#but this is about walmiles | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joz-yyh · 4 months

Text

Love Host - Ch. 7

SUMMARY: The fugitive reporter is reunited with his jeep, but things are never that easy, not for Miles Upshur. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: M (blood / gore / death / violence / swearing)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 3,113

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Hey ya'll, it's been awhile. I've had this in my WIP folder for over a year, but thanks to the kind words of tumbler users @is-gw and @drwernicke, I found the motivation to finish it. Dedicating this chapter to you both! Hope it was worth the wait.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–——

The white-knuckled grip Miles wrings upon the steering wheel somehow squeezes tighter, making the leather squeak, skin pinching under the strain.

He can't help it, becoming more manic, pressing further and further into the dashboard like some crazed getaway driver, laying hard onto the gas, the speedometer pushing past 80 mph.

He glances to his right, the state map he picked up from an old fashioned gas station about 10 miles back is spread out onto the passenger's seat, hastily drawn symbols and magic marker lines indicating the specific coordinates Waylon had given him.

This was it, the final stretch. A few more strips of asphalt and he'd reach his destination whether he was ready for it or not.

Up ahead, Miles finds remnants of an old car accident, winding tread marks of burnt rubber spiraling out across the road, stray pieces of metal swept into the shoulder of a bent guard rail.

He pulls off to the side next to it, the rumble of the speed strip jostling his tire shocks, his brakes screeching to a halt because he's thinking about a million other things right now, but not about how to park outside the white line.

Thankfully, no one's around to see the embarrassing stint, the secluded mountain side looking safe and serene to the unsuspecting tourist, but an investigative journalist knew better. This was the perfect place to stage an ambush.

Miles takes a few stabilizing breaths, preparing himself before he exits the car. He stands, lingering by the driver's side door, huddling around it in case he has to jump back inside, waiting for any obvious threats to make their move.

Nothing happens, just clear skies and empty roadside.

Nerves still tingling with goosebumps, the anxious reporter leaves the safety net of Trager's four-door sedan, jogging over to the trail of wreckage, old tire impressions tumbling down into the ravine below.

He can see it, there in the woods, bright red coloring hidden behind shaved pine trees, a distinct trail leading from matted reeds into dense underbrush.

As much as Miles wants to sprint down, the human host forces himself to be cautious because the last thing he needs is to do something stupid like trip and break an ankle.

Steadily, he descends the slope, retracing the wheel’s path through the overgrown grass, ducking past branches until he's under the cover of trees, the sun blotted out, everything going a shade darker and a degree cooler.

His beloved jeep remains his beacon in the shadows, running towards it’s familiar guise, climbing over fallen tree trunks and the brown crunch of decaying leaves.

He's almost frantic in his pursuit, as if the flashy hunk of metal will disappear the moment he touches it, a cruel mirage of his mind, but his jeep is real, it's here and he can feel it.

His needs a minute to settle, to accept the reality, his body no longer fixated with surprise attacks, relaxing as he runs his hand along the jeep's frame, taking note of all the various scratches and dents that he can't remember being there before.

So much had changed in just a few short days and neither of them, man or machine were quite the same as they once were.

“Hey, remember me,” Miles says to the oversized keepsake, getting a little choked up by the reunion, “I can’t believe you're still in one piece.”

His bandaged fingers slide over the sporty door frame, following the seam of interlocking parts down to the door handle, tugging it open.

The seat’s been moved, a noticeably tighter fit as he wedges his legs inside, adjusting the position so it's more comfortable to his height.

His flashy press pass is right where he left it, dangling faithfully from his rear-view mirror, burnished by a ray of light.

The reporter smiles, bittersweet, turning over the flimsy plastic in his hand, his grip on the ID growing heavy.

The emotional brunette folds himself over the steering wheel in awkward hug, a horrific memory coming back to haunt him in true PTSD fashion.

Miles wouldn't be here now if it wasn't for O'Neil – just another civilian reporter assigned to the same mission he was, caught in the crossfire, blown away by the indiscriminate bombs of war.

It could have just as easily been Miles who died that day, years ago, during his tour in Afghanistan, but it wasn't and now he's stuck reliving the event, watching the rookie from behind the viewfinder of his camera, there and then suddenly not, taken by an explosive wave of dirt and smoke, no body to be found, nothing left of him except for his rundown jeep.

He'd seen so many lost souls, innocent lives sacrificed to feed the campaign of big oil and wealthy politicians, but this young man's violent end hit differently than the rest, a razor blade of barbed wire coiled deeply around his heart.

He hopes O'Neil is proud of the work he's done, that he's watching from somewhere, that he knows how close Miles is to crucifying the vile corporation that started it all.

There's a tug at the back of his mind, a treacherous dark sea, not quite his subconscious (he's learned to tell the difference), but the Walrider – it vies for his attention, warning him of a threat.

“What is it," Miles asks dazedly, looking up from his latticework of crossed arms, wiping at the melancholy sting in his eyes.

His symbiotic partner supplies him with snapshots, images of black combat boots and riot gear flickering across his eyes, a tactical team forming a perimeter around the woods.

The hairs in the back of his neck are standing on end, his nerves firing like pistons, his stomach dropping.

"Oh God," Miles whispers, nanites skirting his vision, "they’re here, aren’t they?"

The reporter is losing it, becoming a panicked, irrational mess.

“I knew they would be. I knew, and I still couldn’t stay away. What … what does that mean,” the host rambles, feeling his emotions break down into all the stages of grief.

“I am sorry for bringing you out here," Miles tells the machine, convinced that this was their last stand, that he had to make some poor amends for all his mistakes, "I am sorry for everything.”

The Walrider manifests itself, bony phalanges gripping its host's tear-stained cheeks, forcing the man to behold the eerie gleam of its eyes.

Captivated, Miles stares back, searching the abyss, the Walrider trying it's damnedest to convey an emotion that it’s not equipped to express.

“How many,” the host asks, his tone a terrified reservation.

The nanties bristle, swirling in urgent, jagged loops.

“Oh God," Miles breathes, the dread building, his voice doused with buckets of ice water, "too many."

With a painful sigh, he holds the machine in a similar embrace, stroking along the creature’s cheek, joining their heads together. It helps him think, clears away the hysteria.

“What should we do,” he asks after a beat, feeling so fucking pathetic for relying on his demonic counterpart for guidance, that he still not grown enough to handle this shit on his own.

Forget the self-depreciation. Focus. They need a plan, some means of escape.

Utilizing his jeep was a possible strategy, but that's assuming the engine still runs and he manages to Dukes-of-Hazzard his way out the woods and up the ravine.

A word flashes before the human's mind, the Walrider offering an idea.

'REVENGE.'

Miles understands the concept all too well, holding an intimate connection to the first act of vigilante justice they committed together, his partner offering him the same satisfaction again.

Miles doesn't need any more convincing. His blue eyes harden, borderline arrogant.

“Alright," the rebel declares, seeking the entity's affirmation, "you ready for this?"

The Walrider trills in his head, the nanites bursting from his veins with heady anticipation, muscles bulking with superhuman strength.

It's a good enough answer for Miles, his lips pulled back into a toothy grin.

“Lets show ‘em who they’re fucking with," Miles roars, eyes drowning in a sea of onyx, irises flaring into molten rings of gold.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t black out like he has in the past.

Maybe, it's because they've had more time to assimilate to their new way of life or maybe it's because Miles is more stable than he was before (unlikely as it is), but whatever the reason, the Walrider gives him complete control of their subplanted body.

Miles only has two eyes, but somehow his sight compounds into a crystal ball of surveillance monitors: helmets, rifles, tactile gear closing in around him, subtle clacks of movement showing a group of mercenaries laying in wait ahead.

If this was how the Walrider saw the world, why did it have to be so head-spinningly complicated?

Walmiles raises his hand, the nanites assembling along it, forming a giant stygian blade. With one effortless swipe, he slices through the armed forces, severed torsos thudding like timber, trees raining down upon the clearing, shaking the earth beneath his feet, crushing the dismembered bodies they once resided by.

Miles only has a moment to reflect on his homage to b-movie slasher flicks before he feels another psychic tug, their shared consciousness directing him towards another raid of enemy gunmen.

The freelance demigod in a jacket goes down the line, annihilates the hired hands one by one, bursting their insides like bloody fucking party balloons.

Another team approaches from his left, 9 o'clock.

He sends a swarm of nanites hurtling in their direction, burrowing into the mercenaries flesh like bullets, their death thralls echoing up into the placid blue sky, scaring away the birds.

He can feel the soldier's minds, read their blood: terror, confusion, helplessness and Miles pushes it all down, takes control of one of the surviving merc's trigger fingers and aims the rifle at what remains of his comrades in arms. Once the deed’s been done, the man-made killing machine pops his puppet's skull wide open, a signet bouquet of gorey brain matter, the lone merc's headless, lifeless body crumpling atop a growing pile of corpses.

It's quiet. It almost feels like it's over, but it's just the calm before the storm.

A ricochet bullet whizzes past the jeep's hood, shattering one of the headlights.

The sound distracts the murderous brunette, having narrowly dodged a bullet one or twice before, more war flashbacks coming to flood his psyche with devastating consequences.

A second shot rings out, the bullet hitting it's mark, Miles pierced through the chest by the precise aim of a sniper.

Suddenly, his confidence plummets, their synchronization interrupted because Miles is caught in an erroneous loop of relieving his own death, terrified that he'd failed his mission not once, but twice.

“Am I … are we …?”

‘Dead’ is what he wants to ask, but all he can do is look down at his hands, watch as they tremble, his vision fading at the edges, going blurry.

The Walrider takes over, becoming the dominant personality, sailing through the air in a swarm of nanite clouds, tracking the bullet's trajectory back to it's source.

The soldier attempts to shoot the dark angel down, but it becomes exceedingly apparent that he can’t, abandoning his post to run.

The Walrider catches its prey, squeezes the life out of the foolish villain that dared to injure it's precious host, crushing the vile human's neck under its claws.

Another shot, gouging Walmiles through the shoulder, from behind. Just how many snipers did Murkoff pull in for this job?

The Walrider gladly applies the same tactics to silence this menace as well, nanites beating like giant wings.

Miles recovers, insists on wrestling back control, “Stop, we need him alive.”

The Walrider remains skeptical of it's host's judgment, holding the second sniper by the collar, bringing him towards an intimidating stare of cracked, oozing flesh.

“I want you to do something for me," says the warbled voice, the Walrider and Miles speaking together as one singular being, "Tell the ones who hired you, I am coming for them. Tell them, I am going to burn their lives to the ground, that there will be nothing left after I am done because they'll all be dead.”

Miles pauses in his speech, staring into the young marksman's eyes, assessing how human they are, “You got all that?”

The soldier is too scared to speak, merely nodding his compliance.

"Good. Off you go, then,” Miles instructs, letting the man drop, shoving him towards his objective, “And be sure to leave the gun.”

The sniper stumbles, regaining his balance, still coming to terms with what the fuck just happened, running off to deliver his message.

SHHHWWOOOOOOMMM!!!

The booming speed of a jet sails overhead, poised for an airstrike.

"You gotta to be fucking kidding me with this shit,” the host snarls, annoyed that Murkoff would send in goddman fighter jet of all things just to take him out.

Mitigating damage indeed.

Miles runs, jumps as far away as he can, an explosive missile detonating a few hundred feet away, setting the woods ablaze, a shield of nanobots protecting him from the conflagration.

He lies flat onto his stomach, hands laced behind his head, waits for the danger to pass before he makes another move.

“Christ, almighty, please tell me my jeep is OK,” Miles pleads into the surrounding hollow of dirt.

He's never been the religious type, but it doesn't stop him from praying that his beloved bucket of bolts is still intact, spared from the destruction.

He sorts through the disaster of dancing flames to find it, a whorl of nanobots snuffing out a path and thank God it's still standing, left unharmed (for the most part).

He pats the vehicle free of the surrounding orange embers, laments over the burn marks bubbling the paint, but that was purely cosmetic amenity in the grand scheme of things.

“Holy shit,” Miles pants in relief, leaning against the hood, allowing himself a well deserved reprieve.

He's hobbling as he maneuvers, feeling just a bit achy and sore from his new set of matching gunshot wounds, stifled by the heat of the forest fire still rampaging on around them, sweat mixing with the blood and ash on his face.

“Now what,” he asks out into the open air, having no clue where to go from here.

The Walrider’s conscience swipes across his mind again, another suggestion that could just as easily be mistaken for his own thought process.

The machine searches his memory bank, shows him a grainy reel of a strong man lifting a barbell.

“Can you really lift something like this?”

Another old movie clip of a floating car, minus the futuristic wings.

“Have we done this before?"

If they have, he has no recollection of it, the Walrider demonstrating its strength, nanites wrapping around the automobile, transporting it back up onto the road.

As he watches the superhuman display, tires gently resting back upon the black turf of the highway, Miles almost doesn't have words, (the keyword there being almost).

"Oh, well, that was easy.”

The machine can't appreciate his excellent comedic timing, but that's OK, he can laugh at his own joke.

“Lemme just go grab my stuff," Miles tells his chivalrous paralysis demon, clambering up the hill the old fashioned way despite having the ability to “fly” above it instead.

He retrieves his duffel bags, Miles transferring them to his jeep, starting up the ignition, but of course it has one last fatal flaw: it's out of gas.

“At least it's out of the ditch,” the journalist sighs, slumping back into the driver’s seat, needing a vacation after suffering through this exhausting debacle.

It's fine. He's sure Trager's car has a dodgy siphoning hose hiding somewhere in the trunk he can use.

—---

“So, what are you thinking,” Paul Marion asks, plucking at his gums with a toothpick, having just finished his lunch, "Did we get him?”

"Hard to say,” Glick muses, leaning down to drag her fingers through the soot, grinding it between her thumb and forefinger. “Upshur certainly did some damage. It's interfering with our readings.”

“I imagine he would,” the blonde haired agent replies, watching gray smoke filter up from the charred ground, “judging by the state he left the asylum in.”

He's just glad they don't have to go rifling through the crime scene (there were other people for that), the fire now extinguished thanks to an airdrop of sand, but that meant a stark film of contamination hung over their investigation.

His female counterpart is silent, framing a scenario in her mind based on the reports. The body count, time table, and radiation readings told her it was possible Miles was dead, but her job was never that easy.

“We using the usual cover story, then,” Marion asks, leaving the toothpick to hang between his lips, shoving hands inside his pockets, taking in the great outdoors, “stupid drunk teenagers lit a campfire in the woods. Let it get out of control?”

Pauline doesn't offer an answer, an underling assisting with the clean up approaching them in light of some recent development.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the grunt agent cuts in, “a witness has come forward.”

“A witness,” she parrots with snarky red lips, her fine brows curved into speculative intrigue.

“Golly, you mean to tell me someone actually survived this mess,” Paul whistles, chuckling to himself, stepping up to his sleek-suited partner.

“One of the ground team says he has a message from Miles Upshur,” the grunt confirms.

“Oh, this keeps getting better and better,” Marion grins, radiating sarcastic anticipation, wondering what kind of juicy gossip they were about to hear.

“You'd better let me handle this,” the she-devil with a gun insists, leaving her partner in the dust.

“Not enough clearance, huh?”

“Hmm, something like that.”

“Any word on Park,” her yellow stouted partner asks, hoping to entertain himself with this nugget of info while she's gone.

“No, still in the wind,” Pauline sighs, “He’s covered up his tracks pretty well so far, but he’ll mess up. They always do.”

"Ma'am," the lowly grunt accosts, reminding Ms Glick of the lone survivor waiting to be interrogated.

"What are you gonna do with him,” Marion persists, fishing for more intel.

"Take him back to HQ for questioning,” she hisses, frustrated with Marion's pestering, “He might remember something that will give us a clue. Upshur and Park were accomplices before. Maybe one can lead us to the other.”

“Love the way you think, miss piggy,” he taunts, watching her stalk away, fists clenched.

“Don't make me shoot you in the mouth too,” Pauline scoffs.

#outlast #the walrider #walrider #miles upshur #walmiles #my writing #the pauls #outlast fanfiction #love host #outlast whistleblower #paul marion #pauline glick #blood and gore #violence

4 notes · View notes

joz-yyh · 2 years

Text

Love Host - Ch. 5 Preview

SUMMARY: A prequel to my fic, “Good Boy.” Takes place during the final scene of the game and the journey home afterwards. Miles becomes the host and the Walrider intends to consummate their bond. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (PREVIEW ONLY for swearing). The rest of the fic is rated E (for tentacle sex / xenophilia)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles) WORD COUNT: 2,562

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

The door to the old-timey diner rattles open, clanking against the glass, causing Miles to look up from his rumpled newspaper. A man dressed head to toe in denim walks in, a bow-legged swagger befitting the cowboy hat and boots, his bull-rider belt buckle glaring with a polished shine. It's definitely not the person Miles is waiting for so, he returns to nursing his coffee and keeping tabs on everyone who passes through.

"Need a refill," the waitress asks, coffee pot poised in her hand.

Miles turns towards the young redhead dressed in a vintage diner uniform and white apron, a dreamy look captivating his eyes at the promise of more caffeine.

"Sure, Becky," the reporter says after glancing at her name tag, holding out his cup for her to top it off.

"Is there anything else I can get you," she asks sweetly.

"I am good for now, thank you. Waiting for a friend," he smiles at her, charming when he needs to be, and she gives him one to match.

"Just holler if you need anything," says the twenty-something year old gal before she excuses herself away from his lonely booth in the corner, her curled bangs ponytail bobbing along with her.

Miles hears the trademark jingle bells of another patron entering the outdated decor of chrome and checkered tile, following the telltale sound with his eyes. With one look, Miles is convinced -- this man must be the notorious whistleblower he's been reading about. The man reeks of nervous energy and ripe paranoia, definitely the nerdy, introverted type judging by the dyed blonde hair and the casual flannel shirt with blue jeans.

"Waylon," Miles calls out from his booth, waving him over with a raised hand above his head.

The skittish man visibly flinches, deer caught in headlights, an absolutely priceless reaction. Waylon's giving off the distinct impression that he's about to make a run for it and bolt right back out the door and if so, the edgy reporter is going to handle things in the same vein as the Walrider and chase his scrawny ass down and throw him inside the trunk of his car for a little one on one chat.

Thankfully, Miles doesn't have to resort to such crude tactics because the blonde treads further inside, albeit cautiously, offering up remorseful pleasantries to the surrounding guests for disturbing the peace. The timid man bows forward in an effort to make his height appear smaller, apologetic, pacifying the assortment of stares he encounters with friendly gesticulations.

The techie's procession of moral posturing is excessive in Miles’ opinion, but the lumbering gait in which he does it is the most compelling detail. It tells of an injury, probably recently obtained by his guarded menial limp. Seems like the blonde is still not used to walking on it, one sneaker shuffling across the linoleum floor as the other takes the majority of the weight.

The engineer wedges himself between the table, his gimp right leg carrying him dutifully as he sits down in the seat opposite of Miles, his cute facade dropping into a reproachful death glare now that they're in a more private, face to face setting.

"Did you really have to announce it to everyone," Waylon mutters, fidgeting in his seat, making the cushions squeak, "I am trying to keep a low profile."

The nonchalant journalist shrugs, slouching back against the polished vinyl seat cushions, cigarette held between his bandaged fingers.

Miles is sizing up the other male, having been looking forward to meeting him in person, and the "adorable kitten that wouldn't harm a fly" exterior is concealing a feral side of teeth and claws, however modest and nonlethal they may be.

"Figured you wouldn't see me here all the way in the back. Thought, I'd make it easier for you," Miles explains, a generalization disguised as a courtesy. Now that he's seen just how easy it is to get under Waylon's skin, the investigative reporter finds sadistic appeal in the sport of ruffling this guy's feathers.

Waylon cringes at the apparent thoughtfulness, trying to err on the side of politeness, but the visage is brittle at best.

"Thanks," the grimace that takes over the blonde programmer's face makes it look like it physically hurts him to say it. "Do me a favor and be a little more tactful, please."

Miles takes minor (and by minor I mean major) offense to the beseechment. He can be tactful – he could make "tact" his middle name if he really wanted to. It was simply a matter of personal preference that he chooses not to.

"Can't say how nice it is to finally meet you in person," Miles remarks, a bite of sarcasm to his words.

Injured hands fold up the spread out newspaper taking up space on the tabletop, tossing it in Waylon direction before the blonde can say anything else that might be considered offensive (namely about his missing fingers).

Waylon looks down at the newsprint, skimming the text. It's a press release about Murkoff corp. They claim no direct involvement or knowledge of the crimes of their subsidiaries. A spokesman assures that the company is just as distraught and disturbed by these recent events as anyone and in an effort of goodwill, they'll be donating to the affected families and a few select charity projects.

Waylon laughs louder than he intends to, catches himself midway in the act, glancing around self-consciously at the other clientele before quieting down.

"Can't say I expected much else," Waylon sighs, exasperated. He's pulling at his short, choppy bangs, lobbing the affronting newspaper back at the one who served him with it.

“And I still can't believe you came today," Miles says, cigarette caught between his lips now. He catches the folded up pages as they slide across the smooth surface of the table, tucking it inside his jacket pocket for safe keeping.

"Same to you," the techie says, "When Peacock told me Miles Upshur wanted to meet with me, I thought for sure it was a trap set up by you know who, but then I saw the news broadcast and I needed to know what happened after …" the blonde chokes up, a scowl weighing his head down. "You never would have been there if it wasn't for me…," the guilt-ridden man whispers to himself, almost an octave too low for the other to hear, hands clenched into fists.

Miles is silent for a long minute, his cigarette dangling along his bottom lip in a frown. He takes a deep inhale, the strong hit of nicotine making his brain tingle, blowing out the second hand smoke towards the other's face.

"Can you put that out," Waylon grits, trying not to gag. He pinches his nose shut and fans away the fetid fumes from his face.

"No," Miles declares matter-o-factly, looking very smug about his decision to antagonize the other. He even goes so far as to accentuate the little flicks he gives to the filter, dabbing the burning end into the ashtray before going in for another long drag.

Waylon's pained expression only serves to elevate Miles' good mood into a great one because he prefers to see the software engineer's angry side instead of a mopey shell of what he assumes to be his former self and he's certainly accomplished that much.

Borrowing Waylon's words since he put it so eloquently, "You know who is on clean up duty. We’re on borrowed time and I need to know that I can trust you."

"I mean, I don't get it," Waylon's eyebrows arch, looking utterly perplexed by the enigma that is Miles Upshur, "Aren't we in the same boat here? What would I have to gain by turning you in?"

"Immunity," Miles says off-handedly, not really meaning it, just messing with the blonde a little, wanting to see how he would handle a pitch thrown out of left field.

Waylon grits his teeth, his shoulders bunching up as he bristles, the intensity in eyes a proponent story of doom and gloom. He slides his forearms across the table, chopping through the air with the seriousness of what he’s about to say.

"We’re their personal playthings, the whole goddamn world is. They treat their own employees like drones, experimental lab rats when it serves them. They did the same to me when they found out what I was doing and you think I would risk working with them again? For God’s sake, they're all psychotic bastards Miles. They have no conscience, no morals, no loyalty. Everyone is expendable to them, including me," Waylon is doing his best to sound convincing, putting all his shoulda-woulda-coulda emotions into the delivery of his little speech.

"Fair point," Miles agrees, a little too quickly for Waylon's taste, the other man expecting him to put up more of a fuss.

"Sorry, if I seem a bit testy," Miles continues, "I am what the military affectionately refers to as, ‘FUBAR.’"

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Waylon laments, averting his gaze as he wrings his hands on the counter, “For what it’s worth, I am sorry…”

Maybe the brunette was being petty, but he couldn’t get soft, not when he needed to strip away the socially acceptable veneer to see the bare-bones hidden underneath, dissect and analyze what really made Waylon tick -- his personality, his character -- a necessary interrogation tactic he learned during the war.

Karma seems to bite him in the ass in the next instant because Miles breaks out into a cold sweat, his eyes nearly bulging out his skull when he sees the full-form of the Walrider involuntarily manifest itself beside Waylon.

FuckFuckFuck. What is happening right now. He told it to stay out of sight.

The demon's claws are playing with the overgrown splay of blonde hairs near Waylon’s ear and the man brushes a hand through the coarse strands to dismiss the odd itch, totally unassuming.

Miles' inner voice urges him to remain calm, to act casual, but it's hard when the Walrider is loose, twice as deadly as a rampaging bull in a china shop and the host can only pray that it doesn’t do anything too extreme that might compromise their whereabouts or identities.

Likewise, even the unsuspecting engineer hasn’t noticed the addition of a third wheel to their group, too busy trying to figure out the reason behind the sudden change in the journalist's demeanor. At first the blonde attributes it to the sensitive subject of his apology, but Miles is the picture of a nuclear meltdown so, the techie follows the direction of Miles' stare, and yeah maybe the room seems a little darker, ominous now that the sunlight is fading, but there's something else that's different, he just can't tell what exactly.

"Does it feel colder in here to you," Waylon asks, shivering from the eerie vibe that’s circulating around him.

Miles is getting just a little jealous because he can’t believe the Walrider breached the sanctity of his skin just to fucking play with Waylon like they're old fucking friends. (Though admittedly, Miles was at fault for having started this game. He's been picking on Waylon since the start of their meeting so he can't really condemn his companion for doing the same).

"OK, so don't freak out," Miles gripes, attending to his headache, eyes clamped shut so he doesn't have to meet Waylon's eyes.

"Miles …” Waylon warns, impending dread creeping into his voice, “what are you saying? Freak out about what?"

"Alright,” Miles sighs heavily, tormented by breaking a vow of secrecy, " it’s ... it's the Walrider."

"The Walrider," Waylon echoes distantly, tilting his head just slightly, one eyebrow arched as he searches for the context of what that could mean.

As if on cue, the programmer feels another ghostly touch start near his temple and realization hits him like a brick to the face.

The blonde flounders in his seat, knees hitting the underside of the table with a loud clatter. His frightened eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for the source of the touch, coddling the side of his face that was violated.

The machine releases a pleased growl at this reaction and Miles can tell it's having way too much fun with the size of it's toothy grin.

"I told you not to freak out," Miles grunts, annoyed by the fact that everyone is refusing to listen to him today.

Waylon shuttles himself into the dead-end wall of the booth, redirects his gaze back at Miles, his lungs looking like they're going to burst out of his chest because he wants to scream, but he's trying his best not to.

"Holy shit," the distressed man curses, keeping his voice down, clutching at his shirt where his heart is beating frantically, "It's here? Y-you ... you have it with you?"

"Where else would I keep it, genius," is the brunette's terse reply, his headache getting worse, “it needs a host, remember? Didn't you help design the thing?"

Waylon shakes his head, "C-code… I helped code, but I didn't know ... I-I thought that..." Waylon trails off, unsure if it would be wise to say what he's really thinking.

"Fine, whatever – just calm down. It's not gunna hurt you,” Miles says, trying to reassure the other man that he wasn’t in any danger, "If anything, I think it likes you."

“Uh, I am not sure how to take that, actually.” Waylon answers honestly, a nervous laugh escaping him as he unfurls himself from the terror-stricken ball he’s contorted himself into.

"Wow, rude," Miles remarks flippantly, " You could at least have the decency to say, 'hello.'"

Waylon looks toward the faint outline of a dusty, abstract shadow, his brief session in the morphogenic engine still imbuing him with a tattered link to the weapon of mass destruction.

"Oh. Right. Uh ... " Waylon mumbles, trying to get his brain to un-panic itself, “H-hello?"

The Walrider seems to buzz happily, trilling at him and Waylon is settled enough to sit properly in his seat again, his shoulder still pressed against the wall to distance himself from the other side of the booth where the entity resides.

"Are you telling me it's friendly,” Waylon whispers suspiciously, trying to mask his words from the AI by cupping a hand around his lips.

"More than friendly," Miles declares with a seedy grin.

Waylon doesn't want to dive too deeply into that insinuation, white-washes the thought with another question before he can think too hard about the atrocities Miles committed in the name of xenophilia.

{End Prieview}

#my writing #love host #walmiles #walrider #miles upshur #waylon park #outlast #walmiles fanfiction #outlast fanfiction #the walrider #listen guys #waylon and miles will eventually be bros #but for now #they go tit for tat #it's called character deveolpment #they're not going to automatically like each other right away #give it time ya'll

5 notes · View notes

joz-yyh · 2 years

Text

Love Host - Ch. 5

RATING: E (for tentacle sex / xenophilia)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 5,8392

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Miles meets up with Waylon at a diner and their tentative alliance is off to a rocky start. Also, the Walrider misbehaves a bit. The Murkoff goons that Miles has been avoiding are going to rear their ugly heads soon and it’s not going to be pretty (probably next chapter). PS. Sorry to cut off the love scene like that, but this update is already hella long so I am going to continue it in the next one. On another note, I feel like it’s important to point out that Miles and Waylon will eventually be bros, but you gotta give the characters time to develop y’all, they’re not going to like each other right away.

The door to the old-timey diner rattles open, clanking against the glass, causing Miles to look up from his rumpled newspaper. A man dressed head to toe in denim walks in, a bow-legged swagger befitting the cowboy hat and boots, his belt buckle glaring with a polished shine. It's definitely not the person Miles is waiting for, so he returns to nursing his coffee and keeping tabs on everyone who passes through.

"Need a refill," the waitress asks, coffee pot poised in her hand.

Miles turns towards the young redhead dressed in a vintage diner uniform and white apron, a dreamy look captivating his eyes at the promise of more caffeine.

"Sure, Becky," the reporter says after glancing at her name tag, holding out his cup for her to top it off.

"Is there anything else I can get you," she asks sweetly.

"I am good for now, thank you. Waiting for a friend," he smiles at her, charming when he needs to be, and she gives him one to match.

"Just holler if you need anything," says the twenty-something year old gal before she excuses herself away from his lonely booth in the corner, her curled bangs ponytail bobbing along with her.

"Waylon," Miles calls out from his booth, waving him over with a hand above his head.

The techie's noble posturing is excessive in Miles’ opinion, but the lumbering gait in which he does it reveals a most compelling detail. It tells of an injury, probably recently obtained by the careful, menial guard he keeps over the limp. Seems like the blonde is still not used to walking on it, one sneaker shuffling across the linoleum floor as his left side takes the majority of the weight.

"Did you really have to announce it to everyone," Waylon mutters, fidgeting in his seat, making the cushions squeak, "I am trying to keep a low profile."

The nonchalant journalist shrugs, slouching back against the polished vinyl seat cushions, cigarette held between his bandaged fingers.

Waylon cringes at the apparent thoughtfulness, trying to err on the side of politeness, but the visage is brittle at best. "Thanks," the grimace that takes over the blonde programmer's face makes it look like it physically hurts him to say it. "Do me a favor and be a little more tactful, please."

Miles takes minor (and by minor I mean major) offense to the beseechment. He can be tactful – he could make "tact" his middle name if he really wanted to. It's simply a matter of personal preference that he chooses not to.

"Can't say how nice it is to finally meet you in person," Miles remarks, a bite of sarcasm to his words.

Waylon laughs louder than he intends to, catches himself midway in the act, glancing around self-consciously at the other clientele before quieting down.

"Can't say I expected much else," Waylon sighs, exasperated. He's pulling at his short, choppy bangs, lobbing the affronting newspaper back at the one who served him with it.

"Same to you," the techie says, "When Peacock told me Miles Upshur wanted to meet with me, I thought for sure it was a trap set up by you know who, but then I saw the news broadcast and I needed to know what happened after …" the blonde chokes up, a scowl weighing his head down. "You never would have been there if it wasn't for me��," the guilt-ridden man whispers to himself, almost an octave too low for the other to hear, hands clenched into fists.

"Can you put that out," Waylon grits, trying not to gag. He pinches his nose shut and fans away the fetid fumes from his face.

Borrowing Waylon's words since he put it so eloquently, "You know who is on clean up duty. We’re on borrowed time and I need to know that I can trust you."

"I mean, I don't get it," Waylon's eyebrows arch, looking utterly perplexed by the enigma that is Miles Upshur, "Aren't we in the same boat here? What would I have to gain by turning you in?"

"Immunity," Miles says off-handedly, not really meaning it, just messing with the blonde a little, wanting to see how he would handle a pitch thrown out of left field.

"We’re their personal playthings, the whole goddamn world is. They treat their own employees like drones, experimental lab rats when it serves them. They did the same to me when they found out what I was doing and you think I would risk working with them again? For godssake, they're all psychotic bastards Miles. They have no conscience, no morals, no loyalty. Everyone is expendable to them, including me," Waylon is doing his best to sound convincing, putting all his shoulda-woulda-coulda emotions into the delivery of his little speech.

"Fair point," Miles agrees, a little too quickly for Waylon's taste, the other man expecting him to put up more of a fuss.

"Sorry, if I seem a bit testy," Miles continues, "I am what the military affectionately refers to as, ‘FUBAR.’"

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Waylon laments, averting his gaze as he wrings his hands on the counter, “For what it’s worth, I am sorry…”

Miles feels a pang of guilt for teasing the blonde, not expecting the apology. The fellow asylum survivor knows he should probably return the sentiment, contemplates doing so, but a grudge of self-righteous anger impedes him and he’s stubborn to offer one. Maybe the brunette was being petty, but he couldn’t get soft, not when he needed to strip away the socially acceptable veneer to see the bare-bones hidden underneath, dissect and analyze what really made Waylon tick -- his personality, his character -- a necessary interrogation tactic he learned during the war.

FuckFuckFuck. What is happening right now. He told it to stay out of sight.

The demon's claws are playing with the overgrown splay of blonde hairs near Waylon’s ear and the man brushes a hand through the coarse strands to dismiss the odd itch, totally unassuming.

The brunette shifts his gaze, checking his surroundings, hoping that no one else can see the menacing creature that is being very naughty right now. There's no blood-curdling screams, no ensuing hysterics or chaos, just business carrying on as usual so, maybe everyone really is completely oblivious to the nature of the company that they're in. Likewise, even the unsuspecting engineer hasn’t noticed the addition of a third wheel to their group, too busy trying to figure out the reason behind the sudden change in the journalist's cavalier attitude. At first the blonde attributes it to the sensitive subject of his apology, but Miles is the picture of a nuclear meltdown so, the techie follows the direction of Miles' stare, and yeah maybe the room seems a little darker, ominous now that the sunlight is fading, but there's something else that's different, he just can't tell what exactly.

"Does it feel colder in here to you," Waylon asks, shivering from the eerie vibe that’s circulating around him.

Miles is getting just a little jealous because he can’t believe the Walrider breached the sanctity of his skin just to play with Waylon like they're old fucking friends. (Though admittedly, Miles was at fault for having started this game. He's been picking on Waylon since the start of their meeting so he can't really condemn his companion for doing the same).