Please please PLEASE do girl dad slender! I NEED an eldrich horror letting his daughter braid his tendrils PLEASEEEE
๑ Slenderman—terrifying, unknowable, cosmic horror—has a daughter who absolutely has him wrapped around her tiny pinky. There is no other way to say it.
๑ She is one of the only living things he will ever allow to climb on him, yank at him, tug his suit, or grab his tendrils without instant obliteration. The moment she was born (however that happened—a dark ritual, adoption, whatever you decide), something ancient and buried inside him shifted.
๑ Tendrils? Her personal playground. She braids them like hair, sometimes tying little plastic hair clips on the ends—bright neon butterflies, Hello Kitty charms, pastel beads. He will stand there perfectly still, towering and silent, while she concentrates on twisting one of his shadowy limbs into a sloppy braid. If she tells him not to move, he does not move.
๑ She’s the only person on Earth who can command Slenderman with a sing-song “Daddy, stay still!” and he will comply.
๑ If the braid falls out, she will pout, and Slender will bend down to let her redo it. If she wants to brush them? He lets her. If she wants to paint them? She’s allowed, although the eldritch, shifting material of them seems to drink up the color after a while.
๑ He doesn’t speak in human language or aloud very often, but she understands him anyway—through a resonance in her mind, through warm pulses of energy, or that odd sense of “knowing” he gives her. She’s never afraid.
๑ When his daughter was born, Slender immediately altered the entire mansion around her. Its cold, oppressive halls were reshaped: he expanded rooms to give her space to play, smoothed out sharp corners with an impossible warp of reality, removed jagged bits of floor or splintering banisters. It became, essentially, a haunted, warped nursery just for her, hidden inside a monster’s lair.
๑ Her bedroom is the one place even the proxies fear to tread, because it’s sacred to him. It stays bright—he alters the light around it to mimic sunlight even in the pitch-black woods—and the atmosphere is perfectly adjusted to feel warm and safe. Plush toys, a soft bed, even tiny slippers neatly placed by the door, all untouched by the darkness.
๑ As she grew, he added a little playroom. Walls scrawled with her marker drawings, furniture warped into soft shapes, no sharp edges, no splinters, everything perfectly safe. The others (Hoodie, Masky, Toby) can hear her giggling behind those walls, and Slender lets them know in no uncertain terms that they are not to interfere.
๑ Out in the forest, she is untouchable. The woods—his domain—bends to her like a living creature. Tree branches shift away so she never scratches her skin. Roots pull back into the dirt if she runs barefoot. The forest floor stays clear of stones or traps. It’s like the forest loves her, because he loves her.
๑ If she ever does trip, a tendril swoops down and catches her before she even hits the ground. She will giggle and demand “again!” and he’ll carefully set her down to let her run, just to catch her again.
๑ When she’s older, she can wander the entire forest without a flashlight, without shoes, without a single scratch or bruise, because her father commands the woods to keep her safe, for the leaves to shift so the moonlight can shine on her, for the proxies to keep watch always when he cannot.
๑ Her power over him is absolute. If Slender is in a rage—the kind of rage that twists dimensions, unravels sanity, and destroys with a glance—all she has to do is walk into the room. That child, with her bright eyes and tiny voice, only has to say “Daddy?” and he stills instantly, tendrils falling still around him like gentle ribbons. She is his anchor, his calming force, the only being who can call him back from oblivion.
๑ The proxies see him obliterate trespassers without hesitation, tear souls apart, warp minds beyond recovery. But the same Slender will bow down to this tiny child so she can brush leaves out of his suit or hold his tendrils. It’s a terrifying, beautiful contrast.
๑ She has never been afraid of him. Not once. Even when he stands at his full, horrifying height, faceless and wreathed in writhing black, she will run to him with open arms—and he will fold down to catch her every time.
๑ Sometimes she sleeps in his lap, right on the black fabric of his suit, curled like a kitten with her arms around one of his tendrils. He stays completely still for hours so she doesn’t wake.
๑ Tea parties? He’s invited. His impossibly long legs folded up, suit immaculate, patiently holding a tiny toy teacup between his sharp fingers while she scolds him for not holding it properly.
๑ When she has nightmares? Slender is there instantly. The entire forest, the whole mansion, will go deathly quiet as he drifts to her bedside, pulling the darkness away from her dreams, holding her gently with his tendrils like a fatherly weighted blanket.
๑ She’s a talker. Chatty, bubbly, imaginative. She will chatter to him for hours about her toys and her games and her favorite cartoons, and he will listen. That blank, faceless head angled down toward her, tendrils gently shifting in a pattern only she can decode as they wrap around her tiny body not out of malice—but love.
๑ If anyone—anyone—tries to hurt her? They will know the meaning of absolute, annihilating, cosmic rage. Slender will burn entire worlds for his daughter without a second thought, turn your flesh inside out and make you look at your own insides, and flash every nightmare you’ve ever had in your mind for eons.
๑ When she’s older and starts to feel embarrassed about him, worried he’s “scary,” he’ll quietly withdraw, respecting her boundaries. But the moment she comes back for comfort, missing his weird, cold embrace, he welcomes her without question.
๑ He absolutely calls her “my birdie” in that eerie, echoing mind-voice—no matter how old she gets.
