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petrichor-han · 3 months

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idiosyncrasies and other little things; hansol vernon chwe

PAIRING | stoner!vernon x afab!reader

CAST | hansol vernon chwe

WC | 5.5k

GENRE | smut, fluff, very slight angst, college!au, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers

WARNINGS | casual marijuana usage (hitting the penjamin and smokin' a j), explicit language, explicit sexual content, miscommunication :( but happy ending :), embarrassing scene where he hugs reader in public

SYNOPSIS | you’ve been friends with vernon chwe ever since you met him at freshman orientation and he slipped you a messily rolled joint behind the tour guide’s back. three and a half years later his rolling skills aren’t the only thing that’s changed for the better, but you begin to realize that your time with him is running out as your graduation date steadily approaches.

A/N | i don’t know who started the stoner!vernon trope but thank you and god bless to whoever it was 🙏 here’s my contribution to the trope—a very american COLLEGE 🦅🇺🇸 stoner vern au. please reblog and consider leaving a few kind words if you enjoyed this fic!! <3

request to be added to current and future taglists HERE!

MASTERLIST | SEVENTEEN MASTERLIST

His fingers are slightly clammy as they brush against yours and drop the small, cylindrical shaped joint in your hand. You enclose your fingers around it as he retracts his hand, his flushed skin brushing against yours once more just momentarily—but it’s enough to make you almost choke on your own breath.

The joint itself is small and messily packed—you can tell from the way it’s already all bent out of shape and dented, simply from him handing it to you. The rolling paper is slightly damp as well—from his sweaty palms, or yours? Likely, both. Regardless, it’s a kind gesture, and you can’t help but flash him a smile as the cheery RA rambles on in front of your entire small group. You can feel yourself drifting away from the scene, everyone’s voices getting drowned out as your gaze locks with his—his eyes are a warm, hazel-y color that reminds you of new leaves sprouting across warm caramel colored branches in the springtime, and you can’t help but stare back at him, your hand squeezing into a fist and further squishing the joint in your hand with a soft crunch.

Crunch.

You open your eyes, and then immediately narrow them at the culprit of the sound, the one that’s responsible for waking you from your dream of the past. It’s no other than the other main character in said dream—your best friend and roommate, Vernon Chwe. He stands at your bedside, shoving bites of cereal into his mouth as he watches you sleep, with a smirk on his face.

“What the hell do you want?” you say, your voice quite bitter and laced with a raspy quality that only occurs in the early moments of your awakening.

“You were saying my name in your sleep,” Vernon says, around a mouthful of cornflakes and granola. Somehow, he wedges a grin in there as well, his mouth full of smugness and off-brand cereal. “I heard you when I was walking by, so I came in.”

You feel your stomach flip—firstly, you weren’t aware that you ever talked in your sleep, and secondly, out of everyone you could’ve been dreaming about, it had to be the one person you currently live with? Trying to be nonchalant, you close your eyes again and turn over so that he can’t see your face, unable to prevent the heat that’s rising to your cheeks as you think about the not so minor crush that you’ve been nursing on your best friend for the past four years. “Yeah, I was dreaming about our freshman orientation. I was saying your name because I remembered how you made me late for class the next day,” you say, walking the fine line between honesty and fibbing.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” he says, rolling his eyes. He sets his spoon down in his cereal bowl with a clink. “You’ve only reminded me daily, for the past four years, about how I abandoned you at the dining hall. How was I supposed to know you didn’t know your way to class from there?” he asks, making the same excuse he’s made for the past four years.

“It was the first day of class for us, ever. I didn’t know where anything was,” you retaliate, with the same retort you’ve used in response to Vernon for as long as you can remember.

“Good to know that you feel the same about me in your dreams and real life,” he snorts, turning on his heel to leave your room. His cereal bowl is empty, and he has class in just half an hour—you know this, having lived with him for roughly three years now. His habits haven’t changed much, and disappointingly, neither has your dynamic. After your initial crush on him during your freshman orientation, it fizzled out once you realized he didn’t seem to have any romantic interest in you. However, a hint of a crush remained, despite your best efforts to quench it. Certain things, like the way he had a turtle shaped night light in his dorm room, or the way he looked during finals week when his hair was all messy and hastily stuffed underneath a hood or a beanie, made your heart race no matter how you tried to stop it.

Really, there was just something about Vernon Chwe that your heart—and your mind—couldn’t forget, no matter how much you wanted to.

No matter how close you got to him as a friend, and now as a roommate, a part of you was always hoping for more. Every little touch made your eyes immediately fixate on his expression, to see if he felt anything. Every kind gesture made you wonder if he was just doing something nice for a friend, or if he was doing it for a different reason. After all, he was the sort of person that was just generally nice to everyone, even complete strangers. His inclination of kindness to strangers was sort of the way that you two met—him slipping you a joint in the middle of a lousy speech from an annoying RA about dormitory safety. An unspoken promise to new friendship, and also to meet in the woods behind the dorm building after the horribly optimistic speech ended.

As you ponder this, you consider staying in bed longer, pulling the sheets over your head and trying to fall back asleep, but then you decide against it—it’s not worth running the risk of sleeping through class. Though your first class doesn’t start as early as Vernon’s, it’s not that much later either. Sighing, you get out of bed, rubbing your tired eyes, and start to get ready for the day.

As you brush your teeth, Vernon peeks into your bathroom, as he fixes the sleeve on his denim jacket. You turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

“We should probably start packing tonight,” he says, as he finally fixes the button on the sleeve of his jacket and looks at you directly, his eyes meeting yours. You look away, feeling your heart starting to thump in your chest, and spit a glob of toothpaste into the sink. You turn on the water, watching it wash the foamy white substance down the drain, as Vernon continues to talk. “We have to move out by next week, but I think we can just start throwing our shit into boxes and call it good. It won’t be that hard.”

Right.

After four years of college—three of which were spent living together—it was time to move on, graduate, and be a real god damn adult. You almost swallow the toothpaste residue in your mouth as Vernon reminds you of this harsh reality. In about a week, you wouldn’t be living with your best friend any more, but instead living at home with your parents until you find a place and job of your own. And with the current state of the job market, you had no clue how long that would take. The thought of living at home again as an adult made you want to rip out your hair, but it was the better option when you considered the other one was to confess your feelings to Vernon and ask him to get a place together, as a couple instead of as friends.

You take a deep breath. Technically, you didn’t have to confess your feelings. But how much longer could you go on like this, living with someone that you’re secretly pining for? It was fine during the on and off crushes you had on him throughout college, but as your senior year progressed, so did your crush on him. Now, it was nearly stifling to pretend you didn’t harbor any romantic feelings towards him, and act like you didn’t care whenever he mentioned some romantic venture or Tinder hookup (though, luckily for you, they were quite sporadic and never turned into anything that serious).

“Yeah, we could start with the shared spaces and start dividing up all the stuff there,” you say, thinking about all of the knick knacks that litter the shelves and walls of your living room and kitchen. You rinse your mouth, and then start to wash your face. Vernon leans against your doorframe, watching you.

“How are we supposed to split up the things that we’ve shared for the past few years?” he asks, watching as you pat your face dry with a towel. “I’d feel bad keeping them, but I’d feel sad if I didn’t get to keep anything, either.”

“We’ll figure it out, now go,” you say, nudging him out of the bathroom. You can feel your emotions threatening to climb up your throat and spill from your lips—he looked so handsome standing there, leaning so casually against your door. His hair, slightly grown out and wavy, was falling into his hazel-y brown eyes as he looked at you. How were you meant to resist that look, especially when he paired it with a subtle pout upon his lips? It made you blush and your mind go fuzzy with adoration. Purely embarrassing—it was like you were a tween girl fawning over her first crush.

“Wait, don’t you want to smoke before we go to class?” he asks, deepening his pout and holding up a joint that he pulled from his pocket.

“Smoke, before we go to class,” you emphasize to clarify, raising an eyebrow. Vernon simply nods, a smile gracing his stupidly handsome face.

“It’s the last week of class, come on. We’re not learning anything new any more,” he says, his voice slightly whiny. You can’t help but feel slightly happy that he wants you to smoke with him so bad—it’s nice to feel wanted by him. “And besides, it’s only a little.” He pinches his thumb and pointer finger together and squints. “Lil’ bit.”

You almost roll your eyes, but catch yourself, and just chuckle instead. You want to cherish these moments, before you move out and all the memories of living with Vernon inevitably pale and then fade away. “Fine,” you say. “Let me finish getting ready for class first, I’ll be right out.”

With a gummy smile that almost makes you physically sick with how adorable it is, Vernon leaves you to finish getting ready.

A few minutes later, you’re pulling a jacket on over your thin shirt—it’s still a little chilly in the mornings—and walking out of your bedroom. Vernon’s standing by the large window in the main room of your apartment—the only one that opens more than a few inches. He’s opened it all the way, and he’s leaning out, enjoying the morning air. He has a slight smile on his face as a breeze rustles his soft brown hair.

Sneaking up behind him, you snatch the joint from his unprepared, loose grip and exclaim in triumph. “Got it!” you sing, grinning as you dance around him. You hold it between your teeth gently as you hold still for a moment to light it, inhaling deeply. You lean out the window next to Vernon, who’s still softly chuckling at your antics, and pass the joint to him as you hold the breath for a moment before exhaling. Coughing, you look over at him. “This tastes kinda strong,” you choke, your eyes watering slightly.

“I had to get out the good stuff for our last week living together,” he says, grinning cheekily. “Have fun in class while being baked out of your mind.”

“Fuck you, man,” you groan, but he just snickers and wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer. Your cheeks flush as you feel his lean, muscular body pressed to yours.

“Come on, you know you feel great right now,” he teases lightly, gently squeezing you in a side hug.

Stiffening, you chuckle awkwardly, feeling your heart beating faster. You were afraid he might be able to hear it, but a small part of you almost wanted him to hear it—to know the truth about how he made you feel. That, paired with the weed in your system, made you lean into his touch more, instead of pulling away like you normally would. He grins at this, and reaches up to ruffle your hair gently. He doesn’t say anything else, letting up on the teasing—which you’re grateful for, as it allows you to fully concentrate on the smell of his cologne and the deep, steady thudding of his heartbeat.

You watch as he turns his head away for a moment to take another hit from the joint, his neck muscles flexing beneath his beautiful, smooth skin. The sharp curve of his jawline clenches as he tightens his lips around the joint, inhaling deeply. He looks like some sort of god—how was it possible for a human being to be this ethereal, this close to perfection?

It comes out before you can stop it—before you even fully realize what you’re doing, and surely before you even think about the consequences of it.

“You’re beautiful.”

Your voice is soft and full of adoration—even the most clueless romantic would be able to pick up on it. Immediately, you press your lips together, in fear of more word vomit—or real vomit—escaping.

Vernon stiffens, and then he pulls away as he starts to choke on the deep inhale he’d just taken, clouds of smoke billowing around his face as he leans out the window to try and wave the stench of marijuana outside. Your blood turns to ice as you scramble for an excuse; you’re given a short window of time as he practically hacks up his own lungs and hangs onto the windowsill for dear life.

You flinch as his coughing starts to subside, and you realize you still don’t have anything else to say—no excuse, no explanation—your mind has simply gone blank.

Naturally, you do the first thing that any intoxicated, lovesick person would do in this situation—you run away from it.

You turn on your heel, grabbing your backpack from its place on the coat hooks by the front door, and run out of the apartment that you and Vernon share. You’re not sure if he turned to look at you, if he even saw you running away—you didn’t bother to turn around and break your own heart further.

Even though it’s still an hour before your class starts, you find yourself ambling towards the general direction of the building regardless. Your apartment complex is quite close to your college campus, but it still takes a short while to walk there.

If there was one lucky thing about your abysmal morning, it was the weather. As you start to slow your pace, looking over your shoulder to make sure Vernon isn’t following you or anything, the bright morning sunshine smiles down on you. There’s only a few clouds in the sky, and they’re puffy and white, drifting lazily across the wide blue expanse. Other students are enjoying the sunshine, already out and about in the early morning and sunbathing or throwing a ball around on the field across from the building you’re currently walking to. You almost crack a smile—it reminds you of the first year that you attended school on this campus, when you and Vernon attempted to follow the masses and try to sunbathe on the field, only to end up getting horribly sunburnt in the process. “It’s not even summer yet!” Vernon had protested angrily, as he rubbed aloe into his lobster red skin, sitting on the patchwork rug on the floor of your tiny dorm room. “It’s only the beginning of May!”

You approach your destination with a grim look on your face. No longer are you among the dozens of bright, young faces that are enjoying the sunshine in their best years. Now, you’re facing adulthood—and likely, without your best friend by your side, since you’ve clearly retained your childish insistence upon avoiding your problems and quite literally running away from them. The thought makes your chest ache with longing and regret, so you push the thought from your mind and start to walk up the stairs, almost grateful for the guaranteed to be boring lecture—maybe it’ll take your mind off of things for a bit?

Unfortunately, as you reach the top of the stairs, you see Vernon standing by the front entrance, checking his phone with a worried expression on his face. For a moment, you freeze—this is a chance to correct your wrongdoings, to show your growth and be honest with Vernon, as he deserves.

But it’s just a fleeting thought, and humans are inherently selfish, after all.

So you run away again. Slower this time, simply walking back down the stairs with your heart thudding madly in your chest, hoping that he doesn’t recognize you. Your guilt increases as you realize he’s missing class while he’s waiting for you, and you stop walking, freezing as you cling to the railing of the staircase. He’s your best friend—outside of your romantic feelings for him, whether they’re reciprocated or not, he deserves better. Yet you stand there, your feet stuck to the concrete as you hesitate, even though you know it’s the right thing to do. It’s so difficult to turn around and really face it.

A gentle call of your name unfreezes you, allowing you to turn around and look.

It’s Vernon of course—it always has been, and it always will be.

His brow is furrowed, and as he realizes it is indeed you, he rushes towards you, taking the steps two at a time to get to you faster. Before you can even say anything in return, he engulfs you in a hug, wrapping his arms around you and gently placing a hand on the back of your head to press your face gently into his chest. His smell floods your senses, and tears prick your eyes. If there was some sort of higher being out there, how could they prevent you from having this simple joy in your life? The joy of being able to smell his cologne as he hugged you and pulled you close. There was nothing else that compared.

“Why’d you run?” he asks, his voice thick with emotion, with relief. “I was worried. It’s not like you.”

It is like me, you think, grimly. “I don’t know. I thought you might get angry with me,” you mutter, embarrassment flooding your body as Vernon raises an eyebrow at you.

“What, for calling me beautiful?” he asks, chuckling slightly, nearly in disbelief.

“Not exactly,” you reply hastily, pulling away from the hug. People around you are beginning to look at the two of you as you’re locked in an embrace, and you don’t want to attract any more attention than you already have. It’s humiliating enough for only Vernon to hear your confession, even though it’s meant for him. “For liking you as more than a friend.”

Is there a word to describe the feeling that went through your body as you said those few words? It felt comparable to ice flooding your veins, to a wave of electricity running through your body—yet somehow, more deep and cutting and painful than either of those examples. There simply isn’t any expression or euphemism in the language to explain the horror and fear you felt as you watched Vernon’s eyes widen—so he hadn’t picked up on it, even then? Even after you called him beautiful, and ran away like a lovesick fool? Maybe you’re not the most clueless romantic—he’s the first, and you’re the lucky second.

“You like me?” he asks, dumbfounded. He raises his eyebrows so high that his forehead wrinkles, that you can see the whites of his eyes.

You look at the ground, scuffing the toe of your shoe against the concrete. “Yeah,” you mumble, unsure of how you’re feeling—a complex mixture of shame, relief, fear, and everything in between.

A dreadful silence falls between the two of you, prompting you to look up at him to hopefully understand a smidge of what he’s thinking. He looks gorgeous in the morning sunlight, and he reaches up to scratch his head, his expression simply perplexed. “… Why?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You’re surprised—Vernon, ever the predictable, introverted creature, has surprised you for the first time in years. How doesn’t he know? How doesn’t he understand?

You stand there, your tongue feeling swollen in your mouth as you file through your thoughts, desperately trying to encompass your nearly suffocating, complex emotions into words. It’s much harder to do when put on the spot, however, and you stand there spluttering like an idiot as you try to tell him something about the way his jeans fit on his hips and the way he only ever uses Dior Sauvage (a dab on the wrist and then rubbed onto his neck just below the jawline).

“I don’t know how to explain it to you,” you say, frantically, hoping that you won’t scare him away or freak him out. “It’s so many little things about you that made me realize how much I love you, in more ways than just friendship. I think… I think the mere idea of living without you and your nightlight and your stupid granola cereal is horrible. I don’t want to imagine it, let alone live it.” You throw your hands up in the air, feeling helpless, like you don’t know what else to do or say. “Fuck, dude. I just love you. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I just don’t ever want to lose you. I lived so many years without you but I can’t go back to that now. Not when I know what it’s like to be close to you.”

Your voice is soft at the end, as you’re afraid you might start to really cry, and you cross your arms over your chest and look down again, trying to will away the emotions that are surfacing after being bottled up for so long.

“You know I love you too, right?” Vernon says, his voice serious. He reaches forward to gently pull your arms out of the insecure position, and he laces his fingers with yours. “Even if I didn’t feel the same way, you’d still be my best friend.”

Squeezing his hands gently, you feel a million emotions rush through you at once—mainly relief, and then shock as you realize he feels the same way. You look up at him with desperate hope, tears burning your eyes, and find that he has the same expression on his face. He leans in slightly, and your heart skips a beat as you realize what he’s trying to initiate. Breathless, and tired of waiting, you lean forward too and press your lips to his, your heart fluttering as he kisses you back almost immediately, after his initial surprise.

“Does this mean we can both skip class today?” he asks hopefully, mumbling against your lips.

You chuckle, gently swinging your interlocked hands back and forth. “Yes,” you say, unable to resist his charms this time. “Let’s go home.”

Upon returning to your shared apartment, you see the few empty boxes littering the ground; you were both meant to start packing today. However, instead of feeling the deep sense of dread that had been bubbling up inside of you for weeks, you feel peace—you aren’t losing Vernon the day you move out, he was always going to be there for you. Whether that was as a friend, a roommate, or a boyfriend.

He seems to sense your contemplation, and gently presses a kiss to the top of your head. You can sense his hesitation, like he’s unsure if it’s something you’ll allow, and so you pull him into another passionate kiss, gently at first before descending into a mess of teeth and tongue.

He pushes you down onto the couch, as if his desire had been pent up all this time, admiring the view as you stare up at him with wide eyes—you’re surprised at his sudden passion.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, as he leans down to kiss your neck. His hands travel down to the hem of your shirt, but don’t slip underneath, waiting for your reassurance once again. Perhaps, another little thing that you liked about Vernon—his subtle submissiveness; his tendency and instinct to let you guide him. Something that was so rare among men, despite how childish the average one seems to be.

You reach down to gently guide his hands beneath your shirt, and when his hands cup your breasts his breath hitches slightly, as if he’s in disbelief that this is actually happening. He squeezes gently, eliciting a soft sigh from you. Groaning lowly, he pushes up your shirt—the mere feeling isn’t enough, he wants to see all of you as well.

A swift tangle of limbs, and your shirt flutters to the ground, discarded and forgotten about. Vernon’s eyes settle on your cleavage, the way your bra is slightly too tight on you (you’ve been putting off finding out your actual bra size; it’s a hassle) and makes your breasts spill over the cups slightly. His hands actually shake slightly as they raise up to cup your tits again, and he handles them gently, as if he’s afraid handling you too hard might cause you to melt in his hands, as if you were Icarus and he were the sun. You reach back to unclasp your bra, too impatient to let him attempt it, and he gently pulls it off of you, his eyes widening as he exhales deeply, in genuine awe of your body.

He leans forward, his hands sliding down to grab your waist, and presses gentle but sloppy kisses to your collarbone, his lips trailing down to the valley of your breasts. He moans against them, in absolute bliss. “Wanna see more of you… can I see more of you?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled as he keeps his face pressed in your cleavage.

“Greedy,” you tease, reaching up to ruffle his hair playfully, making him exclaim softly in exasperation. But you make it obvious what your answer is, as you reach down to undo the button of your jeans, climbing out of his lap to tug them off of your body. Vernon watches for a moment, mouth slightly agape as his gaze drops to the curve of your hips and the way your panties hug your ass just right, before he realizes that he should probably start taking off his clothes too. Blushing slightly, he hurries to take off his t-shirt, throwing it behind the couch accidentally and deciding that he would deal with it later. His fingers feel frozen and stubborn as he fumbles with his belt, and you have to stifle a giggle at his persistent awkwardness as you lay back on the couch lazily, your fingers skimming the edge of your panties.

Eventually, he gets the buckle undone and shoves his jeans down his legs. Once he straightens back up after stepping out of his pants, you feel a distinct throbbing between your legs as you see the noticeable bulge in his black boxer briefs. He notices your stare, and instead of teasing you, his cheeks flush darker as he kneels between your legs, hovering over you.

“You know it’s been a while since I’ve…” he says, trailing off. He looks away, clearing his throat and pretending like the deep red flush on his cheeks is nonexistent.

“Oh yeah, how could I forget the last Tinder hookup?” you say, chuckling despite the pang of hurt that cuts through your chest at the mere thought of Vernon being with anyone else besides you. “Why do you ask, though?”

Vernon clears his throat again, and you can’t help but let a little giggle slip this time at his demeanor, like he’s trying to impress you a little even though it’s just you. “I just… I wanna be good for you,” he says, his voice slightly whiny and desperate, making your mouth go dry. “I don’t want to disappoint you,” he pushes further, one of his hands sliding down the dip of your waist to grab the curve of your hip, squeezing gently.

“You won’t. You couldn’t,” you manage to say, swallowing hard as you feel heat rising to your cheeks—surely, soon your blush will resemble Vernon’s. “I just want you.”

Upon hearing that, Vernon groans softly, capturing your lips in a hot, messy kiss once more. You feel his tongue pressing against your lower lip, and you allow him entrance, whimpering softly as his free hand comes up to gently caress your jaw and pull you even closer. As if you could get any closer; your bare body pressed to his, your skin nearly melded together in a clash of perspiration and friction as you cling to each other desperately. Your mind is fuzzy with need as you reach down to swiftly pull off your panties, kicking them aside as Vernon follows your lead and pushes down his boxer briefs. Sneaking a glance before he pushes you down gently and positions himself between your legs, you feel a flash of excitement and anticipation as you see his size.

You catch your lower lip between your teeth, biting gently before letting go, exhaling deeply as you feel the blunt head of his cock slicking against your clit, and then against your entrance. He mutters, fuck, under his breath as he feels your silky folds against his tip, and as he presses harder against your tight hole, he looks up at you, catching your eye to make sure you still want this as much as he does. You give a slight nod, your gaze pleading with him to just do it already, and he does—he thrusts forward, pressing his cock into you, making your eyes widen and a high pitched whimper escapes your throat.

“Oh my God,” you say breathlessly, a slight moan edging into your voice as he bottoms out in your pussy, his hips flush against your supple flesh. One of his hands rests faithfully on your waist, just above your hip, while the other wanders up to gently squeeze your breasts. He can feel so much of you, and he wants more—perhaps greedy was the right word to describe him. He doesn’t think that he could ever go back to just being your friend, even if it’s selfish to think as much. Naturally, that’s when you choose to say it. “I love you,” you whisper, this time knowing exactly what you’re saying and not caring about the consequences. Vernon’s greedy heart flutters at your heartfelt declaration of love, and he leans down to kiss you as he starts to thrust into you, his hips smacking against yours as he fucks into you desperately, mercilessly.

“I love you too,” he moans, his grip on your waist tightening. It’s all he can muster out as he pounds into you, his thoughts clouded with pleasure and the absolutely ethereal sight of you, nude before his very eyes, all for his viewing pleasure and no one else’s.

He can feel it, and he knew from the beginning that he wouldn’t last long—which was why he was so concerned about it in the first place. He stifles a whine, and bites his tongue as he moves the hand that’s squeezing your tit down to toy with your clit, eliciting a gasp and a shaky moan from you. His fingers are slightly rough, calloused, and the friction on your sensitive nub makes you throw your head back as you moan with pleasure, feeling your orgasm starting to approach from the combined stimulation. You reach over to grab his arm, trying to steady yourself as you feel the powerful sensation approaching. The sound of skin against skin echoes around the room as he fucks into you more erratically, panting loudly. His fingers on your clit start to slip around from your wetness and his waning stamina, but he steadies himself and bites down on his lower lip, trying to hold out for you, just a little longer.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave, washing over your entire body and making you gasp and shiver. Vernon feels your pussy tightening around his length, his eyes widening as he pulls out quickly, groaning loudly as he spurts thick white ropes of cum onto your thighs and stomach. Breathing heavily, he lays down beside you, rolling onto his back. You both stare up at the ceiling, without saying anything. For a moment, the two of you lay there in near silence, as you catch your breaths and realize what really just happened. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Vernon shifting, turning his head to look at you.

You look back. He smiles at you, and you can’t help but return it, giggling at his goofy grin, at his messy hair, at everything. It’s all so perfect—he’s so perfect, in a way that only the two of you will ever understand.

Wordlessly, he reaches over to your coffee table and picks up one of his cartridges, attached to a battery. He hands it to you before taking a hit himself, grinning at you toothily, and you can’t help but grin back as you take the pen from him.

Truly, it’s the little things.

#kflixnet #k-labels #k-vanity #vernon x reader #vernon smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #chwe vernon x reader #svt x reader #vernon imagine #seventeen imagine #svt imagine

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flowerandblood · 11 months

Text

Guilt | Greed | Grace

[ modern! • Aemond x stepsister! • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, sexual tension, angst, smut, kind of incest but not really, brat taming ]

[ description: After one night together, he and his stepsister remain amused by the whole situation and that they have taken revenge on their parents in some way. Aemond begins to wonder if his relationship with Alys makes sense when their parents decide to go away for the weekend and leave them alone at home. The power of angst, ironic, bitchy Aemond. Anon request. ]

Series & Characters Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

After what they had done, they both began to fall asleep in his bed, exhausted after their physical exertion and fulfilment. His stepsister woke up before dawn − she slipped out of his embrace and stroked his hair before she left, quietly closing the door behind her.

He surprised his mother and the rest of the family by coming down for breakfast in the morning; Criston stood up, startled, and walked over to him, extending his hand to him. He shook it, trying to hold back a grimace of satisfaction.

"Criston. It's a pleasure to finally meet you." He said with the clear hope that he had finally broken through, that there would no longer be such a tense atmosphere in the house.

He looked at him forcing himself not to smile.

I fucked your daughter yesterday, Criston.

And it felt so fucking good.

"Aemond. Me too." He said low and matter-of-factly, turning away from him even though he could see he wanted to say something more, surely to ask how his studies were going or what he was planning to do today.

He sat down at the table taking a seat opposite his daughter, who for a brief moment pretended to be extremely focused on cutting pancakes with jam. He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to take a bite into her mouth and swallow it, and she finally lifted her gaze to him.

"Hi." He hummed and she pressed her lips together, her eyebrows arched in amusement − she was all red, her innocent embarrassment making him feel a pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen.

"Hi." She whispered, immediately leaning over her pancakes, trying not to laugh, and he reached for the toast with a smile of satisfaction.

His mother and Criston watched them with astonishment, Daeron being the only one who seemed to notice nothing and simply ate his cornflakes with milk, surely focused with his thoughts on some test that awaited him at school.

"Why are you laughing? Is something wrong?" Asked Alicent, clearly amused herself, suspecting that this was clearly not the first time they had spoken.

She and he shot each other a quick glance over the table − she didn't seem terrified and he figured she wouldn't mind if he played with the situation a bit.

"Nothing. Something funny just happened yesterday. Right, kid?" He asked indifferently, throwing her a defiant look, biting into his toast with a loud crunch.

She almost choked on the sip of tea she had just taken from her mug in the shape of a dog's head and looked at him with big eyes, hearing her pet name that he had used earlier in the night.

He thought with amusement that her mug fit her perfectly.

"Yes. Very funny." She muttered wearily, pressing her lips together and quickly taking another bite of pancakes, trying with the last of her willpower not to smile or laugh, looking at him pleadingly.

"Don't you want to tell your daddy what you did?" He asked ironically and she burst out laughing, looking at him with her eyebrows raised high, accepting his challenge.

"Maybe you should brag to your mum about what happened first." She said defiantly and lightly, taking a loud sip from her cute doggie cup, and he bit his lip, deciding that he probably needed to say enough so as not to overdo it.

"I see that whatever happened you two quickly found common ground." Said his mother with a sort of expression of contentment and relief, as if she understood from all this that something funny had happened in their absence which had made them, willy-nilly, grow closer to each other.

In a way, it was true.

In a way.

"Yeah. We got closer." He said lightly, and she just threw him a calm, happy look without saying anything else, eating the rest of her pancake contentedly.

"Okay, I'll drive Daeron to school and come back to drop you off at the university, okay?" Criston asked her, but before she could answer anything he interrupted him with a word.

"Big brother will drive his little sister to school. Get yourself together, I'm leaving in ten minutes." He hummed, putting the rest of his toast in his mouth, walking over to the machine to make himself a quick coffee. Criston wanted to protest, saying there was no need, but his daughter ran quickly to get her backpack without even listening to him.

He drank his coffee and started to put on his shoes, waiting for her when his mother came up to him, an expression of gratitude on her face.

"That's very kind of you, Aemond. Thank you for trying, you don't even know how much it means to me. I know it's hard for you, but…"

"Mhm. Ready?" He asked completely uninterested in what she was saying to him, noticing his stepsister behind her − she quickly put her trainers on her feet and nodded.

They moved to his car, which he opened remotely with his key, and settled comfortably in their seats, buckling their seatbelts. He turned on the engine and played a Guns N' Roses record, backing out of the driveway, neither of them speaking to each other as they drove.

He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye as they stood at the traffic lights − he looked at her dress, light, girly, revealing part of her thighs, on top of which she had thrown on a thick, short, light-coloured jumper fastened at the front with big buttons.

It seemed incredibly fluffy to him, from a distance he could sense that it smelled like a pleasant laundry softener.

He shuddered when a driver in the back honked at him, frustrated that he hadn't moved off despite the green light being on. He looked in the mirror, furious, driving off with a squeal of tyres.

"Fucking old prick. Where the fuck is he in such a hurry?" He growled more to himself than to her, but felt her glance back at him with a smile, twisting in her seat, hugging tighter her material backpack lying on her lap.

He felt odd about the fact that she hadn't spoken to him the whole way − for some reason he had a feeling she would flood him with questions about what had happened between them last night, or who he was, what he did for a living, if he had anyone.

He parked in front of her faculty without turning off the engine, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye; only then did she look at him, her eyes big, her gaze calm, her face gentle and full of some kind of gratitude and understanding.

"Thank you very much. Have a nice day." She said softly and he swallowed loudly, looking at her with his jaw clenched.

"… you too."

He watched with indifference as she unbuckled her seatbelt and walked out, closing the door behind her, running towards a group of people, a couple of guys and one girl, hugging them one by one.

He licked his lower lip wondering if any of these boys had fucked her before him and rolled his eyes, deciding he didn't give a shit and drove off, not wanting to be late for his own classes.

He sat in the ancient history lectures thoughtfully, unable to concentrate on what his professor was talking about despite it being his favourite class.

He had already managed to get a few messages from Alys − she was asking him when they were going to meet again, sending him a picture of herself getting ready for work, saying that last night had been wonderful.

He stared at her messages with a blank stare, thinking only of the fact that he had been dating her for several months, and was only able to think about Criston's Cole's daughter.

About her warm, tender hands holding him close to her body, stroking his hair, neck and back with her soft fingers until he fell asleep while being still deep inside her.

He felt a sort of tightening in his pit, a discomfort, an unpleasant sense that something was wrong; he ran his hand over his face, sighing quietly, putting his phone aside and closing his eyes.

He didn't know himself what he thought of this relationship.

He felt that he had got into it because it was his way of taking revenge on his mother, because it allowed him to get physically off, to feel mature, to feel desired, to have somewhere to run to.

But now that his final revenge was done, now that he felt he had his mother and Criston in his grasp, that he had mentally regained control of the situation it all lost its meaning.

He felt nothing for her.

He wasn't even sure if he really liked her.

He felt some kind of shame and embarrassment at the thought that he had devoted months of his life to someone who was so indifferent to him, fucked her for hours like some kind of animal.

Looking at his stepsister, he felt empty, because she was full of everything − warmth, peace, understanding, joy, courage, humour.

Everything he was missing.

He decided to take a break from Alys for the time being and focus more on his studies, which he had neglected in recent months; he pretended not to listen at all if and when Criston's daughter came home, if she went out in the evening or not.

He noticed with interest that she had caught a close relationship with Daeron very quickly, being able to give him what he was unable to − she listened to his childish problems at school when they ate dinner and gave him advice as if he were an adult.

She was the only person besides Daeron he spoke to when he passed her or if they were at the table together − she usually asked him to hand her something, or asked if he would pour more water in the kettle so she could make herself a cup of tea too.

He was used to dropping a bag of Earl Grey into her doggy mug; each time she looked at him gratefully when he handed it to her already poured with boiling water.

"Thank you."

He would sometimes see her sitting on the sofa in the living room watching TV, texting with someone on her phone and involuntarily wonder if she was in love with some boy.

For some reason he felt discomfort at the thought, as if he had really stepped into the role of her older brother and wanted to know who she was talking to and where she was going out.

Of course, he would never dare to ask her about it and kept his frustration to himself.

She didn't impose on him or try to talk to him by force knowing it was pointless, something his mother and Criston couldn't comprehend, barraging him with questions he didn't feel like answering.

Some part of him was curious about her, about what she had read and what she had listened to, about what she thought about it all, what she thought about him.

From that day on, he drove her to her classes every morning even when his started much later just to be alone with her for those few minutes.

He once dared to put his hand on her thigh as they stood at the traffic lights, unable to contain himself any longer, stroking her soft, smooth skin with his thumb.

He felt a shudder pass through her, felt her looking at him, but didn't dare reciprocate her gaze fearing what he would see in it.

Disgust, condemnation, mockery, sympathy.

He swallowed hard when he felt her fingers gently stroke the skin of his hand and did so until they reached the car park.

Only then did he look at her with an indifferent, cold stare hearing only the loud pounding of his heart in his ears.

She looked at him with that warm look of hers, the worry on her face coming from some kind of tenderness and affection.

He touched her cheek, her full lower lip, soft and shiny, and she parted it slightly. Driven by some strange, natural reflex, he slid his thumb deep between them, her pupils dilated, her flesh clenched on his finger, sucking it.

He felt it in his cock so hard that he flinched.

He pulled her to him by the nape of her neck in one sure movement, pressing his swollen lips to hers in a wild, loud dance of tongues, teeth and saliva − she threw her arms around his neck, his fingers sliding into her soft hair.

His hand was already sliding down her body between her thighs when they both gasped and pulled away from each other, hearing someone approach the car beside them − he involuntarily licked his lips feeling her wonderfully sweet taste.

She looked at him with wide-open eyes, her breathing sped up and uneven, making the glass on her side steam up.

"See you at home. Have a good day." She mumbled warmly unbuckling her seatbelt and walked quickly out, closing the door behind her.

He ran his hands over his face and slammed the dashboard of his car with all his might, furious at himself for being so desperate.

He kept repeating to himself that this was only supposed to be one time, a simple fun, sweet revenge, but nothing more.

She was a good kid, she wasn't to blame for the situation between Criston and his mother, he didn't want to hurt her.

However, what he felt in his trousers told him exactly what he thought of her and what he wanted.

The worst part was that it didn't look like she was going to stand up to him if he came to her to take it.

He sighed heavily, recognising that they were both fucked up, though she was certainly less so than him.

At least she wasn't a fucking sociopath.

During his lectures, he realised that his mother had texted him a few weeks ago the phone number of Criston and his daughter in case he needed something from them, had to leave them the keys to their house or just wanted to contact them.

He knew that his mother and Criston had decided to take a weekend away to relax together from all that was going on, and Daeron had taken the opportunity to spend that time with his favourite friend.

He felt throbbing in his trousers at the thought that they would be staying home alone.

That they could fuck all night long if they wanted to.

He licked his lips, wondering with a pounding heart whether to show desperation, whether to text her or not.

Since he had her number, she had his too.

After a few hours of pondering, he gave up, deciding that he couldn't take it any longer, that he needed to talk to her, to make sure she was thinking about him too.

After all, it was impossible for what they had done to be completely normal and meaningless to her, wasn't it?

Once the decision was made, he felt some kind of excitement. He wrote her into his contacts as Little Sister 🐶 with a smile of amusement and after a while sent her a message with his heart beating fast.

He shuddered when after a few minutes he saw the new notification on his phone, unsure if he wanted to read it, feeling horrified at the thought that she might have thought he was a pathetic little boy craving her attention.

He unlocked his screen after a moment and went into the messages with his heart beating fast and his throat clenched.

He felt relieved at the thought that her answer was perfectly normal, without a trace of mockery or discomfort − for some reason, the fact that she answered him pleasantly flushed his ego.

He stared at his screen with his heart beating hard, tapping the side of his cheek with the tip of his tongue, feeling the heat in his lower abdomen at the thought that he might be able to spend the night with her again.

Although he hadn't been home for dinner for weeks, this time he appeared back straight after class, startling his mother, who looked out to him from the kitchen.

"Aemond! I thought it was Criston. How good you are here, will you eat with us before we leave?" She asked softly and he shook his head, taking an apple from the bowl on the table in his hand, running up the stairs and locking himself in his room.

He didn't feel like sitting there looking at his face.

He heard the sound of the front door opening, the voices of Criston and his daughter, from which a shudder went through him − he felt excitement and some kind of anticipation.

He was browsing the internet on his phone, eating the fruit he had brought with him with a loud crunch of flesh, when suddenly Alys started calling him.

He stared at the incoming call from her chewing slowly, wondering if he should pick up and think of something quick, say he felt bad or just admit that it all made no sense.

He did nothing feeling his heart pounding and sighed heavily when he got a text message from her a minute later.

He decided that keeping her in the dark was cruel even for him, so he decided to write her back.

He sent her a reply, sighing loudly, and rolled his eyes when the message from her popped up practically immediately.

He pressed his lips together feeling an unpleasant squeeze in his chest − he was sick to his stomach at the thought that they might be getting back together again, but it wasn't her fault.

It was him.

All he had left was shame.

He wrote back quickly and blocked her number so that she could no longer send him any messages or call him.

He thought that only this would make her realize that he was serious.

He shuddered when he got another notification of a new message and thought she had written to him from another number, but was surprised to see that someone else wrote to him.

He got up immediately, walking out of his room, running lightly down the stairs, seeing her searching for something on his TV with the remote, probably looking for a movie already.

She was wearing a top with characters from The Lion King and shorts, her hair loose, pretty and shiny, its dark curls falling over her shoulders.

"If we start now, we might be finished by five in the morning." She said with amusement and nodded at the table top. "If you want, unwrap the crisps and put them in the bowl. Shall I spread out the sofa so we can lie down comfortably?"

She asked, looking at him questioningly, getting up from her seat. He nodded, opening packet after packet, pouring their contents into plastic bowls, trying not to think about her naked stomach, her nice long legs and the fact that she wasn't wearing a fucking bra.

They brought a couple of glasses, bottles of drinks and bowls of crisps close to each other and spread out comfortably, covering themselves with blankets and laying their heads on the big soft pillows she had apparently brought for them from upstairs.

They watched the first fifteen minutes focusedly, paying amused attention to scenes that had become memes − he pressed his lips together when he felt her lay her head on his shoulder, her hands embracing his arm, he could smell the pleasant scent of her shampoo.

He took a loud sip from his glass, trying not to think about the fact that he had been completely hard for about half an hour, that he felt like he was about to go fucking crazy because of her.

His hand under the blanket involuntarily slid down to her bare legs, running it up her knee; he felt her flinch, but instead of moving away she pulled closer to him.

He bit his lower lip feeling his heart pounding hard as his fingers slid between her thighs, teasing her through the material of her shorts in slow, circular motions.

He felt her press her body tighter against his shoulder, her hips began to rock to the rhythm of his hand, a quiet, blissful sigh escaping her lips that told him everything.

He pressed his lips together holding back a groan of surprise as her small hand slid down to the bulge in his trousers, her fingers began to press against his erection, massaging it up and down in a calm, slow motion.

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling that he was terribly hot, the dialogue from the film seemed to him to be just background and he had completely lost interest in it.

He looked up at her with his lips slightly parted as she rose and with a light, sure movement pulled her top off over her head − he immediately reached to the belt buckle of his trousers to undo it when she took off her shorts and underwear, no sign of shame or embarrassment on her face, only shy smile.

She sat on top of him without hesitation as soon as he slipped his boxers down a little, stroking his scarred cheek with her warm fingers, placing her other hand on his shoulder to keep her balance.

He guided his swollen cock, throbbing with impatience, to her entrance and licked his lips, dry with desire, feeling that she was already all wet. She slid it deep inside her with ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He groaned low and tilted his head back, panting along with her as she began to rise and fall on top of him, stretching her fleshy, hot walls with his fat length, feeling how wonderfully tight she was, how loudly her naked body slapped against his.

"− fuck, little one −" He gasped helplessly, desperate, with sure thrusts impaling her on himself; she mewled sweetly, her hands slid under the material of his black Tshirt and brushed across his naked chest, making him shiver.

He ran his hands over her buttocks, her back, her waist, wanting to savour the feel of her bare skin under his fingers, until finally he grasped her soft, plump breasts in his hands, teasing her hard nipples with his thumbs.

She gasped as she felt it, her walls clenching against him making them both sigh helplessly, speeding up − she slid her hand into his hair and kissed him, her lips so warm, her tongue so wonderfully moist, that he purred loudly into her mouth.

"− it seems you have missed me, big brother −" She cooed warmly, innocently, stroking his neck, hair and cheeks, looking at her so closely he could see how pink, puffy and glistening her lips were.

He felt his cock throb hard at her words and began to thrust it into her faster, clamping his hands on her waist and on the back of her neck, sitting up so that her whole body was pressed against his, his face at the level of her chin.

"− me? − you're fucking leaking, kid −" He scoffed with a grimace of amusement, moving inside her more aggressively, forcing her body to fit all of him in, deliberately sliding into her with lewd, loud click of her moisture, a pathetic whine escaping her lips.

"− look what you did to your big brother − how fucking hard he is because of you − have you no shame? −" He hissed and she sobbed with an expression on her face as if she was very sorry to have disappointed him, her lips parted slightly, a moan escaping from them each time his thighs slapped against her buttocks again, her breasts bouncing lightly.

"− I didn't mean to −" She mumbled with difficulty, embracing him with her arms − she gasped and moaned when he pressed her against him and grabbed her breast in his mouth, sucking and licking her nipple for a moment, releasing it with a loud plop.

"− you didn't mean to? − putting on that fucking slutty top without a bra? −" He growled and bit her neck − she sobbed and whined loudly, clenching her fingers painfully tight on his back and hair, letting him fuck her as fast and hard as he wanted.

"− I'm − I'm sorry −" She mewled as if she really felt guilty, cuddling her face into his temple, trailing her warm, puffy mouth over his cheek until their lips clung to each other again in a greedy, sticky kiss, his hips spreading her wide on his thick cock with quick, sure, deep thrusts.

"− you need to be taught a lesson, hm? − you need to be fucked more often so you'll behave properly −" He exhaled and she nodded her head as if she dreamt of nothing else, their lips and tongues rubbing and brushing against each other in moist, dirty kisses, he could feel her walls squeezing him faster and faster, that they were both on the edge.

"− yes − yes, yes, please, oh-fuck −" She mumbled and tilted her head back with her mouth parted wide as her body trembled in strong orgasm − she tried to push him away, moaning loudly, but he held her close, fucking her brutally through her peak until he came inside her with a loud sigh of pleasure, his warm semen filling her insides.

"− that's it − take it − take your brother's cum like a good girl −" He breathed out into her mouth, with thrusts of his hips pushing his seed deep inside her, her hands stroking his hair and back, their bodies all sweaty and hot.

He fell backwards, leaning back against his pillow, laying with her in a semi-prone position, breathing loudly as she did, their fingers trailing over their bodies as if they were blind and wanted to remember what they had done with senses other than sight.

"− fuck − oh God −" He gasped, completely relaxed and satisfied, lazily opening his eyes, looking at the screen again, noticing that by some miracle the action had moved to Rivendell.

They both inhaled loudly when the light in the driveway turned on, and after a moment they heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.

They looked at each other in horror, his stepsister quickly got up from him with a loud splat of his cock against his stomach, grabbing her underwear, shorts and top.

He stood up zipping up his trousers, wanting to give her a bit more time occupying whoever came in, fixing his hair in the mirror and suddenly Daeron walked in, all weepy. He swallowed loudly in relief, looking at him in disbelief.

"What happened?" He asked, trying to hide the tremor in his voice and the loud pounding of his heart. Daeron shrugged his shoulders.

"Nothing. Thomas is not as nice as I thought. He only gave me his worst toys to play with and we only played the games he likes." He mumbled pulling off his shoes − he licked his lips, glancing quickly over his shoulder, hearing the rustling of the fabric, looking back at him.

"And what are you doing? Watching The Lord of the Rings?" He asked curiously, apparently hearing the dialogues, going deeper − he wanted to stop him and went after him, but their stepsister was already sitting on the blanket, dressed as before, only slightly more red, scared and smiling at the same time.

"Hi. Yes, we are watching The Fellowship of the Ring. Do you want to join in?" She asked softly and he nodded wiping his cheeks, pulling his backpack off his back and laying down next to her, taking a handful of crisps in his hand.

"I'm going to go to the toilet for a while, you keep watching." She mumbled, and he led her away with an amused look, thinking only of the fact that, sure enough, his semen was just running down her thighs.

She came back after a few minutes and lay down between him and Daeron, slipping under the blanket, his hand immediately going to her thigh − he felt her flinch and swallow loudly, her fingers slid down to gently stroke his bare skin.

They gave up after watching the second part, deciding that they would finish together the next day, and covered themselves with a shared blanket, with the other enveloping Daeron, who had already fallen asleep a few hours earlier.

He embraced her from behind, deciding that he didn't give a shit if his brother woke up and saw it, or if he told their parents about it.

All he was focused on was the pleasant warmth of her body and the smell of her hair, his nose pressed into the hollow of her neck, her fingers entwined with his.

"− wanna be my girlfriend? −" He hummed softly into her ear, just thinking about how both wonderful and fucked up this vision of a relationship was.

She nodded silently, wrapping herself more tightly with his arms, pressing her back and buttocks against his body − he could feel that she was smiling. He murmured contentedly and snuggled into her closing his eyes, finally falling asleep.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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biteofcherry · 1 year

Note

I know it's far away and you don't have to reply but dark mafia Steve with pregnant reader.

It's definitely far away. Princess has a contraceptive implant for now 🤐

Buuut, if I entertained that idea at the moment... dark mafia!Steve Rogers with his Princess pregnant would look more or less like this:

When Steve smiled indulgently, you barely restrained the urge to hurl the bowl at him. You didn't do it mostly because you really wanted to finish your cereal.

"You can't keep me here!" You growled around another spoon of cereal.

"I'm not keeping you here, you're living here." Steve moved past you, fingers brushing along your bare hip.

"You know what I mean," quickly stuffing another spoonful into your mouth, you trotted after him into his home office.

You ignored the fact he was fully dressed, leather jacket draped over his arm, having returned from some shifty morning meetings while you were barefoot, in nothing but a pair of panties and a tank top.

Tank top that stretched around your rounded belly, the hem rolling up and revealing a stripe of skin.

"Pregnant women go to work every day, doing much more straining jobs than I do." You rounded Steve's desk, crossing arms over your chest; but since it made your already bigger breasts almost spill out, so you dropped your arms down.

"They sure do," Steve nodded, reclining in his armchair. "But they're not my pregnant wife."

"Oh, can I divorce you then?" You smiled sweetly, clasping your hands.

Steve's responding grin was as much a hungry shark's bite as it was soft fondness that was messing with your mind. Or it used to mess with it. After a year of being in Steve's clutches you grew accustomed to the dark tendrils of his twisted charm.

Accustomed was a better word than...

Big hands settled on your hips, rough callouses (which you knew were from holding weapons and yet it didn't deter you from his touch at all) grazed your sensitive skin.

Steve pulled you between his spread thighs. With his thumbs he rolled the hem of your tank top further up.

"Try me, Princess," Steve looked up at you, then moved his hands to the backs of your thighs.

He squeezed them and then yanked you up and over his lap in a swift move. That he was still able to manhandle you easily was scary. You were also kinda excited to see if he'd be able to do it in a few months, when you're really heavy.

"I want to work," you pouted.

You grasped the back of the chair. Your grip hard, transferring your need to grind against Steve and instead needling the leather with your fingernails.

"You can work all you want." Tip of Steve's nose trailed up the column of your throat, his warm breath in its wake. "From home. Where it's safe."

"And where the cornflakes are," he added with a chuckle.

#ktficworld #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #dark mafia!steve rogers x reader #dark mafia!steve rogers #steve rogers imagine #dark!steve rogers #touch the darkness

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 5 months

Text

Just had the wild realisation that I can write whatever I want here. This is a thing that I am allowed to do. I can scream into the void. I don't have to tag my posts. Grammar is a social construct. It doesn't matter who's listening. The people I love and who love me will talk to me posts or no posts. Someone's going to read this and smile. Even if it's just me.

I can watch only the finales of shows to see their happy endings. I can eat cornflakes in the afternoon. I can go into bookstores just to creepily stare at the hardcovers of Victorian literature. I can write meticulous notes for subjects I'm not studying, and highlight it to Pinterest perfection. I can tell people I want to bite them out of sheer love. I can write long emails to my friends about weird slippers that remind me of them.

I can tell you that it's been a hot year, the hottest one to date, and that April hasn't seen a single drop of rain fall onto the earth. But it's hanging in the air, making it heavy with moisture and that relentless, relentless heat. It's muggy and the swamp theme I chose for my bullet journal couldn't be more appropriate. I can tell you how I keep singing that song in my head, Corner Of My Sky, the one whose music video has Michael Sheen wrangling with an occult toaster. "The rain, the rain, the rain, thank god the rain."

I can tell you anything I like. I can tell you that I'm afraid of being forgotten, that I've always longed to be famous, that I have a hard time not caring about every single little thing. I can tell you that I'm ace and I'm afraid that no one will ever love me the way I need them too, even if I love them the way that they need me to. I can tell you the nightmares have gotten better, but they're still there, they don't seem to want to leave me. I can tell you that I'm so much more ill and broken than I dare think about. Because I am afraid that if I start thinking about it, I shan't stop, and then it will become everything. And I don't want it to be everything. I can tell you that. I can tell you that I have beautiful memories, too, not just the fear and the loss and the anger.

I can tell you that I'm a performer, an entertainer, and I love making people laugh. I'm more comfortable on stage, where people are already listening, than trying to go up and make conversation to groups of strangers. I can tell you how wonderful it feels to have been able to speak to so many people all around the world, to have them know me, to listen to me, and to listen to them in turn. I can tell you that I don't know where to draw the line sometimes, I'm never entirely sure when I'm joking, and the act easily becomes a second skin. I can tell you all of that.

I can tell you all the things that I used to tell myself in letters sealed in envelopes addressed to Future Me. And it won't matter, and it does matter, and it's all so fucking absurd. It doesn't make any sense at all. Does it? I don't know. I can tell you that I don't know very much at all. Knock knock. Who's there? No one. No one who? No one who matters. Knock knock. I haven't been able to walk around for a month. This room is an oven and I'm being slow-cooked, broiled into a little Asmi pie. I read fanfiction yesterday after a long while. That was nice. I think it's really cool that you all know me. You do know me. Sometimes better than I know myself. I can tell you that.

I can tell you the truth. I can tell you I love you. And that to be seen and to be known is a gift that I will always be grateful for. I can tell you that you don't have to listen. But if you do, then hi! Nothing makes sense. Let's sit in the nonsense for a while. I have biscuits. Would you like one? I'm very human. It's one of the things that gets me so easily hurt. Maybe it happens to you too. I can tell you that my plant Crowley is surviving, unlike the others did. I can tell you that maybe you and I are, too.

It's 8:02 in the morning. I might just eat breakfast now. It does seem like the thing to do. How weird and wonderful that is.

#unravelling rambles

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mclennonlgbt · 4 months

Text

"He also spoke with affection about the Beatles days and how much he still looked forward to seeing Paul. That surprised me because of the sarcastic barbs he’d launched in interviews and the biting lyrics he’d written about Paul since the breakup of the band. “Aw, don’t believe all that,” he said, smiling. “Paul is like a brother. We’ve gotten way past all that.”

HILBURN, Robert: "Cornflakes with John Lennon and other tales from a rock 'n' roll Life" (source)

This should be read by anyone who thinks John and Paul hated each other.

#mclennon

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softfem-dom · 1 month

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PLEASE HUNNY I NEED MORE HYBRID!OUTSIDERS

OMG HI SWEETIE 😭🥰 ily so much of course I can serve more hybrid outsiders headcanons for u 🥺

Okay, first of all Steve gives off the vibes that he'd try to scent his fav side of the couch or something to 'mark territory', like he totally does that the smug shit.

Talking about Johnny, he's defo the hybrid to get real scared and anxious about loud fireworks or thunder. He'll prob seek out either Dally or u to snugle.

Dallas really really is the typo guy to playfully bite your wrist when you scratch his head. Also the typa bitch to flop down on u when you're laying on the couch or somth and downright suffocate you (he does it affectionately tho).

I see Soda as the most eager to play with u. He's just a silly hyper doggy that wants to spend time with his pretty owner. Also he's probably going to get the newspaper for you from the doorway, please praise the boy.

Darry's the typa hybrid to come with you to do the shopping and stuff, literally just to give you scary dog priviledges™ and to help u carry the heavy bags.

On the other hand, Ponyboy is more calm and all that stuff so I see him more as the hybrid to seek you out in your room late at night with his ears down (kind of like in 'mom i frew up🧍🏼‍♂️') and just stare at you and go "I dont remember where the cornflakes are" because he wanted to have a 2am bowl of cereal 😭

Two-Bit is the kind of hybrid to like randomly bark just because he thinks its funny. And then It can be dead silent in the house cuz it's almost bedtime and all of them are all eepy and then suddenly Two is barking because he can 😭

#softie talks #softie's besties #the outsiders #the outsiders hybrid au #hybrid!outsiders #hybrid au #Dallas Winston #Sodapop Curtis #Ponyboy Curtis #Darry Curtis #Two-bit matthews #Johnny cade #Steve randle #the outsiders x reader #the outsiders x fem reader #the outsiders 1983

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gentrychild · 2 years

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Five headcanons game

Izuku and Shigaraki acting like the most siblings to ever sibling, causing much confusion among the heroes.

1 - Izuku and Shigaraki have never met before the USJ.

2 - It doesn't prevent for something inside Izuku to immediately recognize Tomura as an older brother figure and before he even has the time to introduce himself, Izuku's teeth are sinking in his arms. Tomura tried to make him let go but nothing worked until he threatened to lick Izuku's face. Insults are then thrown, about their appearances, their outfits, everything.

3 - No one believes Izuku when he says he has never seen that villain in his life. Shouto has no less than three theories about him.

4 - The noumu in Hosu drops Izuku at Tomura's feet. Izuku immediately makes one joke about that time Tomura got shot. This time, Tomura is the one to bite him.

5 - Aizawa is delaying any kind of teacher-parent meeting for as long as he can because he is genuinely scared of going to the Midoriya home only to see Shigaraki Tomura eating cornflakes on the couch or something like that.

#5 headcanons game #closed ask game

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vroomvroomtothemoon · 2 months

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I feel like when modern au jegulus first moved in together James walked into the kitchen and saw Regulus eating cornflakes so he walked over, grabbed the spoon, took a bite and went “what the fuck!” because regulus used monster instead of milk.

#jegulus #starchaser #regulus black #james potter #monster energy #corn flakes

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daisynik7 · 1 year

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Cut From the Same Cloth

Pairing: Mitsuya x Original Female Character

Rating: Mature

Word Count: ~3.6k

Summary: Takashi Mitsuya has always lived his life being true to himself. Despite being the proud Second Division Captain of the notorious Tokyo Manji Gang, he never hides the softer side of him: He cares deeply for his two younger sisters and enjoys spending his free time sewing. When a classmate, Hana Shimizu, approaches him, asking for lessons in sewing, he agrees, not seeing any downsides to having some company.

Author's Note: I hope you enjoy this first chapter! Likes, comments, and/or reblogs are always appreciated. Would love to hear what you think about this so far! You can also read this on my ao3.

Masterlist | Next Chapter

If one of us gets hurt, we'll protect them. A gang that's all for one, one for all.

Mitsuya chuckles to himself, glancing at the photo propped to his vanity mirror, reminiscing. He checks his reflection, noticing dark circles under his eyes and the rare grey hair he manages to spot in the field of silver-lilac. Not bothering to pluck it, his focus switches back to the picture, six familiar faces staring back him, including his own. It was taken five years ago, but he remembers it like yesterday; just a couple of hoodlum kids riding their bikes, swearing their loyalty to each other. Two years later, one gets arrested and sent to juvenile detention, another is dead, a third is the one who caused it. They were fifteen; too young to deal with the consequences of this lifestyle, but too old to blame it on “kids being kids.” All the fighting, the turmoil, the violence…he never liked it. Only use your strength to protect; that is his personal motto. But does it matter when he’s the only one who follows it?

He sighs, smile lessening as he grabs his backpack from the floor, heading out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. Luna and Mana are at the dining table, scarfing down a bowl of sugary cereal. His mom is on the couch, sleeping with the remote teetering in her hand, TV displaying the morning news on the lowest volume. He ruffles his sisters’ heads before grabbing an apple from the counter, rinsing it at the sink.

“See you two later, I’ll be home before dinner,” he muffles, chewing his bite of apple, walking towards the door to slip into his shoes. “Make sure you wake mom up so she can take you to school.” They wave happily at him, mouths too stuffed with mushy cornflakes to bid a proper goodbye.

Shibuya High School isn’t that far from their home; twenty minutes by walking, twenty-five by bus, because of all the stops. Regardless, Mitsuya rides his motorbike to school, not only because it’s the fastest mode of transportation, but also because it exerts his dominance as the highest-ranking member of Toman on-campus. Behind him is Peh-Yan, who followed him after middle school. Being the top delinquent gives him the power to do as he pleases without judgement or ridicule, which is why he’s often found after school, sewing in the home economics room, doing what he loves.

In middle school, he was president of the Sewing Club, where he was highly respected by its members, mostly girls. However, his high school doesn’t have one, and this hobby didn’t garner enough attention for him to start a club for it. So, for the past two and a half years, he sews in solitude, which he doesn’t mind. Sometimes, Peh-Yan joins him to read manga or a dirty magazine. Hakkai stops by when he’s not too busy doing tasks for Mikey or picking fights with opposing gangs. Occasionally, Takemichi and Hina would visit from their school to say hello. Other than that, Mitsuya is alone.

Until today.

~~~

You never thought in your entire eighteen years of living that you would intentionally approach a member of the Tokyo Manji Gang, of any gang for that matter. But here you are, sidling against the wall beside the door frame of the home economics room, gathering the courage to talk to Takashi Mitsuya.

He is well-known on campus, and not in the way you’d expect. Even though he is technically a delinquent, many of your peers like him. He often walks around with a lazy smile on his face, respecting others, keeping to himself for the most part. As a first-year, there was an incident where two upperclassmen were caught harassing a second-year for money. Sixteen-year-old Mitsuya, despite being shorter and younger, didn’t hesitate to fight them off. A year later, there was another instance, when some girls in your class were being creeped on by a new teacher. Again, Mitsuya did not falter, even when it was an authority figure. He gave that pervert a good beating, and with the many witnesses that came forward in his defense, he didn’t suffer any consequences to his school record. Many respected him for his personality, more feared him for his association with the most notorious biker gang in Tokyo. Nobody, however, actually knew him. Except for his few friends from the gang, the rest of your class only shared stories of what they’ve heard or seen him do in the past. Everybody outside of Toman only saw what was on the surface. In theory, you didn’t have a good reason to be fearful of him, considering you’ve barely interacted with him prior to this. Still, it’s the uncertainty of his character that makes you uneasy. That, and his undeniable “bad boy” charm.

Who are you kidding, though? He probably has no clue who you are. While you’re happy in your own skin, you’re not exactly a stunner compared to the other girls in your class. Your friends, Mei and Keiko, often shower you in compliments, though you’re certain it’s only because they love you, and those don’t count in the grand scheme of things. Truth be told, you’ve made peace knowing you’ll never be the object of one’s affection, at least, not in this high school. Maybe one day, in the far future, where men have developed from immature teens to immature adults. For now, you’re perfectly fine enjoying your last semester before college. Still, it doesn’t hurt to imagine strikingly handsome Takashi Mitsuya in your girlish fantasies, right?

You shake your head of any inappropriate thoughts, finally willing yourself to enter the room. His back is turned towards you, head bowed over the desk. The curtains are open wide, allowing bright streaks of sunlight to cover the room in a golden glow. You clear your throat to get his attention, and when it isn’t enough for him to react, you do it louder, announcing your presence. “Hello, Mitsuya.”

He straightens up, craning his neck to look at you, removing his left earbud. “Shimizu?”

You’re surprised he knows your name. You’ve been classmates since last semester, but you didn’t think he’d recognize you, nor remember your name. “Yes, hi. I want to ask you a favor if that’s alright.”

Popping the other earbud off, he smiles, swiveling his chair to face you directly. “Okay. Shoot.”

You cross your arms over your chest, swallowing hard. “Um, well, I was wondering if you could teach me how to sew.”

He raises a brow at you, curious. “Sew?”

You nod. “Yes. I want to learn before I go to college in the fall. My mom usually hems my pants and what not, but I want to learn for myself. She isn’t the best teacher, and I heard you were president of your middle school’s sewing club. So, I figured it’d be nice to learn. From you.”

He stares at you, contemplating. His gaze is intense, as if he’s inspecting you, processing the many different outcomes for how this scenario could play out. Before he responds, you add, “I can pay you. Or I can do your homework for you, although I’m not the smartest in the class…”

“Do you babysit?”

You blink at him, making sure you heard correctly. “Babysit?” You’re an only child, so you never needed to. The most experience you’ve had is spending time with younger cousins during house parties. How hard could it be? “I can babysit,” you reply, not too confidentially.

“Normally, I would help you out without expecting anything in return. But since you offered, I’d love it if you could babysit. Not every day, but maybe once a week. We can do our sewing lessons the same amount, so that it’s fair. What do you say?” He holds his hand out, wanting to shake on it to make it official. You wonder if this is how oaths are done in the Tokyo Manji Gang, which makes you giggle thinking you could ever be a part of an intense organization like that.

You shake on it, fingers squeezing around his in a firm grip. “Deal.”

He grins, releasing you. “Great. We can start this week if you’re up for it. How about Friday?”

“Sure. Do you want me to babysit that day, too?”

“Yes, unless you already have plans.”

You usually spend your Friday nights with your parents, watching a movie, or with friends, watching a movie. Either way, it’s not significant enough that you can’t sacrifice it for the next couple of weeks. “I’ll be free.”

“Great. We can go right after our lesson. I’ll introduce you to my sisters, Luna, and Mana. That’s who you’ll be babysitting.” He reaches into his pocket pulling his phone out, holding the screen towards you. The background is a picture of him with two young girls, making silly faces at the camera.

You smile. “Cute. I look forward to meeting them.”

“Cool. I’ll see you here Friday, then.”

“I’ll be here. Thank you, I really appreciate it.”

He nods, waving farewell as you step out of the room and down the hall. It’s a fair arrangement that should go smoothly. Sewing lessons in exchange for babysitting. What could possibly go wrong?

~~~

Friday afternoon, Mitsuya sets up shop as usual. It’s part of his weekly routine: After his last class of the day, if there aren’t any pressing manners concerning Toman, he strolls into the home economics room and heads immediately to the windows to open the curtains, basking in the sunlight. It’s the best type of lighting for when he’s sewing. It also gives him that natural boost of happiness, which is an added bonus.

Today, he’s working on Luna’s skirt, which tore while she was playing at school. It’s an easy fix, so he brought more clothing from home to mend. Later tonight, there’s a big meeting at Musashi Shrine to discuss the gang’s current state of affairs. Recently, there’s been talks of absorbing the Leviathans, a new gang that has emerged from Shinjuku. Not much is known about them, and with Mitsuya being preoccupied with school and taking care of his sisters, he hasn’t been too involved in any direct action. He plans to meet with Draken for dinner prior to the meeting to get caught up with any important matters.

He pushes his earbuds in, ready to listen to his favorite playlist, when he someone clear their throat behind him. He turns to see his classmate, Shimizu, waving politely at him. “Hello.”

“Oh, shit,” he swears out loud, scratching his nape, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I totally forgot about today.”

She sets her backpack on one of the nearby desks, pulling a chair next to him. “That’s okay. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Nah, not at all. I’m so used to being alone in here, it’ll be nice to have some company.” He points to his sister’s skirt. “I’m fixing this if you want to watch. This one is pretty simple.”

He explains the process thoroughly, turning it inside out, poking a pin through the edges to hold together. She watches as he describes what a backstitch is, pointing at the different spots for the needle to enter and exit. He does it slowly, repeating it several times until it’s engrained in her mind. When he’s done, he loops the thread, knotting it to finish. She blinks several times, as if she missed something. He laughs softly, amused by her reaction. “That I can’t really repeat, so you’ll just have to practice.”

Her face relaxes into a smile. “It’s like magic.”

He trims the excess threading, inspects his work once more, then flips the skirt, tugging where the tear used to be. “I guess I’m sort of a wizard then,” he teases, winking at her.

For the next hour, Mitsuya demonstrates other simple tasks: hemming his mom’s pants, fixing buttons on one of his cardigans, mending a tear in Hakkai’s jacket. She observes intently, listening to his every word, repeating it aloud to better memorize. When he’s not teaching her the basics of sewing, he’s making small talk, learning that they have more in common than he originally expected. They both dislike math, enjoy cooking, indulge in similar types of food, even listen to some of the same bands and artists. He doesn’t remember ever conversing with Shimizu before this, not to this extent at least. He’s always been aware of her since they’re in the same class, but he never gave her much thought. Then again, Mitsuya never really gives any of the girls in school much thought, too focused on his own hobbies and extracurriculars. It also seems like the girls in his class generally avoid him, probably due to his affiliation to Toman. It isn’t that he’s not attracted to anyone; sure, he indulges in the occasion second glance at a pretty face passing by. He’s just too busy with other things to pay attention.

That being said, he gives credit to Shimizu for actually having the guts to approach him first. It seems that she’s prepared to go beyond her comfort level to get what she wants, and that’s something he can respect whole heartedly. She must be really determined to learn how to sew if she’s willing to ask a delinquent for help.

Before he knows it, it’s already five o’clock. His phone vibrates, his mom’s contact flashing on the screen. He checks it while Shimizu studies the stitch on Hakkai’s jacket, running her fingers along where the rip used to be, amazed. His mom informs him that she’s leaving for work now, indicating that he should head home as soon as possible to watch his siblings. Almost forgetting their deal, he looks up from his phone to ask, “Are you still good with watching my sisters tonight?”

She nods to confirm, setting the clothing back on the table. Mitsuya gathers his belongings, stuffing the repaired clothes into his backpack. “Alright, want to head out now?”

“Sure.” She swings her backpack over her shoulders, holding her own phone in her hands. “Are we taking the bus or walking?”

He steps to one of the cupboards, retrieving two helmets. “Neither. Have you ever ridden on a motorbike before?”

~~~

This is definitely not what you had in mind. You never expected to ride on the back of a motorbike, firmly gripping the waist of Tokyo Manji Gang’s Second Division captain. Yet, here you are, skull heavy from the sturdy helmet Mitsuya plopped on your head, clothes flailing in the wind behind you, terrified and exhilarated all at once.

“You okay?” he yells out, barely audible. The cross earring on his left ear glimmers in the sunshine, a small grin on his face, glancing at you through his shades.

You’re hesitant to answer, too afraid to open your mouth in case the rest of the breath remaining in your body escapes. So, you simply huddle closer to him, nodding into his back, blinking your eyes rapidly to lubricate the contacts that are currently drying against your corneas. Next time, you’re definitely bringing sunglasses.

Thankfully, the trip lasts only ten minutes. Still, it’s enough to have your heart racing with adrenaline, even though you weren’t the one driving. He pulls up to the front of a quaint home, slowing to a stop at the garage door. “We can get off now.”

You carefully dismount, legs wobbly and balance slightly off, but in one piece. He follows, tapping the kickstand to prop the bike upright, stepping towards a small panel to punch in a code, activating the garage door. You notice it’s generally clean, except for the standard clutter organized on the side shelves. He moves it inside, hanging his helmet on one of the handles. He faces you, beckoning you to pass him the other still tied to your head.

“Oh, right,” you say, unbuckling it. It’s only now that you realize sweat is trickling down your forehead, matting your already matted hair to your scalp. Without seeing a reflection, you know you look ridiculous, and suddenly, you’re self-conscious. You hand it to him sheepishly, attempting to fix your hair by running your fingers through it. He doesn’t seem to notice as he places the helmet on the other side. “How’d you like your first ride?”

Collecting yourself, you respond, “Fun, but definitely a little scary. Somehow I managed to stay alive.”

He laughs softly, stepping out and pushing a button on the panel to close the garage door. “You’ll get used to it. Maybe you’ll want to learn to drive it after you master sewing.”

“That’s a pretty big jump. Maybe let’s try something a little less life-threatening before that?”

He chuckles louder. “Not used to living on the edge, huh?”

“Not really. But I’m willing to give anything a try at least once.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He unlocks the front door, motioning for you to go in first. You remove your shoes, setting them to the side. It seems empty at first, until two young girls sprint from the hallway, peering up at you curiously.

“Luna, Mana. This is Hana Shimizu, my classmate. These are my sisters. Luna,” he points to the taller one, “and Mana,” then at the shorter one.

You kneel down to meet Luna eye-to-eye, smiling. “Hello Luna. Hello Mana. Nice to meet you.”

“Are you Taka’s girlfriend?” Mana blurts out.

You shake your head, laughing. “No, no, no. I’m his classmate.”

“Taka never brings girls over! Except that one time that we’re supposed to keep secret – ”

Mitsuya covers Luna’s mouth with his hand, chuckling nervously. “And that will remain a secret, right Loony? Right.” She muffles, wriggling from her brother’s grip. Eventually, he releases her after she’s drooled into his palm.

Mana tugs at your sleeve, eyes wide and bright with that classic childlike wonder. “How old are you?”

“Guess,” you tell her, resting your chin onto your knuckles.

“Fourteen?”

“I’m actually eighteen,” you answer.

Mana’s eyes open even wider. “You’re Taka’s age?”

“Yup.”

“Ohhhhh,” the two sisters harmonize, nodding simultaneously. They’re too adorable for their own good.

Luna grabs your other sleeve, pulling you towards the hallway. “Let’s go to our room now!”

Mitsuya interrupts, pulling his sisters off you. “Hey, you two monsters, I will give our guest the formal house tour. You two wash your hands before you keep touching her with your grubby little fingers.” They obey, fleeing into the kitchen, kicking a small step stool in front of the sink to stand on. He shakes his head, laughing. “Sorry. It’s been a while since they’ve seen a girl that isn’t my mom.”

You smirk. “Except for that one time, right?” Before he protests, you quickly add, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

He chuckles, staring at his feet. “Thanks. I appreciate that. Anyways, they’re pretty stoked, so I hope you don’t mind the high energy.”

“Not at all. They’re really cute.”

Their home isn’t that large, but Mitsuya explains everything thoroughly. The master bedroom at the end of the hall is where his mom sleeps, so it’s completely off limits, of course. To the right is the girls’ room, which they share. To the left is his room, which he opens to give you a brief glimpse before closing it again. He doesn’t explicitly mention that it’s restricted, though you don’t find any reason why you would need to go in there in anyways, so you assume it is.

He shows you around the living room and kitchen, where most of the action will be happening tonight. There’s a box neatly tucked away next to the TV. Inside is a variety of activities, including toy cars, action figures, building blocks, two dolls, and a tea party set. You smile to yourself, seeing how most of it must be hand-me-downs from their big brother. In the kitchen, he points out the major appliances and where all the necessary accessories are located. Inside the pantry are snacks and instant ramen, which will be the girls’ dinner.

“Help yourself to whatever you can find,” he comments, closing the refrigerator after showing you its contents. “They’re not too picky, so the ramen should be enough for them.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking the time and his text messages. “Do you have any questions before I leave?”

You look around the room, racking your brain for anything you might be unsure of. “I think I’m okay.”

“Well, if something comes up, call me. What’s your number?”

You recite it to him, watching him tap it into his phone. A second later, your phone begins vibrating from your backpack. “That’s me,” he says, hanging up instantly. “Now you have mine in case you need it. I’m heading out now.” He faces his sisters, who are sitting on the couch, watching TV. “Luna, Mana. Behave, okay?”

“We will!” Mana replies.

“We always do!” Luna announces proudly.

He walks over to the closet near the front door, reaching for a jacket that you realize is the official Toman uniform, jet black with beautiful gold embroidery adorned on the back and sleeves. You wonder if Mitsuya is the one who designed it.

Grabbing your backpack from the floor near your shoes, you wave goodbye to him as he leaves. On the couch, you sit beside his sisters, retrieving your phone from your bag. You wait for the distinct rev of the engine and the loud pounding of the exhaust drifting away until it’s a low drone in the distance. Staring at the unfamiliar number displayed on your screen, you save it under his name with a small grin on your face.

#tokyo revengers fanfiction #tokyo revengers mitsuya #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers #takashi mitsuya #mitsuya takashi #mitsuya x original character #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya x you #mitsuya x y/n #mitsuya fluff #tokyo revengers x reader

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alwaysbethewest · 1 year

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Triple Frontier fic: Put Yourself in My Place

It's a fishben body swap fic 🤷‍♀️ This is for the @pedrostories 1000 follower celebration 🥳 I was browsing the prompts last week and felt a little overwhelmed by how many great options there were, but when I saw body swap listed in the tropes I knew that was what I had to choose. I also worked in two of the dialogue prompts but I don't want to spoil which ones.

Title: Put Yourself in My Place Pairing: Frankie Morales/Benny Miller Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3.1k Content/warnings: Friends to lovers, body swap, big dick Frankie, oral sex, anal sex (the sex is while body swapped, just to be clear), mysterious magical objects, Pope gets threatened with bodily harm, brief cameos by Frankie's ex-wife and daughter, food, just absolute nonsense. Unbetaed (please let me know if you spot any typos!) I had a lot of fun writing this, lol, so I hope it will be a fun read.

The phone buzzing on the nightstand awakens Frankie. Groggily, he grabs it and checks the caller ID.

It’s a glitch. His own image fills the screen, an old picture of him with the baby sitting on his shoulders, matching sunglasses and baseball caps atop their heads. She’s grabbing his hat, twisting the brim so it’s nearly covering one eye, and he’s trying to keep a straight face for the camera as Benny gets the shot.

In his half-asleep state he’s so distracted by the picture that the call times out, only to start up again vibrating in his hand. This time he notices the caller’s name: 🐠Fish👨🏻‍🦱. Someone’s fucking with him.

He hits answer.

“Very funny,” he mumbles into the phone. His voice sounds strange in his own ears and he clears his throat.

“Dude,” the caller says, urgent. The voice is familiar but he can’t place it. “This is fucked. Up.”

“Who is this?” Frankie asks. He still sounds off and he’s got a bad feeling brewing down in his gut, well-honed instincts starting to scream for attention as he blinks fully awake. Something isn’t right.

The walls are the wrong color. Sunlight is filtering in from the right instead of the left. There’s a poster of Georges St-Pierre hanging nearby.

He’s in Benny’s room. In his bed.

Had he blacked out last night? He could swear he’d gone to bed in his own house.

“Dude,” the man on the phone says again. The voice almost sounds like— “It’s me.”

—himself.

Frankie closes his eyes. He’s starting to feel a little lightheaded.

“I don’t understand.”

“Francisco,” the voice says, “Go look in the mirror.”

Dumbly, Frankie stands and steps in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the wall by the closet. He looks at his reflection—and finds Benny’s shocked blue eyes staring back at him.

“I’m you,” Benny tells him, in Frankie’s own voice. “And you’re me.”

“What the fuck,” Frankie breathes. There’s a moment of silence between them as he tries to absorb the vision of himself standing here in someone else’s body.

“You know whose fault this is,” Benny starts.

Frankie blinks, curling Ben’s long fingers into a fist. He thinks about it, just for a second.

“Pope,” he says. There’s a sigh on the other end of the line.

“Fucking Pope,” Benny agrees.

Benny-in-Frankie’s-body drives Frankie’s car over to his own apartment, where Frankie has the bizarre experience of opening the door to find himself standing in front of him. After a brief discussion in which Benny insists he probably could fly a helicopter, no problem, Frankie puts his foot down and hovers over his shoulder as Benny calls him in sick to work.

Then they get Santiago on a video call. He’s sitting at his kitchen table and he answers them casually through a crunchy bite of cereal. “Hey, fellas. What’s happening?”

“You’re an asshole,” Benny tells him flatly. Pope raises an eyebrow and takes another bite of cornflakes, waiting for elaboration.

“I told you there was something hinky about that shit you had us moving yesterday,” Frankie says, “and you swore up and down everything was fine.”

Pope tilts his head, confused. “I thought it was just Fish who was complaining about it. You didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” they say in unison.

“It was Fish,” Benny says.

“Me,” Frankie continues, pointing to himself. He gestures between them. “We woke up… like this.”

“I think I’m missing something, boys,” Pope says. He sets down his spoon and picks up a mug from the table.

“We fucking swapped bodies,” Benny exclaims, and the whole thing is almost—almost—worth it to watch Santiago choke and splutter on his mouthful of coffee.

“Okay,” he says, still coughing but mostly recovered. His eyes shift uneasily. “Okay, uh. Okay. I need to make a phone call. Do you… do you remember anything you… touched?”

They’re both silent for a beat, staring at him like he’s stupid.

“We touched everything,” Frankie says finally. “That’s the point of moving shit from point A to point B.”

“Right. Okay. Right.” Pope lets out a nervous laugh. “It’s probably—I’m sure this is going to be fine. I need to call—” and he’s hung up before he can even finish the sentence.

Fucking Pope.

“Do you wanna have sex with me?” Benny asks.

They’re still at his place. Pope had texted a little while after their phone call, Looking into it. Sit tight. Maybe an hour, and then, like a coward, left them on read when they’d replied with more questions. Frankie has been spending the time rifling through Ben’s kitchen—his metabolism is higher in this body and once he’d gotten past the initial shock of their situation he’d been hit with the kind of hunger he hasn’t felt since his active service days. Benny has spent most of the time looking at his own reflection, poking and prodding at his face and fussing with the texture of his hair.

(“What if I shave my head while I’m you?” he’d mused earlier.

“What if I rob a bank while I’m you?” Frankie had countered.)

Now, Frankie stares at him over his bowl of oatmeal. “I don’t think I heard you right,” he says.

Benny stretches a leg out to hook under the crossbar of the chair across from his, looking annoyed when he doesn’t quite make the distance. “I’m not short,” Frankie says preemptively, for the third time this morning. Benny pulls a face.

“No but—haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to sleep with yourself?” he asks earnestly.

Frankie looks at him—at his own face, the full curve of his bottom lip and the broad stretch of his shoulders under the old t-shirt Benny had put on—and he does start to wonder. He clears his throat, shifting his weight.

“I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Well. I’m just saying. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“Unless we’re stuck like this forever,” Frankie says, and Benny gives him a look that says that’s not helping.

“Maybe if we come at the exact same time it’ll switch us back,” he suggests.

“Benjamin. What??”

Benny shrugs, but he’s laughing, too. “If I was an ancient evil wizard cursing an amulet that’s how I’d configure it. Just to fuck with people.”

Frankie shakes his head at the absurdity of this entire day, and the last two minutes in particular.

But—

“Amulet?”

Benny’s eyes shift.

“I just thought—remember? We touched it at the same time when I was showing you the design. And it had that inscription we couldn’t make out.”

“Jesus,” Frankie says. “Yeah. You didn’t want to mention this earlier?”

Benny shrugs. “I didn’t think of it until just now.”

Frankie unlocks Benny’s phone with facial recognition and texts Pope again. We think maybe it was an amulet?????? Blue stone w strange writing around edge. Tarnished chain.

Together, they stare at the screen for a minute until Pope sends back a thumbs up reaction.

“I swear to god,” Frankie says, “If he doesn’t get us switched back I’m never speaking to him again.”

Benny nods distractedly and drums his fingers on the table. It’s as if the movement catches his own attention, because he looks down and rubs his thumb over the bullseye tattoo on his hand.

“So do you want to?” he asks. Frankie cocks his head and Benny offers up a vague, filthy gesture by way of explanation.

“You want to blow me?” Frankie interprets. He’s still not sure if Ben is serious or just fucking around. But his response is an enthusiastic nod, warm brown eyes widening earnestly, and Frankie feels a hit of arousal course through him.

He hesitates. “Wouldn’t it be kind of… narcissistic?”

“So what? When has a little narcissism ever hurt anyone?”

Frankie laughs out loud. “Well—for one, there was Narcissus.”

Benny is already sinking to his knees.

“Wait,” Frankie says. “Don’t do that.”

He hesitates, looking chastened.

“You’re gonna fuck up my knees,” he tells him.

“Old man,” Benny grumbles, but he carefully gets to his feet and heads down the hallway towards his bedroom.

And Frankie gives in and follows.

Benny takes a long time getting acquainted with his dick before he ever gets it in his mouth. He’s touching it lightly, moving it around, inspecting it from every angle. He runs his fingertips down the length, making Frankie tense up and shiver.

“It looks different from down here,” he observes. “Never realized that vein looked like that.”

When he finally does it—

Well.

It’s surreal watching his own mouth close around the head of his cock—like watching a porno of himself. He’s holding his breath, and it comes out shaky when Benny works his tongue over the tip.

Benny’s gaze flicks up to meet his and they lock eyes. Frankie lets out a breathless, nervous laugh and it sets Benny off laughing too, a shared moment of euphoric insanity, but then he surges down onto the length of Frankie’s cock again and Frankie’s no longer laughing.

He’s called Ben a cocksucker before—a crude, boys will be boys insult among friends, and Benny’s called him worse things in return with no hurt feelings between them. Now that it’s come true, he’s surprised to find Benny’s not half bad at this. At least, not while equipped with Frankie’s mouth. He can’t help but wonder if they might do this again so he can compare, if they switch back.

When. Not if. Under the haze of arousal that’s overtaken him, there’s still a knot of anxiety sitting in the bottom of his stomach, distracting him.

Ben presses a knuckle behind his balls, nudging into the space there and using his other hand to push Frankie’s legs open like he wants to reach back further. Frankie hesitates, shifting away, and Benny looks up at him.

“Uh—that doesn’t really do anything for me,” Frankie explains.

“What d’you mean?”

“Like…” He wiggles his forefinger. “Anything with my ass. My ex tried to finger me one time because she said it was going to be the best orgasm of my life and it just—felt like a visit to the proctologist.”

Benny is silent, looking at him thoughtfully from between his legs. Frankie’s cock is starting to feel neglected.

“What if… since you’re in my body, it feels different this time? Can I try?”

Frankie shrugs his assent.

It turns out that, kind of like the active metabolism thing, the nerve endings in Ben’s body are sensitive in a way Frankie’s not used to.

“I’m so—fucking jealous of you,” he gasps, when Benny has two thick fingers buried deep inside him. “I never knew it could feel like this.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Benny says smugly, a little muffled with his mouth hot against Frankie’s balls. “Do you wanna find out what your dick feels like?”

With Benny’s fingers inside him and his face between his legs, Frankie feels tingly all over, almost dizzy from it so that it takes him a moment to answer the question.

“I—yeah, kind of. That’s weird, right? This is weird.”

“Super fucking weird,” Benny agrees with a laugh. It’s funny to see his smile lighting up Frankie’s face. He wonders at it, while Benny’s focused on grabbing the lube stashed by his bed, trying to work out which parts of his face are his and what is Benny shining through. Transforming him into someone altogether new.

“Oh shit, that’s big,” Frankie gasps when Ben pushes into him, clutching hard onto his forearm.

Benny laughs silently. “How many girls have you heard that from before?”

“I always thought they were—stroking my ego,” Frankie says, breathing out a laugh. Benny grins, cheek dimpling.

“Try to relax,” he says. “I’ll go slow. Tell me if you want to stop.”

They’re not making love—that would be beyond the level of super fucking weird they’re already at—but it’s what Frankie would call this if they were a couple. Benny fucks him slow and careful and full and distracts him by leaning in for a kiss. It’s totally surreal, and somehow oddly comfortable at the same time, kissing his own mouth. Realizing he’s tasting Benny on his lips and deepening the kiss without even thinking about it. Feeling the anxious tension in his gut dissolving into something hot and dangerous, pleasure like the high of a drug.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, and Benny makes a low noise in his throat and hides his face against his neck, tickling Frankie’s skin with the brush of his mustache. He closes his eyes and gives himself over to the waves of euphoria, and in the end, improbably, they do come together at the exact same time.

It doesn’t change them back.

Frankie’s phone lights up with a text. They both scramble to look, hoping to see Santiago’s name on the screen, but it’s from Laura, Frankie’s ex-wife.

Stuck at work, she’s written, adding a dismayed emoji. Any chance you’re able to do the preschool pickup and watch M for an hour or two? I can get her from your place.

“You’ll have to come with me,” he tells Benny. “They don’t hand over the kids to any random guy that shows up.”

His daughter grins when she sees them, but she falters as she draws closer, looking between the two of them skeptically like she can tell something is up.

“Hey, Minneola,” Benny greets her. She wrinkles her nose at the nickname and gravitates towards Frankie, who picks her up. There’s not even a twinge in his lower back, he realizes. He might be happy stuck in this body after all.

“You have a good day, baby?” he asks her. She rides comfortably in his arm, talking his ear off about the butterfly-themed craft her teacher had led the class in, and Benny saunters along beside them as they make their way back out to the car.

Whatever intuition his kid has that the man who looks like her daddy isn’t actually him today, her mother does not share. Laura barely spares him a glance when she swings by the house, a little flustered at the late hour as she collects her daughter and grills Benny on what he’s given her for her afternoon snack.

“Thanks again,” she tells him, leaning in to peck him on the lips, and she’s out the door again before she can notice the dazed expression on Benny’s face.

“I can’t believe I got lucky with two Moraleses in one day,” he says, when she’s gone. Frankie smacks him upside the head and then tousles his hair back into place, with a little more affection than he’d like to admit.

They’ve demolished an extra-large pizza and googled “body swap,” “body swap magic,” “body swap real,” “body swap historical,” and, in an act of desperation, “freaky friday real life,” to no avail when Pope finally—finally—calls them back.

“So my guy looked into it—” he starts.

“What do you mean, your guy?” Benny asks.

“My occult guy,” Pope says, as if that’s a thing. “The guy who owns the amulet you touched.” Frankie swears under his breath but Pope continues on as before. “So, it took him a while to track down the information about that exact artifact, but he found it and it’s good news.”

The ball of anxiety that has been twisting itself up in Frankie’s system all afternoon as the hours had passed very slowly begins to unwind.

“It’s like a 24-hour bug,” Pope continues brightly. “You’ll just switch back again by tomorrow. No harm, no foul.”

Benny and Frankie exchange a look that makes it clear they both still fully intend to exact revenge on Pope for putting them in this position to begin with.

“Between you and me,” he continues, oblivious, “this guy is a little out there—”

“No shit,” Benny says dryly.

“—he kept saying something about a ‘soul bond’ that I didn’t totally understand, but the final word was, like I said, everything will be back to normal.”

Soul bond is a heavy phrase to hear mere hours after having what was supposed to be very casual, platonic sex with a friend while he just so happened to be inhabiting your own body. Frankie feels Ben’s eyes on him and busies himself by gathering the mess of pizza-stained paper napkins on his coffee table into a single, scrunched up pile.

“Thanks, Pope,” Benny says after a moment. “If your guy is wrong, just so you know, we’re gonna kill you.”

“10-4,” Pope says, and makes quick work of hanging up the phone.

“Maybe I should sleep here tonight?” Benny suggests. “So we know it works. Like. In case there’s a… proximity thing,” he finishes lamely.

“Yeah,” Frankie says. “That makes sense.” It doesn’t, really, since they were in their own houses for the first switch, but he feels antsy with anticipation and, if he’s honest, he doesn’t really want to be alone right now. He thinks Benny doesn’t either.

The sun is barely risen when he wakes up, just dim light starting to break through around the edges of his blinds. His heart is racing, like the adrenaline rush when your body jerks awake from falling in a dream. There’s a dull ache in his lower back and a familiar curve to his nose when he lifts a hand to grope at his face. Next to him, Benny is back in his own body too, one long leg draped heavy over Frankie’s. He looks younger, asleep like this—deceptively innocent, Frankie thinks wryly.

Benny’s eyes flutter slowly open and Frankie can’t quite look away. They stare at each other for a long moment and Benny gives him a small smile.

“Well that’s a relief,” he murmurs, voice all early morning deep. “I was starting to miss your face.”

“Yeah,” Frankie says. “Me too.”

Benny’s smile widens and he rolls closer in the bed, face tucked next to Frankie’s shoulder and the whole length of his body pressed up against his side.

So just like that, just like Pope’s guy had said, they’re totally, completely, thoroughly, unquestionably, and entirely—back to normal. Not a soul bond in sight.

Benny’s hand finds its way onto Frankie’s thigh.

“I’m glad we switched back,” he rumbles sleepily. His breath is warm on Frankie’s skin, mouth nearly touching him. “But it was kind of cool, I guess, getting to be you. Anyway—now the next time someone tells me to go fuck myself I can say, I’ve been there, done that.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie groans, appalled at the bad joke. Benny laughs, setting his teeth into Frankie’s flesh when he tries to smother him with a pillow, and Frankie finds he likes that a little too much, so maybe—it’s a slightly new and improved normal, after all.

(mini taglist of a few fishben appreciators: @loversandantiheroes @littledozerdraws @littleferal @thirstworldproblemss @green-socks)

#triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal #frankie morales #benny miller #fishben #frankie morales x benny miller #triple frontier #pedrostories1k #my fic #fanfiction

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