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When he wakes up, there’s someone in the room.
It’s dark, still late, but the streetlight outside his window has been out for weeks, and the moonlight isn’t strong enough to get past the edges of his curtains. The room is black, he can only hear his own soft breathing, trying not to panic; but he knows: someone is in the room.
It’s like an evolutionary throwback, one second he’s dead asleep, the next he’s wide awake, adrenaline making him want to jump and move; only with a struggle can he stop himself from twitching, refusing to let his muscles jump the way they want to. Wake up, fool, there are hungry beasts waiting beyond the fire.
There is someone in the room, but they aren’t moving, aren’t shaking him awake to demand his valuables or slit his throat or any number of awful things. They’re just...there. His room is small (his apartment is small, shitty and filthy but cheap): just a bed, and a plywood bedside table. There’s not many places the stranger could be, but when Waylon cracks open an eye, he can’t see a hint of anything in front of him, just the faintest outline of the weak moonlight outlining the curtains. Behind him, then.
And still, no movement, no noise, just the hair on the back of his neck insisting danger. Which means the stranger is just...watching him? Waylon can’t stop the shiver that grips him, involuntary, like a finger whispering across the back of his neck, just flirting with the fine hair there. He hopes it’s undetectable in the darkness, just movement in his sleep. He tries to focus his thoughts, but the adrenaline is bouncing his mind back and forth, back and forth. There’s someone in his room, someone standing in the dark and looking at him.
He can almost feel it, eyes on his body beneath the sheets. “Jesus,” he mouths, silent, violation trickling sickly down his throat.
One silver lining in this mess: the person is behind him, but in front of him, just a few inches away, is his bedside table. In the drawer, he keeps a knife. Just in case.
He inches a hand forward, under the sheets. Tries to make it look like a stretch, like he’s just moving in his sleep. His fingers crawl out from the edge of the top-sheet, pass just beyond the edge of the mattress--
From behind him, someone takes a deep breath (the beasts beyond the fire gather themselves, crouch low as they ready to leap and tear with their claws and teeth--)
In a panic, he abandons the pretense, shotguns up, flinging his pillow aside as he scrambles for the drawer of the table God, God, why didn’t he leave the knife on the top why didn’t he put it under his pillow?
His fingers touch the drawer, grab hold of the handle right as a huge mass crushes him from behind, and his arm jerks, yanks the entire drawer out of the table and flings it wildly to the floor as he’s pushed flat to the bed.
He’s breathing in bedsheets, and his arms flail as he tries to push himself up under the weight of the man--it must be a man, no woman could be so huge and heavy--finally finds some purchase in the mattress to lever himself up, only to fall flat again as his arms are knocked out from under him, gathered together in one big hand and held in the small of his back, pushing him down down, deep into the mattress.
His body knows this position, has dreamed of it these past lonely months, and without his permission he finds himself almost...relaxing into it, into the deep hold, into his own hands being held bruisingly-hard down in the small of his back.
Familiar, so familiar, so that even before the man behind him leans down and pants into his ear, even before that so-dangerous and so-beloved voice roughly drawls at his neck, biting down with every word. Even before that, just the weight and the pressure, and the familiar teeth in his neck, he knows who it is, who was in his room and watching him.
“Did you think I wouldn't find you, whore?”
The thing is, it didn't start this way. It was a long and winding road from point A to point B.
When they met, Eddie was as shy as a virgin, too hesitant to even hold his hand, touches tentative and soft on his face and back when Waylon kissed him.
They were together for months before Waylon managed to coax him into bed, and even in the throes of passion Eddie was as gentle as though he was handling a delicate piece of spiderweb-thin lace, always conscious of his own size and strength.
It was good, it was so good, feeling loved and loving in return, gently getting Eddie used to being part of a couple: two toothbrushes in the jar, gradually mixing clothes between apartments and making sure to grab Eddie’s favorite cereal when he went grocery shopping.
It was sweet and picture-perfect, a happy ending that Waylon hadn't expected and Eddie certainly hadn't hoped for.
The other stuff...was a surprise.
It started small, but it snowballed quickly, out of control and dangerous but feeling so damn good and right.
It’s not like Waylon hadn’t ever had sex that wasn’t strictly vanilla. He was thirty before he met Eddie, and he’d been in relationships before. It wasn’t exactly unusual to experiment a little in the bedroom when you ended up in a long-term relationship; so yeah, he’d been spanked and done his fair share of spanking. He’d put on a blindfold and had hot wax dripped down his chest, hands bound to the headboard with silk ties.
So, when a smirking Miles and laughing Lisa had handed over a congratulatory gift bag for finally convincing Eddie to move in, he wasn’t exactly clutching his pearls over the pink-padded handcuffs he found inside.
Eddie, on the other hand, looked like he wished for some scandalized-specific pearls to clutch, especially when Waylon casually (Maybe too casually? Maybe it wasn’t a great idea to reference semi-kinky sex you’d had back in the day?) mentioned that he’d never been tied up with handcuffs before.
The first time Eddie hits him, it's a revelation for them both.
They’re fighting about something. What are they fighting about? It doesn’t matter. It never mattered.
What matters is this: Eddie gets frustrated and swings back and slaps him.
Once. Hard. Right across the face, force against his cheek snapping his head to the side.
Waylon’s never been slapped before. The heat of it settles quietly at first, before the blood and pain rushes in to his face.
And something else.
The heat rises on his face and...in his body.
Eddie is aghast. Appalled, ashamed, a whole passel of words beginning with “A” spilling out of his mouth to sink like stones into the still and silent pool that has formed between them.
He leaves, white as a sheet, apologies still dripping from his lips even as he escapes out the front door.
Waylon stands in their living room, examining the new and strange feelings coursing through his body.
Eddie isn’t back for dinner.
Waylon makes himself a sandwich and eats it over the sink, staring out the back window.
He’s startled back into himself when a passing car’s headlights flash and blind him, white spots dancing in his eyes as he grimaces and turns away.
It’s dark in the apartment. He turns and looks at the clock built into the microwave, a little worried to note that it’s past 9 o’clock. He’s been standing at the kitchen sink for over an hour.
Still no Eddie. Waylon doesn’t even know where to start guessing that he could be. A bar? Eddie rarely drinks, but this city rolls up the sidewalks pretty early, so it’s either a bar or wandering through a park at this hour.
Either way, he hopes Eddie comes home soon--the last thing he wants to do is have to go bail him out for drunk and disorderly or giving somebody the creeps lurking around a dark park.
He thinks to pull his phone out of his pocket and double-check that he hasn’t already missed that call. No notifications on the lock screen.
Well, he thinks, I guess that’s good. Eddie is big and deceptively gentle; if anyone tries to jump him, he can take care of himself in a fight. As Waylon well knows now. He rubs a rueful hand over the bruise on his cheek.
Or--he means to be rueful. Instead, he clamps his free hand onto the kitchen counter to keep his feet as a wave of sensation--pain--rocks over him. Fuck. Eddie really can hit.
No use standing here in the dark all night. Who knows when Eddie will finally make an appearance? And Waylon has no intention of--fighting? Talking? Breaking up? Isn’t that what you do when your boyfriend loses his temper and hits you?--in the middle of the night.
He goes to bed. Or rather, he lies in bed, in the dark. If he rolls onto his left side, the bruise presses into the cool pillow. He feels heat and coolness, pressure. It’s all sensation, pinpricks of feeling on his cheek. When he closes his eyes and concentrates on it, he can almost feel the pain creeping across his cheek.
When he rolls to the edge of the bed, his face drags across the cotton pillow. His toes curl beneath the sheets at the pain, the sensation. He squints at his phone in the dark, wakes it up. 2:08 AM. No notifications.
He sits up in bed, lets the sheets pool across his lap. In a quick movement, he pulls them off of his legs and stands, moves into the bathroom.
He stands there for a moment in the dark. Letting the anticipation build
The light in here is dimmed, muted, softer and more forgiving than the lightbulbs in other rooms of the apartment.
Still, the bruise stands out.
It’s purpled, red and dark, with faint blue at the edges. Waylon doesn’t think Eddie even put his full power behind it. He stayed on his feet, after all. He thinks if Eddie really gave it to him, he would have gone to the floor. Maybe even hard enough to get bruises on his hips, his hands, as he tried to catch himself.
His hand is already up and moving, tracing a gentle path across the bruise. The sensation streaks across the skin, the feeling of pressure followed by the pain. And then something else...a zing, a spark. It feels almost like pleasure.
He does it again, and then harder, so that the pressure whitens the color of the bruise. It hurts, and he gasps; and then that spark comes again, stronger, and he gasps, louder.
Again. Harder. One hand clenching hard on the bathroom counter, fingers digging into the concave surface of the sink, the other pressing deeper and deeper into his face, feeling the bruise settle into the thin skin. Would it be better, he wonders, on his arms or legs? Somewhere the bruise could make it’s home in the deep muscle, so he could feel the sweet ache when he moved, so he could press it through his pants or shirt and feel the pain and pleasure spread?
God. He’s hard.
He can feel the edges of panic starting to wend their way to his heart; he’s in his thirties, for God’s sake, he's had an active and healthy sex life and porn habits--how could he have missed this?
Maybe if it was in the middle of the afternoon, with traffic and humanity moving around outside and the unforgiving, all-seeing sunlight burning in through the window, maybe then he could be ashamed, forget this whole thing ever happened.
But now, in the cool, dark, porcelain-safety of his mid-night bathroom, anxiety and pain and arousal all blur into one. Shame is for the morning.
His hands move, steady. He watches as one moves up to fit itself to the reddened handprint on his cheek. Eddie is so much bigger than him, so much stronger; his handprint is still entirely visible as a glowing red outline surrounding Waylon’s hand. He presses, gently at first, then harder, until he's pushing his face forward into it, exerting pressure from both sides.
It's all confusion and sensation, feeling the delicate bone and muscle of his face, so close to the surface with only a thin, bruised layer of skin to protect it.
His other hand has snaked its way into his boxers without him noticing, no foreplay at all, just a quick swipe at the head to gather some of the copious amounts of precome he’s leaking, then taking a firm grip on the shaft.
He's always liked a firm touch, but this is a night of revelations. He should see what else he didn't know he liked.
He squeezes his cock, hard, to the point of pain, and keeps his hand tight as he moves it up the shaft. Jesus Christ.
His hips buck so hard he bangs a knee into the cabinet, but at this point it's just one more bright spark of arousal, and he just lets out a confused whimper.
He does it again, hard squeeze and drag up his dick, and this time he flicks a finger at the head. His knees go weak when his fingernail catches and pulls at the slit, another starburst of pain that he rides out before he drags his hand down and does it all again.
He feels unsteady, shaky, unanchored in his silent bathroom in the middle of the night, nothing to hold him up or down as he fucks his fist and presses at the bruise on his face.
A moment of brilliance, some long-ignored or unknown masochistic instinct, has him use his nails on the next downstroke, and this time it's not just his knees that buck, it's his whole damn body, and when he does it again, he flexes his other hand and scratches into the bruise on his face, and the pain flares like touching a sunburn, and his whole body shakes and shakes, and his whole breath shudders and gasps, and his whole mind jolts and empties, and when he comes back to himself he's propped up on the bathroom counter, breathing like he just ran up four flights of stairs.
He lets himself tremble and sweat through it until his legs feel steady enough to hold him--at least the five feet back to the bed--and then he pushes himself upright and meets his own eyes in the mirror.
Immediately his eyes jump to the other pair in the mirror. Eddie, finally come home.
He whirls around--or he would, if he hadn't just put himself through the wringer; at this point it's more like a sloppy stumble--and stares.
Okay, this looks bad. Or at least, it doesn't look great. He takes a moment to self assess: covered in come, playing with a bruise Eddie gave him a couple hours ago, alone, in the middle of the night.
So it definitely looks bad. Unmistakably.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. What can you even say in this situation? “I wasn't sure you were coming back.”
Okay, again, not great. It’s fine, maybe they just won't mention this. Any of it. He won't bring up the time Eddie hit him, Eddie won't bring up the time he found Waylon jerking off about it. Fair trade, back to an average, boring couple!
Eddie is still staring at him. Just staring. He can't help but wonder how long exactly Eddie's been standing there. But to ask...it's a little early to already be violating their unspoken agreement not to bring it up. God. Maybe they'll just stand here in frozen, embarrassed silence for the rest of time.
He can feel the urge to fidget coming up strong. His eyes dart around, unwilling to meet Eddie's, but flickering around the area anyways, still trying to get a read.
Still and silent, like a statue. But not completely. In their travels, his eyes notice a few things. Like: Eddie's hands, clenching and unclenching into fists; Eddie's chest, rising and falling as he takes in deep, uneven breaths; Eddie's eyes, dragging up and down, up and down his body.
Oh, Waylon thinks, maybe not bad.
Slowly, carefully, he brings a hand back up to his face. Slowly, carefully, but most importantly, not gently, he presses down.
His breath jumps, his dick--my, he really is learning all sorts of things about himself tonight; since when is he able to go more than once a night again?--jumps, Eddie jumps--
And so they realized: Eddie wanted to hurt him, and he wanted to be hurt. More and more, wilder and wilder, like Icarus spiraling up to the sun, seeing the danger but feeling blind to it anyways, adrenaline burning up in their veins.
It’s why he left. He had to. He'd liked it, liked the pain, liked the way Eddie's eyes went hot and wild, and then blank with a dark, all-consuming lust as he unchained his control, as he let himself become the monster Waylon wanted him to be.
Once they started, neither of them could stop; they egged each other on in dangerous bedroom games, harder and sharper, until strangers in the street started giving him sympathetic looks, until his friends put their soft and careful hands on his arm and let him know they had a spare room.
They didn't understand; how could they, when he barely understood. He just knew that he liked it, too much, and that they weren't going to stop.
They were going to get worse.
The night Eddie brought a knife to bed--that was when he knew he had to leave.
Not because he was scared, oh no. The glint of the metal in the moonlight, the way it shone on the silver sliver of Eddie's smile, the way it sliced cold and bright through his skin, the way the blood trickled and then ran, thick and red, down his skin, to pool on the sheets, the way Eddie's hungry, hungry eyes and short, panting breaths filled the room and cut over his own surprised gasps--no, the knife didn't scare him, the pain didn't scare him, Eddie never scared him.
But all of it, together...Now that was something to be scared of. Because after that night, he knew it wouldn't stop, it would only get worse.
If he didn't leave, they'd go too far. And someday, Eddie would cut or tear or choke too hard, too much, and he'd be left holding a body.
Waylon couldn't let that happen. Eddie would never recover, would never survive knowing what he'd done.
That night, after, Eddie cleaned them up, bandaged Waylon up, and fell asleep wrapped around him, whispering tender nothings in his ear.
Waylon waited until his breathing evened out and took on the light burr that it developed on days he'd really worn himself out.
Then he slipped out from under Eddie's arm and packed.
He didn't need a lot. Didn't take a lot. His IDs, his clothes, his computer. A couple of pictures of them, pulling the frames down from the walls or folding them flat from where they'd been standing on bookshelves.
He stood in the dark of the kitchen, writing a note in the milky moonlight filtered through the curtains over the sink.
I'm sorry. I love you. Don't look for me.
Keep it simple. If he wrote out everything he wanted to say, he'd still be here writing when Eddie came out to start the coffee.
They knew each other so well, they were two fucked up pieces of a whole, the twin handles that folded up to hide a butterfly knife. Eddie would be able to read the words he didn't write.
He left it next to the coffee pot, so Eddie would see it first thing.
As he turned to grab his bag, a flash of silver caught his eye. He moved back to the counter, glanced in the sink, and hesitated.
There it was.
Laying on the drying rack in the sink, it just looked like an ordinary kitchen knife. It was supposed to be there.
But looking at it, he felt the same thrill--half fear, half anticipation of the bright flare of pain he knew it promised--that he'd felt when Eddie had laid it on the sheets between them that evening and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him.
Yes, Waylon had said, then, already breathing fast and heavy.
Now, he took a deep breath, threw a last look back to the darkened doorway where Eddie still slept, and then, before he could talk himself out of it and crawl back into their bloody chamber, snatched the knife, stuffed it into his bag, and fled.
It's been over eighteen months, nearly two years. Long enough for Waylon to pull together a life and fall into a routine.
It's dull, yes, but that's life. He likes to think his experiences have given him some kind of expertise, that his long and lonely nights sitting in bed or standing in the kitchen staring into the darkness and questioning his decisions have helped him develop some pearls of wisdom like a hermit on a mountain.
The foremost of these being: Life is long and dull, or it is short and sparkling. Anything that gives you adrenaline, that leaves you short of breath and gasping for it, your blood jittering and burning under your skin, will kill you quickly. That's why he had to leave, after all; he could feel it boiling them up, and he didn't want it to end.
This way, at least he still has his memories. And the knife, tucked in his bedside table for him to take out and look at, on particularly bad nights.
Now that knife lies on the floor, scattered half-hidden amongst all the accumulated junk that ends up in a bedside table.
And Eddie, the cause of his nightmares and wet dreams in equal measure crowds on top of him.
Despite himself, Waylon can feel the tension draining out of him, pooling in his groin and recirculating, powering up a entirely different kind of tension.
Anticipation.
This will be the end of it, either way. Eddie will kill him, or Eddie will never let him get away again, wised up to what Waylon's capable of doing. Not that Waylon thinks he'll have the strength to walk away again after this, even if Eddie was dumb enough to give him the opportunity.
The adrenaline rushing through him--half fear and half arousal, the sweet rush in the blood he gets from the two emotions twisting and melting together, it makes him feel awake for the first time in months, makes him feel alive. How could he go back to the apathetic, monotonous purgatory of life without Eddie?
He feels strange, like he's been drowsy and half-awake for these past months, and it's only now, with Eddie’s massive weight crushing him down so that he's half suffocated into the plush mattress and thick sheets, that he's come fully awake and aware.
He can't tell if he wants to stay here, limp, and let Eddie do as he will, or if he wants to fling himself up. If he wants to provoke that white-hot rage he can feel simmering just beneath Eddie's skin.
Eddie is just laying on top of him. Breathing thickly in and out. He can, barely, turn his head enough in the sheets that out of the corner of his eye, he can see one of Eddie's huge hands clenching and unclenching a wedge of sheet, crushing a handful of pillow caught in his meaty paw.
He opens his mouth, but pauses, unsure what he wants to say here. Tentatively, he starts, “Eddie--”
That hand slams into his line of sight as Eddie smashes it into the mattress, so violently that he feels his head dip and rise with the jump of the mattress.
“Quiet. I am....Very angry with you.” Eddie's voice has minute tremors in it--suppressed rage, Waylon assumes. He's never heard Eddie like this. Even when they played, when Eddie was hurting him, it was never angry, other than that first time. Eddie hurt him because they both liked it.
This though, this is uncharted territory. He watches Eddie's fist slowly unclench, fingers almost shaking as he consciously forces himself to relax his hand. His whole body, really; Waylon can feel Eddie's body expanding as he takes in breath after deep breath, trying to calm himself down.
Contradictory, Waylon can feel the tension in his own body ratcheting up, as though it's leaving Eddie only to make its home in him. He's going to make a very, very stupid decision.
Eddie is concentrating on his breathing. He doesn't notice Waylon slowly inching his head to the right. Not until Waylon has sucked the two nearest fingers into his mouth. That he certainly notices, if the gasp and twitch of the fingers is anything to go by.
God, he thinks, it's been so long.
So long since he's had something in his mouth, since he's had the heavy weight of a man pushing him into the mattress, since Eddie.
His fingers are salty, thick and calloused, and he moans as he licks around them, sucking and nipping at the pads of fingers. It all feels so good, he cant believe how good it feels, his skin tingling all over with desire, like he's a plant in the desert that's just been hit with a flash flood storm, waking up and blossoming after long months without.
He suckles on the fingers, thoughts and body narrowed onto this one point of contact, this one action. He could do this all night, just lavish all of his attention on these beloved fingers, comfortable and safe under a bulky body.
He feels so damn sensitive, drives his cock down into the mattress and then shivers and shuffles as far up on his knees as he's able so he can do it again, harder, pressing up against that big body behind him and shivering again.
Behind him, Eddie shudders; inside his mouth, Eddie's fingers tense and stiffen, hooking themselves into the tender corners of his mouth.
“You're such a slut,” Eddie says. The words are harsh, but his tone...His tone has changed. He isn't harsh, hating, not anymore. He sounds half delirious, aroused and shocky, like he's surprised, like he came here thinking Waylon hated him, like he came here thinking he was going to kill Waylon.
It's not part of their games, it's real, real life, Eddie came here with bad intentions; it's only Waylon, Waylon's fucked up desires and body, that's going to change the outcome to Eddie's violence.
Eddie's face drops down to be on level with Waylon's, and he licks a hot line up his cheek, tongue dragging over his own fingers and dipping briefly into Waylon's mouth, still held half-open by harsh fingers.
“Such a slut, such a slut,” Eddie murmurs, almost admiring, dragging his face against Waylon's cheek, nipping at his earlobe and finally fitting his teeth to the back of Waylon's neck, at the easy join where his shoulder curves into his neck. He rests there for a moment, teeth bared against Waylon's skin, hard slick ivory. Waylon feels the gap when he opens his mouth, a brief hot moist breath until he sinks his teeth into Waylon's skin.
The pressure and dull soreness gives way to bright pain when he feels Eddie break through, hot tear of skin, and he convulses, his own teeth clenching down, involuntary, on Eddie's fingers, his body rushing up towards and bucking Eddie's.
There's a long moment where they both seem to sink into it, Eddie's teeth stuck in his skin, his own gnawing around the fingers in his mouth, their bodies pressed together, sinuous and tight with tension.
He can almost feel it--a moment strung stiff, like watching a bead of water gathering itself before it breaks off into an individual drop and rolls away.
And then it breaks. Eddie pulls his fingers out of Waylon's mouth, lands a harmless and awkwardly-angled slap to his face before he fits both his hands to Waylon's hips, yanks them closer so that his dick presses rough and hard to the curve of Waylon's ass. He frees his teeth from where they're stuck in Waylon's skin, so that Waylon can feel a trail of blood or spit or both slither down the neckline of his shirt.
Eddie crushes their bodies together with one hand, slides the other around so he can grab a handful of Waylon's own hard dick. He breathes out, once, a sigh that Waylon can almost interpret as relief, before he growls, demanding, “Lube.”
Waylon can't exactly move, pinned as he is between the two huge immovable paws of Eddie, but he manages to support himself on one shaky arm for long enough to point towards the wrecked bedside table.
Eddie shifts his weight more heavily on Waylon, pinning him down as he leans over to peer at the table in the weak moonlight.
There’s a slight murmuring as Eddie grumbles to himself, the vibrations trembling through their bodies where Eddie’s chest is pressed tight to his back.
“Ah!” Eddie says after a moment, triumphant, and leans further, moving a hand off of Waylon to brace himself as he reaches down off the bed, where the drawer and its contents lay scattered across the floor.
There's a surprised sound, a pause. He can feel Eddie stretch a little more to reach, and then a breath of relief as Eddie resituates himself.
Silence behind. Stillness, a slight rustle as though Eddie is shifting his arm around.
Waylon breathes steadily, wonders, tries not to press back into Eddie too much.
Finally, Eddie's hand lands back on the mattress. Waylon turns to look, breath catching in his throat.
There's the lube, tube half-used and squashed from the floor or Eddie's fist. Next to that though--
The knife. Their knife. The knife Waylon took. The one he was reaching for before he knew who was in his room.
It catches the slight light from the moon, silver sheen dazzling Waylon until he has to look away.
“Oh,” he says. He doesn't know what to say. What to do. After a second, he manages to wriggle and twist enough that he can see Eddie's face.
Eddie's gaze is stuck on the knife, but eventually it moves up to meet Waylon’s. His face has gone slack, his eyes are blank and alien, dry and hot like some dead and sandy place.
“Oh,” he says, again, breathy. His blood turns to liquid gold in his veins, his spine curves to push himself deeper into the press of Eddie, hard and tight with tension. “Eddie, please,” he says, and his voice is smokey, sultry. He feels like a slut, like he's going to die if he doesn't get something inside of himself, and he isn't too picky about if it's fingers, or cock, or a knife's edge slipping down through the layers of his skin.
He watches Eddie's hand clench on the sheets, before moving decisively to the knife. His own hands clench, his breath trips in and out of his lungs, faster and faster.
In the corner of his eye, he sees the glint of the knife, flicker of moonlight as the flat side trails down his cheek, the faint prick as the point digs into the collar of his shirt and skips off his throat, as it finally catches and tears through, cuts a line down the chest of his shirt.
He holds his breath, but that light touch is all he gets. Eddie puts the knife down, lifts himself enough that he can pull the halved shift off of Waylon.
He looks down the long length of his torso. Not even a red line from the pressure of the knife; Eddie was too careful for that. Disappointing.
But Eddie is not done. There's a hot line, papercut thin and fiery across his hip as Eddie cuts into him.
It's so sweet, a poisonous little slice that makes him shiver with the pain and the heat, makes his dick jump and his hips swivel, needy for more.
“Please, please please please,” he begs, even his voice shivery and eager.
“Darling,” Eddie breathes behind him. He lifts up so he's kneeling behind Waylon, fits a hand to his hip and uses the other to saw through the thick waist of his sleep pants, knife catching and cutting carelessly into his hip, before he slices a curve forward, until the knife rests above his quivering dick, precarious. “Very still, now.”
Waylon's heart beats rabbit-fast in his chest, and his breath sticks in his throat.
Eddie, carefully, leans forward until his chin hooks over Waylon's shoulder, wraps his free arm from waist to shoulder and levers Waylon up with him, so they kneel pressed together.
Together, they look down Waylon's body, watch the knife oh-so-slowly slide through the hem at the crotch of his pants, cut through the thin thread to bare him to the night.
Through the torn pants, Waylon can barely see the knife change angles; he can feel it, though, feel the way Eddie drags the flat metal against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, over and over, the tension building in his stomach like arousal, like a coming storm.
Without thinking about it, he hands move back, needing some way to release the tension, clutching at any part of Eddie he can reach.
The flip of the knife, the sharp edge drawing a line into his sensitized skin, is a special and sensual kind of torture, one perfected during their long nights of play and apparently not forgotten in the months stretching between that time and now. His body wants to jerk away, wants to thrust forward into it, but he's afraid to move either way. Instead, he spasms in place, groans from deep in his chest.
“Enough,” Eddie mutters behind him, and tears the remains of his sleep pants off of him.
Waylon gasps, shocked by the way the fabric pulls at him before it rips apart, no match for the strength of Eddie's lust. He's pushed back into the mattress, and he locks his elbows to stay up as he watches Eddie snatch the tube of lube.
He listens to the click and snap as it’s opened and closed, but he still startles at the cold and wet invasion of fingers on his ass, smoothing over a cheek and sliding into the space between.
The fingers kiss a brief hello to the rim of his ass, but Eddie knows him like no one else ever has, like no one else ever will; Waylon likes it to hurt.
He pushes in, two fingers, hard and too soon, and pushes a noise out of Waylon, pained and painfully-aroused, dying for it.
It's quick, perfunctory. Spreading a layer of lube and just enough stretching that Waylon won't tear or bleed.
Soon enough, there's another click and snap as Eddie spreads some lube over his dick, and then the meaty head of it is resting against him, thick and warm.
Silence between them, just the sound of their breathing, raspy and excited. He's waiting, Waylon realizes. He unlocks an elbow so he can bring his hand back, fumbles briefly until he finds Eddie's hip and lays it there across the hot skin.
It's enough. Eddie's breath shudders out of him, his hands clench into Waylon's hips, and his own push forward, sliding his cock inch by thick inch into Waylon.
It's been so long, and Eddie is so big, the hurt burns through him. He cries out, his hand clenching and digging into Eddie's hip before he flings it to the mattress for balance.
Eddie has no sympathy, no mercy, and does not stop until he's all the way in, thick and heavy in Waylon and over him.
No time to adjust here, either. The burn ebbs and flows like the tide as Eddie pulls back out and slams back in, over and over, harder and harder, until it's so fast and so much that Waylon feels like he's going to scream, and then Eddie adjusts his angle and slides over his prostate, and he does scream, choked and hoarse.
The pain fades as his body remembers the stretch and rhythm, as his pleasure centers start to overtake the pain and he makes stuttered, nonsensical noises.
“Quiet, darling,” Eddie whispers hoarsely in his ear, “We don't want the neighbors hearing, do we?”
Waylon tries to make his brain understand the words he's hearing, but the cock in him is so good and steady that his thoughts keep drifting away like curls of smoke, and he just can't stop making louder and louder noises as the pleasure sizzles through his bones.
There's a grunt from behind him, exasperated and almost fond, and then Eddie's hands slide up from his hips to wrap around his throat.
He pulls, gently and then harder when Waylon resists just to feel his breath catch, until he's stretched up in a curve between the dick in his ass and the hands choking him, the only two points of his body that matter.
Eddie uses his grip on his throat almost as a fulcrum, keeping him at such a sweet angle, his dick sliding in and out of Waylon so damn good he could almost cry.
The hands tighten as Eddie concentrates on his pleasure, the clench of Waylon's body tightening as he fights for air, his body winding up and up. Soon, Waylon can only hear the pounding of his blood in his veins, his heart thudding and his whole body throbbing with the desire for oxygen. He's lost in the sensations, trapped in the confines of his body and the pleasures and pains and panic that Eddie is forcing him into.
The loosening of the bruising hands on his throat is a shock, though less so than the rush of revitalizing air in his lungs.
Everything feels brighter, his breath heaving into his tender throat, the almost-forgotten cuts on his hips and legs flaring up into fiery pain, and when Eddie slams into him, his dick rubbing harshly against his prostate, the confusing feelings are too much, sensory overload, and he lets out a scraping shriek, his nerves all firing and fizzling with lightning and his cock shooting pearly come halfway up his chest and falling to the ruined bedsheets.
He must be clenching painfully around Eddie's dick, his own orgasm too intense, his body recovering from air loss and juddering like a live wire; the clench is almost painful to him, his whole body choked up around Eddie's.
Eddie is growling and groaning behind him, his nails drawing hot lines down Waylon's chest, until he can't take the grip and shiver of Waylon's body anymore.
His shoves Waylon down flat, one hand burying itself in his hair and forcing his face into the bedclothes, muffling the noises still slithering their way out of his mouth, the other bracing itself on the back of his neck.
He can breathe--barely--through the sheets, and he whimpers out noises as it fires residual pleasure in his brain, as Eddie holds him down and fucks into him in quick and unsteady hunches and jerks, feeling like he's dying, feeling like he's finally awake and alive after being muffled and muted during his lonely months away.
Eddie's hands on him increase in force, pressing him down, and his strokes turn frantic, fast, before he hits his breaking point, the tension in him bleeding out and turning him soft and pliable.
His pressure on Waylon lets up, turns gentle now, and he manages to wiggle them both under a corner of the sheets that aren't completely soaked through with blood or sweat or come.
Waylon makes a pained noise when Eddie pulls out of him, and Eddie shushes him, gathering him up in those strong arms, his hulking body gentle and protective now that the rage has been fucked out of him.
Waylon bites his lip, clutches Eddie's arm to his chest and stares out at the darkness of the room. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs, so low it could almost be lost to the night.
But Eddie's arms tighten the slightest amount around him, and he slings a leg over Waylon's hip, wrapping him up tight.
“Don't do that again,” he pleads. “I don't know what I'd do if I had to find you again.”
“No,” Waylon agrees. He won't have the strength to leave again, he knows. Now that he's lived without, and tasted the sweetness of their pain again, he won't give it up.
If the knife cuts too deep, or the hands grip too hard, at least he won't need to be there for the consequences.
He presses himself back, safely enclosed by Eddie's greedy limbs, and closes his eyes.