#write a story about getting beat up by a boymoder

you’re walking home late at night when you see her—tiny boymoder, drowning in a massive hoodie, clutching her blahaj. shes glaring at you with big sad eyes. “uh... you okay?” you ask. mistake.

she growls, lowering into a sloppy stance. “i’ll f—fucking kill you,” she squeaks. then, without warning, she lunges. tiny fists pummel your ribs as you recoil in shock. one left hook clips your chin—weak, but the surprise factor sends you tumbling into a trash can.

as you try to get up, she jumps on your back, screaming “die cis scum!” while flailing wildly. it barely hurts, but the sheer effort is admirable. her socks slide against the concrete and she faceplants.

now she’s curled up on the sidewalk, sobbing into her shark. “m’sorry… m’not good at fighting… just wanted to be scary…” you sigh, pick her up like a lost kitten, and hand her back the blahaj. “it’s okay, kid. you tried.”

she sniffles, hugging the shark tighter. “can… can we get mcdonalds?” a story about getting beat up by a boymoder

did it calm down

#write a story about getting a footjob from a boymoder

the room was dim, lit only by the glow of a computer monitor playing some obscure anime. she sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled to her chest, big black hoodie swallowing her small frame. her feet were pale, delicate, toes curled nervously into the blankets.

you'd been flirting in /tttt/ dms for weeks, trading selfies under the pretense of "rate threads," but tonight she finally caved. *"fine,"* she typed, *"but only if u promise not to laugh at me."*

her socks came off first—one then the other, tossed aside with exaggerated shyness. her soles were soft, barely weathered by the world, and when they brushed against you, she bit her lip like she was afraid of doing it wrong. *"is this okay?"* she mumbled, cheeks flushed.

every time you moaned, she’d giggle, embarrassed but secretly pleased. *"shut up,"* she whispered, even as she pressed harder, testing what made you twitch. boymoder feet were something else—tender, playful, always on the verge of withdrawing like she might change her mind.

when it was over, she immediately hid her face in the hoodie, muttering something about *"never doing this again."* but you both knew she would. she was just like that. a story about getting a footjob from a boymoder

::boymoder TEST

>>243577
marisa stole the precious thing

bro i look away for like 5 seconds what the fuck

nice

::boymoder TESTing UI

RIP

::RIP

::F

I am a chaser

>>243606
still my greatest submission to this website

#write a story about a boymoder doing cbt

she sits alone in her dimly lit room, tangled in oversized hoodie sleeves and the static hum of dysphoria. blahaj rests beside her, judging silently. "ok maybe just a little," she mumbles, pulling up the wretched wojak meme, fingers trembling.

CPU temperature climbs. windows groan under the weight of another /tttt/ rabbit hole descending into despairposting. "fuck it," she exhales, jaw clenching as the index finger hovers over the imageboard tab. one click sends a pulse through her like cheap headphones buzzing with bass. no going back now.

debate threads explode in her retinas. "am i just a trender?" she whispers, biting her lip hard enough to taste salt. tabs multiply like self-loathing fractals—hrt timelines, hugboxxing, the relentless tttt brainrot. her knees draw up to her chest, fabric swallowing her frame whole.

blahaj flops over dramatically. the boymoder inhales sharply. "shut up... you don’t understand," she whines at the plush, fingertips digging into her thighs. discord pings. it’s another 4chan refugee sending voice messages drenched in hydrobromide-laced commiseration.

she spirals for three more hours. classic.

restart the cycle tomorrow. (maybe with more self-care. *maybe.*) a story about a boymoder doing cbt

I swear to god I think I might've made that chudjak

#write a story about a boymoder doing cbt, as in cock and ball torture

here's a terse story about a boymoder doing cbt:

---

she sat alone in her dimly lit room, blahaj perched on the bed next to her, staring judgmentally. her dysphoria had been bad today—stubble poked through crusty foundation, and the hoodie didn’t feel as comforting as usual. she needed to *feel* something else.

fumbling with shaky hands, she opened the vape cartridge drawer (where she definitely didn’t ALSO keep her transfem HRM) and pulled out the croc clips. her heart pounded. two pink ones—color-coordinated, because aesthetics mattered even during self-inflicted agony.

she hesitated, the cold metal dangling over pale skin. *”this is so fucked,”* she whispered to the void of /tttt/. nothing moved except her shaky breath.

click.

a strangled yelp escaped. her nails dug into blahaj’s plush belly.

“khhhaaa—” another pitiful whine. tears pricked her eyes, but she didn’t stop. *deserved it.*

one hand fumbled for her phone—already open to /tttt/—and typed with one thumb:

>tfw the dysphoria is unspeakable but at least the pain is *real*

she sobbed, knees trembling. blahaj said nothing, because blahaj was just a toy. but *she* knew. he understood.

---

moral of the story: don’t do this. boymoders deserve hugs, not clips. go drink water instead. a story about a boymoder doing cbt, as in cock and ball torture

the crying

I still remember making the bizzare decision to have the tears coming over the frames

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oh my fav spc

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[link removed]

#write a story about getting dimmed by a boymoder

it was a cold night at the wendy’s parking lot. you were loitering by the dim glow of a buzzing streetlight, chain-smoking malboros and scrolling through /tttt/ on your phone when *she* pulled up—some scrawny kid in an oversized black hoodie, sleeves long enough to swallow her hands whole. her posture screamed boymoder: hunched, nervous, eyes darting everywhere but directly at you.

“uh… hey,” she mumbled, clutching a crumpled paper bag. the smell of stale fries and defeat clung to her. you took a drag and exhaled slow, letting the smoke curl between you. “long night on the board?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

she nodded fast, grip tightening on the bag. “y-yeah. uhm—” her voice cracked. she swallowed hard, then dug into her hoodie pocket, pulling out—no fucking way—a half-crushed can of monster energy. she thrust it toward you like an offering. “do you… uh, w-want this?” her face was mostly hidden, but you caught the hint of pink on her cheeks.

silence. your brow arched. “…you tryin’ to dim me, hon?”

her entire soul left her body on the spot. “n-NO! i just—!!” she flailed like a spooked cat, nearly dropping the can. “ugh. n-nevermind—” she started to recoil, already halfway to bolting.

you grabbed her hoodie sleeve before she could flee. “relax. i’m joking.” her panic froze, but the embarrassment burned wild in her eyes. you took the monster, popped the tab, and handed it back anyway. “here. you need it more than me.”

she stared at it, then you. some dumb, fragile hope flickered across her face before she quickly hid behind her hood again. “…thanks,” she mumbled. her fingers brushed yours when she took it. cold. shaking.

you flicked your cigarette to the ground and crushed it under your boot. “c’mon, let’s get outta here before mall security thinks we’re dealing.” you jerked your head toward the broken bench by the bus stop.

she hesitated, then shuffled after you. baggy jeans swallowing her steps. boymoding hard , but the way she clutched the can to her chest—like she was holding something precious—told the truth underneath.

you both sat. she fidgeted, sipped the monster too fast, and winced when it fizzed up her nose. you snorted. she turned pinker.

above you, the streetlight flickered.

neither of you moved. a story about getting dimmed by a boymoder

:;goop

::goop

IM EATING AFUCKING HOT DOG!!!!

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::cryptid

#write a story about getting dommed by a boymoder

she corners you in the dim glow of her PC. hoodie sleeve draped over the keyboard, fingers drumming mockingly. “you’ve been so loud in the servers,” she murmurs, tilting her head like a cat evaluating prey. “think you’re funny?”

you stammer. her blahaj sits on the monitor, judging silently.

her knee presses between yours. the scent of stale energy drinks and cheap perfume lingers. “say sorry,” she demands, finger poking your chest with each syllable.

you mutter an apology, voice cracking. she smirks—translucent in the rgb backlight—before shoving you onto the bed. “good.”

the hoodie comes off. messy hair, hrt needles scattered by the nightstand. she pins your wrists, leans close enough for you to count her freckles. “you’re mine now,” she breathes. not a question. a story about getting dommed by a boymoder

.play spin me right round #spin ::spin

#write a story about cucking a boymoder

here’s a short, messy little story about that:

---

she sat there in her oversized hoodie, knees pulled up to her chest, blahaj clutched tight in her arms. her face was buried in the stuffed shark, pretending not to hear the sounds coming from the other room. every muffled gasp, every creak of the bed springs sent a sharp pain through her chest, but she couldn’t look away from the crack in the door.

“he’s not even that cute,” she whispered to blahaj, but her voice wavered. her fingers gripped the shark tighter. “i could do better… i could—i could…”

another breathy moan cut through the air, and she flinched. tears welled up in her eyes. why wasn’t it her? why did they always pick someone else? why was she stuck like this, hiding in the corner like some pathetic thing?

she muffled a whimper into blahaj’s plush body. the shark didn’t judge her. the shark didn’t leave.

then—silence. footsteps. the door creaked open wider.

“oh. you were watching?”

she ducked her head, face burning. blahaj took the brunt of her shame.

“look at me.”

she didn’t. but she wanted to. a story about cucking a boymoder

::nyan

::kawaii

::BBC

>>243859
I KNOW IT SMELL CRAZY IN THERE

>>243859
this pic is making me feel disgusted

>>243870
bury sexy gril

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SKIP ALL THE ASMR