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daswarschonkaputt · 2 years

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WIP Wednesday Aizawa/Harry Potter One Night Stand AU

okay, so when i wrote this i was deeply nostalgic for a period of fanfic where you just sort of dumped harry into whatever fandom you wanted and shipped him with someone. (did i read a lot of twilight x harry potter crossovers in my youth? yes. i am only slightly ashamed.) and i was like, you know who would be great? unlikely fandom sex symbol, aizawa. so that’s where this fic comes from.

Summary

A wizard and a pro-hero walk into a bar. It’s only the start of their problems.

Content warnings: attempted suicide and discussion thereof (minor character), suicide baiting (same minor character), implied/referenced animal abuse.

“Two mojitos, and a—what do you want to drink, Shouta?”

Aizawa blinks, looking up from the menu he’s spent the past ten minutes supposedly engrossed in. “Water’s fine,” he says.

Beside him, Nemuri rolls her eyes. “He’ll take an old fashioned,” she says. “On me. I’m not letting you spend your birthday sober.”

The better present, Aizawa can’t help but think, would have been to let him sleep. He sighs, but accepts the drink when it’s handed to him, and dutifully follows his friends to a table at the back of the bar. He doesn’t even complain when they take the two seats facing the bar’s entrance, leaving him with the tactically unnerving position of staring at a wall.

“How goes the uphill climb?” Hizashi asks, sprawled in his seat. “You’ve got how many left now?”

“Three,” Aizawa says.

Nemuri’s eyes widen. “Three? It was four yesterday.”

Aizawa shrugs. Takes a sip of his drink, which seems to mostly taste like whisky.

“Man, you heroics tutors really have it easy,” Nemuri says. “You know how many kids get expelled from the management track? I’m lucky if I lose even one – let alone seventeen.”

“I’m not mad about it,” Hizashi says. “Seventeen fewer assignments to mark. Seventeen fewer times I have to look like an asshole for calling out obvious copying. Do you know how many of your kids supposedly mistranslated manual labour as a hand job, Nemuri? Fifteen. At least Shouta’s hellions are too dysfunctional to cooperate on cheating.”

Nemuri’s laugh is tinged with something close to pride. “Yeah, the little bastards are pretty industrious,” she agrees. “But – come on, Shouta. Don’t leave us in suspense. Which one of your brats got the axe this time?”

Aizawa swirls the amber liquid of his drink. “Yamakawa.”

Nemuri taps the table thoughtfully. “Blonde kid, cutting quirk, costume that looks like a peacock?” At his nod, she tilts her head. “Huh. Any reason?”

Aizawa sighs. He doesn’t especially want to get into this right now. “Penchant for animal abuse.”

“Ah.”

It hadn’t been a particularly fun call to receive – a police detective calling him in at five in the morning on the day of his birthday, because one of his wayward students had been picked up for illegal quirk use on stray cats. Listening to Yamakawa’s stuttering justifications – how else was he meant to learn control? – had been somehow even less fun. Hauling his exhausted body back to campus to try and drill some semblance of sense into his remaining students had honestly felt like twisting the knife.

Happy fucking birthday, Aizawa guesses.

Nemuri puts her empty glass down on the table with an audible clink. “Another round?”

Hizashi nods. “Maybe grab two, whilst you’re up.”

“Shouta, you good?”

Aizawa indicates his drink – barely touched.

She grabs her wallet off the table, then pauses, and undoes two buttons on her shirt. Her smile is wicked. “Cleavage discount,” she explains with a wink – and Aizawa momentarily regrets every second he’s ever known her.

As she saunters over to the bar, a noticeable swing in her hips, Hizashi’s relaxed smile falls.

“So,” he says, voice unusually quiet as he leans in towards Aizawa. “What was it this year?”

Aizawa momentarily considers downing his drink to avoid having to have this conversation – but he doubts alcohol would help much with it at all. “A watch,” he says, words stilted. “Patek Phillipe. Very expensive.”

“Engraved?”

He hates that Hizashi knows to ask. “To her darling Shouchan. There was a note. She wants me over for dinner.”

“You’re not going to go.”

Aizawa shrugs.

“Shouta.”

“I’m not stupid, Hizashi,” he says, because it’s easier than putting into words the gut-wrenching, sickening hope that he’d felt when he ran his fingers over the handwritten card. “She’s never going to divorce him.”

“Even if she does,” Hizashi says, “it doesn’t erase—”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Aizawa says.

“What aren’t we talking about?”

Aizawa doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. He contents himself with shooting a scathing look at Hizashi – as the one with the vantage point, he’s the one whose job it was to watch out for Nemuri’s return.

Hizashi smiles apologetically at him, before picking up a glass. “Online dating,” he lies smoothly.

Nemuri laughs as she unloads the tray of drinks – a veritable armada of cocktails, all various degrees of lurid. “For Shouta?” she asks. “Really?”

Aizawa sighs. Trust Hizashi to pick the worst possible lie. “I work two jobs,” he says. “I don’t have time to date.”

“Please, I work like five, and I still find the time to take out a pretty lady or two,” Hizashi says.

“And two jobs is stretching it a little, given your class size,” Nemuri says. “It’s more like – what, twenty percent of a job now?”

“Fifteen,” Hizashi corrects absent-mindedly.

“Anyway, the whole point of online dating is that you can work it around your schedule,” Nemuri says. “Hizashi and I could even put together your profile for you. Just send me a photo of your abs and you’ll have to beat them away with a stick.”

Aizawa can’t think of anything less appealing than having a photo of his bare torso posted anywhere online, much less in Nemuri’s possession. “No.”

“C’mon, Shouta, live a little—”

“I’m not interested.”

Nemuri sighs. “Fine. But only because it’s your birthday.” She drains another drink, pushing it towards their slowly growing collection of empty cocktail glasses. Given the assortment she ordered earlier, Aizawa can’t help but wonder if she’s trying to complete some sort of collection. “You hear the rumours about All Might?”

“What, that he’s retiring?” Hizashi asks. “I’ll believe it when I see it. He’s been supposedly on the brink of retirement for the past ten years.”

“I meant more that I heard he’s considering a post at UA,” Nemuri says.

Aizawa raises his eyebrows. That is new. “Where did you hear that?”

“My sources are many and varied,” Nemuri says. “People tell me all sorts of things.”

Aizawa stares at her.

“Fine. I saw that skinny blond guy that works for him leaving Nedzu’s office.” She reaches for another cocktail. “Not many reasons why a hero’s secretary might be wandering the halls of UA – especially not one that looks the way that guy does. He looks like he’s a few sharp coughs away from losing a lung. All Might should let the guy retire – or at least hire him an assistant.”

“Pros like All Might don’t tend to be that plugged in to the concerns of their staff,” Aizawa says flatly. “It probably hasn’t even crossed his mind that his assistant might need help.”

“Careful Shouta,” Hizashi says. “Your anti All Might bias is showing.”

Aizawa opens his mouth to refute that, but is cut across by Nemuri. “Ugh,” she says. “Don’t make a scene, but I’m pretty sure the guy at the bar has clocked me.”

It’s a hazard of hero work, getting recognised off-duty. Aizawa knows some pros relish the fame, but the three of them try and stay fairly low profile. Aizawa has always eschewed the spotlight, and Hizashi looks completely different out of costume – so the only one of them who ever really gets approached is Nemuri, for whom scandal had come early and viciously, and never really left.

Curious, Aizawa subtly cranes his neck to glance behind them. He picks out Nemuri’s hero fan with ease – he’s not even trying to hide the fact that he’s staring at them. He’s—well, the first thing that comes to mind is handsome. He certainly stands out, that’s for sure. He’s not Japanese, but he isn’t white either, and Aizawa doesn’t know enough to guess at his background without embarrassing himself. Aizawa clocks the rest of his features absent-mindedly: average height; lean build; a mess of jet black hair barely restrained by a short pony tail at the base of his neck; large, circular glasses; and, behind them, a pair of vivid green eyes, the kind of intense colour that you don’t see often without some kind of quirk behind it.

“Why do you sound so mad?” Hizashi asks. “He’s hot, and he’s a fan of yours. Just your kind of man. Go forth and—sluttify, or whatever.”

Nemuri swats him. “It’s Shouta’s birthday,” she says. “I’m not about to abandon him for a nameless hook-up.”

“Ah. So you’re mad because he’s hot.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Nemuri says. “It doesn’t matter if he’s hot. Who cares what a guy’s face looks like if you’re just going to sit on it?”

Aizawa glances balefully at Nemuri and Hizashi’s accumulated empty glasses. Three each. What, exactly, was the alcohol content in those things?

“I’m certain I don’t want to know the context,” comes a voice from behind Aizawa, and he tenses a little; he didn’t hear the approach, “but I’ll cop to curiosity.”

Aizawa turns around as conversation stalls. It’s the guy from the bar – the unknowing subject of Nemuri’s crude attempt at wisdom.

“I’m Harry,” the guy says. “And I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?”

Aizawa turns to Nemuri, ready to be appalled by however she decides to dismiss ‘Harry’ – but she’s frozen, eyes wide, mouth open. Aizawa looks back to the guy – and that’s when he realises that the question was directed at him.

Oh. Oh. This is… New? Unusual. Strange.

The thing is, Aizawa knows he’s not without appeal. He has good bone structure. As Nemuri frequently points out, he has abs. He even cleans up nice, on the rare occasions he decides to make an effort.

But – and this is the real kicker – Aizawa’s not trying to be attractive.

He doesn’t iron his clothes – doesn’t really see the point, when he never has the time, and the only people he ever sees are his students, who know to fear him regardless of his clothing, his co-workers, none of whom would be fooled by a pressed shirt, and the villains he arrests, who are generally far too pre-occupied trying to kill him to notice his outfit. On a similar note, he doesn’t own anything that’s not black or dark grey, because anything lighter tends to accumulate bloodstains which he doesn’t have the patience to try and remove.

His hair is long, because he finds cutting it more of a chore than simply pulling it into a scraggly bun when he needs it out of his face – and it’s full of split ends because he uses whichever shampoo is on sale whenever he gets the time to go to the store. He shaves when he remembers to, which is rarely, and it probably wouldn’t be an issue if his facial hair had gotten the memo that he was in fact 30 years old, and not a teenager delighted with patchy peach fuzz.

As Nemuri put it once: he looks just a little bit homeless.

Faced with objective, undeniable interest in him, Aizawa’s first thought is, This man is after something. Which, his rational brain points out, whilst paranoid and ridiculous, is probably at least partially true.

Just – the something this guy is after is probably sex. With Aizawa.

And not the drunk and slutty Aizawa who trawled gay clubs with Nemuri in his early 20s, desperate to prove himself and validate his sexuality – not even the well-groomed and professional Aizawa who’s been called into court to testify – no. This guy is into the scruffy, tired, post-patrol, post-five-AM-callout, post-teaching Aizawa who would rather be sleeping than drinking and looks like it.

Aizawa doesn’t really know what to do with that.

The guy is still staring at him, waiting for an answer. Aizawa opens his mouth, not even certain what he’s going to say when he starts. “I—”

“Get him something with coffee,” Nemuri cuts across him. Her shock has melted away to an almost predatory eagerness. “An – what’s the cocktail with espresso in it?”

“An espresso martini?” Harry says. He says the cocktail name in perfect, lilting English that has Hizashi tilting his head. Something in his accent then – something not American. Australian, most likely, but possibly British.

“That okay with you?”

The question is once more directed at Aizawa, who looks to Nemuri and Hizashi. There’s a palpable air of excitement between the two of them, now that Hot Foreigner’s target has been revealed to be Aizawa. They’re probably about two drinks away from stripping him naked and dropping him into the guy’s lap.

It surprises him when he realises that he’s actually considering it. Am I really going to do this? he asks himself.

The answer, when it comes, is deceptively simple. Yeah. Because I want to. Maybe this is the universe’s version of a birthday gift – or at the very least an apology. Good job on soldiering through those thirty years, Aizawa. Now go get dicked down like you deserve.

It’s the type of thing—

Never mind.

“You know what?” Aizawa says, standing. “How about I come with you and order for myself?”

Harry smiles.

As Aizawa follows him away from the table, he turns back to Nemuri and Hizashi. They’re practically vibrating in their seats, just waiting for Aizawa and Harry to leave their earshot, so they can explode into a thousand different conversations about what just happened.

Aizawa smirks at them, and turns back to Harry.

“I know it’s a cliché, but I have to ask,” Harry says, as they wait for the bartender to make his drink – which Aizawa had chosen blindly off the menu. He knows very little about cocktails. “Do you come here often?”

“No,” Aizawa says. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

“We have that much in common,” Harry says. “I’m only here because I’m staying at the hotel across the street. I haven’t even been drinking alcohol, though I think this is the most I’ve ever paid for a glass of orange juice.” He leans against the bar, somehow still graceful when he’s all but slouching. “So, do I get a name?”

“Aizawa,” Aizawa says simply. He’s not in the habit of giving out his full name – professional paranoia, if nothing else.

“Just Aizawa?” Harry asks.

“Just Harry?”

Harry laughs. It’s a nice sound. Easy. The laugh of a civilian. Aizawa doesn’t know many pro-heroes who can laugh like that. “Okay, okay, but you’ve got to give me a little more to work with than ‘Aizawa who doesn’t like drinking’.”

The bartender finishes making Aizawa’s drink and slides it over to him. Aizawa takes a sip. It’s sweet, with a sour kick – not his usual fare, but pretty good. “I never said I don’t like it,” he says. “Just that I don’t do it much.”

“There’s a difference?” Harry asks, leaning in towards him.

“I only drink socially,” Aizawa says. “And I’m very busy.”

“Aren’t we all?” Harry asks lightly. “What’s your particular brand of busy, then?”

“Teacher.”

“Troublesome students?”

If only he knew. “Saying that implies the existence of non-troublesome students,” Aizawa says, because it’s about the most neutral thing he can manage after the mess with Yamakawa.

Harry smiles again. “I want to refute you, but I wasn’t exactly a shining beacon of obedience in my school days.”

Aizawa takes another sip of his drink. “You seem to have turned out fine.”

“What’s adolescence without a little skulduggery and civil disobedience?”

“Easier on your teachers,” Aizawa says. “And you?”

“And me what?”

“What’s your brand of busy?”

Harry shrugs. “Depends who you ask,” he says. “If I tell you I’m a lazy, useless layabout, frittering away my youth and inherited wealth, will you walk away and never talk to me again?”

It’s said lightly, and with an air of self-deprecation, but Aizawa isn’t entirely convinced it’s true. Lazy, useless layabouts do not fly to Japan, turn up in bars wearing business casual, and decline the opportunity to drink. Aizawa would know. Half of his childhood friends turned out like that.

“Inherited wealth,” Aizawa says, instead of any of that, “usually comes with an accompanying burden of grief. So I’d say no, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

Harry blinks at that, his easy-going demeanour faltering slightly. “Thanks,” he says, after a pause.

It’s a little too personal for both of them. Aizawa drains the remainder of his cocktail, and puts his glass down at the bar. “Close your tab,” he tells Harry.

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“You have a hotel room across the street,” Aizawa says. “How about you show me it?”

Aizawa is awoken by a loud, persistent buzzing. There’s a pleasant kind of residual heat in his muscles, the kind he gets after a good workout, or a patrol that passed without any rough landings. An arm is slung over him, fingers curling loosely somewhere near his hipbone.

Aizawa closes his eyes, letting the memories of last night wash over him.

Harry. The bar. Harry. A fancy hotel room. Drinks from the mini fridge. A hand brushing his hair from his eyes. A wicked smile. Letting himself be pushed down onto the bed. Harry’s huffing laughter in his ear.

It was almost nice. Nicer than these things typically run.

The buzzing sound continues, coming from the floor across the room.

“You going to get that?” It comes from Aizawa’s side, raspy in a way that has Aizawa’s stomach coiling. He know who put that rasp in Harry’s voice. “Good morning, Aizawa-san.”

Aizawa turns his head, taking in Harry’s appearance. In the morning light, there’s something softer, less guarded, about Harry. Without the suit and easy charm, he looks younger.

“It’s a bit late for honorifics,” Aizawa grunts, rolling out of the bed. He picks up the first item of clothing he finds – Harry’s suit jacket – and puts it to the side.

“Eh,” Harry says, waving a lazy hand. “Formality and I only really have a passing acquaintance, even in English. Keigo baffles me.”

Aizawa finds his pants behind the television, and digs through his pockets until he finds his phone. It buzzes plaintively in his hand, screen alight with a call from an unknown number. Aizawa sighs and answers it.

“Is this Aizawa Shouta?” a woman asks.

“Speaking,” Aizawa says. He sees Harry mouthing ‘Shouta’ with a grin, and turns away from him.

“I’m calling from Mustafu General Hospital,” the woman says. “Last night a student of yours was brought in. Normally, we’d call the parents, but you were listed as her emergency contact.”

It’s standard UA procedure to list a hero student’s homeroom teacher as their emergency contact. In cases where a student has been injured during a work study, or targeted by a villain, it’s useful to have UA staff notified as soon as possible following the incident – and civilian parents don’t tend to have the forethought to call their child’s school teacher in times of crisis.

Truthfully, it could be any one of his students – past or present – but Aizawa has a bad feeling. “Name?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “Toukei Hayaka.”

Aizawa closes his eyes. Of course. Because it was too much to ask for one night off.

Toukei is one of his Class 1A hellions, a meek and mild-mannered girl who has spent her time at UA quietly keeping her head down, and as such has dodged the worst of his ire. Arguably, she has the most potential of her remaining classmates – she works hard, she cares about people, and, critically, she listens, which automatically places her a cut above the rest. Her one flaw has always been indecision. She second-guesses herself, and hesitates.

In hero work, hesitation can get you killed.

Aizawa really hopes it hasn’t killed her just yet.

Glancing at Harry, who isn’t even pretending to hide his eavesdropping, Aizawa refrains from asking for any further details. He’s not about to broadcast a teenager’s private medical information to his one night stand. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be down there soon. Is she awake?”

“No, sir.”

“Have someone available to brief me when I get there,” he says, and hangs up.

Aizawa shoves his feet into his pant legs, zipping up his fly, and hunting for his boots. Something dark appears in his field of view, and he flinches – before he realises it’s Harry, offering him his shirt.

Aizawa takes it. “Thanks.”

“Duty calls?” Harry asks, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Something like that,” Aizawa says.

“Hm,” Harry says. “Well, this does disrupt my plans somewhat. I’d planned to ply you with breakfast in bed and intelligent conversation—”

“I really have to go—”

“—before asking for your number.”

Aizawa pauses, halfway through lacing up his boots.

“So?” Harry asks. “Can I get your number?”

Aizawa opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I—”

“You didn’t,” Hizashi sounds far too appalled for how hungover he must be. “C’mon, Shouta, he was hot!”

“He was charming,” Aizawa corrects as he exits the cab, slapping his UA expenses card onto the reader without even glancing at the amount. “People like that don’t get told no often.”

“So, what, you decided to turn your morning after into a teachable moment?”

Aizawa rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t interested in furthering our relationship,” he says.

“That’s cold, Shouta.”

Aizawa sighs pressing his phone into his shoulder as he flashes his Hero ID at the receptionist of Mustafu General. “Toukei Hayaka.”

She nods, tapping away on the computer. A few moments, and she tells him the ward and bed number. Aizawa smiles at her and heads for the elevators.

“I told you last night,” he says, bringing the phone back up to his ear. “I don’t have time to date, not even conventionally attractive foreigners from—” He pauses, realising that he never actually managed to find out where, exactly, Harry was from.

“England,” Hizashi finishes for him. “He could have been after something casual.”

The elevator arrives before Aizawa can formulate a response. He boards, plugs in the floor number the receptionist gave him, and thinks over what, exactly he wants to say to Hizashi. Truthfully, Aizawa knew that Harry was likely only after a bit of fun – nothing serious, nothing involved. Inherited wealth or no, hotels like Harry’s aren’t usually affordable on a semi-permanent basis.

And that had made something in Aizawa curl. “I don’t do casual,” Aizawa says, after a moment.

“Your track record says you don’t do anything—” Hizashi starts, but at that point the elevator doors open, and Aizawa sighs.

“Hizashi, I’ll call you back.” He hangs up the call, dropping his phone into his jacket pocket, and walks over to the bench of seats directly opposite the elevator. Curled up, clothes soaked in blood is Gentoku Akira. 1A Hellion #2.

“So,” Aizawa says, and Gentoku flinches, eyes going wide at the sight of him. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, or do I have to guess?”

Gentoku’s fist is white where it’s clutching his bloody shirt. “Sensei, I—” he stammers. “Hayaka-chan, she—” He looks at his lap. “I couldn’t—I tried, but I couldn’t—”

Aizawa suppresses a sigh. He’s probably not going to get much out of him at this juncture, but it’s probably not a good idea to let Gentoku leave – not until Aizawa has figured out exactly what has happened. “Here,” Aizawa says, handing Gentoku his phone. It’s locked, and Aizawa’s not on call, so he’s unlikely to get any sensitive phone calls. “Look after this for me.”

Gentoku takes the phone and clutches it like a lifeline.

“If Present Mic calls, feel free to answer,” Aizawa says. “Anyone else, reject the call. I expect you to still be here when I get back. If you run off with my phone, I’m going to be less than pleased.”

Gentoku nods jerkily.

Time to turn the screws a little. “I’m trusting you with this, Gentoku.” The guilt trip isn’t the kindest thing Aizawa has ever done, but it does the trick. Gentoku looks rooted to the spot, hands clasping Aizawa’s phone like his life depends on it. Likely, he believes it does.

With one last glance back at Gentoku, Aizawa walks through the sliding glass doors into the hospital ward.

“A suicide attempt,” Aizawa echoes dully. He looks through the sliding glass doors to where Toukei lies, pale and motionless, wires and tubing surrounding her body.

“That’s what we think,” Dr Hanabe says, fiddling with her glasses. “She was brought in by a classmate with a stasis quirk – he probably saved her life, even if he neglected to call an ambulance. He carried her across the city, and then promptly collapsed from quirk exhaustion. We got him hooked up to an IV, but he checked out AMA.”

Aizawa closes his eyes. “Has she said anything?”

Dr Hanabe shakes her head. “She had a brief moment of consciousness a few hours ago, but she was intubated. Couldn’t talk. She showed signs of distress, so we sedated her. She’s been asleep since.”

This is… a huge mess, frankly. Aizawa wouldn’t be surprised if there was an internal investigation at UA following this. A suicide attempt on his watch – he’s supposed to be better than this. More aware.

“I know it’s a long shot,” Aizawa says, “but did she have anything with her when she was brought in? A note, or a keepsake, or even her phone?”

“If she had anything, her classmate likely took it with him when he left,” Dr Hanabe says.

“Have you called her parents?”

Dr Hanabe shakes her head. “She’s a UA student, and you’re her emergency contact. Protocol says we wait for your arrival – just in case this is wrapped up in something sensitive.”

“You can call them now,” Aizawa says. “I’m going to be in the area all day. Let me know if she wakes up. If she’s up to it, we need to have a talk.”

“Of course, Eraserhead,” Dr Hanabe says.

It’s times like this that remind Aizawa why he doesn’t drink alone.

When he exits the ward, he finds Gentoku in the same position he left him. He’s staring at Aizawa’s phone like it’s a puzzle he can’t figure out.

Aizawa holds out his hand for his phone. Gentoku blinks a few times, and then hands it over.

“Sensei,” Gentoku says, after a moment of hesitation. “Are you gay?”

Aizawa raises his eyebrows. “I take it Present Mic called,” he says.

“Yeah. He, uh. He had a lot to say about someone named Harry,” Gentoku says. “He shut up when he realised it was me. He’s—he was very nice.”

Aizawa sighs, dropping into the seat next to Gentoku. “I heard what happened from the doctor,” he says. “You saved Toukei’s life.”

“I should have called an ambulance.”

“Probably,” Aizawa agrees. “But she’s still alive. No-one died, this time, and you’ll do better next time.”

“I don’t want there to be a next time,” Gentoku says quietly.

“Neither do I,” Aizawa says. “But there always is.”

Gentoku sits in silence for a moment. “Am I in trouble?”

“What would you be in trouble for?” Aizawa asks.

“I—I froze Hayaka-chan using Stasis Touch,” Gentoku says.

“Yes, and?”

“I don’t have a heroics licence.”

Aizawa sighs. “You have a medical quirk, Gentoku,” he says.

“It’s—I guess, technically—”

“Toukei would have died if you didn’t freeze her,” Aizawa says. “You saved her life, using your quirk – precisely the kind of situation that the medical exemption subclause of the vigilante laws is designed to protect. You didn’t do anything illegal.”

“So, I’m not getting expelled?” Gentoku looks like he might cry.

Aizawa sighs again. “No, you’re not getting expelled. Forgoing the ambulance was stupid, and I’m not pleased that you checked out of hospital against medical advice, but none of those are fatal flaws. You still have potential. I’m still willing to teach you to be a hero.”

Gentoku looks down at his hands. They’re still covered in blood – much like his clothes. Aizawa wonders why no-one at the hospital thought to grab him some scrubs.

“What if—” he pauses. “What if—I’m not willing?”

Aizawa looks at him closely. “That’s your choice,” he says.

“It’s just—” Gentoku looks up at him, and meets his eyes properly for the first time since Aizawa got to the hospital. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he says. “When I found Hayaka-chan, it was—it was the worst day of her life. She—she’d never have wanted me to see that. And I realised that heroes—all you see are the worst days of people’s lives. And I don’t think I can do that and still—” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I can do it, sensei.”

Aizawa leans back in his chair, looking at the ceiling. Truthfully, he’s not built for this kind of thing. He’s always struggled with the softer side of heroics – learning how to save someone with your words, rather than your quirk. Hizashi and Nemuri find it effortless – and that, more than anything else, is why he went underground, instead of into the spotlight.

Sitting in this cheap hospital chair, in the midst of losing one student, having already lost one today, he feels his inadequacy keenly.

“Heroics isn’t for the faint of heart,” Aizawa says at length. “You’re right. You see a lot of bad things – many more than you manage to stop. But the driving force of every hero is believing in the inevitability of gradualness. You have to have faith that just by doing your bit, by chipping away at the problem, you can make some small difference. That you can make the world better one person at a time. Not everyone can do that. And if you can’t, it’s better you figure it out now, than ten years down the line when the stakes are much, much higher.”

He lets that sit with Gentoku for a while.

“Sensei,” Gentoku says suddenly. “Hayaka-chan, she had her phone with her when she—” he breaks off, turning his head. “I didn’t mean to look at it, but the messages kept coming in. They were—they weren’t good.”

Aizawa accepts the subject change gracefully. “You still have it?” he asks.

Gentoku nods. He pulls it out of the front pocket of his hoodie and hands it over.

“Gentoku,” Aizawa says. “Regardless of whether you choose to stay in 1A, I want you to know I will not allow the matter of Hayaka-chan’s suicide attempt to be brushed aside. There will be an investigation, and there will be consequences for those involved.” He puts a hand on Gentoku’s shoulder. “You can rest now, Gentoku. I’ll handle it from here.”

He stands up.

“Are you leaving?” Gentoku asks.

“We’re checking you back into the hospital,” Aizawa says, “and we’re calling your parents. Quirk exhaustion’s no joke.”

Selfish bitch.

Just kill yourself already. No one wants you here.

Everyone knows you’re just a villain waiting to happen. Do us all a favour and—

A polystyrene cup of coffee appears in Aizawa’s field of vision. He looks up, following the hand up to its owner. Hizashi smiles sadly at him.

Aizawa puts the phone down on Toukei’s bed. “Thanks,” he says, taking the coffee.

“Any time,” Hizashi says. He leans against the wall next to Aizawa. “Anything of note?” he asks, nodding at the phone.

“A diatribe of harassment and suicide baiting,” Aizawa answers. “All from private numbers, or anonymous accounts. I’ll hand the phone over to Nedzu tomorrow. He’ll have more of an idea what to do with it.”

“How’d you get her passcode, anyway?” Hizashi takes a sip of his own cup of coffee.

“Touch ID.”

“Ah.”

It’s quiet in Toukei’s small hospital room. It’s just them, Toukei, and the one-to-one nurse assigned to watch her.

“Did you notify the hospital about her quirk?” Hizashi asks.

“It was in her file,” Aizawa says. He nods at the tube lodged in Toukei’s mouth. “Hard to hold your breath when you’re intubated.”

Toukei’s quirk is equal parts understated and terrifying. It freezes perception of time for people within her field of vision, so long as she holds her breath. Aizawa had been eyeing her for a future in underground heroics, but there’d been some mumblings between her and Gentoku about forming a hero duo that Aizawa had neither encouraged nor discouraged.

“You going to keep her in the class?” Hizashi asks.

“I can’t,” Aizawa says. “Not after this.” He swirls the coffee in his cup, watching the harsh hospital light glint off it at different angles.

“She could make up the missed hours once she’s done with treatment.”

“That’s not it,” Aizawa says. He lowers the cup of coffee without drinking from it. “Pro-heroes put their life on the line daily. I’d have no guarantee that…”

“That she wasn’t just waiting for a socially acceptable way to die,” Hizashi finishes.

Aizawa nods. Maybe another teacher at UA would have a different answer. Maybe Kan, or Nemuri, or even Hizashi would know themselves capable of supporting a student like Toukei. But Aizawa knows himself, and he knows what he swore, when he took his job at UA. He would not be complicit in sending children out to die.

He sighs, and finally brings the cup of coffee up to his lips for a sip. Oh. Yikes. “This is awful.”

Hizashi grins. “Yeah, I know. I was waiting for you to drink it.”

Aizawa feels something warm bloom in his chest. In an hour’s time, Toukei’s parents will be here. In an hour’s time, Aizawa will haul his body out of this chair, and bow to ninety degrees, and apologise for his failures as a teacher. In an hour’s time, he will calmly answer any questions they might have, and he will accept their reaction, whatever it may be.

But he won’t be doing it alone.

The afternoon is melting away into night by the time Aizawa arrives on Anzu Street in the suburban edges of Mustafu. He’s changed out of his casual black clothes into the only suit he owns – black, a little rumpled, usually reserved for funerals and weddings – and forced a brush through his hair. The end result is not quite professional, but presentable at the very least.

He inhales, flexes his knuckles around the handle of his briefcase, and then knocks on house number 38.

There’s a pause – the sound of footsteps – and then, the door opens.

He grimly meets the eyes of Aomori Shizuka. 1A Hellion #3.

Her eyes go wide. “Aizawa-sensei?” she asks. “What are you doing here?”

“Are your parents here?” Aizawa asks.

“My mother is,” Aomori says. “What’s…”

“I need to speak to you both. Can I come in?”

Aomori’s mother is pretty – she has that much in common with her daughter – and apparently baffled by everything about him. She gives him a polite, if confused, greeting, and invites him to sit at their kitchen table.

“Do you want some tea, Aizawa-san?”

“No,” Aizawa says.

“Or some water, or juice – I know it’s a bit late for caffeine.”

“Aomori-san, please sit down.”

Aomori’s mother falters. She sits. Her daughter hovers in the doorway of the kitchen. “You too,” Aizawa tells her.

With some reluctance, she does.

“Aizawa-san,” Aomori’s mother says after a moment, “is something wrong?”

Aizawa reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a manilla folder. He slides it across the table to the two women. “These are copies of messages that your daughter sent to another student,” he says. “Last night, the student in question attempted to end their life.”

Aomori’s mother goes very, very pale. She flips open the folder, eyes scanning down the pages of messages. “This isn’t—” she looks up at him. “This isn’t my daughter’s user name. Or her number.”

“Some of the messages were sent using UA’s campus wi-fi,” Aizawa explains. “We require students to login to our internet services with their details. We were able to track these messages back to her digital profile.”

Aomori’s mother is quiet. “The other student – are they okay?”

“They’re alive,” Aizawa says. “I’m not authorised to share any more details of their condition.”

“Will there be charges?”

Aomori jolts. “Mom—”

“Be quiet,” her mother snaps. “Aizawa-san, do you know if they intend to pursue charges?”

“The family of the student do not intend to seek criminal or civil charges against your daughter,” Aizawa says. “For now, they are focused on ensuring their child’s wellbeing, and a court case would not be conducive to that. That may change, a few months down the line. I have not advised them either way.”

Aomori’s mother clasps a hand to her mouth. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“There will, however, be consequences for this,” Aizawa says. “Given the conduct of your daughter, Aomori-san, UA has decided to proceed with expulsion from our hero course. We will not, at this time, be extending the offer of a place in one of our other departments.

“This incident will be included in your daughter’s permanent record,” Aizawa continues. “We have also made the additional decision to personally inform future schools your daughter may choose to attend of her conduct.”

Aomori’s mother looks—ruined. “Aizawa-san, please—”

Aizawa stands. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Aizawa-san—” There’s a thud behind him. He turns back, just slightly, to the sight of Aomori’s mother on her knees on the kitchen floor. She sinks into a deep bow, her head colliding with the floor with an audible smack.

“I have taught my daughter poorly,” Aomori’s mother says. “Please preserve her future.”

“Mom,” Aomori says, tugging at her mother’s arm. “Mom, get up. Mom, please don’t do this.”

“I have taught my daughter poorly,” her mother says again, rising, and then lowering her head once more. “Please preserve her future.”

Aizawa sighs. He kneels down, and pulls Aomori’s mother up, out of dogeza, and to her feet. “Aomori-san,” he says gently, “as a teacher, I understand your desire to protect the future of your daughter. My first concern is always to protect the future of my students.”

He notices that she’s crying. “Then—”

“But as a pro-hero,” he says, “I have a duty to more than just your daughter. I have a duty to protect the future of the student currently lying in a hospital bed, following a suicide attempt. I have a duty to protect the future of the student who found them, and saved their life. I have a duty to protect the futures of other vulnerable students your daughter may encounter. I have been as lenient as I can be, given all these things.”

Aomori’s mother looks at him, and then collapses into sobs.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Aizawa says again. He turns and leaves.

It’s as he’s sliding out of the Aomori household’s slippers and back into his dress shoes, that Aomori the younger finally approaches him.

“Toukei-chan,” she says. “Is she really going to be okay?”

“I don’t know,” Aizawa answers honestly.

“I—I didn’t really want her dead.”

Aizawa looks at her. Even now, he doesn’t know why she did it. Doubtlessly, there’s some deeper reason – but he finds he doesn’t care. “For someone who didn’t want her dead,” he says, finally, standing up, “you were very convincing.”

“It’s a little impressive frankly,” Nemuri says. “Three students to none in 24 hours. You really are the picture of efficiency, Shouta.”

She reaches across their table and steals a piece of pork out of Aizawa’s bento. Aizawa, who has been subjected to this kind of vulgar behaviour for nearly fifteen years, lets it happen without a fight.

“What did Nedzu have to say?” Hizashi asks. He also dips his chopsticks into Aizawa’s lunch, but he’s after the red peppers.

“The investigation is still ongoing,” Aizawa says. “On the request of the auditing team, I’ve been temporarily suspended from teaching.” He pulls a few bamboo shoots out of Nemuri’s own lunch – fair is fair.

“Did he give you a prognosis?” Nemuri asks.

“He didn’t seem to think I had anything to worry about,” Aizawa says, “but it might take a couple of months. The team wants to re-examine my history of expulsions.”

Hizashi snorts. “A couple of months might be understating it in that case,” he says.

Aizawa shrugs. There’d been a little more to it when Nedzu went over it – some concern from the internal panel that his ‘trigger-happy expulsion policy’ (a direct quote) might have contributed to a toxic classroom environment – but Aizawa, much like Nedzu, isn’t worried about it. He follows UA policy to the letter, and he always strives to be fair – if not forgiving.

“You going to pick up a few more shifts as Eraserhead, then?” Nemuri asks. “Anyone else, I’d think vacation, but I know you’re congenitally incapable of downtime.”

Aizawa ignores the jab at his – non-existent – work-life balance. “I’ve been requested on a case,” he says. “International quirk trafficking. They want me full-time on the investigation team. I was going to turn it down, but it’s apparently a big deal to have been asked. It’s a joint task-force with foreign heroes.”

Hizashi wrinkles his nose. “Sounds like a bureaucratic nightmare,” he says. “Those joint efforts always end up tangled in red tape.”

That had largely been Aizawa’s perspective when he was first approached, a month ago. At the time, he still had half a class left – and they were working hard to make up for their deficit in numbers with pure stupidity – and it had been easy to tell the investigators he had too much on his plate. Now, Aizawa’s starting to feel that red tape might be a fair price for something to do.

“Don’t be so cynical,” Nemuri says, swatting Hizashi. “It sounds like a good opportunity.”

Aizawa shrugs. “We’ll see.”

The briefing room is fairly standard as these things go. Pale walls, rough carpet, tables arranged in rows with chairs pointing at a large screen. Aizawa is neither early nor late, but the room is only half-filled. He recognises a few underground heroes, and raises his eyebrows when he spots Hawks, off to the side, chatting with Abyssal, an underground hero who started out as a vigilante.

“A pretty good turnout, all things considered,” comes a voice from Aizawa’s left.

Aizawa turns. “Detective,” he nods.

“It’s been a while,” Tsukauchi says. He looks much the same as he had when they first met, all those years ago: like a salaryman who stumbled into a police precinct by mistake and stayed out of some sort of masochistic civil obligation. It’s an impression that Tsukauchi never quite manages to step out of – even when he’s competently sweeping rooms in full riot gear, he still looks a little like an accountant having a very dull day. “UA treating you well?”

Aizawa shrugs. “Can’t complain.”

“It’s good to have you onboard,” Tsukauchi says. “We’ve had issues getting heroes involved, even with the foreign cooperation angle.”

Aizawa privately thinks that Tsukauchi’s sales pitch must need some work if it relies entirely on the universal appeal of bureaucratic nonsense. “Joint ventures like this are rare.”

Tsukauchi smiles tiredly. “Hopefully a little less so, once we’re done here,” he says. “We’ve had some success cooperating with America, thanks to All Might, but this is one of the first times we’ve ever worked this closely with the British. It’s a big deal, even if the case is a little—”

“Okay, everyone,” comes a voice from the front. “Let’s take our seats.”

There’s a flurry of movement as everyone filters into chairs. “We’ll talk later,” Tsukauchi says quietly, before he shuffles across the room to a larger group of police officers – his team, most likely. Aizawa simply pulls out the chair closest to him and drops into it.

As more people sit down, the owner of the voice becomes visible. She’s plain-faced, with dark blue hair that’s pinned in a tight bun behind her head, and dressed in a navy pantsuit the exact same shade as her hair. She has an ID badge pinned to her lapel, but Aizawa can’t make out much more of it than the HPSC logo superimposed over it as a watermark.

“Good morning,” she says. “I’m Tanaka Mayumi, the lead investigator on this case. I work for the police, but I also hold a hero licence, hero name Vector. Potter-san, do you want to say anything?”

“Sure.”

Aizawa turns to the source of the voice, and feels his mind go blank. ‘Potter-san’ unfolds his body from where he’s been leaning against the wall, all long limbs and lithe grace. Aizawa watches it happen like he’s someone else, somewhere else. Suit and tie. Messy black hair. Vivid green eyes.

“I’m sure by now, you’ve heard that this is a cooperative investigation between Japan and the UK’s hero forces,” Harry says, with that same easy charm. “I represent the UK side of that equation. I’m Harry Potter, codename Fractal, but you can call me whatever combination of those names makes you most comfortable. I know I look young, but I have over a decade of experience in villain apprehension. I look forward to working with you all. For now, I’m in your care.”

He bows.

There’s some polite applause, but Aizawa can’t move. Harry rises out of his bow, and as he brings his head back up, his eyes catch.

Aizawa knows he’s been made.

Harry’s face twitches a little, eyes going wide with shock, and then—

He meets Aizawa’s eye and smiles.

Fuck.

[tbc??? maybe]

#kaputt wip weds #kaputt writes stuff #bnha fic #harry potter x bnha crossover #harry potter fic #this fic brought to you by: the greys anatomy one night stand trope #suicide mention cw #aizawa's actually my favourite bnha character #i know we're two for two on the bnha fic from this week and last week #i'll pick something else next week lol #you ever have a character that you like writing because they get to be inappropriate in a way you never permit yourself?#that was me writing nemuri she's so much fun #fic: one night stand au

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actnatural-ly · 2 years

Note

Is it ok if I ask again? How about the word bite? Thank you!

of course! i love this game, and you <3

i guess i don't have enough sexy biting in this fic so maybe i'll fix that.

She’s laying on her belly with a pillow under her arms, eating sour worms, trying to bite exactly on the line where the color changes from yellow to red, orange to green, showing off her variable success to Fez who seems bemused at best.

here's a bonus from good girls au to fill that need, someday i swear i will finish this chapter and post:

Then he’s lifting her up and onto the counter, and she’s gasping as he gently bites down on her collarbone.

send me a word, if it’s in my wip document I’ll answer your ask with the sentence that it appears in.

#thank you boo #two night stand au #ask game asks

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adreamfromnevermore · 29 days

Text

AU Where the Justice League forms as usual except for one slight difference where Bruce just so happens to have been the one superheroing for the longest. (Excluding Diana, who got up to it in World War 1 and then mostly didn't while she learned about Man's World)

Bruce helps form the Justice League, ignoring all of the comments as they come to the sudden realization that Gotham's baby cryptid story is actually a man in a very intimidating armored suit who can and will break your arm if you cause problems for him. They are unaware that this is not the first team he's led, and actually he's used to teams full of mostly teenagers who also happen to be his children. This should be easier, this team is primarily adults.

He realizes rapidly that he doesn't understand these people.

His kids take bonding activities to mean learning a dozen different ways to break someones leg. That doesn't fly with these people. And that is most of Bruce's ideas, hell when he was a kid Alfred took every opportunity to get him out of his room and mostly that was with the agreement that Alfred would teach him how to defend himself. He's come by it honestly.

This team is not easier. They have more drama than when his house was actually full of kids. It's insane. He doesn't know what to do with it, usually he just sent the kids to their rooms or grounded them from patrol. That doesn't work here.

He comes to a strange crossroads. That falls apart when he forgets who he's working with and snaps at Hal with a full room of heroes that the next person to throw a punch or an insult without a reason too will be sparring with him.

A long standing rule in the batcave that worked two fold to prevent infighting between the kids and too ensure that they were well and truly trained.

It works wonders. No one says a word out of line for the rest of the debrief. Bruce becomes the unofficial mediator of the league over Clark because anytime he walked in on a fight it suddenly became 10 times more civil out of sheer terror of what he'd do to them in a sparring match.

Eventually they actually meet his kids. Well, one kid.

Half way through a mission (one of the rare ones in Gotham) the Bat comes to a complete stop at the edge of an alley. Every single league member on the team comes to a stop behind him. Slowly from the shadows of the alley a man in a red helmet stalks out to greet them.

"You don't call, you don't write"

"Red Hood."

"Don't Red Hood me! We've been worried sick!"

"I was at the cave last night."

"You didn't answer my texts B. You always answer my texts."

Somehow it ends with big and scary following them through the rest of the mission with a running commentary of how much Bats has let him down in his failure to respond in a timely manner to a text send less than an hour before he ran into them in the alley. It only ends when Red Robin shows up.

And even then it only ends because Hood can't keep himself from throwing a punch and Bruce has to snap at him that if he throws another one they're sparring when they get home.

And by god is Jason giving up the chance to punch his brothers.

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luveline · 6 months

Text

𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 | 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐮𝐬 𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧

remus’ touch after a long night prompts a tired confession (and a slew of clumsy kisses).

requested here. modern au. fem!reader, 3.6k.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“I'm going to bed,” Sirius mumbles, scratching at his eyes as he gets up. “Don't let her sleep in her makeup. She'll get an eye infection.”

Your eyes are getting sore, but it's hardly Remus' responsibility to make sure you wash your face tonight, nor Sirius’ to remind you. “I'm a big girl.”

Sirius sends you a smile, ignoring your chiding. “Goodnight, my loves,” he says, waving you both away as he heads out of the living room and up the stairs.

“Notice how he didn't do his dishes?” Remus asks, shifting beside you.

He's sitting as he tends to, slouched in a way that can't be good for his back in the long run but is clearly comfortable short term. His chin is on his chest, his legs kicked out under the coffee table, which is decorated by the casualties of the night. Sirius’ dinner plate, Remus’ mug, James’ rarely used handheld console. He'd been playing a cutesy farming sim before he said goodnight an hour ago. Sirius stayed to mess with James’ crops and eat a late supper. You're surprised it took him as long as it did to admit defeat.

“What time is it?” you ask.

You're laying on the sofa with your socked feet tucked behind Remus’ back, of which he's yet to complain. His elbow brushes your shin as he brings up his arm. “Nearly one in the morning, now,” he reads from his watch. “Let's go to bed too, yeah?”

“I don't want to.” You turn your face into the pillow behind your neck.

“Me neither,” Remus says, dropping his hand on your knee.

You watch another twenty minutes of TV together failing to summon the energy to stand, but the want for a glass of water grows too big. Your head throbs as you get up, offering your hands to the pretzel that is your favourite housemate.

Remus turns off the TV and lights. You lock the front door. He carries the dirty dishes to the kitchen and you fill up two glasses of water to take with you. It's all so… regular. A routine you share nearly every night, only to climb into your two separate beds.

He ushers you out of the kitchen and down the hallway with his hand behind your shoulders, his touch a phantom as you ascend the stairs.

You're silent beside the creak of the old wood, too tired to speak. Remus is similarly quiet, though he does whisper, “Watch,” when you nearly kick the box of Halloween decorations waiting to be taken up into the attic.

You leave your water on the towel box in the alcove and dance around one another in the bathroom. Sirius’ toothbrush lays on the sink still wet, but otherwise there's no signs of him.

You're feeling very, very tired. You hadn't realised how bad it was until you're putting your toothbrush in your mouth, leant up against the window sill, a slot of cold air seeping in from the dark outside. Your eyes shutter closed. The scrubbing sound of Remus brushing his teeth is almost lulling.

He swills out his mouth and washes his brush. “Here,” he says gently. You open your eyes just enough to see him beckoning you forward. “Dove, your necklace.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You turn your back to him.

His fingers are damp and cool on your skin as he unclasps your necklace. He often takes it off for you. It's one of the things you'll miss when you guys aren't living together anymore, the slow meander to his bedroom, the wood of his door jam on your cheek as you lean against it and give him a hopeful smile. Sometimes he's awake, reading a novel on his side in bed or listening to music at his desk, other times he's sleeping. On those occasions you spend too long lingering, stolen seconds spent staring at the rise and fall of his shoulder.

“Thank you,” you say as he puts your necklace in the jewellery dish. It comes out missing vowels, lips stuck together as though honeyed.

You spit pathetically in the sink, rinse your brush, and consider sitting down. “I'm tired,” you whine, wiping your lips.

“I know,” Remus says, giving you a fond nudge. “Just wash your face and get on with it.”

“You first. I'm going to nap standing up for a bit.”

He puts as much of his hair behind his ears as he can and turns on the tap. This is just as familiar as brushing your teeth together. It's not quite as bad as watching James Perfect Skin Potter wash his face with bar soap, but you have to admit that Remus’ eight-nine pence face soap hurts your heart. He washes it off, pats his face dry, and takes the small bottle of bio oil out of the medicine cabinet to pipette onto his pinky finger. “Wash your face,” he says, smoothing the oil into his scars one by one.

You shake your head. “M'gonna do it in the morning.”

“That's why your eye was swollen a few weeks ago. You know yourself you won't.”

“I might,” you say, letting out a big breath as you rub your sore eyes even sorer, “I'm too tired.”

“Can you sit up, at least?”

“No.” Remus takes you by the shoulders and forces you to sit on the edge of the bath. “Aggressive?”

“Don't fall in,” he says, cupping your cheek briefly as if to make sure you've heard.

You are hearing him, seeing him, even feeling the immensity of his touch, but you're tired, and you know you can let yourself relax completely with him. You'd be the same with James or Sirius, though neither of them could have your head feeling so dizzyingly light from a single touch as Remus can. You probably wouldn't let them persuade you into this, either, tilting your head back to watch through blurry vision as Remus soaks a cotton round in your facial oil.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

“Was that a dracula impression?”

“I command you.”

You close your eyes. The queasy feeling of oil drags against your lids as Remus wipes them, loosening the stiff tubes of mascara that coat your lashes. It's not a short process because he's very, very gentle, holding your face delicately as though you're a flower in need of coddling, and him the sun. It's the only metaphor that would ever make sense for you and Remus; he's like the sun even if it goes against every statement he's ever made about himself, or anyone else has, for that matter. People think he's a moody, sarcastic boy, and he is, but he's also a vestibule of sweetness, softness, and warmth. The kind of heat you'd only ever feel kissing your skin under the summer sun. But more than that, he's the relief that follows when the clouds come out.

And his hands are all over you. Your head gets heavier by the minute, eased into dozing by his touch and quiet tones. “We're almost done. I'm gonna have to carry you to bed at this rate.”

“I'm going to miss this so much one day,” you say. It's easier to admit when you're not looking at him.

Remus turns on the tap. Hot water runs, you can tell by the sound as strange as it seems, and he wrings the dirtied cotton round before replacing it with a new one. He wets it, bringing it just that touch too hot to your cheeks to wipe you down. “What are you going to miss, dove?”

“Us. You. I'm going to miss you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, but one day I will be. James will finally have had enough of us and I'll,” —you swallow around nothing as a rivulet of water runs down your cheek, a cooling tear from the cotton round— “have to move out and we'll never see each other anymore.”

“Don't be silly, you're not going anywhere.”

“It's not about the going,” you murmur, peeling your eyes open tentatively as his dabbing follows down your cheek to your neck. “I miss you sometimes and we still live together. I can't imagine how much I'll miss you…”

Remus puts the cotton round aside. He takes your face into his hand, and suddenly his touch feels raw, nothing like it had moments ago. Because Remus would wash your makeup off for you any day of the week, but his looking at you like this, so unshielded and unabashed, is a rarity.

“You won't have to miss me. Even if we did move away from each other, I wouldn't let it be that far.”

“Friends move away all the time. We don't speak to half the people we knew at school.”

“I only really knew you and the boys,” he says. It isn't true but it is at the same time. Together, you'd been a happy lot, but your current housemates are the ones you'd known. “And see? We're still together.”

“But for how long?” you ask.

Remus brings his second hand, holding your face entirely. He covers your cheeks, index fingers sliding slowly under your ears. He's exceedingly gentle, and his eyes are soft. He holds you like you're made of glass, like you could break under a hint of pressure. Slowly, he tilts his head to the side as though he might lean in for a kiss. Maybe he doesn't know he's doing it, but Remus is a very purposeful soul. He'd do much worse to wind you up if you wanted him to.

You sober up. It's like he has caffeine in his palms.

“You want to go where I'm going, is that it?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say, barely say, voice shame-facedly weak. Is he asking what you think he is?

“Do you want to start now?”

You breathe out as one of his hands shifts down your jaw. “Yeah, I… I want to start now.”

“Okay, dove. Then close your eyes again.”

You hold his gaze for a second that feels infinitely long and short at once, your heart racing. Clarity has returned, a thrust into wakefulness even if your fatigue ties knots around your ankles. You look at him in his late night glory, his scars shining a pink-white like the petals of a young peony flower, and you know it's happening now.

You shut your eyes.

He steps closer, though the bath you're perched on is low, and he has to bend a considerable amount to reach you. The weight of his hands on you doesn't change, not even as he grows near enough to sense the heat of his breath against your lips. It's his nose that makes first contact as it slides against yours, and then his forehead presses down into you, his lips noticeably absent. Each contiguity between you thrums.

A pit opens in your chest, cleaved by his voice as he says, “I'm going to kiss you, okay? S'that what you want?”

Your hands don't feel like your own. Under the sickening nervousness twining its way through your ribs, you're excited. You're smiling, your voice shaped by it. “Yeah. It's what I want,” you say.

“Good. It's what I've wanted for a while–” while pressed into your lips, all shaken up by an emotion you've never heard him speak with. He kisses you and you're frozen, and he waits and waits and pulls away to push back in. You remember yourself then, responding to his wading with some pressure of your own. Sparked back to life.

It's so strange. It doesn't feel real. Remus Lupin kisses you heated and hard for just long enough to feel it in your teeth before he pulls away. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his fingertip running down your cheek, following that same path as your earlier rivulet. To think he saw it, really saw it, locked it away to remember and trace into your skin now… maybe he's seen much more of you than you realised all along.

“Will you do it again?” you say under your breath.

Remus must hear the thread of insecurity running through your question; you're afraid he'll say no, but he strokes your cheek again with that unfathomable softness and says, “Yeah, dove, of course I will.”

“Do you want to?”

And that's less insecurity and more selfishness, wanting the confession. He hears that, too.

“I want to kiss you more than I've ever wanted anything,” he says, eye to eye with you, your head tipped up and your heart in your throat, twitching and fizzling like a firecracker. “Yeah? And all that missing me you've been doing? All your worrying? You don't need to do that. You've never needed to do that–”

“I just never thought you liked me like that.” You and Remus aren't new to one another. “You've been the same since the day we met.”

Remus’ hands get a little more solid where he's holding you. “Dove. Dove, are you mad?”

“Remus–”

“Maybe I have been the same, but did you really not notice that I–” He squeezes your cheeks playfully, almost in disbelief. “If you want me, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere without you. You're not going anywhere without me.”

“So you like me?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyebrows pinched together at the starts. “Of course I do.” He laughs. “That's what I'm trying to tell you.”

“Oh,” you say, lifting your head.

Remus shuts his eyes a millisecond before you shut your own and kisses you again. The second round is softer, his smile to yours and struggling to find purchase. His breath huffs out in a minty laugh, shockwaves through your mouth.

“Stop laughing,” he breathes, his hands falling to your neck, your shoulders.

“You first.”

Your lips part under his, a split-second of contact. He yanks away before things can get too heavy, and you're glad he does, but for a moment you feel the loss like a wave of vertigo.

“Sorry, I'm going too fast, and you're tired.” His touch is ticklish behind your shoulder.

“It's okay. Maybe it is a bit fast, but I'm not tired anymore,” you confess.

Remus hugs you, cementing every feeling for him you have as he wraps his arms around you from over your shoulders, a deft hand cupped behind your neck. “That's not true. I can feel your back shaking. Let's go to bed.”

“After that?”

“What, are you worried it won't have happened in the morning?” he asks genuinely.

You go limp in his arms as he takes your weight against his chest. Not worried, but rather not sure you can be away from him so soon. You ask him in a whisper if you can come and sit with him, not to sleep with him, not to do anything else, and he whispers back, Anything you want. You both entertain the lie that you won't fall asleep in his bed.

—

Remus tenses as he hears the scuffling sounds of movement downstairs. It takes a train of thought awakening for him to realise it's only James, rising early as usual to put on a load of washing and prepare bits for lunch before he goes off for training. He can see him in his mind's eye if he tries, his friend dressed in the red and white rugby uniform, green socks up over his calves and white cleats scrubbed pristine for another ruck in the mud.

Remus’ relaxes, stretching out in bed until his hand bumps into something rigid.

He flinches.

You're laying on the mattress beside him, your head slipped off of the pillows and your arm tucked beneath you. It doesn't look comfortable, and if it were any other morning he'd pull it straight for you, but.

I kissed you, he thinks to himself, as though talking to you. He turns away from you until his back clicks and alleviates the ache in his hips, though he has to settle eventually, back on his back, no way of ignoring you. He doesn't want to ignore you. The opposite —why are you so far away? Can he hold you?

What are the rules here?

Kissing… not dating… You're here in his bed, you'd asked to stay.

He takes your hand and pulls at your arm. Still sleeping, you mumble and move onto your back, releasing the pressure on your shoulder as he pulls you toward his chest. Your face is impassive, lax in sleep.

He should let you sleep.

“Dove,” he says, stroking up the length of your arm.

“Mm?” you hum.

“I need to ask you something.”

You twitch awake with a small cough. Your eyes are red with a lack of sleep as you open them, blinking, and he wishes stupidly that he could make it better. He makes a sympathetic sound for want of more to do.

“Why have you woken me up?” you ask, blinking at him. You gather that there's nothing urgent happening and push your face into his shoulder, practically nuzzling him. “It's Saturday.”

“I just need to ask you something.”

“So ask me,” you encourage through your sleepiness.

The washing machine whirs downstairs. It’s an old machine that you often joke is taking off into orbit during the final spin, loud as anything. He can barely hear your sluggish breathing underneath it, but he can't miss the catch in it after he asks, “Can I be your boyfriend?”

It's not the catch he's expecting. You laugh and readjust, wrapping your arms around him from the side and kissing the side of his neck clumsily. “Y'u asked me last night,” you say in a borderless run-on, sounding about as dopily in love as he's ever heard you.

He thinks about it. Yes, he did, after he'd kissed you many more times than he should've and curled up in bed with you, hands held loosely beneath the blankets. He remembers the question, the answer. The last kiss that followed, and you falling asleep beside him.

“I need a coffee,” he says, encouraging your head back so he can kiss your temple.

“No, you need to sleep more with me. And maybe kiss me again. If you want to.”

Sleeping isn't half as interesting as kissing you. He slots his nose against yours and languishes in the feeling of your lips, wondering if he's having a false start. He could still be dreaming. It would make sense.

The door clatters open with a curse. James stands in the doorway with a folded pile of Remus' washing from the radiators in his arms, an apology on his lips, “Sorry, mate, the door got away from– oh my god. Oh my god?”

Remus isn't an overly shy guy but he can't deal with this. “For fuck's sake,” he mutters, dropping his face into your shoulder. Your arm wraps under his neck, fingers splayed across his cheek.

“James–” you begin, resigned to your fate.

“This is flat-cest. This is the cardinal sin.”

“We don't live in a flat,” Remus says.

“That makes it worse. You can't even blame close quarters.” Remus peeks up to watch James in the doorway, still clinging to Remus’ washing, pure shock curdling his features. He shakes his head. “I'm telling Sirius.”

“Please don't!” you say.

You slump back into the pillows as James leaves anyways.

Remus hugs your soft abdomen. “Don't worry,” he says.

“I guess it's a good thing you've already asked me out,” you say.

“Why, what can they do?” Remus asks, wondering if he's allowed to put his face on your chest or if that's too forward. You rake a hand through his hair and encourage him forward, to his delight.

Frantic words. You and Remus loved up in bed despite it.

“I'm chucking them out!”

“James, they've been seeing for weeks. Can I go back to sleep?”

“What?!”

You grumble into his hair. “That's not even true… Does everyone know, then? That I liked you?”

Remus thinks of the shadow of you in the doorway, that sheepish smile you send his way before you ask him to unclasp your necklace before bed, or your face as he’d wiped the sooty stain of mascara from your cheek last night, half in love with him as you fell asleep in his palm.

“I don't think so, lovely,” he comforts. “Don't worry about it. We'll clear it up at lunch time. James isn't even mad, he's just sulking thinking we didn't tell him.”

“How could you not tell me?” James asks on cue, rounding the door again, arms ever tighter around the bundle of Remus’ clothes. He assumes it's being kept hostage. “I thought we were best mates.”

“James,” you say softly, all sympathy.

Remus likes the feeling of your voice under his ear, and your slightly too-quick heartbeat. He could fall asleep here and now if it weren't for the company.

“It's new,” you're saying, softness melded to a sweet pride. “Okay? I've barely told Remus how I feel, of course I was going to tell you. We were only talking about it last night. It really hasn't been weeks, Sirius is a stirrer.”

Remus pulls the covers up over your heads and climbs on top of you in a rush, demanding that the both of you be left alone, to James’ great annoyance but your delight, your laughter loud in the shell of his ear. Your chest shakes with it beneath him.

A great wad of fabric hits him in the legs. “Twats,” James says, seemingly stalking off.

Your whisper sends shivers down his spine. “We're alone again. Do you have anything else to ask me while you're too tired to remember?” you tease.

There's not a chance in the world that Remus would ever forget this.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed, it's been a little bit since I wrote for remus like this so I was actually a bit nervous and I hope it's okay :D <3

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #marauders era #remus x reader #remus x you #marauders #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin blurb #marauders x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #the marauders

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happy10thousandyears · 11 months

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literally exhausted my pride month quota of gay sex in a night poipiku for 2nd pic

#if u see it can u give it a reaction😭😭😭😭😭😭 in the poi #felt like standing in the street holding out a giant yuri sign and passerby r eyeing me weirdly #my art #bs #suggestive #TWO poipois in one night #😈au #🔥

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taexoxosgf · 3 months

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NA JAEMIN FIC REC LIST

s, smut | f, fluff | a, angst

This list is a compilation of some of my fave jaemin ff <3 a lot were on my old recs so feel free to reread!

after you [ fuckboy!jaemin x fem!reader ] s,f,a

cat & mouse [ na jaemin x jaehyun's sister!reader ] s,f

cherry girl! [ twitch streamer!jaemin x fem!reader ] s,f

talk to my skin [ friends with benefits au ] s

unforgettable [ bassist!jaemin x fem!reader ] s,a

by the window [ voyeurism, neighbor au ] s

strawberry cough , (pt.2) sour tangie [ plug!jaemin x fem!reader] s,f,a

on the rebound [ shooting guard!jaemin x fem!reader, college au] s,f,a

subtle [ established relationship, summer vacation au ] s,f

besties (gone sexual) [ best friends to lovers ] s,f,a

upon your invitation [friend!jaemin x fem!reader, ft. nct dream, vacation au ] s,f

rock me [ fuckboy!jaemin x hairstylist!reader ] s,f,a

backseat chronicles [ streetracer!jaemin x fem!reader ] s,f,a

persimmon problems [ fratboy!jaemin x fem!reader ] f,a

veni, vidi, vici [ popular!jaemin x mark's sister!reader ] s,f

blur. [ exboyfriend's bestfriend!jaemin x fem!reader ] s

two nights, one you [fuckboy!jaemin, one night stand au] s,f

the walls are thin [ roommate!jaemin x fem!reader x roommate!jeno ] s

hush. [jaemin,haechan, jeno x fem!reader ] s

that '90's show [actor!jaemin x pa fem!reader ] s,f,a

pretty girl. [ alpha!jaemin x fem!reader ] s,f

thin walls. [ roommate!jaemin x fem!reader ] s

cookie jar [ stepbrother!jaemin x fem!reader x stepbrother!jeno ] s

one of a kind [strangers to lovers au ] s,f,a

go there with you [ roommate!jaemin x fem!reader ] s

34+35 [ established relationship ] s

parents are home [ secret freak!jaemin ? ] s

memories bring back you [ ex!jaemin x fem!reader ] s

into you [ friends to lovers au ] s,f

what she doesn't know [ mom's boyfriend!jaemin x fem!reader] s

worth it. [ first sleepover au ] s,f

quiet down [ established relationship, semi-exhibitionism ] s

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allfearstofallto · 2 months

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Also wanting to write a yandere historical au!! Like so bad!! Like imagine...

[Part 2] [Part 3]

Spoiled Prince! Scaramouche who gets whatever he desires as the next in line for the throne. He needlessly torments you, his favorite maid to pick with. He knows that you can't run away, not while you're so poor and desperate. You're at his mercy, his every beck and call until you decide that you'd rather live on the rat infested streets than in his palace any longer. But you quickly begin to notice that the streets are littered with more than rodents, when you are made aware that Scaramouche has sicked the palace guards on you. Dragged back to the mansion, where he waits for you with a scowl. How dare you think you can run away from him?

Hero of the Nation, Knight! Childe who was already popular with the ladies for his good looks long before he slayed the dragon tormenting the kingdom, but now he was bombarded with admiration. Yet he still chases you, the baroness with what you and others assume is nothing special to your family's name. You ignore his constant bombardments of gifts and love letters thinking them to be jokes at your expense. Why would he want you, when the princess, the jewel of the city, has asked for his hand three times over? He practically goes mad with rage when he finds out you're arranged to be married to someone else. You accept being betrothed to another, yet you won't take him?

Arranged Husband! Diluc who you're weary of. Your father assured you that he was the most suitable marriage candidate for your family that was running low on funds, and he always seemed disinterested, almost scared of you. You're wed to him a mere three months after meeting him and with only two letters exchanged between the two of you. Moved into an unfamiliar palace, you try to wander the halls as normal, while avoiding your also unwilling husband. Until you stumble upon a room with a door slightly ajar. Your husband stands in it, surrounded by portraits of you on the wall that you never posed for, underwear and garments that had gone missing, and your bed linens from the night before. It begs the question, who did you marry?

I'm so sorry...I've been reading A LOT of reincarnated as a villainess manwhas...

#maiistalking<3 #genshin #yandere genshin #genshin x reader #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere x you #genshin impact #yandere scaramouche x reader #yandere childe x reader #yandere diluc x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere childe #yandere diluc #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons

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mysicklove · 6 months

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summary: Sukuna might not be the best older brother, but at least Yuuji doesnt seem to mind.

wc: 1.6k

a/n: wrote this instead of kinktober. oopsies. i was feeling soft, ok? leave me alone.

big brother au masterlist

Two little fists bang at the door and you find yourself awoken from your sleep. In your half-sleep state, you manage to hear the desperate rattling of a door, and you furrow your eyebrows. Then, a sniffle, and a broken sob. “Brotherrrrr!”

“No Yuuji!” Sukunas voice echoes in your shared room, and at this, you seem to jump awake. Sukuna, turns his stare from the door back to you, and his lips curl upward. “You awake? C’mon lets go for round two. Been waiting hours.”

You pull yourself up, ignoring the suggestive kisses that your lover places down your neck. Another cry is let out from behind the door, and more pounding. “I-I'll be a good boy! Please, please, please Kuna!”

Sukuna growls into your neck, pulling away and yelling back a, “Yuuji, I told you it's adult time. Go watch your cartoons before you piss me off!”

A whined, “Noooooooo!” Is let out, and Yuuji by now must be sobbing, clawing at the door like some sort of puppy.

You turn to Sukuna, and his cocky smile returns, leaning forward to press more kisses along your cheek. You pull away, a scowl on your face, and he groans knowing what's to come. “Aw cmon, don't be mad. You promised me we would go again. ‘ts not my fault the brat is a clinger, Uraume is supposed to be watching him.”

You pull the sheets away from your body and Sukuna makes a noise of complaint. “Hand me your shirt,” You demand, pulling on your underwear as quickly as possible. He rolls his eyes at your tone, but pulls the cloth over his head and throws it to you. You are quick to put it on, satisfied when it comes just above your knees.

Then you pad over to the door, while Sukuna sighs, and pinches his brows. He isn't getting lucky for nights to come, you've already decided.

When you open it, you find Sukunas four year old brother standing with his bunny stuffed animal, and tears streaming down his face. When he finally processes that its you, he immediately drops the bunny, and stumbles over to you as quickly as he can, the cries coming louder. His arms shoot up and he is warbling a, “Up! Up!”

You are quick to abide by his request, picking him up and pressing the boys body to yours, and shushing him when he sobs into your neck. Your hands run through the near identical pink hair, and you mumble out a, “I know, I know. Sukuna is so mean. Its okay. Shhhh, don't cry.”

The boy fails to listen, and you don't blame him. He must have been really hurt by his brother blatantly ignoring him. You glare at your lover as you make your way back toward the bed. He holds his hands up sheepishly, and you roll your eyes. You crawl back into bed, resting your back on the headboard, while the four year old straddles your lap, crying into Sukunas shirt.

“You coddle him too much,” The pink haired man complains, glancing at his brother who was staining his shirt.

You scoff at him, continuing to run your fingers through the boys hair as he finally begins to calm down from his wish being granted. “So you were going to let him just cry out there?”

“It's what our parents did to me, and I turned out just fine.” You bite back a frown, but place a comforting hand on his own. His eyes flicker to you, and he nods, not saying anything. You are glad their parents are gone, and he is too. Although being left to raise his brother was more tedious than he thought, to Sukuna at least.

The last of Yuuji's tears fall, and you wipe them away with a small smile. The boy leans into your hand, loving every second of physical touch. He always seemed to want to be touching one of the two of you, whether it by means of having you carry him, or him very tentatively asking his brother to hold his hand. In those moments, Yuujis smile seems to be the brightest.

The puffy eyed kid turns to Sukuna, while continously holding onto your arm so that you don't stop your petting. “Brother is so mean!” Yuuji complains in a high voice, but he doesnt sound upset, only mimicking what you told him earlier. In fact, a smile was already beginning to creep on the boys face, already forgetting about the situation.

A playful finger jabs into the boys chest, and the boy squeals with delight. “Wouldn't be mean if you weren't such a brat.”

Yuuji shakes his head, a massive grin plastered to his face. “Nuh-uh! You are brat!”

Sukuna raises his eyebrows and you chuckle, nodding at the boy with approval. “Tell me about it,” You encourage, and the boy in turn giggles, liking that you took to his side.

The older of the two holds a predatory smile, and you raise your eyebrows. “You wanna say that again, kid?”

Yuuji doesnt understand threats, nor does he know that brat is considered an insult. “Brother Kuna is brat! Like me!”

Sukuna’s hands dart out to your lap, and make their way to Yuujis sides, quickly running his fingers over the skin. The boy squeals again, and then begins to frantically giggle at the ticklish feeling. Your lover's hands are tortuous on the boy, and in turn Yuuji's laugh begins to echo in the room, as he tries to squirm away. “No! Kuna! No!” He squeals, tiny fingers clawing into you as he tries to seek help from you.

His brother holds a small smile too, obviously trying to hold the cold front, but can't when hearing the infectious laugh. Eventually, when Yuuji seems to be loosing airflow from all his laughing, you defend the boy, batting away your lovers hands from his small body. Yuuji comes collapsing into your abdomen, trying to catch his breath, but smiling non the less. You stare fondly at him.

Sukuna, on the other hand, manages to find a paper folded in Yuujis pocket. He glances at the kid, who is already watching him with pure adoration. The kid had a huge problem of idolizing his older brother, even after being tortured by tickling and left outside the room.

Yuuji points to the paper. “Gift!”

“Did you draw us something?” You question, tapping on Yuujis nose. He smiles and nods, squirming in excitement for you guys to see.

Your lover unfolds the paper, glancing at you with a bored expression. You read right through him though. He is curious to see what his brother made, you just know it. Yuuji's hands grips onto your shirt.

Inside is three stick figures, obviously drawn by a young child. Some of the heads are too big, and they are drawn with purple crayon, sloppy, but made with love. There is a little figure in the middle, coated with pink hair, and holding onto two taller peoples hands. On his left side is a carbon copy of the little one, also with pink hair, but frowning. On his right, was the color of your hair made sloppily with marker, and a smile big enough to match Yuujis. Cute.

“That ones me!” Yuuji exclaims, pointing to the little figure in the middle.

“I couldn't tell,” Sukuna says very much sarcastically. Yuuji doesnt understand it, so he beams with pride, excited at the idea of possibly being compared to his brother that he idolizes so.

The boy giggles, and turns to you for confirmation. “Do me and brother look alike?”

You hum in thought, dramatically tapping your chin. “Definitely. But, one of you guys happens to be way cuter than the other though.” Before Yuuji can ask who, you lean forward and blow raspberries on his stomach, chuckling when more squeals and giggles come tumbling out. Sukuna hides a smile.

A second later Yuuji comes flying out of your lap and into Sukunas. The older grabs him forcefully by the hood of his jacket, like a mother cat does to its kittens. You roll your eyes at the treatment, knowing well that Sukuna by now knows how to hold a child. But the boy doesn't mind, now sitting contently in Sukunas lap and staring up at him. “You wanna look like me?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” Sukuna licks his hand, and you furrow your eyebrows. Then he very much too forcibly runs his fingers through Yuuji's hair. You jump watching the boy nearly collapse backward at the motion of his hands, but braces himself. Sukuna has a really bad problem of treating his brother with a little to much force than what a child should be used to. But Yuuji was a strong kid, so he never barked a lick of complaint – it was only you that were biting your fingers with nerves.

Sukuna brushes the pink hair backward, similar to his hair cut. Then he uses more saliva to spike it up. Once finished he nods at the kid, content with the hair that looks identical to his.

“Alright. Good. Now go grab a sharpie, we gotta give you some tattoes.”

Yuuji borderline has a tantrum when you tell him why you can't do that, while Sukuna laughs the entire time. But, the two of you compromise, and now there is a picture hung in Sukunas room where Yuuji is coated with black marker tattoos, identical to his brother.

#mello.writes #big brother au #sukuna x reader #kid yuuji #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #yuuji fluff #yuuji tadori fluff #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #reader insert #x reader #gn reader #gn! reader

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wheresarizona · 22 days

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but I would die for you in secret

summary: The relationship you have with Joel Miller is… complicated, and you’re not entirely sure what to even call it. There’s the fact no one can know, so his kid doesn’t find out, and you’re pretty sure he’s ashamed of your age difference—he’s not your boyfriend, but you only fuck each other; this thing started months ago, and Joel does not like it when men give you attention, because he wants you all to himself. But again, he’s not your sexy, older boyfriend.

pairing: Joel Miller/f!reader

rating: E (18+!! No y/n, porn with some plot, explicit smut, Possessive Joel Miller, Joel being a lil dominant, age gap (unspecified, reader is an adult), secret relationship, sneaking around, accidental voyeurism, edging, orgasm denial, mutual masturbation, dirty talk (so much), oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), rough sex, explicit consent, creampie, spanking, spit as lube, love confession, Good Parent Joel Miller, Ellie giving Joel so much shit, TLOU AU where Joel doesn’t lie to Ellie and they’re good when they get back to Jackson)

word count: 7.1k+

a/n: Hey! I needed a break from my long fic that I’ve been writing nonstop for five months, and I was really missing Joel and Ellie, so here we are. I hope you enjoy! Thank you to @juletheghoul for betaing!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist - One Shot

The relationship you have with Joel Miller is… complicated.

To start with, there’s the age difference. It doesn’t bother you at all, and why should it? You’re both consenting adults who know what they want, but he’s got this idea in his head that he shouldn’t be chasing someone so much younger than him and that you should be with somebody your own age—he mentions this almost every single time you’re alone together, and you've learned a simple flash of your tits or a sudden kiss will make those thoughts disappear.

Then there's the fact he isn't your boyfriend, yet you only fuck each other. His days are spent working whatever job he’s assigned here in Jackson and he’s at your place most nights after his daughter goes to bed—however, that’s a secret; No one can know about you two, even though Joel’s a tiny bit possessive and doesn't take kindly to other men giving you attention; which you're not one to judge because you can't stand when women flirt with him, especially Sandra, his next-door neighbor who won't leave him the fuck alone after the many times he’s told her he’s not interested.

So, again, he's not your boyfriend, but neither of you wants to fuck anyone else; whatever this thing is between you has been going on for over eight months, and he doesn’t want people to know you’re together—yet, any time he catches a man being too friendly with you, there's a 100% chance a grumpier than usual Joel will show up at your house that night, and at some point, while he’s fucking your brains out, he'll let a 'Mine' slip out.

Clearly, you have some kind of relationship with him, and it borders somewhere between fuck buddies and him being your boyfriend; where it gets confusing is it's not all sex with him. If his kid is staying over at a friend's, he'll show up at yours earlier than normal, and usually, with a movie he hadn't seen since the world ended or a record he thought you'd enjoy that you both listen to all the way through for him to tell you facts and anecdotes that he could possibly be the only person on the entire planet who knows.

If you need anything fixed around your house, he'll do it, and sometimes you don't even have to ask. You'll mention something, and the next thing you know, he's at your front door with a toolbox—sometimes, he uses doing repairs as a ruse so people will see him arriving at your place with his tools when, in actuality, he’s there to spend the day with you.

You’re also probably the only person, unrelated to him, he has actual conversations with; there’s hardly any grumbling or muttering.

There is a reason he won't acknowledge you’re dating, and it's his sixteen-year-old daughter whom he doesn't want to know he has a love life—it's to where Joel's basically taken the role of the rebellious teenager, sneaking out of his own home in the middle of the night to ensure she's unaware he left.

It's an accumulation of factors why she can't know. The big two, you think, are your age, and you know for sure he doesn't want Ellie to think she'll be any less important to him or that he's abandoning her if he's seeing someone—he worries she won’t take it well, and from what you know she's been through, you can understand why he’s being so protective.

Do you wish you could openly be in a relationship with Joel? Sure, it'd make you happy to shove it in Sandra, his stupid neighbor's face that he's taken.

That isn't a possibility, though, and honestly, what the two of you have is good, so you're not going to make a fuss about labels.

It's been a few nights since Joel has snuck over to your place, and you know why he hasn't stopped by—Ellie—she's sick with a cold, and to put things mildly, her father is freaking the fuck out that it could turn into something worse, and he won't let her out of his sight.

Now, if a person didn't want their child to know they were dating anyone, they’d keep them separated, right? Well, you live across the street from them—that's how you met Joel; he saw someone had moved into the tiny one-bedroom, one-bath home across from his and came over to introduce himself—and since you live across the way from him, and Ellie, the two of you have this, 'Just being a good neighbor,’ act, where any interactions you have in public, are under the guise that you’re just friendly neighbors. So, Ellie has spoken to you many times and has even invited you to hang out and eat meals with them at their house or in the mess hall, where Joel always does his damndest to act indifferent.

Joel left a simple note three days ago stating Ellie was feeling under the weather on your front door. The next day, you stopped by, as the good neighbor you are, to drop off some chicken soup you convinced the kitchen at the mess hall to make. Joel had let you in with a ‘Thanks’ and took the large bowl from you to the kitchen, and you followed the sounds of sniffles to the living room, where you found the teenager wrapped in a blanket on the couch, her stuffed-up voice exclaiming when she saw you in relief you were there so she’d have someone other than her dad to look at or talk to; obviously, she was tired of him, and with how he was hovering, and fussing over her like a mother hen, you would’ve been tired of him, too.

The man had bags under his worried eyes and looked like he hadn’t slept since she’d gotten sick. After he served her some soup and saw she was eating it, Ellie and you convinced him to take a nap while you hung out with his kid—the kid you’ve had a suspicion for a while knows there’s something up between you and her father, simply because every time the two of you are alone, she grills you about your love life.

The thing is, she always fishes for information you won’t give her, but she never seems bothered by the prospect of Joel dating; frankly, she’s supportive and wants him to be happy. However, that wasn’t something you could tell him because he’d probably end things with you immediately, so you’d have to wait for them to eventually have a heart-to-heart for him to find out—which, you’re not holding your breath with how bad they both are at talking to each other about their feelings.

And now it’s been over three days since you last got laid, and after having great sex regularly, the horniness is hitting you hard tonight, and you need to come.

It might be the dead of winter, but you’ve pushed the blankets to the end of your queen-sized bed, the old sheets not as soft as you imagined they’d once been when they were new, your bare, heated skin pressing into them. You’re lying in the middle of the mattress, your head cushioned by a pillow that’d lost its firmness long ago, your naked legs spread while your fingers rub at your swollen clit just right, the others pinching at your pebbled nipple to have the pleasure welling up inside you. You’ve been biting your bottom lip so much it’s sore, your breaths panting from your lungs, the wood stove in the living room keeping your house warm, and that, combined with your arousal, has a thin layer of sweat coating your body.

Sure, you can get yourself off, but the orgasm will be nowhere near as good as what Joel coaxes from you; it’ll take the edge off, at least, so you’ll feel a little better.

For the last hour, you’ve been building yourself up, almost hitting your peak, and stopping, edging yourself over and over again to try to make yourself come as hard as you can by your own hand to assuage some of your need—the sheets are wet under your ass where you’ve dripped onto them.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, thinking about that one night Joel saw some guy about your age at the bar laying it on thick to get you to leave with him, and how after you turned him down and left, a familiar presence followed you along the dark streets. You had to keep quiet when those big, gun-calloused hands you knew all too well pulled you into the stable that had nobody in it except the horses—Joel fucked you from behind against a wall, having to brace yourself with your arms on it. You remembered his palm over your mouth to muffle your sounds and him blanketing himself over your back to have his lips at your ear while he pounded into you hard and fast, quietly grunting about how you were his and that no one could make you feel as good as he did. There was no forgetting how his cock stretched open your cunt, or how before he sheathed himself inside you, you heard him spit on his fingers to slick himself up; the way he made you come around him while he circled your clit with those same digits. The memory of how he’d worked himself up so much he’d forgotten to pull out and spilled deep in your pussy, has you so close to coming by your hand you moan loudly, “Joel.”

“Stop,” the familiar gruff voice makes your eyes snap open as you gasp, immediately sitting up on your elbows.

There at the foot of the bed is the man on your mind—he must’ve taken off his winter jacket in the living room—his green flannel shirt is gaping from most of the buttons being undone, revealing his chest, his grey waves of hair looking to be slightly damp from melted snowflakes. What steals your attention is the fact his jeans are unbuttoned and open, and he’s slowly stroking his hard dick; from how the tip is angry red, leaking precum, and his shaft shines, he’s been watching and jerking off for some time.

“Joel,” his name comes out as a whisper, and your eyes flick up to his, finding them dark and staring hungrily between your legs at your glistening cunt.

You’re so happy to see him you’re not even mad he ruined your orgasm, knowing he’ll make it up to you.

“How many times have you made yourself come while I’ve been busy?” he asks, finally meeting your gaze, his expression grumpy.

“No-none,” you stammer.

His eyebrow lifts. “You lyin’ to me, sweetheart?”

“No.” You shook your head. “Are you mad at me…?”

His face pinches in confusion. “What? No. I’m not mad at you, baby. I’m mad at myself for leavin’ you hangin’.” He undoes the last two buttons on his shirt and shrugs it off for it to fall to the floor, pushing down his pants to step out of them, now standing before you completely naked.

His body is a tapestry of littered scars that tell of his fight to survive this long, some from injuries you’re sure should’ve killed him. Yet, somehow, if by spite or the grace of God, he managed to stay alive—your fingers have traced many of them, mapping the silvery and pink lines in the quiet of the night with only the glow of a bedside lamp. With what people have to do in order to keep living these days, they rarely like to share the stories behind their close calls to death. Still, there’s a jagged scar low on the right side of his stomach lesser men would have died from, you noticed the first time he took his shirt off, and you always wanted to know the story of. Surprisingly, he told you how he got it a few months into this not-not relationship when you asked.

Excitement pools in your belly, your pussy throbbing needily, watching as he climbs onto the bed to kneel in front of you, between your legs, down by your ankles.

“Touch yourself,” he orders and takes himself in hand again, languidly pumping his cock. “I wanna watch you make yourself come; then I’m gonna show you how I’m better than everyone, includin’ you, at gettin’ you off.”

Your cunt clenches because he is better, and the promise has you doing as he said, sliding your hand down to the apex of your thighs to rub your clit the way you like while you watch him fist his shaft. This isn’t the first time he’s watched you touch yourself, and you’re sure if it was anyone else, you’d feel embarrassed, but with how the desire is clear as he stares at what you’re doing, it spurs you on.

Having been so close to coming when he told you to stop, and now, it’s turning you on so much that he’s jacking off to what you’re doing, all of it is building you back up quickly, the familiar heat growing at the base of your spine.

“Just like that, baby,” he rasps and wets his bottom lip. “Keep rubbin’ that pretty pussy—did you miss me?”

“Yes.”

He hums in the back of his throat. “Missed how good I make you feel—how I stretch open that perfect cunt with my cock? Do I fuck you so good, you were thinkin’ about me to make yourself come?”

The strokes of his hand sound wetter, your arousal drooling onto the bedding while the muscles in your belly begin to tighten.

“Yes,” you gasp.

“That’s right, you were. So fuckin’ pretty spread out like this for me—I wanna taste you, shove my face in your pussy, and drown in it; just look at how you’re drippin’ for me.”

“Joel,” you moan. You’re so close it’s not going to take much more.

“God, I fuckin’ missed that sound; I missed hearin’ your voice and how good you smell, how soft your skin is, and the few hours I get to sleep next to you—come for me, baby. Come all over your fingers, and I’ll give you my dick—I’ll make those gorgeous eyes roll back in your head and give it to you so good, I ruin you for anyone else.”

He’s already ruined you for anyone else, and you doubt there’s another who’d fuck you as good as him.

It’s the thought that he’s yours and no one else can have him like this that sends you over the edge, your body seizing up as you come, pleasure erupting from your center as you moan his name.

He doesn’t give you a chance to recover, batting away your hand to dive in and bury his face in your wet heat. He shoves his tongue inside your soaked hole, groaning loudly as he laps at your come, your body trembling when he drags the flat of it up through your folds to suck your clit between his lips. Your fingers press into his hair, soft sounds leaving your throat at how good it feels.

The one orgasm isn’t enough—you need more, his mouth igniting arousal to burn hot in your belly, making you feel achingly empty. He’s licking up every bit of your need, coating your sex, moving to flick his tongue against your sensitive bundle of nerves. You’re feeling greedy; what he’s doing isn’t enough, and you want, no, need him inside you.

You pull at his hair as you tell him in a somewhat whiny tone, “Fuck me, Joel—stop making me wait.”

His chuckle vibrates into your sensitive skin before he rises to kneel with a groan. “Impatient.” He smacks your thigh. “Flip, ass up.” And it’s not a suggestion, his hands on your waist helping you to roll over, pulling your backside up into the air while your torso is against the sheets. Your knees are sinking into the bed and spread a little, putting yourself on display for him, the mattress jostling when he shuffles forward, feeling his body heat behind you. His palm lands on your asscheek hard, the sharp sting making you moan. “Now, ask me nicely to fuck you.”

You should’ve known he wouldn’t care for your lack of manners.

Your head is resting on your crossed arms in front of you.

“Joel, will you please fuck me?” you ask as sweetly as possible.

“Yes.”

The sound of him spitting on his fingers meets your ears, and you know he’s slicking himself up. One of his hands holds your hip, the other guiding his cock through the lips of your pussy to wet it even more, nudging your clit—it doesn’t seem like he’s in a mood to tease too much. Your eyes slip shut when he notches himself at your entrance and starts slowly feeding himself into you, your tight, velvety walls expanding to take the considerable girth of him, whining as he fills you. He slides all the way home, your cunt throbbing around him.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he groans. “Is this what your needy little pussy wanted?”

“Yes,” you moan.

He’s as deep as he can go and pulls out until just the tip remains, and slams back into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs—oh, this is going to be one of those times where he fucks you to the point your legs are too shaky to walk on afterward. The pace he sets is deliciously brutal and has your eyes rolling back, all thoughts leaving your brain, unable to think with how he’s pressing into so many heavenly spots, his grip tight on your waist.

The sounds in the room are obscene—the springs beneath you are squeaking, and there’s the noisy slap of his hips colliding with your ass, Joel grunting with each dull smack of his skin to yours, while you gasp out moans.

He’s fucking you so good, your orgasm is already taking shape, its fiery tendrils tightening in your core with each stroke.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re so fuckin’ wet—I could live in this perfect pussy.”

His hand slaps your ass hard enough the crack echoes amongst the four walls, the sweet pain making you clench around him and press back into his thrusts, crying out his name.

“Does it feel good, baby?” he asks. “Did you miss getting fucked like this? You love this—this pussy is mine, isn’t it? You’re mine.”

He’s not wrong; you are his, and all you can do is mewl in reply, waves of your arousal seeping down his shaft to catch on his balls.

His gun-calloused hands adjust on your hips to get a better grip, pulling you back each time his dick impales you, fucking you harder and faster, hearing him panting behind you—the wet sounds of him working himself in and out of your drenched cunt, are loud, and lewd.

You’re so close; you’re just needing—

Joel leans forward to get his hand under your body to the swollen pearl of your clit, circling it how he knows you like it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he grits out. “Let me have it—soak my cock with your come. Let me feel you—I know you’re almost there.”

That’s it—the knot in your belly winds tighter and tighter until the tension snaps, and you fall over the edge with a silent cry, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough that it slows his rhythm almost to a stop. Joel groans loudly while euphoria explodes out from your center, feeling it spread to your fingers and toes. Your brain goes blissfully blank, and your legs tremble under you like a leaf in the wind.

A gasp leaves you when he suddenly pulls out and flips you onto your back, taking his place between your spread thighs. He puts your legs high on his ribs, holding his weight on one arm while his other hand sheaths himself back inside you.

It’s not surprising that you’ve found yourself under his hulking frame with his hips snapping in and out of you—when you open your eyes, his are closed, his expression looking pained, and it’s his broad shoulders and head that take up your vision. This is how Joel wanted to fuck you from the start, but he’s a gentleman and did your preferred position first.

Your fingernails end up digging into the skin of his shoulder blades for something to hold on to, and he kisses over your chest to duck his head, wrapping his lips around a stiff nipple and sucking on it, the shock of pleasure causing a moan to slip from your throat. His breaths are heavy, and you know he won’t last much longer.

Your voice is hoarse when you speak, telling him what you know he needs to hear, “I missed you, Joel.” He whines. “I want you to come for me.”

His mouth leaves your breast to crash against yours, and you’d been wondering how long he’d go without kissing you—something about kissing while he fucks makes him come faster; maybe it’s the intimacy?

He’s told you the last woman he was with back in Boston wouldn’t kiss him because sex between them was just scratching an itch, and she wasn’t looking for anyone to replace her dead husband.

All you know is Joel loves kissing and touching—he’s admitted that he sleeps best with you snuggled against his back as the big spoon, which, you’ll never tell him, you think is adorable with how he scares people enough, they move out of his way when he walks down the street.

His kisses are fervent, and you give just as good as you get, welcoming his tongue when it presses between your lips, his pace speeding up. You love having him inside you, the way he fits all nice and snug to fill you completely. This is what you’ve been needing, and it’s perfect.

When his rhythm gets uneven, you expect him to pull out at any second to spill his release on your belly. What he does next, you’re not expecting.

Joel shoves his face into the crook of your neck, his facial hair scratching your skin, feeling his hot breaths.

He says something that’s too muffled to make out, so you pull on his hair to make him lift his head, finding his eyes dark and glazed over, looking totally and completely wrecked. His pace slows to him rocking in and out of you.

“What did you say?” you ask.

“Can I—” he pants. “Fuck, can I come inside you?”

The question has your tight walls constricting around him.

“Fuck,” Joel hisses, his eyes closing. “Please, can I?” he asks again.

The answer that immediately pops into your brain is ‘yes,’ but thinking about how the only times this man has finished inside you in the past were all accidents, you’re worrying he’s just pussy drunk and not thinking straight; that if you fell pregnant, something you didn’t mind, he’ll regret it.

“Are you sure?” you ask.

He looks at you and nods. “Yes, I know—” The consequences, he leaves unsaid. “—please.”

“Then yes, come for me, Joel—fill me up.”

He raggedly moans, his face falling into your neck again. His thrusts speed up and become frantic as he pounds into you, your heels digging into his ass, feeling the muscles flex. He works himself up until he presses into you one last time as deep as possible and comes with a guttural groan—his dick jerks inside you, and the hot spurts of his spend gush into your depths, filling you up. Electricity zips down your spine as you moan, your tight walls throbbing around him while he grinds his hips, fucking his come deeper.

The weight of his body is welcome when he eventually slumps onto you, and instinctively, your fingers slide into his hair, scratching your nails lovingly against his scalp, the man practically purring on top of you.

For the first time in three days, you feel happy and finally sated, loving how he’s stuffed you full of his cock, and come. There’s no talking as your heartbeats slow together and your breathing evens out, basking in each other’s presence. Your eyes are closed, and you’re choosing to ignore your shaky limbs.

It’s hard to imagine a life without Joel, which is odd since up until this point, most of it had been spent without him, or anyone really. What you actually mean is you don’t want to imagine a life without Joel and Ellie—you think she’s a great kid, and you have a soft spot for her; plus, she and her dad are a package deal. Then there’s Joel, who you’re absolutely and completely in love with, and it bothers you that you don’t know what this relationship between you is or if he even feels the same as you.

Minutes pass, the old, wooden bones of your house creaking as the winter wind gusts outside.

“Joel?” you break the silence.

“Mhmm?” he hums, nuzzling into your throat.

“What are we?”

“Huh?”

“What are we? Like, what is this thing that we’re doing?”

His head lifts, and he pulls out, rolling off you to lie beside you on his back, pressing his hands to his face.

“Somethin’ I shouldn’t be doin’ in the first place,” he finally answers.

You turn on your side toward him, propping your head up on your arm. “Take my age out of the equation.”

His palms lift, and he looks at you confused. “What do you mean?”

“For some fucking reason, you are stuck on my age—take it out of the equation; if that wasn’t a factor, would you openly date me?”

“Well, there’s Ellie—”

“—let’s pretend she doesn’t give a fuck about your love life,” you cut him off, “and actually wants you to be happy, and my age doesn’t matter—would you openly date me?”

“Yes.”

“So, you have feelings for me?”

“Of course.”

“Do you love me…?”

“Yes,” he whispers, covering his face again.

One word has your heart picking up in speed.

“I love you, too.”

His head whips in your direction with an expression of bewilderment.

“What?” he asks.

“I’m in love with you—have been for a while, and I’m fine with doing what we’ve been doing if that’s the only way I can be with you, but I kinda, sorta, would like it if you thought of us as a couple, and weren’t ashamed of me…”

A secret relationship? You’re fine with that. But Joel being ashamed of you? It fucking hurts.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says too quickly.

“Joel, if Ellie were okay with you having a love life, you wouldn’t openly date me because of how old I am—I’d just continue being your dirty little secret that one other person knows about.”

His eyes dart away, and the sigh he lets out is long and weary.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he says. “I’m ashamed of myself for fallin’ for you and not bein’ able to give you the future you deserve. I just felt like I was stringin’ you along when you could be with someone who can offer you more, but I’m so fuckin’ selfish.” He looks at you. “I want you, and I don’t want anyone else to have you—I can’t let you go, even though I should cut you free.”

Your fingers brush back the sweat-soaked hair on his forehead. “I don't want anyone else, Joel—I want you, and you’re not stringing me along. I’m happy with you and any future I can have with you and Ellie.”

He’s frowning. “If only it were that simple,” he sighs.

This is a conversation you thought might make him end things with you, but maybe giving him a slight nudge will be okay—at least, you hope it will.

“It is that simple,” you tell him. “I’m gonna tell you something that if you can work up the nerve to talk to her about, she'll confirm it.”

His eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Ellie doesn’t care if you date. She’s told me she wishes you weren’t such an asshole ‘cause then the only negative thing about you is how ugly you are, and people love ugly things all the time, and if someone loves you, then you won’t die alone, plus it’d hopefully make you happy, and she really wants you to be happy—that’s pretty much what she said word-for-word.”

His eyes close, and the sigh that leaves him is that of a father who’s real tired of their child’s shit, and you smile.

“That’s Ellie,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not even sure how I should be feelin’ right now.”

“I hoped you’d be relieved at least, possibly even happy.”

He looks at you. “Yeah, I’m relieved and happy but also a little ticked at her embarrassin’ me like that.”

Scooting closer to him, you lay half on top of him with your arms folded on his chest, resting your chin on them to stare at his pretty face.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It was said out of love—she loves you.”

He sighs again, wrapping his arms around your bare back.

“I guess she does, even if she’s mean. Jesus, I can’t believe I just needed to talk to her sooner.”

“That’s usually how things work—it’s called communication, and you should talk to her.”

His eyes narrowed, and he smacked your ass, making you giggle. “There’s no need for the sass, sweetheart, and I was plannin’ on bitin’ the bullet and tellin’ her about us in the next couple of days.”

Your eyes widened. “You were? What?”

“Yeah, uh, I had a hard time with Ellie bein’ sick, and when you came over, I didn’t feel like I was goin’ insane with worry. Havin’ you there made it better, and I missed you.” His lips dip in a frown.

“I missed you, too—you were really gonna tell her?”

“I was.” He nods. “With how happy she was to see you, I thought maybe she’d be okay with it.” He shrugs.

You smile. “I think you’re right,” you reply, giving him a quick kiss. Meeting his gaze, you ask, “Is she feeling better?”

“Yeah, and thank Christ, she is.” He looks visibly relieved. “I think it was that soup you brought over—thank you for that and for givin’ me a chance to sleep.” He pecks you on the lips.

“It was no problem. I would’ve been there the entire time had it not been suspicious.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“Good. Sooo, I’m wondering, what are we now?”

“A couple,” he answers. “I’ve thought that for a while, but I’m too fuckin’ old to be callin’ myself your boyfriend.”

“I quite like having a sexy, older boyfriend.”

You squeak in surprise when he rolls you onto your back, your legs automatically opening for him to nestle his hips between. He’s holding himself up with his arms beside your head while yours loop around his neck, his lips pressing to the side of your throat, kissing the taut skin.

“You like havin’ a sexy, older boyfriend, huh?” His question is muffled, and you swallow hard when he sucks on your pulse point.

“I do,” you reply.

“I like havin’ you.” He’s kissing and nibbling along your jaw.

“‘Cause no one else can?”

He nips your chin, then hovers his head over yours to look you in the eyes.

His expression is serious. “Yes,” he says, “and I love you—if Ellie really doesn’t give a shit about me datin’, then every fuckin’ person in town is gonna know you’re mine.”

And something about that declaration thrills you.

“I’d like that.”

He gives you a small smile and kisses you for a moment before a thought comes to him, and he pulls back to meet your gaze.

“Maybe that neighbor, the annoyin’ one who doesn’t seem to know the meanin’ of no, will finally get it through her head, I’m not fuckin’ interested.”

You glare off into the distance. “Fucking Sandra,” you seethe.

The first time he met you, Joel knew he was fucked.

All he wanted to do was be polite and introduce himself to his new neighbor, then you opened the door, and his brain stopped working because you were so beautiful. It didn’t help when you blatantly checked him out, clearly undressing him with your eyes before looking entirely too pleased with what you were seeing.

If he’d been a stronger, honorable man, he wouldn’t have accepted your offer to come inside for a drink; he wouldn’t have kissed you back or laid you down on the couch to eat your pussy; he wouldn’t have let you choke on his dick or crawl into his lap and ride him; he wouldn’t have gotten so lost in being buried in your wet, warm, perfect cunt and your lips on his that he forgot to pull out when he came; he wouldn’t have gotten addicted and returned to you almost every night after.

If he’d been a stronger, honorable man, he would’ve ended things before it went too far and definitely before he fell in love with you.

From the beginning, he knew he was way too old for you, and he didn’t understand why you wanted him or kept letting him into your house. He had nothing to offer you, yet even when the opportunities arose for you to go home with men your own age, you rejected them and welcomed him into your bed instead. It made little sense that someone as young and beautiful as you would give someone like him all of your attention.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s told you that you’d be better off with somebody younger than him. It’s usually when he remembers your age or when you don’t know what he’s talking about when he brings up certain things from how life was before it all went to hell. He says the words out loud, practically a reflex at this point when the guilt gets to him, and as quickly as the feeling comes, it goes because, as he told you, he’s selfish; he doesn’t want you with someone else; he wants you all to himself. When you tell him there isn’t anyone you’d rather be with than him, it feeds something deep inside of him that won’t let you go, and hearing you say you love him has only made it stronger—you have his total devotion.

Ellie being sick messed up his head enough that in the moments when you came to mind, he was plagued with the thought that you probably found someone new. The only time he felt a modicum of peace was when you stopped by, and with that and how much his kid loved you being there, and in general, he came to the conclusion he couldn’t lose you:

It was time for him to tell Ellie.

Joel isn’t delusional; you’d grow tired of only getting his nights and the occasional day, eventually, and he needed to give you more of himself, which required his daughter to know about your relationship.

If Ellie knew, then he could give you more.

He’s ashamed of himself for hiding your relationship and, in turn, not having much to offer in terms of a future. It bothers him so much that he hasn’t been able to be with you out in the open because you deserve better than being his dirty little secret, as you call yourself.

He hates that.

He wants everyone to know you’re his and that he is yours.

When he realized he was going to tell Ellie, he started imagining how your relationship would change. You could finally have a life together, and it had him thinking about things he never would’ve considered before you and actively tried to prevent in the past, but you didn’t mind the idea of bringing a new life into the world, and he thought that might not be so bad; Jackson’s safe, and he has no doubt you’ll be a great mother—and it’s a future he’s pretty sure you want since your reactions have always been positive when he accidentally finishes inside you. That’s why tonight he decided to say fuck it and asked if he could; he wasn’t worried about the consequences anymore.

He’s kicking himself in the ass for not talking to Ellie sooner.

The only reason he hasn’t broached the subject with her is after what happened in Colorado, Joel’s treated her like she’s a fragile piece of glass that he doesn’t want to risk getting broken again—the way she lost her spark after that resort town killed him; and what happened at the hospital? If he had the chance, he’d murder every one of those Fireflies again for how fucked up she was when he told her their plans to kill her without knowing for sure if they could make a cure or not and that her life meant nothing to them.

It took a lot of time for him to put her back together again, and being in Jackson helped a lot with her making friends and having some semblance of normalcy. But he’s worried any major changes will mess her up, and add in her biggest fear of ending up alone, Joel dating seems like a recipe for disaster—Ellie will always be his top priority, even if it’s at the expense of his happiness.

It’s early morning, and he’s got another thirty minutes before the sun will begin its ascent on the horizon, fresh snow coating the ground, the temperature freezing. Joel is skulking home from your place to be there before Ellie wakes up.

His point of entry is the back door that leads into their kitchen, which doesn’t make as much noise as the front and can be locked when he leaves. He’s staying close to the side of the house, heading toward the backyard, and peeks around the corner to check the vicinity—his heart pounds when he sees a dark figure trying to get into the door, Joel pulling the knife, he walks around with, off of his belt, keeping his steps light, silently approaching them.

“Why the fuck don’t we have a light back here?” he hears them quietly mutter.

“Ellie?” Joel says at regular volume.

“Ahhh!” she screams, turning in his direction. Her hand is over her winter coat-covered chest. “Jesus Christ, Joel! Way to give me a fucking heart attack!”

He walks closer, sheathing his knife, as he says, “What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

“What the hell are you doing out here?”

His hands perch on his hips. “Doesn’t matter—you, on the other hand, just got over bein’ sick and shouldn’t be out in this cold. Move, I’m gettin’ your ass inside.”

She stepped aside, and he walked over, quickly unlocking and opening the door; he grabbed her by the shoulder and firmly guided her inside. He flicked on the room’s light once they were inside, and the door was closed and locked, Joel crossing his arms over his chest.

“Now, where the fuck have you been?” he asks.

She’s unzipping her coat. “Where the fuck have you been?”

“I asked you first.”

She shrugs off her jacket and tosses it onto the kitchen table. Joel sighs, walking over to pick it up—he’ll hang it alongside his by the front door before he goes up to his room.

“I was at the same place you were.”

He keeps his face neutral, but his heart is thudding, and he’s pretty fucking sure she wasn’t at your house.

He meets her eyes. “And that is?”

She smirks. “My secret girlfriend’s.”

“Goddammit.” His fingers press to his forehead as he closes his eyes. “You fuckin’ know—how the fuck do you know?”

“Let’s see, she’s literally the only person in town aside from me and Tommy’s family you like. You stare at her with, I don’t know what to call them, googly eyes? It’s that look the dudes have when they see the love of their life, or whatever, in those shitty romantic movies we like to make fun of. I’ve heard you call her ‘sweetheart’—” She fake gags, and Joel sighs. “—you’ve gone over to her house to fix so much shit that, at this point, it’s gotta be a whole new house. You sneak over there every fucking night. Oh, and when she sees the lady next door, the crazy one who’s got a real hard-on for you—gross by the way—when she sees ‘you can call me, Sandy,’ flirt with you—double-gross—I’m pretty sure she’s plotting murder; you’re definitely plotting murder when guys hit on your girlfriend—which, I don’t get why the two of you pretend like you aren’t together; is she embarrassed that you’re so fucking old and ugly, or something?” His teeth clench, and he glares at her. “God, don’t give me the murder eyes, Joel! I was kidding!” She playfully punches his arm. “Kind of… I mean, I’m happy you found someone who loves you even though you’re a grumpy asshole and look like that.” She points at his face.

“You done?”

“Telling you you’re old and ugly? Sure. For now. But I have one more thing that gave you guys away.”

His eyebrow lifts. “What is it?”

“When she came over the other day while I was sick as balls and hung out with me, you slept. Joel, you do not fucking sleep if there’s anyone else here besides me, which is why if I wanna have a sleepover with my friends, I have to go to their houses.”

“Were we really that obvious?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

She’s clearly confused. “I thought we were avoiding the topic.”

“What topic?”

“Like, relationships—you never said anything to me, so I figured it was something we don’t talk about.”

He cringes. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel…”

She smiles. “I don’t give a fuck if you date, Joel—if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

He matches her look. “I’m pretty fuckin’ happy. Are you happy with your uh, girlfriend? Have I met her?”

“Yeah,” she nods, grinning. “It’s Cat!”

His eyes round—he was under the impression Cat is her best friend, and he has met the other girl many times.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re way better at this secret girlfriend stuff than I am. I had no clue. I like Cat; she’s got all those neat tattoos.”

“She does!” she replies with a grin. “And I’m getting one!”

“You’re what?!”

Masterlist - One Shot

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#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller smut #wheresarizona writes #joel miller x you #Joel miller/yo

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aaagustd · 2 months

Text

for the night | min yoongi

title: for the night

pairing: drug lord!min yoongi x waitress!(f)reader

genre/rating: angst, childhood best friends to strangers to friends??, unrequited love, valentine’s day au, smut, romance, 18+

summary: Yoongi lives a dangerous life. So why is he so afraid of you?

warnings: idk what to say about these two, just a bunch of feelings (spoken & unspoken), light pining, pov switches, mentions d*ath & grieving, mentions dr*gs and violence, swearing, bl**d & injuries, p*stol wh*pping/ mild description of t*rture, crooked justice systems (it’s the wild wild west out there), mentions a robbery & a**ault (nothing involving the main story), mentions illnesses & health related topics, alcohol/drinking but no intoxication unless you count staring at yoongi for too long, black hair with the undercut yoongi, chains, rings, TATTOOS…. oh my !!!, yoongi has a gl*ck (a piece, that iron… whatever you wanna call it), everybody’s shipping these two but they’re just…yeah, eye f*cking from both parties, explicit content, the friend version of kiss & makeup??, dry h*mping, Dom!yoongi, yoongi getting head is a warning, protected s*x, gagging/deep throating, throat/face f*cking, hair pulling, crying, i’m sure yoongi has Sir kink hiding in there somewhere, manhandling, face slapping, yoongi’s fingers down your throat, missionary with your leg over yoongi’s shoulder, big d*ck!yoongi, his jewelry stays on bc why would it not?, cl*t stimulation, teasing, spitting, org*sm control, c*m shots, body worship, p*ssy eating, throat grabbing, i think that's all...

wc: 11.6k

release date: february 16, 2024; 10:15pm est

note: sorry i took forever. this is my first oneshot in a while so i apologize for mistakes. i'm just finding my footing in this writing thing again. thanks to @itaeewon for my banner and @cafekitsune who makes these pretty dividers. please follow both of them for cool graphics. anyway, happy late valentine's day. i love you guys.

masterlist | playlist | ao3 version

“Enjoy the rest of your night… and be safe!”

As you wave goodbye to the last lovely couple dining at your restaurant tonight, you express how thrilled you are of their return.

You stand in front of your father’s little restaurant and watch the lovebirds bundle up as they make their way to their vehicle, embracing each other and protecting themselves from the same frigid temperatures that threatened to ruin their Valentine’s day plans.

It’s nights like these that make the sacrifice of putting your nursing career on hold well worth it. This neighborhood doesn’t have a lot to offer as far as entertainment goes, so keeping this place in business is your top priority. This is your home, and the people you love put their all into this establishment.

You’ll make sure it thrives and continues to be a source of comfort to the community.

You’re excited to tell your father about tonight’s turn out. You know he will be pleased. It’s been busy all day with dine-ins and take outs; everyone looking for the perfect date night meal.

“The food is made with love,” is what your dad always says.

He always looks forward to this time of year, and he’s always talked about seeing you sitting in one of his booths with a special someone of your own some day.

You only nod when he brings up your dating life; sometimes his love for you blinds him from reality. You’ve never brought anyone home, or ever mentioned being involved with someone to him. Even if you came out and said it, he’d never believe you’re the problem.

A chilly breeze in the mid-February air snaps you out of your thoughts—so as soon as the couple’s sedan departs from the parking lot—you slip back inside.

The warmth instantly envelopes your trembling figure, and draws a small exhale from your lips.

Looking at your watch, you notice that it’s almost midnight. You switch the sign from open to close, but don’t bother locking the door because there’s one more visitor that should be arriving shortly.

You keep that in mind as you begin to clean the front of the house.

One by one, your father’s employees complete their duties in a haste, then clock out so they can go home to whoever is waiting for them. Their eagerness only brings a smile to your face.

As you’re sanitizing a table, you catch a glimpse of one of the waitresses dashing towards the door.

“Well, see you tomorrow, Kaci!”

She halts, then turns around to say her goodbyes—and to gossip.

“Night, boss lady,” she chirps.

Why she calls you “boss lady” is a mystery to you; your dad only left you in charge, but you’re just a manager. You still get on the floor and serve tables like everyone else.

You’re curious about the bit of mischief hidden in her tone. It’s not long before she reveals her true intentions.

“Did he stop by yet?”

And of course…she’s talking about Yoongi.

Usually, someone stops by on his behalf to collect the rent. His family allows your father and a few others to occupy the buildings on this lot for business. Payment is always to be paid in cash, so you make sure you visit the bank the morning of collections.

Your family has had a close relationship with the Mins for years, so they’ve been working with you while your father recovers.

You met Yoongi right in this restaurant at the young age of four, and from there, your friendship blossomed. You were inseparable throughout grade school, but senior year is when everything shifted.

It had to be the first time you both realized that you were on different paths after graduation. While you prepped for college, he was being introduced to the hustle that built his family’s empire.

If that didn’t tear a rift in your relationship, the underlying tension and unspoken feelings surely did. People used to always say at least one of you would eventually want something different, and you used to always laugh at them…until it became a fact.

You’ve always wondered if he ever felt the same as you did—or if he ever thought about exploring something more.

Unfortunately, you’ll never know what he was feeling. After graduation, he shut you out and never looked back. That was so long ago, though. You’ve grown, and the pain of losing someone you cared about eventually went away.

…So you thought.

Being home again brings back so many memories and forgotten feelings. Things you wish you still had, and things you wish you could have had. After experiencing so much throughout college, and learning more about yourself, you’d kill to go back in time so you can handle things differently.

You can’t help but think your friendship was torn apart by nothing more than a curious mind and raging hormones.

Yoongi’s so different now, though. However, you still see glimpses of the boy who would sneak into your window just to watch reruns of 90s cartoons with you. You smile just thinking about all the fun times you’ve shared, and all the trouble you got into.

“Look at you getting wet just thinking about him! I knew it. You’re whipped!”

“Can you keep your damn voice down,” you hiss. “Last thing I need is gossip right now.”

You’re so fed up with her teasing. If you two hadn’t just clicked when you took over the restaurant, you’d probably just kick her ass out in the cold.

“And, no. He has not. So, you can leave now, ma’am.”

“Oh, for sure,” she sighs dramatically. “Hell only knows what you two do when you are alone.”

Your jaw drops.

Sometimes this bond you share is a blessing; but other times, it’s a curse.

Kaci’s a sweetheart, but her mouth… Well, let’s just say these comments are normal for her.

And just like your father, she loves to play Cupid. No wonder he hired her.

“Just get your ass out of here.”

You can barely keep your laugh from bursting through your lips as you send a rag flying towards her. She dodges it, then proceeds to give you a middle finger. She has another shady comment ready to roll off the tip of her tongue, but then she glances out of the glass door and smirks instead.

You scoff. “Bitch, what is it now?”

Kaci then shakes her head.

“Nothing, babe. I’m out,” she winks. Kaci then points towards the parking lot and whispers, “Daddy’s here.”

“Huh? What are you talking about—”

Crawling into one of the booths, you partially open the blinds with your fingers and peek out of the window.

About seven sets of headlights stare back at you, all belonging to vehicles that are as dark as the midnight hour. A BMW sits in the center, blacked out with tinted windows and black custom rims. However, you don’t need a look inside to know who it is. No one else would pull up like they own the lot.

All the businesses are closed, which means these aren’t customers. It’s the boss.

Your heart rate builds up when the door opens and his sneakers touch the concrete. He stands there for a moment fixing his jacket and discreetly observing his surroundings.

Your eyes follow his movements. You can only hear the bass from his music and the noises coming from your throat as you try to gulp down the saliva building up in your mouth.

All you needed to see was the top of his head to confirm what you already knew.

Yoongi’s here, and he’s the one coming to collect payment tonight.

You don’t know why your heart is about to pound out of your chest like you’re hexed by some teenage crush. Maybe you are still hung up on him a little bit. You can’t deny how attractive he still is. He definitely wears age well.

The dark hair suits him perfectly. You can remember the horror stories about the color experiments gone wrong when you were teenagers. It’s a surprise that it’s still luscious and healthy as it is.

However, that isn’t the only thing that has changed in his appearance.

They’re hard to spot under his jacket, but his torso, back, and arms are covered in tattoos. You only know about this because another waitress working here loves to share the story of how she was on her knees in a bathroom giving a shirtless Yoongi a blowjob.

You would never admit jealousy, but damn; that lucky bitch.

Yoongi starts to make his way across the parking lot, pushing back his hair with his ringed-fingers to grant better vision out of his peripherals. You know he’s always watching his back; he can never be too careful when he’s making moves.

His haircut allows you to get a glimpse of the ink crawling up his neck, disappearing behind his ear. His earring dangles in the wind as he strides in your direction.

Each step is confident and dominant; his aura dark and mysterious.

A man who is about his business, it’s no shock that heads turn when he steps into the room. He’s reserved, but not afraid to enforce his authority when he deems necessary. You heard stories, and crossing Yoongi is considered a death wish.

He’s like the hot badass described in movies or books, but he actually is that guy. Handsome, street-wise, tattoos and scars; paired with money, jewelry, and you’d be stupid to think he isn’t packing.

You can smell the power and Dior emitting from his body all the way from where you are.

Each step he takes towards the entrance of the restaurant gives you a better view without being noticed. It’s a sin how good he looks and he’s just wearing a simple outfit with some sneakers. You have no business feeling these kinds of things, but it’s impossible to not.

“Can he just bend us over already?”

You hear Kaci whisper the same words you were just thinking. But she can’t know that, so you swat her again for good measure.

“Fine…I’m leaving,” she whines, walking to the door.

You back out of the booth and move over to the host stand so you can roll silverware and act like you weren’t watching him.

Kaci opens the door just as he’s about to reach for the handle, and of course, she gives him a warm welcome.

“Hi, Yoongi,” she beams. You roll your eyes the second you hear that annoying high-pitched voice she uses when she’s being coy.

“Hey, can you hang back for a bit? It won’t be long.”

“Yeah, sure. Everything okay?”

The look he gives her sends your radar up, so you set down the utensils in your hand and join them in the lobby.

“Hey,” you greet him when he notices you. “What’s going on?”

Yoongi sighs before he answers, shaking his head as he gathers his words.

“You know the alterations shop over there?”

His head nods in the direction of the Leonard’s shop a few stores down. Both of you nod because they take lunch breaks here everyday.

“Somebody hit them up about an hour ago. Left their daughter in bad shape before they stripped the registers,” he informs.

“Are you serious? That’s awful.”

“Yeah, they’re good people. Who would do something that disgusting?” Kaci asks.

Yoongi only shrugs. “Don’t know, but as soon as I find out…”

He doesn’t even need to continue. It’ll be bad; probably worse than you can imagine. One thing the Min’s don’t tolerate is disrespect. You mess with one of their people, you get handled. In this case, you can’t even feel bad for the bastard. That family doesn’t bother anyone. It’s a shame they were targeted.

“Anyway, I don’t want either of you lingering around here at night anymore. Stick together during opening and closing until we catch this motherfucker understand?”

“Yeah, got it,” you reply, and Kaci also agrees.

“Sure, not a problem.”

With everyone on the same page, you make a note in your mind to update the security system in the restaurant and think of some safety tips for employees. No one can ever be too careful, especially after what just occurred so close to home.

“And Kaci?” he calls, just as she’s getting ready to depart.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t walk home. Your pepper spray is expired. Ask one of the guys to drive you.”

“Is Hoseok out there?”

You and Yoongi share a look. He’s probably wondering what it’s about, but then again, who doesn’t know they’re fucking?

“Yeah…he is—”

“Kay, bye!”

Before the door slams in your face, you call out to her.

“Text me when you’re home!... Or when you’re able to use your hands.”

Yoongi chuckles as the both of you watch her dash across the lot. You aren’t sure how she’s able to spot the right SUV, but she does within seconds.

“This has been going on for a while, huh?” Yoongi inquires.

“Mhm. Fight, fuck, repeat.”

After a moment goes by, you realize you forgot to bring the money you owe Yoongi. You snap your fingers when you remember why he’s there in the first place.

“Oh, yeah. Come on, it’s back here,” you tell him.

Yoongi follows you toward the back of the restaurant until you reach the small manager’s office tucked in a corner of the kitchen. While you dig in your apron for the key, Yoongi checks in with you to see how everything’s going.

“How’s your dad?”

You pause to look at him and answer with a proud smile. Your father’s been working really hard on his road to recovery; it’s nice to talk about his accomplishments without someone looking at you with pity, which Yoongi never does.

“He’s been doing better. Lots of physical therapy, but he walked on his own yesterday.”

With a nod, Yoongi’s expression softens. “That’s the shit I like to hear.”

“Me too.”

Once you find the keys, you unlock the door and the both of you step inside the dark room.

“Thanks,” you whisper when he flips the lightswitch for you.

You can feel him watching you as you walk around the desk, and when you squat down to open the safe underneath, you hear his footsteps approaching.

You start entering the combination while he whistles and looks around your office.

You’re curious about what he’s looking at, but right now you can't even take a peek without him noticing. Instead, you focus on gathering the cash you owe him for last month and this month while he’s busy snooping around.

After a while, you figure he’s found something interesting because the room becomes quiet. You grab the stack you set aside and close the safe, making sure it’s locked before you do anything else.

“So how was your day?”

Yoongi’s deep voice tears a giant rift in the silence, startling you and causing you to bump your head on the edge of the desk. Thankfully, his back is turned and he didn’t hear the small thud because you’d be beyond embarrassed.

“It was okay,” you reply as you regain your footing.

Yoongi turns in your direction when he hears your words become clearer, indicating you’re no longer digging around in the safe. He meets you halfway and you extend your hand with the stack of money resting between your fingers.

“This is all of it.”

Yoongi looks at the stack before he responds. Most of the time, it’s so hard to know what he’s thinking because his expression is always so stoic.

“Just okay?” he quizzes.

“Yeah, pretty much. It was busy so I was stuck in autopilot most of the day.”

He still hasn’t made a move to accept the money. You feel kind of awkward being so close to him as is, and his lack of response makes you feel even more anxious.

Finally, he speaks. “Do you even have this to give me?”

“Yeah, we’re good. Please, take it.”

You gesture for him to take the money, and he reaches for it, making you believe he’s going to grab it.

“It’s all here. If you want me to count it, I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” he shrugs.

“Yoongi, no. We haven’t paid in a month. My dad would already be mad at me for being behind.”

“Does he have to know?” The look Yoongi gives you reminds you of all the times he’s talked you into doing something wild. He’d always take the blame if you got caught, but the thrill always made getting grounded irrelevant to you. “Keep it. We’re good until he gets back, okay?”

“Yoongi, I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I won’t,” you declare confidently.

“So you’re arguing with me?”

Your eyes widen, realizing that he wasn’t giving you an option.

“I-I’m sorry. I was just—”

“Don’t worry about it, alright? Just keep doing what you’re doing. I only hear good things about this place,” he concludes.

“Okay, ok. Thanks, Yoongi.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As you’re returning the money to the safe, Yoongi brings something to your attention.

“I don’t see your car outside.”

“Ah, shit. It needed to be serviced. I was supposed to pick it up on my lunch, but I forgot.”

After visiting the bank this morning, you dropped your vehicle off at the dealership for maintenance, but the breakfast rush swarmed in as soon as you arrived at work. By the time you thought about picking it up, it was well after business hours.

“Um, do you mind—”

“Wanna ride?” Yoongi offers.

“Please.” Relieved, you exhale a needed sigh. “If it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Not at all, love.”

You quickly grab your purse and switch off the light in your office, ignoring that feeling you got from the little pet name.

Yoongi leads the way this time. As you’re following him through the restaurant, you’re sure to double check everything before you leave. Even Yoongi turns to ask you if you’ve secured everything.

“Good?”

“Yeah, everything’s turned off and we’re locked up tight.”

“Cool.”

Walking into the dining area, you give everything a quick once-over before following Yoongi to the exit. Everything looks tidy and neat how you like it so you step out into the cold night with your chauffeur.

He waits with you while you lock the front doors, looking around for any curious eyes. After you’ve finished turning the lock and key, you give the handle a tug to make sure it doesn’t open.

Growing up in this neighborhood will teach you a thing or two about being cautious and aware of your surroundings.

“It’s freezing tonight,” you comment.

Sometimes you like to make small talk with Yoongi, see where the conversation goes. Depending on the mood he’s in, he’ll either have one sentence responses or he’ll engage in light conversation.

You don’t mention the past much. It seems like pretending it never happened is easier for both of you. However, sometimes you have an impulse to bring up the subject, or at least try to mend what’s broken.

If that’s possible.

“Cold? This is perfect weather.”

You roll your eyes. He’s definitely fucking with you.

“Oh, whatever. You know it’s freezing out here.”

You don’t care how ridiculous you look speeding towards his car. You’re shivering and Yoongi takes forever to unlock the door.

You shuffle from foot to foot, wiggling to build up some body heat. You can hear the fabric of your jeans rubbing together due to the friction.

“You know it’s already unlocked, right?”

Oh.

You climb inside and relief washes over you. The heat is blowing warm and strong, making the leather seats even more comfortable. The seat warmers keep your butt cozy, and the vents are aiming towards your upper body. It’s perfect; you could fall asleep right here.

When Yoongi gets in the driver seat, your head lolls in his direction.

“Thank you.”

“For?” he asks.

“Your car feels like heaven right now.”

Yoongi scoffs softly.

“It isn’t always this warm. Trust me,” he replies.

“Well regardless, thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Not a problem, love.”

Fuck.

Yoongi’s engine revs as he pulls out of the parking lot. A thought comes into your mind as the vibrations travel up your body.

“Does it ever make your balls tingle?”

He coughs, clearing his throat while checking to see if he heard right.

“Uh, what?”

“The car,” you elaborate. “When you’re driving it…You don’t feel anything?”

Honestly, you’re just chatting to keep yourself from falling asleep. You don’t even expect him to answer as you stare out of the window, watching the SUVs fade in the distance.

“I guess I never really thought about it,” he responds.

You nod, vibing to the music. He’s turned the volume down since you’ve joined him, so you can actually hear each other speak.

“Hm. Sure does make your pussy tingle.”

You don’t think he heard that part. It was barely a whisper. If he did, he chose to ignore it.

“You alright?”

“Yup,” you answer. “Just ready to unwind.”

“Any plans tonight?”

You sit up in your seat, and turn to him.

“You bet.”

Yoongi laughs. “Oh, yeah?”

“I have a date with my bed, and I’m gonna let my blanket top me.”

“Gotcha. So you’re locked down, huh?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, it sure sounds like it. I never see you having any fun.”

You give him a look.

“Well, look who’s talking. Besides, you know I’m dealing with a lot right now.”

“Fair enough, but you’re still allowed to do something for yourself for a change. Some of us don’t have that privilege,” he replies.

“I think everyone has the privilege to do something for themselves. You just have to be selfish enough to go for it, I guess.”

“That is true.”

Yoongi then turns the music up a few notches. You already know what that means. He’s over conversation and wants to get lost in his thoughts.

As you cruise through the streets, people may look on the surface and think this is some young bachelor taking his car for a late night drive—maybe heading to one of the city’s hot spots.

But Yoongi is all work, and no play. If it’s not about moving product, it’s placed on the backburner.

You can relate, but tonight you’re switching it up. Self care is calling your name and you aren’t hanging up this time.

“What happened to the garden?”

You’re pulled from your thoughts by Yoongi’s voice.

As he pulls up to the curve in front of your childhood home, he can’t stop himself from teasing you about your dying plants. You really tried your best with them, but unfortunately, you weren’t gifted with nurturing hands.

“You’re not funny,” you mutter, acting ignorant.

You know you’ve destroyed your dad’s flower bed, but he doesn’t have to make fun of you.

“I’m just saying, shouldn't you cover them?”

“I forgot!”

“You always do,” he mumbles.

You giggle as you’re opening the door; finally having a carefree conversation with your old friend again feels nice. As soon as you step out into the elements again, the winter air nips at your cheeks and you know you’ll be trembling by the time you get to your doorstep.

“Well, thanks for the ride.”

Yoongi just nods and tells you that he’d do it anytime you needed him to.

As you stand outside of the car, you start to get that feeling in your gut. That urge you know you shouldn’t have, but the temptation is stronger than ever.

Yoongi tilts his head, wondering why you’re standing in the cold. You’re frozen, silently debating on what you should do.

Ultimately, you go for it, knowing the risk you’re taking without being prepared for the aftermath.

You’re even sure why you’re asking, or where you expect things to go. But tonight made you realize something. You miss having a best friend.

Your best friend.

“Hey, it's late. You wanna come inside?... If you don’t have any plans.”

Regret washes over you as soon as the words leave your mouth. You weren’t ready, neither was he. You curse yourself for rushing it. The silence goes on for ages, but you’re so numb, the cold doesn’t faze you.

Finally, he gives you an answer. “You know I can’t do that.”

Well, now you know you’re the only one still holding on. By can’t, he means he won’t.

Nodding, you lie and pretend that you understand where he’s coming from. “Yeah, I get it. Sorry about that.”

You were sure he’d be more open now that time has passed. However, you’re still stuck where you left off. He still won’t hear you out.

“There’s no need,” he assures.

Still, you feel guilty. Selfish.

Foolish.

“Well look, I'll see you around, yeah?” He checks his phone and tosses it on the passenger seat. "I have to go deal with something."

“Okay, thanks again for the ride. Stay safe.”

You try not to look disappointed, but it’s probably no good. You’re sure he hears it in your voice. Or maybe you sound more tired than anything. You are exhausted. Maybe it’s your restless mind that's causing you to get ahead of yourself and open old wounds. It’s best you go inside before you can dig yourself a bigger hole.

“You'll call me if you need me, right?”

If you need him…

You always need him. He’s your rock. Well, probably not anymore. How do you learn to forget someone who’s always been there for you?

You swallow the bitterness coating your tongue before you reply. You’ll get over it. You always do.

Just not right now.

“Yeah, I’ve tried that already. Goodnight, Yoongi.”

You shut his car door and retreat to the safety of your home. You’re unsure if he says it back or not. You walk away before he can respond.

Everything in your sight becomes blurry as your vision is blocked by a wave of pending tears. You urgently open your front door in case he’s following you.

A part of you wishes that he did.

But the longer you stand there, back pressed against your front door, secluded from the same world you’ve just finished servicing—you realize that the chances of that happening are too slim to hold onto.

Minutes go by, and you start calming down. You find your strength again, and you realize that your vulnerability made you panic. You got too comfortable, and that’s your fault.

Tonight will just be another solo night; nothing you aren’t used to.

You wipe your face and rid yourself of all the negative energy. Tomorrow you’ll be fine and the blow of rejection will start to fade away. Shaking your head, you clear your mind and start taking off your clothes.

You put it in your mind that you won’t hold this against Yoongi, and whenever he’s ready to talk—if ever—you’ll tell your side of the story if he wants to hear it.

Until then, you’ll just focus on you because he was right about one thing.

You should treat yourself; you deserve it.

“Get your sorry ass up.”

Yoongi stares at his hand as he walks away from the battered man lying on the ground. His knuckles are bruised and covered in the thief’s blood. The sight would bring shame to his father. He shouldn’t be out here behaving like a street thug when he’s got power moves to make.

But when he found out there was danger lurking so close to you, he had to deliver the message himself. He’s sure it was heard loud and clear.

Possibilities played through his mind with every blow that rained down on the guy. What if it was your father’s restaurant that had been hit up? What if you had been inside?

He’s furious, enraged; but mostly at himself for how he keeps letting you down. You wanted to forgive him tonight, put everything that happened behind you and maybe try again. But what did he do?

He ruined it.

He always figured that he would, but it’s what you needed to hear. He’s not a good guy or some bad boy you can turn good. Yoongi’s in this too deep to be pulled out. There’s no way he could ever look your father in the eye and tell him that he’s put your life in danger.

That’s why he refuses to address those feelings he has for you. He’d either end up breaking your heart, or getting you into a nasty situation.

If the wrong person were to know that he has a thing for you, you’d become a weapon for an opp to use against him. Yoongi’s respected by many, but there are some who want everything he has; you’d be added to the top of that list if they knew he’d died for you.

He can’t lose what his family’s worked hard for, but he can’t lose you either.

There’s only two options if that line’s ever crossed. Either you’re with him, and you’ll have to step into his world; or you’re not; and the streets deem you fair game.

The latter infuriates him. He’d kill anyone who would ever think of laying a finger on you. That’s why he has to make examples out of motherfuckers like the one behind him.

“You need to find you something safe to do, my friend.”

Yoongi turns around just as the man rises to his feet, staggering and weak from the beating he’s received. One of his arms cradles his torso while the other wipes blood from his lips. He’d receive pity from anyone without the context, but if they knew what he did to that seamstress—they’d be wondering why he’s still alive.

This is far less than what this scum deserves. His apologies fall on deaf ears. Yoongi’s men don’t give a shit about his apology, and neither does he.

“I’m so sorry. I…I didn’t know this was your block too. I was just—”

Yoongi pulls out his glock and fires a shot near the guy’s foot, barely missing him. He doesn’t recall asking him to speak.

“You better assume every block is mine, motherfucker. I own this fucking city. Have you forgotten?”

“I—”

Another shot nearly blows his head off because once again, Yoongi never asked him to talk.

“Who told you to open your mouth?...” he seethes. “Speak again and I won’t miss.”

The man nods, lifting his shaky hands as a surrender.

Yoongi’s jaw clenches as he contemplates his next move. A few minutes ago, he was set on ending him right in this spot, but after thinking about you he’s calmed down a lot.

That’s the only reason this man’s life will be spared. His mind is somewhere else now; all he can think about is his own mistakes. This guy’s learned his lesson; no need to waste anymore of his time here.

“Look, don’t ever put me in this situation again. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Sir. I won’t. I promise.”

Yoongi knocks the guy out cold with his gun. He looks over at the officer who was escorting the guy to jail and gives him a nod, giving him the clear to take him in.

“This was a citizen’s arrest,” he insists, handing the cop a wad of cash.

“You got that.”

He dismisses his men, and goes to have a cigarette while he thinks.

After the criminal is placed in the back of the squad car, the cop rejoins Yoongi as he sits on the hood of his vehicle, having a smoke before he goes on with his night.

“Never thought I’d see you get dirty, especially tonight.”

Yoongi scoffs. “Yeah, me either.”

Yoongi looks at his personal phone, looking to see if you’ve texted him, or called. He doesn’t know why he’s checking. He shouldn’t expect you to reach out after how he left you tonight. It’d be a miracle if you ever wanted to see him again.

“It’s not too late, you know.”

“The fuck are you talking about, Shark?”

Shark is one of his longtime friends. He comes from a long line of crooked cops.

He’s been present through the ups and downs of his friendship with you. Shark’s always been rooting on your side, always telling him to reach out when you left for college.

Yoongi has never taken his advice, though.

“I’m just saying. Maybe you should just call her,” he explains.

“Who?”

“You want me to say her name out here?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

Both of them share a laugh at Yoongi’s reaction, but then silence falls over the night.

Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, Yoongi’s hands are beginning to throb with pain. He tries focusing on something other than that awful feeling, but he can only think about you.

Why couldn’t he just hear you out? That would have been fair. He’s regretting more and more as time goes by, wondering if the opportunity has slipped away.

He notices the way you look at him, the way you perk up when you see him. He knows there are a lot of unspoken words because honestly, he’s always had deeper feelings for you. It was way before you realized you like him as well. He bottled that shit up throughout high school, and when he had the chance to tell you how he felt, he fumbled.

You even gave him a second chance to come clean, and he still couldn’t get it together.

“Seriously, what happened tonight? I see it all over your face.”

Yoongi sighs. “I took her home, and she invited me inside.”

“And you said no? Dude, no way.”

Yoongi looks over and finds his friend’s face stuck in a grimace. He feels shame creeping up his neck, so he quickly shifts his focus somewhere else.

“What was I supposed to say? You know I can’t let anyone see me walking in her place,” he argues.

“You could have invited her to yours, explained things a bit more. I’m sure she’s capable of making decisions for herself.”

Yoongi’s at a crossroads, but every way he turns leaves him with doubt. It’s like he’s damn regardless.

“What if it doesn’t change her mind? What should I tell her dad, huh?” Yoongi rants. “He asked me to keep her safe, man.”

“And what do you think he meant by that?”

Shark looks at his watch and turns to Yoongi as he prepares to leave.

“Look, my shift ends soon, so I gotta go. But I think you know as well as I do that you have the old man’s blessings. Just stop overthinking it. You’ll screw yourself.”

With that, Shark walks to his vehicle, and puts it in drive.Before he pulls from underneath the overpass, he rolls his window down and yells out.

“It’ll be alright, brother. Trust me!”

When Shark leaves, he switches cars with his right hand, not wanting to double back to your part of town in the same ride. As he starts driving away from the secluded area, he thinks back on how tonight has gone so far. That’s when something you said hits him…and it hits him hard.

“You said you needed me,” he whispers.

All day you’ve been surrounded by people, loving each other; only to go home to an empty house. You just wanted some company, a distraction. You wanted a friend.

It’s then he realizes that he’s hurt your feelings more than a little. You weren’t hung up on a crush you had over five years ago. He’s so stupid. How did his brain not perceive what you said as an invitation to hang out?

Just like you used to.

Yoongi does a U-turn and heads straight for your house. He has no idea what you’ll say to him, or if you’ll speak to him at all. But he needs you to know one thing; he gets it now. And he won’t ever let you down again.

No matter how many times you watch it, the horror classic Thirteen Ghosts never gets old. Your dad laughs whenever you call it your comfort flick, but he’s also not a horror fan so he just wouldn’t understand.

That bath worked more magic than you could ever imagine. It’s super late, and you should be in bed, but you’ve been thinking about the bottle of wine you bought the other day since earlier.

You aren’t really a drinker, but the bottle was cute. You figured tonight would be the perfect chance to eat some snacks, watch a movie, and give it a try. But as soon as the glass touches your lips, your doorbell rings.

You’re not expecting anyone this late. When you don’t answer, they pound on the door, startling you. Wine spills all over your hands. Quickly, you use your shirt to dry them off before making a bigger mess. You drink what’s left in the glass in one gulp before checking your Ring camera, letting out a gasp when you discover who’s standing at your doorstep.

“Yoongi?” you whisper.

Placing your phone and empty glass on the coffee table, you go to see what he wants. If you’re honest, you’re a bit worried. Did someone break into the restaurant?

Your dad would be devastated.

Without a second thought, you open the door, and interrogate Yoongi before he can even open his mouth.

“Is everything okay? Did something happen to my dad’s—”

“Oh, fuck. No! No, that’s not why I’m here,” he interrupts.

You breathe a sigh of relief, clutching your chest as the panic slowly leaves your body. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s okay. What’s up? Are you okay?”

Now that you’re not shaken with worry, you notice how disheveled he looks. His hair is messy; his expression seems anxious, his knuckles bruised.

“Were you fighting?” you quiz.

“Huh?” Yoongi looks confused but then suddenly seems to remember his injury. “Oh, this is nothing. I’m good. I just came to uhh… To see you.”

Your eyebrow raises curiously. “To see me?”

“Yeah,” he confirms.

“Okay, well… that’s nice of you, but I was planning on going to bed in a bit. I have to get up early.”

You aren’t sure why he’s acting weird. Is he in trouble? Surely, he’d tell you if he was. If so, why would he come here?

“Um, okay. Sorry,” he answers.

You tell him goodnight and attempt to shut the door, but Yoongi lodges his arm into the opening.

“What are you doing—”

“I’m listening.”

“What?”

You open the door once again, fully believing this man has lost his mind. It’s freezing out there, and he’s just standing there babbling.

“I said I’m listening,” he repeats. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what, Yoongi?”

You’ve never been more confused. First, he drops you off and hauls ass across town. Now he’s pacing at your doorstep, fumbling all over his words. Something’s going on.

“You wanted to talk, but I ghosted you, remember?”

Oh. So he remembers that.

“That’s water under the bridge. Just forget it,” you insist.

“So now I’m water under the bridge?”

“What?! No! That’s not what I said.”

“Well, explain,” he pleads. “Or just tell me it’s too late.”

“Yoongi…”

“I just wanna be friends again, but this haunts me. If you have feelings for me, I can’t—”

“I don’t,” you admit.

This is the first time Yoongi has stood completely still since he got here. He stares at you with wide eyes, not uttering a single word.

It took you a long time to understand your feelings for Yoongi. You had to experience a few unnecessary hook ups and break ups to realize you weren’t in love. You just wanted to fuck him like everyone else.

Who knows where things would have gone? But it would have been nice to let things happen naturally than to bottle up feelings.

You open the door again, and step to the side.

“Come in. It’s cold.”

This time he doesn’t reject your invitation.

Yoongi follows you into your living room, looking around and probably reminiscing over the past. Nothing’s really changed other than the furniture. However, the memories of the days you two used to run around while your mom scolded you for messing up the floors are still present.

You point to the couch and offer him a seat while you stand there gathering your words.

“You can sit here.”

“Thanks,” he replies.

Yoongi sits and does that thing he does with his hands when he’s nervous. His fingers intertwine and he just watches his thumbs chase each other in a loop. He used to do it all the time whenever he’d stay too late at your house and his dad would come looking for him.

Your parents always were able to calm Mr. Min down before he could reprimand Yoongi. It took him a while but he finally understood that you and his son were best friends, and your place was Yoongi’s second home.

There are so many evenings he’d miss basketball practice to hold you while you cried after your mom died. Yoongi never left your side. Even when you were unrightfully resentful and angry with him for still having his mom in his life; he understood every stage of your grief.

So no, he’s not just water under the bridge to you. He could never be. He may be wrong for shutting you out, but everyone has their breaking point.

“I wanted to tell you that I was in love with you. That I wanted you to go with me to college,” you confess.

Yoongi’s jaw nearly hits the floor. You can tell he’s shocked because he starts tripping over his words.

“I-I… I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. You—”

“...Was confused,” you add.

You can’t help but laugh at yourself and at the situation. All this time you’ve been scared to rip the bandaid off, and the wound’s already healed.

“I didn’t have anyone to talk with about dating and stuff; not from a young woman’s perspective, at least. I would watch rom-coms and thought I had butterflies whenever I saw you. Whole time…”

You fold your arms and lean against the wall, watching the television with a blank stare. Already, it feels like a weight is being lifted off your shoulders. So much tension has built up over time, so many unspoken words and unresolved feelings that it’s a relief to get it all out.

“...My pussy was throbbing.”

Yoongi picks his mouth up off the floor, and straightens in his seat. Once again, he’s caught off guard.

“Huh-What?”

You snort. “I was horny, curious… I just wanted you to bend me over and deflower me.”

“Deflower you? The fuck?”

Yoongi’s laughter erupts from his chest, lightening the vibes in the room. It’s nice to hear him laugh, like genuinely grin and reveal his cute smile. You didn’t realize how much you missed seeing the image until it’s presented to you at that moment.

“Well, it’s true!”

“I see you are still an over-sharer,” Yoongi chuckles.

“And you’re still stubborn.”

Both of you look at each, shaking your heads and sharing a fond smile. You can tell this has been weighing on him as much as it did you. He’s regretful of how he handled the situation, and you’re sorry for staying away so long.

You should have tried harder. Yoongi always did whenever it got tough.

Regardless, it’s in the past. It’s time to move on.

You walk across the room with your arms open, inviting your friend into an embrace.

“Seriously? No way,” he grimaces, trying to get up before you can close him in.

Unfortunately, he’s not fast enough.

“You know you want to. Come here.”

Wrapping your arms around Yoongi, you giggle when he acts like he’s all tense. He always pretends he doesn’t want to hug you at first, but then, he gives in.

“Fuck it,” he groans, pulling you closer.

You melt in his arm almost immediately. You don’t even care if you slide to the floor. All of your weight rests on him, but he still holds you up while complaining about you smothering him.

“I wish I could breathe,” he gripes.

“Fine…”

Yoongi expects you to back away; but instead, you climb on his lap.

“What are you doing?”

You shrug. “My bad. I thought we were cool.”

Maybe you did move a little too quickly, but it’s nothing you haven’t done hundreds of times. You’ve shared beds, seen each other naked… accidentally found each other’s Pornhub accounts. You were just acting on instinct.

You’re about to stand, but Yoongi stops you. “We are, but aren’t you mad at me?... From earlier?”

“A little, but…”

“But what?”

“Can’t friends kiss and make up?” you propose.

His hands rest on your bare thighs, fingers gently nudging at your big t-shirt. The room seems warmer now that there’s no distance between you. Or maybe it’s just the fires building in your belly that’s making you hot?

“Maybe…”

You trace his lips with your finger tips while looking in his eyes. You could spend the night like this if it were up to you. He’s beautiful; inside and out.

“Wanna try and find out?” he whispers.

You respond by softly connecting your lips, moaning instantly as your entire body begins to tingle.

Yoongi pulls you closer, holds you tighter, and encourages you to deepen the kiss you share by parting your lips with his tongue. You don’t deny him, and he invades your mouth—taking over and leaving you dizzy from the lack of oxygen.

Suddenly, he pulls away, and you’re quick to whine.

“I smell wine,” he comments. “Are you—”

“I had a sip, and the rest spilled all over my hands.”

You show him the stains on your hands and shirt, and he just stares in disbelief. “Only you.”

“Whatever,” you dismiss, trying to steal another kiss from his wet lips. “I need you.”

You drag your crotch across his lap, seeking friction. You’re shocked when he grabs your waist, thinking you’re overstepped once again.

“Hold on.”

Yoongi reaches under his shirt and grabs his gun from his waistband. He shoves it in the folds of your couch, and throws you a wink.

“We’ve kissed. Now let's make up.”

With a smile, you get up and grab his hand.

“Follow me…”

“Get on the bed,” he moans against your lips, pulling away to take off his shirt.

You begin to move, but a thought pops up in your mind.

Instead of climbing on the bed, you watch him remove his t-shirt and reveal his ink covered body. You bite your lip in awe at the masterpiece standing in front of you. He has no idea how hot he looks while simply undressing. You’re ready to pounce on him right now, but you pace yourself.

You have all night.

When Yoongi notices you’re still standing in the same spot, he tilts his head with a puzzled expression.

“Change your mind?” he quizzes.

You shake your head, and close the small space between you. Before he can say anything else, you drop to your knees. With skilled hands, you pull on his belt until it's free from the buckle. You flash Yoongi a smirk when you discover he’s watching you with those dark eyes.

As you pop open the button on his pants, your other hand flattens over his denim covered dick, noting the way it begs to be freed.

“I can’t wait,” you murmur, stroking it over his jeans.

Once you’re finally able to access his underwear, you reach inside and retrieve his thick, warm cock. You don’t care if you moaned before your lips even touched it. Shame is long gone, and you aren’t afraid to show Yoongi how long you’ve been waiting for this.

“I can tell,” he scoffs.

You let his smart remarks slide for the sake of your impatience, and move in to run the tip of your tongue up and down his slit. His precum oozes out and coats your taste buds, giving you a tiny sample of what he’ll taste like when he dumps his load on your tongue.

Yoongi hisses, probably reacting to sensitivity. You keep going, giving him a moment to ground himself before you give him the real deal.

While you tease him, you admire his girth. He’s heavy in your hand, but his dick is the perfect size to wrap your hand around it. It’s smooth, but textured and veiny—just like his hands.

No longer able to wait any longer, you part your lips and let your saliva cover the tip. You use your fingers and palm to lubricate the rest of his shaft so that it slides into your mouth with ease. Only when he’s dripping wet with spit do you take him in, and his reaction is golden.

“Ahh, fuck.”

If you could smile, you would right now. Knowing you have him on his tiptoes almost feels as good as the blunt head of his dick touching the back of your throat.

You can feel his muscles tenses up once your head begins to bob up and down, purposefully slurping loudly to create sinful noises.

“Fuck,” Yoongi curses.

His voice is rough as he pants through his words, attempting to keep his composure, but failing.

When Yoongi’s hand finds the back of your head, you look up to see what he’s doing. You keep going as you watch him whisper profanities into the air, running his ringed fingers through his dark strands.

He gathers your hair in his palm, making your scalp tingle and sting due to his strong grip. He starts controlling your movements, managing how much of him you take in at once. It’s not long before you’re choking and gagging on his cock.

Drops of your spit and tears fall to the floor. Your head starts to spin from the vigorous motions, but the feeling doesn’t prevent you from allowing Yoongi to fuck your throat until it’s raw.

Craving more, he thrusts into your mouth. The look on his face and the desperation of his movements lets you know he’s almost near his peak. However, once he realizes what’s happening, he swiftly pulls out, leaving you coughing due to the sudden intake of air.

“Look at me,” he commands after you catch your breath. “You’re fucking hot for that.”

“Thank you—”

Yoongi’s hand smacks the smirk off your face. You’re caught off guard, but that doesn’t stop your pussy from gushing at the change in his tone.

“But is that what I told you to do?”

You try to shake your head, but he’s still holding your hair.

“No, use your fucking mouth.”

When you try to speak, he shoves his fingers in your mouth, pushing them deep enough to gag you.

“You like using your mouth, don’t you?” he asks, but you know he isn’t looking for an answer. “So speak.”

“I do,” you croak around his digits.

“Now get the fuck on the bed like I told you to the first time.”

Yoongi snatches you up, and you scramble to the bed. You sit and wait for him to take off the rest of his clothes, trying to remain patient as you see he’s not in the mood for disobedience. You weren’t bothered the slightest by his lack of respect.

In fact, you crave more; and if you have to beg for it, you will.

“Second thoughts?” he asks randomly.

You notice that his wallet’s in his hand and after a few seconds he pulls out a condom. You get butterflies the moment he places a knee on the bed. For you, it’s not even happening fast enough.

“No way.”

“Good,” he winks. “Because I’m not gentle.”

“And I’m not glass.”

Yoongi growls when he hears that response, crawling over to you at lightning speed.

“Come here.”

He grabs your thigh and pulls you closer, pushing your legs apart so he can access your center. His fingers trace over your lace panties until he ultimately decides to rip them off of you.

You squeak in surprise when you hear the fabric tearing.

“Yoongi!”

“Shh,” he coos. “They’re ruined anyway.”

With a face burning with embarrassment, you turn away and stare at the wall while Yoongi puts the condom on. You can feel his eyes on you, observing the way he makes you fidget and squirm.

You get too comfortable lying there in your own thoughts. The sensation between your thighs catches you off guard.

“Ooh, shit Yoongi!”

Your body reacts the instant his dick rubs against your clit. You’re already worked up and ready to be filled, but Yoongi doesn’t want to skip the foreplay.

“Damn, it’s wet.”

He rubs the tip over your crevice, taunting you each time he passes your entrance. Just when you think he’ll slide in, he moves up to your throbbing clit and repeats.

“Please stop teasing,” you beg.

Yoongi laughs. “Why should I?”

“Because—”

You begin to whine and complain, but your words get stuck in your throat when Yoongi suddenly enters your pussy.

“Oh my god.”

Your wetness allows him to slide in easily, but your body wasn’t prepared to take him all at once.

You grip your sheets for support, but the initial shock of him moving so quickly takes almost a minute to subside.

Yoongi’s patient, giving your body time to adjust before he worries about pleasure. His thumb slowly massages your clit, getting you to relax under his touch. When your grip on the sheets finally loosen, he makes tiny strokes to test the waters.

“Good now?” he asks.

“Mhm.”

With your approval, he positions himself over you and fucks you a little deeper. Once he finds the perfect rhythm, he moves your right leg and places it on his shoulder.

You’re already moaning loudly, not caring who hears. You cry out everytime his dick digs into your cervix, exploring places you never knew could be reached.

You’ve begged guys to go deep, but they’ve always been scared to test their limits. Not Yoongi; he’s giving you everything he has, and even though you’re barely holding onto your sanity, you’d probably cry if he stopped.

“Take that damn shirt off,” he growls, gripping the giant t-shirt draped over your body.

You almost can’t figure out how to get it off, but by a miracle you manage. Now completely naked, you toss the clothing aside and start groping your tits while you lift your hips to meet his thrusts. You thought Yoongi would enjoy watching you, but he’s not impressed.

“Who told you to touch yourself?” he presses.

You don’t answer quickly enough for him. Honestly, you weren’t going to reply because your mind is so far away that his words just drift through your ears.

A hand around your throat snatches you back to real time. He’s pissed, biting his lip and trying not to spill his load before he’s ready.

“Answer me.”

This time you speak up immediately. “No one.”

“Hm. So you just do what you want?”

The sound of his deep voice mixed with the sound of your slapping skin and squelching juices turns you on beyond explanation. That familiar tension starts to build in the pit of your stomach, informing you of what’s soon to follow.

“I don’t like rules, Yoongi.”

“Oh, you will,” he promises.

Yoongi’s thrusts get stronger, making your body shift towards the top of the bed. He somehow keeps you in place using the hand he has wrapped around your neck, but you’re still being bounced around like a ragdoll.

“Since you don’t like it, I’ll finish up and leave.” His movements suddenly become faster, and it doesn’t take you long to figure out what he’s implying. “You can make yourself cum, right?”

“What?” you shriek. “No!”

His laughter resonates through your bedroom as he mocks your desperation. You try reaching between your legs, attempting to induce an orgasm yourself but he forbids.

“Uh-uh.”

He pushes your hand away and pins your wrist to the mattress, leaving you with no other resort.

“Yoongi, I wanna cum. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Better watch what comes out of your mouth then.”

You groan, realizing he’s too stubborn to give in. He’s not bluffing; he’d actually leave you stuck.

You can taste the pleasure on your tongue. You’re so close, but Yoongi’s thrusts are starting to become wild. If you don’t give him what he wants, you won’t get what you crave.

“Tell me now…” he grunts, lust oozing from his lips. He leans forward, pushing your leg to your chest as he tries to come closer. The coolness of his chains pressed against your feverish skin brings you a little relief, but it’s not nearly enough. “You sorry?”

Fuck.

“I am.”

He chuckles. “I know.”

Yoongi’s thumb then wipes the single tear rolling down your cheek. Your body’s restless and seeking some relief from all the tension building inside your core.

He finally slows down, pacing himself so he’s no longer ahead of you in the race to ecstasy. His finger gently tugs at your bottom lip, silently asking you to relax your jaw.

“You’re mine, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good... Now open.”

Gauging your reaction, he smirks when you don’t oblige. You stick out your tongue, waiting for what you already expected.

Yoongi spits directly into your mouth, and you don’t even flinch. You look into his eyes as you close and swallow. He’s pleased when you reveal that nothing’s left when you open again.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl,” he moans, repositoning himself.

Whatever he says after that is lost between his swearing and muffled cries as he presses his lips against your leg. He slowly picks up his speed this time, allowing the heat to fill up inside of you before he drills you like before.

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

“You too, Yoongi.”

You’re desperate for more tension, but you’re afraid you’ll be punished if you chase it yourself.

“More, please.”

“More?”

“Please…”

“I got you,” he assures.

Without another word, his thumb finds your clit. His name rolls off your lips over and over, surely traveling far outside your bedroom. Your body tenses aside from your fist pounding the bed.

“Cumming!”

You can hardly breathe, air getting trapped in your lungs as his hips snap violently into yours. Your back arches as a wave of pleasure hits you like a ton of bricks. Your cries begin to fade away and all you can hear is your rapid heartbeat erupting through your ears.

Yoongi doesn’t let up, giving you his all until your body slowly falls back on you. He then pulls out and peels the condom off of his pulsing cock. As soon as it’s freed, he releases his hot seed onto your skin—painting your stomach and breasts white and sticky.

Both of you stay where you are, panting and struggling to catch your breaths.

You can see Yoongi through your heavy eyelids, slumped over and exhausted from everything he’s given in the past few minutes. His hair hangs over his eyes, but you know he’s just staring at your pussy, replaying everything that just happened in his mind.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm?” He snaps out of it at the sound of your voice, gently lowering your leg before he crawls toward you.

You feel like you’re melting when he kisses your lips. It's almost like a dream being this close to him again. Even after so long you remember the way he smells, the way he breathes… You remember everything like it was yesterday.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers against your skin. lips make one final journey over your body, kissing every inch of you and not caring about the taste of his cum staining your flesh. He gives you endless compliments and praises, making you bury your face in your pillows. “I can’t forget to taste you.”

“Wait!” you gasp when he spreads your pussy and devours you.

Your sensitive clit throbs in his mouth as he slurps up all your juices. Your body is limp by the time he’s done, eyes nearly shut and your mind shut down for the rest of the night.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he mumbles into the darkness.

Whatever he says next is a mystery because your tiredness ultimately puts you into a deep slumber.

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

You groan as the sun pierces your eyes. Throughout the craziness of last night, you forgot to bring your phone to bed with you. Now, you’ll have to walk and—

Or you can ask Yoongi.

With that in mind, you roll over and unfortunately find an empty bed.

Of course, he left last night. He was probably out of the door as soon as you shut your eyes. You can only hope it’s because he has work to do and he’s not avoiding you after everything you talked about. You won’t even let your mind go there.

Instead, you get out of bed and stumble to the living room—finding your phone on the coffee table right where you left it. You’re still getting notifications as you pick it up; most from Kaci, one from another employee, but nothing from Yoongi.

Before you make your daily morning phone call to your dad, you text back that server regarding time off, and see what Kaci’s fussing about.

6:58am Kaci: BITCH YOU’RE STILL AT HOME!?

7:10am Kaci: you so got fucked last night. i want all the detail STAT heaux

You roll your eyes. She won’t be getting anything other than the usual shoulder shrug. Last thing you need is for her to make a scene every time Yoongi’s in the room.

7:23am You: omw. please cover for me.

7:23am Kaci: already am. get some ‘good morning’ dick sis

“I swear I wanna kill this girl sometimes,” you sigh.

Before you can leave the messaging app, your phone rings. The number isn’t saved so you answer it with caution.

“Hello?”

It’s Yoongi.

“Hey, what’s up?”

You hope he doesn’t hear the puff of air you let out as relief washes over you. You were sure you’d lost him again after the things you did and said to each other during the heat of the moment. Not like you didn’t mean everything you said, but you aren’t sure if he did.

“Nothing, just late for work. What’s up with you?”

“Not much right now. I might go home and catch some sleep,” he replies. “Your car’s outside, by the way.”

“Really?” You walk over to the window and open the blind, shocked when you see your car parked in front of your house. “How did you…”

“I told them I was taking it as collateral.”

“What?!”

Yoongi laughs. “I’m kidding.”

If he was standing next to you, you’d punch him. You don’t know how you fall for it every single time.

“I have my ways. Just um… do me a favor?” he asks.

“Yeah, anything.”

“I think my phone’s somewhere in your house. Can you check later?”

You look around to see if maybe you can spot it but it’s nowhere in plain view.

“I know you’re already late so…”

“Oh, yeah. For sure,” you respond. “If you want, you can stop by and look. The spare key is in the same spot it’s always been.”

“It’s cool. I’ll wait until you’re off work.”

“That works.”

Both of you stay silent, waiting on the other to speak. You realize you should be getting ready for work so you decide to end the call.

“Well, I have to get ready so… I’ll text this number later?”

Yoongi clears his throat before he answers. “Yeah, it’s a burner but I’ll get the message.”

“Kay. Bye then.”

“Hey,” he calls out before you can hang up.

“Yeah?”

“Still mine?”

A smile grows on your face, and you don’t try to stop it. You didn’t want to bring it up, but you were definitely still thinking about last night, wondering what it would mean today.

But you can’t let him have what he wants so easily, can you?

“Maybe,” you tease.

There’s a pause, but when Yoongi does speak his tone grows dark.

“You still haven’t learned, have you?”

You smirk. “I suppose I haven’t.”

“Well, then. I guess I’m coming over later.”

Shit.

If you didn’t think the restaurant would burn to the ground without your presence, you’d tell him to get his ass over here now. The mere thought of a repeat of last night has you clenching your thighs together.

No working late tonight. You’re sure it’ll be slow anyway.

“I guess you are.”

“I’m not being nice this time either,” he warns.

You bite your lip, trying to conceal your excitement, but you’re really bursting at the seams. You’re sure you’ll be anticipating his visit all day, letting your mind flood with scenarios. You decide to go ahead and taunt him some more, adding fuel to the already roaring fire.

“Good. Neither am I.”

He begins to speak but you end the call before he can get it out.

As you stand in your living room giggling, a wave of nostalgia hits you. You remember he’d do the same to you after you’d complain about something silly. You’d be pissed, so the thought of him tasting his own medicine puts you in the lead on your imaginary scoreboard.

You’ve probably done a lot more that got on his nerves in the past, but who’s counting? It’s your job to push each other’s buttons and make up.

Isn’t that what friends are for?

hope everyone enjoyed !!! let me know what you think !

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