Pairing: Brahms x reader
Prompt: matching Christmas sweaters :P
tw: no warnings, although one brief mention of reader being AFAB. slight NSFW (if you squint)
enjoy heheheheheheh I love making this man squirm. also i am in my Christmas feels and it’s not even December sorry not sorry.
*~*~*
The *second* she pulls the sweater out of the bag, Brahms *freezes*.
He backs up immediately, eyes wide behind his mask. “No.” The word comes out sharp, final—like he’s already plotting his escape route through the walls if necessary.
She doesn’t falter for a second. Instead, she grins—that same mischievous grin that always spells trouble for him—and takes a step forward with the sweater held out like some kind of peace offering turned weaponized holiday cheer. “Come on,” she wheedles, voice dripping with faux sweetness as she advances further into his space until he hits the wall behind him (literally). “It matches mine!” She tugs at her own equally ridiculous green and gold monstrosity for emphasis before wiggling her fingers in front of his face where they clutch onto fabric salvation (or doom).
He swallows hard; throat bobbing visibly beneath porcelain edges when realization dawns: there is no way out this time. because those are matching sweaters meant specifically to be worn together…which means resistance will only delay his inevitable surrender rather than prevent it altogether, given how relentless she tends to get when determined enough about things involving holidays or him being forced into anything remotely festive against typically reclusive tendencies...but may the gods help anyone who tries telling HIM admitting defeat aloud! So instead?
A last-ditch effort emerges via hissed whisper through gritted teeth while glancing around desperately as though seeking divine intervention:
***"I hate you."***
(He does not.)
She laughs, all bright and sparkling, like she knows damn well he's a goner and is enjoying how fast he's crumbling. One hand still clutching the offensive sweater like it's the *prize*, she puts the other on her hip—head tilted to the side in that way that always manages to make him feel like she's got a direct line to his very *soul*.
“Liar,” she teases, eyes gleaming with mischief as she presses in even closer until the sweater is all but draped right over his chest.
He can feel the heat of her body now—seeping through layers of fabric and warming his skin. His heart is thrumming hard enough that he's half-worried she'll hear it hammering away behind his ribs, and he curses his own body's involuntary reaction to her proximity.
He tries to glare—*really* tries—but it's hard to be intimidating when he's pinned to the wall like a goddamn fly in a web. He settles on a half-hearted growl instead, eyes narrowing in a half-hearted attempt at a scowl.
"...This is stupid."
She just grins, utterly undeterred by his gruff protests. Slides a hand down his chest. His breath hitches involuntarily—an involuntary strangled sound that makes him feel goddamn *weak* in a way he hates, even as some primal, possessive side of him can't help but be stupidly aroused by how damn close she is. He wants to grab her, drag her even closer, press her against the wall and show her who exactly she belongs to...but then she's teasing him with the sweater again.
“Please?”
The single word—spoken in pleading tones that are as earnest as they are manipulative—is almost enough to crack him then and there. But he bites his tongue, refusing to give in *that* easy, even when she's so damn close he can smell the faintest scent of her perfume. He looks like a trapped animal now—all twitchy tension and barely restrained need—and he's so goddamn tempted to just throw caution to the wind and just take what he wants.
“I’ll show you my boobs,” she whispers in his ear.
His entire body *jolts*—the words like a live current running through him. He's already breathing fast, but it ratchets up to a damn near-hyperventilation when she moves *even closer*, pressing up against his body so he can feel every single *curve* and *edge* of her. His fingers clench into fists against the wall, and he swears his brain just flat-out shuts down for a minute. because at the end of the day, he is just a man. A big, burly, sour, grumpy, stinky, man.
He's just gaping now, completely lost in the way his heart is trying to crawl out of his damn chest.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “But you have to promise.”
Her eyes light up at that. She's got him now, she knows it, and her grin gets even wider. Her hand slides from the sweater to rest against his chest instead, finger tracing idly back and forth across firm muscles beneath his shirt, like she's staking a goddamn *claim*.
“Promise,” she murmurs, hand on heart, leaning in even closer until all he can see and smell and *feel* is her. He waits, his eyes darting between her and anywhere else in the room, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.
“But you have to promise too.”
Gods, he's such a goddamn *goner.*
His hand clenches against the wall again, fingers leaving white-knuckled indents in the plaster. He's still struggling to find his goddamn voice, but he swallows the last bit of stubbornness and *hisses* out a strangled “promise” that manages to sound even more ragged than he feels.
He's not just losing at this point—he's goddamn *losing hard,* and he can feel the way his control is starting to unravel with every passing second.
She smirks in triumph, quickly peeling off her own sweater and tossing it aside with a reckless abandon that makes his breath catch.
“See?” she purrs, voice low and teasing as she guides the *horrendous* Christmas sweater over his head—forcing him to lift his arms like a child being dressed by an overly eager parent. The jingle bells chime obnoxiously as the fabric settles over him, the snowflakes garish against the dark of his usual attire.
He stands there for a moment—stiff and utterly *mortified*, face burning beneath his mask—before glaring down at himself in abject betrayal. “…I regret everything” he mutters darkly, but even he can't disguise the way his voice cracks on it.
(Not when she's already laughing, bright-eyed and flushed from victory.)
(Not when she leans up to press her lips to where porcelain meets skin below his jawline with whispered praise: “So pretty.”)
(And certainly not when he feels himself sinking further into this hopeless warmth anyway.)