#slenderverse fandom

Habit is a sucker for a chubby girl in tight clothes. The small ways a dress clings to your body, how it rides up your thighs so often that he can catch you yanking it back down easily. Not that he would mind if you let it roll up around your hips, barely covering anything anymore. He can barely contain his need to yank it up himself, to see those pretty panties wrapped around your body and just stare.

He likes you exposed. He likes you embarrassed.

He might buy you clothes, but they are always slightly too small for you. Your fat rolls over the top of the jeans, your breasts are practically exposed by the fabric stretching tightly across them, pulling the threads apart until you could just see the outline of your bra. He likes how you shift your hips back and forth to hike up the waistband back over your cute little stomach, trying to hide it like it wasnt the reason he bought the small clothes. To see that pretty little body as much as he can, in an almost cruel way.

You used to live a normal life.

This isn’t a thought that you let yourself dwell on often, knowing far too well by this point that reminiscing on that past does nothing to change the future. Your state of living nowadays was so far removed from what it used to be that sometimes it’s difficult to recognize yourself in the mirror. It’s hard not to look back; not to wonder how you could be living instead if you had made a few different choices.

When the room you reside in is empty and silent enough to make your skin crawl, and there’s no one around to give you even the worst form of company, it’s an impossible task to not think about how you used to spend your days. Who you used to be.

You used to have friends, who you spent most of your free time. You used to have hobbies - things you enjoyed. You had a family, a job, and a place to call your own.

All of those things had been ripped straight from your grip at a moment's notice.

You couldn’t remember a lot of the first day you encountered the man you had come to know as ‘Habit’. Maybe it was your mind shielding you from it, sparing your psyche the pain of harboring such unpleasant memories. Or, maybe he had just knocked all the remnants of that day from your skull when his elbow collided with the back of your head.

Whatever the reason, the facts remained the same; the life you had before didn’t exist anymore, just a hazy memory that grew foggier and foggier by the day. Where you used to have ambitions and goals, now you just fostered a gaping pit - core parts of your identity carved out and thrown away to make way for what he wanted you to be.

Habit was not kind. You didn’t even think he knew the meaning of the word, though you suppose that shouldn't be surprising considering he had kidnapped you in the first place. Habit was cruel, sadistic to a point you didn’t even know was possible - taking glee in watching not just you suffer, but every single living soul in his path. He seemed to want nothing more than to watch the world burn with a smile on his face; a grief-stricken expression on someone else tickling him like a well timed joke.

When all of this had first begun, you had tried to fight it - fight him. Biting, scratching, clawing your way out of his grip by any means necessary. You never succeeded, of course, because the odds were stacked against you from the moment Habit had dragged you through his basement door. As time went on, you found yourself learning that not fighting back made it all easier for you in the end.

There was no way out of this, so you had learned after what felt like your fiftieth escape attempt. This was just life now, though not a life fit for a human.

There were many, many things that Habit took pleasure in at your expense. Knives, machetes, pliers. Damage dealt with his hands, or sometimes just whatever cruel words he could think of at the time. There never seemed to be a limit with him, always pushing and pushing even when you were close to completely shattering. As long as you weren't dead, the show would go on, and that seemed to be the one line he refused to cross.

Not out of any sort of good will, simply because then all his fun would be over. If anything, letting you die would be the kind - more merciful - route to take, and so of course that just seemed to be something Habit refused to even consider.

He could, and he would one day, but not yet. Not when there was still so much amusement to be wrung out of you.

Unfortunately for you, a few weeks back Habit had found a brand new game to play with you. A whole different way to push you down even lower than he had already brought you. Your spirit had already been broken, and he knew that, but there was always more leeway. Always more room to push, and push, until you were just a shell of a human being. Humans, though physically fragile, were quite mentally resilient.

He knew that just because you had stopped fighting him, didn’t mean that you had completely submitted. He wanted to completely crush your spirit. Sink his fingers deep into your brain, churn it up, and mould it into something completely new. Someone indistinguishable from who you were when he had first taken you in.

What better way to do that, than to completely strip you of your humanity?

You remember the day the idea had first popped up in his mind - how he had walked into the basement with his hands behind his back, and an all too excited glint in his eyes. He could have revealed anything to you, a new weapon, a more restrictive set of restraints, and yet you don’t think that anything else would’ve affected you the way that the sight of a collar and leash did.

That had made your gut sink, your face going pale at the implications as he walked forwards and dangled the spiked collar in front of your face.

‘Figured I’d finally get you some fitting getup.’ He had hummed to you, lips curled into a sick imitation of a smile. ‘’Bout time I collared my pet, right?’

You hadn’t uttered out a word of protest, simply because you had been so caught off guard. You felt completely blindsided, thrown a curve ball you weren't equipped to handle at all. You suppose it was your fault for ever thinking that anything was out of Habit’s realm of doing. ‘It’s irresponsible, keeping a dog off its leash.’

The feeling of his cold fingers brushing against your throat as he slipped the collar into place was still vivid in your mind. The sound of it locking into place rang in your ears even now, and the sight of Habit tucking the key into his pocket was one you didn’t think you’d ever forget.

The collar would stay there, for as long as he wanted it to, and for as long as the collar was there - you had lost your privilege of being treated like a human.

These were the rules of the game.

And that was how you ended up here.

The concrete floor beneath you is cold enough to send a shiver straight through to your bones as you sit cross legged on it. Your legs are bare, as are your arms - nothing but a bra and a pair of panties shielding you from the stale air around you. You weren’t quite sure if it was simply to humiliate you further, or if it was just because Habit got a thrill out of seeing his handiwork - all of the scars, bruises, and fresh wounds on your body looking to him like paint on a canvas.

Your hands are free, no longer cuffed like he used to keep you. The skin of your wrists is still leathery and worn, from countless nights of rubbing them raw trying to wriggle free. This didn’t mean that you were free though, even if you were locked down here, Habit didn’t trust you to roam freely.

Besides, the new way of keeping you tied down is much better. Sat on the floor beside the lumpy excuse for your bed, a collar sits snug around your neck. Clipped to the back, a leash that ended in a tight knot around the bedpost.

Somehow, that wasn’t even the worst part. Head bowed down, there's shame simmering in your veins from the feeling of cold metal digging into your face. A muzzle, fit snug and clasped at the back of your head - fit for an unruly mutt. Just further proving what Habit saw when he looked at you. Not a person, just a pet.

If you really, really wanted to, you could free yourself of your binds. You weren’t actually a dog, after all, you had hands and working fingers still - but you knew that would be a stupid choice. It was easier this way, to roll over and take whatever he had to give you, as opposed to risking the consequences of irritating him.

A well trained dog already, waiting patiently for your master to return.

It doesn’t take long for him to, the sound of his footsteps thudding down the staircase both sounding like a blessing and a curse at the same time. On one hand, it most likely meant that he’d let you free and you’d finally have a chance to stretch out your limbs properly. On the other hand, you knew that Habit’s arrival never brought any good fortune.

It seemed like he spent his time away from you formulating new and exciting ways to bring you to tears, and so seeing him again after a long day of solitude always felt like a warning shot.

Sure enough, his expression when he finally walks into the room is one that makes your stomach twist. Habit’s eyes lock onto you immediately, trailing over your pitiful form appreciatively as amusement flickers in his eyes. He moves slow as he makes his way over to you, tucking his hands in his pockets in a gesture just casual enough to make you feel even smaller.

You hear him hum, but keep your gaze cast down when he comes to stand directly in front of you. You know how he’s looking at you - like he’s proud of what he’s done - and you just can’t stomach it.

“That’s a good pup.” He snickers, before sinking into a crouch before you. One hand lifts, tapping the metal cage framing your mouth as a silent command for your attention. It works, and his grin only stretches wider when you meet his gaze. “Didn’t move an inch all day did ya’? Just sat here and waited for me like you should.”

You let out a heavy breath, but nod softly. It’s difficult to keep eye contact with Habit, when every second of it felt like he was breaking you down with just his gaze alone. You force yourself to though, trying to make yourself get used to it. Hiding would never save you, and you knew that.

“Yeah.” You mutter softly, your voice low and hoarse. “I didn’t-“

“Woah.” Habit cuts you off, his lips pursing before he tuts disapprovingly. “That’s weird, I thought I just heard a dog speak English.” He tilts his head to the side a little, his gaze not cold - but warning. “I must be hearing things, right?”

God, this was the worst part. You could deal with the collar, the leash, and the muzzle. You could deal with him giving you measly scraps of food out of a plastic bowl on the ground. Hell, you could even deal with him dragging you around with him by your leash like you were some prized possession. This though? This was something you could barely handle. Stripped of everything, not even allowed to speak. That was a privilege he had forced you to forfeit.

“Habit…” You murmur out pitifully - pleading for any little bit of leeway that he’d give you. Begging for just a shred of your dignity left. Of course he doesn’t allow it, that was the whole point of this after all.

He just stares at you for a moment, eyes devoid of anything that you could pick apart. It felt like he was staring through you - analyzing you - trying to figure out what parts of you he could prod at to make you bend to his wishes. His eyes narrow a little, and you shrink back. You hate when he does this, sits back and stews in his thoughts and plans while you’re here, forcing you to be caught in suspense with nothing to do about it.

“That’s disappointing.” Habit huffs before standing once more. He cracks knuckles, lets out a little scoff and shakes his head like you were some disobedient animal. To him, that’s exactly what you were.

You watch him as he moves, eyes tracking his every motion as he rounds you and walks towards the bed. “Literally just told you that you were doing well too.” His hands reach for the bedpost that your leash is tied to, and he takes it in his grip - slowly undoing the tight knot. “And you’re going to go and ruin that? When I was thinking about being nice to you?” You highly doubted that would’ve been the case, and even if it was - your definition of ‘nice’ was quite different from his. “Stupid as hell.”

The leash comes loose but no freedom comes with it, not with one end attached to you and the other held in Habit’s sadistic grip. It’s a kind of power that he abuses almost immediately, giving it a sharp tug that makes the material go taut.

The tension yanks at the collar around your throat, causing you to sputter and choke as it presses harshly against your windpipe - minutely cutting off your air. The force of it has you being hauled back a couple inches, hands scrambling up to claw at the restraint in a fruitless attempt to lessen the strain. “Stupid, stupid mutt.”

Habit curls the material of the leash around his hand, wrapping a few loops of it around his wrist because giving you another sharp tug. This one fully yanks you backwards, dragging you across the floor to crumple right at his feet; your neck craned and chin tilted high as you fight against the tension wrapping a noose around your neck. “I thought you were starting to get it. You’ll sit on the ground all day without complaint, but really acting like the animal you are is where you draw the line?”

His movements are harsh as he pulls you upwards by the leash, your weak legs trembling beneath you as you force yourself into a standing position. Your entire body aches, and your chest feels tight as the gravity of the situation sinks in. You fucked up. Made the wrong choice. If you knew anything about Habit, you knew that a simple apology wouldn’t be enough to smooth it all over. “Gonna have to make it up to me. You know that right?”

You did, far too well. You open your mouth to try and respond like you had so stupidly done before, but Habit cuts you off before you can even get a breath out. “Think before you say anything else. Think about how it’ll end up going for you.”

God, you wanted nothing more than to argue. There was still that little spark in you that begged you not to just lie down and take all of this, but there was another - louder - part that knew it would all be pointless. You had tried everything, and never won once. You didn’t think it was possible to win against Habit. He looked like a human, just like you, but he sure didn’t act like one.

He didn’t have empathy, or guilt, or anything that would stand in the way of him always taking drastic measures to get his way. There was no such thing as ‘too far’, in Habit’s mind. Everything was justifiable if it meant he would end up on top in the end, and he always did.

That fact wouldn’t change just because you wanted it to.

You weren’t even sure why you were making this harder for yourself anymore. To try and preserve your dignity? Your pride? It’s a laughable notion considering that Habit had stripped you of both a long time ago. Those things were luxuries you just couldn’t afford, and they came with a price you didn’t feel equipped to handle.

It’d be much easier to just roll over when he asked you to.

So you do.

Your stomach turns, and you feel almost queasy when you part your lips again. The sensation only grows tenfold when you actually make a noise. Not a protest, not defiance - not even a word. It’s a small, ashamed, absolutely pitiful little ‘yip’. The softest attempt at a bark, but it’s all that you can muster up, and you can’t even look him in the eyes when you do it.

It’s submitting to him in a way that feels almost worse than everything else he’s done to you. It’s a type of humiliation that makes your skin crawl, makes your saliva taste bitter. It has every cell in your body downright rejecting it - goosebumps on your arms and bile rising in your throat.

You hate it. Hate him, and yet all of that hatred was something that would more likely be snuffed out rather than being allowed to fester. “See?” Habit snorts out a laugh before reaching forwards and ruffling up your knotted hair, combing his fingers through it with a patronizing twinge to every movement. “Not so hard now is it?” You simply let out a little huff, shoulders sagging. “Sounds a lot nicer to my ears, anyway. Way better than having to hear you whine all the time.”

His hand slips from your hair to trail down your face, a mockery of affection that makes your shoulders tense. Lower, he traces a finger along the metal cage enclosing the lower half of his face, an amused glint in his eyes as he eyes the muzzle. “Bet you want this thing off, huh?”

Immediately, you nod. Not even ashamed by how eager you look if it means you’ll get even an ounce of solace. “Thought so. Might have to convince me.” His fingers hook into the gaps in the cage, giving it a little tug that only draws you closer to him. “This is fun, isn't it?” He laughs, his eyes gleaming as he gazes down at you. “I think so.”

And you want to scoff, but you hold it back in favour of ending this interaction as quickly as possible. If you played your cards right, maybe this whole thing would end with Habit treating you ‘nicely’ - whatever that meant to him.

You let out another little bark, a demoralizing sound, one that crawls out of you like an parasite. You ignore the way your mind berates you because of it, because the look Habit gives you is one that tells you that you’ve made the right choice. His eyes brighten, sparkling with something close to derangement as he looks down at you - and he smiles. Slow, maniacal, his lips curling at the corners like an infection taking over his expression. “Good girl.” He grins. “See? You’re learning.”

Habit lets out a soft breath before slipping his hand into your hair again, trailing it down the back of your head until his fingers come into contact with the clasp keeping the muzzle in place. “This’ll come with a price though, since you decided to get all smart with me.” You knew that was coming. That didn’t mean the words affected you less. “You’re not a human anymore, got that? Not when you’re here with me. You haven’t been since I found you. You’re just a pet - an animal - that does whatever I say.”

Each word feels like a slap, a harsh way of shoving the truth of the matter down your throat. “So, act like one.”

You don’t even have time to even think of a rebuttal before he’s pointing to the bed with his left hand, one eyebrow cocked. “Sit.”

The command is one that he’s given you many times before this, but something within you knows it’s going to entail more this time. Theres a look in his eyes, one that you’ve only ever seen before he laid hands on you in a way that didn’t break skin. In a way that left damage unseen by the naked eye.

You sit anyway, because what else is there to do?

You sink into the stiffness of the mattress beneath you, you breathing shaky as your eyes focus downwards. The junction where your leash meets your collar jingles with the movement, an audible reminder of exactly what dynamic you had found yourself in. Not a human. A pet. “See how much easier this is when you just listen?” Habit snorts softly. “A good dog respects their owner, right?”

Respect? You could laugh at the concept of that right now. Respect was something to be earned, not forced, and you’d probably let yourself keel over before ever allowing yourself to give Habit even an ounce of respect. He was a heathen. A corrupt beast that probably didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

You nod anyway, and Habit grins. “Good, but not enough.” He hums. “Speak.”

Just because he knew how much you hated it. He was shoving it down your throat, forcing you to choke on the bitter pill that was this entire situation. Forcing you to accept it, even if your eyes told of the war waging inside your mind. All it takes is another soft tug on your muzzle to force another weak little ‘bark’ out of you. It’s just as funny to him, as it is mortifying to you. “Good girl.” He snickers. “Let’s get this thing off then.”

His fingers slip backwards, lingering for just a moment before he unclips the muzzle - letting it fall down with a clatter against the floor below the both of you. “It’ll just get in the way anyway.”

That feels like a warning - because it is. You know it the moment that the words leave his lips. You don’t have to think too hard to wonder exactly what the phrase entails, especially in the position you’ve found yourself in - sat on the bed before him with him standing at his full height in front of you, practically eye level with his belt buckle.

Ah, so that’s what he meant by ‘making it up’ to him.

Theres a protest lingering on your tongue, one that you know would fall on deaf ears - or worse - just make this whole scenario much more difficult on your end. It’s not like you haven’t done this before either, not in the time you’ve unfortunately known him, and you’re well aware of the fact that compliance is your best bet in situations like this.

Besides, it’s the only time when Habit is almost hospitable. When he almost seemed appreciative of you, as a person. When you felt like a person, for once. “Oh, you know where this is going.” He snorts. “Can see it in your eyes.” You suppose it was obvious, with how your gaze kept flicking between his face, and his crotch. “See? You want to be good. You just act like you don’t.”

Whether that was true or not was something you refused to dwell on. Maybe it was, and maybe you knew deep down that ‘being good’ was the way to win Habit’s favour, but to accept that meant killing a part of yourself.

(Had you not done that already, though?)

Habit’s hand nudges your chin upwards, his eyes dark as his gaze lays on you. You can’t decipher what the look means, you never can, but you know that it’s not anywhere near affectionate. It’s more twisted than that. Not even infatuation - ownership. He knew that he owned you, fully and completely, and he relished in that fact. Preening like you were praising him simply because you were abiding to his wishes.

It seemed that compliance and eagerness looked the exact same to Habit’s eyes. “Go on then.” He gives your leash a little tug, pulling you in closer - your nose just a few inches from the fly of his jeans. “Might get a treat afterwards if you do it well.”

You wonder to yourself what that even means as your hands move on their own, drifting upwards to rest against the cold metal of his belt buckle. Would it mean you’d finally be offered comfortable clothes? Or maybe being allowed out of your binds while he wasn’t here? Maybe an extra serving of food, or an option to skip out on whatever ‘fun’ he had planned next time. You undo his belt, slip it from the loops, and pop the button of his jeans.

All of those things sounded really nice - like solace in the cold, cold world you lived in. Basic human necessities framed to be rewards, and you were eating up every ounce of it. “Really taking your time, huh? Savouring it, or something?”

More like just too lost in thought, but his words do kick you into gear a little bit - autopilot taking over as you tug down his zipper. Your fingers slip upwards to curl under his waistband, trembling fingers skirting against his smooth skin as your slowly nudge the material down. Taking both his pants and boxers down in one go, shifting the material down just enough to let his cock spring free.

He’s hard already, you should’ve suspected that.

You let out a shivering sigh as you reach forwards with a shaking hand - spitting onto your palm before bringing it to him, curling your fingers around the base of his length. You hated, that even like this - especially like this - there was a horrid, horrid pet of you that… Appreciated him. You barely ever allowed yourself to indulge in the thought, barely had time to amongst all the physical and psychological torture he threw your way, but Habit… He wasn’t physically unattractive. Maybe that was the worst part about all of this.

He was warm in your hand - long, thick, and throbbing with desire. A cock that you had become well acquainted with by now, and one that you hated to admit was a nice one. It was almost a waste, having a body like this being piloted by a mind so wretched. “Look at you.” Habit snickers from above as you slowly start moving your hand, squeezing him gently - dragging your slick palm up his length only to bring it back down. Curling your wrist, twisting it in the exact way you knew he liked. “Practically got hearts in your eyes.”

Your cheeks burn hot - a sickening mixture of shame and guilt twisting in your gut. “You think you hate me, but the second you get my dick out your attitude changes.” More silence from your end, because you refused to admit it. “You’re a slut at your very core, aren’t you? You just wait for this. Pray for it, I bet.”

You definitely didn’t, but once it was in your grasp? It was the easiest thing for you to handle. It was a form of connection you could easily warp into being for your own benefit. It was easy. Almost nice, if you let yourself disassociate enough.

Right now, you know that you don’t have the privilege to speak. So, whatever snarky comeback you have dies in your throat in favour of proving him right. You open your mouth - not to speak, but as an invitation. Your lips parting like an offering he had every right to take.

Didn’t he, at this point? Did you not fully belong to him? If you didn’t, then why did you so easily bend to his will? “Tongue out.” Habit mutters, his eyes flickering to your quivering bottom lip - an unspoken command tacked onto the end of his words. Be good. Listen. It’ll be best for you in the end.

You do just as he asks, sticking your tongue out as much as you can - hand slipping from his length as he replaces it with his own. "That's right." He murmurs, before reaching down slapping the head of his cock against the moistness of your tongue. He groans softly, and you just hate how the sound raises goosebumps on the back of your neck. You hate the shiver that trickles down your spine like running water. You hate him, and what he’s turned you into.

And yet, you open your mouth wider, inviting him in - thighs trembling as he rubs the head of his cock along your bottom lip. "Just take it." He murmurs. “This could’ve ended up so much worse for you, you know.” You taste the saltiness of precum as it smears onto your tongue, and your mouth waters in response. “This is me letting you off easy.”

You find yourself nodding your head despite yourself, lips still parted wide and waiting. Because you knew, that unfortunately, he was right. This was the best case scenario. “Good girl." You hear him sigh softly, and then he's slowly guiding his cock into your mouth. It's hot and heavy against your tongue, thick enough that you know he's going to leave your jaw aching - just like he always does. A low groan sounds from above you, spiking your body temperature as you let him sink in deeper, deeper, until the head of his dick is bumping against the constrictive muscles of your throat.

You breathe in a deep breath through your nose, let your eyes flutter shut, and put every ounce of energy you have into letting yourself relax. It’s easier if you don’t fight it. You don’t know how many times you’ve repeated that exact phrase to yourself by now, the words becoming a mantra that helps you cling to you sanity.

Your jaw goes slack, and the tension in your throat slowly ebbs away - welcoming the intrusion, wrapping around his length like a glove when he tests the waters with a shallow thrust into your mouth. "Shit- There it is.” He rasps, voice strained and hoarse as he repeats the motion a few more times.

A hand slides onto the top of your head, curling into your hair, keeping you exactly where he wants you as his hips buck into the warmth of your mouth over and over again. He's surprisingly gentle with it, for now, languidly sliding his length in and out of your drooling mouth - letting out a shaky huff of air each time you take it to the hilt. Still though, it's a challenge, and your gag reflex is practically screaming - throat tensing around him with each thrust. "Fuckin’ whore." He chuckles gravelly when you sputter, tears beading up in the corners of your eyes. "Just eating this shit up, aren’t you?”

You suppose that from his perspective, it looks exactly like how he’s said it. Not making a peep, just keeping your jaw hung open and cheeks hollowed as he fucks into your mouth over and over again. It leaves your throat raw, eyes stinging with tears that gather and cling to your lashes - and yet, you keep at it. This is him being nice, you remind yourself. This was something that you should appreciate. You let out a pathetic little hum in response to his words, not making any signal for him to stop - though you know he wouldn’t have listened even if you did. The sound vibrates down the length of him as your tongue drags along the underside of his cock with each press in, lapping up most of the saliva that has started making a mess on your chin.

He's throbbing, stretching your lips open around his achingly hard length - his fingers curl into the material of your leash, tugging you in closer, leaving you nowhere to run from him. No solace, and no break. It seems like you're doing a good job though, if his reaction is any tell - the noises leaving him becoming more and more ragged. "Stupid fucking bitch." He gasps out, the consideration of his actions completely ebbing away with each thrust. "I’m just fucking the logic right out of you aren’t I? Making you love this shit.” Another tug on your leash, and you choke when it just makes you take him even deeper - your throat spasming around his cock.

You somehow, in some twisted way, wished you could see him, the expression on his face, what he looks like in the throws of ecstasy, proof of the fact that you really were doing well - but tears blur your vision, clinging to your eyelashes, and just adamantly building back up with each thrust into your sore throat.

A strangled noise leaves your lips and muffles around him as his free hand moves to cradle the back of your head, giving him even better leverage as he pounds your gag reflex into submission. You're an absolute mess - tears in your eyes and drool rolling down your chin, lips suctioning around him every time his hips buck forwards.

Your jaw is aching, so are your bare knees as they press into the concrete floor of his basement - but quite honestly that's the last thing on your mind right now. You can feel the leather of your collar biting into your throat, your head fuzzy from lack of air as he stuffs your throat full over and over again. You can hear him; panting, strangled groans echoing in your ears.

And you can taste him, precum dribbling against your tongue. "Got a nice fuckin’ mouth on you." Habit rasps from above you, his hips stuttering as the fingers curl into the hair at the back of your head. "Shame I have to muzzle it."

You feel him pulse against your tongue, and blink away the moisture in your eyes as best as you can to look up at him. You're a sniffling mess as you gaze up at him, mouth stuffed full with a constellation of tears dotting your eyelashes - and just the eye contact is enough to do him in. It’s the complete and utter submission, the fact that you looked like this, in itself, was the treat. It was how you took him so easily, so gracefully, like it was second nature to you now. A well trained pet.

A curse leaves his lips, along with a choked out version of your name - his movements faltering as his cock throbs in your mouth. A few more sloppy thrusts and he's coming down your throat in a couple hot spurts - the warmth making you shudder. You can feel his thighs trembling as his hips buck, the slightest display of vulnerability from a man who never showed such a thing.

And the sight of him? Yeah, that's going to be burned into the back of your eyelids for as long as you live. It’s always so jarring, seeing Habit like this. So… Open. So close to being just as human as you were.

He's flushed, lips red and raw from how he had been gnawing on them. His hair is in absolute disarray, sweat making it stick up and stick to his skin. His eyes are dark and hazy, eyelids drooping as he slowly slides his dick out of your mouth - a string of saliva connecting you to him before it breaks. "You-" He gasps out, hands shaking as he gently tucks himself back into his underwear. "Shit- Yeah, good job."

The praise is just a courtesy, and you know that, but somehow it still feels nice - even from the man who made your life a living hell on a daily basis. It feels like an oasis - a calm in the storm - a bandaid over each wound he created that you bled from. It’s scraps. It’s nothing you should actually feel proud of, and yet somehow - you do. Somehow, there’s a tiny little corner of your mind that preens at his compliment - even as the taste of his release goes bitter against your tastebuds.

Because this? This was the easy way out.

Maybe it would be best for you to finally admit that.

-

HIIIIII SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!! Had a busy day :(