Chapter Text
It was a dream.
Will could tell. He was asleep in the Wheelers’ basement; he could feel the mattress under his left side, the winding heat of the comforter wrapped too tight. Some of the fabric was pulled across his face; his own shallow breathing had turned it damp. The pillow pressing lines into his cheek, his sticky eyelids that would not open. He could feel all of this, a halfway sensation in one quarter of his mind. He could feel other things, too.
The bed in the dream had a different kind of mattress. Firmer, with cotton sheets, slick under his palms. An ornate wooden headboard, some dainty coiling thing, smacked rhythmically against the wall behind it.
“Aah- ah- ah-”
There was a hand in his hair, in the dream, pulling his throat back. This didn’t hurt the way it should have- the way it would have, if he were awake. The prickling sensation, down the back of his neck and jittering across his spine, was all pleasure.
There was a lot about this dream that would have hurt in the real world. Another hand on his hip, a grip so firm he felt like it was twisting the bones of his pelvis out of shape. This felt good, too; a sensation that was in every other way a bruise, but like a switch had been flipped- pain turned off, in exchange for its equal opposite.
And there was something else. Inside him.
The headboard was blurry; Will had the thought that he was crying, in the dream. Not for sadness- it was heat, just heat, so much of it within him it had to overflow, excess working its way out onto his cheeks. Rising up, tipping over. Spilling. Slick and wet between his thighs, dripping down towards the sheets. In the real world, too- his pajama bottoms felt sticky, heavy over his crotch. He wasn't wearing anything in the dream, obviously.
Lips on his shoulder. Full up to his lungs. Every thrust caused blood to flare in his cheeks. His insides had melted, they didn't have form anymore, just some gooey mess of warmth, a non-shape like putty, conforming exactly to the man that was fucking him. The cock that was fucking him, that was.
He’d found a magazine. Oh- a while ago, now- not long after the quarantine had been set up in Hawkins; stumbled upon, what illicit object had been surely forgotten in a collection of other donated junk. Photographs and implications. Men dressed in little but their skins, men who held each other. Men who did- this- what men were supposed to do to women.
He’d not looked long. He’d gotten rid of it; he might’ve sworn it burnt his fingers. He’d seen enough to parch all the saliva from his tongue, to break out in molten shivers down his back and under his eyes. Enough that the images from it lingered in the months after, sometimes striking him at random moments during the day, like lightning; inopportune attacks that had him excusing himself, running to the bathroom to shudder and pour cold water down his shirt, heart in his own ears and panting. Whirling around his head in the shower, and when he lay down at night, and when Mike’s shirt rucked up at the waist, showing the lines in his lean, white belly.
Pandora’s box. He’d looked in the magazine, knowing by the cover what it was sure to contain; seeing more, even then, than he’d expected to. Knowing how he was likely to react to it, and looking anyway. Idiot. Now he was dreaming about it.
Will couldn't see the man in the dream. He who pushed Will down into the mattress of this strange, old-fashioned bed, and fucked him. The same animal position every time, the same view of the headboard, the same scrape of a pillow under his hips. Heavy breath against the nape of his neck, a thumb that pressed into his ribcage, or the arch of his shoulderblade. A broad chest, sweat against his back. Held down, writhing there, taking it.
“Ha- mm- please, yes, yes-”
His voice, and only his; in the waking world, that dim-dark place, he felt himself pant, felt his legs twitch, clammy in his pajama bottoms. He knew when he woke up there’d be a mess; knew his cheeks would be red and the whole bed damp, and Jonathan on the couch would see him and know, man to man, what had happened- what had happened, but not the cause. All this, as he thought it, had already happened; he’d had this dream before. Oh, he’d been dreaming it now for weeks.
There was never any prelude, any context- no peremptory words or preparation from this sleep-lover, never any chance to see his face, nor discover how exactly Will wound up on that bed. Yes, he looked now, he was certain- it was always the same bed- and, Will was increasingly sure, always the same man. The same lucid half-dream, unable to wake yet still aware, like a night-terror.
The same man. The clues were the weight of his breath, the occasional low grunt of effort, the ache of that possessive grip- Will’s hip, his ribs, his shoulders- sometimes, around the collar of his throat. The straight, flat teeth that scraped along the skin there, or tugged at the end of his ear. A ridiculous thought- Will had no point of comparison, none at all, yet still- his cock felt the same, too. This lance. The aggression of it that, at times, turned soft- a loping pressure that rolled through him, filling him slowly, dragging past the point in Will’s gut that felt like white fire.
Will tried to reach back, clutching at the other man’s hip, his thigh- no way to hold on there, so he reached over his shoulder instead. Wanting what- some assurance- to show affection, maybe. As though this were a real person he was having some impossible tryst with, an actual lover he should appreciate- after all, he always made him feel so good, every thrust had him sparkling, heat running through the marrow of every bone. Pleasure in the tips of his fingers, and the soles of his feet, and every other molten place between.
His heartbeat, his own breathy gasps, these were deafening. Course hair against his fingers, the cold tip of a nose smushed against the crook of his shoulder. He was kissed.
“H-hey- you- are you- can I- ?” He didn't know what he wanted to say. Only because this was a lucid dream did he say it- probably, can I see your face? Could it be someone he knew? Someone whose traits his brain had absorbed and repurposed, a subconscious collection of impressions brought to life for this hormonal fantasy- a man.
(Wasn’t that strange? What had him shivering, so hot inside he was almost afraid he’d actually burn- it was a man. Not a boy. Too broad, that chest, too hard, that grip- too much, inside of him. Too much, or maybe just enough.)
(No, he'd never had dreams as vivid as this about Mike.)
He wasn't answered. He hadn't expected to be- but something else happened- what hadn't happened in any of these dreams before. A hand reached around, cupping his jaw; two long fingers forced between his lips to silence him. Pressure on his tongue, a wave of saliva, the taste of salt- so far to the back of his throat it tickled, and he nearly choked.
He could have bitten, but he didn't. The gesture sent a flare of arousal through him so bright his eyes rolled back into his head. He sucked on the fingers instead.
And what was that- what kind of dream was this, really- he heard a soft, low huff, as though the man had restrained a laugh.
Will felt a fondness bloom through him- another kind of warmth- in the real world, something behind his eyes prickled. Endearment to a man that didn't exist, his wet-dream boyfriend. Stupid. How lonely was he- how utterly pathetic- this train of thought sputtered off. The pace picked up, like these unhappy murmurs had been heard, and the man was responding to them- fucking them clean out of his head.
Under the comforter in the basement his belly was tensing, ankles rubbed together. His face felt dewy against the closeness of the fabric, his breath catching high in his throat. That uncertain frustration of the orgasm building. It always felt better, during one of these dreams, than anything he did on purpose. His pitiful, guilty little one-offs in the shower, holding his breath so he made no sound, pawing at himself without looking. Here (what did that mean, here, this was no real place) all pleasure was brighter, more brilliant, overwhelming; a breaking-apart of things that lasted whole minutes, that would have been utterly embarrassing if his jaw wasn’t locked tight in the real world, and all his cries heard only by the man in the dream…
It came over him, then, as he had known it would; the man’s hand slipped from his mouth to clasp tight around his throat, darted from his hip to take hold between his legs, and the instant he touched there Will was gone. The light shattered, and everything turned to inferno. The mouth on his shoulder- slight stubble, full lips, a kiss- opened and bore down into the muscle, teeth piercing deep. It didn't hurt- the feeling was just as intense as it should have been, but curved the other way- just like everything in these dreams, Will felt only ecstasy. And he knew the other man was cumming too. He felt it, he always did- a rush inside of him, a flood that lapped at his bones- sweet and, inexplicably, a little cold.
Well, it was nice that they did it together. Indeed it always seemed to happen as such, when he was dreaming.
The rapture dragged on- still, impossibly, it was mounting- all parts of him livewire-tight and blazing. It was a supernova behind his eyes, it was the destruction of the whole universe. Some precipice he was firing towards, like a comet across the night sky- any second he would reach it- the pinnacle, and then he would fall-
-red lightning in a storm-sky, the flickering outline of a vast, black shape-
-Will woke completely with a sudden start; launched onto his hip, halfway upright and gasping. Sweat beamed on his cheeks, soaked through the back of his shirt; inside his pajama bottoms, he was entirely wet. He was still shuddering with the aftershocks of it, hips twitching pathetically against the sheets, now free from their paralysis. His whole body scintillated like he was still cumming, and did so for a long, breathless minute.
It was dark; the sun had not risen. Will made himself dizzy trying to hold back his panting, stifling any sound against the sweat-soaked pillow below his head. Jonathan, on the couch, had rolled over; he didn't seem to have woken. Thank god.
When he had the strength to move, Will peeled the covers back, padding quickly to the basement bathroom. He had to clean up the worst of it, had to wipe the evidence away; Mrs. Wheeler did their laundry, god-oh-god, he couldn't bear to subject her. As though if she saw anything she would know why, would impossibly know what kind of dream exactly had caused it- and realize he was different from the other boys. From her son.
In the bathroom, the pull-chain lamp, a dim yellow light. His reflection flickered to life in the mirror.
Red cheeks, flushed on the tip of his nose, the ends of his ears. Pupils blown so wide the brown was barely a ring around the black. Sweat had soaked his hair to his forehead- he looked like he had a fever- his lips were swollen, slick with spit. Not like he had a fever. Like he’d been fucked.
Impulsively, he touched the nape of his neck. Fingertips trailing down, across the back of his shoulder- he touched something that sent a bolt into his gut.
“Uh-”
His body seized, back arching, head falling back. A shock, ludicrously strong, halfway another orgasm; heavy-lidded eyes in the mirror, a head that rolled loosely, like a serpent. He pulled the collar of his shirt back, arched forward to see. There was a mark there- a tender patch, swollen, a little red.
A bug bite? It looked like teethmarks.
…but he couldn't explain that. After all, he’d only been dreaming.
…
This had not been his strategy.
He wouldn't have come up with it. Even if the thought had occurred- the chain of reason followed to its conclusion- he would’ve likely put the option aside. A possibility, but not a priority. It was not the kind of act that interested him.
Had it ever been? He wasn't sure. He did not have a reliable point of comparison. Did not have the experience of a ‘typical’ man’s life, for whom such performances would have been expected.
(From him, always, it was other things that had been expected.)
No, he decided; these were not the bent of his desires. This was not something he would have chosen.
…which was not to say he minded it.
So it had been the Master’s idea; when such suggestions were made, it was his duty to obey. Even after all this time, there were things the Master knew better; a cold, exacting knowledge of certain bio-psychic processes. A way of planting, an enforcing injection, passing on the seed of Its own essence.
Like this, It said, the outcome could almost certainly be guaranteed. Insurance, or elsewise a bridle, for binding an unruly wind.
Too much time had passed, he’d been told; plans had been too long delayed. Children were weak, and could be controlled with as little effort as thought- but it was not so easy after they grew up. At that point, other methods had to be used.
(And this piece could not be left behind- all were equal, in the eye of the storm; all were a part of the whole, not to be disregarded. The beasts, their offspring, the vines, the darkness. He who was himself- and this one.)
(Oh, the little one.)
Beneath him, the boy whimpered. Fingertips scrabbling at the memory-sheet. The master bedroom, the parents’ room, the house on Morehead Street. He was pale in the moonlight that came from the window- the peak of a white shoulder, the shift of bones under his skin. Still growing, not all the way filled in. Delicate, but not entirely.
No, Henry did not mind.
The physical act was pleasurable enough, even if he didn't seek it out on his own. And there was a sweetness to the creature beneath him, the one that was so flush with desire; how dulcet, his little cries, how pretty the arch of his spine.
A weakness, perhaps- or maybe, better thought of as a ‘keyhole’. The method of taming, of insuring, of control. The need for this, the want of it, had been found deep inside his mind- plucked from the entanglement there- and oh, what a want it was! Lascivious little creature, so wanton, so quickly debauched- no, he’d never been this way. Not in adolescence- playing pretend at that school- not in adulthood- the white-washed, bloodstained facility. All points of his life, after the cave, had been turned to ice. Nonetheless, he didn't entirely believe this level of- excitement- was normal. No. This one, Henry reasoned, was a slut.
Well, that was fine; he would be cared for. There was a fondness Henry could not deny- he was, after all, the first.
The very first. That little spark-fire, so clever, so difficult to chase; a will-o-the-wisp. His most useful vassal, his pretty blackbird-spy.
So this was the way to soothe him- to bring him to his proper place- not at Henry’s side, it seemed, but rather beneath him, lovely and pliable and satisfied. All that was fine.
The last step would be taken- it wasn’t long coming. The other children were tools picked for only one purpose, their preservation not necessary; this one had a greater future. A conversion more total, more consuming; like what had been done to Henry.
(All creatures, here, had their kin- did the humans know the beasts they so feared had mates?- all creatures, save him. But that would be true no longer.)
He would be prettier, Henry thought, when he was dead.
Yes, prettier still.