word-wytch
serial sorcery✨📖✨
☽ lei ⎮ lvl 31 ⎮ human storyteller ☾
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Note
can he be in the Bayeux Tapestry
how’s this?
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to you, it's a shitty sentence. to some random bitch 500 miles away, it's a fire line that'll haunt them for the next 17 years.
you don't know how impactful your writing is because it's been in your brain for far too long now. you've stared at it for hours and repeated "this sucks" over and over again to the point that you killed your capacity to feel anything about your work.
but trust me, once you get your shit out there, someone's gonna go over that paragraph you hate and go "jesus fucking christ" and put the book down to have an existential crisis.
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hey bro sorry for getting so wet that I soaked through my boxers and started whining like a brainless dog when you shotgunned your hit into my mouth, it will happen again
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18+. shame kink, praise and degradation, including pet names (whore).
Your breath catches in your throat as you meet his gaze, a silent plea in your eyes. "Need it, Ed..." you whisper, your heartbeat rabbit-fast at the prospect of him really giving it to you.
Eddie's smirk widens, a flash of smug satisfaction dancing in his eyes. "Aww, you need it, huh?" he teases, his tone laced with mock sympathy before it darkens. "You're such a fuckin' whore. But only for me, right?"
A heady mix of desire and shame courses through you, slinking through your veins and burning you up inside. Because, for all intents and purposes, he’s right: you are a whore, giving yourself to your dealer like this. And this thing between you and Eddie may be more than that to you— may be more to him, too, though you don’t know for sure— but on the surface, that’s exactly what you are. A whore, only for him.
It’s demeaning and nasty and so fucking arousing all at once.
"Mhmm." A strangled hum of agreement is the most you can manage through your mortification. Even so, you know that won’t be enough for Eddie.
"Tell me," he demands, his voice a low growl that makes your pussy flutter around him; his fingers tighten on your hip, blunt nails biting in, dimpling your softness. His expression doesn’t change, but you know he likes that he can affect you with just the sound of his voice and the things he makes you say.
"I-I'm a whore for you, Eddie..." you admit, forcing out the words though they made your face positively burn. "I'm your whore—"
His hand crawls into your hair, pulling you back, and you moan as your neck stretches tight. "That's fuckin' right," he says, licking up your throat. You gasp and tremble. "My good little whore."
cause I ain't had nobody hit it like you hit it (2/2)
coming soon
u-haul cause I might let you move in it (1/2)
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Little Things
Eddie Munson x Reader (Hurt/Comfort)
649 words
Warnings: Suggested parent death, crying
Summary: You surprise Eddie by baking him a cake for his birthday and have no idea how much it means to him. Genderless reader.
A/N: A friend told me that Joseph said somewhere that Eddie's mom died and his dad was in jail. I figured the latter but the former got me all up in my feelings. I don't know where the source is for Joseph saying this, it could just be hearsay but it's my headcanon now. I cried writing this, enjoy.
You held the cake in its tupperware container back against the passenger seat as you approached the stop sign. You really wished you were a better decorator. In your defense you hadn’t made many birthday cakes in your life so you had to cut yourself some slack, and the icing had air pockets in the tube so the splatters weren’t totally your fault. You were kicking yourself about the spacing more than anything.
You wanted to make it pretty. You had really high hopes when you bought all the supplies. You hoped it tasted good at least. The homemade vanilla frosting certainly did when you licked it off your messy fingers.
Your Ford Pinto screeched as it rounded the corner to Forest Hills trailer park. The overcast sky hung heavy over the quiet neighborhood. There was hardly a soul around. Eddie’s van was in the driveway, to your relief, but something else tugged there too. Was he alone? You parked your car on the street and grabbed the cake.
The knock at the flimsy metal door seemed so loud in the wake of the silence around you. You had to knock twice before you saw a tall shadow in the door window.
Eddie peeked his head around the door as it opened. His dark eyes were wide with surprise and there was a soft but curious smile creeping across his face at the sight of you.
“Happy birthday!” you said cheerfully.
“Oh wow thanks!” he said, moving his socked feet backwards on the carpet to let you inside.
“I made you a cake,” you said, holding up the yellow tupperware container triumphantly before setting it down on the flimsy metal table so you could open it up.
The frosting was uneven and you were halfway through writing birthday on the circular cake before you realized you were writing too big, so -day went on the next line. “I’m sorry it’s not prettier, I really tried to make it-“
His arms came around you before you could finish. It totally caught you off guard for a second, but your arms found their way around him too, as if they were meant to be there. You stood there for a moment in silence, rocking him back and forth a little, ever so gently. His hair was soft against your face. You ran your hand up and down the back of his well-worn cotton t-shirt comfortingly. Did this gesture really mean that much to him?
After a moment he slowly released his grip. "I’m sorry, I...I haven't," he glanced off to the side, trying to blink back the tears, embarrassed for crying. “I’m sorry.”
“No it’s ok, it’s ok,” you said softly, rubbing his arm.
“I mean,” he took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. “Wayne always picks something up at the grocery store, but it’s been a while since,” he gestured to the homemade cake.
“Oh,” you said softly, tears prickling behind your eyes threateningly at the sight of him crying.
“My mom always used to,” he said, barely above a murmur.
Your arms came around him again before another beat could pass. You wondered how many birthdays it had been.
His arms tightened around you. You heard him sniffle. You were really trying to hold back but you were full on crying now and helpless to stop it.
“Oh jeez you bake me a cake and I make you cry, how’s that for ‘thank you’?” he chuckled through tears. Always the one to try and lighten the mood.
“I’ll bake you a cake every year if it means that much to you,” you said without a second thought.
His chest bounced as he chuckled softly, releasing his grip so he could look you in the eyes. He was smiling now, eyelashes still wet. His hands lingered gently on your arms. “Well, let’s see how it tastes first,” he winked.
#thank you so much!!#this is one of my first and oldest blurbs#dusting it off and bringing it out tonight
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I NEED IT NOW IM GOING FERAL DO YOU UNDERSTAND?? AUGGHH. THE SHOTGUNNING? HIS PUFFY, SOPPY MOUTH?? END ME
the details and descriptions are so good they make me wet, homie 🙈
u-haul 'cause I might let you move in it (1/2)
dom dealer!eddie x sub fem!reader
based on @2jihiir0's fanart 'make it quick... baby's sleeping'. leave them some love!
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cw (both parts): 18+. smut, drug use (weed), situationship becoming something more (???), shame kink, praise & degradation, pet names, exhibitionism-adjacent, no y/n, no physical descriptors, eddie's still a fairly soft dom bc I'm just not hard like that 😭
an: this is just the start of the filth, y'all - most of it occurs in part two 😌 shout out to @munson-blurbs @hellfire--cult @word-wytch and @the-unforgivenn for their feral support and @fracturedarkness bc this wouldn't exist without her.
enjoy part one! 🩵
The afternoon sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow through the dusty blinds of the trailer. The air inside is thick with the scent of smoke and stale beer, a heady mixture that clings to the walls. It’s the kind of smell that seeps into your clothes, your hair, your skin. It should leave you feeling slightly suffocated, especially considering the oppressive humidity also clinging to every surface, but somehow, there's a measure of comfort in the acrid scent.
You’re sitting on the threadbare couch, the fabric worn with age creaking as you shift restlessly, trying to find a more comfortable position in the heat. The fabric scratches your soles as you prop your feet up, leaning against the couch arm, fanning the neck of your thin tank top to peel the dampness from your chest. Beneath the old coffee table, your flip-flops lay forgotten, abandoned on the threadbare carpet. A beer bottle sits nearby, sweating rings onto the surface of the table, a testament to the lazy haze of the afternoon.
On the other side of the couch, your dealer lounges against the cushions, his movements fluid and practiced as he rolls a joint with deft, inked fingers. You look over at Eddie as he watches the TV, his head lolled back against the couch, his eyes heavy-lidded, relaxed. He looks good. You can’t help but spend a long moment staring at him: the angles of his face, his big brown eyes and puffy lips, his long, shaggy curls that frame his high cheekbones. He’s pretty, and he’d look downright innocent if it wasn’t for the long nick of white scar tissue kissing the edge of his lip and the scruff darkening his cheeks and jaw. Your gaze dips lower over his tight black jeans, lingering where they meet his rust-colored tank. The shirt is caught up around his hip, revealing a strip of pale skin and a tattoo that you can just see the bottom of. You want to run your tongue over it, then keep mapping all his ink until your mouth has touched each bit of darkness on him.
This thing with Eddie started when you broke up with Trevor and lost your go-to source for getting high. When you’d asked around, a friend of a friend recommended Eddie Munson, saying he was the best you could come by in the area: decent product, reasonable prices, and not a total creep. The first couple times were quick transactions, and then you started hanging around because the girl who hooked you up also told you Eddie would likely offer to smoke you out if you did. He let you hang around because he didn't much care either way, and he didn't find you hard to look at. That led quickly to casual sex whenever you saw each other, usually when you'd come by a couple times a month to restock your supply. And the sex is great– better than the weed, and Eddie's weed is always high quality. He just has this ability to make you feel special in the moment without having any expectations about whatever-you-and-he-were as soon as you pull your panties back on, leaving you free to date whoever you wanted when you left his trailer.
It’s ecstasy to have all of his attention focused on you in those moments because, though Eddie looks like a mean bastard, he gets off on your pleasure. He's not one to make you feel used or neglected; he's a thorough lover. And he has a knack for straddling the perfect line between sweet and sour. He'd praise you then humiliate you in the next breath, and it drove you wild. Kept you coming back even though he never expressed interest in taking you out or doing anything with you other than just getting high, watching TV, and fucking you 'til you screamed.
And then, at some point, you find yourself declining guys' offers for dinner or drinks. You just don’t feel like going out anymore, because trying to find Mr. Right was getting exhausting— at least, that's what you tell yourself. And Eddie starts calling you sometimes to let you know he had a new strain he thought you'd like, some of Rick's fancy shit. Soon enough, you go from seeing him twice a month to twice a week, sometimes more. And slowly but surely, you begin to notice a change in yourself. You start staring at all his tattoos and wondering what the stories are behind them. Feeling an odd flutter when you flop down next to him and he'd sling his arm around your shoulder without a thought. Laying tangled in his musty bedsheets, and when he leaves to go to the bathroom, secretly burying your nose against his pillow because the smell of him has suddenly become... comforting.
Things are changing for you, and you really hope they are for him, too. 'Cause if not, it seems your traitorous heart has determined you'll be in for a world of hurt.
"Y'want some of this?" Eddie's voice cuts through the haze, drawing your attention away from the television. You glance over to see him holding up the joint, a lazy smirk playing at the corners of his lips. The glow of the joint illuminates his features, soft against the curve of his cheek.
You nod, a small smile tugging at your own lips as you shift closer to him. He pats his thigh, a silent invitation, and you don’t hesitate to straddle his lap, the heat of his body seeping through your pajama shorts. His jeans are rough against your tender inner thighs as you shift, grazing the hardening bulge pressing against his zipper; your stomach tightens with the first whispers of arousal as you feel it brush against you.
"Gimme a show then, kitten," he murmurs, his voice low and husky, making that arousal bloom fuller as you grow excited. It’s a playful taunt, a challenge, but beneath the teasing facade, you can sense something more—a hint of possessiveness, maybe even of longing. That could just be your wishful thinking, but nonetheless, your heart races at the prospect as you meet his gaze, accepting his challenge.
With a coy smile, you slip off the couch, settling on your knees and running your nails up his thighs on your way to his lap. You take your time unbuckling his belt, keeping your movements slow and unhurried, though you secretly throb as you begin to unwrap him. It’s crazy how quickly he turns you on— how all he has to do is smirk and pin you with a look, or murmur a few words in that low, husky tone, and you’re already wetting your panties for him.
Eddie waits just long enough for you to shimmy his jeans and boxers down to his knees, and then he catches you by the jaw with a broad, rough palm. You look up at him as he guides you back up with his light grip on your face. His eyes flick down to your mouth as he leans forward, curls swinging to kiss his jaw. You brighten, eager to feel his mouth on yours, wondering what kind of kiss he’ll reward you with— something slow and sweet, or wet and filthy. But he leaves just a peck on your lips before drawing back, tightening his hold on your jaw to keep you firmly in place when you instinctively go to chase him.
You fall immediately into a pout, slumping back on your heels as he breathes a chuckle at you. Eddie bends to lightly pat your cheek a few times in consolation before settling back into the cushions, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He must know the gesture would rile you up, and it does— you feel your disappointment churn in your belly, turning to petulance. In retaliation, you clamber up to your feet, abandoning your position kneeling before his boots. With narrowed eyes, you drop your shorts and panties together without ceremony, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side, denying him the chance to enjoy watching you strip. You cross your arms when your bratting only makes him smirk even wider at you. He quirks an eyebrow as if to say, “Well?”
You resent how much you like his stupid face.
The couch creaks its protest as you climb up onto it, slinging a leg over his lap again, this time with nothing separating your skin from his, which is hot and slightly sticky with the humidity. His cock kicks subtly when your pussy grazes him, and you bite your lip, feeling an answering pulse of desire within yourself. When you mount him, reaching behind to grip him at the base and notch his fat head at your entrance, Eddie prepares for your performance: draping his arms casually over the backrest, fingers idly tapping against the worn fabric, his other arm hinging to bring the joint lazily to his lips.
He looks like such an asshole, waiting for you to service him. And you might've goaded him more because of it, but you forget about being bratty the second you sink down on his lap, taking him all the way into you.
A quiet moan sighs from between your cracked lips when you sit fully on his cock, your eyes slipping closed as you get lost in that initial stretch. He's not the only guy you've fucked— far from it— but there’s just something about the way he slots inside, nudging against the end of you, that always leaves you feeling more perfectly filled than anyone else. Eddie watches with a sly glint in his half-lidded eyes as you start to grind on him, letting yourself drift into the space he always brings you into. With him, you can be soft, sensual, and needy, but also desperate and pathetic. You can act out all your secret desires, know that Eddie will flay you open and force you to acknowledge them, and let the shame of it get you off all at once.
Eddie lets you be a freak, and better yet, he likes it.
Desperate to earn his approval, you run your hands up your body, dragging over your hips and up to your neck as you ride him. Your abdomen rolls as you grind with fluid, sensual movements, doing your best to put on the show he’d requested. You look at him through your lashes as your wandering fingers catch on the hem of your tank top, dragging it slowly up to reveal your soft belly. You hold it just below your breasts so Eddie can watch the way your curves bend and move while you work his cock.
In some respects, the dance is for you as much as it’s for him because the way Eddie watches you with rapt attention, his eyes devouring every inch of your body, really turns you on. You bite your lip, your clit swelling with anticipation as you tease him with a glimpse of the underside of your breasts. He hums approvingly, taking a leisurely hit from the joint. As the smoke curls around him in a tantalizing haze, you give in sooner than you’d been intending and ruck up your top to let your breasts fall out. You start to play with them, squeezing and kneading as you rock your hips harder, your own need mounting.
Gradually, your performance ceases being a performance. Your nipples begin to ache, begging to be touched, and a moan spills unbidden from your lips as you tweak and pinch them, sending pleasure zinging straight down within you. You close your eyes, a tiny frown forming as you try to concentrate on the low flame of your arousal, but it remains at a frustratingly low simmer. You rock faster, grind harder, pinch harsher, your movements a silent plea for the sweet relief only Eddie can give. You’ve built your own pleasure as much as you can on your own, and now, you need him. The coyness is wiped from your expression, replaced with a begging pinch in your brow, a needy, wet shine in your eyes as you blink unseeingly at him, all pretty and pathetic on his lap.
At the border between satisfaction and desperation— that’s where he wanted you.
A hand at your hip stills your movements, and as your eyes snap to focus on Eddie's face, you see he’s leaned forward, his nose scant inches from yours. His other elbow is planted on the couch arm, the joint poised tantalizingly nearby in his ringed fingers. Eddie squeezes your hip firmly, then again more gratuitously, and when you obediently fall still to sit motionless on his cock, he lets his palm slide up the curve of your waist in a drag that makes you gasp, you're so wired and ready for his touch. You watch, rapt, as he brings the joint toward his lips, salivating as a swipe of his tongue moistens them.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snap up to his, captured completely by his unwavering gaze. As he inhales, those brown eyes glitter in the orange that flares bright at the joint’s end. And he keeps that point of contact between you as his broad palm travels up, up, up— over the supple heft of your breast, grazing the hard peak of your nipple, skimming the thrumming pulse in your neck, his thumb catching on the underside of your jaw as he cups your cheek. He closes those scant inches between you, and when the bulb of his nose nudges yours, your mouth falls open as your eyes slip closed.
He exhales, you inhale. When the warm rush of Eddie’s breath kisses your lips, you take it into you, your chest expanding as your lungs fill with smoke. The taste of him mingles with a heady rush of arousal, and you continue to take, even through the twinge of discomfort as your lungs stretch to accommodate it all. As Eddie gives you the last of his smoke, you close your mouth, keeping it all inside.
“Hold it,” he murmurs against your skin. His lips trail kisses along your jaw as you obey, fighting your diaphragm as it hitches, wanting to cough. You make a little noise in the back of your throat when he nips you, the brief sharp sting soothed soon after by the flat of his tongue. You hold as long as you can, and when you finally exhale, Eddie rewards you by taking hold of your hips, pulling you into a slow, sensual grind as he kisses you sloppy, wet lips wide and devouring. The friction and fervor crash over you in an intense wave of pleasure, one that has you whining, twisting your fingers in his hair, pressing your tits to his chest, ready to ignite—
The front door shakes with the pounding of a heavy fist.
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Imagine giving Eddie the best blow job of his life, you're deepthroating him and it's so good he almost wants to get away from it but you keep your hands on his ass sucking his cock down so deep it's in your throat as he moans and mewls obscenely. It's wet and nasty, and he can't even remember his own name when you're done with him 🤭
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x reader should be (and, generally speaking, often is) the most accepting fanfiction space because its consistently, and almost exclusively an expression or fantasy of being desired or wanted or wanting—or in an even more basic sense, considered. even if you dont explicitly self-insert, even if there’s a an oc thats just you but better or a faceless insert u make - it starts with the same premise. which is wanting to be seen or desired by some extension of who you are. or wanting to fantasize explicitly about a life that isn’t yours, any life but yours. its admitting more openly than other mediums—i want someone to want some part of me. to take interest in me sexually or romantically or platonically. i want this element of myself to be considered or thought of. sometimes that is accomplished through writing, and sometimes that is accomplished through reading and seeking to bits of yourself in other peoples. the other half is having space to want and yearn for something else. how liberating it is to admit that you’d like to be somewhere else.
and it is hardly a flawless medium and im really, really simplifying it but i do think that there is something uniquely enjoyable and freeing about it. i want agency in the stories i love. i want my presence to haunt this fiction like a ghost. i want to be loved, i want to be interesting. i want to experience hundreds of lives that aren’t mine. i want i want i want. this a story of you. this is a story of me.
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My process isn't so much about writing forward as it is drilling down.
#I'm a slow writer and this is why#both things are necessary and important though#finding a balance between both is my challenge#writing
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me: I went through an 80s phase in high school
my fiance who graduated in 1989: that's crazy, so did I
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*insomnia high five*
no fr this was so cute and entertaining while I lie here restlessly, ty for tagging me!! yours is so cute.
no pressure tags: @the-unforgivenn @storiesbyrhi @alottanothing @liminalpebble @chaoticgood-munson @toomanyacorns @hellfire--cult @trashmouth-richie
Insomnia means making cute art on picrew. Tagging some lovely people so I can see the adorable pictures you come up with 💕
Make yours here
No pressure tags: @munson-blurbs @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @joejoequinnquinn @rip-quizilla @word-wytch @b-irock @big-ope-vibes @jo-harrington @ghost-proofbaby @br0ck-eddie @girlwiththerubyslippers
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“Make it quick… baby’s sleeping..”
🚬🥃🖤⛓️
Older scruffier trailer trash Eddie that takes care of younger Steve while running some illegal businesses. I saw the new Hoard trailer and this sort of happened ?? My brain has been melting ever since.
Anyways enjoy loves~
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Eddie Munson gifs 4/?
The moment that impacted so many of us <3
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Get attacked!! ✨💗SEND THIS TO OTHER BLOGGERS YOU THINK ARE WONDERFUL. KEEP THE GAME GOING💗
thanks, love!! 🥰
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