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He’s an hour into his shift, and he’s already had to tell a heavy breather how good his dick feels, and another guy just how pretty his heels are. He’s been aimlessly playing Candy Crush the entire time, and has just run out of lives.
He sends a quick request to Sara, at the desk across from him for more, and is greeted with a middle finger. The only other person he knows awake at this time is Mick, and he’s told Len in no uncertain terms that he will tear his arms off if he ever sends him another request.
So for the next twenty minutes, Leonard Snart will be a model sex phoneline worker.
The clock ticks over to 1AM, and his phone lights up. He takes a moment to remind himself that he’s doing this for his sister’s college fund, and that eating something might be nice in the next few days, and hits the answer button.
“Hey gorgeous, I’m Leo. What’s your pleasure, stranger?”
He hates himself, and hopes he dies soon.
The voice on the other end of the line sounds like they’re stifling a giggle. Usually he’d guess a woman, they’re generally the ones who realise how utterly ridiculous this entire endeavour is and have a sense of humour about the whole thing. The men usually take it deadly serious. Until told otherwise though, Len would peg that for a man’s voice, and for some reason that just gets his hackles up.
He starts drawing tiny knives on the post it pad in front of him, “Something funny, baby?”
“Um. No, no, I just... I’m a little drunk and I can’t believe I’m doing this!”
Wonderful. Len does enjoy the drunk ones.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, baby. We’ve all got needs. What are yours?”
Len quickly notes down the pet names he’s used on his pad, to make sure he doesn’t overuse one. Two babies in two sentences, that’s a no-no. The difference between a two minute jerk off and an hour long S&M fantasy is in the petnames.
“Company.” The voice says.
Len drops his head to his desk, and has to fight the urge to start groaning. He’s lonely, and he’s drunk, and Len is going to have a sobbing mess on his hands on about thirty seconds. An ex-boyfriend left him because he stopped looking after himself. A wife couldn’t handle the fact her husband enjoyed their son’s wrestling tournaments too much. He’s heard it all.
“Aw, cutie like you, I’m sure you’re not short of company.” Len turns his head, so he’s laid on one side. Sara is giving him looks from her desk. He scribbles ‘company!’ on a post it and holds it up to her.
She laughs, doodles on her own pad and holds up a stick figure hanging from some gallows.
“Well, no. I mean, I have people around and I have friends and actually a lot of options for sexual partners.”
“And you chose lucky little me?” Len catches the sarcasm, “I’m honoured, baby.”
Three babies. Shit.
“Uh, can you just call me Ray? The pet names are weird.”
You’ve called a sex line in the middle of the night, and you’re calling me weird? Len has to bite his tongue. He makes a split second decision to have pizza with Lisa that evening, to remind himself he needs this job and this money.
“Sure thing, Raymond.”
Ha.
“Oh God. You sound like my mom. Uh, I mean... not my mom. She’s just the only one who calls me Raymond. I don’t have an Oedipus complex or anything. I don’t want to call you mom. Or daddy.”
As much as Len would like to picture a tall, cute, brown eyed boy on the other end of the phone, with a blush chasing up his neck, he’s painfully aware he’s probably just made a fat guy in a diaper sweat.
“You can call me whatever you want, Raymond.” Len tends to regret using that line. He once went through an entire conversation being called Kermit.
“I’m gonna stick with Leo.”
Oh thank God.
“It sounds good coming out of your mouth.” Len tells him, sitting back up again, “So Raymond, what do you want me to do for you? You don’t want to be paying all this money for nothing, right?”
“Uh, well, I’m kind of a billionaire.”
“Yes, of course you are.” Len tries not to sound cynical.
He’s definitely got an image of this guy now. Sat in old, stained underwear in his mommy’s basement, secretly calling up the pretty boys because he’s too afraid to go out into the real world and talk to them.
“I bet you hear that one all the time.” Ray says, and he almost sounds apologetic.
“Millionaire usually. A billionaire is special.” Len says, “I bet you’re pretty special, Raymond.”
"Well, I do own one of the largest tech companies in the Northern hemisphere, and I have three PHD’s, so yeah, I’d say so.”
Len’s heard it all before. Every man he talks to has a 10 inch cock and washboard abs. They’re usually millionaires, or astronauts, or famous celebrities. (Occasionally it’s true, Len is proud to have been the nameless sex worker in the Oliver Queen scandal.) Usually it’s crap. It doesn’t bother Len either way, he’s not looking for love on the phone lines, and he’s getting paid regardless of whether he’s talking to a creep or a stud.
“Mm, there’s nothing sexier than intelligence.” Len says, checking his phone. He still has another 16 minutes before his next life. As unique as Ray is, he’s not exactly passing the time. Len decides to up his game.
“I bet that big brain of yours has all sorts of fantasies. Why don’t you tell me about them? Maybe I can help?”
There’s silence on the other end of the line. Len can still hear Ray breathing.
“Come on, sweetheart.” He hates that one, but apparently it sounds good in his voice, “You don’t need to be shy. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Len pushes his chair back, lifts his legs up onto his desk, crossing them at the ankle just as his supervisor, Rip walks through the office. Mostly because Rip is walking through the office. The Brit fixes him with a glare, and Len replies with a sweet fake smile and a middle finger.
“Uh, I kinda... I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Ray admits, sounding a little shy and a little embarrassed. That is not cute.
“Well, what do you like? What do you want me to do to you?” Len asks, “What would you like to do to me?”
“I like kissing.” Ray blurts.
And it’s all that Len can do not to fall back off his chair, and laugh his ass off. He is a professional sex worker. He can do this. It’s not the weirdest thing someone has ever said to him, not by a long shot. It’s just so innocent.
“Kissing is good. Everyone likes kissing.” Len is proud that he managed to get that out, without laughing, “Where would you like me to kiss you, Raymond?”
“My lips.”
Obviously.
“I bet you have pretty lips. Pink, full, soft. I bet they taste good.” Len tells him, doodling snowflakes on his post it pad, “You want me to take my time, kiss you slow, or kiss you hard?”
“Uh, slow. I like gentle, I like… I like romance.”
Romance? On a sex phone line? What is this guys game? Len shakes his head, “Romance, huh?”
“Well, yeah, I mean… I’m not really a one night stand kind of guy, and… shit, what am I doing, this isn’t what you want. This was a bad idea…”
Ray sounds spooked. Len rights himself, puts his feet on the floor. He still has nine minutes til his lives regenerate, and Ray is interesting, refreshing really.
“No, it’s not, baby,” Shit. “We can do romance. It’s just a little unusual. This is supposed to be what you want.”
“Exactly. This isn’t what I want. I’m sorry I bothered you, Leo.”
“Ray…”
The phoneline clicks, and Len is greeted with dead air. Len pulls his headset off and throws it on the desk. “Shit.”
Sara gives him a look from across the room. She covers her microphone, mouths ‘are you okay?’ Len nods, mouths ‘eight minutes left!’
She rolls her eyes, and taps on her phone. A few seconds later, Len’s phone lights up with a notification. He gives her a thumbs up. He doesn’t put his headset back on for a long moment, gives himself a second to clear his head and focus on getting back into the zone.
His line lights up, and he hits answer. At the same time he opens his Candy Crush level.
“Hey, gorgeous, I’m Leo.”
---x
Len stumbles into the lounge around 3PM the following day. Mick’s lounging on the couch, and Lisa is tucked in next to him. They’ve got the news on, and they’re talking about a major breakthrough in clean energy. She lifts her head from Mick’s broad chest, “Hey sleeping beauty!”
Her brightness is not appreciated when he’s just woken up, and even less when he’s still got the soft voice of one of his customers buzzing around in his brain.
Len grunts at her in greeting, which receives a laugh from Mick, “And you say I’m bad.”
Len drops onto the chair by the pair of them, and rests his head against the back of it, eyes closed.
“Coffee, brother?”
Len makes a humming noise, which totally counts as a yes, shut up, Mick. Len lets himself zone in on the comforting noise of the TV.
“And with us, is the inventor of this amazing new breakthrough, Dr. Ray Palmer. Dr Palmer, it’s an honour to meet you.”
“And you, Iris.”
And suddenly Len’s eyes snap open. He knows that voice. He turns his attention to the TV, and standing with the anchor, Iris West-Allen, is Dr Palmer. He’s young, tall, broad and well dressed. He’s got an expensive looking haircut, and deep, dark eyes. He’s pretty cute.
Then he grins at the anchor.
Oh God, he’s fucking gorgeous.
Well, shit.