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 bard, 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.
I love that four different people on my feed scheduled this joyous person to reblog by 8am on June 1. I look forward to seeing this a dozen more times today.
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