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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.”