mommy issues, aisle three - based off of a cut voiceline of easterman's about how his mother used to tell him he would've made a pretty girl . much to think about.
pairing: dr. hendrick easterman x reader
wc: 1k
warnings: angst, emotional hurt/no comfort, hook-up sex, penetration, mentions of child abuse
notes: named after the a perfect circle song, also about mothers. can u tell i also have mommy issues.
ao3 link
Memories don’t typically start to form until the two-year mark, when a child has grown enough to understand the concepts around them. However, we’re all born into the world knowing one definitive fact: our mother is our first love, and it was her womb that carried us to term. Wombs are safe—warm membranes that coddle our forming limbs while we stretch and develop. Do babies know that they will soon be ejected from the fleshy walls? Or do they cry when born because they’ve been torn from their sacred home? Easterman couldn’t remember what being an embryo was like–obviously–but he longed for the impervious chamber of his mother’s womb. To be held, to be loved so unconditionally that he could retire his sense of self and simply exist as a shapeless fetus once more.
As he pushed himself deeper into your cunt, he could feel the muscles contract around him, beckoning him closer to the safety beyond your cervix. It both welcomed and mocked him, offering him something he could not physically attain anymore. He shuddered and dropped his jaw with a moan of discontent, yet it sounded no different than his usual utterings to your ear. Feeling the cavity in his chest grow, he hunched down to press a clammy hand down into your abdomen, the added pressure making you squirm with a few slurred words. He didn’t catch them, too focused on trying to palm the warmth of your womb into existence; that if he pressed down hard enough, he’d be able to touch the forbidden chamber within. Easterman was brought back by the touch of your own hands, grasping at his forearms with filed nails for a semblance of an anchor. Eyes flitting to your much smaller hands, he was torn between need and disgust, having half a mind to shake you off but not having the heart to do it.
Hendrick despised that the only way he felt valued as of late was during your sporadic visits. It was supposed to be a one-off thing, a lapse of judgement. He missed Irene, missed hearing his name be moaned rather than screamed at him. So, when you didn’t shrug him off when he went in to kiss you in a moment of weakness, he took it as God giving him a small grace after months of torturous silence from the man upstairs. It snowballed into you showing up every so often, letting him empty himself in you or bury his head between your pillowy thighs just to feel normal again. And though he’d never voice it, it showed in the way he inhaled your perfume, burrow into you like a bear cub seeking warmth from its mother, that he longed for approval just as his reagents did.
As much as he hated the soulless mop of a woman his mother was, he would never deny that he ached for the weight of her arms around him or how he missed the way she’d comb his hair before bed. Plastic prongs gently scraping at his scabbing scalp as he held still for her, letting the comb kiss away the throb of torn follicles whilst his mother recalled aloud how he had his grandmother’s nose. It was private moments like those that convinced him his mother still loved him, despite the incessant abuse. That she would hold him for years to come — even when he started looking more like his drunk of a father and less like the photo of his grandmother on the mantle.
‘Such a pretty girl you could’ve been,’ his mother would coo under her breath, eyes far away as she dried his mousy hair once more with the towel. ‘If only God was kind to me.’
Maybe that’s why Easterman became a shink: to figure out why a mother would say such a thing to her eleven year old son.
He still didn’t know.
Easterman wondered if you’d like him all the same if he was a girl. If he could dawn a pretty dress, like the ones his mother would squeeze him into on slow Saturday afternoons, that you would tell him how pretty he was, how much you liked him. If maybe then, he’d be allowed to wear his heart openly and not feel like a failure of a man when he’d cry upon release. Why was it okay for you to cry when you came, but when he did it, you looked at him like he was a pathetic worm—something better off thrown aside and alone, rather than held and comforted? It was envy he felt towards you, not truly hatred. Envy that you could cry in his arms after a cathartic orgasm, just as you cried when you entered the world, and he was left to wipe away his own tears in the dim light of his office after you left.
He doesn’t realize his body has halted to a stop, unable to finish, until you slide off the desk. Watching you hop around and adjust your clothing, he comes to, tempted to stop you from taking the warmth of your body from him. He didn’t even want to come, he’d tell you—he just wanted to crawl inside you and hibernate in your womb for a while, to hide from the world until he was ready to take shape again. But even the image of cutting into you and floating in embryonic fluids doesn’t rouse him, cock not even remotely hard enough to entice you back for another round. Hendrick hears you say some form of farewell, and he only nods in return, mumbling out a reciprocated reply. As his office door closes, he swears he can see disappointment wrinkle your features, and that hurts the most. It was a look too similar to his mother’s: when she’d finally yank the dress over his head and tell him to leave her sight. She’d thump the back of his head harshly with a hairbrush on his way out, making him feel small and unwanted despite trying to mold himself to her liking—it was never enough.
you have to be real sick in the head to think about easterman whimpering and crying while he’s knelt in front of you, humping your leg to completion, simply grateful you let him touch you at all
He watches as you struggle to sleep. His favourite little lamb. He couldn't have 'joined in' any better time.
Your head was full of his praises, but mostly his lewd comments. "Let daddy fill you up." "Only i love you." His voice vibrates in your brain.
He watches as your hands move under your blanket. He's furious. Aroused but still mad that he cannot get a good view of what perverted things you're doing. Are you caressing your skin? Teasing yourself? Or have you already began to masturbate?
The thing that makes him the happiest though, is that you brought the radio closer to your bed. You press it's button from time to time, whimper and moan as you hear him talk. You're getting off just by hearing him! It warms his heart, and makes his cock throb.
His little lamb loves him. You don't ever want to leave him do you? Not from the way he sees it. He makes sure of it next time you finish a trial, instead of the sleep room, you will be sent straight to his office. Will it be 'cuz of a good or a bad grade? Praise or punishment will be your fate? He's already excited to find out.
He strokes himself through his pants, trying to stay quiet to hear you better. He wishes you would moan louder, like you wouldn't be ashamed to scream his name in the dead of the night.
Your hands gripping the sheet, you hump your pillow. He groans at every little twitch your body makes. You look so desperate.
He imagines you in his lap. You'd look so sweet! If only he could be right next to you, he'd help you. And he knows you'd embrace him, let him take control, let him do whatever he wants to you. He'd fill you up with pleasures you'd never felt before. If only he was there..
His heart almost stops when he hears you quietly moan his name. Even if you can't hear it, he encourages you, he tells you through the screen how good you are being, to keep going, make daddy proud-
Lost in his own babbling he cums. Just right after him, he hears you finally moan louder as you finish. Breathing loudly, sweat covering him, he can't take his eyes off you. As you calm down, you hug your blanket, and drift off. He just hopes, no, he knows you imagined hugging him.
He helped you cum, he helped you fall asleep, and he will keep on helping you. Just you wait.
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