For @supesposting btw you're gonna do good on surgery!!! Wish u the best<33
Sweet. Sweet for how he touches you. Disgusting. Disgusting for how he acts behind closed doors. He's a good man, perfect outwardly, but an ugly truth lies inside. Leland is perfect to you, though—treats you well and takes care of those scars on your chest, treats you like a man.
"Sweetheart..." Leland murmured against your neck, arms slipping around your waist from behind. "Yes, Leland?" "Mm, give me a kiss." You smile but shake your head. "Can't, I'm cooking." "C'mon, sweetness." Leland raised his head and kissed up your neck until he reached the corner of your mouth. "Say 'Ah,'" he joked, grabbing you by the jaw and forcing your mouth open for a quick, messy kiss.
Sizzling bacon in the pan makes you almost regret cooking when you can just kiss him silly all morning. The way he's so playful and sweet makes your stomach flip.
"Mmm—stop it before I burn the food," you groan, slurring words between the kisses. "I'm not sure what you're sayin', hon," Leland laughs as he pulls back. "Prick," you mumble. "Suga, you know you don't mean it. Besides, I know you love me."
When it's all over, you find yourself cuddling up in bed, smearing kisses all over Leland and kissing him until he's red in the face.
synopsis . your next door neighbor came back after a few days of going away; but it seems that he has changed quite a lot.
contents/warnings . sfw , fluff , outlast , angst if you squint , SPOILERS for the outlast lore , inspired by the official outlast comics , mentions of drugs , swearing
pairing/s . walrider ! miles upshur x gn ! reader
leather jacket, slicked back hair, camcorder in hand, great fingers; miles upshur. i’m sorry, i tried to make it rhyme. anyway, miles is a freelance investigative journalist. a brave soul, all journalists are. it’s not like you haven’t seen those documentaries where journalists will literally climb a mountain that releases toxic gas that can kill you. (???) well, miles was a little bit different than that. he was more.. justice-directioned (that’s not a real word dont use it) than anything else.
sure, not only was he an investigative journalist, he’s also a chill guy with dark humor. great handwriting, always writes in blue pen because he says it’s more vibrant to see in pages. oh, and.. did i miss the part where i said that he lives in an apartment?
and that you’re his next door neighbor?
it all started when he first moved in, you were coming back home from work when the journalist was carrying boxes into the former-vacant room next to yours. each box had notes ontop of them in blue pen, some which you could read as ‘Kitchen Supplies (glad i remembered about the white-blue spoon)’ and ‘Hard Drugs’ half open. documents and files were inside of that hard drugs box, possibly from him. what a clever way to make people stay away from your things, huh.
“hey, you looking at my.. uh,” a voice alerted you, and there he was; miles upshur, standing by his door. “looking at my drugs,” he mumbles, almost whispering that part out. it’s damn near midnight and he probably does not want to deal with people actually thinking he’s bringing drugs into the apartment. “nah, man. all yours,” you answer, looking back down at the boxes infront of his room. “you new here? i just got back from my shift.”
“yeah, just moved in a couple minutes ago. think there’s still some boxes at my jeep, but i got the important things first.” he’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. with what seems to be a leather jacket perched on his shoulder. “important things include ‘Rugs’? yeah, sure.” you’re looking at the small box. the word rugs is actually written on it. “well, it’s a priority to stay comfy. i was just about to make some juice, think you want some?”
“no thanks, i’d be down tomorrow, though. i feel terrible.” and that was the case; your back hurts like it just got cracked (pause) and your teeth are aching like you got curbstomped. “yeah, 14 hour shifts got that, it’s why i became a journalist. you should rest, though. i might end up becoming a suspect if you pass out here.”
“also, where do you work?”
“oh, i work at mount massive. it’s the asylum right over there.”
“nice, go ahead. i’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
it didn’t even take a week for miles and you to immediately click; as if you both had met years ago. he was quick to share about evil companies he wrote about in the past, even saying that he has ‘spidey senses’ for corporations doing illegal shit. “oh, i write in blue pen because it’s more vibrant against the page,” as if a black pen is any less visible. “well, look at it like this; black ink won’t be seen in black paper, but blue ink can-”
yeah, he’s a dumbass. but he’s a literary-competent (flame me in the comments for this) dumbass. is that right? i mean, he can write; he could probably read too, he can expose shit, and he can record. on his camcorder. hell, he’s a journalist.
okay, that’s still dumbass.
‘miles is stupid’ propaganda is supported and tolerated. not by miles though.
“my handwriting is better, look, it literally looks like text on a screen with a font! it’s consistent as hell!” he’s holding up a page where he wrote your name and his name on it (with a blue pen) to show you his beautiful handwriting.
“astounding! bravo!”
“i’m gonna squeeze you and turn you into juice.”
coming home from shifts just to see him waiting for you infront of his apartment just suddenly brings your soul back to your body and you’re ready to laugh again. just something about this damned journalist makes you happy.
“hey, man.” you greet, just coming from the stairs. that climb up was excruciating, you felt like you were 60. “i got great news,” miles was holding a document in his hand, wearing that same leather jacket + white t-shirt with jeans combo. “someone emailed me about a corporation doing nasty stuff.”
“this is my chance to get back up; to finally show the world another great story.” camcorder in hand, his jeep’s headlights were on where its parked. how did you not notice that? “you’re going alone? no police, no nothing?” you ask, clutching your bag in hand. you were tired, but intrigued.
“well, yeah. but this’ll be great. i’m going tonight, wish me luck.” you nod, dapping him up one last time as you watch him descend down the stairs. you stay outside for just a few minutes to watch him get into his jeep. well, hopefully he comes back home in one piece.
buzz, buzz
it sounds like a swarm of bees are right outside your door. it’s been a couple of days since miles hasn’t returned, but you figured that maybe he’s going through legal processes right now. the noise is making your head hurt, and you were starting to decide whether or not you’ll go out there.
“fuckin’ bees.” you get up, damn near dragging yourself to the front door. peeking into the peephole, you don’t see anything; not a single bee in sight.
maybe it’s the sleep making you brave, but you open the door and.. no bees. you look to miles’ apartment only to see the door open until it thuds closed. is miles back home?
you were honestly too sleepy to check, and you figured that he did come back. stupid dude didn’t even knock at your place. must’ve been tired or scared to disrupt you.
tomorrow morning, a small note is present on your doorstep.
‘hey, man. i’m kind of sharing a body with a guy named billy. he just killed his mom a few days ago.
you won’t believe me, so i guess i’ll just say that i’m going on a forced adventure with this guy.
also, quit your job for me (• 3•)
by miles. and billy.
— the walrider’
even then, you could still hear and somewhat see miles entering his apartment after that day. does he really not like you and he chose to make up this bullshit ass excuse to cut contact? he didn’t even bother making up an actual excuse.
also, what the fuck’s a walrider? is that some sort of criminal?
The request for Chris and Miles can be anything you want. I just want to see more content for them 👀
Gentle Giant
Summary: Chris finds Miles having a panic attack and comforts him.
TW: description of a panic attack
Miles couldn’t breathe. His throat closed up, barely allowing the heaving sobs to choke their way out. Clawing at his neck, he started trembling uncontrollably. All he could focus on was the all consuming fear and pain worming its way through his body. He grew dizzy as he began uncontrollably scratching at his arm, trying to get out of his suddenly claustrophobic skin. The ringing in his ears grew unbearable, screaming like the variants who had haunted his day. From where he was wedged into the corner, he couldn’t see the massive feet rounding the corner. They thudded against the floor, but to Miles, the thudding was just the vicious beating of his own heart. He couldn’t hear the growling breaths over the sounds of his own terror. Chris grunted and shoved aside the locker Miles was hiding behind, seeking the source of the noises. Miles looked up, barely able to make out who was in front of him due to how blurry his tears made his vision. He squeezed his camera harder, backing up further into the corner and starting to rock as his arm began to bleed. Chris growled and reached out for him, only pausing when he noticed how the young man looked. He looked pure, untouched by the cruelty of the asylum. He had no scars, actual clothes, and an expensive looking camera; the only sign of being tainted by the asylum being the blood coating him. Chris retracted his hand, unabashedly staring. Miles whimpered and tucked further in on himself, too scared to do much else. Chris took notice of the endless wave of tears, the uncontrollable trembling, the rocking, and oh- he especially took notice of the scratching. His heart fluttered and he felt a lump arise in his throat. The newcomer was having a panic attack. Chris immediately kneeled down and pried Miles’ hand from his arm. Miles wailed, attempting to escape the giant, gentle hand. “Little pig… Listen. Breathe. You’re safe with me.” Miles continued to thrash around, growing increasingly agitated. Gently, Chris pulled him into his chest and held him tight against his body, rocking him back and forth. “Shh, shh. You’re okay.” Miles began crying louder, curling into the warmth of Chris’s body. Chris tried to ignore the wet tears against his skin, favoring instead to softly tell the man about dreams of farms and animals. He ran his large hand over his back, talking of days away from the asylum in a safe place. Listening to the soothing rumble of the strange man, Miles began to calm down, the lump in his throat easing enough to allow him a couple deep breaths. Sighing, Chris gave him a little squeeze. “Yes, there you go. Just like that.” He rested his chin on top of Miles’ head, humming as he rocked him and rubbed his back. The tears had stopped, but Miles was still hiccuping and letting out an occasional sob, exhausted body still shaking. “Wh- who are y- you?” Chris continued to soothe him as he leaned back to look at him. “Chris. Chris Walker.” Miles looked up at him with wide eyes, clear vision now allowing him to see his missing nose and exposed teeth. There was no way he wasn’t from the asylum. “You’re from the asylum! B-b- but you’re not- You’re not t- trying to kill me like the rest?” He shied away, hands immediately retracting from Chris’s chest. “You’re pure, unlike the rest. I won’t kill you.” Miles stared skeptically into Chris’s milky eyes, looking for any sign of insanity. All he could find was a deep tiredness and sorrow. “I’m not lying, little pig. I wouldn’t harm someone having a panic attack. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like.” Miles simply nodded, leaning into Chris’s chest and letting out a deep breath. “Thank you.” Humming in response, Chris hugged him close and let him sit like that for a little longer. “You should really get out of here. I can protect you on the way out.” Miles shook his head, looking up at Chris with furrowed brows. “I have to keep going. I’m here to expose Murkoff for what they’ve done. I can’t quit after everything I’ve seen.” Chris raised his brows, fingers curling in his shirt. That explains the camera. “Then I guess I can protect you on your job. Those sick fucks need to be brought to justice.” Nodding, Miles stood up, Chris following him. Checking his camera for damage, Miles rolled his shoulders and looked up at Chris. “Thank you again Chris. I really appreciate it.” Grunting, Chris nodded at Miles and offered him his hand. Miles slipped his small hand into Chris’s, giving him a brief grin before stepping out of the room with renewed determination.
synopsis . malewife chris walker! he was very open to this especially because he didn’t want to serve in the military anymore with all the gruesome deaths, so when you brought it up, he immediately accepted. however, life with an ex-military is as difficult as it goes.
contents/warnings . sfw , hurt/comfort , chris walker , modern au , ptsd , trauma , chris throws up , guilty chris , abrupt tone shift
pairing/s . chris walker x gn ! reader
a/n . since i already did a fluffy malewife coyle, why not do malewife chris with hurt/comfort?
stumbling to the door, exhausted, is you; beat up from all the paperwork and that nitpicky manager you hated since day one. 14 hours in that hell they call a job. damn near dropping your keys as you enter it through the locked door. it creaks open, and you take your time kicking your shoes off. “..chris?” you call out, closing the door behind you. the house is quiet, as chris was, especially when alone. you step off of the ‘welcome’ doormat and into the hallway leading to the kitchen and living room. eventually catching sight of your wife him, on the couch, putting in coins you brought home in his piggy bank.
“little pig,” he would whisper as he looks up at you, coins in hand. wearing a tshirt you bought for him when he was still serving in the military. “wifey,” you immediately run up to him, hugging him like your life depended on it; almost bumping off the piggy bank in the process. “missed you s’much..” he put the piggy bank somewhere safer before wrapping his boulder of an arm around your waist. his other hand coming up to play at stray strands of your messy hair. “you’re.. a mess.” he grumbled, almost seeming sad. “..tired?” you could only nod, relishing in the softness of his body. chris was like a big teddy bear, and that was enough to lull you into sleep.
waking up at whatever ungodly hour, with the house engulfed with darkness and chris nowhere to be found. you were still on the couch, and the only room with light was the bathroom, which has the door wide open. loud, guttural sounds of vomiting can be heard inside. you get up to go to the bathroom, and, sure enough, chris was inside, throwing up on the toilet. “..nightmares?” you ask, announcing your arrival so that he doesn’t get surprised. he was panting, a hand over his own belly. “..red.. on red..” he grunts, wiping his mouth with his hand. you pat at his back as he washes his hands on the sink, and he seems to be tearing up. he continues washing his hands for a few minutes, almost as if trying to wash away the blood on his hands.
you watch him as he lets the water spray on his hands more and more. “...judged by the blood, not the words.. words lie. blood is red. on red..” he was crying now, his tears almost rivaling that of the tap water. the therapy he was attending said he was getting better, and he is; he isn’t lashing out everytime he gets reminded of his kills anymore. but this happens every night, and it feels as though it’s eating you up from the inside. chris was very thankful that you proposed the idea of letting him stay at home, where he’s safe, where he can do house chore duties; not duties of bloodshed by the leaders he follows. you could only pat his back, and he reaches up to close the tap. “..little pig,” his voice cracked, and he wraps his arms around you, his chin resting atop your head. he was still crying, his hand tapping at your head to attempt to relax himself.
“orange juice?” you whisper, your hands rubbing at his back gently.
chris is sitting on a chair at the table as you make him orange juice. it wasn’t much, and to be honest, you were scared it might make him throw up again, but it made him feel better. chris was definitely very childlike, despite being a man bigger than you could ever hope to be. he has his pig plushie in hand, hugging it to his chest. “little pig.. are.. you going to work tomorrow..?” he asks as you place his orange juice infront of him. “well, i do have work tomorrow, but..” you lean in, kissing his nose. “i could get a day off for my pig-lover.” you take a sip of your orange juice. he seemed happy, placing the pig plushie on the table to drink his orange juice.
it’s not much, but you are very happy with your wife; even if he seems ‘annoying’ or ‘disturbing’ to others. he is yours, and you’ll keep making him all the orange juice as he needs.
ask . “ i challenge you to make platonic trager fluff ” by anonymous
synopsis . ❝ to be dr. trager’s trainee was one of a kind. ofcourse, he’s one of the most feared employees in the asylum, especially after the incident where a bunch of employees escaped containment. after that, he turned into a monster—a giant-scissor snapping maniac who would cut off the fingers of any trespassers in the top floor of the male ward. ❞
pairings . richard trager x gn ! reader ( platonic )
a/n . hello ! thank you so much for the ask !! i have school work to do today but i did this first because i needed some motivation to write essays ✌️
“go on, run free!” that familiar, charming voice echoed through the asylum halls as the squeaks of an old, rusty wheelchair traversed the top floor of the male ward. blood dirtied everywhere, rotting human corpses lying around as decorations—an asylum who broke because of a riot. well, trager got a new patient, and he can’t wait to start his operation and finally get his payment. you observed as the mostly-masked man pushed the bounded journalist into one of the only lit-up rooms in here. placing the man on a chair with his wrists chained to the armrests, he groans—low, painful sounds emitting from his raw throat.
“hey, newbie,” the doctor suddenly called you, spotting you peeking into the room. “get me my tools, would ya?” he tilts his head towards a certain corner of the room—a table holding a giant pair of scissors. approaching the huge weapon, and picking it up with two of your hands, you end up dragging it on the floor from how heavy it was. trager grabbed the weapon from your hand, snapping away from your direction a few times to test it—loud, clamping metal sounds fill the room as he faces the poor journalist.
“watch, newbie, these are the pros at work,” he murmured pridefully, angling his giant scissors so that both of the blades are between miles’ right index finger. “n–no, no, please,” miles panted, squirming on the chair out of fear. “okay, okay, just watch, ignore our uncooperative patient,” trager snarls, “keep your eyes on me, newbie.”
snap!
an agonizing scream rang in your ears, miles was squirming, trying to wiggle his tense hands out of their restraints. “hey, buddy, there’s no use trying..” trager whispers, angling the scissors to his ring finger. “no– fuck!”
gory sights like these are common to you—for fuck’s sake, you’re trager’s trainee. he wants you to be just like him, a giant scissor–snapping maniac. he even gave you a pair of scissors of your own! though, he shrinked it a bit.. so it’s smaller than his, but larger than your average scissor. you guessed it, he gave you garden shears.
“alright, you do it on his other hand now,” trager stepped aside for you, tilting his head at the poor man. approaching miles, you held out your shears, snapping them to test it—just like how trager would do it.
okay, index finger first, ring finger next; pause before cutting the ring finger for more pain.
you angle your shears at miles’ index finger, submitting his left hand to the same fate trager put onto his right one.
at this point, pools of crimson red were huddled together at the front of miles’ chair as you and trager worked on him.
everytime miles would squirm and wiggle under his restraints, trager would pull you back quickly, just incase miles would reach you and deal some unwanted damage—and everytime, trager would let out a dissatisfied “tsk” at the poor man.
“hey, you wanna finish him off or d’ya wanna give me the honor?” trager suddenly asks you, the loud snap! snap! snap! of his comically large scissors filling the room. “uh.. okay, go on..”
“ohh, buddy, you’ll be getting a free way out today,” he laughs at miles, snapping his scissors. “and that escape, my friend, is—”
synopsis . your secret admirer is very charming, very talkative, humourous, and most importantly; nocturnal. you already know who it is, don’t you?
warnings/contents . sfw , fluff , swearing , miles is okay! , very abrupt tone shift , crack , very short
pairing/s . miles upshur x gn ! reader
a/n . been SO busyy im trying to post more short drabbles !!
a quiet hum of the cold breeze, a deafening, loud silence enveloping the entire sky. a dark, silent night, a glowing crescent up high—the evening seems to be breathing too low, not making any noise to the point you could hear your own breathing, the beating of your heart, even your feet restlessly shuffling against your blankets. a small “fuckin’ hell,” muttered under your breath was way too loud, almost as if disturbing the frightful peace.
yet you can’t seem to sleep—your subconscious just can’t seem to lock in and lull you into a deep slumber. rolling around in your bed like a possessed being, you attempt to find the most comfortable position on your plush bed. this was very different to your usual bedtime, which is 9:00pm sharp; looking at the alarm clock on the nightstand by your left, it’s almost midnight. ofcourse, there were times you tried to control your sleep and put a limit to your screentime to get yourself to sleep earlier, though, tonight, it doesn’t seem like your phone is the one causing you to be up so late.
tap ... tap ... tap
what would otherwise be a quiet, inaudible tapping; due to the eerily silent night, it echoed through the room from your window. opening your eyes to look, a blinding light met your sight. “ugh..” groaning and slightly annoyed, you shield yourself with the blanket as if the tiny, miniscule holes on that fabric’ll block out the fucking sun.
a small voice soon addresses itself, “hey, it’s me.” the light is soon gone, leaving black dots in your vision. oh, it’s your nightly visitor. sitting up rather slowly, practically dragging yourself up in bed, you come face to face with the dark silhouette outside your window.
“mmh.. what time is it?” your voice is strained from sleep, and your hair’s a bird nest. it’s troubling to open your eyes as they automatically shut back down. “2am.”
2 am.
it took you a minute to absorb that information into your spongy brain.
tap, tap.
he’s trying to get your attention.
“ruined your beauty sleep, didn’t i? sorry, gotta do what i gotta do to stay anonymous.” he turns on his flashlight again just to mess with you. “..i would’ve appreciated flowers at my front door with a note.” you scoff, holding one of your hands up to block the light.
“but i wanna talkk..” he almost whines it out.
“yeah, yeah. just stop shining the fucking sun on me.”
“so what did you want to talk about?” you add, “you know.. since you went through the trouble of visiting.”
“uh.”
“soooooo.. what’s your opinion on the socio-economical status of our country right now? me personaallyyyyyy,, it’s like something i want to write about and reveal to the public!”
“yeah, you’re miles, aren’t you?”
“..no, no—i’m not miles, who even is that, lol?”
“who says lol in person?”
“certainly not miles, whoever that is.”
this is awkward.
you already know who this is.
“so.. you come here often?”
“you’re outside my bedroom window, miles. at 2am.”
“who’s miles!!!???”
like every other visit, miles your secret admirer will soon disappear into the night, staying away from your life (unless he’s your co-journalist that loves to talk about corrupt companies he wants to expose, but surely not, right?) until the next day.
