#phyllis futterman x reader

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Woken by a knee in your side, you felt the wolf of a man that you were sharing the bed with settle his leg on top of your stomach. Taking in a breath to turn against him, busy hands were making the covers move, and you wondered if the officer was lost somewhere beneath them. Opening your eyes, you propped an arm under your head and almost spoke his name, but then saw the only one with their eyes open was you.

He grumbled again, head rolled back like the headboard was Jesus himself and his hand working away as though he may start asking for forgiveness. At first, you were recognizing the motions; and had been sure he had woken up before you, trying to get himself going so he could give you a real wake up call. As you shifted slightly to lift your head and fully prop on one side, a noise rose from his loose-jawed mouth akin to a snore. A smile crept over your face to fathom that the tables were actually turned on him.

You took the course you were originally setting on, inching over to spoon one side of him and careful to not block his progress. “Cops are out tonight, huh?” You whispered, nearly nipping the crook of his neck and getting an embittered murmur back.

“Aw, sweetness.” His words became vaguely coherent after a couple more grunts, and it only made you reward him with a kiss against his throat.

“Officer Coyle-“ You whispered back, “You gonna discipline some of those commies tonight?”

“Mmmmh – "

"Make 'em scream?"

"Mmhm.” He groaned, head twitching but still far away as he huffed out an exhale. His hand was merely toying with his dick now, and your own slid up his stomach to feel another flex of the muscles as you egged him on, “Go on, then. Discipline that whore, officer.”

He gasped, and you kissed along the column of his neck as he started pumping again. “Such a good cop,” You added, his own poison thrown in his face. He sucked in a breath and spoke clearly again.

“Gonna tear that fuckin’ [shirt/skirt] offa you, beautiful. Rub [all that blood and tears I’m gonna make/all that makeup on your pretty face] all over the fuckin’ walls, too. G-Gonna make you scream, then tear you a new asshole, then I’ll-“ He was breathing heavily, and finally giving a solid bite against his neck made him suddenly seize.

“Awh-!” His head lifted, and you pushed away from him with an awestruck grin as he let go of himself, looking at his dripping hand before glaring at you with fully opened eyes.

“Toyin’ with me?” He muttered groggily, and when you giggled in answer he rolled over to pin you against the mattress, snickering at the way you squealed between both the weight and his release pressing against your body. He didn’t care; just as much as he didn’t care that he was breathing his morning breath all over your face as he stole some kisses from the opportunity of an open mouth.

“Show you what happens when y’play with a loaded gun.”

🪿

She might as well had told you the doors to Murkoff had become open to the public when you realized she was coming to bed without the puppet.

Being the plaything of Miss Futterman was accepting the warped reality that her father was always going to be there, griping over both of your shoulders and threatening to bite and obliterate you with the drill for the heinous crime of looking at his daughter with anything but contempt. In a choking compromise, you welcomed the puppet to earn that other hand cupping your jaw, and the set of lips belonging to that harmonious voice when it wasn’t breathing life into the goose placed to your mouth, forgetting about the second personality if only for a fleeting moment.

Seeing her just for her was exhilarating, quickly playing into her explanation that “Daddy needs his private time, a glass of gin and the television on in the other room”. You smiled at the thought of a limp puppet sitting in front of what televised noise you picked up from the half-open door, but nodded as she then asked while crawling into bed with you, “It’s rather nice for us to be alone for a change, isn’t it?”

Merely grinning, you nodded at her as you got close, pressing your chest against hers causing you to stutter at her, “P-Phyllis, I want to…I want to just say I really appreciate this quality time. Not that I don’t love Dr. Futterman, I just-“

She interrupted you with a thumb over your upper lip, your eyes wide to look at her again as she nodded along, “Yes, I know. As much as I love my dear old dad, it’s nice to get to feel like…like a woman when she gets the chance to be all by herself.” Her eyes shone in a familiar, dark manner as she lowered her voice, "There's only so much that Mother can do for herself without a little help, with just one hand..."

When she released your mouth, her thumb ran down the other lip to hold your chin, rubbing it in a gentle motion as you asked in a whimpering voice, “How can I help?”

She goaded you, “Help with what, [Y/N]?”

The slip of your hand against her chest, head between her legs as her voice flittered over you. [Cock sliding in with a slippery noise followed by you trying not to melt completely against her/Patiently pushing your cunt against hers, touching in a way you couldn't describe other than feeling like you were seeing God himself and he was striking you with lightning from his self-made "walking thunder cloud"].

You couldn't even begin to enunciate any of that, so you stammered out, hoping she'd know, “Help you feel like a woman?”

She gasped slightly, then leaned in to kiss. The roll of her lipstick against your mouth made you hum like a hungry stray as you put your hands on either side of her jaw, holding her face like glass. You felt like you were going to crack the moment if you didn't cherish it, get her speaking with that growling voice again if you made one reference too many, feel the absence of her father for a breath too empty between the two of you.

Shivering, she took notice despite your efforts, and the other “hand” being her device that Dr. Futterman usually sat on – empty, going up your torso to settle on the bottom of one shoulder blade, served as assurance.

“Sweet, silly [boy/girl/lamb]. You already do.” She cooed as she broke away for a moment, giggling when she got a look at your face. “Oh dear, we’re making quite the mess with all my makeup still on!”

“It’s okay!” You quickly assured her, grinning wide as you imagined the matching smear of deep red against your lips and cheeks. “I like it when you make me a mess.”

She froze, then broke into giggling as her arms roped around your shoulders. "Oh, [Y/N], you're too precious!"

🦷

“Christ, I can’t believe you couldn’t wait until I woke up. Fucking brat.”

Praise alongside that sudden jab made him hum thinly [around your cock/against your pussy], an extra bout of drool making you shake underneath his mouth as he gripped your thighs on either side of his head like it’d be taken away from him. To imagine the spot underneath the two of you after he was done was making you keen harder, both from shame and from the pride that you made a mess out of such a “tough” guy.

You flexed your back against the bed, eyes screwing shut as another [experienced suck, nearly muscle memory for him at this point/drag from the flat of his tongue against the soft inner walls] made your knees tremble as a surge of pleasure stirred you fully, feet bracing under you as you felt the blankets under your palms. Your head rolled back as the world around you fell out of focus, a hand wandering to gently tug and stroke through a tuft of blonde hair you could blindly find, which only spurred the continuous moaning, making his hands squeeze and release in a wanting rhythm along with the sucking.

No teeth. Ghosting over a sore spot on your chest, you wished he showed the same care to when his mouth was other places, but decided that could be for another place, another time.

He released his mouth, but wasted no time crawling up your body. You let him kiss you with the same fever, holding your head up and neck bracing with the force of his front teeth colliding against yours. The real spot he wanted to show attention to was revealed as his hands followed him, sliding gently up your sides and stopping at your chest, taking the skin underneath captive.

Remaining focused on his mouth, he pulled at the top of the tank top you slept on for a silent cue. When you didn't oblige, too focused on your own taste against his tongue, he pulled off and had to break the quiet with a whine.

“Come on,” He immediately began to demand, “I did all that work, and for what? For you to hold out on me?”

“Hold out?” You looked from the corner of your eye at him, and he nodded against your cheek, eyelashes brushing up against your face. “Oh yeah,” He pressed his erection against your leg in a needing motion, “You know what baby wants.” He seethed, making you turn to kiss him again, feel the roll of his voice into your mouth in another demur.

Sighing deeply and realizing you weren’t getting out of it without a fuss, your hand went to hold the back of his neck as your eyes fell downcast. The other one fumbled to pull the straps of the tank top down one shoulder [and unclasp your bra from its hooks at the front].

At the all familiar motion, you felt the hand on your wrist; not preventing or gripping you, but guiding with gentle taps. Almost as if he was pushing them out of the way to make room for his, especially after the clothing could be discarded as you rolled it off your body. You had what he wanted, a squeeze to your bare [pec/breast] making you inhale sharply.

“Oh, what? Don’t start cryin’ now. We haven’t even gotten started.” He teased, but he seemed to fold again when you smiled surely at that, then felt him curl up against you.

It was like any air between your bodies was a crime. Rather, like it was a law that he needed to break. Naturally.

🐂

“I’m sorry if this is a silly question.” You started, speaking to a dim room and uncertainty either of them were still awake. You were immediately scolded from a set of voices, albeit they had been merely half awake.

“No need, [Y/N]. I believe we’ve been over this.”

“You don’t have to apologize for every question or concern you have. There's nothing wrong with being curious.” Arora’s arm came down from where you were settled beside the twins, a hand on your head as she then crooned, “Your curiosity is…rather refreshing to us more than it ever is annoying.”

“A natural need to know, to understand despite what you’re expected to be…disgusted by? Leaving judgement at the door before you enter new territory?” Otto mused, “It’s welcome here, just as you are.”

You fawned at that, but then went on, “What I want to know is if I were to touch you here-“ You leaned back slightly, fingers wandering up the side of Otto’s neck to the reaction it had immediately pulled out of Arora, the hand on your head now curling against your scalp in a taut pull. Wincing and looking over at Otto again, you asked with a breathy croon, “Would you feel it, too, Otto?”

“…Were you not able to sleep?” He asked instead, and you merely shrugged at that.

At first, it had been a very jarring thing to catch in passing when you first met them. Eyes often diverted it because you knew if you started to stare at certain details about the Kress twins, you wouldn't be able to stop. Not out of horror, at least not after the first few ganders of them.

It was natural to be put off at first, you acknowledged, but the glancing turned more into admiration. Especially after the three of you began having conversations in passing, business in your proper lives bringing you two crossing paths more than once liked.

Then came the nights spent in their private quarters, listening to them share the mountains of knowledge and gossip of the world that you otherwise would never get a lick of, and before long you had gotten used to seeing it.

Being someone they eventually took more than a friendly liking to, taking to bed like a prized pet to be of service, you now grew rather enamored with the anatomy that you discovered. Especially considering you often slept against Otto’s back, depending on where your chin settled…if it was over his shoulder, you were practically staring right at the entrance upon waking up.

“I feel…” Otto’s arm had been draped over the small of your back, but he quickly let it falter down and gripped your thigh as he ruminated, your hand still teasing the entrance of Arora's cunt with a wondering eye. “I feel it like a distant reflex, well and knowing she’s aroused by it. If that serves you well to know.” You hummed thoughtfully again, and then grinned.

“Well, what I'm learning is that a third set of hands is actually necessary for the two of you.” You whispered, looking to Otto first and then up at Arora as she shivered a reply, “If they're a skilled pair, of course.”

Her drilling finger itches down Dr. Futterman's throat as she stalks towards you. The ex-television host was a force to be reckoned with, her strides strong and filled with a vitality that didn't match the rotting skin stretched across her cheekbones.

She's finally found you. After so long. You were smart. Didn't hide away like the other reagents in the same ol’ same ol’ places. She thought fondly of you. Oh so fondly of you.

If every dog had his day, every goose must have hers too.

“Oh no, don't run away!”she exclaims, trying to placate with a wild raise of her arms. The sleeves of her blouse almost look like wings.

“You dirty birdie, you!” Gooseberry says in the same breath, the sound of Dr. Futterman's drill comes closer, a physical force in itself as it casts shadows on the flowery wallpaper of the halls. “What a silly thing you are.” The woman in plaid comments sweetly, the corners of her lips twisting into a crooked smile. Characterized further by the cruelty of which her makeup was applied. Dr. Futterman butts in, pulling her out of her lovesick staring.

“This the one yous been dollin' youself up for?” he says in a nasally, judging tone.

His beak flaps open and shut to reveal a dangerously close, dangerously sharp drill in between a set of scarily accurate human teeth. If only he had his tongue, he'd be clicking it in disapproval.

“Decorum, Doctor Daddy!” Gooseberry turns to the crude hand puppet of her father, scolding him lightly but not unkind.

“You're killing your poor father, Phyllis.” She replies to herself as Dr. Futterman, leaving you feeling as equally scared and bad for the woman chasing you. Gooseberry turns back to you apologetically.

“I'm sorry you have to see this.” she says, genuinely with her own voice.

If you could see the color of her cheeks under the decomposing mask she wore you'd see her cheeks burning. She was embarrassed. Like a girl on prom night. She leans down her imposing height, as if trying to appear smaller. More palpable to your fear.

“I promise I'll make it up to you, I will.” she says softly, betraying her disfigurement and the living, non-living puppet drill she used as a placeholder for her father.

“If you're good to me, I'll be good to you.”

You have no say when she welcomes you into her embrace. Gooseberry holds you in one arm with Dr. Futterman occupying the other. He is faced away from you, like the action alone would save herself from his judgment.

She promises something you'd never forget: “Once Mama's got you, she'll never let you go.” Her voice surgically sweet.

You wondered if that box that you threw into the grinder when all of this started, one that contained “who you were” was the real deal or just another ruse to make you feel like you were going to start fresh. Be more pliable for what this therapy wanted to make out of you. Your name was still printed on reports of your performance, the one you used before you ran into Murkoff. While most of the doctors and guards knew nothing about it, Easterman sometimes spoke like he knew you, like he had spent waking nights scouring your records that no longer existed.

Everyone got this strange exposure therapy treatment in the form of facing certain environments and assets of the company more frequently. Authority haters – the ones who had gotten in trouble with the law before being scraped off the streets – bit down on Sergeant Coyle’s boot more than others. Drug addicts in the program seemed to fall into the lap of Il Bambino in the same frequency, or rather have it be other way around if “baby liked” what he saw. Disadvantaged and impoverished reagents? They knew the shopping mall like the back of their hand, glass vials and buzzsaws plentiful thanks to those upper-class twins rampaging along one set of footsteps.

So, where did that throw you? Well, if you were asked that, you supposed that you’d follow up with another question: Who was in the room with you after you shred your records?

Her own submission to the metal teeth spinning in a fever had been in the form of some poor soul who was perfect size to grab and drag to the machine with no major struggle besides a few crass comments from the puppet in her other hand and a tug of her eggshell blouse-clad arm. You watched it unfold from the shadows, being the first night in the institution and the orientation trial making you unable to do much besides cower like a little boy.

She had a long skirt with a ruffled hem, black gloves that looked somewhere between nitrile and leather, and a mask that started on the edges of her jaw and moved with her own facial muscles in a fashion that made it seem too real to be something of synthetic material. She also had unmistakable abilities to activate the freeze part of your instinct rather than any fight or flight from the moment she cast her green eyes over you, a whimper at the viscera on her nice shoes and knee-height socks alerting her to your presence.

The ones with medical trauma were fit for Gooseberry, and it only had taken a couple instances of the drill within her “father’s” mouth to come too close to comfort alongside her kind tones to know they were toying with those little chapters of utter terror and helplessness in your early life. As though the forced needles in the first hours of being admitted haven’t given you enough of that.

It hadn't helped that she was taller than you, and she used that to her advantage in the form of leaning down slightly to get a good look at your face as she crept over, blanketed in dark now.

“Oh, what a little dear. Are you lost?”

The drill powering on over your head made you cry out, dodging her presence in a run that nearly sent you back to the ground from the calamity of force. She responded by taking after you, the sound of whirring motors and imitations of a goose honking close behind your pounding senses.

“Mother knows a good egg. You can be well-behaved, better than this…!” She called down the hall, making the exhale from exertion leave your chest with force. You darted into a room, barreling into the open locker and closing the one beside you before your own in a haphazard attempt at confusion should they check for you there.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, shitbird!” The puppet crowed after you in that shrill tone, and when you stilled in the tiny coffin of a hiding spot, she added to the sentiment, “He’s right. We will get you clean when it’s all said and done. Won’t we, Daddy?”

“Doctor Futterman, please.”

You choked down another groan, watching her creep into the room beak first and peer around for a pause, her breathing labored from the struggle down the hall. Pushed up against the locker, you wondered if you should stop watching.

If this was where it ended, right where they intended for it to begin, shouldn’t you give yourself the mercy to not know it was coming? It was just like getting a shot. The walls closed in, you looked to one shoulder and felt that same dread now. Avoiding eye contact with both your [mother/father] and the doctor as the needle was some unreadable distance away from touching you. The tense muscle, the need to jerk away or at least look despite being advised not to.

“You’re a new face, aren’t you?” She then asked as her shoes moved across the floor, head turned again to gaze out at an open doorway without a woman, and the drill growling almost in its own inquisition. “We often see new arrivals in this part of…the studio.” She sounded confused as she spoke, “Although, this studio is…more like an orphanage. I don’t remember Mother Gooseberry walking through these rooms while on the television.”

“Phyllis!” The silly voice she put on for the puppet, the frazzled white goose that took the entirety of her forearm, spoke to her in a conversation. “Stay focused on findings them! We need some more teeth for the grinder!”

Whatever she was referring to about the studio was becoming lost on you as quickly as the objective was returning. Suddenly, the door next to your locker was thrown open.

“PEEK-A-“ The puppet crowed, and before you could reposition yourself or prepare to make a run for it, your own door was thrown open with her free hand taking the front of your shirt. “GOOSE!”

“There he is!”The woman sang out, hoisting you out and the differing heights making you grab to your shirt to keep from being strangled by it as she took you off the ground. You flailed, one arm on her wrist and the other trying to hold the drill coming painfully close to your temple away as she walked back. “Now, now. No need to fuss, little lamb! Dr. Futterman is-“

“SOMEONE HELP!” You yelped as the drill scuffed the side of your head, painful flashes of both tension from the sharp end digging against your skin and the salt in the wounds you were trying to ignore shaking both you and the woman. Although the drill still ran, you stared into her eyes in a final act of terror. Arms locked up, fingers trembling as they held on for dear life, her shoulders suddenly sagged slightly while still maintaining a grip on you.

“Well, someone seems frightened now…” She murmured, the tool shutting off making you flinch as the puppet cried, “HEY! I was eating that!” You didn’t know what on the room she had backed up to sit down on, but you felt yourself plop into her lap. She had hooked her arm around your middle, making you squirm against her grip like a dog needing to bolt as she fretted, “Why don’t we just…take a moment to calm down before-“

“Oh, save it and let me finish the job, Phyllis! She’s only being so nice to you because you’re a boy!” The goose honked in your face, once again popping that personal bubble that wasn’t being flanked by Mother herself and making you lean back, perfectly fitting into the crook of her arm that supported your back. “A scrappy one, if you asks me!”

“Daddy, that’s not kind to say!” Phyllis demurred, “I think he looks dapper.”

“Dapperly despicable!”

You blinked, unaffected as the woman’s free hand now pulled down on your shirt, straightening your clothes. When she saw you glance up from the corner of your eye, a wine red grin started to curl on her lips, and you felt pressure on your face.

“That little face sure isn’t despicable. Not to Mama, he isn’t!”

Her gloves were made of thin leather. Now you knew, registering the roll of it against your jawline as she pinched your cheek. You peered up between her and the drill, tempted to try and struggle again but frozen to the spot.

"See, Daddy? Sometimes, children just need their time to adjust to what's happening to them." She then explained, and the puppet opened his mouth to show the business end of his drill to you, whirring again in a taunt.

"He's bein' a nancy, Phyllis! Scared of a little dentist work needing to be done!?" He crowed, shaking his head at you, "You wouldn't be so miserable if you flossed, you know that? That's why you're bleeding right now!"

"Daddy's right..." Phyllis then conceded with a pout down at you as your hand felt up at your temple in utter confusion at the both of them.

...No, just her. It's just her, you glared as you looked back over at the puppet.

A figure going down the hall made her look up and away, and you took that chance to once again push against her grip. This time, it broke and you flopped to the ground.

Sprinting full speed down the corridor, you heard her speak over the whir of the tool in her father’s beak once more.

“I can play hide and seek too, dear! You’re lucky Mama likes games!”