0ut 0f Ctrl
Alpha!Choso x Omega!Fem!Reader. A/B/O AU. No Jujutsu Sorcery. No cursed energy. TW: Depression, PTSD, Agoraphobia, Panic Attack, Drug use (reader), reader has a drug dependency, implied past abuse, stalking(?). 4.9k wc. Minors do not interact.
00C Masterlist
Chapter 1 - Data Drop: Unanticipated
You sit in the corner of the dimly lit internet cafe, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the worn-out keyboard. The soft glow of the monitor casts a faint light on your face, highlighting the heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick that have become your armor against the world. Oversized flannel drapes over your frame, offering a semblance of comfort. The cafe is buzzing with low conversations and the hum of computers, a backdrop to your spiraling thoughts. The air is thick with the smell of stale coffee and the faint whiff of something burnt—an unmistakable aroma that clings to the cracked vinyl seats and sticky tables.
Today is one of those days when just getting out of bed felt like a monumental effort. Depression is a bitch with the way it’s got your mind in a constant fog, making it so much harder to function on the most basic of levels. Being an omega without a pack has been taking its toll on you for quite some time. Posing as a beta is even harder since you’re more sensitive to pheromones than other omegas you’ve met. It makes it harder to get an ordinary job, and blending in is a nightmare. Working from home is the only option for you if you want to stay out of sight and out of mind. So you stay holed up in your apartment doing freelance work online and staying away from people as much as possible. And for the most part, it works.
In your mind, being alone gives you more freedom. No one to tell you what to do, no one to answer to. But it’s lonely, too. The ache in your chest never quite goes away, and you’re constantly on edge, hyper aware of your vulnerability as a single omega. Add that to the shitty self esteem issues and general feelings of worthlessness that come along with having been rejected by your previous pack, and you’ve got yourself quite a combination.
You’re used to it, though, and you’ve got your coping mechanisms. Whether they’re healthy or not is beside the point because surviving is surviving. ‘This is the way,’ you think, mocking the Mandalorian mantra as you sift through your emails. It’s a mundane task but it helps keep the worst of your thoughts at bay, among all the other shit you get up to on the internet. When a message from Naoya catches your eye—a reminder of the package that should have been delivered today, your eyes temporarily widen. It’s about fucking time you heard something from the bastard. You click open the message:
Naoya: got a present on the way. keep ur eyes peeled.
Your fingers hover over the keys before you reply:
You: ain't home right now.
Naoya: what u mean? where r u?
You: out.
Naoya: get your ass home then. this shits important
Naoya is a drug dealer. Yes... your drug dealer to be exact. You’ve been getting your supply from him for a few months now. Something to keep the edge off when your anxiety attacks become too much of a problem. It’s not like you can go to a doctor for it obviously. They’d sus out your omega status instantly, then you’d get an ankle monitor and regular visits from government employees who would dictate your lifestyle down to the most minute detail until an alpha selects you from a registry. Something you’ve been trying to avoid because you had enough of being someone’s property.
The whole process is gross and incredibly outdated, treating omegas as if they’re children needing guidance and protection. You’ve had firsthand experience with the kind of arrangement that could go horribly wrong, thanks to your parents — the very source of your traumatic past. Being in a pack is supposed to be a positive experience, but you couldn’t be more disgusted with the way Alphas take advantage of their authority over omegas, using them for sex, breeding, and other vile acts. You refuse to be trapped in a hell like that.
Out of desperation, you turned to the dark web and found an information broker, Dakusuta. They were a useful contact as they had connected you with a drug dealer who delivered with minimal social interaction. You preferred it that way–no reason to leave the comfort of your home. You paid, they provided. It had been going on for months, with you gradually stockpiling your supply and taking doses as needed. It was a convenient service, albeit morally questionable. But hey, what else would you do without it?
Naoya’s insistence strikes you as odd, though. What is he? Your fucking parole officer? If you miss a delivery, it’s usually no skin off his nose. You’ll get it when you get it. But today, he’s adamant. ‘Something’s up his ass.’ The thought nags at you, but you push it aside, focusing instead on the flickering screen in front of you.
This internet cafe is a couple blocks from home and it took you a lot of mental prep to step outside your door earlier. It took almost two hours of pacing in your genkan and staring at the doorknob before you could actually make it outside. It’s a necessity really. The social media brain rot helps to fight the parasites in you that tell you to do a cartwheel off a tall ledge every moment free of stimulation. Your dumpster posting combined with your regular work is the perfect distraction to keep your nerves in check while you tolerate being in a public space for as long as you can. Thanks to your WiFi being out, you didn’t have the option to stay inside your depression cave if you wanted access to the internet. Coping… All there is is coping.
Music thrums through your cheap noise-canceling headphones that help drown out any chatter of your public surroundings. The soundwaves of Twilight by bôa keep you calm, the soft tunes filling your ears and seeping out at a quiet volume beyond your personal session. “Your word and my word and her word is...Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.” You sing under your breath, nodding your head and bobbing it back and forth to the beat of the music.
As you open a new browser window to visit a message board and skim through recent posts you miss the way the guy sitting a distance away from you looks in your direction. He stares for minutes on end before he stands up, stretching his arms lazily, and he makes his way over to your table.
Your fingers move on their own accord, tapping out your feelings in a new post. Your only method of purging rather than confiding in someone who truly knows you. ‘Everyone’s fake anyway. It doesn’t matter,’ you always think, continuing to type away.
He’s a blur in your peripheral vision as he casually invades your carefully constructed bubble, taking a seat right next to you. The only way you sense his presence is a subtle shift in the air around you from his movements, the noise canceling on your headphones doing its job a little too well right now. Awareness makes your fingers fumble over the keys, a momentary pause in your activities.
It takes a few seconds for your brain to register the movement in your peripheral vision, and the sudden intrusion startles you. Your eyes flicker towards the stranger, brows pinched. You don’t remember seeing him sit down and you didn’t smell him coming, so he must be wearing scent blockers because he’s definitely not a beta. He’s far too big for that.
As much as you want to ignore him and stick to your decision to not interact with anyone on your outing, it’s not looking like a possibility. He’s an alpha after all and your damn omega instincts won’t just allow you to disobey any command for attention. Be it intentional or not, you can feel the pull of his alpha telling you “Look at me, Omega.”
‘Did he sniff me out?’
You have half a mind to tell him to fuck off but you can only see negative outcomes from that path of action; for one, any pushback could trigger him to assert dominance over you. It might not necessarily be the most likely thing to happen because you don’t know him or what kind of alpha he is but the truth remains that you know alphas well enough. Your best bet is to play it safe and not cause a scene.
You glance up at him, a non-committal question mark on your face, and he’s looking over at you expectantly. His lips are pursed like he’s waiting for some response from you, and you realize a little belatedly he said something to you. Your brow furrows ever-so-slightly in confusion while you hesitate for a second or two. When you finally pull your headphones off, he repeats his question.
“bôa, huh? Not bad…” He leans back in his chair, fingers twiddling the metal piece on his hoodie string. His eyes are trained on yours, noting the subtle tension in your body, the hesitation in your movements. He speaks slowly, words deliberate, giving you time to process them and respond. There is no aggression in his tone, and yet your defenses go up automatically.
“You like that kind of music?” he asks, gesturing towards the earphones now hanging around your neck.
“What?” you ask, dumbly, eyes blinking rapidly. Your heart rate picks up speed and you’re not sure if he’s too close or if it’s just your anxiety fucking with your depth perception. Heat rushes your skin and you feel the need to push back your chair to gain a little personal space. It screeches across the floor, and you wonder how long he’s been sitting there. How long has he been staring at you? ‘Is he…stalking…’ Your thoughts fragment, once focused and now reduced to a lag with jitters that feel like a thousand needles pricking your skin everywhere, all at once.
“Twilight, right? ‘Your feelings and mine are all holy and you give me an inner sanctity,’” he quotes the song playing faintly from your headphones, “My brother used to play that one a lot when we were kids.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees as he breaks eye contact to glance around the cafe. His nonchalant demeanor contrasts with the obvious tension radiating from you. You don’t like his confidence. It makes you feel that much more unsure of your next moves.
Despite the noise around you, it feels like you and the alpha are in your own domain, the other patrons fading into the background. “I don’t know many people who listen to that kind of stuff these days,” he continues, looking at you once more. “It’s good, though. Nostalgic, even.” It’s a beat before he speaks again, but his dark eyes remain fixed on you, assessing, measuring your reaction. “You seem a bit tense…”
You swallow thickly, trying to fight the rising panic in your chest. “Sorry, I just...I’m—”
“Waitin’ for a package?” He cuts you off, glancing down at your phone that lies face up on the table between you. The screen still shows the DM chain you had been looking at. His tone is casual, almost friendly with a hint of amusement in his voice when he adds, “Must be somethin’ real important if you’re checkin’ your messages every five minutes, huh?”
Your eyes follow his line of sight, your anxiety momentarily forgotten. “How’d you...?” You sputter out a few half-formed sentences before trailing off. The ‘who, what, when, where and how’ of the matter are a whirlwind of thoughts assaulting your brain as you shake your head slightly. Your palms sweat at the idea that he might be a cop. ‘This… is bad.’
Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, your eyes dart around the cafe, trying to see if anyone else is watching you. No one seems to be paying any attention to you two, but you can’t be too careful. ‘If he’s a cop then he’s probably not alone.’ No one seems to stand out but what the fuck do you know? This isn’t your area of expertise. If anything, nevermind not being the big fish to catch in any drug operation or whatever shady people call it. You’re a tadpole in the mix. No, you’re algae. It’s not your world and you’re just on the outside looking in. You’re just self medicating, not involved in the business.
For the first time since he sat down next to you, you take a good look at him. Eyes scanning over his black acid wash jeans and a black hoodie with the words ‘Truth. In. Every. Byte.’ written in bold green lettering across the front. A black leather jacket and a crossbody messenger bag complete his attire. He doesn’t look like what you assume a narc would fucking look like. Nothing like an undercover cop you’d seen on TV. Your eyes find their way back up to his face, taking in a stunning combination of soft and angular features: a strong jawline, defined cheekbones, and a striking black line slashing across his nose which could either be makeup or a tattoo. His lengthy black hair is gathered into two messy buns, with unruly strands spiking out every which way and middle parted bangs tucked behind his ears. The sight of his sly smile on his lips steals your attention, the hint of a canine pricking their plushness.
‘Oh, that’s dangerous.’ You think, unable to tear your eyes away from him. The alpha is attractive. That much you can tell. It’s not like you to get caught up in the attractiveness of random strangers, but then again, you’re not usually subjected to such intense scrutiny. Let alone an alpha aura like his. Encounters aren’t that common an occurrence either and for good reason.
He notices the way your eyes rake over him, his smile widening faintly at the attention. Most omegas don’t pay him a second look—the piercings, the tattoos, the unconventional fashion sense—but you’re different. Your gaze is different. There’s curiosity there, a flicker of attraction in your eyes, but also something else. Fear. It’s subtle, but he catches it all the same. He likes that a little bit. It makes for a good chase.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I ain’t here to cause you any trouble,” the alpha says, noticing the way you tense up even further when he calls you that pet name.
Your reaction to his endearment doesn’t surprise him. He can see the way your body stiffens, your muscles bunching up under your oversized clothes. He takes it all in, filing it away for later. “Relax,” he tells you, his expression a picture of calm. “I’m not gonna bite.” His eyes then roll to the side as he scoffs at his own choice of words and you don’t know if it’s self depreciation or arrogance at play.
‘Like hell he’s not gonna bite,’ you panic internally at the notion. Time dilates, each moment stretching out like taffy letting your anxiety build. Tremors rush through your body, graduating from a subtle shake to an intense quaking. The world around you blurs with a suffocating weight bearing down—
He watches you as you spiral internally. It’s like watching a trainwreck in motion, unable to look away. Despite your trembling frame, you’re holding yourself together surprisingly well. Your teeth beginning to chatter is the only giveaway of the turmoil going on inside your head. Anxiety, he guesses, recognizing the symptoms. He’s seen it before, in himself even. And he only waits, hoping that just like you seemed to contain yourself for as long as you could, you’d recover the same way.
“Hey, hey. Calm down,” he tries, his voice just above a whisper. He notices that you're bordering on a panicked state, and he’s quick to try and ease you out of it, not wanting you to suddenly drop on him.. He extends a hand towards you, slowly and carefully, intending to touch your shoulder but stopping just short of actually making contact.
He lets out a soft sigh. “You need to calm down.” He says, his voice firm and authoritative as he leans in close, his eyes locking on yours. “Breathe.”
And you feel the gentle alpha command deep within your chest, right next to what always feels like a bundle of bees wreaking havoc on your nervous system. His proximity to you is overwhelming, the smell of Oakmoss and violet from his leather jacket filling your nostrils. His eyes bore into yours, demanding your attention. ‘Breathe,’ he said, and you try to, you really do.
You desperately try to inhale, needing more of his alpha scent, but your breath keeps catching in your throat because of how faint it is. The rising panic overwhelms its effects, making you exhale raggedly while your lungs work overtime. A numbness spreads through your lips and you wish he would remove the scent blocking patches from his neck.
After a moment of no change, he swiftly retrieves a small tin from your bag and gives it a shake, confirming the sound of pills clinking inside. Then, he grabs a water bottle from his own bag to set on the table before popping open the tin. With gentle precision, he carefully fingers a small tablet and brings it to your lips. “Open,” another command, his voice soft but firm.
You blink, too focused on your labored breathing to register what he’s doing until you feel the cool surface of the pill against your lips. Confusion and a hint of fear flash through your eyes as you stare at him, but he doesn’t look away. ‘Open,’ he said, and your mouth parts almost involuntarily, the pill sliding in. Your throat feels dry as sandpaper, and swallowing is difficult. He notices that too, and within seconds, a water bottle is uncapped.
With a steady grip, he holds the water bottle against your parted lips. His eyes dart from your face to the bottle, watching you take small sips. “Now, swallow,” he says, a hint of approval seeping through his voice. “Good girl.”
The cool and soothing water slides down your parched throat, but it does little to ease the tightness in your chest. He’s still there, still hovering close to you, his dark gaze never wavering. The whole thing feels oddly intimate, his presence fighting against the wave of anxiety threatening to drown you. It’s a support that you’ve never had before and you cling to it.
The alpha lowers the water bottle, his hand resting firmly against your trembling arm. His thumb brushes gentle reassuring circles against your skin with unexpected tenderness. “Better?” he asks, his voice still quiet and smooth. Soothing.
You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. You’re acutely aware of his touch, of the way his fingers feel against your skin. You reflexively swallow, trying to clear the lump that’s lodged in your throat. As your mind clears you consider the variables. This alpha approached you knowing things about you that he shouldn’t; The package arriving at your place soon and the tin of pills stashed in your bag. He’s not a cop because if he was then why would he give you a dose and not arrest you?
“Who are you?” You ask, your voice barely above a raspy whisper. Your dilated eyes bore into his. Curiosity fights with caution in your expression as you wait for his answer.
He smiles faintly, responding slowly. “Names are just words,” he murmurs, his low voice deep and resonant. Delivering his words with a sense of resignation, as if he's simply stating facts rather than engaging with the conversation.
‘Fuck you.’
“Don’t Bullshit me,” you reply immediately, your voice stronger than before. Starting to feel better after his intervention has some of your usual confidence—long absent due to your depressive state— returning. “I want to know who you are and what you want from me.” The drug is kicking in, making your mind move slowly but it’s helping you focus your faster than usual thought process to a decipherable speed. Yeah this fucker’s stalking you for sure. And it could be paranoia. It very well could be, but nobody knows about your little habit. There’s no one that could know..
He looks at you with a playful smirk and says, “Careful now. That’s not how you say ‘thank you,’ is it?” His tone is lighthearted, but there’s a hint of a warning in there too. He lifts one of his pierced brows, giving you a sarcastic look.
You falter slightly at his comment, realizing he’s right. You do owe him a thank you, but you’re not in a place to offer it, so you keep your mouth shut.
He shakes his head with a low chuckle, sensing your turmoil. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m just fuckin’ with ya.” He releases the grip on your arm and leans back, the chair creaking under his weight.
“I’m just someone who’s lookin’ out for you. Whether you realize it or not, I’m not here to hurt you,” he continues. “There is someone closer to you that does want to hurt you though. Your fairy godfather Naoya’s got you tangled up in some shit that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But…” he pauses, his thumb worrying his lower lip. “I’m here to offer you a little help…if you want it. You’ll have to follow my lead, though. Do exactly as I say, when I say it. Got it?”
Some goddamn nerve. “What the fuck are you talking about? What’s this about Naoya?” you demand, trying to keep your voice steady. You’re aware that you’re pushing your luck with the way you’re speaking to him but you can’t stop yourself. You don’t like being kept in the dark.
He shrugs, unphased by your hostility. If anything, he finds it amusing. He doesn’t mind that you seem to be a bit of a spitfire. In fact, he finds it kind of cute. Even more so because it reminds him of himself. He sighs softly, his shoulders rising and falling with the motion.
Your eyes narrow as you observe him. ‘I set aside being a chickenshit to come out here. I came out of hiding for some fucking WiFi of all things.’ You’re berating yourself internally. You glance toward the tin of magic in your bag, fingers itching to reach for it. The cafe’s din recedes into the background, and all you hear is the echo of your own ragged breathing. ‘One more… Maybe one more.’
He notices your eyes flick toward your stash and snatches it from your bag, moving it out of your reach. His movements are so quick that they're almost a blur, and the tin disappears into his pocket before you can even protest.
“Oh, none of that shit, focus,” he warns, his voice low and sharp as he snaps his dexterous fingers twice for your attention. The daring look on his face, a silent reprimand for your attempt to seek solace in a pill. He knows that look you give him in return. He’s seen it before. The temptation to bury reality in a haze of oblivion. He knows how easy it is to slip down that rabbit hole and how treacherous the climb back up is.
His face darkens, slight frustration carving deep lines into his features. His words are an insistent prod reminding you that you’re not sitting here alone. “Anyway, Naoya’s pure shit up an infant’s back on a hot day, if you know what I mean. Been keeping tabs on him, and guess what? He’s been skimming off the top of his family’s shipments and using your address for his little drop-offs—not that you’d notice. He’s slick about it, too—someone else picks up his shit and leaves yours outside for you to find, so you’re none the wiser. Delivery confirmed. And now, he’s cooking up a scheme to throw you under the bus, while he waltzes away scot-free. That Xanax order you placed? Forget about it, it’s not happenin’—Don’t look so fuckin’ sad about it. He’s swapped it for a heap of something stronger, alright? It’s about to land on your doorstep with someone else’s name slapped on it. When Zenin’s men come knocking about their missing product, you'll be the one they find. Not Naoya. You’re just a pawn in this, sweetie. Sorry to tell ya.” He punctuates his revelation with a bitter laugh.
Your breath hitches, taking everything in and feeling sick to your stomach. You don’t even have a personal relationship with this man. It was all business and nothing more than that yet he chose to set you up. ‘Does he know I’m an omega—that I can’t do anything to stop this?’ The Zenins are a widely known criminal Organization here in Japan. You’ve seen them on the news time and time again with headlines and coverage about drug trafficking, omega trafficking, gambling, extortion, loan-sharking, and protection rackets. You name it and they’ve done it. These people are the real deal and if they get their hands on you, it doesn’t take much imagination to figure out which of those crimes will be applied. That’s if they don’t kill you. But who’d let an untouched omega go to waste? It’s like your life turned into a True Crime podcast overnight and you’re being forced to listen on the sidelines. “No… No I—”
The alpha’s eyes widen briefly when he sees the color drain from your face.
“I think I’m... gonna go home now.” If he couldn’t read lips he’d have no fucking idea what you just said because although your lips were moving, no sound was coming out. Not a peep.
His gaze sharpens as he sizes you up, clocking the tremors racking your body and the panic returning to your voice. “Nah, you’re not going anywhere,” he declares with finality, shaking his head.
“What’s the point?” you mumble.
“Not happenin’,” he snaps, his voice slicing through your haze of despair. “You’re in no state to handle this alone.” He breathes out through his nose, gaze softening slightly. A flicker of genuine concern breaks through his tough exterior. It’s clear that you’re overwhelmed and on the verge of shutting down. Having you out in the fray on your own is a no-go. His alpha won’t have it.
“Why do you even care?”
“Because from the looks of it, someone needs to care,” he retorts, his irritation tinged with a hint of desperation. “You’re not thinking straight, and you’re as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane. Trust me, going home isn’t gonna fix shit. Haven’t you been listenin’ baby girl?”
“Then what’s the alternative?” you ask, a touch of defiance sparking in your eyes.
His pupils constrict as he leans in close, his hand cupping your face with a grip that borders on possessive. His fingers splay wide, holding you in place as if he’s determined to imprint his words. “You’re not giving up,” his voice low, urgent. “And you’re damn sure not going anywhere alone. You’re coming with me.”
Your breathing picks up, a warmth swirling in your chest again from the magnetism of his alpha aura. Your omega whines at the back of your conscience, wanting, needing to go with him. You feel a flash of vulnerability that you've been keeping tightly locked away these past few years come to the surface. Your heart threatens to beat in a forbidden rhythm over this interaction and you hate it. You hate that you left your home. You hate Naoya and the info broker that set you up with that bastard in the first place. You hate that you like how his hand feels against your touch starved skin and his intense words you can’t make sense of. That barely there Oakmoss and violet blended scent hanging in the air between you.He’s being tender with you. Why? What is the actual fucking reason? It’s burning you up on the inside. You hate it and you love it and you want to go home.
“You stick with me. You do what I say. And, ideally, you stop popping pills like they’re goddamn breath mints,” he smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s something else there instead… longing? No, that’s bullshit.
“Why?” you challenge, meeting his gaze with fire in your eyes.
“Because I said so, Y/n,” he replies, his tone authoritative, concern etched into every line of his face.
You want to question the tone he’s taking with you further but all that is pushed aside at the mention of your name. Your eyebrows shoot up at the sound of it. “Who the FUCK are you?” you blurt out, voice cracking with disbelief. You’ve never seen this guy a day in your life and somehow he knows your name, your extracurriculars and the true crime clusterfuck you’re caught in.
His smirk fades into a serious expression, the lines around his mouth tightening. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he says, his voice low and steady, trying to bridge the gap between the unknown and your growing panic. “But you need to trust me right now. There’s no time for any more explanations. We gotta get a move on.” His eyes dart around the cafe in quick assessment. “For the sake of your comfort, my name is Choso. But you might know me better as 'Dakusuta’.”
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