β πΎπππ: ππ½π ππΎππ π πΆπ πππ κ© ππ½ / π ππππΎππΒ
αΰ½²ΰΌα―ΰΎ ββ Ink spun from my own fingertipsβplease donβt take, mirror, or rewrite it.
β π»ππΆππππΎππ: slender man, tim, brian, toby and kate. (ππΈ: 8.5k ) β ππΆππ: hc/s Β· mr / proxies Β· smut Β· established relationships Β· intimacy Β· all types of kinks Β· character study Β· bdsm dynamics Β· kink exploration Β· vague descriptions of genitalia.
β πππππ ππΎπ: Consider this your official, highly classified, definitely-not-approved-by-slenderman guide to what makes the proxies (and their boss) tick more inΒ thatΒ way. a paper bullet point list of their deepest, darkest, most delicious desires.
Because everyone knows the scariest thing about them isn't the masks, the static, or the 9-foot void in a suit. it's what they want to do to you when no one's watching.
Consider this your warning. (and your invitation!)
β πππππΉππ ππΆπ
starting off the wonderful man himselfβwell 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 handsβthose long, bony, terrifying white ass handsβcupping 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 himβevery 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 mindβ"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 voidβ"you are mine. and i am yours."
the way his voice (in your mind) drops lower, rougher, when you please himβ"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 youβyour thighs, stomach, chest, neckβevery 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 limitβ"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 himβ"mine."
the way he marks youβnot 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 wrongβwithout 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 sometimesβwhen you ask, when you needβhe 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 panicβ"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 mindβ"so perfect. so trusting. i will always catch you."
his thumb pressing gently against your windpipe, not to harmβto 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 independentlyβone thrusting, one curling, one pressing against your clit
you coming undone, clenching around him, and him still goingβ"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 youβlike 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 youβ"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 isβ"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 himβ"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 mindβ"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 temperatureβmaking 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 knowβyou'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."
β ππΎπ πππΎππ½π
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 actionsβthat 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 lowβ"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 thinkβ"shh, i've got you. just feel. i'll take care of everything."
the way he checks in, constant and softβ"you okay? still with me? tell me what you need."
after, holding you close, his voice a low rumble against your hairβ"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 youβhe 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 hesitationβlike 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 assβthe 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 rumbleβ"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?Β
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."
β π·ππΎπΆπ ππ½πππΆπ
ah yes, him. let's see.. brian's kinks are rooted in play. he's been serious his whole lifeβthe 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 holdingβ"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 thoughβ"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, pleaseβ"
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 littleβ" 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 littleβ" 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 constantlyβcolor, 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 itβalways 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."
β πππ·π πππΎπ ππππππΒ
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 heΒ shouldΒ 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 feelΒ real.
pain play. since toby can't feel pain the way you do. but he knows what itΒ looksΒ like,Β soundsΒ 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 wreckedβthen 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 thereβgentle but firmβand 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)βit'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 stomachβfeeling 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 thighsβthen 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 meltsβeyes 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 heΒ 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 voiceβ"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 returnβhe wants to make you feel good. needs to. it's how he proves he's worth keeping.
you on top, guiding him, setting the paceβslow, 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 needβ" 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 immediatelyβ"shh, shh, you're okay. you're taking it so good."
after, you telling him he did good, and watching his whole body relaxβlike 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 hereβhaving too much fun)
him on his hands and knees, face pressed into the pillow, back archedβwaiting 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 needβ"
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 rhythmβslow at first, then faster, then harderβand 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 feelΒ 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 hairβagain this alone is all he needs to feel grounded
he's messy. sloppy. desperate. he doesn't care about damn technique he cares aboutΒ 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 whispersβ"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 theΒ intimacyΒ of it.
he can't feel pain, but he can feelΒ 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 soβfuckβyou'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 lipsβ"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 himβeverything 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. "justβstay. 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 himβand 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 burdenβdon't prove him right. he needs your voice, your hands, your attention. without it, he falls apart.
"you're soβfuckβyou're so perfect. all of you."
β ππΆππ ππΎππππ-ππΆπππ
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, adaptingβwith 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 closeβbut 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 bondageβjust 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 downβ"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 chestβavoiding 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 youβlater. 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 toβbut you don't
you trying to anticipate her next touch, and her laughing softlyβ"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 smilingβ"that's it. i love it when you beg."
"you're taking it so well. such a goodβ" and she leaves the word hanging, letting you fill it in
her thumb pressing your lower lip downβ"open. let me see how much you want it."
when you whimper, she coosβ"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 paceβfaster, 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, tuggingβwatching your face twist with pleasure
"so sensitive," she murmurs. "i love how responsive you are."
ice, then heat, then her mouth againβkeeping 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 angerβit'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 herβand she loves knowing she's the one doing it to you.
you on your back, her thigh between yours, grinding against you slow and deliberateβwatching 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 adjustsβfaster, slower, harder, softerβreading your body like a map
you coming undone, crying out, and she doesn't stopβkeeps going, keeps grinding, keeps you falling
after, when you're both breathless and shaking, she kisses you soft and whispersβ"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 themβlike they're yours alone
after, when you're half-asleep, her voice soft and warmβ"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 cheekβ"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 saneβhow 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."
β€ β πΈππππ π / π½π πΎπππππΎππ
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. β βΛ αΰ½²ΰΌα―ΰΎ κ© γβ .α
β πΆ/π: letβs play pretend that i have been writing creepypasta stuff lol itβs been such a long time, so letβs see if i still go it or i completely lost it. so we starting small, plus iβm testing a semi-new layout as well! and don't worry there will be secoud one with already preselected list















