#blueysbirdblurbs

[blueywrites]

Hi lovely! Congratulations on 1k followers!! 🎉 you totally deserve all that and more! 💕

For your Blueys Bird Blurbs celebration, can I please request smut, Eddie x reader and for the 3 words; shy, forbidden and true

Congats again! xx

the boldest words

princess!reader x bard!eddie

prompt: smut with eddie, shy, forbidden, and true.

this one was super fun to write! I'm very glad I was finally able to finish it. It ended up being a smutty fluffy piece that I really enjoy, and I hope you do too! 💙

tags: 18+. smut, oral (m receiving), semi-public sex, class differences

Bluey's Bird Blurbs 1k Celebration | blurb three: the boldest words (4.1k)

The royal library is your favorite place to spend time. Not because of its rich, ornate furnishings, its soft flowing tapestries or whimsical landscapes depicting far-off lands you’ve oft yearned to walk into, though those things are certainly tantalizing. It’s not because of the sunlight that streams through large cathedral windows in the day or the flickering of the candles in the night, both casting warmth and comfort over the cavernous room, though the gleaming does always make you feel at home. It’s not the towering shelves made of polished wood and carved with intricate designs and the armchairs plush and deep, perfect for sinking into with one of the tomes plucked from rows of endless choices, though that is, of course, quite cozy. And it isn’t the books themselves— works of art, bound in rich leather or velvet covers and embossed with gold or silver filigree, their pages made of the finest parchment and filled with elegant calligraphy and illustrations, though the knowledge contained in each is like a small world unto itself. 

No. Instead, the royal library is your favorite place to spend time for this reason: because only within those labyrinthine rows and columns which weave a maze of wisdom spanning generations— only in the hidden alcoves, tucked within cracks and crevices, secreted away from prying eyes— are you able to sate your burning need.

And that need you feel has naught to do with the pursuit of learning.

With a quiet exhalation of bliss, your head tips back to make more room for lips and tongue, thumping against the surface behind you. Yet when your skull makes contact, it doesn’t meet wood; instead, you encounter plush velvet, the fabric soft and supple as it cradles your body, protecting your loose blue gown from catching on any harsh wooden grooves. The velvet is red as a smoldering flame, clashing brashly with the poise of your royal blue silk, which is adorned with jewels that glint like stars in the midnight sky. That protection does not belong to you, but rather to the man pressed tight against your body, who now has your thin skirt rucked up around your upper thighs, held up by fingers made callused by the lute’s unforgiving strings. 

All is hushed in this place, and silent you both need remain. The only sound you hear is the jostling of your clothing: the hasty way he pushes his hose down around his ruddy knees before tugging open the fly of his brais, the drag of his forest green tunic against the thin bodice of your dress where your chests brush with every movement. Layers stand between you, and yet you barely feel them. There is just his hot skin, then linen, then silk, and your hot skin— no corset or even chemise to further separate you from the only man who can conjure such a passionate ache inside you. It matters not that he is a bard, and you a princess; that burning need you feel can only be satisfied by the meeting of your mouths, your hands, your bodies; by the tight stretch stretch and fill of his thick cock; by the pounding of Eddie’s hips pressing you into the bookshelves as he fucks you full of his vigor and passion.

It is a daring thing to roam the castle without the proper undergarments, though no more daring than these escapades you have been getting up to in the Royal Library these past few months. They occur late in the evening after you have retired from the company of your handmaids and attendants, the ladies of the court, and the presence of your mother and father. A secret affair that leaves you glowing far more radiantly than the crystals in your diadem, stolen moments of sweet whispers and heated passion as you nestle together amongst the dusty tomes. The library is labrynthian and largely unoccupied at night, and it isn’t difficult to evade the few souls still loitering here in pursuit of knowledge, stealing your way to your bard’s chosen alcove: a tight corner of bookshelves wedged near the back left wall, made safe from discovery by the narrowness of its entryway and the tedium of the subjects contained in its books.

Here you have made your love nest these past months, and never before has it been disturbed until this night.

Two sets of footsteps clack across the tile along with the hum of conversation, growing in volume as unseen figures approach. Instantly, you and Eddie freeze. You meet his wide panicked eyes, and the bob of his adam’s apple hints at the depth of his fear. Despite it, Eddie does not bolt; he merely soothes the backs of his fingers against your cheek. Soft and slow, he strokes you, a reassuring touch that bids you stroke his cheek in return. You are grateful for the strength he offers as your heart pounds in your chest when the footsteps discern themselves into two distinctive cadences both familiar to you. The approach of the figures is unmistakable— there is the calm shuffle-step of the royal advisor, walking measuredly beside the bold tread of your father, the king.

There is no risk of them glimpsing you with Eddie behind the shelves, but their presence is unnerving nonetheless, as if they will somehow sense your presence simply because of how deeply scandalous what you’re doing is. Slowly, as they approach, the quiet hum of their voices sharpens into words, and you remain nervous until you hear the weary but uninhibited sigh of your father slumping into one of the armchairs near the darkened window. They are discussing something about trade agreements with a neighboring kingdom, something about tariffs and access to your kingdom’s ports. The voice of your father’s advisor is equally as loud and uninhibited, and as some tense moments pass, you relax as you realize that your father has merely chosen this place for the same reason you and Eddie did: because he knows no one else would be here.

With that, the crease in your brow relaxes, your eyes filling again with the heat pooling in your belly as you shift your hips and feel that despite his fear, Eddie’s hardness has not flagged inside you. You glide your hands up his chest, and the rustle of the fabric is covered by the discussion happening just behind the shelf you’re pressed against. His face has changed from fearful to questioning; in lieu of a verbal answer, you instead cup your palms around Eddie’s jaw and guide his mouth back to yours.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Eddie begins to kiss you back; the tension slowly melts from his body as you coax him with your mouth, and you feel the last of his reticence slip away as your tongue plays against the seam of his lips. They open for you, and as his tongue brushes hot and wet against yours, his hips shift forward, steadily pressing you back against that unyielding wood until the fat tip of his cock is nestled as deep inside you as it can go. Satisfaction simmers; you slink your arms around his shoulders, as he slowly— so agonizingly slowly— circles his hips, rutting into you as the voice of your father continues on right behind you.

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, but you are hardly listening; all you care about is the way Eddie’s hot hips are pressed to yours, skin to skin, the coarse drag of his pubic hair sparking delicious pleasure against your clit. You break from the kiss and nuzzle against his cheek, pressing kisses there and stretching your spine as that pleasure builds. You relish in it until Eddie, no longer content to grind himself deep inside your wet heat, suddenly pulls his hips back. The length of his cock leaves you until just the head remains in your entrance; it’s a loss until he slides back in, stretching you thick and full of him in one long, achingly thorough push after another as he begins to fuck you properly again.

You muffle a whimper as his motions quicken and his warm breath pants harshly against your neck, huffing in your ear. You long to hear the rumble of his voice instead of your father’s or his advisor’s. Eddie’s voice is husky and warm, but that is only available to you in the Great Hall, where all you can do is watch him from a distance as he entertains with songs, and plays his instrument, and flashes dark eyes in your direction. Dark roguish curls— so different from the other men of the court that surround you— tickle your cheeks, swaying rhythmically as you clutch at his shoulders, fingernails raking out a silent plea for more. He obliges you as he always does: hot hands slide up to grip you firmly around the waist as he pumps his hips harder, sinking his cock into the tight wet heat of your cunt, repeatedly plunging against that spot that has you biting your lip to keep from gasping aloud. 

Your ears perk when, amongst the litany of words your father is spilling loosely from his lips, you hear a familiar name— your own. “I swear to you,” he grumbles, his voice nearly echoing in the tall space between the shelves, “I know not what else to do with her. I am at my wit’s end.” 

“I understand, sire.” The sympathetic lilt of your father’s advisor fades in your ears as Eddie licks a fat wet stripe up the side of your neck to the lobe of your ear; you cant your hips into his thrusts, moving with him in a rhythm that has his eyes hazing with desire and his lips curling in a pleased, dimpled grin.

"What can we do about her?" your father mutters, his frustration clear in his voice. "She won't even look at any of the suitors I've introduced her to, let alone speak to them. First was the duke of Wellesley, which I thought was merely a fluke due to his, admittedly, rather stuffy countenance. But it was the same for the next and the next…” He huffs harshly, and you can hear his heavy hand thump against the fabric of the chair arm. “Countless perfectly acceptable suitors, all rejected outright without any consideration by my obstinate daughter." 

The advisor’s question is measured and even. “Why do you suppose that is, your highness?”

It’s a deliciously naughty thing to hear your father attempt to theorize about why you may have rejected all these men while you’re allowing the royal bard to fuck you right under his nose— a man whose flashing smiles and husky voice and talented fingers have brought your unsuspecting father such entertainment.

“I know she can be stubborn,” your father sighs, “but at heart, she’s always been a timid girl. I’m concerned that, perhaps, the process of choosing a husband is too intimidating for her.”

Eddie’s eyes are dark liquid smoke, and you shiver as you watch a a smirk slink across his lips. He ducks close to you, crowding you even closer against the shelves until the scent of his curls is all you can breathe— musky and rich like incense mixed with the leather of his sachets and the salt of his skin. “S’that true?” Eddie murmurs against your ear so quietly, the hum of it playful and knowing, and you whisper a moan as his fingers trail up your waist to ghost over your breast. You nudge your chin against his jaw and smile into his cheek; your grin widens, self-satisfied when you roll your hips into his, and you hear him hiss through his teeth. 

Eddie’s revenge comes swiftly; you gasp as he pinches your nipple over the thin silk of your dress, rolling the bud between his deft fingers and pulling so that your legs tighten against his hips and your pussy flutters around him. Behind you, your father continues, “Perhaps she is overwhelmed by the expectations. Reticent to perform the duties she knows is expected of her.”

 Eddie’s low chuckles husk over the shell of your ear, and you shudder as the wicked sound makes your belly tighten. “You’re just a shy little princess, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been rejecting all those eligible suitors, hm?” Your hands slide down to his upper arms as he teases the shell of your ear with plush lips; your fingers clutch his biceps tightly when he nibbles the lobe, taking it softly between his teeth. His hips begin to pump more harshly into you and his breath quickens against your skin. “They wouldn’t know what to do with you,” Eddie mutters, one hand snaking down to cup beneath your ass and tilt your hips forward, pulling them flush against him for a better angle. “Those pompous courtesans wouldn’t know how to make you sing.”

You drink in the hint of possessiveness that flavors Eddie’s words; he’s pressed up against you so close, but his mutterings only make you want to be closer, impossibly closer. You twine your fingers in his hair, clutching at his hip with your other hand, holding on as he rolls his pelvis into yours with every stroke. “Mmm,” you hum, your whispered answer throaty with feminine need. “Play me the song only you can, oh humble bard, and I’ll sing for you.” 

You meet his possessiveness with some of your own, and it spurs him on. Eddie pulls you into a deep, wet kiss, and you muffle a slight moan against his lips as his fingers tighten their hold on your ass and his other hand dips between your legs, seeking the treasure below your soft curls. He nestles one finger within the slick heat of your folds, pressing expertly against the bead that makes your eyelashes flutter and your toes curl. “Yes, Eddie, right there.” Your whine ghosts over Eddie’s lips, and he swallows it up with another greedy kiss. 

The king groans and mutters and huffs loudly in his frustration, but you can still hear the wet sounds of your arousal every time Eddie pushes into your body, the evidence that your drooling, needy cunt will soon be satisfied by his dutiful efforts. Your father is lamenting your unwillingness to give any man a try, but Eddie is playing your clit and fucking your pussy until you’re left writhing with the force of your fire, burning up, hushing little mewls of pleasure against his hair. The king wants you to envision the future you’ll have with one of the princes or noblemen he has suggested, but you can do no such thing. Because Eddie is clamping his heavy, ring-clad hand over your mouth as the pleasure peaks inside you, blazing through your body to turn your vision white and wash you in waves of sparkling fire.

The advisor suggests several remedies for the situation, and though the king rejects them all, none would work regardless of his ire. Because you have all you need right here in the arms of your bard; he holds your trembling form, rutting into you softly as you come down from the place he has taken you to, settling back into your body with a shudder of bliss and a heavy satisfied sigh. You wrap your arms around him; you hold him close, and he you, breathing against you deeply. His heart pounds, but his hips still, and despite the stiffness of his cock— so stiff it must be near painful— he doesn’t seem to be in a rush to reach his own conclusion. 

Eddie has just pressed a kiss to your cheek when the advisor says something wholly unexpected. “I suspect that she may…” His words taper off into hesitance, and though you’re stroking Eddie’s curls back from his face, you’re also listening now.

“Speak freely,” your father demands, and his advisor rushes to comply. 

“She may have an unusual soft spot for the bard. And perhaps… perhaps she harbors some… concealed aspirations.” 

As soon as the words have been uttered, Eddie’s head jerks back, his brows flashing in surprise as he meets your gaze. And you know that the truth of those words can be read all over your face. There is nothing to do about it— no way for you to conceal the way your eyes reflect the soft green growing beneath the blazing red of your passion. 

This affair may have started because, when you watched the bard over those many months since he began his service, you’d found him to be enviably uninhibited— all eager flashing grins and hearty laughter and beautiful, playful song, wild and free. You watched him, and when he noticed, he started to watch you. And what budded in the smallest of gestures grew to what it now is.

It had begun as an escape. A fantasy. But it has become more than that now, and that is evidenced in the shyness of your smile, the tenderness of your thumb stroking the plush of Eddie’s bottom lip, the way affection pools in the dark ink of his eyes, echoing what’s found in yours, deepening each time you give yourselves to one another this way.

Even in the dimness of the alcove, you can perfectly picture the man who cradles you against the bookshelves. He is pale of face, with a strong jaw and a soft nose, plush lips and wide, expressive eyes— eyes deep as the brown of his long, wild curls except for when the sunlight hits them, turning them to honeyed mead. You kiss Eddie softly, lingering there for a moment, and when you pull away, the smile that dimples his cheek stirs your heart. His is a radiant face with an equally radiant smile, beautiful in its wildness, and you could never tire of gazing upon it.

But Eddie’s smile is short-lived when your father’s loud scoff bites through the shelves. “What utter childish nonsense is that?” The mockery of his barking laugh— a single, scornful exhalation— makes you both flinch. “My daughter is not so foolish as to entertain such ridiculousness. The minstrel serves his purpose. He is entertaining, I admit— skilled at his rudimentary craft. But to suggest that she would look twice at a rogue pleasant like him…?” 

The king laughs again, and it is far more amused this time. Somehow, the sound of his mirth is worse than the scorn, especially when you see the subtle crumple of Eddie’s brow, the shuttering of his expressive eyes. “You should know this is not a time for jests, Steven, though I appreciate your attempt at levity.”

Despite the truth of the words— that he is beneath your station, that you should not even be speaking with him, let alone cavorting with him— you can see how the dismissal wounds your bard. And what wounds him wounds you; to see his shoulders shrink and his hands grow hesitant in their grip pricks you like your father had meant to cut you with his barbs directly.

A fire lights in your eyes as you make a decision. You know the truth of how you feel in your heart, but you must communicate that truth to Eddie: that while his station may be beneath you, you do not regard him that way, and you never have.

Gently, but firmly, you push Eddie away; he drops his hold on you immediately, and his cock slips out as he backs up to put distance between you. You ignore the way his face falls in favor of sinking to your knees before him and taking him without hesitation into your mouth.

You can feel his entire body tense as your lips stretch over his fat head; you let the thickness of his cock sit heavy on your tongue, looking up at him as he looks down at you— flushed, wide-eyed and so alarmed he looks nearly terrified. “I don’t know what the reason for her hesitance is,” your father says, “but if she refuses to choose, then I’ll make the choice for her.”

The words should conjure fear, that same fear you see inside Eddie’s dark ink eyes. But they don’t. Instead, you grip the base of his cock and tongue the underside, tasting the musk of your slick as you lave the vein that runs along it. You mouth at him gently until Eddie’s hips twitch and the panic on his face has been largely overtaken by pleasure. You hear the creak of the armchair and the clap of the king’s hand against his advisor’s shoulder. “Let us retire for the night,” he says as you stare up into Eddie’s eyes, hollowing your cheeks and sucking the taste of your pussy from his cock. 

Eddie is trying so hard to be quiet as the two pairs of footsteps begin to recede with the agonizing slowness of two men meandering off to bed with no true hurry to get there. You bob on his length, working the remainder with your hand, determined to show him the depth of your consideration. The strain begins to form on his face— the thinning of his lips, the grit of his jaw, the cords of his neck growing taut, the pinking of his cheeks, the subtle shifting of his hips to meet you every time you suck him down. And all the while he stares down at you, enchanted by the sight of your forehead crowned with a diadem but your cheeks streaked with eager tears as you take him as far as you can into your throat, nestling your nose against the curls still matted with your own release. It is hard work, but work happily completed as the footsteps finally fade to silence and the first of his whimpers muffles through his teeth where they’re clamped against his bottom lip, turning the flesh a ruddy red.

With you so determined and he so enchanted, it takes little time for you to work Eddie until he’s gasping and moaning quietly, spilling rope after rope of his hot release into your waiting mouth. You work his head with your laden tongue, and the sight of Eddie biting his fist in a desperate attempt to stay quiet makes you flare with want despite having just been sated.

When the pulsing of his cock stills and his thighs relax under your palms, you pull off him and swallow his load hastily, breasts heaving in your midnight-blue gown as you gaze up at him. You swipe a thumb beneath your lip, panting with ragged feeling, “Your princess falls to her knees for you. Not my minstrel— my lover.” The fierceness of your truth is written plainly in your words, the loudest, boldest words you have yet uttered betwixt you. “Taste your seed on my lips and know that I am yours.”

You have only a moment to see the way Eddie’s face contorts before he’s on his knees, snatching up your face in his callused hands and mashing his mouth to yours. You open for him, whimpering needily as he dips his tongue into your mouth, eager to taste himself on you— to see for himself the evidence of your declaration in the act of service you’ve provided him. 

When he pulls away, you find more truth desires to spring free. “I would sooner forsake my crown than marry anyone but you, Edward,” you tell him solemnly, and the earnestness of your words twists his lips into an expression of bashful hope.

“I have nothing to give you, Princess,” Eddie reminds you.

You draw your thumb across the crest of his cheekbone— a light, reverent touch. “You need give me nothing but your heart,” you reply, voice supple as the velvet of his cloak that protects you. “It is enough.”

His eyes flick between yours, and you ache with the hesitance you see there until his brow crumples again for an entirely different reason. The ache inside eases to a soft, wondrous blooming as he gives you just what you asked for.

Eddie kisses and kisses you until your heart is throbbing and your eyes are pricking with the sentiment he’s pouring out upon you. Eventually, the stream slows; it trickles into the reverence of his hands stroking your neck and hair and the softness of his lips against the corner of your mouth. Those beloved lips feather over your cheek before lingering against your forehead, just below the unyielding circlet that presses to your skin, the symbol of your royalty. 

Your gold and jewels will separate you no longer.

[blueywrites]

Hey love!! So proud of you for one thousand followers!! You deserve that and all the more, you with your big, beautiful writer brain. 🥰

For your celebration, I’m going to go with Smut, Steddie x Reader and my three words will be Vampire, Mocking and Untouched.

So excited to see/read your little blurbs!! 🎉✨

we bite

prompt: smut, steddie x fem!reader, vampire, mocking, and untouched.

thank you for your ask and all of your support as always, dear Lunie! 🌙

tags: 18+. smut, mockery, degradation, dehumanization, demeaning names (slut, worm, blood bag), blood kink, biting, feeding, vamp!Eddie, vamp!Reader

Bluey's Bird Blurbs 1k Celebration | blurb one: we bite (2.2k)

They always end up undressed, splayed across the black sheets and velvet duvet of the bed you and Eddie share. Once you both had discovered that humiliation added a little fizz to the flavor of their blood, an acidic tang not unlike the juice of a citrus fruit, it became part of your feeding repertoire to strip your food bare until their softest parts are exposed to your eyes and teeth. Often, all you need to do is graze a fang along the seam of their thigh or the thin, tender flesh of their groin— not even breaking skin, not yet— to have that fizz spilling into their blood for your partner to enjoy. 

Shame, humiliation, guilt: those are Eddie’s favorite flavors on his humans. Yours is pleasure.

Quite lucky for you to have found both in this one tonight.

Contentment curls in your chest as you listen to the sonorous sound of Eddie’s rumbling growls, the messy slurp and suck as he feeds on the man between you. You’d be down low still, perhaps dragging a sharp nail against his sack to amuse yourself with how it jumps up towards his body to get away from you, but it had taken barely any time at all for shame to spill tangy into his blood. Plus, he has such pretty hair— chestnut-brown, thick and clean, smelling of honey and expensive vanilla. And you quite enjoy sucking on his earlobe; it’s tender, soft and pliant. The way he stops breathing— the way his broad chest just freezes mid-gasp— each time you take the lobe lightly between your sharp teeth, and he can feel just how easily you could tear it from his head, is almost as amusing as playing with his balls.

Your eyes are closed now as you wait for your turn. You know Eddie is still feeding because you can hear him, but also because every once in awhile, the young man between you twitches and whines through his teeth, his body shifting slightly as Eddie flexes his jaw and presses more tightly to his throat. You’re growing a little bored of his fear by now, so you decide to drag your tongue up the shell of his ear; you smirk when he shivers, a little whisper of anticipation filling you as Eddie hums, tasting the sudden surge of sweetness from his piqued arousal.

It’s just as you’ve grasped the side of his head and slid your wet, hot tongue into the opening of his ear— he’d gasped as it entered him— that you feel his body jostle as Eddie unlatches from his neck. You pull your tongue out hastily, dropping your food without another thought. Your eyes brighten only for the one man— the one vampire— who truly matters to you.

Eddie always feeds so sloppily, though you certainly wouldn’t complain about it. He’s never sexier than when blood has gushed over his chin to paint the triangle of his pale chest exposed at the collar of his half-buttoned shirt, his white fangs glistening from the mess of gore coating his plush lips. “E-ddie,” you purr, affectionate and sensuous as you slink across the man’s spread legs, settling between them as your lover meets you halfway. “You’re always such a messy boy,” you tease. “Gonna have to clean you up.”

Eddie’s dark eyes glitter at your tease, and he hums as you lick a thick stripe up the center of his chest to his adam’s apple, collecting the salt of his skin and an appetizer in one on your path to his mouth. Eddie growls possessively, fisting his hand in the hair at the back of your head and hauling you up against him as his tongue plunges past your lips; his other hand grabs low at the heft of your ass, bunching up your dress in his long fingers. You sigh in bliss as he claims your mouth, licking across your teeth and nipping at your bottom lip, pulling until it snaps back plump and wet.

A stifled moan has you both glancing toward the headboard.

It’s your food. His eyes widen as your dark gazes both flash to him, but he can’t conceal the flush high on his cheeks, the quickened rise and fall of his chest where blood has trickled from his neck into the thick hair there, the dew on his golden skin. And he certainly can’t conceal the way his cock is so obviously, painfully hard, veiny and thick and blushed deep cherry red at the tip. 

If he was still strong enough to move his arms and cover himself, you know he would. Luckily for you, he isn’t.

 "Aww,” Eddie chuckles darkly, bloody lips pooched in a mocking pout. “What? You want a turn, baby? Want a little kiss?" You giggle as his face slowly flushes entirely pink when Eddie crawls closer on his knees; you watch his eyes dart down to your lover’s low-slung pants and the tuft of hair revealed at the top of his pelvis, the exaggerated sway of Eddie’s hips as he approaches, settling at the young man’s side where you’d been while Eddie fed. You settle on the other side as Eddie quirks a salacious brow and palms his own crotch, rubbing sensually in a mockery of enticement. When the other looks away, Eddie’s hand shoots out in a pale blur and yanks his head back by his hair; your plaything winces as his golden neck stretches taut, tendons and veins nearly bulging, but your breath quickens in eager excitement as the action makes that stiffness between his legs twitch. Eddie notices too, his chuckle husky and thick as he says to you, "Look at his little cock, sweetheart. Think he liked that." 

Those hazel eyes dart to you, pupils blown wide in arousal and fear. You tilt your head as he meets your eye, and you coo mockingly at your food, "You like it when Eddie feeds on you? It gets you hard?" You smirk. "You ever been fucked by a vampire before?" 

The young man whimpers, and it sparks pleasure and hunger low in your belly. "Dirty boy,” you purr against his neck, your voice a sensual hum. Teasingly, you bare a fang and trace it down the quivering artery in his neck, licking a path back up the wounds your lover has already made as you reach the base of his throat. “Mmm,” you hum eagerly, “Ed, look, he's practically weeping now." 

And it’s true— pearly beads of precum now drip from the tip of his angry cock onto your black sheets. You meet the eyes of your lover over his head, flooding with wicked affection at the mischievousness in his wide, dark eyes and the devious smirk curling on his plush lips.  "Bet we could get him to cum without even touching him," Eddie suggests; his smirk widens to a manic grin when your brows pinch, eyes wide and eager for him in your enthusiasm.

“Oh, please, Ed, can we?”

“Sure, sweetheart,” he murmurs, holding your gaze, and you shiver with the palpable warmth there. “Anything for my girl.”

Your mouth fills with saliva at the very idea. Delighted, you turn back to the golden neck your lover has considerately bared for you, taking a moment to nuzzle against the honey and vanilla of his touseled hair before trailing your nose in a featherlight line down past his ear to that vein of lifeblood thrumming under his skin. You stretch your jaw, and the young man gulps at the sight of your fangs, gleaming and white and razor sharp beside his neck. And with a sigh of bliss at the anticipation of your delicious meal, you dig your teeth neatly into that aching artery.

His blood spills into your mouth as if eager to escape him and nourish you, and it still tastes of citrus but moreso, now, of the floral sweetness of his arousal. You suck lightly, swallowing one small mouthful; your prey moans as the chemicals in your saliva begin to flood his brain with pleasure. You glance beyond his aquiline nose to see your lover duck to his ear. Your food tenses as if preparing for a second bite, and you purse your lips against a smile to keep suction on his neck. You know that Eddie would never take food out of your mouth unless you’d both agreed to feed at the same time, though your prey doesn’t know that, and the little burst of spicy terror settles back to sweetness when all Eddie does is start murmuring to him quietly without even touching him.

“You be good for us, baby,” Eddie whispers, “be our good little blood bag, and we'll be nice to you.”

It’s quiet, but you can hear every word that slithers into his ear, hear every little hitch of breath and shift of his squirming legs against the sheets as Eddie’s words and your feeding begin to arouse him further.

Eddie huffs a little chuckle. “You ever suck a dick before?” 

Your food groans, and you feel the vibration of his mutter when he answers. "No." 

Eddie chuckles delightedly. "Even better. Well, I’ll tell you what,” he says, low and playful, “You keep holding so nice and still, keep bein’ a tasty snack for my beautiful girl, and maybe I’ll let you suck my dick while she sucks yours.”

The sweetness in the blood filling your mouth grows thicker, headier, and you moan as you suck harder, sustenance gushing warm down your thirsty throat. “That’s it,” Eddie coaxes him, “such a good boy.”

The sweetness fades slightly, dulling so that a coppery tang becomes more prominent, and you grunt in dissatisfaction. It must communicate what you intend because Eddie hums in surprise. “Huh.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he purrs, “Praise doesn’t get your prick goin’, does it? You just want me to tell you how fucking useless you are. Just our little toy to play with.”

That heady, dizzying sweetness surges back, and you growl eagerly, mouth pressing tighter against his trembling throat as he groans— not in pain, but in pleasure. 

“Tell me you wanna suck my dick.”

The young man whimpers, legs tensing as his hips squirm up to pump weakly, but he doesn’t answer. “Are you stupid?” Eddie asks, mockingly light, slowing his words. “I said, ‘Tell me you want my dick in your mouth.’”

There’s a ragged gasp, a burst of citrus to mix with the sweet floral of his pleasure, and then the man is answering in a cracked voice. “I w-wanna suck your dick.”

Hearing your lover intimidate him into admitting his desire for him makes you pulse between your legs, your pussy clamping around nothing as the taste of flowers grows more distinct— honeysuckle and primrose, which accounts for that heavy, heady sweetness. And once your own arousal becomes piqued by Eddie’s words— once you can taste flowers in the blood— you know it isn’t long now.

“Aw, you do want my cock, sugar. I knew it. I think she likes that, too. Maybe she’ll even bounce on your cock while you suck me off. I’ll let you get me all nice and wet before I fuck your tight little hole. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” Your breath quickens as Eddie continues talking, murmuring in a sensuous stream as your food begins to writhe and squirm. “Yeah you would, you dirty slut. Fuckin’ pathetic.”

Your pussy is throbbing now, tempting you to attend to it as you feed, but you refrain, knowing that what will come after your meal will be better than anything you could give yourself right now. The sweetness of those flowers is deepening, heating as your plaything starts to whimper; you crack your eyes to watch his leaking cock twitch and pulse, dribbling white liquid as he humps the air with desperation, seeking friction he’ll never find.

Eddie’s voice is sinfully dark and forbidding, grit low with husk that makes both you and your food shiver as he says, “You really wanna cum, huh? That’s all you care about. Mindless little worm. I bet she could drain you right now and you'd let her as long as you got to cum.”

You can feel it now— the tightening of his muscles, the frantic pumping of his heart, the constricting of his capillaries as he approaches his orgasm. You’re so unbelievably turned on by the anticipation of the euphoric release you’ll taste mixed with the sound of your lover’s voice as he murmurs dark filth in the ear of your meal. You’re burning for his touch— your slit is puffy, clit sensitive like a raw nerve, entrance dripping slick that soaks through the thin lace of your panties, coating the insides of your thighs in sticky need.

“That's it, big boy,” Eddie growls. “Cum for me.”

And with that final command, he does.

The drag of his blood rushes suddenly thick and sticky like decadent syrup as he moans deep in his throat— a long, pitiful noise of relief as his cum shoots in long, hot spurts to paint the hair on his stomach, pooling in the dip of his belly button. You drink his blood down greedily, sucking and slurping almost as animalistically as Eddie typically does until you feel the beat of his heart quiver once, stuttering a halted rhythm that means you’re quickly approaching the line of no return.

You retract from his throat with a ragged gasp, your hunger sated but your pussy buzzing with furious, aching need. Your meal slumps back against the headboard, spent and weak, but you pay him no mind; you’re drunk with desire as your eyes find the wild dark curls and pretty pale face of your lover. Your need is a ravenous thing, more dangerous than even Eddie’s hunger.

"We might need to keep this one," Eddie observes to you, ruffling that chestnut hair before tapping his golden cheek a few times; the young man stirs slightly but doesn't move. "He's fun." 

"Sure, babe," you pant, eyes wild and nostrils flared as you try to keep yourself from shredding Eddie’s new plaything to ribbons to get at him. "We can talk about it later. Now, if you don’t want me to kill him, you better bend me over his lap and ruin my fucking cunt."

[blueywrites]

Congratulations on 1k friend!! Happy to see you thriving on here and you & your works getting the love they deserve! 🖤🐈‍⬛

Steve x Reader - angst

"He's dead, again."

he's dead, again

prompt: angst, steve x fem!reader, "he's dead, again"

you know how sometimes inspiration takes you to a place you wish you'd never gone? yeah. that's this blurb.

please read the tags. this pained me and I am not proofing it because I refuse.

you said you wanted to help broaden my horizons with a very different prompt, and by golly, you succeeded beb haha

additional tags: major character death - twice. heavy angst. mentions of blood. grief. non-graphic depictions of death. no happy ending.

Bluey's Bird Blurbs 1k Celebration | blurb two: he's dead, again (2k)

Your heart had been with Eddie before. And it would want to be with him now, even after everything. So what else was Steve to do?

He told himself it was to save you. That he’d do anything for you— anything to keep from seeing you broken like you were that day, slumped over Munson’s limp body, wailing like a wounded animal into the shreds of his homemade t-shirt. Your face was smeared with his blood when Steve finally managed to pull you away, contorted almost grotesquely with the force of your anguish. You didn’t seem to notice how much of Eddie’s life clung to your skin; Steve stretched the hem of his shirt to soak it up, to try and cleanse you of it, but you batted away his attempts and curled up into yourself, closed away in the bathroom of that ruined trailer back in the warm light of true Hawkins. Steve coughed up flakes of the decaying fungus he’d inhaled molotoving Vecna as he listened to you whimper and moan on the other side of that wooden door, unresponsive to pleas for you to unlock it. Each one of them tried, and each one of them failed, and eventually, they wandered home to check on loved ones and assess the damage the Upside Down had done to their lives. 

Steve stayed. 

He didn’t have anyone to go back to, not the way the rest of them did— Robin to her mother, Nancy to her siblings, the kids to all their parents. Eventually, he tried one last time, scratching a dirty fingernail along the varnish of the plywood door. “It’s just me,” he croaked. “I’m still here.”

There was a beat of silence, and then another, and Steve’s bones began to numb as you became just the latest in a long line of people who didn’t need him once he stopped being Mr. Mom.

But then you cracked the door. And though the tears had washed Eddie’s blood in unnerving tracks of bare skin down to your chin, like your face was made of him and your skin was just the leakage of your sorrow, Steve still held you on the Munsons’ filthy trailer floor when you collapsed into his arms. He didn’t really know what to say— he never felt good at finding the right words in these types of situations—  but it didn’t much matter anyway. Because all you could do is keep sobbing his name over and over again, little tremulous whispers of yearning and disbelief and pure, unadulterated agony. 

Steve could swear that sometimes he still hears the sound of Eddie’s hollow name on your lips behind that wooden door echoing in his ears, like the wailing of some ghost he still can’t quite shake even now, months after the incident.

Steve was there to put you back together again in those weeks following Eddie’s death. You’d clung to him, the only semblance of solace you could find, and he’d held you, dirty and aching, as you mourned for the boy you’d lost. He knew there’d been something between you, something still tentative and not fully explored, weak but nonetheless precious. Something that surely would have grown into the purest kind of love, tended by calloused palms and soft fingers working in tandem to prune and water and coax that preciousness to full bloom. But calloused palms lay limp, face up on asphalt, never to feel the sweet caress of your lips, or to lift and cradle your cheek, or to dip tremulously to the juncture of your thighs and feel the heat they’ve coaxed inside you.

Eddie could have known the touch of your lips and cheek and inner thighs, but he’s dead. So, now, Steve is the one you kiss and nuzzle and burn for.

Such is the way of things.

It’s why he had to do it. It’s as simple as that: the way of things. Right and wrong. Natural and unnatural. 

How things are and how they’re supposed to be, and what a person can do to make them so again.

Steve stitched you back together after Munson had died. He’d been the one to shush you when the nightmares came to tear you from sleep; to watch over you in the day and night while you existed, limp and listless; to hold you even when the musk of your hair belied how mustering the motivation to cleanse it had become a struggle. You needed Steve, and he gave himself to you. Every ounce of strength he had, every drop of patience, every last shred of virtue within him, he devoted to you. 

And after months of brokenness, the fruits of his labor paid off. No longer did he wake to hear you whimpering Eddie’s name in your sleep. No longer did you float listless and limp through your daily life. You worked. You took care of yourself. You smiled, and you even laughed. 

And most of all, you let Steve love you. And he thinks— he thought— you loved him back. That was the way of things. He’d brought you back, and you loved him for it. It was right. It was natural. It was how things are supposed to be.

He just had to make them so again.

At first, Steve hadn’t known why, when you’d thrown the door to his parents’ house open before he’d even reached it, you looked like you were positively glowing from the inside. When you smiled at him, eyes big and wide and soft, he thought you were just happy it was finally summertime. But when you pulled him inside, fingers wrapped around his thumb to drag him stumbling up the stairs toward his bedroom, he thought— he thought— that maybe it was because you just wanted him. Fully and unabashedly, so much so that you couldn’t wait to peel his Family Video vest from his shoulders before pushing him against his wooden door and pouncing on him to demonstrate the depth of your deep and abiding love.

Instead, you led him to his bedroom, but you didn’t push him up against the wall. No, instead, you let his thumb drop as he stood frozen in the doorway at the sight of Eddie Munson, pale and trembling, dark eyes sunken but alert, calloused palms no longer limp on asphalt but folded in his lap as he sat on the corner of Steve’s bed, staining the comforter with deep, rich dirt.

“Steve,” you whispered, your beloved voice like reverence incarnate. “Look. It’s Eddie.”

No, Steve thought. It’s not Eddie. That thing might look like Eddie; it might have his nose and lips, his lanky limbs and bedraggled hair and cheap tattoos; but the pallor of its skin and the deep ruby red of its eyes belied the creature it truly was. After all, Steve has experiences in such matters.

But of all the things he told himself— that he had no other choice; that it was to save you from more heartache and pain; that it was a matter of right and wrong, natural and unnatural; that he had to put things back the way they were supposed to be— Steve couldn’t quite convince himself that, when you leaned your temple against his dirty curls and traced your fingers over the cluster of bats in his inner elbow, the person you were holding wasn’t Eddie Munson.

He couldn’t quite convince himself, but that wasn’t enough to stop him.

Steve feigned a relieved laugh, folding his arms leaning casually against the doorframe. “Shit, Munson, are you okay?” he asked, succeeding in sounding sincere. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

Eddie’s lips tilt in a lopsided smile, though it’s half a grimace. His voice is husky, creaky with disuse, but still brash and warm like Steve remembers it. “Yeah,” he sighs, “me neither. I’m…” he chuckles weakly. “I’ve been better.” 

Steve could’ve sworn he saw Eddie’s eye’s flash, but maybe it was just something else he told himself after the fact to make the explanation easier. 

“I’ll bet,” Steve said companionably. “Hey, sweetheart—” He didn’t miss the flicker that passed from Eddie’s expression onto yours, as if bouncing from one heart to the next. “—why don’t you go get the first aid kit from the bathroom? I bet Munson here could use some fixing up.”

Steve watched as you lifted your head from Eddie’s shoulder and gazed at him for one short moment— a moment filled with eyes all big and wide and soft, the eyes he’d seen on you at the front door— before you withdrew your arm from his and rose from the bed. “Okay,” you said, smiling at Steve again, face so smooth with innocent trust as you floated by him into the hallway.

The wooden door closed behind you with a soft snap.

-

You find the first aid kit under the bathroom sink, next to a can of Lysol and a spare box of tissues. You’ve just straightened to your knees when the hairs on the back of your neck raise on end, and that’s the only warning you have before you’re hit with a wave of acute nausea, viscous as it squeezes your gut like a vice. Faintly, as if down the hall, there’s a hoarse cry and then the sound of something heavy falling over, like a giant sack of potatoes thudding in a great, limp heap upon the floorboards.

And then all is silent. 

The wave of nausea passes and the prickles on your skin ease. You rise to your feet, plastic handle clasped in your hand as your knees knock with the residual shock of that fleeting but intense sensation. The physical illness is gone, but a familiar sense of doom lingers— heavy and stifling, like that vest of denim and pins you’d worn every day before Steve draped it to rest at the makeshift grave you and Dustin had dug in the corner of the cemetery. Distantly, as you pad over the carpet of the hallway towards that familiar white-paneled door, you wonder whether it’ll still be there if want to return it to its rightful owner.

You reach the door, but when you jiggle the golden handle, it’s locked. “Eddie?” you call, brows scrunched with confusion. “Steve?” 

A chill shivers down your spine when you hear another thump, lighter than before but similar in sound, like the slump of some other root vegetable. A smaller one. Maybe some carrots.

There is no answer, so you call again. “Eddie? Steve? What’s going on?” You tap your fingernail against the paint of the wooden door. “It’s just me,” you say, wondering if they’ve also become wary of that heavy thump you’d heard. “I have the first aid kit.”

There is a beat of silence, and then another, and that feeling of doom is deepening now— ringing in your ears, louder and louder, until it begins to sound like a ghostly cry, the howling of a familiar name in an equally familiar voice.

But then the door flies open. Steve is standing there: chest heaving, hazel eyes wide, typically-golden face pale and stained with deep red that streaks like teardrops down to his chin. You don’t look at the bat hanging loosely from his broad fist, the one covered with jagged nails that he still keeps under his bed just in case. You don’t look at the dark-clad legs spread in a sickening splay on the floor where they’d fallen, one dirty white Reebok turned out as if in comfortable, lazy sleep. You keep your eyes on Steve’s face— the face of the man whose palms you kissed, whom you let cradle your cheek, whose hands sought the heat between your legs, even as you wished they were another’s. 

His name falls from your lips now as you whisper, “W-where’s Eddie?”

There will be much Steve says later to justify the way he has chosen to make things right, but now, he answers your question with simply this:

“He’s dead, again.”

[blueywrites]

bluey's bird blurbs: a 1k celebration

exactly two months ago - to the day - some lovely new friends of mine convinced me to join tumblr. in the last two months, I have written 119k words, created a dozen-plus graphics to accompany said words, spent hours editing Eddie's voice in ElevenLabs, began three new writing projects (including one collaborative fic with four other incredible writers), received lovely messages and wonderfully-unhinged anon asks, joined a trailer park coven, made some more lovely friends, and convinced a thousand of you that my stories are enjoyable enough to follow me for more of them. 💙

to thank you all for your kindness and support, for the next week, I will be collecting requests and writing .5-1.5k blurbs based on your prompts! entries for this celebration will be accepted until saturday, april 1st @ 11:59pm (no, this is not an april fool's joke 😉)

THE RULES

all good things come in threes, right? send me your ask, labeled bluey's bird blurbs, and choose just one from each category!

GENRE: fluff, smut, OR angst

PAIRING: Eddie x Reader, Steve x Reader, OR Steddie x Reader

PROMPT: send me three prompt words to inspire the blurb, OR send a three-word phrase in quotes to see that exact wording in the text.

I encourage you to get creative with your prompt words/phrases. I'm excited to see what your wacky little minds come up with!

in between my three ongoing projects, I'll be posting these blurbs and tagging them #blueysbirdblurbs if you want to follow along. much love to you all; I'm incredibly thankful for your support! 🐥🌻

ask💌 | kofi🌼 | masterlist🌱