How the PAs + Ex-Pops + Dr. Easterman would react to other reagents fighting you
Hi everyone! I'm apologize for not posting recently, I've been kinda out of it. Not the fandom, but just in general.
I wanted to write something, though. Consider this a thank you for 100 followers! Truly, y'all are a blessing. I don't have the words to say a proper thanks. When I started writing, I didn't think anyone would like my writing so much. I love y'all. ♡
By the way, I don't mean imposters fighting you. I'm talking about actual reagents who have an issue with you. These will be some possessive headcanons, enjoy!
Leland Coyle:
* You were his favorite reagent. No one but him had a right to touch you. Let alone hurt you.
* When he saw the other reagents in your group start turning on you, he was pissed. He saw how they tried to sabotage you, how they tried to hurt you.
* The final straw was when one of the other reagents managed to drag you down to the floor and start punching you.
* Coyle started full-on sprinting at the reagent. His electron baton already primed over his shoulder.
* He was shouting at the reagent, pure anger behind his voice.
* "You beatnick rape-o hophead motherfuckers aren’t gonna cook what meat I want raw!”
* When the reagent ran from you, Coyle didn’t stop until he was right over you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back up to your feet. He then dragged you to the nearest hiding spot and forced you in, telling you not to move until the rest of the reagents were dead.
* After Coyle left you, his footsteps grew more confident. He was faster, more determined. He was going to kill the ones that hurt you.
* You saw briefly how he interacted with the other reagents. When he got in arms reach, he jerked them back towards him. Coyle forced them to the floor and didn't waste any time frying them.
* The crackling was loud, and Coyle's degrading names echoed throughout the halls.
* Every scream from the reagents only fanned the flames, making Coyle more excited for the hunt.
* Once Coyle came back to you, he pulled you out of your hiding spot. He put an arm around your waist and guided you with him.
Mother Gooseberry:
* Her favorite gosling? Getting hurt? She couldn't, wouldn't stand for it.
* She kept a careful eye on the other reagents when she noticed they were trying to move traps around.
* Her breaking point was when she realized you were heavily injured from all the traps you had tripped on.
* That's when Mother Gooseberry put the puzzle pieces together. Once she did, there was no going back.
* You had been hit by one final trap when Mother Gooseberry came to you. She firmly but gingerly helped you back up to your feet. She led you to a dark room and told you to wait there for her. Threatening to hurt you if you moved.
* The only thing you heard when you were hiding was screaming, Mr. Futterman’s drill and Mother Gooseberry's footsteps.
* You saw what she did to one reagent. When she had caught them, Mr. Futterman went straight to their forehead. Mother Gooseberry drilled through their skull and to their brain.
* While she was chasing the reagents, you heard a lot from Mr. Futterman. Constant cursing and yelling.
* “You grimy little fucks can't escape the goose grease!”
* Once all the others were dead, Mother Gooseberry did come back to you. She was pleased to see you hadn't moved and praised you for it.
* You noticed she was tired from all the chasing, but still concerned for you. She took your hand and led you to a medical box so you could heal.
* While you walked with her, you could feel her thumb rub the back of your hand. She would apologize that she wasn't there to protect you.
* “I'm sorry Mother wasn't there to protect her gosling. These wretched little children kept me from you.”
Franco Barbi:
* You were Franco’s mommy, his little rabbit, you weren’t gonna get hurt by these limpdick motherfuckers.
* Franco was angry for you. It was like he snapped when he saw the reagents try to lock you in the Chem Co facility. Thankfully, you managed to find your way out, but just barely.
* Franco's first priority was finding you so he could get you somewhere safe. If he found other reagents along the way, he would shoot them. Make them run.
* Once Franco found you, he grabbed you by the back of your ESOP. He pulled you around all the way until you got back to his room, where he kept the heavy grunt.
* He shoved you inside and took a moment to reload Lupara.
* “Don't worry mommy, baby’s gonna make these rat motherfuckers pay.”
* With that, he left. The popping of Lupara’s shots sounded much louder from where you were. You flinched every time you heard it.
* You couldn’t hear much else since Franco was so far from you, most of the time.
* Still, once Franco had killed the other reagents, he came back for you. He had one small bottle of medicine in his hands. He didn’t want you quite strong enough to fight back.
* He threw the medicine at you and waited for you to drink it. After you did, it was like he latched onto you instantly.
Kress Twins:
* They were more than upset, mostly because the other reagents weren't even playing fair.
* They had you do almost everything while bullying you.
* Otto and Arora's breaking point was when they saw a reagent slam your head on one of the metal valves.
* Arora borderline screamed at Otto to go and grab that reagent. Otto followed quickly and caught them just as quickly. He didn't even bother to get the reagent on the floor.
* Otto sawed through the reagent’s back, right on their spine. Once the reagent fell, Otto came running back to you.
* “My dear, look at what they did to our love.”
* “They must pay.”
* Otto grabbed your shoulder and forced you to walk with him. You could feel Arora's hand on your other shoulder, gently rubbing it.
* Otto put you in the nearest hiding spot and then left to find the others.
* You didn't even see any of the other reagents die. All you heard was the hollering, the sawing, and the breaking of glass.
* Still, Otto came back to you. They dragged you out of your hiding spot and brought you into the light. They then checked you over for any injuries. Of course you had some. Once they noticed, they left you once more to go get you medicine.
* When you started feeling a little better, they forced you along with them. Otto didn’t let you go until the doctors had to come and retrieve you.
Liliya Bogomolova:
* You were her little lamb, and she wasn’t going to let anyone else hurt you. That was reserved for her, and her only.
* When Liliya saw the other reagents picking on you, she was already keeping a close eye on them. Stalking them, and hiding around them more.
* Liliya stopped playing nice completely when she saw a reagent rip off the claws on one of her mannequins and stab you with them.
* Absolutely blasphemous, and Liliya wasn't having it. Liliya came out of hiding and bolted for the reagent who had hurt you. She moved right past you and tackled the reagent.
* She dug her claws into the reagent's neck, splitting it open. Once the reagent was limp, she got up and immediately went after the others.
* You slowly got up and covered your wound. You found the nearest bed and went to lay down for a minute. The pain was excruciating.
* It didn't take long for Liliya to get to the others. She had to hold herself back from acting too rash. She was angry, but she couldn't just constantly chase them. She needed to trick them, using her hiding skills. It was easier to get them that way.
* Once they were dead, Liliya slinked back to find you. It didn't take her too long since you hadn't moved very far. She saw you on the bed and rested her claws on you. She scratched lightly before noticing the wound on you.
* You swore you heard a light growl from her lips before she went off to find you some medicine.
* Pusher didn't like the way the other reagents treated you. He saw what they did, putting you in harm's way.
* Forcing you into traps, locking doors behind you so you couldn't escape the prime assets.. it didn't ever stop.
* Pusher would try and keep the other reagents in psychosis. Not you, though. Pusher always moved past you.
* “Don't worry baby, these bitches are in for a wild ride.”
* He would move antidotes away from the other reagents, just to keep them in psychosis longer. It would eventually work, killing at least 1 of the others.
* Pusher would also move medicine, making sure it was easier for you to find.
Pitcher:
* Pitcher hated it. He saw the way they treated you, like you were some sort of outcast.
* Pitcher would throw more molotolvs out. He did try and make sure you didn't get hit by them, but no promises.
* He would scream more often, too. It was louder than normal and sounded more strained. You would hear Pitcher growl and grumble to himself, but you couldn't make out anything he wanted to say.
* You noticed Pitcher would keep a close eye on you. Every time he saw you, his eyes scanned you for new injuries. He almost always found them.
* Pitcher would get so angry that he eventually stopped leaving the trial environment. If he ever did, it wasn't for long.
Night Hunter:
* The Night Hunter, like the others, hated seeing you hurt at the hands of these other reagents.
* The other reagents only hurt you so much before the Night Hunter decided you needed to stay with him.
* He wouldn't let you leave dark areas, and he always needed to have you in his line of sight.
* “I see you glow worm. For what they did to you, they're gonna fucking die.”
* Every time reagents would come in the room, the Night Hunter may as well have turned into the pouncer.
* He caught them and lacerated them until you could hardly recognize them.
* If the Night Hunter ever came across bandages, he would give them to you. Possibly even try to put them on you himself.
* He would watch your trials. You were supposed to be hurt, but not like this.
* Easterman thought it would make you stronger at first. He thought it would teach you not to trust others. So, he let it continue.
* Then, he realized every reagent that you got paired with tried to kill you. That's when Easterman took action.
* Even for him, it was hard watching his little lamb get bullied. So, Easterman forbade other reagents from doing trials with you.
* If the doctors forgot you needed to do trials alone and let another reagent go with you, the Jaeger needed to be put in the trial. The Jaeger was then forced to go after the other reagent(s).
* If you were stuck with another reagent, Easterman would monitor the trial closely. Just to make sure you didn’t get hurt. Beyond what you were supposed to, anyway.
* If he saw the other reagent(s) hurting you, he would force the doctors to go in and grab you.
* He would talk to himself about you after your trials. He would occasionally leave you special voice messages on your radio.
* "I see how hard you're working and how sore those precious hands are. These others are just a distraction. Keep your attention on me, little lamb."
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I wanted to make this post longer so it felt more special. Seriously, thank you all so much for 100 followers. I can't say it enough.
I want to get more posts out there, and I hope I'll do it soon! As I said before, I've been kinda out of it recently. Just sorta sluggish.
I appreciate everyone's support greatly, and I highly enjoy reading y'all's submissions! I hope you (yes you) have a great day. Much love and affection. ♡
SUMMARY: Alone, exhausted, and pursued, you run face-first into the last Ex-Pop you want to see. After some convincing, the Pusher makes a deal with you. Unluckily, the Pitcher tracks you down halfway through your "bargaining." Luckily, he wants in.
WORD COUNT: 9.5k
WARNINGS: 18+, explicit PWP, dubcon, canon-typical violence. Oral sex (male receiving), finger sucking, penetrative sex, MMF threesome, spitroasting, bargain sex, spit kink, slight breeding kink (lol), generally gross. Mild gore + mentions of vomit. Reader is fem but written mostly GN, no descriptors of appearance, no Y/N.
READ ON AO3 HERE
Muscles up your side cramped with a vengeance as you willed your legs to continue onward. Pain, hot and insistent, stitched through your ribs, and flared every time you took a gasping breath. God, why had you ever picked this trial? Vindicate the Guilty was never a cake-walk — you should have just done Cancel the Autopsy, something that was brainless and easy — but the allure of extra reward that Easterman promised had been too much. If only you hadn’t been so greedy, you wouldn’t have been caught up like this. Your boots slammed on the ground, green-hued vision swung wildly from side-to-side as you attempted to make sense of where you were. Somewhere dark. The flayed skeleton of the courthouse’s still-in-construction section rose to meet you on all sides, bare wood and jagged nails threatening you at every step.
Ragged breathing matched yours, alongside incensed, guttural shrieks that echoed behind you. Your pursuer.
An angry Southern accent, spat out around a cigarette. “Hold it right there, shitbird!”
Scratch that. Two pursuers.
Your wildly pumping heart sank. You cursed everything you could in your head; the trial, the courthouse, your teammates, your misguided altruism, yourself— though stopped shy at mentally shit-talking Easterman, because you swore he knew what you were thinking. Somehow. Always. Why had you offered to run interference while the others grabbed the acid? Putting your life on the line so carelessly was going to cost you one day, and with every painful, exhausted step, it was starting to feel like that day was near. Maybe even now.
Your fist flung out, snagged around a floor-to-ceiling wooden beam, and you hooked a right, using it as a pivot point; somewhere behind you, a molotov exploded against the battered scaffolding. Terror spiked in every limb. The distinct feeling of being closed in on began to crush you like a steel trap, and you fought the dumb, primitive urge to scream and run blindly. You were better than a prey animal. You had a brain, damn it, even if it was being flushed with cortisol and adrenaline to its physical limit.
A yawning gap of darkness beckoned you. Without question, you followed; although your thighs burned from exertion, you dropped to a deep crouch and duck-walked through the little gap in the slats. It opened into a dark hallway, littered with crates and miscellaneous detritus, the same as all the rest, and added further to your disorientation. At the top of the green wash of your field of view, your battery life blinked down ominously. The clunk of leather boots, offset pairs to indicate that both were still hunting for you, rang through the thin walls and peeling insulation. Still hunting, yes, but you had seemingly lost them. Not that you were going to leave anything up to luck. You needed to get back with the others and regroup. Hopefully your fuck-up had provided enough of a disastrous distraction that they’d been able to scavenge the acid from the other nooks and crannies of the upstairs construction zone. If not, your chances felt slim to none; your progress in the trial had been hard-fought, shoulder already aching from where the Berserker in the downstairs lobby had clipped you earlier.
You turned on your heel and speed-walked blindly to the next door, hoping against all hope for a way to loop back to the front. All that you knew was that you were still being hunted, still pursued, and you were running out of time and chances to get away—
Thump. The door flung backwards just as you reached it, and you collided immediately with the person opening it. Not a Reagent. Why would it be a Reagent? No, it was the last Ex-Pop you wanted to see in such a tight, winding space. It was the fucking Pusher.
At least he sounded similarly winded. There was some small comfort in knowing that the Ex-Pops were — questionably — also human; not invincible, just drugged damn near close to it and provided with real weapons that weren’t pilfered from back alleys and construction sites. The Pusher seemed a particularly egregious example, with his metal-braced limbs splinted to high heaven and his tall, thin frame hunched over in a permanent hobble. A “Doh!” wheezed out of him as your chest thudded against his own, ESOP smacking against the bone of his sternum, exposed by the loose flap of his apron.
Whatever bullshit relief you felt was instantly eclipsed by rightful trained fear, especially as he seemed to realize who you were at the same time you realized who he was.
“Don’t be afraid, baby!” Long, slim fingers leapt up at you from the darkness beyond the immediate glow of your goggles, and you couldn’t help the shriek that tore past your lips as he grabbed at your ESOP. Nails, chipped and unkempt, snarled in your shirt above your gear. “The doctor’s in.”
Maniacal laughter bounced in your ears as you stumbled forward, caught off-guard by the strength of his grip. There was a flash of sinewy muscles that flexed along skinny arms, dotted with gnarled pustules and scarring, as he tugged you into a horribly familiar position. You knew this. You knew what was coming. The acrid, bitter spray of gas, turned neon green by night vision, pushing into your nose, your mouth, your lungs. Everywhere. Forever. It settled like a pollutant, permeated every inch of you, and felt as though you were being shoved underwater with a cloth sack over your face. No air to breathe, just pulsing veins along the walls and filling up your mouth and the inexorable march of the Skinner Man, his approach heralded by echoing screams and melting hallucinations.
Fuck no. Fuck. No.
Although you were exhausted from the previous chase, something like a second wind ballooned your lungs, and your hands flung out desperately. One fist wrapped securely around his gas nozzle and shoved it up and away. Anything to keep it away from your face. Your other hand smacked against the side of his jaw, obscured by the thick, cured leather of his gas mask. On instinct, your fingers curled, nails raking over his skin; his entire frame tensed at the sudden, unexpected pain.
“Oh— agh, tricky little bitch, watch the face!” he spat, and you would have laughed at the ridiculousness of how normal he sounded, if not for the gas nozzle swinging dangerously low above your head like a Damoclean sword.
You grappled for long, torturous seconds in the doorway, grunts of exertion and bitter swears exchanged between you both. A tremble started in the arm propping up the gas nozzle — your only warning. Fear sank your stomach. Your battery was low, it was pitch black back here, and you had no idea where the nearest antidote was. The thought of dying to the Skinner Man’s slow, sloughing drain — writhing on the floor and sobbing incoherently until you breathed your last — struck enough fight back into you to give it one final push.
“Fffucking— gh, fuck you, asshole!” you snarled, near incoherent, flecks of spit flying from your bared teeth. You dragged your free hand down, fighting the way he attempted to secure a grip on your wrist, and struck your elbow across his throat.
The prominent bulge of his Adam’s apple gave way, mashed beneath the flat of your arm, and you both felt and heard the air wheeze out of his trachea. Some of it blew over your face through the filter of his mask’s nozzle, stale from constant gas inhalation.
He stumbled to the side just as your arm gave way, and you lunged at the chance. The chance. All you needed was a chance, just a fucking little bit of luck. Weight thrust forward, you made a break for it, battery ticked down to its last, and dove for the safety of darkness. He didn’t have night vision. It wouldn’t matter if you didn’t either.
Or, rather, it wouldn’t have mattered.
It was all just a stupid hypothetical in the end. Your fleeting dreams of escape were crushed as he swung around on instinct, nozzle-first, and cracked you across the back of the head with it hard. Stars exploded behind your eyes, accompanied by a similarly fantastic burst of pain. A pitiful little noise yelped out of your dry mouth and you stumbled forward a few steps before succumbing to gravity and hitting the ground hard, still carried by your earlier momentum. Oxygen was knocked out of you with a noise that was terribly similar to the one that you had wrung out of the Pitcher not seconds before. Agony throbbed across the back of your skull as you gasped on the floor, drained from the chase and the fight and beyond dazed.
You were fucked. Unbelievably fucked.
Hobbled steps. A large, spindly hand slapped down on your shoulder. Fingers dug in and yanked, hard enough that you felt the joint creak in its socket as he hauled you over yourself and flipped you onto your back.
You’d seen more than your fair share of horrors. Who at Sinyala hadn’t? You’d been chased by Coyle and stuck with that goddamn stun baton, hunted down by Gooseberry and had muscle and tendon pulverized with her drill, even had fucking Franco blow out parts of your leg with his homemade buckshot. Been burned by the Pitcher’s molotovs, sliced by the Night Hunter’s machete, had shivs dug into your gut from Ex-Pops masquerading as your teammates. The list of things you had borne witness to — the list of things you had done — was long and nightmarish. All just for the doctors to stitch you up and keep sending you back.
And yet, somehow, this seemed to be the most frightening yet.
Maybe it was because you knew. You knew what would happen, you knew how awful psychosis felt, knew exactly how your body temperature dropped as the Skinner Man drained the life from your aching body bit by bit. There was no horror Sinyala and its team of fucked-up scientists could concoct that could eclipse the ones created by your own mind, aided by psychosis gas. Loved ones crying and screaming as their mouths were pried open around a whirring drill, friends and old coworkers begging for mercy as stun batons violated their most intimate places. Organs and other human offal raining down in an endless parade of suffering. Easterman’s distorted voice above it all, playing in an endless loop of disappointment and condescension. You knew how you would die, terrified and alone, soaked in your own blood and vomit and waste, body gone cold and added to the endless ranks of Reagent corpses ground to slurry. A waste. A waste of Easterman’s time and love, a waste of Sinyala’s resources, a waste of a Reagent.
The Pusher standing over you, propped up by a metal-studded leg planted on each side of your abdomen, inspired more terror in you than anything you’d ever known. Silly. Stupid. Some backfire of Easterman’s conditioning. Not even Coyle seemed to hold this much sway over you. Even then, it drove you to beg, and the desperation spilling from your lips surprised even you.
“Please, God, don’t!” you yelped, and brought your arms up to cover your face. An impromptu mask of your own flesh, like your skin shoved against your mouth and nose would save you.
The Pusher laughed — you saw how it shook his gangly frame — and leaned down; the gas mask invaded your field of view as he attempted to pry your arms away. The gas nozzle waved ominously near. “Be cool, bitch. Goin’ through withdrawal, I can tell. I can alllllways tell.” He dragged out the L, voice rough and raspy as it filtered through his mask with another wheeze of air. His voice dropped an octave as he leaned a few inches closer. “That’s why I’m here, baby. To make it all better.”
“‘m not, please, I’m not. Please, anything— for fuck’s sake, just don’t, I’ll do anything you want, please—” Pathetic. If you weren’t so scared, you would have cringed at how embarrassing you sounded. So far from the confident, efficient Reagent that Easterman wanted you to be. Just a crying, sniveling body. Just an animal begging for its life.
That last part seemed to catch his attention. He loosened his grip on your arm and pulled back a bit — his long, broken nails scraped over your skin as his fingers slid away. Shaking violently, you peeled your arms away from your face and stared up at him; the tears that welled in your eyes blurred your vision behind your goggles. The battery blinked down to red, but it didn’t matter; fingers that weren’t your own flicked them up, exposing your entire face to the leering Ex-Pop. A gentle scraping noise trailed into your ears as his nails skimmed over the metal of your goggles.
Hot tracks ran down your face as the water tension on your lash line broke. Wide-eyed and still hopelessly crying — the little sobs wracked you uncontrollably even as you tried to quiet yourself into something lucid — your gaze met his. Or rather, met the huge, empty voids of his mask’s lenses. There was just barely enough light to see by — enough to determine large blocks of shadow and the pale, near-ghostly tinge of his grayed skin.
“Anything, huh?” he asked, and sounded surprisingly coherent. Then he broke into a delirious giggle, and the facade was lost instantly. Like there was some joke you weren’t in on. “That’s twisted of you, baby. But I get it. Withdrawal makes you do funny things.” The gas nozzle lowered into view, looming out of the darkness, and you flinched away violently — but the spray of gas never came. The hooked metal just prodded at your face, nudged at the curve of your cheek and the flesh of your lip. It was cold against your searing-hot skin. His voice trailed in and out, as if he was musing to himself behind the mask. “Pretty cute, even when you’re banged up… I guess it’s not unheard of for a doctor to have sex with his patients.”
The last sentence made your stomach sink right through the floor.
He couldn’t possibly— not—
Pressing his advantage by lieu of your lips parting in shock, the sprayer pushed into your mouth. Metal indented your tongue. A fresh sob balled up in your chest and trembled out of you around the nozzle. Anticipation and never-ending stress sang loud and discordant in your veins, but the proverbial shoe never dropped. The gas never clicked on. Just a perverse exploration of your features by an insane goddamn Ex-Pop. Slight movement caught your eye; his mask slowly tilted side to side as he studied you.
“Tell you what.” The nozzle pulled free of your mouth; you caught a glimpse of how your spit shone on the scuffed metal, and nausea rocked you. “Let’s have a little fun, baby. Why don’t we use that mouth of yours? See if it’s good for something besides all that crying.” The last word left him with amusement; you heard the way his grin stretched, lazy and leering, behind his mask. “Scratch my back, I scratch yours. Let you go on your merry little way.”
He spoke so matter-of-factly, like he was discussing a frank business deal, but the manic excitement laced in his tone was hard to miss.
You were many things. Stupidly altruistic, apparently, yes — but you were also a good Reagent. The callousness that Easterman desired had not been beaten into you yet, but you had an unbelievable survival instinct. And right then, your gut told you — for whatever reason — that the delusional Ex-Pop’s word would hold.
And there was no getting out of it anyway. Either you could do it willingly and swallow your disgust or he’d drag your mouth where he wanted it and gas you for the hell of it.
Your eyebrows drew together in disbelief and pure distaste. He laughed above you at the way you cringed; the sound scraped all the way up his throat and filtered through his mask. Still, you managed to force a swallow despite the dry tackiness of your mouth, all the moisture long since cried out.
“Okay,” you said hoarsely. A sniffle interrupted your words. Whatever would have come next failed you, and you just nodded as if to really seal your fate.
“‘s what I like to hear, baby!” came the reply from above. “Not that it woulda mattered either way.” Manic laughter bubbled through his sentence.
Just get it over with. Just get it over with. You’d done worse. Ground bodies up, dug around in guts for keys, sawed living people open and shoved packets of poisoned drugs snug up against their still-beating hearts. Sucking a dick was nothing.
You weren’t sure if he mistook the way you scrambled up to your elbows and then further into a sitting position for excitement, but it delighted him either way. One hand slid down the front of his apron; you watched with no small amount of horror (and some very, very small amount of sick fascination) as his long fingers sank to the junction of his thighs and squeezed at his cock over the battered drape of leather. A long sigh whistled out of him.
“Yeah, ‘s gonna be good, baby,” he huffed, pawing at his cock one more time for good measure before letting his hand fall away.
Movements jerky, you all but lunged forward on your knees now, the gray mist of dissociation hazing over your brain. Your fingertips skated over the leather, touch obviously shaking — slender fingers with bony knuckles snatched your wrist and you jumped violently. Your gaze instantly flicked up to that impassive mask, eyes wildly searching the discs of the lenses.
“Slow down,” he said with a reedy laugh. “Gonna blow my fucking high.” A clatter off to your side made you jolt; you realized after a beat that he’d discarded the gas nozzle entirely. With his now free hand, he gripped his cock again, the tent more visible. “I got time, baby, don’t you?”
The question was sardonic and made you bristle through your haze of fear and exhaustion. Fucking asshole. No, you didn’t have time, you didn’t want to do this, any second Coyle could find himself wandering through this part of the courthouse and catch you on your goddamn knees and deliver a shock right to your brain that would well and truly kill you. The Pusher fucking knew it too, because his rhetorical question cracked himself up again.
His fingers tightened in the leather and he tugged the skirt of the apron to the side with jerky, excited movements. The bulge was much more noticeable through the stained boxers he wore beneath — you tried your best not to think about what exactly was splattered across the fabric — and he at least did you the favor of keeping the apron from falling back in your face. Your lids squeezed shut for a second, and you took a breath to steady yourself; this close, you could smell him, sweat and old blood and the acrid tang of the gas that seemed to linger around him like a miasma. His skin beneath the apron was just as marred as the visible swathes; tumors and scarring stretched across the flat, near-concave plane of his abdomen and trailed up his visible ribs. Veins slunk below the waistband of his boxers. You swore you saw one jump and twitch.
Your fingertips curled in the fabric and tugged it down; it snagged for a moment on his cock but came free easily enough. He was on the better side of half-hard, and the head was flushed a deep, vivid pink with gnarled veins running up and down the sides. It curved off to the left, long and thin.
It was normal.
It was almost sickening how normal it was. If you closed your eyes, you could pretend that this was something else, someone else, anywhere else. But the feeling of the hard exposed wood beneath your knees and the ESOP pinching your chest and the wheezing laughter above your head kept you from actually managing to slip away mentally.
Trepidation stubbornly stayed your hand. The Pusher, seemingly tired of your hesitation, slid his fingers into your hair. “Don’t be shy now, baby,” he crooned, voice tight and rasping on the edges. “Relax. Say ah for me.” A snicker tinged his words.
The grip near your scalp tightened and pulled your head in; you felt the heat throbbing off the tip against your lips before it even touched them. You curled your tongue in your mouth and tried to work up some last-second spit before the flare of the head shoved against your chapped lips; precum smeared over your mouth for a second or two.
You said ah.
Even though you felt sick, your lips parted and your jaw eased open; the tip slid into your mouth with ease and a full-body shudder wracked the Pusher. Even just the head enveloped by your warm, wet heat had his knees close to buckling, judging by the tremors in his braced legs. His fingers twitched against your head and tugged again; another inch or two pushed into your mouth. The weight of his cock settled on your tongue, the skin blood-hot and tangy with sweat. Unwashed, you realized with a cringe, and the reflexive expression scraped your teeth along his length. He jerked, a moan leaving him, and you reeled for a second.
“Fuuuuck yes, baby, just what the doctor ordered,” he groaned, drawing the first word out languidly. “You’re a dirty little bitch, huh?”
I’m not. You wanted to defend yourself desperately, but with an Ex-Pop’s cock crammed in your mouth (the fucking Pusher, no less), you realized that really any kind of argument that you weren’t some cheap whore wouldn’t stand for long. Still, you made some kind of noise around his length; all it did was vibrate up to him and draw another sound of pleasure from behind the mask.
His hips pushed shakily forward as his hand pulled you closer yet; you were already drooling around the intrusion, and an embarrassingly slick noise eked out around his cock. The veins along him pulsed and twitched as you half-heartedly sucked; salty precum bloomed on your tongue, and the overproduction of drool in your mouth made you swallow it automatically. As if triggered by the flex of your throat muscles, the Pusher groaned again and secured a better grip in your hair — you glanced up at his obscured face for a second, only to immediately choke as he shoved his cock further into your mouth.
Instantly, your hands came up to brace on his thighs; you gagged, coughing around the obstruction in your mouth as tears swelled on your lash line. It was what he wanted, evidently — his cock twitched on your tongue as it slid back just enough for you to catch a snatch of air around it before he yanked your head back down. Every fucking time he managed to hit your uvula, and you choked violently, drool spilling in ropes past the seam of your lips as you tried desperately not to vomit. Your nostrils flared in a helpless bid for air, and tears trickled over the swell of your cheek as the Pusher fucked your face. Obscene sounds filled the dingy space of the half-constructed courthouse hallway; your wet gags, the sound of his balls slapping against your chin, the huffing moans and delirious words that spilled near endlessly through the filter of his gas mask.
“That’s it, bitch, just— fuck, yeah, just take it, relax, take it in,” he slurred, the long line of his body hunched over your kneeling form. All you could do was take it in — although you weren’t doing it well. Coughs wracked your throat, and half-gags and spasms of your jaw scraped your teeth across his length. The flare of his head knocked against your soft palate, dragged back against the roof of your mouth. Drool. So much drool. Down your chin, down the length of him, down to his balls, dripping in long striped stains on your shirt and glossy strands on your ESOP. You all but seized around him; bile rose steadily up from your gut, that low esophageal burn making itself persistent and known, and, oh God, please don’t throw up on him.
Out of pure self-preservation, you fought his grip well enough and yanked your head back, gasping desperately for air with tears hot on your face. Breaths frenzied and disoriented, you barely noticed the way he reached back for something — panting heavily himself — even with a hand still tight in your hair. You should have been watching. Should have been vigilant. Through the blur of tears, you caught only a second of the gray flash of metal before a thin, hooked object slid in your open mouth — and you sucked in air to scream right as the gas clicked on.
“Oh, baby, the things you’re gonna see…”
Everywhere. Everything. The psychosis gas flooded your drool-slicked mouth all the way up to your sinuses and spilled out your nostrils. Hazy green arabesques curled up past your eyes. No sound left your vocal cords. Gas rushed over them just the same, sinking down into your lungs with the great, frantic, instinctive pulls of your breathing. The acrid tang of battery acid, of electric shocks, of pure, distilled fear bloomed on your tongue along with the salty remnants of precum, and you attempted to throw yourself backwards in sheer terror. A ripping pain at your scalp reminded you in very short order of the Pusher’s hand still tangled in your hair, and you didn’t even have time to make a noise past an agonized groan before he was pulling your head back to his cock — standing stiff and proud and completely soaked in your spit, even in the dim light.
The shadows around him, behind him, everywhere began to melt. Sobs wracked up from your chest as he pushed back into your pliant, gaping mouth with a satisfied groan, throwing his head back and letting the long, pale curve of his throat bob as he swallowed. “Don’t wriggle, bitch, or I’m gonna have to— hah, shit, gonna have to manhandle ya.”
You tried your best to focus on the sinewy planes of his body, but it was no use. Your malfunctioning brain short-circuited — visions of his skin melting and his organs sliding out plagued you even when your reddened eyes shut. Keys, gore, meat grinders, saws, the velveteen feel of intestines on your face — you writhed as you cried, desperate for a reprieve from the hallucinations that simply wasn’t coming.
“Cut the— the lid off that, hah, third eye, huh? Seein’ it yet, baby? Isn’t it just— fucking shit,” he bit out, voice jumping an octave for the interruption as he pumped his cock into your slack, drooling mouth. “—just beautiful?”
In your ears, his voice distorted, echoes and rewinds of it crawling into your shattered brain. Droning bass started — maybe it was your heartbeat, maybe it was something else — and then you heard it. The footsteps of the Skinner Man, unbelievably loud and quiet at once. Tentacles flickered into view, and you felt it, felt the tug at your vital organs, felt the steady drain of your energy. Misshapen skulls, melting viscera — all of it danced across your warped vision. And worst of all, the drug danced across your frame, loosened your muscles, and let a weak thrum of arousal start to twitch and flicker between your legs. Not so much stimulation as it was the complete malfunction of your body, but the constant thrust of the Pusher’s hips against your mouth wasn’t… helping? Hurting? Every slick push down your throat made that little flicker run hotter and hotter. The Skinner Man opened a door off to your side, somewhere — or was it behind the Pusher? He was accompanied not by that dark, pulsing haze but by a glow, an odd glow — you’d never seen him with light before—
An almost affronted snarl ripped through the haze. You dragged your bleary eyes up and they shot wide.
Not the Skinner Man.
The Pitcher.
The very one you must have been running from earlier. He hung in the doorway, gloved fingers tight around the glass of a molotov; the flame flickered and spiraled at his hip. Choked, ugly sounds — laughably similar to the ones wrung from the back of your throat — ripped out from behind his mask as he stared at the two of you. Instinct tore the reins from your hands, and you immediately attempted to pull off and run. He wanted you dead.
Didn’t he?
It didn’t matter.
Around him, the doorway warped and twisted. The locs swept back behind his mask elongated into twitching, writhing tentacles, the gas nozzle that obscured his mouth melted into a tooth-studded skeletal grin. Fuck, fuck, the Skinner Man — as you watched, the Pitcher’s form gave way to the now-familiar suit and tie. It was so dark. Every shadow was alive, pulsing and virile, throbbing in tandem with the Pusher’s cock still deep in your mouth.
The backwards motion of your head was halted by the Pusher palming your scalp and keeping you right where he wanted you; another long groan dragged from behind his mask as your throat muscles spasmed against his tip. Your nails raked at his thighs, but all it did was make him shiver and laugh. You were going to die, killed by the Skinner Man half-masquerading as the Pitcher, burned from the inside out and vitals drained into nothingness.
A snarl from off to your side. The Pitcher was back, the hallucination of the Skinner Man gone, and he made several half-shrieks as he stalked closer. Molotov bottles clinked ominously on his hips as he approached; the flicker of the lit one’s flame made you cringe, even with your mouth full.
“C’mon, man,” the Pusher wheezed, fingers tightening down on your head. “You’re harshing my fucking mellow here.” The words fought to come out, struggled their way through spit and pleasure and the asthmatic pull of drug-shredded lungs.
A guttural huff from the Pitcher — near dismissive in nature, you thought deludedly as your head spun and spun and spun — was the only answer. Heavy boots, long-stained with gore, clunked against the bare plywood floor, until he stood with his hips on your eye level. Ropes crisscrossed the front of his groin, securing the canvas skirt he wore over his jeans and acting as effective holsters for his firebombs. Scarred brown skin overlaid with battered leather straps filled the rest of your vision — his bare torso.
You were far past shame or embarrassment. Struggling to stay afloat, your brain fought valiantly against wave after wave of hallucinations; sluggishness plagued your limbs, and lances of sharp pain up your spine burned as the telltale indicator that the Skinner Man was sapping your strength — rotting you from inside.
Gloved fingers pushed brusquely at the hand secured on the back of your head, and replaced them with little difficulty, although the Pusher let loose several croaking complaints. Leather creaked, the sound echoing in your ringing ears, and the Pitcher’s grip tightened before he yanked your head backwards. You gasped, the sound raw and painful; a thick strand of spit connected your bruised lips to the flushed head of the Pusher’s cock. Every breath in was desperate and agonized; your throat felt as though it was bleeding from the combined abuse of the drugs and the Pusher’s… attentions. You stared up at the Pitcher with reddened, tear-shiny eyes, reduced to a trembling mess on your knees.
Behind his mask, the Pitcher’s eyes were heavy. Dead. No light, nothing to signify humanity. Just slate-gray irises and blown-out pupils, heavily lidded despite the dark. The severe planes of his mask caught and reflected the flicker of the molotov he held, and he brought it close to your face, enthused with how your tears caught the light. Harsh breaths tore out from his chest, the bare, scarred skin rising and falling.
“We had a deal, man,” the Pusher complained, clearly uncaring of literally having been caught with his pants down. “What, you’re just gonna…” He trailed off with a frustrated noise, gestured loosely with spindly hands. “Not cool.”
A minute tilt of the head was all that the Pitcher gave to signify he’d even heard the other Ex-Pop; his eyes flicked to the side for a second before they trained back in on you and your tortured expression. You heaved, wanted desperately to gag, anything. You’d never felt so sick and light-headed in your entire goddamn life. Every second that ticked by, the Skinner Man’s influence grew heavier; you swore your vision was darkening at the edges.
The Pitcher holstered his lit molotov — didn’t even extinguish the flame — and held an expectant gloved hand out to the Pusher, who scoffed like he’d been asked something unreasonable. You sagged in the Pitcher’s grip, eyes unfocused as you saw photonegatives of the Skinner Man’s melted features every time you blinked.
“Tch,” the Pusher snarked, and dug something out of the pocket of his apron. “You people are a real fuckin’ buzzkill. Ruining my high.”
A short growl from the Pitcher. Two fingers probed at your slack lips; you offered little resistance, and in short order they pushed further into your mouth. The metal of the strike cap on the Pitcher’s middle finger weighed heavy on your tongue; the taste of it only added to the flavors of acid and sweat and salt swirling in your abused mouth. Spit slicked along the leather of his glove. Weak groans and drool slipped past the plug of his fingers; pitiful little noises that you were barely aware you were making. At least you wouldn’t die with the Pusher’s cock down your throat. You could handle a few fingers.
And then they hooked on your jaw and pushed down. You heard the creak of your temporomandibular joint under the strain, but he didn’t go further. The digits pulled out of your mouth and another metal tube slid in — in fear of getting another dose of gas, you let out a weak yelp and attempted to sway backwards, your survival instinct still trying its best to save the dregs of your life.
Huff. Gas filled your mouth again, but not in a thick, corrosive blast. Little puffs. Squeezes. A sterile taste bloomed over your tongue, numbed your throat.
Antidote.
Blessed, blessed relief. Lucidity came back to you in cool washes of conscientiousness. The hallucinations melted back to the shadows, inert darkness once more. Screaming faded away, no longer plaguing your eardrums. The Skinner Man collapsed in on himself like a dead star, packed away into nothingness like he’d never been there at all.
You gasped for air; one hand came up to clutch at your raw throat. The emptied antidote was discarded somewhere in the dark, clattering and bouncing against the plywood. Slowly, the edges of your eyesight came back into full view. They had been shadowed regardless, but not having complete tunnel vision was a plus. Exhaustion settled over you in a wave as you regained control of your body; your abused brain felt as though it were on the verge of seeping out of your ears. Every thought was liquid slurry; anything intelligible had to be forced through a mental sieve.
The Pitcher was breathing heavier now. Painful sounds — this close, you could hear the way the air whooshed over his ruined vocal cords, the way his breaths nearly bubbled in his gasoline-charred lungs. You didn’t know what to say. Not that you would have even been able to speak. Maybe thank you, but somewhere, deep in your gut, you knew that it wasn’t altruism. Eye for an eye. Trading your respective pounds of flesh. The Pitcher did not save your life to be kind.
Gloved fingers tightened on your scalp and pushed your head back towards the Pusher’s noticeably still-hard cock.
No, you were pretty sure the Pitcher saved your life so you’d be warm when it was his turn to fuck you, too.
Taken by surprise, you yelped and gagged as the slick head pushed past the seam of your lips for what felt like the thousandth time. Each time he fucked into your mouth, another thread of your consciousness felt as though it frayed to the point of unravel. The Pusher groaned and his hips instantly jerked against your face; the tip slid along the roof of your mouth and nearly tagged your uvula before the Pitcher tugged your head back with an excited-sounding snarl, his interest piqued.
Heady from the remnants of drugs still pumped through your system, you realized with a nauseating throb that the simmering arousal between your legs had not been wiped with the antidote. Not a hallucination. Real. It was real, it was very real, and each time the Pitcher pushed your head down the length of the Pusher’s cock, it pulsed against the inseam of your pants.
You were used. You had always been used. Since the moment you arrived at Sinyala, since that first introductory trial where you’d shredded every vestige of your identity, and, in Easterman’s own words, become “all reamed out” and ready for therapy. All you and your fellow Reagents were just vassals of flesh, empty and ready to be filled by orders. Objectives. Easterman wanted you empty so he could fill you with what he saw fit.
Was it so bad to disregard his command, just this once? Fill yourself with something that wasn’t some gruesome objective? It was base. Primal. More than a little disgusting. But for the first time in days-weeks-months (time was beyond relative and more meaningless here than anything else), you felt human.
Filled. You could be filled. You could be used.
Eye for an eye. The thought came back to you again. Trading your pound of flesh.
At least you could wring a little pleasure from it.
The Pitcher controlled your motions tightly, the movement of his arm jerky with underlying strength. All that practice from chucking molotovs at Reagents’ heads full-speed had certainly amounted to something. Back and forth. Back and forth. Your lids flickered shut as you did your best to relax your mouth — though judging by the way the Pusher groaned when your jaw faltered, he didn’t mind the scrape of teeth along his length.
“Fu-huh-ck yeah, baby,” he laughed, tone as sleazy as ever, wheeling his arms back to prop himself up against nearby scaffolding. The liquid in the tank on his back churned ominously. “Feels good, tastes good, don’t it? Sure feels good to me.”
Some choked little sound eked out around his cock. Your tongue curled along its underside, caught a rivulet of precum just as it seeped from the tip.
Gentle metal rattling caught your ear, and with a start you realized that the Pusher was literally shaking at the knees with the effort of holding himself up on splinted legs against the slick pleasure of your mouth. Close. He was close. At least some part of the nightmare was close to over.
The Pitcher released your skull. You took the chance to suck in air; the head of the Pusher’s cock bobbed near your face, heat radiating off it. The Ex-Pop whined from behind his gas mask, voice croaking from gas inhalation and aborted pleasure.
“C’mon, man, be fucking cool, I was close— hey, watch it!” The Pitcher interrupted the Pusher with a heavy hand on his shoulder — his fingers still wet with your own spit — and forced the lanky Ex-Pop to his knees. He swore as he crumpled, his limbs bending awkwardly to avoid irritating the screws driven through his shins. The tank swirled and churned heavily, the weight winning in his losing battle against gravity, and he settled on the floor with a thump and several more complaints, knees spread out on the plywood.
Now that both of you were in the same position — despite the fact he was just a bit taller than you — you stared into the voids of his mask’s lenses; the warped reflection of your tear-stained face caught your eye.
The Pitcher barked out a snarl — it almost sounded like words, but not quite — and spun on his heel. A heavy hand settled on your shoulder now as he swung a leg over your calves and stood behind you — and then the weight slid from your shoulder to the nape of your neck. And then down an inch or two to your upper back. And then it pressed. Unrelenting, unmoving, insistent. You gave in, a tremulous breath caught in your chest and fluttering like a butterfly with half a wing.
Down, down, down you went, leaning forward until your lips hovered near the Pusher’s cock. Your hands splayed beneath you to support your weight, the skin of your palms abraded by the rough-hewn grain of the cheap plywood. He seemed to get the idea right when you did, because manic delight ratcheted up his voice an octave or two.
“Sure, baby, everybody’s invited,” he sleazed, giving his stiff hips a little thrust that knocked his cock up close enough to smear the head across your lips. “You’ll like this party, sweetheart, don’t worry.” The words cracked and gave way to hyena-esque laughter, and before you could rebut, he splayed thin fingers across your scalp again and pushed your head back down.
On your hands and knees now, you swallowed the Pusher’s cock again; your compliance lasted for all of three seconds before you jumped and yelped at the feeling of fingers digging into the waistband of your pants. Without fanfare, your bottoms were wrestled down over the curve of your ass, yanked down just far enough along with your underwear to reveal your cunt to the stale air of the half-constructed courthouse hallway. A searing-hot flush washed over your face, and you made several embarrassed noises around the Pusher’s cock; he snickered at your fluster and watched shamelessly as the Pitcher pushed your pants down far enough to be suitable — until they bunched at your ankles.
“There we go,” the Pusher cooed, rasping voice laced heavily with seedy arousal. “Not being a little bitch about it now, huh?”
The plywood bit into the skin of your knees.
You’d never felt so violated, and you’d never felt so shamefully aroused. Even on nights where you snuck a hand beneath your Murkoff-designated sleepwear and worked yourself to a silent finish — always visualizing Easterman’s praise as your motivator — you’d never been this wet. The Pitcher sucked in an excited, raw-sounding gasp, and leaned over your back; his weight pressed into your spine as his hand came up to your face.
Still drooling around the Pusher’s cock, you groaned in confusion and arousal and embarrassment. The Pitcher’s fingers pressed invasively at the stretched seam of your lips, and it took several seconds for you to realize what he was doing. He was collecting the spit leaking out of your mouth; arousal jolted through you all the way from your burning face to your twitching, unattended cunt. Shiny leather cupped and curled, collecting spit strands and even pushed in alongside the Pusher’s cock — stretched your mouth to the point where you thought your skin was going to tear — to scoop out enough saliva.
He let out a raspy purr and withdrew, pulling away from your back. When, exactly, he had dropped to his own knees behind you, you didn’t know. All that really mattered was the rustle of fabric as he pulled his own gore-splattered jeans down and worked his cock free. Blind to everything except for the Ex-Pop currently taking up your entire field of view, it took you way the hell off guard when split-slicked fingers slid down your cunt from taint to clit, even brushed through the thatch of curls your sex was nestled in. You moaned, tremors in every limb, feeling your own saliva as it combined with the slick that had started to soak your folds. The metal of the strike cap pushed roughly over the bead of your clit and you choked again, much to the Pusher’s delight.
Leather gloves grasped inexpertly at your ass, movements harsh and greedy, and instinctively you spread your knees apart as best you could within the confines of your bunched pants. One hand left your flesh, and the other slid inward — open-palmed gropes at your flesh until his thumb slid down your cunt, hooked in your folds, and curled. A high, embarrassing moan left you, and in response, the Pusher pressed your head down further, amused by the way you sounded when you choked.
Spread completely open, the Pitcher’s eyes flicked over your waiting cunt for only a few seconds before he, too, succumbed to his impulses; his free hand closed around the base of his cock and the head prodded at your entrance for a few heart-pounding seconds. So slick were you that it slid down, pushed at your clit, and you jolted again; on the second try it found its target, notched on your hole, and slid straight home.
So full. You were so full. The Pitcher’s cock was thicker than the Pusher’s, mottled with veins and errant scar tissue, and it had been so, so long since you’d had anything but your own fingers jammed in your cunt. Pain seared through you at the unexpected stretch, and tears prickled at your eyes. Your nails dug into the flimsy plywood beneath — you felt the splinters already — as you half-groaned, half-sobbed. Burned from the inside out. The Pitcher was an unrelenting force; his hips pushed forward and forward and forward, bullying inside of your twitching cunt. He gasped and groaned like he was being tortured, the sound gargled in his chest. His hands groped hard at your ass, kept you spread for the intrusion.
Every inch was incredible agony, and nothing had ever felt quite so good. Finally, finally, he pushed in all the way to the hilt, and his narrow hips settled against the flesh of your ass; you felt the way his balls twitched against your clit. The burn faded, replaced with the ecstatic feeling of the stretch, and those few seconds of reprieve were all you got until the Pitcher started to move.
Goodbye, sanity. You might as well have been in full psychosis. The Pitcher pulled back only halfway before falling victim to how fucking good it felt to be buried in something warm, wet, and mostly willing; his hips drove forward again in a desperate thrust, and you were knocked forward onto the Pusher’s cock. It slid deeper down your throat, deep enough to make you gag, and fresh tears spilled over your puffed cheeks as the Pusher’s own hips jerked forward in response.
“That’s the fucking ticket, baby!” he groaned, nails dug into your scalp as he fucked himself into your throat. “Good shit, Charlie. Fuck!”
Who the hell was Charlie? It didn’t matter, because the next thrust of the Pitcher knocked every train of thought out of your skull. You trembled between them, dripping arousal and sweat and tears. Palms slick against the plywood, you did your best to stay on your hands and knees. The push and pull of their hips was so fucking demeaning and so, so fucking hot. You understood, now, why Easterman prohibited sex toys, why he spoke so lowly of vice and lust and perversion. This haze of pleasure was beyond addicting. To finally be filled after so much emptiness, so much hollowness — ecstasy to the point of tears. Or maybe it was just because you were choking on the Pusher’s cock.
Fucking sumptuous. A surfeit of flesh and deviancy — you thought distantly that you must have looked fucking perverse to whatever scientist was watching you on tape. Cameras everywhere, they had cameras everywhere. No corner of a trial was left unmonitored. The Pitcher’s fingers curled into the flesh of your ass, indented the fat, kept you open as he fucked into your cunt with an unmatched desperation. His hips moved like a machine, unfailing and insistent, and every forward thrust shoved your mouth further down onto the Pusher’s cock.
He’d been teased enough; every time your mouth had been yanked off his cock, he’d squeezed fingers around his base hard to keep himself from finishing early, but this was too much. His stiff hips fucked hard into your waiting mouth, his hand pressed heavily against the back of your skull — you gagged and writhed, teardrops splattered against his thighs, but your spasming throat muscles felt too good to let up on. So what if you threw up? He’d dealt with worse.
“Fucking take— take it all, take it all,” he panted, voice pitched up in desperation and pure want. “That’s it, bitch, just swallow your p-pills— gh, fuck!”
Some of it muffled towards the end. You looked up through tear-blurred eyes just in time to watch him as he wedged a thin hand beneath the leather of his mask, attempting to silence himself as he neared his own finish.
Another snap of his hips against your face, in time with the Pitcher’s own thrusts, and he held your face against his groin as he finally came. Cum spilled over your tongue, hot and bitter, and you moaned and coughed weakly as his cock twitched in your abused mouth. He pushed his hips up in staggered, slow thrusts as he fucked your mouth through the remnants of his orgasm; his breathing rattled heavily behind his mask, wet and labored. His hand remained heavily on your head until he felt you swallow his cum around his softening cock; only then did he release his grip on you.
When he pulled out with an embarrassingly wet noise, errant cum mixed with spit drooled from your slack lips; some of it bubbled as you hacked for air in between the Pitcher’s movements. His cock sagged between his legs, his own form hunched and panting, and he huffed out his trademark cackle as he watched the other Ex-Pop fuck into you.
“Fuckin’ magic, baby,” he wheezed. “I dunno about him, but you got one happy customer.”
His words meant nothing. Delusional ramblings that drained out of your ears as soon as they filtered in; each hump of the Pitcher’s hips against your ass was enough to knock your mind free of everything but base sensation. The drag of his flared head against the hot silk of your walls, the way his balls smacked against your clit, the sharp bone of his hip digging into your flesh — everything was so much and so good. A heavy hand planted itself in the middle of your back and you were shoved to the floor with zero resistance; your elbows had been wobbly enough already. ESOP pinching your chest be damned, the Pitcher’s hand kept you pinned right to the plywood as he held your hips up with his other hand and really fucked you.
Your head rested somewhere between the Pusher’s spread knees; you heard him struggle for his breath distantly. Moans were punched out of you on every thrust — fucking loud, you knew, but you genuinely couldn’t help it. The position was as humiliating and demeaning as it was hot, and you felt that tight, hot coil as it began to wind deep in your gut. As far as you cared, Coyle could have stormed into the hallway right then and all you would have done was begged for the Pitcher to keep going.
One of your hands scrabbled at the wood beneath for reprieve. The other snaked mindlessly down your front, wedged between your body and the floor, and brushed through your curls to find your neglected clit. A single circle of your fingers made you sob, and the way your cunt clenched around the Pitcher’s cock did not go unnoticed. He let out a chest-deep groan, glottal with desire, and redoubled his efforts; his weight pressed into your back as he curled over your prone form.
You were so damn far gone. Sweat slicked every inch of your skin, hot and desperate, and each pass over your clit had fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. Your cheek mashed into the wood beneath, jaw slack and drool seeping into the grain. So full. So full after ages of being empty. Pleasure crackled up your spine; the Pitcher’s fingers tightened on your ass and he started to pull you back onto his own hips, greedy for the vise grip of your walls.
Close. You were close. Moans poured from your mouth, mindless begs to keep going, harder, need it, please, God—
Another thrust, so hard it kissed your cervix and pain shot up your body, and the spike of sensation sent you over your precipice. The coil in your gut snapped, and pure ecstasy rolled over you in a full wave, fanning up and outwards. Somewhere in your spasming, your voice gave out, and all that filled your ears was the relentless smack of damp skin on damp skin and your own labored gasping. Your fingers twitched against the plywood.
The Pitcher was not done. Your entire body went lax in his grip, loose and pliant, and he huffed at having to hold up more weight. He let you slump against the floor, prone and twitching — your cunt still sucked spastically at his cock as he drove his hips relentlessly against yours. Each thrust was punctuated by a rough, throttled groan; he settled his hands on either side of his body and let gravity do most of the work.
It crested from pleasure to pain quickly, but you were so fucked out that you could do little more than moan and squirm weakly beneath the Pitcher’s lithe body. It didn’t matter. A firestorm of sensation raked over you; the relentless abuse of your overstimulated cunt and the fact that he was fucking jabbing your cervix every few thrusts drew fresh tears over your searing-hot cheeks. But fuck, if it wasn’t so good. This kind of torture was so preferable to the usual methods that you faced in the trials. Who were you to complain if it hurt?
It was good if it hurt. Easterman’s voice curled in your ear. Pain meant that the therapy was working.
The Pitcher snarled and pushed his hips flush to your ass a final time; his own arms trembled with his orgasm as he came, spilling hot and heavy against your twitching walls. A few weak, cyclic motions of his hips followed, mindless little movements as if he were trying to fuck his cum deeper into you. You let out some half-lucid noise, breath fluttering as the Ex-Pop heaved above you. Eventually — it might have been years, it might have been seconds — he rolled his pelvis back and pulled out with a wet noise that made your ears burn.
Cum heavy in your cunt and still staining your tongue, you gasped for air against the floor. Around your head, there was movement; it took incredible effort for you to look up. The Pusher had dragged himself to his feet with the support of the nearby scaffolding, and he stood, still hunched, looking down at you with a curious tilt of his gas mask; his hands were busied with tucking himself back into his boxers and readjusting his apron.
“Take it easy, baby. The hard part’s over,” he said, and snickered at his own bad joke. Even then, he sounded out-of-breath. “Deal’s a deal. Lemme know when you’re gettin’ twitchy. I do house calls.”
With that, he devolved again into maniacal laughter and hobbled off, the rhythmic spray and sputter of his nozzle the only indicator of his presence as he limped into the darkness. You drew yourself shakily to your hands, hips still slumped against the floor — and a throaty huff from behind you made you remember that, yes, the Pitcher was definitely still there, and no, you made no such deal with him to spare your life in exchange for your body.
You looked fearfully over your shoulder, eyebrows drawn up in worried anticipation — but no molotov smashed against your skull. The Pitcher merely drew himself to his feet, his scarred skin shiny with sweat and his bare chest heaving against the leather straps crossing it. He adjusted his own clothing and looked up at you; the eye contact made your stomach sink.
Nothing. No fire, no kick to your stomach. He stared at you for several long seconds, as if considering something, then shook his head with a sharp noise and stalked off. A few sparks signified the snap of his fingers as he lit another molotov for light, and you watched the orange glow as it disappeared into the yawning dark.
With shaking hands, you tugged your pants back up. The Pitcher’s cum leaked errantly down your thigh — something that made you flush all over again — but you dragged yourself up with nearby scaffolding and managed to brush yourself off.
Summary - Therapy. It's to get you better for something you don't really understand, not yet at least. Dr Easterman has put himself forward to support you, to get you to your best possible self. But, you've never met him. It's difficult to visualise therapy that's tailored to your specific needs if you never meet the Doctor claiming its success.
Just how long have you been in the sleep room?
Let the trials begin.
Pairings - Dr. Easterman (Outlast)/Reader, Night Hunter (Outlast)/Reader, Leland Coyle/Reader, Pusher (Outlast)/Reader, Franco Barbi/Reader, Skinner man (Outlast)/Reader, Clyde Perry (Outlast)/ Reader, Phyllis Futterman l Mother Gooseberry/ Reader
Cast - F!Reader/You, Dr. Easterman, Leland Coyle, Night Hunter, Franco Barbi, Pusher, Phyllis Futterman | Mother Gooseberry, Emily Barlow, Cornelius Noakes, Clyde Perry, Alice Avellanos, Moses Scarfiotti
Full Tags - (will be updated as the fic progresses) Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Rape/Non-con Elements, (Slow burn with Easterman) Canon-Typical Violence, Smut, Canon-Typical Behavior, Yandere! Behaviour, Nightmares, Manipulation, fem!reader, Trial-typical violence, Derogatory Names, Porn With Plot, Mentions of bloody bodily fluids, Mentions of self harm, Depictions of Death/Gore/Blood/Violence/Non-con/RapeGun(s)Derogatory phrases, Stalking, Drug Abuse, Alcohol, Conspiracy, Sexual assault/Non-consensual Oral sex/Sexual harassment/Victim blaming/Slut shaming/Sexual abuse, Unprotected Sex, Racism/Misogyny/Oppression/Physical abuse/Emotional abuse/Gaslighting/Forced feeding, References to self harm, Mentions of Pregnancy, Sexual diseases, Penis in vagina sex/Vaginal sex/Cunnilingus/BDSM/Blood play/Breast play/Mating press/Electrical shocking/Infantilism/Thigh fucking/Intercrural sexFacial/Pearl necklace/Dry nursing/Mommy kink/Tentacles/Tentacle masturbation/Drugged sex/Hallucinations/Spanking/With belt/ Strap on attachment/Dildo, Masturbation/Genital rubbing/Blow job/Dry humping/Cigarette burning/Hair pulling/Anal sex/Anal fingering/No lube/Electrical shocking/Vaginal Fingering, Restraints, Dubious Consent
Divider by @/diviniyae
The comics
A/N - Hey there! This is my first time jumping into the outlast world and I'm loving it! So here is a multi chapter fic showcase, plot and usual Outlast trials shenanigans! I hope you like it! 🤗
Chapters One l Two l Three l Four l Five l Six l Seven l Eight l Nine l Ten
Eleven l Twelve l Thirteen l Fourteen l Fifteen l Sixteen l Seventeen l Eighteen l Nineteen l Twenty
Twenty one l Twenty two l Twenty three l Twenty four l Twenty five l Twenty six l Twenty seven l Twenty eight l Twenty nine l Thirty
Thirty one l Thirty two l Thirty three l Thirty four l Thirty five
If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗
DISCLAIMER - I do not own any of the characters. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).
You still write for outlast? can you do maybe smutty/kink hcs for any of the expops im not fussy🙏
i assume you mean the trials, and yup !! i picked out night hunter, pusher, and the jaeger. i wasn't sure rlly who you wanted so i hope this is okay !!
i havent played in a long time, so sorry if things seems ooc
∘˚˳°– NSFW & Kink HCs (gn!reader) –∘˚˳°
(mentions of spanking, BDSM themes, obsessive behaviour, drug use, pred/prey dynamics, sorry if ive missed one)
Night Hunter
– he likes whispering nicknames he'd usually use like insults in your ear, his voice full of love and admiration
– he loves receiving body worship, he's more prideful on the fact he can see in the dark, but if you were to start complimenting him, he'd grumble a weak thank you for your words and hide his hard-on from you
– he hisses if you bite him, but doesnt mind it, just do expect him to bite and suck on your neck in return
– night hunter leaves hickeys typically over your chest, stomach, lower back, rump and thighs. he'll leave scratches and red marks from gripping you tightly and yowling like an alleycat in heat
– hes an absolute MESS once you two get into the dark together
– night hunter does not share. you are his and nothing will get in his way to keep you all to himself
– he grumbles and mutters as he thrusts in and out, almost desperately, echoing "mine, mine, mine" over and over again until you both have finished
– "oh, glowworm, come on out and play with me"
Pusher
– he typically is used to being on drugs 24/7, and would probably like to be on whatever strange gas he has cooking in his canister, however the first few times, he'd surprisingly be sober
– he wants to get everything right the first few times you both get intimate, and is shockingly very gentle and understanding until you both get a little more familiar with eachother. after a couple times, he relaxes and becomes more laid back
– hes definitely a switch, but likes to bottom more often than not
– pusher gets very quickly undone and is very easy to turn on, and he's pretty much down for whatever you are !!
– he has an awful lot of stamina… get ready for several rounds that he won't even be that tired from after the third or fourth time in a row
– hes not picky with positions, but loves for you to sit on his lap and he grinds up into you
– he's oddly masochistic and if you scratch at him or slap him, even jokingly, he'll get turned on
– pusher likes being degraded,, thats all I'll say for now hehe (• ▽ •;)
– "relax, baby! we're going to pound town together!"
The Jaeger
(this is more of a fem aligned X reader hc, but you can view this as you like!!)
– she calls you her "pretty little thing" for sureee, and she'll let you know how much she adores you in the heat of the moment (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)
– she likes begging, and if you called her ma'am, youd find yourself on the floor in the dark with her almost immediately
– pred/prey dynamics are right up her street, and her idea of foreplay is slowly trailing after you, planning out exactly what she's gonna do when she gets you
– shes rough, and grabs you firmly, often holding you with ease against a wall or on the ground. shes easily capable of suffocating or strangling you, but she does her best to not cause too much unnecessary harm
– her entire body is sensitive, but much more in a sore way, and it takes her while to enjoy your warm touch
– she likes to take her time ; its been so long since shes felt someone, something, so loving and real beneath her. shes rough, but she likes when you squeal and can barely talk massive hands cupping your hot arousal and letting her fingers reach their way inside
– jaeger can't obviously lick or kiss you, but she'll want you to sit and grind up on the metal mask, as she prays a few drops will reach to her mouth
Despite the bandages which are wrapped tightly around your calf, you can feel the trickle of liquid down your legs as the graze wound continues to bleed out from beneath the fabric. What you need is rest and a nearby locker, one located close to the shuttle on the docks, seems like the ideal place for you to take a short breather.
You slip within the double locker, using the right door to let yourself in before sliding over to the left-hand side to lean against the wall – allowing your good leg to take the weight of your body as you give the other a little bit of peace. Peace that didn’t seem to want to last when a familiar blare of sirens makes you jump in place as the flashing yellow lights which sit atop the metal door on the other side of the dock spring to life.
Something was coming, and knowing you were on the docks, you really hoped it wasn’t Franco again. With your leg in the state it was, dodging another shot from his lupara wasn’t something you wanted to attempt.
But no, as the doors slid open to reveal their monster, you found yourself squinting at the sudden appearance of the Pusher.
Gas mask covering his face as always, the constant yet rhythmic wheeze of his drug apparatus announced his arrival before his words even could.
“Pills before swine.”
Shouted to no one, you watch with frightened eyes as the Pusher begins to walk around the area between you, your safety only separated by a few wooden crates and the smooth metal of the locker door. As far as the ex-pops went, the Pusher wasn’t the worst possible outcome to have limped through the door.
The psychosis gas was horrific; choking and blinding all in one, the hallucinations it sparked were terrifying as reality shifted to introduce you to disembodied tentacles and a humanoid monster which seemed to thrive in the shadows to slowly pursue and drain you of both your sanity and your health. But still, Murkoff were always kind enough to litter the various trials with antidotes and that’s more than could be said for the pathetic bandages which were expected to alleviate some of the damage which other ex-pops like the Pitcher could cause.
But still, the less time spent being pursued by any of these monsters the better. Especially when you are in this state as your shirt and shorts combo are not ideal for keeping your wounds safe and clean.
The Pusher draws closer, green puffs of psychosis gas escaping the pressure spray with a casual rhythm, and he’s speaking but his words are too muffled to be understandable. His ripped brown overalls and filthy underwear are splattered with blood and some other unknown fluids which make your skin crawl. He seems to be looking for something, looking for you, but you have no idea how the hell he could possibly know you were in the area. Unless Murkoff had dropped a hint as they deployed him into the trial.
Looking past him to the ground he is staring at intently, your heart freezes in your veins as you realise what he is looking at.
Blood.
A trail of it, having dripped free of your injured leg, leading him directly to your hiding place.
Adrenaline and fear seizing you as the Pusher pulls his head from the floor to look at the locker, you briefly consider leaping out and making a run for it; trying to push your leg as far as it will go without fully giving out in a vain attempt at escape. Your last brick has found itself smashed against the head of the Night Hunter as he pursued you through the Chem-Co lab so you had nothing left to defend yourself with.
The choice is quickly taken out of your hand as the Pusher’s thin body limps over to block the doors of the locker.
“Knock, knock, baby!” His manic voice is painfully gleeful and absolute terror seizes your chest as he wrenches the right door open, slips inside, and pulls it closed behind him in one smooth motion.
“Fuck!” Screaming the word as you struggle to wrap your fingers around the lock for the left door, the scent of blood and something chemically acrid invades your senses. “Let me out! Let me fucking out!”
“You need some medicine to relax!” A thin hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it away from the locker doors as the Pusher forces you close to him – the gas mask hiding his face from sight. “Let’s push those limits together, man.”
Before you can do anything else, the locker fills with familiar green gas. Psychosis gas. It’s everywhere in an instant, burning your nose and throat as your panicked inhales only grow more frantic while the chemicals are pulling into your system with every shuddering gasp.
Eyes burning despite how tightly closed they are, your senses are so fried by the onslaught of the gas that you almost miss the Pusher as he turns your flailing body to press against the solid side of the locker, your face tilted towards the exit door.
Trapped against the side of the locker, your cheek pressing into the cold metal, the darkness within the small space feels claustrophobic; every shadow shifting and writhing like it were alive and desperate to swallow you up whole.
“Let your doctor show you how good it feels.” Audibly excited as you writhe against him, the Pusher presses his groin against your ass and shock cuts across your panic as you feel the hard length of his cock grinding on your shorts. “We’ll get that mind out of it’s cage and see what the body wants.”
Bile rising in your throat, you know that you have no choice. No amount of kicking or screaming would stop what is going to happen and the gas has already robbed you of most of your fight, your heart beating mercilessly in your chest as your breaths come in short, sharp bursts – almost hyperventilating.
“No, please no. No!”
“C’mon, baby!” Clawing fingers pull at the waistband of your shorts, snatching them and your underwear down past your ass in one smooth motion as the fabric is allowed to fall to your ankles. “I’m just trying to help.”
Not prepared to be fucked in the slightest, your shattering mind has enough focus left within it to realise that if he fucked you like this then it was going to hurt more than it had to. Your injured leg already screaming its irritation as it found itself jostled and shuffled around without care, you decide to try and make things as smooth as possible and deal with the aftermath later.
“N-no. Let me, let me-”
Wetting your fingers in your mouth, a tall task given how dry the psychosis gas had left your entire throat, you work up some saliva and coat your fingers before dropping your hand to your cunt. You take a quick moment to dampen your hole, splitting your attention between lubing up the area and using your thumb to stroke your clit with a gentle, quick rhythm – desperately hoping to spark some natural lubrication and keep things from being too uncomfortable.
“Hell yeah.” The Pusher groans, rubbing his unseen cock against your ass. The heat of his length is shocking, almost inhumane in how warm it feels against your already warm skin and you’re thankful for the darkness of the locker, not wanting to see the monster which was preparing to fuck you. “Let’s lube up, baby, and get this party started.”
His cock is wet as the blunt head of it pokes messily at your hole, obviously slicked up with his own saliva even though you hadn’t heard him spit, and it only takes a little manoeuvring for him to angle it enough that he’s able to push inside your cunt – his cock sinking two inches without much difficulty due to your earlier efforts.
Your lungs burn from both the earlier gas assault and also the unshed bile which keep rising low in your throat as the Pusher sets to work quickly, his cock building a rapid rhythm as he stretches you out with every thrust pushing his length just a little deeper. It’s not good but there’s a hint of pleasure as your drugged out frame is too weakened to really fight against the natural arousal which his stimulation is providing.
Opening your eyes, you squint at the open slats of the locker, looking out from your trapped position with a bleary gaze – desperately trying to ignore the growing heat in your cunt as the Pusher ruts into you like an animal. Your body feels heavy, sluggish in a now-familiar way as it attempts to fight off the effects of the psychosis gas, and your eyes lock onto a growing figure in the far distance of the docks, his outline blurring and undefined as it slowly rose from a dark puddle on the floor.
The Skinner Man.
“Oh, fuck!” Watching the slow approach of the monster as it forms into its typical humanoid shape and begins to walk slowly towards the locker, you can’t keep the fresh tremble from your limbs as you thrash your head and refuse to pull your eyes from it. “Oh, God!
“It’s a fucking trip, yeah? All filled up and ready to ride!” Pusher grunts, his thin fingers digging harsh marks into your hips that you can already feel are going to bruise up. You can’t see him but you can feel his frantic pleasure in the way that the air wheezes free of his gas mask. “Fucking bliss, baby! Want another hit?”
“No, please!” Finally turning away from the wicked hallucination of the Skinner Man, you tilt your head back in a vain attempt to pathetically plead your case with the delusional ex-pop. “Don’t-I don’t think I can- it’s already too much. My head is-”
“Be cool, bitch, and breathe it in.”
Once again, the tiny locker fills with psychosis gas.
It’s somehow worse than the first time, your nose and lungs haven’t fully recovered from the sting and you splutter out incomprehensible phrases. Desperate and begging, even you can’t understand what you’re trying to say and it’s made all the worse by the tension in your cunt as the added drugs only serve to stoke the heat there and make you clamp down on the Pusher’s cock – milking him in such a way that you can hear his gasping breaths pick up speed.
Your orgasm catches you off guard, the tension which had been building in your gut snapping with a particularly wicked thrust from the Pusher and you suffer through the waves of pleasure in silence as your throat burns too much from the follow-up gas attack to manage anything more than pathetic whimpers.
“Fucking sweet.” The Pusher grunts, drawing the second word out with a playfulness that sparks nausea in your chest even as you tilt your body forward slightly to give him easier access to your hole. Your spasming cunt must feel good to him and you swear you can hear a smugness in his manic tone as he continues to grunt. “Let’s finish this up.”
His thrusts grow more erratic, groin bouncing off your ass as he buries his cock as deeply as he can manage within the wet heat of your cunt. A wet heat he is quick to add to as a stuttering gasp escapes him while he comes; one hand pulling free of your hips to instead press harshly against the back of your head, forcing your face to press on the locker wall and pin you in place.
Having satisfied himself, the Pusher wheezes out his comedown and snatches his cock free of your cunt without comment. As he does, you can feel his release trickle down your thigh – mixed arousals only adding to the sensory hell which your body is going through as your leg screams in pain and your nose, throat, and eyes continue to burn from the gas exposure.
Outside of the locker, a screeching noise announces the approach of the shuttle to whisk you off back to the sleep rooms and you turn watery eyes back to the slats. Despite still being under the influence of the psychosis gas, you feel a jolt of relief to see that the Skinner Man seems to have disappeared, no doubt biding his time to catch you as soon as you turned a corner.
“Every itch is worth a scratch, man.” Also hearing the approach of the shuttle, the Pusher wheezes and his hand slaps your ass as he pulls himself away from your trembling frame. “Even if it’s gotta be a house call.”
And with that, he shoulders the locker door open and slips free of the small space with just as much speed as he had entered and you wait until you hear the thump of his feet whittle off into the slide of the metal door before you exhale the breath which has been sitting in your lungs since your discovery. You had survived, and the shuttle was here; the safe haven containing antidotes which could be used to recover what remained of your shattered sanity.
Leg bleeding, mind fried, and cunt slowly dripping a release which you are certain is going to require some medication from the pharmacist to protect you from, you take a step backwards and slowly limp free of the locker – making the short journey to the revolving shuttle doors without taking your eyes off the floor, too afraid of tempting the Skinner Man into a fresh appearance.
You guys are DEFINITELY having sex while you're both high as fuck. It's the most laziest, sloppiest, & NASTIEST sex ever. Does it end up being fire? Pfttt, duh. Is there a chance that it happens in public? Oh absolutely, 9/10.
Having sex with Pusher is less intense but more rather, it's trying to have a good time while you guys doing some weird ass sex positions that rival the Kress Twins.
Base Yandere Pusher Headcanons: Yandere Pusher, Pushing His Obsessive Love (The Outlast Trials)
[Hello, My Sexy Muffins! Happy Mental Health Awareness Month! For this update, I am doing the Pusher from the Outlast Trials. I hope that you all enjoy this chapter here!]
(Disclaimer: The Pusher is not yandere in canon! This is just for fun and not to be taken seriously at all! Simping for fictional characters and yanderes is fine! Just do not be illegal or gross about it! You know who you are! You Dirty, Flaky, Biscuits! Yanderes are not ideal partners to have in real life! Also, remember to separate fiction from reality and headcanon from canon! Thank you, and Happy Mental Health Awareness Month!
Disclaimer/Trigger Warning: This is the Outlast fandom, so there will be content that is typical of the Outlast fandom! If that makes you uncomfortable or triggered, please skip this Update! Also, the Outlast Trials take place in the Cold War, so there are references to that and WW2. I do not support the poo that had happened during this time period, and the past sucked in general, thank you, muffins)
-Base Yandere Headcanons With Yandere Pusher X Gender Neutral Reader From The Outlast Trials-
.The Pusher, or Pusher, is an experimented on person of the population of the Outlast Trials. In The Sleep Room, he is used to cause a lot of issues for the Reagents.
.Using the drugs on his sprayer to cause hallucinations and so much more.
.He pretends to be a doctor or an exterminator and wants to cure the reagents.
.Then he met you, and man oh man did he become obsessed with you, claiming that it was love, and that you and he were meant to be together forever.
.He is a very delusional yandere, thinking that you and he are meant to be and that it was fate that he met you and that you were made for him.
.As a Yandere, he would be fixated on you, and anytime he sees you, he will pursue you endlessly and use his gas on you so that he can have his way with you.
.He would call that making love to you and making you his and his alone, claiming you just needed a little help seeing that you do indeed love him.
.He is a yandere who does not give up on the chase for you, his love, and would continue to go after you until the end of time.
.He claims his love is never-ending, and it does not matter where he has to go, he will find you and show you his love.
.He is a very possessive yandere and sees that you are his and his alone, and he fucking hates anyone coming near you when you are meant to be his.
.He would even lash out at the other EX-Pop for trying to touch you and make you theirs when you clearly belong to him.
.He once again is very delusional and fully believes that you want him, that you are just playing hard to get to tease him.
.When rivals come in his way, he is not afraid to kill them; he takes great pleasure in killing them, especially when they are other reagents.
.Because you should not depend on anyone other than him, you should only need him and him alone, not anyone else.
.He would be a very jealous yandere who is not willing to let anyone else touch you. If they do, they would be brutally killed by him, and then he would turn to you and fuck you hard and fast, to remind you that you belong to him.
.He is going to mark you with bite marks and cuts to make sure that you know that you are his, and it is a way for him to mark you as a yandere so that everyone can see that you are his by the marks that litter your skin.
.He would be a yandere who would try to calm you down with their drugs. He knew that you were such an anxious thing; he did not understand that you did not want him.
.So in his own twisted way, he is trying to make you calm down and to accept the love that he fully believes you have for him.
.He is a yandere who is focused on you and wants you to be content with him, and he thinks that the gas he has will help you relax and help you understand your feelings for him.
.He is also a yandere who tries to make you feel good with him, because he uses the drugs he has to force you to enjoy sex with him.
.He is a yandere who fully believes that if you get aroused, that means that you love him and that you want him. (Disclaimer: Just because your body shows arousal in forced sexual acts, it does not mean you want it; it is just an unwanted physical reaction! If someone forces it on you, your body being turned on does not mean you wanted it! Physical reaction does not equal consent!)
.He is, as I said, delusional yandere and fully believes that if he can make you feel good, then you want it, and he would tell you that you are lying.
.He would get annoyed as a yandere that you are not being honest with him, because in his yandere mind, you want him and you are enjoying this.
.He would just have to force you to admit that you are in love with him and that you enjoy the things he does to you.
.He is not afraid to do everything to make that happen, even killing the people you love and who you become close to.
.When he finally does confess to you, your mind has been ravaged by his drugs.
.If you said yes, and accepted his love, telling him you loved him in return. May it be out of fear, or from your mind being turned to mush by his drugs, or maybe you do actually love him (Which, Muffin, FR?) He will be so happy that you are in love with him and will fuck you wherever you are.
.He does not care if there is anyone else around; actually, he would prefer someone else being around. So that he can show them and let them and everyone else know that you belong to him by fucking you ravagely.
.But if you instead turned him down, and rejected his love, which again, out of fear or disgust! He does not take it well, and he finally snaps as a yandere and will make you see that you love him.
.In this, he is going to force you to see that you love him, fucking you over and over and breaking you so that you finally understand your feelings for him.
.He will leave you as a mess where you are now in love with him because he broke you.
.Obviously, he was a yandere who would push his obsessive love onto you until you accept your love for him and stay by his side, being his and his alone.
[YASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS, another chapter is done! I hope you all enjoyed this, and stay sexy, all of my sexy muffins. Once again, Happy Mental Health Awareness Month, My Sexy Muffins!]
Warnings : Typical outlast stuff, Talk of HIV as well as other STIs and alike, General disgusting behavior, Drugging
Note (1) : Another one helped by my dearest Kiki ! Oomfie came up with and expanded upon the HC — I just wrote for it ! :)
Note (2) : Bug chasers are gay men typically, but I prefer to write GN readers, so I won’t be specifying anything like that..
Note (3!!!!) : This is short and kinda vague because bugchasing is NOT my thing, But it made too much sense for me NOT to write
He’s especially active during "Spread The Disease”, Will try to convince you to sneak one of the STD bottles back into your sleep room, for his sake.
He wants you to get tested SO bad, If you somehow convince a doctor to test you, he will genuinely lose his shit.
If you’re negative, lucky you! Unlucky him! He will try to force the aforementioned STD bottles down your throat. If you’re positive? Oh god.
Pusher absolutely embraces the assumed filthiness of it all. He insists you call him filthy, a freak, genuine scum for his little fetish. It’s all the same to him.
He gets incredibly touchy if his partner does end up positive. Constantly pulling and tugging at you, like a whiny child at the store.
If you’re negative, he’ll get himself high off his ass just so he can convince himself otherwise. Because he loves you, he really does! He won’t leave you over this! Really, it’s nothing a little loving won’t fix.
He’ll talk to you all dreamily about everything he’s learned about infections, patting your back when you gag or throw up from how graphic it’s going. You hope that the doctors don’t realize this and implement it in your further therapy.
He over-analyzes every single rash you get, which is a lot! With all the running you’re doing, you chafe a LOT, it gets annoying how much time he spends looking then over, as if it’d give some sort of sign.
