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joz-yyh · 2 years

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Love Host - Chapter 3

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

RATING: E (for graphic depictions of violence / gore / character death+rebirth / psychological torture / xenophilia / masturbation / handjobs / anal fingering / tentacle sex)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 3,349

Read on Ao3: Here

A/N: I swear this fanfic has a plot, we just haven't gotten there yet because we need to cover a lot of smut first (I am almost joking).

Also, if you haven’t seen it yet, you can check out the progress of My Wamiles Art, but be warned, it's NSFW!!

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It's early afternoon by the time Miles wakes up. The sun is shining through the blinds, bathing the messy geometric contours of his modest, modern-esque flat in a golden glow.

Miles rubs the sleep from his eyes, yawning loud and wide despite having slept half the day away. He's stretching out the cricks in his limbs when the Walrider exits sleep mode and powers on, attune to it's host's internal clock.

The man recoils at first, startled by the dark, imposing figure, somehow forgetting the human-sized nanobot was still there despite having shared a bed with it, ensnared in the possessive hold of claws and tentacles.

The dissociation only lasts a heartbeat, his body remembering even if his jumbled mind took a moment to catch up, becoming calm again.

The brunette suppresses a chuckle as he turns towards his companion. This evil bio-weapon looks so out of place in the daylight, in the domestic setting of his bedroom, holding him like he's something precious.

Such a stark contrast to the Walrider that stalked under the cover of darkness, illuminated by neon emergency beacons and cold laboratory testing facilities. The same fearsome weapon that hunted patients, ripped out spines and spattered blood across narrow halls looked almost cute, charming in photographic filter of a beautiful autumn day.

Miles tilts his head, eyes catching the odd reflection of colors skittering over the obsidian skin, giving it the appearance of labradorite. He runs a finger over it, seeking the brilliance hidden underneath, his inquisitive tendencies getting the better of him.

He traces the jut of the Walrider collar bone to the curve of it's shoulder, rolling his palm over the joint there, the vibrant streaks of bio-luminescence shining like the trails of shooting stars.

The Walrider is more than happy to let Miles explore, an excitement decorating it's features as it's host dedicates himself to the task.

The brunette continues down the line of the monster's arm, sliding his hand over well-defined muscle, the same teal patterns spread throughout it's bizarre anatomy. Miles is in awe over it, of how it could change consistency, function and appearance, wondering if this iteration of it's skin meant it was left open, unarmored.

The Walrider was developed as a weapon after all and Miles could certainly see the advantages of a thick, abrasive exterior, but if his partner chose to convey it's trust by lowering it's defenses to show him this secret, well, Miles' heart twinges just a bit at the possibility.

The reporter guides his hand back up to stroke at the sharp angles of the entities' cheek, gazing into it's striking eyes situated behind the exoskeleton. The gentle caress of Miles' thumb along its jaw is lulling it's eyes closed, and soon the demon is leaning into it's host's bandaged palm, a chitter of contentment escaping through it's jaws.

Faced with such unabashed adoration, Miles dares to steal a kiss, the compulsion to do so proving too strong to resist. Pink lips purse against the side of it's mouth in not quite a chaste peck, but a firm lingering indulgence. The dark skin is warm under his lips, but it feels rubbery and plastic, an imitation of something inadvertently human.

"Thanks for staying with me," Miles says, a gentle smile on his face as he pulls away, blue eyes staring fondly at his handiwork.

His choice of his words is absurd really, ridiculous. The Walrider couldn’t leave him even if it wanted to. They’re both viscerally connected, permanent implants to each other’s existence, unable stray too far apart from each other without the consequence of death. Not that Miles had any concrete evidence to back this intrinsic theory up, it was really more of a hunch, and while his inheritance of the Walrider failed to come with a disclaimer or a user’s manual (he wouldn’t have read it even if it did), Miles wasn’t about to test the physical range of their limitations any time soon.

The machine is frozen and Miles swears he hears a cursed dial-up noise as it processes the kiss he had just given it and the man hopes the machine won't try to bite his face off in a misinterpretation.

Thankfully, it doesn't. Instead, it mimics Miles actions, claws outstretched to clasp the human's cheek in return. It leans forward, but without any lips of its own, all it can manage is a brush of teeth. The sharp points of it's canines sting only a little as they graze over his skin, sometimes chipping open a superficial mark.

A purr reverberates from inside it's throat as it rubs the softer sides of it's misshapen face all over Miles, a little too roughly in it's exuberance, the man's brunette locks of hair in total disarray.

"You're in a good mood, huh," Miles says with an amused chuckle, trying to push the Walrider's face away from his to gain some reprieve, although halfheartedly because he can't say he's had too many pleasant "morning afters" like this one.

The man doesn't know what prompts him to ask, or why he's hit with the sudden spike of anxiety, but the words are leaving his mouth before he can swallow them back.

"Did you enjoy last night, too," he asks in small, quiet voice that is entirely unlike him.

There’s an infinitesimal, but rapidly becoming larger part of him that wants the Walrider to have a choice in the matter even if Miles didn’t have one when it came to becoming the host. He wants to be a better master than Wernickle was, to honor Billy by being magnanimous in his mission, one that allowed the Walrider some semblance of free will and independence as unfathomable and ludicrous as that may be.

The Walrider squeaks with indisputable affirmation, pressing closer, smothering the human with the dense mass of it’s bulk. Their legs are tangled together, claws wrapping around his clothed back to bring them as close as they possibly could be and that should be enough of an indication to set Miles scattered mind at ease.

"Hey, hey, easy now, tiger! We can't stay in bed all day! We're on the run from an evil corporation remember," Miles exasperates, prying the entity off before they spend another few hours engaged in some awkward rendition of coitus that involves a number of tentacles.

"No offense," Miles tacks on for good measure. Murkoff was it's creator and he didn't know if the Walrider had any lingering attachments to the private group that designed it however doubtful the probability seemed.

"We have a lot to do today and the clock is ticking."

We? Did he just say we? When did it become we? He chews on the word in his mind and it doesn't taste entirely unsavory, just different. Miles leaves the thought alone for now because he can always return to it later if he really needs to, but he has more pressing matters that don’t involve an existential crisis.

The Walrider seems to understand the situation all too well as it's lanky form deflates into the mattress, whining in annoyance as it mopes and pouts like a neglected pet. Miles gives his companion's slumped behavior an inquisitive brow, reaching over to pat the sulking dip of it's cranium in consolation.

"Hey, I'll try to be quick. A few hours tops. Just be ready if someone comes knocking," Miles tells it with an air of impending dread and the Walrider snorts at him dejectedly, not nearly as concerned with the threat of assassins as it was with the denial of cuddle time.

Miles sighs, dismissive, getting out of bed to go about his routine. He stops by the bathroom to brush his teeth and raid the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. His hangover isn't quite as bad as he anticipated it would be, but he could still feel it's lingering effects the moment he started walking around.

He cups his hand under the faucet, bringing the water to his lips as he swallows down the chalky white pills. That done, he decides to take a quick shower, thinking It might be the last opportunity he gets for awhile.

He leaves the bathroom door open and it's not long before he notices the Walrider curiously peeping in on him, it's dark outline huddled around the door frame as Miles stands behind the clear liner of the shower curtain.

Every now and then the reporter flicks his eyes over to it, watchful, wondering if it would try something to distract him, but to his surprise, the entity remains a respectable distance away, simply observing. By the time he steps out of the shower, the Walrider has disappeared, probably so Miles wouldn't catch him outright for voyeurism.

The brunette dries off, wrapping the towel around his waist as he heads in the direction of his dresser for a change of clothes. He fits his arms through the sleeves of a white collared shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles and yanking it into place.

A gasp escapes Miles as a rugged masculine form sidles up to his back, spooning him before he can finish fastening the first button closed. Claws glide over his hips, dropping the fuzzy towel down his thighs to fall to the floor.

The beginnings of arousal stir in his belly and Miles internally chastises himself for it, knowing he can't afford to get carried away again.

"We can't do this right now," Miles reasons, "I promise I'll show you more later, but we have more important things to take care of first."

The Walrider extracts itself by a few centimeters, digesting this information, but as it wrestles with the concepts of self-restraint and carnal desire, the newly awakened heat the human had perpetuated eventually wins out.

Miles finds himself pinned to the wooden dresser he's standing in front of, the machine roughly keeping him in place with the superhuman strength of it's body. Miles hisses, the metal pull handles of his dresser drawers digging grooves into his flesh. He cranes his neck around, glaring at the machine from over his shoulder for it's excessive use of force.

"Didn't you hear me? I said we have to go. There's no time."

The Walrider seems to think there is.

Instant and wild sensation, molten and all-consuming as a pair of clawed hands trap the reporter's half-hard dick by the hilt. Miles jumps, involuntarily bucking his hips into it's firm grip and he cries out in a broken moan, the machine squeezing around him just the right amount, stroking him to fullness in rampant succession. Miles' resolve is diminishing faster by the second, growing less and less important the more those gruesome claws slide over his shaft again and again.

This probably wasn't a good lesson for the Walrider to learn, that Miles would eventually give in with enough prodding and persuasion, but he can school the machine on the importance of boundaries and mutual consent later because by comparison, this shouldn't take nearly as long as a discussion on complicated human relationship dynamics would.

Tentacles are wriggling against his entrance now, pushing in, caustic and raw, about to tear him open.

"Wait," He begs, his legs shaking, "Fuck -- just wait -- you --you need to wet them first. It makes things easier, more enjoyable."

The tentacles in his ass cease their advances, retreating backwards. One fully withdraws, soothing around the abused muscle with alleviating touches while the other remains a few inches inside, biding it's time.

Another set of tendrils travel up to Miles lips, recalling what the man did with his fingers the previous night, seeking the wet crevice of his mouth.

Miles shudders, accepting one of them in, licking over the surreal, jelly-like appendage, studying the taste and feel with his tongue. He sucks on it, wanton, the round tip lashing against the the roof of his mouth then tickling the back of his throat. His jaw is pushed to open wider as the second tentacle sneaks inside, and he can't help the strings of saliva that drip down from his chin, practically drooling over the two phallic-like limbs.

Having been sufficiently lathered, the tentacles leave the warm sanctity of the man's mouth and Miles misses them almost immediately, his jaw feeling stretched and empty without their residency. As if reading his mind, more come to replace his supply, delving past his lips, dancing along his tongue and Miles is hooked on the sensation.

The spit-slicked tentacles return to Miles' ass, allowing the smaller one keeping him loose, acting as a plug, to slip out first. The reporter moans around the tentacles in his mouth, trying to still his trembling body as he's filled to the brim, his insides now slackened and offering little resistance to the bigger girth.

Thick roots come to wrap around his weak, buckling knees, sturdy and more fortifying then the others and Miles can't do much besides hang on for the ride, his hands clinging onto the tall wooden dresser for support.

The Walrider's claws abandon his erection in favor of toying with the pert nipples obscured by the open flaps of his shirt and Miles can't even spare a complaint because the tentacles in his mouth slither out to coil around his dick, shrinking and expanding in sleek, velvety transitions.

"Ahh aha aah, fuck," His voice is raspy, strained so, he swallows, wetting his throat.

"There! theretherethere -- ahhh, fuck yesss."

Miles' howls of ecstasy spur the Walrider on, fueling it, accelerating it's movements, driving harder, pumping faster, matching Miles voice with a guttural thrum of it's own.

The demons makeshift tongue licks Miles' ear, his cheek, stroking down the side of his neck until it' jagged circle of teeth sink into the juncture of the man's shoulder, ruining a perfectly good shirt. Miles screams, feeling the rivulets of blood pour out from the love bite.

The man let's himself go, somehow finding the sense to warn the Walrider of his release.

"I am -- I am coming," he groans, muffling his words into the cuff of his wrist as he convulses, splattering the tentacles and the dresser in hot, sticky fluid.

Miles is attempting to catch his breath as a cum-smeared tentacle bumps the curve of his bottom lip and the man can't say he’s keen on the taste of himself very much.

"Eck! You can clean them yourself, you know," he grouses, batting the soiled tentacles away.

The Walrider applies this recommendation, tasting it's host's seed and Miles can't deny the blush that dusts his cheeks as he ogles the machine drinking up what's left of the milky white on it's tentacles.

The brunette shakes his head, clearing it, remembering what he was doing before he was so rudely interrupted.

"Fuck, now I have to change and clean up again."

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It takes him about another few hours to pack, to condense his entire existence into four black duffel bags, the lot of them placed conveniently near the front door.

He'd sent out about a dozen encrypted emails to what reliable connections he had, shared all the notes he'd kept of his experience at Mount Massive, about Murkoff's dirty little secrets. He made copies of what he could salvage from his glitchy camera footage, plans to drop the snuff film in the mailbox of every local news station and then some.

As a final hurrah, a eulogy for what was once a normal life, Miles is having a smoke, leaning his elbows on the pane of his open window. He takes in the details of the neighborhood, the concrete jungle of domestication and cramped run-down buildings that he had never really cared to appreciate before. The only reason he finds himself doing so now is because he doubts he will ever lay eyes on this city street again after today.

The Walrider was tame, well-behaved and non-invasive while he worked to sort though his files, the baggage both figuratively and literally so Miles doesn't mind when it approaches him from behind with claws wrapped around his waist, teeth nuzzling the back of his neck.

"I made copies of everything. I going to tell everyone," he tells it solemnly, "I don't know what's going to happen after that. I don't know what's going to happen to us."

The Walrider growls low, showing it understood, offering encouragement to it's host.

Miles makes a sardonic smiles at that.

"Yeah, I hope we'll be alright too," he says, reaching an arm up to curl around the demon's neck, giving it a small peck on the cheek.

There's only trace remnants of tobacco left in the filter of his cigarette, but he takes a long, lame drag on it anyway. Most of it had been wasted, burned off in tiny clumps of ash because he had been too busy being lost inside his own head, but he still liked the feeling of it in-between his fingers, the comfort the familiarity brought.

He snuffs out his cigarette on the window sill, dragging black streaks across cracked paint before flicking the butt down onto the sidewalk below.

He shuts the creaky window, latches it closed.

“Hey, when we’re outside in public, please try to be discrete. The last thing we needs is someone calling in a cryptid sighting,” Miles remarks, turning around, beholding the ominous form of the Walrider.

Obliging, the Walrider dissolves into a mist, thinning out until it becomes nothing at all.

Miles takes one last tour around his apartment, trying to take a mental picture of the memories he'd made over the past few years. He's leaving so much behind, but he can start over again if it means giving the world a better future by bringing Murkoff down.

Locking the door behind him, Miles descends the blocky stairs with two heavy bags on each shoulder. He takes one final look up at the building that he called home, focusing on his third story window before he rips his gaze away and faces forward again.

It's then that he recognizes the suspicious silver Audi parked in his spot, right out front on the sidewalk.

Holy Shit. Was he an idiot? How did he not notice it here before?

This was Trager’s car. It had to be.

Miles tries the door handle. It's unlocked. He tosses his bags into the back seat and then slides into the driver's side, looking for the car keys. Nothing in the ignition, but he keeps searching, a distinctive metallic clack resounding in the interior when he opens the fold-out mirror and they fall to the mat by the break pedal.

Fucking. Score.

Just for the hell of it, Miles takes the keys and bounds around to the back of the car. He opens up the trunk and just like he knew there would be, an expensive set of golf clubs and caddy are laying there to greet him, neat leather toppers, no doubt painstakingly chosen for each one of the ritzy driver clubs. Miles is going to use those later, but whether it's to pawn them, use them in an act of vandalism or put them to recreational use, he has yet to decide.

He slams the trunk closed and he can't believe his eyes when he sees the word, "BUDDY," inscribed on the rear goddamn license plate. He offers a chuff of disgust, rolling his eyes on his return trip to the drivers seat.

He turns the key, revs the engine and just takes a moment to breathe it all in, hands gripping the steering wheel to reiterate the fact that he had jacked Trager's motherfucking car and had brought it home with him, thinking that it must've been during one of his many mental blackouts. He doesn't know if those catatonic episodes are going to be an ongoing, reoccurring thing, but he hopes the answer is less and not more. Either way, Miles is not the type to kick a gift horse in the mouth.

Forget any thoughts he had about bittersweet departures. They're all replaced by giddy spouts of laughter because this feels like revenge, like he's pissing on Trager's grave and it's motivation enough to lay on the gas and do a burn-out, speeding straight towards the nearest news station.

{End Chapter 3}

#walmiles #walrider #miles upshur #walrider x miles #outlast #outlast fanfiction #walmiles fanfiction #my writing #love host #my walmiles fanfiction

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joz-yyh · 1 year

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Love Host - Ch. 5 Preview

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

{End Prieview}

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

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joz-yyh · 1 year

Text

Love Host - Ch. 6

RATING: E (for tentacle sex / xenophilia)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 3,616

READ ON AO3: Here

A/N: Miles experiments with the Walrider’s cloaking abilities. 😋 Waylon makes contact and the journalist finally gets the thanks he deserves. It's an emotional exchange to say the least.

Happy Valentine’s Day y’all!! 🖤 💗 🖤

When insistent claws latch onto his hips, yanking him off-balance, Miles squeaks, an emasculate high-pitched sound that he hates himself for.

His mismatched hands fly around the machine’s neck to steady himself, tumbling into his partner's chest, his leaking dick pressing against a dark, chiseled abdomen. The man holds his position there, too dizzy with arousal to trust moving himself, the sensation growing stronger now that he's lost his bearings.

Miles won't say it out loud, but he likes being manhandled. The coveted shocks of pain remind him that he and the Walrider are both solid and alive (at least in some capacity) and the brunette loosens his grip to stroke along the cords of the machine’s neck, his touches alternating between light and firm.

"I … I want to fuck myself on you," the host confesses into the hinge of the creature's jaw, where the juncture of an ear would be. "With those tentacles of yours," the brunette adds for clarification, a flood of embarrassment serrating his voice, making it tricky to vocalize.

Miles is shaking again, just from sharing this dirty little secret (which wasn't much of a secret to begin with) because in truth, he's been meaning to do this ever since their first night at home in his apartment.

The Walrider's eyes stretch owlishly at first, invigorated by the rush of adrenaline coursing through it's host, the revelation causing the man's heartbeat to quicken, the blood roaring in his veins.

Rapturous claws squeeze harder onto sharp hip bones, slotting their bodies together,it's mystical, silvery gaze pinched into fine-cut slits as a fabricated tongue licks at the human's neck, caressing over a thumping pulse point. The manmade demon matches the frantic vibrato it finds with a deep and bassy growl, a thick reverberation that trickles down into a purr against soft, porcelain skin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Miles can see dark tentacles phase into existence around them, a commune of phantoms ready and eager to carry out his wishes.

Miles hisses through his teeth, bucking his hips as tendrils stroke along his back in gentle, sanguine coils, his stomach muscles pulled taut as he bends into an appreciative arch.

The brunette considers letting his partner take control, to get lost in the thrall, but he can't, not yet. There's something he has to take care of first.

The journalist anchors himself around the Walrider’s neck, bringing two pale fingers to his lips, wetting them with his tongue.

"Watch me get myself ready for you, in the mirror," Miles tells his partner, reaching down to press slick fingers inside himself.

The ambient tentacles withdraw from around their host, lingering just beyond his reach, giving Miles space to stretch out the tight ring of muscle hidden between his legs.

The claws hooked to his sides roam down, grasping around the flesh of his ass cheeks, stretching them further apart, seeking a wider angle of the human's core as the host grinds down against his fingers.

"Mnn, so how's the view," Miles asks in a sordid tease, "Like what you see?"

The Walrider growls in blatant accord, praising it's host with kisses. It's long tongue skirts against the human's lips and Miles groans once the appendage slips inside his mouth to tangle with his own.

When the machine pulls back, it's to dip twin claws into the man's mouth, mimicking it’s host’s actions as it so often does, their presence tenuous and sharp, but that doesn't stop the journalist from lapping at them greedily, satisfied only when they're left sopping with spit.

Those decidedly sharp digits leave him to trail downward and Miles feels a trickle of fear in his gut, knowing their intent, but it's overshadowed by the swell of heady anticipation.

One such dagger-like point slides inside to join his own blunt fingers, raising the number of foreign objects in his ass to three. Their phalanges twist against each other, pushing in at different momentums, a friction of textures that curl against his sweet spot, making Miles moan, long and deep, his head tilted back.

"I– I am going to take mine out …," Miles pants, feeling a little less full as he does, the Walrider following his movements, permitting just the keen edge of a sharpened nail to remain inside.

"No, wait," the brunette says, growing tense, eyes screwed shut. "It's … OK, you can keep yours in. Add the other one … please."

A second claw moves with cautious, calculated increments, minimizing the potential for error should it inadvertently damage it's host by implementing them too quickly.

"That's it," Miles groans appreciatively, panting breaths aimed toward the ceiling when those claws insert themselves up to the knuckle,"do … do that thing you showed me. Make them disappear."

The Walrider obliges, cloaking it's claws in fractals of light, their appearance practically invisible.

"How does that look? Can … can you see," Miles asks, peering over his shoulder to get a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He's greeted by the sight of his gaping hole, probed and violated by strange translucent shapes, a mirage of movement, mercurial and oily.

With a predominantly red face, Miles swiftly turns back around.

"Haha, y-yeah, you can definitely s-see," he comments dryly, trying to steady the horrible stutter invading his voice.

That had affected him more than it should have and Miles can't get the image out of his mind, not even when he closes his eyes. The Walrider nudges it's dark, vaulted cheeks against its host, coaxing him open with smooth, languid preparations and the human finds he is hastily approaching his limit.

"You can t-take them out-t. I-I … I am ready, " the brunettes says, his intermittent breaths coming in quick, little rasps.

The Walrider ignores him, thrusting its claws inside its pliant host more vigorously than before, loving the way the human shudders with barely restrained pleasure.

"H-hey! Y-you're – you're not listening," Miles whines, his grimace of anger at war with the arousal on his face," If… if you don't stop … I am … I am going to come."

The machine doesn't understand why it's host is so opposed to the idea. How could an orgasm be such a bad thing, especially since the resourceful bioweapon could provide the man with several more in swift, consecutive order? That is, if his stubborn mortal lover would allow it.

Miles continues to whimper, squirming around in protest of the Walrider's defiance, making it more difficult for his partner to maneuver without the risk of hurting him. It was hardly any reason to be irate, but the reporter felt something akin to shame, ineptitude, at having circled the brink without so much as a single hand stroke to his aching dick.

Soon enough, thanks to all the insolent tossing and turning, his delicate insides are injured, catching the wrong side of a sharpened nail against soft tissue. The human jolts, having felt the sting of discomfort like an electric current and the Walrider pulls free of the assailed heat before it can cause any more devastating wounds.

Miles deflates in surrender, head resting on the machine’s shoulder. His hips jerk forward, desperate for contact, needing to be filled again, whining for the return of those diligent claws rather than their absence, the bloody hypocrite.

A tentacle squirms into his mouth and even in his delirious state, Miles knows enough to slick it with saliva. The tendril doesn't linger once the task is done, relocating to where the human wants it the most, claws on either side of his ass keeping him spread. The phallus slides in much easier than it had during their past experiences, thoroughly coated in improvised lube.

Miles cries out, too loud for the thin motel walls, enough for the adjacent rooms to hear him. He slaps a hand over his mouth to keep his moans in check, remembering that there were other people around that might complain about the noise. At least he had enough foresight to leave the, 'do not disturb,' placard on the doorknob and if it really came down to it, the Walrider could turn them both invisible if their love making became raucous enough to warrant a room inspection

"Let me ride you," Miles says, meeting the Walriders' mystical eyes, cupping a stygian check in his palm.

The machine gives a subsequent growl and the man in his lap starts off with a few experimental thrusts, setting the pace as he rocks up and down, his whole body tingling with heat.

The Walrider’s fastidious growl falls an octave lower as it nips at the man's neck, marking the smooth, unblemished skin with a series of love bites. Miles sucks in a breath, groaning as teeth pierce into him, razing his delicate flesh into a gleam of red jewels.

"Oh god, it fucks me up so good when you do that," the host rasps, still reeling from the aftershocks of being suckled and bruised, clutching tightly to the Walrider's sinewy shoulders.

The machine offers a knowing, possessive grumble, hot mechanized steam blowing over the abused spot like simulated breath. Just as well, the machine enjoyed branding it's host, pleased that both sides of the human’s neck now matched, indented with teeth marks, one pink and healing while the other was glistening and raw.

These facets were no less a symbol of their bond and to further signify this, talons rake down the expanse of his back, leaving branching rows of crimson streaks in their wake, an impression of folded wings dragged across his spine.

The Walrider flips the man around, the brunette now facing forward, the two pressed back to chest because it’s the human’s turn to watch them in the mirror, to behold the unseen force parting him down the middle, fucking his ass ragged.

His research papers are falling to the floor, his laptop will soon meet the same fate if he's not careful, but Miles can’t say he cares too much about that, not when more tentacles wrap around him until he’s consumed, smothered, overindulged

The Walrider bites at his ear, a guttural purr making Miles’ head spin, innocuous tentacles claiming every outstanding limb he has to offer, stroking and squeezing him to completion. The man can't speak with a tentacle in his mouth, not coherently anyway, gagged, but no less vocal, his whole body trembling as he spurts his release all over the reflective surface of the mirror and he’s too far gone to think about how obscene that is.

The reporter crumbles against the Walrider's chest, head resting against his partner’s collarbone, entirely spent. His tightly clenched hands finally let go of the death grip he held on the sheets, his unwound body growing incredibly heavy.

The apparition withdraws it’s tentacles, choosing to hold the human with it’s claws alone, nuzzling the nape of an abused neck, buried in the sweaty strands of midnight colored hair.

Miles watches in the mirror as the Walrider lifts the shroud, unmasking itself, happy to see the demon's shadowy form grace his vision once more, the miasma swarming as it curls around him in a comforting embrace, as easy as breathing.

Succumbing to his euphoric haze, Miles stumbles upon the insane notion that the machine might just love him in return.

------------------

That following morning, Waylon contacts Miles through an encrypted email.

Inside the message is a series of numbers divided by periods and semicolons, a blueprint of latitude and longitude as well as a specific time to meet.

The prearranged destination turns out to be a normal enough looking place – a rustic small-town with a few shops parsed with suburban homes, street lamps and trees.

His Audi is parked along the sidewalk, outside of a hardware store, having gotten there early to stake out the surrounding area. There’s not many people about, not even a token jogger out for a run and the few contemporary cars strewn across the block probably belonged to employees of the adjacent businesses.

Miles takes a sip of his coffee, the styrofoam cup a remnant of the motel’s continental breakfast.

OK then. All quiet on the western front.

He doesn't have too much longer to sight-see, the ring of a nearby payphone commanding his attention and the brunette has the distinct impression the call is intended for him.

After a few shrill rings, Miles exits the car. He clamors into the antique-looking phone booth, the door a bitch and half to open, surprised it still worked by all the glaring signs of urban decay.

He answers with a casual, "Ya'low?"

"Miles?"

"Speaking," the journalist affirms, the cheekily devil.

"Hey, it's Waylon."

"I know. I was hoping you'd call," the brunette smirks.

"Cut the shit," the ex Murkoff employee snaps, grumpy and sleep deprived.

Miles keeps his degenerate mouth shut, knowing that he was just one snarky remark away from forcing the high-strung runaway into hanging up on him. Self-restraint proves to be the right move.

"Right, so anyway,” Waylon continues, “it's not a lot to go on, but I think I might have an idea of where your damn jeep is."

Miles' face splits into a wide grin, positively giddy at the news. "That's great, Way," he cheers, "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah, don't go thanking me just yet," Waylon grumbles with a sigh, probably nursing a migraine by the sound of it, "You ready?"

"Lay it on me, Way baby," Miles sings, nudging the receiver into the crook of his shoulder, digging into his pockets for his trusty notebook and pen.

"Isn't it too early for us to give each other nicknames," Waylon gripes, irked by the buddy-buddy attitude the reporter has affiliated him with.

"Nah, now's the perfect time," Miles counters, passively, “Not hearing those coordinates.”

Waylon sighs,“Fine, it’s …”

Miles scrawls down the address, grateful for the techie’s verbal cues, a considerate pause break for each new line. The journalist gives his penmanship a quick read over, nodding in approval.

"Thanks again, Way! This really means a lot,” the reporter says, elated, his tone a bit more heartfelt as he segues into his next question, "Hey, have you given it any more thought, you know, about the other thing I mentioned?"

The irritable groan that follows is paramount, Waylon's less than perfect mood tipping further towards sour and resentful. He was probably hoping Miles wouldn't ask.

"Don't push it," the cranky engineer warns, "I still have some things to sort out, but I'll let you know if and when I decide to go along with your insane plan."

A quiet interlude hangs between them and the reporter wonders if this marks the end of their conversation, of what Waylon’s delayed breaths could mean.

"Miles," the computer nerd drawls, his tone a bit too soft and foreboding.

The journalist quirks a brow, suspicious of what the blonde is about to say next.

"Yeah," he prompts.

"Be careful," the groggy engineer exhales, a strain of aggravation, "You know who might be monitoring the location I gave you."

It's Miles' turn to sigh, "Yeah, I figured that was a possibility. Not that I don't appreciate the concern."

"Are you sure there isn't anything that I can say that would convince you not to go?"

The brunette's brows knot in contemplation, his hand curling tightly around the receiver.

"No," Miles says flatly, the undertone of his voice grim, but steadfast, "this is just something that I have to do."

Waylon relinquishes another pointed sigh and Miles supposes he owes his newfound friend some cursory elaboration on this ongoing, “dude where’s my jeep,” saga.

"Waylon you should know, that jeep ... it isn't just a jeep to me," Miles begins, the subject matter a tender one to discuss, "This isn't about money or principal -- it belonged to someone important. It's all I have left of them. I can't leave that behind."

Waylon makes a noise of acquiescence, a light exasperation that says he understands Miles' motivations a little better, but no less agrees with him.

"Yeah, OK. I get it." Waylon says, most likely running a hand down his face judging by the garbled tone, "But if shit starts to go sideways, promise me you'll get the hell out of there. I am sure whoever it is that you're doing this for would want you to come back in one piece."

"No promises," Miles jives with a morbid chuckle.

Waylon laughs along with him, although the occasion is short-lived, an important recollection taking precedence, "Hey, hang on for a quick second. There's someone who wants to talk to you."

Briefly, Miles wonders who it could be, a crackle of static dominating the call as Wayon passes the phone over to the supposed mystery guest.

"Hello? Miles?"

It's feminine voice, one that the journalist fails to recognize no matter how hard he wrecks his brain.

"Yes," he answers after a long, drawn-out pause, slightly nervous about who this woman could be and what her involvement in this mess was.

"You don't know me, but my name is Lisa. I am Waylon's wife. I just wanted to thank you for saving my husband," she explains.

Ah, now it made sense.

Admittedly, Miles is touched by the sentiment, awash in emotion. This amazing woman had a backbone as tough as wrought iron.

It's nice to meet you Lisa,” the brunette tells her in a hedge of breath, “And, you’re welcome. I am glad I could help."

"Noah, Michael, c'mere you two," she calls, her lips pulled away from the receiver as she rounds up the two individuals in question.

Miles listens as the speaker volume crinkles, curbed by Lisa’s heft of exertion, probably from lifting something that was far heavier than it looked.

"Ah, there we go," Lisa praises with a soft coo,"Now sweetie, I want you to say thank you to the nice man on the phone."

Silence follows, more crackling white noise.

"It's alright,” the motherly figure coaxes gently, “Don't be shy.”

Miles is starting to get the picture of what must be happening on the other side of the phone and the realization makes his stomach slam into his throat, the ground torn out from under him, free falling from a thousand foot drop.

"Lisa, it's fine! Really! You don't have to --," Miles insists, but the rest of what he was going to say dies in his throat when he hears Noah speak.

"Fanku mishter,” comes the lispy voice, a child doing as he’s told even if he doesn't wholly understand the request.

There's a kissing sound, Lisa most likely rewarding Noah with a peck on the cheek, "that's my boy. Michael, now it’s your turn, honey."

"Thanks for saving our daddy," remarks Micheal. He sounds a little older, much more confident and aware. Miles had to give him the kid credit. Despite their lamentable situation, it took bravery to stand tall in the face of danger, to protect rather than cower.

Miles thinks he might cry, no matter how hard he tries to hold it in. He certainly cannot contain the sympathy from doctoring his tone.

"You're welcome kids. Be good for your Mom and Dad, OK? I know it might be scary right now, but listen to what they say. They love you a lot."

"Hokay," Noah yawns, probably scrubbing away at his drooping eyes. Poor kid sounds like he's ready for a nap, just like his father.

There's shuffling noise, the receiver slipping out of someone's hold.

"It's alright. I got it Lis," Waylon says from a distance, picking the line back up.

"Hey, Miles. It's me again."

"I noticed. Cute kids," Miles remarks with a curved brow, his lips equally quirked into a wholesome expression.

"Thanks," Waylon says, a bit more chipper when it comes to the pride and joy that is his family, "Maybe if you survive long enough, you'll be able to meet them one day."

"Yeah," Miles breathes emphatically, his chest filled with warmth, "I'd like that."

"I am sorry I wasn't able to say it before, but just so you know, we're all really grateful for everything," Waylon tells him, sounding more spirited than Miles probably has ever heard him, "I would have never been able to see my family again if it wasn't for you."

The brunette struggles to maintain his steely composure, the candid flow of words spilling out of him before he can tailor their sincerity into something else, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

The genuine laugh from the programmer catches Miles off guard, the flute of his mirth filling the reporter’s ears like a bell."Well, that's good to know," the engineer says once his humors settle down, "Not sure, if I could say the same."

Waylon is actually teasing him and attempting to be playful. Miles likes that.

"You'd better," the reporter quips, taunting the other, hoping to nurture more of those carefree interactions into existence.

"Yeah, we'll see. Anyway, good luck out there. I'll contact you again soon, alright," Waylon says, about to sign off.

"Let's hope. Be good, Waylon. Take care of yourself."

"You too."

Miles hangs up the phone with a clak, pausing there a moment with his hand on the shiny plastic handle, letting the mixed bag of emotions fully sink in.

He knew, right then and there, that everything that had led him up to this very moment, all the sacrifices he made, had been worth it.

The brunette's long withstanding vendetta against Murkoff had cost him more pain and suffering than he could have imagined, but it was justified, validated even, if meant Waylon and his family could have a happy ending and by God, he was going to make sure they got one.

#my writing #outlast #outlast fanfiction #walmiles fanfiction #walmiles #the walrider #walrider #miles upshur #love host #my walmiles fanfiction

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joz-yyh · 1 year

Text

Love Host - Ch. 5

RATING: E (for tentacle sex / xenophilia)

PAIRING: Walmiles (WalriderxMiles)

WORD COUNT: 5,8392

READ ON AO3: Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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