Archive of Our Own ^beta

Maybe it was the first time a girl kissed him, in high school. The gluey smear of her cherry lip gloss as it slid clumsily along his bottom lip and down his chin for him to lick away. Maybe it was that night at prom, seeing all these pretty young women, people he’d grown up with, watched their hair grow long, their shirts fill out, their hips start to move with a teasing sway. The envy he’d felt at the way they so effortlessly grabbed attention, young and beautiful and vibrant, drawing people just like him as surely as a moth to a flame.

Maybe it was when he’d found his mom’s old wedding dress in the attic, a few years after the divorce when his mom wanted to downsize; how the veil had felt so delicate under his fingertips, how the lacey flowers on the dress hinted just barely at the skin-colored skirt beneath, temptingly immodest. How even with their difference in sizes and body types, Waylon had seen the measurements and thought it would fit him perfectly.

Maybe it was the way his date looked senior year of college, her dress tight and blood-red, with golden tassels at the hem, shimmering in the streetlights and making her shine even in the muted half-darkness of the restaurant. The way she’d climbed into his lap in the backseat of his shitty secondhand car and giggled when he found her wet and ready, how her dress had crept up her hips and the tassels became a knotted tangle beneath his grip as she’d ridden him until he’d pulled out and came all over her pretty, shiny dress and her thighs, silky and pink from friction.

Maybe it was when a long-term girlfriend had caught him in their bedroom, sheer tights wrapped around his knuckles as he’d jerked himself off. How she had merely grinned, eyes gleaming, and goaded him into putting them on, stroking over the fabric stretched taut on his legs while she’d blown him, lipstick leaving smears, purple-painted nails creating runs in the tights.

Waylon doesn’t know, it could have been any of those moments, a casual grinding down of his inner shame until all that was left was a raw, sensitive nerve, trembling and desperate to be touched and poked at, drawn into the light.

Whatever the reason, it is that which the machine fixates on, when he goes under.

The screen doesn’t work the way one might think it does. It does not show images with the aim of numbness, of acclimation. It does not show rotting corpses and feasting maggots so that the viewer becomes desensitized to it. No, most of the inmates at Mount Massive are deliriously comfortable with death.

What it does is take the things already in the mind. Those little raw nerves, ready to be plucked like violin strings, throw them into the limelight. Begone shame, it says. Embrace your nature. Become what you were meant to be. Become the thing you always wanted, because you are beautiful, and I will love you regardless.

Not unlike a mother, in its way. Or the way mothers are supposed to be.

The kind of mother Waylon always thought he’d be, if the world had made it easier for him. 

No matter. The machine is good at many things. Reality is what you make of it, it whispers to him, inky blackness caressing his jaw like a lover, a gentle kiss to his brow, strong arms binding themselves tight around his chest. Is this what you want?

“Yes,” Waylon says, or tries to say. Relief at saying it out loud rushes through him like an orgasm, leaving him gasping and shaky in the Walrider’s tender, nurturing hold. “Yes, yes, I want that. I want that so much.”

Then have it, the machine purrs, and slides down his throat like molten honey.

Waylon’s mother, when she deemed him old enough, would tell him all the ways in which his father failed her. They divorced when he was ten and his father got him every other weekend. 

By all the awareness and memory allowed of him so young he recalls his childhood being relatively untroubled. Their house was small and comfortable, his mother’s allowance generous enough to ensure there was always food on the table and that they were only ever a generation behind any gadget or fashion he might need. When he’d visit his father on the weekends, he remembers the man being happy to have him, eager to teach him to shave and play catch and drive stick. 

He was too young, back then, to sense looming animosity. To watch the way his parents interacted and find the cracks and crumbling edges driving them apart. 

However it happened, by the time he was fifteen his mother had turned bitter with it, languishing in the lifestyle of a decently-kept single mother but apparently too traumatized to date again, to see if her sample size was a true measure of men as a whole.

“They’re selfish and egotistical,” she would sneer into her wine. “Force you to do things just because they’re men and they’re in charge. I ever hear you force a poor girl into anything they’ll never find your body.”

Maybe that’s why he’s always gravitated to sexually aggressive partners. The thought of forcing himself on anyone makes his skin prickle, his fingers curl with instinctive fear. His mother wasn’t an overbearing woman, but she was watchful, like she was just waiting for him to slip up, to prove he was more like his father than either of them wanted - even when he couldn’t for the life of him find fault in the man himself. His father’s girlfriends were always pretty and bright and friendly, but they never lasted long.

Men are pigs. Men are monsters. Men only want one thing and they’ll kill women to get it.

The machine does nothing to discourage this mindset. When Waylon emerges, panting and reborn with the magic presence of the Walrider seeped deep into his bones, curled between the atoms in his marrow, gracing his eyes with sharpness and keeping his hands steady, the machine nudges him, first, to an abandoned part of the asylum. A place he can be safe.

He finds himself in the workshop above the laundry rooms, the scent of steam and lint and damp cotton ripe in the air, powerful enough to combat the ever-blooming scent of blood. It’s a large enough space, filled to the brim with extra sheets and inmate uniforms, a few guard jackets, a janitor’s jumpsuit, and additional pillowcases and blankets. 

Waylon smiles to himself, pleased. He’s already growing stale and rank with sweat; a change of clothes will do wonders for his disposition. He studied his mother’s clothes with the same direct focus with which he mastered most areas of interest in his life, and found an old sewing machine that allows him to mimic the stitches well enough. 

It feels like coming home, the first time he slips into a patchwork dress of old orderly uniforms and crisp white sheets. He cuts it to just above his ankles to afford him the ability to run, but also preserve his modesty.

He must be careful. There are so many men here, men who will try to get their hands on him, who will hurt him if he lets them. He keeps a knife in his garter and another hidden in his long sleeves, finds enough string to tie his hair away from his face. He makes the workshop into a warm space as best he can, aware of his limitations when he dares not explore most of the asylum. 

It isn’t long before he becomes aware of…an absence. Something lacking in this new homestead he has made for himself. The machine pulses restlessly in his brain, kicking at neurons and snapping synapses like a chained-up animal. 

This is what you want, the machine whispers. To be loved. To be with someone who loves you above all else.

“Yes,” he murmurs out loud as he has become fond of doing. He practices pitching his voice high, delights in the sound of his laughter whenever he manages a particularly stubborn piece of fabric or finally cleans a days-deep stain from the floor. 

There is no one who loves each other more than a new Bride and Groom, the machine says.

Waylon pauses, his hands shaking. He looks down at the white of his dress, a little dirty from so much hard work, but still passable. He can clean out the worst stains and replace fabric as needed. He recalls those little lace flowers on his mother’s dress and doesn’t think it impossible to replicate something similar. He has plenty of fabric to experiment with, after all, and much thread pilfered from old clothes.

“But men…” He trails off, voice trembling with fear and indecision. The machine loves him, it wouldn’t steer him wrong, but there are so many men outside, and they are all so violent. He’s not delusional - despite his best efforts he can still smell the blood. No matter how loud he sings, he can always hear faint, distant screams. “Men hurt people like me. I can’t marry a man like my father.”

So don’t marry a man like your father, the machine says, as though it’s as simple as that. 

And, Waylon thinks, it just might be.

The lair of the Bride is a haunted place. She sings day and night, wishing for her love to come and find her. Her voice is like a siren call, luring men and monsters alike. And she is so, so loving to them, cups their cheeks and gives them her most winning smile. Some balk when they see her face, and turn away from her.

She cuts them down. Spits on their corpses and uses their blood to dye her pretty clothes.

Some draw closer, enamored by her, the way she dances on the tips of her toes and laughs at their attempts to grab her. 

Some grab her too hard. Some hurt her.

“Unworthy,” she hisses, stabbing a blade into their throat. “Monster. Pig.”

She thinks of that witch Circe, longs for someone to protect. Someone to love and justify all this senseless violence. A Bride’s hands are not meant to be so stained, so scarred by cuts and jabs. Callused from needlework and trembling for something soft and sweet to lay upon. 

Her only companion is the old crone who lives upstairs. Her face is warped and twisted and she speaks with the machine’s voice; “A gift, child,” she calls when another man stumbles into her lair. “A gift for the Bride.”

The Bride weeps with joy every time, thinking perhaps this one, this man will love her the way she so desperately wants him to. She sings to him and plies him with food and drink she can find, calls him handsome and brave and strong for surviving so long in this place. Offers him haven and homestead. Some of them are not very handsome at all, but she tries not to be so shallow, so quick to turn away those who have tried so hard to love her.

But one by one, they all fall. Too mean, too twitchy, their hands wandering too far without her permission. Grabbing her hair or her throat and bruising her delicate skin. She shrieks and fights them, drives her blade into their stomachs or their necks or their cocks, whatever’s easier to reach. Wails to the Heavens and the old crone and whoever might be listening.

Is it so hard, she wonders, to find a good man?

No, child, the machine whispers gently. It simply requires patience.

She can be patient - she must be. But how long must she wait? Her fertile years are dwindling and her heart along with it. She can remember touches she’s laid, women she’s held and kissed and given so much love to, and in the next moment those visions hit her like a slap, gagging her with longing. 

“Please,” she cries to the crone above, “find me another.”

“I will,” says the crone, and her husband, and her daughter, all three voices coming from the same mouth. “Hush, child, be diligent. He will come and he will be wonderful, you’ll see.”

The Bride no longer is sure that’s true, but she holds the hope in her heart, sews a new dress since her last one was ripped beyond repair by the disgusting pig’s hands. Cold air wraps around her thighs and wrists, taunting her with its lack of warmth, squeezing around her throat and stinging her teary eyes.

“The next one,” the old crone and the machine promise. “The next one. Or the one after that. Soon.”

She certainly hopes so. 

Mount Massive Asylum has become a slaughterhouse. 

For the most part, he’s been left alone. His stature wards away the smaller and more scared inmates, skittering from his light or the sound of his footfalls like roaches into their dark, damp corners. Some have attacked him in packs, others ignore him outright.

The carnage is indescribable. The stench of blood and human filth saturates every molecule of the air, makes it hard to breathe in places. Eddie clutches the camera, hopes the battery lasts until he can find another. Miles is gone, he can only pray his friend made it out, or is otherwise safe. 

“Get all the evidence you can,” he’d said, right before they got separated. A gaping hole in the floor and so much dust Eddie couldn’t see if his friend had survived the fall. “We need to make sure Murkoff burns for this.”

It may as well already be burning, as far as Eddie’s concerned, but he must do as right as he can. For Miles.

Please, God, let him be alright.

A shuffling noise startles him, makes him swing his light around. A hunched man with a scarred face flinches, hissing at the sudden light. Eddie takes a step back, his heart pounding, but when the man doesn’t appear again, he continues on. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, standing on end. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched.

“Another,” a voice rasps, high and young. Sounds like a woman. He frowns; Miles said there were no women working or incarcerated here. “There’s another.”

“A gift,” a second voice says, older and guttural. “A gift for the Bride.”

“A fine gift,” a third, a man, rumbles in agreement. The shuffling sound moves closer. Eddie ducks between a stack of shelves, hoping to lose line of sight from whatever is speaking. He figured out a while ago that the inmates don’t need light to see.

There’s another hole in the floor, through which Eddie can see a gymnasium. He shines his light down on it, grimacing at the sight of bodies of men, stabbed multiple times and left to rot in the pools of their blood. Bare footprints surround the scene, the stalking steps of whoever slaughtered all these people. Some of it looks far too fresh for his liking.

“Yes,” a voice says, way too close. “You’ll make a fine gift.”

He whirls around, gasping in surprise when the man’s scarred face appears on the other side of a shelf. He sets his hands on it, and pushes. It knocks Eddie backward, sending him flailing to the ground.

But the ground doesn’t rise up to meet him.

Instead, he careens through the hole, and into the gym below.

“A gift for the Bride!”

Eddie groans, coughing up a heaving lungful of air as he rolls to his side, fighting to catch his breath. His back and skull sing with pain, but when he tests all of his limbs, he can move them. Blood seeps into the sleeve of his shirt, stains his nails. 

He opens his eyes and recoils as the black, open eyes of a corpse stares back. He sits up, eyes widening in horror at the state of it - castrated, a great pool of blood poured out around his lower half. His throat was slit for good measure, but by the size of the blood stain Eddie figures it was done after his genitals were removed.

He scrambles to his feet, searching around for his flashlight and camcorder. He finds it a few feet from him. The screen is cracked but the thing flickers to life. He breathes a sigh of relief, turning on the night vision so he can search for his flashlight.

He finds it, almost dropping to his knees in relief. It’s rolled to another corpse, and he takes it quickly, overcome with the notion that if he lingers too long, these bodies will animate. Eyes stare up at him from all angles, it seems, dozens of men slaughtered, most with multiple stab wounds, some with the same castration stains amidst the blood and mess of bodies voiding themselves in death.

The smell is even worse for the different layers of freshness. He presses his nose to his sleeve, eyes watering at the smell, and looks up to the hole he fell through. He can’t see any sign of the man who pushed him, nor hear any movement.

The uneasy stillness of the space unnerves him, sending a shiver down his spine. He shifts his weight and tests the back of his head, unable to tell if the blood that tacks to his hands is his own or that of the bodies. 

He supposes it doesn’t matter. He can walk and he’s not brain dead on the floor, so he’ll take it as a win. 

In the silence, barely audible above his heavy breathing and racing heart, he starts to hear…

Singing?

It’s so quiet, the voice high, lilting a delicate tune. Eddie sucks in a breath, overcome with a strange sort of feeling at the sound. The only sounds here have been the groaning of the collapsing building and the screams and roars of madmen - to think there is something here that sounds so pleasant…so beautiful…

There is a large double door at the end of the gymnasium. Eddie walks towards it cautiously, aware of how loud his steps sound on the smooth floor, his heartbeat in his ears. He pushes the door open and the voice grows louder, the words still not quite distinguishable. But the voice is sweet and sounds happy, feminine.

He frowns. He knows from Miles that no women were detained here. But the man above spoke in a woman’s voice. Is this another inmate with the same condition?

He finds himself following the sound of the voice, caught in his curiosity like a fly in a web, lured helplessly towards the siren song. No other inmates greet him on the journey, and soon it sounds like the voice is coming from everywhere. It echoes through the vents, trills down the halls, bouncing off the acoustics in a lovely chorus. 

Eddie swallows, his hands shaking. He stops recording on the camera, finding himself possessive of that voice. That song that sounds like it’s just for him.

“Hello?” he calls out, wincing as his own voice ricochets like a bullet down the halls. “Is anyone there?”

The voice stops singing. It takes a moment for the silence to fall.

Then, delighted and brilliant as a sunrise, he hears, “Darling?”

Another man has come! The Bride rises from her sewing bench, her heart fluttering with eager, wistful hope. The machine chuckles in her head like a knowing mother and places a hand upon her shoulder, urging her onward. She flees from her workshop and races down the halls, her steps silent, skirt rushing behind her.

She stops, looking down at herself. Oh, she is in no state to receive a suitor now! There is still blood in uneven, ugly patterns along her dress, she was making a new one when she heard him calling for her.

She laughs, flustered, tucks her hair behind her ears. “Wait just a moment, my love!” she calls, rushing back to her room. “I’m not decent!”

She thinks she hears a slight cough, discomfort and embarrassment. “Take your time,” the man’s voice answers. She feels a little thrill of impatient glee - a man who is willing to wait for her to dress herself properly! Who has not forced his way into her rooms in an effort to find her in some sort of nakedness so he can take advantage!

Hope swells in her like a second heartbeat, making her ears ring, rendering her dizzy. She wishes she could have had more time, but she is so eager to meet him. She runs to one of her wardrobes and throws it open, selects a dress that is more beige than white, a modest cut that goes to her ankles and covers her elbows. She disrobes and puts the new dress on quickly, pleased to find that this one has only the barest trace of red at the hem.

It looks rather fetching, if she does say so herself. 

She runs her hands through her hair, hoping the blonde catches the light just so, teases her neck in a way that reads as inviting, alluring. Her heart trips an unsteady beat in her chest as she leaves her rooms, flits like a hummingbird through the halls.

“Where are you, my love?” she calls. When no answer comes, she frowns, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Surely he didn’t leave? Oh, God, did she take too long? No! She’s been so patient, why would he leave her now after such a long search?

“My love!” she calls again, frantic now, running to the next room and scanning the darkness. “Darling?” Nothing, just old tables and shameful stains she hasn’t had time to clean yet. Oh no, what if he saw the state of the home she keeps and found her lacking? What if he changed his mind?

Tears sting her eyes, betrayal crushing her heart inside her chest. She sinks to her knees, sobbing quietly. She’d been so patient, so good, and now she’s lost her chance at love, at happiness. He left her behind, why would he leave her behind in this place? Why -?

“Hello?” 

She whirls around on her knees, gasping as she looks up at the most handsome face she’s ever seen. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, red on his breast like a robin, his eyes the prettiest blue, wide and staring at her.

He seems just as struck by her as she is by him. Her cheeks color, flushing under his scrutiny where she is on her knees. She tries to right herself, but finds that her knees are unsteady, her ankles weak. She stumbles and he reaches forward to catch her, his strong arms wrapping around her without thought.

He’s warm and so large, he’s perfect. The machine flashes with joy inside her skull, urging her onward, filling her with the urge to touch him, to press close, to soothe his aches and reward his bravery for finding her.

She stares up into his eyes, smiles so brightly, and puts her hand upon his chest. His heart is racing too, at the same pace as hers. “There you are, Darling,” she murmurs, and cups his cheek. “What took you so long?”

Eddie’s frozen. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but this wasn’t it. The man is small, the dress he’s wearing makes him look even more fragile and delicate, like the smallest breeze could knock him over. He’s young, younger than Eddie, and the black sclera and glowing pupils in his eyes tell Eddie he’s been in the machine.

Another inmate. 

But one that…doesn’t seem violent?

The touch to his cheek is startling and he shivers with it, unsure what to do. The camcorder hangs from its strap on his wrist, the flashlight in his other hand. He fights the urge to drop it, to make any sudden movements. To pull away. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, because it seems like a fairly reasonable question.

The man’s smile widens, softens into an unbearably affectionate thing. It feels like sacrilege to stare at him too long, but Eddie dares not avert his eyes. “Better now you’re here,” the man sighs, brushing his thumb over Eddie’s cheek, which feels far too hot. “You found me.”

Eddie swallows, and says, “I followed your voice. That was you singing, wasn’t it?”

The man’s blush darkens. He looks down at where his hand is on Eddie’s chest, biting his lower lip and shifting his weight, bashful and sweet. “It was,” he confesses. “Did you like it?”

“I did,” Eddie replies. His mind feels like a stuck record, desperately trying to jump to the next track but unable to quite leave the one he’s on. He needs to get away, needs to find a way out of here and leave this man before he turns violent - they always do - but he simply…can’t. Not only because he’s being held quite firmly and doesn’t think he could extricate himself in a way that doesn’t prompt violence, but also because this is the first inmate who actually seems somewhat lucid. Some of the inmates have talked, muttering to themselves or engaging in stilted conversation, but they’re rambling incoherences at best, ranting around some delusion at worst. They have never outright conversed or responded to him.

Though, he can obviously tell this man is under some delusion. They have never met before. Eddie would have remembered a face like this.

“Oh, where are my manners?” the man sighs, shaking his head and taking a step back. His hand slides to Eddie’s free one and their fingers lace without question. “Come, you must be tired. Sit, eat, rest a while. But not too long, we can’t keep the minister waiting.”

“The minister?” Eddie echoes, frowning as the man turns and starts to pull him along. Why he doesn’t fight it, he cannot say.

“For the wedding, silly!” the man answers with a laugh. Then he turns, his eyes widening. “Oh, but you can’t get married wearing that, and I certainly can’t, wearing this.” He gestures between them, laughing again. “What a pair we make! I’ll have to make some adjustments, you’re much larger than the measurements I had, but it shouldn’t take long!”

Married? What the Hell is happening here? Eddie lets himself be pulled along, too dumbfounded to speak.

The Bride. The scarred man said there was a gift for the Bride. Is he meant to be that gift?

His mind flashes back to the gymnasium, all those men mutilated and slaughtered. Some of them he thinks were wearing clothes akin to suits. His stomach twists in knots, horrified at the implication. 

“I know it’s short notice,” the man is saying, his voice still so sweet and happy, his fingers gentle inbetween Eddie’s. “I hope you won’t mind the rush. I’m…somewhat eager.” He laughs, blushing. “Please don’t think less of me for saying so. I promise I’ve been chaste, Darling, I’d never break that vow before marriage, I -.”

He stalls in place, so suddenly Eddie almost collides with his back. When Eddie looks at him, he finds the man’s dark eyes are wide with horror, tears forming in them. Alarm makes him look around, fearing some other inmate has suddenly appeared, but he can’t see anything.

The man sobs, flinging Eddie’s hand away with such ferocity it makes him stumble a step back.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” the man cries, his head in his hands. He shakes fiercely, trembling like a leaf in a storm. “You think I’m ugly. Oh, God, you -. You don’t want to marry me, do you? I’m ugly, I’m stained, I swear I haven’t let any of these men touch me, you have to believe me, Darling, please believe me!”

“I do,” Eddie says, grasping for anything that will stop this man from his wailing breakdown. Adrenaline courses through his veins - fear of the noise drawing attention, fear of this man lashing out, fear of ending up like all those corpses on the gym floor.

The man stops sobbing, looks up at Eddie. Tears stain his flushed cheeks, shining in the light. “You do?” he whispers, thick with emotion.

“I don’t think you’re ugly,” Eddie murmurs. “Not in the slightest.”

The man hiccups, drawing in a shaky breath. His fingers curl as he holds his hands to his chest. “Really?”

He’s calming down, at least. Eddie swallows, and says, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He chances a step closer, relieved when the man merely stares at him. He has to tread carefully, of course he does. Anyone who can leave so many bodies behind is not to be underestimated, even if Eddie is bigger than him.

He presses a testing hand to the man’s tear-stained cheek, feels the nerves unclench a little when he leans into it. “I believe you, angel,” he murmurs, and he certainly does - he doubts anyone managed to put a hand on this man without his consent. If they did, they didn’t live long, and if this purity delusion is so important to him it’s in Eddie’s best interests to play along. “I’m only sorry I kept you waiting.”

The man blinks at him, and Eddie must admit, his smile is quite lovely when it comes. He takes Eddie’s wrist in both hands and kisses his palm, sighs into it, closes his eyes for a second too long.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” he says. His breath is warm on Eddie’s hand, making him shiver despite himself. “Must be wedding jitters.”

“Must be,” Eddie agrees, glad that the episode has passed. He steps closer and nudges the man’s head up so their eyes can meet, gives him a smile he hopes is reassuring - or loving, whichever gets him out of here alive. “Come, angel, let’s not waste a moment more. Show me the way.”

The man smiles, lets out a nervous, elated laugh, and leads the way, pulling Eddie along behind him.

Even in her wildest dreams, she couldn’t have imagined a man so handsome, so wonderful! And so gentle too, not even once have his eyes turned lascivious and greedy, his hands haven’t wandered. His voice is so kind and soft, tugs on her ear like a fond memory, wrapping her up in desperate, giddy anticipation. 

She wishes she had had more time to prepare, but she’s nothing if not adaptable. She brings him to the living room, which is by far the cleanest and most comfortable, though a little dusty. She gives him a sheepish smile that he returns, looking a little out of sorts as he looks around. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything? You must be tired, you can sleep while I fix your suit if you’d like…”

Uncertainty makes her hands flutter at her chest, wringing nervously. Her Groom meets her eyes after another moment, giving her a winning smile.

“Some rest would be nice,” he admits, palming the back of his neck. “If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not!” she says brightly, coming forward to clasp his wrists. “Only…” She frowns, biting her lower lip. “The only bed I have is mine, and it wouldn’t be proper…before the wedding…”

His handsome face flushes, she’s happy to see he looks just as unnerved by the prospect of impropriety as she is. The machine has been her chaperone for so long, but she knows that it’s not entirely tangible, nor able to give itself as a witness. It would be best to just avoid any potential allusions altogether. 

Some men have been reluctant to wait. They’d grab her and try to sweet talk her into immodesty, tell her what does it matter if they learn each other before marriage, if she were to walk down the aisle already bred and blossoming with child. No one would know, they’d say, it could be their little secret.

But she knows better. Her mother taught her to be smarter than that.

“I can sleep here,” her Groom murmurs, patting the cushions beneath him. “I don’t mind.”

She smiles, and would kiss him if she weren’t certain her eagerness would merely be more temptation that, frankly, she’s not sure she’s strong enough to resist. Desire thrums through her at the mere sight of her husband-to-be, her hands shake with the impulse to touch him, to measure his heartbeat and the strength in his arms. Images of what it’ll feel like to have all that weight crushing her to the bed, protected in his embrace as he lays with her and breeds her, flutter like butterflies in her skull, in her stomach. 

“It won’t be forever,” she promises, taking his hands and kissing his knuckles. “I’ll finish your suit as quickly as I can, and then we can be married.”

Oh, how badly she wants to kiss him, to take him in her arms and between her legs and show him just how happy she is to have finally met him.

But patience. She must be patient.

She squeezes his fingers and pulls away, casting one last winning smile as she circles the couch, watches him settle on it, able to watch her as she makes her way to her workshop.

“Angel?” he calls after her, prompting her to turn and regard him. “Will you sing for me some more?”

Pleasure darkens her cheeks, makes her heart leap in her chest. “Of course I will,” she promises, dipping her head in a nod. “Rest, my Darling. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

He nods, seems unable to take his eyes off her. She smiles to herself and goes to her workshop, a happy song filling the space as she goes to one of the mannequins she had been using for her wedding dress - the most recent one, at least. Another stands at its side, half-dressed in a wedding suit. The mannequin’s shoulders are nowhere near as broad as her Groom’s, and he’s much taller than the model, but she is confident she’ll be able to make it fit. She pulls the garments off the mannequins and lays them on her workshop table, waltzing around her workshop to gather more materials to expand the suit and place the finishing touches on her dress.

Her hands tremble with anticipation, heat curling low in her stomach in excitement. Soft frantic pulses prompt her to occasionally check on her Groom, to make sure he hasn’t wandered off or some other suitor hasn’t been lured by her song, but whenever she pokes her head in, he’s still there on the couch, listening to her with a smile on his face.

He should leave. He has enough space between them now to get a decent head start, and even though he doesn’t know the layout or floor plan of the asylum, he figures he has a decent shot of making it out before the Bride could catch up with him.

Each time, he urges himself to leave. To get to his feet and scurry away like a rat whenever the other man checks on him and goes back to his work. It’s routine, like clockwork - every ten minutes or so. He could get himself a pretty decent distance away before he was checked on again.

But he doesn’t. For what reason, he cannot say. It’s obvious how this is meant to progress. He’s clearly in the company of an inmate under a heavy delusion, who expects to marry him and then do all the things married couples do. The mere implication makes his cheeks burn, does unfair things to the pace of his heart. 

He looks down at the camcorder, still strapped to his wrist. A moment later he removes it, sets it on a side table along with his flashlight. Despite the situation, he is exhausted, and feels safe enough to allow himself to relax. This homestead has been fiercely defended and he hasn’t heard any of the other inmates since falling through the ceiling - a brief respite from the crushing weight of Mount Massive Asylum’s madness. 

He shouldn’t be delaying, Miles could be in danger, could have found much less pleasant company. But Eddie has never been particularly good at lying, and he can’t think of an excuse to give that would convince the Bride to let him leave - what kind of Groom disappears the hour before his wedding?

No, he doesn’t think he’ll be allowed to leave. 

And that voice, that siren’s song… He doesn’t want to leave that, either.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but finds himself stirring to a gentle touch in his hair, pushing it back from his face, scratching just below his ear. He hums sleepily, nuzzling into the touch before he remembers where he is. His eyes snap open to find the Bride perched on the couch beside him, smiling lovingly down at him.

“Darling,” the Bride purrs, tenderly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. “Your suit’s ready. Come try it on for me? I want to make sure it fits.”

Eddie nods, pushing himself to his feet, and lets himself be led into the Bride’s workshop. Many piles of fabric and mannequins in stages of half-dress greet him. Clearly the Bride has been very busy making his outfits from what looks like orderly uniforms and spare sheets. There is a pile of shredded fabric, soaked and reeking of blood.

He swallows and looks away from it.

“Here,” the Bride murmurs, gesturing to where a suit is laid out along a table on its own. There is a sewing machine and some small fabric scissors next to it, nothing that can do any real damage. The Bride tuts to himself and lifts the jacket, holding it up to Eddie’s chest with an assessing eye. “I think I got the size right. Do tell me if anything’s too small.”

He smiles at Eddie, then, blushing, turns away and covers his face. “I won’t peek, I promise.”

Eddie can’t help how he smiles, charmed despite himself. He should make some excuse, say he wants to find a bathroom to dress in and make a grand entrance for his Bride. He should take advantage of his turned back and lowered defenses, subdue him and scurry away without the threat of pursuit.

He picks up the suit jacket. 

It fits like a glove.

There isn’t a shirt, but his own is in decent shape still, if a little dirty and smeared with drying blood from the bodies on the gymnasium floor. The fabric of the suit is heavy and smells of dust but it settles on his shoulders like a costume he was always born to wear. There are trousers as well, black suit pants that seem a tad short when he picks them up. He quickly shucks his jeans, casting furtive glances to the Bride’s turned back as he pulls them on. They fit well around his waist and thighs but stop a little short at his ankles.

He clears his throat, prompting the Bride to turn around. His hands fall and his eyes widen, looking awestruck as he rakes his gaze up and down Eddie. It’s an expression Eddie has seen plenty of times before, dark-eyed women in bars Miles has dragged him to, the hungry look of a starving animal presented with meat when they’d touch him in the chaos of a dark club, hands wandering, smiles savage and sly. 

“Oh,” the Bride breathes, swallowing loud enough his throat clicks. “You look…”

He seems at a loss for words, but the wideness of his pupils and the sink of his teeth into his lower lip speaks volumes.

“The trousers are a little short,” Eddie says, scuffing his shoes on the floor to draw his attention.

The Bride smiles brightly. “I can fix that!” he says, and takes the fabric scissors, sinking to his knees in front of Eddie. Eddie sucks in a breath at the sudden proximity, holding deathly still as the hem of the trousers is taken in dainty fingers, one of the folds of material cut loose so that it can be rolled down. From his vantage all he can see is the top of the Bride’s head and the barest hint of his shoulders, but he’s close and his breath is warm on Eddie’s thigh, prompting a reaction from his body before his brain can even catch up.

“There!” the Bride says, turning his face up to give Eddie another winning smile. It seems his position catches up with him in the same moment. He sucks in a breath, eyes widening and cheeks going dark as he stares up into Eddie’s face. 

Panic races around the base of Eddie’s spine, makes him stiffen. To draw away, or push forward? He doesn’t know, and while those fabric scissors probably can’t kill him, he doesn’t doubt they are sharp and can deliver a mean bite if put to use.

He swallows and looks down, takes a step back and sees that the trousers are now long enough to hide his socks and settle well around his shoes. “That’s perfect, angel,” he rasps. “You’re very skilled.”

The Bride’s blush darkens, travels in a rather attractive way down his neck. “Thank you,” he replies demurely, pushing himself to his feet and dusting his knees off. “The dress needs a few finishing touches, but won’t take long. If you’d…like to head to the Chapel, I can meet you there?”

There’s a catch in his voice, a thread of uncertainty that tugs at Eddie’s subconscious, makes him uneasy. He doesn’t want to leave this man alone, he realizes. Doesn’t want to be alone, either, unsafe again, swallowed deeper into Mount Massive’s belly.

“I’d hate to think of anything happening to you while I’m gone,” he says instead of any of that. His Bride meets his eyes, startled by his response. “Or while you were on your way to the Chapel, without me.”

The Bride worries his lower lip between his teeth, a small crease forming between his brows as he anxiously kneads at his dress. “But it’s bad luck to see the Bride before the wedding,” he protests, sounding just as reluctant, as unsure.

Eddie considers this, then says, “What if you blindfolded me? Then I wouldn’t see, but we wouldn’t have to be apart.”

It’s a stupid suggestion and he finds himself asking what the fuck is wrong with him even as he says it, but the bright smile of the Bride makes a warm feeling settle in his chest, smothering those thoughts to silence. “I’d like that,” he says sweetly, fingers kneading anxiously against each other. “I don’t want to be apart from you either.”

Eddie smiles. “I’ll go wait on the couch. Tell me when to close my eyes, and blindfold me when you’re ready.”

The Bride’s dark eyes well with tears, he’s silent long enough for a bright bolt of alarm to sweep down Eddie’s spine, but then the Bride comes closer and cups his face with both hands, his palms soft, fingers callused enough to catch on Eddie’s stubble. “You’re so…” He trails off, considering his next words. “Sweet,” he finally decides, petting gentle thumbs over the rise of Eddie’s cheekbones. “My sweet, Darling husband.”

“Not yet,” Eddie murmurs. 

“Soon,” the Bride whispers, his eyes dropping to Eddie’s mouth, darkening further with desire. He lets Eddie go like he’s been burned, shaking his hands out and shivering in place. “Go to the couch, then.”

He says it like a challenge.

Eddie dips his head and obediently ambles back to the couch. He sits and closes his eyes, and soon enough he hears the measured patter of steps around the Bride’s workshop, the occasional slip of a hummed song. 

He must be going mad, to find the whole situation calming. His muscles are relaxed, his heartbeat steady and slow. It feels like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be, doing exactly what he’s meant to be doing, waiting for this stranger on what apparently is to be his wedding day.

“Close your eyes,” comes the call. They were already closed, but Eddie scrunches them tighter for good measure. Footsteps approach him, a thick band of cloth is laid atop his eyes and secured at the back of his head. Gentle hands smooth down the fabric, making sure it’s not too tight or caught in his hair.

He hears a soft sigh, feels the puff of warm air against his forehead. He can sense the Bride’s presence, mere inches from his knees, knows if he moved his foot just slightly he’d touch the Bride’s bare toes. 

Fingertips brush down his cheeks, over the seam of his lips. It’s an electrifying touch, makes every muscle in him lock up like a stallion in the starting box, gearing up for he doesn’t know what. “I know I shouldn’t ask,” the Bride murmurs, his voice sounding strange and high, like it’s coming from far away. “I know it’s different for young men. But have you…been with any other women? Before me?”

Eddie swallows, and says, “No,” which is not a lie. There are many reasons why Eddie never took those salivating, wildcat women in the clubs and bars home with him, the least of which being that he’s not exactly inclined that way. Women are pretty, aesthetically beautiful in his eyes, but there’s something about them that always hits him wrong, like a song sung slightly off key from the music. 

The Bride makes another quiet sound. Whether he believes Eddie or not, he doesn’t press. “I’ll do my best to make you happy,” he says sweetly. “I promise.”

“I know.” Eddie reaches up blindly, finds the other man’s slender wrists and wraps his fingers gently around them, pulls until he can press his mouth to his palms. He can’t see, but he can feel the fine tremor that runs up the Bride’s arms in the wake of his touch.

“I’m ready. Let’s go,” he says, and helps Eddie to his feet. The camcorder and flashlight are abandoned as the Bride takes his hand and leads him carefully through the door, back out into the hallway. The brighter glare of lights seeps in at the edges of the blindfold, and he can hear the click of his shoes against the linoleum, much louder than in the Bride’s homestead. 

He squeezes the Bride’s hand, trusting him to lead Eddie onward without tripping, and hears a delighted giggle to his right. “Nervous?” he asks.

“A little,” Eddie admits. “Mostly I just don’t want to trip or step on your feet.”

“You’re so sweet,” the Bride says warmly. He pushes through a door and into what echoes like a stairwell, the walls closer together in Eddie’s conscience, he hunches himself in so as to not risk bumping into anything. He’s warned for the first step and takes the rest fairly easily, heading down to the lower level. He’s glad they won’t be going to the gym.

A murmuring voice catches his ear, makes him tense in fear. They’re not alone.

“The priest,” the Bride soothes. “Father! Father, are you there?”

“Come, child,” a voice replies. Sounds like it belongs to a man Eddie’s age, a little reedy from strain and whatever abuse he may also have suffered in this place, but clear as a bell. The Bride tugs him forward and towards what he assumes is another room before letting his hand go.

“Wait here,” the Bride says. “Keep the blindfold on.”

Eddie obeys, listens as the other man walks forward, bare feet thumping softly on carpet.

“Father,” the Bride says, “it’s time for a wedding.”

“What wonderful news, the Walrider be praised!” the priest replies, clapping his hands together. “Have you brought a witness?”

“...Oh.” He can feel eyes on him. “No, we haven’t. Oh dear…”

“Not a matter, the Walrider looks down on us at all times, much more attentive than the old God. It will be witness enough,” the priest soothes. Eddie wonders how many men have been brought to this chapel, just like him. How many of them ended up castrated and bloody on the gymnasium floor. “I still have your veil, child. It’s where you left it.”

“Oh, thank you, Father,” the Bride gushes. Eddie hears him race away, and footsteps approach. The priest walks with a slight limp and his second step is a little heavier than his first. He startles at the touch of a warm, dry palm against his shoulder. 

“Come, to the altar,” the priest coaxes, leading Eddie down the aisle. “You must be very excited. Is there any advice I can offer you, before you proceed? Are you of the church?”

He was raised Catholic and lapsed as soon as he was able, but the memories of the rituals of church are still there in the back of his mind, buried like a chest in the back of an abandoned closet. “Have…you performed many weddings here, Father?” he asks, feeling strange as the title falls from his lips. 

The priest chuckles. “None in quite some time,” he replies. “Blessed though she is with youth and beauty, the dear child is prone to flights of love that blind her to the true nature of men.” He says it like he’s expecting Eddie to agree. “She has been of my flock for many months. I have never seen someone so devout, so eager to beg God for a husband and a child.”

The mention of a child has Eddie flushing. The priest is using female pronouns for what Eddie knows is decidedly a man, despite the dress and pretty voice. Anatomy-wise, he doubts any children will come of their marriage. Hopefully it’s long enough for him to plan some kind of escape before the Bride catches wise.

“She has been chaste, I assure you,” the priest says, taking his silence for indecision. “Many suitors have come, but all have fallen out of love with her, poor thing.” His hand tightens on Eddie’s arm with a suddenness and strength that has him flinching. “I’m rather protective of her, as I am of all the Walrider’s children. She’s like a daughter to me. I do hope you will treat her well.”

“I will,” Eddie breathes. He has no intention of hurting this man, he’d rather flee than fight despite his size and stature. His father had been a violent and angry man, and Eddie has seen too many women falling victim to monsters such as that too many times in his life. He has no desire to become one himself.

“I’ve found it!” the Bride calls, rushing back into the room. He does not approach Eddie or the priest at the altar. “We can begin when you’re ready, Father.”

“Ah, but a Groom should look upon his Bride first, no?” the priest says warmly. “Come, child, remove the blindfold from your eyes.”

Hands shaking, Eddie obeys. He blinks rapidly in the light, the golden-orange hue of many candles lining the walls, the dark oak of the pews in surprisingly good shape considering the carnage wrought upon the rest of the asylum. Either the inmates have no interest in ransacking the place, or something has been keeping them out of here.

He looks up, past the aisle, to find the Bride standing there, wringing his hands nervously. A veil covers his face, a glistening white shroud that matches the delicate flowers sewn into the hem of his dress, the long sleeves that go down to his wrists. The fabric looks more pristine than it ought to, in Eddie’s opinion, but he cannot deny one thing:

He’s beautiful.

Her hands shake with anticipation as she begins her procession down the aisle. There is no song, no music, no avid eyes watching her proceed toward her beloved, but the look on his face is all she needs. He gazes at her like she is something splendid and wonderful, his lips quirked into a smile as she approaches. Though she knows he cannot see her face through her veil, she is smiling widely back.

Once they are within reach of each other, her Darling husband-to-be reaches out and takes her hand, helps her ascend the single step in front of the altar, so that they can stand facing each other in front of the priest. She’s sweating and her hands feel clammy, but so do his. He must be nervous as she is. The thought warms her, fills her with delight. It’s important for a Bride and Groom to feel the same way about things; to be delighted and nervous but happy on their wedding day is a feeling they both share. Proof of their compatibility.

The priest clears his throat and nods to the Groom. “What is your name, child?” he asks.

“Eddie,” the man replies. Eddie, what a charming name. “Gluskin.”

The priest nods, and smiles at the Bride. “Speak your name for the Walrider to hear, child,” he commands.

“Waylon Park,” the Bride murmurs, her voice catching in her throat. Their hands entwined, Eddie squeezes her fingers, and it does wonders to settle her nerves.

“Unveil your Bride, Eddie,” the priest says. The Bride dips her head and shivers as Eddie reaches and pulls it up and over, to lay it down her back. She wishes she had had more time to fix her hair, perhaps apply some makeup, vain a desire though it is. “It is with great pleasure that we gather here, to unite two children of the Walrider under its ever-watchful eye. I know that this day has been held in great anticipation, and from this union we shall see many fruits come to bear.” He pauses, perhaps waiting for some objection. Finding none, he continues; “Eddie Gluskin, do you take your Bride as you see before you, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in grief and joy and feast and famine, for as long as you live?”

Eddie presses his lips together, swallows, and rasps, “I do.”

She is so full of elation she almost doesn’t hear the Father repeat the vows to her. She catches herself just in time, grinning ear to ear, and says, “I do,” when she is asked.

“Then by the power of the Walrider, under its ever-generous guidance, I pronounce you Man and Wife. You may kiss the Bride.”

The Bride pulls her Groom to her, has to lift up to her toes in order to reach him. His scent and heat surround her as he cups her face, stares down at her with all the love in the world she could ever want, and presses their lips together. It’s like fireworks behind her eyes, makes her gasp and arch against his broad, powerful chest. Her hands flutter helplessly, settling on his shoulders, terrified to go further and risk desecrating this sacred space.

But oh, how she wants to. Wishes she could let her husband throw her down onto this very altar and sire a child in her right this moment. 

But that is for the honeymoon.

The priest chuckles, drawing their attention. He is smiling, brimming with joy as he gazes upon them. He takes their hands and joins them together, squeezing once. “Go forth and multiply, dear children,” he intones warmly. “The Walrider blesses you.”

“Thank you, Father,” the Bride says, weak with joy and gratitude. She would kiss the old man through sheer happiness, but her lips and hands and body only belong to her husband, now. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

Eddie’s mind reels as he rushes with his new Bride - his Wife? - out of the church and into the hallways. Waylon laughs with sheer, manic joy, throwing himself into Eddie’s arms and giggling when he catches and lifts Waylon easily. Waylon is surprisingly dainty but muscled, a runner’s body starved to lethal leanness. He can feel the hilt of a blade against Waylon’s thigh.

“Let’s go home,” Waylon murmurs to him, his dark siren-eyes wanting and wide. Eddie sets him down as they enter the stairwell and they run up together like children, laughing, the madness of the Walrider and Mount Massive both enclosing around them like a serpent. Eddie’s lips burn with the memory of Waylon’s kiss, his chest aches with the desire for more of them. He wants to kiss Waylon, again and again and again, wants to learn every sensitive spot on his body, wants him gasping and bared and desperate beneath him.

“Eddie,” Waylon moans, pressing close as they leave the stairwell and head back towards his workshop. “Eddie, oh, Eddie.” Like he can’t get enough of Eddie’s name on his lips, his soft, inviting mouth curled in a winning smile around each syllable. “I love you, Eddie.”

It’s madness, sheer unadulterated insanity, but whatever’s in the air has infected him too, has him whispering words of love and devotion against Waylon’s mouth as they stumble across the threshold together. Eddie falls to the couch and Waylon climbs on top of him, cupping his face and kissing him deeply as Eddie’s hands flatten on his back, on his waist, his covered thighs.

Waylon pulls back when Eddie’s hand touches the knife, a guilty, beautiful flush spreading down his neck. He bites his lower lip and brushes his fingers lovingly through Eddie’s hair. “Take me to bed?” he whispers.

Eddie nods and scoops Waylon up. Because of his long skirt it has to be rucked up high on his thighs for Waylon to wrap his legs around Eddie’s waist. The knife is stuck into his garter, a bright shock of red-stained fabric twisted around the sheath. 

He goes to the mattress, which is visible through a doorway in the workshop, and lays his Wife down upon it. Heat travels up his spine at the same pace of Waylon’s wandering hands, his breath catching when Eddie leans down and presses a wanting kiss to the long line of his slender neck. 

“May I, my love?” Eddie rasps, and tugs at the garter for emphasis.

Waylon nods, his hands shaking as Eddie straightens and slowly tugs the garter down, careful not to accidentally nick or hurt him. He’s so careful, so sweet, skirt hiked up so temptingly high. When the garter is off Eddie lays the knife down - hopefully out of reach - and submits to the frantic tug of Waylon’s fingers in his hair. 

“Do you still think I’m beautiful?” Waylon asks, his voice growing thick, eyes shining with tears. Eddie blinks, frowning, and nods. 

“Of course you are,” he replies. “You’re a vision.”

Waylon swallows, sucks in a breath. “I’m…” He gasps, tries to laugh it off. “I’m sorry, I’m being silly.”

Eddie leans down and kisses him. “Tell me, angel.”

Waylon bites his lower lip, shaking his head. His eyes stray to the knife but his hand wraps around Eddie’s wrist and slowly brings it between his legs. Eddie isn’t surprised to find a cock, hard and leaking, small enough to be shameful if he were that kind of man. His skin is smooth, pubic hair fine enough to be considered fuzz, his balls soft and round and twitching under Eddie’s touch. 

“And now?”

Eddie sighs. “Angel,” he murmurs, taking Waylon’s chin and forcing their eyes to meet. “You’re perfect.”

Happy tears spill over Waylon’s cheeks, he sucks in a breath and cups Eddie’s face in his free hand. “My sweet husband,” he whispers, awestruck. He nods against Eddie’s lips as Eddie presses more firmly between his legs - he’s not wearing underwear, probably couldn’t find any material comfortable enough. His little cock twitches wantonly against Eddie’s fingertips, his breath catching again when Eddie wraps his fingers around him and gives him a slow, purposeful stroke.

He throws his head back, holding onto Eddie’s hair for something to center himself on. Eddie smiles, pleased that he’s making his Wife feel good. Such a sweet, responsive thing, his thighs spreading with a shiver of eager nerves. The mattress beneath them has been scrubbed of stains and has a sharp chemical cleanliness to it, damn near pristine where it lays on the shining wooden floor. By far the dirtiest thing here is Eddie’s hands as he fondles his Bride’s cock, drawing weak moans and gasps out of him as his lashes flutter with pleasure.

They’re going to need lube, but he doubts Waylon even has any, let alone could be convinced to part so Eddie can try to find some. It’s bad manners to leave a Bride wanting on her wedding night. He wets his lips and looks down, settled on his knees. A quick look up confirms Waylon is still not looking, his hands unable to keep hold of Eddie’s hair so fisting his own instead as he writhes beneath Eddie’s touch.

His free hand flattens on the pink line of constriction where the garter lay, his fingertips barely digging under the hem of Waylon’s hiked-up dress. Slowly, he pushes his hand up. Waylon’s thighs are smooth and pale, just begging to have a bite taken out of them. His mouth floods with saliva as he stares, finally unveiling the crease of his thighs and his hard little cock.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous here, a perfect handful, foreskin pulled back, head of his cock shiny and slick. It’s been, well, never, since Eddie put his mouth to good use, but he’s struck suddenly and viscerally by the desire, the want to. 

In no headspace to resist the urge, he leans down and takes Waylon into his mouth, moaning at the bittersalt taste of precum as it blooms across his tongue. Waylon arches with a loud shriek, sitting up suddenly and fisting both hands in Eddie’s hair. He gasps, entire body shuddering, and comes in seconds down Eddie’s throat. Drool and come leak out around his mouth that he can’t swallow in time, but he doesn’t get the chance to pull back and recover before Waylon’s fingers tighten, hips twitching upwards. He’s not so much thrusting as grinding, his cock riding the curl of Eddie’s tongue as his thighs tremble and clamp down around Eddie’s shoulders.

“Eddie,” Waylon whimpers when Eddie continues to suck. “Eddie, that’s so dirty.”

He pulls off, tilts his head up to meet Waylon’s dark eyes, wild and wide like a spooked horse. He licks his lower lip, another drip of come sinking into the tip of his tongue. “Acts of love aren’t dirty, angel. Did you like it?” he murmurs, wrapping his fingers around Waylon and continuing to stroke. He hasn’t softened at all. 

“I…” Waylon swallows, his blush darkening. “I did.” He confesses it like a grievous sin, fingers turning gentle, confused as they pet through Eddie’s dark hair where it’s longest at the top of his head. “It just…seems selfish. It’s my job - my pleasure - to serve you.” He cups Eddie’s cheeks, his eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I don’t want to wait any longer. Please. Make love to me. Let me give you a child.”

There is something dark moving in the blackened sclera of Waylon’s eyes, his irises bright and burning. It drips from his tongue when Eddie surges up and kisses him, lays him back on their marriage bed. It’s like molasses, sweet and thick as tar, coats his tongue and the back of his teeth as he lays himself between his new Bride’s legs and grinds their cocks together. He’s still clothed and his cock chafes on the inside of his clothes, urgent and hard. He spares a hand to reach down and fumble the slacks open, fishes himself out with a low groan, fisting his cock at the head.

Waylon’s eyes widen when he sees it, sucking in an unsteady breath. “Will it hurt?” he asks timidly, his hands warm and gentle on Eddie’s chest. 

“I swear, it won’t,” Eddie promises, though he has yet to find anything that could act as lube, and he doubts Waylon will let him go to fetch some. He’s going to have to do the old spit trick, and with the ooze now dripping from his mouth, he’s sure that won’t be a problem. He swallows it before it can fall and stain Waylon’s pretty white dress. His voice sounds thick and throaty when he says, “I’d never hurt you. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Waylon replies emphatically. “I love you.”

Eddie smiles, and this time, when he pushes himself back and lowers his mouth to between Waylon’s legs, he doesn’t receive any protest.

Oh, her new husband is so giving.

Embarrassment and reluctant pleasure sweep through the Bride as her new husband, Eddie, wraps his fingers around her thighs and licks into her tight, willing hole. She can feel herself getting wet, leaking her love all over his seeking tongue. He’s so good with his tongue. Her clit stands upright, hard and dribbling precum down the shaft. She has never once taken herself in hand and succumbed to the desires that plague her dreams, but she simply cannot help herself. As Eddie drives his tongue inside her, his breath hot on the sensitive skin of her thighs, she wraps a hand around her clit and squeezes. Her back arches in a severe curve as she gasps, the headband of her veil digging into her scalp as she writhes against the mattress.

“Eddie,” she gasps, clawing at his hair. “Oh, Eddie, please, please don’t stop, oh God…” 

More black ichor rises in her mouth, drips from her eyes in overwhelmed tears. She shudders and comes on Eddie’s tongue, her thighs squeezing tight around his ears as she moans, spilling thick and warm all over her knuckles.

Eddie rises, black staining his chin and cheeks like a smear of warpaint. He bares his teeth in a smile that she answers, hands shaking as she cups his face and brings her mouth to his. All shame fades at the taste of him on her tongue, the familiar disgust she has often felt at her own body washed away by the ravenous look in her husband’s eyes. Unlike all those other suitors, who regarded her like wolves regard meat, the fierce want he shows her doesn’t frighten her, doesn’t have her reaching for a knife.

This is her husband, and it’s her pleasure to sate his hunger.

Fierce pressure between her legs makes her mouth twist up in restless discomfort, her brow furrowing as she clings to her husband’s shoulders and feels the hot, insistent press of his manhood against her entrance. She’s certainly wet, her rim feels warm and swollen and tingles oddly in a way she’s never felt before, having never dared to touch there herself. Hot, impatient breaths panted against her throat, her husband knows what to do, knows to take himself in hand and press insistently forward, forcing her body to part around him.

She gasps, the stretch not…painful, exactly, but sharp and uncomfortable. She cannot help but squeeze up tight and tense in rejection, her thighs crushing her husband’s thick torso to no avail. There is no room for her to wriggle away, her husband is broad and strong and much more powerful than she is, can easily keep her pinned down and unmoving as he tries to mount her. 

“Hush, angel,” he whispers, his voice warm and low in her ear, soothing without any conscious thought from her mind. It feels much like the machine, a hand on her shoulder and a gentle guiding voice in her conscience, telling her everything will be alright. How wonderful, she thinks, that her mate and her master have such similar voices. “Just relax for me, can you do that? Be a good girl and let me inside you, love?”

She chokes on a breath, nodding into his neck, her nails digging into the scratchy material of his suit jacket. They’re still dressed, only as much removed so that they can bind themselves together in the marriage bed, and suddenly she loathes the feeling of so many barriers between them. It’s not right, a man and wife should be wide open for each other on their wedding day, right down to their souls.

“Eddie,” she pants, pleasantly surprised when he stops at a hand on his chest. “Take this off. Please? I don’t want any part of you hidden from me, not now.”

He smiles at her and leans down to kiss her. “Whatever you want, angel,” he swears, as his hands, slick and tacky with black ooze, go to the lapels of his jacket and start to push it off. She helps him, eyes wide at the bulge of muscle that’s revealed when he removes his shirt as well. He has a soft dusting of hair across his chest, his skin smooth and darkened by the sun, a tan line separating his head from his shoulders, his upper arms from his lower. He has the build of a laborer without being overtly muscled, like a bull bred only for meat that cannot stand under its own weight.

Her mouth waters, floods with sweet saliva. Her husband is beautiful. 

She leans up and kisses him, presses her greedy hands over every part of his chest she can reach. Licking and sucking at his throat like an animal, her nails like claws, her stomach aching and empty and hungry. This is what it must be like for those poor creatures in the wild, she thinks, desperately calling like to like, for their howl to be answered by one of their own kind.

Eddie bows over her like a titan, one big hand cradling her skull while the other slides down her back, reaches beneath the veil to the fastenings of her dress. “May I, my love?” he rasps, though he’s already undoing the clasp at the top, already pulling the zipper down. The Bride shivers and blushes, tempted to hide herself even though he has just had his mouth on the dirtiest, most secret part of her. She can only hope he does not find the rest of her lacking.

His hands are so warm as they skate down her shoulder blades, his body huge over hers. She’s pinned and folded beneath him, her thighs over his but crushed under his bare chest. When she looks down, his cock stands hard and proud, much larger than hers. Her blush darkens at the sight of it, she sinks her teeth into her lower lip and shivers as her husband slowly draws the dress down her shoulders, to pool around her wrists and waist.

“You can touch it, if you like,” Eddie murmurs, smiling when she meets his eyes. “It’s not wasteful. Or dirty.”

“An act of love,” she echoes, and he nods. Her fingers flex, still tacky with her own come when she wraps them around her husband’s cock. It’s strangely heavy, both soft and hard in her palm, the same clearish liquid she makes dribbling from the head. Above her, Eddie growls under his breath, his jaw tense and lashes fluttering as she gives his cock a testing squeeze. She can’t imagine how it’s going to fit inside her.

She runs her hand along it, from the base to the tip, back down to his sac, so much heavier and fuller than anything she’s seen before. Her entire body aches with an urgent, empty feeling, a sensation not quite unlike thirst, that wants to be flooded with as much lifegiving seed as he can give her. 

“Let’s get you out of this pretty dress, angel,” her husband growls. “Wouldn’t want to get it dirty.”

Truthfully, she’d let him tear it right off her with his teeth if he wanted to. She can always make another. 

She releases him and lets him pull the dress up and over her head, arms raised to allow the sleeves to slip off effortlessly. He catches her wrists in one hand before she can lower them, smiles and kisses her palms until her fingers flutter, ticklish. She giggles and lays back when he guides her down, sighing happily when their bare chests touch. He’s so much more muscular than her, all thick and hardy compared to her boney, rail-thin frame. She hopes being pregnant makes her fat and heavy, so that when he touches her he can leave permanent indents into her flesh.

Black lines Eddie’s teeth as he leans down to kiss his Bride, his trousers and underwear pushed down to his thighs, his hips effortlessly bullying Waylon’s apart. They grind together, sweating and grunting like animals, Waylon’s hands still pinned above her head.

“Darling,” she mewls. “Please.”

A greedy hand strokes down her flank, curls around her hip in a possessive, grounding gesture. She can feel that pressure again, that insistent press of her husband’s cock into her body. This time, she spreads her legs as wide as she can, sucks in a breath, braces herself.

“Relax,” Eddie coaxes, presses such sweet kisses to her jaw, her blushing cheek. He releases her hands and reaches between them, grips her clit in a tight fist. She gasps, bucking up against him, wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling. His grip is just shy of mean, it hurts, stings with oversensitivity. She moans weakly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Her vision goes grey at the edges as he keeps her pinned with a hand on her hip and one on her lower stomach, heel trapping and grinding her clit so mercilessly. 

“Eddie,” she groans, panic starting to well up in her as that pressure grows, gains teeth and sharp edges. She can’t escape it, that full feeling bubbling up inside her as Eddie, slowly, forces his way inside. She’s dried up a bit and the sting has morphed into a more uncomfortable burn. “Eddie, hurts, please -.”

“I’d never hurt you,” Eddie replies, as though just saying it makes it so. She bares her teeth at him, blinking back tears. Her mother always told her men needed to be put in their place, even ones that loved you more than anything would try to test boundaries and rules, figure out where the lines were. They were like animals that way, too intelligent for their own good sometimes. 

Eddie groans, a low pleased sound, and tips his head back, and Waylon’s eyes search out the knife.

Eddie doesn’t believe in God, but he believes in balance. The whole ‘every action has an equal and opposite reaction, everything happens for a reason, even if it’s something that he cannot and never will understand’. The world is too interconnected, too full of coincidences and tragedies and happily ever afters to think that every step one takes cannot butterfly effect into another person’s Heaven or Hell.

If it weren’t for Miles, Eddie wouldn’t be here. He owes him a Goddamn gift basket if they make it out of here.

Or maybe a wife of his own. They grow them so pretty in Mount Massive.

Sinking his cock into Waylon is like coming home, like every wandering thought and dream of running away would have led him right here, right where he belongs. There’s a voice in his head like a snarling dog, urging him on; deeper, harder, fills his mouth with blackness and clouds his mind. It’s like being drunk, being high, being seconds away from falling from a high place and catching yourself at the last moment.

It’s perfect, and Eddie wants to feel like this for the rest of his life. 

He twists his wrist around Waylon’s cock, earning another soft moan from the man pinned beneath him. His tight ass grips Eddie like a vice, pulsing and unsure, he’s clearly never done this before and doesn’t know how to make it more comfortable for himself. Eddie is, unfortunately, in no state to help him. He’s selfish as he drives his hips deeper, digs his nails into Waylon’s bony hip, bares his teeth when Waylon whimpers.

“I’d never hurt you,” he says, because Waylon is being silly. They are beyond hurt here, beyond whatever pains and trials await in the outside world. They’re married, and married people protect each other, serve each other, they don’t hurt each other. 

He’s caught up in his silly little make-believe, but Eddie is a good husband, he always knew he would be, one day. Devoted, attentive, Waylon will want for nothing ‘til death to they fucking part.

There are black tears on Waylon’s cheeks and he leans down to kiss them away, licks down his throat like a dog as Waylon whimpers and frantically reaches to the side, where Eddie tossed his knife away. Eddie grins, one eye on his hand, forces himself deeper as Waylon shrieks and arches his back, shuddering through the feeling. Silly, pretty little boy, girl, fuck it doesn’t matter. His Bride, his Wife, his beloved angel.

Waylon’s fingers wrap around the knife but he doesn’t manage to bring it to Eddie’s throat, or any other part of him. Eddie catches his wrist and slams it down above his head, meets Waylon’s wide eyes as Eddie looms over him. He grinds his hips, fully seated now, able to feel the leak of black ooze from his cockhead soaking Waylon’s walls, easing the way. It won’t feel bad for long, Eddie knows, he just has to -.

Waylon gasps, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring wide. A single drip of blackness escapes like a nosebleed. Eddie leans down and licks it away, then takes Waylon’s mouth in a demanding kiss. The change in angle is enough to have him grinding where he needs to, forcing Waylon’s hips up through the channel of his hand, fucking his cock through Eddie’s fist and then back down to let Eddie grind against his prostate.

Waylon’s already dark eyes go wide and black, jaw slack with pleasure, lashes fluttering.

“See?” Eddie taunts, and kisses the tip of Waylon’s nose. “All you have to do is trust me. Let me love you, and it’ll feel like this forever.”

The wild dog in his head snarls wantonly; it echoes in Waylon’s moan. He sobs and drops the knife, reaches for Eddie and Eddie lets him, lets himself bow his head into his Wife’s seeking hand, lets Waylon press dreadful apologetic kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his eyelids and forehead. 

“I love you,” Waylon says. “I love you, Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, neither cruel nor kind. He flattens his hand on Waylon’s throat, pleasure sitting hot in the base of his spine when Waylon tips his chin up and offers his long, bare neck for Eddie’s punishing hand. 

“Prove it,” Eddie growls, pulling back until just the tip of his cock is inside Waylon, and then thrusting all the way back inside in one quick, brutal thrust. “Beg me for a baby and if you’re good I’ll give it to you.”

Waylon sobs, hands above his head, prostrate as a sacrifice to some elder god. He lets Eddie grab his knees and fold them to his chest, leaving him open and exposed from head to toe. His little cock flops wet and pink against his stomach, no longer paid attention to by either of them. The sight of his hole stretched and red around Eddie’s cock, both of them soaked with this strange black ooze, is enough to have him shuddering, biting his lower lip to stop himself shooting off too soon. 

“Please, my love, my life, Eddie,” Waylon shouts, like he wants all the asylum to hear - in lieu of church bells, the Bride’s screams of pleasure seems like announcement enough. All who listen will know to expect a child come springtime. “Eddie, please, please, please, Darling, give me a baby. Let me raise a child in your likeness, my husband, my only love, please -.”

Eddie shudders, more affected than he expected to be. His gut tenses, cock twitching inside his Wife. He bows over Waylon and gathers him close, shoulders tucked into Eddie’s arms, head in his hands, thighs trapped beneath Eddie’s chest. If the intense position affects Waylon’s trembling body any, he gives no indication. 

“Eddie,” Waylon moans, half-muffled between desperate, open-mouthed kisses. Black ooze coats the back of his throat, drips from his nose and the corners of his eyes, sweet as candy on Eddie’s tongue. “I need it, need you, please, my love…”

Eddie’s upper lip curls back, he fists a hand in Waylon’s hair and tucks his face into Eddie’s neck, his eyes closing as Waylon starts shaking and sobbing beneath him in earnest, weak fingers petting his flanks like he’s a wild animal that needs to be calmed. He is only now realizing how much the sight, the sound of Waylon’s genuine distress is affecting him. A single hiccupping sob has him bucking his hips, pressing deep with a low groan. He’s coming before he can stop it, pleasure and release squeezing at the base of his cock, his balls, his spine, behind his eyes. He’s coming harder than he ever has in his life, so hard it makes him dizzy as he grinds his hips against Waylon’s ass, groaning loudly in his ear. 

Waylon whines prettily beneath him, reaches down to hold himself open for Eddie as Eddie continues to rut and hump into him like a dumb beast. He’s not growing soft, not even a little bit, just keeps fucking through the mess he left inside of Waylon as new arousal rushes down his spine like water.

“Eddie?” Waylon whispers, wide-eyed and unsure.

Eddie nudges their foreheads together, bares his teeth, grabs Waylon’s wrists hard enough to bruise and pins them above his head. 

“Not done,” he snarls. “I want a family, a legacy. To be the father I never had.” Dogs howl inside his head, reflected in Waylon’s wide, adoring eyes. Eddie huffs, blowing out a hard breath through his nose, eyes heavy-lidded as he fucks hard and deep into Waylon, powerful thrusts enough to rattle his fucking skull. “I’ll never let anything happen to our children.”

“Yes, yes,” Waylon cries, and shudders when Eddie makes him come all over himself. Folded as he is, it hits his own chin and jaw, another sweet treat for Eddie to lean down and lick up. He has such a perfect, pretty Wife, who will give him an endless amount of children, and have the sweetest hole for Eddie to fuck at his leisure, who will keep the home for him and feed him well and lecture him to mind his manners around company.

Eddie can see it all, like peering through a haze of gold. 

Their foreheads touch, and two pieces of a machine slot together easy as puzzle pieces.

Miles is still panting with the backdraft of adrenaline, stumbling on unsteady feet and soaked to the bone from the flooded basement, when he hears the singing. Two voices, one high and sweet, one a crooning tenor, singing themselves a call and response;

“When I was a boy my mother often said to me,” the lower voice begins.

And the second, feminine and giggling; “Get married, son and see how happy you will be.”

“A good ol’ fashioned girl with a heart so true…”

“One who loves nobody else but you.”

Miles swallows, tests his video camera and finds that, miraculously, it survived the stint in the water and the chase from Walker’s lair. He crawls his way up the stairs, following the sounds of the voices. He must be imagining it, going crazy, but he could swear one of those voices sounds like Eddie…

He finds a hallway that’s surprisingly clean and well-kept, stinks of bleach and thick starchy cotton. Miles squints into the half-lit corridor, on high alert as the singing has gone silent. He can hear faint humming, still, but it’s too indistinct for him to tell direction, and he’s learned better than most that the inmates of Mount Massive have an uncanny ability to sneak up on you.

A huge, hulking man rounds the corner suddenly, and Miles shies back. It takes him too long to realize it’s Eddie. Oh, thank fuck, he’s alive! He looks like he’s been doused in tar, black leaking from his ears and eyes and staining his face. He must have torn or lost his clothing, he’s wearing a strange, new black jacket and slacks… Smart, it would definitely help him blend into the shadows better.

“Eddie,” Miles cries out, weak with relief at seeing his friend. “Eddie, thank fuck, we’ve gotta get out of here…”

Eddie turns, and Miles stalls in place. He has seen too many of those strange, glowing eyes not to be wary of them. 

“Eddie?” Miles whispers, fighting the urge to take a step back. Eddie has always been a giant but he’s one of the gentlest souls Miles has ever met, he’d sooner release an insect than crush it, he’s never even yelled at Miles… He’s not dangerous…

“Eddie!” Another voice. The feminine one. “My Darling, are you alright?”

Eddie stares at him for so long Miles starts to get nervous, the back of his neck prickling with that prey animal instinct he’s become far too intimate with in his time here. He should have never broken in with Eddie, never dragged him into this mess. He looks at his best friend and simply doesn’t recognize him.

Eddie blinks at him, and then he smiles. It is wide and shows too many teeth. From his pocket he pulls a long, thin knife. It sits so easily in his palm. Around its handle is wrapped a bright red garter.

“Angel,” he calls back, never taking his eyes off Miles. “We have a guest!”