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HABIT is disgusting. You don’t need to be told that.
He’s fucked you covered in blood, hands unable to keep their tight grip on your hips due to the slick red covering them. He’s masturbated over your sleeping form, leaving you to wake up with a mix of suspicious fluids on your skin and bed sheets. He has some… interesting methods for when you return to him smelling a little too strongly of someone else.
HABIT is, by its nature, an animal.
You’re reminded of that fact every time he’s near. Even if the body he’s in is human, the way he uses it is far from ordinary; he nips. He snarls. He scratches, crawls—all inhuman actions have already been seen by you or a previous playmate.
He thrives on your anger and frustration. He pushes where he shouldn’t. Says things that make your face hot just to see the tightening of your hands. Habit wants you to fight him. He wants to push his dumb rabbit into a corner so she has no option but to claw and bite her way out.
He gets this giddy, warm feeling in his stomach whenever he sees a genuine flicker of fear stumble onto your face as he chokes you out. He loves it when you tense beneath him when he presses his hunting knife to your throat. He gets this sick delight when you pick flight over fawn or fight. He likes it when you play your role as his prey.
To put it straight, seeing you on the verge of tears (or screaming, which only adds gas to an already blazing forest fire) gets him hard. It gets him right.
But it does get to a point.
One could argue it already has, but as Habit glares up from his spot beneath you, you’re reminded that this point is beyond vague and obscured. Time and time again, Habit blurs the already beaten line past all recognition.
And, normally, you let him. You enable his animalistic behaviour. You’d be lying if you said you were immune to Habit’s, well, habits. His mean streak has started to rub off on you.
Now, your learned behaviours are becoming very apparent.
Habit had set itself off again. You’re not sure what caused his rage this time, but he’s been more manic and frenzied than usual for the past half-week. Maybe he fucked up a kill. Maybe you looked at him wrong. Maybe he psyched himself up and couldn’t work himself down. If there’s two things you’ve learned from Habit is that there is seldom an understandable reason for his actions, and that you’re always Habit’s unique expression of frustration.
This time, he’s decided to paint you by his consummation of the fruits of your flesh.
It’s been bite after bite after bite with him. He tends to stay away from your arms and lower legs, but to show for the unpreferred locations are teeth-shaped wounds that bloom along any place he favours. Your inner thighs are sore, bites trailing dangerously close to your cunt. Your stomach is no better, although there are a few gaps in the less fatty parts. You’ve had to give up low-cut tops due to the abundance of puffy-edged wounds lining your chest and breasts.
Above all, your neck and shoulders have gotten it the worst. There is virtually no span of skin that remains healthy—shoulders marred beyond healing without scars, throat tinged with different shades of purple, red, and yellow. You cannot tell, and are frankly too afraid to ask, his reasoning. He growls and gnaws into your flesh, but minutes later, he is purring and making those quick and content clicking noises.
You equate it to him being snappy and unable to take out his full anger.
Habit, however, equates it to something more innate. It’s this compulsion he has from when he’s not in a human body, a vacuum behaviour from instincts that he has no current need for. Self-soothing, almost. He basks in the fresh rush of blood that pours from your neck. The feeling of it coagulating and getting sticky on his skin makes him tingle.
One of his hands always roots firmly in your hair and holds your head to the side and back as the other grabs your wrists tightly. There’s one ever-lasting bite-scarred wound on your neck—Habit’s ‘feeding’ spot. There, Habit feels the heavy, fast-paced beat of your carotid beneath his lips and tongue. Your pulse is beyond strong, thumping heavily against Habit’s fangs as Evan’s heart speeds up to match the tempo of yours.
He always mouths at the point. When he bites, he doesn’t unlatch until he feels your pulse stutter and ebb, body becoming more pliable as your vision turns to static. It was a form of trust, one that you weren’t fond of considering that it was getting insanely hard to hide the marks from co-workers and concerned friends. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep up with this non-stop teething phase.
You need to make Habit come to. You need to force him to behave.
If he wanted to act like a mutt, you were going to treat him like one.
A few years ago, you had an overly reactive dog who had trouble controlling his bite. A muzzle was an absolute necessity when you had to take him into social situations, and as you tilted the wire basket around in your hands, you realised that the solution for your problem had been tucked away in the foyer closet this entire time.
The piece was fairly dusty, but otherwise in great shape. With a quick one-over, you guess that it would fit on Habit. It looked wide enough, and if anything, the straps would be the problem point. Even then, you doubt Habit would care much about a snug fit, and instead assume he would focus all his anger on you.
Which, exactly as you thought, he did.
He spouted some very creative words before reducing to animalistic noises. He caught the meat of your palm alongside a few fingers when you tried to slot the muzzle against his face, and now your blood spots his hair and jawline. A bruise is starting to form on your cheekbone, given lovingly by Habit from when you struggled to tighten the buckles at the back of his head. His squirming and snapping didn’t help at all, but after a fair struggle, you’re able to relish in your work.
You’re slightly sweatier than before and take a seat on the sofa. Smirking to yourself, you look down at him. Habit’s just now shifting up to his knees—no doubt confused and pissed off— and he stays a half-foot away from you. The silver cage catches the dim light of your living room as Habit’s head tilts low, a deep scowl making itself prominent on his features.
The muzzle sits perfectly on him, and although the lower part of his face had been obscured by the nose padding, you couldn't help but think that this is what he was meant to look like.
You lean in, face about an inch away from the extended metal cage over his mouth. Habit’s hair is pushed up in all different directions, gently curling around the black leather straps. The strands are soft, if only a little damp with sweat, as you push the tips of your fingers behind his ears. Habit croons and pushes his head back as you press against the buckles of the muzzle. It’s a teasing action, and as your hands slip away, your nails dig roughly into the sides of his neck, just below where the muzzle rests.
Then, you lean closer, and Habit’s face tightens. Your cheek presses against his slightly obscured one, and you feel his muscles draw up into a snarl as he leans forward into your chest. You press your lips just below his temple before darting your tongue out to lick his salty skin. “You know, I’m starting to think that I’m too nice to you,” you murmur, “I feed you, I house you, I let you fuck me.” Shifting down, you nip at his jawline. It’s shallow, more show than substance. Amateur, no doubt. “And what do I get in return? Mauled?”
Habit tilts forward, “Oh, you think you’re nice?” A soft, breathy laugh escapes him, more a vibration in his throat than a sound. “Nah, you let me stay ‘cause you like the way I make you scream. You like that I bite, you just want it on your own terms.” His breath is light against your skin, accented by the press of cool metal through your shirt. Quietly, you can hear his nails dragging across the wooden floor. When you finally pull away, Habit’s eyes immediately find yours. They’re half-hooded, dark and observant.
You know this look—Habit’s odd calm before he eviscerates something. There’s a hungry appraisal in there too, caught in the way he holds your eyes before darting towards your neck. A predator considering its prey.
Habit’s head lifts alongside the corners of his mouth, curling up into a lazy smirk. Now, instead of looking up at you with a brooding glare, he was looking down the muzzle like a sniper would do. You knew he was sizing you up, and as his hands finally raised from their previous spots, you straightened. “You better keep your hands to yourself,” you hiss, “wouldn’t want those restrained too, hm?”
Instead of sitting back on his heels like you thought he would, Habit leans forward. He’s still beneath you, crouched in an animalistic pose, head tilted slightly. There’s a quiet series of clicks of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It’s a sound of contemplation, not submission. Habit’s smile widens, barely noticeable in the shadow cast upon his lower face. You don’t miss the way the corners of his eyes crinkle or the small furrow of his brows.
He doesn’t move his hands any higher up and instead turns them to show both sides, as if to say see? I know how to listen. “Might as well do it now. You know where I keep the handcuffs. I can wait,” Habit shrugs, "I got nothin’ but time. You’re the one on a clock, sweetheart.”
You don’t even have to think about it to decide against it. Mostly because you know that as soon as Habit’s out of your line of sight, he’ll rip the muzzle off, paying you back tenfold for his restraint. Habit seems to know that too, and with a small titter, he drops his hands back down to his thighs. “And you put me in this muzzle because, what?” Habit drones, head tilting a tad further. “You don’t want a wolf to bite? Then why have a wolf at all?” He chuckles, “But I know why. You don’t know what you are without me. Just tell me to stop next time, y’know?”
You blink, “You wouldn’t stop if I blew my brains out in the middle of a blowjob.”
Habit snickers huskily, “Yeah, probably, but it doesn’t hurt to say so.”
Rolling your eyes, your hand lifts from its spot on your thigh and laces itself with Habit’s hair, tugging him up onto his knees. You’re a little more even like this, faces almost on the same level, separated by an inch and a wire cage. Habit shifts his jaw, leather straps creaking quietly. The metal part that extends the length of his jawline and connects to the buckles is no doubt digging into his skin, nose padding chafing against the bridge of his nose. Habit murmurs something that you don’t care enough to catch, and instead, you smile sickly.
He hates it when you have that look.
Scooching forward so you now sit on the edge of the sofa, you extend a leg, pressing your shin between his legs. Habit’s eyes narrow as he studies the smug look on your face. You shrug, mimicking his carelessness. “If you wanna be seen as an animal so bad, then I’m gonna treat you like one.”
A grin of his own sprouts on his face, hands lifting from his thighs once more and coming to rest on the plush edge of the leather couch. The urge to lunge forward, to slam you down and tear off the muzzle, is a heady thought in his mind. He remains still, however, knees still pressed into the rug beneath you. “You’re more of an animal than you think you are,” Habit remarks, “did Evan know you were like this? I’m starting to think that you like little ol’ me more than you liked him.”
You fully expected him not to go along with your demands, to fight you in some regard. But Habit keeps his eyes trained on yours, tilting himself so he can properly push his half-hard cock against your leg. He groans when you tug on his hair, hips jutting forward with the dull spike of pain.
It’s moments like these where you really wonder where his depravity starts and personality ends. Half the time, you don’t know if there’s a difference between the two. Habit, in all his fucked-up glory, has undoubtedly done much, much more disgusting and vomit-inducing things compared to humping your leg.
It’s honestly on you for believing he wasn’t a whore.
The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare skin as Habit shuffles forward. His cock is fully pressed up against you like this, his short and shaky breaths highlighting each hump as he gets a little more aggressive. The end of the muzzle gets pushed against your cheek, pants dampening the metal and your skin. It didn’t take him that long to get fully hard, cock now throbbing every time he drags his hips back. His zipper catches on your skin and leaves thin red welts in its path, but as Habit growls against you, you can’t find a want to care about the scratches it’ll leave.
Habit doesn’t blink. He stares at you from the side of your face, fingernails puncturing the couch. He wishes that you could see what he was imagining. He wishes that you could imagine the pop of your ribs cracking beneath his hands, the sounds your throat would make when crushed, the glossy look in your eyes unchanging as he ravages your body for one of the final times.
Groaning loudly, Habit bears his fangs. “I can still taste your blood between my teeth,” he whines, “and when this stupid thing comes off—and it will come off—I’m gonna taste it again.”
You snort, “or I can make you keep that muzzle on.”
Habit hisses, teeth snapping together in want of your pliable flesh between them, “I’ll bash your fucking head in with it, then.”
“All I hear is an empty threat and a needy little bitch,” you spit the words, pushing your leg up in time with his rocks. Habit hisses, hands darting from beside your thighs to gripping your calf. His nails shove themselves into your skin, dull waves of pain spreading from the area. You hum in response and release your death grip from his hair, instead pushing the strands off of his forehead. It does little to stop them from slipping back down into his eyes. “Didn’t I say to keep your hands to yourself?” You scold. Habit snaps his teeth again, muzzle pressing even harder into you.
“Fuck keeping my hands to myself,” his voice overtones, louder and sharper than his other vocal distortions. “You wanted me to be an animal, so I’m being an animal. I’d tear your fucking throat out and eat it if it weren’t for this thing.”
“I’m sure you would,” you hum, wiggling your leg to try and get him to release it. It does nothing but make him moan, his face trying to press itself as close as it can to yours. Habit inhales, shoulders sharply rising as his body tenses. “What would you even do without me?” You tease, “Good luck finding another who will let you do all this shit.”
“It’s about time I get a new rabbit,” he teases, “I think you’ve forgotten that you’re supposed to run from a predator, not to him.” Distantly, Habit hears you tut. “Not even a mutt is this shameful,” you deadpan as Habit’s hips stutter, a loud groan coming from him as he cums. He doesn’t stop humping you until a few seconds after, and when he does, he slumps over into your chest.
Faintly, you can feel his heartbeat against you. One of his hands moved from your leg to your hip, bunching up your shirt and stretching it down as he lowered his head to press his sweaty forehead against your shoulder. He sits back on his haunches and backs away, moving down further to rest his cheek on top of your thigh.
“Have I been forgiven?” Habit asks, palm smoothing over your leg.
“Partially,” you hum.
“Good enough. Take this thing off of me,” he says.
You exhale with a small laugh and pat the top of his head.
“No.”
You’ll throw him outside with that muzzle still on and invite some friends over. He may be able to force your affection back with licks and nudges, but until then, he’ll be shunned like a dog that’s just chewed up your favourite pair of shoes. He’ll beg and sit by your door—front or back or bedroom—and will whine and claw. You’re sure if he had a tail on this body, it’d be tucked between his legs.
If there’s a third thing you’ve learned while dating Habit, it’s that dogs never learn until you force them to.
It was about time you domesticated him, anyway.