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summary: in which; Harry's bad habit may have gotten stronger when meeting her for the first time—seeing her for the first time, but when are there ever consequences with love?
trigger warnings: sexual content, stalking, subtle self-inflicted harm, violence, assault, blood, death, manipulative and very outward-blaming men, mature themes.
word count: 14k
includes: psychopath harry, stalking, slight voyeurism, mentions of male masturbation, teases of a threesome, fingering, references to 'YOU' because I love that show <3, written in third person.
disclaimer: this is a thriller, with psychological reasoning mentioned. there will be gruesome themes and detailed actions. do not take that lightly.
based on: ♫ bad habit, ed sheeran ♫
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It's horrible, his coworkers told him. A bad habit that you need to break.
While he would normally listen to those suggestions, finding the recommendations genuine and somewhat kind, although borderline intrusive; Harry knew that they had his best interest in mind. They were looking out for him, in ways he would never do for anyone, and the fact made his ego glow incandescence within his darkened soul.
He would give them a smile, his lips quirking in an anything but a taunting manner—and mumble something in relation to yeah, for sure, it's not my sorta thing anymore; I'm done. However, though they didn't know so, it was never the truth. It was always, every single time, a lie which bled through his teeth before he could think of speaking otherwise, and his fingers rubbed tightly against one another in a burn he would never experience elsewhere.
His nails dug around healing scabs, his body attempting to heal itself in a way that he could never do on his own. He traced the darkened region with a forceful finger, pressing on the surrounding bruise until his other hand curled into a clenched fist.
Until a bubble of blood sprouted from beneath his skin, torn by the ragged edge of his fingernail. The hardened blood peeled off like a discarded winter coat, a weight lifting from his shoulders when the small fleck of DNA flitted into nothingness. They believed him every time, heads nodding to his spiel in unconscious agreement.
He could never be done with it, his bad habit. With her, specifically. He could never move on, as he would with a past girlfriend who selfishly occupied far too much of his time; or searching the vast internet for episodes of a television series he liked, that got cancelled, or picking another pastry when his favourite was out of stock.
