#whenasporktalks

Not like it wasn’t before, don’t get him wrong. Every time you’re sitting across from him, or really in any spot where he can stare at your lips, he starts absentmindedly chewing on his own. To mirror you, or maybe to try and guess the taste of your chapstick. How the balm would smear against his own lips.

But now, it’s borderline uncontrollable.

To make things worse, Evan thinks you know.

Because, when have you ever been one to chew on pen caps or popsicle sticks? That’s his thing. You do it with your chapstick, too. You apply it way more often now, always in a heavier coat and pop your lips together afterwards.

Evan tries not to think about how many flavours you have, and how he’d let you use him as a taste tester for all of them.

A little while ago—Evan can’t even remember, that’s how distracted he was—You walked out of a vintage candy store with a huge pack of pixy stix. Enough to feed a family of seven, he’s pretty sure Vinny said, if they all don’t drop dead before that.

You smiled, and tore into the packaging with no hesitation.

Evan will never, and he means never ever forget how you ripped open the little sugar stick with your teeth. Some of it spilt out onto your bottom lip only to be immediately licked up, and after your seventh stick of the night, you stuck out your blue-stained tongue to Evan. Afterwards, he had to rub one out in Vinny’s car. His cum is still smeared into the back of the driver’s seat. That’s something he’s decided to take to the grave.

Evan’s also always been a touchy-feely person. Respectfully, of course, regardless of the person. Except when with you, which he thinks about when lying in bed.

A few days ago, everyone went down to the lake. It was a last-minute decision kind of thing as summer was about to come to a close. You were sitting next to him on the least-broken picnic table, pushed into Evan’s side and cheek smushed into his shoulder. He vividly remembers the smell of your lake-water seeped hair, and your pretty smile before you bit him.

Not hard. Just on his shoulder, but it was a first. He yelped and playfully pushed you away, only to keep you from seeing (or feeling) the near immediate hard-on he got.

Getting hard over the memory of biting one of your best friends isn’t exactly awe-inspiring. The next day, Evan had trouble meeting your eyes, but definitely not your lips. Not the way you kept darting your tongue out to re-wet them. Forgot your chapstick, you said. Evan knew that was a lie, considering you had five in your bag at all times.

Maybe Evan’s just a pervert. He sure feels that way now, thinking about biting along your chest or licking up against your neck. Sucking hickeys into your thighs, forcing your fingers down his throat as you grind against him—

“Evan? Hello?” You say, and Evan blinks back.

Jesus, right. You’re just trying to play Left 4 Dead 2, and here he is, trying not to get another boner. “Right—Yeah, what’s up?” Evan runs a hand through his hair, if only to try and snap himself out of whatever he’s got going on.

You snicker, “Your controller’s dead.” You hurl the piece of black plastic at him, landing with a thump on his thigh.

“Right. I’ll go get some batteries.”

It takes Evan a little over six minutes to return. When you ask, because of course you do, he says he had to look around for them. Something about no one puts the batteries in the right place, and how Alex is probably to blame.

Not that he had to go fuck his hand in the bathroom, imagining that it was yours instead.

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.

You feel Habit before you see him. You’re able to tell that he’s come home when the woods surrounding your home become eerily still and silent; the birds stop chirping. The Elk that graze in your lawn trample off into the trees. The smaller wildlife—squirrels, bunnies, mice—always freeze until spooked off by the wind. Even the bugs seem to stop buzzing around and return to their hidey-holes.

You know he’s staring at you, but you never know where from. You could be doing dishes and suddenly get this crushing sense of dread. There’s no way of telling if he’s standing ominously behind you or out in the tree line, watching you through the kitchen window.

It’s like that feeling you get after watching a horror movie alone in the middle of the night. There’s no real feasible reason for you to be afraid, but it doesn’t stop the hair on the back of your neck from raising.

It’s the same way in public. Habit is freakishly good at being normal that he becomes abnormal. It’s weird when he stops growling and biting and starts carrying himself as Evan did. You’re so used to the tension lining Habit’s shoulders that when he finally rests them, he seems less of himself.

I can’t remember if I said this in the previous headcanons or Be a Dog, but Habit has some interesting methods for when you get too close to others. If he’s not rubbing his face on every single inch of you, then he’s doing some… intimate precautions.

Countless pieces of your clothing have been ruined because Habit likes to cum on them. He knows that you’ll throw them right back into the washer, but at the end of the day, he can smell himself on you from rooms away, no matter how many smell-good items you use.

Habit, without a doubt, brings you dead things. It starts off with small animals, but very quickly escalates to human body parts. Sometimes they have identifying features on them, like that arm with a tattoo of a surfboard Habit handed to you or the manicured fingers of some woman he left on the kitchen counter.

You know better than to ask where the deli boy who loved the beach went or why that really rude woman who always shows up at your job now hides her hand inside her purse.

Aside from dead animals and miscellaneous body parts, Habit scavenges items from his kills that he thinks you’ll like. They’re always small and usually useless—colourful rings, a clean rabbit paw, expensive earrings, you get the idea.

Habit 100% brings these items back and says that you need to repay him for his hard work. He’ll take sex, or food or force you to learn some very obscure skill like how to crucify a rabbit.

Habit also has more docile habits. He rarely acts on them when you're present, tending to ‘fix’ up your bedroom when you’re at work, usually when Habit needs to sleep. Around once a month, you come home to a majority of your blankets to be occupied by Habit, and you can never watch him sleep for more than three minutes before he wakes up and throws a pillow at you.

He smooths out your clothes before you leave the house and probably expects you to do the same. He’ll force you into him while you sleep to tug at loose hems on the back of your shirt and dusts you off after roughhousing.

He’s a freak and not in the human connotation.

Habit’s ‘sweet’, but only when he wants to be.

That, or when you reach for the muzzle in the foyer closet.

I'm SO angry at myself for not formatting the first part like this one, but I suppose I have to live with my mistakes now. Eugh this one was NOT that good but I REALLY wanted to post something. My bad guys,,, please forgive me

When it’s Evan, he’ll usually let you lead. Sat back in a chair or on the sofa, eyes never leaving yours. He always tells you what he wants—To go deeper, or for you to be a little rougher. Evan’s words are whispered and breathy, always ending with a whimper and soft praise. There’s always a hand cupping your cheek and fingers against your scalp.

Or, when he doesn’t want to cum too fast, you’re (gently) pushed away and tugged up onto his lap. Evan always swipes a thumb across your bottom lip to wipe away excess saliva or cum, the mixture always smeared on his pants. If Evan goes down on you afterwards, he presses light kisses to your knees.

And Evan laughs through overstimulation, even when—especially when—it’s borderline painful. He gets all twitchy and restless and whines for you to slow down, yet complains when you actually do. Finds it a little odd, but not gross, when you kiss him after swallowing.

Then there’s Habit.

And he is, unsurprisingly, violent and unforgiving.

As in, forcing his cock down your throat until you stop scratching at his thighs like your life depended on it. Whatever position he’s put you in, you’re never on top. Habit’s quiet, too, save for small grunts or growls when cumming down your throat. Sometimes he’ll offer up a mumbled praise after wiping your mouth with the back of his hand.

And he’s not above playing naughty, either. Given the opportunity, Habit will pinch your nose shut with the tip of his cock resting against your lips. He’ll wait until you run out of oxygen and are forced to open through your mouth to avoid fainting, shoving himself all the way down your throat until you gag and sputter.

Habit also likes to pry your jaw open, keeping it open with the pad of his thumb pressed to your tongue, and he stares. You’re not exactly sure at what. Your teeth, the bite-scarred insides of your cheeks, maybe the bruised roof of your mouth.

Just like his biting, there are periods of time where he doesn’t speak much, if at all. And, really, this whole thing started exactly how it did with the muzzle. After (politely) asking Habit to shut the fuck up, his efforts doubled down just to piss you off. What are you going to do? Slap the muzzle on him? He’ll just talk through the thing, you know.

And know you did. You walked right down to the hardware store and bought a shock collar. The thing was one of the fancy ones, made of leather and automatic, activating above a certain decibel. It also came with a remote to adjust the strength and with a shiny red button for when the programmed shocks aren’t enough.

Unlike the muzzle, which can be ripped off at Habit’s will, this thing locks and is sturdy enough not to be cut through. After he gets past the fact that you just collared him, Habit goes back to spouting nonsense. He yells first, only to hiss, hands flying up to tug at the thing.

You probably should’ve put the shock level a bit lower. It’s at the strongest one, and undoubtedly painful, if that test trial you did on your arm was anything to go by. But you enjoy his discomfort. Habit is muttering to himself, fingers curling under the band to try and pry it off.

He can’t even make noises. The sensitivity on the collar was insane. At one point, Habit genuinely thought that breathing set it off, only to look behind him and find you in the archway, remote in hand. He’s tried violence, yelling, arguing—He even tried to play his sorry card; A pout on his face as he rubs the side of it against your stomach. Habit makes the noises that make you feel bad, the whines and purrs and trills that usually have you opening the door to let him in.

It’s all useless.

He gets the idea that he can do nothing to get the collar removed. Not to say he won’t try to escape—Habit’s tried everything there, too. He’s nearly sliced his jugular open trying to cut the band apart, and almost choked himself to death trying to tear it off. In the end, when he’s accepted that he has to see this one through, he’ll resort to glaring. Maybe even a threat or two, but they’re all lacking their usual intimidation in his whispered tone.

Without words and not many sounds left, there’s little Habit can do to express himself besides biting and being rough. His teething doesn’t last long when he sees you glance in the direction of where the muzzle is stored. And after being shocked every time Habit tries to harm you, he now just slinks off into the corner to avoid being electrocuted constantly.

The muzzle was bad, yes, but this is on a completely different level. You were getting power hungry in this form of inhuman torture. A feeling that Habit loathed and found himself just a tad jealous of. He’d whine in a hushed tone that it’s not fair, that you’re cruel for this, that only he’s allowed to do these things to you.

It’s a lie. Even if it frustrated Habit, being dealt with like the animal he was made him feral.

Get treated like one, act like one, works the same as act like one, get treated like one. Habit loves that you aren’t all bark, and that there is some bite deep down.

Even if that bite is shocking the shit out of him.

Habit’s good at keeping sounds of pain down. Still, he makes small, breathy whimpers when the edge of a blade is pressed against his flesh. Slicing deep enough—so deep that if Habit didn’t have fast healing, he’d be needing some pretty hefty stitches—always makes him hiss, though. Running the edge over already split flesh often makes him groan loud enough to set the collar off, whole body tensing. You pull away, then, blade and body, only to watch the increased flow of blood pour from his arm after he relaxes.

Then, there’s the closest you’ve seen Habit to submission. He’s gripping your thighs, leaving scratch marks that raise after the pass of his nails. In one hand is the remote, and the other is braced against the headboard, there to keep yourself steady as you grind against his face. Habit’s sloppy with it, mostly because you don’t give him the chance to be anything else. His tongue is laving over every inch of your cunt, but he’s ultimately silent aside from small hums and slurping.

When Habit pulls away from your cunt to drag his teeth along the inside of your thigh, he’s shocked. He wasn’t expecting it at first—he always goes to bite at your thigh, regardless of his current punishment. There’s a second where he’s frozen, but he immediately sparked back into motion once he sees you’re about to use the remote’s button again.

When he stops sucking or doesn’t curl his fingers towards the right spot, you’re electrocuting him again. If he looks at you wrong, moans a little too loudly, grabs a little too hard, gets a little too handsy, he’s shocked. Even something as soft as lingering his lips in one spot for too long gets him zapped. It’s gotten to a point where he doesn’t notice the electricity anymore, the sharp pain now normal and no more than a few-second-long cramp.

When you finally take it off, the pale skin around the two prongs has been burned. It's red and would probably need antibiotics, knowing Habit's discontentment with self-care. The band left a dark welt that circled his entire neck, and the buckle had made a small wound from the collar being tugged at so often. It looked like it hurt, and it did. Habit didn’t mind. He’d heal, and then he’d yap some more.

He likes the pain of this one. Habit likes the fact that its consequences are more substantial than the muzzle.

He likes that you get all soft and apologetic afterwards, only to get just as ruthless and angry at his behaviour a day or so later.

Habit can’t stray very far from your attention, good or bad, for very long after all.