Featuring a variety of Slashers and Killers with differing speaking patterns and verbal abilities
(x Reader too cause it’s me. Fluff.)
Jason Vorhees
Complete and total silence. Unlike others, you won’t even get the occasional huff out of this guy. Can he even breathe? Basically a corpse that you share a space with and get to cuddle.
Light on his feet too, evident by his infamous “teleporting”. You won’t know where he is until he’s in your eyesight. Please put a bell on him, cause he’s gonna sneak up on you 20 times a day and he feels really bad every time it makes you jump.
Does he use sign language? Yes! I don’t think it’s something that his Mother would have taught him, especially considering the time, but once you offer to help him learn he’s really enthusiastic to finally have a form of communication, he loves talking to you all day long. Watching you, knowing he’s being listened to, it gives him butterflies. Strikes me as kind of a yapper after a long day. You’ll also catch him signing to himself when he’s frustrated or anxious.
On top of that, also a good listener himself. He nods and gestures along to the things you say. Since he’s really comfortable around you, he’s able to express more of his emotions and it allows him to feel normal, even just for a little bit.
Michael Myers
Similar to Jason; You’re not hearing a single noise from him. His vocal cords could be missing for all you know. But you will hear lots of his eerie breathing. Whether it’s measured and calm or strained and staggering, those are the only noises you might hear before he’s suddenly in front of you.
And he actually lives for scaring you. Will press himself into your back when you least expect it and relish in your gasping. Loves to watch you from dark corners and see how long you take to figure out. Your guard is gonna be up for the rest of your life honestly.
Does he use sign language? No! He was taught it during his time in the asylum, so if you sign to him he’ll understand just fine. But he refuses to use it himself. His silence is a choice, it’s a way to isolate himself further into his role as The Shape. He honestly doesn’t care if you understand him or not, he doesn’t have anything he wants to say to you that he can’t say through actions.
When you’re yapping, you’ll get the occasional head tilt and if you’re really really lucky, a thumbs up or down. That’s all you’re ever gonna get from him. He might as well have fallen asleep honestly, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference under his mask.
Bubba Sawyer (Leatherface)
So while he doesn’t “talk”, he is most definitely not silent. This guy babbles like nobody’s business, he grunts and squeals, he goes around making all sorts of noises to himself when he’s in a real good mood. If he’s actually ever quiet for an extended period of time, that means he’s in desperate need of a hug honestly. A lot of his rambling does almost sound like words, but he can never quite fully get them out coherently. His tone is usually enough to let you know what he’s thinking though.
And while he can be decent at sneaking when he’s locked in, hunting someone down, that basically never applies to you or the rest of the family. Drayton constantly yells at him to stop parading around the house, his large frame is bumping into anything and everything. Plus he has a touch of echolalia, so any fun noises he happens to hear are being imitated ten times over. You can hear him coming from a mile away.
Does he use sign language? …he tries. Much like verbal communication, he tends to be really clumsy and struggles a lot with it. First of all, it’s gonna take a while for him to memorize even basic signs, although he does have a wonderful time learning from you. Secondly, once he does get them in his head, it doesn’t always translate well to his hands. His big fingers tend to get caught up in each other, his movements sometimes get too jittery and sloppy to properly show what he wants to say. It’s just not in his skill set.
That being said, he’s still so incredibly expressive. You’re able to tell his happy stimming from his nervous stimming, he makes a lot of “uh huh”s and “nuh-uh”s, not to mention the way his eyes sparkle through the mask. And every time you talk to him, the entire world fades away so he can focus on you, just because he finds you utterly fascinating.
(Sorry no Thomas Hewitt, haven’t seen the movie)
Vincent Sinclair
I imagine he’s on the slightly-more ‘realistic’ range of being silent. As in, completely quiet most of the time, but he still lets out little hums and sighs to let you know what he’s thinking. The very occasional airy laugh, sometimes a groan.
He’s either tip-toeing or stomping, no in between. When he’s in a good mood, usually while focused on his art, he has a way of dancing around the room gracefully, like he’s barely touching the floor. And when he’s not, you can definitely hear it, his feet hitting the ground hard as he paces. He doesn’t like sneaking up on you though, he gives you a lot of gentle touches to let you know he’s around.
Does he use sign language? Yes! I think it’s something his parents would’ve had him learn once it was apparent he was non-verbal. Unfortunately, Bo purposefully avoided learning any and Lester only knows a little, so he used it less and less after their passing and he isolated himself into his work. Once you come along, however, and he figures out you know sign he falls right back into it. He’s a bit brief and minimal with what he chooses to say, but very poetic and careful with his words.
He also likes to leave you a lot of handwritten notes, usually accompanied by little doodles and sketches. Mostly of you, telling you how pretty you looked while you slept or how wonderfully that shirt you wore complimented your complexion. Every now and then, you’ll find smiley faces and hearts randomly drawn onto your hands and arms. He never fails to let you know he’s thinking of you.
Billy Lenz
Honestly he almost didn’t make this list, because he’s anything but silent. Majored in blabbering with a minor in being a siren. His lips basically never stop moving, he likes to loom over you and narrate everything in his own filthy language. When he does get quiet, it’s eerie, it means something is wrong and you should probably be very worried. But otherwise you’re getting front row seats to every single thought that’s being passed through his head, no matter how dirty or senseless or repetitive.
Despite this, he is very quiet as he moves around and he lives for scaring the shit outta you. He’ll bite his own tongue until it’s bleeding just so you don’t hear him as he lurches up behind you, giddy at your cluelessness. He delights in hearing you scream for him in lots of ways. Despite some sporadic hand gestures, I think he’s learned to be very careful and tentative with his movements. Can’t be caught making a racket in the attic, after all.
Does he use sign language? Doesn’t need to. He’s hyperverbal, if anything. However it would probably be useful for him to have a way to talk to you when he’s lost in a panic and only repeating the same four words over and over, eyes glazed over and holding onto you for dear life. But don’t bother bringing that up, he’ll become very offended. If he was put into an asylum or psyche ward at any point, he definitely got one of the other patients to teach him all the of cuss words and naughty things to say in sign. He uses those quite liberally, actually.
And echolalia to the max. You yelped while stubbing your toe once, and three days later he’s still repeating that same noise at every opportunity. Whenever you ask him a question, it’s likely his answer is gonna directly copy something you’ve said before. This guy loves being a parrot. Any sound he finds remotely interesting is going into his index of ‘noises to make whenever I damn please’. This is especially apparent while watching movies with him, he copies all the sound effects, but especially gunshots and shattered glass. And screams, he loves any and all screaming, actually. This is cute and all until you’re trying to go to sleep and he just…doesn’t turn it off.
Brahms Heelshire
So he definitely can talk…but most of the time he doesn’t care too. Unless speaking will directly benefit him, he prefers to be quiet and observant. It’s a habit he got from living in the walls and his existence being ignored most of his life. So a lot of staring at you, all the physical affection you could ask for, only a few necessary words exchanged. He does enjoy listening to you speak, though, adores the sound of your voice.
Just like Lenz, all his movements are cautious and mindful, unless he’s absolutely pissed about something. And while you don’t get the feeling he’s purposely trying to scare you, he does find it pretty cute to see you jump in his presence. He’ll mutter a small “sorry” while wrapping his arms around you, as though he doesn’t have a massive grin under his mask. He also has a thousand secret passages and pathways around his massive house and many, many ways of spying on you. Basically, you’ll go hours without seeing him and being absolutely oblivious to his whereabouts while he’s been following and watching you through the walls like ‘wow, we’re bonding :)’
Does he use sign language? Nope. Even if he was a bit of a quiet kid, it wasn’t enough to justify his parents having it taught to him. And they certainly weren’t going to bother after the fire. He’s reclusive, but his struggles with communication are more of a social issue than a verbal one. He probably knows other languages though, something dumb and fancy like Latin. Or maybe French.
When Brahms does talk to you, there’s two versions of what you can get. Most of the time, he’s going to be putting on a boyish persona, pitching up his voice, using posh and proper language, trying to come off as endearing as possible. He thinks being cutesy will win you over, basically. But every now and then, you’ll see a glimpse of the man he pretends not to be. Vigorous grunts of anger, the deep voice rumbling in his chest, little groans and huffs as he nuzzles into you. He never likes thinking about how old he actually is, but being so comfortable with you has him putting away the youthful act.
a/n: omg i'm finally getting to write this oneshot !! i've been wanting to do this for awhile now and i'm glad i've made some time to do it !! the reader in this is fic female and plus size !! i hope y'all like this and if you'd like to request some stuff you cannnn !!
content warning !: jealous/possesive sex, dub-con into consensual, choking, creampie, kinda predator/prey?, and use of "mommy" !
synopsis: reader stumbles upon an empty house with a lonely brahms, he hasn't come into contact with anyone since greta. though there's something different about you, once he gets his hands on you you're never leaving.
It had been such a long time since Brahms had seen anyone enter his home, after Greta he didn't really want anyone to be there. Yet when he saw you standing in the doorway, your soft figure glancing around the house confused, he was immediately enamored.
It was impossible for him to take his eyes off of you as you walked through the halls, occasionally calling out to see if anyone was occupying the house. He noticed the way your body shivered from your rain soaked clothes. Wishing that he could make you shiver with pleasure, but no, he needed to wait. The last thing Brahms wanted to do was scare you away.
The first night you stayed in the house, Brahms made sure his presence wasn't known. He watched you toss and turn in your sleep through the walls, the underwear you had on perfectly accentuating your round ass. The sight had him all worked up, he wanted nothing more than to take you in your sleep. But he didn't mind waiting, it just made him more excited for the moment to arrive.
The next few days you noticed strange things happening throughout the house. Doors being left open, loud footsteps creaking down the halls, and soon a porcelain doll appearing in random areas of the house. You really should have been scared for your life, a doll moving around the house as if it were alive? That's something no normal person wouldn't be afraid of.
It didn't bother you though, you found it quite endearing. Taking care of it as if it were your own child, and carrying it around with you while you did mundane things like chores. He had even caught you holding the doll on your hip, while preparing yourself some breakfast. Brahms could feel his heart growing soft for you, unlike something else, which was growing harder by the minute. While you were in your room, lounging around in sweats and a tank top, you heard what sounded like a child's voice.
'Mommy, please come help me.'
You froze in your spot. 'There's no way in hell a child could be in here right?' Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall, it sounded like they were coming for you. Your brain goes into fight or flight mode, and there's only one thing you can think of doing. You jump off the bed and run out of the room, practically flying down the hallway. The steps only get closer and louder. You can hear your heart beating loudly in your ears as you run down the steps.
'Please the door is so close.' It's so close you can almost reach it, but before you do a strong pair of arms wraps themselves around your waist. You scream out for help, hoping anyone will hear and come save you. Then it hits you, you're in the countryside...no one will be able to help. Brahms' large hand wraps itself around your throat, silencing your desperate pleas for help.
"Mommy, you can't leave me like that. I need you so badly, I promise you I'll be a good boy."
The child's voice you heard earlier, it had come from a grown man. Specifically a grown man that was rutting his hardened cock up against your plump ass and choking you out. His tone had an innocence to it—but what he was doing to you was nothing of the sort.
His hands were all over your body, not allowing himself to miss a single inch. Once he got his fill he turned you around and lifted you up into his arms like it was nothing, his strength sent a chill down your spine. He had the ability to pick you up like nothing, the thought of what other things he could do to you scared you.
You try to escape from his hold, squirming and wriggling around in his arms. He doesn't budge though and instead he throws you onto the bed, staring at your body. Your chest heaving up and down from the previous attempt at escaping. He wastes no time in tearing your clothes off of your body, leaving you naked and vulnerable under him.
Brahms pulls his cock from out of his trousers, the tip a bright red and his balls dragging from being so full. His mushroom head slides against your clit, gathering your slick and lubing himself up. A small moan escapes you due to the friction. His hands grab your thick thighs and push them towards your shoulders, putting your pussy on full display for him.
"Brahms...please. You can't do this."
He ignores your cries and lines himself up at your entrance. His head prodding at your hole and slipping in. "Ahhh Brahms!—" It takes a moment for you to adjust to his size, your hole clenches around him and it takes everything for Brahms not to start pounding into you mercilessly.
His grip is rough and bruising, you're sure it'll leave marks later. The tighter he grabs and pinches at your thighs the wetter you get. You lay there, allowing him to have his way. There's no way you'll lie and say it doesn't feel good, you're practically dripping all over his cock. The way his dick hits your cervix just right makes your vision blurry and star filled.
It only takes a few more thrusts before you're sent over the edge of your own orgasm. Babbling about how good his cock feels and how he's 'such a good boy'. The simple words of encouragement make Brahms fuck into your gushy pussy harder. His pace becomes animalistic, and knowing that he already made you cum, he begins chasing his own high.
The porcelain mask slipping up just enough for him to plant small but wet kisses on your neck. His balls slap against your ass, making you whine from slight pain. "Brahms baby, cum inside of mommy. I'm begging you, I need it."
With your words, his cum spurts deep inside of you, filling your pussy to the brim. His face nuzzles deeper into the crook of your neck.
"Mommy's so good, feels so good. Please don't ever leave me Y/N, I need you with me forever."
The high pitched voice he had before disappeared, now replaced with his real voice, gruff and deep. You tangle your hands through his curly dark brown locks, smiling to yourself at the man on top of you.
synopsis: You are all too comfortable and willing to give physical affirmations to Brahms.
You hadn’t planned on taking care of anyone but yourself for a while, least of all a man hidden away behind old walls and silent halls. But fate has a funny way of leading you to the places, and people, you didn’t know you needed.
The moment you stepped through the doors of the Heelshire estate, a sense of quiet trepidation mingled with an unexpected tingle of warmth. You were met by the echoes of distant footsteps (or so you thought) and the slow creaking of doors that seemed to open by themselves.
There was supposed to be a doll, you’d been told. Brahms, a porcelain boy that you were to care for as though he were a real child. But as the days passed, you quickly realized you were not alone. You could feel it, a presence just out of reach. A low scuff against the floorboards when you turned your head, the flicker of a shadow across a mirror.
Every now and then, you caught sight of a shape in the doorway. Tall and still, eyes peering through a masked face. Brahms. Not the porcelain doll, but a flesh and blood man, heartbreakingly silent and desperately lonely.
It was late one evening when you finally found him in the living room, crouched behind an old armchair. He might have fled if not for how gently you approached. You knelt down, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes.
“You must be Brahms.”
He didn’t speak.
Even behind the mask, you could feel the intensity of his longing for contact, for acknowledgment, for someone to look at him and not run away in horror.
So you didn’t run. You didn’t even back away.
You settled into a routine with surprising ease. Brahms was silent as always, but his presence began to make itself known through little gestures. The steady pattern of footsteps behind you as you moved about the estate, the slight tug on your sleeve when it was time for dinner, or a gentle tap on your shoulder in the afternoons when the house felt too big and empty.
In response, you offered him wordless kindness. Meals at the table, always setting two plates so he’d know there was a seat for him. A folded blanket left on the sofa, just big enough for the two of you to share when the nights got cold. A record player with music turned down low, so he could sit near you without feeling overwhelmed.
At first, he was shy about receiving affection. You’d see his shoulders tense whenever your hand hovered over his arm, but he never pulled away. Slowly, day by day, Brahms let himself draw closer to you. Where he once watched you from afar, now he’d sit at the edge of the same couch.
One evening, you found yourself in the library. The moonlight streamed in through stained glass windows, painting the shelves in a kaleidoscope of color. You sat on the old, worn rug, a book splayed in your lap. You were reading quietly to him when Brahms leaned close, closer than he ever had.
Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. At last, carefully, you rested a hand on his knee. For an agonizing moment, you thought he might leap up and bolt into the hidden corridors. But instead, Brahms let out a sound, something between a sigh and a relief-filled moan.
Slowly, painfully shy, he laid his head against your shoulder, letting you cradle him gently. Brahms felt fragile, like an abandoned creature starved for love. You ran your fingers through the strands of his hair that peeked out from beneath the mask’s edges. If you had any doubts that your affection was what he so badly needed, they all drifted away in that moment.
Affection became your shared language.
The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours, fingers brushing yours, was worth more than a thousand words. When he was anxious, you felt it in the trembling press of his body against yours. When he was happy, you saw it in the more confident way he moved, as though it no longer pained him to be seen.
Eventually, one crisp morning, you convinced him to come outside with you. He hovered in the doorway, torn between the fear of the open world and the longing to stay by your side. But you simply offered your hand, palm upturned, and waited with all the patience you could muster.
He took it.
Once outside, Brahms let out a breath he’d been holding for years, it seemed. The sun’s warmth touched him through the fabric of his clothes, through the slight gap between the edge of his mask and his skin. You guided him to the garden, letting him feel the dew on his fingertips.
He never let go of your hand.
You paused by the rosebushes, a single white blossom catching your eye. You plucked it gently and offered it to him. Brahms stared at it for a long moment then, with trembling care, he lifted the bloom to his mask, as though inhaling a memory of a life he never quite had.
Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader
Summary: Trapped within the walls of the Heelshire Manor, you thought that the rules kept you safe. But secrets don't stay buried, and Brahms has found yours. Now there are no more lies, no escape, and no pretending– only a reality where desire is control, and submission is the only way to survive.
TW: DARK content, dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, rough sex, foul language, choking, spanking, pussy slapping, overstimulation, orgasm denial, abuse, nudity, violence, creampies, manipulation, degradation, paranoia, unprotected sex, and more.
Word Count: 8,157
MDNI- NSFW- read at your own risk.
A/N: The long awaited Part 2 of The Rules We Keep is finally here! Inspired by this ask. Enjoy ;) [part one]
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The Heelshire manor was quiet.
In the late hours, there was no familiar shift in the floorboards, no hum throughout the ancient pipes, no groan in the weathered shutters that flapped in the wind– just silence. If it had been a few weeks ago you would have welcomed the lack of sound, relishing in the privacy of the spacious house.
But there is no privacy in the Heelshire manor– you know that now. Not when he’s there, watching your every move, waiting for you to slip. Always two steps ahead before you even realize you’ve fallen into another twisted game of his. The idea alone of your own personal boogeyman would have made you laugh at the stupidity of it all, but Brahms Heelshire was very much real.
That godforsaken night in the bowels beneath the manor proved it. Forged in sweat and blood and dirt, a piece of you was forever bound to him– a fact that you knew he relished in. The power held over your head, the fact that your survival entirely depended on a childish whim was a trophy most men would hold dearly. But Brahms was no man– he was something far worse.
The shrill scream of the kettle jolts you from your thoughts, heart almost leaping from your chest at the sudden noise. Fear was a common occurrence these days. It was if the house itself enjoyed basking in your fear, all too similar to its owner. Trying to slow your racing pulse, you push away from the kitchen counter to attend to yet another chore on the seemingly endless list.
Wrapping a towel around the handle, you balance a porcelain teacup in your palm– trying to steel the tremble in your hands as you pour the boiling water. Small raised welts dotted the flesh of your knuckles, sending needles of pain shooting through your fingers as you moved. Another token of Brahms’ love, a teaching moment that showed just how particular he was about his evening beverage.
Loose tea, never bagged. Silver spoon, polished to perfection so it gleamed against the dim lighting. A singular sugar cube placed on the tea saucer– just how he liked it.
The whole ordeal made you want to scream.
Yet, you swallow the anger threatening to tear through your throat, setting the kettle back on the stove top. Some battles are best fought silently– you knew that, learned that from him. The toast pops up from the toaster, one of the only modern appliances left in the kitchen, golden brown and ready to be buttered. Rummaging through the silverware drawer, you imagine raking the blunt knife across his skin rather than the toast, digging it into his flesh so hard it would draw blood.
Of course, there were no knives sharp enough for you to cause him harm– he made sure of that after your first encounter. You had to beg to be trusted with butter knives, the savor of the win almost shifting you away from the reason you were banned from them in the first place.
Evening tea ready, you brush your hands on the scratchy material of the apron, your first gift you had received due to good behavior. Placing the saucer and plate on a tray, you straighten– fear wedging in your throat momentarily as you gather the courage to turn.
The doll sits at the table, like always. Lifeless eyes stare absentmindedly forward, hanging an eerie sense of dread through the air. His assigned chair is pulled back just a bit further than usual, and the doll teeters slightly from the gap.
Someone’s impatient.
“Brahms… your tea is ready.”
A pause. The wall opposite of the kitchen countertop rattles oh so slightly as something– no, someone shifts within the passageways. Your jaw clenches, yet you push onwards. “Brahms. It won’t stay hot forever.” The floorboards creak as a section of the wall pushes outwards, revealing a void of black that sends memories flooding back through your mind.
The tunnels. The fallen beams. Your desperate attempt at escape. Him.
A hand shoots out of the darkness, and your teeth sink into the flesh of your cheek. Planting himself against the wall, your own personal hell emerges from the shadows. Hulking form towering over you with brute strength you knew better than to fight against, Brahms Heelshire crept into the light.
The porcelain mask almost glowed under the haze of the overhead chandelier, and a knot of nausea settles like a pit in your stomach. That mask– the very object of your nightmares in a way that sends a chill down your spine, no matter how many times you see it. It was too smooth, too perfect to be attached to the monster that hid beneath it.
Calloused fingers twitch at his sides, and you swallow the lump that had formed in your throat. “Tea,” You murmur, voice practiced– poised. Just like he taught you. Brahms took a weighted step forward, then two. You fought the urge to flinch as he approached.
He didn’t speak, preferring to drink in your every move– ever the observer. Your knuckles whiten as you grip the tray like a lifeline, offering it to him. You expected a barked order, a tilted head, some sort of reaction as he stalked towards you, yet he simply plucked the tray from your hands with eerie precision.
Hands folding at your front, you bow your head ever so slightly as a show of feigned reverence. He liked you best that way– small, submissive, perfectly playing the part as a piece to his game. Pretty little housewife, you knew the whole ordeal turned him on like nothing else.
Brahms sighed, mask lifting as he silently sipped the tea. Chiseled jawline, dark curly scruff adorning his cheeks under smooth, silky skin– if you had known any better, you would have thought he was attractive. Brahms shifted under your gaze, turning to look in your direction, haphazardly chewing a piece of toast.
There it was– the monster hidden beneath the mask.
Deformed, uneven puckers of flesh blossomed across the hidden side of his face. Shriveled wrinkles warped the entirety of his cheek, the hollow of his cheekbones almost protruding against the mass of pink and white. The burn scars that reached the edge of his jaw left his beard in shambles, tufts of unruly hair patching across where the scars had partially healed. Your fingers twitch at your sides.
You knew about the story, whispered between your brief grocery drop offs from Malcolm– the fire that almost engulfed the manor. The fire that was supposed to kill him. Yet, there he stood, a monster born from the flames that only left behind scar tissue and violence. A piece of you wondered what Brahms would have become without that fateful day– the man he was meant to be.
Deft fingers set the tray back down on the table.
The same ones that wedged their way between your thighs.
Your mouth went dry at the sight. You feel the weight of his gaze, stripping you of all defences like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Something you couldn't quite place swirled in those chocolate orbs, and it was almost shameful that the sudden flush in your cheeks gave you away. The rapid pounding of your heartbeat was thunder in your ears, and all you could muster was a wobbled, “Bedtime, Brahms.”
It was pathetic, really, to be plagued day and night by the very soul who ruined you. Yet, here you were– a collection of the broken pieces he created molded into his perfect little maid.
If Brahms spotted your little slip, he didn’t show it. Simply tilting his head in your direction before reaching out his hand, mask secured back in place. Tea abandoned on the kitchen countertop, your toes curl in defiance within your boots before relenting. Forcing your feet to drag across the hardwood floor, you slip your hand into his grasp– trying to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine. Immediately, his fingers wrapped around yours, trapping you in his grip.
Fighting the urge to pull away, you lead him upstairs, each step feeling like a guilty verdict hanging over your head. Though his skin felt warm to the touch, Brahms radiated the cold, an icy sense of anticipation crackling in the air. His presence haunts the manor like a ghost– lurking, watching, entirely inevitable. You feel the telltale chill settle in your bones and wrap around your heart in a vice-like grip.
No matter how much you dreaded it, despised it, you knew what was expected of you. Worst of all, he knew it too.
The double doors glared at you like the jowls of a hungry beast, daring you to venture closer in order to swallow you whole. The attic laid untouched since your unexpected arrival– a time capsule of your demise, another trophy of your loss of freedom. Brahms didn’t seem to mind abandoning his self-made home, however, more content to have you wait on him hand and foot in the comfort of his late parents’ abode rather than within the walls.
Opening the doors like a servant would royalty, you drop your hand from Brahms’ hold. The air here was different, tainted with the sins of the Heelshires– a price you were now forced to pay in full. The floral wallpaper had faded over the decades, the mahogany four-poster bed dwarfing the other lavish furnishings in comparison, the desks coated in a fine layer of dust. You weren’t allowed to clean here, the disarray of the bedroom providing Brahms with an unknown comfort you couldn’t quite place.
The bed was a different story, however. Perfectly made with washed sheets, fluffed pillows, and creased comforters made of the finest goose down– just the way he liked it.
You go through the motions, anxiety washing away as you take part in the nightly routine that feels much more like a ritual. Pulling back the covers, dimming the lights, filling the carafe with cool water, folding the morning robe with utmost care. Through it all, Brahms sat on the edge of the bed, gaze searing your every move– watching.
Ushering the much larger male into bed, you fluff the pillows, tucking the blankets around him with almost motherlike devotion. As if tucking a child into bed, your fingers brush Brahm’s shoulder, his skin burning beneath your touch. You fought the urge to recoil.
“Goodnight, Brahms”, you whisper, the words sounding so doting it made your head spin. It sounded so genuine you could have believed there was devotion in them. You knew the final rule, the very one he altered on that fateful night in a way that twisted even your final moments to revolve only around him. Swallowing any semblance of pride you had remaining, you duck down, forehead brushing against the cool porcelain of his mask.
Waiting, expectant– just like he taught you.
Brahms pushed upwards, the icy touch of the glass brushing against your lips. Bile rose in your throat– it was sickening. This routine, the role you had learned to play so well. Spine stiffening, you straightened, hands fumbling with the sheets as you smoothed them over his torso.
Brahms turned towards you, head tilted– the light catching his eyes as he met your gaze. You freeze, hands hovering over the blankets as your blood turns to ice. You knew that look, the one filled with warning in a way that only meant one thing.
Something was coming. Something horrible, just not tonight.
Breaking his gaze, Brahms settled into the blankets– your queue to leave. Sharply turning on your heel, you flee the room, relieved of your duties for the day. In your haste to leave, you almost trip over the doorway, stumbling as you slowly close the doors.
You were safe, for now.
Scurrying down the hallway draped in ornate rugs and antique paintings, you pause at the threshold of the guest room– no, your room. Sighing, you duck past the door, sliding the door into place before locking it with a satisfying click. Only then could you relax.
Spine pressed against the wood, you took what felt like the first breath in hours. Fingers rubbing your temples, you try to shake the lump forming in your throat. You couldn’t cry– that had stopped weeks ago, resulting in nothing but more lessons. Now all that was left was the breathless terror when awaiting punishment.
Trembling fingers undo the ties of your apron, the article of clothing falling to the floor as you creep towards the only safe space you know– the wardrobe. The mahogany structure towers over you as you slowly open the door, shoving pairs of shoes and papers out of the way in order to reach your deepest, darkest secret.
Hidden beneath the rubbish, the false bottom creaks as you remove the heavy pane of wood, revealing your journal. The paper crinkles under your fingertips as you hold it to your chest like the most precious jewels in the world– the only saving grace of your sanity. The smell of dust and ink invades your senses as you flip through the pages, filled with the secrets you didn’t dare to speak out loud.
It was the only place you told the truth, yet somehow as you write under the cover of moonlight, the walls had never felt so thin.
Like it had already betrayed you.
__
The morning is eerily quiet.
The raps on the master bedroom door go unanswered, bed haphazardly made upon forced entry– sheets crumpled with almost laughable amateurity. At first, you welcom the help, any and all semblance of freeing up your busy schedule seeming like a kind gesture. As the morning went on, however, the chill of silence began to creep into your bones.
The breakfast you tirelessly poured over for an hour sat untouched on the kitchen counter. Brahm’s favorite morning tea lay forgotten on the porcelain saucer, sugar cube and all. The bathwater you had drawn per usual request had long gone cold. Even the ancient phonograph, recently dusted to perfection, lay silent without a choice of records to pass the time. Through it all, there was no sign of Brahms– no telltale rustle behind the walls, no groaning of the pipes, no suffocating gaze weighing down on your every move.
It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Yet, for some odd reason, you couldn’t place the pit forming in your stomach.
As the morning turned into the afternoon, your calls towards him to respond, to eat, to do something became more urgent. The initial annoyance at the childish act of a cold shoulder quickly turning sour as the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock, a sense of worry washing over you. Throughout your chores, you catch yourself straining ever so slightly at every sound within the manor, trying to pinpoint whether Brahms had created the sound.
As much as you hated to admit it, thoughts of dread immediately began to swirl in your mind– each imaginative scenario overanalyzing what could possibly be the root of the strange behavior.
Did something happen? Had he fallen ill? Was he angry with you?
The silence should have brought you some sort of solace, the lack of constant attention and unyielding amount of chores finally bringing you a sense of freedom. But it didn’t, the daily routine completely shattered, leaving you to do nothing more than wander the very manor you were trapped in.
Unless…
You pause in your pursuit of dusting off the banister, eyes flickering towards the grand entryway like a child yearning for a stolen sweet. The treacherous voice in your head screamed at you to move, to take the chance now that you were alone and leave this horrid place behind you. But as you gaze past the ornate stained glass windows into the surrounding fields, something roots you in place.
Was it loyalty– something beaten to submission within you? Had you grown so accustomed to the life you have lived that you couldn’t go forward without it? Or, by some laughable act of fate, did you not want to leave?
Shaking the thoughts from your head, you look down, dusting so furiously that the dark wood gleams back at you. You had work to do whether Brahms was watching or not, there was no denying that there were more important things than planning escape– another rule you learned the hard way.
Eyes shifting towards a hidden panel in the wall, the hair on the back of your neck prickles as the images of that fateful evening flash through your mind. Those godforsaken tunnels were the root of your very downfall, resulting in far worse consequences than a battered ego and failed escape attempt.
Consequences you try not to think about when you lay in bed at night.
Your fists wound themselves around your apron– another nervous bad habit that Brahms hadn't yet broken, knuckles turning white as the scene replayed in your head like a broken record player. It was wrong, so completely lewd to even think about it, yet the shame blossoming in your stomach as you peered into the tunnel was enough to shatter any hope of reasoning with yourself.
You hadn’t been in the tunnels for weeks, fear seizing your heart as the walls would seemingly shrink around you– caging you in place. The idea alone of being back in them, with him, sends a shudder down your spine.
If Brahms didn’t want to come out of the tunnels by his own free will, fine. It was less distracting this way.
Rummaging through the cleaning bucket on the stairs, you produce a worn rag and a bottle of metal polish. Scrubbing the seemingly infinite amount of bronze plaques adorning the walls, you huff– irritation growing as the silence continued to weigh down on you like a wet blanket.
Maybe Brahms was in one of his foul moods, often ignoring you when things weren’t perfectly set to his expectations. The silent treatment only worked for so long, until he ran out of patience. Your hand pauses in its ministrations, realization suddenly tearing through you like a gunshot.
Patience– the deliberate, calculated kind he only savoured when he was planning the best way to punish you during another lesson.
You stiffen instinctively, not from fear exactly– but a sense of adrenaline from the horrific possibility that you were right. The silence became suffocating, the walls of the manor closing in around you as you fought to keep your gaze on the rag in front of you.
You feel it in the air then– something is definitely wrong, and Brahms is waiting for you to realize what it is. Yet for the life of you, there isn’t any semblance of a clue why.
He knows something.
Hoping to shake the impending sense of doom, you move upstairs– trying to scrub away the anxiety like the tarnish on the brass and bronze. Legs filled with lead, the trek down the hallway seemed to become more daunting with each step. You had the sudden urge to flee to your room and hide away from it all until it boiled over, only to return and beg for forgiveness after the anger passed.
The rag falls from your hand as you halt in place.
Your room– you hadn’t checked on the wardrobe since late last night. Your journal. The one place you dare to let your true feelings show in order to keep sane in order to dream of a life beyond the manor. Thoughts you had written beneath the guise of safety, of privacy.
But there is no privacy in Heelshire manor– you idiot.
Blind panic short circuits your nervous system, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you bolt to your room. It was a simple slip– just one, a small mistake easily outshadowed by the great feats you had accomplished on the daily to prove your undying devotion. Surely, your only secret was safe from prying eyes. Surely, he hadn’t found it.
The bedroom door slams against the wall from the force of being ripped open, the sound rattling against your eardrums as you dive for the false compartment hidden within the wardrobe. Trembling hands fumble with the latch– papers, half folded clothes, and shoes scatter along the hardwood floor as you tear the wardrobe apart.
Empty.
No crumpled papers, no half-smudged ink drying along the leather-bound journal, no ballpoint pen waiting to be written with– just the mahogany floor of the dresser gaping back at you. A nauseating wave of horror washes over you, denial tightening around your throat like hot embers. Frantically, you dart around the room like a woman gone mad, caution thrown to the wind as you search for the missing journal.
Sheets are ripped from the bed, duvet overturned. Desk drawers are rifled through with utmost precision. The chaise lounge scraps against the floor, lopsided with the hope of the book hidden between the cushions. But no matter how feverishly you searched, the journal was gone– seemingly vanished into thin air.
But you knew better. You knew Brahms– the weight of the world crumbling around you as tears well in your eyes. That horrible, sinking feeling in your gut twists like a knife– finally revealing its godforsaken name.
Retribution.
The sound of glass shattering echoes through the house with the force of a gunshot, sharp and violent. Then, another. Your bones rattle as the crashes clatter throughout the first floor. Something heavy topples, metal screeches, weighted footsteps stomp through the floorboards beneath you. Before you can think you jolt to your feet, legs pumping as panic rushes towards the chaos.
In your haste, you almost trip over the cleaning bucket in the hallway– now discarded. Lurching down the stairs, blood pounds in your ears as you approach the destruction. That telltale saying engraved into your very being plays like a broken record in your mind.
Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the–
As you round the corner into the foyer, the breath is ripped straight from your lungs.
The floor is littered in torn pages, every surface coated in paper and ink. Your words, your secrets, once scrawled within the false comfort of your room were now displayed like war trophies across the room– each screaming one word: guilty.
Sentences you never imagined to see the light of day were underlined in crimson, at least– what you prayed was red ink. Words torn from the deepest recesses of your mind stare back at you, a cruel act of vengeance on display.
“I hate him. I wish he were dead.”
Below it, another.
“He treats me like a slave. He’s a monster.”
The words taunt you, coated in a laughable cruel twist of fate. The scene made you sick.
“The punishments are the closest thing he will ever get to love. It’s sadistic.”
“He looks at me like he owns me, yet for some reason I can’t shake that feeling from my mind.”
“I dreamt of the tunnels again… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub the sins of that night from my skin.”
“I hope he rots in hell.”
“Why do I ache to be scolded? The silence is the worst of it all. What is wrong with me?”
And the final nail in your coffin, the passage you wrote just hours ago– your confession.
“I hate that through it all, I like it. I like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”
You almost choke on your breath at the words. You had written that in the still moments of the early hours, when you were faced with nothing but the truth. Now, it was being used against you.
The gutted leather of the journal meets your gaze, turning your blood to ice. There, in the center of the foyer’s fireplace, stabbed through by a rusted poker like a slaughtered animal. It was a crime scene, your fate held in the balance by the judge, jury, and executioner– Brahms Heelshire.
Your knees wobble, legs threatening to give out beneath you as you gape forward. This wasn’t just an act of revenge, it was a message. A twisted celebration of your betrayal, now on full display. It wasn’t about the journal– it was about what you said. He had read every word, and now?
You had to pay the price.
Lips trembling, the silence of the manor feels stifling. The walls seem to close in around you, much more akin to chains– caging you in. Fists clenching, you turn on your heel, fully prepared to flee the scene and pray for forgiveness later.
His voice cuts through the silence: cold, low– halting you mid stride.
“So that’s what you really think of me.” Brahms emerges from the hallway, light glistening across that haunting mask, fingers twiddling around something as he set the stage for your downfall. Your pen. Stalking into the room with calculated steps, you shrink against his gaze– dread weighing you to the floor like prison shackles.
“You think I’m some kind of monster,” He seethes, ragged breaths so strong they shake his broad shoulders. “-some thing you hate.” Fingers flex, the subtle notion too terrifying to interpret as his fiery gaze sears your skin. He’s relishing in your fear, you realize. Basking in the blind panic like a predator stalking its prey.
“You’re mine!” A fist crashes into the wall, punching into the drywall and rattling the foyer. You flinch, heart leaping into your throat at the weighted words. You want to cry, want to beg, want to fall to your knees and pray for forgiveness and swear you would never do it again– but you can’t. You know there’s nowhere to run, you’re trapped.
Stepping forward, Brahms snatches the nearest page to him– jutting it towards you like a court verdict. “Do you remember writing these things?” His voice drops to a whisper, words strained. “Do you remember thinking them, practically saying them out loud?” You swallow thickly, response dying on your tongue as you fight back tears.
“I know you meant it– every word.” Closing the gap between you, Brahms towers over your trembling form. The cool porcelain of the mask brushes against your forehead as he leans closer, breath fanning across your skin. “-Now, I’ll make you prove it.”
You don’t know if he means your hatred, your desire, or both.
With that, Brahms crumples the paper between his hands, tossing it towards the fireplace. There were no flames, but you swear you could feel your soul burning before your very eyes. Turning towards you once more, calloused fingertips wind around your forearm, pulling you into his chest. You stumble, fumbling as you try to pry your eyes away from the chocolate orbs that burned with something you couldn’t quite place.
Something like anticipation.
“No more games,” Voice dropping, the grip on your arm tightens with a bruising force, causing you to flinch. “-no more pretending.” Brahms moves at that, stalking out of the room and pulling you in tow. Ducking towards a false panel in the wall, your eyes widen– knees locking as the panel is opened and the darkness of the tunnels stare back at you.
Oh god, the tunnels.
The tears fall at the sight, dripping onto the hardwood floor as you thrash in his grip. Broken pleas fell from your lips as you squirm, begging to go anywhere else. You sob out apologies, praying for forgiveness you knew would never come. Brahms paid your outburst no mind, simply digging blunt nails into your skin so roughly you were sure he drew blood– like he was marking you.
The dark swallows you whole as you are dragged into the tunnels. Your pleas fill the space as if it would save you, but they drown in the void. The tunnels seem narrower now, the smell of dust and sweat and mold raking through your lungs as the walls threaten to reach out and grab you. You try to shake the memories that hang on the tattered walls like a coat of wet paint.
The chase. Fallen beams crushing you in place. Your jeans caught around your ankles. Brahms ruining you for all others.
Breaths coming out in shallow huffs, and you try to slow your racing heartbeat. The air was damp, sending a chill straight through your bones– any semblance of comfort abandoned within the bowels of the manor. Each step dragged behind Brahms, your legs struggling to keep up with his pace as he expertly navigated the tunnels.
The very tunnels he fucked you in.
Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to memorize the twists and turns through the narrow passageway. It wasn’t until the familiar creak of the narrow stairs that you realize where you are. No– not here.
The attic.
Brahms pauses at the threshold, the door swinging open as you lock into place. The blood drains from your face as your gaze is met with the gloom of his hidden sanctuary– the very place you first met on that fateful night. Dust coats every surface like ash, casting long shadows across the rotting wooden floor. Your stomach lurches as the bed comes into frame.
“Remember this moment.” he mumbles, the words weighing heavy in the dim room. “This is the moment that you stopped lying to yourself. The moment you admitted how much you really hate me.”
He doesn’t wait for your response, shoving you towards the bed so quickly you crumple onto the mattress in a heap of twisted limbs. Squirming like an overturned bug, you try to push yourself upwards onto your elbows only to be forced back down. The warped bed frame groans under the weight, the mattress dipping as Brahms crawls on top of you– knees effectively locking you into place as he straddles you.
“You write that I am a monster. That I hurt you– scare you.” He taunts, any and all reason stripped away as a finger ghosts your cheek. You try to fight the flinch rising in your spine, dread mixing with the chill of his words. “You don’t get to lie and keep secrets,” he continued, bitterness stabbing into you like a rusty knife. “-Now? I’m going to show you exactly what it really means to hate me.”
A hand wraps around your throat, and it’s shameful how your cheeks flush at the touch. Your silent betrayal only eggs him on, grip tightening– not so much to hurt, but as a reminder of who exactly you belong to. “Don’t lie now,” He hisses. “You wanted me angry, wanted this.”
You shake your head weakly, a final plea for mercy. It goes unanswered.
“Tell me the things you wrote. Out loud… I’m sure you remember.” You blink at the order, guilt scrambling your stomach into knots. “Brahms, please–” “Tell me. You wanted to confess so badly, so now you will.”
Trying to ignore the hand shifting from your throat to the collar of your shirt, your lips tremble as you think of the gutted pages in the foyer– the ones that damned you.
“I… I hate him. I wish he were dead.” you whisper, fingers scraping against your clavicle as your buttons are hurriedly undone.
“Louder.”
Voice cracking, you obey– reciting every horrible thought, every twisted confession. Every word exposing you in ways you wished you were never seen. Even as you fumble, you could practically feel Brahms’ smile through the mask as he absorbed your corrupted betrayal.
“Say the one about the punishments… I liked that one.” You swallow thickly, hot tears trailing down your cheeks, throat burning with shame. Your tears are wiped away with such devotion it mocks you, shirt undone and exposing your trembling torso.
“I hate that through it all, I like it. I… like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”
Porcelain rubs against the column of your neck and Brahms leans down, sending goosebumps down your spine. “What does that say about you, hm?” He murmurs, voice too soft– too calm, breath wafting along your skin, dripping with less than pure intentions.
“It says you’re mine– and that you were always going to be punished.” You know you should protest, fight the ridiculous notion, but deep down you know he was right. “So now, little liar… I think your lesson is long overdue.”
A yelp tears itself from your throat as your wrists are forced upwards, something metallic winding around them– binding you to the bed frame. Insticintly, you tug, struggling against the thin wire securing them in place.
You’re shaking now, blood simmering as your wrists go raw from the friction, the prospect of escape dwindling as the pads of Brahms’ thumbs draw slow, calculated circles into your lower rib cage. If you had known any better, you would have considered the action soothing– but as his gaze burned into you, it felt anything but.
“Comfortable?” He’s mocking you, hidden smirk dripping in pride. His touch feels like ice, but you jolt as if you were burned. You shake your head, breath catching as you tug on the restraints— but he only laughs, the sound coated in bitter disappointment.
“Still lying, like you hadn’t dreamed about this before. But it’s alright– after tonight you’ll never be able to lie again.” A hand lazily palms at your clothed breast, the chill in his touch stiffening your nipples. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to slow your breathing as your bra is ripped away from your chest, straps digging into the flesh of your back before snapping from the force.
Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you suck on the flesh for comfort, willing yourself to not squirm as the frigid touch brushes your nipples. Brahms sighs in contemptment, the sight of your undressed torso unexplored territory.
After all, he would actually be able to see your reactions this time. The thought alone sends electricity sparking through the air, realization dawning on you as your nipples are roughly rolled beneath his fingertips.
You jolt, trying to twist away from the borderline painful touch, but Brahms continues his methodical exploration of your breasts. Thumbs tracing the underside of the mounds of flesh, his hands seem to swallow you whole. A taunt whimper slips, and you want to sink into the mattress and disappear forever– embarrassment heating your cheeks.
Brahms pauses, fingers frozen above your skin. You glance upwards, blood turning to ice as those chocolate orbs swirl with an idea. Brahms shuffles, producing a long strip of fabric. Your eyes widen as he leans forward, tying the fabric behind your head– effectively cutting off your sight.
No.
The memories of the tunnel come flooding back. The dirt needling into your knees as you clawed at the floor, the ache in your ribs as they scraped against the fallen beams. The feeling of Brahms’ nails digging into your hips as he defiled you.
Darkness coats your vision, and you strain against the fabric. “Brahms, please–”
Something rough scraps against your shoulder, curls tickling your jaw. Uneven, puckered skin brushes downwards towards your breasts, and you shudder at the sensation. Oh god, he wasn’t wearing his mask. Stubble needles into your skin, followed by something wet.
Brahms breathes against your skin, burrowing his face between the valley of your breasts. You cringe at the feeling of his scars digging into you, lip trembling as his mouth latches onto one of your peaks. Teeth sink into your nipple, and you whimper– jaw clenching as his tongue flicks across the sensitive skin.
“No more pretending to be good, you want to be punished. You wrote it countless times, so now I will.” He murmurs, barely audible as he peppers your breasts with heated kisses. It was so wrong, the mixture of the roughness of his deformity and the softness of his tongue sending heat flickering through your stomach.
Exposed, humiliated, and completely at his mercy– just the way he taught you.
Spit coats your chest as Brahms drools over you, hands tenderly gripping your breasts before giving them a harsh squeeze. Your spine straightens, and Brahms chuckles at the reaction. Eager in the pursuit to enjoy your skin unprohibited by the mask, fingers trace down your sternum, creeping towards the edge of your waistline.
The fabric of your jeans catches on your hip bones as they are pulled down, gathering around your knees. You shudder as the cold air sinks into your naked skin, stomach clenching as you go gooseflesh in the chill. Dexterous fingers press onto your unclothed pussy, and you gasp.
“Poor thing,” Brahms muses. “What happened to that pesky backbone of yours?”
Fingers slip into your folds ever so slightly, and you pull so hard against the wire the bed frame creaks. “You’re wet– disgusting little liar. Pretending you hate me while you drip on my fingers.” Course pads swirl against your clit, and you moan. “Say it. Say you want your punishment.”
You clamp your jaw shut, refusing to give him the benefit of your words. A sharp sting jolts through your pussy, causing a pained cry to rip from your chest– he slapped you. Tears threaten to fall as Brahms rubs the tender flesh. “Say it.”
A pause. “I… I want it.” You swallow thickly, surprised at the submissive tone in your shaky voice.
“You need it.”
“I–” You hiccup, snot running down your nose.. “I need it.”
Two fingers plunge into you so abruptly you whine, stretching you uncomfortably and scissoring. There was no tenderness, but something much worse– cruel indulgence. You clench around his fingers as they fuck into you. Sinking further into the mattress, you try to slow the merciless pace Brahms set for you. The hand that wasn’t making you soak his fingers digs into your waist, nails sinking into your flesh and leaving red crescents in their wake.
You shudder, hips twitching as the brutal pace massages your gummy walls. The cloth digs into your temples as you squirm– hot, heated breaths quickly filling the space as the telltale warmth grows in the pit of your stomach.
“I own your body, your mind. Even your pathetic fantasies– there’s nothing left that’s yours.” Brahms growls, jaw scraping against your collarbone as he sinks his teeth into the column of your neck. A broken moan tears from your throat, saliva coating your skin as Brahms laps up the assaulted flesh. You clench around his fingers, stomach tightening as his fingers sinfully plunge knuckle deep.
Lewd squelches, another betrayal of your body, ring in your ears. Your cheeks flush as the pads of his fingers drill against the spongy spot that makes your head spin, fingers twitching within the bonds of the wire. Your hands were going numb from the pressure, tingling spiking its way down your spine with every rough thrust of his fingers. Your knees burn, scraping against the scratchy material of your jeans due to your incessant squirming.
The stoked embers within your stomach only grew, heightened by your shame. Every movement, every sound dilated under the darkness of the cloth covering your eyes. You strain your ears to hear something, anything that could distract you from the growing ache between your legs. It felt as if you were on fire, a sheen of sweat coating your skin and dripping down the valley of your breasts.
It was all too much, too hard– your pussy clenching around those godforsaken fingers in a vice-like grip. His fingers claim you in a way that your own could never fight against, pushing within you so desperately that your eyes flutter behind the makeshift blindfold. A third finger slips alongside the others, and you feel like you’re going to burst.
“Brahms, hah–”
“That’s it.” He breathes, “-Make those sounds for the monster you hate.” As much as you want to burrow your face into the mattress and crawl within your skin, your body falls into the dizzying feeling of falling from grace. Brahms, ever eager to coax more noises from you, thrusts his fingers upwards abruptly, thumb drawing hard circles on your clit.
Oh god, you were going to squirt at this point.
“Brahms, I’m sorry, please–” Toes clenching, your spine straightens, head knocking against the bed frame as your back arches, hips begging to chase the high that was threatening to spill over. You were so close it hurt, breath coming out in strained huffs– another low, needy moan escaping.
Then it was gone.
Brahms retreats his fingers right before the climax comes crashing down, any sense of relief spoiled as you clench around nothing. Your eyes widen beneath the blindfold, forearms aching as you wriggle against the wire, knuckles white as you bite back the sour taste of dissatisfaction. Trying but failing to stifle the groan of anger building in your chest, your jaw groans from the pressure of choking down your pride.
“What was it you said?” His voice cuts through the air, “-that my punishments were… sadistic?”
The blindfold feels cold and wet against your face, and you realize you were crying. The punishment was clear now, he was going to have you fall apart on his fingers only to take away the release you craved for– and there was nothing you could do about it.
Just the way he likes it.
The cycle began after that. He wouldn’t ask, or coax– just claim you with his fingers, dragging your body to the depth of hell so you were begging for him, for mercy. Bring you to the tipping point just to rip away your climax, only to start over again. Tears turned to screams, prayers to begs, yet the cycle would just repeat itself.
Over, and over, and over.
You couldn’t even count the amount of times he had tormented you at this point, certain you had blacked out after the first four cycles. Wrists hanging weakly from the wire were red and raw from your struggles. The blindfold was soaked through, a mixture of your tears and sweat clinging to your feverish skin as you blankly stared into the darkness. Throat hoarse from your pleas, you could only let out a strained croak as Brahms’ fingers slid out of your convulsing body once more.
“Please, no more.” You sob, entire being full of an ache you knew only he could fix– yet you knew better than to beg. “Please, I can’t–”
“Tell me you hate me.”
You freeze at that. Fingers dig into the fat of your ass so roughly you cry out in pain, but Brahms only sighs.
“Tell me you hate me.” He repeats, fingers moving dangerously close to your aching pussy. Terrified of another torturous cycle, all you could do was obey.
“I…” you swallow. “I hate you.”
It was true, you did hate him. You hate how through all of the pain and the hurt and the betrayal, you still crave nothing but him. It disgusts you. Worst of all– he knows it too.
“You wrote that I ruin you– let me finish the job.” Hands grip your hips, effectively flipping you over with utmost ease. You groan, arms twisting uncomfortably in front of your head as your shaking knees meet the mattress. Trying to push yourself up on your crooked elbows, the crown of your head is shoved into the pillow, the taste of mildew and sweat filling your nostrils.
You squirm uncomfortably, taking in greedy gulps of air against the damp pillow– trying to ignore the brush of Brahms’ hips meeting the fat of your ass. Without warning, Brahms drives forward, spearing you on his cock so quickly a pain-riddled gasp falls from your lips.
Allowing you no time to adjust, Brahms steels forward, rocking his hips against you so vigorously the bed frame rattles against the wires– forcing you to bow against him. The ache in your pussy screams against the much bigger intrusion, and with every thrust short, quick gasps melt into the pillow beneath you.
Toes curling at the force of the brutal pace, your jaw slacks– drool running down your neck as Brahms filled every inch of space you might’ve used to resist him, hate him. You flutter around his incessant thrusts, trying to alleviate the pressure that had been building within your stomach for the past few hours.
“You know, sometimes I hate you too.” A rigged smack against your ass jostles you against the mattress, pain needling down your leg as Brahms rubs the inflamed area. Continuing to bully his way into your sore walls, Brahms groans at the sensation of you falling apart due to his ministrations– how ironic.
“I hate the way you lie to me.” A strike.
“I hate when you smile at me like you aren’t scared of me.” Another one.
“I hate that you look at the walls instead of me when you speak.” His breath is hot against your lower back, feeding the fire growing against your skin as another strike rings out through the attic. “-Like, mmh– you’re thinking of ways to escape.”
You’re sobbing now, knees wobbling as blow after blow ripples against the fat of your ass, no doubt leaving it an angry red. “I hate that you wrote about running away– about leaving me like I wouldn’t find out.” A strike so heavy it almost topples you lands, and you scream.
“I hate that even now, you’re pretending you don’t want this.” He presses deeper with every word, rutting against your cervix– making your eyes roll back into their sockets. “-That you don’t want me.”
Another strike.
Babbled apologies rattle your rib cage tainted with shame and guilt, prayers of gentleness left with no response. “But worst of all, I love the way you hate me.” He shudders, wrapping a fist around your hair and forcing you to arch against him. Teeth sink into the unmarked junction of your neck as he bottoms out inside of you.
“It means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.”
You break then– a silent scream filled not with relief, but shame. Sparks fly across your vision as you orgasm, overstimulation racking through your limbs and shaking you to your core. Head reeling, your nails dig into the flesh of your palms, drawing blood. A scream echoes through the room, raw and heated and divine– and you realize it was coming from you.
Brahms devours it, the essence of your ruin sweeter than any other victory. Hips stuttering against you, his nails dig into your hips– holding you against him as he climaxes. Thick, hot ropes of cum coat your sore insides, and you clench at the feeling. Shallowly thrusting his orgasm into you, Brahms lets out a sigh of relief before stilling completely.
You flinch at the sensation, overstimulated pussy screaming for solace– for mercy. Yet, Brahms Heelshire is not a merciful man, opting to reach over you and undue the wires holding your wrists taunt. Limbs free, you all but collapse onto the mattress, earning a chuckle from the male behind you.
Mirroring your movements, Brahms pulls you into his arms– the very ones that tormented you for hours on end. Spooning you in bed, Brahms refuses to leave the warmth of your pussy, another testament to your punishment. Holding you with the reverence of a lover, the blindfold is stripped away from your gaze, revealing the dark gloom of the attic once more.
A thumb wipes away a stray tear, drawing circles on your cheek as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The action makes your stomach lurch with dread. “You’ll learn to love me properly now, without the lies.” Brahms hums, tucking his scarred flesh into the crevice of your neck.
A pause.
“...the way I love you.” He finishes. If it was a threat, you didn’t care. You were too tired, too broken to think about anything other than the dull ache between your thighs. A hand intertwines with yours, held over your stomach where you could still feel the outline of him buried inside of you. If you knew any better, the action almost seemed holy– a vow, a promise to you.
“From now on, no more pretending. You’re mine– forever.” You know he doesn’t mean romantically. He means you’ll never leave this godforsaken house, never have a single thought that doesn’t already belong to him, never leave him alone again.
As you lay in the attic, the air still smelling of sex and sweat, darkness begins to overcome you. While Brahms nods off in the late hours of the night, the sweet release of sleep doesn’t come.
Because when you sleep beside a monster in a house that holds no secrets, you learn not to dream.
Threat of assault by original male character, violence/murder, non-con due to implied drug use, cunnilingus, mild dub-con, switch!Brahms, choking, loss of virginity, etc.
ＷＯＲＤ ＣＯＵＮＴ：5.9K
ＳＵＭＭＡＲＹ：You’ve been hired as a nanny for a wealthy elderly couple from the British countryside; what could go wrong?
That night, you jolt awake to the crash of glass shattering somewhere downstairs. You crawl out of bed with a sigh before stumbling your way towards the sound. Grumbling into the darkness as you fumble for the light switch, you call out, “Brahms?”
Lights on, you’re struck dumb by the sight of a man in the living room and your heart sinks as you make eye contact. He's wearing all black, shards from the windows cracking under his boots. He tackles you to the ground when you try to run, knocking the air from your lungs.
He pins your flailing arms to the floor with a grunt, pressing his knee to your spine to stop your scrambling. You let out a hiss when he yanks your head back with a grip of your hair, heart racing as you try to think of a way to get him off of you. Fear renders your mind useless for a moment before you’re forced to pay attention to his words. “I didn’t believe the old man when he said the Heelshires left a pretty thing all alone in this big house,” he laughs. “It must be my lucky day, eh?”
You thrash wildly, gasping when he knocks your head against the floor in retaliation. You blink away tears and grit your teeth, the pain bringing you to the present. “Get the fuck off of me!” You scream.
He laughs, the waft of stale cigarettes and liquor making you recoil with a gag. Desperation floods your mind and you shout the only words you can think of: “Brahms! Help me, please!”
The man pauses before scoffing. “I know you’re the only one here,” he says. “Unless you actually believe that shite about a ghost?”
Tears spill down your cheeks as your throat constricts. “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you much, so long as y—”
A rattling force interrupts his threat, a deep groan echoing through the walls. Lamps flicker as the portraits hanging around the room tremble and knick-knacks crash to the ground faster than you can keep track of. Your breath catches when every light in the room crackles and dim, sending the room into near darkness.
There’s a beat of silence as your heart jumps to your throat. You can’t quite make out anything, but you hear the drawn out creak that lures the man into turning towards the sound. The pressure on your back weakens as he mumbles, “What the hell?”
The lights brighten and the first thing you see is the imposing face of the grandfather clock, swung to the side to reveal a dark opening. Taking advantage of the distraction, you try to free yourself. The man is struggling to wrangle you back under control when you hear a voice coming from the clock. It says your name, calling for you in that childlike cadence. Relief swells inside you, ready to pop.
Brahms.
What emerges is kind of what you expected, in the back of your mind— the primeval fear you couldn’t voice. Not a spirit or, god forbid, a ghost.
Pale, human hands grip the frame of the clock— materializing from its darkness, connected to even longer limbs. It feels like your entire world comes to a standstill as the figure emerges. Your heart jackrabbits as you watch the man crouch down to fit massive shoulders through what you now realize is a door, a cricket bat gripped in his large palm. His face is covered with a porcelain mask resembling the doll you tucked in earlier. “Brahms,” you breathe.
The man— Brahms stands well over six feet, hairy chest heaving with growling breaths. His bloodshot eyes dart over you before they snap towards the burglar, who curses and tries to flee.
Your eyes consume every inch of the very real, very strong man as he overpowers the intruder. It’s almost comical, how quickly your assailant is subdued despite the frantic slaps Brahms is deflecting with one hand.
He lifts the bat with the other and swings it against the man’s temple, knocking him down with a loud thud. He falls to the floor but Brahms doesn’t seem to care, climbing on top of him and slamming his head against the floor much like he’d done to you. He raises the bat again and the man tries to hold him off, lifting his hands to stop it from hitting its mark.
It doesn’t work.
You cover your mouth to stifle a scream as blood splatters your face and Brahms’ mask with every violent ‘swoosh’ of the bat. Brahms reduces the intruder’s skull to a ghastly sight with brutal force and you hear him take his last breaths before falling silent.
Dead.
You’d be ashamed, later, of the satisfaction you feel filling your chest, the pleasure you take in watching him die. But for now, this demands your attention. The metallic smell of blood hangs over you, silence broken by Brahms’ panting and your uneven breaths.
“Whatever it might look like on the outside: our son is here, he is very much with us.” Mr. Heelshire said.
You remember nodding politely, glancing around the large garden. Mr. Heelshire’s voice drew your attention to his solemn, pitiful look. “Do you understand?” He asked.
“Yes,” you replied absentmindedly.
A lamb to slaughter.
Brahms takes a step forward, pausing when you scramble away from him. You won’t be able to get away, you think as you stare at him. You flinch when he says your name with that childlike inflection. “Don’t go,” he whispers.
His meek demeanor doesn’t fool you one bit— his eyes trail over you, body rigid with tension. Your heart quivers as he begins to plead. “Please. Don’t go, I’ll be good, I will.”
You smother the part of you that feels indebted to him, telling yourself you wouldn’t even be considering staying if he hadn’t just saved you. You’ve almost gathered enough courage to run when you hear tires pulling up the driveway.
Malcolm.
Your escape attempt is as futile as you predicted, but you give it the effort it deserves. Brahms pounces, curling his bicep around your throat with palm covering your mouth. “If you try anything, I’ll kill him,” he threatens, childish ruse abandoned as he growls in your ear.
It’s the same voice from the attic, from your so-called dream. “Fuck,” you whimper.
Brahms drags you to the grandfather clock and through the darkness of the walls, pushing past a door into a space filled with amenities. Including a bed, which he sits you on the edge of. Curls damp and chest heaving, he cages you in between his arms. You flinch when he leans down to press his mask to your forehead and note, with a touch of hysteria, that he smells like your body wash. You spend what feels like forever sitting there with him panting over you, wound tighter than a spring.
Long enough for you to understand that killing you is the last thing on his mind. And for you to admit that you’re not appalled by the idea, eyes shamefully trailing over his body. In fact, every shaky exhale of breath Brahms lets out makes your stomach clench in girlish anticipation of his next move. But it seems he’s not sure what to do now that he’s got you here.
It’s not like you’re not creeped out, but you’re not terrified like you were earlier. Sure, he’d been watching you for months but you can’t focus on much besides the fact that it was him in the attic. You wave away the nervous flop of your insides as you try to keep your thoughts on track. He’s still clinging to the illusion of your power over him, but you’re not sure how to use it to get out of this.
Or if you truly want to.
You force yourself to meet his gaze once your heartbeat has calmed down. You must’ve achieved the confident glare you were aiming for because Brahms bows his head like a scolded child, placing his arms behind his back. It was hard to believe this was the same person who just bludgeoned a man to death.
Before you can get any ideas, you hear Malcolm pounding on the front doors. Brahms snarls as his grip tightens on the bloody bat you didn’t realize he was still holding before pulling away from you. “Wait!” You say and he freezes, peering at you. “Thank— thank you for helping me earlier, Brahms.”
He tilts his head, eyes glued to your face. “I-I was really scared, y’know?” You confess. “That— that he was going to hurt me.”
Those eyes rove over every inch of your body as you speak and you’re hypersensitive to how little you’re wearing: a flimsy tank top over worn out shorts that haven’t fit properly for years. “You don’t want to hurt me, do you, Brahms?” You force yourself to ask.
He shakes his head slowly and you figure that’s good enough for now. Inevitably, you consider what he did want to do with you. There’s a body pillow wearing your dress on the bed that you can’t think about if you want a chance of appearing at ease and a pesky, persistent thought that’s been bugging you since watching him emerge from the walls: he’s fucking hot. Everything about him is jarringly attractive, from the slope of his shoulders and thick biceps to his unkempt beard.
His curls sway with every ragged breath as he waits for you to speak again. Your eyes are eventually drawn to the hard-on he’s sporting, proportional to the rest of his lanky body. In the distance, Malcolm starts yelling your name.
Brahms goes rigid. “Don’t hurt him,” you plead. “Please, Brahms.”
His eyes dart over your face. “He wants to take you from me,” he argues.
You shiver; after watching how he handled the burglar, you know the grocery boy doesn’t stand a chance. “You were going to leave me for him,” Brahms accuses,
“Wha— Brahms,” you stammer. “I-I’m your nanny, I wouldn’t leave you!”
“You’re lying,” he murmurs, which is— fair. “You like him, you were going to sleep with him.”
Right, he’s been listening to your conversations. “Brahms, that— that’s not true!” You protest.
You might have been considering it, but that was only because you’d been left bereft of any other contact for months. “I won’t let you leave me.” He insists, crowding your space. “I chose you, not him!”
You flinch when he grabs your hand, the one with the ring on it. “You’re mine,” he growls. “You accepted my gift, you belong with me.”
Your stomach churns; there goes your hope of convincing him to let you go. Looking back, no wonder Malcolm thought you were going crazy. How could you have tried to justify a spirit being behind all of that? Now you’re fully aware of the true motive behind the jewelry: a twisted proposal from the man in front of you.
“I’ll be the one to take care of you,” he says. “And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take you from me.”
Intending to follow through on his promise, he pulls away from you. “Brahms!” You shout. “You are being a really bad boy right now.”
He flinches and you’d laugh if you weren’t trying to imitate Mrs. Heelshire’s no-nonsense tone; Malcolm’s life depends on you convincing him to stay. You never thought you’d be glad for the time spent catering to the doll, though it’s hard to deliver scolding lines to a sociopath a foot taller than you. “Were you lying when you promised to be good?” You question.
There’s a pause where you're sure he’s going to do as he pleases before his shoulders slump. He returns to your side, dropping the bat and, ignoring caution, you raise a shaky hand to ruffle his curls with a soft, “Good boy.”
You’re not expecting him to drop to his knees and rest his head in your lap, forcing you to awkwardly cradle him between your thighs. He stares at you with a reverence that almost makes you uncomfortable, as if you’ve hung the moon and the stars. You try to remind yourself that Brahms’ perspective isn’t one you should lend credence to, even if his obsession shines a light on a gnarled part of you. It shudders at the exposure, relishing in the depth of his yearning and lapping it up without regard for any consequences.
He was offering never ending, all consuming passion that you’ve been waiting your whole life for. The kind you told yourself would never happen. The desire for which made you leave home to escape the dreadful feeling that you’d end up dying surrounded by people who overlooked you. A collision of two rogue stars.
Like he said: he chose you. If you were looking at things from a purely materialistic perspective, would anyone else be willing to give you the things Brahms could? Hundreds of millions isn’t something you’re willing to run from without a second thought.
He wasn’t perfect, but what man was? The warmth of his body against yours as he clings to you, the imperceptible tension in his spine— a tamed beast laying at your feet, does something to you. Would you ever find anyone as devoted to only you?
It gets harder to be reasonable the longer you run your hands through his hair. No solution would be found in your judgement when he makes your heart ache like this. So small, prostrating himself before you.
A poignant silence signals Malcolm’s eventual departure and you pull your hand away with only a bit of reluctance. Brahms groans like it pains him to be deprived of your touch. A lot about this shouldn’t turn you on, but the way he gazes at you with those pitiful eyes seals the deal. Eager to sink your teeth into this affection, were you that different from the man in front of you?
Before you do something stupid, you place a hand on his shoulder. You hope he doesn’t notice the way your arm trembles as you push him away, fighting the desire to pull him closer instead. “It’s time for bed, Brahms,” you say, ignoring your silly thoughts.
If you could get him to go to sleep then you could plan your next move. It’s too bad he looks at you as if you’re the crazy one. “Brahms!” You scold. “You know the rules.”
He gauges your sincerity before habit wins; it is past his bedtime after all. He rises from the floor, glaring at his bed with all the sulkiness of an eight year old boy. You need a fucking Oscar for how straight you keep your face as you rise to tuck him in beside the doll he’s made of you.
It’s almost…cute.
“Be a good boy and go straight to sleep, okay?” You murmur, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
It dies down pretty quickly when you see how he’s watching you. You try not to gawk back at him, feeling your face heat up at the intensity of his stare. Moments pass as you gaze at one another before Brahms breaks the silence. “Kiss?” He presses in that weird voice.
Your conscience makes one last protest, but it’s quickly silenced as you bend over to press a kiss to the mask’s lips. You wince at the metallic taste of the blood coating the porcelain before wide palms seize you.
You’re pulled off your feet by Brahms placing you on the bed in a smooth motion. The display of strength shouldn’t make you wet, but your traitorous body loves every moment. Perhaps Brahms can smell it on you, the willingness to let him cross that line as arousal pools in your gut and between your thighs.
His body dwarfs yours as he looms above you, hands inching towards every sliver of exposed skin like he can’t decide where to touch first. He caresses your clavicle before sliding his long fingers to your sternum, resting a wide palm over your rabbit heart. Your eyes widen when you notice the metal band around his ring finger, the other half to yours. It glints in the low light and you swallow.
“Kiss?” He rumbles, breaking you out of your thoughts.
Heat suffuses your body as he waits for some sort of protest. But you’re done protesting, especially with him this close. He moans at the press of your lips against the mask when you muster the courage to bridge the gap between you. His large hands rise to tilt your head into another mockery of a kiss right after the first one.
The bed creaks as he overwhelms you with his presence, caging you between his long legs. Brahms ‘kisses’ you again, letting out a low growl of frustration as the porcelain clinks against your teeth. He pulls back and you hold your breath as he violently tugs it off, revealing his handsome visage to you. One side is smooth, the other rough and pink with scar tissue.
Crystalline eyes gauge your reaction before he bows his head, shying away from your blatant stare. Your lingering reluctance vanishes as you lean forward, pulled by the urge to reassure him. He whimpers when you caress his scarred cheek, nuzzling into your palm. His lips are warm when finally you kiss them. The kiss is hesitant at first and then searing.
Emboldened, Brahms kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His hands move to your hips, squeezing your softness between his fingers. You pull away with a whine and Brahms looks down at you, eyes trailing voraciously over your body.
“You make such beautiful sounds,” he says, before gripping your thighs. “Especially when you’re cumming.”
You can’t be sure exactly when he’s referring to but your face flushes all the same. “I want to hear them now.”
His expectant tone and the way he immediately forces your thighs apart bring to mind Mr. Heelshire’s comment on overindulging their son. His eyes slide from your face to between your legs, thin rings of an indistinguishable color swallowed by its pupils. Then his hands move to the edge of your shorts to tear the flimsy fabric off of you, revealing your slick entrance for him to marvel at.
He scoops your thighs into his wide palms and pulls you closer, lifting you off the mattress. “So pretty,” he says, leaning forward. “Your cunt is so cute.”
Your face is on fire as you squirm in his iron grip. Despite how embarrassed you are, the earnest praise kindles the flame in your core, slick from your drooling entrance. Brahms can’t seem to draw his eyes away from your wetness, captivated by the sight of a tear of slick rolling down your thigh. It plops onto the sheets and you yelp when he abruptly tugs you closer. His tongue laps at the slick between your thighs before making his way to your glistening lips.
A ravenous noise escapes your chest as he devours you. Brahms drinks from you like you’re an oasis in the desert, or mana from Olympus, with audible gulps of your slick. The bridge of his nose grinds into your clit as his tongue chases every pearl of precum beading from your cunt. Lips meshed to your sticky vulva, his tongue pushes past your quivering opening and thrusts against your walls.
He doesn’t seem to mind when your thighs snap shut around his ears, content to suffocate between them. “More,” he demands, something hungry staring up at you from behind his eyes when you look at him.
He seems to be enjoying it almost as much as you are, grinding your hips against his face. Lashing every ridge of your walls with the pointed muscle, he plunges in and out of you with gusto. The vibration of his moans push you over the edge embarrassingly quickly as you squeal. Brahms’ grip on your thighs tightens when your convulsions threaten to separate him from you.
Your head spins as he lays you back down without parting from your pussy. He pulls out briefly to slurp at your clit, flattening his tongue over the pulsating bud. His tongue glides back and forth as he moans at your taste. A second orgasm follows quickly when he doesn’t relent, gripping your thighs to roll your hips harder against his mouth.
He doesn’t stop when your hands fly to his head and yank forcefully on his curls, riding the crest of another orgasm. You’re pretty sure he could do— has done this for hours from the way he refuses to be parted from you. You grit your teeth, fighting the heat turning your body to jelly. You ignore his growl of protest and he ignores your attempts to tug him off of you, much too weak to have any effect.
Brahms moves to return to your entrance before you dig your nails into his shoulder, grateful when he lets you hold him back. “No more.” You say. “I want you.”
He doesn’t need to hear any more than that, tearing at his clothing before you can think to help him. Your mouth drops open at the sight of his cock. It’s intimidating, just as long as the rest of him, tip flushed red and dripping with the remnants of orgasm. You consider the possibility that you’ve bitten off more than you can chew as Brahms makes space for himself between your thighs. Your pussy throbs when he seats the veiny inches of hefty girth against your mound; you suppose you could stomach missionary if it made him look like this.
Dumbstruck and mouth trembling like he’s about to cry, Brahms seems content to cum this way. His hips rut into yours none too gently, gaze laser focused on the sight of his cock sliding back and forth between your syrupy lips. The sound it makes is filthy and the whimper he lets out when his mushroom tip nudges your clit is particularly pathetic. You push forward when it looks like he’s close and wrap your fingers around the base of his length, marveling at how hot and hard it is. His entire face is red, eyes wet as he pants, flinching at your tightening grip. “Are you trying to cum without my permission, again?” You question, peeved.
He shakes his head after a moment and you scoff in disbelief. “Liar,” you scold. “Don’t move.”
Brahms obeys with gritted teeth, eyes never straying from your pussy as you guide him to your entrance. You nearly bite through your lip because frankly, it fucking hurts. You take him slowly, impatience tempered by the sting as you push past the initial resistance before breaching your syrupy insides. It feels like you’ve been punched in the chest when he sinks into you, a throbbing heat nothing compared to what you pictured leeching its way into you.
Your core tenses, hungry for more and wary as your body implodes with sensation. Distantly, you hear him blubbering above you, but you pay him no mind. You’re too busy trying to remember what it’s like to have how to breathe. All you feel is him, hot and heavy, like a lung full of smoke.
Eventually desire wins out and you dig your heels into his back, driving him deeper into you. The sound he makes as his pelvis meets yours is shattered, yanking you back down to Earth. You gasp, blood humming. “You—” he mewls, voice like he’s swallowed glass.
There are tears pooling in the corner of his eyes and you feel them plop, plop, plop! onto your skin. His cock throbs as its tip reaches the spongy wall of your cervix. Your core pulses hot and tight around his length, a delicious mix of pleasure and pain as the thick, bulbous head of his cock carves a space for itself. “I-I can’t—” Brahms sobs.
You cup his face, sliding your hands into his unkempt beard. There’s no turning back now, you think vindictively. “You can take it.”
He moves slowly, as if he can’t help himself. You moan encouragingly, fingers gliding over his scar. He whines, face screwed tight as his hips pull back to rut into yours. Your snug walls cling to the swell of his thick cock with every forceful thrust, knocking loose something wild. Something that might have been better off left untouched.
You tuck the thought away, urging him to go faster. His shoulders tremble with every roll of his hips into yours, tears spilling over onto his cheeks as he lets out broken cries that he muffles in your neck.
“You wanna be a good boy, don’t you?” You ask, smirking at his desperate nod. “Then keep going.”
He barely pulls out with every shallow thrust, reluctant to leave your warmth despite the pleas for mercy leaving him. “You gonna cum?” You question.
Brahms huffs in affirmation, a visible pulse in his neck from the effort it takes to restrain himself. You slide your hand down to his nape, gripping his curls in your fist before pull him into an open-mouthed kiss. His submissive whines don't match the way he bullies his cock against your walls over and over.
“Hold it,” you order.
He keens like a wounded animal, gazing at you with an imploring expression. Despite the order, you’re close. Clamped around Brahms like a vice, every plunge of his cock is like a brand to your sensitive walls. He obeys, but you can tell that he isn’t going to last long. The bob of his throat as he swallows a groan of despair, hips rolling into yours with an animal instinct, pushes you over the edge.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head, back arched as you cum, soaking his cock in your juices. Brahms doesn’t hesitate to press his advantage as you succumb to the rush of pleasure. He pulls out with a groan before slicing through you in a single thrust, watching the way your cunt flutters around his cock. Any power you might have had is wrenched from you when he grabs the meat of your thighs, pushing them to your chest to slam into you.
You can’t think— fuck, you can barely breathe. You scream beneath him, hands clawing at his shoulders to cope with the way you break at every deliberate clap of your hips together. You ride what feels like the wave of one, two, three? orgasms. Brahms’ relentless drilling of his hips rob you of any choice in the matter, stars exploding behind your eyes as your body convulses. “You’re mine,” he huffs. “I won’t let you leave me!”
You wail at the force of his strokes, thighs trembling as you gush around his length with a sound that makes your ears burn. You feel as if you’re floating, awash in a sea of pleasure that’s beginning to border on pain. Brahms doesn’t seem to care when he orgasms either, honing in on your g-spot soon enough and smashing into it mercilessly. “You’re mine, mine—”
You’re barely able to meet his matching glassy gaze when he grabs your face with one hand, tilting your gaze towards where his cock was disappearing into your slick, cum soaked channel. “Say—say it.”
He spits the demand out between clenched teeth, jaw tight as he approaches another orgasm. You can’t hear yourself over the sound of your heartbeat but you think you stammer, “I— I’m yours, Brahms.”
“Again,” he orders.
There was no more of that shy, timid boy Mr. Heelshire described. It gives you whiplash, how quickly he’s gone from begging to demanding. You yelp something that seems to satisfy him enough to have mercy on you. But it doesn’t last long before Brahms is drawn to your mound, sliding his fingers over your slippery clit.
You have to admit that you’re already exhausted; you’d much prefer the docile, whimpering creature over this feral one. You summon the little willpower that hasn’t been fucked out of you by his steady decimation to dig your nails into Brahms’ chest. “Wait—” You gasp as he knocks the breath out of you with another wet plap! “Brahms, wait!”
Your frustration reaches its peak and you drag your nails down his chest. He doesn’t flinch as red lines bloom on his pale skin, too occupied with fucking you senseless. Furious, you grab his throat with both hands, squeezing as if your life depends on it. His his jerk before slowing down long enough for you to get your bearings.
You consider for a second, not stopping. Reality is humbling. If you let him run wild, you’ll never be able to keep up. Brahms must sense the blood-lust in the air because he stops moving. You take a moment to catch your breath, pulling your hips back with a scathing expression.
You get on top of him before he tries to test his luck, legs trembling. He groans your name, pleading with a buck of hips and you dig your nails into the pulsing cords of his neck. “Don’t move,” you hiss, leaving no room for argument. “Nod if you understand me.”
Brahms stares for a moment before nodding slowly, tense with suppressed desire. Irises swallowed by their pupils rake over your face and down your body as you lift yourself over his hips. “Keep your hands to yourself,” you order, glaring at him. “Nod if you understand.”
Brahms nods roughly, eyes glued to your cunt as you grind against his length, coating him in the remnants of your combined release. It was overwhelming when he was spearing you open, but the slow push of his cock is like a cool balm to the ache that’s been building in your core.
A wrecked call of your name and the sound of creaking metal makes you open your eyes; you could cum just from the sight of the man under you. Face, ears, and shoulders flushed red and chest heaving, Brahms’ face is streaked with tears as he grips his bed-frame. It practically crumples in his grip and you clench around the searing heat of his cock as it licks up your spine until it feels like you’re going to melt into a puddle.
You look down at Brahms, committing the sight to memory. You’ll be damned if you let him take control again when he looks so perfect under you. You grab his face, forcing him to meet your gaze.
“You’ll be a good boy?” You couldn’t accept anything other than complete obedience.
“Yes!”
“Promise.”
“I promise!”
“Hm. I don’t believe you.”
“I- I will!”
“How?”
“I’ll keep you looking pretty, so pretty an— and soft. Like a respect—respectable husband should.” Your stomach flips as he grabs your hand, giving the ring on your finger a chaste kiss before dipping his tongue between your fingers.
He holds your gaze. “I’ll—I’ll be a proper daddy, I’ll take— take care of you,” he says in a pitiful tone. “Forever, I’ll do any- anything, please, just don’t— don’t leave me.”
You watch with wide eyes as he parts his lips to take your fingers into his mouth with a moan. It takes a lot of willpower to maintain the slow roll of your hips into his. “Please,” he begs, staring at you with wide, wet eyes.
He sobs, gazing at you with a lovesick expression. “You wanna cum?” You ask, voice foreign to your own ears.
Brahms’ neck seems like it’ll break from the force of his nod. “Yes, wanna—”
You recall the way he held you down, forcing you to take every inch of the cock you were now claiming for yourself. “Not yet,” you decline.
You smirk at the sad noise he makes as he complies. “Pleasepleaseplease, let me cum, I’ll be good,” he pleads.
You hum, eyes fluttering closed as you swivel your hips against his, grinding the mushroom tip of his cock deep into that sweet spot. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur breathlessly. “You’ve already misbehaved more than once.”
“I’m sorry, sososorry, I- I won’t do it again!”
You coo approvingly, sliding a hand into his sopping wet curls and tugging his head back, nipping at the taut column of his throat. “You promise?” You murmur against his skin.
You hem and haw like you’re still thinking about it when you’re moments away from breaking yourself. “Look at me,” you order.
Brahms forces his teary eyes open, gazing at you like it hurts. “I’m in charge here,” you declare. “I decide if you get to cum, how and when.”
Brahms nods. “If you misbehave, you get punished, understand?”
Another despairing nod and you feel a giddy sense of satisfaction.“Say it,” you order.
“I won’t— won’t cum without your— your permission.”
Your smile is sadistic and so is the way you clench around him. “Good boy.” You pull him closer and kiss him, smothering the broken sound he lets out with your tongue.
Brahms gasps like he’s drowning as your name dragged from his throat. “My handsome boy,” you purr before placing both your hands on his hairy chest.
Brahms’ answering moan is ragged and his wrecked expression as he submits to your will is all you need. “Now cum.”
Brahms howls, spine so rigid you’re afraid it’ll snap as his back arches underneath you, shooting hot, furious spurts of cum against your walls, the wet glide of your bodies getting even filthier as he empties himself into you.
He still looks pretty soaked with sweat, tears, and drool. You suspect there might be something wrong with you when the sight fills you with pride. You lay your head on his chest, the galloping sound of his heart against your ear lulling your fatigued body to sleep, and think nothing of it.
Brahms comes back to himself nearly an hour later, dazed eyes drawn to the warmth on his chest. He stares at you until he’s choking on the feeling burning its way through his chest. He holds you against him as he sits up, scooping you into a bridal carry; you’re small in his arms despite the way you took control of him earlier. He’s still a bit dazed as he carries you into the master bedroom.
You blink your eyes open by the time he’s sinking both of your sore bodies into the marble bathtub and he marvels at each expression crossing your face: confusion, shock, pleasure and then a smug approval that sends a shiver down his spine as you unflinchingly meet his infatuated gaze.
His breath catches when you cup his face in your small palm, stroking his scar with a murmur of “Good boy,” before falling back asleep in his arms. After you’re both clean and dry, he lays you on the bed that once belonged to his parents before standing back up. He has every intention of returning to bed once he’s finished cleaning up.
Brahms was sulking. The reason? You’ve barely said a word to him since yesterday.
He knew you were still upset with him, you made that pretty clear by the fact that you haven’t talked to him all morning aside from when it was absolutely necessary. Still, your lack of affection was slowly getting to him. He was angry about not getting your attention. And he was angry at the guy from yesterday.
It was all his fault. He shouldn’t have flirted with you, then Brahms wouldn’t have had to kill him.
He was the new grocery delivery man, substituting for Malcolm while he was on vacation, or so he said. Brahms listened as he introduced himself, commenting on someone so young and pretty living alone in such a huge house. Even when you told him you weren’t alone, he didn’t get the message. All the while he was bringing everything into the kitchen, he was bombarding you with smooth compliments and prying questions. You shut down all his advances, emphasizing that your boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate him talking to you like that.
The fool had the gall to look around with a cheeky grin, saying he didn’t see your boyfriend anywhere.
Brahms felt his blood boiling, protective rage consuming him as he emerged through one of his trap doors like a dark omen. This man wanted to take what was his. That was the only thought repeating in his head while he crossed the room in a few long strides. He made sure the guy got a good look at him as he choked him to death.
He only noticed the silence when he dropped the now lifeless body to the ground, his chest heaving. You were standing frozen, staring at the corpse lying in the middle of your kitchen. When Brahms turned to you, his eyes were dark behind the white porcelain of his mask. They cleared up when he saw the way you looked at him though. He took a tentative step toward you, head tilting to the side in question, but you stepped back, bumping into the counter. That’s when he knew he had done something wrong.
Now he wished he had given the guy a slower death. If he had just kept his mouth shut, if he had just accepted it when you first rejected him, then Brahms wouldn’t have had to kill him. And then you wouldn’t have gotten mad at him.
You proceeded to scold him for an hour, fingers running through your hair from the stress, throwing quick glances toward the body every now and again. You told him you could have dealt with him, told him that he can’t just decide to kill everyone that annoyed him.
Brahms didn’t take it well. He threw a tantrum, stomping around and knocking thing over. He didn’t understand why he was the bad guy, when it was him who made you uncomfortable and mocked him, him who was trying to take you away from him. He did you both a favor and got rid of the pest.
You watched him tire himself out, then walked upstairs and locked yourself in your bedroom. You couldn’t fully lock Brahms out, he could get in there if he wanted to – even you weren’t aware of all his hiding places and secret doors throughout the house –, but you didn’t want to. That closed door delivered the message just fine.
Brahms watched you from the walls for a while. You stayed lying on your bed, curled into yourself with your back to him. You knew he was there, but you didn’t let him see you. Still, the occasional tremble of your shoulders made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He hated it when you cried. When it didn’t seem like you were going anywhere, he left to get rid of the body. He went to bed that night sulking, angry that he couldn’t be snuggling up to you like he usually did.
He’s been following you around all morning, always lingering just a bit too close for comfort. For his size, he looked remarkably like a kicked puppy.
You were aware of Brahms’ stubborn lack of personal space. Now it seemed to have been amplified. To be fair, you’ve never scolded him so bad before. He wasn’t letting you out of his sight, always just a step behind you. You kept bumping into him as you did your morning routine, but he didn’t move away. He seemed determined to not let you ignore him.
But you did just that.
You were still mad at him. All night you kept having nightmares about getting a knock at the door. Sometimes it was the delivery guy, coming back from the dead. He would have ugly marks around his neck, his face discoloured and angry. He would lunge at you and choke you to death, just like Brahms did to him. And sometimes it was the police arriving to take Brahms away.
So you kept up the silent treatment. You managed it as you got dressed, washed your face, did your hair, as you put on coffee in the kitchen and made breakfast. It didn’t escape your attention that the body wasn’t where you left it yesterday. You didn’t know what Brahms did with it, but you didn’t really care. You were just glad it wasn’t there anymore.
You managed to ignore Brahms until you went to wash your hands. Then your eyes accidentally flickered toward him in the mirror. He was standing right behind you, looming over you. You could practically feel his breath on your neck. But what struck you was the sadness in his eyes as he watched you. He looked lost, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that you were upset with him. He didn’t know how to deal with it.
You couldn’t ignore him after that.
It started with small things. You asked him to help you with drying the dishes, to hold the laundry basket while you folded the clean clothes into it, to help you wash fruit you prepared for a snack for both of you. He did everything you asked without a word of complaint.
Brahms hated chores. He never had to do them, his parents and their staff took care of everything his whole life. But now here he was, peeling potatoes. He was clumsy at it, but he worked with a concentration you’ve never seen from him before.
He really was like a giant puppy. Needy, whiny, but very eager to please.
You kept stealing glances his way, your chest warming every time he perked up when you said something to him. When you suggested he helped you cook lunch, he came right away. It was still tense between you, but as the hours passed, it became less and less suffocating.
You’ve been staring into space for the last ten minutes, your hand stirring the soup in the pot in front of you on autopilot. You were lost in your thoughts, contemplating everything that happened. You have been terrified since yesterday. You were upset with Brahms for what he did. But you were also tired of fighting. Seeing him so sad, hanging onto your every little word like he was afraid you would walk out the door the next second, it broke your heart.
You let out a deep sigh.
“Brahms,” you called, and a moment later you felt his presence behind you. He was so close you could feel the heat coming off him.
“I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. But what you did was still wrong.”
“I’m not sorry,” came a soft voice, the tone just a bit defiant.
You closed your eyes for a second before continuing. “I know you’re not sorry for hurting him. But you need to understand that you can’t do something so reckless and dangerous. It can lead to a lot of trouble. They can take you away, Brahms, and then I won’t be able to see you ever again.”
Your statement was followed by silence. It stretched on for so long, you started to worry. Before you could turn around however, two long arms looped around your middle, pulling you flush to his chest. You felt the hard surface of his mask press against you as he nuzzled into the hair on the top of your head.
“I won’t do it again,” he mumbled, and you breathed a little sigh of relief.
“Good.”
He stayed like that, cuddling you from behind until you finished cooking, his hold on you just a bit too tight and possessive.
