#easterman

This is structured like one of his crash outs, in my opinion:

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 wasn’t helping like it normally did— he was so used to giving himself enough pain to drown out every other stressor. It was like overnight he wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t a crier; But damn, he was thinking about it. Anything to feel some semblance of peace— 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t 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 off— the only time he remembered touching his otherwise stiff cock was with Irene.

After the divorce he really hadn’t bothered.

He looked at his left arm, watching some of the wounds begin to stop producing blood. It was disgusting— something only a degenerate would do. That thought oddly.. aroused the man.

His right hand reached forward, pressing his palm to the other’s 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 must’ve 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 desk— onto his slacks— painting the fabric in loose drops. His left arm throbbed lightly as he sighed, rubbing his temples with the hand that wasn’t completely filthy.

What a mess.

This as a rebirth metaphor. Femsterman bloody and (almost) naked, but this time serving. In her prime.

Like, "hol up, guys I need to experience ego death at a gas station and take my fate into my own hands once more. I'm going to deal with Amelia later". And then she used dark occult sex magic and estrogen and evil murkoff surgeries to transition.

And no longer held back by a BIGGER HALF of her mental issues, she can face Amelia in her absolute prime.

THINK OF THE TOPICS TO COVER TOO!! THINK OF THEM!

Femsterman is not automatically a good person because of her transition(no "isn't she lovely" in this house!!!!!), BUT she might rethink her worldview 360. Because she'd face the misogyny she actively used to endorse.

Like: "I'm still the same person! I'm a professional, look at my PHDs!! And you treat my achievements as less worthy just because I'm a woman now? This is stupid! Wait..."

Also, think of how it would make Femsterman even more dependent on Murkoff. As for expample, Wernicke gets to live a better life with a whole-ass electric wheelchair, but without Murkoff he'd probably not have even that. He's technically free to go, but that way he'd lose vital medical care.

Same for Femsterman. I'm sure you can get hrt, surgeries, full social transition, including paperwork, to the point of rewritting history, if you're working for CIA and Murkoff. (like, making everyone think Dr.Easterman was always a cis woman, changing her birth certificate even. Re-writting her backstory, as if she had to write her works under a male pen name "Hendrick Easterman", because of misogyny in society.) Murkoff would offer her safety and medical care for "free"(in exchange for life-long loyality to them).