Shadows of the Night - Brahms Heelshire x Reader [The Boy 2016]

Chapter 14: I Touch Myself [or Lust for Sacrilege]

If you don't want to read anything explicit this chapter is not for you!! You have been warned!! Also, there are slight religious themes because I am who I am but it's not super over the top or anything 😔

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Brahms stays in his childhood bed struck dumb and immobile by y/n's flirtation. He stares at the ceiling as he racks his brain, what does it mean? Would he be foolish to see it as a sign that his dashed hopes for romance with y/n may not be so doomed after all? Or is he setting himself up for more emotional self-flagellation by allowing himself to see what he wants rather than the true reality of their situation? The questions he ponders the most are, does she know of his feelings towards her and does she know what she is doing to him?

He doesn't know what would be worse, or better, if she knows or if she is oblivious, but his body feels electric with the unknowns, thrilled in a twisted way at being forced into the purgatory between pleasure and pain. He almost doesn't want to know her reasons for playing with him, enjoying the torture of being teased in a masochistic way that appeals to some newly uncovered part of him. He has grown to be able to live with the ache, the all-consuming want of her, and now part of the pleasure he fears chasing is made up of the pain of being denied.

He wants to beg her, to fall to his knees and plead and lay himself out like an offering to a goddess to be devoured or cast away. He would accept any fate she decided for him as long as it was her deciding, as long as it was by her hand that he would be broken or caressed.

He has never felt such reverence in his life as he does now, laying still in his old bed, scared to move lest his body latch on to the friction of movement and repeat his mistake from weeks prior. He lists reasons not to give into his body like remembered prayers, desperate for something strong enough to keep him untainted by his own hands and desires.

He can practically feel the rise and fall of y/n's sleeping body in the next room, practically feel the soft sigh of her breath against his skin. The awareness of her proximity spreads over him like the sick chill of a breeze on a humid summer day. He swallows thickly, his eyes trained on the wall that separates his room from the hallway that leads into her room. His tongue runs over his teeth as he thinks of the nights he has spent in her room with her. He looks away as if burned.

It had been a special type of punishment sleeping by her side these past few weeks. Feeling her shift against him in the night, mumbling and moaning in her sleep, the moon highlighting her features and form enough that the image of her felt branded behind his eyes. God, every night he would whimper as he looked over at her in the shadowed night, his hands itching to touch any part of her; a soft stroke could have made him come undone in an instant and he had known it so he would turn away and watch his fingers tremble until he would eventually be pulled down under into sleep.

Every morning brought a fresh rush of revulsion at just how weak he became every night, how close he existed to the very edge of plunging forward into the forbidden. He feels sure that no one has ever wanted someone more, and that very few people could battle the impulse of giving in to their yearning to the extent he has, but there is no pride behind this, just an intense desire to forgo any pretext of being good in order to relish the feeling of being bad.

He knows he is hyper-fixating on what he cannot have, largely because he cannot have it, but he has lived nearly three decades in this house completely alone save for a few childhood years with y/n and two decades of her memory, and while he has an inkling that his feelings of obsession aren't quite normal or healthy he doesn't care because he loves the feeling of the illicit.