#still can’t listen to it without crying

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Split Second

Bob Floyd x fem!aviator!reader

call sign: Bolt

The squadroom buzzed with tired energy—helmets off, hair tousled from the Gs, and sweat slicking flight suits as bodies crashed into worn leather chairs.

Phoenix tossed her gloves on the table. “Hangman, if you’d flown any looser, you’d have circled the carrier.”

Hangman grinned, cocky as ever. “You’re just mad Bolt smoked you on that last vertical climb.”

“She smoked all of you,” Rooster said, voice dry. “Again.”

At the far end of the table, you sat with one leg crossed over the other, flight suit halfway unzipped, tank top soaked with sweat and salt and victory.

“Maybe if y’all spent less time talking and more time flying,” you said without looking up from your notepad,

“I wouldn’t keep embarrassing you in front of Maverick.”

Hangman pointed a finger at you. “Someday, Bolt, I’m gonna knock you out of the sky.”

You smiled—lazy, lethal.

“Then I’ll know I’m dreaming.”

Laughter rippled around the room.

Bob leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, smiling to himself. He hadn’t said a word since you landed. He never had to. The quiet way he watched you said more than anything else.

You didn’t see it—but he always saw you.

⸻

Maverick walked in, tossed his clipboard onto the table.

“Good work today. Debrief’s short—we’ll run again tomorrow at 0500.”

Everyone groaned.

“Unless Bolt gets bored and laps you again,” he added, without glancing up.

You saluted with two fingers and a wicked grin.

“I’ll try to keep it interesting.”

⸻

It happened in a blink.

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced down.

Stopped smiling.

One beat. Two.

Your hand tightened around the phone. Then you stood up—abrupt, stiff—and turned away from the table.

Phoenix noticed first. “Bolt?”

You didn’t answer.

You were already out the door.

Bob pushed off the wall.

When it lights up again—Incoming call – Mom—you don’t hesitate.

“Hey,” you say, voice flat. “What’s going on?”

And then you just… listen.

The room fades. So do the voices and the banter and the scrape of Phoenix’s helmet hitting the bench beside you.

Your fingers curl tight around the phone. Your throat goes dry.

“How long?” you whisper.

Your mother’s voice cracks.

“They’re waiting for you.”

You close your eyes.

“I’ll be on the next flight.”

———

The airport is loud in the way all airports are—metal chairs scraping the floor, heels clicking past, toddlers crying in spurts of exhaustion.

But around you, it’s muffled. Hollow. Like you’re hearing everything from underwater.

You sit by the window. Shoulders stiff. Hands in your lap. Your flight to Vegas boards in thirteen minutes.

You haven’t blinked in twice that.

Your duffel is under the chair. You packed it in six minutes flat. Just enough to get through the night and the next day.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t say goodbye to anyone.

You didn’t let Bob or Phoenix or anyone walk you out of the squadroom.

You just left.

Ordered an Uber. Didn’t speak to the driver. Watched the base fade behind you in the rearview mirror.

“We’re waiting for you,” your mom had said.

You can’t stop replaying it. The way her voice cracked around it. The way the silence afterward said what she couldn’t:

She’s not going to wake up.

⸻

You stare out at the tarmac. A jet lifts off somewhere across the field. You don’t follow it.

You’re not thinking about flying.

You’re thinking about the last text your sister ever sent.

Don’t die in a training accident before my wedding.

I still haven’t found another maid of honor.

You smile. Barely. It hurts.

She’ll never have a wedding now.

⸻

You rub your palms against your thighs. Hard. Like maybe if you move fast enough, think sharp enough, you can stay ahead of the grief crawling up your spine.

You’re the strong one.

The sharp one.

The bolt of lightning that everyone watches hit but no one dares to follow.

You’re not the one who breaks.

Not in public.

Not ever.

But your throat aches. Your chest is tight. And suddenly the thought of walking into that hospital room alone—seeing her face, hearing the machines—makes your stomach lurch.

“Just make it through the flight,” you whisper.

“Just make it to Vegas.”

You fold your arms. Press your chin to your knuckles. Close your eyes and pretend you’re somewhere else.

Anywhere else.

———

The lights in the hallway are too bright.

The nurse at the front desk knows your name when you give it. She doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just sad. Like she’s done this a hundred times.

“Room 614. Take the elevator on your left.”

“They’re all in there.”

Your feet move before your mind does.

The tile is cold. The elevator hums. And when the doors open, you have to make yourself step out.

It’s late, but the waiting room outside the ICU is still full. Your mom’s on the couch, her hands clenched in her lap. Her mascara’s been smudged down her cheeks for hours. You’ve never seen her cry before.

Your cousin looks up. Tries to smile. Doesn’t make it.

You stand there for one long moment, and no one says a word.

Because you’re here. And that means it’s time.

“They’ll let you have a few minutes,” someone says.

You nod. Walk past them.

Your mother reaches for your hand. You don’t stop walking.

⸻

ICU – Room 614

The first thing you notice is the sound.

Machines. Steady, rhythmic. One long exhale at a time.

Then her face.

Pale. Still. Too still.

Your sister lies in the bed like she’s asleep. But her chest doesn’t rise on its own.

A machine breathes for her.

Her fingers twitch slightly, but it’s not real. You know that.

You close the door behind you.

It clicks too loud.

Your knees almost give out.

You walk to the side of the bed and sit down. Her hand is small in yours. Cold from the IVs. From the stillness.

She used to be louder than you. Bigger than you, somehow, even though you shared everything—blood, bones, birthdays.

She used to say, “If I die before you, you better do something dramatic. Like start a war or name your kid after me or tattoo my face on your ass.”

You let out a sound—half laugh, half sob.

“Hey,” you whisper, brushing hair off her forehead.

“You can hear me, right?”

She doesn’t move.

“It’s me. Obviously. Who else would drive like a maniac through McCarran just to get here in time?”

Your voice breaks.

“You weren’t supposed to go first.”

You bend forward, forehead to hers.

“We were supposed to be old and wrinkled and yelling at people in a retirement home together. Remember that?”

A tear slips down your nose onto the blanket.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“You’ve been here my whole life.”

You take a shaky breath.

“If you’re still in there… I need you to know I’m going to be okay.”

“I’ll fly. I’ll live. I’ll make you proud.”

You bite your lip so hard it bleeds.

“But it’s gonna hurt for a long time.”

You lean down and kiss her temple.

The machine sighs.

A nurse knocks gently. You only nod.

“We’re ready when you are,” she says.

You press your forehead to hers again. One last time.

“I love you.”

And then?

You let her go.

The air is dry and too warm.

You don’t remember taking the elevator back down. You don’t remember hugging your mom. You don’t remember walking out.

But you’re outside now.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight, your duffel slung over one shoulder. There’s a vending machine humming nearby. A car alarm going off in the distance. And that smell—the city’s strange mix of heat, oil, and stale cigarettes.

You blink, and for one horrible second, you think,

I need to text her and let her know I made it in time.

But there’s no one to text.

You grip your phone anyway, knuckles white.

“She’s really gone,” you whisper.

Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

You sit down on the curb because your legs won’t hold you anymore.

And you just sit there. Not crying. Not speaking. Just breathing through the throb in your chest and the silence she left behind.

People walk past. Cars roll by. Nobody stops.

The world keeps moving.

And you’re standing still.

⸻

Five Days Later – North Island Naval Base – Hangar 2

You walk back into base like nothing happened.

Aviators on. Hair pinned. Flight suit zipped to your collarbone. Clipboard in hand.

You nod at a few people in passing. Dodge Phoenix’s eyes. Pretend not to hear Hangman say “Glad you’re back.”

You don’t stop walking.

You head straight to the locker room. Your locker’s exactly how you left it. Helmet perched up top. Notes tucked into the door.

You sit down slowly. Flex your fingers once. Open your flight log.

And breathe.

Just like always.

⸻

The squad briefing room – 1345 hours

The room smells like sweat and old coffee. Everyone’s still in flight suits, sunburned and buzzing from adrenaline.

You sit at the far end of the long table, one leg crossed, hands folded neatly in your lap.

You haven’t taken off your gloves.

“Bolt was clean on that vertical loop,” Phoenix says, flipping through her notes. “Fastest response time I’ve seen in three weeks.”

“I told you,” Hangman mutters. “She flies like she’s got something to prove.”

You don’t react.

Rooster glances at you. His brows lift slightly. Not teasing—curious.

You keep your face still.

Your body moves automatically. You nod at the right beats. Tap your pen. Mark your page. You’re here. You’re sharp. You’re Bolt.

Just like always.

⸻

Maverick leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Clean drills. No gaps. Team cohesion is tight.”

He looks around the room.

Then his eyes land on you.

“Lieutenant Bolt,” he says, calm. Measured. “How are you holding up?”

You blink.

The room goes still.

You open your mouth.

“I’m good.”

A pause.

He doesn’t move.

“That wasn’t the question.”

It’s so quiet you can hear the AC kick on.

You shift in your chair. Glance at the notepad in front of you. Your hands suddenly feel too small. Your gloves too tight.

Everyone’s watching.

Phoenix. Rooster. Hangman.

And Bob—Bob is watching closer than anyone.

Your throat starts to close. Your chest tightens.

“I’m—”

“I’m—”

But the words die in your mouth.

And then—

Your hand flies up to cover it.

Your shoulders jerk.

And the first sob rips out of you without permission.

Not graceful. Not quiet.

You break. Hard.

Your head bows down into your arms as everything crashes out of you—sobs so deep they shake your whole body, so loud they echo in the stunned silence.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, voice wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to—I can’t—”

A chair scrapes back.

You feel motion beside you.

Bob.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just kneels beside your chair, both hands steady on your arms, and says your name once—soft, like something holy.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re not alone.”

You turn into him without thinking.

Clutch his shoulders like you’re drowning. Let yourself cry into his neck. Shake and sob and break while the entire squad watches in stunned silence.

“She’s gone,” you sob.

“My twin. She’s gone. And I don’t know how to be here without her.”

Bob doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate.

He wraps his arms around you and holds on like he’ll never let go.

“Then don’t be here alone,” he whispers.

“Let me help carry it.”

And for the first time since Vegas…

You do.

———

North Island – Bob Floyd’s Apartment – 6:42 PM

You don’t remember agreeing to go home with him.

You just remember the feel of his hand on the small of your back—steady, warm, there—and the way he kept pace with your silence.

No one spoke as you walked off base. Not Phoenix. Not Rooster.

Not you.

You don’t remember how the car smelled. Or what song was playing. Or how long it took.

But now you’re sitting on his couch.

Still in your flight suit. Helmet on the floor. Back pressed into the corner of the cushion like you’re trying to disappear.

Bob’s in the kitchen.

You can hear him moving—quietly. A pan sizzling. The soft clink of silverware. A drawer closing.

He brings you a plate of food.

Sets it on the table without a word.

You don’t touch it.

You stare at the steam curling off the rice. The color of the sauce. The fork he’s already placed in your hand.

“You don’t have to eat,” he says, gently.

You set the fork down.

Then—

“It’s like… she took part of me with her,” you whisper.

Bob doesn’t answer right away.

He just lowers himself into the chair across from you. Elbows on his knees. Hands folded like he’s praying.

“Of course she did,” he says softly.

You look at him.

He meets your eyes.

“You were built together,” he says.

“You shared space before you even had names.”

Your chest tightens.

“How do you know that?” you rasp.

“I read,” he says with a small smile.

“And I watch people.”

He leans forward a little.

“And I’ve watched you long enough to know that losing her feels like losing gravity.”

You press your knuckles to your mouth.

Tears spring again. Not as sharp this time. Not as loud.

Just soft. Slow.

“I’m so tired, Bob.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“You don’t have to be.”

⸻

Later – 9:26 PM

You’re lying on your side in one of Bob’s T-shirts. He gave it to you without asking. Just handed it over and turned around while you changed in the bathroom.

You’re curled on his couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin.

He’s on the floor beside you—back resting against the cushions, long legs stretched out, one arm resting along the back of the couch where your shoulder touches.

You’re not speaking. You don’t have to.

Your fingers drift toward him slowly.

He doesn’t move.

Just lets you find him.

You end up tangled.

Your cheek pressed against his chest.

His hand in your hair.

And he doesn’t say a thing when your breathing gets shallow. Or when you whisper “Don’t go.”

He just nods.

“I won’t.”

———

Bob Floyd’s Apartment – 6:47 AM

You wake slowly.

The light through the blinds is soft—gold cutting across the sheets in warm stripes. The kind of light that makes the world feel distant. Weightless.

But you don’t feel weightless.

Your chest still hurts. That tight, aching sort of grief that lingers in your bones.

You shift.

You’re in a T-shirt that isn’t yours.

Your duffel is still zipped in the corner.

And this… this is Bob’s bed.

But Bob isn’t beside you.

You sit up slowly.

And that’s when you see it—

He’s on the floor.

Pillow tucked behind his head. Blanket kicked off. One arm flung across his chest. Still in yesterday’s clothes.

You stare.

Your heart twists.

He gave you the bed.

And never left the room.

⸻

You slide off the mattress, careful not to wake him, but the second your feet hit the ground—

“Mornin’.”

His voice is gravel and warmth and something too gentle to name.

You freeze.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

He sits up slowly. Blinks at you. His hair’s a mess. His spine probably hates him.

But he smiles.

“Didn’t sleep too deep.”

You nod.

“Me neither.”

A beat.

He pushes himself to his feet.

“You want coffee?”

You should say no. You should say you need to go.

But—

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

———

The coffee’s gone cold in your mug.

You’ve barely touched it.

You’re just watching him.

The sunlight hits the side of his face, and for one second—one long, aching second—you want to tell him everything.

So you do.

“I have feelings for you.”

Bob stills.

His head turns slowly toward you.

“You’re exhausted,” he says gently. “You’ve been through hell.”

You don’t blink.

“That doesn’t make it untrue.”

He sets his cup down. Carefully.

“Y/N—”

“I’ve felt this way for a while,” you interrupt, voice cracking. “Before Vegas. Before the hospital. Before the flight drills. Before all of it.”

He goes still.

His throat moves, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought…”

“I thought someone like you could never love someone like me.”

That makes him flinch.

“What does that mean?”

You let out a breath, sharp and shaking.

“It means I’m loud. I’m fast. I don’t know how to slow down unless someone makes me. I don’t do quiet. I don’t do soft.”

“And you—you’re gentle. You’re… the safe thing. The thing I’ve never been allowed to want.”

Your eyes sting. You look down at the table.

“But I did. I do. I want you.”

A long silence.

Then—

“Y/N,” he says quietly. “You’re grieving. You just lost the most important person in your world. You don’t—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

He presses his lips together.

Doesn’t speak.

So you do.

“I know what grief is,” you say. “I know how it twists things and makes you reach for the closest lifeline.”

“But that’s not what this is.”

You meet his eyes.

“I don’t need you to fix me, Bob.”

“I just want you to believe me.”

⸻

He looks wrecked.

More wrecked than you’ve ever seen him.

“I want to believe you,” he says. “God, I do.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because you’re everything I never let myself want. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stare at him.

And suddenly—there’s no anger. No panic. Just something heavy and aching in your chest.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

You push your chair back. Stand slowly.

“I’m gonna go.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s okay,” you say gently, even though it isn’t. “I just needed to say it out loud.”

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t cry until you’re already outside.

And you don’t look back.

———

The door doesn’t slam.

You just… leave.

And for a long time after, Bob doesn’t move.

He sits at the table, coffee cold in front of him, his hands gripping the edges like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

Your chair is still warm.

Your mug is still half-full.

And he’s still trying to breathe.

⸻

I’ve felt this way for a while.

The words echo in his head.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes.

Hard.

I want you.

He wants to believe it.

He wants to believe it so badly it physically hurts.

But all he can hear underneath it is that low, cruel voice he’s carried for years:

She’s lightning.

You’re not meant to catch lightning.

She’ll realize it was just the grief talking. Just the moment.

⸻

He stands up too fast. His chair scrapes the floor.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He walks into the bedroom.

Stops.

Stares.

Your duffel bag is gone.

But your flight patch—the spare one from your jacket—is still sitting on his nightstand.

Folded. Deliberate. Like you left it for him.

He walks over slowly.

Picks it up.

Just holds it in his hands.

The stitching is worn. The call sign BOLT stitched in faded silver thread.

He runs a thumb over it, and suddenly he can hear your laugh from a few weeks ago—sharp and bright and reckless as hell after a good landing.

“You’re too good for me, Bobby.”

He thought you were joking when you said it.

But maybe you meant it.

Maybe you’ve always meant it.

⸻

He sinks onto the edge of the bed.

Drops his head into his hands.

And whispers—

“Goddammit.”

Because the truth is?

You’re not just grief.

You’re not just lightning.

You’re the only thing that’s ever made him want more than quiet.

More than safety.

More than staying invisible.

And he let you walk away.

 ———

North Island – Five Days Later – 1440 Hours

You haven’t spoken to Bob since that morning in his kitchen.

You haven’t spoken to anyone, really.

You show up to drills early. You finish debrief late. You don’t joke. You don’t answer Phoenix’s texts. You don’t even glance at Hangman’s stupid grin.

You’re locked in.

Dead silent.

Untouchable.

Just the way they expect you to be.

Bolt, the unbreakable.

And that’s exactly what you give them.

⸻

In the air, you’re terrifying.

Faster than ever.

Sharp turns. No hesitation.

You take corners like you’re trying to rip yourself out of your own skin.

It earns you silence over the comms.

And then a single word from Maverick at the end of the flight:

“Dangerous.”

You don’t argue.

You land. Strip your helmet. Walk away.

⸻

Hangar 2 – 5:17 PM

You’re the last one inside.

Everyone else is gone.

You sit on the wing of your jet, wiping down the surface with a cloth you don’t need. Just an excuse to not go home.

You’re still in your flight suit. Your hair’s still tucked up tight. You haven’t eaten today.

You’re not sure you care.

The ache in your chest is quieter now.

Not gone. Just… dull. Numb.

Like scar tissue forming around something that used to be soft.

⸻

And then you hear the door open.

Footsteps.

You know who it is without turning.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say.

“Neither should you.”

You freeze.

Bob’s voice is low. Careful. Like he’s approaching something wounded.

You don’t move.

“Don’t worry,” you say flatly. “I’m not about to fall apart in front of you again.”

A pause.

“That’s not why I’m here.”

You turn around slowly.

Bob’s standing near the back of the hangar. Still in uniform. Still looking at you like he’s not sure you’ll let him close.

You stare.

Your voice is quiet when you speak.

“You made your choice.”

“No,” he says. “I made a mistake.”

⸻

Your hands curl tight around the rag in your fist.

“Don’t do that.”

“Y/N—”

“Don’t come here and try to take it back because you feel guilty.”

“It’s not guilt,” he says, stepping forward. “It’s clarity.”

You shake your head.

“I don’t need clarity. I needed honesty.”

“Then here it is.”

He’s in front of you now. Not touching. But close.

“You scare the hell out of me,” he says quietly. “You’re everything I’ve ever told myself I couldn’t have.”

“And I didn’t believe you when you said you wanted me, because I’ve spent my whole life thinking someone like you would never choose someone like me.”

You look up at him.

Eyes sharp. Shoulders stiff.

“And now?”

He swallows hard.

“Now I don’t care how scared I am.”

“Because letting you walk away was worse.”

⸻

He reaches into his jacket.

Pulls something out.

Your patch.

“You left this.”

You stare at it. Frozen.

He holds it out.

“I’ve been carrying it every day.”

You don’t speak.

You take it from his hand slowly. Let your fingers graze his.

And finally—

Your voice cracks.

“You hurt me.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“And I’ll never stop being sorry for that.”

“You made me feel small.”

“You were never small,” he says. “You were never anything but lightning.”

“Then why couldn’t you believe I meant it?”

“Because I wanted it too much.”

⸻

Silence.

Then:

“Do you still want me?” you ask, barely audible.

His breath hitches.

“Every goddamn second.”

⸻

You fall into his arms like gravity wins.

And this time?

He doesn’t let go.

Your hands fist into the front of his flight suit and drag him forward like you’ve run out of time, like you’ve run out of air, like the only thing left that makes sense is his mouth on yours.

⸻

The kiss is hard.

Messy.

Hungry.

Your lips crash against his like a threat—like don’t ever leave me again, like you should’ve said this sooner, like you’re mine if you mean it.

And he answers every word of it.

His hands slide up your back. Slow at first. But once he feels you shake—once he hears the sound you make when he kisses you deeper—

He breaks.

“God, I missed you,” he breathes between kisses.

“I didn’t even have you, and I missed you.”

You shudder.

Your fingers slide up into his hair. Tug tight. You pull him closer.

“Tell me again,” you whisper against his mouth.

“What?”

“That you want me.”

He kisses you once. Then again.

Then says it between every single one—

“I want you.”

kiss

“I want you.”

kiss

“I want you, I want you, I want you.”

Like he’s trying to make up for every second you thought he didn’t.

⸻

Your back hits the side of the jet.

Your helmet falls from the wing and clatters on the floor.

You barely notice.

You’re breathless now. Both of you. Heat and sweat and grief and want tangled in every rough slide of lips and teeth and tongue.

But it’s not sex.

Not yet.

This is something deeper. Rawer.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

“Never.”

⸻

You slow down. Eventually. But your hands stay on his chest, and his forehead stays pressed to yours.

You’re not done. You’re just catching your breath.

And for the first time in weeks, you believe him.

He wants you.

He always did.

[heartsiebyul]

What if the overbolt gang were to find Reader crying? But after asking them what's the reason they're crying, they just explain that... They're missing all of the new content from their favorite media!! 😭😭

I rlly just want something silly, so hopefully it could be that? Like Reader is being very dramatic and stuff ig

╰─▸ ❝ Twisted Wonderland x reader!

art: twisted wonderland archives

featuring — Overblot boys : Riddle : Leona : Azul : Jamil : Vil : Idia : Malleus.

⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒

☛ Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle nearly drops when he finds you hunched over in the rose bushes, your shoulders shaking. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?!” he demands, only for you to sob out that you’re missing the comeback of your favorite K-pop group.

He blinks. Once. Twice. “I… don’t understand. What’s a comeback? Who came back from where? But more importantly, you’re crying over that?” he says, absolutely confused. But when your eyes well up again, he softens. “W-Well! That’s… understandable! I suppose.”

Despite not really getting it, Riddle returns with a prepared strawberry tart and a blanket. He gently pats your head, muttering, “calm down and get up so you can eat this.” He then gives you a gentle lecture about managing your emotions properly while you sniffle and nibble through your “withdrawal.”

You even dramatically sing a few lines from their track, and Riddle claps awkwardly. “Exquisite vocals, (name).” He’s utterly lost. Still, he lets you show him a few photos of your biases and listens seriously as you explain how unfair it is to miss live fan events. He’s trying his best, okay?

☛ Leona Kingscholar

Leona is napping in the field under a tree when your wailing disrupts his peace. Groaning, he rolls over to see you lying on the grass, dramatically sprawled like a damsel in despair. “You dying or something?” he mutters, and you hiccup out that you’re missing the season finale of your favorite manhwa adaptation.

“…You’re crying because of that?” he snorts, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re such a drama queen.”

But ten minutes later, he’s tossing a bag of dorm snacks at your head and flopping down beside you with a sigh. “Tch. Cry quieter and eat something.”

He listens with one ear as you rant about plot twists and cliffhangers, occasionally grumbling, “They really killed him? Psh. I wouldn’t have.” He secretly likes how animated you get.

☛ Azul Ashengrotto

You’re sobbing in the VIP lounge of the Mostro Lounge, tissues piling up as you complain about the K-pop update drops you’re missing. Azul, mid-study review, startles and rushes over. “Are you hurt?! Is someone harassing—oh.”

His concern quickly turns to confusion when you explain that you’re grieving over missing updates.

He adjusts his glasses, flustered, then nods and leaves. He returns with a dessert platter and a cup of your favorite juice. “Since I cannot provide your missing media,” he says with a sheepish smile, “perhaps a taste of luxury can ease the ache?”

Floyd walks by and loudly asks if you’re “mourning a boyband again.” Azul nearly chokes.

☛ Jamil Viper

Jamil is walking down the Scarabia hallways when he hears sniffles coming from the lounge. He finds you curled up in a blanket burrito, your phone clutched tightly in your hands. “Let me guess, you can’t access your media from your hometown again?” he sighs knowingly, having witnessed this meltdown like clockwork every month.

Without a word, he heads to the kitchen and returns with warm curry and a mango lassi. “Food heals all wounds, even breakdowns.” he teases lightly, handing them to you.

He listens as you wail about the lack of fans and concert tours, occasionally raising a brow. “You get this worked up over them?”

Still, he stays beside you until you feel better, secretly amused by your dramatics.

☛ Vil Schoenheit

Vil finds you weeping on the floor of the dorm lounge, surrounded by your phone and tablet. “Whatever is the matter?” he asks sharply, one brow raised, fully prepared to scold you for such an undignified display. But he pauses when you wail about missing the comeback and new songs from your favorite group.

There’s a long silence. Then, Vil sighs dramatically. “This is exactly what ruins skin elasticity,” he mutters, before vanishing and returning with fruit parfaits and under-eye patches. “At least cry on the couch, not on the carpet and let me preserve your beauty while you grieve.”

He lets you rant while adjusting your posture and gently dabbing at your face. “You are far too radiant to be destroyed over missing an update.”

☛ Idia Shroud

You’re lying on the floor of Idia’s room, surrounded by tissues and dramatically mumbling about the updates you’ll never see again. Idia peeks out from behind his screen. “You’re… alive. Just emotionally wrecked,” he mutters, worried but unsure how to help.

He awkwardly places a bag of chips next to your head and slides over a tablet. “I downloaded a bunch of stuff that’s probably similar to what you had back in your world. I figured you’d have withdrawal symptoms sooner or later…”

He mumbles that he gets it, his own spirals are way worse, and even lets you cling to the sleeve of his oversized hoodie while you vent.

Bonus: Ortho cheerfully tries to find music similar to the ones from your world, compiling a “coping playlist”.

☛ Malleus Draconia

Malleus hears your sobbing echo through the woods beside Ramshackle and appears beside you, only to find you weeping on the floor. “Dear… why do you mourn so?” he asks gently, concerned, as he lifts you into your bed.

When you dramatically declare that you’re missing concert tours and comeback announcements, he looks completely baffled. “…A performance has caused such despair?”

But he doesn’t question it further. Instead, he brings you a basket of treats. “I cannot return you to your world,” he says solemnly, “but I can offer you the warmth of this one.”

He even sits beside you, gently patting your head as you explain the group and the fandom and the heartbreak of missing live streams and updates. Though he doesn’t understand a word, he listens, intrigued by your passion.

⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒⌒

Honestly, I’d be the same, thrown into an unfamiliar world without my favorite media lol

[bjorjackhoesman]

No exactly!!!!! I already knew that I started liking being femme because people liked me, my first love really liked me like that, ever since I’ve chasing that high of praise and stayed mostly for the safety part. I had to really distance myself from anything masculine so I wouldn’t get “confused”. I’ve had my phases of going trans and feeling like I could only be masculine if I was dissociated. I was forced to feel disgusting of myself when I wore something masculine or even behaved masculinely. I’d genuinely cry for catching my mannerisms. I’d train in front of a mirror to behave femininely. Really I always hated femininity, I was just treated like I wanted to be treated and I crashout when I don’t get that validation, I just go back to being masculine and dissociate, not actually see myself okay in that masculinity though I knew it was closer to who I was. I was taught to hate that and to fix that. I burn out when I’m not liked as a femme because I’m doing all this just for you, why can’t you like me or praise me or at the very least compliment me??? It was really my only drive. I now really need to sit down with myself and listen closely. I’m a woman who wants to have little to no chest and maybe daydream about looking like a guy without giving up myself as a woman. Do you all realize how horrible that’d be for my family? How even once I step out of my bedroom in my masculine confidence I start to shake out of fear even though I’m still kinda femme??? I know my core is masculine asf. I hate this world. I really do. I’m tired of performing. I’m so tired of it. Everyone notices I perform, it’s just obvious how forced it is. I felt so less of a girl and a woman. Just leave me to be in a forest and I’ll deal with rest. I don’t even want a partner much less one who I still see the need for them to validate my femininity, my whole performance, so fuck that. I’d butch so hard as a woman even starting T. It just really frustrates me how much I’ve killed myself for these fucking people. The outcasting never ends either. You know what mother? Maybe I’d rather die as a dykey homeless drug addict lesbo man if it means I can be more honest with myself, fuck you!!!!!!!! (Context: she said I’d die like that when I was 15 lol so I’m reclaiming it, I already became a suicidal alcoholic at 19-21, let’s see what’s next for my 20s) Enormous fuck you to the whole world!!! The world failed me and I became a failure in every way, so fuck you, I’m going to win even alone.

Out of all the dumbass shit transandrophobes say to us, the one that actually makes me guffaw is “masculinity is rewarded” LMMMMAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOO WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?!?!? My entire life has consisted of people trying to force me to be as feminine as possible and whenever I’m masculine, treating me like shit. It was so bad at a certain point that I gave up presenting masculinely at all and started to present in a hyper feminine way. That time in my life was deeply traumatic and involved me suppressing my tranness, distancing myself from it as much as possible.

So many of you fail to understand that femininity and masculinity are only rewarded when they enforce the gender binary. Masculinity is not universally rewarded. Not only is it not universally rewarded, but it can put people at higher risk for violence if they’re perceived as gender nonconforming (ie: trans man who doesn’t pass, butches, transmasc lesbians, etc). I’m sick of people acting like it’s not deeply traumatic for trans men to have to deal with femininity being forced onto us.

[juceys]

lemonade jey uso

— he shouldn’t be here. you know that, he knows that. but he shows anyways. the question is, are you gonna stand for yourself or let him back in?

pairing jey uso x fem!reader wc 1.7k+ genre angst warnings explicit language not proofread (when is it ever LMAO) note crashed out monday night and whipped this up… i actually fw this one so bad ugh </3

listened to vanish by givēon, when it hurts so bad by lauryn hill, session 32 by summer walker, all night by beyoncé (lowkey beyoncé’s whole lemonade album)

it’s been a week since you last saw him.

six days since the last time he called.

and five since you blocked a number you thought you never would.

you look out the window from your couch. it’s raining hard. the skies painted dark hues of gray, with the occasional purple flash from lightning.

it’s the kind of rain that makes the city feel like it’s falling apart. thunder cracks throughout your apartment like bones. you sit in the dark, wrapped in a blanket watching the storm brew outside.

you refuse to cry. you’ve done enough of that. you’re fed up with the thought of him. even more fed up at the thought of him controlling your mood.

you’re done.

you’re done with the late night phone calls that end in harsh words and strained silence.

you’re done with his half-assed apologies and gifts that he thinks will make it up to you.

you’re done with hearing “i’m sorry baby, i’ll be better.”

at least, that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

you’re so deep in your thoughts that you barely register the knock at the door.

but then you hear it again. and this time you can’t ignore it. not when you know who’s at the door.

you get up, slowly. like if you move too fast, you’ll break the silence you’ve worked so hard to build.

you open the door, and there he is.

joshua.

drenched. rain clinging to his hair and weighing down the white tee that outlines his broad chest and muscles. his zip-ups halfway zipped, barely even on his body anymore.

and his eyes — those damn eyes — don’t look cocky or confident.

they look wrecked. devastated.

normally, the sight of him alone would’ve brought you to your knees. but not today. today, your brain tells you to slam the door. to tell him to fuck off. but your feet stay planted. and your chest? it aches, hard.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you breathe.

“i know,” his voice gentle, but cracking. “but i can’t do this anymore.”

you grip the door knob tighter. your pulse is loud. loud like when he’d come home and pin you to the wall with nothing but his stare. loud like when he asked for time, distance, space — and you gave it, even when it felt like your heart being ripped out of your chest.

you steady yourself. “you shouldn’t be here,” you say again, voice harsher this time.

“i know,” he steps closer, voice breaking. “but i miss you.”

you’d laugh if those words alone didn’t sting so bad. last time he told you he missed you? he left two days after.

but funnily enough, that’s all it takes. not him standing here in the rain. not the look in his eyes. not the fact his chest is rising and falling like he’s the one whose been putting up with his bullshit the past year.

it’s just those three words.

i miss you.

and you know what’s worse?

you miss him too.

“please,” he says gently. “i just need to talk to you. just give me 5 minutes. if you still hate me and want me out of here, then i’ll go. all i ask is 5 minutes, please baby.”

you scoff.

but you look at him. like, really look at him.

he isn’t jey uso — mr. main event, the larger-than-life name that sells out arenas and shows.

he looks like josh. your josh.

the man who’d fall asleep in your lap, muttering nonsense as you’d run your fingers through his scalp. the man who’d call you every night when he was on the road, because he couldn’t sleep without you. the man who’d look for you first in every crowd. the man who acted like he hated everyone — except you.

you swallow the lump forming in your throat. and you find yourself moving aside and letting him in, just like you always do.

he quietly thanks you as he walks in, leaving wet footprints leading to the living room. his shoulders feel heavy, the weight of the conversation about to happen getting to him.

you grab a towel from your room and throw it over to him. he catches it, pressing it to his face before scrunching his soaked curls.

you stand with your arms crossed. “your 5 minutes have already started so i’d suggest you start soon,” you say sternly, ignoring the way you already feel your resolve melting.

he looks at you. you can tell he’s searching for the right words. you can tell whatever he’ll say next is honest. raw.

“i messed up.”

you blink. okay… or maybe you just can’t tell anything that goes on in his head.

“i know i messed up,” he corrects himself. “i was being stubborn. sayin’ shit i don’t even mean. i asked for space and now that i’ve had it, i’ve never regretted something more. i thought i wanted to be free, or some shit like that. i just didn’t realize that it’s with you when i feel free. without you it just feels… empty.”

he sighs. “without you, it felt like i’m alive, but i just ain’t breathing. felt like i have no purpose. no drive. no reason.”

your breath hitches.

you don’t say anything. you can’t say anything. you know that if you say something, the walls you’ve tried so hard to build up the past week… will come crashing down.

he takes a step closer to you.

“i’ve never been good at shit like this. relationships. vulnerability. feelings. being honest with myself about my feelings. figured that if i push them away first, they’d realize i’m no good for them. that they can find someone better.”

he pauses.

“i thought i could do the same with you.”

well that felt like a slap to the face.

“but i can’t. i can’t fucking act like i can sleep without your head on my chest. i can’t act like i can get up every morning without you pushing me off the bed. i can’t act like i don’t need you.”

then he gets quieter. “because i do. every damn day.”

you feel your heart sink. it aches, blooming like something you swore you buried. your stomach is in knots, you feel nauseous.

“don’t do that,” you whisper, voice somewhat strained. “don’t come in here, this late, saying everything i wanted you to say when i was crying alone in this apartment. saying everything you should have said before deciding to go. you don’t get to hurt me, then miss me.”

your throat swells at the next sentence that comes out of your mouth.

“you don’t get to spend a week without me, and yearn for me the way i yearned for you every single day of our relationship.”

his heart shatters.

his voice dips. “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“well, guess what? you did joshua. congratulations.”

he looks down. “fuck, i know i hurt you. and i’m sorry. i hate myself for it. but if there’s any part of you that still wants this… us… me…”

you don’t know if you should scoff and turn him away, or if you should hold him in your arms and forgive him.

probably the first — but you’re not listening to your rational side right now.

“i’m not asking for a clean slate,” he says, looking up at you. “i just need a crack in the door, an opening — anything, and i’ll fight for the rest.”

you look into his eyes.

they’re red. from the rain, you tell yourself. from something else, like crying maybe, is what you wish and hope.

you hate him. you hate that he’s here. you hate that it only took three words to let him back in. you hate that it didn’t take long for him to make you miss him again. you hate that he smells like your favorite hoodie of his that you’ve cuddled every night since. you hate how your voice trembles and shakes as you say —

“you broke me.”

he breathes out, “i know.”

you don’t look at him.

“i don’t trust you,” your voice small.

“i’ll earn it back.”

“and what if you don’t?”

“i’ll still try.”

you look back up at him, tears welling in your eyes. the sight alone makes josh want to run to you, hold you and wipe your tears away.

he hates himself for being the reason you���re so heartbroken. for being the reason of the full trash of used tissues. for being the reason you’re crying.

“why?”

“because.”

he moves closer to you. slowly. cautiously. giving you time to move back if you don’t want him close. you don’t.

“you the only woman on this earth that’ll ever be enough for me. the only one i’d fight for. the only one i’d every burn the world for.”

your stomach twists even further. your jaw unclenched. your arms drop from your chest to your sides. your lips turn into a deep frown.

his hand lifts tentatively, and brushes your cheek. not in a lustful way, not rushed either. just… him longing. yearning.

“can i kiss you?” he whispers.

you shouldn’t.

your mind is telling you no. the little angel and devil on your shoulders finally in agreement for once, telling you to push him off.

but your heart and body betray you.

you nod.

he leans in slowly, almost afraid that you’ll vanish. or push him away at the last second. but when his lips finally press against yours, it’s nothing like the heat — the desire that you’re used to.

it’s soft. sad. desperate. full of longing. like he’s trying to memorize the feeling in case it’s his last.

and when he pulls away, forehead resting against yours, you whisper —

“you still shouldn’t be here.”

“i know,” he breathes. “but that was a crack in the door. and i’m not gonna give up until i have you again.”

[paperstorm]

thanks for the tags @henrygrass @pimento-playing-hopscotch and @annoyingcloudearthquake!

“Baby, what are you doing?” TK’s voice asks, soft and concerned.

Carlos shakes his head. He can’t explain it, but he’s also not sure he can get up from the floor. He tries, but the signals from his brain misfire and his limbs stay motionless and heavy. Without looking up, he asks, “Just give me a minute, okay?”

He prays TK will listen. Ideally, TK would just nod and agree and walk away, go have a quick shower or unpack his work bag or something and leave Carlos to wallow in misery unwitnessed for a few minutes so that by the time he comes back Carlos will have managed to pack all this back up and they can just pretend it never happened.

It’s a silly thing to hope for, Carlos knows that. If there’s one thing he knows – and ultimately, loves – about TK Strand, it’s that he rarely does what people want him to do.

“Carlos,” he says again, voice a little closer. “Why are you …”

He trails off, and even though Carlos is neither touching him or looking at him, he can feel the moment when TK gets it.

“Oh,” he whispers, and Carlos clenches his jaw and wants to cry.

“Just give me a minute,” he says again, this time through gritted teeth. Maybe TK will listen if he understands how much Carlos needs it.

Slowly, TK steps toward him. Out of the corner of his eye Carlos can see TK’s jeans moving as his legs bend and he lowers himself down, crossing his legs once he’s on the floor and leaning back against the kitchen cabinets with Carlos.

“I’ll give you as long as you need,” TK murmurs, reaching out to take Carlos’s hand and thread their fingers together. “But not alone. You’re not alone.”

Carlos shudders through an exhale. As always, it’s sympathy that threatens to break him more than anything else. Suddenly it’s as if that music is playing here in their home, a lively beat and jazzy trumpets blaring. The sweet smell of cookies is in his nose, his head throbs as if the wound is still fresh and oozing. It’s only for a moment and then it’s gone, but it’s enough to make Carlos want to curl in on himself and sob until his throat is raw.

“I’m having …” he begins, but the words get caught in his throat.

TK waits, patient and sweet beside him, stroking his forearm. He’s so steady, so kind and understanding and wonderful, and it puts a pit in Carlos’s stomach. He doesn’t want to need so much understanding.

He swallows, trying again despite everything inside him screaming at him to shove it all down and lock it all away and never admit it even to himself.

In a miserably shaky voice, Carlos closes his eyes and whispers, “I’m having trouble not seeing the inside of that kitchen. When I close my eyes.”

“Baby,” TK whispers back, fingers curling into Carlos’s long-sleeved shirt.

“I thought …” Carlos sniffs and chokes again, for a moment, on words he wishes he never has to say, “I thought maybe if I just sat here for a bit, against the cupboards like where she had me tied up, it might force me to face it, and then it might go away.”

TK exhales slowly. “And?”

Carlos shakes his head, screwing his eyes up and fighting back tears. “I can still smell her perfume.”

TK shuffles in closer, gripping Carlos’s hand tight enough to bruise and resting his head on Carlos’s shoulder.

“It’ll stop, I know it will,” Carlos says, assuring himself as much as TK. “I just need to keep trying.”

“You don’t need to do anything. Except let me sit here with you.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I told you. We’re getting married. That means you never have to be alone.”

Carlos sniffs and lets his head lilt to the side, temple resting against TK’s soft hair.

“You haven’t been cooking,” TK says softly.

Gritting his teeth, Carlos feels his whole body tense. He hates that it’s true. He hates that TK noticed. “I thought maybe I was playing it off.”

“You love cooking for me. Of course I picked up on it.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to – ”

“Baby,” TK interrupts gently. “I’m not asking you to start. Not if it’s bringing back bad memories. I just don’t want you to hide from me.”

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @hereghostslive @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @whatsintheboxmh

@afiendishthingynisba @chicgeekgirl89 @carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday

@rangersoup @ambernotember

@certifiedflower

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[paperbacksinner]

What type of parent will Luigi be?

———

👶 Baby phase: Obsessed & overprotective

- Absolutely unhinged about you giving birth. Paces the room. Threatens the nurse (apologizes after). Almost cries the first time the baby cries.

“She’s perfect. You’re perfect. What the fuck. What the fuck.”

- Has that new-dad instinct where he holds the baby like she’s made of glass—but still won’t let anyone else touch her without grilling them first.

“Wash your hands. I said again, Mom.”

- Sleeps with a hand on your waist and one on the bassinet. Dead asleep? Hears one whimper and is up like a guard dog.

- Fully becomes a baby-wearing dad. Hoodie, chain, baby strapped to his chest while he makes breakfast. She spits up on him and he’s like “She can do whatever she wants, it’s fine.”

- If she struggles with colic, teething, or reflux, he loses his mind trying to soothe her.

He’s like: “She’s suffering. I can’t take this. Fix her. I will sell my soul.”

- He cries with her sometimes. You find them both passed out on the couch, her little fingers tangled in his chain.

👧 Toddler years: Chaos dad with a soft spot

- He tries to set rules but folds instantly when she looks up at him with those big eyes.

“One more cookie?—Lu, she already had two.”

“…One more. Half. Half a cookie.”

- Will wear whatever she tells him to. Tiaras. Butterfly clips. Sparkly nail polish. His favorite line?

“Real men wear pink, baby. You see Daddy’s nails?”

- Can and will fight a daycare worker if he thinks someone was rude to her.

“Don’t raise your voice. That’s my daughter. She's two. Don’t make me show you what I learned at two.”

- Doesn’t know how to braid but tries so hard. He watches YouTube tutorials and mutters “fuck” under his breath while brushing through tangles.

- Eventually figures out how to do a tiny ponytail and acts like he invented hair.

- Teaches her how to swear in Italian. Only in Italian. “If she’s gonna cuss, she’s gonna sound cultured.”

🧒 School-age years: Unhinged PTA dad

- Shows up to every event. Talent show? Front row. Soccer game? Screaming like it’s the Super Bowl.

“That’s my girl! You see her footwork?? Ref! REF!”

- Way too invested in her friendships.

“I don’t like that Ava girl. She seems fake. Don’t give her your snacks again.”

- Does all the voices during bedtime stories. Fully commits.

“Once upon a—hold on—baby, this dragon voice isn’t scary enough, gimme a sec—”

- If she’s ever bullied? Luigi’s got no chill. Pulls the principal aside like,

“You better handle it. Or I will.”

- Lets her fall asleep on his chest every weekend during movie night, then acts mad about being stuck but never moves. You catch him smiling at her every time.

- Super aware of how important emotional validation is. He didn’t grow up with much of that, and he swore he’d do better.

“You’re allowed to cry, honey. Crying means you’re feeling. Feeling means you’re alive.”

- Has deep talks with her in the car. Plays her his favorite songs and explains what the lyrics mean.

“This one makes Daddy think of Mommy. Listen to the words, okay?”

- Tells her “I love you” every day, every phone call, every drop-off. Never lets her question it.

👩 Teenage years: Scary but soft

“No dating ‘til you’re thirty. Or until I’m dead. Whichever comes first.”

- Very scary to any boys/girls who show up at the door, but also lowkey cries when she goes to prom.

- Checks her location constantly. Sends her memes at midnight. Still calls her "baby girl" in front of her friends.

- She says “I hate you!” once and it shatters him for 2.5 hours, then he shakes it off and hugs her anyway.

“I love you even when you’re mad at me. Deal with it.”

- Proudest dad in the world at every milestone. Graduation? He sobs. Moving out? He helps her carry her boxes while wiping his face on his sleeve.

Bonus drabble:

It’s past midnight when she starts crying.

Not screaming. Just that soft, hiccupy little sound you know means she’s tired, restless, fighting sleep like she’s got something to prove.

You groan from the bed—bone-tired—but before you can even sit up, Luigi’s already out of the sheets.

“I got her,” he murmurs, voice still low and thick with sleep. “Stay in bed, baby.”

You watch him pad across the nursery barefoot, shirtless, hair messy. His silhouette in the nightlight makes your chest ache.

He leans over the crib and scoops her up like she’s nothing—like she’s weightless.

“Hey, hey,” he coos, pressing her against his shoulder. “What’s the matter, huh? You miss Daddy?”

She whines into his neck. He sways instinctively, hand smoothing up and down her back in slow, practiced strokes.

You expect him to hum. He always does.

But tonight, he sings.

Soft and quiet, like he’s not even sure he means to do it.

A Sinatra song, of course—his voice low and gruff in a way that barely sounds like singing at all:

🎵 “Fly me to the moon… Let me play among the stars…” 🎵

You blink hard. Lie very still. Try not to cry like a sap.

Luigi whispers the next part into her hair, still swaying slow:

🎵 “In other words, baby… kiss me.” 🎵

His palm rubs soothing circles on her back.

She’s stopped fussing completely now. Her tiny fist is curled in the chain around his neck, and her cheek is smushed against his shoulder.

He stays like that even after she’s asleep—just rocking, kissing her forehead.

You hear him whisper, “Daddy’s got you. Always.”

And even though you’re half-asleep, tears slip down your cheeks.

Because you knew he’d be a good dad.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

[uhuhmaries]

If You Could, Would You? | PART 9

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), heavy angst, emotional relapse, unhealthy coping, emotional manipulation, self-loathing, trauma bonding

Full Series: If You Could, Would You?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You start going to therapy. Like, really going.

Not just showing up and sitting there, waiting for your 50 minutes to end. You talk. You listen. You finally let your past breathe.

And that’s when you realize Reese doesn’t belong in your life.

He’s kind. He means well. But he’s just been… something to hold onto. A warm body to keep the shaking away. A placeholder for something you can’t name but crave like a drug.

You tell him the truth on a Thursday night.

You sit on the floor of your apartment with your knees pulled to your chest, and he watches you say it—not like he didn’t know it was coming.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say. “You deserve someone who’s actually here. Not just someone trying to stay afloat.”

He nods. Says, “Okay.” Leaves a hoodie behind by accident. Doesn’t come back for it.

You cry after the door closes.

Not because of heartbreak.

But because the silence after is loud as hell.

The alone phase is the worst.

You’re not used to sitting with yourself. You don’t even know what your favorite food is when no one’s choosing for you. You don’t know how to fill time without someone distracting you.

You try journaling. Cooking. More therapy.

But you relapse.

Of course you do.

You end up at a bar across from Harry’s venue. Not his stage. Just the seedy one next door where the drinks are cheaper and nobody asks questions.

You’re too loud. Laughing too hard. Letting some stranger’s hands slide up the back of your thighs as you lean against the cold brick wall outside.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the night.

Harry.

You blink through the blur of alcohol, turning slowly.

He’s there, half in shadow. Dressed down, but it doesn’t matter. Your body still reacts like he’s a fucking wildfire.

“Get off her,” he snaps at the guy, who raises his hands and walks off muttering something. Harry walks straight up to you.

“You’re wasted,” he says.

“No shit,” you smile, then your lip trembles. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be.” He sighs, looking down at you. “You shouldn’t be either.”

“I didn’t know who else to be.”

That silences him.

He takes your arm gently. Guides you toward his car. Doesn’t speak until you’re in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window.

“I’m not mad,” he says quietly. “I just hate seeing you like this.”

You close your eyes. “Me too.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The ride is silent. But your skin? On fire.

He brings you back to his place. Smaller. Tidy. New. No Alice. You’re not even sure why. You’re not sure he knows why. But it’s too late the moment the door closes behind you.

“You want tea?” he asks, like the tension between you doesn’t feel like thunder.

You nod. “Sure.”

But you don’t wait.

You cross the room, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him down.

He catches your mouth with his like it’s instinct. Teeth. Tongue. Raw and furious.

He lifts you with both hands under your thighs, slamming your back into the wall. You gasp. He bites your bottom lip. Hands everywhere. Hungry. Starving.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls.

You don’t.

“Tell me this isn’t what you fucking want.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He carries you to his bedroom and throws you onto the bed like you weigh nothing.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head. You whimper at the sight—tattoos, veins, all of him tense like a wire ready to snap.

“I do. I do, Harry.”

Your clothes are gone in seconds. He kisses you like he wants to erase the world. His mouth trails from your throat to your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arch, panting. He groans against your skin.

“You’re mine tonight,” he snarls.

You nod. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, mouth hot on your neck. “You want to feel used, don’t you? You want to feel fucked, not loved.”

“Yes,” you choke. “I want it. Please.”

He groans. “Fuck—this is so wrong.”

He lines up at your entrance, rubbing his tip through your slick folds. You gasp, already clenching.

“I have no condom,” he says.

You nod. “I don’t care.”

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch. You both moan, breathless. It hurts. It stretches. But it feels so fucking right.

“Oh my God,” you cry. “You’re so big.”

“Look at you,” he pants. “Taking it so well. Been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You nod, fucked-out, barely able to speak.

He fucks you like he’s trying to forget. Like he wants to punish you. Like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His hand wraps around your throat—firm but not tight.

“You like being ruined, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

He pulls your legs wider. Hits that spot over and over again. You’re crying, shaking, begging.

He doesn’t stop.

“Don’t come yet,” he commands.

You whimper. “I’m so close—Harry, please.”

“Hold it. You take what I give you.”

He leans in, kissing you so deep it feels like he’s swallowing your soul.

When he finally lets you fall over the edge, it’s with a snarl and his hands gripping your hips like he owns them. You shatter, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse.

He follows with a loud, broken groan, spilling inside you. It’s hot. It’s messy. It’s too much.

You cling to him thinking it’s over.

You think you’ll lie there, sore and pulsing, Harry’s weight half on you, and maybe fall asleep in the hazy mess of what you just did.

But he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even move away.

His lips are still on your neck, open-mouthed kisses turning into soft, bruising sucks. His hands keep roaming, still touching like he hasn’t had enough—like he’ll never get enough.

And then he shifts. Pulls out slow. You gasp at the sensation, sensitive and trembling—but he groans at the sight of it.

His come, leaking out of you. The wetness between your thighs glistening in the low light.

“Fuck…” he whispers. “Fuck, look at that.”

“Harry,” you murmur, unsure if you’re begging for more or asking him to stop.

He licks into your mouth like it’s the first time all over again.

“You’re not done,” he mutters into your kiss. “I can’t be done. I can’t fucking stop.”

He sits back on his heels, eyes dark and wild, then grabs your ankle and pulls your legs apart again.

“Turn over,” he demands.

You blink. “What?”

“Bend over for me,” he says, voice lower now. “Get on your fucking knees.”

The tone does something to you—cuts through your spine and straight down between your legs.

You obey. Slowly. Sore and shaky, you shift onto your hands and knees. Chest against the mattress, ass in the air. Completely exposed.

Harry exhales sharply.

“Stay just like that.”

You feel him move behind you. Expect to feel his cock again. But no—his hands grip your thighs and then his mouth is on you.

You cry out instantly, your face pressed into the sheets.

He’s starving for you. Groaning into your soaked core. Tongue licking between your folds, flattening against your clit, circling, sucking. His hands bruise into your hips, holding you in place when you instinctively try to pull away from overstimulation.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he moans into you. “I’ve been thinking about this. Dreaming about it. Since that night in the car.”

Your back arches. Your thighs shake. You’re practically sobbing.

“Please—Harry, please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growls. “You will.”

His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you open, and his tongue flicks relentlessly. Your cries melt into moans, gasps, and incoherent begging.

He doesn’t stop until you’re screaming into the mattress.

When you come, it’s full-body. Convulsing. Shaking. Your legs nearly collapse under you.

But still—he kisses your thighs, your spine, your shoulder blades, until your breathing slows.

Then, he rises. You feel him hard again, pressing between your cheeks. He lines himself up once more.

“Can I?” he asks this time.

You nod, dazed. “Yes… yes, please.”

He slides in deeper this time. Easier. Smoother. You’re soaked, ruined, ready.

This round is slower. Deeper. He leans over you, his chest to your back, one hand around your throat again—not choking, just holding.

“I want everything from you,” he whispers. “I want all of your broken pieces. I want to ruin every man that ever thinks he can touch you.”

You whimper, squeezing around him. His hips stutter.

“I’ll make you mine,” he grits out. “Again and again. Until nobody else fits.”

His hand slips between your legs and rubs your clit in tight circles.

“Come for me one more time,” he breathes. “Come on my cock.”

You break—again.

So does he.

His moan is loud, low, and desperate. He fills you again, collapsing on top of you, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

And finally—finally—the room is silent.

For now.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

AYEEEEEE THEY DID IT …… weird timing but they did it 🙂‍↕️

[saucyplayfulsmile]

I am the blanket on the forest floor I am the peace of waves that crash no more Then embrace me love, tho love it leaves By the road the rain rides to the sea.

— ‘The Rain Road’ by Taylor Moore and Brennan Lee Mulligan

[lambchop-soup]

Me: Why do there seem to be so few writers on tumblr these days?

Also me: (blocks every person who refuses to tag their fem!reader fics as fem!reader)

[akkivee]

i just wake up everyday with terminus on my brain and throughout the day it loops between the three songs and it’s getting close to a month since the album dropped and it’s still like this i feel insane—

[moltengoldveins]

at some point I am Going to talk about the Christ foreshadowing in Hadestown on this blog. Might write a wholeass essay tbh.

“That is how it ends. That's how it goes.

It's a sad song. It's a sad tale. It's a tragedy… But we sing it anyway.

Cause here's the thing To know how it ends And still begin to sing it again. As if it might turn out this time. I learned that from a friend of mine.

See, Orpheus was a poor boy. But he had a gift to give.

He could make you see how the world could be in spite of the way that it is.

Can you see it? Can you hear it? Can you feel it? Like a train. Is it coming?

Is it coming this way?”

[bitter-goodbyes]

OMG HELLO?????

[babythegod]

[alygator77]

──on the move

a/n. in honor of father's day, i wrote a short drabble for our favorite daddy fictional husband. here's some good 'ol dadjo fluff 🩵 this was a request, but it's also inspired by a scene from the romcom life as we know it.

cw. your daughter's first steps. humor. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. also, satoru is just too stinkin' cute (isn't he always though?!).

Neither you nor Satoru were prepared for the day your daughter decided to walk.

She’d been going through another sleep regression—clingy, overtired, and endlessly fussy. The last few nights had been brutal for you both; nonstop crying, sleepless nights—hell, you barely remembered the last time you’d eaten something warm or sat down for more than five minutes without a tiny hand tugging at your shirt.

So today, when she finally settles, babbling to herself instead of wailing, Satoru doesn’t hesitate.

“You go clean up,” he says, already hoisting her up into his arms. “I got this.”

And you don’t argue. Because a hot shower and ten minutes to breathe feels like the most luxurious gift in the world.

Downstairs, Satoru sits leisurely, sinking onto the living room floor, one of your daughter’s stuffed toys shoved behind his back like a makeshift pillow. She sits a few feet in front of him, chewing thoughtfully on a rubber block like she’s solving some ancient puzzle.

As she babbles cheerfully, he nods along, blue eyes soft beneath the fall of snowy hair. One hand props up his chin as he listens intently, like he’s getting a full debriefing from a tiny general.

“I know, right?” he murmurs. “They really said no dessert before dinner. Criminal, honestly.”

An insistent string of nonsense syllables spills from her tiny lips, animated and loud, flapping one hand as to make a point.

“Exactly,” he hums, nodding solemnly. “It’s injustice. You and me—we should unionize.”

Then, without warning, she shifts—pushing herself up with both hands, wobbling slightly as she reaches for the coffee table. One tiny palm finds the edge. Then, slowly… she lets go.

Satoru blinks.

Standing. She’s standing. No hands. No support. Just two steady little feet on the rug.

All by herself.

“…no way,” he breathes, straightening instinctively. “Hey, uh—princess?” clearing his throat, his voice catches slightly. “Uhh… whatcha doin’, huh?”

And then she moves—one step. Wobbly. Uncertain.

Satoru's mouth falls open.

“No, no, no—wait—shit—uhhh… babe?!” his voice pitches as he springs to his feet, torn between staying and bolting for the stairs. “Hold on sweetheart—wait for mommy, wait—!”

Twisting towards the ascending hall, his voice booms.

“Babe! She’s walking!!”

Upstairs, the shower pounds steadily as you scrub shampoo from your hair. A voice echoes up the stairway. With a pause, you tilt your head slightly.

…is Satoru calling you?

“Huh?” you shout back, reaching for the knobs. “What was that ’toru?”

His voice echoes again—louder this time, unmistakable.

“SHE’S WALKING!”

“What?!” heart lurching, you move, fumbling out of the shower, slipping slightly on the mat as you grab for the nearest towel and yank it around your body. “Shit—okay—hang on—!”

But downstairs, equal chaos unfolds.

Your daughter takes another step, and Satoru's still at the bottom of the stairs, caught somewhere between panic and awe. He doesn’t want to move—can’t risk missing it. Can’t let you miss it.

“Okay—just—freeze,” he says, crouching slightly in front of her. “Hold it right there, little lady. Stay. Don’t advance. Mommy’s coming.”

But babbling back in defiance, her little eyes brighten with determination as she takes another wobbly step forward.

“Shit—fuck. Honey, I need you to hurry!” he shouts toward the stairs, voice cracking.

“Coming! I’m coming!” you call back breathlessly, hopping down the hall with one towel clutched around your chest and another half-heartedly blotting your dripping hair. “Just—stall her! I’ll be right there!”’

“Stall her?!” he echoes, eyes wide as she continues toward him, arms extended, smile wide—like he’s the finish line and she’s already won. “How the hell do I stall a baby?!”

Another leg plants itself on the rug, and Satoru scans the room in panic. No bottle. No snacks. No plan. No goddamn time.

“Okay—um, hey—look at me,” he says, dropping to his knees in her path. “Let’s do… let’s do clapping, yeah? You love clapping!”

And there he is, clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm, a desperate smile plastered on his face. But she doesn’t slow down. If anything, she picks up speed—giggling now, like this is all a game.

“Shit. Nonono. You are not following protocol…” he mutters, backing up a step. She’s almost at him. “Please princess… please… wait for mommy.”

He’s at a loss, and so, with nothing else to do, he reaches out—gentle, barely a touch—tapping her belly with two fingertips. But it’s just enough, because with little balance, she blinks—wobbling, plopping her butt onto the floor with a soft thud.

There’s a pause.

Then, in a matter of seconds, her face crumples, lip trembling as a tiny, heartbroken whine spills out of her.

Satoru's eyes widen in horror. “Aw, no—no, no, hey, it was just a loving little stall,” he says quickly, hands out. “A nudge. A tactical nudge. Fuck, don’t cry—”

And you’re bursting into the room just as the first real wail escapes her lips.

“What happened?!” you gasp, chest heaving, towel clinging to your damp skin as you rush over.

Looking up, Satoru's face is wide-eyed, painted with guilt.

“You… you said stall her,” he says helplessly. “So I… I gave her a little push.”

You blink. First at him. Then at her. Then back at him.

She’s hiccupping through a sob, hands balled up against her chest like she’s been personally wronged. Yet somehow, his face is more pitiful than hers.

“She was walking,” he adds weakly, looking down. “I… didn’t want you to miss it.”

Exhaling slowly, the panic bleeds out of you now, replaced by something warm and humorous—the edge of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Oh, ‘toru…”

He peeks up, sheepish. “I panicked.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I gathered.”

And sinking to your knees, you gather her into your arms. The second she’s pressed against you, the sobs dissolve into sniffles, cheek nuzzling into your collarbone like nothing ever happened.

“There we go,” you whisper, brushing your hand over her hair. “See? All better. She forgives you.”

“…you sure?” he looks doubtful. “Because she looked at me like I betrayed her entire damn bloodline.”

“Oh, shush.” Huffing a quiet laugh, you roll your eyes playfully, gently lowering her onto the rug in a seating position—pacified, for now.

Stepping closer, Satoru's gaze flicks between you and her.

“Five steps,” he says quietly, sliding his arms around your waist. “She took five real steps.”

“That’s incredible,” you whisper, arms looping around his neck. A slow smirk stretches across your lips. “Next time maybe just… record it, yeah?”

“Tch…” he huffs. “Right…”

And leaning in, his smile meets yours halfway—lips touching where laughter wants to begin. You kiss him, eyes fluttering, a hum rumbling through him.

But then—

pat-pat-pat.

Freezing, you pull away from that unmistakable sound. And turning, you’re left with the sight of your daughter tearing off down the hall with a delighted squeal, her bare feet smacking against the hardwood like she’s been walking her whole damn life.

“Oh.” Satoru's already straightening. “Oh shit.”

“Ohmygod…” you breathe in awe. “’toru… she’s walking!!”

“No,” he says grimly. “She’s running.”

And just like that—it begins.

Yeah. You’re never going to sit down again.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

tying alpha!toji down because he can’t keep his filthy knot to himself during your heat.

cw - smut, bondage, a/b/o mechanics, omega!reader, fem!reader, not proofread

“toji, i’m being serious. you’re not touching me until you can learn to pull out,” he didn’t even know why you were complaining. you loved being knotted by him, but apparently, it’s some sort of issue now that you’ve ran out of your birth control pills, and toji absolutely loathes condoms.

he expected you to last maybe half a day during your heat without him bedding and satiating you. you’re historically very needy during heats, and he’s more than willing to placate you over and over again. you’ll surely forget all about that pesky birth control and allow him to take care of you.

he ended up being the one coming to you. it had been a full day of your whines and cries filtering in and out of the bedroom. your scent was intoxicating, causing toji to have a permanent boner straining in his pants.

it was absolute torture, listening to his omega sob from dissatisfaction… especially when he knew that he had everything you needed. you were just so damn stubborn.

you were such a pretty sight to behold: arched up with your head thrown back. your eyes were squeezed shut as dewy tears slid down your cheeks. your body was flushed and trembling as you desperately rubbed your fingers in tight circles around your swollen clit.

“are you gonna quit being stubborn and let me help, princess? or am i going to have to keep hearing you all night?” he asked with a smug smirk, figuring you’d start begging for him right away.

“i-i don’t know. have you learned how to pull out?” even while completely wrecked, you were standing firm in your convictions.

“i don’t know. i haven’t tried yet,” he grinned, prowling closer to you in your nest. he knows that he could pounce on you and take an advantage of your… compromise positioning, but he much prefers when you beg and plead for it.

“ugh— you made me lose it,” you let out the most adorable frustrated growl that toji had ever had the pleasure of hearing, causing him to chuckle at your displeasure.

“you weren’t getting there anyway, doll. let me help ya,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes cascaded over your body hungrily.

“shut up,” you snap, making him to raise an eyebrow at you. he doesn’t give up his amusement from your sudden attitude. no, he actually finds your bratty side just as endearing to him.

you get up and walk out of the bedroom briefly, letting toji’s confusion and curiosity eat at him until you return to the bedroom with a dining chair.

“sit,” you demand, and toji obeys after ripping his clothes away from his body with an expectant grin on his face.

“oh fuck yeah, you want to take what you need from me?” he asks as you reach into a bedside drawer. he’s assuming that you’re grabbing a bottle of lube even though he can see your glossy slick pooling and seeping from between your thighs. he licks his lips, feeling his mouth water from pure animalistic drive.

when you lean back up with ropes in your hand, his eyebrows furrow in confusion. how are you to ride him while being tied up..? he could easily jostle you around, throw you up and down his cock until your crying and gushing, but he didn’t necessarily know if that was safe to do while you’re bound.

imagine his surprise when you start restraining the ropes around his pretty scarred skin. the rough fabric hugged his muscles perfectly, creating the prettiest harness for him.

“what d’ya think you’re doing, doll? you aren’t that mad at me, are ya?” he asked as he sat still for you, letting you do your thing to him.

once he was fully restrained, he’d struggle against the ropes, letting out small grunts and disappointed groans when the bright red rope only tightens around his muscles, rubbing small burns into his skin that make him growl in displeasure.

your honeyed scent is killing him, absolutely filling the room to the brim with your scent of need. he knows you need him. right? you need toji to fix it for you, but you’ve went ahead and tied him to this damn chair at the foot of your bed.

he didn’t know a lowly omega in heat would be so ruthless when knotting the ropes over his bare abs and biceps. his wrists are even bound together behind the god forsaken chair. worst of all, there’s a band of rope looped over his waist so he can’t buck his hips. the thick braided thread rubs deliciously over his hardening length. only the thin fabric of his boxer briefs are protecting him from rope burn on his most sensitive appendage.

alphas are suppose to remain in control, but he absolutely let you play him like a fool.

all he can do is sit and watch as you crawl back into your nest, settling down on your back with your legs spread for him to gaze at your glistening pussy.

“let this serve as a lesson, toji,” you say to him, slowly bringing your fingers to your pouty lips before sucking on them to coat them in spit.

toji watches closely, studying every move your body makes while you’re on display for him. his jaw clenches, knowing that should be his fingers you’re sucking on.

when you pull them from your mouth with an obscene pop and slowly rub them over your swollen clit, toji immediately pulls hard from the chair. no way in hell is he going to watch you pitifully try to satisfy yourself while he can’t do a damn thing about it.

he’s your mate for crying out loud. his literal existence is tailored to pleasuring and treating you, but you want him to sit and watch as you do a piss poor job at doing his job?

“c’mon doll,” he pants, clenching his jaw as his dark green eyes flutter between staring at your pretty face and pussy. “i was only messin’ with ya. i’ll pull out— promise.”

you ignore him, knowing that he’s saying whatever he can so you’ll release him. you hum as your fingers continue to lightly rub and tease yourself for his viewing.

toji growls and curses. his body is aching for a taste of you. he knows he can bring you more pleasure than what you’re doing right now, but also, his cock is straining so hard against the ropes, it feels like he’s about to burst a blood vessel.

when you slip two fingers into your slick channel, something akin to a whine flees toji’s lips. he’s been reduced to a dog — sitting at the foot of your bed, watching helplessly as you leisurely pump your fingers in and out.

his hips try to buck upwards, and he lets out a strangled groan as the rope rubs up and down his length. it’s the only friction he can get right now.

“tojiii~” you whine, trying to reach the spot with your fingers that he knows all too well.

“i know, baby, i know,” he grunts, still awkwardly rocking his hips to get the smallest amount of friction. “let me out so i can take care of ya. c’mon, let your alpha take care of you,”

that sounds like a perfect idea, you think as you reach back over to the bedside drawer, pulling out a dildo that was completely modeled after toji’s cock — every ridge and vein for when he was gone on overnight hits.

“no,” he growls, seeing the look of mischief on your face. “that’s not—“

his words crumble as soon as he sees you wrap your pretty lips around the tip of the dildo. you’re so fucking stunning like this. he flexes his muscles, trying to break his way out of the chair to get to you.

the chair creaks in protest, and the ropes only grow tighter against his skin. he realizes he’s sweating as he watches you get up on your knees on the bed. your dildo on the mattress, pointed upwards so you can ride it right in front of him.

the look of relief on your face as you slowly stretch yourself out on his fake tip makes him nearly whine. he’s never begged for anything in his life, but he’s close to begging for you to let him out.

he’s completely enamored by the way you’re taking fake him so well. you’ve got tears in your eyes, undoubtedly feeling the slight burn of being filled so full, but he knows you can take it.

his hips move in sync with yours, letting the rope rub against his fat cock as you slowly adjust and bounce on your dildo.

“please—“ he finally grunts in a breathy whisper when you bottom out. he can barely take it anymore, watching you while not being able to touch himself.

“please what?” you taunt in a breathy tone, still slowly dragging your hips up and down along the pretty dildo.

toji doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. he only knows that he needs you carnally. “fucking, brat— you know i need you,”

“mmmph! sounds like you haven’t learned your lesson.”

oh and you look oh so pretty while taking his fake dick. he can’t even pull his eyes away from you. his hips are shakily rutting into the ropes, taking what little friction he can get in stride.

“fuck, toji..” you gasp, causing him to let out a strangled growl. his head tips back, and you take a moment to admire his big beefy body all tied down and sweaty. his pheromones are honestly starting to overpower yours, and it’s dizzying.

he’s basically whimpering, humping the air like a dog as his eyes are glued to how your slick folds are accepting the dildo so well. he can feel just how well you’d take him in this situation. he’d be able to feel every little flutter and clench around his thick cock.

“please,” he tries again. he’s broken for you. never in his life would he think that he would beg for anything, but you’re too sweet of a prize to let his pride ruin. “please doll… let your alpha come take care of you. i’ll… i’ll be good.”

meanwhile, your hips are bouncing up and down aggressively. the dildo modeled after his cock feels so damn good, filling you up entirely and nudging against the spot that makes you see stars, but it’s no where close to the real thing. still, toji’s scent and whimpering is enough to keep you going.

“yeah?” you pant, “you’ll be g-good? how so?”

the chair creaks as toji’s hips are working hard. he’s matching your pace, trying to picture you riding him like that. “i’ll lay down and let you use me.. fuck, you can take what you want from me, doll. i’m yours.. just please…”

the wet sounds of your sliding up and down the girthy rubber dildo along with the chair violently creaking with each pathetic hump toji’s hips make fill the air. he’s completely whimpering now, damn near sobbing about how he’ll be a good boy for his omega. you fear you’ve unlocked something deep inside him.

it’s all too much. your body begins to quiver as your muscles draw taut. you’re so close, and the nagging fear of not being able to finish without toji’s help slithers into your brain.

“god— fuucking dammit,” a strangled growl get your attention, and you look to see toji with his head tilted back. his rutting is messy and losing it’s rhythm. then, you see the wet spot in his boxers.

he came without any touch.

the pathetic sight is enough to throw your right over the edge, sending you into oblivion as you cry out on the dildo. toji’s still pumping his hips like he’s trying to telepathically fuck you through your orgasm.

after a moment, the room falls into a deadly quiet. you look at toji while panting, knowing you have to untie him and some point, and he’s going to give you hell to pay.

@theuniversesnepobaby here’s sub toji that you’ve been wanting

[chericheribaby]

I have a Strong feeling chihiro is going to be my song of the year in my Spotify wrapped