This is my first NSFW Brahms fic, and probably my last. i struggled writing this and don't really like it all too much, but i spent too much time on it to not upload. please ignore any errors as my editor is not available at the moment.
It had soon come to Greta's realization that the desolate house that surrounded her had a life of its own. It remains clear as the rain pelts against the side of the house and the tree branches scrape against the windows, or as she hears the glass she has on her side table rattle from the force of the thunder. It's as simple as the creak of the floorboards, or the complaining groan of the house as Brahms makes his way through the walls.
She doesn't have a problem with the walls anymore. There's nothing of it to hear, considering the culprit had long ago awkwardly wrapped himself around her, hand flat on her stomach and leg awkwardly tangled with hers, mask cold and sharp against the edges of her skin. He's tried to bury his face in her neck, leaving her to lift her chin and stares at the wall uncomfortably.
He's never laid with a woman before, and while she knew that, his inexperience shows now more than ever. She thinks he's been trying to rub her stomach, but his movements have been so jerky or hardly noticeable at all that she's found no comfort from them.
Pitying the man, she sighs and covers his larger hand with her own, gripping gently and repositioning it so it rests higher along her stomach.
"Like this." She murmurs softly. It's awkward having to guide a grown man to do something as simple as show affection, but she has no choice not to if she wanted him to learn how to be a proper human being. He could never recover from the years he spent away, but she could try and get the little things. She had to keep him happy.
He mimics her actions. It's a bit cleaner than before, and he seems to have a vague idea, but it's not right. None of this was.
A strand of hair falls over her eyes when he shifts again, hugging himself tightly to her. His hand shifts lower again, yet she doesn't correct him. He has to learn to do it himself.
His body heat melts with hers with each moving second. She can feel everything - the tickle of his untrimmed beard, the rhythm of his chest as it rises and falls, the jutting bones of his hips. He's made himself to be a part of her.
His fingers spread along her stomach, the digits sliding along her side. Her stomach hitches and Brahms briefly stops, going ridged against her. She doesn't say anything. She wants him to learn, to understand her reactions.
She knows she probably enables him in a way. She's still covering his hand with her own, still treating him like a child. She was like his babysitter, in a really, really horrific way.
She stares at the ceiling, thinking everything over. She still couldn't believe she was here, and that she was allowing him to touch her like this. She couldn't believe she was allowing him to touch her at all.
His masks scraps along her shoulder when he moves again, and Greta brings herself from her thoughts with a sigh. She continues to stare upwards blankly, though now no thoughts swim around her head. She doesn't have anything to think about, doesn't have anything to question.
It stays that way until Brahms shifts again. He's not repositioning his head anymore, but now moving his leg.
There's another moment of silence when Greta realizes that no, he was not trying to move his leg. He was trying to move his hips, and it becomes evident when he does it again with more force. He even manages to move her body while doing it.
It's yet another second of Greta staring up at the ceiling until she laughs quietly, a light shade of pink blossoming along her skin.
There's a bit of embarrassment that comes with the moment. Embarrassment, confusion, and unsureness. She doesn't know what to do. What did one do in a moment like this?
If she shoved him off he probably wouldn't want to show himself to her for a while, and she had just started to bring him out. It would cause a problem. It was a problem.
There was that, and the fact that Greta didn't really mind.
There's a sick part of her that encourages it. There's the part of her that justifies squeezing his hand as a sign of silent permission, a part that justifies her pressing herself closer.
Those, and then the part that gives her the final go.
"Not like that, Brahms." She tells him gently. She doesn't know what she's doing; just knows it's complete madness and there was no logic behind it.
She knows she's losing it. No, she knows she's lost it already. She has to be completely gone to even consider what she was about to do. She wasn't sure if it was the loneliness that drove her to recuperate the urges that he had, or if she had simply given up on fixing herself. Whatever she was facing she was done fighting.
She knew he watched her when he got herself off. He stopped silencing his footsteps long ago, and he'd make his presence known with loud shuffling that always sounded with the closet, followed by something toppling over. It was sickening, but a part of her enjoyed having him as an audience. It made her feel powerful. This was bound to eventually come.
It's the same power that gives her the strength to pry herself from him. She pulls her legs from his and lets his hand fall from her body. He doesn't make a sound, but Greta sees his fingers dig into the mattress when she forces herself onto hands and knees. She wobbles a small bit from nerves, but she's confident enough that this will work.
She pauses for a moment and licks at the dryness of her lower lip. She wants his mask off, but she knows she won't get it. She's not sure how she'll kiss him with it, because her mouth against dirty plastic didn't exactly seem too pleasant, but there was no alternative. He would hang onto the unnerving object until his last breath.
He's propped himself up on his elbows, chin pressing against his chest as he scrutinizes her. All she has are his eyes and the bulge evident through his pants.
The sheets shift under her with each movement, sticking to the skin of her knees until she has her hand placed on his chest and she's swinging her leg over his hips.
Gently, she scrunches the dirty fabric of his shirt against her palm. Her nails brush against his chest through the fabric, and she can't stop herself from giving a small smile when his stomach hitches. He's had never had anybody touch him in a way that wasn't motherly, and even his mother giving him attention was questionable. She has him under the pad of her thumb.
"You want me to show you?" She murmurs the words in what she hopes is a seductive way. She drags her finger around in a slow circle, tilting her head.
She watches with interest as Brahms' pupils dilate and his fingers curl around the sheets, coaxing them in to the point where she hears them pull from the mattress corners.
A part of her wants to tell him to relax before he hurts himself, but another part of her doesn't. His need for her is palpable. He's already desperate for her and she hasn't even touched him yet. She's done nothing but sit on top of him as he impatiently tries to move against her.
Greta smiles. He wants to be good for her.
"You want to be good for me, don't you, Brahms? Want to be a good boy?" She leans forward, hand still pressed against his chest. She's hovering above his mask. She's not overly close, but close enough to see his throat pulsate when he swallows.
Gracing his skin gently, Greta ghosts her fingers along the chest cut of his tank top, up to the slope of his neck until her thumb is resting over the edge of his mask. She presses along it softly, inhaling when her thumb skates over a jagged piece of plastic.
"Of course, you do." She whispers. He does nothing but blink at her, but Greta takes it as a response. He hasn't thrown her off yet, which she knows he's capable of. She's not sure if it'll remain the same way once she tries to pry away his mask.
"Can you take this off for me?"
Not even a moment after the question leaves her do his hands find their way onto her chest. He shoves at her, but she doesn't move. Not because she was refusing - she'd never force herself on him. He doesn't want her to go. It wasn't done with enough force to remove her. It was simply a silent answer to her question, and one that she would take without hesitation.
There's a hardened look in his eyes now, and it reminds her that - while he without a doubt wanted her - she was still dealing with an adult man that was very, very capable of hurting her.
She returns to her previous position, though her back is tauter now, and she sits with reason. She's going to have to do this with the dreaded mask on, one way or another.
"Like this, Brahms."
Slowly but surely, Greta moves her hips down. She moves with precision, pressing against him hard enough to elicit a reaction but not enough to give him what he wanted to the point where he'd have to do no work. His movements follow hers like clockwork, but the clock is a second too late and he's increasingly becoming more and more desperate.
"Patience." She breathes and lowers her hips again. She slides a hand along his chest as she rolled her hips, breathing a little heavier than normal. She wasn't aroused yet, but she knows she has to fake it if she wants a proper reaction from the man under her. She has to encourage him.
"You're such a good boy for me, Brahms." She coos. Her fingers curl around the ratty fabric of her shirt as she increases her pressure, the corners of her mouth curling into a sultry grin. "Such a good boy. You've been protecting me haven't you?"
At her words, his hips stutter and she's graced with the first bit of recuperated friction. At least, the first bit that does anything for her. She involuntarily grinds against him for a moment, the flesh of her lip throbbing between her teeth as she bites down and indulgences.
She can feel him pulsate against her when their hips finally meet in rhythm and her hands began to wander. She has to pry his hands from the satin sheets, but eventually she gets a hold on him and begins to redirect her touch. She places it along the curve of her breast, covering his much larger hand with her own to squeeze. She's not wearing a bra, and her tank top is thin. He has easy access to do what he wants.
She does it once, twice, and then a third final time until she releases his hand and returns hers to his chest, moving her hips with an amount of vigorousness that she had never found herself to act with before.
It is for him, too, she finds when he grips her tightly. His touch on her breast was hesitant, but effective as he audibly digs his heels into the mattress and rises his hips to match with hers violently. It's enough to throttle her a small bit, but it doesn't hurt.
She allows her head to fall back to her shoulder when the wetness between her thighs becomes known to the both of them.
She can't ever remember having this type of desire over anybody. She doesn't want to directly admit it, but she'd let him ravish her. He has the power to, and she wouldn't even be the one to stop him. She wanted to feel him just as much as he wanted feel her. She wants more than the awkward squeeze of her breast, or the oddly possessive rise of his hips.
She wants to know what he's thinking. She knows basic thoughts. It wasn't hard to track those things when they were basic human instincts. She wants to know the things that went deeper; the things that he thought about when he was tucked away in his hiding space, or when he hid in the walls and watched her take care of herself.
Greta's not stupid. She might not have ever heard him get himself off near her, but she knew he did. It was a basic thing, and it all boiled down to urges and control. Urges, Brahms did not struggle with. Control was a different story.
Control was nonexistent when he tugs at the fabric of her shirt urgently. There's a glaze over his eyes, but his expression and message was clear.
"Tell me, Brahms." Greta speaks with another rotation of her hips. Her hands have fallen to the end of her shirt, and she peels the fabric up to reveal a small lining of skin. It's nothing extreme, but it grabs his attention.
Impatiently, he reaches out to grab the uncovered part of the clothing and tugs, eyes falling into slits when Greta tugs back, a sly smile poised on her lips.
"Tell me, have you thought about this?" She pulls the shirt higher to reveal more skin. "Have you thought about touching me?"
She peels the thin clothing from herself slowly. She can feel him watching her, even when she can't see him. She supposes she should feel exposed in some way. She was with the way her breasts were out in the open, but she didn't feel so mentally. She doesn't feel the type of expected shame, even when the cold air bites at her skin and her thumb brushes over her hardened nipple.
"I've thought about touching you." She breathes, and they go on from there.
She doesn't have to guide him as much. He holds her by himself this time and doesn't need direction when he begins to play with her body. He's beginning to understand it, or at least understand her. He knows patterns, knows reactions. He's learned the things to copy, and while Greta knows she isn't going to orgasm, she knows he's close.
A part of her doesn't want to come, because then he can't fuck her. He'll be sensitive and worn out and she won't get to have the fun she had been guiltily fantasizing about for what felt like forever.
"Brahms." She pants out. She can feel him twitch under her, and she takes it as a sign to stop. She's taken on a bit of sensitivity herself, partnered with the urge to keep rutting against him, but she knows better. The urge for friction is there, but she wants something else.
She misses the feeling of fullness she always felt when she let a man fuck her into the mattress. She missed grappling at the sheets, gasping when they go right there and she's reintroduced to the tightening of muscles, and eventually the release. She misses that more than anything, and she knows just who can fix it.
"Brahms, you need to stop." She says to him softly. Despite directing him, Greta slides herself away. It was for good measure, too, because he follows the rhythm once again. He stops, of course after he realizes she's no longer on him.
When he opens his eyes, Greta's met with confusion.
She smiles softly but doesn't say anything concerning it. She just leans forward and places her hand on his chest.
Inclining her head slightly, she asks, "Can I touch you?"
She knows what he wants, and he knows what it implies but she still needs to ask. Brahms was more than capable of understanding, yet she felt that asking was mandatory. She had seen how he had reacted to her reaching for the mask, and she really wasn't up to finding out more of his knee-jerk reactions for when he felt threatened.
He doesn't verbally respond. Instead, he curls his fingers around the fabric of his shirt and looks at her. The expression in his eyes is enough to replace words and she exhales, the corners of her mouth pulling into a gentle simper.
"I'm so proud of you." She murmurs.
His chest hitches at the words. He likes the praises – needs it.
"I want to help you, Brahms." She tells him. Never taking her eyes off him, she moves to push her hand under his shirt. His stomach tightens, but other than that he shows no signs that he doesn't want her.
Greta gives him a moment to react. He was in the position where he could easily sit up and shove her from him. Of course, she doesn't want him to. He'd sending her flying off the end of the bed and gift her with a concussion. That's the last thing she wanted.
"Will you let me help you?" She pulls her hand from under his shirt. She falters for a moment when he jerks, allowing her hand to linger in the air for a second while she watched his eyes cautiously. They narrow slightly, but not from anger.
Greta almost laughs when she realizes he's frustrated.
"Okay, Brahms." She giggles.
She makes quick work of the button of his pants, and soon she's yanking the fly down. She tries not to pay attention to how ratty his underwear is when she taps at his skin, asking for him to lift his hips.
He doesn't do anything until she verbally instructs him, and even then she struggles. In the heat of the moment, Greta had somehow forgotten the size difference between them. She knew Brahms was big – she had thought about it earlier. Just not to this extent.
She finally realizes exactly how tiny she is compared him when the pants are shoved down far and she's left to stare at the budge in his underwear.
Greta inhales almost nervously. She would be fine, she knows this. She could stretch, but she was stuck with no lube, and she had never been too big of a fan of having to stretch herself beforehand. Usually somebody else did it for her, but she knows that's not an option now. Brahms wasn't responsive enough to do it.
She entertains him when she does it. It's not on purpose, but within seconds of starting his eyes have locked themselves on her and he's watching her intently.
Her hips sway light when she slips her fingers between her thighs and spreads her fingers, preparing herself for something she knows her petite body can't really take.
Brahms hips lift under her, and she smiles softly. The smile slips when she crooks her fingers and involuntarily moves down on them, breathing out a soft whine.
She could get herself off right there and then, she realizes. She needs a release, and she needs it desperately, regardless of whether Brahms helps her or not.
He will, though. She knows that.
A strand of hair falls in her face when she inclines her head to watch him, tongue briefing along her lower lip. The idea doesn't seem too far out, too detestable. She had gotten herself off for lovers before; it was not big deal.
Not tonight, she decides. As much as the idea entertains her, she doesn't have the patience for it, and she doesn't think Brahms does either. Another time, when he's crept into her room again and she has time to work with.
She moves her fingers in a circular motion, bringing her other hand up to squeeze her breast. She continues to move against her fingers, pushing away the temptation to continue and close the night off with this. It's a struggle, but she manages to push it away with an unnecessarily violent bite of the lip and the impatient whine of the man below her.
With a brief glance at him, she lets go of herself and brings her hands to his underwear, hooking her fingers under the waistband of his underwear and pulling. He goes along with her this time, allowing her to freely pull his underwear down to his thighs.
When they bunch up against his pants, Greta takes in a deep breath. She can feel his eyes on her, watching her expectedly. She looks back up at his face, then down to his hands. They're fisting the bedsheet painfully tight, and she reminds herself that there was no need to be nervous.
She casts a gentle smile and shuffles forward, hovering above him. Her gaze stays on him when he directs him to her entrance. Trapping her lower lip between her teeth, she closes her eyes and sinks down.
Through the moonlight, Greta sees Brahms' knuckles go white from his grip on the sheets. Greta herself sits calmly, though she's adjusting to the rediscovered feeling of fullness. She breathes in deeply, slowly adjusting her body, so her knees no longer sink into the mattress and she has leverage to move.
Leaning forward, she cards her fingers through the trail of hair on his torso. His stomach hitches and he breathes a muffled whimper, his head falling further back against the pillows. From her spot, Greta sees the tip of his chin and yearns silently for the face she'd never get to see.
Slowly, she begins to move her hips forward. She continues to watch his face through hooded eyes, watches his eyes change as she slowly fucks himself on him.
Her nails dig into his skin in shock when he roughly rocks into her. She gasps, but it's quickly replaced with a cunning smile when she pushes back to meet their hips.
Greta's petite body jolts when he repeats the actions gracelessly, rocking into her with much more force than necessary. Her hand skids along his shirt when she desperately tries to grasp onto something, quiet whimpers falling from her mouth. His hand closes around her wrist and he squeezes, panting noisily from behind his mask.
It is a bit awkward; she won't deny that. There's the tinge of inexperience in each moment, and the fact that she can't kiss him isn't much better. The urge is there as she lets him own her and it's suffocating, the desire to mouth at his neck and kiss until she reaches his jaw almost feral.
Greta's eyes flutter closed again, her breathing becoming more and more labored with each move of her hips. He's rutting against her messily, whimpering pathetically.
Greta pushes a hand against his chest to get him to release her, and when he does she forces herself away. He no longer has the same amount of control as he did before, and she's left to fuck herself on him. Her shoulders pull back tautly as she grinds her hips, teasing her lower lip between her teeth to muffle her whimper.
Even from her position, Greta can see Brahms' reactions loud and clear. Through the moonlight she can see the beads of sweat rolling along his neck, see the sweat worked within his hair. It dampens the pillow beneath his head, and Greta has the strong urge to tangle her fingers through the strands.
Greta swallows roughly when she feels the familiar tightness coil inside of her, her hips falling into the pattern of a frantic rutting. She moves herself down against him, bringing her hand up to dig her nail into the skin of her thigh.
"Come on, Brahms." Greta forces her eyes open to look at him, laughing breathlessly when she's meet with a glazed over expression. "C'mon, Brahmsie. You can do this-" She ends her sentence with a gasp when he gives a violent, more driven jerk.
"You can do this. You're a good boy." She repeats what she knows he wants to hear, the words dying down into a mindless mumble.
He comes before she does. She feels him still under her, and despite his sensitivity she continues to fuck herself onto him, riding him until she peaks.
She doesn't move off immediately. She stays on him, struggling to regain her breath while looking down at him. He blinks back at her, though he doesn't seem overly competent. He's in a tired, post orgasm haze and Greta really can't blame him for it.
"You're a good boy, Brahms. Such a good boy." She says in a breathless whisper, smiling when he reaches out to her. He grabs her hand possessively, and despite how tight the hold is Greta allows him.
He doesn't let go of her, even when she rises to move herself off of him and settles back at his waist. She doesn't know what to say. What did one say in a moment like this, especially when your partner didn't even like to talk.
She decides on nothing when Brahms tips his chin back, giving her wrist another rough squeeze.
With a sigh and a smile, she squeezes back.