Elliot was certainly Crawford's first love, though they were well aware that the former had taken many lovers before them. He was older than them, more confident and self-assured, conscious of the appeal and allure of his own arrogance. And while they were excited, if not nervous, to recreate just about every scene they'd ever had the displeasure of witnessing in a Hallmark film, they didn't like Elliot enough to hope he was their last love, too. Not yet, at least. Despite their appetite for connection, Crawford did not delude themselves into naivety, and understood that Elliot likely felt the same.
He was still a novelty, really; they'd finally given in and purchased the glimmering snowglobe that caught their attention every so often from behind the store window - it was just a matter of whether or not they thought the snowglobe was tacky in the end. Of course, one can't politely put a man in a cardboard box, tape it up, and take him to the local Goodwill.
Unfortunately, the return policies people had were a bit more punishing.
Elliot knew well that Crawford had never been loved before, even if they hadn't said it to him outright. Between the bewilderment they displayed toward any proximity with them that was closer than what one would tactfully keep with a stranger, and the acute humiliation they failed to hide when trying to interlace their fingers with his, it wasn't particularly hard to tell. He hadn't either, really, unless you counted his many post-war hedonistic indulgences or the occasional man he'd paid or met in an alleyway for a fuck or two, which, he did not. There were some that lingered in his mind here and there, but there was never any time, and they were hardly alive for long enough. The hostile climate didn't allow for many opportunities, either.
Unlike Crawford, however, he did not so obviously crave it. He found that a bit pathetic of them, the helpless romantic that quietly leaves their heart out upon the street, waiting for someone to come and pick it up without putting in the effort required to make a connection. Wide, brown eyes, practically indistinguishable from black, incessantly flickering over his form when they thought he wasn't looking — it would have been flattering had they concealed their worry and suspicion better. Yet, despite their inexperience and neuroticism, they were accessible - pliable, soft, masculinely androgynous, and at least marginally attracted to him.
Occasionally, when he found Crawford particularly draining, perhaps as a reminder of what he was tolerating them for, his mind conjured an image of their muscle, divaricated by his own hand. Elliot pictures the many layers visible in the meat - the skin, the dermis, the yellow sticky fat of the subcutaneous tissue, the fibrous muscle. He sees them clutching at their wounds on the bed, eyes slick with tears. Arousal ensues, but so too does guilt.
Romance fit them both very poorly, like unflattering and constricting fabric. They had stiffly agreed one night, next to the Seine, to try anyway.
Crawford shifts uncomfortably, sitting on the floor in front of the window at Elliot's flat. He had extended an awkward invitation they were too timid to deny. Elliot sits on his mattress and thumbs through a book picked up earlier that day that he hoped would be more interesting.
"You can see the Eiffel Tower from here."
"What was that?", Elliot asks automatically for clarification, looking at Crawford overtop delicate rectangular frames that made him look rather smart.
"Oh", Crawford reddens, turning quickly to face him, "I just said you can see the Eiffel Tower from here."
"But you already know that. It's just - a really pretty view. You're lucky," they quickly add.
Elliot laughs at that, folding the top corner of the page he'd stopped on as a bookmark.
"I'm lucky?"
Crawford didn't know all of it, yet. No one had elected to tell them the disconcerting details of the prior position he had in hell, but he was sure that if any of his associates found out they were seeing each other, they would demand that he did, or would perhaps do so themselves.
They eye him quietly. "Maybe not. If you really were lucky, you'd have a bedframe."
Elliot laughs through his nose and leans against the wall in his undershirt. His book sits face down on his crossed legs, and his glasses slowly begin to slip off of his face. He looks very pretty like this.
He reaches a hand up to remove his glasses.
"Hey - don't."
Elliot freezes, curious. He adjusts his glasses, placing them rightly on his nose, if not putting them away. His eyebrows twitch, a wordless inquiry.
Crawford uncrosses their legs and shuffles a few feet on their hands and knees to be next to him. The position allows them about a head's worth of leverage, and they carefully cup the sides of his face, tilting it upward. He allows this, and feels the tips of their fingers quivering against his cheeks, but only just. He waits for them to say something.
"Your hands are cold."
"I don't remember ever liking anyone with blue eyes before." It's said quietly, out of near reverent admiration. They wanted to see him weep more than they've ever wanted anything in the world. Something feels like it's lodged in their throat. They feel like they're dying.
"I suppose there's a first time for everything."
Crawford presses their lips against his with torturous caution. Still, this kiss is firmer than the last, which was firmer than the last, which was firmer than the last, and so on. Their thumb skims over the corner of his lip, and his hand sits comfortably at the bend of their waist. Their other hand finds the back of his neck, and they squeal in surprise when they feel a hand grabbing a fistful of their sweater, yanking them closer. The heat rising to their face is overwhelming, and they can feel gooseflesh quickly erupt over their arms.
Elliot slips two fingers underneath the edge of the fabric, but pauses, waiting for a reply. Crawford offers their assent by moving so that his palm touches their stomach, and shudders pitably at the contact. He slides both hands over their bare, warm torso, and feels alive. Momentarily he dismays at the barrier of skin, unable to explore them in the way he desired, but there was a gift on his lap, now, and he wasn't going to allow himself to be distracted. Crawford parts from him, and partially out of a desire to avoid eye contact, nestles themselves into the crook of his neck.
"I like you, at least," quietly thrumming behind his ear.
"You were doubting?" He rubs a loose lock of their hair between his fingers.
"You aren't?"
He doesn't reply, electing instead to breathe them in.
ok sorry to sound insane but i need you to know i have read that nemesis pegging fic like 4 times in the past 2 days. its claws are so deeply in me. i think nothing will ever be so tailor made for me ever again.
LMAOOO!!! i'm glad you liked it so much! it was actually a request for a dear beloved and detested friend of mine that's about two years late, so i'm PLEASED to hear that its intended audience includes people beyond him
hi here 2 ask for ash williams being really gay w/ his bf post army of darkness. just soft shit. him being like "damn i rlly take u for granted. love u or something" ya idk im just yearning
ash williams / reader || fluff 001
“Really gave this guy what for at work today,” Ash said, tossing his car keys on the table.
"Welcome home," you replied from the couch, glancing up at him over your magazine.
He's wrestling the shirt off of his body, not even taking the time to unfasten any buttons. He's eager to peel the uniform off of his skin after a long day of stocking and taking more smoke breaks than he should. The shirt is crumpled between his fingers, and without looking, he lobs the ball of fabric in the general direction of the hamper. Only by sheer chance does he make his goal, the sleeve hanging partially out of the wire basket.
In a few ways, he was a predictable man, and you sort of liked that about him. It was nice for someone so present in your life to have some form of consistency. He walks over to the kitchen, and you can hear the opening of the fridge and the faint clinking of bottles as he acquired his after-work beer, one of his many daily rituals.
"Well, aren't you gonna ask me what happened?" He shouts, turning to look over his shoulder while rummaging through food, prompted by your lack of proper acknowledgement. You snort, knowing that he was going to tell you regardless of your response.
"Do tell," you say, perhaps a bit sarcastically, tilting your head to the side. It's evident by the quiet huff that follows, and the shutting of the fridge, along with no bottle in his hand, that he didn't find what he was looking for. Not all is lost, though, and you hear the sound of a belt being unbuckled and the rustling of denim hitting the floor. Regardless of the letdown, he struts back into the living room in nothing but his boxers with the confidence of a man about to recreate a scenario with an unnecessary amount of enthusiasm. You place your magazine on your chest, propping yourself from your horizontal position, and allow him your attention.
Ash's hands settle on his hips, and from this angle, you could see the slight glint of his top scars catching a sliver of light.
"So there I was," he starts, splaying his hands toward you, "Replenishing the plums in isle seven - and I hate isle seven. You know, the one I told you about before? With the leaky cooling vent, and a perfect view of the manager's office so you can't relax on the job?"
He mimes taking a hit off of a blunt to indicate what exact kind of relaxation he was thinking of. You stifle a laugh and furrow your eyebrows, pointing at him a pseudo-judgemental look.
"Come on," he says, looking at you incredulously. "Like you've never had fun on the clock before. Anyway, like I was saying - there I was, putting together a really fantastic fruit pyramid, and I mean really fantastic, when Mister 'I-want-a-fruit-at-the-very-bottom-of-the-pyramid' comes over and guess what?"
"He took the fruit at the very bottom of the p-"
"He took the fruit at the very bottom of the god damn pyramid. And they all came down. It was like a healthy avalanche."
Ash looks off into the distance for a moment, as if remembering the event down to the finest detail. There's an empty look in his eyes.
"And you know, this clown just started to walk away back to his shopping cart. I couldn't believe it. So you know what I did?"
He points an index towards you, quiet for a moment. Presumably to build up suspense.
"I put a hand on that guy's shoulder, and said 'Where are you going, buster? Pick. These. Up.'"
Ash's arm is extended, and his hand is clasped around the shoulder of this imaginary man. You get the feeling that he's retelling this in a slightly more heroic lens, but he seems satisfied with himself. He didn't say anything else, though, so you spoke up.
"Well? What did he say?"
"He, uh, he said 'No'. And then he went and told my supervisor that I touched him. But let me tell you, I bet he was real intimidated for a second there. Real intimidated."
"I bet he was. Did you manage to rebuild your fruit pyramid?" You're not going to be the one to shatter his ego. Not that you think that was even possible, anyhow.
"Oh, nah. I just went to go take a shit and made it someone else's problem."
"What would S-Mart do without you?"
"That's what I'm saying. Hey - did you know that we're out of beer?" He says, pointing a finger in the direction of the fridge.
"No we're not," You reply, pointing at the sweating six pack sitting on the coffee table. You'd made sure to pull it out before he got home, and were just waiting for him to notice it at this point. "Got some on the way home earlier today."
Ash stares at the six-pack that had been sitting right below his nose, and then looks at you with a baffling amount of appreciation in his eyes - the sort of fondness a rescue dog had for its owner.
He approaches you on the couch, and now he’s closer you realize that he is ridiculously sweaty. Before you get a chance to protest, he's pulled your back toward his front on the couch, and places a kiss on the top of your scalp.
"God, I take you for granted."
He threads an arm underneath your armpit and holds you closer. He places another kiss on your cheek. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you squarely on the mouth.
"Have I ever told you I loved you?"
"Yeah, a couple times, I think." You tease, stroking the side of his jaw with the back of your hand. "But you know how you can really show me you love me?" You continue, voice tinged with the smallest hint of promise.
"How?" Ash asks, thinking he knew where this was going.
You kiss him on the cheek. "You can pick your jeans up off of the kitchen floor."
Hovering between them trepidatiously, lives a want — and, perhaps to some extent, a need. This was new for them, still taking the time to excitedly discover the quiddities of each other's radiance. There was a sweet solace to be found in this sybaritic exchange; here, the desire to be seen, and to be understood is fulfilled. Vulnerable in the arms of someone just as mortal as you, you are finally known. And yet, despite appetites needing to be sated, Crawford presses a hand against Elliot's chest, forcing the both of them apart.
Elliot's brow furrows in mild concern, worried that he had in some way overstepped, though Crawford spoke before he was able to voice any query.
"Are you a good man?"
The question posed seemed so out of place, it was almost disorienting. Elliot, hovering above Crawford on the mattress, cocks his head very slightly to the left in wordless puzzlement, the thick fog of prurience impairing his comprehension of language. It was hard to think clearly when he could still feel their breath on his face, their rapid pulse where his thumb was nestled under their jaw. They suddenly stiffen under his touch.
"I —" Elliot begins, intent on asking for clarification.
"Are you a good man?" Emphatically repeated, with an intentionally subdued undertone of desperation.
Crawford moves their hand situated on Elliot's waist to fiddle with one of the open buttons near the top of his dress shirt. He says nothing, in hopes that they would elaborate unprompted.
"I'm very tired, you know, Mister Spencer."
A finger traces what was exposed of his collarbone endearingly, and trails lower to pet a recently discovered freckle near the pit of his neck. Elliot shifts uncomfortably, not sure what to do.
"I enjoy you desperately, but this isn't a deception that I think I could handle. I need you to tell me that you are good. I need to hear it. If you are somehow secretly awful, then tell me now, because learning later will kill me."
Entirely uncertain of how to respond, words get caught in Elliot's throat. Their pleading gaze is hard to meet without the gnawing discomfort of guilt taking root in the pit of his stomach, and it's even harder to focus when they've taken to trailing shapes across what was exposed of his chest. The bothersome soreness in his arms from supporting his own weight was forgotten as he rifles through his flustered mind for a reply. He finally opens his mouth to say something, but it, slightly agape, is absent noise.
Crawford looks expectant, though not worried. Elliot, meanwhile, suppresses a budding annoyance.
He'd known many good men. He'd seen the large part of them crumpled and lifeless on the battlefield. And what benefit did goodness bring them? Sitting limp in a ditch, face covered in mud - had they been the devil, nothing would have changed. Elliot could very well lie, say yes, and enjoy whatever intimacy ensued for what it was, but Crawford, here and now, is open and trusting, and for the first time in a long, long while, he's reluctant to let someone down.
Perhaps Crawford could recognize the quiet turmoil he was enduring, as he was made to make eye contact with them once more, their fingers delicately repositioning his face, palm resting on his cheek. They were very warm.
"Not really," he says. "I don't think I could ever call myself a good man." And it's true; he wasn't even sure he was capable of being good at all. Here he is, having been liberated from hell, given the option to start from scratch, and yet the gun on his holster still receives ample use. Elliot tucks a strand of hair behind Crawford's ear.
"But I'm putting in the work. And you're more than worth the effort."
Nothing fills the silence after the statement, and had Elliot not seen the gentle softening of Crawford's expression, he would have started buttoning up the rest of his top.
Crawford's head rises, slow it its ascent. Elliot can feel the hand on his face getting ever so firmer, and closes his eyes as lips press against his. The touch brings with it a sense of relief, and as the kiss deepens, the blissful fog returns once more.
akcurtally H stands for Hate. Hate. Let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live. There are 387.44 million miles of printed circuits in wafer thin l
“You’re joking. You really don’t know what a zombie is?”
It’s clearly not the first time Elliot had been asked a question similar to this, evident in the tired sigh that parses through his lips, and the way his shoulders slump downward.
“I think you’ll find that I don’t know what plenty of things are, Doctor. And yes, while you can continue to prod at the points of my ignorance, I’m also equally available to be enlightened, should you be so kind as to inform me.”
Crawford raises their eyebrows, and the corners of their mouth tweak upward. They’d noticed that Spencer’s exasperation had begun to amuse them — almost in an endearing way. The way his lips pressed together and how his eyebrows tensed; the expressiveness was a reminder that Elliot was just another man. An occasionally condescending and contentious man, no doubt, but a man nonetheless.
hell priest (pinhead) / reader || administering your testosterone shot
"I insist that you still yourself," he says, needle in hand. "- unless you would like this to hurt more than necessary. As much as I savour your perturbation, I had assumed you wanted this to be an effortless process. Hence why you requested my assistance to begin with."
His fingers are cold on your thigh, though not unpleasant, as they search for a suitable spot for the injection.
Though the Priest's presence mitigated most of your discomfort, it did not eliminate all your nerves, evident in the way you twitched at any contact, and the sense of unease stuck between your lungs. You weren't ungrateful for his help, but you occasionally wished he could be even a little more adept at comforting you.
"I'm trying. Just - be careful, okay?" Your fingers dig into the cushioning beneath you, desperate to achieve a comforting, yet false sense of stability.
"I wasn't aware you worried over my heedlessness, so." The tone he uses barely registers as sarcastic, the slight quirk of his brow doing more to convey his meaning than flat baritone ever could.
"You could work on your bedside manner, you know." Your lips are turned downward and pressed together, half teasing, half displeased.
"If you wanted assistance from someone with a distinctly comforting deportment, it would have been in your best interest to approach someone else.”
And even now, as you nervously wait for the Priest to finish preparing your dosage, you see that he moves with a distinct sense of refinement. His stellar propriety seemed to bleed into everything he did.
"Just remember, you're giving me an injection — not a piercing. Would hate for you to mix the two up."
He briefly shoots you what you think might be a half-hearted glower - it was often hard to tell, considering how many of his emotions looked the same on pretty, yet inscrutable features. Eyes of pitch return to inspect the needle, now full.
"As much as I'm appreciative of the reminder, I assure you, I am well aware."
A beat.
Your stomach churns unpleasantly.
"The suspense is going to make me throw up."
"Then I ask that you graciously turn your head away from me."
Not given the opportunity to reply, you feel a sharp prick on your leg, and next, the ensuing soreness. A weak simper of pain escapes you, and with a shaky exhale, you release the breath you were holding.
The Priest's thumb strokes at the injection site, smearing a small amount of blood around the sore spot.
"Curious, how that was daunting for you." He sets the needle aside, watching with a lukewarm inquisitiveness as you inspect your minuscule wound with cautious intrigue. "I find such minute aches and afflictions to be mere frippery."
"That's why we're different people. You have your passions, I have mine. Cleave as much skin off your body as you want; mine is staying comfortably situated where it belongs."
"A tolerance for pain can be built," he says, dragging a finger down to the now-bruising point on your thigh once more. It clotted quickly, and he had done a good job. "Your percipience of the pleasures of torturous experience could still be on the horizon."
"You're not doing much in the way of convincing."
"Not yet, leastwise."
You raise an eyebrow at that. He looks a little too self-assured for your liking.
"You're giving me half a mind to sleep with one eye open."
"The other half reveling in my illimitable charm, no doubt."
In retrospect, it was no different than any of the other pay-to-play games that littered the boardwalk. Michael thinks he knew that going in; it was why he gave chase to begin with. How was he expected to resist the tease in his eyes? The silent "come get me", accompanied by the taunt of a revving engine proved irresistible. Michael consciously believed that he tagged along because of Star's allure, but behind a thick wall of denial, he was keenly aware of the fact that his desire to pursue was born from someone else's magnetism entirely.
"Drink some of this, Michael."
And although he wasn't sure if he liked the way his name sounded on David's lips, he was certainly staring at them, wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. He wouldn't lose whatever game they were playing; not now, when he's made it this far. When he tilts the bottle into his mouth, it's an attempted display of dominance, but all he could really notice, as strange-tasting wine careened down his throat, was how David was looking at him — like a predator surveying its next kill.
—
Michael isn't sure why he followed the odd clique here. Maybe it was because he hadn't finished proving his point. Maybe it was because he just liked the attention, and feeling like part of a group again. He sort of missed belonging somewhere, but wasn't really sure if these were the sort of people he could ever belong with. If anything, they were captivating in the way that sharks in the aquarium were; something meant to be observed and admired from behind the safety of two feet of solid glass. Walking next to them, talking with them - it made him feel like he was a raw piece of meat, surrounded by piranhas, eager for a bite.
"Something bothering you?"
David's voice wrenches him from his own thoughts, thrusting him back into the present. He can smell a campfire nearby, and can hear a party going on in the distance.
Michael shakes his head. "Nothing in particular."
"You sure? You look like you've got a lot on your mind." It was obvious by the tone of his voice, that the statement came from no real place of concern.
Michael narrows his eyes, applying more punctuation to his tone, and he can still taste that weird damn wine in his mouth. "I'm fine."
"Is that right?" David said, with a small tweak of an eyebrow. The perceived leader of the outcast flock turns to his companions and cocks his head in the direction of the festivities. "Go on ahead. I want to catch up with our new friend here."
The others seem to obey the request with no issue, but not without shooting Michael crooked smiles and less than honest looks as they disappeared over the next hill.
It was just the two of them, now.
"Do you have a problem with me?" Michael asked, figuring that it was smart to strike first and establish that he wasn’t a doormat to be walked on. His tone was measured, toeing the line of irritation, but not having yet crossed it.
"A problem? With you? Why, Michael, what ever would make you think that?" The mocking pseudo-innocence that laced his words did nothing to lessen the tension in the air. Still teasing. Still insufferable.
Michael walks forward a couple of steps, shrinking the distance between them with the intent to intimidate.
"Just a feeling."
"A feeling, huh? You got a lot of those?" David mirrors him, stepping closer in kind.
"Once in a while." Michael shoves the other man's shoulder with purpose and reasonable force, enough to knock him back a step. Something flares in David’s eyes.
Before he could blink, Michael felt his back collide with the trunk of a tree, and he was suddenly very thankful for the cushioning of a leather jacket. David presses a palm firmly into his shoulder, and he can feel his breath on his face. Michael tries to move, but can't even squirm, both unnerved and impressed by this display of immense strength.
"Careful with those feelings, Michael," The threatening amusement in David's voice was thick and puerile. "They might end up getting you stuck somewhere you can't leave."
"Like here?" It was all Michael could think of to respond, any witty responses or retorts knocked out of him, along with the rest of the wind in his body, upon collision with the bark. He panted, looking at David in the eyes, waiting for him to yield, his own gaze flickering down to his mouth, which was so very close to his.
David doesn't move.
Michael doesn't move.
Michael is promptly aware of a bruising pressure against his lips.
David, in no way, felt or tasted like home. Home was cooked meals, the comforting warmth of a hug, the smell of clean linens and beers snuck from the fridge at two in the morning. This was something entirely foreign, just like the rest of Santa Carla. Michael, dizzy from the kiss that felt more like a punch to the mouth, presses back against the unfamiliarity, all sharp teeth and authority, struggling to keep up. David relents, pulling away only a couple of centimeters from Michael's face. His eyes are lidded, and there's a smug grin on his face. There's blood on his lip, and Michael isn't sure whose it is. He should stop here, he thinks - surely he didn't want him, not like this — and Michael pauses, no longer oblivious to the heat in his face and frantic thrumming of his heart, almost itching to burst out of his chest.
"Is that the best you've got, Michael?"
His head spins at the way he said his name, shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath.
He did want David.
He wanted David badly .
Michael closes the gap between them, one hand reaching up to grasp as much hair as his palm could hold, the other settling into an iron grip on his cheek, desperate and hungry, but not for food. He feels a hand squeeze at his hip, another at the base of his neck, thumb moving stray strands of hair out of the way, exposing the sweet patch of vulnerable skin.
The two of them separate once more, and Michael is dizzy. David is looking at him contentedly, not as affected as Michael in the slightest. Had he not been like this, knees weak, lips slick with spit, slightly red and swollen, he would have been jealous of David's self-assuredness and seemingly limitless confidence. Michael could hardly think, drunk on physical contact, and barely registers David advancing towards his throat, closing his eyes and allowing him easier access once he felt lips on his neck, colors blurring and swirling together shortly after.
—
It was too bright.
Those were Michael's first thoughts as he rose from slumber, tired, annoyed, and overcome with a want for thicker curtains immediately. His second thought, however, was very rudely interrupted by the brutal throbbing in his skull, followed by an awfully dry mouth.
"Shit."
All too familiar with hangovers, Michael begins trudging his way down to the kitchen for a glass of water and something to eat. Christ, he was starving.
On his way there, his reflection catches his attention — for a number of reasons.
It was translucent, as if he was nothing more than a figment of someone's imagination, which was already alarming enough.
That, and there was blood on his mouth.
It was smudged across his lips, dried, and trailed down his jaw, below and behind his ear. Very quickly shaking off the dense haze of sleep, Michael wipes at his mouth with an index, slowly following the blood trail with his fingers, moving hair out of the way with his knuckles.
There, at the end of the smeared, dark red trail, sat two small, clotted holes, perfectly parallel to each other.
