Realistic or Modern this is your pilot speaking, what in hell am i doing???

[hyakinthos]

This was not an unfamiliar picture: Mister Marco V. Fairchild, broad hands braced flat on the tabletop, neck craning to make sure he did not miss a single sequin on that stage. Hearts in his eyes, probably. A huge wad of ones folded in his pocket—what was a six-figure salary for, if you weren’t going to live like a rich asshole every once in a while?
Well, being ostentatiously rich and sexually aggressive might have worked better at a fancier club. (And he always kept his hands to himself, like a decent fucking human being.) No, Marco had been visiting this one since flight school—it was the only gay club on the subway line. And the drinks were cheap. And the cover was cheap. And his ex used to take him there.
And fine, Marco just liked strippers! Are you happy now? Is that such a crime? He was only a man! With a man’s courage!
Strippers, on the other hand, seemed otherworldly. Tall, lithe, glittering—how were there so many people that gorgeous in the world? In that one town? Or was it just that being on-stage, with no clothes on, turned a person into a demigod? Marco didn’t know. His uniform covered all but hands and face. He worked behind a closed door. There was a lot of romance in being a pilot, purportedly, but he had no idea where it was.
And also, Marco could not hang by his ankles from a huge metal pole, and all sexual intrigue aside, that was pretty cool.
So sue Marco, if he wanted to spend his Friday night (and about… fifty bucks) here, at this table, watching some cute, entirely unattainable bastions of humanity dance, and leaving all his problems at the door. So sue him.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

If there was anything JaeJae believed in, it was that being scantily clad could heal one's soul.

Sure, there wasn't quite any scientific evidence behind that statement, but after years of experience, the man was certain that this g-string was mending cracks in his spirit that he didn't even know about. It was nearly midnight, and swaying about in the crowd, working the tables was starting to make him itch for the stage once more. He could feel the body glitter, stuck to him with not only the power of makeup but with a light sheen of sweat as well. Something about glittering seemed fitting for him personally, mostly because he had a healthy glow triggered by doing a job he loved. The poles called for him and who was he to deny his regulars a show, hm?

Stepping backstage, (of course, it wasn't fantastic, considering that this wasn't the most posh strip club on this side of the city), he adjusted his tiny crop top of sorts.

"Cheyenne Pepper!"

The name was courtesy of a friend of his, and though he didn't really see the appeal of it, it had grown on him over the past year. Perhaps it was a comment on how he ate everything with a couple cups of sriracha on it, but hey, it was his name, and that meant that his hips were meant to be swaying on that stage. The lights shone upon him as he smirked, leaning out as he swung around the pole. Friday night was busy, as per usual, and it meant that he was going to enjoy himself. Hooking his leg around it, he raked a hand through his black hair, eyeing the crowd with a smile pulling up at his lips.

There was a face in front of him today that he recognized, one that he had not been properly acquainted with, but he'd seen him before. Since he was getting a front row seat to his show, perhaps he'd get to know him a bit more initimately now. Pulling himself up, held up by his thighs, he gave the other a quick wink: whether he caught him or not would be a mystery for now.

 

[hyakinthos]

Marco sipped at his drink—something fruity and pink that looked almost out of place with him—and watched the stage intently. It was like seeing a bird-watcher looking through his binoculars, except everything he was looking for was on full view. In other words, Marco thought as he shifted in the ripped crushed-velvet chair, he was /living./
It never did wear off, did it? The first time he’d walked through the door, age nineteen, wearing a Star Wars t-shirt, he’d near about died when he saw the dancers, and had left giggling madly—like he’d seen something he really shouldn’t have. Certainly, he’d learned to dress himself, and how to behave around sex workers, but… well, it was still pretty spellbinding.
And speaking of spellbinding… A new dancer prowled out on the stage, one Marco hadn’t quite gotten a good look at yet. Sure, he sort of recognized him, but, well… Apart from a few who he’d met early on, it was kind of hard to keep all the people straight. When there were so many things going on at once, so many people being so… distracting, at once, could you really blame a guy for not keeping great tabs on them? Marco was bad enough with names and faces when everyone had their clothes on.
But… but holy hell? Where had they been hiding this guy? Had Marco been blind all his life? Marco could feel himself blushing, his eyes going, if it was possible, even wider. The expression on his face shot up from ‘kid in a candy store,’ past ‘kid at Christmas,’ into some new, uncharted domain of awe. He probably looked like an idiot, but? Hell? Who cared? He was just another face in the crowd to this… to this demigod??
He was shiny. Shiny! Not just his clothes, his actual skin radiated light? (Granted, tons of dancers did this—it was nothing Marco had never seen before, but he’d kind of left rationality in his car.) And his hair was black as anything and he was strutting around on the stage like he owned it. Like he owned the whole club. Like he owned the whole world. And then he got up on that pole and… and… oh my God, did he… Did Stripper Jesus wink at him?
It was official. Marco Villanova Fairchild was in love. Stop the car. Inform the authorities. Call the presses. (Except don’t, because this happened pretty much every single time Marco saw a stripper.)
Abruptly, so much so that he nearly fell over, Marco got to his feet. He pressed through the crush of people, pressed himself to the stage. There was only one possible thing to do, when you’re rich and head over heels for such an angel.
Marco pulled the wad of money from his pocket and made it rain. Hurricane Marco. Category five. Good God, he was going to feel stupid about this in about an hour.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

This was where he belonged. Not nose deep in some textbook he'd rather let collect dust, not in some lab, not nestled on the lap of this particularly charming customer in uniform that he'd winked at (but that could be arranged later, perhaps), but here, upside down then rightside up on this pole like he owned it. And perhaps he did. He was about as acquainted with this fine metallic specimen as he was with his own body, so he knew what he could do with it. Slipping down lower, he eyed the other as he approached, like a dog with a wagging tail, holding, uh woah, that was a lot of singles-

And here he was.
Being bathed in money.

If he could jerk off right now, on stage, he'd do it. Was this a wet dream? Could he have this as one of his future wet dreams? Because he could think of few things that felt better than the ridiculous amount of money grazing against his legs and ankles as he slowly slid down the pole, now closer to the pilot. He made eye contact all the while, enjoying the look of amazement on his face thoroughly before pulling himself back up, thighs first and spinning himself around once more. He sure was laying it on heavy for someone who had just gotten to see his show today, but JaeJae definitely wouldn't complain. He was here to make sure he enjoyed himself and, goddamn, was he a perfectionist. The music pulled him every which way, his belly button piercing glinting in the light as he swayed, but he kept an eye on the other every once in a while, even when it neared his time to end his little show.

He'd be interesting, for sure.

Approaching him now, after patting himself dry from the sweat he'd worked up, he was smug, mostly because all the money had put him in a good mood. Hopefully all the ass in his face had done the same for the other.

"Thanks for the encouragement earlier." He greeted, chuckling as he stepped towards the pilots table, "I liked seeing your tongue wag, pfft."

 

[hyakinthos]

A lightbulb went on over Marco’s head. He understood now. Got it completely.

Clearly, he had not finished his flight home from Atlanta. He had crashed the plane square into some flyover state and died. He was dead. Over! Done! Finis!

And this—the guy, with the killer smile and about thirty of Marco’s dollar bills stuffed into his waistband, slinking over to him—was his eternal reward. Clearly, Marco had been very good in life. He wondered, very briefly, if anybody missed him too much.

But he didn’t have much time, much presence of mind to think about that for long because YEOWZA!! Good lord! Marco could have climbed up on the table and testified about this man, this Adonis, who smelled really good and was also, somehow, even shinier up close!

Marco’s eye twitched. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. He had the distinct feeling of being hot under the collar, even though he was wearing a t-shirt.

The guy started talking to him. Marco considered dropping to the floor and asking for his hand in marriage right then and there. He decided against it, though, because a wedding ring would probably have clashed terribly with his whole aesthetic. He settled on talking back instead.

Or rather, he would have, was his head not a large, steaming plate of scrambled eggs. Marco took a breath. He rallied. He called back his rational mind from where it was sitting, wiped the drool from its mouth, and hauled it bodily back into the cockpit, even as it tried to escape.
Words, Marco. Words. This is your pilot speaking. It is. He promises.

“Uh! Uh, yeah! Yeah, absolutely! Just—just supporting the local economy. You’re, uh, really good at your job!” he blurted, in his Outside Voice. Something inside him slapped its face and shook its head. You’re crashing and burning, Marco. Crashing and burning.

Right! Problem! Fix problem! Marco knew how to do that! He gathered up a fistful of money—what amounted to about fifteen dollars—and thrust his hand out towards the archangel before him. That’s how you fix a problem!

“They! Probably! Do not pay you enough to look that good!” he said, with dogged determination in his eyes.

It was the best he could do.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

The croptop barely hung over his chest flashed the word 'TASTY' in blocky lettering, probably gathering up body glitter from the rest of him. The outfits, the makeup, the production of it all was one of his favorite things about being here. Feeling the dollar bills against his skin was a close second though, being a lovely added perk.

The previous owner of the money had a wagging tongue that seemed to have tied itself up quite nicely, all into a little bow just for him. How cute. He obviously wasn't new, and he obviously had a lot of cash to blow, so what was with the fumbling? JaeJae quirked a pointed eyebrow at him, at the volume chosen for his words, leaning onto his table, closer to the other. "The local economy thinks you're cute when you stutter." He almost drawled, amusement slick in his voice, "If the local economy is just me, at least. Might as well be with the way you've been staring at me, though."

He didn't deal with many nervous types. Cheyenne Pepper was perhaps a bit too spicy for newbies, ha! It was mostly because he had regulars that kept him busy, whether they be his, or passed off from another performer, but usually the people that he dealt with could get a sentence together just fine. ... Speaking of just fine, seeing this guy a little closer was definitely not a bad choice. Eyes obviously trailing across the other with light approval, he then eyed the money pushed towards him.

"Ooh," he started, pushing the bills into the strings pulled across his hips, faking a playful contemplative look, "You're right. They don't. But it looks like you will. Want anything for that generous tip?" With the look of this guy's build, he should've probably been asking him to give him a generous tip, if you know what I mean. He was laying it on a bit thick, but it was playful anyways, if this guy wanted something, he was more than willing to show him a good time.

 

[hyakinthos]

It was dark in the club. Atmospheric. And Marco himself was pretty dark, too—so he figured, probably, that Cheyenne Pepper (Good GOD was he going to hate that pun in the morning) couldn’t see him blushing to the tips of his fucking ears.
Which was probably an impossible dream, considering that he could barely speak and was also making the Worst Face In The World. Which, well, he would probably also hate in the morning. If he remembered. He was drunk. He was very, very drunk—being permanently jet-lagged would do that to you. And it probably had something to do with the three chocolate martinis. You know.
So no. Not a cute look to have when you were being sized up by an angel in spike heels.
But still. This creature of otherworldly beauty had told him he was cute when he stuttered. Marco may have been a messy bitch, but he was a messy bitch who knew no shame, and whose ecstasy propelled him through the roof. He had to have more of this. Had to plumb the depths of Cheyenne Pepper’s soul, or at least the parts that were, like, sexy and fun.
A won-the-lottery smile split his face—it looked a little out of place on a grown-ass man, built like a brick shit-house. He was absolutely, 100 per cent ready to dig deeper in his pockets, feed money into this GORGEOUS VALIDATION MACHINE, but then.
Oh, but then! With sly smiles! The dangling offer of a good time! Like the sword of Damocles over his head, but much nicer and way, way less sharp! Marco could have spontaneously combusted right at that moment, and he probably wouldn’t have cared. He’d have accomplished everything he’d ever wanted in his life.
So he gave a BIG thumbs-up, a huge toothy grin, and staggered over to the nearest chair, nearly falling over at least twice. It was probably frightening to onlookers—was that guy going to die, was he going to hurt himself, was he going to throw up in my purse—but it just made Marco’s journey more fun. He slammed his ass down in the chair and waved a couple dollar bills around like pennants, like he was on Team Sexual Favors for Monetary Compensation.
“Y-you gorgeous… you absolute specimen! How much more money do you want for a lapdance?”

 

[PavellumPendulum]

He could smell the alcohol on him.

Then again, he could smell the alcohol on just about anything. The club was no place for sobriety and the stench absolutely loved to get soaked up into every surface in sight. Every time he bused home in the wee hours of the morning, he could feel it cling to him, refusing to wash out from time to time. Twelve in the afternoon was no time to be waking up bleary-eyed with the sheets smelling like vodka, but there were times when he couldn't help it. He also couldn't help stubbing his toe on the dresser in the dead of the night, forgetting people's names within the millisecond and oh, one more thing: teasing this guy, apparently.

Licking his lips as he watched the stud make an absolute mess of himself just getting into a chair, he adjusted himself before clicking over on his heels. Four inches was nothing to scoff at, and it boosted him to a respectable 6'3'', leaving him practically towering over the drunkard who was practically slouching into the bottom of his seat. Swiveling his hips in front of the other, he inched closer, holding onto other tables for support. "Wanna give me your name? I'll make this real nice for you." His words were quieter due to proximity but still held that chuckling undertone. The rhythm of the current song bounced him around, briefly into the others lap then out and about again, now facing the other way.

"Twenty is good enough for this." He stated over his shoulder, gesturing to the thin strings holding not only his most sacred bits, but all the money he'd been showered in as of today. Tonight's paycheck was going to be something worth whistling at, most definitely.

 

[hyakinthos]

Marco was pretty certain that he was about to die. Like, seventy percent, at the very least. The only question was /how—/ was he going to spontaneously combust, or skip the flames and go straight to the vaporization? Either way, the physical representation of the song ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ was, like, really really close to him—like, you know, ON him—all of a sudden, so death could not be far.
He’d pretty well spaced out, contemplating his approaching mortality in vague phrases, the odd cartoonish image—but then the idea that yes, money was to be exchanged for this hit him like a static shock and he burst back into action. He fumbled with his wallet—it was a fancy one, and he’d bought it as retail therapy after striking out with a dude. So. Probably fitting.
Marco dug out a twenty, his love having progressed to the point where he was prepared to eschew small bills. Also, he’d pretty much forgotten the sizable tip he’d just given the guy. Had he been present enough to calculate, perhaps he might be… amazed? Astonished? Mortified? By the fact that this man had somehow managed to part Marco from some… /sixty/ of his hard-earned dollars, within five minutes of seeing him. Without even knowing his name. (That’s twelve dollars a minute!)
It was probably a blessing that Marco was too drunk to remember his credit card PIN.
With hot, sweaty hands, Marco slipped the bill into the guy’s g-string. And then, for want of any kind of coordination, let it snap back, like he was twelve years old and he’d just snapped some girl’s bra strap. Marco considered this image. He laughed, completely gracelessly. It was not a cute look.
Marco then recalled that he’d been asked his name. A loose wire snapped to. He thought, in a flash of clarity, ‘My dignity!’ And then he lost it again and came out with, “Marco V. Fairchild! Captain! Sir!” which was not really the intended effect.
God, Marco was a loser. Even if he did fly airplanes.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

It would be an understatement to say that JaeJae loved his job. JaeJae could even say that perhaps he'd been made for his job. His father had probably hacked out half a lung when he'd stated he'd quit his job to become a stripper, though his other father (yep, he had two dads, which he lovingly addressed as Big Dad and Dad) had given him a prompt high five. Though this wasn't the most conventional job, there was little he could dislike about the eyes on him, the music carrying him and the tips that rained upon him night after night. The other was giggling drunkenly, and though JaeJae raised an eyebrow at him, he himself couldn't help but chuckle lightly.

He was drunk out of his mind, poor guy. ... Not that the Korean was complaining though, seeing how well-endowed the others wallet was. Brushing against him slightly as the lapdance continued seemed to prove that his wallet wasn't the only thing well-endowed about him either, hm. His name came out in spurts, as if he was just remembering who he was. "Marco, hm." The name rolled off of the strippers tongue easily, and he held eye contact with the man briefly, licking his lips for effect, "Well, Marco. I think I like the way you look at me. We're gonna get along juuuuust fine, heh." He practically purred into his ear. The lapdance ended with the final beat of the current song, and the man finally took a step back, hand on his hip.

"Thanks for picking me tonight, hope you'll come see me again." JaeJae almost chirped, pleased with his work, "Of course, if you want anything else after-hours, I might be interested..." he mentioned, tapping a finger on his cheek, eyes elsewhere in an almost playful expression, "You can find me later if you want a taste, ha."

And with that, he spun on his heels, off to do some more business.

 

[hyakinthos]

Marco stared into the stripper’s eyes the best he could, his drunken head listing back and forth a little. He smiled, a big goofy stupid thing you might expect to find on the face of a cartoon character who’d just been hit real good over the head. Cheyenne Pepper was preeeeeeetty.
Pretty, but also saying words, and maybe doing a little less grinding. Which was unfortunate. It occurred to Marco that the song was over, and that the dance was over, and that this was an incomprehensibly sad fact. He considered throwing money at this burgeoning problem until it went away and he was back on a fast track to Sex-Work-Ville, population, these two. But then, something caught his attention. Like, so much that he wished he wasn’t so drunk so that he could process it properly.
Something about a little something extra, after the bar closed. Something about, perhaps, getting on the interchange and heading instead to Pound Town. In the carpool lane.
You know. /Sex./ Marco giggled, nodding frantically. That did sound like a good idea.
You know, one of those very good, very illegal ideas. They were rare, in Marco’s mind, but he seemed to have encountered one anyway.
Marco bade a very fond farewell to Cheyenne Pepper, and watched as he walked away—he hated to see him leave but adored to watch him go.
And with that he settled in, pulling out his stack of ones to wait until closing time.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

Now if only all his encounters could go that smoothly.

It would've made his job a whole lot easier, but he supposed such things were impossible in an imperfect world. Having all the loaded, dashing young men prancing into his strip club, a couple drinks away from collapsing their livers was perhaps a bit too convenient for him. God said you could only have one blessing, and JaeJae's just happening to be being gifted with his hips. Said hips were in motion, captivating gazes and swaying above laps as the night rolled on, the stripper glancing over to Marco every once in a while, as if to check if he'd given up. Apparently his offer had been good enough though, seeing as the other hadn't left with the final wave of customers, leaving the club emptier as the minutes ticked on. Sure, he was a bit tired, but that didn't mean he was up to spreading his legs one more time, for a different pole, of course. Marco's pole. Wink.

Ha. If only people could hear his thoughts. He'd be a public menace.

As the later patrons began to be escorted out by security, the staff preparing to close up, the man slid over to his companion for the night briefly, "Step outside, it's closing time. I'll meet you there in a sec." He informed him, in a more matter of a fact tone than he'd used all night, though still keeping that grin on his lips. Now he just had to get changed and they'd be ready to indulge privately.

Getting all the body glitter off was probably the longest part of cleaning up, but he supposed leaving some spots by accident wouldn't hurt anyone, as usual. That stuff was long lasting and definitely great, but it wasn't really a fun thing to get rid of at the end of the night. Slipping into skinny jeans and a loose fitting v-neck of sorts, he waved off his coworkers before meeting Marco in the front of the club. "Hey there. You sober enough to get to your car, pfft?"

 

[hyakinthos]

The bar was finally closing, and Marco was feeling absolutely incredible about life in general. Job? Great. Self-esteem? Great. Taxes? Great. Lackluster love life? Extra great. Greatgreatgreatgreatgreat. Everything was comin’ up Marco.
He’d spent the past few hours putzing around the club, strutting here and there and just generally making a spectacle of himself, and how excellent everything was. Dancer’s cute? Give him twenty bucks. Favorite song playing? Bust a move. At the bar? Buy a round. Cut off from said bar? Well… that’s probably for the best.
So, three hours and four glasses of club soda later, Marco was, well, a little less drunk. How drunk? Put it this way: he was sober enough to wonder whether it was thirstier to pay for sex or to wait around for four hours in order to do so, but drunk enough to still think both of those were good ideas. (ARTISTIC LICENSE: ALCOHOL I HAVE NEVER HAD A DROP.) So— a very fun, very chill Marco, but also probably a Marco who could be trusted to navigate back to his apartment building.
So Marco felt fairly confident on his way out of the building, even on top of the residual vodka and the fact that he was about to get /laid and biscuits./ He waited around a minute, humming a song and wondering, without judgment, whether someone important had seen him in the club and could ruin his career.
He was almost getting around to freaking out about it when JaeJae appeared, dressed in street clothes and still somehow looking like he could fuck the sun if he wanted to. That made Marco remember that everything was fine. Absolutely, wonderfully, perfectly fine. So he smiled wide and, for God’s sakes, waved, striding over and saying, probably at least a little too loudly, “Hey! Uh! I don’t know your name! But I’m ready to go if you are!” This drew looks, from people who wondered if people actually lived like that.
“Uh,” said Marco blithely, as his eyes lingered on JaeJae for perhaps too long. The hearts in his eyes were back with a vengeance. “Yeah! No! I will get arrested if I try to do that! Howzabout,” he said, almost comedically conspiratorial, “we walk to a hotel?”
Truth be told, there was an ulterior motive to this. Marco, who had by this point regained at least a part of his capacity for rational thought, really just didn’t want the sex worker he’d hired to come home and see all his Star Wars posters. One does one’s best.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

He was a lot less drunk, it seemed, when JaeJae had approached him, but his lack of control over his volume seemed to say otherwise. Light amusement coated the Korean's features, a pointed eyebrow quirked up as he glanced about at the various people roaming the night time streets and casting odd looks upon the pair. Marco was a cute drunk, that was for sure, and it seemed to flip some switch in JaeJae, he could swear, because that huge lopsided grin was making the stripper smile a little too much. "Could've sworn Cheyenne Pepper was my birth name. Guess I've got some identity issues to work through, hmm." It was little more than an extra sarcastic quip for fun, but it helped him dodge the name question for now anyways. He stepped past him, towards the closest decent hotel he knew of. Unless Marco wanted to direct him into a world famous hotel, he'd go with what he was used to for now.

The other's eyes on him were a treat. "A hotel is fine with me."

The walk wasn't too long, and JaeJae tried to keep an even pace, enough to stay in front of Marco, but not enough to leave him in the dust. His boots clicked into the cement with each stride of his long legs, as he kept glancing slightly over his shoulder to check on the other, a smile playing upon his lips every time. "Are you alright back there, Marco? Hope you have a nice view, pfft." He called out a bit teasingly as they approached the hotel, the street lights illuminating the way.

 

[hyakinthos]

Marco grinned, speeding up his clumsy steps in order to keep pace. “Yeah!” he called, jubilant, his voice in a rather higher part of his usual register. “I’m doin’ great back here! You have a cool ass!” he said, and then gasped, slapping a sweaty hand over his mouth. “Oops! Haha!”
He finally came up in step, very nearly crashing into JaeJae as he did. Or rather, he did crash into him, and simply very narrowly avoided some sort of shove-related misadventure. It was only by the grace of God that /someone/ didn’t roll an ankle in their fuck-me shoes and /someone else/ didn’t have to foot the bill for a steamy night in the emergency room.
Marco peeled himself off, but kept pretty close—likely too close, but he’d long ago tossed social graces to the wind. Marco’s flickering intelligence told him that if he didn’t get some sort of physical contact rolling now, he very likely would not know what to do with himself later. And that he’d probably do something terrible. It just… probably hadn’t translated super well.
Marco giggled, cheeks so red that JaeJae could probably feel the heat rolling off of him. “Hm! How /you/ doin’?” It was. He was doing his best.
Only, Marco didn’t need to wait for an answer, because just then they rounded a street corner—or rather, JaeJae rounded the corner, and Marco sort of… straggled along at something resembling a ninety-degree angle— and there it was! The promised land! A mid-range, chain hotel that presumably, nobody in the world had ever been as happy to see as Marco was right then. The hotel! All was well with the world!
Marco flashed a grin and barreled for the doors—the revolving doors. In which he promptly… either… got lost, or decided to stay for a while. It was the sort of thing that would have been completely unclear to the casual observer, of which there were several. Businessmen glared. Tourists giggled. A couple of drunks, staggering back from the hotel bar, stared, and though they laughed loud and open there was a cosmic sort of recognition in their eyes.
But Marco, great pilot that he was, eventually navigated out, gave JaeJae a massive thumbs up, and strutted, with the cocksure casualness of a rich man, to the desk.
He beamed at the bleary receptionist. He’d done this a million times before. He was. So good. At hotel. The receptionist asked how she could be of assistance.
Marco blanched. He dropped his credit card—an impressive thing, slate gray, the sort of thing that might have the word “EXECUTIVE” on it— on the counter.
He had absolutely no idea what else he was supposed to do. It was like a nightmare— you show up for your math exam and you have never been to this class before. You know none of the answers, and you are naked. He whirled his head around, practically screaming MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

Was he getting drunker? Was that even possible? He was stumbling, and JaeJae considered stopping just to give him something to hold onto: he had a pretty face and the Korean man wasn't enough of an asshole to let him trip on himself and ruin it. ... Especially not before he was about to (hopefully) get a good dicking. He was aware that that wasn't really a word, but he didn't quite have the time to think on it, seeing as when they'd entered the hotel, Marco was making sure everyone knew he wasn't sober. Thankfully, JaeJae wasn't one for second hand embarrassment, because hoo boy, if he had been... This would've been a lot worse. Thumbs hooked into his pockets, he watched the other navigate through the lobby, expensive shoes clicking on clean floors before he approached the receptionist. Stepping closer behind the other, the stripper only watched as the other fumbled with his own tongue, doing nothing but pressing a credit card to the desk.

Right. Uh... Maybe he should step in.

The receptionist seemed to stop bothering to ask Marco what he needed when the other approached, graceful when placed beside him. Sure, Marco was built, handsome and had a credit card that looked like it could be used at the pearly gates themselves, but he had words caught in his throat, and the receptionist's job was not to gawk.

With a bit of fumbling, soon JaeJae was holding the plastic key card to a room with a king sized bed. Flashing it at the other with a grin, he passed him back his credit card, heading down the hallway to jump into the elevator. Sex was one of the things JaeJae loved most in the world, and he wasn't about to postpone it much longer if he could help it. Now if only Marco could stop practically tripping over himself and get into this elevator and hopefully be sober enough to get the job done once they got into the room... Sigh. He'd assume getting him off wasn't too much to ask, pfft.

"So, we have 2 minutes 'til we get to our room, Marco. Wanna tell me more about yourself before we move onto the more primal stuff?" he asked, though it was a bit laughingly and uncertain at the same time, "If you can think straight enough, pfft."

 

[hyakinthos]

“Can’t think straight!” Marco proclaimed, skimming his fingers over the ugly wallpaper as they walked. “I’m just too gay.” He stopped on a dime, staring up into the ceiling tile and looking as if he was thinking very hard. Thoughts ran around his head like rabbits, and it was more than his share of work to chase them back into their hutch.
“I dunno!” he said brightly, starting up again just as suddenly as he’d stopped. “It’s me, Marco! They let me fly planes, I read lots of nerdy books…” He trailed off, screwing his face up as he remembered that the super cool, smooth actual hooker he was talking to was not supposed to know that! “And my love life is shit, so there’s that! But… but that’s all! That’s me,” he said, as if he hadn’t just spilled his entire guts in a single sentence. What was next? ‘I feel insecure because I was bullied as a child? My mother worked for much of my youth and was never home? It was hard growing up in my stepfather’s white gated community as the Latino child of an immigrant woman?’ Honest to God!
But Marco wasn’t really worried about all of this, and the part of him that was had been partitioned off behind a pleasant vodka haze. God, did those martinis do the job!
So he loped along, smiling and showing off the crooked teeth that even braces couldn’t fix, as blithe as a child about to fall down a well. Except, you know, he was about to have drunken sex with a stripper and any analogy to children really didn’t hold up at all. Let’s just say: he was having the time of his fuckin’ life, walking through the winding hallways, hearing air conditioners whirring, late-night TV bleeding through the walls, a few people with the same sordid ideas that he did. At any other time, he’d have thought it was a little creepy, but now it could have been home. He could have felt at home in an active volcano, though, so take that shit with a grain of salt.
A thought came to him, and he gasped—as if the idea that he was still capable of concrete thoughts surprised him. (Not really. He wasn’t THAT drunk, give the kid some credit!) “Hey! Hey! I told you all about me, what about you? You’re a cool guy, really cute… come on!”
As he said this, he brushed right past the door to their room—though he wouldn’t have known it if it bit him on the dick—and just kept on walking.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

The stripper couldn't help but let out a hearty laugh, doubling over briefly, mid-walk when the other made his whole quip about being too gay to think straight. It was a low hanging fruit of a joke, but the fact that this obviously well-off man was making it while barely being able to avoid the walls in the hallway certainly made it funnier. He could only wonder how straight laced the other was when he was sober, seeing how being drunk usually unlocked much more enthusiastic sides of people. Well, for JaeJae, it just made him horny, which was his default mood in the first place, really, Drunk JaeJae just reinforced that as a priority.

Marco gave him bits and pieces of himself, and JaeJae somehow sorted them out in the word vomit. He was a pilot (mm, explained the thick wallet), he read nerdy books (ugh, JaeJae barely even thought about books now) and he had a shitty love life. Well, that explained why he was here with him then.

Stopping at their room whilst Marco ambled by, he watched him amusedly, letting him pass a few more rooms before he called after him. "Well, you're right about me being cute. I'd tell you more if you weren't all the way over there and not in our room, ha." Unlocking it as the other was most likely stumbling back over to him, he laid his purse of sorts down on the counter on the way in. The room was nothing to gasp at, but it certainly wasn't the worst place JaeJae had ever spread his legs. He could think of a far worse situation.

"Well, I'm a stripper. You knew that." he started, as the other entered, now sitting on the bed, "I love spicy food, so my friends came up with the name Cheyenne Pepper for me, pfft. And I've never had a love life, so mine can't be shit since it doesn't exist." He finished, matter of a factly, then giggling afterwards, "Not interested in being tied down. ... Unless it's for kinky shit."

 

[hyakinthos]

It was like a vaudeville show—as soon as JaeJae opened the door to the room, Marco sped in like someone’d hooked him with an invisible cane. Marco paid little attention to the room, drunk as he was, but had he been sober he would have spent some time in checking it out. He’d stayed in hotel rooms in nearly every major city in America, and quite a few elsewhere, and he’d become something of a connoisseur—not that he was a snob. This room was almost exactly mid-range, the sort of place where there’d be cable TV and no stains on the carpet, but the bedclothes miiiiight smell like piss. Marco dropped face-first onto the bed. It did, and he turned over, wrinkling his nose.
And this. This was good. Soft bed. Hot boy. Lots of money. Lots of alcohol. Marco was never the sort of person to complain—he just hadn’t been brought up that way, and he lived kind of a charmed life anyway—but this was living. Marco adored it.
So he lay back for a moment, listening to whatever little factoids JaeJae thought might be alright to share with the manic drunk man he was about to lower himself to have sex with, smiling angelically—if this hypothetical angel had just gotten whacked over the head with some kind of celestial frying pan. It was nice! Everything was so nice.
Marco parsed all this information, rolled it around like marbles in his head, and came up with this: “Hey! Spicy food! Me too! Love that shit… Hehe. Spicy boys.”
Ooh. Kinky shit? /Spicy/ boy. Marco laughed. But no, now was not the time to consider this. Now was not the time to use his brain. Now was the time for a trip to Pound Town, and you can leave everything else at home! No worries! No anxiety! God, could Marco have drunk sex all the time? It sounded great! Fantastic! And look at who he gets to do it with!
If it was possible for Marco to look more blissed-out, for his face to be any redder, he did and it was. (And it would probably only get worse! He wondered if spontaneous human combustion cost extra.) He sat bolt upright on the bed, answering a cue known only to him, and blurted out the next words that came into his head, which were as follows:
“Hey! You’re the best let’s bonk how much???”
And the people in the next room could absolutely hear him.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

The Latino's body flew through the door and onto the bed like his life depended on it, and the other watched him, imagining him out of that uniform briefly. Of course, he wouldn't have to imagine long, since that was the perk of this job. It wasn't every day that he reeled in such a good one though. He ought to celebrate tomorrow. Perhaps some reruns of The Bachelorette and a couple beers would be celebratory enough. You could only imagine what he did for fun on his off days (his guilty pleasure was stupid reality TV shows). When he wasn't working the pole, he found solace in lazing around, much to the discontent of those close to him, oops. Most were used to it by now though.

"It's too bad that you're gonna be drunk for all of tonight, because I'm honestly kinda curious to see how you are when you don't smell like tequila." JaeJae mused, leaning back slightly and placing a hand on Marco's (unfortunately clothed) chest as the other laid on the bed, "I'm guessing you don't say shit like 'spicy boys', pfft." Trailing his hand down to the other's stomach, Marco sat upright suddenly, making the other retract his hand, only to be graced with his next words.

God, he couldn't stifle that one either. He burst into a laugh, body hunching over as his forehead seemed to find it's place on Marco's shoulder, attempting to steady him. "You're, god, what? Oh. My god." Shaking his head as he calmed himself, he pulled himself into the other's lap, now straddling him and leaning in close. "150 an hour, Marco. That's all I need. That, and your pants off."

(ill timeskip after your next reply LOL)

 

[hyakinthos]

A hundred fifty? Shit! That wasn’t that much! Marco could make that much money before the plane even took off. He could keep this guy here forever, looking fly as hell and laughing at his shitty jokes and sitting on him, which, wow. God, why didn’t Marco do this more often?
But yes! That was not a lot of money! (At least, not to Drunk Marco. Sober Marco would probably cry the next time he balanced his budget.) Not a lot of money for something that was excellent now and quickly getting better! Marco was nearly vibrating with how excellent this experience was, and the cork on his mouth shook loose.
“WOWTHAT’SINCREDIBLETAKEMYCREDITCARD!” he blurted, far too loud for such an intimate space, and his eyes were wide like manhole covers. He tried to put the swimming digits of his social security number into order, just so this guy could take it and run him into the ground and never, ever, ever stop being like this. Marco tried, but he just couldn’t comprehend how wonderful this was.
After a moment of that, though, he remembered that he was not supposed to be thinking about money. He was supposed to be thinking about, like, the thing that the money was for. The sex. Yes. And his eyes lit up, again if that was possible, and he looked like a kid who had asked for a pony for their birthday and gotten one. Like he’d won the lottery, ignoring the fact that the thrill of winning the lottery is kind of ruined by buying several thousand tickets.
But no. No more thoughts. Nothing but instinct from here on out— and not even the proper kind. Not the kind that you could use while you were flying a plane, that you could use to catch your coffee cup when it’s about to fall off the table. The kind that drives people to do things like jam their hands down, effectively punching their /friends/ in the thighs as they tear their pants off and try to pull them over the shoes they hadn’t bothered to remove. Like Marco was doing.
God, this was going to be incredible. For Marco, and Marco alone.

 

[PavellumPendulum]

Marco talked like he was a flashy commercial. He was built like a Greek god and as red a a human could possibly get right now, and wow, JaeJae was having a hard time comparing him to things while he was getting naked with him half on him. Of course, that was what he wanted him to do, but perhaps he should've waited before getting on his lap. Yeah, well... Too late now. Now was the time for more primal senses, so everything else might as well have been left outside the hotel room door.

Now was the time for JaeJae's favourite pastime.

The next morning, though, was time for JaeJae to roll over in bed, sheets crumpled up around his legs, eyes bleary at 10 in the morning. Not surprisingly, Marco was fast asleep next to him, face buried deep inside his pillow with no sign of return. If there was anything the Korean hated, it was mornings. Now, this could be classified as approaching the afternoon, but of course, he didn't want to think about that. All he wanted to think about, was how he needed to take a shower. Pushing the other's various limbs off of him, he slid out of bed with a case of bedhead anyone would regret, yawning and scratching his ass unashamedly along the way.

Gathering his things now, he eyed his one night stand briefly, gazing at the curve of his back, still motionless on the bed. Ah, that was a nice view. Pulling a hotel brand notepad from the desk, he took it upon himself to not leave the other empty handed. Though it wasn't very generous (unlike the all the tips he'd received from him yesterday, yikes), he left the other a note.

'thanks for a great night ♥'

Eyeing his scribbled in heart for a moment, he added, '- Cheyenne Pepper'.

And with that, he left the other, asleep in the king size bed.

 

[hyakinthos]

Marco… existed. That much he knew. Was he still alive? Debatable. Life was pain, and he felt pain, but that could also be the torments of hell. His head hurt—that was the first thing he registered, this sharp slamming pain like a railroad spike driving through his skull. And his throat burned. And his stomach roiled, full of what was once chocolate martinis and would soon be vomit, and he jerked and rolled over and then it was, all over the carpet.
It was only then that he opened his eyes. The light from the windows seared his eyes, and he shut them again, retreating to gather the courage to do it again.
H-hotel room? Yeah, probably. Not so unusual, not for Marco. But he didn’t think he’d been working. Certainly, he’d been drinking, and alcohol and planes didn’t mix. He’d never drink out on business… would he? No.
Marco coaxed himself into a sitting position, wiping his mouth and cradling his head. Clothes everywhere. Bedclothes rumpled. The bright red face of the alarm clock read out 3:30 PM, which… fuck.
Something on the bedside table. Something white, something paper, something written…
Oh, fuck. Well. That was… edifying. Marco groaned, fell back on the bed, shut his eyes again.
Ninety minutes, three ibuprofen, a Gatorade, and a very large tip later, Marco sat in a taxi headed for home, doing his best not to throw up on the seats.

After two days of what might best be described as ‘damage control’, Marco left his apartment and walked five minutes to the gas station on the corner. He needed milk and soda and chips, and he’d probably get one of those little newsprint sudoku books, to do during layovers, and he made quick work of the shopping list. He really felt much better—ego a little bruised, but, you know. It wasn’t the end of the world. He hired a prostitute, plenty of people do that. Really. He had to stop thinking about it, had to get back on the straight and narrow, back to the real world. Fly some planes. Get a date.
A familiar undercut jostled him out of his thoughts, startling him so that he very nearly dropped the milk. It was attached to a tall, handsome Korean man, the sort of face one might expect to see in one of those perfume ads that were basically softcore porn. It wasn’t a face that was easy to forget, and Marco absolutely hadn’t.
Everything else, though…
“Hey there!” Marco said, curiosity getting the better of him for about the millionth time. He shifted his groceries so he could extend an arm for a handshake. (Marco’s handshakes were very firm, a point of pride.) “’Scuse me, but I’m just the worst with faces… But I swear I know you from somewhere! You ever go to flight school?” There was a brief pause as he studied the man’s face, /how could he forget such a pretty face,/ and then he continued. “My name’s Marco, if it helps.”

 

[PavellumPendulum]

The Bachlorette had kept him on his couch for a solid 2 hours after he'd returned home, to his tiny apartment with shitty floors and orange walls. JaeJae didn't exactly live in the lap of luxury, but it's not as if he minded much. He liked to do little to nothing with his spare time other than watching TV, so really, it's not like he needed a 5 star living space. Licking his fingers clean of chip dust (BBQ flavor, his favorite) and taking large gulps of his beer, he celebrated the hefty amount of cash he'd made the night before. Man, he'd have to tell Hyun Ae about this later. Though his brother didn't care much for hearing about his endeavors, he liked to tell him anyways. He needed something to babble about when he visited in the first place, the other wasn't much of a talker, oddly enough.

The days passed with JaeJae going out to do errands every once in a while, and working up a sweat at the club. His life progressed as it should, and things would've gone according to plan if this world hadn't suddenly become so small for some reason. Perhaps the fates were testing him. Perhaps all those hours of The Property Brothers had cursed him. All he knew right now though, is that in this gas station, where he was modestly dressed in a hoodie and sweats, holding a bag of sealed beef jerky, Marco V. Fairchild was talking to him.

The other didn't seem to remember him, but JaeJae wasn't exactly keen on getting involved with customers for non-business purposes. Sex was one thing, but friendships? Preposterous! Flicking his gaze over to him after staring at his beef jerky for a moment more, the Korean man took the handshake in his other hand, although it was a bit awkwardly. "Uh, hey, Marco. Yeah, I know you. Kind of, pfft." He replied, letting his hand drop to his side, tone casual as he attempted to navigate the conversation, "Definitely not flight school though. Unless flight school you went to flight school piss drunk."

 

[hyakinthos]

Marco studied the guy carefully— he was, like, all the way hot—to see if he could hear any bells. Nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Not from high school, not from flight school or work— maybe he just travelled a lot? Or they visited the same places? Who knew.
And then—well, that would explain it. Marco didn’t exactly make a habit of being drunk, he was a real-ass adult with a demanding job and, like, a desire to not become a raging alcoholic, but, you know. He had his fun. And went a little overboard. A lot overboard. All the way overboard, into the cold cold ocean. So yeah. It was possible. That he had met a person when drunk. And forgotten all about it.
Marco laughed, one of his broad hands landing on the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah… I have my fun, you know? I just hope I didn’t get too rowdy on you!” he said, with only the littlest bit of embarrassment. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and he wholeheartedly accepted that it would not be the last.
“Yeah, uh, I sort of remember now!” It was true, that same face, same fantastic undercut had flashed through his head, with dim lights and loud music and more glitter than is legal in some countries.
And then, suddenly, a key turned in a lock somewhere.
Marco did not feel cheerful. He did not feel conversational. He did not feel accepting of the fact that he would ever interact with another human being whilst drunk again, or that he would ever drink another drop, for that matter.
Because Marco remembered. Not all of it, no—the details were lost, but there was enough there to piece together—there was enough. To know. That this was a very bad situation. He felt that his legs were justified in shaking, that it was completely reasonable that a little spike of adrenalin went shooting through his veins.
“Uh,” he said, after a very long time. “Sorry. Um. Yes. I remember.” He put on his Work Voice—not the cheery one he adopted for his copilot, not the steady, mature tone he used for the passengers, but the voice he might use to talk to his boss. Or God.
“Uhhh…” His eyes flickered around, looking for some kind of out, some kind of band-aid he could put on this stapled finger of the soul. There was nothing.
“Hey, uh, let me pay for those groceries!”
Goddammit, Marco.