stab me harder.

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.

“It’s okay, Brahms,” you murmur, voice shaky. “I won’t leave you.” 

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. 

Brahms cries harder, nodding frantically. “I promise!” 

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. 

Michael Myers: Your cat likes to go around the neighborhood pretending to be a stray for free food. When he escapes, Michael somehow always returns to you with him following behind as unbothered as can be. One time you managed to track him down to a neighbor’s house yourself. They refused to let you inside, insisting it wasn’t your cat staring at you from their windowsill; he just watched you from where he was perched. When you rant about it to Michael, he stares at you until you go to bed. He comes back in the middle of the night with your cat, both of them covered in blood. Your cat stays in the house for a while after that.

Stu Macher: Gets you another cat. Is perplexed when you try to explain you don’t want another cat, you want your cat. A cat is a cat, babe! When that doesn’t convince you, he offers to help you look and comes in handy when you find her stuck in a pipe. Your cat, who couldn’t stand Stu before will now barely tolerate his presence.

Billy Loomis: Surprisingly helpful; a little offended by how surprised you are by it actually. He finds your cat on the local shelter’s Facebook page with a disgruntled expression on his face that looks familiar. Billy’s not sure why you burst out laughing when you see the picture or why his frown only makes you laugh harder; there’s no need for a paternity test, he is the Father.

Bo Sinclair: You feed the strays lingering around Ambrose, despite his protests. You love them all equally, but your favorite is a tomcat that reminds you a bit of your surly partner. When he doesn't come around for a few days, Bo pretends not to care. He still buys the fancy canned food and lures the thing into the house without making a big deal of it. Don’t even mention it or he’ll kick the poor thing out just to prove a point.

Chucky: Has a hate-love relationship with your cat. You may have accused him of doing something to them when they go missing. He doesn’t deny it, wondering how you’ll react. You almost stab him is how; (un)fortunately, your cat mews at the door just before you’re about to give it to him. Great, now he’s turned on and you're giving all you attention to that thing.

Michael Myers: Fascinated by you; why are you crying over a heart shaped potato? Doesn’t react much, staring at you like you’re a bug he’s trapped in a jar. Whatever’s wrong with you, it’s almost amusing.

Stu Macher: Loves it; catalogs all the things that set you off with a sick sort of fascination. He sends you cute animal videos all day because he knows they’ll make you tear up, if not burst into actual tears. Prefers to keep your tears to himself; likely to kill anyone else who witnesses them. What if they’re overcome by how cute you are and try to steal you from him? Better safe than sorry.

Billy Loomis: At a complete loss; how are you so comfortable being so vulnerable? Aren’t you afraid it’ll be used against you? Only likes it because it makes him feel good to comfort you. Kinda obsessed with it actually; when you cry over him, he gets cuteness aggression so bad. You have the bruises to prove it.

Bo Sinclair: He’s learned to be careful with you; it’s easier than having to deal with you sniffling and sulking because his tone is just shy of snappish. So awkward it’s funny, completely out of his depth when comforting you if you’re sad. He’s more comfortable poking fun at you if they’re happy tears; are you seriously crying because he said something nice to you? Freak.

Vincent Sinclair: Was already gentle with you before he notices how easy it is to make you cry. He’s practically smothering, always checking in with you and making sure you’re okay. If a rude customer sends you home in tears, there’s no chance of them becoming a sculpture, not after he’s done with them.

Michael Myers: Doesn’t notice until it interferes with his plans to stand near you, menacingly. He's a lot like a cat: messing shit up so that you have to pay attention to him. Please get out of bed, lives are at stake.

Stu Macher: It’s almost endearing, how much he does not give a fuck. Will barge into your bedroom and lay on top of you while you’re in your depression cocoon. Not responding? That’s okay, he can carry a one-sided conversation like no one’s business.

Billy Loomis: Pretends not to give a fuck while giving several; wants to know what the problem is so he can fix/kill it. If nothing specific set you off, he's like a lost puppy.

Bo Sinclair: One of the worst about it; not sympathetic at all. It’s probably for the best that you stay away from him before he makes a fucked up comment that prolongs your episode.

Vincent Sinclair: One of the best to be around; provides silent companionship and doesn’t poke or prod. Will leave you little sculptures to cheer you up. His sculpture of you, crafted with obvious care, helps lift your spirits much quicker than being alone would have.