#outlast fanfic

[foxieflower]

Take Me in Your Hands, Darling

Headcanon Snippet Chapter

[ao3feed-weddie]

New AO3 Feed: Weddie

This blog will automatically post each new story from Archive of Our Own that is tagged Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park

Remake of @ao3feed-weddie-archive

[rohansregret]

okay i’ve finally decided that i’m not going to write for my hero academia anymore. i’m just not into it that much :(

i only wrote one thing about it and that work is still up as it was a request and a couple people enjoyed it.

in place of mha, i am now writing for outlast!! ik you never would have guessed it (ignore my reblogs..), but i’ve been wanting to write for my funky little outlast guys for a while.

anyway, that’s it! sorry if this disappoints anyone :(

[evilejfan]

Y'all... idk who will see this but, please keep making and posting OC art and fan art for Outlast!! Everything I'm seeing from all of you is simply divine. You are all so talented and I'm proud of every single one of you.

[klownfuckery]

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

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

Anywho, hope you enjoy :P

.*✩Franco il Bambino Barbi/Reader ✩*.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abruptly, he fired without warning.

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

Franco stills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[oatsa-the-humanoid]

Another piece of the little fanfic I want to make of a Reagent named Janie and Franco

"After the bleeding had mostly subsided, they sat close to each other, waiting for the doctors to find their location after the lockdown. It felt odd to sit so closely to another person again. Odd for the both of them. Their arms brushing against each other and hearing one another's breath as their eyes scanned each other's faces. They sat in patient silence, taking in one another's features, memorializing each other's face within their mind."

[makeucrawl]

I would love to see a Coyle/Eastermen drabble id your still up to requests 🥺👉👈

Maybe Eastermen realising hes not the only guy who thinks Coyle is hot and getting jealous? Perhaps reminding Coyle who owns him (Nsfw)

“ShockTherapy” ship

!!WARNING!!NSFW!!

Dr. Easterman had been sitting at his desk, working on paperwork for what seemed like an eternity. He tapped his pen on the desk, feeling slightly bored. His gaze moves to the screen on his desk.

There was a trial going on, and he watched as Sgt. Coyle stabbed a man in the chest with his cattle prod. The officer looked pleased with how the unfortunate reagent's body thrashed on the ground.

Just as the doctor pondered about visiting Coyle later, he noticed something else.

One of the guards behind the enclosed area appeared to be trying to grab the prime assets' attention.

Coyle appeared interested and walked over to the barrier. The two appear to be having a little talk, leaning dangerously close to one other on the fence.

Hendrick felt nothing towards the situation.

Coyle had always been a dog, so witnessing the officer flirting with someone didn't bother him.

It was only after the guard reached through the chain-link fence to grab the prime asset straight between the legs, did the doctor feel his eye twitch.

Coyle leaned closer to the barrier, a wild grin on his face.

The primary asset was thoroughly enjoying the attention.

He was enjoying attention.

From someone else.

Easterman looks away from the screen when he feels something wet on his hand. He had broken his pen, and the ink was all over his hand and on his documents.

With a heavy deep sigh, he shuts off the screen and stands up from his desk.

Coyle was being taken to the director's office. He didn't mind the chains on his wrists and ankles because he knew they would be removed soon. As they neared the massive doors, he smiled broadly.

He wondered what kind of fun they were going to have.

The guards lead him into the office before leaving the two alone.

"Ya just couldn't wait to see me huh?" The officer taunts and shakes his wrists, which are still tied behind his back. "Ya gonna come over here an take these damn things off or what?"

"What happened in the trial today?"

Leland raises an eyebrow at the unexpected question. "The hell you talkin about?…HEY! You said you saw all of my trials!” Coyle scoffs and continues. "Heh as usual I served justice to those stupid fucks." He puffs his chest up proudly, expecting praise.

"What else happened."

The doctor's dark tone was beginning to dampen Coyle's mood. What was it he wanted the officer to say?!

He started to think about everything that happened throughout the trial.

It hits him.

Easterman notices the officer's expression suddenly changing.

"Dunno what yer refferin’ to." Coyle struggles awkwardly on his feet as the cuffs begin to dig in. "Just get over here and get these fuckin’ things off of me! I am the law!!" He realized he was in trouble and wanted to at least try to defend himself.

As Dr. Easterman rose from behind his desk, the cop began to sweat slightly. "Oh come on! It ain’t a big deal! ‘Sides! It ain’t like you've been payin’ me any attention!”

"Oh? Are you looking for attention?”

The doctor grabs the sergeant's tie, tugging him close.

“Allow me to shower you with attention then.”

Leland was surprised when the other kissed him. It wasn't what he expected, but it was preferable to whatever punishment the doctor had planned. He was really enjoying the kiss the deep slow kiss.

Until he felt the other man begin to bite his lower lip.

Coyle struggles, but it seems to make matters worse. Easterman only stopped when he tasted blood.

"You f-fuckin psycho! T-That hurt!" The police officer stuttered, felt blood forming on his lip. He lets out a painful grunt as he is forced back into the couch. His breathing quickens as he watches the doctor crawling over him.

"Heh I uh..I think I've gotten enough attention.." Coyle smiles faintly, but Easterman simply stares down at him with those dark eyes.

The director loosens the prime asset's tie before working on opening his jacket and shirt. Easterman began kissing, beginning with the exposed bare skin of the other's neck.

Again, he was gentle and slow at first before becoming intentionally forceful and rough.

He works his way down Coyle's neck to his stomach, leaving bites and dark markings in his wake.

"Y-You…fucker!" Leland snaps as he sees what the other has done to him. Not even his collared shirt could hide the marks on his neck.

He watches as Hendrick takes something from his pocket, and when he realizes what it is, he begins to thrash.

It was a bright crimson collar with a big bell on it.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

Easterman effortlessly places the collar around the huffing “dog's” neck. "You're honestly lucky I don't put a muzzle on you." The doctor spoke in a low, deep tone as he tightened the collar.

"But I actually have use for your loud mouth."

Hendrick now adjusted himself, practically sitting on Coyle's chest. He takes off the other man's sunglasses and cap before grabbing a fistful of the dark graying hair. His free hand proceeds to undo his belt and finally his zipper.

When the doctor notices the officer's face getting red, he smirks.

He taps the tip of his cock on the other’s lips. "Open."

When Coyle refused, Hendrick continued to press the tip against his lips and cheeks until he finally did.

The doctor brings Leland's head forward and shoving the entire length down his throat.

Almost immediately, the man choked and his eyes began to water.

He glances up to Easterman, pleading for air.

"Breathe through your nose, Leland."

Hendrick lets out a breathy laugh as he feels the other exhale heavily against his skin.

"So you can listen…”

He began moving Coyle's head, using his hair as leverage. The big bell on the collar loudly jingled with each movement.

"Then listen carefully….You're mine. Do you understand?"

The possessive doctor stares down at the gagged officer.

"You are mine. Y-You are goddamn mine."

Instead of cumming down the other man's throat, he pulls himself from Leland’s mouth before stroking himself to completion on his face.

Coyle clenched his eyes and winced as he felt the warm, thick fluid strike his face.

He groans weakly as he opens one of his eyes and looks up at the doctor. Easterman stood up and got off of the badly humiliated man, tucking himself back into his pants.

Poor Coyle lay there panting and his hard on twitched against his jeans.

"Do you understand now, Leland?"

"Yes..hnnn D-Doc..Cmon..”

The officer whines for his own release.

Easterman just chuckles at him.

"No."

He says this as he approaches his office's big doors. He opens one and addresses the guards waiting down the hall.

“You can take him."

"W-Wait!"

Coyle sat up quickly on the couch, not wanting to be seen this way.

"Goodbye, Sergeant. Have a good night's sleep. Remember what I told you.”

Easterman assists the police officer in standing and kisses his forehead before allowing the guards to remove him.

As they left, the doctor could hear the tinkling of the collar's bell and the guards mocking the prime asset.

Coyle would do well to remember who he belongs to.

[loboto-bear]

Happy (late) Halloween!

It’s time for the spookiest thing of all- a smutless fanfic!

Yeah, rather unexpectedly, the first chapter of Part 4 has zero smut whatsoever and I can’t guarantee chapter 2 will have any either. However! That’s subject to change.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy nearly 4.5k words of Franco psychoanalysis. As usual, please mind the tags and enjoy!

(Feedback on this one would be especially appreciated because honestly I don’t know how to feel about this one-)

[foxieflower]

"The Hero Nobody Sings About"

Therapy was a rough and tiring process for a man so full of doubt for a system that utterly betrayed him, but it was something he worked at. And every day he came home from the session, he'd find himself wanting to decompress with his beloved as he watched him work from the comfort of his laptop, sunk halfway in the bed still, shirt too big for him and longer hair pulled up into a messy bun.

Removing his shoes and making his way back to their shared bedroom, Eddie found himself enjoying the disheveled and half awake look Waylon often presented himself with when he was diving into random IT project Eddie wouldn't dare try to understand.

Soft hair was grown out from his last dye job, darker roots showing underneath and a pair of glasses sat on his nose, the brightness of the screen reflecting back on them to hide away his eyes and his brows threaded into a furrow expression of concentration. Everything about it was a sight to behold.

Walking into the room finally, Waylon became alert to the massive man that was previously in the doorway, an exchange of pleasantries followed suit and Eddie made his way behind Waylon. Climbing behind him and encasing himself around the smaller man with relative ease. It was something that always crossed his mind in these moments, that this work he did now from the safety of his room was in someway similar to the work those Murkoff fucks had him dwell on during those months he was there. It was work like this that forced Waylon to witness the horrors of humanity that came about within the walls of that dreaded asylum. It was work like this that created such an unknown savior.

The tapes had circulated the media outlets far longer than any of the survivors had wanted, public outcry resulted in various completed and won lawsuits, it was somewhat a constant give and take of the good, the bad, and the ugly with this thing. Eddie found himself recognized out in the open while Waylon was practically safe due to his face being off screen and from the need to go into hiding.

It was bittersweet, Waylon could blissfully enjoy his life, disconnected from Murkoff and the damage they had done while knowing his email saved a few lives and got someone like Eddie out of the grips of hell. But there was an endless onslaught of conspiracy and rumor, muffled out articles that spoke on the events, the quieting down of media to the point that is was yesterday's news and frankly... news people wondered if they even liked the sound of.

How could saving a bunch of criminally insane men prove to be something heroic? Perhaps to the outside world it was nonsense, but to Eddie, sitting here, his chin resting on this gentle computer nerd's head, was everything he ever needed. And Waylon made the greatest sacrifice he had ever seen.

_____

Send me more title prompts to my ask box if you want a short little snippet!

[systemic-chaos]

u got any hcs for franco barbi x mother gooseberry?

OH BOY DO I!!! If I wasn't off my ADHD meds it would be OVER for you bitches. But unfortunately, you will have to make do with a simple list of what I can remember rn lol

-Franco talks big game behind her back about all the things he'd like to do to her, but when push comes to shove he is absolutely pathetic for her. Man would jump off a building for her if she said so.

-Phyllis thinks he is just a darling little man. She finds him hopelessly adorable. Like a pug dog of a man.

-Dr. Futterman however? He HATES that little fucker. He thinks that Franco is making a mockery of his dear Phyllis. Plus he's fuckin' ugly! She better not even THINK of getting within TEN FEET of that SHITHEAD-

-Despite this, I think Dr. Futterman would come around. In my personal opinion, Franco is more attracted to humiliation and degradation than gender, so I think Dr. Futterman would eventually have his own species of relationship with Franco, given enough time.

-Franco is a real traditional guy. If he had his way, he'd be wining and dining Mother Gooseberry, taking her to every upscale place she'd ever want to go. But there's no upscale restaurants in Sinyala, so he just tries to bring her any fancy things he can find. Including but not limited to: cool rocks, fancy bottles, postcards, origami cranes folded by a reagent, etc. She does not understand why he does this.

-I really like the idea that Franco was a fan of the Mother Gooseberry Hour as a kid. I feel like it would feed into his whole adult baby/mother complex to know her as an adult, which would make him ever more annoyingly attracted to her.

-Also, as confirmed by canon, Franco is a tits guy. And WOAH, does he APPRECIATE the ASSETS she was born with. I think Phyllis is equal parts charmed and revolted by this. Like on one hand, it's nice to feel like a real woman who can be beautiful, even after everything she's been through. On the other hand, gross, stop drooling all over the floor Franco.

-I also headcanon that Phyllis doesn't like to be in a submissive role in a relationship, due to the sexual abuse she suffered as a child (total projection on my part lol). She feels a lot more comfortable around Franco because he doesn't reduce her to a sex object for his pleasure, he more glorifies and deifies her which isn't an experience she's used to. This is also why I don't like to ship her with Leland Coyle personally. No hate to anyone who does, but I feel like the baby man is less intimidating to a survivor of abuse.

Thank you so much for giving me the chance to ramble about my thoughts anon!!! I also ship Franco/Easterman because of the whole thing with his gun. It makes me giggle.

Feel free to send me more asks if you want to, I am full of ideas!! Especially NSFW ideas, as I am an aspiring erotica writer lol

[ao3feed-weddie]

What You Forgot

by Anonymous Waylon hits his head in the elevator shaft, and now he has amnesia. Good thing his loving husband is there for him! (An AU where Waylon forgets nearly everything but his name, and a Groom who falsely has believed they've been married for years finds him. He then proceeds to patch him up because that's just what loving husbands do!) Words: 1832, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Outlast (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Eddie Gluskin, Waylon Park Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park Additional Tags: hurtcember's Hurtcember Prompt List 2024, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Amnesia, Eddie Gluskin Being Eddie Gluskin, lying his ass off lol, Amnesia where you forget your husband, It's a good end if you like, pretend it is via https://ift.tt/KfpW895

[cl0wn1ng-ar0und]

Finished chapter 1 and 2 of the fanfiction about my Prime Assets backstory!

The two chapters aren't directly after each other - the second one takes place maybe 2 years after the first. He's between 10-12 for this fic.

More will be coming. I plan to write up to the day he was recruited.

(Sorry you had to go through all this Niccolò)

(he's forcing you to read it)

[klownfuckery]

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marone— Sweetness? That you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t either.”

[spookfox-cosplay]

I wanted to draw Miles calmly sleeping on the mount massive's couch after the terrifying night he spent, now as a walrider host he is healing, but he doesn't know it yet and he probably won't like it at all.

Bonus: walrider is making repairs.

[oatsa-the-humanoid]

Surviving the Trials (part 1)

Days had merged into weeks, weeks had merged into months, and months had merged into an endless supply of an unknown amount of time. 

My fellow Reagents and I (Paul, Marie, and David) had almost refused to leave the sleep rooms during “Bring Your Baby to Work Week.” We had seen the carnage that was brought in daily through the medical window, and that was far enough to tell us to stay away from the Trials. Reagents with missing limbs, Reagents with blood and holes all over their clothing, and dead Reagents whose injuries were so vile that the doctors didn’t dare remove their shrouds. 

David was especially terrified of the Trials. He had heard the rumors of this so-called “Bambino” through the Reagents that had somehow survived, and he hasn’t been sleeping since. His eyes bore dark circles and he grew gaunt from a lack of eating. He knew it was a matter of time before the doctors forced the four of us into a Trial against our will.

Paul and Marie were the most experienced Reagents out of our group. What scared me the most is that the two veterans didn’t dare volunteer to go into the Bambino Trials even once. Something “just didn’t feel right” as Marie put it.

Marie was the oldest of our group. She had long, gray hair that went slightly past her shoulders and deep wrinkles on her forehead. As “old” as she seemed, she was a pretty good fighter, very strong, too. I’ve seen her fight off multiple pouncers at once with such a rageful strength that was genuinely terrifying to witness come out of such a brittle body. She even managed to get a couple strikes off on Coyle, which I found impossible.

Paul is very fond of Marie, not romantically, but almost as if he was her son. He may actually be her son, but whenever I asked about it, he shrugged off the question by bringing up some alternative topic. Paul was more fond of the trials than all of us combined. He used them as an excuse to throw bricks and bottles at some unfortunate Expop. He always went into the Trials when he was upset, so he could use them like a Rage Room. However, he never dared to actually finish a Trial. He was too terrified of the main assets of the Trials, especially Gooseberry. He almost got gored by Futterman’s vicious drill way too many times to count. He eventually swore to himself that he would never finish a Trial again unless his life absolutely depended on it.

I, like most others, was not fond of the Trials in any aspect. I found the Trials to be grotesque, unholy experiments made for the pleasure of the doctors and Murkoff officials. I was almost bold enough to swear that I would never finish a Trial again like Paul, but that was until I overheard some discussion between the guards of the sleep room. I heard them mention that they were going to force my friends and I into a Trial. That we had been leeching off their sleep room resources for long enough and that we needed to work for our meals. 

When I heard this news, I was petrified. I brought my three friends into my room during the “Sleep Hours” and told them about our unfortunate turn of events. They couldn’t believe their ears, especially David. 

“I TOLD YOU!” He yelled, crumbling into a chair and weeping. “I told you they’d do this. I freakin’ told you.” 

We were all in distress at this information. We tried our best to comfort each other in my quarters by talking over the situation.

“Well, hopefully they pick a short Trial, maybe even one without this ‘Bambino’ fella,” Marie said quietly, rubbing David’s back. 

“You could even stay by the shuttle if you want. We won’t mind.” I replied.

David wiped the wetness from his eyes.

“I’m sorry for crying, it’s just that I’m so worried. The chances of us living, all of us, are…so damn slim.” He frowned and looked at me.

“Janie, maybe we should…make a plan? Just…some sort of groundwork. Something to help get an edge.”

“It’s hard to do that when we don’t even know what Trial we’re gonna’ get.” Explained Paul. “I think maybe if we stick together, we will have a better chance of survival.”

“Yeah,” I whispered, mainly to myself. “But what if we happen to get separated?”

My question was rhetorical, but it lingered on our minds. We sat in silence for many, dreadful minutes, keeping our eyes on our twiddling thumbs.

“I love you guys. You are some fine fellas.” Announced David after a while. “You guys really have been the light in my dreary life.”

“We love you too,” whispered Marie, giving him a crinkled smile. “Everything’s gonna’ work out. I promise.”

I hope you guys enjoyed part 1 of the little story I'm making about Outlast Trials! Let me know if you wanna' read more!💚

If anyone has any tips on how to properly post stories on Tumblr, please tell me. I beg of you. 😭

[makeucrawl]

can u pls make a Dr. Easterman x coyle training session short??👉👈

((Nsfw plss!!))

“ShockTherapy” Ship

“Training”

!!WARNING!!NSFW!!

Inside Dr. Easterman's office, Coyle's breathing was labored and noisy.

"Sergeant…Don’t tell me you’re finished already?" The doctor asks knowing the other couldn’t respond.

With a bone-shaped gag in his mouth to keep his noise levels down, the officer was strapped to a metal table. His legs spread wide as a machine was pumping a fairly large vibrating toy in and out of him.

He gives out a little pathetic moan.

He was completely exhausted and overstimulated.

“I believe I heard you tell a reagent that you could go all night. It’s only been…”

The arrogant bastard looks at his watch.

"Two hours. I think you can keep going..”

Hendrick approaches the machine and turns a dial, increasing its speed.

The prime asset cums once more, making a strange sound that he, himself, did not recognize.

"You poor thing." Easterman tuts, as he removes the gag from Coyle's mouth.

“I-I can’t..I can’t..P-Please..." As the machine continues to thrust inside of him, the policeman whimpers. The sweat and cum on his skin made his body feel sticky.

Never had he felt so used.

"Aw..Of course you can." The strapped man's throat is encircled by a firm hand.

"Leland Coyle…you are such a good boy." He leans down and covers the other man's pleads with his lips.

The doctor smiles warmly and affectionately as he replaces the gag.

He sits down nearby and pours himself another drink, observing the scene with a satisfied sigh.

Coyle could endure his training a little longer.