#archetype post

Fuck that noise.

He’s never had anything in there before — no cock, no fingers, no toys — nothing but his own fingers fumbling, fingers too shy to go deeper. So when you slide that tiny little toy inside, barely three inches of semi-hard silicon, you watch his body fall apart.

His eyes go wide, breath catches, and then it’s all trembling limbs and whispered cries he can’t control.

He swears he can take it. Laughs it off like a joke — but it’s not.

You push it in just a little more.

His whole body jerks. His hips snap back like he’s trying to escape something, but he can’t. Not yet.

That little toy is a devil in disguise — meant to prep him, to train him for what’s really coming. But right now? He’s ruined. Sobbing soft little whimpers because he’s so fucking full of something he barely even registers as real.

He clenches around it like it’s ripping him in half, legs shaking so badly you’re sure he’s about to collapse.

“P-please, s-stop… I-I can’t—” he chokes out, voice trembling, barely a whisper. “I’m — i-it’s too — too much…”

And it’s not even three fucking inches inside him.

He’s already torn, stretched raw, dripping around you like he’s been wrecked by your actual size. The thought of a bigger dick? No fucking way. He’d be shredded, a bloody mess, broken beyond repair.

But here he is.

His little hole clenches tight, desperate to squeeze it out, but it’s no use. He’s ruined.

“J-just… slow… please…?” he begs, voice cracking. “I-I never… n-never had this b-before. It hurts — b-but I want it! I want you… I’m yours, p-please…”

Bullshit. You know he isn’t ready. That’s why you’re here.

You drag it out a fraction, then push it back in, slow and deliberate, watching his body betray him with every inch. The tight squeeze, the desperate gasp, the low sobs that start slipping out when you don’t give him a break.

He’s fragile. So fragile.

The toy isn’t even close to the size he’ll have to take later. But his inexperienced ass is already wrecked. Already trembling around something so tiny, so insignificant.

You grip his jaw, force his eyes to meet yours. “You wanna see how fucked you’ll be when the real thing slides in?”

His cheeks flush crimson. He can’t even nod, breath hitching so hard he’s nearly choking.

He’s ruined.

From a cheap sex toy less than three inches long.

You can’t wait to slide your actual dick in — it’ll tear him apart. Rip him open and break him in ways he can’t even imagine yet.

But for now, you have him like this. Clawed open and leaking sobs on your bed, begging you for mercy he doesn’t deserve.

Pathetic.

And delicious.

Venti, Xiao, Wanderer, Heizou, Gojo, Geto, Anaxa, Adventurine + your favs!

You knew better than to expect a party. But silence? That was new.

You sat alone at the edge of the quad, plastic fork scraping lukewarm rice from a soggy takeout box. Your name wasn’t called when they passed out cupcakes — they said your portion had been “pre-gifted,” whatever the hell that meant. You smiled anyway. Shrugged it off. Pretended you weren’t watching when two of your closest friends slipped out without a word and came back twenty minutes later, arms full of drinks and snacks—for everyone but you.

Someone — barely more than a mutual — said “Happy Birthday” in the hallway between fourth and fifth period. It echoed just a bit. Loud enough to alert the others. Loud enough for them to blink like they'd forgotten you were a real person.

“Oh my god, is it today?” “Wait— really?” “Happy birthday, haha.” “Sorry I didn’t bring anything, it’s shipping.”

Shipping. Right. So were all the smiles you forced and all the trust you’d offered them, apparently.

You found out you were failing two subjects by email. Teacher comments were polite, too polite. You're not lazy, just scattered. Just tired. Just sitting in the back corner of your life, watching it go on without you.

Your siblings texted around 5:00. “hbd. mind if I eat the cake? no icecream”

You didn’t answer. Fuck them, honestly — there was no time for crying either. You had takeout to eat with your parents, who only remembered your birthday when they saw the date on the receipt.

They tried to make it sound fun. “Surprise!” They said. “You always love Thai food, right?”

“I did,” you replied, “when I was twelve.”

By the time He found you, you were lying on your bed, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling like the cracks in it might finally split open and swallow you.

He didn’t knock. Just let himself in like he always did — like the room was his, too. A breath, a pause, and the slight dip of the mattress beside your hip.

“You gonna talk,” he asked, “or am I just here to be atmospheric?”

You didn’t move. “I think I’m haunting myself.”

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes on you. “That so?”

“I think I died. Or fell out of frame. Either way, nobody noticed.”

It wasn’t said cruelly. Just... soft. Detached, like your voice had finally given up being angry and settled into hollow.

He didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then:

“They forgot, didn’t they?”

You didn’t answer. That was enough.

He slid something from their pocket and dropped it on your chest. A tiny plastic ring, the kind from a vending machine or party favor bag. Sparkly. Childish. Stupid.

“You’re joking.”

“I got it out of that rigged claw machine by the gas station,” he said flatly. “Spent like ten bucks. You better cherish it.”

You stared at it. Gaudy pink. Heart-shaped gem.

Then you laughed. Not because it was funny—because it was the first thing today that was yours. Ugly and honest and desperate.

You twisted to face him. “You know I’m failing maths?”

“I’d say I’m shocked, but…” He flicked your forehead. “You spend half the time doodling on your notes and the other half dissociating.”

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

You were silent again, but it felt different now. Shared. Softer at the edges.

He nudged your shoulder. “Sweet sixteen, huh? You gonna be justified and have a breakdown or just rot here in peace?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Thinking about doing both.”

He reached for your hand. Just held it. Not like he was fixing anything. Not like he had to. Just there. Warm.

“Well,” he said, “at least let me rot with you. Happy damn birthday.”

You’re not their fucking afterthought.

wish he was actually real. or that I wasn’t. happy birthday to me