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petrichor-idyllic · 1 year

Note

Hi Petri <3, so this request is a bit longer than the other's so bear with me (and my broken English lol). I was thinking about a Minho x fem!reader where she's from maze B and is close friends with Aris, so she's with him in the whole cafeteria scene where he gets introduced (while the boys are excited about the food, beds, girls and etc. and Thomas is having a bad feeling about that place). She's more positive about being there than Aris cause they been through a lot and she just want a little rest, but when she sees what that place really is she's terrified and is willing to do everything to get out, so Minho sees this fire in her and kinda likes it. (I don't know if it made any sense 😬, but I trust you to make a good fic out of it)

Oo, I do like more plot-driven requests like this, they give me more to work with :))

DECEPTION IN LIBERATION

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Movie based fic.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, violence, teenage boys still not knowing how to act in the presence of a girl, WICKED spelt WCKD because movies, Rat Man aka Janson, probably innacurate Group B slang thanks to Wikipedia.

Just 'cause you wouldn't know the characters' names doesn't mean I don't, so the Gladers' names are used before you meet them. Because there is no way this would work if I couldn't use their names.

You'd escaped the Maze.

Finally, after all this time, you'd escaped, and now you were safe. The years of torture and stress are now behind you and you can finally start to heal.

Your friends are safe. You're safe. And so are an entire group of teenagers who apparently went through the same things you did. WCKD definitely had big plans, but that doesn't matter anymore.

It's over.

At least that's what you think.

You playfully nudge Aris. The measly boy sits next to you, hoodie hiding his face as he stares at the table in front of you. You guys escaped the Maze first, meaning that you were the first to arrive. They keep taking people away; Aris' best friend Rachel was one of the first.

And he's been distant ever since.

You've been keeping an eye on him. Though, it is hard trying to spend time with the boy when he barely speaks nowadays.

You nudge him again. "C'mon, Aris, you've been avoiding us for-finching-ever." He scoffs, shaking his head. "What's goin' on?"

"You won't listen to me, so what does it matter?" You sigh, shuffling slightly and swinging your leg over one side of the bench to look him at him straight.

"Of course I'll listen to you. What's going on?"

From a few feet away, the Gladers have started talking to boys from other groups, and have taken note of Aris.

And therefore, you too.

"Who's the girl he's with?" Minho ask the unknown boy, eyes fixation on you.

The boys shrugs. "Just some chick he was in the Maze with."

"Lucky shank," Frypan chuckles.

Thomas, however, takes note of Aris. He's not like the other people that are sitting around and chatting. He's reserved, sunk low into the table and not even looking at you as his hood hides him.

"Aris," his eyes flicker to you, "I'm always gonna listen to you- talk to me."

He hesitates but takes a deep breath. "There's something wrong here," he mumbles, his voice barely a whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"Something is going on- the Guard's are armed, our friends keep getting taken away, and..."

"And?" You push him to continue and he shuffles closer.

"Don't tell anyone, please."

You start to feel anxious. This is getting weird. "Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"At night, I've been sneaking through the vent tunnels-"

"What?" You hiss. "That's so dangerous."

"I know, I know- but they go all over the building, a-and they take people into this... room that I can't get into. There's something weird going on. I know it sounds weird and you won't believe me, but-"

"I believe you," you trust Aris, and he's smart, so if he thinks something isn't quite right, then chances are something isn't quite right. "But what do we do?"

"Teresa!" Both of you perk up as you watch Thomas, who you're yet to know, stand up from his table, marching over to the doors to try and follow a girl behind some windows.

He's quickly stopped by some guards, but he's clearly agitated.

"Maybe he could help?" You blink at Aris. "We need all the help we can get. I'll show him what I mean- you too."

○ ○ ○

If you knew when you'd escaped the Maze that you'd end up stuck in another round of twisting and confusing corridors in the form of the vent system, you might've actually killed someone.

Aris, on the other hand, seems happily at home as he crawls around the tight spaces.

You're awkwardly crouching around the corner whilst Aris goes to get this Thomas kid.

After a few seconds, your friend reemerges, with the boy hot on his heels. He blinks at you and you give an awkward peace sign before Aris hurries him along.

"Come on."

You both follow him through the vent system, Thomas in front of you.

"Hey, wait a second." Thomas grumbles, clearly questioning how he gets himself on these situations. "What the hell are we doing?"

"Come on, we're gonna miss it," Aris says.

"Sorry," you answer instead, "he thinks you might be able to help- he reckons something weird's goin' on here. I don't really know."

You crawl into a more open area- even you don't really know what's going on.

"What are we doing?" Thomas asks again and it's kind of funny that he even came in the first place.

"Shh. Come here," Aris waves you both over. You both hover over an open-ish vent that looks down over a corridor.

One of the doctors appears, following by a strange trolley that seems to have a person in a body bag with a screen over the face. The screen shows vitals and other medical information, making you and Thomas exchange concerned glances.

"What the hell was that?" Thomas asks for the both of you.

"They bring in new ones every night like clockwork." Aris answers.

"What do they do with them?" You ask, even though you probably already know the answer.

"I don't know. This is as far as I've ever gotten. The vents don't even go into that section. But once they go through that door, they don't come back out." Aris pauses, visibly shaken. "I don't think anyone ever really leaves this place."

"C'mon," you say, "we gotta go before someone notices we're gone."

"Why'd you show me this?" Thomas asks, stopping you both.

"Because maybe the others will listen to you. There's something weird going on here- I know you think so too."

"Hey, wait," you stop again, "what's your names?"

"Aris," your friend answers, "and this is (Y/N)."

And with that, your friend crawls ahead.

"You're Thomas, right?" He blinks at you. "I heard some of your friends say it in the cafeteria."

He nods, and you offer him a reassuring smile. "It's nice to meet you, Thomas."

○ ○ ○

Janson reads out more names of people as you sit in the dining area. Apparently, Aris and Thomas spoke briefly earlier- they have some kind of plan regarding a key card.

You're, quite frankly, scared to watch.

Thomas has told the members from Group A what he saw, they seem skeptical at best. But, they seem to be a strong group and with most of Group B gone, you have little choice but to hope Thomas can convince them.

Thomas suddenly stands up, storming towards the doors and trying to blend in with the people's whose names were called.

He's stopped fairly quickly.

You can't quite make out what's going on, but when a guard sharply points into Thomas' chest, you're already on your feet.

"(Y/N)-" Aris hisses, but the plan isn't going to work if Thomas gets himself in trouble. You can't let this go south.

Thomas pretends to walk away, before turning and diving into the guard. All of the Gladers are on their feet in seconds, jumping to Thomas' defence.

"What the hell's your problem, man?" Thomas shouts as he gets shoved again and you dive in.

Pushing the guy back, you stand protectively in front of the boy. "Back the fuck off, man- you think shoving a kid around makes you tough?"

The boys exchange glances.

Who is this girl? Where did she come from? How come she's helping Thomas? Why does Thomas get all the girls? What is happening?"

"Control your friend!" The guard yells just as Janson bursts through them.

"What's happening here?" Janson seems lost for a second as he looks at the boy. "Thomas? I thought we could trust each other." He touches the boys shoulder and you go to step forward again, only for Thomas to slightly put his arm out, stopping you from intervening.

"You know we're all on the same team here."

"Are we?" Thomas asks.

Janson seems irritated by this and you ball your fists. You could punch this guy and give the Gladers an easy distraction- it would give them and Aris time.

You think about it until a hand grabs your wrist. You look up and meet the eyes of an Asian boy. He's tall, tanned skin and dark, swept up hair. He's handsome, but something in his dark eyes is telling you to stop.

And for some reason, you do. Relaxing your muscles, but returning your attention to Janson- Minho doesn't let go.

"Get them to their bunks."

In a matter of seconds, you're all separated. You just about manage to get to Aris before going to your separate rooms- agreeing to meet at Thomas' vent.

You can hear bickering as you approach, just catching Aris before he knocks down the vent.

"Hey, Thomas," he says casually.

"What the...?" You catch from one of the boys.

"You got it, didn't you?"

"Yeah, yeah, let's go. Where's your friend?"

"Right here!" Your voice echos on the metal from behind Aris. "Getting real finchin' sick of crawlin' around, though."

"Alright, maybe you guys are right," Thomas says to his friends, "maybe I'm just paranoid. But I gotta find out for sure. Just cover for me, I'll be back as soon as I can."

Making the same trip as last time, Aris and Thomas jump down out of the vent, with you staying up there to help them get back up again and keep watch.

You anxiously crouch, watching as you wait for the boys to return.

"C'mon, guys," you mumble to yourself, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

What feels like hours passes, but it couldn't have been more than five minutes, when Thomas and Aris burst out of the room. Both of them are clearly worked up.

You open the vent. "C'mon!" Offering a hand, they struggle back up, but eventually they join you again. "What happened?"

"We gotta go," is all Thomas says, "we gotta go!"

The boys are rapid at getting through the vents, Thomas bursting into his friends room. He, quite literally, throws the vent cover across the room.

"Thomas!" Someone shouts as he frantically scrambles into the room.

"We gotta go! We gotta go right now!" Thomas says as you and Aris both struggle out of the vent, still yet to have an explanation from either of them.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Minho, whose name you're yet to learn, asks.

"What do you mean 'we gotta go'?" Newt adds on, all of the boys in a frenzy.

"They're coming! Come on! We gotta go!"

"Thomas! What's going on?" You try to grab him but he brushes past you, grabbing things and starting to try and block the door.

You look at Aris, who is completely shook to the core so there's no getting anything out of him.

"What happened?" Frypan yells. "Aris, what happened?" He shouts at the timid boy, getting too close.

"Don't shout at him!" You pull him away. "He's terrified! He ain't gonna tell you klank!"

"Thomas! Can you just calm down and talk to us!" Newt begs, the whole room in a frenzy.

"She's still alive!" Thomas says.

That's ominous.

"Who's she? Teresa?" Frypan asks.

"Who the finch is Teresa?" You ask.

"Ava." Thomas is blunt now.

"Ava?" Newt repeats, watching his friend desperately try and tie the door shut. "Will you just turn around and talk to us?"

"It's WCKD!" Thomas snaps, turning around to face you all. The group freezes. "It's still WCKD. It's always been WCKD."

"Shit," scrambling to help, Thomas seems almost relieved that someone else is doing something as you help him move a mattress to block the door.

"Thomas," Newt stops him. "What did you see?"

Thomas gives a very vague explantion- a video call with Ava Paige and bodies strung up and being tested on.

That's all you guys need to start your escape.

"Come on, let's go!" You usher all the boys towards the vent, letting them go before you.

The Asian boy from before is last, hesitating for a second.

"Ladies first?" He says.

"Minho!" Someone from inside the vent shouts. "Not the shuckin' time, man!"

"Go," you tell him and he obeys. At least you know his name now.

Thomas somehow ends up leading the way as you all try to fight through the crawl space.

He breaks out into a corridor you don't recognise, the rest of you hot on his heels.

"Come on! Come on!" He ushers you towards him. "Okay, okay, let's go!"

"You guys go ahead, there's something I gotta do," Aris states and you look at him.

"What are you talking about?" Thomas steps towards him.

"Trust me, it's important. You guys wanna get outta here, right? Just go."

"I'll go with him," one boy offers.

"Okay, Winston, go! Go!" Thomas takes charge, and you learn another boy's name. "Come on!"

You hesitate, watching Aris start to take off, you go to follow him but Thomas grabs you. "You're with us, okay? Stay close."

You're reluctant, but you nod.

"You sure we can trust this kid?" Minho asks.

"You don't wanna know where we'd be without him," you're glad to hear that Thomas has faith in your friend.

You turn a corner, immediately bumping into the same doctor you saw earlier. You all freeze.

"What are you kids doing out?" She asks.

Then the sirens start blaring.

Which is enough of a hint, I suppose.

"Move," you demand, stepping forward and grabbing the doctor. She struggles, but you grab her wrist, twisting it behind her back and pushing her in front of you. "You're gonna show us how to get outta here."

The boys exchange looks once again. But, Minho smirks- he almost impressed at this point.

"Let's move."

The group starts the make their way down the halls.

"We gotta get Teresa." Thomas states.

"Who?" You question him. "Who is that?"

"A friend."

"A friend? Seriously? We- oh, finch it, I don't know who any of you guys are either."

"I'm Newt, if that helps." The blond says.

"Frypan."

You look at him. "You're called Frypan?"

"I'm-"

"Yes, I know who you are, Minho."

Rounding another corner, you're almost immediately met by gunshot. You're quick to retreat, letting go of Dr Crawford as she also ducks for cover.

"They're shooting at us!"

"No shit!"

You back away, running in the other direction when Minho suddenly stops.

"Minho!" Thomas yells. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Minho!" You yell as the boy starts charging in the direction of the shooter.

Just as he rounds the corner, Minho jumps, kneeing the guy in the chest and causing him to crash into the wall, knocking him out cold.

All of you, including Crawford, run over, staring at the guy on the floor in some kind of awe.

"Shit, Minho," Newt says and you snort.

"Not bad, stick," you grin at him, watching as he smiles himself, "not bad at all."

Thomas grabs the Launcher, using it to direct the doctor as you make your way to this girl you don't know.

"Dr. Crawford," a scientist says as you force her to pretend to open the door, only for Thomas to follow her and everyone go into a panic.

"Where is she? Where is she!" Thomas is pointing the gun at anyone and everyone as they put their hands on their heads.

He passes the gun to Minho as he rips away a curtain, revealing a girl.

"Get down!" Minho yells. "Get down, now!"

The scientists and doctors all get on the ground as Newt starts tying their hands together to deem them less of a threat.

"You're never gonna get away with this!" Doctor Crawford threatens.

"Yeah?" You scoff. "Watch us."

"Guys!" Frypan, who's watching the door shouts. "They're coming! Where do we go?!"

"Frypan! Move!" Newt pushes over a medical table, shoving it in front of the door just as it's nearly forced open.

"Get back!" Minho grabs your wrist, pulling you behind him along with his friends. "Get back!" He points the gun at the door, keeping you all protected. "Okay! We gotta get outta here! Where do we go?"

"Everybody stand back!" Thomas yells, picking up a chair and slamming it against the glass window, only for it to bounce off. "Newt! Help! Help!"

The boy grabs another chair. "Ready?"

At the same time, they smash the glass, sending shards scattering everywhere as you use your hand to shield your face.

"Go! Go! Go!"

It's a blur of action and yelling as you all try to climb out of the window.

"Hurry! Go!" Minho yells, lingering back before tossing the Launcher to Thomas and jumping over himself.

"Stay behind me," Thomas instructs you all as he opens the door, revealing another Guard.

Which he immediately shoots.

In a burst of sparks and electricity, the man hits the floor, his body seizing and twitching uncontrollably.

You're stunned for a second, but you recollect fairly quickly. Running past the guy, all of you break into a sprint, eager to escape as you near the exit.

"There it is!" Reaching the door, Thomas tries the key card, which denies access.

"Shit! Come on!" Thomas begs. "No, no, no!"

"Thomas!" You spin to see Janson making his way down the corridor. Handing you the key card, he raises his weapon, walking towards them.

"Open the door, Janson!" He yells.

"You really don't want me to."

"Open the damn door!"

"Listen to me!" The Rat Man snaps. "I'm trying to save your life. The Maze is one thing, but you kids won't last a day out in the Scorch. If the elements don't kill you, the Cranks will. Thomas, you have to believe me. I only want what's best for you."

"Yeah, let me guess, WCKD is good?"

Whilst this exchange is going down, you're desperately trying to open the door. Both Newt and Minho stand by your sides, pushing and grabbing at the door to see if that does anything.

"You're not getting through that door, Thomas."

As if the Gods themselves were listening, the key pan suddenly lights up green. Whirring as it rises, it reveals Aris and Winston standing there.

"Hey, guys," Aris says and relief washes over you.

"You crazy bastard," you laugh. "Come on!"

"Thomas! Come on! Let's go!" Newt yells.

Thomas starts shooting, the amo quickly running out, so he launches the weapon towards them.

Janson barks orders down his radio and the door starts to quick close.

You all start to yell words of encouragement, pushing Thomas as he starts to bolt towards the door. He hits the floor, sliding aross the mouth surface as he slips under it.

"Move! Move!" Aris slams a pipe into the pad, breaking it as the rest of you grab as many supplies from nearby as possible.

You're in some kind of warehouse area, all of you sprinting towards another set of giant doors; WCKD personnel flooding from all areas.

You reach them first, pulling on a handle and having to cover your face from flying sand as they open.

Running out into the desert, all you can do is tell each other to keep moving, and that you'll lose them in the storm. It's dark and windy and hard to run.

Following the girl, she finds a building buried in the sand, and you're the first to following as you slip into the shelter.

Eventually, you all have a moment to catch your breaths, using a flashlight to illuminate your new surroundings.

You're too busy examining to listen to Thomas' full explanation and the Gladers' arguing.

Eventually, they come up with some plan to find the Right Arm and you find footsteps.

You start moving, deciding to stay close to Minho because he has the best light source.

"You were pretty good back there," you attempt to make some light-hearted conversation since you just risked your life with this kid.

"Yeah? You weren't so bad yourself." You chuckle, accepting his compliment. "I, uh, I never caught your name."

"What? Tommy-boy didn't tell you?" You raise an eyebrow and Minho shakes his head.

Even in the dark, it's easy to see how attractive the boy is. He's well built and effortlessly charming. And impressive from the stunts he pulled before.

You might just develop a crush on this kid.

"(Y/N)."

He hums in response. "I like it; (Y/N), really rolls off the tongue."

You roll your eyes, but hearing him say your name does make you feel a typa way.

The feeling is mutual, too. Bold and quick-thinking, but also caring and easy to talk to. Not to mention you're easily the most attractive girl Minho has seen (which isn't many but that's not the point.)

"Minho! Quit flirting with the new girl and give us a hand!" Newt shouts, making you try to repress a smirk.

"I wasn't flirting!" Even in the dim light, you can see Minho's reddened expression.

"Sure, you weren't!"

Confident and smooth, but easily flustered.

Good to know.

He turns to you. "I wasn't flirting."

You grin. "Uh-huh."

He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out and he ends up looking like a fish out of water.

You snort. "Yanno, you can flirt with me, if ya want to. I don't mind." You playfully wink at him, unsure if he can even see it before you jog off, catching up to your friend.

He watches as you throw an arm over Aris' shoulder before he puts an arm around your back.

Minho stands there, grinning like the Cheshire Cat before dropping his head and shaking it to himself.

"Okay, lover boy, c'mon," Thomas says, having watched the whole exchange, "you're with me."

"Shut up, shank," Minho playfully pushes his friend, "don't you wanna be with your girlfriend, anyway?"

"I should be asking you that." Minho rolls his eyes.

But he smirks.

Yeah, okay, maybe he likes you. After all, you can't really nearly die with a hot girl without catching feelings, can you?

Okay, so, not quite as good as some of my other pieces and there's barely any romance, but that tends to happen with my pieces that I have to pull the movie up for lol.

Maybe a part 2 is in order again? Well, you guys will have to let me know about that.

I hope you enjoyed :))

#🌿 petri writes #🌿 petri writes tmr #🌿 petri tmr minho #🍃 petri tmr #tmr fanfiction #tmr minho #minho tmr #minho the maze runner #minho tmr x reader #tmr imagines #minho maze runner

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dadsbongos · 3 years

Text

It’s in the Walls

Movie/Game/Show: The Boy

Dynamic: Brahms Heelshire/Reader

Warnings: you got a whole ass man living in your house without you knowing, you’re a mom

Summary: There’s a large house up for sale on a massive price-cut, who wouldn’t take that deal?

~~~

“Mom!” the shriek was high-pitched and echoed through the winding walls of the maze the manor made itself out to be.

(Y/n) closed her eyes, pretending the scream didn’t happen for a few seconds of cheap bliss before breaking back into her mothering persona. She crept down the corridors, reminding herself to take down every painting on the wall, the eyes followed her. Eventually, she came into her younger son’s new room, leaning her body against the doorway.

The blond child was huddled in a box pressed against the right wall, his small body curled tightly into itself inside the cardboard. He looked to his mother, large blue eyes sprinkled in delight that she came. Pointing to his bed, he murmured, “I saw a rat.”

“What?” she muttered, the realtor said the rodents that only stuck to the yard, but of course, that was a lie, “Oh, sweetie, come here,” the boy stumbled out of the box and grabbed onto his mother’s extended hand, “I’ll take care of him, you go make sure Joey hasn’t lost in mind in the library, okay?”

“Thank you, Dylan,” she cooed, pressing a short kiss to his forehead before sending him off.

His pink lips, shaped nearly identically to his father’s, stretched into a large grin,

“Okay, Mama!”

As soon as her son was gone, the smile drooped and suddenly she felt the weight of her eye bags drawing on her face. (Y/n) carefully approached the bed before getting onto her hands and knees, pulling up one of the draping blankets to peek underneath. A squirming, round, fat little frame poked out in the darkness before it squealed and began scurrying away.

Her hand shot out and she squeezed the fatty body between her fingers, grimacing at the rat in her hand. She never hated the things, they just never piqued her interest in the best ways, either. It thrashed and scratched at her, a small hiss leaving the woman before she tossed one of the windows open and left the rat on the sill outside to crawl away. Shutting and locking the window once again, (Y/n) made another mental note to get rat traps. Unless there were already traps.

Exiting the room, (Y/n) huffed at every creak in the wooden planks of the floorboards. The manor was old, oh, so old, it only made sense that none of the wooden boards would be silent. Even so, it was annoying and she liked to think she had the right to complain.

Eyes drifting to paintings and peeling wallpaper, she tried to remind herself to be thankful. Divorce wasn’t easy, much less so when your ex was a greedy, manipulative joke that milked you for nearly all of your possessions - she was lucky to find the mansion. Especially at such an astoundingly low price - she doubted a typical house would be cheaper than what she got the place for. None of those houses came fully-furnished anyway. Admittedly creepy and strange, but you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, you might not like what you see.

As (Y/n) scanned through cupboards and cabinets, a loud thud alerted her of a new presence in the kitchen. She shot up, banging her head on the interior of a cabinet, her hand settled on the tender curve of her skull, softly rubbing as she stood. At the counter was her elder son, black-dyed hair messy and glasses slipping down his nose.

“Hi, honey,” (Y/n) chuckled at his frazzled appearance, “just get done wrestling one of the stuffed bears?”

Joey rolled his eyes, thumping a thick, hard-cover book against the granite countertop, “No, actually, I was looking for my shoes. Where are they?”

The woman shrugged, “How am I supposed to know?”

“I left them by the door and they’re not there anymore,” the teenage boy scratched at the back of his head, “Dylan’s either lying or genuinely didn’t steal them so I came to you.”

“Did you check everywhere?” (Y/n) questioned, brows furrowing at the absurdity of the situation, “Shoes don’t just walk away on their own, you gotta have feet in them.”

“Yes, I checked everywhere,” the boy grumbled, no longer bumping the book on the hard surface, now content to flip through the pages and allow the smell of old parchment to fill their nostrils. What a lovely smell that was.

Shaking her head, the mother fumbled for an explanation to the whereabouts of her son’s shoes, “I don’t know what to tell you, you brought more pairs, right?”

Joey nodded slowly, eyes scanning through fragmented sentences before turning to the next page, “Yeah, I just really liked those ones.”

“Alright, well, I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually, don’t worry yourself over it,” she grasped her boy’s shoulder, rubbing her thumb into the flesh tenderly before letting go, “We have a rat problem, by the way, if you see any traps, let me know.”

“Oh fun,” he mumbled, forcing a wide smile onto his lips, “I think there’s some in the backyard if you haven’t been out there. They look like shit but they’ll probably get the job done.”

“Language, but thank you.”

“English and you’re welcome.”

Deciding it was better to just walk away at this point, (Y/n) headed for the back door. It was heavy to pull open and nearly slammed shut if she hadn’t pressed her foot into the thick wood, grunting at the responding pain. A trash bag was set out with a pair of gloves next to it on a quaint little side table with spider webs running between the beige wicker legs. As if somebody had put them out for a quick run but forgot they wouldn’t be using them after they left.

After that, what caught her eye was the glint of rusted metal in the thick, untamed bushes of the surrounding greenery. Upon closer inspection, she could see that grass had entangled with the metallic gate on a small wooden box, buzzing flies being the next eye-catcher. She crouched down, instantly picking up on the putrid smell of corroding flesh and dried blood, flies nibbling on the swiss cheesed corpse of a rat.

“Shit!” she gagged, backing away, rubbing her hands on her pants despite having not touched the cage at all.

Looking back up at the house, (Y/n) barely noticed the outline of a person in one of the second-floor windows. She blinked twice, shaking her head before squinting back up at the same window. Just a coat rack. Didn’t seem right - there were pants in the outline! - but then she realized how outlandish it seemed. If there was a secret person living in the house, surely it would’ve been mentioned by the realtor.

‘Forgotten’ rats were one thing, an entire person was another.

“Mom!” another soprano level scream ruptured her eardrums.

In turn, (Y/n) huffed, clenching her eyes shut before turning around and walking back towards the porch. What she first noticed was her seven-year-old, the second being the extremely off-putting, cracked porcelain doll in his arms.

It was half his size and looked to have been haphazardly put back together with some unnamed brand of superglue. Dark hair framed its head quite well with glassy, hazel eyes and pale, pretty pink lips. Grossly realistic and abandoned in a mansion, it seemed to be perfect fire material. Or it would be, if she hadn’t been told by the realtor, very explicitly, to not use the fireplace.

“Whole house could go up in flames,” Mindy had waved her hands about, “I’m not sure how that’d work, but just… don’t test it.”

Dylan held up the doll closer to his mother’s face, “Isn’t he cool?!”

“Yeah,” she lied through her teeth, carefully taking the doll, “Does he have a name?”

Leading his mother back inside, Dylan shrugged, but his loose limbs and lack of control made it appear as though he was trying to toss his shoulders off from his body, “Don’t know.”

“Hmm,” she quietly hummed, pulling back the tightly sewn collar of the doll to peek at a possible name tag, “I’m not seeing anything here, baby. You wanna name him yourself?”

There was another creak, easily dismissed as the manor’s old bones settling as the woman handed the fragile doll to her son. Dylan pressed his lips into a tight line, staring at the toy for a few moments before bursting out an answer, “I think he looks like a James!”

(Y/n) nodded to the boy’s antics, “I think that’s a great name for him.”

Before they could continue the conversation, a hard bang on the wall knocked a picture from its spot above the stove, toppling onto the rather shiny surface. Their heads turned, eyes wide and Dylan was suddenly shaking, grasping onto his mother’s shirt and huddling into her side. The woman settled a hand on her son’s shoulder, pressing her thumb into the tensing muscles before pulling away to inspect the wall.

It was a wall, obviously. Flat, leveled, wall. Nothing particularly interesting about it aside from the wallpaper’s collection of grime and peels. Looking down, she took notice of the framed picture. Three figures stood in front of the home (Y/n) now found herself in possession of. Garden controlled and clean with no windows boarded, cracked, or dirtied. A young woman not much older than (Y/n) herself was holding a four-year-old brunette boy to her hip with, who one could assume was, her husband beside them.

Glancing between the picture and the doll, she frowned at how similar the toy looked to the little boy. Not to mention that haunting family portrait at the foot of the staircase. Turning the frame over in her hands, she opened up the back before pulling the picture out of its frame. (Y/n) searched for a scrawled title of the photograph, quickly finding an answer.

Mummy, Daddy, and Brahms!

She replaced the picture just as quickly as she got it out, debating between putting it back and tossing it out before deciding to leave it on the counter. (Y/n) took her son’s chubby cheeks between her hands, planting yet another kiss on his freckled forehead, “I think his name is Brahms, sweetie.”

“Brahms?” Dylan muttered, almost as though he was testing for another bump. When there was none, he nodded, “Brahms.”

Running away and back up the stairs, (Y/n) was ready to force herself into forgetting the whole thing happened when her older son’s voice was heard.

“It’s funny, you little brat!” followed by a loud wail.

“Give him back!” Dylan screamed.

(Y/n) rushed out of the kitchen to see Joey holding Brahms out of Dylan’s reach, the older boy was visibly angry, “Funny, I could say the same thing to you!”

“Joseph Lowy,” the woman muttered, snatching the doll from her son, and giving it back to her pouting little blond boy, “Here, go play with Brahms,” as he ran up the stairs, she called after him, “Don’t get too crazy up there, you two!”

Joey shook his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses, “Little asshole.”

“Hey!” (Y/n) looked over to the sixteen-year-old, “Don’t talk about your little brother like that.”

“He stole more of my shit,” the dark-haired boy tapped at the wall a few times with his knuckles, shaking his head, “Shoes I could deal with but now two of my shirts are missing.”

“Did you leave them at the house?” she tried to reason, leaning against the wall, “Dylan’s been with me for a while, maybe you’re losing it, sweetpea.”

Joey cringed at the pet name briefly before deciding to carry on with his point, “No, I didn’t leave my clothes at the house. I wouldn’t leave a single sock with that dick.”

“Don’t call my ex a dick,” (Y/n) breathed out, turning her son around and nudging him towards the den, “Only I can do that.”

“Unfair.”

“This isn’t a democracy, it’s a dictatorship,” (Y/n) waved off, standing there long enough just to watch the boy sit down on a leather chair and open the book in his hands. She’d have to go into town for rat traps, then.

She bit at her lip, turning towards the flight of stairs and beginning to go up the steps. Without the creeks flowing alongside her movement, the house seemed even more eerie - she didn’t bother to stop and figure out why there were no creeks. It didn’t matter to her at the time.

(Y/n) peeked into Dylan’s room, smiling softly at the sight of her little boy seated at a play table with plastic plates and cups and faux food set delicately on it. He was holding a small pink teacup with Brahms porcelain fingers using a hair tie to keep a similar purple one in his grasp. When the little boy noticed his mother in the doorway, he waved wildly, taking one of Brahms’ arms gently and copying the motion onto the doll.

Continuing down the hall, (Y/n) came upon her room, pushing it open and immediately seeing that her suitcases and bags had been peeled open. She was sure that she’d left them all zipped and sealed before leaving, but, of course, you can never be too certain. Going over to the luggage, she moved clothing around and peered through when she noticed how strewn about her things were.

The ‘fragile-minded’ female role after a heavy divorce was not something (Y/n) ever imagined herself as being. It was so played out and disgusting, she despised it with everything in her body. Yet, as she found that one of her dresses was missing, she suddenly felt as though it was depressingly truer than she’d hoped.

(Y/n) turned to another suitcase; her apple red-tinted skirt was gone. She dug deeper into the case, pulling out a few stray, tossed-around shirts in her endeavor to find her favorite skirt. She tossed a hand up, giving up on finding the articles of clothing for the time being. Not that she’d admit it, but worry was beginning to fester in the deepest crawlspaces of her gut.

Stepping over to a different suitcase, (Y/n) pulled out what probably wouldn’t make her look as though she just woke up and went over to the bathroom connected to her bedroom.

Mindy had made it abundantly clear that the two previous owners drowned themselves while on a ‘two-month’ vacation after leaving the house to a nanny. Who the nanny was or why she left wasn’t made clear to either woman, just that the house wasn’t right. Cryptic language, always appreciated.

Taking into mind the deaths and sudden missing clothing combined with bumps from the kitchen, it may be time to call the kettle a kettle. The home may be haunted. Not that she wanted a literal haunted house, but what other choice was there at this point?

Not even apartments were renting as low as the manor was selling.

As she finished getting dressed, (Y/n) began her way out of the house, stopping at her younger son’s room, “I’m going out for some things. Want me to bring you back anything?”

Dylan looked over to the cracked doll, “Do you want new clothes, Brahms?”

The doll, of course, was completely silent. Unmoving. Watching.

“I think Brahms wants new clothes, Mom,” Dylan beamed at the woman, holding up his plastic cup.

(Y/n) giggled, nodding as she pat the doorway, “Alright, honey, I’ll see what I can do for Brahms.”

“Thanks, Mom,” the bubbly little boy lowered his cup, settling his hand on the doll’s back, “Say thanks, Brahms.”

No words came from the toy, as one would be expected to expect. It sat still, not moving but still watching. Always watching. Unblinking, glassy, hazel eyes stuck on his flesh-and-blood blond friend.

“He says thanks.”

Nodding, the woman gave her boy a thumbs up, “I’m sure.”

The next son was still in the den, reading quietly to himself. Every now and again one’s ear would pick up on a small mumble of a word, small stutters slipping from the teenager’s lips. (Y/n) came up behind the boy, hands slamming onto the back of the chair loudly.

Joey jumped in his place, turning swiftly, “The hell, Mom?”

“I’m going out, bookworm,” (Y/n) teased, running a hand through the boy’s messy black hair, “Need me to pick something up?”

“Coffee grounds would be great,” he confirmed, “There’s none in this entire, literal, mansion.”

“Alright,” she gently brought her older son’s shoulders back so his head was laying against the chair, “Take a break sometime soon, okay? Stretch for a bit, make you and your brother some lunch.”

He hummed in acknowledgment but otherwise, there was no indication of him having even listened to his mother.

The next morning was just as drab and bland as the previous, and there was no doubt that the morning after this would be the same as always. (Y/n) huffed as she climbed out of bed, rubbing a hand over her droopy eyes. She stood, no longer remembering much of what had happened yesterday other than buying children’s clothes for a doll and coffee grounds for her son.

Not even the drill holes the previous owners must have never paid much mind to, which she noticed after dinner. They were strangely large for any typical drill she’d seen or owned.

(Y/n) managed to trudge into the kitchen during her dazed state, neither one of her boys was eating and so she correctly assumed both were still asleep. Scratching under her shirt at her stomach, the woman picked the coffee grounds from under the sink, laying the hefty tub on the counter next to the maker. Seemed a bit counterproductive to have a coffee maker and not a single crumb of grounds or even any beans to actually use. Not that she could say it to the owners’ faces.

“Oh, filters, right,” she mumbled to herself, immediately recalling the thin papers in the walk-in closet style storage compartment.

Her hand scanned over a few shelves, one arm crossed over her chest and the other still running along canned goods and cereal boxes. She tilted her head to rest on the raised shoulder, beginning to hum quietly to herself. The air was pleasantly crisp, oddly crisp for the interior of a house let alone a pantry. It had the same feeling as being inside an attic, if that made any sort of sense it didn’t matter to her at the time. Not much about the house mattered to her at the moment.

A few creeks and Joey was walking into the kitchen, the poor house was only getting older and with his naturally heavy steps, Joey found himself making more noise than he’d like. So much noise. Too much noise. Why did he have to be so loose with his footfalls? He’d been walking for over forty years by now.

Forty years? Forty years.

He was a grown man, he should be able to walk quietly. Just because Greta left him, he suddenly can’t be a ghost anymore?

A scream clutched the air as the pantry door slammed shut. (Y/n) turned, not finding herself much a fan of the darkness. She took the doorknob into her grip, violently twisting and pushing on the knob, “Joseph?! Dylan?!”

The door refused to budge, like a weight was pressing down onto it. It creaked and rocked ever so slightly but there was no way of getting it open.

“Joseph fucking Lowy, open this God damn door!” she pounded on the busted wood, beginning to kick when her hits proved no help, “Dylan! One of you open this door, right now!”

Suddenly, the lock made a click, and all the invisible weight was gone, a sixteen-year-old boy staring quizzically at his mother, “Mom, what’s wrong with you? How did you lock the door from the outside?”

“What are you talking about?” (Y/n) shook her head, giving the pantry a glance over her shoulder, “You locked me in there.”

“You woke me up with all your yelling,” Joey instantly denied, “I’m surprised Dylan’s not up yet.”

“Joseph, I’m not playing with you right now,” she crossed both arms, “It’s not cute.”

“I’m serious!” he shouted in his own defense, neither of them taking notice in the seven-year-old cradling a porcelain doll with a cracked face to his chest, “I wouldn’t lock you in a pantry!”

“Mom…” the boy muttered.

(Y/n)’s jaw clenched, eyes slamming shut and body turning away from her older son to look at the disgusting wallpaper of her kitchen. She sniffed hard, rubbing under her nose before looking back to her younger son, “Yes, sweetie?”

“Brahms made a mess,” Dylan quietly replied, going up to his mother and grabbing her hand, “It wasn’t me, really. It was Brahms.”

“What do you mean it was Brahms?” she huffed, following after the child as he began leading her up to the second floor, “He’s a doll, baby, it was probably just the wind knocking something over.”

“No,” he shook his head, pushing his bedroom door open wider, “Brahms made a mess.”

A mess indeed. Clothes and toys had been absolutely hurricaned around the little boy’s room, some glass from pictures and abandoned dishes shattered across the floor. Dylan’s play table had been toppled over with all the plasticware left on the carpeted ground. Looking over to her son’s feet, (Y/n) felt herself puzzled at the lack of blood; glass was everywhere. How could his reckless little feet avoid all of it?”

“Baby, did you step in any glass?”

“There’s glass in there?” the boy peeked around his mother before looking down at Brahms, “How did you do that?”

(Y/n) turned back to the bedroom, poking her tongue into her cheek as her hands found their places on her hips. Confusion laced into her bones, trickling down the marrow and soaking into her shaking fingertips. Brows knit tightly downward in the midst of her conflict and head thumping for answers, no - no, that was a headache. She was getting a headache.

Taking her son’s shoulders, (Y/n) spun him around to face the way they just came down, “I’ll take care of that tonight, sweetpea, don’t go in here for a little bit, alright? I don’t want you cutting up your feet.”

“Okay, Mama,” Dylan grinned up at the woman, holding Brahms a little tighter in his grasp, “I don’t want Brahms to get hurt either.”

“That’s very nice of you,” she cooed, taking his cheek between thumb and forefinger and pinching gently, “What a good little boy I have.”

Beaming at the praise, the mother-son duo didn’t even notice the panel in the wall rolling back and it’s spidery tendons creeping around the curve of the wall’s edge. Instead, they giggled over nothing as (Y/n) took her son’s small, fragile hands into her own and puppeteered him down the stairs. Doll boy Brahms left to sit on the landing of the house’s flight until somebody, anybody, picked him up.

Passing the portrait of another family was easy enough despite how creepy it seemed. They’d have to take it down, feeling like a guest in one’s own home was never appreciated. Then again, neither were pests in your walls, especially when you didn’t know about them yet.

“Sleep tight, sweetie,” (Y/n) blew one final kiss to her son before closing the bedroom door to her own room.

“Wait,” Dylan whined, stopping his mother in the motion, “Brahms is still gone…”

The woman pursed her lips, “I know, I know. Just try to sleep without him for now, okay? We’ll probably find him tomorrow morning.”

Pouting, the boy kicked his legs out slightly before nodding solemnly, “Alright…”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she smiled tenderly at the child before shutting the bedroom door genuinely. Turning to her other son, (Y/n) forced a much faker smile onto her lips, “And thank you for your upcoming sacrifice.”

“I never said it was a sacrifice,” Joey grumbled, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, “You’re just dramatic.”

“Incorrect,” (Y/n) turned her boy around with a few small pats on the shoulder, descending the stairs as a pair until they reached the comically large portrait of a family that wasn’t their own.

Her hand settled against the groove of the curvy golden frame, the other resting against the painted surface as she and her son lifted the painting from the wall.

“Shit,” Joey hissed, assisting his mother in her lifting, “this thing’s heavy. Really heavy.”

“Probably wasn’t meant to be taken off the wall,” the woman reasoned with her son, muscles straining in their removal of the ridiculously big painting.

As the woman handled the painting, deciding to let it rest on the floor. Her backbones screamed as she slowly bent at the knee to lower the portrait of the wealthy family. Knuckles and joints beginning to ache as she did so.

“Mom…?” Joey muttered, voice much smaller and more fragile than she was accustomed to.

“Yeah?” she gruffed, finally letting the painting down completely. Her hands came to press on her tailbone ever so gently, practically already feeling next morning’s soreness, “Something wrong?”

“Only if you think a human-sized hole in the wall is a problem?” the boy chuckled dryly.

“A what?”

Turning swiftly, (Y/n) was quickly faced with exactly what her eldest son had just described to her. A human-sized hole in their wall. Large enough to fit a six-foot person, maybe they’d have to duck, but the fact remained. Her hands reached out for the edges of where the frame met the actual wall. She turned her head both ways, it was dark but when her eyes adjusted she could tell that there was a clear path running through the wall. Pulling her head back out, (Y/n) nodded towards the hole.

“I’ll go first, you follow.”

“Fine.”

Stepping into the hole, she noted how disgustingly crisp the air felt, it reminded her of being trapped in the pantry. It made her question what ways were waiting to be opened up by creeping little fingers inside that quiet, confined space. Her skin bumped and hairs raised at the thought of whoever had made these pathways still being inside the house. But that was insane, not a chance that somebody could live inside the walls of a manor without anybody finding out. There’d be too many creeks.

And suddenly she was remembering being locked in the pantry again, when those loud creeks were cracking into her ears and her sons had still been asleep. Her sons had still been asleep.

(Y/n) stopped, glad that her son’s eyes, though faltering, had adjusted to the dark well enough so he wouldn’t bump into her, “You’re sure you didn’t lock me in the pantry, right? There’s no way you were sleepwalking or anything?”

It was silent, so silent that there was a deafening buzz drumming into her ears.

“Joey?”

Again, all she was met with was the droning, consistent blare of buzzing in her ears.

“Joseph, I’m not playing with you.”

Once more, she was hit with buzzing.

“Joseph,” (Y/n) turned around, not meeting the eyes of her sixteen-year-old bookworm son, but instead with a stained, smelly, thin white shirt.

It hung low enough to expose the oddly shiny slick of sweat glistening over a hairy chest. Her breath grew rapid, fear racing through her body as she shook her head.

Looking up, her gut was wrenched at the dirtied prosthetic mask angled as if the person behind it was looking down upon her, as though she were a frightened rabbit. Now that she thought about it, she was a frightened, shaking little rabbit.

“Where’s my son?” when there was no response, she tossed herself into his body, attempting to push past him, “Joseph?! Dylan?!”

The arms of the secret man in her walls wrapped around her, squeezing tightly. One arm abandoned her waist, scrambling for something a little ways behind them, when he found it, the arm raised above her head.

“Joseph?!” she sobbed weakly, beginning to choke on her own nasty cocktail of tears and mucus, “Dylan?!”

A thwack left no more screaming to be heard, the tall man dropping his makeshift club in favor of picking the woman up as though she were his cute, delicate bride.

Brahms turned, heading back for the largest panel of the walls with (Y/n) dangling limply in his arms.

Finally coming to, (Y/n) sputtered in a soft muffle, eyesight unclear and spotting in the corners. The spots and blotches eventually leveled and began to mop themselves into one concise picture of the kitchen. She let out a soft hiss, wrists stinging when she suddenly realized that there were ropes binding her arms back and to her chair.

Head toppling to the left, a snoring Joey was also tied down with his glasses already having slipped from his nose. Crashed onto the floor and shattered, it reminded her of her youngest son’s room; her youngest son.

She looked over to her right, spotting an empty wicker chair immediately beside her and Dylan after that. Dylan was leaning far back, head resting on his shoulder and mouth having fallen open to let out quiet whimpers and whines as though even in Dreamland, he was frightful.

Finally, she looked forward, squinting at the collection of chairs in front of her. They were chairs, obviously, nothing too interesting about that but it’s what was in the chairs that alarmed her. Pillows conjoined together by stolen articles of clothing ranging from Joey’s shirt to her favorite dress and skirt and Dylan’s sweatshirt. Between her pillow copy and Dylan’s was the Brahms doll; staring ahead silently. Watching. Always watching.

A high-pitched, airy, childlike voice rang in her ear, it didn’t match the fully grown man standing behind Dylan. Brahms, the real Brahms, pat the boy’s blond hair before ruffling Joey’s untamed dark tresses, “Little brother… big brother…” he moved behind (Y/n), his hands settling on her shoulders before his mask moved to press it’s cold, hard lips against the goosebumped, terrified skin of her neck, “Mommy…”

Sitting down in the empty chair, Brahms smiled beneath his mask, staring into the dead, glassy eyes of his doll before letting his voice take on the deeper octave more appropriate of an adult.

“Daddy…”

#brahms heelshire #brahms the boy #brahms heelshire x reader #the boy 2016 #slasher x reader #brahms: the boy #can't believe i spelt the movie name wrong :)#clown energy people i'm telling you

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