⋆༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻⋆

“Welcome to Purgatory”

[kitty-writes1373]

Intro⚕️

(18+ MDNI)

Requests: Open!

Who I Write For…

[kitty-writes1373]

Roommates

You and Adrian just click- like some gimmicky 90’s PC peripheral. None of his friends can understand why.

Adrian Chase X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Smut)

2.6k words

Warnings: 18+, perv!Adrian, panty stealing, scent kink, roleplay, masturbation, friends to lovers

An: I LOVE Perv!Adrian and I wanted to write a fic about him dating a girl who matches his freak!!! It has been too long, and I have got to write more for him! Also Y/N has a bush for plot reasons XOXO

If you were a part of Project Butterfly, especially shortly after its conception, you’d know exactly why, at the end of a long day, you wouldn’t want to go out for drinks with your coworkers. This covert government operation is composed of competent but ultimately volatile personalities who are constantly at odds with one another. So it’s a good thing you aren't.

However, you are present at the Compulsory Team Building Night Out. Adrian checked with the team first if he could invite his totally cool girlfriend, and they gave him the go-ahead because they know her: Sharon Osborne. Not that Sharon Osborne.

The point is, they didn’t take him seriously. But you could hear a pin drop when Adrian Chase, yes- their Adrian, walks in with a real life, flesh and blood woman on his arm. It’s the quiet hum in the air after social factions splinter off- really the antithesis of this occasion.

Among them is one Christopher Smith, who still knows him as Gut’s weird little brother who played DnD all the time. Adrian gets pulled into some strident conversation across the bar, leaving him just enough window to slide up next to you at the bar.

“So. You're…dating him?” Chris, the old meathead, gives a good natured head nod towards where the man in question is arguing about the Sarlac Pit with the other one in glasses.

“Adrian?” You sip from your glass. “No.”

“Yeah,” he sighs with conversational empathy. “I wouldn’t blame you…”

“But we live together.”

“With his mom?”

“No. We have a place.”

“-and you’re not….?” Chris makes a gesture you can't interpret. How’d a geek like that nail a smoke show like you? Does Adrian keep the mask on when you do it? So many questions you seem so unkeen on answering.

Your half-shrug, half-head-shake of a response does nothing to clarify the subject. So he leaves, even more confused, and moves on to the corner where those two are doing their nerd thing.

Chris gives him the same head nod, this time towards you. “What’s with her?”

“Y/N?” Adrian turns where Chris gestures for the sake of looking at you. “She’s awesome!”: a phrase that rolls over everybody's brains the way blood beads up on Kevlar from how many times they’ve heard it.

“Yeah- but I mean what’s with you two? Do you do stuff?”At this point, Chris wishes he’d just admit you were a coworker’s cousin. But he doesn’t seem to be relenting any time soon. You wave at Adrian.

Only then does he look back, shaking that lovesick look from his face. “Yeah, we do tons of stuff! Like, last week we went to the movies, and-“ An idea flashes behind his thick serial killer glasses. “Wait, do you wanna go with us sometime?“ And there Adrian goes to run the idea by you, leaving him with Economos.

“Dude. You just committed us to a movie we don’t even know?” Chris blinks.

And you seem so cool. So… normal. Everything, down to your polite smile and wave on your way out after a night of him trailing on your heels like a lost puppy. Adrian, on the other hand... “Sorry’t beat it so early, but we are getting biz-zay tonight! so…” he punctuates his exit with finger guns

Adebayo, who’d spent the past thirty minutes hearing about your board game nights, gets up to call out after him, “I- that doesn’t mean what you think it does, Adrian!”

Then, one may wonder, what on earth could ‘getting busy’ mean? With a sigh, she succumbs to that social pressure to explain, “It’s- they’re going back to her place to play ‘Settlers of Catan’.” Equally exasperated by the evening’s nonsense, Chris glances after where the door swung behind you two. “Of course those- what's Catan?”

“It’s like DnD, but with colonization. You collect resources, and-” Economos trails off before straightening with a blink, “Why didn’t they invite me? I’m, like- awesome at Catan.”

Coming to a realization of his own, Chris snaps his fingers. “That's it! It’s a roleplay thing, like a sexy maid- she could be a sexy barbarian or something!” Crickets.

“Sexy barbarian? Really?” Chris gives him a look that says ‘like you could come up with something better’, which Economos obliges. “Sexy bard, sexy Teifling, sexy rogue-”

Caught in the middle of this argument she unexpectedly started—not the first in her one week of being on the team—Adebayo blurts out, “An elf?”

“Yeah, sexy elf!”

Chris looks between the two of them. However long this operation is slated to take, it is going to be far too long. “Fuckin’ nerds...”

The next morning, all the evening’s conversation topics are forgotten except for one. “I mean, she seems really nice! Maybe they just have a lot in common.” Considering how difficult it is to juggle her own relationship and work, Adebayo finds something very sweet in the sentiment that someone like Adrian could find love.

Harcourt, who’d spent that night watching this go down from the bar and whose keen sensitivity to bullshit outweighed any kind of sentimental, romantic notions, has her own perspective. “She’s normal. Too normal,” she says, punctuated by a sip of her coffee. “I think we should keep an eye on her.”

Whereas Harcourt’s image of you was something more akin to a Bond woman seducing info from Adrian, Chris flat out assumed you’d been paid to go out with him. “So what? He’s my friend and he’s gettin’ some- good for him!” Narrowing her eyes, he’s met with that impenetrable wall of cynicism. “Does everything have to be about sex with you?”

The door to the video store-turned nerve center of the task force dings and in struts the man in question, like Bloody Mary. That conversation ceases to exist.

“Hey, buddy! How was it?” Chris high fives Adrian as if he’d just scored a Super Bowl winning touchdown, to which the latter replies, concerningly enthuastic, “We went all night!”

Next to all this jocular anthuasaim, Harcourt, and now Adebayo turn to Economos with clear accusation. “It’s a real game!” he insists, convincing nobody.

The above lapses her mind for a moment when Ads fights off a smile at the unmissable lightness in Adrian’s step as he half-hops over a box of forgotten VHS tapes. You could stealize medical equipment with how hard he’s glowing. “So… who won?”

Sitting down at a desk with a spare, untraceable A.R.G.U.S. computer, Adrian glances up. “I won by default because Y/N cheats.” Unaware of the entire office dropping whatever they were doing at that admission, he opens up Snake.

“She- she does?”

“Yeah…” Adrian beams with admiration, his mind drifting to some unbearably fond memory. “Sometimes she kisses me to break my focus.”

There’s this very rare and beautiful natural phenomena that happens when two perverts are in love- moreso, the same variety of pervert, such as you and Adrian are. And how, you ask, did this all arrange itself?

You needed someone to share the rent. Adrian wanted to move out of his mom’s.

Outside the coming and going at odd hours, and the tinge of concern you felt at his neat constant sporting of some limp or conspicuous bruise, Adrian was a considerate housemate. He never ate your leftovers or left dishes in the sink. However, there are some personal boundaries you have with the people you live with that Adrian spent thirty years without.

For example, that evening early on, when he barged into the bathroom when you were- “Adrian!“ you huff, hurrying to cover yourself with your shirt. “What are you doing?”

Only then does he squint at you, sleep pants low on his hips. “Brushing my teeth.” Spider-Man bandaids crisis cross scabby knuckles where he holds his toothbrush for emphasis. You wonder to yourself where the cameras are, and if you’re in some TV show set up. “Yeah, but-“

“You’re peeing. I mean, it’d be weirder if you didn’t pee…” And he goes back to brushing his teeth. After a few seconds, he speaks around a mouthful of foam, “And I wasn't judging your bush! Everybody has pubes.” This is how you met Adrian Chase.

In the months that follow, he disseminates through your living space. It’s small things: unmarked packages of gun oil in your mail box, bloodstains on the laundry you take turns doing, odd salves and medications in your bathroom cabinet. But as strange as it seems, there’s a new normal in this.

Every time you forget an empty glass on a table, there goes Adrian: washing, drying, and returning it to the cabinet with its friends. Like clockwork. For someone so mentally disorganized, everything in his life has its place.

You meander into his room one day, as you do when your concepts of personal space have relaxed, and find this reflected in his cases upon cases of weapons: not just guns, but nunchucks, and brass knuckles, and so many combat knives…

“So… you're really into the military?” Adrian looks up from his desk and the magazine he was servicing, realizing you were talking about the weapons. “Oh? No, I just like ‘em!” he says, the same way some girls just like horses.

That’s his cover, the same way you called eachother friends. The truth is far too messy to ever stick a label on and package. There’s nothing romantic when you lay on the couch, bodies falling eachother in that sleepy, narcotizied state while some violent movie you’ve seen a million times plays on low volume in the background. That’s what close friends do.

“Did you know that Douglas Adams theorized that dolphins were actually the smartest living things on earth?” Adrian mumbles as you run your fingers through his hair. “We see them goofing around in the water and whistling for fish- and we think they’re stupid for that. But, I mean- look at us, coming up with taxes and whatever. That’s more work...”

You hum, “Mmhm…” It wasn’t quite sexual attraction in the way you don’t want to fuck modern art. You relish his easy, dead eyed innocence that gives way like overripe fruit under a thumb.

Call it a lapse in impulse control: the unbearable warmth to how you handle Adrian, cupping his face in your hands and tilting to one side. “When you die,” you purr in your best Melina Mercouri, “I will take your skull, and keep it on my mantle.” Adrian’s giggle veers drunk as you mess up his hair, letting him fall against your chest.

It’s these little excuses: the crowding around the window to look at a peculiar bird, you pretending to kiss him goodbye before work. Maybe it was more romantic than you wanted to acknowledge.

But in the same respect, this sort of thing was inevitable. Two adults with needs and desires sharing the same space, having gone most of their lives having said needs and desires unfuffiled- these things manifest in weird ways. Anyways, he started it.

It’s the laundry. Every other work, something goes missing from your laundry, and a few days later, Adrian comes across the garment in question. You find a pair of underwear folded up on your dresser, and you think nothing of it. Until you start putting things together.

Your average person wouldnt preform this leap of logic, but this is you. Within seconds, a terrible curiosity festers in your gut as to this unsaid thing. That Adrian finds you so painfully desirable that you, what- intimidate him, into jerking off with your underwear? Your brain reframes every interaction you've had, ever.

And while you would be content feelimg all warm and fuzzy that you were the source of this depravity, it would be remiss to ignore your own perversions.

It’s not uncommon for you to end up passed out in Adrian’s room, in his bed, after you’ve spent the whole night joking around in that ditzy, sleep deprived headspace. He’s telling some story about Chris, “Yeah! And that would become their name for the rest of their life- that’s just who he is!”

“Thimble? Fucking- oh my god…” trying to pull yourself together from your fit of giggles, you sink back into his sheets with a huff. Half listening, your self control buckles just slightly, as you and turn your head just a few degrees, taking a deep inhale of whatever clean shampoo over that intrinsic, musky guy smell lingered on his pillow.

“…what was that?”

“What?”

“What you just did!”

The lack of accusation shocked you more than being caught in the act. The thought that your behavior might be weird or off putting hadnt even crossed your mind. “Your sheets smell nice. Y’know… guysmell,” you explain, floundering. Heat creeps up the sides of your neck. “It’s no worse than when you-“

“When I what?” Your nerves pool around your ankles as the room shrinks to coffin size. You’d expected even a nervous tremble in Adrian’s voice. You’d forgotten who you were dealing with. “Oh! That,” his face lights up in recognition, mortifyingly sincere. “I mean, I’m not some pervert! I washed them after- It’s fine.”

You and Adrian meet eachother’s gaze, and it’s like an animal seeing itself in a mirror for the first time. Truth is, you’re his second best friend. Adrian didn’t wanna gross you out if you didn’t like him how he likes you- which you do. But people are weird like that.

Abruptly, the confrontation changes. “Yeah?” Shifting onto your side, you reach out in the moonlight and tangle a hand in his hair like you’d done a thousand times before. “Well… I think you are.” Your voice drips like honey as you scoot closer to press your face agsinst his neck, gently craning his head back to access more pasty white throat. “I think… you're a filthy, disgusting pervert. And if you get to steal my underwear, I think I deserve something in return. For being so nice about this…”

Your hand moves to his shoulder, testing. Adrian nearly flips himself over onto his back, staring up with pure adoration behind his blown out pupils as you shift on top of him. His hands hover around yoru waist, unsure if he’s allowed to touch you. “Is this, like- a sexy, roleplay thing now?” He’s a little nervous. Cute. You nod, and he smiles. “Awesome...”

The following Monday, Harcourt storms in the front door of HQ. “All they do is watch TV and play board games!” exasperated, her mind makes the leap of answering questions people haven't asked yet, storming across the office. “Adrian and the girl- that’s it. She built the fucking lego Death Star with him for twelve hours!” Seeing this behavior from the composed adult who this whole operation frequently hinges on draws alarm.

“Wait, you’re telling me you had a stakeout, watching them?” Chris breaks into a disbelieving grin as if to say ‘I didn’t know you were into that’.

“-and they have matching pajamas! Hello kitty pajamas!” Where are the locusts? The oceans of blood? Is there any astral possibility that a woman of sound mind and body would yearn for that psychopath?

Economos, who was the only one doing work this early, replies without looking up from his computer, “Hello Kitty? Would've thought Spider-Man...”

The only one who can picture that—you and Adrian cuddled up on the couch in fuzzy PJ pants—is Adebayo. Tired of everyone freaking out about this for so long, she finally speaks up. “Have you ever considered maybe she just… likes him?”

Silence. Three pairs of eyes fall on Ads. Then, the office erupts into laughter.

[kitty-writes1373]

On the Furs

In the span of three days Y/N—a perfectly rational woman—has gone from despising that strange man who fell from the sky, to sleeping with him.

Ash Williams X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Smut)

3.3k Words

Warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, power dynamics, body worship, manhandling, hair pulling, oral (fem!receiving)

An: This fuffiled a deep, midevil fantasy shaped hole in my AOD lover heart. I hope to write a Masc! AOD fic sometime in the future, but I just got finished with classes for the year! Expect more fics coming out more regularly in the coming months :)

The heavens had opened up, and as prophesized in the Necronomicon, thus forth was born the hero to vanquish the scourge of the deadites. As you do with prophesied heroes, the first thing the knights of the kingdom did was shackle him in bondage.

Now you consider miracles—ergo, prophecy—to be the folly of the superstitious and the grey, as did the knights who marched him through the desert. But by your own two eyes, what you had borne witness to was nothing short of a miracle: the Chosen One, caked in filth and blood, clawing his way out of the pit as the first soul to not take that watery grave as their final resting place.

Initially, you were enamored. But the chosen one had other priorities to attend to: namely, enjoying his newfound privileges as king.

Bustling between the blazing ovens and kettles of the castle’s kitchen and the throne hall bathed in amber candleglow, you remain in motion for stretches of hours. It was not easy work coordinating the meals for the king on a typical day, much less the entire kingdom now following this impromptu coronation.

You and your litany of scullions tirelessly shuttle out brimming baskets of fresh bread, and exotic fruits, and giant legs of mutton. The air swims with spices that wars have been fought over.

Lounging sideways on the former king’s throne, legs kicked up at an easy angle, Sir Ash relishes his idea of heaven: surrounded by giggling, cooing ladies of the court who want nothing more than to rub his hair and massage his broad shoulders. Leaning his dignified head back to pluck a grape from a pair of dainty fingers, something catches his eye from across the room.

“Yo- you, with the bottle,” Ash gestures you over with a half empty chalice. There’s a greasy spot on the rim where his lips were. While you are accustomed to some derision from the gentry, your grip squeaks around the jug of mead.

Leaning down to refill his cup, the new king steals an indiscriminate glance at your figure. “Mm… Thank you.” Torchflame flickers off of Ash’s dark eyes as he meets your gaze- something which your previous lord never did. “If I said you had a gorgeous body, would you hold it against me?”

“What?” You straighten, dribbling a few drops of mead on the ground. The ladies clucking over him freeze; not at his behavior, but that his affections were directed towards a kitchen steward- an ungrateful one at that. “Easy, princess- just tryin’a be friendly.” Ash settles back with slimy assuredness, looking back to ‘his girls’, he calls them. “At ease, ladies. Resume…” And they do.

Three endangered species and who knows how many courses later, dinner is finished. Given your rank, you are one of the last to turn in for the evening, scrubbing pans and cauldrons by candlelight. You decide, elbow deep in gruel, that you really do hate this man of the future.

Footsteps echo nervously on the stone, a castle messenger—nessicary, with the size of the palace—nearly jumps when you whip your head around. “T-the king requires your presence,” they stutter. You groan, tossing whatever you were using to scrub into the wash basin, “After all that, he’s still hungry? What does he want now?”

“A pitcher of water, m’lady.” Oh, of course he does… It seems your work this evening has curried as much respect as you had from your superiors before his arrival. So you trudge up endless spiral stairs- through the palace’s empty passages that stretch on forever, moonlight pooling in slivers from narrow windows.

Ash is happy to not be a slave anymore. He was especially happy to have the grime scrubbed from his hair and skin by a gaggle of beautiful women- naked women. Lounging in fresh linens, he's even happier to hear your knuckles rapping on the door.

You stand in the doorway flanked by the guards assigned to his room as if you yourself are a threat, vitriol burning in your eyes at that stupid smirk plastered on his face. The doors slam behind you. “Will thine disregard of my duties be routine, sire?”

Crackling, a fire smolders under the mantle with the old king’s chipped crest. Shirt half undone, the Chosen One lounges amongst the furs as a portrait of disrespect to thousands of years of monarchy. He pats the side of his bed, laying on his side at a sleazy angle.

Ash sighs deeply at the sweet, starchy smells clinging to your hair as you settle in. “Depends…” Pouring you a glass of the water, you can smell the mead and honeyed figs on his breath when he drops his voice, “How’d you like a promotion to royal bedwarmer?” It is becoming increasingly apparent that he did not beckon your presence out of thirst. At least…

“You are incorrigible.” You snatch the cup with a scowl: how he assumes divine right after crawling from the filth like a drowned rat. The notion that you would leap at the opportunity to sleep with him… “Right back at ya, babe.” Smirking, Ash flicks a finger gun- a gesture you don’t understand.

The pitcher clatters on a table littered with decanters of perfumed oil. “While thou art king, thine lack of nobility is apparent.” The door slams behind you as you storm out just as quickly as you’d arrived.

So the hero from the sky struck out tonight. like that hasn’t happened before. Settling back in bed, Ash still wears that smile as his mind goes to dreams of you in his royal harem. Who said time travelers have to know history?

While you are unshakable in your impression of the Chosen One being a vulgar buffoon, all anyone seems to talk about are his activities around the kingdom.

That next morning, the gaping kitchen staff surrounds Ash at the washbasin as he scrubs his own plates and silverware. You don’t suppose kings of the future mingle with the common people, much less pitch in with household chores, but even you weren’t above gawking at the sight.

These are all old habits for Ash: mom makes breakfast, you do dishes. That's how it works. But in his mind, he assumes his modern ideas of equality are likely foreign to these primitives. So he lets them enjoy their staring.

This next tale was relayed to you by stablehand. In the middle of the day, not an envoy but the king himself, marches through the stable gates and asks to see the horses. Well, you can't traverse the dark forest in search of the Necronomicon on foot, can you?

Already startled, the stablehand grabs the bucket of oats—as he was making his rounds—and the king stops him. Ash took half a semester of zoology; he can handle feeding a few horses. So he follows behind the stablehand as he introduces each mare and explains pertinent knowledge: a peasant, teaching a king.

However, one thing that doesn’t change with time is how quickly word spreads of public figures. So when you hear the king himself is working in the blacksmith’s forge of all places—fabricating a new, functional hand—you investigate.

Pulling your shroud closed, you inch along a secluded, ivy riddled wall. You hadn’t asked about it before out of fear of offense, but perhaps he lost his hand from that large metal beast that fell from the sky with him. From the velvet darkness, the warm glow of a roaring furnace pours from an ajar door.

Sure enough, when you peer into the forge, you see the king in silhouette: hunched over, tinkering with an apparatus that bore a strong resemblance to a knight’s gauntlet. Crackling fire glistens on the sheen of sweat in his skin as a slight curl shows through his damp hair, brow furrowed in concentration.

The heat inside the forge is oppressive, and within seconds you are breaking a sweat. Are all men of the future intelligent enough to engineer such a device, or just him? The thought occurs so suddenly that for a moment, you don’t even realize this is the same man whose room was a revolving door of courtiers the evening before.

Only then does Ash look up, his expression melting into something sly and affectionate. “Princess! I take it, you've considered my offer?” He suggestively flexes his soon to be replacement hand with a raise of an eyebrow. And the gesture, which once rang septic, you instead found amusing.

You don’t correct him in that you are neither of royal blood, nor in his lineage. “I… am not sure what to make of thee, sire,” shrugging off your cloak, something less than frustration paints your words. “Whatever notions I conceive of you are suddenly… usurped by thy next act.”

“-And that does it fr’ you?” Shirt undone to expose a cheap flash of tanned chest, Ash leans against the workbench with a hollow clank, maintaining eye contact you still weren't accustomed to. It was an unprecedented display of earnestness from you, and he’s trying to get under your skirts. “Does…what?”

The forced nature of your offence is apparent, even to a bonehead like Ash, as you turn to storm out with a huff and a flurry of cloak. “If thou art the chosen one, I’d like to have a word with whoever chose-“ You only get as far as the door.

This is something he’d thought about. Ash was going to lead with a, ‘listen, lady’. He was going to grab you in the doorway, arms squeezed tight against your sides and explain that he didn’t volunteer to carry this saving the world shit on his back- the fate of the world as he knows it, hinging on him finding that stupid book. Ash only gets as far as the door.

Something happens when he catches you- shockingly gently for such a brute. It’s as if the kingdom, the prophecy all fall to your feet. The heat kissing your skin, how your breath hitches under those dark, arrogant eyes that always gave the impression he was deeply enamored with whoever he was speaking to. Humanity. A hand comes up to your cheek- yours, to his forearm, squeezing the muscle there.

And you kiss him. A long repressed hunger is pulled to the surface in how you press your lips to his, preening into the tilt of his jaw to close whatever distance still exists between your bodies. Pulling away to crumple against the doorframe, breathing his same air, you smile.

How heartbreaking would it be if that was the last you saw of the Chosen One. While the kingdom was abuzz with word of your new savior, goings on were quiet around the palace grounds leading up to his expedition for the Necronomicon.

Ash was on your mind, regrettably. It was one of his last evenings before he left, and you weren't sure how to feel about the whole matter. If it's any consolation, that evening you were not alone in your duties. Scrubbing stubborn grime from the floors, you groan at the creak of the kitchen door opening long after you’d tidied the dinner mess, “What do you want now?”

“Well, I want a lot of things, princess… ” You’d recognize that smarmy voice anywhere now- not that messenger from before… “Ah- sire!” Staggering to your feet, you smoothed out the dark blotches where you skirt wicked water and tempered a smile. “Thou should have sent for-“

He waves a dismissive hand, “I’ve got legs, I can use em’…” In Ash's mind, he'd be a jerk if he didn’t do something for you after a week of being waited on hand and foot. So maybe his modern sensibilities made him weak. “C’mon- I’ll make you something.” Opening an oven that had long since cooled, Ash’s voice echoes back, "Where's the fridge here?”

“The…what?” Ash pulls his head out, shaking off the soot, “You know- you put your food in it to keep it cold.” The notion that you may not have heard of this technology doesn’t occur to Ash until he sees your brow knit in confusion. “Why would you want your food to be cold? That sounds… unappetizing.” The kitchen-hand you were cleaning with keeps his head down.

This only brought to mind all the modern conveniences Ash would be eager to indulge in upon his return: late night Skinamax, long hot showers, cracking open a frosty Shemp’s… Ash is about to start explaining sandwiches made of leftovers between bread, and ice cream, and Hungry Mans. But his mouth freezes.

Your stomach churns at the suspicion in the Chosen One’s eye. “What may be the-“ A red hot fireplace poker whizzes past your ear, close enough you can feel the warmth. Ash is holding the other end of it. In the same movement, he yanks you by the neckline.

“What the hell are you doing?!” You smack his hand away, outraged at how he just assumes he can just manhandle you after last night. But there are no lusty intentions in how Ash shoves you back, sending you clattering against a countertop. Bracing yourself to stand, your glaring eyes go wide.

There’s something wrong with that kitchen hand. You see no pupils in his eyes- eye. With a sickening squelch, it pulls the metal stake from an eye socket, clattering to the ground. Deadites don’t even cross your mind.

Snarling, the man-turned-beast lunges like a wolf seizing prey. Ash ducks, grabbing something from the stove. That powerful body rears back and cracks the creature across the cheek with five and a half kilos of cast iron. Any human skull would be obliterated.

Frozen in horror, you sit helplessly by as a sallow, grey hand fumbles for a cleaver on the counter. Slashing without directive, the snarling creature lurches again for Ash. In one deft, fantastic, gesture, the chosen one deflects the attack with the pan, snatches the hefty knife mid-air, and brings it down across the creature’s throat!

Rolling along the stone, its head is still frothing and biting at nothing when it lands at your feet. You step out of reach.

It’s him, not you, who suggests you sleep in the king’s quarters for safety. So shaken by whatever unholy beast you saw the chosen one slay, his intentions with you did not cross your mind. But presently, he didn’t have any. Amber in the moonlight, Ash towels off his hair. “If they're in the castle, there’s no tellin’ where they’ll show up...”

“The deadites?” you ask, skin only just drying in the warm air of the king’s chambers after bathing off the slime. Ash speaks over a bare, musclebound shoulder. “No, the queen of England.” And while he confuses you—England didn't even have a queen then—there is no missing the sarcasm in that comment.

You tighten the ties that cinch the collar of your nightdress with a huff. “I assure thee, this is no more enjoyable for myself. I watch you slaughter someone that I worked alongside for- for years, and I'm expected to leap at the chance to share a bed with you? For what- because you’re king?”

Ash is unmoved. “Yeah. What’re you gonna do- make me sleep on the couch?” A smirk tugs on his lip. You wonder how many beds that he’s charmed women into with that stupid, handsome smile… And again, the sofa would not be invented for four thousand or so odd years, far less the connotations of sending a man to sleep on one.

Carelessly tossing aside hand-woven linen, the bed sags in silent reminder of his presence. It feels like there are kilometers between you, and yet that wound t’have been. enough to emphasize your distaste. “I have no intention of entertaining any of your lewd, boorish schemes.”

“Wouldn’t call them boorish, but…” He thinks to argue for that different tune you were singing in the forge last night, but Ash stops himself, wondering whether he’d prefer being correct or getting laid tonight. “Wasn’t thinkin’ of it anyway. It’d be cruel.”

Your hackles bristle. When Ash rolls onto his side, the pack of muscle in his shoulder shifts with the movement. “With my advanced, futuristic love making techniques, I don’t think you could go back to screwing dirty peasants after me.” He watches, waiting for some clever quip, or for you to find a gap in his logic. Ash raises an eyebrow.

But you don’t, caught between the obnoxious, unsubtle display he just put on and that inexhaustible charm that- oh god, no… endeared him to you. There’s intention when you look back at him. Pulling himself to sit, Ash presses his nose to your still damp hair, inhaling the sweet clean scent before nuzzling into the tender spot below your ear.

“What are you doing?” Lacking the typical accusatory note, he can almost hear a smile in that question. To the lights off, missionary-without-eye-contact crowd, foreplay must seem so foreign. “I know you primitives only do it fr’ procreation, but…” Ash presses soft kisses along your jaw and neck, murmuring into your skin, “As a man, s’my responsibility t’get you off. Common courtesy in the 21st century…”

Of course, he was exaggerating some of his commitment to female pleasure, but he takes that responsibility seriously. Kissing down your collarbone, Ash’s fingers find the neckline of your nightdress and tugs, ripping open the closure and exposing your heaving chest to the cool night air. Your head swims, falling back against the plush bedding. Immediately, he seizes this new expanse of skin, nuzzling the valley between your breasts.

The bed morphs into a writhing mass of fur, and cotton, and flesh. There’s hunger in how his frame settles on top of yours: a comfortable weight, as Ash rucks up the hem of your nightdress. Bunching the fabric around your waist, he runs calloused, broad palms up your legs with a low, approving sound in the back of his throat, “There she is…”

Now, by grace of his position of power, the Chosen One is inclined to have his requests fulfilled. Everyone but you seems to be falling over themselves to make that happen. With how you writhe so beautifully underneath him courtesy of these strange, delicious sensations, can you fault him for wanting to eat some pussy?

Dizzyingly strong arms lock around your hips to press the flesh of your cunt against his mouth. He’s drunk off of this: the delicious burn of your fingers fisting in his hair, how your heels dug into his lower back as you writhe fruitlessly against his face. Sealing his lips around your clit, he laps at the underside of the glad until he can practically taste the iron in the blood swelling there, deft fingers sliding to collect the slick between your puffy folds.

Head thrown back and body drawn into a tight arch, breathy syllables fall from your lips. “S-sire! Oh…!” Pleasure shoots up your spine and you shudder around nothing, hips canting up into his mouth. Ash greedily drinks in your reactions, flicking over your clit with the pad of his thumb and working you through climax. That's a new record for him.

With some encouragement, your thighs unclamp from around his head. Pulling away, he catches his breath, a smirk tugging at his lip from the string of spit connecting him to your swollen, dark flesh. Bathed in the moonlight, you make a lewd sight: sprawled out, skin dewy with sweat and spit, robes torn open bearing your flesh like the product of some unholy ritual.

By modern standards, Ashinova was alright in the sack. But you could barely hear your over the sound of your exploding capillaries. Words struggle to take shape in your mouth, eventually forming into, “Is… is that why they chose you?”

Settling in next to you, Ash feels proud. He loves how you look, brain dribbling out of your ears, exhausted but awakened to this animal instinct, like some primal code just got lit up inside you. He wipes his mouth, then presses a kiss to your forehead. “Sure.”

[kitty-writes1373]

The Evil Dead at HHN!

For those unaware, the Evil Dead franchise has been featured in Universal Orlando’s Halloween Horror Nights event for 20 years! Seeing as rumors point to the franchise returning this year, I think now is the best time to share my knowledge from this intersection of my interests ;D

Pictures, videos, descriptions, + my thoughts below!

2006

In celebration of the event’s 16th anniversary, a projection show was held on the Universal Studios lagoon to celebrate the studio’s legacy of horror! Army of Darkness is featured at 7:43

2009

Army of Darkness is featured in Silver Screams, the headlining house of the year! The house was essentially a compilation of moments across several horror films. Seen here are a poster from the queue and photographs from the Pit sequence from Army of Darkness (titled here ‘The MidEvil Dead’ due to licensing issues)

2017

BIG year for Evil Dead!! Ash vs. Evil Dead is a major IP house, and the comedy house of the year! For those not as versed, each year HHN has a house thats less focused on scares and doesn’t take itself too seriously (these are typically my favorites)! While neither house followed a linear structure or were sequenced in a way that someone who wasn’t a fan would understand, I prefer the Orlando version for comprehensibility and… reasons below.

I want to do a spotlight on the odd latex masks that the Hollywood event used to make the actors look more like Bruce Campbell! While there was an enormous amount of work and care put into these, I think the effect would’ve been more convincing had they gone the noses and chins route XD

Furthermore, Ash was featured heavily im promotional materials, including being on the front gate of the park, in-park signage, and in a photo op at the tribute store (the major HHN merchandising location)!

As much as I rib on some of the effects that fall flat, I am excited for whatever this year brings and I hope that I will be making a part 2 to this post in the future ;D

Bonus!

Army of Darkness is featured prominently in the “Legacy of Horror” montage at Universal’s Horror Makeup Show, with a creator spotlight on NKO Productions’ work on that film in the lobby!

[kitty-writes1373]

hiii do you still write for kris lemche? I’ve been reading a lot of your kris fics and they are so good!!!!

Yes!! I don’t get regular rq’s for him, but I def still do! <3

[kitty-writes1373]

Fringe Benefits (2)

Your involvement in Ash’s life has some unintended results that rear their head in a bar bathroom. Because of course.

Ash Williams X Masc!Reader

(Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort)

2.7k Words

Warnings: 18+, Suggestive content, manhandling, friends to lovers, blowjobs, semi-public sex, flirting, dom/sub dynamic, implied age gap (reader in mid 20s-30s), jealousy, alcohol, graphic violence

An: This is based off a request by the wonderful @jollysashimi who I would love to thank for his patience in me getting this out! I was so shocked this fic had the response it did, and it really inspired me to write more x Masc!Readers! RQ’s are still open for anyone interested! ;) Pt (1)

The story would be right at home in some yellowing pulp magazine: two lovers (crossing your fingers) run into an agent of the undead on a night out. But in the absence of shrieking damsels and gallant heroes, your sudden understanding that your life is a footnote in some grand prophecy centered around your slacker coworker left you in an odd place.

In some too narrow liquor store isle, hungover in anti theft lighting, Ash rights himself with effort, a clinking six pack in each hand. Just through the tunnel-vision opening at the other end, he sees it. Your average Joe would see this stranger—the hurried staggered gait, the shielding of the face—and assume they were stealing or on drugs.

But after so many years being saddled with cosmic responsibility, one gains a hypersensitivity to sketchy shit. Where there’s one, there’s more. The little bell on the door pulls your head from the fruity liquors, and Ash is halfway down the block.

Maybe he’s rubbing off on you. You get the suspicion this situation is related to some demon, deadite- whatever he called them. And in a selfish way, you didn’t want to be the only guy around when the guy behind the counter goes all ‘I’ll swallow your soul’ on you. In the face of danger, having Ash by your side is assuring the way caressing the trigger of a gun gives one a sense of security. He knows what he’s doing.

So you ran. Heart jackhammering like a quarterback on prom night, the pursuit leads you to exactly the kind of place you wouldn’t want to be caught in when the dead begin rising.

Inside the chain link fence, there are mountains of trash taller than however tall you're imagining: an unscalable, impenetrable valley of varietal waste. Even moonlight doesn't get in here.

Suddenly, the sound hits you. The tearing of their own flesh on jaded edges of scrap metal goes unnoticed by those things, manically clawing out of the junk the way cockroaches scatter after you hit them with Raid: snarling, gnashing, growling amongst a tangle of entrails. Something catches your eye behind a rusted out De Soto.

Diving to the ground, you whisper-yell, “What the fuck is happening?!” Ash meets your wide eyed shock, equally outraged to see you there. “Why are you here? You were supposed to-“ This is why Ash didn’t need you tagging along. He fumbles with the round he was loading. “Okay, no- this is fine… Here-” Pragmatic as always, he shoves the shotgun into your hands.

“What? I-I can’t shoot this!” With a groan, Ash trades you for the chainsaw. This is it, you guess: merging with the infinite in a sea of old car parts. It’s strange, how one second you're buying booze and the next, facing your own mortality. You've got a lot of loose ends to tie up. The words bubbled up from your throat, “Oh-okay… if we don’t make out outta this-“

“We’re making it out of this.” Ash corrects with an almost inspiring quality before adding, “I mean, you might not. But I have to.”

He punctuates his sentence by reducing what used to be a person’s skull to wet confetti. This shakes out of your head enough to come back to the situation, “Whatever- okay, so,” Shaking the thought from your head like an etch a sketch, you swallow your words like they were too strong on your tongue, “I’ve totally had a crush on you for, like- ever and…” You trail off. In this axis of death and destruction, your biggest worry is a crush.

Ash doesn’t move from where he leans over the hood of the car. “Oh.” nonplused by your gut-spilling, he ads without any unkindness, ”I thought you were gonna say something. Like, that I didn’t know!”

For just a moment, in some nasty, run down junkyard, the encroaching mob of the undead is eclipsed by your stupid little ‘crush’. Hot shame kisses at the tips of your ears. Ash chalks up whatever that feeling is in his chest to needing more cardio and gets over it. “Okay, we go on three.” He says, sounding every part the badass action hero you saw him as. “One, two-“

And it just happens. Maybe you misunderstood him. Flinchy from adrenaline, you mash your lips against his. Your noses bump together, and just as quickly, you jerk away, chest heaving, staring at Ash with big, blown out pupils. Your last act on this material plane is going to be giving the worst kiss ever. ‘Holy shit, what did I do?’ your face seems to say, sagging in weary panic.

There’s a beat of silence. But it isn’t long. Blinking away the surprise, a slow, sleazy grin spreads across Ash’s lips, his voice tinged with… approval? ”Alright… I want more’a that later.” He pats you on the back. So, with promises of later, you get to work.

They’re ex-people when you get down to it: with faces that are more rotten wallpaper than skin on bone, splattering you with what used to be blood. Look at you now, facing off against evil back to back with the Hero From the Sky himself!

When the roar of the chainsaw putters out, and you’re left surrounded by scattered limbs and tissue, the air in the junkyard is so painfully dense and silent. It’s been said that one must taste blood to be a man. Following this logic, you are Charles Atlas.

Every orifice, hair on your scalp, and square inch of skin is caked in the shit. Wiping a smear of black slime from his cheek, Ash’s muscles burn. “I need a beer… And a shower.” Jumpy, nerves still frizzled like curly fries, your voice is just a hair too eager as you ask, “A social shower?”

A smirk tugs at Ash’s lips. “Yeah, sure- whatever…” Stepping over a corpse, he mutters, “Where’d we park?”

Were you starting to enjoy it? That's a tough question. You ask Ash, he’d say that while killing deadites was badass and a great conversation starter to pick up chicks, it’s dirty, thankless work. But long after said shower, carryover adrenaline buzzed through your veins.

“Maybe we should get a name.” You muse, stocking the new shipment of sauna pants. “Y’know, now that we’re doing this as a team! Like, the Ghostbusters.”

Y/N; sweet, stupid Y/N. Ash sees you as the kind of person that elicits the urge to guide them through doors with a hand on their back, because that’s what you do to him. You don’t know the half of it. “Yeah, sure…” His voice takes on a world-weariness when he says, “Word of advice: don’t talk about ‘work’ at work.”

“What- why? You do!” You couldn't believe that Ash—yes, your Ash, who gloats to anybody who’d listen that he could save the world again, but this time with one hand behind his back, standing on his head, and a bong to his mouth—is saying this.

“Well… When I do, it sounds badass and charming, because it’s a story. You sound crazy.” Ash makes a cut-it-out motion across his neck, speaking through his teeth, “Ix-nay on the edites-day.” His gaze flicks over your shoulder, cutting himself off. “Hey, Pablo! Man-”

A firm hand grips your forearm and spins you around. “Y/N and I were just talkin’ about last night! That was crazy, right? Man, I thought it was bad when you pissed yourself, but after you spewed chunks over the backseat of the delta- and that chick you were with?” Ash pats you just a hair too hard on the back. “This guy- life’a the party!”

It wasn’t personal. Ash just didn’t want you to make things weird, so you nod, straining a smile. “Y-yeah… woo! It was so… awesome.” Pablo was similar to you in the way that, while he was smart, he never thought to really look through Ash’s egregious bullshit because it was very easy to operate independently without needing to.

“Oh! Well, thats… cool. Glad you had fun!” For example, Pablo decides to drop this and tell that lady who asked to see his section manager that he was said section manager instead of dragging Ash—who actually was, only through seniority—into this.

Cracking his back with the satisfaction of a job narrowly avoided, Ash pretends to rack his brain for something for you to do. “Y/N, uh… Oh yeah- isn’t there some spill y’need to clean up? By the utility closet?” It took you a second to process what he was asking you.

“Oh! Uh, yeah- sure!” Mirroring the suggestive lilt in his voice, you can feel Ash’s gaze linger expectantly on your behind as you scamper off to deal with that ‘spill’.

There’s a buzzing nervousness prickling your skin as you lean against a shelving unit, staring at the moths circling the light. If you from a week ago could see yourself now, sneaking away at work to get handsy in a storage closet! This kind of thing was very exciting to you, and Tuesday to Ash. Seeing as you were always pretty awkward and weird, it feels so dirty even just wanting something like this.

But he didn’t mind. Oh, did he not mind…

Through all this ‘chosen one’ bullshit, Ash is still the glowing, golden figure of badassery you saw him as when the coolest thing he did was commandeering the PA to air bogus, innuendo riddled announcements. He stays on his feet as the world is careening, flaming into Armageddon through utter hedonism and digging in one’s heels to maturity.

To see this phenomenon in action, observe the following. “Alright… Wolverines down by two, four seconds to go, and- Williams, with a fifty foot hookshot…!” A shiny, synthetic rubber ball swooshes into the elastic display cage. “And he sinks it! The crowd goes wild!” Ash throws his hands up, turning to where he expected you’d be admiring his moves. “Cmon, it’s fun! A lot more fun than closing...”

Startled from your sweeping, you look up as he waves you over, “Oh! Sure.“ Now you were never one to pass up bro-out time, but you not getting your buzzer-beater moment requires some explanation.

Bargain-bin stores are not famously maintained, least of all the tangle of PVC and overstretched cord they call a ball cage and the frayed elastic that contained said balls.

Reaching in, a sharp blur snaps against your back, like a beesting “Ah! Shit…” And just as quickly does your hand flinch to the wound, so does Ash, grabbing the back of your shirt and pulling it up to examine you, half bending you over with startling ease.

The snapped elastic broke the skin and some blood had begun to bubble up, but it left little more than a sore, red welt. Ash hums a noncomitial note, “Ah, you're fine- shake it off!” Your injury was the last thing on your mind. No, it’s how easy Ash can manhandle you that makes you a little wobbly on your feet.

Now this is an odd set of circumstances, moreso after Pablo stumbles onto the scene rounding the corner “Oh my god- what happened?” His shock at this already absurd situation negated any effect that Ash’s intentional underreacting accomplished.

A firm hand pushes your head back down at you instantly craning your neck, “It’s fine- I’m gonna go patch him up… What aisle’s the alcohol in?” Stumbling as you get walked to the break room by the back of your shirt, you poke your head up, “I don’t think drinking’s a good idea right now.” “Right, yeah. Good call, Y/N...”

Seeing as the first aid kit was already picked appart, Ash gets creative. Clink, ca-chunk. “This should help with the swelling…” Sitting backwards on a metal folding chair, you hiss through your teeth at the nip of a cold soda can on your back. It’s such a strange thing when a typically self centered person does something sweet like this. “Cmon, you saw through evil like Wonderbread- this is what gets you?” A hand—the flesh and blood one—reached up to ruffle your hair.

Your head lolls to one side with a warm giggle, exposing the blotchy, purple ruminants of a hickey. The vestigial memory of earlier smolders behind Ash’s eyes: the smell of powdered soap and dank concrete, fumbling hands in the dark. His voice is low when he asks, “…Still in fr’ quarter shot night at the Woodsman?”

In the same vein as funeral homes, small town bars don't change. Who cares about the sticky chipped bar tops and ashtray floors when there’s always beer, and people who like beer. Now this isn’t your typical locale, but you had good reason beyond the ludicrous drink specials.

Ash’s eyes crinkle at the corners as his voice rises about the clamour and sports television, “Then, I see her face in the mirror, and it’s just-” He gestures to his face, indicating this chick was really something to look at. “That's one way t’ruin the mood!” He takes a swig of his beer, “I mean I finished, but that's besides the point.”

Nodding at the tale of his last unlucky bathroom rendezvous here, you glance at the door to the lavatory in question. “Not a proud moment?” you joke, picking at the labels of your beer as you swallow the words that claw up your throat.

“Are you kidding? Ab- so-lutely!” Flashing a grin that betrayed just how proud of a memory this is, Ash chuckles, “You try starin’ death in the face and shootin’ the ol’ love gravy…” Oh, he always had such colorful euphemisms: motion lotion, lust custard- or your favorite, gene gumbo.

And despite how gristly he described the scene, you were curious. Your mind rattles off all his pick up lines you've borne witness to, the ‘can I string your racket’s, or the ‘gimme some sugar baby’s. You thought of cold porcelain, and the act reflected in shattered mirrors- those hands that you knew so well being used for such lecherous shit. Staring at the chipped plywood door, your throat felt dry with envy. “It was- that one?”

Ash had noticed your staring. It’s cute. And you didn’t even realize the words had left your mouth until you felt Ash’s arm sling around your shoulders, a little more than just friendly. “I’ll show you! C'mon…" Startled to reality, you trail after Ash through the crowded bar, anxious sweat prickling at your skin.

The door swings open to the stale, empty bathroom and your eyes rake over every filth-crusted inch of tile, as if you’d find some aftermath of this mythical encounter- all the ‘good time’ numbers on the walls and the stench of bleach that’s given up. “So… where’d it happen?”

Sink or stall ranks among one pertinent first date questions, right up there with boxers of briefs. Was this a date? With a hand on your hip, Ash spins you around to face him, sandwiching you between the solid plane of his body and the rattley stall door. He stands so close, you go a little cross eyed trying to look up at him.

“Well, I was puttin’ the moves on her. Things were gettin’ heavy…” A broad palm goes to your cheek, pulling you in with this magnetic, slimy assurance. “We were, y’know-” There’s a practiced ease in this for Ash, a little buzzed and very infatuated by your pliancy. Breathing your sweet breath, Ash presses his lips against yours for a lingering moment, pulling away to murmur, “kissin’ a little, nothing too wild.”

You hum a dizzy, noncommittal note, head reeling at the devious lilt that flashes in his eye. “‘Course, that doesn’t last long…“ Ash’s hand on your hip slides down to squeeze at your ass, hitching the air in your throat. Retracing his tracks from that night, he can feel it: the energy your body buzzes with- a burning coiling in your stomach like the red hot wires in heated flooring.

But there’s a point when it stops being about Ash’s sexcapades- when he doesn’t spin you around and bend you over the grimy sinks the way he did with that chick. No, here’s a new intention in the grip on your shoulder that goes beyond two guys goofing around in a bathroom. The grimey tile comes up to bang your already wobbly knees.

Staring up with those big, dumb eyes, the jingling of a belt being undone pulls a smile to your lips. Of course this is how it happens.

[kriegsliebe]

ash n my self insert ( based off of @kitty-writes1373 fanfic with herbert west and ash williams )

[kitty-writes1373]

ok so genuinely ill take whatever i can get when it comes to ash fics so you have full creative control here lol. all i ask is for reader to be gender neutral :)

Fringe Benefits (1)

Ash stuck pins in your heart and pumped out all the bile. You climb to him like a love-starved cobra, and tolerated you. At least, that's what he told himself.

Ash Williams X Masc!Reader

(Fluff, Hurt/Comfort)

2.5k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, friends to lovers, flirting, dom/sub dynamic, implied age gap (reader in mid 20s-30s), awkward boners, jealousy, alcohol, graphic violence

An: I fear writing this awakened something in me. Thank you for opening my eyes to AvED ash bc omg that old MAN! Aaaaghhhh plz keep sending requests I had SO much fun omg Pt (2)

Not advertised with the $15.50 an hour and all the pride you could swallow was your shift buddy, Ashley J. Williams: six, rugged feet of stockman. Between that worn through swagger that’d gone stale ten years ago and his flagrant disregard for authority, you were taken. He was the staling, post-funeral church basement lunch you looked forward to every time you put on that polyester uniform.

Among washed out isles of discount speakers and reasonably priced kitchen appliances at the local Value Stop, we observe dominance hierarchy in retail: you, following on his heels and helping out whenever he tosses some task your way, occasionally interspersed with some ridiculous scheme he recruits you to in order to get out of work.

Facing product, you round the corner with a cart piled high with electric floss dispensers.“I can cover for you today.” Nearly dropping a rock bottom priced appliance, Ash flinches. “Shit on a biscuit, Y/N!” He jadedly whispers in that tone just below where customer ears register “Could you spare me the creepy eavesdropping routine?"

How acutely you were tuned into your environment would be pretty unnerving if it wasn’t so useful in those aforementioned schemes. “Well… I overheard you telling Mr. Roper Eli was sick.” Swallowing that odd, nervous look that flashed in your eyes, you sigh deeply, “Poor guy... I hope he’s okay-” you add a totally subtle wink to show you catch on to that lie he’d used a thousand times. This is what friends do.

Not noticing the awkward stare that lingers on you as you go back to stocking, an idea occurs to you, “But, uh… in exchange,” you cleared your throat. “Maybe, we could hang out later?”

‘Hang out’. That means no Staufer’s, Schlitz, and Gilligan’s Island. “We could, like- watch some Monday night RAW, I’ll bring some drinks, and-“ A friendly, jocular hand comes down on your back- pat, pat. “Alright! There is my partner in crime!” Oh, and how your head swims… This kind of casual physical contact makes you go a big rubbery one.

Your little giggle as discretion clocks out doesn’t go unnoticed. Okay, you were a little weird. Water is wet too. But somewhere in Ash’s tenure at Value Stop—between the third break room nap you covered for, and his shift you picked up after St. Patrick’s day—he realized that shaking you wasn't possible. Not that he had some conscience to maintain. You were just…

Talk about fringe benefits! That evening, upon arrival at the address you received, you are treated to the eye candy that lines the interior of the airstream. Your archetypical bachelor’s pad: the bottle of cheap aftershave perched below the mirror, the tattered punching bag strung from the ceiling, an odd bikini girl poster- it reeked of something very characteristicly Ash. It also just kind of reeked: that foreign, intoxicating spirit of sleaze-past.

But you linger by that poster- that girl, with her cascading blonde curls, and that knowing way she smiles at the camera… Ash notices your admiration and jokes, “Oh, yeah- you put a black light in this place, and it’d light up like a Jackson Pollock painting!” And you laugh, but not really.

Brushing off—what was it, jealousy? Resentment towards a photograph?—you pivot to the plexiglass tank among a sea of old bottles, leaning close to feel the heat lamp radiate on your face. “Can I play with your lizard?”

More concerned with the case of Old Style he’d relieved from you, Ash glances over his shoulder, “Well I usually save that till after the first date…” With a chuckle, he cracks open a can. “Knock yourself out.”

The sound of the tv switching on hits your ears and you leave Eli mid-pet to join the hottest thing to hit your corner of Michigan on what should be a couch but, due to the size of the airstream, doubles as where Ash sleeps.

There was no intention behind the jokes you cracked about whatever match was on as you churn your way through the case over the course of the evening. You want to can evenings like these for when times are scarce- hell, when aren't they? Bottle up all that warm familiarity, so perfect and comfortable that you could curl up in his lap and die there, happy.

As the late night rolled into a colorless early morning, the channel phased over into monochrome sit-com reruns. And the giggling dies down into something you couldn’t place- this lingering, bleary stare, where neither of you make mention of whatever it is going on. Knowing yourself, you’d just make it awkward, so you close your eyes and pretend to fall asleep. All that's left is breathing, feeling the swell of ribcages slumped against each other.

Blinking away the morning light’s ache, Ash peeled the covers off only to become aware of two things: one, his sweetheart coworker Y/N was out cold next to him—fully clothed, important given the context that— two, he was in his underwear. As hard nights go, you don’t remember the finer, sombambulatory points and how alcohol increases perceived body temperature.

You, with your head coming off at the dotted line as well, didn't know where Ash had disappeared to when you woke up- but you did find an open box of Pop Tarts on top of an issue of Nudes Week, so the mystery went on pause.

After some time, the bathroom door swung open with a creak and a swirl of steam. Towel around his hips like an out of work gladiator, Ash acknowledged your presence with a grumble still pained from the previous night hitting him like an ice pick to the frontal lobe. It felt so dirty being a fly on the wall watching somebody slog through those routine hygiene tasks because it was Ash you were watching.

You read his sturdy, broad body like tea leaves. Oh yes, there’s a varsity letter somewhere in his past- the residual width in his shoulders, softened with the years. The scars of having been ridden hard by life and put away wet: age creeping in at the temples and corners of the eyes, the faded sheen of a shallow scar across a cheekbone…

Eventually, you croaked, “…Breakfast?” Your shaky offer of the remaining foil-wrapped pastry going unnoticed by Ash who, by the time you got your composure, was in the fridge. “Got mine-" Righting himself, he cracked open the last can from the night before with a snap, raising the beverage in a mock toast, “Hair of the dog…”

Having to hurriedly dress yourself for the shift you forgot you had before very politely asking your friend to circle the parking lot after dropping you off doesn’t leave much room for animosity.

But Ash, with all his problems, knew that your soft little brain would be better off far away from his life bullshit. Unfortunately, his particular life-bullshit can pursue.

Not that evening, but a good few evenings after, you went out. The memory of your destination is long since muddled in your mind by what was to come of the night. But you remembered the Oldsmobile, and how close you sat despite those bench seats being bigger than most people’s loveseats.

Ash is ranting about this asshole customer from earlier, and you stare at him in that lovesick way you only really see in movies. Real slick, Y/N… I mean, movies are your only real frame of reference: you and Ash are Harold and Maude, you’re Goodbye Again—in which case, he would be Ingrid Bergman which he most certainly isn't, but the point stands.

Mid complaint, the Oldsmobile bucks up over something- hard. There’s a flash in the high beams. Your forehead hits the headliner. The car lurches to a stop, half on the shoulder. There’s this reflex people exhibit in bad situations where they just look at each other to silently confirm what happened really did happen. After a long silence, you whisper the false but rational assumption, “…Was that a deer?”

Whatever Ash hit is lodged under the front wheel. You see images of Bambi, thrashing under your front tire. You and your bleeding heart are already outside in the cold before he starts to say something.

In the dark, you don’t even see the thing. Just the nocturnal sounds of the backwoods: birds, soft wind through branches. So silent, until an appendage darts along the pavement, clawing at your ankle. It grabs hold, nails digging in.

And before you can think to kick, you are splattered in liquid and warm meat. A hot shell casing clatters on the pavement. Ash exchanges the double barrel for a chainsaw with the same demeanor one changes a tire, neither of which you were aware of in the backseat the entire night prior.

Explanations fly through your mind like the fluttering pages of a magazine. “What the fuck is that?!” frozen to the road, your voice trembles as the blades loudly chews through flesh. “Is- is that a person- What is it!?” Given his history with the undead, your gaping, wide-eyed horror was a little silly.

With what could’ve been a grin or a grimace, Ash lobs off a hand that skitters into the undercarriage. “Once.” He chuckles, “C’mon, let’s motor- I’ll lay it all out for you.”

He explains it to you back at the airstream with world weariness you didn't hear in those same, grandiose tales Ash told to woo the stockgirls in arts and crafts: prophecy, unleashing evil- ergo slaying evil, becoming king. Despite how much you fawned over him, you always thought it was just a story- something he made up. But you saw it.

“So what am I supposed to do?” You sighed, “Just be like ’oh, the dead are rising!’ And go along with- with my life? Keep showing up to work, and- and…” You flounder to grasp this upheaval of mortality salience.

Ash explains with utter assuredness that, “It’s more of a ‘solo el mío’ sitch. But, so long as you're taggin’ along—which I suggest you don’t— then evil’s gonna keep rearin’ it’s ugly head.” Lifting his words with a weary smile, Ash grabs a bottle of something amber off the counter. “You did alright’fr your first time. Most folks end up dead.”

Shocked at how cool he remains even through this, your fingers slip on the short glass he glugs for you. “I- I didn't do anything.”

“Exactly! Catch on fast…” Ash drains his own, heavier pour. If it weren't for the slime—was it blood? It didn’t look like blood—caked into his hair and clothes, he could pass as some smoldering, old west gunman. Gesturing you to come closer, your heart skips a beat before he plucks a nugget of deadite meat from your hair.

Remoistening your mouth after that fake out, you ask, “Could I, uh… use your shower?” the tremble leaving your voice.

“Sure,” he tosses whatever he picked off you into Eli’s tank. “C’mon- we both could use t’get clean.“ Ash obliged your request with unexpected warmth, the rapid onset of which is typically reserved for natural disaster survivors and AA meetings. And seeing as getting that gunk off was somewhat of a pressing issue, it made sense in your adrenaline-addled minds to, uh…

Back to back was the only way to do it. An airstream shower is small enough for one person, much less two, so there is this awkward shuffle to get in the water while the other person waited, freezing.

But there's a sort of non-sexual intimacy in feeling the sturdy plane of another's back pressed against one’s own. And, you're not exactly Porfirio Rubirosa, so all this skin on skin was pushing you towards total capillary distention.

Leaning from the warm spray, the back of Ash’s head rests on your shoulder. “I see you're feeling better?” That snicker when you hurried to cover yourself up rubbed you into a man shaped mass of raw nerve endings. Oh, this is it…

“I get it, I'm hot and all…” Ash joked, not knowing how deep into your grey matter he was prodding. Only just noticing the heat kissing at the tips of your ears, his voice drops to that low, sweet tone “What, you wanna turn this business shower into somethin’ more social?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a stunned trout. He’s joking. It- it’s not like he knows, right? Ash is joking, the same way he flirts with the arts and crafts girls. So you laugh- this high, nervous sound that hides nothing.

Now, he previously let you tag along because your staring and sucking up did Ash’s ego a great service. But recent developments pose a unique opportunity to keep the work day interesting: fringe benefits, if you will. Those undertones that even you barely noticed before grew sharper.

You shouldn't be thrilled by that glimmer in Ash’s eye, or the sick kick he’s getting from weaponizing your pathetic little feelings that even the stabbing reminder of your embarrassment from that night couldn't ease.

The dense, charged silence hums through the kitchenware department doesn’t stop you from making a one person task a two man job. Passing you another rubber onion saver in the product bucket brigade, Ash’s fingers not so unintentionally brush against the back of your hand.

Your skin prickles. Ash notices, and smiles with that inexhaustible charm that all but coaxes you to acknowledge that thing that's been hanging over your head for the past week. You swallow thickly, “You know, I uh… I had a really great time hanging out with you.” Shaking with nerves, it takes a few tries to put the item on the hook under his gaze. “I mean, besides the…” the rest went without saying.

Frankly, he’d missed your presence and near constant fawning, and Ash is more thankful your weird sulking period was over. “Friday’s quarter shot night at the Woodsman,” he offers a truce- some common ground to stomp on. “That… sounds like a terrible idea.” you say, regarding both the promotion and your presence at such an event.

“Yea, but one hell of a good time. C’mon- live a little, kid!” His voice lacks even a shred of cruelty or resentment. After all of that, you still find yourself so enchanted by him.

But you still try to weasel out of this. “Are we gonna hit another ‘deer’?” you ask. You get the impression Ash wanted you to have no part in the whole deadite slaying, prophecy fulfilling bs. But it seems that if you stuck with him after all that went down, you’d be much harder to shake than he thought.

“Anything’s possible,” he sighs, genuine hesitancy briefly creeping into his words before being replaced with overconfident bravado. “But- so long as you’ve got ol’ Ash here, you’ve got nothin’ t’worry about!” It seems you wouldn't have anything to worry about for quite some time.

[kitty-writes1373]

Lust For Flesh

Y/N takes her med school buddy out for drinks, not expecting the night to end like this…

Ash Williams X Fem!Reader X Herbert West

(Fluff, Smut)

2.6k Words

Warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, dom/sub dynamics, threesome, hookups, dry humping, pussyjob, unsafe sex, improper use of neckties, kissing, teasing, begging, dumbification, inexperience, vouyerism, cum eating, aftercare, terrible pet names

An: Is it really a MMF threesome if the guys don’t kiss a little? Inspired by this fanart by @its-kinda-snowy, this concept has been plaguing my mind for months! XD Happy Valentine’s Day, and go read Necronomicon Rising!!! I would love to write more for these two, so lmk if you wanna see more!

With his Hero From The Sky status, Ash was the first to get the news. By way of some overly hubristic undergrads, the Necronomicon found its way into Miskatonic University’s Archaeology department. It was a matter of time before that thing started causing trouble, so the Chosen One himself begrudgingly made the trek up to Arkham, Massachusetts. And the funny thing about college towns, there’s no shortage of nightlife: college bars, college girls…

Okay. Maybe it wasn't all bad. But it was one night; the book could wait.

Up until a few hours ago, you’d only known of Ash on your med-school peer Herbert West’s carefully doctored account: the ‘pompous braggart with the metal hand’, as he described of a previous run-in. And if you think about it, the whole reason you went out that night circles back to him.

Taking special care to avoid the stickiness of the countertops, Herbert scanned the beer mirrors, the low-class patrons. “The influence you hold over me is… troubling,” he muttered, a trace of amusement in the corners of his quotation marks.

“Okay, yeah- if there’s any time you should be letting loose, it’s after you pass your board exams-” you took a swig of a fruity cocktail. “With flying colors! Come on, tiger: let’s have some fun tonight!“

You willed that hermit outta his basement because you thought that, under the influence, Herbert might loosen up enough to dislodge that stick up his ass. Your mind’s eye could just picture him in a strident, entertaining argument with some pre-meds, that’d end in some glorious fistfight you could explain to him in the morning. You would call that a night well spent.

But of all the O’Malley’s Bars, in all the college towns, in all the world, Ash Williams just happens to stroll into the same one as you two.

You two: this complete smoke show of a woman next to—chatting up, that pencil necked geek Ash would sooner ‘this is sparta’ into that damn cellar before ever trying to kiss and make up with. But at his core, Ash lives to provoke. He’s also a hypocrite.

“West, hey! Long time no see-“ Noticing you—subsequently, looking you over in that endearingly sleazy way—shock crossed Ash’s stupidly chiseled face at the notion this dweeb could so much as talk to a woman. “Did you make this one? She is stunning- Who might you be, beautiful?”

A broad palm shot out to grip Ash’ wrist where he slid in like a bone saw through soft tissue “Y/N…” appalled at the lusty glimmer he saw in your eyes, Herbert played the little Angel on your shoulder. “I wouldn't so much as give this imbecile the time of day- inviting a third isn’t in the terms of our-!”

“It’s fine! I’ll be fine…” You gently dismissed him as acting in the territorial fashion men tend to when their social standing is challenged. Judging by the sudden aggression his mere presence fostered in an otherwise levelheaded professional, this was your guy.

With some flimsy excuse, you dragged the two to slip away somewhere quieter: some private, squalid little booth in a dark corner of the bar. Taking your curiosity as to why these two were so naturally, inescapably at each other’s throats out of the question, you simply wanted to cozy up to this breed of stud that is all but extinct in med school.

And it seemed that stud was charming to boot. “So, Y/N…. What’s the draw fr’ you?” Ash, with his flattering haircut and a chin that could break windows in case of emergency, indicated Herbert with a nod. “You dig that large cranium of his?”

Snickering, you fell against that jerk’s broad shoulder— cuddling up to him like some drunk puppy. “Aww, he’s nice! I don’t know- he’s not some stick in the mud… He’s a gentleman!”

You must have a different definition of nice, Ash thought, glancing between you and the dweeb with discernment.

Once or twice, the thought crossed your mind: the intensity behind those thick glasses, the passionate way he’d rant to you about all the myriad flaws written in the fibre of the human body because you cared to listen. Herbert, always free on fridays and saturday nights if he wasn’t ‘working’, he told you—which was weird because he didn’t have a job…

Poor guy probably doesn’t get much action. He probably whines. Or drools, or whimpers, the little sounds getting caught in his throat... Okay, maybe it was more than once or twice.

Herbert was so cluelessly un-hip that it was a wonder his pants stayed up. It took him a few good beats to detect the lust clouding your gaze, much less the fact you were looking at him. “My- my respected colleague and I maintain a strictly platonic relationship,” he told Ash, the indignity he was blinking away ringing hollow.

“-but you’ve thought about it, right?” Under the table, metal fingers danced along the seams of your clothes. You felt condescending chuckle rumble in Ash’s chest. “C’mon. Don't kid yourself, love bug…”

The reference flew right over Herbert’s head, much like human emotions and how flippant they were under the influence of sex hormones. And the way you were melting into that cocky jerk didn’t do anything for emotional processing.

There was something uncharacterically personal in the feelings Herbert held for you. Sure, you lacked his drive and potential- but behind the knife, West saw you as an equal. And with that barrier of professionality, he felt this… illogical yearning for things he didn’t consider before: not sex (because that is a very human, very normal thing to want), but that skin on skin contact-feeling another person’s ribs swell and contract.

What Dr. West didn’t yearn for was another hour of watching you draped over Ash-inova like a cheap scarf.

Like a glass of cold water down his back, the toe of your shiny, patent leather heel traced the inseam of his slacks. Body straightening instantaneously, love bug here glared at the hand still getting acquainted with the flesh of your thigh under the table. And while Ash’s face was buried in the crook of your neck, you could feel the simmering, dense eye contact between those two.

Slumping into the ratty, stained upholstery, your med-school buddy mumbled something about ‘the two of you being disgusting in public’, jealousy tangible. “Mmm… What’s the matter?” you half slurred, eyes half lidded. “Y’wanna go?”

And yes, Herbert did want to go. But as communication has it, something got mangled along the way and those very real, unplatonic feelings were coming to light; that is, in the privacy of your dorm room now, because ‘go’ meant ‘go back to my place’.

But Herbert would've been fine if you could keep your hands off each other for five minutes. He glared at you from the far end of the sofa that felt far too short with the two of you on the other end. “If you expect me to play voyeur for you two, then…” Venom trickled from his words as Herbert struggled to think of what he actually would do. Probably watch.

Putting a pin in canoodling, Ash peeled away from you “No, no- four eyes’ gotta point.” Leaning around where he had you perched on his lap, he whispered with that stupid, Hollywood smirk, "Ask him t’play doctor! C'mon..." Oh, very original…

A slim hand- your hand, wrapped around the length of his tie and tugged him closer the way one would direct a stubborn animal. Not sugar-giving distance, but your faces were close enough that you could see the ring of white around Herbert’s irises.

Holding him there a moment, feeling the nervous heat prickle his chin, you sighed. “I can’t kiss you with your glasses on.” Really, you were giving the poor guy a chance to bow out, shaken as he looked. But the human brain, unfair and often cruel, is by nature imperfect.

A pair of glasses clattered on the coffee table. It was curiosity really: logic. The desire to know and understand something so irratio- oh, who was he kidding?

Running a palm up under the hem of your skimpy excuse for a top, Ash resumed his territory at your neck. He was smug in his front row seat to this sleazefest and, by grace of proximity, Ash seized the opportunity to cop a brazen handful of your colleague's ass with his free hand. And Herbert yelped, and you giggled…

The heat coming off of your bodies swirled with a dizzying melange of cheap aftershave, formaldehyde, and the heady buzz of sex hormones.

Wasting no time licking into your mouth, Ash relishes your flesh like you were a car he was thinking of buying: the calloused palm running up your ribs to thumb over a hardened nipple with intention, the lips that only pull away from yours to rake over a tendon in your neck. “Mmm… that's it. Shh…” Under his ministrations, you whine, canting your hips into the hand that made steady work of your clit through your underwear. “Would y’look at that…”

And behind you, with that square cut of jaw digging into the back of your shoulder… Herbert, all pale and falling appart- grinds against you like with the same desperation that bloomed in needy bruises on your hips. So close you can feel the shaky breath catching in his chest, you lean back with a sigh, murmuring something low and teasing he would’ve been able to hear were it not for the sound of his rupturing capillaries.

Your brain melts out of your ears at the tangle of arms, of mouths- of the tight, hot coil wound deep in your stomach. Heat prickling your skin, it didn’t even occur to you that after all the undressing, the guys were at least half clothed; you weren't.

With a strained huff, Ash fumbles his jeans down to alleviate that ache behind his zipper. That low chuckle that rumbles in his chest when that- that thing he pulls out of his pants thwacks against your lower stomach makes your head swim.

You sear the image of Ash’s tan, calloused grip fisting his length a couple good, deep strokes before pulling you closer. “Fuck-” Ash chokes, the words catching in his throat “You- you’re killin’ me here…” As arrogant as he is, you can feel how you affected him- that twitch when he nestles his tip between your folds with this lewd, slick noise.

Ash’s eyes take on this evil glint every time he catches the bottom of your clit, the way your breath catches and your whole body tenses. But his fingers never leave their spot between your thighs, idly toying with whatever he needed to pull those little breathy sounds from you: thumbing over your slit, dipping inside to gather your wetness before sliding back to your clit.

It was that same, human lust for the flesh that reduces your colleague to a babbling, grinding mess. Burying his burning face in your shoulder, Herbert’s voice cracked like a glass teetering on the edge of a table, “H-haa…Y/N. Please, I-!”

Ash shoots the occasional glance over your shoulder, where Herbert, with that big beautiful brain of his, grovels at the mercy of those sex hormones.

Nearly getting a mouthful of your hair, Herbert’s lack of experience manifests in how tightly he clings to you, losing what remains of his dignity with the swan dive, the little death- whatever you call it. How pathetic he sounded begging took center stage instead of the now cold fluids saturating his crotch.

Eyes falling half lidded in exhaustion, that fine specimen of human anatomy slumps against your shoulder, watching. Observing the breath catching in your chest. Feeling those reflexes: the lordosis response, that little jerk in your leg as all the muscles in your body pull tight like a bowstring…

Entirely overwhelmed, white hot sensation shoots up your spine. You were powerless. Fluttering around fingers--somebody’s fingers—you tumbled over. Floating somewhere above awareness, boneless and soaked in sweat, your stomach flipped at the obscene sight Ash held up: his hand, shaky with restraint and soaked down to the wrist.

You only come back down to earth at the little stretch of the flare of his tip rutting against your gooey hole. Trying so, so hard to hold himself together, Ash pulls away, using your slick to impatiently stroking himself through climax. With a low, strangled groan, he sprays thick, white webs across your lower stomach.

Clothing sits pooled at the floor, having been shed in that fumbling, overeager manner in the rush of clumsy repositioning. There is a strange intimacy to be found in the same sweaty swell of ribcages expanding, then exhaling. This was this thick stillness hanging in the around you, where the stickiness doesn’t feel all that bad because, well- you we’re sticky with each other, together.

Whatever it was, it only lasted until Ash opened his mouth. “Look at you:” He murmured appreciatively, preening a hand through your sweat soaked hair, “the sweet, sweet cold cuts in this love sandwich…”

“Youre disgusting…” Herbert grumbled, even before Ash swiped up the evidence he left on you and licked it off his thumb, which was far more deserving of that reaction. He would've put up more of a fight, but West was still worn out from that… experience.

Even more so deserving of that statement was when you grabbed a pack of tan shoulder muscle and pressed a sloppy, cockdrunk kiss to his lips. Returning one to your forehead, Ash pulled you to lean against his chest to recuperate. “You were so good fr’ me, sweetheart…” he panted, still catching his breath before correcting, “Sorry—us.”

There was such tenderness in how he handled your still limp body as he helped you to your feet. He coaxed, “Upsie daisy, there we go…” Three steps towards your bathroom with his hands under your armpits, you lean back to grab Herbert’s glasses from the table. Prompting Ash, he looked back at the wreckage of what used to be a couch. “What’s your problem, pointdexter?” he asked, words lacking the venom from earlier.

Herbert, somehow paler than usual and trying to get his bearings, gave a dismissive gesture before sinking into the couch. His nerves were so brittle you could use them for kindling.

That was promptly ignored when Ash grabbed love bug with his free hand, making it very clear he wasn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Talk about the power of male bonding experiences…

That silent grudge hung in the air the way bricks don't. But the sight of him—like how you see fever depicted in old movies—-he looked undeniably helpless. In the grand scheme of people who have a grudge with Ash, Herbert ranks up there with plastic flowers on video as a non-concern.

They weren't quite on thanking terms yet, but there was silent acknowledgement between the two of them in the bathroom. Princess gets special privileges: in this case, you got dibs on the closed toilet lid while Herbert was relegated to the floor next to the porcelain throne. The room was crowded for one, so you were all touching no matter how you shifted or were repositioned.

Still trying to piece together that polarizing experience, he watched the smooth, repetitive motion of Ash wiping down your thighs: listening to how he cooed so sweetly over you when you helped or squirmed in oversensitivity.

Maybe the guy actually did have a heart… Nah. Intrepidly soft, Herbert’s voice echoed off the bathroom tile as he tried a line he was mulling over for some time. “Did you know, the recto-vaginal septum is-“ clearing his throat, he fumbled his glasses when Ash handed them to him. “It's only three millimeters thick?”

Ash wondered what the hell that insinuated, while you… “Ooh, you dog!” you giggled, catching yourself against a solid, square shoulder- such a casually intimate touch. “We have got to do this more often…”

[kitty-writes1373]

Has anyone on here read the Re-Animator/Army of Darkness comics? Just out of curiosity, no reason in particular… *cough cough* Ash X Reader X Herbert *cough*…

[kitty-writes1373]

hallooo sorry for the super specific request but i am nothing if not self indulgent—please could you write some ash williams x reader headcanons where the reader is shy and kind of "off-putting" due to being autistic ( some examples but you don't have to include all of them!: monotone voice, flat effect w/ facial expressions, little eye contact, struggles to pick up on social cues, reserved/doesn't speak unless spoken to ) but ash is super smitten with them anyway? again sorry for the specific request!! 😭 also happy new year!!

Ash Williams X Autistic!Reader HC’s

Ash Williams X Gn!Reader

(Fluff)

Warnings: Suggestive content, flirting, workplace romance, first dates, situationships, misunderstandings

An: Thank you for the request! I adore longer request (makes my job easier!), and as someone who has a lot of those mannerisms, this was equally self indulgent to write! Additionally, I know all 2 of my Evil Dead fics are essentially S-Mart romances, but workplaces are such good venues for romance! I’d love to write for any of the other films/tv show if that’s something youre specifically looking for! Anyways thank you again! <3

If Ash had a nickel every time you opened your mouth, he couldn’t buy his way into a paid toilet

Of all the slackers and losers in this dump, you were the only one who seemed to give a shit about the S-Mart standard of service.

Coaxing grains of sincerity like pulling teeth, he tried small talk—that is to say, dramatically regaling you with his adventures in the Middle Ages.

“I could’ve stayed, and been their king, but… I knew that my place was here. I mean, now- with modern medicine, and conveniences…” Fwip, fwip- you didn’t look up from the boxes you were stickering:

“I don’t get paid to talk to you.”

Most people hear that, and your lack of inflection, and think thats some sort of personal jab. But Ash, either blinded by attraction or actually keen on the lack of real edge in your voice, didn’t.

After a pause, you added, “I get a half hour break at 12:30.”

So you had a routine: munching your lunch, you’d listen to Ash complain about customers—you know how he can’t shut up—tossing in a nod here or there because you didn’t have much to add.

But, one afternoon, you let it slip, “My supervisor got on me earlier for ‘not smiling enough’, or something…”

“Yeah? Well, Mark can go scratch-” He swallowed a bite of sandwich with a hint of edge. “You pick up more slack than half the idiots around here.” as if to say not to worry about it.

If you couldnt pick up the sheer warmth he exuded with you, the eagerness with which he always sided with you made it obvious how taken he was by you, akward mannerism and all.

Conversely, Ash was this paradigm of social aptitude: so charmingly confident that he could make an accidental castration comfortable. Equal parts envy and attraction, you wanted him.

But you couldn’t just tell him that.

In the folowing weeks, he’d catch your gaze fixated on him when you stocked shelves together. Not staring, just looking with this acute infatuation that really made his ego swell- not that he needed that.

In his good natured but ultimately unaware way, Ash wrote off your strait forwardness and mannerisms as you just being quirky, or shy—or homeschooled. The way you approached him was different.

Different sounds pretty nice when every time he’d gotten the whole batting eyelashes, twirling hair routine from someone, it usually ended with them making a grab for our ol’ Hero From The Sky’s soul.

“Y/N! Look at you, employee of the month…” Ash so coincidentally ran into you clocking out for the evening and asked, “How about you and I celebrate tonight? There’s a diner just down that way, and-“

“Oh. Like… is this a date?”

Hit with the realization that you didn’t just think those words, you scrambled. “I-I mean, I wanted to ask if you wanted to go out sometime, but I didn’t wanna be creepy, or-“

The notion was enough to make him scoff, “Creepy? I know creepy. C’mon...”

So what if you took a little time to open up? He didn’t mind. Eventually, the two of you would be fooling around in the back of the Oldsmobile, or sneaking kisses in storage closets-

But tonight, you were eating pancakes for dinner in some trashy diner. And it was perfect.

[kitty-writes1373]

Hi! No request but as someone who loves both Ash Williams and Adrian Chase, just know you’re doing me a huge service ❤️

Aaaa thank you so much!!! <333 I look forward to writing about the both of them, especially since I have some extra time on my hands this semester! ;D

[kitty-writes1373]

Ash Williams general headcanons with s/o?

Ash X Reader HC’s!

Ash Williams X Gn!Reader

(Fluff, Hurt/Comfort)

Warnings: Suggestive content, situationships, workplace relationships, smoking mention, alcohol mention, cuddling, past trauma

An: Thank you SO SO much <333 I wasn’t sure if you were looking for smut or just general HC’s for dating him, so I kept it pretty tame compared to my normal stuff. If that something you’re interested in, I am totally open to writing that! For context, this is post AOD Ash but if there’s something more specific you’d like, send me an ask! Thank youuu!

It couldn't have been a more movie perfect meet-cute. I mean, S-Mart isn’t the most romantic of locales, but…

Your first day on the job, you’d gotten called for a price check in housewares: that jaunty name badge, your customer service smile that hadn't settled in yet… He was smitten.

So smitten that the usual cool, confident Ash Williams stumbled over a microwave he was supposed to be shelving.

You turn arround, and there he is: sprawled out on the ground, very desperately trying to salvage his ego.

“Oh, crap- are you alright?” On reflex, you hurry over to help him up, brushing floor dirt from the same polyester uniform shirt that looked so nice on you…

“I’m doing just fine,” he chuckled, laying the charisma on thick. “Now that you’re here, I mean.”

Let’s say Ash isn't unfamiliar with the time tested way to make retail more tolerable: sleeping with your coworkers.

But next to all the employees he’s charmed the pants off, there was some…staying power, in your fleeting conversations in break rooms, or by the dumpster to smoke.

So you started going out. Not dating per se-

Well, if you could call ‘dating’ spending your Friday nights in his Delta, en-route to grab dinner or get trashed, than sure.

Thank god for bench seats, giving you the liberty to slide right up to lean into his shoulder, basking in a mix of Irish spring and whatever aftershave he uses.

Or snuggling into his side in a cozy arm chair,,,, hhhnng oh my god.

Speaking of, this man is a chronic cuddler. But you’d have to water board that information out of him.

“I’m just saying, with the logistics of it-“ he insisted. “If I was behind you, I’d choke on your hair in the night and die. It’s a risk!”

You scoff, “That’s impossible…” finding yourself cuddling up behind him despite the shoddy logic.

It was only after a few movie nights at yours ran late that Ash realized how lying next to you made sleep come easier- what with… well, everything thats happened.

He never mentions any of it to you. You didn’t sign up for his baggage,

So, one day on break, when you asked about the hand, he replied, “Chainsaw accident.”-without any hint of sarcasm or his unshakable joking pretense.

You didn’t think to question the circumstances because it tracked with everything you’d learned about him.

“I mean, I think it’s pretty cool,” you mused, listening to the soft, metallic clicking as he wiggled fingers on the one hand to demonstrate. “It’s kinda like those gloves knights wear…”

And again, if only you knew. But your gallant imagery did nothing to his already inflated sense of pride: Sir Ash of Housewares… it had a ring to it.

Your relationship isn’t conventional, but it is very, very happy.

But god forbid the day you verbally refer to him as your ‘boyfriend’.

You can bet he’s pulling out all the most obnoxious pet names for you—‘honey bun’, ‘sugar bee’, ‘angel toes’—publicly. Just to get on your nerves a little-

And you don’t have the heart to tell Ash you find it more cute than annoying.

[kitty-writes1373]

In my absence, I have been getting into movies and I was SO shocked to find Evil Dead has a fandom on tumblr?? The tag is kind a fic desert so I would LOVE to write for Ash if anyone would be interested in reading/requesting <333

[kitty-writes1373]

Fresh Starts, Familiar Faces

After college doesn’t work out, you move back to Evergreen and reunite with your old friend’s brother- who still has a crush on you.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Adrian Chase X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Angst, Smut)

2.2k Words

Warnings: 18+, slowburn, friends to lovers, childhood friends, one sided crushes, masturbation, accidental vouyerism, underwear, mild perv!Adrian, alcohol, lesbianism misconceptions, y/n college dropout

An: Thank you so much for all the love my previous Adrian fics have been getting! This is the first installation in a multi part series, but I don’t have everything figure out just yet, so feel free to shoot me a message and bounce some ideas off of me!

“So…You’re still into Pokémon?”

Gut’s kid brother—can you call a thirty year old man a kid?—maintained that infectious ease in contrast to the vestigial awkwardness after years of radio silence.

“Uh, yeah! That's like asking if Ash is still into catching em’ all.” You succumbed to a pity laugh, half understanding the reference. Taking a conversation springboard, Adrian eagerly added, “I just got Scarlet and Violet on the switch if you wanna play later!”

Playing JRPGs with a grown man ranked up there with jury duty and writing your dissertation. But seeing as you’d be staying at the Chase household until you could get on your feet, you obliged with a curt nod.

Adrian leapt at your offer to meet at Big Belly Burger without questioning why you’d want to see him, nor your request to crash at his place for a while. Because he liked you. He’d liked you since the operative adjective for you was ‘nice’, as in a dreamily naive, ‘I really like Y/N. She’s nice…’

That memory was a perpetual source of teasing from his brother. But those feelings were still there. And guess who wasn’t!

Adrian took a sip of his syrupy, toxic green Midori Sour. “Was college fun before you dropped out?” He scraped his brain for everything he’d learned in movies: Pi Delta Pi, toga parties- KY Jelly wrestling…

The words rolled around your mouth to take form. “It was… a lot of work. And expensive.” Not having maintained many friends, your connection with Gut was the only one you could fall on. “I just…need a place to stay while I get things sorted out. Try and find a job in the meantime.” You took a swig of your Heineken, as if you could wash the bitter reality down, pill style.

”Well…did you at least do any cool, lesbian stuff there?”

Did he just say that? The second it left his lips, Adrian had to ask himself that too. Your skepticism left him awash in cold nerves, gesticulating. “I thought that’s what girls do at college…?” Not wanting to sound like some homophobic bigot, he rambled, “I-I mean, that's super cool! Like awesome, if that’s your thing! If I ever got to go to college, I’d totally-“

“-be a lesbian?”, you raised an eyebrow. Clumsy with panic, Adrian nodded. Oh, the fumbling- you missed how easy it was to get a leg up on him. It was harder now that you couldn’t use him as an armrest, or put your hand on his forehead to keep him at arm’s length- but nevertheless satisfying.

Time had weakened your grasp on how poorly the man understood social cues. You watched as Adrian, his recent social blunder having washed downstream in his consciousness, stood up to sit on your side of the already cramped booth as if to say, ‘you didn't finish’.

And remember how you liked messing with him? “Okay, okay…” Glancing around the restaurant with pretend secrecy, you dropped your voice to a purr. “There was this one time.“ Oh, and how hard it was to play it straight with Adrian’s big, Margarita glass eyes staring at you. “It was me, three girls from Beta Alpha Mu, and…a can of whipped cream! We were drinkin’ a little- you know how it goes with girls… And you know what we did?”

The curling of your finger pulled Adrian, as if by sexy, red shibari ropes. “Uh… what did you do?” So close he could feel your breath on the skin of his cheek, salacious, giggling images flipped through his mind like fluttering magazine pages: lacy little nightgowns, smeared lipstick, Redi-whip… Your tongue, flicking a hot stripe up the side of his face.

“Nothing!” Cackling, you toppled against the booth’s wall. “Oh my- you actually believed that…” Wiping sticky palms his pants to keep his hands from trembling, Adrian—who still hadn't come back to reality yet— forced a laugh. Your spit was drying on his face.

“You still live here?” Adrian, with a lingering tremor in his step. lugged your bags inside like the gentleman he is despite your insistence that you were plenty capable. “Mmhm-“ Dropping them in the living room with a stifled thud, he beamed in the darkness. “Welcome to Casa de Chase! Feels good to be back…?”

Pulling up, you saw the front yard was pockmarked with the same porcelain chintz that’d been there when you left Evergreen. His mom still baked, judging by the jar of cookies on the counter. And Adrian, in his very endearing way, wouldn't leave you alone.

“You could sleep in my room if you want! I’ve gotta full bed, so there’s enough space for the both of-” Tailing you down the hall, he bumped into your backside in his eagerness. “Oh- sorry!”

Startled at how tall he’d gotten, you made some distance between your bodies to forget how him murmuring against the shell of your ear made you shivver. “Or… I could sleep in your brother’s.”

“Well, if you get scared, or there's- like, thunder, or… something-!“ Adrian called after as you disappeared into the darkness.

“I know where your room is!” Oblivion responded with a shuttering door. And he was alone. Adrian Chase was stuck in a vexing position- those kinds of positions he intended to save for after his stupid, shaky, sweaty hands could shut the door of his bedroom.

Collapsing onto his legs Star Wars bedsheets, he prayed- oh, so sincerely prayed to the lightning gods for one really good storm. He’d be totally cool forever if they just did him one solid here. If only they knew what was at stake!

Who is he kidding? Next to you—who, if you’d been born a few centuries earlier, could’ve toppled whole civilizations with how beautiful you were—Adrian was a crusty bloodstain on crime fighting spandex. He was less than that.

Inferiority went hand in hand with you. Your absence from Adrian’s life was like staring at that massive hole on the Sunset Strip when they tore down the seventy foot tall Marlboro Man. But now that you were here—that pretty girl he only spied from around corners and through ajar doors—you were still just as unattainable as Meghan Fox, or Taylor Swift, or any of those glossy megastar women he’s jerked off to countless times…

Oh.

That's an idea.

Consider the proximity of his room and where you were staying, and this becomes a batshit insane idea; Adrian didn't go through puberty until his mid twenties, long after there would be anyone there to hear his late night escapades.

With a groan, Adrian’s idle hand twitched down to fiddle with his waistband. Your palms would be soft. Probably wear lotion, and lipstick. Ugh, now he’s thinking about your mouth… Fucking degenerate, down to the marrow of his bones.

In his mind, you’re smiling in his doorway, telling him how much you missed him after all these years. And you’re walking to the side of his bed, and Adrian gets an idea on how to make you feel better after that whole college thing…

In the empty darkness of a room where you can feel the tangible void of a person, all you can do is listen. So the obvious happened: you heard. Intrepidly, you crept to sit up and press your ear to the wallboard. Was Adrian—your Adrian— actually doing what you thought he was?

Logic would dictate he was in the privacy of his own room, satisfying very normal needs in a healthy way. It would be wrong to listen

Emotion also said it would be wrong to listen. Wrong to imagine those big, soft eyes falling half lidded, or those babbled syllables falling from his lips, or that little choke in his throat as those wet, skin-on-spit-on-skin noises quickened in eagerness.

It was a sound you’d bottle if only you could divorce it from its source. Because this was the same man who thought explaining how manta rays are beautiful and innocent underwater miracles constituted small talk. Hopelessness like that made you go a big rubbery one.

You laid back in bed at a moral impasse: a confused, sticky impasse…

Shame and Confusion: part of a balanced breakfast! Sun streaming in through the valances, Adrian watched you eat your Fruit Loops with this goofy, lovesick smile. You pretended like your stomach didn't churn as his foot intentionally brushed yours under the table.

Apparently unaware—or, in a perverse way, exceedingly aware—of what’d reverberated through the drywall last night, he murmured, voice still sluggish with sleep. “I ate my breakfast with that spoon yesterday.” Before you could ask how he knew, he pointed to a kink in the handle with a certain self satisfaction. By Adrian logic, that's basically a kiss.

Standing at the sink, his mother could attest; she probably washed it. As if the though just occured to her, she gasped, “Oh! Y/N-“ Wiping her hands on a tacky, embroidered towel she turned over her shoulder, “How’s the baby?”

Kicking Adrian—who was very much awake now—under the table, you choked. “I mean, is he in a good home?” She asked with latent concern, “It can’t be easy juggling rehab and a newborn, and I think you-“ Having gotten his inobservancy genes from her side, it took her that long to notice her son miming panicked gestures to the extent of her shutting up.

“Mom!” Pushing his food with his fork, he took a moment to concoct a reasonable lie. “She’s, uh- Y/N doesn’t want to talk about that! She…left that life behind. After prison.” What universe did you wake up in?

More concerning was the fact Ms. Chase didn’t bat an eye at her son so obviously pulled this out of his ass. “Alright, alright…” Toweling off a collectible glass, she asked with bottomless cheerfulness, “What’re you kids up to today?”

Those words shook you from wondering how bad you were as a teenager to make her react so unimpressed. “Well, Adrian is taking me out-” Breakfast had devolved into socio-emotional warfare as you drilled excruciating eye contact through his corneas and into his brain. “For a very nice, very expensive dinner tonight. Maybe even shopping. Right?”

With the half-assed Tuscan theme and a menu featuring Sodexo’s greatest hits, this was not the very expensive dinner you were promised. Seething in your pleather booth, you craned your head as Adrian—on the clock still—passed by. “So, I’m a drug addict with some…crack baby?“

Not stopping, he unloaded an appetizer that’d died on the line, he mumbled “Yeah- she, uh… she gets like that when she misses her dementia pills.” Buzzing off to clear a table, you had to shout after him. “This doesn’t count as dinner, Adrian!”

With a sigh, you sank down in your seat. Since Gut went to the Marines, he hadn’t changed much: same Dahmer glasses, same 80’s haircut, same outdated sneakers. But as Adrian scooped a handful of used flatware in a dish bin, you noticed that in addition to getting taller, he’d filled out a little as evidenced by the pack of bicep cleverly hidden beneath his maroon uniform.

Rounding your table, he dropped off a plate of chips and salsa which had no business being in an Italian restaurant. “Oh! By the way-“ freezing mid step, Adrian backtracked. “We’re hiring, so I put in a good word for you with my supervisor today!”

He remembered. Hell, it’d slipped your mind after you said it. Rattled by this jarring display of intuition from Adrian of all people, you glanced out the window for raining frogs or other signs of the end times.

Leaping to your feet, you pulled him into a hug that made him stagger, nearly dropping a stack of shatterproof glasses, “Ah! You're the best!” If you could only see his coworkers' reactions- and Adrian’s: the wide eyes, the breath getting punched out of him like he was socked in the chest.

That night, Adrian lay in bed having showered away the day. In the moonlight, flushed red limbs sprawled out on top of his bedsheets in a desperate attempt to cool off.

Achingly slowly, you pushed open the door so as not to surprise him. Your gaze licked a hot trail from Adrian’s tightly whites, up the cut of his hip bone- to the smooth skin above his navel and the dip between his pecs. It was icky, and perverse- payback.

“Hey-“ Jolting up at your words to cover himself, you reassured, “Sorry, sorry! I’m just… I wanted to thank you for today.”

Apprehension hung heavy in the air. Staring at your silhouette in the hallway light, Adrian was almost positive you were in your underwear too: normal underwear. You just got out of the shower too, probably. God, he was so weak for you…

He spits out, “You’re welcome!” This a cruel trick Adrian’s brain made up to torture him. Any second, he’d wake up from this dream with his boxers glued to his left leg.

There’s a lingering beat, where you’re both waiting for the other one to do what they want, but neither have the guts to do so.

“Are those Star Wars sheets?”

“Mmhm...”

[kitty-writes1373]

On the Edge

Alex picked up some romantic novelties from Spirit Halloween, and he is just thrilled to live out his slasher fantasies with his final girl <3

Alex Wright X Fem!Reader

(Smut)

1.5k Words

Warnings: 18+, roleplay, primal!kink if you squint?, dom/sub dynamics, blood play, knifeplay, degradation, dry humping, premature ejaculation, fake blood, sweat, kink negotiation

An: This was a suggestion by the wonderful @vampirebroth! After so long of neglecting any Halloween content, I actually got this one! It seems I can only wrote smut about this movie freak… Anyways, happy Halloween and thank you for reading!

Alex drew the after-Halloween sale prop knife across his palm. “See?” S’got ink in the blade.” On behalf of innovations in ball point technology, a glossy, red gash remained. “Cool…” examining the object in question, you felt the weight. He just… stared at you, seeking approval for this stupid little fantasy he concocted.

You glanced to the Spirit Halloween bag that still sat on the bed. “This is ridiculous,” you chuckled, not exactly moved by the gesture of vulnerability. “You want me to be all, ‘Oh! Cut me! Gut me! Make me bleed, Mr. Ghostface’!”

Covering up the shattered twitch in his expression, Alex turned his reaction to stone. Stop fiddling with your hands. Girls notice that. “Humor me.” He flashed a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just once- you can tag out whenever you want…”

The scene was an exercise in cliche: the cute, college girl lounging on her bedspread, twirling her hair while some old B-movie flickered on your box tv. Even if he was a shitty director, the guy had vision.

Cynically, you sensed this was about to turn into Freddy Dildo-Hands. But that buzzing, caustic promise of whatever psychosexual hellscape you were stumbling into sizzled low in your stomach. Bored out of your mind, your gaze meandered to the plastic phone set on your desk. Come on… come-

Riiiiing!

And- okay, you were a little excited. Trying to stay in character, you so cooly wandered over to the handset. “Hello…?”

And it crackled back. “Who’s this?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Smirking, you watched the on screen hero decapitate a zombie in glorious, phosphorescent CRT.

Likely, it was the growl of chainsaw hitting flesh that topped him off. “You’ve got the tv on,” the man on the other hand so astutely observed from the sound. “What’re you watching?"

You twirl the curly ringlet of cord, “Cable’s got some…old reruns- Halloween stuff.”

“Oh. So a scary movie?” Despite your boyfriend’s attempt at a gravely, intimidating voice, it was his enthusiasm that gave him away. “You… like scary movies?”

Not having seen Scream in the first place, his meticulous knowledge of the film eluded you, and you rolled your eyes. “Well… a normal amount- yeah,” you add as a backhanded jab. Not even your sex life was safe from your boyfriend’s stupid movie obsession. There was barely a restrained thrill in his voice,

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

Mentally, you flipped through the blood splattered Rolodex that is Alex’s Letterboxd page. “Uh… Army of Darkness. Yeah-“ you lied. “Or American Werewolf in London.” Flopping down on your bed, you glanced out towards the moon. Molar rattling party hits from nearby Fraternities drifted in on the cool air.

“Nice effects in that one…” the voice purred with as much recognition as ‘I taught you well’ self satisfaction, rising above the chattering and howling of a college campus on the weekend after Halloween. “Never told me your name.”

You picked at a loose thread on your comforter. “What’s it mean t’you?” It was a genuine question this time. And again, the line went cold.

“Well. I’d like to know who I’m looking at.”

He said it so calmly. He could've told you he just took out the trash. This was the same guy who’d talk himself blue if you so much as mentioned Giallo or splatter film- the same dork who filmed movie reviews alone in his room on Friday nights because his roommate was out.

“Is… is this some joke?” You staggered to your feet, more annoyed than frightened.

“More of a game, really.” A trace of a condescending smile lingered in the corners of those quotation marks. And it was as if he sense you- “No- don't hang up! I want to… let’s just talk. I’ve got a question.”

There's a stagnant pause. It’s only you and the TV. And the window, with the sheers billowing in the night breeze. T was just a game, but god- did it feel real. The room shrank a few inches toward you.

“Why’d you leave your window open on such a cold night?”

A tumble, some rug burn- it went to the background as you clamored to catch a grip! Your fingernails dug into the plywood as window sill as stinging air washed your face. Behind you, the door shuddered on its hinges.

In an instant, cold metal gnashed at your neck. You froze. “Hey- hey…” echoing behind plastic, the individual wielding the knife spoke clear and easy, unlike the awkward verbiage and stiltedness you’d associated with your boyfriend. “What’s the matter?” Taking advantage of your disorientation, his free hand laced fingers with yours.

With that as an anchor, you were very slowly, very helplessly backed against the chipped wallboard in invisible, shuffling steps. Your excruciatingly present threat stayed, cold against your trachea to tickle your thrumming carotid. You were helpless. Every panicked breath pressed you a sliver deeper into the sharp point.

At the last second, you jerked away. On the ground now, you clawed: limbs trembling from this phony threat. You were a field mouse in the grip of some bird of prey. A yank, a low-pile skid, and you were staring with big, blown out pupils at the dark figure who’d wedged himself between your thighs.

Slowly, the red streaked down the curve of your neck, the soft skin over your sternum. “I’m giving you an offer here.” Shaky with anticipation, a leather-bound hand slid up to your chest to grab a shameless handful. “One last, good time before you shuffle off that mortal coil…”

With a stagger, your assailant caught you under the knee. It felt like someone poured gasoline down his throat and crammed sparks in your stomach when you felt that little twitch in his pants.

Snagging the elastic band of your sleep shorts, your concern for the blade was very quickly put on hold. You had an idea. Reaching out, you smacked that stupid plastic mask off. Clattering on the ground, that left Alex to stare at you, his gut wrenching up in shock and embarrassment.

Satisfaction at your own defiance smeared across your face as you caught your breath. Were you provoking him, or were you so immersed in this fantasy that this was going to be the last act of a desperate victim?

Adaptability is an underrated quality in the world of filmmaking. Very quickly recovering, this demented fervency shot through his eyes. The yellow overhead lights glinted off the plastic as he drew the blade.

Slowly, the knife drew smooth across the tender skin of your exposed inner thigh—A. A thin, crimson slash remained.

Eyes transfixed by the blade, a shallow groan rumbled from your boyfriend’s chest—L. His identity was revealed anyways- not like this’d matter…

By the time he got E, you realized. It was a mark of ownership. He couldn't be the one to kill you—because in his fantasy, that’d be the end of the fun— but this was better. You’d be branded as his: his warm body to mess with- his victim.

Almost breaking skin, that intentional jab got close to drawing real blood as he scratched in that last slash—X.

Sweaty, his hair dangled in his face as he ducked between your legs. Glancing up to force you to meet his gaze, Alex licked a hot, wet stripe up the newly inscribed mark. The visual alone was enough to make your head swim. Head lolling back at the sensation, you planted your palm on his forehead. “You’re sick!”

Logic tarnished by lust, your boyfriend pulled from the hopelessly smeared ink. He was reeling. “Yeah?” Modesty clocks out as he slots himself between your thighs. “Fuck… yeah- yeah. I’m disgusting?” Something fluttered low in your stomach at how affected Alex was by your provocation- the half lidded eyes, the sore handfuls of your hips grabbed to ground himself as he rutted against you.

“Yeah… Gonna blow your load in your pants?” Testing unsteady ground, you were only spurred on by how pathetically fucked out you left him with this. “Cant believe I’m doing this with you- fuckin’ perv’,” you panted, meeting his movement the best you could. It sounded like heaven: the little hitch in your boyfriend's voice when all his restraint is forfeit...

With a keening whine unbefeiting of any movie killer Alex’s movements staggered as he emptied himself into his boxers. It was so, so embarrassing. But how could it feel so good? God, he was pathetic… Please tell him he’s pathetic.

Catching your breath, you flopped back with smug satisfaction at how…broken you’d gotten him- completely and entirely fucked without so much as taking your pants off. Frozen in that postmortem bliss, he finally collected himself enough to push some wet strands of hair off his forehead.

Naturally looking down at the sticky spot on your shorts, Alex swallowed thickly. “Alright, alright- gimmie a sec…” Without asking what you needed—which he always does, given he has no idea what women really like in bed half the time—he shimmied out of what remained of his clothes. You chuckled. Maybe indulging his fantasies isn’t so bad of an idea…

[kitty-writes1373]

Heavy Artillery

This task force didn't exist on paper, and neither did you. But Adrian Chase has his claws in you. Now, after a series of chance encounters in a closet, you don't really mind that…

Adrian Chase X Gn!Reader

(Fluff, Hurt/Comfort)

2.4k Words

Warnings: Suggestive content, akward first kisses, enemies to friends to lovers, awkward boners, pornography, injury description, wound care, guns, cannon typical violence

An: Hello again!! Thank you for the INSANE outpour of support on my last fic! I hope Im feeding you all well this week ;) As a side note, my inbox is totally open! Please send me RQs of this little weirdo I love him <3

When one hears ‘black ops’, they don't imagine ‘video store back closet’. Still, here you were, taking on the mammoth task of organizing that cobweb riddled pigsty that would eventually, hopefully, serve as a munitions store.

As more intel was unearthed regarding the sheer scale of the threat, it became increasingly clear that Project Butterfly may very well eclipse the team assigned to it. They needed backup. That's where you came in, taking some of the load off of A.R.G.U.S. where they weren't able to budget time for. You were the new weapons detail, and on your first official day in the feild—no longer in the comfort of a concrete, highly secured government compound—there was no shortage of precursory work to be done. Housekeeping, it was billed.

But this was manageable. You stepped back to visualize how many M16s you could fit on a crumbling VHS display, when all of a sudden- “Did they really burn your fingerprints off?”

Startled by the clanking jingle of the beaded curtain, you whipped around, but the cramped walls forced you almost nose to nose with this stranger. Making some distance between your bodies, you pinned yourself against a barren patch of drywall like a cornered hound. It was that nerdy, vigilante guy from your formal introduction that morning. The one with the staring problem…

“Your fingerprints!” Oblivious, he smiled, holding up his palms to indicate. “Since you're handling weapons, whoever you’re working with wouldn't want them getting traced back to you. I mean, I'm assuming, since you're not wearing any gloves...” His perceptiveness caught you off guard, rendering you speechless for a moment. But obtrusive or not, he didn’t seem to be much of a threat- to you, at least.

Undeterred by your silence, the guy—maybe his name was Adrian? You can’t remember—pivoted. “Hey, since you're in charge of weapons, d’you think I could get a chainsaw?” For time’s sake, you’d prefer not to explain the shibari of red tape you’d get tangled in to make that happen, so you took the alternative. Lugging a case of ammo onto a table with a thud, you turned your back to try and get the message across that you’d much rather be left alone. “For what…?”

“Killing people! Y’know- criminals!” He replied a hair too enthusiastically. See ily never having heard of personal space, the guy loomed way over your shoulder to continue his best shot at small talk. “What else would I use a chainsaw for?”

You didn't want to start this off on a bad foot. Saying, ‘whats your deal? stop standing so fucking close’ would be a sure fire way to do that. With a restrained sigh, you turned back, needing to look up in the space he’d incidentally closed between you. “I don’t know,“ you wearily snipped. “Cutting down trees?”

The notion struck Adrian with such hilarity that he collapsed against the doorjam with forced giggles! “Oh my-“ Adrian righted himself with his hands on his knees, wiping a tear from his eye. “‘Cutting down’- Y/N, you are a card!”

There was something desperate and sobering in the strain in his gestures; all signs pointed to this being a genuine effort to get to know you, as much as he may fumble. Makes you feel kinda bad for getting so ticked off. “You know what?” Exasperation trickling from your tone, you gave him a tired but earnest nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Like a popcorn kernel stuck behind your molar, Adrian found a way to wiggle himself in whatever it was you were doing. As much as you initially resented him, there was nothing, upon deep reflection, that you specifically found to dislike about the guy. Sure, he was a little annoying- but take this later exchange as an example of how Adrian Chase couldn't ever earn your ire.

His presence was always plausibly unobtrusive, yet operated under the assumption you wanted company. “Hey, great job on that chip in my KA-BAR! Those things are a total pain in the butt to fix-“ freezing in the doorway, Adrian raised a playful eyebrow before pointing with playful accusation, “Wait, don’t tell me… You sharpened it too?”

“Well, Adrian-“ you mumbled, your focus only beginning to wane. “That is kind of my job. Yes.” Oh, he loved that about you… Not once had you met his incessant inquisition with derision. Doesn’t take a lot with this one…

Swooning, he momentarily blamed his clumsiness regarding the whole small-talk thing on how, since you’d shown up, Adrian noticed he got dizzy every time he smelled gun oil. Very quickly, that proved to be a problem in combat, but nonetheless.

About to open his mouth again, the text on a dusty VHS tape caught his eye: ‘Buffy the Vampire Layer’. The memory of how Chris was more eager to open up when he came over to help clean his trailer stirred in Adrian’s fucked up little head. Maybe he could use that same trick with you! “Oh! Lemme just-” before you had a chance to politely decline, he imposed himself, “I know your whole thing with keeping a clean workspace, and-“

“How do you know that?” Removing your safety goggles, you sat the rifle you were reassembling back on the table to stare at him- not unkindly, just confused. He replied without thinking, “You mentioned it last week.”

A few minutes later, Adrian was riding the same flavor of high he got from taking down a gang of bad guys, proudly touting a cardboard box down the hall. Well, not that kind of high- that would be illegal. Anyways, plopping the box next to the door with a hefty clatter, he stood there for a moment as if he just did something.

Jolted from their conversation, the entire team stared. Harcourt, a smidge annoyed at the intrusion, was the first to actually get up and investigate. Lifting up a tape to the light, she squinted, “What’s… ‘The Fantastic Whores’? Really?“ This earned a few shocked snickers but Adrian, who never really got why sex was such a taboo thing, shrugged. “I guess, yeah… You've seen it?”

“What?” By now, the ruckus had made its way down the hall and to your door. A voice that, after his routine visits to your closet, you were able to pin as Adrian’s, rambled, “I mean, when I was getting into fighting crime and stuff, I did all the research I could! Though I’m guessing Special Ops has their own-“

Cutting himself off, Adrian’s—then, everybody’s—attention was suddenly diverted to Economos who, in the span of his explanation had hefted the box into his arms and was halfway to the door.

“Dude. You know you can get that stuff on the internet for free now, right?” Chris, who was never one to hold his punches, folded his arms into a cool lean against an adjacent wall, “Besides, those tapes are, like- thirty years old. Chances are, half those people are dead now. That's low, even for you.”

You now understood why they called you in; there’s no way any work gets done here. “I am taking these to the dumpster!” Exasperated, and not a fan of being implicated in watching now dead people have sex, John saw himself out. “God, every day with you people-!“ Waiting until the door swung closed behind, Chris turned to tell Adrian, “Five bucks says he’s out there stuffing ‘Drill Bill’ and ‘Pulp Friction’ in his jacket.”

Now, you had walked through the door at the part about Special Ops pornos. A week in, this would be your first—let say, informal—introduction to the team. And did it make an impression... In search of guidance, you looked for the only sane person in the room to ask, “Is it really like this every day?” With a sigh you only hear from exhausted, warweathered mothers, Harcourt acquiesced, “Give or take, every day...” You could only imagine…

Breathlessly pulling himself from his fit of giggles, Adrian finally noticed you. His eyes lit up, and there came back that smile. “Y/N! Hey, I gotta question: do you think-“ a question he didn’t have the chance to ask. “Unbelievable… Great! Okay, now that all of that is taken care of,” Harcourt said with unconcealed exasperation. “Can we please get back to the dossier?”

As it would happen, said dossier had a lead regarding the Glan Tai bottling plant- a lead which necessitated a certain level of preparedness. This is what you were paid for: doling out firearms like candy. “Hey, John Wayne-“ you yoinked the gun just out of Chris’ reach to blow the residual engraving dust off the dove of peace. “Would’ya cool it with the pistol whipping?”

That helmet-clad meathead scoffed, “Well, when I’m in pistol whipping range, what do you suggest I do?” In a very short time, the shock of the snippy banter that flew between this lot wore off, and very quickly you found yourself growing fond of it. “Oh, I don’t know- shoot them?”

Adrian was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, about to politely remind you he was still waiting on that chainsaw. But so suddenly did he deflate upon seeing the .32 Hammerless you handed him, then glancing to Chris and his Desert Eagle. The implications weren't lost on him. “Ha! Thimble.” Dismissing this as one of those inside jokes you missed in being late to the party, you had no context for the bright pink flush that overtook Adrian’s skim milk face.

Helplessly watching all those cool points he scored with you slip, slowly down to pool at his ankles, he groaned. “Oh come on. Can't I get a bigger one? What about that-” now, you would be willing to hear him out, but Adrian’s protests were silenced by a meaty palm patting his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah-“ he dismissed, kindly pushing him in the direction the team had started to leave. “Mother Nature’s cruel, pal…”

Looking over his shoulder, Chris shot you a friendly salute, as if to say, ‘enjoy having him outta your hair for a few hours’. At this point, you actually come to enjoy Adrian’s presence; his honest enthusiasm was a breath of fresh air from dull coworkers and forced water cooler camaraderie. But it was this kind of stuff that had been eroding your objections towards getting too personable.

While content in this notion, you were unable to fend off that gnawing, preemptive guilt. You’d feel like a jerk if you just sent them out to die without another word. After a brief mental debate on professionalism, you gave in, pulling yourself to your feet. “Hey!” Leaning out the closet door, you shouted, “Good luck!”

Surrounded only by tools of death, and a few choice Alex Braun titles Adrian didn't manage to snag, hours went by without fanfare. Laser focused on scrubbing carbon buildup from some forgotten magazines, it would take the world ending to shake your focus.

Or maybe the back door bursting open, sending some very sensitive artillery—and your GTUL—cascading to clatter on the concrete floor. That would work. Echoing down peeling halls were high fives and cheers, and despite the headache those idiots caused, you still didn’t feel annoyed. Hell, you found yourself smiling for them.

A gloved hand hooked on the door jamb just before Adrian was smacked in the face by the beaded curtain! He shook the impact off, “Y/N!” He stumbled in to slump down on a milk crate, every muscle in his body burning. “Oh my god- that was awesome!”

Since the earthquake hit, you’d been scrambling to gather your tools under the table. But when you righted yourself, about to tell Adrian how happy you were he returned with all pieces intact, you were greeted by a gash where a jagged shard of his own visor lacerated across a flat plane or cheek.

Sensing your worry, he scrambled, “Wait- wait, I’m okay!” Adrian smiled as blood collected in the cracks between his teeth. “This is all, like- totally normal, and-” he trailed off at the feeling of your fingers in his hair, pushing a handful of sweaty curls from his sticky forehead.“Uh… Maybe, I’m not okay.“

Adrian’s words dried up. Yours did too, so physically close that you saw the exact moment his wild, blown out pupils melted as you dabbed at the cut with a handful of Lead-B-Gones. As if it were a given you’d patch him up. Because you liked him.

Even bloodied, the way he went all docile and doey eyed did something to you. And he must’ve felt that something too, judging by that gun in his pocket that, let’s just say, didn't match the caliber you’d given him. Adrian looked like an angel on the other side of a jet turbine: limp, with feathers torn out and halo bent at odd angles. You were too far gone to see anything wrong with finding this hot.

Under the weight of a dense, claustrophobic silence, your resolve crumpled. Checking the hallway, you let out a strangled sigh. “I don’t want any of this leaving this room...” Adrian understood wanting to be respected, and how whatever was about to happen getting out might change how you’d be treated.

Unfortunately, that hyperactive adrenaline high left logical reasoning dribbling out his ears with the rest of his brain. “I don’t…” deeply, pathetically infatuated with you, all he could do now was babble. “I mean, I already told my mom about you, and-“

You shut up his inculpatory fumbling the first way that popped into your head. You kissed him.

Your hands slipped on bloodied shoulder pauldrons, and you were kissing him. Adrian’s gloves hovered at your waist, which didn’t matter in his mind because there was a mouth on his mouth, and it didn’t feel nearly as gross as kissing sounded to him on paper. It felt really, really good.

Just a second, that's all it was. And it was as tender and romantic as a kiss in a gun closet can be. But that closed mouth peck punched the breath out of Adrian like he was socked in the chest.

You pulled back for a moment. Just feeling his chest heaving against yours, and that throbbing pulse not just in his veins, but in the air around your bodies- those fucking eyes again… It only then hit you that there was blood on your hands.

And then, after the longest moment, Adrian smiled. And he chuckled, a little dizzily. But god, you loved that smile.