⊹ ࣪ Tear Into Me˖ ໒꒱ (HABIT x Reader Oneshot)
Character Count: 25k (16 mins ert)
Trigger Warnings: knifeplay, spitplay, degradation, slight dubcon, bloodplay, corruption kink, edgeplay, gagging, impact play
Tags: Smut with plot, Animalistic Behavior, Dark Romance, Everymanhybrid
Summary: Joking with HABIT can have its consequences. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.
Recommended songs: CREEP U , Tear You Apart, I’m Your Man, Breezeblocks
The house was quiet in the way you had learned to appreciate.
Now that HABIT was out doing god-knows-what, you had a significant decrease in his stupid jabber, sly remarks, and witty retorts. The days he was gone made up for the days he was here. You had peace and sanctuary for once. You could wake up in the mornings to the smell of lavender or vanilla instead of rotting corpses or stale fruits.
The sounds of your hands carefully chopping up vegetables echoed through the otherwise silent home. You busied yourself mindlessly with dinner preparations to distract your mind from your ‘boyfriend’s’ eventual return.
You had a relationship with Evan before he became HABIT. When the entity took him over, you had a hard time letting him go. That factor is what screwed you over in the end; now you were bound to him. That was one of the only reasons you stayed now. That, and the fact that if you left HABIT, you doubted you’d be safe alone. The undoubted threat of the Rake and The Operator. And either way, you had a gut feeling he wouldn’t let you leave willingly. Being with him was convenience. He tolerated you, and you tolerated him. He kept you safe. In return, you dealt with his sick-shit. You were far too deep in now to have any semblance of normality.
HABIT had been gone for almost a week at this point. You weren’t worried—as this wasn’t an unregular occurrence. He disappeared for days at a time just to come back unscathed, covered in anyone’s blood but his own.
Isabelle brushed by your feet, her fuzzy tail brushing against your bare legs and snapping you out of autopilot. You smile and place the knife on the chopping board, bending down to pet her. Isabelle purrs with the attention your hand brings her attention almost immediately. Your fingers run through her fur as you absentmindedly stroke her back.
She meowed loudly at you, and you understood her immediately. She was most definitely hungry. Isabelle, as HABIT told you himself, never skipped a meal. And she looked the part, as well. You swore that HABIT cared more about her than most people at times, and it showed through the lack of care or respect he gave his victims before mauling them brutally. You straightened back up and looked off to the side—checking the cat-shaped clock, and your suspicions were confirmed. 7:34 PM. Just a little bit past her regular dinner time. You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “Isabelle, it’s only been 4 minutes. There’s no way you’re starving. I gave you an extra treat this morning!” You chided, unserious. She meowed louder, stepping on your feet with her own small paws. Her tail swished rapidly. With a small grin and reluctant shake of your head, you padded off to her bowl of food and water. Isabelle followed you, the furry creature prancing around your legs and swishing her tail against you as if it’d make you go any faster. You swore this was the only time she moved with haste anywhere, much less did anything strenuous. You bent to your knees and opened a bag of cat food, carefully filling the bowl with just enough to keep the needy cat satisfied.
Your afternoon peace was short lived when you heard the back door swing open. You let out a huff of air from your nose and turned around. There, in all of his glory, stood HABIT. He grinned and waved at you. “Ahh, there’s my favorite human! Tell me, did cha’ miss me?” He asks, gesturing to himself. You raise a brow, looking him over. One of the band shirts you had gotten him was stained and wrecked with blood, the singers face grotesquely covered in the crimson. His jeans were just as soaked—practically a new shade of blue. His ‘Death Proof’ cap was untouched. He loved the thing. Wouldn’t get blood on it unless actually accidental.
As you expected, he was covered in blood. Your nose wrinkled as the smell of metallic and rotting corpses stunk up your safe haven immediately. Goodbye, vanilla coconut air freshener. You almost facepalmed when you saw the bloodied footsteps soaking into the floor. “Absolutely not. Leave those shoes outside. Go shower. You’re not coming in like that.” You said immediately, raising your finger and pointing down the hallway.
He only grinned wider, tilting his head at you. He did as you asked, throwing his boots off somewhere outside. For showering, however, he did not listen. He strolled right past you, shrugging his rifle off his shoulder. He hung it right above the front door, where his assortment of other weapons were mounted. You rubbed the bridge of your nose. At least he had taken off his boots. The other spots of blood on him seemed to be dry, so he wouldn’t leave any stains. Better than nothing, you supposed. “Relax, babe. It’s not like you haven’t had to clean this up before,” he says in a sing-song tone. He slides his hunting knives out of his pockets and places them on his weapon rack as well.
A long stretch of silence between the two of you is broken when Isabelle chows on her food rather loudly. You shake your head and decide to go back to cooking. You walk back from Isabelle’s bowl and presume chopping up the last bit of vegetables. You grab a bowl and start arranging a salad for yourself.
You can feel his eyes boring holes into your back, and it almost sends a chill down your spine. You swallow as you walk to the fridge, reaching in and grabbing a bottle of seasoning. He breaks the silence as he strolls over to the kitchen, leaning on the island’s counter. “You didn’t answer my question, sweetheart,” he says teasingly. He smirks and leans his head on his palm. His eyes narrow while he looks you head to toe.
“You were asking if I missed you, right? Then.. honestly no. It felt nice to not smell guts and your latest victims spinal fluid.” You leave your back to him as you arrange your salad. He sniffs the air.
His grin doesn’t leave his face. That stupid, dopey show of his sharp canines. His pupils blow wide. “Well, I certainly didn’t miss that attitude. And I had a gift for you! Shame you’re being so moody, I would’ve given it to you. But nooo, it’s another one of those ‘I hate HABIT’ days. So, oh well!” He says, shrugging.
A hint of intrigue hits you. You stir the salad and look over your shoulder once. “Please don’t tell me it’s another one of those decomposing rats. You know those stink after a few days.” You chide softly, recoiling internally at the memory. One of his sick ‘gifts’ to you on yours and Evan’s anniversary was a half eaten rat he had caught with an old mouse trap. How he even found out it was your dating anniversary was a mystery. You look back at your bowl as he lets out a sharp bark of laughter.
“No, no. It’s much, much better, sweetheart. I promise.” He drawls out, pushing himself up from his spot on the counter. He moves around the island. You, finally finished with preparing your salad, turn around and set it down at the island. You grab a disposal fork from a small bowl in the middle of the table and sit.
You wince as he plops down across from you on a stool at the kitchen’s island. The blood on him would definitely leave the metallic smell you worked so hard to get rid of again. You opened your mouth, but shut it quickly. There would be no reasoning with HABIT. He was impossible to have a normal conversation with anyway. It was quite literally woven in his DNA.
“Really now? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this is a step closer to domesticating you. You’re acting much more like a—“
A sharp laugh cuts you off before you can speak. “Eck-fucking ‘xcuse me? Did I just hear that right? ‘Domesticating?’” He asks sharply, rising to his feet in an instant. The stool he had been sitting off launches back, screeching against the marble kitchen floors. “Hah! Thats cute,” A small twitch in his left eye betrays himself.
“No, no, really!” The tension in the room spikes to a million as he takes slow, tantalizing steps toward you. Dark shadows cast over his face, his hat tilted at just the right angle to hide his eyes. You push up from your seat as well, a frown spreading on your face. He corners you, the sly smirk on his face abruptly dropping as his hand shoots out. His hands, covered in dried blood, grip your chin roughly as forces you to look at his eyes. He scoffs. “I think I’ve been feeding your ego way too much as of late. Wouldn’t you agree?” He asks, cooing at you mockingly. His brows furrow slightly as his fingers dig into the fat of your face. “You’re starting to forget who you’re dealing with. I’ve ripped limbs from men triple your size. And here you are. I’m letting you live, and you think that because I am, you can walk all over me,” He snarls out.
You shove him back harshly. He doesn’t budge. His grip only gets tighter. “I was joking! Gods!” You snap at him. His free hand flies to his pocket. After fumbling for a few moments, It is then you realize exactly what his gift was. A shiny, freshly sharpened butterfly knife. The metal glints under the yellowish lighting from the kitchen’s bulbs. The handle of the knife is a soft shade of mulberry, with small intricate designs welded into it. Your eyes blow wide as he stares at you, his eyes filled with a thirst for a reaction. Straight faced, pupils blown so wide you swear his eyes are pure black. To see you squirm under his gaze was everything. “Pretty girl, ain’t she? Stole ‘er from that 7/11 down the road,” he admits. No suprise to you. What in this house that did belong to him hadn’t been stolen? A gasp rips from your throat as he presses the cool metal against your cheek. He taps it against your skin twice. “Such a pretty little face. Would be a shame if I I just..” He trails off, letting his actions do the talking. The knife sinks in just enough to open a small enough wound to let a tiny droplet of blood leak. The pain is instant. Small, but definitely there. You inhale sharply, eyes squeezing shut. His warm breath fans against your face as he leans in. His tongue licks a clean stripe up the side of your face, lapping up the small droplets that came from your cheek. When he’s satisfied, he pulls back. Your cheek is left wet and warm, your own skin still tingling with the feeling of his rough tongue against your flesh.
“You really want to see what I’m capable of when I stop pretending to be nice, sweetheart?” He asks. He tilts his head as he studies your expression. The hairs on the back of your neck rise as your shoulders square; body tensed. He almost shivers in delight at your reaction. He can smell your fear. He thrives in it. The power trip it gives him is no short of his version of heaven. The knife goes to rest as his hand falls to his side idly. His regular, cocky smirk returns to his face. “Open.” He demands lowly, tapping your chin twice. You swallow as you hesitantly pop your mouth open. He hums in contentment as his fingers pry your mouth open even wider.
Your legs clench together instantly. He grins and spits into your mouth. His saliva mixes with your own, tastebuds thriving with his taste. His saliva is something distinctly him. Salty, tangy, and slightly bitter. “Swallow.” He commands, eyes watching every single move you make—down to the way you breathe. You follow his directions immediately, swallowing his saliva. His taste lingers in your mouth as he tucks the butterfly knife back into his pocket. The handle juts out from its position as his knee slots between your thighs.
“Nothing smart to say to me now, huh, sweetheart? A shame. That silver tongue of yours can get you in trouble, you know,” He says. A gasp admits from your throat as your hands fly out to grip the counter behind you, trying to grasp onto anything to keep you upright. “It’s not often that I see you with that fire. A spark every once in a while is unavoidable. But I’ve been letting it grow for far too long,” his hand finally releases your chin. You exhale for the first time in what felt like ages, but his knee grinding against your core tenses you right back up. A small, barely audible whimper slips from your mouth. Habits hands fly up to grip your waist, feeling you up. Your hands fly to the back of his shoulders. He groans lowly as he leans in, eyes meeting yours. His eyes search your own before he smashes his lips against yours, giving you no time to breathe in between kisses. The wet sound of your lips is the only thing you’re given time to focus on. Just as abruptly, he pulls away. He licks the sharp edge of his fang briefly before moving to lather your neck. He licks long, careful stripes down the side of your neck.
A sudden chomp elicits a deep moan from you. His teeth dig into your flesh, puncturing just enough to draw a tiny bit of blood. He hums lowly in appreciation as he laps it all up. Not a single drop escapes. “I’ve tasted so many other people, yet, none of them ever compare to you. God, your blood is fuckin’… addicting.” He says with a laugh. Your hands tighten on his shoulders.
Using his knee as leverage, he hoists you onto the kitchen island. The cool marble beneath your back makes you writhe. Your salad bowl, left untouched, skitters off to the floor. You have no time to grieve it as HABIT hooks his fingers into the elastic of your shorts. He lets one side snap harshly against your waist before he tugs it down—leaving you in nothing but your soaked underwear. His breathing turns heavy. Erratic. He climbs onto the island right after you—sending even more kitchen necessities off to the side. He looms over you, on his knees, expression nothing short of erratic and desperate. He throws his cap off to the side before diving in. He shoves his nose into your clothed slit, breathing your smell in. His tongue jots out, teasing you as he does small kitten licks. He tastes you; your sweat and slick. It’s addictive. It’s something worth worshipping.
Soft, broken little noises escape from your lips as you grip his hair, tugging at it in tufts. He groans against you, vibrations running up your spine and making you shiver in delight. On instinct, your thighs try to snap shut, but his hands wrap around your ankles and keep them dangling off the island. He looks up at you as he licks down your slit particularly slowly. He lets out a teasing chuckle. “What a fuckin’ mess. Nothing smart to say now, eh?” He coos. He retracts from your slit, hands flying up to strip your shirt off. He tugs it up and off in no time, throwing it off to the side with the other discarded clothes. His hands fly around your back, tugging the flimsy bra open. He would’ve cut it off if it had taken even just a bit longer.
HABIT gropes your tit, thumb rubbing small, teasing circles on your nipple. You moan as the small touch turns rough and ragged. He tugs on the bud, rolling it roughly between two of his fingers. Your back arches—but his hand flies to your stomach to keep you pinned. He tugs on the sensitive ball of nerves for a moment longer before pulling back. You’re barely allowed to get your gatherings before the sound of a belt unbuckling reaches your ears. Metal clanks beside your head; the familiar shape of the butterfly knife unmistakable in your peripheral vision.
You look up just in time to see him shoving his dirty jeans down his legs. His bulge is straining extremely tightly against his boxers; you can even make out his shape from here. You swallow roughly. He tugs his shirt over his head, revealing his bare chest and back to the cold kitchen air. His chest is littered with scars, old and new. The oldest ones are the smallest; skin already as healed as it can get.
He yanks his boxers down. His length jolts out, his tip already flushed an unnatural red, pre-cum leaking at the tip. He bites his lower lip as he smirks, his hand sliding down from your stomach to your soaked panties.
With a quick tug, he yanks them off of you—exposing your slit to the cold, kitchen air. Your toes curl. He gives you zero processing time. His hand slaps roughly against your mound, sending slick to fly in different directions. The sensation is stinging, rough, and harsh. But you can’t help the rush of warmth it brings you. “Look at you.. so fuckin’ soaked. Barely even touched you. What a slut.” His free hand moves to roughly grip your chin once more, forcing you to look at your twitching folds. His unoccupied hand snaps out, flying in a punishing slap once more. His palm connects with your folds, sending shockwaves of both pain and pleasure through your body. A sharp moan escapes from your lips. His hand continues to deliver the punishing slaps until he’s satisfied. Each one is rougher than the last, eliciting the same desperate, needy moans from your lips. By the time he’s content, your mound is flushed a soft red color, the skin irritated and roseate.
He finally lets go of your face, letting your head loll against the island’s marble surface. He hoists your legs over his shoulders, pressing you flush against him. On instinct, your legs lock around his neck for stability. He slaps his length against your slit multiple times, making a mess of your slit. He teases his tip against your hole, not yet letting you have your fill. He licks over his fang as he grins down at you. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. I’ll give it to you, nice and easy. All you’ve gotta do is ask,” he says, mockingly soft. He stares down at you with mock fondness. You grind against him desperately, craving the sweet, sweet friction. You let out a needy little moan. He’s torturing you; drawing this out for as long as he can. “F-fuck.. Habit, I need you. Need your cock. Please.” You beg. That seems to satisfy him, as it elicits a sharp laugh from him.
“Jesus, you’re fucking pathetic.” In a singular motion, he fills you to the hilt with his length. You gasp, hands flying out to grip whatever you can for stability. HABIT wastes no time. He drills into you, fucking you into oblivion. The bulge of his cock outlines against your stomach. He pants, hips slapping against yours with ferocity. You gush around him, your body trying to accommodate his size. He’s thick—and your body wasn’t given any prep time.
It feels like he’s splitting you open from the inside. You try to speak, but the sensations overwhelm you. He watches your legs fall limply to the side as he penetrates your hole over and over again. He shifts, his chest pressed flush against your own. He laughs at your fucked out face, his pace only getting rougher and quicker. “You’re gonna take every drop I give you, aren’t you? Look at you. Can’t even speak. So drunk on my cock.” He punctuates every word with a rough thrust, skin slapping against your own.
You can feel a familiar knot building up in your stomach. HABIT only goes harder. His thrusts are rough; harsh with no exceptions. The position change allowed him to explore more spots in your hole. One thrust in particular makes you see stars, letting out a loud mewl. HABIT picks up on this. He immediately shifts to that spot, pummeling into that sweet area. You squeeze around his length, and he growls lowly.
“Letting me fuck you while I’m covered in the shit from my victims. I’m tainting you, you know that? And you still let me fuck you, and this tight—shit,—hole.” He degrades, his face shoving into the spot between your shoulder and neck. He nibbles the skin roughly between his teeth, hips continuing their punishing pace.
His balls slap roughly against your ass as he drills into you over and over again, never letting up for even a second. Repeatedly, he fills you completely, pounding into that sweet spot that made you see stars. The dam that was your cunt came closer to gushing with each snap of his hips. And suddenly, your eyes flew wide, back arching as you came around his cock. You tightened around him like you were trying to milk him. His hips stuttered as he grunted loudly, spilling his own into you. His pace didn’t slow—no, if anything, he went just as fast, fucking you through your orgasm. Your arms fell limply against the island as your whole body shook with your release. His seed dripped down between your thighs as he took a moment to compose himself.
He grinned, his hand moving beside your head. His hand settled on the butterfly knife. In record time, you could feel him hardening again inside of you. You opened your eyes, looking down at your chest. He tilted his head at you, the cool metal running down your breast, knife running over your nipple teasingly. Fear shot through you. He licked his lips. He traced the outline of your breasts with the knife, drinking up every reaction you gave him. “Scared of me now? That’s a surprise. You weren’t scared when you were cumming around my cock,” He scoffs. “So what changed, hmm? So desperate to get your fill.” Guilt swirled in your gut, but it was quickly overshadowed by the thrill. You couldn’t help the rush of excitement that came with the adrenaline rush. HABIT noticed. Of course he did. He picked up on every little motion you’d make. Every reaction—every emotion, every change in your scent.
He hadn’t pulled out. Not yet. His cock was twitching inside you; craving the friction your walls gave him. He spit roughly onto your clit, saliva leaking down onto where his own cock had speared your hole open. He rubbed slow circles over the delicate pearl, teasing you with each motion. “Habit, please. Please. I’ve been so good. Please—give it to me,” you beg. One of his eyebrows quirk up. He smirks.
“Since you asked so nicely, what kind of guy would I be if I didn’t give you what you wanted?” He says in a faux-loving tone. He picks up his pace right where he left off. His hips drill right back into you, your folds greedily sucking him right back in. You moan loudly as he glides the knife back over your breast. The knife slides down your bare stomach, the metal sending small shockwaves down your spine as he reaches your clit. His thrusts slow. If anything, they turn deeper, like he’s trying to fill your stomach. He shivers in pure delight watching the metal flick against your clit. Fear and excitement rush through your veins, heart pounding with a mix of emotions. He uses the edge of the knife to tease the bundle of nerves.
He laughs, you look into his eyes. His pupils were blown wide—more than earlier. He wets his lips again. You moan as his hips drill harder into your hole. HABIT finally relents with the knife, letting it slide off to the side. He focuses on his punishing thrusts, picking up in speed every second.
You can feel your second orgasm building up. The sweet release comes closer and closer, finally knotting up into your stomach. Your eyes roll back into your skull as he pierced his cock into you over and over. He was so good; he made you feel so full. So complete. So intoxicating. And then, he pops right out, leaving you feel empty and desperate. Your eyes fly open, and you look at him. He bares his teeth, smirking.
“You want to cum? Be good for me,” He says, two of his fingers gliding up to your face and pushing past your lips. Without much thought, you swirled your tongue around his fingers, sucking on them with haste. He hums in contentment. He tastes salty—and something distinctly metallic. You grind against him, desperately chasing release. A sharp slap to your mound ceases you immediately. You whimper against his fingers, the sound sending vibrations up his arms. “No, no. You’ll cum when I let you. Understand me?” He asks, his fingers shoving down your throat. You gag at the intrusion, but he only curls his fingers. You nod vigorously. He pulls his fingers from your throat, now resting on your tongue. He thrusts the indexes down your throat over and over again, making you gag nonstop.
You whimper and moan. He doesn’t relent. He continues to drill his fingers down your throat, thriving in the way your spit glides down your chin and into a puddle on your breast. HABIT’s eyes are bleary and lust stricken. When he’s satisfied, he pops his finger from your mouth, licking them clean.
He finally pushes back inside you. He groans at the sensation, and you grip his shoulders. He drills into you violently, chasing his own release that had been building up incredibly fast. He fucks into you like it’s the end of the world. His cock intrudes and prods at every sensitive spot in your body, splitting you open with every thrust. You moan and mewl, hands clawing down his back as you try and stabilize your self. He pounds. Faster and faster every second. You hardly have time to even breathe, because every thrust knocks the air right out of you. He fucks you dumb, rendering you numb and drunk on him. He’s the only thing you can focus on. The only thing you remember.
He feels you clench around him, and he spills his hot, bubbling sperm deep into your womb. You let loose as well, gushing around his cock. You cry out, trembling as you ride out your orgasm. He pulls out, panting. His hair is sweat-stricken, sticking to his forehead. Your both messes of cum, sweat and spit.
He leans down, smashing his lips against yours. You kiss him right back. When the two of you finally pull back for air, he pants softly and teases you. “Not domesticated now, am I?” He asks, that infuriating teasing smirk never leaving his face. You almost facepalm, head falling back against the marble island.
“God, Habit. You’re so fucking annoying.” You say with mock annoyance. He laughs.
He slides off of you, walking over to the kitchen sink. He grabs a towel and cleans you off. Just enough to keep you happy.
Making jokes with HABIT can have its consequences. You know that now.
I was tired of bitty & bonbon shit so I wrote my own^^.. hope this is good! this is my like second time in 6 years writing smut lol.
