Chapter Text
Waylon immediately regrets his decision. Hot shame bubbles up in his stomach, through his esophagus and he can feel his throat tighten painfully.
He is so stupid.
His boyfriend--Jesus, how weird it is to say that, even in his head and hell, he's probably fucked it up now--is completely silent. Waylon could kick himself. He is such a fucking freak.
"L-look," he starts, hoping to God he can backpedal and goddamn it his fucking voice is shaking and if he cries on top of all of this, he's going to hate himself forever. "We don't have to--"
But a big, warm hand is sliding under his chin and tilting his face up. His boyfriend's eyes are gentle. Confused, but not disgusted. A desperate worm of hope wriggles in Waylon's stomach.
"You're upset," Eddie says, rather redundantly, but Waylon recognizes the invitation for what it is, a chance to explain himself.
It's a lot farther than he's gotten in some of his other relationships.
Waylon makes a few abortive movements with his hands, as though they can help him explain himself, but finally settles on placing his hand over the one Eddie has resting against his neck.
"I just,” He starts. He takes a breath, tries to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I need-- Ha. I need this."
Waylon pauses. He's never known how to say things to really express what he means. "I need this," he repeats. "But I get if you can’t deal with it. You wouldn't be the first person to leave because of my... proclivities."
Eddie's brow furrows. "Wrong with you,” he repeats slowly, like he’s rolling the words along his tongue. “You think because you want me,” Eddie pauses, swallows, and continues, “to hurt you, that something is wrong with you.”
“Um,” Waylon says intelligently. “That’s not." Shit, he's fucked up again. "It’s not about being hurt. I'm really not like, a masochist or anything? It's--" Waylon can feel himself turning red. It's so hard to put it into words like this.
Honestly, he doesn't usually get this far explaining his kinks before his relationships go belly up. "It's the loss of control, the struggle and helplessness."
Waylon meets Eddie's eyes shyly. "I want to be completely at your mercy."
They're close enough that Waylon can see Eddie's pupils dilate slightly at the words; even if Eddie has his objections, he's obviously not entirely opposed to the idea.
"I like what we do now. The uh, vanilla stuff," Waylon reassures quickly. "It’s nice, but sometimes-- This is a part of me that I can't pretend doesn't exist. I get if it’s not your bag, though. A lot of people think it’s weird."
Waylon realizes he's babbling and makes himself shut up. Eddie's eyes are darker than Waylon has ever seen them and he holds his breath, hopeful.
"Tell me what you need, darling," Eddie urges him, voice pitched low, and the hairs on the back of Waylon's neck stand straight up. "You know I can’t deny you anything."
And in the end, Waylon is amazed by just how true that really is. Eddie is shockingly patient with him while he stutters and blushes his way through expressing what he wants, and never once acts disgusted, or like he thinks Waylon is broken.
Waylon thinks he even seems… eager, though most of that seems to stem from his excitement of getting to explore something that Waylon likes, that makes him tick. Eddie has always been an attentive lover, worshipping Waylon’s body, seeking out all of those hidden places that make him squirm and moan.
His interest in this particular instance is exceptionally flattering and Waylon almost doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Eddie asks a lot of questions. Smart ones, with answers that provide insights that Waylon wouldn’t have otherwise thought to share. But mostly, Eddie just listens.
He listens as Waylon haltingly describes exes who told him he was sick, who left him in disgust. He listens when Waylon tries to find the words to describe the horror he went through when he had actually sought out someone in the lifestyle, when he fucked up, couldn’t recognize the dozens of little red flags. There are scars on his skin left over from that time in his life that he’s never before been able to explain to someone.
It’s dizzying and exhilarating and cathartic and Waylon can’t get over how lucky he is.
From there they talk about limits. They talk about the things Waylon wants desperately, and the things he won’t do, what it means when he says no and what his safeword is.
“We can start small,” Waylon says timidly. “I know this has got to be a lot to take in.”
Eddie’s hand is warm on his thigh, a comforting pressure that helps soothe Waylon’s frayed nerves.
“We can start wherever you like, darling,” Eddie tells him. “I want you to tell me how to undo you. Whatever you need.”
Waylon’s breathing goes a bit funny and his mind starts racing. The things he wants, really really wants, are layered and complex, caught up in all of Waylon’s shame and hope. But he looks at Eddie, whose face is open and understanding, and he thinks he can do this.
And that's how he finds himself on a cool Friday night, standing outside of his own house, keys in hand and nerves completely shot. He stares up at the dark windows, takes a deep breath to steady himself because he wants this dammit, and proceeds up the front steps.
The house is quiet. Waylon closes the door behind him, slides the deadbolt into place and latches the chain. He shucks off his shoes by the door and turns on the hall light, which illuminates the dining room to his left and half the staircase in front of him. The living room to his right is dark and the top of the stairs is pitch black.
Waylon stifles a smile and he feels his heart rate pick up. The house remains quiet as he shuffles into the kitchen, hanging his keys on the hook and tugging off his hoodie to drape it across the chair. He’d left the fluorescent light above the stove on before he went out, and it casts the room in an eerie glow.
Still, silence.
Waylon heads back down the hall towards the stairs, stops abruptly. Had he just heard--
His heart hammers louder in his chest as he tries to regulate his breathing, ears straining for any sound. All he can hear is that dull roar, a faint ringing in his ears that usually accompanies quiet nights like this one.
There are no barking dogs, no cars driving past on the dark streets, just Waylon and his breath and his heartbeat and that subtle undercurrent of silence.
But there it is again. Undeniable this time. Faint footsteps from above him that are there, and then aren't.
"Hello?" Waylon calls. Silence greets him.
There's a box of some of Waylon's old things by the base of the stairs, old items from the attic he's meant to take to Goodwill for weeks now, and keeps forgetting. He grabs a wooden bat, runs his hand along the wall until he finds the switch.
Nothing. The stairs stay dark. The hall light dimly illuminates just half of them. Waylon swallows thickly.
He fishes his phone out of his back pocket, uses his non dominant hand to hold it up as a makeshift flashlight, bat gripped tightly in the other.
He climbs the stairs, waits again. The house is still so silent. Waylon can't seem to control his own breathing, can't hear anything over the sound of it.
The master bedroom is on his right, door slightly ajar. There's a bathroom to his left and a hallway with two rooms on either side, all with closed doors. The door to the bonus room at the end of the hall is yawning open, revealing nothing but black.
Waylon heads down the hall. There's a second staircase in the bonus room, leading down to the laundry room and back out into the kitchen. That seems safest, so he doesn't get cornered somewhere.
The bonus room is empty and the house is still silent. Waylon looks back the way he came, down the dark hallway and the faint glow of light from downstairs. He should investigate the other rooms, he thinks. Do a sweep of the house. The thought makes a cold sweat break out on his brow.
He heads down the back staircase instead, a little too spooked to make himself investigate further just yet. The door to the laundry room is slightly ajar.
Waylon pushes it open.
"Darling," he's greeted by the silhouetted figure on the other side.
Waylon wants to scream. He thinks he tries to scream, but his vocal chords, his mouth refuse to work the way he wants them to. He falls backward on the stairs, scrambles go turn over and tears ass as fast as he possibly can. He slams the door separating the bonus room and the hallway behind him and he freezes.
It is pitch black now, the hall light he’d flipped on downstairs off now, and his phone and his bat are abandoned on the stairs.
Waylon knows he can't hesitate. He runs for the room on the right side of the hallway, closes the door behind him. He tries to hurry across the room without tripping over the various cords on the floor. This is his computer room, and he thinks he has a flashlight and some spare batteries in the closet.
He can hear his pursuer now, opening the bonus room door, coming down the hall, calling for him.
"Darling? Did I frighten you?"
The words come to him, muffled through the walls. Waylon finds the flashlight as he hears the door to the guest bedroom across the hall creak open.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
Flashlight equipped, Waylon heads to the door, eases it open. He has a very small window of time before his pursuer is done investigating the other room.
Waylon is at the top of the stairs when he hears it.
"There you are, darling."
Waylon runs. His socks slip on the hardwood floor at the bottom of the stairs. He lands flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, his flashlight shattered and he's plunged into darkness again.
"Oh god," Waylon hears. "Darling, are you okay?"
There's genuine worry in the voice. Waylon tries to roll over on his stomach, push himself up onto his hands and knees. He barely has enough breath to fill his lungs, and he struggles to speak.
"Please," Waylon says. It's not loud enough. "Please," he tries again. "Don't hurt me."
There's a pause, and Waylon can hear measured footsteps coming down the stairs. He has to get up.
"Oh, darling." The voice is close.
Waylon sways to his feet, stumbles into the dining room and runs straight into a chair.
"Why would you do something like that to yourself? Tell me you're alright."
The voice is right next to him and Waylon is half blind and entirely disoriented. He needs to run but he doesn’t know which way is which anymore. Strong arms close around him from behind and Waylon howls.
Waylon has never been a fighter. His attacker has the advantage in both height and weight, but still Waylon does everything in his power to escape that vice like grip. He tries to strike backwards with his elbow, but the angle is no good, and a hand closes around his wrist, strong as a goddamn iron bar.
Waylon lashes out with his other arm, and his nails score skin, but it’s useless. That strong grip never falters and eventually both of his wrists are held firm in one hand. Waylon drops like dead weight and his assailant grunts in surprise, but follows Waylon down, pinning him under that incredible solid weight.
Waylon wriggles as best he can, gasping for air and spitting out curses and pleas, but his attacker is patient, letting Waylon tire himself out.
"Honestly now, darling. Playing hard to get when we both know what you need? You little minx."
Waylon's maneuvered around so he’s laying on his stomach, his assailant moving Waylon’s wrists the small of his back and holding them there again with one hand. The other reached beneath Waylon and begins working his belt free.
Waylon whimpers, tries to jerk free, but the grip is so strong he'd have better luck dislocating his own shoulders.
"Don't fret now. I'll make an honest woman out of you," the man promises, binding Waylon's wrists with his own belt.
Waylon grunts in surprise as he's picked up bridal style. The way his arms are bound makes it awkward and uncomfortable and Waylon tries to wriggle out of the other man’s grasp.
“Now, darling,” his attacker chides, “if you insist on misbehaving I’m going to have to punish you. You don’t want that, do you?”
Waylon whimpers and falls still. He’s being carried up the stairs, the other man somehow making his way with ease through the pitch black house.
"That’s it, darling. A woman must submit to her husband, you know. Though we're not married yet, it would do you well to take the sentiment to heart. My pretty, obedient little wife. Isn't that what you'd like to be?"
They go through the door to the master bedroom. The man shoulders the door to the master bath open and Waylon has to shut his eyes at the sudden light.
"Here we are, darling. We're going to get you cleaned up. You're going to be so beautiful."
When Waylon opens his eyes, he realizes that the light in the bathroom comes not from the fluorescent bulbs installed in the ceiling, but from dozens of candles. They line the side of the tub, the windowsill, the countertop, and Waylon makes a silent, mental agreement with his attacker not to struggle while they're in here; the last thing he wants is to burn his house down.
Waylon is set gingerly down on the floor and he finally gets a good look at Eddie.
He looks different. Of course, that's somewhat the point. Eddie has always been a little formal; slacks and dress shirts are the staples of his wardrobe and Waylon has never seen him in jeans or a t-shirt.
But now Eddie looks as though he has stepped straight out of the fifties, dapper and handsome and Waylon can’t really keep pretending that this is some stranger who has broken into his home, a stranger whose hands Waylon doesn't want all over him.
It does give him the idea of his boyfriend as a jilted lover, refusing to accept the end of a relationship. That makes it more real to him somehow, a little scarier, and Waylon's heartbeat picks up a bit.
Eddie kneels over him for a moment, and combs Waylon's hair back from where it's fallen in his eyes. Eddie stays like that for a moment, eyes questioning. Waylon gives Eddie a fractional nod, and the two of them share a small smile before Eddie stands back up and turns to the counter and gets the water running, humming to himself as he tests the temperature of the water.
When it's to his satisfaction, he pulls up on the lift rod of the sink, and lets it fill. There's steam rising from the water and Eddie lets a few hand towels soak.
With Eddie distracted, Waylon tests the belt holding his wrists behind his back. He’s exceptionally impressed with how expertly he’s been tied; there’s no give to the leather at all, but his circulation is just fine.
Eddie turns back to him with a pair of shears and Waylon makes a strangled noise in his throat.
"Now hold very still, darling," Eddie warns, kneeling next to him, "and let me help you out of those clothes. "
Eddie cuts Waylon's clothes right off him. It's... intimate. And unexpected. They hadn't talked about this. Eddie sings the whole time, softly, as though to himself.
"When I was a boy my mother often said to me," Eddie sings, snipping the buttons from Waylon's shirt one by one. "Get married, son, and see how happy you will be."
Waylon's sleeves are next, and then his undershirt and he's bare from the waist up. Eddie pauses for a moment, fondness and desire evident on his face as his eyes rake over exposed skin.
"I have looked all over, but no girlie can I find," Eddie murmurs, voice barely audible. He cuts each of Waylon's pants legs and gingerly snips away his boxers.
Waylon's breath hitches. The bathroom is warm from the candles, but he can't stop a shiver. He's half hard already, gets a little stiffer at Eddie's wicked smile.
"Who seems to be just like the little girl I have in mind."
Eddie runs a warm hand down Waylon's leg, tutting softly. "All these unsightly hairs, darling. When I make you my wife, I expect you to keep your appearance up."
He lifts his hand to Waylon’s face next, drags his thumb across the stubble growing there and hums thoughtfully.
Waylon can't take his eyes off his boyfriend. This is... unbelievable.
Eddie is deviating from their script beautifully, and it's everything Waylon wants.
Waylon watches as Eddie turns back to the counter, humming a tune from one of the records he plays most frequently. Waylon can’t see what Eddie is doing from his position on the floor, but a soft, familiar noise starts up and Waylon’s heart leaps into his throat.
It’s the sound of a straight razor swiped across a leather strop, back and forth. Waylon knows the noise from the few times he has stayed the night at Eddie’s and woken in the morning to witness his boyfriend shave his own face. He’s always been a little in awe of how meticulous his boyfriend is in seemingly every aspect of his life, and this is no exception.
It’s not even really a kink Waylon had even thought he had, but looking back at the few times he’s sat, half awake, in Eddie’s bathroom enthralled with the process, he’s a little embarrassed that Eddie realized it even before he did. And now Eddie is going to take that dangerous instrument to his skin.
Waylon is fucking dizzy with arousal from just the thought. This is intimate in a way he’s never even considered before.
Waylon watches with bated breath as Eddie rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, drapes a washcloth over one of his forearms and picks up the straight razor and a few other items before returning to Waylon’s side.
Eddie drapes the hot, damp towel around Waylon’s jaw and neck and sets the other items on the floor next to him. There’s a mug of shaving cream, a brush Waylon knows is made of badger hair, and the glistening straight razor, its dark wooden handle carved with an art deco design.
"You're doing so well, darling," Eddie praises, and Waylon feels his face heat. "Now keep being a good girl for me. After all, you wouldn't want my hand to... slip."
Shit.
It’s a slow, painstaking process. Waylon barely dares to breathe and neither of them talk as Eddie begins his work.
Eddie whips the shaving cream up into a frothy mixture with the brush before removing the cooled towel from Waylon's face and applying it to his skin.
It smells sharp, almost like menthol, with a suggestion of sandalwood. It's how Eddie smells, Waylon realizes. It's part of the scent he can detect when they kiss, the scent left over in his bed when Eddie has stayed the night.
It's fucking intoxicating.
And now Waylon is going to smell that way, too. It feels primal, almost. Like a mark of ownership.
Eddie is very gentle with him, one warm hand pulling his skin taut, and the other making soft, gentle strokes with the razor along Waylon’s face going along with the grain of his stubble.
The only sound is their breathing, and the soft susurrus of the razor being drawn over skin. It’s easy to relax and let himself be taken care of as Eddie works with slow smooth strokes. Waylon's heart rate picks up when he has to tip his head back for Eddie to have comfortable access to his throat, but he trusts Eddie completely.
The process is repeated with the scant hairs on Waylon’s chest. But afterwards, Eddie begins applying the shaving cream to Waylon's legs and Waylon thinks about what that means, what he's going to look like when Eddie is done.
The brush tickles, and Waylon tries to draw his leg up, away from the sensation.
"Now, now, darling," Eddie chides, grabbing Waylon by the ankle and pulling his leg straight, "if you can't be a good little girl, I'll have to take you over my knee and give you a spanking."
Waylon whimpers and he can see Eddie's wicked smile. He's pretty sure he's created a monster.
The razor against his legs feels strange, but not uncomfortable. He can't stop the blush from rising in his cheeks as Eddie reaches his inner thighs; he feels so exposed and helpless.
Eddie's hands running down his newly smooth legs startles a moan out of him. His legs feel weird, they look weird and feminine and Eddie's hands are going to be his undoing.
Eddie takes a moment to clean the straight razor and put it away, before returning to Waylon's side, this time with an electric trimmer and a safety razor.
He sits between Waylon’s legs, gets him to bend his knees. Waylon feels entirely too exposed, but his dick is definitely interested, hard and red against his stomach. Waylon feels a little embarrassed as Eddie uses the electric trimmer to get his hair around his cock down to a manageable length for the razor, but Waylon can see the outline of his boyfriend’s dick straining against his slacks.
This is getting Eddie hot, Waylon thinks deliriously, and suddenly, he really, really wants this.
Waylon bites his lip when Eddie sets the electric trimmer down and begins lathering him with shaving cream, from the trail of hair leading down from his navel to the base of his dick and over his balls. He has a few misgivings about the safety razor, but Waylon knows Eddie's not going to fuck it up.
He can’t quite keep the tremor out of his legs though, part excitement and part nerves, and Eddie pauses and kisses the inside of Waylon's knee.
"I've got you, darling," Eddie assures him. "I would never let any harm come to you."
Waylon nods and tries to relax. Eddie's hands on him now are merely clinical, but it’s still making Waylon dizzy and every accidental touch to his dick leaves him short of breath.
The blade against his abdomen isn't so bad, and even around the base of his cock isn't freaking him out all that much. But then Eddie runs his thumb down the vein along the underside of Waylon’s dick, down over his balls and pulls the skin tight. Waylon stays stock still, hardly daring to breathe as his boyfriend works. The sensation is actually rather pleasant, just soft, short, barely there strokes over his sensitive skin and Waylon fights back his urge to squirm.
It’s over too soon, and it leaves him breathless. While Eddie cleans and puts away his supplies, Waylon experimentally rubs his legs together, marvelling at the sensation.
It’s a bit of a shock to his system when Eddie returns to rub him down with a cold, damp towel, removing the final traces of shaving cream, before applying aftershave lotion to Waylon’s newly hairless skin.
The earthy, medicinal smell of it is comforting, another familiar layer of the way Eddie always smells. Waylon feels cherished, and strangely small, but it’s a good feeling, new to him, but safe.
Eddie places one huge hand on the back of his neck and kisses the breath right out of him. “There we are,” Eddie says, in between kisses. “Silky smooth. Just like a little girl, again.”
Waylon makes a small, kittenish noise at that. This part has always been his kink, but Eddie makes it so much more real.
He lets Eddie pick him up. His desire to fight, to pretend like this isn’t something he’s absolutely wild for, has almost completely drained out of him.
He notices, dimly, that the candles in the room have burned down into waxy puddles, some even had put themselves out. But then Eddie takes him back out into the master bedroom and sets him down on the bed before switching on the lamp in the corner.
There’s a bag on Waylon’s bedside table that definitely wasn’t there just this morning. Waylon watches with interest as Eddie pulls out the contents and he takes in a startled breath when he sees what it is.
It’s a set of lacy black panties, a garter belt, and thigh highs. Waylon whimpers.
“Are you going to be a good little girl for me?” Eddie asks him.
Waylon nods frantically.
“Really?” Eddie asks him, setting one knee on the bed. He reaches out, grabs one of Waylon’s legs, and physically drags him closer. It’s so blisteringly hot, Waylon barely knows what to do with himself. “You were being very naughty earlier. Playing hard to get, hmm?”
“I’m sorry,” Waylon moans.
“Hmm,” Eddie says, smiling wickedly down at him. “You’ll say anything to get yourself out of trouble, won’t you, you little slut? Is that it?”
Oh fuck. Waylon is fucking leaking all over himself he’s so goddamn turned on right now. “No!” he begs. “Please, I promise.”
“Just a little whore, so eager to spread your legs. You just need a firm hand to guide you. Poor little wayward girl.”
Waylon nods again. “Yes,” he agrees, so so desperate. “Please, help me.”
Eddie makes a considering noise, slides the panties up Waylon’s legs and gets them settled in place. Waylon gasps at the feel of his dick straining against the lace; he’s so hard and the panties are so tiny he can’t even fit in them and the tip of his dick peeks over the little black bow on them.
Eddie smiles, runs one finger along the hard line of Waylon's cock, up to rub slow, soft circles around the weeping, exposed head.Waylon's hips jerk, and he makes a frantic noise in his throat.
"So wet all already, dear," Eddie murmurs, dragging his finger along Waylon's slit. "You really are a whore."
Eddie then picks up one of the thigh highs and rolls it up carefully onto Waylon's leg. Without hair, the sensation is strange, like his skin is too sensitive and Waylon bites his lip when Eddie runs his hand down the stocking once it’s in place. Eddie repeats the process with Waylon’s other leg, then he pulls Waylon up so they’re both standing.
The garter belt goes around Waylon’s waist and clasps in the back. Eddie kneels to adjust the straps of the garter belt and hook the front clasps to the top of the stockings before turning Waylon around and attaching the clasps at the back, as well.
Eddie presses his warm body up against Waylon’s back and his still bound hands, strong arms going around Waylon’s front. One hand goes to Waylon’s throat, not squeezing, but just a gentle pressure that makes Waylon strain into it. The other hand cups Waylon’s dick through his silk panties.
“My beautiful girl,” Eddie croons into his ear. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you now?”
“What?” Waylon gasps. With his hands bound behind his back, he can get his hands around Eddie’s cock through his slacks, and he moans when he realizes Eddie is just as hard as he is.
Eddie growls and bites at Waylon’s ear. “I’m going to eat out your little pussy and when you’re dripping wet, I’m going to fuck you.”
The noise that makes its way out of Waylon's throat is barely human. Eddie pushes him down face first on the bed and frees his arms from the belt.
"Be a good girl now, and hold onto the headboard. You can keep them there, can't you? I don't want those naughty hands of yours wandering. Good little girls don't touch themselves."
Waylon nods and does as he's told, lets Eddie lift his hips up so he's settled on his knees. Waylon can feel his face heat. He feels just like the whore Eddie accused him of being, face down, ass up and fucking loving it.
He feels Eddie's warm breath on the backs of his thighs, and moans when Eddie's teeth sink into the tender flesh just beneath the lace edge of his panties.
"That's it," Eddie tells him. "Keep being a good girl just like that and I'll make you come."
Eddie shifts behind him, draws the back of the panties down over the curve of Waylon's ass and Waylon can't keep the tremble out of his limbs because he knows what's coming next.
He can hear Eddie chuckle and then two terrifyingly strong hands grip his hips and Eddie runs his tongue up over Waylon's perineum and over his hole.
Eddie spends untold minutes like that, tongue flattened out and rasping over Waylon's hole again and again until his every nerve feels split open and raw. Waylon is absolutely hopeless to control any of the noises coming out of him.
He buries his face into the pillow beneath him to stifle a whimper as Eddie spears him with his tongue, practically fucking him with it, loosening Waylon up incrementally.
One hand leaves Waylon’s hips and a finger dips into him, just to the first knuckle, then traces around the rim in tandem with Eddie’s tongue. The next time the finger presses into him, Eddie fucks it into him slow, centimeter by centimeter until it’s as deep as it can go. When Eddie draws his finger back out, he drags it along Waylon’s prostate, and Waylon throws his head back and whines.
Two fingers next, and Eddie is so terribly cruel to him, massaging his prostate and running his tongue around where his fingers are buried inside of Waylon.
“Please fuck me,” Waylon begs. “I’m gonna come.”
“Oh?” Eddie asks. Waylon moans when Eddie bites him on the curve of his ass, hard enough to bruise. He never stops rubbing his fingers over Waylon’s prostate. “You better not, you naughty girl. Not until I say.”
He draws his fingers out, and when they return they’re a lot slicker; Eddie must have grabbed the lube sometime while Waylon was distracted and three fingers slide into him easily.
“I suppose I could fuck you now,” Eddie says, consideringly, as casual as though they’re discussing what color curtains to put in the living room. If Waylon wasn’t so turned on, he’d be infuriated. “You’re so wet, darling. Such a little harlot my girl is.”
“Please,” Waylon begs again. His knuckles are white where they’re gripping the headboard. He feels like he’s going to fly apart.
“Well, when you ask so nicely,” Eddie says, drawing his fingers out.
Waylon moans when he feels the blunt head of Eddie’s dick nudge up against his hole before his body just gives and Eddie sinks into him, splitting him right open.
Finally. Waylon tries to rock back against Eddie, but only gets a sharp slap to his ass for his trouble, startling another whine out of his throat.
“What am I supposed to do with my little girl when it’s obvious she’s such a filthy whore?” Eddie asks him, right as he starts to fucking Waylon with these deliberately slow, rolling thrusts.
Eddie smacks his ass again, and Waylon realizes he’s expected to actually throw a coherent sentence together and answer the question.
“Oh god,” Waylon whimpers. “Please, I promise I’m your whore. Just yours, please.”
Because it’s true. Eddie just brings out the slut in him, and Waylon can’t pretend otherwise.
“I like the sound of that,” Eddie tells him, draping himself over Waylon’s back, breathing the words into his ear. “My own little whore.”
“Yes,” Waylon agrees, because hell, he’d agree to anything at this point, as long as Eddie keeps fucking him.
“I don’t know if I can have a wife who’s such a slut,” Eddie growls, grabbing Waylon by the throat and pulling him upright.
Waylon nearly comes just from that, the pressure of Eddie’s fingers squeezing his trachea, from the delicious way it changes the angle of his boyfriend’s thrusts inside of him.
Waylon tries a couple of times to find his voice again, only ends up making desperate, nonsensical vocalizations, before he finally manages, “I’ll be good for you. I can behave, I swear! Wanna be--oh fuck--please make me your w-wife!”
Eddie runs a hand lovingly over the tops of the stockings Waylon wears, up one of the garter belt’s straps and over where Waylon’s dick strains against his panties. Waylon squirms, every sensation heightened by his hairless skin.
The rhythm Eddie has going is maddening; he doesn’t know how long he can stand it.
“You have been very good, haven’t you?” Eddie muses. It’s infuriating, how calm he sounds, though there’s a rough edge to his voice that threatens to be Waylon’s undoing. "Done everything I’ve asked. Such a slut, but I think you want to be good. You recognize a firm hand as what you need, hmm?”
“Yes!” Waylon whines. He can feel his orgasm building entirely against his will, can nearly fucking taste it.
“Is me fucking your sweet little pussy going to make you come, you filthy slut?"
Waylon moans wildly. "Y-yes," he whimpers. The angle is so good it's starting to border on painful. Waylon thinks he might fucking pass out. "Please make me come," Waylon begs.
Eddie's thrusts turn punishing. "Do you think a little harlot like you deserves it?" Eddie growls into his ear. His hand tightens around Waylon's throat.
“No,” Waylon wails, knows it’s the right response when Eddie’s teeth sink into his shoulder. “I don’t! Don’t deserve, hnn, you at all. So good to me.”
Eddie’s hand roughly tugs Waylon’s panties down and closes around his dick. “That’s right you fucking whore. Come for me now, darling. Come for me and I’ll make sure you’re a good girl, just like you promised.”
There’s no way Waylon could have prevented his orgasm if he tried. It wells up in him, impossible to stop, an explosion as inevitable and destructive as a volcanic eruption, all over Eddie's fist, the bedsheets and Waylon's lacy panties.
Eddie keeps fucking him, until Waylon thinks he might actually die , but good fucking god, what a way to go , when his boyfriend's thrusts finally go uneven, and his arms around Waylon tighten to near pain and Waylon can feel the hot rush of his come filling him up.
Eddie holds him close for a long moment, the two of them just catching their breath, before Eddie slips out of him and eases them both down onto the bed.
It's nice, just being held in Eddie's arms. Waylon has always liked being the little spoon, but it's better this time. He feels safe and cherished.
It's a long time before Waylon can get his brain in good enough order for him to start stringing words together.
"Can we do that again sometime?" he finally asks. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, wrecked and still small. It's hesitant and feminine and really appealing.
Waylon feels Eddie smile against the back of his neck.
"It was. .. fascinating," Eddie tells him. "Watching you come undone. Definitely worth more exploration. "
"You're only saying that because I've woken some kind of ungodly kink monster within you," Waylon teases. He quickly amends his statement, "Not that I'm complaining."
Eddie strokes a hand over Waylon's hip, buries his face further in Waylon's neck. "I wasn't just saying it, you know," he very nearly mumbles. "I want you," followed by a hesitant hitch of his breath, "to be my wife. You liked it. I saw you, how you reacted. It made you wild."
Waylon barely dares to breathe. Eddie can't be serious. He can't magically want the things that Waylon wants. That's not how the world works. Not for Waylon at least.
"I want to see you in pretty little dresses," Eddie continues. "Whenever I come home, waiting for me like a good little wife. You want that, don't you?"
Waylon turns in Eddie's arms, meets his boyfriend's serious eyes.
"Jesus," Waylon breathes. "You're not fucking with me. You. You want this."
Waylon sits up. Eddie hesitantly pushes up so he's leaning on one elbow.
"How soon can you have a dress ready?” Waylon asks him.