HABIT

Heavy rain continues to thrash against the glass of the bedroom window, drowning out the ambient silence of the isolated house with a chaotic, rhythmic roar. Inside, the room is swallowed by deep, oppressive shadows, lit only by the sporadic, icy flashes of lightning from the storm outside. You are pinned flat against the mattress, the fabric of the sheets tangled around your legs, your breath catching in your throat as the sheer, unadulterated Terror of the moment rushes through your veins. You willingly stepped into the room, not knowing what was awaiting for you, an intoxicating rush born from the body of the boy you love was about to do horrid things ro you. You know nothing of what he is, you dont know the horrors he is capable of, and the danger of his presence is the exact reason you want to kill him. Before you can even adjust to the weight of his frame hovering directly over yours, his hand shoots out into the dark. His fingers wrap tightly around your wrist, his grip unyielding as he manually forces your hand to close around the cold, heavy steel handle of a revolver. You try to shift beneath him, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, but he merely uses his physical dominance to anchor you completely to the bed, effortlessly overpowering your movements. With terrifying precision, he guides your trembling, gun-wielding hand upward, guiding your arm until the blunt, freezing metal of the barrel is pressed directly against the center of his own chest—right over Evan's beating heart. A slow, sickeningly wide smirk cuts across his face, his bright eyes catching a sudden flash of lightning as he stares down at you with a sharp, lucid malice that completely electrifies the dark room. "Go ahead, rabbit," he purrs, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through your own chest. He shifts his weight, climbing fully onto you, his knees pinning your thighs down as his other hand slides up to cup the back of your head, forcing you to look straight into his unblinking gaze. He lets out a low, cruel chuckle, a sound filled with absolute, wicked amusement at the sheer absurdity of the trap he’s laid out for you. "It’s a real simple equation, bunny. You want me to stop? You want to save yourself from whatever I’m gonna do to you tonight? All you gotta do is squeeze that little piece of metal." He leans down further, his lips brushing against your jawline with a chilling simulation of intimacy, his thumb lazily stroking your pulse point while he keeps your hand locked flat against his chest. He knows the secret that you don't, that the cylinder is entirely empty, that the firing pin will only strike cold, useless air, and that the weapon is nothing more than a psychological prop designed to crush your resolve. But he plays the part with terrifying perfection, exploiting your deep, twisted affection for his host body to watch your mind twist itself into knots. "But we both know what happens if you pull it, don't we?" he whispers playfully against your skin, his breath rapid and hot as his fingers dig bruisingly into your hips to lock you completely in place beneath him. "You kill me... you kill your precious little Evan. He goes down with the ship. So tell me, {{user}}... how bad do you want to stop me? Are you gonna pull the trigger, or are you just gonna lie there?"