Fandom: Outlast
Characters: Miles Upshur/Waylon Park
Word Count: 515
Warnings: Gross wet dreams
Summary: Miles has dreams, sometimes.
Notes: i got lazy again, oops.
my love, my dove, my undefiled: for mine head
is full of dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.
-Song of Solomon 5
Miles has dreams.
Sometimes he dreams of static and gun fire and Gott in Himmel. Those dreams don't happen has much anymore, trailed off into background memories. They are distant dreams, now. Only echos.
But there are nights when he dreams of nothing at all. A swallowing black void he can't escape from. It gets in his mouth, his eyes, his ears, his nose. He can feel in the back of his throat, between his shoulder blades, underneath his fingernails. They are dreams that stay close to the surface. Too real. He can feel it in his skin.
And then there are nights where his dreams are hazy, vague and flesh colored, hot breath, broken moans. He dreams of his teeth sinking into a slender neck. A body warm and soft and responsive under his hands. Dreams of black spilling from fingers that are no longer there staining too white skin, like acid, like static, eating away at soft meat and bone. Want snarling in his gut like a beast, like dark things. He dreams of rebar sinking through his belly, feels the wound weep and swell with black water. Someone is laughing, faint like they don't really want to laugh, their voice worn by wind and words and salt.
"Miles," His name on their - on Waylon's - tongue like a benediction.
Realization comes slow, trickles like cooling blood, ghost fingers trailing down the curved spine above, until he meets rusted metal.
They are pinned together, rebar spearing through Waylon and into Miles. He breathes in, sorrow, a perverse vague delight. The dead leafs laugh comes again, wispier than before, and it feels like an invocation over Miles' bones.
Miles smiles in his dream, mouth a split open crescent. Pulls the rebar deeper, twists and feels the grind of vertebrae on rusted metal.
"Yes," He says, voice roiling and distorted. It breaks up the picture, turns the world to static and tv snow.
He comes in his night clothes like a teenager, eyes snapping open, spasming under the covers. Boxers a mess and the smell of iron in his nose, static humming in his veins. Waylon beside him unaware, undisturbed. Miles pants, looks (with eyes that can see far too well in the dark) for blood and rust on the sheets, a gaping hole that severs Waylon's bare back, bruises in the shape of his fingers, teeth. Finds none. Sighs, relieved.
Disappointed, almost.
Softly, Chopin's Nocturne spills from Waylon's earbuds, the piano melting into the last strains of the dream. Rippling over the static, turn's dream Waylon's face into brushstrokes of color.
Miles breaths, the skeleton deathmask of the walrider sliding over his thoughts like oil, leaves impressions over his eyes. He came, but he still feels the heat coil inside his belly, ravenous. His line of sight falls onto the curve of Waylon's shoulder, the delicate line of his neck.
Miles looks away.
He has dreams, sometimes.