Work Text:
He fades in color, like a ghost adrift, weightless.
He has to wonder where he went wrong, to reach this stage, his dreams scattered out to nightmares, living a life where the light at the end of the tunnel only comes in flickering desk lights and screens and screens and screens.
Maybe it was being too cocky at sixteen, getting into a good high school with a good soccer club. Maybe it was challenging the team motto, the whisper of One for All, All for One, tickling the sensation of something not quite right. Maybe it was staying anyway, succumbing to the team motto, and being praised for his compliance. Maybe it was becoming a team player, and getting to the semi-finals, so close to glory, only to pass.
Maybe it was throwing away that weird envelope, and never knowing where it could've taken him.
Or maybe it was himself, always, shackling himself into self-sabotage, but never realizing until he's on his 6th coffee, on his 6th refresh, applications rejected straight out of the interview phase. By then, the years have passed and the regret is seeped into every line of him, traceable back to the point of ruin.
What did that realization matter? All it did was prove what he always knew, and always ignored; the fact that he'd wasted his own potential.
Isagi closes his fist around a pen, whipped into another bout of depressive musings. It's thick, like the cleft of a fog, labeled into the post of his mind. It's hard to escape these days. It lingers longer, stays like a clingy lover. Isagi can't separate it from himself more than he can cut off a limb. Not even weekly checks from his two part-time jobs can lessen its glare. There's too much going on and debt to pay.
Isagi drags the pen down his desk. Its gray. The table is gray. Everything is monotonous. He needs to be up by eight for a six hour shift as a Sales Associate in Tokyo. It's not all bad, but his manager is contemptuous. Isagi's learned to be on time lest Mr. Tanaka write him up and stir up another ripple of drama. It's so hateful. Isagi doesn’t know why he needs to make everything difficult when Isagi barely gets enough sleep already.
By now, he opens his browser with habitual ease, scrolling up to glimpse new job offers, eyeing down the ones with expectant salaries, double, triple, what he's paid now, but they're all asking for experience he doesn’t have, and can't go to school for. College was a disaster. He'd rather not have a repeat.
He scrolls, and scrolls, and scrolls.
The screen shines against him, pulling out the shadows of his face, taut. He switches tabs. Another one open. Nothing. Work experience. Degrees. Commitment. Years off his life to give and take.
He's hunched over, tapping the pen. His other hand clicks around. Something to find, something that pays well. Isagi already has a job, but he's got that feeling again, that unease that's almost a sixth sense and he wants to be prepared. He can't be caught off guard again, another paycheck cut in half. His apartment's rent is due in twelve days. He needs to scrub up enough change for groceries so he doesn’t go hungry by eating once a day again.
He's been fired before, and it can happen again. Isagi can't teeter into the red of his bank account this time. He needs a third option.
He scrolls, and clicks, and links into new websites. His eyes go cross, burning from strain. Has he been blinking? He doesn’t know. There's a lot on his mind, cycled into familiar, worn patterns. Things to do. Things to pay. Things to buy. It's 1 AM, it's late, and he needs to be up by eight in the morning. He needs to sleep. Wake up. Go to work. So many things to do.
The screen goes black. He blinks. For a second, he thinks his laptop shut off, battery dead.
Suddenly, there's words on the screen. Descriptions. Offers. He reels back when he reads one, blinking again now that the brightness was softer on them.
“…What's a gloryhole?” Whispers Isagi, who's curious enough to go looking for a definition. “And why is someone offering to pay that much money for one?”
It only takes a few minutes to find a meaning. When he does, the consistent, evened wave of muted emotions trip out and his face is burning.
"Huh? What? What kind of job is that?"
He's drawn to the post again, incredulous. The words pop out to him, and, yes, there's no vague hint of something unrelated.
Looking for willing candidates. This position entails the consent of your bodily autonomy to be given. Compensation will be returned with protection to your safety, and the guarantee of thorough privacy of both your identity and information.
No qualifications necessary. No specific education necessary.
Starting salary at 32,000 Yen.
Call the number below for more information.
Something in Isagi trembled.
It was so to the point that he couldn’t help but stare at it. He doesn’t know how he was lead here, what he clicked for it to shove itself into his face. All he knew was how ridiculous it was. No one in their right mind would take it on. Those that did, if any, had to be the people who either didn’t care to be used, or wanted to be. Isagi neither didn’t care or wanted it. He wasn’t—he wasn't one of those people, eager to be used up like some toy. Treated like one. Thrown away like one.
He shakes his head. Clicks out of the website. Even then, the image of it burns across his mind. He escapes from whatever deep-end of the internet he fell into and goes back to the normal sites. The time blinks, accusingly: 1:55 AM.
Another day then.
He closes his laptop and forgets all about it. He passes into his room, the faces of his Limited Edition Blue Lock NEL Figurines blurred in the edges of his sleep-deprived brain, clustered on the ledge of his bookshelf—a bygone obsession of his youth. When his head hits the pillow, he doesn’t spare a single thought to it.
It's not like he'll be revisiting it again, after all.
Discreetly, Isagi starts to notice a new, troubling pattern at work.
It wasn't an overstatement to say that Isagi wasn't close with anyone at his jobs. Isagi was nice and polite, but without topics to relate to, Isagi was often left out in conversations. He couldn’t gush about kids, married life, or exciting news among his colleagues. He couldn’t emulate what he didn’t know. So it created a barrier, drew a line in the sand where all they did was greet each other in the morning and kept to their section of the floor, only overlapping when one client asked for another, or multiple opinions needed to weighed in. Isagi wasn't too content with it, but he also wasn't about to disrupt the system already in place.
But this last week, there's been a shift in the air, prominent enough for it to sicken his stomach into applying for more jobs online, because if there's one thing that's been consistent since starting his adult life working, it's that there was always a petty mouse biting at his ankles.
There's an air of suspense. Stares in the back of his head. Most suspiciously, Mr. Tanaka doesn’t bother with him for more a few words, only leaving him each day with the same sly look. There are alarm bells ringing in his ear, but no amount of trying to dig out answers from anyone as subtly as possible gets him any closer to a conclusion.
In this time, Isagi cuts his meals to store-bought packaged bentos and water. It's the only thing he can afford to get without tipping the scales of his electricity, water, and phone bills. He crosses out the days with a thick marker, red ink sinking into the repetative banality of it all. The unease never leaves.
Then, he comes into work one day. He barely gets to sit before the department head, a man balding halfway into his forties, storms to reach him. The heavy thud of his shoes has Isagi lifting his head, back straight. The man rarely ever leaves the second floor. There's always better things to do than manage idiots, he said once, in a rare appearance.
“Isagi Yoichi!” He yells out, and Isagi doesn’t know he knows, but he knows. The hand on the clock has always been ticking down to the hour.
“Sir—“
“You think you can just neglect your work like this?!”
Isagi doesn’t say anything, no, more like doesn’t get the chance to, as Mr. Kimura, his superior, rips into him about deliberately ignoring an assignment due days ago, given to him by Mr. Tanaka. Isagi doesn’t catch what he was supposedly assigned, only that it was important, overdue, and now, the higher-pecking order was scrambling for extra time they didn’t have to give because of his negligence.
“You think you can sabotage us?! Do you not care about the integrity of our work?!”
Isagi is bowing to him, trying to appease when no word comes through his mouth to defend himself. His voice is dried out, stolen from him by someone that didn’t want him to have one at all, and relishing it, even if Isagi can't see him. The scent of him is close enough, wet leaves and green tea, for Isagi to know his aim.
“I'm sorry, I'm really sorry.”
“Sorry?! Is that enough for me to forgive you?! Don't bother coming back! Someone like you… all you do is laze about and leech off Tanaka-san's kindness. I've had enough of it.”
Snickers and whispers, he's the newest collectable gossip for them to sip on and spread.
Mr. Kimura is the producer of this disaster, shoving off the papers on his desk and giving out insults like a director gives feedback. It's all a show of power, throwing it around without care for retaliation.
Isagi takes it all until the words he'd been waiting for are spoken. There's always variation, but the sentiment is still the same. We're going to have to let you go. You're fired. Let's part ways.
His eyes are empty when he collects his belongings, devoid of any outward emotion. And like any show, there's an audience to laugh you out of the room. Isagi deafens himself against all of them. He's had enough for the day, he doesn’t want more to bear.
He leaves, not even an hour, after coming to work, freshly jobless, once again.
He still had his other part time job, working as a night dishwasher for four hours, but it paid significantly less than this one had. He was relying on this job to get him through the month. What the fuck was he going to do now?
You could always ask Mom for money—
No.
Isagi walks. Past the subway route. Into the long, winding streets of Tokyo's metropolis. Mom was taking care of dad, who was sick and needed the treatment. Isagi wasn't going to leech off of her when he was the one who needed to send her money. Needed to take care of his parents, yet couldn’t, because he was a failure of a son who couldn’t hold down a job for more than a few months.
So he doesn’t bother with the thought. Doesn’t pursue it. Lets it die where it came from. He needed to fix this himself. He's been doing that for the last two years, hasn’t he? What's another wrench in the plans?
Isagi walks briskly, clutching his little shoe-box of items. He should've taken the subway train. He should've. This was just inconveniencing him further, but there was too much rage in his body, too much unrest to keep himself from pacing up and down the seats of the train if he took it. He needs to move. Needs to walk. Burn it off. He's breathing heavily, his face bloodless, yet boiling with humilation.
He doesn’t try to go faster, but then it starts to rain, and Isagi nearly laughs. Of course, why not?
He jogs, urged by the feeling of wet clothes and pent up negativity. In the grayscale tint the rain colors Tokyo in, everything, every goddamn thing just looks pointless. He keeps going until he gets to his apartment complex, expensive, but safe. His vision is blurry when he reaches the gate. He keys in, panting.
He doesn’t acknowledge the other residents out, ignores their annoyed glances because Isagi was tracking water inside. He wants to apologize, but he can't speak over the lump in his throat. He gets to the third floor, shoes squishing with water. Before he can take out his key, he's stopped by his landlord already in the area.
“Isagi-kun, your rent is late.” He has a stormy expression, his aged brow furrowed for a serious confrontation.
Isagi must look like a mess. That doesn’t stop the man from facing him, waiting for a response.
He works through the knot, his voice weak, pitiful, “I'm sorry, Aiba-san, I just… I need some more time. I'll pay you, I will. It's just not… it's not a good time for me.”
The man sneered. “When is it ever? You're the only one here that pays over the time I allow. That's not what I came to tell you, however.”
“Huh?”
“The price of rent will be raised from now on. If you’re unable to meet it, don’t bother extending your lease.”
Isagi stands there, frozen.
Why?
Isagi stutters, his stomach clenching in a nauseating way. “But—I'm already struggling to pay as is—you know this. How can you—“
“You have a week to pay this month's rent before the new policy is implemented. And I'll throw you out myself if you don't agree to my terms,” he tells, coldly. Isagi rears back from the venom in his voice. Just because he wasn’t as punctual as the rest of the tenants, this is how Mr. Aiba was going to treat him?
Isagi nods, the smallest amount. It draws out a scoff from his landlord before he walks away.
When he manages to unstick his feet from the floor, Isagi rigidly drags himself to his apartment. The door closes with an unpleasant creak, loud in the cold, lonely home. Water drips in the front of the door as he kicks off his shoes before stepping onto the carpet. Isagi falls to his knees. Tired and drained of all life
He hates this.
What's the point of this?
This bleak, meaningless existence… who is he living it for?
The suit is uncomfortable, cold, and wet, so after a few minutes, Isagi gets back up. His knees are unstable and shaky from the strain of running on a body that has naturally weakened after he quit soccer, so he moves slowly, taking off his clothes and dropping them to the floor. Walking to the closet, all Isagi pulls to wear is a shirt, skin drying from the wet rain.
He moves to the small sofa, sinking into it and pulling his laptop. Like a ritual, Isagi brings up the dozens of job sites he's surfed on a daily basis. He needs another six hour job, maybe even a full-time eight hour one just to get by. He needs to be able to start immediately, but where can he get one without an interview process? He goes to the ones he's already applied to, opens his unread emails and glances past each I'm sorry to inform you and Unfortunately, we aren't hiring at this time like an after credits movie, slumping into himself the less likely it seems he even got past the first round of getting off his feet.
He knows his grades are average and that his diploma isn't that impressive, but shouldn’t there be at least one that wants to try their chance at him? How can they all, just like that, decide what he's worth?
What does he do now? Where does he go?
Rejection after rejection fills his inbox. He closes the tab and mourns whatever life he could've had. He never wanted to be rich. He never wanted to be famous. His one, true dream was to be someone like his idol, to play freely, and nab the title of the greatest. He wanted a life he could be happy with. What he has here isn't even close to it.
Isagi hooks his chin over his knee, staring sightlessly into the wall.
One job. Just one job Isagi didn’t have to fight tooth and nail to get. That’s all he needs.
His mind spins, in endless despair, only to crash into a past thought, a past, incredulous musing.
“… Ah. There was that, wasn’t there?”
What was it called again?
“A glory… something?”
A sketchy little job advertisement. Gloryhole. Sex-work. And a shit ton of money.
He sits back up.
When he saw it, he'd been put off by the whole thing, even though the listed number was out of this world. He couldn’t let himself entertain the idea, couldn’t picture himself ever accepting it. He had something to protect, his dignity, maybe, his self-respect. How can you protect that if you're debasing yourself?
But now, he can't help thinking about it deeper. Longer. He's living in a stingy, inflated apartment complex and barely eating as is to save up money. It's hard not to warm up to the idea.
This kind of work was… unknown. New. Scary. Isagi didn’t know anything about sex, virgin that he was. The most action he ever got was drunkenly kissing a girl at a party once, and she mistook him for someone else, he thinks. He was entertaining dipping his toes into something he had no experience in, selling himself for sex, or whatever they wanted. God, his mother would weep if she knew, but what choice did he have? By next week, he might as well be homeless.
He tries to find the ad again.
Consciously trying to hunt it down proves harder when he doesn’t know how he got there in the first place. He bites his lip.
He remembers the number listed below. He can always call it and ask for more information, but he itches to read it again, just to be sure.
Another ten minutes go by, and Isagi gives up. He doesn’t remember if the ad had a name written, a company, or an owner. All he can remember is the phone number.
Taking out his phone, Isagi opens his contacts.
Tapping the numbers out slowly, Isagi breathes in one last time, and lifts the phone to his ear.
There was nothing here for him to lose but his pride, and what did that matter at this point, honestly.
Wearing a plain shirt and comfortable pants, Isagi reads the address again.
After getting off the call with a very preppy sounding woman, Isagi got the location of where this place was at and who he'll meet on the date of his choosing, which was only a day after his sudden and unfortunate unemployment. Truly, he had no time to waste, his responsibilities hanging off his shoulder with the weight of the world.
As expected, it was in the seedy part of Tokyo, the inner sanctum of the Red Light District in Shinjuku, the winding, twisting alleys that lead to darker alleys and quieter people. He's nervous walking in, watching his surroundings, the people, and just as quickly shifting his eyes away if he catches something he shouldn't. His instincts scream when he reached the quietest section, knowing that quiet spelled trouble, and scurried to where he needed to be.
People didn’t come to this place just because; there was always a reason. So when he stands in front of a well-kept building, Isagi can confidently say his own.
All he needs is money. Doesn’t matter how he gets it.
There's no questionable character loitering in the front, no shady dealings, no drugs. It's a one story establishment, with the inside breezy and orange-lit. it's a bar front, tables and chairs, a bartender wiping glass. He almost turns back around—the place looked too normal, but he stops himself. Maybe that's the point.
“Can I get you anything? Vodka? Tonic? Gin?” The man asks, not looking up.
Isagi's throat goes dry. He bites back the urge to check his phone again. “I'll have a Bloody Mary, but keep it clean.”
The man does a sharp turn, leaving the glass on the counter. “Right away. Please follow me.”
Isagi follows, shivering. This feels bigger than him. Coming to a place where he was instructed to give a code phrase, wasn't any ordinary happenstance. They walk down a corridor, turning and turning, until they walk down a bout of stairs. There's another door, and it’s a different one from the last few. Reinforced steel, password protected.
“I ask that you look away, please.”
Isagi doesn’t need to be told twice. Once the door opens, the man gestures him inside and speaks again.
“Ito-sama has been waiting for you.”
Great.
He fiddles with his fingers, brushing down his sides and folding his arms. Whatever self-soothing tactics he tries, doesn’t help with the rising curb of his anxiety. Is he making the right decision? Did he dress right? He wasn’t about to be kidnapped, right?
Isagi gulps at the last thought. Shame that he didn’t have any friends to talk to.
Timidly, he follows from behind, feeling underdressed. They hadn't exactly given him a template on what to wear, but it also shouldn’t be too formal, right? His clothes might get… dirty. A sudden breath expands his lungs, faint. God. What situation was this. He was truly considering gong through with this?
At the sight of another man approaching them, Isagi stands at attention, but has to keep his face from expressing surprise. The man is all smiles, short, and wearing the pinkest suit he think's he's ever seen on a man.
“My, my! When I heard we reeled in an interested candidate, I almost couldn’t believe it. We don’t get a lot of people accepting our offers, of course, but what a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Isagi!”
Isagi shakes his hand, calloused and strong, like that of a man whose worked construction on the daily. Isagi, while comforted by the man's sheer animation, shrinks into his apprehension. “Likewise…”
“Please walk with me, I'll tell you all about us while I show you around.”
Tension needles him into keeping a half-step behind the man, recognizing his animated hand movements and not letting him close the distance. The man, with the finessed impatience of a kindling, glowing fire, opens his mouth to a waterfall of information.
“First and foremost, are the House Rules. These are the customs that every member of our staff must follow. I can't list them all, but should you pass the initial round, you'll be given a copy of all that we stand for and expect in our staff. This includes what you must do, what you must know, and who you must obey.”
Obey?
“You must be curious about how this all works at all. After all, the history of gloryholes isn't exactly squeaky clean. No, it's quite dirty; bathrooms, lounges, booths, all for the purpose of engaging in sexual activity or to observe the person on the opposite side. Relishé is a more elegant version of such risque indulgence, and we take care of our clients, as well as our staff.”
“I see.”
“Since you're a first timer, your service will be a room separate from the other Glories. I can tell you're a beginner, Mr. Isagi, and we take privacy very seriously. This first initial round will be what helps us come a conclusion.”
“Wait,” Isagi stops. “Before that, don't I still have to got through an interview process?” He asks, voice high. “To see if I'm, ah, qualified?”
“Yes! But the initial round of Service is your interview, and there's only one thing we can judge you on to see if you'll last.”
“And that is?”
The man smiles. “How well can you take cock, Mr. Isagi?”
Isagi's skin pinches tight over his bones, the jagged cut of shock rippling through him at the sudden question.
He shakes. “I've—I'd never—“
The man's eyes widen, but he seems pleased above all else. “A virgin! Well, that changes things a bit…”
“What do you mean?”
“Virgin holes are a treat. It's a once in a blue moon event because our clientele are typically familiar with the Glories they use and can tell a new hole from a used one. Your interview will also be doubled as a surprise event tonight. The bidding will be off the charts! How wonderful!”
Isagi doesn’t know how to feel about this man's enthusiasm anymore.
Mr. Ito takes him to the work room, which is a wide area with doors upon doors upon doors.
“There are lounges where the Glories can talk and take their breaks in, but if you're hungry, you'll need to request from the kitchen, which is on the other end opposite to here. Most of them don’t give out their real names, and instead use nicknames either created by themselves or given by the clients. It's your choice to what name you give them.”
Yeah. Isagi wasn’t about to advertise his real identity in this kind of place.
Walking closer to the doors, Isagi's senses hone it. Even though he can't see them, he doesn’t need too—instead, he hears them.
Gasping moans, incoherent voices, the soft slap of skin. All together, and it paints an obscene picture.
His heart thunders in his ears. He's so far removed from his partitioned world, that he doesn’t view this place as real, almost.
Mr. Ito's voice filters through his panic in gradual, adjusting pieces. “There’s a section for women too, but that room is a lot bigger. As you can see, we’re very lacking in the male department. And there have been complaints from the clients as well…”
There’s a main room for the clients, and Isagi briefly passes by, his eyes drawn in to it. He doesn’t see faces, can’t discern features, but there are black-suited men, all powerful, important, dangerous. The riches of the world, hoarding into a single place in Shinjuku. He wonders how many of them are Japanese. If any are foreign. Wonders what would even convince them to come here, if not their apparent, already depraved desires.
“When Glories aren't in use, there's always a chance you could be mingling with the clients as a server. Not always, and perhaps not even ever. Truthfully, it happens only if a client buys you.”
Huh. Buys?!
“Depending on your contract's terms and conditions, if you consent to it, they may request your presence. If you decide not to add this feature, you’ll be put under as a ‘no purchase’ item. This decision can always be changed, however. If you find yourself suddenly wanting to mingle, just let me know.”
Isagi hasn’t even gone through the first service yet, and here the man was, catapulting him into the future as a regular member of his team. That wasn’t what he focused on, however, his breath coming out short and uneven, his mind pickpocketing certain words that stuck out to him. Purchase. Item. Glories. His language was careless, folded out of any misinterpretation as he talked about his staff like they were, in some ways, like they were objects.
“If no one purchases you, the only other way to be among the clients is to… rank up. Gaining experience, advertising yourself to get picked more often. Like that, you can go from an amateur to a pro. Well, that's if you last.” Mr. Ito laughs. “Most of the male candidates who apply here don’t. it's too much for them, it seems.”
That… makes more sense now. Isagi had been wondering why they'd accepted him so easily. Mr. Ito was already assuming that he wouldn’t be able to handle it, and ousting out more information with such ease because Isagi might be like whoever came before him: temporary.
When they stop, Mr. Ito gestures to a door, another person materializing from behind them. It was a small area, about the size of a closet. There was something off about the wall as well, like it could be detached. “Here we are, your private corner! Ayase-chan, please help our friend here into position.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Ito turned to Isagi. “This is it, your 'interview', of sorts. This service is always the make or break deal, the one that lets us know what to expect from you. Over there is an emergency SOS button. It's close to you for easy access, you'll just need to flip the lid off to set it off. If it truly gets too much, or you realize this truly isn't for you, press it. Until then, I wish you luck.”
This was the test, then. Isagi Yoichi, a broke virgin, had to survive getting pounded by a stranger. If he didn’t, Isagi could say goodbye to the tolerable, bleak life he's lived by then, and snatch another, more socially acceptable job—if he even managed to get that far. And if he did, then… then Isagi won't be a virgin, at the very least.
Mr. Ito leaves with one last smile. The girl, Ayase, enters the room first. It's quiet, but not for long as his anxious energy rouses the girl to glimpse his pale face and make a soft noise.
“It’s normal to be nervous,” the girl starts, doing something to the wall, sectioning if out from the room. “It's always intimidating the first time, but us club members can promise that every volunteer is taken cared of, physically and mentally. Food, medicine, protection, it's all included once you work here. The clients can, well… get away with a lot, but they do get kicked out if they break any House rules or the terms in your personal contract.”
“They’ll know my contract?”
“Yeah.” She nodded. “It’ll be formatted like a menu to them to show what they’ll get from you; what you offer and what you don’t.”
Menu. Outside the mild acknowledgement that he was alive and had a name, Isagi was relegated to a course option for the clients' palate, removable from any other dish section depending on his desirability on what he allowed to be done to his body.
Beyond the thick blanket of sedated emotions, was the urge to fucking laugh, for the first time in forever. Just throw his head back and laugh at the absurdity of a rich man's picky fingers. Fuck. The amount of money he would win, if he came back, would all depend on the men that chose him. If he was ignored, what then? Suffer the humilation of cutting up his pride, only to not be picked.
He might actually die if that happened.
Isagi might not think himself as someone all too desirable, but he hoped to be more than a dull, forgettable appetizer. He was giving up his virginity, his chastity. If it was for nothing, the hurt might be too much to bear.
“Isagi-san, please strip. I need to set you up into the wall.”
This was happening. Right now.
Taking off his clothes is awkward. The girl doesn’t look, but she'll need to touch him anyway, so he sucks it up.
As Isagi takes his pants off, she continues.
“It’s very important for us that we are strict with how the club is run. He may sound harsh at times, but Ito-sama is a very influential man, and celebrity status doesn’t matter much to him… unless they’re big bucks, well… then it’s a somewhat gray area.”
Barefoot, and covering his junk, Isagi bites his lip.
“By the way, I’m not sure if Ito-sama mentioned it, but while we mostly have a lot of privacy, we’re usually put together when our normal stalls aren’t working, or if a client requests for easier access.”
That means…
“I’ll have to be around the other workers?”
“Pretty much.”
That bastard of a liar!
He really, really hopes it doesn’t come to that. Just the thought of getting fucked surrounded by other men getting fucked is… no. He can't process it. It's too much.
“Okay, Isagi-san. Let's get you set up.”
Next thing he knows, he's on his hands and knees, his ass raised to the other end of the wall to go through. The lower half of his body is separated from the rest by the bones of his hips. The fit is tight, immovable. He wouldn’t be able to detach himself even if he wanted to. Suddenly, he wonders what became of his life for it to come to this.
“Um.” The flesh of his throat is trimmed down, dry. “Will it hurt?”
Ayase, before shaking her head and flashing him a smile meant to be reassuring, hesitates for just a moment. It's so quick he almost believes he imagined it, but, no, Isagi's eyes are his best quality. He's never had to doubt his sight. Isagi's heart is dropped like a rock in his stomach.
“They’ll prep you. It’s an obligated step, especially for a virgin hole. It's one of the House rules mentioned, and one of the ones the more bastard-like clients love to test.” Ayase's expression closes around something like pity at whatever she sees in his face and continues. “Most of them are respectful, of course. They know the consequences if they don’t follow through with Ito-sama's rules.”
Isagi, ingrained politeness in every muscle, bows to her in thanks when she's done and leaves through the door.
As the door closes, darkness cascading down the bright light of the outside, only one thought echoes through his mind.
I'm not ready.
He's doing this.
He's here, on all fours, naked. The fabric under his knees are soft, keeping them from being scraped on the hard, harsh floors. The position in which he's raised, doesn’t hurt, surprisingly. It's… not what he expected. There's pillows too. And he holds one close to him just to pretend he's at home, in bed, and not in the underground of a secret lounge, interviewing for the position of a human fucktoy just so he can earn some quick, hard cash.
His thoughts are disruptive, but not adverse to the situation. How can they be, when there's an emergency button to press and he doesn’t even turn to entertain the action.
Not yet, he thinks. Nothing's happened yet. He's okay. He doesn’t have to press it, but it's there. It's definitely there.
He brushes his throat but doesn’t reach for the water bottles close by. He knows why they're there. There's a hush around him now, a lack of sound. Isagi squirms, and every movement he makes comes back twice as loud to him.
He'll admit to himself the fear he came here with might be unfounded—just a little. Isagi assumed that the place would be horrible, with inhuman conditions and rabid, dirty men. The ad for this position wasn’t a 'typical' job offer, after all. He doesn’t know the legality of it, but his expectations drew up a dark, filthy cell, screaming, crying, men raping other men to the pleasures of men. But so far, it's more… thoughtful. Accommodating.
It was the bare minimum, but he appreciated it all the while. Isagi already hated himself. He didn’t want more reason to cry at night.
Isagi stretches, ass raised, his ankles knocking against each other. The only sound was his breathing, deep in his chest, expanding out as every minute stretched into the next. There was nothing to do but to wait.
And think.
His heart thundered a steady, reoccurring drum, doubt pushing its way inside, giving itself to his self-hatred. The more he thought, the faster he spiraled.
What was he thinking? Was he insane? Was he seriously doing this? Was the money worth this?
I have no choice. I need to do this. It's the fastest way.
Criticisms countered, arguments unraveled. The voice of his own worthlessness snorted in his ear.
This will to live, this self-respect, weren't they all things you lack? The decision is easy to make when your soul is littered with holes.
The room, he guessed, was sound proof, or the closest thing to it. He feels it more than hears it as something shifts from the other side. A virgin hole, Mr. Ito had said. A betting system, he guessed it was. The money he earned depended on how desirable the clients found him. Which meant, whoever bet the highest would be making his paycheck. Isagi shuffled nervously, exposed for whoever it would be.
If he lasted the hour, would he be allowed to go home with the money?
The sound, distant and muted as it was, had his senses shivering. He was a virgin, and that was enough for Mr. Ito to be excited. Even if Isagi proved to be lacking, just the notion of winning someone's virginity might be enough to reel in a man.
Isagi didn’t pretend to understand it. To him, it was the most ridiculous thing in the world, but he wasn’t a rich man. He was a commoner, what did he know?
So Isagi waited. He waited knowing someone was coming. Either now, or later, someone was going to be behind him.
Isagi waited.
His ears pricked, picking up a repetative thud. Walking. Clapping. He doesn’t know.
There was a rustle of movement, unintelligible sounds overlapping like a record reel. He strained against the quiet of the room, but barely anything went through.
Then, his body became rigid.
There was a breeze against him, a presence—a man.
Isagi jumps as a hand lands on his cheek, feeling it, touching the glove curiously. The hand slides down the skin experimentally before brushing the pucker of his hole. Isagi shakes, his very being focused on that hand. The guy, this man, wasn’t even giving him a minute to prepare his feeble, weak heart.
Isagi's breathing is uneven, his eyes wide with unruly, conflicting emotions. This was happening. This wasn’t some distant thing anymore. Someone was on the other side, getting ready to fuck him. But it wasn’t Isagi they were fucking, a person, it was a hole, a virgin hole, promised by whatever Mr. Ito told them.
And they had paid for him. Like a prize to be won. His virginity had a goddamn price tag.
The hand was big, adult. Yet it was soft, the inner palm smooth like the man regularly used hand cream. The hand curled into nails, and Isagi yelps as a cold, unfamiliar coat of oil was spread over his hole, the finger prodding along the rim carefully.
Biting his lip, his senses honed on the soft, lone finger exploring a place even he has never dared to touch beyond the shower. There's no way to describe it, no accurate category to label the agitated thrill of being touched. He's not careless, he notes automatically. It's purposeful. His touches are deliberate, spreading his tight, unfucked walls. When Isagi clenches down, instinctively trying to push him out, the finger crooks gently, slowly opening him up for a second to come.
Without hands to push or a voice to be heard, Isagi can only take it and bear with the feeling that starts to carve into his mind.
A person—a person's finger was inside him. Another man.
He's a bought commodity, a virgin about to be deflowered.
Isagi Yoichi lives a dull, tedious life. If there was a word to describe himself with, it would be ordinary. He wasn’t special, he wasn’t talented, and he wasn’t someone of note. Whatever glory he could have achieved in the prime of his youth, rerouted down a different path, running out from under him as he bullied himself into a box that had nothing to do with the goal post. He was a cog in the mob of a faceless horde. He was boring, he was uninteresting, he was wasted potential.
And yet… who would think that someone as replaceable as him could be here, willingly letting himself become a hole for money?
Or maybe, it's because he's so replaceable that it makes sense. Maybe there's nothing surprising about it.
He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t breathe. His eyes are wide, unseeing, as wet, lubed fingers scissor his walls. There's a fever-like heat under him, pitched to be lit the longer sparks fly; he's itchy, he's fusing, his ass spread around a big hand and hole open like it was a pussy meant to be fucked.
“N… ah, wait…”
Something is cracking inside his skull, a wall about to collapse. Isagi stares at the mirroring glass. Oh. Since when was there a mirror? Since when could he look at his own face, this pitiful, unsteady expression? There's a fingers inside him, and he looks like this. He hates this. Something is happening to him. He has to stop.
His mouth drops open when a second fingers is added. There's another. There's two. Long, calloused fingers slotting inside, and his cock is drooling at the tip like the arousal in his gut warrants it. He can't touch it, can't see it, but he's full and he's going to cum like that, like a fucking slut—
He was going to hell. He knew it. Fuck. This was it, wasn’t it? There's no coming back from this because—because why was he so turned on? Why?
The two digits work with a strange, unrelenting boldness, no shame, all callouses and greed. Pulled back, they slide in with all the ridges of a sculpture, hard, solid, perfect.
It feels so fucking good.
Isagi's mind falls. It falls and falls deeper. Without notice, he's pushing back on them.
It's heady, this disbelieving state. Isagi feels good. Someone is pleasuring him. He makes sounds, unfamiliar and lewd and spilling out without a care in the world. No one can hear him anyway. Holding them back didn’t matter.
“Ah… ann… hmm!”
In one particular thrust, Isagi seizes, dick spurting unexpectedly, shooting out to paint the partition wall instead of his stomach. His front falls into the pillow.
He starts to get teary, scared. What happened? What was that?
The fingers pause and unlike what he expects, leaves him.
“Huh? Wait—“ Isagi sniffs, eyes red. Oh god. Did he fuck everything up? Was he leaving?
Isagi's mind screamed, with a tense, underlying panic. He can't. He can’t! Isagi shuffled, legs spreading wide to find where the man had gone, only for those soft hands to come back and spread his cheeks, his hole puckered and slick.
Isagi shivered hotly. “Ah, you're still here…”
A sudden, heavy weight slid over his rum, and Isagi recognized it instantly.
“That—that’s…”
It was—no way! Already? It hasn’t been that long, has it? Was he impatient? Is that why—
Isagi’s rim parted for it, slowly. The pillow in his grip tightened, and he held it to his face like a lifeline, drooling around a whine as the cock teased him, pushing the head, fucking itself inside in small, agonizing teases.
“Oh my god, it's, it's going inside,” Isagi blubbered, tears springing up as he was steadily speared open. Once the middle point reached, the man shoved his cock the rest of the way in.
Isagi's eyes rolled to the back of his head, taking the first cock in his life.
“Hanhh~ mnhhh!”
The debauched, broken sounds leave him breathless, blind to the face reflected in his mirror. He cries out once again, coming fiercely, unexpectedly, when something inside him is hit, a bundle of nerves that rake lighting up his spine. He's molded like clay, clutching the floor like an animal. That delicious, thick cock drives a hammer deeper into the broke rationale of his mind, his critical sense snuffed, his coherence dragged out like a nonessential defect.
He moans into the pillow, voice punched out with every thrust, the reverb of the man's balls clapping into his ass deliciously horrible. The hands pinch his skin, big, controlling, and Isagi realizes he's just something to be used, something to be filled.
“Mnnhh, fuu!”
His nipples scrape the floor and Isagi sobs. He's so overwhelmed, filled, head emptied out of any functioning capacity. He doesn’t know how he was going to go back to normal after this. Was it even possible? Did he want to? His mind, his big, cynical mind, was in pieces, the puzzle carved out of a lonely, bland existence suddenly reshaped into a new picture. This horrible, horrible cock was fucking him so stupid Isagi might get addicted to the taste of not thinking so much.
In this state, it's easy to lose track of time. There's no watch, no timer, and no damn button to press and stop this. He only chases after the fulfilling burn of something big and thick making a home in him. Isagi comes again, and then again, so receptively eager that it earns him a tight, sexy squeeze on his ass. Isagi interprets it without words.
'Greedy.'
The man hasn’t cum yet.
That's not good, Isagi thinks dumbly, like the fucked slut he is, If he doesn’t cum, maybe he won't like me anymore… gotta make him cum.
Isagi tightens his ass, gasping, as it makes it harder for the cock to drive in. It stutters to a slower pace, so Isagi wiggles himself back. Clenches again.
“Ah!”
A sudden slap made him fall from his elbows. Another pinch, harsher. A clear reprimand. ‘No.’
Tears puddle in his eyes again, always the crybaby. “Why!” He yells, stressed. If he didn’t cum, if Isagi didn’t make him feel good, there's no guarantee he'll come back!
A smooth hand felt up his thigh, indulgent and soft.
‘Slower.’
“Uh?”
Isagi blushes, the hand touching where only a little bit of his stomach was on the other side. The man tickled the skin. He pressed deeper now that Isagi relaxed again.
'Enjoy it.’
He hides his face. He was red all over. “No way…”
Isagi ended up being unable to hold himself up anymore, seconds dragging into minutes, as he laid in a pathetic, twisted puddle of his own drool and tears, hot cum finally filling his belly and rolling down his thighs in a sticky mess. The thrusts turn to grinds, slowing, yet fucking the cum deep inside him that Isagi's spine flinches at the feeling of a hot load churning against his prostate. The man forces another orgasm out of him, and Isagi can only cum in pitiful, weak bursts.
At the end of their time, Isagi pants loudly, cumming an uncountable number so high, it edged him out of his own decrepit, insecure thinking and into a new view on life.
When the man slides out of him, Isagi moans, shuffling his thighs to enjoy the sensitive, stinging drag. His hole twitches, cum drooling down his legs. The cold sets in, his skin heated and sweaty.
That was his… initiation round… his interview. Did that mean he was done for now? Did he pass?
Isagi swallowed.
I hope I passed. I really, really…
So deep in his mind, Isagi doesn’t notice that he man hadnt left until that hand smoothed over his perky cheeks. Isagi blinks, drags his eyes behind him. Was he going to say something again?
The man circles a spot on his ass and before Isagi can understand what he was doing, he jolts as teeth bit into him, sinking into his flesh.
“Ow! What!”
Isagi gasps as his teeth turns to lips. They kiss the place they bit, soft and plush and moving over his raised skin. There was a brush of hair falling over his legs, long. Its ticklish.
Isagi's eyes widen as he decrypted the message.
‘I’ll be back for you.’
In the next minute, he was gone.
Dropped from the wall, Isagi groans, disoriented. There's a message there, in the upper end of the room, a board he didn’t notice.
Half an hour break! You passed!
Time: 29:57 left until next appointment!
That explains it… so he had more to go…
Isagi got himself up and almost fell. His legs were weak and numb. He definitely needed the break before he went through another ‘appointment’.
Isagu saw the state of his ass in the mirror and gasped.
“That guy bit my ass!”
There, down the pink globe of his cheek was an imprint of teeth, already turning red. Isagi blushed fiercely and groaned.
Isagi, in more ways than one, has been thoroughly claimed by a man with no name and no face. Only individualized by his soft hands and that deliciously thick, big cock. He bit his lip, chewing the flesh.
This job, because it was a job… maybe, as long as it paid well, he can keep working here, can't he?
He brushed a hand over the teeth marks. His hole clenched unexpectedly. His mind, a little fractured, thought up an impossible wish.
Maybe I'll even get to meet the person that took my virginity.
Mr. Ito congratulates him at the end of the day, handing him the contract he'd mentioned with all the House rules in one section. Isagi doesn’t flip through it, doesn’t peek inside. He's standing straight, his clothes pressed without a wrinkle, yet his body is destroyed, clenching down on nothing, eerily empty. His thoughts don't flicker into a thousand directions, instead, they curve along a single line, dumbed down, quiet.
He hands him a white, nondescript envelope along with the contract. He winks and says, “I hope to see you tomorrow, Isagi-kun! The clients loved you. Especially the winner of tonight's bidding poll.”
That little tidbit of information does something to him, has his stomach cramping in a slow, aching drawl. He nods and leaves, and it's only when he walks down the corridor, that he can hear everyone else on their own shifts. It's a symphony of sin, moans and groans and screams all wrapped into one. Isagi, unbelievably, doesn’t even need to imagine what they must look like. He knows intimately the faces they make; open-mouthed, glassy-eyed, and fucked to oblivion.
There's embarrassment, but it's weaker than before. Muted. Felt only through the wall that separated him from his reasoning.
“Thank you, Mr. Ito.”
“Good night now, Isagi-kun.”
Isagi leaves, walks out of the alleys in alleys and back into the loud, colorful fold of Japan's nightlife. It's four in the morning and he has serviced a total of four men. When he reaches his apartment, there's not a soul in sight. It makes sense. Everyone would be sleeping now, charging to wake up in the morning and go to their regular, nine to fives. That's normal. That's expected. Society has rules and people follow them.
When Isagi is back to his apartment, sitting on the couch, he doesn’t feel a single bit tired. No, that's a lie. He's sore, he's exhausted, but his hands are still shaking as he holds the envelope. Mr. Ito said his workers get paid weekly, but those that successfully get through the interview and entertain more after it's done, get a special treat.
He opens the envelope.
He doesn’t process the bills right away. Eyes wide, he's not even breathing. That was—that was ten times what he got in a month with minimum wage. Maybe more. Isagi stared at the bills and spied a little note and signature on the end in thick, cursive lettering.
Come back soon, I'll know if it's you.
-MK.
The first thing he noticed was how it strangely looked familiar, like he's seen the handwriting before somewhere, somehow. The little observation is pushed back once he hides his face dropping the envelope stacked with cash. Finally, he processed the sensations crawling through his body; the felt imprint of hands, the ghosting lips, the gaping emptiness that has ruined him in such a short time.
Isagi swallowed, his breathing heavy. With this much money after a single day of work, mere hours, the trajectory of Isagi's bland, regular life has suddenly gone askew. The predictable mundanity of it was no longer foreseeable.
There was no way he couldn’t not do it again. Suddenly, doors have opened, and Isagi wasn’t going to ignore the opportunities that have landed in his lap. Not again.
Maybe getting fired was a blessing in disguise.
He smiles, giddy, body aching a delightful symphony.
Unable to calm down, he decides to rewatch one of his favorite shows to sleep to. It's considered old, by now, six years after it's original run on Blue Lock TV, but the Neo Egoist League was still, by far, the greatest thing to have happened to japan. Just like everyone else that watched it, he had favorites, and one of them was no doubt Bastard Munchen's past forward, now the crowned king of Madrid's Real CF, Number 10, Michael Kaiser.
He held his pillow, ignoring the evened, cool warmth in his stomach, and eyed the man's explosive, domineering entrance. So iconic. The energy must be electric.
He fell asleep like that, dreaming an old dream.
Isagi Yoichi had no ego, no pride, having lost it in the mediocrity of his half-baked potential. He will never know what he could've been, could've amounted to. All he is now is someone floating by the skin of his teeth, ruminating on the remnants of who he used to be.
This Isagi Yoichi had no use for pride, and that was okay now. He had something new to look forward to, a way to make money and live. He didn’t have to survive on scraps anymore. Didn’t have to bleed for a bronze yen.
And to have it, all he had to do was give up his self.
It was time for a new Isagi Yoichi.