The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

Man Eater - Part 38

Brahms doesn't appear for dinner, so you're forced to endure Melinda's company on your own.  As you dish up the lasagne, she makes all the right noises, complementing you on your cooking skills, one perfectly made up eye cocked at the doorway.   You decide to put her out of her misery.

"Tom won't be joining us.   Do you want wine with that?"

"Please.   Has he eaten already?"

You pour her a generous glass of blood red Merlot, hoping it'll stain her teeth.

"He's busy."

"Doing what?  Man things?"

"Probably."

"How long have you two been together?   I mean, you're not married...no ring?   Sorry, am I prying?"

You sit down and pick up your fork.  "Help yourself to salad."

"He's a looker behind that mask, isn't he?   You can tell.  Those biceps, that chest.  Lucky you."

You muster a smile, thinking....Oh, you've no idea.

Melinda rattles on.  "You know the odd thing?   That mask?   It's a bit of a turn on, isn't it?  Like, you know he's a man but the mask is boyish.  Child like.    I mean...normally it would be creepy wouldn't it?  Dolls and such like."

You shrug and take a mouthful of pasta.   Melinda pushes her food around her plate and you wish to God she'd shut up.   Her eyes widen as she says, "Oh, Lord, the doll?   Is that it?    Brahms?  He's heard the stories too?"  You watch her chortle with that odd gull like laugh.  "Phew, I'll say it's sexy!   How inventive.  Does he do it with it on?"

You spear your salad, avoiding her smirking face.  She's got some brass,  you'll give her that.   With a studiously blank face you ask, "Do what with it on?"

"I'm sorry, Y/N.   Just ignore me.   I'm terrible.   Can't help myself.  You are a couple, aren't you?"

It only takes you a moment to decide how to answer.  Even as you speak, you suspect it's a huge mistake.   But devilment  drives you to put her to the test.  "No.   We're not a couple."

"You both live here though?"

"No.  He's just visiting."

"Are you related then?"

You consider telling her he's gay, but decide not to for the simple reason you don't think even that would stop her.  "He's doing a few maintenance jobs around the house.  He has a girlfriend."

Melinda drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.   "Lurking in that doorway with the mask on earlier...he didn't look the faithful type to me." 

"I wouldn't know," you mutter.

Melinda finally takes in infinitesimal nibble of lettuce.   "Y/N, I know it's none of my business, but...I didn't pedal up the Thames on a bike, you know." 

You want to tell her, 'No, it's none of your fucking business',  but you just want her gone with the minimum of fuss.    "Tom's been working here for a few years.   Mrs Heelshire hired him."

"Are you telling me that hunky handyman works here and you've never been tempted?"

"Why would I be?"

Melinda grins at you.   "You're not a very good liar."

In spite of yourself, you laugh.   "He's just not my type.  Do you have anyone, Melinda?  A steady?"

"I'd like to say I've several on the boil, but I don't.   It's slim pickings, to be honest.  I have standards, you see.  I like them tall, dark and handsome.  Preferably rich, but I'm also up for the odd sweaty bit of rough."

"Just like Tom?"

"Yes," she laughs.  "Just like Tom."

Suddenly, your humour is gone, and you wish you'd never embarked on this game; should have just told her Brahms was yours and fuck off, bitch!    You stare across the table at her.  "Tom has someone, Melinda.   He won't be interested."

"You've tried then?"

 "He's not that type," you answer wearily.  

"Every man's that type.    Good Lord, I should know.   It's just a matter of seduction."  With a toss of her long, blonde hair, Melinda regards you with her cornflower eyes.  "Don't tell me you don't get a thrill when a bloke comes panting after the glance you throw him across a crowded room?   I just adore it when they catch my eye and nearly bust a bollock getting over to try their luck.   Oh, God, I love tormenting them.  There's something about the chase, don't you agree?"

Your mind flickers back to dusty corridors,  to fear and anticipation, Brahms's footsteps in the dark, his lips on your throat,  his body moving inside yours.  A smile flits across your face.

"I can see you do," Melinda remarks.   "I love being a woman.   I love the power I have over men.   I've never failed, you know.   Well, not since I was sixteen."

Your focus snaps back to this annoying creature and you can't keep the sarcasm from your voice.   "Started young, did you?"

"I've always been sexually precocious.   At sixteen I looked much older."

You drop your gaze to her cleavage.   As though reading your thoughts, she says,  "I'm all natural, Y/N.   Never felt the need for silicone.  Have you?"

"You ask a lot of irrelevant questions, Melinda."

"People think my breasts are false, because they're so pert.    I mean, usually, natural breasts are more like yours, aren't they?   Is there any more of that wine?"

You push the bottle over to her.   Melinda drinks, her eyes flickering around the kitchen.   "Will Tom make another appearance?"

"I have no idea." 

"Do you mind if I use your library.  I adore reading and I'm a bit of a night owl."

I'll bet you are, you think viciously.  You'll be  wanting  me to go to bed, so you can sit there like a spider waiting for---

Somewhere above, on the first floor, a door slams.   You and Melinda stare at the ceiling.  She pulls a face that's part surprise, part anticipation, and you long to rake your nails down that flawless skin.   You clear away the dishes, and Melinda's half eaten food.   She grabs the wine bottle then winks at you.   "Hope you don't mind.   Might help me sleep.  Strange surroundings, and all that." 

You can't even be bothered to converse with her any more.   You've encountered this kind of woman before where she wore the faces of fake friends, jealous colleagues, or vain relatives.  You pile the dishes into the dishwasher wishing she'd just get out of your hair.  Stifling a yawn with the back of your hand, you finally turn to see the globes of her buttocks describing tight little circles as she minces away.   "Natural tits, my ass!" you hiss to yourself.