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katyawriteswhump · 14 days

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(You’re just) too good to be true

For @astrangersummer week 3 prompts, flowers and/or hugs. Thanks to bananas and yesdanger on discord for the extra prompts to get me going. I have tried to get as many in as possible.

Summary: Steve wakes up in hospital after everything is over and can’t quite believe how well everything has turned out…

Rating: T. WC: 1460 CW: None. Other tags: Steddie, platonic stobin, angst, sickfic, hurt/comfort, temporary amnesia, fix-it fic, everybody lives.

…

Steve flutters his eyes open and spies Robin sitting by his bed. Mascara streams down her face, and her hair’s a literal disaster zone.

“Steve! You’re awake!” She grabs his hand. “You’re gonna be okay. The doctor should be here any minute.”

Doctor!?! Where the heck am I?

His throat proves too dry for words. Robin garbles way too fast for him to understand and she’s wringing his fingers ever tighter.

If she’s touching me, I guess it can't be rabies.

His memory triggered, the shitshow slams back. First, the bats, the bites. Then everything that happened after, until they journeyed again into the Upside Down to try to kill Vecna.

Oh hold on, scratch that.

To fail to kill Vecna.

Staring blankly through Robin, he fixates on the terrible parts. Eddie lying bloodied and dead in Dustin’s arms. Dustin sobbing his eyes out. Max was pretty much lost too, and Vecna was alive, gone to ground, and…

What happened next? Why am I in a hospital bed? Jesus, I was fine!

There’s one of those IV thingies in his arm. He shivers though can’t tell if he’s cold or hot. The doctor arrives, jostles him, talks at him, shines lights in his eyes. He’s not in pain, but his brain is all woolly, and he’s confused and weak and lost.

He needs a hug more than ever in his life. Robin peeps at him over the doctor’s shoulder, bouncing like a spooked bunny-rabbit, then she’s gone.

It’s all too much.

He quits, sinking back into the darkness.

…

When Steve next pries an eyelid open, he spies Eddie breezing into the hospital room. Eddie joins Robin, who has moved to the window to pick at her nail polish.

Eddie is gone, which means… Oh, no, no, no, no, no! I’m dead too? Or dreaming?

His throat is achy and tight. He closes his eyes again, hot tears welling. More memories trickle back.

“Make him pay,” Eddie had said.

He recalls that last, lingering look between them. The one that slammed him like a freight train, because... Wtf? For some strange reason, that moment doesn’t feel like the end of a story anymore.

It feels like a beginning. Which is just dumb.

Eddie is no more.

He peeps again, watching a dude who is very definitely Eddie pouring bottled water into a vase of flowers on the windowsill. Robin seizes the bottle from him: “What are you doing, shit-bird? Those are silk—his mom brought them. They don’t need water.”

“Riiiight.” Eddie pulls a silly face, which Steve finds freakish levels of adorable. Suddenly, he wants to crush Eddie to him, tell him that he’s insanely happy he’s here, even if this is some crazy dreamworld, and…

… he wants to shove his tongue into Eddie’s mouth and kiss him stupid.

Huh?

Steve licks dry lips. Most bewildering of all, he somehow knows how awesome kissing Eddie is. As if they’ve done it before.

More than once.

Eddie sneezes dramatically. “If those flowers are fake, I’m allergic to WASP chintz. Which checks out, I guess.”

Robin laughs, though it’s sad and nervy. He catches a glimpse of Eddie’s bambi eyes, and they’re anxious, haunted, too. Then Lucas and Max walk in.

MAX? She’s in a coma!

Steve’s head throbs miserably from trying to make sense of this mad place.

He quits and drifts back to the darkness.

…

When he next peeps, Robin and Eleven are sitting by his bed, sharing a packet of cool ranch doritos.

Which makes less sense than ANY OF IT.

Robin’s gotten real picky lately about sharing food. At least, with anybody but him. He’s vaguely pissed, because these two hardly know each other. The way they’re huddled on the same chair, like close buddies, suggests otherwise.

Yeah, he’s vaguely pissed. And kinda jealous. He sort of hates himself for being needy... but he really wants that hug.

Then another memory flashes back. Some alien desert landscape, with Eleven blasting Vecna with everything she’s got. Eddie sprinting toward him—tailed by what looks like a medium-to-large demogorgon with at least a dozen extra flailing limbs—and Robin yelling, “Steve! El’s got this—help Eddie!”

He finally forces his eyes wide enough for them to see he’s watching. “R-Robin?” he croaks.

“Steve!” She leaps to her feet, nearly knocking El and the chair flying. “You’re really, actually awake this time? Please say yes.”

There’s noise and confusion. The doctor arrives again, checks Steve’s vitals, then bitches that there’s too many kids in the room: “It should be family only,” she says.

“We’re his family,” argues Robin. “His parents only come during official visiting hours.”

Robin is allowed to remain. She helps him sip water, and then he says, “Look, I think was dreaming earlier, or off my head on meds, because I saw you with Eddie, and I know that’s impossible, because…” He swallows hard, mumbles the hateful words: “He's gone, right?”

“Oh my God, you don’t remember?”

“Jesus, Robin! Remember what?”

“We won, Steve. Everyone lived. We even got Crissy back. Vecna’s the only one who’s history. If you hadn’t got hurt, it would’ve been the perfect revenge.”

This time, he manages to take more of her story in. He gets lost in the part where Robin and Dustin figure out time travel—some crazy shit about the proximity of alternate dimensions causing rumples in the space-time continuum. The rest of her tale unleashes a slew of badass memories that squish all the terrible ones into the dirt. Instead of Eddie being dead, he recalls…

“You and Eddie totally slayed this nasty-ass demo-squid-monster,” says Robin. “It got pretty intense, and when you survived, you had, like, an EPIC hug. Aaaand might’ve kissed. Then, later, you threw yourself at Eddie to save him from flying debris, then you rolled into a crater, and he wound up on top, and…”

Steve suddenly recalls that moment vividly. Eddie straddled his hips, and his own hands landed not entirely accidentally on Eddie’s butt. Once they’d gathered their breaths, Eddie leaned forward, swiped hair from his face, and whispered:

“About what you said to Wheeler. If you still want to win her back, that’s fine, I’ll back off, but… just so you know, six kids is cool with me, Stevie. Not like we need to adopt. When you’re around, they simply rock up.”

“So, yeah,” Robin says, ripping Steve from these mind-blowing revelations, “it took us half a dozen attempts to get things right. In the final boss-fight, it was just you, me, Eleven and Eddie. We were lost in the Upside Down for weeks, before we exploded Vecna into a billion disgusting pieces. Because you're you, you were closest, got caught in the blast. You lost a lot of blood, but all important appendages are still present and correct, including, um… any important appendages you were particularly worried about. Not that I’m saying you were, but… Ugh!” She facepalms. “This so isn’t where I meant to go with that.”

He faintly smirks. “You dug that hole, not me, Buckley.”

“No need to gloat. You’re gonna be fine. Everyone is going to be just fine.”

It’s still too much to take in. One question bugs him the most: “Eddie and me, erm… How far did we..?”

“I didn’t stand there and count the bases, Dingus! He’ll be back in five. Ask him. But, you know, there was talk of picking out rings, getting matching tats and—”

“You’re kidding?”

“A bit. Seriously, by the third week, you two seemed chill. Happy. I really hope you remember it all soon.”

He takes a beat. Warmth pools in his chest, because everything Robin says sure as heck feels true. He gives her hand a little pulse, and their fingers intertwine.

“Robin,” he says. “At the risk of sounding downbeat, it’s all a bit too perfect. I’m kinda worried I’m dead.”

“Oh! You’re really, really not. I’m all sticky and gross 'cos I was here all night, but… would a hug help?”

He nods, levers himself up a little, suppressing a wince at the effort. He wraps the arm unencumbered by the IV around her, and she awkwardly cuddles him. He rests his cheek on her bony shoulder, and breathes deeply, while she rubs juddering circles in his back.

She’s sweaty and clumsy and real.

“You’re not dead, I promise,” she whispers. “If you were, I’d be so mad with you, after all that effort to fix things. Besides, you still got hurt, and we were all out of time travel opportunities. Long story. Anyhow, it's been hell, till the doctors said you’d be okay, and even then… We’ve been so scared.”

Her trembling shakes through him. He tries not to sniffle, but he can't seem to help it. Everyone survived. Eddie’s alive. Eddie and he are…

His heart gives a crazy squeeze that says everything he needs to know.

“As soon as you’re out of here,” whispers Robin, “this summer is gonna be the best ever.”

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

#steddie #steve harrington #stobin friendship #platonic stobin #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #steve harrington whump #a stranger summer #eddie munson lives

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beanlot · 2 years

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MISTRESS

sevika x maid!reader

at first, you were her maid. but master liked you just enough to make you her mistress.

word count: 4.0k

genre: smut

warnings: amab!sevika, age gap, sevika cheats on her wife, slight spanking, spit, vibrator use, master/servant relationship, breeding kink

────────────────

“what a gorgeous colour.” her fingers ironing the corners of her lips, mahogany lipstick cleansing from the cedar skin in superlative fashion. she was objectively sumptuous, a classy woman surrounded by old money and platinum basin sinks; an easy life enough that she didn’t even have to raise a finger to apply honeydew exfoliation masks to her glistening skin. “don’t you think?” she stares at you through the mirror, umber eyes fanned by silky lashes - lids glossed with everlasting lustre of golden butterscotch, tempted to believe you could see your reflection if stood close enough.

“yes, madam.” you nod, fingers clasped onto a hanger, vintage dress glittered with merlot gemstones fluorescent against the sapphire tiles of the floor. you weren’t lying, it was a gorgeous colour. and madam wasn’t particularly sinister against you, or even sinister at all..

“you filthy pig.”

“don’t you dare touch my antiques.”

“look at you, fix this messy hair. i will not have guests over whilst you look like a disgusting hooker.”

mostly.

“vika loves this colour.” she sighs, french-tipped nails tapping against the argyle jewellery around her neck. her scent of prevailing pumpkin spice suffocating you momentarily when she turns around, taking the hanger from your grip; you’ll watch as she lays the dress against her body, feminine curves of her hips accentuated through the garnet jewels as she subtly twirls around. she hum, lashes batting through the scrutiny before she shoves the hanger into your chest hurriedly. “be a dear for me and tighten the waist.”

and sure, you don’t expect the best of treatment regardless. you were on the back burner, disposable in every aspect with your dull shirt collar; onyx skirt tucking in your buttons and the driest of hands from the constant polishing. “yes ma-“ a shrill bark interrupts you, and it’s when you turn around that you see a woolly poodle, pastel frilly dress, wiggling through the door.

“ugh, pinkiebear! what are you doing, my baby snuffles?” and just like that, as madam scoops the pup into her arms, you’re left alone in the bathroom. moroccan rose handwash beside her gold-plaited cosmetics, pomegranate face serums and emerald earrings; you’d wondered what the oils would feel like on your fingertips, the creaminess against your skin soaking with pulchritude. it feels like bait when you see that one tub is already open, pale watermelon serum calling your fucking name - she won’t notice, there’s no way.

so you tenderly swab at the surface, the velvety touch on your skin.. it already makes you feel pretty, glammed up, like her. and the dysphoria only amplifies ironically when you massage the pearly ointment into your cheek, the winsome highlight when you turn your head not going unnoticed.

wine glass and plate in hand as you approach sevika’s master’s study, nudging the door with your shoulder. it was smoked salmon and caviar, and if you weren’t so fond of her, it would be rational to believe she was intentionally inflicting the purgatory of starvation onto you. but she was not resentful, her muffled tone of come in prompting you to amble inside; the air murky from her cigar smoke, illuminated by dim apricot from the scattered lamps. and she’s there, with every inhale, you can decipher the ocherous flame between her lips - her fingers clearing her desk when she sees the wine bottle tucked under your arm.

“thank you, darling.” she murmurs within the fever dream, fumes seeping through her lips to which she fans out when you’re beside her desk. it’s elixir to taste, and although it’s toxin on your tongue, it’s contradicting - plate and wine glass settled against the oak, careful to avoid her disarray of books and orderly inklings when you pour the currant. she examines this, raising an eyebrow before tapping the tobacco against an ashtray. “are you hungry?”

fuck, you have no idea.

“no, master.” you shake your head, because even though you could feel your organs internally booing inside from the withering, you were under an obligation of being polite. and hell, it was reasonable for her to concern herself with your wellbeing per se: she was older, much older; yet you merely took it as manners, sympathy that you weren’t born into such opulence. so when you finish pouring, tenderly placing the bottle beside master’s glass - it’s paralysis when her coercive words refrain you from leaving the room as you intended. “come here.” she instructs, virescent globes eclipsed with hues of oxblood when you maintain eye contact from your awkward distance. she’s manspreading, white button-up loose against her chest, and the uncertainty only amplifies when master’s tone becomes demanding. “come.. here.”

so you shuffle towards her, and you’re not sure if it’s the nicotine or the peril brunt of her influential stare, but your blood pressure raises when you stop - that maybe you’d said something wrong, gotten a wine she didn’t like, or you were vicariously responsible for the chef’s error. but the neurotic thoughts plummet when you see her slice an intricate cube of the salmon, fork held out to you with sincerity.

“try it, it’s good for you.” she advises, and you’re under automatism to obey - her fingers scraping against yours when you take the fork, examining the glassy block. you’re not sure what it’s seasoned with, only able to distinguish the honey glaze and sprinkle of pepper; you couldn’t even fucking describe what salmon tasted like, a luxury that your flimsy uniform never got to see up close. and you feel emotional when it finds itself between your teeth, erupting with foreign rich oils and glacé syrup.

you want to appreciate it, had you not interpreted the investigative glances she’s giving you. skeptical eyebrows dipping in, defining the droopiness of her lids and the eclipse of gunmetal in her narrowed pupils - they search your face, because there’s something about you that master just can’t pinpoint. “you’re glowing.” she mumbles, fingers branching out toward you and framing your jaw ever so tenderly; thumb stroking along the curves of your cheekbone, the familiar and velvety texture of your skin no stranger to master. “you’ve been using my wife’s stuff, haven’t you?”

great.

of course, how could you have been so recklessly fucking dense? you’d just swabbed a few thousands onto your face and expected that nobody would’ve been able to put two and two together, and now you’re stood here like a fucking embarrassment whilst her conquering globes assess you. master was going to obliterate you for even contemplating putting your filthy wilted fingers on her wife’s belongings, and you’re just waiting for her to call the chef over to slice you into little pepperonis and use your torso as a fucking piñata for her fancydancy din-

“looks good on you.” she mumbles, and the harmonising words nosedive into your stomach with more adamantine force than waiting for her to beat you to a pulp. her fingers streamlining down your jaw before she picks up her plate, ludic smirk concealing the mulberry on her lips as she offers her plate towards you. “don’t tell.”

you look back and forth, and it’s only when she nudges the porcelain into your stomach that you realise what she meant. she was only really interested in the wine, and within her hospitality, gave you something to eat for the night.

───────────

“your muscles are all contracting, just relax.”

“i’m trying..”

“you should really look into tai-chi, saves me hours of making these for you.

i’ll be back tomorrow,

ice or magnesium for any muscle pain,

is that a chip in the wall?

anyway, i’ll see you tomorrow, my lovely~.”

you’d been waiting outside her room for about forty minutes, folded blouse and dress shirts in hand; although you liked to consider yourself respectful of master’s private conversations, not even the bricky walls and thick interior of the hallways could muffle the massage therapist’s jarringly piercing voice - one that only amplifies when master’s door opens, a tiny woman pootling herself down the hall with a bowl of water, peppermint leaves floating within the misty pool.

it’s rosemary and eucalyptus when you inhale, frissons of sweltering air blossoming your way as the door closes over only slightly. but you’re prudent, you’re conditioned to be, waiting outside her door for her to have her few minutes of privacy - but she calls you in when she identifies your shadow against her marble tiles, eyes absentmindedly tracing the silhouette of your hips.

and when you walk in, nudging the door ever so slightly, she’s face-down on the master bed; surrounded by canary silk pillows and lime basil candles, her wine cellar visible from where you stand. you approach the palladium drawers, and whilst your job was plainsailing, the difficulty of having to avert your eyes from her bare back did it’s due diligence to make it just a little harder for you. but you stay silent nonetheless, the palatable glimmering against her burly shoulders, one that made you envy a massage therapist’s expertise as you organise her shirts.

“you have pain, master?” you mumble, clearing your throat when it starts to disintegrate at the mercy of her tensing shoulders, glorious muscle twitching. “my shoulders, darling. it’s not so bad.” she doesn’t move, and although you seem satisfied with the composed silence, the thought of leaving in it made your stomach sour.

“is there anything i can do?” you offer, graphite eyes piercing into your body when she turns her head against the pillow - you can tell she’s engrossed in those retrospective thoughts of hers by the way she’s zoning out, clouding globes that flutter over you before she pats the mattress.

“lay with me..” she mutters, black pepper fragrant when she inches away, leaving you a temptingly delectable space beside her. it feels wrong, and your ears can already feel the wrath of madam’s scream when she finds out you dared even the slightest courage to lay in her bed, beside her wife.

but master was at the top of the food chain.

so you reluctantly obey, not oblivious to the raw sensation of eagerness when her bare abdomen raises slightly from the mattress - she’s toned, noir curves that only excite the vim when you’re slithering into the space she’d left you. but it’s not enough to dilute your inhibitions, your body rigid when her fingers flutter against your waist; she notices this, intoxication when her whisper caresses against your ear. “relax, relax.” she whispers, the suggestive timbre diminishing you - she waits until you slump into the satin, plumose textures under your fingertips, before her arm cases over your waist and trails you against her bare chest. it’s morally profane, warmth from her breasts contagious on your spine, skin sweltering idyllically - kittenish and lewd and wow you’re getting horny.

it’s silent for a few minutes. but you feel dirty, her vanilla comfort something you ruined.

“you remind me of my wife when we first met.” the vanilla wisps against your jaw curdling into vulgarity when her fingers tenderly clutch at the hem of your skirt, and although one part of you feels like nothing more than a doll for her to use the one night her wife is out attending a dinner, another is relieved when the wintry air strikes your thighs.

“young,” her fingers lifting the skirt enough that her perverted eyes can search your hips, the way they embrace the black straps of your underwear.

“pretty,” her nails glissading against your inner thighs, forefinger sinking between them enough that they’re under automatism to separate. you try to convince yourself that it’s because you don’t want to get into trouble, disappoint that streak of high expectations you managed to leap over the past few weeks - but by the vim in your clit, it was disgustingly undeniable it was because fantasy was becoming reality.

“fertile.” she delicately taps your clothed clit, subtle sensitivity that already gets your hips rolling into her crude touch. her engagement ring flaring in your peripheral when her left hand slinks around your body, black opal glinting as her palm rests against your breasts. “look at me.” her lips tickling against your cheek as you turn to her, hues of predatory oxblood glossing over her lead pupils. she likes that she owns you, conditioned you to be her little pet, dominated your identity to nothing more than her servant.

so the overly obscene taste on her lips when she’d pressed her forehead against yours, skin searing with wealthy indecency was no shock. she was impulsive, lips against yours, unseemly sounds of anticipated smooches as you drink up the taste of peppermint. she wants to be delicate for you, but the instinct outlasting the grace when she hears you hum. you’re heedless of your sloppy grinding, shaky exhales which only worsen when she pulls away; her thumb draping your bottom lip down only slightly. jewels of her spit streamlining into your mouth, your tongue absorbing the droplets filthily. “pretty girl.” she swallows, eyes darting along your jaw, her spit slowly drizzling down your neck.

you want to tell her that this is wrong, that she’s a married woman, but the night already feels drilled into stone when her fingers manipulate the buttons on your chest, cleavage satisfying her sadistic eyes with every one coming undone. your shirt loosens, sinking down your back and accentuating the feminine enticement master was under whilst her fingers revel in the linen cotton of your bra, the straps cunningly draping off your shoulders. “aren’t you gorgeous, look at you.” she whispers, your breasts tingling when there’s nothing there to cover them anymore, her fingers folding your bra down to your stomach.

admiring the way your nipples harden under her fingertips, delicately pinching the responsive buds. you nod, because you expect her to want you to, flinching when you roll your hips against her sturdy thigh; thick imprint of her veiny cock paralysing you momentarily.

“lean over in that drawer.” she gestures to the bedside cabinet, and you’re sceptical when you lean over, your skirt hitching up ever so slightly. and if the humiliation of having your ass presented to her like a fucking showpiece wasn’t degrading enough, the barbaric strike of her palm against it was. you squeak, flinching necessarily - her palm easing the inflamed area intricately, before walloping back down onto your skin. you want to fucking weep, blinking through the blur of your tormented tears, opening the drawer to which a plaited vibrator lays.

“that’s the one.” she confirms, taking it from your fingers as you lay back into the mattress, ass ignited with scorching goosebumps from the brutish force behind her arms. you go to defend yourself, because honestly, you feel lower than the bottom of the food chain - you were no blossoming mighty oak, but rather a withering sunflower under her assertion.. but she knows what you’re about to say. “master, i haven’t do-“

“you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. i’ll make you feel good.” she sits up, and although she intends to comfort you, it only intimidates you further when her tongue wets her lips; fingers slewing the fabric of your underwear to the side and leaving your slit prey to her predacious stare, only amplifying when she unveils how truly drenched your folds are. but she doesn’t say anything, only leaning over whilst a bullet of her spit seeps between her lips and missiles itself against your clit.

you already feel numb, the heavenly pressure of seventh heaven when you hear the whirring of her vibrator, your thighs quivering with the company of your stimulated whines when the tip purrs against your clitoral hood. “that’s it, atta girl.” she praises, her breasts pressing themselves against your bare spine when she situated herself beside you again. it’s nirvana, humping against the vibrator so primitively, erogenous arcady to hear your incessant whimpers echo throughout the room. you’re sweating by now, at peace with the fire and brimstone breeding on your skin - but you want more, your fingers grazing over the stiff imprint of her desperate cock.

her breath is jagged, submerging the vibrator harder onto your clit, your ankles starting to twitch at the susceptibility. you’re not sure if it’s enough to make you come just yet, but that thought deteriorates when her finger glissades down your slit and streams itself inside of your hole. “fuck.. you’ve made my cock all hard.” she sighs against your cheek, your walls greeting her indiscriminately; spasming with every hum against your clit. she’s testing the waters, fingertips taking a liking to the spongy textures when she tenderly twines it upwards, the pornographic desire in your clit to orgasm more reckless than ever. but you’re not the only one suffering, because sevika is finding that her cock is actually starting to fucking hurt from the distress of not being able to just have her way with you again and again and again.

but she’s patient, finger gliding itself in and out of you; assaulting that carnal pit in your walls as your thighs tremble as she fucks you with them. instinctive sobs leaving your throat unmonitored, and honestly, you wouldn’t be able to describe it even if given a fucking thesaurus - sneezelike corkscrew ballooning itself inside your hips when she hooks another finger inside, arousing squelching with every hammer against your folds. “please..” you whisper, unbeknownst to the soreness in your fingers as they lock, clenching tightly on her belt.

and when she’s satisfied with how vulnerable you are under her, the sensitivity just right, she’ll admire the quavering of your hips and the tightening of your thighs before dragging the vibrator away from your clit. “huh?” you squeak, cunt clenching around her fingers at the sudden loss of her manipulation. you’re about to complain, wail about how much of a fucking tease she is, but she relieves the anguish by leaning over your thighs; her tongue replacing the device and doing its dirty work when it swipes over your hood, delving between your folds and schemingly flicking over your erect bud.

just like that, you’re shaking again, thigh hoisting itself up and planting itself on her bare, burly shoulder. your mewls of master twirling repeatedly in a rabbit hole of ecstasy when her damp lips envelop your clit and suck with cruelty, fingers maintaining their agonising operation; battering into you with precision and artsy discipline, like she’s done this too many times before.

but it’s dispiriting for her, because she wants to be a lovemaker for you, wants to appreciate you for the fine young woman you are - yet the throbbing in her cock conquers that yearning, and it’s then that she pulls away with such self-hatred. “are you gonna let me put my cock inside your cunt, darling?” she exhales, fingers slewing out of your brimming hole, selfishly drizzling your discharge over the mattress and coating over the sable leather of her belt when she goes to unbuckle it.

“yes. yes, master.” you comply, ultramarine daze when you blink; pixels of orchid blooming in your vision when you even did as much as look down to her belt. fingers tackling the every latch, submerging as they frame her veiny shaft - cock springing out and admittedly, inciting nothing more than disruptive thoughts of am i going to fucking live to see tomorrow after this.

she’s thick, and monumental.. fucking handcrafted by gods with such clarity. enough that all of that internal envy becomes more.. not envy, because you know this is gonna really fucking hurt, and you’re not liking how much she exceeds your expectations at the expense of what’s gonna happen to your poor fucking vagina. “do you still want this?” she murmurs when she notices the hues of uncertainty in your eyes, superficial doubt that she interprets easily - it’s an ego boost, artificial concern to conceal her everlasting inclination to ruin you. but you blink at her, flickering between her eyes and the slightly palatable mulberry tip of her cock, before you nod.

it would be cruel for her to nosedive straight into you, and even she knows this, her tip glissading through your folds and lubricated with your slick. she’s slightly sensitive, the warmth of your cunt only amplifying the immense throbbing, but she’s consistent this time - your clit rubbing against her head only instantaneously as she accustoms herself with your textures.

“this might hurt, my love, just a little.” she whispers against your jaw, fingers grappling at your hips as her own angles forward, tip insidious as it skims into your walls; your body merely a betrayal of your conscience when your walls welcome her. but it’s smooth, as she pushes herself in with such fucking entitlement, your insipid moisture coating her cock.

because she owned you, every little fragment.

her mindless breaths against your bare shoulder, the subtle rocks in her hips purely intuition. she hasn’t felt this in years, the vehemence of her girth wrapped around such a fine woman, and it motivates the urge for her to start thrusting your hips back into her. your whimpering sobs with every cudgel of her skin against yours, the indignity of her abdomen pounding against your spine and the raunchy heat of her cock assaulting your cunt.

influx of adrenaline when she hears you mewl, her sloppy kisses on your nape sultry and blistering. “i know, i know it feels good..” she sighs, both hands clenching at your thighs, your hips, your waist- anything to feel herself become adaptable inside of you, anything to get a taste of the rapture inside of herself.

“pretty.. pretty girl..” her muffled groan echoing in your ears as she gets herself off into you. she was dictating your self-worth, dictating your fucking life.. and although some of it felt as if it was just pulling the pieces together, another felt it all shatter into irreversible ruins as her left hand compressed itself onto your clit; engagement ring ever so slightly abrading itself against your wet folds.

and that’s when you feel it.

the sheer pinnacles of rhapsody so distinct as her fingers roll your clit in circular motions superlatively, cock swollen and erect. “please.. please..” you sigh, the jagged timbre exposing how receptive your bundles of nerves were; fingertips touching the very eminent icicles of orgasm when she speaks her foul language in your ears.

“i’m gonna come inside you, do you want that?”

“uh huh.”

“gonna make you the mother of my kids..”

“mhm-hm, master please..”

and then it erupts inside, whirlwind of frenzy that you could only compare to what felt like being edged for hours. your clit numb and jaded, the overstimulation aggravating as your walls pulse around her cock so tightly that she doesn’t even need to continue pummelling into you. conclusively, you were a mess - her palm sealing itself over your lips to repress the uncontrollable cry, tone it down ever so slightly, arms that confine your body as you tremble and do your upmost fucking best to recover.

and after a few minutes of her rocking a few inches back and forth into you, the dishevelled grunt and adhesion of her bangs against your cheek; quivering fingers against your lips and hips that airbrush themselves to divinity let you know that she’s just came.

and something feels off, seriously off. so full and saturated, and it’s when her cock slews itself out of you that you know there’s no way you’re the only one behind all the mess; looking between your legs and flinching at the pearly cream drizzling out of your hole, thick and balmy. your juices meshing together in such harmony that you feel disgust, and yet hypnosis. because she never wanted a maid,

she wanted a mistress.

#sevika x reader #sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #arcane x reader #sevika smut

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flittermousing · 1 year

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via batconservationinternational on Instagram

#bat fun #bat info #big-eared wooly bat #wooly bat #woolly bat #queued

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amnhnyc · 1 year

Photo

🦇 Any guesses about how the big-eared woolly bat (Chrotopterus auritus) got its name? With a wingspan of over 1.5 feet (0.5 m), this critter is one of the largest bats in the Americas, ranging from Mexico to Argentina. Scientists think it uses its oversized ears for echolocation, emitting high-frequency squeaks and listening to the resulting echoes to find prey. The big-eared woolly bat is an omnivore with a taste for meat: Birds, mice, opossums, and other bats are on the menu. It typically consumes large prey from the head down, and can take up to 20 hours to finish a single meal! Photo: edward137, CC BY 4.0, iNaturalist #animals #nature #wildlife #amazinganimals #amazingnature https://www.instagram.com/p/CqI1JLtroQy/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#animals #nature #wildlife #amazinganimals #amazingnature

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todaysbat · 5 months

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Capturing a Carnivorous Bat on Camera | National Geographic

warning: does show bats catching prey but nothing graphic, pretty typical for a nature doc.

#bat video #national geographic #Rodrigo Medellín #anand varma #false vampire bat #woolly false vampire bat #big eared woolly bat #peters' woolly false vampire bat #Chrotopterus auritus

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storiesbyrhi · 1 year

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Witch!Reader x Bat/Vampire!Eddie Munson Series Masterlist The Grimoire The Timeline

Warnings: canon typical violence, horror genre typical violence, swearing, animal death, no beta, warnings updated each chapter.

Synopsis: No witch has stepped foot in Hawkins since 1845, but when Vecna opens the ground and poisons the town, a voice begins to call to you. Have you been brought back to this cursed place to heal the townspeople’s wounds, to save a hexed bat that always finds its way to you, or to redefine your history with a reunion 150 years in the making?

Chapter Summary: In honour and love. 2562 words.

Author’s Note: We pick up where we left off.

1986

“You’re welcome…”

Your feet were planted so solidly on the ground it was as though you’d grown roots. He took the few steps needed to almost close the space between you.

“Why… why are you helping?”

Oh.

Your body had an almost visceral reaction to his voice. It was more than a familiar sound; it felt like home. You wanted to cry. “I... I… Uh- That’s hard… to explain…”

He looked you up and down, then accepted your answer with a nod.

“I need to… need to bury him,”

“Let me,” the man moved faster than you, scooping the dog’s body up and holding it against his chest.

“Oh… No… He can’t be dumped somewhere. I need to bury him. He deserves to be honoured.” You could feel embarrassment bubble up, something you weren’t used to. It was easy to talk about the craft around witches. It was easy to hide it from humans with clever language. It was entirely illogical, but you needed him to understand what you were saying. You were afraid he’d laugh or deny you this rite.

The man looked from you to the dog. “I know where to go. If you’ll take us,”

“How… Do… Do you remember? Being a bat?”

He nodded. “I am… starting to.”

As the vampire dressed in borrowed clothes, ones that fit more poorly than the last, you picked the best apple in your fruit bowl and a piece of Apache Tear obsidian from your crystal collection, stashing them in your bag.

You checked outside the trailer for nosy neighbours. The coast was clear and you walked to your car. The man had never been in a car. He’d seen them. Knew, in theory, that he just had to sit in it. Still, it presented a challenge.

When you unlocked the passenger side door and opened it for him, he stood awkwardly for a second. “Unless it's close enough to walk?” you asked him. He shook his head and got into the car, holding the dog’s body like a security blanket.

As you drove out of Forest Hills, you stopped at the main entrance. “Which way?”

The man nodded north.

You turned the radio on to fill the silence, assuming there was no conversation to be had.

“You do not belong in this place,”

“No. I don’t,” you agreed. “I used to be. Before the town, before… this lifetime… I lived here with my sisters,”

“They are not here now,”

“No. I’m the only witch here,”

“A witch,” he repeated, nodding to himself.

“Do you know what that is?” you asked.

He looked at you, his eyesight unaffected by the night. “I… may,”

“Oh… Okay. Well. Are you remembering anything else? About what you are?”

“I need blood.”

Of course, he’d know blood. “You will die without it. Well… A kind of death. Eventually. That would be very painful for you though,”

“Yes,” he said, like he knew that. Perhaps the thirst for blood was so innate that the knowledge he’d die without it was too. “Vampire.”

The word startled you. It was still surreal. It was as if a Tasmanian tiger or woolly mammoth were to walk out in front of your car.

He was a vampire. A vampire you had helped. A vampire you had taken a living thing to, to kill. It hadn’t occurred to you until then that you could have simply healed the ridgeback. You could have healed all the animals in Hawkins Kennels, instead you took one to its early death and devoted time to a vampire.

You focused on your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

“Do you know your name?” you asked, needing the conversation as a distraction. Once telling him yours, you waited, but he shook his head. “We might need to give you one. Or, at least, a nickname.”

Between your limited knowledge of the roads of Hawkins and the fact he’d only ever seen it from the sky, it took a while to locate the place he intended to bury the dog. It wasn’t unpleasant driving empty streets with him though. You wondered if it should have been.

A partially overgrown road, unpaved and a threat to your car tires, was where he lead you. As natural landmarks began to come into focus, the moon’s rays the only light for miles, you felt the growing sense that you’d been to this place before.

When your car came to a dead end, you cut the engine. “Is it far?” you asked.

The man shook his head and waited for you to open his door.

He walked in front of you, flattening a path. Over the tall grass you could see you were coming to a wooded area. You smelt the oak before hitting the edge of the trees.

“Was this a witch?” the man asked, stepping out of your way.

Before you, constructed between two tall sycamore trees was a doorway of sorts. Hundreds of branches and sticks had been used to create a near-perfect circle. They were woven and stuck together to build an arch over and under. A gateway to the woods, not one that defied science, but still an oddity seemingly supernatural in origin.

“How… how do you know this place?”

He had no answer, so he stayed silent. It was just one of many parts of the flatlands, of Hawkins, that as a bat he watched over. He liked the forest doorway though, as much as he’d ever been able to like anything.

“I think… I think I’ve been here. I think I made this,” you said, voice dropping low.

“You cannot remember?”

It made no sense. You should have been able to remember. An unsettling feeling washed over you. Someone had been tinkering in the vampire’s mind, dislodging memories and letting them freefall. Surely, you didn’t have that in common.

When you didn’t answer his question, he asked another. “Is this a place… to honour?”

The dog.

“Yes. Yeah, it is.”

You took the lead, walking through the forest gate and looking back to see what would become of a vampire crossing a witch’s threshold. Nothing. Whatever magic had been there was long gone.

Not far from the gate, you stopped. The vampire understood, carefully placing the dog on the woodland floor. He stayed knelt on the ground and began to move sticks and brush out of the way. His movements gained momentum and soon he was moving faster than your eye could read. He was a blur, then he was standing next to a deep grave, the soil of which was dark under his fingernails.

You nodded when he looked to you for approval, then he laid the dog in the ground. While the vampire buried his victim, you gathered tokens from the nature that surrounded you.

Upon the grave, you laid butterfly weed and echinacea flowers, the apple, and obsidian.

“Hel, comforter in grief,

We ask you to receive this soul.

They lived pure, good, and true.

Hel, watcher of the dead,

We ask you to receive this soul.

Go peacefully now, no lament, no sorrow, nor rue.”

Standing side-by-side with a hexed vampire, you committed the dog to the earth not with a spell but a blessing, and grieved for the oath you’d broken.

“Go now,” he spoke. “I will come soon.”

Before you could ask what he meant, the vampire had gone from your side into the night. You waited in the car for fifteen minutes, the heater blasting stuffy air onto you. When he didn’t return, you drove home alone, only to find him perched on the roof of the trailer.

“That seems very dramatic,” you told him as he followed you inside. He was silent and all but invisible out there, still it seemed even an amnesic vampire couldn’t forget to have an operatic flair.

The trailer was warm and the artificial lighting soft. When you turned to him, you could see it on his face. The colour high on his cheekbones. The red on his lips. He’d found his way back to you, by way of more death.

…

1836

He watched you while you built the gate. Although he wouldn’t reveal himself, you could feel his curious gaze. It sent electricity buzzing through you, though you would burn at the stake before admitting that to yourself.

When he felt sure no townsfolk or coven members were joining you, he sauntered through the field, parting the long grass at will.

“Little witch. Why are you playing with sticks?”

You paid him no mind, which you knew would drive him crazy. He walked through the gate and around it, poking at the branches and making noises of discontent.

“If you aren’t going to help, you can go be a nuisance to your own kind,” you warned him, a stick pointed in his direction.

He swiftly grabbed the stick, tugging it hard, pulling you into him. It was the first physical content you’d made. The stick was forgotten as his cold hands wrapped around your upper arms, your chest pressed to his. He looked down at you, bared his sharp teeth in a smile.

“You don’t want me to go. Do you?” Your blown pupils were answer enough. He grinned again. “How can I help?” he asked, voice softening as he let you go and stepped away.

“I need… more…”

“More…? Sticks?”

You nodded dumbly.

He stayed close, within your sight, and moved at the speed of a human. You steadied yourself, regained your composure, and continued with your task.

The circular doorway would allow humans and witches to pass safely through the woods. It worked like a protection spell, once through it the individual would exist within a bubble, the bubble would take them through the dense and dark forest untouchable to vampires and foes.

On the other side of the woods, your mother had created one just like it, though she preferred to work in the daylight. Your penchant for twilight walks and midnight magic had, so far, gone unnoticed by the coven. Moonlight was a strong conductor, after all.

When the doorway was complete, holding strong against push and pull, you considered sending the vampire away. Somehow though, your magic felt stronger when he stood next to you. So, he stayed.

“Bloodline magic, far and wide,

Enchant this doorway so friends may hide.

Leaf and petal, wood and stone,

Protect our friends, return them home.”

You painted a circle of salt, sage, ground black cat bone, and mud around the doorway while reciting the spell. Then stood on the opposite side to the vampire.

“I dare you to cross through,” you said to him, a coy smile warning him of your witchy mischief.

“You wouldn’t be trying to kill me, would you, little witch?”

“If I were, it would not be with sticks and stones.”

He laughed, then considered you, his head cocking to the side. “If you want me to cross through, it will not be for free.” It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to walk through the circle, but the damage he would sustain was a mystery. What price would he put on shame or pain?

You huffed and crossed your arms. “What do you want? More stolen apples that you can’t eat?”

“A kiss,” he replied.

Your expression stayed playful; you held your nerve. He didn’t miss the way your breathing hitched though.

“For that, I want more,”

“Of course, you do,” he laughed, motioning for you to continue with a wave of the hand.

“Your name. A kiss will buy me your name.”

The vampire was quite pleased with himself for having held back that detail. He had predicted it would become useful. Witches and their silly little words and silly little names. It was all so important to them.

“You have yourself a deal.”

You clapped with joy, then bowed at the gate. “Please cross this witch’s threshold,”

“Oh, I do love it when you speak so filthy,” he quipped.

Tentatively, he approached the gate, waiting to feel his skin burn or something mystical and unholy. You watched amused at his sudden caution.

“Nothing will happen until you cross through,” you told him, trying to hurry him along.

He shot you a dark look that ought to have frightened you. Instead, you giggled.

The vampire took a useless breath in and jumped off the ground. He hit the circle like it was a brick wall, then was sent on a harsh rebound from the trees and into the tall grass.

You covered your face to conceal the laughter, waiting for him to reappear, ego bruised.

The wind whistled through the air and you thought perhaps you had pushed the vampire too far. Carefully, you followed his path from the gate out the woods and to where the grass began.

“Oh, vampire!” you called sweetly.

His voice came from all around you. All-encompassing whispers of, “Little witch, little witch, little witch!”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

The whispering stopped. You walked into the tall grass and found him lying on his back, casually lounging.

“Have you come to shower me in kisses?” he asked, fluttering his long eyelashes as you.

You knelt next to him, leaning over so your arms were either side of his head. “Give me your name,” you demanded, eye to eye with him.

“When I was born into this world, my mother named me Edward,” he said so casually, like it had never been a secret.

“Edward,” you repeated, a tone in your voice that made him smile.

“Are you disappointed? Would Molech suit better? Abaddon? Paimon? Or perhaps Lucifer Morningstar is what you expected?”

You looked down at him and saw through the shallow humour. “There’s a boy in the village. His name is Robert. It means bright star. His mother calls him Bobby and he answers when she calls,”

“Are you trying to distract me with a lesson?”

“Edward is of Old English origin. It means both fortune and guardianship. Which, in your case, does not fit quite right.” You didn’t reveal that his name was relatively new in human history, leading you to conclude he was not an Ancient vampire.

“Do your arms tire, Amabel? May I take this weight from you?” With vampire speed, he sat up, pulling you over him, your legs straddling his lap.

The game was fun. You held your arms out straight, letting them lean on his shoulders. “My assertion is that like Bobby, you will answer to a different name. I think I will call you… Eddie.”

You half expected him to argue. Instead, he smiled tenderly and snaked his arms around you. “You can call me whatever you want, little witch.”

Eddie listened to your heart, how it began to beat faster as you leaned down and ran the tip of your nose against his. His lips touched yours, his cool to your earthy warmth. You had kissed witches and humans and a few fae folk too. Nothing… absolutely nothing compared.

You rolled your hips against him, begging to be held tighter, instead he maintained the space between you, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against yours.

“What are we going to do?” he asked, in a moment of honest vulnerability.

Willing yourself not to cry, you left his sorrow unanswered and instead, leaned in to kiss him again.

End Note: Not me agonising over US English versus Australian. The Grimoire and timeline have been updated (links at top of post). Reblogs encourage me to keep writing! And, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

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#Mine #Burning Yarrow #Eddie Munson #Vampire!Eddie #Vampire!Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x Reader #Eddie Munson x You #Eddie Munson/Reader #Eddie Munson/You #Witch!Reader

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