wclrider

[wclrider]

❝   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴   . . .   𝙵𝙴𝚆   𝙾𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂.   ❞   it   mutters   in passing,   as   if   this   communion   wasn't   one   he   chose.   as   if   he   didn't   crave   for   it   to   deepen   in   some   way.   as   if   it   didn't   crave   to   wear   down   the   neural   ruts   of   his   mind,   familiarize   and   weave   through   as   if   they   were   its   own.

(   𝘰𝘳   𝘺𝘰𝘶   𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦   𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵   𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥   𝘮𝘦   )   should   have ?   --   should   have ?   a   mockery   of   fondness   flitters   through   it   at   the   thought.   leave   it   to   Jeremy   Blaire   to   tell   𝐆𝐎𝐃   𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅   what   it   should   have   done.   it   scoffs,   maybe   a   snort.   impossible   to   tell   with   its   unearthly   simulacrum   of   a   body.   

𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐒   𝐈𝐓?   of   course   he   can.   they're   one   in   the   same.   but   it's   ...   different.   far   away,   muddled.   like   a   splash   of   color   behind   your   eyes   when   you   close   them   too   tight.   here   one   moment   then   gone   the   next,   a   dream   almost.   𝙰𝙻𝙼𝙾𝚂𝚃.   and   that   was   the   epitome   of   it   --   of   them   --   wasn't   it?   the   patron   saints   of   missed   opportunities.   

that   they   could   be   better   if   things   perhaps   went   a   bit   different.   but   mourning   a   lost   hand,   mourning   the   one   you   have   doesn't   assuage   anything.   leaves   you   mending   something   while   the   world   waits   for   you   to   play.   to   take   your   turn.

𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩   --   a   feedback   loop   snaps   it   from   its   thoughts.   a   hand   on   its   thigh,   and   it   stutters   for   just   a   moment.   something   small   and   easy   to   miss,   unless   you   knew   what   to   look   for.   was   it   surprise?   with   no   complexion   its   nearly   impossible   to   tell   what   its   thinking.

❝   𝙽𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙾𝚄𝚂,   𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙴 ?   ❞   it   taunts.   ❝   𝙸   𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴   𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝙾   𝙱𝙴   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙸𝙳   𝚃𝚈𝙿𝙴.   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝙼𝙴   𝚂𝙾   𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻   𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽   𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴   𝚃𝚁𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚃𝙾   𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃   𝙸   𝙰𝙼   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴.   ❞

it releases him && blaire gets a moment of reprieve ; the pressure behind his eyes dissipating , the static in his marrow dying down to a low buzzing ( not entirely unpleasant . ) he slumps forward so blood may drip into the sink rather than on himself && turns on the tap. it hardly seems fair ― the walrider is always so keen to chat when it wants to. keening on && on in the most inopportune of times : a meeting , whilst he tries to sleep , with women. the latter happening too often to simply be coincidence.

❛ don't act like it's so terrible. ❜ he grumbles , reaching over to grab some tissues && begin addressing his nosebleed. ❛ if you didn't want to talk to me , you should have picked a different host. ❜ or you should have just killed me back at mount massive. but he doesn't say that out loud ― he wonders if it hears him anyway.

blood is washed away , sniffling && tasting that all too familiar tang on the back of his tongue ( can you taste it too ? ) jeremy feels the walrider press against him , pushing him further into the sink , && one of his hands reaches behind to touch at what is likely the manifestation's thigh , though he cannot see from this angle. ❛ easy there , big guy ... ❜

[wclrider]

Tu yo

no es

tuyo.

[wclrider]

𝙷𝙴   𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂   𝙷𝙸𝙼   --   o'   how   he   hates   him!   loathed   how   he   knocked   against   its   cage   all   those   years   ago   --   rattled   the   outside   with   that   smug,   sly   grin.   hated   his   arrogance,   his   ego.   the   walrider   𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳   how   it   twisted   him   to   see   jeremy   blaire   play   the   role   of   some   dejected   sacrificial   lamb   all   to   sate   him.   but   perhaps   most   of   all,   he   hated   how   he   craved   for   it.   craved   to   him   like   some   meek   thing   aches,   craves   to   rip   apart   the   flings   and   the   frivolous   few   he   fancies   for   entertainment   right   before   him   as   the   walrider   toils   and   twists   away   along   his   nerves   and   grey   matter.   that   rattling   cry   from   marrow   when   he   does   :   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙸𝚂   𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷   𝚈𝙾𝚄.   𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷   𝚄𝚂   --   (   𝘸𝘢𝘴   𝘪𝘵   𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨   𝘵𝘰   𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦   𝘫𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘺   𝘰𝘧   𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵,   𝘰𝘳   𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧?   )

watches   his   tongue   swipe   out   and   something   flares   along   with   the   rage,   lost   in   it   amongst   the   intensity   of   it   all.   a   low   hissing   hum   that   amounts   to   nothing,   studying   him   with   unseen   eyes   and   impossible   biology   that   evades   understanding.

(   just   wanted   to   hear   you   )   --   &   something   twinges   in   his   chest.   (   𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳   𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵?   )   sometimes   even   it   loses   the   line   between   where   one   ends   and   the   other   begins.   (   you're   hurting   me   )   but   he   wanted   to,   hadn't   he?   so   why   doesn't   it   sate   him?   why   does   tearing   apart   the   epitome   of   the   very   thing   he   loathes   in   mankind   feel   like   a   desecration   of   sacred   grounds?

he   is   not   his   apostle   &   they   were   not   meant   for   one   another.   but   they   had   branded   each   other,   chosen   perhaps.   yes,   perhaps . . .   it   relinquishes   him   with   a   soft   rolling   coo.

❝   𝙷𝚄𝚂𝙷.   ❞

almost   wishes   it   had   a   tongue,   so   it   could   taste   all   that   sweet   coppery   salvation,   pure   divinity   in   his   gore.   something   to   savor.   a   thought   quickly   brushed   off   as   jeremy   being   a   poor   influence   on   him,   if   such   a   thing   was   possible.   cages   him   in   against   the   sink   and   leers   at   him,   almost   as   if   peering   through   him   --   into   his   matter   and   mind   with   ease.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝙼𝙴   𝚃𝙾   𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙺, 𝙳𝙸𝙳 𝚈𝙾𝚄 𝙽𝙾𝚃 ? 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙺 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙴𝚃 ?   𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙸   𝙰𝙼.   𝙶𝙾   𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙽 . . .   𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝚄𝙽𝙸𝙾𝙽   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙱𝙴   𝙷𝙰𝙳 . . .   𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙺.   ❞   its   set   before   him   like   a   challenge.   poking   and   prodding   at   him   as   the   walrider   likes   to   do.

he isn't sure when , but at some point his nose started to bleed. perhaps the result of one of his many vices ― or maybe due to the manifestation behind him [ A MIX OF BOTH. ] the light fixture above flickers , that awful , constant ringing in his ear growing in volume. it's never a good thing when it manifests. too eager to flay blaire alive , worm through any insecurity , flaw in his pristine façade && dredge it to the surface : ( his bum knee from an old baseball injury , his disdain for his father. )

the executive sticks his tongue out to swipe the crimson trail dripping down his lips.

but then it grabs him , && that hurts. like needles embedding into grey matter , twisting , digging. jeremy lets out a pained sound , halfway between a whine && a gasp. that knee buckles , but he catches himself before he falls ( or maybe it holds him up. ) eyes screw shut reflexively , but a twist of a pin has blaire cracking them back open. was that me or you ? ❛ it was just ... ― quiet. just wanted to hear you. ❜ he manages to grit out , eyes flickering around it's form in an attempt to recognize something. [ what are you ? what am i looking at ? ]

strange , though. that last thing that it said. there's a brief change in the executive's expression , as though it's something jeremy will remember. a change in tactic ― it wants him to submit , so he will for the time being. ❛ you're hurting me. ❜

[wclrider]

𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂   --   perhaps,   if   it   were   human   it   would   roll   its   eyes.   something   foreseeable,   understandable.   but,   little   care   drifts   over   nonexistent   and   ever   shifting   features,   an   impossible   mind   and   organs   unimaginable.   &   he   is   WEAK,   feeble   and   frail.

its   told   him   that   before,   lamented   about   how   he   cost   them   the   perfect   apostle!   but   that   it   would   savor   his   personal   hell   with   ease.   that   it   would   take   its   time,   remake   him   to   fit   his   needs   --   stretched   to   the   limits:   𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥,   𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺   &   𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭   [   𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝚄𝙽𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴   𝙷𝙸𝙼   !   . . .   just   to   bring   him   back, wrong ]   𝐑𝐄𝐒���𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐃   &   𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃.   a   tool,   a necessity.   a   home   in   his   blood   and   viscera.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝙴𝙻𝙻   𝙼𝙴   𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚈   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂,   ❞   it   muses   with   a   twinge   of   a   scoff.   spiteful   &   beguiled   at   jeremy's   suffering.   ❝   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽   𝙸   𝙰𝙼   𝙱𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳   𝚃𝙾   𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚈.   ❞   it   chides,   tone   dipping   into   the   scornful   hiss.

❝   𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙻𝙸𝚂𝙷.   𝚆𝙷𝙾   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙷𝙾   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙸𝙻𝙺?   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳   𝙷𝙰𝚂   𝙺𝙽𝙴𝙻𝚃   𝚃𝙾   𝙼𝙴   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝚂,   𝙸   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙸   𝚂𝙴𝙴   𝙵𝙸𝚃.   ❞   egotistical   self-righteousness   dripping   from   his   retort   as   it   takes   shape   behind   him.   looms,   like   a   dull   reminder   of   their   pact.   one   made   of   hate   and   carnage.   hungered   for   it   even,   desperate.

𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝙰𝚃   𝙾𝙽𝙲𝙴,   the   static   becomes   almost   unbearable   as   it   shifts   closer.   digits   reaching   out   --   fluttering   like   the   dying   breath   of   a   heart   between   life   and   death.   grasping   firmly   'pon   his   jaw   and   wrenching   him   to   face   it,   dragging   him   away   from   the   mirror.   [   &   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙳𝙾   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙶𝙴𝚃   𝚃𝙾   𝙷𝙸𝙳𝙴,   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙽𝙾𝚆,   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼   𝙼𝙴   ]   it's   voice   rattles   out   in   a   familiar   hiss,   somehow   rattling   through   him   like   a   rolling   thunder   intent   to   strip   him   bare   of   that   pesky   ego.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚃,   𝙱𝙾𝚈,   𝙽𝙾𝚆.   𝙾𝚄𝚃   𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷   𝙸𝚃.   𝙾𝚁   𝙳𝙾   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙼𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝙲𝚁𝙰𝚅𝙴   𝚃𝙾   𝚆𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴   𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝙼𝚈   𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴   𝙱𝙴𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙳   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙱𝙻𝙴, 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙻 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙵𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙾𝙻𝙾𝚄𝚂 𝙷𝚄𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙴 . . . 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻   𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙸𝚁𝙴𝚂?   ❞ its tone takes a turn as it continues, trailing off towards sardonic charm.

separation is torturous ; as though something fastened tightly to his subconscious is torn , ripped through the back of his skull , buzzing about the air. blaire lurches forward , catching himself on the sink && finding his mouth fill with saliva , legs weak , brain fried ― he's not used to it : himself being ripped in two , so he heaves once , desperately into the white basin before him. he spits , finding himself panting as the executive attempts to regain some kind of composure.

❛ thought i told you to be gentle ... ❜ jeremy speaks finally , voice tense && croaky , looking back up to the mirror && the swarm that swirls around his bathroom , around him. he's found it much less strenuous to look upon it through a reflection , rather than to gaze at the thing that now cohabits his body directly.

❛ enough with the boy shit ― you know my name. ❜ he sniffs , wiping his mouth on his forearm before standing up straight.

[wclrider]

𝙸𝚃   𝚂𝚆𝙴𝙻𝙻𝚂   . . .   like   an   ebb   and   flow   between   marrow   and   nerves.   a   collection   of   nanomachines,   swarming   through   with   careful   precision   strolling   through   his   viscera   and   grey   matter.   yet   the   walrider   says   nothing.   it   hears   his   queries,   internal   or   otherwise,   the   things   he   doesn't   dare   speak   aloud.

𝐀𝐇,   𝐁𝐔𝐓   𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐒𝐎   𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘   . . .   𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐘.

q   ;   (   𝘢𝘳𝘦   𝘺𝘰𝘶   𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?   ) a   ;   𝙾𝙵   𝙲𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴. 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦?

once,   the   walrider   had   sought   to   sate   some   endless   bloodlust   when   it   finally   had   him.   𝙰𝚃   𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃   anyways   . . .   but   something   delighted   and   sinister   bubbled   up   in   his   swell   when   he   took   him   then.

𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝙻𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚁   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙻𝙰𝚄𝙶𝙷   . . .   but,   it   certainly   sounded   like   one   at   the   time.   beyond   the   ringing   dull   pain   of   being   swept   to & claimed   --   𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃,   like   cattle.   an   animal.   [   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙴,   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙴,   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙴,   𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙴   &   𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝙻𝙻   𝙳𝙸𝙴   𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙽   𝙸   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙸𝚃   𝚃𝙾   𝙱𝙴   𝚂𝙾 !   ]

and   with   much   great   reluctance   it   heaves   out   of   the   man   like   a   final   breath.   collective   visage   causing   that   tickle   --   a   rise   of   static   beneath   the   skin   &   shared   somewhere   deep   in   the   back   of   his   mind   ---

❝   𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷   𝙰   𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳,   ❞   it   scoffs   and   tsks,   swirling   o'erhead   --   all   around   --   figure   merely   some   echo   of   a   shadow   that jeremy's   vision   can't   grasp.

❝   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙸𝚂   𝙸𝚃   𝚈𝙾𝚄'𝚁𝙴   𝙱𝙴𝙼𝙾𝙰𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃   𝙽𝙾𝚆,   𝙱𝙾𝚈?   ❞

jeremy has become quite certain that he is dead. or at least , he's not alive anymore. his insides scooped out to make room for a swarm ; inhabiting a rotting husk recently renovated for two. he stares for a long while at his grim reflection , the bags under his eyes dark && designer ― a hand lifting to drag fingertips along the stubble growing upon his chin ( can you feel that too ? ) blaire asks himself , as though he were alone.

❛ are you there ... ? talk to me ... ❜ he speaks softly , that same hand withdrawn from their features to press against the cool , reflective surface of the mirror. it's THEM now : jeremy && @wclrider , somewhere nestled inside.

[wclrider]

❝ 🇳​🇴​ 🇴​🇳​🇪 ​ 🇨​🇦​🇲​🇪​ 🇹​🇴​ 🇭​🇪​🇱​🇵​, 𝘴𝘰 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥 ! - ( 𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑲 𝑰 𝑪𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑫 ? ) [ . . . ] 𝘐𝘛 𝘞𝘈𝘚 𝘈𝘓𝘞𝘈𝘠𝘚 𝘈 𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘕𝘚 𝘛𝘖 𝘈𝘕 𝘌𝘕𝘋.

indie multiverse & multiship fnaf / dsaf based oc. by coyote ! ( 24, genderfluid ) - low activity . 18+ only . crossover & oc friendly !

° ˈ· • [ 𝙳𝙾𝙲 ] - [ 𝙲𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙳 ] • ·ˈ°

[wclrider]

AND I'M GONE

[wclrider]

shows up after 2 year absence to go insane about walrider and miles. happy pride month, fellas. o7

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      The strangest part of it all is that it doesn’t feel strange. There’s an awareness in him that this should be odd or wrong, that if there were any rational thought left in his possession it should be balking at this current arrangement. Not only is the creature before him decidedly and undeniably inhuman, he’s dangerous. And there is the faintest itch in the back of his mind, the memory of a touch far less gentle leveled by the same form. He’d made an enemy of the Swarm at the asylum, and retribution had been swift and efficient. Yet even then, blood of his last Host on Miles’ hands – the Walrider hadn’t killed him. Could have, but didn’t. So perhaps the recollection of old and soured fear, the reminiscence of how it felt to be dragged bodily to death’s doorstep should deter him now. Or should, at the very least, appeal to his higher senses enough to keep him from wanting this.

      But it doesn’t. He’ll wonder what it all means later, will question how far he’s had to slip to be able to see such appeal in the formless face now studying him. For now he doesn’t care. For now all that matters is the faint shiver in his breath when the other’s desires are laid bare. That isn’t fear or regret warming his gut, no. His half smile takes on a cocky cant – this is familiar territory even if the nature of the partner and the depth of their connection is… unique. Words, though, come easy. Especially the teasing kind.

      “Should’ve figured you to be the possessive type. Kinda hot, if that’s what you were aiming for.”

      Kinda hot even if that wasn’t what he was aiming for. But before Miles can tack on another witticism, say something about proving just how eager he is, he’s being kissed.

      The reporter has been kissed before. More times than he can probably count. Yet saccharine romance has always prompted him to roll his eyes – the sickly sweet assertions that even the most routine aspects of a relationship are somehow different when you’ve found the one. It always seemed to him a gross oversimplification tethered to the far-fetched idea that everyone was assigned a destined other half. Murkoff has certainly challenged his belief in a great many things, but he really hadn’t expected topics of this nature to be among them. Because Miles has been kissed before, but never like this.

      The physical act itself is different from anything he’s ever experienced. No true flesh meets his, there’s none of the usual sensation or taste beyond the faint ozonic haze on his tongue and in his sinuses. He hears the swell of his own heartbeat in his ears, the droning of static that’s become as familiar as his own pulse. There’s a mechanical warmth, a tingle like the buildup of static electricity on his lips. Everything about the gesture is alien – save for the way it makes him feel. And even that is amplified, repeated back at him through a feedback loop they share. Miles doesn’t want to let go. When they part he’s breathless and dizzy, and he blinks away the Rorschach-shaped spots dancing in his vision as the other’s ministrations continue just a moment longer.

      “Who the hell taught you how to do that?” he responds idly with another breathy, dazed laugh. “Not bad for a first attempt but, y’know, gotta retest if you really want to be scientific.” He at least has the courtesy to wait for protest before claiming another kiss.

--   &   𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴   𝙲𝙰𝙼𝙴   𝙴𝙰𝚂𝚈   𝚃𝙾   𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳,   because   that   is   what   they   were   made   for !   there's   some   cruel   depth   to   human   existence   that   remains   out   of   the   realm   of   understanding   for   their   deities.   𝙶𝙾𝙳   𝙼𝙰𝙳𝙴   𝙼𝙰𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙸𝚃   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽𝚃   𝚃𝙾   𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴 !   watching   from   afar   as   these   miniscule   fractions   of   divinity   cobbled   together,   find   themselves   again   and   again   and   make   love.            The   Swarm   has   seen   it   before,   lovers   running   off   to   bask   in   the   heat   of   the   summer   sunlight   or   hiding   away   beneath   the   brush.   they've   laid   on   his   peaks   and   proclaimed   their   love   in   defiance   to   a   world   that   swallows   up   the   noise   rather   than   carries   it.   yes,   he's   seen   it   before,   but   it   doesn't   hold   a   candle   to   ---   nor   carry   even   a   miniscule   portion   of   the   reality   that   bears   down   on   him   now   :   𝑚𝑦   𝑔𝑜𝑑,   𝑑𝑖𝑑   𝘩𝑒   𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟   𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤   𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒   𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒   𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠   𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡.

𝘯𝘰,   𝘯𝘰   𝘩𝘦   𝘥𝘪𝘥   𝘯𝘰𝘵.   𝘩𝘦   𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥   𝘯𝘰𝘵.   he   has   familiarized   himself   with   the   concept   time   and   time   again.   he   knows   they   kiss   and   coo   and   make   and   break,   that   they   hold   memories   of   those   lost   --   (   &   𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵   𝘪𝘴   𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧   𝘪𝘧   𝘯𝘰𝘵   𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦   𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 ?  )   but   it   meant   nothing,   pales   in   comparison   to   the   reverberation   and   sensory   input,   an   overload   to   his   system   that   is   so   inherently   alien   to   him   and   yet   nonetheless   comforting.            he   wonders   then,   if   this   is   how   man   felt   left   trembling   before   the   great   expanse   of   divinity?   sweeps   Miles   into   his   arms   with   a   hungered   desperation   while   micromachines   weave   in   and   out   of   his   very   being   --   a   melded   mind   together   and   constant   feedback   loop,   a   chorus   that   sings :   𝙸   𝚍𝚘   𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎   𝚢𝚘𝚞.

something   akin   to   a   chuckle   ripples   through   its   form.     ❝   I   may   have   ...   seen   your   kind   do   so   before.   ❞    partaken   in   some   observation,   curiosity   --   it’s   admitted   meekly   in   passing.    

❝   Well,   as   I   said   before :   the   stars   promised   you   to   me   before   the   first   breath   of   the   universe   was   taken.   ❞   although   this   time,   it’s   spoken   in   tender   devotion.   its   voice   dropping   even   lower,   to   be   savored   through   that   shared   static,   hidden   there   as   if   only   for   him   to   hear.    

❝   I   have   waited   ...   such   a   long   time   to   know   you,   Miles.   ❞   (  and   even   longer   to   love   him.  )

𝙷𝚄𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙸𝚃𝚈   &   𝙶𝙾𝙳𝙷𝙾𝙾𝙳   𝙷𝙰𝙳   𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴   𝙸𝙽   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙾𝙽,   each   a   perverse   inversion   of   the   other.   and   if   the   Swarm   could   steal   a   shuddering   breath,   it   would.   that   force   he   bears   down   with   wavering   like   folding   beneath   the   will   of   something   greater,   a   shared   communion   that   couldn't   be   known   by   anyone   else.              he   wants   to   savor   every   taste,   every   noise,   every   flicker   in   his   biology   that   he   bears   witness   to.   saving   them   all   away,   coveting   them   selfishly   in   his   systems   as   if   he   could   commit   them   any   deeper   to   his   being   than   now.   ebb   and   flow,   his   nanites   lap   at   the   fringes   of   Miles'   consciousness,   his   viscera,   as   if   drawn   to   him.              reeling   against   the   borders   of   what   once   was   and   what   is.   a   sour   memory   bubbling   forth,   of   their   clashing   in   the   past,   akin   to   waves   beating   against   the   jagged   rocks   that   climb   up   the   cliffside.   wearing   them   down   evermore   --   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝙻𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚁   𝙳𝙸𝙳   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝚄𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁𝚂𝚃𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙼𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈,   but   for   just   a   brief   moment   he   understood   Miles,   and   perhaps   that   was   enough.

           nanites   climb,   trailing   along   his   nerves,   the   careful   movements   blazing   through,   and   alight   with   reverence   --   intensity   and   intimacy   palpable   in   how   it   takes   note   of   every   fraction   of   a   flicker   of   those   chemicals.   mapping   them   out,   watching   them   split   off   in   ways   he   cannot   anticipate.   so   fluid   and   ever   changing   and   so   inherently   human.   the   Walrider   had   never   truly   known   the   inherent   beauty   in   mankind   --   not   until   Miles.              low   warbling   hum   tinged   with   thoughtfulness   as   he   turns   those   words   over   in   his   mind.   palm   raises   to   trace   the   back   of   clawed   fingers   along   his   jaw,   the   bounds   of   his   form   fluttering   to   reveal   the   bone   beneath.   a   picturesque   figure   of   some   mockery   of   life,   following   the   rhythm   of   his   apostle's   heartbeat   as   if   it's   the   only   song   he's   known   to   live   by.

❝   you   would   dare   tempt   me   further,   my   apostle?   ❞   its   words   softened   by   the   undercurrent   of   intimacy   that   toil   there   in   their   connection.   tugging   away   at   all   the   scar   tissue   in   some   feeble   attempt   to   mend   old   wounds,   an   act   of   devotion   itself   the   way   he   handles   him   now.   adorns   Upshur   with   that   title   as   something   to   be   prized   &   adored,   but   only   by   him   this   time.

❝   you   humans   and   your   odd   rituals...   ❞   it   tsks   tenderly,   reverence   bleeding   through   its   words   -   its   every   fiber   -   as   it   leans   in   again.   holds   his   jaw   firm,   but   not   cruelly,   in   his   grasp   now.  

❝   you   are   lucky   I   enjoy   you,   lest   I   would   not   entertain   such   frivolous   notions   like   scientific   reason.   ❞    an   mild   twinge   of   snark   hiding   beneath   its   benevolence.

𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙸𝚃   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚂   𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴   𝙱𝙻𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚂𝚄𝙽𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃,   pure   warmth   cutting   through   the   haze   of   clouds   with   some   righteous   adulation.   rolls   over   Miles   deep   and   fully,   swarming   him   -   bathing   him   in   pure   blazing   heat.   sweeping   him   into   its   arms   and   hungrily   taking   every   part   of   him   he's   willing   to   give.   it’s   a   foolish   endeavor   to   try   and   grapple   with   the   edges   of   where   one   ended   and   the   other   began.   there   was   no   other,   there   was   just   them.   just   this   moment.              in   an   instant,   he   knows   divinity.   in   an   instant   the   Walrider   knows   mortality,   humanity,   and   all   the   horrid,   wonderful,   complex   contradictions   that   it   entails...   If   only   by   the   virtue   of   having   loved   Miles.   he   pours   over   his   skin,   worshiping   every   portion,   adoringly   noting   his   pulse   point   with   the   stretch   where   its   mouth   should   be.              it   notes   all   of   his   biology,   the   way   tendons   strain   and   stretch   beneath   his   mortal   flesh,   yielding   as   he   melts   o'er   him.   akin   to   a   live   wire,   vibrations   low   and   firm   through   their   connection   betraying   his   devotion   with   ease   --   ne'er   curling   away   in   disdain   as   before,   ego   all   but   cast   aside   as   he   loves   him   with   reckless   abandon.   a   thousand   mouths   all   lapping   at   the   edges   and   sinking   to   the   depths   of   his   being,   his   lips,   the   corner   of   his   mouth,   along   his   jawline,   his   jugular,   his   throat   --   down,   down,   down !   like   a   current,   a   wave,   rolling   through   heady  and   brimming   with   life.

           its   hand   rises   to   brace   the   back   of   his   neck   tenderly,   should   Miles   need   to   be   held,   drawn   into   its   arms   the   old   mountain   god   would   pull   him   from   the   floor   and   into   his   grasp   if   he   was   permitted   to.   figure   holding   firm   should   Miles   wish   to   lose   himself   in   it   and   need   to   be   caught,   every   micromachine   urging   him   that   he   is   safe   should   he   come   undone   in   some   feverish   desperation   and   demand   to   be   adored.   again   though,   it   pulls   away,   one   final   imitation   of   a   kiss   pressed   against   the   thrumming   pulse   of   his   throat   before   it   draws   back.            The   old   god   did   not   bow   to   any,   but   lowered   itself   before   his   apostle   in   some   display   of   devout   veneration.   its   grasp   retracting   slowly,   as   it   drinks   in   the   sight   of   Miles   following   the   barrage   of   affections   he’d   bestowed   unto   him.

❝   and   now ?   ❞   its   voice   reverberates   low   and   soft   through   their   connection,   cooing   tenderly,   almost   teasing.  

                        ❝   is   your   curiosity   sated,   Miles ?   ❞

[wclrider]

The Walrider, also known as The Swarm.

It is the source of the madness that seems to infect most of the asylum's inhabitants and the deity of Father Martin's religion and his followers.

[wclrider]

[wclrider]

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      There is, at his core, a realization that has been building since he regained a modicum of self-awareness in the asylum’s fetid wake. For a time his concerns lingered on the whys of the situation, and in the depths of his personal despair the questioning circled back to the oft-cried refrain of the beaten and weary: why me? 

      That his possession came as an act of impulsive desperation was the first drawn conclusion. With the previous Host’s blood still fresh on his hands, the Walrider had merely taken him prisoner as a last and desperate resort, as a cornered animal might lash out at anything or anyone that came too close.  And the reporter has never been one for superstition, or any kind of conspiracy theorist level belief in the universe’s lack of coincidences. But as time pressed on and the events of that night were twisted and turned over again and again in his mind, he found his consciousness returning to the pattern buried within it. The whistleblower had reached out to him specifically out of anyone in the field. Father Martin was so righteously certain the moment he saw him that fate’s path was already set in stone. Walker had sought to kill him with a narrow-minded ferocity that had apparently been reserved for Miles specifically. His journey through Mount Massive read like Dante’s descent into hell, a trek into the devils’ frozen heart – that in Miles’ case could only end with an unwilling deal that cost his soul. A soul that might never have been his to autonomously bargain with in the first place.

      And fuck does that make him angry, the idea that his entire life was no different than raising a lamb for the slaughter. Any choice he ever could have made would have landed him in that same spot, bruised and battered on the floor of the underground lab while some godforsaken shadow wormed his way into his bones. The very creature that has the audacity to profess that he’s done Miles a favor with that course of action. He thinks first to ignore it, to let the Walrider’s rage flare and fizzle under the assumption that equilibrium will return after the outburst. And if he had less of a temper to call his own, such steely acceptance might be possible. But as it stands, the continued prodding is received as warmly as a repeated slap to the face, and it isn’t long before a deep, repressed well of rage and upset and fear needs an outlet.

      He stands abruptly, legs catching the chair with such force that it drags backwards across the floor with a shrill screech. “Fuck you,” he hisses, challenging the eyeless gaze that opposes him. WIth each word that follows  his voice rises until he feels like he’s practically screaming. “Fuck you, acting like you’ve been doing me a fucking service keeping me alive. I didn’t ask for you to crawl up my ass – I was ready to die in that place, and you took it upon yourself to not fucking let me. And now – now – you’re gonna say you did me a favor? Well news-fucking-flash, I would have rather died in that damn asylum than live like this!”

𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙽𝙴𝚆   𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙴   𝙱𝙸𝚁𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙳,   always   did   it   cut   the   deepest   and   burn   the   brightest   when   it   came   of   truth.   the   undeniably   and   unwavering   pathway   that   led   his   apostle   to   his   grip.   led   through   a   barrage   of   horrors   he   meant   to   uncover   for   the   good   of   it   all,   and   instead   was   his   means   to   an   ascension   he   couldn’t   have   prepared   for.   what   worse   than   the   horrors   of   mankind   were   begat   upon   this   wretched   earth,   than   when   they   decided   to   play   god.   deliberate   and   exact,   tactful   in   their   own   means   to   gain   a   higher   understanding   of   it   all.   

and   o’   how   the   swarm   waited,   turns   over   eons   of   time   within   that   mountain.   what   bloodshed   wept   into   his   cracks   and   crevasses   of   the   greed   of   man   and   beast   alike,   to   feed   him   through   the   ages.   until   he   could   be   looked   upon   again   with   equal   parts   horror   and   awe.   men   of   science   they   were,   but   there   was   still   that   festering   pit   in   those   who   did   not   understand   --   who   𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙽𝙾𝚃   understand.   no   matter   how   far   man   crawled,   the   cruelty   of   the   matter   was   that   they   were   still   only   human.   the   cold   twist   of   seeing   the   world   from   a   view   unlike   any   other,   only   to   come   back   down,   and   my   my   was   it   a   far   way   to   fall.   all   those   men   thrown   to   madness,   all   in   favor   of   his   rebirth.   to   seep   into   his   holy   apostle’s   bones   and   fill   him   with   renewed   purpose.   so   what   barbed   venom   did   come   from   him   when   the   being   he   was   made   for   spit   upon   such   a   blessing.   

𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝚆𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙷   𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙼,   met   with   an   eyeless   gaze   as   a   sort   of   seething   vile   feeling   twists   and   blossoms   in   kind.   a   shared,   open   line   between   them   and   yet   tearing   in   contraries   upon   one   another.   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝙸𝚃𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴,   allows   for   all   that   ichor   and   ire   earned   well   to   be   dispelled.   floating   weightlessly,   ‘fore   that   static   howling   tears   upon   deafening   screams.   no   matter   for   it   of   course,   something   broken   was   merely   something   to   fix   for   him.   no   bedside   manner   for   the   way   that   wound   would   be   left   in   a   mind,   of   course.   far   too   proud   for   such.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙻𝙾𝚂𝙴,   𝙱𝙾𝚈!   ❞

𝚂𝙻𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁   𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂,   digits   flickering   between   pale   imitation   of   flesh   and   bone   meet   jaw   and   hair   to   twist   and   hold   with   a   purpose.   firm,   but   faltering   on   cruel.   the   one   time   he   must   react   with   patience   as   a   necessity,   and   not   some   mundane   request   from   his   apostle.   a   host   is   a   crucial   component   yes,   and   in   most   cases   he   could   find   another   ...   but   an   apostle   such   as   Miles   was   something   once   in   a   lifetime.   such   an   act   would   be   something   beyond   his   comprehension   when   thought   of   in   that   old   stone   and   earth   ---   𝙽𝙾𝚆,   𝙷𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁,   Miles   was   making   it   difficult.   loosen   up   on   his   grip,   still   craning   Miles’   vision   up   to   him.   spoken   lighter,   almost   inquisitive   and   bordering   on   ...   frustrated.

❝   𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼   𝙱𝙴𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙴   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙰   𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃,   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚂   𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙴𝙳   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝙾   𝙼𝙴   ...   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷,   ...   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁   𝙳𝙸𝙴   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙼   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝙴𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙾𝚈   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝙳   𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳?   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝙸𝙽   𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁   𝙾𝙵   𝙳𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝚂   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙾𝚆𝙽?!   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙰   𝙿𝚁𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙻𝙰𝙶𝙴   𝙸𝚃   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙱𝙴   𝙼𝚈   𝙰𝙿𝙾𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴,   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙸𝚂𝙷   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚃𝙸𝚃𝙻𝙴.   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝙰𝙼𝙽   𝙰   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙺𝙾𝙵𝙵,   𝙰𝙻𝙻   𝙸𝙽   𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙾𝚁   𝙾𝙵   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙾𝚆𝙽   𝙿𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚄𝙻   𝙼𝙴𝚆𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶!   ❞

[wclrider]

walriding​:

      It’s often that Miles’ inherent nosiness gets the better of him. His resume is smattered with actions that could be construed as anything from annoying to illegal to certain types of people – the ones that the reporter sought to pick apart under the lens of his writings. More than a few harsh words have been leveled at him, occasionally accompanied by a fist in search of nose or jaw. He’s spent nights in jail, though has thankfully always been too small of a fish for the sharks to really bother with when it came time to press charges. But it was that very refusal to back down and mind his business that truncated the upward trajectory of his career, a defining characteristic that once read as admirable becoming a black mark with one pink slip.

      Perhaps it’s fitting then that he now finds himself as little more than a bug beneath a microscope, every action performed under the scrutiny of vast and watchful eyes. Personal privacy and independence had once been the very foundation upon which he’d built himself. And now all of that has been thrown by the wayside by the thing always watching over his shoulder. 

      He’s yet to fully test the boundaries of their dual consciousnesses, to try to work out just how much they share. Miles at least knows there’s no such thing as solitude in his head anymore – but that doesn’t make it easy to turn the flow of thoughts off at the source. The Walrider doesn’t always pry further, which is a blessing. The reporter has begun to recognize the feeling of his thoughts being parsed by the other, something akin to fingers skimming over a drawer full of file folders until they find what they’re looking for – when the search is a gentle one. Gentler than the sensation of insects digging into his gray matter, anyway. He feels that passing touch across his neurons in response to his recollection of the night they met, and then a cursory curiosity bumping up against the borders of his awareness.

      “Yeah, I have,” he says with a softly bemused snort. He’s tried to keep as much of his before life to himself as possible, which hasn’t exactly been easy. Or maybe the Walrider just hasn’t cared to go digging that far back into the expanse of his very human life experiences. “The asylum wasn’t my first run-in with Murkoff. I’ve been trying to expose their bullshit for years.” The tide has shifted in unbelievable ways, and yet the song and dance has hardly changed. The company remains just as much of a well-protected enigma as ever.

      What the other proposes, though, is very intriguing. Enticing, even – and a possibility he hasn’t considered until now.

      “That’s… kinda fucked up,” he says in a way that suggests he’s only saying it downplay his interest in the concept. “How would that work, anyway? Purely hypothetically. Just worm your way into their brain and get the info we need?” It’s that hot itch he felt in the underground lab again, the power he felt bubbling up under his skin that was intoxicating in the wake of helpless desperation. Like a siren song the extent of the Swarm’s capabilities coaxes him somewhere deeper and darker, his remaining humanity the only raft left to cling to in the storm.

      Focus. They can’t just go scrambling Murkoff brains for fun. Not without purpose. “Mount Massive couldn’t have been their only project. What they were doing there… I’ve gotta assume it was part of something bigger. We need to find out how far the rabbit hole goes.”

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴   𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝙸𝚅𝚄𝙻𝙶𝙴   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙿𝙰𝚂𝚃.   to   dredge   up   old   ghosts   and   things   clung   to   by   time,   hunted   and   fed   upon   by   nostalgia.   there   was   much   of   Miles   he   did   not   see,   did   not   know,   and   in   turn   there   was   much   he   refrained   from   offering   to   him.   lest   he   be   driven   mad   by   the   visage   of   the   memories   of   an   old   god.   still   too,   was   he   enamored,   finding   these   flickering   old   habits   leaving   a   trail   within   grey   matter.   synapsis   reacting   accordingly,   familiarity   usually   wins   out.   from   the   outside,   the   Walrider   never   thought   much   of   humanity.   such   simple   lives   they   must   have   led,   to   be   born   unto   this   place   and   toil   endlessly   before   succumbing   to   the   very   land   they   had   quarreled   and   reaped   from.   it   had   never   seemed   so   complex,   not   until   he   had   taken   a   host.   

with   Billy,   there   was   understanding,   and   he   had   so   foolishly   thought   he   had   come   to   understand   humans   and   all   their   petty   quarrels   and   simple   facets.   yet   here   Miles   was,   yet   again,   surprising   him.   voice   comes   like   a   rolling   thunder   of   a   distant   storm,   pouring   over   the   horizon   and   humming   deeply   to   his   core.

❝   𝙸   𝚂𝙴𝙴.   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴,   𝙸𝚃   𝙸𝚂   𝙰𝙽   𝙾𝙻𝙳   𝙾𝙽𝙴.   ❞

𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝙾’   𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝙿𝙾𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲   !   ...   that   he   would   have   come   bearing   to   be   the   end   of   the   Walrider,   only   to   deliver   himself   unto   its   embrace.   it   finds   it   humorous,   perfectly   just,   that   his   apostle   would   be   the   hand   of   justice   seeking   to   snuff   out   that   which   had   laid   claim   to   him.   holy   apostle,   who   confounds   a   being   so   primeval   &   sparks   it   with   intrigue   all   in   the   same   breath.   slinks   forth   to   follow   the   complexion   of   his   host   with   curiosity.

𝙵𝙾𝙻𝙻𝙾𝚆𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙿𝙸𝚀𝚄𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙸𝙶𝙴,   like   watching   the   spike   in   neural   activity   take   place   between   his   gentle   grip.   almost   quiet   enough   to   miss   it,   had   those   chemicals   not   been   his   entire   world.   yet   still   allows   for   his   curiosity   to   be   voiced,   his   abilities   questioned.   let   it   ne’er   be   said   that   the   mountain   king   could   not   be   cordial.   there’s   sincerity   in   tone   when   he   speaks,   no   lies   to   be   had   between   them   lest   he   poison   the   well   for   both.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁   𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼𝚂   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝙰𝚂   𝙼𝚄𝙲𝙷   𝙰   𝙶𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙰𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁𝚂,   𝙸   𝙾𝙽𝙻𝚈   𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽   ---   𝙰   𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳   𝚃𝙾   𝙳𝚁𝙰𝚆   𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼.   𝙸   𝙼𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙽   𝚈𝙾𝚄,   𝙸𝚃   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙱𝙴   ...   𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚆𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝚈𝙾𝚄,   𝙰𝚃   𝙵𝙸𝚁𝚂𝚃.   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺   𝚄𝙽𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚃𝚁𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝙼𝙴.   ❞

𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙱𝙴   ...   𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃.   he   would   need   to   give   himself   over   to   the   itch,   the   engine,   the   noise   --   the   song   that   plays   like   the   beat   of   the   Walrider’s   very   heart.   if   it   had   one,   that   is.   akin   to   a   pulse   in   how   it   thrills   with   life,   something   inhuman   and   yet   so   very   alive.   ---   but   that   would   not   be   the   difficult   part,   no   no.   the   difficult   part   would   be   Miles   allowing   the   Walrider   to   guide   him.   to   merge   the   consciousness   and   reach   somewhere   outside   of   his   own   body   to   gain   the   answer   he   so   seeks.

𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙱𝙴   𝙽𝙾   𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝙳𝙾𝚄𝙱𝚃.   any   slight   tear   in   their   connection   could   completely   throw   them   both   off,   and   lead   to   a   lot   of   mental   strain   and   exhaustion.   not   to   mention   he   would   need   to   effectively   create   some   kind   of   sensory   deprivation   tank   at   home   to   assist.   funny   that   despite   being   of   this   earth   and   soil,   the   soul   of   his   work   flows   through   water.   but   water   had   always   meant   life,   and   with   it   always   came   the   promise   of   something   more.   remembers   the   timid   streams   that   would   cut   their   paths   through   him,   he   never   forgot   their   avenues.   memorizes   them   as   he   does   the   synapsis   and   mental   trails   Miles   leaves   for   him   now.

❝   𝚆𝙴   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝙶𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚃𝙾   𝙽𝙴𝙴𝙳   𝚆𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁   ...   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴   𝙰   𝙱𝙸𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚂𝙰𝙻𝚃.   ❞

[wclrider]

“it hurts.”

prompt.   ( accepting )

𝙰   𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚈   𝙶𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴   𝚃𝙾   𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁   𝙷𝙾𝙿𝙴,   something   new   he   finds   himself   doing.   something   human.   it   would   stand   to   reason   then   that   such   a   kindness   would   be   borne   of   the   human   he's   found   himself   bound   to.   however,   he   is   busy   and   the   Walrider   is   running   out   of   patience   for   this   militia   that   stands   against   him.

❝   𝙸   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆.   ❞

and   he   is   that   of   some   weary   god,   worn   thin   by   the   suffering   of   his   devoted.   𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙰𝚄𝚂𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝙲𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴   𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆.   of   course   the   swarm   would   know   the   ichor   that   seeps   from   waylon   as   he   lays   languid,   bleeding   out   upon   the   floor   like   some   kind   of   gutted   lamb.   they   used   to   stick   them   for   him,   an   offering   of   sorts,   to   soak   his   mountain   in   their   gore.   relished   in   it,   fed   upon   it.   but   now   things   are   different.   𝙷𝙴   𝙸𝚂   𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃.   looms   o'er   him   and   sees   that   doe   eyed,   vacant   and   rather   pathetic   stare   and   feels   no   vitality   from   it   as   he   had   before   with   the   other   lambs   to   the   slaughter.

𝙺𝙴𝙴𝙿   𝚆𝙰𝚈𝙻𝙾𝙽   𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴.     that   is   what   he   was   supposed   to   do.   they   were   a   team,   after   all.   is   only   thankful   that   waylon's   family   was   not   here   to   witness   him   in   any   more   agony   than   the   glances   they   have   caught   after   the   initial   fray   he   suffered.   like   a   rabbit   in   a   snag,   he   had   seen   him   before.   terrified,   fragile,   wounded.   furthermore,   Miles   would   certainly   be   quite   cross   with   the   Walrider   should   he   fail   at   such   a   simple   task.

𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝚂   𝙰𝚆𝙰𝚈   𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝙰𝚂   𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝚈,   the   static   grows   with   his   wrath.   his   intentions   are   made   clear.

❝   𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳   𝙵𝙰𝚂𝚃.   𝙸   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙱𝙴   𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶.   ❞

𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙺𝙸𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙰   𝚁𝙾𝙰𝚁   𝚂𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂,   shakes   the   ground   as   his   own   sort   of   decree.   without   words.   without   language   that   one   could   understand.   it   was   the   tongue   of   beasts.   of   old   gods   and   the   fear   that   waits   in   the   dark.   it   was   violence,   and   a   proclamation   of   their   end.   tears   them   apart   with   ease,   enjoyment   even.   he   may   not   have   craved   to   the   flesh   of   the   lamb   beneath   his   protection   but   he   did   relish   in   the   cries   of   the   beasts   that   had   struck   it   down.   just   as   doe   eyed   and   vacant   as   any   other   animal.   when   the   screaming   had   stopped   he   is   close   once   more.   no   rage   evident   in   his   tone   or   movement   as   he   examines   Waylon.

❝   𝙱𝙴   𝙽𝙾𝚃   𝙰𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙸𝙳,   𝙰𝙽𝙳...   𝙷𝙾𝙻𝙳   𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻.   ❞

𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚂   𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳   𝙱𝙴   𝚂𝙾𝙾𝙽   𝚃𝙾   𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙻   𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁,   his   nanites   making   quick   work   of   it   as   he   passes   a   hand   over   them   as   though   they   were   nothing.   it   was   not   often   he   got   the   opportunity   to   speak   directly   to   Park,   often   conversing   with   Miles   and   allowing   the   two   mortals   to   quarrel   and   plan   as   they   may.   though   it   was   never   out   of   distain   for   him,   but   rather   a   lack   of   understanding.   something   cold.   he   simply   saw   no   reason   for   it   was   all,   not   until   now.

❝   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻   𝚂𝚄𝚁𝚅𝙸𝚅𝙴,   𝙿𝙰𝚁𝙺.   𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙴.   ❞

𝙰   𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚃𝚂,   some   things   never   change...

[wclrider]

❝    𝙳𝙾   𝙽𝙾𝚃.    ❞

❝   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙳𝙾   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽   𝙸’𝙼   ‘ 𝙱𝙸𝙶  ’   …   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚃   𝙸’𝚅𝙴   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽.   ❞

[wclrider]

❝   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙳𝙾   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙼𝙴𝙰𝙽   𝙸’𝙼   ‘ 𝙱𝙸𝙶  ’   ...   𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚂𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚃   𝙸’𝚅𝙴   𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁   𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽.   ❞