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Heavy hands press along the jut of his hips, he’s sure that the Groom is imagining him fuller, he’s sure the Groom is delusional enough to imagine that he’s rubbing his thumbs over hip dips, that there’s soft curves that connect to pillowy thighs.
It doesn’t matter what is true; what matters is that the Groom believes what he sees. His hips are narrow and his legs are thin, shaking like a fawn who’s staring directly up at his hunter. In a way, he is. He caught him and dragged him here and throws him around. Sometimes he holds Waylon’s ankles together, to which Waylon always thinks that he’s going to finally be gutted, but instead he just murmurs and insists on making Waylon some socks. He always gets up and pats at the ankle that’s swollen before he leaves. There’s always a new pair of socks gifted to him by the next morning.
There’s uncertainty about when he’ll heal, but his detached thoughts tell him that even if he makes it that long, he still won’t leave.
Eddie is the only thing he can see. His face crowds his vision; scars and scabs and blood; flicks of flesh between his teeth; his lips chapped, dry skin always pulled in what he probably means to be a smile but is actually a snarl. And even if he turns his head to look away from those bloodshot eyes, his frame smothers all his surroundings. The best Waylon could do is throw his head back, and tilt it left to get a glimpse of the window.
He did that a lot the first couple of times. Fixating on the rustic bars that will never grant him escape, the chipped away glass that should have been bulletproof but was proven wrong. Most of the glass had been swept under the nearby table, and when there was a rare break of sunshine through the dust it would reflect off those shards. Waylon finds himself staring at it, hoping to see a sprinkle of glow, but there’s nothing.
“Darling,” Eddie is mumbling to himself. Waylon tunes him out half the time, his consciousness only sharp enough to catch any lilt that could indicate question or threat. “Oh, aren’t you a little minx. You’re already dripping for me.”
Waylon squints in confusion as Eddie presses the pad of his thumb gently against his Bride’s enlarged clit, rubbing at him in a slow circular motion. It’s not often Eddie touches him there, likely because his bottom growth does become erect from time to time. Not often, not usual; but the first time Eddie used his violent hands to gently wash dirt off his skin, his dick embarrassed him. It has most of the time following, which Eddie openly dislikes, so he only has been focusing on his hole now. Waylon doesn’t mind, he doesn’t want to cum for Eddie anyways.
Years of testosterone, facial masculinization surgery, top surgery— all for nothing under hungrily delusional hands. Waylon sucks in his stomach, ribs peeking through skin, and he’s mildly annoyed when Eddie scoffs in disbelief and withdraws. Most perverts flutter dangerously close to deranged, craving the appeal of weakness under their mercy. Eddie is not like most perverts, Eddie is not like anyone he’s ever met. Waylon detests ever meeting him, but there’s worse people to have to play house with.
“Something wrong?” Waylon asks, voice wobbly. He needs water, he won’t get any. Eddie traces the cuff of the sock around his swollen ankle, the swell deflating as the days pass. He’s chained to bed majority of the time, forced to accept recovery. Maybe it’s for the better. Maybe when he can run next, he won’t have to worry about hitting the ground.
“You’re much too frail, darling.” Eddie frets, his warm palm closing around Waylon’s freezing, bony knobs with slight stretches of skin between the dips. Waylon jolts, and for a split second he worries about his face being smashed in since he’s clearly a whore who doesn’t want Eddie! But his movement pushes his ribs to arch into the palm of his hand, and Eddie only shows concern on his face. “Oh, we must leave here soon. Perhaps a honeymoon outside of our home really would do you some good. You’d see the sun, eat foreign food…” He’s fantasizing again. Waylon sees this as his chance.
“We could also move,” The suggestion comes so quick that Waylon fears how Eddie will react to it, but he seems to think on this for a moment, brow creasing and bottom lip being pulled into his mouth to think. In other circumstances, Waylon would have found him attractive. “We can buy a house together, Eddie.”
And maybe, away from the effects of the morphogenic, Eddie might be able to steady out and return to normal. Or he’ll lose his illusions long enough to realize that Waylon isn’t a woman, at least not the one he wants, and then kill him. Anything is better than rotting here.
“Ohhh, darling!” Eddie snaps up, away. Waylon stares at him, eyes dead as he listens to the man ramble about how they can find a quaint cottage out in the woods. He wants a garden and five children and two dogs, maybe a cat if his Bride prefers that. He wants to make homemade pizza and come home each night to hold his darling.
Anything is better than rotting here.