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ghostiesnightmare · 15 days ago

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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.

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ghostiesnightmare · 1 month ago

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

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

#ghostiesrequestsandasks

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ghostiesnightmare · 1 month ago

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Update.

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

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

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

I am completely on my own.

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

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

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

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

The Rules We Hide will be posted shortly.

#ghostiesnightmare #ghostiesupdatesandthoughts

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ghostiesnightmare · 2 months ago

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

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

----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want to show you something.”

#ghostiesnightmare #ghostiesupdatesandthoughts #ghostiesrequestsandasks

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ghostiesnightmare · 2 months ago

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

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

#ghostiesrequestsandasks

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ghostiesnightmare · 2 months ago

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The House of Rules

Some houses are built on stone, others on secrets.

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

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

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

------

Chapters:

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

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

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

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

The Rules We Burn --- coming soon!

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ghostiesnightmare · 2 months ago

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The Rules We Mend

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

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The early morning doesn’t seem real.

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

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

The image sends a shiver down your spine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gross.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this point, you have nothing to lose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like he likes it.

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

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

Stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was too late.

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

There’s nothing left that’s yours.

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

No, that would have been too easy.

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

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

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

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

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

The greenhouse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It deserves better.

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

The air was still– too still.

Something was wrong.

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

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

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

Nothing. Just vines flapping against the wind.

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

The garden shears were gone.

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

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

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

Brahms wasn’t there.

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They weren’t here to escape the storm.

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

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

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

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

“Don’t move, or I swear–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Over, and over and over again.

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

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

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

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

Your name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The blood on his sweater wasn’t just yours.

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

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

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

For the first time, it feels like home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were beyond saving, anyways.

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

For breaking the rules.

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

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

He only huffs. “Always.”

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

Fear.

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

Your heart lurches within your chest at the sight.

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

You could swear they glisten under the light.

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you lift it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgiveness– the taste sweet on your tongue.

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

You finally feel whole.

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

You were drowning in something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re mine too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The very scratches you marked him with just moments before.

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

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

You don’t speak, you don’t have to.

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

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

“Mine.”

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

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

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

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ghostiesnightmare · 3 months ago

Note

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

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

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

Thank you 🙏

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

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

#ghostiesdarkrambles #ghostiesrequestsandasks

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ghostiesnightmare · 3 months ago

Text

The Rules We Break

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: Trapped within the walls of the Heelshire Manor, you thought that the rules kept you safe. But secrets don't stay buried, and Brahms has found yours. Now there are no more lies, no escape, and no pretending– only a reality where desire is control, and submission is the only way to survive. TW: DARK content, dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, rough sex, foul language, choking, spanking, pussy slapping, overstimulation, orgasm denial, abuse, nudity, violence, creampies, manipulation, degradation, paranoia, unprotected sex, and more. Word Count: 8,157 MDNI- NSFW- read at your own risk. A/N: The long awaited Part 2 of The Rules We Keep is finally here! Inspired by this ask. Enjoy ;) [part one]

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The Heelshire manor was quiet.

In the late hours, there was no familiar shift in the floorboards, no hum throughout the ancient pipes, no groan in the weathered shutters that flapped in the wind– just silence. If it had been a few weeks ago you would have welcomed the lack of sound, relishing in the privacy of the spacious house.

But there is no privacy in the Heelshire manor– you know that now. Not when he’s there, watching your every move, waiting for you to slip. Always two steps ahead before you even realize you’ve fallen into another twisted game of his. The idea alone of your own personal boogeyman would have made you laugh at the stupidity of it all, but Brahms Heelshire was very much real.

That godforsaken night in the bowels beneath the manor proved it. Forged in sweat and blood and dirt, a piece of you was forever bound to him– a fact that you knew he relished in. The power held over your head, the fact that your survival entirely depended on a childish whim was a trophy most men would hold dearly. But Brahms was no man– he was something far worse.

The shrill scream of the kettle jolts you from your thoughts, heart almost leaping from your chest at the sudden noise. Fear was a common occurrence these days. It was if the house itself enjoyed basking in your fear, all too similar to its owner. Trying to slow your racing pulse, you push away from the kitchen counter to attend to yet another chore on the seemingly endless list.

Wrapping a towel around the handle, you balance a porcelain teacup in your palm– trying to steel the tremble in your hands as you pour the boiling water. Small raised welts dotted the flesh of your knuckles, sending needles of pain shooting through your fingers as you moved. Another token of Brahms’ love, a teaching moment that showed just how particular he was about his evening beverage.

Loose tea, never bagged. Silver spoon, polished to perfection so it gleamed against the dim lighting. A singular sugar cube placed on the tea saucer– just how he liked it.

The whole ordeal made you want to scream.

Yet, you swallow the anger threatening to tear through your throat, setting the kettle back on the stove top. Some battles are best fought silently– you knew that, learned that from him. The toast pops up from the toaster, one of the only modern appliances left in the kitchen, golden brown and ready to be buttered. Rummaging through the silverware drawer, you imagine raking the blunt knife across his skin rather than the toast, digging it into his flesh so hard it would draw blood.

Of course, there were no knives sharp enough for you to cause him harm– he made sure of that after your first encounter. You had to beg to be trusted with butter knives, the savor of the win almost shifting you away from the reason you were banned from them in the first place.

Evening tea ready, you brush your hands on the scratchy material of the apron, your first gift you had received due to good behavior. Placing the saucer and plate on a tray, you straighten– fear wedging in your throat momentarily as you gather the courage to turn.

The doll sits at the table, like always. Lifeless eyes stare absentmindedly forward, hanging an eerie sense of dread through the air. His assigned chair is pulled back just a bit further than usual, and the doll teeters slightly from the gap.

Someone’s impatient.

“Brahms… your tea is ready.”

A pause. The wall opposite of the kitchen countertop rattles oh so slightly as something– no, someone shifts within the passageways. Your jaw clenches, yet you push onwards. “Brahms. It won’t stay hot forever.” The floorboards creak as a section of the wall pushes outwards, revealing a void of black that sends memories flooding back through your mind.

The tunnels. The fallen beams. Your desperate attempt at escape. Him.

A hand shoots out of the darkness, and your teeth sink into the flesh of your cheek. Planting himself against the wall, your own personal hell emerges from the shadows. Hulking form towering over you with brute strength you knew better than to fight against, Brahms Heelshire crept into the light.

The porcelain mask almost glowed under the haze of the overhead chandelier, and a knot of nausea settles like a pit in your stomach. That mask– the very object of your nightmares in a way that sends a chill down your spine, no matter how many times you see it. It was too smooth, too perfect to be attached to the monster that hid beneath it.

Calloused fingers twitch at his sides, and you swallow the lump that had formed in your throat. “Tea,” You murmur, voice practiced– poised. Just like he taught you. Brahms took a weighted step forward, then two. You fought the urge to flinch as he approached.

He didn’t speak, preferring to drink in your every move– ever the observer. Your knuckles whiten as you grip the tray like a lifeline, offering it to him. You expected a barked order, a tilted head, some sort of reaction as he stalked towards you, yet he simply plucked the tray from your hands with eerie precision.

Hands folding at your front, you bow your head ever so slightly as a show of feigned reverence. He liked you best that way– small, submissive, perfectly playing the part as a piece to his game. Pretty little housewife, you knew the whole ordeal turned him on like nothing else.

Brahms sighed, mask lifting as he silently sipped the tea. Chiseled jawline, dark curly scruff adorning his cheeks under smooth, silky skin– if you had known any better, you would have thought he was attractive. Brahms shifted under your gaze, turning to look in your direction, haphazardly chewing a piece of toast.

There it was– the monster hidden beneath the mask.

Deformed, uneven puckers of flesh blossomed across the hidden side of his face. Shriveled wrinkles warped the entirety of his cheek, the hollow of his cheekbones almost protruding against the mass of pink and white. The burn scars that reached the edge of his jaw left his beard in shambles, tufts of unruly hair patching across where the scars had partially healed. Your fingers twitch at your sides.

You knew about the story, whispered between your brief grocery drop offs from Malcolm– the fire that almost engulfed the manor. The fire that was supposed to kill him. Yet, there he stood, a monster born from the flames that only left behind scar tissue and violence. A piece of you wondered what Brahms would have become without that fateful day– the man he was meant to be.

Deft fingers set the tray back down on the table.

The same ones that wedged their way between your thighs.

Your mouth went dry at the sight. You feel the weight of his gaze, stripping you of all defences like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Something you couldn't quite place swirled in those chocolate orbs, and it was almost shameful that the sudden flush in your cheeks gave you away. The rapid pounding of your heartbeat was thunder in your ears, and all you could muster was a wobbled, “Bedtime, Brahms.”

It was pathetic, really, to be plagued day and night by the very soul who ruined you. Yet, here you were– a collection of the broken pieces he created molded into his perfect little maid.

If Brahms spotted your little slip, he didn’t show it. Simply tilting his head in your direction before reaching out his hand, mask secured back in place. Tea abandoned on the kitchen countertop, your toes curl in defiance within your boots before relenting. Forcing your feet to drag across the hardwood floor, you slip your hand into his grasp– trying to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine. Immediately, his fingers wrapped around yours, trapping you in his grip.

Fighting the urge to pull away, you lead him upstairs, each step feeling like a guilty verdict hanging over your head. Though his skin felt warm to the touch, Brahms radiated the cold, an icy sense of anticipation crackling in the air. His presence haunts the manor like a ghost– lurking, watching, entirely inevitable. You feel the telltale chill settle in your bones and wrap around your heart in a vice-like grip.

No matter how much you dreaded it, despised it, you knew what was expected of you. Worst of all, he knew it too.

The double doors glared at you like the jowls of a hungry beast, daring you to venture closer in order to swallow you whole. The attic laid untouched since your unexpected arrival– a time capsule of your demise, another trophy of your loss of freedom. Brahms didn’t seem to mind abandoning his self-made home, however, more content to have you wait on him hand and foot in the comfort of his late parents’ abode rather than within the walls.

Opening the doors like a servant would royalty, you drop your hand from Brahms’ hold. The air here was different, tainted with the sins of the Heelshires– a price you were now forced to pay in full. The floral wallpaper had faded over the decades, the mahogany four-poster bed dwarfing the other lavish furnishings in comparison, the desks coated in a fine layer of dust. You weren’t allowed to clean here, the disarray of the bedroom providing Brahms with an unknown comfort you couldn’t quite place.

The bed was a different story, however. Perfectly made with washed sheets, fluffed pillows, and creased comforters made of the finest goose down– just the way he liked it.

You go through the motions, anxiety washing away as you take part in the nightly routine that feels much more like a ritual. Pulling back the covers, dimming the lights, filling the carafe with cool water, folding the morning robe with utmost care. Through it all, Brahms sat on the edge of the bed, gaze searing your every move– watching.

Ushering the much larger male into bed, you fluff the pillows, tucking the blankets around him with almost motherlike devotion. As if tucking a child into bed, your fingers brush Brahm’s shoulder, his skin burning beneath your touch. You fought the urge to recoil.

“Goodnight, Brahms”, you whisper, the words sounding so doting it made your head spin. It sounded so genuine you could have believed there was devotion in them. You knew the final rule, the very one he altered on that fateful night in a way that twisted even your final moments to revolve only around him. Swallowing any semblance of pride you had remaining, you duck down, forehead brushing against the cool porcelain of his mask.

Waiting, expectant– just like he taught you.

Brahms pushed upwards, the icy touch of the glass brushing against your lips. Bile rose in your throat– it was sickening. This routine, the role you had learned to play so well. Spine stiffening, you straightened, hands fumbling with the sheets as you smoothed them over his torso.

Brahms turned towards you, head tilted– the light catching his eyes as he met your gaze. You freeze, hands hovering over the blankets as your blood turns to ice. You knew that look, the one filled with warning in a way that only meant one thing.

Something was coming. Something horrible, just not tonight.

Breaking his gaze, Brahms settled into the blankets– your queue to leave. Sharply turning on your heel, you flee the room, relieved of your duties for the day. In your haste to leave, you almost trip over the doorway, stumbling as you slowly close the doors.

You were safe, for now.

Scurrying down the hallway draped in ornate rugs and antique paintings, you pause at the threshold of the guest room– no, your room. Sighing, you duck past the door, sliding the door into place before locking it with a satisfying click. Only then could you relax.

Spine pressed against the wood, you took what felt like the first breath in hours. Fingers rubbing your temples, you try to shake the lump forming in your throat. You couldn’t cry– that had stopped weeks ago, resulting in nothing but more lessons. Now all that was left was the breathless terror when awaiting punishment.

Trembling fingers undo the ties of your apron, the article of clothing falling to the floor as you creep towards the only safe space you know– the wardrobe. The mahogany structure towers over you as you slowly open the door, shoving pairs of shoes and papers out of the way in order to reach your deepest, darkest secret.

Hidden beneath the rubbish, the false bottom creaks as you remove the heavy pane of wood, revealing your journal. The paper crinkles under your fingertips as you hold it to your chest like the most precious jewels in the world– the only saving grace of your sanity. The smell of dust and ink invades your senses as you flip through the pages, filled with the secrets you didn’t dare to speak out loud.

It was the only place you told the truth, yet somehow as you write under the cover of moonlight, the walls had never felt so thin.

Like it had already betrayed you.

The morning is eerily quiet.

The raps on the master bedroom door go unanswered, bed haphazardly made upon forced entry– sheets crumpled with almost laughable amateurity. At first, you welcom the help, any and all semblance of freeing up your busy schedule seeming like a kind gesture. As the morning went on, however, the chill of silence began to creep into your bones.

The breakfast you tirelessly poured over for an hour sat untouched on the kitchen counter. Brahm’s favorite morning tea lay forgotten on the porcelain saucer, sugar cube and all. The bathwater you had drawn per usual request had long gone cold. Even the ancient phonograph, recently dusted to perfection, lay silent without a choice of records to pass the time. Through it all, there was no sign of Brahms– no telltale rustle behind the walls, no groaning of the pipes, no suffocating gaze weighing down on your every move.

It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Yet, for some odd reason, you couldn’t place the pit forming in your stomach.

As the morning turned into the afternoon, your calls towards him to respond, to eat, to do something became more urgent. The initial annoyance at the childish act of a cold shoulder quickly turning sour as the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock, a sense of worry washing over you. Throughout your chores, you catch yourself straining ever so slightly at every sound within the manor, trying to pinpoint whether Brahms had created the sound.

As much as you hated to admit it, thoughts of dread immediately began to swirl in your mind– each imaginative scenario overanalyzing what could possibly be the root of the strange behavior.

Did something happen? Had he fallen ill? Was he angry with you?

The silence should have brought you some sort of solace, the lack of constant attention and unyielding amount of chores finally bringing you a sense of freedom. But it didn’t, the daily routine completely shattered, leaving you to do nothing more than wander the very manor you were trapped in.

Unless…

You pause in your pursuit of dusting off the banister, eyes flickering towards the grand entryway like a child yearning for a stolen sweet. The treacherous voice in your head screamed at you to move, to take the chance now that you were alone and leave this horrid place behind you. But as you gaze past the ornate stained glass windows into the surrounding fields, something roots you in place.

Was it loyalty– something beaten to submission within you? Had you grown so accustomed to the life you have lived that you couldn’t go forward without it? Or, by some laughable act of fate, did you not want to leave?

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you look down, dusting so furiously that the dark wood gleams back at you. You had work to do whether Brahms was watching or not, there was no denying that there were more important things than planning escape– another rule you learned the hard way.

Eyes shifting towards a hidden panel in the wall, the hair on the back of your neck prickles as the images of that fateful evening flash through your mind. Those godforsaken tunnels were the root of your very downfall, resulting in far worse consequences than a battered ego and failed escape attempt.

Consequences you try not to think about when you lay in bed at night.

Your fists wound themselves around your apron– another nervous bad habit that Brahms hadn't yet broken, knuckles turning white as the scene replayed in your head like a broken record player. It was wrong, so completely lewd to even think about it, yet the shame blossoming in your stomach as you peered into the tunnel was enough to shatter any hope of reasoning with yourself.

You hadn’t been in the tunnels for weeks, fear seizing your heart as the walls would seemingly shrink around you– caging you in place. The idea alone of being back in them, with him, sends a shudder down your spine.

If Brahms didn’t want to come out of the tunnels by his own free will, fine. It was less distracting this way.

Rummaging through the cleaning bucket on the stairs, you produce a worn rag and a bottle of metal polish. Scrubbing the seemingly infinite amount of bronze plaques adorning the walls, you huff– irritation growing as the silence continued to weigh down on you like a wet blanket.

Maybe Brahms was in one of his foul moods, often ignoring you when things weren’t perfectly set to his expectations. The silent treatment only worked for so long, until he ran out of patience. Your hand pauses in its ministrations, realization suddenly tearing through you like a gunshot.

Patience– the deliberate, calculated kind he only savoured when he was planning the best way to punish you during another lesson.

You stiffen instinctively, not from fear exactly– but a sense of adrenaline from the horrific possibility that you were right. The silence became suffocating, the walls of the manor closing in around you as you fought to keep your gaze on the rag in front of you.

You feel it in the air then– something is definitely wrong, and Brahms is waiting for you to realize what it is. Yet for the life of you, there isn’t any semblance of a clue why.

He knows something.

Hoping to shake the impending sense of doom, you move upstairs– trying to scrub away the anxiety like the tarnish on the brass and bronze. Legs filled with lead, the trek down the hallway seemed to become more daunting with each step. You had the sudden urge to flee to your room and hide away from it all until it boiled over, only to return and beg for forgiveness after the anger passed.

The rag falls from your hand as you halt in place.

Your room– you hadn’t checked on the wardrobe since late last night. Your journal. The one place you dare to let your true feelings show in order to keep sane in order to dream of a life beyond the manor. Thoughts you had written beneath the guise of safety, of privacy.

But there is no privacy in Heelshire manor– you idiot.

Blind panic short circuits your nervous system, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you bolt to your room. It was a simple slip– just one, a small mistake easily outshadowed by the great feats you had accomplished on the daily to prove your undying devotion. Surely, your only secret was safe from prying eyes. Surely, he hadn’t found it.

The bedroom door slams against the wall from the force of being ripped open, the sound rattling against your eardrums as you dive for the false compartment hidden within the wardrobe. Trembling hands fumble with the latch– papers, half folded clothes, and shoes scatter along the hardwood floor as you tear the wardrobe apart.

Empty.

No crumpled papers, no half-smudged ink drying along the leather-bound journal, no ballpoint pen waiting to be written with– just the mahogany floor of the dresser gaping back at you. A nauseating wave of horror washes over you, denial tightening around your throat like hot embers. Frantically, you dart around the room like a woman gone mad, caution thrown to the wind as you search for the missing journal.

Sheets are ripped from the bed, duvet overturned. Desk drawers are rifled through with utmost precision. The chaise lounge scraps against the floor, lopsided with the hope of the book hidden between the cushions. But no matter how feverishly you searched, the journal was gone– seemingly vanished into thin air.

But you knew better. You knew Brahms– the weight of the world crumbling around you as tears well in your eyes. That horrible, sinking feeling in your gut twists like a knife– finally revealing its godforsaken name.

Retribution.

The sound of glass shattering echoes through the house with the force of a gunshot, sharp and violent. Then, another. Your bones rattle as the crashes clatter throughout the first floor. Something heavy topples, metal screeches, weighted footsteps stomp through the floorboards beneath you. Before you can think you jolt to your feet, legs pumping as panic rushes towards the chaos.

In your haste, you almost trip over the cleaning bucket in the hallway– now discarded. Lurching down the stairs, blood pounds in your ears as you approach the destruction. That telltale saying engraved into your very being plays like a broken record in your mind.

Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the–

As you round the corner into the foyer, the breath is ripped straight from your lungs.

The floor is littered in torn pages, every surface coated in paper and ink. Your words, your secrets, once scrawled within the false comfort of your room were now displayed like war trophies across the room– each screaming one word: guilty.

Sentences you never imagined to see the light of day were underlined in crimson, at least– what you prayed was red ink. Words torn from the deepest recesses of your mind stare back at you, a cruel act of vengeance on display.

“I hate him. I wish he were dead.”

Below it, another.

“He treats me like a slave. He’s a monster.”

The words taunt you, coated in a laughable cruel twist of fate. The scene made you sick.

“The punishments are the closest thing he will ever get to love. It’s sadistic.”

“He looks at me like he owns me, yet for some reason I can’t shake that feeling from my mind.”“I dreamt of the tunnels again… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub the sins of that night from my skin.”

“I hope he rots in hell.”

“Why do I ache to be scolded? The silence is the worst of it all. What is wrong with me?”

And the final nail in your coffin, the passage you wrote just hours ago– your confession.

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”

You almost choke on your breath at the words. You had written that in the still moments of the early hours, when you were faced with nothing but the truth. Now, it was being used against you.

The gutted leather of the journal meets your gaze, turning your blood to ice. There, in the center of the foyer’s fireplace, stabbed through by a rusted poker like a slaughtered animal. It was a crime scene, your fate held in the balance by the judge, jury, and executioner– Brahms Heelshire.

Your knees wobble, legs threatening to give out beneath you as you gape forward. This wasn’t just an act of revenge, it was a message. A twisted celebration of your betrayal, now on full display. It wasn’t about the journal– it was about what you said. He had read every word, and now?

You had to pay the price.

Lips trembling, the silence of the manor feels stifling. The walls seem to close in around you, much more akin to chains– caging you in. Fists clenching, you turn on your heel, fully prepared to flee the scene and pray for forgiveness later.

His voice cuts through the silence: cold, low– halting you mid stride.

“So that’s what you really think of me.” Brahms emerges from the hallway, light glistening across that haunting mask, fingers twiddling around something as he set the stage for your downfall. Your pen. Stalking into the room with calculated steps, you shrink against his gaze– dread weighing you to the floor like prison shackles.

“You think I’m some kind of monster,” He seethes, ragged breaths so strong they shake his broad shoulders. “-some thing you hate.” Fingers flex, the subtle notion too terrifying to interpret as his fiery gaze sears your skin. He’s relishing in your fear, you realize. Basking in the blind panic like a predator stalking its prey.

“You’re mine!” A fist crashes into the wall, punching into the drywall and rattling the foyer. You flinch, heart leaping into your throat at the weighted words. You want to cry, want to beg, want to fall to your knees and pray for forgiveness and swear you would never do it again– but you can’t. You know there’s nowhere to run, you’re trapped.

Stepping forward, Brahms snatches the nearest page to him– jutting it towards you like a court verdict. “Do you remember writing these things?” His voice drops to a whisper, words strained. “Do you remember thinking them, practically saying them out loud?” You swallow thickly, response dying on your tongue as you fight back tears.

“I know you meant it– every word.” Closing the gap between you, Brahms towers over your trembling form. The cool porcelain of the mask brushes against your forehead as he leans closer, breath fanning across your skin. “-Now, I’ll make you prove it.”

You don’t know if he means your hatred, your desire, or both.

With that, Brahms crumples the paper between his hands, tossing it towards the fireplace. There were no flames, but you swear you could feel your soul burning before your very eyes. Turning towards you once more, calloused fingertips wind around your forearm, pulling you into his chest. You stumble, fumbling as you try to pry your eyes away from the chocolate orbs that burned with something you couldn’t quite place.

Something like anticipation.

“No more games,” Voice dropping, the grip on your arm tightens with a bruising force, causing you to flinch. “-no more pretending.” Brahms moves at that, stalking out of the room and pulling you in tow. Ducking towards a false panel in the wall, your eyes widen– knees locking as the panel is opened and the darkness of the tunnels stare back at you.

Oh god, the tunnels.

The tears fall at the sight, dripping onto the hardwood floor as you thrash in his grip. Broken pleas fell from your lips as you squirm, begging to go anywhere else. You sob out apologies, praying for forgiveness you knew would never come. Brahms paid your outburst no mind, simply digging blunt nails into your skin so roughly you were sure he drew blood– like he was marking you.

The dark swallows you whole as you are dragged into the tunnels. Your pleas fill the space as if it would save you, but they drown in the void. The tunnels seem narrower now, the smell of dust and sweat and mold raking through your lungs as the walls threaten to reach out and grab you. You try to shake the memories that hang on the tattered walls like a coat of wet paint.

The chase. Fallen beams crushing you in place. Your jeans caught around your ankles. Brahms ruining you for all others.

Breaths coming out in shallow huffs, and you try to slow your racing heartbeat. The air was damp, sending a chill straight through your bones– any semblance of comfort abandoned within the bowels of the manor. Each step dragged behind Brahms, your legs struggling to keep up with his pace as he expertly navigated the tunnels.

The very tunnels he fucked you in.

Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to memorize the twists and turns through the narrow passageway. It wasn’t until the familiar creak of the narrow stairs that you realize where you are. No– not here.

The attic.

Brahms pauses at the threshold, the door swinging open as you lock into place. The blood drains from your face as your gaze is met with the gloom of his hidden sanctuary– the very place you first met on that fateful night. Dust coats every surface like ash, casting long shadows across the rotting wooden floor. Your stomach lurches as the bed comes into frame.

“Remember this moment.” he mumbles, the words weighing heavy in the dim room. “This is the moment that you stopped lying to yourself. The moment you admitted how much you really hate me.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, shoving you towards the bed so quickly you crumple onto the mattress in a heap of twisted limbs. Squirming like an overturned bug, you try to push yourself upwards onto your elbows only to be forced back down. The warped bed frame groans under the weight, the mattress dipping as Brahms crawls on top of you– knees effectively locking you into place as he straddles you.

“You write that I am a monster. That I hurt you– scare you.” He taunts, any and all reason stripped away as a finger ghosts your cheek. You try to fight the flinch rising in your spine, dread mixing with the chill of his words. “You don’t get to lie and keep secrets,” he continued, bitterness stabbing into you like a rusty knife. “-Now? I’m going to show you exactly what it really means to hate me.”

A hand wraps around your throat, and it’s shameful how your cheeks flush at the touch. Your silent betrayal only eggs him on, grip tightening– not so much to hurt, but as a reminder of who exactly you belong to. “Don’t lie now,” He hisses. “You wanted me angry, wanted this.”

You shake your head weakly, a final plea for mercy. It goes unanswered.

“Tell me the things you wrote. Out loud… I’m sure you remember.” You blink at the order, guilt scrambling your stomach into knots. “Brahms, please–” “Tell me. You wanted to confess so badly, so now you will.”

Trying to ignore the hand shifting from your throat to the collar of your shirt, your lips tremble as you think of the gutted pages in the foyer– the ones that damned you.

“I… I hate him. I wish he were dead.” you whisper, fingers scraping against your clavicle as your buttons are hurriedly undone.

“Louder.”

Voice cracking, you obey– reciting every horrible thought, every twisted confession. Every word exposing you in ways you wished you were never seen. Even as you fumble, you could practically feel Brahms’ smile through the mask as he absorbed your corrupted betrayal.

“Say the one about the punishments… I liked that one.” You swallow thickly, hot tears trailing down your cheeks, throat burning with shame. Your tears are wiped away with such devotion it mocks you, shirt undone and exposing your trembling torso.

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I… like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”

Porcelain rubs against the column of your neck and Brahms leans down, sending goosebumps down your spine. “What does that say about you, hm?” He murmurs, voice too soft– too calm, breath wafting along your skin, dripping with less than pure intentions.

“It says you’re mine– and that you were always going to be punished.” You know you should protest, fight the ridiculous notion, but deep down you know he was right. “So now, little liar… I think your lesson is long overdue.”

A yelp tears itself from your throat as your wrists are forced upwards, something metallic winding around them– binding you to the bed frame. Insticintly, you tug, struggling against the thin wire securing them in place.

You’re shaking now, blood simmering as your wrists go raw from the friction, the prospect of escape dwindling as the pads of Brahms’ thumbs draw slow, calculated circles into your lower rib cage. If you had known any better, you would have considered the action soothing– but as his gaze burned into you, it felt anything but.

“Comfortable?” He’s mocking you, hidden smirk dripping in pride. His touch feels like ice, but you jolt as if you were burned. You shake your head, breath catching as you tug on the restraints— but he only laughs, the sound coated in bitter disappointment.

“Still lying, like you hadn’t dreamed about this before. But it’s alright– after tonight you’ll never be able to lie again.” A hand lazily palms at your clothed breast, the chill in his touch stiffening your nipples. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to slow your breathing as your bra is ripped away from your chest, straps digging into the flesh of your back before snapping from the force.

Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you suck on the flesh for comfort, willing yourself to not squirm as the frigid touch brushes your nipples. Brahms sighs in contemptment, the sight of your undressed torso unexplored territory.

After all, he would actually be able to see your reactions this time. The thought alone sends electricity sparking through the air, realization dawning on you as your nipples are roughly rolled beneath his fingertips.

You jolt, trying to twist away from the borderline painful touch, but Brahms continues his methodical exploration of your breasts. Thumbs tracing the underside of the mounds of flesh, his hands seem to swallow you whole. A taunt whimper slips, and you want to sink into the mattress and disappear forever– embarrassment heating your cheeks.

Brahms pauses, fingers frozen above your skin. You glance upwards, blood turning to ice as those chocolate orbs swirl with an idea. Brahms shuffles, producing a long strip of fabric. Your eyes widen as he leans forward, tying the fabric behind your head– effectively cutting off your sight.

No.

The memories of the tunnel come flooding back. The dirt needling into your knees as you clawed at the floor, the ache in your ribs as they scraped against the fallen beams. The feeling of Brahms’ nails digging into your hips as he defiled you.

Darkness coats your vision, and you strain against the fabric. “Brahms, please–”

Something rough scraps against your shoulder, curls tickling your jaw. Uneven, puckered skin brushes downwards towards your breasts, and you shudder at the sensation. Oh god, he wasn’t wearing his mask. Stubble needles into your skin, followed by something wet.

Brahms breathes against your skin, burrowing his face between the valley of your breasts. You cringe at the feeling of his scars digging into you, lip trembling as his mouth latches onto one of your peaks. Teeth sink into your nipple, and you whimper– jaw clenching as his tongue flicks across the sensitive skin.

“No more pretending to be good, you want to be punished. You wrote it countless times, so now I will.” He murmurs, barely audible as he peppers your breasts with heated kisses. It was so wrong, the mixture of the roughness of his deformity and the softness of his tongue sending heat flickering through your stomach.

Exposed, humiliated, and completely at his mercy– just the way he taught you.

Spit coats your chest as Brahms drools over you, hands tenderly gripping your breasts before giving them a harsh squeeze. Your spine straightens, and Brahms chuckles at the reaction. Eager in the pursuit to enjoy your skin unprohibited by the mask, fingers trace down your sternum, creeping towards the edge of your waistline.

The fabric of your jeans catches on your hip bones as they are pulled down, gathering around your knees. You shudder as the cold air sinks into your naked skin, stomach clenching as you go gooseflesh in the chill. Dexterous fingers press onto your unclothed pussy, and you gasp.

“Poor thing,” Brahms muses. “What happened to that pesky backbone of yours?”

Fingers slip into your folds ever so slightly, and you pull so hard against the wire the bed frame creaks. “You’re wet– disgusting little liar. Pretending you hate me while you drip on my fingers.” Course pads swirl against your clit, and you moan. “Say it. Say you want your punishment.”

You clamp your jaw shut, refusing to give him the benefit of your words. A sharp sting jolts through your pussy, causing a pained cry to rip from your chest– he slapped you. Tears threaten to fall as Brahms rubs the tender flesh. “Say it.”

A pause. “I… I want it.” You swallow thickly, surprised at the submissive tone in your shaky voice.

“You need it.”

“I–” You hiccup, snot running down your nose.. “I need it.”

Two fingers plunge into you so abruptly you whine, stretching you uncomfortably and scissoring. There was no tenderness, but something much worse– cruel indulgence. You clench around his fingers as they fuck into you. Sinking further into the mattress, you try to slow the merciless pace Brahms set for you. The hand that wasn’t making you soak his fingers digs into your waist, nails sinking into your flesh and leaving red crescents in their wake.

You shudder, hips twitching as the brutal pace massages your gummy walls. The cloth digs into your temples as you squirm– hot, heated breaths quickly filling the space as the telltale warmth grows in the pit of your stomach.

“I own your body, your mind. Even your pathetic fantasies– there’s nothing left that’s yours.” Brahms growls, jaw scraping against your collarbone as he sinks his teeth into the column of your neck. A broken moan tears from your throat, saliva coating your skin as Brahms laps up the assaulted flesh. You clench around his fingers, stomach tightening as his fingers sinfully plunge knuckle deep.

Lewd squelches, another betrayal of your body, ring in your ears. Your cheeks flush as the pads of his fingers drill against the spongy spot that makes your head spin, fingers twitching within the bonds of the wire. Your hands were going numb from the pressure, tingling spiking its way down your spine with every rough thrust of his fingers. Your knees burn, scraping against the scratchy material of your jeans due to your incessant squirming.

The stoked embers within your stomach only grew, heightened by your shame. Every movement, every sound dilated under the darkness of the cloth covering your eyes. You strain your ears to hear something, anything that could distract you from the growing ache between your legs. It felt as if you were on fire, a sheen of sweat coating your skin and dripping down the valley of your breasts.

It was all too much, too hard– your pussy clenching around those godforsaken fingers in a vice-like grip. His fingers claim you in a way that your own could never fight against, pushing within you so desperately that your eyes flutter behind the makeshift blindfold. A third finger slips alongside the others, and you feel like you’re going to burst.

“Brahms, hah–”

“That’s it.” He breathes, “-Make those sounds for the monster you hate.” As much as you want to burrow your face into the mattress and crawl within your skin, your body falls into the dizzying feeling of falling from grace. Brahms, ever eager to coax more noises from you, thrusts his fingers upwards abruptly, thumb drawing hard circles on your clit.

Oh god, you were going to squirt at this point.

“Brahms, I’m sorry, please–” Toes clenching, your spine straightens, head knocking against the bed frame as your back arches, hips begging to chase the high that was threatening to spill over. You were so close it hurt, breath coming out in strained huffs– another low, needy moan escaping.

Then it was gone.

Brahms retreats his fingers right before the climax comes crashing down, any sense of relief spoiled as you clench around nothing. Your eyes widen beneath the blindfold, forearms aching as you wriggle against the wire, knuckles white as you bite back the sour taste of dissatisfaction. Trying but failing to stifle the groan of anger building in your chest, your jaw groans from the pressure of choking down your pride.

“What was it you said?” His voice cuts through the air, “-that my punishments were… sadistic?”

The blindfold feels cold and wet against your face, and you realize you were crying. The punishment was clear now, he was going to have you fall apart on his fingers only to take away the release you craved for– and there was nothing you could do about it.

Just the way he likes it.

The cycle began after that. He wouldn’t ask, or coax– just claim you with his fingers, dragging your body to the depth of hell so you were begging for him, for mercy. Bring you to the tipping point just to rip away your climax, only to start over again. Tears turned to screams, prayers to begs, yet the cycle would just repeat itself.

Over, and over, and over.

You couldn’t even count the amount of times he had tormented you at this point, certain you had blacked out after the first four cycles. Wrists hanging weakly from the wire were red and raw from your struggles. The blindfold was soaked through, a mixture of your tears and sweat clinging to your feverish skin as you blankly stared into the darkness. Throat hoarse from your pleas, you could only let out a strained croak as Brahms’ fingers slid out of your convulsing body once more.

“Please, no more.” You sob, entire being full of an ache you knew only he could fix– yet you knew better than to beg. “Please, I can’t–”

“Tell me you hate me.”

You freeze at that. Fingers dig into the fat of your ass so roughly you cry out in pain, but Brahms only sighs.

“Tell me you hate me.” He repeats, fingers moving dangerously close to your aching pussy. Terrified of another torturous cycle, all you could do was obey.

“I…” you swallow. “I hate you.”

It was true, you did hate him. You hate how through all of the pain and the hurt and the betrayal, you still crave nothing but him. It disgusts you. Worst of all– he knows it too.

“You wrote that I ruin you– let me finish the job.” Hands grip your hips, effectively flipping you over with utmost ease. You groan, arms twisting uncomfortably in front of your head as your shaking knees meet the mattress. Trying to push yourself up on your crooked elbows, the crown of your head is shoved into the pillow, the taste of mildew and sweat filling your nostrils. You squirm uncomfortably, taking in greedy gulps of air against the damp pillow– trying to ignore the brush of Brahms’ hips meeting the fat of your ass. Without warning, Brahms drives forward, spearing you on his cock so quickly a pain-riddled gasp falls from your lips.

Allowing you no time to adjust, Brahms steels forward, rocking his hips against you so vigorously the bed frame rattles against the wires– forcing you to bow against him. The ache in your pussy screams against the much bigger intrusion, and with every thrust short, quick gasps melt into the pillow beneath you.

Toes curling at the force of the brutal pace, your jaw slacks– drool running down your neck as Brahms filled every inch of space you might’ve used to resist him, hate him. You flutter around his incessant thrusts, trying to alleviate the pressure that had been building within your stomach for the past few hours.

“You know, sometimes I hate you too.” A rigged smack against your ass jostles you against the mattress, pain needling down your leg as Brahms rubs the inflamed area. Continuing to bully his way into your sore walls, Brahms groans at the sensation of you falling apart due to his ministrations– how ironic.

“I hate the way you lie to me.” A strike.

“I hate when you smile at me like you aren’t scared of me.” Another one.

“I hate that you look at the walls instead of me when you speak.” His breath is hot against your lower back, feeding the fire growing against your skin as another strike rings out through the attic. “-Like, mmh– you’re thinking of ways to escape.”

You’re sobbing now, knees wobbling as blow after blow ripples against the fat of your ass, no doubt leaving it an angry red. “I hate that you wrote about running away– about leaving me like I wouldn’t find out.” A strike so heavy it almost topples you lands, and you scream.

“I hate that even now, you’re pretending you don’t want this.” He presses deeper with every word, rutting against your cervix– making your eyes roll back into their sockets. “-That you don’t want me.”

Another strike.

Babbled apologies rattle your rib cage tainted with shame and guilt, prayers of gentleness left with no response. “But worst of all, I love the way you hate me.” He shudders, wrapping a fist around your hair and forcing you to arch against him. Teeth sink into the unmarked junction of your neck as he bottoms out inside of you.

“It means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.”

You break then– a silent scream filled not with relief, but shame. Sparks fly across your vision as you orgasm, overstimulation racking through your limbs and shaking you to your core. Head reeling, your nails dig into the flesh of your palms, drawing blood. A scream echoes through the room, raw and heated and divine– and you realize it was coming from you.

Brahms devours it, the essence of your ruin sweeter than any other victory. Hips stuttering against you, his nails dig into your hips– holding you against him as he climaxes. Thick, hot ropes of cum coat your sore insides, and you clench at the feeling. Shallowly thrusting his orgasm into you, Brahms lets out a sigh of relief before stilling completely.

You flinch at the sensation, overstimulated pussy screaming for solace– for mercy. Yet, Brahms Heelshire is not a merciful man, opting to reach over you and undue the wires holding your wrists taunt. Limbs free, you all but collapse onto the mattress, earning a chuckle from the male behind you.

Mirroring your movements, Brahms pulls you into his arms– the very ones that tormented you for hours on end. Spooning you in bed, Brahms refuses to leave the warmth of your pussy, another testament to your punishment. Holding you with the reverence of a lover, the blindfold is stripped away from your gaze, revealing the dark gloom of the attic once more.

A thumb wipes away a stray tear, drawing circles on your cheek as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The action makes your stomach lurch with dread. “You’ll learn to love me properly now, without the lies.” Brahms hums, tucking his scarred flesh into the crevice of your neck.

A pause.

“...the way I love you.” He finishes. If it was a threat, you didn’t care. You were too tired, too broken to think about anything other than the dull ache between your thighs. A hand intertwines with yours, held over your stomach where you could still feel the outline of him buried inside of you. If you knew any better, the action almost seemed holy– a vow, a promise to you.

“From now on, no more pretending. You’re mine– forever.” You know he doesn’t mean romantically. He means you’ll never leave this godforsaken house, never have a single thought that doesn’t already belong to him, never leave him alone again.

As you lay in the attic, the air still smelling of sex and sweat, darkness begins to overcome you. While Brahms nods off in the late hours of the night, the sweet release of sleep doesn’t come.

Because when you sleep beside a monster in a house that holds no secrets, you learn not to dream.

[part 3]

#ghostiesnightmare #slasher x reader #slashers #reader insert #slasher smut #x reader #smut #female reader #horror smut #x you smut #brahms heelsire x reader #brahms heelshire #brahms the boy #brahms x reader #the boy 2016 #slashers x reader #brahms heelshire smut #brahms heelshire x reader #brahms heelshire x you

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ghostiesnightmare · 3 months ago

Note

hey i was am a big fan. I had a request for Brahms Heelshire. What if he found out you had broken a rule (but like yall were together) if that makes sense. And he punishes the reader in a bunch of diffrent ways (spanking, overstimulations, orgasm denial, ect).

Anon, you have a wonderful twisted mind.

The scary thing about Brahms is he is so unpredictable. But the thing we do know for certain?

Break a rule, pay the price.

Because there is no privacy in the Heelshire manor– you know that now. Not when he’s there, watching your every move, waiting for you to slip. Always two steps ahead before you even realize you’ve fallen into another twisted game of his. The idea alone of your own personal boogeyman would have made you laugh at the stupidity of it all, but Brahms Heelshire was very much real.

Yet, in the false security of your room, you file away your deepest darkest secrets during the aftermath of that fateful night in the tunnels. It was the only place you told the truth, yet somehow as you write under the cover of moonlight, the walls had never felt so thin.

Like it had already betrayed you.

The result?

The Rules We Break-- coming soon! Part two of The Rules We Keep, inspired by this wonderful request!

[full story here]

#ghostiesrequestsandasks #ghostiesdarkrambles

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ghostiesnightmare · 4 months ago

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Anything in general for poly lost boys or house of wax?

You've come to the right place anon! I thoroughly cherish both movies, and the boys– I'm obsessed.

The lost boys have my heart, literally. Cigarette smoke, leather jackets, silver jewelry– they are the epitome of what every 'bad boy' aspires to be. David, always the leader, thinks of all the manipulative ways he can get you crawling back towards him– preferably on your knees. Dwayne is ever observant, content in watching the others tear you apart for his own amusement only to push you towards the breaking point to see those pretty tears. Marko's hotheaded nature is a force to reckon with, both sadistic and chaotic in the way that leaves your head reeling– it's best to stay on his good side if you want to prevent another feeding. And Paul? Paul is the most unpredictable of them all, any kind action quickly replaced by those dark desires he carefully hides beneath the surface. You were doomed the second they laid eyes on you.

Stalking within the shadows of Santa Carla only adds to their allure, yet the real reason to their suspicious actions would make anyone's skin crawl.

Maybe you always knew that deep down.

Maybe you find out their dirty little secret.

Maybe you were in the wrong place wrong time when they were ready to feed.

But now that they have their eyes on you, it's futile to escape. The boys never agree on anything. But sharing you? That comes naturally.

The Sinclair brothers, on the other hand, have very different end goals in mind. Motor oil, candle wax, gasoline– these brothers were built from the rough, so they don't play nice.

Ambrose is a ghost town, one full of lies and secrets buried beneath the layers of wax carefully painted on. All it takes is one missed turn, one blown-out tire, and suddenly you're the new attraction– one that's alive, at least.

Lester always spots you first, those fox-like eyes scanning the forest floor like he was made for the hunt, making sure you are exactly where they want you to be. Bo's charm slips as the white-hot temper festers beneath it all, hands practically begging to tear you to shreds and snuff out that defiance he finds so... distracting. And Vincent? Vincent is more than happy to take the broken pieces that are left and mold you into a masterpiece of blood, flesh, and tears. After all, it's what he does best.

Your request has been noted, I will be working on bringing our sexy poly vampires to life ASAP. And for the Sinclair boys... I have the perfect fic idea for them.

Thank you for your ask!!

They're waiting for you.

-ghostie <3

#ghostiesrequestsandasks

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ghostiesnightmare · 4 months ago

Text

Cut by Mercy

Pairing: Michael Myers x Reader TW: DARK content read at your own risk. Abuse, kidnapping, violence, knifeplay, blood, descriptions of injuries, implied noncon, etc. MDNI- NSFW

-----

Michael Myers is the manifestation of wrath.

There is no rage with Michael– no fury-driven punches, no regrettable insults hurled in the heat of the moment. Emotion, after all, is a human experience, and Michael is something far from human.

Michael is consumed by his actions. Every kill, every stalk, every deliberate step is driven by the endless desire to snuff out any and all light that threatens his pursuit of darkness. Like a shadow flickering on the edge of your gaze, he’s there– watching, waiting, plotting.

And then there was you.

Innocent, naive you– the very opposite of him in almost every way. Kind where he lacked mercy, patient where he was ruthless, pliable in all the ways he was rigid. Your mere existence has his bloodlust spiral out of control, the idea alone making the darkness claw towards you in an addictive pull.

Michael’s reputation precedes him: the ghost of Haddonfield, the second hand of death. Even if you had heard the stories, the hushed warnings, nothing would have been able to protect you from him once his gaze was set on you.

Like death, Michael is inevitable. Like wrath, he stops at nothing to have you– no matter how many bodies he has to step over to get there. Once you are in his grasp, the only thing that could ever possibly free you is the very kiss of death, whether by him or the devil himself is up to how well you behave.

Michael’s twisted version of love boils down to one thing: ownership. His love is one of violence, born in blood and sweat and bruises– not of something as pathetic as affection. Somehow, by some cruel stroke of fate, he found you more interesting alive than dead. It’s only fair that he breaks you into pieces to figure out why.

You are claimed as his, smothered in the obsessive pursuit to delve into your soul and pick you apart to mold beside him– it’s suffocating. Always methodical, he falls into the same path that has driven him for years, stalking you from the shadows, memorizing every detail, controlling you through fear. The pure rush of tearing your heart to shreds beats any thrill of the hunt– it only feeds his hunger.

A stranger to kindness, his consuming presence would ravage you from the inside out. The poisonous touch leeches into your very soul, manifesting in bruises, scrapes, and cuts across your skin. Swollen lips, runny eyes, trembling hands– the whole thing turns him on like nothing else.

Michael isn’t afraid to push you too far– after all, what’s the fun in holding back?

Bleeding gashes? No problem, he’ll patch you up just to tear your flesh open once more. Broken bones? Michael will wait until they’re almost healed just to press down until you scream. That’s how he likes you best– snivelling at his feet, covered in his sinful influence and crying for a shred of kindness. It’s a manifestation of his power over you. On his best days, he offers a shred of sympathy– just to rip it all away from you.

If you ever try to press your luck by escaping, you better pray to all things holy that you succeed. Because if you fail, Hell could freeze over before you forget the consequences. Michael’s love is terminal– you can beg, you can run, but in the end it doesn’t matter. He caught you, and now you have to pay the price.

The basement reeks of sweet and blood, the air uncomfortably cold as he drags you back to your personal Hell. Ankle throbbing beneath you, it’s clear that it’s fractured before you could even look at it– the tumble down the stairs leaving you dazed and sore. Never too dazed, however. Michael always made sure you were deathly aware of the pain you were in– every ounce of what was to come.

The tears fall at that, practically searing your skin as they drip onto the concrete below. You know better than to grovel, to plead. It never made a difference in the end– only exciting him. Michael towers over you, monstrous form blotting out the little light in the room. You hear it almost immediately: that rasping, eerie drag of his breath beneath the mask. It’s calm, too calm, and that’s what terrifies you the most.

A hand winds around your matted hair, dragging you onto your knees so suddenly you shift your weight on the injured ankle. A hiss of pain rakes through you, and Michael drinks it in. Always watching, always feasting. Scalp screaming, babbled apologies fall from your lips as you beg for release. Michael offers you barely any semblance of response, cocking his head as his searing gaze burns down at you.

He never speaks– he doesn’t have to. After all, actions speak much louder than words.

You barely have time to whimper before you are slammed back down, a pathetic ragdoll at his feet. In this moment, you had never felt so small, so fragile– his broken plaything. Pressing your aching forehead to the cold concrete, you shake ever so slightly with broken, silent sobs.

Michael crouches over your form, studying your trembling form with cruel fascination. The cool tip of the blade drifts down your back, slicing the tattered tank top in two. You didn't dare to move, dare to breathe. It felt almost soft, a kiss of death slicing mere millimeters from your flesh. Yet you knew better. The blade was a promise, a vow of what was to come.

The scariest part about Michael?

He will still love you– no matter how much you fight, how much you deny him, how much you beg, how much you bleed. Not because you deserve it, not because you want it. But simply because he found you, and now you were his– forever.

Like a moth drawn to a flame.

The calloused touch of his fingers digs into the back of your neck, forcing you to arch upwards. You meet his gaze, if it could even be called that. Staring into the void of the mask– into death, only one word falls from your lips.

“Please.”

But Michael doesn’t understand love, or consent, or mercy. Only possession. You knew that better than anyone.

As you are quickly ushered backwards, the rough cement scraping against your shoulder blades, you realize the true horror of Michael’s tainted devotion.

Michael’s love is a death sentence and a wedding vow all at once– and you have no choice but to take it.

Until death do you part.

#ghostiesdarkrambles #ghostiesnightmare #slasher x reader #reader insert #slashers #michael myers x reader #michael myers smut #michael myers #halloween franchise #halloween fanfic #x reader #michael myers x you #horror #slashers x reader #slashers x you #seven deadly sins drabble #nsfw

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ghostiesnightmare · 4 months ago

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About the author/ housekeeping

Hello everyone! I thought it was about time to do a little introduction about myself as the page continues to grow.

This account name is called ghostiesnightmares, so feel free to call me Ghostie or Ghost! I am a college student in my 20's and use she/her pronouns.

Writing fanfiction has been a HUGE part of my life, I started from Wattpad writing yandere fics and graduated to the Tumblr community! I am still new to Tumblr mechanics as I only started posting on here for about three months (any tips or recommendations are well appreciated!!)

A big part of my writing is for darker characters, therefore my content is usually filled with the depraved nature of those I write about. I do my best to tag accordingly and be sensitive towards any and all triggers, but if there is anything I miss along the way PLEASE reach out to me so I can fix it!

That being said, this blog is a mixture of dark romance and horror smut. If you want a happy ending... I'm probably not your gal. I write for these characters because, deep down, they are monsters. My goal is to bring them to life in a way that is both accurate to their internal darkness while also fulfilling all of our deepest, most secret fantasies.

If there is a character you want to hear more about, I would love to hear from you! My inbox is always open to requests and character rants, so trust your message will be read ASAP. New fic ideas and drabble possibilities are always on my mind ;)

Boundaries: There are only a few things I do not write about: pregnancy, scat, and necrophilia. These are just my personal boundaries, but if there is anything else you can imagine up, I would be more than happy to bring the fantasy to life!

Reader perspective: My fics are mostly leaning towards feminine presenting readers. This is due to my experience as a cis woman, and I want to be respectful to others by not writing about experiences I cannot personally or fully relate to. That said, I am more than happy to branch out, but I want to be able to do so in a proper manner that is fully inclusive and respectful to all my darlings!

I would love to hear from you all, so never feel afraid to reach out! As always, read the taglist... and maybe bring a weapon of choice. My boys don't play fair.

Good luck, you'll need it~

– ghostie <3

#ghostiesnightmare #ghostiesupdatesandthoughts

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ghostiesnightmare · 4 months ago

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The Price of Failure

Pairing: Albert Shaw x reader TW: DARK content, read at your own risk. kidnapping, manipulation, restraints MDNI- NSFW

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Albert Shaw is the epitome of pride.

Nestled away in Denver, Colorado it’s almost too easy to blend into the crowd, playing the part of the sweet silver fox with a mysterious past. Similar to a mask, he portrays the role almost too well, never leaving a trace. He’s cold– calculated. Many know him as Albert the mechanic, the professor, the quiet smoker who sits outside the bar with just a slightly unnerving gaze– never the serial killer.

Slipping through the cracks undetected for so long has left him with a sense of superiority– both mentally and morally. After all it’s only fair, how else is he supposed to think? With everyone turning a blind eye to his dark side, his ego only rises. Once he meets you, poor little thing, it’s pure nature for him to grab what’s rightfully his.

He doesn’t just want to own you– he wants to manipulate your every thought, every emotion to directly and solely be focused on him. To Albert, control is everything, and with you that obsession to maintain superiority only grows. You aren’t just another nameless victim rotting away in that basement, you’re his prized possession– a project for him to completely break you down and build what he wants from the pieces.

His love is completely conditional, if you could even call it love. Constantly molding, testing, grading you to meet his almost unattainable standards. Of course, he isn’t without mercy– when you succeed, he’ll reward you. Trinkets, music, books, practically anything you could possibly desire while trapped in this prison, say the word and it’s yours. When you fail, however… Albert is more than happy to play his favorite role: The Grabber.

Your punishments are just another testament to his complete and utter control over every aspect of your life. You want to be a brat? Then you’ll be a starving brat. Decide to mouth off? Fine, he knows just the thing to shut you up. You’re his pretty bird in a cage, and no matter the challenge or setback, Albert is determined to mold you into his perfect plaything.

In his eyes, you aren’t a lover– a partner, but the walking reminder of his success and ability to turn Denver into his own personal playground. He’s obsessed with the idea of you, deeming you worthy to accept his every word, every thought as pure fact. His witty nature has him learning every detail about you, twisting your each and every thought into something worthy of his time.

“I know better than you what you need. You’ll thank me eventually.” He would say after a particularly rough punishment, disappointment becoming a very tough pill to swallow. It’s almost suffocating in the way he watches over your every move, correcting you on even the smallest of problems you push his way.

He doesn’t just want you to own, he wants to perfect you. He wants to make you completely reliant on his guidance, not because he craves your attention– but because he can.

The scariest part about Albert? If you fail to meet his expectations and push him too far, any affection he would offer you is completely taken away. It’s almost terrifying in the way he’ll flip, stripping you of any dignity just to watch you break from the pressure. He’ll take it all in stride of course, murmuring praise in your ear as you come crawling right back to him. You’re suffering only proves his point– no matter how much you try to defy him, it’s always outshadowed by how much you need him after all.

Your wrists would throb against the blood red velvet he ties you up with– even on your worst days, you had to be dressed to play the role of his favorite toy. Strapped tightly to the chair, you would squirm, brain foggy from the past few hours of him educating you. And of course– you had to go and ruin it all.

Albert would tower over you, perfectly composed as he practically dissected you with his eyes. Crouching to your eye level, the telltale patronizing grin would turn your blood to ice– a sign of another lesson. “Look at you, following orders so perfectly.” A pause, a brush of his fingers against your cheek. “... you make it so easy to love you.” The words sending the oh so familiar shiver down your spine.

Lips wobbling, broken pleas die silently on your tongue. You know better than to speak without permission– you learned that after the first few times. The tears however, flow anyways. Albert would sigh, wiping them away so delicately that you almost forget that he was the one causing them. “No, no– none of that now. Good girls don't cry unless I say so.”

The words were soft, yet your skin burned worse than any slap. Albert’s eyes darkened, fingers digging into your jaw and forcing you to meet his stare– one full of pity. “You disappoint me,” he remarked, almost regrettably– as if scolding a child. “All this work, and you still break so easily. You’re so fragile.” Shame blossomed in your stomach.

His thumb brushed against your bottom lip, and your jaw slacked in submission– coating his skin in your saliva. So obedient, so willing– just like he wanted. “I was going to let you have something nice tonight.” A breathe, yet you knew there was a price you had to pay. There always was. “...but I think you should learn the price of failure.”

A whimper flickers across the room, and you almost speak– to beg, to plead your shame and admit just how sorry you were, but his laugh silences you before the words come out. The sound rattles your brain– a laugh filled with something you couldn’t place.

It wasn’t kind, or cruel, or mockery. But one of pride.

Because that was Albert Shaw’s greatest sin. As he towered over you, watching you tear yourself apart for even the smallest scrap of mercy, he knew he had won. And he had never been more proud.

“You’ll learn eventually,” he whispered, fingers trailing down the column of your neck, leaving a trial of fire in their wake. “...You’ll learn to thank me.”

#ghostiesnightmare #ghostiesdarkrambles #albert shaw #the black phone fanfic #slasher x reader #slashers #reader insert #x reader #female reader #the black phone #the grabber x reader #the grabber x you #drabble #horror #slasher x you #seven deadly sins drabble #NSFW

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ghostiesnightmare · 4 months ago

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With finals wrapping up I’m delving into the twisted little corner of our world here to bring the slashers to life! I'm currently working on a deep delve into each of the slashers I have written for so far, and am always looking for inspiration. If you have a request for a character feel free to share-- I love hearing from you all!

Thank you also for over 150 followers! I love each and every one of you ;)

-ghostie <3

#ghostiesupdatesandthoughts #send in some requests!!

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ghostiesnightmare · 4 months ago

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Graded on a Curve

Pairing: Professor Albert Shaw (The Grabber) x Female Reader Summary: All she wanted was an A, and all he wanted was obedience. When a professor with a sinister past takes an unhealthy interest in one of his brightest students, their academic games spiral into a destructive affair. The final lesson? Devotion isn't extra credit– it's required. TW: DARK content, dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, rough sex, foul language, choking, spanking, abuse, nudity, violence, blackmail, creampies, manipulation, alcohol, cigarettes, degradation, paranoia, unprotected sex, teacher-play, and more. Word Count: 10,467 MDNI- NSFW- read at your own risk. A/N: I tried a different formatting for this one, let me know your thoughts! Also Albert, when I catch you Albert-

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He’s doing it again.

Annoyance flared in your stomach as you tried to ignore the eyes burning holes into your head, pencil gripped in your fingers like a lifeline as you scribbled in your notebook. The classroom was silent, save for the flutter of paper and the shuffling of nervous students squirming in their seats.

A pop quiz on a Tuesday afternoon– something you had learned to dread every time you squeezed into the lecture hall, mind blanking with every tick of the flimsy clock mounted on the wall. At this point, you were certain you would fail yet again, the prompts carefully written on the chalkboard glaring back at you with leering stares. Flickering your gaze from the questions, you absentmindedly scanned the front row– eyes landing on the icy blue you had grown to despise.

Albert Shaw met your stare with borderline amusement, chalk twirling haphazardly in his fingers as he leaned against the pulpit. His usual stiff posture was abandoned as he watched the students work, chalk tapping lightly against the wood as he observed, brow cocked. Subconsciously, your teeth gritted, grip tightening on your pencil as you tore your gaze away from him, jotting down some half hearted response to the last question before giving up on the quiz altogether.

Professor Shaw was beloved across the student body for his work, the active presence he had on campus preceding him when you initially joined his class. Classmates would rave about his lectures, thoroughly impressed by his ability to guide the narrative for creative writing, turning even the most boring essays into a work of art. With the end of senior year steadily approaching, your choices of electives were declining– the options “slim pickings”, as your advisor had said.

Originally, you felt grateful you were able to snag a spot into Creative Writing: From the Pages to Life, quite literally being the last possible student able to join. Hearing nothing but positive feedback from past students who took the course, you were assured it would be smooth sailing until graduation. You were sorely mistaken.

Alongside pop quizzes and almost two hour lectures, the assignments piled up like a mountain beneath you, almost toppling over as the semester progressed. And Professor Shaw himself was nothing short of a nightmare– practically tearing your work apart every time you submitted, corrections and not-so-helpful feedback covering the page so severely the sheets were smudged red. He was single handedly standing in the way of your graduation, a pathetic 42% heaving you down like the weight of the world.

“That’s time… pass your papers to the front of the class. I’m sure you all did well–” The words jolted you from your trance, Professor Shaw quickly collecting the sheets of paper. Tearing the scribbled page from your notebook, you passed it forward– shame budding in your stomach. The professor gathered the papers in his arms, assembling them into a neat stack before returning to the chalkboard, erasing the prompts.

Your teeth sunk into the inside of your cheek, nerves buzzing through your skin. “-As I’m sure you are all well aware, we are halfway through the semester, which means it’s time to discuss your final project.” Internally you groaned at the prospect of yet another assignment, the idea of spending hours typing for a bullshit prompt sending your head spinning. Professor Shaw continued on, ignoring the groans and muffled whispers sprouting throughout the classroom.

“You’re final project,” He began, rolling up the sleeves of his collared shirt around his elbows. “-will be something different this year. I want you to choose a real-life figure to analyze. Not a biography, but a delve into the actions and moral compass of someone who has left an impact on society– positively or negatively.”

That piqued your interest.

Spine straightening, you let the words settle as ideas began to take root. Chatter erupted throughout the lecture hall, students turning their heads as they openly brainstormed with their peers. Professor Shaw chuckled slightly, holding up a hand while speaking over the noise– quickly putting an end to the discussion. “You’ll have the rest of the semester to work on this assignment, so I expect nothing short of perfection.”

A small piece of you stung at the prospective jab, and you shifted uncomfortably within your seat. The class was silent, anxiety crackling throughout the air as Professor Shaw unpacked the final assignment. Clearing his throat, a hand combed through his sandy blonde hair, rustling the locks before speaking.

“I highly recommend researching this figure thoroughly. I also expect a one-on-one meeting with me during my office hours so we can discuss your figure of interest in detail. You can sign up for a timeslot through the class portal. Now, with the last–” He paused, eyes shifting towards the clock. “... five minutes, take a piece of paper and write a few figures of interest, along with your name and student number. I will collect them and connect with you regarding your choices.”

There was a shift in the air at the comment, and you quickly tore a page from your notes, pencil scraping across the paper as you wrote your personal information. Silence quickly enveloped the lecture hall once more, Professor Shaw settling comfortably in his chair, fingers already clicking away at the clunky computer provided by the school.

You shifted, pausing as you wracked your brain for possible figures– who did you want to write about? The clock continued to tick, your arch nemesis, and a sudden dark thought sprouted within your mind. Glancing sideways, you looked at another student’s paper, prominent figures such as Louis Armstrong and Isaac Newton dotting the page. You rolled your eyes, the idea of spending half a semester learning about the founder of gravity putting you half to sleep.

Training your gaze forward, you studied the professor in front of you, the silence suddenly feeling heavier as you watched him type. He must have felt your intense gaze, because he straightened slightly, eyes scanning the sea of students. Gaze locking with yours, you froze– the icy blue sinking through your skin and settling into your soul.

Just for a split second, there was something– something different in the way that he looked at you.

His lips twisted into the faintest of smirks, sending a shiver down your spine. Your stomach flipped, thoughts emptying as you stared, skin suddenly hot to the touch. Why was he staring like that? The blare of the final bell screeched through the class, students quickly packing up as they dropped their slips of paper onto Professor Shaw’s desk– eager to leave the room.

Realizing you had spent the time daydreaming instead of writing, you jotted the first name you thought of down on the paper, folding it gingerly between your fingers. It seemed like a longshot, but with recent events shaking Denver to its core, the idea seemed like a good one. Shrugging your backpack over your shoulder, you approached the desk, dropping the scrap of paper onto the pile. Quickly brushing past, you retreated out of the room– the sooner you got back to your dorm, the better.

Trying to ignore that oh so familiar feeling shuddering up your spine, you darted into the hallway, thankful to escape the chill of his gaze.

The last student’s footsteps echoed throughout the lecture hall, leaving Albert Shaw completely alone– fingers still tapping away at the keyboard monotonously. Glancing away from the screen, he began sorting through the scraps of paper, brows furrowed in disappointment. Marie Antoinette. Louis Armstrong. William Shakespeare. Figures who, although leaving significant marks throughout history, were easy answers. Irritation quickly built as he flicked through the papers, predictable figures leading to boring essays. But one slip caught his eye– a name written in messy, hurried handwriting:

The Grabber.

Fingers dug into the slip of paper, curious eyes tracing the almost illegible letters– a sick smile curling on his lips. The University of Denver’s favorite professor, hiding a deep, dark secret. And now, you– unknowingly bringing that very secret into the light. Albert sank further into his chair, a quiet laugh bubbling in his chest. So, you wanted to know more about The Grabber– about him.

How interesting… the thought alone made his fingers twitch. The darkness he so perfectly kept hidden beneath the surface began to fester, calling out to him.

Turning his attention back to the computer screen, fingers quickly moved along the keyboard as he inserted your personal information into the class database. And just like that– there you were. Albert’s eyes darkened as he clicked through your student profile, ID photo quickly filling up the screen as he scrolled. So, the big bad wolf had a little admirer; he just never expected it to be someone so innocent.

He recognized you almost immediately, those eyes always somehow meeting his own while he lectured, trying yet failing to read him. You were suspicious of him– smart girl. Albert clicked his tongue as he poured over your personal details; you were a good student and an even better writer, yet your grade in the class was nothing short of abysmal.

Distracted, are we? Poor girl, you just need a bit of motivation.

Logging into the class portal, Albert looked through the open slots for office hours, something akin to excitement bubbling in his chest. He knew it was wrong to schedule appointments for his own students, but the thought of waiting to pick your pretty little brain apart was too good not to indulge in.

His last slot for the week sat empty, Friday at 4pm. Perfect. Confirming your availability was so easy it was laughable, why disappoint the fan-favorite professor who just wants to help? Now, all he had to do was wait. You were curious about him, the real him, and now he was more than happy to oblige.

You know what they say– curiosity killed the cat.

A crash of thunder rumbled through the air, the onslaught of rain only increasing as you ran across campus, backpack tucked under your raincoat. Sprinting past the deserted students union, your sneaker sank into a puddle, frigid water soaking into your socks.

Curses spilled from your lips as you pushed onwards, sneakers practically squishing as you reached the Humanities building. Throwing the door open, you ducked inside, water running off the raincoat and dripping onto the hardwood floor. A relieved sigh escaped you as you leaned against the door, trying to catch your breath.

The comforting smell of beeswax and old books filled your nostrils, and you quickly shed the sopping coat, shaking it before rolling it under your arms. An advisory meeting on a Friday afternoon, how convenient– not like you were going out in this weather anyways.

Professor Shaw had personally asked to see you regarding your paper, and with every step you took you began to regret your decision. Was it too morbid– choosing the uncaught serial killer of Denver? Too weird? The absolute last thing you needed was a biased grudge already weighing your paper down before you even started.

Trudging through the hallways into the staff wing, you scanned the alphabetized nameplates of various professors until the smudged cursive Shaw caught your eye. Slowing to a halt, you glanced at the ajar door– hand hovering over the door handle as you swallowed your pride and pushed the door fully open. Stepping into the empty office, your eyes strained against the dull lighting of the cramped room.

Piles of books covered almost every available surface, stacking so high you had to carefully weave your way through to avoid collapsing them. The faint smell of coffee and cigarette smoke hovered in the air, practically enveloping you as you clutched your backpack closer to your chest. The storm continued to brew outside, raindrops hammering against the singular window and casting an eerie glow into the office.

It was obvious that Professor Shaw spent a majority of his time on campus in the cluttered room, evidence of his presence manifesting in the form of empty stainless steel tumblers and tabbed student papers. You ducked further into the space, dropping your backpack onto the floor as a stack of slips caught your eye. At the top of the folds of paper, your messy handwriting glared back at you like a guilty sentence; The Grabber. Snatching the paper, you shoved it into your jeans pocket before turning to grab your backpack and leave– the idea of cancelling the appointment becoming more favorable with each passing second.

“Going somewhere?”

A voice ripped through the silence, causing you to nearly jump out of your skin. Whirling around, your gaze quickly settled on that haunting blue that burned into your skin. Leaning against the doorframe, Albert’s fingers haphazardly clutched a copy of The Psychology of Serial Killers as he stared at your startled state. Another flash of lightning sent a steam of light into the room, uncovering an amused look painted across the older male’s face. Trying to slow your heartbeat, you shrank backwards towards the desk.

“Professor Shaw! I didn’t realize you were there.” The room felt suddenly stifling, and you subconsciously shifted from one foot to the other. Pushing further into the room, the door clattered shut behind you– lock clicking in place as the professor brushed past you and settled into his desk. “Sorry about that, I was just grabbing some research materials from the library.” Gesturing to the empty seat, he learned back in his chair as you got situated.

The book dropped against the desk, and you realized you were caught. A knowing smile played on Albert’s lips, yet something about it was far from warm. “So…” His eyes scanned over your form, sending a chill of unease churning in your stomach. “–you’re the one who chose The Grabber as your figure.” Fighting the wave of embarrassment that washed over you, you forced yourself to nod along to his words.

Leaning closer, Albert’s elbows propped against the wooden desk, hands cradling his chin as he continued– voice hushed as if sharing a secret. “I have to admit, it's not the easiest choice… most would go for someone with easily obtained facts. But you–” His eyes flicked from the book to you, pools of blue swirling with something you couldn’t quite place. “... you want to find the darkness. I admire that.”

The compliment sent your cheeks ablaze, bashfulness quickly rising as his almost predatory stare bore into you. The professor cleared his throat, the tension in the room snapping as he relaxed in his chair– biceps flexing as he rolled the sleeves of his button up to his elbows. Forcing your gaze to hold steady, you tried to push the thoughts of wandering eyes from your mind.

Albert Shaw was a sought after bachelor in Denver, with students practically throwing themselves at him for any sign of praise. And God, he was attractive– with a dreamy build, sharp jawline and an even sharper tongue that left many in his classroom with less than academic thoughts. In the musty air of the office, you could faintly make out the smell of cologne– notes of musk and bergamot mixing together with the lingering scent of his cigarettes in a mouthwatering concoction.

Who knew the fan favorite professor had a smoking habit? You wondered if he had a signature brand, Marlboro seeming too dare-devilish and Camel too unsophisticated. Eyes drifting oh so slightly to the desk, you glanced at his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wood– no ring, empty finger flaunted like a trophy.

Chesterfield man.

“You seem… distracted.” His voice cut through the silence, low and smooth– just like the drawl of the nicotine he probably inhaled just minutes before your meeting. Your gaze snapped to meet his, and you realized too late that he had been watching you the entire time, brow raised slightly as though he knew exactly what you had been thinking.

Sputtering slightly, a pathetic excuse fell from your lips. “Sorry, I guess I’m ready for the weekend.” Mouth twitching just shy of a smirk, he gestured back towards the book nestled between you, ignoring the blatant lie. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time then. So, The Grabber.” His voice drops slightly at the mention of the name, and a small part of you shivers.

“Are you curious about the psychology of fear– about what drives a person to take a life? Or is it the terror that draws you in?” Shifting in your chair, you contemplated his questions, uncertainty bubbling in your stomach as you hesitated your response.

“...I guess it’s fascinating, really. The way fear can almost–” You inhale, trying to phrase the feeling, “...It’s almost binding, even for the one who instills it.” He hummed at that, the sentence lingering almost uncomfortably in the air he contemplated your words. “Do you think someone as heinous as The Grabber could feel affection for his victims in his own way, or is it all about power?” The probe catches you off guard, mouth drying as you fumble for the words.

The professor watches you like a hawk, clearly expectant for an answer– fingers slightly tracing the wood beneath them. Chesterfield, with a hint of bergamot. “...I–” You swallow thickly, trying to force confidence in your tone. “I think it’s about control. He wasn’t born evil… but some sort of circumstance made him that way. I want to figure out why.” Nodding at your words, his fingers steepled under his chin once more, regarding you. The silence stretched a beat too long as he pondered.

“...And what if there is no reason?” he asked finally. “What if he did it simply because he wanted to?” You blink, the possibility never really crossing your mind. “Then… I guess that just makes him all the more terrifying.” Sighing, his lip twitches ever so slightly. “Terrifying, yes– but also liberating, no?” You stiffened at that, pulse quickening at the harrowing choice of words.

Gaze lingering in a way that sucked you in, the silence thickened between you– and you found any semblance of a response dying on your tongue. “I think you’ll find this topic enlightening,” Professor Shaw concludes smoothly, “I look forward to seeing how you formulate it. Your grade depends on this paper, so I expect more than regurgitated research.” Your teeth sink into your cheek at the jab, eyes darting to your book bag. Standing from the chair, you pull the bag over your shoulders and turn to leave– but his voice stops you once more.

“One more thing. You chose The Grabber.” You look back. “–out of every figure in history. Why?” There was a gleam in his eyes. Something unreadable, almost hungry for a response. You shrug, “I guess he just stands out.” An amused chuckle was your only answer, and you took that as your cue to leave. Darting back into the hallway, you missed the smile curling on his lips. “I’m sure he does.”

In that moment watching your retreating form, he decided– he’d make sure you really understood fear.

You needed a distraction.

Anything really, to keep the thought of that meeting at bay. You tried to push the memory away, but his voice was too smooth– his eyes too sharp, coiling around your ribs and settling deep in your gut like a dirty secret. That weekend, your roommates finally convinced you to go out– claiming a change of scenery would help with the school jitters. You didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth, however.

The bar was cramped, half-lit, and thrumming with the chatter of college nightlife and the rattling bass of some up and coming cover-band. It was the kind of place that smelled like stale beer and sweat, with vodka shooters and a wary bouncer who looked over your roommate’s ID with haphazard suspicion.

Clinging to your drink, you laughed over the music at your friends and their stories, trying to ignore the thoughts that were clearly elsewhere. You could still feel him– Professor Shaw’s presence hammering against the inside of your skull like a bad hangover. The way he looked at you when he had asked if The Grabber could feel affection. The way he poured over your words like he wanted to eat them up.

You excused yourself before your thoughts could spiral too far, muttering something about needing fresh air as you slipped out the back door and into the alley. The night air bit into your skin, a comforting chill that crept over you as you leaned against the brick, still vibrating with the bass from the speakers inside. Pulling the oversized bomber jacket tighter around you, your fingers absently dipped into your pocket, crinkling the carton under your grip softly.

Chesterfields– the same kind you had Googled after you had left his office, the scent that clung to him so distinctly it coated your discarded sweater days after. You didn’t smoke, didn’t even like the smell– but something about the way it clung to him like an invisible signature sent you reeling. You had stupidly bought them anyway… like you couldn’t even help yourself.

Maybe you just wanted to feel close to something you weren’t supposed to. You slid one between your lips, unlit– letting the taste of tobacco settle on your tongue like a sin. You closed your eyes, trying to focus on the quiet hum of the night, trying to exhale the thought of him.

“Didn’t peg you for the type.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the voice turning the blood in your veins to ice. Eyes snapping open, the cigarette fell from your lips. You turned– and there he was. Professor Shaw, leaning against the opposite wall, bathed in the flickering cherry of his own cigarette. Smoke curled around his face like a halo of death, vintage denim jacket slung low around his shoulders, sleeves rolled slightly.

No briefcase, no collared shirt– just a man in an alleyway with that damn smirk that had been haunting you since Friday.

“I’m not,” you answered too quickly, voice raw and small. He cocked his head slightly at that, flicking ash from the dart. “Then what are you doing out here, pretending you are?” You didn’t answer him, shrinking back against the wall, caught. His eyes dipped to the forgotten cigarette now crushed beneath your boot, exhaling smoke from the side of his mouth. “Looks like someone is trying to impress me.”

A flush crept up your cheeks, and suddenly the cement beneath your feet looked more interesting than the man in front of you. “I… I didn’t know you were here.” You admitted, forcing your gaze to remain steady as his shoes shuffled into your field of vision. He chuckled slightly, the low tremor sending a buzz down your neck. “Didn’t say you did,” he drawled, stepping closer– giving you time to move away, to leave, but you remained rooted in place. “-But you thought of me, hm?”

His voice– it was like velvet and honey, a whisper just gravely enough to make your heart leap in your chest. Boots practically touching, he towered over you, taking another inhale of his cigarette. “You don’t have to admit it,” He started, eyes flicking from the cigarette to you, then dropping momentarily to your lips before settling.

“... You should be careful. Thoughts have a funny way of becoming habits.” You scoffed at that, shoving your hands back into your pockets, fingers curling around the carton once more. “Like yours?”

He hummed at that, the air between you thickening with something much more electric than nicotine. Flicking the butt of the cigarette, he stood silently in front of you, watching you like a puzzle he already knew the answer to. Without thinking, you produced your own carton and offered it, earning another chuckle. Fishing a new dart from the carton, the older male sparked it.

“Curiosity's dangerous,” He muttered, words slow– deliberate. “It has a way of dragging you in deeper than you’re meant to go.” He was so close, you could practically taste the bergamot and... was that whiskey on his breath? You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry.

“What happens when it does?” Another smile, calculated this time. “Then, you learn how much of yourself you are willing to give away… just to get a little closer.” A tremor settled up your spine, and you found yourself falling under his gaze. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, electricity thrilling through you as he took another draw from the cigarette before flipping it towards you.

Your jaw immediately slacked, and he slotted the dart between your lips, expectant. You took a drawl, fighting the urge to cough as the smoke filled your lungs. Professor Shaw– no, Albert smirked.

“You wear it well.”

The door behind you slammed open, your friends’ laughter echoing into the alley– the moment cracking as they drunkenly stumbled into the night air. You quickly spat the cigarette from your lips, turning to glance at the noise before looking back. He was gone, the only evidence of his presence being the soiled cigarette on the cement.

But as you ushered your friends home, his words followed you, settling deep in your lungs like the smoke. You couldn’t tell which was more addicting– him, or the burn he left behind.

It took two weeks to build up the courage to see him again.

Fourteen days of agonizing over your paper, staring at the computer screen and willing the words to appear– yet the draft sat practically untouched. Your fingers refused to move along the keys, thoughts swirling with anything but academics. The moment in the alleyway was etched in your brain– the thrum of the bass in the air, the brush of his finger against your skin when he folded the cigarette between your lips, that smirk.

The threat of deadlines did nothing to keep the pull towards him at bay. Late at night you found yourself rolling an unlit Chesterfield between your fingers, the scent alone sending a different type of buzz down your spine. You had skipped last week’s lecture, the idea of being in the same room as him, watching him put your mind in a hazy fog.

The few paragraphs you mustered up hung over your head like a death sentence, phrases like ‘a mask gives permission to do what you refuse to do otherwise’ seeming much less focused on The Grabber… but instead on Albert.

When Friday finally rolled around, you tried to stifle your pride and focus on your research, not the eyes that plagued your dreams. Swinging open the door to the office, he was already seated– absentmindedly grading papers at the comfort of his desk. The navy sleeves of his button up were rolled to his elbows as a feeble attempt to fight the April heat, revealing a small pale scar along his forearm.

You shouldn’t have noticed it– but you did.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze to meet the icy eyes now trained directly on you. Albert shifted in his seat, the papers now discarded– attention diverted. “Missed you last week,” he stated simply, voice unreadable. “-I figured you’d been busy.” You nodded, jaw clenching slightly. He noticed. “Yeah, I’m just… trying to get ready for finals.” He hummed at the response, not pushing further.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.” Dropping into the empty chair, you rummaged for the printed draft, an edge of nervousness bundling in your stomach.“It’s not finished. I’m still working through–” “... your fascination? That much is obvious.” he interjected, plucking the sheet from your hands.

You flushed, heat rising to your cheeks as you avoided his gaze. “That’s… that’s not what I meant.” You protested, but he was already reading. Silence settled between you as he scanned the paper– then, a chuckle. You bristled at the sound.

“What?” Albert’s smile was sharp, a knowing look needling its way towards you as he set the paper back on the desk. “Just a line you wrote: ‘fear isn’t the absence of control– but the illusion that someone else has it’.” He paused, before adding, “That's not research. It sounds like it's coming from experience.” You opened your mouth to argue, but it was futile.

He was right– you had typed it last night, thoughts plagued by the phantom burn of the smoke in your lungs. Thoughts of the rasp of his voice. Albert shrugged slightly, retreating. “I’m not judging… I’m just… curious.”

His words from that godforsaken night echoed in your mind, and before you could stop yourself, you mumbled. “Isn’t curiosity dangerous?” An amused huff cut through you like a knife. “So you were listening.” The line between professionalism and something you couldn’t quite place pulled taunt, and your fingers suddenly itched for the carton stowed in the bottom of your bag.

Leaning back in his chair, Albert rested his head on a hand– movements slow, deliberate. “You’ve crossed a line, from academic to… personal.” Your pulse thundered in your ears, blood rushing at the insinuation.

Chesterfields, bergamot, and whiskey.

“Haven’t you?” You blinked, fumbling a response. “-What?” “In your research,” He said innocently– but his eyes were anything but. “Have you ever done that before? Blurred the line, made it into something… else?” You didn’t know how to respond, the question seeming much more pointed to the stolen moment in the alley.

Your body reacted like he shot across the desk and grabbed you– that quiet thrill coursing through your veins. That same dull panic that gripped around your throat like a vice. Albert smiled again, satisfied with your lack of response.

“This is a good start. I expect you to have a full draft for us to work through next week.” The mask of professionalism quickly slotted back into place, and a small part of you deflated at the change of tone. Nodding, you quickly gathered up your things– rattled by the conversation. Standing to leave, he spoke again, so softly it almost didn’t reach you.

“Oh, next time…” He didn’t look up, eyes trained on the sorry excuse of your essay on the table. You froze. “-Try not to wear that perfume you wore in the alley. It’s… distracting.” Your breath hitched, realization slamming into you full force.

You hadn’t worn perfume that night, only your jacket– the one you never washed.

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the strap of your book bag as something akin to defiance bubbled in your veins. “Why do you even care about my interpretation, anyways?” A beat. Then he answered, voice low– curling towards you and settling in your bones.

“Because you chose him, and I want to know what that says about you.”

You were late.

Fifteen minutes past four and you didn't have a semblance of a reasonable excuse. Your hair was messily pulled back, blouse wrinkled, bag half zipped and stuffed to the brim as you darted across campus. The deadline for the paper was fast approaching, yet the closer it came, the less you focused, becoming crippled against the mountain of work.

Creaking open the door, Albert was already there, leaning against the back of his desk– no papers to grade, no distractions. Just him, waiting.

"I was beginning to think you lost interest." He stated plainly, eyes burning holes into your head. His voice was calm– eerily so, but the tightness in his jaw suggested otherwise. You stiffened slightly at the sight.

"Sorry..." You murmured, ducking into the room. The door clicked shut behind you, and you moved to sit while pulling out your paper. Albert's hand rose, halting your movements.

"Stand. Now, let's hear it." Crossing his arms over his chest, Albert held your gaze. You blinked, uncertainty settling over you. “Hear it?” He nodded. “I want you to read it– aloud. I need to see where you hesitate.” A pause, then: “Where you’re conflicted.”

Your mouth went dry at the command, a small piece of you praying it was a jest– but the drumming of his fingers against the desk told a much different story. You relented, pulling the draft from your bag before letting it drop to your feet. Fumbling to the first page, your fingers twitched. The paper felt heavy in your hands, weighted by guilt.

“A mask, in many ways, is a threshold. A symbol not just of anonymity, but also of transformation. It acts as the cryptic gateway for him to become what he so desperately wanted to be without it.”

Your voice wobbled ever so slightly at the end of the line. The memory of the alleyway, the smell of him– that smirk clawing through you and sinking its teeth into your throat. You brushed on, but he noticed. He always did. Albert hummed slightly, a strand of sandy blonde hair falling out of place. “Keep going.” You swallowed, mentally screaming at yourself for letting your gaze linger on him before continuing.

“The mask is a necessity, not just to hide his identity– but as a characterization of himself. He gives himself the permission to instill terror in others. Fear, after all, demands participation, willing or not–”

“Do you believe that?” Albert tilted his head, jaw clenched. You paused, confusion washing over you. “I– what?” You prayed he wouldn’t press, but you knew it was futile. “That fear demands participation... and submission?” he clicked his tongue, pushing off the desk– towering over you.

Your mouth opened for a response, but nothing came. You knew why he was pushing you, the line between the essay and your obsession had dissolved days ago, blurring together in some sort of depraved admission.

“I think…” A pause filled the room before you continued. “Sometimes… we let it happen. Because we want to see what we are capable of while under pressure.” There was a beat, and you shrank into yourself– worried you had crossed a line.

But instead Albert smiled, almost coyly like you had handed him a secret. “So you do understand.” Stepping closer, his shadow cut across the outline of your shoes as he approached. A calloused finger reached out and tucked a fallen strand of hair behind your ear– delicately, intimately.

Your breath caught in your throat.

His fingers grazed your cheek, and it was almost sinful the way your skin burned under his touch. “Have you been thinking about him– The Grabber?” He murmured quietly, eyes dark. “...Or about me?”

You stiffened, fingers digging into the edges of your paper so tightly your knuckles turned white. You were caught, trapped in the web of seduction he had oh so carefully set around you– and now, you were unraveling.

Albert retreated slightly, and the air crackled between you. “You’ve crossed into something else entirely, you know that?” His tone was deep, but sharpened with something you couldn’t quite name. The tension stretched like an elastic band, and you were terrified for it to snap.

“Your paper– it’s not an analysis. It's a confession.” You stiffened, spine straightening as you gaped at him like a deer caught in headlights. “That’s not true–” Jaw trembling as you forced the words out. Liar. Albert reached for the printed pages, wrenching them from your grip as guilt held you in place. Flipping through the draft, his eyes cut into you once more when he found that godforsaken line you had almost deleted three times.

“What frightens us most is not the mask, but how safe we feel once we put it on.” He tapped the page slightly, before adding, “Tell me, what does that mean?”

You fumbled backwards, retreating slightly against the expansive bookcase that lined the wall. Eyes downcast, all you could emit was a faint excuse. “It’s… just an idea. A theme.” Albert stepped forward again, so close you could reach out and touch him. The stack of papers were placed under your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his.

Trapped– you were caged in place.

His voice dropped, any semblance of patience wearing thin. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that? Tell me the truth.” He pushed, brows furrowed in what you could only describe as desperation. You swallowed hard, breath caught in your throat. “I don’t—”

I don’t know, I swear. But you did– you always knew.

Albert leaned in, breath ghosting across your cheek. Your knees wobbled as that addictive scent you dreamed about wafted over you. Whiskey, chesterfields, and something much darker.

“You want to know what it feels like, don’t you?” His voice sounded like silk, but the words coiled around you like venom. “To be powerless. To be chosen. Goody little two shoes wants to play with fire, hm?”

Something in your stomach twisted like a knife. Hot embers settled in your throat, and you realized your eyes burned. You managed to push yourself away, jolting further into the bookcase. Albert’s arm dropped, giving you space– but not release. Unnerved, you scrambled to collect your things, pulse thrumming painfully in your throat. You begged yourself to not cry, trying to hold the broken pieces of your ego together as you moved towards the door.

Albert’s voice cut through the silence as you fumbled for the door handle. “I expected more from you by now. The girl who stares down monsters and calls it research. Maybe I gave you too much credit.”

You turned, eyes stinging with something much worse than humiliation. Jaw clenched, you glared at him. Albert met your furious gaze with a smirk– knowing he had won. “Fuck you.” You grit out, wrenching the door open and darting into the hallway. As the door clicked shut behind you, his final words followed you like a curse– spoken just loud enough for you to hear.

“Finish the paper. Or I will.”

You promised yourself you wouldn’t beg. You swore you would hold your head high as you slipped into the academic building, but with every step you took, your resolve shattered. Campus was silent at the midnight hour, save for the soft hum of the fluorescent lights lining the hallways.

He failed you. He had the nerve.

That red mark on the computer screen– that final, looming F– it dragged you here with your tail between your legs. Pathetic, really. But as you approached the office, your self pitying turned into blind rage. His light was still on, of course.

He was waiting for you so he could gloat.

You pushed the door open without knocking. Just as expected, Albert sat at his desk, a glass of liquid amber in his hand– collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the door slamming open, nor your whirlwind of emotions as you stormed into the small space. He just took in your sorrow– bathing in it. Your eyes met the final paper splayed across his desk like a corpse on an autopsy table, red ink slashing through the lines with unnerving similarity to blood. You shove the door closed, breath coming out in fiery huffs. He looks up, eyes gleaming– expecting you.

“I was wondering how long it would take,” He mutters, eyes glancing at the clock on the wall. “Midnight. Fitting.” Your fingernails dug into your palms to keep you from lashing out. “You failed me.” “I did.” White-hot rage shot through you at the certainty of it all, as if he were discussing the weather with you and not keeping you from graduating. “You can’t just–” “I can.” He interrupts smoothly, standing. The half empty glass sat deserted on the table, and a small piece of you wanted to throw it at his righteous face. “... and I did. That wasn’t just a paper– it was a confession. You handed me a case study of your own desires and expected me to give you an A for honesty.”

Your throat tightens, and you want to cry– to hit him, to cry, to pound your fists into the wall until they bled. But all that came out was a meek, “Why are you doing this?” Unfettered, Albert circles the desk like a wolf, eyes trained on you as you fight back tears.

Come on, show me– look at me. Good girl.

“I wanted to see if you meant it. If you came crawling back. And look…” His eyes drag over your form, and something told you it was anything but professional. “Here you are.”

You flinch as he closes the gap, fingers encircling your wrist as he pulls you towards him. You try to pull your hand free, but his grip is tight, deliberate. “I think you wanted to get caught. You wanted me to see it. Every line you wrote– you wanted me to know what exactly you thought about when you lie in bed at night.” A wave of nausea washes over you.

“You’re delusional.” You bite out, but you know your words have no impact.

He just laughs, the sound grating against your bones. “Not delusional– aware. Much more than you. You’re the one lying– to your professors, to your friends, to yourself.” He pulls you closer, and you can practically taste the whiskey on his breath. “Not to me though. You could never lie to me.”

He pauses, cocking his head towards you. “What was the line?” He pulls a page from the desk with his spare hand. “‘fear isn’t the absence of control– but the illusion that someone else has it’?” His eyes slice into yours, and your throat tightens. “Do you know what you are saying there? You’re tired of pretending– you want to be stripped down. Owned. Controlled.”

You pull yourself from his grasp, but the words ring true. “That’s not what I meant–” He slams the paper onto the desk with such force your teeth rattle, gaze caging you into place. “-But you did. So stop lying about it.” You open your mouth to protest, but his hand shoots forward, wrapping around your throat– not tight, but present. A simple reminder of your fragility, how easy it would be to break you.

Pulling you forwards, his hair tickles your forehead as you gasp for breath. Tears well your eyes, pulse jackhammering through your skull. “What… what do you want from me?” You babble, and his lips brush your ear.

“Everything.”

He kisses you– hard, like a man half starved. You gasp against his lips, the taste of whiskey and Chesterfields coating your tongue as he invades your senses. You want to push away, to scream, but your body betrays you– melting into him. His teeth scrape against your bottom lip, shattering any resolve you tried to muster.

His grip around your neck tightens, and he steps backwards, dragging you to the desk. Sweeping your papers off with one arm, he presses you against the wood. “You want to be graded?” He practically growls against you, and it's shameful how your stomach clenches at the noise. “Then prove to me you’re worth more than a fucking F.”

The wood digs into the flesh of your ass, breath hitching as Albert looms over you. His eyes are coated with something ominous– rapturous. Gone is the polished professor with sly smiles and witty barbs. All that was left was a hungry man, something inhuman stretching behind his expression as he glared down at you. The whole thing sent butterflies sprouting through you.

You burned for him– yet you hated you much you wanted it, wanted him. The hand wrapped around your throat gives you a slight squeeze, and your knees all but give out. You shouldn’t want this, from him of all people. But you do– God, you do.

You try to speak, try to say his name– but he beats you to it.

“You begged to see me,” He whispers against your lips, thumb brushing against your pulse point almost adoringly. “Not the version who grades papers, but the real one. The thing behind the mask.” His fingers let up on your throat, tilting your chin upwards with a kind of gentleness that nauseates you.

“...I hope you’re ready. Because once you see me, you don’t get to look away.”

You couldn’t even if you tried.

Tugging you further onto the desk, a greedy hand palms your breast through your blouse. You jolt at the sensation. “No matter how well I hid it, you always knew, didn’t you?” Lips ghosting across your jaw, his voice grates through your ear– turning your brain to mush. As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you knew.

You always did.

“Say it.” He mutters with eerie calmness, fingers undoing the first button of your collar so swiftly your head spins. “Say my name.” You shake your head, silently begging for it not to be true. That this was all just a bad dream. But the calloused fingers brushing against your exposed skin were very much real.

You called to him with every sentence you wrote, every word trembling with guilty fascination. You gave him a name on paper, humanized his horror by giving power to his acts. But you didn’t realize it then– he was watching you write it, and now you had to pay the price.

“You’re… him. You’re the man from the stories– behind the mask. The Grabber.”

He shudders. The confession rips away any remaining shred of normalcy as he tears your blouse in two. You yelp, squirming against the assault, but he pushes onwards. “That’s my girl. Too smart for your own good. But now…” He purrs over you. “You finally understand.”

You try to pull yourself from his grasp, but he slams you downwards, back pressed uncomfortably against the wood of the desk. “You wanted to know what he does to the ones who misbehave, didn’t you?” He hisses, and tears blur your vision. “Writing your shitty little essay, turning me into your obsession. You want to be scared.”

You try to babble out a response, a pathetic excuse, anything– but you knew it was useless. He grabs your wrist and brings it to his chest, letting you feel the rapid heartbeat through the thin fabric. “You wanted to know if the stories were true.” His voice twists, sickeningly soft as he ducks his head into the nape of your neck, stubble scraping against your skin.

“They’re worse.”

The tears fell at that, full of guilt– of humiliation as the pretty fantasy you had built up over the semester came crashing down. Albert Shaw, the professor you had all but fawned over for weeks, was the very incarnation of the figure you had desperately written about in your paper. And worse of all– you were now caught in his gaze.

Yet through the horror and betrayal, something much darker called out to you. You had always liked him, admired his charm and even cherished the intimate moment with him in the alleway. But being there with him, skin pressed against yours so tightly you felt as if you were fusing together– it was all the more addicting.

All you could utter was a simple, “Please.” Even then, you couldn’t tell what you were begging for. Clad in only your bra and jeans, Albert’s movements continued their onslaught– commanding, dominating. A whimper builts in your chest as his fingers boldly trail your clavicle, painting your skin in a trail of fire.

His tongue creeps up the column of your neck, warm and wet– a broken squeak building in your chest that quickly turns into a yelp as his teeth sink into the soft flesh. Daggers of pain erupt from the assault, and Albert drinks it all in– tongue tracing the bruise forming.

Oh God, he was marking you.

And through the haze of fear and ecstasy, you realize something even more terrifying: You liked it– no, loved it. Your fingers dig into the flimsy material of his shirt, back arching off the desk as he peppered your skin with nips and bites, head ducking towards the valley of your clothed breasts.

If this was anyone else– a simple hookup after a night at the bar, a classmate– you would have been nervous. But any reluctance within you disappears as he simply wraps his fist around the center of your bra and pulls. The fabric digs into your back before it snaps, Albert quickly discarding the ruined material before cupping your breasts beneath his fingertips.

Your spine goes rigid as his thumbs brush against your nipples, causing a wave of goosebumps to erupt across your skin. You shudder at the sensation, clenching around air as he rolls them against his fingers. You hiss, and Albert chuckles at your sensitivity.

“You want me to stop? Say it– use that voice you’re so proud of.” Hunched over the valley of your breasts, his hot breath fans over your skin– and you moan. “Oh… can’t?” Trailing one of his hands down your sternum, his mouth latches onto the unabused breast, teeth scraping against your nipple as he sucks on the bud.

You squirm, pathetic whines quickly filling the room as his spit soaked your chest. Your breaths came out in ragged gasps at the tabooness of it all– your professor hunched over you and practically worshiping your body. Yet you knew you weren’t the one in control. The stray hand trails along the waistband of your jeans, and your legs go limp.

“So skittish– you’re like a terrified animal.” He mused against your chest, fingers slipping under your jeans– tapping your hip bones expectantly. You hesitate, then slowly open your legs.

That’s my girl.

Albert quickly filled the spot in between your legs, caging you in against his desk. He would never have admitted it– the way he dreamed about seeing you like this, sprawled beneath him and practically begging for his touch. It made the darkness within him scream to take what was his.

Abandoning any attempt at keeping things slow, his hand flattened against your skin– cupping your clothed pussy with his palm. Your brain short circuited as he brushed against your core, fingers digging so harshly into his back you were certain you were tearing his shirt to shreds. It was almost embarrassing feeling how soaked you were, the damp fabric of your panties practically sticking to his hand as he rubbed you under your jeans.

A stray finger pushes your panties to the side, dipping into your folds– and you whimper. Albert’s eyes darkened, blown with deep admiration as he watched you fall apart on something as effortless as the palm of his hand. “Go on, defend yourself. Defend why you’re dripping for the man who failed you.” He seethed, fingers pulling away from you in order to discard you of your jeans and panties. You shrunk further into the desk, shame building in the pit of your stomach as the response died on your tongue.

The denim burned against your skin as it was roughly pulled from your legs, pooling onto the hardwood floor beneath you. As much as you wanted to deny it, wanted to protest– the patch of wetness soaking through your discarded panties was a guilty verdict of your true thoughts. Growing impatient, his fingers resumed their previous position, index finger unceremoniously burrowing deep into your cunt without warning.

Gasping, your hands flew to his chest to push him away, yet Albert paid your defiance no mind. Twisting deep within you, your juices quickly coated the digit, dripping down his wrist and onto the desk beneath you. You wired your eyes shut, embarrassment eating away at you as you heard the squelch that emitted when he withdrew his finger from you– only to delve right back into you.

Your breaths came out in labored pants, jaw clenching as he worked his finger into you, stretching you out, testing you. Albert groaned at the feeling of your gummy walls clenching around him, and he quickly added another finger, reaching that particular spot that made your eyes roll. Your hips stuttered, whines pouring from your lips as he fucked you in his fingers.

“You should thank me. I’m making your little fantasy come true.”

You could only moan in response, tension building in your gut as he scissored his fingers within you. You would be lying if you hadn’t touched yourself late at night with the thoughts of his bergamot and whiskey scent coating your mind– but your fingers were no match against his own. His thumb pressed harshly against your clit, and you all but spasmed beneath him.

So submissive– so pathetic. How cute.

You were quickly unraveling, the lewd sounds of your pussy milking his fingers bouncing off the walls of the office. Sweat beaded along your hairline– the air filled with your body’s betrayal. Albert’s breath hitched as your fingers dug into his shirt, claws sinking dully into his chest, and with that, his resolve shattered.

Withdrawing his fingers within you so quickly it ached, you were spun around– chest pressed uncomfortably against the desk. The glass of whiskey teeters slightly from the force. You craned your head backwards, and the sight turns your blood to ice. Albert stood behind you, eyes opium blown as lust radiated off of him in waves. Practically shaking, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt– revealing scars dotting along his chest, lean abs, and naval. You didn’t want to know how he got them, the sight alone sending jolts of fear down your spine. Gone was any restraint, any hope of mercy– all that was left was the monster you had created.

A hand weaves into your hair, yanking your head backwards. You yelp at the sensation, pain needling your skull as your back was forced to arch against him. His slacks met the fat of your ass, bulge pressed into you as his breath met the shell of your ear.

“You shouldn’t have written about me,” He growled, the sound of his belt buckle coming undone sounding like a gunshot in the quiet. “Now that you have, I’ll make sure it’s the last thing you ever write about.” Before you even have a chance to scream, he drives his hips forwards, spearing you on his cock.

God, it hurts. Stretching you out far beyond comfort, nestled so deep within you the head of his cock kisses your cervix. There was no kindness, no waiting for you to adjust– just possessive, violent thrusts that sent your hip bones chafing against the desk. The hand holding your hair in a vice-like grip tugs, and sparks of white dot your vision. You wriggle against the desk, begging for any sort of release, any sort of slowing down– but your cries were left unanswered.

Albert groans at the feeling of you clenching around him, so tightly the hand curled around your hair tightened into a fist. Hips jutting against yours with brutal force, his mouth latched onto your shoulder, biting so hard he was certain he drew blood. A gurgled moan tore from your chest at the sensation, and for the first time Albert thought he was capable of love.

It was all too much. The sounds, the smell– the feeling of him burrowing so deeply within you you were certain he was splitting you in two. But your body sucked him in, ass meeting his eager thrusts as you arched– trying to relieve the pressure that was mounting within.

You wanted to understand evil, but now it was inside of you.

Corrupting you from within, every roll of his hips sending you further towards Hell. Your breasts bounced as he burrowed within you, skin feeling like you were melting as warmth blossomed from the pit of your stomach. Albert ushered your knee upwards cupping your knee with his spare hand, and you gasped– cockhead kissing your walls so sinfully you clenched without warning. Albert swooned.

“Hah, sucking me in so well… fucking slut.”

If he had been anyone else, the jab would have hurt. But the shift in position had your eyes rolling into the base of your skull. The table trembled from the force of Albert’s pace, yet your body took him in like you were dying and he was a breath of fresh air. Short, staccato moans poured from your throat as he fucked into you, all morals escaping as the tension within you climbed. “No one’s going to touch you after this, no one–mmh can. You’re mine now.” Albert seethed in your ears. Your ass suddenly burned– did he… slap you? Your stomach clenched at the sensation, the sting of your ass heightening the pleasure of you being ruined from the inside. Albert’s hips stuttered slightly as you barred down against him, expletives flying from his lips as he held your hair in a death grip.

You liked that? Dirty girl.

He hissed, resolve quickly breaking as your greedy ass met his thrusts– so tight you were choking him out. Carding a hand through sweaty hair, he leaned over you, naked chest pressed against your back. “Hmm.. wanna cum? Tell me.” Your eyes widened, babbled nonsense gurgling from your lips as your cunt practically mewled.

“You– oh fuck, know what happens to girls who break the rules. Tell me.”

Your toes curled at the threat, fear spiking through you as you stared forward with teary vision. Through the small window mounted on the wall, you could faintly make out the outline of Albert looming over you, gaze burrowing into you through the reflection. “Please, I want to.” “-Please what?” Swallowing your pride, you turned your head ever so slightly over your shoulder, staring into the icy blue that haunted you for weeks.

“Please, sir.”

With that, your fate was sealed. The hand tangled in your hair forced you downwards, your cheek scraping against the desk as Albert picked up pace. You wept– pussy clenching around him as you sobbed from the stimulation.

The coil in your stomach snapped, white-hot pleasure washing over you in waves as a broken scream filled the room, the incarnation of a fall from salvation. It suddenly dawned on you that the noise was coming from you, nails digging into the wood of the desk as your body spasmed from the sensation.

Albert hissed at the subconscious clench of your cunt, hand quickly meeting your hips as he rutted into you. “Just like shit– that. Good fucking girl.” Practically chanting the words into the air, he rode out your orgasm, hips drilling into you so viciously it sent you into an overstimulated mess.

All good things must come to an end– Albert knew that better than most.

Staring at the reflection of your body bent over the desk, eyes void with anything but pleasure, something in him snapped. Your name fell on his lips like a prayer as his hips stilled against you, orgasm crashing through him. Your body jolted as wet, hot spurts of cum settled within you, filling you beyond repair. Albert slowed, head tilted back as he shallowly thrusted his cum deeper within you.

Sweet little girl– ruined for all others.

Pulling his softening cock from your folds, you shivered– pussy aching at the retreat. Legs weak, skin burning, mind scrambled like the pages of your draft scattered across the floor. You refuse to move, too tired to do anything but lie there like an offering.

Holy shit.

Albert’s behind you, tucking his shirt back into his slacks with eerie calmness– like nothing had happened. Like he didn’t just ruin you in a room lined with books on ethics. Like he didn’t just give you the most earth shattering orgasm of your life.

You limply push yourself onto your elbows, reaching for your ruined bra. His hand catches your wrist. “You don’t need that,” Albert murmurs, and your spine straightens at the sound. “-Not anymore.” Your throat tightens– what?

He kneels, tugging your clothes back onto your hips with the care of a lover– but when he looks up, his gaze is anything but. “You came here for clarity. Now you have it.” You try to speak, pushing yourself to stand on wobbly legs, but his next move halts you in place. Pulling a folded paper from his desk drawer, the bright red F turning your blood to ice.

Your grade sheet.

“I told you not to lie to me.” He mumbles, placing the slip of paper on the desk. The desk you were bent over just seconds before. “-But you did, over and over. You’ll live with the consequences.”

You blankly stare at it, the fog of the previous events shattering as tears line your vision. “You’re… you’re failing me? After–” Albert raises a brow, leaning against the window. That fucking window. “You think this changes anything? That I’m still not your professor? You came here knowing what I was– wanting it.”

He looks at you without any semblance of emotion and you want to cry for being so stupid. He really was a monster.

“You thought submitting to me would save you?” He whispers, amusement sinking into his tone. You grab your tattered blouse, throwing it over your shoulders in a sad attempt to keep your emotions at bay. “I’m not interested in saving you. I want to see how far you’ll fall.”

The way your stomach drops tells you the unbridled truth: you always knew he would be like this. Every flirtation, every assignment, every comment scribbled onto your essays. He saw your darkness, and now he owned you.

You scramble for the door, voice raw from emotion– and screaming. “You can’t do this,” You threaten. “I’ll go to the university. I’ll tell–” Albert’s smile catches you off guard. “Tell them what?” He asks cooly. “That you wrote about a killer, then fucked your professor because he scared you?”

Silence. Your words caught in your throat as a tear fell from your cheek.

“You’re a writer,” He brushes past you. “-use your imagination.” He opens the door, ducking into the hallway. He pauses in the threshold, shadow towering over you– smile almost hiding the hunger in his eyes. Almost

“Class dismissed.”

The door shuts in your face, and you’re alone in his office– bruised, breathless. A scrap of paper flutters to the floor from the edge of the desk. You bend to pick it up with shaking hands, morale destroyed and hopes squashed.

It’s your essay– the one he covered in red weeks ago. On the back, there was something new, something private scrawled like a dirty secret only you were meant to find. Trying to silence the sobs building in your throat, you turn the page over.

You wear fear beautifully. A+ in devotion. -A.S

That fucker.

Even as your legs tremble on your stumble back to the dorm, your dignity bleeding out with every step, he’s grading you. Measuring your own spiral into ruin in letters and ink.

Like it was always the plan.

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