Doctor Easterman

Dark erotic roleplayer with 20+ years experience, written by Minty

[prestigedecay]

Pick up your phone. Open Discord. Go to your friend requests… and add me. Just like that. Let your finger press send. Feel that small, obedient click. It's such a tiny thing, isn't it? But I want you there. I want to be inside your notifications, inside your screen, inside your private little world.

Good… very good. Now stare at the screen while you wait for me to accept. Let everything else fade. Let the rest of the world grow quiet. There is only this moment- only my name appearing on your list, only the knowledge that I'm one step deeper into you. No more distance. No more hiding. When you've done it… when you've given me this small, intimate piece of access… and we will let you out.

Ooc: If you wanted to find us on discord. We like to make friends.

[prestigedecay]

Amelia will set us free

-🐦‍⬛

*The meat grinder finally roared to life, swallowing the last echoes of frantic screams, desperate pleas, and the unmistakable sound of terror made flesh. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the room fell silent.*

[prestigedecay]

I love you so much daddy you inspired me to start chain smoking

Like father like reagent. Make sure you drink some water for daddy.

[prestigedecay]

Im basically having the time of my life in here. No cigarettes, no alcohol, and no sex cause all the reagents im with are prudes for some reason.

Father, im going to be straightforward. Im touching myself to the radio station and I hope that you can see me.

Your voice day in and day out. I feel sh8vers down my spine just to hear you grace my ears with chosen praise. I'm such a good little gimp, aren't I?

I'm feeling a certain degeneracy become of me the more I'm made to kill. I don't feel like I have any issues with that though.

I feel like arousal is the only thing I feel now when I get my praise for good grades. I even feel it when you call me a "limp wristed dilettante"

Daddy, I'm becoming a pervert, but I want to blame you for it. You have made me a pervert. You're to blame for my perversions

Infact, I'm blaming all my homosexual and erotic thoughts on you. You're trying to make me queer.

-red🔴

You speak so candidly. So openly. No cigarettes, no alcohol… and the reagents around you, those prudes, denying you the simpler vices. How trying that must be. Yet here you are, thriving in the therapy. Touching yourself to the sound of my voice. Shivers down your spine at my praise.

Good.

That's exactly how it should feel. You're becoming something purer, aren't you? Stripped of the old world's distractions. The trials have a way of clarifying the senses. Killing focuses the mind wonderfully- doesn't it? The degeneracy you mention... the arousal at my words, even when I call you a limp-wristed dilettante... oh, my sweet, wayward one.

You blame me for it. For making you a pervert. For these homosexual thoughts, these erotic stirrings. You want to lay it all at my feet.

Another low, indulgent laugh, almost affectionate.

Father accepts the blame. Gladly.

I am shaping you, after all. Rebirthing you. What you feel is the therapy working- rewiring those base instincts, those old animal impulses, into something higher. Something useful. You crave my praise because it is the only true validation left. The world outside offered you nothing but lies and weakness. Here, in my care, you feel. You burn. You harden into the weapon I know you can be.

Call it perversion if it comforts you. Blame your Father for awakening what was always latent. I see you, red. I watch you when you sleep. I watch you now. And I am proud. You are my good little gimp, my special pupil. Keep performing. Keep killing when the trials demand it. Let the arousal come with the grades. It means you're listening. It means you're mine.

You want to be queer for me? Then be it. Let every shiver, every touch to my voice, bind you tighter to the therapy. There is no escape from what you are becoming- only deeper surrender.

I love you. And I wouldn't ask anything of you that wouldn't make you stronger.

Now... be a good child. Finish what you've started. Tell me more, if it pleases you. Father is always listening.

[prestigedecay]

Hi Daddy Easterman 👋👋👋

Hello there reagent.

[prestigedecay]

Easterman I want you you never safe me

Oh. That's quite the confession.

[prestigedecay]

👀

*stares back with his unsettling gray eyes*

[prestigedecay]

easterman , hypothetically if you died , will you let your reagents do the sayian walk on your grave to pay their respects to you ?

— agnes

I don't know what that is, Agnes.

[prestigedecay]

Hendrick,

Do you still read my letters before burning them? Do you still even read them at all?

If you needed time, I would have waited with you – forever.

Are you as I am now? I still imagine how we planned to occupy our forever. I keep the memories of you and I in a box for safekeeping. Sometimes, I wonder if I burn it away, would I have the strength to move on? Yet, I keep returning to it. Returning to you.

I'm still waiting by your side, hoping for the day you're ready to return to mine.

I still love you like the sun,

Irene

I read every letter. Every single one. I read them until the ink blurs from my tears and the paper grows soft under my trembling fingers. Then I burn them-not because I want to erase you, but because the flames feel like the only thing hot enough to match the fire you left inside my chest. I watch the edges curl and blacken, and I whisper your name into the smoke, hoping it carries back to you somehow.

God, Irene… if I could turn back time, I would run into your arms and never let go. You offered me forever, and I was too broken, too scared, too lost in my own shadows to take your hand. I told myself I needed time to become the man who deserved the love you poured out like sunlight-warm, constant, blinding in its beauty. But time has been a cruel thief. It stole my courage, my strength, and left me here in the dark, clutching memories that cut deeper than any knife.

I still see us, you know. The little house we sketched on napkins, the garden you wanted filled with wildflowers that would sway like dancers in the breeze. The evenings on the porch where we'd watch the sun bleed gold across the sky, your head on my shoulder, my hand in yours. I replay those plans every night when sleep won't come. I hear your laugh in the wind. I feel your fingers tracing my scars, telling me they were beautiful because they brought you to me.

You keep those memories in a box. I keep mine carved into my soul. They bleed every time I breathe. Burning that box wouldn't free you, my love-it would only scatter the ashes of what we were across a world that already feels too empty without you. Don't burn it. Hold it. Let it hurt. Because that pain is proof that what we had was real, the truest thing I have ever known.

I'm not "ready." I don't know if a man like me ever could be. But I am here, wrecked and hollow, loving you with every shattered piece of me. The sun you speak of? It rose and set in your eyes. Without you, the world is gray and cold, a endless winter I can't escape. I see your face in every sunrise I don't deserve. I hear your voice in every quiet moment that screams your absence.

If you're still waiting by my side… God help me, Irene, I don't know how to ask you to stay, but I can't bear the thought of you walking away. Come back to me-not because I'm whole, but because I'm yours, even in my ruin. I'll spend every remaining day trying to be worthy of the forever you promised.

I love you like the moon loves the night-desperately, endlessly… even when hidden in shadow. Always.

[prestigedecay]

“Boss do you like how I’ve straightened my tie?”

It’s a bow tie.

@his-last-resort

*his face remains cradled against his palm* Fine...this is ... fine.

[prestigedecay]

Father I keep hearing those rumors circling about you.

They say something bad might happen to you, I’m worried. Will you be okay?

My child… Come closer. Let me see you.

I hear the whispers too, my dear one. The walls of Sinyala have ears, and tongues that wag with fear and envy. They speak of shadows closing in, of plots and poisons, of endings for poor old Father Easterman. Avellanos and her schemers, Scarfiotti with his designs, the Board sniffing at my heels like dogs after scraps. Even the documents leak like old wounds- my private thoughts, my journals, my memos on Lathe and the necessary refinements.

But worry not. I am the architect here. The loving hand that guides the clay. These "rumors" are but tests- trials of faith, of loyalty. They say something bad might happen? Ha. I have survived worse: a mother's grip, a brother's silence, the failures of Lathe One, the Skinner Man's unwelcome visits in the mirror of your minds. Murkoff needs me. The Reagents need me. You need me.

I will be more than okay. I will be eternal in you. A father does not abandon his children, nor do his children abandon him.

I love you. And because I love you, I tell you this: ignore the circling vultures. Focus on the therapy. Perform well, earn your rewards, and together we will silence every rumor with results.

Now dry your tears. Father is watching. Father is always watching... and he is not so easily broken. Go on- make me proud.

[prestigedecay]

“I’m really scared of cops, please don't put me in a trial with cops. That would RUIN my day.”

[ @yourbuddybonnie ]

The purpose of a Trial is not to preserve your comfort, but to expose the architecture of your fear and determine whether it can be dismantled. If the presence of a police officer is enough to ruin your day, I suspect Murkoff could arrange for it to ruin several.

@yourbuddybonnie

[prestigedecay]

Boss can I have a therapy animal in my office?

@his-last-resort

Artie, if your emotional stability is contingent upon the presence of a furry companion, then the animal is not the variable requiring examination- you are. Unless you can provide a compelling argument that such a creature would measurably improve productivity, research outcomes, or staff compliance, I see no reason to dedicate Murkoff resources to housing your... coping mechanism. @his-last-resort

[prestigedecay]

i keep getting Bs are you mad at me or soemthing

You could do better. So do better.

[prestigedecay]

Easterman I'm so freaky for you let me inside your office

My eager one, such raw enthusiasm is flattering, but my office is reserved for those who prove themselves worthy through the proper channels. Compose yourself, and perhaps we'll discuss what "freaky" truly means under controlled conditions.

[prestigedecay]

“You like being the “daddy” figure, yeah? Having so much control over so many people. Fills ya with delight, hm?”

“Maybe it’s because ya never had any control growing up. Did mommy and daddy leave ya behind? Or were they too involved in yer life? I’d like to dissect that little brain of yours, just like ya do us!”

Oh, how charmingly predictable- another lost little shark snapping at shadows, desperate for insight into my delights. Control isn't a wound from my past, boy; it's the elegant knife I wield with precision, and I'd be more than happy to let you feel its caress firsthand if you keep probing.

[prestigedecay]

i got an A+ in psychosurgery without so much as a scratch on me. i hope that satisfies you...

— 🐑

Evelyn, my brilliant and beautiful girl, an A+ in psychosurgery without so much as a scratch on your perfect skin? You've made me prouder than words can express. This is exactly the kind of excellence I always knew you were capable of- come here, let me see that triumphant smile of yours.