#reagent reader

[ballad-of-birdy-lamb]

Genius brain idea: Yandere Prime Asset harem. They all go after 1 reagent and they either take turns or steal/fight over them for themselves when it’s prime time.

God is in the gap in your teeth.

Yandere Leland Coyle/ Mother Gooseberry/ Franco Barbi/ Otto & Arora Kress x Gender Neutral! Reagent! Reader romantic headcanons Summary: Murkoff can't hold all of the prime assets back if they all love you. Content warnings: yandere content, abusive behavior, abusive maternal behavior, mention of sexual acts (no great detail), canon typical violence. Word count: 1.4k AI was not used for the writing, please do not use any of this for AI. Ultimate Outlast masterlist Welcome board ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀

You’re so screwed, it’s not even funny. You already have to survive and complete the trials but mixing in how five prime assets are trying to keep you in there with them? They’ve just given up the concept of killing you entirely and homed in on the idea of keeping you for themselves. 

Coyle is annoying enough, but he’s so much worse with an obsession. He feels like you’re given to him, you were a gift to him wrapped in a pretty bow. You’re his to keep, pleasure, mistreat, everything. The first time you entered one of Coyle’s trials, was like a waterfall being given to a man dying of thirst. You were beautiful, jittering from the door trap you had only escaped seconds earlier and you were terrified. When you completed the trial of killing the snitch, he came to the conclusion that you needed to be properly educated, especially by him. He fully believes you need him to teach you right from wrong, not only because he’s a police officer but also because he knows you’re meant to be his. In the dead of night, his electric baton wasn’t even enough to get him off. 

Gooseberry is more maternal than the others yet keep the toxicity of her worldview. You’re perfect. You’re beyond that word itself. Back to comparing her actions to the others, the sexualization you experience from Franco and Coyle is so much, if anything, Mother Gooseberry benefits from it. You can run from them to her arms! You don’t have to deal with those pigs while you have her to protect you from them. Dr. Futterman isn’t nice to Gooseberry when it comes to her obsession (or ever really), he’ll make comments about how the way she thinks of you is gross, but he (to an extent) encourages it by not telling her to stop. As time goes on, Futterman will slowly encourage Mother Gooseberry to try keeping you from the other reagents, ex-pop, and then Murkoff itself. She’d have conversations (both in the trials and outside) with Futterman about your beauty and kindness and how you needed her to take care of you. The waves of euphoria she experienced when she saw you within the confines of the orphanage, tense from the sound of Futterman’s drill, will never be replicated by anything else. 

Franco is a desperate man that already takes his desires out on you, but now with an obsession, he’s much more difficult. His sexual comments become more directed, and gestures are hyper specific to your anatomy. Franco doesn’t see you as a doll that he can keep in the same way Coyle does, rather he sees you as a mother. He wants you to love him like a mother loves her baby, but he still wants the upper hand, he wants the ability to scream and verbally abuse you in any way he wants and for you to kiss his cheek and be complicit. When he first saw you in one of the trials, he knew you would be a perfect fit for him, your eyes were soft with nervous tears and your hands covered in blood. Franco has never been a complicit man, whether that was under the governments rule or Murkoff, he will not always listen to people. He knows his reality well enough to know what he wants, no matter how much the Sinyala doctors try drugging him. 

Otto and Arora are like Mother Gooseberry, a two in one combo. Similar to Coyle, they believe they’re above you and that you are in a bad place, not in the way that they need to fix you, but rather that they need to guide you, to keep you subdued in their lap. They won’t mistreat you like Coyle would because why would they destroy something as important and delicate as you? They believe you’re here for them to keep around and look pretty. Their gossipy nature is part of the reason they both agreed to getting a hold on you too. It was only minutes after they had seen you within the shopping mall, eyed half-lidded and slightly sick in all your glory, had they talked about keeping you for themselves. 

The reactions to each other are already bad but having them obsessed with you makes things like Prime Time terrible. None of them like each other and the way they treat you affects that. Otto and Arora dislike everyone else because they don’t have the same delicate taste as they do. Coyle doesn’t like the concept of sharing his plaything. Mother Gooseberry will not believe that anyone else’s intentions are genuine. And Franco believes a mother must always keep her attention on her baby. 

On the topic of Prime Time, having two, possibly even three, prime assets going after you is a nightmare many don’t want to even think about. Of course, during this time, many of the prime assets are actually trying to work together to keep you within the trial. They’ll find a way to keep you down, whether through tying you up to something, threatening you, or just straight up hurting you. 

Coyle would simply threaten you; you know enough about him and the electrical burns on the mannequins to know not to fight back too hard. If he manages to keep you in the trial when it isn’t Prime Time, he’ll take so much pride in the fact he was able to take one step closer to rehabilitating you. The short time spent alone with him is terrifying, you’re constantly on edge about what he’s going to do and how he’s going to go about it. It’s roughly twenty minutes that you’re stuck in there, Easterman and the rest of the doctors within Sinyala know you’re in there, part of the time is getting the workers down to the trial and another part is seeing how Coyle will treat you. He’ll go on a tangent about how he’ll make sure to help you as it was his job while he brought the electric baton between your thighs. 

Franco would just freak you out enough to make you sit still, threatening you with his lupara to get you to replace the mannequin in the soft brown chair. He’d mutter on about how you’d make a good mother to him and that he knows you’re going to like the things he would do for and to you. He’d lay in your lap with his thumb between his lips, kicking his feet as he listens to you sing a lullaby. It wouldn’t help him possibly fall asleep, your presence is already so much and being alone with you kept him awake. One thing led to another, and Franco was playing with your fingers, eventually bringing it to his mouth and biting you. Your yelp would be a sign to him, finally saying that you should punish him for hurting you, pulling your hands to his belt. 

Gooseberry would try lulling you into a false sense of security, singing to you and holding you like you’re made of glass. Dr. Futterman would occasionally interrupt Phyllis, complaining about how you weren’t listening to them (which was partially true). She’d quickly assure him that you’re better than that, that you’re not greedy enough to disregard her love for you. Mother Gooseberry would treat you delicately, taking you to the film rooms in the orphanage and trying to entertain you as much as she can. Anything you do is taken like a gift from God, she’d praise you for basic things and any form of resistance doesn’t exist. The film room would be a bit uncomfortable for you, she’d hold you in her arms, occasionally complimenting you before kissing you on the forehead. 

Otto and Arora will drug you, keep you sick enough to not be able to use your full strength and get away from them. Even when Arora only has access to hyper specific chemicals to make her nausea-inducing vials, she’ll figure out how to make chemicals to keep you weak. They’ll be slightly nicer to you compared to others; they’ll praise you about taking the chemicals well as Otto picks you up since you would be too weak to move much. If you had managed to get a smidge of strength to fight back, their kind tone would hastily leave. Arora would mock you for disregarding their kindness, but Otto would justify it by reminding her that you still need them to show you right from wrong. 

It’s only after they get their hands on you will the prime assets start fighting to keep you for themselves, trying to get you within their hands to keep away from the others, Murkoff, and the world itself. It would get really bad to the extent that you get a moment to run... but you wouldn’t get away for long. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ I'm so sorry I haven't actually posted something in a hot minute, my life has been hectic and I'm just trying to adjust to the new dynamics. Either way, thank you for requesting!!!

[asterfey]

tags & content: NSFW, rape/non-con, sexual content, female reagent reader, physical assault, pussy slapping, rough fingering, impaled (by the drill), minor gore, size difference, (implied) reader death but it’s very much open ended

With each task you completed, blood slick with fingers, you could always tell when Mother Gooseberry was nearby. The incessant drilling noise punctuated the air like an alarm, your ears often shifting focus to strain for how close she was. It almost seemed like mannequins leered at you when you tore their bodies off after releasing the mechanism, faces splattered with blood and paint worn off over time.

It was difficult to get a good grip on them when your fingers were covered in blood, their heads twitching and twisting and calling out with their shrill, high pitched voices.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Your breathing deepened, navigating through the thick fog of darkness. Complete stealth was never an option during these types of trials. If the child mannequins weren’t spitting out deranged remarks, they were screaming out garbled, shrill laughter, their voice boxes crackled and piercing.

The pig tailed mannequin’s mouth dropped open erratically. “Help me! Over here!”

With a sigh of relief, you make it into the light, though you’re not stupid enough to drop your guard. You peer cautiously over the wooden railings, eyeing the two sets of staircases that would lead to the fabricated garden outside. The awaiting van’s doors are cracked open, waiting for another child of God to be dropped into its empty space. You suck in a sharp breath.

Just one more child, and you’ll be free of this trial. The child’s head snaps past your shoulder.

“Yeah, get ‘em!” It screams, its voice elated and shrill. “Kill ‘em!”

You know their movements are automated, but it’s the sudden change in tone that makes your hairs stand on edge immediately. The drill seemed to erupt with piercing noise beside your ear, a shadow falling across your form before you can realise what’s going on. Your heart leaps into your throat, thoughts bouncing at a hundred miles per hour.

How? How did she move so quietly—

“You wicked child!” Gooseberry yells in a ragged gasp, and you feel the firm smack of the Futterman drill bash into the side of your face. The sharp metal of the sides of the tool instantly cuts open sharp scratches on your face, the force from her arm alone sending you flying. Pain erupts in your temple as you land head first, a shocked choke tearing from your lips.

You can barely hear the shrill, nasally voice of the Futterman drill barking insults. “Watch where you swings me, you daft cow! I’m dizzy!”

The mannequins clatters hard to the ground somewhere near you, erupting into glitched, manic giggles and laughter.

Blood pools near your lips, breaths coming out in short puffs. The impact from hitting the floor had knocked the wind out of you, pain spiralling up your arm as Gooseberry’s fingers pinch into your limb, twisting you roughly onto your back.

Blood trickles back into your nose, and you splutter.

“Oh, Daddy, the children!” She cries, her voice filled with horror. You grit your teeth and buck, but Gooseberry’s sheer size makes moving her a difficult task, only serving to create a series of dark, purpled finger prints against your arm in the future. Her grip is like iron. “My sweet, poor children!”

“Let me at ‘em, Phyllis, let me at ‘em.”

Your head is pounding, but your struggles turn into cowardly shrinking when the bill of the Futterman drills snaps open with a crazed laugh, the bloodied tip hovering near your face. You let out a frightened shriek, snapping your eyes shut as your blood runs cold. No, please. Not like this.

“Right through those fuckin’ eyes! Cleans ‘em out from the inside!”

“No,” you plead, your chest collapsing inward. You told yourself you’d stay strong, that you could cling onto any shred of bravery or courage you forced yourself to harbour, but it was all collapsing in on you. You’d end up like one of those corpses in the orphanage, a gaping hole in your skull. “Don’t, please…”

Your pleas fall on deaf ears, with Gooseberry too deep in her emotions towards the children, and now, the apparent wrongdoing of Futterman.

“Daddy, language in front of the children!”

The drill’s eyes even narrow in contempt, swinging round to look at Phyllis with a harsh, flapping mouth. The mannequin is still sprawled out on the floor, giggling more softly now.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The air races from your lungs. In the short window you have before Futterman is drilled through your eye socket, you reach blindly for the brick you had carried around, bloodied fingers clutching it tight. Gooseberry hardly has a moment to realise what you’re doing before you swing as hard as you can, the weapon smashing against the side of her face.

She let’s out a guttural scream, her form jerking off of you and releasing the death grip attached to your arm. In an instant, you scramble to your feet, throwing yourself down the stairs. Your legs had gone weak in seconds only, knees sweeping out from under you. You just barely manage to catch yourself against the wall on time before you’re flying down the last set of stairs, shoes slapping against the ground.

Gooseberry’s anger simmers, you can tell, flying into an enraged state. She screams as she stomps down after you, following your darting form deeper into the orphanage.

“You lets ‘em get away, you stupid bitch!” You can hear Futterman berating, his words harsh and spiteful. “Charge! Faster!”

Disorientated in the dark, your hands are shaking so fiercely that it’s difficult to get your night vision goggles over your eyes. By the time you do, legs stuttering as you register where you are, it’s too late. Fingers twist violently in your hair, yanking your head back with enough force to make your neck ache. You cry out, hands flying, but the position leaves your feet scraping for balance, and you know you won’t be able to get the upper hand.

With a final, rough tug, your tailbone hits the ground with enough force to send a painful shock wave up your spine.

“Bad girl,” Gooseberry pants, her voice a ragged, mocking coo. “Very, very bad girl.”

Your teeth clench, legs kicking uselessly as she drags you into the light by your messy tufts of hair. The strands tug painfully at your scalp, a searing pain making your expression twist. When she dumps you unceremoniously onto the ground, you can’t muster the strength to run again. Your body throbs in aches and pains, trying to press your spine flat into the grimy floorboards instead.

“Bad children need punishment, don’t they, Doctor Daddy?” She murmurs, those sickly eyes surrounded by her flesh mask glancing at the puppet perched on her hand. “Oh, what should we do?”

“Drills her fucking teeth in!” Futterman roars, bobbing in glee. Gooseberry’s lips purse in a mocking pout, considering the suggestion with a calmer temper than she’d had just moments ago. Her hand is already reaching for your hip, and you feel her fingers tugging incessantly at the fabric.

You gasp, your squirming instantly jump started.

“Mother thinks we should learn together,” she hums in delight, shifting over you so she can easily manhandle you back into the ground. Your hand grasps at her wrist, nails digging in, but it doesn’t stop her from tearing your trousers and panties down to your ankles. “You just need a lesson in good behaviour, child. Don’t you? I’ll forgive you. You just need correction. Yes, correction. Like all naughty children.”

Humiliation burns your face. You keep trying to close your legs, to stop yourself from being exposed, but you always underestimated just how strong this deranged woman was. You shriek, arms shaking from the exertion of trying to push her off. Your mind suddenly flashes with rationality.

For a second, you think, is this better? Is this the alternative to being drilled full of gory holes, to spend your last living moments with the agony of a drill driving through your guts? The thought of enduring something like this in exchange for your life makes tears track freely down your bloody cheeks.

Futterman glares wearily at her. “Phyllis, you fucking slut.”

Sensing your moment of hesitation, Gooseberry clings onto the fantasy that you’re coming around, her head nodding vigorously. Her palm suddenly slaps your exposed pussy, and you let out a shocked yelp. Your legs automatically try to snap shut, fire burning along the back of your throat.

“No, no,” you beg, trying to wiggle out of her grasp. “Please, stop. Please, I’m sorry. I won’t do—”

With a frustrated grunt, Gooseberry buries the whirring drill straight into your inner thigh. The scream that erupts from your lips is so loud it makes your ears ring. She pushes her weight hard into your thigh, keeping it spread as sticky blood pools around your impaled flesh and drips onto the floor; she’s hovering over you in a way that makes it impossible to close your other leg, rendering you at her mercy.

The stars don’t leave your vision, ragged sobs tearing from your burning lungs. Gooseberry’s head tilts, letting out a mocking coo. The drill isn’t spinning; you’re not sure when it stopped.

“See? You should listen to Mother. Mother knows what’s best.”

“Tastes like dirts and grime! Yuck!”

“Daddy, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Another slap against your pussy snaps you back from your growing daze, vision lighting once more. She exercises no restraint with the force of her hand, palm striking your sensitive flesh and sending fresh, wilting stings through your firing nerves. The force is so hard that it sends painful vibrations straight to the drill embedded in your thigh, the impaled flesh flaring with agony.

Each slap makes your body jerk, your breath hitch, her hand rising and falling in a brutal rhythm.

“My beautiful babies did nothing wrong,” she gasps. “Mother just wants to look after them! Protect them!”

Her eyes are glued to the space between your legs. Each hard smack hits your clit, and your eyes squeeze shut from the continued pressure. You weren’t even sure it would be possible to feel anything when you’re drowning violently in this much pain. Shame bubbles in your throat when the next slap makes you jolt, hitting your clit just right. An involuntary moan escapes your lips. Whether of pain or pleasure, you don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.

Gooseberry’s eyes crinkle in delight. “Oh, naughty little girl. Mommy knows, Mommy knows…”

Her fingers poke and prod at your flesh, as though she’s assessing the damage. Your pussy is red and sore, and each shift of your body presses the drill against impaled flesh, and your whole body lights up with tension. The lights shining above you are becoming streaky and blurry. It’s like torture, the pain lulling you deep into unconsciousness, only for Gooseberry to drag you straight back up.

A sobbed moan releases from your lungs when she forces her fingers inside of you. She doesn’t care for your comfort, roughly plunging them in and out in a relentless, jarring rhythm. The lack of lubrication makes your eyes widen; it feels like she’s trying to tear your dry walls apart. You realise she’s not doing it for you, though. Her own chest is rising and falling erratically now, her body shuddering subtly as though waves of pleasure are wringing through her.

You hate the way she’s eyeing you, with depraved lust in her eyes, and she finally pushes her fingers as deep as they can go, until her knuckles press against abused flesh. Her sigh is ecstatic, trembling through her, her eyes fluttering shut weakly. Tears blur your vision, and when you blink hard, it doesn’t seem to go away.

With a wet squelch, the Futterman drill is mercilessly ripped out of your flesh, the overwhelming pain sweeping you under almost immediately. Wet blood slicks your skin, a sticky pool that fills the air with an acrid, metallic scent. In your fuzzy ears, just before you lose your strength, it’s Futterman’s shrill voice you hear for the last time.

“Let me in that whore’s cunt next, Phyllis, I gots to clean all that nasty rot out! Grimy fuck.”

[outlast-yume-imagine]

Imagine you are going through a solo trial in your favorite Prime Asset map for an easy XP grind. However, Easterman notices your little crush on them and decides to send Jaeger to chase you. Unfortunately, she got her hands on you and now it's up to your Prime Asset fo, whether to save you and resulting in them being scolded by Easterman or save their beloved one from Miss Lonely Heart