"Tip Of My Tongue" - The Civil Wars


Water sloshes onto the floor gently. Graceful motions send the droplets flying on to the edge of grey, where they adhere to the ceramic until the weight overwhelms the force. It is a small drum in the large hall that echoes the harmony of pouring rain. Cracked windows refract light from outside into the hallway, basking them with just enough light to see without straining their eyes. Lightning strikes and thunder roars not long after.

'She must be tired,' Eddie thinks absently while stroking the side of his darling's face. He hadn't expected her to sleep for so long, a few minutes or some, yes, but not for more than an hour. It was becoming worrisome, but Eddie refused to wake her from her slumber – she looks too much like a doll right now to ruin the image. She is exhausted from all the fighting, he concludes before running calloused fingers through her hair again, soaking blonde strands with more water that plasters them to her face.

Adjusting her weight to that she is leaning back instead of forward, Eddie uses his free arm to reach into the murky water and pull out a rag. Humming sweetly, he glides the drenched rag along her sharp hips and up her belly, neatly wiping at bruises and thin scars, red lines from where she has been cut before. He touches the rag up her chest (flat and petite, like a baby girl) before circling her shoulders and giving equal time to her arms. She shivers when he prods at a purple bruise, and for a second his heart skips at the thought of her waking up. But the moment passes without change, so he continues.

The cycle of washing and admiring repeats for an unknown amount of time, passing by with little thought compared to how rapt he is in her glory – her essence. She is a goddess and he is her feeble servant. She is a fighter, and he is her warrior. Eddie cups her naked knee. A fighter…the taste it leaves in his mouth is neither stale nor pleasant, not with how peaceful she looks. The only explanation for her foolish actions is fear, but his little bird must learn not to fear him. There is no reason to; however, he can forgive her this one transgression, since it was a simple mistake.

Dropping the rag back into the water, Eddie shuffles on his knees to lessen the space between them. The cold outside of the bathtub touches his side as he leans forward to press his forehead underneath her chin, nestling there, and then inhales her washed scent. It is earthly and raw, still tinged with musk from sweat, but the water has diluted the smell and replaced it with iron. Eddie buries his nose into the space where her collar and neck meet and nuzzles the skin. Warm. His heart flutters. She is so warm and sweet. Her scent is intoxicating, bringing him to a new high. Too far gone to notice her subtle shifts until a groan reaches his ears, and then there's a hand on his neck shoving him away.

"What are you-?! Let go!" She screams, digging her nails into his neck in a tight squeeze and squirming in the water violently, her eyes wide and feral as she tries to stand, but her knee buckles under the weight and she collapses with a shout. Her face contorts in pain, eyes narrowing at him and then at the water rippling around her.

Under her tightening grip Eddie cannot breathe. He gasps and growls, straining to maintain control over his actions before she ends up like the other whores. His goddess, taking advantage of her faithful servant like this; the dominance is unyielding, and the surge of her control urges him to fight for his own.

Eddie swings his arm out from the water and closes his wide hand around her neck, fully capturing hers while she can only halfway grip his. They simultaneously clench their hands and work for leverage, but their height difference gives Eddie the advantage. He stands and holds her down so she can't challenge him, curling a harsh fist into her hair and yanking her head back. She cries out at the pain and her grip on his neck falters, her arm too short to make up for the slack and soon Eddie is pushing hard enough to force her lower in the bathtub.

Lower, lower, he pushes and pulls until her head is barely above water, now crouching beside the tub to shove her deeper. His darling shakes her head vigorously and scratches at him, completely letting go of his neck in favor of clawing at his face and arms. Failed attempts to pry his fingers apart leave bright scratch marks on his knuckles.

"Every. Time. I try and I try to save you hopeless sluts, you all betray me," he snarls. "You put up this fight, but know you will never win this game, darling." He forces her head under the water and holds her still, watching the air bubbles surface and pop. Her screams are soundless. Her chokes are silent. He twists his grip on her neck and she finally closes her mouth, but her eyes are wide and staring, watching, waiting, and accepting. Eddie frowns and is filled with the sudden urge to loosen his hold. So he does, and the bitch sits up immediately.

Gasps resound through the empty hall, bouncing off of the walls and tracing the ceiling. He angles his arm to the side, without letting go of her neck, to avoid the fit of coughing and spitting. Her whole body trembles and the vibrations are sent up his arm and down his spine. The rise and fall of her chest is exaggerated, and the short hair on her head is slicked straight. He further loosens his grip but she portrays no knowledge of noticing, not even when he lets go fully and drags his hands into his lap like a school child.

They sit still for a few minutes longer until her coughs are irregular and thin, and Eddie feels a smirk tug on the corners of his lips. "You must know how foolish you are, darling," he says, which earns him nothing more than a glare. "This constant resistance won't get you anywhere in life. It's just going to make things harder for you, especially now that we're together. Darling, how am I to fall for you if you always push me away?"

"Stop."

The haggard voice is rusty in the air, yet sounds even worse in Eddie's ears. Scratchy. He sees her suffocating again and is confused by the audacity hidden in that one, rustic word. "Yes?" he prompts.

His darling shifts in the water, muscles flexing every so often, shivering. "The…darlings. S-stop calling me darling like that."

"What makes you believe that you can st-"

"M-my name is Waylon. Not darling, but Waylon." She says firmly, lifting her gaze to hold Eddie's shocked stare. Her eyes are piercing and powerful, and Eddie can't help but see the goddess he saw before, her enchanting stare encompassing his heart in a strong warmth. He swallows thickly, and then a grin is splitting his lips.

"Waylon," he repeats, "not darling, but Waylon." His rolls the name around his tongue and tastes its sweetness until it melts, swallowing it down slowly to savor the taste only to do it over again. Waylon. Such a masculine name, but somehow it fits her strong will, her wickedness. Her ability to convince him to leave her vulgarity attached – for now – and make him fall for her again after shoving her beauty underwater. Waylon. Eddie's blood flows a little faster.

"You have such a beautiful name, darli… Waylon," he purrs and leans over the edge of the bathtub. Not unlike prey being staked by its predator, Waylon shrinks under Eddie's earnest stare, her expression a cracked poker face that reveals her instability. Pursed, pink lips form a flat line and her cheeks flare a pale red. She nibbles at her bottom lip and averts her gaze when his stays. The water ripples around her thighs, dirty with filth and now cool.

Rising from a crouch, Eddie snags a long towel from a nearby table and extends an ungloved hand. "Come here, Waylon, I think you're clean enough."


Waylon. The name filters through his thoughts passively, coming to mind for a few seconds before exiting in similar fashion. Eddie idly rummages through a wooden chest filled with many different fabrics and half-made clothing.

Waylon. His darling has told him her name, at a rather peculiar moment, yes, but she had, which eases Eddie's mind only a few notches as threads of doubt and curiosity begin to intrude. Why did she choose that exact moment? The gift was so irrelevant and…random. He is grateful but not as much as cautious; there had been many other whores before to teach him to be wary of women. Minxes they are, they all are, even without attention. And this one, oh his darling is a witch down to her bone - a kind witch who needs to be void of her tendencies.

Waylon. The name sparked from anger and violence, coaxed from a raspy throat dried from loss of breath. He had admired the way she choked, enjoyed the sight of bubbles bursting pockets of air stolen from her lungs. He wanted her dead – partially, he more so wanted her to suffer. He wanted her to suffer, yet she wanted him to know her name, take them to a more personal level. Eddie stops fumbling around the clothing, his hands caught between a cream colored blouse and the fold of what he assumes to be a pearly white dress.

"Darling," he says intentionally and waits for her acknowledgement. Without words, he knows that he has her attention when he hears the telltale, sharp intake of breath. "Can you stand up for me, please?"

Pushing aside the fabrics on top, Eddie grabs the white dress and pulls it out of the chest carefully. Its design is reminiscent of the masterpiece crafted on that one whore the day he met Trager, a memory that seems so distant but in actually was only a week or two ago. The slut had bled through the original, so Eddie had decided to comprise a better version of the ruined dress, and he is rather proud of the piece that came to. Now, holding it out to his darling for her to see, Eddie awaits her glee.

"So, what do you think of it?" he asks.

Rising from the stool she was perched on with only a towel covering her innocence, Waylon fingers the hem of the material and eyes the dress. She hesitates to speak "It's….pretty?"

Eddie's assumption shatters. "Why do you sound so unsure?" he gestures to Waylon with a wide swipe of his arm. "I think it'll fit perfectly, do you not?" He raises the question and steps forward, involuntarily making her shift away. Eddie stops short of standing directly in front of her, which seems to relax her just enough to stop her from looking like she's about to bolt out of the room. "I'm sure it will fit. I took your measurements already, so I know it will."

The bolting expression is back within seconds. "Whe-when did you do that?"

"While you were asleep." Eddie shrugs sheepishly. "I was going to need to know your sizes to find something for you to wear after your bath anyway, so I simply chose to do it while you were incapable of fighting me." He raises an eyebrow at her and notices how ghostly pale her face is, finding the shade sickening and misplaced. "If you'd like, I could find you another dress?" He offers and loops the dress around his arm, going to search through the chest again but a frail voice hinders his trip.

"N-no. It's fine. I c-can wear the dress," she stutters and Eddie has to reign in his passion to avoid strangling her in a tight embrace. Instead, he beams a bright smile at her and beckons her closer with open palms. "Come, come, you can't stay in that towel all day!"

She hesitates to approach, a sheep wary of stumbling across a wolf, but the moment she's within reach Eddie wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her flush against him, cradling her cheek with the back of his hand. She squirms against the hold, but the arm securing her is too strong to budge. Her 'fight' reaction is incipient, simmering to a boil, yet he remains pressed against her. Nudging her head to the side for easier access, Eddie nears until his lips ghost just behind her ear, and whispers, "Unless this is just a ploy for more, you little minx."

The shiver that rakes her body runs through his, eliciting a quiet, deep-throated hum from him and tingling nerves in his chest and fingers. The pale that painted her face and shoulders is now a flushed pink, and she warms Eddie wherever they connect. Waylon shuffles against him – away from him – and Eddie lets her. He bites the hollow of his cheek. After the ceremony. The reminder eases his mind.

Although, before she can get too far Eddie manages to shuffle the bundle of fabric into her arms. Waylon eyes it warily, to Eddie's dismay, but his disappointment quickly changes to excitement when she saunters to the opposite side of the workroom and mutters for him to turn around and not look. The request is lost on him, since he did just bathe her, but Eddie obliges without verbal or physical rebuttal.

The sound of the towel hitting the floor and fabric crinkling is music to his ears. It feels different with her, completely and utterly opposite to the noises the whores now hanging in his gym had made. They were never this quiet and fragile, and their fighting spirits were enough to assure Eddie that he wanted to kill them. They were toying with his heart, his soul, and would've laughed at his pain if they ever had the chance - if they ever escaped, that is. But Waylon is different, special.

Familiar. He tries to surface the memory of their first meeting but is met with a harsh wall of vague colors and blurred lines. Images are obscured by fragments of that cursed machine, forming a headache before he can think too hard. So he stops, and breathes, and rubs his hands together impatiently for Waylon to call his attention.

After about a minute of silence, Eddie has convinced himself that she must be fully dressed by now, and turns on his heel to face his darling.

White. The serenity of the piece flows from her shoulders to below her knees, hugging her waist and hips in a loose embrace that emphasizes her shape in the slightest of ways while leaving much room for the imagination. It portrays the image of young woman new to the world, yet in her face and build is experience. Lean muscles accentuate the overall product, but Eddie will have to award the finishing touch to the deeper pink brushing her cheeks. She looks at him with wide, brown, doe eyes and grabs her right wrist, etching line after line on her skin with her fingertip. The sight makes the air in Eddie's throat catch.

"Waylon," he breathes, a charming smile lighting his eyes and movements, morphing them into gracefulness linked to the joy in his heart. This time when he approaches her, she doesn't move back, and it takes it as a small relief to the massive amount of work that needs to be done. But for now all he can focus on is her present appearance and love.

He stops to cradle her waist when he's right on the edge of her personal space. "I am a lucky man, Waylon. To have you here, in my world, in my arms. You are so beautiful," he trails a finger down to her hand and opens his palm for her to take. Waylon bites her lower lip hesitantly, as if contemplating the concept, but complies before Eddie truly regards the moment. "I am blessed to have found you before another could spoil your innocence, and once your shame has been discarded I will teach you how to be a proper woman. But until then, my dear, I believe that you deserve a treat."

He quickly leans forward before his darling could protest and nuzzles his nose over hers playfully, enjoying the question that fills her instead of disgust or tension. When he pulls away, her cheeks have reached an impossible red and her lips have parted, obviously confused by the gesture but not enough so to ask, apparently. Well, silence is the better side of a woman, so Eddie accepts the silent quizzical and let go of her limp hand.

"I'll be right back, darling," he tells her before walking out of the workroom with the keys twirling around his finger, humming an older song as he locks the door from the outside.


"A token for our future," Eddie chimes from the doorway. He is hoisting a medium-sized, rectangular box over one shoulder, and donning new clothes and an excited glint in his eye. Kicking the door closed behind him, Eddie nods for Waylon to follow him to the sewing table and sets down the box at the center of the table.

He smiles when he feels a presence next to him. "It's yours, don't expect me to open it," he says lightly and taps the top of the box.

Waylon glances at him in what Eddie assumes as confirmation, and then carefully plucks the top of the box off and lays it on the table. He doesn't miss the highlight in her eyes when she sees what's inside. Bright, red strawberries rest in rows inside the box, their scent rising from the cardboard and fanning over the two. They point diagonally in a zigzag pattern; something Eddie thought would make for a better aesthetic appeal than rows and columns. But it is what's between them that truly capture the elegance of the gift.

Coiled around the center most strawberries is a gold link; it is thin but prominent, and when Waylon spots it she looks at Eddie pointedly. Chuckling, he nods and tells her, "Go ahead. The necklace isn't going to pick itself up, darling." The roll of the name is alluring, enchanting, and purposeful. He inches closer to her as she picks the piece of jewelry up and eyes it, gently holding it between fingertips as if it will break upon any sort of force.

"Did you make this?" She asks.

"Yes," he replies smoothly.

"For me?"

"Who else, Waylon my love."

That trips Waylon's words, and Eddie is amused by how she struggles to voice her thoughts. Her skin is paling, but he chalks it up to her being nervous and beyond flattered. Happy. What he would give to do more for – to – her with her pausing like this. He looks over her frail form, gaze lingering longer than necessary at her hips and lips, but reminds himself to wait for after the ceremony. After the ceremony, and then…

"Th-thank you," is what stumbles out as barely a whisper, cracked and rolling off a tangled tongue. Waylon runs a finger over the gold links and inhales deeply, trying to calm her breath. She blinks hard, exhales, and then her beautiful eyes are on Eddie, a small, careful smile on her lips. "Thank you, Eddie."

A name. His heart skips in his chest, he can't breathe, and then he's pressing a smaller, warmer body against his. The scent of the earth clouds his senses and all of a sudden all he wants to do is breathe. And touch. And hold her still until the end of the world. She does not push him away nor return the embrace, but the acceptance is enough to quell Eddie's burning want for now. He takes what she gives, and then presses his lips to her forehead in a light kiss just for a bit more.

"You're welcome, Waylon," he whispers against her flushed skin.