‘I'm the powder, you're the fuse
Just add some friction
You are my strange addiction’
- Billie Eilish ‘my strange addiction’
The footsteps in the dark hallway outside the bedroom grow closer. Waylon squeezes as far back into the closet as he can manage. The collection of winter coats and suit jackets keeps him concealed, but obscure his vision, so he holds his breath and strains to listen. He can hear Eddie stop just outside and inhale deeply, like a hound scenting prey.
“Come out, darling,” Eddie croons, pushing open the bedroom door, “I’ve got a very special gift for you.” A lengthy pause, then closer, in a low, threatening growl, “Show yourself, you dirty little slut.”
Waylon’s breathing grows ragged and he can barely stifle his panicked gasp when Eddie’s shadow blocks out the dim light leaking through the slatted door. Through the lace veil plastered to his face with perspiration, Waylon can only see Eddie’s massive outline.
Eddie leans close to the closet door, his brow pressed against the metal, scenting Waylon with a chuffing sound. “I can smell you in there, darling. Are you already ripe for me?”
Waylon is cornered. He only has one chance to escape and he waits for it, every muscle quivering, coiled tightly with his skirts gathered into his arms, while Eddie eases open the closet door.
He’s out in half a heartbeat, making his break as soon as there’s room, but the dress catches on the door handle and he stumbles, frantic. There’s an awful wrench and a tearing sound, and Waylon gives a pained moan. He goes down hard, shocked when he hits the carpet on his hands and knees.
Eddie has him before Waylon can recover, hauling Waylon up by the back of his torn dress with one hand – the other around Waylon’s throat.
“Darling, are you trying to escape?” Eddie purrs, and deposits Waylon unceremoniously on the bed.
Eddie reaches for Waylon and grips his thigh, squeezing once. Waylon is trembling, a wreck, tears welling in his eyes, but he wants this so badly. He opens his mouth to say something, but words don’t come to him.
Waylon grips Eddie’s wrist and squeezes back twice, deliberate.
Yellow. Slow down.
It’s only the dress and the fall that bothers him, flusters him, embarrassed by his carelessness, not Eddie’s hot pursuit. It’s Waylon’s favorite, one Eddie worked so hard on. Special, pretty, delicate, with flowers on the bodice and seed pearls dotting the matching veil, sewn lovingly by Eddie’s own hands. A helpless, beautiful bride for a hungry groom.
Eddie circles, giving Waylon breathing room. The bed dips behind him and Eddie bulls up against him, framing Waylon from behind with his limbs. He’s rock hard, cock straining against his slacks, and Waylon’s distracted enough by that that he wriggles back to grind his ass into Eddie’s lap.
“You poor thing,” Eddie murmurs in Waylon’s ear, mouthing his neck just below it over Waylon’s rabbiting pulse. He pulls the veil out of Waylon’s hair, yanking out the clips holding it in place, and discards it on the floor. “You’ve been very bad and torn your dress.”
“S-sorry,” Waylon stammers when Eddie finds his nipple through thin fabric and pinches. “I’m so clumsy.”
“Do you know what we do with messy, ungrateful girls?” Eddie asks. This isn’t strictly part of the script, but Eddie gives Waylon’s flank a prompting squeeze. The ball is in Waylon’s court, if he wants it.
God, he wants it so badly. He’s been waiting for this for weeks. He wiggles in Eddie’s grasp, testing his luck, but Eddie is holding him in an iron grip. He’s so fucking strong. Waylon shudders at the thought of Eddie pushing him face down and forcing that thick cock of his into Waylon’s body.
Eddie will if Waylon asks him. Eddie will do that and more – and he’ll stop any of it at the drop of a hat. Waylon’s the one in control, the one opting not to stop any of it.
“Spank them?” he asks, breathy, playing confused and afraid. He is a little afraid, that’s the point, but that makes it so much better when he knows Eddie will be there with him right through it.
His fingers are in Waylon’s hair, not gentle. Eddie’s belt slithers out of his trousers. The sound makes Waylon spasm, arching his back. “We teach them how not to be naughty.”
“Eddie, sweetheart,” he moans. Eddie pushes Waylon face down onto the bed, holding him there with his fist in Waylon’s hair. “Eddie, please. I’ll be good, I swear.”
“If you wanted to be good, you’d have held still and let me give you exactly what a dirty, disobedient little slut like you deserves,” Eddie growls. The sound of his voice makes Waylon squirm, trapped half by Eddie and half by his absolute confection of a wedding dress.
“I will be good, promise,” Waylon says, begging. “I’ll show you how good I can be, Eddie. Let me have a chance. Let me give you something nice.”
“Look at you, trying to bargain like the whore you are. You think you can try to outfox me,” Eddie says, pushing Waylon’s skirts up to expose his bare ass. He presses against the plug stretching Waylon’s hole with his thumb, rolling it in circles until it nudges up against Waylon’s prostate. God, he’s going to make Waylon lose it already. “You can’t try to give me something I already own.”
The belt comes down hard before Waylon’s ready for it and he yelps in genuine alarm, his arms giving out beneath him.
“Color?” The flood of concern and anxiety in Eddie’s voice is palpable. And god help him does that turn him on, too, that sweet earnestness.
Waylon gives a ragged little sob of laughter. “Green, sweetheart. Don’t you back down now, when you’ve got me right where I deserve to be.”
The belt cracks against his other ass cheek, just as hard, just as unexpected. Eddie leans over him and says, “Count them for me, darling,” his voice a bassy, hungry rumble.
Waylon does — three, five, ten, until he’s sobbing after each impact.
“That’s a good girl,” Eddie murmurs, dropping the belt after the tenth blow. Waylon’s got a tender ass and Eddie has a strong arm. The occasions Eddie indulges them both in spanking it’s rough, quick, thorough, over just before Waylon buckles under too much too fast. “Shh, sweet girl. Let me see you. So pretty.”
His ass feels on fire, but Eddie cups it so gently. Waylon’s eyes are closed so tightly he can see spots swimming behind his eyelids, but he hears Eddie pop the top on the lotion they keep by the bedside for these kinds of things.
Eddie’s fingers are cool and slick to the touch, probing gently at the tender crease of Waylon’s ass. He toys with the plug a little to distract Waylon while he works, pushing it in and tugging it out just enough to send little electric shocks of pleasure up Waylon’s spine.
It’s a treat to have Eddie take care of him, to handle him so him roughly and then be delicate, but they aren’t done yet.
Waylon lets himself be manhandled onto his back. He tips his head, knowing exactly where this is going to lead. He loves this part best of all. “Eddie, let me make it up to you.”
Eddie’s whole demeanor has shifted. He still won’t ask for the things Waylon likes to do to him, but he takes Waylon up on it every time it's offered.
“If you must, darling, but it’s so vulgar,” he says, and Waylon’s knows Eddie isn’t acting when he plays so coy, even though they both like it. But he’s straddling Waylon’s head, lowering himself until his heavy cock brushes Waylon’s chin.
Waylon opens his mouth and licks, toying with Eddie’s balls and nosing gently at his perineum. He smells clean, thoroughly scrubbed, and when he parts himself for Waylon, Waylon can see he’s shaved himself preparing for this, his hole a bare, appetizingly rosy pink.
He doesn’t hold Eddie down on him. They learned early on with a few unplanned bruises that was still a little too much for Eddie, who'd been apologetic about it for weeks afterwards.
But, if he lies still like this, just moves his head, Eddie will let him have a little taste. Just for a few minutes.
It’s enough to make him go hot all over, make him willing to do damn near anything.
Eddie eventually lowers himself for Waylon, settles over him, and Waylon groans at how easy Eddie opens up for him. He cranes his neck hungrily, lapping into Eddie’s body with sure strokes of his tongue, until Eddie’s legs are shaking and he’s making ragged little noises stuck between a whine and a moan.
“Darling,” Eddie says, plaintive. Waylon probes him with his tongue, pushing in as deep as he can at the angle he’s been given to work with. “Darling, your mouth.”
Waylon shudders bodily. Eddie’s voice is always like silk wrapped around his brain, smooth and deep, soft around the edges. He thrusts in with his tongue then closes his mouth over Eddie’s tight opening and sucks.
Eddie jerks away with a strangled shout of pleasure and hovers there, panting and looking down at Waylon, wild-eyed.
Waylon gives Eddie’s thigh a querying squeeze. He gets two pats on his pectoral, friendly slaps in any other context.
One day, Waylon hopes Eddie will feel good enough about it that he’ll let Waylon take his time, worship his body, tongue him open until Eddie’s the same quivering mess that Waylon inevitably is.
But taking it slow is so good, too, and even if they never get there, Waylon will give Eddie what he needs, whenever he needs it. He’s never wanted to say no to anything that Eddie needs from him. He’s never needed to.
“Do you want to use my mouth, sweetheart?” Waylon purrs, stretching out so Eddie can see his whole body. His own cock is rock hard, jutting up under the frothy, eggshell white cloud of his skirts. If he twists a little just the right way, his dark nipples peek right out from beneath the neckline of the bodice. He knows what he looks like. He knows what Eddie likes to see.
Eddie looks down at him with his big blue eyes wide, still breathing hard, and draws a visibly shaky breath.
The slow release valve of pain and raw desire is the point. Eddie’s so sweet, gentle except when Waylon asks him to be cruel and heavy-handed like this. But they’re the ones in control now, painting over bad memories with good ones, over and over, with a brush of their own design.
Waylon tips his head back and opens his mouth in invitation.
This is very safe territory. Waylon could suck Eddie off every night for the rest of his life and never get tired of it. He lets Eddie move over him again, at a different angle, and drapes his hands over Eddie’s thighs so he can tap out if he needs to.
This was messy for them at first, too. Mostly because Waylon’s fuck yes territory sometimes plays friendly neighbor with things on the wrong side of a little too much, flirting with danger with Eddie’s big cock down his throat.
Eddie lets Waylon get him wet, muttering sweet things to Waylon that are mostly utterly incomprehensible. He’s always chatty when he gets his cock sucked, but half the time he’s too distracted to make any kind of coherent sense.
When he pushes into Waylon’s wet mouth, head of his cock bumping against the back of Waylon’s throat, Waylon swallows.
Eddie has a big cock, no two ways about it. Some days Waylon doesn’t know how he takes it when he never had anything nearly so girthy up his ass before Eddie fucked him that first time. Waylon wouldn’t mind a more petite cock to navigate if that’s what Eddie was packing, but god does he love how big Eddie is and how it always makes him feel so full.
He has to swallow again and again. Eddie moans like it hurts him when the head of his cock finally pushes into Waylon’s throat.
Waylon puts his hand to his neck, feels the bulge of Eddie’s cock as Eddie moves.
When Eddie shifts his hips, he slots all the way home, Waylon’s nose pressed firmly against Eddie’s balls, his chin nearly flush with Eddie’s pubis.
Like this, Waylon can’t breathe until Eddie pulls out far enough, but he doesn’t want to. If he could get away with Eddie using his throat like this more often, being a good little slut for Eddie, he would.
He gives Eddie’s thigh a squeeze. Green.
Eddie pulls out far enough for Waylon to suck in a breath before fucking back in.
These days, Waylon can hold his breath for almost a minute and a half without struggling, and Eddie makes very good use of those precious seconds. “Good girl,” Eddie is murmuring, more for himself than Waylon, “good girl, such a sweet mouth on you, so good to let me have it.”
The feel of Eddie inside of him like this is incredible, powerful. Waylon surrenders to it, limbs lax, floating on a buzzing high of pleasure that comes with giving up total control. Eddie’s first few strokes are so gentle for something so sloppy and frantic, but five, seven, ten thrusts in, Eddie’s pumping deliberately into Waylon’s throat, precise and quick, saying Waylon’s name like a chant.
When the edges of Waylon’s vision start to go fuzzy, discomfort building in his lungs, he gives Eddie’s leg a little warning tap.
This is the best part, he thinks, when ten seconds turn into thirty and his diaphragm contracts involuntarily.
This is always the best part.
He squeezes Eddie’s leg this time.
Eddie doubles down, quick short jerks and Waylon knows the rhythm of this now. Waylon digs his fingertips into Eddie’s thigh, holding on while Eddie moves in him, fills him up, and just as Waylon’s body begins to tremble with the involuntary impulse to breathe, Eddie comes for him.
It’s swallow or choke, so Waylon swallows. Eddie is out the second he’s done, still trembling, and pulling Waylon into his arms while Waylon gasps for air, coughing and sputtering.
There are tears in his eyes, streaming down his cheeks, his face a wet mess. Eddie pulls Waylon to his chest, cradling him there, and wipes Waylon’s face with the torn skirt of the dress. “Are you all right, darling?”
“Fine,” Waylon croaks, reaching up to caress Eddie’s jaw, a little dizzy. “Was I good?”
“So good for me, darling, so perfect,” Eddie murmurs, still flushed with his orgasm. They’re both shaking, clutching at each other. “So good, my sweet girl. Let me be good to you now.”
Sweet girl. Waylon will do anything for this man, for this immense warmth and tenderness between them. These days, he can’t imagine wanting anything else except Eddie in his ear, with his sweet girls and darlings and a hand down the front of Waylon’s pants telling Waylon how pretty his cock is and how much Eddie wants it.
“Yeah, Eddie,” Waylon says, still a little dazed but feeling so, so good.
What they’re into isn’t really that unusual, but Waylon can’t imagine doing those things with anyone else. His therapist is still helping him unpack that one, even now, but if it makes him happy, no harm no foul.
Eddie lays Waylon out flat on the bed and Waylon stays limp, lax with trust and shivering with a desire that has far more to do with his head and his heart than his wrung-out body. Eddie kisses him open-mouthed, tongue seeking, as slow and molten as a magma flow, then moves down to Waylon’s torso, showering Waylon with nips and licks. He sucks little red marks into the most tender spots of Waylon’s neck and shoulders.
When Eddie nuzzles into Waylon’s armpit, Waylon groans and does his best not to squirm. It tickles, but mostly it turns him knowing that Eddie is so hungry for the scent of him he’ll put his face right into Waylon’s darkest, messiest, most personal places to get more.
“Eddie, will you fuck me tonight?” he asks, the question dissolving into a moan when Eddie’s mouth finds Waylon’s cock. “I want you so much.”
Eddie’s mouth on him – that’s so good, too. They discovered that Eddie likes the taste and smell of Waylon, and now he savors Waylon the same way that Waylon enjoys putting his mouth and his body all over Eddie.
It’s a little stunning, sometimes, to be the epicenter of all of Eddie’s intense desires. Sometimes Waylon feels a little like Eddie is making up for all the years he didn’t have any kind of focus for them, but Waylon is more than happy to indulge.
“Anything for my pretty girl,” Eddie murmurs. He reaches between Waylon’s ass cheeks and gives the plug still buried there an inquisitive little tug. His cock, spent, is already plumping again between his muscular, corded thighs. “Ready for this to come out?”
“Only if you put something else in me instead,” Waylon murmurs, slinging his arm over his face. It’s sometimes a little embarrassing how much he wants Eddie in him. He’s never said no, never wanted to say no, and never needed to. “Help me out of this?”
The dress comes off over his head and hits the floor posthaste. Waylon used plenty of lube for the plug, so it comes out with a little careful work to get the heavy metal bulb out of his body. Eddie circles his tender opening with two big fingers, humming thoughtfully while he checks to see if Waylon’s ready. “I think we need a little more.”
Waylon stretches out for the bottle on the nightstand and passes it to him while Eddie runs a hand up and down Waylon’s torso, soothing. “You always know best.”
Eddie hums agreeably and pops the top on the bottle. Waylon used to think something like this could break the mood of the whole thing, this fictitious scenario they’ve constructed: Eddie giving chase and catching Waylon, Waylon unable to do anything except be helpless, at Eddie’s mercy.
It doesn’t though. He still feels the thrill when Eddie pushes two slicked-up fingers into his ass and says, low and dangerous-sounding, “Nice and wet for me already? I knew your tight little cunt was hungry for a real man.”
“Eddie,” Waylon moans his name, long and drawn out. “Eddie, please.”
Waylon needs Eddie with a suddenness and pushes himself up on his elbow, reaches for him. They collide, Eddie looming over him, bearing him back down into the blankets and pillows piled at the head of their bed, and Eddie rocks his hips against Waylon.
They’ve had plenty of practice now and as soon as Waylon feels the blunt press where the fat head of Eddie’s cock nudges against his ass, he bears down and Eddie slides into Waylon with one smooth thrust.
He gives Waylon time to adjust to the stretch, that sweet edge of burn that comes with being almost ready, of going just a little too fast.
Eddie’s face swims in Waylon’s view, his craggy brow furrowed in concentration. His eyes are a shocking blue and the fading scars on the right side of his face doesn’t detract from his raw, brutish attractiveness. His big jaw is clenched with effort, mouth pressed into a flat line.
Whoever made Eddie Gluskin rendered him with a heavy hand and Waylon is glad of it. Waylon never really felt free to be this vulnerable until Eddie came along and made him feel delicate, small, like a fine, wonderful thing to be cherished.
Eddie’s face smooths. He touches Waylon’s cheek, cradling the side of Waylon’s face with one hand, expression open and wondering. “Where are you right now?”
“I’m thinking about how handsome you are,” Waylon says honestly. He turns his face into Eddie’s palm and plants kisses wherever he can reach.
“Waylon,” Eddie says, pink with pleasure. It’s a treat that Waylon can make such a big man blush with a little praise. “Come here.”
Waylon lets Eddie gather him up, slinging his legs around Eddie’s muscular waist, as much to keep him close as for the sheer pleasure of feeling his body work. Eddie holds himself up with one arm and rolls powerfully, effortlessly into Waylon, filling him up with long, slick strokes.
“You feel so good,” Waylon murmurs, tipping his face up to lay a smattering of kisses across Eddie’s torso. Eddie’s so big inside him that Waylon doesn’t have to work to angle himself so that Eddie is hitting his prostate every time he moves. The sensation builds from his abdomen with each in-and-out, growing and filling him until every limb feels heavy with pleasure.
It’s almost too much. It’s perfect.
“Amazing,” Eddie returns, eyes unfocused. Waylon knows Eddie’s talking about him, but when Eddie gets like this, it’s less like a conversation and more like a prayer whispered between them. “Incredible, all mine, love you my darling. Such a beautiful man.”
Waylon hooks his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and holds on through the inevitable build of warmth. He’s hot everywhere, even hotter in all the places they’re touching, sweating in the joints of his limbs, his ass tender from the spanking and his throat raspy from the fucking, body humming with endorphins.
He comes first, with sobbing, hiccupping little moans, clutching Eddie hard enough to leave imprints of his blunt nails in Eddie’s skin. Eddie never lasts too long after, but it’s enough to drive Waylon past the edge of exactly right and into too much and he’s trapped there for one minute, two, while Eddie works himself to climax and spills into him with ragged thrusts that make his entire body flex with the effort.
Eddie collapses half on top of him and they hold one another, both too exhausted to move, until Eddie palms Waylon’s ass and breaks the soporific moment with a rumpled look of distaste. “You’re all sticky.”
Waylon tips his head back and laughs while Eddie uselessly tries to stifle a smile. It’s a bad effort, half of Eddie’s teeth showing in a lopsided grin and his shoulders shaking with the badly suppressed laughter.
“Get me a washcloth if I’m so filthy, you brute,” Waylon demands, stretching out until he’s sprawling across the mattress.
“Always at my lady’s beck and call,” Eddie says, punctuating it with his best put-upon sigh before he climbs out of their rumpled nest of blankets. He sketches a ridiculous little bow and Waylon rolls his eyes even while he’s trying to stifle his grin.
They’ve worn each other down, all the raw edges polished off, like two river rocks grinding away sharp points. They fit together now, complementary, comfortably resisting the current.
“You’re such a good husband,” Waylon says to him when Eddie returns and tidies him up with a damp cloth and a wealth of kisses. Eddie fondles him a little, playful, and Waylon groans, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
Eddie blushes again, eyes averted, suddenly shy. “Just lucky, I guess.”
“Come hold me,” Waylon says and after a little effort to move their discarded toys off the bed, he gets exactly what he asks for, Eddie wrapped around him, tucked close under the covers, already starting to doze. “I love you too, you know.”
“Mmm,” Eddie says, eyes closed. He’s not effusive in words, but Waylon’s learned how to speak another language; Eddie’s a hands-on kind of man, quick and clever Waylon’s body as he is with a needle and thread.
It took a few years, but Eddie made Waylon an honest man. It was a small spring wedding, under an arch covered in flowers, attended by a handful of enthusiastic guests. Waylon’s mother gave him away, slightly bemused by the proceedings – but she likes how much of a gentleman Eddie is.
Waylon definitely didn’t wear a dress to the actual ceremony, but he slipped into one the night after, and Eddie had kept him there all evening. They have some very private, after-hours Polaroid pictures of their honeymoon in a box locked in their fire safe. The other photos – family, Eddie’s first visit to a real beach, dancing – are in a scrapbook in the library, because scrapbooking is something Waylon occasionally does now.
If he also does it in nothing but the delicate pink apron Eddie made him – well, Eddie’s very careful not to make a mess when he pushes Waylon up onto the work table to show Waylon with his mouth how much he likes it when Waylon pretends to be a sweet little housewife for him.
They have a much more private house together now. A mortgage. Eddie makes bespoke clothes by hand and sells them online and Waylon manages a small staff for a mental health advocacy nonprofit he founded with the assets plundered from the smoking slag heap that remains of the Murkoff Corporation.
There had been another case in Arizona, more footage, more terrible things that tangled up the cases against Murkoff. Waylon feels sorry for the people that lost their lives, but it was the final, inextricable nail in Murkoff’s coffin.
The Engine touched both him and Eddie somewhere deep, irrevocable, and the long term effects are still being noted in the other survivors. They’re making it through. They’re part of a lucky few.
Waylon loves this man, and the life they have together, so much that he’s stunned by it. They have a lot of work left to do on themselves, but when they’re still and quiet like this, everything awful that came before feels like a fading dream, only half-remembered in waking. Sometimes the feeling of wanting Eddie fills him up until he’s numb to anything else, and that scares him a little, but Eddie’s steady easiness is his touchstone.
He pushes himself up on one elbow. Eddie opens one blue eye inquisitively. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Waylon says and leans to kiss Eddie. They linger in it. If Waylon pushes his luck, he can probably get Eddie inside him again tonight, but he’s exhausted. “I was just thinking about how happy I am.”
Eddie hums the affirmative. “You shouldn’t be thinking about anything at all. You have to get up early.”
“I can call in,” Waylon says, squirming closer. “I haven’t taken a single vacation day yet this year. We can drive out to Castlewood Canyon.”
Eddie puts a hand on the small of Waylon’s back, holding him in place. “Work tomorrow. I have a commission to finish. If it goes well, you can take the rest of the week off and we can go anywhere you want.”
“Very domestic, Mr. Gluskin,” Waylon says, then yelps unceremoniously when Eddie bowls him over and rolls right on top of him.
“Sleep,” Eddie growls, nuzzling into the curve of Waylon’s neck. “You’re awful when you’re tired.”
Waylon laughs, squirming until he’s comfortable, but doesn’t try to extract himself. “You’re right, as usual.”
But Eddie’s already asleep, so Waylon closes his eyes and lets himself drift. With Eddie like a rock against him, he feels anchored; he doesn’t dream about anything at all.