in dreams

obscura | 26, any pronouns | writing blog NSFW BLOG ! MINORS/PROSHIPS DNI !! INBOX - OPEN strawpage masterpost

[mannequinreligi0n]

bello . i started a new side blog to spam art and yaps on so i can reserve this one for just fanfic and my personal only for reblogs.

you can follow it here if you’d like :) currently going through my outlast hyperfixation rn

i’m still a vergil loyalist so dw too much

also you can now find my posts across blogs under the tag obscura’s cove .

bye love u

[mothersspecialchild]

the outlast fanfic server is up *shakes and sweats profusely*

message me to join if u DARE

[mannequinreligi0n]

hiii i love your writing, both your outlast and dmc fics. i wanted to ask, if maybe you could write something about scarfiotti? you don’t have to, i know that there’s not a lot that we know about him, but i really love him and there’s nothing for him out there. 🫶

WOAH ! i never actually considered this . i’ve actually written moses a liiiiittle on my own time since he’s a big part of my murkoff oc, genoveva’s lore, so i have kinda developed a bit more of his personality !! (it’s kinda headcanon-y since we know so little but yknow)

i don’t have any immediate ideas for a plot, but if you have any, feel free to shoot them my way and i’ll give them a look !!

[mannequinreligi0n]

I love your writing so so so much. What do or did you read to get it ?

Is there any inspiration?

thank you so much !! it means a lot !

i’ve always had a profound love for reading and writing; i even found great joy in being in english writing tutor back in school. some of my favorite books include house of leaves, venus in furs, and the thin executioner, though i love all kinds of books :)

i always recommended people to read as much as they can ! and honestly, the best way is with a physical copy so you can really exercise that part of the brain by being an “active” reader (ie. annotating, underlining, reading aloud). i try to read a new book usually once a month to stay in the habit, and it’s pretty much always on my person.

my biggest advice for writing is to 1) read a lot of different genres so you force yourself to try new things, 2) find an author you really love and try to embody that! what do you love about them—their diction? their creativity? whatever it is, use it as a tool to incorporate in your own writing style.

in terms of expanding your vocabulary/becoming a better writer, i like to read academic books/papers on topics i really like to encourage learning and to challenge my comprehension skills. for ex: this could be something simple like a small essay on politics, or a huge book about idk, airplanes ! it could anything.

thank you again, kisses !!

[mannequinreligi0n]

your jealous easterman fic was soooo delicious! please don’t ever stop writing, you’re genuinely so talented. i feel like you have such a good understanding of his character. <3

THANK YOU SO MUCH YOURE SO SWEET !! :’)

i love love love writing for him (obv) . his colorful manner of speaking, along with his very intense emotions, make him extremely fun to write, but also tricky to nail the dichotomy right. easterman has a very hot/cold personality, and i think a lot of people don’t lean into the contradiction enough, but it’s my favorite thing to stage (for ex. in mentioned fic, when he immediately apologizes to reader after getting his nut and expresses love for them after being hella rude) .

ANYWAYS thank you ! i’m writing more slop this weekend, so keep your peepers open

[mannequinreligi0n]

Unlucky

eight year old Easterman enduring another one of his mother's fits.

wc: 1.1k warnings: pre-canon, child abuse, blood and injury, hurt/no comfort notes: this is probably the most personal and also devastating thing i've written. it's honestly kinda a vent fic, but i did try to remain true to his character. i don't ever want to excuse the terrible things he's done in canon, but maybe this will help give some insight as to childhood abuse and the marks it leaves. if you are struggling with something, please reach out. to a friend, a safe person, to me. you are loved and valued. link: ao3

Hendrick hadn’t meant to knock over the stack of plates from the table—he was only trying to lay out the silverware like his mother had asked. By the time the sound of the china shattering registered, he braced his arms around his head to prepare for the inevitable.

“You clumsy ingrate!” Mother Easterman whirled around from the stove, the ladle in her hand flying in his direction.

A viperous hand grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged him along behind her, bare feet trying to find its footing amongst the shards on the floor before it was too late. He didn’t need to look to know that she was taking him to his room, her shouts of disappointment bouncing off the hallway walls. The bedroom door flew open, and Hendrick was thrown along with it, shoved inside with enough force to make him fall. He attempted to catch the fall, only for his mother to yank him back to her, sharp hits landing on the side of his head. The blows made his ears ring, the blood rushing to the forming marks throbbing against his eardrum.

“Mama! I’m sorry—stop! Please, I’m sorry…!”

Hot tears streaked Hendrick’s cheeks as he shielded his face from the worst of the abuse. His mother’s voice filled the small room with her unbridled rage, spewing words of contempt and disgust. Hendrick knew he had to just take the worst of it quietly, that she’d tire herself after another minute and leave him be. With one more swift smack, Mother Easterman stood and waved a finger at him, revoking his dinner and sentencing to a night in his room alone. He didn’t dare move, like a deer watching a wolf slowly retreat away from a hunt that wasn’t worth the risk, and only blinked obediently with glassy eyes as she slammed the door shut behind her.

Then, there was silence.

Even the tears had slowed as the quiet settled, leaving Hendrick with nothing but his own shadow. He remained in the same spot for several minutes, curled up on the floor and cradling his bruised head, even as he heard his father and brother come home. Hendrick had always hated the strange numbness that blanketed him after another beating, the way it tried to compartmentalize the cruelty into something a child’s brain could reason. This dissociative mechanism played like clockwork; he wished he could scream, kick, cry…but nothing came. It’s like his body was shutting down to go into some sort of baseline survival mode, rendering him mute and empty. He wished he could understand it, and yet the idea of accepting this reality was too daunting. It was easier to retreat within, to clam up and cocoon his inner self til it was ready to come back out.

Twenty minutes passed before he garnered the courage to push himself upright, the sound of his family sitting together and eating assuring him his mother was too preoccupied to come back for a second helping. He examined the pads of his feet, the skin broken in some places from the shattered plates. Once sure there were no shards, he stood as slowly as he could, ensuring he could prevent any sound that may remind her of his existence. He waddled to a small mirror he had on a dresser, moving aside some mousy hair to inspect the damage: a blooming bruise on the left side of his face, accompanied by two welts. Little fingers poked at the injuries with apathy, as if to check if they were real, before he dropped his hand down. 

Hendrick had always been insecure about his appearance, ridiculing every freckle and slope just like his mother did. Staring his reflection down, he met his own eyes with resentment, trying to will himself out of existence. He was a burden—to his mother, to his family, to everyone that met him. He brought nothing but shame and misfortune to anyone unlucky enough to meet him, eclipsing any sunlight that dared shine his way.

His mother was right—-he was a mistake.

He was disgusting, and stupid, and embarrassing, and bothersome—-

And, he was only eight. 

How could an eight year old be such a stain? Such an egregious creature that its own mother recoiled at the sight of it?

Stanley sometimes got similar abuse: things thrown, hair pulled, marks made. But the difference was that their mother would come back to check on Stanley after a while, kiss and soothe the marks she made. With Hendrick, he was left to lick his own wounds. She was only loving towards him on her good days, and those were becoming increasingly more rare. 

But, oh, was she the best mom on those days. Mother would take Hendrick and Stanley to the cinema while Father was at work. She’d bring them to the corner store and let them pick out whatever treat they fancied. She would even let Hendrick fall asleep in her lap after the long, exciting day, humming softly as she rubbed his back.

He was a terrible son for wishing she would change.

Thoughts of hatred, envy, and anger started to wash away the numbness, his reflection in the mirror warping as his features scrunched together. He wasn’t sure who to blame: himself, his mother, or even God. The terrible, ugly feelings had nowhere to go, yet they clawed at his throat, making it burn with unsung pain. He had prayed before to God, for answers or mercy, and had gotten nothing in return. Foolishly, a prayer to God formed in Hendrick’s mind once more:

“Dear God, why me?”

Met with omnipotent silence once more, Hendrick finally found his voice in a sob. He met his eyes once more in the small mirror just as the dam broke, watching his eyes redden and lips bend to a frown as the tears came back in full force. He hurried a hand over his mouth to muffle the second sob, knowing the sound would stir his mother if she caught it. Biting down on his hand, he drew blood, the pain barely enough to keep him from spiraling. Hendrick sunk his teeth in a little deeper before the pain became too great, releasing the skin unceremoniously. He stared at the bite mark with immediate regret and shame, knowing that when the bruises on his head had long healed, the bite mark would remain for some time, and that’s what people would see instead—a self-inflicted wound with nothing to back it up.

Hendrick wiped at his eyes with his other hand and sniffled, the intensity of the anger and upset from before ebbing to tired sorrow. He found an old shirt from the dresser in front of him and wound it around the bloodied bite mark, shuffling back to the spot his mother had left him.

[mannequinreligi0n]

hiiiiii just updated the kink roulette with two new chapters (jealous!easterman and possessive!trager) yay !

gonna work on the pusher chapter tonight and then hopefully the gooseberry one this weekend.

if there's interest, i may extend this to non-outlast characters in the future, when my stupid outlast hyperfixation fizzles down.

love u guys always

[videodronesquestions]

intermittently working on this in between forcing myself to draw bc it’s been super funnnnn . figured i’d ask here if there’s a preferred prime you’d like to see . both will be written eventually . working on an easterman one tonight :)

kink roulette prime oneshot

franco

gooseberry

secret third option: pusher

Voting ended onJul 20

[mannequinreligi0n]

i’m too lazy to post the fics here as of now, but my beautiful oomf and i are doing kink roulette with outlast characters for a fic trade and will be posting them as we go !! you can read my trager ones now, and i should have my first prime asset one up soon !!! yay !!!!

you can read mine here

also follow bestie oomfie here

[mothersspecialchild]

(nsfw warning)

doing a fic trade game with mannequinreligion on ao3 (not the tumblr blog of the same name, important distinction lol) this is so funsie

wrote for easterchud for the first time here and heeere…mweehhehe

also check out theirs they are so good im still salivating

[mannequinreligi0n]

Amenities

you convince vergil to let you two stay in a hotel for the night after a long demon-hunting job.

pairing: vergil x reader (afab) wc: 2k warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, wound care, play-fighting, orgasm denial, penetration notes: woke up and thought of this bc i miss my beautiful wife, vergil . anyways, enjoy !! link: ao3

Vergil often detested booking hotels during or after jobs, finding the need for human commodities as a frivolous expense. However, a year of adjusting to civilian life and the last two weeks on the road for this pesky mission, he didn't object this time when you proposed the idea of a night in, already imagining a hot shower and room service. Despite the sideways looks you two got from reception, the keycards were secured and your filthy forms made it up to your designated floor. The room was beige and simple, but it was clean, safe, and quiet—which is all either of you could ask for after such a demanding job. 

You stepped in first, coat slinking off to be hung up in the wooden closet by the door. As Vergil bolted the chains, he attempted to follow suit, a wince of pain making my scrunch his features.

“Here, let me,” you mumbled as you turned to help. Stubborn as ever, he stepped back and scowled, the sting of pain revoking his manners.

“I am more than capable of—”

“Let me do it.”

Vergil’s features wilted at your tone, losing his bite and dropping his arms to let you have your way. It’s not that he didn’t trust you, but more than he had gotten so comfortable in your presence that he often tried to find ways of still establishing his individuality. He refused to be seen as anything less, but it was hard to uphold his stuffy values when you doted on him with the utmost sincerity. As you pulled his coat off, Vergil watched you over his shoulder, ocean eyes wordlessly conveying gratitude despite the wrinkle in his brow. With the leather jacket off and away, you could see the slits in his vest where the demon you two had vanquished struck a few good blows in. Led to the edge of bed, he sits down and waits til you’re sat behind him before he starts at the vest’s fastenings. 

“It’ll all heal, you know,” he grunts between words, the lining of the vest slowly peeling away from bloodied skin. “I can’t imagine why you feel the need to fret over surface cuts.”

Even so, you watch his back muscles ripple as the vest is shed, reopening the wounds as it peels away healing skin. The inside of the vest was, well, disgusting. Bloodied, with pieces of his flesh stickered onto it, due to the duration of having it on working against his regenerative abilities. You make a face at the nasty sight, sighing as you toss the vest away to the floor.

“Any longer, and we would’ve had to cut you out of it. Again.”

Only a hum of acknowledgement—or dismissal—rumbles back to you. Sliding off the bed, you pad to the adjoined bathroom and wet a rag. You study your own battered appearance in the mirror as the water runs. Dirt darkened your skin, caking into some of the cuts. You looked rough, but never as bad as he usually did; he would never allow you to fight harder than him, to be in harm’s way when he could stand as a shield for you. That wasn’t to say he doubted your fighting abilities. In fact, the only reason you two had partnered up was because of the respect he had for you. But, as emotions and attachments grew, Vergil found it harder to watch you limp and writhe in pain after jobs, much preferring to take the brunt of the damage. 

You find your way back to him, seeing him already tending to his wounds himself. He expunges saliva onto his fingers to rub into the cuts, the skin already rebuilding itself as the saliva encourages the swelling to fade—an old trick he learned from a demon many moons ago. Passing the damp towel over his back, he makes a sound in the back of his throat, tense as he goes still for you. Vergil watches silently as you rub away grime from his skin, eyes following the patterned route your hand made with the rag. The rhythmic motions lull your own thoughts away from the present, mind drifting to planning out the next courses of actions after returning from the job. A touch to your face summons you back, eyes focusing to find his already trained on you. Vergil’s thumb swiped over the bone that cradled your eye, gently smearing away a streak of blood.

“Where’d you go?” His voice came out tentative, as if worried his disturbance would upset you. His eyes searched yours to attempt to steal a peek behind them, wishing he could read your thoughts.

You shake your head gently, lowering the rag. “I’m here.”

His stare remained courteous, yet you could tell he wanted to pry, ever the attentive partner. Instead, though, the half-demon sighs from his nose and lets his features soften.

“You fought bravely tonight. I’m beside myself, with how well you’re beginning to carry yourself in battle. I often must force my reflexes to heed and allow you to take point, as you have earned that right,” Vergil’s throat bobs with a faint swallow, finger tips still tracing the side of your face. “Thank you, for being by my side.”

Praise from Vergil is always genuine, and it never fails to make you feel singular. Your eyes crinkle slightly as a smile warms up your tired face. “The blood loss is making you sentimental. But, it’s nothing, really. I love you, and I love fighting with you.”

“And I love you, very much,” He lets his hand slip down to your shoulder briefly before sitting himself up and facing you properly. “Enough to feel compelled to take care of you, now that I am no longer bleeding to death.”

A huff of a chuckle leaves him as he stands, hand pulling you along.

“Up. A shower would do us good.”

—

Between the food in his stomach and the robe warming his aching body, Vergil felt like he could melt through the mattress. He watched the back of your head while you ate, preferring to observe the way you chewed french fries over whatever nonsense you had put on the hotel TV. As much as he enjoyed the rush of endorphins he got from demon hunting with you, he found the quieter part of himself started to crave this kind of intimacy more. There were no expectations or watchful eyes—just the certainty of company and the solace it brought him. 

As you licked salt from your fingers, a calloused hand yanked you back towards the headboard. Giggles filled the room as Vergil pulled you to him, his own mouth latching onto the greased fingers with a shake of laughter. Despite weak protests of faux disgust, you didn’t try very hard to stave off the attack, practically letting him coil around you. Long, lean legs cage you in as he releases your fingers, only to bite at your wrist. 

“Nuh-uh—you can’t leave now.”

“Get off of me, you freak,” you snort and squirm against him, lamely trying to wriggle free amidst the play-fight. He cares little for your insult, mouthing his way up your arm instead. Laughter mingles between you two until a moan makes you still, his lips suctioning to a spot on your neck. Blood rushes to the area as he sucks on the tender skin, staccato breaths from his nose puffing over you as he laughs at your complicity.

“That’s all you got? No more verbal abuse or grabbing?” He unlatches from your neck to peer down at your face, flashing imperfect teeth in an exultant smile. 

You start to give quick excuses, only to be shut up by a desirous kiss. Your limbs betray you, turning to jelly as he shifts against you, tongue knocking for entry. You greet it with enthusiasm, only to fail at returning the kiss once a hand parts your legs. Eager fingers pet at the growing heat of your sex, gentle despite the obvious intent. When you've proven too pliant to kiss back, he trails his lips back down to your throat, teeth threatening to break the skin. 

Vergil pushes off your robe enough to grant him skin-to-skin contact, his own slipping open and exposing an already hardening cock. Deep inhales against your skin fill his senses with your scent, only encouraging him to keep going and feed the need for connection. The hand between your legs alternates between familiar circles and strokes, knowing exactly what rhythm gets you worked up enough without pushing. As you arch into his hand in response, he grinds into from behind, the head of his length rubbing against your ass for much needed friction. Your breathing hitches as your gut twists with approaching, lazy pleasure, head lulled back into him as you welcome the onslaught. Compared to the grit of demon-hunting, this was easy bliss, and you had no problem giving into the temporary gluttony. 

Just as your body was about to fall over the peak, his hand withdraws to rest on your hip. A mewl of denial slips out from you as you rut against nothing, painfully close to coming. “God—, Vergil, wait—”

“Patience,” Vergil’s body vibrates with a laugh, low and taunting in your ear as he sucks on the lobe. His hand slides up your front, fragrant with your sex, and holds your chin taut. “I will not deprive you, sweet girl. I merely wish to be selfish, just for a moment.”

With one more nip to your ear, he releases your jaw to guide his cock behind you to your warmth. His breath ghosts over your shoulder as he pushes himself in, silver strands of hair tickling your cheek. Vergil hides in the privacy of your neck, thankful you’re unable to see the look of relief on his face as he bottoms out. Your hips urge him to move with little syncopated rolls, walls throbbing around him from the previously stunted release. If you two were home, and the day hadn’t been so long, he might’ve prolonged the moment, dragged out the denial til you were sputtering tears for him to kiss away. But, god, you were so tight, and so very warm—he couldn’t fight it.

“Oh, I missed you, missed this,” the words come out muffled against your skin, his hands returning to your hips to grind into you. Calloused hands flex against the supple flesh of your hips, adjusting his grip as he works up to a steady pace behind you. The hotel bed moans with you as you stretch back towards him, jaw slacked as the coils of an orgasm curl back up. Vergil pokes his head out to accommodate your head leaning back, opting to watch your lashes flutter. 

As his fervor increases, he snakes a hand under your thigh and lifts your leg, allowing for more room to accommodate his size. The kisses pressed into the side of your face draw you back to the world of the living, foggy eyes opening to find him. You’re greeted by a blissful smile, Vergil planting a kiss under a dopey eye. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know. You can come, it’s okay; I won’t stop you.”

The orgasm shakes you soon after, teary eyes locked on him as you feel that little death claim you. Vergil doesn’t fight his own release either, letting you milk out the seed with shaky ruts. His hand under you finds its way to your perked clit, helping you ride out the much needed reprieve and ensure you’re satisfied. Cock slipping out of your folds, electric pulses hum through his body as he lets himself rest between your thighs, dripping shaft sandwiched between the pillowy flesh. He doesn’t attempt to move, even after your immediate seizing has slowed, savoring the sacred sights and smells of bonding with you once more. In the morning, he could sort his thoughts and practice discipline—tonight, this was enough.

[mannequinreligi0n]

guys i woke this morning with an idea for a vergil oneshot . it’s a miracle !!!!!

[mannequinreligi0n]

Hiii i love you writing idk how to word it im English (it would better if you think about a strong foreign accent while you read this) but I very much like the psychological tunneling you do.

I wonder about pre divorce Easterman and his Irene or whatever poor creature he would be planning on marrying and who would say yes to him. In the hours before the proposal how Easterman is. Just internally psyching himself up or waiting for the moment. Would he be having more of a thousand yard stare than usual. Or actually maintaining his usual calculated and calm demeanour(?). Or he could just be assuming any substances he finds. Idk he could be probably pre-Murkoff (?) Easterman (SO CUTE. )

HI I have been thinking about this ask for so, so long, not only because I love love love it, but also because I wanted to answer it the best I could.

I think that Easterman definitely has a romantic streak, so the proposal would be hush hush, but very sincere. Maybe over a nice dinner, or in the safety of a bedroom. We know he loves to monologue, so expect a mentally prepared speech about his devotions and intentions. I can see him triple-checking that the ring is in his pocket, that everything is in place before the proposal to avoid any missteps.

We know so little about Irene and their marriage that it's kinda hard to say anything definitively, but given the time period, I think it's safe to assume they got married young, and he might've proposed out of a feeling of responsibility or security. His mother's shadow follows him constantly, and the kind of mommy issues he has definitely drive that need to care for something. We've seen this in how he treats the reagents—he longs to be needed, to be important, as a way of compensating how he was treated.

I wrote on my other blog about my headcanons for his pre-Irene experiences, and in it, talked briefly about how I think the Easterman of then and the one we know now would be very different. I very much headcanon that he was less boisterous and theatrical as he is now, and I think it's very possible that the further he got from his mother, the more he felt inclined to be himself. I kind of hate this conception that he's calculating or suave, because he's extremely emotionally driven despite his intellect. To me, he is constantly trying to conceal his inner chaotic self with a projected confidence. Tying this back to the setting of a proposal, he would present the ring with certainty and intimate enthusiasm, but the shake of his hands and forced perfect posture would be little gateways into the nervous wreck he'd be on the inside. Desperate to be good enough for someone—as a husband, a lover, and a caretaker.

[mannequinreligi0n]

Devotion

Priest!Easterman AU. Father Easterman has filled a vacancy in the clergy, and despite your distrust, he's convinced he can sway you to his side.

pairing: easterman x reader (afab, gn pronouns) wc: 2.3k warnings: priest kink, canon typical violence, abuse/harm, temperature play, injury, blood and blood drinking, oral sex, masturbation, penetration notes: big preesh to @westerlandgotnuked for requesting this au . it's something that i had been meaning to write but never brought to fruition. anyways, i literally thought of the plot of this at like, 5am and then wrote it all out as soon as i could lol. link: ao3

When Father Matthews retired last winter due to his failing health, the congregation waited with bated breath to see who would lead their convent. The replacement first showed his face a day before the winter solstice, all smiles and honeyed words. Everyone had welcomed Father Easterman with open hearts and minds, hearing nothing but praise from his peers out east. 

Everyone except you.

Your intuition was better than most, stomach tightening with uncertainty the moment he took your hand and shook it. Your brothers and sisters treated him like an apostle from then on, unquestioning the vast changes he made to the church. Though you remained wary, disobeying his wishes would be to go against the very cloth you wore. So, you followed orders, nodded when he spoke, moved at his will—even when your soul cried for direction and forgiveness from God. The church was soon sculpted to Easterman’s liking, and it was hard to deny the impact he made. Every week, a few more worshippers filled the pews, till the church was filled every Sunday by the time February rolled by. It was unprecedented, the way in which he stood before the mass and laid down his creed with such conviction that it left no choice but for anyone that listened to believe his word as truth. It was as if he could peer into your very spirit and dissect the woven threads of who you were: your fears, your dreams, your sins. Nothing could remain sheltered from him.

Tried as you did, he knew of your skepticism. The first week of his arrival, he could smell the defiance in your blood, the refusal to bow to the unknown; he made it his mission to change that. You didn’t notice at first, the way silver eyes would linger on you during instruction. How that gilded tongue would preach words meant only for you to a nave full of followers. As the weeks went by and the snow softened outside, your guard lowered as you accepted the normalcy of your new routines. Father Easterman had shown no malice or threat to you in the time of his stay, and you had convinced yourself that the gut feeling you felt prior was a blunder, a misjudgement in the wake of change. 

It was the second week of March when the tides changed.

The lingering stares and increasing excuses to corner you amounted to hands too low on your back, whispers too close to your ear. By the time he had lured you to one of the studies, with the promise of dedicated and personal lecture, you didn't even fight the fingers that slid up your legs. It was so sudden, so erroneous, that your brain failed to comprehend an alternative. To disobey was to defy the will of God, but to succumb was an invitation of sin. The dilemma kept you awake with the moon for the next several evenings, unable to shake the memory of how he filled your body with sensations too divine to call unholy. It rattled you to your core, to the point of doubling down on prayer to scrub away the experiences. 

So when he summoned you to the sacristy early Wednesday morning, you obeyed. Instead of slipping on the chasuble for mass, Father Easterman had dropped his trousers and burrowed himself in your warmth. The old wooden table rattled as his hips rutted into your hole with harbored pants, blunt nails imprinting on the back of your thighs for purchase to keep your legs spread.

“Oh, the clarity that the flesh brings,” Easterman moans, hazy eyes looking over his nose at your mewling form. “How could I abandon this? This feeling of wholeness, of completion—when you're so willing to serve and kneel. My little lamb, so helpless…yearning for guidance.”

Father Easterman pulled out before orgasm could shake either of you, a plea in the shape of a moan falling from your mouth. A laugh makes a toothy smile spread on his face, warmed by the complicity of your desire. As he runs a hand down your leg soothingly, palming your ass, he leans forward to peer down at you properly.

“Desperation can lead even the weakest of followers to do even the most difficult of challenges. So eager to find meaning in absolution.”

“Father, the service. We don't have time for–,” you begin to protest weakly, lifting your head to sit up. His other hand whips out to shove you back down to the table, a loud, disapproving puff exhaling from his nose. 

“I’m not done.”

Gray eyes seemed to dim to a charcoal as he stared you down, demanding obedience without words. A wave of fear spiked your heartrate, and you obeyed, lying back down. The room went dead silent for a few breaths before you saw the muscles in his face relax, the violent streak in his glare receding back. Father Easterman sighed quietly and pulled his hand from your chest, running it over his mouth in thought. “Even the sweetest of disciples falter occasionally. I won’t hold this against you. Though, perhaps a lesson in contrition would do you well.”

His eyes slip away from you to a candle at the end of the table, reaching to grab the chamberstick with prudence for the tears of wax. He held it up, focused on the flame as it danced on the wick, before he waved a hand through it. The warmth licked his skin in a way that reminded him of his mortality, making his palm sweat from the heat and sting from the threat of danger. 

“Such fragile things, aren't we? Most shy away from the unpleasant, when Jesus welcomed pain as a display of love and fortitude,” Easterman’s words came out gentle and unhurried, as if speaking to a troubled child. He returned his hand to the candle to watch his skin redden till he dropped it away. The same hand went back to you, thumb brushing over the neglected, slicked hole he had abandoned, and you can see a flicker of something akin to fondness spark on his face as he observes your squirming—captivated and deceivingly tender. 

“And what will you do, my child? How will you respond in the face of peril?”

Before you can respond, the receptors between your thighs switch from a pleasant buzz to the wails of hurt. A choked squeal makes you jerk on the table, trying to wiggle away, only to be pressed into place by his hand again. His other, still in possession of the candle, held the flame to your sex, watching it swell and blush from the heat. The smell of burnt hair and warmed flesh tinged the air, only making Father Easterman smile and lean in closer to observe the defilement. Pain racked the lower half of your body, hips jumping on the table to get away with little success.

“‘The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit’,” he quotes amongst the chimes of your screams, flitting his eyes up to your distressed face. “You know the book of Psalms well, don’t you?”

The flame sweltered against your flesh, making the skin break and begin to blister. A few more seconds and Easterman finally retracted the chamberstick, setting it back down on the table. Pain makes your vision swim, the scent of your own suffering luring bile up your esophagus before you can swallow it back down. You could feel the lingering sting of the burn radiate down to your knees, an ache that made tears stream steadily down the sides of your face. 

“No more…Please, Father, no–, it hurts,” you mumble out the merciful words as trembling fingers reach out for him, contradicting the way you inched away from him.

Father Easterman catches your hand in his without pause, holding them close and tight as he steps closer. He bows his head to kiss the fingers in place of a spoken apology before he clutches it to his chest. “I’m here, shhh. Feel it through, honey. Surrender to the will of God, and let me lead you. Don’t turn away from it, from me.”

His free hand wipes tears from your face with the utmost gentleness, the warmth of his hand like the sun on a summer’s day and not the scorch of the flame from before. Your head leans into the touch with a lame sob, wet lashes clumping together as you close your eyes to try and breathe through the pain. Pulling away, his hand disappears between your bodies, and you whimper at the brush of his knuckles against your injured sex. The slick sounds of him stroking himself mingled with your sniffles, his eyes getting that hazy look in them once more as he observed your features. Easterman didn’t bother to contain the moans of pleasure that parted his mouth, lids growing heavy as sought relief from the throes of denial. 

It didn’t take long for him to cum, off-white globs of sacred seed spilling onto his hands and between your legs. Unholy curses are muttered under his breath as he just his hips into his closed palm to chase the high, the sweat from his brow dripping onto your cheek. As his vision centers, Father Easterman leans back to examine the excrement, dragging a finger through the mess. His gaze flits to your ruined face before back down to your soiled folds, proceeding to smear his cum into the flesh like a healing salve. The sperm mixed with your slick and the plasma that leaked from the burns, creating a lustful concoction of fluids. His fingers rub into you, alternating between circles and strokes til your bud perked back up and he was able to coax that patiently awaited climax from you. Easterman ignored your moans as he watched the sticky release weep from your cunt, slow strings of the mess dripping down and onto the table.

“Like the sap of a maple in spring,” He mused softly, slowly squatting to be face-level with your flesh. “What sweetness you’ve bore for me. And you tried to shove me away, to beg God for salvation—when I have offered it to you with no expectations in return.”

Your legs shake on the table as his mouth busies itself with slurping up the tangy concoction, his gluttonous streak showing through. He exhales against you as he catches his breath, slithering away with a gleam of pride. Large hands smooth over the skin of your thighs once more to soothe their tremble. After yanking up his pants to conceal his now flaccid member, he produces a rosary from his pocket, seemingly contemplating something as he turns the beads in his fingers. He only looks back up when you push yourself up, brushing down frazzled strands of hair, your gaze already on him. Instead of helping to dress you, he steps to stand between your dangling legs, an eerie silence blanketing over the two of you as he loses himself in his thoughts.

This wasn’t unusual, though most overlooked the contemplative tendencies of the priest. There were moments where you could see him disappear within, scouring the etched walls of his mind for something he couldn’t find as his eyes glassed over and was consumed by uncharacteristic reticence. The tension became too much and you opened your mouth to break it, only to be beaten to the punch by him.

“Don’t you want me?”

The question makes you scrunch your brow in confusion, head cocking at him. “What? What’re you talking about?”

“You look at me like you can’t wait to leave. This…this uncertainty, this lack of faith, has a way of taking over even the strongest of spirits,” Easterman’s eyes danced back and forth between yours, searching for total honesty even after you’ve already bared yourself to his whims. The sudden shift in confidence left you confused, though it reminded you of that initial feeling of wariness you had felt when meeting him, as if you had had a premonition of the smoke and mirrors that concealed his soft innards.

“Father,” you lift a hand to brush the one holding the rosary. “You doubt me? Despite my devotion to you and your cause?”

Instead of answering, Father Easterman stands frightening still, eyes boring into you. With a sharp inhale, he turns the rosary in his hand till the crucifix is between clammy fingers. He stabs the end into the palm of his other hand, digging the gold cross into his skin and puncturing it. Blood blossomed out of the shallow stab wound and he tightened his hand into a fist, squeezing the wound to draw out more from it with a curled lip. 

“‘Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them’.”

The rosary clatters to the hardwood as he moves to cup your face, a wild yet resolute look in stare. Without being told, you knew what he wanted—complete and utter surrender. A part of you recoiled at the thought of tasting blood, but the thrill of the delusional act overpowered the hesitation. You slowly opened your mouth and his own mouth twitched as a smirk of approval grew. The hand on you tilted your head back to accept the communion, his injured hand milking blood from the wound and letting it drip down into your mouth.

[mannequinreligi0n]

Ab sugar daddy!easterman… I just might have a request. Reader stepping on his dick or smth and maybe just a little bit of cross dressing too, him in a little playboy bunny outfit ifykyk 🥴 just him being a masochistic pathetic horny chud in general. Please. 🥺 (The crossdressing part isn't necessary)

the crossdressing IS necessary. don't ever think otherwise. here’s something short and sweet —thank you for the ask ! big love

Flash.

The pleather bodysuit creaked as Easterman shifted in his chair. Sweat perspired on the creases of his forehead, body warmed by the light beaming over him and the shame that seeped into his bone.

‘This is humiliating.’

He made a face of discomfort as he flexed his hands behind him, the cheap rope starting to chafe against his pale skin. Despite the insecurity, a sick part of him liked the helplessness. After every flash of your camera, he would feel himself wince in response — followed by the unmistakable twitch of his cock. His manhood had been tucked back to accommodate the suit, only making him more flustered and desperate. Every movement made the strained fabric rub into him, and Easterman could feel his gut knot with excitement from the taunting friction. 

Flash.

His eyes crinkled as the camera went off again, red lips divorcing with an indignant groan. With a hard tug on the rope, he managed to get a hand free from the restraints. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he frowned and swatted at your hand holding the camera, the bunny ears atop his head swaying with the motion.

“Surely you have plenty by now, sweetheart,” the words come out taut and hoarse, the lines around his painted mouth deepening as he stared up at you through his lashes. The laugh you let out in response makes that knot in his stomach tighten, a stifled whimper slipping free from him. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, that sickening shame flushing his ears a bright pink. 

“No — not nearly enough. I need as many as I can squeeze out of you,” A deliciously conniving grin spreads on your face as you step closer, lifting the camera back up to your eye. “How am I supposed to blackmail you, if I don’t have any material?”

“Blackmail? You can’t be serious.” Easterman makes a grunt and wiggles his legs against the rope, his brow furrowing with effort and frustration. He internally curses at how well you tied the knots,  mentally bookmarking the information for later.

“When have I ever threatened to pull the plug? Breach the contract? Huh? I give you anything you want — everything you ask, without a second thought. You really think you need compromising photos to keep me in line?”

Flash.

“Jesus, fuck–, will you knock that off?”

He raises his hand to push you away again, only to be stopped by a sharp moan. Clammy fingers wrap around your wrist lamely as he feels your heel stabbing into him, leg lifted to step between his legs. The fight seems to leave his body instantaneously, pretty lashes fluttering as his vision goes fuzzy from the electric feeling. Blunt nails dig shallow moons into your skin as he lifts his hips toward your heel, the pressure only making the ache in his balls harder to ignore. Embarrassment twists in his chest as he catches a glimpse of the fluid leaking out the side of the bodysuit, precum glistening under the lamplight. You step down a little harder on his crotch, free hand reaching for his chin. The bunny ears wobble as his head gets jerked up, slipping slightly to the side.

“Come on, eyes up,,” You hold his chin taut as you stare him down through the viewfinder, waiting for the moment gray irises align with the lens. “There you are. So pretty, daddy.”

Flash.

Easterman doesn’t even flinch this time, eyes glazing over from the decadent pressure of your heel on his emasculated cock. He only barely registers the use of ‘daddy’ — a nickname that usually makes him feel like the boss, when right now, all he wants is to fold over and let you use him til he’s tarnished and unholy.

[videodronesquestions]

whoever sent the ask about the priest fic to my writing blog. pls know i see you, and i will be brainstorming a fic over the weekend bc ohhhhmy goddjdkjfkbsnd .

[mannequinreligi0n]

Your Easterman NSFW alphabet...so fucking good bro. I feel like God has smiled down on me to let me see it today, it's honestly the best I've seen for him 🥹

thank you so much !! i always try to not stray from a character’s canon characterization, even when writing smut, so it feels more accurate and alive. w easterman, i never want him to come across as too soft/simpy or like the weird dom daddy stereotype he gets . it’s gotta be a good tasty balance.

thank you again — big hugs !!