love at first bite

bisexual she ao3: v4mp1rebl0od horror, hbo, etc.

[sc4letta]

🥀 interests masterlist.

primarily i use archive of our own nowadays, my account is v4mp1rebl0od if you are interested, but here is a list of some of my interests and you can feel free to ask about anything else. i would love to take requests;

horror genre in general, hbo in general, a song of ice and fire, open world rpg/story video games, the witcher (books/games/shows), cronenberg films, detective comics, vampire genre in general, the three musketeers adaptations, classic literature, etc.

i primarily write smut but feel free to request anything you’d like. i am a bisexual woman and will write for any gender characters. i’ll write for gender neutral or male readers if you’d like, though i primarily write afab!reader stories. everyone deserves love though. hope you enjoy my stuff :).

[notquitekris]

Day 15 of Self-Ship May! "In the Rain”

Lots of thoughts on this one. Decided I wanted to go with *making* it rain, ey? Would you do it for a scooby snack? How about 4 star caps? Had so many thoughts on Benny tied up at legion camp lmaoooo and it seems like I’m not the only one. Like ‘cmon guy… you were a “boot rider”? Prove it! I also killed all the legionaries and am a powerfist user so I was just soooo sick over the idea of Benny seeing that all happen and then holding his head with the powerfist… like yes! I could crush your skull like a grape, stupid! Heed!

Shout out @sc4letta for this godsend fic

[sc4letta]

confirmed benn-chelor, benny widow

benny gecko (fnv). 🎰

relationships; benny gecko/gn courier six!reader.

tags; explicit sexual content/smut, boot worship/shoe humping, submission, light bondage/rope bondage (the legion has benny tied up!), pre-established dynamic, pet names, light petting, hair-pulling, handjobs, flirting, caesar’s legion.

big fallout fan at the moment so feel free to request stuff related to the games or the show :) this is set if you help caesar out and he lets you decide what to do with benny. i hope you enjoy :) also posted on my ao3 v4mp1rebl0od!

[Barter 65] “The least you could do is let me have some time alone with him before I decide his fate.  Benny and I have history, I did just what you asked— it’s only fair.”

Caesar mulls it over for a moment, a slight grimace on his lips.  He looks you up and down, then his glance drifts to the bound man across the tent, before coming back to you.  His shoulders shrug, as if to say, I’ll allow it, and the bald man adjusts in his throne.  “Fine, if you think it’s necessary,” he gives you a wave of his hand, dismissing you from his presence, “So long as he’s dealt with swiftly.  I’m not known for being patient.”

The Legion leader hardly turns over his shoulder to look at one of his men, instructing them to take the prisoner to a private tent somewhere outside.  He turns back to you.  “You may follow.  Just know— I would not normally afford anyone this kind of grace.  Be smart with the time I’ve awarded you,” he commands, and you nod, a slight smile across your features.  “I intend to be very smart.  There’s only one fitting way for me to send him off, really.”

You take a moment to get your bearings after your mission before letting a Legion soldier direct you to the tent that they’re keeping your checkered shooter in.  When you enter, he still sits on his knees, wrists tied up in front of him and a slanted expression on his silly face.  A miscellaneous strand of hair has fallen out of his typically gelled to Heaven quaff, a sign of how he’s been manhandled and mistreated in Legion captivity.  It makes you grin, and a small snort of a laugh escapes your nostrils.  He raises a dark eyebrow at you, before speaking in his always slick voice; “Something funny, baby?”

Shrugging your shoulders, you step further into the tent, “I’m amused,” you answer, “It’s refreshing to see you knocked down a couple of pegs,” that makes him feign offense, squinting an eye and making a mock-hissing noise, as if it burned— “Ouch, honey, you wound me,” and with that you shrug again, “Well, I think that’s only fair.”

He nods his head once, a little twinkle in his eyes as if to say, yeah, fair enough.  Then you glance towards the armour-clad man behind him, standing at perfect posture, eyes burning into you during the entire exchange.  You gesture towards the opened flap in the tent that you came through as you speak to him.  “He and I need a minute.  Would you leave us?”

The soldier’s back somehow straightens.  He must feel as stiff as a wooden board.  “Only Caesar commands what I do.  Nobody else, especially not you.  I will stay and keep watch.”

Flashing him a blank expression, your tone drops, and you repeat your request, harsher now.  [Speech 35] “Caesar specifically allowed me some time alone with him before my man here meets his maker.  I think that means you should go, soldier.”

Unsure of whether or not to believe you for a moment, the man huffs, and there’s a moment of slight hesitation before he stomps away against the sandy ground, and leaves the pair of you, closing the flap behind him.  Benny chuckles, a deep one, one that says he’s not only impressed, but a little excited.  When you look back to him, he’s eyeing you up and down like he’s hungry.  “You’re wettin’ my whistle, sweet thing.  ‘Got a real way with words since the first time I met you.  Did the gunshot do that?  Maybe you should be thanking me.”

You shake your head.  “Yeah, I don’t think so,” you snicker at him, “but when you want something, say, you need to find someone real bad— you learn how to get it.”

“Every word you’re saying is going straight downstairs.” he’s so provocative that it should really irk you— it isn’t cool and smooth like he intends, it almost makes him into a cartoon character.  But you can’t do anything to settle the knot that makes itself known in your stomach at his flirtations. 

“You’re gonna make me want to let them just string you up now,” you say that but both of you know it’s a lie.  He doesn’t entertain you with a response, just a sly expression of disbelief.  You bite the inside of your cheek to hide your smirk.  Then you stroll closer to him.  “I convinced Caesar to let me talk to you in private before I pick your fate.  A final goodbye, so to speak,” you tell him, and Benny raises his eyebrows in surprise, “A romantic at heart, is he?  I’d never have guessed.  How tooth-rottingly sweet.”

“I wouldn’t say he’s a romantic.  I think he just figured out there was no sense in wronging me loooong before you did.  You might have benefited from being smart like him and picking up on that sooner.  I don’t think you’d have ended up here in that case,” “Now you’re really killin’ me with the implication that the balding all-hat-no-cattle out there is smarter than I am.  I can’t go six feet under with you thinking that low of me.”

It’s not that you actually think that, but you’re not going to give him the win of taking your words back.  They both aren’t the brightest.  You leave it at that.  “Alright, fine, baby, be that way,” he shrugs it off.

“So, how do you wanna spend my final moments then, sunshine?  A little couples’ therapy, some closure before you send me to the Reaper—?” he asks, and you contemplate him, millions of ideas just racing through your mind.  Glancing over your shoulder, you make sure the tent is closed and you really have your privacy.  There’s probably a Legion member or two standing out there that’s privy to your conversation, that’ll hear whatever happens in here, but you don’t care enough about that to let it stop you.  Let them hear what you’re gonna do to Benny.

“Noooo, not couples’ therapy.  Think that’s a little too intense of a send-off.  Least I can do is give you a little bit of R&R as a courtesy,” you explain, “and I’ll tell you, I haven’t exactly decided what I’m gonna do to you yet.  Maybe if you make it up to me, I’ll convince them to let you go.  You know— with my newfound powers of persuasion.”

“Sugar, you are just starting me up like a jet engine.  Say the word and I’ll do what I can for you, honey,” his voice is like molasses— tempting, even if it’s soured a little.  A curt smile appears on your face.  “Mm.  The thing is, Benny, I don’t really want you to do anything,” you start to muse, circling around him like a Mojave vulture circling it’s prey, you may as well be licking your chops like a coyote, “I don’t even think you could.  Legion’s got you pretty tied up there,” when you make that comment you see him grimace, notice his wrists strain against the scratchy bindings.

“Easy solution to that, you could cut me loose.” even with the typical air of charm and silliness to his voice, you know that Benny’s really irritated.  Being tied up with old rope on the ground like some mutt is a little dingy for his expensive tastes.  Not for you though.

“No, no.  I like it.  I’d say you’re right where you belong,” you wager, and he shakes his head at you.  “I can’t do anything for you when I’m all bound, baby, don’t wanna leave you hangin’ high and dry.  Wouldn’t be proper of me.  We can negotiate the terms of my last rites afterwards, sweet cheeks, I just wanna please you!  Is that too much for a man to ask—?” there’s such desperation in his voice that you’d almost believe he’s telling the truth if you hadn’t come to know his true nature so well.  You shake your head back, even bringing a finger up to wag in his sorry face as you stop in front of him.

“That act isn’t gonna work on me,” you tell, “but nice try, though.  Maybe if you threw in some crocodile tears, it would have worked.”

He scrunches up his nose at you.  “When’d you get so cold?  I love it and I hate it at the same time.  I’m both fed up with you and my balls are the colour of Vault-Tec blue,” the lack of class in his comments makes you laugh, and you dip your head in a little, bringing yourself more to his level.  “I’m not gonna let you go, at least not yet, Benny.  But that doesn’t mean I won’t help you with the other issue.”

Interest sparks on his handsome face.  You’ve got the high-roller right where you want him.  At your mercy.

“I can be warm when the feeling strikes me.” you scuffle your foot forwards on the sand and nudge the tip of your  shoe against his crotch.  His eyes go wide and his back straightens in a second.  [Black Widow/Confirmed Bachelor] “Why don’t you show my boot how much you’re aching, Benny?  It’s real curious.”

He almost scoffs at the notion initially, but you see the intrigue pass over his shocked visage.  He swallows thickly.  Almost there, almost giving in.  But you know he’s no easy  nut to crack.  “You want me t— listen, honey, second fiddle’s not the position I like to play—“ [Barter 60] “Come on.  Put your hips into it.  For old times sake?  For your favourite Courier No. Six?”

With a little purr to your voice, you’ve got him like putty in your hands.  His eyelashes flutter and you see him concede, the feeling of your boot tip pressing into his pants harder helping convince him.  He breaks out in a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping, and you watch as his hips buck forward into the pressure subconsciously.  “Sweet Jesus, Christ on a cracker, Mary on the cross.  You’ll be the death of me one way or another, won’t you…” he trails off, and his arms nudge towards you, like he wants to wrap them around the length of your legs for some leverage.

Glaring down at him, you tell him with your eyes to keep going, to ride your boot like the Mojave expressway if he wants any kind of pleasure whatsoever.  It’s so blatantly a position that he’s not used too— you find it almost humourous to watch him make his best effort to ruck his clothed cock against the leather without any help.  Blush forms on the tops of his cheeks, something wholly unusual for him.  When he speaks to you next, he leads with a little pant of exertion. 

“You… you should treasure this, baby… it’s not a lot of people who get to— see me like this…” speaking that way is like a small attempt to keep his head above water.  Benny is grasping at whatever he can to keep some semblance of dominance that he doesn’t have in the situation.  The corners of your lips curl into a smile.  “Mm.  Guess I should take a picture, right, that would last longer—?” you suggest and he chuckles, breaking a little bit of a sweat on his forehead as he nods in agreement.  You shake your head and shove your foot against him harder.  “I should take a photo and make a thousand copies, post them all up and down The Strip.  Let everyone know the real Benny Gecko.”

He sucks in a sharp breath.  He’s feigning that he’s opposed but you can read him and tell the notion excites him.  “You wouldn’t.”

Nodding, you answer, “Maybe I would.  ‘Just have to find a camera and a printer.  They were popular enough pre-war, you know,” and the second the softest moan slips by the playboy’s lips, the little bit of evidence of his pleasure that he can’t control, you tug your foot away from his crotch, leaving him hanging.

His jaw falls slack and his mouth opens in surprise and upset, and even though he doesn’t want to complain— doesn’t want to make himself seem weaker or lesser by whining at you over it— his need swallows his pride.  “What’s the haps?!  Thought you were gonna help me— it’s— it’s bad karma, leaving me with ants in my pants, hon—“ he swallows thickly when he finishes, he’s not able to keep packing on the smooth talk without his voice shaking like a baby deer’s knees.  Pulling him down from his pedestal strokes your ego and starts a fire of arousal that burns in the pit of your stomach.

“Calm your charlies, Benny,” you phrase it like he’d phrase it, throw it back in his face, grinning proudly to yourself at the way he huffs, the way an old, tired hound dog would— “I’m not leaving you with, how’d you say it, Vault-Tec blue balls?  I’m rewarding you for good behaviour,” you muse, raking one hair through his hair quickly, like you’re petting him.  Then you grab a hold of his dark strands, a harsh one, that makes him hiss and say “Ouch, baby—!” so you can haul the player up to his feet.  He nearly stumbles, trying to settle his expensive shoes on the sandy ground, and his Adam’s apple bobs as if he’s embarrassed.  You can see sweat slick on his tanned skin, part of you wants to lean in and lick up what has collected on the curve of his jaw just to drive him insane.

Your free hand shoves his tied ones out of the way to go for his belt buckle.  In a display of your sleight of hand skills that makes Benny’s knees feel like jelly, you pop it open with one hand, and slide one side of it out of the other, giving you access to his fly.  You tug it down and waste no time shoving your hand into the front of his dress pants.

“Oh, Heavens to Betsy,” he sighs, his whole body jitters when you grip his hard cock, just palming and feeling the weight of him at first.  You tilt your head to the aide, and his eyes trail up from where you’re groping him, meeting yours, the softest you’ve ever seen them.  You could swear his tear ducts are acting up, a little wet line at the bottom of his eyelids.  Arousal pangs inside you again, but you do your best to ignore it.  “All for me—?” “Oh, it’s never been like this for anyone else, sugar.”

An eyebrow raises.  “For anyone else?  There’s no way that’s true… I know you’ve taken a tour of the ladies on each side of the Strip so many times… I don’t like you lying to me for flattery’s sake.  Makes me wanna stop,” even with your teasing words, you do what you can to open the flap of his pants more, other digits itching behind his ear and making his roll back into his skull momentarily as you pull out his cock.  You have to admit— it’s not unimpressive.  It’s stiff like it’s got something to prove.  Benny would surely boast about it if he had the mental capacity at the moment.

“Lie— it’s no lie, sweetheart, oh, why would I lie to you, here now?  I— I ain’t been the nicest singer in God’s choir but there’s— there’s no sugar coating here.  I mean it, baby, no one’s ever had me in knots like this before, like a wind up toy, honey, I should be humiliated but I— I can’t help it, you’re getting me so hot—“

It’s getting harder for him to string his words together as you pump his dick in your first, the end of it blushing and leaking like he’s ready to burst.  You can tell he isn’t spinning you a story from the way his voice strains and veins are present on his forehead and his neck.  He’s lucky you’re susceptible to it, that you’re feeling merciful enough, because what the slimy, no good, cocky and perverted son of a bitch really deserves is for you to leave him on the edge and never push him off. 

“I like you this way, Benny.  ‘You gonna keep being sweet for me if I tell Caesar I’m letting you live?”

“Oh, sweet as pie.  Sweeter than pie— what’s your— what’s your favourite desser—“ “I’m not joking, answer me serious, like an adult—“ “I will be.  I’ll be so well-behaved that you won’t even recognize me.”

You’re nearly certain he’s not going to hold himself to that.  You know his nature— but the fact that you’ve broken him down to a shell of the half-man he is is enough for today.  You nod, moving your hand faster, squeezing the length of him slightly.  “That’s what I wanna hear.”

Jutting your chin towards his cock, you ask, “Just about there, huh—?” and he doesn’t give you any words for an answer, just a nod and a heavy moan, “— then go ahead.”

It takes Benny a couple seconds, he doesn’t finish as soon as you say the word, but his eyes screw shut and there’s no need for it to build for long before he’s coming undone as he stands in front of you.  You can see his legs wobble and imagine for a moment that he’ll trip over.  Cum spits out the tip of his dick in thin ropes, mostly spattering across the ground, some getting on both his and your shoes.  And then— he does fall.

Only to his knees, just because he can’t steady himself.  But what a sight it is once again.  His head hangs low as he tries getting a hold of himself, still moaning like an injured animal, and he mutters between heavy winces and whines “Hell, you’re a minx,” and shakes his head, but doesn’t make an effort to look up at you yet.  “You gonna— gonna tell baldie out there to let me live?”

You purse your lips, contemplating his white finish that shines on your shoe.  You turn your ankle to rub the leather of your foot against the sand, trying to clean the cum off of it.  “Mm.  I’m thinking about it.”

[sc4letta]

hii i just want to let you know i love your easterman fics so much !! i can't stop thinking about your holy mother fic i read it like a week ago and it has not left my mind 😭

THANK YOU SO MUCH you are too sweet :’) things like this really mean the world to me, i am happy that you seem to like my things. plenty more where that came from so stay tuned outlastheads!! :))) 🫀🤞

[sc4letta]

perfect soldier, perfect weapon - easterman/reader/liliya. 🩸

relationships; hendrick joliet easterman/reader, hendrick joliet easterman/sister liliya bogomolova kind of, sister liliya bogomolova/reader kind of.

tags; gender neutral reader, explicit sexual content/smut, masturbation, premature ejaculation, voyeurism, sadism, sadomasochism, video cameras, despoil the auction setting, project messiah time, violence, blood, execution, praise, doctor/patient, blades, survival horror, smoking, sexual frustration, power imbalance, perversion. very self indulgent stuff here, folks!

happy project judas day outlast fans! this is sort of a liliya/reader but a lot of that is through easterman's mind because he wants to fuck you both. easterman/liliya is A Duo We Made Up (i ship them because i'm horny.) and i want liliya and those who know me already know how i feel about easterman so it fell into place!! i feel like the wording on some of this is kind of clunky but i hope you enjoy. feel free to send requests for more outlast related things :)

Easterman’s vivid frustration has only grown since the introduction of Project Messiah, and the start of Sister Liliya’s tenure as an Asset. It should have alleviated things for him— she is a revelation, a strong opposing force, the perfect weapon of divine violence to go toe-to-toe with the Reagents. A new star child. With every new addition, he hopes that the work they’re doing at Sinyala can be improved on and refined— she seems a good tool for that. But the Imposter initiative left him… off. A ballsy idea that was allowed to be carried to term. He got a taste and he needs more. Much more. The shuttling in of Liliya immediately after… so much new violence, all at once, goosebumps appear on his pale skin at the thought.

The cameras in The Resort trial are the most current in the facility. The image is the clearest, the sound is quite intelligible. The rustic yet classic interior of the area serves as some beautiful set decoration for the main show. The Sister is like a ballerina in her execution, a fine-tuned and pitch-perfect antagonist, to compete with the Reagents on their mission. An entirely uncharted threat, stealthier and faster than anyone before. She drips in jewels but her claws drip in blood. The Doctor shudders at the images in his mind.

And you… you. His golden goose. His favourite to watch. The best of the flock. As soon as Liliya came to the facility, he wanted to see you dance with her. Practically foamed at the mouth over the idea. He knew it would be a synchronous partnership. Like that of the Black and White Swans. Elegant, gruesome, exhilarating.

The first time you entered The Resort, he saw you shivering from the cold, running aimlessly, and he cringed. He wasn’t pleased, hates to see you misstep- but he knows that you’ll adapt. In due time. And he didn’t have to wait long. You slipped past the lesser Ex-Pops masterfully. Made it through the cavern and its metal gate faster than he could have hoped for. He’d wager you hadn’t even sweat a single bead yet. Unnoticed, sneaky as a spy and silent as the night. He adjusts in his desk chair as he watches, cock hardening beneath his dress pants. He wrings out a hand before fumbling for his open pack of cigarettes on the table. Ease the nerves, calm the senses.

The adrenaline that fuels your body is obvious in the way you move by the time that you reach the Auction buy-in. He can see that the fellow Reagent shouting behind the Auctim room window startles you, and you watch in surprise as Liliya reveals herself, coming out from under her mannequin guise and jumping to gore the wailing man. But Easterman knows that what fazes you isn’t the violence, just the unfamiliarity. The violence is one of the last things that worries you now. You hardly blink when hot, red blood from the man’s neck spatters across the glass. You stare at the ordeal, facing it head on, as if it is normal to witness such a thing and feel nothing, only critique it through an analytical lens.

Just the way Dr. Easterman has trained you. Emotionless. Tactical. You’ve become such a soldier. He isn’t able to stop the grimace that escapes his lips as he shifts once again. He takes a deep puff of his cigarette, letting the nicotine and the smoke fill his head to distract from how his cock has stood to attention.

There’s no use in trying to ignore the aching pain he feels once you set out to register for the Auction and collect the deposit you need. You take one of the blacklights offered to you with confidence— just one of the many tools you’ve grown accustomed to working with during your time at Sinyala— identify the symbols on the mannequins of Sister Liliya in front of you, and are prepared for exactly what you have to do. So quick to learn and adapt. When you idly grasp at the device in your hand, grip tightening and loosening simultaneously as if it keeps you grounded, he imagines your hand wrapped around the length of him instead, and his head rolls back with a deep sigh.

Once Liliya sets out after you, it only gets worse for him. You eye every single mannequin you pass with caution, only flashing your light on them briefly, searching with frantic determination when you cannot find its marking immediately. He hisses a breath when you lean into one of the mannequins’ frames, inspecting the intricacies of its gorgeous and bejeweled suit. Your eyes run over its curves and he shudders.

Then he practically moans when the figure comes to life. Not a mere figure at all, but the real Liliya, lying in wait. Your blacklight is smacked from your hands and she growls at you, mounting you similarly to her earlier victim, taking you down to the floor and trapping you beneath her legs. The Doctor’s jaw nearly goes slack as she straddles you, every fiber of his being invested and aroused, all the hairs on his skin standing straight up. He imagines how it feels to be caged underneath her, the way your brain must be moving a mile a minute as she overpowers you. One of her hands, claws perched at the end of her fingertips, pins one of your arms, and the other pulls back to brandish her blade, aimed directly at you.

Easterman has to prop his cigarette between his thin lips and concede to his urges, shaky hands fumbling to unclasping the buckle of his belt— his eyes briefly glance towards the door to assure himself of his privacy— once Liliya speaks to you.

“Love your messiah,” slips through her lips and fills his room through the speakers. The pad of his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, smudging the pre-cum that’s formed as he watches her limbs tangle with yours. When she swipes her blade to slash at you, he wraps his hand around himself— but when you duck to dodge the blow, free arm reaching for a discarded glass bottle on the floor, his breath catches. The sound is sharp. And when you take hold of the neck of it, swinging it to shatter into shards against Liliya’s head, he squeezes his cock and groans. She topples off of you with a sneer, and in her moments of recovery you rise, quick to recover, like a phoenix from the ashes, before pelting her with what remains of the bottle— just the neck, it hardly does anything but catch her off guard for a second— and sprinting off out of sight.

Just insult to injury. Perfect violence for the sake of it. You take every opportunity to slow down the problem. Easterman curses beneath his breath, “fuck,” and his body lurches over slightly as he throbs in his own grasp. He sees the Sister recover, take a couple of seconds to come back to and ground herself in her surroundings. She wrings her clawed hand out, the shine of the metal and the already dried blood on the blades perfectly visible through the new cameras Murkoff installed. More arousal spills from the head of his cock, and he feels himself getting closer, fast enough to embarrass himself if he were able to comprehend the feelings’ prematurity.

He isn’t ready to finish yet by the time that you’ve collected the initial deposit in its entirety. He knows that the execution, the ultimate payoff, is so close. He leaves himself on the edge, the most frustrating feeling in the world, and opts to keep puffing on his cigarette to keep himself occupied. He ignores how painfully hard he is when you enter the Auction room, and you see the victim stretched out in her white garbs, unblinking whilst she sobs. You know your mission and you get right to it, ever dutiful. Even as Liliya’s voice echoes in your surroundings, the constant threat of her being perched wherever she pleases, ready to strike in the air, you keep moving like the dutiful weapon that you are.

Only when you’ve started to collect the cranks for the kill does Easterman touch himself again. He needs to finish right at the peak of the blood and gore and horror, it needs to fall in line perfectly with his relief and ecstasy. Pain and pleasure, brutality and luxury. He wants to succumb to one as you enact the other. When the first gear you found in the catacombs clicks into place, he’s fucking his hand again. As your own digits brush over the handles of the mechanics to pull the chains, he envisions that you’re touching him instead. You would please him so well, he knows the undoubtedly, and you’d be thankful that he’s letting you. You’ve never been in the same room but he’s the only person that you know now. The Doctor knows that you would fall to his knees and kiss and lick and hump his shoes if he were to tell you to. Perhaps he should reward you with a visit after a performance such as this. It goes against his entire mission, but good deeds deserve recognition. He could make an exception for the best of the Reagents.

It’s no fault of your own that the cranks and gears make so much noise. Even as the victim screams and yelps, Liliya’s keen senses can hear where you are, what you’re doing. When he sees her slip into the room, climbing down the steps to the catacombs with her morbid elegance and grace, his brain starts to get fuzzy. He can see you pause on the feed from another one of the cameras. He watches you make the conscious decision to drop the crank and hide in the nearest barrel. Liliya strides through the catacombs light as a feather, feet not making a sound, entering your space. You wouldn’t be able to tell she were there if she stayed silent, but her own gospel slips out because she knows how close you are. “Together we egregore,” like she’s trying to offer herself to you. To beckon you out.

Maybe she wants you as much as he does, Easterman thinks. But you don’t go to her, don’t follow her words, you’d never rise from your hiding spot and worship her, do everything she could want you to like you do for him. He knows that you’re his. He can hardly stand it. So amazing. His eyes screw shut. The sense of authority you fill him with gets him closer and closer.

When the coast is clear, you sprint back to The Lot, and you place the final crank in its place. The victim freaks, and you waste no time, taking hold of one of the cranks’ handles and starting to pull. The sound is shattering, and he sees you stutter for the first time. Instead of cursing you for it, thinking you’re weak for it, he finds himself feeling bad. His beautiful dove with a wounded wing. He would look down on anyone else, but not you. He knows it’s just a small stumble, a small crack on your varnish, and he moans as you push yourself to continue.

His cigarette falls from his mouth and onto his lap— he fumbles mindlessly with the hand that isn’t pumping his cock to put it out on his ashtray. He misses the bowl and singes the hardwood of his desk. He’ll be upset with himself later.

His dove keeps flying, you use all your might to push and push. The first crank clicks into place as the screams in the room start to make the speakers in his office crackle, the Lot's leg popping off of her body like a limb on some doll. The microphones can’t handle the terror. The resistance from the sound system just highlights the cruelty of the situation and serves as something like a baseline to the gorgeous song. He feels himself get close. So close. His frame begins to shake. Sweet release is so close. But he should wait, he knows he should wait, let himself drown in the deep end when the execution is complete.

But he’s not able to bring himself to stop his furious motions when he sees Liliya rushing to the scene on another feed. Of course she knows where you are now, the awful screeching leaves no question, and Easterman’s eyes flicker back and forth between the screens where the Sister approaches and the screens where you tug at the cranks with fervent determination because your life depends on it. He should stop, he knows he’s about to come, to spill all over his hand and make such a humiliating and disgusting mess, but when Liliya enters the room and launches towards you, slashing your forearm with the blade where her hand would be and making you jump back, he gasps and speeds his movements, reveling in the sight of your blood and Liliya’s proud hissing. A mark on your evaluation but an expert play from Liliya.

And you recover fast. You run, you hide, and when Liliya is searching for you, you slip past her to keep working on your dismemberment, and she comes to find you again. It’s a cat and mouse chase. Both of you are completely in your element. At one second, Easterman finds himself muttering curses, and then it turns into names. At first a breathy “Sister—“ escapes him, eyes shutting as he relishes in her actions, and then, your name.

Your real name. Not your Reagent number. Something that you may not even remember yourself at this point. This moniker that you left behind forever ago, words only present on the pages of your Murkoff files. The ones that you shredded when you first came here. The entire point of Murkoff’s work and your therapy is that this isn’t you anymore. But Easterman is too far in his feelings for you to use his rational brain. He says it once and then he says it again. Your real name falls from his mouth in a string as you pull a third of the Lot’s limbs off, only one arm remaining.

Liliya is approaching behind you but you don’t care— you’re working the crank so hard because you know that you’re right there. And Easterman is too. It’s as if your pulling and your concentration is working directly on his cock. And before he knows it, before you’ve finished, the Doctor does.

The execution isn’t complete but his head tosses back and he shuts his eyes, cum spilling out of the tip of his dick and over his hand, over his pants. He doesn’t get to finish with you because he wasn’t able to control himself. He hears the final crank line up and the Lot’s last limb be torn off but his eyes are still closed and he’s still shuddering from his release and the Doctor misses it. He doesn’t see exactly what he’s waited for. He doesn’t see that you’ve succeeded. When he finally comes to, aware again, you’re already slamming the button to the Trial shuttle, ducking behind the closest cover and waiting for it to arrive.

His chest heaves as he stares at you waiting. Sees your throat bob and knows you feel accomplished and ready to escape. Ready to hear the praises that he’ll shower you with when you come back for evaluation. It could almost warm his heart if it wasn’t impossibly, infinitely cold.

When you arrive for your evaluation, his words are very simple. An A flashes on the screen. It can’t be an A+ but he holds no grudge against you for the small amount of damage you took. “A stellar performance. Anyone could see just how violent and amazing you’ve become,” he sighs, it’s shaky, still recovering from his finish, it’ll take him a while to fully come down, “I hope you know how much I love you.”

[sc4letta]

UR EASTERMAN IS SO GOOD OH MY GODDDD 😭😭 i love when people portray him as submissive but still bossy and trying to cling to control

if u ever wanted bc u said u were open to requests… potentially service top reader x power bottom easterman… 🫣🫣

hiiiii thank you so much for the kind words and the request!! i hope this is to your liking. delicious idea!!!

anyone can feel free to send more requests if they would like, thanks for reading, enjoy :)

sleep room - dr. easterman/reader. 📺

relationships; hendrick joliet easterman/afab!reader.

tags; afab!reader (no fem terms), service top/power bottom, explicit sexual content/smut, riding, power imbalance, doctor/patient, sexual frustration, blood, autoerotic asphyxiation, implied age difference, praise kink, guilt, masturbation, sadomasochism, marking, fem!on top.

also posted on my ao3 v4mp1rebl0od :)

Some time ago, a few months into your therapy at the Murkoff facility, the Doctor came to realize that you were the perfect lamb. You took to the challenges and the tribulations of the Assets and the trials as if it were effortless. As if you were born to spearhead the Sinyala facility’s mission. Someone like you, who was a regular citizen before entering these doors and leaving that behind, performing violence as if it were a masterful violin solo from a seasoned virtuoso.

Every moment he spent watching the tapes of your trials only made him more enamoured with you entirely. It’s as if he can feel the impact of each strike you land on an Ex-Pop on himself, phantom aches appearing in his muscles and deep in his bones that make his head fuzzy. A sense of euphoria when he watches you grind victims to slurry, unlock padlocked doors, just narrowly avoid being spotted by ducking into a barrel or locker… his jaw goes slack just from observing.

When Murkoff introduced the Invasion therapy, you were Easterman’s immediate pick for the specimen to test it out. He was driving himself mad at the thought of giving Reagents knives and letting them rain hell on each other already— when the idea clicked in his mind, to hand you the blade… it nearly blinded him with intrigue and lust, and pride too, at how smart he thought it was. Personal biases aside, he knew that nobody would be better than you.

Seeing you twist the knife in the guts of your fellow Reagents under his command spawned a similar twisting feeling in his gut and an unbearable straining in the crotch of his pants. He christened his office because of you— unable to wait to be done work for the day before working his cock with his hand and going weak in his desk chair. Having to wipe his finish from the side of the hardwood and face the evidence of his uncontrollable perversion in the workplace. He didn’t even know it was still possible for him to finish so strongly. To get this aroused at all. The years have worn down many things for the Doctor, including his libido. But you seem to be the solution for everything.

That growing sexual appetite has started to eat away at him, too. Before now, before you, he hardly ever even used his hands on himself, yet now his hands don’t seem to do enough. He comes away from his orgasms not completely satisfied— he feels like a boy with a case of blue balls. He hates himself for it. But it isn’t as if he has another outlet for his frustrations.

But he comes to see that that isn’t the truth anymore.

The perfect specimen. So receptive to everything that he tells you. So willing to adapt and learn. You do more than just ask “How high?” when he tells you to jump, and you wouldn’t even have to ask anymore, you’d simply know exactly what he wants. There’s no doubt in his mind that you would execute any order he gives you. Why would inflicting pleasure on the person who loves you, cares for you, shapes you, be an unwelcome demand when you kill and maim and commit all kinds of crimes at his will? He smiles to himself when he realizes what he could get you to do. Maybe it would even be a welcome change for you.

His decisions are why you found yourself in the position that you’re in now. A position that you’d never imagined you would be in.

Overtop of Dr. Easterman, in a literal sense, at least. Nothing surprised you more than to learn that he had come down from his office, into the Sleep Room, here. For you. None of the workers warned you of his visit— who’s to say they even knew he planned to do something so unprofessional until he showed up, told them to take him to your sleeping quarters— so when your door opened and you saw him in person for the first time, not through a television screen, not his voice over the radio, not as the Skinner Man that haunts your hallucinations, but truly Easterman, you were far too stunned to speak.

He entered the room and had the door shut behind him. The window of your quarters was not all that obscuring and one could easily see the two of you inside, so he demanded the workers leave your hall alone for the time being and he turned off the bright overhead light. His slender silhouette in the dark makes him seem like one of your hallucinations again. For a moment you’re convinced that’s the case. That he isn’t really there. A side effect of the drugs.

But it all becomes very real as things progress. His familiar voice praises you and primes you for what he’ll tell you to do. “You make me so proud,” he insists, “I can see how you’ve changed,” he lauds you, “Like a father loves his favourite son,” he approaches your bedside, “You are the only one I can trust to do what I need done,” he makes his proposal, “Do that for me. I know you can.”

And you do.

Never did he predict he’d allow himself to be in this predicament but his arousal is blinding. His back is against your stiff and uncomfortable mattress (him being skinny and boney does nothing to help how much that hurts— it’s as if the stinging disciplines him simultaneously with the pleasure you’re giving, the Doctor can hardly take just one—) and your knees are on both sides of his hips, where he holds you, far too tight, and leaving painful nail marks on your skin. They would make most wince but you don’t. You know what he likes and he dislikes. You know that he is counting on you. His favourite.

“A marvel.” he mutters it to himself like you won’t hear it, like his admiration of you in that moment is too genuine that it’s meant just for him. He wasn’t saying it to manipulate you this time, it’s what really passed his mind at the feeling of you sunk down onto him. Cunt enveloping him completely. He wonders how long it has been for you, since you’ve been with another person. It has been entirely too long for him. Perhaps why he’s here.

Certainly since before entering the Sleep Room, for you. He witnesses some Reagents absentmindedly masturbating behind closed doors in an attempt to feel something, but that has never been you. The Trials fuel you enough. Perfect.

His command to you is simple. Just one word, “Slow.” but of course you understand what he means. You give him one small, experimental roll of your hips, and he offers a weak pant in response. In the shadows of the room you only vaguely see his thinning brows furrow. You do it again, your own clit pressing into his pelvis and making your stomach stir. His next sound is a bit more broken, his eyes go shut for a moment. His hands on your hips move upwards slightly, bunching at the tattered and dirty fabric of your top.

“Yes,” when it leaves his lips it’s practically a growl. It comes out in the same tone he uses when he’s evaluating you after a Trial well down. It brings to mind a visual of an A on a television screen in front of you. It fills you with pride. “Yes, that’s it.” he breathes deeply through his nose as you continue, trying to keep himself somewhat grounded.

“Do something with your hands.” he gives you too much power and freedom with that sentence but he doesn’t realize it at first. You blink, unsure what he wants. “Don’t sit there with them hanging mindlessly. They are your instruments. The tools for your trade,” he manages to string together something that sounds at least marginally poetic or intelligent. You nod, and the first thing you do to him is buck against his cock and move, shakily, to take his hands from your own hips. Maybe he wants your touch. He’s taken off guard when you make such a bold decision but he holds out on scolding you to see what you do. Uncertain, you press his hands down into the pillow beside his head, but that makes him grimace.

“Wrong.” he reprimands, hands wriggling out of yours. You frown. “Too… too intimate.” he specifies after a moment of thinking. Your hips had pushed while he evaluated you but he snaps you back into shape. “Did I tell you to stop?” and you quickly choke out a “No.” and move again, with your hands just plainly pushing into the feather cushion behind him. The way he startled you by raising his voice makes you move faster when you start again, rolling and grinding your hips turning more into bringing yourself up and down, up and down. Easterman’s neck cranes, a low moan leaving his throat at the sensation.

Groans and growls fall from his lips in a string. You feel waves of ecstasy filling your body too, as his hard cock stretches you out, a feeling so distant from your mind at this point that it’s almost entirely unfamiliar, but you keep quiet, for fear of disturbing him. If he tells you to speak up, you’ll wail. But he hasn’t.

“You’re—“ he hesitates, unusual for him, before taking your wrists into his grasp, “here.” with bated breath, you observe as he does the last thing you would expect. He places your hands over his throat. You can feel his Adam’s apple bob against your palm as if he’s not so confident in his own actions, but his fingers keep laying over yours as he instructs you. “I want you to press. I… I know you’re capable.” he guides you slightly, squeezing his own hands around yours and restricting his breathing just a bit. Even with the nerves, you nod, and his hands lift away from yours. Back to your sides.

The pressure you use is light at first. Overly careful. Like you’re afraid anything more will make his head pop off. It works for him, it does— his cock twitches inside of you when he finds himself straining for breath, and he gropes you like a vice. “More. Take it further.” it's as he directs you in the Trials. Don’t just be good, be the greatest. You tighten your grip, thumbs just over his windpipe pushing down, sending his brain into a haze. One of his hands moves down to the plush of your thigh and practically tears at it, while the other finds leverage by gripping one of your wrists. Keeping you choking him. He needs it.

You have to use your hands on his throat for the strength to bounce yourself on top of him, which only makes him more lightheaded, only launches him deeper into satisfaction. You swear his nails scratching at you might genuinely be drawing blood, surprising because of how weak they are. The aching gives the same effect as smacking a horse on its backside— it urges you to speed up, keep going, exactly what he wants, he doesn’t even have to ask. He doesn’t need to direct you and yet he does. His striving to exert power over everything, over you, will always stick in the back of his mind.

But there’s nothing smart for him to say, so he just purrs out “More, more—“ “Again.” “Don’t stop.” over and over. Grasping at straws to remind you he’s the dominant one. You’re only the service provider. Nothing more.

His hand on your thigh moves to grab at your own throat as well and it almost shocks you into stopping. You weren’t expecting something so direct and violent. You can actually feel a bit of your blood on his fingertips, making them slide against your skin smoother on the initial contact. This isn’t about you but it makes you contract around him, and you aren’t able to stop the little whimper that leaves your lips. It’s enough to send him catapulting over the edge, and he squeezes at your neck and your wrist at his own with far too much force.

So tough, just short of putting a strain on your eyes as Easterman omits a broken cry, head shaking like he can’t take it when he finishes inside of you.

He shouldn’t, God knows he really shouldn’t. Easterman knows that he shouldn’t. The debacle that would come from a Reagent being pregnant would be far too much for the corporation to deal with. Let alone if they were to find out it was Hendrick’s doing. But his head is swimming and his peak hits are so heavy that he can’t even consider tossing you to the side and finishing himself off, or finishing on your thighs, anything else other than the risk he’s just taken. The thought crosses your own mind, but you wouldn’t dare stop without his saying so.

His orgasm lasts for a while, it’s easy to tell how deprived he was. After a couple seconds his hand weakly drops from your neck, sliding down the front of your torso, leaving a small bit of red on the fabric covering your chest. The hand goes limp beside the both of you on the mattress and he releases your wrist with his other, too. Your hands stay on his neck until he tells you that you can remove them. You just stare down at him, breathing quickly yourself, body full of adrenaline. You didn’t finish, but that doesn’t matter. You haven’t felt like this in ages. Look what he’s given you.

When he’s come back down to earth, he sees you above him and has to fight a grimace. Not necessarily at you but at himself. “Get off of me.” he instructs you, and you do so promptly, climbing off of his lap and standing next to your bed. He sits up and attempts to tuck himself away in a fast manner without looking like a fool. You feel his cum starting to leak out of you and it makes you feel flush— you find where your sleep shorts and undergarments were discarded on the floor and pull them up your thighs. He swings his legs to sit on the edge of your bed and then stands from there. He looks at you and knows you did exactly what he asked. The growing anger inside of himself makes him want to reprimand you but he doesn’t.

Easterman swallows thickly. He hardly wants to meet your eye, but he does, to get his message across. “You are not to tell anybody about this.” he raises a hand to point and instruct you, “No other Reagents. Certainly no workers. You will not discuss this in any therapy. This is between you and I. Do you understand?” he corrects himself, “You understand.” and you nod to affirm that you do.

“Good.” he straightens his jacket. He looks you over once. “You… did very well.” and with that, he’s leaving. Shuts your door with a click and leaves you in the dark. His words make you feel vaguely proud.

When you flick the light back on, you turn to see yourself in the mirror, disheveled. Smudged trails of red scarcely paint your neck, now dried. You raise your own hand to feel over the stains. Then you look down to your hip, pulling the waistband of your shorts to the side. You can see the indents from his nails and the blood crusting around the thin lines. You take a deep breath. You see the A on the television screen in your mind. You hear Easterman’s praise. A Trial well done.

[sc4letta]

ashford passageways — ser duncan the tall. ⚔️

relationships: ser duncan the tall/fem!reader.

tags: afab!reader, smut/explicit sexual content, drunk sex, unprotected sec, wall sex, semi-public sex, dancing, nipple play, heavy petting, strength kink, praise kink, duncan being chivalrous as foretold in the book of the seven.

wrote this for someone but figured i would post it as well, i hope you all enjoy :) not my favourite work but i am in love with a knight of the seven kingdoms! hope the ser duncan fans get something out of this :) i am open to more asoiaf (any era, shows or novels) request if anyone has them, feel free to inbox me!

With no real connections in Ashford, Dunk has spent plenty of his time here simply walking around aimlessly, getting into whatever situation the wind takes him too. His ultimate goal is to fight, sure— but that takes time. To fill space, he’s drank, he’s danced, he’s seen shows, tended to his horses, adopted a squire, etc. He’s had quite a full past few moons, but none have ended with the promise of what he wants yet.

He is still looking for a respected lord to back him for the tourney. He doesn’t exactly want to go groveling at anyone’s feet, but he fears he may not entirely be above that either. He will keep trying the more reachable avenues first— families that his lord knew, etc. But he grows more tired and less hopeful, even whilst doing his best to keep his head above water. Which should be easy. Considering his size, after all.

As he’s been perusing and monitoring the highborn lords, looking for potential supporters, his eyes have landed on you. Not a lord yourself, but a daughter and a sister of a well-off house, who seems to enjoy traversing the tents and interacting with Ashford’s townsfolk. The way that you smiled and drank ale with the common people, the way there was no semblance of holding your chin higher than others just because of your status. Amongst the sea of prissy rich people, your kindness was like a new sun to him. Perhaps it’s because he lost someone, and other than his newly acquired young squire, and he’s felt fairly lonely for a while… he’s gravitating towards the warmth you radiate.

A long day pitching his case and searching for resources leaves him in desperate need of a drink. With his squire tending to his horse for the night, Duncan peruses the moonlit activities of Ashford’s occupants, trying to decipher which collection of laughing, shouting, moaning and bardic music sounds most appealing in the moment. He almost doubles back to the Baratheon tent— he may be a smidgen frightened of the Laughing Storm himself, but it would be a great lie to say the stag doesn’t hold a good celebration— before he spots you, nursing a pitcher of something and singing along to the busker’s ballads with a wide smile.

For whatever reason, you’re pouring people new cups of ale, as if you were a barmaid and not the highborn lady you truly are. A drunken man says something to you that Dunk can’t make out and you throw your head back with a chuckle. An equally intoxicated woman makes another comment and gives you a pat on the hip, which entertains you more.

He finds it so peculiar to see you act so down to earth. A big lump has formed in his throat. The tall man shakes his head, clears his throat, blinks his eyes about a thousand times, wrings his hands out, cracks his neck, whispers “Go on, Ser Duncan,” and smooths out his robes— he does nearly everything one could do to hype themselves up, as if he were a small boy again.

Once straightened out, he ducks his head and steps into the tent, pulling an open flap in the deep red curtain to the side and joining the party.

An unaware couple, dancing with all caution thrown to the wind, nearly knocks into him as soon as he breaches the entrance. They prance around you next, and you entertain them, dancing with them as well momentarily, before your eyes land on the knight who has entered. He looks somewhat winded from the scare of the narrow collision, and it makes you smile. You grab a stray cup for ale off of the nearby table and fill it from the pitcher you’re wielding, enough that little dribbles of alcohol spill over the sides and onto your fingers wrapped around the mug as you walk to hand it to him. “You look frightened, Ser Duncan— here, to relax you.”

He blinks at you dumbfoundedly for a moment before giving any real response. It sputters from his lips a bit when he does reply eventually. “Oh, no, not frightened, that’s— I thank you— how— how d’yah know my name, m’lady…?” you’ve never spoken directly before, so the proper address catches him off guard. Entertained, you step a little closer and push the drink to his chest so he’ll take it.

“Ser, you have been saying your name and whoring yourself as a fighter to any lord that will listen for the past several moons. I wager everyone in this tent, and the next, knows who you are.” he wasn’t expecting you to speak so… vulgar— not that he’s put off— in fact, quite the opposite. That makes him laugh, a little huff, a nervous one. You manage to make the brick wall of a man break a sweat. He nods and takes the cup from you, fingertips brushing against your hand as he does so. “Have you had any luck?” you ask.

His face falls slightly. He averts his eyes towards the ground with a shake of his head, and begins lifting the drink to his lip as he speaks, a little mumbled; “No, my lady. Unfortunately not. I think— well. I hope, that I come off as capable enough for the task, or perhaps the Houses’ knowledge of my lord Ser Arlan would result in somethin’, but…” he trails off, taking a tentative sip of ale. Your expression is pitiful, your head cocks to the side, but you seem a bit amused as well. As if you were looking at a feline who’d accidentally fallen into the water. You feel bad for him, but can’t help to find his disposition humourous, or endearing.

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, Ser.” you offer, bringing a hand up to squeeze at his bicep apologetically. It’s a genuinely nice enough gesture, but the Hedge Knight has to do his best not to choke on his swallow because of how it makes him feel. “Is that why you’ve come here, then? Why you’ve come to talk to me? To drink with me under the guise of breaking bread when really all you mean to do is sway me your way.”

He looks back up at you quick, like a dog alerted to a whistle, with furrowed brows and worried eyes. “Begging yer pardon, my lady—? No, I—“

“How do you intend to do it? Will you try your hand at seducing me?” you suggest, raising an eyebrow. Duncan continues to shake his head and he goes to swallow but his throat has run completely dry. You aren’t able to stop the laugh that passes through your lips. “I only tease, Ser. Forgive me. I’d never have thought it’d be so easy to get under your skin— a big man like you.”

Hearing you talk about him that way makes his cheeks warm. With an unsure chuckle, he shrugs his broad shoulders and looks to the ground with a “Well…” and you place your hand on his arm again in a placating motion. “Not a negative, Ser Duncan. It is quite sweet.”

You squeeze his arm again and he swears he gets a full body chill. “Come, come, we must loosen you up. Forgive me, it was never my intention to make you tense. Your day was long, I’m sure. Come.” you tug at him softly, bringing him further into the tent, away from the entrance and into the celebrations. “You— you needn’t apologize to me, it’s I who’s come off as quite the oaf.” he assures, more than willing to let you drag him along.

“An oaf? No, no! You are no such thing. Truly. Would an oaf so kindly accept a woman’s offer to dance?” you question, and he realizes where the both of you have made your way to— middle of the tent, surrounded by townsfolk prancing as if no one were there to see it. Melding bodies and heavy cackles as they move with the rhythm of whatever lively ballad the small group of musicians plays in the corner. He accepted no such offer, of course, and he’s not exactly a dancer, per se…

But there you stand, your hand on his arm slipping down its length and making home in his own, fingers pressing into his rather large ones. You look at him suggestively, frame swaying softly, asking without speaking for this dance. Even in the dim firelight of the tent, your eyes seem to glow to him, and he’d be mad to turn you down. It would be incredibly hard for him to decline the offer.

With a deep exhale, he concedes, “I suppose he wouldn’t, no—“ and takes a massive swig of the rest of his drink. He’ll need liquid courage.

The two of you are moving before he realizes it, your feet quickly picking up the speed and spinning you both around. The knight has no clue exactly what he’s doing— you’re certainly leading, excitement radiating off of you, flowing through your fingertips and transferring into him. At first he’s uncertain and awkward, but once he’s accepted it, he’s uncertain and careless instead, due to the effect you have on him.

Moments dancing turns into minutes, then turns into feeling like you’ve danced for hours. There are a few stops for ale, or to catch your breath, but barely— the few times other townsfolk try to partner swap with the two of you, you take notice of how Dunk gets a bit more serious, whisking you away with a sturdier hold on your waist or hips. Nearly to your backside every now and again. If you weren’t already sweating from the dancing, exposed collarbone and heaving chest slick with a layer of it that threatens to drive the knight mad, it would have started there from the heat that built in your body. Drunker and adrenaline filled, you become acutely aware of everything about each other. Every visual, every movement, every breath, everything. Even though you were surrounded by people, the air between just the two of you was thick enough with arousal and tension to make everyone else forgettable.

Eventually, as the night slowly wanes, and some folks take their leave to finally sleep, you find yourself catching your breath after the knight places you down on your feet from the spin, steadying yourself with your hands on his chest. He feels somewhat dizzy at the way your fingertips dig into the fabric of his clothes, and he licks his bottom lip. With tie eyes shut as you temper your breathing, you speak, somewhat slurred from the ale;

“I— I’m tired, Ser. I am worn out, I’m afraid.” he nods as you talk, “The Ashfords were kind enough to offer my family a stay in their castle for the tourney… though my feet ache too much to make it there myself… help me there, Ser.” his eyes widen at that.

“To the castle?”

“Please.” the change in your tone, now laced with persuasion, hardens Duncan beneath his breeches almost immediately, “I assure you, I will not let you get in trouble for stepping foot inside. Should someone see us and take issue, I will take the blame…” he’s sure you mean that, you wouldn’t throw him to the hounds, though he isn’t so sure they would cut him slack at your say so— “I need your help, good Ser.”

There’s certainly no way he can deny you when you ask like that. And the Hedge Knight cannot help but feel altieri or motives lingering within your request. Perhaps that is just his wishful thinking…

After a moment of contemplation, he agrees, bringing his hands up to remove your own from his frame. “Of course, my lady. Just tell me where to go.” and he sees the smile curl on your lips at his acceptance. You mutter a few thank yous and gesture towards the exit. He almost shields you with his large frame, whether intentional or not it lights a fire in you, from the handful of partygoers hyped up enough to keep going til the sun rises again. It’s raining now as you exit, and the ground is mucky underneath both of your boots.

“D’you want my cloak, my lady? ‘Can’t let you get soaked like tha—“ “No, no, please. I like the rain. It will sober us. It’s pleasant on the skin.” you crane your neck to let some droplets patter down on your face, eyes fluttering shut as you enjoy the feeling— it only makes him want you more.

He’s still leading you by your hands when you start to show him the way, but eventually that’s not enough for you, and you press yourself to his side, looking up at him in request, prepared for dramatics, “The soles of my feet ache like they never have before. I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk the whole way…” you’ve hardly finished your sentence before Duncan has scooped you up from the grass and dirt, looping an arm underneath the backs of your knees and lifting you as if you were a damsel in distress. “Is that better for yuh’, my lady?” he asks, and you can’t help but bite the inside of your cheek as you nod at him. “Quite…”

His chest puffs out, you feel it against your side and could swoon, and you sling an arm around the expanse of his shoulders as you continue to direct him.

You reach a stony passageway on the outskirts of Ashford's castle, the roof of it shielding the both of you from the rainfall, and secluding you from the surroundings. You hear the knight sigh in relief at the change, and you pat his shoulder, signalling for him to place you down. “Let’s break, Ser Duncan, rest here for a moment…” you tell, and whilst he would certainly be able to keep going without respite, he of course follows your orders. He puts you back down on the ground lightly, and you immediately lean back against the stones of the wall behind you, the knight standing tall in front of you.

It’s silent for a moment as you just look at each other, and you aren’t able to hold back the chuckle that escapes you. One of your hands comes up to wipe the raindrops from his face, sliding over the length of it, feeling his lips catch on your palm, entirely inappropriate to do without asking but neither of you seem to care.

“What’re you laughin’ about?” it’s the most casual he’s sounded since he first spoke to you tonight, as if something has loosened him, be it the liquor or the company. Your hand slides down his neck and to his forearm again as you reply. “My feet are actually quite alright. You did not need to carry me at all.”

Laughing, he shrugs his shoulders, “I can’t say that’s a surprise, my lady. I may have figured that out.” and you raise an eyebrow, leaning forwards into him slightly when you ask, “Is that so? Yet you still did?” he nods without a second’s contemplation, “Of course.” and you blush. Your other hand comes to his bicep again. He’s noticed the handful of times you’ve groped his upper arms tonight— as if you were growing a bit fixated.

“And… if you knew I did not truly need your carrying, Ser Duncan… what did you think my intentions really were..?” you await his response with bated breath, massaging at his muscles. He takes a deep breath. He gives you a once-over, and it seems as if he’s holding himself back somehow, but only barely able to keep himself contained. “Well… I— I don’t want to disrespect you, you see—“

“Oh, Duncan, you are much too chivalrous—“ you cut both yourself and him off as you bring yourself to the tips of your toes and press your mouth to his feverishly. After a moment of shock, he kisses you back, large hands finding your sides and keeping you in place as you front meshes with his. He moans into your mouth almost immediately, noises escaping him before he has the chance to realize. It only makes you hungrier, and one arm loops under his to rest along his back, while the other rakes its hand through his short hair.

The sheer size of his hands is evident against you, and the way that he’s tentative and unsure with them is almost as intoxicating as all of the ale built up in your system. They stay put on your waist, as opposed to you groping everywhere on the tall man possible. Pressing your front closet to his, he moans again, and you slip your tongue between his lips at the opportunity. His eyes widen in surprise for a second before he closes them with a hum and leans back in. Between lip smacks and heaving, you mumble against his mouth, “Don’t— don’t be nervous, Ser, you can touch me—“ you peck him quickly, before pulling back to look him in the eyes persuasively, “please touch me.”

Duncan takes you in entirely, and his brain can hardly compute the sight of you against him. He sighs heavily, shoulders dropping, mouth wet and hung open. “I— whatever you say, my lady…” he’s so willing but weary of doing something wrong. You wonder just how much experience the Hedge Knight has.

His palms slip down to your backside and his fingertips push into your skin as he feels you— it brings you up to your feet a bit more, and you grasp at his shoulders, huffing in relief. Your pleasured expression must give him a boost, because you feel hun standing straighter, and he nods to signal for you to do as he says, “Come, jump up—“ then he swallows thickly, “jump— er, please.”

Laughing, you brace your hands on him, and lift yourself off the ground. He supports you, holding your arse firmly as you loop your legs around his hips. You’re out of breath and your head swims with arousal at how he’s able to keep you up like you’re nothing. The stone wall is harsh against your back, but you can’t bring yourself to care, too enveloped in Duncan to give it your focus. With your legs hooked around his sides, his clothed crotch is pressed right against yours underneath your skirts, and you feel how thick he is— it elicits what’s practically a wince. Pushing it between the tiny bit of space left between your bodies, one of your hands slides down his abdomen to grab at him.

His entire body shudders at your fondling, incoherent stutters falling from his lips and his grip on you tightening involuntarily. You smile, biting your lip and watching his face contort. He sucks in a deep breath before his head dips to the length of your neck and your exposed collar, instinctively nipping softly and pecking at the skin. “Gods, let me— let me take you to where you’re sayin’, my lady—“ “No, Duncan, I don’t want to wait…”

For the first time he denies you, his head shaking in dismissal, moving down to the top of your chest, mouthing the softer skin. “No. I want to lay you proper.” his words sprout warmth in your chest and a tightening in your stomach, but you insist otherwise, “You will have time for that later, I want you now..” practically petting at the back of his head as he lauds what is exposed of your cleavage with kisses. He could only bring himself to say no to you once, so he just nods in agreement, hips stuttering into you as you massage over his trousers.

In a split second, he has you pressed further into the wall of the passageway behind you, and he just uses the leverage from that and a single hand supporting your backside to keep you up as the other moves to untie his pants. The display of strength has you woozy again, and you sigh dreamily, head falling against the stones, “Gods, such strength, Duncan… I should have expected it from a knight— such a big one, no less, but… still…” he hums against your skin appreciatively, between sucking at it, absentmindedly leaving little purple-ish red marks that he’s certain to feel embarrassed about causing and apologize for after the heat of the moment. When his hand nudges yours as he goes to release himself for him clothing, you do what you can to help him, hoping two hands will make it easier to free him rather than one— but he’s more than capable with the single one of his own, fingertips undoing the laces diligently. That makes you ache at the thought of him showing off his dexterity with his fingers inside of you, but you don’t believe you could stand any more foreplay, or else you’d explode like a barrel full of wildfire.

You nudge his head out of the way, off to one side of your chest, so you can see past it and watch as he unsheathes his cock from his breeches. To call the sight impressive would be an understatement— your breath catches. You could feel how large he was, and of course you could insinuate beforehand, but being faced with him full on is entirely different. You moan just seeing him, and you notice how it feels like he smiles to himself against your skin. He’s not one to be overly cocky, but when a woman such as yourself strokes his ego, he isn’t immune.

“By the Seven… who made you— what are you, Ser—?” that’s certainly the ale talking but it makes you both laugh regardless. He brings his head back up to kiss you, open mouthed. “You must have some giant in you, else you must be some kind of monster.” you jest, and he gives you an “ohhh,” before joking back, “Isn’t polite to call your escort a monster, my lady.”

“Oh, forgive me. Let me make it up to you. ‘Let you take me however you like.” that makes him huff hard, and he takes his cock into his hand, leaking from the tip already as he lines himself up with your entrance. You bite your lip, bracing for it, finding yourself enamoured with how obviously careful he’s being. The long pause he takes is almost comical. You go to speak, to encourage him, “Ser, there’s no need to be so carefu—“

Before you can finish, Duncan holds you up by your arse stronger and pushes himself inside you, the thick of him stretching you out in a way you’ve never, ever felt. You’ve been with a handful of men, sure. But they all pale in comparison to the Hedge Knight. Feel more like boys than men in your memory. Both your arms fly to hook around his neck as a cry gets caught in your throat, no sound passing by the barrier until a long, desperate moan breaks it. The muscles in his stomach contract at the sound, abs constricting tight.

“Oh— I—“ you’re hardly able to get out the joke you want to, grappling at the fabric of his tunic for some semblance of leverage, “You sh— you should go in fighting with this, S— Duncan— I—“ you gasp when he bucks his hips experimentally, “— ahh—! A weapon like this, would… would have you backed in mere moments…” you pelt the side of his mouth, the flush skin of his cheek, with kisses as his newly free hand roams up to cup your breast, massaging it in kind. He laughs, shaking his head, “‘Don’t think the lords’d like to see me fightin’ with this…” he wagers, and you mumble against him, “You may be surprised…”

Your grip is just short of strong enough to tear the material of his clothing and he’s hardly started. His movements all seem so particularly calculated and careful, yet still unsure. He wants to take it slow not only so you feel good, not overwhelmed, but to savour this— Duncan is not an overly patient man, but he could pause time to drown in this moment if the Gods would let him.

You feel yourself being brought further up the wall even as he thrusts into you, and his face is back at your chest, digits prying at the collar of your dress to pull it down if possible. Once your chest is exposed, freed from both the top of the gown and your undergarments, he kisses one of your nipples, an action that just makes you gasp at first, but takes your breath away when he gains some confidence and lets his mouth envelope the entire bud. No man has done that for you before. It makes your nerve endings stand to attention— you wish that they would have, yet simultaneously, you’re thankful Duncan is the first.

“Dunk— Duncan, that’s godly…” you praise, and he groans into you, tongue flicking over you, sensitivity making you twitch. His other hand has made it back underneath you, sliding down from the back of your thigh to your arse just underneath your bundled up skirt as well. You make work of your own fingers by letting a hand trail between you to draw circles over yourself, somewhat sloppily because you cannot think straight. Your other hand doesn’t dare to leave the strong man, scratching at the back of his head through his hair like placating an animal.

With his bucking into you, you feel yourself getting closer. It’s harder to keep your sounds to a minimum, thank the Seven that the rain just outside of the passage has gotten heavier, doing well to cover the obscene moans and soft sounds of skin-on-skin to any passerby’s. You sense his own movements becoming less tactical by the second.

“My Lady… lord, I—“ he huffs out, mouth separating from you for a minute, cool air hitting the saliva coded nipple and hardening it before him easily, “— wish I could hold out longer, but I don’t know ‘f I can—“ “That’s fine, Ser, just— me too, just don’t stop…!” you flatten your palm on the back of his head and push his face back into your breast, his spine tingles as he listens to you, hips quickening and mouth becoming more feverish.

A loud cry escapes you with the impact of every thrust, and his groans are consistent yet muffled against you. Your finger isn’t steady but the pad of it does the trick, bringing you further alone. The knight feels your cunt clenching around him and swears his vision is blurry, stars forming in his field of view when he pulls back from being latched to you and trails wet kisses back up your neck. “Oh, Ser, don’t stop now, please…” you ask but he keeps moving back up to your lips, droning into your flesh, “Let— let me kiss yuh, while we finish, at least— let me treat you nice and proper like that.” he pleads, and as much as you miss the feeling of him suckling at you, you’re not able to deny that tone.

Kissing him, he lets his tongue shove past your lips this time, tangling with your own as he fondles you with more force, hips delivering less thrusts but the ones he does are more pointed, and before he realizes it he’s letting out a broken moan, entire body shivering as he spills himself inside of you, the idea of pulling out of you and letting his seed coat your thighs instead not even crossing his mind. Or yours. The sound of his finish is enough to trigger your own along with him, pleasured sensations peaking as you nearly whine into the knight’s open mouth.

He holds you so firm against the stone bricks as he does what he can to keep fucking you through your finish, but it’s difficult to focus on anything but how breathtaking his own orgasm is. You are not able to keep up the rhythm of your own finger on your clit so your hand just raises to hold the side of his torso, feeling his heavy breaths making his abdomen expand and retract. You imagine seeing his form in full the next time— Gods willing there is a next time, admiring the way his muscles constrict when his body reacts to you. You hum in pleasure at the prospect. Duncan pecks at you again.

You feel so dazed when he kisses you that in this state, you would confidently tell any stranger that you’ve fallen in love with this man you’ve only just formally met— it may be true. It certainly is on his account.

He’s the first to break the silence;

“… that was— yer’ amazin’, that was…” he’s not able to find a positive enough word as he looks you over, takes you in, still inside you. He’s gentlemanly enough to help cover your modesty, even like this, tucking your breast back into your dress with one hand. You smile. “You as well, Ser…” his expression softens at your praise, but would harden him otherwise if he weren’t just coming down from his peak, “I think… I fear you’ll really have to carry me back to my chambers now…”

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t know if I’ll manage.”

[sc4letta]

void of love, not passion - dr. easterman. 💒

relationships; hendrick joliet easterman/reader.

tags; fem/afab!reader, established relationship/marriage, unhealthy relationships, dominance, submission, explicit sexual content, violent sex, choking, smoking, age difference (older man/younger woman), lovers to enemies, sexual frustration, tension, arguing, degradation, masochism + sadomasochism, dry humping, oral sex, dehumanization, marking, switching, spit kink, burns, groping, insecurity, god complex, table sex, counter sex, hair pulling, mommy issues, mind games.

this was meant to be a short drabble but i started to go insane... i need to be in a loveless marriage with dr. easterman!!! #fuckthatoldman!!!! i hope you all enjoy this. i want to write for outlast more so if you have any requests (other characters from the franchise are welcome as well!) you could inbox me! this is another fem!reader fic but i'm open to gender neutral, or writing for male readers if asked because i know there tends to be a shortage for you all, if you'd like. thanks for reading! :)

Whatever the reason was for your getting married however many years ago has completely faded. He was intelligent, quietly seeming superior to all the other men in the room, he had a promising career in his field. You were interesting, young and alluring, surprisingly easy to talk to. You were wed too fast and the honeymoon period passed just as quick, too. Your initial new love turned into the phase older couples reach where they simply agreeably co-exist much sooner than it should have. Then it was less agreeable, just simply tolerable. And then it got worse. Your union became equivalent to nothing. It would be too much of a hassle to get a divorce, but the spark is completely snuffed out, deader than dead. A pile of ash. Your marriage grew mold.

Your dislike for each other is palpable. Barely acknowledging each other in the mornings.

“Hendrick.”

“Morning. I’m off to work.”

“Mm. Don’t forget your briefcase.”

And a scoff. Like he’d forget his briefcase. What is he to you, an imbecile? Is he incompetent? He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake. He swears you only say things like that to get on his nerves.

And hardly even looking at each other during dinner every night, although you sit down at the table and eat the dinner you made just as all couples should, insistent on keeping the tradition. On living a married life.

“How was work?”

“You know I’m not at liberty to discuss what Murkoff is doing with outsiders.”

“Oh. I’m the villain for asking, then, I suppose. A simple ‘fine’ would suffice every now and again.”

Your utensils scrape against the plates, like you wish you were digging the forks and knives into each other's eye sockets instead. Your dishes clatter in the sink when you toss them in haphazardly out of frustration. You savour the couple minutes of quiet you’re awarded when you wash the dishes and he goes to sort something out in his home office.

He would tell his friends that he’s sick of his nagging wife at home. You would tell your girls that your husband has no clue how to satisfy you anymore. You both WOULD do that. If there were anyone for you to talk to, that is. But there isn’t. The worst part of the sad excuse for a coupling is just how isolated you are with each other. Being a housewife has made you just that, only a housewife. You hardly have a personal life. And Hendrick is judgmental, he’s not exactly the type for camaraderie. Why would he ever tell the people from work about his private life? So it’s only you and him, marinating in your hatred for each other.

On a typical night, you sleep with your backs to each other, as if the queen-sized bed has a line drawn down the middle, that neither of you are allowed to cross. It must be at least a year since you’ve held hands or exchanged loving glances. Did that ever really happen, anyway? Everything becomes so fuzzy.

You tell him that he’s losing his hair. That he looks paler every day, sicker by the week. Your wife’s intuition knows he must be taking some kind of drugs, but you can’t be bothered to ask him or be concerned enough to tell him to stop. What you don’t see doesn’t affect you, he can turn himself into a junkie, for all you care. He tells you that he doesn’t like that dress. That it makes you look too sweet and homely, like a costume. He tells you that the casserole was undercooked or you left the house a mess. He tells you that you talk too much. So you talk more. Constantly butting heads, like angry bulls, horns clashing and catching and pushing back against each other.

Real care and affection is completely void from your relationship. There is no semblance of romance, and you’re at peace with that. You would be a fool to try and convince yourself that any of that was left.

That isn’t to say that your marriage with Hendrick is void of sex.

Resentment for each other may have been the greatest possible thing for your relationship. While it would be childish to assume any love would come back, disgust and anger are strong emotions, too. They ignite passion in a different way. The fury you feel for each other can result in outbursts of many natures. Sometimes, you break a dish in the kitchen. Sometimes, he raises his voice at you and scolds you. Sometimes, you lock him out of the house. Sometimes, he gives you the ultimate silent treatment, leaves the house early while you’re still sleeping and gets home late when you’ve gone to bed.

But sometimes, the fact that you’re a young, isolated woman with needs left unattended fuels you, too. And there’s only your husband to take that out on. You weren’t aroused by the thought of sticking it to someone before. By the thought of asserting your dominance over someone. Degrading someone, hurting someone. But now, when sexuality boils inside of you, you find that’s all you want to do. Whatever line there is between indulgent lust and blinding violence is blurred when you reach your peak and you look at him.

It doesn’t start as something that happens directly in the heat of the moment. At first, it simmers in silence. You have a rough argument and Hendrick feels satisfied that you’re going to bed with a lump in your throat. He thinks that he’s winning. That he’s got the better of you here. But then, he’ll wake up in the middle of the night to the feeling of you on top of him. It’s pitch black, he can’t see a thing, he just feels your thighs on either side of his hips. He groans, he’s all dazed. He drowsily reaches to flick the lamplight on the nightstand next to the bed on, but you catch his wrist quicker than he can realize, pressing his hand down into the pillow beside his head with a grunt. “Stop that, Hendrick. I don’t want to look at you.” you tell him, and he audibly grimaces, but that sound is cut off with a broken moan as you grind your hips down into him. You can’t stand to look at him, he disgusts you, but you need the release. It’s dehumanizing when you use him like that, and it frustrates him, truly, but he’s powerless to his own arousal to stop you. He lays underneath you and writhes and finishes fast. He gets angry with you when you laugh at that if his brain isn’t cloudy enough to make it go unnoticed. But there’s no time to scold you when you keep going.

At his age, with his disposition, and his health, he has trouble keeping up with your virile nature. He finds it peculiar of a woman. He might call you a whore if he’s feeling catty enough, the word at least crosses his mind. It gets to a point where he finds himself more exhausted at work than normal some days, because you kept him up the entire night before. He has a harder time dealing with people on mornings like that. And damn you if you leave any visible marks on him. He’d want to put a knife in your gut for making the Murkoff doctors look at him funny. It would humiliate him to try and put a little makeup on anything to cover up.

A way that he subtly tries to get back at you is smoking. Smoking even more than normal. One of those nights where you pounce on him, you say as you smother his mouth with yours, “I told you to stop smoking those things… your mouth, it’s like an ashtray, it’s disgusting—“ and then you pulled back and you spit the taste out. Hendrick is lucky you didn’t spit right in his sorry old face. He's acutely aware of the fact that you don’t like this habit of his. That next day, when he kicks back in an office chair, more tired from acting like he isn’t still feeling the effects of your sex in front of his colleagues than usual, he’ll flick open his lighter and ignite his cigarette with a pleased chuckle to himself. Even if he doesn’t do it directly in the moment, he always wants to get his lick back. To prod at you and poke at you and pester you.

God forbid you catch him smoking in the house. You smell the smoke before you see him, radiating from the kitchen. When you enter the room, he’s standing over the table in the connecting dining room, chair pushed to the side to stand at the head of it. A couple papers are spread across the wooden surface, and his hands are on his hips pensively, rolled up sleeves and a loosened tie that show how focused he is. Mulling something over with a cigarette perched between his lips. You never give him the time of day when he brings it into your home. He is so intent on pondering his work that he doesn’t even hear you fast approaching until you speak, “How many times do I have to tell you to keep these out of the house?!” offense prevalent in your tone. If he has a split second to reply, he will huff at you for nagging, but as soon as you’re close enough, you snatch the cigarette from between his lips with your thumb and pointer, grab one of his forearms harshly to keep it in place, and dig the lit end of it into his pale and slightly spotted skin.

It would hurt. It would burn bad. He would hiss, he would gasp, he would curse. The sensation and the pain makes him writhe— but it sends a lightning strike to his cock, too, Lord help him, his brain is filled with sickly arousal almost immediately. He wishes it weren’t so, but it is, and he knows it is too. No denying it to himself.

Once you’ve seen the amount of time you’ve singed his skin fit, you’ll release his arm, flick the worn out bud into the sink behind the both of you, and continue to scold him as you walk him backwards, trapping him against the counter and grabbing his erection through his slacks too hard. You get all up in his face and ask if he really thought you’d let him disrespect you so blatantly like that, tell him that those things will kill him (if neither of you does it first), as you palm his dick rough, and make his thin lips wither and his wispy eyebrows furrow. It’ll end with you making him get down on his knees, getting him to eat you out right there, between the kitchen counter and drawers with nowhere to go but to keep his head underneath the frock of your skirt. You grab at what’s left of his hair because you know he’s sensitive about that. “Not a lot to hold onto.” you might say as his face is buried between your thighs.

Not before you make him clean out his mouth, of course. There’s no way you want that sick, nicotine filled, pollutant saliva covering your cunt if it doesn’t have to. You fill a glass with water from the sink behind him and make him drink it, and make him spit some out. It’s no mouthwash but it’ll have to do— the mouthwash you passive aggressively left on his bathroom shelf for him without a word hardly works anyways.

You largely end up in the dominant position in these cases. That isn’t to say there’s never nights where he isn’t passion fueled enough to fuck you. If there’s a day at work where he feels particularly undermined at the facility, and he comes home and you look at him the wrong way or say the wrong thing, he might get overwhelmed and bark at you, and tug you by your waist so he can push your frontside down against the closest surface and flip up your dress and have his way with you. Sometimes he knots his fingers into the hair on the back of your head and keeps your face pressed into the hardwood so he doesn’t have to see you. Just like you refuse to turn the light on in the middle of the night. He goes on some rant, one of those long speeches he likes to do, the ones that sound like he thinks he’s a God being betrayed by his apostles. In any other context you’d roll your eyes and imply that it’s pathetic, but in this context, you can only grasp at the sides of the table for leverage and moan and try to keep breathing steady.

He’s not one to spank you or anything but he loves to grab at you unnecessarily. You’ll still feel how his weak hands use all of their might to grip at your hips and squeeze your backside the next morning. When you’re changing into your clothes for the day, every now and again, your skin is still red. You’re particularly upset with him that day. He’s particularly pleased. And he’ll pull your hair back. His insecurities really shine even when he’s dominating you as he makes your scalp burn and asks “How do you like it?”

A good way to gain the upper hand again if you’re feeling down is to choke him out with his tie. That’s one of your favourite activities. Visit him at the facility unexpectedly to really undermine him more, because he’s told you that you’re not supposed to do that, but you do anyway. Push him back into his office chair and mount his lap. Leave the door cracked so that someone could walk by and sneak a peek or hear. Say to him “You make me sick.” while perched on him, pulling his tie tighter and tiiiiighter, so that he asphyxiates and his hands wring out against the arms of the seat, and his face scrunches up in madness, but his jaw is slack with ecstasy and he’s hard, he’s SO hard, even though by all accounts, that should be quite the feat.

Say to him again “You make me sick, Hendrick—“ say to him “I understand your mother.”

Mess with his head like he does to the Reagents. Your marriage isn’t a love affair, but a game of mental war and furious sexuality.

[sc4letta]

Pls tag fem reader 💔💔 ur easterman post was so so yummy tho

sorry about that! got used to posting on archive of our own where you can tag like f/m off the bat so i forgot. just added that to the tags!!

and thank you :)! i’m glad you enjoyed.

[sc4letta]

holy mother - dr. easterman.🕷️

relationship: hendrick joliet easterman/reader.

tags: afab/fem!reader, explicit sexual content, submissive!easterman, dry humping, shoe kink/boot worship, mommy issues, power imbalance, non-penetrative sex, oedipal issues, groping, doctor/patient, praise, self-degradation, guilt.

posted this on archive of our own initially as it is my preferred platform, but i know that outlast is super popular on tumblr so i’m coming back to post this. i want to write for outlast more, so feel free to request something if you like :) enjoy!

In a way he resents you for it— for holding this kind of power over him. He should be able to keep his head above water, to not falter before anyone. Especially not someone so much lower than him, as you are. He curses you when he’s finished with you and he grinds himself out even more— and that’s why he takes it out on you at all, really— because of the upset he feels with himself. It’s easy to direct towards you when he’s in the position of power.

But he crawls back to this every time without fail. It’s happened multiple times, you’re not sure how, but it has. Easterman kneels before you, knees almost pained from being pressed up against the hard floor, his two arms looped around your backside as he holds his face to your stomach— his breathing his unsteady and there’s a shake to his shoulders, and his head shifts to rest closer to your womb than just your abdomen. His skull practically nuzzles into the area, and you can feel how tense he is when you place your hands tentatively, softly, on his shoulders. His response is nearly immediate; he doesn’t dare pull back, but he does mutter in a gruff tone, “Stop. Don’t touch me.”

You retract your hands fast. “I’m sorry, Dr. Easterman.” you apologize, hands hanging at your sides again, tone somewhat despondent. That makes the doctor grunt, but he brushes it off, cheek staying on your front and savouring the warmth. The room falls silent as he just embraces you, keeps himself close, as if he’s trying to physically meld his body with your own. Like he’s trying to enter in, take shelter inside of you, be one with you. You feel his mouth pull open against your clothed womb, and one of his hands that was flattened against your backside comes to squeeze at your hip like he’s looking for some grace.

“I—“ he stutters. You hardly hear him stutter. He takes a sharp breath, and keeps his eyes downcast, not meeting your gaze as he makes his next request, “I’ve changed my mind. Touch me. My head. You can hold my head.” his next demand, rather. You can means that you will.

You will do what he says, just what he has been conditioning you for. He could truly force you to do this if he wanted to, he’s more than capable of it, and he’s not above it. In a second, he could have doctors in here injecting you or gassing you with whatever drug he sees fit to put your mind at ease and make you malleable. But he hasn’t done that. You’re entirely conscious of your actions, which is almost staggering, knowing you’re above Dr. Easterman in this moment. He called on you for this, it isn’t as if you could have backed away, turned it down, but he’s trusted you enough to be you.

When your hands lift again, they tentatively place against his head. The hair pattered scarcer by the day on his skull feels thin under your fingers as you card the ends through it. You’ve not even been touching him for a second before he’s moaning again, and you can feel him try to get closer to you again, an impossible task, except for his bottom half, which moves forward, and he rests his crotch over the heel of your shoe.

“Yes, yes—“ he heaves. You know that he’s hard. If you couldn’t feel it against you, you’d be able to hear it in his tone. “You’ve been so responsive to the therapy. The shining example of what Murkoff wants, of what I want. Watching you, it’s…” he sucks in a breath, as your fingernails scratch against what they can find of a scalp on his head, “god, it’s an inspiration. You almost put me to shame. Christ.”

The own drugs lingering in his system make him sing your praises like this. It’s normal for him to shower you with his affection, a father’s love, he would say, but demeaning himself because of you is certainly not something he’d do in his right mind.

“I love you.” he mutters it at first, “You are what I’ve been missing… my research, this facility… I’ve needed you, you’re…” with a deep inhale, he pulls you in by your hips, “you are perfection.” you can’t see it from where you’re looking, but he’s left saliva soaked into the fabric of your garbs. He drools, subconsciously. Later on, he’ll curse himself for being so messy. When he gets up, clarity will hit him. He will hate himself for slobbering on you like an untrained mutt when his brain works again.

You shift on your feet and dig your heel into his clothed cock without realizing. Easterman chases the feeling. “Again.” he commands you, and he bucks against your foot. You don’t realize what he means at first. “Again!” he nearly snaps at you and your heart jumps. You catch on with his movements, and pet him more as you twist your ankle, pushing at his erection. The grown man shivers, a palm making its way to your backside and groping you, like he’s using it to ground himself. He needs the leverage. Something can’t help but stir in the pit of your stomach at the touch.

Just softly, you scratch behind his ear, and his head rolls back because of it. You’re greeted with his face for the first time since just before his kneecaps hit the floor with a thud mere minutes ago. His eyes are screwed shut and crow’s feet wrinkle around the edges of them, his lips are slick and you could swear they quiver, his typical pale skin is tinted pink from the situation. He’s fucked you before but you’ve never seen him like this. You feel a wave of something flood over you. You can’t tell if it’s only exhilaration from the dominance you have over the doctor in the moment or if it’s plain, guilty, against your better judgment arousal. Perhaps a mix of both.

“Tell me I’m helping you. Tell me I’m your everything.” he instructs, only after making eye contact for a moment. You see a flash of needing to regain control in his eyes, that’s why he commands you. You swallow thickly and cradle him as you speak. “You’re helping me. You’re my everything.”

He shakes his head, and scoffs, and rucks his crotch against you harder, like that wasn’t enough and he needs more. He has to compensate for the arousal you just took from him with the simplicity of your words. “That’s not enough. Just repetition, just the bare minimum, you wouldn’t— tell me like you mean it. Make me believe you. Make me believe the truth.” he scolds, frustration evident.

“I do mean it.” you start, “I’m— I— I’m a better person because of the therapy. Because of you. You’re making me better. I’m better every day because you’re guiding me.” you’re just rambling, saying what you think he wants to hear, but it’s working. His whole body shakes. He nods like he’s urging you to continue. You swear his teeth nip at the cloth of your shirt, like he’s teething and he means to sink his teeth into you. “I do everything for you. You, you’re… you’re all I have, I wouldn’t ask for anything different, I just, I…” you trail off and you can feel how his hips stutter, but his moans increase, low and almost contained, like he doesn’t want to admit to them.

“I love you, Dr. Easterman—“ “— no— don’t— you wouldn’t call me that, to you, I—“ “Hendrick. I love you, Hendrick.” it might not be the safest bet to jump the gun but you do. His first name. You’re not sure you’ve even said it out loud before. You wager he’d feel it was a disrespect. But this time, when it rolls off of your tongue, he nearly cries. You figured it was what he wanted to hear, needed to hear in order to get off, from the strain in his voice. You bring him into your embrace, fostering him in your solitude, and you repeat it again. “Hendrick…”

“More. More.” he’s close, you can hear it. You laud him with more pretty words. “Before you, I had no purpose, you…” he ruts and he ruts and he ruts, “you give me meaning. Everything, it’s because of you, it’s for you… you—“ his sinewy fingers find the back of your thigh, grasping at the plush of it, forehead against your womb, “because of you, I’m reborn—“

“Fuck— yes, reborn— I wish you— I wish I—“ he finished with a heavy moan, a string of curses, and heaving and panting. He’s become a shell of a man at your feet as he keeps trying to hump against the material of your shoe. His eyes are wired closed as his orgasm crushes over him, but when they open as he’s coming down, he can see a darker spot on the seat of his pants from his cum. You rock him through it. You hush him with more nurturing words that he hardly computes. His hands stroke at your sides as he’s hit by the aftershocks.

They roam upwards and push at your breast just momentarily. He feels their fullness and huffs. He sounds relieved. Finally satisfied after being so needy.

Easterman comes back down to the real world. He feels wrong. He looks at the seed staining his pants and his face begins to twist into something sour. With his face still downcast, you can’t see it, all you feel is him still shivering. You assume he’s not fully finished. You open your mouth to speak and placate him again. “Hendrick—“

“Stop. Holy mother, stop.” he says the words with vitriol. He stands. His eyes roll over you. Your wrinkled clothing and how he’s disheveled you. He’s disgusted. “Get out. Go back to the Sleep Room.”

You can’t just go yourself. You have to be brought back, escorted. You want to tell him that as he just stands there fuming, and waits for you to leave without realizing. But you don’t dare to correct him either. “Cretin, I told you, get out—“ only then does he realize his mistake when your eyes flicker to the phone atop his desk, and he presses a button harshly with a grunt, connecting him to the workers outside.

“Come fetch her. Get her out of here.” he’s holding eye contact with you in a glare, “She’s ready for her next session. Prepare the trial.”

[sc4letta]

somebody had requested a masterlist but i lost my draft as a response for it, so i’m gonna write it out here and hope they say it. these are my main interests and what characters i’ll write for, there are still tons of things not mentioned i’ll write for (such as, i’ll still write for ahs and gotham.)

i primarily write smut now, which is why i post on ao3 more, but i’ll still write sweet stuff, sad stuff, etc.

DEXTER

- dexter morgan

- debra morgan

- joey quinn

- angel batista

- rita bennett

- brian moser

- miguel prado

- travis marshall

- oliver saxon

PENNY DREADFUL

- ethan chandler

- vanessa ives

- sir malcolm murray

- dorian gray

- victor frankenstein

- brona croft

i’ve only seen up to the end of s1 so far, but i will write for dracula and jekyll in the future <3

PREACHER

- jesse custer

- tulip o’hare

- proinsias cassidy

- eccarius

- jesus

AMERICAN GODS

- shadow moon

- laura moon

- mad sweeney

- bilquis

- mr world

- tech boy

- mr wednesday

STAR WARS

- originals (han solo, luke skywalker, leia organa, boba fett, lando calrissian, darth vader)

- prequels (anakin skywalker, obi-wan kenobi, padmé amidala, bail organa)

- sequels (finn, poe dameron, general hux, rey skywalker, han solo, d.j.)

- stand-alones (cassian andor, bodhi rook, han solo, lando calrissian)

- shows (din djarin, cobb vanth, cassian andor, syril karn, obi-wan kenobi)

HORROR

for these ones there’s too many characters i’d write for to list off, so just request someone and see if i’ll write them. if not i’ll tell you.

- the scream films

- the final destination films

- the evil dead films/ash vs evil dead

- interview with the vampire (1994/2022)

- fright night (2011)

- twin peaks

- the mike flanagan-verse

HBO SHOWS

same deal as horror, rq someone and i’ll let you know

- true blood

- boardwalk empire

- six feet under

- the righteous gemstones

- band of brothers

- the sopranos

- succession

- veep

- true detective (only seen s1 so far)

MISCELLANEOUS

- anything i’ve written for previously

- sons of anarchy

- the magic mike films

- you (tv show)

- the top gun films

- scoot mcnairy characters

- mozart in the jungle

- ray donovan

- workaholics

i’m sure i’m forgetting some things, but here you go !! <3 rq and i’ll get to it. some things i might post on my ao3, ianmckinley.

[sc4letta]

hi, I was wondering if you still did requests for DC's Legends of Tomorrow even though the series was canceled. And did you know that Gotham moved to HBO max after it left netflix!

i’ll still take legends of tomorrow requests for sure! sucks that it got cancelled but of course i’ll still write for it :)

and yes gotham getting moved to hbo was great !

[sc4letta]

Aw no more gotham? Rats

i still like gotham ! i'm more than open to writing about it and there's a chance i could post about it on here, i just haven't written anything for it recently. feel free to ask :)

[sc4letta]

still alive just on ao3 a lot more than tumblr.

my ao3 is ianmckinley if you’re interested!

i’ve written about horror movies, dexter, the boys, twin peaks, star wars and boardwalk empire.

i might come back here but there’s less restriction on ao3 and i just prefer it for posting my fan fiction ! i’m not sure how many people here really care but just in case <3

[sc4letta]

Do you still write for Santa clarita diet?

hi !!! yes i do !! im not very productive with writing for tumblr right now BUT . i will take requests and try to get them done !!!

[sc4letta]

didnt even realize last time i posted on this account was in like MARCH???? im still alive everyone hello !! i have some requests that i am gonna try to write but i also wanna say that i have the most energy to write stuff about horror movie characters right now 😭😭. BUT i am trying to get around to requests so !!! please know that !!!

also i’m really into twin peaks right now so if anyone has a request for dale, audrey, bobby, truman, donna, josie, shelly, denise, and some other characters i’m probably forgetting rn please send them my way....

[sc4letta]

hi, I wanted to request something but my favorite character from Dc's legends of tomorrow isn't on the list!

hey !! which character would you like to request?  maybe i forgot to add someone to the list (im watching the show out of order honestly so everything gets a little jumbled up), so feel free to inbox me again and ill tell you if i’ll write for the character !!