walriding

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[censure]

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me logging into tumblr dot com to post a reply's worth of vague eldritch smut before disappearing for another four+ months

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@wclrider from [x]

Miles has been in love before. Or, at least, he thought he'd been in love before. Here is the old romcom cliché -- when the protagonist meets the love interest who makes them realize they've had it all wrong. The high school girlfriend, the man he'd met in college and spent enough years with to think they were forever until time and ego got in the way, the dalliances here and there that he brushed off even while half wishing one of them would become more. He'd had love, and he'd lost it, and Miles felt certain that was as good as it was going to get.

But even at their summits, none of those relationships felt anything like this. There are the obvious differences, of course, and a small and persistent part of him can't help but wonder if his brain hasn't just been completely fried into submission. The touch that he leans into is real, though, as is the faint color creeping across his cheeks to match the flutter of his heart, the organ cradled by the same hands that hold him now.

"Yeah, you into watching?" It's supposed to be a joke but he can't help the way it rolls flatly off his tongue, his usual defensive humor made miniscule in light of the obvious fluster that's all but consumed him. He's deflecting, trying to play this off like it isn't affecting him. He swallows hard, wandering gaze a testament to his own embarrassment as the other continues to speak. The lack of eye contact to worry about is both a blessing and a curse. He doesn't think he'd be capable of holding it were it an option, but without a point to focus on he has to settle somewhere in the slim space between them. Words like that would earn a laugh if they came from anyone else, more of that cheesy shit he'd long ago written off as deluded fantasy. But the source makes it difficult to deny.

And he feels it, doesn't he? Somewhere in the hollows of his bones Miles knows it's true. It makes him tremble slightly, equally awed and fearful in the face of something that is so much more than himself. Funny how they'd fought over this same topic before, how the weight of fate had once felt as crushing as that which Atlas bore. Right now it doesn't feel like much of a punishment. It feels like slipping into something -- a place, a role, a being -- that fits just as easily as his own skin. It feels like home.

The curious crawling that hums in his veins, along his neurons, across each curve of bone isn't unwelcome or intrusive, for once. If anything it's hard to remember what it was like before this, before them. Empty. That's the first word that comes to mind. He felt empty, before. The thought settles on him like a misted rain instead of bowling him over like a wave as he might have expected. It emboldens him, along with the worrying pull he feels at the scars that litter his broken body. No, not broken now. Whole. Complete. His gaze shifts upward under half-lidded eyes.

"You know me. A real glutton for punishment." He knows he'll take whatever the Walrider will give, and for a moment it becomes a familiar game of figuring out how to get just that. A half smirk, a darkened look, pupils blown and eager. He lifts a mangled hand, cups along the faceless jaw before him and revels in the way his fingers dip into the shifting mass of that which has claimed him. "So you do love me," teasing at the way he skirts around the word with something much more diplomatic. Whatever else Miles is about to say doesn't make it past his barely parted lips, though.

What comes next defies description. Maybe if he were a writer of a less cut and dry form he'd find words for it, but as it is Miles' pitifully mortal brain can only conceptualize so much. It's almost like getting shot to death again. Blinding and total and completely irreversible, a moment in which everything outside of himself has ceased to be in favor of the raw, encompassing sensations ripping through every cell he possesses. Except this is nothing like that at all, because that was the worst experience of his existence, and this is... Transcendent feels reductive, insufficient. Miles might as well have never felt anything at all before this, and if he were to feel nothing again it would not matter. This is to be touched, felt, seen, everywhere at once. It is adoring and enveloping, horrifying and all-consuming, more than his mind or body was every meant to experience in a lifetime let alone concentrated into a single moment. And yet it doesn't frighten him. Doesn't tear him apart. Miles is too beyond himself to truly respond or react, and yet there is a comforting certainty that he won't be made to feel anything he doesn't want or can't handle. He puts up no resistance and allows himself to be loved in full.

"Holy shit," is the only thing he manages to articulate breathlessly afterwards, when he feels like he can support himself as the Walrider pulls away and the ringing in his ears fades back to familiar static. He's pretty sure he looks the picture of debauchery -- a few curls have fallen into his peripheral vision, but that's about all the self assessment he's capable of. Distantly there's awareness that he's made a mess of himself in a sticky human way, but in his current state of lingering bliss Miles can't bring himself to care. "Yeah, that was, ha..." He blinks, laughs, light and easy and endearingly bewildered. At the end of the day, he is just that. Human. No words will ever be sufficient, and so he doesn't intend to try. The Walrider knows how he feels, can read it in his synapses. Verbally, he can only be exactly what he is. Himself. "You've been holding out on me."

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projecting myself into ur nightmares tonight see u later

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happy belated 8th anniversary to this blog btw

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Agent Kennedy. Some of the humor drops from Miles' expression at that. A fed. Great. He tries not to get involved with the government as a general rule these days -- Murkoff's shadowy shady weavings in the fabric of the country notwithstanding. It irks him to no end, having to keep a lower profile. There was a time when he would have loved to hear that a federal agent had an interest in the same story he did, because that way intrigue and coverups often lie. The exact kind of thing he would've gleefully blown the lid off of once upon a time. Now, though, discovery is a risk. Every connection he makes is one more angle for Murkoff to come at him from.

That doesn't mean he'll back down from this, not when bigger things might be at stake. He's never been one to turn down a lead -- a cry for help -- even when sense and safety should prevail. He just needs to be careful.

"Miles Ramírez." Close enough to true that he won't fuck up his own cover story born from an off the cuff lie, but still a less google-able moniker than the one he's always gone by.

"Is that not against the rules, Agent?" The sarcasm tinting the corrected title is unfiltered. "Didn't think you usually let civilians in on a job. Unless this is an off the clock investigation?" He can't help but pry even when he knows he shouldn't, lest this outing end with him getting shot in the face or told to get lost. Both equally inconvenient. This is like one of his old jobs -- playing nice enough to get the information he needs without kissing complete ass.

If what Miles assumes of the situation is true, then Kennedy isn't wrong, anyway. Backup wouldn't hurt, although one guy with a gun is hardly an upgrade from the protections the reporter already has. Still, every little bit might count. And if there's already outside interest in this, it's too late to close the door without killing the agent outright. That's a temporary fix at best, though, and not something Miles wants to deal with the moral or legal implications of.

So playing nice it is.

"I hope you got better directions than I did, anyway. Should've had my source draw a fucking map." There wasn't much opportunity for that while the guy was drowning in his own blood, and Miles had only gotten this much vague information thanks to what the Walrider managed to rip out of his dying subconscious. If he was alone he'd be letting it play bloodhound right now, but alas.

Taking up the role far from imposing can get him farther,  he hopes.  Although,  in all fairness,  he never quite had it in him to turn to threats while shoving the leather-bound identification card in someone else��s face.  So his hand drops,  letting the jacket fall over the weapon he was foolishly trying to flaunt.  When the man unknowingly diminishes the years of his experience by calling him what he hasn’t heard in what feels like ages  (  he wasn’t sporting the uniform for long enough to even earn it  ),  the agent doesn’t see it as an offence nor an insult.

“  Not too far off,  ”  he murmurs and a throaty chuckle scrapes his larynx.  “  Agent Kennedy,  but I also happen to go by Leon.  ”  Introductions aren’t his forte;  rarely anyone is delighted to know they’ve run into the Secret Service.  If the stranger before him isn’t a walking bioweapon,  then he shouldn’t have to worry much.

His shoulders square upon the mention of whatever unknown might be lurking around.  It isn’t entirely official orders that brought him here,  but rather his own inquiring mind and the apprehension creeping up his nape at the thought he may be close to discovering a parasite-infested déjà vu.�� The journalist did the exact opposite of discouraging him.

“  Since we’re both here already,  let’s have a look,  ”  the suggestion slips past his lips and he grabs a hold of the gun,  reloading it swiftly.  “  I heard a thing or two about this place and if it turns out to be as familiar as what I’ve dealt with,  you will need somebody to watch your back…  and I won’t say no to an extra pair of eyes either.  ”

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need everyone to know I’m only back here because I saw venom 3

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When Miles tries to laugh it comes out clipped -- little more than a single huff of air. Those are the kinds of thing he's been telling himself ever since he crawled out of Mount Massive a dead man. Before that, even. Killing you would be an act of kindness. It makes something like a nerve pinch at the back of his neck, an uncomfortable little jolt that slithers down his spine to somewhere between his shoulder blades, just out of reach. He could argue it with Preston now, and a part of him wants to. Wants to insist that he's no hero, that selflessness wasn't part of the equation when he'd been disabling those life support systems and listening to the kid scream.

Blind, animal panic. Some deep and old instinct, prey-desperate, that knew that whatever the fuck was in that lab couldn't get out of it. He'd seen it already, in the courtyard, a shadow shimmering in the rain. And after that damn movie he heard it everywhere, felt it like an ache in his back teeth. Preston's right in one regard. Miles did keep it from spreading -- by keeping it locked up in his own skin. Like that's been a choice. Like this wasn't part of its plan.

If he'd known then what it would cost, would he still have left Billy for dead, effectively trading their fates? Or would he have divined some other way out of that pit? It's the kind of question he tries not to ask himself, knowing that the answer in the present won't change the past. Or maybe he's just afraid to admit he's not so altruistic after all.

These are the points he's half tempted to make but ultimately doesn't. The other man wants to see the worst of himself right now, and propping Miles up in his own mind like some kind of possessed paragon just adds to the effect. There's no point in trying to convince him otherwise, not at the moment.

Instead he just listens. Easiest interview he's ever conducted, considering he doesn't have to prompt anything. Miles tries to keep his features neutral but can't help the way his brows hitch at first, then pinch inward the more Preston speaks. His mouth is a set line, tightness in his jaw. It eases into something more plainly sympathetic when the tv host starts to cry -- and then he has to fight off the initial urge to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder at the very least. Not knowing if the contact would be a welcome thing, he opts for words instead. Softer than usual, they lack the prickly sarcasm and manufactured bravado he typically levels at Lance.

"Surviving doesn't make you a bad person. Even if you had to do some bad shit -- some fucked up shit -- to manage it." He can't blame a desperate victim for doing the unthinkable when they likely couldn't think rationally. Not that the placation helps, if that's what the other man truly believes of himself. He manages to pull himself together after that anyway, Miles pointedly not commenting or looking too intently in Lance's direction as he regains his composure.

"I think you underestimate intent," he counters mildly. "Actions mean a lot, yeah, but in situations like this... You care about caring. That isn't meaningless. If you were a monster, you wouldn't be sitting here trying to justify it." Lance is right, in that regard. All those nasty emotions, even the ones reflected inward, are what keep you human. But, "Doesn't mean you need to keep picking at the scab to remind yourself that you still bleed, though. It's never gonna change the past."

At first, there's pure horror. Etched all over Lance's face. Because the story starts out the same. And of course, it wouldn't be that far fetched. Miles having gotten his read on. Knowing more than what he's let on before. About him. About Baltimore. About the fucking kid. And all the others. In the asylum. Dead.

But then Miles keeps talking. Says a name he does not recognize. So soon enough, horror makes way for surprise. Curiosity. Followed by..empathy. He doesn't interrupt, just listens, looks at the other through it all. Wincing at the mention of a mother. Keeps looking at the other with an equally heavy expression on his face. Matching the exhaustion, the sadness and that guilt too.

"I don't think it is about that for you, no. It shouldn't be" he replies eventually, swallowing hard. "I don't know the details of course. But I doubt his life was a happy one. In that lab. I think you did end his suffering. And you did stop it from spreading, didn't you?" It's a genuine question, but also meant as some sort of comfort. "You went in there to try and stop some fucked up shit from happening to more people. You're still doing it now. So yes, there's no need for amends at all. I don't take you for a guy who'll just walk up to some kid to kill him out of malice." A pause. Swallowing thickly. All over again. "Or selfishness. "

It just lingers in the air for a moment. That statement. Chokes the air right out of him all over again. As he only just now realizes how completely different their motives have been, too.

"I did" his mouth says out loud while he's still just thinking it, though this time it is not because of his demonic tag along. No. This is his own guilt talking. Needing an out. "I just wanted to get out of there. And I killed him for it. Wrapped my hands around his throat and choked the life right out of him. Just a kid, too. Student. I don't even think he had anything to do with anything in there. Didn't know anything either. He was just...there. With the keys."

It sounds so candid. So easy, casual, whatever it is. But it's anything but. It is quite literally choking him too. The guilt and lump in his throat making it almost impossible to breathe or speak, but he knows he has to. Owes a man like Upshur a clear picture of just who he is talking to here. Doesn't even waste his breath on trying to justify it. Fuck the starvation. The desperation. The madness. The loneliness. The loss of time. That cult and all that fear, fear, fear. It was what it was. A choice. His freedom. In exchange for someone's life.

"I killed someone to get out of a place I tempted and disturbed. A place with a decade long track record of human suffering. That I wanted to exploit. For fame. And money. And now more than 10 people are dead. Because they went in there. For me. Because of me. I cannot even tell you how many there really were. And how many more might still die because of me. But I do know that one died to my own two hands. A fucking kid."

Hazel eyes. Fire-y red now. But not with rage. Not with that never ending need for revenge. Not with all that harshness. But with the very same thing. Grief. Guilt.

"I'm not alive because of cosmic reasons. Or luck. I'm alive because I was capable of doing anything for it. And I did. I did." Voice breaking on that last word as he winces, then sobs once, quick to turn his back on the other so he doesn't see, doesn't hear. He starts shaking both his hands out to try and get rid of it, those pesky fucking tears that feel so fucking uncalled for. He clears his throat once, curses, then digs the heels of his hands into his sockets to try and wipe them away, cursing all over again when it hurts, too close to the scar beneath his eye.

"I'm sorry"he apologizes after a little while, trying his best to get everything under wraps again. And isn't it funny. That's what he'd told him, too. As if it had made any fucking difference. As if it had made it any better. But that's just it now. The point. Being better. He turns back around to meet Miles with a look he himself doesn't even know what it's supposed to convey. But he knows it's important to look whatever it is in the eye. Guilt. Consequence. Or just the man before him.

"So yeah. It is about retribution and amends for me. It ought to be. There has got to be something good coming out of this. Otherwise, I'll be just like them. A fucking monster who hurts people and doesn't care. And I don't want to be like that. Not anymore. And yes, we're lucky that we're still alive to make a choice like that. That doesn't suck. Wernicke sucks. Murkoff sucks. Murder sucks. Grief sucks. Guilt fucking sucks. But it would be worse if it didn't."

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this year’s geister poster has a big ol project walrider symbol on it. I stay winning

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outlast experience

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also since we are talking about it, miles has little to no libido / sex drive / desire to actually physically sleep with people who aren’t the walrider post canon. he flirts and makes passes a lot because it’s just his personality, but he’s terrified of anything other than brief and basic physical contact. so while he might entertain Ideas and want to take things in that direction — unless there’s a lot of trust and discussion beforehand he most likely won’t follow through

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#i think he's also attracted to people who….. challenge him in some way #people he feels like he can go toe to toe with on some level. who can match his energy #but then it's also so fucking annoying to him when someone actually goes toe to toe with him lol it's complicated #what appeals to him also has a tendency to piss him off at least a little bit but there's always interesting growth opportunities #in that sort of dynamic #particularly when it's like 'you piss me off because i know you're right and i hate that (but i need that)' #if that makes sense

the thing about miles is that he gets really annoyed by people who essentially have very similar personalities to him – i.e. the stubborn, headstrong types – because he’s so wrapped up in his own goals and desires that someone going in their own direction feels like opposition. it tends to create a weird sense of is this what other people think I’m like? self reflection. but he generally respects those qualities in others (so long as they’re aimed at a “worthy” cause / end goal) even if outwardly it causes friction.

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miles vc

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"undoing this character's death would take away his sacrifice and character arc" girl I don't give a shit. I'm bringing him back through the power of ao3 fix-it fics and there's nothing you can do to stop me x

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the fact remains that body horror is an expression of intimacy. a grotesque and perverse one, maybe, but intimate nonetheless.