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You can’t believe he’s still going. Still splitting you open, trapped under his weight. Gripping your waist with trembling hands; force, exhaustion, or maybe nervousness. You figure he lacks the self-awareness for performance anxiety. Besides, he has to have been awake for over a day at this point, chasing after men, turning them into blushing brides, and at last into desecrated corpses. And yet, he had enough energy to drive into you with unmatched force. An energy spurred on by pure obsession, a pursuit of fantasies that have only grown more enthralling in the time he’s spent locked away.
You, on some level, could empathize with this. Who here couldn’t, given they were lucid enough to think coherently in the first place? You noted with aching resignation that this was the closest you’d ever get to your respective dreams, and just how similar they were to his. Saccharine vignettes of a life outside of this place, someone to fix you. But then, how could you ever hope to be loved again, after all they’ve done to you?
But look at you now; you’ve gone and found a husband, in spite of it all.
He’d said he was delighted to have finally found you. Finally. You must be the first man he’s managed to fuck, and for the first time in your life, you were almost thankful to have been born with the wrong equipment. The right equipment, in this case, and this case alone.
You’d heard about him, on your way through the labyrinthine halls. He wasn’t far from what you’d pictured, some sort of boogeyman, something to be avoided at all costs. A hopeless situation; once he had you, it was over from there. You hadn’t meant to find him, not really. But you were a special case, not like all the other men he’d gotten his hand on. You alone were spared his iconic breed of torture, and instead subjected to an entirely different gauntlet.
Unlike the other men trapped here, you could be impregnated, and he was hellbent on ensuring that fate.
He moves to grope at your chest, rough and clumsy. His thumbs circle your nipples and you bite down on the ensuing moan. You weren’t at all surprised that he’d torn your binder off, asking why on earth you’d ever wish to hide these from him. To protect yourself from the others, you placated. Not a woman around, you’d have been an easy target if they’d found out what you were hiding under the cheap, torn hospital gown.
You swore you caught a brief flash of pity, something like a fog clearing. You felt like he’d revealed something intimate without meaning to. Unfortunately, before you could begin to form some semblance of concern for him, it was gone. He quickly slipped back into his persona of a perfect gentleman, cooing something about saving yourself for him.
For a moment, you’re glad he’s finally shut himself up, unable to get anything out between grunts and shaky moans. All the niceties and sweet nothings made your head spin, loneliness and confusion searing in your stomach. Seeping lower. Even as he chased you through a hell of his own making, you couldn’t discern whether your heart raced from exertion, fear, or the first bit of positive attention you’d received in years.
He’d pratled on about loneliness, suffering alone, wanting to spend his life with you. Your chest tightened. You knew better. You told yourself you knew better. This isn’t about you, he can’t possibly love you the way you want him, or anyone to. The more you thought on it, the more similarities you uncovered.
The two of you, desperate, spiraling into whatever this was. You’re crying his name and he’s riding the high of your reactions. Likely the first affirmation he’s received in a long while, too. It almost makes your heart flutter, knowing what you’re doing to him, and what it makes him want to do to you.
It’s almost flattering, how badly he wants your genes to mix. Some sick facade of “reason” urges you to just enjoy it. You tried, didn’t you? You ran as far as your legs could carry you, but you have nothing on his sheer size and determination. You were doomed the moment he spotted you.
He’s getting close, you figure. His pace is becoming erratic, a desperate sprint toward the end. All in all, you’re impressed with his ability to last, given how worked up he seemed beforehand. You’d never heard a man speak to you like that, like he’d keel over and die without your touch. You wondered how much of it was performative, a part of the honey trap he laid for unloved, unwanted people like you. As thoroughly nauseous as it makes you feel, you can’t fool yourself anymore; it’s working. He’s not the only one who’s coming undone.
He grips your throat and presses his mouth to your ear, gasping something about filling you up, defiling you with his legacy, finally earning what’s rightfully his. The words burn in your mind and push you right over the edge, clenching around him and drawing out his own climax. Heat spreads inside and through you, and by sensation alone, it’s the most heavenly you’ve felt in years. Thankfully, you’re too spent to fathom the horrific consequences that will follow, and how utterly revolting this whole encounter should be.
He pulls back, but remains inside, attempting to keep as little from escaping as possible. Sweat drops from his body and lands on yours, he pants and smiles wearily at you, eyes drifting downward to marvel at the sight of his seed leaking from your entrance. Lovesickness evident in his tone, he thanks you, congratulates you, apologizes to you. He soothes you with a picture of the idealistic, domestic bliss awaiting you; awaiting all three of you.
You feel yourself losing consciousness, chasm-deep horror chasing at your heels. But unconsciousness is the only reprieve you can hope for, and you eagerly welcome its presence. You can’t even begin to guess where you’ll wake up, or what ordeals will await you when you do. Eddie is the very last thing you see, his gaze softening as he watches you drift off.
You catch one final placation before it all goes dark. Something about deserving rest, after all you’ve done for him, for your child, for your family. You allow the false comfort to warm your aching psyche, unable to question whether it’s something you should be fighting harder against.
A part of you knows, since the start, that there was no fight at all.