Pretty Pretty Pretty pleaseeeeee could you do another 'your fav slasher' thing with otis driftwood? 🙏🙏🙏
I honestly got such feeling of nostalgia when I got this request! Because 4 years ago around this time, I wrote the first part of this. It’s crazy how fast time flies…
Anyway, thank you for your request, I enjoyed writing it <3
I did Otis, and added some more slashers, I hope you’ll enjoy 🩸
Keep in mind that this is just my personal interpretation. If you can see yourself in these descriptions, great, I’m glad. If not, that’s okay too.
So…
What does your favorite slasher say about you? 👀🔪 PART 2
Otis Driftwood:
You hate to be bored.
You need unpredictability with your partner, one day you’re doing this together, the next day you’re already creating a plan for another crazy thing.
They need to keep you on your toes to keep you interested.
Dark humor is your love language, and you probably don’t like people who are easily offended.
You may like people with strong personalities, someone who can make the whole room shut up and listen just with their presence.
Art The Clown:
You wild, wild thing…
You are into gory horror movies.
You prefer weird and strange things over normal.
You may be the person who has the weirdest and strangest “fun facts” stored, and just waits for the opportunity to make someone uncomfortable. As a joke…
Or maybe on purpose 😏
You probably like to express your opinion. It is either with spoken words, or even if you choose to stay silent, your expression does the work for you, just like in Art’s case.
Or you may like to express yourself with creativity.
Writing random ideas, poems, stories, and maybe even creating art.
Your type is probably someone who doesn’t say a lot, but their actions speak louder than words.
And you may like when your partner also has an artsy side.
Thomas Hewitt:
You love size kink, I know you do…
You love when someone is protective over you.
You love the Texas aesthetics, and I have a feeling you love animals, especially horses.
I have a feeling you’re a family type of person, or you like when your partner has a domestic side in them.
You may also like dark, rustic aesthetics.
You probably prefer countryside and nature over a busy city life.
You love when your partner fixes things with their hands. When they just know how to deal with things themselves.
Jason Voorhees:
You appreciate when people remember small things about you, and notice specific details about you.
You probably like to be alone, because you enjoy your own company.
You are selective with people, you may not trust easily, but if you truly love or care about someone, I have a feeling you would do anything for them.
That’s why you are probably into people that are also selective of their company, and don’t need to be the center of attention.
Charles Lee Ray:
You either do witchcraft, or you are interested in it.
Things and practices like occult, voodoo, curses and spells fascinate you.
Confidence in others catches your attention instantly.
You like witty people, and people who have charisma.
I have a feeling that older men with long hair are definitely your type...
You probably love night time, and you definitely like reading at night, while being surrounded by a starlit sky, shining moon and a mysterious atmosphere.
Black, red and purple are among your favorite colors.
Summary: Michael comes home after a killing spree with injuries on his hands. You tiredly bandage them and you soon realize that the killer likes it when you kiss over his injuries.
The heat from the large blankets became unbearable, and you kicked them off with a huff. Sleeping wasn’t the same without him; you should’ve known not to grow too attached to the idea of it, yet you let the small moments get to you. You turn to the empty spot on the bed, then over to your phone. With the press of a button, it turns on, and the screen light blinds you. A groan leaves your lips at the harsh lights, squinting to turn down the brightness.
“It’s three in the morning,” you groan.
Usually, Michael would be back by midnight, or sometimes at one in the morning, but that was the latest he’s ever been. You’ve been tossing and turning since nine at night. It frustrates you how much you relied on his presence for a good sleep, but your mind wouldn’t shut up unless you knew he was safe and sound. You then sit up with your back against the headboard, pulling your knees close to your chest. Each blink made you want to keep your eyes shut, but now your mind wouldn’t rest.
You felt the air shift. A strong presence entered your home; you knew it could only mean one thing. Michael came back. Sometimes, you found it funny how the mass murderer of Haddionfeild always came back home; you didn’t know whether he returned for you or just for a place to stay. The bed creaks as you stand to your feet and put on your fuzzy house shoes.
Going downstairs wasn’t your first thought; however, you shuffled to the bathroom first to obtain the medkit under the sink. The pit of worry in your stomach was practically eating you alive as you made your way downstairs. A deep sigh leaves your lips once you reach the last step, reaching out to the light switch that turned on the living room light. Michael was there. The first thing you noticed was his bloody hands; it didn't look like it was from his victims.
“Hey, you’re hurt,” you said through the silence.
You watch as Michael turns his head towards you in the doorway, rubbing your tired eyes that were soon full of worry. You stood there with your medkit. He sat in the large black leather chair, the dark circles of his mask stared at you before turning back to the wall. His cut-up, bloody hands got your attention. Someone must have cut his hand in self-defense. The wooden floorboards groan with every step you take towards him.
Michael kept his bloody hands in his lap. You wonder if he could even feel pain anymore. Or maybe he could, and he just didn’t care about being hurt due to always getting beaten up by his victims. But you did. You always cause a fuss whenever he comes home hurt, but a cut-up hand was the most tamest injury he’s sustained that you’ve seen so far. Carefully, you walk towards him and stand in front of him.
“May I see your hands?” you ask with your hand out.
You didn’t grab him, nor pull him towards you; it was his choice to take your help or not. You could hear the faint sounds of his breathing as he slowly raises one of his bloody hands. Now that you got a better look at the injury, you saw that it was more of a gash rather than small cuts; the fresh gash bled and stained his hands.
“Thank you, Mike. Let’s wash your hands first.”
You quickly made your way to the kitchen, and he followed you silently. You did your best to wash his hands gently with warm water and soap, washing around the gash. You went back over to your medkit and grabbed it, opening the white box to grab a sterile gauze pad and placed it directly over the gash on his hand, then you used the white bandage to wrap around his wrist that made its way up to the cracks of his fingers.
You finally sealed it off with tape and did the same thing to his other hand. Once finished, you closed the white box.
“You gotta be more careful out there, Mike,” you said gently. “You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.”
He didn’t move. A relaxed sigh left your lips. Waves of exhaustion hit you now that you knew he was safe and patched up. You’d change the bandages later, after you got enough sleep. You retrieved the box.
“If you want to sleep with me, you know the rule: no coveralls in my bed, you know where your pajamas are.”
You made your way upstairs and put back the medkit. It felt like a massive weight being lift off your shoulders once your body hit the bed that now felt comfortable. As your eyes close shut, you felt at peace. The bed dipped. Tiredly, you open one of your eyes to see Michael in his blue pajamas. It was hard to find ones similar to the coveralls he wears everyday. His mask was still on. He’d never take it off, not even to sleep.
A sigh left your lips as you close your eye to sleep. You felt your body relax, falling deeper into dumber, until a large hand gripped your throat with a firm grip. Your eyes shot open as Michael made you turn your head in his direction.
“Yes, Mike?” you say tiredly.
The grip loosen, yet his hand never left your throat. It took him a while to teach him to make his grip less tight on your neck, it was his own weird way of touching you. His thumb rubs your chin, then snakes its way up to your bottom lip. Gripping your throat was one thing, but he never put his fingers up to your lips before. It made you sit up, as groggy as you were, it had to be something important…right?
You take his hand off of you to hold it. Yet he pulled back, you were too sleepy to figure out what’s wrong.
“I don’t know what you want Michael.” You say with a yawn.
Michael points to the inner palm of his hand where the gash was, then up to his masked face. You did a slow blink with confusion written all over your face. He did the motion again, but more so pointed at his masked lips rather than his face. It then made sense. You always kissed his injuries after patching him up. It must not have crossed your mind to do it, but it surprises you that he actually paid attention to you doing it…and taking a liking to it.
A smile forms on your lips as you take one of his hands. Pressing your lips to the very center in a kiss and did the same for the other one. “Is that better?”
Michael took his hand away afterwards. Stiffly lying down on his back. It was the closest thing you’d get to him relaxing to sleep. Now it was your turn to lie down with him. Your arms wrap around his arm and you rest your head on his chest. He still was still stiff, but didn’t pull away. You soon began to learn that he didn’t mind, if he did, he would’ve pushed you off…he’s done it a few times before.
Remake Freddy alt ending style. He's so willing to give you a beautiful dream - if you let him! Soft or hard, he'll savor you with a decade's worth of pent up charge.
I-If you want to....?🥺
SO it's been a while since I saw the alt ending for NOES 2010 and while I know what happens, I figured I'd go back and rewatch it just as a refresher.
HOLY FUCK THAT ALT ENDING
It's so Creepy and Gross and I REALLY shouldn't be turned on by it but goD it's so gooD
Tags: Fingering, orgasm encouragement/direction, reader has a vagina but no gendered terms are used.
I wrote 2010 Fred kinda pathetic and y'know what I like him that way. He thinks he's a big, bad dom but he is such a snivelling little shit and I think it's HOT-
18+ only MDNI
Fred's been waiting so fucking long to have this, to have you, that he almost can't contain himself. Haunting your dreams, being so close and yet so far, it could only do so much. He needed to get his hands on you. In spite of his eagerness he insists on taking his time. Speaking filthy promises into your ear as his blades destroy your nightgown and leave you bare.
Hoisting you into his lap he presses your back to his chest, using his legs to spread yours. Any fight you put up seeps away as he touches you so gently, treating you like a delicate porcelain doll. His breath washing over your ear and cheek as he continues to pant and mumble. While his touch sends heat into your head and gut, slowly arousing you to a comfortable high, Fred is already a panting mess. You can't see his face clearly from behind you, but the now un-burnt flesh was tinged pink across his cheeks and ears. Watching you through half lidded, steely blue eyes he's absolutely smitten.
Even using his left hand he's deft in his movements. Fingers circle your clit before nestling in next to it, rolling over the fleshy bundle of nerves. The direct touch makes your breath hitch and catch, heart thundering behind your ribs. Your fists dig into anything they can find, which just so happened to be his sweat and blood soiled sweater and the bedding below. All the while, Fred coos praise and encouragement into your ear.
"I know, I know. You feel so good, sweetheart."
Those fingers start to circle wider, just starting to part your lips and dive down lower before returning to their place on your clit. Every time you'd buck your hips to try and encourage them to finally penetrate you, yet they never did.
"I want you to breathe with me, dear. Slowly, deeply. Ready?"
You nod but you barely register what you're agreeing to.
"Good. Now, in."
You feel his chest expand behind you as he breathes in deeply and you follow along, the air catching in your dry and swollen throat. All the while, you fight the urge to moan and whine as his fingers continue to roll over your cunt.
"And out."
Exhaling over the back of your neck, Fred fights the quiver in his own throat. His cock has been straining against his work pants for what feels like hours, but he was going to be patient. In your dreams, he could do whatever he wanted to you. If it meant showing a bit of restraint to fit in everything he wanted, then so be it.
"Perfect. Now again. In. and out."
He repeats the ministrations, guiding you to breathe with him. While it served to clear some of the pleasurable fog from your head, his fingers were constantly replacing it with their incessant circling. Some of your exhales come out as shaky, soft moans as you squirm in his lap.
"So good, one more time now, sweetheart. In."
Those fingers dive lower again, pressing into your slick folds. The deep inhale now tinged with a loud gasp as they push in to the knuckle. The flesh of his palm cups your cunt, rubbing the meat of it against your clit. Holding them there, Fred feels your wet walls twitch around him and nearly cums on the spot. Holding what semblance of power he has, he continues to guide you.
"And out."
Slipping his digits out of you, you exhale with a needy whimper. Even now you could hear the small cracks in Fred's voice as he watches you come undone in his arms. The already embarrassingly wet squelch his fingers make as they retreat out of you makes you squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed with everything he had put your through.
"That's it, just relax sweetheart. Let me take good care of you."
Those husky whispers send shivers down your spine, the sensation mingling with the electricity his fingers were sending through you. If he kept up like this, you'd never last long enough to have his cock in you. Then again you had a feeling given how long he'd been waiting, you were absolutely going to have more than one orgasm tonight.
Pausing his thrusting, he instead lodges his fingers deep inside you. Curling them slowly he massages your walls as the heel of his palm envelopes and slides over your clit. Your hips still, thighs shuddering and twitching with effort as you teeter on the edge. Your body taught like a bow against his, head thrown back onto his shoulder allowing him to gaze over your torso. Drool slid over his tongue onto your skin as he panted, open mouthed and mindless, watching you spasm against his hand alone.
"Good...so good for me. My sweet doll. I want you to cum for me, can you do that?"
As if on command you came undone, your body curling forward as your orgasm rolled over you and rippled through your muscles. Wracking sobs tore from your throat as you came, legs going limp and limbs shaking as all the tension that had built up was let go all at once. Fred continued his slow rolling touch, working you through your orgasm until your cunt stopped fluttering around him. Even then, he took his time pulling his fingers out of you, gently easing them out only to let them gingerly slide over your clit. The attention made you shake, still oversensitive as your vision slowly began to focus again. Despite your groans and weak protests, you could feel arousal building in you again through the soft and slick roll over your hypersensitive nub.
"That's it, you did so well for me. But don't give up yet. We still have so much time to play."
Okay but consider Jason having a s/o who’s kinda insecure. For all her past relationships she’s had to wear makeup and look presentable at all times, but Jason couldn’t care less that she’s “unpresentable.” s/o is like “Jason, no, don’t kiss me yet I have morning breath” or “why do you want to cuddle? I’m not even wearing makeup” and a whopper being “I can go out looking like this” but he thinks she’s beautiful no matter what
thank you for this request! i miss writing jason stuff, so this is gonna be healing. i’ll use the example statements you gave me as prompts if that’s ok!
✦ jason / insecure fem!reader ✦ —
you woke up first, because you always did. not out of discipline, just out of habit. out of old panic that always said check yourself, before someone else does. your mouth tasted sour from sleep. your hair was doing whatever it wanted. your face felt soft in the worst way, and was most definitely decorated with an imprint from your pillow.
he was still there. not looming, just present. you could tell when he was awake because the air in the room got just a bit colder in some weird otherwordly way that probably had a supernatural cause you could barely begin to understand.
you jolted when he made to move towards you. “jason, no.” you're voice was already apologetic. “don’t kiss me yet. i have morning breath.”
he leaned in anyway. you turned your head at the last second, because it was automatic. your palm came up over your mouth. you hated yourself for it in real time, could feel the old training in your bones. smile right. look right. earn it.
he caught your wrist, gentle in the only way he really could be. he held it down, not forcing you flat, not pinning you in warning. he simply removed the barrier between you, like it was an unnecessary object on a counter. then, he pressed his mask just so on your lips, in a faux kiss, protecting your dignity and making you blush in the same movement.
you pulled back and laughed, because what else was there to do when he was so cute? “you’re not even gonna pretend to care?”
he did that small head tilt that always looked like he was trying to understand a rule nobody bothered to explain. his hand stayed on your cheek. he wasn't disgusted, not even amused (not that you really thought he had many ways he could show it). he was just there, steady as ever, acting like this was normal. you were the only one acting like you were on trial. you slid out of bed and tried to keep it casual. “i’m just gonna brush my teeth.”
he followed you to the little sink. not right on top of you, just close enough that you could feel him behind you. and then literally see him behind you, there in the mirror. you spit, rinsed, wiped your mouth, checked your face like you were checking a bruise.
you reached for your makeup bag next, because you always reached for it next. the bag was half-open already, knowing its job well. jason hesitantly placed a hand on your side, his other following the movement, slowly wrapping around your middle as he laid his chin on the top of your head. a proper hug. your fingers hovered over the zipper.
“why d'you want to cuddle?” you asked, too fast, too loud. “i’m not even wearing makeup.”
he pulled back slowly, stared at you. he looked at the makeup bag, then back at you, like he was trying to find the connection and coming up empty. in a moment, he had you pulled you back against him, and tucked his face into the side of your neck like he was done with the topic.
you stiffened, but relaxed into him so he wouldn't mistake your worry for fear of him. he was the last thing you feared, right now. no, your own psyche was doing more damage than he'd ever tried to do to you... so, you owed it to him to explain yourself.
“in my last relationships, i had to look presentable all the time. like, all the time.” you made a vague gesture at your face, as if that clarified anything. “even to go to the store.”
he didn’t react to the history part. he reacted to the fact you were tense. his hand moved slow up your side, thumb pressing once, a non-verbal check-in. he wanted you quiet. not silent, quiet. there is a difference.
you looked down at yourself. bare legs, oversized shirt, the ugly socks you wore because the floor was cold. you could hear your own voice turn mean the way it always did when you felt exposed. “i can’t go anywhere looking like this.”
he turned his head toward the door, back to you, then toward the door again. it was so simple it almost made you mad. out there was the porch, the treeline, the lake. nothing with opinions. certainly nothing with a dress code. you were acting like you’d said i can’t go out without armor, and he was acting his answer was then don't bring armor. bring me.
you opened the door then, just to prove something to yourself, and the air hit your face clean and cold. no noise, no strangers, no bright store lights that made you feel like you’d forgotten your lines. just damp moss, pine rot, and the fog on the lake sitting thick and murky like it always had.
you stepped out in the state you were in. unbrushed hair, bare face, sleep still stuck to you. you waited for the world to punish you. and... it didn’t. it just existed. much like you.
jason came up behind you and wrapped his arms back around your waist. he didn’t fuss, or try to turn you toward the light so he could 'see you better' like anyone in your past who wanted to inspect the effort (or lack thereof) you'd put in. he held you like you were already correct.
“this is so stupid..." you laughed humorlessly, because you needed to say something mean before you felt too vulnerable. “i don’t know why i’m like this.”
he pressed his mask to your temple, once. then again, like a correction. not to you, but to the lie you’d been taught. he didn’t need you polished. he didn’t need you arranged. he needed you here, breathing, warm, in his space.
you still made a half move toward the makeup bag when you went back inside. he intercepted it without drama. just set it aside. he took your hands in his, instead, large enough to swallows yours within them.
later, when you finally did put on mascara out of pure muscle memory, he watched you do it the way he watched anything human you insisted on doing. patient, a little curious, not too invested. you caught your reflection and then caught his in the mirror. you turned and spoke to him, nice and soft. “so... you really don’t care.”
he didn’t nod, didn’t try to reassure you with words. he just leaned in, this time lifting the mask just slightly, and kissed you skin to skin. you hummed into the touch, his lips cool and damp, smelling like the forest. ah... of course you didn't need to fear this from him. you loved him just as he was, with all it's wild complexities and plethora of things you could never understand. so... yeah. maybe it was high time you gave yourself the same grace.
thanks for reading! 💌
you can find more of my writing at @nymphosynth, or here on ao3!
hey ghouls!! popping in to inform you i have a new writing blog for general fanfic / fixation writing, over here at ✦ @nymphosynth ✦ !! i take requests there as well — i'll continue doing that here, too, just kept mainly to slashers / horror content :)
ANYHOOT if you're into the alien franchise, that's my main squeeze lately! and anything and everything to do with lance henriksen, lol. good thing he's big on horror to begin with <3
as always feel free to keep tabs on my ao3 as well, i just finished some crazy work for near dark 1987 if that gang is up any alleys ❤
Hello!! I love ur works, I was just wondering if you could do Brahms with a S/O who's from southern USA and really good and gardening, but if someone unwanted comes onto the property they, with zero hesitation kills them and says something about using the body for fertilizer? Sorry if it's too dark but I NEED to see this lmao, have a good day/night!
A/N: why is moving the most stressful thing ever??? Like how many more measuring tapes do I have to misplace before I officially crash out?
Warnings: Fem!Reader, southern!reader, slasher content so like...death obvi...hacking up a person, blood, gore, etc. NSFW, cunnilingus, watching/liking being watched, heavy dirty talk, kitchen sex, squirting
Moving across the world for a landscaping job at an abandoned and potentially haunted, murder house was not something you thought you would ever do. However, the minute you arrived at the beautiful estate, you knew it needed you. Other than the outside looking like an overgrown thicket, the inside of the house was neat, clean and organized.
And very not abandoned.
"The add said no one lived here." Was the only thing you could say when you first met the lean, rich, pompous asshole who enjoyed hiding in the walls.
"No one does." Was all he replied with before handing you an envelope with more money than you'd ever had in your bank account at one time. His eyes watched you carefully, taking in your every move as you accepted the envelope and nodded.
"You some kind of ghost?" You asked skeptically, looking him over and noting the mess of hair on his head as well as peeking out from under his mask. What a weirdo, you thought.
The male disregarded your question, sighing as though the conversation was boring him. "You can take the first room on the second floor. Use whatever tools that are in the shed or go into town and buy what you need." His thick accent and serious tone gave you no room for commentary before he turned and stalked off into the house.
From that day on, the first two months of living in the gorgeous house was...interesting. You spent a couple days becoming familiar with the area and gathering equipment before digging in. You started in the back of the house, whacking away at dried shrubs and vines that were turned to dust when you touched them. A long ride on the lawnmower and use of a weedwhacker helped clear up the overgrown grass and smaller weeds in the yard.
You would wake up every morning with the sun and stop working when it would set. Muscles ached and the shower was filled with dirt and grime every night when you washed away your hard work. It took months before you finally got to where the house was ready for life. All the trash, dead plants, rat traps, and other junk was gone.
With a sigh, you stretched and flipped through the catalogue for the local market, eyeing flowers and shrubs to add to your list. From your spot on the couch in the living room, you couldn't see Brahms behind you, but you felt him. "Why didn't you clean your own yard?" You asked aloud, hearing his footsteps round the couch. You watched as he sat next to you, waiting for his response.
You two had an odd relationship. He stalked you. Watching you every minute of the day but he hardly ever spoke to you. Occasionally, you would catch him lurking in the hallway or in the process of retreating back to his walls, but he never made an effort to converse.
"I don't like dirt." He replied, looking at you. His piercing eyes made your stomach flip.
"Why the mask?" Your question caught him off guard and he looked away for a moment, thinking.
"None of your business." Brahms said and you scoffed, rolling your eyes and looking back at your catalogue. You noted the way he watched you, sitting next to you close enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off of him in the chilly house. "The yard," he started, making you look at him. "It looks lovely."
You smiled, "I'm not even close to being done. Here, pick out some flowers." Placing the catalogue in his lap, you felt your heart leap at the compliment he gave you. It was your turn to watch him as he flipped through the pages, his long fingers tucking between the paper as he looked. Beautiful hands...you thought to yourself, your eyes making their way to his chest. The dark curls of hair peeked out from underneath his shirt and you wanted nothing more than to touch him in that moment.
His mask couldn't contain the beard he was growing and your eyes wandered to his hair which was its usual curly mess. "Let me cut your hair." You stated, eyes locking with his as he turned to look at you.
He assessed the situation for a moment before closing the catalogue and standing up. "Just trim." He replied, walking to the kitchen and pulling a chair up to the sink. Rummaging through a drawer, he found kitchen scissors and handed them to you.
"The mask," You said softly, watching him shed his cardigan.
Brahms stood still for a second but reached to his face and slid the mask off, keeping himself turned away from you. Neither of you said anything as he sat in the chair and leaned back, resting his neck on the edge of the sink. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him. Knowing that if you said anything, you could scare him off, you bit your lip and turned the water on, letting it get warm before bringing the nozzle to his scalp.
It took everything in him to control his desires the minute your fingers touched his head. The feeling of you taking care of him like this made his mind fuzzy with emotions he wasn't sure about. The fantasies he'd created in his head about you were nothing compared to this moment. The way you smiled at him in the living room had made him seek your happiness; your eyes lighting up in a way that made his chest hurt. Despite you knowing little about him, he knew you like the back of his hand. That's what happens when you watch someone for months- you learn them.
When you finished washing his hair, you used a hand towel to dry it a bit before letting him sit up. "I need to grab a comb, hold on." You stated, running upstairs for a moment before reappearing and beginning to work on trimming his hair. The only sound was the snip of the scissors as you cut away. "Can I ask what happened?"
Brahms said nothing, keeping still. "A fire. Happened when I was a boy." He finally replied.
You hummed in acknowledgement and dusted the hair snipping's from his neck and shoulders before moving around his front. "I'm cutting this too." You told him, gently touching his jaw and tilting his head up so you could see him. Brahms noticed the way your eyes kept glancing towards his burn mark as you trimmed up his beard. "Done." You stated, setting the scissors in the sink and brushing away some of the cut off hair.
Brahms reached out and grabbed your wrist making you freeze. His thumb traced circles on your pulse as he slowly brought your palm to his cheek where the burn mark was. He was letting you touch him. So you did.
Your soft fingertips gently moved over his scar, passing around his blinded eye and down towards his lips. Beautiful, kissable, pink lips.
As if reading your mind, Brahms tugged you down, letting you sit on his lap, his hands resting on your thighs before one cupped your face. "Brahms," you breathed out, watching his pupils expand at the sound of his name on your lips.
"Even if you tell me to stop, I won't." He warned, his fingers at the nape of your neck tugging you into him. His lips found yours in a kiss that was nothing but hunger. He was warm and tasted like tea with honey that he drank every morning and evening. You wanted to devour him.
Your hands ran through his hair, tugging him closer, breasts pressed against his chest as his palms found the globes of your ass and squeezed. A soft moan left your mouth, swallowed by his tongue as it traced along yours. You could feel his cock under your cunt, and you ground down, wanting to feel him more. Cold fingers traced under your shirt, moving up to your breasts and cupping them, rolling your nipples and toying with them like an instrument.
Breaking the kiss, you threw your head back as his teeth found your neck, groaning as your cunt dragged over his sensitive cock. "Fuck you're beautiful," he grunted, sucking marks into your skin before pushing your shirt up and unclasping your bra. He wasted no time sucking a nipple into his mouth, noting how you twitched and let out a moan. "I watch you at night sometimes when you forget I'm here," He starts, standing up suddenly and setting you on the kitchen table. "Watch the way you touch yourself, fuck yourself. Coming all over those pretty fingers." Brahms breathed, taking your shirt off and watching your nipples pebble from the cold.
"I don't forget- I know you're there." You pant, watching him stand straight and stare down at you.
"Show me." He demands, moving to sit back in his chair and unzipping his pants. Heat flooded your body all over again and you made quick work of your bottoms, spreading your legs wide and letting him look at you. "Fuck." He growled, tugging his cock out and reaching forwards, tracing two fingers through your folds.
"So fucking wet," he moaned, using your juices to lube up his cock as he lazily tugged it. "Make yourself come." He snapped and you nodded, reaching between your legs and circling your clit.
His eyes swallowed your every move as one hand moved to your breasts, tugging at your nipples and the other dipped into your pussy. A soft moan left you as you slowly fucked your fingers, hips rolling to grind your clit on your palm. You watched as he moved his hand on his cock, circling the tip a couple of times, the other hand gripping the base. "Faster," he groaned, watching your juices drip onto the table. You moved your hand faster, your clit sensitive and your chest heaving as you humped your palm.
Your thighs twitched and his cock was leaking profusely by the time he snapped, standing and shoving your hands out of the way. Your back arched off the table the minute he shoved two of his long fingers inside your aching pussy and sucked your clit into his mouth. "Oh my god, Brahms!" You shouted, gripping his hair and practically riding his mouth and fingers.
"You taste so fucking good," he growled, spitting on your cunt and spanking it lightly, before sucking and licking at your clit again. "You're gonna come right? I can feel you sucking my fingers, baby, fuck-" Brahms said, his finger relentlessly pounding your pussy, his other hand coming up and rubbing on your clit fast enough that you came within seconds. Mouth open, screaming and breathless, your body twitched against him as you came hard, squirting on his hand and cock. "Good fucking girl, fuck that's hot," he groaned moving to kiss your neck softly, tongue trancing your nipples before he removed his fingers from your pussy.
All you could do was stare at him as he soothed you down from your high. Who was this man? The one who barely talked to you the past months now had you pinned underneath him and was slapping his cock on your clit. The filthy things he said...the way he played your body...he blew your mind.
Your mind worked to form words but as soon as you opened your mouth, a sharp knock came from the front door. Brahms went completely still, his cock head pressed against your entrance. You both stared in silence as the doorbell rang followed by another series of knocking. "Get dressed, we'll finish this later." He said through grit teeth. Moving off of you, he tugged his pants back on, hissing at the feeling of shoving his hard cock back in.
You quickly got dressed and made your way to the front door. "Yes?" You snapped, opening the door to find a nearly bald salesman standing there with a bleached smile.
"Sorry to bother you ma'am but I am here to talk to you today about selling your wonderful home." His smile made you shiver and you sighed.
"Not interested-"
"I could see how fast this place would sell! Add some nice fresh flowers and maybe new gravel for the driveway." He interrupted. You heard a low growl come from behind the door and you stepped outside, shutting it behind you.
"Flowers? There was a murder here, no one will buy this place even if I wanted to sell, which I don't." You commented, watching the man shake his head in laughter and make his way towards a patch that was ready for new soil.
"People forget about that- it was years ago. I know people who are interested as we speak; looking for all the land this property comes with-"
"Land that doesn't produce. The soil here is shit." You snapped, a curtain moving in the nearby window at the sound of you raising your voice.
"Nothing a few bags of good fertilizer won't fix!" He said with a cheerful laugh and you groaned.
Your eyes caught the sight of the shovel leaning against the side of the house. Fertilizer would help, but the last time you went to town they were out and the next delivery isn't for a few days. The salesman continued to ramble on about the property history and price in value increase as your brain worked.
Your eyes caught Brahms' in the window and suddenly it clicked. Dead things make decent fertilizer. Like animals...or people.
"Where is your car?" You asked, looking towards the driveway.
"No car ma'am, I rode a bike here." He said with a confused look.
"Alone?" You asked, walking calmly to the shovel and picking it up. The salesman went stiff and you heard the front door open. As soon as the man turned to look at the door, you swung, hitting him in the back of the head.
Brahms stood there staring at you with a look you couldn't decipher as you watched the man twitch, pained moans coming from him before they eventually stopped. "Good fertilizer." You stated, reaching down and grabbing the man's ankles, dragging him towards the back of the house.
There you removed his clothes, grabbed an axe from the shed and braced yourself. "You've killed before." Brahms said, watching as you brought the axe down, cutting almost through his left leg right under the knee.
"Why do you think I needed a job across the world?" You replied, bringing the axe down again to sever the limb. "Are we good or do you need to feed the plants on the other side of the house?" Your eyes met his and for a moment Brahms swore he came in his pants. The blood speckled across your face, neck, arms and hands made you look menacing. He saw it in your eyes though, the same feeling he had when he killed. Excitement- the thrill.
"Who do you think made this a murder house?" He mocked back, reaching for the limb and throwing it in the dirt.
You smiled softly, pausing for a moment to grab the front of his cardigan and pull him in for a kiss. "Good. Now help me?" You asked as you brought the axe down again.
