Holy shit. I just played Locksock the warden, and I had to start writing. YOU CAN’T BLAME ME DUDE!
Coyle x Male Warden Reader!
THIS FANFICTION CONTAINS SPOILERS!! And was heavily inspired by MCBushpig’s music! Specifically the 2007 album, “Wank of Death”
While I was playing the trials, I really got to reflect on how I did when writing “I’m your man” and how that compares to the trial itself, and I think I got most things right! I will obviously continue to use my play through of the trials to help me write the PA’s much better, but obviously I can actually do so much.
MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR WARNING!!!!!!!!
This is NOT a fic designed to be enjoyed, and is not intended to romanticise, glorify or justify any sort of abusive relationship! If you relate to or desire ANYTHING under the following TW’s please go seek professional help!
•Heavy smut and angst
•Physical Abuse
•Stockholm Syndrome (my first time writing it tho so please forgive me if I get anything wrong!)
•Sexual abuse (I’m not too sure if it wholly counts because the warden seems willing to the actions being taken against him? But better safe than sorry)
•Manipulation for sexual gain
•Mentions of vomit, piss and spitting on people. This is a gross one
ONE LAST TIME! This is NOT a fic designed to romanticise the actions taken against the Warden in Locksock The Warden, this is designed to be written from the Warden’s perspective on the relationship he has with Coyle! And contains MAJOR spoilers for the trial as of writing this, the day it releases! Proceed with caution and please if you can’t continue, take a break and take care of yourself! There is no shame in what you can and can’t handle 🫶
He was your everything. Your daddy, your god. Your Leland.. he was the loving hand of praise and the punishing palm of justice, and you? You were his warden. His sweetness, his pet pig. You could’ve been a governor, a president! But you didn’t mind. You were Coyle’s personal president, his favourite toy.
He made you crawl over broken glass for his forgiveness, because you would if you were truly sorry. He made you bend over his knee as he spanked you because how else are you going to learn? His threats to kill you if you squealed about your love for him were sweet nothings in your ears as the metal tongue of your scold’s bridle scraped the underside of his cock, a grunt and a mumble above about you having too many teeth, but he didn’t mind the bumpy ride.
He was no stranger to taking your teeth, but that was fine.. anything for your daddy. You’d let him take all your teeth if it meant you could hear “I love you” from those electric lips..
Those three words, those were your gospel. Your rules. Your motivation for being his pretty fat swine. That was all you were good for, yknow. Why else would he choose you?
You felt the taste of him bubble up inside you, he was everything you had, the food you ate, the water you drank. And even if it came up all over him, you’d lick it up again. Anything for him. This was everything perfect, this moment. Maybe he’d give you those pinky promise kisses when you were done, he came first after all. He was priority.
You longed for his hands to be gentle again, to rub you where he made it sore, to maybe kiss his fingertips and place them on the bell of the bridle.
Those moments made none of it matter, he could strike you a thousand times for gagging no more than once, but as long as you heard it.
“You’d make one mighty fine wife..”
Then you’d let him strike you another thousand times.
You’d grown used to the metal, but the bruise from his love in the back of your throat never got old, the numbed ache of that one spot bit and clawed itself into becoming a headache, you hoped maybe your deity above would take pity and make it all better.
But you knew he wouldn’t, your knees screamed from the weeks on cold tiles and hard concrete, your palms stung from the barbed wire left in the mud, but from thighs that burnt from the friction to a stomach that hung lower than your self respect, you knew your place as any good warden should.
There was certainly a level of acknowledgment over your sex, he knew you weren’t the woman he wanted to marry, the fat skank he always wanted. But he would just spit in your eye and call you scum. Sometimes you did it on purpose, but don’t tell him. He’ll stop if he knew you wanted it.
One time you asked if you could call him Leland, just for the smack. You tried it again when he was having an even worse day and he fed you to the dogs, letting all the inmates kick you until your bruises split open, and to make it sting even worse? He pissed in the wounds.
He loved burning them shut, y’know. Your wounds.
They bubbled and popped along the seam, sizzled and tightened on the edges, and burnt everywhere else around it. The electric leaving little scars of lightning in your skin, scars he’d kiss when he was feeling nice. Most would call it torture, inhumane. Some would call it what you deserve. Others called it harsh. You called it love. He called it control. But that didn’t matter. You loved that he loved you enough to trust you to crawl back to him like a good dog.
Even now. In the showers, as you ate his rotting meat, he trusted you enough to crawl back to him. And that was all you needed. He protected, you served.
“Can I call you Leland?”
“You can call me daddy, you can call me god. But you don’t talk with your mouth full.”
So you didn’t. This was the best mood he’s been in, in a while. You hoped maybe he’d kiss you, maybe he’d answer you when you told him you loved him. It was always a hopeless hope, but it was hope nonetheless.
You think back to one time, tipsy was an understatement, god could barely stand. He was slumped over you, commanded to stay silent as he cried. Wet kisses that smelt of cheap liquor and old beer soaked the burlap sack on your head, his tears the punctuation to his words.
“Yer so good ta me… I don’ deserve such a good dog.. so big ‘n beautiful.”
He caressed your body, his calloused hands suddenly gentle and warm as he jiggled at your fat, a giddy chuckle rumbling from his chest as he watched. He kissed you on the shoulder that night, and again on the tongue of the scolds bridle. And when he woke up, cuddled up to your nude chest with a hangover and a boner, the two of you never spoke of that night again.
You hoped it would happen again soon. You loved when he came to your pen drunk because maybe he’d say it again. It was worth the beatings, you have to love someone wholly. For who they are. You don’t deserve the best of them if you can’t love the worst.
And you loved him at his worst.
Even now, his hand a tight grip on your hair under the burlap sack you wore to rob you of your male identity, his cock a battering ram one minute, a slow burning piston the next. Sometimes you’d feel ashes from his cigarette rain down onto you, he’d stub it out on the bridle and make you give him a new one through your remaining teeth.
Maybe he’d have you take a drag and blow it onto his tip, you wanted to spoil your daddy. However before you could ask nicely, your lips still sealed around the midsection, a blare and a blast of the showers startled you. You bit. You were a bad dog.
The CRACK of his hand against your cheek, you bit your tongue to hold back the sobs, your head made a crack against the tile floor as he reprimanded you, your soft apologies unheard as he turned to yell at the filthy perverts who ruined this moment.
“YOU GONNA DIE ON YOUR KNEES! AND I DON’T MEAN PRAYIN’!”
He turned to you, his face scrunched in rage and humiliation. A kick to your side to get you crawling, another to your rump to make you go faster. A third to be his punching bag.
“You an’ I ain’t done, warden. Liars and perverts, corrupting my crime scene. Back to yer pen, fuck pig.”
You held back your apologies, responding only with what you were taught.
“Yes daddy. Yes god..”
He was your everything. Your daddy, your god. Your Coyle.. he was the rough hand of devotion and the cruel palm of animosity, and you? You were his wife. His woman, his pet swine. You could’ve been a man, a husband! But you couldn’t mind. You were god’s favourite piss pig. He was your favourite deputy.
Leland Coyle x GN! Trial Victim Reader (plus chubby to match the new trial victim!)
This is wholly based on both the Project Boneyard trailer and this song
FOREWARNING!!!
This is written PRIOR to the actual release of Project Boneyard, and so any features about the Trial Victim that I get wrong are only because the actual trial hasn’t been released yet! Also no dialogue bc I can’t write it too well
CW: This is an X Reader fic, and contains the following themes.
•Pet play
•Mild Leather kink(?)
•Cigarette burns
•Slight Sadism and Masochism????
•General Outlast Trials TW’s (so be wary of NSFW themes, drugs, excessive violence, etc)
•There’s no explicit sexual content however I still warn there are suggestive themes
Idk how many words😔
Your breath was hot, claustrophobic in the burlap sack and scolds bridle, the air surrounding your face was humid, wet.
Your smart little suit was ruined, stained in mud, blood, puddles of god knows what. It was humiliating, feeling your thighs rub against themselves, separated only by the worsted wool of your dress trousers, sopping wet knees shuffled forward slowly, obedient as a dog. Your body swayed with its own weight, like a buoyancy in the water, bobbing along as you followed.
You could smell him.
It was a foul, disgusting smell. It was hot leather, as thought it were melting, burnt. You could smell the sweat soaking through it, and the smoke from the cigarette above, its ashes falling down like rain from heaven above. You loved that smell.
You could barely see, and what you could was blinded by the blazing lights but a silhouette stood before you, a recognisable figure. A godly figure. He was the love showered upon you, the man you crawled back to every time, just to lick the leather.
You followed at the tap of his cattle prod, your head hung low, like your mere existence in his eyes was a sin. You awaited the moment you’d bump into him, where he’d stop to see if you were paying attention, to catch you misbehaving. Just to stub out his cigarette on your tongue, to tap the ash into your eyes as you cry, but dare not speak, lest you pierce your tongue once again.
Part of you hoped he stopped, part of you hoped you failed. It felt just as good when you were bad. Sometimes he would put them out next to your ear, just so you could listen to the sizzle.
A trip along the road.
Your tongue poked the metal icicle in your mouth, a pinching reminder of where you are, of what you are and aren’t allowed to do. You may not speak, you may not see. You may only follow. You may only obey. As much as you wanted to howl at his beauty, to fall at his feet, claw at his heart and tear up his sheets, you knew better. You were a good dog.
Soon enough, you found your hands brushing along tiles, smooth, cold. Your hurting, aching hands, your hands that are cut and bleeding, muddy and wet, fell flat upon those tiles as you came to a halt, your knees sliding up behind you to surround those poor hands. His heels halted on the tile before you, but you dare not look up. Not until his cattle prod, the closest thing to a gentle, loving hand, lifted you to his gaze, the prod starting along your shoulder, caressing your clothed, hot skin as it tilted your chin to the sun. You couldn’t see his face, but you knew he was staring, maybe not with a grin, but there was something in those eyes, damned be those sunglasses that hid his eyes. He completely owned you.
