Louie🎙️

20 | 🕷️👁️🐑

[sad-zombie-boy]

Franco is so gross but he's also so unfathomably cunty and I will die on this hill

[msviscus]

Franco Barbi is not age regressing. I don't know why I've seen this take multiple times?

1. Age Regression is distinctly characterized as unintentional. Franco is so aware of how bizarrely immature he is acting that he makes jokes about it. Constantly. "You'd hit a fucking baby?" "Take the nipple," etc.

2. Not only is he aware that he's acting this way, he also does not want to be perceived as childish. It's humiliating and immasculating for him and he gets mad at others for calling him little or "il bambino", which literally just means "the child". He hates being called a child. The infantilization from others is directly tied to his disability, it upsets him.

3. His self-infanilization is very obviously tied to his kink. He has a humiliation fetish. The baby thing is a part of his fetish, because he finds it humiliating. HE can call himself a baby to get his rocks off, but once YOU do it? That's just crossing a line. The ableism he's faced his entire life has morphed into some nightmare sex pest maladjustment. Its not proper coping, nothing sex related really is, but you didn't get into the outlast fandom to talk about healthy, functioning adults. (Hopefully. If so, wow, you poor fucker!)

4. "Then what about the self-soothing with the pacifier?" Self-soothing is a completely normal thing that even healthy adults do. The act of self-soothing isn't indicative of anything, it's just more pronounced in those with developmental/mental disorders. The choice of specifically a pacifier is him being That Guy Who Wears Fetish Gear In Public. He's just weird and likes to freak people out; humiliation tends to go hand in hand with exhibitionism. Not to mention he clearly wants to be feared, he revels in it. Wether the baby thing or the serial killer thing scares you doesn't matter, it just matters that you're scared and he can laugh about it. He likes to punch down.

[klownfuckery]

I love the way you write 👉🏻👈🏻 May I request some more Franco from you? Perhaps with a reader who is fascinated by him and follows him around only to panic when he spots her! (Totally not based on my behaviour ingame) Thank you! 🩷

Yes ofc 🫶 Sorry for the late reply. I’d kept making drafts for this ask and every-time I thought I was finished my brain was all like, ‘… yeah, that’s great. But what if we re-wrote it again? 🥴’

Anywho, hope you enjoy :P

.*✩Franco il Bambino Barbi/Reader ✩*.

Surviving in the Sinyala facility was no small feat, some took to their new living conditions more easily than others— like fish to water. You were not among those lucky few. If you were to continue the trend of using comparisons, you’d suppose you’re more akin to that of a sad little sardine. Flopping about awkwardly on the docks, waiting for somebody to grant you pity and mercifully nudge you back into the water.

Whereas others would brazenly leap into the fray, stun-rig ready at hand; you would creep around the perimeter of the trial-grounds. Scavenging and scouting, giving call-outs when able to. Never had you been a confrontational person, and if your teammates wanted to take a more combative stance, who were you to get in the way of that? You’d still support them, of course. Safely. From a distance.

It was during another such occasion, when you’d been helping chuck hearts at the Futterman targets. It wasn’t morbid once you got used to it, and as long as you didn’t think too long about the squishy organ in your hand— well. It was almost enough to not question where the hell a seemingly infinite amount of vital organs were coming from. Almost.

Creeping through the gloom of the faux diner to re-arm yourself with more hearts, you quickly scrambled under one of the booths with bated breath as the diner’s bell jingles cheerfully. Something, or someone, has followed you inside.

Through infrared goggles, you watch, transfixed, as the newest prime-asset, ex-mafiaso, Franco Barbi, stalks forward.

It was silly to admit even in the sanctity of your own mind, but you’ve always been a fan of those detective novellas. More specifically, their frightfully charismatic antagonists. You swore up and down, it was sheer happenstance that Franco unknowingly managed to check all of your boxes— and not the man himself.

You don’t think he can see you, at least you’d hoped so. The man’s eyesight is poor, and even poorer in the dark. You’ve used this against him more times than you could possibly count— and it was admittedly a little funny to watch the mobster huff and pout with you just a mere few feet away. One could even say he was almost… endearing like that.

Despite walking mostly blind, Franco moves with the confidence of someone who owns the joint— or more likely someone who knows nobody else could possibly lay a finger on him. That speculation is only exacerbated by the sight of his pinstripe suit. Neatly pressed— or as neat as one’s clothes can be in here. The desired look is heavily crippled by the generous smattering of ruddy spills staining the once pristine fabric. His shotgun, Lupara, hangs loosely from his hand like an afterthought. The way he carries it utterly flippant. As if it’s presence isn’t a herald of death, and just… is. Like a an extension of himself, a limb. There was no Franco ‘il Bambino’ Barbi without Lupara.

The man’s eyes seem to glow through the lens of your goggles, pupils reflective and giving a ghostly-look as he surveys the area. Lopsided grin growing, crooked teeth bared as he takes in the overturned chairs.

“ ‘S a real cozy joint,” he muttered, his voice a pleasant rasp. His tone was casual, but there was an edge hiding beneath it, a simmering promise of violence. “Real nice place for a late-night chat, don’t’cha think, Sweetness?”

His wing-tipped shoes crunched on broken glass as he sauntered further in, his gaze sweeping across the room. His grin widened, baring crooked teeth in a lopsided sneer. “You’s cozy in here, Sweets?” he called, his voice deceptively teasing, almost familiar.

You fought the pounding in your chest, the desperate thrum of adrenaline urging you to run, move, do something. The only thing stopping you was a heavy dose of self-preservation. Realistically, he’d hear you before you could take two steps, and you’d end up a gorey, painted smear on the business-end of Lupara. Not only that, but another part of you was morbidly fascinated.

So, like any other sane person in your shoes, you lay still. Crouched low to tiled floor, and watched.

Franco paused near the counter, his engorged head tilting again as though he were listening. His breath rasped in the silence, heavy and uneven. Then he chuckled, a low, guttural sound that made your stomach churn with unease. He reached out, dragging Lupara’s sawed barrel along a nearby table, the sharp scrape setting your teeth on edge. A wordless threat meant to rattle you, and holy-hell does it get the job done.

“You’re not playin’ fair, doll,” he drawls, voice taking on a mockingly hurt tone. Nasally in pitch, wobbly, as if he’s about to cry. “I thought we’s had somethin’ special.”

Abruptly, he fired without warning.

The booth beside you splinters in a deafening blast, plates clattering and metal screeching. The reverberation rings around in your skull, causing you to jolt in surprise— for a moment believing you’d been shot. In your panic, your cranium thuds against the underside of the table. Pain throbs through your skull, causing you to whip your hands clasped over your mouth, stifling the reflexive cry that threatened to escape. Above, the countertop rattles with your movement, betraying your presence.

Franco stills.

For a horrifying moment, you thought he’d heard you. Through the lens of the goggles, you watch him crouch low, one hand reaching out to grope blindly under the ruined booth. His fingers curled, grasping at empty air.

“C’mere mommy,” he mutters darkly. But when his hand fails to find you, he sorely swears under his breath. He then rises back up onto his feet, kicking at the splintered wood like a frustrated child denied dessert.

“Fuckin’ slut, givin’ me the slip.” he roars, spittle dribbling down his lip. The man’s stocky shoulders quake, panting heavily in enraged exertion. For a moment, you think he’s about to double down, rip apart every booth in a mad-rage until he found you. However, in the next moment, he’s taking a deep, stuttering breath. Already back to his smarmy collected calm in the next exhale.

With a disgruntled sigh, he straightens himself out. Wiping his mouth, gloved hand then reaching to fuss with what little hair he has left. When he’s ensured it was coiffed presentably back into place, he slung Lupara over his shoulder, meandering back the way he came.

As the bell jingled again, signaling his exit, your shoulders sagged in relief. The once palpable tension in the air melts, leaving you a trembling, boneless puddle. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Somehow, you’d slipped by him again. But you knew this definitely wouldn’t be the last.

[klownfuckery]

.*✩ Franco ‘il Bambino’ Barbi🍼/Reagent!Reader ✩*.

Just a little blurb that I’ve been wanting to write for Franco. I’ve also opened the ask box so if you’d like to req some hc’s or anything,,, y’know 👉👈 I’d love to write more of this dummy-dumb and see what other stuff y’all’d want to see.

.✩* Chances are, if you’ve managed to survive in Murkoff’s demented little playscapes long enough, you’re bound to be noticed in some form or another. To survive a trial is already a rarity, but to consistently come out on the other side largely unscathed? It’s asking to be acknowledged. Either by Dr. Easterman himself, or by his beloved Assets. Unfortunately— or fortunately, you’ve somehow garnered the attention of one Prime-Asset in particular. Franco ‘il Bambino’ Barbi. Murkoff’s newest pet-project; and Dr. Easterman’s seemingly newfound pride and joy.

.✩* Being on opposing ‘sides’, Franco and you are rarely granted the pleasure of each other’s company. Naturally, you’re housed in entirely different buildings, with no real way to communicate outside of ‘therapy-sessions’. Sometimes you’d go months without ever catching a wink of your beloved psychosexual deviant. Given the circumstances, when you finally do manage to stumble across one another mid-trial, it’s an occasion Franco warrants worth dropping anything he’d have been doing prior.

“Ow— Th’ fuck!? What kinda son of a whore lobs a bottle at a fuckin’ baby?”

Abruptly, you drop the gas canister held in hand, ears straining at the sound of glass shattering— or more importantly, its target. Your head whips around so fast, you’re half-surprised you hadn’t broken your neck. “Franco!” You shout, leaping over traps and wickedly sharp shards of glass. Completely uncaring of your volume as you scrabbled towards the familiar voice. There’s a muffled noise of surprise in the next room over, a quick shuffling of feet that ordinarily would’ve automatically sent you into a panicked crouch, before the door you’d been reaching for slams open inches away from your grasping fingers. The sheer force of the figure barreling through the frame has the wood splintering, near completely broken off the hinges as they barge through.

“Marone— Sweetness? That you?”

An ear-splitting grin threatens to erupt across your face, and it takes all of your will-power to stamp it down and keep some semblance of dignity— rare as it was here.

“Got any other sorry schmucks out here hollerin’ your name to high heaven that I should be worried about?” You jest in a simpering tone, heart hammering in your chest. Maybe it’s just a residual fear response from the early days, but the mobster still has a way about him that sets your nerves skyrocketing. The feeling only multiples by tenfold when he saunters forward into the gloom, all cocky swagger befitting of his profession. Realistically you know he wouldn’t hurt you— mortally, at least. But old habits die hard and the reagent in you, the part that’s kept you alive, instinctively takes a half-aborted step backwards.

Franco’s lips quirk in an unabashed, crooked grin. Surely about to pounce on the opportunity to make some dirty little quip about how you could go screaming his name all night. Hell, you’d practically gift-wrapped the delivery for him. Yet to your immense surprise, he doesn’t.

“Nah, my broad’s not too fond’a sharin’… ‘Sides…”

You can’t fight the reflexive yelp that escapes you this time as gloved hands snags you by the hips, greedily catching you flush against his buttoned-up front. Already you can feel his dirty mitts wandering, pawing blindly to undo the straps of your ESOP’s harness. Eager to feel the plush flesh underneath, unobstructed.

“I ain’t either.”