Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Oh my," the voice is sudden, unexpected beyond the pitch black of what you can only assume is a blindfold. It's almost sultry, damn near playful and you shudder at the off-kilter familiarity of it that's somewhat distanced from what you can remember. Footsteps thud across the floor and you know better than to feebly tug at the restraints you're kept in. That doesn't stop you from anxiously rubbing your wrists together behind the back of the chair, feeling the rope intricately woven around them. The voice speaks up again and this time, it makes you still, as it comes from just in front of your immobilized body. "You know this girl, do you? My, isn't that something?" 

Your throat is terribly dry, causing you to rasp thickly, "E-Evan, is that really you?" An imagine flashes in your mind- a boy, short but strong- and you want to find comfort in believing it's actual Evan doing this to you, but it's such an outlandish concept. The Evan you grew up with was sweet, making jokes as if it were as easy as breathing; he even helped you to the school nurse when you fell off the swingset in elementary school. So you couldn't fathom such a kind soul would do something as heinous as tie you up like a pig prepared for slaughter. Then you hear a laugh, something sickly and rumbling- a storm threatening to rip apart the sky. It's so opposite of Evan that you barely manage to choke down the shriek attempting to climb its way from your lips. 

The man masquerading as Evan rests his hand upon your face. Immediately you recoil, retching, at the gross, wet feeling accompanying his touch. He continues chuckling as he takes back his hand, amusedly commenting, "You're a pretty thing, aren't ya? Evan ain't the brightest bulb of the bunch, but he sure knows how to pick 'em, [Y/N]." Your head whips around at your name, desperately seeking out a face through the blindfold. "That is your name, right? [Y/N]? Oh, but I'm being rude, never been the best host," a startled yelp escapes you as the blindfold is whipped from your head. He pays little mind, coolly offering himself, "I'm HABIT, and the pleasure's all mine." 

Evan stands before you but you know that's not Evan, not really. And it's not just the dangerous glint in his dark eyes as they shine in the dim lighting of the sparsely filled attic-like room that you find yourself in- it's the blood that slicks his skin in icy scarlet. His head is tipped slightly to the side, mocking a confused child, blood-clumped strands of shaggy hair brushing over the broad span of his shoulders. Evan's filled out well. A soft blush warms your cheeks at the thought and you chide yourself for thinking such a thing. The thing that was covering your eyes is still in his hand, and it was not a blindfold, but instead a shredded part of an old t-shirt. 

"Now, I bet you're wondering why you're here," he suggests, seeing through your silence. You blink coyly up at him, unsure of how to approach the situation. You're looking at someone who is most certainly Evan- lopsided grin and all- but as to who it is that you're talking to, that has you utterly perplexed. "Well, I actually don't have a good answer for that," there's such an air of nonchalance to him that it begins to irk you, gritting your teeth as he continues to prattle on, "However, it doesn't appear like you're terribly concerned right now. In fact, it would seem to me, to Evan even, that you are quite comfortable. You aren't worried one bit, sweetheart, why is that?"

"Evan would never hurt a damn fly," you spit venomously. HABIT appears to find it funny, amused by the crack in your voice, because he makes a quiet huff, like a passive laugh.

HABIT cocks an eyebrow, as if entertaining your words, before supplying coldly, "Technically, [Y/N], you're right. He hasn't hurt a fly, not quick enough for that. But, these hands of his- good, strong hands- they've done some vile things. To both other people and to himself. I'll admit that I operated him like a puppet to kill people, yes. But he's done things to himself, some rather...raunchy things especially, all on his own. Quite frequently to the thought of you, I'll add. I'm sure you can figure out what I'm talking about, Evan seems to think you already have. Thinks you're pretty smart. 'Course, if you were really really smart, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?" You know it's meant to get a rise out of you, make you react- all of the things that are being told to you in this sufficiently awkward situation- but you can't help but focus on the fact that Evan apparently touched himself to the idea of you. The thought makes a breathy groan slip through your lips, unbidden. A certain level of attraction can be admitted, you knew that you found an unexplainable desire for Evan throughout the years. It doesn't help the warmth coiling in your stomach as you look at Evan, this HABIT, that stands before you. 

Your breathing quickens as HABIT leans down, scorching tongue promising to leave burns on your ear as he growls playfully- you hate that it's so obvious that he's having funny with this, toying with you, "You seem to like some of that more than others. Have you touched yourself to the thought of him, Evan?" Biting your lip, you hope that the flush painting your skin in warmth isn't that noticeable, but something about the way HABIT shuffles around you, standing contiguous to your back. Slowly your thighs try to push together, fighting the bonds tethering your ankles to the legs of the chair. A hand swiftly locks into your hair, HABIT cruelly yanking his fist so your head whips to the side, crying out sharply as he darkly hisses, "I asked you a question, [Y/N]. It's in your best interest to not make me ask twice."

In your chest, you can feel your heart thudding against the fragile branches of glass ribs. Quietly you whisper, eyes fluttering shut in embarrassment, "Yes. Yeah, I have." It's a confession that doesn't feel honest despite being the truth. HABIT clicks his tongue, unreadable, but he releases his iron hold on your hair and you right yourself in the chair. HABIT strokes your hair fondly, humming to himself a song that you're unable to recognize. A quiet sound bubbles out of you as HABIT presses himself tighter to your bound form, unbidden your fingers find purchase in the coarse fabric of his jeans. Your throat tightens as your fingers grope blindly, feeling the hardened mass that swells under your touch. It's not that you meant to find it, anything really, you just wanted to steady yourself. Unconsciously your knees rub together, trying to ignore the pleasant warmth that dances in your lower half. HABIT steps back just a bit and you're left creepily colder, fingers curling in empty air. 

"Silly girl," HABIT coos , breath hot on your neck and it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to not whine as the glacial teeth of what you bitterly assume to be a knife tenderly caresses the inside of your bound wrists. "Didn't your parents ever tell you that pretty little rabbits like you shouldn't play with big bad wolves like me?"

For a short while, you hold out on answering, a sorry attempt at defiance but it makes you feel a bit of power in the moment. That is, until you screech out, thrashing lamely in your bonds when the knife is plunged into your palm. It burns like hell, pain searing red as it covers you entirely, all too eagerly to tempt into drowning in it. You try to keep still, responding as calmly as possible, desperately hoping that HABIT doesn't notice the slight quiver to your words, how your chest heaves, "What makes you think I'm the rabbit in this situation?" The wetness of what has to be your blood seeps down your clenched digits- it makes you a bit dizzy as you swear you hear it dripping onto the hardwood floor under your feet.

The knife pauses for a moment before disappearing altogether, you bite your lip so hard to keep from screaming as it's ripped out of your palm that your lip bursts under the pressure. HABIT laces his fingers into your hair once again, only this time, he's uncharacteristically gentle as he tilts your head to expose the soft skin of your neck. The collar of your shirt has slid over through this ordeal, leaving a large portion of your shoulder and collarbone vulnerable. "Never would've pegged you to be one for wit, [Y/N]," HABIT muses conversationally, "unfortunately, you are the rabbit. Because I'm always the wolf." You shiver as he untangles his fingers from your unkempt hair.

A yelp escapes you as the knife returns, this time slipping just under your skin to saw along the subtle hollow of your collarbone. You suck in a shaky breath as the sticky heat of blood pools in the divot of flesh, overflowing to trickle down to stain your shirt crimson. Warmth spreads across your cheeks, some perverse reaction to the danger of the situation, but you could play it off as adrenaline. However, the burning dampness between your legs? That's not so easily dismissed, especially as you're rubbing your thighs together, searching for something, anything.

"You're excited, rabbit."

It's phrased and delivered as a comment, an observation, but you only have known it to be an inquiry so you grit your teeth, mistakenly trying to seem as if though resisting HABIT. HABIT finds it rather humorous and chuckles, releasing his hold on your hair and immediately delving long fingers down the front of your body. The thin material of your shorts molds cleanly against the soft plane of your pelvis, a low whine seeping from your lips as calloused fingertips curl into your damp core, held back only by now slick underwear and the shorts you wear around the house. HABIT traces the mound of your arousal, adding pressure as he continues, drawing short, sharp breaths from you. He stops as suddenly as he started, but he keeps his hand settled between your legs. Any attempt you could make to deny the truth would be so obviously false, not only because of the way your hot core throbs against coy fingers but also because your voice would quiver, tremble with the lightness of lust.

HABIT prowls around, tactfully keeping his lithe digits held to your soaking entrance to feel every humiliating pulse of want, until he's able to gracefully squat in front of you, before sliding easily onto his knees. It's something wholly erotic to see him, Evan, like this. Glistening with blood, possibly your own, and dark eyes alive with unfathomable hunger, even in his depraved, forsaken state, he looks godly. Quietly you moan at the sight. In your chest, your heart thunders maddeningly as HABIT drags the knife down your chest, right between the soft swells of your breasts, catching on the fabric of your shorts. The sharp teeth of the knife snag and cut through, exposing the tender skin of your thigh. With blatant disregard, HABIT tears the shredded fabric from your body with a brilliant smirk as they are tossed carelessly aside. Instinct tells you to close your legs and you do, greeted with a distasteful tongue click.

Too easily your knees spread for HABIT, a scarlet-stained palm resting on your lower thigh. You feel the cold bite of the knife against your calf as it's gripped cruelly. "Would've thought that you'd be one for boxers in all honesty," comments HABIT with a playful lilt to his words. A flush claims your neck, dripping down to mingle with the ruby blood staining your throat, as you listen, uselessly trying to test your eviscerated hand by clenching your fingers. As a hand slithers up between the sanctuary of your open thighs, breathy mewls rush forward from your chest while long digits toy with the sweet heat pooling in your stomach, showing brazenly through the last layer that clings salaciously to you. "But these definitely work for you," HABIT growls, causing you to whimpers as he takes a moment to slowly pet you through your panties, thin fabric turned sheer as your pussy greedily drinks from HABIT's bountiful hands.

Scaling up your leg, it takes mere moments for the knife to slice through your underwear- even less time for HABIT to rip them from your body. He runs the tip of his knife across the juncture of your hip, the pressure just enough for you to gasp as the sickly warmth of blood trickles down the crease of your thigh to pool onto the chair. Tipping his head to the side, an innocent grin, dastardly out of place but oh so beautiful, makes it's way onto his face as he pulls back just enough. You shiver as cold air caresses the full lips of your soaked arousal. Almost shyly you meet his eyes, only to flinch as he stares deeply at you, gaze unwavering as he plunges the blade deep into the floorboards.

With inexplicable deftness, HABIT wiggles a hand behind your knees, and you give a sharp yelp as you're suddenly pitched forward. The taut muscle of Evan's HABIT's bicep is nestled almost comfortingly against the back of your knee, a firm support that keeps you from pulling away. With your hands still tied behind the chair, the cords of sinew straining in your arms scream as you're manipulated into a slanted pose. Your neck rests awkwardly on the back of the chair, the unforgiving plastic pinching vulnerable flesh. The length of your body is forced into a sloped position, supported only by the skin of your neck and your feet, still tethered to the legs of the chair. It's safe to say that you've never felt so exposed before in your life.

If HABIT has any quarrels wth the trimmed hair crowning your wet arousal, he makes no indication of it as he traces his mouth along the inside of your upper thigh. The pale glow of his skin grows taut as HABIT's neck elongates, mouth meandering up your inner thigh as if in idle chat. It's blood- it has to be, you saw it on his face earlier- that wets your skin and you gasp at the sticky sensation, surprised. Chapped, rough lips curl into a vicious smirk against your flesh. The arm clasping your knees to his chest slithers out partially, only to curl around one leg, trapping it with almost pitiful ease. A soft whimper breaks through you as a rugged hand careens up your other calf, forcibly pulling your knees wide apart and revealing the supple, soaked lips of your nether regions. HABIT trails molten kisses along your skin, resting his arm alongside your inner thigh to keep you from closing yourself off. 

"At least he has half of a brain, picking a girl who can take care of herself," HABIT passively comments, entirely disconnected from the reality of the situation he's in. A sputter of indignant protest rises to your lips but it dies quickly- as quick as HABIT's tongue can work. Embarrassingly loud is the stuttered moan that all too eagerly erupts from your chest which pushes to the overhanging light, tugging at your bonds pathetically. He runs an ungodly long tongue through the wet lips of your pussy and there's no suppressing the shudder that runs along your spine like electricity, whipping your body about as HABIT doesn't appear concerned enough to keep you steadied. 

Calloused fingertips rise to meet the smooth apex of your hip, where it meets the cradle of your thighs, exploring soft skin religiously. Skitting along your skin, HABIT's fingers fan out over the subtle rise of your hipbone as it kisses just beneath your flesh, but his thumb brushed against the tip of his nose, buried into your pelvis. Warbles of breathy cries crawl out of your uplifted chest as he playfully teases aside one of your labia. Your knees jerk spastically when the warm, wet chasm of HABIT's bloodied mouth easily molds over your quivering pussy, unholy tongue flicking out to greet your defenseless clit fiercely. Immediately your chest pushes up, arms screaming in protest in their bonds, as your hips roll back, avidly seeking more of HABIT's debauched attention. Hunger drives HABIT but HABIT's tongue drives you- steering you recklessly, perfectly. Tact might not be his strong suit; however, it would definitely appear that determination 

Hunger drives HABIT but HABIT's tongue drives you- steering you recklessly, perfectly. Tact might not be his strong suit; however, it would definitely appear that determination is not something which he lacks as he almost casually drives his tongue into you. Both of HABIT's hands manage to find their way under your thighs. Fingers dig into the smooth globes of your ass, bitten nails staking a claim as HABIT holds you up, elbows butting against your inner knees to keep them knocked open. You writhe in your bonds, adamantly trying to keep from screaming as you're subjected to an overload of sensations. Unbidden, your hips all too eagerly work themselves back onto his bitter tongue as sharp, choppy groan exalt from pitched lungs. 

Darkened eyes meet yours, eclipsed by something sinister, maleficent- beautiful- as HABIT rears back slowly, breathy squeaks escaping you at the feeling of his teeth digging into the tender flesh of your labia and giving a quick tug. His mouth is slick with his saliva, shining as he smirks cattily up at you. "Enjoyin' yourself, sweetheart?" He drawls, voice thick and deep, rolling off of his tongue like ocean tides and you wish you weren't struggling to keep your head above water. You resign yourself to gathering your breath. HABIT simply shrugs, riding his teeth along the smooth flesh of your inner thigh, nipping carelessly and leaving small patchwork designs of discolouration behind in his wake. 

The velvety tip of HABIT's unfairly long tongue slowly slips inside of you again, wetting your already slick walls. But it might as well have been his fist because it punches the air from your lung- choking out the fire in your chest while stoking the coals burning low in the destroyed muscles in your hand. HABIT must be rather enjoying this experience in some perverse way because you can feel his cocky smirk as his lips mould to your body. His eases long fingers between you, spreading your labia once more to tease the vulnerable, sensitive nub of your clit with his thumb. You tense and whine pitifully, hips working feverishly back down onto his mouth. 

His nose butts against the smooth plane of your lower abdomen as he, for lack of a better word, kisses into you- slow and sure. Silence has been his ally throughout most of this endeavor, but HABIT's got a mouth that runs like it's preparing for a marathon. A guttural, animalistic moan warms you further and you whimper, flushing as you think that perhaps, deep down, Evan is able to enjoy this as well. Feathered locks of hair brush against your pelvis and as the hands under your body gently knead the full, rotund globes of your backside, you find it increasingly difficult to breathe while you ride his viable face hard.

You bellow fiercely as your orgasm sweeps through you, the already tight walls off your arousal clamping down on HABIT's still searching tongue- seemingly ever eager to push you to an edge sharper than any blade you could fathom, an analogy that is highly inappropriate for the situation. He continues to passively lick into your pulsing arousal, diving into the cresting waves headfirst, and you shiver as his eagerness soon develops into discomfort, pain-laced pleasure that rocks slowly deeper. You cry out indignantly when he finally relinquishes his anchor to you, jaw slick and so undeniably erotic. HABIT's eyes are burning hot, flames crackling in the night, as he settles his chin on your thigh for a moment to catch his breath. Your slick dribbles onto your thigh and you whine quietly at the feeling.

You can only imagine what's to come as he staggers to a stand- lips and chin glistening with your essence. His face is flushed and there's no denying the bulge tenting the front of his pants, presented almost cockily to you as HABIT smirks at you, the soft huffs of air you both are taking mingling together to create some perversive harmony. There's some uncharacteristic tenderness in his touch as he knots lanky fingers into the loosened strands of your hair, your head tilted back just enough to make it uncomfortable. HABIT bends forward until he's just out of your range, so you can't lurch and force your mouths together.

A glint of silver matted with blood flashes in the corner of your eye but it's too late to scream- the razor bite of the knife gliding easily across the smooth column of your neck, finding purchase in delicate, pliable flesh. It's a sudden, sharp sting but what's happened is unmistakable. Blood cascades down your skin, staining you scarlet. Gasps sputter out of your mouth, rivers of blood bursting from your lips. Fingers slide from your hair, toxically sweet as they caress your scalp for a moment before disappearing altogether. Breathing becomes painful, the whites of your eyes surely shining in the low lighting of the room, and you see a flash of pride- grotesque and damn near prodigious- in what were once the vast moons of Evan's own eyes. And for a split moment, it's not your serrated throat that feels shredded but instead the weakening organ in your chest, your heart swallowing itself in an attempt to keep alive. 

There's something malicious sparkling in the vast galaxies of Evan's HABIT's eyes as he squats down beside you, tenderly stroking the cooling flesh of your color-drained cheek. As he speaks, there's no sense of remorse in his voice- just a tainted casual air, mockingly easy. 

"Nothin' personal, [Y/N]. You were good, something nice for my boy Evan. But you understand, right? Give a dog too many treats and he'll come to expect them."