Omg great minds think alike! So feel free to do this whenever lol buy t4t wesker and his needy boyfriend is begging for him to help him but wesker is busy and so he's like "seven minutes, seven minutes to make you squirt" or some dumb wesker dialogue lol but i just want wesker to be really mean, and if possible STARS reader? Like that's how they fell in love
apologies for this taking so long!!! i've been busy and haven't had much want to write. im chuggin a monster n praying that it gives me more will to write. pray for me nonnies. didn't really think of a specific era of wesker for this, but i did imagine a younger version... maybe close to re1? mentions of shots / reader being on hrt, along with reader having gotten top surgery. wesker is also mentioned to have been on hrt and has top surgery. like. a little bit of forcemasc too. as a treat :3
your hips ache, forced right up against the solid metal of his desk. the pads of his fingers trace over your ass, rolling down your thighs to where the waistband of your pants collected right above your knees. his tugged it down further, right down along with your underwear. although you're good about it, you don't squirm, don't push back when he gropes you too rough even if the way his fingernails imprint into your skin makes you wince.
"i have ten minutes for you," he leans down when he speaks, keeping his tone down. his sunglasses fall ever so slightly down the sharp bridge of his nose, "then, i want you out and gone until i'm done. understood?"
finally, his fingers find your cock, sliding down your folds to collect the slickness, rolling his thumb upwards to circle over your asshole. albert hums, although its more clinical than anything- a similar reaction that a doctor may have to a patient.
although, he pauses when you don't answer soon enough for his liking, "understood? answer me. verbally."
"yes- yes, sir." you nod, wincing at the lack of touch.
"eight minutes." he reminds you, a sharpness to his tone like the edge of a blade.
yet, he continues, rolling your dick between two rough fingers, watching it harden ever so slightly. the testosterone was already changing you similar to how it had done to him. he can recall when his bottom growth had started. that uncomfortable, itchy feeling right where you just can't reach. it seems to have affected you worse than him, considering you're pathetic now. nothing like the agent he knows you can be.
his eyes find the clock on the wall and he speeds up, clicking his tongue when your hips buck up excitedly. his other hand finds your waist and forces it down, keeping your skin indented against the desk, a red line forming at your hips.
a cold iron kisses the edge of your ear as you roll your head against the desk, your hands finding a grip on whatever you can, the heavy base of the monitors easily fitting in the palms of your hands. you whimper as albert's warm spit slicks against your asshole, his thumb sliding in it before pressing into your hole. it twitches around the pad of his finger, excitedly clenching around him. his own boxers grow damp, his cock uncomfortably sliding against the inner cotton.
pursing his lips. he adds a third finger to the underneath of your bottom growth, rolling to the sensitive bulb right at the peak of it.
"good. just like that." a rare praise falls from his lips as you keep yourself still, albert's eyes narrowing slightly in focus. you're his lover, yes, but you're also a pet of sorts. a project he's currently watching come to completion. he has seen such big improvements with each shot. you're more confident, more eager to speak now that your voice fits your soul. your body has changed to better reflect it too, the healed scars of your top surgery had become his favorite pattern to trace.
with each clench he can feel your pulse too, it raises as you get closer and closer. your cunt is the same, wetter and wetter- drooling over his palm. albert knows you like a well read book, he can predict each noise before it leaves you, the rhythm of how your throat bobs in excitement. a spoiled dog, you've become, under his teachings.
warm and fuzzy, it crawls up your thighs- tracing between your folds and rooting in your stomach. your back arches as you chase it, seeking the treat at the end of the fishing line.
"one minute." albert swallows, and if you had turned you would've almost seen the edges of his lips curl upwards.
that desperation, it's clear immediately as you buck up to chase that feeling, desperate to grab at it with greedy palms. sweat tickles at the back of your neck, teasing the hair there. your brows tighten, eyes nearly fully shut as you try to focus on it, on the light feeling in your belly. it's almost there. all the times albert has had you like this, you recognize the sensations well.
it's almost there, your heart dancing right up against your ribcage, chest heaving softly under the layers of your uniform, your hat askew atop your head, falling forward into your eyes. it stings at your skin and burns behind your eyes. stars catch in your mind, and you're just about to fall over the ledge, going 'lax against the desk just as-
albert pulls away, cleaning his hands with a small napkin, "we're done here. i'll find you after my work is completed."
with a kindness you nearly scoff at, he carefully pulls your underwear and pants up- even being so kind as to do up your belt. a kind pat on your ass for good measure. you're certain he will fulfill his promise, although you're unsure you can wait that long.
a/n - this was actually so fun to write. thank u nonnie, i hope this makes up for the late reply T-T
showing rookie the ropes⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ callahan ( detective oc ) & alastair ( police oc ) x criminal ftm reader
NSFW ⓘ⠀coninuation of this , threesome , degradation ( from callahan ) , use of cunt & pussy
Being caged in Callahan's house wasn't all bad.
Who knew the detective would so lovingly take care of you like a stray cat that's too adorable to walk by? Before you're even awake and on your feet, you can hear Callahan busy in the kitchen, making breakfast for the both of you.
He serves you food with a ceramic plate and silverware for each meal despite spending months on end trying to find and arrest you. Yet you're here, under his watch, his care, because you—apparently—are the key to his ongoing case. Whether that was true or false, not even Callahan knew the answer.
The faint chirping of birds reminded you of how early Callahan routinely woke up at. The soft flickers of sunlight streaked across Callahan's floors; the white specks of dust floating in the air had entertained your eyes like a morning warm-up.
“I have a day off,” Callahan grumbled as if he had to force those words out, “Do whatever you want today.” He skewered the fried egg onto his fork and brought it to his mouth, chewing quietly as an awkward blanket of silence draped over the both of you.
He watches your head shake up and down sleepily, like you're about to nod off back to sleep.
“If you're that fucking tired just go to sleep.” He stood up abruptly from his chair, the wooden legs screeching along the floorboards. He circles the table to reach you, hooking his hands under your thighs to hoist you up over his shoulder. “You can heat it up later when you're not about to fall on the damn plate.”
He hears your retaliations, just chooses not care. Callahan's struggling with the way you're wriggling in his grasp, hitting his chest, caging his waist with your legs to try and wrestle him off, and whining about how you're awake enough to eat.
“God damn it, just stay still alright—” He pauses when he sees you pant underneath him, cheeks flushed, and hands up in surrender. Now, if that doesn't get him all worked up.
He stares for a heartbeat too long before he pushes himself off of you, shifting his gaze to anything else but your face. Callahan reachs for one of his pillows, chucking it over your face as he grabs your legs and pulls them up.
“Don't give me those eyes, I know what you want,” He grunts as he watches you move the pillow off your face just for him to push it back down, “We'll make it quick.”
His fingers loop under his belt buckle, undoing the hold clasp enough that he could unzip his pants. He let your legs rest against his left shoulder as he turned his attention to your clothing, slipping your pyjama pants off and all the way to your slide off your ankles.
Callahan pulls his own boxers down enough so his dick could spring out, sighing at the shameless sight of his own erection. He never understood how you could get under his skin this much.
Binding your legs with a hand squeezing your calves together, he pushes them up a little bit more until they're a 90 degree angle to your body.
“You get wet so quick,” He chastises you as if that's a bad thing. As if he isn't eagerly sliding the underside of his cock along your slit, scoffing at the way your legs jump from the contact. “Keep still, don't kick me,” he groans, breaching your cunt with his tip before shoving the rest of himself inside you.
He comes to cage your thighs with the curl of his arm as his chest presses flush against the underside of your legs. From this angle he can look down at how your fingers dig into the pillow, holding it to your face just to ground yourself. A little part of him wants to murmur praise, but he pushes that down when he remembers the whole reason why you're here.
You were a criminal.
That thought alone triggered the muscles in Callahan's hand to clench around the soft skin of your leg, imprinting the pads of his finger into you. He bottomed out, leaning forward so he could thrust even deeper past the warm clutch of your body.
“Fuck.” Callahan curses beneath his breath as the vulgar sound of wet flesh slapping against flesh rung through his ears like a high frequency. Your small whines and whimpers were drowned out by the fluff of the pillow while he continues to pound into you as if it were punishment for seemingly nothing.
He let out a louder groan, head tilting off to the side as he loses himself in you, relishing in how your pussy clenched around him like a warm embrace. He mumbled about being close paired with a few degrading words that you could barely hear behind the pillow.
Callahan's hips still as he grips your legs just a tad tighter, stuffing you full of his cum. He keeps himself plugged in your cunt, taking a breather to come down from the high. Through post-orgasm bliss leaving the both of you dazed and satisfied, neither you or Callahan could hear the gentle click of the door opening.
“Sir? Are you alright? i hear grunting—”
That almost whimpish voice—which you didn't recognise—was enough for you to peek over the pillow to see a man with tacky platinum hair and black rimmed glasses standing in the doorway. He seemed to be dressed in a police uniform of sorts, too crisp to be anyone of high authority.
Though you can feel the gradual stiffening of Callahan's dick still nestled inside of you, which undoubtedly pulls a cocky remark from your mouth, “You're into that?” You manage to speak your mind before Callahan is pressing the pillow against your face once more.
“Oh. Woah— Uh, I mean... I didn't mean to intrude I just—” The officer's stammering pulled a long sigh from Callahan and a pinch to his nose bridge.
“If you keep pressing the pillow to his face you're going to suffocate him...” He shifts awkwardly on the spot, eyes darting everywhere but where you and Callahan are connected.
You—dramatically—gasp for air once Callahan removes the pillow from your face, turning your head to look at the man standing in the doorway.
“If you care about this criminal so much why don't you look after him?” Callahan scoffs as he scrutinises Alastair, observing the way the platinum haired officer shuffled around on the spot like a restless dog. Though Callahan may find it highly irritating, the way Alastair is so carefully averting his gaze from your half naked form is somewhat endearing.
“What are you still staring at? You want a turn?” Callahan pulls out of you, suppressing a groan as he sees white leak out of your hole the second he's not stuffed inside you. He haphazardly wipes himself with a tissue before stuffing his still stiff dick into his pants.
“Seems like you're a fucking virgin at your age,” Callahan doesn't even bother to clean you up before he's shifting his spot on the bed to sit behind you. He grabs your waist as he handles you in a position where your back is against his chest. Its oddly domestic, too affectionate for you to relax against him.
“But would your— companion, want... that?” He circles the bed to stand at the end of your feet, covering his eyes so he's not staring at your crotch.
“If he didn't he'd be scrambling out of my grip.” Callahan's hand curls around your side, digging into the skin beneath your ribcage.
“Do something,” Callahan growls. He can feel you tense awkwardly under Alastair's quiet gaze, and he hates that. “Or do I have to teach you?”
Alastair lowers his hand from his eyes, pupils dilating enough to cover the color of his iris. He gawks for a bit—can't pull his eyes away from the erotic sight of his superiors cum dripping out from your slick cunt. It's vile, unprofessional, and yet Alastair can't help but stare.
Callahan drawls out a sigh, fingers descending your body as he roughly plunges them inside your pussy. The curl of his fingers makes you writhe, mostly out of the abruptness of it. He scoops out his own seed, the sticky substance coats his fingers like honey, and he brings it to your mouth. He prods at your lips with the tips of his hand, half smearing the white along your mouth before you part them enough to take it.
Alastair stares, frozen like a deer and growing an inexplicable boner from the sight. The way you let Callahan to do that, and even swirl your warm tongue over his knuckles, evokes a strange warmth in his gut.
“Lean your head down,” Callahan is already barking out commands before Alastair can snap out of his lewd fantasies. He follows accordingly, its an order after all. Alastair lowers his face until its just shy of your body. He can feel the gentle heat radiating off of you.
“Don't get all too excited, rookie, make him feel good before you stick your tongue in,” it's like scolding a disobedient dog with the way Alastair pulls back into his shoulders as if to hide away from his harsh tone.
He places one hand on your inner thigh, immediately retracting it when he feels the muscle twitch under his touch. Alastair's mouth slowly opens and his tongue darts out to sample a taste. You can feel Callahan's fingers tighten around your body absent-mindedly as he practically seethes at how wimpish Alastair is.
“I'm about to die of old age before I can hear him moan,” Callahan grunts, finally caving in as he snakes his hand to your front, roughly pressing on your clit with his index finger. The sudden pressure to your nerves gets a whine bubbling in your throat.
There's something so alluring to how your eyes flutter shut, lips parted and the prettiest noises spill from your mouth just from one touch. Alastair's only seen your face from blurred security footage or low quality images, but never this close and this expressive.
There's a small fluttering in his stomach before he moves without second thought.
Alastair's tongue meets your folds, delving in-between the crevices like he's licking syrup off of his morning toast. His tongue delves out to brush against your opening like licking along your bottom lip when kissing. The stark contrast between the two confuses your body. Callahan is so ruthlessly circling your bundle of nerves with just one finger, yet Alastair is so gently exploring every dip and crevice of your cunt.
“You're enjoying this aren't you?” A deep rumble comes from behind you as Callahan's free hand curls around the column of your throat. “Being tongue-fucked by some cop? What kind of thief are you?”
Though, Callahan doesn't squeeze, nor apply any pressure. He just holds, feeling your pulse quicken as Alastair's tongue delves past your hole and into your wet channel.
“I bet you he's no better than a machine,” he growls “You know I'd do better, but I wouldn't want to put my mouth anywhere near this dirty pussy.”
Callahan lifts his hand up just to bring it back down with a sharp slap to your clit, musing at the way Alastair flinches upon having Callahan’s hand come down so quickly right in front of his face.
You’d feel bad—
If he wasn’t currently sucking you off like his life depended on it.
Alastair is pathetically hard by now; his pants are straining so much he swears he can hear the rip of thread from it. He drags his tongue along the warm walls of your cunt, savoring the way you clench and groan from the sensation—he’s so shamefully picturing how his superior would break through the clench of your pussy, drive himself deeper until he hits your cervix, and how you’d let all those sweet, deliberately loud noises to provoke him further.
You see Callahan’s free hand—the one that wasn’t cradling the curve of your throat—move down to Alastair’s hair, and for a moment, you believe he’s going to thread his fingers between those platinum strands and brush the hair out of his face.
He didn’t.
It wouldn’t be Callahan if he did.
His fingers curled into Alastair’s scalp, grabbing a fistful of hair like pulling roots from the soil. With a sharp tug, Callahan pries Alastair off of you, holding his head up like he’d just dunked the man in a bucket of water.
Alastair doesn’t fight it—in fact, he lifts his head to meet eyes with you, dazed like he’d taken his first sip of alcohol when he was eighteen.
Callahan merely scoffs at the sight as he moves his hand from your throat, down your stomach, and to your reddened sex. He doesn’t care for foreplay, especially from how close you were to the end. It slid in a little too easy, his fingers entering with a sickening squelch. Knuckle-deep, Callahan curls just enough to bump your g-spot.
“Ah– fuck.” You jolt, jerking against the weight of Callahan’s arm draped over your body. He alternates between curling his fingers and thrusting his fingers shallowly before he widens the thrusts, fingering you with a new found energy.
He sees Alastair, all round eyes, dumber than a deer in headlights.
And he can’t help but get a little irked at that.
“Open.” Callahan curls his fist tighter in Alastair’s hair, shaking him a little to get him out of that daze. When Alastair finally comes to his senses he rolls his mouth open, tongue slicked with saliva like he was fucking salivating.
The back and forth movement of Callahan’s hand gets more intense, drawing out your orgasm with each press against your walls, punishing your sweet spot. Your incessant squirming and whining grates on Callahan’s nerves; you’re enjoying yourself a little too much. He slams his palm down harder with each thrust in, deliberately hitting your clit with a force that bordered pain.
“Just cum already, I’m done dealing with you.” He growls lowly in your ear, yanking Alastair closer to your body as he hooks his fingers inside of you, harshly pressing against that one spot. Your restrain slips, and the next thing you know, Callahan is angling Alastair’s head to catch your orgasm in his mouth.
Alastair’s left eye flickers shut, feeling the warmth of your cum splatter across his face as he eagerly swallows what he’s given.
Callahan’s grip loosens, falling away from Alastair’s hair before he chucks a blanket over your body, wrapping you up in the fabric like he was shielding you from Alastair’s wandering eyes.
“Go get yourself fixed up. We’ll talk when you’re done.”
Hellorr Just sharing some thoughts here but...Habit n reader t4t... both grinding theur tdivks on eachother... habit comparing sizes, being an asshole, saying hes bigger and teasing reader so much auauauururhggf........ them scissoring like their lifes depend on it..... trans habit (and evan ) just itches my brain in ways i cant explain auruggr
yes.... yes. he'll time it right when you're trying to sleep, or at least relax. makes you take it, whether its listening to him loudly compare your sizes, or just in general make fun of you for any noises he can get out of you. you can't win. he'll go far past it being enjoyable for either of you. till you're both sweaty and gross and overstimulated. forces you into a headlock if you get too loud complaining about.
prince!satoru with an ftm servant!reader... yes??? please?? this may get expanded on in a fic if i get a good idea.
at first, you'd just been born into the lifestyle. with your mother being a servant for the kingdom, you'd spent most of your childhood hiding behind her, a hand tightened around the cloth of her apron. a simple life, with the rare sighting of the beloved prince.
although you were never permitted to converse with him, he seemed rather intent on breaking that rule. any of the many times he broke off from his teachers would usually end with him being found bothering you. it never changed with age, the only difference is that he had less people holding him back. especially when you yourself became a servant, trained and allowed to do all the things you'd once only watched your mother do.
adulthood became much harder when the prince would latch himself to you each free moment of his life. he's fresh out of sparring and sword practice? he's already hunting you down where you're tending to the palace gardens.
"your prince is starved for attention, cruel servant." he sighs loudly, walking with wide steps as he approaches, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top, hair mussed around by the subtle breeze.
his fingers ride over the flowers, flicking once he got to the very last one. with a simple elegance he steps behind you as you water the newest lavender patch, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder- even if he had to bend awkwardly to accomplish it. his spine aches at the angle, but he persists, rolling slightly so he's able to look up at you, at the way your lashes hit against your cheeks, at the way your brows furrow ever so softly in concentration. much more interesting than the shallow art decorating the halls of the kingdom.
if only you'd believe him each time he confessed his love. he'd much rather see you in a crown beside him than stuck doing such meaningless work.
a/n - no it hasn't been weeks since i've posted... no it hasn't been that long. i'm so sorry T-T i've been doing an internship alongside currently finding myself obsessed with supernatural. you guys may need to expect some dean fics soon. i'm losing my marbles
I LEGIT SCREAMED. I JUST SCREAMED SO LOUD. OHHGHHJDHGJKDFHGJGBHJFDBGHJFDSB OHHHH MY GOD.
Sitting across from each other in his dark basement. The walls are bloodstained from previous encounters. While he loads the revolver, Habit's wearing a shit-eating grin and staring into your soul. Maybe your ankles are tied down if he's worried about you running off.
Ohh if he really can't trust you, or if you're too afraid to do it yourself, he'll hold the gun up for you. He'll wrap his hand around yours, guiding your finger to the trigger and urging you to pull it, because he's right there. He's got you. You can trust him. Habit acts like he knows where the bullet rests in the cylinder.
When it's his turn, he's holding it up to his head with zero hesitancy and pulling the trigger with no thought. Your turns are comically long compared to his, and that's exactly what he wants. He wants to see the fear in your eyes, even if you're wearing a smile and giddily playing along. Habit likes that you're afraid of death, but still plays this silly little game just for him.
And it always ends by fucking on top of the table, gun pressed to your cheek and your hands around Habit's throat. Ugghhh I NEED him. I may have to expand on this later. Adding to my list.
𓏲ꪆ Tags: True Form HABIT/Monster-fucking, Predator/Prey Play, Outdoor Sex, Blood, Biting, Size kink, Oral sex/Cunnilingus, Mentions of knotting, Very little dialogue, Very light breath play, Fem!Reader. Don't ask me what position you're in because I myself do not know. I couldn't act it out like I normally do
𓏲ꪆ Hey... I'm finally back with an actual fic... Gulps nervously... Consider this my gratitude for 200 followers!!! For as much porn as I write I really do hate writing it. I genuinely think every idea about true form habit sent by an anon has been included in here in some way shape or form. Thanks guys you're great I love all of you
There comes a time when pride and complacency morph into all-consuming regret.
Something about the seven stages of grief, and all that jazz.
If you were to stop for a moment to think about your actions, you’d realise how bad an idea this is. But you don’t, because if you do, you’re sure it’ll mean certain death. A sinking feeling had already settled deep in your stomach, and all you now need is the finalisation of it.
There comes a time when pride and complacency morph into all-consuming regret.
Something about the seven stages of grief, and all that jazz.
If you were to stop for a moment to think about your actions, you’d realise how bad an idea this is. But you don’t, because if you do, you’re sure it’ll mean certain death. A sinking feeling had already settled deep in your stomach, and all you now need is the finalisation of it.
Really, though—If Habit still manages to catch you with several disadvantages, what made you think you’d be able to outrun him? In a place where he knows where you are at all times, no less.
And you know Habit’s there, out in the shadows, as if he's not one himself. Hiding within the trees and crouched low to the ground. Lord knows how many times your gaze has passed over him only to dismiss it as a trick of the light.
You don’t remember the last time you’ve seen the sun. There’s no day here, no night. Habit doesn’t keep any clocks, leaving only your rapidly decaying circadian rhythm. It’s been so long since you’ve seen another person, save for the souls trapped within the Candleverse, forever watching. Bugs don’t buzz, and birds don’t sing. It isolates you to rustling leaves and your own shaky, uneven breathing.
Your own heart startles you, too, when it’s not a twig snapping under your foot or the wind kissing at the nape of your neck. In the few times you’ve stopped sprinting, the only thing in your ears is the heavy thumps from the overworked muscle. You think it’s footsteps—Habit’s footsteps. But of course they’re not. He’s not that loud, not when the hunt matters.
He’s laughing at you from the bushes, at your fumbling behaviour. You know it. You can practically see the way his many eyes slit with humour.
It only makes you want to win for once. To see the defeated look written across his features, to hear his snarky comments about letting you win and that he was in no way a sore loser.
Although now, where there’s little light and trust left in yourself, you’re not sure if there is any reasoning to keep playing this game. You know how this’ll end and, truthfully, everything is too sore to keep running. The route you took was confusing and maze-like on purpose, made with the very small hope that it might throw Habit off. In consequence, your legs are bloody and bruised from being smacked against branches and snagged on thorn bushes, and arms achy from bracing against a few falls. Your lungs burn so badly that you fail to take in a full breath without an added wheeze or sputter.
Habit’s tiring you out. There’s a good chance he’s not even in active pursuit, and is instead letting your own paranoid conscience do the work for him. Even though lingering paranoia remains, your brisk walk slows to a stop as the uneven terrain gives way to smooth, compacted dirt. There had been a road here once, tracks faded and beaten with time. It’s the first path you’ve fully stopped on, and just as the forest behind you, it’s lit only by moonlight and good faith. Sweat is wiped away from your forehead with a dirty arm as you greedily try to catch up on air.
There’s a separation in the trees, dividing one road into two. The right path is just as crowded with foliage, if not more, than the route you’re walking now. Branches combine together into a thick, choking layer and block almost all moonlight. What does come through is diffused and no more than dots skittering across the dirt, swaying when the wind kicks up. There’s no way you’d be able to see Habit until it was too late, and you doubt you’d notice if you double-backed by accident. Good for some cover, but it won’t last long.
To the left leads to what you think may be a clearing, trees thinning out towards the horizon line. You’ve been down this path once, or at least you think you remember it, brought here on one of Habit’s make-shift dates. It’s a pretty big meadow, scenic and fairly well lit. There aren’t many spots for him to hide within the grass, even if that means few obstacles to distance yourself with. If he went to lunge, you’d be done for.
Well, then. If you know you’re far past the point of rescuing, why not grant yourself the mercy of being able to see? You’re already here. Still alone, air cold and empty. Or, that was, until you noticed movement in the corner of your eye. A flash of darkness that was gone so quickly you doubt it, pondering if it was your hair or a leaf fluttering down. Maybe the shadow belonged to you, for all you know. You swallow your reservations and glance towards the way you came from. Still just as creepy, still just as decrepit. Exhaling quietly, you turn back to face the direction of the way you were going to go before second thoughts start to crawl in.
Rubbing your arms, you continue your walk. There isn’t much in the way of temperature in the Candleverse. Habit kept it just before lukewarm, much like an early summer morning where the sun had yet to rise with everything warm from the evening before. Suddenly, though, you feel as if you’ve just walked right under a vent blasting frigid air. You tense, steps now uneven with the prickling at the base of your spine. It was a light sensation, no more than gentle spider legs slowly crawling up your back and towards the crown of your head. Something behind you snaps, and you spin on your heel, expecting to see—
Nothing.
There’s nothing there save for a whirl of leaves kicked up by the breeze. Still, you exhale shakily as if caught. Your stomach cramps with the anxiety of being stalked, of being prey. Habit’s taunting you, or maybe sizing you up to see how afraid you really are. You wonder if he would’ve brought you down if you hadn’t turned. Shaking the creeps away, you pick up the pace and veer towards the trees to stay away from the open stretch of road.
Even if you’re just past the mouth of the path, it felt lighter, almost. As if the moon held the sun's heat, like the trees were slowly thinning out both in thickness and density. It was hard to find footing, however, with the ground covered in loose roots and rocks. To avoid tripping, you have to keep glancing down. The dirt has a give to it, spongy beneath you as if it had been raining. Yes, you remember this. The memory is fuzzy and unable to be fully recalled, but you recognise this path. Even if it was walked in the opposite way, you were here once, hand in hand with Habit. The blurry nostalgia was almost enough to lull you into a sense of security, even if it had long been falsified.
Five minutes barely scrape by before your steps become uncertain again, tense with expectation. Like you’ve just learned something the forest was born with, like you’re waiting for the words from the damned.
It feels rude, or at the very least disrespectful, doesn’t it? In an odd sense, at the very least. This, being hunted by something you hope remembers to play nice, wanting the chase instead of fearing it. Begging for it, even. If you could see them, if you were to think about what the souls here have seen or endured, it’d leave a bitter taste in your mouth. You wonder if anyone has died in this exact scenario before, or if you’d be the first. By all means, the Candleverse is a mass gravesite and one you’re about to desecrate in many, many ways.
And if you were to—Oh.
You stop, except this time it’s not to catch your breath or consider tapping out—No. You’re instead fixated on your shadow, or what wasn’t your shadow. Your silhouette is visible through the hole in the thinning canopy, except, a majority of it was swallowed up by… Spider legs? It could’ve been the spindly edges of branches. You would’ve said so only if it wasn’t for the twitchy, unsettling nature of them. Its outline seems to curve around yours, like how a spider curls in on itself when deceased. Staring at the arch of one of the many puts a sinking feeling in your torso. One moves, raises just a bit and unfurls—
You blink, against better judgment.
And… It’s gone. Like it was never there, leaving you alone with a shadow you didn’t trust.
You exhale harder than you mean to, body relaxing with its disappearance. No doubt a fleeting comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. You’re not too far from the clearing, at least. The roots below have already started to melt into small wildflowers and would shortly pave an entrance for the end.
Excluding the several times you slowed to look around, it only takes a minute until you’re at the line. A destroyed fence rests at your feet, its snapped wood and mangled barbed wire swallowed up by overgrowth. A small, half-assed prayer and a short stumble through the bush, and you’re there. Scratched up but standing at the very edge of the empty meadow nonetheless.
Out here is peaceful. Like you haven’t been running for your life.
It’s still dark, but you’re at least able to see a few feet past extended hands. Thick grass brushes just above your ankles and pricks at your skin as you move deeper into the pasture, kicking past colourful flowers and reeds. White yarrow reflects the rolling moonlight. At some point, thin layers of clouds had settled in. Light and carrying no rain, they obscure stars and fail to fully blot out the moon. Beautiful, if it wasn’t for your current circumstance.
Close to halfway in, you pause again and spare a glance over your shoulder. Nothing, save for the slight bend in the grass that marks where you have walked.
It’s too peaceful. Too quiet and still for him not to be around, lurking. Watching. Your stomach flips, whether it was anxiety or anticipation or arousal had yet to be discerned. You hate it when he does that, hiding himself so well that you’re unable to notice he’s around unless you truly focus.
Something cracks in the distance. You whip your head to face forward again and are met with nothing but the far forest. Then, from behind, an inaudible drag of a tail sweeping across foliage. A quick series of clicks, and then—
You scream.
You run, or at least move to.
You… Don’t get very far.
Habit dives for your ankle—that much you expected, but not with bared teeth. Sharp points catch the flesh and yank backwards, effectively toppling you over. You barely have any time to catch yourself as the joint is pinned. There’s a poor attempt to skitter away, or at the very least prop yourself up, hands scrambling against dewy ground. Habit tugs you down, ears flattening against his head as you shriek with the easy give of your flesh. Blood mats saliva-coated fur and spills across grass, dirtying your already grimy skin.
Your ankle is released only for a second so Habit can readjust. He holds the limb deeper in his maw so that the rough, spine-filled pad of his tongue collects blood, even tilting his head back so it spills down his throat with ease. One of your hands, shaky and weak, reaches blindly behind you to feel for the top of Habit’s head. You have to bend your back into an awkward angle to find it and subject your leg to a little more mauling, but eventually, your fingers grasp twitching fur. Dirt-caked nails dig into his ear and yank hard enough for Habit to yelp away. You take the moment he takes to shake his head to scramble forward a few feet.
Habit, of course, is back on you before you can fully stand up. A heavy paw is placed between your shoulder blades and presses you down into the cool ground, the other a foot away from your head. Dirt caves under each drag of your fingers as you squirm. Your lungs hurt from forced exhalation with how hard he was pressing down, and as Habit lowered his head to yours, your fearful breathing slows.
His nose is wet and cold against the shell of your ear. Ticklish too, with his own soft pants and whiskers brushing against your sensitive skin. Habit whines, low and steady, before nudging the side of your head. It’s a playful action, but one that you know means stay still. You do, albeit a little twitchy with nerves.
Habit slinks down and stops at your shoulder. It too is nudged, harsher and accompanied by a little nip. You don’t need words to get the memo, and with a pained whimper, you roll over onto your back. You’re rewarded with seldom more than him. Habit. Although this is far from the first time you’ve seen him like this, it never gets less impressive or loses any spectacle.
And for all things considered, Habit looks completely at ease. Not at all distraught like you are. His ears aren’t fully up nor pinned back like they just had been; the spider legs on his back lowered and pressed neatly against fur to save some space. While it was hard to see both in the dark and past his body, you could hear the faint sweep of his tail as it flicks back and forth.
Almost like he wasn’t even trying. Probably because he knew he’d catch you, and that he’s doing this just for the hell of it. You’ve yet to frustrate him like this compared to when he’s occupying Evan’s body.
Habit drags the front of his muzzle down the centre of your body as he crawls downward. There’s a nudge against your chest and a small nip to the clothed skin. His canines catch against your shirt, light enough as not to cause the fabric damage but enough to be teasing. And, much like with your breasts, Habit stopped above your womb. It’s the side of his face that nuzzles against you this time. The action rides your shirt up just above your navel, and Habit’s quick to adorn the skin there with a quick, rough lick.
But he doesn’t stop at your stomach like you thought he would. Habit has instead made his way back down to your wounded ankle, its bleeding now slowed to a languid drool. You think he’s going to lick at it, and he does, but first takes the bruising joint between his teeth again. Habit’s gentle this time, holding your leg lightly so as to only reopen the barely scabbed-over bite marks. At least you’re able to prop yourself up on your elbows this time, able to watch him with little obstruction.
For the most part, he still looks completely unbothered. One of his ears are popped up, pointed in your direction and twitching when you whimper loud enough. The rough pad of his tongue rubs the back of your ankle raw, muscle cupped slightly as to catch the fresh stream of blood. Habit even tilts his head back to aid its consumption, and after no more than thirty seconds, he’s growling with some emotion you don’t recognise.
Your ankle is dropped harshly, and Habit jerks up. Not to his full height, but high enough to slither up and roughly shove your legs apart with a heavy shove of his muzzle. There’s a series of licks to the inside of your thigh, each growing longer and rougher as the spines along the muscle abrade your skin. And before you can realise what that little cleaning behaviour was, Habit snaps forward and sinks his teeth into the meat of your thigh. You scream again, although you fight back the urge to try to scramble away. It wouldn’t even matter, as one of his paws comes to rest on your hip bone to hold you down while the sharp tip of a spider leg comes to press between your breasts, right above your heart.
You guess he wasn’t getting enough blood for his liking, then.
His teeth are much deeper than—Well, they’ve ever been. Evan’s teeth aren’t as sharp and definitely not as long. The bite marks he leaves then are shallow and frankly a little ambitious, born with a need to claim that Habit’s never been able to fulfil until now. Now, when his maw easily covers the expanse of your thigh. Now, when he’s able to feel the heady rush of blood and your fearful pulse beneath his tongue.
Thankfully, Habit’s not too keen on staying latched to your thigh. He gives a final lick to the oozing wound to collect as much blood as he can, teeth clacking together as he licks his face clean. Habit purrs when leaning into you, and drags his canines over your still clothed cunt. Red streaks in thin lines stain the already damp fabric. You twitch up into his mouth when his front teeth ghost over your clit, and two shaky hands slide down your body to unbutton your pants. They’re barely shimmied off one leg before Habit’s shoving his face back between your thighs, this time clipping the thin fabric of your panties and tearing the gusset of them apart.
Habit clicks contentedly. His breath is warm and fast-paced, coming out in little bursts as he smells you. His jaw is parted just enough for the first few inches of his tongue to slide out. You tense when he leans in, whining softly as he laps at the salty skin of the apex of your thigh. You think he’s going to bite again, to use your blood as added lube, but Habit only moves to roll the tip of his tongue against your clit. In order not to hurt you where it counted, Habit only uses the first few inches of his tongue. It’s the thinnest part and barren of the barbed spines that coat the rest of it, forked at the very end and a dark purple in colour.
You would like to lean up, to watch Habit and his hazy eyes. Although he’s yet to move that spider leg. The tip of it has probably made a hole in your shirt by now, scratching between your breasts. You settle for slipping a hand down to reach towards the crown of his head. You’re barely able to feel fur beneath your fingers before Habit snaps his teeth at your hand, scaring it off. You guess he was still peeved from pulling his ear earlier, and reluctantly settle for gripping the grass beside you.
He snarls, quiet and no more than a passing vibration, and returns to between your thighs. Habit gives a rougher, heavier lick, dragging the rough patch—a small section where the smooth, human-like texture of his tongue starts to transition into barbed spines—in uneven circles around your clit. Habit’s tongue slips down, teasing past your entrance with very little resistance and forcing its way in. His nose bumped against your clit, wet in its drag and absolutely perfect to grind down against.
You cuss. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush or the realisation that this was finally happening—Whatever it was had your body tensing with your first orgasm. Habit doesn’t pull away immediately, and instead moves to lick over your clit a few times. Habit’s eyes slit as he clicks and finally draws his spider leg back to rest with the others.
When Habit does pull away, only after your thighs are twitching, he passes his tongue across his teeth and jaw to clean the rest of your slick off. He laps at the dried trail of blood on your thigh, only with the tip of his tongue and light enough to tickle the stinging skin before crawling up your body once more. Teeth are immediately pressed against the length of your throat. He doesn’t clamp down, doesn’t draw blood. It’s only to keep you still as the tapered head of his cock slides against your lower lips, slipping across your clit in a missed thrust. A curse slips from your lips when he misses again, and this time Habit stills, dragging his canines against your skin in frustration. His cock is hot and slick against your hip bone, twitching every time you do. You’re grateful he felt nice enough to prep you.
He’s eager. Maybe a little too eager, as you have to draw your hips up, up until the fur on his stomach tickles your thighs. And as Habit draws back, you’re able to feel each rib and curve passing against your skin and lining back up with your cunt. He hisses and clips the skin above your jugular, immediately moving to lap up the tiny droplet of blood. You can’t see much past him, but you do hear the faint, quiet clicks of his spider legs as they jitter in excitement.
As soon as his tip catches on your hole, Habit gives an all but sloppy and excited thrust, immediately sliding in a few inches before slowing to press the rest of it in. The hiss you hear against your neck is low and wanting, drawing out when you clench your walls around him. Wandering hands find fur, this time not chased away, and tangle into tufts right under his jaw. You’re able to feel how his throat vibrates when trilling, how he’s restraining himself from clamping down on your neck.
He’s pressed deeper than you expected, ribbed tip nestled next to your cervix. It doesn’t hurt, more so of a very heavy stretch. All you feel is wet and hot with each near-desperate hump against you. Since Habit’s cock was tapered, it’s harder to notice the outline of it higher up in your stomach. But, if you were to press a hand over your womb, you can easily feel the thick outline.
Your less sore hand slides down from Habit, passing along his underside in an action similar to a pet, down to your clit to rub it in circles in time with his thrusts. Soft sighs fall from your lips, way different from Habit’s snarling and hissing. The tip of his tongue passes across your throat and up to below your ear before he bares his teeth again, replacing them around your neck. He’s a little harsher this time, pricking the skin and actually clamping down. Surprisingly, it’s still not hard enough to make you bleed or worry for your life—Only heavy enough to begin to restrict your breathing. Playful in nature, if anything else.
You’re whimpering out and jumbling quiet words of praise when you apply more pressure against your clit. Your head falls backwards with a rapidly building orgasm as one of the more prominent ribs keeps passing right over that perfect spot. And, fuck, you’re cumming faster than you can warn. Fingers pull at his fur again, rough but ultimately not enough for Habit to care. There are a few more violent grinds against you before Habit snarls this time louder and goes into a high hiss as he cums inside you. You’re not sure what texture you were expecting, but it’s nothing like Evan’s—Much thicker and much hotter, oddly sticky and aiding with the heavy drag of his still-twitching cock against your walls.
Weak hands fall to rest beside your head. A few seconds pass filled with nothing but the light vibrations of Habit purring against you, and then—
“Wait. Wait, Habit—” You warn, leaning up with a sudden heavy press. Habit only mocks your tone, whining with a high pitch, and tries to force his knot inside. His eyes slit, and he makes a noise that might as well mean a laugh, as if teasing that you can’t take it. Not yet, at least. It’s in his plans. Habit backs off at your continuous whining and instead nips around your jaw and chin.
The love bites quickly morphed into licking. He starts under your jaw and drags the wet appendage all the way across your cheek up past your eyebrow, only to repeat the motion several times over. He’s shoved away, nipping at your fingertips playfully before rising. Your eyes flutter close when he presses his nose to your cheek again. Everything’s sore and wet and bloody, and you’d kill for a hot bath right about now.
You’re keen on letting Habit know too, and you open your eyes to do so, except he’s not there. You’re not even there, either, now back in your home. Not in a bed or a better location, no—Instead, you are sprawled out on the floor in tattered clothing with cum still leaking out. Footsteps echo from down the hallway—Heavier and human—And stop briefly at the bedroom door to batter it open.
Habit laughs as he comes to stand above you, tone distorted and hands proudly on his hips. “You tired yet, rabbit? Or do you got another one in you?”
You stare at each other for a moment. Habit’s wearing a huge grin, eyes wide and death-proof hat tilted to one side. He waves his hand, “Eh, who am I kidding. You always do.”
habit fucks like an animal n he reminds you daily (ftm! reader :3) slight freeuse implied, masc and fem terms used for readers genitalia. usual habit behavior
maybe you're at the kitchen counter, attempting to forage some food for yourself in the frankly, hellish home habit lives in. maybe you're still in bed- his bed- or nest, considering how messy it consistently is. either way, he finds you. maybe it's after a killing, or he's just bored and hungry. best case, evan's body is finally starting to shut itself down from lack of sleep, and he's trying to get out any last bursts of energy before he hibernates on top of you.
he's almost soft at first, the moment of contact between the tips of his fingers and the skin under your shirt. you only have that fleeting second to cling to before his nails dig at the suppleness of your flesh, jagged and sharp from how much he's dragged then against just about every surface, including yourself. they'll find themselves at the waistband of your sweatpants, testing at the elastic with a few harsh pulls. don't complain too loud about it- he'll gladly break it just to see you in less clothes.
in the end, you'll always find yourself on the mattress of his aforementioned bed, the frame squealing under the sudden drop. in that same mess of pillows and blankets, you'll be writhing underneath him, having to adjust to the sudden darkness that habit keeps his room in.
"be a good fucking rabbit, yeah?" he'll goad, forcing your legs apart and rubbing half-interested at the damp fabric between your legs, whether it's sweat or arousal.
no matter how large you are, he's manhandling you down until you're pressed stomach down against the bed, struggling for air against the sheets. he'll laugh in your face if you cough even slightly, or even choke out some pathetic little squeals and squeaks. habit loves it though, anything to further push you into the mindset of his prey. maybe one day he'll fuck you in the claustrophobic attic where the dried bloodstains of past encounters still soak into the wood. god knows he's thought about it, probably jerked off about it to.
a small token of his appreciation comes in how he preps you, tearing off your pants and underwear without a second thought- throwing them out somewhere else. his hands come around your ass, squeezing and groping- forcing your back to arch when he lifts it. your legs are still gummy and unresponsive under the overwhelming heat pushing itself into your cunt. his tongue laps at you, more focused on taste than your pleasure. although, he does find a sick fascination with your tdick, especially if he's gotten to see it as it grows. he'll tug and toy at it, intent on stroking it just like he would a cock.
"what?" he'll tilt his head like a confused dog if you complain, attempting to (badly) hold back a perverse grin, his yellowed teeth gritting with excitement "it's a dick, isn't it? don't be fucking stupid."
his fingers finally drop to your folds, spreading them open so he can stare with an almost adoring glint in his eyes as your hole clenches, vibrant and soaked- both from his sticky saliva and your own slick. and yes, he'll call it slick- especially if it makes you squirm. he might even pull out a 'juices' if it gets you embarrassed enough. at the end of the day, sex is both for pleasure and power with habit.
once he decides you're ready, and yes- he decides. maybe it's just after edging you till tears, or he'll make you cum a near uncountable number of times till the idea of anything else makes your stomach twist. once that random decision has been made- he's undoing his belt, clawing at the buckle with something that almost looks like desperation.
if you're particularly squirmy today, he's using that same belt to tie your hands together behind your back, infact- it's more than likely he'll find any good excuse to see you bound up. especially when it stretches your muscles just enough to burn under your skin, an erotic prickling melting down with it.
his dick is out before you realize, not that you can look back- or anywhere really. you feel it, though. heavy and thick- a few angry veins you can picture that run down the shaft to the tip. behind your eyes, you're just able to imagine it from all the times he's forced you to your knees and had his fingers locking your jaw open. don't try to pull away, or get all whiny, his hands will find your waist in seconds and dig in to bring you right back to him.
and he uses you. again and again and again. something in his animalistic brain clicks in the best way each time he can see his cum leak out of your puffy cunt, each time you twitch and go limp. he doesn't stop until he gets bored, or until he crashes. in the latter scenario, he (slightly unintentionally) forces you to cockwarm him, keeping you full until he wakes up hours later and leaves to go do... whatever it is he does (or maybe just resume fucking you.)
a/n - face to the floor by chevelle, in my mouth by black dresses, n closer by nine in nails were blaring for this one... if anyone has anymore songs like that lemme know!! i love love love songs like that... so yummy. this was meant to be much shorter.... but i've been yearning okay leave me alone
habit with reader who knows he stalks them and they play into it. knowing he follows them home and leaving the door unlocked.. getting changed in front of windows purposefully.. leaving laundry out to dry within his reach. is this maybe a continuation of my anons about reader who plays into the prey role... maybe. i just like the idea of a reader whose intelligent enough to know who/what habit is, what he's done, and yet still enjoy the game of it all... it's so tasty
Ohhh Habit’s acting like you have zero clue. He’s allowed to be a little less careless in his stalking—He trails a little too close, is a little too loud in your house while you're sleeping. Stuff that would make any normal person fearful and install security cameras.
Not that he hasn’t done that for you. There’s at least one pinhole camera in every room, save for your bedroom and closet, which have several facing all directions.
And, really, you’re just so nice. Leaving everything unlocked and leftovers in the fridge for him—Sliding your window open after changing in front of the parted curtains and sleeping with no underwear on like you want him to do this. Habit’s taking his favourite pair that you so nicely always leave on the line and returning them soiled and sticky, if they’re returned at all.
I’m also thinking about Habit with someone who’s really into the occult and has researched what he is. There’s no way he’s not teasing you, calling you a super fan. Though he’d get jealous upon finding out you’re learning about other demons, and not just him.
The king of “Why read a book when you can just ask me?” knowing damn well that he’s exaggerating and embellishing all his lore.
Habit come home.... You ate the kids but I miss you
theartofmadeline
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
origamiaround
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
