The 24 Hour Church of Elvis - 1 of 2
Because of bad past experiences, Dale Ferdinand Kobble is NOT the marrying type.
But after a show in Portland, in June of 1989, he meets a diehard fan that makes him bend that rule against marriage.
- I am not an expert on Oregon nor the 24 Hour Church of Elvis and this is done mainly for kinky purposes, AFAB!Reader x 1990’s!Dale (sorta), Reader uses she/her pronouns, Reader as OC (sorta, religious background and all), Reader is 22, oneshot (not part of my main fic I don’t think LOL, I guess it could be?), loss of virginity, groupie sex, kinda sleazy but in a fun way, bridal kink, virginity kink, sweet and sexy and sad, Sister Destroyer was awful to Dale (headcanons galore), happy 2 years Longlegs!!!
I don’t often do oneshots nor Reader x Dale but this idea came to me and I HAD to use it! X3
(I might put this on Ao3 at some point too, idk XD
Maybe this is my “chapter” for July)
(If you want to follow the journey of this story, have some Google Maps! I recommend Street View! XD
I had to leave off Huber’s Cafe because you can’t mix driving and walking in Google Maps? Sucks XC but it’s just like a ten minute walk north from the courthouse to there! “You CAN’T miss it!” XD) -
“Oh, they say when you marry in June,
You're a bride all your life.
And the bridegroom who marries in June
Gets a sweetheart for a wife.”
- June Bride, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
You take the 5 o’clock intercity bus to Portland, teeth chattering with nerves and anticipation, and by 8:30 PM, you’ve arrived.
Another little bus ride gets you to the venue, an up-and-coming place called the Satyricon.
You’ve heard a bit about it - named after the Fellini film, popular with the underground and punk scene, right up your alley in that regard.
The place itself has a growing reputation, but apparently it’s in a bad part of town - you haven’t been to Portland enough to know for yourself, but, although you try to stay calm in unfamiliar places, it does feel a bit unnerving to walk here alone.
But that’s everywhere for you.
Even in Eugene, you don’t really go out much.
“Skittish temperament”, your mom always jokes.
But you’re trying to spread your wings more after college, and this is the highlight of that.
The one thing that could bring you this far alone at night.
Well, it’s not really the band you care about so much.
Your cousin introduced you to their music, and he’s the reckless youngster leaning too far right, even for your rather religious and traditional family.
Most of the band fits more with his way of seeing things: militant, cocky, transgressive just for the Hell of it.
The blatant machismo makes you kinda sick.
Not Dale Kobble, the rhythm guitarist for Sister Destroyer.
No - no - not like that -
You’ve never seen him in person before, that changes things.
But the man with the wavy blonde hair and the sad blue eyes on the album art makes you feel something tender and possibly unholy.
Especially the picture with the harness and rabbit hood.
Yes, Sister Destroyer are all past their prime and a group of man-children bent on bringing about the end of the world through unrepentant debauchery.
But Dale’s something else - mostly.
He fits in, but only barely.
And you’ve always liked that.
Ten years ago they were more active and a touch more novel.
Now everyone in the band’s almost fifty and they’ve dwindled to just being an opener and side act, which makes it interesting a place with as much potential as Satyricon even bothers letting them perform.
But maybe they have friends.
Friends in high or low places.
The air smells heavy with what might be oncoming rain, and the club is already buzzing and vibrating with music and talk, so you figure now’s as good a time as any to come in off the sidewalk.
Shivering slightly, you follow the leather and cigarettes inside.
That’s the first thing you notice.
Shouting and the angry grind of electric guitar from the stage.
You haven’t really missed anything - you think you remember reading something about everything starting at 8 PM, and from what there was to find about the lineup, Sister Destroyer comes in the middle of the night.
You just hope and pray they still have room for you in here.
It’s getting crowded and it would be miserable to have to leave now!
There’s a bouncer handling money and things nearby, a somewhat shorter man with a nice tan and a well-trimmed mustache.
It’s odd that they’ve got him doing the ID checks and taking the money and turning people away - he looks a bit more like a used car salesman than a good doorman.
But something about him makes you feel a touch more at ease, though the place is still noisy and musky and overwhelming on its own.
“Hi, just me.” You say softly, approaching him and trying to steady your voice, the woman in line before you finally walking off.
The man gives you a toothy smile and eyes you up and down for a moment.
“Okay, nice, nice.” He says, more to himself, nodding, a little odd, maybe.
You present him with your ID and he looks it over for a moment, then stamps your hand with a rubbery stamper.
“You excited for the music?” The bouncer then asks, casual and friendly, and you nod eagerly.
“Oh, yeah - I don’t get to hear many live bands, I really want to see more shows and stuff!”
“Yeah? Who are you here for tonight?”
You flush slightly - you’re not attending for any of the big acts, just Sister Destroyer, and it feels a bit pathetic to say so.
“Oh, Sister Destroyer, mainly.” You say softly, a bit sheepishly.
“Ah!” The man clicks his tongue with pleasure, “Incidentally, I know one of their guys pretty well.”
You blink in surprise, but you guess it makes sense.
If the guy works here, why wouldn’t he know some musicians?
“Yeah, Dale. The Slut. We go way back.”
That really spins your head, and you feel your eyes must be bulging out by now, but the bouncer is nice about it and just laughs at your reaction.
“I’m guessing you like Kobble?”
“Oh, yes -” You enthuse, then blush and soften, afraid you sound a bit too obsessed. “I mean, he’s a great musician.”
“Mhmm. And then some. Enjoy.”
You give him a grateful smile for being so helpful, take five steps, and then turn around with a yelp.
But the man holds a finger to his lips and shushes you with a wink, and then helps the next person in line.
You feel awful and confused and even more nervous because of that, and you hope nobody will make any trouble since you didn’t pay!
Why wouldn’t you have to pay?
Nothing here makes sense, short suave bouncers who waive the cost for just you included.
But damn it, damn it, you came to have a good time and see your favorite musician!
And that’s just what you’ll do!
You’re just - out of your depth, that’s all.
You just need to get used to this place.
You glance over to the bar as the next band takes the stage, considering getting a drink or something, but decide against it.
You don’t really drink alcohol and you’re really too nervous to order anything, anyway.
You just wish there were more seats, more room, less noise, fewer smells - it’s really overwhelming.
Fun, sure, but faster than your usual speed by far.
You love the music, but the crowds are scary.
And yet, somehow, you find yourself moving towards the low stage, shifting to the front of the crowd like a fish through river water, an opening just for you.
There are some posters and flyers and things of that sort on a nearby wall, and you eye them with covetous relish.
You don’t have much memorabilia for any of the bands you like, even Sister Destroyer - the reason you love the album art so much is that it’s easier to hide from your mom, who would flip out at some of the band’s imagery.
Somehow you managed to convince her the name has something to do with nuns and you felt horrible enough about that.
Any more risk would be a killer pain.
But there’s a beautiful, laminated, full-color Sister Destroyer poster off to the side of the display, almost as big as your bedroom window.
You’re pretty certain these are here for decoration only, not to take or buy.
Even if you really want to.
But then the thought of getting Dale to sign the damn thing hits you.
The music is so loud, the crowd so busy, the air so smoky and dim.
And nobody really cares about Sister Destroyer.
In fifteen seconds, you’ve snagged the thing off the wall, folded it up into a million little angles, and stuffed it into the pocket of your jeans.
You wish you regretted it.
But your heart beats with a deliciously guilty thrill and your hand feels warmed when you touch the thing in your pocket.
You watch most of the bands while standing, shifting from foot to foot with a little frustration and exhaustion.
It’s been a long day and you’re kicking yourself for coming so early.
But you’re as supportive as you can be, applauding each band as they play, chatting mildly here and there with fans.
But none of that is your focus, not here, now, tonight.
At well after 9 o’clock, almost two hours after you arrived in town, you finally get what you’ve been waiting for.
And nothing - no album cover, no poster, no MTV clips - ever prepared you for this moment.
When the words “Sister Destroyer” are spoken by the departing band, lighting the way for the men of the hour, you and really just a few others respond with screams and cheers.
It’s a little embarrassing.
When the main members come on in their color-coded shirts, laced leather pants, and tight military caps, you don’t give a shit.
That’s not who you’re here for.
You give a few mild claps, grinding your teeth, heart nearly bursting with anticipation.
Then the last of the four walks onto the stage, pulling that blessed fifth member on a fucking leather leash.
You can’t help but let loose a breathy scream as Dale “The Slut” Kobble is brought out, smiling and waving at the audience but feigning an almost zombified limp at the pull on the black collar around his throat.
Like the others, he wears leather pants and boots, but his head bears no hat and his chest has only a leather harness, no shirt in sight.
You’ve seen him like this on the art for the band, that’s his THING, but seeing him older and well-lit and so close is all the difference between watching “Jaws” and swimming with a Great White.
And God how his teeth are sharp.
He’s not as young as he used to be, a little pouchy in the gut and his hair more silver than blonde these days.
But his limbs are still long and you shudder and feel a quick little pulse between your legs at the sight of latent muscle still grouped under his skin.
A deceptively strong man hiding under age and artifice.
You cheer again as the leash is unhooked from his collar and he makes a big show out of stomping up to his guitar.
He’s not even the lead, but the band knows how to use him to the fullest effect.
Most of the Sister Destroyer fans find it comedic.
But not the ones like you.
Not the ones who see the sweat and the tightness of the crotch of those pants and the nubby pink-brown of his nipples.
Your mouth waters at the thought and you flush.
My, my, what would your mother say?
Fortunately or unfortunately, you’ve accidentally chosen the best spot in the house to see him.
You’re literally at Dale’s feet, and when you go nuts cheering as he picks up his guitar, he grins down at you and purses his lips in a saucy “MWAH” kiss.
You turn bright red and nearly faint at the same time, your body thrumming with rapture and desire for this wrinkled rocker.
The lead singer, the one who wears the red shirt - you think his name might be Benny or something, but you honestly don’t pay much attention to the band other than Dale - tries to hype up the crowd, but he’s just known for being an edgy bully, and he doesn’t have much luck tonight, either.
So they kinda just get into the music and skip the bullshit.
Even as just the rhythm guitarist, Dale plays like nobody else and commands your attention.
His fingers are sleek and strong, dancing over the strings, his head bowed in concentration and his shaggy hair curtaining his face, the sweat and fuzz on his chest glistening and then shadowed as he moves under the spotlights.
Even half-naked, it looks like he’s burning up, and although you feel sad if he’s hot, he’s also…well, HOT.
You’re pretty certain you just stop breathing for a bit, and as you gaze at him in nigh worship, he catches your eye with his cobalt stare and does not unhook, come Hell or high water.
You even look away a few times, blushing, trying to gauge if it’s REALLY Dale REALLY almost GLARING at you like that.
But when you look back, his eyes are still there and he smirks at your uncertainty.
Your mouth hangs open and you almost swoon.
Nobody’s ever really looked at you like THAT.
You tend to just - fade into the background, even at home.
God Almighty, Dale SEES you!
And he chooses to keep looking, that’s the absurd part.
So ridiculous and wonderful you actually tear up a bit.
You’ll never forget this for as long as you LIVE.
Sister Destroyer only plays until 10, which makes sense, more or less.
They’re not really a main act, and, more than that, you’re enough of a fan to know how sparse their repertoire is.
In fact, you also know that most of their songs came from Dale’s previous band in the 1960s, The Coalhouse.
And that Dale has more credit writing the songs than even playing them, but the band never shares that fact.
Poor, unseen, uncomplaining Dale.
You wish you could comfort him.
You wish you could do a lot more than that, honestly.
They finish up with “Fire Fire Fire, Hiss”, which you think is nobody’s favorite but yours.
But it’s one of those songs you put on in dark times and just sort of fade into for comfort.
It’s helped you through some serious shit.
And it’s full of Dale - one time he gets to be the star of the show.
His voice grinds into your head and between your legs, even more powerful in person, and you’re shuddering with feeling by the time they thank everyone and move away for the next act to come on.
But then the disappointment breaks through the euphoria.
A kind of…almost bratty despair.
You listen to them for years, have one chance to see them in person, come all this way - and it’s over?
Sure, maybe they’ll do more shows you’ll go see, but - well, what did you expect?
Your sinuses burn under your heated skin as tears threaten you again.
You came to see a show, you saw a show.
For free, even, because of the friendly doorman!
Did you think you’d get to talk to Dale, laugh with Dale, cry with Dale?
Jesus, he’s probably married or something, you aren't even sure - he’s certainly old enough to be your father, he probably has a whole life outside of this stuff now!
That thought hurts more than anything.
That this god of rock and roll is your whole world, and for him, this is just…a hobby.
But - no, it can’t be, right?
Nobody who plays like THAT just does this for FUN?
But the band has already gone on, the parade has passed you by, and it’s time to go back to Eugene with your tail tucked between your legs.
You don’t even stay for the rest of the show - you can’t bear it.
You just grit your teeth, gird your loins, and try not to cry too hard as you make your way back to the door, the line almost gone now that the event’s half done.
You’ve got your hand on the handle when a rather firm grip lands on your shoulder and you yelp.
You wince, hoping he hasn’t decided to finally charge you for attending - and that he didn’t see you grab that poster!
That makes you want to cry, too.
But the man tilts his head, his expression one of compassion and something even softer - pity?
“Sorry, kid - didn’t mean to startle you. You just looked really forlorn.”
That’s an understatement.
But you try to play it cool and just shrug.
“No, no, I’m good - I came to see Sister Destroyer and - I saw Sister Destroyer. Now - I’m going home. Thanks for letting me in, by the way, I -”
His face suddenly grows slightly tense, a little scary, even.
“But you didn’t come to see Sister Destroyer, did you? You came to see Dale.”
Your gut tightens in awe and a little shock at his perception.
You think you mentioned something about liking Dale earlier, but damn, this guy’s good.
“Yeah, but, I mean, as an audience member. They’ve already left the stage, I can’t ask more than that -”
You blink, not getting him, and the doorman laughs.
“Sweetheart, I’ve known Dale since before the Coalhouse.” He doesn’t look old enough for that to be true, but you believe him. “And he has never been the kind of guy to be ungrateful for his fans.”
The bouncer squeezes you tight by the shoulders, gives you a slight, grounding shake, and again you find it oddly comforting.
“You see that hall back there? You turn around, you walk right down there, you knock on the last door on the left, and you tell that old string bean that Mick sent you. You got that?”
Your jaw drops and you shake your head.
“Don’t you ‘sir’ me! I’m not your daddy or your preacher. You just do what I said, okay? Dale needs gals like you to remind him why he’s still in this game. You’ll make his night.”
You’re flushed and overwhelmed and speechless, and now some tears really do fall.
“I don’t - I don’t know how to thank you -”
“You thank me by telling my buddy how much he means to you. Now get.”
And he gives you a friendly slap on the back and you GO.
You lament the whole situation, mortified at the special treatment you don’t understand, terrified of running into those other rowdy knuckleheads in the band.
Last door on the left in the humid little hallway.
“One minute!” A soothing, chipper, androgynous voice coos from inside and you stiffen immediately.
But the door opens before you can bolt, and there stands Dale - wearing a leopard-print tank top, soft gray gym shorts, and a pair of blue low-top sneakers - and toweling his wet hair.
It’s so vastly different from the Slut persona and yet still so sexy in a casual, relaxed way that you just blush and blink and stare.
He looks fairly surprised himself, but he recognizes you from the crowd, it seems.
“Oh! Hi there, angel. What can I do for you?”
The way he says it is very warm and genuine, but with a touch of flirtation that flusters you.
You stammer for a response.
“I - uh - Mick sent me -” You blurt, almost apologetic, then yank the folded poster out of your pocket in a moment of inspiration. “Could you - uh - sign this?”
You frantically unfold the thing, only for it to fall crumpled but spread out at his feet, and you wince at the clumsy results of your own desperation.
But Dale just chuckles and leans down to pick the laminated paper up.
He looks it over with approval and curiosity.
“This is the one from the display, isn’t it? Didn’t know I was speaking to a thief.”
You hiss in mortification.
“No - I mean - yes - I mean - yes, it is from the display, but no, I’m - not a thief, not - usually, anyway -”
But he giggles heavily and waves a hand at you, then goes into the dressing room - you think it must be one - to fetch a Sharpie.
He uncaps it with his teeth - a gesture that makes you wobbly - and signs in a beautiful, twisted flourish that disguises how badly his letters are cramped otherwise.
“Relax, sweetheart, I won’t tell anybody if you won’t.” He winks, then hands you the signed poster with relish. “But if you want the other guys’ signatures, you’ll have to wait for a while, they went to dinner and -”
You say it sharply, suddenly, and he raises an inquiring brow.
“I mean, no thank you, I don’t care about their signatures. I mean - I’m your fan - I mean - oh, you know.”
But apparently he didn’t - didn't realize, at least.
He knew you kept fawning over him, maybe, and that you balk in his presence, but -
“Oh, angel. You came here just for me?”
His eyes sparkle and he smiles, but he also looks on the verge of tears and his voice warbles.
You don’t want to make him cry!
But you’re also an honest person.
“I mean, yeah. I - don’t really like the rest of the band, but you’re - you’re cool.”
His chest puffs up and you think he grows three inches taller, and his padded cheeks turn a beautiful pastel pink.
“Ohh, wow, ‘cool’ - that’s - a compliment I haven’t gotten in a while. Thank you.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I think you’re really cool, too, angel. I’m so glad you came to the show - did you enjoy it?”
You open your mouth to speak and your stomach growls horrifically loud, your throat even doing that terrible crackling gurgle that echoes from the hunger in your gut.
You’re ready to go find a ditch and die in it, but Dale clucks his tongue, almost maternally, and gives you a knowing grin.
You smile awkwardly and nod.
Yeah, you should've eaten, you thought about it earlier but didn’t have much time, and then you were too nervous, and -
“I do that, too. It happens, y’know? No biggie. If you’d like to come in for a while, I have a whole plate of burgers and stuff the restaurant here made.”
Dale offers it enthusiastically, interrupting your thoughts, and then laughs a bit sadly.
“I think it was supposed to be, like, catering for the boys and I, but, well…anyway, it might be a bit cold, but you’re more than welcome to -”
Dinner with your FAVORITE MUSICIAN?
You’d DIE for what Dale’s offering like nothing!
“I’d love to.” You bark, and it’s the most confident thing you’ve said all night, and you both laugh a little at that.
It’s a small and sort of rough room, barely enough for two people and shockingly cramped for five.
But Dale seems right at home, even among the mess clearly made by worse men than himself - clothes scattered across the floor, luggage and instrument cases in the corner, trash and cigarettes left uncaringly on every surface.
To his eternal credit, Dale’s portion of the room is immaculately tidy, with only his guitar case and a couple suitcases stacked neatly beside a small corner table, which is also furnished with two old wooden chairs and the fabled burgers.
“It looks like the guys ate all the side stuff, sorry. But I’ve heard the burgers are really good. And - sorry about the mess.” Dale breathes, sighing and sitting in one of the chairs, exhausted in many ways.
You shake your head and take the seat across from him.
“It’s not your fault, I can tell. I have an eye for situations.”
He smiles fondly at that.
“Yeah, I guess you do. Nobody else would notice me on the stage.”
You’re strangely urged again to comfort him, and you’re surprised at how naturally you’re coming to view him.
“Oh, Mr. Kobble, that’s so sad! You’re too cool to miss!”
He winces, laughs, picks a burger with cheese and mushrooms from among the assortment.
“There’s that word again. You keep saying stuff like that, angel, and I’ll get a big head.” Dale teases, and you shudder slightly at how intimate it sounds. “And - oh - please, don’t ‘mister’ me. Mr. Kobble was my father. The Reverend - well, doesn’t matter. I just -”
“Didn't get along with him?” You ask softly, tentatively, reaching for your own burger.
“Yeah, I get that. My family’s…I don’t like to talk bad about them, of course, but - well, they’re really religious and…hard on me about that.”
“I know how that feels, believe me. I’m sorry you’ve got to deal with it, too.”
“Thank you, Dale. That means the world coming from you, it really does.”
He smiles and sighs warmly at you using his first name finally.
“You know, angel, you might be my biggest fan at this point.” He says it dreamily, then gasps and laughs hard. “I guess that makes this a good time to ask your name, huh?”
So you tell him, you tell him that and a lot of other things.
About your community, your family, your hopes and dreams, your hobbies.
He’s so easy to talk to, and more than that, he listens and is vulnerable in return.
You haven’t talked to many guys in any serious capacity, but the few you have never had any of what Dale’s got.
It’s so dreamy your body gets as excited as your heart, and a learned part of you that refuses to die easily feels ashamed of that.
But none of that is his fault.
He just has such beautiful blue eyes.
You want to stay with them.
You tell him about college and how you just got out, how you’re struggling with your future and your past all at once.
“Oh, yeah, I remember being twenty-two.” He laughs, nasally and fondly, and it softens the ‘T’ in his speech so that ‘twenty’ becomes ‘twenny’. “Four years after I joined the Coalhouse, two years before I left it and then…well, it’s all in the past now. But it’s a wonderful age.”
“Christ, that makes me sound so ancient. And weird. Sorry - I hope I don’t make you uncomfortable, being an old fart and all.”
You laugh genuinely, sweetly, and his face relaxes.
“No, Dale, I’m not uncomfortable. You’re very charming, and you aren’t THAT old. I like you. Really.”
He blushes and grins, kinda adorable when he does.
“Aww, shucks, well - thank you for saying so. That’s really kind of you.” Then he inhales, a little sharp and nervous. “I like you, too. Very much. I - please forgive me for saying it, but I also think you’re really pretty.”
You blush deeply and your heart skips several beats, and you can’t help but giggle, too.
“Oh, now, why would I ever need to forgive you for that? It’s a compliment. Thank you, Dale.”
He tucks his head into his chest like a shy dove and smiles so sweetly again.
“You’re welcome, I just - I didn’t want to creep you out.”
“I’m not. You’re very polite about - this stuff. I think you’re very attractive, too.”
He peeks up at you, and his voice is a little more husky, and your throat goes dry.
He swallows heavily, exhales lustily.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…do you wanna do anything about it?”
One half of you is screaming “YES, YES, YES, OH GOD, YES”, and the other one is just screaming “OH GOD -”.
Your favorite fucking rocker, favorite fucking musician, favorite fucking guy you’ve ever met - and he’s asking you to go to bed with him - and you’re too fucking prudish to do anything about it!
You hiss through your teeth.
“Oh, Dale, I’m so sorry, I -”
He yelps and winces like you’ve struck him, panicking and backpedaling to correct himself, twirling his hands together desperately.
“Oh, no, no, I’M so sorry - I always leap before I look and - I’m sure you have some beau back home and it’s - far from my place to even say something like that to a woman outright - especially one half my age - old habits die hard - I used to be such a flirt - but now I always want to make sure I’m being kind, too, and -”
You can’t believe the confident, sexually egregious man strutting around on that stage is now terrified as a schoolboy - from the evidence of just one denial - that you’re offended to the point of hatred.
Filled with sympathy and surprise, you reach across the table and take one of his shaking hands in your own - which is also trembling - for reassurance.
Dale looks at you and you sigh heavily.
“No, Dale, it’s nothing you did. I like your attention - it’s, well, the best thing that’s ever happened to me. But…” You flush slightly, “Well, call me old-fashioned, but I’m…waiting until marriage. To…to have sex, I mean.”
“Oh.” He says, relieved and partially intrigued, before he really processes what you mean. “Ohh. And - I’m not the type who -”
You laugh, a bit harshly and nervously, and shake your head profusely.
“Oh, no, no! I don’t expect you to - y’know - marry me or something! I mean, I like you, you’re my hero, but - I also just don’t know you like that.”
“Yeah, and it would - it would be a really serious thing to do, not knowing each other well, getting married and all that. Especially just to fuck.”
He says it so casually, but the word tickles you in a way it shouldn’t and you smirk.
“Yeah, no, no, that’s pretty serious. And, I mean, I’m not really happy about it either - I mean, it’s mostly, like, a cultural thing for me at this point. Just one of those - last trained hurdles I can’t seem to let myself jump over. Y’know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get that. It is hard.” Dale sighs, squeezes your hand, “And, honestly, I do wish I could help you. Like, if you want to get over that, I feel like a good experience - y’know - sexually - would help. But the marriage thing is -”
“Yeah. Yeah, I used to consider it, but now it’s just - so serious.”
“Yeah. It is. And if I didn’t - like - feel this way? I wouldn’t even bother with it. Which is such a shame because - because I really do like you that way.”
“God, yeah. Yeah…if things were different. If you didn’t need it legitimized before God and man.”
“Yeah. Too bad we can’t - just - I don’t know - get married, for, like, a night.” You giggle at your own outrageous suggestion.
But Dale freezes, and you fear you’ve broken him.
He blinks heavily, and a terrible smile creases his weathered face.
“What?” You ask, not even grasping what he just said.
“I mean…why can’t we just, y’know, be married for a night?”
Now you do grasp it, but you still don’t - get it.
“What?!” You gasp and chuckle, a little anxiously but interested.
“No, just think of it!” Dale chortles, “My issue with marriage is the permanence of it. Your issue with sex is being married - or the lack thereof, I guess. There’s…there’s nothing to say we COULDN’T get married tonight, spend the night together, and then get divorced or something in the morning. Right?”
You try to think of one law, rule, or custom against exactly that practice.
You can’t find a single word for it.
“Oh, but, Dale - that’s insane!” You wince, chuckling, nervous and amazed at the thought. “It’s not worth it - I mean, that would be expensive, and I have nothing to wear, and who would even marry us? And it would just be to spare my reputation, anyway, really - and I doubt a one-night marriage would do that, and even if I felt better about it, I’m still not sure I’d be ready -”
Dale holds your hand tight again, looks at you intensely, murmurs a growl.
“I could make this happen, that’s the only thing I’m saying, angel. Now the only thing I need from you is an answer. Do you wanna do it?”
The double entendre isn’t lost on you, and neither is the weight of it all.
Do you really want to throw caution to the wind and marry your favorite musician in the world just to unlock one night of passion you might never relive again?
The both of you laugh, your minds set on this wild idea, your burgers finished and the night passing ever quicker.
Dale gathers up his things and scrawls out a note with that sharpie on a napkin.
“I doubt they’ll be back tonight, but just in case - so the guys aren’t too confused where I am.”
You chuckle, a bit embarrassed.
“How much are you telling them? They might be more confused by what you do say.”
“Only that I’m out with a lady. They’ll get it.”
Understatement of the century, but it’s so polite it warms your heart.
“Okay. I guess that works.”
Dale throws on a denim jacket and then you’re off.
You can barely wrap your head around what the two of you are doing, and some part of you is keen on puking and fainting and running away screaming right this second.
But then he offers you the crook of his free arm and you can’t help but take it.
“So? Did you enjoy the show?” Dale asks, circling back around like it’s nothing, and you laugh.
“Yeah, I did. You were so good. Maybe you’re always like that, I don’t know - I’ve only listened to your records before.”
“Holy shit. And look at you now.”
You say it half-heartedly, stunned by all this, but he grins and glances at you smoothly.
“I am. And I like what I see.”
But what the Hell are you DOING?
If anyone ever finds out -
If they find out, it makes one Hell of a story, doesn’t it?
For the first time all night, a burst of cockiness fills your veins, and you decide you’ll take this as far as it goes.
As far as you can, rather.
As you and Dale go to leave, the place is mostly thinned out, and Mick the doorman is one of the few workers left.
“Hey, Dale. I see you met your super fan.”
“Oh, yes - thank you, Mick. Remind me to repay you for your…encouragement.”
Something about the exchange makes you shiver, something uncanny that you can’t put your finger on.
But the bouncer just waves and smiles and you find yourself returning the gesture.
“You kids have fun!” He calls, despite looking younger than Dale.
“We will, thank you again!” Dale replies.
Then you head out into the night.
The air definitely feels like it rained while you were in there, and it’s slightly cooler than when you went in.
You shiver a bit from that, too, but mostly from everything else.
“Cold?” Dale asks, pulling you closer and making you warm with a blush at the proximity.
“Not - too bad. Just - in awe.”
“Yeah, I am pretty awesome, huh?”
You roll your eyes but smile.
“Yeah, sure. I just…I don’t know what I’m doing, Dale. This is so - beyond me.”
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, baby. Think of it as a game. A loophole to cheat the system, if that helps.”
“Yeah…I just…I don’t have a lot of money on me, this might be a bad idea -”
He pats his jacket pocket.
“Don’t you worry about that, angel. Like I said, I can make this happen.”
“Yeah, but…should we? I mean, if I’m doing this for religious reasons, is it even valid if - if it’s done so sneaky?”
He grins with his teeth, a little catty, and you vaguely remember he’s a preacher’s kid or something.
“Well, if you’re going off the Bible, this is par for the course, babe. Y’know? ‘And the Lord said to Hosea, Go, take unto thee a wife of whoredoms’. Virgin marrying the Slut. That’s just Hosea and Gomer, girl. And God TOLD him to do that.”
You can’t help but laugh heartily at his Biblical evidence for the soundness of this scheme.
“So, what? I’m guessing you’re Gomer?” You tease, finding it hard to read yourself as Hosea.
You hum softly, chuckling at the pun, but you sigh.
“Yeah. Was that the band’s idea?”
He shakes his head, grinning.
“No, that’s my stroke of genius. I like who I am in the leather. Though…though the boys are kinda mean about it.”
“Dunno. I guess they just…don’t appreciate my art. Nothing to worry your pretty head about, though.”
You sigh and lean on his arm.
“Well, just know there are a lot of us out here who adore you. If you need an army to kick ass for you, we’re here.”
That gets a great chuckle out of him.
“Thanks. I’ll just call you up sometime and we can all bring pitchforks.”
The two of you finally reach his car, a 1960s station wagon, and you can’t help but laugh a little at it.
“Wow. Do you tote around a soccer team in that?”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes in good humor.
“So open-minded of you, angel. It’s comfortable, roomy, and gets me points with the guys for carrying around their shit. And it’s safer than the motorcycle I had before. What more could you want?”
You get into the passenger’s seat when he holds the door open for you, and you look up at him.
“Didn't see that mentioned in any magazines, did you?”
He shuts your door and then puts his stuff in the back of the wagon, then gets into the driver’s seat.
The sound of his door is shockingly final, and you shudder again.
“How do we even - manage a marriage at this time of night?” You say softly.
Dale waves a hand and smiles.
“Don’t worry about it, I have my ways. But you’ll have to be ready for things to get…weird.”
As if they aren’t already.
But you just shrug and nod.
He’s clearly in a different world from you, somehow.
“The one thing I don’t think I can swing is a bouquet, I’m sorry about that.” Dale says softly, furrowing his brows, and he looks almost distraught at the thought.
You laugh softly, pitying that expression.
“It’s fine, Dale. We can pick some dandelions.”
That makes him grin in delight.
“Oh, that’s a great idea! You're so smart. Of course my biggest fan is smart.”
You chuckle and roll your eyes at the slightly vain remark, but you let it slide.
You sigh, still stunned and nervous.
“Where will you get a suit? Where will I get a dress? Unless you want to get married in what we’re wearing now, I guess we could -”
“I already have a suit, I think it’ll work. As for the dress - I have an idea, and that may or may not work. But I think it will.”
“You put a lot of thought into your thinking.”
“Oh, yes. And a lot of trust.”
“Well, I hope you’re right. Or I’ll get married in blue jeans.”
“Would you hate it?” He glances over at you.
Still - even if it’s just a joke of a marriage, if there’s any chance it’s the only wedding you’ll ever have, it would be great to have a nice one.
Especially if you’re marrying Dale.
But he wants to, it - wow.
Dale takes a right turn out of the parking lot, does a few more turns, and then just drives in a straight line, and you raise a brow at him.
“Hunting for an open bridal boutique or something?”
“Or something. We’ll know when we see it.”
You sigh and shake your head.
“How can you be so sure? You say things like you just - know what will happen.”
He gives you a strange, sideways look.
“Sometimes I just do. Maybe Someone’s giving me a hand. Call it psychic.”
“Hey, is that any way to talk to your soon-to-be-husband?”
You flush and giggle at that.
“Well, I just think that maybe you should stop and ask for directions, that’s all -”
His eyes widen, he grins, and he nods slowly and thoughtfully.
“Now that. That’s something a wife would say. Good job.”
“Oh, sure, because your navigation skills are just SO -”
He’s only been driving for eight minutes!
There hasn’t even been a red light yet!
“Impossible -” You squeak, even as he pulls over to the curb and puts the station wagon in park.
He raises a brow in challenge, smirking.
Then he gets out of the damn car and almost demands you follow!
You do, shaking your head in agitation, but when you cross to his side of the car and look up, you gasp in surprise.
The William Temple House Thrift Store.
“Ohh - would you look at that?” Dale breathes in wonder.
Your eyes follow his voice to the display window and your jaw drops in utter astonishment.
Some beautiful, compassionate soul has donated an ENTIRE BRIDAL TROUSSEAU, more or less.
And some other beautiful, compassionate soul realized the value of putting it RIGHT IN THE FUCKING MAIN WINDOW.
Your heart jumps into your throat and flies out of your ears.
Everything looks a bit smaller than you’d wear, but still plausibly fitting.
“Oh my God. Oh, Dale - it - it’s beautiful, I -”
You’re unfortunately ripped from your reverie by the worst sound in the world.
Dale yanks on the door’s handle and it gives a resoundingly stuck CHUNK.
“Oh. They’re closed.” You say, deflated and sighing.
Of-fucking-course they’re CLOSED, it’s almost 11 o’clock, what did you expect?
Places like this don’t just stay open all night!
It seems your life is one big line of beautiful coincidences that eventually lead to nowhere, like a Gordian Knot, like a big tangled ruined mess of happinesses - now you’ll never get laid!
Oh, come on, that’s such a stupid thought, this whole thing is stupid, so stupid -
So why are you crying a little?
Dale sucks in air sharply through his teeth and walks over to you.
“Hey - hey. Look at me.” He breathes, but you can’t bear to, shaking your head and covering your face and groaning in disappointment and embarrassment.
So he lifts your hands away from your eyes and leans himself down like a lopsided giraffe to look at you, instead.
He smiles so genuinely and so foolishly you can’t help but croak out a laugh, and he shakes his head heavily.
“Don’t you dare cry on your wedding night, baby. Not here and not in the sack. You’ll make me cry, too.” He breathes, rubbing the tears from your cheek. “And I get messy when I cry. We’ll get you your dress, sweetheart. That’s a Slut promise.”
You grunt in amusement mixed with frustration and pain.
“Oh, but, how, Dale? I guess we could wait until tomorrow, but -”
“Shh. Let me see what I can do, angel. Let the Master do His work.”
Somehow you don’t think he’s referring to himself or to God, which is a little haunting.
But he walks up to the door and says something like a prayer, anyway, and when he tries the handle again, you gasp and rub your chin in confusion and alarm.
It opens with a soft, airy SNICK.
“Entrez-vous?” He teases, grinning, giving a dramatic flourish with one hand and holding the door open with the other.
You swallow hard and shake your head a little.
“I don’t know if we should - I - how did you do that? You didn’t pick the lock.”
“Nothing a little ‘open sesame’ wouldn’t fix. C’mon. Actually - wait, you hold the door, I need to grab something from the car.”
Your better judgment is against it, but when Dale Kobble tells you to hold the door for him, you damn well hold the door for him.
You watch him hum and trot off to the car, just blinking and marveling at this man.
Who the Hell is he, really?
And why would anyone just - marry you?
You figure the short duration helps, but…still.
It’s marvelous, and not necessarily in a positive way.
It’s a shotgun wedding without the gun.
Unless he wants to fuck you that bad.
You blush at the thought, but you can’t imagine that being it, even if he is the Slut.
There are plenty of women - plenty of fans, even with how few Sister Destroyer has these days.
You consider asking, but think better of it.
Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
He walked away humming “Won’t you take me to Funky Town?”, and comes back whistling, “Chantilly lace, and a pretty face, and a ponytail hangin' down”.
The musical whiplash makes you giggle, but at least he’s enjoying himself?
He nearly swings the suitcase in his left hand in a full circle!
“You seem happy.” You venture and he grins.
“The night is young and I’m marrying a beautiful girl! Who wouldn’t be happy about that, baby?”
You flush and laugh and shake your head at him.
“Well, no matter how handsome you are, I can’t shake the feeling that this is, like, all really insane. Especially breaking into this place. Breaking and entering -”
But he holds up one correcting finger.
“Ah-ah. Entering, no breaking. Do you see anything broken?”
You open and shut your mouth like a fish.
“Well - no - but - it’s still trespassing!”
Dale shrugs as he steps into the store, essentially forcing you to come in after him, regardless of how bad you feel.
“If we don’t make a mess, they’ll barely know we were here. Plus, whatever happy horseshit we do tonight is justified, right? We’re getting MARRIED!”
He shrieks the last word frivolously and you yelp and tug his sleeve to shush him.
“Hush, Dale! They could have cameras in here, at least!”
He furrows his brow in thought, then follows the line of the ceiling to one corner.
“HI! I’M ENGAGED!” He coos loudly, staring right at a security camera, blinking and waving enthusiastically.
You dig your fingers into your face and groan in despair.
“What are you DOING?” You whisper loudly, more nervous than upset.
He drops the mirthful act and looks at you, smirking, then crooks his pointer finger in a “come-hither” gesture.
Shy about the proximity and expecting him to say something raunchy, you sigh and reluctantly move closer.
Dale cups his hand around your ear and leans in.
“If I pretend to be nuts on the footage,” He breathes, warm and ticklish and strangely aware, “Then they’ll go easy if they catch me later.”
You blink in disbelief as he pulls away.
“Dale, I’m sorry, but it seems you ARE genuinely -”
“What? Can’t hear you over the tap-dancing!” He yowls, grinning.
“Ha-cha-cha!” The madman purrs out, then, of-fucking-course, starts tap-dancing.
And he does a fucking phenomenal job!
The slightly hard soles of the sneakers crackle off the slick solid floor and he goes daintily prancing and dancing off towards the other end of the room, keeping in damn good rhythm, a discount Fred Astaire in the flesh.
You can’t help but roll with laughter at the sight, and they’ll definitely accept insanity as an excuse now!
He’s uninhibited on stage and all the more reckless off of it!
They make him a natural-born ballerino!
Dale finishes his dance with a fling out of his arms and a long, “Ta-dah!”
You just clap heartily and cheer, nerves almost all forgotten because of that little display.
“How was that? Do you think they’ll understand me now?” Dale purrs, moving back to you and grinning, wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve.
You just chuckle all the more.
“Honey, I don’t think anyone could understand that. But it was great.”
“Aww!” He coos, clutching his hands over his heart and swaying side to side, “You’re so sweet!”
Then he nods at the wedding outfit.
“And that pretty little dress is calling your name.”
There are the nerves again, complicated and harsh.
“Oh, Dale, I can’t, I can’t take that -”
“Of course you can! You can just say the Devil made you do it, right?” He laughs at that for some reason unknown to you, “‘The Devil Made Me Buy This Dress’.”
He says it in enough of a falsetto to even be out of place for him, and you finally grasp it must be a reference to something.
Doesn’t change the seriousness of what he’s suggesting, though.
“But - Dale - I already stole a poster today, that’s bad enough! I would hate to -”
He gasps sharply and shakes his head.
“Oh, no, no, no! No, babycakes! I never said you should STEAL the dress!”
His tone is so saccharine and fawning you blush, flustered.
The loon shakes his head again and grins.
“No, no. We won’t steal a thing. It’s not stealing if you pay for it.”
But there’s nobody here to be paid, so -
Before you can stop him, Dale has vaulted over the counter with the cash register.
“Dale!” You yelp, thinking he might steal the money to pay for the dress - thus, technically, not “stealing the dress”.
But he lands half-gracefully and winces.
“Oh, shit, I’m gonna feel that in the morning. Getting too old!”
Then he laughs, and takes a sticky note from beside the register.
You walk behind him to look over his shoulder as he writes with a pen from nearby, but he mutters to himself as he does it, so you don’t really need to read it yourself.
“Please…forgive…the intrusion. We saw the bridal package and - I could not resist. My girl and me are - getting married TONIGHT! Wish us luck! Hope - this - covers everything. If not - call - (458) 666-4355.”
His handwriting is a lot rougher and more jolting here than that signature was on your poster, and he adds an upside-down triangle with a winking smile drawn in the middle under the message.
Then he gets out his wallet, and you figure he’ll give them the worth of the dress - probably a couple hundred, at most, and very likely sold for less thrifted.
But Dale, damn outrageous wonderful Dale, sorts through his cash and pulls out ten $100 bills!
“HOLY FUCK -” You yelp, eyes bugging out of your head as he sets the money down with no hesitation, “Oh, Dale, now we CAN’T do any more, anything, I mean -”
He shushes you gently with a hand under your chin.
“It’s alright, angel. This is how I am. I do it anyway - and I definitely don’t mind being this way so you can be happy, too.”
You just shake your head gravely.
“I don’t understand you. I thought I would, but -”
“Even wilder than your wildest dreams, huh?”
“Enjoy it, angel. It’s all for you.”
He’s like some weird mix between the Cobbler’s Elves and Saint Nicholas - sneaking around in the middle of the night, making things simultaneously better and worse - and throwing money around so poor young maidens can get married.
That last bit strikes you especially hard, the reality of the generosity he’s showing for your sake hitting you, and you inhale a soft cry and hug him tight without thinking.
“Oh my God. Dale, I - I don’t know how to thank you. I mean - it’s so special that you’d - I -”
You can feel Dale suck in a breath at your touch, but he’s so gentle regardless, reaching down to stroke the back of your head like the spine of a rabbit.
“Ohh, angel. You make me sound very selfless. Thank YOU.” He chuckles, “But you don’t have to thank me - this is what I want, too. I mean - I think it’s good for both of us. You get to experience sex on your terms and I get to experience marriage on mine. That’s - real neat.”
You can’t help but giggle a bit at how philosophical he makes it sound.
“Okay, Plato! I just - I feel like I owe you or something, I can’t possibly repay all this -”
Dale shrugs and smiles at you.
“Not at all. But you could answer a question for me.”
“Do you wanna get changed in the bathroom or out here?”
You laugh in surprise at the easy decision.
“Bathroom. Please. Nowhere with cameras or windows.”
“Predictable choice for a beautiful virgin bride.”
You shiver a bit at his tone but smirk, feeling a bit playful.
“And you don’t think your soon-to-be wife should be a little modest? Hmm?”
“Be as modest or immodest as you’d like, darling. I like ‘em either way.”
“Guilty as charged. Now go get ready. Chapel’s not open all night - well, you’d think it would be, but actually - well, never mind. Just go get your dress, okay?”
You’re only more confused, but you accept this for what it is.
“I’ll be waiting.” He purrs, patting his chest over where his heart is.
You scoff and roll your eyes at the drama, but part of you wants to swoon.
Especially when you handle that dress and carefully remove the added price tag - $200, just as you halfway expected.
But the fact that it comes with the veil, the garter, shoes, all of it - someone had to really appreciate how important this would be to somebody else.
You think of the possibilities - of it being an old woman’s, but in this shape?
So it seems almost more like something belonging to a bride who almost was.
God, there’s a somber tragedy to that.
And here you are, the bride who almost isn’t.
Something old - the wife who wasn’t.
Something borrowed - well, it’s thrifted.
Something blue - that’s the one thing you’re missing, isn’t it?
Maybe that counts for something.
You smile slightly at the thought.
Sure, you’ve got a pair of sapphires and they’re mounted in his head like the rarest ornaments.
You wave to him once more as you head to the bathroom to get dressed, and you’re glad you picked this for your dressing room.
You haven’t used the bathroom much today and you really need to go!
After doing so, you’re a lot more focused, and you’re actually filled with new excitement to put on the dress, the veil, the shoes - it all fits almost too well, like it was meant for you.
But that’s mostly by virtue of it not being more than a little small.
You pinch your cheeks for a sort of makeshift blush, and you’re so stoked about all this that you have a natural glow, anyway - amazing!
It’s a sham of a marriage, but apparently being married to Dale - even as pretend - makes you stupidly happy.
The most fun is putting on the garter - you swallow hard and flush at the thought of him seeing it, but that only serves to increase your pleasure in the whole thing, and so you yank it high up your thigh so he’ll really have to fish for it later.
You bite back a moan at the thought of him swimming up under your dress headfirst to tear it down with his teeth.
Sorry to whoever owned this stuff before, right?
And the garter happens to be a beautiful baby blue, so you feel satisfied at that completing the set of bridal items - other than a bouquet, of course.
At least, you view it all as completed until you walk out of the bathroom.
Then you see where something blue has REALLY been hiding all along.
And oh - oh, it’s divine.
Dale is dressed in a powder blue leisure suit, the kind from the 70s with the open pointed collar and everything immaculately pressed.
He’s wearing a pair of shining white loafers and a gold medallion with some strange symbol on it - a cross with two bars and an infinity loop at the bottom.
A bit bold for what you’re used to, but it looks amazing on him.
Especially with the baby blue suit.
And somehow he’s slicked his hair back a little, which has a nice, tidy sleaziness to it, like the cheap refinement of a salesman.
Your hands are already to your mouth, but the smoothed hair isn’t the only unexplained detail.
Somehow, from straight out of thin air or straight up his ass, Dale has produced a dozen healthy white roses, tied with black ribbon.
“Pour vous!” He cheers with triumph when he hears the door to the bathroom open, extending the roses joyously with one hand and covering his eyes with the other. “I know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, but…can I peek now?”
He giggles, so soft and tender, but you sigh painfully with awe.
And now he does peek, out of concern at the ache in your voice.
“Ohh, what’s the matter, angel? Are the roses too much? I thought -”
When he sees you, he’s totally speechless, and he blinks and blinks and blinks, his lips parted and his chest shuddering as he breathes.
“Oh, angel. Oh, God.” He finally croaks, “You’re radiant.”
Nobody’s ever called you RADIANT!
“Oh, Dale -” You exhale breathlessly, moving towards him on unsteady feet, like you’ve never walked before. “I don’t know how you even - but - oh, Dale -”
“Oh, sweetheart -” He says, swallowing hard, handing you the flowers and caressing your jaw, “I have my ways. I - was scared you’d think I looked too…I don’t know, prom-y? But -”
“Prom-y? Oh, Dale! You’re so handsome - I mean - you’re always handsome, but - wow. Wow, this is real, this is really happening.”
He nods, deep and rich, his face flexing just slightly with emotion.
“It is. And you make a beautiful bride, baby.”
You dare to touch his chest, to feel the soft knit of the leisure suit under your fingers, the body heat seeping through it.
It’s the most intimate touch you’ve ever given him, and it already feels too bold.
“And you - you’re a great groom.”
You start to retreat slightly, and Dale’s hand comes up, shaking just a little, large and warm and dry, seeking permission to keep your touch.
You pause and his palm covers your knuckles, and somehow the two of you flush and go quiet at just that little contact.
“Married.” You breathe, shaking your head, “Getting married.”
“Married.” Dale whispers, “Like everybody else.”
Not a rockstar and his worshipper.
Dale makes sure the door is locked as the two of you depart the thrift store - you still aren’t sure how he unlocked it in the first place, much less locked it back from the outside without a key.
But you’re starting to learn that, when Dale says things are going to be “weird”, they WILL be “weird”.
And you don’t have to question that.
Even though part of you still REALLY wants to.
But you’re hanging out with your favorite musician and getting temporarily married just to have the courage to fuck him, that raises enough questions.
Like the one you only think to ask when you’re both already in the car and driving away.
“Ah! Dale! What about rings?” You yelp.
He lets out a false shriek, then shakes his head smiling.
“Don’t you worry about that, angel. Way ahead of you.”
He pats the lefthand breast pocket of his suit and you let your body droop a little with relief.
“You didn't steal -” You begin again, tensing.
“But where will we -” You wince to think of it.
“I have a plan for that, too.”
“Thank you, Dale. I - I’m glad you’re so resourceful.”
He shrugs, casual but barely hiding his delight at your praise.
“It’s nothing, angel. You want this, I want this. I wouldn’t have offered if I couldn’t swing it.”
“I just - I don’t know why you would.”
He glances over at you, somewhat vulnerable and playful at once.
“Because you think I’m cool. And because you didn’t demand anything. That’s really refreshing.”
Your heart aches for him.
How much bullshit has he been dealing with?
You reach over and lightly, maybe a bit awkwardly, pat his knee.
“You deserve so much more than that, though.”
“So do you, angel. You deserve a world where you don’t feel tied down by the shit people forced on you. I - I want to give you a taste of that, I guess.”
“I feel that, Dale…and thank you.”
He just meets your eyes for a moment, and the two of you share a nod more understanding than gesture.
As fate or luck or sheer good planning would have it, the wedding venue is eight minutes from the thrift shop.
And two minutes from the Satyricon.
You burst into mad laughter when you notice the familiar area.
“Oh my God! This is just back the way we came!” You wheeze, totally amused, and Dale grins, nodding wildly.
“Uh-huh! When I said I could do this, I really meant it, angel! Isn’t Portland so convenient?”
“I guess that’s one way to put it.”
Though you’re not exactly sure it’s the layout of the city helping him the most - you can’t shake something else going on, but since you can’t even fathom what it could be, you try to let it go.
In any case, the two of you are here, finally.
Actually, “here” happens to be “The 24 Hour Church of Elvis”.
As you read the sign, you say it out loud like a question, raising a brow at Dale
He grins and rolls his eyes.
“Jesus, sorry, angel! I couldn’t swing Saint Mary’s at this late hour!”
Then he softens and shrugs a little.
“We’re lucky we even made it here, before they close at eleven.”
You just blink, really, trying to process.
“I just - is this, like, an actual church?”
Dale furrows his brow and tilts his head.
“I mean…more of an art thing? I met the lady who runs it once, they used to have a different location. But they do weddings, and that’s what we need! Though…I guess it’s pretty cliche for a rocker to get married in the name of Elvis, huh?”
“‘Thank you, thank you very much.’”
The two of you laugh hard at that, for no real reason at all.
Dale gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side, opening and holding your door for you like the perfect gentleman, as though anything is really gentlemanly about tonight.
But you go along with it.
“Thank you, hubby.” You tease, taking his hand and grinning as you rise out of the station wagon.
He smirks and purrs back.
Something about that tingles you.
Just a little while and then -
At least this whole thing is entertaining.
The 24 Hour Church of Elvis has various wild knickknacks on display at the front of the store, half of the things in the windows and on the walls not remotely connected to Elvis.
But there’s a certain charm to it, all the same.
Dale knocks on the door and an energetic woman with big brown hair and glasses runs and answers it.
“Oh! Hi.” Her voice is mild but surprised, probably used to people showing up at random, but maybe not right at the edge of eleven and already dressed to be married.
“Hello! Do you have time for one more wedding?” Dale asks, grinning, the question so strangely chipper you giggle.
It’s even funnier when the woman matches his expression and tone.
“Yeah, sure! Come on in.”
She gives you both a tour of the place, pointing out all sorts of art and memorabilia regarding Elvis, though none of the gadgets she’s made work anymore and half the collectibles aren't connected to Elvis at all.
But again, there’s a bittersweet, moody beauty to the whole setup, and you feel charmed to be having such a weird wedding in such a weird way.
And the lady asks very few questions, which is even better.
Except for the one question.
“So, do you two want the legal wedding or the not-legal wedding?” She yawns a little as she says it, as though that’s a completely mundane thing she’s used to saying. “Not-legal’s $5, the legal one’s $25 - if you pay another $60, you get a marriage license and everything!”
The thought of this zany woman being a real-deal wedding officiant almost cracks you up, but this is all too big to laugh at now.
You look to Dale, ready to tell him you certainly don’t need a REAL LEGAL MARRIAGE, but his eyes are expectant and wild with sweet desire.
“What do you think, angel? Do you wanna make it official? Go all in?”
Shockingly, he seems more excited than you are - maybe because this is the one time he’ll try being married, from how he spoke earlier.
And oh - is he enjoying it that much?
How could you let him down now?
And, more importantly…something about this being a LEGAL ticket to fuck, more or less, thrills you all the more.
You blush at the thought.
You smile, slightly awkward, but nod.
Dale grins and nods, too, turning back to the lady and taking out his wallet again.
“Here’s a hundred and some, keep the change!”
The woman running the place seems very satisfied.
“Awesome! Thank you!” She says, clapping her hands together, “Let me just get a few things ready.”
As she walks off, Dale looks at you rather gravely, but with a slight smirk.
“Last chance to get cold feet, honey. Wanna take off running?”
You laugh, taking his hand in yours.
“No. I like you too much.”
“Me too. I mean - I like YOU, not me - I - oh, you know.”
“I know. You’re a card, Dale.”
“Thank you, angel. You’re a darling.”
Those are almost wedding vows.
The eccentric woman returns, dressed in - of all things - a long black coat with baby doll heads sewn in.
It’s bizarre, but she’s actually done a great job at the arrangement.
She’s followed by a big man, who is also wearing all black (sans baby dolls) and holding a guitar.
His belt buckle says “ELVIS”.
“Ready?” The woman asks, and you and Dale both nod.
The man with the guitar plays Elvis songs, and your wedding begins to the tune of “Love Me Tender”.
Very fitting, if slightly off key.
But the ceremony goes as any other - an opening, a time for vows.
You and Dale don’t really have much to say for that, but he improvises well.
“I, Dale Ferdinand Kobble, pledge to make this marriage worth every moment, and always consider you first in our relationship.”
He says it so genuinely and sweetly, even if it’s a strangely specific vow, and it’s adorable to hear his middle name.
You try to think of what to pledge that could make up for such promises.
“I pledge to support you and comfort you as long as we’re together.”
It’s maybe a little simple, but it’s something you can commit to, something you’ve been doing and wanting to do all night.
And Dale smiles very tenderly at your words, accepting the fullness of what they are without asking for a bit more.
Beautiful man, that’s for sure.
The lady officiating nods.
“Yeah. Hers and mine, actually.”
You both chuckle at that, but you aren’t laughing as he produces two matching bands from the pocket of his suit.
They’re rather thick, both more of men’s rings traditionally, and made of gold of a quality you’ve never seen before.
Just looking at it, the surface of the metal flashes like there’s fire flowing over it.
They’re also both engraved with delicate, swirling carvings that look an awful lot like some kind of alchemical runes.
And set with enough diamonds to buy a mansion when put together.
“Oh my God. Those - are they - real?” You hiss, barely a whisper, and Dale nods, so you add, “Where the Hell did you get the rings?”
He shrugs and smiles softly.
“What, are you in the mob?”
He laughs but shakes his head.
“No, just got good friends.”
“Do we - keep them? I mean, are you borrowing these? How careful should I be?” You can hardly breathe.
Dale chuckles, slipping one ring onto his own finger, and then the other onto yours.
It’s strangely warm, like someone’s been wearing it for a while, but there’s no way they got that hot just in Dale’s pocket.
It’s pleasant and incredibly shocking.
“Relax, angel. It’s yours now - even if you need to sell it or something, you can. But - yeah, it’s a gift from a very special Friend of mine.”
“I’d like to meet THAT friend.” You sigh, amazed, and Dale giggles.
“Maybe someday. Maybe you already have.”
Cryptic as shit, and you don’t quite get it.
But you’ve got a wedding to finish.
Seeing the rings exchanged and the discussion ended, the lady running the show says a few more words, and then the six that make you nearly faint.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Dale looks to you, holds your chin so softly in one warm hand, gazes into your eyes.
He’s nervously asking permission to kiss you DURING YOUR WEDDING!
Whatever comes over you next, you like it.
You exhale sharply and throw your arms around the back of his neck, and then you lean in and kiss him, your first kiss - and it’s not lost on you that it is.
His lips are soft and full from fillers and so sweet, like cheese and apples and summer.
It seems he can feel how new this is for you, how unsure you are, and he grunts in excitement and pulls you closer to him, opening up the kiss just enough to be filthy.
You gasp and shiver, eyes closed, getting lost in how talented his kiss is.
His lips are so flexible and his tongue so measured from his experience singing, the faintest touch of his mouth also becoming the richest.
You swoon in his arms as the priestess and the guitarist applaud.
Then the musician quips up, just a bit uncomfortable, “Okay, dude, nobody’s gonna take her from you!”
Dale pulls away finally, flushing and chuckling sheepishly, but his eyes are sharp with an inner light and you swallow hard, especially when your own gaze darts down and notices the tent in his pants.
You feel a little queasy - you’ve used a toy or two before, but that thing - he’s pretty damn big.
And does he even wear underwear?
That’s a very defined dick print.
When you glance back up, he notices your deep blush and wide eyes and smirks.
“Don’t worry. No need to rush.”
You aren’t sure if he means it to comfort you or tease you, but either way - for tonight - you’re his, and he’s yours.
Lots of time to do things with that access.
“My husband.” You sigh, grinning, still in awe.
The word makes you shiver with excitement.
It seems the place really needs to close soon, because the lady who runs it nudges you out as politely as she can, but not before handing Dale a sign reading “JUST MARRIED” and you a collection of cans tied up with string.
The two of you laugh constantly as she leads you on a parade around the block, your free arm linked with Dale’s elbow as he marches proudly with the sign, the rattle of the cans droning behind you.
It’s a beautiful celebration, really!
Even if there aren’t many people to witness it, the stars above and the night air all see.
As you all return to the front of the building, the artist takes the accessories back to be used for future weddings, and presents you and Dale with your marriage papers.
“Have fun!” She says, then gives you both a wink and goes back inside.
“Thanks!” You call after her.
Then it’s just the two of you again, and you giggle at finally being together as spouses.
“Well. That was exciting, huh?” Dale teases and you flush, nodding.
“Yeah. I didn’t know you’d kiss so good - I feel pathetic by comparison.” You retort, a little sassy.
“Aw, baby - you just need more practice, is all.”
He pulls you in for a kiss and you go, breathing against him with rapture as he devours your mouth again, even deeper this time, and you squeeze the lapels of his suit jacket.
“Wow.” You sigh, breaking for air, and Dale nods.
“Yeah, wow. You’re already getting better.”
You scoff and pat his chest.
“Wow, thanks. Glad I’m being graded.”
“Mmm, only based on participation.”
When the two of you get back to the car, you yelp in despair.
“Oh no! The roses! I forgot to bring them with us!” You sigh, staring down at the flowers still in your seat. “And you got them for me so special!”
Dale reaches over and rubs your hand.
“Hey, angel, don’t worry. It’s no skin off my teeth. But I’m sorry you didn’t have them with you, I didn’t notice, either. That’s on me.”
You shrug and click your tongue.
“No, no, I just - I guess I just wanted to do SOMETHING with them, y’know?”
“You could still do the toss.”
You blink but then laugh.
So the two of you stand in front of the 24 Hour Church of Elvis, and you close your eyes and spin in a circle with the bouquet in your hands, and then you toss the roses.
Right onto the awning-style roof of the Church.
For some reason, both you and Dale find that awfully funny, and you burst into giggles and point.
“I guess they can decorate someone else’s wedding, huh?”
“Sure! Why not? Help some other bride! Or maybe it means the building is getting married next?!”
You laugh harder at that.
“What?!” You shriek in humor at the bizarre statement, but then add, “Or maybe Elvis is!”
“‘Woah, Mama, I need to find a dress!’” Dale shouts, in a damningly good Elvis voice, and that nearly buckles you laughing.
Then he chokes on his spit and you do collapse, right into Dale.
