shitheads?

From: Kim Jongin.

If you’re not ready, or you don’t know how, he should be totally fine with leaving it for another time.

And if he really wants to see you, he will be alright with not doing anything tonight.

If he’s nice, he’ll go out with you again, doesn’t matter if you suck him off or not.

For a handful of minutes, Jongin gets to eat the precious homemade food in the Byun’s table, small talk filling the space with laughter and warmth, though his eyes always divert to his phone, somewhat expecting that the read message comes with a reply. It’s only twenty minutes into the dinner that his phone lights up again, a message coming through that steals his breath away.

To: Kim Jongin.

I left.

He was bummed, to say the least.

Thank you for your advice!

You’re an angel.

With food-coated hands, he replies.

From: Kim Jongin.

Far from it.

Though, the picture that comes after is a screenshot of their conversation, the most noticeable thing being his name—his call-boy name, Kai, accompanied by an angel emoji by its side.

If only she knew she was the angel in between the two.

###

“When are you going to let me have a piece of that ass, Kim Kai?”

Ling plays with the rips of his jeans as he says those words, and his eyes stop skimming through the pamphlets placed on the coffee table in the waiting room outside of Baekhyun’s office just to look at him. The man has always had some kind of crush towards him—one that had been somewhat imperceptible at the beginning of times, but now had fallen into kind of a joke in between them. With his arms tattooed, his slim body hunching onto itself as he smokes from a cigarette, he knows he is the only person in this entire business that earns more than him.

For, he just has more range. He’ll deal with just about anything and anywhere, too. Tell him to bend himself over in the most ratchet of streets and he’ll do it—for the right price, and with the word of mouth that inherits protection. He’ll deal with women and men equally, though his preference varies depending on the day. Threesomes are more of his thing nowadays, and it gives him twice the money he would have with one person.

It’s a weird thing to say—but Ling is talented. He’s not the type of seductive Jongin’s character is—Kai is a man next door, the kind of guy you just like because he is handsome and it gives you a boost. Who doesn’t want to sleep with someone who everyone desires? Ling, on the other hand, knows what he is doing. The person he is with could be completely blind and still feel all of him. He’s a charmer—he fits himself to the person he is with.

Let’s say his client is insecure about that one mole on their left ass-cheek. He’ll make them feel good about it. No doubt they won’t ever doubt their attractiveness after being with him.

“How about never?” He replies, a bit of sassiness in his tone as he picks up the book the clients are introduced to when asking for their services. When he opens the first page, he sees the younger generation of call boys. Towards the latest page, Ling and Jongin are showcased perfectly. The gray background makes his golden skin stand out and, at the time, he had brown hair—chocolate rich and ready to make him look like innocence personified. His eyes glisten with malice, while his lips remain serious. How had he believed he’d be happier with this job?

“Don’t say no until you try it.” Ling conquers, taking off his jacket before sighing deeply. “Are you waiting for Baekhyun?”

“Yeah. He said he’d come here thirty minutes ago…but he’s nowhere in sight.”

“That’s weird…that he told you to come here, I mean. He was super busy this morning. One of the newcomers has to get an STD test because he really thought not wearing a condom was a good idea.” Ling takes his phone out of his pocket, probably texting one of his many dates before continuing with the conversation. “Newbies, I guess.”

Jongin frowns deeply. He had never been in that position—but he guesses some people like this job more than others. “Who is it?”

“The short guy, page three. Not my style, though, too short.” Ling explains with certainty, quirking one of his thin eyebrows. “Were you going to ask Baekhyun about your grand finale?”

“He told you?”

“Everyone knows you’re dropping out of the call boy thing.” He says. “It’s as much of a big deal as when a porn star drops out of porn to live a normal life. You’re the Lana Rhoades of our business, Kai.”

The man can’t help but chuckle at his words, standing up from his seat to get closer to Ling. “Well, I should go if he’s not coming, then—”

“He found you a grand finale, though. I think you’re getting half a million in just one contract.”

Jongin likes money. He likes how green the paper is, the smell of it, and simply the feel of it. One of his most enigmatic nights as a call boy is when he was laying down on a bed filled with money, and the woman had been rich enough to ask him to take all of it—plus his payment, of course. Though, his eyes almost budge out of his head at the sound of that amount of money. Half a million just for a night with him.

“Who the fuck would pay that much?”

“The first woman you slept with when you started, of course. Once you take someone’s whore virginity, it feels special. You’re the one who taught them how to be a whore, after all.”

The first woman he ever slept with as a call boy.

She would be near thirty-nine at this moment, if not older. At the time, when he was twenty-two, she was the owner of a big web designing business. With straight bangs and a skirt that almost reached her ankles, he would’ve never thought of her as the type to ask for a call boy. Though, a bit of a difficult woman—she asked for dinner, some foreplay and after, it was him. Jongin damn right passed out after he came back home. Firstly, he was tired. Secondly, the woman was crazy as all fuck.

He has been asked plenty of crazy things in his history as a call boy. Everyone has their weird quirks; he likes to believe. But the first woman he slept with as a call boy, whose name now slips his head, had been so attached to her ex-husband that he had to roleplay as him.

Roleplay as Jinyoung, he remembers.

He had to call himself Jinyoung, in third person.

And it was horrid.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes!” Ling replies, putting his phone down in the process. “I think I heard Baekhyun say something about a whole routine, though. You’re going to have to be her ex-husband.”

“As in, roleplay?”

“As in, become as close to him physically as humanly possible.”

Some people are really crazy.

“…Is Baekhyun out of his mind?”

Ling cackles at that, standing up at the sound of his phone ringing before taking off outside. “Probably. Maybe. I mean, I don’t think it’s that much of a big deal, but…” Shrugging his shoulders, he opens the door with one brief motion before laughing. “Good luck, Kim Kai. You’ll need it.”

With that, he’s left alone to his thoughts.

One last time.

###

Being physically tired because of dancing is a newfound experience that he used to know so well. His chest heaves as he lays down on his bed, hostage of his bedsheets as he curls his fingertips against the fabrics. There is nothing he would love to do more than close his eyes and nap the night away, but something keeps him up: adrenaline.

Mom used to tell him that he’d know when real passion would come to his doorstep when he felt tired after working. Jongin believes the real kind of love for a job or a hobby comes through when he feels restless. His eyes can’t close, fingertips trailing over his chest in hopes of reducing the beat of his heart to a calm blue, chest still shaking as he turns down the music. The world is silent again.

When he looks at his phone, he reads through his text conversations. Family members. Baekhyun. The text from Baekhyun remains unread, sent three hours ago—

From: Baekhyun.

I already bought the clothing you’re going to wear with Mrs. Kwon.

Practice your best businessman lines.

One more week.

Though, he can’t bring himself to answer right now, jumping away from the text conversation to look through his contacts. Flowers bloom inside of him when he reads her name, Donghae’s not so perfect half, who had not texted him since that last time she had thanked him for being able to slip away from that horrendous date. Over a month and they had not talked, not a single word from her, and definitely not a word from him.

He’s curious about her; perhaps, how she looks like, what she does for a living, who she is.

And it’s at this moment, when he presses the call button, that he realizes just how alone he must feel to do such a thing. Lacking that female character in his life, maybe, or just a new friend.

“O—Kai?”

The surprise in her tone brings a smile to his face, placing his hand behind his head before humming. “That’s me, baby.” He replies, not realizing that he has lowered his voice the slightest until he is looking up at the ceiling. “Am I interrupting something? You sound surprised.”

“No…I was just working after hours. I’m glad you called, actually.” She whispers softly, and he can hear the clicking of a mouse. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“That’s what happens when you don’t text, but since you knew who I was, I suppose you kept my number.”

“You were super nice to me, why would I delete your number?”

“Are you sure you don’t want my call boy services and that’s why you kept my number?”

“W—What?” The stutter in her tone has Jongin chuckling loudly, perhaps sounding the farthest away from the sexy. “No matter how sexy you sound, Kai, I’m not one for call boys.”

“Good thing I’m not going to be a call boy for much longer…” Jongin trails, a sense of happiness creeping up on him when he hears a whistle from the other end of the phone.

“Are you ending up as a nine-to-five worker like me?” She asks, an elongated sigh following her statement. “Well, it’s not that bad. I look at a computer screen far more than I’d like, and I can tell the difference between Calibri and Arial far too well, but apart from that…there’s some good things.”

“I’m going to be a dancer.” Jongin explains, though, not wanting to divert the attention so much on himself, he talks to her. “What do you do?”

“Web designer.” The answer has Jongin scrunching up his nose. What are the odds of web designing being so huge these days? “I make websites look cool, and then, I get underpaid for it. My boss gets rich, I get poorer.”

Jongin has to agree to that. “My boss is mad rich as well. Not that I don’t earn well…but in comparison to him, I’m on the streets.”

“Asshole.” She spits out, only to have Jongin laughing.

“I get along well with him!”

“No!”

“Yes! He’s a nice dude. We used to be strippers around the same time. Well, he was finishing his career when I was starting and he kind of recruited me.”

He remembers thinking that Baekhyun and Lia were interested in him with how much they frequented the strip club he used to work in. Turns out that Baekhyun only wanted to see his talent before offering him a better deal—he took it, and years later, he’s ready to let go of it. “Didn’t you take a test?”

“What?” Jongin asks, incredulous. “Do you think sex work is like a college application program or something?”

“No, no! But how did your boss know that you were good at…?” She trails her voice, and he imagines her cupping her hand around her mouth and speaker. “At doing the deed?”

He can imagine Baekhyun being asked that question, and the answer would be yelled out of lack of shame (“It’s in the hips!” Baekhyun would say. “Have you seen that man move his hips, bro?”). However, he can’t bring himself to say that. “Usually, if you’re a good dancer…you know how to move…and that’s all there is to…doing the thing.”

“Oh!” Excitement fills her tone then, and he hears her tapping away on her keyboard. “Kai, I didn’t know you danced!”

“If I said I was a stripper, I kind of had to know how to dance.”

“So, are you a pole dancer?”

“Not initially…” He ventures into the world of memories. “I was a jazz dancer at first, then I went for ballet. I can dive into contemporary and just about anything, but pole dancing wasn’t my thing. I learned on the spot.”

“You, my friend, are a box of talents.” She utters. “Women must go crazy over you.”

“They go crazy for Kai.” He replies, a groan at the back of his throat. He doesn’t know when it started to become an insecurity for him—the division of character and the ways they met. There are things in common between Kim Kai and Kim Jongin, after all.

She hums. “Isn’t that your real name?”

“Nope.” He pops the word out. “I can’t use my real name. None of call boys do. It’s to avoid people looking for us, or getting attached, or whatever. There are some crazy clients.”

“May I ask something?”

“Sure…”

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve done while on the job?”

Jongin doesn’t really have to think much about it. He could say all of it—there is something so inherently weird about being paid to have sex with someone he doesn’t even know, in places where he could possibly get murdered in. It’s a bit of trust mixed with luck. “An orgy.”

“What?!” She asks, voice high enough for him to think she’s alone in the office. “Oh my. With how many people?”

“Four apart from me.” Jongin recalls. It was at the beginning of his career, and he can’t say he was proud of it. “I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s uncomfortable and standoffish and it just makes everyone uncomfortable. I saw far more genitals that day than I had intended and it wasn’t fun.”

“Kai…you’re incredible.”

“Am I?” His face heats up at the sound of those words, only to have her humming.

“Only the brave would do that for money. That’s the confidence I want to have.”

“But that’s who, my character, Kai is.” He says into the phone, turning around on the bed to lay on his stomach. “And I want you to get to know the real me.”

“W—With pleasure. Ah, who would that be?”

“Kim Jongin.”

###

The beauty about sexual encounters is how genuine they can be. His job, on one hand, wants to bring the most honest version of sex that can be paid—he’s an actor, if anything, but not a porn actor. Which is why he is used to the normal accommodation of events and dialogues, called improvising in acting terms, but he isn’t used to scripting himself past the character of Kim Kai. One would think that for his last appearance as Kai, the call boy, he would have the reins of the situation on his hands, but Baekhyun had given him a script along with the suit he was going to wear, and a visit to the hairdresser followed suit.

For the afternoon and part of the night, he has to be Jo Jinyoung, Mrs. Kwon’s ex. A man born in a wealthy family who, in real life, had scammed his own wife and managed to get away with thirty percent of her earnings for the next fifteen years—and, for some motherfucking reason that shall remain unknown, Mrs. Kwon’s still wants to bathe in orgasms at the idea of Jo Jinyoung—. Fitted suits and dark hair, his air of confidence has to be changed for one of manipulation. As if he wants the ground, he is walking on to be kissed by his wife, degrading.

It’s uncomfortable. Really. If he could say a few words to Mrs. Kwon, he’d say: you can do much better than whatever you’re imagining is what you deserve.

The doors of the web designing building Mrs. Kwon owns open like the wings of a butterfly, showcasing him in the perfect stance of him with that gray suit. He loosens the black tie around his neck, sending a smile to the receptionist who widens her eyes at him. She fixes the cat-eye glasses that fall down on the bridge of her nose before speaking politely.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Han Designing. May I be of help for you today?”

“Yes, I’m looking for Mrs. Kwon.” Jongin speaks with certainty, his voice a deep timbre, and that’s enough to entice the woman in front of him to lift her phone up to her ear.

“Who would it be?”

“Jo Jinyoung.”

She stops momentarily, because that is a name she had heard before—either from Mrs. Kwon herself or because of the gossip around the office, however, she continues with her job, shrugging her shoulders when she talks to the biggest boss in this building. “Mrs. Kwon, hello, a young man who calls himself Jo Jinyoung is asking to meet up with you. Should I send him over to your office?” A brief set of words from Mrs. Kwon has her changing her features, pressing a button on her computer before humming. “Yes, I’ll cancel your lunch meeting, Mrs. Kwon and I’ll send him over to you.” After hanging up, she points at one of the many elevators by the right, all cladded in gray and glass. “You can go to the twelfth floor, she’ll be there. Her main office has her name written on the door; it should be easy to find.”

“Thank you.”

You know, let’s go back in time for a while. Kim Jongin, aged nineteen, stumbling out of a party with a girl in between his arms—that was the first time he was ever with someone sexually. It didn’t last a thing, two minutes tops, and it was in complete silence in fear that her parents would hear them in her room. The nervousness of being caught, of doing wrong, of being with someone he liked all bundled up together to paralyze him. At this moment, as he enters the elevator and watches the numbers go up, the people surrounding him getting off one by one, he feels like he is about to lose his virginity.

One last time.

Just one fucking last time.

The elevator welcomes him to a new kind of world, passing through a bunch of cubicles to be able to get to that last door—Mrs. Kwon’s office. The older woman was wild enough to ask for their first event of the scheduled program to happen at her office. Apparently, it was one of the many things she did with her then husband. Jongin just has to barge in, pretend to be a total asshole, and probably do her against the desk. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. He has done worse, right?

The movement of his feet is always coordinated, but for some reason, he ends up hitting his little toe with the edge of one of the desks in the cubicles just as he is walking to the main office. A groan rips from his throat, tiny, followed by a hiss that has the person by the desk standing up to check up on him. When he opens his eyes, he first notices a bunch of little action figures—Star Trek or Star Wars, he is guessing here—scattered across a disorganized desk, though when he looks up, he’s met with a pair of beautiful yet worried eyes.

Her eyes glisten enough for him to part his lips in surprise. A gray hoodie clads the upper part of her body, a pair of high waisted pants highlighting the plushness of her thighs. Jongin watches her chapped lips, how pieces of her hair still remain inside the hood of her shirt, but what interests him the most is the sound of her voice—

“Oh my, are you okay?”

That voice he has heard in the peak of the night, when he has nothing else to do. It’s the voice he sometimes hears in voice messages when she is talking over coffee and pastries. It’s the voice he misses when he spends days without talking to her. It’s the woman that accidentally called him once, and now he can’t seem to get enough of. A nice friend, he’d say, but one that doesn’t know him physically at all.

It’s her—it’s the woman who never considered herself to be attractive, yet exudes the kind of beauty that makes him want to pull away. Simplistic. Caring. The kind of person men miss when looking at what’s easiest, when the most difficult of puzzles always give the most gratification.

The woman he has been talking to for the past month is one of Mrs. Kwon’s workers.

“Y—Yes. I’m sorry, I think I made you drop this.” He picks up a Stormtrooper action figure that fell by his feet thanks to the commotion, but when he puts it down on the desk, he sees the surprise on her face. “You’re a science fiction enthusiast?”

Her lips part to say something, but they close immediately, instead putting one hand over her mouth to cover it up. It does nothing to conceal her surprise. “I—I am.”

The doors to the main office open then, Mrs. Kwon standing in all her enigmatic glory, leaning against the doorframe as she silently calls out for him with a mere glare. In front of him, he has the opportunity to stablish some conversation—meet someone who he had deemed interesting when talking over the phone with them, but the job is calling. His last opportunity to get some money and run for his real dreams is calling.

“I have to go meet up with Mrs. Kwon.” Jongin whispers, giving her a shy smile. “I’m sorry again.”

Only when he starts giving a few steps towards the main office, sporting one of those smirks he is tired of, he feels his phone vibrating inside the pocket of his pants. Jongin knows who it is, but his hands are shaking as he gets the device out, putting it up to his ear as he keeps walking.

“I—It’s you. You are here to see Mrs. Kwon.”

He closes his eyes. It’s horrid that she has to see him like this—like who he used to be and wants to get over and done with. Maybe, she’ll think less of him. Now that she sees him, she will see how deep into the call boy world he had gotten, enough to throw all shame out the window and have sex with someone in a fucking packed office.

“Sorry, baby. Have to do this last job.” Jongin whispers, briefly turning around to look at her, a look of despair on her face when he hangs up the phone, a sigh ripping from his throat when he finally is in front of Mrs. Kwon.

Maybe, he’s not meant to get this close with anyone unless they pay him.

###

“Jongin, let loose!”

Taerin puts on a pair of awfully tiny green sunglasses as they stand in the middle of the mall, both her hands occupied by the group of children they teach. Contemporary dance was the topic of this month, and all the parents had agreed on recording a video in a mall showcasing the dance skills that their children had acquired through the program. Not that he would ever think he’d be here three months ago, but with Baekhyun’s help and his connection with his ex-girlfriend, Taerin, he had been able to get the job.

“I’m letting loose!” He says, pulling at the red strands of Taerin’s hair as he passes by her and places the two children, he is holding hands with on their positions. “But dance is an art, I need them to be in the right positions before we start recording so we don’t bump into each other.”

Taerin is so much more different from Baekhyun’s current wife. She’s more on the outstanding side, that is for sure, with a high ponytail and her curvy body covered with clothing of all colors, shapes, textures. He isn’t surprised that a few pairs of eyes end up landing on her, either with confusion or with attraction. Not that she is his type, really. “They’re just children. And we’ve been practicing for a month.”

“Yes, Mr. Kim!” One of the children, William, says from his spot. A little bit over nine years old and definitely a threat to society with how hyperactive he is, but for dancing…he’s spectacular. Jongin sees a bright future with him. “We’re ready.”

Dabin, a seven-year-old boy, raises his hand in the air with anxiousness. “Actually, Mr. Kim, Mrs. Lee, I’d like to practice one more time before y—you start recording, please.”

“Dabin!” William whines, only to have Dabin pouting.

“I forgot one part.”

Jongin is ready to go over the dance again, nearing the Bluetooth speakers to put on some music when he comes face to face with a person he knows and a complete stranger. They are seated by one of the mall’s tables, in front of some ice cream shop that he has yet to go to. The man wears a bright pink sweater and ripped jeans, the band of his boxers peaking from his jeans as he leans down to capture his date’s kiss on a passionate kiss. His lips part way too much, sucking on her upper lip with intention as she covers most of her hands with the sleeves of her hoodie, holding onto his long, brown hair.

Her features are hard to dismiss—he had seen them once, missed them for three months. Not that she had not tried to reach out to him, perhaps weeks after they had seen each other in person, asking how he was doing…but he was unable to answer. Embarrassment latched onto Jongin like a leech, sucking every desire of continuing with their interesting conversations. It hurt him, but it’s what he had to do.

The date in question, or perhaps her boyfriend (and Jongin really hopes this is not that Donghae, dick out, guy.), pulls away with a smile on his face, his plush cheeks matching his rosy lips as he rests his thumb on her bottom lip, pulling it down the slightest, not caring about who is seeing or the embarrassment that clads her face in beauty. His eyes trail down to her lips, thumb still rubbing at the skin as he speaks, and it’s at that time that Jongin feels a shiver going up his spine, trailing up to his neck and his head.

He wants her.

And he hates it.

But it’s okay. It’s all cool. Why should he care if she goes out on a date with someone, or if she’s dating, or if someone even wants her? She’s an attractive woman, of course people are going to look at her—

So, why is it that when the man in question leaves the table and goes to one of the restaurants nearby, he asks for some timeout and rushes out to her?

He doesn’t know. Jongin knows about sex, not exactly about romance.

“Back with Donghae?” is the first thing he can manage to say when he nears her, placing his hands inside the pockets of his sweatpants and hoping that she doesn’t catch the jealousy on his features, masked by a smile, under his cap. She raises her head then, frowning deeply at the sound of his voice before gasping audibly, eyes widening in the process.

“Kim Jongin?” She asks, both hands coming up to her face, just like the last time he had seen her and he damn right finds it adorable. “…Long time no see. Or talk. You didn’t really answer my texts.” She replies, and just like the first few times they had talked, she chuckles and continues to rant. “Well, not that you should. I mean, half the office knows that you and Mrs. Kwon—”

Jongin scrunches up his nose then, shaking his head in the process. “Oh no, me and Mrs. Kwon have nothing to do. She hired me for the entire day so she would pay me half…a million.” At the sound of that amount of money, he lowers his voice, making her raise both eyebrows, mouthing the number with surprise. “Not that it matters. I’m not…I’m not in the business anymore.”

Her hand extends in front of her heart, sighing deeply. “And here I was thinking I had been talking sex with Mrs. Kwon’s boyfriend behind her back and that I was going to get fired.”

“No,” Jongin answers, laughing as well. “If there is something, I don’t have is bad tastes in women, and Mrs. Kwon is not exactly my style. A client, first and foremost, and secondly…too hooked up on her ex. She likes all the bad shit in this world.”

“I get it.” She says, pointing to the seat in front of her before asking him to sit down. Jongin shouldn’t, but he finds himself sprawled on the seat before he knew it, interlocking his hands together in front of him. “That’s not Donghae.”

“He wants you.”

“Oh, no—” She replies, scoffing in the process. “He doesn’t want me. Come on. We’re just—ah, we just kiss sometimes. It’s nothing serious—”

“Let me remind you—I know about seduction. That whole lip thing I just saw? Seduction.”

“Friendship.”

“Seduction.” Jongin corrects, laughing at her face when she groans. “Doesn’t he meet your standards, like, the same as Donghae?”

Her eyes divert towards her date, standing in front of a restaurant and talking to the worker there. Not that he is anywhere near unattractive, but it isn’t the kind of person he imagines with her. Maybe, someone like himself would be more of a fit.

“I’m not interested in that with him.” She answers, shrugging her shoulders. “Perhaps, I’m just broken. I can’t feel sexual attraction anymore, to anyone. It’s insane—”

Though, she looks at him briefly, making Jongin chuckle as he speaks. “Baby, that’s not being broken. That’s just being selective. It’s okay to be that.”

“With every man?”

“Yeah, it’s completely normal.”

“But…” She throws her head back, sighing. “Isn’t it annoying? Like, most adults just want sex—”

“Not all of them.” Jongin replies, looking down at his interlocked hands before biting on his lip. “Outside of my job, I haven’t done much with anyone. Once your life revolves around sex, you realize it’s the least of your priorities.”

A second of silence follows his statement, and he hears her pulling her chair forward, closer to him. “Why didn’t you text me back, Jongin?”

He looks up then. “I was afraid you’d think less of me for being a…a…” He can’t concentrate his pupils on her anymore.

“A call boy.”

“Yeah.”

“Jongin, I would never think of you as less because of that.” Her voice drips sincerity, eyes twinkling in the way he had seen once and couldn’t get enough of. “It’s a job. It’s not the most common of jobs—but you did it for a reason, and you wanted to stop. That’s your choice, your life, it’s not what makes you a better or a worse person.”

Jongin smiles at that, looking over to the group of children practicing with Taerin. “I’m a dance teacher now, you know that?”

“If someone had texted me back, I would know.” Though, the moment is cut short when her date, or her friend, whoever he is, appears with a trail of food on his hands, sending a comfortable smile towards the man before nodding.

“I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.” Her date says, but Jongin is already standing up from his seat.

“I was just greeting her, nothing big. I’m leaving now.” Not that he wants to do that, but it’s better if he does. Turning around one last time, like he always does with her, he feels the magic in her eyes when he says: “It was nice talking to you again.”

###

From: Kim Jongin.

How did the date go?

It takes him five minutes, three dots on the screen and a slurp of spicy noodles inside his mouth to get an answer.

To: Kim Jongin.

Horrid.

Why?

Like, it’s bad to rant about this.

And you probably think I’m some picky bitch but—

Is it my lips?

Why do all men I go out with want me to suck their dick?

From: Kim Jongin.

I don’t think you’re a picky bitch.

Never say tat.

That*.

Because you have to be more honest and less malleable.

If what you want is a simple date, tell them.

I’m sure they give you signs that they want a hook-up.

What comes next is a screenshot of her screen, typical as ever when coming from her, a Google search that has him almost choking on his food.

She’s funnier than she lets herself believe.

The search says: Why can’t man differentiate normal flirting with hook-up flirting? And the articles are nowhere near as informative as they should.

To: Kim Jongin.

I’ve given up.

On dating.

Men are complicated.

Capital C.

Cursive.

From: Kim Jongin.

There’s nothing wrong with self-love.

To: Kim Jongin.

But now I have a bucket filled with fried chicken and no one to share it with.

From: Kim Jongin.

Mhm.

Send me your address and we can share

I’ll bring some noodles.

Slipping into his coat after getting her address feels like a new beginning. For him, maybe, to get out of his shell and realize that he is more than just a body moving through the world. He’s a soul—his charisma, his strength, his delicacy. There is something about the smile he gives to that closed door, because a new beginning has never felt quite as beautiful as this.

###

When he was twenty-three, he promised himself he would never fall again. Love is so meticulous that the only free time you have is spent doubting. He didn’t want that for himself anymore, neither for the person he was seeing.

The street lights bring him back to the places he had been in, but now, he’s seated on a bench. Typical Saturday night of their weekly meet-up when Jongin gets out of work at the same time she does, and they grab something to eat to spend a few hours of the night together. If the world’s beauty had a voice, it would be hers. It feels like magic; as if for the time they are talking for, he learns all her insecurities and makes them human. Every single wound, every crevice, every portion of her that bleeds, aches, palpitates, grounds itself and silences its complaints, make him more interested.

Kim Jongin prided himself on never being sedated.

“If I have a car, and you know this,” Jongin says, placing his hands under his thighs as he sits down, looking at her profile that basks under the lights of the empty street. The hood of her shirt is pulled tightly over her head, the few traces of makeup she must’ve put on in the morning disappearing after so many hours of not retouching it. “I don’t know why you insist on waiting for the bus.”

She looks at him then, eyes twinkling—in the time that he has gotten closer to her, he has known a few things. They shine when she’s happy, sad, angry; it’s as though her eyes can’t help but show her heart, and all he wants to do is protect it. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you.”

Jongin scoffs at that. “I know you would never use me.”

“Still.” She replies, fixing the black bomber jacket he had thrown over a gray t-shirt, playing with the edge as she speaks. “You already do enough by spending every Saturday night with me.”

His cheeks fluff out at that, a pout on his tone as he speaks. “I enjoy spending time with you.”

“I know you do.” She imitates his voice before sighing. “For some goddamned reason, but you do.”

“I love it when you talk films and science fiction with me even though I don’t understand a thing, what can I say?”

“You said we were going to watch Just My Luck next week.”

“I did say that,” Jongin mumbles, eyes trailing down to her lips. The speckles of her lip-gloss have disappeared, leaving them in their natural color, void of any decoration, and yet calling him out for his lack of attention. Jongin knows the two of them—a man who stopped believing in people wanting him for something more than sex, and a woman who went through the same. Circumstances that they could understand with different outcomes. They meet in the magic ways of life, in the dulcetness of being seen as a person, speaking and talking to their heart’s content, falling in silence and yet, screaming out the words that they never say. “You look pretty tonight. Always, but uh, tonight specially.”

“Thank you.” She breathes out, the words curling her lips in a pretty smile, and Jongin doesn’t think he can hold it any longer. This longing of conversation, of uniting his soul with someone else’s. For the first time, he wants to believe.

It’s in the bend of her waist, in the way she seems to understand him in ways that no one did, how she grasps his face in between her hands and brings him forward, half of his body hovering over hers as she kisses him. Not a single word of lust, not a moment of suspicion—no matter how many women had kissed him, how many bodies he had touched, the things he did and what he did not, she saw past them. For, he is not Kim Kai, he is not a call boy—he’s the man she calls when she wants to see him, talk to him, feel him like a presence beside her, not over her. He’s Kim Jongin to her, and that’s more than he ever expected.

Her lips are not as experienced as one would have imagined. She takes her time, a woman with a lollipop between her lips that doesn’t want to break her teeth. She doesn’t want to bite too soon, eat more of him in ways that would have his plump lips growing redder. Instead, she takes her time, and takes him as well, perhaps whispering in the depths of her heart that he deserves this. A kiss that feels as though he is not wanted, not needed for the scratch of an itch, for filling what was once left void, he is not desired. He’s wished upon. He’s a star. A dream, a thought, a feeling—

His fingers sneak around her waist, lifting some of the hoodie up to feel the warmth of her skin through her white t-shirt. Those portions of her she had never shown to anyone—the parts she talks about in between laughs, trying to mask them as miniscule beings, those are the ones he wants to know. Jongin has never been a romanticist, but what would be of him if he missed an opportunity like that?

Some wheels roll over the street, and when she pulls away, the glint of his saliva ends up over her lips, chest heaving, and the beat of her heart matches his with their chests pressed. Her hands come up, they always do, hiding those lips he doesn’t want to let go of, and she touches the skin there as she says: “I just missed my bus, Jongin!”

With a fleeting kiss over her lips, he says: “Let me take you home.” He adds, though, he tilts his head to the side. “Or I can wait here. Just, please, let me spend some more time with you.”

She laughs at this. “You could have anyone and yet, you choose to have me?”

“Who is anyone when there’s you?” Jongin retorts, watching her lick her bottom lip, mouth falling from its smile to look down at his lips. This time around, she takes the first step—decisions made by her, words left unspoken that tell him he’s the first man she has found fitting in a while. Not fitting for her, but worth her time.

Intimacy at its finest, Jongin can say he has felt a lot—desire, lust, hatred, disgust, sadness, hopelessness. Yet, this is different.

It’s the first time he has felt accepted.

It’s the first time he can say he feels like he is under a spell, one that he can’t get out of.

[glorious-kt]

The Case of the Cybernetic Arm

Joining up with the Bad Batch was either his stupidest idea or his best idea. Echo was still debating on it to be honest. Hunter treated him with respect, but... he also treated him differently than the others. Tech treated him normally, always asking him questions and trying to get his help with his new hacking gear. However, Tech... didn’t seem to trust him much. Crosshair treated him with disdain, full of sarcasm and blunt whit. Sometimes Echo could fire back with his own silver tongue, but... there were instances where Crosshair’s words hit a little too close to home. He was an outsider. A “reg”. To those three at least. Wrecker... Wrecker treated him with kindness, happy to have a new friend to nag and to challenge.

Echo wasn’t sure what he could do to earn the other three’s trust and clear respect. They never trusted him enough to let him go off on his own during missions, they hardly let him do anything on his own, they tended to just disregard any strategies he tries to offer. But... but they also let him have his own room, buy his own things, read whenever he wants to, they let him hoard as many droid parts that he can find. It wasn’t all bad, but it wasn’t perfect either. It’s why he was debating on if he had made the right choice. One out of four disliked him, two out of four tolerated him, and the last actually treated him correctly, like a person. He had wanted to join them mainly because they offered freedom. Freedom to figure out who he was now. That and they also reminded him of Fives. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Fives was dead. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

“Oi, Echo. You’re stuck in your own head again,” Wrecker’s voice cut through Echo’s thoughts, making the former ARC Trooper blink rapidly as he pulled himself back to reality.

“Sorry, Wrecker. Just thinking,” Echo smiled back at the larger trooper in front of him.

They were playing some sort of brawling game that the Bad Batch had installed into the ship’s main table. Echo had no idea how to play, but Wrecker had begged him to play, so he was.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout,” Wrecker asked, grinning as he pressed a button, forcing one of the holographic creatures to attack one of Echo’s own holographic creatures.

“It’s nothing. Just my mind rambling on,” Echo huffed in slight frustration as he glared down at the game, he was loosing.

“Oh! It’s doing that thing that Tech does when he talks about computers,” Wrecker grinned back at Echo, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” Echo laughed lightly as he made his own move in the game, wincing internally when he had moved to try and use his right hand only to be met with the strange cybernetic attached to him instead.

He really needed to start working on that cybernetic hand. It was getting annoying, not being able to use his right hand anymore. Plus, having both hands would make him more useful on the battlefield right? Maybe that’d earn him some more trust.

“You and Tech ramble a lot, but you do it internally,” Wrecker nodded as he finished off Echo’s last remaining creature with a smirk, making Echo groan.

“Yeah. I don’t want to annoy anyone.”

——————

He was stuck with Crosshair this mission. Echo normally didn’t work with Crosshair on most missions, mainly because the sniper didn’t like him all that much, but this mission required him to be Crosshair’s second pair of eyes. That’s what he’d been told, but Echo had a sneaking suspicion that the real reason was because Hunter didn’t want him anywhere near the intelligence center they were infiltrating. He wasn’t stupid.

“Should we look for an alternate escape route for them should they run into trouble,” Echo asked quietly, glancing at the sniper beside him.

“No. They’ll be fine, reg. Just be my second pair of eyes and be quiet,” Crosshair scoffed quietly while he scanned the area with his scope.

Right. A second pair of eyes. What sort of use was a second pair of eyes for a sniper whose eye sight is perfect and his aim even better? Echo tried to hide his disappointment. His shoulders dropped anyways, and his left hand traced over the cybernetic piece on his arm. Useless. A second pair of eyes to a perfect sniper was useless. Why was he even invited to join them if they were never going to treat him like he was one of them?

He just needed to wait a little longer. He’d get that cybernetic hand fixed up by the end of next week, then he could be useful.

“Let’s move, reg.”

“Right.”

———————

Staying up till midnight wasn’t his best decision or his favorite decision, but he wanted to get that arm done so badly. He was halfway through though, so he couldn’t complain. Tech, however, apparently could.

“Look, I don’t know what you were doing last night, but please keep it down. Some of us like our beauty rest,” Tech scowled as he poked Echo in the chest.

“Sorry. I’ll try to be quieter. I was just fixing up my cybernetics,” Echo apologized quietly.

“What for? They’re in prestine shape. What damage could you have possibly done during the missions we’ve been on? Especially with where you have been placed in each mission,” Tech fired off two questions immedietly, crossing his arms over his chest in suspicion, or at least it looked like suspicion to Echo.

“I was just fine tuning some stuff. I get phantom pains, and tinkering helps me block it out,” Echo shrugged lightly, his voice going quiet under the scrutiny.

“Hmm. Just be quieter,” Tech huffed before heading back towards the kitchen in the ship.

“Right. Sorry.”

———————

Echo took Tech’s advice and was quieter the next night, tinkering away at the new cybernetic arm. He was 95% done with it when Hunter entered his room, making Echo jump. The Seargent studied him quietly, his face blank while he flicked his gaze from Echo, to the tools, and to the arm on the floor of his room. Echo swallowed heavily when the man took a few more steps towards him, closing the door behind him, and took a seat on the floor beside Echo.

“Is this what you were working on last night,” Hunter asked quietly, gesturing to the arm.

“Y-yes, sir. I just... I figured if I had both of my hands then... then you would trust me more. I wouldn’t be able to plug into anything anymore, and it would give me back my mobility. I’ve been useless so far. You won’t let me go off on my own, or do things by myself, and you don’t trust me enough to use any of my strategies. I’d be of more use this way. You could point and I’d shoot and—”

“Who said you were useless,” Hunter cut his rambling off, sitting up straight, alarm seeming to color voice.

“N-no one, but... I’m not stupid. I can tell when you’ve just put me with somone to keep me out of the way or to keep me away from computer terminals,” Echo replied quietly as he stared down at the unfinished cybernetic arm.

Hunter stared at Echo, studying the broken ARC in front of him. They treated Echo differently, because he was. Echo was the only brother that they had welcomed into their family that wasn’t a commanding officer like Cody or Rex.

“We’ve been treating you like glass and you took it the wrong way,” Hunter said softly, tilting his head away in slight shame.

“What?”

“C’mon, vod. Let’s put these tools away and get some sleep. You can finish this in the morning, that way Tech can make sure you hook it up correctly.”

“But, I—”

“No “buts”, reg. In the bed, even ARCs need sleep.”

“I- yes sir.”

———————

When Echo woke up that next morning he woke up to a steaming cup of caf beside his bed. That was... new. Not unwelcome of course just new. Echo sat up tiredly in his bunk and nursed the cup of caf for a good thirty minutes before he even got out of bed. It was then that he noticed the arm he had been working on was missing. Had Hunter taken it when he had taken the tools? Echo yawned lightly as he exited his room and went towards the kitchen to dispose of his cup.

“Hunter where did you put my stuff last night? I want to get it done by the time... we...,” Echo yawned as he stepped into the kitchen trailing off as he blinked at the picture in front of him.

Both Crosshair and Tech were curled over the cybernetic arm he had been working on last night, tools and paintbrushes in hand, slightly alarmed at Echo’s presence. Hunter looked smug almost as he sipped on his own cup of caf. Wrecker was- as usual- barely awake.

“What,” was all Echo’s tired brain came up with.

“Just fixing up the calibrating for it. We added a few things too. Crosshair kept bugging me about the design, so he helped too. We can attach it once we’re done,” Tech said, recovering first, voice as steady and logical as ever.

“It was made out of scraps of course I bugged about the design,” Crosshair scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“What,” Echo squeaked again, not understanding what was happening.

“Hunter said that we have been making you feel useless by not letting you do things by yourself or join the harsher missions. We didn’t mean to cause that type of thinking. We wanted to give you time to adjust first. That and we need you to regain some of your weight back, but that plan seems to have backfired. So, we are changing up our plan. You still won’t be in some of the harsher mission until you’re body is back up to it’s healthy weight, but we will no longer treat you like glass,” Tech replied easily as he finished working on the cybernetic arm.

“Because the reg isn’t made of glass. He never was,” Crosshair rolled his eyes lightly.

“By the way, Crosshair calls you a reg out of affection. Not insult,” Tech spoke up again.

Echo blinked in shock at the information, he twitched lightly when Crosshair didn’t even deny the comment either. They were... they were giving him space... giving him time to get used to things. Oh. OH.

“I was an ARC trooper. Still am really. You realize that being in the 501st on top of that makes me the farthest thing from glass, right,” Echo said quietly.

“Yeah we sort of figured that out,” Hunter laughed quietly.

“The boys in blue are crazy,” Wrecker nodded, starting to wake up.

Tech stood up from his seat and moved over to Echo, cybernetic arm in hand. The ARC trooper blinked in shock as Tech began to remove his old one and replace it with the new one. Echo twitched lightly when he felt it connect with his nerves.

“That should do it,” Tech nodded as he pulled back, the other Bad Batchers shifting slightly in anticipation.

Echo swallowed as he opened and closed his new cybernetic hand. He grinned sharply when he could feel it.

“Thanks. When can I test it in the field,” Echo smiled upon at them, the smile was sharp and near feral, all teeth and mischief.

“Next week, Echo,” Hunter laughed loudly.

[arukou-arukou]

Tony has to stay awake for a very long time for some reason, and when he finally is allowed to rest, he physically can't, so the rest of the Avengers (but especially Steve) take care of him until he can.

With two hours to deadline, Tony finally managed to unsnag the last line of code and send it through. A new smart AI bot, one designed for searching and detonating IEDs so soldiers wouldn’t have to, whirred to life and aimed its tiny periscope cam at him inquisitively, awaiting input. The right mix of AI–not so sophisticated that army programmers could turn it into an offensive weapon, but not so improbably slow that it failed to do its job. Three iterations ago it’d tried to bring the dummy bomb to Tony, and that was clearly a no go, so he’d started the code from the bottom up and programmed until the edges of his vision went blurry. It needed testing. Testing.

“Find,” Tony grunted and the bot happily rolled off to the mock test range. “Not perfect,” Tony murmured, slumping down against the table to watch. “Just functional. Just need you to do your job. Can tweak later.” It’s little treads bumbled across sand and rocks, grinding a little in a way that, just for a moment, sent Tony back five years in time. His fingers clenched compulsively at the table before he forced himself to let go.

In the sandbox, the little bot scanned back and forth with infrared and ground-penetrating sonar and blessedly, beautifully, it located the payload. The shovel arm activated and started digging. Tony nearly wept.

Time slowed to a molasses crawl as he watched and waited. The digging mechanism had to be calibrated just so. Too much force might set off the bomb prematurely, and while the bot was built to withstand most of the explosives it would encounter, the goal was also to mitigate as much damage as possible to save on long-term costs. At last the bot pulled his dummy bomb and began sending back data.

Tony swiveled to watch the bot’s feed, studying preliminary analysis from the computer’s suppositions and looking to see how close it got to guessing right. There needed to be human input at this stage to verify and validate, but if he could get the bot ‘s guesses at least 80% accurate, it would save soldiers precious minutes of exposure and danger in the field.

Line by line the profile appeared: likely composition, likely blast radius, size analysis, potential solutions. Not bad little bot. It wasn’t gauging size correctly–something was probably off in the camera aspect ratio, but that was easily fixed. Tony typed back orders and watched with eyes that felt on the verge of shriveling up into dried peas as the bot began procedure. It pried away the main engagement plate and started snipping wires. Beautiful. As dexterous as he’d hoped. And the test was going much better than last time, considering last time the bot had run right over the dummy bomb and technically blown itself up.

The bot finished the last of the disarmament protocol and swept its camera again, asking Tony for permission to return. He glanced at the clock. Hour-and-a-half to deadline. Beautiful. With a flick of his wrist, he typed in the commands for return, charging and self-diagnostic. It would be enough. It had to be. Tony needed it to be because he’d been awake…slowly he blinked at the clock and tried to focus. The numbers blurred in and out before sharpening and he sucked at his teeth. He’d been awake way too long, that’s what he’d been.

“J, lab’s yours. Get the specs and test footage to Pep and tell her to work her magic. Do not disturb orders on my quarters for the next four hours. I don’t want to hear or see anyone or anything unless the world’s ending, and even then, tell them to see if they can get Johnny Storm first.”

“Of course, Sir.”

Tony stumbled his way to the elevator, finally allowing himself to make the jaw-cracking yawn he’d been biting back for the last four hours. Now that the code wasn’t right in front of him, now that he had allowed his brain room to think of something other than the next string of numbers and letters, it felt like his bones were turning to concrete. His feet dragged and his fingers hung limp at his sides. The raw puffiness of his eyes seemed to get worse, especially when he stepped out of his dim lab and into the blindingly bright elevator.

JARVIS brought him to the penthouse without a word, and Tony emerged into a seating area lit only by the New York skyline. Late then. Late enough that the city seemed quiet. Maybe so late it was early. Tony had just been looking at a clock. Why couldn’t he remember what time it was?

On dragging toes, he slumped his way through the living area to his bedroom. No Steve. The bed was made, the sheets military flat. Tony would miss Steve’s body heat, but they didn’t always share a bed, so it wasn’t like he had any right to be disappointed or lonely. It was fine. Or at least it would be fine once was he was horizontal.

With fingers stiff and swollen from hours at the computer, Tony slowly peeled away his T-shirt and fumbled his way through his jeans’ button and zipper, shuffling out of the denim rather than pushing it away. He was afraid to bend over, what with the way his head was swimming.

“Getting too old for this, J,” he murmured, staring forlornly between the bed and the bathroom. He could go to sleep without brushing his teeth. It was an option. But he’d regret it when he woke up. He knew that much.

“With all due respect, Sir, perhaps it’s time to bring on a secondary R&D assistant.”

“Who’s,” Tony yawned over the “oo” and tried again. “Who’s gonna keep up with me?”

“I already have a list of several likely candidates, Sir. There’s a young woman at MIT, up-and-coming, who seems particularly promising.”

“Yeah? Well, put together a profile. Maybe–” another yawn “–maybe I can get to it tomorrow.” For a moment, Tony had to lean against the sink as his whole world tilted forward. He grit his teeth and waited the dizziness spell out, and then he picked up his toothbrush, smearing toothpaste on it at a snail’s pace. He brushed slowly, steadily, telling himself just a little bit more. Just. A little. Bit. More. And then it was down. His teeth were sort of clean. Enough to be bearable anyway. So he shuffled for his bed. It was almost as bad as being rip-roaring drunk, though at least this wouldn’t result in vomiting come morning.

With a final burst of energy, Tony flopped forward onto his mattress, groaning as his nose took more weight than it deserved. He barely had the energy to slither under the covers, but he forced himself to do it, jamming his feet (still in socks) down toward the bottom of the bed.

“Sleep” he whispered, turning onto his side and snuggling down. The sheets were cool and the scent of mint was in his mouth. Nice, beautiful sleep.

…

…

He’d thought, with the way his body felt, that he’d drift off right away, but from his nest under the covers, he felt suddenly wide awake. Wired awake. His leg started jumping a little, a nerve twitch in his calf that just wouldn’t go away.

“It’s just nerves,” Tony mumbled. Stupid contract. He didn’t want Hammer Industries getting it. Not Bain either. They’d try to weaponize it and that would be bad. Very bad. Had he checked the color protocols against the video footage? What if the bot had identified the wrong colors? What if, in the dark, it couldn’t make out color input? Tony hadn’t designed a night vision camera. Maybe he should–

He shook his head sharply. No. This was not the answer. There was plenty of time for tweaks later. What he needed right now was sleep. Even he could recognize when he was beyond being of any use to anyone, and he was there right now, already a lump of sleep-deprived meat.

“Sleep,” he said again, now a command. As if to make it a reality, he shifted in his bed, turning onto his other side and pulling the blankets into a tight burrito around him. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. It was all going to be fine. Just get some shut-eye and then work on tweaks. And Clint’s arm guards. And a stronger stretch material for Bruce’s pants. Something flame retardant.

The night wore on and Tony tossed and turned, but his brain couldn’t seem to shut down. He could recognize it, in a distant sort of way. Nervous thought spirals that took him further and further down the rabbit hole. When he’d gotten them as a teen and in his twenties, he’d self-medicated into a stupor, but he knew how Steve felt about that. Tony was better than that, now.

So instead he tried every trick in the book. Counting sheep. Counting breath. Imagining he was a melting snowman. Tensing and relaxing focused muscle groups. Listing the periodic table. He never got far though. The thought spirals intruded again and again. For hours he fought it until, rumpled and so dry he felt like a corn husk, he peeked out from beneath his blanket and saw that the sun was rising.

“What the fuck?” he whispered, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

“Sir?” JARVIS asked, quietly, almost hesitantly.

“J, blinds.”

“Sir, shall I–”

“Blinds, please.”

The windows tinted to matte gray, trapping Tony in darkness. That made it so much worse. So so much worse. Without the ambient city light, he was in space, in the suit, falling, dying, alone. With a desperate wheeze, Tony whipped away his blankets, looking down at the arc reactor, touching its smooth face, pressing his palm to it to feel the steady thrum beneath. Too much. Too damn much.

Heart pounding in his chest, Tony rose and stumbled out of the bedroom into the main room. If he couldn’t sleep, he damn well wasn’t going to stay in the dark. He weaved back and forth to the kitchen, eyes on his feet, so of course he he ran straight into someone.

“Tony?”

Clint. That was Clint. Should’ve recognized the dog PJ bottoms. Tony blinked up and flinched when Clint took a literal step back.

“Holy shit, man, what happened?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Can’t sleep.”

There’s a clunk of glass on marble somewhere behind Clint, and with great effort, Tony raised his head. Oh god. They were all there. Team breakfast. Was it Sunday? It must be Sunday. Fuck fuck fuck.

Bruce was the first to move again, standing from his chair at the table. “Tony, you’re not looking so great. When was the last time you were able to sleep?”

“Uh…”

“JARVIS?” Nat asked, bypassing him completely.

“Sir has been awake for sixty-two hours and forty-seven minutes.”

“Jesus, Tony,” Clint breathed. Tony realized Clint’s hand was on his shoulder, but he couldn’t remember how it got there.

“Tried,” he said, tongue thick. It was hard to get the words out. “Tried last night. Laid in bed. Counted. Stuff. Couldn’t.”

As though a whistle had been blown, the team leaped into action. Clint slung his arm over Tony’s shoulders and turned to look at Steve. Nat was already at the refrigerator, pulling out a gallon of milk. Bruce brushed past them both going…Tony wasn’t sure where. He blinked and when next he looked, Steve was right in front of him.

“–ony? Tony?”

“Sorry. Can’t. Word.”

“That’s ok, Tony. We’re going to get some food and water in you and Bruce is getting you something to help you sleep. Then you and I are going to bed.”

“We are?”

“Uh huh.”

Clint steered Tony into a chair and a moment later, something heavy fell over his chest and legs. He looked down to see a length of heavy red fabric. Thor’s cape. He was wearing Thor’s cape. And under that he was…naked? Except for socks. He was still wearing socks. Not naked.

“Here Tony. Can you drink this for me? Got you a straw to make it easier.” Nat set down a mug of milk in front of him, and he nearly dropped it when he touched the ceramic. He wasn’t expecting it to be warm. But still, he sipped at it through the straw, trying to answer Nat’s quiet smile with one of his own. He didn’t feel like smiling. Or drinking. But he forced himself to. Something inside him slowly began unclenching.

“Here Tony,” Steve said, setting down a bowl of oatmeal with banana coins on top. “Try eating a little for me. Just enough to help settle you.” Tony tried to reach for the spoon only to have it swim just out of grasp. Like an eel. He frowned down and tried again but it stubbornly remained out of reach.

“Spoon’s swimming,” he muttered out loud and tried using both hands. Only Clint at his side managed to keep the mug of milk from becoming a disaster as it dropped away.

“Ok, buddy,” he murmured setting the mug out of reach. “Let me help you with that spoon. They’re tricky, I know.” He helped wrap Tony’s clumsy fingers around the spoon and then guided him through the first few bites of oatmeal. It was nice. Not too sweet. Not too hot. Warm and grounding in his stomach. He blinked and realized Steve was there, looking down with that sad smile that wasn’t quite a real smile, that little pinch of skin between his eyes.

“Good, Tony. How are you feeling now? A little more settled.”

He wanted to respond, he did, but he could barely keep his eyes open anymore.

“Ok, Tony.”

That was Bruce. Bruce was back. “I brought you some melatonin and mild muscle relaxant. I know you prefer not to have that kind of thing in your system, but you’re so keyed up, I worry you might not get to REM before your muscles wake you back up again. Will you take it for me?”

Tony nodded and opened his mouth numbly, feeling the soft acrid weight of pills on his tongue. Someone put the straw back between his lips and he swallowed convulsively. It was so nice and warm. He almost believed sleep was possible.

And then he was going up. There were arms under his shoulders and knees, a furnace of heat against his side. Thor’s cape draped over him in what was probably a ridiculously dramatic affectation. He would’ve laughed if he could’ve.

“Do not disturb orders. Nat, if there’s an emergency, you’re in charge.”

Was this what flying felt like? No. Tony had flown before. Flying wasn’t as soft as this. He cracked his eyes. When had they gotten to the bedroom? The bedside light was on, and in its soft orange halo, Steve was undressing, He glanced over and caught Tony watching. “Hey. Hey, you’re doing great. Just close your eyes for me. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Tony could feel a thought spiral pressing at the back of his brain, but he closed his eyes anyway because Steve had asked it of him. A moment later, the bed dipped behind him and there was heat at his back, a great swatch of warm naked skin.

“Just gonna help you relax a little more. You just keep your eyes closed ok. Go to sleep if you can.”

Steve hands were on him. Smooth, strong, sure. And then he started kneading. Gentle squeezes along Tony’s triceps, soft circles across his shoulder blades, firm strokes along his lumbar and glutes. The warmth seemed to shoot straight through him, setting off some sort of chemical trigger in his brain. Little by little, his limbs melted into the mattress.

“Great job, Tony. You’re doing great.”

Tony wanted to tell Steve he was great, he was sweet and kind and caring, and Tony loved him. He wanted to tell him all that. But his tongue was melting into his teeth and his eyes couldn’t stay open anymore. Under Steve’s gentle massage, he finally, finally slept.