#whenasporktalks

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

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.

But it’s weird for Habit. A little off, like he can’t fuck you properly. Like he can’t fuck you how he was meant to. Evan’s body tires way too fast, and he’s not as sensitive in or out of a rut. He doesn’t recover as quickly. Then there are the more minor, nitpicky things, like how his teeth aren’t sharp enough. How he can’t hold you down properly with only two hands, or how his tongue isn’t long enough. Small things, but they’re enough to make Habit frustrated with the lack of his original biology.

And the longer Habit holds up Evan’s body, the harder it is for him to be as feral as he would be outside of a human body. Sure, Evan’s endured blatant torture and other things way past what someone normal could, but Habit’s point still stands. A few select things about human physiology annoy him. Luckily for Habit, most of his qualms and complaints go away when he ‘abandons’ Evan’s body for a night.

I really like the idea that Habit can’t speak when he’s in his true form. Something about him being even more animalistic just does something to me. Even if he can’t spout insults and cocky remarks, it’s still really easy to read him. I mean, you have a lot of his quirks memorised. Now, you have the correct body parts to put to his body language.

It is oddly sweet to watch one of his ears twitch to face you when you start speaking. You know that it’s instinctual, but it’s still nice to know he’s listening… Probably. His tail does a little sweep when he catches your scent and often nudges the side of his muzzle against your face. Sometimes he’ll press his wet nose to your cheek in a make-shift kiss.

Seeing Habit outside of Evan is limited and restricted to deep woodlands where it’s just you, him, and the moon. Predator/prey play means so much more to Habit when he’s in his true form. He’s always down to play his violent version of hide and seek—no matter what form—letting you run to your heart's content and starting his chase after counting to one hundred, Mississippi’s included. Of course, Habit always finds you faster than you can hide. He swears up and down that he is finishing his counting, but you know damn well that he barely counts to fifty.

Getting caught is a lot worse. Two legs vs four legs and absolutely insane senses. He moves way more fluidly and way more silently. And, in the moment, you know he’s near. You know he’s tracking you. You can feel him watching and waiting, crouched low and blended into the bushes. But you never know where. At most, you’ll hear the barely audible rustle of leaves, but even then, you’re not sure if it’s the wind or him. All you both can hear is the loud, fearful beat of your heart.

Like,,, yeah. Habit’s a hunter. It’s obvious even in Evan’s body, but way more alarming when a purple wolf with spider legs on its back starts following you around. I think if you took a photo in a pitch-black forest, all that would be captured is six glowing dots. Habit’s eyeshine goes crazy. It’s safe to assume that he can hear you from far away and smell you from even farther.

He’s all the more dangerous, if that wasn’t obvious.

Habit always bites to maul in this form. That’s what his teeth are made for, and the fibrous rip of flesh in between them is what he craves. I wouldn’t be surprised if Habit took a small chunk out of your thigh, using only his front teeth, licking the wound shut afterwards.

You can only pet him one way: with the grain of his fur. There are small, needle-like quills throughout his coat, all ranging in thickness and length. They’re virtually unnoticeable when smoothing your hand over him, but if you were to go against the direction of his hair, you’ll get pricked. Habit will just lick the prickles of blood off your palm, tongue sliding in between your fingers.

Speaking of his tongue, it’s forked and long, about as long as your forearm. It’s a similar texture to a cat's, albeit a bit more dragging and after say ten minutes, he’d start to rub your skin raw. Habit can and will eat you out, but it’d have to be with the first three or four inches of his tongue to avoid hurting sensitive areas. Anyhow, the tip of his tongue rolls very nicely over your clit. The amount of drool that drips from his maw is probably enough lube for the next three weeks.

Habit would also hold your hands up with one of his spider legs, the tip dangerously close to cutting through your flesh. He’d also probably wrap the tip of his tail(s) around one (or both) of your ankles to keep you from squirming, too. He’s mindful of the quills on the tips of them, and surprisingly gentle while restraining you with them.

Habit is shockingly compliant. You can’t help but be a little grateful, knowing what he could and would do to you.

I think that Habit’s docile grooming habits towards you are kept with Evan. I said this in Cue Up pt.2, but he does house-keeping actions; smoothing your shirt down, twiddling with the ends of your hair and passing the strands through his fingers, small things to let you know that he doesn’t actually hate you.

In his true form, he’d groom himself a lot like a cat would. If you run your fingers over a saliva-slicked part of his fur, Habit would nip at your fingers. He puts himself in uncomfortable-looking positions to lick at his back, teeth nipping against the skin.

Habit is really hot. He’s nice in the winter, but in the summer, he’s going to be licking the sheen of sweat off your skin as you’re trapped underneath him, fur sticking to your stomach. You can’t even sleep naked, instead waking up to his tongue laving over your folds.

Putting (most of) the monster fucking on a back burner because I have quite a bit planned, scenting goes so much harder with true form Habit. He’s knocking you over and onto your ass with the amount of force he nuzzles you with, entire face shoved into your torso. He does this normally, but after cumming in you (and frankly everywhere on you), Habit’s slinking down and pressing his muzzle to your inner thigh.

Humans can’t even pick up on a majority of Habit’s scent, but at least he has the peace of mind that you know that you belong to him.

I dunno. I think we need more true-form Habit content, honestly. He’s so much hotter like that.

Genuinely how I'm sitting at my desk right now. I'm about to get my freak on and resort to my monster fucker ways bigFATheartemoji

No. You come home from work one day to a freezing cold house and virtually no sign of Habit. You don’t even think he’s home, not until you enter your bedroom to find him curled up in your bed like a kicked puppy. He doesn’t respond to your questions, doesn’t bat an eye at your yapping as you change into your pyjamas.

Doesn’t snap his teeth when you move to brush his bangs from his face, either. But you know it’s him, you know it’s not a wildly traumatised Evan crying in your bed or his dead body. Habit croons into your petting and purrs when you press a kiss to his temple that he’d normally smack you for.

And there’s a moment where you do think that he’s dying. It only lasts until you remember how he lives—Barely sleeping, consuming mostly raw meat or dubious origins, you’re not even sure when he last showered. Even if Habit made Evan super resilient, his lifestyle was bound to catch up to him at some point.

And it’s done so in making Habit so, so pliable. It’s not like you get this every day, where he’s neutral to your soft touches instead of ducking away from them. Where he’s forced to listen to you without any escape. It’s not like Habit’s willing to submit himself, even if he expects you to at every turn.

And, really, though, is it really that bad if it’s giving him a taste of his own medicine?

It’s obvious Habit’s in pain. Or some form of it, at least. Brows furrowed and a permanent frown, fingers clenched tight as you climb on top of him. Wouldn’t even be surprised if you needed to go down on him to get him hard. He’s not fully there, even if all he can smell and see and touch is you.

And he’s whiny. Habit doesn’t speak—You’re not sure if he can even muster words—reduced to whimpers and shaky exhales as he struggles to keep up. You’re so rough, and Habit feels so weak, and you have to hold his wrists to keep his hands on your thighs. Habit can’t even scratch at your skin, can’t even sink his teeth into you. No, he can barely keep his eyes open and barely registers when your hands rest around his throat.

Habit’s just… forced to take it. Forced to hear the dirty, downright disgusting things you have to say about him and how he needs to change his behaviour and his habits.

How you’d make him, and how you’re a little hesitant to because you just love him like this. Obedient and quiet. A barely coherent, stuttering mess as you make him cum for—Well, Habit’s not sure.

He just knows that you’re mean. Meaner than he expected you to be in a scenario like this.