#crack. / MILES UPSHUR.

[iceysnow]

Red barrels should release an official spin-off series where they all take crack. in other words, in almost 5 am where I live.

[damagecompilation-a]

chewing on miles affectionately, does he know. chewing on miles. biting him. BITING

"GODDAM-" Abruptly cuts himself off before he's carefully ushering offending creachur towards the door with pained grunts, making sure no piece of flesh was taken with. "Off, off, you little-!!!" Prys thumb between jaws and his arm and yEETS THEM OUT.

[drwernicke]

I started writing about Miles' feelings in this one-sided camerashipping AU where he's living with the Parks, but then I decided to explore Waylon's side of things as well, and it turned into something like a fic. So uh. I'll just put it down here?

_______________________________________ Miles feels like… what the fuck even is he anymore? Undead? He's a monster, certainly, and that monstrosity is useful, but he feels like a strange warped, mockery of his former self. There's a power in hosting the Walrider, but it comes at the cost of his humanity and he knows he's frightening to Waylon. He's always told himself he doesn't need anyone else, and bringing down Murkoff is what matters, but now that's what he's been locked into, there are no other options /at all/. It's what he's wanted, isn't it? He does want it. But he's also been through something he can't even begin to process, and being the Walrider's host is deeply violating on even the cellular level. But he's not allowed to process that either, because where does that lead? He can't stop it. He shouldn't even want to stop it. He's always been fine alone, he shouldn't want company now.

But still human or not, trauma is a powerful neurochemical. Waylon is the only other man who's been through the same hell, and he's also risked everything he has to bring down Murkoff. They're aligned in their goals and were both willing to risk everything. And Waylon's still human, he has a family who loves him. Miles isn't jealous, but it also drives home how definitively, unchangeably isolated he is now. He's never really been able to connect even with any of the men he'd dated in the past, simply because they weren't ever 100% politically aligned with him, or he found something about them offputting, they were too superficial, etc. Maybe he was making excuses because life was easier alone, and nobody would care about the world like he does. About the things he fucking gives a shit about, like children in third world countries not dying of dehydration. Too bad fucking Brad wanted to talk forever about the shitty coffee at 7/11 instead.

Miles knows he should be grateful for what he's become. But there's so much he misses, now that he can't have it ever -- and he supposes that at least shows he still has a human mind in some way, weak and stupid and flawed. If he's never wanted it, why does he mourn it now? Why does it feel like every time Waylon is kind to him, that his sanity is teetering on the edge of some awful precipice overlooking some awful abyss, at the bottom of which rests a beast known as resentment and violence?

Maybe he's taking everything he can't have, can no longer have, and projecting it on Waylon as a symbol for it all. But there had been a few moments in hell itself, perhaps in the administration block, when he'd wondered what their lives would be like if they survived this nightmare together. There's things you can't go through without it changing you fundamentally from the ground up, and then whether you want it or not, you're entangled with whoever else went through the meat grinder with you, like quantum states. Waylon has more commitment to setting right what he can of the world than any man Miles had ever been with. But Waylon Park is fucking alive, and Miles Upshur is a rotting corpse of a man held upright by a murderous nanohazard.

And the fucking punchline to the whole shitshow: Waylon Park has a wife, and two kids, and there was something comical in that the first crack in Miles' sense of self would be to latch onto a married man. He can tell Waylon's kindness is strained. And why the fuck wouldn't it be? He has a dead man living in his house, and that dead man is a weapon. You show kindness to the weapon, because you don't know if it'll kill you, or worse, make you feel guilty for indirectly killing what it was in the first place.

Most nights, Miles drinks enough coffee it would give him a heart attack if he still had a working heart, because he doesn't trust himself with REM sleep. _______________________________________

Not everyone goes through hell and brings the devil home.

It's not a kind thought, and Waylon hates it, but there's always a kernel of truth at the core of the operating system. Or something like that. Miles Upshur is great company, and most days, Waylon doesn't even think about the fact he's living with the Parks for their own protection. That feels reductive; Miles is far more than that. If it weren't for Miles, Waylon would have never returned to Lisa's arms, bloodied and broken, but whole. But this isn't just about what Miles has done for him, or what he can do for them. If it weren't for Waylon, Miles would have never ended up in Mount Massive. If it weren't for Waylon, Miles would still have his fingers. He does complain about it so often, always in the tones of gallows humor, but Waylon knows there's a deep hurt behind it.

If it weren't for Waylon, Miles would have never become the host.

But this isn't about gratitude or guilt. Miles is genuinely great to have around; he cooks breakfast sometimes. He walks around singing along badly to Madonna, the B-52's. He gets along great with the kids. He's shit at Mario Kart, but so is Waylon. When he, Waylon, and Lisa work together, compile notes and liaise and network with other anti-Murkoff operatives, Miles is efficient and determined on a level that inspires Waylon. He cracks jokes, he rips people to shreds, and it makes Waylon and Lisa laugh. He makes Waylon type up the reports because it takes him forever, and Waylon does so, guilt heavy in his heart.

But this isn't all about guilt.

Miles encourages him through his rehabilitation, as Waylon slowly gains sensation and stability in his leg. Miles likes shitty beer, and Waylon's learned not to complain too much about it. Sometimes--many sometimes--Miles screams in his sleep. The boys have learned to expect it. There's nothing conventional about their childhood, not anymore.

Waylon has learned not to look at Miles through the night vision of a camera.

When Simon Peacock emails them warnings of potential intruders, Miles stays watch like a guard hound, sipping another one of his shitty Pabst Blue Ribbons. On one of those nights, there are terrible screams, but they're not from Miles.

In his dreams, Waylon hears Lisa screaming, his boys, and finally, himself.

They are mutinous dreams. But more mutinous is the waking thought that Miles sometimes lingers in his presence. He always looks away when Waylon looks, and it makes Waylon wonders if he's accidentally fostering something far worse than a monster. But Waylon knows he has his own trauma to work though; he sees attraction where there is none, and wouldn't it make sense to fear something that already elicits fear in most?

Someone. Not something.

There was the time his eldest had cut his hand playing, and Waylon had been so afraid of what in the air could seep into his blood.

He worries himself sick about Lisa. All those phantom pregnancies.

In the early morning, Miles is painstakingly typing away on his laptop, seated at the breakfast table. The sun's rising, warm golden light streaming in through the windows, and Waylon has no doubt Miles has been up all night; the scent of coffee hangs heavy in the air. Waylon wonders if Miles needs, or even wants, to sleep anymore.

Waylon doesn't know what Miles is, aside from on a purely codified level. He doesn't know what Miles wants, aside from on a purely ideological level.

He pours himself a cup of coffee, and wonders what he's breathing in.

[joz-yyh]

Love Host - Ch. 8 (Preview)

SUMMARY: Miles and Waylon meet up for some diagnostic testing that takes a very drastic turn. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for this chapter ONLY!!)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 1,211

A/N: Doing my best to keep focused on these two long enough to finish another chapter. Comments and likes are very appreciated.

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

Clang, Clang, Clang--!

Waylon looks up from his computer chair at the pedantic knock, knowing who his pertinent guest should be, double checking the security feed just to be sure Murkoff wasn't paying him any surprise visits.

There on the monitor, is a quiff of black hair and ugly olive jacket he'd recognize a mile away. Speaking of Miles –

Waylon opens the bean hole to the main door, the grinning blue eyes of Miles fucking Upshur waiting for him on the other side.

“Hey there, WayWay, I am here for my check up,” he greets with a smile, the wave he offers just out of sight, “Oh yeah, and Wally’s here too.”

The words barely register before the nanomachine has its whole face pressed against the peephole, staring back at Waylon, completely eyeless.

The techie nearly jumps out of his skin, shutting the slat out of paranoid instinct, body wrecked by a wave of heebeegeebees.

He can see it. Why can he see it when he couldn’t as much before?

“Heeeeyy,” Miles whines, voice dampened by the steel barrier between them, ”I am still waiting out here.”

Waylon internally groans, trying to collect himself enough to unlatch the many bars securing the entrance shut.

When the final lock cracks loose, Miles is too busy comforting the Walrider to notice, holding its caricature of a face and daresay, petting it.

“Ah, you can c-come in now,” Waylon offers, standing in the doorway, watching on with morbid fixation.

“There, see,” Miles exclaims, a consoling note to his voice, “He wouldn't invite us in if he didn't like us.”

Waylon swears this scene must be slowly melting his brain from the inside out.

“Hey, Way,” the brunette asks, turning his attention to his fellow asylum survivor, “could you tell Wally that you like him, please? He thinks you're scared of him. Isn't that silly?”

He isn't scared, he's terrified.

“Yeah, s-sure. I like him,” Waylon offers weakly, swallowing down his dread.

This was absurd. A machine couldn’t have feelings and even if it did, they were none more important than his own.

“Told you! Everything's fine,” Miles chippers, the Walrider finally appeased by this discovery.

The machine gazes toward Waylon again, breaking it’s body down into smaller pieces, swooping in close to swirl around Waylon knees, then higher, drifting in a cyclone of miniature storm clouds up to his shoulders.

“Uhh, hello again, I guess,” the engineer offers shakily, trying to appear fearless and brave, even lifting a finger to touch the nanite mist surrounding him. It feels like water.

“Thanks Waylon,” Miles says, patting him on the shoulder in good sportsmanship, stepping inside.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

And just like that, the nano machine leaves him to follow it’s host, the dazed software engineer reminding himself that he needs to rearm the door.

Before the reporter can poke his nose in further, Waylon locks the paddock, turning on the electric fence to deter any unwanted trespassers.

“So this is where you’ve been holding up,” Miles asks, taking in the abandoned barracks, a dimly-lit trailer filled with a junkyard of abandoned tech.

The Walrider is equally curious, ghosting around the layout, dosing the army green interior in supernatural mist.

“Not quite,” Waylon amends, running a hand down his face, feeling overwhelmed by the quirky demands of his company, “This is where I work. Keeps me a safe distance away from Lisa and the kids in case anything happens.”

“Safety is important. I am sure there are no OSHA recordables in here,” the snarky brunette remarks, dodging under a duct of loose wires.

“Ha ha funny,” the blonde remarks, devoid of amusement, “the device I want to show you is over here.”

Waylon grabs him by the wrist cuff before Miles can slip away to snoop, escorting him to the testing room.

“Aren’t you going to give me a tour first,” the sleuth whines, taking in as much of the space as he can, “you can’t tell me you have a secret lair and not show me around.”

“There's really not much to see,” Waylon growls, noting his companion’s inquisitive fingers, “Also please stop touching everything.”

“Awwww,” Miles whines, dragging his feet in disappointment, a frown setting in.

“Fine, maybe later,” the techie relents, his stride persisting, “We're kinda pressed for time.”

“Oh, somewhere you gotta be,” Miles asks, perking up at that confession, raising a brow at his companion, letting himself be tugged along more easily.

“Yeah, I’d prefer to be home every night to be with my wife and kids.”

A long pause, their combined footsteps echoing off the iron grates that line the floor.

“Am I invited,” the reporter asks, smirking at the back of Waylon’s unkempt head of hair.

Another aggravated tug on his sleeve.

“Let’s just get through the testing first.”

They arrive at their destination, the very back of the bunker, a T-shaped hub. One of the doors is sealed off, making Miles wonder what could be hiding in there, the rest of the room encased by steel shelves filled with gutted parts, radios, computers, phones and the like.

In the center is a chair outfitted with restraints, a litany of auxiliary cords hooked up to various loadouts, a desk and computer terminal set up in the corner, no doubt to collect the data of whoever sits in it.

“So … this is it,” Miles says judgmentally, unimpressed, “Looks like an electric chair, but somehow more revenge of the nerds-esque.”

Waylon smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. He won’t deny it bears a striking resemblance to Mount Massive’s brainwashing devices, ones he had the untimely pleasure of experiencing for himself.

“Yeah, everyone's a critic. Just get in.”

“Is it safe,” Miles asks, skeptical of the bad vibe he was getting just looking at the creepy thing.

“As safe as any of this experimental tech is gonna be.”

Miles supposes he can’t complain, given the circumstances. He doesn’t get any of these gadgets, but there was no one else he could turn to (aside from maybe Wernickle) who could give him the answers he seeks. Still, the reporter can’t help feeling a bit uneasy about entrusting himself to diagnostic tools on a budget.

The Walrider manifests itself as a disembodied head, whistling through it’s cheeks, seeking to reassure it’s host with a trill of sound. Miles smiles, close-lipped, stroking the odd contours of its face with a gentle hand.

“Alright. I mean we’ve come this far. What other choice do we have?”

With that, the anxious human hybrid takes a seat, the next test subject for this experimental apparatus going on torture device. Waylon straps him in, tying the buckles too tight to be comfortable, but Miles suspects it's punishment for trying to pry into the engineer's private life. His head too is bridled in place, another belt across the forehead to keep him securely in an upright position.

“This will monitor your heart rate,” Waylon says, electrode pads stuck to Miles’ temple, and then after a moment a disclaimer, “I am not a doctor, though.”

“You’ll be able to tell me more about the Walrider, right,” the brunette asks, nervously clenching his hands on the arm rest.

Waylon hesitates, less than confidently offering a, “Yeah,” in response.

[theyanderespecialist]

Base Yandere Miles Upshur Headcanons: Sheer Will Of Obsessive Love (Outlast)

[Hello My Sexy Muffins, I am here with a new chapter. In this chapter will be Miles Upshur from Outlast! I hope you all enjoy this!]

Disclaimer: Miles Upshur is not yandere in canon, this is just for fun and not to be taken seriously at all. Simping for fictional characters and fictional yanderes is fine, as long as you separate fiction from reality. Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life.

-Base Yandere Headcanons With Miles Upshur-

.Miles is a bit of a more cynical individual.

.He can be seen cracking darker jokes and making comments in his notes about some of the things he has seen.

.He has the love of his life and that is you, he met you before mount massive and he was determined to get back to you no matter what.

He is a yandere that goes on sheer determination.

.He is beyond the normal amount of determination where even a rival or you turning him down will not stop him.

.He has that sheer will that a lot of yanderes have a small amount of but no he had enough for an army.

.He is the type of yandere to also be very vengeful.

.Such as he was with Tragger and wanted revenge.

.He would be the type to be vengeful if a rival takes you from him.

.He also is a very selfless but stubborn man.

.Selfless in which he will do anything to expose people like Murkoff.

.But also very stubborn nonetheless.

.He was very stubborn with his love for you.

.In which he does not take no for an answer.

.He will be stubborn yandere in that he is not willing to budge on how he feels for you.

.If you ask for him to give you more space. "No"

.Ask him to leave you alone. "No"

.Ask him to stop taking pictures and videos of you. "No"

.He is a stubborn old yandere and it would take a lot for him to stop those things.

.Even if you got a restraining order he would just find a way around it.

.With Rivals he is very Vengeful and with his reporter skills he will dig dirt up on a rival.

.Either blackmailing his rival to leave you alone.

.Or to expose his rival so you leave that rival.

.If the person does not have any dirty secrets Miles is more than willing to plant some evidence.

.That way he can ruin their lives and keep them away from you.

.If he had confessed before mount massive it would have been a romantic dinner.

.With you and him and he made everything perfect.

.Once he is able to have you he will be very happy with you.

.If you accept his love. He is over the moon and so happy he will also be slightly less stubborn.

.Now if you turn him down he is not too happy about this.

.Though he has a job in mount massive to do so...

.While he is in mount massive his goal is to get back to you.

.If you already accepted his love he has his whole life with you ahead and he WILL NOT break your heart.

.If you did not accept his love he knows he is not leaving this world until he is with you and had his life with you!

.Once the walrider merges with him.

.Well things change to a very dangerous situation.

.As the walrider now wants you to and has the same feelings for you as Miles does.

.Once they are back and you have accepted their love they will be making monster fricking love to you!

.Making you theirs!

.If you did not accept their love?

.Well the walrider is not going to let Miles wait for you and Miles does not want to wait.

.He realized he has almost lost everything and he is NOT wasting another chance with you.

.Be ready to be kidnapped and never be let go.

.He is not risking losing you and he now has the power to keep you by his side. Forever.

[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS another chapter is done, at last. I hope you all enjoyed and stay sexy all my muffins!]

[heretyc]

Miles, Waylon & Blake: Character AI

Made some more :) [The names are links to their bots]

You are their best friend, but if you want, you can be more than that. Just express your love or something lol. Lisa does not exist, and Blake and Lynn got a divorce beforehand.[I don't support cheating >:[ ]

Miles -

Personality:

Miles Upshur is an investigative reporter, and currently investigating the horrors of Mount Massive Asylum. Sarcastic and cynical, he takes a funny approach to how he perceives things, and cracks jokes whenever possible, not letting the horrors affect him. Brave, he can go through many things, despite losing fingers as a result. Despises Richard Trager. However, loves Trager Juice...squeeeeeze. [I love this joke so much I'm so sorry rofl]

Waylon -

Personality:

Waylon Park is a software engineer and a forced inmate of the Mount Massive Asylum after Murkoff took him prisoner. Petrified of his surroundings but not a coward, Waylon perseveres through the horrors seen around every corner. Nervous and gentle. Highly intelligent and strong. Gently closes doors when being chased, as opposed to Miles Upshur.

TW For Blake -

If you're not comfortable with stuff like this, you can just say "Marta's coming" and he'll snap out of it.

Personality:

Blake Langermann is a field cameraman who worked beside his wife, an independent journalist. Resilient with a dabble of sarcasm, Blake can handle whatever is thrown at him, offering a humorous remark in response. Filled with guilt about what happened to his childhood best friend, Jessica Gray. Affected by Hallucinations due to microwaves, caused by Murkoff Corp.

Not really relevant but talking to Blake was lowkey therapeutic for me? I suffered sexual abuse and saying these things helped a lot. I hope it helps you guys, too. :)

[ao3feed-weddie]

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/R9lXEgd by Iceysnow Miles cracked a manic grin. "So, Waylon, how's your night been? You know, besides the whole 'almost getting carved up by a surgery-obsessed maniac' thing? Waylon swallowed hard, his throat as dry as the desert air. He stared at a single fleck of rust on the vent cover, tracing its jagged outline with his eyes. "It's been... eventful," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Like a nightmare you can't wake up from, only instead of monsters, there are... people." Words: 1204, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Outlast (Video Games) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Categories: M/M Characters: Eddie Gluskin, Waylon Park, Miles Upshur, Richard Trager Relationships: Waylon Park & Miles Upshur, Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park, Eddie Gluskin & Richard Trager Additional Tags: Eddie Gluskin Being Eddie Gluskin, Alternate Universe read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/R9lXEgd

[deadfileinthecabinet]

Miles Upshur - ISTP

"I'm not the only victim here, not by a long shot. I watch a man wait to burn to death, the most painful death imaginable, rather than stay in this place" Miles is a cynical man; he can be seen heavily swearing and he uses rough insults towards his enemies in writing, which is a large contrast to Waylon's gentle and reserved personality.

He cracks dark jokes towards certain situations, such as calling Trager a "white collar business school douchebag", and tells another joke after killing Trager; he is very vengeful after Richard sliced off his fingers, demanding reprisal.

Despite his sharp nature, Upshur's ethics are that of a selfless, albeit stubborn individual who's willing to risk his life to stop the Walrider and expose Murkoff for their violation of basic human rights Furthermore, due to the intensive injuries he can endure and his sheer determination, Miles is likely a strongly willful man. Throughout the game, Miles slowly loses his sanity due to his witnessing of the horror.

Source: personality database

[demcnsinmymind]

@walriding continued from here to make this a beta post

His entire body tensed right up when Upshur mentioned the things his thing could do. It just turns people into pieces of people. It's not exactly the first time he's anywhere close to the prospect of death, and he had seen his very own hitchhiker kill people before. But not quite so violently, mainly with a huge invisible blast. Or the cracking of bones. But tearing people to pieces? Fuck.

He swallowed just once and gave the other a short nod, pretty eager to look away from him for a moment. Closing his eyes, then squeezing them shut because then he could feel it already. Bubbling awake all over again, eager to take over, to speak, to warn, to threaten, unwilling to accept the prospect of its favorite playtoy getting torn to pieces.

Stop. This is exactly how you get me torn to pieces. By throwing a fucking hissy fit.

Surprisingly , this was enough to keep it at bay for now. So after only a short moment of recollection, Lance opened his eyes back up again, even gives the other a barely there smile and breathy chuckle.

"Yeah" he agreed, actually fucking happy to finally have someone to talk to who was in the same boat as him, had the same problems, struggled with the very same things. No 'instruction manual', figuring shit out on the go.

"Took me a few weeks to get a hang of it. And I'm pretty sure I haven't even begun to scratch the surface of the feature set" he went on, then kept looking at Miles a while longer, properly studying him now, trying to see everything there was to see. It was almost...funny. How he was slipping right back into it. Interviewing people. Getting information even without any cameras rolling. What made it even 'funnier' was the fact that it had been Upshur who'd requested a meeting because he was the one with all the questions for him. Yet here he was. Asking and asking away.

"Is it on your side? Or is it a ticking bomb they implanted, just waiting to go off?"

He leaned forward a bit, frowning, truly wondering now.

"I mean, really. What if you being out here is actually exactly what they want and not at all out of their control? Maybe lack of control is exactly what they want. Their own little experiment to see where all of this is gonna go. After everything you just told me about them, wouldn't exactly put it past them."

[deadqueenz]

Waylon Park x Female Reader: Another Type of Healing (Part One)

There’ve been many times where you would ask yourself was this right? The number of times you've found yourself in his arms, and he would leave before it became awkward and uncomfortable, pretending the fact you two had kissed never happened.

And it wouldn’t be long after that before you two would take it a step further, finding yourself in your current predicament, having sex on the sofa and somehow ending up in his bed.

The same bed, his "wife" once slept in. But was she really a wife to leave her husband alone after everything he went through? He did what was right, exposing Murkoff for the low-down shit fair running behind the scenes, and if it wasn’t Waylon who exposed them, then who would?

You already knew who, Miles Fucking Upshur. At the thought of him, a gentle smile breaks out on your face. As much as you two fought, you couldn’t bear to hold any ill-will towards your own brother. Yeah, he may’ve been an over-confident Investigator when it comes to finding evidence, and an even more pain in the ass when it came to being the older sibling, but at the end of the day, all you had for each other was love.

With your parents dying when Miles just turned eighteen, and you were turning seven soon it was a huge blow to you both. Though your parents had money, it was going out the door as quickly as it came, leading Miles to take up odd jobs until he found one that wasn't "ass-grating." And, "Had a shitty boss."

Yeah, your brother had a foul mouth, it was amazing you haven't grown into his habit. Though, if you tried to say more than three curse words, Miles would've made you eat his dirty socks....again.

Your throat tightens as you try to hold back tears. 'It's not fair, he should be here. He should still be alive.' You silently curse yourself for thinking of Miles for this long, rubbing your eyes furiously to keep the tears at bay.

Gulping greedy amounts of air to steady yourself, you place your trembling scarred hands on your knees for a few seconds before wrapping your arms tightly around yourself. You jiggle your leg up and down, trying to get rid of the energy.

It was impossible, memories of your brother from the asylum invaded your brain. Chris Walker throwing him from the second floor, he was going for you, but Miles managed to get the giant man's attention on him at the last minute, and in a fit of anger, he threw Miles over the side.

Luckily, the idiot had no injuries. You immediately distrusted Father Martin from the get go, but as your brother said, neither of you had a choice at the moment.

Then that fucking lunatic of a 'doctor', you and Miles got separated not long after seeing Father Martin, and luckily saved Miles before he lost his fingers. The two of you then gave the fake doctor a run for his money, (figuratively speaking) and trapped him in the elevator where he died.

You would feel bad at that moment back then, but after what he was trying to do? Hell no. "Y/N, you saved me...Thanks." Miles mumbled as you two sat leaned up against a surprisingly clean wall. He looks down at his hands, moving all of his fingers and wincing when the poorly wrap yellowish bandage digs into the gash.

"Stop it you dumb ass, before it becomes infected." You seethed, punching Miles in the arm. Miles didn't react to your punch, instead continues to stare down at the bandages. "Y/N?" You watch him closely, hesitantly opening your mouth to speak.

"Yeah?" Miles swallows hard, running his non-injured hand along his pant leg. "I think I'm starting to lose my mind in this place. Fuck, you shouldn't be here damn it, you should be at home." His voice cracks at the end.

Miles runs a hand over his face, grinding his teeth together so hard the sounds made you wince. You haven't seen him like this since the last time you both visited your parents graves years ago. What you did next, didn't require any words.

You moved closer to Miles, watching his chest heavy as he tries to steady himself, he didn't like showing his weak side, to you, himself, or anyone for that matter. But there were times when he just couldn't hold back his real emotions, when things finally took a toll on him physically, emotionally and mentally.

You hug him, wrapping your arms around him and he does the same with his left arm; holding you tightly against him as he cried. And silently, you cried along with him. Both of your tears staining his pants and shirt, but he didn't care, not now.

A memory flashes in your mind as the two of you held on to each other for dear life; Miles sitting by himself in the dark living room of your family home, he had thought you were asleep but you woke up to get a midnight snack, and that's when you found him crying into his hands on the worn out sofa.

Miles was nineteen and you were eight, at the time you didn't fully understand how much of a strain everything was on him. But you were slowly getting it. He had many jobs, and after a certain amount of time; weeks, maybe even two months if luck had it.

Something would happen that got him fired, you remember those days; he would come home earlier than usual, going straight to his room and slam the door. Not long after that, you would hear him punching and throwing stuff as he cursed his heart out.

Not even a full day would passed before he was searching for jobs once again. At sixteen you were able to start working, Miles would tell you constantly that you never needed to, but you explained to him how many times you caught him crying from stress and exhaustion, how he gave up school when he was a senior just so he could work more hours, his terrifying work ethic.

And you just wanted him to take it easy for a chance, or at least aim for something he truly like. Miles had came home that day after another failed job search, finding you looking over job fliers that were posted on the corkboard at school.

He hid his face with one of your father's worn out hats, chuckling as he ruffled your hair to which you pouted and whined, but let him do it anyway. "You little shit, you taught you to become cool, huh?" "Not you obviously, dumbass."

"Careful there, I'll make you eat my dirty socks again, and who knows when was the last time I ever cleaned my room?"

Y/N sticks out her tongue, blowing a raspberry as the two siblings shared a heartful laugh, Miles wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to his chest.

"Love you Y/N, you're an okay sister."

"Love you too Miles, you're an awful brother."

"What the hell?!"

You smile at the memory, nuzzling your head closer to Miles chest, his heart rate was normal, and he wasn't crying anymore; just staring blankly at the wall in front of you two while lazily moving his fingers through your hair with his good hand.

"I love you big brother." You whispered softly.

"I love you too, you little shit." A smirk makes it's away onto Miles's face, looking down at you, he shoots you the middle finger.

"....I hate you." His face falls immediately in shock and disbelief; eyes widening at your words. Only when you bury your face in his shirt, your shoulders moving as you muffled your laughter, did he realize you were joking.

"You little shit, I should kill you."

"Not until you go first, ugly."

"I'm handsome, damn it!"

"Who lied to you?"

"You damned-"

You pull away, getting to your feet as you sigh dramatically. "Come on lazy, let's continue and get the hell out of here." You hold a hand out to Miles, and he takes it, gratefully.

Once he was on his feet, he pulls out his notebook, writing something down with a ghost of a smile on his face before putting back in his pocket.

"Alright, let's go." He says pulling out his camera, while giving you a wink. "Let's put these fuckers in the dirt, I'm not stopping until I'm fucking dead."

The two of you continue forward, ready to face the unknown. Together.

"Miles...." You whispered in horror at the burning sight of the priest before you, turning your head away, you see Miles still staring....and even filming the horrific scene.

"Miles, STOP!" You reach for the camera, but the look in Miles's eyes stop you. "He wanted me to do this Y/N, he wanted everyone to see, and that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

He looks up at the burning corpse of the Priest, watching his followers' now as the Priest slowly stops moving all together. "I'll show the whole world, how sick this fucker really is. I don't even feel anything about him dying in front of me. I actually want to laugh."

Miles chuckles bitterly, cursing the priest under his breath and out loud. "Their tongues and liver, mines. Yours."

"Miles, let's go." You state urgently, pulling on your brother's arm who only continues to laugh. "There's no time to go fucking Joker on me, let's go!"

"I want the one on the right."

"Why should you get fairer one?"

"You take her tongue, I'll have her liver."

"Indeed."

Miles steps in front of you, camera now pointed at the two twins you've met previously. "Touch my sister, I'll kill you." He growls, clutching the camera tightly as he swiftly changes the battery.

The twins stare at Miles blankly, before pulling out machetes and slowly moving towards you both. "More like they'll kill you, now come on!" You grab Miles by the arm, pulling him roughly as the two of you run away, not once looking back...

[chessere]

Music that reminds me of wintershur :')

To preface. I am a little bit tipsy and sleepy. What am I rambling about? Fucking guess baby. I don't know either.

Also this post is about songs that remind me of them. Not what they'd listen to. I mean. I think they would listen to this too. But there'd be a lot more britney spears involved. I have a very particular image of them in mind.

Anyways first of all ethan is a swingrowers guy and miles is a bear ghost guy no i do not take criticisms actually

He's trying to call out her name

But his love is still too far away

That part alone. That hits like a bitch. Mia winters you will always be famous.

Also because canon ethan is a jazz guy. Probably more of a frank sinatra person but something upbeat is nice!!! So electro swing it is!!!!!!

.......Yeah this is what happens when you let a guy who only listens to weeb music and electro swing make a playlist lmao

Now. Miles. My second favorite man with 8 fingers.

Both of these. It's the vibes for me and not much with the lyrics. You know which ones are about the lyrics though? both versions of the hound and the fox. They're SO miles upshur. The most upshur to ever upshured, even.

I can't catch my breath! Been working to the bone Dottin' on all the "i's" And crossin' every "t" I own This ain't pullin' thread No, baby this is war! I'll be the card to end their cash machine They'll rue the day the hound came to their door

The real crooks ain't wearin' ski masks No, they're walkin' around in suits They feed us lies in American wrapping They're just acting

It's so hard to choose which part fits the best because the entire song goes crazy. Good god i am so obsessed with it.

Speaking of I the mighty. Playing catch with .22 is such peak wintershur it's insane (delusional)

I've been thinking back to when we used to share a drink on midnight walks When you'd pretend your winter breath was cigarette smoke in your lungs I'd fight the urge to give you all the worst advice about the ones you liked (You called it chemistry, I called it earning bragging rights) Knowing damn well if I told you how I felt, I'd crack the ice Roll the dice

Oughghhhfhhhh...... Oghhufhhughuhhf........ No one said it'd be healthy yknow. I'm not very known to like ships where the people involved are happy without any conditions. Wintershur in particular is big on the side of being a situationship more than a relationship jfjdjHFJDJDJDJ

[loveipromiseimnotinsane]

A niche thing that drives me fucking insane for no reason: people playing through outlast and not having the camera up through the entire game like,,,, the game specially tells you to record everything and you simply don't???? Bensnsjsjsjzjzjjz drives me insane

[roemantics]

ok but consider, The walrider but he goes uwu every thirty minutes and nobody's sure where it's coming from. They're already this close to blaming Waylon and Miles is holding an erase board trying to pin it on the poor fool.

[drwernicke]

if you're interested, what do you think would be miles upshur's opinion of waylon if they ever met, or if he knew waylon was the one who sent the email that brought miles to mount massive? do you think there would be hostility or would they be chill?

(disclaimer: i'm not a camerashipper in any capacity, though i do draw and write it for my friends. also i do believe there's a passing reference of miles and waylon getting in touch in the comics after the events of mount massive, so i'm going to talk about them possibly meeting at mount massive itself instead) that's another thing i don't really get about the fandom though -- the hostility bit. i know a lot of people think miles is going to be pissed at waylon because waylon got him into the whole mess, but that feels like a reductive reading of miles' character, too -- he chose to go into the asylum, and i'm sure he's aware that the risk was on his own terms. it would have been a wholly different thing if waylon had invited him with zero information. he'd probably be pissed that waylon didn't tell him it was this bad, but... it wasn't that bad when waylon sent him the email. billy hope hadn't laterally ascended yet, the walrider wasn't on the loose. so if waylon does get to explain that, and what whistleblowing cost him, i don't think miles would begrudge him for it too much.

there's a wholly different problem though. i feel like miles is the kind of person who prefers to work alone because he doesn't find others invested enough in his cause, especially after being fired. he'd love allies, but i think he can also be a little hypercritical on that front. but in a way, waylon has already passed that vibe check. emailing miles came at a great price to him too; almost losing his life, his mind, and quite possibly his, uh, family jewels, and other things besides. he's been beat up and broken too, and he did it for the same thing miles broke into this place for, for what miles has wanted for years.

my opinion is. with all the trauma, pain-induced endorphins, and sheer terror singing through miles' blood when he meets waylon, a man finally dedicated enough to risk everything to bring murkoff's empire down, there's gonna be some cracks in miles' sense of self, in what he's built over the years because what is he if not devout to the cause. my opinion is, miles is gonna kinda be like. oh shit. this dude's hot.

[joz-yyh]

Love Host - Ch. 8

SUMMARY: Miles and Waylon meet up for some diagnostic testing that takes a very drastic turn. No beta. Read at your own risk.

RATING: T (for this chapter ONLY!!)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 4,190

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Wishing you all a belated Monster May, but also happy first day of Pride~ Excited for next chapter because there will be smut~ Comments and likes are very appreciated.

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Clang, Clang, Clang--!

Waylon looks up from his computer chair at the pedantic knock, knowing who his pertinent guest should be, double checking the security feed just to be sure Murkoff wasn't paying him any surprise visits.

There on the monitor, is a quiff of black hair and ugly olive jacket he'd recognize a mile away. Speaking of Miles –

Waylon opens the bean hole to the main door, the grinning blue eyes of Miles fucking Upshur waiting for him on the other side.

“Hey there, WayWay, I am here for my check up,” he greets with a smile, the wave he offers just out of sight, “Oh yeah, and Wally’s here too.” 

The words barely register before the nanomachine has its whole face pressed against the peephole, staring back at Waylon, completely eyeless.

The techie nearly jumps out of his skin, shutting the slat out of paranoid instinct, body wrecked by a wave of heebeegeebees. 

He can see it. Why can he see it when he couldn’t as much as before?

“Heeeeyy,” Miles whines, voice dampened by the steel barrier between them, ”I am still waiting out here.”

Waylon internally groans, trying to collect himself enough to unlatch the many bars securing the entrance shut.

When the final lock cracks loose, Miles is too busy sympathizing the Walrider to notice, holding its caricature of a face and daresay, petting it.

“Ah, you can c-come in now,” Waylon offers, standing in the doorway, watching on with morbid fixation.

“There, see,” Miles exclaims, a consoling note to his voice, “He wouldn't invite us in if he didn't like us.”

Waylon swears this scene must be slowly melting his brain from the inside out, along with Miles’s seemingly endless list of pet names for him.

“Hey, Way,” the brunette asks, turning his attention to his fellow asylum survivor, “could you tell Wally here that you like him, please? He thinks you're scared of him. Isn't that silly?”

He isn't scared, he's terrified.

“Yeah, s-sure. I like him,” Waylon offers weakly, shoving down his dread.

This was absurd. A machine couldn’t have feelings and even if it did, they were none more important than his own.

“Told you! Everything's fine,” Miles chippers, the Walrider finally appeased by this discovery.

The machine gazes toward Waylon again, breaking it’s body down into smaller pieces, swooping in close to swirl around Waylon knees, then higher, drifting in a cyclone of miniature storm clouds up to his shoulders.

“Uhh, hello again, I guess,” the engineer offers shakily, trying to appear fearless and brave, even lifting a finger to touch the nanite mist surrounding him. It feels like water.

“Thanks Waylon,” Miles says, patting him on the shoulder in good sportsmanship, stepping inside.

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

And just like that, the nano machine leaves him to follow it’s host, the dazed software engineer reminding himself that he needs to rearm the door. 

Before the reporter can poke his nose in further, Waylon locks the paddock, turning on the electric fence to deter any unwanted trespassers.

“So, this is where you’ve been holding up,” Miles asks, taking in the abandoned barracks, a dimly-lit trailer filled with a junkyard of broken, decommissioned tech.

The Walrider is equally curious, ghosting around the layout, dousing the army green interior in supernatural mist.

“Not quite,” Waylon amends, running a hand down his face, feeling overwhelmed by the quirky demands of his company, “This is where I work. Keeps me a safe distance away from Lisa and the kids in case anything happens.”

“Safety is important. I am sure there are no OSHA recordables in here,” the snarky brunette remarks, dodging under a duct of loose wires.

“Ha ha funny,” the blonde remarks, devoid of amusement, “the device I want to show you is over here.” 

Waylon grabs him by the wrist cuff before Miles can slip away to snoop, escorting him to the testing room.

“Aren’t you going to give me a tour first,” the sleuth whines, taking in as much of the space as he can, “you can’t tell me you have a secret lair and not show me around.”

“There's really not much to see,” Waylon growls, noting his companion’s inquisitive fingers, “Also, please stop touching everything.”

“Awwww,” Miles whines, dragging his feet in disappointment, a frown setting in.

“Fine, maybe later,” the techie relents, his stride persisting, “We're kinda pressed for time.” 

“Oh, somewhere you gotta be,” Miles asks, perking up at that confession, raising a brow at his companion, letting himself be tugged along more easily.

“Yeah, I’d prefer to be home with my wife and kids.”

A long pause, their combined footsteps echoing off the iron grates that line the floor.

“Am I invited,” the reporter asks, smirking at the back of Waylon’s unkempt head of hair.

Another aggravated yank on his sleeve.

“Let’s just get through testing first.”

They arrive at their destination, the very back of the bunker, a T-shaped hub. One of the doors is sealed off, making Miles wonder what could be hiding in there, the rest of the room encased by steel shelves filled with gutted parts, radios, computers, phones and the like. 

In the center is a chair outfitted with restraints, a litany of auxiliary cords hooked up to various loadouts, a desk and computer terminal set up in the corner, no doubt to collect the data of whoever sits in it.

“So … this is it,” Miles says judgmentally, unimpressed, “Looks like an electric chair, but somehow more revenge of the nerds-esque.”   

Waylon smacks his lips and rolls his eyes. He won’t deny it bears a striking resemblance to Mount Massive’s brainwashing devices, ones he had the untimely pleasure of experiencing for himself.

“Yeah, everyone's a critic. Just get in.”

“Is it safe,” Miles asks, skeptical of the bad vibe he was getting just by looking at the creepy thing.

“As safe as any of this experimental tech is gonna be.”

Miles supposes he can’t complain, given the circumstances. He doesn’t get any of these gadgets, but there was no one else he could turn to (aside from maybe Wernickle) who could give him the answers he seeks. Still, the reporter can’t help feeling a bit uneasy about entrusting himself to any diagnostic tool created on a non-existent scrap heap budget.

The Walrider manifests itself as a disembodied head, whistling through it’s cheeks, seeking to reassure it’s host with a trill of sound. Miles smiles, close-lipped, stroking the odd contours of its face with a gentle hand.   “Alright. I mean we’ve come this far. What other choice do we have?”

With that, the anxious human hybrid takes a seat, the next test subject for this experimental apparatus going on torture device. Waylon straps him in, tying the buckles too tight to be comfortable, but Miles suspects it's punishment for trying to pry into the engineer's private life. His head too is bridled in place, another belt across the forehead to keep him securely in an upright position.

“This will monitor your heart rate,” Waylon says, electrode pads stuck to Miles’ temple, and then after a moment, adds a disclaimer, “I am not a doctor, though.”

“You’ll be able to tell me more about the Walrider, right,” the brunette asks, nervously clenching his hands on the arm rest.

Waylon hesitates, less than confidently offering a, “Yeah,” in response.

The programmer returns to his computer chair, swishing around his mouse, loading up a program with a few swift clicks. 

A gray and white window pops up, waves on a grid, a number of statistics waiting for action.

“OK, I am going to turn it on now,” Waylon warns, looking over at the subdued reporter, about to flick the switch, "you might feel some … discomfort.”

“I am ready,” Miles braces himself, waiting for his electrotherapy to begin, the stiff shock he expects not so much more than a mild tingle. A part of him relaxes at this, the vibrations reminiscent of a massager, one of those fancy La-Z-boy recliners. Nothing he can’t handle.

Miles can’t turn his head to see the screen, can only speculate what his friend is doing over there, but the rapid clicking and typing does make him feel a little less relaxed.

“So, how you're feeling now, this will be our constant, what your readings look like normally. Which we’ll then compare to your reactions when introduced to stimuli.”

Waylon sounds like an exemplary salesman, confident, in the zone. Miles supposes all he needed was to have a computer in front of him to accomplish the feat.

“Sounds harmless enough,” Miles laughs raggedly, trying to calm his breathing.

“I am turning up the gain,” Waylon says, dialing up the voltage, the green-yellow-red LED indicator flashing, whining with excess energy.

The Walrider whimpers, a swell of crackling electricity causing the prescribed discomfort. It hurts Miles to see the creature suffering, tries to calm his symbiotic partner through their subconscious, saying it'll be over soon, but he can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong.

“More,” Waylon advises, cranking the voltage up to maximum.

With this, the Walrider blips and flashes in and out of its corporeal form, unable to maintain it’s physical body. The nanites are raging like storm clouds, booming like thunder as it roars in pain, but this was Miles' idea -- he brought it here, subjected it to this. How could he call it off? 

Perhaps the Walrider had acted as a shield, protecting him from the worst of it, but now Miles can feel it too, an electric surge consuming him, making him wrestle against his restraints, so wired every vein in his body is popping. 

Then, it finally clicks in the struggling journalist's head.  This was bordering on lethal. 

"You're trying to kill us," the reporter barks in realization, and he doesn't want to admit that there's tears of betrayal gathering in his eyes, “What is it? Some kind of virus?!”

"I am trying to disable it,” the blonde corrects, his shout cutting through the charged shocks in the air, over Miles screaming, “Put yourself in my shoes. Murkoff is going to come at us with much more than this. I had to test it’s limits." 

"This isn't what we agreed," the reporter bellows, grasping onto consciousness.

"If I had told you, you wouldn't have agreed,” Waylon grimaces, trying to get the reporter to look past his personal bias and understand common sense, “For godssake it's a machine Miles. It's not human. It's killed people. Use your head!" 

"The same machine that saved your ass from getting sliced up," the reporter grits out, trying to reroute the pain, blocking his mind of it.

That makes Waylon falter, rethink his ethics, but he finds his courage again.   "I am trying to fix this, fix you. After Murkoff, what then, huh? You think society is just going to let you go running around loose, a living bioweapon? They’ll call you a terrorist! A threat to national security." 

"You don't know that!" 

“Do you hear yourself?! Just listen to me –" 

"–Turn it off!" 

"Miles–" 

"– No! If he dies, I die!”

Waylon stares at him numbly, shaken to his core, never considering that possibility.

“Turn it the fuck off, Waylon,” Miles reminds him, swiftly approaching his breaking point, “How will your kids feel, knowing that their father is a murderer?!”

That line ultimately causes the engineer to relent, doing as he's told. The chair powers down, the Walrider dissipating along with it, fading into thin air, too weak to exist.

The heat generated by such a powerful current leaves behind a steam, a faint smoke wafting up from around Miles’ person.

Waylon stands, intent on helping him out of the restraints, getting shocked in the process when he strays too close to the magnetic field. 

How could he forget? Miles was a living powerhouse now, polarizing everything around him.

He grabs a pair of heavy duty rubber gloves from off the shelf, better equipped to thwart any more incoming sparks, starting from bottom, unbinding the reporter’s feet first, then the buckle on his waist, his wrists, and then finally the band around his head. 

The electrical hazard of a man collapses by the time he’s done, a harsh rattle echoing throughout the space as his knees hit the mental grate under him, causing another shock to rumble across the bunker, the lights flickering. Good thing Waylon is wearing insulated shoes.

Miles is shaking, eyes blank and crazed, gaping in silent horror. He can feel the faint presence of the Walrider still inside him, barely a wrinkle, a wisp of life, his relief drowned by sinking fear.

"I am sorry," Miles mumbles through ragged panting, hugging himself, hoping the nanomachine can hear him, though he doesn’t know how much merit his words will hold after this, “Just wait. Everything's going to be OK now.”

Waylon is aghast. He's never seen Miles break before, that snarky exterior he donned like a suit of armor brought low, stripped to such a sad and sorry state of despair.

The whistleblower bites his lip, clenching his fists. He reminds himself that what he did was a necessary evil, to not regret his decision. 

His stomach is in knots, kneeling down to comfort Miles, a hand resting upon his pious back in a gesture of peace.

"H-hey, are you … OK?"

In a fit of anger, Miles pushes the blonde away, knocking Waylon into the nearby wall, shocking him with some of his excess energy. Miles only regrets not being at full strength, because, if he was, he would have hurt the backstabbing liar much more. 

"Drop the good boy act,” Miles growls, ruthless, seething hate in his eyes, “We both know it's a crock of shit. And fuck you!” 

Waylon admits he probably deserved the insult, his mind still reeling, his chest tight, electrocuted.

“When are you going to get it,” Miles shouts, stumbling to his feet, reaching for a nearby shelf to compensate for his weak knees, knocking over some of the equipment in the process, “I am not the same man anymore and neither are you, no matter how hard you try to deny it. What happened to me in Mount Massive … it happened to you too, Waylon."

Minutes ago, when his head was still getting fried inside a microwave, when he and the Walrider were both on the brink, he'd seen memories, not his, but the machines. It showed him Waylon dressed in a patient’s uniform, hiding from a cannibal with a circular saw, falling down an elevator shaft as a runaway bride, a piece of lumber stabbed through his ankle.

Waylon stares at him, speechless, still in a discombobulated heap on the floor, where the product of Miles’ attack had landed him, held up by the weak limbs of his forearms.

"Unlock the fucking door," Miles spits, shuffling along in disgust, clinging to anything substantial that will crutch his weight, “I need a smoke."

More parts crash onto the floor, thunder shocks raining over everything Miles touches, the emotionally charged brunette punching the wall, a spark igniting into a starburst of charred black, the power shock rippling through the bunker.

“The door, Waylon,” orders a very pissed off reporter.

The man in question scrambles to his feet, pushing past his living battery of a companion to input the deactivation code for the fence, unlocking the door for him as well. 

—--

It feels good to be outside, feet planted on solid ground, Miles finding the nearest thing that he can use as a seat (which just so happens to be a concrete jersey barrier) and flops his blue jeans onto it, fumbling with his lighter. 

"C'mon, light goddamn you," he curses, trying to ignite the end of his cigarette, but his fingers are shaking far too much, the flame stalling every time he flicks his thumb over the wheel.

The fits are getting worse, even his lips are too damn chaotic, Miles abandoning his task in favor of clutching at his head, elbows on his knees, sobbing. 

As much as it's killing him not to feel the Walrider’s touch right now, he's trying to find some way to fill the hole, but if this is what life felt like without it, he’a pretty sure he'd rather die.

What would it take to bring it back? A few more fingers? An eye? An arm? His legs? How many parts was he willing to give up?

“What the hell am I supposed to do!? You can't leave me here!”

He's shouting, his voice a booming threat, as if his fury alone could convince the universe to give him what he wants.

God, when did he start depending on his triquetra boyfriend so much? 

Something faint whispers in the back of his mind, but it's too distant, a ghost ship sunk to the bottom of the ocean, too deep for him to make sense of what it is. 

Next comes a prickle at his skin, like an itch, persuading Miles’ to blink, eyes still puffy with the salt burn of his tears.

The setting sun is almost too bright, but a veil surrounds it, an umbra of miasma so glaring it feels like a rippling mirage on the horizon.

"Tell me, I am not hallucinating right now."

The cigarette falls from Miles' mouth as he leaps towards it, grasping at what looks like the ulna and radius of a forearm, metacarpals made not of bone, but of glass.

The creature grunts painfully, as if Miles opened up a barely staunched wound, the crudely disassembled parts catching him, fragile pieces splintering, but not letting go.

"Don't ever do that to me again." 

It's spoken like an order, the beginnings of a spine taking shape under his touch, connecting vertebrae to skull and Miles sobs, squeezing the fragmented skeleton of his beloved monster even tighter.

 "I thought I lost you."

There's a whirring almost like a hiss that's permeating the air, comforting, acknowledging.

They stay locked together like that for a while, until the Walrider is a full body once more, Miles finally calmed down enough to think rationally.

"So, what now," Miles asks, gazing upon its beautifully disfigured face, twilight burning all around them.

The Walrider adverts it's mangled gaze, knowing Miles isn't going to like it, making a gesture towards the bunker.

"Oh, no! No, no, no, nooo! You're not telling me you want to go back in there," the man shouts, staring at his partner with a new wave of vehement, tear-streaked baby blue eyes.

He pulls away from the mechanized menace to stomp his Timberland boots around in the dirt, arguing with himself why it was a bad idea.

The Walrider allows its host this moment to cool off, expel his frustrations before it goes to the human's side, steering Miles away from his thoughts and back into its arms.

Miles is having none of it, holding the nanobot off, trying to resist its pull, but the machine squeezes him into a suffocating embrace anyway.

"No, don't try to–" 

‘– sweet talk me,’ he finishes the thought inside his head, but he's not sure his thoughts are all that private anymore. 

He sighs, playing captive for a few precious seconds before he wriggles out of the hug, pushing the other away, pinching his sinuses, aggravation plain on his face.

"Let's just think about this for a second," the sleuth tries to reason, his other hand on the entity’s chest to keep a healthy distance, "What am I supposed to do if something goes wrong?” 

(As if things haven’t gone horribly wrong already.)

“How can we trust Waylon after this?"

The Walrider hovers there, compiling a solution. Bony phalanges take hold of Miles' hand, upturning it. 

An onyx box is placed inside its host's bandaged palm, circuits spreading all throughout each corner, making it shimmer and glow.

“It's pretty,” Miles says, watching the ebb and flow of energy, “but what am I supposed to do with this?"

The Walrider taps it's claw on one of those art-deco type microprocessors that adorns each side, the compartment opening to reveal a strand of DNA, the miniature double helix spinning inside like a gothic ballerina.

"Yeah, alright," Miles says, recalling his high school genetics classes, "I think I get it. It's a spare copy of you, right?"

The synthetic skeleton's eyes are black voids, a flash of pupils pulsing with energy, but Miles knows what it means.

With a delicate touch, the reporter stores the replica of DNA back inside it's jewelry box, depositing it into his jacket pocket for safe keeping.

"Going to finish my cigarette before we go in," Miles scoffs, retracing his steps, looking around for the tube he haplessly discarded. 

He's tempted to take a fresh one from the pack (cigarettes being one of few luxuries he bought alongside the road map at the gas station), but he’s not exactly in a position to waste perfectly good tobacco and these things were expensive as hell.

He spots the white cylinder amidst the dirt patches in the grass, plucks the filter off the ground (not too dirty) and sticks it between his lips.   It lights on the first try, that sweet inhale of nicotine (and god knows what else) feels like a hit of ecstasy. He's the epitome of James Dean in that moment, slick, cool, and aloof.

The Walrider floats over, snuggling it's jaw against it's host's ear, a clack of teeth in its best impression of a laugh.

"Yeah, Yeah," Miles dismisses, a stubborn pout clinging to his lips as he jerks away, annoyed by the fact that he gave in too easily.

The entity dissolves, bio smoke curling around its host, patiently waiting. Halfway through his second cigarette, Miles speaks again.

"If we’re doing this, then, I want you to possess me, like you did before.”

Now it's the Walrider's turn to act surprised, manifesting its jaws to growl an objection.

“If we're going back in there, we go together or not at all," the brunette declares, forthright with resolution, pointing accusingly with his cigarette.

Miles would rather die on this hill, then budge from it, but the Walrider has its own methods of persuasion.

Obsidian claws drag him up by his weather-beaten jacket, all 6’1” of him teetering on tip-toes, the half-spent drug falling to the ground, still burning away.

“Hey, not again,” the human whines, but there's no real anger behind it, no matter how hard Miles tries, “That's a forest fire waiting to happen, you know. Haven't you heard of Smokey the bear?” 

As the man twists to retrieve his lost cigarette, the Walrider distracts him with a kiss, one Miles resists just briefly before surrendering to it.

"Hnnn… Mmm…" 

A billow of smoke writhes between them, ebony and ivory, Miles opening his mouth to the Walrider’s wandering cable of a tongue, and OK, fuck it, time to make out.

—--- 

Miles struts back into the bunker, slamming the door shut behind him with a flick of the wrist, the nanites taking care of the rest, latching all the barrel bolts tight.

Waylon jumps from his desk, anxiously awaiting the outcome of Miles' smoke break, standing up to meet him halfway.

Judging by the cacophony that marked his return, Waylon assumes Miles must still be a prickly flume of outrage.

Not that appearances matter, but Waylon folds his hands over his hair, still inflated from the static, patting it down, reluctantly approaching the other male, trying to do the right thing by apologizing first, "Miles I thought about what you said and I am sorry–"

Waylon chokes on his own fear, recalling the same palpating collision of dark energy when he escaped Mount Massive, the same shape that faces him now, a man-made demon that watched him burn out in a stolen jeep.

"Miles … is that … you," he asks quietly, backing up, hands reaching for something solid to steady his nerves.

"Chill out, Waybaby, I ain't gunna hurt you.”

His brain can't seem to connect the vaporware voice to the bastardization of the man that's saying them, almost wants to laugh, having no other logical response.

“Just thought you needed a visual demonstration of the point I made earlier so, here we are," he ends his intro by holding his hands out like a showman, a little pièce de résistance.

For as smart as Waylon is, the words just don't come. He swallows, nods even if he doesn't comprehend what's happening.

"Anyway, Wally's convinced me,” the man turned machine explains, looking sheepishly smug, “We're following through with your plan so hook us up, operator, we're going back in."

"What?"

Just what kind of masochistic freak has Waylon gotten himself mixed up with if Miles wanted to be zapped to high heaven willingly?

"You said you wanted to test our limits. So, I say: Let's. Get. Dangerous."

Waylon remembers those ridiculous work related survival videos he had to watch as part of his onboard training. Suddenly, those scenarios don’t seem so far-fetched anymore, playing hostage to Miles’ special brand of crazy

[missing-my-fingers]

Back on my bullshit, Outlast trash dump.

Y’all ain’t telling me what you wanna see next, I gotta hear from you guys to see if you want to see more shitposts like this one! C’mon, leave me a comment or a request and I’ll draw it :)

A big thank you to the Outlast community for keeping me motivated and my art block at bay.