artistical

(Censored the first image for obvious reason)

They have also replied to hate comments about the situation

And they have rebolgged other problematic stuff such as this:

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Brian was quite the romantic, in his opinion.

A full week off, the cabin that he and Tim ransacked months ago was finally of use. However, his companion had been sent on another solo job, and the house was empty aside from him.

He had his laptop propped up on the counter, the screen displaying a recipe he’d been wanting to try. It was rare that proxies got downtime, and he’d finally had the chance to unwind.

A home-cooked meal, ingredients he’d painstakingly saved up for, and an ice-cold beer on the side. It was going to be perfect.

In theory.

The thing with being a killer was that you didn’t get to practice your culinary skills much. Which meant that he couldn’t just eyeball it. Which also meant the chicken was burning and slightly oversalted.

He was glad he’d only used a third of the meat to start with, because this was not going as well as he wanted it to. He sighed, shucking the charred remains into a bowl- when a clatter echoed from the hall.

He switched the stove off, wiping his hands on a rag. He was wondering when you’d show up.

You were his stalker- affectionately. He’d caught you staring at him across the gas station two months ago, and you’d been tailing him ever since.

At first, he was cautious. You could’ve been a spy or someone who got too nosy about business that wasn’t your own. However, after a week of his own research, he realized you were neither.

You just had a crush on him. It was obvious that, less than five days in, you were beyond flustered even being near him. A cute little thing, he thinks.

Your lack of skill was endearing, and he didn’t mind playing pretend. If you wanted to watch, he’d indulge you. Hoodie was going out of his way to pose for your pictures, doing the absolute most in broad daylight.

Stretching with a grunt, flexing his arms more than necessary. He’d wipe split liquor from his chin with the bottom of his shirt, giving you a direct view of his V-line and pecs.

Yet you would be too nervous to even hold the camera properly, sprinting off with a blurry shot at best. He had worked his abs the day prior, too. A shame, really.

Don’t get him wrong; he liked the whole cat-and-mouse act, but you were hopeless. He doubted you’d ever follow him home or break in, so he had to lure you out of your shell. Use a breadcrumb trail to get you into position. The works.

Earlier that week, he’d talked obnoxiously loud on the phone. Telling Tim about his plans, about how he thought he should “Go shirtless more often.” Maybe even invest in a pair of low-hanging sweats, you know?

He ducked into an alley, waiting for you to linger just around the corner, then he dropped the exact address. It was like shaking a bag of treats at a stray cat. Almost too easy.

Now, standing in the kitchen, Brian decided to make you a taste tester. You were already here, and he’s sure you’d be willing.

The sound of shuffling, followed by the thump of footsteps, grew closer. He could hear you cuss quietly; your struggle to sneak around had him holding back a laugh. How polite of you to remove your shoes.

Craning his neck to the side, he occupied himself with re-oiling the pan, his chain catching the light in slivers. He was bare from the waist up, his boxer band snug against his hips. He was a man of his word, after all. Though he was curious about how you’d react. If it were an enclosed space with no readily available exits, would you be bolder?

You had come all this way, and he hoped that you’d push yourself out of your comfort zone. It’d be rude not to. He prepared this evening for both of you; the least you could do was surprise him a bit.

His back was still turned when you tiptoed into the room, hunched over to make yourself smaller. He saw you nearly trip in his periphery, and he grinned, a plan stitching itself together in his head. He wanted to check exactly how inexperienced you were. And yeah, perhaps he didn’t have the right to be jealous- but he’d be lying if he said the idea of not being your first didn’t bother him.

You liked him so much that you probably walked here despite the trek. Probably giggled thinking about him, cheeks warm as you debated on what to take as a souvenir. To Hoodie, that was special.

Watching was a love language, one that he was uniquely fluent in. Who better to settle down with than someone who understood it perfectly, right? The muted padding of your socks on hardwood.

Two creaks to his right, about three paces away. Then silence. Three paces… Ah, you were going for his jacket. Except that the coat in question was his usual one, the leather thick, made for harsh weather. As much as he wanted to let you take it, he’d need it on the way back.

He clicked his tongue, speaking curtly. “Take somethin’ else, baby. I’m still wearin’ that one.” The metal tapped the glass stovetop, the burner switched back on, and you hummed. “Oh, okay. Thank you.” You swivelled on your heel, scanning the room for other items.

Thirty seconds passed. You picked up a stray glove lying on the coffee table. One full minute. You debated between snatching the empty cup near the sofa and going for his sweater thrown across the armchair. If you organized the items well, you could fit both in your bag. Another minute. The clock ticked by, repetitive while you searched.

“You hungry?”

“Um, a little-”

You shot up.

Eyes wide, your satchel fell to the floor, and Brian arched a brow. “I’m testing a new recipe. Thought you’d wanna’ try.” He was facing you now, a smirk gracing his lips when he cocked his head to the left, giving you a once-over. “You gonna’ stand there all night? It’s bad manners not to greet the host.” Teasing.

With his arms crossed, the contours of hard muscle were etched harshly under the dim light. His happy trail peaked over the elastic band, leading up to his navel, scars littering his torso. His chest was covered in sparse hair, the plush squished together. And he was so tall. Broad, his shoulders sculpted, a steel cross pendant framed in the middle of his pecs—

“It’s also bad manners to stare.”

You met his gaze in an instant and stuttered, unsteady on your feet. “Sorry- I didn’t mean to, you know. Well…” Your palms were clammy, heart racing a mile a minute. Yet he seemed relaxed, too calm for someone who had just found out their home was being intruded on.

He raised his hand, beckoning you with a finger. “C’mere.” He swivelled around after, and you were quick to obey, scrambling over when he placed two chicken breasts into the skillet. You stood awkwardly by his side, the meat sizzling against blistering oil. The kitchen felt claustrophobic. You didn’t know what to do with your hands.

Brian was right there. You could practically smell him.

Why would you think that?

That was weird. This was a terrible idea. But he clearly wasn’t normal either- he couldn’t be. No regular person would be unbothered by a situation like this.

“You’re good with chicken, yeah? It’s all I got, but if you really ain’t like it, we can order something.” You nodded at that, shoving down your inner monologue. “No, it’s okay. Chicken’s good.” He mirrored your response. Flipping the meat with tongs as he grunted. “Mm. I made a salad to go with it. You want a vinaigrette or ranch?”

“… Ranch. Please.”

“Water or beer? There’s wine in the cellar, too.”

“Water’s fine.”

The chicken had developed a sear. Golden brown when he gave it another flip. “You sure? We can open a bottle. Promise, I don’t mind.” He said, unhurried. The kitchen was quiet aside from the sound of his tongs hitting the pan once in a while, the proximity making you sweat. You fidgeted with your sleeves. “Okay.”

A meek reply, he smiled, checking the meat's internal temperature with a food thermometer. “Alright- help me plate this; then we’ll eat.” The heat was shut off, and he moved to wash his hands, opening the cabinets a second later. He pulled out two bowls, balancing them in one hand, and grabbed wine glasses with the other.

Once he’d placed the cutlery on the counter along with everything else, he glanced at you. “Well, I’ll be damned- I didn’t burn it this time. Should call you my lucky charm, darlin’.” Your ears were warm, and you avoided his eyes, stepping closer. “Y-yeah. It looks good.” The meal was put together swiftly, Brian handling it alone despite his earlier request.

You should do something. He had asked- maybe he just forgot?

“I’ll bring the food to the table while you get the wine.” You tittered, a nervous laugh escaping you.

He stared at you for a moment, features blank enough to have your blood running cold, then he grinned. Chuckling as if you’d said exactly what he wanted to hear. “Sure. Dining room’s right around the corner; I’ll be back in a bit.”

He walked past you, and you swallowed, picking up the bowls carefully before trudging into the hall. A light switch was flicked up, porcelain sliding onto the oak surface when you set the bowls down. You made another round to return with the glasses, taking a seat afterward.

He breached the doorway with a bottle in hand and settled in across the table. “That coat ain’t stuffy?” Nodding at you, he uncorked the wine. The dark red sloshed against the glass, both your cups filled halfway. “I mean, I don’t notice it. I guess.” This was definitely not how you thought this would go.

He stabbed his fork into the chicken, taking a bite as you followed hesitantly. “It’s warm in here. Yer’ gonna’ melt in that thing.” He snickered, and you tried your best to smile. “I can take it off if you want.”

A pause, then he gave you a look. “If I want?” Twirling the utensil slowly, he tapped it against the bowl once, sighing.

“You’re acting like I’m keepin’ you hostage, honey. Relax.” He drawled, lazily chewing while you faltered. “I’m relaxed- I was just saying.” Now that he had pointed it out, you were overly aware of the jacket’s weight.

The material hung heavily on your shoulders, almost dragging you down, your body heat simmering beneath the layers.

The once spacious table had shrunk, the walls closing in like you were trapped in a bubble. You could suddenly feel everything. The way the wooden chair stuck to your thighs even through the denim, the clink of glass each time he took a sip.

It was as if the air around you had grown tight, and the bulbs overhead thrummed loudly. Buzzing on your skin, suffocating you with its vibrance. You tugged at the zipper despite his reassurance, shrugging off the coat. Conversation. Be present.

“Thank you for cooking.” You said, breathing out at the ease in temperature, as he chuckled. “Oh, of course. It’s your first time here. I gotta’ impress you.” Winking at you, he reclined a tad, cutting off another chunk of the meat. “So, you do this often?”

A casual question. His tone was unhurried, still eating like this wasn’t absurd. You were simply a friend dropping by, a fun companion he’d met at work, and not a stranger who broke in. Your nerves fought your infatuation, your mind at war with itself.

Should you be grateful that he was so forgiving, or concerned that he wasn’t? He hadn’t interrogated you at all. Hadn’t shouted at you, sneering in disgust, appalled at the extent of your obsession.

The man was treating you shockingly well, nearly too friendly in your presence. The uncanny fondness he showed you made your head hurt- but you liked him.

His attention was addicting. The laughs he’d give you had your cheeks hot. It’d be smart to run, to sprint as fast as your legs could carry you. It was just that your crushes never really worked out, and he was everything you’d wished for, served on a silver platter.

Brian had been courteous all night, considerate towards your preferences. Regarding you with thought and flirting with you as if he returned your feelings. You couldn’t help the sugary giggle that slipped past your lips.

“No, I don’t get out much. I haven’t had dinner with someone like this since last year.” He grinned at that, humming when you swallowed a mouthful. “Yeah?” His fork clattered against the bowl's rim, chair squeaking under him, and he arched a brow.

“What about the stalking, then?”

You choked.

Blinking, your sputter was rushed. Posture turned stiff. “I- I wasn’t trying to. I just- I don’t know. Um.” He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Wasn’t trying to… what?” His gaze was analytical, and he shrugged, tapping a rhythm onto the oak. “It’s okay; we can be honest. I saw you takin’ pictures of me earlier, but ya’ ran off before I could pose properly.” His cheery nature had you restless in your seat.

Taking off your jacket had been a godsend, because you were currently boiling from the inside out. Had you been that obvious? You shifted in place, rubbing your ankles together. “Sorry.” Your sad mumble made him snigger, head slumping down, with his shoulders shaking. “Yer’ real cute, I’ll tell you that-” He straightened himself, exhaling.

“Really, though. You ever done this with anybody else?”

He was having fun- maybe you should too.

He appeared content when you acted comfortable, so it couldn’t hurt to banter.

You steeled yourself, suppressing the butterflies in your stomach. “What if I have?” You were ready for a laugh, a witty remark, but the second you glanced up, the hairs on your nape rose.

Brian’s grin had been wiped clean off, and he stared with an iciness you weren’t expecting. Slowly, as he stuck his tongue against his inner cheek, he narrowed his eyes.

Head tilted by a fraction. “Who?” While his cadence was monotone, his body language was screaming at you. Wound up like a caged tiger waiting for you to drop the key.

You simpered, strained. Attempting to brush it off. “Ah, I wasn’t-” He interrupted you, tunnel-visioned on your previous statement. “Did you like ‘im? I swear I won’t say nothin’.” The way his jaw tensed told you otherwise. He was smiling again, but it was off. Too sharp, not reaching his eyes, his chuckle hollow at best.

He spoke with barely contained animosity, working himself up the more he thought about it. “You keep the photos you took back then, or no? Tell me, c’mon. Do ya’ think about him?” His gaze was bordering on manic, agitated in his own skin. You rambled quickly. “No! There- there isn’t anyone else. I was kidding.” He froze at that, expressionless.

The silence prickled you, tension thorny amidst the stalemate- before he whistled low. Teasing lilt returned when he shook his head playfully. “You’re cruel, dolly. Thought you were gonna’ break my heart there.” The mood switch was jarring, and you forced yourself to adjust, scooping up another bite. He gestured to your still-full glass.

“Try it. It’s good.”

“Right- yeah.”

The cup was chilled in your palm, and you took a large swig, downing the rest in record time. The alcohol wasn’t terribly strong, but it burned nonetheless. You cleared your throat, and the glass was set back on the table, liquor kicking in almost immediately.

Being a lightweight had perks, though you weren’t sure that applied to your current predicament. It was fine- just something to calm yourself down.

Yet, drink after drink, the wine’s effect increased tenfold. Every time you emptied your glass, he’d pour you one more, evening the playing field by matching your pace. Except his tolerance was far higher than yours.

You had gone through a full bottle, on your second, and he was still impeccably upright. But he’d take care of you if you got too messy, wouldn’t he?

His hand smacking against the surface made you jolt, his cheer loud. “Goddamn, pretty miss. You sure can drink!”

You laughed at his excitement, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. It was easy to forget how scary he’d been only a moment ago. Especially with the intoxication settling in, you were on cloud nine.

You swayed a little. “Only if I’m trying to look cool.” The buzz soothed your jitters, and all you could focus on was the curve of his jaw. He was so pretty, charming like the princes you’d read about in storybooks. His scars gave him an edge, while his dimples made him appear sweet. A perfect balance.

Your eyes drifted to his lips, memorizing the hue. They looked soft, perhaps a bit chapped from the weather, but you’re sure they’d feel nice. You had dreamed about him daily, fantasizing about his hands on you, thinking about what he’d say.

It had begun about two months ago- the stalking, that is.

You had met him one year prior.

The rain had been brutal, flooding the roads and drenching you in the downpour. Winds so strong that the water droplets battered against the concrete like hail, thunder shrieking into the night. You were terrified, shaking in a thin jacket on the side of the road. The man you’d been chasing had lied to you.

He had smiled when you confessed, asking you to dinner. Texting you for days, swearing he was over the moon. He picked you up that night, and the drive was grand, filled with laughter the entire way. However, when you arrived at the designated location, instead of a cozy picnic under the stars, you found an empty parking lot.

He ushered you out of the car, and trusting him, you did so happily. Then it happened. The skidding of tires, overlapping voices, your heartbeat in your ears. His friends yanked you by the hair, snipping off chunks.

They jeered, they mocked and humiliated you- for believing someone like him could ever love someone like you.

They left you in pieces, sobbing on the cold cement. The storm began shortly after, and you were forced to drag yourself home, lost in the whirlwind. And that’s when you ran into Brian.

His truck had come to a stop on the highway, engine still rumbling, while he stepped out. You were blocking the road, and even though he seemed annoyed, he let you hitch a ride.

If he noticed your state early on, he didn’t say anything- not until you asked.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

He’d grunted, glancing at you briefly. “No.” He was probably just pacifying you. Probably just making sure the stranger in his passenger seat didn’t throw a fit. But it was enough.

You had spent your entire life being unsure. You never knew where you fit in. The town was small, and for whatever reason, it seemed like you were born wrong. You were always too loud or too quiet. Either too promiscuous or a prude. Your affection was viewed as an abomination, the person at the centre of your desire recoiling at the idea.

You were the one just slightly out of frame in photographs, the friend who walked on the grass, and was never saved a seat at the table. A background character in a picture-perfect scene, unneeded.

You would be alone in a full room, forgotten about, even if you screamed at the top of your lungs. Isolated since the moment you opened your eyes, in a broken home with parents who held you for necessity's sake.

Nothing ever made sense; nobody ever had the right answers. But he did. You asked him if you were off-putting; you asked if you were disgusting to be around. You asked him over and over again if he thought you didn’t belong. Not providing any information for him to logically respond to. Yet that didn’t matter, and his reply would remain the same.

“No.”

Because Brian was different. Because he understood.

You tried so hard to ignore the constant flashing memories of that drive. You did things to distract yourself, going out more, indulging in new hobbies. They never stuck, though.

Soon enough, all you could think about was him. He was the only person who made you feel seen, the only one who comforted you when you offered nothing in return.

Because Brian was good.

You had the pictures of Brian taped to your wall. You saved Brian’s half-smoked cigarettes to kiss when you were sad. Brian was sweet to you. Brian’s voice was smooth like warm honey. Brian was—

“— Alright?”

Your pupils snapped up to his, and he huffed, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I said, are you alright?” When you failed to answer, he snickered. “I’ve been callin’ yer’ name for the past five minutes.”

You pouted, tittering while you slumped forward. “Oh, sorry.” He got to his feet, rounding the dinner table and snagging the nearly empty bottle along the way.

“We hafta’ do something about those nerves of yours. Apologizin’ after every sentence- you’re worrying me, baby.” His grasp was firm on your jaw, tilting your head back.

The glass rim nudged against your parted lips, and he grunted. “Don’t worry, I got you.” Bitter, with undertones of sweetness coating your palate. You gulped desperately, deep scarlet dribbling down your chin.

It was starting to overwhelm you, and you clumsily reached for his wrist. Pawing, trying to pull back, but his grip refused to waver.

“Shh, s’okay. Nice an’ easy- jus’ like that.” He murmured, hushing you. Your lungs burned, the lack of oxygen making your head spin. Your eyes were barely open by the time he withdrew, and he brought the bottle to his mouth, downing the remaining liquor. He exhaled after, breathless.

The wine hung limp at his hip, his grin satisfied. “Atta’ girl.” He ran his tongue along his teeth and slouched slightly.

Tapping your bottom lip once. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.” With that, he hauled you up, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck as he walked down the hall.

He kicked open the bedroom door, stepping to the mattress before laying you down.

He crawled to kneel between your legs, resting on his haunches. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” You giggled drunkenly and nuzzled your head against the sheets. You were floaty, the duvet soft beneath you. “Mm… ‘m pretty?” You slurred, making him laugh. “The prettiest thing I ever seen, sweetheart.”

The linen smelled like him. He was looking at you. Hazy, you were so excited it felt as if your chest would burst. “Fuckin’ perfect.” His touch brushed over your collar, dragging down to your stomach, an inch above your waistband. “Did you pretend it was me when you used yer’ fingers?” He muttered, drawing shapes.

You hid your face behind your knuckles, bashful under his gaze. “Mhm.” The mellowed light from the bedside lamps bathed him in gold, his grin sultry as he hummed. “Show me.”

You pouted at that, and your whine had him hungry. “You wanna’ be good for me, don’t you?” Urging you softly, he nudged your shirt by a smidge, thumb hooked along the edge. You’d do anything he asked. Anything at all, even if it was mortifying.

The cotton scrunched over your chest when you tugged up your shirt, and his eyes flickered to the button of your jeans, expectant. “Go on.” He hadn’t even done anything, yet you were already on the brink of tears.

Complying anyway, unsteady fingers reached to undo the zipper, your hips shimmying slightly. You slid a hand into your underwear, gathering the wetness, before you circled your clit.

Your little gasps were mouthwatering. The plush of your chest squished together in a frayed bra, moving a bit every time you’d jolt at your own touch. He rubbed his thumb up and down against your skin, one palm on your hip, the other settled beneath your thigh. Keeping your legs open despite your embarrassment.

“Does it feel good?” He uttered, and you nodded pitifully. You’d done this countless times, but his focus had heightened your senses.

Brian was so close to where you needed him, separated by only a couple of layers of fabric. Your mind wandered, images of how he’d take you filling your head.

Would he be rough, or would he break you with care? Ruining you, leaving you crying for more when he’d slow his rhythm to a grind. Would he make you cry, or would he have you high off endorphins, nurturing your obsession until you couldn’t handle it anymore?

You slipped your fingers into your messy cunt, humping your own hand in desperation. He clicked his tongue. “You can do better than that.”

With thinly veiled disapproval, he squeezed your waist. It had you scrambling to appease him, and your cunt squelched loudly. However, it appeared your pace wasn’t up to par.

His warmth left your hip, and he cupped his knuckles atop yours over denim. Forcing your digits inside deeper, rocking you onto his large palm. “Ah- Brian.” You whimpered, soaking your panties.

It was sloppy inside your underwear, with arousal sticking to your inner thighs. “Did you say my name like that by yourself, too? Or did ya’ get shy?” He said mockingly, drinking in the view, when he continued.

“Imagining me touchin’ you here- bet you made a fuckin’ mess on your toys.” He had your darkest secrets laid bare, and you whined.

The weight of his hand had your body in overdrive, the constant shlick-shlick of your fingers pumping inside loud and exposing. “Not my fault- couldn’t help it- mmph.” You couldn’t even defend yourself properly, pitchy gasps interrupting your argument. It had greed gnawing at the base of his skull, the need to break you spiking.

He drawled the words, lazily bouncing you. “C’mon, princess. Give it to me.” The coil in your gut curled tightly. Your clit was rutting against your palm with every thrust, the reality of his proximity crashing into you.

Your pussy pulsed, twitching wildly as you came. Lids shutting while you arched. You hadn’t even caught your breath yet, and he grabbed your wrist.

Your fingers glistened with the proof of your orgasm, held in the air. “Mm.” He cocked his head to the right, amused. Then he pulled your hand to his lips, swirling his tongue around your digits. He groaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

Brows furrowed, swallowing, his saliva mixed with your slick, dripping down your arm. Depraved- starved. He withdrew a second later, swiping away the residue with his thumb.

The sight made you clench down on nothing, and he smirked, releasing your hand. He traced up your ribs, kneading your breasts through the bra. Toying with your sensitive buds until you writhed. Hickeys were littered all over your throat, down the valley of your chest, with Brian hovering above you.

He snagged your waistband blindly. Yanking your jeans and panties down your thighs before he reclined, hauling them off completely, the pair thrown aside. He was back over you in a blink, his patience dwindling.

His cock was throbbing, so hard it ached as he dropped his hips, grinding against your bare core. The coarse cotton slotted between your folds, making you mewl lewdly.

You were drenching his sweats, staining the fabric with your lust. He had your cunt pressed flush to his bulge. “You want me?” Grunting into the hollow of your shoulder, husky. You could feel him twitch, the ridges of his length snug to your cunt. You ran your fingers through his hair, your arms thrown around his neck. “Please- please.”

You were too empty. Needy to the point of anguish. “Want it- I-I wan’ it, please.” Your begs landed like burnt sugar, blistering and tooth-rotting.

He pulled away just enough to examine your desperation, nose brushing yours, and you slipped your hands down past his chest. Palms flat on his shoulder blades, holding him close. He cooed. “Poor baby. I’m so mean, hm?” Yet the way he angled his face to lick a stripe up your cheek betrayed his sincerity. You were crying.

You didn’t notice the blur in your vision, didn’t realize how pathetic you’d become. “Brian.” His name sounded close to a prayer coming from you, and all he did was hum, basking.

He tasted your tears sweetly, so coddling it was suffocating. “I know. It’s okay; I’ll take care of you.” He mumbled against your skin, extending an arm down to untie the drawstrings.

The elastic sagged, and he freed his shaft out of his boxers, cockhead sticky with pre. He lined himself up to your neglected pussy, tip catching on your weeping hole. “Deep breaths, yeah?” Then he sank in by an inch, stretching your entrance to accommodate his girth.

Just his tip thrusting in was enough to have you shaking. It was almost too good, the pleasure making you want to go limp. Mind-numbing and wracking you in waves. You were drooling, stupid on him before he even filled you.

Brian was thick. His cock felt heavy, bullying its way inside slowly as he rolled his hips. “Hah- nngh, s’good.” You slurred, eyes unfocused- he chuckled roughly. “Actin’ like you ain’t ever been fucked, my girl.” He rocked himself deeper, halfway in while you squirmed. “Not the same.” You whined, and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“No?” Whispering over your mouth, he gritted his teeth- and it took all his willpower not to split you in half when you shook your head. “Mm-mm, wasn’t you. Doesn’t-ah- feel good if it’s not you.” You were too adorable for your own good.

Pliant under him, staring at him as if he were your saviour, the hero in your story. It made him possessive. Dangerously so.

It made him want to keep you. Trap you here with him with bolted locks on the doors. The outside world wasn’t fit for people like you. You didn’t deserve the harshness it offered, didn't need to be subjected to the cruelty of strangers.

You’d clearly been through so much already; this level of obsession doesn’t just manifest overnight. You had most likely been struggling with no one to turn to. A sweet thing like you, all alone? It wasn’t right. The only logical option would be to protect you. That’s what any caring husband would do— wasn’t it?

If you were sick, Brian had to be decaying by now. He thought he could suppress it, but his fixation had begun consuming him.

Latching onto his organs, infecting him like a parasite. He’d lived as a ghost from his early adulthood till the present. He didn’t have an identity, never had a real place to call home. Feared wherever he went. Yet you never saw that.

You never categorized him into an isolated box. Instead, you held onto him for comfort. He was someone you deemed safe, and the feeling it gave him was indescribable. You wanted this- you wanted him. You loved him.

But he loved you more.

Hysteria pumped through his veins, the last of his sanity shattered. “Such a smooth talker, huh? You’re too good to me, dolly.” He snapped his hips forward without warning, piercing you to the hilt. His calm demeanour had developed an edge, and you jerked off the mattress. He was ripping you, forcing his cock in mercilessly.

You wailed, pain shooting through you sharply. He was so big it hurt. Tearing your poor cunt, the sting making you sob- yet he was finally inside. Brian was really here; he was inside of you, and it felt fucking euphoric. All the nights of picturing this very moment were incomparable.

Nothing came even close to his weight on top of you, nothing paralleled the fullness of being speared on his length. The scent of his need, his sweat tacky against your skin when he rocked in further.

Your head was spinning, heart beating violently behind your ribs. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. The wires in your brain fizzled, bolts sparking before they ruptured.

The thick drag of his cock was driving you insane. You could feel each throb of him, every vein, the curve of his shaft prodding against your most sensitive spots. He had carved his signature into your womb, branding your core with his lust. It was drowning, limerence so strong it was unbearable. Its hands had wrapped around your throat, and your lungs were on the brink of collapse.

He was here and fucking you. You were finally Brian’s girl. The sheets were a disaster beneath you, crickets chirping outside in tune with your pants.

Your breathing grew short, overwhelmed, while you struggled to hold back from arching.

It was too much. It was too much- you couldn’t handle it. He was making your pussy feel too good— you love him, you love him- youlovehimyoulovehim—

Brian watched in awe as your shoulders bowed. You scratched at his arms, frenzied. Eyes wide, with your spine lurching to form a semi-circle. “Hah- ah -'m cumming- can’t-” You rambled, irises rolling up, your ankles locked around his waist. You had hearts in your pupils, and he cooed. “Oh, sweetheart. Yer’ makin’ it hard to wanna’ let you go.”

Pulling out to just the tip, he slammed back inside your abused hole. Snickering drunkenly at the moan you let out. “You’d let me keep you, yeah?” He rasped, setting an agonizing pace. Slow and deep strokes, his girth pumping in and out. The bedframe creaking, his toned pelvis smacking against your mound wetly.

“Let me be selfish an’ have you to myself-” The smell of sex and fever was pungent in the air, aphrodisiac-akin. “I’d treat you nice, baby. Keep ya’ real pampered.”

Brian looked debauched. His hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration, skin flushed from the heat. The sculpted muscle under your touch had you whining, and he grunted when you twitched around him. You were so fucking tight, milking him for all he was worth.

“I’d spoil you, get you a diamond bright enough to make bastards cry.” His words rumbled deep in his chest, the bass of it making you shiver. “I’d show you off good- my sweet little wife; they’d be seething jus’ lookin’ at you.” He rolled his hips skillfully, grinding his cockhead against your cervix.

“So jealous they’d lose their fuckin’ minds cause they couldn’t touch you-” Your thighs trembled fiercely. His base kept rutting into your clit, your lids drooping. Eyes crossed as he worked you open. “Because they couldn’t fuck you the way I do.” He murmured, his baritone hypnotic next to your ear.

“They’d never reach this deep, hm? Couldn’t make you sound this pretty, not like I could.” He nipped at your jaw, leading up to the corner of your mouth. “Cause yer’ my baby, ain’t you?” Then he molded his lips to yours, groaning into you. He tensed his arms, his hips ramming forward- hard. Fisting the covers near your head when he sped up.

You choked. Suffocated by the kiss, his tongue shoved down your throat, starved and ruthless. “B-Brian-” You hiccuped, muffled by his hunger. Your teeth clacked together, and he licked at your canines, devouring you greedily. The mattress squeaked with every thrust, mahogany battering against the wall.

The headboard slammed into the plaster, decorative frames tumbling onto the ground from the force. Brian was fucking into your cunt like he was mad at it.

Balls slapping against your ass, harsh as he reclined, with ribbons of spit connecting you. Your kiss-swollen lips and lewd expression had him crazed, irate at the thought of anyone witnessing you vulnerable.

It was barbaric, pummeling into you animalistically. Bruising your pussy and splitting you on his cock like a toy.

“Fuckin’ look at you-” He yanked at your bra swiftly, snapping the front wire clean in half. Your tits spilled out, bouncing in rhythm with his hips. He had one arm bracketing your head, his free hand groping your chest- the calloused grip making you jolt.

“You’re mine. Nobody else’s.” He snarled, each syllable spat out with ice. He could see the fear fighting against your lust at his change in tone, and he snickered meanly. “Don’t get scared, now. You wanted this.” The pleasure was sharp, Brian refusing to take mercy on you for even a millisecond. “You chased me- followed me around like some lost puppy desperate for cock-”

The noises coming out of your throat barely sounded human. You were dizzy, orgasm building rapidly from the nonstop stimulation. “So you’re gonna’ act like it, you understand?” He sat up a tad, wrapping a large palm around your windpipe, your leg thrown onto his shoulder. His chain swung over your face, clinking when it’d hit his chest.

You snatched the pendant between your teeth, and the groan that left him was guttural.

A gluey ring had formed at his hilt, spilling down his balls, off-white lacquer staining the linen. He squeezed harder, and you were lightheaded from his clasp, drooling. “If I catch any motherfucker bein’ sweet on you, I’ll fuckin’ gut him.” He sneered, his lip curling up in a borderline growl. Utterly livid.

“I’ll blow his brains across the wall- cut him up and feed him to the fucking dogs, you hear me?” The threat made you clamp down on him like a vice, and you writhed aggressively, the steel slipping from your mouth. You mewl, cumming, with your vision blacking out at the edges. The tightness had him hissing, his chest heaving as he spurted against your cervix, stuffing you to the brim.

The room was quiet for a minute, nothing but your shaky breaths and his rough exhales ringing in your ears. You were boneless atop the sheets, sleep creeping in, only for your nervous system to restart when he abruptly freed himself. “You ain’t impressing me that easy-” He slumped next to you, sprawled on his back; then he grinned.

“Sit on my face.”

Despite your weak limbs, you hurried to follow his instructions. Stumbling closer and clumsily straddling his head, you hesitated before he clicked his tongue. “Not like that. You gotta’ earn it, dolly.” He gave your hip a pat, nodding past you. Oh.

Fire lit your cheeks, and you readjusted accordingly. Now facing away from him, your palms resting on his stomach, you’d never felt more exposed. It was such an embarrassing position, your still leaking pussy shoved right in front of him- but his voice disrupted your panic. “You’re a smart girl. I know, you know what to do.” You swallowed thickly.

Pitching forward, your body lowered until you were flush on top of him. His length was coated in your release, glistening when you let your jaw fall slack. You took the head into your mouth, and suckled at the tip, your hand stroking up the base. He tasted heavy. Like salt and musk, you moaned around him. Lashes fluttering closed.

You forced him deeper, tears bubbling on your waterline- you jumped at the warmth of his tongue. He was circling your clit, licking up your spillage. His nose buried in your slit while he lapped at your cunt.

The lingering sensitivity from your last orgasm had yet to fade, and you shuddered above him. Pathetically clawing at his thighs, your nails raking against the skin. Leaving angry red scours as he gorged himself on you.

You were attempting to focus with all your might. It was simply difficult to form a coherent thought, let alone use your mouth, when Brian was eating you from front to back.

He would hum around the throbbing bud, tracing figure-eights, then he’d tug your hips backward. Fucking you onto his tongue, the muscle probing past your entrance just to return to flicking along the rim.

Slick and spend covered his lips, pouring down his chin and onto his collar. It was debased, dirty the way he had you spread wide. Your jaw had become worthless. You could hardly crane your neck to suck him off properly, practically limp. He didn’t mind too much, though. He had promised to spoil you, so this was par for the course.

He bucked up suddenly, planting his feet for leverage. The new angle had your folds smothering his maw, and he gulped languidly. Taking advantage of your exhaustion, fucking your throat with the only anchor being the weight of your head. Every time you gagged at the intrusion, the vibrations would cause his eyes to disappear up into his skull.

Your pooling saliva made your mouth feel fucking perfect. Warm and sopping wet, the best cock sleeve he’d ever felt- second only to your pussy. You hollowed your cheeks, and he cussed against your heat. “Fuck- good puppy.” You wanted to stay here forever.

The praise had you burning alive, and you gathered whatever pitiful strength was left to take him all the way. Nose shoved into his hilt, slurping pornographically. It was disgustingly messy.

The entire lower half of your face was smeared with cum, his tip knocking into the back of your throat over and over. Being stuffed like this had you hiccuping. The dual-ended pleasure ransacking your frame, making you quiver uncontrollably.

You didn’t have time to warn him; your vocal cords were basically useless at this point. Good puppy. You were good. The phrase replayed on loop, and you spasmed.

Squirting as he pumped hot milk down your throat. You drenched his chin, splattering up to his brow, soaking the pillow.

And Brian laughed. Pinching your ass just to hear you whimper.

His cock slid past your teeth, flopping plump on his navel. Syrupy strings clung to your lips, and his seed bubbled when you coughed. You were the definition of obscenity. Skin painted with white ropes, your puffy cunt on display.

He manhandled you off him effortlessly, flipping you onto your stomach before propping up your hips.

Your thighs were trembling something awful, yet, if anything, he thought that made you more beautiful. Wrecked and corrupted, all by his hand. No less than stunning. He fisted himself, jacking off against your slit. His length collected your dripping arousal, and he tapped it against your clit.

“Jus’ one more, princess. Be strong for me, yeah?” Taunting, he steadied you with a firm hand on your waist, nudging himself in line with your pussy. He could see it clear as day.

Sitting down after work with you, his pretty wife, joining him for dinner. He was sure you’d be happy, fitting just right into his life. Keeping you was fate, the natural order of things.

“T-Too much- nngh- Brian- ah.” Aw, you didn’t even know what you wanted. How precious. He hummed, gently petting your hip. “Oh, it’s alright. You ain’t gotta’ worry about talking.” Then he bottomed out in a single quick thrust, groaning in pure satisfaction. “Fuck-” The overstimulation made you so tight, like doused silk around him.

With his head lolling back, he rolled his hips. Fucking you lazily, low pants punching up his throat. A muted, simmering ecstasy. Brian believed that you were heaven-sent.

His balls slapped against your folds while he used you to chase his own high, the soft plap-plap-plap of skin on skin echoing through the room. Stretching his neck, he glanced down, entranced. Watching his girth slip back and forth from your ruined hole.

You were crumpled into the pillows, eyes glazed over. It felt as if you couldn’t breathe, your air stolen by the repetitive thumps of his length. In and out, in and out. Deliberate and measured. You scarcely remembered your own name, and you could do nothing but moan. Taking him face down ass up like a cock-drunk whore.

Your clipped gasps were muffled by the stuffing, and he sniggered, sounding absolutely gone.

“I’ll get ya’- mmh- all the jewels y’want. Gonna’ set you up real comfortable- we can renovate. Make the cabin so pretty you’ll never wanna’ leave.”

He was force-feeding you the fantasy, injecting it into your bloodstream before you could even comprehend the gravity of his fixation. “I’ll build you a little swing in the yard. It’ll be nice to relax out there when you’re carrying.” He glided his tongue over his canines and hauled you back onto him. “It’s good for you to get some sun, dolly.” Pounding into your cunt with abandon, rabid.

Your need had created a puddle on the duvet, your pussy drooling incessantly. You thought you were going to die like this- your nerves scorched at the ends, his ardour devastating and inescapable.

His chest heaved, every muscle tensed from exertion. Hoodie’s pupils swallowed his irises until his eyes resembled voids. Obsidian tinting with mesmeric transfixion.

“Sounds like a fuckin’ dream, don’t it? S’why I gotta’ make sure it takes.” He slurred, lids heavy. “Treat this pretty pussy the way it deserves.” The liquid filth rolled off his tongue like molasses, and he snapped his hips sharply, making you paw at the cushion.

Brian stretched you on his girth for hours, having your tunnel memorize his shape. Fucking you through the mattress, then yanking you up.

Pressed against his chest, with his bicep locked around your throat. He bounced you onto him, and your shoulders bowed. Spine curving beautifully, your lover as the archer.

He was breeding you mean, and loving you tender. Filling you steadily, his promise of “one more” was simply a courtesy.

You had gone fucking dumb on it. Blacking out between the orgasms that he pulled from you, only to awake mid climax, your frame convulsing.

Snot and spittle smearing all across your features. Everything was spinning, your mouth permanently fixed in an ‘O.

However, the cant he had your hips at made his shaft strike onto the extra delicate spot inside you. Pushing right against your bladder. You’d finished almost a full bottle of wine, and the unrelenting friction of his cock inside you was catching up.

Overflooded, his appetite seemingly endless. The heat in your gut was blending with sharp spikes- your body sending out alerts in flares.

“Wait- ah- ah- B-Brian. Guh- gonna’—” You jerked forward, struggling against the iron bar over your neck. Though your fight was useless. His hand on your waist wrenched you back before his touch descended. “S’alright, darlin’. Make a mess for me- I got ya’.” He purred, drawing letters onto your clit.

‘B-R-I-A-N’. Over and over, claiming. Marking you, obsessed by classification. Your legs quaked, joints locking- you flung your head back. “I can’t-please- feels different- I can’t.” Your peak was approaching speedily, and he kept hitting your sweet spot. Striking bull's-eye, not missing even once. You writhed, your walls squeezing him desperately.

His palm pressed flat over your lower tummy, feeling the protruding bulge. You were so fucking cute, it made him want to cry.

“C’mon, you wanna’ cum? yeah? Give it to me- fuckin’ give it to me, honey.” He rambled, cock throbbing inside you. “Ngh- Oh, fuck-” You sobbed, thrashing, your blunt nails sinking into his hips.

The added pressure was nauseating. You’d been holding it in too long- it hurt. His weeping tip rammed into your cervix, once, twice, three times—

Your eyes rolled, and it gushed out of you furiously.

Warm as it poured down your thighs, drenching both his pelvis and the covers. Humiliation- exhilaration taking hold of you. The pleasure had you going slack. Arms limp by your sides, a complete factory reset.

He dropped his head, teeth piercing your shoulder when he spilled hotly into your cunt. Brian’s hips jerked as he rode out the aftershocks, grunting. “Shit.”

He mouthed at the bite, kissing up your neck. “You really are a puppy.” His chuckle was hoarse, and he unwrapped his bicep from your throat, easing you two down.

Now, with you resting in his lap, he swept the hair away from your damp forehead. Pecking your temple sweetly like he hadn’t just rearranged your guts.

“We can go for a drive tomorrow. Stop by yours an’ pick up yer’ things- get you settled here.” Your delirious nod had him grinning, and he slipped his length out from your pussy.

Shuffling to lie on his back, your cheek resting on his chest. Brian hummed, trailing his finger along your spine. You phased in and out of consciousness while he spoke. “Poor girl, I really tuckered you out, huh?”

He was terribly comfortable, and you felt so safe. Snug in his embrace, your body was exhausted, your breath finally evening out.

His voice acted as a lullaby, and sleep threatened to drag you under. But not before he pressed his lips to your crown, muttering to himself.

“Bet Tim’s gonna’ be excited to meet you.”

➽──────────────❥

TOBY

BEN

EJ

TIM

JEFF

✑ 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝒶𝓃

starting off the wonderful man himself—well if he could be called a man? slender man! or slendy! now thinking about like no one HARDLY writes him nowdays. does no one wants this sexy tall creepy thing?

no? just me...? uh anyway! slender man's kinks are rooted in worship. he has existed for centuries as a warden, a silent force of nature, forcing his proxies to do all types of work. but with you, he is something else entirely, like something that kneels and craves. something that would tear the world apart just to keep you warm.

worship kink. he worships you. not in a performative way, more in a fundamental way. you are the center of his existence. the reason he manifests. the only thing that makes him feel something other than cold calculation.

on his knees before you, 9 feet of this... eldritch horror! folded down to your level, blank face tilted up toward you

his hands—those long, bony, terrifying white ass hands—cupping your face like you're made of glass

lips that don't exist pressing against your skin in approximations of kisses, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint

"you are my purpose," he projects into your mind. "my reason for remaining."

the way he watches you sleep, utterly still, utterly devoted, like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen

tendril play. his tendrils are fully prehensile, hypersensitive, capable of the gentlest touch or the firmest grip. they're extensions of him—every one of them can feel, taste, sense. fun fact! his tendrils are slimy enough to work as natural lub!

tendrils sliding up your thighs, under your clothes, curling around your waist, your ribs, your throat

multiple points of contact at once, so your wrists bound, your ankles held, your hips pinned, all by him, all at once

the texture of them against your skin, meaing smooth, cool, slick with that natural lubricant

him using them to explore you, learn you, memorize every inch of you

"you are so soft," he projects. "so warm. i could feel you forever."

orgasm control. he can read your body perfectly, such as your heart rate, breathing, the tension in your muscles. he knows exactly when you're close. and he decides when you're allowed to fall.

his tendrils wrapped around you, stilling your hips, holding you right on the edge

"not yet," he projects. "you will wait for me."

the way he freezes you in place with his psychic hold, your body trembling, desperate, completely at his mercy

"now," he says. and you shatter.

after, he holds you through it, whispering in your mind—"so beautiful. so perfect when you let go."

high yield praise kink. now why is it high yield? because he deadass talks so damn proper and his praise is rare, which makes it precious. when he speaks, you listen. when he praises, you feel it.

"you are exquisite," he projects. "i have existed for centuries. i have never encountered anything like you."

his thumb brushing your cheek, tilting your face up to his blank void—"you are mine. and i am yours."

the way his voice (in your mind) drops lower, rougher, when you please him—"so good for me. so perfect."

you doing something small, so maybe cleaning, reading, existing and him watching you with that unreadable stillness that somehow feels like adoration

"you are the only warmth i have ever known," he whispers. "you are my sun."

hypersensitivity + overstimulation. he can feel through every inch of his tendrils. every point of contact is sensory input. he can surround you, fill you, overwhelm you, and feel everything.

his tendrils all over you—your thighs, stomach, chest, neck—every point of contact sending sensation through you

him adding more, one by one, until you're surrounded, overwhelmed, completely his

"i can feel you from everywhere," he projects. "every flutter. every pulse. every time you clench around me."

the way he keeps going, keeps adding, keeps pushing you past your limit—"one more. you can give me one more."

after, when you're shaking and breathless, his tendrils still wrapped around you like a cocoon

sensory deprivation. he can surround you with silence, darkness, stillness. can strip away your senses one by one until all that's left is touch. his touch.

a blindfold of black silk, his hands guiding you, his tendrils holding you in place

the world gone silent, so no sound, light, just him against your skin

you unable to see, unable to hear, unable to move and him everywhere, all at once

"focus," he projects. "feel only me."

the way he rebuilds you after, sensation by sensation, until you're gasping and desperate

possession/ownership. you are his. this is not negotiable. he does not share. he does not compete. he simply... claims.

his tendrils wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him—"mine."

the way he marks you—not with bruises, but with presence. his scent on your skin, his name in your mind, his devotion in your bones

you saying "i'm yours," and the way his stillness deepens, like he's finally complete

"say it again," he projects. "tell me you are mine."

the way he eliminates anyone who threatens you, anyone who touches you, anyone who looks at you wrong—without hesitation, without guilt. because you are his. and no one touches what is his.

breathplay / choking. he is always, always aware of your pulse. your breath. the rise and fall of your chest. and sometimes—when you ask, when you need—he holds you right at the edge.

his long, pale fingers wrapping around your throat, cold against your skin, feeling your pulse flutter under his thumb

his tendrils curling around your neck, smooth and cool, tightening just enough to make your vision swim

you gasping, trying to breathe, and him loosening just as you start to panic—"not yet. i would never. but you look so beautiful like this."

the way he watches your face, reading every micro-expression, adjusting pressure to keep you right on that perfect edge

you coming undone, breathless and desperate, and him whispering in your mind—"so perfect. so trusting. i will always catch you."

his thumb pressing gently against your windpipe, not to harm—to feel. to remind you who controls your pleasure. who protects you. who owns you.

double penetration (cock + tendrils). he can fill you in ways no human ever could. his tendrils are extensions of him, every one of them capable of sensation, movement, pleasure. and he wants you full. completely. utterly.

one tendril inside you, then another, stretching you carefully, and another and him feeling every gasp and flutter

his cock pressing against your entrance while his tendrils hold you open, ready, waiting

you on your hands and knees, one tendril in your cunt, one in your ass, his cock sliding between them. you full, so damn full, verych much completely his

"i can fill every part of you," he projects. "every hole. every thought. every breath."

the way his tendrils move independently—one thrusting, one curling, one pressing against your clit

you coming undone, clenching around him, and him still going—"i am not finished with you. you can give me more."

after, when you're trembling and breathless, his tendrils still inside you, still holding you, still filling you—like he never wants to let go

belly/throat bulge. he is MASSIVE. impossibly so. his form is elongated, otherworldly, and that extends to every part of him. when he fills you, you feel it.

you looking down and seeing the bulge of him through your stomach, the outline of his cock pressing against your belly

his tendrils curling inside you, the visible movement under your skin, like he's claiming you from the inside out

him pressing his hand against your lower stomach, feeling himself move inside you—"you can feel me, can't you? i am everywhere."

you choking, gagging, trying to take him down your throat and the bulge of him sliding against your neck, visible, his

the way he watches your face when you feel him, see him, know how deep he is—"you are so small. so perfect. taking all of me."

him pressing gently on the bulge, making you gasp, making you feel yourself full of him—"i will always fit. i will always fill you. i will always be inside you."

orgasm control. he can read your body perfectly, such as your heart rate, breathing, etc. the tension in your muscles. he knows exactly when you're close. and he decides when you're allowed to fall.

his tendrils wrapped around you, stilling your hips, holding you right on the edge

"not yet," he projects. "you will wait for me."

the way he freezes you in place with his psychic hold, your body trembling, desperate, completely at his mercy

"now," he says. and you shatter.

after, he holds you through it, whispering in your mind—"so beautiful. so perfect when you let go."

aftercare. such a non-negotiable. he holds you after. wraps you in his tendrils like a cocoon. checks your temperature. soothes you with silence and presence.

his tendrils wrapped around you, holding you close, his blank face pressed to your hair

"you are safe," he projects. "you are warm. you are with me."

the way he monitors your heart rate, your breathing, your temperature—making sure you're okay

you curled against him, his fingers stroking your hair, his presence surrounding you

"rest," he whispers. "i will watch over you. i will always watch over you."

hard no: disobeying the rules. he is order. structure. expectation. when he sets a rule, like "stay here," "don't speak," and "wait for me", meaning he means it. defiance isn't playful to him; it's chaos. it's the static he's spent centuries trying to control.

if you break his rules, he doesn't get angry. he gets cold. distant. you'll feel the temperature drop, the silence deepen, and you'll know—you've disappointed him.

and disappointment from something that has existed for centuries, that has killed thousands, that has never cared about anyone but you? that's worse than anger. that's losing his fucking approval, his attention, presence, like don't do it. (lmfao, it's giving daddy issues, idk why)

"you are exquisite. i have never encountered anything like you."

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝓂 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

yes, dada himself! so tim's kinks are rooted in trust. he's spent so long not being in control of his own body, his own mind, his own actions—that with you, he needs to feel chosen. like you want him, not what he can do, not what he is. just him. tired, broken, trying.

praise kink. huge. massive. he won't admit it, but when you tell him he's good, he melts. he's been told he's a monster, a weapon, a liability. you telling him he's doing well? that he's making you feel good? that he's yours? he'll do anything to hear it again.

you on your knees, looking up at him, and whispering, "you're so good to me." his whole body shudders.

"that's it, baby. you're doing so well." his hips stutter. he's close. your voice pushes him over.

after, when he's shaky and vulnerable, you card your fingers through his hair and murmur, "i'm so proud of you." he hides his face in your neck so you can't see him cry.

"whose are you?" you ask. "yours," he breathes. "always yours."

every time you praise him, he gets harder. needier. desperate to hear it again.

smoking play. there's something about the way he looks with a cigarette between his lips. the slow drag, the way his eyes half-close. the smoke curling around his face like a veil. he'll hold it to your lips, let you taste the smoke on his tongue. he likes watching you choke on it just a little. likes the control of it.

him taking a long drag, then leaning in to exhale the smoke into your mouth, it's giving slow, intimate, filthy

the cigarette between his lips while his hands are busy elsewhere, the red glow bobbing as he works you open with his fingers

you on your knees, his hand in your hair, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he watches you take him

him putting it out on his own palm just to see you flinch, just to prove he can take pain too

the taste of him when he kisses you, smoke and mint and him, and you can't get enough

daddy dom (dilf). it's not about age play here people, like it's about the energy. he's tired, worn, but so capable. he takes care of you. makes sure you eat, sleep, feel safe. in bed, that translates to a gentle authority. "let me handle it. i've got you." the way he says it makes you want to obey.

him guiding you onto his lap, hands firm on your hips, voice low—"you know what i want. show me how good you can be."

you calling him "daddy" by accident, and the way his eyes go dark, the way his grip tightens. "say it again."

him taking control when you're too overwhelmed to think—"shh, i've got you. just feel. i'll take care of everything."

the way he checks in, constant and soft—"you okay? still with me? tell me what you need."

after, holding you close, his voice a low rumble against your hair—"you did so good. i'm so proud of you, baby."

outdoor sex. something about the risk of it makes tim feel alive. the cold air on your skin, the rough ground beneath you, the way he has to keep you quiet. somewhere the operator's static can't reach.

you pressed against a tree, his hand over your mouth, hips driving into you, so the bark rough against your back, his breath hot in your ear

the back of his truck, windows fogged, the bed cold beneath you, his body the only source of heat

you on your knees in the grass, looking up at him, his hand in your hair, like nothing but sky and him

the way the cold makes you feel everything more, meaning every touch, bite, and whisper

after, wrapped in his jacket, shivering, him murmuring "told you i'd keep you warm" against your hair

spit kink. he doesn't do it to degrade you—he does it to claim you. spitting in your mouth, on your skin, between your thighs. it's primal. possessive. "look at you. taking everything i give you." it's intimate in the dirtiest way.

his hand on your jaw, tilting your face up, spitting into your open mouth and you swallow

him spitting on his fingers before sliding them inside you, watching you gasp at the wet heat

you on your back, his spit landing on your stomach, then his mouth following, licking it off like he's tasting you

"open." you do. he spits. you take it. his eyes go dark. "good job."

the way he gets rougher when you take it without hesitation—like it proves you're really his

overstimulation / over-orgasms. he wants to see you break. wants to push you past your limit, watch you shake, hear you sob his name. he'll keep going until you can't remember your own name until you're nothing but sensation. then he holds you through it.

his mouth on you long after you've come, tongue relentless, your hips trying to escape and him holding you down

"one more," he murmurs against your skin. "you can give me one more."

your fingers in his hair, pulling, begging, sobbing and he doesn't stop until you're destroyed

the way you clench around nothing, overstimulated and empty, and he fills you again, just pushing you right back over

after, you shaking against him, and he just holds you, whispers, "i've got you. you're okay. you're so beautiful like this."

squirting. tim discovered this by accident and now he's obsessed. the way you lose control, the sounds you make, the mess you leave. he'll work you with his fingers, his tongue, his cock, pretty muchanything to get that reaction. he drinks it down like a man dying of thirst.

his fingers curling inside you, that specific spot, watching your face as you realize what's about to happen

the first time, the shock on your face, the way you try to apologize and he just groans and goes back down for more

"do it again," he demands, voice rough. "i want to see you do it again."

him on his knees between your thighs, mouth open, waiting, so like it's a sacrament

the wet sound of it, the way you soak him, the way he revels in it like he's been given something sacred

soft impact. he's not into causing pain, more like he's into the sound. the slap against skin. the way you gasp. the red flush that follows. he'll spank you just to hear it, just to watch the color bloom. he's always gentler after.

you over his knee, his hand coming down on your ass—the sound sharp, your gasp sharper

watching his handprint bloom pink on your skin, then red, then purple the next morning

"count," he says. you do. each number broken by a gasp, a whimper, a plea.

the way he soothes you after, just kissing each mark, rubbing the sting away, whispering apologies even though you asked for it

"too much?" he asks, voice soft. "tell me if it's too much."

aftercare. non-negotiable. tim wraps you up after, holds you, mumbles apologies for being too rough even when he wasn't. he needs to reassure himself he didn't hurt you. he needs to feel you warm and safe in his arms.

him pulling you against his chest, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in like you're oxygen

"i'm sorry," he murmurs, over and over. "i didn't hurt you, did i? tell me i didn't hurt you."

you telling him you're okay. that you liked it. that he was good. his whole body slumps with relief.

him carrying you to the bathroom, washing you gently, kissing every mark he left

curled together after, his hand stroking your back, his voice a low rumble—"you're so good to me. i don't deserve you. but i'm not letting you go."

hard no: hard degradation. tim has spent his whole life being told he's a monster, a weapon, and just broken thing. he's been dehumanized by the operator (slender man), by his own mind, by the things he's done. when he's with you, he NEEDS to feel like a person. calling him worthless, mocking him, treating him like he's nothing? 

that's not play. that's deadass reopening wounds that never fully healed. he can't handle it. won't handle it. he'll shut down, masky will surface, and you'll lose him for hours. don't.

"i love you. i know i don't say it enough. but i love you."

✑ 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓈

ah yes, him. let's see.. brian's kinks are rooted in play. he's been serious his whole life—the mask, the job, the weight of everything, yet with you, he gets to be light. he gets to chase, tease, push buttons just to watch you push back. he likes earning it. likes the fight. likes the moment you stop fighting and just... take it.

brat taming. brian LOVES when you talk back. when you sass him. when you make him work for it. the chase, the back-and-forth, the moment he finally pins you down and you stop fighting. baby, that's the good stuff. he likes earning it.

you mouthing off just to see his eyes darken

his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding—"what was that? say it again. i dare you."

you trying to escape and him dragging you back by your ankles, laughing

"you're such a brat," he murmurs, and there's so much affection in it

the way he grins when you finally submit like he's won the best prize

fun fact! the first time you talk back, he goes still. then he laughs, low tone. "oh, you're gonna be fun."

impact play. spanking, light slapping, whatever lands. he likes the sound. the way your skin flushes. the way you gasp. he'll check in constantly though—"too much? tell me if it's too much." he's careful, even when he's not.

you over his knee, his hand coming down again and again, watching the red bloom

the way he soothes the sting after, palm flat against your heated skin

"count," he says. "you're gonna count every one."

the flush on your skin after? he'll trace it with his fingers, almost reverent

"look at that," he murmurs. "so pretty when you're marked up."

face slapping. keep it light and controlled (unless he asked you to go harder). just enough to make your head turn, to make your eyes go wide. he watches your face after, checking, making sure you're still with him.

his palm connecting with your cheek, gentle but firm

the shock in your eyes, the way your breath catches

"you okay? yeah?" his thumb tracing the spot, soft and careful. "good. now open your mouth."

you whimpering, opening for him, and the way he groans like that's the best thing you could've done

"such a good slut for me," he whispers, and it sounds like worship

edge play. he'll get you close, then stop. over and over and over, like you catching what i'm saying? just watching you squirm, beg, fall apart. he loves the desperation in your voice. the way you say his name like a prayer.

his mouth on you, tongue working you toward the edgethen pulling away

"not yet. you can wait."

you sobbing, "please, brian, please—"

him grinning, sharp and satisfied. "you're so pretty when you're begging."

the way he finally lets you cum, like it's a gift, like you earned it

mirror sex. he wants you to see yourself. wants you to watch what he does to you. wants you to see how beautiful you look when you come undone.

him behind you, holding your chin, forcing your gaze to the mirror

"look at you. look at what you do to me. look at what i do to you."

you watching his hand slide down your stomach, between your thighs

the way you look when you come, face flushed, mouth open, eyes glassy

"that's it. watch yourself fall apart for me."

biting. shoulders, neck, thighs, the inside of your wrist. prettyb much anywhere he can reach. he leaves marks like signatures. you wear them like souvenirs.

teeth sinking into the curve of your neck, hard enough to bruise

you gasping, arching into him

him soothing the bite with his tongue, slow and deliberate

"wear it. i want everyone to know."

the way he groans when you ask him to leave more

praise + teasing. "you're so cute when you're needy." "look at you, taking it so well." "my good little—" he'll never finish the sentence. he wants you to wonder. he wants you desperate for the end of it.

you on your knees, looking up at him, and he just smiles

"you're doing so good. so good for me."

"my good little—" he stops. grins. "guess you'll have to wonder."

you whimpering, needing the word, needing the praise

him laughing, soft and warm. "so needy. i love it."

roleplay. not full scenes, more like just dynamics. stranger at a bar. rival proxies. anything where you push back and he has to win you. it's not about control, deadass it's about the thrill of being chosen again.

you pretending you don't know him, and him playing along

"you're not supposed to want this. but you do. don't you?"

the chase through the house, him catching you, pinning you

you fighting back, and him loving it

"say you're mine." "make me." and he does.

filming sex tapes. he wants to watch it later. wants to see you from every angle. wants to hear the sounds you make when you forget he's watching.

him setting up the camera, making sure the angle is perfect

"say my name. i want to hear it on the playback."

you forgetting the camera is there, getting lost in him

him watching it later, touching himself to the sound of your moans

"look at you. so beautiful. so mine."

cnc (consensual non-consent). he needs you to fight back. needs the struggle, the resistance, the moment you submit. but he'll check in constantly—color, safe word, eyes locked on yours.

you pushing him away, and him catching your wrists

"tell me if it's too real. tell me and i stop. you know i will."

you fighting, and him overpowering you but always, always checking

the moment you stop fighting, the moment you choose to submit

"color?" he asks, breathless. "green," you gasp. he keeps going.

gun + knife play. the cold metal against your skin. the thrill of it. he's careful, always careful, but the danger is part of the rush. don't you think?

the flat of the blade against your throat, cool and sharp

"don't move. just feel it. feel how close i am."

you trembling, breathing shallow, and him whispering, "that's it. so good for me."

the barrel of his gun pressing against your hip, your thigh, your stomach

"you trust me?" he asks. you do. you shouldn't. but you do.

boot grinding. he'll press his boot between your thighs, watch you squirm against the leather. the pressure, the friction, the texture. he likes watching you chase it.

his boot pressing up against your core, rough leather against sensitive skin

"you want it? show me. use my boot like you mean it."

you grinding against him, desperate and shameless

him watching, eyes dark, hand in your hair

"that's it. take what you need."

degradation. not cruel, uhh more like just... knowing.

"you're so desperate for it. look at you, falling apart over nothing."

"you'd let me do anything, wouldn't you? anything at all."

he says it like a compliment. like you're beautiful for wanting it.

"such a good slut," he murmurs, and there's so much affection in his voice

you whimpering, needing more, and him giving it—always giving it.

hard no: emotional withdrawal. so brian can handle a lot, you know the whole impact, edge play, bratty backtalk but what he can't handle is you going cold. shutting down. pulling away emotionally in the middle of it. he needs to know you're still with him, still present, still wanting this. if you disconnect, if your eyes go distant, if you stop responding, he panics. starts questioning everything.

"did i go too far? did i hurt you? do you even want this?" he needs your warmth, engagement, and presence.

"you want more? you have to ask nicely babe."

✑ 𝓉𝑜𝒷𝓎 𝑒𝓇𝒾𝓃 𝓇𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 

lmafooo, part me wanted to write him like a bitch, excuse my langage but growing up, NEVER took toby seriously. regardless, he's given grace for now.

so! toby's kinks are rooted in grounding. his body is constant chaos of tics, adrenaline, the endless hum of static in his skull. and then there's his CIPA condition (deadass an anon remined me he has this so i'm fixing my mistake NOW).

since the congenital insensitivity to pain that means he can't feel what he should feel. can't register burns, cuts, bruises like everyone else. his body is numb in ways it shouldn't be. so with you, he needs intensity that cuts through the static. something sharp enough to make him feel real.

pain play. since toby can't feel pain the way you do. but he knows what it looks like, sounds like. he's watched enough people break to understand the line between pleasure and suffering. and with you, he's careful. so careful. "tell me if it's too much. i mean it."

he'd rather stop than hurt you for real. he knows what real pain looks like. he's seen it too many times. he'll never cross that line with you.

nails dragging down your back, leaving red trails that bloom into welts, just something he watches the marks appear, fascinated by the way your skin reacts

teeth sinking into the soft meat of your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to break skin. he knows the difference. he's learned.

his palm connecting with your ass, over and over, watching the skin flush, listening to you gasp

you on your knees, his hand in your hair, tugging just enough to make your eyes water

"color?" he asks, voice rough. you say green. he goes harder. he needs to hear it. needs to know you're still okay.

overstimulation. he wants to see you break. wants to push you past your limit and catch you when you fall. he'll keep going until you're sobbing, shaking, completely wrecked—then hold you through it.

his mouth on you long after you've come, tongue working you through the oversensitivity until you're crying and pushing at his head and begging him to stop

his fingers inside you, relentless, curling against that spot, watching you fall apart again and again

"one more," he murmurs against your skin. "you can give me one more. i know you can."

you're shaking, sobbing, trying to escape, and he just holds you there—gentle but firm—and takes you apart piece by piece

when you finally break, he catches you. wraps around you. whispers, "i got you. i got you. you did so good."

breeding kink. possessive. primal. "want to see you full of me" energy. it's not actually about pregnancy (you'll never CATCH me writing about that shit, no disrespect)—it's about claiming. marking. the intimacy of it. making you his in the most basic way.

him behind you, one hand on your hip, the other pressed flat against your lower stomach—feeling himself move inside you

"take it," he grits out, voice breaking. "take all of it. want you full of me."

pulling out just to watch it drip down your thighs—then pushing it back in with his fingers

the way he groans when you clench around him, pulling him deeper, keeping him there

afterwards, holding you close, hand still pressed to your stomach, whispering "mine" against your skin

pet play. he wants to be yours. completely. wants to shed the weight of being a proxy, a killer, a broken thing, and just be something simple. something that belongs.

him on his knees, head in your lap, waiting for your hand in his hair

"good boy," you say, and he melts—eyes fluttering closed, body going slack against you

you putting a collar on him, just for play, just for the weight of it around his throat

him nuzzling into your neck, making soft needy sounds, wanting to be pet and praised and kept

"whose are you?" you ask. he answers without hesitation. "yours."

mommy kink. ahh, he deadass gives soft, needy, and vulnerable in bed. we all know he  has a mom and misses her deeply. so with you, he craves that warmth. that softness. someone who takes care of him, who calls him good, who holds him when he's too much.

him resting his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, while you stroke his hair

"you're so good for me," you murmur. he whimpers. presses closer.

you guiding him, gentle hands, soft voice—"that's it, baby. you're doing so well."

him calling you "mommy" when he's too far gone to think, too broken to filter himself

afterwards, you holding him, whispering, "i've got you. you're safe. you're mine."

soft top + service top. he would like a soft top. someone who takes control without being harsh. someone who leads with gentleness. and he's a service top in return—he wants to make you feel good. needs to. it's how he proves he's worth keeping.

you on top, guiding him, setting the pace—slow, deep, intimate

him asking, "is this good? tell me what you need."

you tying his wrists to the headboard, just enough to keep him still, and watching him squirm

him going down on you for hours, not stopping until you're shaking, because your pleasure is his purpose

"please," he begs, when you're in control. "please, i need—" and you give it to him, because you know exactly what he needs.

impact + praise. "you're doing so good. taking it so good. just a little more, yeah? you can do it." he needs to hear you're okay almost as much as you need to hear it.

you on your stomach, his hand coming down on your ass, each smack followed by, "you're doing so well"

him gripping your hips too tight, leaving bruises, and whispering, "look so pretty like this. all marked up. all mine."

you crying out, and him soothing you immediately—"shh, shh, you're okay. you're taking it so good."

after, you telling him he did good, and watching his whole body relax—like your words are the only thing that can quiet the static

pegging. (LMFAOOOO!) he loves it, craves it. begs for it almost every night. for toby, being pegged is about more than pleasure. it's about surrender. giving up control to someone he trusts completely. letting you see him broken and raw and needy.

the postions can be on his stomach, or you on top of him with his face in the mattress, just your weight pressing him down. or his ass in the air, his face buried in the pillow, you behind him. orrrr in your lap? you know, him straddling you, riding you, his head thrown back.

AND against the wall too! his back to the wall, your hands on his hips, pushing into him. (sorry got carried away here—having too much fun)

him on his hands and knees, face pressed into the pillow, back arched—waiting for you

you behind him, the harness strapped around your hips, the weight of the strap-on pressing against his entrance

"please," he whispers. "please, i need—"

you pushing into him slowly, watching his back arch, listening to the broken sound he makes

the way he clenches around you, the way his whole body shakes

you setting a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, then harder—and him sobbing into the pillow

"you're doing so good," you murmur. "taking me so well."

his hand reaching back, gripping your hip, trying to pull you deeper

you holding his hips, thrusting into him, watching him fall apart

the way he comes untouched, just from you inside him

oral (giving or receiving) i'll say he's obsessed. both giving and receiving. the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way it makes him feel wanted. plus the little shit loves blowjobs, he's definitely a fucking head pusher, always wanting more lol.

giving (going down on you) he'll spend hours between your thighs if you let him. hours. he loses track of time.

the way you taste, the sounds you make, the way your fingers tangle in his hair—again this alone is all he needs to feel grounded

he's messy. sloppy. desperate. he doesn't care about damn technique he cares about you. about making you feel good in his own weird ass way.

"please," he murmurs against you. "please let me. i need to. i need to taste you."

when you come, he doesn't stop. keeps going, keeps lapping, keeps drinking you down until you're shaking and pushing him away

he looks up at you with those desperate eyes, chin wet, and whispers—"again? please? one more?"

receiving (you going down on him) the first time you take him in your mouth, he almost cries. not from the sensation from the intimacy of it.

he can't feel pain, but he can feel pressure. warmth. the way your tongue moves. the way you look up at him with those eyes.

he's so sensitive. so responsive. every sound you make, every movement, sends him closer to the edge

his hand finds your hair, not pulling more lick fucking pushing your head down so he at least feel his cock at the back of your damn thought needing something to anchor him.

"you're so—fuck—you're so good at that. how are you so good at that?" "t-toby!" to this day you have to remind him about the head pushing.

when he comes, he sobs. actually sobs. it's too much and not enough and he can't handle it and he doesn't want you to stop

he pulls you up after, kisses you messily, tastes himself on your lips—"i love you. i love you. i love you so much."

and to throw in there for shits and giggles, he adores sixty-nine method.

his favorite. your weight on him, his mouth on you, your mouth on him—everything all at once

the way he moans into you when you take him deeper

you both chasing it, both desperate, and completely undone. horny fucks

clingy aftercare. very much non-negotiable. he's so fucking NEEDY after. wraps around you, buries his face in your neck, whispers "you're okay, i got you, you're okay" until he believes it.

him refusing to let go, even when you need water, even when you need to clean up

his face pressed into your neck, breathing you in, grounding himself in your smell

"don't leave," he mumbles, half-asleep. "just—stay. please."

you running your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, watching him melt

him apologizing for being too much, for being needy, for being him—and you kissing him quiet

hard no: being ignored (or dismissed). toby's entire existence is just stright noise. dealing with the tics, pain, adrenaline, the endless hum in his skull. when he's with you, he needs to feel seen. he needs your focus, your responses, your presence. if you look away, if you go quiet, if you treat him like he's too much or too broken, the static gets louder.

he starts to spiral. he's already convinced he's a burden—don't prove him right. he needs your voice, your hands, your attention. without it, he falls apart.

"you're so—fuck—you're so perfect. all of you."

✑ 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓈-𝓂𝒶𝓎𝑒𝓈

holy shit, had to do ton of re-reseach on kate again. totally forgot her personality, (sorry baby girl)

lastly, we have kate's kinks, which again little hard to figure out yet can see her rooted in control. not in a cruel way more like in a "i know exactly what you need and i'm going to give it to you" way. she's spent so long chasing, surviving, adapting—with you, she gets to set the pace. gets to decide when, how, how much. and you trust her enough to let her.

orgasm control. kate loves telling you when you can come. loves watching you hold back, the strain in your face, the way you tremble. the way your whole body tenses like a wire about to snap. "not yet. wait. wait." she means it.

her fingers inside you, slow and deep, and you're so close—but she stops. just stops. watches you whimper.

"look at me," she says. you do. she holds your gaze while she starts moving again. "don't come until i say."

you begging, actually begging, and she just smiles. "not yet. you can wait a little longer, can't you?"

when she finally says "now," you shatter. and she watches every second of it like it's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

after, she strokes your hair and murmurs, "so good for me. you waited so well."

wax play. she loves the heat. the way it pools on your skin, the sharp sting that fades to warmth. the way you flinch and then relax.

a candle in her hand, tilted just so, watching the wax drip onto your stomach, your thighs, your chest

you gasping at the heat, and her cool fingers spreading it across your skin

"stay still," she says. you do. the wax lands exactly where she wants it.

her lips following the trails, kissing the heat away

peeling the hardened wax off your skin, slow and deliberate, watching you shiver

mild restraint. wrists pinned above your head, ankles held down. not full bondage—just her hands, her weight, her control. she likes having you completely at her mercy.

her on top of you, one hand pinning both your wrists above your head, the other doing whatever she wants

you trying to move, and her weight pressing down—"where do you think you're going?"

her fingers inside you, slow and torturous, while you're completely trapped beneath her

"you're not going anywhere," she murmurs. "i'm not done with you yet."

the way she holds you there, keeps you there, until you forget how to think

teasing. she'll take her time. so much time. whispering in your ear, trailing her fingers over your skin, watching you squirm. "what's wrong? you seem... distracted."

her mouth on your neck, your collarbone, your chest—avoiding where you want her most

her fingers ghosting over your thighs, so close, never quite where you need them

"you want something? tell me what you want." and you do, and she smiles, and doesn't give it to you

her breath hot against your ear, whispering all the things she's going to do to you—later. when she's ready.

the way she watches you fall apart from just words, just promises, just the anticipation

sensory play. blindfolds, headphones, textured fabrics. (don't ask how, go with it) she wants to isolate one sense so the others go haywire. she wants to watch you fall apart with just touch and sound.

a silk blindfold over your eyes, the world gone dark, and her voice the only thing you can hold onto

headphones playing soft static, drowning out everything except her hands on your skin

silk ties around your wrists, soft and smooth, you could escape if you wanted to—but you don't

you trying to anticipate her next touch, and her laughing softly—"you have no idea what i'm going to do next, do you?"

the way she watches you try to guess, try to predict, and fail every time

praise + soft degradation. "you're so good for me. so pretty when you beg." not mean just knowing. she knows exactly what she does to you. she wants you to know it too.

"look at you. so desperate. so pretty like this."

you begging, and her smiling—"that's it. i love it when you beg."

"you're taking it so well. such a good—" and she leaves the word hanging, letting you fill it in

her thumb pressing your lower lip down—"open. let me see how much you want it."

when you whimper, she coos—"aw, was that too much? you can handle a little more, can't you?"

hair pulling. just a little. gripping the back of your head while you're between her thighs. gentle, guiding, hers.

her fingers tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you look up at her

you on your knees, her hand on your head, setting the pace—faster, slower, exactly what she wants

"good," she breathes, and tugs a little harder. you moan. she smiles.

the way she holds you there, keeps you there, until she's satisfied

after, she strokes your hair like an apology, like a reward

nipple play. she's obsessed. she'll spend hours on your chest if you let her.

her mouth on you, tongue flicking, teeth grazing, until you're arching into her

her fingers rolling, pinching, tugging—watching your face twist with pleasure

"so sensitive," she murmurs. "i love how responsive you are."

ice, then heat, then her mouth again—keeping you guessing

you fully naked, her fully dressed, and she's just playing with your chest like it's the most interesting thing in the world

biting. shoulders, neck, thighs, anywhere she can reach. she leaves marks like signatures. you wear them like souvenirs.

her teeth sinking into your shoulder as she comes, the sharp sting of it

leaving bruises on your thighs so you can press on them later and remember

"wear my marks," she says against your skin. "i want everyone to know you're taken."

the way she soothes each bite after, tongue flicking over the indents like an apology she doesn't mean

you finding new marks in the morning, and smiling, because they're hers

rough housing. so you know pushing, shoving, wrestling. the feeling of her weight on you, your body pinned down, your breath trapped under her. it's not real anger—it's play. it's trust.

you trying to push her off, and her holding you down easier than you expected

the struggle, the breathlessness, the way she grins when she wins

her hands holding your wrists, your thighs, anywhere she can grip

"try harder," she teases. "is that all you've got?"

after, both of you breathless and laughing, and she kisses you soft because she knows

scissoring. now kate, WILL always give lesbian. this is not negotiable (as the writer). and scissoring? this is her religion. she loves the intimacy of it. the way your bodies press together, the way she can feel every tremor, every gasp, every time you clench against her. she loves watching you fall apart beneath her—and she loves knowing she's the one doing it to you.

you on your back, her thigh between yours, grinding against you slow and deliberate—watching your face twist with pleasure

her on top, legs tangled with yours, her cunt pressed against yours, the friction building and building

"look at me," she says. you do. she holds your gaze while she moves, while she takes you apart.

the way she adjusts—faster, slower, harder, softer—reading your body like a map

you coming undone, crying out, and she doesn't stop—keeps going, keeps grinding, keeps you falling

after, when you're both breathless and shaking, she kisses you soft and whispers—"so good for me. so pretty when you come."

pet names. "baby," "sweetheart," "good girl/boy/job baby." she says them like a promise. like you're hers and she's never letting go.

"there you go, baby. just like that."

"you're so good for me, sweetheart. so perfect."

"good girl," she murmurs, stroking your hair. "you did so well."

the way the names sound different when she says them—like they're yours alone

after, when you're half-asleep, her voice soft and warm—"i've got you, baby. rest now."

aftercare queen. she's SO soft after. blankets, water, food, lazy kisses. "you did so good. i'm so proud of you. rest now."

her wrapping you in a blanket, tucking it around your shoulders like you're precious

water, pressed to your lips, her hand on your cheek—"drink. you need it."

her carrying you to the bathroom, washing you gently, kissing each mark

you curled against her, her fingers tracing patterns on your skin, not rushing anywhere

"i'm so proud of you," she murmurs. "so proud. you were so good for me."

hard no: losing control. kate has spent her new life just adapting, surviving, chasing. control is how she stays sane—how she keeps herself and everyone else alive. in bed, she needs to be the one setting the pace. the one deciding when, how, how much.

if you try to take over, if you push her out of the driver's seat, she shuts down. not angry, just... gone. left somewhere you can't reach her. girl as trust issues, like she doesn't trust anyone else to handle the wheel, and she's not about to start with you.

"you're not going anywhere. i'm not done with you."

♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

✑ 𝒶/𝓃: let’s play pretend that i have been writing creepypasta stuff lol it’s been such a long time, so let’s see if i still go it or i completely lost it. so we starting small, plus i’m testing a semi-new layout as well! and don't worry there will be secoud one with already preselected list