Slashers Reacting to their S/O trying to "escape" while sleep walking
Inspired by this post by @amomentsescape . Go check them out! Fell in love with their post and just HAD to write about it myself
I am working on a few requests and original ideas, so if you've requested something know that it is (slowly) in the works!)
posting this early to show I'm still active! let me know if you want a part two with other slashers, im already working on one for the sinclair bros but check my character list to see which others i should add! ive added a few new characters to my list aswell :3
CW: Implications of abuse, kidnapping, and other unhealthy relationship dynamics
GN Reader!
Characters include Michael Myers, Thomas Hewitt, Brahms Heelshire, Billy Loomis, and Stu Macher!
You’ve been with your slasher for a while now, trapped living with them in their respective homes. You have no intentions of leaving as Stockholm Syndrome has long kicked in. But right as your slasher lets you sleep without the chains, your brain decides that it’s a perfect time to start sleepwalking…
Michael Myers (Halloween ‘78)
Michael is up the second you are. He never truly sleeps, so the moment your body starts to shift out of bed his eyes are open and watching you intensely. He stopped handcuffing you to the bed post a few nights ago, but he still doesn’t trust you to not leave. Before you can walk towards the bedroom door, he’s already infront of you and grabbing your wrists tightly.
He doesn’t care that you’re asleep. When you didn’t react to him grabbing your wrists, he tilted his head. It takes him a few moments to realize that you’re still asleep. He grabs you by the shoulders and aggressively shakes you awake, startling the hell out of you. “What the fuck!?” You wake up to see Michael glaring down at you menacingly. He is pissed.
You can’t plead with him. Your wrists are back to being cuffed to the bed and he doesn’t let you leave the bedroom. It doesn’t matter that you were asleep, you still tried to leave him. You cry and beg, swearing up and down that you love him but all you get back is an icy glare. Any trust you thought you had with him is gone for the next few months. He loves you Y/N, no matter if you like it or not.
Stares at you through the night. The first couple of nights after your sleepwalking incident, he can’t close his eyes. Ends up just staring at you for the rest of the night, not really sure how to feel about what you’ve done. He won’t say it, but his feelings are really hurt. Why can’t you just do what he wants?
Thomas Hewitt (Texas Chainsaw Remake)
He wakes up alone in bed. He has to get up extra early for his daily chores, so he’s used to see you by his side, still fast asleep. When you aren’t there, he starts to panic. He’s tossing the room frantically hoping to find you, all while fearing the worst. He should’ve listen to his family when they said not to unchain you.
He finds you at the front door, staring at it absentmindedly. He rushes towards you and grabs hold of you, which wakes you up. You scream in confusion which makes him scream. He’s a blubbering mess afterwards while you try to explain what sleepwalking is and how you weren’t consciously trying to leave
He believes you, but he’s still scared that you might leave. He installs a lock on the bedroom door and keeps the key hidden away during the night so you don’t wander off again. He’s worried that you might end up hurting yourself walking around the house, so you can’t coax him out of the lock.
He hugs you extra tight at night. He was always a cuddler, but now he’s nearly smothering you every night in fear that he might wake up alone again. Don’t fight it, it’ll only make him hug you tighter.
Brahms Heelshire (The Boy)
Crashes the fuck out once he realizes you aren’t in bed with him. He’s running around the mansion frantically looking for you in every nook and cranny, getting more and more worked up. Probably starts crying and/or screaming after not being able to find you quickly.
He finds you in the garden, eventually. He hates going outside. He hates you going outside even more. It’s dead of night when you wake up to Brahms incoherently screaming at you while being dragged back inside. You’re so confused while Brahms is just having a full on meltdown, accusing you of trying to leave him.
You have to wait for him to calm down before explaining what happened. He's screaming so loud, sobbing and stomping back and forth the hallway as you sit on the ground, half-dazed. You try to talk to him but he literally can't hear you over his tantrum.
Clings to you. After his break down, you explain what happened-- "I was just sleepwalking, Brahms." He isn't completely convinced but he accepts the explanation on the condition that you never do it again, which you try to say you can't really control it but- oh well. It doesn't matter, as Brahms is always by your side now, holding your hand or waist or the hem of your shirt while you go on with the chores. You never have a moment alone now, and probably never will again for a good while. Do you even want to?
Billy Loomis (Scream)
Another certified crash out. He wakes up one night expecting you beside him, only to find you gone. Immediately tears the house apart looking for you. And when he cant find you? He snaps. Thinks you've left him. Escaped his tight grasp. Destroys everything, grabs his knife, and goes to look for you. If he cant have you then he's going to kill you.
He finds you standing on the porch. Looking back, he doesnt know how you didnt wake up from the noise he was making. He puts the knife to your throat, threatening you until he realizes you were kinda just...not responding. Waves his hand in front of your face and realizes you are asleep and just stares at you. How the fuck did you even get past the locks anyways?
So pissed at you. Its not your fault but it doesnt matter. You should subconsciously want to be near him at all times, sleepwalking or not. He drags you back to the bedroom, gripping your arm so tightly that it wakes you up. You're confused on whats happening, but Billy ignores your questions before tossing you on the bed and forcing you to go back to sleep.
He starts tying you to the bed. He doesn't let you have a say in it, either. He won't say it, but waking up and seeing you gone was one of the very limited moments in his life when he felt fear. And he doesn't intend to ever feel that way again.
Stu Macher (Scream)
Where'd you go, Y/N? He wakes up without you under him, and is immediately confused but not worried. You must have needed to go to the bathroom! Still, he feels a weird flutter in his chest as he gets up to check on you.
He finds you in the hallway just standing there, like a ghost. You startle awake because he screams, not expecting to see you in such a creepy way. He laughs immediately after, finding it hilarious that you managed to scare him!
He has a tight grip on you as he guides you back to bed. You notice as you both lay down that he clings just a bit more to you than usual, so much that you almost feel suffocated. He won't say it aloud, but he doesn't like the idea of you leaving the bed, of leaving him.
He starts laying on top of you during the nights, as a way to hopefully stop you from leaving the room. It works for the most part, and Stu loves the new-found closeness, even if you have to give up a bit of air at night. If you ask, he'll try to shift his weight to one side so he doesn't completely cut off your airflow, but he's reluctant to get off of you completely. What if you hurt yourself walking around?
Freaks out every time you move. Ever since that incident, Stu is hyper focused on you when you sleep. Every time you slightly shift during the night, Stu is locked on you, waiting to see if you try to get up or not. He doesn't want you to leave, y/n, and if that means having to sacrifice some sleep to make sure you stay, that's alright with him.
Y'all...hear me out. Imagine going to a haunted house with your friends, and halfway through your group is chased by one of the hired scares.
It's a tall, muscular, masked man in a bloodied apron and a threatening knife. You immediately blush at the sight (obviously) and slow your pace. As your friends scramble for the exit, you pretend to get lost and reach a dead end.
He seems to have picked up on your intentions, because he walks towards you until you've reached the wall, then places a hand above you, essentially trapping you underneath his massive frame.
"Shouldn't you be running away?" he asks, throwing a quick glance to the security cameras and making sure you're out of view.
He doesn't wait for you to respond and lowers himself to your ear.
"What's your name, love?"
Your knees weaken at his deep, harsh voice, but you manage to mumble a response.
"Alright, then. Tell me, what did you want me to do once I caught up with you, (Y/N)?"
His other hand points the blade against your chest, then lightly drags it across your body, stopping above your groin.
Anyways, you get fucked dumb by a slasher, in a haunted house. Good luck returning to your friends and keeping a straight face while you're still dripping with his load.
Jason Voorhees x reader, Bo Sinclair x reader, Vincent Sinclair x reader, Lester Sinclair x reader, Rz!Michael Myers x reader, Thomas Hewitt x reader
contains— random asf, these are all just based on how i feel, there's SFW and NSFW <3
requests— always opennnn, so far I've just been writing to write LOL
author’s note— ive been getting lots of love on a lot of my posts and it makes me SOOOOOO happy <3 sorry that its taken me SOOOOO long to post... (its been 2 years...) im gonna try and write more consistently!
word count— 1,621 words 8,569 characters
gifs aren't mine!
reblogs, comments and feedback is always appreciated <3
Jason Voorhees:
SFW:
Tracks mud all over your house on rainy nights
This big man loves to be babied by you. He loves when you talk to him with such a nurturing and caring voice
Has horrible jealousy issues
Has soft spots for kids
He really wants to have a kid with you, so he can treat the kid with so much love and respect
He’s so loyal to you, if you want him to kill anyone… he’ll literally do it in a heartbeat
Carved yours and his initials on a tree in camp crystal lake
leaves letters around the house for you to find with sappy things written in them
an actual gentle giant
bear hugs you from behind when you cook. he’ll wrap his arms around you and sway yours and his figure side to side.
he smells like pine like 90% of the time
NSFW:
he loves fucking you while you choke him idc. he’d start off with long, deep, strokes that stretch you so good. if you grab his neck while he does so, he pounds you even harder, and his groans slowly turn into slight whimpers
sucks at pulling out, he loves watching his cum drip out of you. With two fingers he’ll shove the cum back into your quivering hole just to see you push it out again ☺️
the mask stays on during sex, idc i don’t make the rules
loves cock worshipping. kiss along his length and lick along it too. loves fucking your throat and making you say you love it with a mouthful of his cock.
loves receiving head so much, it’s literally so slutty.
will actually fold you in half to get better angles.
Bo Sinclair:
SFW:
Loves feeling like you can depend on him. He loves the thought of being your little provider (it’s the blue collar in him)
Totally massages your feet LOL idk why. He gives you straight up princess treatment
Dude deadass acts like a dog, howls when he’s like really happy 😭
if you massage his scalp he’ll actually fall in love with you, and shudder at your touch
he’s such a simp for you in private idc what anyone says
he picks flowers for you all the time 🥺 and leaves them at your bedside for when you wake up
asks you to do his eyebrows from time to time
He loves thinking of you as his little wife. refers to you as his wife to visitors. DONT MAKE FUN OF HIM FOR THAT, he'll get sooooo embarassed lol
makes you a mixtape filled with all the numetal he listens to
has band shirts in his drawer that he throws to you after doing some actvities with each other (if you catch my drift)
NSFW:
literally a horny bastard
Is so rough and passionate
loves to fuck you in his shop and loves to fuck you over the hood of cars
actually loves to pound into your weeping hole till you scream your safe word (its "cherry pie")
doesn't moan, only growls. he's so animalistic once you guys get to fucking
Vincent Sinclair:
SFW:
he draws you all the time, you're his muse!
loves to do little art projects with you as dates
let's you braid his hair and brush out the tangles
He loves it when you paint his nails with your nail polish. Loves it even more if you guys match.
takes photos of you all the time. hangs them up all around the basement
is a simp in private and is a simp in public, you NEVER have to worry about that when you're with him.
loves taking baths with you and legit MELTS into your touch if you coddle him, baby him etc.
NSFW:
noisiest silent man you'll ever meet.
whimpers so much
loves to worship your body, thinks of you as a goddess.
he loves to pepper kisses all over your body and loves to eat your pussy while you hover over him, demandingly.
loves to be overstimulated and loves wax play.
pour wax on his chest as he lays down, eating your pussy as you sit on his face.
fucks like an absolute jack rabbit. he can go pretty fast when he's chasing his high.
Lester Sinclair:
SFW:
The biggest sweetheart
Picks flowers for you and will leave them at your bedside.
He steals lots of female visitor's items, so you quite literally always have new clothes, perfume, makeup etc.
He brings home weird animals and cooks weird things, but you love him too much to deny him.
Is super shy when it comes to affection and stuff like that. You mostly have to initiate a lot of the contact, but his goofy smile and flustered face make up for it.
Secretly wants to have twins, but actually treat those twins with love and care.
Daydreams about you and is super loyal to you.
If Bo makes a comment about you, whether good or bad, Lester will pick a fight with him and tell him not to talk about his woman.
Will ask Vincent to make a portrait of you and him to give you for V-day.
NSFW:
tease him too much and he'll actually cry
he wants to breed you so bad to the point where it's all he can daydream about sometimes.
jerks off when he's alone, whimpering your name.
This boy is a bottom feeder and will beg to eat you out at least once a day
He loves car sex and loves road head.
He will take you on various trips JUST to get some road head and maybe park in the forest so he can shoot his load into you a couple times before you guys' head back :3
RZ!Michael Myers:
SFW:
very silent and ominous man
looms over everything you do
if you cook a meal for the two of you, he will just stand beside you and watch what you're doing 100% of the time
makes papier mâché masks 25/8
makes masks for you as well with your favorite things on it (ex. if you like sanrio characters, he'll make a mask with your fave characters on it :3)
the first few nights he stays with you, you basically have to bathe with him lmao
he smells earthy like dirt and husky pheromones
holds you close to him when you guys shower together
secretly puts kitchen items and closet items on higher shelves so that you come running to him to grab it for you
NSFW:
this man has the absolute stamina of the gods
this man is the king of shower sex
loves to carry you up against the wall as if you weigh nothing and plow into your hole(s)
sometimes having you against the wall isn't enough and he'll just pound you down onto him length and use you as his personal pocket pussy
he is always dominant (sorry not sorry)
he also loves to play a hide and seek game in the woods with you. he'll chase you throughout the woods and if you're able to outrun him or be able to hide without him finding you or tracking you, you can dom him and do whatever you want with him :3 but so far he's always been able to catch up to you and find you before you can think you even have a chance.
his prize for winning that little game is a hard and rough forest sex
but if you were to win (which probably wouldnt happen) he'd def tone down his strength.
he'd let you pin him down and he'll play along with you
but once he's tired, best believe he'll stop giving into you and take you for himself
Thomas Hewitt:
SFW:
the way y'all meet is kinda funny lol
Luda saw you and thought: "wow they're perfect for my tommy" and somehow convinced you to stay for dinner
at first you were terrified of tommy
he was a big burly man with a mask on his face
he was wayyyy too nervy to even look your way when you first came about
luda explained that she wanted grandbabies, and you could see Thomas' eyes dart towards Luda, obviously this wasn't planned at all
but after a few nights with the Hewitts... you kinda liked having teatime with Luda and watching Tommy do yard work from the living room windows.
Tommy was scary but was oh so respectful towards you.
sometimes when he's out doing yard work for the house, you'll walk out in some short shorts and a tank due to the scorching heat and give him a tall glass of lemonade. which he'll take graciously and chug that thang in front of you
Something so simple like that makes his heart pound
luda will ask you to make dinner one night and tommy falls in LOVEEE with how you cook.
his dream is to be a loyal working husband for you
children are definitely on the table for him but i think its more of a breeding kink for him/seeing you all plump and pregnant by him.
NSFW:
For a long time, you and Tommy couldn't really do much due to the waiting before marriage beliefs that were instilled into him
he hates the thought of disappointing Luda so its probably gonna take some convincing to get this man to be bad with ya
once you succeed... this man gets pussy drunk soooooo easilyyyy
tommy's weight crushing you + him pounding into you over and over again through your orgasm...
he doesn't even hear your begs to stop
he's so engrossed in the feeling of you squeezing him, the feeling of your tits in his hands, he fucks you raw, like a sex crazed, hungry man
his favorite place to fuck you is in the barn
he'll bring a pretty soft blanket for you to lay on and maybe even a pillow, just so that you wont dirty your pretty gingham yellow dress this is his favorite look on you, no i will not be explaining lol
he's very silent when he's deep in it
he's more of a heavy breather and its amplified because of his mask
Featuring a variety of Slashers and Killers with differing speaking patterns and verbal abilities
(x Reader too cause it’s me. Fluff.)
Jason Vorhees
Complete and total silence. Unlike others, you won’t even get the occasional huff out of this guy. Can he even breathe? Basically a corpse that you share a space with and get to cuddle.
Light on his feet too, evident by his infamous “teleporting”. You won’t know where he is until he’s in your eyesight. Please put a bell on him, cause he’s gonna sneak up on you 20 times a day and he feels really bad every time it makes you jump.
Does he use sign language? Yes! I don’t think it’s something that his Mother would have taught him, especially considering the time, but once you offer to help him learn he’s really enthusiastic to finally have a form of communication, he loves talking to you all day long. Watching you, knowing he’s being listened to, it gives him butterflies. Strikes me as kind of a yapper after a long day. You’ll also catch him signing to himself when he’s frustrated or anxious.
On top of that, also a good listener himself. He nods and gestures along to the things you say. Since he’s really comfortable around you, he’s able to express more of his emotions and it allows him to feel normal, even just for a little bit.
Michael Myers
Similar to Jason; You’re not hearing a single noise from him. His vocal cords could be missing for all you know. But you will hear lots of his eerie breathing. Whether it’s measured and calm or strained and staggering, those are the only noises you might hear before he’s suddenly in front of you.
And he actually lives for scaring you. Will press himself into your back when you least expect it and relish in your gasping. Loves to watch you from dark corners and see how long you take to figure out. Your guard is gonna be up for the rest of your life honestly.
Does he use sign language? No! He was taught it during his time in the asylum, so if you sign to him he’ll understand just fine. But he refuses to use it himself. His silence is a choice, it’s a way to isolate himself further into his role as The Shape. He honestly doesn’t care if you understand him or not, he doesn’t have anything he wants to say to you that he can’t say through actions.
When you’re yapping, you’ll get the occasional head tilt and if you’re really really lucky, a thumbs up or down. That’s all you’re ever gonna get from him. He might as well have fallen asleep honestly, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference under his mask.
Bubba Sawyer (Leatherface)
So while he doesn’t “talk”, he is most definitely not silent. This guy babbles like nobody’s business, he grunts and squeals, he goes around making all sorts of noises to himself when he’s in a real good mood. If he’s actually ever quiet for an extended period of time, that means he’s in desperate need of a hug honestly. A lot of his rambling does almost sound like words, but he can never quite fully get them out coherently. His tone is usually enough to let you know what he’s thinking though.
And while he can be decent at sneaking when he’s locked in, hunting someone down, that basically never applies to you or the rest of the family. Drayton constantly yells at him to stop parading around the house, his large frame is bumping into anything and everything. Plus he has a touch of echolalia, so any fun noises he happens to hear are being imitated ten times over. You can hear him coming from a mile away.
Does he use sign language? …he tries. Much like verbal communication, he tends to be really clumsy and struggles a lot with it. First of all, it’s gonna take a while for him to memorize even basic signs, although he does have a wonderful time learning from you. Secondly, once he does get them in his head, it doesn’t always translate well to his hands. His big fingers tend to get caught up in each other, his movements sometimes get too jittery and sloppy to properly show what he wants to say. It’s just not in his skill set.
That being said, he’s still so incredibly expressive. You’re able to tell his happy stimming from his nervous stimming, he makes a lot of “uh huh”s and “nuh-uh”s, not to mention the way his eyes sparkle through the mask. And every time you talk to him, the entire world fades away so he can focus on you, just because he finds you utterly fascinating.
(Sorry no Thomas Hewitt, haven’t seen the movie)
Vincent Sinclair
I imagine he’s on the slightly-more ‘realistic’ range of being silent. As in, completely quiet most of the time, but he still lets out little hums and sighs to let you know what he’s thinking. The very occasional airy laugh, sometimes a groan.
He’s either tip-toeing or stomping, no in between. When he’s in a good mood, usually while focused on his art, he has a way of dancing around the room gracefully, like he’s barely touching the floor. And when he’s not, you can definitely hear it, his feet hitting the ground hard as he paces. He doesn’t like sneaking up on you though, he gives you a lot of gentle touches to let you know he’s around.
Does he use sign language? Yes! I think it’s something his parents would’ve had him learn once it was apparent he was non-verbal. Unfortunately, Bo purposefully avoided learning any and Lester only knows a little, so he used it less and less after their passing and he isolated himself into his work. Once you come along, however, and he figures out you know sign he falls right back into it. He’s a bit brief and minimal with what he chooses to say, but very poetic and careful with his words.
He also likes to leave you a lot of handwritten notes, usually accompanied by little doodles and sketches. Mostly of you, telling you how pretty you looked while you slept or how wonderfully that shirt you wore complimented your complexion. Every now and then, you’ll find smiley faces and hearts randomly drawn onto your hands and arms. He never fails to let you know he’s thinking of you.
Billy Lenz
Honestly he almost didn’t make this list, because he’s anything but silent. Majored in blabbering with a minor in being a siren. His lips basically never stop moving, he likes to loom over you and narrate everything in his own filthy language. When he does get quiet, it’s eerie, it means something is wrong and you should probably be very worried. But otherwise you’re getting front row seats to every single thought that’s being passed through his head, no matter how dirty or senseless or repetitive.
Despite this, he is very quiet as he moves around and he lives for scaring the shit outta you. He’ll bite his own tongue until it’s bleeding just so you don’t hear him as he lurches up behind you, giddy at your cluelessness. He delights in hearing you scream for him in lots of ways. Despite some sporadic hand gestures, I think he’s learned to be very careful and tentative with his movements. Can’t be caught making a racket in the attic, after all.
Does he use sign language? Doesn’t need to. He’s hyperverbal, if anything. However it would probably be useful for him to have a way to talk to you when he’s lost in a panic and only repeating the same four words over and over, eyes glazed over and holding onto you for dear life. But don’t bother bringing that up, he’ll become very offended. If he was put into an asylum or psyche ward at any point, he definitely got one of the other patients to teach him all the of cuss words and naughty things to say in sign. He uses those quite liberally, actually.
And echolalia to the max. You yelped while stubbing your toe once, and three days later he’s still repeating that same noise at every opportunity. Whenever you ask him a question, it’s likely his answer is gonna directly copy something you’ve said before. This guy loves being a parrot. Any sound he finds remotely interesting is going into his index of ‘noises to make whenever I damn please’. This is especially apparent while watching movies with him, he copies all the sound effects, but especially gunshots and shattered glass. And screams, he loves any and all screaming, actually. This is cute and all until you’re trying to go to sleep and he just…doesn’t turn it off.
Brahms Heelshire
So he definitely can talk…but most of the time he doesn’t care too. Unless speaking will directly benefit him, he prefers to be quiet and observant. It’s a habit he got from living in the walls and his existence being ignored most of his life. So a lot of staring at you, all the physical affection you could ask for, only a few necessary words exchanged. He does enjoy listening to you speak, though, adores the sound of your voice.
Just like Lenz, all his movements are cautious and mindful, unless he’s absolutely pissed about something. And while you don’t get the feeling he’s purposely trying to scare you, he does find it pretty cute to see you jump in his presence. He’ll mutter a small “sorry” while wrapping his arms around you, as though he doesn’t have a massive grin under his mask. He also has a thousand secret passages and pathways around his massive house and many, many ways of spying on you. Basically, you’ll go hours without seeing him and being absolutely oblivious to his whereabouts while he’s been following and watching you through the walls like ‘wow, we’re bonding :)’
Does he use sign language? Nope. Even if he was a bit of a quiet kid, it wasn’t enough to justify his parents having it taught to him. And they certainly weren’t going to bother after the fire. He’s reclusive, but his struggles with communication are more of a social issue than a verbal one. He probably knows other languages though, something dumb and fancy like Latin. Or maybe French.
When Brahms does talk to you, there’s two versions of what you can get. Most of the time, he’s going to be putting on a boyish persona, pitching up his voice, using posh and proper language, trying to come off as endearing as possible. He thinks being cutesy will win you over, basically. But every now and then, you’ll see a glimpse of the man he pretends not to be. Vigorous grunts of anger, the deep voice rumbling in his chest, little groans and huffs as he nuzzles into you. He never likes thinking about how old he actually is, but being so comfortable with you has him putting away the youthful act.
WARNINGS: dead dove do not eat, noncon, kidnapping trope, dubcon, p in v smut, violence, knifeplay, bloodplay, cutting(light), blackmail, choking, humiliation, dom/sub trope, mentions of murder, death treats, dacryphilia, degradation, very degrading names!, veryy dark. seriously very dark take on noncon.
Happy October, everyone! I thought I'd post a story in honor of the spooky season for dark romance lovers. 🎃 Slow burn but heavy smut at the end!!! Let me know your thoughts on the writing/characters below <3
Two months. It's only been two months of me living here.
"We encourage everyone to stay at home tonight." The reporter's voice warbled from my old TV as my eyes stayed glued to the screen, unable to process the news.
"Sheriff Peterson has confirmed the news- three dead, and from the same type of attack."
A picture fills the screen- a man with a white ghost mask, staring into the camera from a shadowed alleyway.
"It is likely that he will claim more victims if he can." The noise seems to fade away as I lean back on my couch, the picture burning into my memory.
Two months of me living here, and a serial killer is out on the loose.
"Even if it's Halloween, it's guaranteed to be dangerous if you let your kids outside today, so make sure to buy candy now and...."
I stand up, leaving the living room and head to the kitchen to get a glass of water to calm my nerves. I still had to work the night shift today. The haunted house was the only place hiring college students in this small town, and I was positive that my uptight manager would fire me if I didn't clock in- killer or no killer.
I checked my watch. Shit. I had to be there in ten. Ignoring the sinking feeling of dread in my stomach, I grabbed my keys and left the house, slamming the door in a rush.
Despite it being Halloween evening, the haunted house was emptier than it had been this entire October, which makes sense, given the brutal and violent killer lurking within the 7,280 people in this town. The thought made me nauseous. There were still a couple teenagers here, though. I did my best to entertainingly scare them, but I don't think my low pigtails and clown makeup really scare anyone. The costume made me look like a child. A frilly white skirt and tights, matched with a striped pink and white long sleeve that was too small on me. I felt like...well, a clown.
Nobody was here now except a couple of my coworkers talking in hushed tones up front. I grabbed my phone, and scrolled through notifications, bored. My manager, my dad, my old high school friend... and an unknown number. I tapped on it casually.
unknown number: you're gonna die tonight
My phone dropped from my hand.
I grabbed it immediately, my heart hammering in my ribcage. I quickly tapped my fingers on the keyboard.
me: who is this??? is this a prank?
A few seconds after I sent the message, I watched the text change from "delivered" to "read". Text bubbles showed up and my breathing stopped.
unknown number: you'll be the prettiest dead girl
unknown number: i'm gonna taste your blood
I reread the last message. My body was frozen. I think someone was calling my name. I just kept staring at it.
unknown number: respond to me
unknown number: dumb bitch.
I stared at the messages for a minute, speechless. I could hear my coworker calling from afar for me to get back into character, but I couldn't stop staring at my phone.
unknown number: oh i'll make this so much worse for you
unknown number: i'm going to rip your insides open
That did it for me. I bolted to the restroom and dialed 911, grabbing the wall for support as the phone rang. And rang. And rang. Finally, there was a click. I sighed a breath of relief. "Hello!?"
"Nobody's saving you from this." The low voice, dark and furious, sent sudden chills down my spine.
"Wh-what?" I stuttered.
A soft chuckle emanated from the phone.
"Dumb bitch."
The call ended, and I stared at the screen. Oh my god. Oh my god.
BOOM BOOM BOOM. I let out a terrified scream. Something was hitting the bathroom door. I was gonna die. Here. Now.
"Get the fuck out! We have a line of people waiting to enter and you aren't here!" It was my manager's voice- he was hitting the door. I gasped, so thankful I could cry. I tentatively stood up and opened the door.
His face was red with anger, scrunched up and ugly. He jabbed a finger on my shoulder. "You take one more break tonight, and I'll fire your ass." I nodded silently, controlling my breathing. I just couldn't think about it. Those messages. Maybe it's just a prank. If it's just a prank, I'd regret leaving and getting fired. Yes, I just need to get through tonight. Just get through tonight.
It was 9pm, and I was still scared shitless. I knew what to do. Go to the police as soon as possible, and stay at the station until I knew I was no longer in danger. I looked around the house. Halloween music blared, and the place was filled with loud laughter and friendly shrieks. A lot of kids showed up around 8pm, and working helped me forget about the threats, for a little bit of time.
I saw a group of masked teenagers making their way towards me, and I prepared myself to chase them until they left the hallway. (I do not get paid enough for this.)
It wasn't until they were close to me that I saw it.
In a swarm of people with colorful Halloween outfits and masks- oranges, greens, purples- one stood out. The image burned into my memory from earlier.
A white Ghostface mask.
I let out an audible squeak, widening my eyes.
The man was taller than the rest of the group. He stopped walking, as the group of others advanced to me. I stared at him, unable to move my body. The killer tilted his head, slowly. I dropped my eyes to his hands.
The sharp, gleaming knife in one of them.
I let out a small scream, backing up slowly.
"Woah, is she pretending to be afraid of us?" A teenage boy asked. "That's like, super abstract."
Ghostface started walking forwards, and I whipped around, shrieking as I began to run to the exit.
My feet slammed on the ground as tears slipped down my face. I was going to die. I was going to die.
I was at the final part of the path, feeling my white face paint dripping off my skin from the tears. Click, click. I stared up in confusion at the blinking lights. The LEDs started flickering in orange and purple, blackening the room in random bursts. I was about to turn the corner, when the house went completely dark. I whimpered, still hearing friendly laughs and screams from afar, faintly.
I started running in a random direction, but I couldn't make out the next turn of the deserted hallway. Where was I? I stood still. Everything was quiet. Too quiet. My heavy breaths were the only noise around me.
Click. The purple and orange bright lights flashed on again.
And right in front of me stood the masked killer, holding up a freshly red knife.
I screamed, or attempted to, as his large gloved hand covered my mouth. In a second, he slammed me roughly into the wall, my head hitting the cobweb decorations. His hand pushed into my face hard, and lifted his bloodied knife to my throat, leaning in.
"You don't like following directions, do you?" His voice was low and amused. He grabbed my neck and yanked my head back again, a sharp pain hitting my skull. I squeezed my eyes shut, my tears reaching his glove.
"Aww," he muttered, scraping the knife down the side of my face. "Dead girl's crying." HIs breath was heavy under the mask. He was wearing a long black shirt- it hugged his figure, and I registered how much bigger he was in comparison to me. Stronger, taller, with arms twice the size of mine. I wasn't getting out of this alive.
"You've been a bad girl," he continued, his voice lower than before. "Not responding to those texts." The bloody knife pressed down on my neck, hard. I could smell copper and nearly threw up in my mouth.
"Like you have a choice." A dry laugh came from his mask. The knife travelled to the middle of my neck, and I closed my eyes again, a sob escaping my throat. "You think you have a choice? Huh?" He let go of his grip on my mouth and grabbed my hair, jerking my head up to reach his eyeline.
I couldn't say anything. I just shook my head "no" frantically, sobbing shamelessly.
"Yeah," he responded darkly. "That's right, you stupid whore." He dropped the knife to my waist, slowly trailing it down to my hipbone. My crying got louder. I just wanted him to end it already.
"Almost too pretty to waste," he murmured, staring at my hips. I hiccupped, looking at him with delirious confusion. The eyes of the mask met my gaze and he instantly flipped me around, shoving my face into the wall and getting terrifyingly close. I could feel his hips on mine, warm and strong, as he tightly gripped both of my arms with one hand. I cried in protest, which made him slam my body into the wall again. "I love those little noises you're making," he rasped. "I hope you'll sound just like that when my knife's inside of you."
"Please," I whispered. I don't know what I was even asking him for. He probably killed everyone in the house except for me. Maybe I was begging for a quick death.
"Please, what?" His voice sounded cruel, and the area between his hips was starting to feel weirdly hard, but I couldn't focus on anything except the pounding in my head.
"Please...Mr. Ghostface," I said softly, sniffling. I wanted to somehow reason, maybe talk him into letting me go. "I don't wanna die-" my voice broke, and I started sobbing again.
"Aww. Poor baby." His voice was thick with venom. "Maybe you should've responded to those texts then. Fucking cunt," he hissed. His knife pressed deeply into my hip, and I whined. "You think you can get your way? Huh?" Instantly, he slid the knife on my hip, making a thin cut on my skin. "Don't worry, I'll put that pretty body to good use when I'm done with you," he murmured in my ear. I knocked my head back, wincing from the pain of the cut. He let my arms go, and I sunk to the ground, weeping as I curled into a small ball.
"Look at me." He was commanding, and I weakly obliged, blinking tears from my eyes to see him. A strange part of me felt safe as he towered over me, looking down at my small body like predator with prey. It was the end.
A question bubbled from my mouth, before I could stop it. "Did you kill everyone here?"
He tilted his head. Paused. "Only the ones that didn't run."
I looked down at the dripping knife in his hand. The one that was now coated with some of my blood.
"Why me?" My eyes were closing from how tired I was- how much everything hurt. But everything was slower now. I wasn't afraid anymore. Ghostface squatted in front of me. He chuckled lowly while casually twirling the knife. He didn't say anything for a long minute. He just watched me, took in the blood tripping from my hipbone, the redness of my skin, the wet tears on my face.
"Beg."
"What?" I mumble, opening my eyes fully.
He stood up, boots pressing into my thighs, and carefully positioned the tip of the knife under my throat, making me stare up at him. "Beg. I might not kill you if you beg." His body was unmoving, the mask still making him expressionless.
A chance. To live.
I dropped my eyes, my lip trembling. "Please let me-"
"On your knees."
I furrowed my brows. Just a few hours ago, I had dignity. "But-'"
He dug the knife harder into me. "I'll slit your throat right now. I'd like that."
My eyes got watery again, and I think he inhaled at that. I slowly got up to my knees, putting my hands in my lap.
He cocked his head again. "There we go. Good girl." A part of me felt intensely ashamed, but it was this option or a violent death. If I could just run, maybe...
"Please. Let me live." My words were thick in my mouth.
"You made me mad." He grabbed my hair nonchalantly, pulling at my scalp. "Ignoring me. I think you deserve to get hurt for that."
I tried to steady my heart. How do I deal with this psycho?
"You were a bad girl." He paused and jerked my head up again, making me stare at that awful mask. "Say it."
I couldn't hide my physical repulsion to the request. Who asks someone to do that?
A sudden, stinging pain on my cheek. He had slapped me. Hard. "I told you to say it." His voice was growing more irritated.
He was really strong. I couldn't think. Numbly, I whispered, "I was a bad girl."
"Tell me you deserve to be hurt."
I choked on a cry. He hit me across the face again, and felt the knife scrape my jaw. "You should really learn to answer faster, bitch," he taunted, letting the knife drag on the opened flesh.
"I deserve to be hurt," I panted, my entire body shaking.
"You do," he murmured, letting the knife slide away from me as he leaned back. "And how do you think I should hurt you?" There was an underlying meaning to his tone...like he was waiting for something.
The weapon was farther from me now...so was he. His body was off of mine, and there was a gap between us that I could squeeze through. I stared at the exit hallway on our right. There would never be a right time. But now was my only chance. Flushed with adrenaline, I pushed myself off the ground and bolted towards the hallway as fast as I could. My feet hit the floorboards in a rhythm, and I urged my weak body to go faster.
Of course, he knew what I was trying to do. I was his entertainment. He wouldn't let me go. A part of me knew that.
I was halfway there before I felt his grasp on my shoulders, violently forcing me to the ground. I felt a hand close around my throat, choking my neck tightly. I grabbed at the air, and he stabbed the knife in the floorboard, right next to my arm. "Dumb fucking bitch," he gritted through his teeth. I felt him grabbing the flesh of my thigh roughly as he laid on top of me. His muscular body engulfed me. I couldn't move, or breathe...
"So stupid," he laughed breathlessly. His voice turned mean as he slammed my head down on the floor. "You're so fucking stupid." I felt him adjust in a strange way, only to see that he took off his glove, letting his bare hand continue travelling my thigh. "You can't escape me."
My vision got blurry, and he released my neck, letting me take a gasp of air .The glove was shoved in my mouth, and I nearly gagged on it, taking greedy breaths from my nose.
"You chose your punishment, then," he groaned in my ear, scraping his fingernails on my skin as he massaged my ass.
How strange. I almost forgot that this monster was a... man. He was heavy on top of me, tracing the cuts on my body and squeezing so tightly I whimpered at his grasp.
"Can't run away now, slut," he hissed, grabbing my tights and ripping them apart. My body was pinned completely. He pulled down my underwear, making a ragged breathing sound. I heard him let out a small laugh of disbelief.
"God, you fucking whore," Ghostface breathed. "You always get this wet for serial killers?" He shoved two large fingers inside of me, and I let out a cry. It was true. My body was taking him easily, and as he hit a spongey part deep inside of me, I could hear lewd sounds coming from inside me. I shook my head desperately, tears flowing from my eyes. He grabbed the leather glove from my mouth and hurled it to the side, a moan escaping my lips.
"No?" He said, pushing into me with more force. "Sounds like you like it." He went faster, and I covered my mouth, biting back the sounds. He grabbed my wrist and shoved my arm down, pinning it to my side. His breath got faster as he fucked me with his hand, and I felt a horrible, rising sensation in my body. He stopped, as if he knew I was close, taking his hand and putting it on his own body. I felt him press up against me, the hardness of his erection in his sweatpants. I suddenly felt very nervous.
He flipped me over, pulling his shirt off in a way that kept the mask on. "Look at me." His voice was unrecognizable, heavy with lust. "I need to see it hurt you."
A sick, depraved part of me...maybe wanted it too. He was so strong, and warm, and smelled good...if you ignored the blood. Oh god, there was blood on his arms. Splatters of it. People I might've worked with. Teenagers I might've seen.
I punched his chest, grunting with each throw as I tried to shimmy out from under him. But all the humor or amusement he had when he was making me beg for my life seemed to be gone. Saying nothing, he grabbed my hands and kept them on top of my head. It was so terrifying. Staring into the eyes of a mask.
"Don't make me kill you," he seethed, reaching behind us and pulling the knife from the wood. "This'll make you behave, huh?" He held it to my throat, and I stilled my body, my chest heaving from fear.
He pulled down his pants and boxers, his large dick hard, leaking precum. I shifted away, breathing faster. I couldn't take that. Literally, physically, it would tear me apart.
"No, wait. No-" I whimpered. He leaned forward and shoved himself inside of me.
I suddenly remembered what he texted me.
"I'm going to rip your insides open."
I guess that was interpretative.
My cries of pain were matched with his shaky groans as he pushed his cock inside again, hitting a deep part of me. I felt the knife digging into my throat as he grabbed my breast from under the shirt, scratching my skin with his nails. "Fuck, you're so tight," he hissed, his entire body weighing over mine as he started thrusting. His head jerked upwards and I could see the brief outline of a sharp jawline. He slammed his hand down and grabbed my hip, pushing my body onto him. The knife moved on my skin as his thrusts quickened, and he tightened his grip on my hipbone.
"You're so lucky," he grunted. "So lucky you're such a pretty whore. You'd be dead if you weren't so useful." his slams into me got harder, and I screamed.
"Please. It really hurts," I whined. My eyes felt watery, but tearing up hurt my eye sockets at this point.
Ghostface started going faster at those words. "Oh, yeah? It hurts?"
I yelped as our skin smacked, his pace making me feel lightheaded. "Y-yes." I should know not to tell a sadist something hurts. He continued thrusting, relentlessly, stabbing the knife down in the floor again and using both of his hands to bruise my hips as he lifted me and deepened the position.
I wailed, covering my face with my hands.
"You gonna cry?"
I shook my head stubbornly, although I knew I felt warm tears leaking down my palms.
"Fucking baby." He grabbed my arms and pinned them again, slowing down. "Cry for me."
I turned my head, trying not to see him. Trying not to show him. With his other hand, he grabbed my face and forced me to look at him, doing that stupid head tilt again. "C'mon, baby. Cry."
My lips trembled and I closed my eyes. A sharp, painful slap on my face. "I told you to fucking cry," he said viciously, and I couldn't take it anymore. A sob broke out, and I felt the tears start rolling down my face uncontrollably. He nodded slowly, a small laugh coming from his mask. "Good girl." "Yeah," he murmured, slamming his hips into mine again. "Good girl."
His hips pistoned inside of me over and over again, as sobs ran my throat sore. He kept staring at my face, at the way I cried, and his thrusts got more sporadic. He dropped onto my body again, groaning in my ear. "I'll keep you for a little longer, dead girl." The cold plastic of the mask touched my cheek as he grabbed onto my waist, quickening the movement of his cock. His breath got quick, the slap of his hips loud and sloppy. "Oh, god," he gasped, speeding up until I saw black spots in the sky. "Fuck, you're such a perfect, fucking whore," he groaned, pushing down on me and moving my entire body to his pleasure. "I'm-" his head jerked back as he slammed into me one last time, moaning lowly.
I took a shaky breath, feeling the warm, oozing sensation inside of me. I was strangely relaxed. I was probably going to die now. He stayed like that for some time, warming me. Squeezing my eyes shut, I stayed still as I felt his body separate from mine, and the sound of fabric rustling.
I felt a gentle hand on my arm. I opened my eyes, and he was fully dressed. He wasn't saying anything.
He made me stand up, and he carefully pulled my tights up. I could still feel his...remains inside of me, making my underwear sticky. I slightly retched. While gripping my arm, he leaned down and grabbed the knife sticking out of the floor. I felt so tired. I think I could hear the sound of police sirens in the background.
I looked at the man in the mask again. He was so tall, and big. He didn't need a knife to kill me. Just his hands. I knew it was time. I wasn't useful to him anymore. Not alive, at least. I stared at the dried up blood on the knife.
He made a small, breathy sound. Like a laugh. "No. Not yet." His voice was like a purr he flipped me again, covering my face with his other hand. "I'm not getting rid of you yet."
Something about the way he covered my mouth and nose made me feel so sleepy. The way his glove smelled like some type of far away cologne. I blinked, slowly, hearing his breathing. Like a lullaby. I closed my eyes completely, letting the darkness take me.
The words echoed in my mind as I lost consciousness.
"I'm not getting rid of you yet."
Hope you guys liked it! Let me know if you guys want a Part 2
stockholm syndrome being a "rare psychological disorder" is some bullshit because I feel like it's very natural to watch a horror film and want to fuck him.
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]
-----
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.
