ghostiesnightmare

Just your average slasher fucker

[ghostiesnightmare]

Welcome, I've been expecting you.

TW: noncon, dubcon, dark content ahead. dead dove do not eat. Requests: closed What I won't write on: pregnancy, scat, necrophilia. About the author

Ghostie's current masterlist:

One-Shots: Bound By Kindness - A raging blizzard brings an injured man to your doorstep. Against your better judgement, you decide to help him and show some compassion. But as the snow piles up, so does the tension, and you begin to wonder if your kindness was a terrible mistake. (12.4K words)

Graded on a Curve - All she wanted was an A, and all he wanted was obedience. When a professor with a sinister past takes an unhealthy interest in one of his brightest students, their academic games spiral into a destructive affair. The final lesson? Devotion isn't extra credit– it's required. (10.4K words)

Drabbles: Professor Albert Shaw The Price of Failure - A seven deadly sin drabble

One-Shots: Tricks and Treats - As Halloween approaches, so do ominous phone calls that leave you terrified in the night. Was it just a Halloween prankster, or was it someone with much darker intentions? (2.8K words)

Drabbles: Cruelty Without Effort - A seven deadly sin drabble

Series: The House of Rules - Some houses are built on stone, others on secrets. There are consequences to your actions, you know that now. Blood on the stairs, secrets in the greenhouse, something festering beneath the floorboards. Still, you find yourself entranced by the very thing you swore to escape: Brahms Heelshire. Because what can you do when the man who destroyed you is also the only one who has ever saved you?

Drabbles: Taste of Ruin - A seven deadly sin drabble

One-Shots: The Subject - As a graduate student writing your dissertation on the enigma of Michael Meyers, you try to prove his acts of violence fulfill a dark, psychological need- a crude substitute for intimacy. When Myers resurfaces, your academic obsession drives you dangerously close to the darkness you have been researching. The deeper you delve, the clearer it becomes that you aren't just studying the monster; you're caught in his gaze. (12.6K words)

Salvation - You were never supposed to survive him. You could have fled and buried the haunting memory of that fateful night– yet something draws you back to the ruins of faith and blood. Back to a place where your fear turns into something more like devotion. (8K words)

Drabbles: Cut by Mercy - A seven deadly sin drabble

[ghostiesnightmare]

Poll time! Back and inspired.

Voting time:*

Albert Shaw: Part 2 of Graded on a Curve for graduate season

Brahms Heelshire: Medieval-themed one-shot (based on Reign and POTO)

Stalker Imagine: Peeping tom edition (one-shot) -- new non-slasher masterlist

Slasher Drabbles: AU ideas, fav positions, scenarios

Albert Shaw: Clairvoyant!Reader (possible series)

Voting ended onMay 3

*All possibly NSFW-- inbox is open!

[ghostiesnightmare]

Cruelty Without Effort

Pairing: Ghostface x Reader TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. MDNI - NSFW

-----

Ghostface is the perfect representation of sloth.

His influence drapes over Woodsboro like a wet blanket woven from fear and predatorial hunger. Yet there is nothing soft about his sin, no rest or relief or any semblance of peace; there is only decay and ruin disguised as cruel patience. 

It was learned very early on that fear does the heavy work, allowing effort to take a seat on the back burner. Why lead the chase when the tremor of anticipation fuels the fun? While other devious creatures are driven by the frenzy of a kill, he is driven by the absence of it all: control, urgency, restraint. The stillness around him itself is weaponized, the lesson of waiting being more damaging than a preemptive strike mastered. 

He never hurries, never rushes, never sprints towards the finish line. After all, time stretches around him, so why not sit back and enjoy the show? The anticipation wears his victims out, short circuiting their receptors just enough for him to pick up the slack. The chases are carefully measured to ensure that only once the veil of safety is present, he has the perfect opportunity to strike. 

The phone rings because he allows it to, but the silence afterwards is nothing short of intentional. 

Woodsboro is his hunting ground, his plaything to twist to oblivion on his terms. And that’s where you fall into the limelight, not as prey waiting to be cut down, but as a puzzle that never seems to solve itself. No matter how long he watches from the shadows, listening to your sobs echoing from the other line, there’s just something about you that makes him want to tear you apart himself. 

It’s a funny thing, sloth, he can only wait for his bloodlust to boil over until the perfect opportunity. 

When he finally emerges through the threshold of your house, he doesn’t flinch at your startled breathing from your hiding spot, he listens. Measuring the pitch, savouring the hesitation that stalls in between gasps as your breathing begins to slow. Sloth isn’t just haphazard apathy, but pure indulgence in anticipation.

The best part? Knowing that your thoughts spiral when nothing happens on the other side of that flimsy closet door, the way you begin to doubt the paranoia, doubt yourself. The fear wears your nerves thin as you snivel behind the door, the landline’s cut chord hanging from your shaking fingers nothing short of addicting. 

After all, he wants to tire you out before he ruins you. 

He knows how your panic feels, burning like hot coals pressed against your sternum, but dread? That lingers. It weasels its way between your ribs and makes a home in your stuttering heart. So he decides to play the part of the boogeyman lurking just out of sight, towering over the closet with his head tilted as if the whole ordeal bores him. 

But there is nothing boring about the thrill of what comes next. 

When you finally move to dart from the closet, body giving in to the bleak sense of courage before your mind can react, that’s when he straightens. Joints stretching, limbs stiffening as if he awakened from a tireless nap, waiting for you to catch on. 

You run, of course you do, they all try. It’s almost funny, watching your legs fumble as your lungs scream for breath. Knowing that you refuse to turn backwards, acknowledge the silent footsteps just inches behind you with the false sense that you’re winning. 

How adorable– it’s almost pathetic. 

And when you falter, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you nick the edge of the banister, he strikes. It’s almost lazy, fingers winding slowly around your hair as if to savour the moment. Of course, you thrash and scream and sob, but the exhaustion weighs heavy on your shoulders. 

That was the whole point. 

The knife held loosely in his gloved fingers only lifts when necessary, death slotting between your ribs only when he finds it fitting. But even then, with the screams of the damned hammering at his skull to watch your blood pool onto the hardwood floor, he hesitates; choosing to watch you fall apart at his feet sounds more appealing than stealing the life from your lungs. 

Up close, the mask doesn’t move– it never does. But as you’re yanked forward, forced to meet its soulless gaze, you swear he’s judging you. Picking you apart in amusement to your quick demise, relishing in how little it took to make you fall apart. 

That’s when it hits you: sloth is not mercy, but cruelty without a sliver of effort. 

He leans closer, and the musk of mildew and unwashed fabric singes your nose. Voice low, warped, natural as if he couldn’t even bother to use the changer. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

He lingers there with you, breath ghosting over your skin, unmoved by the way your shoulders sag and the energy drains from your limbs. He never had to overpower you, just outlast your feeble attempt at freedom– burning yourself out while making you ripe for the taking. You were never meant to survive him. You were meant to wait– to rot in fear, to unravel with worry, to run yourself ragged while doing all of the dirty work. 

Because sloth is not mere inaction, it’s the luxury in knowing that you will always break first. 

And that is his greatest sin.

[ghostiesnightmare]

Hiii! Love your writing and I did see that you ask for ideas so I decided to share what was on my mind lately.

Imagine Albert and reader meet at her nephews birthday party where he was supposed to be a magician and the first thing she say to him is "You're a bad man... I can feel it." She's just straight up uncanny looking at him with big wide open eyes dressed in all black and saying crazy stuff to him like "You killed someone", "I can see the ghosts around you, boys..." She just tell him that she knows what he did/do then her sister the mother of the birthday boys come and shush her away and start to apologise to Albert telling him that her little sister (that is in her early 20s) is just weird and schizophrenic and that's from where the weird behavior comes from but little dose the mother know that her crazy sister is right (you can make it into Albert developing obsession with reader or whatever you want, I just though that having such errie reader would be fun, just something diffrent than what people usually write. And sorry for my english, I am not a native speaker... 🖤)

Holy moly anon, this matches with an idea sprouting in my head for WEEKS. I’ll raise the bar with you— the quiet, slightly crazy neighbor that everyone drones on about who has creepy visions and less than ideal social skills who is rumored to be schizophrenic?

You aren’t “crazy” or mentally ill like the murmurs suggest… you’re clairvoyant. A medium, if you will— a gift passed down from generations leaving you the black sheep of your family. But when you see Albert for the first time you just know that for once, no amount of backlash from your family is worth keeping this amount of darkness a secret.

I LOVE this idea… may or may not already be writing a draft. Thank you for the idea anon, you will be credited accordingly and updates will come soon!

-ghostie <3

[ghostiesnightmare]

New slashers to write about? I sure hope so.

Looking for a particular slasher while waiting for ghostie's twisted take on Kinktober to come? I would love to know who you think about late at night when those dark, depraved thoughts creep in…

How about the Sinclair brothers manhandling you in Ambrose, fingers scorched with wax as you try to uncover the mystery behind the family, while trying to distance yourself from the game of cat and mouse that has taken over your life?

Or perhaps is Billy Lenz more your style, hearing those sickening phone calls threatening to ruin you late at night with words so depraved you can't help but let your hands wander when you think no one is looking... only, there is?

Even a paranormal twist on a slasher, such as ghost!Brahms, skinwalker!Albert Shaw, or demon!Ghostface?

If you have any requests for October, or would like a drabble/fic done from a character I have not written yet, please send me an inbox! I would love to bring your fantasies to life...

However, you might want to be careful for what you wish for.

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Burn

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: The Heelshire manor turns against you as your paranoia shifts into violence, culminating in a brutal home invasion threatening to rip away everything you think you hold dear. Trapped between survival and devotion, you face a harrowing ultimatum: do you choose fire and ruin, or pray for salvation? Once the mask begins to crack, it is you and you alone who makes the choice. TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. paranoia, violence, vulgar language, swearing, derogatory talking , misogyny, intense descriptions of violence towards women, implied rape, murder, gore, blood, descriptions of mutilation, arson, assault, battery, angst, betrayal, PTSD, graphic depictions of injuries, and more. Word Count: 9,340 MDNI-NSFW A/N: [part one] [part two] [part three] [part four] -----

The silence in the manor is no longer peaceful. 

The walls seem to churn in anticipation, air thick with weighted heaviness accompanied with the all too familiar feeling of being watched. The gravely hum of the pipes in the walls, once comforting, now lay still in the quiet– a ghost within the bones of the house. Dust coats the mahogany surfaces and cobwebs gather in the corners of the ceilings, a testament to your daily chores slipping from your priorities. 

The floorboards rasp under your feet as you pad across the carpeted hallway, each step knifing through the stillness with uncomfortable ease. The creaks beneath the floorboards are just another reminder that you aren’t really alone, that you haven’t been in days. 

Since the detective’s unexpected visit and the note weighing over your head like a death sentence, the past few days have been a blur. Nights of anxious turning beneath the sheets, countless walks throughout the manor, goosebumps sprawling across your skin at the slightest bump or shift in the walls. And of course, the silence– always there, always watching.

There’s a feeling in your chest that you haven’t been able to shake free since you read those harrowing words. Was it guilt, paranoia, fear? Or something else entirely that weaseled past your defenses and has taken root in your bones.

But something about tonight feels different. 

The manor groans like a beast turning in its sleep, the air electric with something akin to cruel anticipation. The shutters flutter in the howling wind, windows screeching as if the manor itself is bearing a warning. The porcelain doll, always balanced on your hip, feels hot to the touch– your talisman in the dark. Through it all you can feel it, a sense of inevitability waiting for the other pin to drop. 

It’s almost laughable, finding comfort in your own prison. But the threats looming in the shadows bear much worse than the man lurking upstairs. Brahms is unusually quiet, stubborn nature melting as the hours tick by on the grandfather clock– preferring to bask in the silence. The tension between you is palpable, stretching taunt as the hidden assailant continues to remain unseen. You don’t talk about it all, not really, instead clinging to each other in the night like doomed sailors pretending to not be drowning.

Your fingers fumble against the locks in the foyer, checking for the third time in the past hour. The brass door handle rattles against the frame as you tug, unmoved– untouched. The sight should be a relief, but the knots in your stomach tells you it is anything but. There is a shift in the air behind you, and your knuckles reach for the poker propped against the flowered wallpaper. 

You had laughed about the irony of it all once, using a murder weapon as your line of defense. But there’s nothing funny about the way the wrought iron weighs heavy against your palm. Whirling around, you half expect to see a ghoul lurking behind you, jaw unhinged, claws outstretched as you swing– but a firm hand only catches the poker mid-strike. 

“Brahms, don’t sneak up on me like that!” You sigh, relief washing over you as your grip on the weapon loosens. “-You almost gave me a heart attack." Grip unrelenting on the poker, calloused fingers brush over yours– too tight to be anything other than intentional. Head tilting, bloodshot eyes peek out from beneath the sturdy porcelain, gaze studying you as if your paranoia is amusing him. 

“You’re jumpy today.” He rasps, and you catch the hint of a smirk in his voice. 

“Well maybe I wouldn’t be,” you grumble, tugging the poker back into your possession. “-if you didn’t creep around like something out of my nightmares.” That earns you a throaty chuckle in response, and you have to fight the smile playing at your lips. For just a moment, the tension in the air dissipates, and you hate how easily the sensation soothes you. With just three words, manor feels much less of a coffin and more like… home. 

The brief conversation lulls, and Brahms’ gaze flickers towards the living room. Stepping forward, the poker hangs at your side like a twisted security blanket. Feet dragging against the embroidered rugs, the fire lit hours ago has resolved to embers– casting the room in a hazy glow. Shadows lick at the stoned hearth, warmth quickly cocooning you as you step through the threshold. 

Dropping unceremoniously onto the ornate loveseat, Brahms spreads out like a spoiled child, limbs stretched and leaving you only the smallest space to sit beside him. Pausing, you prop the doll onto a chaise lounge before hesitation manifests itself within your ribs. The silence presses against the windows, broken only by the steady patter of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. A shiver creeps down your spine, the lull ringing in your ears– so you drop to his side obediently.

The doll stares forward with its unblinking gaze, clothes rumpled and glassy skin flickering from the glow of the embers. Brahms sighs as your weight sinks besides him, moving to place a wool blanket around your legs. An arm winds around your shoulders, and you don’t resist as your head falls to his chest. 

Such a tender gesture for hands that tear men apart.

Your stomach drops as the thought weasels its way through your psyche. Instead, you try to focus on the thrum of the rain against the shudders, the crackle in the fireplace. Anything to dull the sense of dread that eats away at your heart. 

A sigh pulls you from your internal spiral. “This is better.” He murmurs, satisfied. The pads of his fingers trace the curve of your shoulder, and you tilt your head to meet his gaze. “What, cuddling makes me less paranoid?” A laugh bubbles in your throat at the irony of it all– a hulking beast of a man folded up against a loveseat to try and provide comfort.

Brahms only nods. “I think so.” The genuine tone in his voice makes any witty response die on your tongue. It’s ridiculous, but you let him hold you– head draped against the solid muscle of his chest, listening to the rumble of his breath and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Slowly, the stiffness of fear leeches from your bones, leaving only the dull throb of anxiety before even that dissipates as well. The house hums quietly in the late hour, pipes creaking under the floorboards, shudders squeaking from the raging storm– yet the sounds are much more tolerable while cocooned in Brahms’ arms.

It’s the first calm moment you have felt in days.

A sense of normalcy washes over you, eyelids growing heavy from the lulling embrace of sleep. Exhaustion weighs on your bones like a wet blanket, limbs growing numb as a yawn tears from your throat. Cheek nuzzling against his worn cardigan, the promise of a good night’s rest sounds like a gift from the heavens above. 

Just a few hours will suffice, one dreamless night where the fear is kept at bay so you can finally sleep in peace.

As you begin to drift off, a jolt rattles against the window– out of place compared to the quiet of the manor. Brows furrowing, you shift slightly, head raising against his chest as confusion winds in your chest. “Brahms, did you–” thump. Something wrong, something wet thuds against the glass, shattering any sense of comfort gathered in the living room. 

Jolting upright, Brahms’ arms tense around you as you turn towards the window– heart racing in your chest. Through the rain-pattered haze of the window, red streaks across the glass, an all too familiar hue that makes your mouth go dry at the sight. 

Another sound quickly follows, something akin to dragging across the wrap-around porch like nails to a chalkboard. Tearing the blanket from your legs, you stumble upwards, Brahms already on his feet and reaching for the fire poker. Head cocked towards the windows, he stalks forward, shoulders heaving and ready to strike. 

Adrenaline rushes through your veins as you peek through the glass, forcing yourself to steady your gaze as you brace yourself against the windowsill. Thunder rumbles across the sky, rain smearing the glass and washing away the rust-colored splatter– and finally, you see it. 

Dropped haphazardly on the porchboards like a twisted offering to a forgotten god, a deer– no, a fawn– lay mangled in ruin. Ribs jutting out like broken teeth, intestines trailing gore across the wood, fur matted with entrails and blood, soulless eyes burning into your very soul. Your stomach lurches at the sight, horror draining the blood from your skin as you can only gape at the carnage. 

I know what you did. 

The storm howls louder, rain battering against the shudders as red pools across the porchboards– blood thicker than water. Brahms steps forward, frame blocking the grisly sight and shielding you from the carcass, but you’ve already seen enough. A broken sob tears from your throat as you stumble backwards, terror seizing around your heart in a vicelike grip. 

It wasn’t a threat, but a promise. A prophecy of something far worse. As Brahms leads you away from the window, you realize too late that the house has never been silent at all.

It’s been waiting.

Brahms herds you upstairs to the master bedroom, body tense and towering over you with mottled unease, every muscle pulled tight like a bowstring ready to snap. The fire poker twirls in his hand, the iron slick with the condensation of his palm as his knuckles turn white from the pressure. In the dim light, you almost miss the tremor in his grip, churning not from fear but rage.

All but tossed onto the bed, you scramble like a bug overturned before his chilling tone cuts through you like a knife. “Stay here. I need to check the house.” He forces out, mask tilted towards the door as if your own personal hell would step through the threshold at any second. You immediately protest, the idea of being left alone sending shivers down your spine.

“Don’t… please– just follow my lead.” Sparing you a one last glance before ducking out into the hallway, the door rattles on its hinges as it creaks shut, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The mattress groans as you shift uncomfortably, gaze bolted to the doorframe as if it would burst into flames in a moment's notice. 

Staying in the room felt like suffocating, the air in the manor thick with anticipation and heavy with the coppery undertones of the ghastly discovery on the porch. The feeling clings to your throat like ash, seeping through your clothes and coating your skin in a way that makes you want to claw out of your flesh. 

Pushing off the goose-down comforter, you pace the intricate rug in front of the master fireplace– arms wrapped around yourself as if it would ease the chill in your bones. Every creak within the manor makes your head whip towards the door, every shift in the air makes the shadows look all the more menacing. 

The fawn’s corpse is burned into your mind, the brutal disfigurement displayed like a trophy– deliberate, purposeful. It was a testament to your guilt, a direct mockery of your foolish illusions of safety. Turning towards the towering windows adorning the far wall, you can faintly make out the ghosting walls of the greenhouse through the haze of rain and fog.

“What do you want from us?” The words slip past your lips before you can stop yourself, knowing there would be no response as you stare forward. Fingers dig into the flimsy sweater hanging low over your shoulders, the scratchy material rough to the touch. A piece of you already knows the answer, the same haunting framework toying with your life since you entered the godforsaken manor an eternity ago. 

The intruder doesn’t simply want to haunt you. They want to play. 

The silence presses heavier than the fog outside, wrapping around you and leaving your skin gooseflesh. It’s hard to decipher what you hate more– being alone with your thoughts or waiting for the inevitable sound of footsteps approaching that aren’t Brahms. The boiler pipes seem to groan as if the manor had heard your laments, delighting in your terror.

The door slams open suddenly, and your startled yelp bounces off the walls. 

But it’s only Brahms, his familiar silhouette stalking into the room, shoulders tense with anxiety. His mask tilts as he reads your reaction, posture rigid at your terror-driven state. You sigh in relief, wanting to collapse against him and cry– but the fast, ragged pants that fill the room betray that his nerves are as heightened as your own. 

“Let’s go,” he barks, voice carrying an edge that didn’t suit him– one more brittle than commanding. “-we sweep the house.” 

You almost don’t move, knees faltering at the idea of walking into the belly of the beast. But when he extends a hand, palm opening to reveal a letter opener. Forcing your legs forward, you gingerly pluck the weapon from his hand, causing the blade to glimmer in the faint light. His hand encircles your free wrist, grip bruising like a manacle around your bones as you are forced into the hallway. 

The manor seems alive, restless, complicit in your demise. Every floorboard rattling with your guilt, every shadow reaching out to grab you, every painting staring at you with eyes of the damned. Brahms leads you forward, but his footsteps are uneven, the poker twitching in his grasp as he pauses through the threshold of each room to glance within. 

Ruthless in his pursuit of the intruder, his head jerks at every sound like a bloodhound on a trail– leaving you to scurry behind him to keep up with his pace. You could swear you heard something following you as you descended the staircase, but when you spun around there was only the empty corridor staring back at you. 

So skittish.

The drawing room was like a ghost, the fire that was stoked earlier had gone out completely, leaving only the hallway to illuminate the space. You swallow thickly as the window comes into view, mind instantly envisioning the rotting corpse of the fawn. 

Look at me– what you’ve done to me. You monster.

Stepping through the threshold, a chill settles over your flesh like entering a mausoleum, the ghosts of your past breathing down your neck. A blurred reflection, one that isn’t yours, stares back at you through the glass of the grandfather clock– but when you blink, there is nothing. Brahms doesn’t wait, pushing past you to throw the curtains shut. The glass rattles against the storm, and you struggle to steady your breathing. It’s just the rain, just the wind, just the house. There’s nothing there. The doubt that rots away at your stomach begs to differ, however. 

The kitchen quickly follows, dishes piled in the sink and the slow hum of the refrigerator against the dated wallpaper. You half expect the carcass to have been moved, sprawling across the kitchen counter like a grotesque feast– ripe for the taking. There was a lingering smell of copper in the air, and Brahms paused, smelling the air before casting a chilling glance your way. 

But there is nothing– so much so that it makes your insides knot in worry. The house is quiet, too quiet, still like a forgotten grave. 

Thud.

Your gaze shoots upwards, eyes tracing the exposed ceiling beams with a heat that could burn. “They’re inside.” Brahms moves past you instantly, turning towards the wall and gingerly pressing his head against it, straining for sound. Moving into the hallway, the blood in your veins turns to ice as your feet lock into place.

Beyond the master staircase, the panelling of the walls lay wide open, revealing the void of the bowels of the house. “Oh god,” Your lip trembles as realization cuts through the air like a knife, blind panic shooting your heart straight to your throat. The noise didn’t come from upstairs, but from within the manor. 

Within the walls. 

Brahms goes still, every muscle locking with anticipation as the poker trembles in his fist. The mask scrapes against the wallpaper, breath heaving as though he could sniff out the intruder from pure force of will. A frustrated growl shudders through his chest, low and animalistic, vibrating the air between you with trepidation.

The manor only groans in response, a hollow thrum in the walls like a taunt. Staggering backwards, your nails dig into the hilt of the letter opener until your fingers whine from the pressure. 

“Show yourself!” Brahms snarls, fist colliding with the paneling of the wall so violently the hidden door rattles on its ancient hinges. Dust plumes around you from the impact, and you fight back the cough tearing at your throat. The house laughs at you– or maybe it’s the sound of skittering behind the walls, a crude echo that turns your stomach into knots.

Something is moving in there, something close. Too close for comfort. 

Choking down a wretched sob, you clamp your free hand over your mouth to stop the bile threatening to spill over. The darkness of the tunnels stares back at you, like jaws waiting to swallow you whole– the gap a jagged wound cut into the manor’s ribs. The cold, stale air breathes into the hallway, carrying that godforsaken scent of iron.

Brahms takes a step forwards, and you all but scream. 

“No, I-” You shake your head, palms clammy as the memories from within the walls dance in your mind. You haven’t been in the tunnels for weeks, not since your… punishment. The thought of playing with the skeletons buried in the closet of your soul sends a ripple of horror through you. “We… we can’t go in there—”.

But Brahms isn’t listening to you, instead more keen on the footsteps rattling within the passageway. Shoving the poker inside the void, the weapon stabs at the shadows like a spear– battling long forgotten phantoms in the dark. The wood groans as the poker catches on the wall, reverberating through the floor like a battlecry. Something inside scrambles, darting deeper into the darkness, and you jolt backwards in fright.

The noise moves upwards, various thuds echoing across the cramped space like gunshots. A heavy footstep, or an echo of one, lands on a ceiling beam. The chandelier above the main staircase sways violently, lights flickering like dying flames, crystals clinking like chattering teeth. 

“They’re playing with us.” you whisper, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. A cruel twist of fate, the cat now becoming the mouse. Brahms tilts his head towards you, mask gleaming in the flickering haze. A murderous light catches in his eyes, and the fractured rasp of his breathing makes your skin crawl. 

“Then we play back.” Grabbing your wrist, Brahms yanks you into the darkness of the tunnels– a silent scream tearing through your throat as the world plunges into darkness. The house shudders as you are swallowed by the void.

Somewhere in the depths of hell, something knocks: three, deliberate bangs– like a fist pounding from the inside. A predator posing to strike. The sound reverberates through the passageway, rattling your bones. 

Each knock is deliberate, personal– like a message meant just for you.

I know what you did. 

The letter opener is slick against your sweaty palms, like a useless child’s toy against the unseen forces prowling within the walls. Brahms shoves you forwards, towering form blotting out the light of the hallway as you sink deeper into the caverns. The air, thick of dust and decay, scrapes against your throat until you feel as if you were breathing in death itself. Gagging, you stumble forward, nearly tripping in the pitch black. 

Brahms doesn’t notice, doesn’t care– pushing forward until he overtakes you, leading the way. The poker drags against the rotting boards with a shriek of metal, a hunting dog’s snarl during a chase. Shoulders heaving, he cranes his head, listening.

Thud. Knock. Woosh.

Above you, then behind– the walls almost moving as if they are alive, shifting around you, taunting you with the whispers of the dead. “They’re moving,” You whisper, but the words are swallowed up in the darkness, useless. Brahms jerks his head towards you, mask a pale moon in the void. 

“Quiet.” The word is gutteral, sharper than the blade of a knife. 

A draft of air sweeps through the tunnel like a ghost’s breath on your skin. You freeze, and Brahms stiffens from the chill. Tilting his head upwards, you follow his gaze to see a vent grate above the crawlspace– a hole of inky black that should be barred. 

You aren’t alone.

A crash echoes inside the house, timbers splintering from the force, a priceless antique lost in the siege. You realize then that the intruder is herding you, drawing you deeper into the guts of the manor like a lamb to slaughter. Brahms growls lowly, tugging you forward before you sharply veer left, where you almost tumble down the narrow stairs. 

The walls constrict, beams pressing in around you so that you can feel every nail, every splinter clawing at your sweater like the hands of the undead. There is another clatter, this time directly in front of you. Skittering to a stop, you almost collide with Brahms’ back as you strain your ears for sound– willing yourself to quiet the frantic pounding of your heartbeat. 

“Brahms,” your voice wobbles, the syllables catching in your throat. “They know where we are.”

His response is a wordless roar, the poker swinging to the left and smashing through the tunnel wall. Dust explodes in the clouds as light pools in from the gaping hole left behind, and then you see it. Dark, heavy boots scrambling away before disappearing back into the hallway before another clatter sounds out within the passageway. 

The house itself is turning against you, spinning the rules of predator and prey so that you can’t tell which one you are anymore. The tunnel narrows even further, the air thick and suffocating– dust swirling around your ankles like phantom fingertips clawing at your clothes. Each step makes your bones ache as you beg your legs not to betray you and give out beneath you.

A rafter groans above you and your spine goes rigid, half expecting it to collapse around you,  all too similar to the godforsaken night that stole your autonomy. As you stumble forward the memories play in your mind like a broken record– the beams bruising your ribs and scraping against your spine, the smell of mildew and dust in the air as you screamed, foreign fingers burrowing between your thighs as you begged for mercy. 

But there is no mercy in the Heelshire Manor, only retribution.

Brahms pushes onwards, shoulders hunched, poker poised to strike. His breathing is sharp and measured, but you catch the twitch in his fingers as he fidgets with the weapon– anger, fear, agitation, and something much darker festering beneath the surface. A piece of you wants to speak, to call out to him and remind him that he isn’t alone, but the words die on your tongue. 

You aren’t sure that he wants to hear what you have to say anyways. 

“Stay close.” He mutters, voice low and urgent– a warning. He doesn’t look back at you, doesn’t need to, overbearing presence weighing on your spine like a chill you can’t shake from your bones. You can only follow, a living shadow in the darkness.

The tunnels twist yet again, a sudden turn revealing a small shaft overhead that has rainwater dripping through the passageway. The slick gathering on the rotting floorboards makes you slide, limbs flailing before needles of pain shoot down your calf. You yelp, fire licking at your skin as your fingertips brush the gash slicing through your jeans, the scent of iron filling the air as you limp forwards. The assailant, a jagged board, stares at you begrudgingly– laughing at your suffering. 

You slow, hissing as you press against the wound, but there is no time to stop and survey the damage. You are only dragged forward, the intruder’s unseen presence urging you onwards with spellbound urgency. 

“Don’t stop, keep moving.” He orders, immune to your pain. The corridor widens, revealing a chamber filled with forgotten oddities and overturned crates. Broken beams litter the floorboards, and when your hand brushes the damp wood, splinters bite through the thin material of your sweater. 

The smell of rot and mildew is almost overpowering, worsened by the waterlog and mold setting in within the boards. You gag, bile rising at the scent, but Brahms only clamps down on your wrist harder– the tips of your fingers going numb from the pressure. 

Another scrape, hauntingly deliberate, echoes above you. Something moves along the beams, leaving trails of dust and dirt raining from the ceiling– anything but graceful. You can feel it in your gut: the intruder isn’t just taunting you, but manipulating the sprawling labyrinth of tunnels around to break you.

You trip over an overturned chair, knees catching a puddle of chilled water. Brahms hauls you up instantly, voice cutting through your blind panic. “Get up– just look forward!” Frustration is evident in his tone, and you all but shrink into yourself as you blindly follow his lead. Terrified, wet, and injured, you felt anything but comforted.

For a moment, you glimpse something– a shadow flickering in the corner of the corridor before ducking into a passageway, vanishing before you can truly process the sight. Your stomach churns, and for the first time you feel doubt creeping in. 

Are you hunting them, or are you the one being hunted?

Brahms pauses at the narrow passageway, poker outstretched like a beacon in the dim light. “This way.” He commands, but there is a sense of hesitation that warbles in his voice. Something swings, dragging across wood and scraping the floorboards. You suck in a wobbled breath. 

As you enter the tunnel, the floor shifts, a section of the board tilting from the weight, groaning like a sleeping beast. Your hands wind around Brahms’ arm like a lifeline as your leg almost sinks into the gap, footing lost. What once felt like familiar territory was now rigged into a deathtrap, with only Brahms as your navigator. 

Brahms pushes onwards, but you tug on his cardigan, legs locking into place. “You’re being reckless.” You snarl, voice trembling as anger begins to bubble over your fear. “This isn’t a game!” His head snaps towards you, mask gleaming in the flickering haze. “No. We play by my rules. That’s what matters.”

Your jaw clenches as his conviction– pride, stubbornness, anger– all fused into a single unyielding force, a storm in the making. He’s right, but the house is relentless. Every step brings new unseen hazards: a beam ready to give out, a crate on the verge of toppling, passageways so rotted they are on the verge of collapse. And yet you push forward, caught between terror and the grim satisfaction of defiance.

The chamber widens again, leading to a worn staircase that descends into the basement. Darkness pools in the corners like ink, harboring unseen threats like secrets. A faint whisper carries from below, indistinct words that chill you to your core. Your fingers curl around the letter opener tighter. Brahms glances at you, eyes burning like embers in the dark. “Almost there,” he grumbles, grip releasing from your wrist only to brush a stray hair from your slick forehead. You relish in the caress. “Stay close to me… Watch your step.”

The intruder’s pattern is clear now– each move calculated in a way that herds you towards a harrowing confrontation. The manor itself seems to pulse with intent, a beast’s pulse that skitters across the passageway, shadows coiling with dangerous pursuit. You can’t tell if the fear hanging in the air is your own or the house’s.

The final flight of stairs looms in front of you like the gates to hell itself, slick and unstable. A single misstep would have you plummeting into the void without control, resulting in injury or worse. Above, the faint light of the peepholes from the hallways you left behind flicker like a distant memory, gone the instant you blink warily.

Brahms takes the first step down, poker braced against the wall like a makeshift cane. You follow, heart hammering, calf screaming. The basement yawns below, a pit of darkness with the devil himself lurking in the depths, waiting to strike. 

The stair groans under Brahms’ weight, each creak a gunshot in the abyss. You step closely behind, blood soaking through your jeans, skin tender and damp from sweat. The air grows cooler as you descend, the damp scent of the earth pressing in around you until you feel as if you were walking into a grave. 

In a sense, you are. 

A rumble of laughter cuts through the air like a knife, and you almost drop the letter opener from the sudden noise. Low, rasping, deep– snaking around your spine like smoke. Too rough to be Brahms, too gravely to be you. Someone else lurking in the dark, watching you, waiting for your every move only to counter it in stride. 

“Well, well…” The voice slithers from the dark, and you strain to pinpoint the source. “-The ghost of Heelshire Manor… and his little pet. I guess the stories are true.” You freeze, throat locking shut as you shrink behind Brahms.

The darkness shifts, before a match strikes. Through the orange haze, you make out a lantern– kerosene, the type hunters use on the old deer trails behind the manor– being lit. The lantern falters a moment before the match takes, and then you see him. Broad shouldered, riddled in muscles, lantern in hand so the mauling blotch of a scar across his horrid eyes stands on proud display. 

The sickly glow of the light cuts across his jagged features, oddly familiar. Haunting eyes, crooked smirk, the sharp curve of his nose: Langley. But not one you’ve seen before– this one looks much leaner, younger, hungrier. 

The third brother, the devil paying his due. 

Two more shadows peel themselves from the walls– henchmen, boots thudding against the dirt as they fan out like dogs obeying their master. Brahms stiffens, poker raised like a sword, mask gleaming in the light as he eyes your attackers. A guttural growl reverberates against his chest, low and possessive, but the Langley brother only smirks– savouring the anger radiating from him in waves. 

“You two have caused us quite a bit of trouble, you know that?” The Langley drawls, eyes darting between you and Brahms. “Took some time to get you to come looking for us.” He takes a step forward, and Brahms swings the poker ever so slightly, gaze trained forward.

“Don’t.”

The brother pushes onwards, ignoring the blatant threat. “Do you know what happens to vermin who finally crawl out of their holes?” The question puzzles you, confusion furrowing your brows as your gaze falters, warpath paused.

His eyes land on you, lingering with an edge that you could only describe as hunger. His smirk sharpens, “-They get taught their place.”

The letter opener trembles in your grip, knuckles groaning as you root yourself in place. The basement suddenly feels too small for comfort, the air brewing with the musk of mildew and soil and something much more foul– malice, lust. The henchmen circle closer, wolves nipping at your heels, boots dragging against the dirt as they dissect you like a show horse. 

One of them laughs, eyes undressing your form, voice gritty and mocking. “Pretty little thing,” He mutters, fingers twitching around the baseball bat with anxiety-inducing fervor. “-I bet she squeals.”

You whirl around, tongue sharp enough to cut. “Fuck you.”

“Ah, you’ve got a mouth on you– I see why my brothers liked you.” Langley chuckles before his gaze shifts towards Brahms, eyes hardening. “I thought you would have trained your bitch better.”

You flinch, the words cutting straight through your ribs– that bastard. Brahms shifts instantly, body blocking yours from view, chest heaving with animalistic rage. But the brother only sighs, taking a step closer, lantern held high as his ego sizes him up against Brahms’ monstrous form. 

“Easy there, big guy.” He taunts, and you brace yourself for another threat. “We wouldn’t want you breaking your toy before we have our fun, hmm?” His eyes flicker towards you beyond Brahms’ shoulder, and you wish you could sink within the dirt and rot with what’s buried below. “Trust me, doll– we have so much in store for you.”

The insinuation slices through the air like razorblades, and for a moment, there is nothing but silence, the weight of realization crushing down like an anvil. The occasional drip from the water sounds like that wretched grandfather clock, ticking towards your demise, followed by your ragged breaths. 

Brahms snaps.

The poker whistles through the air with the howl of steel, slamming into the henchman eyeing you like a steak with a gruesome crunch. Screaming, the man is thrown backwards, toppling a stack of crates as splinters scatter through the air, choked expletives echoing across the walls as he cradles his shattered collarbone. 

The second lunges forward, a hunting knife glimmering in the haze of the lantern as it juts forward– only to be caught in Brahms’ grip just inches from his mask. A guttural roar rips from Brahms’ chest as the attacker presses forward, knife scraping against the fragile porcelain with the haunting screech of nails against a chalkboard. 

Chaos erupts. 

The lantern swings, an arc of light in the void– shadows writhing against the walls as you stumble backwards to avoid impact. The henchman rises from the crates, arm hanging limply at his side as he lunges towards you, swiping at your feet with murderous intent. Langley doesn’t move, just watching with brutal satisfaction as Brahms takes an uppercut to his jaw. 

The mask falls to the floor, shattering into shards of porcelain. You freeze, the mottled sight of scars and burns on full display as the henchman goes rigid at the view. “Not so pretty now, you piece of shit.” The man roars, dodging another lethal swing of the poker before shoving Brahms backwards into a broken support beam– wood cracking under the impact as the air is knocked from Brahms’ lungs. 

Langley steps forwards at that, the lantern lifted like a judge delivering a death sentence. “You can’t win, you freak.” He spits, voice bubbling with cruel satisfaction. The third attacker claws at your tattered jeans, a terrified yelp tearing from your throat as you dive from his advances. “-We’ll take her, whether you are breathing or not.” 

The words send ice down your spine, head turning to glance at Brahms’ disheveled state. A calloused hand winds itself in your hair, and you scream as you are pulled backwards, sound strangled as the letter opener slashes blindly in the air. The blade catches flesh, and your attacker snarls, reeling back as his cheek blooms crimson– gash notching from the chisel of his jaw to his nose. 

“You fucking cunt!” His fist collides with your jaw, head snapping back as stars fly across your vision. Stumbling backwards, pain needles across your skin as his rings snag your cheek, drawing blood. Brahms sees red as your eyes water, limps flailing as you try and twist your way out of his grip– another cry weasling free as your hair is roughly tugged backwards, forcing your gaze forwards. 

With a roar that shakes the rafter, Brahms pushes the man back, fury blistering through the tunnels until the walls itself couldn’t contain it. Fists collide with flesh, and the henchman bolts over in pain, where Brahms grabs a fistful of hair before dragging him across the dirt. Boots scramble against earth before the bulky male is thrown against the stairs, skull cracking against the wood with a sickening thud. Bruised, disoriented, and in shock, he scrambles up the staircase with drunken stupor.

But Brahms shows no mercy– even you know that. Foot catching on the top stair, he fumbles, where Brahms makes his move. Colliding with the battered attacker, Brahms tackles him across the passageway, exploding into the manor as the rotting beams give way. Light floods from the gaping hole of the wall, dust and splinters exploding down the staircase as the two collide onto the hardwood floors in a concoction of punches and kicks. 

The fight has spilled into the house.

You twist like a woman gone mad, skull smashing against your captor’s chest as you throw yourself towards the stairs– away from the basement, away from him. Nails rake against his cheek, digging into the broken flesh from his wound, resulting in another broken howl of pain. Langley watches your struggle, smirk long since faded as he stalks towards you.

“Burn it down, boys!” he shouts, lantern swinging wildly as his haunting laugh rattles your bones. “If that ghoul won’t give her up himself, we’ll smoke him out.” With that, the lantern is tossed through the air. Your foot collides with your attacker’s knee, and he crumples behind you. Pushing yourself upwards, you dive for the lantern, arms outstretched with something akin to desperation. 

Oil coats your hands as your fingers graze the metal, sizzling flesh. The lantern shatters against a beam to your right, flames immediately licking at the wood, climbing up the walls with a hunger you couldn’t fight against. The house groans around you, not your prison cell, but a pyre. 

You want to play with fire? I’ll show you just how deeply it burns. 

The roar of the fire steals the breath from your lungs– smoke curling up the stairwell and filling the cramped basement in a foggy haze. The walls breathe with heat as the flames begin to eat the passageways alive, and your attacker grabs onto the hem of your sweater. But the raging inferno is quicker, swallowing your curses until you both can barely breathe. 

A flash of brown catches in the light as Brahms miraculously appears to your side, broad shoulder slamming into the bastard pawing at you through your clothes. The force is brutal, launching him backwards into the smoldering beams– the splintering of wood and a guttural moan of pain blending into one wretched sound. 

Wirey arms gingerly pull you to your feet, and you scramble to stand. “GO!” Brahms snarls, tugging you towards the stairs just as a beam crashes to the floor to your left. You cower away from the heat, smoke and soot enveloping you as the two of you clamber up the stairs. Fire spits through the widening gaps, licking at your heels as you flee upwards, followed by Langley’s jagged laughter. 

“Run, you rats. I’ll gut you in your own fucking nest!” 

The henchman knocked to the floor lunges after you, bat dragging against the wall, but Brahms is faster– whirling on his heel, poker raised as they collide at the threshold. Ducking into the hallway, you gasp for breath, feet tripping over something with a nauseating squelch. Glancing downwards, the mangled corpse of one of the attackers stares back at you with bloodshot eyes, a broken piece of banister impaled through his chest. 

One down, two to go.

The manor groans under the strain, the crackle of fire spilling into the first floor as smoke bellows through the cracks, flames racing along the floorboards of the house that once hid you. Wind whistles through the gaping hole into the passageway– the manor screaming in agony as it burns alive for the second time. The lights flicker as smoke consumes them, clawing at your lungs and coating your eyes until tears blur the world into a haze of red and orange. 

Scrambling away from the corpse at your feet, the thud of boots against the floorboards and fists beating flesh announce the appearance of the last of Langley’s loyal dogs. Bolting forwards, you catch sight of the letter opener– lost in the chaos. Diving forwards, your knees collide with the hardwood as your knuckles wrap around the blade, slicing into the palm of your hand. 

Wincing, you clutch the hilt in your hand, slick with sweat and blood. Turning towards the violence, you barely make a step before a scream echoes across the hallway. Not one of fear, but of bloodlust, of fury. The sound halts you in place, animalistic and anguished, followed by a wet crack that sends bile rising to your throat. 

You spin just in time to catch Brahms slam the man against the wall, limbs flailing as the plaster behind his head turns a chilling red. Undisturbed by the violence, Brahms' hands wrap around the man’s throat, pushing once, twice– crushing his throat until there’s a sharp pop. The man’s eyes bulge from their sockets; he goes limp, body deadweighting to the floorboards as blood pools from the back of his head.

Brahms staggers backwards, chest heaving, hands bloodied– face scarred and glistening with sweat and soot. Eyes flicking wildly, you realize that he isn’t looking at you, but instead at the flames engulfing the manor’s walls around you. Heat dances across the disintegrating wallpaper, the heavy portrait of the Heelshire family toppling from its place on the master staircase, and something within him shatters.

“No– please, no–”  He croaks, stumbling away from the flames as if he were already burned. Those chocolate orbs finally meet yours, widened in terror. “-I can’t… not again.” The monstrosity of a man transformed into a child again, trapped in the blaze he never escaped, burned from hellfire. 

You take a step forward, and that’s when Langley strikes. 

Like a phantom emerging from the shadows, he’s on you before you can scream– sweat and smoke and blood searing your nostrils as he clamps a hand over your mouth. His smile is gone, replaced with something far more ugly, something starved. Brahms jolts forward, but the flooring gives out, swallowed up by flames. 

The bookcase topples, leaving a gaping hole in the hallway, embers floating in the air as he disappears behind a wall of ash and smoke. You scream, but the sound is muffled by the paw strapped over you like a vice.

“Thought you could hide behind your little monster, hmm?” He snarls, dragging you across the floor before your back slams against the wall. “I’ll show you what happens to rats like you who bite.” You thrash, swiping the letter opener towards him in a fit of terror. He catches your wrist, clamping down until you hear a pop– wrist ignited in pain as the letter opener clatters to the floor. 

Tears blur your vision, the pain rippling through you– mangled wrist dangling limply against you like dead weight. Your toes scrape against the floorboard as you are hoisted against the wall, a hand wrapping itself around your throat as your airway is cut off. Stars burst across your vision as you claw at Langley’s hand, dislocated wrist pounding at his chest weakly. 

Leaning in close, breath hot and thick with smoke and death, his words barely register as darkness licks at your vision. “I wanted to take my time with you, break you in all the ways you broke my brothers… but I guess I’ll have to make due.” The neckline of your sweater tears as it’s clawed away from you, tattered fabric hanging off your shoulders as he paws at your breast through the material of your bra. 

Your fingers rake down his cheek as the hand not wrapped around your throat fiddles with the button of your jeans, popping them before trying to yank them down your legs. Fingers digging into his greasy locks, you pull– trying to get distance between you, but instead you are slammed against the wall once more, skull cracking against the drywall. 

This couldn’t be happening, you beg yourself to wake from this endless nightmare. 

Your jeans catch on your knees, Langley faltering to yank his belt free from the loop. Without sparing a thought, your knee cranes upwards, colliding with his dick with all of the force you could muster. He howls, grip on your throat loosening as he stumbles backwards, curses flying from his lips. Jutting your head upwards, the crown of your skull cracks against his jaw, sending you both flying backwards onto the floor. 

“You bitch–” Scuttling across the floorboards like an overturned bug, your fingers reach for the discarded letter opener, panic seizing through your chest, heart in your throat. A hand winds around your ankle, jutting you backwards as you grab the blade, but in the chaos his own momentum betrays him as he crawls above you. Turning blindly, you jut the blade forwards– burying it in his chest. 

Langley’s eyes widen, shirt soaking through in blood as you pull back before stabbing again. A scream tears from you, raw and broken as he falls, but you refuse to stop. The blade slips from the slick, digging into your already battered palm, but you pursue onwards, climbing on top of him as the blade sinks into his chest cavity. 

Again, and again, and again. 

Each stab covers your skin in gore before it plunges back into his ribs. Sobs wrack your chest, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you gut the male in front of you. Head lolling to the side, glassy eyes stare back at you, empty and void of life. The blade drops from your hands, clattering against the heated floorboards as you struggle to catch your breath. 

Blood slicks your arms, your chest, your face– Langley’s blood, thick and hot. Staggering backwards, you stare at the body as if willing it to move, to rise again so you could kill him another dozen times. But he doesn’t, chest still, hair matted, eyes glossy as they gape forward with no recognition.

“Oh god–” The sob breaks through the smoke, and you realize it was coming from you. “-fuck, what have I done?” 

The house answers for you, a beam crashing towards the floor, scattering embers and ash in its wake, the manor’s dying wail as blood spills through the cracks of the floorboards. The fire seems to feed on your silence, gnawing on the boards beneath Langley’s corpse– hot to the touch. 

“Brahms–” Your voice cracks, the sound hoarse from soot and smoke. Panic slices through the shock like a knife as you stumble upwards. Wobbly knees try to steady yourself, calf screaming as you tug your jeans back up around your waist. Spinning, you move through the corridor, gagging on the smoke as you push past falling plaster and smoldering wood.

Trying to navigate the maze of hallways surrounding you– a once familiar setting left to ruin, your lungs heave. “Brahms, where are you?!” The words are shrill, heightened by your terror as you will yourself to hear a response. 

But there is no answer, only fire. 

Running blindly, you collide with a fallen bannister, nearly tripping over the mangled corpse of one of Langley’s henchmen. You press onwards, the taste of iron filling your throat as you gag on the soot surrounding you when you see it. 

A shape flickers ahead, past what was left of the drawing room– his hulking silhouette, unmistakable even through the haze of smoke. Relief washes over you like the first breath you’ve taken in days. “Brahms, thank god–” You choke on ash as you lunge towards the shape in the haze. 

Your relief curdles instantly. 

As he comes into focus, Brahms isn’t standing at all, knees digging into the floor as he frantically tries to pry a beam off his calf. Arms stretched outright, he’s all but dragging himself forward– leg twisted unnaturally in a way that you knew shouldn’t be possible. 

A burning moan shudders through the house like flickering recognition as the fire licks higher, mere feet from where you stand. Brahms’ gaze snaps towards yours, eyes full of terror and agony– tears streaking his ashen cheeks.

For the first time, he doesn’t look like a monster hiding within the walls. He looks like a boy again– a boy begging not to burn. 

Look at me, trust me. Stay with me.

“Don’t leave me.” His voice is broken, hoarse from smoke and fear. His fingers– nails chipped, pads bloodied stumps– claw at the beam helplessly with a sense of weakness you’ve never seen before. His shoulders jerk with a sob, soot smearing down his cheeks like paint as he pulls, curls matted to his hair as his movements grow more frantic. 

The house howls around you, a final battle cry– beams collapsing, windows shattering, walls buckling. Through the haze of it all, you faintly make out something in the distance, the foreign sound freezing you in your tracks. 

Sirens.

“Please–” a hand beckons towards you with childlike need, fingers outstretched like you are his only salvation. “-please, don’t leave me… not again.” Smoke claws at your throat as your heart seizes from the sight. He isn’t the monster in the walls, but the boy, the man– the wretched thing that ruined you, the broken one who saved you– yours alone to damn to hell or deliver to salvation. 

Brahms is unmasked, undone– with nothing left to shield him from you. All that remains is a choice. Freedom or fire, salvation or damnation, creation or destruction, life or death.

Brahms– or yourself.

You remain rooted in place, hand clamped over your mouth as tears wet your cheeks. His eyes, so wide, so human, lock with your own, and something within you splinters. Was it a twist of cruel fate, his life balancing in the palm of your hand as the rest of the world burns? Was this the retribution you spent sleepless nights praying for?

But looking at him, the sense of justice never comes. All that’s there is the boy, the man, the monster– all begging for the same thing. 

Stay.

But the sirens grow louder, sharp and shrill, like the ticking of a clock running out. The smoke swallows your vision as your legs move before your mind does. Enveloped by the haze, the world ceases to exist– just you, him and hellfire. You push onwards, unable to see anything in front of you, coughs wracking through you as you stumble.

The choice ripped away from you, the Fates themselves deciding; you only pray you walk towards the right salvation. A scream pierces through the air– guttural, broken, torn from a place where even words fail. There’s a crash of timber, the shriek of fire, the roar of sirens, and the world downs in ash.

The manor burns, the sirens consume, the smoke takes you whole, but you can’t open your eyes. Not as the boy in the fire screams your name. 

Whether you turn towards him or away from him, only the flames know.

____

“This one hasn’t been lived in for years.” The realtor mumbles, voice buoyant as though the silence within the house could be sold. Shoes tapping along the warped floorboards, your fingers snag on the flowered wallpaper that has tattered from time. The realtor pushes onwards– too loud, too certain. But the house on the other hand, is quiet in a way that unsettles you.

Perfect.

“She's a bit of a fixer-upper, sure, but the bones are strong and sturdy. She’ll last… a good coat of paint will do wonders.” The words almost don’t register as your gaze wanders the halls, more keen on seeking out the ghosts of past memories to flicker across your vision. The realtor pauses at the base of the stairs, hand brushing along the ancient banister as though petting a loyal dog. 

“Though I must admit…” He pauses. “-it’s a lot of space for just one person, don’t you think?” The tone lifts in a teasing manner, the kind of joke used to put a hesitant client at ease. You don’t laugh, gaze instead drifting upwards past the staircase to where the second floor disappears into darkness beyond your reach. 

A stretch of hallway yawns like an open throat to a sleeping beast, the shadows dancing across your peripheral in a manner too thick, too heavy– as if something is waiting. “I don’t know… she suits me.” You murmur out, though the words feel strange on your tongue as you take in your surroundings. 

The realtor doesn’t hear you, more keen on selling the house– still chattering away about modernizing the furniture, repairing the kitchen pipes, the boiler in the basement being outdated and worn from time. His voice lulls into the background, a drone that almost covers the sound you are certain breaches the quiet, all too familiar from jagged memories. 

The faint creak of a floorboard overhead. 

You freeze, and for a moment the breath is stolen from your lungs. The air smells faintly of soot and ash, something you know is impossible– not here, not now. You blink, trying to will the sensation away, but the feeling refuses to pass. The room feels hot to the touch suddenly, skin almost scalding as you try to slow your breathing. 

It’s not real– it’s just the house. 

The realtor swings open another door, flooding the hall in natural light from outside. “See? This is perfect for storage, or maybe even a nursery one day. You have so many options… have I shown you the attic? I think there is a great DIY project you could use for–” 

Your gaze shifts towards the French windows of the room, his voice forgotten as something moves across the horizon. There’s a flicker, quick, furtive, like something pulling away from the shadows– and for a second, you swear you hear the sound of nails scratching wood, a guttural scream echoing across your mind. 

Your chest tightens with a familiar ache.

There’s a pause, and you realize the realtor is waiting for your response. What was he talking about again? Storage, nursery– words that once meant freedom but now seem to carry the weight of the world. A wry laugh builds in your chest, and you force a smile. 

“I like it… I think she’s a project worth tackling.” Drawing your fingers across the doorframe, the wood feels cool against your skin– almost damp, almost alive. A polite smile is your response, one filled with the undertone of financial gain. “So, you think you could see yourself living here?”

You hesitate, eyes drawn upwards towards the shadows lurking overhead. For a moment, you think of the sirens, of the flames, of his voice– begging, broken, and burning. You think of those chocolate eyes, wet with terror, calling out your name like a prayer even as the house began to collapse around you.

The silence here feels just as full as it did that night, as though the walls are listening to you. Your lips curve into a smile, one full of secrets: “I guess so.” The words echo strangely in the vastness, claimed by the house itself as it repeats your response in tune. 

“Oh, how wonderful! I thought those pesky rumors about hauntings would drive you away like so many others… Now– how about we head back to the office for a deposit? I know a lovely accountant who can assist you through the whole process–” 

You aren’t listening anymore, because for a heartbeat everything is still. And then– soft, so softly you could almost convince yourself it was your imagination– comes the faintest rasp from within the shadows. Muffled words so quiet you knew that only the house and you were listening, your heart seizes within your chest. 

Words from a voice you know all too well. 

Stay.

[ghostiesnightmare]

Thank you for your fics 🥰 I first stumbled upon The Rules We Keep a few months back and absolutely loved it. Thinking it was a one-shot, I was surprisingly delighted to have found the next chapters yesterday along with your 4th chapter post the same day. But then I saw your update post about the death threats, and I felt deeply saddened, so I want to give you some words of encouragement and appreciation for your beautiful writing and your creativity ❤️ Taking your time results in such a complexe and profound story and not enough people understand and appreciate it. If you ever need a random person to be your cheerleader 🙋‍♀️. Also when reader said, "You're mine" after Bramhs told his childhood trauma, *chef's kiss*.

I genuinely cannot begin to express how thankful I am for everyone’s kind words and support, knowing that others enjoy my writing is the best motivator in the world and I cannot thank you enough.

As someone who never started posting regularly until early this year, it is shocking to see how many people share my love of slashers and enjoy my takes on how deprived these men really are. It pushes me to test my limits as an author and allows me to share my dark and not-so-pure thoughts without judgement.

To all of those who have sent me inbox messages and have left comments on my writings, thank you for taking the time to provide feedback and analyze my work. And to those who have stumbled upon my works by chance and have stayed, thank you for choosing to support me!

You all have a very special place in my heart, and I cannot wait to share even more fics and drabbles with you all in the future. If you have an idea or want to spiral about slashers with me (or have any recommendations) I would love to hear from you.

Also, we are almost at 500 followers— like WHAT?! The slasher fans have truly risen up and made their stance on my works.

Sorry for the sappy content, not usually my forte but I had to just share my appreciation for everyone. As always, updates will come shortly, so grab a weapon and settle in.

They’re waiting for you.

-ghostie <3

[ghostiesnightmare]

Taste of Ruin

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Reader TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. Kidnapping, noncon, bruises, Brahms being an aggressive fuck. MDNI - NSFW

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Brahms Heelshire is the personification of gluttony.

A man born from the shadows, bathed in violence and fire and blood lust– his desires are far from ordinary. There is no restraint nestled within him, no line between want and patience, only an animalistic hunger forged from decades of being hidden within the walls.

What began as an innocent need for touch, for connection festered in the dark. It fermented and rotted until it became something rancid that knows no boundaries. 

Brahms doesn’t ask, he takes. When he wants, he needs. There is no middle ground, no bargaining, no offering that can satiate him. It claws away at him, tearing bone from flesh until it bursts, spilling over into violent desperation. 

And if you have the misfortune of giving him a taste? He won’t stop until he consumes you whole. His hunger knows no end– a famine from the depths of hell, a void that swallows every offering yet remains unsatisfied. Brahms doesn’t just crave intimacy– he craves you. 

Your breath, your pleads, your screams… after all, he prefers to feed on your fear. 

To him, you aren’t a lover. You are the feast he prayed for while starving within the walls of his godforsaken manor. Your body is an altar, your soul a banquet– and he is more than eager to have his fill. Every glance, every tremor, every whimper is a morsel he devours greedily while knowing it will never be enough.

His obsessive worship is anything but gentle. It leaves bruises, bites, scars– testaments to a man who does not touch, but devours. There is no afterglow, no sense of release, no ending. Just the endless cycle of hunger and ruin, one that swallows you whole and spits you out just so he can call you his.

Because when you think he has finally had his fill, he rips everything away, desperate to quiet the void inside of him– though you both know it never will.

Brahms Heelshire is ravenous. 

When he finally has you, when famine meets the feast, there is no hesitation. The second he descends upon you, his hunger is a creature all on its own. The air around you seems to constrict as he drinks in your gasps like sustenance, only fueling his pursuit of your ruin. His weight crashes down on you, hands ensnaring your wrists with such force that your bones ache.

The porcelain mask lays abandoned on the floor– a testament to the fact that no monster can truly hide behind a disguise. 

The scruff of his jaw rakes across your skin as his mouth claims you– a wet, desperate concoction of teeth and tongue that draws blood. You whimper as the iron taste coats you, one he doesn’t hesitate to swallow feverishly. 

His touch is bruising, fingers clawing into your flesh, nails leaving harsh indentations, hips snapping against yours– and yet he has the gall to tremble. Heaving pants, breathy sighs, shuddering like a man who starved for decades. Every sound you make– whimpers, pleas, begs are devoured entirely, swallowed as if you very existence fills the hollow in his chest. 

Foolish girl, even beneath the horror and gore he is only just a man– a man with needs. 

“I need more.” He rasps, teeth grazing the delicate column of your neck, now covered in purple lovebites and bruises. The scream catches in your throat as the expanse of his palm covers your mouth, smearing your lips in blood and saliva. 

It isn’t intimacy– but consumption. Body stripped down to bones, heart on display, yet the only thing he is interested in is how much more he can take. 

Your scalp screams as your head is yanked to the side, tears soaking through the worn pillowcase as his teeth gnaw at the junction of your collarbone until the skin goes numb from the assault. You twist, beg, pray– but the more you resist, the tighter he clings to you. 

He drinks in your terror like fine wine, calculating just how far he can push you until you break. 

And when he finally pulls away to admire his handiwork, lips smeared, chest heaving, voice hoarse with need, you know there is no end to your torture. “It’s not enough. Please, I need it.” Forehead pressed against yours, you try not to squirm as his scars burn against your skin.

It’s almost pitiful, being the antidote to someone else’s pain only for it to result in your own. Burying his face into your matted hair, he inhales your scent like a feast ripe for the taking. Yet, you know better– that every betraying tremble of your body, every hateful spite whispered at night, every fearful gasp is his nourishment. 

And still, he takes until there is nothing left– proof that the famine raging inside of him can never be stilled. He worries away at your skin like a dog to a bone, gulping down the sound of your sobs as if they could quench his thirst. 

Because this is not love, not lust.

It is a hunger, primal and consuming, and you are the unfortunate offering laid bare before him. And in the end, there is no satisfying him. There is only you– ruined, devoured, undone beneath his endless pursuit for peace.

After all, starving people will eat anything.

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Burn Poll

Hello Darlings! I need some advice, and would love your opinions. The Rules We Burn is the final chapter of the series and will have a subsequent epilogue. My question for you all is this: would you rather have the epilogue attached to the final with a "time-skip" border in between the two, or have the epilogue published as a separate chapter immediately after The Rules We Burn is posted?

I want to ensure that this series is a complete summary of your time at the Heelshire manor that is both enjoyable while also following the structure of a novella. The Rules We Burn will have a bit of a cliffhanger (shocker, I know-- so unlike me), so I want to know your thoughts. I would love to hear your reasonings and look forward to your responses!

-ghostie <3

How should the epilogue be posted?

Attached with a "time-skip" under the Rules We Burn

Posted separately and linked to the bottom

Voting ended onAug 15, 2025

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Hide

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: Guilt and grief fester beneath the surface as you begin to unravel, haunted by the truth of what you have become. The weight of your sins threaten to crush you, even as Brahms soothes the fear with both obsession and tenderness. But safety is a fool's tale you whisper in the night, because in the Heelshire Manor, not everything that lurks in the dark is buried. TW: DARK content read at your own risk, trauma bonds, pussy eating, sloppy kisses, biting, scratching, swearing, spit as lube, wall (standing?) sex, hair pulling, groping, creampies, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, biting, quickies, blood, mentions of murder, vomiting, brief descriptions of dead bodies, and more. Word Count: 9,072 MDNI-NSFW A/N: [part one] [part two] [part three]

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The Heelshire manor feels like a furnace.

Floorboards swelling with heat, the walls seem to breathe around you– the air heavy with the aftermath of rain and the taste of woodland undergrowth swirling together in an earthy concoction clinging to your lungs. Steam curls from the smooth porcelain cup in your hands, amber liquid trembling under your fidgeting grasp, threatening to teeter over the edge. 

The foyer is quiet, an apprehensive atmosphere wrapping you into a lulled pretense of safety as the grandfather clock chimes overhead, much louder than it should be. Blankly staring into the tea, you wonder if you brewed it too strong or if the coppery aftertaste is just in your mind. Your throat burns as you gulp down a bitter swig, the rings around your neck a ghastly purple as you choke the burning liquid down. 

There’s still dirt caked under your fingernails, present no matter how many times you scrub yourself under scorching water– watching you, teasing you with defiance.

Late night? You monster. 

The tea goes sour in your mouth. Skin bruised, joints aching, morale defiled– it feels as if you would never be clean again, as if you shouldn’t even try. 

The chair across from you sits empty, embroidered cushions dipped slightly as if someone had just left. Gaze flickering to the hallway, you half expect him to be standing over you, a coy smirk stretching against the scars on his face, but you hear nothing. No footsteps, no rummaging in the pantry– just the ticking of the grandfather clock looming over you menacingly in the corner. 

It’s been two days, yet you haven’t dared to step foot in the greenhouse. 

Not since that fateful night filled with blood and screams and the cracking sound of Brahms’ fists battering into flesh and bone. Dark circles envelop your eyes, lack of sleep causing your sluggish mind to echo the events that took place on hallowed ground to replay like a broken record in your skull. 

You had dreamt of it again last night– bodies tangled in roots and weeds, faces warped against the flowerbeds. Only then, they weren’t dead, they were watching you. Features frozen in horror as their blood dripped from your fingertips. Through it all, Brahms looming overhead– head tilted, porcelain mask splattered in crimson, a haunted laugh ringing through the greenhouse. 

You press the cup to your lips, tea long gone cold now– tart.

Behind you, the floorboards creak suddenly. You don’t flinch, but the teacup rattles ever so slightly against the saucer in your hands. So jumpy. Voice calm, eerily so, you don’t turn– instead focusing your gaze on the symmetrical flowered wallpaper adorning the room. “Your tea is on the kitchen table. So is breakfast.”

Buttered toast, earl grey tea, roasted potatoes, blood sausage, and sunny-side up eggs– his favorite. It was almost laughable, as if your pathetic attempt at normalcy through your cooking would wash away the sins etched into your flesh. 

There’s a pause, then the soft rasp of his voice cuts through the air like a knife. “It tastes better from your cup.” You glance backwards at the words, already knowing he’s close– like a shadow, presence always felt before seen. Your personal boogeyman, only very much real.

Towering over the loveseat couch, Brahms moves closer, bare feet padding across the floorboards as his hips hit the edge of the cushions. Chocolate curls tangled from sleep, he stretches slightly, a rumbled yawn tearing from his throat. Underneath his cardigan, you faintly glance at the outline of his happy trail before it disappears under the fabric once more. 

Your mouth goes dry, tea forgotten. 

Mask abandoned, Brahms shifts towards the front of the couch– gingerly plucking the teacup from your shaking hands. Bare and raw with that look in his eyes as if he were trying to memorize your every move, he cocks his head, one of those subtle mannerisms you still didn’t fully understand. 

Lifting the teacup to his lips, a small smile breaks out on his face as he sinks into the chair across from you, hands dwarfing the small porcelain. He hums at the taste, nodding in appreciation before glancing at you once more. 

You try to ignore the way your heart stutters at the sight, try to push the thoughts of what those hands have done just days before– how they cup your face late into the night while he sleeps, how they snap bone like it means nothing. 

Eyes flickering to the window, you look into the foggy haze of the morning hour. “I dreamt about it again,” you murmur as Brahms pauses. “-of the greenhouse.” 

The teacup halts midair, dark eyes with an unreadable expression burning into you. The nightmares weren’t a surprise, always coming in the form of strained sobs in the dark. In the late hour where only the dead would dare to speak, his arms always wind around your torso as you cry into the sheets, trying to soothe the aching memories from your skull– but to no avail. 

The silence stretches between you, and suddenly you regret speaking at all. A weighted sigh, then a shift as the teacup rattles against the saucer while being set down. Brahms steps quietly as if approaching a cornered animal, soles padding against the floorboards almost silently as he halts in front of you. Fingers brushing your cheekbone, you fight the flinch building in your chest from the sting– bruise still tender and raw from the fight. 

“I just…” you swallow thickly, trying to formulate the proper words. “I think there’s something, someone out there.” Somewhere hidden across the solitude of the manor, you could almost swear something was amiss. But Brahms only tucks a fallen strand of hair behind your ear, brows furrowed at your obvious paranoia, unbothered by the situation. 

“It’s over. There’s no one out there.” Voice low, steady– as if he wants the words to be comforting. As if this could all be brushed under the rug, another secret buried within the walls of the manor. 

But you know better, something cold slithering down your spine as you tear your gaze away. 

Fingers curling under your jaw, heated breath fans across your face as Brahms sighs. Something akin to worry swims in his coffee orbs, touch anything but forceful– almost reverent while he traces your bruised skin as if you were made of glass. 

A silent plea embedded in the pads of his fingers– Look at me, trust me. Stay with me. 

You try to ignore the dirt caked underneath his fingernails, try to dismiss the smell of iron that creeps into your nostrils when you inhale, try to push away the unease churning in your throat– but no amount of scrubbing would wash the memories away. 

The hand wrapped around your throat. Blood seeping into your eyes as you clawed against your captors. Screams echoing across the glass so forcefully it rattled your bones. 

“I want to show you something.” Brahms murmurs, voice dropping to a whisper that makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle. Curiosity blossoms in your chest, and you lean into his touch, a slight nod being your only reply. 

You’ve learned by now that silence in itself is another form of submission. 

A small smile plays softly on his lips as his palm slips into yours, warm and steady in all the ways you are not. Tugging you upwards from the couch, you let him help you upwards– head barely meeting his chin as his hands encircle your shoulders, pushing you forward. 

Guiding you down the maze of hallways, you can only blindly follow his direction, wallpaper still damp with the scent of mildew and rain. You half expect to hear the rattle of the pipes, the shift in the passageways– but there’s only the patter of your footsteps and the echo of his own. 

Veering you into the kitchen, you can still see the steam wafting from the tea kettle and breakfast lain out on the counter, morning offerings gone untouched as you pass by. A part of you wants to scold Brahms for his stubbornness, but as you near the back door of the kitchen your heart stutters within your chest. 

With every step, your legs feel as if they are full of lead. 

Brahms reaches around you, pushing the door open. Foggy morning air slices into your skin, cold and silent, erupting goosebumps across your flesh. The soles of your bare feet sink into the damp grass of the lawn and a shiver runs down your spine. 

Not from the cold, not from the dew, but from the godforsaken sight of the greenhouse on the horizon waiting to swallow you whole.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, knees locking into place as your voice cracks. “-Brahms, please.”

His grip on your shoulders tightens– not painfully, but firm as he ushers you forwards. “You have to… you need to see it.” Craning your head backwards, you try to meet his gaze, but it remains rooted towards the stained glass structure. 

“Why?” 

He looks at you then, curls falling over his eyes as something putrid swirls in them– grotesque and rotten with an unearthly sense of pride that makes your stomach sink. Jaw clenching, he swallows thickly, simply pushing you towards the greenhouse without a word. Knowing resistance is futile, you can only stumble along the grass until the door manifests itself in front of you. 

Nudging the door open with his foot, Brahms steps forward and you shrink against his chest. Inside, the air is thick with moisture and earth, brimming with the scent of tilled soil and flowers– nothing like the rotting smell of flesh you were expecting. 

It was wrong. 

Glancing around the expanse of the room, the shattered glass strewn across the cobblestone flooring had been swept away, translucent tarps taped over the broken windows. The blood caked to almost every surface washed away, the faint smell of bleach still lingering in the air as you wiped your finger across one of the soil-bed’s wooden beams. 

Too clean, too pristine– as if nothing had happened. As if your screams were never real, your terror never existed. 

In the back corner of the greenhouse, a patch of fresh soil sowed a newly tilled garden– dark and damp. Bushels of petunias and black roses scatter along the dirt, petals almost glowing in the foggy haze. Staggering forward, your knees give out as gargled sobs tear from your throat.

Bile rises, dry heaves echoing across the glass walls as you choke on air, snot dripping down your chin. Brahms is beside you in an instant, fingers tangling in your hair as you empty your stomach onto the cobblestone. Nails digging into the flesh of your knees, your tongue burns from the acidic taste. 

“They’re gone,” Mumbling against your scalp, Brahms scoops you into his arms, cardigan sleeve wiping the remnants of your breakfast from your chin. “-No one will find them.” 

The words don’t even sound real, yet the hatred oozing from the flowers tells you otherwise. It was almost poetic, turning something so ugly into a work of art– almost romantic. Staring blankly at the soil, eerily disturbed in some areas, your lips part before you can stop yourself. 

“You… buried them here?”

Brahms shifts behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as he looks onwards at his handiwork. You stay rooted in place, too numb to pull away– finding comfort in the scratchy material of his cardigan, the smell of your detergent and his musk invading your senses as you bury your head into the crook of his arm. 

“I planted over them,” he breathes out, eerily like a confession. “-I made them into something pretty… just for you.” A sick twist of horror and awe churns in your stomach at the words. Chin trembling, you can only nod, teary eyes tracing each flower staring back at you. 

The morning air is deceptively calm– pollen and dust swirling around you in a hue of gold flecks, glinting across the sea of purple and black. A voice inside of you wonders if the roots have already found their way to the mangled corpses hidden beneath the surface. 

Brahms thinks this is love. The worst part? A small, broken piece of you believes him. 

“How…” your voice trembles, words faltering. You swallow dryly before trying again. “How did you know how to do this?” He pauses, stiffening against your back, refusing to answer the insinuation thrown at first. His breath fans against the sweat-dampened junction of your neck and collarbone, lips parting before closing against your skin– as if weighing the consequences of his honesty. 

“I had to learn,” he answers eventually. “No one else ever cleaned up after me.”

Your skin goes gooseflesh at the words, but you don’t move. There’s something devastating in his voice– much more so than the bloodcurdling admission, but an ache carefully hidden beneath the emotionless tone. A sense of boyhood abandonment that clings to every syllable like the mold adorning the passageways, the very epitome of shattered innocence. 

Something wet drips onto the back of your neck as the arms caging you to his chest begin to tremble. “I… I won’t let anyone hurt you again. I promise.” The sound feels like a thread stitching the broken pieces of your heart back together, ribs aching as you recall that silent plea in the foyer.

Look at me, trust me. Stay with me.

So you do– fingers entwining with his as you stand on wobbly knees. Turning towards the door frame, you spare one last glance towards the flowerbed, towards the secrets buried beneath. 

As your feet pad over the cool grass, you swear you could feel their agony reaching towards you from beneath the soil. 

The back door creaks shut behind you, sealing off the outside world like a tomb. The air within the manor thickens– heavy with something that makes your skin crawl. As your bare feet scrap across the tile in the kitchen, you realize it’s all wrong. 

You make it halfway up the grand staircase when the weight of it all, the realization, slams into you. 

You were there– watching as Brahms killed them, sobbing as the light left their swollen eyes, trembling as they took their final breath. You never told him to stop, never screamed for help, simply letting Brahms tear them to shreds at your feet. 

You aren’t a victim now, but an accomplice– one to murder. 

Knees buckling, you stumble against the steps, clammy hands gripping the banister so hard your knuckles turn a ghastly white. Your breath comes out in shaky spurts, vision blurring as you fight the all too familiar texture of bile rising in your throat. 

It’s too much– the greenhouse spread out beneath your feet like a rotting corpse, the scent of iron and decay burning in your nostrils, the pride radiating off of Brahms as he presents his gift to you. 

I made them into something pretty, just for you. 

“What have I done?” The words taste foul on your tongue, heavy and strong and full of death as guilt blossoms in your gut. Brahms halts a few steps ahead of you at that, spine straightening as he turns to face your teary gaze. “Oh god, what have you done–”

Brahms is on you in an instant, hands encircling your face as you all but crumple against him, straddling his lap against the staircase. All too similar to the way he held you in the bathtub, you feel yourself breaking– cracks spider-webbing across your skin seeped in what could only be described as horror and guilt. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I did– I always do.” he murmurs against the crown of your head, words dripping with pride as you fight the shiver threatening to split you in two. His voice is calm, too calm– slow and measured in a way that makes your brain hazy. 

Your lips tremble as his thumb rubs circles into your jugular, heartbeat hammering against the pads of his finger. “But I let you– I should have stopped you. I just watched… what does that make me?” You croak, throat uncomfortably dry as he ponders his words. 

His forehead brushes against yours, skin cool against your fiery flesh. “It makes you mine.” You shudder at the words, shoving his shoulders away from you as you groan. “How can you even joke at a time like this?”

Hands encircling your wrists, Brahms only hums, unbothered by the pathetic onslaught as he pulls you further into his chest. A whimpered protest escapes your lips as you try to twist away, but even you know escape is futile. Stubble rakes across the column of your neck as Brahms buries his head into your collarbone, peppering your heated flesh in kisses. 

Instantly squirming at the ticklish sensation, you whine in frustration. “Brahms, this is serious–” “You were scared… you still are. Just let me take it from you.” He cuts you off, the rumble of his chest against yours as his teeth sink into your jugular, ripping any semblance of a response straight from your lungs. 

“What was it you said once– let me help you?” 

You freeze, the words hitting something deep within you, crawling under your skin and burrowing into your heart. That very sentence uttered two days ago in the bathtub when the monster melted away into a man– the night your hatred turned into something more akin to affection. 

And now he was using that very phrase against you, that tease. 

Your lips part, but nothing comes out– just ragged, hushed pants as you glance at the hunger swirling in his eyes. “Brahms…” you warn, but he’s already darting forwards to smother you in a kiss. 

He doesn’t kiss you like a man in love, he’s too far gone for that. He kisses you like a man gone mad– starving for your touch, begging for your attention, hands memorizing every curve of your face as he molds you against him. 

Hands dragging your skirt up your thighs, blunt nails dig into your flesh as the skin of your knees digs into the carpeted edge of the stairs. Heated puffs of his breath waft across your skin as you dig your nails into his shoulders as you all but melt into his embrace. The words ring in your head like prayer and a curse all at once, threatening to swallow you whole. 

Let me help you.

So you do, because the weight of him pressed against you is better than feeling guilty, the caress of his fingertips easier than facing what you didn’t stop. It’s better to drown in his devotion than face what was buried in the greenhouse. 

Arms dwarfing the expanse of your back, you barely realize you are being flipped until your spine hits the edge of the stairs with a dull thud– banister rattling next to your head from the force. You push upwards on your elbows only to be shoved down once more, back arching uncomfortably as greedy hands knead into your clothed breasts through the material of your sweater. 

Fingers digging into your hips, Brahms all but sighs as he fists the material of your skirt in his hands– bunching the fabric in between his fingers as his head nuzzles down your clavicle. You shudder at the cool air caressing your bare legs, silently cursing yourself for choosing the convenience of a skirt over pants.

Fingers curl over the elastic waistband of your panties, stretching it tight before letting it smack against your flesh. You jolt at the sensation, skin tingling as his thumbs rub deft circles into you to calm the sting. The tip of Brahms’ nose catches on the collar of your sweater as he moves lower, pausing to nuzzle the valley of your breasts before reaching your naval.

Your cheeks burn from embarrassment as he wedges himself between your thighs, head ducking under the fabric and disappearing from sight– leaving behind only a mop of curls. Knees shaking from what could only be described as anticipation, you squirm as heated breath fans over the soaked fabric of your panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds. Even at a time like this your body betrays you, more keen on pleasure than reality. 

Traitor.

An open mouthed kiss through the fabric of your panties stops you in your tracks. God, his breath is so warm– heavy and wet as his tongue pokes into the damp material in front of him. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as he all but sucks on the fabric, saliva mixing with your juices dripping through the fabric.

The tip of his nose brushes against your clothed clit, sending an electrical current down your spine. Goosebumps spider-web across your thighs as his fingers trace featherlight on the sensitive flesh– causing a whine to escape your lips from the sensation. 

“...Brahms?!” You squeak as his fingers dig underneath the elastic of your panties, haphazardly tugging them to the side. Brahms ignores your protests, much more keen on eyeing the slick gathering between your legs.

“What are you doing–” The words die on your tongue as his tongue licks a fat stripe up your pussy. Your hands fly to his chocolate curls, nails scraping his scalp as you try to steel yourself against the assault of tongue and teeth. Impatient, needy strokes lap at your cunt– causing your stomach to flip as your thighs clench around his head. 

How does he even know how to do this?

Your clit throbs against his tongue as it swirls around the delicate bud, causing your pussy to flutter against his lips. Hot, heavy pants echo across the hallway as your head falls onto the carpeted stairs, eyes rolling to the back of your head from the friction. The tip of his finger screws deep inside of you as his tongue latches on to your clit, tearing the breath from your lungs. 

His tongue is wet, slipping across your folds and coating you in saliva as he feasts. You all but convulse when the pad of his finger brushes against your upper walls, delving into that oh-so-sensitive spot as his tongue flattens across your clit. Slow, controlled circles are drawn against your mound, and your teeth sink into your bottom lip to silence the moan building in your throat. 

His fingers on the other hand seem to have a mind of their own, a second wedging between your thighs and splitting you open. Hard, deep strokes force you to feel every ridge of his knuckles as he buries them within your pussy as your mind goes hazy from the difference in paces.

Heat swells in your stomach as you clench around his fingers, the sporadic flick of his tongue pulling you towards the edge, tension creating knots in your chest as toes curl. Fuck, it feels good, Brahms eating you out like a man driven mad while drowning between your thighs. Lips quivering, you open your mouth to moan–

The knock on the door knifes through the air like a gunshot. 

Brahms freezes, spine straightening as his fingers dig so deep into the fat of your hips that it hurts. Knees locking up, you try to slow the jackhammering of your heartbeat from the sound. Confusion echoes through your mind– was it Malcolm’s delivery day and it slipped your memory? 

Another knock, harder– louder in a way that makes the door rattle on its hinges. Then, a voice bouncing off the walls of the grand entrance. “Police, open up!” The blood drains from your face at the words, the ruined prospect of an orgasm forgotten as your fingers untangle from Brahms’ hair. Those chocolate orbs snap to yours, mouth hovering over your sensitive flesh and swirling with an all too familiar emotion you dread to see. 

Fear.

“Brahms, hide.” The words tumble from your lips as you unhook your legs around his neck, knees shaky and unruly while you tug your soaked panties up your legs. Before you can even breathe Brahms is on his feet, thundering up the stairs before disappearing behind a panel in the wall, the door quietly creaking shut behind him. 

Just like that, you were alone– guilty, breathless, and all but covered in evidence. 

You barely manage to compose yourself as you scurry down the stairs, almost tripping over yourself in your haste to the door. Hair disheveled, mouth swollen, skin flushed– not at all the image of innocence you should portray, but it would have to do. Brahms is gone, hidden away like a ghost in the house, but his scent still lingers on your skin. 

Through the frosted glass in the grand entrance, you can faintly make out a silhouette shuffling behind the door. By the time you twist the lock, your hands are clammy with sweat. Swallowing thickly, you plaster a look of concern across your face as the heavy mahogany door swings open. 

“Officer? I almost didn’t hear you over my cleaning.”

Towering over you with authoritative stature, dark beady eyes scrape over your skin with the precision of a knife. Sharp-jawed and neatly dressed, gloved fingers tap impatiently against a glimmering badge in the early afternoon light– a detective. His nose twitches ever so slightly as he takes you in, and you swear he looks like he’s already come to a conclusion. 

“Sorry to trouble you, miss. My name is Detective Bradshaw. I’m here conducting a follow-up regarding a report issued …” Glancing at a fieldwork notebook, he pauses before continuing. “-Two days ago– a possible disturbance in the area. Hikers in the forest claim they heard screaming.”

Screaming– you remember screaming, voice raw and guttural as it rang against the greenhouse glass. 

Your fingers pick at the stitching of your skirt, sheepishly glancing down to hide the panic in your eyes. “Yes, I– there was a storm… I’m terrified of thunder, so they must have heard me as I was closing the windows. I’m sorry for the disturbance, I didn’t realize anyone could hear me.”

He hums thoughtfully, weighing your words as he jots down in his notebook with a twinge of suspicion. You liar. 

“Would you mind if I came in? It’s just routine, I’m checking all the properties in the area.” He shifts, gaze narrowing at the vast expanse of the manor behind you. You pause– you do mind, but you couldn’t say that, not with what was on the line. 

“Of course.” You lie, opening the door a bit further to let the detective inside. The second he steps through the threshold of the doorway, the manor feels smaller, tighter. The air seems to weigh heavy with warning. 

You don’t belong here. 

Leading the detective to the foyer, your heart almost jolts from your chest at the sight of the doll sitting on the loveseat. All but scooping the doll into your arms as if it were a child, you turn to the detective once more. Faint recognition flickers in his eyes as his gaze drops between the doll and you. 

“You must be one of the nannies… such a shame, the fire. I’ve always heard stories of the doll, but I never thought it was real.” The detective murmurs, and you nod slightly, the doll balancing on your hip.

“The Heelshires have… strange customs.” You pause, trying to formulate a response. Your eyes flicker to the wall before snapping back to the detective. “It gets lonely caring for him.”

Brahms put the doll here– he’s somewhere in the walls. Watching you, listening. 

“Any contact with the Heelshires?” You freeze, confused at the question. “You… don’t know? They’re dead–”

A thud sounds upstairs, and your heart stops within your chest. 

“I– I’m sorry,” You stammer, the doll clutched within your grasp. “The place is being renovated. Squirrels in the attic, I think.” The detective hums, scribbling into that godforsaken notepad weighing your guilt. 

“And the Heelshires, you said they’ve since passed on? What about your…” His eyes drop to the doll once more. “- contract? I’m sure it must have ended by now.” 

You fumble slightly as you relay your precarious position with employment under the Heelshires, explaining the partnership with Malcolm, the weekly checks, your role as a nanny to the doll. “... I’m not really supposed to ask questions.” You finish as he runs his fingers across the backing of the loveseat.

“You’re positive?” He asks, voice almost too casual as he glances around the room. “Big house… this place is a bit of a legend. A lot of people say it’s haunted.” You force out a laugh. “Old houses always are.”

“I guess so.” His tone is softer now, more calculated. “Have you ever heard of the Langley brothers?” You frown, the names unfamiliar on your tongue. “Langley– I don’t think so… should I?”

A thin smile grows on his face, and the badge seems to shimmer as it catches the light. “They’re missing. Three brothers, thieves that are known for squatting in properties along the countryside. They have a pattern of sorts– they show up, something always disappears. Jewelry, cars, clothes, sometimes even people.”

Your stomach churns at the words. 

“Funny thing is, a truck that was reported stolen was found a few miles from here. They were also spotted on a trail cam heading towards the woods past the old hunting trails near this property.” 

The old hunting trails that led near the greenhouse. 

Sweat clings to your hairline, and suddenly the room feels too hot. “I haven’t seen anyone in almost a week. I live here completely alone.”

Detective Bradshaw doesn’t believe you, you can feel it in the way he glances across the room before lingering on you. Pulling a card from his breast pocket, the older male offers it to you, an unreadable expression burrowing in his eyes. 

“If you think of anything, don’t hesitate to reach out to make an official statement to the station.” You nod slightly and take the card, balancing the doll on your hip as you guide the detective to the front door. Pausing mid step on his way out, he glances over your form once more, and you suddenly feel very conscious of the rings of purple around your neck. 

“Be safe ma’am. It’s not good to be this far out in the countryside alone.” The words echo in your head as he ducks back into the afternoon sunlight, leaving the door to swing shut with a haunting click. You can only stare through the frosted glass as his silhouette fades, paper card clutched in your hand so tightly it crumples from the force. 

He knows– he knows everything. 

White-hot embers of rage bubble in your stomach as you fight the urge to scream. Tearing away from the door, you haphazardly lob the doll across the room as tears blur your vision. The doll hits a chaise lounge and slumps across the throw pillows, porcelain eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, legs sprawling in a heap. 

Your knees wobble as panic roots deep in your skull. There was no telling when the detective would be back, and even worse– with a warrant. Would he uncover the secrets buried beneath the greenhouse, within the walls?

Oh god, you felt like you were going to puke. 

The wall panel creaks open to your left, hinges groaning as Brahms steps into the hallway– mask adorned, fire poker in his fist. Brahms’ gaze flickers to the abandoned doll before taking a slow step forward, poker left unattended by the panel. 

“(Y/n)?” 

The sound is low, cautious as he stares at your panicked state, surveying the damage of his actions. You twist towards him, eyes bloodshot and hair wild as you jut the card in his direction. Brahms stills at the look in your eye, one full of wrath and fury long since uprooted from beneath the surface. 

“You killed them.” You seethe, voice building as you spiral from reason, the sound broken and raw. “You ripped them apart like they were nothing, like it didn’t matter! And I…” Your jaw trembles, words caught in your throat as you choke back a sob. “-I just… stood there. Like a fucking coward.” 

Brahms flinches at the tone, shoulders heaving ever so slightly as he tries to defend himself. “They were going to hurt you. I did what I had to do, can’t you see that?” You stare at the mask covering his features, hiding the monster beneath– and a part of you breaks. 

How could you have been so stupid? 

“Don’t fucking lie.” The words drip with venom. “You enjoyed it. You didn’t have to bury them like that, covered in flowers as if it were a deranged gift.” He moves closer, too close for comfort as you scramble backwards, knees all but giving out as you crumple into a heap on the hardwood floor in front of the chaise lounge.

Always stalking over to you, always taking what he wants and leaving nothing in return. He truly was a monster– and you were stupid enough to believe he was more than that, better than that. Yet here you were, heart scattered along the floorboards as you barely hold together your sanity. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He crouches down in front of you, form towering over you as a strained plea whispers beneath the mask. “I… I didn’t know what else to do,” The gravelly sound you were so used to turns faint, voice choking on the words. “-I didn’t know how else to fix it.”

“You made me into a monster.” You sob, jabbing a fist into his chest. Brahms remains still, a wall of flesh as you hammer your hands against him again, and again, and again. Unmoving as you tire from the onslaught, unhurt from the assault. A silent tear drips from your cheek onto the hardwood floor. “I lied to the police for you– that makes me just as fucked up.”

Brahms stiffens, cold fingertips gripping the underside of your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “No. I made sure they never could hurt you again.” His voice is steady now, muffled ever so slightly under the mask. “-it’s not the same.”

The card limply flutters to the floor, the detective’s phone number glaring at you like a death sentence. “You don’t get it, he’s going to come back. He’s going to find them and he will take me away, I’ll rot in a cell for the rest of my life or worse.” Your hands tighten into fists, knuckles white as you force out the words. “And you? You’ll be here, in these damn walls pretending that nothing even happened.”

The fingers on your jaw tremble. “I don’t care if they come for me. But not you– never you.” You don’t fight as he gathers you into his arms, lacking the energy to do anything but melt into his skin as you let the tears fall. Cocooned in the fabric of his cardigan, the waves of anger begin to subside with the shaky breaths rocking Brahms’ chest. 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, fingers tangled in your hair. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought– if I lost you…” You try to brush off the shudder that slithers down your spine at the confession, choosing to take comfort in the warmth radiating from Brahms’ skin.

“You…” The words falter on your tongue. You pause before trying again, nails sinking into the palms of your hands. “You can’t do that again. I need you to promise me you won’t.”

A beat of silence. Then: “If anyone else touches you…” he whispers, “I will.”

Your heart siezes at his response, but you refuse to move away– the line between horror and comfort too blurred to navigate. Your tears begin to slow, the initial panic stabbing in your chest turning into a dull throb. 

You pull backwards, trembling fingers catching the edge of his porcelain mask, feeling the scruff of his jaw. “Why are you like this?” you mumble, voice softer now– curious. “Who… made you end up like this?”

Brahms doesn’t answer at first, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you to where you could even hear the lingering chime of the grandfather clock in the next room. Finally, Brahms exhales, not a sigh but a release– as if about to tear out a piece of himself and hand it to you like an offering. You shift against the hardwood flooring, chin resting on his shoulder as he begins to speak. 

“My parents would throw dinner parties here in the manor–” He starts, voice faraway, hushed. “Dozens of guests would come to dine with them for hours, the men in suits and women dressed in pearls. That was where I met Emily.” 

You glance upwards, trying to read the expression hidden behind the mask. “Emily?”

Brahms only nods. “Another child in the area, a few years younger than I was. We were inseparable, almost to the point where our parents thought we were destined to be.” A coarse chuckle rumbles against your back, and you realize the sound is full of regret. 

“No matter how often we played, how much time we spent together– it was never enough. I started hearing voices… telling me terrible things.” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “-Things to do to her.” You still, blood turning to ice at the confession.

“One night in the attic, we were fighting over a toy. She was there one moment and then…” A sigh. “-Then she was gone. I was too rough with her, and her head… there was so much blood.” Your brows furrow at the story, the very legend you had heard countless times being dissected in front of you. 

“I panicked, trying to wake her up, screaming for help. I knocked over a candelabra in the chaos and…” You nod slightly, urging him to continue. “My parents never told anyone the truth, telling the world I died. I started sleeping in the walls when I was eight,” He says, voice cracking ever so slightly from an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “-because if I was a ghost, at least I wouldn’t be ugly anymore.”

You swallow the knot building in your throat, heart shattering at the story. He was never born a monster, simply one forged from the environment he was thrust into. 

“I tried to be good, within the walls.” He pleads. “-tried to be quiet. But the walls are so thin, I could hear everything they said about me.” He finally glances at you, and your breath catches in your throat at the molten gaze. Tears fester along the corners of his eyes, dampening thick eyelashes as he blinks them away. 

“They said I was a monster. That I was a broken disappointment, and there was something wrong with me.” His voice shakes, fingers trailing from your scalp to your shoulders, tugging you closer into his embrace. “They kept me in the walls like I was some secret sin, let the world grieve me as they replaced me with a doll. “ “I spent twenty years in the walls, watching as my parents tried to fill the space I left behind with their frequent hires. Tutors, nannies, maids– no one stayed. Not when they found out the truth,” He pauses. “-By then, I couldn’t let them leave.” His gaze flickers towards you, and your heart all but stops within your chest. 

“Then you came. You were kind, talking to me– listening. Even when you didn’t realize I was there all along.” Your breath catches, fingers frozen against the cool porcelain of his mask. “Brahms…” He flinches at the sound of his name as if it burns. 

“I never wanted to scare you,” he confesses. “I just… wanted to be seen. When they came, I couldn’t let them take you away.” Your chest almost cracks open as you hear the pain in his voice, the raw emotion barely kept under the surface. 

It sounds like a child’s voice, a little boy lost in a house that never truly loved him. 

Your fingers peel the mask away from his skin, and he doesn’t stop you. You don’t cringe as his scars come into view, never shudder at the mottled burns as your fingertips brush the raised flesh. All you do is set the mask on the floor before cupping his cheeks with your hands. 

“You were just a boy, Brahms.” you whisper, forehead pressing against his own as he struggles to gulp in a breath. “And now?” He shudders, voice hoarse as he all but sinks into your touch. “-what am I now?” You draw back at the question, staring at the very man who both ruined you entirely and brought you to salvation. 

“You’re mine.” 

Brahms breaks, arms molding you to his chest as his mouth slams onto yours. Open mouthed, sloppy kisses that are far from desperate but thankful dot along the column of your neck, and you squeal from the onslaught of teeth and tongue. Coarse hands tremble against your waist as if you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, fingers digging into your flesh. 

You don’t stop him, instead melting into his touch– pushing upwards to straddle his waist, skirt bunching uncomfortably between your thighs. You kiss him as if he isn’t broken, as if you’re not, as if this wasn’t the most terrifying moment of your life but instead the most real. Tangling your fingers in those irresistible chocolate curls, you press your lips against his, a simple plea whispered between you: “Show me who you are.” 

He does. 

Abruptly standing, your legs instantly hook around Brahms’ waist to keep you from toppling over, nails digging into his broad shoulders as your back roughly hits the flowered wallpaper of the hallway. Your spine groans as it chafes against the drywall, but the strain becomes quickly forgotten as Brahms latches onto the junction between your neck and collarbone, teeth scraping against the skin. 

Greedy, impatient hands paw at the fat of your ass, bunching the material of your skirt around your hips as your breath is torn from your lungs. Nose brushing against yours, Brahms swallows your whimpers– frantic, sloppy kisses fusing your very souls together. Heavy pants waft between you as you struggle to catch your breath, lips swollen and skin flushed. The doll stares silently from your peripheral, but you don’t pay it any mind. 

It wouldn’t be the first time it watched you fall from grace. 

A hand wedges between your thighs, dipping beneath the fabric of your panties and laying flat against your bare pussy. You all but whine as the palm of his hand brushes against your clit, the tips of his fingers splitting you open to gather the wetness you pooled just for him. Shifting uncomfortably against his hold, the heel of his palm grinds against you, index finger dipping within your slit. It’s almost pathetic how quickly your thighs spasm around his grasp– a gut churning squelch escaping as his finger sinks knuckle deep. 

The back of your head knocks against the drywall as you pull away for breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips while you shudder under his touch. A second finger slips within your fluttering pussy, and you clench around the stretch– patience long worn thin from the recent interruption. Brahms huffs, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he ruts his hips into your ass, fingers slick with your wetness. 

Your eyelids grow heavy, skin so hot it feels as if you are melting– but the throb between your legs only screams for release. Nails digging so deep into his cardigan you were certain you were breaking through to his skin, your hips grind down against his hand as his fingers scissor within you– scraping against your gummy walls in a way so sinful your eyes roll. 

“Brahms, please.”

It’s pitiful, begging for him like this– shameful, really. But all sense of reason washes away with the rhythmic push of his fingers as they delve into you so roughly you can hear the lewd squelch between your thighs. Brahms buries his head into the crook of your neck, nipping at the flesh as his fingers abruptly tear away from your pussy. 

You whine, clenching around nothing, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you fight the urge to scream. Pushing you further into the drywall, a hand cups your ass– nails digging into your flesh as the other pulls his cock from his pants. Wetness drips down your chin, and you realize you were drooling as his velvety tip catches against you. 

A gargled plea tears from your throat as his thumb brushes your lip, and your mouth parts obediently. Fingers dipping inside to gather your spit, Brahms withdraws, only to smear his cock in your saliva. Your heart lurches at the sight.

“I don’t know how to be anything, anyone else but yours.”

You aren’t able to digest the words before he plunges into you, filling you so suddenly your bones all but groan from the friction. You gasp at the stretch, skin burning as you sink onto his cock. Nails dig into the fat of your hips, skirt tangled between his fingers as he thrusts upwards– lifting your body as if you weigh nothing.

A squeak tears from your throat as he bounces you against him, the back of your head scraping against the drywall as he molds your hips to his in a brutal pace– using you like a fucktoy. 

Your chest heaves as his cock drills into you, guts churning from the force as you hang limply against his chest, legs hooked around his waist like a lifeline. The short, staccato sound of your moans echo across the hallway, turning into whines as his teeth sink into the bruised flesh of your neck. 

God, you feel so full– warm and stuffed to the brim so all you can think about is him. With the brutal pace all put tearing you from reality, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Tears blur your vision as he shifts, lowering you ever so slightly– forcing you to arch against the wall and further into him, making every inch, every vein all the more prominent. The shift in position has your head reeling from it all, sweat dripping down the column of your neck before it is greedily licked away. 

Your walls ache around him as his tip juts against your cervix, shooting a mixture of pain and pleasure through you so abruptly your nails dig against his cardigan, no doubt leaving trails of red across his skin. A piece of you begs for reprieve, for a break, but the sinful roll of his hips make any pleas die on your tongue– leaving nothing but huffed breaths.

The back of your head throbs against the drywall, skin flushed and tender with every thrust, every movement. Hanging forward, your temple lolls against his– damp curls molding against you as Brahms all but shudders from the action. Groaning, an arm wires around your waist, securing you against the wall as his other fist buries itself within your hair.

Needles of pain spike against your skull as your head is forced back, eyes meeting the fire within his own. It’s all too much, the hammering of his cock against your walls, the grinding of his navel against your clit, the pleasure burning you alive. Your eyelids flutter, gaze watery as the imprint of his cock feels like he is bending you against your will. 

And maybe in a sense, he is– but as much as you should be concerned, you aren’t. 

What does that say about you?

You catch sight of a pile in your peripheral, straining ever so slightly against the ironclad grip in your hair to focus on it. The doll’s glass eyes burn into you, body lopsided against the chaise lounge– watching you silently, hauntingly. It was eerily familiar to a look you saw just nights ago, once full of emotion now empty, once so lively now buried beneath the greenhouse. 

The sight should have been startling, should have been disgusting. Instead, it only feeds the fire– knowing the very person who sends others to their graves with no remorse holds you like you are made of glass. The man you once considered to be a monster, now your salvation. A cruel twist of fate that has you fluttering around the very one destroying you from within. 

You burst without warning, white-hot pleasure searing your skin as a broken wail tears from your throat. Head dropping forward, the pain within your scalp doesn’t even register as you deadweight against his hold. Thighs twitching from the overstimulation driving into you, his hips all but stick to your own from the aftermath of your orgasm. 

Brahms falters against you, heated breaths threatening to swallow you whole as his nails dig half-cresents into the fat of your ass. He delves forward, once, twice before he peaks– pushing so far within you it feels as if you could tear in two. Skin molded against his, you weakly clench around him as he cums– heavy, thick ropes filling you to the brim. 

He pauses there, trying to slow his racing heartbeat as his fingers untangle from your matted hair. Head lolling back into the drywall, you struggle to steady your breathing. Fingers gently moving a particularly bothersome curl away from his forehead, a ghost of a laugh builds in your throat.

Your chest heaves with the aftermath of it all– guilt, grief, peace, and exhaustion mixing into a dangerous concoction within your stomach. Brahms shudders slightly, arm still looped around your waist, the other bracing you against the wall as his breath fans across your collarbone. Unruly curls tickle your temple as he shifts, pulling you back down onto the floor– causing a whine to escape ever so slightly from the emptiness in your core. 

 Your skirt hangs low on your hips, thighs clenching around nothing as his cum seeps into your ruined panties. Taking a step forward, you stumble slightly like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time, cheeks burning from embarrassment as your fingers grapple onto the fabric of his cardigan. Brahms’ hands quickly steady you, a quiet chuckle echoing across the hallway as you swat him away. Trying to smooth the rumpled material of your skirt and regain a sense of composure, you glance upwards. 

That damn gaze of chocolate and coffee catches you off guard– full of endearment and affection, a sight that pulls at your heartstrings. Your feet fumble slightly, lost in the warmth ghosting over your skin with something akin to love. 

“I…” Voice wobbling, you tear your gaze away– cheeks heated. “I’ll make us some tea.” You whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to do: something simple, something normal. Brahms hums slightly, a soft sound– as if you leaving to turn on the kettle is the kindest gesture in the world. He steps backwards as you turn the corner, and you fight the burn screaming from your joints with every step. 

Padding into the kitchen, the stovetop flickers to life– the subtle click click click of the gas burner gnawing at your patience as you fill the kettle. Leaving the water to boil, you flutter around the kitchen, grabbing the necessary materials for a proper tea session. Two teacups, two saucers, cream and sugar, a small plate of lemon-curd cookies baked the night before.

The kettle whistles, and as you haul the glassware from the stovetop, you see it. 

Something thin and pale sticking out from underneath the door– the back door. Confusion washes over you as you approach it, bare toes curling against the cool tile. Crouching ever so slightly, your hand grips the kettle like a lifeline as you pluck the paper from the floor. 

It’s a handwritten note– sharp inkstrokes hurriedly scrawled across the brittle paper like a ransom letter from an old crime film. Adorning the almost blank sheet of paper is five words, written front and center in a way that makes your heart drop to your stomach. 

I know what you did.

You don’t scream, don’t cry, but you do drop the kettle– the crash echoing across the manor like a warning shot, metal clanging against tile, water sloshing like blood. Brahms is in the kitchen within seconds, wild-eyed as his gaze hones in on your frozen form, note still clutched in your fist. 

“What happened?” Voice low, alarmed– hands hovering over you as if unsure to touch you or not. You don’t answer, words catching in your throat as you jut the paper towards him, hands bracing against the countertop to keep you from falling. 

Reading the note silently, Brahms’ jaw tenses at the accusation. Silently, he folds the slip of paper– creasing it like a prayer he doesn’t want you to keep. Sidestepping you, Brahms turns to throw the slip of paper onto the gas stovetop, but you catch his wrist to halt him in place. 

“Wait.” Your voice barely registers over the rush of blood in your ears. You think back to the detective in the foyer, the precise words he has chosen when speaking to you. There’s something off, something itching at your memory as you replay the events. 

“Have you ever heard of the Langley brothers?”

There was that strange way he said it– eyes flickering around the house, the doll, to you. 

“They have a pattern of sorts– they show up, something always disappears. Jewelry, cars, clothes, sometimes even people.”

Your blood runs cold. “There weren’t two of them,” you murmur aloud, terror coursing through your veins. “Bradshaw never said there were two.” Brahms blinks as you step backwards, realization curdling in your stomach like rotten milk. “The Langley brothers were known for working in threes.”

Silence, then a soft creak clattering through the manor. You both go still, spines straightening as you strain your hearing for sound. The note drops from Brahms’ hand to the floor, forgotten. You swallow thickly, hyper aware of the stillness around you, the heavy silence seeming to swallow you whole. 

And worst of all, you suddenly get the sinking feeling that you aren’t alone.

[part five]

[ghostiesnightmare]

hello friend i just wanna say that i love your writes so much as you imagine it and can we have the part two of albert shaw one shot graded on curve because this one shot soooooooo pretty

The Shaw fans are rising from the grave and I'm HERE for it... once The Rules We Hide is posted should I start a continuation of Graded On A Curve summer school edition? My mind is already whirling with possibilities-- I love that deranged man. Stay tuned!

[ghostiesnightmare]

Update.

Hello darlings, I initially was not going to post this and give people the satisfaction, but it has been weighing on my mind. I know you are probably hoping this is an update, but hopefully after this post you will understand why it has taken so long to write.

I can't believe I have to say this, but I do not deserve death threats due to my updates taking longer than usual-- period end of story.

I am a human being before I am an author. I am a senior in college balancing a full time job in the corporate world, summer classes, severe health issues, and navigating a new location of the country I have never been in before.

I am completely on my own.

I have feelings and emotions and a life outside of writing (which I do for free when I have the time and for my own enjoyment). Waking up to messages telling me to end my life and threats to doxx me or worse do not make me want to write or update my posts at all.

Over the past two weeks, I have received over ten separate messages full of threats on my life and other hate. I know that being an author and putting my work out into the world would have drawback, but I never expected my life to be threatened over something as silly as fictional characters.

Funny thing is, The Rules We Hide is almost ready for publication-- yet I find myself struggling to finish it due to having to interact with my profile and see the consistent messages.

So please, just a reminder-- be kind. You never know what someone is going through outside of what they post. And to all of my darlings supporting my work and waiting patiently for an update, you have a special place in my heart.

The Rules We Hide will be posted shortly.

[ghostiesnightmare]

Omg I just read part 3 of your Brahms story, we need the fourth part 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼 it's written so well omg

Thank you for the kind words, anon! Here is a little section of the current chapter-- a teaser if you will. I promise to update soon, my schedule has been extremely hectic but the chapter is coming along! Enjoy ;)

----

“I dreamt about it again,” you murmur as Brahms pauses. “-of the greenhouse.” 

The teacup halts middair, dark eyes with an unreadable expression burning into you. The nightmares weren’t a surprise, always coming in the form of strained sobs in the dark. His arms always winding around your torso as you cry into the sheets, trying to soothe the aching memories from your skull– but to no avail. 

Silence stretches between you, and suddenly you regret speaking at all. A weighted sigh, a shift as the teacup rattles against the saucer while being set down as Brahms approaches. Fingers brushing your cheekbone, you fight the flinch building from the sting– bruise still tender. 

“I just…” you swallow thickly, trying to formulate the words. “I think there’s something out there.” Somewhere hidden across the solitude of the manor, you could almost swear something was amiss. But Brahms only tucks a fallen strand of hair behind your ear, brows furrowed at your paranoia. 

“It’s over. There’s no one out there.” Voice low, steady– as if he wants the words to be comforting. As if this could all be brushed under the rug, another secret buried within the walls of the manor. 

But you know better, something cold shivering down your spine as you tear your gaze away. 

Fingers curling under your jaw, heated breath fans across your face as Brahms sighs. Something akin to worry swims in his coffee orbs, touch anything but forceful– almost reverent while he traces your bruised skin as if you were made of glass. 

A silent plea embedded in the pads of his fingers– Look at me, trust me. Stay with me. 

You try to ignore the dirt caked underneath his fingernails, try to dismiss the smell of iron that creeps into your nostrils when you inhale, try to push away the unease churning in your throat– but no amount of scrubbing would wash the memories away. 

The hand wrapped around your throat. Blood seeping into your eyes as you clawed against your captors. Screams echoing across the glass so forcefully it rattled your bones. 

“I want to show you something.”

[ghostiesnightmare]

just wanted to drop by and say that The Rules We Mend was so great to read 💗i’m not really good with words and can’t express how much i’ve enjoyed reading your work but i appreciate you doing this and hope to see more in the future 🥹 and can’t wait for part 👀 xoxo

Ahhh anon this is so kind… everyone’s support has been a huge driver for this blog. I can’t believe my fics have been so loved after only starting a few months ago. It truly means the world hearing from everyone and getting opinions and inspiration! Thank you for your support, I promise the next few chapters with Brahms will be a whirlwind of emotions ;)

[ghostiesnightmare]

The House of Rules

Some houses are built on stone, others on secrets.

When you accept a nanny position in the English countryside, you expected silence, dust, and a paycheck. Instead, you find yourself trapped in a twisted nightmare brimming with lies, deception, and cruelty. Bound by rules you don't understand, the walls of the manor begin to close in– cracked with grief, obsession, and something far more dangerous than loneliness.

As the line between captor and protector blurs, you find yourself entranced by the very thing you swore to escape: Brahms Heelshire. There are consequences to your actions, you know that now. Blood on the stairs, secrets in the greenhouse, something festering beneath the floorboards.

Still, you stay. Because what can you do when the man who destroyed you is also the only one who has ever saved you?

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Chapters:

The Rules We Keep - While working in the Heelshire manor, you were given one warning: follow the rules. As near-supernatural events rock you to your core, the rules seem to hold you in a vice-like grip. As paranoia takes hold, a chilling discovery marks the start of a deadly game. The rules were meant to keep you safe; but what if following them was the most dangerous thing of all? (9.6K words)

The Rules We Break - Trapped within the walls of the Heelshire Manor, you thought that the rules kept you safe. But secrets don't stay buried, and Brahms has found yours. Now there are no more lies, no escape, and no pretending– only a reality where desire is control, and submission is the only way to survive. (8.1K words)

The Rules We Mend - After the punishment comes silence, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your mind. But when violence breeches the walls of the Heelshire manor it's your captor who saves you, carrying you home in bloodstained arms. In the quiet aftermath, soaked in steam and shadows, something unspoken begins to bloom– and the rules between you start to bend. (8.2K words)

The Rules We Hide - Guilt and grief fester beneath the surface as you begin to unravel, haunted by the truth of what you have become. The weight of your sins threaten to crush you, even as Brahms soothes the fear with both obsession and tenderness. But safety is a fool's tale you whisper in the night, because in the Heelshire Manor, not everything that lurks in the dark is buried. (9.0K words)

The Rules We Burn - The Heelshire manor turns against you as your paranoia shifts into violence, culminating in a brutal home invasion threatening to rip away everything you think you hold dear. Trapped between survival and devotion, you face a harrowing ultimatum: do you choose fire and ruin, or pray for salvation? Once the mask begins to crack, it is you and you alone who makes the choice. (9.3K words)

[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Mend

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: After the punishment comes silence, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of your mind. But when violence breeches the walls of the Heelshire manor it's your captor who saves you, carrying you home in bloodstained arms. In the quiet aftermath, soaked in steam and shadows, something unspoken begins to bloom– and the rules between you start to bend. TW: DARK content read at your own risk. , breaking and entering, trauma bonds, unprotected sex, stalking, foul language, implied assault, power imbalance, excessive descriptions of violence, murder, torture, nudity, blood, handjobs, sloppy kisses, dare I say fluff?, and more. Word Count: 8,246 MDNI-NSFW A/N: Took this ask and RAN with it... eat up. [part one] [part two]

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The early morning doesn’t seem real.

Soreness clings to your flesh like a second skin, every breath, every stretch of your limbs reminding you of last night– of him. Dried sweat coats you like a wet blanket, the sheets tangled around your thighs reeking of sweet and sex and sin. 

The attic, in its gloom and darkness carries a much deeper secret– something darker that you could not quite place, almost possessive in the way it held your heart in a chokehold. Dust particles float in the haze of the rising sun, casting a faint kaleidoscope of shadows along the walls. Undisturbed by years of wear and tear, the abandoned passageway entrance glares at you from the far wall– eager to swallow you whole. 

The image sends a shiver down your spine. 

Shifting slightly, the metallic bed frame groans beneath your weight. You freeze in place, waiting for the beast pressed against your back to stir. A moment, two– nothing. Daring to glance behind your shoulder, your wrists throb, skin raw and irritated from the wire bindings forced upon them hours ago. 

A mess of curly brown meets your gaze, locks ruffled as the cool porcelain of the mask presses uncomfortably against the swell of your shoulders. Slow, heated breaths fan over your naked skin– the occasional snore breaking through the silence as you are practically nuzzled. 

It was strange, seeing him like this. So calm, so vulnerable as he peacefully slept beside you, not a care in the world– arm strung lazily over your waist, fingers ever so slightly digging into your flesh. The scene tranquil, as if it were any other morning instead of the result of another punishment.

The tears had refused to come last night, the ones of self-pity and hatred only sprouting in the aftermath when you knew you were the only one to witness them. Now, all that remained were the broken pieces of your sanity for you to put back in place. 

Even when Brahms had whispered broken promises like twisted wedding vows against your bruised skin, you fought the shame, the guilt of it all. But in the wee hours of dawn, the early kiss of the sun only taints your skin further with the devilish acts of the night. 

Brahms shifts slightly, curls raking across your flesh– a gurgled groan slipping. Spine straightening, you pause, not wanting to disturb the peace you were so desperate to keep. Something wet smears your back, and you realize he was drooling. 

Gross. 

Cringing away from the sensation, you peel the sheets away from your skin. Punishment or not, the Heelshire manor always required your undivided attention. Lifting the massive arm draped over you, your eyes linger a beat too long at the wiry muscle staring back at you. 

You couldn’t shake the way he held you after your punishment– gentle, borderline worshiping you as he brought your betrayal to the surface. Brutal strength you knew you held no match against, yet once you had been properly disciplined the touch was undeniably tender. Your thumb presses against the vein in his wrist, the slow pulsing of his heartbeat almost lulling you back into his arms. 

The same arms that dragged you into the tunnels with such viscous strength you felt as if your heart would beat out of your chest. 

You swallow, shaking the memory from your mind. There was no point in dwelling on the past, you had much more pressing matters to attend to. Easing out from beneath Brahms’ grasp, you push yourself up from the mattress– wobbly legs planting against the rotting wood of the attic’s floor. 

Brahms groans, rolling over in your absence. A pause, then another grumble of a snore tearing through the air. The broad expanse of his shoulders shift, muscle rippling before disappearing underneath the tattered blanket. Your jaw clenches. 

Stumbling across the rotting floor, you didn’t know what about last night unsettled you more, the punishment or the affection that had followed. You didn’t want to find out. 

The silence of the manor, of the tunnels, seem louder as you dressed– the scratchy fabric of that godforsaken apron cutting into your skin like a testament to your own undoing. Clinging to the bruises dotting your hips and sternum, you shuffle uncomfortably, trying to make the treacherous clothing yours once more. 

It seems that the Heelshire manor laid claim to your very soul.

Tying the apron around your waist, you could still feel the heated breath against your ear, voice a cruel melody playing in your mind like a broken record: “I love the way you hate me– it means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.” 

Worst of all, you knew he was right– every touch, every word seeping into your soul like a reckoning leaving you to pick up the pieces and pray that you were wrong. And God, you pray you were wrong. 

Trying to ready yourself for the endless expanse of daily chores, that very idea made your stomach curdle like sour milk: not the tears, not the violence, but the undeniable heat that pooled in your being at the thought of his touch in those late hours– and how you let him.

You spare one last glance at Brahms’ sleeping form as you tug on your shoes, a heavy sigh tearing from your throat as you glance at the passageway. It would take sheer luck for you to successfully navigate the sprawling expanse of tunnels to the kitchen, but it was better than risking the wrath that would follow if you woke him. 

At this point, you have nothing to lose. 

__

The morning tasks went by in a foggy haze, mind reeling from the lack of sleep. Yet, you persevere through the tiredness weighing you down like a bowling ball strapped to your chest. Afterall, that was all you could do– deep breaths, one foot in front of the other, ignore everything else. 

That was the rule if you hope to avoid another punishment. Afterall, perfection was never encouraged, it was expected. 

So perfection was the goal– the tea brewed with careful dedication, breakfast made with culinary expertise, foyer wiped clean of all former sins to utmost excellence– as if you were ashamed of the actions that had taken place in the past. Porcelain china was cleaned until shining, silver polished until shimmering, yet shaky hands folded the linen napkins with apprehensive devotion. 

Devotion– such a silly word these days, yet you find yourself living the very being of a lifelong disciple. Pathetic. 

Every task seems to take twice as long as it should have, something you would have been scolded from in the past, yet the harsh words never came– the master of the house sleeping soundly as you work silently in the early hours. 

It was as if your body no longer belonged to you, chores forgotten as the grandfather clock chimes towards the afternoon– dish towels muddled, feet tripping over each other while stumbling across the hardwood floors. All you could focus on were those sinful touches that lingered into your every waking breath. 

Passing by the foyer mirror while dusting, you barely recognise yourself– something much smaller, more raw than you remember. Shoulder slouching, finger trembling, eyes sunken in. As if you were a shell of your defiant state. 

Just like he likes it. 

Forcing those less than professional thoughts from your mind, you try to find comfort in the small actions throughout the day. The heat of the sun pouring through the stained glass windows, the smell of parchment paper in the pantry, the clatter of the china as you organize the kitchen cupboards– things that usually calm your racing heartbeat failing when nothing compares to the thoughts swirling in your head. 

The groan of the metallic bed frame as it scraped against the floorboards. The sting of the wire as it bit into your skin. The fire in your stomach as your sins were swallowed whole.

Stop it. 

The cool press of the porcelain against your heated skin. The burn of your skin as he slapped you over, and over again. The damning scream that tore through your throat as you came. 

“Stop.” Fingers digging into your temples, the muddled dishrag falls into the kitchen sink as shaky breaths tear through your sternum. Nails scratching against the skin of your scalp, you beg to be anywhere else. 

Not in this room, not in this house– anywhere as long as it was far away from him. 

Poor thing, what happened to that pesky backbone of yours, hm?

Glass shatters, the echo ringing through your ears like a gunshot as the broken china plate lay in ruins at your feet. Stumbling backwards, panic grips your heart in a vice-like grip, tears dotting your vision as you struggle to slow your ragged breathing. 

The sting in your fingertips doesn’t even register until it drips onto the hardwood floor, coating the surface in an all too familiar shade of crimson. Dropping to your knees, shards needle into your skin as trembling hands scrub away the mess– the sin. 

But it was too late. 

His voice was in your head, in the walls, in the house, everywhere all at once as it rings in your skull, words reducing you to a whimpering shell of who you once were. 

There’s nothing left that’s yours. 

Your stubborn defiance, so rooted in your hatred, was now reduced to a sniveling whisper that haunted the manor. That was the worst part of it all, he didn’t have to chain you– barricade you within the house, tear away your defences, or threaten you. 

No, that would have been too easy. 

He had taken your freedom piece by piece, chipping away at your defences with such quiet devotion one could have almost called the act loving– and you had let him. 

A muffled sob slips past your lips, hand pressed against your mouth like a scolded child as you try to will away the sound. Chest heaving, silent tears drip onto your palm, and when you pull away your hand all you could see was red. 

God, you couldn’t breathe– you need air. 

Limbs moving without thinking, trembling hands yank the gardening gloves hanging from the pantry door, feet slipping on the discarded glass shards. The thin material, worn from use, cling to your sweaty palms as you slip them on, rubber scraping against the slices in your fingers. 

The door slams against the wall, rattling the kitchenware as you dart into the chilly air, seeking the only place of sanctuary you could think of before you were pulled back. 

The greenhouse.

The one place Brahms never went– the only place in this forsaken world that still belongs to you. The only place keeping you sane. 

The wind whips your hair across your forehead, all too similar to a slap in the late afternoon. Grey clouds, dark and foreboding, block out any sunlight as you scurry to the ancient structure, arms folding against your chest. Sparing one last glance at the manor as the greenhouse comes into view, you try to push away the feeling of him staring at you from the attic. 

You hadn’t checked the tunnels, refused to clean up your mess, didn’t notice if he heard you flee the grounds. You didn’t care. 

If you spent one more second in that haunted house, you'd scream, and there was no telling what punishment would await you after that. 

Looming over you like a forgotten chapel, overgrown vines wrap around the dirty glass, dripping in secrecy and silence and privacy– the answer to your prayers. The ironwright bars scream as you pry the door open, darting inside as the wind howls against the glass. Slamming the door closed, the heavens burst, rain battering the ceiling and casting a kaleidoscope of shadows across the dimly lit room. 

For just a moment, just one breathless second, you felt that maybe, possibly you could find peace within the sprawling plants. But peace never lasts on the Heelshire grounds, and the monsters always come crawling back home. 

Whether that meant him or you, there is no telling. 

Exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in, the greenhouse seems to come to life as you walk across the cobblestone flooring. The air, damp with humidity, wafts heavily with the scent of dirt and earth with undertones of lavender. Almost unnaturally warm, mist swirls along the aisles of potted plants, herbs, and flowers. Sweat pools in your gloves, softening the long forgotten sting of the slices on your fingertips.

Not even bothering to remove them, you gingerly reach for a fern, the stems twirling around your arm as your hand plunges into the moist soil. Oxtongue tickles your wrists as you walk, leaves and stems bending under your touch. Lightning flashes across the sky, painting the greenhouse in a ghostly glow of white before disappearing into gloom once more. 

There were no calculated footsteps behind you. No harsh words, no empty threats, no heated breaths wafting over the nape of your neck– just you. 

Clutching a pair of rusted clippers, the smell of tea leaves and mint invade your nostrils, calming any bubbling nerves that remain. Plucking a few strands of lavender from the soil, you become lost in the tranquility of fog and dirt and moss. Every breath tastes like earth and tea tree, not the sour tang of mildew and mold.

You feel the cleanest you had in weeks, even with sweat dripping down the expanse of your neck and dipping into the frayed collar of your shirt. The buzz of anxiety shifts into something quiet, something much calmer as you work, hands kneading the soil and discarding stray weeds from the greenery. 

Stepping towards the middle of the greenhouse where the tea leaves grow, the waxy edges of the foliage glimmering in the light– dancing under the shimmer of rain overhead. A smile, small, thin, but a smile cracks through your dry lips, the first in weeks. 

Kneeling, you pinch a strand between your gloved fingers, clipping a few before pressing them into an apron pocket. Almost lovingly, you trace the shape of the winding stems, relishing in the fragility poised between your fingers. 

“Hello, little thing.” you coo, humming as the plant almost seemed to wrap itself around you. So pure, something untouched by the violence and hostility in the manor, yet so delicate that its life was held in the palm of your hand. 

Here, hidden away from the overgrowth, time passed differently. Slower, kinder. The routine came easy, the weight in your chest falling away as you collect the waxy leaves in your apron. 

Inhale, snip a few leaves, exhale, press them into the folds of your apron, repeat. 

The storm rages onwards, rain battering against the glass panes, but the sound was white noise among the plants– a blanket against the war around you. Leaning into the sensation, you continue onwards, apron jutting from the collection of greenery tucked within the fabric. 

Brushing a strand of hair from your face, dirt smeared across your skin, your gaze meets the overgrown camellia sinensis adorning the back wall. A bittersweet sigh tears from your chest at the sight, leaves choking beneath the thick, oppressive weeds crowding the soil bed. 

You always have meant to trim them, yet always forgetting when time seemed to be against you– much more focused on Brahms than a pitiful plant. Yet, as you stare at the winding overgrowth trapping the leaves, a pang of empathy stirs in your gut. 

It deserves better. 

Approaching the back wall, another telltale flash of lightning ripples across the sky, and your hand freezes midair. 

The air was still– too still. 

Something was wrong. 

It isn’t a sound, not exactly, but a feeling of dread curling around your stomach as you glance behind your shoulder. This, you know– the telltale sign of goosebumps fluttering across your arms, the hairs of your neck standing straight up as a chill tears through you. 

Like you were being watched through the broken slates in the greenhouse. 

Spine straightening, you almost miss the shadow darting across the threshold of the door as thunder claps across the sky. Snapping your head towards the greenhouse entrance, the garden shears fall to the floor, breath catching in your throat as you expect to find a furious Brahms towering over you–

Nothing. Just vines flapping against the wind. 

Turning back towards your work, you uproot a weed, cursing as the thorns prickle against your wrists as you toss it to the floor. Kneeling to grab the shears for a particularly pesky stem, you pause. 

The garden shears were gone. 

Blood turning to ice, you duck under the raised bed, expecting them to be haphazardly strewn across the cobblestone– but nothing. The air turns sour, something akin to anticipation crackling through your skin as you shakily stand on wobbly legs. Pushing away from the wooden countertop, you stuff the last handful of leaves into your apron before turning to flee. 

Lightning flashes through the sky once more, just a split second, and you finally see it. A figure– wrong, two. 

Tall and broad and creeping across the fogged glass just behind the entrance. Worst of all, there was no porcelain pressing up against the greenhouse, the faint childlike smile peeking through the wall.

Brahms wasn’t there. 

Bile risse in your throat as your heart drops to your stomach, stumbling backwards in an effort to conceal yourself among the shrubbery. Your ankle crashes against a metal watering can, the hollow clang tearing through the silence like a bomb. 

Fuck.

Clamping a hand around your mouth, you drop, knees digging into the cobblestone painfully as you still, pressing into the greenery so hard you felt as if you were returning to the clutches of the earth. 

You have to move, run– but you were trapped inside. 

The metal hinges whine as the door is forced open, the wind howling fated warnings as two figures emerge from the storm. Your mouth dries, air torn from your lungs at the sight. 

It wasn’t Brahms, you were right about that. It wasn’t even close.

Soaked to the bone, covered in black clothing, hunting boots squelching against the stone. Two men adorned in muscle and brawn and eyes so hungry you could feel them from across the room. The shorter of the two enters first, stepping into the reprieve of the storm and tugging off the balaclava, revealing a nasty slash across his face, purple and mottled. Your stomach curdles.

The other, taller– quieter, stretched. A flash of silver catches your eye, a machete hanging from the black cargo pants with eerie stillness. A duffle bag drops to the floor, the sound of metal clattering throughout the air as the men survey the plants as if they were livestock. 

Scarface finds you first, eyes burning into you as you shrink against the cobblestone. 

“Oh, fuck.” A slow, calculated grin spreads across his face– revealing a row of broken, yellowed teeth. “-I thought you said the place wasn’t occupied.” The taller one gruntes, hand resting on the handle of the machete, now glinting under the rain. “...the place looks like a goddamn mausoleum.” 

Fighting the urge to vomit, you muster any courage you could gather, trying to seep venom in your words. “Get out. This is private property–”

“Private property?” The shorter of the two mocks, taking a step closer. The words die on your tongue. “It looks like you’re the only one here, sweetheart. That private enough for you?” The other chuckles, and you swear your heart lurches from your chest. 

They weren’t here to escape the storm. 

They weren’t here to find solace in the plants. 

They weren’t even here to rob the place– at least, not anymore. 

“Pretty little thing, all by yourself.” Scarface speaks again, words dripping with venom, with need. His accomplice nods, “Wonder what else she has hidden in the house…” his eyebrow cocks beneath the mask, and you shrivel at the sight. “I bet she keeps all kinds of things locked away.”

Your hand darts behind you, blindly grappling for something, anything to protect yourself with. Your fingers close around an ancient weeder, the tongs rusted and dull from age and abandon, but they were better than nothing.

“Don’t move, or I swear–”

Your threat goes unheard as Scarface lunges across the table, a startled shriek tearing from your throat as his fingers wrap around your ankle. Blindly kicking upwards, your heel catches his nose, snapping his head backwards. Scrambling to your feet, you hold the weeder in front of your chest as he rises– blood dripping from his nose. 

“You fucking bitch!” He slaps you across the face, hard. White splinters across your vision as your head cracks to the side, ribs cracking against the edge of the soil bed as you fall. Crashing into the cobblestone, the taller one wraps his hand around your hair, pulling you onto your feet. 

Scalp burning, you stomp on his toes, hoping to throw him off guard as tears line your vision. Scarface turns, kicking you in the gut, and you collapse, wheezing as the air is knocked from your lungs. Greedy hands tear at your apron, tea leaves spilling onto the floor as you kick and punch, landing a lucky hit as the weeder digs into Scarface’s forearm. 

He grunts, tearing the weeder from your hands before landing a right hook upside your head. You feel your eyebrow split… was he wearing a ring?... and the world tilts. A hand kneads at your breast through your shirt and you scream– the sound long, primal– rattling the caging of the greenhouse.

It was the kind of scream that cracks glass, the kind that summons ghosts, the kind that reaches into the walls. 

Blood pours from your temple, blinding your right eye as your pulse thunders in your skull. Writhing against your captor’s grip, another jab hits your ribs and the taste of iron fills your mouth. 

The taller one forces your wrists over your head, and you deadweight in the hopes of relieving the pressure burning your wrists– to no avail. Scarface chuckles, spitting blood. “Stop fucking moving and this will be quick, I promise. Or don’t– I don’t give a fuck.” Fingers dig into your jaw and you cry out under the assault. 

The sound of glass shattering halts the attack. Craning your head, you barely catch the blur of movement before it slams into your assailant, jostling you from his hold. Crumpling to the floor, an unearthly growl tears through the room. You freeze, relief flooding your system. 

Boots crunching against the shards of glass, Brahms emerges from the shadows– shoulders heaving, towering form casting a shadow over your crumpled state. Porcelain mask cracked from the force of the blow, Brahms straightens, a rusty poker clutched in his fist.

The very one that was stabbed through your journal the night before. 

They never stood a chance. Bloodlust radiating off his form in waves, the poker connects with the tall male with a sickening crunch– both crashing into the side of the greenhouse with such force the entire greenhouse rattles. Scarface pales, stumbling backwards as you scramble towards the corner of the building, head pounding as the room falls into chaos. 

Fists pound into the bludgeoned man’s face– once, twice, shrieks escaping as he tries to pry Brahms off of him. Something pops, Brahms’ fingers plunging into the male’s eye sockets, and you gag as a shrill scream fills the air. The sound of flesh tearing fills the room as Brahms punches him. 

Over, and over and over again. 

Until the beast of a man was nothing more than a bloody pulp pressed against the glass. Scarface pushes across the room, vaulting the soil bed as he sprints towards the door, trying to run. But Brahms was too angry, too fast, fist colliding with his temple just before he reaches the threshold. 

Grabbing the shears, your missing shears, Brahms plunges them into Scarface’s neck– a choked gurgle escaping as the man coughs on his own blood. Ripping the tool from the flesh, blood sprays across the room, coating the fogged glass in a gut-churning crimson. 

Lungs burning, you cower in the corner, only able to watch as the male twitches against the cobblestone. Brahms towers over him, placing his foot onto his throat before stomping. 

Once, twice until there was only silence in the greenhouse. The rain, the only sound, continues to batter against the glass as Brahms stands– chest heaving as his gaze snaps towards you. The mask, ever still, doesn’t soften as you stare. But his voice, eerily calm, utters just one word. 

Your name. 

Hanging in the air like a prayer on his tongue, a broken testament to his faith. Voice low, straining beneath violence and fury, the world around you splitting as a sob tears from your throat. Adrenaline fleeing your limbs, you collapse. 

Before your head cracks against the cobblestone, strong arms curl beneath your back and knees, hoisting your writhing form away from the bloodstained floor as if you weigh nothing. You curl towards him, burying your face into the damp fabric of his tattered sweater as you breathe his scent in frantic, shaking gulps. 

Dust, firewood, worn books– just the way you like it. 

Tears stream down your cheeks as you shake, fingers digging into his sweater as you sob. The weight of the world felt as if it were lifted off of your shoulders, and for the first time since you arrived in that godforsaken manor, you feel safe. The poker clatters to the floor, completely forgotten as he cradles you to his chest, calloused fingers combing through your matted hair as you weep. 

“I was so scared–” you hiccup, gasping for air as you push closer to his skin for warmth. “-Oh God, I thought they were going to…” The words refuse to come, a broken sob manifesting itself as you shakily wrap your arms around his neck. Muscles convulsing, your teeth chatter against the frigid air.

“You’re hurt.” Brahms murmurs against your hair, thumb dipping into the blood pooling at your eyebrow. You flinch, breath coming out in uneven, ragged huffs. “They… touched you.” Ribs burning, every breath sending a ripple of pain down your spine as you inhale. You didn’t even realize you were whimpering until his finger ghosts over your jaw, tilting your head to look at him. You glance at your hands, fingers clenched around the fabric of his sweater and tainting it in crimson. 

The blood on his sweater wasn’t just yours.

He pulls you in closer, and you jolt, fear coursing through your veins– knuckles turning white as you grip him like a lifeline. He stills at the action, eyes boring into you through the porcelain mask. 

“It’s alright. I’m here,” Forehead pressing against your own, you shudder. “-I’m here. Let me help you.” 

His skin was warm, soft, any semblance of a response dying on your tongue as you bury your face into his chest.

For the first time, it feels like home. 

__

The manor doors slam open as you are ushered inside, water, blood, and dirt trekking through the halls as Brahms carries you up the stairs. You could feel all three clinging to your skin– sticky, cold, and full of sin in a way you knew you couldn’t scrub off. The thought made you shudder violently in his hold.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you expect to be dumped in your room. Maybe placed on the kitchen table to tend to your wounds. Even the bathroom, if you were lucky– somewhere practical. 

Instead, Brahms persevered, trudging up past the stairs and pushing towards the only wing in the house where you scarcely visit. The master wing– his wing. Pushing open the heavy doors, the smell of cedar and worn paper fill your nostrils, the scent dizzying as you are gently set on the edge of the bed. 

Squirming uncomfortably, you pull the tattered remains of the apron to your chest, cringing as dirt and blood seep into the pristine sheets. Barely even registering the softness of the bed, you could only gape forward– hair matted to your skull as your body thrums with pain. 

The sound of running water tears you from your fogged gaze, and you glance towards the bathroom, where Brahms moves with startling urgency– filling the tub with warm water, tearing towels from their resting places, grabbing a washcloth. Steam begins to waft through the air like vengeful spirits, your bones aching for heat as your toes curl at the sight.

Trying to push yourself off the bed, you rise on bruised legs. A pained gasp rips through your chest, and you wobble. Ever so carefully, you are lifted into the air once more, legs dangling as you are brought to the edge of the clawtooth tub. 

Firmly planted on the edge, your toes barely brush against the marbled floor. In another life, another place you would have dreamed of being able to bathe in such a luxurious setting, yet all you could think about was the warm water that await you. 

The flimsy remains of the apron are carefully pulled away, frigid fingers trailing under your bare stomach as the grimy sweater is pulled over your head. If you had been braver, more stubborn, you would have resisted– but tiredness weighs you down like a wet blanket. 

Moving gently so as to not spook you, Brahms fiddles with the button of your jeans, sending another chilled shudder down your spine. Slowly, your jeans and panties are ushered down your legs, socks quickly following as you sit bare against the porcelain tub. 

Hands cupping beneath your knees, Brahms eases you into the water– causing a hiss of pain to grumble from you as the warmth laps at your wounds. “I know… I’m sorry.” His voice cuts through you, so gentle it almost hurts, as if he was in pain just from watching you writhe in discomfort. Fingers cradling your jaw, the cool surface of his mask presses against your heated forehead. You sigh, eyes closing as you sink into the sensation, trying to relax your aching muscles. 

The rustle of clothing echoes through the bathroom, but you ignore it, choosing instead to savour the warmth seeping into your chilled bones. The water sloshes against the tub as Brahms climbs in across from you, knees brushing against yours. Lazily opening your eyes, you faintly make out the blurred outline of him reaching for something before your forehead is set ablaze in pain. 

Gritting your teeth, your hands fly to the edges of the tub, knuckles turning white as your nails dig into the smooth surface. The soaked washcloth dabs along your split brow, wiping the blood away from your skin. Cool fingers trace the bruise on your ribs, ever so slightly brushing against the curve of your breast as he begins to wipe the grime from your flesh. 

The scratch of your jaw comes next. Then, the slash on your thigh. Finally, the bruised ring around your throat. Each movement sends a thrill through your veins as the pain begins to subside, the sting of your wounds fading under the warmth of the water– of his touch. 

“They don’t get to keep any part of you… not even this.” a whisper, laced with disdain as his thumb presses against your brow. Your lips tremble, tears blotting your vision. “I…” you swallow thickly. “-I thought I was going to die.”

“No.” he hissed, shoulders heaving as his gaze drills holes into the split skin. “You belong to me.” 

The words should have scared you, sending a pit of dread in your stomach at the possessive tone. They should have irked you– irritate you even– but they didn’t. Tonight, they felt different. 

Shifting in the water, your hand wraps around his wrist, halting his movements. The washcloth drops between you, water splashing onto your chest as you meet his searing gaze. Frozen in time, Brahms lets out a shaky exhale– so subtle, so gentle as if he didn’t trust himself to hold you together. 

You were beyond saving, anyways. 

“I’m sorry… for leaving.” You whisper. “-for…” voice catching in your throat, you instinctively glance away, shame lapping at your skin thicker than the blood in the water. 

For breaking the rules. 

“I know.” Slow, calculated words ring in your ears. He knows– he always does. 

“But you saved me.” Retorting, knees curl to your chest, chin resting on them as you wait for any reasonable explanation as to why there was no punishment– no threatening words, no searing touches exploring your unforgivable sin. 

He only huffs. “Always.” 

You blink at him, stunned at his response. The water stills between you, air heavy with something like a confession. His fingers twitch, shaking every so slightly before they curl into a fist– and you see it. 

Fear. 

Barely contained beneath the surface, the very same driver of his fury that ended in blood and sweat and violence– is a sense of terror, one rooted in losing you. Your chin digs into the skin of your knees and you watch as his self control teeters closer to snapping. Once so cold, so brutal, now held back by only your gaze. 

Your heart lurches within your chest at the sight. 

Before you can stop yourself, your fingers cradle the cracked porcelain of the mask so endearingly he flinches. Adam's apple bobbing from the touch, his hands tense at his sides as if he were burned– mentally debating whether to retreat or tear your hand away. But he does neither, only staring at you through half lidded eyes, chocolate orbs stirring with confusion, apprehension, and something you couldn’t quite place. 

You could swear they glisten under the light. 

“I… let me see you.” you urge, fingertips cusping the edge of the mask– slightly grazing across the dark curls that hide beneath. “-please.”

Silence crashes through the room, the only sound coming from the occasional drip of the faucet. The air shifts, and you almost retreat into yourself at the tension– pulse hammering in your ears like a wardrum. 

A pause, then slowly, Brahms shifts into your touch. 

Drawing closer, water sloshes over the side of the tub and crashes over the marble tiles as his knees plant on either side of your own. Massive frame surging towards you like a tidal wave threatening to swallow you whole, dusky curls tickle your forehead as his face stops just inches from your own. 

You don’t flinch, refusing to pull away as you brave onwards– the eye of the storm. His palm, slick and trembling, cups your jaw. Thumb brushing the bruise forming under your eye, he pauses– offering himself to you like a lamb being sent for slaughter. Your fingertips catch the wiring tucked behind his ear, and his breath catches in his throat. 

Finally, you lift it. 

The porcelain rises with a low creak, water dripping down his skin as you unmask him with aching slowness. His jaw catches the light, then his cheekbones, his brows– until there is nothing separating him from your gaze. 

And you see him for what feels like the first time. 

Bruised, blotted skin peppered with scars and burns running across his cheekbones. Seared browline and sunken eyes lined with fringed lashes dripping with water and grime and tears. Bottom lip split open, dried blood caked to the scruff of his jaw– clenching like the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders and threatened to leave him shattered beneath your gaze. 

But his eyes– that is what tears your heart to shreds. 

Coffee with flecks of caramel so devastating you were drowning. Irises dilated so wide his eyes almost look black as he gapes at you, memorizing your reaction– carving it into his skin. You swallow thickly, reaching upwards, and he doesn’t stop you. 

Fingertips tracing the mottled skin, nails delicately scraping over the swelling, he shudders. Shoulders sagging as if it were the first time he was touched in his life, not out of fear, not of pity, but with empathy. His lip quivers as you move closer, cupping his face in your hands as if he were made of glass, thumbs rubbing circles into his temples. 

“You didn’t have to…” nails scraping against his scalp, he groans at the feeling, and you falter. “-save me. You could have left me to be punished.” trailing off, your hands retreat, shame building in your stomach. “...let me get what I deserved.”

Fingers coil around your wrists suddenly, firmly planting them on his shoulders. “Don’t–” he rumbles, brow twitching as a warning glare flickers across his face. “Don’t ever say that.” Voice dripping with pain and anger, you shudder. 

Pressing your forehead against his, no barriers– no masks, the rawness of it all sprouting tears in your eyes. “I’m so sorry.” You breathe out, nose brushing his as your lip quivers. “For hurting you– leaving you. For thinking you wouldn’t come for me.” 

He pauses, jaw clenching as he tastes the apology on his tongue. You swallow thickly as his nose ducks into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. “I would always come for you… you’re mine.” 

Forgiveness– the taste sweet on your tongue. 

Tilting upwards, you catch his eye, all resolve shattering as you lean in and press your lips to his– slowly, carefully. Not a kiss of a prisoner, not one full of fearful regret. But one shared between broken pieces clinging to the only warmth they have left. 

You finally feel whole. 

Hands sliding into his wet curls, you tug on the tufts as you pull yourself closer, chasing the flutter blooming in your stomach like something born again. He falters, arms wrapping around your waist as he falls backwards, water spilling out of the tub as you collide with his chest. But neither of you notice– neither of you care. 

You were drowning in something else entirely. 

The taste of iron fills your mouth, and you pull away, breath stuttering as you see the blood trickling down his chin. Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips as the ghost of the kiss remains– warm, intimate. 

Fingers dig into the flesh of your hips like you would vanish beneath his touch, the reality of your affection, your willingness almost too much to bear. “You’re hurt,” you murmur against his skin. “...because of me.” His brow furrows, a sigh tearing from his throat as you press into him. 

A pause, one full of ache and longing– before: “I had to. They touched you.”

“I know.” Cupping his jaw in your hand, you examine the damage– hushing the protest forming on his lips. Mustering the courage coiling around your ribs, you echo those very words whispered in the greenhouse. “Let me help you.” 

It wasn’t a plea, one forged with fear of punishment. Instead, it was a vow. 

With every ounce of gentleness you could muster into your aching limbs, you shift forward into the tub, water sloshing around you as you straddle his waist. Brahms’ breath catches in his throat, something akin to awe glimmering in his eyes as you reach for the discarded washcloth. Wringing it in your hands, you press a kiss to his temple. 

Bones weary, skin bruised– yet you never felt more alive. 

“Let me take care of you,” You urge again, murmuring against his heated flesh. “...you always take care of me.” Pressing the drenched fabric to his lip, he jerks against your touch– wincing as you wipe the blood from his chin. His fingers flex beneath the water, but he doesn’t stop you.

Trailing the cloth across his jaw, the water pools down his neck as you wipe away his skin with devout reverence. You trace his jugular, ducking to his collarbone– where a purple bruise blossoms along the tender flesh. He groans at the action, as if it hurts to be touched so gently when no one else ever has.

You brave onwards, cleaning his wounds of dirt and grime, replacing the pain with feather-light kisses as you work. Your nails rake down his chest every so slightly, and he twitches. You couldn’t tell what festered beneath his skin: fear, restraint, or something much darker pulling at his psyche. 

He killed for you– so now, you would have to live for him. Something that sounds more like a blessing than a punishment. 

The cloth falls from your palm, a dull smack echoing through the walls of the bathroom as it hits the water. Your fingers delve lower, nails lingering across a scar splintering across his stomach– and he gasps into the crook of your neck. A jagged smile breaks out on your cracked lips. 

Poor thing. 

Nails dragging down his skin, your fingertips brush against his cock, lips folding over his as you swallow the moan building in his throat. “Let me…” you whisper against him, breathing in his shaky exhales as you wrap your fist around him. “-I want to.”

The fist gripping the porcelain edge of the edge almost splinters the surface as you trail your fingertips along the underside of his cock, jerking your hand towards his tip. A strained exhale wafts across your collarbones as you pump him underneath the water. Brahms’ head thuds against the edge of the tub, curls messily plastered to his forehead as sweat drips down his temple– eyes fluttering shut at your sinful touch. 

“You always want to control everything,” Voice dripping in cotton-swabbed heat, your hip bones push against his stomach as your arms wind around his neck, trapping him beneath you. Breasts squishing against the hard ridge of his chest, a stray hair dips onto his cheekbone– tickling the swollen burns blossoming across his skin. “The rules, this house… me.” 

The words taste bitter on your tongue, yet as they coat the condensation-filled room they sound devout. His lips part, a sputtered protest building in his chest as you latch your mouth against his jugular, the sharp thrum of his pulsepoint hammering against your lips in a dizzying concoction.

The tip of his cock catches on your folds, and your stomach flips– mouth unbearably dry. Nails raking into his shoulder blades so roughly you were certain you draw blood, chocolate orbs snap to your own, full of pain and heat and want. 

“You don’t get to control me. Not this time.”

Your hips lower as you spear yourself on his cock, walls screaming as heat churns in your gut. Brows furrowing at the uncomfortable stretch, a shaken exhale escapes your lips as you seat yourself in his lap. Brahms groans, hands flying to your hips as you rock against him– water spilling out of the tub with every stroke. 

Fingers digging into your flesh so hard it bruises, yet he doesn’t shift, refusing to dare and break the spell as you set the pace– guiding your hips in such a teasingly slow manner it almost hurts. Your thighs burn as you roll your hips, knees slipping against the porcelain as you ride him like it was your last night on earth, as if the manor was engulfed in flames and you were damned for eternity. 

Maybe you were– the way you could feel him in your throat something so unearthly it feels as if you were already dead. 

Iron, cedar, and earth cling to your skin as he jolts beneath you– cock hitting your cervix as a whine builds in your chest. God, you couldn’t breathe, the hard ridge of him tearing into you, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving nothing left but strained gasps. Mind foggy as steam wisps around your heated skin, all you could focus on was the subtle roll of your hips.

A shaking rise, a deep fall, as you prepare for the aftermath– like a moth drawn to a flame. 

“Look at me,” you whisper, voice hoarse, head tilting back as his cock digs into your walls. Your clit scrapes against his skin as you lower yourself once, twice– the sensation causing you to flutter around him. 

His eyes, God those eyes, dark and heavy sear into your own. Hungry, depraved, wild. Hips screaming for release, you suck on your bottom lip for comfort, muscles ablaze as your pace falters. Let me help you.

“You’re mine too.”

The words slip before you catch yourself, but it was too late. Almost barely audible, but impossibly weighted. And with them, Brahms’ resolve shatters. 

Surging forward, your legs coil around his waist as he thrusts upwards– mouth melting into yours as you are all but lifted from the water. Pushing up on his knees, Brahms’ fingers dig into the fat of your ass as he bounces you on his cock. You gasp, nails digging into his back at the shift in the position, every movement much more pronounced as your insides turn to mush. 

Spit dribbles down your chin as his tongue pushes into your mouth, claiming you as his. Toes curling, your heels dig into his lower back, spine arching as he practically splits you in two. The rhythm is frantic, breathless as his cock drives into your gummy walls– ruining you for all others. 

He bottoms out, hips stuttering as your teeth sink into his bottom lip, fingers dancing across his flesh like worship. Every inch, every ridge, every scar mapped by your palms as you commit him to memory. Not as a monster, not as your captor– but as a man. 

Your name falls from his lips like a broken prayer, low– raw, and your fingers drag across his scalp. Fisting damp curls between your fingers, you yank his hair backwards, lips raking across his jawline as he holds you like you weigh nothing. 

“Shh,” you whine. “-you’ll wake the dead.”

His eyes roll back into his skull, something between a groan and a shudder tearing through him as he molds you against his skin. Heat and blood and need coarse through your veins, stomach clenching as tension knots in your gut. 

Fire laps at your skin, climax coiling around you so tightly you feel as if you would snap. Nails scraping against Brahms’ scalp you whine as the orgasm crashes through you– legs numb from the force as you cling to him like your saving grace.

His eyes widen as your head buries into his neck, thighs twitching as exhaustion consumes you, brain short circuiting from the overstimulating combination of pain and pleasure coursing across your skin. Shuddering, Brahms retreats, pulling you off of him as his hand wraps around his cock, frantically pumping himself with laboured breaths as you sink against the edge of the tub. 

You could only stare, lost in those dangerous caramel flecks in a sea of brown coated in lust, obsession, and something else hiding just beneath the surface. A strained groan echoes across the bathroom walls as Brahms peaks, coating his navel and thighs in a frothy white. 

Before you could stop yourself, you move closer– grabbing the washcloth and wiping away the mess. So faithful, so devoted. A content sigh bubbles from his chest, fingers curling around the edge of the tup as he hoists himself over. Your eyes glance at his back, covered in irritated scratches across his shoulder blades, sending a wave of heat churning in your gut. 

The very scratches you marked him with just moments before. 

The bath water, now tepid, sloshes against your pruned toes as you are hoisted from the tub. Standing on wobbly knees, a fluffy towel wraps around your shoulders, condensation dripping down your skin and onto the marble tiles. You dry yourself silently, muscles aching, limbs numb as you try to ignore the eyes boring into your flesh. 

The mask lay forgotten on the bathroom floor, a reminder of your fall from grace. Towel wrapped loosely around his hips, Brahms ushers you towards the bed– no teasing words, no lingering touches, just warm sheets encompassing your naked form as you sink into the mattress. 

You don’t speak, you don’t have to.

Weariness sinking into your bones as the bedspread lowers next to you. Arms coil around your waist like ivy, pulling you into a solid chest as if he feared you would vanish from his grasp. Melting into the soft goose down of the duvet, you tilt your head towards him, offering a peck on the underside of his jaw. He grumbles in response, tiredness evident as his movements grow sluggish. 

Lips caressing the crown of your head, you almost miss the whisper that wafts against your flesh. 

“Mine.”

Eyes fluttering closed, sleep begins to take you– body weighing into his chest like roots taking shape. Slow, deep breathing fills the room, the faint sound of the water draining from the tub echoing across the walls. Skin pressed so tightly it felt as if you were fusing together, the world fades to black. 

Outside, the greenhouse waits– rain mingling with the blood soaking the cobblestone path. Tea leaves curl around the broken bodies left to rot, the smell of death heavy in the damp air. Silence clings to the manor like moss, sprouting across the tunnels and through the halls. 

And beneath it all, something begins to stir– something that might be love.

-------

[part four]

[ghostiesnightmare]

I'm so obsessed with your Brahms writing! And I need more. I beg you please!

I love the way you make Brahms a more controlling and dominant character<3

My ask/ idea: Brahms and reader got a pretty 'unique' and close relationship. What if someone broke in and Brahms protected the reader or saved her or something, and I ended up giving her a kind of eye-opener for some other parts of him. Like she isn't only for him to use and abuse u know. But also to keep and protect

Thank you 🙏

AHHH this is impeccable. Perhaps a part 3 of “The Rules We…” series as a way for Brahms to redeem himself from the godforsaken acts that took place in the first two parts?

Yall have been EATING the Brahms fics up, so I’m already writing a draft ;)