#the boy

[vexmoth]

someone requested a brahms a while back :] <3

[slasherholic]

been seeing a lot more Brahms content around lately and it always makes me think of the fact that they had to CGI a mask on our boy because the actor was too hot and had the audience distracted…

little did they know they’d wake up a whole different kind of beast by doing that

[phoenxwright]

Kloktober day 3: horror movie crossover.

Toki and Brahms.... do you understand my vision....

[aelkino]

[cece693]

Touch Starved

pairing: brahms heelshire x gender neutral reader tags: touch starved Brahms, you're a nanny, not movie compliant, just you delivering kindness to a man who's living in the walls, cute but also concerning, cause who wants a stinky, murderous man

You hadn’t planned on taking care of anyone but yourself for a while, least of all a man hidden away behind old walls and silent halls. But fate has a funny way of leading you to the places—and people—you didn’t know you needed.

The moment you stepped through the heavy wooden doors of the Heelshire estate, a sense of quiet trepidation mingled with an unexpected tingle of warmth. You were met by the echoes of distant footsteps (or so you thought) and the slow creaking of doors that seemed to open by themselves. There was supposed to be a doll, you’d been told. Brahms, a porcelain boy that you were to care for as though he were a real child. But as the days passed, you quickly realized you were not alone. You could feel it—a presence just out of reach. A low scuff against the floorboards when you turned your head, the flicker of a shadow across a mirror.

Every now and then, you caught sight of a shape in the doorway: tall and still, eyes peering through a masked face. Brahms. Not the porcelain doll, but a flesh-and-blood man, heartbreakingly silent and desperately lonely.

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—slow steps, outstretched hands, your voice calm but cautious.

You knelt down, heart pounding, meeting those wide, frightened eyes through the mask’s eyeholes. “You must be Brahms,” you whispered into the stillness. Your words lingered, soft reassurance filling the space between you.

He didn’t speak; you hadn’t expected him to. But there was a distinct tremor in his shoulders as though he was holding back a flurry of words—or maybe sobs. 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, too 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, your tone hushed and steady, when Brahms leaned close—closer than he ever had.

Your voice faltered for a split second, but you carried on. His breathing was unsteady. 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.

He turned just enough for you to see his eyes through the mask, shadows dancing in the moonlight. 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. His shoulders relaxed little by little, tension melting under the warmth of your touch. 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. Brahms still didn’t speak; you didn’t need him to. The way he tentatively placed his hand over yours—masked 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.

You took pleasure in the smallest rituals: combing through his hair by the fireplace, making him tea, encouraging him to hold your hand whenever he felt uncertain. He was ravenous for the smallest bit of kindness. Every fleeting touch on his arm or gentle brushing of your fingers along his back made him shudder in gratitude. You were more than willing to give it to him.

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.

You paused by the rosebushes, a single white blossom catching your eye. You plucked it gently and offered it to him. Brahms stared at it for a long, reverent moment. Then, with trembling care, he lifted the bloom to his mask, as though inhaling a memory of a life he never quite had. Softly, you reached out, cupping his cheek over the porcelain of his mask. He leaned into your palm as though memorizing the warmth, the unmistakable proof that someone saw him, someone cared for him. In that private corner of the garden, with sunbeams turning both your breaths into pale mist in the cool air, you let him rest his masked forehead against yours.

[gremlintaro]

Brahms but he dropped his PBJ on the floor XD

man,,,, give him a break,,

[beezin-art]

would fall asleep to this every single night

[the-husbando]

He's had enough of your silly little rabbit games >:(

[hop3isaprison]

sketchbook snippet: slashers

[midmaximoo]

little freak

[lossis]

Never forget how iconic it was of Kaz to cause Matthias to call him 'demon' within 5 pages of them knowing each other, simply by existing.

[theghostinyourwalls]

This movie was soooooo scary 🙈 im so scared of big juicy submissive men

[ajikdo1]

[pastelclovds]

for the made-up fic title thingy, here's a fic title i had for an old work of mine but changed: "can't sleep love"

*cracks neck* okay so—

for this title, i can’t explain it, but it gives off obsessive energy.

cw: somnophilia

brahms is having trouble sleeping because no matter how hard he tries: HE CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU. he adores you both on the outside and the inside. he’s so happy that you’ve decided to stay despite finding out about him. every second he spends with you fills him with warmth in his heart (and loins). it doesn’t take long until his thoughts become explicit and his cock hard and straining against his boxers. he first tries to deal with it on his own by fingering his twitching hole how you would, but quickly gives up when he realizes he could never do it like you.

he sneaks inside your room like the sneaky pervert he is. he stands there above you for a few minutes just admiring your face before the throbbing of his dick reminds him of what he’s there for. he slides the sheets off your body and carefully pulls down your sleeping pants just enough to where your soft cock can pop out. he wastes no time to put his mouth into work, cautiously watching over your resting expressions as his tongue slides over your veins and head. your face twists into bliss as you get hard in his mouth. he’s taken your lessons on how to pleasure you to heart. now he can play you like a fiddle. he slides you out of his mouth, stroking the base of your cock as he does it.

brahms let out a whimper as the head of your cock enters him, his hole stretches to fit you in as he continues to slide down until you are balls deep and sitting snuggly against his prostate. he rests his hands beside your neck as he steadily raises his hips until your head kisses the rim of his ass and slams down. he couldn’t contain his moans and whine for ‘more’ even if he was in a death match. you finally snap awake when brahms cried out your name as his cum stained your chest and belly. he slumps against your chest as he pants heavily beside your neck. you didn’t think it was possible to grow more horny than you already have, but your darling losing himself on your dick proved you wrong.

brahms gasped when your palms found themselves on the fat of his ass as you bucked up into his tight hole. you grin as you whispered into his ear, “i’m not satisfied, love.”

[victoryrifle]

JAMES RUSSELL as BRAHMS HEELSHIRE

in THE BOY (2016) dir. William Brent Bell