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Indulgences of a quieter sort— The rather yummy features of each, in a way that isn't quite vulgar, but most certainly whets the appetite.
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.
