#my skrunkly sweaty wall man

[devil-doll13]

Wild Imagination

(Brahms x Nanny!Reader)

Tw: G/N reader, I just use ‘nanny’ as a catchall term, Angst, Typical Jealousy/Possessiveness, Stalking, a.k.a Brahms being Brahms, Alcohol Mention, also sort of a character study? Idk

So I remember I said something about writing for Brahms and this is sort of a warmup/experiment for him! This is fairly short too, so I may or may not make a followup but for now have this.

Dividers by delishlydelightfuldividers

Brahms is fascinated by you.

This is understandable; you are a kind, attractive person, and he has rarely seen those not only as fantasy manifested in the pages of a novel.

But it is also simply because you are you, and uniquely so. All of your preferences, habits, interests; every minute detail he commits to heart.

Brahms likes routine. Brahms likes structure. He watches closely and memorises you as if you are his favourite story; playing those special little moments over and over again in his head.

Only, in his make-believe world, he is right there with you. In spirit, he always is; the doll is by your side, therefore he is as well. He cherishes your presence within his home, he loves your cooking if only because it is made with genuine care, he enjoys your piano playing, whether masterful or amateurish. He falls asleep - however awkward his position behind the walls might be - to your soothing voice reciting poetry to the doll, as if those porcelain eyelids might be closed.

But that isn’t the same as being with you truly, really, physically. That doll; his child persona, is a barrier separating you from him, perhaps even more than his place between his walls. All his little games he likes to play, you assume to be nothing more than a figment of your wild imagination. He has become so attached to you, but you don’t even know he exists.

Sometimes Brahms wonders what it would be like to be with you as the man. To welcome you into his home, as he should have when you were hired. To play the violin or cello or piano for you and impress you with his musical virtuosity. To hold you in his arms - a real human being, not only a sub-par effigy of your likeness - and softly read along with you. To conceal a laugh at your momentary fright as his cold hands run goosebumps down your spine. To be your Darcy or Rochester or Heathcliff.

But… No. He must be good. He must stay hidden.

He reminds himself of this every passing day, but by every passing day his desire to have you see him, as Brahms, in the flesh and blood and sweat, grows stronger and stronger.

His need for this surges, rather violently, when he sees you smiling and laughing with that damn Malcolm - only at the door, because you are a good nanny and follow the rules as you should - for he is reminded so unpleasantly that you will never smile or laugh for him. Not for him, not for Brahms the man, flesh and blood and sweat.

Brahms’ resentment for this fact soon bubbles over, soon he feels a sort of hateful jealousy directed at that doll and how beloved it is; for he is not scarred or ‘odd’ or wrong, not a failure of a son or a disappointment. He is ‘Brahms,’ without flaws, without blemishes, without room to embarrass or bring shame. Silent and perfect forever.

Now he cocoons you in his wool knit cardigan, safe from the outside world. Although you might struggle, he knows you need him as much as he needs you; you must, for all the nights you have imbibed wine and spilled your deepest secrets to him. To the doll, to a figment of your imagination. But it was him the whole time, and now he has revealed himself to you for you to love as deeply as you did that broken bundle of porcelain.

He loves you. You do too, right?

I didn’t tag any of my usuals bc I didn’t know who would want it but lmk if you want to be on my slasher x list!

[pseudowho]

"Why the fuck...does this vacuum cleaner smell like cheese?"

Kento was yet to arrive home, and you saw this as only a blessing for him. Staring down the barrel of the hoover, the house finally hushed from the sounds of rowdy children, you wore your finest holey tank top, and pyjama shorts which covered asscheek, pussy and belly (but only ever two at a time, at any given time).

Your antiperspirant didn't have the same stamina as you. You swore as you trod barefoot on Lego, staggering and cussing like a mad old witch.

Bra-less, and without the time to scout the laundry pile for underwear, you hoovered crumbs and war-detritus like a skrunkly raccoon; hungry, cross, and in need of a shower. Your mind was lost, running between the alleyways of your chore-list, when the door clicked open, and closed.

You vacuumed, and vacuumed, not even looking up as you heard the rhythmic tack, tack, tack of his brown Oxfords approaching.

"There she is."

As if you were the Venus de Milo.

You grunted, lifting the rug and picking up an abandoned, squashed peach with an ugh! and cursed your sleeping offspring. You stood up with a huff, blowing sweaty hairs off your face, your breasts swinging independently of you.

"How's my darling wife?"

Pristine as ever, crisp and ironed and with the faintest tang of sweat and cologne, you wondered if Kento would ever arrive home looking like he'd been intimately acquainted with a trash can. The day had not yet come. Whiskey-deep eyes drank you in, parched.

Your heart ached with how handsome he looked, and how pathetically mismatched you were against him.

"Kento. You're home."

"Mmmm."

Either in confirmation, or having seen something delicious; you weren't sure. You suspected the latter. You scoffed as his hands reached out to slip round your raggedy waist, and you scoffed, and he shushed you, and you berated him, and he mumbled sweet nothings into your neck until you were finally folded into him, his missing ingredient.

And how he looked at you, as if you'd hung the stars and orchestrated the seasons.

You breathed him in, lax against the brick-wall solidity of him. You could have cried.

You still had sloppy peach remnants in your hand as Kento kissed you, soft and mellow and longing. You huffed against his lips.

"Kento, I am a fucking mess--"

"You're lovely--"

"--I absolutely am not--"

"--ravishing--"

"--you're ridiculous--"

"--gorgeous--"

"You're an idiot."

"I've missed you."

"God, I've missed you too. So much. You don't even know."

"I'm sure I do."

You sighed, nuzzling your face into the hard planes of Kento's collarbones, growling away a day of frustration. His chuckles rumbled up, tickling your nose. You rested your cheek against Kento's chest, your weariness bone-deep, having had no agency over your body or your time since dawn.

You surveyed the carnage together in silence; toys strewn as if the bodies of soldiers, abandoned laundry with stains of suspect aetiology, congealed meals, lovingly prepared and never eaten. You felt the weight of the day threaten to overwhelm you, feeling the panic and anxiety climbing, tidal waves on your waterline--

"Sit down. I'll make you a cup of tea."

The floodgates almost opened. "I can't do that-- you've had a long day-- so much to do--"

"And, I'll do it."

"No you won't, I--"

"Sit down. And I'll make you a cup of tea."

A single, slow kiss to your sweaty forehead. You sniffled, no strength left for another battle. You offered paltry smiling complaints as Kento nuzzled your hair, gripping you closer, growling into your neck as you squeaked and laughed.

You felt the familiar heavy press and twitch of his cock against you, and he groaned as you squirmed in his grasp, giggling. You caught his eye, as he twinkled down at you, pressing one slow kiss to your lips, possessive and full of promise.

"...I'm not apologising for anything. You look incredible."

"Ridiculous man, Nanami Kento."