#thestaticfiles

✑ 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