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.
You straddle Jeff's lap, the delicate lace of your new lingerie barely concealing what lies beneath. His scarred hands immediately fly to your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth, those lidless eyes burning into you with an intensity that would terrify anyone else. "Where the hell did you get this?"
You place a finger against his carved smile, silencing him as you begin to roll your hips in slow, deliberate circles. The friction makes him groan, his grip tightening possessively.
"You trying to kill me?" His voice is rough, strained. "Because this is how you fucking kill me."
You lean back, arching your spine to give him a better view of how the lingerie hugs your curves. His breathing becomes ragged, chest heaving as he watches every movement like a man starving. Jeff has never been good at patience, and you can feel him trembling beneath you—caught between the desire to let you continue and the overwhelming need to take control.
"No one else gets to see you like this," he growls, one hand sliding up your side possessively. "Tell me no one else has seen you in this."
You shake your head, grinding down harder against him, and he actually whimpers—a sound that makes power surge through your veins. Jeff the Killer, reduced to desperate noises beneath your touch.
"That's right," he pants, his usual cocky demeanor cracking. "All mine. Every fucking inch of you."
You roll your body in waves, hands trailing down your own curves as his eyes follow hungrily. He's rock hard beneath you, and when you deliberately press against that hardness, his head falls back with a strangled moan.
"Stop teasing," he demands, but there's a pleading edge to it now. "You're gonna regret this."
But you don't stop. You continue your sensual rhythm, watching him unravel. His hands roam everywhere—your thighs, your ass, sliding beneath the lace to feel bare skin. He's possessive and desperate, pulling you closer even as you maintain control of the pace.
"Gonna fuck you in this," he promises darkly, voice thick with need. "Gonna ruin you while you're wearing it."
You lean in close, lips brushing his ear as you whisper that he'll have to wait, and the growl that rumbles through his chest is purely feral.
Masky/Tim
Tim sits perfectly still as you approach, but you catch the way his jaw tightens when he sees what you're wearing. The mask is off tonight—you'd insisted—and now you can watch every micro-expression cross his face.
"What are you doing?" His voice is controlled, measured, but his eyes betray him as they rake over your lingerie-clad body.
"Just relax," you murmur, settling onto his lap. His hands hover uncertainly before resting on the chair's armrests instead of touching you. Always so controlled, your Tim.
You begin to move, slow and sensual, and you feel the tension in his body. He's holding himself rigid, fighting his natural reactions. But you know how to break that composure.
Rolling your hips, you press against him and feel the evidence of his arousal. His breath catches—just slightly—but you notice. You always notice.
"You don't have to hold back," you whisper, running your hands down your own body, guiding his gaze.
"Someone has to maintain control," he replies, but his voice is rougher now. His knuckles are white where he grips the armrests.
You lean back, arching beautifully, and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. Your hands trail up your thighs, teasing the lace edges, and his eyes follow the movement like he's hypnotized.
"Tim," you breathe his name, and something in him cracks.
His hands finally move to your hips—gentle but firm. "You're playing a dangerous game."
You grind down deliberately, and the groan that escapes him is everything. His fingers dig into your flesh, and you can feel him losing the battle with his restraint. His breathing is heavier now, chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his shirt.
"Keep going," he says quietly, and it sounds like both permission and surrender.
You do, rolling your body against his in waves, and his head tilts back. One of his hands slides up your spine, fingers tracing the delicate straps of your lingerie. The touch is reverent, almost worshipful, so different from his usual careful distance.
"You're beautiful," he admits, voice strained. "So fucking beautiful."
When you lean in to kiss his neck, he shudders, his control finally shattering completely as he pulls you flush against him.
Hoodie/Brian
Brian doesn't speak when you enter wearing your new lingerie. He simply watches from where he sits, that calculating gaze taking in every detail. Even without the mask, he has a way of making you feel observed, studied.
You approach slowly, letting him look his fill. His silence is heavy, charged with unspoken desire. When you straddle his lap, his hands immediately find your waist—not grabbing, just resting there with deliberate pressure.
You begin your dance, and Brian remains perfectly still except for his hands, which slowly explore. They slide along your sides, trace the lace patterns, map every curve with methodical precision. He's always been a watcher, someone who learns through observation, and now he's learning every way your body moves.
His breathing deepens, but he doesn't speak. Instead, he leans back slightly, giving you space to perform while his eyes devour every movement. You can feel his hardness growing beneath you, but his expression remains controlled—only his darkening eyes and parted lips betray his arousal.
You roll your hips in slow circles, and his fingers flex against your skin. When you arch back, his hands support you, sliding up to trace your ribs, your breasts through the delicate lace. Every touch is purposeful, measured.
Leaning close, you whisper, "You can touch more if you want."
His response is to pull you closer, one hand tangling in your hair while the other grips your hip, guiding your movements. Still silent, but his actions speak volumes. He presses you down against his erection, and you feel him twitch beneath you.
You grind harder, and finally—finally—a low groan escapes him. It's quiet, almost reluctant, but it's there. His grip tightens, and he buries his face against your neck, breathing you in.
His lips brush your throat, not quite kissing, just feeling. His hands roam more freely now, sliding beneath the lace to touch bare skin. When you gasp, you feel him smile against your neck.
Brian guides your hips into a faster rhythm, and you can feel how close he is to losing that careful control. His breathing is ragged against your skin, his body tense beneath yours. When you deliberately clench your thighs around him, he finally breaks his silence with a muttered curse, pulling you into a bruising kiss.
Ticci Toby
"Holy shit!" Toby's eyes go wide the moment he sees you. "Is that—are you—fuck, you look amazing!"
His enthusiasm makes you smile as you approach. He's already fidgeting, hands twitching with barely contained energy. When you push him to sit, he complies immediately, looking up at you with eager anticipation.
"This is for me?" he asks, grinning. "All for me?"
You nod, settling onto his lap, and he immediately touches you—hands everywhere at once, unable to choose where to focus. Your hips, your thighs, sliding up your sides to feel the lace.
"So soft," he murmurs, then laughs. "You're so fucking hot, oh my god."
You begin to move, rolling your hips, and Toby's reaction is immediate and unfiltered. He moans loudly, head falling back as his hands grip your ass.
His energy matches yours as you dance, his hips bucking up to meet your movements. There's no restraint with Toby—he's all raw desire and chaotic need. His hands roam constantly, touching, squeezing, exploring every inch of you he can reach.
"You're gonna make me lose it," he pants, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you. "Seriously, I'm gonna—fuck!"
You grind down harder, and he actually whimpers, fingers digging into your flesh. His tics make him jerk occasionally, but you've learned to move with them, incorporating them into your rhythm.
"Can I touch more?" he asks breathlessly. "Please, can I—"
You guide his hands to where you want them, and he groans appreciatively, fingers sliding beneath the lace. He's not gentle or calculated like the others—he's desperate and eager, touching you like he can't get enough.
"So perfect," he rambles. "You're so perfect, and this—" he tugs at the lingerie, "—this is fucking incredible."
When you lean in to kiss him, he kisses back hungrily, all tongue and teeth and need. His whole body is trembling beneath you, overwhelmed by sensation and desire.
Eyeless Jack
Jack tilts his head as you enter, and even without eyes, you feel the weight of his gaze. He sits with predatory grace, perfectly still as you approach in your new lingerie.
"Interesting choice," his voice is smooth, cultured. "Come here."
It's not a request. You move to him, and when you straddle his lap, his hands settle on your hips with confident possession. Unlike the others, there's no hesitation, no loss of control—just calculated appreciation.
You begin to dance, and Jack hums low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through both of you. His hands guide your movements, not controlling but enhancing, like he's conducting a symphony.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, one hand sliding up your spine. "You wore this for me?”
His touch is cool against your heated skin, fingers tracing patterns over the lace. He leans in, and you feel his breath against your neck—he's scenting you, taking in every detail through senses beyond normal human perception.
"I can taste your arousal in the air," he says quietly, almost conversationally. "Your heart is racing."
You roll your hips, and his grip tightens fractionally. He's hard beneath you, but his composure never cracks. Instead, he seems to savor every moment, every movement, with an almost supernatural patience.
His hands map your body with precision, finding every sensitive spot, every place that makes you gasp. It's like he already knows your body better than you do, and he uses that knowledge ruthlessly.
"Keep dancing," he instructs, and you obey, grinding against him in slow, deliberate circles.
Jack's breathing remains steady, but you can feel the tension in his body, the predatory hunger lurking beneath his controlled exterior. When his fingers slip beneath the lace, his touch is purposeful, drawing soft moans from your lips.
"That's it," he encourages, voice dropping lower. "Show me everything."
You arch back, and he supports you effortlessly, one hand splayed across your lower back while the other explores. His tongue—long and inhuman—traces up your throat, and you shudder.
"Exquisite," he breathes against your skin. "Absolutely exquisite."
When you grind down harder, seeking friction, he chuckles darkly. "Patience. I want to enjoy this."
But despite his words, you can feel his control wavering, his hands gripping tighter, his breathing finally becoming uneven. Even Jack, with all his supernatural composure, isn't immune to your seduction.
