#citurs

He trembles, his hips rocking in an involuntary rhythm. The porcelain mask rests cool against your shoulder and neck, tiniest puffs of his hot breath escaping with each little whine. And they’re soft, tiny little things- nearly buried under the sweet melody that slips from the record player.

“Shhh...” You stroke his back, card through his hair. “You’re being such a good boy. Just listen.” 

Brahms’s fingers twitch at your sides. He really is being so good, absolutely perfect. You kiss his unscarred temple, rub his back and whisper, “Just be patient... The song is almost over.” 

He murmurs something and it’s lost behind his mask. Your leg hurts and you shift, try to ease the growing cramp- 

Pain lances over your hips, ten bruises forming deep under your skin- and Brahms’s grip is iron tight. He ruts weakly, raises his head, pleads with his eyes. His self control is waning fast, and he wants-

he wants to be good, to be patient and gentle and to see that softness in your eyes when you praise him-