bad habit - K

You had agreed not to do it. Not even to talk about it, because that's how bad it fucking was. Practically shook on it, like proper gentlemen. You had worked so hard. You both knew that. It was rough as hell, but you were clean now, and wasn't that something to be proud of?

You thought he was proud of you, too. Not outright, but in his own way. You were strong enough to come back to him, and you didn't need him anymore, and you thought maybe that made him want you worse than ever.

It had been going great, too. You admit, you doubted your choice at first, and so did everyone else. Maybe you had the willpower when you were on your couch watching Scrubs in your boxers, but what would happen when you were under his cold weight with his mouth on your throat? When he was fucking you and it was instinct for you both and one little jerk of his head or yours would split your skin like an overstressed seam?

You thought about it a lot and tried not to. You tucked it into a corner with all those other things you didn't much like about yourself, and eventually you decided you'd be okay. You couldn't control him, of course, but sometimes you have to take chances.

He handled it better than you figured he would. You think part of it was that you didn't come sniveling back, crawling and begging and pawing at him like a neglected puppy. You were non-fucking-chalant, because so what if he turned you away again? It wouldn't be a big deal this time. It's just that you thought about him sometimes and maybe there was something else there.

He left your neck alone. You both navigated that trigger like perfect, gun-shy little pacifists, and it wasn't a problem.

Except now he's heavy on top of you, Michelangelo's David turned pliant and purposeful, and you can feel his teeth. You don't know why. Maybe this is one of his cruel streaks, but it's probably something worse. Worse because he's inside you as he scrapes those fucking needle teeth across your sweaty skin. Because he's holding your arms down against the bed like you're a toddler in danger of a tantrum. Mostly, it's worse because your dick is so hard it's actually starting to hurt and your pulse is about to burst every damn vein in your neck in a really sickening display that will probably make you pass out.

You suck down air like you might never get another chance. "Stop! Seriously, Bran, fucking stop!" You can still bend your elbows, and you do to grab his upper arms. You dig your fingers in close to his armpits. You're not above begging right now. "Please! Are you even fucking listening to me? Please!"

He's listening to you. You knew that already, but he thrusts his hips up and moves inside you and you know it a little better. The fact that he's still fucking you is more than you can stand.

"You're still thinking about it," he says against your wild heart rate. "I have to get it off your mind."

It's working, because you'd forgotten about it until now. It was over a week ago. You were on your way to a party, one of those business things he goes to sometimes, but you got a little lost down around Prospect Avenue where the streets are narrow and the shop fronts crowd together like bad teeth. You'd argued on the phone about him coming the one or two blocks after you, coming to lead you by the hand back to the twelve dollar drinks and shmoozing suits, and you might've hung up on him.

You were going back the way you came, retracing your steps down 39th where most of the windows were already dark. That's where you ran into her--some skinny asshole in an acid-wash vest and a pair of TOMS so spotless they glowed in the dark. There was something desperate in the quick movement of her eyes as they slid over you, then scouted the quiet street, then back to you. You thought she wanted to mug you, which would have been fine, because you were pretty sure you could break her in half, but her stare locked under your chin, and you really should've known better.

She grabbed you by the lapels of the navy blazer he made you buy for tonight (because you dress like a slob, honestly, and cut your hair before you show up) and shoved you up against the corner of 39th Burgers and Bottles. She was too strong for her skinny arms, and you threw some solid punches, but you were never much good against vampires. The brick dug into your spine and she was on you like a bad stench, crawling her bony fingers into your hair and over your arm.  A couple people passed on the sidewalk, and you shouted at them, but they crossed the street and pretended not to notice you. You guess you didn't blame them, but this girl was on her toes, muttering into your clavicle that you might as well shut up, and all your thrashing was doing was tearing up that expensive blazer.

It didn't matter who she was, really. What mattered was her teeth. The fact that she wanted to use them. You'd told yourself so many times that you were over this, but you'd never been this close to getting opened up again. You slid to one side. Flattened yourself against the brick and dragged your palms across it, hoping the roughness would be enough to snap you out of the breathless anticipation you were working yourself toward. It wasn't. Her lips crossed your pulse and you were fucking hyperventilating. Your face was flushed with heat and your body seized up to wait for it, because you hadn't exactly forgotten the feeling. The tingling, white-hot rush.

Just when you shut your eyes, he showed up. The most impossible white knight grabbing her round the neck with both hands and wrenching her off you. She crashed into the bar next door with a shrill yelp and a mist of brick dust, and he followed. She didn't have time to get up. You couldn't see anything, because you were too busy pitching forward onto the sidewalk, too busy clutching your neck like you were wounded and probably having a panic attack. But you heard the blows. The crunching. You heard the smack of his fist get wet as the seconds wore on, and you heard her pleading wear itself into thick sobbing and unintelligible whining and finally silence. You're pretty sure he killed her, but you never asked.

He helped you up. You were a mess. It was pretty embarrassing, actually. You remember wanting to sink into him, to pull at his shirt until the buttons popped off and beg him to do the very thing he'd just saved you from. You touched him a lot. You were shaking. He took you home and tried to comfort you and calm you down and didn't even say anything about your ruined clothes.

You wish you didn't know what he was talking about, but you do. You have thought about it. You've had dreams about it, and he knows because he sleeps next to you. He can feel you get tense in the early morning hours. He can see you sweat and track the quick beat of your heart.

"Stop," you say again, knowing. Knowing that, if he does this, you'll be his again. Completely. Not like now, not legitimately and consensually. Like before. Like a mewling wretch ready to suck his cock on command for that sweet sting at your throat. You almost think you might be okay with that, and that's the scariest part of all. Like someone else's thoughts in your head. That part of you you hoped you'd exorcised.

He rolls his body into yours and rolls his tongue across your skin. You're craning your neck, which really isn't the best way to prove you don't want this, and your toes clench in the sheets. You say his name. You say please, but now you're not sure if it's please don't or please do, and neither is he. He could at least finish getting you off so you could stop thinking with your dick.

The room is too hot. The sheets are sticking to you and your neck feels absolutely raw, one big, exposed nerve, and there he goes tonguing it like an overzealous prom date. But the sound shuddering past your lips is hardly disapproving, and you dig your heels into the mattress to press yourself against him.

You were wrong. Everyone was right and you were wrong, because his teeth are cutting into your throat, two fat needles loaded with the worst heroin you never stopped wanting. Your whole body is on fire and your short nails are tearing open his arms, blood that isn't yours, for a change, and he's crouched over you and fucking you in earnest as he smears his mouth across the wounds he made.

You're dizzy. Your neck throbs so hard it's giving you a headache and you can't even hear yourself moaning over the sound of your heart in your ears. You're coming, making a slick mess between your stomachs that he smears haphazardly as he arches down against you. You can feel him sucking. You're dying. His name is a litany and you can't stop, and you really wish he'd let go of your arms so you could get your nails into something more satisfying.

He's getting blood all over your throat and all over his face. Your blood, like warpaint. You're raw inside where he's still thrusting, and he pushes his teeth through again, and a third time, and you're pleading with him because it's too much and you can't come again and your body doesn't know what the fuck to do.

He grabs your hair and wrenches your head back and you can finally use your hand for something other than wanton clawing. His skin is under your nails, and his blood, and you push against his chest with the heel of your palm like it's going to accomplish something. He's getting frantic. He draws deep from your neck and you think he might turn your veins inside out, and he buries himself inside you and throws his head back. He looks like some pale god, violence-fed, and he finishes inside you with a shudder that can't compare to the tremors in your own limbs.

You don't want him to move. You want him to stay just like that, stooped over you, watching you bleed out onto the pillow until you die. You're exhausted. Wrecked. He's fucking ruined you, and you wonder if he's even sorry. He looks down at you, but you can't read his face, and you're going to fall apart again.

He pulls out of you and you feel it everywhere. He stops tugging your hair so hard. You want to sit up and punch him so that you break his nose, but your hand only makes it halfway to his face before he grabs your wrist to stop it.

"Fuck you," you say unsteadily. You're still bleeding. "Fuck you, godfuckingdamnit--"

He kisses you, and it's soft, but you know that, no, he isn't sorry. He takes away his weight. Leans into the sheets beside you and isn't harping about the mess like you're used to. He puts an arm around you instead and pulls you in against his chest. You want to turn away from him, because you're angry and you can feel that pool of hopelessness gathering in your gut, but he's still your safe harbour. It's so much easier to turn on your side and fold in against him. It makes you sick to think you might love him enough to stagger through this a second time.