Work Text:
You sat at your desk, looking over scheduled appointments for the week before your day started, and recited names to yourself to commit each client and their appointment with you to memory. It served to create a stronger bond between you and them if you were fully prepared for each client, your space ready to accommodate them and their specific needs.
You had been a professional cuddler for half a decade at this point, meeting the emotionally intimate physical needs of probably hundreds of clients at that point. It was fulfilling, calm. You’d only had a few troubling clients, ones that got attached to you or threatened your well-being, going so far as to attempt to assault you. It wasn’t unheard of in your profession, which you knew going in.
You were warned against taking on clients that were reclusive and possibly violent, some so shy and secretive that you never saw their faces, only heard their voices and felt them next to or behind you, but if you wouldn’t take them, not many others in your profession would. They deserved a chance to heal just as anyone else did. Wearing a physical mask in place of a figurative one didn’t take that right away.
You’d had several clients sent to you or recommended to you under the comfort of there being no pressure to take their masks off, as they could express themselves or allow any perception of themselves in almost any way they were comfortable to with you.
When you finished working on your schedule, you checked your watch and smiled, getting up to turn the sign in your front door to open in time for your first appointment. You always looked forward to appointments with the man, Brahms, as you looked forward to seeing if he’d come a little more out of his shell, be more comfortable, and talk a little more. Brahms was one of the few people you had on your current clientele list who almost always donned a mask.
You didn’t wait by the door or even in the waiting room, waiting in the room your sessions took place in instead. Brahms liked moving silently. He liked making his way to the room alone, seeing you waiting for him there. It was like a reward, he told you.
You sat in the middle of the large, generously decked-out cuddle palette that you’d created in the corner of the room. It was a nest, really, filled with pillows and blankets that you got washed weekly, even going so far as to have personal sets kept away for clients that you’d had for long enough, labeled and folded away into a closet space. You’d gotten one for Brahms when he’d been coming to you for over a year, but he had a hard time accepting gifts. It’d been used only a few times since purchase.
That was okay, you thought.
You shifted where you sat, checking your watch just in time to hear the door creak almost silently back into the frame. You ensured your phone was on silent but nearby. As much as you wanted to fully trust your clients, especially one so quietly kind and misunderstood, you couldn’t risk anything in your career.
The door opened and you could see the hood of a hoodie peeking through before brown curls and a cracked-and-repaired porcelain doll’s mask. You smiled warmly, visibly relaxed.
“Hello, Brahms,” you greeted with care, pulling a pillow into your lap and hugging it before fluffing and patting it down onto your lap where your legs were crossed.
“Hello, Y/N,” he muttered, slipping his shoes off at the door and fixing his socks nervously. He wrung his hands when he faced you again, regarding you and choosing to sit and mirror you instead of laying his head down.
“How are you doing today?” You asked, voice soft and warm. He tapped his fingers against his knees. He shrugged shortly.
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he admitted after some time. Before he spoke, you could hear him clear his throat, eyes avoidant and unfocused. You could see him considering whether he wanted to share that with you.
You were glad he chose to.
“You’re my only appointment for today, you know. Would you like to extend your hour and attempt a nap?” You asked patiently, eyebrows upturned with the offer. He hadn’t pushed the hood to his jacket down yet so his mask was in the shadows, meaning his eyes were all but out of reach. You made your best effort to look into them regardless.
Brahms shifted and pulled his knees up slightly, looking dangerously close to hugging them before he spoke, resting the side of his masked face against the top.
“Would you be comfortable with that?” His voice twinged with polite curiosity outside of the guilt you knew he struggled with, asking others for more if he needed it. He felt selfish, at times.
“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t, Brahms. Sleep is important in healing as well,” you explained, pulling the pillow from your lap and putting it in its original place. He nodded against his knee, one arm wrapped around his long legs to keep them in place. His hood was threatening to slide back and off.
“I’d like to,” it sounded like an admission, like something to be ashamed of.
“Do you want to sleep in your clothes or take a look at the PJ options I have in the other room? Jeans aren’t the most comfortable thing to sleep in,” you warned, knowing that, for a long time, he didn’t have the option of comfort in sleepwear and had to wear his “day” clothes to bed more often than not. You watched his shoulders slump in thought, the offer catching him off guard. He considered very seriously turning the offer down, sleeping in the clothes he’d come to the appointment in, even the jacket, so as to not burden you.
“I have the option of both shorts and long sleeping pants,” you sweetened the pot, nudging him with a grin, jovial and honeyed.
He nodded and made a small noise, straightening up and letting his legs fall. You were on your feet before he was, offering a hand to the taller man. He took it, squeezing gently as he got to his feet as quickly as he could without pulling you to the ground.
You led him to the connected room, where two dressers rested against opposite walls, a door leading to a bathroom in the back of the room. The walls were a soft, powdery green that was pleasing to the eyes, soothing. You opened a dresser drawer marked with the size you estimated Brahms to be, opening the drawer mirroring it in the other dresser.
Opening both gave your clients comfortable options not hindered by judgment, shame, or any role of gender. You wanted comfort to be the priority at all times.
Brahms stared at both drawers silently, eyes lingering on the drawer filled with things deemed more feminine for a few moments before he ultimately chose plaid drawstring pajama pants and a white tank top, holding them up as if your opinion on them was necessary.
If it was to him, then it was, so you nodded and smiled, seeing his shoulders relax with your approval.
You chose a set of clothes for yourself, something a tad bit more fitting to sleep in to ensure that Brahms wasn’t thrown off by the presence of clothing meant - more than anything - to cuddle in or, at the very least, convey that you are a welcoming and warm totem. If you were both in clothes meant for sleeping, the client would be more at ease. They always were.
“You can use the bathroom back there to change and the clothes you came in wearing can be left on the counter if you like. That’s now your bathroom until the session is over,” you told him kindly, nodding to the door and watching him look over his shoulder at the door. He nodded, looking you over.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Brahms,” you hummed, leading him to the door and opening it for him, stepping out of the way, “I’ll be back in the bedroom waiting, okay?” He nodded again and stepped into the bathroom, turning on the light and closing the door as you turned away.
You made your way through the small building, closing yourself in your back office and locking the door before changing clothes. You folded your discarded wear and stacked the articles on your desk neatly, clearing your throat. When you got back to the main room, Brahms wasn’t back yet.
You kept busy for a few moments by clearing the nest, situating everything to a more suitable area to sleep in, pushing pillows around as a barrier, something to protect and keep safe, warm. You stood and looked at the nest, happy with the results before piling and folding blankets over, giving Brahms options to choose from. When you thought of him, you realized it’d been several long minutes since you’d left him in the bathroom to change, standing back from the nest and turning to leave and check on him, but there he was. Standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back politely.
You hadn’t heard him come back at all.
“Are they comfy? Do they fit?” You ask instead of bringing attention to how silently he moves, how silently he’d trained himself to be through his life. He nodded, not moving from where he stood, hands still behind him. You looked him over and saw the absence of socks, smiling because you agreed that sleeping in socks could be restricting.
The pants draped over his legs, only a little too big everywhere but in length, matching the length of his legs perfectly and stopping at his ankles. The black tank top was only kind of tucked in, crumpled in spots where it’d been pulled out and left the rest on the fabric. Looking up a few inches told you that the shirt was just a little too small for the man, the crumpling at the bottom telling of what were most likely attempts to change the way it fit against him, as it framed his torso and chest and put him slightly more on display than you’d ever seen. His hair matched the disheveled state of his shirt, brown curls resting wherever they could.
His beard was trimmed neatly per the mask he needed - felt he needed - to wear, which was something that you’d seen him get better at over time, grooming himself much neater than you’d seen him the first several times you’d met him. It used to be grown out and unkempt, curls of beard wrapping over the lip of the mask.
You tried not to glance down or bring attention to the shirt, not wanting to make him self-conscious but also not having seen - or expected to have seen - so much skin on the man.
“Would you like to sleep with the lights on or off, Brahms?” You asked, not moving from your spot and allowing his answer to be his, not swayed by outside action. He thought about it, eyes still not meeting you.
“Off, please.”
“Do you need a night light?” You asked, met with a shake of his head quickly. You still didn’t move, watching him shift on his feet anxiously before nodding.
“Thank god, I was hoping you’d say that,” you said warmly, laughing and relishing the relaxation of his shoulders every time he was met with patience and compassion instead of judgment.
“I- I had fairy lights in my old room, but they shattered when I moved,” he admitted and you could see even from where you stood that he was twiddling his fingers behind his back.
Truthfully, you replied, “Oh yeah? What color? I have these, like, kind of lavender-colored ones in mine right now. I can send you a link to get more if you’re looking.” Brahms looked up at you, head tilting slightly. His eyes widened just so when you offered a source to replace his lights.
“I had blue and white. Lavender sounds lovely,” he said softly, eyes following you as you turned the night light in the wall on and the overhead light off. He wasn’t scared of the dark. He’d spent most of his life in it. There was nothing to be scared of in the dark he’d lived in, the walls were meant only for him. Not even rats were allowed.
It just felt so much more alone to go to sleep and wake up in the dark.
He wouldn’t be doing either alone now, though.
You took his hand and led him to the nest, letting Brahms step over the pillows and kneel on the mattress. He didn’t move after that, looking back and up at you over his shoulder. You raised your eyebrows and gently urged him to use his words, leaning your head forward just a few millimeters. You could see his eyebrows furrow and crease the space between his eyes at the top of his nose before he made a small noise.
“I want to- Can you- I don’t want to be held today; I w-want to hold instead,” Brahms muttered, motioning to the mattress. Your smile went from small and patient to wide and proud. You stepped over the pillows and kneeled in front of him, hands on his shoulders as you looked at the painted eyebrows on his mask in place of pressuring eye contact.
“That’s perfectly fine, Brahms. Is there something that made you change your mind? This is a big step for you,” you cooed, your voice pleased and kind. He relaxed under the reassurance, the dim lighting making it easier to feel less seen. He shook his head quickly before stopping and nodding.
“Not- Not particularly. You, actually, but- more that- Well,” Brahms took a deep breath and you waited patiently, hands still on his shoulders, “I’m just comfortable enough to try it now.”
You patted his shoulders gently, meeting skin and black fabric, “That’s wonderful news, Brahms. How would you like to hold me?”
More often than not, your specific set of clients were those that preferred to be held, for one reason or another. Those who restricted themselves to only being held for a reason outside of preference usually asked to be the one doing the holding much sooner into their therapy with you, which is something you were beyond proud of, but Brahms was a special case. He’d received very little if any human contact over the course of two decades, less than all of your other clients, taking to therapy with you eagerly if not still anxious.
Being met with the eagerness of some of your clients was something to get used to, but Brahms was always respectful, always curled in on himself tight and warm to be held, and would almost always talk more once he’d relaxed into the physical contact. The comfort.
You heard a small, wet noise like the man had licked his lips or was, perhaps, chewing on them as he thought, “Like we normally do but- but switched, please.”
You gave him a nod and a final squeeze to his shoulder before pulling a pillow close and laying on your side, curling up snugly with another pillow between your knees and your chest just to feel the pressure there. The mattress shifted and the springs wanted badly to creak under Brahms’ movement, but he moved slowly and with a measured movement, laying behind you.
You could feel a stutter in his movement, unsureness building as he fixed himself to the spot, curling in and around you.
“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but, see, where do I put my arm?” Brahms asked softly, voice soft but clear. You chuckled and lifted your head and pillow.
“If you need the contact, you can put it under my pillow with mine, and if you don’t, you can rest it under your own,” you explained, humming and not attempting the strain to look back at him properly. He laughed softly, a warm thing you’d only heard on occasion. His arm slid under your pillow and wrapped around your arm easily, fingertips ending at your knuckles.
He didn’t speak again before you heard fabric and clasps undoing and a gentle clatter next to the bed, “I meant the other one. Because of your pillow,” he clarified, voice clearer and closer now, no longer muffled or tainted by the echo the porcelain gives it. You warmed at how smoothly the session was going. That’s all you could allow to warm you, but you didn’t think about it too heavily.
“Oh,” you laughed, pulling the pillow out from its spot, “You can wrap it around my middle, I’m sorry. I barely realized that I had put it there,” you admitted softly, letting him wrap his arm around you. He snaked it around your middle, fingers around your ribs, and thumb grazing over one of the bones.
You hugged the pillow back to you, hugging his arm between it and yourself before grabbing a safe textured blanket, a plush and soft one that didn’t trap too much heat, and pulling it over the two of you. You heard a small noise behind you, a bitten-off thing of an almost-whimper that you paid little mind to, letting Brahms gently shove his forehead against the curve of your shoulder and neck, his hair tickling the skin there.
You stifled the automatic shiver that threatened to power down your spine, a warm body entirely behind you, entirely against you something you could never get used to. It was one of the only things that truly gave you calm. You spoke again, only loud enough to register on the device, asking Alexa to set an alarm for two hours from then, glancing back at your client.
“Is that long enough of a nap for you?” You asked softly, hand now framing his where it was on your ribs. You gave his hand a small squeeze, getting a nod against you. Other than the nod, his movement and body had stilled and already begun to relax.
“Mm.”
“Sleep well, Brahms,” you spoke softly, earning another muffled grunt from the man, feeling it in your back barely enough to register it.
+++
The nap didn’t meet the two-hour mark, as Brahms startled awake less than half an hour before the end, panting softly and whining into your upper back, both arms wrapped around you instinctively. It woke you, but you let him self-soothe and calm down, holding you through it while you pet his arm and reached back, petting his hair and speaking lowly.
“Was just a dream, Brahms. It’s okay; it’s gonna be alright. Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Every offer of something to help, to soothe, he declined, shaking his head against you and apologizing softly in a voice that was much too meek. You continued your ministrations for several minutes, giving a silent touch and peace to the man as he clung to you tightly.
You could feel when he calmed down, his hold on you relaxing slowly and steadily as he did. You didn’t cease your attention towards him and didn’t plan to until he let you know he was okay and didn’t need it anymore, but that never came either.
You felt pressure against your ass, a pressure you were familiar with and, admittedly, weren’t surprised to meet in a vulnerable and softer state such as this. Brahms was emotionally compromised and receiving physical contact that was pleasing and soothing. It was perfectly reasonable that he get hard, but his reaction was less calm, less patient than yours was.
When Brahms realized that he was pressing himself against you, he ripped his hips away with a shove backward, whining at the embarrassment. You couldn’t turn to reassure him unless you wanted to break his trust surrounding the mask, but you sat up and reached back for his hand, landing on his wrist and holding it.
“Hey- Hey, there’s nothing to worry about. That’s perfectly normal, especially after a rush of intense emotions. Nothing embarrassing at all, okay?” You tried your best to convince him, but you could feel his hands flexing anxiously as you spoke. He made a small noise and got up, snatching his mask up and rushing out of the room and, if you had to guess, to the bathroom to retrieve his clothes.
Guilt ate at your gut immediately. You hated not being able to help. You hated not being able to be the stable foundation of reassurance that you were supposed to be.
You didn’t bother attempting to get dressed before he came back, turning the light on and waiting patiently with your hands crossed in your lap.
When Brahms reentered the room, you looked up at him and gave him a once over. He was shifting from foot to foot so slightly that you could barely see it, arms crossed and tucked under his arms snugly. Neither the mask nor his eyes were pointed in your direction.
You could admit to yourself that it hurt your feelings a little more than it should have.
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Brahms. You didn’t cross any boundaries and had a perfectly natural-”
“Have a lovely week, Y/N,” he muttered, turning and walking away, leaving the building in the same silent fashion he always did. He’d never cut you off or interrupted you before, always too anxious to be seen as rude or impolite. You stood in the spot for a long moment, frustrated and hurt that you weren’t able to help him, reassure him, or even give him the nap he’d needed when he came in.
You cleaned up and closed for the night, not having it in you to take notes on the appointment.
+++
You made it through the rest of the week more or less smoothly, with your clients coming and going with no bumps in the road. You hoped throughout the work week that Brahms was okay and that he was sleeping better, but with how poorly he must have felt that the end of his last appointment went, you doubted it.
More than doubt plagued your hopes, as his next appointment came and went with no word from the man. You knew he wasn’t the best with technology, but you felt that the absence had little to nothing to do with the aversion.
An hour into what would have been Brahms’ appointment, you dialed his home number and got no response. It rang on the hook for several minutes before you ended the call. You tried the number he’d given you for a cell phone a couple of months prior, unsure if he’d answer this one either.
The line was picked up, but you heard nothing on the other end, no greeting, for several beats before a small voice produced an, “Oh!” seconds before it offered a now-remembered, “Hello?”
He sounded tired, weary as if he’d been woken and you suddenly felt guilty for being the cause.
“Hi, Brahms, it’s Y/N, I was calling to check if you’re going to make it today?” You asked, reading a mental script you were used to reading to clients. You toyed with a pen, scribbling on your sticky notepad.
“I don’t think so…” A rustling of fabrics you suspected were blankets muffled his words. You frowned.
“Are you doing alright?” You asked, breaking your script slightly, concern more important. A huffed noise.
“I’ll tell you what. Since you’re usually so punctual, I’ll keep my office open until the normal closing time instead of closing after your appointment. If you change your mind, the door is open for you,” you offered, not sure where the offer came from. You wouldn’t have made the offer for most of your other clients, not unless it was predetermined or an emergency, which you’ve never had. Silence met you on the other end of the line for a few beats before a small breath.
“You don’t have-”
“I want to. You’ve ensured that today is saved for you each week. It does no harm to stay open as I normally would if the day wasn’t Heelshire Reserved,” you explained calmly, wanting to ease the worry in his voice. He mumbled to himself briefly before responding to you.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” You perked up.
“I won’t be long, then,” the man sighed softly and you could hear him shifting, the strain in his words painting a picture of him sitting up after lying on his side. You swallowed a smile, telling yourself it was born only out of being proud of your client for allowing himself the care he needed.
“Be safe, Brahms,” you added before he hummed his thanks and hung up, the dead line silent and empty.
+++
You sat at your desk chair for most of the wait, pacing around your office for the remainder of it until you heard a small knock at the office door. You looked up, smoothing over your clothes to look professional and put together.
“You can enter, Brahms,” you called out gently, quickly sitting at your desk. Your heart pounded slightly as the door opened slowly. He stood in the doorway, eyes to the floor, hood up, visibly shaking either from the cold or from his nerves. You worried your bottom lip with your tongue, chewing anxiously.
“Are you okay, Brahms?” You asked softly, standing slowly. He nodded and made a small noise. He wrung his hands.
“Can we just-” He shrugged, huffing and looking to the door to the session room, “I need. Need y- Need it.”
You nodded quietly. If any other client had been acting like he had, you would have rescheduled or asked to have a talking session instead of a physical one. But Brahms was different. He was something precious to you.
Ethically, you should recommend him to another therapist, but you couldn’t lose him. You couldn’t scare him away.
You lead the way to the room, leaving the lights off, and turning the night light in the corner off. You sat in the middle of the pallet, kneeling and waiting for the man. He stood in the doorway, a halo around him from the next room over. He closed the door, enveloping the room in darkness finally. He dropped his hood and unzipped the hoodie, letting it fall to the floor. He sighed, muffled under the mask.
“Brahms?”
He looked up at you, crossing the room slowly and discarding his shoes a few feet away from the pallet. He stared down at you, looming over you with a look in the dark that you couldn’t make out. He could see you perfectly, even in the dark. He was at home in the dark, at home with you.
He dropped to his knees with you, looking you in the eyes silently. You looked for him in the pitch black, reaching out and placing a hand on his chest. He gasped softly and your fingers spread out against him tentatively. You pulled your hand away and he grabbed you by the wrist and pulled it back to him, whining softly.
“Please…”
“Brahms…” You warned softly, knowing you were crossing a line now. You relaxed your hand and let him press it to his chest again. You could feel his heart pound.
Your heart was pounding in tandem. You held your breath, both of your hands finding his face - or his mask. You cupped his cheeks through porcelain and he made a desperate, pained noise under his breath. His eyes welled up, unbeknownst to you, as he struggled with the choice to let you touch him. You couldn’t see him, you wanted to touch him, he should jump at the opportunity.
But you could run. You could feel his scarred, disgusting face and run far away, cancel all of his future appointments.
You wouldn’t.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” you soothed, thumbing over fractured and repaired glass, sighing softly at the cold feel of it. He nodded and reached back, knowing that’s not what you meant, but you soothed him so. He undid the clasps on his mask, putting it down and to the side. You moved your hands away, confused and unwilling to make him uncomfortable, but he grasped your wrists and guided your hands to his blushing face. His face was hot, and wrinkled with burns for a large portion of one-half of his face. You didn’t pull your hands away, stroking the skin there gently, lovingly.
He shuddered, swallowing hard and gripping your wrists.
“I did not have that reaction last session because of endorphins, Y/N. I simply wanted you to keep touching me. Touch me forever, please,” he admitted softly, leaning down and nuzzling his face into your neck, “I haven’t slept since our appointment, not really.”
You gasped at the contact, nodding gently. You swallowed and shuddered when he kissed the spot. You should push him away, you knew that, but you’d rather have melted into the floor with him.
“You can always rest here, Brahms,” you promised, having back rooms for specifically that but especially meaning that he had a safe place with you. He nodded, kissing up your neck and jaw, pulling you close in an embrace, ignoring the anxiety in his stomach that he was going against every rule he had for himself. But you weren’t stopping him. You were arching your neck slightly, giving him more room, making small noises of want and affection.
A hand found his hair and you caressed him as he kissed your skin, inhaling you. He pushed you onto your back slowly, and you let him, giving in to the gentle ministrations. He framed your body with his, nosing your jaw.
“Kiss?”
You considered for a heavy, pregnant moment before nodding, swallowing harshly the doubt and the worry. Slightly chapped lips found yours, hands tracing circles and figures into your skin wherever he could touch you, through your clothes.
You pull him close and run your fingers through his hair, listening to and feeling him keen softly into your mouth. He was the most touch-starved of all of your clients. You’d seen him, in the past, break down at the mere brush of your hand up his side while cuddling.
He shivered into the touch, and you pulled him down until you were facing each other, laying on your sides and kissing deeply. You were being honest with yourself now. You wanted him and only him.
He pulled your leg up by the thigh over his hip, hiking you closer to his body. You moaned softly into the kiss, gripping his shirt.
He pulled away from the kiss, running his hands through your hair and sighing softly, looking you in the eyes. You couldn’t see him, but that was okay.
“Brahms?”
“Mhm?”
You chewed your lip, snuggling closely to him, curling into his arms and feeling him pull the blanket up over the two of you with a yawn.
“I love you.”
Silence. Your heart skipped a beat and his voice strained softly, “You do?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before,” you offered softly, kissing his chest, tracing patterns into his skin as he had to you.
“I… I love you,” he said softly, finally allowed to say it aloud. You gasped, thankful for the admission, your heart racing.
Brahms pulled you close, rearranging you until you were facing away from him and as close as possible, crotch to butt. He sighed into your shoulder and you hugged his arm, something you’d never done in your sessions. You held his hand, interlacing your fingers.
“Thank you, Y/N…” He muttered as he fell asleep behind you. You were the thankful one.