#oc slasher

Two brothers, raised by a mother who used to be kind, but became a ruthless killer later on in life. She taught the boys how to kill and how to properly use as much as possible from their kill. She either got taken away or killed or fatally sick.

We've got Tobias, the older brother, who's a strong giant with a good heart. He's mute and he's got some intellectual disabilities (think a leatherface type character).

Then we've got Jeremiah, the sociopathic younger brother. He's sadistic, but not heartless.

Note that Tobias isn't considered lesser or incapable by his mother nor brother, and he isn't infantilised.

When MC stumbled upon them, they ended up saved from a rapist by Tobias. They might be killers, but their momma raised them right. He covered MC in his shirt, gathered them up in his arms and brought them back to the boat. When seeing his brother coming back home with a figure in his arms, Jeremiah first thought he'd gotten them the next day's meal. But as they got closer and he saw the figure in his brother's arms was also bundled in his shirt, he knew something wasd amiss.

He hid in the shadows, and seeing the stranger was seemingly calm with his brother, elected to let him handle it for the moment.

Tobias got them clothes, food and water, and settled them on a couch near the fireplace before he went looking for his brother. Jeremiah agreed to let Tobiass take care of them, but once they were ok, it'd be fair game, they did see him kill the rapist, it could be dangerous to let them off.

As Tobias was tending to them, the stranger stayed kind to him, Once the perceived danger had passed, and they understood he wasn't going to finish what the original assaillant was doing, they didn't even seem offput by him. Jeremiah was of course still observing this.

The stranger ends up teaching Tobias some sign language, and that's when Jeremiah starts thinking that maybe keeping them around might be nice. He'd never gotten the means or stability needed to get Tobias any real education (their mother didn't either), and unlike him his brother needed to be guided to learn.

He decides to introduce himself. They seem a lot of wary of him than they are of his brother. They're right to be, but Jeremiah wonders if it's instinct, perspicacity, or pure luck.

Tears streamed from your eyes while you shook your head, limited by the grip on your jaw.

"Yes it was," the voice growled. "Don't lie to me."

He pulled you by the chin, your feet scrabbling against the hardwood floor as he brought you to stare at the girl you'd known for your entire life.

"You wanted her to scream. You wanted to hear it. You wanted them all to scream."

You flinched as the axe blade brushed against your arm. Sticky and warm and wet and cold and metallic. Goosebumps typed messages of fear across your arms. You crossed them, eyes squeezed shut against the painting of gore, as you rubbed warmth into yourself. You were still sweating from the fireplace.

"Get out," you hissed.

"Couldn't even if I wanted to, sweetheart," his voice was harsh against your cheek, the scratch of stubble no gentler.

He turned you to face the window. You felt the chill of the outside even through the sweater you'd found. Running for your life in a sweater was slightly better than running naked.

He pressed your chest against the cold window pane, the glass sending shocks through you as you gasped and flicked open your eyes. Snow up to your eyes, just a few feet below the top of the floor to ceiling window frame, with thick snowflakes still adding to the pile. And transparent before it a reflection ghosted over the view. A strong arm, thick rippling muscles, pressing a hand to the back of your neck and pushing you forward so your chest met glass. Broad shoulders, wider than you by enough to make you feel small for once barely contained in an unbuttoned flannel over a blood smeared tank top. Jean covered hips that pressed into your ass as he watched you look his reflection up and down. Your reflection up and down. Your nipples pebbling under the sweater, the hem riding up to show the silvery stretchmarks on your thighs, the flush on your face. His cocked eyebrow and crooked smirk as he met your eyes in the reflection.

"It's turned into quite the blizzard. Neither of us is 'getting out' no matter how cute you look when you're angry," he ground his hips into your ass and pressed his nose to the bundle of your hair he held against your neck.

"Shit, you smell like him," he ground out.

A stinging slap landed on your ass.

You cried out, pressed your bare ass back against the bulge in his jeans, against the hand smoothing out the sting on your skin.

"Gonna have to fix that, princess," he laughed.

He dragged you by your hair to the bearskin rug in front of the fire place. Sweat dripped down your back, under your boobs, and blood coated his boots as he trudged through the mess just a few feet away. He pressed you into the ground, ass up in the air and chest against the rug (you fucking hated that rug) facing away from the scene of the crime you'd been party to.

"Gonna make you sweat off the smell of him," he lifted the hem of your sweater.

You rubbed your thighs together, the slick of arousal starting to drip in an uncomfortable show. He pried them apart, spreading you like opening a book to a well loved chapter.

"I've been dreaming of your sweet pussy," he groaned.

In the instant before you responded he wrapped his lips against your dripping hole and pressed his tongue flat against it. You bucked and cried out as he lovingly made out with your pussy, drawing cries of pleasure from you. You screamed for him, for the way he spread you and devoured you. For the way his fingers circled your clit until you were bucking into your orgasm. And then he grabbed your hair and you moaned at the loss of his tongue on you only to find him pulling your head back and shoving his tongue into your mouth. You tasted your pleasure on him, the scent of it lurid and naughty and more than you could handle. You crumbled apart in his hold as one arm kept you supported. You heard his other hand undoing his zipper. Sweat pooled at your lower back, the smell of sweat and sex filling the room more than the fire and faint smell of blood. Almost enough to make you forget. And then he was pressing the warm tip of his cock against your needy pussy and you really did forget anything else. He slid inside of you beautifully, easing gently into you until he was buried to the hilt. The pressure of him stretching you, filling every inch of you, nearly broke you into an orgasm again. And then he started to fuck you. He held your hips hard, fingers bruising into the soft cushion of fat as he slammed your ass back against him. You screamed as he thrust, begged him to go harder, deeper, faster, until he was growling like an animal bent over you. His teeth buried into your shoulder as he groaned your name into your skin. You felt your eyes roll back as he kept going, kept slamming into you in a frenzy. You felt on the edge of consciousness as he slammed and shuddered, spilling hot cum inside of you.

You shuddered under him as he collapsed forward with you. His chest plastered to your back, his cock still buried inside of you. You felt the stiffness of his arms, holding some of his weight off of you. You felt the exhaustion seeping into you.

"That's better. Now you smell properly fuckable."

It took a moment for the implication to set in. Almost as soon as you realized what he meant, he pulled out of you and grabbed you roughly by the hips. He flipped you onto your back, staring up into the face of a murderer as he started to fuck you again.