pinheadsboyfriend - Tumblr blog

[pinheadsboyfriend]

Need a guy like this

[pinheadsboyfriend]

INCEST/PEDO & RPF SHIPPERS DNI

[pinheadsboyfriend]

PLEASE fuck me . I’m POISONED !and the only cure is your tip hitting my womb like crazy

Its 5 Am. I’m hit. red to learn how to rdraw

[pinheadsboyfriend]

hello self-shipping world

[pinheadsboyfriend]

i started catastrophizing so i immediately had to remedy that in the only way i know how

[pinheadsboyfriend]

one time i was having sex and i was going “i’m yours i’m yours i’m yours” and then my partner stopped all of a sudden and said “can we talk about new kinks before we introduce them during sex” and i was like yeah what but it turned out she thought i was saying im a horse im a horse im a horse

[pinheadsboyfriend]

[pinheadsboyfriend]

playing call of duty and amnesia the bunker in front of elliot when he upsets me

[pinheadsboyfriend]

oh to jack off in his open wounds. or something like that. I don't really care anymore

[pinheadsboyfriend]

[pinheadsboyfriend]

whatever . drop dead both of you for all i care HONESTLY.

[pinheadsboyfriend]

[pinheadsboyfriend]

Imagine calling your f/o by their full name

[pinheadsboyfriend]

“normal guy and his pet freak” relationship BOOOOO no. two guys who seem normal but the longer people spend around them everyone realizes they are absolutely fucked and weird except theyre both very into the other persons particular illness

[pinheadsboyfriend]

[pinheadsboyfriend]

favorite ship dynamic moodboard

[pinheadsboyfriend]

a perverse enamourment [part 6] — pinhead / self insert [ao3 link]

Elliot was certainly Crawford's first love, though they were well aware that the former had taken many lovers before them. He was older than them, more confident and self-assured, conscious of the appeal and allure of his own arrogance. And while they were excited, if not nervous, to recreate just about every scene they'd ever had the displeasure of witnessing in a Hallmark film, they didn't like Elliot enough to hope he was their last love, too. Not yet, at least. Despite their appetite for connection, Crawford did not delude themselves into naivety, and understood that Elliot likely felt the same. 

He was still a novelty, really; they'd finally given in and purchased the glimmering snowglobe that caught their attention every so often from behind the store window - it was just a matter of whether or not they thought the snowglobe was tacky in the end. Of course, one can't politely put a man in a cardboard box, tape it up, and take him to the local Goodwill.

Unfortunately, the return policies people had were a bit more punishing. 

Elliot knew well that Crawford had never been loved before, even if they hadn't said it to him outright. Between the bewilderment they displayed toward any proximity with them that was closer than what one would tactfully keep with a stranger, and the acute humiliation they failed to hide when trying to interlace their fingers with his, it wasn't particularly hard to tell. He hadn't either, really, unless you counted his many post-war hedonistic indulgences or the occasional man he'd paid or met in an alleyway for a fuck or two, which, he did not. There were some that lingered in his mind here and there, but there was never any time, and they were hardly alive for long enough. The hostile climate didn't allow for many opportunities, either. 

Unlike Crawford, however, he did not so obviously crave it. He found that a bit pathetic of them, the helpless romantic that quietly leaves their heart out upon the street, waiting for someone to come and pick it up without putting in the effort required to make a connection. Wide, brown eyes, practically indistinguishable from black, incessantly flickering over his form when they thought he wasn't looking — it would have been flattering had they concealed their worry and suspicion better. Yet, despite their inexperience and neuroticism, they were accessible - pliable, soft, masculinely androgynous, and at least marginally attracted to him. 

Occasionally, when he found Crawford particularly draining, perhaps as a reminder of what he was tolerating them for, his mind conjured an image of their muscle, divaricated by his own hand. Elliot pictures the many layers visible in the meat - the skin, the dermis, the yellow sticky fat of the subcutaneous tissue, the fibrous muscle. He sees them clutching at their wounds on the bed, eyes slick with tears. Arousal ensues, but so too does guilt.

Romance fit them both very poorly, like unflattering and constricting fabric. They had stiffly agreed one night, next to the Seine, to try anyway. 

Crawford shifts uncomfortably, sitting on the floor in front of the window at Elliot's flat. He had extended an awkward invitation they were too timid to deny. Elliot sits on his mattress and thumbs through a book picked up earlier that day that he hoped would be more interesting. 

"You can see the Eiffel Tower from here." 

"What was that?", Elliot asks automatically for clarification, looking at Crawford overtop delicate rectangular frames that made him look rather smart. 

"Oh", Crawford reddens, turning quickly to face him, "I just said you can see the Eiffel Tower from here."

"But you already know that. It's just - a really pretty view. You're lucky," they quickly add.

Elliot laughs at that, folding the top corner of the page he'd stopped on as a bookmark. 

"I'm lucky?" 

Crawford didn't know all of it, yet. No one had elected to tell them the disconcerting details of the prior position he had in hell, but he was sure that if any of his associates found out they were seeing each other, they would demand that he did, or would perhaps do so themselves. 

They eye him quietly. "Maybe not. If you really were lucky, you'd have a bedframe."

Elliot laughs through his nose and leans against the wall in his undershirt. His book sits face down on his crossed legs, and his glasses slowly begin to slip off of his face. He looks very pretty like this. 

He reaches a hand up to remove his glasses. 

"Hey - don't." 

Elliot freezes, curious. He adjusts his glasses, placing them rightly on his nose, if not putting them away. His eyebrows twitch, a wordless inquiry.

Crawford uncrosses their legs and shuffles a few feet on their hands and knees to be next to him. The position allows them about a head's worth of leverage, and they carefully cup the sides of his face, tilting it upward. He allows this, and feels the tips of their fingers quivering against his cheeks, but only just. He waits for them to say something. 

"Your hands are cold."

"I don't remember ever liking anyone with blue eyes before." It's said quietly, out of near reverent admiration. They wanted to see him weep more than they've ever wanted anything in the world. Something feels like it's lodged in their throat. They feel like they're dying. 

"I suppose there's a first time for everything."

Crawford presses their lips against his with torturous caution. Still, this kiss is firmer than the last, which was firmer than the last, which was firmer than the last, and so on. Their thumb skims over the corner of his lip, and his hand sits comfortably at the bend of their waist. Their other hand finds the back of his neck, and they squeal in surprise when they feel a hand grabbing a fistful of their sweater, yanking them closer. The heat rising to their face is overwhelming, and they can feel gooseflesh quickly erupt over their arms. 

Elliot slips two fingers underneath the edge of the fabric, but pauses, waiting for a reply. Crawford offers their assent by moving so that his palm touches their stomach, and shudders pitably at the contact. He slides both hands over their bare, warm torso, and feels alive. Momentarily he dismays at the barrier of skin, unable to explore them in the way he desired, but there was a gift on his lap, now, and he wasn't going to allow himself to be distracted. Crawford parts from him, and partially out of a desire to avoid eye contact, nestles themselves into the crook of his neck. 

"I like you, at least," quietly thrumming behind his ear.

"You were doubting?" He rubs a loose lock of their hair between his fingers.

"You aren't?" 

He doesn't reply, electing instead to breathe them in.