There are at least twenty different USB sticks lying around. All with different storage limits and all full, tucked away in a cracked Tupperware container and kept at his desk. A good 80% of them are random, and frankly horrible, photos Habit has snapped; Mid bite of your sandwich, a really zoomed in one of how you were sticking your tongue out while playing a video game—Stupid things that make you a little embarrassed when he pulls them up.

Then there are the creepy ones, the videos that you tend to watch only once to satiate your own morbid curiosity. There are three or four videos taken in the cover of the night from the treeline, camera zoomed in as far as it can go to watch you and your friends through the living room window. The only audible thing in these clips is Habit’s shaky breathing and slick, rhythmic noises. There are also clips taken in public from various locations, all consisting of you doing your daily tasks. Through the lobby window of your doctor's office, across the street from the bus stop, or in the back alley as he watches you pass by.

You don’t even want to think about the idea of hidden cameras, or if there are videos that remain secret for your own good.

Habit is a stalker, plain and simple. Somehow, that feels like the nicest crime he’s subjected you to.

The other USBs—the bigger, fancier ones—have some more… Personal things on them. They’re stored in a different location, hidden on the floor of your closet underneath old clothes you rarely wear anymore. A lot of the photos are still bad, blurry and rushed like Habit was nervous. Some of the oldest ones are of you changing, taken through the ajar closet door. Half of them are with your shirt obscuring your face, jeans pooled around your ankles. The others are more explicit, often where you’re bending down or fully naked, although most of those are shaky and smeared.

As much as you’d like to say that they’re like that because Habit was scared about getting caught, you know that it’s because he was jerking himself off and unable to keep the camera steady.

He, unsurprisingly, loves to film some home-made pornos. One of Habit’s favourites was made after you had just finished a double shift. The sun was just starting to peek through the curtains, although you had just gone to bed, asleep on your back and all sprawled out in nothing but panties and one of Evan’s old band tees. The camcorder sat on the edge of the bed and angled towards your body, sitting far enough to get what Habit really cared about.

He was gentle then, only to keep from waking you. Habit had to keep one hand on your hip to stop you from rolling over, the other pinning both of your wrists down into your pillow. You’re quiet, not as silent as Habit, but he has to turn the volume way up to hear your soft whimpers and moans. Even with a slow pace, your sounds are all overshadowed by the slick sound of your cunt.

There are so many photos—like hundreds—of you covered with his cum. You don’t even remember Habit taking some of these. Some of them are facials given after a blowjob, others of your cunt on the rare occasion he decides to pull out. There are the questionable ones, like where your thighs are wet with a mixture of blood and his cum. If that blood is yours, Habit’s, or an unnamed third party is unknown and better left that way.

Habit has a special folder named ‘TABOO’. It consists of the darker stuff he’s convinced you to do—A lot of murder and mutilation, really. Maybe a few clips of him chasing you through the woods and what happens after you’re caught. He saves those videos for when he has that specific itch he can’t readily scratch.

He also likes it when you record everything, too. He even got you your very own camera, nicked from a random hiker who took too many bird photos. There’s still some blood caked into the nooks and crannies, forever stuck despite your best cleaning efforts.

There aren’t nearly as many photos of him as there are of you. Most of the time, Habit smacks the camera away or looks way too creepy for it to be usable—His smile way too wide and eyes too bright, reflecting as an animal would. A lot of them are also cut off at the neck, leaving just his body in frame. His hands or him distracted seem to be the topic of the majority of your photos.

But Habit doesn’t want to look at himself. He’s had to remind you several times that he wants you to film videos and take photos for him, not for yourself. Most of what you record are short vlogs of what you do when he’s gone. They’re exported to a drive you both have access to; one Habit only goes to when he’s away from you.

There’s something about you just yapping. He knows that you know he’s touching himself to these, but you look so… Oblivious in the videos. Habit loves it when you act ignorant to his disgusting behaviours. He loves it when you willingly indulge them, too.

If he’s lucky enough, you’ll send him some different videos. Maybe you’re in one of his button-ups, maybe you’re holding one of his knives and dragging the edge against the fat of your thigh. Consider him a happy man if you slip a nude Polaroid into his back pocket, wearing nothing but his Death-Proof cap and a grin.

He always sends something back, too. More often than not, it’s a photo, a quickly snapped pic of how hard he is through his jeans. On the off chance that Habit can send a video, it’s always in a dark location, and sometimes there’s a poorly hidden corpse in the background. The clips are quick and usually end right before he cums, groans poorly suppressed and the only thing audible aside from the slide of his hand against his cock.

Anyway, cameras have got to be one of humanity's best inventions. Habit doesn’t know what he’d do without them.

He’d surely perish without your face in his pocket.

no matter how large you are, he's manhandling you down until you're pressed stomach down against the bed, struggling for air against the sheets. he'll laugh in your face if you cough even slightly, or even choke out some pathetic little squeals and squeaks. habit loves it though, anything to further push you into the mindset of his prey. maybe one day he'll fuck you in the claustrophobic attic where the dried bloodstains of past encounters still soak into the wood. god knows he's thought about it, probably jerked off about it to.

a small token of his appreciation comes in how he preps you, tearing off your pants and underwear without a second thought- throwing them out somewhere else. his hands come around your ass, squeezing and groping- forcing your back to arch when he lifts it. your legs are still gummy and unresponsive under the overwhelming heat pushing itself into your cunt. his tongue laps at you, more focused on taste than your pleasure. although, he does find a sick fascination with your tdick, especially if he's gotten to see it as it grows. he'll tug and toy at it, intent on stroking it just like he would a cock.

"what?" he'll tilt his head like a confused dog if you complain, attempting to (badly) hold back a perverse grin, his yellowed teeth gritting with excitement "it's a dick, isn't it? don't be fucking stupid."

his fingers finally drop to your folds, spreading them open so he can stare with an almost adoring glint in his eyes as your hole clenches, vibrant and soaked- both from his sticky saliva and your own slick. and yes, he'll call it slick- especially if it makes you squirm. he might even pull out a 'juices' if it gets you embarrassed enough. at the end of the day, sex is both for pleasure and power with habit.

once he decides you're ready, and yes- he decides. maybe it's just after edging you till tears, or he'll make you cum a near uncountable number of times till the idea of anything else makes your stomach twist. once that random decision has been made- he's undoing his belt, clawing at the buckle with something that almost looks like desperation.

if you're particularly squirmy today, he's using that same belt to tie your hands together behind your back, infact- it's more than likely he'll find any good excuse to see you bound up. especially when it stretches your muscles just enough to burn under your skin, an erotic prickling melting down with it.

his dick is out before you realize, not that you can look back- or anywhere really. you feel it, though. heavy and thick- a few angry veins you can picture that run down the shaft to the tip. behind your eyes, you're just able to imagine it from all the times he's forced you to your knees and had his fingers locking your jaw open. don't try to pull away, or get all whiny, his hands will find your waist in seconds and dig in to bring you right back to him.

and he uses you. again and again and again. something in his animalistic brain clicks in the best way each time he can see his cum leak out of your puffy cunt, each time you twitch and go limp. he doesn't stop until he gets bored, or until he crashes. in the latter scenario, he (slightly unintentionally) forces you to cockwarm him, keeping you full until he wakes up hours later and leaves to go do... whatever it is he does (or maybe just resume fucking you.)