𝓎𝒶𝓎𝒶

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝒾𝓃𝒻𝑜

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ─ another quick intro, i’m yaya, a writer/researcher and a university student studying psychology/pre-med track, currently in my FOURTH year. i’ve loved writing since i was little and never really stopped.

if you see my work posted anywhere else, it isn’t me.

i write ONLY on tumblr and steer clear of ao3, curses be damned. adding on, this space is 18+. all of it. SFW only means “safe to view in public,” not “made for minors.” NSFW is explicit. either way, this blog is built for mature adults audiences.

if you are a minor, do not interact, send me inky asks/whisper and, absolutely do not message me. i am not responsible for you choosing to ignore warnings to read my work because you believe you’re mature enough to handle it.

also, if you are easily offended by dark themes, heavy psychology, or morally messy content, this will not be comfortable for you.

curate your space accordingly. my page, my rules.

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒

── .꩜   first things first, worried about my writing or posting schedule? lovely of you. tragic, though, because there isn’t one. i used to run on a schedule and it burned me out so badly it practically turned to ash in my hands. lesson learned.

so here are the rules: do not message me asking when I’m posting. i write when I can. I post when it’s ready. and don’t spam me. I’m open to questions about my work, but keep it respectful.

no invasive or rude personal asks.

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈 𝒷𝑜𝓍

𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈: OPEN

these are ONLY for prompts (only character x reader), ideas, for drabbles or headcanons, writing advice, or psychology related discussions. if it connects to fiction, craft, or character minds, it belongs there.

don’t ask me personal/insensitive questions.

like, if you ever have to carefully think about your question AND it sounds disrespectful, refrain so, if you still do, i WILL delete it.

please don’t ask me to psychoanalyze you.

i ONLY analyze/write fictional characters. real people deserve real professionals. and i'm not professional yet, this is all for studying purposes. keep it creative. keep it respectful. think of something interesting.

also, a reminder: i do not write everything I’m sent. i choose prompts that feel distinct, detailed, and layered enough for me to actually build with. Simple asks may can work, but it depends on whether they genuinely spark my interest.

if it doesn’t move me, I won’t force it!

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓀𝑜-𝒻𝒾

now! about ko-fi—this is optional and only for people who want something specific. it can only be (character x oc), or it can be characters i don't write anymore (like tkatb or other fandoms i've moved on from), or even existing fandoms i already write for—just more personalized.

basically, a custom fanfic just for you.

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈

── .꩜   proceed with caution, dearies. as my writing tends to wander deep into the dark—psychological trauma, morally gray choices, and unsettling territory—because i learn in the world of psych and neuroscience every day. that academic brain bleeds into my writing, twisting it into something uncanny and heavy.

i am fully comfortable exploring explicit, graphic, and morally questionable content; you are responsible for your OWN exposure if you ignore the warnings and choose to stay.

i’m fully comfortable with graphic or morally questionable content; however, i am not responsible how you FEEL or THINK, if you ignore the WARNINGS above and choose to stay.

things i don’t write: incest or stepcest, pro-shipping, pedophilia, pregnancy (nothing baby related), a/b/o, zoophilia, or anything related to the above. no exceptions.

things i do write: character x reader (or OC for paid requests), pretty much everything that wasn’t mentioned in “things I don’t write” but try to aim for dark content, sfw/nswf themes, smut including cannibalism, murder, dubcon, yandere dynamics, realism, psychological/neurological and morally gray behavior.

yes, i write fluff, smut, angst, and nearly EVERY tag under the sun—but i’ll admit it: smut is my favorite. it’s hilarious to write, and my brain refuses to apologize.

i write reader-insert only (fem, afab, or gn). i don’t write from a male pov or genitalia, so i stick with any other focused perspectives instead. 

your thoughts and feedback are ALWAYS welcome, however again, hate or irrelevant criticism will be tossed straight into the void—other words, deleted. this is a safe space for all minds and bodies—treat others the way you wish to be treated.

thank you again, truly, for all your support .ᐟ

ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈

─ .꩜ #yayamain: all my inkquills and enchanted entryways.

─ .꩜ #yayainkyheadcanons/#yayainkydrabbles: all my headcanons stuff.

─ .꩜ #yayathoughts/#yayainterests: a jumble of musings, murmurs, and mischievous blabbles.

─ .꩜ #yayaupdate: tidings, alerts, and morsels you ought to know.

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

You hadn't meant to end up here.

Really, you hadn't because It had started with a wrong turn—one of those stupid, reckless decisions that felt like a good idea at the time. 

The kind that made you think "what's the worst that could happen?" right before the universe decided to show you exactly what the worst that could happen looked like.

The streets had twisted in on themselves, familiar landmarks dissolving into unfamiliar shadows. The carnival lights that had once seemed so warm and inviting from a distance now flickered with something that felt distinctly hungry. 

And then there was the matter of the tall, purple-horned figure who had simply... appeared.  One moment you were lost. The next, you were found.

And found was a generous word for it, really.

Jester had found you stumbling through the backlot of the Circus, looking like a particularly lost lamb that had wandered into the wrong pasture. 

His massive frame had blocked out the moonlight, casting you in deep purple shadow. His neon purple eyes had regarded you with the kind of clinical interest a zookeeper might give to an escaped penguin.

"Troublesome little thing," he'd murmured, more to himself than to you. "Pierrot will be insufferable if I let you wander off and get yourself eaten."

And then he'd snapped a leash on you.

A beautiful, elegant thing of deep purple leather that glowed faintly with an inner luminescence. It had materialized around your neck before you could even protest, the collar settling against your throat like a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer.

"Just until we figure out what to do with you," he'd said, as if that made it better.

That had been three days ago.

Three days of being Jester's... what, exactly? 

Pet seemed too harsh. Guest seemed too generous. 

Whatever it was, he hadn't been cruel, exactly. Jester wasn't cruel in the way Harlequin could be cruel—sharp-toothed and mocking. No, the Jester's brand of control was far more insidious. 

It was more of a quiet authority of someone who had been in charge for so long that the very concept of being challenged had become foreign to him.

He let you sleep in a small room attached to his quarters—cozy, comfortable, and absolutely, definitively locked from the outside. He brought you meals that were surprisingly good, though he never sat with you while you ate. He spoke to you in riddles and metaphors, testing your intelligence the way one might test a new piece of equipment.

And every morning, without fail, he would attach that purple leash to your collar and take you for a walk.

Yes, a walk, close like a dog.

The first time, you'd been too stunned to protest. The second time, you'd tried to argue, and he'd simply looked at you with those ancient, patient eyes until you'd run out of words.

"You are in my circus now, little one," he'd said, his voice deep and resonant. "You will follow my rules. This is not a negotiation."

And so you'd walked, filling all the embarrassment how you ended up in this situation.

But today was different.

Today, the Jester had been... off. Distracted. Instead of taking you on your usual circuit around the grounds, he'd led you into his private study, which was a vast, cavernous space filled with books that seemed to breathe and artifacts that hummed though.

He'd settled into his massive chair—a throne, really—and produced a book from seemingly nowhere. Old leather, gold leaf, the kind of thing that looked like it would crumble to dust if you breathed on it wrong.

And then he'd attached your leash to his wrist and promptly forgotten about you.

You'd sat there for an hour. Then two, which turned into three. All Jester did was read, utterly absorbed, occasionally making low sounds of appreciation or displeasure as he turned pages. The neon purple glow of his eyes occasionally reflecting whatever text he was devouring.

And you? You'd been forced to sit at his feet like some kind of—well, like exactly what you were, apparently.

A little human that had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time.

But eventually, your legs had started to cramp.

You'd moved around a bit. Stretched. Even tried to find a more comfortable position.

And then, in a moment of pure, reckless impulse, you'd decided that if you were going to be stuck here, you might as well make yourself comfortable. You'd crawled forward, positioning yourself right next to him on the blanket, using his massive frame as a backrest.

Jester hadn't even looked up.

He'd just continued reading, one massive hand occasionally reaching back to absently pat your head like you were a particularly well-behaved cat as he let out a low hum of his own voice.

Right, he was humming.

It was a slow tune—something that seemed to pulse with an almost physical weight. You couldn't place it exactly, but there was something about the melody that made your hips want to move. The kind of heat that made you forget your own name.

"Mm-mm-mm," he hummed, the sound vibrating through his massive chest and into your back where you rested against him. "Mm-mm-mm..."

The book in his hands was old with pages that glowed faintly gold and text that seemed to shift when you looked at it too long. His eyes traced the words slowly, savoringly, as if he were tasting them.

You caught a glimpse of the title as he turned a page:

"The Garden of Earthly Delights: A Study of Sensual Transcendence" from what you can gather, it looks like  the text exploring the intersection of physical pleasure and spiritual awakening, filled with illustrations that seemed to move at the edge of your vision. 

Jester's voice broke through your observation.

"You've been remarkably patient, little one," he murmured, his eyes still fixed on the page. "Most humans would have complained by now. Begged for entertainment. Made themselves troublesome."

He turned another page, the sound crisp. "But you? You simply... wait. You observe. You adapt."

A pause. His hand reached back again, fingers brushing through your hair with surprising gentleness.

"It's almost endearing."

You felt the warmth of his palm against your scalp, the weight of his attention even though he wasn't looking at you. It made something flutter in your chest—something you didn't want to examine too closely.

"Would you like to join me properly?"

The question caught you off guard. You blinked, staring at the back of his massive head, at the elegant curve of his horns.

"I—"

"The blanket is large enough for two," he continued, as if you hadn't spoken. "And I find myself... curious. About how you might react to certain passages."

He shifted just a bit, creating space beside him on the soft fabric. His eyes finally left the book, turning to look at you over his shoulder. The purple glow in them was softer now, less analytical and more... inviting.

"Come. Lie beside me. I'll read to you."

It wasn't a command. Not quite. But it also wasn't really a question.

Your throat felt dry. "Read to me?"

"Mm." He turned back to the book, his massive frame settling more comfortably into the blanket. "There is a chapter here, called the dance of durrender, that I believe you might find... instructive."

His voice dropped lower, taking on a quality that made your stomach flip. "It speaks of the power in letting go. In allowing rhythm to move through you without resistance. In trusting the one who guides your steps."

The leash around your wrist gave a gentle tug—not demanding, just... reminding. Reminding you that it was there. That he was there. That you were connected.

"What do you say, little one?"

Jester's voice was patient, almost warm. The kind of patience that came from someone who had all the time in the world.

"Shall we see what you might learn?"

Your throat felt dry. You opened your mouth to respond—to say yes, to say no, to say something—

But the word that came out was: "No."

Jester's expression didn't change. Not at first. Then slowly he closed the book. "No?" His voice was calm and a hint of angerous. "You would refuse me, little one?"

You swallowed hard. The leash around your wrist suddenly felt heavier, "I... I didn't..."

But the Jester was already moving.

You didn't recall exactly how long you were stuck there. Time had a way of stretching and warping around him, like the air itself was thicker in his presence. 

But you remembered the moment when his massive frame turned, when his weight began to settle over you like a mountain slowly deciding to rest.

The Jester's body pressed down on yours, and the world narrowed to the feeling of being crushed.

He was enormous—there was no other word for it. His chest was broad, his shoulders wide, and when he settled his weight onto you, it felt like the entire circus had collapsed on top of your lungs. 

You couldn't breathe. You couldn't move. 

You could barely think.

The panic that should have surged was muted, muffled by the steady pace of his breathing, the slow hum that still vibrated through his chest and into yours. It was like being wrapped in a blanket made of stone—immovable, inescapable, and somehow, impossibly, safe.

He wasn't putting all of his weight on you. 

You could tell that much. There was a subtle shift in his posture, a careful distribution of mass that kept you from being truly flattened. But it was close enough to feel like you were being pressed into the blanket by a living monument.

Close enough to make your heart race.

Close enough to make your hips twitch.

Jester's massive hand, the one that had been holding the book, lifted to prop up his head. The motion caused the leash in his grip to tighten against your throat, a gentle pressure that reminded you exactly how connected you were.

He was muttering to himself, his voice a low rumble you couldn't quite make out. Words about the book, about the illustrations, about something he'd found "particularly inspired."

Then he paused. "Hm." that hum alone vibrated through both of you. "Look at that..." His head tilted down, and you felt his eyes on you for the first time in hours.

"I almost forgot you were there, little mouse.”

A grin spread across his features. It was the kind of smile that made your stomach flip and your thighs press together. "How curious."

He shifted around, adjusting his weight, and you felt the pressure of his body against yours change. He wasn't just lying on you anymore, more like settling.

"I wondered why I was so toasty," he mused, his voice dropping to a register that made your skin prickle. "I thought perhaps the blanket was warmer than usual. But no." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "It was you, little one. All this time. Warming me with that soft little body of yours."

You couldn't breathe. Still couldn't think nor form words, trying your best to keep the limited air inside you.

Jester's grin widened.

"You said no to me," he continued, his voice almost conversational. "I remember that. I was going to read to you. Offer you something beautiful."He shifted again, his upper body lowering, his weight pressing down even more firmly.

"But you refused."

Then Jester's arms crossed in front of you, his massive forearms pressing against the blanket on either side of your head. "So perhaps," he murmured, his hips settling against yours, "I should use one of the other methods I read about."

His lower body pressed into you, and you felt it—the unmistakable pressure of him grinding against you, slow and teasing.

A dry hump, if you could call it.

Jester's grin was still there, but his eyes had gone neon purple to a subtle glow, filled with hunger.

"Let's see how long that 'no' lasts, shall we?"

He rolled his hips against yours, the friction of fabric against fabric sending sparks of sensation through your entire body. The weight of him, just the crushing weight of him has pinned you in place, making every movement feel like a wave crashing against stone.

"Tell me," he murmured, his voice low and teasing, "do you like being trapped like this, little one?"

Another roll of his hips, harder this time.

"Do you like being pressed into the blanket, unable to move?" His mouth found your ear again, his breath hot against your skin.

"Do you like knowing that you can't get away from me?" 

Your body was already responding, your hips twitching against his, your breath coming in shallow gasps. 

"I..."

"What was that?" He pulled back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. The purple glow in his gaze was bright now, almost blinding.

"I didn't quite catch that, little one. Speak up."

"I like it," you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

Jester's grin widened. "Good."

His hips ground against yours again, and this time, there was no mistaking the intent behind the motion. He was teasing you. Testing you. Playing with you.

"You've been such a good little pet," he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "So patient. So well-behaved." His hand found your throat, his fingers curling around the collar. Not tight enough to cut off your air but present enough. 

"I think it's time you learned what happens when you say no to me, little one." His hips rolled against yours, and you felt the pressure building in your core, the heat spreading through your body. 

"I'm going to take you apart, pet." He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. And you're going to thank me for it."

Another roll of his hips, and you felt your resolve crumbling.

"You're going to beg for it, aren't you?"

The Jester's body moved against yours, slow and deliberate, each roll of his hips sending waves of sensation through your trapped form. The weight of him was everything—crushing, inescapable, very much maddening. 

You could feel every inch of him pressed against you, the heat of his massive frame seeping through the layers of clothing that separated you.

"You feel that, little one?" His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through his chest and into yours. "That desperate little twitch of your hips? That's your body begging for something your mouth won't say."

He ground against you harder, and a broken sound escaped your lips—something between a gasp and a whimper.

"There it is." The Jester's grin was audible in his voice. "That's the sound I wanted to hear."

His hips pulled back, then pressed forward again, the friction of fabric against fabric sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. You could feel yourself growing wetter, the heat pooling between your thighs, the desperate need for more building with every passing second.

"Tell me, pet," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, "do you know what I was reading about?"

You shook your head, unable to form words.

"The dance of surrender," he continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone that was somehow even more arousing. "It's a chapter about letting go. About trusting the one who guides you. About allowing yourself to be moved."

His hips rolled against yours, slow and deliberate.

"I think you could learn a lot from that chapter, little one. I think you're desperate to learn from it."

Another roll of his hips, and you felt yourself teetering on the edge—that precipice where pleasure becomes almost unbearable, where release feels so close you can taste it—

And then he stopped.

Jester pulled back, his hips stilling against yours, and you let out a frustrated cry.

"Oh no you don't," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. "You don't get to come yet, little one. Not until you've properly asked for it." He waited, his body motionless above you, and you could feel the ache building in your core—the desperate, clawing need for something, for anything.

"Please," you whispered, the word escaping before you could stop it.

"Please what, pet?" His hand tightened on the leash, just slightly. "Use your words."

"Please... please let me come..."

Jester hummed thoughtfully, his hips pressing forward just enough to tease you. "Hm. That's a start." Another grind, slow and torturous. "But I think you can do better than that."

His free hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. The purple glow of his eyes was bright, almost blinding, and his expression was one of pure, patient hunger.

"I want you to tell me exactly what you want, little one. Every detail. And I want you to beg for it."

He rolled his hips again, and you felt yourself crumbling.

"I want..." You swallowed hard, your face burning with humiliation. "I want you to make me come. Please. I need it. I need..."

Jester's grin widened. "Keep going, pet. I'm listening."

His hand tightened on the leash, and the pressure against your throat intensified. Not enough to cut off your air—not yet—but enough to make you feel it. To make you know that you were his.

"I need..." Your voice came out in a gasp, the words tumbling out of you like water breaking through a dam. "I need you to keep moving. I need to feel you grinding against me. I need... I need to come so badly it hurts—"

"Mm." Jester's hips began to move again, slow and torturous, grinding against you with a rhythm that made your eyes roll back. "That's better. That's my good little pet."

His weight shifted, pressing down harder, and you could feel the pressure building again—that desperate, aching need for release—

"But I don't think you're quite there yet," he murmured, his voice almost conversational. "I think you need a little more... persuasion."

His hand tightened on the leash.

The pressure around your throat increased, just enough to restrict your airflow, and the sudden lack of oxygen made everything sharper—the feeling of his hips grinding against you, the weight of his body pressing you down, the desperate ache in your core.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice sounding distant through the haze of sensation. "Feel that, little one? That's you losing control. That's you falling apart for me."

His hips ground against you harder, faster, and you could feel yourself spiraling toward the edge—

"Not yet," he said, his voice sharp, and he pulled back again.

The leash loosened, and you gasped for air, your body trembling with frustration and need.

"Please," you begged, the word torn from your throat. "Please, I can't—I need—"

"You can," Jester said, his voice patient but firm. "You will. But first, I want to hear you say exactly what I want to hear."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear.

"I want you to tell me whose pet you are." The humiliation alone burned through you, hot and shameful and achingly arousing.

"I'm... I'm yours," you whispered.

"Louder."

"I'm yours!" you said, your voice stronger this time.

"And what do my pets do?" His hips ground against you slowly, a reminder of what was waiting for you.

"They... they obey," you gasped. "They ask nicely for what they want."

"Good pet." Jester's voice was warm with approval, and the praise made something bloom in your chest. "Now tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

Your face burned, but the words came anyway—spilling out of you like a confession.

"I want you to keep grinding against me. I want to feel you pressing me into the blanket. I want you to take me apart until I can't think straight. I want—I need you to let me come. Please, please let me come—"

Jester's laugh was low and dark, vibrating through both of you. "There it is," he murmured. 

"That's what I wanted to hear."

He began to move again, his hips grinding against yours with a rhythm that was faster now, harder, more demanding. The pressure in your core built almost immediately, the desperate need for release clawing at your insides.

"I want you to remember this moment, little one," he murmured, his voice dropping to something almost reverent. "I want you to remember the feeling of being crushed beneath me. The feeling of having no control. The feeling of giving yourself to me completely."

His hand tightened on the leash, and the pressure against your throat intensified—just enough to make the edges of your vision go hazy, just enough to make every sensation feel like it was amplified a hundred times over.

The friction of his hips against yours was everything—the way his body moved against yours, the way he pressed you into the blanket, the way he controlled every aspect of this moment.

"You're mine," he murmured, the words a hot breath against your skin. "All of you. Every twitch, every gasp, every desperate little whimper. You belong to me."

His hips ground against yours, harder, faster, and you could feel yourself unraveling—

"Don't come yet," he said, his voice sharp. "Not until I tell you to."

You felt yourself teetering on the edge, the pressure building to unbearable levels—

"Please," you gasped. "Please, I can't—"

"Yes you can," he said, his voice almost gentle. "You're stronger than you think, little one. Now tell me who you belong to."

"You," you gasped. "I belong to you—"

"And what do you want?"

"I want to come," you begged, the words tumbling out of you in a desperate rush. "Please, please let me come, I need it so badly, I need you to let me come, please—"

Jester's grin was the last thing you saw before the world went white. “Then come for me, pet," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "Now."

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body with a force that left you gasping. The Jester's hips kept moving against yours, grinding through the aftershocks, drawing out every last moment of pleasure until you were trembling beneath him.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice soft with satisfaction. "That's my good pet."

The pressure on your throat eased, the leash loosening as Jester's hand relaxed. You gasped for air, your body still shuddering with the aftershocks of release.

"Beautiful," he said, the word almost reverent. "Absolutely beautiful."

His weight shifted, and for a moment, you thought he was going to let you up. But instead, he simply repositioned himself, settling more comfortably on top of you, his body still pressing you into the blanket.

"But we're not done yet, little one," he murmured, his voice taking on a darkly amused edge. "I told you I was going to take you apart. One orgasm is just the beginning."

His hips began to move again, slow and deliberate, and you felt the heat building once more, forming that same desperate, aching need returning with a vengeance.

"Let's see how many times you can come for me before you're too exhausted to beg," he said, his lips brushing against your ear. 

"I have all night, pet. And you're not going anywhere."

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

a = aftercare

now starting off, harlequin's aftercare is... unexpected.

you'd think, given his whole thing teasing, taunting, and that predatory energy he always give, you know that he'd be dismissive afterwards. that he'd roll over, crack a joke, and leave you to deal with the aftermath on your own.

which he in fact does, with all his other… well experiences. 

but he doesn't with you. instead, he stays. he lingers around, close like a cat with his neon eyes track your face, watching for any sign of discomfort, any look of regret. think about the history he’s has been through.

he isn’t the type to forcely hurt or neglect you.

"you okay?" he'll ask, and his voice is softer than usual. not gentle because harlequin doesn't do gentle but he at least careful what he does. like he's testing the waters.

if you say yes, he'll grin, all sharp and knowing and say something like "good. because i'm not done with you yet." very much giving corny

if you say no, or if you flinch or pull away or shake—he'll go still. his tendrils will curl at his back, and his eyes will flicker just a bit—worried, maybe, or guilty.

"what do you need?" he'll ask. and he'll mean it.

he'll get you water. a blanket. space if you need it. and he'll stay, again not hovering, not smothering but present. close enough that you know he's there.

and you're lying there, catching your breath. harlequin is beside you, propped up on one elbow, his neon eyes fixed on your face.

"you're staring," you say.

"don't overthink it," he'll mutter, when you thank him. "i'm not nice. i just—" he pauses. "—i don't want you to regret this."

he won't say why. but you'll know.

b = body part

his favorite body part of his own? his tendrils.

which that alone should’ve been obvious, not because he's vain—well, maybe a little vain but because they're useful. they can touch, grab, hold. they can wrap around your wrists, waist, and throat, just tight enough to remind you who's in charge.

"they're mine," he'll say, watching them curl around you. "and they like you." (he means he loves you. but he won't say it.)

his favorite body part of yours? your mouth.

not just for the obvious reasons though, yes, those too. but because you talk. maybe you’ll challenge him. and he loves it.

you never shut up. always asking questions, always pushing back, always poking at him like you're not afraid of what he might do.

and that? that drives him crazy.

"you never shut up," he'll say, his thumb brushing your lower lip, his neon eyes fixed on your mouth like he's studying it. "always asking questions. always pushing."

you open your mouth to respond and he presses his thumb against your tongue. just enough to silence you.

"keep going," he murmurs, his voice low and hungry. "say anything. i want to hear your voice." he leans closer, his breath warm against your lips.

"especially when you're begging."

he loves the way you talk back. loves the way you challenge him like you're not afraid of the monster he pretends to be. "you're so brave," he'll purr, his tendrils curling around your wrists. "i love it. i hate it. i want to ruin you for it."

and he will.

he'll kiss you until you can't breathe. until your legs give out. until you're clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you upright. and then he'll pull back, just enough to look at you and he'll grin. "there it is," he'll say. "that look. the one that says you want more."

he'll give you more. but he'll make you ask for it.

because your mouth? your voice? it's his favorite thing about you.

and he'll never get tired of hearing it.

c = cum

harlequin is messy. carefully messy?

he doesn't care about containment or control—not the way ticket taker does. he wants to see it. wants to watch it pool on your stomach, your thighs, your tongue.

"look at that," he'll purr, his neon eyes tracking every drop. "you're covered in me." and he'll leave it there. for a while, anyway. he likes the visual proof.

"don't clean up yet," he'll say, when you reach for a towel. "i want to look at you."

he'll trace patterns in it with his fingers, just all lazy, possessive and he'll grin.

like you could be on your on your knees in front of him. his hand is tangled in your hair, his hips twitching, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. when he finishes, it's everywhere—your lips, your chin, your throat. "perfect," he breathes as he reaches down and drags his thumb through it. brings it to your lips.

"open." you do. and he watches you swallow.

"good," he murmurs. "such a good little thing~”

d = dirty secret

hm… let’s say harlequin's dirty secret is that he needs you to stay.

not in the desperate, clinging way pierrot does but in a quieter and deeper way. after all, he's spent so long being the predator. the one who taunts, who teases, who pushes people away before they can leave him—that he doesn't know how to ask for what he wants.

so he hides it. behind the grin. behind the jokes. behind the sharp, knowing comments that make you want to strangle him.

but when you're not looking—when you're asleep, or distracted, or gone—he lets the mask slip. "don't leave," he'll whisper, when he thinks you can't hear. "please. i —"

he never finishes the sentence.

because harlequin doesn't do vulnerability.

but he feels it. every day. like you could be asleep in his bed. he's propped up on one elbow, watching you—neon green eyes soft, tendrils curled around your waist. "i don't know how to do this," he murmurs. "i don't know how to—"

he stops then swallows, "just... stay. please."

he'll never say it when you're awake.

e = experience

as well all know, harlequin is experienced. very experienced.

he's been around. a lot. so he knows what he's doing—knows how to touch, how to tease, how to make you fall apart before he's even inside you. 

"i've had practice," he'll say, with that sharp grin. "lots of practice~” but here's the thing—experience doesn't mean intimacy. he's good at sex. he knows the mechanics. the technique. but being close to someone? being vulnerable?

that's new and he's terrified of it.

that’s why he’s definitely a type of run away from aftercare or like just run straight out of the door, he's more into tune with one night stand than anything.

so he hides behind the experience. the performance. the sharp, knowing comments that make you forget he's just as scared as you are. 

like his hands are on your hips, his mouth on your neck—hiding his face, his body pressed against yours. he knows exactly what he's doing. "don't overthink it," he'll say, when you ask. "just feel it." 

plaything, he's talking to himself as much as he's talking to you.

f = favorite position

harlequin's all-time favorite position is face-off.

not because he's lazy but because he likes the control. the view. the way he can watch you fall apart right in front of him.

you sit on a chair, a couch, or the edge of the bed — and then you climb into his lap, facing him. his legs are wider, allowing you to straddle him, to sink onto him at your own pace.

and that? that is what he loves most.

"you set the pace," he'll purr, his hands finding your hips, his neon eyes fixed on your face. "you decide how deep. how fast. how much."

he loves watching you take control. loves the way your breath catches when you sink down onto him. loves the way your eyes flutter closed when you find the right angle.

"look at me," he'll command, his grip tightening. "i want to see your face." because face-off keeps everyone's hands free, so free to wander, to explore, to touch every inch of each other.

and harlequin? harlequin loves touching you.

his hands roam your back, your thighs, your throat. his tendrils curl around your waist, wrists, and hips— guiding you, encouraging you. "faster," he'll murmur, when you find a rhythm. "or slower. whatever you want."

"you're so weak like this," he'll breathe, his neon eyes tracking every flutter of your lashes, every parted-lip gasp, every moment of your unraveling. "you're taking what you want. using me." his voice drops to a low growl. "keep going."

he loves the intimacy of it, the way you're close, chest to chest, face to face. he can feel your heartbeat. can taste your breath. can see the exact moment you break.

"there," he'll purr, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "i can see it. you're close." he won't let you look away. won't let you hide. "look at me," he'll command, his voice low and hungry. then he leans forward, his lips brushing your ear.

"keep going, plaything. i want to watch you fall."

g = goofy

harlequin pretends he's never goofy.

he puts on this whole performance, all sharp, sarcastic, mean in a way that makes you want to strangle him. he wants you to think he's all edge and hunger and predatory energy.

but here's the thing, plaything.

he's a damn troll. an absolute menace.

he loves getting a rise out of you. loves pushing your buttons just to see what happens. loves making you flustered and annoyed and so ready to murder him.

"you're so easy," he'll say, grinning that sharp, knowing grin. "i barely have to try."

and he doesn't. because being goofy or just being stright up annoying, all this comes naturally to him.

he'll do things like: make inappropriate noises at the worst possible moments especially during intimacy—just to see you break and it makes things less awkward.

like tell the worst puns you've ever heard. "what do you call a monster who's always late? a harle-quin." (he laughs at his own joke. you do not as he’s literally quite inside you, just denying your pleasure) and don’t let it be a a noise. a cramp. the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.

and he'll pause. tilt his head. his neon eyes will flicker up, all amused. "...did you just —"

"shut up."

he laughs, all surprised and genuine. "you're adorable," he says. "i'm going to ruin you." and he will. but he'll also hold you afterwards. because harlequin is soft. under all that trolling. he cares.

he just doesn't want you to know it.

h = hair

harlequin is well-groomed. obviously.

he's a performer. everything about him is a performance, the grin, the energy, the damn chaos. and a performer? a performer has to look good. you can't see him just letting it grow wild and unkempt. that's not his style. he's giving diva energy—though, admittedly, jester clearly takes first place in that category.

but harlequin? he's a close second.

his white-grey-scaled body is smooth and short black hair. "it's part of the aesthetic," he'll say, running a hand through it with practiced ease.  like he has a routine, products, even tools. 

he spends hours on it. he'll never admit it.

i = intimacy

harlequin doesn't do romance. again, not the way pierrot does with  all tears and desperate clinging.

harlequin's intimacy is sharp, unexpected and dangerous in the best way. he shows he cares by staying. by listening even when he pretends not to. by remembering the small random things such as your favorite food, your least favorite color, the way you breathe when you're about to cry.

"you always do that," he'll say, mid-act. "when you're close. you hold your breath."

"i do not—" "you do." he'll prove it. and you'll hate how right he is. 

(and you'll love him for noticing.)

j = jack off

harlequin jacks off frequently.

he has a high sex drive, like very high and he's not shy about it. he'll do it whenever the mood strikes: in his tent, in the shower, in the middle of the day when he's supposed to be working.

"don't judge me," he'll say, when you catch him. "i have needs."

he thinks about you when he does it. almost always. the way you sound. the way you feel. the way you look at him like he's not a monster.

"fuck," he'll gasp, his hand moving faster. "i can't—i can't—" his green fork tounge sticking out of his mouth. and then it's over. and he's breathless.

and he's thinking about you again.

god forbid, when you push open his tent flap, all unannounced, because you never speak up about coming in and there he is.

harlequin, sprawled across his bed, his hand wrapped around cock, his neon eyes wide with surprise. his tendrils are curled at his back, his chest is heaving, and he's so close.

"harlequin—"

"don't." his voice is strained. desperate. "don’t—stop —" 

you don't stop. you watch. your eyes trace the way his hand moves, the way his hips twitch, the way his breath catches.

he finishes with a groan. his tendrils curl. his body shudders.

and then he's just... lying there. breathless. staring at you. he gives a weak laugh, breathless sound and reaches for you.

"come here," he says, his voice low. "you watch me. you see me like that. and now you think you can just leave?"

his tendrils curl around your wrist, pulling you closer.

"no," he murmurs, his neon eyes hungry. "now you take care of me, plaything." he guides your hand to his still-sensitive length, and his breath catches. 

"slow now,” he breathes. “i’m—i’m still sensitive."

k = kink

holy shit, where to even start because harlequin has a lot of kinks. very much long list, almost every kink that existed is on that list, so let's just list the top favorites.

1. praise. 

he loves being told he's doing well. "good," you'll murmur, and his hips will stutter. "you're doing so well." his neon eyes will go wide, and he'll come undone.

2. degradation. 

he loves being used. "you're mine," you'll say, and he'll whimper. "my toy. my plaything." he'll nod—desperate, needy.

3. overstimulation. 

he'll push you past your limits, then past them again, just to see how you react. "one more," he'll say, his voice low. "you can give me one more."

4. marking. 

he loves leaving marks on you — bites, bruises, scratches. "i want everyone to see," he'll growl, his teeth grazing your shoulder. "i want them to know you're mine."

5. being watched. 

againhe's a performer. he loves an audience. "watch me," he'll command, his hand moving faster. "don't look away."

6. power play. 

he loves the exchange, sometimes he's in control, sometimes he's not. "i'm in charge," he'll growl. (and then: "please, i need—")

l = location

harlequin's favorite location is anywhere in the circus.

because the circus is his domain. his territory. every tent, every corner, every shadow belongs to him. and he wants you in all of it.

As disrespectful as it sounds because it is; harlequin is everywhere and he wants you everywhere with him.

"the circus is my home,” he'll say, his neon eyes gleaming. "and that means you're mine. wherever i want you." and he means it.

1. his tent

this is his primary spot. his bed is huge, big enough for both of you to sprawl across, to tangle together, to lose yourselves in. his tendrils are everywhere, so curling around your body, holding you close.

"this is my space," he'll murmur, pressing you into the mattress. "my territory. and you're in it."

he loves the privacy. the freedom. he can be as loud as he wants, as messy as he wants, as intense as he wants. no one bothers him here. no one interrupts.

"scream," he'll command, his voice low. "i want to hear you."

and you will. because no one's listening.

2. the rafters

this one is adventurous. risky. entirely harlequin.

he'll lead you up, like the way into the rafters above the main tent. the beams are wide enough to hold you, the shadows are deep enough to hide you, and the view? spectacular.

"no one looks up," he'll whisper, his voice low. "no one sees us."

he'll press you against the beam, his tendrils wrapped around you, his hips moving in a slow, teasing rhythm. and below the circus continues. guests laugh. music plays. no one knows.

"you're so quiet," he'll murmur, his lips brushing your ear. "try to stay that way."

3. the ticket booth

this one is impulsive. spontaneous. and so so wrong.

the circus is closed. the gates are locked. the ticket booth is empty and ticket taker went to lock up for the night. 

that’s enough time for harlequin, he'll push you inside—shove you, really and lock the door behind him.

"five minutes," he'll say, his voice low. "that's all i need." and he means it. but he'll also take ten. or fifteen. because he can't help himself.

"you're so hard to resist," he'll say, his hips moving fast. "i can't stop."

4. the alley between tents

this one is quick. desperate. risky in the best way.

he'll pull you aside between the red tent and the purple, in the narrow space where the shadows are deepest and he'll press you against the fabric. "quiet," he'll breathe, his hand over your mouth. "don't make a sound."

his hips will move fast, urgent and you'll clutch at him, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "harlequin—"

"shh." he'll finish with a groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.

"fuck," he'll gasp. "you're perfect."

and then he'll pull away, grinning and act like nothing happened.

5. your apartment

Of course, always your apartment is an option special. it’s more sentimental in a way he'll never admit.

he'll show up at your door, unannounced, uninvitedand he'll push his way inside. "i missed you today,” he'll say, his voice low. "don't make it weird." he'll kiss you and he'll take you on your couch, your bed, your kitchen counter.

"this is yours," he'll murmur, his lips brushing your ear. "and you're mine."

m = motivation

harlequin is motivated by attention.

he needs to be seen. needs to be noticed. needs to know that he's the one you're thinking about. "look at me," he'll command, his voice low. "don't look at anyone else. just me."

he's also motivated by challenge. if you push back.  talk back he'll be obsessed.

"you're so difficult," he'll say, grinning. "i love it." and trust. when you trust him—when you let him see you, really see you—he'll do anything. "you're not afraid of me," he'll observe, his neon eyes soft. "why?"

"because i trust you."

his eyes flicker and his tendrils curl. "...dangerous." but he loves it.

n = no

harlequin has hard limits. things he will not do.

1. being ignored.

he needs attention. all of it. if you zone out — if you look away — he'll stop. "look at me," he'll command, his voice sharp. "i need to see your eyes."

2. loss of control (with anyone else).

he'll give up control to you. but only you. if anyone else tries — jester, ticket taker, anyone — he'll shut down.

3. being called "sir" or "master".

it's not his thing. "just my name," he'll say. "that's all i need."

4. silence.

he hates silence. "say something," he'll beg. "anything. i need to hear your voice."

o = oral

harlequin is very skilled at giving oral.

he loves it. loves the way you react. the way your breath catches. the way you fall apart.

"you're so responsive tody,” he'll murmur, his tongue tracing a line up your thigh. "i love it. i love it."

he'll take his time. study you. figure out exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you beg, what makes you shatter.

"there," he'll say, his voice low. "that's the spot."

receiving? he loves it. but he won't ask for it. won't beg. he'll just position himself in front of you, his hand tangled in your hair, and wait.

"you know what i want," he'll say. "don't make me say it."

and you won't. because you do know.

p = pace

harlequin's pace is unpredictable. deliberately so.

he'll start slow, just all teasing building a pace that's lazy and deliberate. he wants to draw it out. wants to feel every moment.

"patience," he'll murmur, when you try to rush him. "we have time."

but then when he's close, his pace changes. faster. harder. more desperate. "just—" he'll gasp, his hips stuttering. "just stay—" and then he's cums. 

and you're left breathless beneath him.

q = quickie

harlequin LOVES quickies.

he's always ready. always hungry and down for one at any time. and if there's a spare moment, he'll take it. "five minutes," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "that's all i need."

and he means it. but he'll also take ten. or fifteen. because he can't help himself. "you're so hard to resist," he'll say, his voice low. "i can't stop."

like the both you are in the ticket booth—accidentally let’s pray that ticket taker doesn’t catch you two and he's got you pressed against the wall, his hand over your mouth, his hips moving fast.

"quiet," he breathes. "don't make a sound."

you don't. but you want to.

r = risk

harlequin ALSO LOVES taking risks

again HE’s a performer. a thrill-seeker. the danger, the possibility of being caught—it makes him feral. "what's life without a little risk?" he'll say, his neon eyes gleaming. "boring. that's what."

he'll take you in places where you could be caught—the ticket booth, the supply closet, the middle of the circus grounds when everyone else is asleep. there's honestly no fucks given.

"quiet," he'll whisper, his hand over your mouth, his hips pressing against yours. "if you make a sound —"

he grins. "—i'll just have to make you."

and he will. he'll push you past every limit, dare you to break, challenge you to stay quiet. "you're trembling," he'll observe, his voice low. "good. i love it."

he'll experiment with everything—new positions, new places, new kinks. he's always looking for the next thrill. "what if we —" he'll start, and you'll know it's going to be wild.

"whatever you want," you'll say.

and he'll grin. "that's what i like to hear."

s = stamina

harlequin has insane stamina.

he can go for hours. literally hours. he's relentless— always pushing, always wanting more. "one more," he'll say, his voice low. "you can give me one more."

and you can. because he won't let you stop.

he can go for four rounds. five. six—if you're lucky because just for you to know, these rounds are very long about 2 to 3 hours, so all day activity!

"i'm not done with you," he'll growl, his tendrils wrapping around your waist, pulling you back to him.

he means it.

t = toys

hmm… harlequin doesn't need toys.

funny enough, he's creative enough on his own. he uses his hands, his tendrils, his mouth, so anything he can reach.

"why use toys," he'll say, his voice low, "when i can use you?" his tendrils are his favorite tool. they're everywhere, wrapping around your wrists, ankles, and throat. they can hold you down, lift you up, spread you open.

"you're so beautiful like this," he'll say, his voice low, his tendrils curling around your thighs. "all mine."

he'll tie you up with them, just tight enough that you can't move, loose enough that you can feel them sliding against your skin. 

he'll blindfold you with his hands, his tendrils exploring every inch of you while you squirm.

"where are you touching me?" he'll purr, his voice low and teasing. "you don't know, do you? that's the point." he'll tease you until you're begging until you're sobbing his name.

"please," you'll gasp. "please, harlequin—"

"please what?"

"please—touch me—"

he'll grin, triumphant. "that's what i wanted to hear."

but sometimes when he's feeling extra, he'll use your things. he loves your blindfold. the one you use when you sleep. the one he steals from your bag when you're not looking. 

"this is mine now," he'll say, holding it up with a grin. 

then he'll tie it around your face, tight enough that you can't see anything. just darkness and the sound of his voice. "you're so trusting," he'll murmur, his voice low. "i love it."

he'll even use your clothes, so a shirt, a tie, even your underwear to bind you, to gag you, to blind you.

"you're so creative," you'll say, breathless.

"i know," he'll say. "that's why you love me."

u = unfair

harlequin is masterful at teasing.

it's his favorite thing. bringing you right to the edge and then stopping. "not yet," he'll say, his voice low. "you're not ready." and he'll keep you there. for hours. watching you squirm. needing.

"please," you'll beg. "please, i need—"

"i know," he'll say. "that's the point." he'll edge you until you're crying. until you're sobbing his name. "you're so pretty like this," he'll say, his voice low. 

"all desperate for me."

v = volume

harlequin is loud. obnoxiously loud.

he wants you to hear him. wants everyone to hear him.

"yes," he'll groan, his voice echoing off the tent walls. "just like that—don't stop—" he'll moan. whimper. growl. he's not shy about it. "fuck," he'll gasp, his hips stuttering. "i can’t—fuck—"

and he doesn't hold back. ever.

"you love the way i sound," he'll say, his voice low. "don't you?"

you do. because harlequin is auditory. and he knows it.

w = wild card

harlequin has a thing for your voice.

not just what you say, more how you say it. the pitch. the rhythm. the way you breathe when you're close.

"say my name," he'll command, his voice low. "i want to hear you say it."

and when you do—when you moan it, when you gasp it, when you whisper it like a prayer—he comes undone.

"again," he'll breathe. "say it again."

he'll record it, sometimes. on his phone. just to listen to it later. "don't judge me," he'll say, when you catch him. "i have needs."

(he's lying. he loves it. he'll never admit it.)

x = x-ray

harlequin is lean. wiry. made for movement.

his body movement is close like a snake, under his clothes, he's all muscle—long, corded muscle that flexes when he moves. his white  grey-scaled skin is smooth, flawless, markless.

except for the scars. majority of them are stab wounds from pierrot and he has a few pale, faint lines that cross his ribs, his hips, his thighs. "don't ask," he'll say, when you trace them. "it's not a story i want to tell."

(he'll tell you. eventually. when he trusts you enough.)

he’s cold-blooded or ectothermic being cold-blooded, so he take in heat. Unlike mumans or the other monsters on the other hand would be classified as endothermic. so he loves being near you, taking all the heat inside

and down there? impressive. proportional. elegant in a way that shouldn't be elegant. he's pale down there, greyish and his length curves slightly, always having pre-cum leaking from the tip.

"like what you see?" he'll ask, grinning. "are you going to look or touch?"

y = yearning

fharlequin's sex drive is very high.

extremely high. insatiably high. he thinks about it constantly—about you constantly. the way you sound and feel. Like all he wants secretly it's just retention of course he's not gonna voice that out loud but he's going to use every chance just to get your own attention.

"you're distracting," he'll say, his voice low. "i can't think. i can't focus. all i can do is—" he'll push you against the nearest surface. his mouth on your neck. his hands on your hips. "—this."

he's always ready. always hungry.

"again," he'll say, after rounds. "i need more."

z = zone

harlequin is sensitive. more than he lets on.

his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. suppressing them.

but with you? with you? he can't hide.

there are three areas that are especially sensitive, places that make him break if you touch them just right. and if you pay attention, if you watch him closely—it's very easy to tell.

1. his tendrils

harlequin's tendrils are incredibly sensitive—achingly so. they're extensions of him—nerves and muscle and want. they're not just appendages; they're part of him. intimately part of him.

when you touch them—when you stroke them, when you pull them, when you wrap them around your fingers—his breath catches.

"again," he breathes. "do that again." and when you do when you bite one, just lightly, he falls apart.

"fuck," he gasps. "fuck, i can't—"

he can. and he will. the tendrils twitch at your touch. they curl around your fingers, your wrists, your throat—not to restrain you, but to feel you. "you're torturing me," he says, his voice strained.

"is it working?"

his neon eyes are wide. his chest is heaving. his tendrils are writhing. "yes."

he'll beg you to touch them. to stroke them, to pull them, to bite them. he'll whimper when you do.

"please," he'll gasp. "please, i need —"

he'll come undone. completely.

because his tendrils are part of him. and when you touch them, so when you really touch them—you're touching him.

2. his throat

harlequin's throat is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface.

he loves having it touched. loves the feeling of your lips against his skin, your teeth grazing his jugular.

when you kiss him there, when you drag your lips down the side of his neck, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark, his breath catches. his hands tighten on your hips. his neon eyes flutter closed.

"again," he breathes. "do that again."

and when you do, so when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw—he makes a sound. all quiet strangled. desperate. "fuck," he murmurs, his voice shaking. "i didn't know i could—"

he doesn't finish the sentence. he's too busy pulling you closer. he loves it when you bite him. hard enough to leave marks. hard enough that he can feel it for days.

"i want everyone to see," he'll growl, his voice low. "i want them to know you're mine." he'll press your mouth against his throat—guiding you, encouraging you.

"harder," he'll command. "bite me."

and you will. because he asked.

3. his hair

this one is cruel. and you know it. harlequin's hair is wild. messy. unintentional. (like he can never get rid of that heart curl) but underneath all that chaos underneath the carefully styled mess his scalp is incredibly sensitive. 

when you run your fingers through his hair, when you scratch his scalp, when you pull just hard enough, he melts. "fuck," he'll gasp, his head falling back. "fuck, that's —"

he shivers. actually shivers. "don't stop," he'll beg. "please—don't stop—" he'll lean into your touch. push against your hand like a cat starved for affection. and when you pull his hair, so hard enough that his head snaps back, his eyes roll.

"yes," he'll gasp. "yes—fuck—" he loves it. craves it.

and he'll never admit it.

"you're so easy," you'll say.

"shut up." but he won't pull away.

regardless, in summarized about harlequin's!

so there you have it, plaything. harlequin. the one who never shuts up. he's annoying. infuriating. he gets under my stitches like no one else in this circus.

❝ i hate him, ❞ poppet says, her voice flat, little annoyed. ❝ he's insufferable. ❞ a pause. ❝ ...but he's also hot. ❞ she looks away, her lavender eyes flickering.

❝ not that i'd ever tell him that. ❞ she's about to say something else— something sharp, maybe dismissive—when the tent flap rustles.

and there he is.

harlequin leaning against the entrance, his neon eyes green gleaming, his sharp grin already in place. "talking about me, poppet?" he purrs. "i'm flattered."

she freezes. her eye go wide. ❝ i was not— ❞

"you were." he steps closer, his tendrils curling at his back. "i could hear you from outside. something about me being hot?"

❝ i said insufferable. ❞

"you said both."

she opens her mouth. closes it, looking away. ❝ ...you're imagining things. ❞

he laughs, low and warm and reaches out to flick one of her pigtails. "sure, poppet." his neon eyes are soft. "sure." he doesn't push further. just grins at her, all sharp, knowing and slips back out of the tent.

she stares at the flap for a long moment.

good luck putting up with him. you'll gonna need it...

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

✑ 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

You didn't mean to become Crux's cat.

It wasn't something you planned, or even something you noticed happening. It just sort of... happened. Slowly, gradually, in a way that was so subtle you almost missed it. 

But now, sitting on his worn-out couch in his disaster of an apartment, watching him rummage through his fridge for something that wasn't expired, you realize the truth with the kind of clarity that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Somehow, impossibly… you had become his cat.

The thought hits you like a brick to the face. You're not actually a cat, obviously. You're still you, very much human, and capable of complex thought and conversation and all the things that separate people from pets. Unlike cat’s brain ro a human is widely compared to a large english walnut or a human pinky finger. 

But the way you live now, the way you exist in his orbit, the way he treats you—it's very much undeniable. You've been claimed. You've been adopted.

And you have no idea when it happened, or how, or why you let it.

You're brand new to this dimension. That's the first thing anyone needs to understand. You arrived here with nothing, not even a clue how you got here, and everything about this place is wrong. 

The night sky is tinted green, a sickly sort of color that makes you feel like you're underwater. There's no sun here, just a perpetual twilight that never quite becomes day. The rules of reality are different, flexible in ways you don't fully understand. 

You're lucky—so lucky in fact—that you found Crux. 

Or rather, that he found you. He took one look at you, a lost, confused stranger in a world that wasn't yours, and he decided you were his problem.

He set you up with a pretty livable lifestyle, all things considered. You have a place to stay, money that somehow appears in your account, food that arrives at your door without you asking.

You don't question it too much after all you too grateful, overwhelmed, and focused on surviving. But somewhere along the way, you started spending more time at his place than your own. 

His house, with its mess and chaos and strange esoteric symbols on the walls, cigarette buds, random documents and interesting books, became your default destination. 

You'd show up whenever you wanted, let yourself in since he he never locks his front door, and curl up on his couch like you belonged there.

Sometimes he's there. Sometimes he's not. You still sit in his space, surrounded by his smell of cigarettes and something unidentifiable, and you wait for him to come back. You never ask yourself why. It just feels right. It feels like where you're supposed to be.

And honestly? He never told you to leave. 

Never even seemed surprised to find you there. He'd just walk in, see you sprawled across his couch, and say something obnoxious like, "Make yourself at home, why don't you," as if you hadn't already done exactly that.

You were on the corner of his worn-out sectional couch, the one with the perfect amount of sag in the cushions and the best angle to the window where you could watch the perpetually green-tinted sky of this bizarre dimension. 

Just curled up in your corner, one of his books in your hands—something dense and philosophical that he'd shoved at you days ago with a "Here, you'll like this, it's about how everything is meaningless" and then walked away before you could argue. 

You were actually enjoying it, surprisingly. 

The prose was pretentious but engaging, and the way the author kept contradicting himself made you want to throw the book across the room and pick it back up at the same time. It was the kind of reading that made you feel smart and furious in equal measure.

You heard the front door open. The familiar sounds of Crux's arrival filled the house—keys clattering into the bowl by the door, shoes being kicked off with no regard for where they landed, a long, theatrical sigh that suggested he'd had a day and was about to make it everyone else's problem. You didn't look up from your book. 

You'd learned that acknowledging him too quickly only encouraged him. If you ignored him long enough, sometimes he'd just wander off to his room and leave you in peace.

But today was different. 

Today, he walked into the living room, stopped, and stared at you. You could feel his eyes on you, that familiar weight of his attention that made your skin prickle. You kept reading because you were not going to give him the satisfaction.

And then he did—“Pspspspsps."

You froze. The book in your hands suddenly felt very heavy. Your brain short-circuited for a moment, trying to process what you'd just heard before hearing—"Pspspspsps." 

He did it again. Louder this time. The sound of a human calling a cat, the universal language of ‘come here, little creature, I have something for you.’ And he was directing it at you. At you, a fully grown adult human being, curled up on his couch like you belonged there.

You slowly lowered the book. Your face was carefully blank. 

Your eyes met his.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk so wide it had to be hurting his face. His dark green eyes were dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. He looked like he'd just won the lottery. He looked like this was the best idea he'd ever had.

"Did you just ‘pspspsps’ me?" you asked, your voice dangerously calm.

"Pspspspsps," he repeated, just to make sure you knew he was committed to the bit. "I was wondering when you were going to look at me. You've been ignoring me for like five minutes. It's rude."

"You're calling me like a cat. In my face. While I'm reading. In your house."

"Well, you're in my spot," he said, gesturing at the couch. "That's my couch. You've claimed it. You've claimed the whole corner. You're like a cat who picked a sunbeam and refuses to move. So I'm treating you like a cat. It's just logical."

"It's not logical. It's insane. And you don't even get sun in this dimension. There's no sun."

"Don't get technical with me. You know what I mean. You're sitting there all cute and curled up, reading my books, living in my house—"

"I don't live here."

“Yet you’re here every day. You've got a spot. You've got a routine. You've got more stuff in my house than I do at this point. You're basically a cat. A human-shaped cat. A cat with thumbs. A cat with really cute feet, actually—"

"Don't."

"I was just saying—"

"I know what you were saying. Stop saying it."

He was not, in fact, going to stop saying it. This was Crux, after all. He never stopped. He just kept pushing, kept prodding, kept finding the exact nerve that made you twitch and pressing on it until you exploded. 

It was his favorite hobby really. He'd told you once, very seriously, that being annoying was the only thing he was truly good at. You'd thought he was joking. He was not.

He pushed off the doorframe and started walking toward you, his steps slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a skittish animal. Which, given the situation, he probably was. His eyes were locked on you, and there was something in them that made your stomach flip—not fear, exactly, but something close to it. 

You didn't move. Again, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He reached the couch. He loomed over you for a moment, that whole six-foot-seven frame of his blocking out the weird green light from the window. He reached out his hand, slowly, like he was going to pet you. Like what he’s doing was normal.

Your foot connected with his chest before his fingers could touch you.

It wasn't a hard kick—you weren't trying to hurt him. It was more of a firm shove, your foot pressing against his sternum, keeping him at a distance. He stumbled back half a step, more from surprise than force, and you used the moment to push yourself up straighter on the couch, your book still in your hands, your face completely expressionless.

"Don't touch me," you said flatly. "I'm reading."

He stared at you for a long moment. The smirk was still there, but something else behind it—surprise, maybe. Or delight. It was hard to tell with him. He looked down at your foot on his chest, then back up at your face, then back down at your foot.

"You just put your foot on my chest," he said. "You put your foot on my chest and pushed me away. Like a cat. A cat who's done with its owner's shit."

"I'm not a cat."

"You're literally pushing me away with your foot. That's the most cat thing I've ever seen. I'm not even mad. I'm impressed. That was a really good push. Your core strength is impressive. Is that from yoga? You should do more yoga. I like it when you're flexible."

"You're deflecting because I just embarrassed you."

"I am not deflecting. I am appreciating the firm nature of your foot against my chest. This is a new experience for me. I'm learning things about myself. I might be into this."

"Please stop talking or I will throw this book at your head."

“Noooo, don’t do that.” He playful whine, “That's a first edition. I stole it from someone important. It's worth a lot of money. Also, are you're enjoying it? You had that face you get when you're reading something that makes you feel smart. The slightly angry face. The 'I'm annoyed that this is interesting' face."

You didn’t bother to reply, just threw a pillow at his head. 

He caught it, laughing, and you felt something warm and complicated settle in your chest. He was infuriating and impossible and the worst person you'd ever met. 

Ever since the pspspsps incident, Crux had been relentless. 

It was like he'd unlocked a new level of annoying and was determined to reach the highest score. The cat jokes didn't stop—they escalated like hell. And with each passing day, you noticed more and more little things that made you question everything about your existence in his orbit.

It started with the bowl. 

While eating you realized he'd served it in an actual ceramic bowl. Not a plate. Not a normal human bowl. A shallow, wide bowl that looked suspiciously like… 

something you'd feed a pet out of. 

You stared at it for a few seconds because at first you thought you were legit tripping, once you confirm that you wasn’t, youb then stared at him. He was watching you from across the kitchen, pretending to read something on his phone, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I know you’re not feeding me out of a pet bowl," you said flatly.

"It's not a pet bowl. It's a decorative bowl. I found it at a thrift store. It's vintage."

You face frown in disbelief, “…It's shaped like a cat bowl. It has little paw prints on the bottom."

"That's a design choice. It's artistic. You're being judgmental."

You wanted to be upset, angry even. You really did but you then realize that fighting him on these things was pointless. After all, he would just find another way to be insufferable.

For example, these damn toys. 

Which was soemthing you found, just scattered around his house—little crinkly balls, a feathered wand thing, even a fucking laser pointer that he definitely bought specifically to torment you. 

You'd be sitting on the couch, minding your own business, and suddenly a red dot would appear on the wall next to you. You'd watch it move slowly at the corner of your eye, and you'd feel this primal urge to chase it. But you won’t catch, of course. 

You’re person. A damn human being. You had dignity. 

You were not going to chase a laser pointer like a—

The dot moved faster, and your hand twitched. You clamped it down on your thigh, hard, and glared at the wall like it had personally offended you. From somewhere behind you, you heard a quiet snicker.

"You're a fucking bitch,” you said, not turning around.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Crux said, his voice dripping with false innocence. "I'm just... pointing a laser at the wall. For fun. It's relaxing."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

“Aww, such a shame, I really don't."

You spun around to face him, and he was standing there with the laser pointer in his hand, looking like the cat that got the cream. Which, given the situation, was deeply ironic and probably intentional. "Give me that," you said, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Crux."

"Say please."

"Give me the laser pointer or I will throw your book out the window."

"You wouldn't. That's a first edition. It's worth more than your entire existence."

"You don't even know how much my existence is worth. I could be very valuable."

He looked at you for a couple seconds then sighed,

"You're valuable to me," he said, and the sudden sincerity in his voice made your heart do something stupid. Then he ruined it by adding, "As a cat. A very expensive cat. A purebred, probably. You have good bone structure."

You threw another pillow at him. He ducked, laughing, and you decided that was enough interaction for one day. You grabbed your book and retreated to your spot on the couch, determined to ignore him for the rest of the evening. 

The final straw came few weeks later. 

On a Saturday. Or maybe it’s Sunday? The days all blurred together in this dimension, with its endless green twilight and no sun to mark the passing of time. 

You only knew it was a Sunday because Crux forced you to go Church and after the prayer session, he had mentioned something about a package arriving—adding on the fact that packages deliver on Sundays was something different, regardless…

You didn't know why. You didn't ask.

Once the both of you return to his place, you return to your usual spot on the couch when the doorbell rang. 

Crux bounded out of his room, fully dressed out of his church clothes with an enthusiasm that was quite frankly suspicious. He'd been acting weird all day—more fidgety than usual, glancing at his phone, smirking to himself like he knew something you didn't. 

You'd ignored it, mostly because you were used to him being weird or anonymous as fuck. That was his baseline. His normal state of being.

But now he was practically skipping to the door, and that was not normal. Crux didn't skip. He shuffled. He slouched. He moved with the kind of deliberate laziness that suggested even walking was too much effort. 

He opened the door, grabbed the package from the delivery person, and shut it with his foot. He was holding the box like it was made of gold, turning it over in his hands, examining the label with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

"What is that?" you asked, finally looking up from your book.

He glanced at you, and his smirk was back. That particular smirk, the one that meant he was about to do something terrible. The one that meant you should run. But you were on the couch, and running required effort, and you'd committed to your spot for the evening.

"Nothing," he said rather too quickly.

"That's not nothing. That's a box. With things inside it. You're being so weird about it. What did you order?"

"You know what? I think it's a surprise. For you. A little… treat. Something special."

You narrowed your eyes. "Crux. What the fuck did you order?"

He didn't answer. He just walked over to the coffee table, set the box down, and started opening it with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he'd been planning this moment for weeks. 

You watched him, your book forgotten in your lap. Again, your instincts was screaming at you to get up and leave now before he show you something unforgivable. But atlast, your curiosity was stronger than your self-preservation instincts.

He pulled out the contents of the box with a flourish, and your brain stopped working.

It was a cat outfit...? Particularly, a sexy cat outfit. 

Complete with ears and a tail and just everything. The kind of thing you'd see in a costume shop, definitely not meant to be worn in public and only for the bedroom , the kind of thing that made your face go hot and your mouth go dry.

You stared at it then look over at him. He stared back, his grin so wide it looked like it hurt.

"What is that?" you asked, your voice unnaturally calm. You’re already know what it is, but you just wanted a check of course, making sure it ain’t yours.

"It's a costume," he said, like that wasn't obvious. "For you."

Well fuck, it was yours, obviously.

"I thought, you know, since you're my cat, you should have the proper attire. It's only fitting. You can't just be a cat in spirit. You have to commit to the bit. You have to look the part. This is an investment in your cat aesthetic." 

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, letting out a small sigh, “Ah... I am going to kill you."

"Kill me after you try on the outfit. I want to see it first. I need to know if I got the right size. I had to guess, by the way. You never let me touch you, so I had to eyeball it. It was very difficult. I spent a lot of time thinking about your measurements. For research purposes."

"Research purposes...?”

"Cat research. It's a very serious field of study. I'm a dedicated researcher. I'm very committed to this project."

You stared at the costume in his hands. The fuzzy ears. The tail. The little bow with the bell. Then you looked at him—that insufferable, self-satisfied smirk, the gleam in his eyes that said he'd already won, the way he was practically vibrating with anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning.

And you made a decision.

You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You weren't going to argue, or throw things, or threaten him with bodily harm (well, not yet anyway). You were going to do something far more dangerous.

You were going to play along.

"Fine," you said, snatching the costume from his hands before he could react. "I'll go try it on."

He blinked. For a fraction of a second, his smirk falteredlike he'd been expecting pushback, like he'd been prepared for a fight and didn't know what to do with your sudden compliance. Then the smirk returned, wider than ever.

"Wait, really? You're not gonna—" He gestured vaguely, "—yell at me? Throw something? Tell me I'm a piece of shit?"

"I can still do all those things," you said flatly, already walking toward his bedroom. "I'm just choosing not to. For now. Consider it a gift."

"A gift? You're giving me a gift? By dressing up in a sexy cat costume? That’s—holy shit, that's the best gift I've ever received. I'm gonna cry. I'm genuinely emotional right now."

"Don't. It's not that deep."

"It's very deep. This is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. I'm writing this in my diary tonight."

You shut the bedroom door in his face, muffling his delighted cackle. And then you stood there, alone in his room, holding the costume in your hands, and you wondered what the fuck you were doing.

This was insane. 

This was entirely, completely, fucking insane. You were about to dress up in a cat costume for someone who had been relentlessly annoying you for weeks, who had turned your entire existence into a bit, who had somehow, impossibly, made you his without you ever agreeing to it. 

And you were doing it. 

So you stripped off your clothes, and you put on the costume. It was soft. Plush. Embarrassingly comfortable. You were careful not to look in his mirror, because you knew that if you saw yourself, you'd lose your nerve.

But you still felt the fabric against your skin, the way the top cinched around your body, the velvet softness of the ears against your hair, the weight of the tail brushing against your thighs. 

You could hear the little bell on the bow jingle every time you moved. And you could feel the full weight of what you were about to do settling in your stomach—a mix of nervousness and something warmer, something you didn't want to name.

You opened the door.

Crux was leaning against the wall across from the bedroom, arms crossed, looking like he was about to make another joke. But when he saw you, the joke died on his lips.

Nothing came out.

His eyes roamed over you, just taking in every detail. The fuzzy ears. The bow with the bell. The corset-style top with its crisscross lacing. The tail. The garter bands around your thighs. The little bells at your ankles that jingled softly with every step. His Adam's apple bobbed once as he swallowed hard. 

"Cat got your tongue?" you asked, your voice sweet and innocent in a way that was absolutely intentional.

He blinked. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. This might've been the first time you'd ever seen Crux Hertz speechless, and it was glorious.

"I—" he started. Stopped. Started again. "—oh."

"Oh?" you repeated, stepping closer. The bells jingled with every step. "That's all you have to say? After all that 'pspspsps' and all those toys and the research?" 

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to see the way his  pupils had blown wide, the way his breath had gone shallow. "I thought you'd have more to say."

He swallowed again. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out.

"You're... you're actually—holy shit” He gestured vaguely at you, at the costume, at everything. "You're doing this. You put it on. You actually put it on."

"I told you I would. You didn't believe me?"

"I thought you were gonna come out and throw it at my head. I was prepared for that. I had a whole bit ready. I was gonna say something like, 'You look so cute when you're angry,' or 'The cat's out of the bag,' or—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I didn't think you'd actually—"

He gestured at you again, helplessly. It was the most flustered you'd ever seen him. 

And it was... rather intoxicating, fun even.

"What's the matter, Crux?" you asked, tilting your head. The ears shifted with the movement. The bell jingled. "You've been calling me your cat for weeks. Now you don't know what to do with me?"

He made a sound—something between a laugh and a groan. His eyes were dark, hungry, locked onto yours like he was trying to figure out if this was real or if he was hallucinating. 

"I knew you were gonna be hot in this," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "I knew it. I knew it. But I didn't think you'd—" He shook his head again, "Fuck. You're so pretty. You know that? You're so fucking pretty it's unfair."

Your stomach did a flip. You kept your face neutral, but the heat was rising in your cheeks. “Aww, you're stuttering. You never stutter."

"I'm having a moment. Give me a second. My brain is—" He gestured vaguely at his head. "—processing. This is a lot. You're a lot."

"And yet you wanted this. You planned this."

"I didn't plan for this." He gestured at you, at the costume, at the whole situation. "I planned to annoy you. I didn't plan for you to be hot in it. That's not fair. That's fucking cheating."

You stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the familiar scent of cigarettes and something unidentifiable that was just him. The bell on your collar jingled softly.

"So," you said, your voice dropping to something quieter, something softer, "do you want to play with your kitty or not?"

His breath caught, audibly. His hands twitched again, and this time, he didn't stop himself. One of them came up to hover near your waist, trembling slightly, not quite touching, like he was asking permission. “Uh…” He swallowed, his eyes falling to the bow at your chest, the bell jingling softly. 

“Come on, I won’t bite. Please?”

That was all the permission he needed.

His hand closed around your waist and pulled you to him, and then you were on his lap, straddling him, the bells on your ankles and collar jingling with the movement. 

The couch sagged beneath both your weights, and you could feel the heat of his thighs under yours, the solid warmth of his chest pressing against you, the way his breath hitched when you settled on top of him.

His hands found your hips, gripping them like he was holding onto something precious. His thumbs traced circles against your waist through the soft fabric, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the barely restrained desperation in every movement.

"Fuck," he breathed, tilting his head back, his eyes drifting closed for just a moment. "Fuck. This is—you're—"

"I'm what?"

He opened his eyes, and they were dark, dark, dark, pupils blown wide, the green of his irises reduced to thin rings around the black. "You're going to kill me," he said, his voice rough, reverent, almost worshipful. "You're going to sit on my lap in this outfit and kill me, and I'm going to die happy."

"Don't be dramatic, or I will get off you right now.”

“Noooo,” he playful begged, “It's not dramatic if it's true." His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, grinding you against him just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. 

"You feel so good. You feel so fucking good. I wanted to touch you for so long—so long—and now you're—" He let out a shaky breath, "—you're on my lap, and you're real. You're actually here. You actually put on the costume."

"You asked me to."

"I was joking, babe. I didn't think you'd actually—" He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're so fucking perfect. You know that? You're so perfect it's impossible. It's not fair. None of this is fair."

His hand came up to touch your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he pressed too hard.

"You're all I think about," he said, his voice softening into something almost honest, almost vulnerable. "All the time. When I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking about what you're doing, what you're reading, what face you're making. I'm thinking about how you curl up on my couch like you belong there, and I'm thinking about how I want you to stay."

You opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn't know—but then his thumb brushed across your lower lip, and all the words died in your throat.

"Shh," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours, his thumb still tracing the shape of your mouth. His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled you forward, just slightly, so your foreheads were almost touching. So you could feel his breath on your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, and there was something desperate in his voice, something pleading. “Fuck, please just let me—"

You closed the distance before he could finish.

And Crux Hertz, the person who never shut up, the man who always had a joke or a deflection or a sarcastic comment—went completely silent. 

His plush lips were soft against yours, and for a moment he didn't move, like he was savoring it, like he was memorizing the feeling.

Then he kissed you back, and it was like a dam breaking.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper—a desperate, hungry little noise that he'd never admit to making. 

His mouth moved against yours, slow and languid and achingly tender, his tongue tracing your lower lip before slipping inside.

You could taste him. Cigarettes and something sweet. The familiar taste of Crux, and it was so him that it made your chest ache.

He pulled back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice wrecked, hoarse, undone. "Fuck. That was—I wanted to do that for so long. I wanted to kiss you for so long. I kept dreaming about it. I kept imagining it. And it's—" He laughed, a broken, breathless sound. "It's better than I imagined. You're better than I imagined."

"You imagined kissing me?"

He opened his eyes, and there was something raw in them, something unguarded. "I imagined a lot of things with you. All of them were—" He shook his head, a helpless little movement. "You're consuming me. Every part of me. I can't stop thinking about you. And I don't want to stop"

You tilted your head, the ears shifting with the movement, the bell letting out a soft little jingle. A slow, knowing smile curved across your lips.

"That's... that's a lot," you said, your voice dropping into something silkier. Givng playful and dangerous. "All that thinking about me. All that imagining. And here I am—right in your lap, dressed up like your little kitty, looking so tasty."

His breath caught. His hands tightened on your hips.

"But you know what?" you continued, leaning in closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Closer to me, baby... I won't bite."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and the look on his face was devastated, just filled with hunger.

"You look so tasty," you purred, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with one finger, "but I won't bite. Really."

"Liar," he breathed, his voice cracking. "you're going to eventually.”

You let out a soft, airy laugh—the kind of laugh that made his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm such a good kitty," you said, your voice dripping with false innocence. "I don't put up fights. I'm sweet. I'm well-behaved. I just sit here on your lap, all cute and cozy, jingling my little bells..."

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and wary. He knew you were up to something. He knew it. And he was absolutely, pathetically helpless to stop it.

"But if you trick me, baby..." You tilted your head, letting the bell jingle again, letting the moment stretch. "...it gon' get sticky."

His throat bobbed. "Sticky how?"

You smiled, slow and sharp, "You'll find out."

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking slightly against your hips. "I—I don't know if I should be scared or turned on."

"Both," you said simply. "Definitely both."

He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're going to ruin me."

"Maybe." You leaned in, your lips hovering just above his, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. "But I won't stop you. If you wanna do it, motherfucker... I won't stop you."

His eyes went wide. His grip on your hips tightened to the point of pain.

"What did you just say to me?" he asked, his voice low and rough and absolutely wrecked.

You pulled back, just a fraction, just enough to see the desperation in his eyes. "Do it, motherfucker," you repeated, your voice sweet as honey, sharp as a blade. 

"I won't stop you."

He made a sound—something between a whimper and a growl—and then his mouth was on yours, desperate and devouring, all pretense of control completely abandoned.

Then he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, more desperate, and the bells jingled as you shifted against him, and his hands roamed across your back, your hips, your thighs, mapping out every inch of you with hungry awe.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, and his voice was low and rough. "I'm never letting you go," he said but then his eyes flickered, something shifting behind them—that familiar mischief, that insufferable playfulness that made you want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.

"But you know what?" he murmured, his voice dropping into something silkier, "If you're gonna be my cat, you gotta learn how to behave. And right now..." 

His hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then lower, brushing against the fuzzy garter band around your thigh. "...you're being a little naughty, aren't you?"

You arched an eyebrow, even as your breath hitched at his touch. "Naughty?"

"Mhm." He hummed, his fingers dancing along the edge of the garter, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath it. "You're sitting on my lap all pretty, all dressed up, making those little sounds, jingling every time you move. And you know exactly what you're doing to me." His fingers pressed just a little harder, tracing circles against your inner thigh. "You're ruining me, and you're loving every second of it."

"Maybe I am," you said, your voice low, challenging. "What are you gonna do about it?"

His grin was sharp, giving very much predatory. "I'm gonna treat you like the bad kitty you are."

Before you could respond, his hands were on you—one sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against him in a slow, careful motion that made your breath catch. 

He watched your face, his eyes drinking in every micro-expression, every flutter of your eyelashes, every parted-lip gasp.

"There we go," he breathed, his voice a low purr. "There's my good kitty." He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, his lips trailing down to where the bell sat at your throat. "Just be good for me. Just let me take care of you."

You shivered as his teeth grazed your collarbone. "I'm not gonna be good. You don't want good."

He pulled back, looking at you with something like admiration. "You're right. I don't want good. I want you." His thumb found a particularly sensitive spot on your thigh, pressing in just enough to make you gasp. 

"I want you writhing. I want you making those pretty sounds. I want you to forget your own name."

His hand slid higher, higher, until his fingers brushed against the heat between your legs, barely touching, just teasing—just enough to make you arch into him.

"Oh, aren’t you're so responsive," he murmured, his voice dripping with delight. "So sensitive. So pretty when you react like that. You're like a little animal. A little pet. My little pet.”

"Your cat," you corrected, your voice breathier than you intended.

"Mm, yes. My cat." He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your nose, then your lips, featherlight and teasing. "My pretty, naughty, devious cat. Who just needs a little discipline, right? Such a attention whore. A little—"

His fingers wiggled against you, not quite touching where you wanted, just tracing patterns that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter.

"A little taming," he finished, his eyes gleaming.

You gasps then something happen.

It was purely instinct—a small bite, just a sharp little nip at his lower lip, enough to make him gasp and break his pace. He pulled back, his eyes wide with surprise, and then that surprise melted into pure, unadulterated delight.

"Ah, there's that bite I was looking for," he breathed, his hand coming up to touch his lip where you'd bitten him. A tiny bead of blood welled up, and he looked at it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"You deserved it."

His grin was sharp, feral. "That I'll do."

But then something shifted in his eyes as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register that made your entire body shiver.

"Here kitty kitty," he murmured, the words curling around you like smoke. "Come here. Let me take care of you."

Before you could respond, his hands were on your waist, lifting you, repositioning you. He shifted you back against his chest, your spine pressed to his front, his long lanky legs bracketing yours. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back.

"There we go," he breathed, his voice a low purr right by your ear. "That's better. That's my kitty. Right where they belongs."

His hands slid down your sides, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the curves of your body through the soft fabric. One hand settled on your hip, gripping just firmly enough to make you feel held. The other drifted lower, fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing, tormenting.

"I've been so patient," he murmured, his lips pressing against the curve of your neck. "So good. I waited. I gave you space. I let you come to me. But now..." His fingers pressed harder, finding that spot that made your breath catch. 

"...now it's time for me to play with my kitty."

His fingers hooked into the bottom of the costume, tugging at the fabric. "Lift," he commanded softly, and you obeyed, raising your hips just enough for him to slide the lower half of the costume away, leaving you bare beneath him.

The cool air hit your skin, and you shivered. But then his hand was there, warm and careful, sliding between your thighs.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with wonder. 

"You're already dripping for me. So ready. So eager."

His fingers circled, teasing, building a pace that made your hips twitch. 

"Look at you," he murmured against your ear, his voice dark and dripping with satisfaction. "Dripping for me. Just from a little kissing. Just from a little touching. You're such a needy little thing, aren't you?"

You tried to respond, but the words died in your throat as his fingers pressed harder, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it slowly,  "Uh-uh," he chided softly. "No words. Just feel. Just let yourself feel."

You could hear it—the wet sounds of his fingers moving against you, obscene and undeniable, the whole shlick—shlick—shlick of your own arousal making your cheeks flush.

"Listen to that," he murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Listen to how much you want this. How much you want me."

You couldn't respond, couldn't form words. All you could do was feel—feel his fingers working you, feel the tension building low in your belly, feel the desperate need coiling tighter and tighter.

And then he suddenly stopped.

You whimpered at the loss of contact. But before you could complain, you heard it: the wet sound of him spitting into his palm.

"Needy little thing," he murmured, his voice low and dark. "Don't worry, kitty. I've got you."

His hand returned, and this time it was slick, soaked with his spit and your own arousal, and when his fingers slid against you, the sound was so obscene. 

Every movement of his fingers sent a fresh wave of heat through you, the mess of it spreading, smearing, making everything slippery and wet.

"That's better," he purred, rubbing the mess all over your swollen sex, smearing it, spreading it, making sure every inch of you was glistening and wet. "That's what you needed, isn't it? To be taken care of. To be handled."

His fingers found your entrance again, circling it, rubbing it just barely before pulling back, teasing you relentlessly.

He groaned, a low, appreciative sound. "Fuck, you're so wet. So messy. All for me, isn't it? All for your Crux?"

You nodded frantically, not trusting your voice.

"Say it," he demanded, his fingers still moving, still stroking. "Say you're my whore kitty. Say you just wanted my attention. Say it."

"I'm—" You swallowed hard, your voice cracking. "I'm your whore kitty. I just wanted—wanted your attention. Please."

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

He laughed, low and warm against your ear. "I wasn't planning on it."

He curled his fingers, finding and squeezing that spot  that made your vision go white, and you gasped, your hands flying to his thighs, gripping them for purchase.

"Oh, you like that?" His voice was silk and sin, curling around you, settling deep in your bones. "You like when I do this?"

He did it again, curling his fingers just right, and you bucked against him, a broken sound escaping your lips. "That's it," he crooned. "That's it, kitty. Just let go. Just feel it." His other hand came up to your jaw, tilting your head back, exposing your throat. He pressed a kiss to your pulse point, then another, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

"You're so good for me," he murmured. "So fucking good. Taking my fingers so well. Dripping all over my hand like a good little whore."

His fingers moved faster, curling and stroking, building that pressure until you were trembling, gasping, aching for release.

"Please," you gasped. "Please, Crux—I'm—I'm so close—"

"I know." His voice was calm, almost detached, like he was observing you from a great distance. "I know you are. I can feel you clenching around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. But you're not going to come until I say so."

A desperate sound escaped you—half moan, half sob.

"Shh," he soothed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Shh, kitty. I've got you. Just hold on for me. Just a little longer."

His fingers slowed, pulling back to that torturous pace that made you want to scream. And then, without warning, he pressed his thumb against your opening and curled his fingers at the same time, and your vision exploded into stars.

“Cum,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. “Cum for me, kitty. Now."

And you did. You shattered against him, crying out his name, your body arching and trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your moan was loud, broken, and you could feel yourself soaking his fingers, dripping down his hand, making a mess of his lap.

But he didn't stop. He kept going.

Such a fucking tease.

His fingers moved through your climax, stroking you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor. You whimpered, oversensitive, trying to squirm away, but he held you fast against his chest.

“Keep going,” he breathed against your ear, and then his teeth grazed the shell of it—a sharp, delicious sting that made you jolt. "That's it. That's my good kitty."

He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, and you could feel him smile against your skin.

“You can do it again, right?” he murmured. “Cum for me again. I know you can."

His thumb pressed harder, his fingers curled deeper, and you were building again—so fast, so overwhelming, the pleasure cresting before you could catch your breath.

And then, just when you thought it was almost over—just when you thought he was finally going to give you a moment to cum—you heard a new sound.

A soft, familiar buzz.

Your eyes snapped open. You tried to look down, to see what he was holding, but his hand was wrapped around you, kept you, only looking up at him. 

"What—" you started, your voice hoarse. "What is that?"

You felt him shift behind you, felt his free hand reach for something on the side table. The buzzing grew louder, closer, and then he brought it into your line of sight.

It was a toy. A sleek, green toy, curved and wicked-looking, with a little tail attached to the end. A cat toy. Specifically designed to look like something you'd play with a pet—but very, very obviously meant for something else entirely.

It even had a little bell on it.

You stared at it. Then you turned your head to stare at him. His grin was so wide it looked painful, his green eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," you said flatly.

"Kidding?" He held it up, letting it buzz in the air between you. "Why would I be kidding? This is themed. This is committed. This is—"

"This is insane," you cut him off. "You're insane. You're actually insane. You bought a—a cat toy? For me? A sex toy that looks like a cat toy?"

"I bought it specifically for you, yes. I had it custom made. It took weeks. I had to send measurements and everything. It was very embarrassing to explain to the nice lady at the shop."

"You're lying."

"I'm absolutely lying about the custom part. I found it online. But the intent was there. The vision was there. I saw it, and I thought, 'That's perfect. That's exactly what my kitty needs.'"

"I'm going to kill you."

"No you're not. You're going to thank me. You're going to beg me. You're going to—"

"Shut up, Crux."

He laughed, bright and delighted, and the sound of it made something warm curl in your chest despite yourself. He was so insufferably pleased with himself, and you hated how much you loved it.

"Make me," he said, and there was a challenge in his voice. A dare.

You turned fully in his lap, facing him, and the movement made the bells jingle. You snatched the toy from his hand—he let you, because of course he did, because he wanted to see what you'd do—and held it up between you.

"You're such a fucking weirdo," you said, and there was no heat in it. Just exasperation. Just fondness.

"I'm your weirdo."

"Unfortunately."

He laughed again, and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you closer. "So what are you gonna do?" he asked, his voice dropping, “Are you gonna use it? Are you gonna let me use it on you? Are you gonna sit there and pretend you don't want me to?"

You glared at him. He stared back, unrepentant.

"You know what?" you said, and you pressed the toy against his chest, letting it buzz against his skin. "You're such a little shit. You think you're so clever. You think you're so funny. But I know what you're doing. You're trying to distract me. You're trying to—"

"I'm trying to please you," he cut in, his voice soft, sincere. "That's all I want~ I just want to make you feel good. Is that so wrong?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but then he took the toy from your hand and pressed it against you—and all the words died in your throat.

"See?" he murmured, watching your face. "That's better. That's much better."

Your breath hitched as the vibrations traveled through you, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

"Look at you," he breathed, his eyes dark and hungry. "Look at how you respond. You're so—"

"Shut up," you gasped, but your voice was weak, breathless.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Make me," he whispered again.

And then he pressed the toy harder against you, and you couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but feel.

"There we go," he murmured, his voice a low purr. "That's my kitty. That's my good, needy kitty."

The toy buzzed against you, relentless, and you could feel yourself climbing again—so fast, too fast, your body still sensitive from before. You tried to squirm away, but once again, his arm locked around your waist, holding you firmly against his chest.

"Ah-ah-ah," he tsked, his lips brushing against your ear. "Where do you think you're going? We're not done yet. I'm not done with you."

"Crux—" you gasped, your voice breaking. "I can't—it's too much—"

"Yes you can." His voice was soft, coaxing, but there was steel underneath it. "You can take it. You can take anything I give you. You're so strong. So perfect. So—"

He pressed the toy harder, angling it just right, and you cried out, your back arching against him.

"That's it," he breathed. “Don’t you want more, don't you? You want to come again. You want to soak my hand, my lap, everything."

You couldn't respond—couldn't do anything but nod frantically, lost in the sensation.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice dropping into something darker. "Say you want it. Say you want to come for me again."

"I—" You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "I want it. I want to come for you. Please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come. Please—fuck—please."

He laughed, low and warm. "Good kitty. Such a good kitty. Asking so nicely. You deserve it. You deserve everything."

His fingers retuned on you, pressing down just as the toy buzzed against you, and the combination was too much—too intense, too overwhelming. You shattered again, your body convulsing, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat.

But he didn't stop.

The toy kept buzzing, his fingers kept moving, and you were sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, overwhelmed and oversensitive and so fucking gone.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "That's it, kitty. Let it all out. I've got you. I've always got you."

You were shaking, trembling in his arms, and he held you through it all—kept you close, kept you safe, kept you his.

Finally, when you were completely spent, when you couldn't take another second, he slowed the toy, pulling it away. He set it aside, and you heard it clatter against the table, forgotten. Even he stilled his fingers. You heard the wet sound of him lifting his hand, felt the absence of his touch.

And then you heard it—the soft, wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.

"Mmm," he hummed, his voice thick with satisfaction, almost reverent. "You taste so sweet, kitty. So fucking sweet. I could get addicted to this. I am addicted to this."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you even closer, and you could feel his heart pounding against your back—fast and frantic, matching your own.

"There we go," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "There we go, kitty. You did so well. So good for me. So perfect for me. Now here's your reward."

His hand found your chin, tilting your face toward him, and then his mouth was on yours—slow at first, almost tender, his lips brushing against yours like he was savoring the moment.

But then his tongue slid into your mouth, and it was filthy.

He kissed you deep, so deep you could feel him in your throat, his tongue sweeping against yours, tasting every corner of your mouth. And there it was—the taste of yourself on him, salty and sweet and intimate, coating your tongue, filling your senses.

You could taste the evidence of your own release, could taste how much he'd enjoyed it, how thoroughly he'd savored you. 

He swallowed your moan, his tongue curling against yours, and you could feel the mess of it—the slick slide of his tongue, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together, the way he was practically devouring you.

When he finally pulled back, there was a string of saliva connecting your lips, glistening in the dim light. His green eyes were dark, hazy, completely wrecked—and there was a smear of your taste still on his lips, still on his tongue, still in his breath.

"There," he breathed, his voice hoarse and raw. "Now you know. Now you know what you taste like. Now you know what you do to me."

He pressed his forehead against yours, and you could feel the slight tremor in his body, the way his hands were shaking where they held you. "Fuck," he whispered, and it was almost reverent. "Fuck, I love you. I love you so much it's terrifying."

You were too exhausted to respond, too wrung out to even reply. You just leaned against him, "Good kitty," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. 

"Such a good kitty for me."

♤ — 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓃𝑒𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

𝒶/𝓃: Yes, I finished Reanimated Heart. let's thanks @doubledeadstudio for such a beautiful person. He's mine—just mysterious, insufferable, tattooed, and somehow my exact irl type down to the last contradiction. Will I write for the others? hmm... nope! This was just for fun. again Crux is mine and I'm keeping him <3

sometimes, and like these are just my random late night thoughts, you know after i'm done reviewing over my work—i think about how it's been maybe a year and a couple of months since i started this tumblr page. and i can't help but remember my beginning days.

when i first started sharing my fanfics, with TKATB there was so much innocence and youth in past me. so much excitement and wonder.

ngl i maybeeee, kinda miss TKATB?

why? because nowadays, i'm not gonna say there's none of that left. don't get me wrong—i still love writing these fics. genuinely. but if i'm being honest?

there's no balance between the fandoms i write for.

it's like i write too much for one specific fandom, then i get bored, then i move onto the next one a couple months later. or it doesn't match the vibe i'm looking for, so i'm forcing myself to keep writing for that fandom and i just... keep cycling?

i don't know if y'all realize this but the amount of EFFORT i put into writing?? like my notes app is FILLED.

especially those sfw and nsfw alphabets?? never in my life have i ever annoyed writing. like. deadass. i put my whole soul into every single one. but sometimes i wonder if that's the problem. if i'm pouring too much into one thing and burning myself out on it.

and then i have to start over with something new.

it's not a complaint. it's just... observation. reflection. the messy reality of being a creator who's still figuring out her pace still. ughhhh

still anyway. thank you for this ask. it made me think in a good way.

take care of yourself, keep writing, and i'll keep cooking 🫶🏽

there was a pause. her lavender eyes gleam.

❝ not in a jar. not on a shelf. with me. in my tent. in my life. ❞ she tilts her head. ❝ i would have made you a little bed. a little chair. a little space— just for you. i would have talked to you every day. told you about my day. about the others. about everything. ❞

her voice drops to a music-box whisper.

❝ i would have taken care of you, plaything. always. ❞ she pulls back, her stitched smile soft. ❝ but you did turn back. because i made sure you could. because i wanted you to come back. ❞

❝ that's the thing about me, plaything. i don't make mistakes. i make adjustments. ❞

❝ and if you had stayed a doll? ❞ she almost laughs.

❝ i would have loved you anyway. ❞

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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

"you're shaking," he observes.

"i'm fine."

"you're still shaking." he reaches down and pulls a blanket from somewhere (you don't know where, he just has it) and drapes it over you. his gloved hand brushes your cheek.

"stay," he says. "i'll be back."

and he is. with water and a warm wet cloth.

b = body part

his favorite body part of his own? his hands.

because his hands are useful. they write. they organize. they keep order. and when they're not doing those things, they're touching you. 

he likes the way his hands look on your skin—very pale against whatever color you are, controlled where you're not. he likes the contrast.

"your skin is so warm," he'll observe, his fingers tracing your collarbone. "mine is always cold. it's... interesting."

his favorite body part of yours? your throat.

he likes the vulnerability of it. the way your pulse jumps under his fingers. the way you trust him to touch such a fragile place.

"you let me do this," he'll murmur, his thumb resting against your windpipe. "you let me hold your life in my hands. do you know how rare that is?"

he does. and he treasures it.

for example: 

you're lying on his desk again (understand it’s a theme of his) and his hand is wrapped around your throat. not squeezing. just... holding. his thumb traces the line of your jaw.

"beautiful," he says, and it's not a compliment. it's an observation.

c = cum

ticket taker is controlled about it.

that's the thing about him. he doesn't make a mess. hell he doesn’t even like making messes. doesn't spill everywhere. he aims, he finishes, he contains. 

it's efficient like everything else he does.

there's something psychological about it—the discipline of restraint, the way he holds himself back even in his most vulnerable moments. it's a pattern. a ritual. a need to keep things in order.

but when he's really into it—when that control slips just a little—he lets go.

and that's when it gets interesting.

he'll paint your stomach. your thighs. your face if you let him. and then he'll clean you up. methodically and carefully like he's cataloging every inch of you.

"you're messy," he observes, wiping his thumb across your lips.

"you did that."

"i did." his white eye gleams. "i'll do it again."

but his favorite? keeping everything inside.

he loves when you take him deep—when you let him finish inside you and stay there. not just the act of it, but the aftermath. the way you hold him there, warm and full, his cum deep inside you where it belongs.

a pocket slut, that's what you become.

he'll stay buried in you, not moving, just feeling—the pulse of you around him, the heat, the way his release settles into you like it was always meant to be there. he'll press his forehead against yours, breathing slow, eyes half-lidded.

"stay like this," he murmurs. "don't let any of it out."

and you don't.

because that's the thing about him—he doesn't just want to finish in you. he wants to claim you. wants to fill you so completely that even when he pulls out, you still feel him. still carry him. still have his mark deep inside.

it's not about the mess with him. it's about the imprint.

he'll trace circles on your skin afterwards, watching you with that quiet intensity. "you're holding all of me," he'll say, almost to himself. "aren't you?"

and when you nod, he'll smile. "good."

d = dirty secret

ticket taker's dirty secret is that he wants to lose control.

not all the time. not even most of the time. but sometimes — when the ledgers are closed and the schedule is empty and the world is quiet — he wants to let go. he wants to be messy. desperate. undone.

he wants someone to take his clipboard and break it over their knee. wants someone to push him against his desk and take what they want. wants someone to make him forget his own name.

but he'll never admit it.

instead, he'll keep his gloved hands tight and his posture rigid and his voice flat. and he'll let you unravel him, piece by piece, until he's a shaking mess on his own office floor.

example: you've got him pressed against his own desk, his hips pinned, his cock in your hand. he's trying to stay still. trying to stay controlled. but his breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and his white eye is wide.

"stop," he says, his voice cracking. "i — i can't —"

"you can," you say. "you will."

and he does. because you told him to.

e = experience

ticket taker has experience, shockingly!

like deaddass, more than doctor, definitely less than harlequin, probably. so he's not a virgin—he's had partners before. efficient partners. transactional ones. the kind who came, did what they were supposed to, and left.

but intimacy? connection? those are newer concepts for him. he's still learning. still figuring out what it means to touch someone and have it mean something.

he's careful with you. methodical. like he's testing every reaction, cataloging every response.

for example:

"you like that," he'll observe, his fingers tracing your thigh. "the pressure. the control."

"yes."

"good. i'll remember that."

f = favorite position

ticket taker infact has two favorite postions.

favorite #1: missionary

he likes to watch. plain and simple. he likes to see your face. your reactions. the way your eyes roll back when he hits that spot.

he'll hold your legs apart with his gloved hands and study you like you're something precious—every flutter of your lashes, every parted-lip breath, every sound you try to swallow.

"don't close your eyes," he instructs, voice low. "i want to see everything."

and you can't look away even if you tried.

you're on your back, his desk cold beneath you, his weight pressed against you. his hips move in a steady, measured rhythm, and his white eye is fixed on your face—unblinking and cataloging.

"there," he says, angling his hips just slightly. "that's the spot."

you gasp. he smiles—just a little behind that mask. "there."

he leans down, breath ghosting over your lips. "you make the prettiest sounds when you're not thinking."

and then he does it again. slower this time. watching. always watching.

favorite #2: from behind, bent over something

this one is little different. less about watching and more about control.

he likes having you bent over his desk, his chair, the ticket booth counter. anything solid enough to hold you steady. he likes the curve of your spine, the way your hands brace against the surface, the way you can't see him coming.

"don't move," he says, palm flat against your lower back, pressing you down. "stay just like that."

he takes his time. every inch carefully so he’s not rushing—like he never rushes.

one hand grips your hip, the other tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to tilt your head back. he leans down, mouth close to your ear.

"i want to hear you," he murmurs. "every sound. don't hold back."

and when he picks up the pace—when that steady rhythm breaks into something hungrier—he's still controlled. still watching. still cataloging the way you fall apart beneath him.

"that's it," he says, breathless. "that's my good visitor."

his favorite part? watching you try to hold yourself together while he pulls you apart from behind. the tension in your shoulders. the way your fingers curl against the desk. the way you say his name like a question you're afraid to answer.

"you're doing so well," he soothes, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. "just a little more."

and he gives it to you every time.

g = goofy

ticket taker is not goofy what so ever. 

he highkey little lame, doesn't crack jokes or make silly faces or do anything that might be considered lighthearted.

understand, he’s an old ass creature—hell the oldest out of the entire group. but sometimes, which rarely—something will catch him off guard. a noise. a cramp. the way your stomach growls at an inopportune moment.

and he'll pause. tilt his head, a little almost amused.

"...that was unexpected," he'll say. and then he'll keep going. just a brief moment of almost humanity before he returns to form.

for example: 

you're in the middle of it, you know fucking on his desk, of course and your stomach growls. loud. embarrassing. he pauses and looks down at you.

"hungry?" he asks.

"shut up."

"i'll take that as a yes."

h = hair

ticket taker is always immaculate. 

so his hair is always neat. always styled. slicked back beneath his top hat like the old soul he is—not a strand out of place. it's part of the image. the control. the mask he wears.

he probably spends more time on it than he'd ever admit.

then for down there? maintained. trimmed. neat. nothing left to chance.

"it's more efficient," he'd say if you asked. (please you don't ask.) but there's something about the unraveling that gets him.

when he's inside you—when the pace picks up and his composure starts to crack, you know that perfectly slicked back hair begins to shift. a tiny loose curl falls forward. then another. and another.

it's subtle at first. almost imperceptible. but you notice.

and he notices you noticing.

he might not acknowledge it. might not say a word. but you can see the lock in his white eye when you reach up and brush it back. the way he falters slightly before finding his pace again.

for example:

you're beneath him, gasping, fingers gripping his shoulders as he moves inside you. his hat is long gone—tossed aside somewhere in the heat of it. his hair is falling loose from its perfect slicked back style, strands clinging to his forehead.

you reach up and run your fingers through it.

he freezes. just for a moment.

then he leans into your touch. just slightly. like he's been waiting for permission to let go.

"don't," he says, but his voice is weak.

"don't what?"

"don't stop."

you don't as ordered. you drag your fingers through his hair again, messing it up further. ruining all that careful work. and instead of pulling away, he leans in.

his hips press deeper. his breath hitches.

"you're making a mess of me," he murmurs, but there's no frustration in it. only surrender.

he likes it. you realize. he likes when you mess him up. when you undo all that careful control and leave him bare. and then he says it, quiet, almost to himself:

"no one's ever done that before."

i = intimacy

ticket taker doesn't do romance. 

not the way pierrot does, with tears and poetry and desperate clinging.

ticket taker's intimacy is simply observation.

he shows he cares by noticing. by remembering. by cataloging the things that make you you and keeping them safe in that neat, orderly mind of his.

"you always bite your lip when you're thinking," he'll say, mid-act. "and you make a small sound—here—when you're close."

the funny part, he's not trying to be sexy. deadass that’s just him telling you what’s gonna happend. sharing his thoughts. letting you see how much attention he's paid. 

and somehow, that's more intimate than any love confession.

j = jack off

ticket taker treats it like... maintenance issue.

a biological need. something to address so he can focus on other things.  not gonna lie, he's the type who probably has a schedule for it. 

don't think about it too hard.

he's done it a thousand times before. palm against his cock. steady strokes. eyes half-lidded, mind elsewhere. it's nothing special. 

just release. just pressure. just a box to check.

but sometimes when he's thinking about you, his sessions take longer.

for example:

he'll lie in his bed or sit at his desk. his hand wrapped around himself, grip just tight enough, and he'll remember. the way you sounded. the way you felt beneath his hands. the way you looked at him like he wasn't a monster—like he was something worth wanting.

and his strokes slow. deepen. his thumb drags over the tip, spreading the slick there, and his breath catches.

he's not rushing anymore. he's savoring now.

his hand wraps around his length, already half-hard from the thought alone. he starts slow—lazy strokes, testing the weight of it in his palm. his thumb traces the vein along the underside, and his hips twitch.

hmm... that's new.

he thinks about the way you gasped when he first pushed inside you. the way your fingers curled into his unbotton shirt. the way you said his name like it meant something.

his grip tightens. his strokes quicken.

his head falls back against the chair. his eyesflutters closed—a rare moment of vulnerability. his lips part. his breathing gets heavier.

he's not thinking about busy life anymore. 

he's thinking about you.

the way you taste. the way you feel. the way you felt around him. the sound of your voice when you begged. the way you looked up at him with those eyes—"fuck," he whispers—the only time you'll ever hear him swear.

his hips buck up into his fist. his palm slides over the head, spreading the slick. he's close. so close.

and he remembers the way you looked at him. like he was human. like he was good.

his release spills over his knuckles, hot and messy. he keeps stroking through it, milking every last drop, breath ragged.

and then it's over.

he's staring at the ceiling, his white eye soft.

"...inefficient," he mutters.

but his hand is still slick. his heart is still pounding. and you're still in his head. he'll clean up. pull his pants back up and goes back to worl

and then he'll do it again tomorrow night. because he can't help himself.

after all, you've ruined him.

k = kink

ticket taker has more kinks than he'll ever admit.

he's not the type to sit you down and have a conversation about boundaries and desires. he just... takes. and you learn.

1. control

obviously. it's the foundation of everything he does. he needs to be in charge. needs to set the pace, the position, the everything. if you try to take control, he shuts down.

for example:

you reach up to touch his face—a move too intimate, too forward—and his hand catches your wrist mid-air. his white eye narrows. "no." his voice is flat. "i'm in charge." he pins your wrist beside your head and continues. measured. deliberate. reminding you who's in control.

2. praise

he won't say it. won't admit it. but he craves it.

he's spent so long being feared, being distrusted, being viewed as something monstrous. when you tell him he's doing well? that he's being good? it rewires something in him.

for example:

he's above you, hips moving with that steady rhythm you've come to know, and you murmur, "good." his hips stutter. "you're doing so well." his white eye goes wide—almost vulnerable. his rhythm falters. and then he comes undone faster than he meant to, burying his face in your neck to hide the way his composure cracked.

3. bondage

not the elaborate kind. not jester's collars or poppet's threads. but he likes holding you in place. likes the feeling of your body trapped beneath his, completely at his mercy.

for example:

he's got your wrists pinned above your head with one gloved hand. his weight is pressed against you, keeping you still. "stay," he commands. "don't move." and you don't. because you know if you do, he'll just hold you tighter. and you're not sure if you want to test that.

4. overstimulation

he'll push you past your limits. then past them again. just to see how you react. it's not cruelty—it's curiosity. he wants to know how much you can take. wants to see the moment your brain stops thinking and just feels.

for example:

you're trembling beneath him, oversensitive, every nerve raw and exposed. "i can't," you gasp. his hips don't stop. "one more," he says, voice flat. "you can give me one more." and you do. because he's not asking. and somewhere in the haze, you realize he's watching you unravel like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

5. voyeurism

he likes watching. really likes watching.

he'll position you just right—legs open, face visible, everything on display—so he can see every reaction. every flutter. every gasp. every moment of your unraveling.

for example:

he's got you on his desk, legs spread, his hands on your thighs holding you open. he's not touching you—not yet. he's just... watching. his white eye traces the flush on your chest, the way your lips part, the way your hips twitch seeking friction. "you're so responsive," he murmurs, almost to himself. "i could watch you all night." and you believe him.

honorable mention: your voice

he doesn't just like hearing you—he needs it. the sounds you make. the way you say his name. the way you gasp when he hits that spot.

for example:

he's buried inside you, his pace punishing, and he leans down to whisper, "say my name." you do. his grip on your hip tightens. "again." you do. and he keeps going. like your voice is fuel he can't get enough of.

l = location

ticket taker's favorite location is his office.

it's his space. his domain. the place where he's most himself. every ledger, every paper, every inch of it is meticulously arranged to his liking. it's where he works, where he plans, where he maintains control.

and he wants you there.

in his chair. on his desk. draped across his desk. anywhere he can have you surrounded by the evidence of who he is.

"you're in my space," he'll say, voice low. "my territory."

"and?"

"and that means you're mine."

why his office?

it's not just about convenience—it's about context. he wants you in the space where he holds power. where every decision is made, every calculation weighed. he wants you to see the ledgers, the papers, the order he's created. and then he wants to lay you on top of all of it.

"look at that," he murmurs, guiding your gaze to the scattered papers beneath you. "you've made a mess of my work."

his hips press forward. "i'll have to reorganize everything now." but he doesn't sound upset. he sounds... satisfied.

for other locations:

1. his overall tent blue

you know, all the mirrors, efficient. he'll have you on that cot, the mirrors reflecting every angle. he can watch you from every direction. he likes that. a lot.

2. the ticket booth

only briefly. when the circus is closed and the guests are gone. cramped and dark and intimate. your back against the glass, his hands gripping your hips. he has to be quiet there. makes it more thrilling.

3. your apartment

once. when he was feeling bold. he wanted to see where you lived. wanted to leave his mark on your space. he didn't stay long. but he made sure you remembered he was there.

but mostly? sex will always happen in his office.

m = motivation

uhhhh… ticket taker isn't motivated by much?

look, most of the circus runs on some level of horny chaos—pierrot is motivated by his love for you, Jester has his own BDSM moment, Harlequin just wants to fuck anything and a doctor seems the type to be motivated whoever is the most willing to take part of his experiments.

 but ticket taker? he's just... there.

he doesn't wake up thinking about it. doesn't seek it out. if it happens, it happens. if it doesn't, he's fine. honestly.

most of the time, it's just biology or the way how you dressed in neat fasion. a need that arises. something to address and move on from. no different than eating or sleeping.

and sometimes he gets randomly horny. no reason. no warning. just a sudden awareness that he wants you. and that's when he shows up at your door with that flat expression and says something like "come here" like it's a logistical request.

but that's it. that's the extent of it.

he's the least horny person in the entire circus. and he's fine with that.

now what can actually motivates him? order.

he wants things neat. controlled. predictable. and when you're with him—when you let him touch you, use you, claim you—you become part of his order.

"you're mine," he'll say, voice flat. "mine to touch. mine to keep. mine to—"

he stops before saying, “…organize."

please don’t laugh at him. he's joking. mostly. hopefully.

n = no

ticket taker has hard limits. things he will not do. ever.

1. loss of control

he needs to be in charge. needs to set the pace, the position, the everything. if you try to take control—push him down, climb on top, dominate him—he will shut down. completely.

"no," he'll say, voice flat. "that's not how this works."

and he means it. it's not a negotiation. it's a boundary.

elaboration: he's spent his whole life maintaining order in a world that's chaotic. giving up control isn't just uncomfortable—it's wrong. 

like a system error. he can't process it. so he won't.

2. mess (the uncontrolled kind)

not the good kind. not the kind that happens when you're both lost in it. he means chaos. unpredictability. if you're too loud, too wild, too much—he'll pull back.

"calm down," he'll instruct. "you're being unruly."

it's not that he doesn't want you to enjoy yourself. 

he just needs it to stay within certain parameters.

3. being ignored

lowkey ticket taker needs attention. needs to know you're present, engaged, responding. if you zone out—if your eyes go glassy and your body goes slack in a way that isn't giving—he'll stop.

"look at me," he'll say, gripping your chin. "i need to see your eyes."

he's not doing this for himself. well. he is. but he needs the feedback loop. your reactions are what guide him. without them, he's just... moving. and that's not satisfying for anyone.

4. public or risky locations

this one comes with layers.

he doesn't do risk. doesn't do the thrill of being caught. the thought of another visitor walking in? a fellow circus member hearing something they shouldn't? his stomach turns.

"no," he'll say, when you suggest the ticket booth. "that's unprofessional."

his white and blue eye roll in disapproval. maybe discomfort. "we do this here. where it's safe."

 it's not that he's afraid. it's that he values privacy. intimacy is something he doesn't share lightly. and the idea of someone else witnessing him in that state—vulnerable, undone, human—makes his skin crawl.

he's a private person. painfully so. 

and public locations? absolutely not.

5. being called... "master"?

probably gonna get a lot of hate for this, he's not jester. he's not interested in titles or power dynamics that feel… performative.

"just my name," he'll say. "that's all i need."

okay like sir feels... alright enough, it's GOOD enough. BUT master? absolutely not. that's jester's territory and he wants no part of it.

he prefers his name. ticket taker. or if you're feeling bold—and if he really, really likes you—he might let you call him Bil.

(opinion: his name is the least mountable out of the whole circus. like. try saying “a-ah ticket taker!” in the middle of a heated moment. it's not sexy. it's not smooth. it's just... practical. 

but pierrot? rolls off the tongue. effortless. nobody's out here trying to moan "ticket taker" with a straight face. honestly the most normal sounding one is pierrot and that's saying something.)

"you can call me Bil," he'll admit quietly, barely meeting your eyes. "if you want. just... don't make it weird."

o = oral

ticket taker is skilled at giving oral. 

he treats it like a task, well more like a project  and he approaches it with the same methodical precision he brings to everything else. he'll take his time. learn you. figure out exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you beg, what makes you fall apart.

"you're so responsive," he'll observe, his tongue tracing a line up your thigh. "i wonder what happens when i—"

and then he'll do it. and you'll find out.

receiving? he likes it. more than he'll admit. but he won't ask for it. won't beg. he'll just position himself in front of you, his hand tangling in your hair, and wait.

"you know what i want," he'll say. "don't make me say it."

and you won't. because you do know.

for example: 

you're on your knees in front of his desk. the wood is cool beneath your palms, the dim light casting shadows across his face. his hand threads through your hair—not pulling, not guiding, just there. 

grounding himself in you.

you take him into your mouth slowly. your tongue traces his cock, memorizing every ridge, every twitch, every sharp intake of breath that escapes his lips.

his white and blue eyes is fixed on you. tracking every movement. cataloging every flick of your tongue, every hollow of your cheeks, every time your gaze flickers up to meet his.

"faster," he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. "just—faster."

you obey as pace quickens. your hand wraps around what you can't take, stroking in rhythm with your mouth. his hips twitch—that careful control starting to crack—and his grip in your hair tightens just enough to make your scalp tingle.

"good," he gasps, his head falling back. "such a good—"

he doesn't finish the sentence. his hips stutter. his breath catches. his release spills warm across your tongue, and you take it. all of it. swallowing slowly, deliberately, until there's nothing left.

his hand loosens in your hair. his breathing is uneven. when you pull back, he's still watching you—white eye soft, something unreadable flickering behind it.

he reaches down. drags his thumb across your lower lip. wipes away the faint trace of him.

"...perfect," he murmurs. almost to himself.

p = pace

ticket taker is always in controlled. 

even when he's not. he always starts slow methodical building a pace that's steady and deliberate. he wants to draw it out. wants to feel every moment. "patience," he'll murmur, when you try to rush him. "we have time."

but when he's close, his pace changes. faster. harder. more desperate.

"just—" he'll gasp, his hips stuttering. "just stay —"

and then he's gone. and you're left breathless beneath him.

for example: 

you're on his desk. his hips are moving in that steady, measured rhythm — slow, deliberate, controlled — and you're dying.

"please," you gasp. "please, i need—"

"patience," he says, his voice flat. "i'm not—"

"ticket taker."

he pauses. looks down at you. his white eye flickers.

"please."

and he gives in. just this once.

q = quickie

ticket taker is not a fan of quickies.

he prefers time. space. the ability to draw things out. "rushing," he'll say, "is inefficient. mistakes happen when you rush."

but sometimes when the schedule is tight and the need is urgent, he'll make exceptions.

"five minutes," he'll say, pushing you against the nearest surface. "that's all you get."

and he'll mean it. but he'll also take six. or seven. because he can't help himself.

for example: 

you're in the ticket booth. the circus is closed. the doors are locked. he's got you pressed against the wall, his hand over your mouth, his hips moving fast and desperate.

"quiet," he breathes. "don't make a sound."

you don't. but you want to.

r = risk

ticket taker does not take risks.

not in his work. not in his life. and definitely not in the bedroom. he likes predictability. control. knowing exactly what's going to happen, when, and for how long. but sometimes, like when he's really into it, he'll push the boundaries just a little. a new position. a new location. a new kink.

"don't get used to it," he'll say, his voice flat. "this is a one-time thing."

s = stamina

ticket taker has excellent stamina.

he's disciplined. controlled. he knows how to pace himself, how to draw things out, how to make you wait.

he can go for hours. literally hours. not because he's superhuman…? supermonster but because he knows how to manage his body.

"patience," he'll murmur, when you're trembling beneath him. "we're not done yet."

as for rounds? two. maybe three, if you beg nicely.

t = toys

ticket taker doesn't own toys.

not the kind you'd find in jester's tent. BUT to make up for it, he has tools or random office supplies.

a ruler. a clipboard. the edge of his desk. a paperweight that's heavier than it looks. ooooo, his belt too, if he's feeling particularly inclined. he's creative in his own quiet, methodical way—always finding new purposes for the objects around him.

"this is for discipline," he'll say, tapping the ruler against his palm. a soft, careful thwack. "do you understand?"

you say yes, after all you're bent over his desk. your palms flat against the wood. your chest pressed to the cold surface. papers scatter beneath you, and you can feel the edge digging into your hip. his ruler is in his hand. his white eye is gleaming in the low light.

"count," he says. voice flat. "out loud."

the first strike lands. a sharp, precise line of heat across your skin.

"one," you gasp. the second lands just below it. "two."

he pauses. drags the edge of the ruler down your spine—slow, teasing, making you shiver. "you're doing well," he observes. "good at following instructions."

the third strike lands harder. you cry out. "three."

"good." he sets the ruler down. replaces it with his hand. palm flat against the warmth he's created.

"you took that beautifully," he murmurs. almost reverent. "now turn around. i'm not done with you yet."

(opinon: teacher! ticket taker is so hot…)

u = unfair

ticket taker is masterful at teasing.

it's not something he learned—it's instinct. a quiet, patient cruelty that comes naturally to someone who spends his life controlling every variable.

he'll bring you right to the edge. hovering. trembling. every nerve screaming for release.

and then he stops. "you're not ready," he'll say, voice flat. "not yet." and he'll keep you there. for as long as he wants. watching you squirm. needing more.

he doesn't do it to be cruel—not exactly. it's all about reminding you who sets the pace. who decides when you get what you want.

plus he likes watching you fall apart.

the way your breathing quickens. the way your hips twitch, seeking friction he's not giving you. the way your voice cracks when you beg. it's a study in desperation—and he's a very thorough.

"you're so responsive," he observes, tracing a gloved finger along your inner thigh. "like you're not sure what to do with yourself."

"please," you gasp. "please, i need—"

"i know," he says. "that's the point."

he draws it out for minutes, hours, like however long he deems necessary.

he'll touch you just enough to keep you on the edge—fingertips ghosting over sensitive skin, mouth hovering just out of reach, his breath warm against your ear while his hands stay still. "you're doing so well," he murmurs. "holding on for me."

he'll stop mid-motion. pull away just when you're about to tip over. watch you writhe with a detached sort of fascination.

"look at you," he says. "so desperate. so... unravelled."

there's something almost tender in his voice. but his 

white eye is sharp. assessing.

he's cataloging this moment. filing it away for later.

and when he finally lets you—"now," he says. "now you're ready." and he gives you everything you begged for. but he makes you wait. just a little longer. 

because that's who he is.

v = volume

ticket taker is quiet.

not the kind of quiet that comes from shyness or restraint—it's controlled. like he's actively choosing not to make a sound. every moan swallowed. every gasp bitten back. every whimper locked behind his teeth.

like he doesn't moan. doesn't gasp, or whimper.

but he breathes!

okay look! when he breathes, it’s like heavier than usual. faster. the pace of his chest changing, hitching, betraying him in ways his voice never will.

and sometimes—when he's close, when his careful control slips just a fraction—you'll hear something. a low hum. almost a growl. a sound that seems to come from somewhere deeper than his throat.

"there," he'll breathe, voice strained. "just—there."

and then he's gone. pulling himself back together. and you're left wondering if you imagined it.

the sound of him unraveling, omfg it's so  rare. precious. something you have to earn. 

for example: 

he'll be inside you, hips moving with that steady, measured pace, and his breathing will change. shallower. faster. his gloved hand will grip your hip a little tighter. his jaw will clench. his white eye will flutter like just for a second. and then—a sound. low and guttural. almost involuntary. like it escaped before he could stop it.

your name. or a word. or just... a random sound.

"ticket taker—"

"quiet."

"but—" he covers your mouth with his hand. his hips stutter. his breath catches. and then he makes it again. that low, raw sound that vibrates through his chest. and then it's over. he's still breathing hard. staring at you like you've seen something you weren't supposed to.

"...that didn't happen," he says.

but his hand is still trembling against your lips…

w = wild card

lmfaooo since when has ticket taker ever been wild?? 

the only thing can be said is that he has a SCHEDULE.

not just for work—for everything. when he wakes up. when he eats. when he sleeps. when he reviews ledgers. when he polishes his boots. and yes—when he fucks. he probably has you penciled in. tuesday, 8pm. thursday, 9pm. saturday, all night because he's generous like that.

"it's more efficient," he'll say, when you ask. "i don't have to wonder when i'll see you next. i know."

it's not romantic. it's not sexy. but it's him. and somehow, that makes it worse.

like. he didn't even ask. he just... slotted you in. between "inventory check" and "polish top hat."

you're not sure if you're flattered or terrified.

x = x-ray

as we all knowm, ticket taker is on lean side.

so, not bulky like pierrot, not wiry like harlequin. just... elegant and the short out of the memebers. long limbs. narrow hips. nice ass. the kind of body that looks good in a suit.

overall, ticket taker's body is just pristine. but he has lines, like faint pale lines that look like they've been pressed into his skin for years. from sitting. from writing. from being still for too long.

"it's from the desk," he'll say, when you ask. "i spend too much time there."

and down there? ...it's proportional enough?

overall, it's neat. maintained. like everything else about him. trimmed, tidy, no surprises. he doesn't have anything to prove, and honestly? that confidence is kind of hot.

"it's efficient," he'll say, like he's defending a business decision. "does the job. no excess."

and he's not wrong. it does the job. perfectly well, actually. he knows exactly how to use what he's got.

"size isn't everything," he'll mutter, adjusting his top hat. "it's about precision. technique. consistency."

and then he'll prove it.

"i don't need to compensate," he adds. "unlike some members of this circus."

the thing is—he's not insecure about it. he's the shortest. he's got the smallest everything. and he's fine with that because he's still the most controlled, the most precise, and probably the only one who can keep a schedule.

"quality over quantity," he says, straightening his coat. "that's my motto."

"that's not—"

"i know what i said."

y = yearning

ticket taker's sex drive is moderate and manageable.

he doesn't need sex. overall, he can go days—weeks—without thinking about it, lost in his work, his schedules, his order.

it's just another bodily function to him. something that arises. something to address. nothing more.

"it's not a priority," he'll say, if you ask. "i have more important things to attend to."

and he means it. BUT when he does think about it—when he thinks about you—it's consuming.

he'll be in the middle of something. a ledger. a schedule. an important task that requires his full attention. and suddenly his mind is full of you.

the way you sound when he hits that spot. the way you feel beneath his hands. the way you look at him like he's not a monster, like he's something worth wanting.

his pen will pause. his white eye will go distant. his breathing will change, just slightly.

"inefficient," he'll mutter, shaking his head.

but he doesn't stop thinking about you.

it's never predictable. never convenient. he'll be reviewing inventory counts, calculating ticket sales, organizing his desk—and then a memory surfaces. 

your voice. your touch. the way you said his name like it meant something.

his hand will still. his jaw will tighten.

"this is ridiculous," he'll say to no one.

but he's already distracted. already thinking about the next time he'll see you. already running through the schedule in his head, checking if there's a window, an opening, a moment he can carve out.

and when he finally gives in—

he doesn't just want you. he needs you. in a way that surprises him every time. he'll pull you into his office. lock the door. pin you against the desk. and for a moment all that control slips away.

"i was trying to work," he'll murmur against your neck. "i was trying to focus." his hips press forward.

"and then i thought about you." he says it like it's an accusation. like you've done something to him. 

and lowkey maybe you have. 

z = zone

ticket taker is sensitive. more than he lets on. more than he'd ever admit.

his body is a map of places that make him shiver, and he's spent years pretending they don't exist. ignoring them. suppressing them.

but with you? he can't hide.

1. his neck

ticket taker's neck is achingly sensitive. the column of it, long and pale, where his pulse beats just beneath the surface. when you kiss him there, so when you drag your lips down the side of his throat, when you bite just hard enough to leave a mark and his breath catches. his hands tighten on your hips. his white eye flutters closed.

"again," he breathes. "do that again."

and when you do, when you suck a bruise into the space just below his jaw, he makes a sound. quiet. strangled. desperate.

"fascinating," he murmurs, but his voice is shaking. "i didn't know i could —" he doesn't finish the sentence. 

he's too busy pulling you closer.

2. his hands

his hands, plaything.

specifically, the spaces between his fingers. the webs of skin that stretch when he spreads them wide. when you press your mouth there, so when you kiss each knuckle, when you suck one of his fingers into your mouth and look at him while you do it—his whole body tenses.

for example:

"what are you—" his voice cracks as  you swirl your tongue around his finger. his hips twitch. "...doing," he finishes, barely audible.

"research," you say, popping his finger out of your mouth. "you're not the only one who gets to study things."  his white eye and blue is wide, fully dilated. and he's staring at you like you've just rewritten every hypothesis he's ever had.

3. his inner thighs

this one is soooo cruel.

it was originally a secret, something he kept buried deep, something he never planned to share. but somehow, somehow, you found out. maybe you noticed the way he flinched when your fingers brushed too close. 

maybe you saw the way his breath caught when your lips grazed the inside of his leg. maybe you just knew because you know him. because you pay attention.

his thighs are his weak spot. 

the skin there is thinner than the rest of him. more delicate. more responsive. it's where he's most vulnerable, most exposed and he hates it. hates how much he loves it.

when you kiss the inside of his thigh, like when you drag your tongue up the soft skin, when you bite just hard enough to make him flinch—he falls apart.

not slowly. not gracefully. completely.

his composure shatters. just leaving him all raw and desperate and needy in a way he never lets himself be.

for example:

you're in his bed. his office is quiet. his shirt is nearby off. his white eye is fixed on the ceiling, and his breath is already shallow just from the anticipation.

you start at his knee. soft kisses. gentle.

he tenses. "what are you—"

"shh." you move higher. your lips brush the inside of his thigh. 

he gasps."stop—"

“hmm… no." you kiss him there. linger. his hips twitch.

"you're torturing me," he says, his voice strained.

"is it working?"

his white and blue eyes are wide. his chest is heaving. his hands are fisted in the sheets.

"yes."

so you keep going. you kiss and bite and lick until he's trembling beneath you, until he's begging.

"please," he gasps. "please, i can't —"

"you can." you press your mouth to the spot where his thigh meets his hip. the most sensitive spot. the one that makes him break.

he bucks off the bed. his whole body arches. "...okay," he breathes. "okay. maybe i can."

you smile against his skin. and you keep going.

that was maybeeee out of character, but i wanted to see for myself

so overall, in summary about ticket taker!

remember, he's not like the others. he won't lick you or collar you or experiment on you. he'll just... watch. wait. catalog.

and when he finally lets you in and when he finally cracks, trust, it'll be worth it. because ticket taker doesn't give his trust easily. doesn't give his body easily. and when he does, like when he chooses you—it means something.

so take care of him, plaything. be patient. be gentle. and for the love of all that is stitched and sacred—kiss his thighs.

he'll might thank you.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

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