⦻

Jeffrey Woods.

- Jeff's entire room had gone hazy near 15 minutes ago. The window was cracked, bringing in cold air and wheezing out wisps of smoke.

- His fingers, parted only enough to clip a half-smoked joint in between, pressed up against your lips. You didn't really remember how many hits you'd taken. A few off the first joint... And a few off the second... There had been a brief pause, to coat your tongue in the taste of Jeff's, hadn't there? Right. Between joint two and three.

- "That's right, dolly," a voice croaks, when you breathe in deep despite yourself. You know what he's doing. He likes you all buzzed up. All pretty and glossy-eyed and easy. "You just keep takin' what I give you."

- And you would. You'd breathe smoke out in a shudder, as his teeth find your neck and sink in– playfully at first. And then with force. He's pushing you back in bed, and beaming in the light of it when you grab the loose fabric on his shoulders, and pull him right down with you.

- One of Jeff's legs pushes between your own, all the while you wrap your thighs around his hips. You're clingy, when you're stoned beyond reason– and he uses it as a delicious little excuse to drive his hands up your shirt, and watch you squeal when his ice-cold fingertips skirt up your ribcage.

- You're giggling between gasps, until he grabs at your side and your hips pitch forward in reply; and that's when you find yourself pinned between mattress and hard-on, while he seethes through his teeth.

- "You don' mind, right?" He asks, but he's already unbuckling his belt. You hum, dizzy, and let your hands struggle to find the waistband of your pajamas. "Can't fuckin' help myself around you."

Toby Rogers.

- "Are you gonna keef it?"

- "Babe. I'm so keefing it."

- "Awesomeee," you coo, watching your boyfriend twist the old metal top of his grinder. You're both sitting on the back porch, out to smoke from the little glass pipe he swore he'd lost on a mission a few months back. You watch with shiny eyes while he tucks flower into the bowl, and then tops it with a rather generous sprinkling of that potent, green powder.

- Shaky hands bring the mouthpiece up to you, and he's flicking on a zippo with the other.

- "First hit's a-all you, babe," he offers, and you giggle at the way his pupils blow out when he watches you get ready. You breathe in deep, and Toby's terribly happy to watch. That is, until you push the pipe away and instead of breathing it out, your fingernails catch on short-shaven jaw, when you yank him in for a kiss.

- It's not long before he catches up– tongue sliding across bottom lip, an open hand working fingertips up your thigh. It never does take long to rile him right up, and he seems damn near happy to forget all about the bowl in the first place if it means kneading at your inner thigh, until your legs fall apart.

- "Toby–" you start with a gasp, when he gropes at you through buttoned denim. "Toby," you insist further, and he finally disconnects his mouth from your jaw.

- "Wh–what?" He nearly whines, thick brows furrowed as you bring the pipe closer to his face.

- "We're smoking? I'll give you head later."

- And what would you know..? He's just giddy to drain the bowl in one big hit, if he can manage it.

BEN.

- "Ooh, fuck, you're pretty," a cheeky voice snickers out, while you lean down to put your lips to the mouthpiece of a tall, green-tinted waterpipe.

- BEN's got you sat pretty at the foot of his bed, holding the bong in your lap while he leans in from his gaming chair, lighting the bowl up for you. Your eyelashes bat at him while you breathe in, and he lifts the bowl up once you've flooded the chamber with smoke.

- His lighter's tossed aside, somewhere between his mousepad and the stand for his third monitor. He doesn't really care for it now, instead tipping the pipe his direction. You playfully roll your eyes, and bask in the warm feeling in your stomach when you blow smoke at him, and his whole face turns pink.

- "Are you still trying to bait that redditor into fighting with you?" The latest and greatest in Ben's internet 'shitscapades,' as he calls them. He's breathing in deep, and you're watching the way his shoulders rise. "Nu-uh," he breathes out, and it's all smoke.

- "Been playing a lot of Apex lately, though," he continues. Before he can take off on a ramble about the latest updates, though, you're grabbing onto his shirt collar. Tugging him in, and he hums when his lips meet yours. You can nearly taste him smiling, as you lean back– but he doesn't follow you.

- When you part, he's got something troublesome in his eyes, and he stands up to grab a remote– only to set it into your waiting hands.

- "Why don't you play a few rounds, kay? I wanna see you try to focus. I'll only grope you a little."

Liu & Sully Woods.

- "Open your mouth, sweetheart," Liu guided, and he'd smiled when you listened without a second thought. An orange gummy was placed in your mouth, and he'd kissed your forehead. "Just half of what I took, so you should be fine. I'm gonna shower, kay?"

- That was forty-five minutes ago. In present-time, you were sat upright on Liu's bed, elbows perched in the window cill while you (rather blankly, might I add) stared out into the distant trees.

- You reacted six and a half seconds late, to the sound of the bathroom door opening. Liu stepped out in sweatpants and a loose tank, and that was... Enough.

- "I missed you," you blurted out, eager to watch the stitches in his cheeks shift slightly when he'd smile back. "It hit already? Christ."

- He's got almost enough time to sit in bed before you're on top of him, eager to straddle his hips. "I said," you huff, tucking your head underneath his jaw. You find one of those warm spots where his pulse beats heavy, and leave a kiss there. "I missed you."

- "Missed you too," he murmurs and his voice, smooth and low, seems to drop when you begin aptly sucking at that spot. Liu's hands find your hips and squeeze, groaning softly when you push yourself down on him. "But you're all mine, now, aren't you?"

*CW: Reader has AFAB-typical sex traits, though all are described with gender neutral language. Dom Top Brian. Service Sub Reader. Handjob. Hair Pulling. Facial. Creampie. Mirror sex. Roughness. Dirty talk.

Silent as ever.

That is what you think, when you hear the gentle creak of doorknob, and all-at-once realize that he's home. You're greeted by a near-faceless thing— tall, brooding, and splattered with blood. You never caught onto how he'd learned to sneak up the creaky back porch, and even better, up the creakier stairs, without ever granting you an inkling of his presence. You supposed that was just one of those little things that reminded you of your superstition.

"Missed you," you murmur, finally glancing up from a worn novel he'd gifted you a few weeks ago. A murder mystery– he suspected a curious type like you might enjoy it, despite the blood that tattered the bottom left corner of most pages, and sullied the cracked spine. You don't hear so much as a hum, while he unzips his winter coat and leaves it on a hook that hangs from the closet door.

His hands are just slightly too forceful, when he removes other items from himself. His holster is unstrapped, and the pistol within thuds heavily as it lands on your bedside table. A serrated hunting knife clatters at it's side, and your brows furrow. He's frustrated.

"Brian?" You muster, although you're not afraid. Not even when his 'face,' still hidden behind that strange, masked hoodie he wears around, snaps to face you... Like you said something you shouldn't have.

Ah. That's it. He hasn't come home yet.

What came home to you, instead, was the thing that drove him to kill in the first place. The ash and fog and static that took over his head and invaded his skull with little more than hunger and vitriol. That was what had come.

He approaches in heavy steps– audible. Present. Like he wants you to hear him. And you do, tucking a bookmark into your page and setting the book aside. Lucky you did: A gloved hand grips your face, and he stares you down. You can't see it, but surely you can feel it— heat licking up your back. It's bitter like shame, and sweet like excitement.

"Brian–?" You demand again, and this time your eyebrows are crinkled. You know exactly who sits behind the mask, but what you need is to hear him. Just once. He stares, and thinks, and with a mask of no expression, pleads.

"Later?" His voice is small. It's still deep– smooth, and low, and yet... Wanting. Needy. He can't be a person right now. He just can't.

He yearns to sully the look in your eyes when you soften. His fingers press into your cheeks, and it nearly hurts– and you're looking at him so, so sweetly.

"Okay," you agree, and that soft moment flickers into distant memory. He lets go of your face, only for long enough to tug his gloves off and stuff them in the pockets of his old denim. Two fingers reach up and tap at your bottom lip. You're unsure, but you part them anyways— and gasp when three long digits shove themselves against your tongue and slide in further.

The only sounds in the room are your soft breaths and the quiet wetness of his fingerpads wetting themselves with your tongue. He makes rough circles– pushing and pulling as he pleases. He doesn't seem to react if and when you gag. You're staring up at him, brows furrowed and confused. He likes that face— like he's the headlights.

You clink back to consciousness at the sound of a belt buckle coming undone. Your eyes flit down and a thumb clamps tight underneath your jaw. When you wince, he holds firm, until your gaze falls right where it belongs— on the faux face of his fabric mask. His hand loosens and you shiver at the realization. He doesn't want you to look. You gag one last time, tears beading on your bottom lashes, when he finally slides his fingers free from your mouth. It's near impossible to ignore the thick connection of your own spit that he carries down, while his other hand jerks the waistband of his boxers out of the way.

There is no watching it— not while he holds you so firmly, analyzes you so fully. But you can hear it. Your own spit helps his fingers glide in impatient fisting motions, and it stirs something in you when his dry hand laces into your hair and grabs on tight. You think you hear something like a sigh, like relief, but you can't be so sure when you watch his shoulders lace with tension.

When he grips to you tighter yet, you wince slightly, and his head tilts to the sound of a soft whine beneath your breath. Your eyes lock to his, and he's soothed by such obedience. His chest heaves, and his hand strokes, while the one that grips to you pushes you lower.

Lower, until you're kneeling in front of the chair you'd previously sat on— until your weight settles on your ankles, and his hand guides your head up. Finally, you're allowed to look— big doe eyes, gliding up the slick shaft of fat cock. So close, you can see him throbbing in his hand. You gasp when he pitches you closer to him, and you whine when he snickers and messily smears precum across your lips. Brian isn't usually quite so vulgar. You aren't, either, and yet you're burning up despite it all.

"Is this what you want...?" You whisper, brows quirking together slightly when his hand speeds up in an eager sort of rhythm. "Y'wanna use me, Brian?"

He growls aloud, fisting his cock so close to your face that you can feel the movement. Tears gather in your eyes as he grips to your hair— tight, and brutal, like you'll escape him otherwise. His breaths are tight. Labored. He's staring at the glossy look of your lips, and wondering what else he could do to them.

"It's okay," you assure, between slick sounds and fabric shifting. Your eyelashes bat when you blink up at him, and he tugs at the nape of your neck until you've got your chin raised. He wants to look at you properly. You look back— stare into the mask, with such pretty, trusting eyes. He really could do anything, couldn't he?

"Make me yours."

He does. Shoulders strap tight when he cums in thick, relentless bursts. There are tears beading heavy on your eyelashes as you brace, and Brian thinks only of his accomplishment when he paints pretty streaks up half of your profile.

He milks himself good and hard— squeezing at the base, as though he might massage another load out of himself before going soft. The three thinning spurts that followed would have to be good enough, and he decides they must be when your eyes flit open, apprehensive and sheepish. Good and properly marked. Fuck.

You're giving him those eyes. That look— like you were embarassed, but also something else. Like you wanted him to play this role.

"Get up," he demands, and he's sort of living for the way you jump before you obey. "Strip." And he watches, silently, while you do— down to underwear. That's when fingers wander again: thick, unyielding digits tucking against cotton and rubbing in eager circles. It's not like he needs to be gentle with you– he keens when he realizes you're just as wet as he'd expected.

You lean against him in a daze while he toys with you– when he rubs through underwear until it's thoroughly soaked, and then uses an index finger to shove it sideways, so that he might dip two fingers into your wanting cunt. And he does, though not for your sake. He's greedy enough for three, no, four, dips to his knuckles, but not enough for anything more. You whine when he pulls them from you, taking a few idle steps to steady yourself.

That same hand, humiliatingly wet, is used to grasp at your waist, yanking you over to the side of the chair you'd been sitting in to read. His fingers nudge at your spine, and he shoves you down– until you're half his height, and suddenly a renewed hard-on is weighted against your ass. Brian had never been... Like this. He was a sweet lover— doting, really. But never had he been so rough. Never had he been so demanding of you– bucking slick cock between your thighs like he might get off on that alone. With the way you're drooling on him? God, he might.

Instead, he settles for using forefinger and thumb to spread you open, and pushing his tip up against you until it felt tight. Teasing himself there, making you wait to feel full. Your eyes squeeze shut for just a moment, before patience runs thin.

"Fuck, Brian! Come on," you urge, wiggling back against him. He makes a sharp point of slapping your hip– and god, is he tempted to fill you right then. He nearly does when you keen, gasping out before shifting your hips back against him. "Please–" You finally seethe, and he's drinking your voice in like honey. "Pleaseee just fuck me, Brian, I can take it– You don't have to be gentle–"

One hand squeezes hip in hand when he pushes himself in– watching you eagerly take every inch. The pace is abrupt, bucking cervix-deep as though attempting to bruise. All he's paying attention to, though, is the way you moan. This was different. New— you'd never been so loud for him before. Never cried like you needed it.

"It hurts," you whine, when Brian's fingers lace into your hair again. Your eyes open again, and he's holding your head up, straight. His other-handed fingers tap your cheek, and he then points to the wall accross from you– where you make eye contact with his mask, dimly lit in the full-size mirror.

And there you are, too— bare naked, bent over a chair, lifting a leg up to take him deeper. He holds you there, and you know you're meant to watch. To see yourself take it– to see yourself under him.

"Fuck," you croak out, when tears dribble down your cheeks. He's so deep, and so relentless— how long can you even take this? "I love you," you squeak in your delirium— "I love you sooo much, Brian," and you mean it more, when his hand changes grip and finds your throat instead. He squeezes, and your eyes roll back— and you cum on him, squirting onto him and dripping to the floor. Brian bullies you through it in short, deep thrusts, until the stars in your eyes give way to static.

"Cum in me, please, please–" You insist, even though it hurts. Your legs are shaking, but it's okay– your hips are propped up on the chair arm, so you don't even have to hold yourself up, between that and him.

His teeth come to find your shoulder in a rough bite when he buries himself deep for the last time, groaning through a brutally sudden second orgasm. Brian fucks himself as deep as he can go— ensuring that every inch of you was infected with him. Ensuring that you wouldn't forget what it felt like to be well and truly taken by him.

And once his shoulders are done flexing, and he's sure he can't dump another drop into you— he pulls out, and his entire body is heavy. He's tired, and he's overwhelmed, and— Ah. Brian's home.

He sits himself properly in your chair, and gentle hands bring you to sit in his lap. Fingers rub gentle circles into your hips, as you keen thoughtlessly and settle into place, nose tucked up beneath his jaw.

Tim Wright

- You probably guessed this one. That's right– I'm going straight to his arms.

- Just think about it, he's built like a mountain bear... Thick, muscled, and hairy.

- He's always been fond of a classic flannel top, and you've always been a fan of the way he folds the sleeves up until his biceps nearly bulge underneath the taut, banded fabric.

- Makes it so when you sit on the porch of that horrid, run-down mansion and watch him work, your eyes focus much less on each split of log, and much more on every pulse of his forearms. He knows it, too.

- That's why when you're in his bed, and he's putting that stern tongue of his to good work, he wraps his arms beneath your thighs, and hooks them right back around on top. His hands look so big, holding onto you, digging his fingertips and short-clipped nails into the meat of your thighs.

- And you usually think, just seconds before your lips part in greedy omens, 'Thank god for those arms.'

Jeffrey Woods

- Definitelyyy going to have to say his shoulders.

- Jeff is built sort of... Strangely. He's lanky, but not freakishly tall in the way the clown is. Skinny, with narrow hips and a slim ribcage. That makes it almost odd, that his shoulders are so broad.

- He's kind of wired. Malnourished, typically, but streamlined with reckless, hateful muscle. The sort of thing built for little more than killing and harming and tearing and maiming. But you sort of like that, now, don't you?

- Of course, he knows that. He knows it when he returns from a kill, clothes tinted with muddy crimson, and shoulders knotted with the effort of dragging a mangled corpse down a flight of stairs.

- He knows it when you peek up from the book you're reading, sat at your desk, just in time to watch him from behind as he yanks his hoodie off and tosses it onto the floor. He peeks back, unblinking eyes tired, dry, and wanting.

- "You hurting?" You ask, and he snickers. You always do take the bait. He's already laying down in your bed, bare stomach warmed by your blankets and sheets.

- "Always. The shit I put up with? You wouldn't believe it, dolly," he huffs, as if you don't already know. You're gentle with your hands anyways, relishing in the sound of his pleased, idle groans. You're sure he'll return the favor, too.

Toby Rogers

- And if I say his eyebrows?

- Toby is a particularly interesting sort of man. As he grows older, he starts to pick up habits from his only real role model (which, Toby would never call him so to his face...), the ever-stoic Masky.

- He tries so, so hard to remain that way— brave, and focused, and polished, in that rugged, keeping-it-together sort of way. He wants to be a man you can rely on.

- The thing is, though, his eyebrows give him away. Only to you.

- You'll see it when you tease him. When your fingers scratch at the unruly curls at the nape of his neck, and he indulges in what little sensation he does feel. When you bring your mouth to his collarbone and suck something purple into him.

- The way they wrinkle in the middle. He hates that– a nearly ever-present reminder of the faces he shows you that he simply can't seem to knock.

- But isn't that your favorite part? When he gets impatient, and his hands paw at your waist and pull you closer to him. So impatient.

- "Stop playi–playing with me. You know I don't like that."

- Oh, but you know he'd never stop you.

Jack Nyras

‐ Ohhh, those lips. Don't even look at me and tell me I'm wrong.

- The thing about Jack is, you really can't stand it when he's wearing his mask for too long once you've seen him with it off.

- He isn't quite-so human anymore, and it shows. His ears have changed, pointed, and he'd noticed long ago that he'd gotten hairier. More animal. It shows, too, in the way his cheeks have split to make room for more teeth.

- Still, he's got those pretty, plump, duo-toned lips of his. Even in his greyed skin, his lips are still so, so pretty— a sharp cupid's bow lining a dark upper lip, and a thick, olive-bronzey bottom.

- You like them when they press to yours. You like them even more, when his tongue slides between both of them, before parting to sink into the palm of your hand– just beside thumb.

- He likes it, too. When you bleed for him so happily. When he gets to glide his tongue flat up your palm, and drink greedily the ichor that escapes you.