Chapter Text
As a child, Sakusa Kiyoomi had been sure that his life would turn out something greater than this.
That was before he got to learn the way the world truly worked, and the hopes for something better died a long, long time ago, alongside his parents. It was then that he learnt that a little violence and a little coldness was all it took to change the trajectory of one’s life and, with it, any hope of what could’ve happened, what could’ve been, died as well. And the world was full of that. It was then, too, that he got to learn that to have a place in this world, you had to make it. Sometimes, that meant carving it from the very dirt, until it shapes into something somewhat worthy to call a life or a future.
And that’s what he did. Most people would not call his life something worthy, but in hindsight, Kiyoomi knows there is much, much worse. And, of course, much, much better, but he has learnt the hard way to be at peace with that.
Most nights, the weight of the wanting, degrading eyes on him as he dances his way through the stage and the reaching, almost–touching hands are enough to make his job detestable. They are enough to make his hands dirty with the money he earns, enough to keep him up at night as he tries to control his breathing. Most nights, he doesn’t like being a stripper— or as Motoya his cousin likes to call it to make his fate seem lighter, better; an exotic dancer.
But there are other nights. Nights when he has fun, when there is a particularly handsome alpha in the audience or when he stumbles into the back rooms with the other omega dancers laughing and drinking, when Kuroo, his boss, gives him a raise, when he reminds himself that even though the worst of men end up here every night, the men who run it are not bad at all. There are other nights when he feels it inside of him, that this club, although the constant remains of perverted alpha’s smell and its low social status, is his place in the world. The one place that took him and wanted him. There are nights when he might even like it.
Nights like this one.
Nights when a certain blond, tattooed alpha watches his every move in the stage with a clearly desiring gaze, and it is not a suffocating one like the others’, but an arousing one. Not one that makes him feel degraded and small, but sexy and powerful.
The man has been coming to see Kiyoomi for weeks now. He always sits on the first row, his legs spread under the table, always alone and silent. He doesn’t whistle or shout or throw money at Kiyoomi like the others: he just sits and watches, enjoying the show. And when it is done, he stands up, leaves a considerable, bigger than usual amount of money on the table and leaves.
Now, Kiyoomi is not an idiot. He knows this mysterious alpha must be deep in dark business. He sees the tattoos— and he isn’t the only tattooed man that comes to the club. It is only usual for yakuza to find entertainment here, but Kiyoomi had never felt drawn to any of them, until now.
Despite a long and unpleasant history with the yakuza, he can’t help it. He knows that underneath those golden eyes there must be secrets and lies, but Kiyoomi still feels his skin buzzing every time they land on him.
He wants him, and though it is reckless and stupid, on nights like this one— nights when he attends the show, Kiyoomi holds his breath for the alpha to stay. To not leave, to stay and ask for a private room, a lap dance, a private dance, something. He hasn’t wanted anyone the way he wants the blond alpha in a very, very long time.
So when he watches, he puts on his best performance. He moves extremely slowly, knowing it tends to desperate the alphas and runs out their patience. He moves the exact way he knows makes him more desirable, makes him look like the perfect, sexy, slender omega he’s been told he is. He moves closer to the public, and his eyes never leave the alpha’s. He makes his movements slow and torturous until the whole place is filled with all of the alphas’ desiring pheromones, and he sniffs the air, trying to discern which one of those smells belongs to him, only to find he is always wearing scent patches.
Every time his best performance is done, the alpha stands up and leaves.
It is the bravest, most maddening game of edging Kiyoomi has ever been put through.
Still every time he sees him in the audience, Kiyoomi dances with hopes that maybe this one time he will stay and ask for a private room. For his number. For a quick fuck in the bathroom, for something, Kiyoomi doesn’t care what.
He never does.
But tonight— tonight Kiyoomi can’t help but notice that the man is lingering, and that there is no money on the table yet.
Kiyoomi waits until the lights are turned off and his show is done and looks as the alpha makes no movement to leave, unlike other times before. He ignores the whistles of the other alphas as he makes his way to him. When their eyes meet in the darkness, Kiyoomi’s skin erupts in goosebumps, his gaze so strong he almost feels its shadow reaching over and touching him.
He walks slowly, afraid the alpha will stand up and leave, afraid this is another piece of his game, if Kiyoomi has been reading this right and it is a game at all. When he reaches the table, the alpha looks up at him from the chair, and excitement tingles in Kiyoomi’s stomach.
He leans forward on the table, and sees how the alpha’s eyes roam all over his body, lingering over his legs, and then he looks up at him again. Kiyoomi knows the little, tight dress and the stocking up his thigh make him desirable, and he can see it in the alpha’s eyes. There is no hiding from that gaze: he wants him.
“Is there anything else I can offer?” Kiyoomi asks, nonchalant, bored, trying not to sound eager. Trying not to show just how much his inner omega is begging for it.
How much he has been waiting for it.
The alpha arches an eyebrow, a lazy smirk tugging in his lips. A lazy smirk that makes Kiyoomi tingle everywhere, feeling like prey.
“Not today, darlin’.” The alpha says, and Kiyoomi’s scent sours with disappointment. The alpha ignores it and stands up, looking at Kiyoomi’s legs again. “Ya dance on Fridays too, right?”
“Right.” Kiyoomi answers.
The alpha leaves a bill on the table and nods.
“Well, then. See ya on Friday.” He says, and leaves.
It truly is the most torturous teasing Kiyoomi’s been put through. He watches him leave, and once he is out the door, he picks up the bill.
Before he feels too disappointed, he spots it. There, under the money, a small card lies. A phone number and four words are on it.
MIYA ATSUMU
XX - XXX - XXX
Call me.