Il libro di Jaylos

Want.

taken from: RottenKidNextDoor (PortalofWords) on Ao3
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Eight.

Jay was eight when the strange man first shoved his hands down his pants and told him that "pretty boys didn't struggle".

Being pretty wasn't new for him, but the sensation certainly was. His father had always prided himself on Jay's looks. "No son of mine is gonna be a pussy, that's for damn sure," he'd tell Jay. "Don't you wanna be dominant, Little Snake?"

And Jay did. Which was why he didn't tell his father about the man or the groping hands or the hot, disgusting breath on his neck. He hadn't been dominant there. He'd had no power. The young thief had used a scratchy rag to wipe himself down and limped home, swearing to himself that he'd never let his father see his weakness.

^*.*^

Eleven.

Jay was eleven when he was kissed for the first time. A real kiss, not just a peck on the cheek.

It was behind the school building late in the afternoon. One of the girls from his Weird Science Class had followed him outside, giggling, and when he turned to ask her why, she'd flung herself at him, pressing his back against the wall and shoving her tongue down his throat. Which was not what he told his dad.

"I kissed a girl today."

"Was she rich?" Jafar had looked up from his stack of coins, eyeing Jay with a beady stare.

"I got this off of her." The thief tossed his father a ring, who caught it, his eyes lighting up.

"You've finally found something you're good at," his father had laughed, wheezing slightly. "Hustling whores, hell, who would've thought?"

^*.*^

Twelve.

Jay was twelve when he got caught redhanded.

He'd been distracted, distracted by a boy across the marketplace who was trying to hide in the folds of his mother's fur. The pair of hands that caught his wrist wasn't distracted however and soon the rough voice of the stall woman erased the other boy from his memory.

"Boy," hissed her voice. "You got away once, you didn't think I'd be ready for you when you came back?"

The thief twisted his arm, his boots trying to find a shin, but he only found empty, rotting air. "Let me go," he growled. His voice had started to deepen, but it was still caught somewhere between a man and a boy. He couldn't lose his hands, he needed his hands to steal. If this woman took a knife to them, it was over. She might as well kill him.

"Hold still you little shit."

"I need my hands." Jay looked up at her, his mind racing.

"Well, I still need compensation." It was hard to determine the woman's age, the dirt from the island settling into all her features and aging them a hundred years.

"I can give you... a service." Jafar's son knew his cheeks were red, could already feel the red hot feeling in his chest and stomach that he would only later recognize as shame. His body was beautiful, yes, but it was tainted.

^*.*^

Thirteen.

Jay was thirteen when he had sex willingly. That night, he hadn't brought anything worthwhile home and the doors had been locked and his father indifferent. That night he'd found a pretty girl on the corner, slipped his hand under her shirt, and let her lead him to her place. She said she wanted him.

But when morning came, when he rolled over and began to leave, he knew the want was gone. He had work to do.

"Jay?"