#brahms x reader

Jason Voorhees

Jason’s yearning is heavy. He’ll follow you through the forest with silent excitement like a hunter after their first doe of the season. He tries to make himself smaller, softer in an attempt to not scare you, though his size and silence do anyway. Jason leaves offerings like bait; flowers, candy, whatever he sees and thinks you might like. He loves you the only way he can — by protecting you. It’s worship.

The Grabber

The Grabber’s yearning is an illness dressed in silk. You feel it in the way his voice softens when he says your name, the way his bare hand rests around your throat — not to hurt, but to remind you that he could. He watches you with that damned mask hiding his truth, pretending control, but you can feel it each time he speaks; the desperation lacing his voice. He doesn’t understand love, not in the gentle sense that someone as soft as you deserve. His is a dark possession that aches, a distressed urge to keep you where the world can’t touch you. Every time you flinch, he whispers, “I don’t want to hurt you.” and part of you believes him. You are the only softness he’s ever craved, and he needs you to stay.

Thomas Hewitt

Thomas’s yearning is slow, patient, and devoted. He can’t say what he feels, so he builds it instead. Little gestures stitched into every day; a gift a thought you’d like and waiting for you to join the table before eating. You’re the one thing that makes him believe there’s something gentle left in him — how could he let that go? He watches you with soft eyes, adoring every feature like it’s the first time. His yearning isn’t loud, but it speaks volumes.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms’s yearning is frantic. Like he’s drowning and you’re the air he’s desperate for. His affection comes as whispers through the walls, gifts he leaves where you’ll find them, and the way he trembles when you say his name — God, he loves the way his name sounds on your tongue. He wants you to see him, to never, ever leave. His love is unbalanced, fevered, but achingly sincere. You can tell how badly he wants to be good for you, even if he doesn’t fully know how.

Hannibal Lecter 

Hannibal’s yearning is an art form. He is precise and utterly consuming. You are his muse, his fascination, the line between devotion and destruction blurred into something so beautiful. He doesn’t starve for your body so much as your soul, the way your mind moves. His love is a sonnet written in blood and expensive wine. When he looks at you, it feels like being studied, painted, and devoured all at once. You’ll never know if he wants to kiss you or consume you, maybe both. He has paintings of you on his wall. To be yearned by him is to be owned. 

Vincent Sinclair 

Vincent’s yearning is quiet. You see it in the way he sculpts, how every curve of wax mirrors you with precision. He doesn’t speak his love, but trust that he shows it. His hands that glide across your face and skin, memorizing every inch, the polaroids of you that adorn his workspace — the man spends every moment thinking of you, replicating you with wax. He loves like an artist loves their masterpiece.

Bo Sinclair

michael myers

this man has so much pent up sexual frustration it's nearly painful. however, he has no clue that he does in fact have certain needs that need to be met until he has sex for the first time. michael has never understood the hype. he's killed and maimed countless people in the middle of the dirty act but never thought to try it for himself. until he met you. then he had a better understanding of those sex crazed teens. suddenly all of the blood in his body seemed to rush to his dick every time he watched you get dressed from outside your window.

definitely took a while for him to actually come to you for sex. at first he would just watch you from outside, buried in the bushes and stroking himself. when he does ask you for sex the first time, it's painfully obvious he has no experience. there is no foreplay, no moments leading up to it. just rough brutal thrusts to go in and relieve some of that tension. it's going to take a good deal of pep talks and deep conversations to get michael to actually take his time with sex.

he's reluctant to try new things, but once you show him the joys of things like choking and blood play? he's all for it. what do you mean he can still get the thrill of a kill all while filling your pretty pussy? it doesn't take much convincing to get him hooked. however, he can easily get carried away with it, driving the tip of his blade just a little too deep- his fingers curling around your throat just a little too tight. it's a fine balance of fear and desire throughout sex with michael. and unfortunately for you, that little glint of terror that gleams in your eyes when he does go too far is something he lives for. he loves that feeling of helpless power.

his sex drive reaches its peak after a fresh kill. something about dripping blood across your pretty skin as he fucks you drives him wild. the adrenaline that courses through him after a hunt causes his stamina to also increase (buckle up babes, you have a lonnnggg night ahead). even after your legs have long stopped working, he's pumping you full. with his size and inhuman strength, he'll use your body like a rag doll. bending and twisting you around to however he sees fit.

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ghostface

definitely one of the most experienced out of the slashers. he knows he's good and he's cocky about it. your relationship would likely start off very transactional. he gets to fuck you and you get to live to enjoy it (a good deal if you ask me). ghostface has a thing for inexperience. he likes the idea of being the one to corrupt you, to reduce you to his little plaything tailored specifically to his needs. he knows just how to get what he wants from you too. giving you just enough to keep dragging you along.

super into kinks. you will never catch this man having anything close to vanilla sex. he likes the shock factor of rough kinks, ones that make you go "did he really just ask me to do that?". so definitely expect the unexpected with him throughout sex. he'll draw his knife along your skin, leaving little beads of blood in its wake. try and resist him and it will only fuel that fire further. he loves watching you squirm, seeing that spark of fear rush through you.

loves seeing you suck his cock and gagging around it. power play is a big thing for ghostface, he enjoys seeing you reduced to a mess before him. it's such a turn on for him when you start crying during sex from the sheer pleasure alone. he will ask you to wear makeup just to watch the mascara run down your cheeks and your lipstick smear all from him. it's a possessive thing. he wants to feel like he owns your heart and your body.

he does have a very high sex drive, almost insatiable. sex isn't a quick thing for ghostface, it's a marathon. this mans stamina is unmatched and he will expect you to try and keep up with it. every round brings a new thrill. he's very big into roleplaying, keeping your adrenaline going through the entire process. he'll have you hide around the house, and god if he gets his hands on you...it's definitely an event you will remember. the more you fight back, the more he wants to shove his cock in your mouth to shut you up. he will have you ruined for anyone else after he's done with you.

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thomas hewitt

has some of the least experience out of all the slashers. he grew up in a very conservative household where sex was considered taboo. now, he's definitely had his curious thoughts. eyes lingering too long on a victim, finding charlie's secret stash of raunchy magazines, etc. so sex isn't entirely foreign to him, it's just not something he is super comfortable expressing and acting on. and then he met you. suddenly those desires became very difficult to try and ignore. you would have to be the one to initiate first. no matter how many times you tell him about your attraction, he still has a level of insecurity.

your first time is surprisingly sweet. thomas was not born with the desire to hurt and kill, it was taught to him. he is very adamant about never laying a hand on you or anyone else in his family. (unless charlie says something that is deserving of it). your first time is filled with affectionate gazes and soft kisses along your bodies. he takes his time with you, allowing you to guide him and show him just how you like to be pleased.

definitely more of a giver than a receiver. sex to him is another way for him to show his commitment to you, he would do just about anything you asked him. he's hesitant to explore kinks, especially ones of a more violent nature. but if it gets your eyes rolling back and his name falling from your lips? he's willing to give it a try. he just wants to take care of you and your greedy little cunt.

his sex drive starts off slow, almost hesitant to come to you multiple times through the day and ask for it. the more comfortable he gets, the more it increases. soon he's bringing you down to the basement to sprawl you across the table and forget about his responsibilities for a little while. his fingertips are grazing over the curve of your ass every time he brushes past you. it's a steady increase in his need for you as time goes on.

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brahms heelshire

this man is practically pouncing on you the moment you give him the okay. there is no hesitation there, just pent up desire. he worships the ground that you walk on and it shows in the way he fucks you. brahms is a switch, just desperate to be in you however he can. he does absolutely love it when you ride him though. he gets to see your pretty face and breasts bouncing as he plunges into you. it's an addicting sight. despite his lack of experience from being trapped in literal walls his entire life, his enthusiasm makes up for it.

he's desperate to please, to earn his keep in your bed. brahms will eat you out for literal days if he can, you have to practically force him away from your cunt once the overstimulation becomes too much. and after that, he's fucking you until the only thing you can think of is how good he feels. he does love it when you take control randomly, pinning him beneath you and using his body like you own it. he can't help but beg and whine and plead for you like this. the name "mommy" would definitely slip out randomly and after that? it would stick.

he's willing to try just about anything at least once. brahms is a simple man with simple desires, that being you. his favorite kinks however are the ones that involve different ways he can bring you pleasure. using various toys to bring pleasure to different parts of your body all at once, leaving territorial hickies along your skin, fucking you in front of a mirror so you can see how pretty you look like this.....he just wants to make you feel good!

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.

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.

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.

- hardly sleeps (he doesn't really need it) but he's content with laying with you.

- when the sun rises he's back on patrol but he leaves you with the blankets wrapped securely around you.

MICHAEL MYERS:

- sleeps like a fucking corpse...

- you don't know if this man is alive or dead with his steady shallow breathing.

- he's a light sleeper. one and subtle movements and now he's up.

- allows you to cuddle near him but he'll be stiff and a board.

- he's so awkward with cuddling. give him time. (a lot of time...)

- if you're a deep sleeper he'd secretly lay on your chest just to hear your heart beat.

- when you wake up you could have sworn he laid on top of you. it's not like he'll confirm or deny. he'll just stare at you then walk away.

BUBBA SAWYER:

- my sweet cutie patootie just wants to be held.

- he WILL be little spoon. argue with ya mama.

- he's never really experienced cuddling but if you offer he'll never turn it down.

- he's so happy you can practically feel it radiating off of him.

- don't let that big man fool you! HE IS A SWEETIE PIE.

- If you want to be held he'll most definitely indulge. for a while until he's back laying on your chest with his legs intertwined with yours.

BRAHMS HELLSHIRE:

- where yo mama at bruh 😭

- you cannot get this cling bot off of you no matter how hard you try.

- he will cling to you like Mr. Crabs to his favorite dollar.

- he's always under you in some way shape or form.

- if you're AFAB or have any sort of chest... he grabbing it.

- this stinky man is the type to never be big spoon. he will always be little spoon.

- if you refuse he will be petty and go back in the walls.

- bonus points if he's extra petty and does stuff to disturb your sleep.

ART THE CLOWN:

- who you foolin by telling me this man actually sleeps?

- he will stay up and watch you sleep. silently mocking how you slob on the pillow and snore.

- sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night to see this mf squatting over you burrowing holes into your face.

- he WILL scare you awake if he feels like you've been sleeping too long.

- on a calm night he might actually lay beside you. he won't cuddle you but at least he's not doing anything... which you should most definitely be concerned about btw.

DOOMHEAD:

- he may be a freaky lil perv but he's a great cuddler.

- you'll end up sprawled out together in the wildest positions imaginable. but it's comfortable.

- he's the type to think if you sleep half naked or come to bed in less than you usually do it means his getting some tonight. (NOT)

- has to has his hands on you in some way for him to be sane enough to sleep.

- will use your thighs, stomach, sides, ass, or breast (for the people who have them) as a stress ball.

- If he had a stressful night all he want to do is lay between your thighs to ground himself.

PEARL:

- bless this poor girl.

- she is clingy and for all good reasons. she just doesn't want you to leave her.

- after the first time you've cuddled up together she doesn't want to sleep any other way.

- she'll always seek out your warmth in her sleep even if you're at work or doing something.

- she wears your shirts. using your scent to lull herself to sleep.

- her body migrates to you when you return to bed. immediately snuggling into your side or shifting until she's laying on top of you.

TIFFANY & CHUCKY:

- these two are chaotic sleepers.

- Tiffany on one hand likes for you to lay on her chest while Charles likes to big spoon.

- before bed he's always making lewd innuendos while humping your ass. you and Tiffany did hit him. it may have stopped the humping but it doesn't detour him.

- both likes switch positions. it's never the same one every night.

- if their both up and want a little something something you're in for a rude (good) awakening.

CARRIE WHITE:

- another one of my babies who just wants to be held.

- it doesn't matter which way as long as you hold her.

- she's happy everytime physical contact is Intitated.

- when you aren't around she holds and rocks herself to sleep. she feels so lonely in her room without you there.

- when she wakes up she stays in her spot. just admiring your features from her position in your arms.