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heretyc · 5 months

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Horror [Trager, Eddie Gluskin, Val]

Horror: A collection of small fics, consisting of Outlast's most iconic antagonists [in my opinion].

The poll I started isn't over, but "canonically" is winning and I love it. Dark shit here we come lol. I will be writing for my beloved Terror-iffic Trio [aka my favourite antagonists from each game]. A party with these 3 would be lit.

Drabble ideas here.

Content Warnings: Uhhh...Outlast Antagonists lol. That is your warning.

Trager: Gore, awful jokes, his bare ass.

Eddie: Gore, murder, injury, mentions of his...lovely little display, sexual assault [minor, just a slight touch, no penetration]. [Please lord don't let him teach an art class.]

Val: Sexual assault [slight penetration w/ fingers], gore, murder, mud, Val's bare ass, mud breasts and mudgina.

I mean it, this is pretty heavy shit. It isn't too graphic, but if SA triggers you...either look away or read with caution. Trager's section is safe. Unless you're afraid of his ass...cause me too, man.

MINORS GTFO. Miners can stay as long as they're not minor miners.

Read with caution, I condone none of this. Fics underneath the cut.

You/MC take the place of the protagonist. So...you are Miles/Waylon/Blake. Yayyyyy....? Or nay? Depends on how you feel. MC is gender neutral, but is referred to with fem pronouns in Eddie's section for obvious reasons. You do not talk in Trager or Eddie's sections as Miles and Waylon were "mute". You speak in Val's section, though. You are described as having breasts in Val's section as both sexes/all genders have breasts. Tiddies for everybody!!

Enjoy.

Drabble idea: "See, this place isn't haunted!"

Sometimes, a saving grace can be your one way ticket to hell. And this had been an excellent example of that. The angelic voice over the dumbwaiter was a dream come true; after running and hiding for so long, it was like you were granted a break.

Only for your face to fall as the scarred face of a man greeted you. The air around him reeked of danger.

This was not the haven you were lead to believe was waiting for you.

"You made the right choice here, buddy," he declared before punching you in the jaw, a pained yell leaving your throat, and he was quick to take advantage of your shocked state to haul you into a wheelchair.

He must have done this a dozen times, as he was quick to lock your wrists into the cuffs attached to the chair. They were tight, and he merely chuckled at seeing your attempts of getting out of them.

He looked fucked up.

He stood in front of you, hands behind his back, and his eyes were scanning you like a wolf scans its prey before it mauls it to bits, "You're not a variant...huh. Well, buddy...you can call me...Trager. Everyone else does, anyway."

As Trager made noises looking you up and down, you looked at his face. Coated by some half-assed attempt at a mask and some strange glasses upon his face, you come to the conclusion that he was some doctor here.

He clicks his tongue and smacks you on the back, "You've got a lot of things to learn here, buddy. I am honoured to be your teacher."

Teach you about what, exactly? You didn't want to know. But he started to push you forward, and you only questioned where your hell would be.

This place was already hell, but...at the hands of some crazed madman, it was different.

Trager hummed to himself, making jokes here and there, and he once grumbled when you didn't laugh at a stupid impression, before he finally made it to an elevator. It was...somewhat cleaner up here, for some reason.

However...

You could feel a breeze upon your skin, and upon hearing the howl of wind and torrential rain, you saw an exit. Pitch black and windy, yet so much more welcoming than in here. You questioned if there would be a tornado warning or something by how violent the wind seemed to be.

The rain out there was intense, torrential, heavy and oh so divine, and Trager only chuckled.

"You want to take a quick walk, bud?" He leaned down next to you, eyes looking into yours like he was an old friend, despite also looking feral. "Run free, like Forrest Gump? Unfortunately, we're running out of time." He clicked his tongue once more, pulling you into the elevator.

This was a cruel joke. Even the Elvis impression - awful impression, mind you - wasn't as bad as this.

Standing beside you, Trager pressed a simple button on the control pad before clasping his hands together behind his back. After a moment of movement, he looked back toward you, his voice a tone that suggested jest, "Did you know they call elevators a "shaft" in other places of the world?" He chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

Looking at him, you realized his skin looked...awful. Like he was a draugr from that video game you used to play.

His scalp was scarred, and after spending an hour in this place, you realize you're lucky your scalp was untouched.

Wires upon wires were wrapped along his arm, and upon closer inspection, you were horrified to notice that they weren't wires, they were tubes.

Of his own blood.

How did he not feel that?

A man like him probably enjoys that, to be honest.

His nails were quite long as well, albeit you couldn't blame him...hygiene in a place like this was laughable. He probably had to exert his inner wildcat to defend himself in this shit hole.

You nearly sobbed when the elevator came to its destination, and he took hold of the handles once more.

It smelled of death and lost hope up here.

Choruses of screams reached your ears and you flinched. He seemed to notice, as he violently shushed the poor bastards trying to break free of their confines, "Sh. Shshshsh...you weren't putting your tongue to good use anyway!"

Tongue...??

The man shrieking had a bloodied mouth, and he soon quieted after choking on, what you assume to be, his own blood. Trager only sighed, muttering to himself, "Really, I just needed something to lick my stamps."

This...was a cruel joke. Taking someone's tongue for stamps?? You were deep in thought, only for Trager to notice and grin evilly, "You should see what I do with the balls."

...Dear god.

"Yeah, this weird...cannibalistic guy downstairs begs for them...the guy knows what he wants, I gotta give him that. He reminds me of somebody...eh, buddy?"

He poked you in the shoulder as he pushed, and it appears he was referring to you.

"I saw your camcorder. You're some sort of journalist, here to...what, expose one of the biggest experiments in history?" He laughed at the notion, shaking his head. "I admire the bravery, really. Braving through disturbed masses...I have to admit, I'm impressed."

You only gulped.

"People love to say this place is...haunted." Trager noted, pushing you into a bathroom of some sort. Bloodied, smelled of decay and looked like a paradise for bugs and bacteria.

What had scared you the most was the array of torture devices he had laid out on a tray. This man was deranged, one way or another.

He continued his one-sided conversation, focusing on the aforementioned tray as he walked over to it, "I mean, who wouldn't? People love to paint asylums as haunted. They hear a ghastly noise or a terrified scream and immediately tell the papers that a house of human suffering is haunted."

Trager's hand hovered over each instrument of torture, trying to pick which one, but he hadn't stopped talking.

"And I am more than sure that's your entire...reason for coming here. Trying to prove it was haunted. But guess what, buddy?"

He finally picked up a blade, long and serrated, and he pressed it against a finger of yours, the edges sharp against your thin flesh. He leaned in close, his dry lips forming into a smile, "This place isn't haunted."

He moved away, the blade removed from your finger, and you breathed a sigh of relief as he placed it back down onto the tray.

"No, no. It's worse."

He finally picks up a gigantic pair of scissors, much like something you'd see picking away at a shrub, and he was more than eager to shut them and open them, metallic hisses invading your senses, much like the feeling of doom.

You will die here.

"This place is an example of human cruelty, my friend," he announced, voice loud and cheerful as if he wasn't about to maim you, and he placed the blades around some of your fingers. He cared not for your horrified shrieks and begs, he only leaned in once more and whispered,

"And you will be nothing but an example of what happened here."

Slice.

...

"Oh, come on, buddy...it's not like you needed your middle finger anyway. Now open up...I have some stamps to lick."

Drabble idea: "Oh my god, are you okay?!"

"Darling, please! You act as if I've done something rancid! What have I done to you to make you so afraid of me?!"

The bloodied behemoth on your tail was quick and hurried as he chased after you, his feet slamming against the rotting floorboards. You almost couldn't hear the music that played alongside the horrific display he handmade. The smell was awful, but the sight of it was enough to make you vomit.

You would not be the victim to the Groom. Not now. Not ever.

You would not have your pelvis slit, or your chest stuffed like you were a sex doll [ironically, that's all you would be to him], and you would not let him confess his undying love for you. It was fake and corrupt like this entire asylum.

Despite the smell of mildew and death, adrenaline filled your blood and you could tolerate the disgusting scents as you breathed in, your legs not yet faltering.

You've heard what he's done. The man who so giddily chased you rambled about it as you snuck around, and you were not pleased.

This was the only way out. Sometimes you have to take risks...right?

This wasn't worth it, though.

And sometimes, luck runs out. Like right now, as you are stuck in a dead end.

There was only an elevator. And it was not on your current floor.

Shit.

You could jump and risk a broken leg...or...

The emergency ladder. Broken and rusted, but it's tetanus over death.

You could explain all of this to the news with lockjaw.

"Wait, what are you doing?! Don't, don't-!"

You had leaped, gripping onto the ladder as your bottom half slammed against it. With a hiss you tried to pull yourself up, only for the ladder to break underneath you.

The top had snapped, and you tried to grab onto what remained on the wall, only to fall, your heart stopping.

Of all things to die from, it was a rusted ladder.

Oh well.

As your body slammed onto the top of the elevator, a sharp pang began to blossom from your ankle, and you look to see shards of glass sticking out of your flesh. Now coated in blood, you cried out and ripped the shards out, piece by piece. Blood pooled around your foot as you cradled it.

"Oh my god, are you okay?!"

The behemoth above looked down at you with a horrified expression, his hands out and wanting to hold you.

"I hate to see you suffering without me! Why would you do something like that to yourself?!"

His voice was full of panic and concern, and for a moment it seemed wholesome, until the panicked silence became one of anger. There was...tension.

"You would...rather die...than be with me...?"

His tone had shifted so quickly. He was unpredictable, and that's what had made him so...scary. In general, he had looked like he crawled from a 1940s horror series. Sweeney Todd had come to mind, actually...

"You're just another whore, aren't you?" He growled out, only to sigh, like this was a normal occurrence. "It's quite alright, darling. A good man can turn a whore into a house wife...and I have faith in us. Let me just..."

The elevator roared to life, and you panicked even more, now. Your poor heart would likely kill you before he had the chance to. But as you rose, he merely hummed to himself, waiting for the elevator to rise to his floor.

You had no chance at moving or escaping, as when you reached the proper floor, he was quick to grab you before you became sandwiched between the top of the elevator and the ceiling.

He dwarfed you. Instantly. He carried you bridal style, an eerie smile on his face, "Come, now. I must make sure you look perfect for our wedding."

You had no chance, now.

He clicked his tongue, footsteps hard against the rotting boards, and his voice was quieter as he spoke, "And I need to wrap up your foot...you are a silly one, darling."

It didn't feel silly. It felt like your ankle and foot were on fire, stinging like mad.

You had accepted your death already, but if there was also one thing you could accept, it's that he wasn't actually half bad.

Minus the...anger fits and the "whore" bit, he would have been wonderful. Looking up at him, you see a man soiled by corruption.

His eyes would have been a beautiful, shiny blue if not for the pools of hemorrhage. They had looked...empty. Dead. But whenever he looked at you, they shone like his soul had been revived.

Is this what he had wanted? Love?

Everyone in this hell hole had been deprived of it.

It was sad. Really fucking sad.

But you had read about what Eddie had done, and seen it too. And he was past the point of no return. He had done too much to be redeemed.

Dread made itself a home in your stomach as you were laid upon something cold and wet, and you were strapped in. Arms and legs spread, and your clothes were ripped off.

You were now nude, and being touched by the Groom himself.

His hands were gentle as he caressed a calf, "You have such soft skin...you will look absolutely beautiful," he cooed, hand gliding itself upwards toward your knee, then your thigh, and then...

You only flinched when you felt his hand begin to caress your genitals, as gentle as could be, as if he wasn't violating you. T'was the touch of a lover.

But he was no lover, no.

His fingertips merely grazed along your private flesh, rubbing it as if he had wanted to stimulate you, and you wanted to scream.

Eddie sighed dreamily, like he was a married man and his life would be filled with nothing but happiness, and he, luckily, let his hand glide up to your navel. "You look divine already, but when I'm finished with you? Oh, darling..."

He removed his hand, thankfully, but he was quick to turn on the saw, and all you could feel was cold air from its rapid movements and doom.

He gripped the sides of the table you were on, and he was smiling like this wasn't totally fucked up, "I know this will be hard..."

You felt the table move, slowly but surely, and you began to wriggle, but he continued, "You will have to deal with this...and then the conception, which I promise, will be wonderful," he winked as the saw came closer, "Then the pregnancy...and oh, I can just imagine the birthing. You will look so beautiful, darling...like a goddess. Mothers are goddesses in their own right."

And all you could feel was the sting of the saw, and your soul fading from your body.

...

"You're just like the rest. Filthy whore."

You're lucky you weren't alive to see your mangled body, tossed with the rest.

Ready to rot.

Drabble idea: "I want to go home..."

Val, in a sense, had been an angel to you.

They did not have a halo, made of purity and gold, or have pristine, white wings to wrap you and hold you close, no. They did not bear robes of white or play a golden harp or sing a divine chorus.

But they had wanted you all to themselves. And they would not let Knoth's guard dog, or his sickly bastards he called "friends", ruin you before they had a chance to.

Because unlike Knoth, or Marta, or Laird or Nick or whoever the fuck, Val would put you back together.

They are a loving mother, dedicated to spreading love.

It had been painted in blood on your way to the mines, 'LOVE SET US FREE'. Bottles encasing candles, bodies strewn up like Christmas decorations...

What were they trying to do, exactly? Make their cause look homey? Elegant? Acceptable?

You had felt oddly welcomed. Every single enemy in your way was slain, journals and notes left in your path to urge you to come to them.

"Come to me," the red ink beckoned you on the dirtied paper, "and I will show you my love."

They had been so kind as to leave batteries and bandages. Before you had taken the small, makeshift raft, a final note had been placed in one of the small shacks, the bed made and smelling of firewood,

"I am waiting for you."

You did not want this. But you needed to find a way out.

The mines were not welcoming. You were not alone. And you had been chased into the underground, where you are now; held down by Heretics as they muttered, "mother, burn..."

Like the fallen angel ready to relieve the sinners of their pain, their martyrdom, Val had approached, coated in mud and looking like the demon of the mountains.

In their hand was a torch, raging with fire, and it made their white eyes so much more intense.

They had hummed eagerly, the hum evolving into a laugh as the torch was placed down and the Heretics were shooed away. You were too afraid to move or notice their cold, dirtied hands leaving your flesh.

Their eyes were wide, pupils tiny, and they smiled as they strutted to you, "We are creatures of appetite..."

They moaned, feeling up their body and their fake breasts, like they were a porn star and giving you a show.

"I want to feel your hunger," their voice became quiet, something only you could hear, and they leaned close, your eyes staring frantically into theirs, searching for any fragment of humanity.

There was none. And you felt saddened, knowing that the Val in those journals was not this Val.

This was something different.

"I want to know your desires...and show you what true pleasure feels like," they rasped, pushing you down and straddling your hips, grinding against your clothed stomach. Your fear had aroused them.

"I want to go home..." you whispered, tears rushing from your eyes, and they only laughed, leaning close to your face and whispering, "This is your home, my love," a muddy hand came up to caress your cheek and wipe the tears away, "and I...will be doting."

You had no chance to respond or even acknowledge the powder blown into your senses, or the tongue forcing your mouth open, and immediately, they sought dominance over your own muscle, wrestling with it. It had ventured to each nook and cranny of your mouth, like they wanted to taste everything about you, and they eventually pulled away with a moan, saliva connecting you two.

They licked their lips, humming in delight as their hands rushed to push up your shirt and reveal your chest. "Your body...is delightful," they breathed out, squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipples with precision.

That powder did something to you. You had hated the feeling of their hands, but now you were overheating; desperate and quiet moans leaving your throat and making the cultist above you grin.

"I don't..." You couldn't even finish your sentence, as they pinched a nipple and made you shriek. It made them chuckle, and their hands moved south, ripping your zipper and breaking it. They got off for a second to completely rip your pants and undergarments off, and their naked thighs wrapped around your bare hips.

"Did you enjoy my gifts?" They questioned, hands now massaging your thighs, "You needed those batteries so badly...to document the lies of Sullivan, didn't you?" They purred, their hands tight and knowing just where to touch to get you to cry out in pleasure.

"That's why you came here. Fell from the sky, wrapped in flame..." they bit their lip, feeling aroused at the notion, "To record his bullshit."

You had even forgot about your camera, and you questioned where it was, until Val snorted, "It's gone, my love," their hands moved upwards to your genitals, "taken away...by my children. You won't need it anymore."

There was no pain when you felt their finger enter you. It was more pleasurable than anything you had ever felt, and it made you moan the loudest, and Val had revelled in this.

With precision their fingers located your pleasure spot, and sped up.

Your pleasure was their pleasure.

"God doesn't love you...not like I do."

And in time...you would know it to be true.

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