Carrot and Stick

BY : Worlds_First_Ghost
Category: -Misc Video Games/RPGs > General
Dragon prints: 102
Disclaimer: I do not own Dead by Daylight, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Dwight Fairfield had suffered through plenty of bad trials since the Entity had taken him. The one he was in right now wouldn’t rank with the worst of them, but he’d hardly consider it ideal. Only three of the necessary five generators were powered on, and two of his teammates, Jake and Nea, were already dead. The third one, Feng Min, was still alive, but he hadn’t seen a trace of her since the trial started. It was typical of her to put some distance between herself and the others to fix generators on her own, but it still made him anxious whenever he couldn’t keep tabs on her. Drifting apart and doing tasks solo was a good way to get picked off by the killer one by one. It was only through the survivors’ numbers, their one advantage, that they stood a chance against their eternal foe. Dwight knew this fact and made it a point to imprint it onto the others during every trial. Despite his natural awkwardness, he remained insistent on the subject, eventually allowing the mounting success rate of his strategies to speak for itself. The little community of survivors began seeing him as an emerging leader, even the more impulsive personalities like David and Meg. While they wouldn’t necessarily follow his lead to the letter, they at least admired him enough as not to outright snub his directions.

Min was the one exception. She was a solitary creature, more so than anyone else. Even Jake, once dubbed the stoic loner of the group, was more popular and congenial compared to her. From the day she entered the Fog, she made it a point to ignore any survivor who attempted to mingle with her. Further attempts to breach her privacy would only cause her to act nasty. She’d spit out insults, lurid hodge-podges of English and Mandarin slurs mocking her would-be friend’s intelligence and virility. Threat after grotesque threat, like how she’d smash her unshaven cunt in their corpse’s face if they didn't leave her alone, proved to be an effective means of getting the other survivors to oblige her requests.

None of it fazed Dwight. He ignored her gutter mouth the best he could and persisted if only because his de facto status as a leader compelled him to put forth an effort in including her in his game plans. After ending a trial together, he’d often approach her and try to lecture her about how she needed to improve her teamwork. Knowing that he wouldn’t shy away from any of her obscenities, Min would just cross her arms and stare at him without saying a word. It took no effort on her part to muster a glare contemptuous enough to freeze him to his spot. She knew just as well as he did that he wasn’t a real leader. He could talk big game and boss the others around, but he’d never be able to act on his duties when placed against real adversity. Those murky, frigid eyes cut through him, looking past the cracks in his persona to stare down at the impotent boy quivering underneath. Dwight’s mouth would dry up to the point where his unspoken words would slither back down his throat. Only after all of them had dropped to his stomach, clunking against each other like a bag of stones, would a sneer flash across Min’s deadpan face. With a condescending chuckle she’d sprint away, often with a middle finger raised behind her head, before his composure could return. All Dwight could do was watch in awe as her nimble body loped into the curtain of trees. The only trace of her presence would be the rustling of leaves, like she had dissolved into the wind itself.

This exchange repeated itself almost as often as the trials themselves, but he never got frustrated with her. Her dogged stubbornness only served to fascinate him. It was also one of the reasons why he loved her. No, not love. That wasn’t possible. Dwight knew that romance couldn’t take hold inside of the Fog. Whatever this place was, whether it was the real world or some kind of terrible afterlife beyond the living realm, it sapped away at the basic human emotions. Neither joy, nor affection, nor love could thrive in this desolate space. The fog suffocated these desires, forcing its captives to rely less on emotion and more on raw instinct. This animalistic focus manifested in a desire to avoid death and nothing else. That was the law in this land and Dwight knew it well.

It was easy enough at first. Notions like dating and romance were trivial when trying to avoid falling into the killer’s hands. Dwight had never once regarded any of the females with a lascivious eye, and they similarly showed no signs of interest toward him. Concentration on survival consumed them all; it wasn’t until Min showed up that his started to crack. Try as the Entity might to smother his natural impulses, there was a carnal urge that tremored within his core whenever he laid eyes on Min. Those long-ignored hungers, human needs that had lain dormant in his mind for years, were awoken by her. He might have been able to ignore the other girls, but that was partly because none of them were as gorgeous as she was. Her jet black hair, lustrous ivory skin, and dark eyes, fathomless and intoxicating whenever they weren’t narrowed in disgust, drew to his mind comparisons of an ancient war goddess. She was a being that commanded both admiration and subservience in equal measure. Dwight was eager to provide both of those in earnest if it meant receiving one small sign of acknowledgement in return. An approving nod, a glimpse of a smile, anything that assured him that she was aware of his existence.

What really drew his eye was her flashy sense of fashion. She had a sizeable wardrobe of cute outfits to wear during the trials, all of them equally capable of stealing his focus away from the generators. His favorites were the pleated skirts, flapping about her thighs while she scampered to her next objective. Sometimes, if he was lucky, he could even catch a glimpse of her panties whenever she vaulted through a window. These sights would lodge themselves into his brain, sticking around even after multiple trials had passed between them. Often times between trials, he’d find a secluded spot away from the campfire and the other survivors, usually behind the cover of a dead tree. With a fist shoved in his mouth to muffle his moans, he’d masturbate as he fantasized about lifting the cover of Min’s skirt, wondering what those panties would feel like against his palm. His spunk would shoot across the dried grass and dirt, all while he imagined it splattering atop Min’s plump thighs.

Dwight opened his eyes, placing himself back in his current location: one of the Institute’s shower rooms. Sparse light seeping from overhead glimmered atop the layer of scum coating the tiled walls. Roaches and other vermin made their homes beneath the grated drains, the scuttling of their many limbs causing the underground pipes to chime and grumble. Even in this dismal space, his nose clogged with the stench of mildew and dry feces, the thought of Min was enough to make a small tent in his khakis. He wasn’t proud of himself. He knew that she’d never reciprocate these feelings. If she found out about any of the things he did by himself, she would tell the others and they’d all think of him as a freak. As long as he could continue doing it without getting caught, he figured, things would be fine. Between rubbing one out in secret and letting these unsatisfied urges consume the remnants of his fracturing sanity, he’d choose the former. It wasn’t like there was much else to do in the Fog between trials.

With a weary groan, he squatted down beside the room’s generator and busied himself with it. It was better for him to focus on the task at hand rather than fret about what would never be. The dim fluorescents made it hard for him to see the generator’s internals, but that didn’t impede his progress. He had worked on so many of these things that he didn’t need to see what was in front of him; his hands were moving on almost pure muscle memory. He was about halfway done fixing it when a new scent singed his nostrils. A burnt, ozone scent rolled into the room, overpowering the space’s natural odors. The hairs on Dwight’s exposed arms began to stiffen and frizz in response to the drying air. The heart beat came afterwards, flooding his ears and knocking his brain against his skull with its pulverizing rhythm. The monsters lurking in the Fog each had their own distinct portents to signal their approach, and Dwight had enough run-ins with all of them to be able to differentiate these tells. Disregarding all else, the rattles of static electricity shaking off of each heart beat made it obvious for him to know which killer it was. It was the Doctor. And judging by the rising volume of each static burst, he was approaching this room fast.

Dwight stumbled away from the generator, hurling himself towards a nearby red locker. Its doors were ajar, so he sucked in his gut and slipped into the narrow opening. His shaky hand dragged the door behind him, inching at an agonizing pace to avoid any squeaks. The click of the metal latch closing detonated in his ears, loud enough to drown out the heart beat for a brief moment. As the crackling static mounted and a pair of weighty footsteps lumbered into the room, he could only pray that the Doctor didn’t hear him. Dwight clenched his eyes shut and swallowed the scream that had been brewing in the back of his throat for the past few minutes. The footsteps outside ceased only to be followed by a thunderous banging, an electrical fizzle, and a gasp of smoke. The Doctor had damaged the generator. Now he knew that a survivor had been working on it, and chances were that they were still close by. The stomping resumed, rattling the locker’s rusted frame as it drew nearer. The Doctor was so close that his staggered wheezes rushed through the slats of the locker doors. Dwight wasn’t sure if this was the cause of the rising temperature in his cramped confines, or if it was all in his head. Either way, his hands fidgeted at his sides as he fought the urge to wipe away the sweat burning his forehead and fogging up his glasses.

The door swung outward, causing Dwight’s eyelids to shoot open. The Doctor stood on the other side, a current of electricity circulating across his evil smile. Dwight sucked in whatever breath he could catch before the killer’s cold, anemic fingers wrapped around his throat. Expecting to be thrown over the larger man’s shoulder, he was instead yanked from the locker and placed on his wobbly feet. The hand still glued around his neck, he was held to the spot and unable to run. A stilted giggle buzzed past the Doctor’s parted teeth, but the braces around his face prevented any changes to his capricious expression. With his hand still fastened to Dwight’s neck, he jerked him in the direction of one of the room’s doorways and walked him out and into the hallway.

Dwight shuffled by the killer’s side as the two of them marched along the dim corridor. Intermittent flashes of light from the faulty overheads would illuminate the musty surroundings. Haphazard brown splotches of dried blood plastered the walls. Piles of rotted viscera congregated in the nooks and corners with swarms of flies forming buzzing black halos above them. No trace of that sterile hospital scent remained, if such a thing ever existed in this place. The rank odor of decay and blood was more reminiscent of a slaughterhouse.

“What are you doing?” The brittleness of Dwight’s dry whispers sounded ten times more pronounced when echoed in the barren hallway. “Where are you taking me?” Being led along like this was somehow worse than being slung over the killer’s shoulder. At least the former gave him an excuse for not being able to run away. He was tempted to make a break for it, but his gaze drifted toward that horrible thing in the Doctor’s other hand. Dragging along the killer’s side, the spiked weapon growled as its pointed tip scraped across the floor, skipping a little every time it hit a gap in the tile. There was no way he could run fast enough to get out of that thing’s range.

The Doctor only let loose a jittery laugh as he led Dwight toward the Institute’s main treatment chamber. Old CRT monitors were suspended from the ceiling, blasting blaring static and distorted monochrome video. The killer walked the boy to an operating table situated in the center of the room. Dwight’s skittering breath hitched in his throat once he saw Min’s supine body splayed atop it. She lay unconscious and undisturbed with only the slight rise of her chest to indicate that she was still alive. Not a spot of blood was on her, nor was there any evidence of trauma. It was almost like she was peacefully asleep, oblivious to the horrors around her.

The Doctor planted both of his hands on Dwight’s shoulders. Pushing from behind, he led the young man about four feet from the table before letting go. Even when the pressure finally left his shoulders, Dwight found his feet anchored to the floor. The Doctor tromped over to the door they had entered, turned back toward the table, and snapped his fingers. The friction of his fingertips caused a spark of static to flicker in between them.

In response to the snap, Min’s eyelids fluttered open. Her body sprang upright and she swiveled around to face Dwight before hopping onto the ground, her skirt ballooning for a split second from the air caught underneath it. She shuffled towards him, a dazed grin plastered on her face. The pleats of her skirt rustled against each other as her sluggish legs lurched forward in a clumsy simulacrum of a sexy strut.

“Hey there, Dwight.” Her syrupy voice spilled over her lips. It wasn’t her typical cadence, which was a curt, almost bark-like tone using the least amount of words possible to create the most efficient commands. Circles of undulating static swirled about in the depths of her shadowy eyes like lightning brewing inside a pair of thunderheads. “It’s so nice to see you again. Where’ve you been?”

Dwight turned his head away and peered behind at the room’s entrance. The Doctor still lingered beside it, the same electric arcs in Min’s eyes dancing along the wires of his headgear. There was no way that Min would be doing this on her own volition. She’d sooner retch out all of her organs before she acted nice to anyone, least of all Dwight. By some unknown means, Dwight wasn’t sure how, the Doctor was responsible for this. Maybe he electrocuted parts of her brain, like how he did when he executed the survivors by his own hand. Only this time he didn’t use enough voltage to kill. It was just enough to make her docile and friendly like a sort of fleshy, grinning robot.

Min took Dwight’s awed silence as an invitation to shuffle closer, leaning her face forward to be an inch away from his. “What’s the matter, aren’t you happy to see me?” Again with that hollow voice, a shadow of the saccharine affection she was attempting to emulate. She reached her hand out under Dwight’s chin, tracing her slithering finger along the edge of his jaw line. Her fingertip pressed up against his chin while she gently dragged his head back around so that he was looking at her again.

“Y-Yes, I am…” Dwight stuttered. He couldn’t look into those electrified eyes directly. His vision sank to her shoes. “I’m glad you’re okay, Min.” These were the only words he could muster. No objections, no attempts to snap her out of this trance, nothing. Although it sickened him to think about, a shameless part of him was curious to see more of this side of Min. His previous fears melted away in response to her voice, stilted and artificial as it was. To have her speak to him without a trace of hostility, to feel her fingers caress his skin, was something he would previously only be able to experience in his dreams.

“I’m more than okay. I’m fantastic!” Min grinned and twirled in place, the edges of her skirt climbing up her meaty thighs. “Do you like my outfit, Dwight?”

Of course he did. The formerly white collared shirt, its color soiled by uncountable layers of dirt and grime, underneath a brown vest was reminiscent of the top half of a school uniform. A similarly colored skirt extending just below the midpoint of her thighs and a pair of knee-high white socks completed the ensemble. He had noticed it in passing when the trial began, but they had parted ways much too quickly for him to have given it much thought until now.

“Y-Yeah. You uh… you look very p-pretty.”

“Yeah, I knew you’d think so.” Min shot him a sultry smirk. A slight wiggle rolled its way across her hips. “Don’t think I haven’t caught you staring. You’re the kind of guy that likes Asian schoolgirls, huh?”

Holding the hem of her skirt between two fingers, she lifted and swayed the fabric like a sheer curtain until she reached her waist. Her white panties, a tinge lighter than her pallid flesh, were on full display. Dwight crossed his legs, stifling the hard-on trying to escape his slacks. This wasn’t right. She was still brainwashed or lobotomized or something else that deprived her of agency. He couldn’t take advantage of her in this state.

“Don’t be shy.” Min reached behind with her free hand to grab hold of Dwight’s wrist. Her silky palm squeezed him in encouragement. “Go ahead and touch. I’m all yours tonight.”

Pulled along by Min’s hand, Dwight’s quaking palm found itself pressed against her bottom. Soft white cotton. Aside from the minuscule bits of lint clinging to the fabric, they were as smooth as how he imagined they’d be. His digits curled around a handful of her flesh. Like freshly made dough in a bag, he savored how easily his fingers molded into her silky skin. He placed his free hand on her other cheek and roamed about the expanse laid before him. Min eagerly pushed backwards and pressed herself against his groin. The cleft of her cheeks took hold of the aching organ in his pants, grinding up and down its trapped length. Dwight felt his hips push against hers in response, his eyes rolling back in his head while jolts of pleasure tingled his nether regions all the way up to his brain. Every former inhibition he held was ground away with every movement of Min’s hips. The mist of euphoria blanketing his mind even made him less aware of the Doctor’s penetrating gaze only a few feet behind him.

His reverie was momentarily paused once Min stopped her motions to turn around. Squatting onto the slick, grungy floor, she seized Dwight’s zipper and yanked it down. His khakis pooled at his feet, his boxers soon following. With all its barriers removed, his erection swung upward and nearly slapped his stomach.

“Oh my,” Min giggled. The same blank, stupid smile was still pasted on her face as she looked up to Dwight. “I think it’s happy to see me.” She ogled the organ like a hungry animal about to be given a treat. Turning around once again, she raised her ass up high and turned her vacant eyes back to Dwight. “Let’s go, sexy.”

With shivers still rolling across his body, Dwight squared up behind her and tugged the crotch of her panties to the side. Her sex, oozing with juice, begged him to proceed. Oxygen strained past his clenched teeth and billowed into his lungs. His twitching length breached her lips and his turgid lungs released their contents once he was fully inside.

“God, so big!” Min grunted. “Deeper! Push it in deeper!”

Dwight grabbed two fistfuls of pliable flesh, just above the edges of her pelvis, and bucked his hips forward. Her greedy lips latched onto him like a high powered hose, sucking him into her. It was effective enough. He pushed forward, she responded in kind. This carnal dance was everything he’d envisioned it being countless times in his mind, but it wasn’t real. Everything she was doing, from his name spilling out of her mouth in hungry moans to the frantic gyrations of her hips on top of his cock, was just a mockery of the real thing. No trace of her coldness, her acerbic tongue, or any defining feature that made her Min could be felt here. Dwight turned his head to the side, eyeballing the massive observer out of his periphery. The Doctor stood stock still save for the natural rise and fall of his raspy breathing, never having moved from his initial spot. His permanent stare was locked to the rutting pair, examining them with the scrutinizing eye of a scientist studying lab rats. Dwight could feel the prying eyes roaming his exposed body, even after turning his head back around to focus on Min. The loud and desperate moans on her end were able to drown out the Doctor’s hoarse exhales and occasional giggles.

As hollow and artificial as this act was, the sheer stimulation was more action than he had ever experienced up to this point. Each time Min moaned his name would push him closer to climax, and eventually he was forced over the edge. Surge after surge of pent up semen flooded her. This wasn’t anything like when he’d masturbate under the tree, closing his eyes from the world and pretending he was somewhere else. This was unrestrained carnality. Her entrance was flooded, causing much of his seed to drizzle out and patter across the floor. That was the hardest he had orgasmed in his life.

He exited Min with a squelching pop, releasing a fresh gush of semen onto the tile. Soreness enveloped his still stiff cock, which continued to leak out remnants of his seemingly endless supply. Min, panting in ecstasy, turned around to face him with her dazed smile still intact. From behind, an ominous rumble drew closer as movement finally overcame the pair’s silent observer. The Doctor marched toward them, his leering eyes set on Min and his intent unclear from behind his manic visage.

Min’s gaze rolled away from Dwight and up toward the Doctor. Giggles continued to dribble out of her slacked grin. “You want a turn, stud?”

The Doctor chuckled and shook his head before raising his boot above her. He brought it down on her head like he would upon a wooden pallet. Blood and chunks of brain matter spewed out of her split skull like it was a flesh colored watermelon. Runny red juices swirled across the grimy tiles, mixing together with the pools of semen and circling around the grated drains in the floor before spiraling down them. He spun around to face the other survivor, frozen in fear with his pants tangled around his ankles. Before Dwight could even scream, the killer swung his stick in a wide arc and connected with the boy’s skull. Its metal spikes punched into his temple and he was sent sliding across the floor in an unconscious heap. The Doctor tittered to himself. He’d hook that one in just a moment; the Entity could have it, for all he cared.

The killer redirected his attention back to the girl. He nudged the rim of her emptied skull with the toe of his boot, giggling in deep thought. The experiment was over. It was time to end this trial so that she’d revive and come back with working mental faculties in order to do another one. He looked back to Dwight, his wonderful test subject, and marched over to scoop him up. Oh yes, sometimes the carrot yields more productive results than the stick. He’d do well to remember to utilize both methods for future experiments.



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