riot

Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.

Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.

What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.

Steve glances down.

You’re asleep.

Completely asleep.

Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve blinks once.

“…seriously?”

You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.

Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.

Interesting.

The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.

You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.

“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.

“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”

“Hm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.

Your shoulders loosen immediately.

Another few minutes pass.

Then, nothing.

No response to his last comment. No movement either.

Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.

Dead asleep.

Again.

Still sitting upright between his legs.

Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.

“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.

By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.

Especially because Steve starts testing it.

Not maliciously.

Scientifically.

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”

Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.

“Doing what?”

“The hair thing.”

“What hair thing?”

“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.

Because it really is absurd.

You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says.

You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”

Steve loses it completely at that.

You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.

After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.

Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.

The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.

And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.

On the couch.

In bed.

Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.

Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.

“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”

“She was literally talking.”

“Yeah?”

“And now she’s unconscious.”

Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.

Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.

“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”

Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s associated you with sleep now.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”

“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”

“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.

Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.

There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.

Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.

That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.

Which is why he tries not to.

Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.

You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.

“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”

Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault you’re always sleepy?”

“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”

The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.

You notice immediately, even half asleep.

“What?”

Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Steve.”

His fingers slow slightly in your hair.

“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”

Your expression softens immediately.

Because there it is.

The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.

Steve likes being trusted.

Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.

The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.

You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.

Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.

“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”

Your lips twitch.

“Me falling asleep?”

“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”

Something warm twists painfully through your chest.

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.

Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.

Dangerous.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”

“You’re literally weaponising affection.”

Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.

“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.

“No I’m not.”

“You just blinked for like six seconds.”

“That means nothing.”

Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.

“You’re done for, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Then immediately yawn instead.

Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.

It does absolutely nothing.

Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.

And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.

𝐃𝐲𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐮𝐨 ➽──────────────❥

Why Do You & Him Work? ✰ .ᐟ

Habit’s view of you is… interesting, to say the least. He is sadistic and full of malice to his very core, and there is nothing on earth that could change that fact. Not even you.

However, the way he goes about it is different when it comes to you. For whatever reason, you fascinate him, enthral him in a weird, kind of useless way. And because of that, everything he does to you is increased tenfold on his behalf.

In his head, tugging your hair and hearing you yelp is equivalent to gutting someone and hearing them scream. Both acts give him the same amount of pleasure, and if they were put on a physical scale, they would be even.

Habit is basically micro-dosing on your suffering. If he wanted to chain you up somewhere, torture you with different knives, and break your spirit after months of psychological warfare- he would. It wouldn’t even make him blink, and he’d do it in a heartbeat if he had an itch that day.

The thing is, he just doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t need to. Doesn’t have to go to extremes to get that rush. He can get the same feeling that comes with stripping the humanity away from some poor civilian- from simply knocking a drink out of your hand.

Tripping you just enough to make you stumble forward, or giving you a forehead flick hard enough for you to scowl. Push his hand away with an irritated whine, and he’ll laugh. Not because this is a cute couple moment, but because you’re mad at him. You, in that moment, were irritated.

He can see it on your face, the way your expression contorts in annoyance and disdain. That is what gives him his rush.

In any other situation, you would’ve been long dead. It’s something not even he understands, whether by coincidence or sheer luck- he doesn’t get the urge to maim and slaughter when he looks at you.

And he found out with time that he couldn’t keep you constantly unhappy either.

After a period of persistently doing things that he knew you’d hate, he found himself strangely bored. Yet, he still didn’t want to kill you, even the idea of it seemed bland to him.

Therefore, hatched Habit’s Plan of trial and error.

He’d tried being consistently an asshole, so what if he was consistently decent? Well, by his standards, anyway. Weeks of him sparing you the tiniest speck of the bare minimum- and he was still bored.

He debated psychological torture, but eventually settled on trying the half-and-half method first. And that right there was his sweet spot.

He’d be good to you one day, then shove you around the next. It was a guessing game, and that’s what made it fun for him. Never going too far, because once again, he didn’t need to. It’d be pointless.

A waste of time to push you past your breaking point, and then your dynamic with him would change. Which meant your reactions would change, and he couldn’t have that, now could he?

ᯓ★

𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐑𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐳𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 ➽────────❥

How Do You Fit Into His World? ✰ .ᐟ

Meeting you on a whim, he had just decided he liked you. Maybe it was your tone, or your nervous fidgets, but none of that mattered. His sights were set on you; that had to mean something. A once-in-a-millennium chance, you were his since you’d gained a heartbeat.

Habit, in no way, shape, or form, believes you are his equal. That being said, what he feels for you is as close to “fondness” as he could ever possibly get.

He doesn’t experience emotion the way humans do. Habit physically does not possess the capability to care about anything or anyone more than he cares for you. It’s simply that his “love” will always be different from what you are used to.

If everyone on earth were a bug, or critter to crush and pick apart- you would be his pet rabbit.

An animal, sure, but one that was taken care of. Chosen, in a sense. He thinks -knows- you’re not the same as him. On the same level as him, but he sort of likes that about you. It’s not your fault you were born with a stupid human brain, with your weak body and fragile mind.

The way people look at dogs. They could mourn their dogs, grieve and love their dogs- but at the end of the day. To most, they are still dogs.

You don’t really ask your puppy if he wants a blue collar; you give it to him and expect him to like it. Because he doesn’t know better, because he is an animal. And you are the one holding the leash.

Still, despite knowing he is technically useless, you keep him anyway. Throw things like cheese slices at his face, and find joy in his distress. In the grand scheme of things, it’s harmless.

He’s only panicked because he doesn’t understand. He is only a puppy, after all. It’s endearing when he does dumb things, so naive to everything, it’s as charming as it is pitiful.

That is exactly how Habit sees you, how he digests your ‘relationship.’

You’re free to call him your boyfriend- he doesn’t care. It’s a word; it means nothing to him. It just appears to please you, and he needs balance for when he inevitably pisses you off again, so have at it.

He doesn’t think about the romance aspects of it; he just does things because you’ve talked about them. And it’s not like he minds seeing you enjoy yourself; you are still his pet bunny. And that means he has to pamper you at least a little.

Just like with animals, you can’t always neglect and shun them away with cruelty. Or else they’ll turn aggressive or mute.

The choices were: withering away from mental strain far too heavy for their minds to handle, or start biting the hand that feeds.

Either way, it was incredibly stale. Repetitive and bleak, the only reason it’s fun to mess with animals is because of the change. Your empty-headed pet wobbles adorably like a newborn deer, all because you’d sprayed water on the floor. You’ll scoop the thing up and console it softly. Even though you’re the one at fault.

Habit does the same with you, and it works without fail every time. He’ll yank on your hair, pinch your ass as you walk past, or randomly insult you vaguely. Then, when you turn around to yell at him or cry- he’ll kiss you.

The rare display of initiated affection stuns you, and you get that stupid little expression on your face. Lips parted, with your pupils dilated. Hands pawing at his chest with your dumb doe eyes. He has so much power over your subconscious, it’s comical. He finds it almost… cute. Almost.

ᯓ★

𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 ➽────────────❥

Love Languages & What They Mean To Him ✰ .ᐟ

Technically, he doesn’t have one. He more so just adapts to be whatever to appease you. But if we get down to the nitty-gritty, it’s acts of service and physical touch.

Habit would never vocalize what he wanted from you in your non-typical relationship; he simply takes things and expects you to memorize why.

Acts of service for him work slightly differently. Usually, people do these meaningful services for their partners without them having to ask, but with Habit’s “lifestyle.” That has often proven itself to be quite difficult; on top of that, he’d rather tell you what to do straight up.

If you want to be a good little bunny, you’ll wait for him to give you a direct order. It’s easier that way, then you can do your stupid couple shit, and he gets what he wants.

In return, you get affection.

He’s not cuddly, but head pats are decently frequent. They’re fast and require little to no effort, and they also seem to boost your mood quite quickly. So, win-win.

If you’re too down in the dumps for his liking- bad day and you are not giving him the right reactions, he knows he has to replenish your brain before doing what he wants to do. Pets are so fickle.

You’re sleepy, and sad, and not looking at him because you’re too busy being boring. He’ll slide up next to you on the couch, tutting under his breath, annoyed. Why aren’t you being all weird and touchy like usual?

Then it hits him- rabbits are fucking stupid. And can never solve their own problems. Which means he has to use his secret weapon, his never-failing, mighty trump card.

Bringing up a hand, he’ll start by brushing back the strays covering your face. Running his fingers through the strands before settling a large palm on your head. Ruffle your hair, and like the simple-minded thing you are, you’ll giggle. Does it with a straight face, too. He already knows it’ll work.

As expected, you throw yourself at him with a whine of his name. Start clinging to him as you usually do, and he’ll groan like you’ve burdened him. That’s a part of the act, though. All to see how your face twists up this time.

Habit doesn’t initiate domestic affection unless it’s strategic. However, he won’t stop you if you do.

If he’s not busy, you’re free to hold his hand, hang off of his arm, or hug him from behind. He isn’t excited, exactly, but he knows you need it.

That your little bunny brain will get sulky if he doesn’t let you cling to him, so he’ll roll his eyes and keep you close. For the sake of balance, your low can’t really be a low unless you’ve soared, right?

He doesn’t need rest the way you do. Your problem? You loved to nap and sleep.

Curl up in a sunspot under the windowsill, snoring the day away. That made it easy to keep you satisfied, though. So really, he couldn't complain.

Habit also has a habit of pinching your cheeks. A drive-by face squish, and he’ll walk off like he was never there to begin with. It worsens when you’re sappy or you’ve dressed up for him. Rambling about some cheesy date you planned.

It makes his hands twitch. Initially, he thought you’d invoked wrath in him the way everyone else did- but picturing it didn’t feel as good as he’d thought. He grabbed your head like a basketball. Shaking you a little seemed to do the trick.

That feeling is recurrent, though, much to his chagrin. When your eyes get big, and you stare at him like he’s hung the stars in your name. How foolish of you to believe he could ever love at all.

You’ll cuddle up to him, kiss his jaw, and laugh. He doesn’t know why you get away with doing these things; to this day, he still hasn’t figured it out.

But he’ll let you anyway, and he’ll keep letting you until you leave this earth once and for all.

Just because.

ᯓ★

𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐦 ➽──────────────❥

The Down & Dirty ✰ .ᐟ

Kinks on kinks, you think he has a problem. When you had told him you were ready for sex- his entire face lit up like a child on Christmas day. Running his tongue along his teeth as he pinned you beneath him, chuckling at every sound you made.

“What? Somethin’ bothering you? Don’t tell me you’re brain dead already.”

Mocking, while he pounded roughly into you. Habit degrades like no one's business, calling you a dumb whore for letting him have you like this. His hips are even meaner than he is, snapping against your ass, his hand pressing your back into a crystalline arch.

Spits on your tongue when you open your mouth to beg for mercy. A real nasty bastard too, thumb digging into the fat of your ass and fucking you from behind. He’ll spread you, roar with laughter when you whine about being embarrassed.

Tell him not to look, and he’ll make you take it over the mirror. Thrives off your humiliation, when you’re so far gone you can’t even speak. Leaving welts on your thighs, bruises in the shape of his hands- he loves it all. Branding you to the point it’s undeniable.

“Keep it in your mouth or I’ll break you, understand?”

Control, control, control. Habit gets off on authority, being able to see step by step how you submit is one of his favourite parts. That being said, he’ll make you do nearly gross and impossible tasks, and half the time, he knows you’ll lose.

Uses your throat and orders you not to swallow, and he’ll edge you for hours. Expects you to keep your mouth shut, hold his cum on your tongue while he plays with you to his heart's content. He’ll flip you suddenly, press your ankles by your ears, and fuck his whole weight into you.

Habit will shove his fingers under your tongue, mixing the saliva and seed together with a smile on his face. Prodding around your mouth, toying with you just so you gag- it feels borderline violating.

If you succeed, he’ll throw your legs over his shoulders, fill you to the brim as you claw at the sheets. Going until you pass out, round after round, you barely remember your own name by the end. The pleasure is ruthless and never-ending, you cum so hard it hurts, and he’s still not done.

If you fail, well. Better pray you don’t, because the sadistic side he hides (well enough) from you finally has the chance to shine. He’ll force you to ride him, refusing to lift a finger while you do the work. Pinching you hard enough to bruise, and he’s very cruel about it.

Buys you plugs to tug on, accessories, and collars for you to crawl around in.

“Move your hips, cotton tail- you wanna’ see what happens if I have to tell you again?”

Watches you bounce, desperately chasing your release. Salt streaming down your cheeks as you hiccup, you’ll claw at his bare chest, pleading for anything. It’s been over four hours, and he hasn’t let you cum once.

Making you rock your hips on shaky legs, and he’s lying comfortably below you. Arms over his head and tucked under the pillow.

Then he’ll abruptly plant his feet firm and slam you down. The pace he sets whites out your vision entirely, you’re drooling so much it dribbles onto his skin. You can’t talk, can’t think, letting out nothing but breathy little “Ah-ah-ah-”s. Your limbs go limp, and you collapse; it makes him snort.

Body jolting with each thrust, all you can do is lie there and take it. Being stretched open on his cock over and over again. It’s not his fault, you just look best when you’re crying, pretty with fat tears collecting at your lashes.

Ripe enough to eat.

ᯓ★

𝐏𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐤 ➽──────────────❥

The Aftercare ✰ .ᐟ

Surprising everyone, Habit does not just throw a rag at you and call it a day. He’s not the most tender lover, but he is aware enough to understand the toll that it would take on your psyche. After he nearly kills you with his dick, he’ll groom you the way kittens do.

That’s how he justifies the care in his head. He is being a good owner and fulfilling his role well. If he doesn’t, he’ll have broken you beyond repair, and that would make him irresponsible.

The mortal mind is pathetically weak; if he doesn’t offer you at least something to hold onto, you’ll freeze up.

Retreat into your thoughts and dissociate more and more with time. Then he’d lose you, no more reactions, no more fun. You’d be a walking corpse with no purpose. Useless to him, and he was very doubtful that he’d find another “You.”

Wiping down your legs half-heartedly, just enough that your skin is less sticky. And he almost one-hundred-percent made you cry, making the chemicals in your brain swan dive when he got off of you.

This is when you’re the most fragile. The most moldable, which means he has to be careful. Skin on skin is an easy option, in his opinion; he doesn’t need to do much except lie you down on his chest. It also works the fastest when he pushes you slightly too far.

Your full body trembles, not fading completely when he finishes cleaning you- and he knows he’s overwhelmed you. That he’s been too mean.

Still hiccuping quietly, he’ll gather you up in his arms, holding you flush. Have you listen to his heartbeat till your breathing evens out.

Habit isn’t the greatest at comfort; the best you’ll get is a mumbled “Stop crying, you’re acting like I fucking hate you or something.” Or “I’m here, you’re fine.” As he trails his touch over the purple that blooms across your flesh.

It’s the softest he’ll ever get. The most genuine he’ll ever be.

ᯓ★

➽──────────────❥

Now Playing: Friday, March 28th. Approximately 12:48 AM. ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

On his third victim of the night, with dark red splattered up his forearms, when you knock on the basement door. It was almost one in the morning, so why the fuck were you awake?

Straightening up, he wipes the back of his hand across his forehead. Sighing, “Sorry, I gotta’ get that- would you mind holding on?” And he’s sure the guy would respond if he could.

Tied to a chair, with a hunting knife, struck right through his left thigh. His mouth duct-taped as he sobbed, pathetic. Not your kind of pathetic, yours was easy on the eyes- and this fucker was one unfortunate-looking son of a bitch.

Made him miss you just a little.

Snickering, he raises his leg, bringing it down with a hard stomp on the handle of the blade. The metal pierces bone with a grotesque crunch, and the guy wails. Choking on his own tears and vomit. Ah, like music to his ears, can life really get better than this?

Upstairs, on the other side of the door, you shifted weight from foot to foot, the cold of the hardwood seeping through your fuzzy socks. A soft pout on your lips when you hear the latch click. Glancing up, you met eyes.

Habit slouched against the frame, his black tee slightly damp from exertion. With his cap still on, and scarlet flicked across his face, you’ve never wanted to cuddle more.

He always looked so silly after his weird Halloween stunts that were never on Halloween.

Your boyfriend was a weird guy. He had the strangest hobbies, with a taste for fake blood and getting on your nerves. But you still loved him; his gnarled appearance had grown on you over time.

Mysterious as ever, he cocked his head to the side with a grin. Canines gleaming in the low light of the hall, he reminded you of a wolf. “Hey, cotton tail, whatcha’ doin’ out of bed?” And his nicknames were pretty funny too, always a different variety of the bunny category when he addressed you.

Rubbing your eye, you yawned. “I got cold, and I missed you. Are you almost done with your project? I wanna cuddle tonight.”

So naive, idiotic even. He liked to test you, walk the line of your trust. See how far he could go with this “eccentric hobbiest” act.

Humming, he tapped his chin in thought, “Oh, I don’t know... Mm, give me five minutes, and I’ll show you something really fun, how’s that?” Cheerful, and you nodded, a gentle smile on your lips. God, he could squeeze you to death.

Closing the cellar door, he descended the steps, whistling. The other man seemed somehow even more distraught. Apparently, knowing “help” was just out of reach could really sadden a guy, you know?

Crouching down in front of the chair, he yanked out the serrated knife in one move. His victim flailed in agony, and he laughed. “My baby loves props, so I gotta’ bring out the good stuff- you get it.” Shrugging, he rose, gripping the man's jaw firmly.

Blade in the other hand, Habit aimed the pointed edge right under his brow. Sinking the metal in, the flesh pierced with a pop. Muscles and veins snapping as he carved around the socket, finally letting the knife clatter to the ground when the organ had sufficiently loosened.

He pushes his thumb into the weeping cavern and hooks it beneath the optic nerve. Pulling the eyeball out with a swift tug. The tendons ripped easily, and he’d successfully removed the damn thing.

“Would you look at that, clean cut and everything. You’re lucky I’m fucking good at this.” Waving the gory sphere in front of the man's face, Habit reclined to admire his handy work.

Tossing it in the air, he spun on his heel, hopping back up the steps two at a time. And when he opened the door, you were still there. Now, sitting with your legs crossed on the floor, blanket tossed over your shoulders.

You were such a fascinating pet, he technically didn’t ask you to stay- yet you did. You always did make it easier for him; maybe he should reward you tonight. Kneeling before you, Habit held his hands behind his back. “You ready, bonbon?” Excitement oozed off of him, antsy to see if you’d splinter.

“Mhm.” With that, he whips a hand out, holding it up to you.

An insanely detailed and realistic eyeball was not what you were expecting.

Grimacing, you whined, pushing his arm away. “Habit- I know you think it’s super cool, and I think you’re really talented. But it’s so real looking, and it’s creeping me out.” You wrapped the fluffy duvet tighter around you.

Sometimes, you felt mean about not being that into it- it’s just that gore made your stomach queasy.

You were endlessly entertaining, he thinks. Continuing to shove it near you until you squeaked, cringing and swatting at his hand. Only letting up when you pouted, dropping your fists to your sides.

His face lit up with glee, and he snickered. “Such a baby, fine.” Rolling his eyes playfully, he stood. You really did trust him, huh?

Your mental so delicate, the idea of violence had your gut churning. He’s doing you a favour by sticking around; you literally wouldn’t last a second out there.

He finishes up quickly, dumping the carcass into a large freezer to deal with another day. And when he finally reached his bedroom, you were already snug as a bug. Blinking at him innocently from above the covers.

Such a stupid rabbit, yet his all the same.

Throwing on a fresh t-shirt, he crawled on top of you. The sheets pushed down along the way, so you could “Feel him.” You’d complained about it prior, and you had been good today. Habit was feeling generous.

Shifting, he slipped his arms under you, lying on you, and enveloping your entire frame. He felt like a weight blanket. You exhaled, content and warm. While you slept in his bed often, he was usually up and about. Tinkering with his assortment of weapons he’d collected, or spending his night in the basement.

You’ve never been down there; apparently, it was way too dangerous. Sharp objects and gadgets astray, it was simply too risky, he’d told you. He may have been different than the average lover, but he took care of you, and that was enough. Paid attention to little details, doing things without ever bringing them up.

Breathing in deeply, he nosed at your throat. The sensation had you huffing out a quiet laugh- the soft moment ruined when he bit down. Hard.

You yelped, jolting from the sharp pain. “Habit!” And he kisses the spot to soothe you.

Sniggering, “What? You gonna’ cry?” Sometimes, -and you don’t know how- you forget how much of an asshole he is. “You’re so mean to me.”

That had him pulling back, his arms caging your head. “Nah, I’m not. Trust me, because if I were-” dipping lower, he rested his forehead on yours.

“You wouldn’t be here, bonbon.”

Grin just a tad too sharp, he stared at you. Whatever that means. Raising a brow at him, you smacked your lips together. “Right?” He doesn’t know how you do it, so mundane, yet he can’t get enough. Perhaps it’s because he knows that you’re unaware, or that you’re moronic enough to brush off his threats. Either way, how fun.

He snorts, burying his face back into your neck. You’ve entertained him plenty, so he’ll let you rest, gifting you his intimacy. As close as he could get to it, anyway. This wasn’t awful; you were soft, weak. Comfortable to lie on, and completely vulnerable in this state. Unguarded, and leaving him to protect you.

Like a plush bear with feelings, how quaint. Far too giving, far too gentle, and faithful to the very end.

Yes, what a perfect rabbit to keep.

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