He needs it.

This is something his brother, father, mother, elders will never understand. They can never understand, because he needs in a way they never have. He needs like they need air or water; needs like someone would need food or sleep to survive.

His hands shake as he lowers himself into the seat in the back room of another dingy club. It’s the third of the night, or perhaps the fourth, and each of them has known him by name and on sight in a way that should embarrass him and would embarrass his family.

He feels nothing except the pressing urgency making his head spin. He feels too tight in his own skin, mouth dry and skin itching. He feels fevered desperate desire strung through every line of his body. He does not, for a moment, feel shame.

He is too far gone for shame.

The baggie is out of his pocket and onto the table before he’s fully thought about it, and it’s not until he’s crushing the pill between his teeth and working the pieces beneath his tongue that his brain stutters into the present. He snaps back into himself in time with the gasp that falls from his lips, and fuck, if his perfect brother could only see him now.

He is acutely aware of every inch of bare skin on the pretty thing that slides into his lap, and not remotely aware of their name. The name would be too much, chased into his system with the drugs; it would rattle around in his head, bounce off the inside of his skull and nestle its way into his bones.

He focuses on their skin instead. On the way it slides against the expanse of his own stomach, fingers splayed below his navel, carefully slipping the button on his jeans through the fabric. The sound of his zipper echoes like gunshots even over the thumping bass pounding through the walls.

The zipper, the metal, the teeth clicking against one another catch in his head like the name would’ve. He bucks against the warm hand that envelops him and barely notices in light of the sound, the fucking sound of it.

“Ah!” he whimpers, chest heaving, shirt a wrinkled mess tucked under his armpits. His eyeliner is smudged at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. He’s seeing himself through the eyes of the naked, nameless stranger in his lap. The world tilts as they slip his foreskin back and press a sharp nail underneath the head of his cock. He’s seeing himself through the eyes of fucking God.

He is everywhere and nowhere at once as their hand begins to move. He becomes dimly aware that he hasn’t stopped whimpering.

Their teeth are dazzling white. They’re smiling. He lets out a hoarse shout and they’re smiling ferally down at him from astride his legs, grip tightening until it’s almost painful.

He can’t feel pain. Anything that could’ve been pain isn’t anymore; the pill has taken that away and replaced it with sick burning veins and the entire world in his head. He knows because their grip on him is iron, nails digging in on each stroke until he swears they must’ve drawn blood. There is none, not that he can see, but it’s there nonetheless, coating his cock slick and warm and spread wet across their fingers. It hurts and it’s perfect.

“It’s fucking perfect,” he gasps, writhing.

He’s not even sure he’s hard. It doesn’t matter, because he’s breathing and drinking and eating and sleeping for the first time in weeks and he’s drowning in it. He’s drowning in the expanse of tattooed skin stretched over muscle and bone and sinew that forms the shape of the devil kneeling between his bare legs. He’s drowning in the feeling of blunt, blood-slick, unstained fingers teasing against his entrance.

The world narrows to stars flashing behind his eyes and the sound of his own desperate screams. He claws furrows into the vinyl of the chair beneath him. He arches until his entire weight is resting on his elbows and the tips of his toes.

He tips over the edge at the press of two fingers inside him and the tight warmth of a palm around his half-hard cock, and everything blends together to a sharp, bright point of sensation.

He comes down minutes or hours later, slumped boneless in the chair, a slick tongue cleaning the mess on his stomach. It’s too much. He shoves the face away with almost bruising force, but the stranger just laughs a dark laugh and leaves Genji still in disarray in the back room of a darkened club.

He wonders how long he can deny himself this time.

He wishes he didn’t have to.

He wishes he didn’t need this.

He buries his face in his sweating hands, and for the first time tonight, he feels ashamed.