Devotion
Priest!Easterman AU. Father Easterman has filled a vacancy in the clergy, and despite your distrust, he's convinced he can sway you to his side.
pairing: easterman x reader (afab, gn pronouns) wc: 2.3k warnings: priest kink, canon typical violence, abuse/harm, temperature play, injury, blood and blood drinking, oral sex, masturbation, penetration notes: big preesh to @westerlandgotnuked for requesting this au . it's something that i had been meaning to write but never brought to fruition. anyways, i literally thought of the plot of this at like, 5am and then wrote it all out as soon as i could lol. link: ao3
When Father Matthews retired last winter due to his failing health, the congregation waited with bated breath to see who would lead their convent. The replacement first showed his face a day before the winter solstice, all smiles and honeyed words. Everyone had welcomed Father Easterman with open hearts and minds, hearing nothing but praise from his peers out east.
Everyone except you.
Your intuition was better than most, stomach tightening with uncertainty the moment he took your hand and shook it. Your brothers and sisters treated him like an apostle from then on, unquestioning the vast changes he made to the church. Though you remained wary, disobeying his wishes would be to go against the very cloth you wore. So, you followed orders, nodded when he spoke, moved at his will—even when your soul cried for direction and forgiveness from God. The church was soon sculpted to Easterman’s liking, and it was hard to deny the impact he made. Every week, a few more worshippers filled the pews, till the church was filled every Sunday by the time February rolled by. It was unprecedented, the way in which he stood before the mass and laid down his creed with such conviction that it left no choice but for anyone that listened to believe his word as truth. It was as if he could peer into your very spirit and dissect the woven threads of who you were: your fears, your dreams, your sins. Nothing could remain sheltered from him.
Tried as you did, he knew of your skepticism. The first week of his arrival, he could smell the defiance in your blood, the refusal to bow to the unknown; he made it his mission to change that. You didn’t notice at first, the way silver eyes would linger on you during instruction. How that gilded tongue would preach words meant only for you to a nave full of followers. As the weeks went by and the snow softened outside, your guard lowered as you accepted the normalcy of your new routines. Father Easterman had shown no malice or threat to you in the time of his stay, and you had convinced yourself that the gut feeling you felt prior was a blunder, a misjudgement in the wake of change.
It was the second week of March when the tides changed.
The lingering stares and increasing excuses to corner you amounted to hands too low on your back, whispers too close to your ear. By the time he had lured you to one of the studies, with the promise of dedicated and personal lecture, you didn't even fight the fingers that slid up your legs. It was so sudden, so erroneous, that your brain failed to comprehend an alternative. To disobey was to defy the will of God, but to succumb was an invitation of sin. The dilemma kept you awake with the moon for the next several evenings, unable to shake the memory of how he filled your body with sensations too divine to call unholy. It rattled you to your core, to the point of doubling down on prayer to scrub away the experiences.
So when he summoned you to the sacristy early Wednesday morning, you obeyed. Instead of slipping on the chasuble for mass, Father Easterman had dropped his trousers and burrowed himself in your warmth. The old wooden table rattled as his hips rutted into your hole with harbored pants, blunt nails imprinting on the back of your thighs for purchase to keep your legs spread.
“Oh, the clarity that the flesh brings,” Easterman moans, hazy eyes looking over his nose at your mewling form. “How could I abandon this? This feeling of wholeness, of completion—when you're so willing to serve and kneel. My little lamb, so helpless…yearning for guidance.”
Father Easterman pulled out before orgasm could shake either of you, a plea in the shape of a moan falling from your mouth. A laugh makes a toothy smile spread on his face, warmed by the complicity of your desire. As he runs a hand down your leg soothingly, palming your ass, he leans forward to peer down at you properly.
“Desperation can lead even the weakest of followers to do even the most difficult of challenges. So eager to find meaning in absolution.”
“Father, the service. We don't have time for–,” you begin to protest weakly, lifting your head to sit up. His other hand whips out to shove you back down to the table, a loud, disapproving puff exhaling from his nose.
“I’m not done.”
Gray eyes seemed to dim to a charcoal as he stared you down, demanding obedience without words. A wave of fear spiked your heartrate, and you obeyed, lying back down. The room went dead silent for a few breaths before you saw the muscles in his face relax, the violent streak in his glare receding back. Father Easterman sighed quietly and pulled his hand from your chest, running it over his mouth in thought. “Even the sweetest of disciples falter occasionally. I won’t hold this against you. Though, perhaps a lesson in contrition would do you well.”
His eyes slip away from you to a candle at the end of the table, reaching to grab the chamberstick with prudence for the tears of wax. He held it up, focused on the flame as it danced on the wick, before he waved a hand through it. The warmth licked his skin in a way that reminded him of his mortality, making his palm sweat from the heat and sting from the threat of danger.
“Such fragile things, aren't we? Most shy away from the unpleasant, when Jesus welcomed pain as a display of love and fortitude,” Easterman’s words came out gentle and unhurried, as if speaking to a troubled child. He returned his hand to the candle to watch his skin redden till he dropped it away. The same hand went back to you, thumb brushing over the neglected, slicked hole he had abandoned, and you can see a flicker of something akin to fondness spark on his face as he observes your squirming—captivated and deceivingly tender.
“And what will you do, my child? How will you respond in the face of peril?”
Before you can respond, the receptors between your thighs switch from a pleasant buzz to the wails of hurt. A choked squeal makes you jerk on the table, trying to wiggle away, only to be pressed into place by his hand again. His other, still in possession of the candle, held the flame to your sex, watching it swell and blush from the heat. The smell of burnt hair and warmed flesh tinged the air, only making Father Easterman smile and lean in closer to observe the defilement. Pain racked the lower half of your body, hips jumping on the table to get away with little success.
“‘The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears, and delivers them out of all their troubles. The Lord is near to those who have a broken heart, and saves such as have a contrite spirit’,” he quotes amongst the chimes of your screams, flitting his eyes up to your distressed face. “You know the book of Psalms well, don’t you?”
The flame sweltered against your flesh, making the skin break and begin to blister. A few more seconds and Easterman finally retracted the chamberstick, setting it back down on the table. Pain makes your vision swim, the scent of your own suffering luring bile up your esophagus before you can swallow it back down. You could feel the lingering sting of the burn radiate down to your knees, an ache that made tears stream steadily down the sides of your face.
“No more…Please, Father, no–, it hurts,” you mumble out the merciful words as trembling fingers reach out for him, contradicting the way you inched away from him.
Father Easterman catches your hand in his without pause, holding them close and tight as he steps closer. He bows his head to kiss the fingers in place of a spoken apology before he clutches it to his chest. “I’m here, shhh. Feel it through, honey. Surrender to the will of God, and let me lead you. Don’t turn away from it, from me.”
His free hand wipes tears from your face with the utmost gentleness, the warmth of his hand like the sun on a summer’s day and not the scorch of the flame from before. Your head leans into the touch with a lame sob, wet lashes clumping together as you close your eyes to try and breathe through the pain. Pulling away, his hand disappears between your bodies, and you whimper at the brush of his knuckles against your injured sex. The slick sounds of him stroking himself mingled with your sniffles, his eyes getting that hazy look in them once more as he observed your features. Easterman didn’t bother to contain the moans of pleasure that parted his mouth, lids growing heavy as sought relief from the throes of denial.
It didn’t take long for him to cum, off-white globs of sacred seed spilling onto his hands and between your legs. Unholy curses are muttered under his breath as he just his hips into his closed palm to chase the high, the sweat from his brow dripping onto your cheek. As his vision centers, Father Easterman leans back to examine the excrement, dragging a finger through the mess. His gaze flits to your ruined face before back down to your soiled folds, proceeding to smear his cum into the flesh like a healing salve. The sperm mixed with your slick and the plasma that leaked from the burns, creating a lustful concoction of fluids. His fingers rub into you, alternating between circles and strokes til your bud perked back up and he was able to coax that patiently awaited climax from you. Easterman ignored your moans as he watched the sticky release weep from your cunt, slow strings of the mess dripping down and onto the table.
“Like the sap of a maple in spring,” He mused softly, slowly squatting to be face-level with your flesh. “What sweetness you’ve bore for me. And you tried to shove me away, to beg God for salvation—when I have offered it to you with no expectations in return.”
Your legs shake on the table as his mouth busies itself with slurping up the tangy concoction, his gluttonous streak showing through. He exhales against you as he catches his breath, slithering away with a gleam of pride. Large hands smooth over the skin of your thighs once more to soothe their tremble. After yanking up his pants to conceal his now flaccid member, he produces a rosary from his pocket, seemingly contemplating something as he turns the beads in his fingers. He only looks back up when you push yourself up, brushing down frazzled strands of hair, your gaze already on him. Instead of helping to dress you, he steps to stand between your dangling legs, an eerie silence blanketing over the two of you as he loses himself in his thoughts.
This wasn’t unusual, though most overlooked the contemplative tendencies of the priest. There were moments where you could see him disappear within, scouring the etched walls of his mind for something he couldn’t find as his eyes glassed over and was consumed by uncharacteristic reticence. The tension became too much and you opened your mouth to break it, only to be beaten to the punch by him.
“Don’t you want me?”
The question makes you scrunch your brow in confusion, head cocking at him. “What? What’re you talking about?”
“You look at me like you can’t wait to leave. This…this uncertainty, this lack of faith, has a way of taking over even the strongest of spirits,” Easterman’s eyes danced back and forth between yours, searching for total honesty even after you’ve already bared yourself to his whims. The sudden shift in confidence left you confused, though it reminded you of that initial feeling of wariness you had felt when meeting him, as if you had had a premonition of the smoke and mirrors that concealed his soft innards.
“Father,” you lift a hand to brush the one holding the rosary. “You doubt me? Despite my devotion to you and your cause?”
Instead of answering, Father Easterman stands frightening still, eyes boring into you. With a sharp inhale, he turns the rosary in his hand till the crucifix is between clammy fingers. He stabs the end into the palm of his other hand, digging the gold cross into his skin and puncturing it. Blood blossomed out of the shallow stab wound and he tightened his hand into a fist, squeezing the wound to draw out more from it with a curled lip.
“‘Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them’.”
The rosary clatters to the hardwood as he moves to cup your face, a wild yet resolute look in stare. Without being told, you knew what he wanted—complete and utter surrender. A part of you recoiled at the thought of tasting blood, but the thrill of the delusional act overpowered the hesitation. You slowly opened your mouth and his own mouth twitched as a smirk of approval grew. The hand on you tilted your head back to accept the communion, his injured hand milking blood from the wound and letting it drip down into your mouth.
