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Miles turns off the main road onto a gravel driveway, putting his beloved red jeep into park and turning off the engine in front of a line of wooden fence posts.
He was happy to have his trusty vehicle back, now with a clean VIN and a fresh change of plates. He could have easily traded it for something new, less conspicuous, but he was a superstitious fool that couldn't bear the thought of parting with it.
Survivors of gunshot wounds keep bullets as lucky charms. Victims of violent animal attacks wear necklaces of teeth as protection. This jeep was Miles good omen, his ward to expel the evil he once paid witness to and despite the risk, he was going to keep it.
The reporter grabs his files from off the passenger seat, tucks the papers inside his jacket, shielding them from the sudden downpour of rain as he exits the car. He takes a few hurried strides towards the safety of the cabin, an old rangers station converted into a rental home, secluded in the mountains overlooking the nature preserve.
"Shit, that storm came out of nowhere," Miles scoffs, shutting the door behind him.
He sets the folder down on the kitchen counter, a few droplets of rain managing to soak the paper. He empties out the rest of his pockets, setting the tape recorder and camera down on top if it, followed by his car keys.
He no longer goes by the name Miles Upshur. He writes wildlife articles under a new pseudonym now. His research helps protect endangered species, advocates for saving the national parks and rainforests, things of that nature. After exposing Murkoff, he needed a break from people and the corruption for awhile, to do something off the grid and so far, this tree-hugging gig seems to be working out for him.
He returns to the corner of the entrance, hanging up his jacket on the coat rack to dry. He tries to shake the rainwater from his shirt, but it's no use, the white fabric sticks to him like a second skin, showing off the ripple of muscle underneath.
The reporter heads to the bathroom, grabbing a hand towel from the pile to pat himself down. He wipes away the dampness from his face, wringing out his bangs and pushing them back into place.
When he looks up from his spot near the sink, he notices a black cloud coalescing out of the corner of the mirror. His blue eyes watch as the inhuman skull takes shape behind him, staring at it's mesmerizing mechanisms through the window of glass.
"Shower now or later, what do you think," Miles asks.
The Walrider hisses, displeased at the threat of any more water and dissipates back into the air to avoid it.
Miles chuckles, "Yeah, you're right; shower first."
The Walrider has never liked being wet. Maybe it hates the idea of it's circuits being fried, ironic considering how much it drenched the Earth in blood, but either way, Miles thinks it's an adorable quirk and teases the entity with that knowledge every chance he gets.
Miles strips down, not bothering with being neat. He tosses his clothes to the floor and turns on the tub, testing the temperature with his hand. His symbiotic companion is a fevered cloud, head appearing and disappearing over and over again in agitated spurts of smoke, unable to decide whether it should stay or go.
Miles chuckles again.
"Hey, calm down, it's not so bad. See?"
The reporter flicks his fingers free of dampness in the direction of his devilish consort, watching as it's bright, burning eyes narrow at him.
"I take it you're not coming in here with me then," Miles jokes, already knowing the answer when he pulls the pin on the faucet and turns the shower on.
The nanites bristle like the hairs on a cat.
The Warider is very protective of it's host. It doesn't want to leave him alone for any amount of time, especially when his fragile human body is bared and vulnerable, encased inside a despicable barrier of water.
"Fine, you can wait outside. I'll just be a minute," Miles pouts, waving the swarm away and flashing disappointed puppy-dog eyes at it. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't trying to tempt the machine closer, but the reporter gives up on such thoughts for now because the cabin is old and drafty and the shower was flowing and warm.
Miles steps into the tub, letting the hot spray cure him of his earlier chill. He reaches for the shampoo and starts to whip it into a lather, rubbing circles against his scalp with mismatched fingers.
The reporter freezes, a ghostly touch raising the delicate hairs on the nape of his neck. Panic fills him in an instant, memories of Mount Massive cycling through his mind in vibrant horrorscapes. The sensation doesn't return to taunt him into another pathetic episode and the fear eventually lessens, a fluke of the mind he attributes to his overactive nerves.
He dips his head back, let's the vivacious stream wash over his face, hoping it will clear his head of the phantoms. He wipes at his eyes and slicks back his brunette locks before taking up the bar of soap in his hand.
The journalist starts with his arms, wiping them down in a few swift strokes and then moving up to rub at bridge if his neck and shoulders, white suds cascading over the round scars dotting his abdomen in languid streaks. Then he feels another flick of something brush against his hip.
Rather than run away screaming, Miles smirks. He's finally become savvy to the game his demonic guardian angel is playing.
"Why, hello there," Miles calls, relaxing against those twin claws as they gently drift along the curves of his sides.
"Did you change your mind," the man asks, peering over his shoulder as two arms phase through the tile of the shower, twin portals reaching out from hell. The nantie cloud billows, mixing with the steam, turning it black.
So this is how he's going to train his hydrophobic pet to overcome it's insecurities, by dangling a carrot on a stick. It's a twisted goal to have, foolish really, to turn this monster's "weakness" into a strength.
Miles doesn't even know why he's striving for the entity to be more agreeable to the ritual of bathing, but he's determined to achieve results, nonetheless. It's probably a bad idea in the long run, but the reporter tries not to think that far ahead.
Despite the killing machine's reluctance, it's unable to resist the prospect of claiming it's host for long, the prize of the human's battered body too tantalizing to ignore.
Charcoal black nails flinch, a stray spurt of moisture splashing it's limbs a little too liberally. After a moment of hesitation, it tires again, minimizing it's exposure to the liquid as it stretches towards Mile's pale flesh.
The machine is hissing at him, frustrated, the irregular streams of the shower proving much too difficult to navigate around. Despite it's physical mouth being absent, it seems the nanites are still capable of producing sound or maybe it's just the static inside Mile's head and he can't tell the difference anymore.
The worn-out brunette supposes there will be other opportunities like this one so, he doesn't push it, taking their progress as a success.
"Alright, I get it, I get it! Let me rinse off first. Geez, you're so impatient," comes his cheeky retort.
Miles is quick, washing off any lingering soap bubbles still stubbornly clinging to his skin. He turns off the spray, feeling the old plumbing behind the wall rattle with effort as he does.
He shrugs on his bath robe, letting the front hang open, the tie dangling loosely around his waist because fuck it, he can walk around semi-nude in his own damn house if he wants to.
He grabs a fluffy white towel to lay across his head like a veil, shielding him from the cold as he leaves the bathroom, the clouds of steam traveling upwards towards the ceiling.
The rain is still pouring outside, pelting the roof in heavy sheets, the windows awash in a thick fog of mist and somber condensation. It looks like they'll be stuck inside for the rest of the day.
He adjusts the towel on his head, wrapping it around his neck as he strides towards the fridge, grabbing a beer and cracking it open. He knocks back a generous amount and then takes up a seat next to the bar, setting his drink down beside to him. He reaches for his messenger bag next, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the side cargo pouch.
He puts the tobacco to his lips and ignites the end, breathing deep, letting the vapors fill his lungs and then blows them back out.
He retrieves his laptop from the main pocket of his bag and opens up the computer screen, intent on getting some work done. At least one of his electronic devices wasn't covered in a damp sheen of rain.
He plays back some of the wildlife audio, listening to the endangered songbird he taped earlier. He pauses the track, musing over how he's going to describe it in writing.
He hears the birds distinctive chirp again and his mind doubles back, checking his tape recorder. He hadn't pressed play.
Miles eyes go wide, spinning around to see the full-fledged form of the Walrider levitating there, less than a foot away. It shifts closer, tentatively, parroting the noises on the recording. Miles smiles his understanding. If the Walrider was interested in helping him with his work, he wasn't about to say no.
"Hey, that's pretty good," the man sings with praise, holding out his hand, beckoning his weaponized pet over to him. The machine allows the affectionate touch, loving the attention it was receiving for it's clever trick.
"Hell, we won't even have to go out on nature walks anymore if you can provide all the commentary for me," the reporter tells it, stroking over the polycarbonate of it's skin, "I bet we could really screw over some global expansion CEOs. Greedy bastards won't be able to buy up the land if I can prove there's protected species living there."
Miles eyes flicker with cunning, his devious brain leagues ahead of his words, already formulating a plan to really shove it up the ass of the billion dollar real estate conglomerate. He takes another drag of his cigarette, letting the chemicals fuel his passion for justice.
He's about to polish off his beer when a thought occurs to him.
"Hey, you want some," Miles shakes his beer can, about to use it as a reward before thinking better of the idea and adding on, "just kidding," at the end of his sentence.
The Walrider is no less deterred when it approaches him, intent on accepting the offer. The machine ignores the aluminum can entirely and goes straight for Mile's open mouth. An ominous tongue slithers out from between the specter's jaws, tasting the remnants of the ale flavoring it's host.
Miles moans into the kiss, discarding his empty beverage to tug on the back of the monster's neck. The long appendage of interlocking cords tickle the back of the reporter's throat with serpentine movements that nearly make him choke, but Miles likes the feeling of being suffocated.
The automation is blazing hot under his fingers, generating a fierce heat that the brunette melts against, realizing just how much his own internal temperature had cooled without it there to regulate it.
"C'mon let's go to bed," Miles whispers as they break apart, lust thickening his voice and a sinful glint in his eyes.
Snuffing out his cigarette and abandoning any further endeavors, the reporter leads his mechanized lover along, carefully folding his hands over ruthless claws that have torn flesh from bone as they cross into the other room.
Miles is forced to a stop, paralyzed, as if struck by lightning. He feels sparks pickling along his nerves endings, the swarm of nanites absorbed into his body like a black hole, changing his usually blue eyes into bright, golden suns.
The transformation catches him by surprise, it always does. He's only felt this ultimate joining of light and dark a handful of times and it hasn't gotten any less intense.
His skin cracks open, ebony blood dripping out of the corners of his eyes, more of the same black ooze filling the healed bullet wounds in his chest, blooming and crawling down until he's covered in a full-body tattoo of pulsing black veins. It feels like he's about to burst, being pumped full of raw, metal energy until he's light-headed and dizzy.
His bare feet are lifted off the ground like some cheap magic trick, the Walrider assuming physical control of the undead reporter as a means of getting him into bed a few seconds faster.
The human host is guided towards the center of the bed, laid out on the sheets like a sacrifice to be devoured.
"Really, how romantic, sweeping me off my feet," Miles mocks, his voice sounding distorted in his ears, his own, but still somehow not.
Vaguely, he wonders what the Walrider would sound like if it had a voice. Probably something absurdly digitized, 8-bit and choppy like low-res computer speech. Or maybe it would be something much more cryptic, like distant whispers that explode into violent screams of rage and eternal agony.
The machine speaks the loudest through action, only choosing to communicate though grunts and the occasional fragments facial expressions when it has to. It's gestures are easy enough for Mile's to decipher. They can understand each other just fine without words getting in the way, but an actual verbal response would be a blessing. Then, Miles won't feel so weird for talking to himself all the time.
Six tentacles erupt from the journalist's back, three on each side of his ribcage, startling him out of his thoughts. Two curl around his nipples, becoming mirror images of themselves, while two more wrap around his abdomen and two stroke along his cock.
Miles gasps then moans, his dick giving a painful twitch as the pre-cum is squeezed out of him. It's enough to drive him insane.
"Hey, get out here," Mile's grunts through his gnash of teeth, trying to suppress the over-stimulation from shorting out his senses. His lips feel heavy, almost numb. It's probably the alcohol in his system and he hasn't exactly eaten anything substantial today, but he suspects that's only part of the overall problem.
The tentacles recede, postponing their assault on him for one curious moment.
"No, not ... not that right now," the sexually charged man huffs, "I want your body on me."
The wriggling tentacles shrink, retracting into the roots of his body from whence they came. Miles shivers, suddenly stripped of the power that comes from binding his soul to a man-made God. Maybe it's just him, but the separation feels a lot like nicotine withdrawal.
Black smoke is pouring out from around the reporter's body like an exorcism, freeing him from the sigil of dark markings and the temporary yellow eye color.
Miles takes this opportunity to eagerly rid himself of the towel and bathrobe that are doing absolutely nothing to hide his modesty.
The clouds begin to take shape. They start with a familiar set of clawed feet, then building up from there, adding on legs and a torso and further still until the entire length of the Walriders body is settling over him.
"Yeah, that's good. Like that," Miles approves, trying to regain his breath. He groans, the vibrations of the all the tiny buzzing motors setting his flesh alight, a hive mind with the sole purpose of extracting his pleasure. The man raises a leg, rubbing it along the Walrider's angular hips, the friction there stirring his loins.
The Walrider eyes are boring into him, radiant and smoldering as they study his reactions.
"Let me kiss that face," Miles says, poking his tongue into the grotesque void of it's lips, swiping his pink tongue along elongated canines that he's sure could sever it in a single bite.
The Walrider growls low, animalistic, it's ripped cheeks filling with air in what Miles can only assume is an indication of arousal. Taloned hands grip along his white thighs, hauling the man forward, bruising in their hold as they bring them flush together. The reporter whines at the brutality, the texture of the machine's skin an oddity of sensation. It feels smooth one way and rough another, even the pigment seems to change depending on the angle, a luster of green and blue creating an illusion for the eye.
"I know you don't like it, but use the lube, would you? I am not in the mood for pain," Miles admits, a pleading whimper escaping him.
The Walrider's guttural response is mostly quiet, half-hearted, but it obeys. They've been together long enough that the machine has learned to adapt, to compromise when necessary and so it doesn't carry the same defiance that would have denied Mile's requests in the past.
A new wave of dark tentacles sprout from the Walrider as it searches for the bottle, flicking open the cap and soaking a tendril in the sticky substance when the entity finds it. The demonic specter cringes, shirking around the slimy sensation it's willingly subjecting itself to, enduring it for Mile's sake.
The newly oiled apparatus wraps around Mile's erection and the brunette sobs, arching his back and bucking his hips. He feels another prod at his hole, the length of the phalanges sliding in easily once his muscles are loose enough from it's slippery ministrations.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuck," Miles curses, loving every minute of this sweet torture. The machine growls in return, pleased that it's host is enjoying himself.
"Gimme your cock, let me feel it," Miles begs, head tossed to the side, fists clenching the sheets.
One tentacle morphs, becoming a carbon copy of Miles own manhood and it's an ego boost really, the highest form of flattery despite the obscenity.
"Yeah, that's it. Thrust it into me," Miles bites down on his lip, bracing himself.
The Walrider wastes no time, piercing him hard with a single thrust, rocking into him at a pace that's too fast, but Miles can take it. The machine is still learning the concept of foreplay, to savor things like seduction instead of accomplishing a task to completion and using the most efficiently methods to get there. Miles isn't too angry about it, how can he be when getting off has become such an effective algorithm.
A new set of tentacles coil around the man's neck, holding him in place, nearly covering his whole body in a writhing mass of inky black.
"Nearly there," Miles cries in warning, waiting for that crest of gratification to hit him with a glorious wave of endorphins.
The Walrider's makeshift cock disintegrates inside him the moment he climaxes, a burst of nanites spilling out and filling him up. The ghoulish consort drinks in Miles bliss because everything that belongs to one also belongs to the other. They are a singular being split between human and machine, living and dead, angel and demon.
"Damn, I guess I needed that," Miles says, touching that amorphous face tenderly, feeling the wiry, broken flesh of it's cheeks, "But I guess you know that already, huh?"
He's still can't wrap his head around how the machine reads his desires on a molecular level, detecting chemical impulses before he even knows they exist. It's truly amazing, this unholy bond of theirs. A makeshift tongue licks at his damaged fingers, comforting him with soft touches that still feel harsh without the human slick of saliva.
The machine ducks low, licking at his host's throat, caressing soothingly over the dark rings left behind by the constricting tentacles. It does the same for his chest, moving lower to lap at the evidence of his host's release scattered across his stomach.
"Really, you don't like anything wet, but you sure as hell like doing that," Miles sneers, too tired to even laugh.
The spent human is crashing down from his high, the spike of adrenaline running it's course and sapping him of his strength. He's not at all concerned with cleaning up the mess they've made either, not when he's about to pass out.
The Walrider pulls the blankets over it's host, settling back inside his precious mortal's leaden body to wait out the thunderstorm still ravaging the woods outside.
-----------------------
Miles awakes to a rough, spirited tongue licking at his cheek, reminiscent of an affectionate pet.
"What? Round two already," Miles groans, still clinging onto sleep as he buries his face into his pillow. Claws paw at his face, replacing the previous tongue, but they are just as insistent for his attention.
The man doesn't give in and bundles himself up tighter in the blankets. An invisible force pulls the sheets back, exposing his ass to the world. Miles shudders as the post-storm air steals his warmth away. The man grumbles, reaching around to retrieve the sheet only to have the Walrider rake it's claws over the back of his legs in retaliation.
"H-hey! Watch it! You know, you're asking for a fight," Miles barks, twisting around to glare at the nagging pest.
The Waldrider doesn't seem too opposed to that idea, knowing it would win, but Miles just glowers even harder.
"Either be gentle or you're not getting any. You got me," Miles points at it accusingly, giving the machine the business because he's about to lose more than his patience.
The Walrider seems to nod at this and Miles sighs, turning around to lie on his back, flopping down on the pillows.
Miles is exceptionally irritable in the mornings, especially, before he's had a chance to read the daily news and drink his first cup of coffee. He isn't exactly the most cooperative partner and it still amazes the man that the Walrider actually listens and doesn't just tear him open and take what it wants. It's sweet in a demented sort of way.
The machine is hovering idly and Miles grows suspicious of what that could mean, wondering if now would be a good time to start being afraid. In a flash, claws rake down Mile's chest, leaving behind dark, swollen imprints. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up, to register the pain. The man gasps, breath stolen from him a mix of exhilaration and cheap, searing aches.
"You really know what gets me going, don't you," Miles hisses, arching his back to feel that dangerous pleasure again. He's so helplessly turned on that he could cum right there, his erection red and leaking, sensitive to the smallest touch, but the machine won't give it to him, not where he really needs it.
Claws slide under the human's delicate thighs, gliding over them to cup at his ass. His insides are still slick from their earlier fuck, but also slightly sore now that nails sharp enough to kill are parting him open.
"Maybe I should have taken my chances out in the rain," Miles cracks indignity.
The Walrider doesn't take kindly to that insulting remark and adds a precursor of pain to Miles sensitive hole.
"Hey! It was just a joke! Kidding! I was kidding! So testy," He deflects, but let's be honest, he's being the testy one today. It's only fair if they take turns being the testosterone-fueled meathead, right?
"Just fucking fuck me," Miles pleads, bearing down on those claws, no longer caring if it hurt, "I can't wait anymore."
His blood is burning up and he can't focus on anything other than getting off, his baser instincts dominating over the logical side of his brain. He knows that it's going to be difficult to walk around after this, but he can't say he's too worried about that right now. He'll stay in bed all day if he has to. That's what laptops are for.
The Walrider tilts it's head at him and Miles swears it raising an eyebrow, amused that it's human has been pushed to his limit already. Perhaps this shift in power was revenge for the earlier jibes and relentless teasing it endured and the man can't deny the shame that streaks across his face.
Unexpectedly, the Walrider is gentle, slow, rhythmic in it's love-making. This is different then their other couplings, less tentacles involved, but still welcomed.
The machine appraises it's host's reactions, focusing on his face, seeming to record and store the data somewhere in it's memory bank. Maybe it favors this romantic style as well and they'll be trying it out again later if he's lucky.
"Mmm," Miles hums with eyes closed, indulging in the smooth rock of the Walrider's hips connecting against his own. It's a slow build to completion, a steady heat that grows higher and higher until he tips over the edge, crying out as he falls.
The Walrider nuzzles it's host's temple of hair, it's genial purr sounding a lot like the looping whir of a fan. Claws pet over his sweaty forehead and bangs, gracing him with the same tender gestures he often bestowed upon it when it behaved. Mile's supposes he must be doing a descent job at rehabilitating a killing machine if it's possible to share moments like this.
"Good boy," Miles tells it, hooking a finger under it's jaw and kissing the pronounced mandibles that occupy it's face.
Miles lets his hand fall back down, closing his eyes with a tired, satisfied smile. He lets the Walrider fuss over him, it's mechanical tongue licking over the skin just above his heart, claws caressing his body in pennant appreciation.
There's no regret, no nightmares of the past, just an endless daydream of the two of them living out the rest of their lives together.