here to say please write that easterman fic iāll be very grateful
Dead dove: depictions/description of SH
Tags: Easterman, improper use of blood, Hendrick Joliet Easterman, Short fic, collab, errors likely, not proof read
COLLAB BETWEEN ME AND MY GF @thefreakymonster
The blade slid across his pale skin. The beads of blood that pooled on the surface did little to comfort him like they usually did. It made his hand subconsciously pass the blade over a little deeper time. Blood, which was usually just thin streams or bubbles on the surface, quickly turned into dark, syrupy rivers sliding onto his lap.
Hendrick threw the blade on the dark wood of his desk, ignoring the door quaint skipping blood patterns across various paperwork as he did. It wasnāt helping like it normally didā he was so used to giving himself enough pain to drown out every other stressor. It was like overnight he wasnāt good enough.
He wasnāt a crier; But damn, he was thinking about it. Anything to feel some semblance of peaceā whether it be for a few minutes or day. He just needed something.
Closing his eyes and dropping his head, Hendrick tried to focus on the pain in his left arm. When he had first cut himself it seemed like it was burning, aching, like he was subjecting himself to the horrors he subjected the Reagents too.
Overtime the constant agony dulled into something like a close friend. When he exposed it to the air all he felt was the cold. When he put over his shirt he didnāt mind the ache the fabric gave the wounds.
Hendrick opened his eyes, feeling an unfamiliar burn behind eyes. His lips curled against his teeth in a way to tense his features to stop the burn.
The blood had began to drip down his forearm, some drops landing on the leather of his chair or the growing stain on the carpet beneath his desk. Some landed on his thighs, occasionally sliding down to his chair again.
Others landed on the seam of his slacks. He almost flinched at the color of the blood in contrast to the silver buttons. His fingers moved from their resting position to trail over the silver; rubbing his fingers together, he almost awed at the feeling of it between his digits.
A grotesque thought came next. He hadnāt touched his cock in.. hell. He was almost tempted to think years. It was only ever used to piss or mock him in its size.
Both of his fingers worked deftly to unbutton his slacks, working them down his knees shortly thereafter. Looking down at his limp dick, it was humiliating in its own right.
Hendrick had never been good at getting himself up. Men nor women would get his rocks offā the only time he remembered touching his otherwise stiff cock was with Irene.
After the divorce he really hadnāt bothered.
He looked at his left arm, watching some of the wounds begin to stop producing blood. It was disgustingā something only a degenerate would do. That thought oddly.. aroused the man.
His right hand reached forward, pressing his palm to the otherās wrist. Hendrick slid his palm down his arm, almost scooping up the crimson in his hand.
Hendrick was hesitant to touch himself. Not only was he flaccid, just thinking about doing it was sending waves of emotions over his body. Mostly embarrassment, humiliation, and anger.
His fingers barely touched his tip, trailing them down to the thinning tufts at the base. A shudder wracked his body at the sight of the dark crimson over the white. Wrapping his hands around the tip, he gave it a few sharp tugs, hissing slightly at the slick sounds of blood on skin.
His head fell back against his chair, his throat thick with pin pricks as his hand cupped more firmly around his length, jerking his slowly growing cock, watching the blood paint it in smooth, easy, strokes.
He made a sound- a sound that mustāve been a groan- but came out a strangled cry; like a wounded animal, some mangy, deranged, stray. That thought alone had him dribbling more pre onto his palm, cum mixing with sweet, slick, crimson.
His mind went fuzzy; a haze of cotton and Vauge awareness. His hand moved faster now, making vile noises the filled the space of his office and reminded him just how filthy he was. He came with a hoarse sound, spurting onto his deskā onto his slacksā painting the fabric in loose drops. His left arm throbbed lightly as he sighed, rubbing his temples with the hand that wasnāt completely filthy.
Hey guys this will be posted on AO3 soon š« Idk Iām not a writer sorry I had the idea and I got halfway through and had to ask my girlfriend for help. SHE actually went to a writing workshop/camp/school for a while so she is a WAY better writer than I am!! Please go follow her.
