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18+ Creepypasta × Reader blog. Requests open, NSFW content ahead. Admin is 21.

[proxyology]

PROXYOLOGY.

he/it/they. 21. no post schedule.

imagines, oneshots, shortfics.

minors DNI.

requests open— NO hard cnc. i do not write fem! reader.

WRITING AS.

favorites: #jeff the killer. #eyeless jack. #ticci toby. #masky. #hoodie. #liu and sully.

less often: #the bloody painter. #ben drowned. #laughing jack. #slenderman. #zalgo. #jane the killer. #nina the killer. + others.

will not write: offenderman. sally.

[proxyology]

chat i SWEAR there's content on the way i'm so sorry

[cryingintheclubdhmu]

The Space In Between ☘︎

────୨ৎ────

Brian had kept you at an arms length since he’d met you. Too dangerous, too risky, it just wasn’t safe- especially since he isn’t always in control. However, despite the odds, you’d made yourself a home in his heart, and all he’s ever wanted was warmth.

Yet, he’s not the only one who has eyes on you.

!! Ft. Hoodie x AFAB! Reader !!

This is my marblejar AU !! ^3^ Hoodie is a separate entity to Brian and he’s real big on yearning :pp

Divider by @sweethearticism

────୨ৎ────

— ^ ^ —

Sometimes your boyfriend isn’t your boyfriend.

You could tell from his walk, the silence in his footsteps and the twitch in his hands. The never-ending tension in his shoulders.

Then all of a sudden, you’re staring at a stranger wearing the face of your heart.

A man who bore your lover's eyes but not their softness.

Hoodie.

Someone dangerous- or so you’re told. Brian doesn’t trust him, makes you swear to run when he isn’t the one at the front. However, these days, you’re unsure about the other’s intentions.

At first, you’d taken his words at face value. Followed his instructions on how to read the signs of the switch taking place. How to know if Brian wasn’t there anymore. Yet, over time, you grew curious. On top of that, he didn’t seem as terrible as he was made out to be. Not from what you’ve seen, anyway.

Your initial meeting with Hoodie wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Brian had warned you it would be. As a matter of fact, it was actually quite mundane.

He came home too quiet, too still. So naturally, you probed. Asked about his day, tried to greet him like you usually did- and when he froze up, you knew. Though his mannerisms weren’t what you expected.

Honestly, he didn’t really do much of anything. Simply keeping to himself, he stared and observed you mutely from a distance. It was a little unnerving, but it hadn’t felt threatening. Like an odd roommate who didn’t know how to interact with someone new. It wasn’t bad, just different.

Brian hadn’t told you too many details, only enough to explain his situation. Hoodie came and went, doing dirty work that was kept under wraps. You didn’t understand completely, but you weren’t dense. The scars and overalertness had to stem from somewhere, and it wasn’t your lover.

The other guy was an enigma. Moved like a ghost and never spoke to you. In the small glimpses you’d catch of him, he’d always be busy. In the middle of an urgency, you couldn’t see or a plan in the making, he’d slip out the back door like he hadn’t been there to begin with. It was just something that happened sometimes- until recently, that is.

Aside from the difference in his body language, Hoodie kept a mask on nearly twenty-four hours a day. Kept the separation in the middle- the separation in your lives overlapping. Yet about two months ago, you’d awoken at four in the morning to see him struggling to stitch himself up in the bathroom.

Mask rolled up to his nose, he hissed, clearly frustrated by the shake in his hands. And maybe he wasn’t your boyfriend, but it was still his body- his voice. The sight had worry flooding you, and you’d acted before you could think it through.

The man was evidently touch-avoidant right off the bat. Refused to let you close enough to actually hold the needle, so you settled on handing him tools from the tub ledge and bringing up a glass of water after. Though from his hesitation, even that was pushing it.

While he stayed silent the entire time, you asked him random things just to talk. Eased the tension slightly so you could breathe. He wasn’t Brian, sure, yet that didn’t matter. If he was going to be occupying your lover's limbs half the time, the least you could do was try to befriend him.

That night, something changed between the two of you.

Perhaps it was the breach in distance, or the concern in your tone, even though you knew he wasn’t Brian. Either way, his perception of you had been altered, and it was a slow, yet undeniable slope.

He started lingering. Studying you from the corners of rooms and following your silhouette. Not physically, but with his eyes. You could always feel the weight of his stare, the space that his presence took up. You began speaking to him, too.

Little comments, questions about how he was that you knew he wouldn’t respond to. Or you’d talk about your day. A show you started, a recipe you’d looked at. Brian was heavily wary, but you assured him that you didn’t feel unsafe. Hoodie had never done anything to put you on edge, and you ended up in a weird grey area.

He wasn’t an enemy, yet he wasn’t an ally either. Just someone else. That’s it. Except tonight, you were at a breaking point.

Hoodie had come home clearly hurt. Wincing every time he moved, his body seemed on the brink of collapsing, and he still wouldn’t rest. He could barely walk, stumbling onto the love seat adjacent to the couch. It was obvious he was planning to disappear the second he caught his breath.

With his face covered, he huffed raggedly, and you sat up, worry kicking in upon seeing the blood soaking through his sweater. “I’ll um- I’ll get the med kit.” You mumbled, then you were in and out in a flash. Returning with a white box in your arms.

The moment you approached, he tensed. Fingers twitching by his sides as you lay out antiseptics onto the coffee table. “We need to clean it.” Yet he didn’t budge, remaining stone still when you sighed.

“Hoodie.” Standing in front of him, you fidgeted in place. You didn’t care if he was supposedly dangerous; you couldn’t just let him bleed out in your shared living room. “Can I?” A gesture at his abdomen, and he tilted his head to the side by a fraction, almost imperceptible.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now. You reached for the hem of his sweater, tentatively tugging it up his stomach. The wound was deeper than you’d like, and you frowned. At least it was better than the last time, not needing full-on stitches to keep together.

Now came your other problem. He was sitting in a cramped chair, and the angle that you’d need to successfully take care of the injury was an intimate one. You could ask him to station elsewhere, but you doubt he’d give you more than a grunt in return and not stir an inch. You exhaled through your nose. Why must he be this way?

“I’m gonna’ get closer.” You felt stupid saying every tiny thing out loud, but you wanted to give him the chance to disagree if he was uncomfortable. However, it appeared that either the blood loss was getting to him or he was feeling generous today- because he gave you a single nod instead. Spreading his thighs wider to give you room.

You shuffled forward, dropping to your knees with alcohol swabs in your grasp. It was so strange. He smelled like Brian, wore Brian’s clothes, had Brian’s hands, but he wasn’t Brian, and it threw you off. Especially when you could feel his gaze on you.

The position you were in was aggressively close, and your cheeks felt hot while you dabbed the wound. Cleaning the dried grime from the area was easy enough. Then came the bandages, yet just as you were about to rise, his hand stopped you dead in your tracks.

Hoodie’s gloved knuckled grazed the top of your cheek. Featherlight as he nudged the skin. “...Yes?” You mumbled. This was the first time he had crossed the invisible barrier on his own accord. The first time he’d chosen to make contact. He’d barely even acknowledged you before, let alone touched you- so what was this?

His voice had your eyes nearly bulging out of your skull.

“You’re tense.”

Cocking his head to the left, he replaced his knuckle with the pad of his thumb. It was like there’d been a physical shift in the air. Something sharper that penetrated static- and in that moment, you understood what Brian meant.

It felt as if you were being studied by a predator. On the edge and bartering for your life with means you didn’t have. Like if you moved too suddenly, he’d pounce and sink his teeth into you.

The way he spoke wasn’t what you were expecting either. In theory, he would sound the same- but he didn’t. Not really. Your boyfriend's warm drawl had been muted to a rasp, the words coming out breathier, huskier. Where Brian was distinct, Hoodie was coarse. It was only two syllables, yet he was so monotone that it was almost melodic.

You cleared your throat, folding your hands onto your lap. “I was just worried.” He hummed in response, swiping his thumb to the side, resting it under your lashes.

“About me- or about him?”

Delivered quietly, his question made you blink. You never thought of it that way. Sure, you knew they were different people, but they shared a frame, and that was complicated. You exhaled slowly, unsure from your spot on the carpet.

“Both..? I just don’t want you bleeding.” Muttering, you picked at your nails, and he leaned forward. Crowding your space when his fingers dragged from your cheek to your jaw. He tilted your chin up. Not necessarily harsh, it was more clumsy than anything.

He held your face like he didn’t know where to place his hand. Too much force in one place and too stiff in others- as if he was fuelled by raw instincts.

Mimicking an action he’d seen elsewhere, only to lack the nuance needed to fulfill the motion. You couldn’t meet his eyes through the cotton, but you stared anyway. Like you were hypnotized.

A few seconds containing the weight of hours passed, then he huffed. Going to talk- before he cut himself off with a grunt. It appeared that pitching towards you irritated the dried blood, making the wound reopen. You gasped. “Ah- shit.” Reclining quickly to snatch clean gauze, you were swift to press the material against his gash.

It wouldn’t stop soaking through. You don’t know how the hell it got worse from simply sitting up, but the red was dribbling down to his belt.

Your panic didn’t go unnoticed, and Hoodie clicked his tongue. Covering your wrist with a calloused palm, he tugged your arm, compressing the cut roughly. It stole your balance, and you caught yourself on his knee.

Now, face to face with his chest, you swallowed. “Sorry.” A pitiful whisper that he paid no mind to. It was humiliating for no reason; being around him made you feel stupid. Incapable of even the smallest thing. Unfortunately, you weren’t as stone-faced as you’d thought, and he sighed. Loosening his grip as you looked up.

He swapped his hand placement, switching from his lock on your forearm to blanketing your knuckles. Still firm, but less detached. Personal, in a way. Softer.

“You have to focus the pressure where it's deepest, understand?”

Hoodie was a lot more gentle than you’d thought.

Even his speech was surprisingly hushed. You could hear bits and pieces of Brian’s thicker accent, but most of his pronunciations were dulled. As if his tongue couldn’t figure out the twang and was stuck in the middle. Muscle memory limbo, or something like that.

You nodded, adjusting your grasp. “Are you hungry? We still have soup I could warm up.” Maintaining normalcy was all you could do, you supposed. He exhaled through his nose, removing his touch from steadying you to cup your nape.

His glove was warm against your skin, and you shivered. You didn’t know him, shouldn’t trust him, according to Brian- but he was holding you so carefully. Almost tender. It was conflicting.

“Are you scared of me?”

Hovering his face mere inches away, his warmth fanning over you. “No- I don’t... I was just-” You stuttered when he placed his free hand over yours on his stomach. It was too close for comfort, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. He had lulled you in, caged your leg in the maw of a carnivorous rosette.

Its incisors had been dug into your flesh the day you sat on the tub ledge. Butterfly stuck in a Venus flytrap.

He slumped until your lips nearly brushed through the mask. “You should be.” Whispering, it had heat licking up your spine despite the hesitation. Yet, as your lids drooped, he reclined, letting out an almost chuckle. A sharp breath through his nose that made you feel put on the spot.

You shook it off.

Focusing back on his injury, you carefully removed the gauze, checking if the wound was still bleeding. You snagged some adhesive and fresh bandages from the medkit. Hoodie was following your every move, surveying you like prey.

“Please be more careful- if you can. Maybe.” You simpered rigidly, tossing the dirtied cotton pads to the side.

You didn’t know what to say, how to act. He wasn’t Brian, but you couldn’t help the reactions his proximity elicited out of you. Was this wrong? Letting him touch you like this - allowing him to see your worry, your vulnerability, as only he could.

At the beginning, when he would arrive beaten and bruised, your concern stemmed from the fact that it was your boyfriend's body. Now, however, that line had been blurred. You didn’t care who was behind the wheel in there; you just wanted them safe. Hoodie saw straight through your internal battle and clicked his tongue.

A distraction.

Taking your unsteady hand in his, he guided you to the slash on his abdomen. “Stop thinking. It’s not as bad as it looks.” Helping you cover the forming scar properly, he hummed while you placed gauze down, making sure it stuck. It was just an application of bandages, yet it felt so intimate.

The sniper trailed along with each flex of your fingers, his touch never leaving your skin. You’d smooth down the woven material, and his larger palm would steer to your actions. You’d press the adhesive to his navel, and he’d trace the curves of your wrists. Leisurely mapping out your joints, the ridges and bumps of your knuckles- the way a lover would.

Blood-stained leather to flesh, the gloves were his prints, with your pulse as the tether between you.

You swallowed thickly once you were finished and leaned back. Though when you went to speak, his phone buzzed loudly, interrupting the delicate atmosphere- he huffed. Displeased, while he shuffled the device from his pocket, and he stood a second after.

Upon reading the notification, he straightened his jacket, evidently forced to depart due to whatever task was needed of him. “Are you going back out there?”

You muttered the rushed question, following suit. Stepping into his shadow as he trekked to the door. He hadn’t even been able to rest for a full hour, and he was already throwing himself to the wolves.

Hoodie walked briskly— just to be halted by a hand on his chest. You’d blocked his path. “Wait- um. I packed lunch earlier, but I didn’t eat it. Take it with you. Please.” The desperation in your cadence stunned him, and he paused, letting out a heavy sigh once it was clear you wouldn’t give up.

He gave you a single nod, remaining stationary until you returned with the neatly wrapped box. “Here. I don’t know if you’ll like it- Brian says it’s pretty good though. It’s stir-fry and rice, I made it this morning.” He accepted the meal mutely, then he hauled up his rifle from the floor. Your affection had been tucked into a leather satchel, mixed amongst violence you’d never understand.

With the gun slung over his back, he twisted the door handle, and you fidgeted behind him- the cold breeze wafting from the ajar exit. You watched him cross the barrier. Body half out the door when you called for him.

“Stay safe.”

A prayer whispered so earnestly that it had goosebumps shooting up his nape like lightning.

He shouldn’t. He’d already broken too many rules as is; he couldn’t afford to stay any longer. Couldn’t risk intruding on a life that was never his any more than he already had, yet he froze anyway. Because he wanted.

God, he fucking wanted. Hoodie wanted so bad that he choked on the longing. And you were right there. A breadth of a hair away, pleading for him to stay safe. Not Brian, not your lover who shared the same features, him.

Consequences be damned, if Brian got to have you, why couldn’t he? Spinning on his heel, he marched back over the threshold, cradling your cheeks roughly. It was so abrupt you almost stumbled back, but the grip on your face had you trapped. “Hoodie—?” His mouth slotted to yours in a blink.

Zero to one-hundred, he kissed you like he’d been suffocating all his life, needed your air as if he’d die without it.

You scrambled for purchase on his shoulders, both confused and burning from the inside. Your back hit the wall with a thud, making the shoe rack below rattle. “What’s- mmph- gotten into you-” The cotton chafed your lips, yet he didn’t seem to care. Too lost in the chase to be bothered with the sting. He parted from you with a frustrated grunt.

Yanking up his mask just enough to reveal his nose, he was back on you before you could even register what was happening. You were pinned to the surface, his arm braced by your head while he angled deeper. Teeth clashing and manic.

It wasn’t fair that Brian got to have you all to himself. It wasn’t fair that he had to put up with all the bullshit the boss threw at them without ever tasting you. It wasn’t fucking fair.

The tiny gasp you let out had him partched, and he groaned into your mouth. Sliding his knee between your thighs, he slipped his other hand down, bruising grip settling on your waist. Menthol and fever on your tongue as he grinded against your core.

You threw your arms around his neck, fingers skimming the edge of his mask. “You don’t know what the fuck you do to me-” His rasp made you whine, and he ran his tongue along his teeth. “Playing house with a fucker like Brian, you have no idea what you’re getting into.” Molding his lips to yours harshly, he rutted harder.

Rocking back and forth, the denim bumped into your clit enough to make you mewl. He was ruthless, manhandling you with ease, the coil in your gut curling tight.

Hoodie was touching you everywhere, grabbing at your hips, kneading the fat of your ass and hoisting you onto his thigh. Heat building and building and building—

His phone vibration jolted both of you.

Swallowing your need one last time, before he pulled away, chest heaving. A ribbon of saliva stretched between your lips, and he tensed his jaw.

Stepping back to let you collect your bearings, his mask was jerked down with a swift tug. The killer breathed heavily for a moment, then he clenched his fists, as if he wanted to reach out but couldn’t.

Tension was hanging thick in the air with too many things left unsaid, and you brought your hands to his collar. Straightening out his coat, before withdrawing. “I... Hope you like the food. Come back in one piece, okay?” You murmured.

The words sank into his bones, and he nodded once more. Leaving swiftly with the latch clicking shut behind him. Your heart beat slowed little by little, and you buried your face in your palms.

What the hell were you going to tell Brian now?

— ^ ^ —

Ouuuuhhhh the tension really twists my nuggets yk?

[proxyology]

Jesus christ! Genuinely one of my favorite Hoodie reads in a LONG while. Big 'When you think one of your favezy tumblr writers couldn't POSSIBLY write anything tastier' moment, y'know?

[proxyology]

SMOKE U OUT | Jeff, Toby, BEN, Liu & Sully. Vaguely Explicit. 18+

So maybe your boyfriend doesn't do cute dates. You can live with that— nature of the whole 'murderer' thing, isn't it? He makes up for it in one big way— being the reigning champion of a late night in. *CW: Intox.

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?"

[proxyology]

EXCERPT — Mirror , featuring HOODIE. Explicit.

… 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…

Full version.

[proxyology]

Mirror | Brian Thomas × Reader. Explicit, CW below. 18+

Your stoic, silent, eccentric boyfriend has always had a few... Quirks. You've taken most of them in stride– until one night, he returns from a mission, and his energy is different. He takes you in a way you've never been taken before. And, really, who are you to complain?

*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.

"Just what I needed..." And, Operator willing, he might just spend the rest of that night right by your side.

[proxyology]

Features | Masky, Jeff, Toby, (E)Jack. 18+

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.