Work Text:
“Hope all the girls are as hot as you.”
It’s twelve in the morning and your dress is short enough that you’ll flash everybody if you bend over. You don’t mind, though, because that’s kind of the idea; the all black, skin tight nature of your chosen work uniform is meant to draw attention to… well, the parts that matter.
You laugh sweetly as you scan the young man’s ID. Your coworker, Aizawa, looms behind you, eyeing up the crowd in front of the club and rolling a cigarette between his fingers. He’s one of the better bouncers you work with, if not your favorite — not only does he actually do his job when things get rowdy, but he doesn’t snitch on your rather immoral side hustle.
“Oh, trust me, they’re even better,” you say, passing the ID back with a flick of your fingers. You shift your weight so that your breasts squish together a little more. “Wanna come and tell me about it after?”
You flutter your lashes. Distant club music swims through your body. The guy grins and nods.
That’s gotta be at least forty bucks. Score.
You turn to flash Aizawa a little shit eating grin. He just shakes his head and takes a puff of his cigarette.
You don’t bother wearing perfume. Why would you when Aizawa’s always got smoke curling up from his lips and fingers? A year into this job and you can’t even scrub the scent out of your hair anymore. When you grumbled that you stink thanks to him, he just said you’re welcome and held out a cigarette, half-lidded eyes full of mirth.
He takes that dry approach to just about everything. Maybe it’s because he’s so much older than you, what with his inky, messily tied hair and rough stubble adorning his chin, but he doesn’t care about much aside from his paycheck and getting home. You’ve seen him take a punch to the face and just sigh with annoyance.
Still smiling up at your coworker, you ring up the next guy in line.
“Y’know, I think this is gonna be a good night, ‘Zawa.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You stay ‘till close?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Nice — oh, yeah, you’re good to go in — I’m here ‘till close, too. Think you could drive me home?”
“Uh-huh. Focus on the customers.”
“Oops.” You whip around to see an older man holding out his credit. You take it with a laugh. “Sorry, sir. I’d make it up to you with a kiss, but you’ll get plenty of that inside.”
“Ha! Didn’t expect the service to start out here. I’m paying for all five of us, by the way.”
“Of course.”
You blow a kiss at the men as they pass you, their loud laughter ensuing. Aizawa blows smoke into your face. You cough and smack his arm.
The monotony of greeting and ringing up, of flirting and scanning, continues. This is how most of your weekend nights go; clock in at nine, run the door with Aizawa (usually) and dick around with him until three, and then give a blowjob or two before heading back to your apartment. It’s a pretty good gig for somebody like you — it doesn’t clash with your other jobs while still making enough cash.
The line dwindles as the night goes on. Eventually, ten minutes go by without a group, and you’re squatting and fixing the straps of the stilettos you’re wearing. An unlit cigarette hangs between your teeth. Goosebumps run up your arms from the night air as you chat about everything and nothing.
“No, yeah, I haven’t seen her since. Do you think she got fired?”
“Probably.” Aizawa’s leaning against the wall, lighter in hand. “People show up high all the time, but not that high.”
“Yeah. I swear to God she was turning blue.” The strap you’re fiddling with slips from your fingers for the — what, fifth time? You groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Aizawa scoffs. “What’d I say? You’ve gotta —“
“You’ve gotta stop wearing the fucking heels, I know, I know!”
You’re kneeling now, knees scraping the concrete. Every time you jam the strap into the buckle it comes right out, no matter how much your nails wedge it in tight. You sigh and resign yourself to the floor.
“This is what I get for thrifting shitty shoes.”
Aizawa hums in agreement and yet squats next to you. He squints at your bratty straps. Then, he hands you his lighter.
“Try putting your leg out straight.”
“Okay,” you murmur, butt hitting the ground as you lean back on your hands and straighten your legs. “I’ll literally love you forever if you fix this.”
“Uh-huh.”
He fiddles with the strap, one hand wrapped around your calf to hold you still. Now that he’s this close, you realize you’ve never been this equal in height to him. Like, the guy is built like a damn tree. His jawline is pretty nice, too, and his hands are warm —
“Lighter.”
“Oh, yeah, here.”
Aizawa brings the lighter to your strap and fiddles some more with the flame. Then, he stands up, already reaching into his pocket for another cigarette, though he manages to catch himself.
“Oh my God,” you say, rolling your ankle around and around. “You actually fixed it. What the hell. And with the lighter, too.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunts, holding out his free hand. You take it with a grin.
“You’re smarter than you look.”
He huffs. “Watch it.”
You laugh and the two of you separate, only to come together again — you lean towards him so that he can light the cigarette in your mouth.
“Thank you,” you say, breathing the smoke out.
“For making you stink,” he responds, breathing the smoke in.
The two of you loiter around the doors. They open occasionally, drunk men stumbling out to catch their Ubers. One guy vomits across the street. You look away with a grimace.
“Ew.”
“You should be used to this by now.”
“It’s still ew.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How long have you worked here that you don’t care about that sorta stuff?”
Aizawa rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck and all the joints there. “I’ve been here three years. Had other places before, though.”
“Haha. Old.”
“I’m thirty-nine. I’ve seen you hook up with guys in their fifties.”
You shrug, pass your cigarette to Aizawa. “They pay better.”
“Mhm,” he hums, breathing the nicotine in. He’s kinda pretty when he smokes. It’s something about the veins in his hands. “Your parents don’t care that you’re doing this?”
Your face scrunches up. “My parents?”
“Yeah?”
“How old do you think I am, dude?”
“I don’t know. Eighteen?”
“Excuse you, I’m nineteen.”
He lets out a laugh. Like, an actual laugh, sticking the cigarette back out at you. You take it and smoke, face hot.
“That’s basically the same thing,” he says, laughter dead.
“Yeah, whatever, jeez. They don’t care.”
Aizawa nods slowly. You watch your smoke dissolve in the air.
“Just be careful with it,” he says.
You sneak a glance at your coworker. He’s leaning against the wall of the strip club the both of you work at, arms crossed, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.
You cough and look down at your stilettos. “Thanks.”
“Your dress is riding.”
“Fuck.” You bite on the cig and yank your dress down. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I didn’t, uh, mean to,” you mutter.
“I know.” He clears his throat and nods towards the door. “Your guy.”
Just like Aizawa says, the young guy from earlier is coming out the doors with his group of friends. They’re snickering as he says bye and splits off towards you. You’ve always been kind of a joke to everybody else, but Aizawa’s never laughed at you.
You get up with a stumble, adjust yourself. The guy reaches you and you snatch up his hand, snuff your cigarette out on your thigh with a sizzle. You can feel Aizawa’s eyes on you as you drag him around back.
Maybe it’s because you’ve done this since you were a kid, but sucking off guys like the one you’re kneeled in front of doesn’t make you feel or think as much as it probably should. It goes by fast, actually, which you don’t mention (you’ve learned that ruins the mood), a blur of motions and groaning and zippers. He gives you some cash and you’re alone, standing behind your workplace, wiping cum off of your face. It’s quiet except for the muffled music.
You pass Aizawa on your way to the breakroom. He’s checking the IDs of some guys — your responsibility, fuck — and spots you as you try to rush past. You’re wiping off the mess that’s your lip gloss, manicured fingertips running circles around your mouth. He gives you a once over, like he always does, but this time he lingers on your fingers.
The guy called you some names during it. They ring in your ears as you brush your teeth in the employee bathroom. Slut. Whore. Slut. Whore. Slut, slut, slut.
You spit into the sink. You wash your face. You don’t recognize yourself without your makeup. You rummage through your ziploc baggie of product, reapply everything. You fix your hair. Your mouth never does feel clean.
Your lip wobbles. You keep running your fingers through your hair and staring at yourself in the mirror.
When you make it back to your post, the night air biting your calves, your coworker is alone at his usual spot on the wall. You stand next to him with your arms crossed. His voice comes out startlingly even compared to the voices in your head.
“You were in there a while.”
You nibble on your lip. “It got in my hair.”
He hums.
“Sorry for making you do my job,” you whisper.
“It’s boring out here. I don’t mind.” A car drives by. Somebody laughs loudly from inside the club.
“Okay.” You want to swallow but you spit instead. “Thanks.”
Slut. Whore. Slut, slut, slut.
It hits three in the morning and you’re giggling with Aizawa in his beat-up car. A cheap air freshener hangs from his mirror, twirling about as he drives you home, an empty energy drink rattling in one of his cupholders.
“Okay, um, would you kill your cat to end traffic?” You ask, smiling, watching him as he rolls his eyes from the driver's seat.
“You’ve asked me this already.”
“Just answer!”
“No, I wouldn’t.” He taps his cigarette ash out the window, his other hand guiding the steering wheel. “Anybody who says otherwise is a psychopath.”
“Okay, yeah, I agree. What if it was a dog?”
“Still no.”
“A fish?”
“Maybe.” He narrows his eyes. “Actually, yes.”
“Why?”
“You ask the weirdest questions.” He cracks a smile as he says that, shaking his head. “I guess I feel like the fish wouldn’t care as much.”
“Okay. Yeah.” He’s taking you into your neighborhood, now. It’s the kind of place that’s pretty obviously subsidized — it’s all one-story apartments, lawns that are either dead or severely overgrown, and potholes or cracked asphalt. Aizawa slows to a stop in front of your parents’ apartment, puts his hazards on. You should unbuckle your seatbelt and say goodnight with a giggle but you’re stuck.
The lights are still on. Your windows are glowing like eyes.
“Um.” You glance at Aizawa and he’s looking at you funny, fuck. Your fingers fumble with the seatbelt and undo it with a clack. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine,” he says slowly. You need to get out of the car, you’re gripping the door handle, all you need to do is open it.
Your father is awake and he shouldn’t be.
You’ve done this hundreds of times, thousands, even. It’s not even the act that’s the worst part anymore. It's looking at your apartment, knowing what’s going to happen, and knowing you can’t do anything about it. No, no, not even — it isn’t even that, it’s that you won’t do anything about it. You will do nothing. You will walk in and let it happen.
Slut, whore. Slut, slut, slut.
You open your mouth to say something more — another apology, maybe — but you just let out something like a whimper. Your back hits the car seat, you smile, you frown, you shake your head and take a sharp breath. Open the fucking door.
Aizawa turns off his hazards and you’re rolling past your apartment. On and on the two of you go, further into your neighborhood, until you can’t see your windows anymore.
“Anywhere else you want me to drop you off?”
“Uh.” You can’t catch up to all your thoughts. You’ve always been slow; the hot, dumb bitch, the whore, the slut. “What?”
“Do you have a friend you can stay with or something?”
Friends? You? You dropped out of school over a year ago. All you ever do is work.
“I mean, no.”
He takes a moment to look at you instead of the road. His jaw clenches. He passes you his nearly done cigarette as he loops the roundabout at the end of your street.
“I have a couch.”
You look at him with wide eyes. You’re speechless for a second because nobody has ever, ever said to you what he’s saying.
“Uh, no, no. It’s okay. I can go home.”
He grips the steering wheel with both hands, squinting at the road. He seems to be rolling your words around on his tongue, considering, analyzing.
“You can,” he offers, “but you don’t have to.”
Your brows raise as you stare at the dash. Your lips pull into a frown. You know that, you’ve thought it every single time, but it’s so different hearing it out loud.
“Okay. I — yeah. Yeah.”
And he’s pulling out of your neighborhood. You smoke until you’re burning your fingertips. He merges onto the freeway.
Aizawa lives in a concrete apartment complex the next town over. He’s on the third floor, number three-hundred-fifty-three. You stand behind him, your backpack slung over your shoulder. Your hands wring behind your back. His keys jingle and jangle as he unlocks his front door. He’s got a chibi cat keychain.
The door swings open and bounces off a wall with a thud. The first thing you notice is that it smells like citrus air freshener mixed with weed and cigarettes. Aizawa closes the door behind you, toeing his shoes off.
“You can put your shoes over here.” He gestures to the little closet by his front door. It’s empty aside from a coat or two and a few pairs of shoes. You nod, unbuckle your stilettos. Aizawa grows in height as you step out of them.
You smile a little. “How’s the weather up there?”
He sighs. “Very funny.”
His vinyl floor is cold on your feet as you follow him further into the apartment. It’s simple: a kitchen, a living room with the couch you suppose you’ll be sleeping in, and then two doors that lead to his bathroom and bedroom, respectively.
It’s not as dirty as your place. His kitchen is kept tidy, the sink empty and dry, the counters littered with spices and cooking instruments but well taken care of. He doesn’t have trash piling up or mold lining the backsplash. He doesn’t have empty beer bottles sitting on his coffee table, just an ashtray. A weighted blanket is folded neatly on his couch.
“You have a nice place.”
“I appreciate the sentiment.”
“No, seriously.” You set your bag on his coffee table while he hunts through the fridge. “I’ve got black mold, like, all over my bathroom ceiling.”
“That’s disgusting.”
You laugh, sit on the couch. “I know.”
Aizawa brings you a tall glass of water. You sip at it, tug down your dress. He averts his eyes.
“I’m going to go shower.” He undoes his hair as he speaks. It falls down to his shoulders, all fluffy and rather tangled. He rakes a hand through the blackest of it. “I have some leftovers in the fridge, help yourself. I have extra towels if you’d like to shower, too.” Then, he pauses, opens and shuts his mouth, his head cocked at you. You can’t help but lean back and giggle.
“What?”
“Are you fine with sleeping in that?”
You look down. He’s referring to your dress that, even now, you can’t help but fidget with.
“I can give you some of my pajamas.” Aizawa blinks tiredly at you. “If you want.”
Your face warms. “Uh, yeah. That’d be great. Thank you.”
Aizawa disappears into his bedroom and then returns a couple moments later with a large black t-shirt and some sweats. He hands them to you, all folded neatly on top of one another.
“Thank you,” you say again. “You’re really sweet.”
He heads towards the bathroom. “Just knock if you need anything.”
It feels weird to change in the middle of his living room so you go into his bedroom. You close the door, lock it just in case, and then lay his pajamas on the bed. It isn’t made, the comforter folded back like he just rolled out of it. He’s got shelves with a variety of books and knick-knacks on one wall, a desk with similar items against another. His closet is open, his wardrobe basically all black. How emo.
The pajamas are comically large on you. The t-shirt ends at your midthigh, the sleeves at your elbows. The collar goes off your shoulder. You had to tie the sweats’ drawstring tight around your hips so that they wouldn’t slip.
You slap your hands against your face. It’s definitely better than flashing him every five seconds, but why the fuck did you have to end up in his clothes?
You fold your dress up and exit the bedroom, the sound of the shower running filling the apartment. Sitting back down on the couch, you stuff your dress in your bag. You don’t have any makeup remover with you, but a wet paper towel or two from the kitchen works well enough at removing your makeup.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The shower runs and runs. You don’t have much else to do aside from sit on the couch and sip at your water.
And think.
Slut, whore. Slut, slut, slut.
But what is sex, anyway? It’s the same as everything else if you think about it. You rub each other like you’re petting a dog, get close like you’re hugging, and kissing is kind of like eating. Nobody cares about holding hands or bumping into one another, so why isn’t it the same with sex? It’s just touching. It’s just touching until it’s over.
Aizawa emerges from the bathroom an unknowable amount of time later. He’s dressed similarly to you, though his pants are plaid and it all fits better. His hair is damp.
“Did you eat?” He asks, eyeing the unchanged kitchen counters.
“I’m not really hungry.”
He trudges over to sit on the other side of the couch, picking up his pack of cigarettes on the way. “You should still eat.”
“You say that while grabbing your lighter?”
He lights up with a snort. “Don’t use me for reference.”
You roll your eyes. You outstretch a hand and make a grabby motion towards him.
“No.” The smoke seeps out of his mouth and nose as he speaks. “You’ve smoked enough for a day.”
You groan. “Literally every time I see you you’re smoking.”
“What did I just say?”
You cross your arms, look away. Aizawa leans back into the couch cushions and continues blowing smoke. You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He’s doing the same thing.
He sits up. “Are you feeling better? Oh.” He blinks a little, gets up and goes to the bathroom. He comes back and stands in front of you, holding out some bandaids and a disinfectant spray. You just stare at them.
“For what?” You glance between the items and his heavily lidded eyes.
“You put out a cigarette on your leg earlier and your knees got scraped when you went with the guy.”
You take the bandaids and spray. You lay them in your lap, stare at them. He just continues to smoke, peering down at you, unmoving. Then, you let out a little laugh, your face crumpled despite your smile.
“Y’know, if you want a blow job, you can just ask.”
“I do not,” Aizawa blurts loudly, “want a fucking blow job.”
He drops to a crouch in front of you. He sticks his cigarette in the ashtray, pushes the legs of your sweats up to your knees, grabs the disinfectant off your thighs.
You sit and watch stupidly. Of course you do, you’re stupid. You’re stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why would he want something like that from somebody like you? What’s wrong with you? You’re not a hot bitch, just a dumb one. Nobody wants somebody that’s been with their own dad. You’re disgusting.
Your face is hot, head hanging while Aizawa sprays your knees. The scrapes tingle and burn. He peels the bandaids free and tears are dripping onto the sweats he gave you.
His head jerks up. You turn away in response, wipe roughly at your eyes.
You’re stupid. You’re stupid. You’re stupid.
Slut. Whore.
“It’s not that I—” He sighs, sticking the bandaid onto one of your knees. “It’s—” He sighs again, louder this time. He rakes a hand through his hair, turns around to take a drag from whatever’s left in his discarded cig.
“It’s not that I wouldn’t do those sorts of things with you,” he settles with. His hands come up to balance himself on your knees. He blows smoke. You sniffle.
“You would?”
Aizawa gazes up at you with hard eyes.
“Yeah, I would.”
Warmth blooms in your face. Aizawa searches your face for something, you don’t know, before sighing even louder and resting his head on his elbow.
“What?”
“I want to kiss you.”
Your brow wrinkles. “You shouldn’t.”
He raises his head. “Why?”
“I sucked off that guy earlier and — just — I’m dirty.”
“And I’m a deadbeat. The only person who should be worried here is me.”
“You don’t get it.” The tears start to well up again. “You don’t know the disgusting shit I’ve done.”
“Great, then we’re on the same level.”
Your fingers twitch in your lap. Before you know it, you’re leaning down and kissing him on the lips.
He tastes like cigarettes. Your hands come up to hold his face that’s all dry and scratchy with stubble. He starts to rise; he leans over, over, over, until your head hits the cushions and you’re making out with him on the couch you were supposed to be sleeping in.
He pulls aside the collar of your shirt and starts kissing along your collarbone. Your legs are tangled together, bandaged knees knocking unscathed ones. Aizawa has one hand attached to your hip, the thumb there rubbing soothing circles through the fabric of your sweats.
Buried in his mess of hair, your lip wobbles. People don’t just do things like that. He’s acting like he’s into this not just because you’re willing to fuck him, but because it’s you.
You wrap your arms around his neck and hold him close. You grind against his thigh, make breathy, little noises the closer his kisses get to your chest. His other hand slides under your shirt and starts to creep up your midriff, wrapping around your back —
Aizawa pauses, lifts his head. He tugs up your shirt slightly to reveal the start of a patchwork of little circular scars and divots. They climb up the sides of your torso, cigarette burns, trailing from your hip to your chest. Some are faded while others are yellow with pus.
He pulls your shirt back down, holds it there. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” You squirm beneath him, chest tight. His hands are more hesitant now. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to take my shirt off.”
Aizawa’s still so close as he speaks, hovering over you. He brushes some of your hair out of your face. “Do you want me to?”
“I mean,” you stutter. “It’s kind of weird to look at.”
“I have them on my legs.”
“What?”
“My foster mom put them out there.” He swallows. “A long time ago.”
Your face crumples. You wrap your arms around him again, pull him into the crook of your neck. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. They’re almost all gone now.” He slowly hugs you back. “Yours will go away eventually, too.”
“Yeah?” Your fingers comb through his hair, snagging on the knots.
“Yeah.” Aizawa lifts himself off of you.
You smile, sit up, and pull your shirt off. You push Aizawa into sitting against the couch before straddling him. His hands come up to rest on your hips. It’s just your bra and sweats on now, your discarded shirt on the floor.
“Your scars are like leopard spots.” Aizawa’s fingers trail up and down some of the older ones. “You’re pretty.”
You’ve been called hot, sexy, cute, but not often pretty.
“Thank you.” You wipe at your face again. “You really are sweet.”
The two of you start making out again, hands cupping each other's cheeks or pulling the other closer. Aizawa ends up taking his shirt off soon after.
“These pants are ridiculous.” Aizawa laughs a little, kissing your shoulder. You’re leaning against him while he helps you shimmy out of the sweats he gave you, chest to chest. It’s different when there’s nothing but your bra keeping the two of you apart; he’s so warm, hot like a furnace, cozy.
The sweats finally join the growing pile of clothes on the floor. You plop back down on him and immediately feel it — he’s hard. You rub yourself against him. Aizawa takes a sharp breath and grabs your hips in response.
“Cheeky,” he mutters, eyeing your grin before starting to kiss you again. One of his hands drags from your hip, down your stomach, and into your underwear.
He starts rubbing featherlight circles around your clit. Soon enough, you’re grinding into his hand, sweating, leaning into his shoulder. Aizawa grips your hip harder with his other hand.
“Stop moving so much.”
You nose his ear, out of breath. “Please?”
He shudders, releases his grip on you. Instead, that hand trails up your back to fumble with the clasp of your bra. You let him slide it off of you, let him kiss and nibble at your chest, let him do anything so long he keeps letting you come undone in his lap like this.
He holds you, arm around your torso, when he dips his fingers into you. He thrusts them upwards sluggishly, brows furrowed, until he’s up to his knuckles. You chew on your lip.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you murmur. Aizawa curls his fingers and your thighs clench around him.
“Sex isn’t about have to’s.”
You close your eyes and focus on his hands, on the warmth of him, instead of what that means.