remmick bent over you doggy style holding you in place by clamping his jaws around the back of your neck... slobbering all over your skin, groaning and chuffing throatily through his open mouth... he's real gentle about it too, he doesn't actually want to hurt you. just scare you enough to keep you still, easy to hold onto when he's pumping desperately into you like his life depends on it. maybe his claws are stabbing into the fat of your hips, small trickles of blood oozing from the tips of his talons, though he tries his absolute best to hold himself back from fully stabbing into you. you can't help but cry- from the brutal angle, the overarching fear of having your throat ripped out, from the desperation to come- it's all too much for you to handle :( when he finally comes, he's borderline sobbing, licking all over the tiny cuts he's left, lapping up your tears, kissing over your hands and begging for forgiveness. it takes him a full hour to convince you to say it, to tell him you forgive him. tell him you understand why he had to take you from your cozy little home and into his cold one, he just wants a little wife to warm him up. you understand, right?
i am in fact working on the requests guys TRUST I just had to get this one off my brain. in my mind remmick is soooo pathetic and gross hehehaha
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ Summary: You and your friends are on your way to a music festival when car trouble strands you in Ambrose, a quiet town that doesn’t feel quite right. There’s something off about the people. About the stillness. About the man who offers to help—his eyes linger too long. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. And his garage is the last place you should’ve gone.
You don't realize you’re being remade until it’s already too late. Because he doesn't want to hurt you.
He wants to keep you.
(or, a House of Wax au)
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ wc: 9.7k
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ a/n: Late Halloween drop 🫣 I meant to have this out by the 31st, but I recently met a boy that makes me feel like I've swallowed butterflies, so here we are <333 More horror fics coming this week before I shift back to finishing wips! I’ve been loving the response to my horror AUs lately. Bo Sinclair was one of my OG horror villain crushes and Brett just fit, also decided to give Brett the same last name as a little nod 🙂↕️ shout-out once again to @scrprints for the Brett pic/edit! You don’t need to have seen House of Wax to read this. Hope you like being his favorite doll. 🕯️🖤
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ warnings: dead dove: do not eat, noncon/dubcon, murder, graphic depictions of violence, coercion, false imprisonment, blowjob-as-silencer, Rough oral (m! receiving), facefucking, gore, blood kink, breath!play, spit!kink, slapping, overstimulation, creampie, dirty talk, dollification, possessiveness, pervy, unhinged obsession
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷ Fic Masterlist
You’ve been on the road so long, the hours have started melting together.
It was supposed to be an easy drive. A long weekend, a stacked lineup, and enough beer in the cooler to carry all five of you across state lines. A chance to unplug, to be young, to scream lyrics into the wind. Instead, it’s hour seven on some backroad with no service, no signs, and nothing but the same blacktop unraveling ahead like a loose thread that might never end.
Evan is driving, one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over your knee. It’s meant to be comforting, you think—one of those couple things, a public claim. But his hand is heavy. Hot. Claustrophobic. It hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.
“Still not lost,” he says confidently, as if someone had accused him. “This road’ll take us straight through. Shortcut, remember?”
You glance at his phone on the dash. It’s dead. Has been for hours. “If you say so.”
He doesn’t hear the edge in your voice, or maybe he does and decides to ignore it. His fingers squeeze lightly around your thigh before going still again.
In the backseat, Maddy and Harper are half-asleep in a tangle of limbs and candy wrappers. Their headphones are shared, one bud each. Harper hums under her breath, some indie song you vaguely recognize. Nate is stretched out across the trunk space of the SUV, arms crossed over his chest, snoring soft and rhythmic.
Evan had insisted on taking the backroads to “shave off time,” but all it’s shaved is your nerves. The gas is low. The sun is setting. And still, there’s no town, no exit, not even a mailbox. Just forest. Endless, watching.
“I think we should pull over soon,” you suggest finally. “It’s getting dark.”
Evan exhales through his nose. “We’re fine.”
“We’ve been driving for hours.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to hit a deer in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
That gets a smirk out of him. “Didn’t know you were a conservationist now.”
“I’m serious, Evan.”
He glances over, and for a moment, you see it—that flicker of irritation behind his smile. The one that’s been showing up more often lately. It fades fast, smoothed over by something charming and false.
“Fine,” he says, like he’s doing you a favor. “We’ll pull off if we see something.”
Something turns out to be a muddy shoulder flanked by trees and the skeletal remains of a wooden fence. There’s no sign, no marker, no reason for this spot to exist except that it happens to be wide enough to stop. The sun has dipped below the tree line, staining the sky with a bruise of orange and pink.
Evan slows the car and pulls off the road. Gravel crackles under the tires. The SUV lurches into a slanted stop, and everyone else begins to stir.
“We there?” Nate yawns, blinking blearily.
Maddy stretches, popping her neck. “Please say yes.”
“Temporary stop,” Evan says, cutting the engine. “We’re camping.”
“Camping?” Harper groans. “There’s not even a bathroom.”
“Don’t be a princess,” Maddy teases.
“I am a princess.”
You climb out and stretch your legs. The air smells like moss and woodsmoke. Somewhere nearby, water trickles softly—maybe a creek or a ditch. The wind is cool, brushing against the sweat dried into your skin. Above, the sky is stuccoed with stars. No light pollution. No planes. No sound but the woods breathing around you.
For a moment, you almost believe this was a good idea.
Evan pops the trunk and starts pulling out supplies. Nate joins him, tossing down the tents with a theatrical grunt. “Y’know, I’m not usually a nature guy, but this ain’t bad.”
Harper mutters something about being eaten alive by mosquitoes and how “this is how every true crime podcast starts—bad signal, no witnesses, and a man who swears he knows where he's going.”
You set up camp slowly. Two tents, one bonfire, a few chairs, and a shitty little bluetooth speaker someone remembered to charge. Evan makes a show of building the fire himself, striking the lighter with too much force, hissing when it doesn’t catch. You and Maddy take over without a word. The flames catch within minutes.
Soon, there’s music playing low, beers cracked open, and warmth curling into the clearing.
It almost feels normal.
You sit with your knees drawn up, cradling a cup of something cheap and fizzy. Harper is braiding Maddy’s hair beside the fire, their quiet laughter soft as moth wings. Nate has his hoodie up, hood pulled tight, face glowing red in the firelight. Evan’s arm is slung behind your chair, fingertips tracing patterns along the back of your neck. You try not to flinch when he squeezes.
“I’m telling you,” Nate says, mouth full of chips, “somebody died out here.”
Maddy snorts. “What, you mean like right here? In this exact spot?”
“I’m serious. Look around. This place is straight-up cursed. That tree line? Haunted. That stump over there? Probably used in a sacrifice.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s a patch of woods.”
“Cursed woods.”
“You say that about every forest we pass.”
“And one of these times I’m gonna be right. You’ll see. I’ll be the guy they interview in the documentary. Like ‘I told them not to stay, but they didn’t listen.’ Cut to static. Cut to screams.”
“Cut to you crying in the bushes when a raccoon shows up,” Evan says.
Everyone laughs. Nate flips him off but grins.
As the night wears on, the jokes keep coming. Ghost stories. Urban legends. One about a girl who hitchhiked and was never seen again. One about a wax museum where the figures watched you move. You’ve heard them all before, but somehow, they land different in this place. The dark feels thicker here. The silence deeper.
The fire pops. You flinch. Embers rise and vanish.
You think about saying you want to go to bed. That you’re tired. That the air smells strange.
But before you can speak, you hear it.
An engine. Low and steady.
Somewhere out there, past the clearing. Getting louder.
The group goes still.
Then: headlights.
They appear at the top of the road, bright and sharp, casting long shadows through the trees. A truck rolls into view. Large. Old. The kind that looks like it runs on something more primal than fuel.
It doesn’t stop right away. It pulls forward slowly, tires hissing through the gravel, until it’s just a few yards away from your campfire.
Then it cuts the engine.
You can hear the ticking of its cooling metal. That, and your heartbeat.
No one speaks.
The windshield is too dark to see through. The cabin is black. Opaque. Like it’s not meant to show who’s inside.
You grip the arms of your chair. Evan shifts beside you, face hardening. “What the fuck?”
Still, the truck sits. Idle. Watching.
“Do you think they’re lost?” Harper whispers.
“They’re not moving,” Maddy says.
Evan stands. “Hey!” he calls. “Can we help you?”
The truck doesn’t respond.
Nate’s voice cracks. “Dude. Sit down.”
Evan doesn’t. He moves closer to the edge of the clearing, hand raised.
The truck growls back to life.
It lunges forward—just a foot. Just enough to make Harper gasp.
Evan stiffens.
The truck idles again.
Then, without warning, it peels off. Tires scream. Dust swallows the clearing.
It’s gone.
Just like that.
You’re left in stunned silence, choking on the smoke left behind.
No one speaks. Not for a long time.
Eventually, Nate laughs nervously. “Fuck that.”
“I hate this place,” Harper says.
Maddy just stares at the road.
Evan returns to his chair, not saying a word.
You don’t sleep that night. Not really.
Even after the fire dies and the others drift off in their tents, you lie awake beside Evan, staring at the nylon ceiling. Listening.
Waiting.
Because somewhere out there, an engine is still running.
And it’s getting closer.
The sound of that engine follows you into sleep. You dream of headlights blinking like eyes in the treeline, of rubber peeling back from bone, of something slick and heavy crawling under the car and slicing.
You wake in the gray smear of predawn.
Evan’s already gone from the tent.
The air outside is thick and wet, dew glistening on everything like sweat. The fire’s long since gone out, now a ghost of ash and soot. The world feels quieter than it should. Like something was taken in the night and no one noticed.
Harper and Maddy are still asleep, zipped together like twin hearts inside a chrysalis. Nate is stretching, yawning, arms above his head like a marionette not fully strung. The cooler’s been overturned. Something—animal or human—you can’t be sure—left muddy smudges on the side of the tent. You stare at them for a long moment.
“Car’s fucked,” Evan says, suddenly behind you.
You jump. “Jesus.”
He scratches the back of his neck, face sour. “Fan belt’s shot. Snapped clean off.”
“What?” Your blood goes cold.
He gestures toward the SUV. The hood’s propped open. You step closer.
It isn’t snapped.
It’s cut.
Too clean. No fraying. No tearing. Just a neat, surgical slice, right through the rubber.
Evan’s jaw works. “Fucking old belt, I guess.”
“That’s not wear,” you say. “Someone did that.”
“Like who?” he snaps, rounding on you. “Some forest goblin with a box cutter?”
You don’t answer.
Because you’re thinking about the truck. The headlights. The fact that someone watched you all night.
“Maybe it was that guy,” you say softly.
“What guy?”
“The one in the truck.”
He makes a face. “You mean the redneck drive-by freakshow? He didn’t stop.”
“Maybe he came back.”
Evan stares at you, and for one brief, naked second, you see what he’s thinking—that you sound crazy. That you’re being difficult. That your fear is an inconvenience.
“Look,” he sighs. “Let’s just figure this out, okay?”
The others gather. There’s arguing. Nate wants to walk east and find cell service. Maddy votes to stay put in case someone comes by. Harper just looks between you and Evan like she’s deciding which of you is the bigger red flag.
Eventually, it’s agreed: Evan and you will look for help. A nearby road sign hinted there might be a town a few miles ahead. If nothing else, you’ll be able to call for a tow.
You hate the idea of splitting up, but Harper says it makes more sense. “Cover more ground,” she says, like it’s a strategy. Like it’s a game.
The group waves you off. You and Evan walk side by side down the warped road, tension filling the spaces where your shadows stretch. There’s no traffic. No birdsong. Only the crunch of gravel beneath your shoes.
Eventually, you see it—a thin white steeple poking above the treeline.
A church.
Paint peeling. Bell cracked. Cross tilted like it’s drunk. The sign out front says something in half-missing letters: BLESSED ARE THE DEAD THAT DIE IN THE LORD. You don’t know if it’s a verse or a warning.
He doesn’t wait. Just grabs the handle and pushes the heavy doors open.
They creak loud enough to echo. You wince.
Inside, it’s dim.
Rows of pews stretch toward the altar where a closed casket rests beneath a huge wooden cross. Candles line the windowsills. Dozens of mourners sit bowed in silence, dressed in black. The scent of lilies chokes the air.
Evan freezes in the doorway. “Oh, shit—”
Your stomach drops. You tug his arm. “We need to go.”
“Yeah—yeah, okay—sorry!” he blurts toward the congregation.
You both back out quickly, the doors groaning closed behind you.
You don’t get three steps before they creak open again.
Footsteps follow.
“Hey.”
The voice is rough and low, like tires crunching over gravel.
You turn—and he’s already there.
Stocky. Strong shoulders. Black shirt stretched across a lean frame. Grease on his hands. A crescent of soot under one cheekbone like a smear of warpaint. His dark hair’s pushed back off his forehead. Eyes like stormcloud glass.
You know this man didn’t come from the pews.
“You got a habit of walkin’ into funerals uninvited?” he asks.
Evan stiffens, raises his hands. “Didn’t realize it was a service—we thought the building was abandoned. We were just looking for someone to ask about a phone or a ride—”
“You just thought you’d barge in,” the man corrects. His voice is quiet, but sharp enough to slice through bone.
“We’re sorry,” you cut in, stepping forward, trying to soften the edge. “We didn’t mean to interrupt anything. It was a mistake. Honest.”
His eyes land on you.
And stay there.
The hostility doesn’t disappear, exactly—but it shifts. Banks. His jaw flexes. His gaze rakes over your face like he’s memorizing it.
You feel heat rise in your chest, beneath your collar.
He tilts his head slightly. “You’re not from around here.”
Evan steps forward again. “We’re passing through. Our fan belt snapped. We were hoping someone could—”
The man doesn’t even glance at him.
“Fan belt, huh?” he says, still looking at you.
Evan bristles. “Yeah. You wouldn’t happen to have the right size, would you?”
The man finally turns his head. Just slightly. “Garage’s down the road.”
A long beat.
Then: “I got one that’ll fit.”
You nod. “That’d be really helpful. Thank you.”
He wipes a hand on his jeans and offers it, palm rough and calloused.
“I’m Brett.”
You offer your name and hand in return, shaking his back in greeting.
He doesn’t let go right away.
Then he nods toward the trees. “Truck’s around back. I’ll give you a lift.”
You glance at Evan. He shrugs.
“Appreciate it,” Evan says.
Brett doesn’t respond. Just leads the way.
You follow him, boots thudding over the dry grass, and glance once more at the church as you walk away.
The doors are still open.
The mourners are still inside.
And you could swear not a single one moved.
The truck smells like sweat, leather, and diesel—hot and cloying, like the cab itself is exhaling. The bench seat sticks to your thighs with every jolt in the road, your skin peeling from the vinyl like a second thought. There’s no music playing, no static on the radio. Just the grinding groan of tires over gravel and the occasional rattle from something loose under the hood.
Evan sits stiff between you and Brett, arms folded tight, chewing the inside of his cheek raw. Every now and then his jaw works like he's about to say something, but nothing comes out. His silence isn’t calming—it’s pressurized, resentful. He smells like deodorant and stress, the sour kind. You keep your eyes on the road ahead because looking anywhere else feels too loaded.
The silence crackles, too thick for the heat alone. It stretches like wire, the engine noise barely holding it together.
“Nice place,” Evan says finally, too loud in the quiet. He nods toward the passing storefronts like they’re part of some quaint roadside charm.
Brett doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even glance.
The town unfolds like a bad dream—slideshow pacing, flickering details. Peeling paint clings to sagging facades. Dusty windows catch the sun but reflect nothing. Mannequins sit frozen behind counters, posed like they’re waiting for customers who’ll never come. There’s a barbershop with a rusted red-and-white pole that still spins lazily despite the grime crusting the glass. A movie theater marquee announces OPENING SOON in brittle, sun-bleached letters. The poster underneath has gone ghost-white with age, the image long since boiled away.
There’s no movement. No birds. No wind. Just you, watching this stillborn place blur past as something cold and slow begins blooming under your ribs.
“Not many people live out here?” you ask, voice soft, careful.
Brett’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. The leather grunts. “They keep to themselves.”
No eye contact. No elaboration.
He pulls into a wide gravel lot beside an old garage, the kind that looks abandoned until you realize how lived-in the rust is. A battered lift squats in the middle of the bay like a spider waiting. The enamel sign overhead—some old service logo faded to a skull shape—swings gently in the breeze, creaking with every pass. The whole building looks like it’s been sunbaked until brittle.
“You got the belt size?” Brett asks without turning, voice flat.
Evan nods and pulls out his phone automatically—even though you both know it’s been dead for hours. “Yeah, uh…serpentine belt, ‘03 Camry. I think it’s—”
“Inside,” Brett says, cutting him off.
The side door groans on its hinges. You duck under the crooked signage, the skull above you now close enough to count its teeth. Inside, the air cools by ten degrees. It’s dim, the light filtering through warped windows, dusty like it’s never been touched. It smells like old oil and rusted steel—and something sweet underneath, cloying and wrong, like antifreeze or wilting lilies. Something trying to mask rot.
Evan drifts toward the workbench, running a hand over a tray of tools like he knows what any of them are. He picks up a wrench, puts it down, opens a drawer too fast like he’s afraid of getting caught. You watch him trying to perform capability, but he doesn’t belong here. Neither of you do.
Brett doesn’t move. Doesn’t follow. Just watches him.
“He always like that?” he asks quietly, voice like crushed velvet.
You blink. “Like what?”
“Talks over you. Gets mouthy.”
You fold your arms across your chest. “He just…gets defensive.”
Brett hums, low in his throat. It’s not agreement. Not quite. “Lotta men like that out here. Loud. Weak hands. Think volume makes them strong.”
There’s a pause, and you feel it in your bones.
Evan holds up a belt he’s found in a mismatched bin. “This it?”
Brett’s eyes move slow. “Nah. That’s wrong.”
“It’s the only one that’s close.”
“Then I guess you’re shit outta luck,” Brett retorts simply.
Evan scoffs, exasperated. “What, you said you had one.”
“I do,” Brett replies, finally stepping forward. “Just not for you.”
The room tilts.
You don’t even clock the wrench in Brett’s hand until it’s rising—until the metal flares in the slanting light, not swinging, just lifting, smooth as breath.
“Hey, what the fu—”
The wrench arcs down with a sick, wet crack. The sound is sharper than you expect, bone and meat meeting steel, and it ends with something like a slurp.
Evan drops.
Not like in the movies. Not graceful. His knees buckle first and then he crumples sideways, twitching violently as his head hits the concrete with a second, duller thud.
You can’t even scream. The air’s been sucked out of the room.
Blood spatters the floor in tight bursts. Evan’s leg kicks once, then again, harder—a full-body jolt like a puppet with its strings on fire. His hands scratch at nothing. His mouth opens but no sound comes out.
Brett stands over him, wrench in hand, dripping.
You see skull. Bone. The indent where the temple gave way. Something glistens beneath, a ruined softness that doesn’t belong outside the body. You smell pennies and bile. The sweet scent from earlier swells—not antifreeze. Not flowers. Just the sticky rot of something long dead and newly torn open.
Then Brett turns his head. Calm. Focused.
“Go on,” he says, like he’s giving permission. “Get it out.”
Your lungs seize. Your legs don’t.
You run.
Shoes slip on the gravel as you burst out the side door, the sunlight like a slap after the garage’s dim haze. You don’t know where you’re going—just away. Across the cracked pavement, past the rows of silent storefronts and waxy mannequins posed in a mockery of life. They watch you, every single one. Frozen smiles, dust-choked faces, eyes that don't blink.
The heat is unbearable now. It’s in your throat, your lungs, beating off the pavement in thick, invisible waves. Your legs burn. Your vision tunnels. The backs of your knees go slick with sweat and you barely feel your foot catch.
But it does.
You go down hard.
Knees scrape raw against gravel. Skin peels. Your palms slap the ground and don’t catch you in time. You taste blood—bit your tongue maybe, or maybe it’s Evan’s still on the air. Somewhere behind you, footsteps crunch with calm, deliberate rhythm. Not chasing. Just coming.
You scramble, half-crawl, half-run until your body gives out again. Muscles locking. Chest wheezing. You turn your head and see him.
He’s not even winded.
Brett walks like this is just another Tuesday. Not fast. Not slow. Just certain. His boots crush bits of glass and sun-dried leaves. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms speckled with something dark. He’s not even looking around, because there’s nowhere for you to hide.
The town’s a stage, and you’re the only thing moving on it.
You try to rise again. Your ankle screams. The pain shoots up your shin like lightning. You don’t make it two steps before he catches up.
He doesn’t grab your throat.
He takes your arm.
Gently.
Like he’s escorting you out of a restaurant.
And when he drags you back toward the garage, your body goes loose. Boneless. Not from compliance—just resignation. You don’t scream. You don’t fight.
Because Brett’s face is calm.
Because Evan’s blood is still drying on his jaw and he looks like he’s already won.
You don’t know how long you’ve been down here.
Minutes, hours—could be days. Time doesn’t behave right in places like this.
There’s no clock on the wall. No windows to measure light. Just concrete walls that sweat condensation, thick beads crawling down in crooked lines like veins. Every inch of it smells damp, metallic, lived-in. Rust laces the corners where the pipes meet the ceiling, and somewhere out of sight, something drips at a steady rhythm you’ve started to mistake for a heartbeat.
The hum above your head never stops. Machinery, maybe. Or a fan buried in the walls. Sometimes it deepens to a low grind, like something heavy turning over. Other times, it sighs—long and hollow—as if the whole place is breathing through the vents.
Every so often, a pipe expands and pops. The sound jolts through you.
You’ve lost feeling in your hands. The cuffs bite at the same bruised flesh each time you shift, sharp edges pressed to skin rubbed raw. The gurney you’re shackled to isn’t hospital-clean. It’s an old workshop table on wheels—its surface dented and slick with old grease, corners dark with grime that’s gone permanent. The vinyl pad beneath you sticks to your thighs, the texture wrong, soft where it should be firm. You can feel sweat pooling under your waistband, sliding down the curve of your spine, tracing the small of your back before dripping into the pad’s cracked seams.
The air is cold but thick, tasting faintly of copper and motor oil. There’s something sweeter buried underneath—a syrupy smell that coats your throat when you breathe too deep. It’s chemical, but not unfamiliar. Like wax melting too close to a flame.
You try not to think about Evan.
You try not to replay the noise that wrench made, the way the floor slicked under his head. The way Brett didn’t even flinch. You don’t want to imagine if that blood stain at the base of the stairs belonged to him, if that soft scraping noise in the far corner is something drying, or something still alive.
You can’t think about Evan.
Your stomach knots, flips, and hollows.
The first sound is faint—metal on metal. A door latch shifting. Then, heavy boots on the stairs.
Each step lands with its own echo, deliberate and steady, the creak of old treads carrying weight you can feel in your chest. The clang of his heel on the final step lands like a period.
You go completely still.
Every muscle locks. Your breath hitches, shallow and soundless.
And then you see him.
He moves into the thin strip of light spilling from a single, utilitarian bulb flickering up above, and the room seems smaller for it. The workshop shirt clings to his shoulders, the navy blue fabric stretched and sweat-stained. The patch over his heart reads SINCLAIR in red thread stitched inside a white oval patch, the edges fraying like it’s been there forever. The sleeves are short, hugging his biceps and exposing forearms marred with tiny burns and faint scars, the kind that only come from years of labor. There’s grease smeared across the side of his face, ghosting over a week’s worth of stubble. A thin toothpick rides the corner of his mouth, shifting when he chews—lazy, rhythmic, controlled.
The light catches the metal on his belt—keys, pliers, something heavy you can’t see. His boots leave prints in the grime as he walks, slow enough that you can hear the leather creak, the faint rasp of fabric when he rolls his shoulders.
He smells like the garage upstairs—diesel and sweat, cigarette smoke soaked deep into his clothes—but underneath there’s something else. Skin. Soap. The faint tang of whatever oil he uses to clean his tools.
His eyes lift to you without hurry, and the world shrinks to that look alone. They’re a cold kind of blue, half-lidded but sharp. Not curious. Not cruel. Just calculating. Taking you apart piece by piece in silence.
He stops beside the gurney.
You can feel the air shift with his presence, the heat of him cutting through the chill of the basement. He sets one hand on the edge of the table and leans in slightly. The toothpick clicks against his teeth when he speaks.
“Still breathin’.”
His voice is low, scraped raw by smoke and disuse, a drawl that hums in the space between the words. The sound of it settles into your bones before your brain catches up.
He drags a knuckle along the gurney’s rim, eyes tracing the cuffs, the tremor in your wrists, the shallow rise and fall of your chest. Then his gaze returns to your face, unblinking.
“Don’t reckon you’ll try runnin’ again.”
It isn’t a question.
He removes the toothpick, taps it against the table, and slides it back into his mouth. Then he straightens, rolls his shoulders again, and walks a slow circle around you. You can hear him more than see him—the scuff of boots, the soft clink of metal when his belt brushes the frame. Every sound feels intentional, orchestrated.
When he comes back into view, he’s holding a rag, wiping at the grease on his hands. The motion is mechanical. Rehearsed. The rag’s already stained brown-black; it doesn’t help.
“You keep fightin’ the cuffs,” he says, “you’re just gonna cut yourself deeper.”
You don’t answer.
He tilts his head, studies you like he’s trying to decide whether that silence is defiance or fear.
The light buzzes above, flickering just enough to make the shadows twitch.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, quiet amusement ghosting his lips. “Tough girl.”
He says it like an observation, not a compliment.
Then he leans back against the metal cart beside him, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, the Sinclair patch pulling tight. He chews the toothpick once, lets it shift to the other side of his mouth, and adds softly, “Gotta admit, didn’t expect you to make it that far on foot. Thought you’d faceplant halfway down the street.”
His smile is small, almost kind, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
You can still smell Evan’s blood on him.
“You’re quiet now,” he observes.
The words hang in the air like dust—slow, floating, impossible to ignore. His voice is low and even, the kind of quiet that makes the silence after it feel louder.
You don’t respond. You can’t. Your throat’s a desert, tongue glued to the roof of your mouth. Each breath scratches going in, dry as sandpaper. All you can hear is your pulse—fast, frantic, stuttering in your ears like a trapped moth.
The overhead light hums. It’s the only sound between you for a long, long moment.
Then Brett moves.
He doesn’t stalk; he drifts. Every step deliberate, heel to toe, the weight of his boots grinding faintly against the concrete. The floor vibrates with each slow pass. His shadow cuts across you, long and broken by the flicker of the bulb.
He comes to the side of the gurney. His fingers slide along the metal tray bolted beside you, tracing each shape as though he’s remembering them by touch. Wrenches, pliers, a screwdriver dulled with age. There’s a cloth bundle rolled tight—something angular beneath it. Something that clinks when he brushes past.
He doesn’t pick any of them up.
Instead, his hand settles flat on the tray’s edge, his thumb tapping a slow rhythm against the metal. You can smell him now—motor oil and sweat, the faint tang of whiskey sunk into his breath, cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt like a second skin.
He looks at you. Not through you, not around you—at you. Steady, assessing. Like he’s cataloging the small tremors in your body for later use.
“You were louder earlier,” he says finally. “When you thought he could save you.”
The words land like a slap.
You blink hard. The room swims. Evan’s name doesn’t reach your lips, but it’s there—lodged somewhere between your heartbeat and your breath.
Brett leans closer, his weight settling against the edge of the gurney. His breath ghosts your face—warm, sour-sweet from the whiskey, tinged with smoke and metal. It curls into your nose before you can turn away.
“Guess he couldn’t.”
The line lands soft, almost conversational, but it guts you all the same.
He lifts a hand, slow enough for you to see every twitch of tendon under his skin. When his fingers reach your cheek, you flinch instinctively, the cuffs clattering above you. He doesn’t press harder. Doesn’t grab. Just brushes his thumb beneath your eye, and that’s somehow worse—gentle where you expect pain.
You don’t realize you’re crying until he wipes the tear away, the pad of his thumb dragging salt across your skin.
“Got nothin’ to cry about just yet,” he murmurs, and the toothpick shifts against his teeth when he talks.
Your chest lurches. You open your mouth—maybe to beg, maybe to plead—but the sound never comes. You manage half a breath before something else cuts through the air.
Voices.
Muffled. Distant. Somewhere above you.
You freeze.
The sound’s faint, like it’s leaking through floorboards. It’s real, though. You know it’s real. You strain against the cuffs, pulling until the metal bites bone, twisting your head toward the noise. Someone—one of your friends, maybe two—calling names, footsteps scuffing.
A strangled noise claws its way up your throat, and you try to scream. You try.
But his hand gets there first.
Palm hard, calloused, smelling of oil and skin and smoke, it seals over your mouth before you can make a sound. The pressure is instant and absolute. The heel of his hand presses your jaw back, his thumb at the corner of your lip. You can taste grease and salt and the faint burn of metal on his skin.
Brett bends low, his face inches from yours. The light paints the side of his throat, the patch with SINCLAIR stretched tight over his chest. His voice is barely a whisper.
“You want them to find you?”
The question vibrates against your lips through his palm.
His eyes don’t leave yours. They’re still and focused, pale in the flicker. There’s no anger there, just intent.
“You want them to end up just like him?”
He doesn’t have to say Evan’s name. The image does it for him—the wrench, the sound, the body on the floor upstairs.
You whimper against his hand, a muffled, broken thing that doesn’t sound human. You shake your head because that’s all you can do, wrists burning where the cuffs bite deeper.
He nods once, slow. The toothpick moves between his teeth.
“That’s what I thought.”
His voice drops, something dark curling underneath it, “now be a good doll and be quiet.”
Then, slowly, he lowers his hand.
And unbuckles his belt.
You don’t understand at first. Not until the zipper comes down, and his cock is thick and heavy in his hand. Already hard. Already glistening at the tip.
Your breath stutters.
“No,” you whisper.
Brett’s hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back just slightly. “You’re gonna be quiet, doll,” he murmurs. “Or I’m gonna fill your mouth so you don’t get the chance.”
The footsteps upstairs get closer. Your heart beats so loud you’re sure they can hear it.
He taps his cock against your lips. “Open up.”
You keep your mouth closed. Shake your head.
His grip tightens, jaw ticking. “Don’t make me break that pretty little jaw to get it open.”
A long second. Two.
Then, trembling, you part your lips.
Brett groans—low, rough, like it’s been punched out of his chest. “There she is,” he mutters, gaze locked on your mouth like it’s something holy. His thumb strokes your lower lip once, slow. “Look at you.”
He guides his cock past your lips—not all at once. No. He feeds it in inch by inch, slow enough to make your jaw ache with how wide he’s forcing it, thick and hot and heavy on your tongue. Lets you taste him—salt and sweat and something darker, almost bitter at the tip. Lets you feel the stretch of it, the obscene fullness, the way your lips go tight around the base when he finally sinks in deep enough to make your throat clench.
You gag.
He doesn’t move. Just holds you there.
“Shhh,” Brett soothes, brushing your hair back with his fingers, tender despite the brutal grip he’s got on your jaw. “That’s it. Just like that, doll. Breathe through your nose.”
You try. You really try. But spit floods your mouth too fast, and your eyes sting, and your wrists burn where the cuffs bite in from how tightly you’re pulling against them.
And he starts to move.
Slow, controlled thrusts. Just enough to fuck your throat open a little more each time. He watches you the entire time—no flicker of distraction, no hint of mercy. Like he’s watching a fire burn. Like he wants to memorize every twitch, every tremble, every time your lashes flutter from the tears clinging there.
“Fuck,” Brett breathes. “Should’ve seen how you looked earlier. Soon as I walked in. Pretty little doll mouth hangin’ open like you were beggin’ for it.”
A flush rises in your cheeks—humiliation, yes, but heat too. Your thighs press together. That awful, helpless warmth blooms between them.
He sees.
He fucking sees.
“Aw,” Brett laughs, breathless and raspy, cock still stuffed down your throat. “You like that, huh? Like bein’ used? Like bein’ my little silencer? Gettin’ me all wet while your friends’re walkin’ right above your fuckin’ head?”
Your try to deny it—you do—but your body betrays you, moan vibrating around him. Shame burns behind your ribs.
He pulls out fast—your lips stretched and wet and gasping for air—but you don’t get a chance to speak, to breathe, to do anything before he’s thrusting back in, rougher now. His hand clamps your jaw open wider, fingers digging in, thumb swiping along the corner of your mouth like he’s wiping away a smudge. You choke again.
“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he growls. “Can feel your throat clenchin’. That desperate little whimper when I bottom out—fuck, it’s like music.”
You’re drooling now, spit dripping off your chin, messy and slick. Your knees are clenched tight together under you, trying to relieve the throb building between your legs, but it’s no good. Not when he keeps going like that. Not when he’s so deep your vision’s swimming.
Brett shifts his grip to your hair. Fists it tight.
"You're gonna come from this, aren't you?" he says, tilting your head back until your throat is a perfect, arched line for him to ruin. "No hands. Just my cock down your throat and those poor little cuffs keeping you in line."
He drags out one more thrust, slow and deep. Groaning. You're crying now, tears spilling down your flushed cheeks, throat raw and aching.
And when he finally pulls out, slick with spit and twitching in his grip, he slaps it against your tongue.
“Beg for it,” Brett says. “You want me to fuck your mouth again? Gotta ask nice, doll.”
You’re panting, lips swollen, chin wet, throat burning. The ache in your jaw hasn’t even settled and he’s already tapping the head of his cock against your tongue again like a dare. Like a promise.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, crouching a little, hand still buried in your hair. “Where’s that pretty voice? You were makin’ all kinds of noises a minute ago.”
You try to speak, but your throat catches—your first word sounds more like a sob. Your wrists pull tight against the cuffs again, useless, twitchy, as if your body can’t decide whether it wants to push him away or drag him closer.
“Please,” you manage, breath hitching. “I—I want it.”
His mouth curves, smug and slow. “Want what, sweetheart?”
You bite your lip. Close your eyes. Humiliation crawls under your skin like a heat rash. “I want…I want your cock again. In my mouth.”
Brett hums, not quite satisfied. His hand shifts to your throat, thumb pressing just enough to make your next breath catch.
“Nah,” he says. “That ain’t beggin’. That’s manners.”
His other hand slides down between your thighs, presses hard where you’re warm and soaking through your ruined underwear. “Try again.”
Your whole body jolts.
“Please,” you gasp, louder this time. “Please fuck my mouth—I need it, Brett, I’ll be good—just—please, I need it, I wanna feel it again—wanna choke on it, I want—”
You break off with a whimper as he grins, all teeth and cruelty.
“There’s my obedient little doll,” he says.
You suck. Not just out of survival now. But need.
Your mouth moves greedily, tongue curling, lips slick. You look up through your lashes, throat raw, jaw aching—and he groans like you’ve just unlocked something in him.
“Fucking hell, you’re perfect,” he growls. “Look at you. My favorite fuckin’ doll.”
The voices upstairs fade. Doors slam shut.
They’re gone.
You should cry. You should scream.
But Brett’s hand is wrapped around the back of your neck, guiding you like he’s training you, and your thighs are soaked through.
You can feel it before you hear it. The way his hips stutter—just slightly—his breath hitching as his cock throbs hard against your tongue. You don’t dare pull back. Don’t dare even breathe wrong. Your lips are locked tight around him, throat raw and aching, and every muscle in his body is going tense like he’s trying not to lose it too fast.
He grunts something—your name, maybe, or just a sound. Animal. Helpless. His grip tightens, fingers flexing at the back of your neck, holding you there, deep, stretched open around him like he owns you.
“Fuck,” Brett rasps, the word broken across his teeth. “Fuck—just like that—don’t move—”
Your throat flutters instinctively. And that’s all it takes.
He twitches once. Then again. A hot spurt hits the back of your tongue, thick and salty and so much, and he growls low in his chest as he pumps into your mouth, hips shoving forward once more as if he could bury himself even deeper.
Tears spill from your eyes. Your jaw’s aching. Your throat’s wrecked.
“Swallow,” he orders, voice low and sharp.
You do.
Because you don’t want to find out what happens if you don’t.
Your jaw aches.
There’s spit dried on your chin, smeared across your chest where he wiped his cock clean. You’re still strapped down, wrists raw, throat bruised on the inside.
You don't know how much time has passed. He left a few minutes ago. Said something about “getting things ready.” You didn’t ask what.
The silence down here is different now. Still, yes—but alert. Like the room itself is holding its breath.
You pull against the cuff on your left wrist. Gently at first. Then harder.
It doesn’t budge.
Your right hand, though—there’s give. The way he yanked your head forward to fuck your mouth must’ve shifted the leather enough to loosen the bolt. You wiggle your wrist, twisting against the metal. Skin scrapes. A fresh tear rolls down your cheek, this one from pain.
Then—click.
The cuff pops open.
You don’t stop to celebrate. You sit up too fast, stars exploding behind your eyes. Your shoulders scream. Your arms are shaking. But you swing your legs over the side of the gurney and move.
Your shoes are gone. You’re still in your shirt and underwear. Your thighs are damp, sticky with spit and come. You don’t care.
You stumble toward the stairs barefoot. The concrete is cold. Slick in spots. You avoid looking at what the dark stains might be.
The garage above is empty when you push through the door.
His truck is gone.
You stand in the doorway, chest heaving, every nerve screaming for quiet. The air above ground feels too wide after the claustrophobic dark of the basement. For a moment, the only sound is your own pulse hammering in your ears.
The garage yawns behind you, silent as a tomb. The open lot ahead glitters with broken glass and sun. No birds, no insects—just the dry rasp of wind through power lines that haven’t carried electricity in years.
You listen harder. Nothing. Not even the low thrum of the truck anymore.
Your lungs start to ache from holding breath you didn’t realize you’d been keeping. Then you exhale, a small, broken thing, and step out onto the street.
For the second time that day, you run.
Not far—just until the garage is out of sight, swallowed by rows of shopfronts that shouldn’t look this intact. You slow, trembling, each footfall echoing like it belongs to someone else.
The town looks different in the midday light.
Everything glows too brightly, colors scrubbed clean of dust and time. Paint clings to the siding in fresh, even coats. Windows gleam without a streak. But there’s no movement—no ripple of curtains, no hum of air‑conditioning, no fly in the heat. The perfection hums wrong, like a smile held too long.
The buildings aren’t modern‑clean. They’re unnaturally clean, as if someone scoured the world down to bone and then painted the dirt back on for memory’s sake.
A paper floats down the street—newsprint stiff and brittle. You watch it tumble past a row of display windows.
Behind the glass: a woman at a sewing machine, posture proud, smile soft. Next window: a mailman mid‑stride, bag on his shoulder. Then a barber, razor poised over the throat of a customer.
All frozen. All perfect.
You tell yourself they’re mannequins. You tell yourself this is a movie set, a joke, anything but what it feels like.
The wind changes direction.
It brings the smell with it—faint at first, then suffocating. Lilies. The heavy funeral kind, syrup‑sweet and cloying. Beneath it, something older, meatier, just beginning to rot. The combination sticks to the back of your throat until you gag.
You duck behind a corner store, pressing your palm against the rough brick, forcing yourself to breathe through your mouth. The brick is cool; it grounds you.
Your eyes flick up and down the street, searching for movement. For someone living.
You edge around the building, heart beating hard enough to shake the air around you. That’s when you see her.
Across the intersection, sunlight pouring over her like spotlight. Standing beside the movie‑theater box office, head tilted slightly as if she’s waiting in line.
“Maddy?”
It comes out more breath than word.
She doesn’t move.
You take a step into the road. Gravel bites the soles of your feet, still raw from running barefoot. Another step. The asphalt is warm—too warm, as though the heat of the day never leaves it.
“Maddy.”
No response.
You cross the street, pulse roaring in your ears, until you’re close enough to touch her.
She looks perfect. Maybe that’s what stops you first. Skin flushed, eyes glassy but bright, hair falling exactly as it always did when she spent half an hour straightening it. She’s wearing the same hoodie she’d slept in last night, sleeves rolled.
Your hand lifts on its own.
The skin beneath your fingers gives—soft, pliant. Not like human flesh. Like wax left too close to the fire.
You snatch your hand back. Stare.
Her cheek shines where you touched, thumbprint dented into the surface. The warmth isn’t life; it’s melting.
Your breath fractures in your chest. You reach again, slower this time, fingertips trembling.
Her arm feels almost real until you press. Then it yields. You feel the faint suction when you pull away.
“Maddy?” you whisper again, barely audible.
Her pupils don’t move. Her chest doesn’t rise.
You shake her shoulder.
Something inside her arm cracks. A sharp, brittle sound.
A thin split blooms along her elbow with a wet, sucking sound, the skin peeling back like overripe fruit. Pale cracks spider through the tan like veins of ice—but they don’t stop there. The flesh sloughs open in ragged curls, sticky and too soft, revealing the glisten beneath: wax, yes—but slicked with something darker.
A creamy, candle‑white cast of muscle and tendon, streaked with red where the wax hasn't set clean. Veins still web through it. Bits of gristle cling to the edge like butcher scraps. And deeper, just barely, there’s the shimmer of real meat. Still human. Still wet. Still alive.
You stumble back. The world narrows.
“No.”
She sways once, balanced a second too long, then tips. The fall isn’t human. It’s hollow—a slow‑motion collapse as joints buckle at impossible angles. Her shoulder caves, her torso folding, one arm snapping clean away.
When her face hits the pavement, the sound is small but final. Like porcelain shattering.
A shard of cheek skitters to a stop against your bare foot. There’s a single eyelash still glued to it.
You scream.
The sound ricochets off the pristine buildings, echoing down streets that shouldn’t echo at all.
And nothing—no one—answers.
They’re all wax.
You see it now—the postman’s arm is bending at a strange angle, too perfect. The child frozen mid-hopscotch hasn’t blinked in hours. The shopkeeper has a wasp crawling on her cheek and doesn’t flinch.
The entire town is a graveyard under glass.
Your knees give out behind the corner store. You try to breathe, but it doesn’t come easy. Your mouth is dry, your palms slick, and all you can hear is your heartbeat pounding inside your skull.
You were supposed to be drinking by now. Laughing. Listening to Nate talk shit about the lineup.
Now he might already be dead.
They all might be.
You press your hand to your mouth, trying to hold in the noise.
That’s when you hear the door slam.
Boots on pavement.
Steady.
Measured.
You don’t have to see to know it’s him.
“I told you not to run.”
The voice is calm.
You turn slowly.
Brett stands at the end of the street, framed by sun and shadow, shirt rolled up to the elbows, blood drying in thick rivulets down his arms. His chest rises and falls like he’s just gone a few rounds—and won.
At his feet—
Oh god.
Nate.
Facedown. Unmoving.
His body’s a ruin.
The back of his head is split wide open, skull cracked like dropped porcelain. Chunks of scalp hang loose, tangled in hair soaked through with blood. Bits of bone glint sharp in the sunlight, some of them embedded in the pavement. One arm is bent beneath him at the wrong angle, shoulder dislocated or broken—maybe both. There’s a smear of red stretching from where his legs dragged, thick and dark and full of grit.
Something wet and pale glistens near Brett’s boot. A tooth. Maybe two.
He’s holding a tire iron in one hand, the curved end slick with blood and something stringy clinging to it—flesh, maybe. You can’t look too long.
The air reeks—hot metal, piss, blood. That awful, stomach-turning smell of a body already starting to give up.
Brett tilts his head, calm as you please. “Thought you were smarter than that, doll.”
Your legs move before your brain catches up.
But it doesn’t matter.
His boots thud the pavement with purpose, unhurried. You hear the metallic clink of the tire iron hit the curb behind you, discarded now that he’s finished with it. His strides are longer. Stronger. Your bare feet slap the asphalt, sting with every step, but you barely make it five yards before a shadow lunges forward and catches you.
Arms clamp around your waist like iron bands. You scream—raw, panicked, primal. You claw, twist, kick behind you, but his grip only tightens, lifting you clean off the ground like you weigh nothing.
“Easy,” he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot, thick with the scent of blood. “You’ll ruin yourself.”
You thrash harder, wild with adrenaline. “Let me go—!”
Brett yanks you back into him like a snapped tether, your spine crushed against his chest. His voice drops into a growl, sharp and final.
“You’re mine.”
The words snap around you like a collar. No room to argue. No air to breathe.
You barely have time to gasp before the world tilts, colors drain, and everything goes black.
You're cold when you wake.
Not just from the concrete beneath your bare back, or the strange filtered air that hums through the walls—but from how quiet it is. No sirens. No footsteps. Just the low hiss of heat passing through vents and the faint scent of melting paraffin.
Brett is nearby. Sitting on a stool beside one of the unfinished mannequins—its face half-formed, Nate's bloodied red Michigan State sweatshirt slung over its shoulders. He’s got it crusting under his fingernails and a fresh cut on his cheekbone. But his hands are calm now. Resting between his knees.
So is his voice.
“I hated this town,” he says, not looking at you. “Hated them. Plastic fuckin’ people. Not a real one in the bunch.”
You swallow.
His eyes cut to you. Soft. Almost fond.
“Except you.”
You don’t move.
“You’re the only thing in this whole place that feels real,” he murmurs. “My girl. My doll. Flesh ‘n blood.”
You stare at him, your mouth dry. “Why haven’t you killed me?”
He smiles. It's small. Intimate. Wholly unhinged.
“Dunno yet,” he admits. “Can’t decide if I want to keep you in wax…or keep you like this.”
He stands slowly. Crosses the room with the calm of someone approaching something precious.
“You’re perfect,” he says. “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”
You flinch as he crouches beside you, but he doesn’t grab you. Just watches. Like he’s giving you the illusion of choice. Like this means something.
“Let me show you.”
He undresses you slow. Not like before. No ripping. No fury. His hands are warm and steady as they undo every button, every clasp, every thread you’re still wearing. He peels the layers back like he’s unwrapping something fragile. You tremble, but you don’t resist.
Not when he lets you touch him back.
Not when he shifts your hand to the waistband of his jeans and says, “Go on, doll.”
You nod once. Barely.
His lips brush yours—dry at first, then wetter when he licks into your mouth, breath hot. He grabs your face, tilts it back, and spits into it. Watches it slide down your tongue.
“That’s it. My good fuckin’ girl.”
His hand wraps around your throat next. Tight. Controlling. But he’s not choking you out—just reminding you who’s in charge. You gasp under the pressure, fingers curling into his forearms.
Then he shifts your head.
“Look,” he orders.
You don’t want to.
“Look.”
You do.
The others are there. Still and gleaming. Your friends—almost right. Almost lifelike. Their eyes dull under layers of lacquer. Their skin sallow and wax-slick. Their fingers frozen mid-reach.
“They’re mine now,” Brett whispers, pressing against you, cock hard against your thigh. “But you’re better. You’re alive. You’re warm.”
He mouths down your chest. Bites hard when he gets to your tits—enough to bruise. You cry out. His hand spreads between your thighs, fingers slicking through you with no patience.
“Already wet,” he mutters. “You like this, don’t you?”
You can’t answer. Not when his fingers curl just right. Not when he crooks them deep inside you, dragging moans out of your throat like confessions.
“I’ll make you feel good, baby. I’ll make you mine.”
“C’mere,” Brett mutters, hand sliding from your throat to the back of your neck. “Get on.”
You straddle him.
Your legs shake as you do, thighs damp, knees scraping against the rough floor. He settles back against the workbench, arms loose at his sides, letting you take him in—eyes heavy, jaw tight. His cock is hard and flushed, drooling pre-cum down the shaft.
“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You grip his shoulders, hover over him, breath catching as you line him up and sink down—slow, so slow, until the stretch burns and your whole body clenches around it. Brett’s head tips back, a low groan clawing out of his throat as he fills you.
“God damn, that’s good. You feel that, baby? Made for me.”
You nod. Barely. Already shaking.
His hands don’t grab your hips. Not yet. He just watches. Lets you move at your pace. Small, shallow rolls of your body as you ease into it. Your nails dig into his skin. Every slow grind makes you gasp.
“You like bein’ on top, doll?” he murmurs. “Like ridin’ me while they all watch?”
You try not to look at the wax statues. At the faces you knew.
But Brett does it for you. Grabs your chin and turns it.
“Let ‘em see. Let ‘em fuckin’ see who you belong to now.”
You moan, hips stuttering. He grins sharp and dangerous.
Then his hands snap to your waist, and he takes over.
He fucks up into you, rougher now, slamming your hips down to meet his thrusts. It’s brutal. Wet. Loud. You cry out with every bounce. Your thighs burn. Your cunt grips him tighter with every pulse.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “You want that, pretty thing? Want me to fuck a creampie into that sweet little pussy?”
You can’t speak. Just nod. Whimper. Beg with your eyes.
It’s enough.
He flips you fast—grabs your wrists and rolls, pressing you into the floor before you can catch your breath. One hand stays locked around your throat, the other spreading your thighs open again.
“Mine,” he growls into your neck.
Then he slams back in.
You scream, full to bursting, body slick with sweat and come. He pounds into you, no rhythm, just desperation, until you feel it—his hips jerk, cock twitching deep inside as he spills into you with a shuddering groan.
He doesn’t stop.
Your body jolts, nerves raw. He fucks you through it, through the overstimulation, the gasping, the broken little cries you make as your body spasms around him.
You cum again—helpless. Wrecked. One long, drawn-out moan punched out of your lungs.
“Too much,” you whimper, clawing at his back. “Brett—please—too much—”
But he doesn’t stop.
He slows, yes. But stays inside you, grinding into every last tremble until your legs give out completely and your voice goes hoarse.
He collapses on top of you—chest sticky against yours, face buried in your neck.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers, breath shuddering. “So fuckin’ perfect.”
You’re still trembling when he kisses your temple and murmurs,
“Gonna keep you like this. Soft. Warm. Alive.”
He doesn’t move for a long time.
The weight of him pins you there—breath shared, heartbeat heavy, the air thick with candle smoke and heat. When he finally shifts, it isn’t rough. He wipes the sweat from your throat with his thumb, studies the mark his hand left there, and smiles like a craftsman admiring his work.
“See?” he murmurs. “Still soft. Still breathin’.”
He cleans you with a damp cloth, patient as a saint. His touch has changed; where it once forced, now it arranges. He dresses you in something he’s pulled from a wardrobe you didn’t notice before: a gauzy slip the color of bone, lace frayed at the hem. The fabric clings, translucent in the candlelight.
“Don’t fight it,” he says, brushing your hair until it shines. “All that screamin’, all that runnin’—it’s over now. You ain’t gotta do any of that again. You just stay pretty for me.”
He leads you through the underground room. Wax figures crowd the walls—neighbors, travelers, friends you once had—each frozen in a gesture that almost looks alive. Their glass eyes catch the light as you pass. Brett stops before an empty pedestal draped in velvet and presses you gently down onto it.
“Right here,” he whispers. “Where I can see you.”
He positions your hands in your lap. Tilts your chin. Steps back to admire you. His voice drops to something that sounds like prayer.
“The only real girl in a town full of mannequins.”
You don’t answer. You don’t dare. He kisses your forehead, slow and possessive.
“I’ll keep you like this,” he says. “In flesh. In heat. All the others—wax. But you…you stay soft. You stay mine.”
Somewhere above, a floorboard creaks. A door slams. Footsteps echo through the tunnels—heavy, dragging, not his. Brett straightens, expression unreadable, then smiles over his shoulder.
“Guess we’ve got company.”
He reaches for the knife at his belt, calm as if he were going to fix a picture frame. Then he looks back at you, a finger pressed to his lips.
“Don’t move, doll.”
He walks toward the sound, humming. The candles flicker as he disappears into the corridor. Their light dances across the waxen faces around you, and for a moment, they almost seem to breathe.
And, as you sit there—hands folded just so, breath small and shaking beneath the slip—something inside you goes terribly, beautifully still. You hear Brett’s voice echo down the hall, that low, contented hum, and you understand: this is what he wanted all along. Not a victim. Not a lover. A keepsake.
Monster!Remmick in his most demonic (and sexy?) forms based off this prompt:
Turning met you with a gruesome sight, one that shook you to the core, blazing hot panic across your chest.
Remmick turned fully to face you, neck clicking in motion, like his joints connected with the swivel. Blood, thick and bright, trails down from the corners of his eyes. The liquid coats his pupils in a pink film, transforming the once softened blue into striking blackish red. The blood weeps from his eyes, trickling down his cheeks to the creases of his lips. His tongue slips past them, the tip splitting into two in front of your eyes. He licks both sides of his mouth with the severed tongue, purring.
"Don't ya worry, darlin." His voice was covered in raspy darkness. "He's gonna make ya feel so good." He moans, back arching as he climbs from the couch and makes his way over to you.
(Note this one is a super rough draft so this is subject to some heavy change, I'm writing it up as we speak)
a/n : i don't think y'all understand how much this man is under my skin... need him so bad
mdni 18+ : unprotected sex (p in v), messy messy sex, deep thrusting/cervix contact, creampie, praise, begging, different sex positions (missionary, doggy-style, cowgirl), nipple play, crying during sex, light drool
doggystyle — in the barn, bent over a crate, his belt still dangling from one loop
you’re bent over, ass arched high, sweat running down the curve of your back. the wood under your hands creaks with every thrust, but you can’t even hear it over the wet, filthy sounds coming from between your legs. remmick’s behind you, shirt off, jeans halfway down, chest gleaming with sweat, face flushed dark with shame and lust.
he’s fucking you deep. real deep. thick cock splitting you open with every thrust, dragging obscene slick from your cunt that’s coating his thighs, soaking the base of him, dripping down your legs like he just made you come five times in a row—and he probably has.
“lord, help me,” he gasps, voice wrecked. “i can’t stop… i can’t—she’s squeezin’ me so—”
his hand’s flat on your back, pressing you down like he’s scared you’ll get away. the other’s wrapped around your middle, thumb rubbing your clit in tight, messy circles that make you cry out, toes curling in your boots. his rhythm is frantic now—hips slapping your ass so fast and so wet it sounds like you’re getting wrecked in the middle of a rainstorm.
“i’m sorry,” he breathes into the back of your neck, actually apologizing as he fucks you harder. “feels so good, i cain’t help it. y’feel like heaven, darlin’, i swear—”
you’re drooling. crying. begging. and all he can do is hold your hips and stay buried in that sloppy mess of cum and slick, moaning your name like a prayer.
he comes deep. stutters, groans, twitches, and fills you up so warm you feel it gush out around him. but he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even slow down. just ruts through it, cock still hard, leaking, breath hitching every time your ass bounces back and squelches around him.
“gonna give you another,” he pants, forehead pressed to your spine. “jus’… jus’ let me stay in. lemme make a mess.”
and he does. over and over. slow, filthy strokes that never stop.
missionary — in his narrow farmhouse bed, sheets ruined, legs pushed up, his chest pressed to yours
he’s on top of you, knees sinking into the mattress, body hot and heavy, breath trembling against your lips. the room smells like sweat and sex, the sheets already damp underneath you both, and remmick’s cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s splitting something sacred.
he’s shaking—you can feel it in his arms, in his thighs, in the way his chest trembles against yours. he’s holding himself up on one arm, the other hand cupping the back of your thigh to keep you pinned open for him. polite boy, respectful boy, but right now? he’s gone. flushed red to the ears, curls stuck to his forehead, mouth hovering over yours like he’s begging for a kiss even as he keeps grinding himself into your guts.
his thrusts aren’t fast—they’re deep. thick, slow rolls of his hips, sliding all the way out until just the tip clings to your entrance before pushing back in so full and so heavy you can feel him in your belly. every time he sinks in, you choke on a breath and his face crumples like he’s trying not to fall apart too soon.
“i—i’m tryin’ not to rush,” he pants quietly, voice all broken, “but you’re—lord, you’re squeezin’ me so hard—”
your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he whimpers. an actual whimper. his face drops to your neck, and he thrusts harder, hips meeting yours with wet, sticky sounds, slick from both of you smearing across his pelvis and down your ass.
he nuzzles your throat like he’s overwhelmed by you—breathing you in, clutching at your waist, grunting under his breath with every push, those big pecs brushing your chest, jiggling from the force of his hips snapping forward, nipples rubbing against your skin, both of you sweaty and shaking and lost.
you moan, nails digging into his shoulders, and he makes a sound you’ve never heard—half sob, half groan—his cock throbbing inside you like it’s trying to pulse its way deeper. your nails drag again, harder this time, and he almost folds, hips stuttering like you just hit his weak spot.
he kisses you sloppily, gasping between each kiss, whispers all shaky and reverent against your lips:
“don’t let go… don’t stop holdin’ me…”
and then he breaks—thrusts turning frantic, sloppy, desperate, sweat dripping from his hairline to your collarbone as he comes deep inside you, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing in thick, hot spurts that spill out around him when he tries to keep fucking it in.
he doesn’t pull out.
just keeps pushing, slow and sticky, like he’s trying to keep himself inside you.
his voice is barely a breath, lips pressed to your cheek, chest heaving against yours:
“still got more in me. ain’t done yet.”
and you feel him—still hard, still throbbing—refusing to go soft, cock leaking inside you, grinding gentle and filthy as his breath shakes and he tries to catch control he doesn’t have anymore.
cowgirl — in his bed, shirt still on, cock so deep he’s about to cry
you’re straddling him slow, dragging your hips in thick, wet rolls that leave his cock glistening and twitching inside you. remmick’s got both hands trembling on your thighs, trying to be good, trying not to grip too tight—but every time you grind down, his fingers squeeze harder, and his head falls back with a whine caught in his throat.
he’s flushed deep, sweat beading at his hairline, his chest rising fast beneath his worn henley—buttons popped, nipples pressed against the fabric.
“i don’t know what—” he pants, eyes glassy, voice pitched soft and panicked. “i can’t—i don’t know what t’do with m’self when you—”
you cut him off with another drop of your hips, thighs slapping his. his cock jerks inside you, fat and swollen and so deep. the wet sounds between your bodies are filthy—your slick smeared all down his balls, dripping to the sheets, frothy and loud with every bounce.
he groans through his teeth when your hands drag up his chest, shirt clinging to him like a second skin. you pinch his nipples through the fabric—just a little—and he bucks, hips thrusting up hard enough to punch a gasp out of you.
you grin. he looks wrecked. sweat running into his lashes, lips parted, moaning your name like a prayer that keeps getting cut off by how good you feel around him.
“ain’t never—never been touched like this,” he stammers, holding your hips tighter now, grinding up into you like he’s trying to fuck you back. “y’gon’ ruin me, darlin’…”
and you do. you ride him until his thighs are shaking, until he’s moaning without shame, chest heaving, cock twitching in your cunt with every bounce. he comes with a cry, half lifting you off the bed with the force of it, thick release spilling out around the base of his cock.
but he doesn’t tell you to stop. not once. just grips your ass and keeps moving, messy and slow, cum leaking out of you and down his balls while his cock stays hard inside, twitching, overstimulated and needy.
you lean in close, mouth against his cheek, and his breath hitches like he’s about to cry from how good it feels.
“still got more for me,” you murmur. “don’t you?”
and he nods—fast, frantic, already lifting his hips up into you again.
“’course i do,” he breathes, voice wrecked and eager. “jus’—jus’ don’t stop ridin’ me yet.”
and you don’t.
you ride him until he’s wet with sweat and drool and cum and begging for mercy he doesn’t want.
tags (if you have filled out the taglist form, but you aren't on here, the blog is not showing up ! try refilling it out) : @bleedingsunlight @mysticvi @theabhartachsbride @cherryxhaze @croccy-hoes @nlnny @valvalvalval-val @h3r3t1c @avidreader73 @iceemochaa @skankhvnt42 @ceobuggy
Being watched at every turn has made you increasingly paranoid of every movement he makes, especially after seeing him covered in blood that night. Though… you can’t seem to tell if it’s fear or something more that has your heart racing.
Pairing: Remmick x fem!Reader
Word Count: 1.8k
Warning List: Stalker-ish behavior (Remmick), Mild horror elements, Unresolved tension, A bit suggestive, Reader is a little more attached to him than she’d like to admit
Author’s Note:
I honestly wasn’t expecting this to become a series since Stray Dog was originally written as a one-shot, but here we are! As always I hope you enjoy and thank you to everyone who’s supported me so far!
A few days have gone by since that night, you’ve been throwing yourself into work—picking up extra shifts when you can, doing your best to stay busy, only leaving when the town curfew hits.
Remmick has become almost suffocating, lingering closer when you’re home—watching, always watching. It was odd before, but now it’s near unnerving the way his eyes track each little movement you make. The little pet names have become more frequent as well, rarely does he say your name anymore, more often than not you’ll hear him use Darlin’ or on the rare occasion, Sugar.
Despite your annoyance you can’t seem to find it in yourself to tell him off, your heart betraying you with a little flutter each time a soft term of endearment leaves his lips. You’re not sure when the last time he fed was, if he has been then he’s been better about cleaning himself up afterwards. Though you haven’t seen anything in the news about another missing person, that hasn’t stopped the hunters though—you’ve seen at least three patrols today alone, they’ve been checking on the warehouse more frequently recently since the last body found was that of your coworker.
I still get sick thinking about it…
The nights have gotten near freezing now that winter is fast approaching, with the shorter days and longer nights—curfew has changed so fewer people are out after dark, that becomes quite apparent as you step out of the warehouse. Not a single other vehicle in sight, besides your own. With a soft sigh you make the quick walk over to your car, knowing that even if you dread it, you need to get home before it gets much later.
You pause as your gaze lands on the bright red petals of a camellia that’s settled in the space between your car door and its handle, the soft petals shifting under your touch as you carefully pull it from its spot. A shiver travels down your spine as the heavy feeling of being watched settles over you—your gaze quickly darts around the empty parking lot before you slip into your vehicle, locking the doors.
You take a deep breath of the unforgiving air in a attempt to calm your racing heart, an uneasy feeling filling your chest as you glance down at the flower one last time—quickly cranking the engine before pulling out of the parking lot, just wanting to focus on getting to the warmth of your home.
The drive is thankfully uneventful, navigating the familiar path home bringing a sense of calm over your paranoid mind—even if it’s just for a moment. The faint sounds of gravel crunching beneath your tires filling the silent air around you as you pull down your driveway, your headlights casting your home in an odd light as you stare out at the windows—almost trying to catch a glimpse of him, knowing he’s probably waiting just beyond the front door for you to step inside.
The headlights flicker off as you pull the keys from the ignition, hesitating before stepping out of your car and heading up towards the porch—pulling your jacket closer around your body as the chill in the air begins to get to you, just as you reach the front door it’s pulled open. Wild dark eyes settle on you, staring for a long moment before you’re greeted with a fanged smile.
“You’re home!.. I was startin’ to get worried about you, sugar.” Remmick steps to the side to let you in as you step forward, his hair wild and fluffed as if he’d been running his hands through it. He follows closely behind you, taking your jacket and hanging it up as you pull it off. “Yeah, had to work another double…” You murmur the excuse easily, your heart skipping a bit from the small gesture.
The frown that settles on his lips is almost enough to break your composure, having to avert your gaze from him as you move further into the house. “Can’t someone else pick up the extra shifts? Seems like they’re overworkin’ you, darlin’…” He studies you for a moment as he continues to trail after you. “Is it your boss, he makin’ you take the shifts?” He questions, an odd tone to his usually calm voice.
The question makes you pause for a moment, images of your boss being dragged from the warehouse in a body bag filling your mind—your heartbeat picking up as you swallow down the sudden fear in your throat. “No-“ Your voice cracks before you take a small breath. “No, ain’t nothing like that… Just wanted the extra pay is all.”
You the heavy weight of his gaze on you before he lets out a soft hum, gently nudging you to sit down on the couch. “Ah… Well, maybe you should take a break for a while. Let someone take care of ya for once.” He replies with a soft, lazy grin—his head tilting slightly as his gaze drags over your frame before stepping back, grabbing a blanket to drape over your lap. “You’re shiverin’, sugar… Here, I’ll get you something warm to drink.” He hums softly, walking off towards the kitchen archway.
… I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.
You can hear the soft clink of glass being moved around from the kitchen, a faint humming flowing out from the archway as he prepares you what smells like hot chocolate. Your body relaxes on its own accord before your mind brings the image of that bright red camellia to your attention again, you almost what to ask him if he knew anything about it.
Couldn’t have been him, he’d have burned alive if he stepped a foot outside… Right?
Doubt begins to cloud your mind, wondering if maybe he could go outside—it was quite dreary today, the sun barely able to peer through the thick blanket of clouds that laid stretched across the darkened sky. You’re pulled from your thoughts as a mug—your favorite one at that—is placed on the little end table beside you.
You blink before carefully grabbing the warm mug, humming softly as you take a deep sip. “… You don’t have to do this, you know?” Your voice comes out in a soft murmur, glancing up at him briefly—catching his gaze already locked onto you. “What do ya mean?..” He questions lowly, his dark gaze tracing over each subtle change in your expression.
You gesture vaguely between the two of you, attempting to ignore the warm feeling of a flush climbing up your neck. “The little things. Cooking for me, keeping me comfortable…” Your explanation comes out almost hesitant when you catch the intense look in his eyes, your own widening slightly as he kneels down in front of you.
“What if I like doin’ all that?.. Maybe I’m being selfish—enjoying the little flustered changes in your expression when I brush a little too close.” He murmurs softly as he looks up at you through a darkened gaze, sparks of that deep red peeking through if you look close enough. Your mind flickers back to that night you caught him coming back in, bloodied and scrambling to explain. He looked up at you just the same when you gave in to the thoughts raging in your mind, gently wiping the blood from his face—remembering how his gaze darkened when you trailed the rag down his throat.
You have to take a small breath to clear the memory away, barely noticing that he had gently pulled your shoes off—his hand ghosting over your ankle as he leans his face against your knee, his fangs gently pressing against his lips as he takes a deep breath. You bite the inside of your cheek as a conflicted feeling settles over you—your mind screaming at you to move away from him, while your heart begs you to drag him up and steal what little breath he has left in his lungs.
You quietly clear your throat before you hesitantly begin to pull away, shifting around him before standing. “I-… I should head to bed, it’s been a long day.” You mutter the poor excuse, unable to look at him as he remains kneeling on the ground—your heart racing at the sight. There’s almost a look of disappointment in his gaze before it quickly disappears, that lazy smile settling on his face again. “Goodnight, darlin’…” He replies softly, his voice a low purr that nearly drags you back to him.
With a small, awkward nod, you quickly disappear down the hallway—taking a deep breath as you close yourself inside your bedroom, running a hand over your face as you feel the heat settle on your cheeks.
You wake the next morning with a start, your dreams plagued by him—a whine tearing from his throat, fangs brushing just a little too close to your own exposed neck. You glance over at the window, groaning softly seeing how it’s still dark outside—taking a moment to stare up at the ceiling before dragging yourself out of bed.
Your body feels uncomfortably warm as you attempt to shake away the lingering images your unconscious mind had created, turning the shower on as cold as you could stand it before stepping inside.
What is going on with me?.. He’s a vampire for gods sake, I shouldn’t have even let him stay to begin with.
And yet despite the fact you know he shouldn’t stay, something in your chest aches at the thought of him not being around—coming home to an empty house, no soft humming coming from within as you step through the front door. Another image of a hunter getting ahold of him causes you to tense, cold water rushing down your body while you attempt to swallow the lump forming in your throat. With a deep breath, you roughly shut off the shower—stepping out to dry yourself off only to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. You look tired, more so than you feel—your eyes dark and your body tense from little sleep and the long work shifts.
You hesitate for a moment before moving to grab your phone from your bedroom as you quickly get dressed, you stare down at the screen before finally dialing your boss’s number—who surprisingly doesn’t fight you on not coming in when you tell them you can’t come in today. Your body almost relaxes a bit before you step out of your bedroom, your steps quiet as you move down the hallway—pausing for a moment once you reach the living room.
Remmick lays curled up on the couch, his chest slowly rising and falling as he seemingly rests peacefully—what makes you pause however is the sight of him clinging to your jacket, his face partially hidden from where he’s buried his face into it. You can feel the flush beginning to crawl back up your neck as you stare at him for a moment, gently shaking your head before swiftly walking past the living room and into the kitchen.
ellievsbear
