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comatosebunny09 · 7 months

Text

fever dream | astarion a.

genre(s): fluff, angst

warning(s): language, self-indulgent, sick!reader, astarion’s a little ooc

now playing: the night does not belong to god - sleep token

notes: very self-indulgent because i’m sick and needed some comfort and @nanaoise08squad inspired me to finish this. thank you for reading, lovelies! ❤️❤️❤️

Somehow, the sun shines brighter today. Glaringly so.

You hold a hand to your temple to shield your eyes from its brilliance. Your armor feels heavier, too. Like boulders stacked on your shoulders and chest, making it harder to breathe. You force out a groan that’s gritty like ash. Trudge down the steps leading outside the inn to join your companions, your limbs weighted and achy.

“I hate to point out the obvious, darling.” Astarion grimaces with his hands curled to his chest in revulsion. He ducks away from the sight of you. Winces as you take a labored step forward, your balance thrown to the hells.

“But you look like utter shit.”

You scoff, phlegm making itself known in your throat.

What a way to be greeted by the love of your life.

“You sure are a flatterer, aren’t you, Astarion?”

You’re sure to drag out the vowels of his name—or perhaps your words are a little slurred due to whatever ailment took hold of you today. Nevertheless, you jab a finger between his ribs, your face twisting into something haughty.

You wonder if it was worth the exertion as your vision and body sway along with the trees, and your head pounds something menacing whilst a wave of vertigo hurtles into you.

“Shit!”

Astarion catches you when you pitch forward, your legs unable to grasp the rhythm of walking. And there are suddenly two of him. Two little ‘starions calling your name, fretting over you, shaking you to keep you amongst the conscious.

You feel like lead. Feel yourself sinking below the surface, unable to return.

Your lids shutter as if weighed down by sandbags. The muddled shouts of your friends trickle in, each tinged with varying degrees of concern. You register hands all over you, patting and pulling. Register a strained voice yelling stop, and the frantic touching ceases.

Before you fully succumb to the darkness, there is the sensation of you being lifted up, followed by the earthy scent of bergamot flooding your senses, and it furls around your heart.

Then, there is nothing.

Something savory draws you from the inkiness of your sleep. It curls around your mind, luring you into consciousness.

You caution a sound, your throat rubbed raw from disuse. You slowly open your eyes, and the bleariness gradually morphs into discernible shapes and colors. Somehow, this place feels familiar.

You’re back in your rented room. Nestled in the plushness of a mattress with too many pillows and sheets soft as linen. You will yourself onto your elbows, wincing at the stiffness of your neck. The pain is manageable. Better than it was before, you note, leisurely ingesting your surroundings.

A lone candle flickers on the nightstand, swathing the room in its bronze glow. Moonlight seeps through the curtains lining the window across. The faint symphony of crickets accompanies the murmur of the inn’s other patrons and the groans of the floorboards beyond your doorway.

Bloody hell.

How long have you been out?

On cue, the doorknob rattles, and a slither of light leaks in. The swell of noise outside commands your attention. You stiffen, fingers instinctively twitching for a weapon. But your bones settle as a thatch of white creeps into your vision from the threshold.

“Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty,” Astarion breathes. He toes the door shut, a steaming bowl of deliciousness cupped in his palms. Takes a few steps forward, rounded eyes flashing amber beneath the candlelight.

You recognize that aroma. The hearty scent which roused you from your sleep. Your stomach gnarls with life as Astarion nears the bed, donning that smug little mask.

“Hungry, are we?”

You nod enthusiastically, garnering a chuckle from the room’s other occupant. Suddenly self-conscious of how eager you are whilst he hands you the bowl, his fingers slinking away from yours as if he’s touched simmering coals.

“Courtesy of Gale,” Astarion supplies. “I can’t guarantee how good it tastes considering—well, you know. Undead and all that.”

His smile is tight-lipped. Guarded as he settles himself on a stool beside you, his spine straight and his ankles crossed. He helps you sit up against the headboard despite the unease permeating the air. Quickly retracts his hands to press them against the wood of his seat between his thighs, surveying your room.

You take some time to study him. Note that his eyebags seem more prominent than usual. Darker. Hair’s a little tussled, skin a bit paler. His shirt sits rumpled around his shoulders, the fastenings of it done all wrong. Worst of all, he has not looked at you for longer than a few beats. Like you’re made of glass and will shatter if he stares for too long.

A pang shoots through you, searing hot like lightning.

He was worried.

Worst of all, he was worried about you.

You’re no longer hungry, your stomach twisting as you gaze down at the stew bleeding warmth into your palms. You set it on the nightstand with a decisive clunk, quietly receding into yourself. Silently relenting to the smog of self-loathing draping itself across your shoulders.

“You scared me half to death, you know,” says Astarion, parting the tangled sea of your thoughts. As if he senses you berating yourself. It’s a soft drawl. An attempt at scolding you, but there’s weariness nestled in the undercurrents of it. “That’s saying a lot, considering I’ve already one foot in the grave.”

You peer up at him like a meager child. He watches you from his peripheral with crossed arms, his nose turned up, feigning disappointment. You see through the cracks of his façade, and your lips twitch with the threat of a smile.

He can be incredibly adorable when trying to shroud his feelings.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, your tone barely above a whisper.

Astarion releases a resigned sigh. And the weight of the world seems to pour from his shoulders as he angles himself towards you, reaching for one of your hands.

His expression softens, and he squeezes, his palm frigid yet reassuring. For the first time since he entered, he truly looks at you. Gaze swims through your features as if to commit every detail, every imperfection, to memory. As if he could lose you at any second.

“No need to apologize, my love. I was just…concerned, is all. I suppose we all were when you went down.”

The recollection makes your face blossom with heat. Poor little darling, taken out by a nasty cold. Causing hysteria among your friends, deterring your journey.

Astarion thumbs your cheek, smiling something genuine at the pout on your lips.

Your tongue burns with the ache of a question, and you shrink, not wholly prepared for the answer.

“How long was I out for?”

“Nearly two days.”

You blanch, evoking another guttural laugh from Astarion.

“Shadowheart did her best to heal you. There was only so much her magic could mend. So, we’ve been playing the waiting game while you caught up on your beauty sleep. Not like you need much more of it.”

You snort at Astarion’s cheekiness.

Leave it to your little star to find every opportunity to flatter you.

He examines your joined hands thoughtfully, thumb smoothing over your knuckles.

“It’s been centuries since I’ve dealt with mortal illnesses. Honestly, I couldn’t begin to fathom how to comfort you. Other than gracing you with my presence, of course.”

It’s refreshing to see his humor is still intact despite his beloved pulling a Snow White.

For a while, you sit like this. Basking in the moment’s serenity, holding hands. Grinning and laughing like two enamored fools when your gazes interlock. You can tell that Astarion’s lightyears away, however. At war with himself, lost in the maelstrom of his thoughts, reprimanding himself for not being your proverbial knight in shining armor.

Absently, you scoot over. Relinquish your love’s hand—much to his chagrin—to pat the space beside you. You affix him with a look that’s all too serious as you say, “For starters, you could try holding me.”

Astarion stares at you with rounded eyes. Mouth opens and closes like a gaping fish, forming around words that he can’t quite conjure.

“Oh. A-Alright,” he finally musters. Dumbfounded, Astarion stands, maneuvering to sit beside you on the bed. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. Never does, unused to being so vulgar, so unabashed with his feelings.

Though, for you, you know he would rearrange the stars in the sky if he could.

So you help him, tugging him closer and falling into the circle of his arms. You nestle against his chest with a pleased hum vibrating your throat. Tangle your legs together, ignoring the surprised sound that leaves him.

He’s a lovely contrast to your still-enflamed skin. Fits like a puzzle piece against you, soft and lithe. He relaxes gradually, tucking you ever closer against him as if you’ll disappear in a plume of smoke if he lets go. He pets through your hair before anchoring his chin to the crown of your head, surrendering a satisfied sigh.

“Well, I supposed this isn’t so bad, now is it?” Astarion husks, stroking soothing circles into the notches of your spine.

You nod offhandedly, your lids lowering, and your body feeling at ease.

Suddenly, your ailment seems more bearable as you sink below the depths of slumber, an unguarded smile cresting over your lips.

The shadows of your conjoined bodies dance along the walls as the candlelight dwindles, and you both surrender to the tranquility of the night.

masterlist

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #bg3 x reader #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fluff #tw: language #tw: angst #tw: self loathing #tw: sickness #sick!tav #sick!reader #astarion comfort #bg3 #bg3 astarion

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usedtobecooler · 8 months

Note

experienced!reader building virgin!eddie’s stamina by using a fleshlight on him 😈

part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six

pairing | eddie munson x afab!reader

warnings | sexual content (18+ minors dni), use of sex toys, dirty talk, experienced!reader, inexperienced!virgin!eddie, porn without plot, set during our original virgin!eddie series from september 2022.

word count | 1.2k

a/n | damn, thank you anon the virgin!eddie saga lives on to see another day bc of you

"How does it feel?" You ask, the pearlescent, ridged tube clasped between both of your hands with ease, bobbing slightly as Eddie's cock jumps in the mould of soft silicone flesh, balls drawing up as he struggles to get a grip of himself.

"Haah—" Eddie basically wheezes out his pathetic whines, grinding his hips up into the toy like a frantic thing, propped up on both elbows with a wild expression on his face. His dark eyes blown black with desire, "It's so — so tight, warm, fuck it's gripping me."

His wild curls halo his face, soften the sharp lines of his jaw, make him look angelic and almost innocent in the luminescent glow of your childhood bedroom. His brows knit together, raw bitten lips hung open in a steady stream of moans as you slowly begin moving the fake pussy up and down the thick length of his dick — slow enough that he can feel every single ridge on his sensitive skin.

"Yeah? Wet enough?" Your questions come out conversational, almost bored, but the way you lay with curious eyes and a furious warm bloom on your cheeks would tell him otherwise.

Eddie nods his head, fervent and sure, "Feels so fucking good, Jesus Christ," he gasps, reaching out for your bent knee and squeezing the flesh, "faster? Can you, shit, can you go faster?"

You smirk, oblige him, both hands working together to grip for the plastic toy as you begin a faster rhythm — enough to have him wanting more, begging for it, but not quite enough to tip him over the edge.

"Oh," Eddie grunts, bucks his hips up wildly, "shit, that feels — like heaven, fu-goddamn,"

You flush hot all over, the noises you're eliciting from Eddie's mouth sending you into a frenzy. He's so desperate, whiny, virginal. Inexperienced and not even trying to hide it, wide eyes shooting back and forth between where his cock sinks into the tight warmth of the toy, your tits bouncing from exertion from moving the toy, your own flushed face watching in awe.

Eddie's hips jolt up into the toy and he whimpers, eyes rolling back into his skull, "I— mmph, I don't think I, oh shit, don't think I'm gonna last long, sweetheart, fuck."

The lube you used to moisten the inside of the silicone cunt almost mimics the wet slick of your own, creamy and dripping down the length of Eddie's cock, making a mess of his thatch of curly pubes, slicking up his balls and dipping lower, lower, lower.

Another time, you think, as you draw your attention back to the rhythmic bouncing of the toy, using both hands tightly to draw it up further, the tip of Eddie's cock popping out, blurting pre onto the spread lips of the pussy, smearing over the pornstars name etched into the skin-like material, making it illegible.

Eddie whimpers, a heated gasp escaping him when you wrap a hand around the base of his cock, sliding the ruddy head over the toys opening over and over and over again, until he's flushed so red down to his chest that he looks like he's spiked a fever.

"This is always my favourite part," you admit, eyes glistening with mischief as you push the toy down onto his cock an inch or two, before removing it again — running the glans on the underside of Eddie's length against the pussy until he's pistoning his hips up, begging you for more, "letting them run their cocks along the seam of my cunt — feels so good, almost better than fucking. Especially when they snag at my clit, God."

"Please, please," Eddie begs, whimpers, sounds close to fucking tears with want and desperation as his hips shoot up again, head of his cock plunging into the toy and you do nothing to stop it, he's too far gone, "wanna fuck you, nggh."

"You think you're really up to the task, handsome? When this things got you so close to blowing your load so quick?" You giggle, push the toy down the length of Eddie's dick so quickly he's crying out and throwing his head back, "You need more practice, you wouldn't satisfy me right just yet."

"I would, would do anything," Eddie moans, garbled as you pick up speed with the pussy, the dirty sounds invading your ears as the lube slick toy engulfs him, "I'd— fuck, fuck — I'd wear a ring, you could clamp me, edge me, use me, haaah, fuck m'gonna cum, let me cum, please, please,"

Your body goes hot all over, goosebumps erupting under your skin as he begs, begs and begs some more. So desperate and cunt drunk that he'd even allow pain mixed with his pleasure so that he could feel the tight heat of your cunt, and that — that does something to your insides. You've never heard anybody so pathetic, so willing to do anything for a chance.

The tendons and veins in Eddie's neck protrude as he tilts his head back, all caution thrown to the wind as his hips buck up uselessly into the toy you control. He's rhythmic, you'll give him that, looks like he could be rough if he knew how to just reel himself back enough to fuck you properly.

"So pathetic, it's cute," your words are clipped, voice raw and thick with desire as you try in vain to keep up appearances, but there's something so devastatingly erotic about watching Eddie beg — the way his hipbones glisten with sweat, his balls drawing up tight, soaked with lube and his own precum, his chest heaving as he nears closer, and you're grinding against the heel of your own foot before you even realise you're doing it, just as gone as he is.

"Pathetic for you, I'll be anything you want — fuuuck," Eddie grinds uselessly into the limp toy, burying his cock in to the hilt and you know before he even says anything that he's gone, no stopping him as his tummy spasms under the sheer force of his orgasm, "cumming, baby I'm cumming, holy fuck—"

His back arches, elbows finally giving out on him as he collapses in a heap on the bed, spine bowed up gorgeously as he releases into the toy that you keep forced down on him. It kicks and jerks in your slackened grip as his cock pulses, ropes of his come painting the insides and suddenly you ache and yearn for it to be you.

Eddie pants, whimpers, fingers digging into your plush comforter as he vibrates through aftershocks, eyes screwed up tight and tears rolling down his temples. You press down harder into the heel of your foot, own eyes clenching shut at the pressure, arousal swooping like tidal waves.

You're not sure how long your eyes shut for, with how lost you are in the pleasure you feel, but suddenly Eddie's arms loop around your middle, pulling you onto his body, and he's talking but you can't quite hear him for all the rushing in your ears.

"Let me make you feel good, sweetheart," his voice soothes, large hands smoothing over your waist and dipping under your shirt, "least I can do, baby, please?"

You nod dumbly, awe stricken by just how quickly he's recovered from a mind melting orgasm, and in one swift motion he's flipping you both over, kissing down your neck, your chest, your stomach, until he's reaching for your shorts and pulling them down with deft fingers.

"I'll make it up to you, sweetheart," Eddie coos, "lift your hips for me and let me show you."

#eddie munson fic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson drabble #my fanfic #mine #x reader #virgin!eddie

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ki-yomii · 3 months

Text

hit the gym | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader

➥ word count | 1.5k

➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; hair pulling, mild dirty talk, established relationship, oral (m receiving), mild body worship?, teasing, hints of exhibitionism/voyeurism

➥ summary | stopping now would ruin all the fun.

➥ notes | yes it's true, i would give jungkook the sloppiest of toppies ✌️also greysweat pants iykyk. a random short one, hope you enjoy 🩶

🩶 masterlist | inbox | AO3 🩶

“Baby.”

Jungkook’s never looked so undone; his eyes hooded and hungry, his mouth raw and red-bitten. Wants so, so badly he’s practically vibrating with it.

And yet, he’s still holding back.

The sound of his knuckles popping as his hands clench into fists beside his hips echoes through the otherwise empty gym. It’s almost kind of precious how much he’s struggling against the urge to throw you back against the wall.

To take, take, take until you’re nothing but a trembling, soaked, thoroughly fucked mess.

You hum in response, digging your nails into the nape of his neck to feel the little shiver that zips down his spine. "What's got you so worried, huh?"

The fact he still has the restraint to resist railing you right then and there - even though he clearly wants to - is so intensely hot you almost choke on your own spit. When his eyes cut to yours, you almost moan at how intensely he stares.

“I just,” he trails off, hands flexing as he catalogs the darkened wall of windows, the entryway, the open space, "I don't think this is a good idea."

Right now, you're the only two in the gym.

While that could change, it's edging closer to midnight.

After several months of joining Jungkook for his exercises, you've found most people aren't as eager to hit the machines at all hours of the day like he is.

The likelihood of getting caught is significantly low which works perfectly for you because it's a high payoff with half the associated risk.

You pretend to think, "Mm, no. I think it's a great idea." Palms dancing over his tense shoulders, you tease your fingers along the loose neck of his t-shirt. "Don't you?"

Jungkook bites off a curse, his body rolling up into your touch. He works his jaw as his teeth tug on his lip piercings. You know he's just itching to drag you into a darkened corner.

"I-I... really, baby, can't we just - y'know? Why does it have to be here?"

No amount of half-hearted protests hides how hard Jungkook is. Deciding to wear grey sweatpants today works against him, the soft cotton slung low on his hips and clinging to the thick line of his fat cock.

You raise a brow, glancing down at where he's digging into your hip, "You were saying, Kook?"

A perverse spark of pleasure lights up your spine at the way his eyes slide away from yours, his throat bobbing when he swallows and shies away.

"Sh-shut up..."

Serves the tease right.

You've had to watch him work out, disheveled and sweat-slick for hours. Hear him grunt and whine from the strain of lifting heavy weights. It's only fair he gets a taste of his own medicine.

Anyway, the thought of being so exposed (without actually getting caught) is kind of exhilarating. Gets your blood pumping and arousal pulsing through your body. A pool of liquid heat blooming low in your belly.

After watching him struggle a little longer between what he wants, and what he thinks he should do, you make his decision for him.

Only as soon as your hand slips past the elastic waistband, your breath stutters in your chest. Where you expect to feel soft cotton, there are miles of smooth skin. With wide eyes, you trace along a hipbone before sliding the tips of your fingers down to brush through a trimmed thatch of pubic hair, stopping once you feel the silken base of his cock.

Jungkook's eyes flutter shut, a full body jolt rocking him into you as his mouth drops open in a guttural moan. Tendrils of arousal coil between your thighs, your pussy throbbing when your fingers close around his bare shaft and he throbs against your warm palm.

If you’d have known he decided to go commando, you’d have been on your knees within the first ten minutes.

Chewing on your lip, you give him a few slow pumps, tightening your grip on the upstroke. The heavy weight of his shaft glides through the circle of your fist with ease.

Your thighs clench.

“What were you saying again, Kook? Cause it looks to me like you worry too much.”

He hisses through his teeth, burrowing his face into his shoulder. The tips of his ears burn bright pink, a creeping blush sinking deep into the apples of his cheeks.

Without waiting for a response, you tug his sweats down as you sink to your knees. His flushed cock springs out, curving up towards his belly with a wet smack.

“Haah - don’t!”

You laugh - a breathless, eager sound - as your hands pet his tense thighs, watching as fat drops of pre-cum ooze down the swollen head, sticky strings clinging to dusky skin.

Fuck, you can't wait to get your tongue on him; to feel the weight of him in your mouth, the tang of his skin, and the taste of his cum as he fucks into the circle of your lips.

To hear the absolutely delicious groans of masculine pleasure that shoot straight to your clit.

“How can you say that when you’re so wet and ready for me?”

“That’s cheating,” Jungkook groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. He peeks down at you through the gaps in his fingers, gulping at how pretty you look on your knees with his cock in your hand. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

You hum, eyes sparking mischief as you dip down to brush a kiss along the strap of muscle above his hipbone. The smell of his bodywash surrounds you, tickling your nose. “Yeah, but you love it, don’t you?”

The sight of him looming over you, his hair a tussled mess and a starved glint to his coffee-dark eyes, is a visceral sucker punch that has your heart stuttering and your mouth watering. Wanting to sink your teeth in.

“You know I do,” he mumbles.

Brought to the very edge of control, left teetering; you wonder how much further you have to push until he breaks.

A blooming warmth hooks into your belly, spreads down to settle between your thighs. The crotch of your shorts is soaked through, every shift of fabric dragging along your sensitive folds. A whisper of friction that drives you insane.

“Mm, now are you ready, baby?”

Taking his silence for the acquiescence it is, you dip down and run your tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his shaft. His cock bobs, a fresh bead of pre-cum welling to the surface.

Watching him from beneath your lashes with a coy smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth, you clean him up with a kittenish lick. Following the trails of salty arousal with your tongue.

Jungkook grunts - choked-off, wounded sound that punches its way out his chest.

You hum, and slide your hands up over his thighs. Stopping when palms rest against his abs, your nails dig in, drag down. The muscles clench, red welts developing in the wake of your touch.

Satisfaction warms your blood, Jungkook’s next breath is a low hiss as he stutters, rocks forward before catching himself with a murmured curse, “S-Shit…”

His fist pounds against the wall - once, twice, three times. His jaw works fast as he scrambles to regain his slipping control. You know what buttons to push and with every careful caress, every calculated hint of rough, his body sparks to life.

He’s almost there, you can see it; all his savage edges creeping in, pressing against his skin. You can’t wait. It’s always so explosive between the two of you when he gives in, allows himself to truly whet his appetite.

He tangles his hand in your hair, digging a thumb into your bottom lip to watch as your mouth stretches around him. “You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

The grit of his voice, dark and full of hunger cuts through you. You moan around a mouthful of him, eyes fluttering shut as your veins fill with liquid fire. Your thighs rub together for relief from the ache in your pussy.

It’s so difficult to tease him because more often than not, you want nothing more than to pull off and hop on. To let him ride you hard. Put you away wet and thoroughly used.

But you can’t, not yet.

Stopping now will spoil all the fun.

Trying to distract yourself, you suckle on the head, roll your lips, and flick your tongue over the spongy flesh. When you dip into the slit, he whines, “Ohh..my god, oh ffuuh..ck yes.”

Those broad shoulders hunch forward over your head like he took a kick to the chest, a full-bodied shiver wracking his frame. He yanks on your hair and you clench in response, the little tremors in his thighs stroking your ego as you pop him out of your mouth.

“Mm, I think I do,” you purr, rubbing your tender, spit-slick lips along the shaft. “Now let me show you what you do to me.”

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts fanfic

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supermarine-silvally · 27 days

Note

yara what's your favorite dish to cook?

"I'm not the world's best chef, but I try. Also, if you like your pasta extra creamy, you might want to consider adding a spoonful or two of hummus. It's really good."

Ask Yara (or any of my OCs) anything!

#oc: bravada yara #ask yara #my ocs #my art #asked and answered #for the uninitiated: the wbp is made up of 16 divisions #each of which have different tasks #fourth division is the chefs #yara was on fifth (swordsmen) and then second (which doesn't seem to have a specification)#so she doesn't cook a lot but she does enjoy it when thatch ropes her into doing it #she's pretty average at it overall like maybe 7/10 #also the hummus tip is REAL yall #it turns pretty average pasta sauce into god-tier

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murdrdocs · 1 month

Text

summer fling saw your best side w/ LUKE CASTELLAN

explicit sexual content; mutual masturbation, fem!reader, southern!luke; mentions of anal fingering MDNI 18+ title from ii hands ii heaven by beyonce

you're wearing nothing when you wake up. your skin, damp and sticky in the way that only sweat can cause, is bare as it presses up against the thin sheet of your bed. you're bleary as you attempt to gain your bearings, but through blurred vision and half-open eyes, you notice your duvet just barely hanging on your bed. just sight of it is a threat to your comfortability. just knowing it's presence is there threatens you with heat you couldn't handle. as if he could sense your negative feelings towards the comforter, luke stretches a limb out and his foot knocks the rest of the bedding onto the floor.

his act of heroism also makes you aware of his presence once more. you may be hot, and you might not want anything touching you while you work to cool off, but you can't control yourself when you roll over and press your cheek into luke's back.

he shifts, the muscles in his back rolling under your skin. he hums, and you hum too.

the sheet now loosely hanging off of your body hangs low on luke's waist. you can see the twin set of dimples in his lower back, and where that tan of his stops just there. if he shifts even a bit more, you would see his ass, too. it's not a sight you're unwilling to be graced with.

"are you awake?" you ask him in a gentle whisper. it takes a second, but luke inhales, long and deep, and then his affirmative hum blends with his breath.

he starts to shift and you know it's your cue to lift yourself enough to let him turn over. when he does, he stares at you with half-open eyes, too. his lips are a little chapped, so he licks over them with a quick flick of his tongue. you let your gaze wander down, starting from the end of the pretty scar on his cheek, going down to where his usually posed and taunt abdomen is relaxed for once, and landing on where the sheets have shifted down to allow luke's happy trail to blend into the newly trimmed thatch of pubic hair that sits right above the base of his cock. which is, thankfully, covered.

luke clearly notices your staring, you know he does. but he doesn't say anything, at least not yet. his hand lifts to play with your hair, left uncovered during your impromptu nap, as he lets you ogle. you take him in, appreciating his greek roots as you sincerely believe they have delivered a sculpture of a demigod as your ... well the labels are unspecified.

you know you just had him. before you slipped off into a nap induced by post-sex fatigue and the gentle air trickling down onto your bodies from your ceiling fan, luke fucked you. he fucked you good, exactly how you liked until you were thankful you had the place to yourselves . but with luke, you had a tendency to be insatiable. it was hard not to be when he looked like that, laying in your bed, under your sheets, and playing with your hair.

when you are his, even if only for the next few weeks, it was impossible not to want him as often as you could get him.

eventually, luke's ego has to shine through.

"do you want something or...?"

you scoff and roll your eyes. "don't rush me," you chastise, for you really just want to sit there and admire him, even if it is an act of cowardice. but luke has been encouraging you to be bolder lately. he's been telling you that you have him, and he wants you to have him, and he really wouldn't be upset if you wanted to fuck him ten times a day.

not knowing what else to say, without it being a bit mean or awkward at least, you say nothing. instead, you sit up on your heels and lean down to press your lips to his. instantly, having more skin showing on your back makes you feel a little colder, but your skin starts to heat up when luke places his hand on your lower back.

his touch is light and almost innocent. almost. his fingertips trail along your spine, up and down, up and down, and each time they dip deeper, and deeper. lower and lower until they’re right above your ass, nearly slipping into the crack. there is really no room for you to judge, not when the hand you had on luke’s abdomen for stability has crept down until you have your palm resting against luke’s happy trail and your fingertips entering the plane of pubic hair.

you both complete your journeys at the same time. your hand sinks down to meet luke’s dick at the same time that he reaches between your ass to find your cunt. there is a second in luke’s searching where his fingertips nudge your asshole, and you have a moment there where you remember luke’s expressed desire to venture into different territories, to explore places unexplored by both of you. and there, in that brief moment, you consider it.

but there isn’t much more room for consideration whenever luke presses his fingers against your labia, spreads it apart, and then brings his fingertips to your clit.

his other hand cups your face, keeping you close to him and in his control as your mouth parts with a gentle gasp, nothing more than a soft inhale as luke begins to circle your clit. you let yourself enjoy it for a while, until your cunt begins to leak, and only then do you snap out of your stupor and spit in your hand, using the slick to circle luke’s tip and spread it down his shaft.

he’s twice as sensitive as you, if even possible. he shudders when you complete one pass, down and then up again. he winces when your thumb presses into his slit and you apply just enough pressure.

just as you did, luke lets himself relax in the feeling for a while. he watches you lean over and dribble spit straight from the source onto his cock for you to use. similarly, your cunt leaks between your legs in a steady flow, resembling water traveling via a spile. luke adjusts his grip to better please you by sliding his hand down your torso and between your thighs.

he keeps his eyes on your hand, though. he doesn’t need to see your pretty pussy blooming around his fingers to know where to dip his fingers and where to glide them. it comes easy when he circles your clit and slides down just enough to that tiny area that makes your back curve. and sure enough, your hand stops stroking him for just a second as your back curves inward and you gasp.

he lets his gaze deviate then, lifting his eyes just in time to see your eyes shutting and your eyebrows twitching as they briefly push together. you’re so pretty.

as soon as your eyes are open again, you’re staring down at him, and you two sit like that for nearly a minute, stroking the other languidly without much hurrying to your movements. the moment is broken by the desperate way you push your lips to luke’s.

you’re so close to him that your nipples press against his chest and your tits are squished between both of your bodies. you kiss him fervently, as if you’re running out of time quicker than you can make up for it. luke attempts to counteract your rushing. his efforts create a messy dance between you both, one following a tempo that doesn’t necessarily match the other. you only become synchronized once more when luke submits to you, and you submit to him, both of you following the other until you meet in the middle with a pace that represents both of your wants. your never ending need to kiss luke with as much love and appreciation as you possibly could and luke’s endless desire to kiss you like he has all of the time in the world. but the needs must manifest elsewhere, and they travel down to your hands.

luke first slinks one finger into your heat, with a second one quickly following, and you begin to fist his cock faster, adding a twist to your hand when you reach the top.

this dance comes naturally, it’s equal and known well by both of you in ways that only exist from copious amounts of practice. it’s something that stems from knowing each other in ways that span years.

at the end of the day, it’s this knowledge for the other, and your equal desire, that has luke spilling onto your hand and his stomach, and you releasing around luke’s fingers.

#lukesworld!#luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan smut #celeste writes pjo

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euphemiaamillais · 3 months

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imagining worshipping coryo the way he deserves to be worshipped. he just comes home from a long day and you’re on your knees for him, ready to just take his cock into your mouth

mdni | worshipping coryo

oh especially president!coryo. he’s had a rough day at work, fed up with stupid senators and the constant threat of the districts rebelling. when he comes home, he’s angry, his hands are balled into fists, but he can’t help but smile when he sees you on your knees, waiting and eager.

‘i’ve waited all day,’ you pout, crawling towards him.

he groans at the sight of you in his favourite lingerie, the one that’s a deep red and made of the finest lace from district 8. your breasts are practically spilling out of the bra, and he feels himself harden at just the mere sight of you, all ready for him.

‘yeah? just can’t wait to please me?’ he asks, stroking your chin with his cold fingers.

‘mhm, i’ve missed you so much, coryo,’ you paw your way up his thighs, clutching at him.

you rub your cheek against the leg of his pants, and gaze up at him, wide-eyed, in awe that you belong to him. he pats your head, admiring your dedication, the way you kiss the fucking ground he walks on. it’s what he deserves, after all. he’s the fucking president of panem. everybody should grovel beneath him. at least if nobody else does, he can rest assured that you always will.

‘i’m so wet for you, coryo,’ you moan, head now pressed against the outline of his bulge in his pants. ‘i wanna suck your dick so bad.’

your eyes are brimming with tears, and there’s a noticeable whimper in your voice. god, are you crying? he can’t believe you want him that bad. your hands fiddle with his belt, and then his zipper, pulling his pants down as swift you can without creasing them. if you did ruin them, he’d have been pissed.

when you tug his boxers down, a steady stream of saliva trickles out the corner of your lips. knowing he’s not in the mood to be gentle, you merely open your mouth, ready to receive.

he buries himself right in, groaning as his cock hits the back of your throat. the first time he’d made you suck him off, you were still a virgin, and you’d cried so hard and made such a mess, because he was just too big. now you knew exactly how to take him, but you still gagged, and this pleased him, because it reminded him that he was practically a god to you. and you would do anything to kneel before the altar.

coryo isn’t slow with his thrusts, he’s already chasing his release, and doesn’t hesitate to force your head down when he feels like you’re not taking him far enough. his balls slap against your chin as you choke him down, hands grasping at his thighs. you love it so much, the way he treats you like nothing but a fuck doll while you grovel to him—you would do anything to make him happy, and he likes it best that way.

‘so fucking good,’ he grunts, fisting your hair. you try not to cry because he’s ruined your perfect blow-out, but you want to cum later so you swallow back the tears.

he only likes it when you cry because he’s making you feel good. if you’ve pleased him particularly well, he’ll spend hours lapping at your cunt, eating you like you’re his last meal.

‘gonna swallow up all my cum, aren’t you? you love it,’ he laughs, sliding himself all the way out only to slam himself back in, watching as you sputter.

your cunt is aching to be filled, and you hope that later you can show him just how much you worship his cock by letting him pound you into the mattress. your favourite thing is to ride him, though, and watch as he spurts a sticky load of pearls into your tight cunt.

he lets out a heavy groan as he feels himself unfurl. he holds your head down against his cock, your nose brushing against the thatch of blonde hair on his pubic bone, and comes right down your throat.

you swallow it up obediently, and lick your lips when you feel the excess cum that’s dribbled from his tip. he tastes perfect. you love the taste of him more than anything else in the world, and beam up at him with a pretty smile.

you’re his most devoted disciple, taking his word as if it were creed; taking his cum like it’s holy water, and taking his body as if it’s what gives you life.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow smut #tbosbas smut #ask #request #anon #imagine #tbosbas fanfic

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momotonescreaming · 7 months

Text

Magic's been restricted in Hawkins for decades. Not by any law, or enforcement of the city guard, but by the fearful nature of man. Rumours of curses and spells, fear of the unknown - it has people scared.

And scared people lash out.

So people stopped doing magic in Hawkins. People stopped doing magic visibly, in Hawkins. They keep it behind closed doors, locked up tight.

Eddie dabbles in it. Small things. Good luck charms, cleaning spells, minor wards to keep the rain from leaking through the thatched roof of his and Wayne's hut. Nothing big, just some things he got passed down from his uncle, from his family way down south. He's thought about more, seeing how far his magic can extend - but he's not the witch, the demon that people think he is.

He doubts that the townsfolk have anything to base their suspicions on. They just don't like him or the Munson name. Him and Wayne are the ones who get the blame, but he knows there's powerful players in Hawkins. Powerful magic that's been at work a long, long time.

Eddie might not be the best mage, the best witch, but he's always been good at feeling magic.

And there's a small courtyard on the outskirts of town that reeks of magic. The strong shit too, been there for a very long time, put down by very powerful people.

Other people don't notice, it's a good courting spot - or so people say. Large trees, bushes covered in flowers, a nice cobbled path, with a large fountain in the middle. It's picturesque, romantic. And atop the fountain, is a statue.

A statue of a boy, or a young man, or however you want to put it. He's handsome, devastatingly so, with a square jaw and muscled arms. A wreath of laurels resting atop his perfectly swooped hair, and an elegant toga like robe draped across his body.

He's posed delicately, but in a way that does not hide his masculinity.

The garden always perfectly kept, always tidy, never any vermin, and no one is ever seen maintaining it. The statue never cracks, never fades, never dirties. He is always perfectly encapsulated in marble. Shining white.

Eddie is a little bit obsessed. There's not a lot to do in Hawkins, and the magic in the courtyard is alluring. It's tricky, encircled and entwined into itself - into the world around it. It's a puzzle, and Eddie wants to figure it out.

So he goes to the courtyard when he knows no one else will be there, and he makes sure to bring a notebook. Write down what he sees, what he feels.

He can feel the sun on his shoulders, the breeze gently ruffling his hair, the birds singing in the trees. Bees flitting from flower to flower, there's a stream trickling somewhere near.

The statue shines in the middle, drawing the eye.

It's perfect. Almost too perfect. Designed by man, and not by nature, perfect.

So Eddie pulls off his boots, rolls up his trousers, and wades into the fountain. Standing on the wishing coins people have tossed in. But he ignores them, of course, and heads to the statue. The more he concentrates, the closer he gets, the more he can tell that this, him, is the centre of all the magic.

The perfect statue.

Eddie can see the nailbeds in his fingers, the moles that dot his skin, the pores on his face, the lashes on his eyes. Perfect. He gets even closer, takes a deep breath, and focuses his magic. The more he looks, the more he listens, the more Eddie can feel the magic encircling the courtyard.

He swears he can hear a heart beating inside the statue's chest.

#Stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #fantasy au #steve is cursed to be a statue au #if that wasn't clear #this idea has possessed me i wrote this in a fugue state #momo.txt #My Writing

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fairyysoup · 6 days

Text

it will come back

part one

a.k.a. sever the blight (eddie's version)

pairing(s): werewolf!eddie munson x fem!milkmaid!reader

summary: You don’t go into the woods. You don’t talk to strangers. And you don’t, under any circumstances, approach a wolf. Unless one shows up bleeding at your door.

cw: dark themes, mature content, animal cruelty, animal death mention, gunshots, physical abuse, reader is a servant to an abusive master, misogyny, suggestive themes, fairytale au, some kind of historical fantasy period, inspired by The Company of Wolves by Angela Carter, eventual smut (in later parts)

a/n: hiiiiiiii :) so remember when i said i'd stop posting fic on tumblr? well one mental breakdown later i decided that was literally making me miserable and ruining my hobby! so i'm back. it's me, hi, i'm the problem it's me <3 this is a reupload

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

There are things they tell you about the woods from the time you are born, weaning you on them just the same as you are weaned on milk. Don’t go into the woods on a full moon. Don’t talk to strange men. Likewise, if you see a strange man alone in the pines on the full moon, run and don’t look back. And don’t, for any reason, approach a wolf at any time. They’ll kill you before you turn the other cheek.

In your twenty-some-odd years, you have never seen a wolf. You’ve heard them howling, distantly, so deep in the forest that you don’t even feel the need to be frightened by it. They exist in there, somewhere, going about their business as wolves do.

Sometimes you hear about the wolves wandering into town. Old Mr. Thatch, from just over the creek, said his pigs were slaughtered in the night. He’ll have to spend a fortune to get a few more. Torben Plack from the end of Warder’s Row saw one drinking from the horse trough outside the inn last month.

There are whispers of wolves when a baby is missing from its crib. There are whispers of murder in the night. There are accusations that some of the townsfolk themselves are wolves in disguise.

Nonsense, the lot of it. Or, that’s what you believe. That’s what you choose to think about it– even though you’ve been told time and again that a pretty girl doesn’t think, a pretty girl believes and does what she’s told. She doesn’t go into the woods. She does her chores and she says her prayers and she marries a boy with a healthy income and lives quietly, rearing children until she can’t anymore.

(You don’t believe that, either.)

You don’t have the luxury of making any other choices, though. You are a servant, a milkmaid in the employ of a rather cold Master– you have no time for philosophy or discerning what you do and don’t believe about the local folklore.

You milk the cow. You chop the firewood. You feed the chickens. You harvest the cabbage and you don’t complain. You sleep on your bed in your shack– or, servant’s quarters– behind the grand house and you don’t, under any circumstances, question the Master or his wife. You wash the bedsheets after he sloppily takes his wife to bed, and you try to hide your disgust.

You usually do what you’re told. Usually.

On a night when the moon hangs round and full in the sky, lighting the stretch of land beyond your small shack in a milky blue haze, you’re building a small fire in the fireplace when you hear it. The howling. It’s so much closer than you’ve ever heard it, almost as though the wolves are just beyond the treeline that backs up to your master’s land.

You pay it no mind. Normally, the wolves are on the hunt for something– small animals that titter through the woods, unassuming until it’s too late. The howling will be distant soon, and you’ll be able to sleep soundly while the rest of the town frets about the dangers of the wolf-men, locking their windows and bolstering their doors.

Just as you thought, the howls drift away slowly. You snuggle down into the covers of your bed, and you barely flinch when Mr. Thatch fires off a pistol over the creek, ringing through the dead night louder than hell. These things mean little to you. You’re more interested in what the land of dreams holds for you tonight– it’s one of the only reprieves you get from your long days of work.

It isn’t until ten minutes later, when you are mere inches from sleep, that you hear a soft whining outside your cabin door. At first, you think it’s the wind. Then, when it gets louder, you wonder if you’re imagining it.

And when it turns into a soft howling, well. That’s not your imagination.

You wrap a woven blanket around your shoulders and leave the door open when you step out into the chilly night. You don’t have a candle– you could always knick one from the Mistress, but that might risk getting caught, and you don’t love that idea. So, you contend with the little amount of light that spills out of the open door from your small fireplace, and you squint into the dark toward the source of the sound.

It takes shape in the form of a wolf. A big one, covered in black fur and curled up beneath the gabled roof, as though attempting to make itself smaller. It shivers and whimpers miserably, tucking its paws close to its body.

You shrink back in the doorway, drawing your blanket closer around your shoulders. The hum of crickets in the bushes and in the grass across the pasture covers the shakiness of your rapid breathing. You don’t know what to do. You couldn’t possibly be expected to bother the Master this late at night– even if it is a wolf, the barn is shut up and the animals are safe. You’d probably be expected to just stay put in your little cabin and wait for it to go away on its own. Maybe in the morning the Master will find it and skin it for the Mistress’s bedquilt.

The image makes you shudder. This poor thing– even if it is nearly as big as you, even if it’s a nasty predator in the eyes of everyone else– is clearly looking for some sort of reprieve. Just the same as you do at the end of the day. You can’t let it be skinned alive just for searching for safety.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, and you know the creature hears you, because it flinches badly. Almost as though it may bolt away in a panic. “No, no… don’t be frightened.”

You lower yourself down towards the ground, tentatively inching forward as the creature turns its head to blink up at you. Water brims its dark eyes, sparkling in the low light from your open door. Streaks of tears flatten the fur on its snout; the wretched thing lets out a noise like a sob, hanging its head like it doesn’t have the energy to stand you off.

“I’ve never seen a wolf cry before,” you tell it quietly. You’ve never seen a wolf, period, but you don’t need to tell it that. You’re not sure that it can understand you, anyways, but you keep talking like it can. “Are you hurt?”

The wolf snorts, sneezes loudly, and then trembles. There’s a high pitched whining, a heart-shattering noise that cuts deep into your chest as the beast cowers away from you. The whine turns into a low growl when you move a bit closer, but it doesn’t sound like it really means business. More like it doesn’t know what to do with your closeness.

“Hey,” you say again, more insistently. You inch your way forward, crouched low to the ground, holding your blanket around you with one hand as you reach the other out toward it. You’ve never tried to approach a wolf. You don’t know if it’s similar to trying to gain a domesticated dog’s trust– hold out your hand, let it catch your scent. Show it that you mean no harm, allow it to come to you. “I’m trying to help you, okay? Let me help.”

The wolf growls for a moment longer before finally relenting, and reaching its head forward to sniff curiously at your hand. You don’t know what you expect– perhaps that it would drop its head again, or back away cautiously. Instead, the wolf surprises you by pushing its head into your outstretched palm like a sad puppy.

“Oh,” you coo, stroking the wolf’s soft head as it trembles. Its ears twitch against your fingers, and it snuffles a few times, its body shaking with each, like an all-too-human fit of sobbing. “Okay, baby. Let’s get you inside.”

Again, it’s a shot in the dark. You back slowly away from the creature, whose watery eyes blink up at you, and then you stand, and open the cabin door wider. The wolf doesn’t move, still continuing to shake with its uneven breathing.

You take a step into the door, and watch as the wolf slowly struggles up out of its cowering position. On all four legs, it seems to be favoring its right front leg, lifting its left paw limply upward. When you take another step back into the cabin, and it follows, it shudders a breath and limps badly on its left leg.

“Good job, honey,” you tell the wolf gently as it tentatively follows you into the cabin.

You don’t know whether to leave the door open or to shut it; you’re not sure if there’s any wisdom in shutting yourself in close quarters with a wild animal, but you also don’t want the Master to find it come morning. You suck your teeth and swing the door shut, quietly latching it and hoping the damned thing doesn’t suddenly decide it’s too hungry.

You turn, and take two steps before dropping to your knees in front of the fireplace, where the most light hits the ground. You drop your blanket to the floor, and pat your lap as you look at the creature shivering a few feet away. “C’mere. Lay down.”

As far as you know, wolves don’t normally lay down and play lapdog for strange humans, but this one does. You wonder at it, remarkable in its size and beauty, as it flops down tiredly onto your floor and rests its head in your lap. Through your cotton chemise, the wolf’s chin is warmer than the heat of the fire.

You pet the wolf’s head again gently as you examine its left leg. It doesn’t seem to have any major wounds except for a spot of wetness on the side of it. When you lift it, the wolf in your lap whines loudly.

“I know, baby,” you coo at it, trying to pet its head as soothingly as you can while you look over the mangled leg and paw. Through the fur and dirt, you see a patch of pink skin matted with bright red, and your own hand comes away smeared with blood. There is a bad gash, enough to still be bleeding.

You don’t want to jostle the animal now that it’s relatively comfortable, so you bend backwards and sideways to reach the cup of water on the shelf at your bedside. It’s what you have on hand to clean the wound– you suppose you could sneak into the grand house to steal some soap, but just the same as the candle, you’d rather not risk it. You take your time in pouring cool, clean water on the wolf’s wound, rubbing dirt and blood away from the gash. In your lap, the beast huffs softly in response.

“I don’t know what you’re doing out of the woods,” you tell it as you tenderly clean its wound, expecting that you’re only speaking to settle your own nerves, “but you ought not to come around here too often. The men here are bloodthirsty. Don’t want you getting any more beat up.”

The wolf heaves a sigh. For what it’s worth, you take that as some sort of acknowledgement.

“I can’t do much else for you besides this,” you continue softly. The wound is clean now, the fur gone wet enough that you can pull it aside and peer at the gash itself. It’s quite deep, straight, and slices from the middle of its leg upward at a diagonal. It continues to ooze even as you examine it, painting your fingers red. You tip a little more water onto it.

You grab one corner of the blanket you’d used to wrap yourself, and rip a strip off along the grain. The light pink fabric looks almost comical when you wrap it around the wolf’s leg, tying it and tucking the tails in gently so that it won’t fall off too easily. You figure, eventually, the damn thing will come off while the wolf goes off on its merry way. You don’t delude yourself into thinking you’ve got a pet, now.

“I wish I could give you more,” you tell the beast, petting your hand down its mane, feeling the silken fur slide through your fingers like the plushest finery that you’ll never be able to enjoy for yourself. “But, I suppose, you can rest here tonight. If you promise to stay polite.”

The wolf doesn’t fuss when you slide a stiff pillow under its chin, and slip back under the covers of your bed. You gaze at it, curled up in a big black mass on your floor in front of the hearth, and you wonder why on earth a wild animal would be so well behaved.

You wonder how a wolf is capable of crying.

You wake in the early morning light expecting to find a big black wolf sleeping in front of your hearth. Instead, when you rouse and rub the sleep from your eyes, you find that the wolf is gone.

In fact, there appears to have been no wolf at all. No blood on the floor, no black fur on the pillow that has inexplicably reappeared on the foot of your bed. Your water cup is full. And the door to your cabin is latched, just the same as it had been last night, after you let the wolf in.

By all appearances, nothing happened last night. There was no wolf. You half expect that you dreamed the entire thing. And you would continue to believe so– but, the end of your pink woven blanket is still torn, missing a strip from the end, frayed along the grain.

You slip from your bed and fling open the door to your shack, emerging into the cool morning air. You look down at the nook beside the door where the wolf had huddled in the dark, seeking shelter away from harm. There is nothing there to suggest that it had been there last night.

But you know it to be true. You know it.

How could a wolf, a four legged creature with full use of only three of them, manage to unlatch your door, step out, and then relatch it from the other side? How could your water magically refill itself? It’s a mile to the well in the town square, and it’s not like the wolf could have done it.

Broken from your thoughts, you hear a shriek of your name. You lift your head to see your Mistress, fully dressed, feeding the chickens. The daily chores have already begun.

“What are you doing outside in your underclothes?!” your Mistress yells, flinging grain down at the birds. “Go inside and dress yourself this instant, you wretch! And begin your morning duties!”

You jump, darting back behind the door. You hadn’t thought anyone would be out yet. “Sorry, Mistress!”

You rush to grab your stays from the end of your bed. You’ll pay for that one, you think.

There are a million reasons why you prefer doing your chores out of the house.

One, the Mistress isn’t around to rag on you over every little thing. Two, you don’t have to be watching over your shoulder to make sure you aren’t in the Master’s way. And three, you can take all the time you want to do other things as well, as long as you get done before dinner has to be served.

Your skirt is filthy, but it’s a beautiful day, and the creek that separates your Master’s land from Mr. Thatch’s land is babbling quite a bit, and it makes doing the washing up much easier than it otherwise would be. Which you’re happy about, since your arm is so badly welted you can barely curl your fingers.

You sniffle and lift your apron to wipe your nose. Then you wring out the Mistress’s petticoat– of which there are far too many for one woman to reasonably have– you whine at the strain on your injured hand, and you move to the basket of other soiled clothes. You think about blowing your nose in the Master’s linen shirt, and you’re about two seconds from doing it, too, when you hear a splash nearby.

“Shit,” says a man’s voice. There are a couple more splashes around the bend, and then yelps, and then there’s one enormous splash, and a laugh.

“Hello?” you call, trying to peer around the bank of overgrowth beside you. Then, there’s a cacophonous amount of splashing, which makes you screw up your face, and a man emerges from around the bank of greenery.

You pause, holding your Master’s laundry in your hands over the water like you’re wondering whether to dip it in or not. Really, you’re just shocked to see a strange man on your Master’s property at all. He’s out of breath, rosy cheeked and soaking wet from the chest down.

“Um,” is all you can say.

“Hello there,” the man says with a rakish grin that flashes sharp teeth at you. You blink a few times, just to make sure he’s really there. And when you do satisfy yourself with the fact that, yes, he’s very real, you then have to acclimate yourself to the idea that he’s also absolutely beautiful.

His very pretty face is framed by long, dark hair, and his eyes are strikingly dark. There’s something on his skin peeking out of the open collar of his burgundy blouse, but to look at that from this distance means to look at the way his shirt clings to his body, and then his trousers, and if you weren’t already struck dumb, now you are.

“How– how are you– um.” You wave your hands around, gesturing to the general area around you. “Whatareyoudoinghere?”

“I think I was going for a swim, of sorts,” the man laughs, holding one arm out a bit to indicate his damp appearance.

“Who are you?”

“Now, there’s a question for the ages.” The man tromps forward through the water, splashing along gracelessly and with exaggerated steps, like he’s trying to make you laugh. “Generally speaking, no one really cares who I am, just what I want.”

“Okay,” you snap, irritated by the man’s jovial attitude and his need to speak in riddles. “What do you want? Why are you on this land? What business do you have here, and with whom?”

“Whoa, hey–” the man holds up his hands, and grimaces like it’s painful to do so. Then he recovers with a flashy smile. “I don’t mean you any harm, princess. I have no business anywhere, I was just following the creek and seeing where it leads. Guess the time got away from me.”

“I’m not a princess,” you grumble back at him.

He tilts his head, his smile lingering as he looks at you. “Just an expression, no need to be nasty.”

You scowl down at your master’s clothes, and then plunge them into the water like they personally offended you. “Following the creek from where?” He points his thumb over his shoulder, towards the trees. “You came from the woods?”

“Thereabouts.”

You squint up at him. “What’s your name?”

“Eddie Munson, at your service.” He bows dramatically and takes another step towards you. “And may I ask who you are? Or shall I just call you ‘My Lovely Lady of the Creek,’ for time immemorial?”

You tell him your name flatly, and turn your face away as he gets closer, suddenly very invested in getting sweat stains out of your Master’s linen blouse using a cake of lye soap. “You should know not to go into those woods alone. There’s wolves.”

“Oh, I think I can handle myself in the woods, sweetheart.” Eddie smirks down at you. “Anyways, who wants to be in the trees on a day like this?”

You grunt. You don’t think the man will be going away anytime soon, which is bad news for you, because the closer he gets, the more inclined you are to look at him. Then, you’re more inclined to talk, and you’ve already been punished once today. You don’t think you could handle another.

The man, Eddie, sits himself down on a large rock jutting out of the water next to you. He watches you for a moment, scrubbing with one hand at the cloth on the board in the water, and then he points down at your arm. His billowing sleeve flashes red in your peripheral vision, along with the silver of the rings on his hand.

“What happened here?” he asks softly, his voice losing its humorous tone.

You look down at the welted skin. It stings, but the cold water numbs the pain just a bit. Now that he’s brought your attention back to it, your eyes prick with tears again, and you sniff. “My Mistress caught me outdoors in my chemise.”

“She should count herself lucky. It’s a sight to behold.”

“What?” You blink up at him. From this angle, him looming over you on a boulder, the sun rings his head in gold like a halo. “How would you know?”

“I’m… supposing.” Eddie bites his lip, staring off to the side for a moment, as if suddenly at a loss for the right words to say. “You’re a very… beautiful girl. I can only imagine.”

“That’s forward of you.”

“Besides, it doesn’t answer my question,” he rushes out. He scowls back down at your arm. “What did that to you?”

You heave a sigh. “Well, the Mistress told my Master. And the Master is very heavy handed with a cane.” A small sob constricts your throat for a moment, tears pricking your eyes again so badly that you have to stop working and close them. Your sinuses burn from the effort of holding it in.

“You were beaten because you went outside without a petticoat?” Eddie remarks incredulously, “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, I… I was also late to start my chores,” you admit in a wobbly voice. “So I suppose I got off easier than most would…”

“It’s cruel. I’d love to see how he would take it, if the tables were turned.” Eddie’s dark eyes flash dangerously when you look up at him; there’s something in the set of his jaw and the steely expression on his face that makes you think of the growling wolf last night. After a moment, he softens towards you again. “Why were you late to your chores?”

“I…” you trail off. You think about telling him about the wolf, but you wonder if he’s the kind of person who will go into town and yell about the wolves trying to steal women in the night, and you could do without the embarrassment. “I had a nightmare. Slept too late.”

Eddie clicks his tongue and rocks backward a bit. “A nightmare,” he repeats, considering the word like it’s a part of life’s philosophy. “What about?”

You don’t respond for a few moments. You’ve moved on to washing a pillowcase now, which is significantly less soiled than your Master’s blouse. “Why do you care?”

“I care because I hate to see My Lovely Lady of the Creek in distress. Even if she is completely vexed by the sight of me,” He says lightly, as you tilt your head down to hide the way your cheeks burn. He reaches up his right hand and produces a silver coin from behind your ear. You stare at it in puzzlement as he hands it to you. “What was your nightmare about?”

You hesitate just a moment before taking the silver coin. “Is this bribery?”

“Absolutely,” Eddie announces with a wry smile. “For your thoughts.”

You sigh. You could use the coin, you’ll admit. Maybe you could buy yourself a new robe, or a loaf of bread from the baker, or any other of the myriad things you’re in want of.

You tuck the coin down the front of your bodice, where it slides down and gets stuck between your ribcage and your chemise. Eddie’s eyes follow the path that it takes between your breasts with a hungry glint in them.

“There was a wolf,” you tell him quietly, going back to your work. “It came to my door bleeding. I brought it inside and nursed it. But when I woke, there wasn’t a wolf. It was just a nightmare.”

“Oh,” Eddie hums amusedly. “I wouldn’t call that a nightmare. I’d rather call it a dream.”

“A dream?” you echo with a scoff.

“Yes. A lovely dream, with a heroine and a lonely beast in need of kindness.” He leans towards you, his hands on his knees. “But, you know what they say about wild things.”

You huff with indignance, but humor him, because you’re curious in spite of yourself. “I don’t know. What do they say?”

“You shouldn’t show them kindness,” he whispers, so close to your ear that you can feel his breath on your neck. “They’ll keep coming back for more.”

You startle, standing up with a noisy splash of water as you yank the last of the laundry from the creek. There’s a flush under your bodice that you don’t like, sticking to the coin that’s going hot against your skin as you think about it even being there. That it was produced by his hand. The more you think about it, the more you imagine it as an extension of his body, touching you just beneath your breast.

Eddie snickers to himself as you hurriedly, shakily, smack the last piece of laundry into the basket with the rest, and pick up the washboard from the water. With a frustrated huff, you stand and rest the basket of laundry on your hip. You gaze out across the creek, and then away towards the trees, and finally, when you’re sure you can form words, you turn back to him.

“Goodbye, Mr. Munson,” you say stiffly, so that you don’t trip over your own tongue. It comes out icily as a result, and you turn away to hide the way that you blush.

“Until we meet again.” Eddie presses his lips together, as though he’s stifling a laugh. Then he says, in a slightly bossy tone, “Take care of that arm for me, princess. Don’t want you getting any more beat up.”

You whirl around to ask him to repeat that– what the hell did you just say?– but when you do, the man is already gone. Along with any trace of his presence by the creekside.

Except, the coin he bought your dream with still grows warm against the heat of your skin, under your bodice.

#teaser for what's coming. if you even care #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #werewolf!eddie munson #werewolf!eddie munson x reader #stranger things #werewolf!eddie #roses*

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