Chapter Text
Can big things hurt me?
Sometimes.
…Will they?
Sometimes.
What times are those?
…Soon, maybe.
Why?
Sometimes big things enjoy the hunt purely for sport. For the struggle of it.
I’ve been alive for a while now, I’m a big boy.
Yes. And you keep growing.
Yeah, so- so… ‘cause I’m big, I can fight ‘em off.
Maybe.
Mama says I’m real strong.
Sure.
You’re pretty big.
I am.
Like really big…
Correct.
Will you fight them for me if I’m too small?
We all gotta fight our own battles, Yuu.
Oh… Well… Since you’re big, are you going to hurt me?
…Soon, maybe... It’s probable.
Why? I don’t wanna hurt you. Wouldn’t ever wanna.
Of course you wouldn’t, you’ll always be littler than me.
…Shh, it’s just me, Yuu.
…I don’t wanna be little anymore…
𓇢𓆸
Trees creep in small towns.
If watched closely, the roots come to life. Snakes in the dirt, slowly inching distance. Never in the same place twice.
One just can’t make it seem like they’re being watched, only to be seen—observed—out of the corners, the peripheries, of careful, meticulous eyes.
A shadow here, a shadow there, glancing, dancing between moving trees.
Their canopy of wintering, dead branches like razor-sharp teeth in an endless gaping maw of a colorless sky.
The very wind rattles through them like dry bones and twists up the hearts of youths into something mangled. Desperate. Evil in boredom, monotony, mundanity.
It’s where they find their enjoyment, the trees. They see all, and whisper bad in their ears. Just a little tweak, a little nudge.
Sit back and watch the cards fall.
Enjoy the crash.
Trees creep.
They always moved for Yuuji, slithered. Pitying fey of the little boy lost in all ways that mattered.
Lost heart.
Lost soul.
Lost pieces.
Lost hope.
Lost innocence.
A lone petal floating on the wind, muddied. Torn.
Friends for a time. So long as their whims abided in it, anyway. Instead of bad, they told secrets.
Showed him treasures. Copperheads, birdsongs, waterfalls, jumping spiders, polypores, caves, bones, pretty beach glass smoothed by tumbling creeks, jewelweed, constellations all his own, hypnotizing maypops with fruit that’s more seed than citrusy flesh, wild ginger with flowers under its leaves that attract flies, that smell of syrupy, honeyed rot.
A wild child.
Their wild child.
There’s this black dog—their beloved pet, a weapon—that hangs over the town like a heavy cloud of acid rain. It wrestles everyone at the jugular, jaws of inevitability made of cold iron. Their suffering for meat and honey in its mouth, for flesh in its teeth.
Ichor bleeds out in droves, bathing and flooding the roads in glittering gold; the young, reckless, misplaced immortality and invincibility they’re convinced of possessing crumbles in an instant in the face of death.
Yuuji has watched it happen firsthand.
Car crashes, overdoses, suicides.
Toe that fucking line, but don’t cross it.
It’s something that’s just said, a word of warning, passed down through the previous, life-weary generations to the new group of excitable youth straining at their chains, yearning desperately for something more.
Something important.
There is nothing.
There is no one.
Where does their light go when it burns out?
He doesn’t know.
He hasn’t found his.
What Yuuji does know, intrinsically, is that there’s nothing more. He has crossed many lines in order to survive, and has the experience to say for certain.
Boundaries, borders, crossroads, all dashed and broken—even his own.
Pride is for those who have the time, money, and luxury to bask in it.
And Yuuji?
Yuuji has never had much of any of those.
Had felt its absence acutely, at first.
But.
He learned to give up silly, inconsequential things like pride as a young boy. His fingers may be bloody, worn down to gruesome bone in his fight to keep hold of it, but, well… That’s a different thing all together.
It’s perpetual polar night in his heart.
Cobalt blue ice for blood, no oxygen in it to even breathe.
The inverted tip of the iceberg in the frigid depths of the sea.
Pride and soft things have far been buried in the dirt under cold, rotting leaves. Beneath one of those moving trees; a thick, gleaming black racer to guard it. Left for safe keeping. As safe as it can be, at least, for a body no longer capable to hold it. To understand it.
The roots of it tighten around his throat at times, at random. Reminding him of what he’s given up, lost.
He had to bury that, too. A timber rattlesnake for that one. Ignores the feeling, the sound, when it crops up on him unaware.
Heeds the warning.
Backs up slowly and flees like hell.
Don’t you fucking forget.
He didn’t.
Hasn’t.
It’s why he left.
𓇢𓆸
The night was dark, no father was there,
The child was wet with dew;
The mire was deep, and the child did weep,
And away the vapour flew.
-The Little Boy Lost, William Blake
𓇢𓆸
The club is loud and muggy and hot.
Sweaty bodies move and writhe and gyrate against each other like eels in a bucket.
Music throbs like a living thing in his ears, some awful mashup of pop and trap. The DJ should really be fired.
The smell is unpleasant, cloying, but fitting in its stench. It’s the smell of selfishness and desire, desperation and despair, all rolled up into trembling, clashing spheres of wrong. Skins that don’t fit quite right, but try to make everyone else believe they do. Sickly-sweet pheromones pump out of overhead vents to try to cover it.
It never does, not to Yuuji.
Life sold dreams, and they earned debt in turn. He has long gotten used to it, and he’s smelled far worse.
And he can’t say that he’s any different.
He may be the hungriest of all.
It’s really the best place to be for his purpose, though, and he scopes the place out for those who he knows are easy marks.
As he leans back against the bar, his elbows propped beside him with a drink in hand, he sees one through the low, colorful lighting. There. There at the end.
A man who looks to be early thirties, and sort of, well, ugly. And downtrodden. Out of place in his attire, wearing an ill-fitting, crumpled dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, suit jacket on the back of his chair. Office worker. He sits there peering into his glass on a Wednesday night in a scene he doesn’t belong in, alone. Lonely.
It makes him a vulnerable, soft animal. A dog searching for a master, the first to show it attention.
Perfect.
Easy.
Yuuji downs the rest of his Sex on the Beach, takes a deep breath, puts on his game face, and saunters over.
“Hello there, handsome,” he purrs into the man’s ear, loud enough to be heard over the thumping music.
Unsurprisingly, he startles, whipping around to stare at the omega with wide eyes. He darts a look up and down Yuuji’s lingerie-clad body and flushes before casting about over both shoulders. “Me?” he chokes out when he focuses back, as if Yuuji couldn’t possibly be speaking to him, of all people.
Yuuji gives him a saccharine smile and seats himself gracefully in the chair beside the man, sure to angle his body to show off the best picture of his assets. And he knows he looks good, has spent hours before a mirror perfecting his low-lidded, pouty-mouthed, come hither gaze. Knows exactly how to stretch to draw to eye to his lithe, toned form. Knows exactly how to make it tasteful and not trashy, curious but not ran through, how to make it sexy, yet innocent. A virginal, clueless little lamb straight out of a playboy magazine, a pay per view. Open to be taught new things by men who believe they have the experience, blushing all the way, but picking it up as if he were born for the exact purpose of being put on his knees to swallow alpha cock. A whore, but they’re his only one. Personal use.
At the end of the day, it’s all dreams and image, and he’s a master at providing.
It’s his turn to sell them, after all.
He’s good at appealing to the dark, nasty side of men they like to pretend doesn’t exist when they go home to their wives and drink to forget. “Of course, sweetie. Who else?”
The man gulps so hard, Yuuji can track his throat bobbing. “Oh.”
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Michael.”
Glancing down at the man’s left hand, he sees the glint of the thick gold band on his ring finger. He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes, fucking idiot. He knew it. “Nice to meet you, baby, I’m Amaryllis.”
That hard swallow again. “Nice to m-meet you, too.”
Yuuji flashes a bright smile. “So, I gotta ask. What brings you here tonight, darlin’? You must have more options than this,“ Yuuji says, gesturing around them emphatically with a soft hand. “You’re a catch.”
“O-oh, w-well—” he sputters.
The omega leans in close for this part. He loves this part. Drinks their guilt like sweet ambrosia and nectar sliding silkily down his throat. “Does your wife know you’re here, Michael?” He lets his mouth curl intimately around the name. Running a delicate, manicured nail up the beta’s arm, he continues, “I can’t imagine she’s taking care of you the way she should, handsome man like you.”
“N-no,” he breathes. “We’re having issues, but I just came for a drink, I swear.”
The lying little weasel. He lets that sit there, stew, while he flags down Aoi—who doubles as a bartender and a bouncer—for another Sex on the Beach. Lets the man sweat a little. Ignores the little look Todo gives him. Waits until he finally has drink in hand and has taken a sip before he relents.
“Michael,” Yuuji says sweetly. Knows this song and dance like the back of his hand, could find his way through it in the dark, blindfolded. The denial, the absolvement, like they didn’t find themselves in an omega strip club for the purpose of seeing omegan strippers. “It’s okay, I’m not judgin’.” The irony of it almost makes him giggle a little. “You deserve a little attention if she’s neglecting you. Wanna talk about it?”
The beta pulls nervously at his shirt collar, eyes darting around unable to settle. He takes a healthy swig of his own drink. “Well, uh… Not sure where to start… Her parents never liked me, thought I wasn’t good enough, so I’ve worked extremely hard to make sure they knew I’d take care of her, y’know?”
Rubbing at his shoulder in support, Yuuji hums sympathetically. Pulls and arranges his face to make it compassionate, like he really gets it.
“And even then, I just don’t think they liked how poor I was at first. But recently, she’s been complaining that I work too much. That I don’t give her enough attention… But how else am I supposed to pay for everything and our child? Live up to her standards? Her parents’? And now I’m sleeping on the couch for it?”
“What?! You don’t deserve that!” the omega exclaims, like he just cannot believe it. Starts his subterfuge, “You deserve much better.”
“Yeah?” Hopeful. Pathetic.
“Of course, sugar. She should be grateful you’re working so hard for her. I know I would be. She’s real lucky.”
“She is, isn’t she? I work hard,” he nods firmly, once, as if assuring himself.
“Yes you do. You want me to show you how grateful I’d be?” A soft caress, a beckoning. Closer, closer, come closer.
The man flushes again at the implication. “N-no. No, I only came for a drink. Thank you for listening, it means a lot.”
“Okay,” Yuuji singsongs, follows up somberly, “It’s no problem, Michael. Glad to listen anytime. I won’t interrupt you any longer, and my offer is always open.”
Hopping down from his chair, he drops a kiss on the man’s cheek, and turns to walk away. He gets to the count of two, when he hears,
“Wait!”
Has to hide the smirk before he turns back around.
𓇢𓆸
Three things:
Michael’s cock is fucking small.
Figures.
The floor of the bathroom is fucking disgusting.
And Yuuji is fucking bored.
Feels genuine sympathy for the man’s wife, because this absolutely minuscule mouthful is what she has to work with. Dude probably doesn’t—definitely doesn’t—even know how to use it either. Probably pumps her three times, cums, rolls over, and tells her, ‘That was great, honey.’ Probably pats himself on the back afterwards and feels like he gave her a damn good time, too. Doubts his wife even has the time to fake an orgasm.
He’s glad this guy’s such a pushover, though, because he had no complaints when Yuuji told him he had to wrap it. Just about stumbled over himself to get it on. Some men try to give him trouble about that.
But he doesn’t know where these cocks have been and he’s diligent in staying clean, thank you very much. He’s not keen on signing up to get the fucking clap.
Yuuji still makes it good. Has to in order to get what he wants.
He teases the man, draws it out. Slow, tight bobs of his head, only to be followed by fast and loose. Changes the tempo, makes all the right sounds like he’s really enjoying it, makes it good.
Michael is whimpering loudly and practically shaking apart, but Yuuji just won’t let him get there. Not yet, anyway.
He slides his hands up the man’s slack-covered thighs, around his hips to settle on his ass. His back pockets, really. He’s careful, practiced, in this sport. Russian roulette, all or nothing. There is no fold.
Flicking his tongue over the spongy head, he gently removes the wallet he feels in the beta’s pocket. Shoves his face into the man’s pubes and groans deep in his throat to cover the sound of the wallet being tucked up in the large, plastic toilet paper holder.
He suctions his mouth again, draws back, and pushes forward one last time, when he feels the telltale spasm and heat flooding the condom.
He milks it just a bit, pulls off with a pop, and looks up to grin at the man. He kisses the softening tip of it, just because when he thinks on it, this guy is just pitiful. And partly because he was a gentleman about it, kept his hands out of Yuuji’s hair. It was almost innocent, sweet. Didn’t yank on him to try to fuck his throat without asking and didn’t try to scruff him, either.
He’s had it happen. Haughty alphas—and a rare beta or two—who think they can force him to do something, try to make him boneless in complicity. Like that’s wise to do to someone whose face is all in your junk. They went home with a sore dick, that’s for sure. Yuuji knows how to use his teeth. A wild thing in his blood. The consolation is that they went home with lighter pockets, too.
“Was I good for you, Michael? Did I show you just how grateful I’d be?” Yuuji purrs sweetly. A siren song, irresistible to mortal men.
“Mmff, mhmmm,” the man hums, legs like jelly. Voice hasn’t come back to him yet.
Yuuji always finds this part a little awkward, a little humorous, seeing these men rent down to their baselines, their very foundations of basic human speech, their soft cock hanging out of their pants while he’s still at eye level. Like hello!
He takes pity on him, covers his snicker with a cough, and carefully pulls off the condom. He’d rather not be covered in jizz, he’s still on the clock. Tying it off, he drops it into the toilet.
Michael, fucking bless him, still hasn’t put his dick away, just standing there staring after his world got rocked, so Yuuji does it for him. Useless motherfucker. Tucks him back into his underwear—tighty fucking whities, the chump—and zips him back up, pats the little bulge there when he’s done like it’s a nice little present. Wishes he had a little bow to laugh at, laughs a little in his head at the image anyway.
“You okay there, Michael?” Yuuji asks as he starts to stand up. Damn, that floor is fucking nasty.
“Mhmm,” he says again. Yuuji really has to work hard not to roll his eyes this time.
He gets in the man’s face, has to see this go down. Might be his favorite part of all, sitting back and watching the crash. “Was I better than your wife, Michael?”
The man hurries to nod, loose and uncoordinated like a bobblehead. Yuuji imagines his head on a spike. “You were. You were so good.”
Yuuji catches his eye, traces a finger in circles on his chest. “How much better?”
Michael grabs his hand tenderly. Lovingly. Makes smitten, sickening eyes at him. “One hundred percent.”
“Poor gal,” Yuuji sighs.
That seems to wake him up, something in Yuuji’s tone stirring his hindbrain from its slumber. “What?”
Yuuji flashes him a sharp smile, his small omegan fangs glinting. “You know, she’s a poor girl. Wants more attention from her spineless, dickless, piece of shit of a husband, so he decides to go and get sucked off by a whore at a strip club. Says the whore is one hundred percent better than his wife. A wife who gave him a child. It’s a damn shame. Truly, it breaks my heart.”
He watches with something like malicious glee filling his heart as the color drains off the man’s face, shocked still like he just got dunked in a pool of freezing water.
Yuuji licks his lips, wishes betas had stronger pheromones other than just a clean comforting scent so that he could taste the shame. “You think it’d break hers?”
The man flames red in anger, guilt. Yuuji can see it, can tell the difference between fury and self loathing turned outwards. It’s delicious. “F-fuck you, you stupid bitch!”
Cackling in spiteful mirth, Yuuji gasps out, “Think you can get it back up for that?”
He shoves Yuuji back against the divider so hard, the back of his head cracks against it, before he storms out of the bathroom.
Laughter dies down to a soft humming thing in the omega’s throat as he rolls his head back and forth against the wall with his eyes closed. “Sheesh,” he says aloud to the empty restroom. “Tough crowd.”
Reaching down, he fumbles around for the wallet in the toilet paper dispenser. It’s a nice one. Thick, brown worn leather, soft and supple under his rubbing thumbs. He stares down at it like it’ll tell him the secrets to the universe, gets a little lost in it, feels something like a sob working up his throat, but shuts that shit down quick. Hears the hissing rattle warning him to take a step no further. This is a game with no folding. It’s a blood sport, Russian roulette, all or nothing. There is no fold. He doesn’t quite know who it’s against, what it’s against, or what the purpose even is, but he just knows he’s going to win it.
He tucks the wallet in the waistband of his lacy thong and goes to wash his hands and his mouth out in the sink. No one likes the taste of latex, honestly, least of all multiple times a night.
He looks at himself in the mirror, inspects himself like there may have been some life altering change. He always has to check. Finding none, he winks, gives himself a bright grin, and marches back into the battlefield with his spoils of war in hand.
𓇢𓆸
Yuuji doesn’t look in the wallet yet. There’s a ritual to it, a method. He’ll look when he’s home, where it’s nice and quiet and he can look, see, understand inherently who this person is.
So, when he gets to the locker room, he’s quick to shove the wallet in his bag with the cash he’s earned tonight, and the other two wallets. Quick to lock it back up tight.
The omegas are like vultures here, they eat carrion full of weakness without delay as soon as it’s spotted. It only took him one time as a rookie to be taught that valuable lesson. Took him one time to be robbed and left high and dry.
Took him one time to realize he’s on his own, even here.
No companionship.
No family brought together by similar, wretched circumstance.
But that’s okay, Yuuji knows how to use his teeth. Knows how to fight dirty.
He had snakes for teachers.
Coil up tight, give one warning out of knowing pity, and strike first for soft, open, vulnerable vitals. Squeeze around the throat if he has to. Knows better than to show his belly. A wild thing in his blood.
The next time they tried it, descended on him like rotten scavengers to pick him apart, they were ones that learned.
Still, better safe than sorry.
Pride has no place here, and he’s not going to be taken by surprise by feeling like he’s the shit.
Arrogance and ego make people soft, and he’s far from it.
There’s always bigger and badder somewhere, so he keeps his head down. Stays shrewd, cunning, and most importantly, humble, modest. He hides his hunger well. Minds his own business. Takes care of his own shit. And there’s no problems, for either party.
He looks up at the clock on the wall, 2:38. He only has about an hour and a half left on his shift.
As he makes his way back to the floor, he ponders if he can swing it for one more wallet tonight.
𓇢𓆸
I,
I've been thinking too hard
I was lost from the start
That's a great to-be mood
I,
I've been thinking too hard
It's a dangerous part
That I've been to
I,
I don't know what's right anymore
The sea flooded, then the rain poured
I'm conditioned to survive
Just that need to be alive
I've got intuition on my side
Just to ease that paranoid mind
I've cried tears ocean-wide
Just to ease that pain inside
-I’ve Been Thinking Too Hard, Yellow Days
𓇢𓆸
It’s a few hours before false dawn when he gets out, a soft cloud of condensation puffing out of his mouth when he huffs deeply. There’s a nip in the air, but it’ll be spring soon. Not that it matters anyway in a place full of concrete.
He fucking hates this place. Hates it with the deepest of passions. It’s always filled with this low buzzing of sound, and not the good kind. It’s all glass breaking and cars honking and belligerent cussing and sirens and gunshots and stray dogs barking and cats yowling in alleys and this god awful smell that permeates everywhere. When, really, it should be frogs chirping and croaking like a wooden guiro near the creek, and crickets sounding in the dewy grass, and wind whipping in a haunting whistle down hillsides, whippoorwills and barred owls calling in the field and copse of trees behind his house, droning cicadas in the heat of the day. He feels wrong here. Like he’s in some far away kingdom, banished from his own. He won’t go back, though—can’t.
Looking at the sky is the only time he truly allows himself to miss home. Allows it for just a moment, can’t get caught up in it or it’ll ruin all his progress. But there’s just so many lights and smog here, it kills out the stars and their shine all together.
It murders their gift in a cruel, chemical stranglehold.
And he just can’t help but notice, feel the ache of a missing limb.
Makes him wonder if they were ever there in the first place, or if they avoid this place as much as some deep down part of him feels he should.
But, there’s not much else to go. If he’s anything at all, he’s realistic. There’s nothing that would change, no one that would hire an unbonded male omega who wasn’t even twenty yet with no higher education, no matter how rare he was. He’d just end up in another city doing the same thing, but having to start all over.
Getting pushed and pulled and tested and tried all over again. At least, here, he’s The Judge. Here, the omegas know better now, even if they do still get catty sometimes. That’s okay, though. It keeps him sharp. It’s all he’s got.
He’s practically dead on his feet as he trudges home, but he doesn’t show it, especially with so much cash in his bag. Truly, mugging is the least of his worries. Trafficking is rampant around here.
It’s different at night and in the early hours of the morning. Monsters come out to play in the cover of darkness. It’s their home, their arena, and their fun comes with no mercy, sick enjoyment in their victims’ pleading.
He holds a constant, quick pace with his head on a swivel on the way home. He keeps an eleven-inch Defender Xtreme hunting knife in the front pocket of his hoodie, a smaller one in waist of his sweats, on the side of his backpack in easy reach, and a dagger in his boot. Four knives might seem like overkill, but a man who sleeps with a machete every night is a fool all but one.
He is no fool.
He watches for cracks, lips, and holes in the pavement so he doesn’t stumble; so he doesn’t provide a nice, open chink in his armor. Keeps his ears pricked for any footsteps falling in line with his own and stays far out of reach from the shadowed mouths of alleyways.
He is not going to end up on the news.
Wouldn’t really anyway, he thinks dryly, even if he was raped and murdered, or stolen away. Nobody cares for omega whores. He’s on his own, and that’s just fine. Nobody cares for knife-gutted two-bit thugs, either.
He’s nearly home when he hears a car coming up fast down the road, trap music thumping loudly through the strong bass. Not unsual, even this early, really, for a city that never sleeps. Only when he hears the music cut off abruptly as the car slows behind him, does his stomach drop sickeningly through his feet like a millstone.
He keeps walking, heart pounding fast in his throat. Reaching in his front pocket, he goes to grab his phone in hand to have at the ready—won’t depend on it, can’t depend on it, it would take too long. He aborts the action immediately. Instead, he grabs the large hunting knife in a tense, white-knuckled grip, but doesn’t pull it out yet.
Doesn’t want to use it, but he will. He’s had to before when someone tried to pull his card. He will now, and will continue in the future.
He just has to wait for the right moment, has to have patience.
Don’t jump the gun, kid.
Coil up and wait to spring for the flash of soft, unguarded flesh.
The mechanical sound of a window going down echoes in his head loudly, ricocheting like a .44 mag going off in a buttoned up tank. “Hey!”
He doesn’t respond and picks up his pace slightly, not enough to make it noticeable, to have some primal instinct to chase kick in if by chance the man is an alpha, but just enough to get some extra power going on the balls of his feet. Shifts his weight, ready at the first moment to cut out. But, he knows better than to engage until he absolutely has to. He hopes his obvious silence and indifference to the attention will be enough to get him to take the hint and go on somewhere.
“You’re an omega, right? I can tell from the walk!”
A little quicker, grinds his teeth in the process. Stubborn fucking bastard.
“I’m talking to you, pretty little thang!” A few chuckles accompany the statement.
Fuck.
“Not interested,” Yuuji growls.
“Aww, don’t be that way! Just tryna give you a ride, fine ass like you don’t need to be walking,” the driver calls out.
Yuuji chances a glance in the car. Better to know what he’s up against, than to be blindsided. Matte-black 2019 Dodge Charger, widebody kit, spinners on the wheels; drug money. Two men in the backseat and one in the passenger, all look to be about in their late twenties, all watching him. Their eyes make his skin crawl, a scorpion up his spine. Poised to do him right the fuck in, and not nicely, either. It’d be a painful, slow rotting of flesh into death. “I’m good, just getting my exercise,” he dismisses. His legs threaten to feel weak, but he’s well aware that this is a make or break moment, all or nothing, life or death. He’s good at keeping it together for the game, has had the practice many times over.
He’s on his own, no one checks out screams around here. Everyone is too out to save their own necks to risk getting caught up in business such as this.
His apartment building is coming up on the next block, but he won’t stop there if they’re still following him. Death sentence for these types to know where he lives when they’ve been spurned. Ego and self entitlement flows through them like water, makes up seventy-five percent of them. They wouldn’t forget. They’d wait until Yuuji felt safe, a week, maybe two, and pop up on him again right outside his door with even iller intent next time.
“I know a better way you can get some exercise,” he jeers.
They must have found it funnier than him, because Yuuji hears them laugh uproariously at the slimy implication. The fuckers.
“That’s real funny,” Yuuji says, coming to a brief stop, so he can bend and look the driver in the eye as he pulls the large hunting knife out, finally. And that’s exactly what it is, final. Gotta face down the wolf and look him in his damn eyes when he tests his bounds, make sure he knows there’s no prey here to be had. “I know one, too. I can cut your fucking balls off and shove them down your fucking throat. Maybe your pals’ here, too! Come on out and fucking try me, motherfucker. I swear at least one of you‘s gonna lose some nuts before you touch me. I know you got a gun in there, too. You better not fucking miss.”
No one was ever going to take advantage of him again and leave without missing pieces.
“Crazy bitch. Nobody wanted you anyway,” he spits, before revving the engine and tearing down the road.
There’s relief there when he hears the music come back on and fade in the distance, a soft, fluttering thing in his gut, yet he doesn’t let himself feel it until he’s safely back in his house. No weakness, no chink, just because he decided to celebrate too early like a fucking idiot.
It’s a dreary countdown of seconds to when he makes it home—so close, and feels so far.
His building’s lobby is unsurprisingly dingy. The lights flicker sometimes because they need changing but no one cares enough to, and the elevator is out. Has been for months, the sign says it’ll be fixed soon, a little smiley face thanking them for their patience and everything. But he doubts it. So he has to walk up six flights, grudgingly cursing the whole way because he’s still shaky from his run in, on top of being tired.
He’d move, but rent for a livable size two bedroom is expensive, even on this side of the city—misery in the air just as much as smog. It’s like no matter how much money he makes for being a top shelf novelty item, it goes so fast, slips through his fingers like fairy dust. Plus, he wouldn’t move because his roommate is nice enough. Even if he is a little stoic. It’s fine. Yuuji doesn’t really do friends, but he thinks, even so, Megumi is the best friend he’s ever had. Doesn’t ask questions that get to the festering meat of things and doesn’t pry, but gets it as another rare male omega. It’s not often they actually see each other since they have opposing schedules, but they leave each other nice words on post-it notes and breakfast or dinner, whoever cooks first. They show they care where they can.
He can hear yelling and crying and music and TVs through the doors as he walks down the hall on his floor. It’s such a common occurrence, it’s like white noise. He thinks the cacophony of it must reside in the very walls at this point.
When he’s finally through the door and has locked it—he never takes more than a second to lock it, he doesn’t even wait to get his shoes off to brace himself and slide down it. “Fucking hell,” Yuuji breathes shakily as he scrubs over his face with both hands.
He unlaces his boots with trembling fingers, adrenaline pure not yet letting him out of its grasp. He smells his own pheromones pumping out wildly even through the scent-blocking patch on his neck, choking him on distress, filling the room with burnt out honeysuckle and sweet vernal grass, astringent around the edges. He’ll have to open the windows to air out the living room before Megumi wakes up so he doesn’t worry. No matter what his best friend says or acts like, he’s a worrier.
The whole thing makes him feel like he has a foot in both damsel and knight. At the thought of it, a hysterical giggle bubbles out of him, even through the thickness in his throat. His eyes sting and the sharp feeling of it is what snaps him out of it.
He does what he does every time: bottles that shit up and pushes it right down. There’s nothing to fucking cry about here. Knows that if he let it out, it’d come in a torrent, and he doesn’t quite know when he’d stop. Doesn’t quite know what would be left of him when the storm finally let up, either. Hollowed out like a tree that caught fire on the inside, black crunchy char the only thing that remains. And he can’t afford that at all. No weakness is allowed here.
With his boots untied, he pulls them off with a steadier sigh than what he feels and stands to quietly slide open the windows just a crack. As he slogs to his room, he’s mindful of Megumi sleeping in the other.
Pushing open his door, the sight of his nest makes him feel like serenity was injected right in the vein and can’t help the small little trill that spills out into the air. He carefully, silently closes it behind him.
The apartment is sorta shitty, but not the worst, and he’s always taken care of his small chunk of sanctuary.
His twin-size mattress is on the floor on top of a knockoff Persian rug. It’s piled up with blankets and pillows, all different textures but so soft. His favorite is a small throw pillow that’s crushed purple velvet with a teal mesh overlay, because the mesh has hummingbirds and dianthus flowers woven into it with vibrant thread. He always makes sure to have that one far out of the way when he sleeps, and especially during his heat. He’d probably cry if he ever messed it up, because when he saw it in the store, he fell in love immediately, but didn’t have any money on him to buy it. The next time he went, it was gone, and he genuinely mourned it, since he’d never seen anything like it. It was special in a way that hooked his gut, and it was gone. But, the next time, he saw the very person returning it and snatched it up lightning fast, hovering around the clerk when she was putting it back on the shelf. If he ever has children, he’s passing that fucking pillow down.
There’s plants and knickknacks everywhere. On the floor, on his bookshelf, and hanging up in pretty macrame with colorful pots. An antique, yellow, corn-shaped National Bitters bottle stuffed full of feathers, tiny little printed bricks he’s found in old busted out factories, a bronze alligator where his back opens as a hidden ashtray, rocks and beach glass, a deep brown and turquoise ombré elephant statue, a happy little frog sculpture, different pieces of antique milk glass and jadeite, a Senegalese djembe with pretty carvings and beads, a Thai bamboo purse, a golden-yellow Japanese hand-painted wagasa that has two cranes and the Hinomaru and spindly graceful pine branches, a copper tea pot with white ceramic handles which has blue flowers on it, cat whiskers he collects when he sweeps in a tiny green Victorian perfume bottle, an eight foot rat snake skin he preserved and pinned on the wall because she got ran over near the park and it was such a waste of life for something so beautiful and wild and untamed.
He took great care with her, got the best vegetable glycerin he could afford. Spoke to her with soft words and gentle thanks when he cut open her smooth, cream, iridescent underbelly.
Understood what she gave up to show herself that way, to let him do it to her.
She was probably about eight years old. Eight years old. That’s such a long time for something to survive in an eat or be eaten environment. Survived foxes and owls and raccoons and skunks and hawks, only to be taken out by a fucking car.
She deserved the respect.
Just like his plants do, too.
He likes to talk to them sometimes, thinks maybe his messages might just make it back to the trees at home, like a planty game of Telephone, only they never mess up the words. He likes to look at them in the sunlight, admire any new growth he sees. Some waxy and strong, others thin and variegated, even some that fan out softly.
The outer two walls are red brick and everything inside is burnt oranges and mustard yellows and deep emerald greens, and it’s so pretty because he bought some of those rolls of stick on ‘stained glass’ off Amazon to put on one of the two windows in his room, the other with a large sun catcher that dazzles in just the perfect way.
There’s a black bear skin rug and a nearly red cowhide rug overlapped in the middle of the floor, because he thinks it’s just a bit beautiful in a way that wrenches him deep to the core to see predator and prey interact in such a state. Friends in death, in the way that really matters. They’re not alone, and he’ll never separate them. Over his dead body. He found them on Facebook Marketplace, both of which were way out of his budget, but looked like they needed care. Too special to collect dust and boot prints and spilled beer and harsh things. He named the bear Tomillo and the cow Romero, because he knows the bear is male, but doesn’t know if the cow is or not. So, he picked a suiting name that is male in Spanish and inherently female in English. Rosemary and Thyme. They go together (and it’s on theme, too, because his two Russian Blue-tabby mixes are brother and sister and theirs are Basil and Oregano). He brushes them both tenderly every week. Makes sure he kisses Tomillo right on the nose when he wipes it with a microfiber cloth, looks him in his sweet, innocent eyes even though he knows they’re fake, and whispers quiet apologies to Romero that they have no head. Because everything like that needs love. Even in death.
“Today was shit, guys. You wouldn’t even fucking believe it,” he says to them with a huff as he plops his backpack down on the warmly varnished floor, still shaky but finding his legs.
He walks over beside his bed to click on his vintage triple-tiered beaded sea shell ‘chandelier’—small at the top and large at the bottom—that hangs above his small bedside table that he sanded down to bare wood before painting the tiny drawer and feet lemongrass yellow.
In the drawer, completely within reach, he keeps a .357 Smith & Wesson revolver, because his window is connected to the fire escape, and he’ll be damned if he lets anyone come in his sanctuary without getting fucking got.
He bought the chandelier at a yard sale for fifteen dollars and threaded through with fairy lights, because it was pretty, but it also needed to be functional. The little old lady that sold it to him said she got it from Santa Monica and she loved that she knew he would take care and cherish it just as much as she did. He does, very much so, because the shells are so tiny and delicate and so much work must have gone into it. It’s all he uses in his room for light other than candles, because he doesn’t have an overhead light. Not that he would use it anyway, he prefers the ambiance.
Next, he lights a few candles, pine and sandalwood and cedar. He goes to his bookshelf that’s absolutely overflowing with books—some are even stacked on the floor, because he’ll read anything—and grabs a pair of surgical gloves out of the cardboard box that’s sitting on the top shelf, along with a handful of rubber bands and a pen out of his turtle mug, a large spray bottle of ninety-one percent isopropyl alcohol from the floor that was tucked in the corner by the bookshelf, multiple paper towels he tears in singles, four medium sized envelopes, and two empty cigar boxes—My Father ‘The Judge’ and My Father ‘La Opulencia’—from atop the floating shelf he put up above his bookcase, before he sets the items gently, purposefully, on top of Tomillo’s back.
In the corner diagonal from his bed, there’s a perfect condition 1920s Shenandoah floor model phonograph that he got for three hundred and fifty bucks—a criminally low steal. He rarely turns on the lamp that sits atop it, but he uses it for nights like these. Right beside the phonograph is a small, ratty twine pouf ottoman. Probably the rattiest thing in the room—other than junk trinkets he thinks are really treasures—and for good reason.
The room is extremely tight with everything that’s packed into it, barely any room for his rack of clothes, but it’s cozy. Safe.
He pulls the pouf, also, to the center of the room.
Unzipping the bottom, he pulls out a large two-gallon jug that he shoved inside after he pulled out some of the stuffing. It’s where he keeps his cash, his ‘oh shit’ emergency jug.
He grabs his bag and sits where Romero and Tomillo meet, gives them both a little loving pat. “Alright, guys. You know the drill. You ready?” he whispers.
Unzipping the backpack, he dumps the money out on the floor. He’s careful not to let it touch either of them. They don’t deserve dirty notes on them.
He snaps on his gloves, before he starts counting. He doesn’t know how much coke has been on these bills tonight, or how much ass it’s been on before. And he’s not trying to touch bootyhole sweat, or catch a contact high, because skin is absorbent as all fuck.
It’s a slow process, but he gets it done efficiently.
He counts it once, and recounts it twice. It takes longer because it’s mostly one dollar bills.
All in all, it was a profitable night. Nearly eight-fifty for six hours. He’s popular because he’s the only male omega in the club, a rarity, so he can charge more for private dances, but even he seldom makes that much per shift. He usually makes about six-fifty to seven hundred, and most only make about four.
Yuuji makes stacks of one hundred, sprays each bill methodically with rubbing alcohol once separated, rolls and bands them tightly, and pops them through the neck of the jug. A giddy little jig dances through him to see it’s almost full. He’ll have to get another jug.
He keeps out three rolls and the extra forty-two left over so that he can take it to the bank to exchange for larger bills.
The omega first takes one of the split paper towels and sprays it also with alcohol so that he can wipe off the handle and lever of the spray bottle. Then, he pulls off the dirty gloves inside-out so that he doesn’t touch any of the contamination and places them on the floor out of the polluted zone.
He thoroughly sprays down the hardwood everywhere where he even thinks the money had touched.
Letting it sit for a moment, Yuuji lets the alcohol work, before he uses the rest of the paper towels to wipe it up.
Gathering the soggy towels and rolled up gloves, he disposed of them in the small dustbin beneath his nightstand.
And once he’s finished, it’s finally, finally, time to take out the four wallets he collected tonight.
He’s ready.
Exuberance and catharsis and solemnity all meeting and discussing deep in his blood.
Again, he sits where Romero and Tomillo embrace and opens the middle pocket of his bag to retrieve them. He sets them out side by side in the order in which he took them, then places The Judge above them on the right, and La Opulencia beside it on the left. He chose them purposely at the cigar lounge.
He doesn’t smoke cigars, never has, but the boxes—especially the My Father brand—has beautiful art on the inside that he can appreciate.
They were selling them there in a massive crate on the sidewalk, the empty boxes. Some were pretty enough, would serve their purpose well. But when he chanced upon The Judge, the name hooked him. It was perfect. Said it right on top in big, bold, gold letters. Gilded in severe truth and verdict and justice. And when he opened it? Oh. When he opened that dark brown box, the man inside nearly took his breath. All bright and colorful and lounging.
Judging.
There he was.
The Judge.
And was that not what Yuuji was doing?
What he is?
He sought out another from My Father in prompt order.
It was like a sign, finding The Judge. He was certain that they’d have one for his other purpose.
And they did.
La Opulencia.
Opulence.
And she. was. Stunning.
Her box was shining in color, nearly orange.
And before he even opened it, the duality of it immediately clutched him.
Light and Dark.
And the woman inside was sitting on crates and roped bags of goods so plentiful they were bulging, clothed in rich colors with jewels adorning her, a diadem atop her head which was flowing with full, luscious, silky hair—a symbol of her status in itself.
She was governess, queen, of a treasure trove; at ease in her authority. Unapologetic in her right to all she believed she justifiably deserved, enriched and lavished in gifts from men in proof of fealty.
They were ten dollars together, he treats them as if they were thousands.
When he opens The Judge which is placed in front of him on the floor, the right hand, he is greeted with upwards of fifty driver’s licenses. Glossy and shiny and stronger than they look. Countless faces of alpha and beta males alike merge together, some smiling, some scowling, some bored. All the same, one way or another. They’re all nasty fucking tools, and he will never forget their faces. Shuffles the box around sometimes so each one can see the light of day, so that each little man in those little pictures can forever know what they did.
Opening La Opulencia on the other hand, are trinkets and baubles and souvenirs. Some are of monetary worth, others are not. He’s a magpie, in that sense. Rings and antique coins and machine-pressed pennies embossed with animals and bottle tabs and movie tickets. His favorites are a class ring inset with a large sapphire dated at ‘86 and two obviously worn fishhooks, one red and one silver. Because he thinks they must have been someone’s grandfather’s or uncle’s and there’s something beautiful about that, about keeping something so close and familiar that it’s in such a personal item as your wallet, something that had use in a loved one’s day to day life. Something that you love so much, you have to be able to feel it and touch it and gaze at it every single day, too important to be left on a shelf or box, and just important enough for the gamble of losing it. So, yes, the class ring or the fish hooks. Either those or a molar, because it’s strange and almost intrusively, obsessively intimate. Sometimes when he looks at it, he’s hit with a pang of drought-filled longing. He wishes someone loved him enough to keep his fucking tooth in their wallet.
He takes them for this purpose. It’s not about the money, it’s about the act. To, one, make them fucking hurt. To feel the loss. They were the ones who decided to get head from a whore in a bathroom—they gambled much more than their wallets.
And two, to see.
Know them.
Even flaw-filled, there is loveliness in life, in knowing.
In the connection to every single person in the great, big world.
How everyone is a person.
Who is sentient, and not an extra.
Who has love and stress and heartbreak and longing and sadness and mistakes and battles won and fucking beauty.
Sometimes he feels it so much when looking through these belongings, it fills him up to the point of choking. Of ache.
He takes care when he handles these things, touches these wallets. These little tiny pieces of broken people that scream, here I am, I am here.
There is reverence in it when he takes the first wallet in two gentle hands. It’s soft and supple and worn, much like Michael’s, but black instead of brown. This one belongs to a man named Scott. Scott is a burly man with a big-bellied laugh and a long—but well kept—beard. He is married, like they all are, exempt of very few. He was more demanding than Michael, but he was still kind in such a way that even though Yuuji is a whore, he still showed him respect. As much respect someone can give to one who’s sucking their dick, at least. He slides out the driver’s license first, looks and sees. Carter, Scott Joshua is 6’1, brown hair, blue eyes, two hundred and twenty-four lbs, Alpha, born on 04/16/79. He places it as the start of a new row beneath the wallets. Then, he pilfers through the rest. There’s two crisp Benjamins, three twenty dollar bills, one ten, six fives, and twenty-eight ones, which he pulls out and places on the floor in a stack by the license. He has a US Bank debit card, a Capitol One credit card—smart guy, not putting all his eggs in one basket—an insurance slip, a Walmart gift card, a Lowe’s gift card, and a couple of fast food receipts crunched and shoved messily alongside loose change. There is nothing else of note, but a picture of Scott with his arm around a handsome dark-haired woman—who must be his wife—and two children, the boy a few years older than the girl. They stand on a jetty stretched out over a crystalline-blue lake with pines in the background. They smile at the camera with joy, maybe a vacation or day trip. He gazes and sees and slides it back within its place. He doesn’t take pictures. And he puts it back down on the floor in its station with the same respect as when he picked it up.
The next is a garish thing. It’s yellow and has geometric shapes printed on the textured leather. It’s designer and belongs to Erik. And he was an asshole, fuck Erik to the highest and lowest fucking degrees. Mendoza, Erik José is 5’9, black hair, brown eyes, one hundred and fifty-six lbs, Alpha, born on 09/30/98, so he’s now twenty-three. He’s glaring meanly in his picture, but is still quite handsome, a lock of glossy black hair has fallen on his forehead. He is registered in Texas and his license is expired over a year. There is a particular sort of hatred for pigs like Erik who throw their weight around because they have money. Who treat omegas like shit just because they can. Who hurt. It’s hard for Yuuji to see and look when he’s snarling soundlessly at the piece of plastic, but forces himself to calm before he places the license down in its row. He’s one of the rare ones who isn’t married, but Yuuji judged anyway. Erik’s wallet contains five one hundreds, three fifties, seven twenties, and ten ones, no loose change. It really isn’t about the money, but Yuuji is grateful for the jackpot anyway as he lays it down in its own stack. Thank you for your generous donation, Mr. Mendoza. There is an array of credit cards in the slots above the license holder, no gift cards, no insurance, no receipts. There are no personal effects besides three dime bags of blow. He doesn’t touch them. And for some reason, it strikes Yuuji as angry and self loathing and sad and pitiful, so he has a much easier time setting the eyesore back down in its place gently.
He stretches and strokes Tomillo’s head.
The third is Michael’s. Ward, Michael James. 5’11, blonde, brown eyes, one hundred and forty-nine lbs, Beta, born on 06/21/88. He lays the license down. Married. Two hundreds, one fifty dollar bill, three twenties, two tens, one five, eight ones; lays those down as well. A Chase credit and debit card, a gift card of fifty bucks to Cracker Barrel, State Farm insurance, and a Popeye’s receipt for a chicken sandwich and an apple pie. There is a picture of who Yuuji assumes is his wife. She’s a homely woman, nearly waifish in appearance, with ash-blonde hair. She’s not ugly, but nor is she unconventionally or conventionally attractive. Yet, she has high cheekbones, kind sparkling blue eyes, and a sweet smile with nice straight teeth. Poor gal, Yuuji thinks again. There is no picture of their child. But, there is a a tiny sand dollar hidden in a nearly imperceptible pocket. He gives it to La Opulencia right after he tenderly caresses it with the tip of his index finger. He puts the wallet down.
The final wallet is a tough canvas, nearly military-grade, Yuuji would say. This one belongs to Kevin. Coleman, Kevin Robert is also 5’11 like Michael, but weighs one hundred and seventy-one lbs. He has brown hair, blue eyes, a sharp Roman nose with thin lips, was born on 01/11/83, and is an Alpha. Married for nearly fifteen years. A damn fucking shame. He only has one fifty, four twenties, one ten, and three ones, and a few quarters, but mostly pennies. And it’s a small little tweak in his heart, because it’s hard living in the city, and Kevin was gentle even with his hands pulling Yuuji’s hair. But he was judged and failed. And he must not be hurting too bad if he’s blowing cash at an omegan strip club. There’s only one Truist credit card, no insurance, no gift cards, and no pictures. There is a tiny, purple, sparkly, children’s hair tie, though, and he gives that to La Opulencia, also, before putting the wallet back.
He reaches behind him for the pen and envelopes. The return address is already prefilled, because he goes through and writes it down on each one when he buys a new box. It’s the address of the local library, he finds humor in that somehow. He looks at the address on each license, triple-checks that it’s right as he fills it out on the envelopes, carefully slides the according wallets into each, and seals them.
He doesn’t want the wallets, wouldn’t even have room for them all. Plus, it’s an absolute bitch to have to reacquire new everything. And even then, on top of that, he enjoys knowing that these men will sigh in relief when they get them back, and still feel the loss of what was taken. Of knowing someone took it and they’ll never get it back. That they’ll never get back something that may have been more important than their wallets as a whole.
Call him dramatic, but whatever. He’d rather them have that small fear of knowing whoever took it knows exactly where they live. Rather them have that prickle on the back of their necks. That wouldn’t happen if he just threw the wallets away.
One by one, he gives the licenses to The Judge.
He puts what he got from Erik in the jug of cash.
Overall, tonight’s profit, including the eight hundred and forty-two from his shift, was nearly twenty-five hundred dollars.
Not fucking bad at all.
Once he’s gathered up all the money and has put it away, he sprays his hands again, as well as the pen, before handling The Judge and La Opulencia.
He shuts them with respect and honor, locking their hook latches with a quiet snick. When he puts them back on the shelf, he wishes them farewell and sweet dreams and good morning and until next time.
Next, he takes and puts the leftover rubber bands and pen back in his mug, and tucks the spray bottle back in its corner.
Then, he stuffs the jug up within the ottoman, zips it closed, and pushes it back over by his phonograph.
Placing the wallet-filled packages back in his bag, he zips that up as well, places it on top of the pouf, and clicks off the lamp. He’ll take the wallets to a public mailbox tomorrow before work.
Everything is in their rightful places, and all is well.
It is as it should be.
Finally, as false dawn begins to wane, he can take a shower and take his ass to sleep.
𓇢𓆸
It’s been a couple of weeks since his latest wallet heist, because he doesn’t like to get greedy. To bite too big where there would an obvious pattern of his teeth.
But even so, there’s been a regular the past few days.
He’s handsome. Beautiful, even. And startlingly so. Electrifying in a way Yuuji studiously ignores.
He has silky, jet-black hair that falls into his eyes, is extremely tall, and has an exceptional physique—strong and proportionate with a low percent body fat.
Yuuji has only seen him in form-fitting sweaters pushed up to his elbows and loose slacks, a nice watch on his wrist. If he was asked, Yuuji would say his favorite he’s seen the man in is a thick, olive-green cable-knit, but he’s ignoring it. So he doesn’t have a favorite.
He leaves with a different girl every night. He truly hopes the man wears condoms.
They gossip in the locker room that he’s a good lay, his name is Toji, he’s a dominant alpha, no one knows what he does for work but he always has big bills, and they argue who he gave it to better.
The omega gives him a wide berth.
It’s not often that they get dominant alphas in the club, let alone regular alphas that look like GQ models. The effect is apparent, the girls practically clamor over each other to catch his eye. They primp and preen and coo, circling like sharks when there’s blood in the water. It’s pretty much a get out ticket to bond with an alpha like that.
Yuuji wants no part in the drama. He didn’t see a wedding ring when he got just close enough, so it’s not worth it anyhow.
It’s just not his way. He already attracts enough attention as a male omega. If he happened to garner Toji’s? It’d be fucking hell. There’d be petty retaliation and theft and maybe even violence, and Yuuji just can’t be bothered.
He’s worked hard to get his station level, and he’s not going to let some dumbass knothead fuck it up.
He keeps his head down. Stays shrewd, humble, modest. He hides his hunger well. Minds his own business. Takes care of his own shit. That’s his way.
Toji isn’t worth the upset. Though, if Yuuji were to admit it, the prospect of the trinkets Toji may keep in his wallet gets his fingers itching, his mouth watering.
He wants to look and see into this man.
To know.
He doesn’t let him distract him.
Gets his head back in the game.
There’s whistles and jeers and catcalls as he finishes working the pole, dollar bills thrown around him and stuffed in his gauzy, powdered-pink bralette and thong.
If he feels a certain pair of eyes watching him raptly, he ignores it.
𓇢𓆸
Yuuji has had the past three days off, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. They’re the slowest days for the club, so his boss doesn’t make him come in these days, because his moneymaker isn’t showing for jackshit.
It’s ten at night when he steps out on the floor. It’s when his shifts start, so he makes sure to get there early to get ready, or else he’ll get major shit.
He’s not been out thirty minutes, when Yuuji sees him crossing the club, determined strides in a straight shot for him. He feels his omega stretch from its slumber, golden eyes watching avidly, sharply. Judging worth.
Yuuji debates just turning heel and going into the locker room to avoid him because he’s fucking everything up, even without knowing he is.
But by the time hes made up his mind, Toji is already too close for Yuuji to play it off like he didn’t see him.
He sighs heavily, resigned to the fact that this is still his job, so he quickly plasters his face with a smile. He’ll give him a dance and leave.
But, as the man gets closer, Yuuji feels like he’s been sucker-punched point blank in the fucking teeth. Like his gums ache from cocaine cut with bittersweet grapefruit sherbet. Because Toji smells thickly of wild mint and green things lush with life soaked in petrichor; moss-covered stones, soft rich earth, and fragrant juniper resin in damp wood. It’s perfect. It makes him want to go back home and tell the trees about him, tell them he found their kin. Tell them that they couldn’t have made a scent more perfect for someone who was his if they fucking tried, that he’d never smelled anything so good. Never smelled anything that was so warm and safe and home. Ask them what their child, a wild thing so much like himself, was doing in the middle of the city. Ask them if he was running from something too? He hopes they would answer no. That it was just a big misunderstanding, that he was only set adrift like a corked bottle in the ocean by a dire fumble of hand. That it was purely accident that they let him wander so far, that they’d been earnestly calling him back to their sun-dappled embrace. Maybe even that they sent him for Yuuji, their wayward son.
His omega purrs at that thought. It is only right that our alpha was delivered after us, for we are the most beautiful and lovely and wondrous. Resplendent and radiant in every fiber of our being, cunning and keen beyond measure. We are the perfect omega, and mate in turn, who will only submit to that who is worthy of such a prize as we.
Yuuji agrees wholeheartedly.
And this alpha smells worthy.
Strong enough to protect.
Defend from any who wish harm to his omega or their pups.
An alpha who is large enough to curl around Yuuji completely and fit him snuggly in the crook of his body.
One that would surround Yuuji in his throes of heat, so big that any intruder would only see his back.
It’s that thought that shakes him, makes him tremble.
Makes his omega whimper within him and sends it retreating back into its shadowed corner, its tail tucked pitifully. Effectively cowed. It remembers as well, remembers when they were surrounded. When they were stripped of childhood, of dignity, of pride, in a single felling swoop; violent in its abduction. A battle they were too small to win, many times over.
He thought he was over this, that he had conquered this the first time he stole an alphas wallet in a filthy, stinking bathroom. When he had showed them all that they were nothing in the face of their own vile shortcomings.
He was wrong.
He was arrogant.
Prideful in his spite.
He did not heed the rattle.
So quickly does solid ground drop out from beneath him like a trap door.
Dark and scared and spikes so thirsty to impale him at the bottom of the pit, to run him right through the heart. Through his soft underbelly.
There is no coiling, no striking, and no vulnerable vitals to go for here.
Nothing to squeeze the life out of, when it has already been done to him.
A skunk, an unlikely predator immune to his venom, his defenses, tore off his head with teeth and malevolent relish. Ripped out the very backbone that ran through him that was made up joy and fun and childish things fluffy with love and cotton candy and happy endings. Ruthless and violent and gleeful in its successful hunt.
There’s a fault in his heart and brain and twisted dying insides. Like a concrete foundation made with too much water, it can’t withstand the weight, the pressure. Can’t even plug the holes, because it just crumbles like egg shells around the effort. Too much touching and just not enough.
Can big things hurt me?
Sometimes.
The voice reverberates in him, finality in every clang of the gong.
Shh…
Shh, it’s just me…
It’s just me, Yuu…
Shh…
So soft…
Just me, Yuu…
It’s just me…
Yuu.
I love you.
You’re so soft…
Little Lamb
“—Doll?”
His jaw feels lax and his eyes glazed when he senses a large hand clasping onto his bicep.
It startles him into focus, shocking green eyes and a scarred mouth fill his vision, before he zones out again.
His alpha’s voice sounds far away, like Yuuji’s in a deep, dark, sunken room. Like he’s in a mired well with smooth vantablack waters, the light of day just a pinprick far above him.
“Are you okay, doll?” his alpha’s voice echoes down to him.
There’s a wretched, broken keen bouncing off the rocks.
He doesn’t know where it’s coming from.
“—Hun?”
He’s scared because he doesn’t know where he is, and he can’t move or breathe or see.
Briefly, he feels himself being pulled and squeezed against a hard body in strong arms.
He tries to fight, because he’s not a little boy anymore and he can’t do this to him!
Yuuji left, he’s gone.
He thought it was over!
A sob slices its way through his guts and out his throat, like silk catching on broken glass.
When his alpha’s scent fills his nose where he’s pressed against the gland—comforting ozone-filled rain and juniper and stone being pumped out just for him—he knows no more,
And
It
All
Goes
Black.
Yuuji remembers the pain of it.
The grinding on his backside.
Of clenching to the point of shaking to try to get away from searing, burning pressure.
And the disorienting nature of it.
Of thinking why?
…What is this?
It hurts.
Why?
He’s so heavy.
…What IS this?
Why …?!
I can’t breathe! He’s so heavy.
Why does it hurt so bad?
WHAT IS THIS?!
In an endless cycling pattern.
Pain, it seems, is a constant companion through life in one way or another.
He remembers it happened on his favorite pair of jeans.
They were a dark, deep blue with neon lime-green stitching, a large neon lime-green daisy with a neon orange center that was sewn catawampus above the right knee. How he didn’t care that Choso would make fun of them because they were for girls—but Sukuna said he was an omega and so, that’s fine, too. How he looked at them and loved that daisy with all his pure golden little heart because it fit nowhere, like an accident. Some happy little accident, like how Bob Ross would say wonky trees were on the TV when he ate a snack after he got home from the first grade.
And Yuuji really loves trees.
And daisies.
And Bob Ross.
And he remembers afterwards when his big brother rolled off of him and told him to go take a bath.
But why?
Why did he need to take a bath?
It was like two in the afternoon, and it was summer break.
He didn’t even go outside yet!
“Why do I need to get in the bathtub?” Innocent and curious and hurt.
“Just fuc—“ he had grit out in harsh tones, and sighed loudly. As if Yuuji asking why was just too burdensome and ridiculous, like he just couldn’t be bothered to explain what he did that hurt or why. “Yuuji, please go get in the bath, mkay? I love you. Don’t tell Choso or Kechizu or Mom.”
He was glad to leave, though, because whatever Sukuna just did hurt and he didn’t know why. Or what that even was.
So, no. He pulled up his favorite dark-wash, neon lime-green stitched pants from around his thighs, with that perfect, pretty, stunning daisy that always caught his eye, that he always had to take a moment to run his fingers over—just to feel the thread and admire it like it so deserved—and took himself merrily to his own room that he shared with Choso.
Only to look down in disgust and realize—
Sukuna peed on me!
It was right there on the waistband of his neon lime-green stitching.
Gross.
Even he didn’t pee himself anymore.
Well, very rarely… sometimes. And only when he had too much to drink before bed. But he was a big boy, honest! So why did Sukuna pee on him?
He took them off immediately, because, again, gross.
It didn’t really feel like pee though.
It was cold and slimy, almost like his L’Oréal Kids ‘Burst of Watermelon’ shampoo, but not.
Gross.
In any case, he had to change anyway.
He really didn’t want to take a bath, in that way that children just don’t wanna.
But, he did. Because gross.
He remembers almost just asking Choso what it was, why their brother peed on him, even if he was a little scared of what Sukuna would do to him when he found out he told. But when he turned and said, “Cho-nii!”
Choso told him to buzz off, Yuuji, and go play somewhere else, because he was watching something.
A pretty common occurrence for a fourteen year old Choso.
So, Yuuji grabbed new jeans. They weren’t his favorite, but they were okay.
He took a quick bath in his mama’s big jacuzzi tub, because for some reason he didn’t quite understand, he needed the comforting smell of his mama’s powdery makeup and perfume and bath salts, because what Sukuna did left him shaken deep in his chest, aching and raw on his backside, but he still had to go outside and play!
Play, play, play, so much fun left to do in the day. So much time left to pretend he wasn’t hurt.
It wasn’t so bad, he told himself. Convinced himself. It was just like a really big skinned knee. And he’s had lots of those. Didn’t cry either.
Doesn’t know if he cried or not when Sukuna did whatever that was, but thinks his eyes might have stung and felt a bit hot.
He won’t say anything, because then his brothers will call him a crybaby like they do sometimes when he gets upset that they won’t play with him.
He put on his same shirt and the new jeans, even though they weren’t his favorite. Plus, they didn’t even have a daisy.
He just hoped that was the last time Sukuna did whatever that was that hurt so bad, because he sure didn’t want to get peed on again.
It wasn’t.
He thinks he died a little that day.
Under stifling heat and summer sun and butterflies and cicadas and sticky fingers from vibrant flavor-packed popsicles.
Scraped knees and fun and play and laughter and ache.
Trash rotting in a pitch black bin.
A hundred and eighty degrees inside.
Forgotten. Dismissed.
He died in there.
A shell of a body eating spaghetti for dinner that night, because he was really still out in the black trashcan at the end of the driveway.
It’s so dark and cold in there after he was carelessly set alight, flames licking at his bones.
Where does their light go when it burns out?
Yuuji doesn’t know.
He hasn’t found his.
He died a little that day, and every time after.
Watercolors dripping off a torn canvas, slow, but steady.
Unnoticeable until he looks around and realizes it’s gone. That there is nothing there.
Blank and empty and torn, fibers frayed grotesquely and sticking out of his small, mangled heart.
No one noticed.
He thinks that might’ve been a big part of Sukuna’s summer fun.
He wishes it happened for just a summer.
It didn’t.