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The Rules We Hide

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

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The Heelshire manor feels like a furnace.

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

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

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

Late night? You monster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry, tea forgotten.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

It was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You… buried them here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look at me, trust me. Stay with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I made them into something pretty, just for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me help you.

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

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

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

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

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

Traitor.

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

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

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

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

How does he even know how to do this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t belong here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach churns at the words.

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

The old hunting trails that led near the greenhouse.

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

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

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

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

He knows– he knows everything.

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

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

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

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

“(Y/n)?”

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

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

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

How could you have been so stupid?

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

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

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mine.”

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

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

He does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brahms, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What does that say about you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know what you did.

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

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

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

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

“Have you ever heard of the Langley brothers?”

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

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

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

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

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

[part five]

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