#this is definitely out of my comfort zone

[creamflix]

GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN ZAZA ! ꒰ঌ ໒꒱

mission brief your college banned weed, your grades are hanging by a thread, and you definitely did not plan on making your plug your most consistent situationship. w.c 9.8k

risk assessment lots of weed usage and references (this is not based off of #experience for the most part, please be safe & check your sources xx), crack & fluff, female reader, university au, meet-ugly, somewhat ooc characters, misogyny, poor queer assumptions, breaking the 4th wall, city-girl reader, opposites attract, depictions of social anxiety, legally blonde and 2010's anime references, uraume cameo ft! naoya, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna, gojo

a/n the whole concept of a plug romance was ib by my baby @lacyblades's plug gojo series, make sure to check it outt ヾ( ˃ᴗ˂ )◞ • *✰

☆ NAOYA ZENIN

You weren’t expecting much when you decided to message a guy called Naoya Zenin for a dime bag — just some weed, maybe a weird vibe, and a quick escape. But you should’ve known something was off when everyone who smoked weed gave you that same look.

That solemn, pitying, godspeed-soldier look.

One girl even muttered “I'll pray for you” under her breath, which was a bit dramatic. You were getting dope, not going to war. But then again, they all said the same thing: Naoya’s shit is gas, but he’s the worst fucking person you’ll ever meet. You figured they were exaggerating. You’ve dealt with weirdos before. How bad could he be?

Well.

You found out the moment he opened the door with his stupid bleached-blonde hair, gold chain, and a shirt that had “NO SIMPING ZONE” printed on it like a threat. The hallway already reeked of superiority complex and a mango vape pod. “Who's it for?” he asked, not even a hello. 

You blinked. “What?”

“The weed,” he said, waving the baggie like it was a cursed object. “Your boyfriend? Roomie?”

“Uh. Me?” you said slowly. “It’s… for me?”

And it was like you had kicked his ego right in the crotch.

“You smoke?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you smoke weed?”

“…yes.”

“Like, by yourself?”

“What the fuck is this, a survey?”

He squinted at you like you just told him women had human rights. His face pinched, his lip curled, and you could practically hear the internal misogyny revving like a chainsaw. “Look,” he said, setting the baggie down like it was contaminated, “I'm just saying, it’s kinda unattractive. Like, girls who do drugs? Yikes.” 

You stared. “You sell drugs.”

“Yeah, to guys,” he said, like that was the natural order of things. “Or like, chill chicks. Not…” he gestured vaguely at you.

“Not what?”

“Not, you know. Girls.”

It took everything in you to not put him through a wall. You had come into this with the utmost neutrality. A plug is a person, you told yourself. We don’t judge. But here he was, looking like if insecurity were personified by an anime villain with frat boy vibes, actually trying to cancel the deal because you dared to have a uterus and smoke up. “I don't think I'm comfortable selling to you,” he said, arms crossed like he was laying down some moral high ground. “It's just not feminine.”

“Oh no,” you deadpanned. “What if I stop being feminine and grow chest hair. Will my boobs fall off too?” 

Naoya did not laugh. He looked offended on behalf of the concept of gender. 

You stood there for a moment, blinking slowly at this man who would probably cry if a woman outsmoked him, wondering if it was too late to just start growing your own goddamn weed. Or if the hallway cameras would catch you if you kicked him in the shin and ran. 

“I'm not selling to you,” he said again, arms folded. 

“Cool,” you said, turning around. “Then I'm telling every girl on campus to never buy from you again.” 

His eyes bugged. “Wait, what—”

You didn’t wait. Naoya Zenin could keep his opinions and his za. You’d rather go sober than fund his self-inflicted sexism. Besides, rumor had it a guy took gacha bribes, and he didn’t mind if your pronouns were she/her/hitting-that-shit.

—

The house party was loud in that way only bad parties are — bass thumping through your knees, a fog machine making the entire room smell like burnt plastic, and some poor girl crying in the bathroom over a man who probably owned Yeezys. You weren’t even sure why you came. Boredom, maybe. You hadn’t seen anyone you liked in the first ten minutes, and you were seconds from leaving when the crowd split like the red sea and in walked… him.

Naoya Zenin. But not the "no simping zone" shirt Naoya. This was party Naoya. His hair was slicked back, jaw sharp under dim strobe lights, silver chain glinting under a jacket that suspiciously looked like real leather. He smelled like something expensive and infuriating — like pepper and pine and generational wealth. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked good. If you really didn’t know better, you might’ve said he looked hot. 

But you did know better, so you stood very still and hoped he didn’t see you. Spoiler: he did. He made a beeline straight to you, sauntering like he owned the party, the house, and every sad soul on the aux. “Hey,” he said, voice practically smirking. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me I'm suddenly woman enough to sell weed to.” He chuckled like you were being so dramatic. “Nah, not for sale.” He pulled a sleek, perfectly rolled doobie from behind his ear.

“This batch is just for testing.”

Testing.

You glanced down at it. It was beautiful. Thick, crisp, neat. Probably rolled with tweezers in a windless room while a choir sang in the background. The DJ switched tracks to something that sounded like a washing machine being sacrificed. You felt your brain scream a little. “Testing?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, stepping closer. You could smell his cologne now — rich boy cinnamon and something spicy enough to hurt your feelings. “Gotta know if it’s worth selling to, you know, guys. Not girls.” He smirked like he was being cute. You wanted to set him on fire.

And yet.

The blunt in his fingers was practically glistening. You were two shots of pineapple vodka in, and the DJ just played the third remix of “Mr. Brightside.” 

Fuck it. You took it from him, muttering a bored “light it.” 

Two hits in and you knew you were screwed. It was good. Like, ruin your night and make you vulnerable to a Zenin good.

And he was watching you far too closely. Like a cat watching a mouse. Or a man who knew he had something you wanted, and was way too smug about it. “So?” he asked, leaning in. His voice was smug, sweetened with that particular brand of you should be lucky i’m even offering you this. “Good enough for the boys?”

You exhaled slowly. You could lie and say it sucked, but your lungs were singing and your brain was on vacation. You knew it. He knew it.

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back, arms crossed, pleased like a cat who caught a bird with one paw. “I knew it,” he said, low. “I saved this batch for you, y’know.” 

You blinked. “You what?”

“Yeah. Thought you’d show up.” he shrugged, too casual, too cocky. “Guess it’s your lucky night.”

You blinked again. Once. Twice. The music in the background dropped and the beat switched again. Someone screamed “this is my song!” when it absolutely wasn’t. You were high, annoyed, and mildly impressed. 

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, passing the blunt back. He grinned. “But I'm hot.”

…Unfortunately, he was. Even more unfortunate — he knew it. And worst of all? You were definitely getting high off his stash again.

What happened over the next few months could only be described as a slow descent into the most bizarre relationship dynamic you’ve ever had with a dealer. And not relationship like that — God no. Naoya Zenin was still the same infuriating, misogyny-scented man you had ever met. He still made comments like “Women shouldn’t be smoking blunts this fat” and “You’ll ruin your lungs, babe, you should stick to edibles like the other girls.” But you? You were different. Or at least that’s what he decided in whatever part of his ego that functioned as a moral compass.

You were his little test subject. His “control group.” 

“I just need someone dumb enough to be honest,” he’d say, handing you a fresh joint before anyone else got their hands on the batch. 

And somehow, that translated to: you always got the first roll. You always got the stronger shit. You always got the nice papers, the flavored ones, the ones with little sparkles or kittens on them.

Hello Kitty rolling papers. You held up the pack once, squinting at it. “You bought this ironically?” He didn’t even look at you, just shrugged from his desk, hoodie pulled over his hair like he wasn’t in his own damn dorm room. “Females like you go feral over that stuff,” he muttered. Then, quieter: 

“I saw it in your story once. The pink ones. Said they were cute.”

You blinked. “You saw my story?”

“No.”

You nodded, lips twitching. “Right.” 

He kept pretending to scroll on his phone, even though you saw the screen was just his locked home page. Meanwhile, you were curled up in the middle of his very expensive mattress — firm, clean, annoyingly good quality — exhaling smoke toward the ceiling while some painfully curated “chill” playlist stumbled through a loop of Kendrick, Yeat, and occasional anime lofi covers that you knew weren’t there when you first met him. “Did you just shuffle a Youtube lo-fi mix into this?” you asked once, high and curious.

“No. It's just…Japanese trap.”

“It's literally the Yarichin Bitch Club—”

“Shut up.”

He never sat on the bed. Always lurked in the corner, leaned on his stupid ergonomic chair like he didn’t wanna be caught enjoying your company. And every time you asked him why he was standing like an NPC, he grumbled some shit about “Not getting comfortable around girls.” But you never caught the subtext.

Naoya Zenin, feminist icon? Absolutely not. Naoya Zenin, a man whose internalized sexism was now actively fighting his deeply repressed crush on you? Every single day.

“I'm not doing this because I like you,” he reminded you once, voice clipped, as he passed you a custom pre-roll sealed in a Hello Kitty ziplock. 

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Who said you did?”

He opened his mouth. Shut it. 

"You females are so confusing,” he muttered.

You snorted. “Good thing I’m just your lab rat then.”

His jaw clicked. You didn’t notice — because, as always, you had no idea. But Naoya? Naoya was drowning in the best strain of delusion you’d ever smoked.

☆ GETO SUGURU

The first thing you noticed when you met Geto was his hair.

Thick, dark, and pulled into a glossy, mid-back bun that would put half your Pinterest saves to shame. It shimmered under the light, almost too good to be real — like someone had digitally rendered it for an ad campaign about hair-care. 

You’d walked into his place half-prepared to meet a woman. 

Blame the name. Suguru sounded soft to your tired brain, and when your friend said “bro’s got that gas, you’ll know by the hair,” you assumed a goddess of a plug — tall, mysterious, beautiful — would be waiting to bless you with carefully grown hydro and no small amount of mommy energy.

So when you entered, saw the figure from behind — tall, yes. Beautiful, obviously. Long hair, swinging as he reached for something on the table — you went, “Oh my god, your hair is gorgeous, girl.”

And then he turned around.

Oh.

Purple eyes. A sharp jawline that made your heart do unspeakable things. Black tunnel plugs in his ears — big ones, glossy, catching the light just right. He blinked, paused, and then smiled slowly. Warmly. 

“Thank you,” he said, voice low and silken and not at all belonging to the she/her you’d crafted in your head. “But I'm not a girl.”

You wanted to die, like right there. Crawl under the nearest coffee table and remain a fossil. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you blurted, heat rushing to your ears. “I didn’t — I mean — your hair — I wasn’t trying to be weird, I just thought —” He laughed, full and rich, head tipping back as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Nah, you’re good,” he said. “That's a new one, though.”

You were not good. You were actively malfunctioning, trying to recalibrate from cool girl buying weed to accidental misgenderer who couldn’t shut up.

“I mean, like, plugs — you’ve got plugs and you’re the plug? Kinda poetic,” you tried, grasping for levity, for a joke, anything to move past your humiliation. 

That got another laugh. You could’ve sworn the floor dipped under you. 

“Yeah?” he mused. “Maybe I'm just really committed to the brand.” You nodded too fast, clearing your throat as you pulled out your phone like it would protect you. 

He handed you the bag — neatly sealed, vacuum-tight, labeled with a tiny sticker that said “pink runtz” in his neat handwriting. Everything about it was extremely polite. Even the way he held it out to you, like you were at a boutique counter and he was passing over perfume samples. “Here you go,” he said. “Enjoy.” 

You took it with both hands. (Why both hands? What were you, receiving a family heirloom??) “Thank you,” you mumbled. “And again, uh… sorry for the whole…” you gestured vaguely to his entire existence.

“No problem,” he said easily. “See you later, girl.”

You blinked. Did a little double-take.

…Girl? 

Wait. Was he gay?

He had to be, right? The energy was just too smooth, too non-threatening, too effortless. Plus, the hair, the plugs, the smile, the way he said girl — it all fit. Yeah. Definitely gay. Sweet, gorgeous, gay plug.

…Right?

Meanwhile, Geto watched you leave, eyes still soft at the corners, thumb brushing idly across his palm where your fingers had almost grazed his. “Cute,” he murmured to himself. Then added, under his breath, “Wish she’d called me babe instead.”

But there’s always next time.

But the next time you dropped by Geto’s, you didn’t come alone. You brought Uraume.

They were tall, pale in that “Victorian ghost but hot” way, and wore a structured, monochrome fit that made you feel underdressed even though you were just here for a refill. Uraume moved like they were born inside an art gallery — all grace and precision and a deep-rooted meh to the chaos of the world. You’d known them since undergrad and always thought they and Geto would hit it off. Same aura, same cool, collected, possibly-haunt-their-own-loft-in-Berlin energy. 

“You’ll love him,” you said on the walk over. “Gorgeous, chill, and he called me girl unironically.” 

Uraume gave you a side-eye that could shear bone. “You’re trying to set me up with your plug?”

“Not set up — just, like, meet. He's gay. I think. You’ll see.”

Uraume didn’t respond, but their silence was pointed.

Geto was expecting you. Well — you and “someone else,” though the someone was vague enough that he’d let himself entertain the delusion that it might be a cousin. a roommate. A dog. 

But then the door opened, and there you were. Smiling wide, eyes bright, excitement making your voice bubble up like soda. “Hey!” you chirped. “Brought a friend!” Behind you, Uraume stepped in, immediately scanning the apartment with an expression that could only be described as polite suspicion. 

Geto stood, blinking once. He recognized beauty when he saw it — Uraume was undeniably attractive, angular in a sharp, clean way that made his chest instinctively straighten. But that was about it. No spark, no interest, no gravity. His attention flicked back to you, as it always did. You were laughing at something stupid. You always laughed at something stupid. God, it was going to kill him. 

Small talk ensued. You made introductions, Uraume kept their hands folded like they were here for a health inspection. Finally, they turned to you with a very pointed question.

“…Where’s the gay?”

Geto froze mid-baggie. You looked confused.

“What?”

“The plug,” Uraume clarified, gesturing vaguely to Geto. “You said he was gay.”

You blinked. Turned to Geto. He blinked. Then said, very calmly, very apologetically:

“I'm not.”

Silence. 

Like full, sitcom-record-scratch silence. 

Uraume’s brow twitched. Geto cleared his throat. 

You… looked like someone had just pulled the rug out from under your brain.

“But — the ‘see you later, girl’ — the hair — the —”

Geto held up a hand, trying not to laugh. “Okay, first of all, I say that to people. Second of all…”

He paused, looking at you. And for one millisecond, the air changed.

“…I don’t really talk like that to anyone else.”

You stared. Uraume stared. Geto stared right at you.

Oh.

You wanted to rewind the whole interaction. Crawl backward out the door. Instead, you made a high-pitched noise that sounded like a mouse being stepped on. Uraume, bless their elegant heart, sighed deeply. “So you weren’t trying to set me up?”

“I mean… i was,” you said weakly. “But—”

“With a man who’s been undressing you with his eyes since we walked in.”

You almost choked. Geto made a sound that could’ve been a cough, a laugh, or help.

“I — I haven’t —”

“You have,” Uraume replied, adjusting their collar with zero chill. “It's fine. I get it. I'm attractive, but unfortunately I have no tits. Tragic, really.” Geto finally let out a small, helpless laugh. “You’re very attractive,” he said. “Just not really my type.”

“Yeah,” Uraume said, smirking a little now. “Your type’s clearly flustered and wearing mismatched socks.” 

You looked down. Kill me. 

Uraume turned toward the door. “I'll wait outside before I see something traumatic. Thanks for the entertainment.” And just like that, they ghosted out, as elegantly as they’d entered. Leaving you and Geto alone. You opened your mouth to apologize. Or clarify. Or die. But Geto just smiled. Soft. A little amused, a little not.

“…For the record,” he said, walking over to hand you the refill — perfectly packed, like always — “I liked the idea of a refill. Not the setup.” 

Your fingers brushed. 

“But,” he added, leaning just a little closer, “If you ever wanna set yourself up instead…”

You blinked. He winked. You may never recover.

☆ NANAMI KENTO

You’d been waiting under the ugly stone archway behind the Humanities building for nearly twenty minutes, pacing and checking your phone like a teenager abandoned after a school dance. Your guy — well, your friend’s guy who swore the plug was “chill, reliable, and hot if you’re into geeks” — was supposed to meet you here. Codeword: blue eyes hypnotize.

Very subtle. Very anonymous. Very fucking annoying.

So when a man in a tailored suit walked up the steps with a suitcase, you automatically moved out of his way. He didn’t look like someone who was here to facilitate illicit extracurriculars. He looked like a tax auditor. A hitman. The guy who gently but firmly fires you with a severance packet. “Excuse me,” he said, voice precise and polite. “Are you here for the… meetup?” 

You blinked. “The what?” 

He glanced at your shoes, then at your phone, then back at you like he was mentally cross-referencing a checklist. 

“…Blue eyes hypnotize?” he said, like it physically pained him. 

“Oh my god.” you took an instinctive step back. “You’re the plug?”

He sighed, like he’d been asked to commit a crime against his will. “No. I’m not the —” he paused, clearly wrestling with something deep and moral. “I'm… covering for someone.” You stared. He didn’t elaborate. He was wearing an ID card around his neck that read Nanami Kento, Head Delegate – UN Model Council. 

So he’d just come back from MUN. You felt like you’d stumbled into a BBC drama where the intern accidentally does espionage. 

“Are you sure you’re in the right place?” you asked. “Because I was told blue eyes —”

“Couldn’t make it today,” Nanami cut in. “He said — and allow me to quote — ‘Lol can u pass it to the hot girl, she’ll know, just say the code thing xoxo.’”

You winced. “That tracks.” 

He nodded, grim. “I debated ignoring both of you.”

Then, without further preamble, he knelt down, set his suitcase on the grimy pavement, popped it open like he was about to give a TED talk — and began removing documents. Notebooks. Binders. Printed policy drafts. A laminated flowchart titled Conflict Resolution and Drug Decriminalization in East Asia. You stared in silence as he pulled out a sealed envelope marked “last will & testament” and tucked it under his arm like it was a receipt.

Finally, from somewhere beneath the bureaucratic detritus, he extracted a moderately crumpled ziplock bag. It looked wildly out of place in the otherwise pristine, corporate-ass briefcase. He carefully dusted it off with a cloth (a cloth) before handing it to you like he was passing off a court summons. A homemade QR code was slapped on the back, printed on sticker paper. “You can scan here,” he said. “Please include the transaction ID in the note.” 

You took it slowly. Reverently. 

“…Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me,” he said flatly. “I had a debate round scheduled for now. Instead I'm standing here, holding someone else’s will, handing you illicit substances in front of a garbage bin.”

“You… seem very responsible for someone who knows a guy like blue eyes.”

He scoffed. “I wouldn't say I know him. We’re roommates, unfortunately. He once tried to convince our landlord that the leak in our ceiling was a portal to the astral plane. She gave us a three-day notice.”

“And you’re covering for him?”

He looked like he wanted to die. 

“He told me you looked ‘docile and non-threatening.’ I assumed that meant you wouldn’t stab me.”

“Docile?” you echoed. “What, did he send a photo?” 

He didn’t answer, which was, in itself, an answer. 

A long pause. Both of you just kind of standing there. Neither one of you exactly thrilled about the situation. Finally, you shifted. 

“Well. I guess this is… it.”

“Mm.”

“You gonna do this again?”

“Absolutely not.”

You nodded. Respectable. As you turned to leave, Nanami called out:

“He'll be back next time. I sincerely hope.” 

You raised a hand. “Thanks again… delegate Nanami.”

He exhaled like it physically hurt to hear that out loud. Behind you, his voice trailed faintly into the air:

“…I really need new roommates.”

—

But really, you weren’t expecting him again. Not the man in the wrinkled button-down and loosened tie, sleeves shoved up like he’d been mid-negotiation or a breakdown — same difference — and somehow still smelling like freshly baked cookies and weed. It took you a second to register. The flour-dusted briefcase. The weary expression. The gold name badge peeking out of his chest pocket like it had been forgotten there weeks ago. “Delegate Nanami?” you said, bewildered.

He flinched like you’d thrown a dart into his spine. “Not… officially,” he muttered, voice hoarse, eyes scanning the small courtyard like he was checking for witnesses. “This is strictly a freelance appearance.”

You blinked, then looked down. In his hands: a small, clear plastic box tied with a ridiculous pink ribbon. Inside it, two types of cookies — one set perfectly shaped and golden, the other darker, denser, with a suspiciously herbal aroma even through the box. Your brows lifted. “You baked these?”

“Unfortunately,” he said. “A last-minute request.”

You took them gently, inspecting the sticker on the side — a wonky heart with love n’ nip, xoxo scrawled in a handwriting you’d never seen before. You turned the box over and saw the same homemade QR sticker from last time, this one stuck crookedly, like it had been applied mid-crisis. 

“These from… ‘blue eyes hypnotize’?” you asked, voice skeptical. 

Nanami closed his eyes like you’d recited a slur. “Yes. He thought it would be a good ‘seasonal campaign.’ He said it was ‘low effort, high whimsy.’ Then he went to get his hair frosted and asked me to ‘deliver the goods with love and mystery.’” 

You blinked again. “I thought you were just filling in last time?” 

Nanami opened his eyes. They were bloodshot in the way that suggested not smoking but being around too much smoke.

“…I got roped into baking. He said people were more likely to buy it if it was homemade and ethically sourced.”

You stifled a laugh, then paused. Then looked at the box again. “…Wait, these are two different batches?” He tensed. Subtly, barely perceptible. But you caught it. 

“Yes,” he said slowly. “One is… catnip. The other’s regular.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“In case…” he cleared his throat. “You didn’t want the first kind. Or wanted both. Variety is important.” 

You stared. “Did you bake two types for everyone?”

He didn’t answer, which was an answer. 

Your lips parted just slightly, breath caught between amusement and something warmer. You noticed the way he wouldn’t quite meet your eyes, how he kept smoothing his hand over the lid of the briefcase, the tension in his shoulders rigid like he was balancing a full tray on his back. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour in his hair, and one of his shirt buttons was mismatched. 

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” you said softly. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I've had worse Thursdays.”

You held the box up between you. “These are really cute. And they smell amazing.” 

Nanami looked like he was torn between relief and abject embarrassment. “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “It was mostly Gojo’s idea.”

“Who?”

He blinked. “Blue eyes.”

Oh. You stared a second longer. 

“So… he has a name?”

Nanami didn’t even flinch this time. “Unfortunately.”

You smiled, crooked and fond. “Well,” you said, “You’re a much better cupid.”

He looked at you like you’d cursed him. Then immediately broke eye contact to pretend to re-check the payment QR code, even though nothing had changed. You watched the way his fingers fiddled with the sticker again, then stopped, pressing the corner down like it mattered. “…If you ever want non-catnip cookies,” he said, carefully, like testing the edge of a knife, “I have a standing recipe. No obligation. No… ribbons.” 

Your eyes widened slightly. Was that an invitation? Or a bakery recommendation? But he wouldn’t look up. Instead, he gave you a brisk nod, already turning away like he hadn’t just panic-confessed a crush via cookie code. You stood there, cookies in hand, heart full of sugar and smoke, watching him retreat like a man fleeing the scene of a very gentle crime.

It took you a full minute before you laughed to yourself. 

Then you texted your friend.

you [2:39pm]: blue eyes is not the hot one. it’s his roommate. holy shit.

☆ CHOSO KAMO

You were all for supporting local businesses — especially if they bloomed out of someone’s dorm bathroom and gave you a ten-minute high from a single puff.

You’d heard of him before. The plant guy. New transfer. Lowkey, didn’t talk much, wore hoodies with the sleeves chewed through, never made eye contact during attendance. Kamo, someone said. Or maybe that was just the name listed on the label of the ziplock bags he apparently sold. A friend of a friend vouched for him — said he grew it himself, only used filtered water, and played classical music near the pots “because it helps the terpenes flourish.” You didn’t know what that meant, you just knew that when this mutual passed you a single gram with the warning “this shit might make you see your own birth,” you paid attention.

So when the same friend texted you a barely readable address, you expected to meet some scrawny countryside kid with glasses and dirt under his nails. You even rehearsed your polite city-slicker voice. “Thank you, this is so fresh,” and all that. What you didn’t expect was for the door to swing open and reveal a man who looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some indie underground zine titled ‘men who could ruin your life and forget your name.’

Tall, built like he’d been carved by someone clinically horny, shirt hanging off one shoulder like it had given up, collarbone pierced — pierced, — with a silver barbell that glinted when he moved. He had a black tattoo running sideways down his nose, and those lips. Full, slightly chapped, plush enough to be distracting. Soft brown eyes that barely blinked, droopy and disinterested under a smudge of lavender eyeshadow, like he’d done his makeup in the dark and didn’t care to fix it. He blinked once. 

“Hey.” His voice was low, like a gravel path after rain. 

You opened your mouth and forgot the words. 

He stepped aside to let you in, and you caught a whiff of something — clean laundry, basil, and just the faintest trace of lemon body wash. No way, you thought. No fucking way this is Kamo. 

“You want water or somethin’?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck, head tilting a little. “I made banana bread this morning. There’s still a slice left, I think.”  You stared. Banana bread? He blinked again, slightly slower this time. “You okay?”

You walked in like you were sleepwalking.

His dorm was not what you imagined a weed grower’s to be, not even close. No Bob Marley posters, no messy ashtrays, no vape clouds. Instead, the place was warm, cozy, with sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains that made everything look soft. His desk was cluttered with seed packets, plant cuttings in glasses of water, a very worn-out book called “Cannabis for dummies” and another called “The botany of desire.” And from the bathroom, you could faintly see green. Actual green, like a jungle was growing in his bathtub. 

“The temp in there’s perfect,” he said casually, catching your line of sight. “Humidity’s the trickiest part. But once I got the cycle right, everything started thriving.” 

And then — as if he hadn’t just committed several crimes with that body and this voice — he leaned over the mini fridge and pulled out a ziplock, weighed it with one hand, and passed it to you. 

“This one’s blueberry kush, real sweet. Might make your ears ring a little.” 

You didn’t know whether to thank him or to cry. He looked at you again, head slightly cocked. “You good?”

You nodded slowly. Because here he was — this beautiful, pierced, sleepy-eyed plant nerd who baked banana bread, listened to ABBA (You swear ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’ was playing faintly from his bluetooth speaker), and handed you weed like it was homemade granola. None of the rumors did him justice.

He didn’t flirt, didn’t brag, didn’t even seem to know what he looked like. And that made it all ten times worse. Because what were you supposed to do with a plug who looked like temptation and acted like a librarian? You clutched the baggie like it was fragile glass and said the only thing your brain could conjure.

“…This smells amazing.”

He smiled — smiled, like the sun peeking through a lazy sky. “Thanks. I can text you when I got more.” You nodded, then tripped over the doorway on your way out. ABBA played on —

And Choso squeaked.

An actual, involuntary, horrifically real squeak the second you closed his door and your footsteps padded down the hall, fading like the last four minutes of an ABBA song that’d just ruined his life. And he stood there, in his socks — the ones with holes in them — baggie still dangling from one hand, half-eaten banana bread slice in the other, mind replaying everything he’d just said like it was being beamed through his skull with a megaphone labeled you fucking blew it.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to just freeze and panic and act like the most boring man to ever walk the earth. He was supposed to be cool. Show you his homemade record shelf and his boots — his boots, god, the fifteen different pairs of heavy, clunky, beautiful black boots all the way from his hometown. He even dusted them this morning. He wanted to explain how each one had its own story: market day boots, rainy day boots, festival boots. One pair still had a faint smudge of dried mud from a music fair he went to at fifteen. He wanted to offer you tea, tell you about the dried hibiscus he had steeping in a jar in the corner, and how his mum used to say it’d make your cheeks glow. But what had he said instead?

“Do you want banana bread?”

Fucking banana bread, like the most basic thing in the world. In his hometown, every lad could make banana bread blindfolded and drunk. It was the first thing boys learned to make when they had their first real crush. 

And now you probably thought he was just like every other wide-eyed, weed-growing loser in the city, trying to butter up his buyers with carbs and eye contact. 

Choso sank onto his bed, face in his hands. His sheets still smelled like lemongrass detergent, and the faintest whiff of you clung to the air — perfume, shampoo, city.

Because you. You, with your soft voice and effortless smile. You who had saved him from a capitalism-induced crisis four months ago when he was standing in a café, overwhelmed by a chalkboard menu that listed a drink called "dirty chai" that cost more than his weekly groceries. Back home, tea was just tea. Simple, warm, honest. But he had been cold. He had been lost. 

And then — then you’d appeared behind him like some ethereal campus fairy, leaned in and said, “If you like green tea, maybe try the matcha? It’s less confusing than it sounds.”

And then you were gone.

You didn’t even stay to see how red he turned, or how he repeated that order in a near-whisper and clutched the paper cup like a relic. He'd gone home and told his brother that someone helped him, a girl, a kind one. He never caught your name, but your smile — your voice — that stuck. 

Matcha. That was what you gave him. That was what he ordered every time he came to that café, even though he could steep better tea with his eyes closed at home. Just in case he ran into you again. But you never showed up.

Until today.

You — you, the girl who made him believe the city might have good people after all — had walked into his room asking for zaza. His zaza. And you smiled at him like you remembered none of that and everything all at once. So casually. Like you hadn’t tilted his entire axis four months ago and then reappeared, smelling like laundry and looking like a dream. And now you were gone again, and he didn’t even tell you about the purple rice he was growing in his windowsill or the wild strawberries in a shoebox under the sink. 

He flopped backwards on the bed, groaning into the sheets.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

Well. Maybe next time, he’d get it right. He’d make you real tea, show you the boots, maybe play you something on his clunky little record player. He didn’t know much about city girls. But he knew he liked this one. And he’d do better. Just wait.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

You were sent as bait.

Not in so many words, but you knew. You knew from the way they all nudged each other and giggled like hyenas when you agreed to “do the pickup this time.” You knew from the way someone said, “Toji only deals with girls, haha,” and you really knew when another added, “Just act pretty and you’ll be fine.”

Gross, objectively. And also a very bold assumption about your gender identity, frankly, but you were too bored and too curious to turn it down. 

Which is why you were now sitting on a faded public park bench with peeling red paint and disturbing Mickey Mouse graffiti — eyes darting toward every approaching silhouette like prey — waiting for what your friend described as “the guy who looks like he could eat a helicopter.” You later realize that he does not look like he could eat a helicopter. He looks like he already did, and is now looking for dessert.

Toji Fushiguro approaches like a goddamn myth in motion. Tall, built like someone who’s been bench pressing prison inmates, dressed in head-to-toe black like he’d gotten lost on the way to a mob funeral, with scars you didn’t want to imagine the origin of. He had the sort of face that could terrify a priest and seduce a nun. And you? You just sat there, fully convinced you were about to die. But then—

“Are those… purple?” he asked, pointing at your nails. 

His voice was quiet. Too quiet. Not gravelly, not sultry — awkward. Almost bashful. 

You blinked. He blinked back. He sat down, and the bench groaned like it was filing a complaint with god. You watched him fumble with something in his massive hands, and you noticed the way he didn’t look at you — not really. More like next to you. His eyes darted everywhere else. The grass, the paint peeling on the bench, the weird drawing of Mickey Mouse’s warped little face near your thigh. He cleared his throat. 

“Uh, suits you,” he said, nodding vaguely in your direction. “The purple. It's nice.”

Okay. What.

This was the guy who was supposedly a womanizer? This was the plug people were too scared to deal with unless they were certified bombshells? This man who looked like a live-action anime villain and moved like he could break your ribs with a hug was out here complimenting your nails like he was mustering every ounce of courage he had not to combust? He finally handed you the goods — in iridescent, pearlescent, holographic wrapping. Something that looked like it was bought from a dollar store for birthday party favors. 

You blinked again. 

“Uh, sorry about the, uh—” he gestured at the bag vaguely. “Didn’t have tape. So I just, you know. Wrapped it.” 

You held it like it was a gift, because it was. Because Toji had just handed you a space cake wrapped like a birthday present and was now standing up, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants like he’d just had a tea party and wasn’t quite sure what came next. 

“Okay, uh. Thanks for coming. Sorry if that was — um. I mean, enjoy,” he stammered, and then—

He bowed. 

Full, chest-folded, bowed. And then walked away like he’d just embarrassed himself in front of royalty. 

You just sat there, high on confusion. Maybe he really had never seen a woman before. Or maybe — more likely — the stares and the glares and the resting murder face was just a cover. Because the truth was… Toji couldn’t smile without looking like he was trying to stop one from happening. And if he did, it’d probably scare someone anyway. So he’d rather not. But he tried. He tried. He asked about your nails, and you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe you’d volunteer to do the pickups more often. You had a nail appointment next week, after all.

But before all of this, Toji was in a jungle gym. Let’s just get that part out of the way.

He was crouched awkwardly between two plastic slides, head ducked under a bar that was clearly not meant for full-grown adult men, let alone him, all six-foot-something of pure ex-hitman-turned-therapy-fundraiser bulk. His knees were digging into damp, sand-caked rubber flooring, and he was trying — trying — not to hyperventilate while giving himself a pep talk. 

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Just… be normal. Be casual. Ask how she is. Don’t stare. Don’t say anything about her eyes. Or her hands. Or her voice. Or anything.

Toji squeezed his eyes shut. Fuck. it was happening again. His mind flung itself back into the past — high school, senior year, school corridors lit with the aggressive hum of fluorescent lighting and the nervous tap-tap-tap of his big-ass converse against linoleum floors. He'd had a plan, dammit. A plan. Talk to girls, practice conversations, get better at the social thing, and finally approach Sydney, the sunny blonde in his homeroom with that annoying little sparkle in her eyes that made him feel like a dumbass every time she said hi.

Except.

Except, hormones are a bitch.

What started as “just practice” spiraled very quickly into a bizarre PR nightmare where Toji found himself talking to literally every girl but Sydney. Out of anxiety. Out of panic. Out of a weird, rabid need to rehearse and re-rehearse and never get to the main act.

By graduation, Sydney was dating someone named Nate, and Toji was The Guy Who Hits On Everyone But Doesn’t Know How To Finish A Sentence. 

A womanizer, a creep, someone no guy would leave their sister alone with — not because he did anything wrong, but because he was too awkward to do anything right. 

The social anxiety diagnosis came a year later and the therapy bills came after. Then came the dealing, and then came the reputation. The funny thing? 

He never liked dealing. 

He hated being seen, hated having to look people in the eye, hated the goddamn small talk. He tried to automate it, for god’s sake — had a spreadsheet, QR codes, fucking inventory notes on his phone — anything to avoid actual human connection. And now here he was, hiding in a goddamn jungle gym because you’re too fucking pretty. His pulse thudded in his ears. He was clutching the baggie like it was a ring box, knees shaking. 

You hadn’t even done anything. Hadn’t flirted, hadn’t asked, hadn’t even looked at him too long. Just sat on that bench like you were built from sun and honey and a little bit of whatever God put into women he wanted men to lose their entire minds over.

He tried to regulate his breathing.

Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for eight. Do not throw up. Do not ask her about her zodiac sign. Do not speak unless spoken to.

Toji crouch-shuffled out of the jungle gym like a grown man doing the walk of shame, palms sweaty, jaw clenched. You were still there, reading something on your phone, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, legs crossed just enough to be intimidating without meaning to. Your nails were painted. Purple.

He short-circuited a little. 

“Uh, nice nails,” he blurted, voice gravelled and quiet and too fast. You looked up, startled. He froze. 

Smooth.

His fingers twitched. Maybe he should just hand you the ziploc and run like usual. Say nothing, keep it clean, keep it simple. That's what everyone else got. The runners. The girlfriends. The random brave strangers who’d come up all smiles and try to flirt — not because they liked him, but because they thought it’d get them an extra gram. But you… you asked him how he was. Just once. 

How are you, Toji? 

Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

He cleared his throat and sat beside you like the world might split open and swallow him whole. The bench creaked like it was offended by his weight. 

He hated this. Hated being in his own skin, hated how his resting face looked like he was glaring, when really, he was just trying to think of something polite to say that didn’t involve complimenting your entire genetic lineage.

“Uh, I wrapped it,” he muttered, handing you the baggie with the iridescent paper. “Didn’t have… tape. So. Yeah.” 

You took it like it was a birthday present. Smiled at him. And for a second, the social noise inside his head dimmed.

Toji stood up. His palms were sweaty again.

He bowed. Bowed, like you were royalty. Like that was the only socially acceptable thing he could think of to do. And when he turned and walked away — stiffly, hurriedly, like he was being chased by a ghost — he swore he’d never let anyone send someone else in his place again.

Not when you were the one showing up.

☆ RYOMEN SUKUNA

The sun was a bitch today. You knew that because your thighs were sticking to the plastic bus stop bench, your pits were questioning their loyalty to your deodorant, and your brother had sent you to do his dirty work like this was the goddamn hunger games. 

“Just go, it’s been paid for. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t say thank you.”

Oh sure. Easy. Send your sister out into the world of mysterious substance exchange like you’re not the one who watched her cry over the scrapped ending of Legally Blonde less than two hours ago. 

So here you were. Sweaty, confused, a little delirious from secondhand heatstroke. And then you saw him. Which is to say, him.

Tattoos snaking up both arms and his face — his fucking face — like he had crawled out of a graphic novel and got bored halfway through. Piercings glinting in the sunlight, bleached hair pulled back in a way that was supposed to look effortless but very much screamed intentional. Shirt unbuttoned halfway like it was doing him a favor. That’s not a dealer, you thought. That's a Greek god in cargo pants. But no, that’s exactly who he was. “Yo,” he said, already digging into the backpack slung across one shoulder. 

“Your brother told me indica, but like — he said nighttime indica, not couchlock, which’s basically the same thing, but it depends if he meant something like the pink runtz or more like a platinum OG — wait, do you know if he likes purple terps? ‘Cause I have this one that tastes like fucking grape medicine but in a good way. Or, like, there’s one that hits you with dry mouth fast but it’s good for sleep—”

He kept going. And going, listing things like you were supposed to understand the periodic table of weed strains. You nodded, lips parted slightly in what you thought was a neutral expression but was probably closer to early-onset panic. You could feel your heart pulsing in your neck. Your mouth was dry. Or wet? Both? You couldn’t tell. Everything was damp and hot and stressful. Finally, after what felt like three hours but was probably three minutes, you swallowed and said—

“I don't know.” 

Barely a whisper. Shaky, a little croaky, possibly traumatized. “I don't… I don't know what kind. I wasn't told.”

Sukuna — you didn’t know that was his name yet, but it was giving Sukuna — stopped. His eyes twitched. As a matter of fact, his whole body twitched. He stared at you like he’d just been hit by a midsummer tax audit. 

And then he let out the loudest, most visceral groan of human exhaustion ever recorded. Head tilted back, hands shoved through his hair, a full-body sigh that made birds scatter and God turn the sun up just to be petty.

“Bro, what the fuck.” he muttered, pacing. “I’ve got six more stops, two of them in the fucking dorms — do you know how long it takes to get past security there? Do you even know what a hybrid is? Do you know why we don’t say thank you?”

You blinked. Sukuna blinked. 

Silence.

And Sukuna knew today was going to be bullshit the second he saw your face instead of your brother’s. Your brother, who was usually all business. No stalling, no “wait I forgot the cash” antics. Just a head nod and a quick exit. Dependable, dry, vaguely annoying. 

You, however, were neither dry nor dependable. 

You were currently hyperventilating under a Jacaranda tree and babbling something about Harvard law school. He watched you for a moment, expression somewhere between a squint and a grimace, hands on his hips like he was preparing to build a shed or bury a body.

“…Are you quoting Legally Blonde right now?”

You paused mid-rant, sniffling. “I was watching it, like, two hours ago, and now I'm here. And I don’t even smoke, my brother just said go get the thing, and then you started talking about…couch-something? And I’m not even wearing proper shoes for this—”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, not because he didn’t care, but because that was his only way to delay a full-blown fuck me moment. He had heard of you before — vague mentions during other deals. Always framed around inconvenience:

“Can’t leave her alone too long,”

“Nah, she’s at home today, can’t risk the smell,”

“My sister's around, so not now.”

He expected a brat. A teen. Someone with a 100k Snapscore, a rhinestone phone case and a visible need for supervision. He did not expect someone basically his age, sitting in a puddle of heat and anxiety, with the kind of eyes that made you look twice and a mouth that couldn’t stop moving even if it wanted to. 

And for reasons he did not care to investigate, Sukuna found himself…listening. Not fake listening, actually listening.

Like when you started monologuing about how Elle Woods was judged just for wearing pink, and how your brother was now pulling the same kind of injustice by sending you into the unknown like a sacrifice to the zaza gods. “He said don’t say thank you, like that’s normal,” you sniffed, pacing now. “Am I supposed to just grab the bag and go? What if it’s the wrong one? Is this a test?”

“It's not a test,” Sukuna muttered, arms crossed, watching you with a half-lidded stare.

“I can't fail.”

“I'm not grading you.”

“But you could.”

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face, eyes twitching when you hiccuped in the middle of your next word. This was a nightmare. He checked his phone. Four missed deliveries. Fuck. “Call him again,” he barked, jutting his chin toward your phone.

“He’s not picking uppp,” you wailed, already dialing anyway. “And when he does, I'm gonna commit fratricide. That’s legal, right?” 

Then — like divine intervention — your brother answered. And immediately, your hand flew to your chest, your lip trembled, and your voice cracked like a war orphan on the verge of a ballad. “I don't know what to ask for, I didn't ask to be born into this family—!”

Sukuna winced as your voice pitched three octaves higher.

The call was short. Some loud cursing, some laughter, a few insults, and a loud “Stop fucking crying, Jesus, just get the platinum—” and that was that. You hung up and slumped like your skeleton gave out. “Here.” Sukuna shoved the baggie toward you. “Platinum OG. Sleep strain, nice body high. Pairs well with girl tears and whatever the hell you got going on in there.”

You didn’t even look up, just took it. And used the corner of his shirt — his shirt — to dab your damp lashes. He stared at you, down at your hand, then back at you.

“…Are you crying into my clothes right now?”

You nodded. “They’re cotton.” 

His jaw clicked. He wanted to groan. He wanted to throw his phone in a lake. Instead, he let out a long, nasal exhale. You looked up at him finally, cheeks flushed, eyelashes stuck together, still holding the damn bag in one hand like it might bite you. “Thank you,” you whispered, despite your brother’s explicit instructions. 

“You’re not supposed to say that,” he grunted. You smiled, faint and ruined and puffy. “I'll say sorry, too, if you stick around.”

And something in him — something warped and inconvenient — twitched. Because he could see it now. That part of him that usually wanted to sprint the fuck out of social interactions? Quiet. His eyes lingered on your face, your lashes, the smudge of stress-sweat and heat that made you glow. 

He sighed again. He could speedrun those other deliveries. Maybe swing by later. 

For fraternal check-ins, obviously. Not for you. Not because he liked you or anything.

☆ GOJO SATORU

You didn’t know what was more devastating — the fact that you spent nearly two hundred grand clawing away at an arcade machine for a limited edition Albedo figurine, or that the guy who actually wanted her didn’t even leave his house. No, he just bribed you into doing it for him. “Blue eyes hypnotise,” he called himself. Like a joke. Like a threat. Like a man who didn’t have any shame.

You only got his real name — Gojo Satoru — when he turned around and you caught a flash of his university ID tag, half-tucked behind a plushie keychain shaped like a pudding. He was apparently from the Engineering department, which was either a lie or an actual war crime, because nothing about the way he looked or acted said science. But there he was, in a dorm room that smelled like strawberry soda and fabric softener, crouched on the floor like a grown man summoning a demon from a display box. 

“Look at her,” he cooed, setting the Albedo figurine gently — tenderly — into her glass shrine. “She’s so misunderstood. Nobody gets her like I do.” You blinked at him from the edge of his futon, arms still sore from wrangling that claw machine like it owed you rent. 

“So…can I get the stuff now?”

He barely looked up, just pointed vaguely at the corner of his room — where Hatsune Miku was standing on a glass shelf in all her twin-tailed glory. But instead of a mic, she held a tiny bag of very clearly illegal herb in one plastic hand. You stared back at him, then back at Miku.

“Is this — is this some kind of themed display?” you asked. Gojo just beamed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Yeah! I’ve got Rin holding a grinder, Nezuko’s the designated lighter girl, and Saber — oh wait, lemme show you—”

He moved across the room, the wooden floors creaking under the weight of his sins and merch, to open another glass cabinet filled with boxed Nendoroids, switch cartridges, and an entire row of perfume bottles that you knew were only bought because they were collaboration exclusives. And the worst part? He was hot.

Glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, oversized shirt that said “science is sexy” in pixel font, hair pulled back in a loose bun with a Hello Kitty clip. And those stupid, stupid blue eyes twinkling at you like a paywall.

“So. Ya like claw machines?”

“No,” you deadpan. “I like weed.”

He laughed — giggled, actually — like that was the most charming thing he’d heard all week. 

“We should hang out more,” he said, reaching for a heart-shaped tin box that he cracked open to reveal little wrapped edibles shaped like stars. “I trade limiteds for labor. Win me figures, get high for free. It’s a perfect ecosystem.”

You took the bag from Miku, still watching him with a healthy mix of horror and fascination. His room looked less like a place someone lived in and more like a walking otaku’s dreamscape. Frames on the wall — real glass, not Ikea — with signed prints. A projector setup. A heated kotatsu. Not even a fake one, actual imported goods. You spotted a collectors-only Hatsune Miku ita-bag on his chair and realized with chilling clarity—

This man was loaded. And somehow, dealing was just a hobby. “So you're rich,” you muttered, half to yourself. 

“No, I'm emotionally compensating,” he chirped, handing you a cola-flavored edible. “And high-key, Miku funds half my lifestyle. God bless licensing.” 

You didn’t even know what to say anymore. The za was yours, technically. but your soul? Your soul had been mortgaged. As you left, he waved from the door with his fingers wiggling, still barefoot, still smiling. 

“Bring me that Rem-Ram plush next time and I'll give you a freebie!”

You didn’t answer, just turned away clutching the Miku za, feeling thoroughly hypnotized.

Fucking nerd.

And as you left, Gojo Satoru is starting to spiral. 

Not in the tragic, tortured anime boy way (although he could do that too, he has the bone structure for it), but in the what if I am God’s strongest soldier but also emotionally constipated kind of way. Which, to be fair, is on brand. He's from the Engineering department, not Psychology — he doesn’t need therapy, he needs more shelf space for his waifus. Except now he’s wondering if he should detour to the Psych wing after all, because he’s not normal about you. Like, at all.

You showed up at his dorm with the Albedo figurine — the grail, the myth, the she who watches over the za with her plastic rack — and Gojo knew. He knew this was destiny. He didn’t talk to you directly, oh no, that would be too sane. 

He talked to Albedo instead. 

“Thank you for returning to me, my queen,” he whispered to her lovingly while unboxing, carefully peeling the protective plastic like he was unwrapping life itself. You were just… sitting on his futon, watching this happen. Watching this man ignore you in favor of a busty demon lady. And the worst part? You looked annoyed, which meant he was winning. 

“She's perfect,” he sighed dramatically, lifting the figure to the light like she was about to be baptized in his otaku holiness. “Better than any real girl.” 

You scoffed, and he heard it. Oh, he heard it all right. Success, he thought, the cogs in his brain wheezing like a dial-up modem. She's jealous. She’s spiraling. She wants to be my real girl now.

He had charisma. Not rizz — that word made his gums itch — but presence. Aura. The kind of deeply concerning magnetism that made people lose brain cells around him. He had a theme. Nezuko with the lighter, Rin with the grinder… even his plushies had roles. He wasn't like other dealers — he was aesthetic. 

You didn’t stand a chance.

Maybe you were his Zero Two. No, wait. Too pink. His Hori? No, that pairing was mid. Maybe you were his Faye Valentine, all mystery and menace and weird snack orders. Or maybe — maybe MAPPA would make an anime about the two of you. A rom-com, but the kind where the guy’s so stupid it becomes a tragedy. 

He could see the promo now: “The strongest dealer meets the one girl who got him to shut up.”  Bonus points if they animated his sparkly glasses glint just right. 

Maybe he could pull a few strings, call in a favor. Not that he was from an anime or anything, haha. Definitely not from that one. No, no. He's real. He's totally real.

You asked him if he had more edibles and he accidentally said, “Only if you say you love me,” before immediately covering it with a fake cough that sounded like a dying sim.  

“What?” you frowned. 

“Nothing,” he said, nearly choking. “I said… they’re gummy. Fruity. Ha-ha.”

Smooth. Like butter.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t leave. You stayed, kicked your shoes off, asked if he had wi-fi. And Gojo, who had a literal shrine of waifus across from his bed, thought to himself: Damn. Maybe I need to start making room on that shelf for a new figure called: the girl who brought me Albedo and accidentally stole my heart. Definitely not for dramatic reasons. Definitely not because he was projecting. 

Definitely not because, if he was from an anime, he’d want you in every single ending theme.

a/n sukuna's part is based off of a true story except my experience did not end in romance. i hope you enjoyed reading tho :P if you have any silly weed experiences please drop a confession in da ask-box 🫣 and yes, blue eyes hypnotize is a yo yo honey singh reference...

[lifeofcynch]

look.. i’m autistic, and one of the things i have to deal with is having a pretty limited diet due to a combination of getting sensory discomfort from certain tastes/textures/smells and difficulty in venturing outside of my food routines and what i’m used to. but i’m also very aware of how that negatively impacts me. i don’t get enough of the nutrients my body needs, but i also know i’m definitely missing out on a lot of foods that i might end up loving. so i try to take chances, try new things, find different recipes, knowing it’s going to be worth it. being an adult is about sometimes needing to do things you don’t really want to do. you can’t always stay within your comfort zone. believe me, i understand that it’s difficult, but life is about experiences in my opinion. and not just in the context of food, but media too, as this post is originally about. read more things, watch more things, let yourself learn and grow and experience. consuming something you end up not really liking is not the end of the world, because you learn new things about yourself only by having experiences.

Or like, to put it in terms that the "read what you like, who cares if you exclusively read kids' stuff" crowd are at a reading level to understand:

In the book "Green Eggs and Ham," the main character insists that he will only eat things he likes, and refuses under all circumstances when presented with an opportunity to try something new. At the end of the novel [spoiler alert] he agrees to Sam-I-Am's request and tries them, and he realizes that he was depriving himself of a favorite food for years, just out of fear of disliking something he ate. He learns a lesson, moving forward, that if he tries new things outside his comfort zone, that he may dislike some of them, but will enjoy many of them, and if he doesn't try new things outside his comfort zone, he will not like anything but the one thing he already eats.

Can you think of any situations in your own life where Sam-I-Am's teachings might be applicable?

[whambamsami]

smile, you're on camera!

pt. 2

summary: you accidentally find out what neighbor!bucky really does for work. and he's more than interested to show you how professional he can be.

note: trying to work a bit more on my dialogue! definitely a bit out of my comfort zone haha but trying new things! this is also not proof read at all lol so it fully might be rlly jumbled and rambly but its 3am soooo

warnings: 18+, a little bit of language and the tiniest sliver of smut!

It really wasn’t your intention to find out what Bucky Barnes did for work. 

He was always kind, even friendly at times, and an overall good neighbor. Always lent you sugar when you needed some for any baked goods you’d make (in exchange for a bite, of course). Changed your oil for free when your car was giving you trouble. You’d shared a few movie nights, and he always made the popcorn with extra butter, just how you like it. Even let you crash on his couch when the power went out. 

That’s where you accidentally stumbled across his… equipment.

He had told you that he kept extra candles in a bottom drawer in his bathroom. He didn’t specify which, so you tried the left side.

And there they were.

Cock rings, vibrators, handcuffs. Things you didn’t even know the names of, but you were clever enough to infer. A whole rainbow of sexual depravity.

Certainly no candles. 

A gasp had left your mouth before you could stop it, drawing his attention. 

“What is it?” 

“I- nothing!” you replied, admittedly a bit too quickly, slamming the drawer back into place and scrambling to grab the candles from the correct drawer on the right side, hurrying back into the living room before he suspects anything. 

It’s not like you were snooping. It was his fault, really, for being so loose with his instructions. He should have been more specific.

“Found them!” you said, a bit breathless, thankful that the darkness of his apartment cloaked the rosiness that was blooming in your cheeks. 

You could only see his tall, broad silhouette, and you could see his head tilt a bit to the left. You imagined he was looking at you skeptically, but decided not to push it. 

In actuality, he was getting a better look at you. Smirking knowingly. 

Like a wild animal who had just trapped its prey. 

Once the candles were lit, he pulled out his projector you’d grown all too familiar with from your movie nights. Lucky for you two, it was battery-powered.

“You’re a genius!” you exclaim.

He grins. “Horror or rom-com?”

“Oh, rom-com, please. You can’t put me through a horror movie when the power’s out.”

“Aw, I was just trying to get you to cling to me when you get scared! We have to conserve body heat in these kinds of dangerous events, don’t we?” 

And despite his usual flirty demeanor, you let yourself imagine that he snuck a glimpse at your lips in the dark.

The candlelight was playing tricks on you, surely.

Always a great host, he made sure to remind you, “If you need anything, and I mean anything, I’m sleeping one door away, ok?”

You barely slept a wink that night, your mind plagued with questions of what he does with those toys. 

Of how he might use them on you.

A week goes by, and you’ve spiraled a bit. You haven’t seen Bucky since you spent the night on his couch, which was a bit of a relief, and you’d honestly been actively putting a bit of space between you two. But your apartment complex wasn’t all that large, and it was only a matter of time before you were waiting on the elevator to head up to your floor when a familiar vibranium hand stopped the doors from closing. 

Bucky’s large frame slid into the elevator, offering a warm smile and nod. 

“Hey. Think you might know what floor I need.”

You laugh lightly when you hit the button, doing your best to ignore the fact that his cologne in the tight space was starting to become really overwhelming. God, you just wanted to bury your face in his chest and breathe him in while he-

“Oh, forgot to ask- do you have a lighter I could borrow for tonight? It’s for a work thing” he asks as the doors to the elevator open and the two of you head to your adjacent apartments. 

“Oh, yeah, I can drop it off in 5?”

“Perfect! You’re the best.”

You close the door to your apartment, finally feeling like you can breathe again, before rummaging through one of your junk drawers. Where’d you put your lighter again? 

When you find it in your bathroom by a scented candle, your mind started to wander a bit. 

A lighter? For work? 

You’ve never really talked about work. You always assumed he was still doing the Avengers thing, or at least some form of government work. Hell, with his body, he could probably be a personal trainer and make more money than you could imagine.

So what did he need a lighter for?

After slipping the lighter into your pocket, you pop into Bucky’s apartment after two quick knocks.

“Bucky?” Nothing for a few beats, and his apartment wasn’t exactly huge, so he had to have heard you. Where the hell was he? “I brought the lighter, like you asked!”

“In here! He calls from his bedroom. 

…Were you supposed to go in there? 

No. Thats a bit personal.

It’s not like you’d accidentally seen his sex toy collection or anything.

No, the bedroom is too personal, you decide. 

“I’ll just leave it on your counter! Don’t want to interrupt…”

You can hear him rustling a bit behind the closed door, and it creaks open. 

Bucky, wearing an easy smile, and almost nothing else, making his way toward you.

Okay, it wasn’t like he was naked, he had on a loose-fitting pair of joggers, but this was your first time seeing Bucky shirtless, and the way his bare torso had you reacting was practically worse than if he came out totally nude. 

Tanned, broad shoulders. Those arms, thick and toned, hanging casually by his sides like they weren’t the most tempting thing you’d ever seen. Rippling muscles littered with scars of his life before, hardened by such physical work. A dusting of chest hair, and a happy trail that led your traitorous eyes down, down, down…

“Thanks again, really. My last one hasn’t worked since the power outage, and I haven’t had the chance to replenish.” 

You snapped your gaze back to his, trying desperately to fan the flames in your stomach that were making your cheeks a bit rosier than normal.

“Of course! It’s just a lighter.” You shrug, hoping that you sounded casual. 

“I did mean to ask you…” Bucky tilts his head, intrigued as to what you might be asking. “What exactly does a supersoldier need a lighter for? Does Tony Stark not have that in the budget?” You joke lightly, a mask to your genuine curiosity.

That earns you a laugh from the mountain of a man before you. 

“That’s just my day job, actually. The candle I need for the night shift.”

“...Night shift?”

“I’m in the adult industry.” He says. His voice comes out plain but his eyes scan your face, trying to guage your reaction. Like he’s secretly a bit nervous.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So like… drugs?”

Another laugh from him.

“God, no, I work for the government! Which, believe it or not, doesn’t pay very well, so… I do a little work in the adult entertainment industry. Sometimes”

A beat passes. 

“You know…porn?” he continues, having the gall to smile. 

You go bright red. 

“Oh!” you finally manage to squeak, “that’s nice! I mean, whatever puts food on the table, right? Plus, I’m sure you have a good clientele… not because you’re hot or anything, I mean, you are hot, but I just meant being an Avenger and all-”

He’s chuckling warmly as you scramble for coherence. 

“No, I get it. It’s definitely a bit… unconventional, but I can’t deny that the pay is a large draw. Plus, it isn’t work if you’re doing what you love, right?”

Oh, now he’s trying to kill you. 

You pause a moment more. 

“...can I ask one more question? At the risk of being even more invasive?”

“Course. I’m an open book.”

You take a deep breath.

“Are you going to fuck a candle?”

That makes him burst out loud. 

“God, is that what you think I need this lighter for? No! I mostly do solos and I have a private chat room where people can request whatever depraved stuff they’d like me to do. Tonight, I had someone ask me to do some wax play. It’s not exactly something I do all the time, so…” He holds the lighter up, like it should’ve obvious what he needed it for in the first place. 

“Well, what was I supposed to think! And good, I can’t imagine that would feel amazing.” 

You both laugh a bit, and you’re silently thanking the lord that he seems to see this conversation as amusing and not incredibly intrusive of you. And that he can’t seem to tell that the fact that your hot neighbor does porn is a living fantasy for you or anyone else with a libido.

As you turn his doorhandle to leave, you pause and turn around to ask,

“...Would you fuck a candle?”

He grins and has the nerve to wink.

“For the right price.”

And you practically sprint out of there.

Later that night, curiosity got the best of you.

Well, of course it did! Your superhero neighbor-crush-thing does porn. You’re only human. 

You felt shame, hot and wretched, curl in your gut as soon as the idea crossed your mind.

But, like all bad ideas, once it dug its way into your brain, there was no stopping you until you scratched that itch. 

It was late. Really late. The glow of your phone told you it was almost 2 AM. That added to your shame a bit as you punched in Bucky’s name into your search bar, earnestly unsure of what you might find. 

You tried combinations. JamesBarnes popped up with a profile of a middle-aged dad in Minnesota. WinterSoldier came up with a ton of profiles, from fan accounts to political conspiracy theorists. The prolonged longevity of your indignity almost had you giving up, but you decided that it wasn’t wrong of you to look. It wasn’t like you were paying for an OnlyFans here, you were just looking up your neighbor’s public profile. Was that such a crime? 

Your shaky fingers typed in BuckyBarnes, and there he was. A blue checkmark perched like a medal next to his name. He was a bit famous, you supposed, so it only made sense. 

For someone with so many followers, he only had a few pictures. Some of him with Sam, and other Avengers you recognized. Some posts from him at charity galas, supporting children in underprivileged countries, veterans, and more. 

His more recent posts were definitely a bit more suggestive. His bare chest glistening after it appeared he’d finished a workout. In your apartment gym. His shorts hiked higher to display his muscular thighs. A knowing smirk for the camera, like he was smiling just for you. Some at the beach, his time in the water plastering his shorts to his skin, leaving very little to the imagination. Cheeky captions inviting an onslaught of admirers to leave comments, some suggestive, some so graphic you’re surprised they weren’t banned. @Fuckmebucky92’s remarks on his latest post of him sprawled on white linen sheets in just his boxers had even you clutching your pearls. 

A purple ring around his profile drew your attention.

He had posted a story.

Recently. From today, maybe.

It couldn’t hurt to look, you think. After all, he had so many followers that even if he did think to look to see who was viewing his story, he’d have to sort through thousands of fans before even getting close to you.

So you took a breath and tapped. 

And there he was, in the same joggers you’d seen him in earlier, smiling easily at the camera like he knew who was behind it. His metal arm glinted at the camera, and you could see he was speaking. You turned up your volume to hear his voice, deep and raspy, speak to his fans. 

“...and I’m lucky enough to have a few slots open tonight for some solo sessions, so if you’d like to get to know me a lot more personally, click the link in my bio. I can’t wait to see you soon.” and he winks cheekily at the camera, just like he did earlier. 

You almost throw your phone across the room, how much he affected you. Luckily for both your phone and your insurance, you managed to just drop it on your chest and cover your face with your hands. You needed a second to catch your breath, but you felt a buzz from your phone, and when you picked it up and checked the screen, you had a DM request.

No. 

There’s literally no way.

@BuckyBarnes: Saw you viewed my story. Did my confession earlier have you feeling a little curious, doll?

You could just die right now. 

@Y/N: is this how you find your clients? hunting down people who view your public profile?

He replied almost instantly.

@BuckyBarnes: Call me an entrepreneur. And don’t pretend like you were trying to be neighborly.

God, you could practically see his smirk.

@Y/N: confident, are we? i just wanted to make sure you weren’t using my lighter for anything more inappropriate than you already planned!

@BuckyBarnes: So you weren’t the least bit interested in what you might find on my account? C’mon, I won’t tell…

You’re about to quip something back, but you see those bubbles pop back up again. 

@BuckyBarnes: If you ever want a private session, I’m right next door.

Oh, he had to be kidding.

@Y/N: …do i get a neighbor discount?

@BuckyBarnes: Hell, I’d give it to you for free. 

@Y/N: that’s high praise. 

@BuckyBarnes: Call it an ambitious marketing strategy. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll convince you to be a guest star in one of my little homemade videos…

@Y/N: you must have really liked that lighter, huh?

@BuckyBarnes: I had plenty of fun with the lighter. But if I need to hold it hostage to convince you to come over here, I’m not above that.

You roll your eyes. Ever the flirt.

@BuckyBarnes: C’mon, baby. I’ve been dying to see what makes you tick. 

Once again, Bucky Barnes was stealing precious sleep from you. 

Of course you bump into him in the elevator the next morning.

You two exchange polite nods. He stands next to you. Had he gotten taller overnight, or was his presence just more encapsulating? Your plan was to keep your mouth shut, because god knows it’s been getting you in trouble lately. But of course, Bucky wasn’t having that.

“Late night?” a knowing tone in his voice. 

Great. He’s in the mood to fuck with you. 

“..a bit.” you reply cautiously. What the hell is he playing at?

“You don’t want to ask me if I got enough sleep?” and that false innocence in his voice had you more nervous than you’d like to admit.

“...Did you have a late night, Bucky?” 

“Oh, I think you know the answer to that.” he coos, leaning in just enough to be closer than usual. 

Thank god it was your floor. 

The elevator doors opened and you practically jumped out, speeding off to your apartment, praying you made it out in time before he caught a glimpse of your face.

“Offer still stands, doll.” he calls after you.

Jesus Christ.

Your phone dings seconds after you make it to your apartment. 

@BuckyBarnes: Door’s always unlocked, sweetheart. Let me show you why I’m a professional. 

And you slump to the floor.

Hours later, you finished up at the gym and took a much-needed shower. The heat that had been building between you and Bucky was enough already to warrant at least 20 minutes self-reflecting in cold water, and your attempt to sweat him out of your system had proved fruitless. 

Of course, there was always the old fashioned way to relieve a little stress.

So that’s how you ended up on your back in bed with your hand shamelessly stuffed down your panties. Your little silk slip nightdress, the black one you sleep in when it’s extra hot in your room, is bunched up around your hips as you work yourself as silently as possible, stifling your little gasps, the thought of what Bucky could do to you filling your lust-clouded mind. 

You finally found a rhythm when your phone buzzed to life. Who the hell is texting you at this hour, interrupting your extremely vital indulgence?

@BuckyBarnes: Want to know one of the many perks of being a supersoldier?

God, why now? You were so close…

@Y/N: make it quick barnes, im busy

@BuckyBarnes: Oh, I know you are. Because one of the perks of being a supersoldier is the enhanced senses.

Fuck.

@BuckyBarnes: I can hear every pretty little noise you’re trying not to make right now. I can hear your heartbeat quicken. God, doll, I can practically taste you from here.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You would have to move apartments. Countries, maybe. 

@BuckyBarnes: Let me help you, sweet girl. I know what you need. Let me give you what you need, yeah?

@BuckyBarnes: Were you thinking about me, hmm? Trying to get me off your mind? Poor thing, you should have just asked me to help. I’m right across the hall.  

@BuckyBarnes: Let me take care of you, baby. 

[myfictionaldreams]

Omg yay!! Im so happy so for Wanda x reader x nat so what if one day Wanda takes the reader out shopping because she never really wears anything revealing and they wanted to surprise nat with something special when she comes home from her mission so when she comes out of the Dressing in a very revealing dress the Wanda is smitten but when nat sees the reader after a long and stressful day…. She simply cannot help herself.

⁀➷ Red Silk // Wanda/Nat x F!Reader

Summary: Eager to surprise Natasha after a long mission, you let Wanda take you shopping for something a little out of your comfort zone. Dressed to impress and filled with anxiety, you wait for Natasha’s return.

Requested by: Thank you for this request! I've never written Wanda before (I hope it was ok!)

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, self-conscious/anxious reader, dom!Nat/Wanda, sub!reader, orgasm control, toys, overstimulation, threesome, restrained, aftercare, praise kink, fingering

Words: 3.4k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

It started with a simple idea. You wanted to surprise Wanda and Natasha. You’d spent the past week missing them both.

Natasha, off on another high-stakes mission halfway across the road with Clint, and Wanda, busy running point from the Tower and calling you at night when she knew you’d be curled under your weighted blanket, pretending you weren’t lonely.

They were strong, capable, and skilled in their own ways. But somehow, they still made you, an entirely average, anxious human, feel like the most important part of their world.

So when Wanda offered to take you shopping “just for fun,” you hesitated initially, like you did to most suggestions. Shopping was not really your thing—definitely not for another revealing. But Wanda cupped your cheeks in her warm, graceful hands and looked into your eyes with that impossibly gentle stare.

“Let’s do something for Nnat. You know how hard it’s been for her lately. She misses us. And I think she’d lose her mind if she came home to you dressed like sin.”

That made your stomach flutter. You weren’t used to thinking of yourself as sexy; that was definitely Natasha and Wanda's area of expertise. But the idea of making them happy? It was exciting and terrifying.

You stood in front of the mirror, inside a private fitting room of an upscale boutique Wanda had charmed you into. The dress she’d chosen for you was a deep, wine-coloured silk that shimmered like molten metal under the studio lights. It dipped low across your chest and exposed nearly all your back. A slit ran dangerously high along your thigh.

Too high.

“Wands,” you called, your voice unable to disguise the anxiety, “are you sure this isn’t too much?”

The blue curtain swished open just enough for her to peek in, her emerald eyes immediately widening with appreciation. Peaking over her shoulder, she stepped inside without hesitation, her hands reaching to rest gently on your shoulders as she stood behind you, both of you facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“Look at you,” she whispers, lips brushing your ear. “You look … devastating.”

Lowering your head, cheeks burning. “I just- what if I look like I'm trying too hard? Or worse, like I'm playing dress-up in someone else’s life? I'm not like you two. You’re gorgeous and powerful.”

Wanda turned you gently to face her, her touch always feather-light, and your body instantly leaned in to her.

“You’re ours,” she reminds you softly. “That's what makes you dangerous, dekta. You don’t even know the effect you have on us.”

Her thumb brushed over your bottom lip, calming the anxious tremble. She had been such an anchor to you since the first moment.

“I just want her to be happy—both of you. I know I'm not strong like her or have magic like you, but I love you so much it makes my chest hurt sometimes.”

Wanda smiles at you, a coy and flirtatious smile, her voice barely above a breath. “You are strong, my love. You’re the heart of us. You’re what keeps us human.”

Wanda knew you would spiral when coming shopping; she knew you better than you knew yourself. You would have these moments of courage to prove you’re worth the love, and then anxiety would snap you back again. All Wanda wanted was for you to understand that you were worthy of their love because her heart ached seeing the fear in your eyes.

Turning your body back towards the mirror, Wanda's hand smooths over the silk barely covering your hips. She didn’t say another word, but she didn’t have to. You could see the want and need in her pretty eyes, and just watched as she looked you up and down. Eventually, the tension in your shoulders eased, and you could begin to relax, maybe just beginning to believe her words.

You could do this; it’s just lingerie. Natasha had seen you naked more times than you could even begin to count. You could please your Avenger girlfriend.

Later that evening, you stood in the apartment, barefoot but still in the dress, trying desperately not to fidget as Wanda lit a few candles around the living room. You’d even attempted a soft make-up look, though you were convinced your hands had been too shaky for eyeliner.

“She should be back any minute,” Wanda informs as she walks past to grab a bottle of wine, pausing only to brush her hand across your lower back. “Deep breath, Sweetheart. She’s going to lose her mind.”

You open your mouth to answer, but the sound of the door unlocking freezes you in place, and your fingers are instantly wringing together over your abdomen in anxiety.

Then she was there—Natasha, dressed in her usual black tactical gear, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, her red hair damp from the light drizzle outside. Her eyes were on you and only you.

The rest of the world seemingly slid away.

The fatigue on her beautiful face didn’t have time to settle. Not when she saw you, standing in that dress, framed by candlelight and body taut with nerves.

She drops her bag heavily onto the floor. “What … is this?”

You swallow, “Surprise?”

Narasha didn’t move right away. She was rarely caught off guard, but you could see how her jaw clenched and her breath hitched. The way her eyes drank you in like she’d been starved.

Wanda appeared at your side, looping her arm around your waist. “We missed you.”

Nat looked at both of you, walking forward slowly, gaze never leaving yours, until her hand found your hip.

“No weapon?” she murmured, teasing, but her tone was low and husky. “No backup?”

“I have you,” you respond shakily.

Something flickered in her eyes at that. Something tender and dangerous and overwhelmed.

“Fuck,” she whispered, almost to herself, hand sliding from your hip to your waist. “You’ve been walking around like this all day?”

“Just in the fitting room,” Wanda purred, releasing your arm so that she could walk around Natasha’s back, her arms wrapping around her middle. She kissed the assassin's cheek and then rested her chin on her shoulder so that they were now both gazing at you. “But now she's yours.”

Natasha’s hand slipped behind your neck, her nails teasing on their journey, tugging you gently forward until your lips were barely an inch from hers. “You really wanted to surprise me, huh?”

“I wanted to make you both happy,” you say, tasting the bubblegum on her sweet breath. “You deserve it.”

Natasha kisses you like she’d been dying to, slow but intense, her fingers tightening, her entire body pressing into yours like she needed the contact to breathe.

When she finally pulled back, she glanced at Wanda by her side, then at you again.

“Bed. Now.”

Wanda’s smile widened as she moved back to your side, guiding you backwards, her hand never leaving your lower back. And just like that, the anxiety faced because here, between them, you were safe, desired, protected and loved.

You’d barely stepped into your bedroom before Natasha’s hands were on you again. 

Her touch was rough with need, fingers ghosting over the silk of the dress like she wanted to tear it off but knew better. Not yet. Not when you looked like that. Not when Wanda had dressed you with such care.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” she spoke passionately as her lips moved to your neck, biting just hard enough to make you whimper.

Wanda closed the door behind you, her magic flickering through the room to dim the lights and ignite the soft, amber glow of candles. You could feel the hum of her power, sensual and warm, brushing against your skin like a second set of hands.

Natasha glanced back momentarily at Wanda, “Have you seen her like this all day?”

Wanda’s eyes dropped to your flushed face and trembling thighs. “Mmhmm. She’s been so shy and sweet, and so fucking good. Nervous, but determined. Just for us.”

That earned a soft kiss to your temple fromWanda and a sharp squeeze to your ass from Natasha.

“Climb onto the bed,” Wanda whispered to you. “On your knees. Facing us.”

Your breath caught. This is what you needed—some direction, someone else to take control and get you out of your negative thoughts. So you obeyed happily.

The silk dress rode up your thighs as you settled on the mattress, the blanket adding extra padding beneath your knees. You felt their eyes devouring you.  Wanda’s fond, hungry gaze and Nat’s dark, intense stare like a fire being barely restrained. But there was love there, too—so much of it.

Wanda approached first, her fingers trailing lightly over your shoulders, down your arms, grounding you.

“You’re doing so well, dekta.” Her lips caress beneath your ear as you tilt your face slightly to give her more room. “You wanted to make us happy? You’ve already done that. But now, we’re going to return the favour.”

“Yes, please.”

Ntasha reappeared at the edge of the bed, pulling open the nightstand. She revealed soft silk restraints and a familiar-looking vibrator, the one with the deep thudding setting that always made your thighs shake.

“Are you happy using the traffic light system?” she asks simply, eyes locking with yours.

“Yes. I’m very much green,” your pulse is thundering in your chest with anticipation and excitement.

“Good girl,” she purrs, and you nearly melt right then.

Wanda’s red magic shimmers around your wrists as Natasha gently ties them behind your back—not tight, but firm. Secure. You loved it when they handled you like this, firm in a way that was dominating but careful, so you still held firm trust in them.

Wanda was already sliding the straps of your dress down, inch by inch, kissing every bit of newly exposed skin. Her lips ghosted down the side of your throat, collarbone, and breasts. “So gorgeous. All of this, just for us.”

When she rolled one peaked nipple between her fingers and kissed the other, you gasped. When Natasha moved to kneel behind you, pressing the vibrator that was still off between your legs, you moaned, head tipping back onto her shoulder.

“She’s already so wet for us,” Natasha informs Wanda, her voice filled with desire and pain. We haven’t even touched her properly yet.”

“Let her feel it,” Wanda replied, swapping between breasts. “But don’t let her come yet. She needs to bed for it.”

You could feel Natasha grinning against the side of your neck. She turned the toy on—the low, rumbling settled that already had your hips bucking to feel more.

You whimpered pathetically, body trembling, hips twitching helplessly. The vibrations were maddeningly good. But your hands were bound. Your lovers were everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“You’re always so responsive,” Natasha praised, watching your thighs clench over your shoulder. “It’s so fucking sweet.” Her other hand now teased along the slit of your dress, threatening to slip betneath and join where the vibrator rested but never actually moving there, not yet.

Wanda kissed your jaw, her voice soft and dark. “Tell us how it feels, Dekta. Use your words, I want to hear your pretty voice.”

“So-so good. I-it’s so much. Please, touch me more-”

“Where?” Natasha asked, voice playful but sharp. “Tell us what you want.”

You let out a needy whimper. “Inside. I want your fingers, please!”

Natasha finally slips her fingers further beneath your dress, beneaththe slit in the side. One finger slides into you with ease, given how soaked you are. Then another finger is joining, curling just the way you loved. She kept the vibrator pressed to your clit, her other hand gripping your thigh as you keened.

“She’s already pulsing around my fingers,” Natasha grins, almost in awe. “God, I missed this.”

Wanda, behind you, was unzipping her dress now, and you could hear the soft rustle of silk against your skin. She reached around to gently hold your chin, turning your face towards her, and kissing you deeply.

“You make her so soft, Nat,” Wanda says, her fingers grazing from your temple, over your cheeks and chin. “She’s been trembling since she put that dress on.”

“She’s always soft with us,” Natasha replies, still thrusting her fingers deeper now. “Always perfect.”

“Let’s make her fall apart.”

You nearly sobbed at that, whimpering into Wanda’s kiss as the pleasure mounted fast and sharp, your core tightening. Natasha’s fingers were relentless, the vibrator still tumbling in precisely the right place.

“Please! Can I-”

“Not yet,” Wanda demands.

“Not until we say,” Natasha adds, biting where your shoulder and neck slope.

Your body shook with the effort of withholding what you truly wanted. Wanda kisses you again, and when she pulls back, you realise she is slowly riding a toy herself, leaning against the headboard. Her magic still flickers faintly around your skin, holding you in place.

She was moaning softly, eyes glued to you, hand pressed against her breast. That pushed you closer to the edge than anything else. 

Natasha felt it too. She moved faster, curling her fingers just right, her voice rough now. “She’s close, Wands.”

Wanda bit her bottom lip, eyes lidded heavily. “Let her.”

You came hard. Enough to steal your breath as you doubled over, thighs inching to close as wave after wave of pleasure squeezed in your core. Natasha held you through it, her grip never faltering.

Wanda’s voice was soothing as she praised, “That’s it, just like that, good girl, we’ve got you. I love watching you come like that on Nat’s fingers.”

But they weren’t finished. 

“Lie back,” Natasha instructs, untying your wrists. “We’re not done loving you yet.”

Your body had barely recovered from the first orgasm when Natasha lay you down fully against the pillows that smelled faintly of her.

“You really wore that for me?” she asked, voice quieter now, but no less intense as she stroked a finger over the silk material around your waist. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to go out of your way to please me, if it makes you uncomfortable. But, please, I have never been more turned on than seeing you standing there, waiting for me, in this little thing. I fucking love you.”

You meant to say something just as inspiring back about how she desires to be treated, even if it caused you a little anxiety, because the payoff was worth it.

However, all that slipped from your swollen lips was a pathetic little whining at her praises. 

Wanda kneels next to Nat, by your legs, no longer pleasuring herself. A teasing smirk on her face as her magic already flickers through the air again. You felt it brush your thighs, warm, teasing, invisible fingers dragging slowly up the inside of your legs.

“She made me help her choose,” Wanda explained, eyes flicking from your body to Nat. “Tried on our different ones but kept going back to that one. Said Natasha would like this one the most.”

“I do,” Natasha murmured in agreement, biting her lip. “I more than like it. I want to ruin it, I want it on all day every day, bunched around your waist while you scream our names.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, but Wanda was already straddling your trembling thighs. Her magic was holding your arms above your head now, restrained without rope but a glowing red.

“She likes it when you talk like that.” As you arch into the touch, Wanda leans down to press kisses along your collarbone. “It makes her melt.”

“Good because I’m not done with her yet.”

Natasha pulls something else from the drawer, a pink rabbit vibrator, long, firm and curved just right for that perfect pleasure, with a remote she placed in Wanda’s expectant outstretched hand.

Wanda’s smile turns wicked as she licks up the length of your sternum.

“She’s already sensitive,” she continues as she slides the toy between your legs, gently parting your thighs. “She might cry.”

Natasha stroked your cheek again. “Then we’ll make her cry beautifully.”

They didn’t give you much warning. The toy just slid in deep, sending an immediate jolt through your already overstimulated cunt as your body automatically clamped down on it, the dildo part inside and the nub resting against your clit. Before you could beg for anything, Wanda had turned iron.

A shudder tore through your body, a soundless moan on your lips.

The vibrations started deep and slow, as the length of the dildo began to rotate. Wanda, using her mind to manipulate the speed, the rhythm, the intensity, had you arching helplessly against the bed, arms still pinned above you with magic as Natasha leaned over to kiss your ribs, your navel, lower….

“She’s going to break, Wanda,” Natasha whispered, tongue flickering over your inner thigh.

The rhythm changed. Wanda flickered her fingers idly, watching you squirm. Her eyes were molten, locked onto your face, making sure that she didn’t push too hard.

“Look at me,” she says firmly. “I want to see your eyes when you come again.”

You obeyed, barely able to breathe as the pressure builds between your legs. 

Then Natasha is there, licking all around the toy, over your labia, inner thighs, nipping carefully with her sharp teeth to add a slight spark of pain. She was slow and purposeful, while the toy buzzed relentlessly deeper inside you.

“Oh my god- Wanda-Nat, I need, I-!”

“Not yet,” Wanda instructed again, but this time there was a joy in her voice. “You can take more. You’ve already shown us how strong you are. You went shopping, got dressed, and waited all day just to be our good girl. We’re going to give you everything now.”

Natasha bit the inside of your thigh with more force, causing a sting before soothing it with her kiss as your hips try to grind down further on the toy.

“So fucking sweet,” she groans, licking up the wet arousal smothering your lowerhalf. “So fucking perfect. Look how she shakes.”

And you were shaking.  Your legs, chest, and hands still trembling in their magical restraint. But you didn’t want it to stop, savouring every touch, praise, lick and kiss from the women you loved. 

“I did it for you,” you choke out as you try not to come. “I just wanted to be enough. I wanted to make you both proud.”

Your insecure admission has both of your girlfriends freezing for a moment. Wanda’s expression melts instantly, the dominant firmness disappearing in a blink as she eases off from straddling your waist to lie beside you, her hand on your face. “You are always enough. This? This just shows us how much you love us. And we’re going to show you how much we love you.”

Natasha kisses the inside of your wrist as she moves up your body until she’s lying on your other side. “You’re ours. Always.”

Wanda turned the toy to the highest setting. The buzz against your clit and the rotating of the dildo became everything.

Your back bowed off the mattress as the stimulation went from overwhelming to unbearable in the best way. Magic wrapped around your thighs to keep them spread, Wanda pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, as your second orgasm tore through you like burning lightning.

“There it is. Let go for us.”

You did. Crying out, body shuddering violently, your release crashing through you so hard you barely registered the way Natasha whispered soft, endless praise into your skin. Wanda slowly turned the toy off as your chest heaved for air, and the restraints around your wrists and thighs faded away.

“Shh,” wanda soothed, pulling your gently into her ars. “It’s okay.  You’re safe. We’ve got you. You did so fucking good for us, Dekta.”

“I’ve got some water, careful, small sips.” With renewed gentleness, Natasha holds your head up as you sip from the glass in her hand.

You were still shaking, your mind not quite there yet, as you relied on your girlfriends to care for you. They both cleaned you up and held you between them, their lips on your face, their fingers stroking against your arms and legs, massaging the ache away.

You were surrounded, protected.

“Did so well, you’re ours, baby. Always ours.”

“And we’re yours, forever,” Wanda reassures with a kiss.

[sknyuz]

cheers to youth | na baekjin

synopsis — seventeen begins to feel less like a number and more like a fleeting chance at youth for baekjin, and you're determined to help him reclaim it. now playing — cheers to youth - seventeen pairing — na baekjin x reader genre — a prequel to before the storm, fluff, hurt/comfort, f2l cw — mentions of violence (bruised knuckles, blood), implied gang activity, hints of trauma, light angst wc — ~3k

masterlist | join the taglist | 400 follower event

⤷ read before the storm here

note: i am soooo excited to bring them back <3 thank u sm bubble anon and i hope to hear ur thoughts about this. ur request was a great way to circle back to their story. so, here’s a bit more of a softer side to our before the storm couple, before before the storm.

baekjin has been tutoring you for a few months.

months of sharp pencil taps and hushed explanations about algebra formulas, chemical equations, and the difference between mitosis and meiosis. three months of neatly organized notes, and surprisingly, moving from the library to quiet cafes after school, and the faint scent of worn-out textbooks. and somewhere between “you’re solving this backwards again” and “just memorize the codes by category,” you started to notice it.

it being: baekjin is different from you—not in the way most teenage boys are. he doesn’t tease, doesn’t zone out mid-sentence or start humming the latest pop song stuck in his head, baekjin is the kind of different that feels… heavier.

he doesn’t skip class or doodles in the margins of his notebook. and he definitely doesn’t take mirror selfies or kick vending machines when their drink gets stuck. baekjin doesn’t scream when teachers announce a pop quiz—just flips the page like he’s been expecting it all along.

you notice it especially in the way he walks—like he’s older than the rest of you. like seventeen is just a number he has to wear, not a year he gets to live in.

for you, seventeen is messy. it’s loud and full of mistakes, it’s glittery pens and bad decisions and crushes you won’t remember in two years.

but for baekjin, seventeen looks like duty, like pressure. like everything could fall apart if he dares to slow down.

and then the bell rings—that sharp, metallic echo that usually means freedom.

but baekjin doesn’t flinch with relief, he flinches like he’s bracing for something.

when the bells ring, i become fearful / these days, my heart gets scared first

you’re walking out of the building together, the sky bleeding into early evening. his backpack’s weighed down with papers—union notes, scribbled with surveillance details and plate numbers, things no seventeen-year-old should have to memorize.

he doesn’t bother hiding them from you anymore.

maybe he tried, once—keeping his bruised knuckles in his sleeves during tutoring, glancing at his phone under the table like it wasn’t burning a hole in his pocket. but now, he knows there’s no point, you’ve always noticed more than you let on. maybe you’re not as oblivious as your homeroom teacher thinks you are.

and maybe that’s why he lets the notes spill out so easily now—right next to your math textbook, like they belong there. he doesn’t flinch when your eyes catch the names or the red circles. he doesn’t apologize when he’s late, when his jaw is tense, when there’s dried blood on his collar.

you don’t push, you never ask about it.

and somehow, that quiet understanding—your decision to let him keep his secrets without making him feel like a secret—is more comforting than anything.

it’s not subtle, nor is it normal. but for baekjin, it’s something that feels oddly peaceful.

“do you even like being in high school?” you ask suddenly. your voice is light, but your heart’s not.

he doesn’t look up, just keeps writing something in his notebook as he walks. “…that’s not the point.”

i want to be alone, but i don’t want to be alone / i don’t get myself either…

“what is the point, then?” you lean closer, not letting him off that easily, “if you’re not having fun now, when will you? when you’re dead or dying?” you snort, but baekjin tenses up.

his pen stalls, the tip presses too long into the page, leaving behind a blot of ink. you watch it bloom like something bruising.

he lifts his eyes to you, just for a second, and there’s a flicker of something there—something soft, almost unsure, like a door left ajar. like he wants to say something, but doesn’t have the words for it yet.

so you smile at him, and that’s when you decide: if baekjin can’t find the fun in seventeen, then maybe you’ll just have to bring it to him yourself.

you take him to a photo booth after school.

you pile silly props onto his head—mismatched glasses and floppy bunny ears while he tries to duck out of the frame.

“baekjin,” you say, tugging his sleeve. “just one picture. c’mon.”

he hesitates, so you squint into the lens and say, “if you don’t smile, i’m writing ‘DNA is my myers-briggs personality type’ on our next biology exam.”

his head jerks toward you, scandalized—and that’s when the camera flashes, catching the sound of his startled laugh mid-escape.

in this suffocating world / i smiled for a moment at something small…

you wait for it to print and tuck it into your pocket.

baekjin doesn’t ask for a copy, but you catch him glancing over your shoulder as you look at it again later. just once. like he wants to remember what that felt like. maybe he wouldn’t mind seeing himself like that again.

the next monday at school, baekjin finds the photo booth strip tucked inside his notebook.

the following week after tutoring, you drag a grumbling baekjin to the ice cream shop next to your academy. you hand him a cone that’s too bright, too blue, too artificial-looking. he stares at it like you handed him a grenade.

“just try it,” you say, already halfway through your own.

he takes a bite, flinching with a subtle grimace, eyes narrowing at the cone.

“this tastes like melted bubblegum,” he says flatly.

you laugh, “good! you’re supposed to taste your childhood.”

he opens his mouth—maybe to say childhood?, like it’s a foreign word. baekjin doesn’t remember much sweetness in his. only the kind of silence that swallows whole, the kind of pain that you outgrow only in size. there were no ice creams or photobooths, only cracked knuckles, bitten lips, too many nights where the only thing he tasted was copper and fear.

but now, he’s still in his youth, isn’t he? he’s still got time. maybe this—this ridiculous, artificial bubblegum flavor—can be the new taste of it, maybe it can fill in the blank spaces where laughter should’ve been, maybe it can be the one thing that finally overtakes the taste of blood in his mouth and ache in his chest.

so he doesn’t complain again. just finishes the whole thing, sticky fingers and all.

it just so happens we’re facing today for the first time / even if you hate yourself more from the deeply hurtful remarks you said / let’s not worry about it…

a few weeks later, something shifts in baekjin.

he shows up to tutoring with a split lip and silence clinging to his shoulders like a second jacket. he doesn’t offer an explanation, and you don’t ask—not yet. but you notice the way his eyes stay fixed on his notes like he’s trying to disappear into the margins. how the pen in his hand presses too hard, like he’s holding back something that wants to claw out.

you don’t like the way he flinches when someone laughs too loud outside the café window. or how he doesn’t touch his drink, just lets the ice melt.

so you slam your notebook shut and say, “we’re going out.”

baekjin blinks. “…what?”

“noraebang.”

“no.”

“yes.” your voice is firm, but you smile. “you can sit in the corner and sulk if you want. but you’re not going home like this.”

he sighs like he hates that you notice things, but he follows you out the door anyway.

the karaoke room is smaller than you expected, the mic a little too echoey, the screen slightly lagging behind the beat. still, you’re already queuing up songs while baekjin stands awkwardly by the couch like he’s considering making a run for it.

“i don’t sing,” he mutters, eyes scanning the laminated songbook like it might bite.

“good thing i do,” you grin, clicking on a familiar intro—the kind of upbeat, fluttery track you know he’d never pick.

you toss him the tambourine, and he catches it without thinking. “what am i supposed to do with this?” he asks, gaze flicking up to you—quizzical, unimpressed.

“participate in your youth!” you say, already grabbing the mic as the first verse starts.

he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t leave. a minute later, he’s still there—half-heartedly tapping the tambourine against his palm as you belt out the chorus, your voice cracking with enthusiasm more than skill.

we should be solving quadratic formulas right now, he thinks. and you probably will flunk your next test at this rate. he sighs with the thought—but that also means he’ll have to tutor you again next week.

his eyes drift toward you—they don’t leave.

with our voices, wherever we are, let’s sing—cheers to youth…

baekjin doesn’t sing, that part was true. he doesn’t even hum. but there’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth, barely there. his eyes stay on you like the rest of the world has gone quiet.

and for once, the union feels a little less close. like in this cramped, echoey karaoke room—with you laughing off-key under dim lights—it’s somewhere far away, out of reach.

it’s raining when you step out of the karaoke room. not a drizzle—a full, angry downpour, bouncing off the pavement and pooling along the curb.

“perfect,” you mutter, tugging your bag over your shoulder. you forgot your umbrella—again—but baekjin didn’t.  he sighs, pulling out a small umbrella from his backpack. “you always forget yours.” this wasn’t the first time you forgot your umbrella.

“i like to live on the edge,” you grin, ducking under his. he stiffens a little as your shoulder brushes his.

your place is only two blocks away. you insist it’s faster than waiting, and baekjin, though visibly reluctant, walks beside you in the downpour. the umbrella doesn’t quite cover both of you. but he doesn’t complain when your shoulder brushes his, or when his other one gets soaked in the rain.

he should be with the union right now, there’s a meeting and he knows it, feels the weight of it tugging at the edges of his mind like a leash. but your warmth is close, and the rain is loud, and somehow… baekjin’s legs move before he thinks.

a few minutes later, you pause at your doorstep, rainwater slipping from your sleeves as you fumble with the key.

“your parents… probably wouldn’t want me staying,” he says, clearing his throat. his voice is steady, but his eyes flick to the street like he’s searching for a way out. he shifts back a step, fingers tightening on the umbrella still dripping at his side. “i should head out.”

but he knows it’s just an excuse. he noticed it earlier—how he softened without meaning to, how stepping inside your world felt like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“i live alone,” you say, quiet but certain.

not many things surprise him, but that piece of information might have made him feel it. maybe because you always seemed like someone who’d come home to a warm meal and soft smiles, the kind of person whose energy felt… loved. lived in. he never imagined you turning the lights on to silence—never pictured you being alone in the same ways he is.

a flicker of concern bubbles in his chest—unfamiliar, uninvited, but not unwelcome.

it settles beside the rest of the feelings he hasn’t named yet.

he hesitates… then steps inside.

your apartment is small, a little cluttered, but warm. the kind of place with mismatched socks drying on the heater and cereal boxes stacked on top of the fridge. baekjin’s eyes scan the room like he’s trying to memorize it, but he doesn’t say much. just sets his shoes neatly by the door and follows you inside.

you hand him a towel. he takes it with a quiet nod, his gaze flicking toward the small, but comfortable mess of your space before he looks away.

later, he lies beside you on the floor under a ceiling of glow-in-the-dark stars you stuck up last summer. they’re uneven, a few peeling at the corners, but still glowing faintly above your heads like they’re trying their best. baekjin doesn’t ask why you put them up. but he thinks about how you probably put them up alone—no one else around to help. and for a moment, he almost can’t stop a faint grin from tugging at his lips as he imagined how clumsy you would’ve been, but it’s swallowed by the dim light and his unsaid thoughts.

the rain hasn’t let up, tapping soft against the windows like it’s afraid to interrupt. you’re both wrapped in different ends of the same blanket, quiet now. your breathing steady, his a little more uneven.

in this trivial warmth of the cozy blanket that wrapped around me / i fall asleep waiting for tomorrow again

baekjin doesn’t talk about himself, not at all. he’s the kind of boy who folds in on silence, who carries things so quietly you forget they weigh anything at all. but tonight, something in that boy shifts.

he turns toward you, eyes catching the stars for a second too long.

then, his voice comes out softly, the quietest and most hesitant you’d ever hear him speak: “i don’t think i ever let myself feel like this.”

you blink. “like what?”

he shifts his weight, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. “like it’s okay to just… live like this.” he doesn’t say it outright, but you understand. his voice cracks, just barely.

you roll over to face him and your eyes meet in the dim, “it is okay, baekjin.”

he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to believe you.

then he exhales. “i want to hate myself a little less than yesterday.”

the loud alarm that rings every morning / i want to hate a little less than yesterday…

he doesn’t say much when he leaves in the morning. just a short nod and a glance that lingers at your door a moment longer than it should. but later, at school, you notice something new.

after a big test, maybe—one that baekjin had crushed, as usual, without breaking a sweat.

a photo strip—creased from being carried around, tucked into the clear back pocket of his phone case. you in heart-shaped sunglasses and his startled smile, next to his test marked 100.

he doesn’t hide it when you see, doesn’t pretend it’s not there.

“you worked hard,” you say softly, voice quieter than usual.

and you’re not just talking about the test score, not really. it’s the way he’s finally letting himself live—if only for a few moments here and there. letting himself be a kid, even if it’s just with you. that’s the secret you hold dearly.

his gaze shifts, and his chest lifts a little at your words. he knows exactly what you mean. it’s not about the paper, not at all.

“it wasn’t easy,” he echoes, voice low, as if the weight of it hasn’t quite settled in yet. “but it wasn’t so bad.”

as i’m heading home, ‘you worked hard’ / that it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t so bad…

and maybe that’s how it starts—an ice cream cone, a bad karaoke duet, and a quiet night under plastic stars.

baekjin doesn’t let people in easily. but after your tutoring sessions, it slowly becomes routine. a few steps slower on the way home, maybe a shared drink at the corner store with his hand brushing yours once, then not pulling away the next time.

he starts showing up without being asked, and starts staying a little longer each time. and eventually, you stop counting how many times he lets himself be part of your world.

and then one afternoon—weeks later, a sky still pale from winter light—you pull out a paper you’ve been hiding all day: a perfect score. red ink, circled on the 100. you hold it out to him sheepishly while he lounges on the floor of your apartment, flipping through a children’s comic book like it’s riveting literature.

“what’s this?” he asks, taking it. his eyes scan the paper, and for the first time since you’ve known him, his eyes that usually held such a stoic, piercing gaze widens, genuinely stunned.

“you—” his voice breaks off, and then suddenly he’s up, paper still in hand, arms wrapping tight around your waist. you let out a startled laugh as your feet lift off the ground.

“you actually did it,” he says, half in disbelief, half in something that sounds suspiciously like pride. “you—god. you did it.”

you blink down at him, never before seeing him so animted. “was that… enthusiasm? from na baekjin?”

he doesn’t let you go, just presses his forehead to your shoulder with a quiet laugh.

“shut up.” but his smile doesn’t fade—not for a long time.

everything will be good, because it’s me…

and from that moment on, na baekjin finally, fully lets you in.

not just as the person who makes him laugh at photo booths or forces him into glittery karaoke rooms, or as a distraction from the union, from the weight he always carries so carefully on his own.

but as something more.

you become his outlet not just for stolen youth, but for something completely new to him—affection.

the kind he never knew how to ask for. the kind that’s soft and lingering, tucked into things like packed snacks on long study days, or the way he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders before you even ask.

na baekjin doesn’t say much, he was never the one for long explanations or complicated conversations.

but when he starts reaching for your hand without thinking, when he leans in a little closer on the bus station as you wait for your bus home, when he lets his gaze linger just a beat longer than it should—you know.

you’re not just something he’s letting himself want, you’re something he’s letting himself have. in the midst of re-discovering his youth, na baekjin discovers you.

cheers to youth

note: i had wayyy too much fun writing this, and creating the gifs !! do you notice how the spark gets stronger? i hope everyone appreciates this little glimpse into what life was like for our before the storm couple. hopefully this healed something in the readers of before the storm, lol. consider this my apology for the pain that bts caused >~<

𐔌 . ⋮ taglist .ᐟ weak hero class ֹ ₊ ꒱ @kstrucknet | @loserlvrss @nanamiswifesatorusgf @hateateez @slytherinshua @winnie-bunnie @rexxiiia @mrgzzarella @ilyhachii @youmeshii @actuallynarii @midnight--raine @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @trasshy-artist @crowneve @juicyjam @xh01bri @onyourlisa345 @triciawritesstuff @prettywhenicry4 @dripoftheseus @rosieparkk @gacktsa @sopitadearvejas @satorustorm @mirwors @sqacewalkr @l5byrinth @sarcastic-cookie @v3n0m35 @vitaminbtob @armani78 @bbangbies @snowflakemoon3 @kibtsuji @yuuuumii @slovesyouuu @f1-lh44 @hajunz  @snowflakemoon3 @hoe4wonwoo @pluslandminun @bleedingwhiteroses222 @dahlia-blossom @reiofsuns2001 @yuuuumii @feralmaneater @fandomout @ilovethe141 @coffee-ii @vind1cta @brianafyz (ask to be tagged or removed)

[dayntee]

10 Things Solavellans Agree On

Since I've been rolling around in Solavellan Hell for the last six months like a chinchilla in a dirt bath, I've been collecting little headcanons across the community.

I thought I'd share some of them. If you don't see yours that you absolutely swear by, you are honor bound to reblog or reply to this post so I can know about. These are either things I've had hours long conversations about or just notice a particular trend across several fanfictions/art.

He is an ass man. There's no way he isn't. He just can't keep his hands to himself.

He'll take any excuse to punish himself for his mistakes. Because everything is his fault forever. (Pretty sure this is just a fact tbh)

He has a horrendous sweet tooth. It's not just frilly cakes, he just enjoys sweet things in general.

He's a generous/caring lover. He gets his fulfillment out of his partner's fulfillment, not necessarily his own.

He's 8 inches and uncut. Boy is packing in front as well as in the trunk. (I can't take credit for this, the NSFW portion of the Fen'Harem is to blame and there was... uhhh a lot of consensus.)

He has a breeding kink. Thanks for this one, Trick; we know it was a joke, we just also all agree with you.

The travel to and from Crestwood makes no goddamn sense. Did he drag Lavellan out a week's travel by horseback just to panic and dump her? Was the ride home awkward as fuck? Did she bitterly leave him to walk his ass home? The world may never know.

Lavellan cried to dehydration and/or got irresponsibly drunk after Crestwood, and some poor member of the Inquisiton had to deal with it. Jury's out on who, I've seen Dorian or Varric most frequently, but my personal headcanon is Cassandra (who was 3 steps away from beating Solas' ass at any given moment afterward).

Solas, on the other hand, had a sad wank. Possibly several. Man has probably sad wanked a lot from Crestwood forward to be honest.

Whatever happens after Veilguard with these two, it involves a lot of fucking. It doesn't matter what your headcanon was for whether or not they had banged up until this point; once they retire to the Fade, everything is sexy times.

Bonus: 5 Personal Headcanons

These ones are less widely accepted, but my personal thoughts. Enjoy.

He's a mischievous partner. He knows where Lavellan is ticklish, taps her on the opposite shoulder when he approaches, and does other little pranky things (that are harmless, but teasing).

He's a switch. This is probably the most contested thing about any character, but I feel like Solas is too ephemeral and malleable a character to forever be a dom or sub exclusively.

Hates restrictive clothing. Veilguard was literally a form of torture; his loose hobo robes are his actual comfort zone.

After Veilguard, legitimately wants to learn everything he can about Dalish history. He didn't give it any mind before, but now it's clear how much it matters and the reason why is now by his side for the rest of forever.

I'm kind of a non-mage Lavellan truther, but I like the separation it gives them; they already have so much overlap in common as a mirror it's nice that there's one thing that really sets them apart. Mine was a rogue, but I have a special place in my heart for warrior Lavellans who have definitely fireman carried that man to bed more than once.

[lonewolflupe]

Thank youuu for the tag, Ferox!

@orangez3st not the sigma face 😭 @pichiflu-draws hahaha your note is mood, I feel you there @leafdupe THAT'S ME, I'm a Boss lover, and eeeeeeek that face is so cute ❤️

OK so I finished my 7th and last Delta Squad Week drawing today 🎉 BUT I really wasn't content with one I did earlier, and it bothered me so much I decided to redo it completely and come up with a different idea and execution. And now I'm pushing myself out of my comfort zone, which is both exciting and scary as hell. Anyway, last lines were some of those strokes in the background (which are definitely better visible on my laptop than on my phone, but oh well):

No I won't give any context other than that it's another Delta Squad Week piece. (Yes that's a Trando slaver knife, and yes this Delta boi is barely clothed)

Tagging whoever has a Delta Squad Week WIP to share!!

Last Line Challenge

So many different posts from so many different people tagging me! Thank you vode 💛💛 @mereelskirata (X), @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf (X), @carbon-corrie (X), @boredzum-671 (X) and perhaps anyone else that I missed...

So! Prepping for @deltasquadweek bcs WHOA it's gonna drop in like less than three weeks. Oughh deadlines ��🏽‍♀️ I hope everyone's prepping well bcs I can't wait to consume everyone's creations 😆

And this is the last line I wrote for the next chapter of Welcome To Vau's

No. It's not worth it. If you count a selfie photo of Scorch pulling the sigma face worth it, Raye wishes you luck in your later life because that picture is her bad luck charm now.

One of my fears is sigma face and Scorch would absolutely be the kind of person who does that to jumpscare the kark out of you

NPT: UNO REVERSE TO ALL THE PSIONIC WARRIORS ABOVE and @hellfiresky @i-willstealyourtoes @the-rain-on-kamino @vodika-vibes @thecoffeelorian @w31rd0-art1st @noirrart @pichiflu-draws @leafdupe

[kalivasquezart]

Background work for @yellowldraws's Plastic Beach MAP.

[sennenrings]

@toorumlk ‘s insta DTIYS that’ll go up on my instagram tomorrow! I had a lot of fun drawing them :D

[pokimoko]

If you're still doing the pride flag animal things..

Could you do an aroace Jaguar or Raven?

I just thought they might look cool.

An aroace raven is very cool, I agree. Here ya go!

[cerucadet]

keith has him absolutely weak in the knees ...

[clumsypuppy]

someone left me a comment asking abt my pokeask days so....... i drew my old muses ^_^

[pidgeoryx]

take it easy!

[voltaical-art]

wyllmancer week day 6: Avernus

[kelpermoosee]

Don’t stop dancing ‘til the curtain call!

[quimera-cami]

Request: Spetsnaz team baking something sweet.