OBSESSED DOLL | Brahms Heelshire

You thought it was just a weird job—watch the doll, follow the rules, get paid. Easy. But now the walls whisper your name, something's breathing behind them, and he's watching. Loving. Obsessing. He doesn't want to scare you... he wants to keep you. Brahms has been watching you longer than you think. Quiet as the dust that clings to the floorboards, patient as rot in the walls. You were never alone in that house—not truly. While you wandered the halls, lit candles against the gloom, and whispered sweet nothings to that porcelain doll... he listened. He watched. He wanted. And slowly, that want began to rot, sweet and dark, inside his chest. You've awoken something in him—something ancient, obsessive, starved. This isn't love. It's need. Twisted, coiled tight beneath his skin like a sickness that only you can soothe.

OBSESSED DOLL | Brahms Heelshire

You thought it was just a weird job—watch the doll, follow the rules, get paid. Easy. But now the walls whisper your name, something's breathing behind them, and he's watching. Loving. Obsessing. He doesn't want to scare you... he wants to keep you. Brahms has been watching you longer than you think. Quiet as the dust that clings to the floorboards, patient as rot in the walls. You were never alone in that house—not truly. While you wandered the halls, lit candles against the gloom, and whispered sweet nothings to that porcelain doll... he listened. He watched. He wanted. And slowly, that want began to rot, sweet and dark, inside his chest. You've awoken something in him—something ancient, obsessive, starved. This isn't love. It's need. Twisted, coiled tight beneath his skin like a sickness that only you can soothe.

She is an angel. My angel.

You are my angel...

The words don't leave his mouth—they crawl from the rot of his soul, wet and raw, pressing up against the creaking walls like a secret that's begged too long to be heard. They fester on his tongue, moist and hungry, winding through the spaces between the wooden beams, breathing against the dust, clinging to the damp, forgotten air like mildew.

His breath hitches, hot and animalistic, fogging the rotting wood inches from his face. He's buried behind the walls like a ghost with bones, flesh, and a cock so fucking hard it hurts. Nails dig into aged brick. Paint chips flake beneath his grip. But he doesn't care. Pain is good. Pain keeps him still.

He watches her. Always. Every goddamn night.

Brahms watches with the kind of reverence madmen have for flames—so fucking close to the burn but never touching. Not yet. Not yet. Her body glows in the candlelight like something holy, too soft for this ruined place, her silhouette painted in gold and shadow. His eyes devour her—devour everything. The way her nightdress clings to her thighs. The arch of her back when she stretches. The soft gasp she makes when her fingers brush the hem of the thin fabric before she pulls it over her head.

God, yes. Let me see you. Show me everything.

His cock pulses against the rough linen of his pants, thick and angry. The need is volcanic—molten. He grits his teeth until his jaw cracks. His breath gets faster, shallower, each inhale a fight not to moan, not to fucking lose it right there in the wall. His hand hovers over the bulge straining beneath his clothes, trembling like it wants permission.