𝔏𝔬𝔬𝓀s 𝔩𝔦𝓀𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩, 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯
Brett x male reader
Summary: To everyone else he was cruel and dangerous but with you, he was gentle and deeply obsessed. Nearly a year into your relationship, Brett has a surprise waiting at Eden Lake of a long night of passion together. If only you knew what he had done in that place…
Tags: Male reader. No use of Y/N. Established relationship. Brett (Eden Lake). Post-canon. Dark romance. Both Brett and M!reader are 18+. Obsessive behavior. Possessive Brett. Unhealthy relationship dynamics. Implied stalking. Protective Brett. Manipulation. Toxic devotion. First time. Smut. Bottom male reader. Dirty talk. Size difference. Anal sex. Virginity loss. Slight breeding kink undertones. Soft sex mixed with unhealthy attachment. Fluff if you squint. Brett is a walking red flag. Dark thoughts (non-con imaginations). Masturbation.
Request by an anon, hope you liked this.
ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 - gif
Words count: 3500
You'd met Brett on a grey Tuesday afternoon outside the corner shop on the edge of the estate, a place for a lad like you who kept his head down 'cos looking up too long in that part o' town got you noticed by the wrong people and Brett was the definition of wrong, though you didn't know it.
He'd been leant against that brick wall, fag dangling from the corner of his mouth, trackies tucked into white socks, sunglasses over ice-blue eyes.
You'd dropped a tenner on the pavement an' he'd picked it up, holding it out to you and when his fingers brushed yours he'd grinned lopsided.
"Oi, mate, you’re well lucky I’m an honest geezer, innit.”
You’d laughed at the funny way he talked before he asked your name and if you fancied a coke from th' shop, on him, 'cos he reckoned ‘ye looked like ye needed cheerin' up.’
When you'd said yes, that was that.
Door shut behind you and you didn't even hear it click.
He courted you proper, that’s the word for it even though Brett would've gagged hearin' it said out loud.
Definitely not the flowers an' chocolates type of lad or so you'd've thought.
He started turnin' up outside your block o' flats wi' a Mars bar and a can of' Lilt 'cos he'd remembered you said once that it was your favourite.
Nicking daffodils from the park's flower bed, three or four at a time, wrap the stems in a bit o' newspaper and shove 'em into your chest grinning.
"Don' say I never get ye nuffin'."
He'd walk you home from the bus stop every night, hands in his pockets, shoulder bumpin' yours, talking nonsense about football and his long gone dog Bonnie.
First time he kissed you it was on the little iron bridge over the canal, water black an' oily underneath. He'd stopped halfway across, turned to you an' said, "Oi. Don’ move.” And then his mouth crashed on yours.
It surprised you the sudden switch of behavior with going from into a careful and protective boyfriend to someone driven by hunger and he'd laughed against your mouth, breathless an' delighted.
He acted like a mixture between an angel and the perfect boyfriend, holding doors and your hand in the street even when his mates were watchin', dared them with his eyes to say a single fuckin' word.
Always kissed heavily your mouth before he went out at night and did the same when he came back.
There was one time where he had come back at three in the mornin' with his knuckles split and a smell o' petrol on his jacket that you didn't ask about.
He never raised his voice at you, not once.
You fell in love with him over time 'cos how could you not.
He looked at you with so much devotion, he listened and remembered anything you told him, even cackled at your shitty jokes and say how you were a funny cunt.
But.
There were the other things you filed away and didn't think too hard about because it would've meant pullin' on a thread you weren't ready yet, plus what you saw wasn’t too alarming.
There was the way his jaw is set when another bloke spoke to you too long at the bar, hand of his landing on your waist, fingers digging slightly too hard while his thumb pressed into your hip bone like.
He'd smile at th' bloke real polite and said person would go pale, finding somewhere else t' be.
If only you’d would have saw, later at night, the way Brett had beaten him up.
Another time you mentioned an old mate from school, just in passin', saying you'd run into a morning and was doing alright, hoping to meet him again to perhaps have a bit more people in your small circle that included only Brett.
Said lad nodded and smiled, kissing your temple and saying, "That’s nice, babe.”
Two weeks later you saw that same mate in the street with a butterfly stitch over his eyebrow and a limp, crossing the road to avoid you that left you a bit heartbroken, something Brett paid all his attention to attend to.
The way he talked about his mates always in past tense now, voice that would go flat as you asked once what'd happened to them and he’d looked at you for a long second before shrugging and saying, "Lost touch. People grow apart. S’life.”
Right before pulling you into his lap and kissing you a bit harshly till you felt like suffocating.
Bonnie's collar was on a different dog now, a young Staffie be called Bonnie because he missed that bitch every day (his words).
There were moments where he'd hold that collar in his fist staring at nothing for twenty minutes, knuckles white, jaw grindin', breathing through his nose like a bull. When you'd step forward he'd snapped out of it instant, plastered tha' grin on, said, "Alright, handsome? Fancy a chippy?” an' tha' were that.
All the news stories about that couple at Eden Lake, man found dead from blood loss and the lass missin', tha' came on th' telly one evening while Brett was on the settee wi' you, your head in his lap and his fingers in your hair.
Could feel the way his fingers had frozen, face blank and eyes fixed on the screen before he switched channel to Top Gear.
Maybe he knew those people? It’s what you told yourself to never ask him about Eden Lake.
You’d been together near enough a year and you hadn't done it yet.
Other stuff that included hands, mouths and slow grinding on his lap on a Sunday afternoon till you were both panting and laughing and he was telling you to stop before 'e came in his jeans?
All of the above had been done.
It was only missing sex and he had planned it for a fortnight.
You knew he was plannin' summat 'cos he kept disappearing on errands and grinning at his phone, telling you to mind your own beeswax when you asked.
"Pack a bag, babe. Warm stuff. I’m takin’ ye somewhere.” All thrown at you randomly on a Friday mornin'.
"Where?”
"Surprise, innit.” Back with that lopsided, ice-blue grin. "Trust me.”
Of course you trusted him.
The drive was nearly three hours and he'd put on a CD 'e'd burned you, a mix o' songs you'd mentioned likin' over the year, and he drove with' one hand on th' wheel, the other on your thigh, thumb strokin' slow circles.
Through town and suburbs, out into countryside you didn't recognise, hedgerows green an' dense, sky of silver-grey that made it hard to figure out if it was going to rain.
He turned off the main road onto a track, then onto a smaller one.
Trees closed in and your phone signal dropped to nothing.
You glanced at him and he was starin' straight ahead, jaw set, back to blank with his thoughts far away, somewhere you couldn't follow.
Then he felt your eyes on him and turned with a grin.
"Almost there, handsome. Y’alright?”
"Yeah. Yeah, m’alright. Where are we?”
"Special spot. Used t’ come ‘ere as a kid and I wanted t’ show ye.”
The track opened out and beyond th' clearin', through a gap in th' trees, there was flat and dark water ringed with reeds and.
Quiet and empty.
Brett killed the engine and sat for a moment, hands on the wheel, looking out at it.
"Eden Lake,” he said, soft. Pretty, innit?”
Your stomach did somethin' funny at hearing that name
"It’s beautiful,” you said.
"Yeah, It is.” He turned to you, eyes very bright.
He wasn’t looking at the lake.
He set up camp, tent up in fifteen minutes flat, sleeping bags zipped together inside and a new duvet on top.
He'd brought food that you cooked together on a little stove, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration, tongue stickin' out the corner of his mouth like a kid.
Looking to the side when he caught you watchin' and grinning. "What?"
"Nuffin'. Just lookin' at you."
"Knock it off, then, ye soppy cunt."
Right after dinner, )e kissed the salt off your mouth and topped up with a can of beer.
"Y’know,” he said, looking out over the water, "there's nobody fer miles, just you an' me. Whole lake's ours."
"S'nice."
*"It's more than nice." He turned his head and looked at you sideways, summat hungry behind the ‘soft’ look "It’s exactly how I wanted it, I can have ye proper now.” He took a slow swallow o' beer from his can. *"Could shout th' fuckin' place down an' nobody'd 'ear." A laugh, low in his throat. "I want ye t' shout th' place down and let th' whole fuckin' lake t' know yer mine."
Your face went hot as you looked at your can of beer and his eyes were on your mouth.
“Ye sure? We haven’t done anything like that”
"Yeah. I wanna do it. Ye don’t love me?.”
"…alright," you said.
He set his can down on the shingle and reached over to take your chin between thumb and finger, turned your face to him. "Tha's my good fuckin' lad."
He smiled.
"Let's get ye in tha' tent, eh."
He led you by the hand up the shingle, fingers laced through yours, thumb strokin' the back of your knuckles in that absent way he always did when his mind was somewhere else. The sun was sinking proper now, light going copper as the lake behind took a tea color, heart in your rib going like a bloody drum.
He stopped outside the tent, turned t' face you and taking both your hands in 'is.
"Y'alright?"
"Yeah. M'alright. M'just—"
“Nervous, yeah, I know babe." He smiled tha' lopsided smile, and he leant in to kiss the tip of your nose. "Listen. I gotchu. Yeah? M’gonna make ye feel s’ good, I promise."
You nodded while he kept covering your neck in quick pecks, gasping lightly when his teeth took a small chunk of flesh.
"Tha's my lad," he murmured, ducking through the flap and pulling you after 'im.
Inside the tent the fairy lights were on, twenty little gold dots strung along th' poles, duvet puffed up over the zipped-together sleepin' bags.
There was a bottle o' lube he had stolen, now sitting on top of a folded towel by the pillows.
He'd been thinking about this for weeks and the thought made your stomach flip, flattered and a little frightened.
Pulling his cap off and tossing it to the corner, his hair stuck up at the back where the cap'd flattened it.
“C‘mere,” he said and took the hem of your hoodie, lifting it up, knuckles brushing your ribs and you shivered.
He pulled it off over your head, smoothed your hair down where it'd ruffled, kissed your mouth deep, tongue sliding in slow, tasting of beer and the fag he had after dinner, hands settling on your waist, then slid up, palms flat and callouses dragging.
His hands were cold and your skin was warm as you made a small noise into his mouth tha' made him laugh.
T-shirt over your head and tossed, he stepped back for a second to look at you, eyes roaming over your chest and collarbones, tongue coming out to wet his lower lip.
“Fook me. All mine, yeah?"
"Yeah," you breathed. "Yours."
He shut his eyes for a second when you said it, darker when he opened them again.
"Say it again."
"…m'yours, Brett."
"Fook." A tiny, ragged laugh. “Down on yer back, c’mon.”
While following his orders he stripped his own jacket and shirt, pale lean torso with abs and a thin scar across his left hip you’d asked about once and he shrugged off, tattoo on his forearm he had given himself.
Kicking his trainers off, left his jeans on for a minute and knelt over you, knee between your thighs, elbows planted either side of your head, hanging himself over to kiss you avidly, mouth going down to your throat, hollow above your collarbone as he found tha' spot under your ear tha' made you whimper and he stayed there grinnin' against your skin, suckin' on it till ye knew there'd be a bruise tomorrow.
Marking you up properly because he wanted everyone t' see you walking round all marked up.
Mouth going lower, sucking one of your nipples between his teeth, hard enough to make you gasp and arch as he pinned your hip with one hand to hold you flat down, mouthing at the waistband of your jeans, breath hot through the fabric while he looked up the length of you.
"Le's get these off, eh." He undid yer button, zip down and pulled your jeans down your legs, kissing the fronts of your thighs as he went.
You were hard already since he'd kissed you outside th' tent and he let out a long unsteady breath, leaning down and kissing the tip of your cock before sitting back on his knees and undoing his own jeans.
When 'e shoved them down with his boxers, you'd felt him before even seeing as he grounded himself against your bare arse.
You have had him in your hand, in your mouth once or twice but feeling him like this, fully out and hard, caused you to make a small sound in your throat you didn't mean t' make.
Quite big for his age, cock thick and flushed while standing up flat against his stomach, vein down the underside along a neat thatch of dark hair at the base.
He took himself in his fist and gave one slow stroke, watchin' your face.
“Tha' alright fer ye?" He said quietly and there was a flick of smugness behind it.
"…I dunno if it'll fit, Brett—"
"Aw, babe. I’ll make it fit don’t worry.”
He bent an' kissed ye again, reassuring. Mouth soft. “Gonna take care o’ ye.” He nudged your thighs apart with his knees and settled between them, reaching for the bottle, popping the cap and slicking his fingers.
His left hand spread on your inner thigh, to hold you open while his right hand went between your cheeks and that first cold circle of his finger over your hole made you jump.
Breathing out, his finger pushed in and worked you open with some excitement and rushed behind it, probably unable to wait for the next moment.
Two fingers came, scissoring while knuckles deep, watchin' your face the whole time and when he found your prostate, it made your hips jolt and he grinned before doing it again and again till you were leakin' onto your own abdomen.
"Th—Brett—"
"Mm?"
"M'ready, m'ready, please!"
"One more. Wan' ye properly ready an’ good fer ye."
Three fingers stretchin' and burnin' but when he crooked them you saw stars.
At one point you had half-forgotten where you were, some hot embarrassed thrill went through you.
He saw it on your face and his eyes went bright.
"Aye. Alright. Le's give ye what ye need."
He pulled 'is fingers out and slicked his cock, stroking himself while starin' down at you spread out under him and his mouth fell open as he looked like an animal.
His hand went under your right knee and lifted, pushing your leg back toward your chest as his other hand came under your left, openin' you up wide, forcin' your thighs apart further.
He held his cock at the base, lined up and let the head kiss your hole, blunt and hot.
"Look at me,” he said.
Your eyes looked on his just as he pushed.
The stretch of the head going in along the inevitable forwards of it made you gasp and grip at his forearms, eyes watering with every inch going in.
“Fook me," he breathed. “Tha’s so fuckin’ tight, look at ye takin’ it so fuckin' well fer me.“
You looked down and saw 'im halfway in, hole stretched red and shiny ‘round him and the sight nearly undid you entirely.
He pushed in deeper, watchin' your face for pain, kissing the insides of your thighs, muttering nonsense until his hips were flush against your arse and he was all the way in, dropping his forehead to your collarbone, trembling while fully feeling everything around him while buried to the hilt.
Barely letting yourself adjust, the burn was easing, fullness settling into summat tolerable
*"…go on," you whispered.
He moved right after, long and deep draws back near out and slowly pushed home, that punched a sound out of you because of the size of him. He had you folded near in half, knees by your chest, and his hips rolled into yours with a desperate need of chasing the addictive feeling.
His breath was in your mouth, eyes open and not leaving yours.
“Knew ye were made fer me cock.”
"Brett—"
“Louder, babe. Le’ th’ lake hear ye.” He drove in harder, hips snapping and causing you to cry out, voice ringin' loud in th' little tent as his rhythm built, hips workin' steadier, each stroke deeper as his hips smacked against your arse, creak of the tent floor under your back while he grunted into your ears.
"Fookin’ love this. Should’ve done this months ago. Could’ve ‘ad ye like this every fookin’ night. Mine, ye ‘ear me? Nobody gets t’ see ye like this.“
You couldn't think about anything else except him hittin' that spot inside you on every stroke now and your cock was slappin' wet against your belly while making broken little half-words.
He shifted his weight and took your cock in his fist, slick with lube and your own leak, starting to work it in time with his thrusts.
"Come on,” he murmured. "Come fro’ me cock. Wan’ t’ feel ye go.”
You couldn't hold it, back arching, mouth open and you came, hard, in stripes up your abdomen and over his fist, vision goin' white at the edges as he milked you through it and the clench of your hole around him as you came was what did him.
"Oh—oh fuck, babe—“ His hips stuttered and he drove in deep, holding there as you felt him pulse inside you, hot wet flood of it deep in your guts, and he made a low broken groan, his whole body shuddered, forehead pressed against yours.
“Mine,” he breathed against your mouth over an' over.
He stayed inside you for a long time after, his weight half on you and half slumped t' the side, his arm thrown across your chest possessively while you stroked his hair.
When he finally pulled out he watched between yer legs as he did it, sight of his cum leaking out of you onto the duvet before he pressed two fingers and pushed it back in.
You were too fucked-out to do anything but laugh shakily and pull him back down to you, tucking himself against your side, head on your chest and ear over your heart.
You drifted off with his weight on you and his hand at your throat, happier than you’d ever been.
He didn't sleep, laying with his ear over your heart and listening to it beat for a long time before he turned his face and looked out through the open tent flap at the lake.
His mind wasn’t with you but far shore, that summer he was sixteen and all the shit he went through with that couple.
Then his mind did a trick to him and placed you there in that context, imagining you with that couple that had come up to the lake for a swim and a picnic.
Imagining your pretty face going white when he'd come walking out the trees with the lads behind 'im.
Imagined you thrashing and kicking back, that same voice that moaned his name an hour ago getting morphed by fear.
Getting t'you before the others did, pinning you down on that same shingle, jeans round your ankles and arms held over your head with one hand. ‘Shhh, m'just gonna fook ye’
The thought of how tight you’d feel, body squeezing down on him because it didn't want him, your nails on his shoulders, tears on your cheek as he never stopped till he’ll come inside you.
His cock had gotten so hard again under the duvet, pressed up against the soft underside of your thigh where you’d thrown a leg over him in your sleep, thick and warm, leaking a bead onto his stomach even though he just emptied himself in you an hour ago.
Question was whether t' tell you one of these days what he had done that summer, curious on how you’d take it, whether you’d run, freeze up or surprise him and say that it didn’t matter right before kissing him.
Or you’d hate him and he’d have t' deal with that too…
He shifted careful onto his side, slid his hand down between your bodies and wrapped his fist around his own cock under the duvet.
Biting his lip and closing his eyes, he worked his fist slow up the shaft and back down, knuckles brushing against your hip wi' every stroke while you slept, breath warm on his neck.
He kept your face in his mind when he'd first pushed inside you, eyes wet and mouth open.
His fist tightened and sped up, breath coming shorter through his nose as his mind bleed his current and real thoughts together with another film where your eyes were wet for a different reason.
Both of you were his, the one that loved him and the one that would have ended up doing anyway.
His hips twitched up in his fist, cock pulsing and pre-come slick down the length of him, making the slide easier.
He pictured coming on your face on the shingle or right now in the tent, waking you up confused before licking his come off your own lip.
Jaw locked so tight it hurt as he came hard, cock pulsing thick in his fist, ropes of it splashing across his own abdomen and his knuckles, one long shuddery exhale followed that he turned in to your hair so it sounded like nothing.
He'd decide when to say it, there were years of time and you weren't goin' anywhere.
❤️🔥 brett (eden lake) x reader
❤️🔥 nsfw 18+
❤️🔥 synopsis: you're the pretty thing Brett's been eyeing, yet, following the events at Eden Lake, he finds his thirst for violence and control has been little satiated--and its cravings know no bounds. Everything tastes better when there's a little fear involved; so what happens when he's met with little resistance and you don't look at him with fear?
❤️🔥 note: throwing rocks and hitting this guy with a thousand tiny hammers but also kinda twirling my hair and giggling and kicking my feet. I literally warned you all I like it when they're NEEAASSTYYY and tbh you can't give me shit if you've fantasized about sir lord cunt of cuntdom and cult leader jimmy crystal OR remmick the undead vampire. let me enjoy my filthy depraved dick thank u very much. also might I just emphasize DEPRAVED!! this is pure filth. DEPRAVED FILTH. tw for rape fantasies/prey kink, not so consensual non-consent, knife/blood play, forced fingering/finger-sucking, forced blowjob/face-fucking, doggy-style, panty stealing and obscene/aggressive language
❤️🔥 wc: 4.6k+
Beads of fresh blood oozed from between the tight scabbing over his knuckles. Brett squeezed his fist tighter. The morning sun was a pale blue through his blinds, the heavy fabric pulled as far as it would go, and with it, his head throbbed with a heaviness that made it feel like a bowling ball. His neck lengthened and tensed, and his Adam's apple jumped. He squeezed his fist again, soft, thin skin moving under his palm as his grip tugged up from between his thighs. He swept his thumb over the agitated, darkening pink crown of his head and shivered. However, no matter the light burn in his groin and the pulse of his cock in his hand, the girth still fell limp over his roughened knuckles and thin fingers, and he chased, fruitlessly, the thin thread of pleasure he'd woken with.
After spitting in his palm, his other hand came down to cup his balls, grunting and flexing his hips up when that thread tugged and his cock pulsed, but his muscles relaxed again when the length failed to harden. Brett pinched the space between his furrowed brows, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, and placed his hands now over the hollow of his abdomen. The gnawing ache was still there, blooming from his core and radiating through him, hot, hungry. He pushed himself from his mattress after kicking his sheets from the rest of his legs and leaned over the edge for a second. He needed something to sink his teeth into, to chew on. It was like an addiction--for the past two years, he'd been chasing that high that had left puddles of blood in fresh mud and splattered across green pine trees. After walking over to the silver iron weights and getting a nice pump in his arms, shoulders, and back--now built with thicker ropes of lean muscle and having lost more of his stubborn baby fat--Brett dressed in clothes he didn't care too much for and stepped out of his bedroom, determined to get his fix.
He hovered in front of his door for a beat, gauging the volume level of the rest of the house, making sure the knob slipped shut with a quiet click. Once he was sure at least the front area was clear, he slipped down the stairs and outside. It was a grey day, just as he'd predicted from the minimal, foggy lighting which leaked in through his since iron-barred bedroom window. The air was chilled, damp with rain; the condensation beaded on windows and pooled between the uneven cobblestone and cracks in the asphalt road. Brett grabbed his bike from the side of the house and set down the side of the road toward where he knew he could get something sweet for his morning cravings.
The register slammed shut at the same time the bell above the entrance dinged, and the last customer exited the convenience store.. You stood in a haze of thinned smoke behind the white countertop and inspected your nails. They were a fresh set, the almond tips a tad longer than last time, and a glossy cherry red. Dropping them, you readjusted the tightly fitted polo shirt with the station's logo on it over the denim skirt you wore that was barely to standard, then reached over and took hold of the complimentary paper soda cup you'd filled with diet Cola. The ice swirled at the bottom when you shook it, and you took a long sip of the bubbling, coppery liquid, not looking to the door when it opened again.
Brett wove through the aisles aimlessly, pinching the front of his jeans to make room for the already strengthening bulge against his boxers. You smelled slightly of lemon and orange, of a dewy musk that made the pit of his stomach fizzle. You smelled warm and soft, feminine, just as you looked. He watched you set your drink down with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before grabbing a pack of Skittles and a beef stick. He moved up to the front and slapped these two items down with a loll of his tongue across his bottom lip.
"Sugar and meat for breakfast today, Brett?" You took the products and met his eye. There was a coldness that oozed from his gaze. "You're a big boy, you need your nutrients."
"Aye, you could always feed me." You shook your head and turned to grab a fresh pack of cigarettes for him without him even needing to ask. He'd been coming by that gas station for longer than you'd been working there. Always causing some sort of trouble out front, harassing strangers. You'd always found it slightly amusing when you'd caught sight of him on your own runs, but now it made your job more difficult.
You both eyed each other closely until he broke the silence by snarking, "stop lookin' at me like you want to kiss me. It’s gross, and inappropriate. Going to get you in trouble."
You glanced away, and sighed. "Y'know, speaking of--trouble, we got another complaint the other day, someone said you were fuckin' with the pumps. Got two out of service now."
Brett shrugged.
"This is, of course, what comes after you slashed a gentleman's tires."
"I ain't done none'a that."
You cocked a brow, and he mirrored your expression, pushing his palms against the counter. He glanced down at your lips, making sure you knew where he was looking.
"I talked the boss down, said nobody had any proof." You slid the products forward. "Cash?"
"Oh, you're a precious thing, ye know that? I think ye've gone sweet on me." Brett grabbed his wallet from his back pocket--in the process placing a small switchblade beside it--and slid forward a few bills, purposely choosing an amount too high, which required change and forced you to bend down over the register. The open collar of your shirt showed your cleavage, your breasts pushed up by the padding of your bra.
When you pushed the remaining bills back at him, he waved them off. "Keep it, uh, but, how about ye say to a little, ye'know," he stuck his tongue to his cheek and motioned for a blowjob, "usin' those pretty lips a'yers that 'er so sweet to me. Like a reward, for ye being such a good girl an' savin' m'ass."
You shut the drawer again and put the change on the counter, hoping the heat in your face wasn't noticeable, or the way you fought back a giggle. It twisted up your core, intertwined with your shock at his crudeness.
"You've got a real way for poetry, Brett. I'm swooning," you popped a hip, but couldn't help your eyes from moving down the vein visible from the sleeve of his shirt and down the length of his bicep. "But it'd take more than you pulling out your dick to make up for all the shit I've put up with for you."
Brett thumbed open the packets of cigs and bit down on the end of one, flashing the edge of his canine before reaching into his jeans again to pull out a small silver lighter. The flame licked the other end before the paper caught, and smoke twirled up, filling the air with the minty aftertaste of earthy tobacco. He blew smoke in your face when he pulled it out. "Is that right?"
"Mhm."
"Well, I bet yer cunt would say somethin' different from how soaked she is for me. I can smell 'er. I think," he lowered his tone, "all I'd need to do is stand 'er with m'cock in m'hand and watch ye come crawlin' for it like a bitch in heat. Seen the way ye've been lookin' at me, it's pathetic."
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir? Or should I call for my manager?" You asked in the most customer-service, passively pleasant voice you could muster, smiling even when his eyes lingered on your body and you could see it written all over his leering expression, what he was picturing. He clucked his tongue and huffed as if you'd done something in this fantasy he disapproved of, then met your eye again.
"I'll be see'n ya later, sweetheart. Also, yer droolin.'" He playfully swept a thumb across his chin to imitate cleaning it and laughed.
Biting your lip, you watched Brett leave the store and walk around the side of it, thinking it would be like all the other times he toyed with you, then moved on to the next flashy target that caught his eye. However, ten, fifteen, then thirty minutes passed, and you could still catch glimpses of him hanging around at the edge of the windows. Then it became an hour, two, and your break passed. You sat in the breakroom, against a stiff plastic chair, with your thighs pressed together and your fingers laced together, pulling at the joints until they popped. Your nerves were buzzing.
After your break, you wandered back up to the front and thought maybe he'd finally lost interest. Another forty-five minutes and you were proven wrong. You wondered if you'd said something that finally pushed him off the edge this time, that one of your remarks hadn't been taken with the teasing lightness you'd intended. You didn't actually think he'd do anything, especially when it was the middle of the day, but then again--the shit he pulled with others, the cruelty he showcased, the whispers around town, the case from a few years back--the bell dinged again, and you jolted seemingly from your skin. Another young girl walked in, and you saw that a car, presumably her mother's, was waiting outside. You glanced at the clock and saw it was half-past till the end of your shift. Your replacement should arrive in approximately twenty minutes or so.
When they did, and after you clocked out, you took the back exit out by the trash cans and walked, hurriedly, over to where your car was parked. Grabbing your keys and fumbling with them from their designated pocket in your purse, you failed to look anywhere else but your own movements until you reached your door and glanced over your shoulder to where Brett stood at the corner of the store, leaning his weight into the stone. He was halfway done with the pack of cigarettes now, and flicked the last one he'd been working on to the ground. He let it simmer, not bothering to crush it.
You dropped your keys and your purse and ran up the hill through the unkept brush and into the surrounding trees.
Brett smiled, huffing with pleasure at your reaction, and strode up to your purse. He rifled through it quickly, not wanting you to get too far ahead, although confident he'd catch you no matter how far you managed to hop away from him; pulling out a small bottle of the perfume you wore and shoving it into his jeans alongside your car keys, then dangling across his fingers the thin straps of a spare thong. He held the lingerie up, found the center, and pressed the lace to his nose in an attempt to get a hint of your scent from the washed-out discoloration of the fabric.
Not finding any, he bunched the thong up with a snarl and shoved it into his jeans as well, refocusing his efforts on following the path into the woods you had taken.
You weren't actually trying to get away. But he didn't need to know that; you knew it was better if he didn't. Like all the other stories, you knew the troublemaker liked a bit of a challenge, liked the struggle. And thankfully for him, you enjoyed being on the other side of the chase; your blood pressure spiked as adrenaline shot through you, bubbly and ecstatic, and you lurched forward with the impulse to run from everything that reached toward you. You wanted to run from Brett the second he'd caught your eye from across the street. Your heart had raced, and your mouth had gone cottony, and with everything in you, you wanted to take off sprinting, never to get away, though. Only to see how far you could get before he caught you. You'd always kept your distance from him and egged him on with the intent of getting him to chase you — unlike other girls in the courting process, your idea of a chase was not flowers and jewelry and dates to expensive restaurants. It was something much more primal, something you could see tugging at the thin ties between you and Brett. Something you understood, yet he could not.
You ran through the trees and hoped he was behind you, following the trail of your sweat and perfume with a tilt of his nose. Still, you did not look over your shoulder while weaving through the green, dodging the chipped bark of twisting trees and hopping over fallen branches. You could have hardly told which direction you were heading, until you turned and collided with something--someone.
Brett had let you continue thinking you were evading him for another few minutes, following at a distance, your paths would inevitably collide, but this was the fun of it. The last stretch. His favorite part, second to the physical struggle, as he anticipated. The tension quivered through his entire body, the heat of a now-intense erection flickering up his abdomen and melting through his pelvis down his thighs. His fingers squeezed into fists.
Brett grabbed you by the arms and pinned you to him. "Oy-where y'think yer runnin' off to? huh?" He panted, laughing again when you tried to yank yourself away. "Where's that sweet cunt when I need 'er? ye tease me all day long behind that fuckin' counter, then decide to take a fuckin' run? that it? Y'decide yer in the mood for a wee jog after work? In the woods no less? Just askin' for it at that point, runnin' into the woods all alone with that tiny fuckin' skirt and that slutty top." Your knees dropped before you writhed back up and squealed. "Wanna see if I was right before, if that pussy ye got is as wet an' tight for me as I think. Ye? Ah, I think she likes to be played rough with. I think she's been picturin' all the ways I can use her up like the plaything she is."
"I don't think you'd know what to do even if I wrote directions for you." You spat. The thing was with the adrenaline, what nobody else was able to do for you, other than Brett, was get you riled up. Truly enraged. He pissed you off. You shoved at him ferociously, kicking and jumping, your instincts taking over.
"Then I'll just make a new fuckin' hole for me to fuck m'cock into, how bout that?" He seethed, his arm wrapping around you. Your back slammed against the trunk of a tree and knocked the breath from you. When you opened your lips to suck air into your lungs, what pressed between them was instead two fingers. Brett pressed them down on your tongue, then further back into your throat to make you gag, his other palm slipping up to hold the front of your throat and craning your jaw up while he pressed his figure flush to yours. You could feel how excited he was. You gagged again around his knuckles, and saliva dribbled down your chin. "That's right, suck on m'fingers, be a pretty slut for me. Show me how bad ye want m'cock."
However, when you pursed your lips and allowed a moan to vibrate up his hand, he snatched himself from between your teeth and slapped you. The whole side of your face stung from the impact, but your head wasn't allowed to go anywhere from his pinching of your throat. Brett's teeth bared, and he growled at you, shoving his wet fingers between you and finding the hem of your skirt--shoving beneath it to feel, with a ragged exhale, once he'd also shoved the cotton of your panties aside, that he'd been right, even with his cruelty.
"Fuckin' 'ell yer wet. Yer fuckin' wet? Ye stupid whore-yer wet an' I haven't even fuckin' pulled my fucking cock out!" You wheezed from the sudden tightness of his hand, the dizziness sweeping over you fast and making you drop to your knees beneath him as soon as he released you. Brett laughed, then, a high-pitched cackle that sent shivers down your spine. "Just like I fuckin' said, a bitch in heat."
You were trembling all over, tears stinging your eyes. Your fingers found the seam of his jeans, and you tugged at his pant leg, only to have him thrash it toward you to get you to let go. You slumped to your palms and scurried away from the tree, no more than a couple of feet before turning over to your ass and laying your shoulders back. The back of your head met the uneven ground as you stared up, catching your breath and letting the blotches leave your sight while flipping up the bottom of your skirt and bunching the denim around your hips.
You splayed your knees wide, hesitating on the prospect of having him tear your panties from you before deciding to push them down your shaking thighs and showing him the glistening ooze of wetness from your plush, slickened folds. Brett took a step forward and observed these frantic movements with a tilt of his head, the words leaving him for a moment, causing his mouth to hang open.
"Yer even more pathetic than I fuckin' thought, wantin' me to fuck ye this entire time. Playin' like ye didn't." His hands flew up above his head as soon as you nodded. Brett turned for a moment, mouthing fuckin' hell in exasperation, before turning back to you and shouting, "What are ye gon' beg for it now? Beg me to fuck you?"
He spoke as if it would ruin everything. Like you wanting it wasn't what he needed--and you knew that, you saw it tensed in him like barbed wire, pointed and sharp. But you also knew it was control he was really after.
"If that's what you want." You squeezed and tugged at your skirt, sticks poking up into your skin, and the cool air nipping between your thighs. When Brett's eyes focused on your sex again, he licked his lips, and you whispered, "You want to taste it? You can taste it--you can do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me--"
His hand fell over his bulge, and he squeezed. Hard.
He palmed himself a few times before sneering, "Like I don't fuckin' know that. Jus' thinkin' of what I want to do first. You'll know no matter what it is, I'm gonna make that pretty pink cunt of yers regret actin' so damn needy like a dumb bitch, though. Getting wet before I even touched ya," and moving forward again to stand between your legs.
His narrowed eyes unwavering from your pussy, he reached back into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade from before. He smirked when your body tensed at the sight and kneeled down, resting back on his heels.
You felt the cold kiss of the edge of the blade against the inside of your thigh, then the wet trickle of blood where he cut you, and winced, lifting your hips against the blade before flinching away when he cut you again. Every time you tried to squirm away, Brett's fingers lifted. He smacked your cunt like it was a dog's snout trying to get at a plate of food--hard, fast, with a blistering, radiating pain that made your clit spasm. Your teeth slipped over your bottom lip, and you fought the noise that pushed from your chest when his fingers smeared the blood from your fresh cuts. Brett considered licking his fingers clean, but then wiped the blood over your folds and tinted your slick pink with it. Your clit throbbed painfully, now, the stimulation making your whole body vibrate. You needed more and tried to chase his fingertips, but he just smacked you again and muttered, "stop."
Your chest rising and falling heavily, beneath the curve of your breasts, Brett discarded the blade and wrapped his arms beneath your legs to hoist your pelvis up and curved down to fit his mouth over the swollen tissue. Your fingers immediately left your skirt to yank at his chopped, brown hair, but he snatched your wrist and forced your touch away, squeezing hard enough to leave more bruises in his wake while his jaw worked up and down and his tongue lapped up the sweet mix of blood and your juices. He licked at you without the purpose of pleasuring you, his teeth grazing your nub and cheeks hollowing as if to actually eat you, pushing down and nipping at the sensitive skin till you started to cry from the overstimulation.
Once you began to cry, his balls yanked up, and Brett felt the hot dribble of precum ooze down from his slit, his tip now tenting his jeans and building friction against the denim with each shift of his hips. He gulped air down, pushing himself up from between your thighs with blood smeared on his chin and cheek, and staring down at you for another second. He flipped you over to your stomach by your bunched skirt and yanked your hips up to meet his pelvis.
You arched your back and bent your head forward, shallow breaths turning to mewls as your entrance drooled from the tightening of your sore walls. You'd been reduced to pure need, now, the impulse of your desires overriding any logic or sense, any composure you'd previously been able to hold yourself with.
And Brett, too. He couldn't think past burying himself inside you to the hilt, watching your pussy swallow him down, and feeling the heat melt over him as your folds slipped over the flushed skin of his cock. That release he'd been craving all day was nearing its climax, viscous and sticky, mucous and heavy. It pulled his hips closer toward you before he'd managed to unsheath himself from his jeans.
His stomach tensing and shoulders folding forward, he collapsed over you as the soft muscle of his tip slid between your folds and began to stretch open the ring of your entrance. "Fuck, fuck you're so eager-I-I can feel ye-ye'r swallowin' me, so fuckin' eager," he muttered against your shoulder blade. "I've heard about these rape fantasies, y'know, in the magazines, where bitches like ye like to be chased down and taken, laid claim to, get all riled up n' horny n' shite cause they know they're powerless--that ye don't have any control n' can be fuckin' used like a cumsock whenever we want. Is that what gets ye so fuckin' hot and worked up? The thought of me-" your core flared with pain as he sunk down deeper, holding your hips up by your skirt like a belt, "usin' yer cunt to get m'self off whenever I please?"
He bottomed out with one more push, which nearly knocked you down, straightening himself back with a low growl through clenched teeth. Then, he kept you on your elbows with your hips pinching with pain from the wideness of your knees as he punched his hips again. You could feel the rigidness of his length, the curve of his head nudging your cervix, your depths fighting against him, then pulling him deeper, then fighting against him while he yanked you back to his hips. His Adam's apple jumped up with a squeeze of his jaw when he tilted his head back before his next moan echoed through the trees.
"Take it, take my cock like the bitch ye are, like a good fuckin' cum slut, take it--that's right--cry for me, fuck-yeah-" he sneered, spit smearing his lip and his face growing red as the veins in his neck strained and the ropiness of his forearms flexed as his knuckles blotched white from the tension.
He used your skirt to bounce your cunt up and down his length till the blood knotted at the base and the spongy tissue tightened. In one single contraction, you felt him burst inside you, splattering your walls in his cum, ejaculating slowly and painfully thick, his engorged shaft twitching between the cushion of your walls until his semen spilled from you and leaked down to pool in the pine needles. His hands lowered to the meat of your ass and spread your cheeks to get a better look at the sight, and he gawked.
His strength then evading him, he collapsed on top of you and pinned you to the forest floor, quivering and shuddering with the last of his ejaculation. You continued rolling your hips back against him as much as you could, even after Brett had stilled, earning a weak whine. "Filled ye up with me cum and now ye can't get enough..." he murmured, feeling his body come back into itself and with it, the tenderness of his knees, the burning of his thighs, and the spasming of his lower back.
His exhale tickling the back of your neck while he closed his eyes and remained inside you, his tip still kicked upward occasionally, and he was left half-hard and as agitated as ever. The sting of your now dried cuts radiating up your leg, you knew once he'd gathered his breath that Brett was far from done with you. You could feel his hands already moving again over your body, finding the hard and soft points, tugging at your clothes with the desire to see you completely bare under him.
Brett shoved you back onto your back to face him. At first you thought he would kiss you, or at least let you grab his face to lick the cum and blood from his cheeks, but he crawled up your body until his knees were at either side of your head, his weeping, softened and reddened cock hanging curved above your mouth alongside his balls. You stared at it with your brows lifted up and widened eyes before his fingers knotted in your hair, and he used his other hand to grip just beneath the crown and fit his head in your mouth, pushing past your lips and grunting, "fuckin' open, or I'll cut y'gain," under his breath.
Tilting his hips forward with a flex of his ass and the splaying of his knees, Brett supported himself with one hand, and rolled his eyes up before closing them at the sensation of you gulping him down--your nose brushing against the taut curled hair that dissipated from his groin in a thin trail, the feeling of your tongue swirling around the overly sensitive bundle of nerves at his head, making him pump his hips down against your face with involuntary jerk.
He would continue to do this, leaving little room for you to breathe through your nose, until he got hard again, he promised. Nevertheless, as your vision blurred and your gag reflex caused your esophagus to tighten and your saliva to bubble around your mouth, and your whimpers, cries, and moans vibrated up his core, both of you knew you would be forced to swallow his next thinner, saltier load before he stuffed another one into your swollen cunt. And whatever you didn't manage to swallow, he'd smear over your face in a crude display of his filth--he'd get it in your hair, splash it across your bitten and smacked tits, dribble it over your bruised thighs, have you lick it from his balls, as many times as he could before his shirt stuck to his skin from the sweat that also matted his hair to his forehead and ran in his eyes and he couldn't even pick himself up or get his legs to work. And from that point on, when Brett was feeling even slightly out of control, he would come and find you--he would hunt you down and give you the slightest touch of the evil he was capable of, in its sweetest, most disciplined form.
whimpers. look at this man and tell me he doesn't. that's right, you can't.
i think we all know this, but this mans got a praise kink that could send him into a coma. he might start crying just from praise, so be careful with this delicate man 😭 or don't, he'd let you do whatever if it pleased you
not a virgin, but is not used to having his needs listened to. it was always the other way around, so having you cater to him is so.... hhhh, makes his brain melt
never asks or initiates sex, it's rarely at the forefront of his mind, but if your down, he's down
but when he is in the mood... you'll be able to tell. looks more pathetic than usual, accidently using those big brown puppy eyes to his advantage
always has to be touching you in some way, either it be innocent interlocked pinky's, to having a hand on your thigh. he doesn't even mean to do it, his body just gravitates towards you.
bottom. he screams 'Born to bottom, forced to top' to me, I'm sorry. if you want him to top, he will, but Brett's natural habitat his under you, sorry
down for anything, really. want to make him wear makeup? thats fine! he'll pucker his lips for you. want to pull his hair? just don't pull it out! he's into that one anyway. want to tie him up? he's already holding his wrists out for you!
such a sweetheart, my poor puppy of a man.
okay but back onto the makeup one...
imagine putting some eyeliner, mascara and lipstick on him, y'know? and then fucking him, edge him a little too, he won't complain. watch as his eyes get teary eyes until his mascara run, the lipstick smudging as you kiss his swollen lips. hhhh
GIVE HIM AFTERCARE. he deserves it. he needs it!!!!! don't be mean AFTER sex! that's just evil 🥀🥀🥀
Sυɱɱαɾყ 🔪 You move into the town near Eden Lake. All on your own, away from your past. Brett takes notice. Of course he does. Anyone arriving in his neck of the woods, his territory, he sets his sights on you. Following you for a time only to come to realize you and him aren't so different.
ȶա 🔪 18+ content, bondage, blood, violence, graphic depictions, knife-play, death, killing, violent acts, dom!Brett, smut, handjob, brat reader, dark content, animal death, stalking, foul language, porn with plot, aged up characters, implied sexual content, rough, possessive
Pαιɾιɳɠ 🔪 Brett x Male Reader
աƈ 🔪 9K+
(knife divider came from huraxy-dividers)
18+ Cσɳƚҽɳƚ Aԋҽαԃ! Mιɳσɾʂ DNI!
A single bulb from your lamp dimly lights the room. Uneven shadows stretch across the furniture. Wrists tightly bound above your head attached to the wooden bedframe. Your muscles ache from the tension. However, it is overshadowed by the searing heat in your gut.
There on top of you Brett straddles your mid-section. Dawned in his usual street-ready worn attire. You, however, only sported a pair of jeans. The only thing keeping the rest of you from his devious intent. He is a looming figure above you; the signature unhinged grin plastered on his face.
The cold steel from the knife pressing into your side. A threat to instill fear before he starts carving. Slowly he traces out the letter “B”. Blade digging into your skin. Your body shifts instinctively beneath him.
He snarls. “Stay the fuck still!” His hand comes and smacks you hard leaving a red mark. “I ain’t gonna warn you again, mate. You’ll ‘ave the blade slippin’.”
The tip of the blade digs into your side. A deep fresh cut blooms red. A bright testament to Brett’s cruel handiwork. Blood beads in a thin red line following the path of the knife. The first indent of the letter was complete. Your body arches involuntarily to the pain. And you are met with another slap form him and a growl.
You hiss through clenched teeth, heat coiling between fear, pain, and something darker. Your skin is already littered with lines of previous marks, shallow cuts that catch the dim light. Proof of ownership, proof of the games you play together.
He is completely absorbed in his work; the world narrowed down to the small piece of flesh under his control. He is focused on the art, the message. The “B” is for him. A brand. He loves the way your body—for all its strength—is helpless beneath him. He loves the way your gaze is fixed on him. A raw mix of hatred and something that keeps you there tied to the bed.
Brett doesn’t rush.
He leans into your reactions, taking his time. Watching how you squirm. Watching every shiver. Hearing every hiss. It makes his grin widen. Possessive pride shows in his expression.
The sting from his cuts tests you. Every movement still shows your obedience. The power in his stare that reminds you whose top dog. When the knife presses again, as he drags it across your flesh, it’s a ritual. Equal parts punishment, part intimacy, but pure control.
“Ya, that’s it,” Brett murmurs. Oddly his voice softens. A confusing shift from the earlier threat. “Jus’ a little more.”
The blade cuts deeper and you clench your jaw—teeth grinding as you fight back a cry. Immediately another line of blood appears as the second line of the letter is formed. A trial of crimson against your skin declares the bond. Permanent and unholy.
With a satisfied sigh Brett pulls the blade away. Weight shifting as he sits back on your hips. It’s a heavy presence, almost suffocating, as he admires his work. Your flesh bleeds red and angry. Brett’s face lights up in sinister glee. Straining your neck, you try to glimpse the jagged “B” carved into your side.
Hunger and triumph fills Brett’s eyes. Your gaze meets his dark stare, and you watch as he brings the bloodied blade up to his awaiting tongue. Nice and slow he licks the blood off.
Your breath catches in your throat. The act alone reinforces what you know he’s capable of. He then places the blade tip—sharpened point—against your chest. The subtle pressure of steel presses into the skin. You dare him with a smirk. You know this game of his. And for some sick twisted reason, you just can’t help but play along.
Months ago:
Your car rolls into town, gliding along the last stretch of good asphalt before trees surround the road on all sides. The trees sprawled for miles. Endless. Creating a dark canopy. Looming as they press in on all sides. To some it would feel like a warning. But to you, a promise. A welcome.
You were headed towards the cottage you rented. An old worn-out building, peeling paint, sagging roof, shutters on the windows hanging crooked. The only reason you rented it was due to it being cheap. Hidden. Away from society. And it wasn’t home. That was enough.
The older couple who owned the place left town a long time ago. Leaving behind the remnants of their old life. You jumped at the opportunity to take it off their hands.
You hadn’t come looking for a clean slate. That wasn’t meant for you. Back where you came from—the place you called home—you were a disappointment. A delinquent in youth as well as in adulthood. Always living for the thrill. Making terrible decisions. Trouble following you wherever you went. Your family got tired of it. Tired of you. Without a second thought you ditched them. They wouldn’t be missed.
This wasn’t about a ‘fresh start’. Far from it. It was something that placed you far away from your past. A place where no one would know you. No one knew what you did. And least of all, no one could tell you who to be.
Your car rolled into the driveway, tires rolling over loose gravel. Eyes staring at you. No one new step foot in his town without him knowing. On the other side of the road, through the trees, Brett watched. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets. A faded worn thing that had grown too tight for his frame. Just like time, it changed him. Brett was older now. Sharper. But he still had that wild edge that only came tempered from experience. Much like you the past clung to him. The rampage. The bloodshed. The former friends were either buried or scattered. He couldn’t forget.
As you step out of the car he cocks his head. You don’t have much with you. A small collection of boxes of all your belongings.
Careless.
Not once did you check your surroundings. Not even a glance towards the forest. Right where he was.
Bold, he thought. Lips twitching at the corners of his mouth. Or stupid.
But there was something else, it was in the way you moved. In how you carried yourself that set you apart from the other hopefuls who drifted into this place and tried to make it theirs. Something raw. Something reckless.
For now, he told himself, he would watch. Keep to the shadows. But something in you—a spark—that he couldn’t ignore.
Once you had settled for the night, the last shades of daylight fading to black, that’s when he made his move. It was pathetic how small the cottage looked at night. Rotting wood desperately trying to hold itself together. In one of the windows a light was still on. But that didn’t matter to him.
Reaching the back door, the pitiful lock sealing it was a joke. Brett twisted the rusted metal and snapped, giving way under his experienced hands. Stepping inside the old floorboards creaked softly. He moved stealthily keeping his breathing measured. The old place was layered with dust and the smell of damp wood.
Drifting through the space, eyes taking in every little thing. Spotting the unpacked clothes slung in piles on the couch. An ashtray with half-burnt cigarettes lay on the table. Running his fingers along the table they trace the small scratches into the wood.
A grin shows on his face. He loved this part. Getting to know a person. The details. It was like peeling the layers back piece by piece.
Somewhere upstairs you were asleep. He carefully made his way up the stairs. Standing in the doorway he watched. Your breathing was steady, rhythmic. Your chest rose and fell silently. Blissfully unaware. Vulnerable. Something twists inside him. Hunger and curiosity tangled together.
There was no attempt to touch you. Not yet. He wanted to see more first. Wanted to know how deep the rot festered. Wanted to calculate how much he could push before you broke.
Slipping back into the safety of night Brett made up his mind about one thing:
You were more than another random loser passing through. You were his project.
Time blurred. Weeks bled together. Days became irrelevant. Boring. The job you landed was shit. Too many long hours at your job. By the end of the shift your hands ached and your patience was gone. But the pay was just enough to keep the lights on. That was all you asked for. Stability was never the goal.
You noticed him of course. You weren’t stupid. A figure on the corner when you leave work. A shadow leaning against a wall across from the shop. A reflection in a window just before you turn away. Brett wasn’t subtle. Always close by but never close enough that would cause a confrontation. It could be seen as stalking, but that didn’t seem right.
You just let him orbit, it was almost like a game. Letting him watch if that was what he wanted.
At the end of your shift one evening, you took a path that headed into the forest. The workday had eaten too much at you that going home wasn’t an option. The trees parted for you as you used their silence and cover. The further you walked the more tense you became. Coiling like a snake.
Reaching the familiar clearing the silence pressed in unbearably strong.
Standing there you let out a frustrating yell. Fist clenched, shout echoing into the dark. A snapped branch here, a rock hurled until it split against another. The yell you let out scared birds, scattering them into the sky. It wasn’t enough to get out all the pent-up rage, but it helped. You didn’t need an audience. You didn’t need anyone to understand.
But someone did.
From behind the trees Brett watched you unravel. Taking it all in. the way your fists bled when you pounded them until the knuckles split. The way your shoulders shook as you huffed. Rawness. He recognized it. The same chaos he barely kept caged.
He was right, you weren’t like the others before. Pretending to be normal. He grinned to himself. You were just like him. The echo of your shout stil hung in the trees when another sound cut through. That sharp, deliberate clap of hands. Slow. Mocking.
Instantly your head snapped to the noise. Leaned against a tree, there he was. Sliver of a grin etched on his face—like in theater waiting for his cue. Clapping, he stepped forward. This time it was more for effect and showmanship. Then his hands slid lazily into his jacket pockets.
Brett whistled with amusement. “Knew you had it in ya. Didn’ reckon you’d put on a hell of a show. Jus’ for me.”
Your pulse spiked, but not from fear. Surprisingly you smirked as you straightened. You made it a show to flex your bloodied knuckles. “Jesus, finally,” you expressed. Sarcasm asatisfaction in your tone. “Was wondering just how long you were going to keep trailing me. Thought you’d never be bold enough to come out.”
For a quick moment his grin wavered. His interest peaked. Normally he was used to someone shrinking back or stumbling over themselves. Not you. You gazed at him like you were expecting him. Like you had been waiting.
Brett studied you, just like he had all these weeks. Suddenly with a tilt of his head, he laughed. It was sharp. Unrestrained.
He stepped closer. The heels of his shoes crushing dried leaves and twigs. The grin he had was sharp. His voice dripping with mockery. “Heh. Didn’ take ya for someone who’d be chuckin’ a right fit out ‘ere all on your own. Cute.”
Scoffing you wiped the blood from your knuckles on your jeans. “Cute?” A smirk curled on your lips. “That what you call it?” You rolled your eyes. “Thought you were enjoying the show. Seeing how you been hanging around. And long enough too, to know my habits.”
Brett’s eyebrows raised slightly. “So ya noticed.”
“Hard not to. You’re not as slick as you think,” you shot back, eyes locking with his. “Corner of the street, shop windows, tree lines…. Figure it was only a matter of time before you worked up the nerve to say hello.”
Brett chuckled low in his throat. “Nerve, huh? Your making this sound like I’m shy or somethin’. Mate, I was waitin’. Watchin’. Slowly tryin’ to figure out if your worth the damn effort.” Like a predator he circled closer.
“And?” You challenged. Smirk still birght on your face as you refused to move. “Verdict?”
“Verdict…” Tilting his head with a wolfish grin. “Ya ain’t boring. That’s a start. Most people move ‘ere and play house. Smile, nod, keep their heads down. Not you. You got… uh bite.”
“Bite?” You parroted, scoffing slightly. “That what you’re calling it? Pffft. You don’t know a thing.”
He lets out a laugh. “Cocky. Fuckin’ like that. Dangerous in someone like you though.” His voice dropped lower as he leaned in. “A bite is only good if you know how to use it. Otherwise? You’re gonna get chewed up and spit out. Forgotten. Like the rest of ‘em.”
Your pulse hammered as you met his gaze. “Why don’t you stick around and find out just how strong my bite can be.”
For a breath there was silence. The air heavy with an electric charge. Brett stepped ever closer, grin widening—almost feral. A hand boldly came down on your shoulder.
“Oh yeah, you’ll do.” He chuckled with certainty. “Ya, you’ll fuckin’ do jus’ fine.”
After that first confrontation in the clearing, Brett didn’t fade back into the shadows. He made himself a fixture. Latching onto you. Some days he would appear seemingly from nowhere. Others, he’d fall in step with you when you didn’t expect. You’d see him perched on a fencepost, spread out on some bench, or smoking in the archway of a door of a home—like he owned it. He never asked permission. Just took what he pleased.
At first things started with just talking. Quickly escalating to banter. Hurling threats at each other hiding them under jokes. His grin was answered by your smirk. He liked pressing buttons; you liked pushing back.
Then came the tests. They started off easy enough:
A broken streetlight—you both standing under the sparks. Him daring you to throw the first rock. You did.
A stolen pack of beer from the corner shop—he shoved it into your hands, daring you to walk past the cameras. You did it without hesitation.
The two of you, spray paint cans in hand—they rattled as you shake them to life. Scrawling obscenities across walls. Cackling loudly as alarms went off in the distance.
Someone’s poor car set on fire—as you high-tailed it out of there just to watch the blaze from a safe distance. The glow flickering across your faces.
Each act was smaller than the las rampage he’d once led, but for Brett, they were just warm-ups. For you, they were the spark you’d been starving for.
Nights in the woods became a ritual. Sometimes you’d talk softly, not sentimental, but raw. You both shared pieces of yourselves—like knives exchanged, sharp and dangerous. Brett told you about his old crew, how they ‘couldn’t handle the weight’. You told him about leaving your family behind. About the rot that never quite left your bones. Neither of you apologized. Neither of you wanted to.
And with every meeting, the boundaries shifted. He’d shove you against a tree just to see if you’d shove back.
You did.
He’d press his knife to your throat during a story, grinning as you stared him down without blinking.
You grinned back.
As the weeks passed the town took notice. Never subtle about what you two did. Neither caring. Two wolves dancing in unison with each other circling everyone else like prey. The forest was no longer neutral ground. It was your shared territory.
Slipping the knife from his pocket, “tonight’s different.” Brett said, twirling the handle in his hand. Eyes burning with excitement, smirking wide. “This time we ain’t messin’ around. We’re takin’ somethin’ down. See if you’ve got that edge that I think ya do.”
Branches snapped underfoot as you followed, the hush of the woods thick around you. you could feel the shift. This wasn’t spraying paint or burning a car. This was blood. Real and immediate.
Brett glanced over his shoulder, that grin returning. “Hope you’re ready, mate. Once ya cross this line, there ain’t no goin’ back.”
And the sick part? You weren’t sure you wanted to.
The forest encapsulates you. Boots digging into the wet earth as leaves squelched underneath. Your heart pattered loudly in your chest—beating like a war drum. Thrill and fear mixing with the knowledge that this was not longer just a simple game.
The knife glinted in Brett’s hand. He was right where he wanted to be. This was what he lived for. His eyes were alive, shoulders loose, steps having purpose. It radiated off of him. This wasn’t his first hunt.
He glanced back at you, grin sharpening and nasty. “Hear that?” He muttered. “Couple paces off. Rabbit, maybe. Fox if we’re lucky.” His lip curled as he leaned closer. “Question is… ya got the balls to gut it? To hold it down while it squeals and kicks. Slice it open like a fuckin’ pig, yeah?”
You gave him a smirk hiding the underlying nervousness and racing heart. “You think I’d come if I wasn’t?”
Brett laughed, a low pleased sound. “Cocky little shite! Good. Hate to waste time draggin’ your ass around.”
Suddenly, ahead of you the brush rustled. A twig snapped and the two of you froze. Brett hunched, eyes glinting with something feral. Hand raised, he brought a finger to his lips in a silent hush. Then with grace he slowly stepped to the side making room for you.
“Go on then,” he whispered stifling his excitement. “Show me you’re more than jus’ fuckin’ talk. Make me proud.”
Your breath hitched, nerves on edge—stretched tightly like a string close to breaking. This was it. The moment. Just like you, the forest fell silent, the air thick pressing down heavily. Expectation rattled your bones. Stooping into a crouch you moved forward, eyes scanning the ground, watching your steps.
Ahead of you was a deer, small, it came into view.
Step-by-step you inched forward.
Its ears flicking to the slightest of sounds. It hadn’t noticed you yet.
Your fingers twitched restlessly around the grip of the knife that Brett happily pressed into your hand. Cold hard grip, sharp blade shining ready to be painted. Your heartbeat rang so loud in your ears the closer you got. Every step careful and calculated.
You go still when the deer raised its head. Ears on a swivel, ready to bolt at a breaths notice.
And then you lunged.
Blade hot and ready impaled perfectly into its side. The deer bucked as the metal dug in. it reared kicking its front legs—wild, panicked—but your grip was firm. Jaw, clenching you forced the blade deeper. You hit a vein and blood sprayed from the wound. Crimson splattered all over you, hot and sticky. You pulled the blade out and stabbed again, plunging the metal this time into its neck.
The wet ragged bellow it cried echoed among the trees.
Loud laughed followed tearing through the area. Brett bounced ecstatically. “Fuckin’ hell! Look at ya!” He shouted. “Go on! Stick it deeper. Don’ ya dare let up! Yeah, that’s it. Fuckin’ make it scream!”
His tongue slid over his teeth, breath hitching when the deer thrashed and sputtered fighting for its life. The grin he had was dark. Savage.
Finally, the deer gave up collapsing to the ground dead still. Lifeless. Blood pouring from its wounds, coating the earth in a dark red.
You followed it down, crouching next to it. The knife was still buried into its hide. Your chest heaved, eyes wide. The rush was intoxicating. Power, fear, release collided with sparks lighting up your body.
Brett’s shoes squelched as he got closer—soles soaking up the fresh blood. His grin widened madly turning into something dark. His eyes, which were dark and cold, raked over every inch of you.
Blood covering your skin and clothes.
A growl rose in his throat. The kill had ignited something hot and hungry inside him.
“Christ!” His breath came out heavy. “Fuck. You’re a fuckin’ animal. Look at ya. Covered in blood. Lookin’ like you loved it. You’re all mine now. Ya hear me? No fuckin’ question. No one else worthy enough.”
His hand landed hard on your shoulder. A firm possessive grasp. His hand swiped, smearing blood, as he went, painting strips across your collarbone. Palm pressing in harder than necessary. Brett’s breathing was ragged, uneven. Eyes affixed to the blood then to you. Within them lay a feral intensity.
“Fuckin’ perfect. Filthy. Violent!”
Blood dripped softly, flowing slowly from the carcass. The soil soaked it up like water. Knife now back in your grasp, clutched tightly at the hilt. Your core was ablaze, adrenaline pumping, sweat dripping from your brow.
Brett lowers himself next to you. Infatuated with the blood, he uses two fingers, smearing the drops up your arm. The tip of his fingers—now dipped with blood—raised up to his mouth. Making sure he kept eye contact he licked them clean. Unhurried. Deliberate.
The blood was sweet. A copper tang to it. Brett’s grin widened.
“Fuck.” He rasped a growl to himself. “Taste sweet.”
You blinked in shock. You weren’t disgusted by it, but your face twists and something inside stirs, something worse. You couldn’t look away.
The knife in your hand shifts, slipping a few inches in your grasp. Tip heavy with blood—the last remnants of the deer’s life.
Brett’s eyes traced the spattered blood down your chest, following the trail to the knife, then even lower. The shit eating grin on his face when his eyes came back up made you shiver. He shifts closer, the newly formed bulge in his pants—which was pressing against his jeans—made you swallow.
“Mmm… look at ya.” He mumbles lowly. The predator in him hungry. “Holdin’ my knife, covered in all that blood. You were born for this. And now I’m fuckin’ hard watchin’ ya.”
Without permission he reached out—he wouldn’t have asked anyway—his hand settling on your thigh. He squeezes the firm muscle. Testing it. Thumb pressing down, digit dipping in the blood there.
“You gonna stop me?” He dares mockingly. “Or ya gonna let me take it? Just to see how far I’ll fuckin’ go?”
Heat radiated between you. Sharp just like the blade in your hand.
He squeezed your thigh hard, hard enough you might bruise. The grip forced you onto your knees, jeans pressing into the wet earth. Fresh blood soaked into the denim. Cold seeped through the fabric, but you didn’t care. When Brett leaned in, your breath staggered.
“Good boy,” he whispered.
You couldn’t look away from him. Even when his hand slid down your arm to your hand prying the knife from it easily. The bloodied hilt slid free and your fingers trembled. The sudden loss made you ache.
Holding the blade up between you—the red shined bright under the soft moonlight—tongue darting swiftly lapping up the blood. Your mouth parted and he brough the metal under your chin, flat against the skin.
The cold sting of metal and the danger made your breath catch.
Using the blade, he forced your head up to meet his stare. “You feelin’ that?” He growled. “One slip and I could open you up right here. Spill you the way you spilled that deer.” He licked his lips picturing it. “Bet you’d fuckin’ let me too. Wouldn’t ya?”
Dragging the blade slowly down your throat, causing you to shiver, until it stopped in the divet of your collarbone. Angling it he pressed the tip into your skin. A quick sharp sting met with an immediate welling of blood.
Brett’s erection pulsed in his jeans shamelessly. His breath grew heavier as you stared at him. The hand on your thigh crawls upward. Another squeeze, crueler this time.
“Sittin’ there. Got my knife at your throat, blood on your skin. Damn look in your eyes, like you fuckn’ want more!”
He leaned in and licked at the fresh blood, tongue swiping obscenely, his breath was hot against your skin. Tongue smearing some blood as he groaned in satisfaction.
“The way I could carve my name into your flesh… right here. Brand you. Make sure no one forgets who ya fuckin’ belong to.”
The knife shook slightly in his hand as it hovered over your body. The thoughts of his arousal, the grin, his threat burned straight through you.
The sharp tip was once again pressed into you. deeper, but not too deep. Only enough to cause a sting. A gentle reminder just how close between pain and death you were. His grin turned darker as he made another cut. Faint trail of red left behind in its wake. Blood oozed out, trickling down under your shirt.
“Fuckin’ hell.” Brett murmured. “Not even a flinch.” His voice is a mix of awe and filth. He dragged the knife again, cutting just below the last one. The pain was temporary to the fire rising inside you. A normal person would be afraid, but not you. Instead, you matched his grin with one of your own.
His cock jumped in his jeans.
“Look whose talking.” You retort.
Brett scoffs. “Fuckin’ bleedin’ and you’re grinnin’ like it’s foreplay.”
He makes a quick cut to prove a point. You hissed, breath exhaling rapidly. The cuts were fueling a deeper ache inside you. every sting, the cold metal sliding cleanly, made you want it more. Pain only makes your stomach knot tighter. Holding his gaze, your eyes flare as if daring him to push harder.
Brett’s teeth flashed in a snarl as he chuckled. “Christ. I could spend all night taking my knife to your body. Just cut ya, leave little marks. Enough to keep you bleedin’. Gonna keep ya mine.” Lifting your shirt, he made it a point to swipe the blade quickly and easy along your hip. He paused watching the blood flow freely. “You’d let me. Let me mark you ‘til there’s not an inch of clean skin left.”
The way you didn’t answer. You just kept the same grin plastered on your face. Keeping your breathing steady and controlled. However, your chest betrayed you, heaving shallowly, drove him more.
Swiftly the knife was at the edge of your jaw. Brett’s face was mere inches from your ear. Teasing.
“One slip. One little twitch. And you’ll be split wide open.” He whispered how and low. “Bet you’re hard right now. Sittin’ there beggin’ me with your eyes.”
The blade grazed the underside of your chin. Your head tilts back slightly. His hand squeezes your thigh, nails digging in.
A groan involuntarily spills from your lips.
“Good.” Brett praises. “Stay still for me. Take every fuckin’ cut I give ya.”
Biting his lip his eyes traced over your body. Knife wandering as if having a mind of its own. Traveling down. With a flick of his wrist your shirt split. Cloth tearing easily.
“Let’s see what’s hiddin’ underneath.” Eyes sparking with anticipation. There was no point in him being careful with you.
Your chest was exposed and he growled with hunger, knife doing its work, cutting into the tender flesh. He cut your ribs, deep, blood flowed out. His hand tore more of the fabric of your shirt tearing it from his workspace.
You hissed through the pain, but it didn’t stop him. Your shirt now hung off you in tatters, chest glistening with crimson streaks. Brett licked his lips again.
“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped. He could barely contain himself.
Your smirk turned into a teasing look. One that you gave him often. One that always seemed to get his blood boiling. Equal parts playing with him the other part filled with desire.
“What’s wrong Brett? You just gonna look? Or you gonna cut deeper?”
Brett burst out laughing—unhinged with sharp delight. Without warning he grabbed you by the hair and yanked your head back. His blade graces your neck.
It all happened so fast that you couldn’t help the needy whine that spilled from your lips. The sound surprised you. High, eager, aching.
There was a pause from both of you. A split second of processing. Then he laughed harder. “Listen to you,” he taunted. “Knife as your fuckin’ throat, and you’re whinin’ for it like it’s makin’ ya wet.”
Your pulse pounded against the cold steel. The grip on your hair tightened. But your smirk never wavered.
Brett groaned under his breath. Body shaking with dark excitement. “You fuckin’ love how I could end ya.” He tugged your hair making a groan come out. With his face inches from yours he chuckled again. The knife pressed slowly.
“Christ,” he muttered, almost reverent in his sick fantasy. “So fuckin’ perfect like this. And you’re all mine too.”
Brett’s grip was brutal. Fingers digging into your scalp as he kept your head tilted back. Neck exposed and poised under his knife. Methodically he drew a line with the edge of the blade down your chest, over your sternum. Shallow cuts that sting to the open air.
Your body twitched while you groaned through clenched teeth. Warm hot blood trickled down your abdomen.
Brett growled watching. His hold got tighter as he set the knife down. It plunked into the soft dirt beside you.
Now with a free hand he used the palm to trace over the cuts purposefully painting your torso with handprints. Smearing his ownership where he liked. Then his hand slid lower, pressing over the strained bulge of your jeans. Deliberately he gave a hard squeeze.
The wine that tore from you was sharp and needy.
Of course Brett laughed.
“Pathetic,” he roared, grin splitting wider. “Knew it. Bleedin’ all over my knife cuttin’ ya and you’re fuckin’ rock hard. You love this shit.”
He squeezed firmer this time dragging another shameless whine from your throat. Brett leaned close to your neck. Tongue filthily licking up your pulsing vein. Lapping up the small beads of blood. Then his teeth dragged over the skin taking little nips.
Pulling your hair, he forced your mouth to meet his. Crashing your lips together in a sloppy kiss. Blood smeared slightly on your bottom lip as he shoved his tongue past them. The taste was coopery, metallic. His body pressed into yours, his weight pushing you backwards into the dirt.
The frozen stillness you had kept yourself broke free. You desperately grabbed fistful of his jacket. His hips grind into yours as he kissed you harder. Messier. Adrenaline making his breath ragged. You could feel how hard he was.
The world spun. The taste of blood. The way his tongue filled your mouth, lips pressed hard to yours. It was hot. Finally, claiming you. The threat now turns into a promise.
You returned it right back to him. Just as raw. Just as messy. Hands clutching, pulling him closer. Teeth clacking together. Hungry. As you dove deeper into the chaos that you both yearned for.
Brett’s body pressed down. Chest meeting chest, lips ravenously crushing yours. Blood from your torso soaks into his clothes making the shared heat between you burns hotter.
Your hands desperately clawed at his clothes. Tugging him ever closer. Need wanting to feel all of him.
The growl that came from him was feral. Low directly into your ear as he broke the kiss. His fingers painfully dug into your scalp keeping your head still.
“Needy little shit.” Voice full of uncontrolled lust and amusement. “You think I’m gonna let you take over?”
The only response you gave was a grin. Panting as you pressed him harder against you. your achy want on full display. Your core burned, fire in your veins.
Brett’s other hand explored your body. Removing your hands and pinning them to the ground where he wanted. Picking up the knife again he dragged it up your side. Teasing a threat.
You flinched and groaned, no longer able to stifle the sound. As hunger betrayed you.
A satisfied chuckle rang into your ear as he savored how you melted under his abuse.
“Haha, you look at this,” he hissed. Blade swiping, smearing more blood across your chest, using his thumb to then wipe it on your cheek. “SO fuckin’ greedy for me, I can see it in your eyes.”
You pressed back against him, teeth nipping at his jaw. Hands pawing back at his jacket.
Laughing as he smacked your hands away.
“Stop teasing,” you growled, panting. “I need you.”
“You’ll get whatever I’m willin’ to give.” He snapped at you. Voice strained with roughness. In a show of dominance, he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head again. “Not what ya demand.”
As he restrained you, he kissed you again. Wet. Rough. Hips grinding, rolling against you. Testing the boundaries. Both of you feel the tension. The need for control.
His growls mixed with your moans as you get lost in the heat.
The trees creaked around you witnessing the chaos you two brought.
Brett was merciless. Teeth and tongue dragging over your neck. He groaned as you tried to move. Wanting him closer. He whispered against your skin. “Ya like it huh?” Kissing your neck, then your jaw. Until his forehead pressed to yours. “Blood, chaos. The fear we bring. All of it.”
You could only nod, panting. Wild and messy. “I do. I love it. And… and you.”
The laugh he gave was softer—still filled with satisfaction. He kissed your jaw. Then his teeth were back at your neck. Like he couldn’t get enough.
With hands pinned his lips boldly crashed into yours.
The two of you were tangled in a fevered fight of domination—blood, sweat, and messy need.
The knife lay discarded, lost in the dirt from the scuffle. But its presence lingered. Within a hairs reach. A promise.
Blood coats you both, shining under the moonlight. Brett angrily gripped the remainder of your clothes and threw them off. Hands dragging your pants clean off. Every touch added to the fire. Hands brushing your exposed skin reminding you of his power and control.
Within a few minutes clothes lay torn and scattered. Both bare before each other and the forest.
Your chest heaved. Body screaming for more.
Sitting on your hips his eyes roamed over you—dark, feral. He smirked at his handiwork. Fingers tracing over all the cuts he made. His palms glide over your stomach as he mumbled to himself. “Christ. Beautiful bloody mess.”
You arched into his touch. Hips rolling slightly, letting him feel your aching need. Trying to egg him on.
“You so like this.” You gave a breathless laugh. “Seeing me all riled up. Under you. You want it. Don’t you, Brett?”
He laughed, hands rubbing at your wounded skin.
Your hips rolled again, another attempt to push him further.
He grabbed your hair throwing your head back. “Damn right I do. Fuckin’ little psycho. Jus’ like me. Course I fuckin’ want it!”
Then his hands were everywhere. Tracing cuts. Smearing blood. Exploring every inch. Each touch pushed you higher and higher. Moans spill out unrestrained.
You attempt again to paw at him. To take control even while he was clearly dominating you. you were desperate for more. Your impatience was met with him, once again, slamming your arms down. Thighs squeezing your hips as he snarled angrily. “Ya don’t learn! Ya ain’t getting’ me that easy. Little shite! I’m the one in charge.” The grip on your wrists made you shiver. Body aching, responding to him.
Your body was conveying the lust you dare not speak.
Every whine, every moan. The way your body arched.
It only made him grin. As he holds you down, he bites into your neck—the way a dog would.
You whined.
“Mmm…” You whispered. “You’re melting under me. Can see it. Can feel it. Ya want more?”
You buck your hips with growing desperation. With a whimper you push forward despite his hold. “Yes… I want more. You,” you hissed, voice rough, low and pathetic.
Brett’s laugh was filthy, shaking your body as he leaned into you again. Teeth grazing your jaw, tongue following, every brush of lips and hands a claim. He growled. “Mine to fuck with. Mine to mark. Mine to driver wild. Every bit of ya belong to me tonight.” Intensity escalated, the forest held its breath around you. Bodies radiating heat. Nothing but him existed. Domination and desire consumed you both.
Weeks blurred after the forest hunt. More whispered threats. The added late-night trysts. The rhythm of routine sprouting on its own.
Brett tends to spend his nights at the cottage. Curled up in the corner of the couch or sprawled across your bed. He made it very clear that what was between you was not a fling. It was a full partnership. He claimed the cottage as his own. Leaving his scent behind. Leather, sweat, and blood now cling to the air.
Waking up in the morning tangled together. Body parts laid over on another. You would open your eyes to see him smirking at you. eyes and hands roaming over the fresh bruises and cuts from the night before.
He loved watching you sleep. Watch how you breathe and twitch. The way your body would react to him.
“Damn,” he murmured, fingers brushing your jaw. “All mine.”
Days seem to blend. The routine you had always deviated. Filled with danger and end with desire.
At times he would disappear for hours.
It left you restless.
And when he returned, he was brimming with energy. Cocky. A dark predatory grin on his face. Then the next you knew he was dragging you through the woods or to the next town over. Just to cause chaos.
Even in the cottage you rented, he took his claim. Collection of knives placed here and there. Always in plain sight. Rope—coiled or loose—slung on the couch or hanging on a hook. A constant reminder just for you. that at any moment he would take you.
You lived on the edge. Teasing him. Subtle brushes of your hand to his. Openly mocking his obsession with control.
He’d respond all the same. Grabbing you, pulling you close. Wicked grin greeting you as he pressed into you. tightening his grip to leave a mark.
On some nights you would stir. Waking up and finding him hovering over you. most of the time he was studying your body. A possessive stare—as if your body belonged to him. Other times you could lightly feel his lips brushing your neck. Whispering lowly to himself how good you were. How perfect. There were times you surrendered to him just to feed his ego, but often you would retort.
He would tease—so would you.
He would demand control—so you would challenge him. Testing how far he would let you push.
Repeatedly he taught you who was in charge. Words met with action that left you flushed and gasping.
The rented cottage was now shared territory. You may pay the bills but is his home. A jacket thrown over a chair became his. A knife left on the counter. His. Every corner of space reflected him.
You loved it.
No one seemed to understand this connection you two had. Days spent in chaos—laughter, cruelty. Planning your next act. Nights turned messy—hungry, passionate. His ownership stamped clear over your desire.
It wasn’t just lust. There was an odd intimacy to it. Through the chaos there was a hint of softness. Hand resting on your thigh as you sat on the couch. Yours brushing his cheek when you lay in bed. His eyes never leave yours.
You would smile at him. Make some remark about him being territorial. He would laugh. The type of laugh that was dangerous. And before long you were pulled to him, blinded by a rough kiss that left no room for debate of his claim.
It was a raging storm that neither of you wanted to stop.
And that storm had led here. In your bedroom.
The ropes he bound you with made your wrists ache. Tied too tightly to the headboard. Blood and sweat cover your skin. And Brett… he sat on your hips. Knife clutched in his hand. The sharp edge now wet with your warm blood.
Leaning back on your hips his eyes flashed gleefully looking at the raw jagged ‘B’ he created. Skin red and angry, bleeding around the carved letter in your flesh. Blood slowly pouring down the skin to the bed and below. Brett had a smug cruel grin on his face.
“Fuckin’ perfect.” He grumbled. “All mine. Branded like cattle, didn’ I?” He pressed down harder on the wound just to hear you hiss. His grin flashing sharper. “You’ll carry that ‘til the day you rot in the dirt. All who sees it will know that ya belong to me.”
He swiped his fingers over the cut. The fresh sting burned. Your chest heaved, body shuddered, eyes watching everything he did. Eyes responding with hunger.
The obscene swipe of his tongue licked at the cut. “Ya taste so good. Christ!” Lips brushing your sensitive skin. “Sweet and raw. Makes me hard jus’ lookin’ at ya like this.”
You pulled against the ropes, desperate to touch, to push closer. “Brett…” Your voice broke between a moan and a plea, “take if further… don’t hold back.”
The laugh he bellowed rumbled in his chest. Hot breath against your skin. Then he surged forward grabbing your chin. Mouth crushing into yours. It was intense.
You could taste the metallic tang of your blood on his lips.
He discarded the knife, the metal clattering. With rough hands he squeezed then around your throat. Slightly cutting off your air. Brett held the power like he always does. Over life and death. Over you. As he squeezed his other hand palmed the taut bulge between your thighs.
His teeth bit your jawline. “Got ya all hard,” He purred. “Tied perfect for me. Bleedin’… jus’ missin’ the beggin’.” The hand at your throat squeezed, then loosened when you gasped. A deranged fire danced in his eyes. “Mmm… this is… heh. You’re mine. You crave pain. My control. And importantly me.”
You could only nod, grinding up against him. Desperate despite the ropes holding you down. Every laugh, every taunt of his only winds you tighter with need.
Brett’s smirk widened, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. “Then let me show ya what being mine really means.”
Your chest rose and fell quickly, and you smirked at him.
His hand gripped tight again, holding you down where your jaw met your neck. With a force he throws your head back into the pillow. Other hand dipping under the waistband of your jeans. Squeezing the hot flesh of your erection.
As soon as his hand touched you, you gasped. Hips raising up into his palm.
His hips stilled yours. The ropes dug tighter as you struggled. Brett growled kissing you hard. The kiss was unrestrained. Sloppy and messy. Teeth clacking together. Your groan vibrating the palm at your throat. He bites your lower lip almost breaking the skin. Then his tongue plunged in. Swallowing the moan that tried to escape.
His hand left your erection only to unbutton your jeans, ripping them down over your hips with such ferocity, leaving you naked. Hand leaving your throat he pulled the zipper down on his jeans. The sound was loud in the room. With his own erection set free—red hot and leaking—he pressed the head against you. Breath staggering.
“Jesus.” He took a deep inhale. “Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day. Well… besides markin’ ya.” He confessed. “Tyin’ ya up. Makin’ ya take it. Remindin’ you who ya belong to.”
Your body arched, straining against the ropes. You were so desperate for him. “Then stop talking and show me,” you panted.
That cocky grin flashed. “You’ll regret askin’ for it like that.”
And then he shoved forward. No warning. No mercy, burying himself deep inside you in one brutal thrust.
Your cry broke into a moan, whole body arching. Wrists pulling hard on the ropes.
Brett groaned, pressing his chest to yours, his hand wrapping around your throat. “Fuck yes,” he rasped, hips grinding deep and hard. “Tight little slut. Gonna fuck you ‘til ya can’t walk tomorrow.”
The rhythm he set was relentless. His thrusts were hard. Claiming your insides. Kissing you, muffling each moan you made as his bodies crashed together. The bed under you creaked. Ropes pulling tight straining as you pulled. Some of your moans escape past his lips filling your bedroom.
You need more. So much more. All you could think about was how you craved this. Craving the way, he owned you.
The ropes held fast. Brett’s weight pressed down, pinning your body under him.
Another moan slipped out. Your hips jerked snapping in his, desperate for more. Thrust coming in hard made your moan turn into a whine. Your hips rolled to meet his.
“Thinkin’ ya can hold out while I Fuck ya like this.” Brett remarks, leaning down nibbling at your jaw. “You little slut.”
You squirmed beneath him, smirking despite being bound. “Maybe I like it when you get rough.” You teased, voice breathless, dragging out the words. “Maybe.. maybe I want you to fuck me hard.”
Brett laughs near your ear. He changed his angle just to hear you whine again. Leaning down, his chest brushing yours. “Ya know how lucky you are to be mine.” He bit your throat. “Thinkin’ ya get to be a tease and survive?”
The grinding of your hips teases him. “I believe I can.” You pant back arching. “Think… think you can handle me… Brett?” You tease with a whine.
He laughed as you try to hold yourself together. “I can more than handle ya.” He growled, hips snapping into yours. Body pinning you where he wanted. “Gonna make ya scream. You’re mine. Mine to fuck how I want. To ruin. I could tie all of ya down for being such a bitch.” He threatened.
Your cry broke into a moan, whole body jerking into an arch.
Brett gave a filthy groan, chest flush against yours, hand at your throat. Hips grinding harder.
Each thrust was deep. Pounding into you with feral claim. His mouth covered yours, kissing fiercely and swallowing every delicious sound you made. The bed frame creaked. Muffled moans filled the room, your mind a wash of needing ever more. Body aching in how you craved him even when your words never admit.
A mix of whines and moans spill out. Breath ragged, hips rising to half-way meet his thrusts.
Brett pulled from the kiss to let you breathe. Wide cocky grin plastered to his face. He bit down hard where you shoulder met your collarbone. The way a dog would mark its mate. The action left you whimpering, hips jerking involuntarily. Hands clenching into fists.
“Ya know how lucky you are?” He purred. “ I like how mouthy ya get. Otherwise, I’d make ya pay for it.”
Your whines only egged him on more. “And I… I love making you mad.” You confess. “Fuck… like to see that cocky smirk vanish when… when I tease…”
When Brett growled it vibrated his chest. He slammed in hard as retaliation. “Ya playin’ like this is a game.” Another slam. “You’re fuckin’ mine, mate. Gotta fuck that into you so ya don’ forget.”
His hips crashed harshly making you cry out. You laugh weakly, but it quickly turns into a whine. Your legs spread wide by his as he fucked you. It didn’t go beyond his notice how you were pathetically grinding against him. Every time he spoke, he would add a fast thrust to make sure it sunk in.
By the time you felt your body tense—shaking in an orgasm he had already reached his. You were breathless as you came together. He painting you from the inside as you coat both of your stomachs with your cum.
Brett was panting hard above you. “That’s mind.” His voice was raw, hoarse with pride. “All of it. You… every scream, those pretty whine. Every bit of shite ya threw at me.”
You could only whimper in agreement, fingers clenching and unclenching in fists. Still weakly tugging. Still needy.
Brett’s grin never fades from his face, eyes wild and satisfied as he pressed into you one last time, claiming every inch of you in the dark chaos of the cottage.
He stayed inside you for the longest time. Half-laying on top of you, panting hard. Hot breath hitting your skin. His hand lazily slid up your arms to your raw wrists. Red-angry skin from all the tugging. His thumb ran over the skin. He loved the violence that left you injured. Even if it was small.
You felt his hips roll softly. His excitement never ends. You were no better. Body trembling still. Craving even more.
“Still twitchin’,” he comments, face buried in your neck. “You’re hard still too. Fuckin’ hell. Even after I fucked ya.” He laughed.
His hands left your wrists deliberately dragging down the skin. Hand traveling lower between where your hips met. Fingers finding and wrapping around your cock. Slowly he strokes you. Pumping his fist in time with the lazy rolls of his hips.
A sharp desperate whine broek free from the contact. “Brett…” you whispred his name hips jerking.
He tightened his grip. “Yeah, say my name. You love this. Tied down, full of me, still gettin’ your cock worked until ya don’t know what’s up or down.”
His hips teasingly thrust faster making you gasp. Hand pumping steadily bringing you towards another orgasm. You hadn’t even fully come down from the high of the first one.
The muscles in your stomach tighten, your lower half quaked. Ropes bit into your wrist as your body involuntarily bucked. “Brett…” You whine again. “Please…” Pleasure overloaded you. You were just shy of fully begging.
“Please what?” He nibbled on your neck.
You respond with a pitiful groan.
Stroking harder as his hips moved again. “Please stop? Please more? Bet ya don’t even fully know.” He laughed darkly. “I own ya. You’re all mine like this. Bet I can make ya beg.”
He sped his hand up. Cruelly he swirled his thumb over the head of your cock. All the while his hips thrust slowly in and out. Making sure the head of his cock was buried deeply. His other hand found your hair as he shifts, forcibly tugging your head getting your attention.
“Look at me.” He ordered. “Want ya to look at whose doin’ this to ya.”
Your eye lids fluttered. Another tug and you obeyed. Eyes meeting his.
He was a sight. Messy wild hair, slick with sweat. A broad smirk that made your stomach do a flip. Hazy eyes stayed locked to his. He had pushed you to the brink. And you weren’t one to surrender easily. Thoughts and words failed to form. All that came out of your parted lips was a broken moan.
Brett grinned wider.
“Heh, yeah, just like that.” Hand pumping faster. His voice was rough from overuse. “Cum for me like this. While you’re lost and worked ‘til ya can’t breathe.”
The tight fist around your cock pushed you toward the edge again. Vision blurred, blackening at the edges. His hand pumped. Working you. He was making sure at this moment you understood the control he wielded.
Your back arched awkwardly, arms pulling ropes digging deeper into your wrists. The muscles in your stomach pull tight. And he felt it all as you trembled under him.
Brett’s dark eyes bore into yours. An awaiting predator as he took in every shiver, every movement, and every moan.
“You’re shakin’.” He mocked. Thumb teasing circles over your slit. Hips slow down.
You respond as your body betrays you. Hips bucking trying to get him to move faster again.
He savored how undone you were. “Fallin’ apart on me?” He chuckled. “gonna come undone like a good boy?”
The sudden praise had you whimper. Hips bucking hard. “Brett…” The name sounded weak and fragile.
His lips brushed your neck as he cut you off. “Shhh, don’ talk. Be a good boy. Ya don’t get to say anythin’. Good little bitch. Doin’ what I make ya do.”
His hand sped up, grip excruciatingly tight on your cock. Thumb pressing into the groove of your slit.
Your hips jerked to the rhythm. Ragged panting, chest heaving. Then it came crashing in. Body tensing and convulsing as your orgasm tore through you. The ropes burned your skin with how hard they dug in. Finally, you let yourself go. Unraveling under his control.
Your loud cries echoed in the room. Incoherent desperate sounds. It fueled Brett’s ego. His grip didn’t loosen as he pumped you through it. He refused to let you come down and hide this beautiful loss of control. He loved it. This belonged to him.
Brett purred. “Jus’ like that.” Kissing your jaw as your hips forced you to fuck his fist. “Take it. Cumming so nicely for me. Go on scream like a mess.”
Body shuddering uncontrollably as you continuously bucked your hips. Shamelessly shivering with pleasure. Loud whines erupted from your lips. He held your cock firmly pressing kisses into your skin, using your fresh cum as slick to pump faster.
Brett laughed victoriously. “That’s my boy.” He growled, eyes wide and wild. “Fuck. Look at ya. All writhin’ and cryin’ like a mess. Ya like it, huh? Yeah, ya love how I make ya feel, don’ ya?”
Another loud moan shook your chest. In a broken whisper you mustered a response. “Fuck… yes… Brett… hngh… yes!”
Only then did his grip loosen. “Good. What I like to hear. Messy, whinnin’, and all. Never forget who made ya this way.”
Back arching one more time before your body collapsed into the bed. Skin shining with sweat and cum. He pressed his nose and lips to your jaw as he listened to the aftermath. Hard panting, moans that slowly died out as he finally stilled. His cock slid out of you in a sickening squelch, leaving you whining at the loss.
He sat up to get a better view. The harsh rise and fall of your chest. The little quivers of your overworked muscles. The way your hips still rolled even when he stopped.
Your head was lulled to the side as you caught your breath. You missed the way Brett’s expression softened. Without saying anything his hands slid up your arms to the ropes, untying the knots releasing you. Thumbs brushing over the abused flushed.
The weight of your arms dropped once freed, and you winced. As your arm fell Brett caught it. In a shocking display of affection, he kissed your wrist right over the red marks.
“You’re a fuckin’ sight.” He whispered, petting your wrist. His tone was quieter now. Almost reverent. “Always so pushy, always mouthin’ off. But…” Another kiss. “You take everythin’ I throw at ya. And ya still stay mine even after. Especially after.”
Lips pressed softly to your skin soothing the ache from the marks. Weakly, with your free hand, you reach up sliding your hand around his neck. Coaxing, you pull his head down so that your foreheads meet.
The two of you stayed like that for a long time. Brett’s hands roamed idly across your chest and stomach—not claiming now—just tracing. Grounding. Gliding over marks he left on you. Pride purring in his chest. There was a shift in him. Still holding onto that possessiveness, yet somehow dulled down. Quieter. Like a storm settling after its destroyed everything.
“You drive me crazy,” he confesses under his breath. “I never done this with anyone else. I don’ want to. Jus’ ya.”
Still in a haze you let out a small laugh. Fingers slide into his hair. “I like it that way.”
Brett smiled. Not a cheeky grin. Or his signature smirk. But a genuine smile. When he kissed you this time it was soft. Slow, consuming you sealing your bond before he laid down next to you. You rolled tiredly, pulling yourself against him. He held you to his chest. His leg draped over yours. Hand stroking your side over his mark.
Sweat blood, and sex hovered like a cloud. That wild connection you shared buzed even as you were exhausted.
Obsession. Desire. Ownership. Surrender. All those things intertwined together.
Bret’s fingers traced the ‘B’ as he kissed at your lips. “Get used to it. This is what ya do to me. And I’m not fuckin’ ever lettin’ go.”
You chuckled against his lips. Eyes flutter as they close. Body worn out, sinking into the bed, into his hold. Whatever the two of you had built together—a storm that is ever raging—you were so lost in it. Yet neither of you wanted to escape.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ceobuggy i love ur fics so much! waiting eagerly for more stuff from you.. in the meantime.. enjoy your present🍰🎂 it’s short and sweet sorry🥹 BTW BRETT IS 25 IN THIS FIC!
synopsis: you wake up in a dark basement somewhere. and surprisingly, you know your captor from childhood.
you’re in a dark basement, tied to a chair. you have no idea how you ended up there.
you were visiting your family after a long time of being gone for college. you took a walk at night… there was a car… that’s it. someone took you. you didn’t see who, though.
the cellar door opens.
a man steps in.
you recognize him.
brett. your childhood friend.
”ya awake?” he asks you.
”brett.. is this a joke? a prank?” you ask, utterly confused.
brett chuckles.
”nah, ain’t no joke, luv”, he says. ”had to have ya”, he adds.
”what do you mean?” you ask. you’re slowly starting to feel panic creeping up.
”i missed ya after ya left, ya know? i was sad. how dare she leave me likes this.. i thought”, he says. ”ya were everything to me, ya still are”, he says.
”you can’t just kidnap me like this! my family will be worried!” you say.
brett starts laughing. ”that’s what ye’re worried ’bout?” he asks.
he steps in front of you and strokes your cheek. you flinch.
”ye’re all grown-up now… body of a woman..” he murmurs. ”and i’ve grown too, i know things now..” he continues.
”brett, stop!” you whine, trying to squirm off the rope. but it seems to get only tighter when you squirm.
he doesn’t. he leans in closer, studying your face.
”ya smell like fear, luv”, he says, grinning.
you start crying.
”wha fucking wha”, brett mocks you.
then he kisses you, rough.
you whimper and try to pull away, but you can’t move. you’re stuck.
brett keeps exploring your mouth while slowly releasing you from the ropes.
”don’t try nothing funny now”, he says.
but as you get free from the ropes you immediately stand up, trying to hit him. brett averts it easily and grabs you, turning you around and forcing your arms behind your back.
you whimper as he starts tying up your arms again.
then, without a warning he shoves your pants down.
”no!” you yell.
”shut up”, brett says, pulling down your underwear.
he throws you on the cold concrete floor, your air knocked out of your lungs from the fall.
you’re facing the ground as brett climbs on top of you.
he starts fondling your ass, giving it slaps.
”what a pretty ass”, he cooes, spreading you open.
”please stop”, you whimper.
brett ignores you as he shoves a finger up your ass.
you let out a small scream, it hurts.
brett starts pumping his finger in and out of your ass, going deeper each time.
”so clean, ya washed up for me?”, he says, grinning.
he withdraws his finger from your ass and licks it, moaning around it. ”fuck”, he groans.
you hear him unzipping his pants. ”stop!” you cry.
”your ass a virgin, luv?” brett asks.
you don’t react.
”i’ll take that as a yes”, he says. then he spits on your hole, spreading you open.
you mewl as he starts pushing in. ”so fucking tight”, brett groans.
he bottoms out, balls glued to your ass.
then he starts thrusting, slamming inside your ass with a brutal force.
you cry as he fucks into you, not seeming to care that you’re hurting.
”it hurts!” you cry.
”shut the fuck up”, brett hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair. he starts pulling on it, forcing you to face him.
then he kisses you again. you cry against his lips.
he forces his tongue inside your mouth, twirling it against your teeth and tongue.
”mmh”, he moans against your lips.
he starts going faster, rougher, his pace is almost sloppy now.
”fuck”, he groans.
then he stops, burying himself deep inside you for one last time.
you feel his cum pouring inside your asshole in thick ropes.
he pulls out, his cum dripping on your buttocks.
”stay down”, he orders you, standing up.
brett gives his cock a few pumps before he proceeds to start peeing on your ass.
you whimper at the warm, wet sensation.
you feel it pouring between your buttocks, dripping on your cunt as well.
he stops for a while, forcing you to face him. then he starts peeing on your face. you close your mouth as hard as you can.
”open yer fucking mouth”, brett orders you.
you obey, you’re scared of him. you taste his bitter piss on your tongue.
”drink”, brett says.
you start gulping down his piss, it tastes disgusting, it’s leaking on your tits as well, wetting your shirt.
once he’s done he puts his pants back on and looks at you with a smirk.
”i’m gonna have so much fun with ya”, he says. ”i’m yer boyfriend now”, he adds.
.✦ ݁˖ summary: You think you're a good girl, hiding behind the memory of the sweet boy he used to be before the world made him jagged and cruel. You are tired of his shit, tired of the violence and the way he looks at you like he already owns the parts of you that you haven't even surrendered yet. But as he pins you against the bark, the lie of your innocence shatters, leaving you with the devastating realization that you might crave the monster just as much as he craves the kill . (all characters are 18+ in this).
.✦ ݁˖ contents: Non-con consent, penetrative sex, female orgasm, possessive, dubcon-ish vibes, rough sex, breeding king (implied), public / outdoor sex, degredation/praise mix, secret history. (minors DNI, 18+ ONLY)
The fire had burned down past anything useful—a dying, guttering heartbeat of embers that cast a low, uneven glow across the clearing. It made everyone’s faces look wrong. Not quite dark, not quite bright, but distorted into something primal and unfamiliar.
Adam had tried to throw another log on earlier, but the wood was stubborn and damp. It smoldered off to one side, hissing with a low, serpentine sound, like it had some dark secret to spill but could not quite find the breath to whisper it. No one moved to fix it. They simply sat in the wreckage of the light, trapped in the heavy, expectant silence.
"Your turn," Ricky murmured, nudging a half-empty bottle across the dirt. The glass scraped against the earth, a jarring sound in the stillness.
Brett did not pick it up. Not at first. He remained leaning back on his hands, his long legs stretched out toward the heat, staring past the flames and into the devouring blackness of the trees. He looked as if he were watching something out there—something only he was meant to see. The dying light caught the sharp, cruel edge of his jaw, leaving the rest of his features hooded and unreadable.
"Don't rush me," he muttered. The words were not sharp, yet they landed like a blow.
The bottle stalled halfway between them, forgotten. You shifted on your patch of earth, brushing the grit from your palms onto your jeans. The ground felt preternaturally cold for late summer, as if the soil itself had decided the night was going to drag on into eternity. Across from you, your brother laughed—a sound too loud, a heartbeat too late. It fell flat against the heavy air. No one reacted.
"C'mon," Paige pushed, lighter this time, desperate to break the tension. "You have been quiet all night."
Brett’s mouth tilted with something that was not quite a smile. "Have I?"
He reached forward finally, fingers closing around the neck of the bottle. He turned it slowly, watching the amber shift inside like it might settle if he stared long enough.
The fire cracked, the sound splintering through the clearing like a gunshot.
It was too loud. Or perhaps the world had simply gone deathly quiet around it, as the memory of her voice from earlier hung in the stagnant air like a poisonous fog.
"Do you kids mind keeping it down a bit, this is a shared community?"
The request had not been loud. It had not even been aggressive. It was worse—a clinical, weary sort of condescension, as if she were speaking to a stray dog that had wandered too close to her porch. It was the sound of someone who had already looked at them and decided they were nothing.
The bottle in Brett’s hand stopped turning.
He was picturing that look again—the way the man had peered over at them with a gaze that wasn't even angry. It had been dismissive. A look that suggested they were a nuisance to be managed, a stain on a perfect evening.
They had already decided what he was—what they were. Trash.
Brett’s jaw tightened, the bone sharp as a blade beneath his skin. A muscle leaped in his cheek as he dragged his thumb along the condensation of the glass, slow and deliberate, as if he were testing the edge of a weapon that hadn't been forged yet.
Across the dying embers, Ricky let out a laugh—thin, delayed, and hollow. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. The insults of the boys, the coldness of the night, the damp wood—it all faded into a grey blur.
Then he looked up.
At you.
And by no means did he mean to be subtle.
It was a deliberate, lingering heat that made your breath hitch in your throat.
It lasted just long enough to feel like a decision—a silent challenge issued in the space between heartbeats. You held his gaze, steady and defiant, before finally looking away. You reached for the sleeve of your hoodie, tugging the fabric down over your trembling hands.
"The fire is dying," you said, your voice a sliver of ice.
No one moved. Brett let out a quiet breath through his nose, a sound that was almost amused, almost a snarl. "Then fix it."
He did not look away from you when he said it. The air between you hummed, thick with a tension that tasted of smoke.
You glanced back at him, your brows pulling together. "Why should I do it?"
Brett's jaw twitched, and there was a long pause that followed. It was the kind of silence that made people shift and look at their feet without knowing why.
"Because you noticed," he said.
A couple of the others laughed—soft, unsure sounds, as if they were checking to see if he were joking. But it didn't sound like a joke—It sounded like an invitation.
You pushed yourself up anyway, brushing your hands off again with more force than necessary.
"Whatever," you murmured.
The word were flat, but it cut through the atmosphere cleaner than you had intended. As you stepped toward the hearth, the heat hit your legs unevenly—one side scorched, the other bitten by the forest chill. You nudged the smoldering log, and it shifted, sending a sudden, brilliant flare of sparks up between you.
For a heartbeat, everything sharpened. The obsidian depth of his eyes. The predatory angle of his head. The way he had not moved a single muscle.
Then the flare dropped, plunging the clearing back into a bruised, murky red. Behind you, Adam started talking—too fast, a frantic attempt to fill the void.
And at your back—you could feel him. He was not just watching. He was waiting. Waiting to see exactly what you would do next.
But you weren't like that—you weren't like him. So you fixed the fire and took a seat.
The fire finally caught properly this time—flames climbing higher, snapping through the damp wood.
It lit everything clearly—maybe too clearly.
“See?” Paige said. “Not dead yet.”
A weak joke.
Your brother laughed again, louder this time, like he was trying to drag the night back into something normal.
“Yeah,” Brett said.
Flat.
You turned slightly at the tone—not fully, just enough to catch a flicker of movement in your peripheral.
He had shifted forward now, elbows resting on his knees, the bottle dangling loosely between his fingers. He didn't look relaxed; he looked focused, like a predator that had finally scented something worth the hunt.
"Not dead," he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, jagged rasp.
He tipped the bottle back, taking a long, slow drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze never left the embers, but you could feel the weight of it pulling at you.
"Just boring," he finished.
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. A couple of the others exchanged looks, the kind of glances that were half-amused and half-wary.
"Man, it is a campsite," Ricky said, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to inject some levity into the stifling silence. "What do you want, Brett? A DJ?"
Brett’s head tilted—a slow, considering motion that made the hair on your arms stand up.
"No," he said.
His eyes shifted then, moving past the firelight to a tent pitched fifty yards away. A couple was sitting there, their silhouettes visible against the thin nylon of their shelter. They had stopped talking when Ricky laughed, and now they were staring—that judgmental, lingering look of outsiders who thought they were better than the dirt under Brett's boots. One of them pointed, whispering something that looked far too much like a dismissal.
A beat passed that felt like a death knell.
"I want something that screams," he whispered.
The silence that followed was absolute. Ricky and Adam exchanged a sharp, strange look—a flash of genuine unease passing between them—and it was all the catalyst Brett needed. He stood in one fluid, violent motion, the bottle forgotten in the dirt as he stalked toward the neighboring tent.
His boots crunched over the dry needles with a slow, rhythmic finality.
When he reached it, his fingers hooked like talons, ripping the first stake from the earth with a guttural grunt of effort. The nylon groaned, the tension of the tent collapsing inward as if the structure itself were sighing in defeat. He moved to the next, kicking it loose with a heavy thud of his heel, watching the fabric ripple and sag against the silhouettes of the two people inside.
"Brett, man," Ricky called out, his voice thin and wavering, pitched somewhere between a laugh and a plea. "What are you doing?"
Brett paused, the moonlight catching the jagged, silvered edge of his grin. He didn't look back at the group. He just leaned over the slumped roof of the tent, his shadow bleeding into the fabric as the people inside scrambled, their frantic whispers rising in a crescendo of panic.
"Just helping them get a better view of the stars," he replied, his lips turning up into a smirk. "Since they were so interested in looking at us."
Inside, a woman shrieked—a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the woods like a blade.
Brett’s head tilted, his eyes bright and hollow as he listened to the music of her terror. He looked back over his shoulder then, his gaze finding yours through the shifting smoke of the fire.
Then he turned, stepping closer to the tent, the zipper beginning to hum as he stood over the collapsed corner of their sanctuary. A dark, steaming stream hit the nylon with a soft, rhythmic hiss, the scent of ammonia and fermented cider rising into the cold night air.
"Fucking sick, mate," one of the boys breathed from the shadows of the fire, the words a jagged mix of awe and twisted admiration.
He looked triumphant, like a king standing over a conquered ruin, waiting for you to tell him it was enough—knowing full well that tonight, nothing would ever be enough.
You stayed silent, your throat tight as you watched the shadow of him through the nylon, the rhythmic hiss of his disrespect marking the end of any peace the night had left. When he was finished, Brett turned back toward the fire, his movements languid and arrogant. He scooped up his bottle and took a long, slow draw, the amber liquid catching the dying light as it slid down his throat.
Then the tent flap exploded open.
The husband stumbled out, his face a mask of purple rage, chest heaving.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he roared, his voice cracking with a mixture of shock and fury. He pointed a trembling finger at the dark stain on the nylon, then at Brett. "You little prick! I ought to—"
He didn't get to finish. The group rose as one, a wall of jagged youth and cold eyes. Ricky and Adam stepped forward, their shadows overlapping as they blocked the man's path.
"Back up, man," Ricky spat, his previous hesitation replaced by the sharp, borrowed courage of the pack. "Just walk away."
"Fuck off back to your hole," Adam added, a cruel sneer twisting his lips.
But the man was past listening. He lunged, a desperate, clumsy swing aimed at Brett’s head. Brett didn't even flinch; he slipped the blow with a fluid, practiced ease and countered with a sharp, sickening crack of his fist against the man's jaw. The older man stumbled back, his boots skidding in the dirt, before he could lunge again.
"Enough! Stop it!" The wife scrambled out of the tent, her voice shrill with terror as she threw her arms around her husband’s chest, hauling him back. "They're just kids, David. They’re just animals. Leave it!"
Brett stood his ground, his knuckles blooming with a dark, angry red. He wiped a fleck of blood from his lip, his eyes burning with a terrifying, hollow light.
"That’s right," Brett purred, his voice a low, jagged rasp. "Go on... crawl back to her like a good little bitch. Keep your head down next time."
The couple didn't wait. They began frantically shoving their belongings into their car, the sound of slamming doors and gravel spraying under tires echoing through the trees as they fled into the night.
The clearing erupted. The boys were shouting, shoving each other in a frenzy of adrenaline, their laughter jagged and high-pitched. "Did you see his face?" "Man, you leveled him!" It was a roar of mindless, primal triumph.
But you felt nothing but a cold, heavy irritation that settled in your marrow like lead. You didn't join the cheering. You didn't look at the blood on Brett’s hand. You just turned toward your tent, your jaw set tight.
"Where are you going?" Brett’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and demanding. The celebratory air around him didn't falter, but his focus had snapped back to you with pinpoint intensity.
"To bed," you said, your voice flat and hard as stone. You didn't look back. "I'm tired of this."
Before he or any of the others could utter a single word to stop you, you stepped into your tent and pulled the zipper up. The shriek of the metal teeth closing was the only goodbye you gave them, leaving the heat of the fire and the smell of the hunt on the other side of the thin, dark wall.
The silence of the woods at three in the morning was different than the silence of the evening. It was heavier, pressing against the nylon of the tent until you felt like you were being buried alive.
You crawled out, the damp air biting at your skin, and found the fire had finally surrendered. It was nothing more than a heap of gray ash and glowing red.
Brett was still sitting there beside it. He was leaning back against a log with a bottle dangling from his hand.
He didn't bother looking at you when you came out. Nor did he didn't speak. So you walked past him, the crunch of your boots the only sound in the graveyard stillness, and he remained as still as a statue carved from shadow.
You pushed deep into the treeline, finding a spot far enough away from the camp to take a piss.
When you finished, you turned back, pulling your hoodie tight against the chill.
The scream nearly died in your throat.
He was standing there. Not five feet away, leaning against a silver birch with his arms crossed, his face half-hidden by the dark.
"Dude, you are being a fucking creep," you snapped, your heart slamming against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Do not tell me you just watched me pee."
Brett didn't move. A slow, lazy plume of smoke escaped his lips as he flicked a cigarette butt into the dirt. "Whatever, man," he muttered, his voice a low, jagged vibration. "What is your problem?"
"What is yours?" you countered, your voice trembling with the weight of years.
You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you tried to find the boy who used to climb the fence to see you, the one who had been sweet and laughed without that sharp, biting edge. He was gone. This person was someone new, someone made of glass and iron.
"You have changed, Brett. You have been so fucking different lately. So cruel."
Brett let out a vacuous, jagged laugh that made your skin crawl. "Oh, please. You act like you are such a good girl. Such a saint."
"What is that supposed to mean?" you demanded, stepping closer, fury finally beginning to overtake the fear.
He straightened up then, stalking into the small patch of moonlight between you. He was so close you could smell the cider and the smoke and the raw, cold scent of the woods.
"C'mon," he whispered, his eyes dark and mocking. "You used to be sweet and innocent, too. Right up until you fucked me stupid in the back of my dad’s shed while your brother was out grabbing cigs for us. You weren't a 'good girl' then, were you?"
The memory hit you like a physical blow—the heat of the shed, the frantic, desperate weight of him, the way the world had seemed to tilt on its axis.
"Sneaking around, playing the little sister," he continued, a slow grin spreading across his face. "And you still haven’t told him, have you? Still keeping our little secret while you look at me like I am some kind of monster."
"Do not," you hissed, your hands curling into fists at your sides. Your blood was beginning to boil, a mixture of shame and white-hot anger. "Do not you dare bring that up like it gives you a right to be like this."
"Why?" Brett’s voice vibrated through the very bark of the tree behind him. He didn't move, yet he seemed to loom larger, his presence a suffocating weight. "Because it makes you a hypocrite? Because the little saint doesn't like being reminded she has dirt under her fingernails, too?"
"No," you hissed, the word a sharp blade of ice. You stepped toward him, fury overriding the instinct to flee. "I am not. That has nothing to do with this, and you know it. You got pissed tonight because of a look—because some stranger saw exactly what you are and you couldn't handle it. We are not the same, Brett. Not even close."
He didn't snap. He didn't yell. Instead, he straightened, stepping out of the shadows of the birch with a grace that made your breath hitch. He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, his heat radiating through your clothes as he pinned you against the rough, biting bark of the tree.
"Aren't we?" he whispered, his face inches from yours. He smelled of wood smoke, copper, and the sharp tang of the night. His hand snapped out, not to strike, but to curl around the back of your neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear.
"Stop it," you breathed, though the words felt flimsy, even to your own ears. You tried to push at his chest, but your hands betrayed you, lingering against the hard, frantic thud of his heart.
"You like the monster," he murmured, his voice caressing your lips. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You always have. That is why you have stayed silent. That is why you're out here right now, instead of running back to your brother."
You shook your head, a desperate denial rising in your throat, but it died as he pressed his body firmly against yours, trapping you between his lean strength and the unyielding wood. He didn't wait for an answer. He tilted his head, his lips grazing the column of your throat, sending a violent shiver through your entire frame.
You wanted to scream at him, to shove him away and never look back, but the dark, familiar hum of him was a siren song. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him closer even as your mind shrieked for you to stop.
"Tell me I am wrong," he challenged, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant heat. "Tell me you don't want exactly what the 'monster' wants to do to you."
You opened your mouth to lie, to find some shred of the good girl you pretended to be, but as his mouth finally crashed against yours—brutal, hungry, and tastes of cider—the denial shattered like glass. You didn't pull away. You couldn't. You let the shadows of the woods swallow you both, the only sound the frantic rhythm of two hearts that had long since stopped being innocent.
"Fuck you," you spat, the words a jagged snarl of defiance that did nothing to mask the frantic pulse at the base of your throat.
Brett’s mouth tilted into a grin that was all teeth and sharp, dark promise. He took it as the only invitation he ever needed. His hand moved—a blur of lean muscle and calloused heat—slamming against the tree beside your head, while the other slid down to hook firmly around your waist, hauling you flush against him.
"Oh, I can fuck you, too," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that settled deep in your bones. He crowded into your space, his body a solid wall of heat that made the midnight chill vanish. "Is that what you want? To see if the monster still knows how to make you scream for more?"
You turned your head, gasping as his lips grazed the sensitive line of your jaw. Your hands were trapped between your chests, palms flat against the frantic, heavy thud of his heart. "Brett—why here?" you breathed, your voice fracturing. "Why now? My brother is right over there, the boys—this is insane."
He paused, pulling back just enough to force you to look at him. The moonlight caught the raw, obsidian intensity in his eyes, stripping away the boredom and the casual malice until only a terrifying, focused hunger remained.
"Because in that camp, I’m the leader, and you’re the little sister," he rasped, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your hoodie, anchoring you to him. "Because back there, we have to pretend we don't remember the way you sounded in that shed. But out here? In the dark, where no one is watching and no one can judge us?"
He leaned in, his lips hovering a hair’s breadth from yours, his breath hot and smelling of cider and cold air.
"Out here, there are no rules. No brothers. No 'good girls.' There’s just the fact that you’ve been looking at me all night with that same fire in your eyes, and I’m the only one brave enough to walk into it." He pressed closer, his knee sliding between yours, forcing a soft, broken sound from your lips. "I want you to remember exactly who I am before we go back to pretending. I want you to feel it."
The denial you had been clawing for dissolved into the damp forest air. As his mouth crashed back onto yours—hard, demanding, and possessive—the woods seemed to pull in tighter, a curtain falling over the only truth that mattered.
Brett’s hands were everywhere at once, a frantic, territorial mapping of skin he had already claimed a hundred times in his mind. He hitched your legs up, pinning them around his waist as he shoved your clothes aside with a jagged, impatient energy.
The silver birch was a biting, frozen pressure against your spine, a stark contrast to the white-hot heat radiating from him.
When he drove into you, it was a blunt, heavy reclamation. The air left your lungs in a sharp, shattered sound that was silenced by his mouth. He didn't ease in; he took what he wanted, his rhythm a brutal, relentless engine that made the world tilt on its axis.
"Brett," you choked out, your fingers digging into the corded muscle of his shoulders, nails drawing ghosts of red across his skin. "Please... just be nice. Just for a second. Try to be a good boy."
He went still, his chest heaving against yours, the heat of his breath scorching your neck. A low, dark sound rumbled in his throat—a jagged mockery of a laugh. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes two shards of obsidian reflecting the dying moon.
"A good boy?" his voice graveled, his voice a blade. "Is that what you want? You want me to play pretend while I’m ruining you?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He began to move again, but the pace changed. It became agonizingly slow, a deep, grinding friction that made your toes curl into the damp earth. He leaned in, his mouth hovering a hair's breadth from your ear, his voice dropping into a sickeningly sweet, distorted whisper.
"Is this better?" he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip as he drove home, deep and punishing. "Am I being a good boy for you now? Does it feel nice when I do exactly what you like?"
The contrast was a physical weight. Every time he hit the mark, he whispered another "polite" lie—"Tell me if I’m being too rough," "I’ve got you"—even as his fingers bruised the skin of your hips, anchoring you to the wood. The filth of his words against the simulated tenderness of his tone was a poison you drank willingly.
You were shaking, your head thumping back against the bark as the pleasure became a violent, suffocating thing. The scent of pine, the metallic tang of his sweat, and the heavy, musky aroma of sex filled your lungs until there was no room for air. You couldn't say no; you could only cling to him, your voice dissolving into incoherent, broken whimpers as he fucked you into the very roots of the forest.
Brett felt the tremor in your thighs, the way your internal muscles were beginning to rhythmically seize around him. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes hooded and dark with a predatory intelligence.
"You want me to make you cum, huh?" he rasped, his voice a low, vibration against your skin. "You want the monster to finish what he started?"
"Yes," you sobbed, the word a frantic, broken thing. "Yes, please."
He didn't need to be told twice. He shifted his weight, his calloused thumb finding the swollen heat between your legs. He began to rub slow, punishing circles, his touch deliberate and agonizingly precise. At the same time, he changed the pace of his thrusts—shorter, sharper, hitting the very center of the ache he had created.
You arched into him, your spine curving off the tree as you sought the friction, silent pleas dying in your throat. He growled, his hand tightening on your hip to drive himself even deeper, filling you until it felt like your body might break under the sheer weight of him.
The swearing started then—fragmented, filthy words that spilled from your lips as the tension finally snapped. You weren't a good girl anymore; you were a storm of nerves and heat, clinging to the only thing that felt real in the darkness. Brett watched you go over the edge, his thumb never faltering, his eyes locked on yours as he helped you shatter.
As you peaked, the world dissolving into white-hot static, Brett let out a guttural, primal sound. He stopped the games, his movements becoming frantic and raw. He drove into you one last time, his body tensing into a rigid cord of muscle as he finished deep inside of you, his forehead resting against the bark as he breathed through the aftershocks.
The silence of the woods returned, heavy and thick, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breathing. For a long moment, he didn't move, the heat of his body the only thing keeping the midnight chill at bay.
Slowly, he pulled back, his fingers grazing your jaw with a touch that was almost tender, if not for the cold light in his eyes. He leaned in, his lips hovering against your ear as he began to adjust your clothes, his movements efficient and strangely domestic.
"Be a good girl now," he whispered, the softness of his voice sending a final, lingering shiver down your spine. "Keep quiet. Walk back in there like nothing happened."
He paused, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip, pinning you with a look that promised this was only the beginning of the end.
"But remember," he murmured, his mouth tilting into that jagged, cruel grin. "Good girls don't last. Not around me."
What can I say, I fell hard for this terrible, walking red flag and decided to start a story with him! There will be touches of James Cook…and few sprinklings of Jack’s other characters.
Please enjoy.
Here is the master list:
Dark Awakenings
Reader moves with her family unexpectedly to Eden Lake and is miserable. Her cousin is Paige. Our reader meets Brett and her life changes forever!
***🔥🔥🔥***
🔥UPDATE🔥 I realized I never included a bit about Brett.
He is older than he is in the movie. (I’ve been leaning towards an au where Cooper & Paige survived.) He is feels invincible (except around his abusive father.) He has “dealings” (criminal elements) in the city (implied to be London…not sure if I will say) where his love of power, alcohol, squint use of drugs and violent tendencies urges are fed. Reader beautiful…curvy, bold, (mouthy…Brett’s words) shows up & his life is never the same.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22 (coming soon)
⚠️Brett is 19, 20 Reader is 18⚠️Also, if you don’t like Brett…possibilities of extreme sex or violence…or both…please move on. ⚠️I will have warning at the top of each chapter.⚠️
A weekend with your older cousin Jenny and her boyfriend Steve turned upside down when a group of teenagers, led by a boy about your age, came after you. And just when it seemed like you would both escape alive, the situation got much worse. Now you're the only one left, and despite the risk, the parents of those children left you alive and in the house of your tormentor's father. The question is, did you end up better or worse?
Warning:
To avoid situations that could offend someone, I will also include warnings at the beginning of each chapter. I will start with the next part. Expect from the usual violence, psychological pressure, sometimes even stronger concoctions.
A/N:
The style and chapters for this "series" will be a bit unconventional. Everything will take place in the AU mentioned in the summary. However, each chapter can be considered as a separate short story with its own summary at the beginning. The time sequence of the stories will be different, so you don't have to expect the story to unfold sequentially, but it may happen that the next part will take place, for example, five years after the events of the Eden Lake. If these attempts catch on, I may even start to accept ideas for further chapters.
I will leave the formatting and illustrations in the unfinished stage until I am sure that there might be enough interest for more.
Regarding form and spelling, please excuse my English, as I am not a native speaker.
I have a vague memory of the events of last night.
But what I will never forget was: "Now we'll finish it", and then the look in my cousin's eyes. I have it engraved in my memory as if she were sitting here in the dark and cold in front of me, staring into my soul. Then just a horrible scream. Whether it was her or me, I don't know, but in my dreams I hear it repeatedly. And then silence.
But I'm no longer in the small claustrophobic bathroom or in the hallway in front of the stairs to the floor. No more bunch of people around me, of whom I heard the most: the cries of women and the angry voice of a man who was holding Jenny around the neck. I'm sitting in the dark on the cold concrete ground. The chain around my leg was probably from a bicycle, but it served its purpose for now.
My vision got used to the surroundings and I recognized the shelves against the walls and in the space, dividing the cellar into narrow aisles. I only reached the metal leg of one of them, but otherwise the chain held me to the wall. There is no hope that there would be more light switches. Only one by the door that led to the wooden stairs that creaked with every step.
My bare arms were covered with goosebumps. At least I was wearing long pants. But I wasn't shivering so much from the cold as from the anxiety that wouldn't let up. I tried to calm down and think of anything that would help me get out of here. In vain. Rational thinking had left me and instead my brain was trying to recover from what the last fragments of memories meant and what they meant now. Still, my mind was trying to calm me down so that I wouldn't completely collapse.
She's up there. She's up there somewhere, she's just not here with you. They've just locked her up somewhere else. Yes, she's just locked up in that bathroom. She's there, breathing. She's alive.
But I couldn't stand that part.
She's not there, you naive. She's gone. There is no Jenny. There is no Steve. No, it's not a bad dream. No, you'll never wake up again.
After that thought, I gathered the last remnants of strength to get out of myself what little was stuck inside me. My lungs and vocal cords helped me to let out the loudest scream they could. Then my body gave up and made me faint.
…
I began to feel touches on my arms. My fingers were icy and I could barely feel them, but someone's hand was trying to warm me up a little by stroking me. I alternately felt a touch on my head and face, then again on my arms and back, as if someone was trying to calm me down.
You just had a bad dream. You're awake again and everything will be fine.
"Jenny?" I whispered in a hoarse and quiet voice. As if I had screamed out my vocal cords.
“Shall we go home now?”
My eyelids felt so heavy that I preferred to keep them closed for now. I waited for Jenny and her calm voice to tell me that everything was fine and that I was just dreaming. She covered me with a blanket and carefully pushed me on another one so that I wouldn’t be lying on such hard and cold ground. Then she propped my head up with something soft. My body gradually started to warm up under the blanket and my head stopped pounding.
Since when has my mattress been so hard?
“Well, it’s better this way. It’ll be fine, baby. Everything will be fine.”, a woman’s voice comforted. This time, the touches weren’t felt on my bare skin, but through the warm blanket.
Why does Jenny’s voice sound so different? Does she also have shrunken vocal cords? But that would sound much quieter, wouldn’t it?
“Lorraine, go back upstairs. Stop it!”
“She’s so cold. We can’t leave her here like this in the cold. She needs another blanket. Can I get another blanket for her, John?”
“You can’t take care of her like your own. We have to finish this or someone will find out.”
“We’ll finish it now”
“She’s a child! Enough children have died today! She’s just a scared girl. She’s no younger than your boy. Please, John…”
My eyelids suddenly felt less heavy. Or maybe my body, despite being completely exhausted, managed to move thanks to the adrenaline rush. My eyelids were shaking as I tried to open them even a few inches. Light hit my eyes, although it wasn't that strong. A dark figure knelt before me. It didn't look like Jenny at all. It looked agitated and worried. But my eyes fell primarily on the figure of a man standing by the stairs. My heart pounded at the sight of him, but I was too exhausted to remember why I felt so scared.
But he wasn't the only one standing there. Behind him was another, slightly slimmer. And then movement on the stairs, almost at the door. A smaller figure crouched on it, almost as if they were there secretly, watching something they weren't allowed to be near.
"Come on upstairs, I'll get her a blanket, okay? We'll talk about it."
The woman in front of me reluctantly got up and gave me one last loving stroke on the head.
But this isn’t Jenny. Why is she touching me like this? Like someone close to me.
Like a mother…
Her dark silhouette kept getting smaller and smaller, and finally she reached the stairs. But my heartbeat did not slow down. On the contrary, it sped up as I watched the smallest figure on the stairs. And although my vision was more blurry than sharp, its gaze burned through me so hard that it felt like my body was on fire. And what scared me more was how well I could imagine the feeling. I just wished my eyelids would fall again and I would run away from that gaze into unconsciousness. And I finally managed to do that, after hearing the angry male voice again.
“Brett, I told you to go to sleep, you brat! Get out of my sight!”
