#Eddie Munson x fem!Farmer!reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keeksandgigz · 1 year ago

Text

lavender syrup (part one of lessons in alchemy)

barista!eddie munson x fem!barista!reader AU

summary: Eddie is the owner of the most popular cafe in his small town, "The Mad Alchemist," you are the owner of the rival cafe "Daily Drug". You obviously hate each other, but when a pipe bursts into your cafe that might take months to repair, your contractor assigns you and your coworkers to work with Eddie in order to keep your job, just until "Daily Drug" is ready to run again. Is tolerating him really that big of a feat?

cw: 4k words, swearing, modern setting, allusions to smut but nothing explicit (yet), Eddie calls reader a bitch a couple times and he's such a condescending asshole but in a hot way, i feel like the sexual tension needs its own tw, Steve is also in this <3

a/n: pls like and reblog and feedback is always so very much appreciated!! my requests are always open if u wanna chat <3

divider by @benkeibear

Eddie Munson wasn’t the type to want much from life. He was content in his little town, managing the coffee shop that kept it alive. From the early morning crew of truckers, farmers, nurses and cops to the 9 am rushes of the corporate job workers from one town over to the yoga moms, the high schoolers after the ring of the last bell. Eddie Munson did not have any big plans for his life. The little coffee shop made him enough money that he was able to take care of his uncle, now retired, and live by himself in a small apartment with his roommate, Steve.

He got an associate’s degree in business, and after that he opened “The Mad Alchemist Cafe,” a DnD themed rustic coffee shop filled with beakers, lights and plants. The exposed brick the “interior designer” (it really was just a friend who had a good eye) begged him to paint over was instead littered with posters of announcements. He would host poetry slams, band performances, most importantly DnD campaigns he'd have to close down the cafe for in the evenings. For a few years he had also been hosting Christmas and Thanksgiving dinners for those who didn’t have a family to go home to for the holidays.

He hired his roommate and closest friend, Steve to be the baker. Straight out of cooking school, Steve Harrington took care of the sweet and savory. The thousand- layer croissants that would melt once slightly placed on the tip of the tongue. Airy, buttery pastry that made Eddie's customers sigh with every bite, as they lingered on the wooden bar, conversing with the baristas. The lunch hour crew, asking for meatball sandwiches and messy pasta bowls. He’d make turkeys for the dinners at the cafe, during the holiday season, along with insurmountable potato dishes and stuffing.

Eddie's life was littered with small sprinkles of joy. Everyone knew him as the kid from the cafe, with his long hair, sticking out of the messy bun he would wear to work. It started off as a joke in middle school, when Eddie's hair was buzzed due to a lice epidemic. Steve had miserably beat him at the arcade. He had grown fond of the long hair though, and added to the mystique of his coffee shop. It was also metal as fuck.

He felt like he was the main accessory to his lovely brick building; there would not have been “The Mad Alchemist Cafe” without Eddie Munson, something that both staff and customers knew. The cafe would also not have been the cafe without the three years long rivalry with the only other cafe on their side of town, “Daily Drug” that opened a year after Eddie’s. The brand new establishment that started taking customers from him, claiming that their chai lattes and breakfast sandwiches were to die for.

Eddie had not interacted much with you, the owner of the cafe. Your bossy, stuck up and overall terrible attitude were a house trade mark there. He had been in the cafe though, and understood why “Daily Drug” was such an incredible contender to his establishment. The ambiance was different, like a Pinterest board had come to life. The pink and blue tile that decorated the walls as well as the ironic bitchy posters that ranged from a snarky “What are you looking at?” to a direct and curt “don’t be an asshole” decorated the walls.

It was nothing like the cafe Eddie had imagined, the colorful palette contrasting with the caricaturistic mean and sarcastic ways of the staff, whose bitterness might have actually improved the taste of their coffee, as their lavender lattes tasted way sweeter, the syrup not overpowering the taste of the coffee, perfectly blended with the best milk for the beverage, which he found was almond.

You could have easily spat in his cup, but you serve him with feigned kindness as you make sure to make him hear a soundly “UGH could he be any more annoying?” to a blonde haired coworker, whose name he finds out later is Colette. Colette erupts in laughter as she serves his lavender latte with an egg and sausage burrito with a side of aggressive side eye. You had definitely spat in his drink.

A fifteen- minute car ride later, Eddie enters his cafe begrudged by his inability to master a lavender latte. The taste of his in- house lavender syrup is too artificial, while “Daily Drug”’s try as he might is a flavor that he had never encountered.

The lavender provides a sweet flavor to the drink that pairs perfectly with the bitter coffee and the creamy taste of the almond milk without the artificial aftertaste. He beelines to the back of the building, to the room he called his lab, setting down his bag on a stool next to him as he takes a bored bite out of the egg and sausage burrito. Hm. Steve's is better.

He jots down some notes in his journal. Try lemon for lavender syrup. Fennel seed in the sausage. Paprika maybe? Definitely garlic. He should have listened to his uncle and he should have gone to cooking school before he had opened the restaurant. He knew that he had the talent for it, Steve had even asked him to apply together, but he felt like it was not his true calling.

“Your true calling is bossing everyone around, Ed” said his uncle with a laugh, one of the many sleepless nights he had spent mulling over the cafe during its early days. A knock startles him from his reverie. It's Steve.

“Hey, didn’t see you come in. Are you still stressing over that lavender syrup thing?” he leans on the doorframe, half smiling at Eddie. He came in too early. Him and Steve were kind of the same in that regard, once haunted by an idea, they would not rest until it was executed.

“What was it this morning? Strawberry frosting on matcha rolls?” says Eddie taking another bite out of his stale burrito.

"Nah, it's for the Halloween special, I'm trying to figure out the menu. We need to remember to add more nutmeg to the pumpkin spice syrup this year" Steve says, crossing his arms.

"Shit, yeah, I almost forgot. Also, this" Eddie shakes his burrito towards his friend "does not compare to yours by, like, miles. The sausage is too dry and the egg too cooked" Steve shrugs and fixes his glasses with a smug smile.

"Knew it." Eddie laughs at that, then proceeds to scribble in his leather bound notebook. Then the phone rings.

"Hey Steve, do you mind getting that?" Eddie says, not moving his head from the notebook.

"You got it boss" Steve heads towards the phone in Eddie's office.

"'Mad Alchemist Cafe' Steve speaking...Mhm...yeah, Eddie's in...oh shit" at that, Eddie turns his head.

"What is it, what's wrong Steve?" his tone alarmed as he paces towards the phone.

"Yeah no he's here you can talk to him, Jim" Steve passes the phone, making a face, the corners of his mouth pulled as if he were in trouble. "It's Jim" his contractor. Fuck.

Eddie presses the phone to his ear "Hey Jim, what's up?" his tone tense and cautious.

"Hey, kid, I don't know how to tell you this, but a pipe burst at 'Daily Drug'" Jim sounds scared, but Eddie is still struggling to figure out what that had to do with him, other than the fact that he would finally get back his traitorous customers who had gone to the dark side when “Daily Drug” opened.

"Yeah, ok, and that's my problem because?" he's annoyed at the ominous way Jim called at 8 in the morning concerned for his rival cafe's burst pipes.

"Are you sitting down, kid?" Ed rolls his eyes, he's getting seriously pissed off at this whole mystery thing his contractor's getting at.

"Yeah, Jim. Fuck sake just spit it out"

"Alright, alright no need to get aggressive" Jim takes a deep breath in "In order for the girls at 'Daily Drug' to keep their jobs you need to hire them, at least until the shop is up and running again." Oh shit indeed. Jim trails off, waiting for a reaction.

"How long Jim?" Eddie's fuming.

"It could take up to six months, really, the pipe fucked up the whole kitchen so they need to redo the back and stuff, hell it might take a year knowing how slow these fuckers operate" Jim exhales, he's probably shaking. Eddie did not make his contempt for “Daily Drug” unknown.

“Jesus Christ Jim you can’t do this to me. You know how much that- that bitch hates me. Everytime I go there I'm pretty sure she spits in my coffee. I'm actually convinced they all do, Jim" he's spiraling.

"C'mon kid, don't be stupid. That would violate an incredibly long amount of regulations and they would need to close down if it were true. Which I don't think it is" Jim sounds like he's finding this amusing now.

"This is not funny. And- and then what? The owner just comes in here and she starts actin' like she owns the place? We start sharing responsibilities? That's real cute, Jim, y'know that? Incredibly cute." Only then Eddie had notices how hard he had been gripping the phone. And the armrest of his chair.

"Eddie, you're throwing a tantrum. The owner doesn't hate you, they're hired under the agency and I just pulled some strings because I know you and these girls- these girls have families to support and I didn't want to scatter them all across town. I know they will be in good hands, they're not your employees, Eddie. Get it in that thick skull or I'm closing your shit down" Fuck. He's backed up into a corner.

"Alright. When do they start?" He grabs a pen and a piece of paper and scribbles Daily Drug start dates.

"Okay, so we have eight employees. Four of them are going across town, I have that cafe there. The rest are going to you- Virginia, Colette, Chrissy and the owner are all going to your cafe. They start tomorrow at 9 am. Better brush up on those training books, kid." Jim snickers.

"You're hilarious, Jim y'know that?" he quickly jots down the names and the time, stopping at your name for a second, before putting an angry face next to it.

"Aw, come on, kid. Maybe it might be a great way for you all to bond and put this stupid rivalry behind"

"Yeah- yeah no, and then we're gonna ride on the rainbow towards a pot of gold and do a little jig. Of course, Jim. I am healed already. Listen, I'll call you tomorrow after everything- if that bitch doesn't put a knife at my throat, speaking of, I should hide them" he seethes.

"Don't stress Ed. You'll be okay, what matters is that-" Jim never gets to finish that sentence, blocked by the violent slam of Eddie's phone back into its socket.

"FUCKING SHIT" he yells, kicking the bottom of his desk.

"I take it wasn't good news?" Steve leans on the threshold of Eddie's office.

"Steve- God I want to punch something. The owner of 'Daily Drug' in here. She's gonna kill me. Hide the knives"

"If I didn't know you like the back of my hand I'd say you're a little scared of her, Ed."

"Have you seen her? She's terrifying. So mean. I'd be turned on if she wasn't my archenemy" and he does have eyes, he thinks you're attractive. He's fantasized about putting you in your place, sometimes. About shutting your mouth up, see how witty you were after he'd make you go dumb from a few rounds.

He shakes his head. He has to stop.

"Well, maybe you can be nice to her so we can steal her lavender syrup recipe" Steve suggests. And as morally wrong as that sounds, you've spit in his drink before, so what's a bit of foul play compared to an FDA violation?

"Steven you might be onto something, but for now let's just worry about surviving tomorrow- God I know it's gonna be awful" Eddie says. As he said that, one of his employees, Jeff, comes knocking at his office.

"Eddie, the owner of the other cafe is here, she's asking for you." Eddie's eyes widen. The fuck is she doing here?

"The fuck- Okay thank you, Jeff. Send her back here." He dismisses his barista and Steve follows him back into the kitchen.

There is no hiding you're angry. Starting a job at a place where you knew everyone hated you seemed a bit of a cunt move from Jim, and there you are. Heading towards Eddie Munson's office, walking like you own the damn place.

"You look a little too sure of yourself for someone who lost their cafe, sweetheart. What is it, hm? What are you doing here?"

His condescending tone only stokes your anger more.

"I just came here to see the place, see if I have to dumb myself down. Maybe you guys don't know what cortados are" Feigned pity in your face.

"If you've come here to be a bitch you can go right home. One call to Jim and I can end this arrangement as quickly as it started, let's not get like that, m'kay?" his smile is devilish and god it's so hard to not find him attractive even when you want to rip him to shreds for threatening you.

"I didn't come here to bitch. I wanted to pick up our aprons? You guys have cute aprons. At least you have good taste in something" you scoff, and he shoots you a look. Fucking brat.

"Yeah- um" Eddie stands up from his desk and reaches for a box in the corner of his office "I'll give you two each. Try to keep 'em clean, I don't like dirty aprons. I've seen how messy you guys are at the cafe, that won't fly here 'kay? We really value cleanliness and order here"

"How clean can a cafe run by a man really be, huh? that's probably why your lights are so dim" he wants to kill you, but also pin you against the wall and shove his tongue down your throat so you can stop talking.

"You've had a long morning, sweetheart. Why don't you go home and sleep it off? I'm afraid you're letting off all this negative energy here and we don't want that. Not here" his tone's more stern rather than joking "I'll see ya bright an' early tomorrow morning at nine. Please don't come late, yeah?" he winks at you, cueing you to leave.

As you cross the threshold of the cafe you cannot possibly fathom what was it that left you so flustered and with an insatiable hunger between your thighs.

You pick up your coworker Colette on the way to work the morning after, presenting her with a bagel and all your rage directed towards Eddie.

“No, Col, you don’t understand. He threatened to call Jim for a little remark. You know how insane that is? He’s gonna use whatever sick power he thinks he has over me to make me stay in line. Nope, no sir not with me” you say, turning into the parking lot of the cafe.

“This Eddie guy really is an asshole, huh?” Colette remarks, getting out of the car.

“You have no idea, it’s like he thinks he’s the shit or something just because the whole town loves him”

“Everyone does love me, sweetheart. Good morning ladies, I’d recommend getting in, you have five minutes.” Eddie's right behind you, closing the trunk of his van, wearing one of his dumb satanic shirts. It's black, arms covered by a ratty black leather jacket. His hair is down and a messenger bag littered with button pins is slung over his shoulder, resting on his hip. All it takes is one snide remark and then he's gone inside the shop.

You don't realize you're staring until Colette pinches the back of your arm, you reach for the affected area. “Babes, not him. Literally anyone but him, you have literally spent the whole car ride talking about how much of an asshole he is”

“I have eyes, Col. He’s hot, and as much as I’d love to sleep with him, my hatred for this asshole is a bit too strong. I’d probably punch him mid- act anyway” you snicker and follow Eddie inside the store. Virginia and Chrissy are already inside, you shoot them a comforting look and a light touch to Virginia’s arm, who seriously lookes like she's about to cry.

“You okay, Gin?” you ask, lightly elbowing her arm.

“No, I- I’m okay. Just nervous, also a bit scared. The boss seems mean” she trembles. She's only seventeen, after all. She's been working since she had been able to, if not before. Taking babysitting jobs until she turned fifteen, then just started taking customer service jobs, until she stumbled inside “Daily Drug,” with the extensive resume she had, she had been easy to hire.

“He’s an asshole, but don’t let him intimidate you. He can’t do anything without Jim’s approval, just remember that, hun” you squeeze her arm as Eddie enters, having shed his jacket, putting his hair up, and tying the purple apron around his waist. A small, golden tag says his name on the right side of his chest.

“Good morning, ladies. My name is Eddie, the owner of this fine establishment” he bows, smirking. “The crew at “Mad Alchemist” is deeply sorry about what happened at your cafe. We will do everything in our power to make you guys feel welcome for your short stay here” at the mention of “short” his eyes dart at you. You’re not the only one who hopes this bullshit will be short, dickhead.

You step forward, putting your best polite face on. “Thanks, Eddie. We’re extremely grateful for the opportunity to keep working, and we hope to learn from our time here” you say through gritted teeth. Even being that nice to him feels like nails on a chalkboard on your brain. “These are my baristas- Virginia, Chrissy, and Colette, my baker” you point at each of your girls.

“Oh Colette, you’re gonna want to meet with Steve, then- He’s my baker and pastry chef. I’m sure you both have a lot of things to talk about, and a lot of work to do since our Halloween special will be dropping in a week from today” a taut smile appears on his lips.

The guy in the back with the gorgeous head of hair and round glasses whom you assume is Steve waves his hand and Colette shoots you an assuring look before she runs to him, disappearing in the back, where you assume the pastry shop is.

No one to run to now.

"Perfect, shall we begin?" Eddie's voice feels muffled in your ears as he assigns each one of his baristas to one of yours for training. The cafe has just passed its early morning peak time, meaning that in a couple hours you will have a lunch rush. Everything feels like it's moving too fast.

The noises around you become clear again when Eddie grazes the bare skin of your arm. You shiver. Unbeknownst to you, his hand flexes at his side.

"Scared, sweetheart? You look like you've seen a ghost..." his mouth is moving, but you can't understand anything of whatever he's saying. You're unconsciously rubbing the area Eddie had touched, his fingers warm yet rough, from all the times he's had to wash his hands throughout the day.

You haven't noticed until now how thick his fingers are. Suddenly, the feeling of a phantom limb reaching out, wrapping a hand around your throat, gently feeling its way down your neck, your shoulders, your clavicle, down your stomach and into-

"You wanna follow me to my office or what? I have a couple questions for you" Eddie breaks you out of your sick reverie, leaving you a bit flushed in the face, afraid to look at him in the eye.

"Yeah-uh sorry. Lead the way" you say, and suddenly the floor becomes very interesting to look at.

Quickly, everyone gets to work. The girls being taught the house drinks by the guys at the bar, whilst you follow Eddie in his office.

“I just need to know if there’s any schedule preferences from the girls, just in case there’s any conflict. I was thinking, since the Halloween special will be dropping, one of these days you might need to sit in here with me and I’ll give you a proper training of what that entails. Y’know tastings and such.” His demeanor has switched from snarky to utterly professional, for which you thank whatever entity in the sky, allowing you a break from his abrasive behavior.

He sits down at his desk and pulls out a notepad and a pen. He looks at you with waiting eyes.

“Yeah, um, Virginia has school during the week and can’t work until after three and she can only work four hours on weekdays, three days a week and usually a full shift during the weekend. Chrissy and Colette can work whenever, but please don’t schedule Col at the early hours of the mornings, she actually cannot function. She’s more useful to you awake” you let out a breathy laugh, remembering Colette putting salt instead of sugar in a batch of banana bread muffins.

In the meantime, Eddie scribbles on his notepad. You feel uneasy in a room with him without the loud tensions of an argument looming, the blood booming in your ears.

“And you?” he raises an eyebrow, lifting his face from the notepad.

“Oh, I’ll just come in whenever you need me. I really don’t mind, I just need a good amount of hours. I um- I have my dad to take at the hospital on Saturday mornings, but I can come after” you say, your face tinging a bright red.

He scribbles that down, embarrassment visible on your face as the tension in the room becomes suffocating.

“Alright, I’ll have those schedules ready by the end of the day. I need you to come in tomorrow through Wednesday. Opening shift Monday and Tuesday, you’ll close with me and Chrissy on Wednesday. Sounds good?” he keeps writing down in his notepad, you nod. He tuts “I need words, I can’t see you nodding or shaking your head if I’m writing, can I?”

“Y-yeah, that sounds good. Sorry” You feel even more embarrassed, the tops of your ears tinging red.

“Don’t apologize. Just do better next time” Eddie thrums a ringed hand on the edge of his desk. He's never seen you this docile and it puts him off. He was hoping for some snide remark, but you're looking around nervously, playing with the laces of your apron, which he finds enhances the curves and features of your body. Wondering what you’d look like in nothing but that apron, all the exposed skin of your back, shoulders and–

“Are we done here?” there she is. The snarky question makes him jump, thanking the desk for covering the lower half of his body.

“Yeah, I can go train you now, just gimme a sec, I’ll meet you outside” I need to get rid of that boner is what he means, but you don't budge.

“Fuck no, you’re not training me. Gimme someone else” you remark, crossing your arms.

“God there I thought you weren’t gonna be a bitch today.” He exhales. “How many people do you see in the staff, huh? It's Steve, Gareth, Jeff and I. Not much of a merry group. You either let me train you or the door is that way.” you can tell he’s had enough of you, which only stokes your fire even more.

“Literally anyone but you. You can train Virginia, I’m sure you have a bit of heart to not be a dick to a literal child. Not that she even needs training, she has more knowledge and better work ethics than you assholes” you spit, and you’re sure Eddie wants to kill you.

“I don’t tolerate this kind of language in my store. I’m sure that’s what attracted all my customers to your store, but you can shut that filthy mouth in here. Now, you’re gonna go out and wait for me to train you, understood?” he's seething.

“Or what? You can’t do shit Eddie. I’m not your little employee, you can’t fucking threaten me” you're winded, this argument is stupid and you want to punch him.

“Alright” Eddie stands up abruptly and stalks towards you. ��train yourself then.”

His tone is calm and collected, which makes you tremble. He's close. Really close.

“I wanna watch you crash and burn and struggle to make a dragon’s breath latte. You don’t want me to train you? Fine. Perfect. The less time I have to spend away from your bitch mouth the better my day will be. Recipe cards are on the counter. Have fun” he taps his hand on your shoulder and gives you a pulled smile, then walks back to his desk.

He's fucking brutal.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson au #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction

231 notes · View notes

vintagehellfire · 2 years ago

Note

Hi friend! Could you write fluff (or fluffy smut, if you desire where Reader hears best friend!Eddie telling Steve that he thinks Reader is the most beautiful girl in the world, but he doesn’t wanna ruin the friendship by asking her out? Maybe she decides to take the lead and just go for it hehe

xoxoxo @munson-blurbs 💚

Hi friend! Of course I can. I kind of uh let Jesus or the devil take the wheel on this to be honest so it is what it is.

505 |E.M x Reader

best friend!Eddiex fem!reader

Warnings: fem reader, smut, oral (m receiving), two idiots in love, fluff to smut but like fluffy smut 18+ mdni

Word count: 4.7k

Eddie Munson, best friend, metalhead, and absolute sweetheart found himself stuck with you since that one evening in the frigid winter where he took an elbow to the nose at a show. He wouldn’t have ever guessed that getting his nose broken by protecting you would lead to the best and most heart wrenching friendship known to his existence. That’s not to say he didn’t absolutely adore every second of it. You were the best partner in crime and yet the worst influence, always at the ready to suggest the wildest and most impulsive ideas. Everyone would agree the two of you were two peas in a pod, absolutely inseparable, but that never stopped your worries from pooling in the darkest recesses of your stomach. They would dig a deep pit and lodge themselves there so comfortably that you didn’t dare venture past the territory of friendship.

That’s where Steve Harrington came in - he was your confidant on all matters Munson. He had been trying to tell you to come clean about your feelings since the day you took a road trip with Eddie and convinced him to steal persimmons off of some poor farmer’s land. It was truly then that it clicked for Steve that the metalhead was smitten with you - Eddie was never a thief and as much as his jagged personality might make it seem like he’d get caught up with the law, it wouldn’t ever be for theft yet somehow all his perturbation slipped away when it came to you. Eddie could have sworn those were the sweetest persimmons he’s ever tasted and if everyone were being honest it was mainly because he was sharing them with you.

That brings you to today, relaxing on the couch with the frizzy haired man, your heels digging into his thigh as a movie plays in the background. Neither of you were particularly paying attention to it, it was mostly used to fill the silence if anything else. Eddie was scribbling away in his campaign notebook, busy trying to add some finishing touches before tomorrow night’s game and you were crocheting what you were hoping would turn out to be a mothman plush toy. When Eddie pried the information out of you, with you sheepishly admitting it was a mothman you were trying to create, he couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle. It could have been taken as an insulting laugh at how ridiculous you were but the reality of the situation was that Eddie was falling helplessly for you.

“Does this look right?” You broke the silence and held up what looked like some sort of skinned carnage of what used to be a stuffed animal. It was a genuine question and your nerves began to eat away at you over the answer Eddie would give. He slowly turned his head, curls cascading into his face and tickling his nose. With his left hand he pushed the hair out of the way to reveal the beautiful mahogany of his eyes. He briefly flicked over your expression before settling on the tangle of yarn, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips in an amused manner.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the man cooed out, “maybe if you add the fluff to it? I can’t really tell like this.” The crows feet in the corners of his eyes crinkled as a teasing smile split across his features. Suddenly the mothman wasn’t as important as you’d thought because you managed to get a smile from the man who held your heart in his hands, his dimples pronouncing themselves even more when you returned a lopsided tug of your own lips.

“Wow, you wound me, Munson.” You barked out in a laugh signaling to him that you didn’t feel insulted in the least - how could you when he was looking at you like that? As if you hung the stars in the sky for him. His gaze was burning into you, an impromptu staring contest taking place. It was something that was happening more and more lately and it had both of your insides swarm with bats though neither of you would admit it to each other. The moment you managed to peel your eyes away from his was almost like a resignation of sorts yet the tension remained. “So uh, when is Steve swinging by?” You try to change the topic, hoping that it might give an ounce of relief to the thick atmosphere. The metalhead across from you leans back into the couch, stretching out his back with a satisfied groan, one that leaves you salivating - what you’d do to be the one getting him to make such noises.

There was no hiding that with the noise that escaped the man prompted your eyes to trail downwards - denying that you’d set your eyes on the way the hem of his t-shirt rode up to reveal the trail of hair that led to below the belt would cast you as a liar, and lying was a sin- but honestly you’d be written off as a bigger sinner for the things you’d wanted to do to your best friend.

“He’s supposed to be here in,” he checks his little black wrist watch, his movement forcing you to readjust your feet, which in turn had his hand shooting to your ankle, steadying your movements, “I don’t know, now in theory. Harrington’s already late.” He sighs out. He couldn’t let you have that effect on him while you were here, he won’t allow it, and besides, he’s certain that you wouldn't want to entertain such notions in the first place,

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Just as you huff out your sentence there’s a knock at the door. “Well speak of the devil.” You smirk before trying to swing your legs off of Eddie’s denim clad thighs, his firm grip on your ankle stopping you. A deep blush coats his cheeks before he releases his hold, allowing you to get up and welcome Steve into the trailer. As soon as you do, there is no doubt that Steve shoots Eddie a knowing smirk that both of you chose to ignore. Neither one of you believed that feelings of the romantic sort were involved, and if they were, why ruin the perfectly forged friendship you both had? What good was it to complicate things if neither party reciprocated?

“Hey, lovebird. Still in denial?” Steve tutted while making his way towards the Munson kitchen a case of beer in hand with a few bags of microwave popcorn. Steve was the designated carrier of snacks and booze, especially since the incident after his breakup with college woman Maggie Thompson - he quickly started pining over her and they ended up dating for a good six month stretch, that was until she brutally broke his heart and he was left no choice, allegedly, but to force everyone to watch Dirty Dancing on repeat through the night.

“Fuck off Steve.” You shouted back, a smile still stuck on your face.

“You wound me, peach.” He calls back to you, opening the fridge and keeping the door propped open with his hip. His search for space to store the beer doesn’t last painfully long, but long enough that you have the chance to put away your eldritch horror and that Eddie gently tucks his notebook and pen into his room. It was a comfortable movie night routine after all - now it was just a matter of waiting for your second favourite chatterbox.

“Hey Eds?” Your head rounds the doorway of his room as you poke your head in, a low hum coming from the corner of the room that harboured his desk. “I’m going to run to the washroom, okay? Can you make sure King Steeb doesn’t burn the popcorn?” You ask him meekly. As his eyes fall onto you his facial expression softens and he takes a few steps, crossing the room in order to plant himself in front of you. Seldom you found comfort in what he does next - in fact your best friend was the only one who had permission to do so. His rough hand gently meets your elbow, his skin setting yours ablaze.

“Of course sweetheart.” He murmurs before you timidly stalk off to the washroom.

Eddie takes this opportunity to pad over to Steve, greeting him with a firm slap on the back and his signature dimples engraving themselves into his features. His smile softened his otherwise hard features and set jaw.

“Hey man, thanks for grabbing the drinks for tonight.” His voice rumbled out as he rounded the former king of Hawkins High, propping his hip against the kitchen counter.

“Don’t worry about it, man, I’m happy to bring something along since you won’t let me choose the movies anymore.” The younger teased, elbowing him gently in the ribs. “But uh, Eddie, while we have a minute… the two of you aren’t seriously in denial, are you?” He poses the question that everyone of your mutual friends has been wondering about, the one that’s been burning in everyone’s mind including your own.

“Jesus H. Christ.” Eddie hissed, hands coming to rub his face before dropping at his sides. “Between you and me, Steve,” a small hesitation finds itself wedged in just before the big confession, in part to make sure you were nowhere near, in part because Eddie needed a minute to collect himself. He’d never been so smitten before and god the pain he feels in his chest over it rivals even the pain of a broken heart yet, he’d rather feel that hurt than lose you forever, “I’m not denying anything. I think that our peach is the most beautiful fucking person on this goddamn planet, I forget how to breathe when they’re around. I can’t remember the last time someone took the air from my lungs like that, the last time I felt comfortable just existing.” Eddie rambled, his hands gesticulating wildly as he divulged his feelings. He was so wrapped up in his confession that he completely missed hearing your footsteps hurriedly walking over as to not miss anything, he missed the way they came to an abrupt stop as he called you beautiful, he missed the sound of your heartbeat that felt like it was in your ears at this point…

“So why don’t you go for it, man?” Steve inquired, prodding further into something that was simultaneously none of his business at all and absolutely his business. He couldn’t stand seeing two of his best friends miserable without each other.

“Because,” Was the pathetic answer that slipped past the plush lips of the older man, “Ruining our friendship would ruin me. No more feeling like I belong somewhere with someone just as strange as I am. Nobody that- man this is going to sound pathetic but fuck, Peach is just a breath of fresh air, they’re the highly anticipated crisp fall air that the end of summer brings, and they’re the beautiful turn of the season, bringing something different and new but so welcome. They’re - fuck Steve - they’re my heart, my soul, the very breath in my lungs, and christ even having the chance to share a space with ‘em is more than I could ever ask for, more than I deserve.” He sighs out. It’s then when you decide to make yourself known by clearing your throat gently.

“Uh, hey uh, I think Robin is here.” And with that, Eddie wishes the world would swallow him whole.

Throughout the movie you’re sat next to the metal head, squished onto the worn brown couch, Steve and Robin smushed together on the other end of it. This would have been a comfortable arrangement had it not been for what you’d overheard, though the issue wasn’t that it was uncomfortable, no, it was too comfortable. He smelled earthy with hints of smoke, his cologne overtook your senses and sent shivers down your spine, each vertebrae resonating at a seemingly different frequency, and soon the warmth spread to your chest. You shifted in your seat, thighs rubbing against Eddie’s strong ones as you tried to adjust your position. Giving up, you slung your legs across the metalhead’s thighs, training your eyes to his face as you did so. It didn’t escape you that his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his nerves down. On his end, it was like swallowing nails, he couldn’t think and it was borderline painful what you were doing to him - how you could be so unaware was beyond him, and yet he tried to play into it, to be as normal as possible. His hand found your knee and he started drawing lazy little circles, something that he would often do to calm his anxieties - it was a reprieve of sorts to get lost in swirls and patterns - sometimes if he ended up lazily drawing them out in class he’d use them as dungeon layouts.

Whatever god Eddie had angered was not a forgiving one for as soon as he did that, you scooted yourself further up, leaning your body into his, gently resting your hand on his chest. You could feel his heart rate quicken with your delicate touch and it only got worse as you started tracing little patterns in turn. A heat crept up his chest and crawled its way up his neck, resting itself on the apples of his cheeks. The perfect shade for him, he should wear that colour more, you thought to yourself. Even in the dark glow of the TV screen, it was quite the discernable difference to his usual pale complexion and it looked good.

The more Eddie shifted under your touch, the worse his fate became and eventually it came to a point where the rebellious Dungeon Master genuinely thought that maybe it was the devil doing his bidding and in place of God because what god would allow you to shift your legs enough to press into his tented jeans. The man hissed and firmly gripped your knee, pushing your legs slightly further down his thigh. He prayed to Satan, God, Beelzebub, anyone who would listen really, that you didn’t notice the effect you had on him, but you had. In fact you had been intentionally teasing the man all night long, hoping to get enough of a rise from him to completely break him, to have him snap and make a move — what you hadn’t accounted for was how resilient he was.

As the night went on, you pushed the boundaries further until you managed to tangle a hand in his hair, your legs draped across his lap - you were practically buried in his side as if it were a little nest made perfectly for you. Eventually you shifted, tucking your legs under you but you remained pressed into the curly haired man, head finding a resting place on his shoulder, and your hand on his upper thigh. Occasionally you would shoot a glance towards Steve and Robin, the two were deeply engrossed in whatever was going on on the screen - the movie meant little to nothing to you given the positions you were putting yourself in. As you turned your head slightly to watch what their eyes were trained on, the scene shifted to something akin to a physically intimate moment between the actors - the scene sparking something in you.

With a slight tilt of your chin your lips brushed Eddie’s jugular and this time you felt the shivers run down his spine causing him to shift in his seat, which in turn made the fact that your hand was on his thigh so much worse. All in all, there was no winning for Eddie Munson, not in this regard at least but he would end up winning something, he just doesn’t know it yet. His eyes screwed themselves shut tightly and his breathing quickened yet he made no attempt to move.

About half an hour after the end of the movie, Steve and Robin left, citing off having work in the morning as their excuses, they left with little waves goodbye and bickering about which actress was hottest, making no comments about the position you and Eddie wound up in, and if they did notice, they had only given each other a small but knowing look, choosing to continue on instead of commenting on the obvious. It was not really anybody’s business but your own and soon you were going to have to address it. A beat of silence passed, the brown haired boy closing his eyes and tilting his head back so it hit the back of the couch. A jagged breath escaped past his lips and you caught on his in time, breaking the stagnant silence between the two of you.

“Hey Eds?” You cooed out, slithering off of his lap, trying to be discreet about what you were doing. You couldn’t have him tipped off and finding out about the plan you concocted. You watched his features intently, the way he swallowed the lump in his throat, the constricted hum that his vocal chords produced - the only sound he trusted himself with at the moment. Your hands found the insides of his thighs and you felt him stiffen under you as you slotted yourself between his legs, knees surely getting a carpet burn.

“I think you’re also the most beautiful person, I think you’re the fiery orange sunset that lights up the sky so brightly that you can’t help but watch, stare, and take it all in. If I’m the crisp autumn air, you’re the falling leaves, beautiful and underappreciated. You’re fleeting to most people’s lives in the same sense but I’d stay there if I could, if I’m so lucky as to be offered a place there. You’re my heart, my soul, the passion that lights a fire from under me.” This time his eyes snap open and he looks at you, lips parted, bitten and bloody from holding himself back all night. “And Eddie, I know you’re afraid of ruining our friendship, but how about I ruin it instead?” You breathe over his hips. “Let me take your breath away, for real this time, yeah?” You boldly decided to kiss the inside of his thigh, eyes trained on his face. If you weren’t just the prettiest thing, looking at him up through your eyelashes. His brain short circuit, acting like an overheated motherboard and his mouth ran dry as if he’d swallowed a kilo of sand all at once.

“I- y-yeah? Yeah…” He breathed out, licking his lips as he tried to answer you. He couldn’t believe you were reciting what he’d admit to Steve right back to him, maybe there was a god, maybe it was in fact the devil himself sent to tempt him in sin, maybe it was just everything he’s ever wished for and he was not about to let it slip away from him. A shaking hand raked itself through his hair, his other one reaching for your hand. This wasn’t real, was it?

You took his approval as a signal to keep kissing up his thigh, only confirming to him that this was in fact very real. You smooth your hands over the expanse of his thighs, kissing closer and closer to the tent in his jeans. Low whines releasing themselves from the back of his throat, and out into the open air for you to take pleasure in. You walked your fingers up to his bulge and carefully, delicately even, splayed your hand across it, gentle squeezing.

“All this for me?” You acted surprised, eyes trained on the denim.

“Y-yeah, sweetheart, all for you.” His rattled breath made its way to your ears, a hum of admiration releasing itself from the back of your throat. “Let me help you.” He cooed out, an ounce of confidence making its way back to the man. With that he elected to lift his hips as he undid the fly of his jeans, being careful to unbutton them first, and then drag them down his thighs. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen Eddie in boxers, but it was certainly the first time you'd seen him in such loose and thin black material, cock straining against the cage of fabric, begging to be taken care of with careful hands — and lips. You couldn’t help but salivate at his size, it wasn’t what you’d imagined with your hands between your thighs in the middle of the night, no, it exceeded that expectation.

“Oh, fuck.” You groan,bringing your mouth to hover over him, hot breath fanning his clothed member.

“Please don’t tease, sweetheart, you’re killing me here.” He lets out. It’s all you need to press your lips to him, mouthing at him. Your nose was slotted perfectly against his belly, open mouth trailing up to suck his tip through his boxers, saliva leaving a wet spot on his boxers. He hissed in satisfaction, his hands coming to tangle themselves in your hair, tugging gently. His choice of movement brought out a moan you didn’t even realise you were holding in but you were more than happy to let it escape, especially when Eddie’s reaction was to tug your hair a little harder, forcing you closer to his aching cock. You take advantage of the sudden movement and lick a stripe through the fabric before pulling back, hand trailing up, giving his balls a gentle squeeze before slithering your hand into his underwear. The skin to skin contact had the Dungeon Master hissing from pleasure, and the low sound of breath filtering through his teeth turned into a groan, much like the one you’d heard him make earlier. It was sweeter pulling them out of him yourself, a sense of accomplishment flooding you.

“You’re going to be good for me, yeah Eds?” You purred before doing the filthiest thing he could have possibly imagined you doing, As you pulled his aching cock from his boxers, you spit on him, using your hand to spread your spit.

“Oh fuck.” He choked out upon seeing that. He’d be a liar to say he didn’t imagine this before, to say that he didn’t think of your lips wrapped around his swollen head while you used your spit covered hand to jerk him off, but somehow this was so much filthier. “I’ll be so good for you, sweetheart.” His head hit the back of the couch once again, breathing getting heavier, deeper, his whole body becoming unbearably hot. You were in no better of a position. Sweat started to build on your forehead and you had barely touched the man before you, and if you were to bet on anything it would be that the heat you were feeling in between your thighs was a good indicator to how wet you were getting just from this sight alone.

Before long you decided to quit your slow teasing, licking your lips before sinking your warm mouth onto his length. You started by swirling your tongue along the mushroom head of his cock before flicking it over his frenulum, eliciting the most pornographic moan you have ever heard.

“Oh fuck, right there, sweetheart.” He cried out and so you repeated the calculated flick of your tongue before you circled it over his head, paying extra attention to his slit. He was leaking salty precum at this point, seeing stars that you had in fact hung in his vision. Without warning you hollow your cheeks before sinking your mouth completely onto his cock, taking it as deep as your throat would allow - his tip hitting the very back of your palette and yet you managed not to gag. You were convinced that the moans Eddie was releasing were enough to make angels sin - it was unlike anything you’d heard before and god you wished you could keep them bottled up. “God fuck, please don’t stop.” His encouragement egged you on, kept you wanting, no, needing to show him how good you could be to him.

You took him down your throat once again, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed your head up and down his length, employing your tongue to flick across his head every time you came up. After a minute or so, you added your right hand, saliva dripping down it and onto his balls while your left hand decided to shoot down between your legs. You rocked yourself against it trying to chase your own high, your own impending orgasm, but you knew you wouldn’t get there off of just this.

Your train of thought got cut off by the buck of Eddie’s hips, apologies tumbling from his lips between pained swears of pleasure yet you keep going, taking it like a champ. His cock was reactive to what you were doing, getting harder and angrily leaking and every time you’d feel any ounce of precum drip from him, you lapped it up like it was your last meal on death row - so eager to taste him, so have him, to swallow every last bit of what he had to offer and for all Eddie knew you were eagerly sucking his soul out of his cock. He was on cloud nine with the way your warm mouth felt around his thick member.

You let your mouth pop off of him with a POP, a lust-drunk smile painted onto your lips as you sped up your hand movements, jerking the metal head’s cock faster and faster, pace picking up to get him as close to the end of the finish line as possible.

“Fucking - Jesus- Christ!” He cried out.

“You’re doing so good for me, babe, come on, please, I wanna taste you. Would you let me taste you, Eds?” You practically begged him, nearly sending him over the edge. You watched his muscles twitch before you sank your warm lips over his head,taking him only halfway into your mouth while your hand worked a steady pace on the other half of his cock.

“Jesus, can’t say shit like that, sweetheart. I’m- I can’t- I’m so close.” He babbled out. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t…” Before either of you could process what was happening, he shot down your throat which you happily swallowed down. You waited to make sure that he was completely spent before you pulled off of him, licking the remaining cum off your lips before daring to look up at him through your love drunk haze. Much like you, his chest was heaving and his eyes were glazed over in both lust and love, his lips swollen and pink as if he were biting them in order to hold himself back.

“You okay?” He uttered out quietly, tucking himself back in before sinking to the floor in order to be eye level with you. Being this close allowed you both to see how blown your pupils were, his irises nearly completely disappeared in his cloudy haze.

“Yeah, Eds, I am.” A lazy smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Are you?”

“Never better, Peach.” He returned your smile, dimples pronouncing themselves infinitely more than they had been earlier.

“I love your smile, Eddie. And your silly dimples. I never want them to go away.” You admit drunkenly.

“They won’t so long as you’re by my side.” His eyes shifted away from you for a second, tongue darting out to lick his lips in careful consideration of what he was about to say to you. “I think maybe we should ruin our friendship.” He concludes. “Maybe we’d make better lovers.” His eyes flick up to read your expression carefully.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.” You respond in a timid tone, soft, full of love. It’s an almost bashful sounding confirmation, something you’d been waiting to hear for a long time, and yet it felt new, it made you feel giddy, and it certainly didn’t help that you had only riled yourself up without being able to chase any relief.

“Mmm,” Eddie hummed before cupping your cheek. “Then how about we take this to the bedroom and we Christen this relationship in the most devilish way I know?” His touch is tender and as he leans into you, his lips brush against yours, gentle as a butterfly's wings. You can barely get a nod out before he’s helping you up and dragging you to his bedroom in order to find himself in his most dedicated place of worship for the night; slotted between your thighs.

—

a/n: Hopefully this is somewhat what you were looking for, Bug! It was so much fun to write and I got way too engrossed in it. I also realise I haven’t written smut in like 700 years so hopefully this is a good warmup.

Thank you, angel @munson-blurbs for requesting this little guy 🖤

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #eddie x reader #reader insert #requests #smut #best friend!eddie

384 notes · View notes

sunshinebuckybarnes · 2 years ago

Text

It's gonna be May 🩷 we made it through April babies! Here's every glorious thing I read in April. Please make sure you give these gorgeous stories and writers the love they deserve. As always, you are responsible for your own media consumption. This blog along with the majority tagged are 18+ only and contain adult themes.

Happy reading 🩷🌷

Bucky Barnes ✨

Though I have never read it by @tuiccim

Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Her by @avecra

bucky barnes x reader

Sweet temptation by @jobean12-blog

Bucky Barnes x reader (Mob AU)

Thick as blood / punch in the gut by @dreamlessinparis

Dark!Bucky x Darkish!F!Reader

Say the word and it's yours by @angrythingstarlight

Mafia!Bucky x Reader

Cordially invited by @navybrat817

Modern Knight!Bucky Barnes x Princess!Female Reader

Grandeur by @navybrat817

Florist!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Crossing the line by @jadedvibes

Beefy!Bucky x reader

Give it to me by @flordeamatista

dilf!neighbor bucky barnes x reader

Dirty rock by @jobean12-blog

Bucky Barnes x reader (Rockstar!AU)

Send me an angel by @navybrat817

Soft Dark Bartender!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Hide and seek by @targaryenvampireslayer

Bucky Barnes x female reader

You are my burning love on nights like these by @flordeamatista

knight!Bucky Barnes x Princess!Fem!Reader

Headstrong by @flordeamatista

beefy!bucky barnes x reader

The kiss by @lunarbuck

professor!bucky x f!reader (any race)

Namor ✨

Waves of love by @flordeamatista

Namor x reader

Ari Levinson ✨

Flamingo king by @onsunnyside

Trailer Park!Ari Levinson x inexperienced!reader

Biker!Ari by @angrythingstarlight

Biker!Ari x Reader

Excelled by @syntheticavenger

Dom! Ari Levinson x Female Reader

Steve Rogers ✨

Pretty flowers for a pretty girl by @witchywithwhiskey

farmer!steve rogers x reader

His inheritance by @jtargaryen18

Mobster Steve Rogers x Mobster daughter reader

Eddie Munson ✨

Magic fingers by @jobean12-blog

Eddie Munson x reader

Andy Barber ✨

Sleepy sex by @worksby-d

Andy Barber x fem!Reader

Hold my heart by @flordeamatista

boyfriend!andy barber x reader

Joel Miller ✨

Sweet, sweet sugar by @unrefinedmusings

no outbreak!joel miller x f!reader

Perfectly wrong by @psychedelic-ink

joel miller x fem!reader

Lloyd Hansen ✨

Gratitude by @kinanabinks

Lloyd Hansen x Mayor!Reader

Multiple characters ✨

Wicked little games by @angrythingstarlight

Mafia Steve x Bratty Reader, Bodyguard Bucky x Reader x Bodyguard Andy

Peepshow by @labella420

Ari Levinson x F!Reader, Lloyd Hansen x F!Reader

Let us take care of you by @angrythingstarlight

Mafia Stucky x Assistant Reader

#fic rec #april fic rec #bucky barnes #namor #ari levinson #steve rogers #eddie munson #andy barber #joel miller #lloyd hansen

176 notes · View notes

deadboyfriendd · 2 years ago

Text

Cochise l: Nellie

Summary: A dark stranger blows into town, bringing Hell with him. Little did he know, Hell was already here, in the form of you. The air here is stale and the residents stagnant. This town was as wild as the west was able, and you are the most wild thing about it.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, wet dream, smut included, feminine rage embodied and I gave her a gun

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.4k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading!

Find the series masterlist here!

When the dust blew in from the East, Hell came with it.

And Hell hath no fury like a woman’s reproach.

1890. From the ashes of the Civil War rose a phoenix of economic expansion and spurs the great migration west. Farmers, ranchers, prospectors, killers and thieves seek their fortunes. Cattle drovers turned cow towns into armed camps with murder-rates higher than those of modern-day New York or Los Angeles. Silver is discovered in Arizona, and the prospectors dragged their young wives and their Parisian fashions with them. Siphoned together out of greed, hundreds of Texas outlaws banded together to forge a new way forward, resulting in the birth of early organized crime.

Out of this chaos came the great legendary lawmen, and none as mean as you.

The air was stale this time of year, heavy enough to flatten a lizard, when the turn of the season brought the green back to the ironwoods and the snakes back from their hides. When it brought the heat back with a haughty laughter and a heart full of vengeance. The sun cast down a glare that warped the mirage of the desert backdrop of Cochise County, turning from a comforting radiation to a wasp sting when the night turned. The cereus blossom fragrant with rot that filled the stagnant night air and its timely beauty– and ultimate untimely death.

He reaped a certain morosity with him, spurs scraping across the floor like a toll, steps sure as snow in the northern country– as they dragged the dust from his heels eastward. His skin was of alabaster, and his clothes of obsidian. He was not from here, and it drew a shudder from the mesquite doors upon their sun-dried hinges. The dirty faces of prospectors, drunks, and cattle drovers turning to peer at him under sweat-laden brows.

The Whispering Sands was not the ritzy bar, no, that was the bar located in the lobby of the Grand Hotel up the holler. No, Your dealer was as straight as a Christmastime wreath, your doors hung as crooked as your dealer, and if you didn’t carry when you walked through, you had spares. There would be no clean men and women with their Parisian dresses and costly hat pins occupying this place. This was the lowest of the low.

He peers at you from under the brim of a coal-stained, honest-to-God gunslinger wool Stetson, lined with the hammered silver and turquoise-inlaid band. It laid flat across the top and around the brim. You hadn’t seen one like it since your wedding night on the ritzy hardwood grounds of the Grand Hotel herself. He takes a seat in a singular fell swoop, frock coat flaring outwards and casting a soft breeze over your presence. Single-breasted, large notch lapels. Beneath it, his dark pinstripe trousers folded under the weight of his body, the silver brocade vest above the black cravat remaining stiff. From where your eye connected with him, you could see the nickel plating of a Colt 1873 single action revolver, sheathed under the oiled ellipse of the leather-bound shoulder holster. It was apparent he wasn’t here to push cattle.

It was a fleeting gaze, the kind that rattle each of your vertebra and settled in your coccyx. A single golden curl slipped over a broad shoulder and swung heavy in the tension between your two bodies.

There was a resonant patriarchal tenor that buzzed amongst the patrons in this space, tense on the outcome and flat-lining in deliverance. They tried to avert wandering gazes from this new resident— strung together words in staccato, interrupted by morbid curiosity and on-looking eyes. Michael Doten– amicably monickered “Mudsill”, shattered this hum like china. He was a worm of a man, slimy in all of the worst ways, and, on this day in particular, aptly under the impression of laudanum and drink. He shared these sympathies with his own father– a man no more than fifteen years his senior.

He slinked through the door with the demeanor of an old tom-cat, crooked in stride and greasy to the touch— not that you could fathom anyone wanting to touch him at all. He demanded a house whiskey with a slovenly belch– a concoction made from your own sarsaparilla, burnt raw sugar, and chewing tobacco.

“Michael, I’d say you’ve about had enough today.” You chided, firm in your answer. The stranger peered a doting gaze towards you, then turned it toward ‘Ol Mudsill from a downturned hat– wistful in demeanor and daring in residence. He watched as Michael cast a thumb of brown saliva onto your floor, intentionally ignoring the existence of the spitoon a mere few feet from it.

He sneered towards you through leather-laden eyelids, a protuberance straight from the aforementioned spittoon, and filled with piss and vinegar, “Now,” He started, “ – if I wanted an old bitch telling me what I can and can’t drink, I would have considered marrying.” It was a slimy statement with a profound lack of remorse. It dripped from the gaps of his rotting teeth like a tar.

“I wouldn’t marry you, even if I was fixin’ to face death herself.” It wasn’t the first time you had denied him a drink, nor was it the first time he had spoken ill toward you. You doubted it would also be the last. You were a harum-scarum, devil-may-care woman, tough as nails and pretty as a mink stole.

“You don’t listen too good, now do you?” Mudsill spit back, standing now. Your fingers grazed the pearl handles of the Remington Model 1890 tucked away in the fold of your dresses. You hoped to God you didn’t have to use it.

Before ‘Ol Mudsill could think of something to say back, the dark stranger stood, “That’s no way to talk to a lady.”

“Is that a fact?” Mudsill raises a wiry brow towards the man, standing erect in front of him.

“Yeah, that’s a fact.” He said back, quietly. It was a discerning quiet, the kind where you figure trouble might be brewing.

“Well, for a man that don’t go heels, you run your mouth kinda reckless there, don’t ‘ya?” The stranger said, standing a little more erect– like he was fixing for trouble, though, by the context of the rest of the conversation, you’d say trouble had already been brewing. Now, you waited for the pot to boil over, “No need to go heel to get the bulge on a tub like you, huh?”

Mudsill glared toward him though tight lids, a reckless abandon only a drunk could possess, “Is that a fact?”

“That’s a fact.”

“Well, I’m ‘real scared.” Musill replied with a bobbling nod of his head, reaching for the firearm tucked away behind his waistband.

“Damn right, you’re scared. I can see that in your eyes.” The stranger followed the movement of his hand momentarily, eyes settling over the worn wood of the stock before meeting back up with his eyes, “Yeah, go ahead, skin it. Skin that smoke-wagon and see what happens.”

“Listen Mister, I’m gettin’ awful tired of you–” He was cut off, the stranger landing a stinging, open-palmed blow to his face.

“I’m gettin’ tired of your gas, now jerk that pistol and go to work.” Mudsill stared back, stunned. Frozen like a scared lizard. Another blow. “I said throw down, boy.” A third blow landed across his cheek, harder this time. You could see where the blood filled his mouth and covered his teeth. “You gonna do something or just stand there and bleed?”

“No?” The stranger raised an eyebrow, reaching upwards to put a forceful hand on mudsill’s shoulder, “Now, come on, Junior.”

The wire snapped behind ‘Ol Mudsill’s eyes, and with a sleight of hand, he reached for the worn pistol tucked into his overcoat. The dark stranger was fast, but you were faster. The pearl grips cold and smooth against the sweat of your palms. Quickly and in one motion, you stepped out from the bar, hand forced steady only in fear alone.

“You’re bluffing.” Michael sneered towards you, taking a step forward, closer to you with the barrel now in your direction. It was enough for the stranger to bear his arms as well, though, he wouldn’t need them today. The barrel met Michael’s forehead.

“I don’t bluff.” Your thumb met the hammer, pulling it back enough for a deafening swell click, “Now your family may be back to rush me, but that won’t stop me from blowing a canoe through your head first, y’hear?”

His eyes widened, and he pulled the barrel back from you, finger leaving the sheath of the trigger and thumb only staying tucked around the grip enough to keep it held.

“Don’t come back here. Ever.” You ordered, and he nodded slightly.

“Yes’m”

The stranger spoke then, pistol still planted firmly against the back of the offender, “And you’re gonna drop that weapon right here, Michael.” He ordered.

The worn colt clattered against the floor as he tossed it from his waist-height to the ground. The stranger took this as the opportunity to grab Michael by the collar and drag him out the front doors like a calf. You could see the durst stir from outside, but didn’t sense a further commotion. You sat idly in one of your stools, letting free an exasperated sigh as you threw your head down against the bar. You didn’t sign up for this when you found yourself out west.

You felt the stock of a pistol press into the meat of your upper arm, “Here. Keepsake. Hang it over the bar, Nellie.” The stranger spoke back to you, sliding the firearm across the worn mesquite bar top.

You raised a brow at him, more at the moniker, but also at his enthusiasm, “Nellie?”

“I had a horse like you once,” He released a breathy laugh between his words, maybe more nervous at the fact that he was comparing you to a horse, “ —even after she broke she was meaner than hell, but prettier than a mink stole. It’s a pleasure, Mrs–”

He thought it was foolish, comparing you to that mean old mare, but he didn’t have time to dote on it before you stopped him mid-sentence.

“Ms.” You corrected.

He couldn’t help the way his eyes flitted down to the ring on your finger, a single thin gold band that he dwelled on for just long enough for you to notice the cogs attempting to turn in his head.

“Dead.” You clarified, and he felt his heart contract as the word left your lips.

“Sorry to hear that.” He dips his head low, only now taking off the Stetson to greet you properly, “Name’s Munson. Edward Munson.”

You shook your head, forcing that still-bruising ache away to push a smile, “Ain’t no changin’, may God have willed it, Mr. Munson.”

He matched your smile, handsome cheeks creasing deeply around the curvature of his mouth, “Just Edward will do, ma’am.”

You pulled open the humidor, nimble fingers gracing along the stack of cigars beneath its lid. You chose the one with the cleanest-looking wrapping, one that looked sufficient enough as a thank-you, before offering it to him. He took it with a nod of his head, thick fingers wrapping around the base gently before pulling the kerosene vase near him. You watched the smoke roll from between his lips in a vapid crescendo, all too graceful and all too beautiful.

“I take it you're not a prospector?” You questioned him gently, voice sure, yet smaller than his resonating alto.

He laughed softly, the kind that heaves itself from the chest. Hearty, “No ma'am.”

“Then how does someone like you find yourself in a place like this?” You leaned an elbow on the bar, chin resting firmly in the warmth of your palm. You tried to ignore the sweat building between the flesh.

He looked down at the cigar between his fingers, twirling it around and feeling the paper it was rolled in, “Well I find I could ask you the same thing–”

The bell above the door was shrill in the staleness of the air, the resonance of the prior entanglement floating back up in a cloud in an attempt to re-settle over the old furniture like silt. The man that waded through its wake was tall, but not gangly, no, he did not share the demeanor of a scarecrow. He looked like he meant business.

You pulled your attention away from Edward for a brief moment, your eyes tearing from his personage and settling over the familiar face, “Hello, Sheriff.”

“Hello, ma’am.” The sheriff tipped his hat towards you in greeting, peering briefly at the man sat at the bar in front of you, “‘Ol Mudsill seems pretty shaken up, did somethin’ happen again?”

“Nothin that Edward here couldn’t handle.” You watched as his eyes flicked back and forth between you and Edward, like he was trying to piece a puzzle together but there were too many missing pieces, “Sheriff, this is Edward Munson, just unloaded from the train in Tucson.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He reached a broad hand out to meet with the sheriff’s.

He accepted the offer, hands locked together in a firm grip, “Steve Harrington.”

“Pleasure.” Edward mentioned, politely.

“You have a place to stay, Edward?” He asked, hand still interlocked with his for a brief moment.

“Not as of yet. Know of anyone housing?”

“I’d say the Grand Hotel just across the way.”

The walk to the other side of the road is brief, but the sun beat down against Eddie’s back like a brand– the eyes that followed his movement, the hands that held the iron. The dust kicked up behind him and collected at the bases of his boots seemed to slow his stride as he sunk into its softness. He would have to have them polished tomorrow.

Steve turned to him, boots casting a hollow thud as they stepped up onto the decking of The Grand Hotel, “I am inclined to ask, what exactly happened back there?”

Eddie cleared his throat, righting himself, “Just some drunk. Got all riled up when she wouldn’t serve him and started waving his gun around.”

Steve shook his head, removing his hat to run a finger through the hair beneath it, sand ripplying against his scalp beneath his finger, “Christ, well, thank you for handling that for her. She’s been through too much this year.”

“She dealt with that right on her own, sheriff, the only part I took part in was getting him out.”

Their boots made a clunk against the sun-rotted wood on the staircase of The Grand Hotel, stairs creaking in affliction. There was a moment of silence between the two men, tense and fleeting, like there was still something to be said.

“Her husband died last spring.” Steve finally mentioned, understanding that it wasn’t his place to tell.

“She mentioned it.” Steve felt a relief at him knowing. He didn’t want to be the one to have to bear the shock of the statement.

He sighed before continuing, “Shot and killed on that bar floor. ‘Couple of bandoleros robbing the place.”

“Chist–- She seemed capable.” Eddie mentioned to him, raking his hair back under his hat. He felt the sweat bead around where the band met his skin.

“But still, no woman should ever have to bury her husband.” The sheriff said, reaching up to place nimble hands on his hips, “‘Specially not that young.”

The Grand Hotel is the essence of luxury in the west. Well, as luxurious as they could ship by train. Mahogany covered the expanse of the palace in a grandeur scale, only being broken by the pin-striped wallpaper covering the upper half of the wayne-scotted wall on the second floor. The taxidermied elk that hung above the bartop was shipped from the northern country, as were many of the axis and whitetail deer that hung on other walls.

This seemed to be the only place in this town that a fine layer of dust hadn’t settled over.

The velveteen nature of the drapery that hung over the stage to the left in a heavy abismality had remained nearly untouched by the traces of the desert around it. The gold of the drawstrings that held them back still contained the luster under the light.

He couldn’t help but to search for you in the madness of coiled, unabashedly tentative curls piled on the heads of the women in the large bustles that scraped between tables and each other. You looked like you belonged here, but he knew where you would be.

This night’s show had ended already, the lingering patrons also taking residence within the palace. The backing curtain drawn to a close and the actors retired to their quarters. Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, overrun, overplayed. Edward thought about it. Of all the things in the world to know, why learn The Devil’s craft? He figured if it was the only thing left to know, he’d probably learn it, too.

There is a man of about five foot, ten inches sat at the bar, elbows rested against the glossy finish of the bartop. He is a burly man, Eddie can see that even from his sitting position. Steve guides Eddie towards him, taking his own seat next to him. Eddie stayed standing.

He looks back behind him, Steve muttering a few words that Eddie couldn't seem to hear over the drabble of lobby patrons, “Milt. County Marshall.”

He sticks a rough hand out, and Eddie takes it in a firm clasp.

“Edward Munson.” He shakes his hand once, Milt was a man of few words.

Steve buys Eddie a drink. A golden bourbon, not watered down like many of the bars out west did for reserve. Real golden bourbon. An import. A thanks.

They settled on a less-occupied corner of the palace, one that lacked faro tables and drunk patrons. On the opposite side of the baby grande that played anything its player knew how.

“Her husband was a good man.” Steve said between sips, sweat dripping down the crystalline glass like glitter, “Too good if you’d ask me. It’s what got him killed in the first place.”

He felt the pang in his chest, a tightening of muscles like tears, “It’s a shame. Pretty woman like that having to run that place by her lonesome.”

Steve chucked a bit in agreement, looking back over his shoulder like you would somehow appear, “That isn’t by our choice. She could have her pick if she wanted it.” He took another sip of his drink, and Eddie knew he was right. You were pretty, sullen skin like satin, hair like ribbon. He’d pay all of the money in his pocket just to touch.

“She doesn’t?” Eddie questioned, looking over to meet Steve’s eyes.

“I’d reckon not.”

He tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the piano. He watched the woman sat on top, the way the lace of her undergowns flowed upwards with the swing of her ankles. He watched the man play with skilled– albeit drunk– fingers.

This place was lively, perhaps a little too lively for the hour. People still yelling obscenities and praises over faro, ice in glasses. He felt the sweat from the glass beneath his fingers, and it matched the band of it building beneath his cap. His collar felt tight, like someone had been pulling it from the back. Shouldn’t it have gotten cooler when the sun went down?

“I’d reckon I’d better turn in for the night.” He said suddenly, placing the glass down on the bar in front of him, about a milliliter of fluid left watered-down and pooling at the bottom.

He ascended the mahogany staircase to his quarters, where he would retire for the night. However, as he stripped himself of his frock coat and underclothes, he couldn’t help to peer towards the luminescent glow coming from The Whispering Sands upper floor across the bend.

The curtains billowed outwards towards the street below, casting a light over the sand beneath it like a halo. White linen backlit by yellow butane lighting. And there you sat, all woman. He’d have half a mind to buy you some night clothes, and the other half a mind to burn them if you even had them.

He watched the way your skin rippled at your lower back as your bare skin pressed against your vanity stool, and the way your skin stretched over your shoulder blades as you pulled your hair to the side, raking through it with the brush in front of you. Your lips fell into a supple pout in concentration, and your lashes kissed your cheeks as you looked down. He could feel the windowsill digging into his palms, it grounded him– kept him from free-floating into the stagnant desert air.

The Grand Hotel is a loud place, and it never sleeps. The faro games did not stop on his account, and he didn’t expect them to. He closes his eyes, a glass breaks. A fight breaks out downstairs in a triad of commotion, shuffling, and yelling. This was the first time he had been in a bed in days, yet, it felt horrendously unceremonious. Sleep would not evade him in the way he willed it.

The flooring creaked, drunk patrons hit the wall outside of his quarters with intense, muffled thuds. Two people in the suit next to him were clearly of relation. He tried to ignore the way the oak headboard creaked and hit the wall in a rhythmic fashion. He tried his hardest not to think of you.

This place did not sleep, and he knew he wouldn’t either. So instead, Edward collected his hat and gun, pulling his trousers back on and lazily doing his shirt back up.

The night air had cooled some, less blistering than when the sun was out, yet it remained stale. He walked a bit, eyes still shimmering with the adjustment of light from the palace to the stark darkness of the desert. Light traveled a lot further here, darkness even further. The hum of the palace dimmed as the distance between them grew, air heavy like a barrier that stopped the noise from traveling.

He settled himself in the soft sand beneath him, back planted firmly against the knotty base of that twisted old ironwood. Someone else still awake at this unholy hour plucked delicately at old piano keys– these ones slightly more out of tune and reverberated off of the walls with a static hum that resonated through the otherwise empty streets. Sleep evaded in a thankless percussion.

And there you were.

He allowed his fingers to trail over the delicate expanse of your shoulder, brushing soft curls over its bridge. Soft presses of his mouth trailed from your year to the valley of your clavicle. He pressed your gowns down your shoulder as he went, the loose garment sliding off with ease.

In your glorious, supple nature. All woman all the time. Your hands, nimble and soft, were forceful against his chest as you pushed him back against plush white linens. Fingers as sure as death and as right as rain. The haze from the butane lamp cast a glow around you, baby hairs illuminating around your head like a halo.

Slowly now, but with an urgency, you right yourself in between his knees, undoing the buttons of his shirt in a way that made him want to beg just to feel a finger brush against his skin. He whined as he watched you with wide eyes.

His buckle made impressions on the inside of your thigh, a welcome breeze blew through the open window, gracing the overlaying flesh in a ritual of human intimacy. Songs of “Oh- Gods” and small giggles creating perfect songs- a gathering drum backing and an underlying hum of the desert around you. You could feel his hands on your back, fingers his fingers unwrapping you from linen bed sheet confines and introducing you to your own bedroom like an heirloom– a home in which you yourself haunted. The palms of your hands feeling the smooth surface of stone beneath the skin, and the dewey droplets from his own flesh dampened them with a waxy residue.

His fingers pressed firmly into the plush of your outer thighs, and your skin was soft. Calves skin, another import. Too soft for this place. Too soft for this sadness.

“So soft.” He whispered, voice a tenor to its usual pitch.

He watched where your bodies connected, the way you slid up and down on him, the way his fingers rippled your skin where they dug in, the gyration of your hips. Your hair is down this time, braid long since combed through, and the ends of it tickle as they brush against him.

“God, Nellie.” He isn’t particularly introspective or anything, but he does know that he’ll never feel something like this again.

Your tender touch a velvety petal trailed down the expanse of his chest where it heaves, nothing left to impede your touch. No overcoats, no holster or gun. Your hands like the claws of the bobcat pawing into the sand where his heart lay in an unmarked grave.

“Edward,” You whispered against the shell of his ear, his hands pressing the center of your back to bring you close against your chest. It was a plea. It read like a prayer. “Take me, please.”

His upward thrust slowed from long, meaningful bass crescendos to harsh uneven staccatos. Your breaths became erratic in nature to match. Your release washed over you like a storm, rolling and violent and all at once. His own followed suit.

Edward realized then that this was how the west would be won. If it wasn’t, he’d wage the war himself.

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson oneshot #stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie munson smut #eddie x reader #eddie x y/n #eddie x you #Spotify #outlaw!eddie #cowboy!eddie

184 notes · View notes

dreamer-snail · 3 years ago

Text

Possible Eddie Munson x fem-farmer!reader fic???

Hey there. So, like, Stranger Things season 4 was really good . . . and I’ve decided to love Eddie Munson . . . and would anyone be interested if I wrote a series (or a one shot or headcannon given my inability to carry out series) with Eddie Munson and a fem!reader? And like, the reader’s dad or guardian figure has a small farm and she helps out with it . . . and she doesn’t have a whole lot of friends since that’s not “normal nuclear family” and ya know fickle popularity stuff in the 80s . . . and she’s seen Eddie around but they’re not close or anything . . . but then she catches him smoking in one of her family’s orchards one night . . and they don’t really know how to react cause they’re ✨dumb ✨ . . . but then he keeps showing up . . . and they get to know each other a little . . . and sometimes the reader makes him help with farm stuff, but he so doesn’t know how and is just super out of his element and cute . . . and he’s squatting down holding grain out to chickens like it’s a little present because that’s the best he can do . . . they still don’t talk much in school, but now more then normal . . . over time, they become closer friends . . . maybe dumb Jason jock stuff . . . but it doesn’t matter cause Eddie and the reader can be themselves and cute and eventually lil kisses and cuddles and other cutie things . . .

So yeah! Let me know if there’s an interest. I definitely would want some interaction with the other kids and characters, but I don’t know if I want it to follow the plot of season 4 like a rewrite. No matter what, I’d probably start a little before season 4 does anyway, but I feel like there’s been a lot of rewrites so maybe something where they just get to be in their little lives and no one has to die or get hurt or go through serious trauma 😊

Anyway, comment or let me know!

Permanent Taglist: @amaranthskies-writes @thetravelingsologuy

Eddie Munson Taglist:

#Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson x fem!reader #Eddie Munson x farmer!reader #Eddie Munson x fem!Farmer!reader #Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson doesn't die #Eddie Munson series #Eddie Munson one shot #Eddie Munson headcannon #Stranger Things #Stranger Things Season 4 #new series

31 notes · View notes

radioactiveparker · 2 years ago

Text

Ride It Hard - Mechanic!Eddie Munson X Fem!Reader (Smut)

Summary - Your car breaks down and an old friend helps you out

Warnings - Strong language / Use of Y/N / Unprotected sex (PiV) / Fingering / Pain kink

Word Count - 6.1K

-----

"Piece of shit!"

Your car sputtered to a stop, smoke starting to plume from the hood. You had ran out of gas about 8 miles back, having made the decision to skip the last gas station just to get home a bit quicker. A decision you now regretted. You had gone to visit your parents in Georgia for a few days and was now making your way back home to Hawkins, Indiana. But alas, here you were, on a long winding road somewhere near Weathertop Hill with no phone to call for help. Truthfully, you weren't too far from home, much too far to walk of course, but if you were lucky, you could wait for someone to drive by and drop you off. Someone nice, you hoped.

With a huff, you shut off your engine and stepped out of the car, trying your best to ignore the chill. It wasn't an ideal time for your car to break down. It was the transition period from summer to autumn. The leaves were falling, the days were starting to get shorter and the air was getting colder. Clouds hung low in the sky, threatening a heavy downpour, and distant thunder rolled nearer. You prayed that someone would drive by before nightfall, or at least before it rained. You slammed the door shut, but not before grabbing your cardigan from the passenger seat. You opened the hood, coughing as you wafted the smoke away with your hands so you could see what you were dealing with. The smoke finally cleared, but it had made no difference. Your knowledge of cars, or rather lack there of, kept your brain fogged as you stared blankly at the car's engine.

With a sigh of discouragement, you slammed the hood shut and tried your best to remember how far of a walk it was to Hess Farm. If you remembered correctly, it was about three and a half miles East. You could walk it, it would only take about an hour, maybe 45 minutes at a push. You could get there quickly, have Farmer Hess call for a tow-truck, and get a ride back home with enough time to have a shower before The Golden Girls started. Yeah, that sounded like a better idea. Who knows how long it would take for another car to drive by.

Clunk.

A single droplet of rain landed right on the hood of your car. You looked to the sky and another landed on your chin. It was cold, you would describe it a refreshing after almost being suffocated by hot car fumes, only it looked like you weren't walking anywhere anytime soon, not unless you wanted to be sick in bed for a week.

All at once, the clouds spat out their droplets, soaking you to the skin almost instantaneously. With a gasp, you quickly rushed to get back into your car and out of the rain. You pulled on the handle, then pulled again, and once more. But it was no use. The door was firmly shut.

With your car keys inside.

"You fucking idiot." You grumbled at yourself, crossing your arms and letting the rain pour over you in defeat.

You guessed you had no choice now but to walk to Hess Farm. You shivered when a strong gust blew over you, washing you in more rain and practically blinding you. Pulling your cardigan closer, although it didn't help much, you started to make your way to the farm. The rain beat down on you in cartoonishly large drops, so strongly it felt more like the flow of a river than a rain shower. It hissed along the road and filled pot holes into miniature rockpools. You took no less than ten paces from your car when you heard it, even over the rain.

Drumming - loud drumming, and then a guitar. It was muffled, barely distinguishable, but you could hear it coming closer and closer. You turned to where it was coming from, just in time to see a van swerve around the corner, much to wild for the weather conditions. But that didn't matter to you right now, there was someone who could help you. You stepped into the middle of the road, waving your arms above your head to get the drivers attention. You breathed a sigh of relief when the van slowed down and pulled up beside you.

The window rolled down and the music lowered. "Long time, no see Stranger."

"Eddie?!"

You knew Eddie from high school. You were friendly to each other and you had even joined his Hellfire Club whenever they needed a sub. But you wouldn't consider yourselves friends, in fact, you didn't know what you were. Or rather, had been. There had been times where you were more than friendly with each other; making out in the back of his van as a thank you when he dropped you off home after Hellfire, or running a hand up your thigh in the school library instead of studying like he had asked in the first place. But that was it, no matter how much you wanted him, it never went further than that. You wished he would've made a move, but maybe he just wasn't interested in you the way you were in him. It felt like it was a whole lot of erotic build up for nothing. You hadn't even exchanged numbers, which is probably why you hadn't seen or spoken to him in the year since leaving school. In all truthfulness you hadn't thought of Eddie much since leaving school, despite the minor crush that you had had on him.

Eddie leaned over to open the passenger door, "Hop in."

"But, my car..."

"I've gotta tow in the back, don't worry. Just get in, I'll sort it."

You gratefully jumped in, cringing when your soaked clothes started seeping into the material of his car seat. You looked at him apologetically, but he just smirked at you before opening his door and jumping out.

"Eddie!"

You could hear him laughing as he moved to open the back of the van. You looked behind you to see him foraging through the jumble to find his tow, positively drenched. There was a quiet "Got'cha" and he pulled out the rope. He made quick work tying it to the towing hitch on his van and then jogging to attach it to your car. He ran back quickly, jumping back into the drivers seat. He made an uncomfortable squish sound as he plopped into his seat, rain dripping from his tight-ringed curls, and running down his leather jacket. You stared at him speechlessly.

"What?" Eddie breathed as he started his van.

"You're crazy." You laughed, shaking your head to yourself and putting your seat belt on, remembering how crazy he could drive.

You thought for sure he would have waited for the rain to die down a bit before going out there. If you remembered what he was like in high school correctly, there was no way he would have ruined his hair like that. Perhaps he had gotten his priorities straight after school? If you were being completely honest, his hair didn't look that bad. Sure, it was lacking in volume and lay flat on his head, but his chocolate coils hung so delicately and product free thanks to the rain - they were naturally beautiful. You watched a drip fall from his fringe. It landed softly on the tip of his nose, steadily running down to his philtrum and pooling on his cupids bow. You watched as he licked it from his lips.

Eddie had felt you staring, but kept his eyes on the road. "So what happened to your car?"

"Ran out of gas." You groaned, sitting back and diverting your eyes to the road too. "I think I might have broken something. My car started smoking when it stopped."

"You drive on an empty tank?"

"Yeah, is that bad?"

"Yeah, you probably damaged your fuel tank."

You turned to him, impressed. Although he could be talking out of his ass and you wouldn't know the difference. "You know about cars?"

"You know the Motorbay Auto Repair shop by Motel 6?"

"Yeah, you work there?"

"Ever since I graduated." He smiled at you, but it was more like a smile of pride for himself.

The majority of Eddie's life he had been told he wasn't going to make it. He would never graduate and he'd be stuck in a dead-end job, and that was if he didn't end up becoming a drifter. You could remember graduation like it was yesterday, maybe because Eddie had made it more memorable for you. You remember how he had almost stumbled up the steps to receive his diploma, the way he had snatched it from Principle Higgins' hands while giving him the middle finger, and how he grabbed your hand after you had both gotten your diplomas and had a celebratory make out in the empty school hallway. You wondered where those days had gone. You hadn't realised how much you had actually missed Eddie until now. It was like how the desert gets used to a rainless sky, but then when it showers over the sand, it craves to thwart the draught.

"I could take a look at it for you, if you'd like?" Eddie continued. "My Uncle Wayne might have some spare parts lying around."

"I don't have any money with me."

"Y/N, do you seriously think I would charge you? Besides, who would I be to take money from a damsel in distress?"

You smiled at him and thanked him for the offer, which you had appreciatively took. Eddie took a left, going the opposite direction to your house and made his way to his. Without thinking, Eddie placed a hand on your thigh, stroking his thumb gently along the fabric of your jeans. You tried not to clench them together, you didn't think he realised how high he had placed his hand. But at the same time, you didn't object. The heat of his palm was nice on your cold and wet thigh in a way that felt familiar. All of those times Eddie had picked you up, or took you back home, he always drove with a hand on your thigh. You used to call him out for it, telling him he had to keep both hands on the wheel, but you didn't this time. The two of you sat in a comfortable silence the rest of the way, with you looking behind every now and then to make sure your car was still attached. The rain had started to soften, not hanging around for long - just enough for the duration of your drive. You could feel the mud mush under the vans wheels as Eddie parked in front of his trailer. He was still living with his uncle, but assessing the missing car out front, he wasn't home. In all fairness, you couldn't judge. If your parents hadn't decided to move out of Hawkins, you would probably still be living with them to. After all, you were still living in your childhood home to this day.

The clouds were spitting out pathetic drops every now and then, but nothing for you to worry about. Not that it mattered, you and Eddie were still soaked. The two of you jumped out of his van, Eddie jogging around to your side to open the door for you like the gentleman he was. You followed him into his trailer, trying not to wince at the feeling of wet clothes stuck to your skin. Eddie quickly ran off, cleaning up bits of clutter along the way, and you took the time to look around. Despite your history, this was the first time you had stepped foot in his trailer. You took your shoes off by the front door, noticing that you were standing on carpet. The trailer was a mess, to put it nicely. You could tell his Uncle had been away for the day; clothes randomly strewn about the place, couch cushions had fallen onto the floor, ripped envelopes and pieces of mail thrown onto the coffee and dining table. But that didn't take away from the cosiness of it all. There was nothing worse to you than going to someone's house and it looking completely lifeless - like no one even lived there. Where you're too scared to touch anything in case it might break, or when everything is perfectly polished and it made you feel grubby. Besides, it felt very ... Eddie. You didn't have much more time to look around when Eddie came back from (what you assumed was) the bathroom with a towel bunched in his hands. He handed it to you and you immediately got to drying the hair that was uncomfortably sticking to your forehead and the nape of your neck. Your eyes followed him as he walked to the washing machine by the hallway. You ignored the water stain on the carpet and watched him reach into the laundry basket and pull out another towel, giving a sniff to make sure it was clean before drying his own hair.

"I'm gonna get changed and then I'll take a look at your car." Eddie said, walking backwards into the hallway.

"Do you maybe have something I can change into?"

He stopped in his tracks, staring at you like he was thinking hard. His eyes lit up, "I'll be right back."

He didn't take long. He came back wearing an oversized tank top that was cut low under the armpits, showing off the delicious shape of his ribcage. He had paired it with an old pair of ripped, oil stained jeans , of which the front of his tank top had been tucked into. These were obviously clothes he didn't mind getting dirty, but you worried that they would be much too cold. Although, you wouldn't object if kept them on. This was the most of Eddie you had ever seen. You guessed working at an Auto Repair shop was a work out, because his arm muscles looked much more defined than you remembered them being, and the shape of his pecks peeked out from the neck of his tank.

"Here." He smirked at you.

You hadn't even noticed that he had been holding out a bundle of clothes for you. Heat rose to your cheeks as you took the clothes from him. Yeah, he had definitely seen you checking him out.

"Give me your car keys, and I'll make a start." He kept his hand held out.

"Umm, that might be a problem."

"What do you mean?"

"The keys are in the car."

"You mean you locked your keys in your car!?" He rubbed his forehead in disbelief.

"Maybe..." You dragged out, rocking from side to side innocently.

He sighed. "Alright, I'll sort it, you get changed. Bathroom's the first door on the right."

He made his way outside, leaving his trailer door open, causing a chill to run along your body. You quickly moved to the bathroom, peeling your clothes from your skin and drying your body off with the towel. Reaching for the shirt, you unfolded it and held it in front of you. It was a 3/4 length black sleeve on a white tee, with the large head of a horned devil dead centre. Above it in thick letters read the iconic: Hellfire Club. You laughed to yourself as you put it on - of all the shirts he had, he had to give you this one. You had secretly wanted one, but you had never played frequent enough to be considered part of the club, despite how much Dustin, Lucas and Mike would say you were. It fell just below your backside, definitely too short not to wear something underneath. You picked up the bottoms he gave you and rolled your eyes. Of course he had given you a pair of his boxers to wear. You put them on anyways and walked back out into the kitchen area. You stopped to watch Eddie from the window as he bent over the engine of your car. Those jeans may be old, but they did wonders for his ass.

A cold breeze whipped around your bare legs and snapped you out of it. You remembered Eddie had left the door open. There was no way he wasn't freezing out there. You hoped he wouldn't mind when you started to search through his cupboards for some mugs, deciding it was probably best not to use the ones hanging on display in the living room. You picked two random ones you could find; one in the shape of He-man, and another with Big Bird on the front. You started boiling some water on the stove to make some coffee for you and Eddie, getting distracted every now and then when you watched him from the kitchen window. You filled the mugs, poured a little milk in each, and then tidied and washed your mess. Finding an old pair of sandals by the door, you slipped them on and carried the two cups of coffee outside. You were careful not to trip over the oversized footwear as you walked down the steps. Eddie stuck his head out from under the hood and straightened himself as you approached.

"Hey, how did you get the hood up?" You questioned, handing him the He-man shaped cup. He pulled your car keys from his back pocket and dangled them in front of you. "How did you get in?"

"My dad may have taught me a few tricks." He picked up a duct tape covered sick off the ground. "You see, you tape it to the window and then use it as a lever to pull the window down. It's pretty neat, but I wouldn't recommend leaving your keys in the car again. I could damage the door mechanism if I had to do it again."

"Noted." You took a sip of your coffee and then placed it down, balancing it on the side of your car.

"Hey, be careful with that."

"Calm down, it's just a car."

"Just a car?" He looked at you like you were a mad woman. "This is a mechanical work of art, not a cup holder."

He plucked up your mug and moved it, as well as his after taking a sip, to the floor of his van. He had left the door open from when he was scrounging around for duct tape.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling, but it didn't stop the smile stretching on your face. You saw him looking at your lips when he approached you again. "I didn't realise you felt so strongly about cars."

"I just think you gotta treat them right, you know." He leaned against your car, crossing his arms over his chest. You didn't miss the way his eyes travelled up the length of your legs before they met yours. He licked his lips. "Cars are like people; you look after them and they'll look after you. But you can't just treat a car like it's anybody, you gotta treat it like it's the most beautiful woman that you wanna keep around forever."

"Oh really?" You moved to stand next to him, also leaning against the car. The denim of his jeans scratched against your thigh. You hadn't realised you stood that close, but neither of you moved. "Please explain."

"Well, you gotta look after it, treat it well and it'll satisfy you." Your eyes widened slightly and you gulped when he stepped closer to you, your breath mingling. "You gotta be gentle with it," he stroked a finger down your cheek to the softness of your bottom lip, "and then when you ride it, you ride it hard."

Those cliché sparks had ignited a blazing passion deep inside of you. You cleared your throat to snuff it out. "Not all women like it hard."

"Oh yeah? What about you, Princess? How do you like it?" He placed a finger under your chin and forced your eyes to his. "You like it soft and slow?"

Your desire was concealed behind a see through disguise. He could see the fire burning in your irises. He dipped his head to the junction of your neck, stopping before he could press his lips there. The soft fan of his breath gave you chills. "Is this okay?"

"Yes." You breathed. It had been so long since you had felt like this.

He replaced his finger with his lips, placing a tender kiss to the underside of your chin. He continued to trail them down your neck, so light and feather-soft that your eyes fluttered shut. "You like it when I touch you like this?"

You nodded wordlessly, whining that he had stopped. His hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer so your bodies pressed together. "I love how desperate you always are for me." And he continued to kiss your neck. He went straight to your sweet spot, clearly he had remembered, and pressed a silky kiss there.

But you wanted more.

And he could tell.

"Is this pace good enough for you?"

"More." It was a breathless whisper. "Please." You added.

He began suckling and licking at your flesh, eating you alive like a god damn vampire. You moaned aloud at the feeling and threaded your fingers through his hair. His fingers wiggled their way under your shirt, surprisingly warm despite working in the colder weather. His hands rested there, thumbs stroking your ribs just under your boobs. You wanted nothing more than for him to grab them and play with them, but maybe not so out in the open.

He seemed to have read your mind when he pulled away and opened the back door of your car.

"Get inside." He ordered.

You complied immediately, your sandals falling off as you clambered in and laid down across the back seats. He followed you in, climbing on top of you and shutting the door behind him. Desperate to feel his lips on you again, you pulled him in, only this time you smashed your lips together. His lips were just as soft as you had remembered them, sliding over your own effortlessly. His tongue prodded at your lips as an indication for you to invite him in. And you did so welcomingly, the pair of you enjoying the coffee taste of saliva. His hands went back under your shirt, trailing higher and higher before stopping where the band of your bra should be. Only, you hadn't put it on after getting changed.

He groaned against your lips, "You're such a tease, you know that?"

"Am not" You pouted.

He kissed the pout right off your lips and moved his hands higher. His rough hands grasped your tits, kneading them deliciously and making you gasp into his mouth. The texture of his palms rubbed against your nipples and you arched your back into him, moaning.

"You make such pretty sounds, Sweetheart."

Taking full advantage of your arched back, he made quick work of taking his your shirt off. Goose bumps broke out across your skin and your nipples pebbled at the cold. He stared at you in awe, asking himself why he had never gone this far before.

He noticed your goose bumps. "Don't worry, Princess, I'll get you warmed up real soon." His voice was deep and gravely, and it went straight to your core.

You moaned again when his lips attached themselves to your chest, suckling love bites all over and using his tongue to flick around your nipples. Your hands combed through his hair again, pulling slightly at the damp tangles, but he didn't seem to mind. His mess of curls tickled against your skin and you collected it in your hands. Using the hair tie around your wrist, you pulled his hair back into a low bun. He allowed you to play with his hair, actually preferring it out of his way as he continued to kiss at your chest. Your hips impulsively thrusted upwards, trying to feel him against you, but you were met with nothing as he pulled away from you. You had no complaints though when he pulled his shirt over his head, exposing the pale expanse of his torso. He didn't give you enough time to admire it when he brought his lips to yours again, forcing his tongue between them to play with your own. He shivered when your blunt nails raked down his chest. You could feel his stomach tense when they trailed below his belly button and through his happy trail. You carried on down to his jeans and fiddled with his buttons before pulling down his zipper. He pulled away from you again, clumsily pulling his jeans off and sticking his tongue out in concentration, being careful not to squish you.

After successfully removing them, he pulled your bodies together, flesh to flesh and hips to hips. He grinded himself against you, the bulge of his erection gently prodding at your clit causing you to moan. You could feel your slick dampening your panties, allowing them to glide over your clit as he moved his hips against yours. You moulded your lips back with his, whining against them as your way of telling him you were getting impatient.

"What's the matter, Sweetheart?" He teased, stopping his hips altogether.

"Please Eddie, I need more."

"But you sound so pretty when you beg." He rasped in your ear before nibbling on the lobe.

"Please don't tease me Eddie. I've been waiting for you to do this since high school."

"Oh yeah?" He pulled back, looking into your eyes with a smirk on his lips. "Then it wont hurt to wait a little longer."

"Eddie!"

"I'm joking, I'm joking, Baby." He laughed. "Now, tell me what you want."

"Touch me, please."

"And where would you like me to touch you m'lady?"

"You know where, Eddie."

He laughed at your bluntness, smiling against your lips when he kissed you again. He placed his palm flat on your stomach before going down slowly. Finally his finger tips slipped under the band of his boxers and into your panties. The two of you groaned at the feeling, your hole dripping wet and begging to be filled. He started at your clit, spreading your slick by rubbing soft circles. You sighed with relief that he was finally touching you. Using his middle and ring finger, he started gliding downward to play with your hole before sinking inside. You moaned at the feeling of him stuffing your emptiness. His fingers were sweet torture as they moved inside of you ever so slowly.

"One more Eddie, please." You begged for him to stretch you open with a third finger.

"You think you can handle that?"

You nodded frantically, your noses bumping together. He obliged without more torment and opened you wide with a third finger. Tears sprung to your eyes. In the beginning you thought that maybe he was right, you couldn't handle it like you thought. But when he curled his fingers enticingly inside of you and collected more of your wetness, the line between pleasure and pain became blurred. The heel of his calloused palm stroked against your clit with every thrust, making your insides burn. You moaned openly into his mouth, mutterings of "just like that" and "right there" breathed onto his lips. You could feel him grinding on your leg like a dog - he was getting off on your pleasure. Your moans of his name went straight to his cock and he just couldn't help himself. He was starting to get desperate. He wanted nothing more than to find out how you would moan with his cock inside of you.

The deliberate actions of his fingers paused and he removed them from you. You gasped at the sudden emptiness, giving Eddie a frown - you were getting so close. He released a breathy laugh at your expression, placing a kiss to your lips.

"Open wide, princess."

You did so willingly, opening wide and sticking out your tongue ever to slightly to welcome his fingers. He groaned when the warmth of your tongue slid along his fingers and your cheeks hollowed to take their full length. He could just imagine how beautiful you would look with your lips wrapped around his cock.

But that would just have to wait for another time.

He pulled his fingers away from your greedy mouth, replacing them with his tongue so he could taste your sweetness. He wanted nothing more than to eat you out, to taste your sweetness from the source, but with his cock painfully straining against his boxers, he knew he had to hurry things along. He made quick work at pulling down your bottoms, and then echoing his actions with his boxers. He tried his best to withstand the hiss that was on the tip of his tongue as his cock met with the cold air.

"Ah shit, I don't have any condoms on me."

"It's fine Eddie, just pull out. I need you."

He didn't need much more convincing. "As you wish."

He rubbed the head of his cock along your slit, teasingly bumping into your clit every now and them as he lubed himself up with your juices. Your eyes rolled back when he gently pushed himself inside of you. You secretly thanked him for stretching you with his fingers before, otherwise this would be 10 times worse. But still, you moaned at the pain, a sadistic part of you enjoying it more than you probably should have. You gasped and whimpered when the head of his cock finally sank in.

"What's the matter sweetheart? Too much?"

"Not enough." You teased.

He was more than enough, there was no denying it, and Eddie knew that. There was nothing you could say that would bruise that ego of his, especially when it came to the size of his cock. You could feel him laugh against your shoulder, muttering a quiet "Alright then" before his hips snapped flush to yours.

You cried out, digging your nails into his back as he sheathed himself completely inside of you. He gave you time to adjust, trying his best not to laugh at the expression on your face. He could tell you were enjoying it, but your face was contorted into a mixture of pleasure and pain - eyes rolling back before squeezing shut and your bottom lip caged between your teeth. You were certainly a sight to behold.

"Let me see those eyes, beautiful."

You pried them open, trying your hardest not to squeeze them closed again at the slow drag of his hips. He filled you up so good it was like you could feel him everywhere. Not one part of you was left untouched and you were practically sobbing. His mouth was on yours again when he rolled his hips, causing you both to gasp against each other. He was so deep inside of you, you thought for sure that he was in your stomach. His dick barely moved from inside of you as he grinded against you, the soft hair on his pubic bone tickling at your clit. You wanted more, Eddie knew this, but he was too much of a tease to let you get your own way.

"Please" You begged.

"Please what sweetheart? Go on, don't be shy. Tell me."

"Harder, please."

"But baby, I thought you liked it soft and slow?"

"C'mon Eddie, please."

"Alright, since you asked so nicely."

He pulled out, almost completely, before pounding into you. The two of you moaned at the feeling. He continued to ram into you relentlessly, finally giving you what you wanted. He tongued and kissed at your clavicle, becoming hooked on the taste of your sweat. Your heavy breaths mingled and the windows began to fog. He was becoming harder to see as the night time drew in, but the yellow glow of the street light rolled along his structures. He glowed like a radiant god, hearing your prayers and relishing in your faith to him. You gave yourself to him completely, allowing him to create an entirely new universe of pleasure for you to get lost in. You clenched around his length, sucking him in deeper and causing his breath to stutter. You did it again, loving the effect it had on him when he pulled his lip between his teeth. You tucked the loose strands that had fallen out of his bun behind his ears to see his face a bit more clearly. The soft glaze of sweat across his forehead had matted his fringe, sticking it above his eyebrows. The sweet dews trickled down his face, much like the rain had earlier, although now it was from his unabating exertion.

"Fuck, I'm so close Sweetheart." He shamelessly moaned.

You nodded in agreement, your climax was fomenting deep within you. You were constantly being pulled closer to the edge, just waiting for Eddie to make one final push to take you over. His ceaseless thrusts kept his cock shoved gloriously against all of the right places, not once did he hold back. His eyes squeezed shut and his breathing became laboured.

"Let me see those eyes, beautiful."

His eyes snapped open at your words - the exact words he had spoken to you just moments earlier. He almost stopped his movements entirely in surprise, but he was so busy trying to chase his high, that instead he wiped the smirk off of your lips by bringing a hand to your clit.

"Be careful Princess, or I might just change my mind about letting you cum." He warned, slowing his hips, but still pressing his thumb harder to your clit, just to prove how hard he would make it for you to hold off your orgasm.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, trapping him inside of you just in case he decided to stop completely. "No! Please Eddie, I'm sorry. I'll be a good girl, I promise." You sobbed, not even caring how pathetic you sounded.

"I know you will, Baby." He cooed softly against your lips. While the offer to torment you was appetising, he was so close to exploding that he had no patience left in him.

His hips started up again, ploughing into you, your walls constricting around him as you drew closer and closer. Your body became tingly and your toes curled. It was like all of your nerve endings had been set alight and were now firing a sudden release of energy, sending you into euphoria. Wave after wave crashing into you and drowning you in pleasure as you finally came.

"I can't pull out when you wrap your legs around me like that, baby."

You had hardly heard what he had said, your heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears. It was only when he started pulling away, did you catch on and release him from your hold. He felt his balls tighten and pleasure steadily increasing until it was unbearable, almost painful, but he never wanted it to stop. It was a close call, but he finally pulled out of you, rubbing his length along your folds as hot cum spurted from his cock, landing on your stomach and pooling in your belly button. The moans he released had made you want him all over again, but you were far too sensitive for that. Even as he stroked the side of his length up and down your slit, he prolonged your orgasm until it was almost agonising.

He eventually collapsed on top of you, chests pushing together with each desperate lungful of air. And in this fulfilled silence, your breathing blended with the gentle pattering of rain that rattled against the metallic body of your car. You hadn't even realised it had started raining again. It wasn't as heavy as before, but was still enough to get you wet if you tried to run back to the trailer.

Eddie had noticed it to. "Looks like were gonna be here for a while."

You nodded in agreement, fidgeting to unlodge the belt buckle that was digging into your back. Eddie's breath was cool on your skin as the two of you calmed down, shivering as the adrenaline dwindled away from you. It was truly dark now, and you had most certainly missed the episode of The Golden Girls.

You felt the cold even more when Eddie propped himself up on his elbows, the loss of contact with your bare skin brought you a chill. Your arms wrapped around his neck, wanting to pull him back into you, but you halted at the look on his face. His dreamy eyes conveyed a message of appreciation and sparkled with unmistakable desire.

"So," Eddie broke the silence, "you up for round two?"

A part of you for sure thought that he was going to tell you those three little words. It was naïve of you to think that he would after such a short amount of time together, but you could feel the electricity between you. Not unless a brewing lightning storm had disorientated your feelings.

"Only on one condition." You prompted, feeling ballsy.

"And what's that?"

"You take me on a date."

"Sweetheart, you read my mind."

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson imagine #eddie stranger things #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things #eddie x reader #joseph quinn

5K notes · View notes

etherealglimmer · 2 years ago

Text

may 11th, 1941

a turtle dove & the crow blurb

1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

I was inspired by the holiday today, so here are Dove and Eddie celebrating their first Mother's Day. Heads up, many unexpected things interrupted me today, so this is very lightly edited. Still - and most importantly - it is pure fluff!! So enjoy 💙🌷

masterlist | playlist

It is May 11th, 1941, and while you are not yet technically a mother, in Eddie’s mind, it’s close enough.

You wake when he rises from bed while the room is still dark, spending the next hour drifting in and out of a shallow doze as you stubbornly ignore the growing pressure in your bladder. To you, it’s more valuable to steal precious moments of rest than to relieve yourself of that discomfort, mainly because you’re uncomfortable almost all the time now, even in sleep. That’s pretty much a given when your belly is the size of a watermelon, swollen with a child that seems to be determined not to come out until the very day he or she is due, and not a moment sooner.

A headstrong Munson, your child is, through and through.

Though, really, you suppose you’re pretty headstrong, too. What else would keep you laying stubbornly in bed until the creak of a floorboard beside you draws your awareness, until the whisper of curls lightly tickles your neck, until a hovering presence dips down, and warm lips press to your cheek?

It could be your stubbornness, but perhaps it is what you know you’ll gain by continuing to feign sleep: your beloved rousing you with plush, tender kisses, gently beckoning you back to him. You succeed in getting him to repeat the gesture thrice by laying perfectly still, relishing in the softness of his lips until you feel a broad hand cup warm and fond around the swell of your belly.

Then, of its own accord, your chin tips toward his face, seeking the source of your joy and betraying you at once. Though your eyes remain closed, the ruse ends abruptly; when the fond, exasperated puff of Eddie’s breath tickles your cupid’s bow, you smile and tip your face up in anticipation of a proper kiss.

The meeting of your lips is as sweet as it always is, and you sigh into it, melting despite the physical discomfort you’re still in. When you feel Eddie run the hard line of his nose against your own, nuzzling you fondly, you reward him with a firm peck to the corner of his mouth before he draws back.

Then, you open your eyes.

Eddie’s lips are curled with a broad, crooked smile; the tips of his frizzy bangs brush his dark lashes, which crinkle at the corners with the force of his joy upon seeing you. That joy is apparent every time he gets to wake up beside you, never lessening despite the passage of days, just as you never tire of his face being the first thing you see each morning.

Today, he isn’t beside you, but is instead hovering over you, standing at your bedside. Once he sees you’re fully alert, Eddie squats comfortably, briefly rubbing his hand along your belly before folding his arms and planting his chin there. You can feel the heat of his body on your bare shoulder— always so hot, like a furnace lives beneath his skin.

“G’mornin’,” Eddie murmurs, his voice still husky with sleep like this is the first time he’s spoken since waking some time ago.

It’s an awkward angle, but you manage to bend your wrist to cup his cheek. His stubble rasps against your palm, and you hum contentedly, eyes focused on his face but lids heavy and half-closed. “Mornin’,” you echo, high and throaty all at once.

Eddie’s cheek mounds further under your palm when his grin widens, and you draw your thumb along his dimple. “Happy Mother’s Day,” he adds, sounding all together too pleased with himself, nearly smug, even.

Your nose crinkles in confusion, and you huff fondly. “I ain’t a mom yet, Ed,” you remind him, trying to be nonchalant, though you can’t help but sound as delicate and tender as you feel at the implication. The mother of Eddie Munson’s child. You’ve known that’s what you’re to be for quite some time now, but this day makes it feel even more real.

Eddie’s eyes slide to the bump of your stomach, which mountains up almost comically high from the thin bedspread. “Any day now, I reckon.” He squints, cocking his head. “In fact… it might even be today.” His voice is suddenly a coo: “What d’you think, Chickie? Is it finally time t’give y’r mama a break?”

You snort loudly, not bothering to hide your skepticism. “You kiddin’ me? This’s your baby we’re talkin’ about.” You pat your stomach affectionately. “Chickie ain’t gonna come out unless it’s of their own volition. Don’t let ‘em hear you say nothin’ like ‘might be today,’ or else they’ll stick put just to spite their daddy.”

When you glance back at him, Eddie is still looking at your belly. But though you’d been intending to be playful, the words have struck him a different way. Longing pools in his umber eyes— deep and depthless, thick and sticky like the sweetest honey, and this lighthearted moment turns suddenly poignant.

“Ed—” you whisper, but the words you plan to say catch on the sudden lump in your throat. Eddie tears his eyes away from your stomach, staring at you for a moment before leaning forward and kissing the tip of your nose.

“C’mon.” He smiles, rising to his full height while you grapple with the sudden urge to cry. Mercifully, he pretends not to notice. “Gotta get you downstairs, or else your Mother’s Day breakfast s’gonna get cold.” He crosses his arms and quirks a brow, looking down his nose dramatically. “And lemme tell you somethin’, Turtle Dove. I slaved over a hot stove all morning f’r you. So that just won’t do.”

You know he’s exaggerating to distract you. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Instead of crying, you chuckle through the labor of hefting yourself to sit upright. You puff out your cheeks, blowing out a slow breath to gather yourself after the ordeal as you settle back on your palms.

“S’mighty kind of you, Edward,” you reply dryly, matching his drama with a wry twist of your lips. “But first things first: be a dear and help me outta this bed before I wet myself.”

Ten minutes later finds you clutching the railing and toddling your way down the stairs, now with an empty bladder and wrapped in a thin dressing gown to ward off the spring chill that lingers this early in the morning. Eddie is hot on your heels, one hand hovering near your elbow, which juts as you cup your hand underneath your belly for support while you descend from your bedroom. The boarding house you occupy is still quiet; the others who live here are either still sleeping or already off to see their relatives for the holiday. This leaves you relatively to your own devices, though the woman who owns the house— widowed and without children— will likely be awake soon. And you think that this is why, rather than leading you to the dining room for your Mother’s Day breakfast, Eddie guides you instead toward the sunroom at the back of the house.

The sunroom is more a storage room than anything else, but it’s a place you’d found yourself often. You would typically spend your afternoons there, sat atop one large crate and leaning against a taller stack to mend clothes and sew swaddling for the baby. This became part of your daily routine until last month, when your belly made hopping up onto the crate too difficult to manage. The spot was never the most comfortable even before your belly got in the way, but it remains the only place in the boarding house to afford a view of the backyard, where you’d convinced your landlady to let you begin cultivating a modest garden.

In a town largely bereft of greenery and overtaken by soot, this tiny plot you tend is an oasis— an endeavor you won’t give up until you really truly cannot manage it anymore.

You think Eddie is just bringing you to the sunroom so you can breakfast together alone. So what you find actually waiting there for you takes you completely by surprise.

The crates have been cleared from that corner you frequented, stacked three tall and pushed neatly against the far wall. In their place is a floral circular rug— worn at the edges and clearly secondhand, but new to the house, new to you, and certainly beautiful with its rich hues of deep maroon and cornflower blue. The small iron end table, which had been leaning cockeyed against the corner of the shed out back since you’d moved in, has since been brought inside, scrubbed, leveled, and placed beneath one of the corner windows. On it is a small white doily and a vase filled with clear water and fresh clipped wildflowers. You’re stuck on those for a moment— Where in God’s green earth did he find wildflowers around here? — but only until you notice the plate of yellow cookies, butter rich and dusted with sugar. You know it must be your favorite treat: lemon and lavender cookies. And from here, they look just like Ms. Willard makes them.

All at once, you’re struck with giddy delight, consumed by the remembered taste of crumbly tart lemon and earthy lavender, the rich decadence of sugar and fat melting on your tongue.

“All right,” Eddie starts, “So I know it ain’t the most nutritious of breakfasts. Also, I weren’t really slavin’ over a hot stove this morning. But, I did—”

Eddie stops speaking when he realized you haven’t heard a word he’s said, because you’re already waddling eagerly toward that tiny wrought iron table and its plate of decadent treats. In fact, you’re so fixated on those cookies that you don’t notice the most important addition to the room until you’re leaning against its wooden arm.

The oak is smooth and firm under your fingers when you reach for it absently. It’s pleasant to the touch, but it draws your attention only when it rocks forward under your weight, dipping unexpectedly. You startle, snatching your hand back; with it cradled protectively to your chest, you finally turn wide eyes to your last remaining gift.

Eddie had told you that, in the months you’d been apart, he’d taken to carpentry and woodcarving, hobbying at it in the evenings after his shifts at the factory. Where he’d found the energy after working all day, you didn’t know. You suspect it began as a way to keep himself occupied so he didn’t have to think, or so he could thoroughly exhaust himself and hope to sleep dreamlessly. Once you were reunited, however, the practice took on new meaning. Tiny carvings and simple tools, like stools and washboards, gave way to Eddie’s first big project: a bassinet for your little one on the way.

It took him a long time to make it, and in the end, it wasn’t the most elegant of final products. But despite its lack of finesse, the piece was sturdy and well-constructed, crafted with care by your beloved for the comfort of Chickie— Eddie’s choice term of endearment, which you’ll use until the baby is born and you can name them properly. Love seeped from the oaken edges of that bassinet; you wove more of it into the woollen blankets you nestled into its base. This labor of your shared love now sits tucked into the corner of your bedroom beside the chest of drawers until it’s needed.

That date is soon approaching now, and Eddie had told you he was picking up some extra evening shifts to put away a little extra money for the baby’s imminent arrival. You now know that was a misdirection. Because Eddie Munson may not have been slaving over a hot stove this morning, but he has clearly been pouring his sweat and effort into something else all this time, right under your nose.

Thank your lucky stars Eddie is back to gripping your elbow now, because it’s the only thing keeping you from collapsing wobbly-kneed to the floor. Overcome and overwhelmed, you pull your arm from his grasp to tuck it brusquely around his, squeezing his bicep so tightly that he grunts. When you sniffle, Eddie’s gaze shoots to you in alarm, but his expression eases when he notices your glossy eyes, which devour each dip and crevice of your final gift: a rocking chair.

The smooth wood of the chair glows with a warm, honeyed hue, as if it were still basking in the sun's rays. The chair's arms are wide and sturdy, its seat hewn strong and curved to cradle you in a comforting embrace. Carved into the wood on either side are two birds, a crow and a turtle dove, their feathers etched in precise detail, as if they might fly off the chair at any moment. The crow perches at the top of the chair's backrest, its eyes sharp and intelligent, while the dove rests just below it, its delicate form a striking contrast to the crow's boldness.

This isn’t a trinket, or a stool, or a bassinet. This is a gift for you. And it’s a gift made of you. You and your Eddie; turtle dove and her crow.

You tune back in to find your crow currently rambling eagerly about the process of making your gift. You don’t interrupt; instead, you lean your head against his bicep and your hip against the outside of his thigh, and you let him tell you everything. Clearly excited to share with you, Eddie explains every detail of that process— how he got a good deal on the lumber by bartering with your neighbor down the way, what various tools he used to whittle the birds and get them just right, how he’d tested a bunch of scrap pieces to get the right color for the stain, how nervous he’d been to seal it and mess the whole thing up. He recounts every little detail of the process as you gaze upon your gift and let his solid body support you; you feel his arm shift under your temple as he gestures while he speaks. And your heart collects every word, like a bird pecks up the seeds that give it life. Those words mix with everything else— all of what has happened since the August. The weight of it. The pain and heartache and gutwrenching beauty, too. You swell with all of that, and above all, with the potency of your deep abiding love for Edward Munson. It fills you so impossibly full that it’s a wonder you don’t burst with that universe of feeling inside you.

“M’sorry I lied about the overtime,” he says finally. “I was hoping t’surprise you. And, also, I figured this was worth more than pinchin’ some pennies.” There’s a brief pause, but you don’t break your silence— you’re too full of love to speak. So Eddie keeps going. “So, y’remember when y’said you were feelin’ sick the first few months? I mentioned it to Kathy, ‘n she said the rockin’ motion might help your stomach when y’r feelin’ ill. Also, I was thinkin’, when you’re feelin’ up to it, y’could make yourself a cushion and do your sewin’ more comfortably.” His voice colors with amusement as he adds, “S’gotta be better than those old crates, right?” before gentling again. “And—and you can set here and rock the baby once it’s born. ‘N I was thinkin’ I could set with you, too. That’d be nice, I think. Us all lookin’ out at the garden together.”

That is, apparently, the end of Eddie’s explanations, because there’s a longer pause then. “So, uh, are you surprised?” When you still don’t say anything, and the silence lingers between you, a tentative question follows with the beginnings of new nervousness. “…D’you like it?”

“Eddie.” His name shudders out in a hot, thick warble. And it’s then that Eddie glances down and sees the hot tears rolling in fat silent tracks down your cheeks.

“No, no, no—” he breathes, tight and urgent but so achingly gentle as he unwinds his arm from yours so he can press your sticky cheeks between his careful palms. Your chin wobbles as he tips your face up, and though his calloused thumbs swipe at your tears while they fall from your lashes, there are too many for him to brush away.

He doesn’t stop trying, though. Patiently, Eddie wipes each tear, catching what he can until he resigns himself to stroking over your cheekbones instead, offering comfort instead of trying to quell the flow. “No, baby, don’t cry.” He hushes the words against your forehead, pressing his lips to your heated skin. “Don’t cry, my Dove.”

Your breath hitches, and you sniffle by reflex. The sound is thick and wet and rather disgusting. You cringe, trying to pull away, but he doesn’t let you.

“Shhh.” Eddie shushes you gently, coaxing you with his fingers and his lips and his solid comforting warmth until you finally melt into his arms. You wrap your arms loosely around his chest, holding onto him and letting him hold you as best he can with your giant belly smushed lightly between you.

Eventually, the warmth of his body, the firmness of his arms, and the comfort of his scent— musky, earthen, and beneath, those notes of a beautiful summer storm— succeed in slowing the torrent of your tears to an occasional hiccup. The swelling of your emotions has receded, ebbing back into a manageable flow.

You feel Eddie press his face briefly to your hair before he mutters, “All right, look. Y’don’t have to worry about hurtin’ my feelings.” You’re beginning to frown in confusion when he clarifies flatly, “Y’clearly hate the damn thing, don’tcha?”

An incredulous giggle bursts from your lips, a little thick but girlish and delighted nonetheless at his nonsensical dramatics. And when Eddie’s arms tighten playfully, swaying you gently back and forth, you know that was his aim. You sway happily with him, nuzzling your swollen nose gratefully into his chest.

“Should’ve just stuck with those lavender cookies,” Eddie adds, far too dry to be anything but facetious.

That makes you speak at last. “No,” you say without lifting your head, and your voice is muffled by shirt and snot. “S’really thoughtful of you, Eddie. Can’t even tell you how much this means t’me. That you gave so much t’make this for us. For our baby.” You squeeze him tighter. “Can’t tell you how much you mean t’me,” you whimper, welling up again.

“Nuh-uh, nun’a that,” Eddie admonishes you lightly. “Don’t you start up again on me.” He squeezes you tight enough to make you squeak in protest, but not too tight to hurt. When you move to pull back, he lets you, dropping his hands to the swell of your belly that balloons your dressing gown.

His calluses are rough as they catch on the fabric, but his hands are so warm, so broad and gentle as he rubs them over your sizeable bump. Eddie hums, then smiles wolfishly, looking at you from beneath his lashes. “Y’let me fill you all up, Dove. Let me put my baby in you. S’the least I can do…”

Judging by the salacious waggle of his eyebrows, Eddie is clearly joking, but the roughness in his voice and those words still make you shiver visibly. His eyes flash, and the grin widens; knowing there’s nothing he can really do about it considering your advanced condition, you pout at him childishly.

Graciously, he doesn’t chuckle at your expense. Instead, Eddie drops the act to become earnest. “Least I can do is make sure you’re comfortable ‘til he pops out.”

You latch to one word. “He?”

One hand leaves your belly to scratch sheepishly at the back of his head. “Yeah, I’unno,” Eddie mumbles, abruptly dropping it to take your hand and pull you toward your new chair. “C’mon. Set down, now. S’what I spent all that time makin’ it for. N’eat some of those cookies ‘for I eat ‘em for you.”

“Okay, okay,” you pretend to grouse, letting him help you into your new chair.

When you sink into that seat, it cradles your body with the same sweet care as the man who made it, who carved its edges and ridges, sanded it to smooth, stained it golden and made it shine like the bright beams of sunshine he feels warm his cheeks when he looks upon your beloved face. When he perches on its arm beside you, settling his weight upon it, the wood does not waver, creak, or groan, because it’s been hewn sturdy and strong by his hands. And when you rock gently together for the first time— man, woman, and child all swaying in time— the dove and crow carved on that chair-back watch over you, an immutable symbol of the nest you’ve made at last.

It’s ready for that egg to peep and crack, to hatch and join the bonded pair.

And despite the stubbornness of the Munson gene, might it today, after all?

#blueywrites #td&tc #farmer!eddie munson #farmer!eddie #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson au #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff

224 notes · View notes

trashmouth-richie · 2 years ago

Note

If you could make Eddie x Fem!Reader where Eddie makes reader say this, I would be your best friend. Oh, wait, I already am hahahahaha pls write it

xoxoxo @munson-blurbs 💚

*part 2*

eddie x female! reader

W.C 2.3k

Warning: no minors, p in v unprotected sex, oral f receiving—mentioned m receiving, corruption kink if you squint

The itchy pink tufts of your dress are bunched up to your waist, matching pastel heels are hanging on for dear life. The dainty baby’s breath in your corsage was smashed and wilting. The ribbon surrounding the rose was now bowless and hanging on by threads. The once white petals of the delicate rose your boyfriend and his mother had picked out were now brown and tattered, petals falling loosely on the stained floor of the girls bathroom. Hours had been spent on your perfect hairdo, curls falling heavily down your back and pinned on one side, showcasing the slope of your pretty neck and the gentle dangle of your dainty necklace.

“I—mmm—fuck, oh my god…”

Nobody had any idea, no idea about your affair with Eddie Munson. A secret between lovers. Classified information. You were faithful to him, and he was to you. But your poor boyfriend— you couldn’t say the same.

Eddie was everything your boyfriend was not. Rough around the edges but incredibly charming, a gentle lover when you needed and a rough brat tamer when you were being a bitch on purpose. No girl at school was any the wiser of the absolute hog he had behind the black denim. Felt like you were being split in half every single time. Your boyfriend was a safe option; someone to bring home to mom and dad, Christmas at the cabin, or the annual church picnic. To him you were pristine, all holy and white with a satin veil and a promise to him to save your virginity until marriage. He was naive to your vixen ways, truly going to the dark side when you and Eddie had first gotten together. That first night Eddie had called it how he saw it, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Your boyfriend was delighted when he saw his initial carved into a pretty necklace around your neck, white gold and close to your heart, where he intended to stay. It was of sheer mockery that his initials were also ‘E’. And when Eddie had given you the necklace, branding you as his, promising that you would forever be his, he couldn’t help but smirk and roll a chuckle out of his throat when he overheard poor Ethan noticing the necklace in the cafeteria and kissing your cheek in admiration. That night he had parked his van outside of Ethan’s perfectly poised and polished house, stuffed up next to the Harrington’s, and ate your pussy for hours in the back, making you come again and again until you were red, raw and achy, voice hoarse from yelling out his name as you only wore the necklace.

For Eddie, this situation started off by simply enjoying making the preacher's daughter squirm under his tongue in the church parking lot. Reveling in the fact that you had fallen from grace—for him. The town satanist. And he had to admit, the fact that you had a boyfriend who didn’t know you the way he did, made this all the better. It was innocent at first, a friendly gesture by you helping Eddie to study for Ms. O’Donnell’s class. A literal charity case helping the poor Munson boy pass. Whether that was to ensure he would never taint the halls of Hawkins High again, or to be a “good Christian” he didn’t care, he wanted to corrupt you, wanted to make your pretty little mouth murmur around his cock as you kneeled before him. But now it was much more than that.

You had changed, you weren’t the pretty little church girl anymore, you were his. Your parents had no idea that you sat on his guitar amps on Tuesday nights at the Hideout, grinding your pussy with the vibrations, getting yourself off watching him sing and play his guitar. Or that you had gotten higher than a kite with Eddie in his trailer after church every Sunday as your father kissed babies and shook farmers hands praying for rain this Spring and your mother served cake and coffee in the church hall. He just had to play along until graduation— when you would finally tell your parents to get bent and break up with the human purity ring.

Tonight wasn’t any different. Except it was the senior prom. Pressed cheek to cheek for Polaroids and the special ‘kodak moment’ with Ethan you ran the conversation you had with Eddie in your head a million times. “Do you want me to go?” He had you pinned down on his mattress, chest flush with the hideous patterned sheets, hands in cuffs straight ahead of you threaded in the rails of the headboard, ass angled upward as he pounded into your soft weeping pussy, “if you want me there baby, I’ll go, I’ll rent a fucking tux and be the suavest mother fucker there.”

You had already declined his offer, knowing you had already matched your dress with Ethan’s bow tie. “Eddie,” you protested and moaned as his dick curved into your g spot, “I’m going with E-,” he fucks into you harder, spreading his hatred through his entire body for when you spilled that disgusting name while he was inside you, “—him. I c-can’t. I want you to go— I’d rather have you come.. oh fuck.. I’m gonna come—” he wiggled his fingers beneath you and rubbed at your clit as he thrusted his dick into you, slamming hard against you as you unraveled at the seams for him.

It wasn’t until you were laying naked in his arms after he made you come a 4th time that night that he spoke of it again, “can I show up to the Grand March—watch you try not to tumble in some ridiculous heels in front of the whole town?” You had agreed to that. You wanted Eddie there, you wanted him to take you to your stupid prom, and be done with the bullshit. Wanted to be done with Ethan. But you were stunned when you didn’t see him anywhere. Not in the crowd, not holding up a door frame with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he was nowhere.

So you did what any other normal senior girl did at a prom, you danced, drank cheap punch, did the goddamn limbo. But when it was time to announce the King and Queen of 1986 Prom Extravaganza, a hand over your mouth and a slight drag of your hips pulled you off the dance floor and into the girls bathroom. Of course it was Eddie. He was wearing an expensive looking black velvet suit jacket and black slacks, a deep red button up shirt underneath, two silver chains adorned his neck, one with the smallest of your initials engraved on the side, and his signature black boots and rings. “Eddie? I thought you were only coming to Grand March— I looked but couldn’t find you.” His eyes rake over your body taking you in, the swell of your chest prominent in the sweetheart neckline of your pastel bubblegum dress, cinching at the waist and poofing out indefinitely like you were a true Disney Princess.

He was right, he was the suavest looking mother fucker at the prom, his long hair was freshly washed, curls still slightly damp and bouncing around his face. “You really think I’d miss seeing my girl all fancy and gussied up just so her boyfriend can masturbate and cry to the thought of what her boobs looks like?” he tuts, running a ringed hand along your chin, fingers dancing along your neck and the necklace he gave you. “That idiot wouldn’t know the first thing about how to make you come, how to make you feel good, I bet he doesn’t even know that you wear turtlenecks only because your neck is so hickied up by me that you look like your neck is broken.” His eyes are blown wide with rage and lust as he lowers his head, fringe of his bangs tickling your nose as he dives into your neck, lips plump beneath your ear, “his pure little saint and my devilish vixen, are the same girl and he has no fuck-ing clue.”

He lifts you up and hauls you into the nearest stall, kissing you deeply as you clung onto his neck. In seconds you are consumed by him, his mouth devouring every inch of your skin. Brushing your lips with his as he works on the many layers of your dress, hiking them up to find your pretty panties. He rips them off and gives them a good sniff before stuffing them into his jacket pocket. He kneels before you and spits harshly into your pussy, rubbing the saliva around with the pad of his thumb, circling your clit as your hands are buried in his hair, head thrown against the painted blue metal of the bathroom stall. He stands quickly and unzips his pants pooling them down around his feet. He hikes one of your legs around to sit on the toilet paper holder as he slots his cock between your folds, rubbing your slick and his spit against his girthy length.

And now for your Hawkins High 1986 Prom King!

The wavering sounds of the asshole behind the microphone crane into the stall of the bathrooms. Eddie shoves his fat cock up into your tight dripping hole, not giving you time to adjust as his mouth falls slack and his eyes roll back into his skull like billiard balls rolling into the correct pocket. “Fuck, swear this pussy gets tighter and tighter each time, Jesus Christ sweetheart.” Your fingers grip into the velvet of his suit as he pushes all the way into you, steadily moving his hips and grazing over that spongey spot, perfect ruddy tip of his cock poking and prodding as it feels like your guts will explode.

You whimper as he stretches your walls, the pressure of his cock filling you up making you cry out as he pumps relentlessly into you. “Mmm, fuck, I— oh my god.”

“What did you say baby?” Eddie smirks as his head is buried into your neck, sucking a wine colored bruise into your skin. He loves the way he can fuck you senseless, breaking you down to mush as you scream his name. Think your stupid boyfriend could do that? Try again.

“S—so good Eddie.” You’re already a blubbering mess, mascara spilling from your lashes as tears trickle down your face, the bliss of Eddie’s hips rocking into you sends you spiraling. Your belly- coiling and hot, ready to come undone.

“Fuck baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Eddie is the one whining now has his hips start to stutter, bangs stuck to his forehead as he licks his lips, “my perfect girl, secret vixen all for me.” He pumps harder now, hand pressing against your neck, the bottom of the ‘E’ from your necklace poking out beneath the heel of his hand. “Tell me you’re mine baby, fuck— tell me, tell me you’ll end it with him.”

“I— ”

For you it should have been a no brainer. He let it slip one night when your parents went out of town for the weekend. You told Ethan you had gone with them, relishing in two whole nights with Eddie all to yourself in the comfort of your own home. You were riding him in the living room, skin slick with sweat, both of you stark naked as you looked deep into his dark chocolate eyes. You rolled your hips around him, foreheads pressed together as you moaned into eachothers mouths. “Fuck, I love you,” Eddie breathed as you had both finished, shuttering around eachother as you fell forward into his chest. Pulling back and staring at him quizzically he continued,

“I mean it, you’re it for me babe.” You hadn’t said it back yet, still gathering your feelings for him, trying to decide what you were going to do.

Your fingernails dig at his chest, legs now wrapped around his lower back as he leans you against the wall. The heat of Eddie’s breath against your ear is what makes your orgasm snap. He rubs and slaps at your clit as you come.

Ladies and gentleman, it’s time to name the Hawkins High 1986 Prom Queen!

Your first and last name is blasted through the speakers of the gymnasium, filling up the echoing halls as you come hard on Eddie’s dick, “it’s over! mmm fuck— Eddie! Fuck— I’ll end it!” Eddie’s high hits him as your words flutter through his mind, ropes of hot cum spill into you and down your legs as relief washes over him. Your name is said again over the speakers.

Eddie lowers you to the ground, and zips up his slacks. He kisses you deeply before you break away, “I love you.” You confess to him, holding his face in your hands. He smiles shyly, wrapping you into his arms as he kisses your head, squeezing you tight.

“Come on,” he says, pulling you by the hand to the gymnasium smiling wildly, “go get your crown, and then we can leave.”

Eddie watches as the twinkling tiara is placed on your freshly fucked hair. The emcee announces you and captain douche Ethan as the 1986 King & Queen of Hawkins High. A dance is supposed to commence between the two royalties but you bail as you kick off your heels and run into Eddie’s arms. Both of you displaying middle fingers as a parting “fuck you”, he carries you out of the side door of the gym to his van. You spend the rest of the night wearing your crown as Eddie teases your clit with his tongue, reveling in the pretty noises rolling of your lips, his Queen.

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #stranger things #eddie x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x y/n #eddie smut #eddie munson blurb #corruption kink!#corruptionkink!#eddie x you smut

592 notes · View notes

ercklln · 2 years ago

Text

“farmer’s daughter, take 1” this tiktok audio had me screaming with this idea. 😵‍💫

eddie munson x fem! reader where they’re both horny and bored so they decided to film a sex tape. cuz why not.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader

31 notes · View notes

dreamer-snail · 2 years ago

Note

Eddie Munson x fem! Farmer reader in the works?

In theory 😅

I originally wanted it to be a series, but realistically it'll probably be a one shot at best. I haven't worked on it in a really long time, and I'm going to have a really busy spring semester, so I would say don't expect anything. But maybe one day. If you want me to tag you if I ever finish it, let me know!

And I really appreciate the fact that at least someone is still interested in my writing and actually messaged me. I don't remember that last time someone messaged me, so a huge thank you!

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie munson x fem!reader #Eddie Munson x fem!Farmer!reader #Eddie Munson x farmer!reader #Eddie Munson one shot #Eddie Munson series #Stranger Things #Stranger Things x reader #Stranger Things x fem!reader #Stranger Things one shot #Stranger Things series #in progress #on hiatus

13 notes · View notes

dreamer-snail · 6 years ago

Text

Masterlist

My Request List is here

Updated: January 24, 2023

MARVEL

Miles Morales

A Reason

Stranger Things

Eddie Munson

Dungeons and Orchards Series coming soon(?) . . .

The Umbrella Academy

Diego Hargreeves

Better Than Okay

Uncharted

Nadine Ross

Beloved Raiders Series ✨Most Recent✨

#Masterlist #i-am-a-smol-sweet-potato Masterlist #Shtuffs Crazy Man Masterlist #i-am-a-smol-sweet-potato's Masterlist #Shtuffs Crazy Man's Masterlist #Miles Morales Masterlist #Marvel Masterlist #The Umbrella Academy Masterlist #Miles Morales x reader #Diego Hargreeves x reader #Lila Pitts x reader #David Casteneda x reader #Spanish Class series #Dungeons and Orchards series #Eddie Munson x fem!Farmer!reader #Stranger Things

33 notes · View notes

trashmouth-richie · 2 years ago

Text

bluey,

i am simply, yet again, blown away by your writing.

Eddie’s letter?? Plsssss I’m a mess and crying I. My bed.

I could feel the sting of pa’s belt on my ass

Ma sure did turn into a softy knowing that we love the crow didn’t she?

Apologizing to Wayne? 🤧 pls I’m a mess.

This is so pretty and beautiful and I’m losing my mind over it.

😪

turtle dove and the crow, part four

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: please heed this warning and decide if you are prepared to read this chapter, which includes scenes of harsh but period-accurate parental abuse against an 18-year old child. this includes emotional and mental abuse in the form of 'discipline' and depictions of physical punishment. these methods are always harmful and never appropriate. they do not represent the views of the author.

PART FOUR: THE WEIGHT BENEATH THE SUN (8.6K)

It’s hard to make the moment last

Hard to keep the dreams you have

Hard to let the love inside your heart

The guards are always at the gates

Turning everyone away

But you got through

Didn’t you?

You’re the One I Want — Chris and Thomas

When you were six— two years before Edward Munson became the new boy next door— your mother still hosted garden parties during the warm months. Pa would arrange the iron furniture into a pleasing configuration, ensuring the grass was level and dry beneath the table's heavy feet. The stiff-backed chairs would be spaced precisely from its wrought edges, far enough for ease of entry but close enough that the ladies would not have to stretch their arms too far to reach the cucumber sandwiches. Those Mama would assemble in careful layers, laying them out on a ceramic platter decorated with filigree. Mama's finest pitcher, made of delicate glass and attractive curves, would be used to serve fresh-squeezed lemonade. She'd garnish the sweet drink with muddled mint leaves plucked from the small personal garden she carefully maintains against the backyard fence. A generous spray of flowers would finish the trio of treasures awaiting the town's ladies, invited by your mother for an afternoon of light refreshments and genteel socializing.

Your sister, Virginia, has the supreme honor of being allowed to join the garden party for the first time this year. She is five years your senior in age and ten your superior in manner, evident in the graceful way she smooths the skirt of her shiny pink dress, perching herself with impeccable posture on the very edge of the iron chair situated to your mother’s right side. Poised and prim, Virginia accepts a glass of lemonade, taking a tiny sip before placing the china delicately to the right of her plate. Ever observant, her eyes dart around the table, absorbing gestures with ease; she follows her sip quickly with a dab of her napkin before arranging it dutifully on her lap again. She is rewarded for this, as the ladies generously indulge her presence among them.

You would be jealous of your sister's invitation if you gave a hoot about such things, but you are entirely disinterested in all of it. You care not for hushed titters floating from beneath their sunbonnets and the passing of cucumber sandwiches, which are nibbled little by little and then chewed behind demure palms as gossip is exchanged. Instead, you've happily plopped yourself behind the apple tree, back to rough bark and short legs spread wide in the ticklish grass.

Methodically, one by one, you have been picking the delicate yellow petals off the heads of dandelion weeds, dropping each one to collect in the basin of the sunbonnet cradled between your thighs. It's painstaking work and nonsensical, perhaps, but it serves to satisfy some innate curiosity inside you. The purpose of this is unclear; your actions are confusing, the way children's play is often confusing to everyone but the child. But since you are quietly occupying yourself, and your mother and sister are busy socializing, they are happy to leave you to your own devices.

They are happy, that is, until your eye is caught by something much more exciting than plucking weeds.

Your neighbor down the lane has just finished imparting some succulent gossip to the gathering, and her lips are pursed against a grin as she relishes the reaction to her news. Her revelation has the intended effect: shock ripples around the table, but it is mixed with the suppressed delight of knowing a new, tantalizing secret. The party-goers exchange glances, searching for cues in one another, all wanting to know more but reluctant to appear too eager.

"Oh, my goodness." Mama places her hand over her heart as if in regret, but her eyes are gleaming. Interest thrums within the hush of her voice as she begins to ask, "And what d'you suppose he might now do, on account of—?"

"Mama!"

Her question is interrupted by your delighted cry. She turns to see you holding aloft that which made you abandon your collection. Back by the tree, those petals have spilled from the tipped sunbonnet to scatter heedlessly across the grass. "Look't what I caught!" you squeak, eyes alight with eager, innocent delight. "It's a big one, too!"

Despite your excitement, you cradle the large bullfrog gently in your hands, mindful of its comfort as you present it to your mother. You considered it quite the feat to catch the frog without causing it alarm, and when its strong legs twitch against your palm without attempting to flee, pride glows beneath the dirt streaks on your round cheeks.

Your mother does not share your sentiment.

The way her expression contorts is so opposite what you expected that she may as well have smacked you across the face. Your earlier excitement is smothered like water douses a match, and promptly, you drop the frog.

You drop it as if by acting quickly, you can undo whatever has caused your Mama offense. But it is not enough. Your mother stares at you, and though the look in her eyes is one you are too young to fully decipher, a parent's disapproval is sensed innately, and felt deeply.

One year after you drop the bullfrog, Mama will sell the garden furniture to purchase seeds and stock in preparation for the coming hardship, and the garden parties would end. Two years after you drop the bullfrog, Eddie will roll in like a summer storm to join his uncle in the red house next door. Seven years after you drop the bullfrog, Virginia will establish a nest of her own, leaving you as the only unwed daughter left in your parents' roost. But no matter how many years pass, you will never forget how your mother's stare made you feel. In the garden, a heavy stone sank in your gut, sickeningly leaden, steadily crushing your delicate insides with each second you spent pinned by her furious stare.

This moment in the hayloft reminds you of that. But there is no stone of lead in your stomach this time. This time, with the salt tang of Eddie's seed still lingering on your lips, your entire body turns to solid, petrified rock.

Your mother stares up at you from the barn floor. Her face is contorted, screwed up tight with shock and rage, but her eyes are wide, wide enough to swallow you up entirely like a sinkhole would. She traps you. And you remain there, locked tight until the seethe of her voice boils hot from between her lips, blistering the ruddy flesh on its path to you.

"Git. Down. Here."

Each word is a spitfire bullet, enunciated so precisely so as not to be misconstrued. The burn rushes down your spine to melt your solid rock into magma.

Your muscles are clenched tight, but the warm pulse once stoked between your legs has deadened. You're thrumming instead with horror, with deep, all-consuming dread. Where one moment ago you were heavy as a sinking stone, now you are unsteady, shaky like the first time Eddie coaxed you into a rowboat.

You can't grab hold of his rough, broad palm to settle yourself this time, and you don't dare risk a glance at the man still nestled in that soft bed of hay. To catch his eye would be torture of a different kind. Instead, you rush to obey your mother's command. Your knee scrapes raw against old, splintery wood as you scramble around and dip one foot to catch the rung of the ladder.

It's a sturdy old thing, that ladder. Good thing, too, because it holds fast as you cling to it with shuddering fingers and legs so wobbly, they clatter against its rungs with each step toward the perilous ground. By the time you reach the floor, the knee you'd scraped has gone numb. You want to turn your chin down and see if your dress has bloomed a crimson flower of blood, but your neck is unyielding. It's hard enough to step back from the security the ladder provides. All the will your spirit possesses must be channeled into facing the woman looming like a cloud of miasma behind you.

There is no time to brace for a confrontation, but you force your face into as docile an expression as possible before you meet your Mama head-on. She is short and portly, hunched up in such a way as to make her smaller in theory, though, in reality, the sight is only more imposing to you. You expect to meet her piercing stare again, but she isn't looking at you. Instead, she's got one eye hooked on the edge of the hayloft and her lip caught in a sneer so deep it's almost a snarl.

"You too, Edward," she spits, and your throat dries to dust. "Don't think I'm ignorant of your bein' up there with'r."

The silence that follows is stifling, crowding in on you from all sides. The pressure doesn't ease even as that pregnant pause turns to the creaking and groaning of wood, which protests as the weight of an unseen body shifts toward the hayloft's edge. The thud of booted feet that replaces the wood's cry is little consolation; your heart kicks up at the steady plod that commences, matching it in rhythm but pounding twice as fast. You don't dare to turn and look or even to fiddle with your skirt nervously. Your hands remain still at your sides as your mother stares above your head, watching Eddie climb down from the hayloft. Her eyes dip slowly and steadily along with the thumping of those booted feet until her gaze is even with your face. The final step down behind you is quieter than the rest, and your throat tightens as you sense Eddie's hesitance in the sound.

As he alights on the ground, Mama's eyes suddenly shift. Where once she had been staring almost uncannily in your direction, as if she may or may not have been trying to look you in the eye, a sudden cut and glint make it abundantly clear that now— now— your mother is gazing directly at you.

It's all you can do to keep from trembling.

You vaguely hear the shuffle-scrape of Eddie's footsteps and feel the warmth of his body as he comes to stand beside you. The tiniest glance reveals the extent of his mortification: his pale cheeks are beet red with a flush that creeps down his throbbing neck, and his eyes are squinched half-shut as if bracing for a blow. His adam's apple bobs, and unconsciously, you swallow at the same time.

When Eddie finally opens his mouth, all that eeks out is the briefest croak before your mother interrupts coldly. "You best be gettin' home to your uncle now, Edward."

While the words don't drip with venom, the mention of Wayne is nothing if not a threat, and Eddie recognizes it as so. You would never expect him to argue; in fact, you'd be dismayed if he had, but the thought of facing your mother's wrath alone covers the frozen dread inside you with a fine layer of poignant sorrow. You are heavy, but now you are empty, too.

Weakly, Eddie clears his throat to rasp, "Yes, ma'am." Your chin trembles at the sound of his voice, but your eyes only begin to sting when you feel the soft, subtle draw of his fingers across the small of your back as he passes by you to disappear out of sight beyond the barn doors. The touch is one last offering of comfort from your beloved before you both must face the consequence of your transgressions.

In the kitchen, Mama takes you apart.

The way she lashes you with her tongue is harsh and unforgiving. Each word darts across the kitchen counter, catches you with its claws, and burrows beneath your tender skin, sinking deep to carve into your marrow.

"How dare you." Her voice quivers with the force of her rage. "How dare you bring such disgrace upon our family. You know darn well that we forbade you from seeing that boy, yet you went behind our backs anyway. And now, to make matters worse, I find you been carryin' on like a," her lips twist up to spit a sharper barb, "hussy up in the hayloft. What kind of a girl do you think that makes you, y/n?"

She pauses long enough to make you question whether she expects an answer, but she carries on without you. Her eyes dart along the cabinets, unseeing as she chuckles mirthlessly. "And, oh. M'blood could just boil thinkin' how that boy could set there at his dinner table and talk about how good we raised our daughter, only for you two t'turn around and… and…."

She stutters off, wild eyes rolling as she works herself up. The deepening of her wince uglies her visage, so that lines crease at the corners of her mouth where before there were none. And oh, how foolish you were to think the sight of her bulging eyes would be in any way gratifying. How deeply, utterly stupid of you to think such a thing.

"What you done is unspeakable. How'm I supposed to show my face in town, knowing what you been up to right underneath my nose? It turns my stomach just to think about what y'were doin' up there w'him."

Each word sinks deep inside you. It’s a barrage of all you deserve because it's the truth. And this is just the beginning. Because there's disgust there, in Mama's screwed-up face, and there's fury, too. But beneath those, there's also hurt— the evidence of a deep wound torn open by your impropriety. It's a hurt you aren't sure you can mend.

At that realization, fat, hot tears begin to roll unimpeded down your cheeks. They drip from your quivering chin, which tightens with the occasional sniffle as you try to keep yourself from collapsing to the floor, wrapping your arms around your mother’s skirt, and pressing yourself to her shins in pitiful supplication.

Though Mama is looking at you, she doesn't seem to register that you've started to cry. "I just can't understand it." Mama's fingers press divots into her temples, and her head wags absently as if in subconscious denial. "Virginia was your age when she married her Lawrence. She knew the way of things. And now look at 'er— got her own home and three children to raise." Her hands drop sharply, and a flash of judgment returns. "She's a proper lady. And then what d'we have? You. I never thought I'd see the day when a daughter of mine would behave like this."

The burrs stick sharply, coating you in a prickly sadness that only intensifies when your Mama's plump arms tighten to her sides, crossing beneath her bosom, cinching in tight as she presses a fist to her lips.

"Lord help me— what'm I gonna do with you now?"

It's so much quieter than all else she's said, so much duller, and yet all the more painful for it.

Her name on your lips is a whimper, a sob, a plea all at once. "Mama—" You suddenly feel no more than six years old with dirt streaked on your shameful cheeks, filled with the crushing sense of all you've done wrong.

"Don't." She cuts you off firmly. Your teeth click together painfully as your jaw snaps closed. She stares at you for a long moment. "Th'last thing I wanna do is talk about what was goin' on up there, but clearly…"

You read the intention in your mother's restless shifting, the discomfited rocking of her heels. Heat floods up your throat, a sickly blaze of shame. "Well," she continues stiffly, "I know y'had your mouth on him, and that's… that's one thing. But I need to know." Her fist drops to reveal a stiff upper lip, but her voice quavers slightly as she asks a question that doesn't stick like burrs or burrow beneath your skin. Instead, it pierces straight through the center of you.

"Have you had relations with Edward?"

Your shock is like the firm twist of a leaky spigot. The steady flow of your tears ceases so abruptly that it's nearly enough to distract from the question itself.

Nearly enough. Not quite enough.

Horrified panic surges up as the question sinks in: Mama's askin' me if I had sex with Eddie. The feeling claws its way past your stomach, past your heart, past the heat in your throat, and straight up to your head. It rushes there, leaving you dizzy. Black fuzz spreads across your vision.

And the lie springs up, ready and poised behind your teeth. It's a denial borne of fear, desperation, and the deep ache beating in the child's heart still nestled within your grown one. That tiny heart flutters against your ribs, recalling the plink of music box drift-offs and gentle John the Rabbit wake-ups; the balm of kisses pressed to scraped knees and hurt feelings wrung out with tight hugs; the roundness of laughing cheeks streaked with flour and little hands cradled in large palms, guided to knead love into dough, right here, in this room, all those years ago.

Could you survive the loss that would come with confession? Could you bear to see the lingering light— the final vestige of a mother's regard for her child— die behind her eyes?

Led by a child's heart and a mind seized by panic, the choice you make is not a choice, but an inevitability.

"No," you whimper, and such sincerity pools within your eyes that even one who knows better might be convinced you believe that. "No, I din't lay with him, Mama. I swear it."

The softening of her features, fractional though it is, brings you such tender relief that tears spring anew at the corners of your lashes.

"Well, all right," she says finally, and while her voice isn't quite fond, you can see the creases around her mouth ease, fading from deep crevices back to the faint lines you're familiar with. It's a gift you wouldn't dare waste. "Y'know what needs to be done, then."

Without a hint of protest, you retrieve the wooden spoon from the crock on the counter, passing it into your mother's waiting hand and presenting your backside to her.

With balled fists and a rigid spine, you take your punishment. You press your lips flat to keep all your noises in as Mama spanks you with the rounded back of the wooden spoon. The even raps— ten against your clothed buttocks— smart and sting, but they do not ache. Her actions are not hesitant or reluctant, but they aren’t gluttonous either. Your mother does not grow fat feasting on your pain; she is merely obliged to provide it.

You are braced for another impact when you hear the spoon clatter back into the crock. When you realize another blow will not come, you face her again. Silence reigns the room as you take stock of yourself: warm, stinging skin, pressure in your cheeks, nose, and forehead from crying, and a new, yawning hollowness inside.

"M'sorry, Mama," you sniffle, throat thick with remorse, "M'sorry for disobeying you, a-and bringin' shame on the family. I— I jus'..." You choke and try again. "I—"

There is only one justification, however inadequate it might seem to your mother. It's spoken in the misery of your crumpled brow, in the glaze of your big wet eyes, in the copper of your lower lip where you've worried the spot Eddie's kisses still sweetly linger.

I love him.

"I know." Mama replies as if you'd said it aloud, and her voice is tight, tight with what she is trying to suppress. "I know you do." Her bosom heaves with a heavy, bracing sigh. "But y'know what your Pa said." She doesn’t seem to feel the need to be more specific, and you muster a smidgeon of gratitude for that.

"I know," you echo her, and your voice is tiny and broken. You are tiny and broken. And tired. You realize all at once that you are so tired, it's a labor just to keep from lying down right here on the floor. "R'you gonna tell 'im what I did?"

A jerky nod confirms it, and you think you'd feel more afraid if you could feel anything at all. "I'll speak with your Pa when he gets home," Mama tells you. "Now go'n up to your room. Don't expect you'll get any supper tonight."

You stare at her, solemn and unresisting, and in that stillness, you can see the moment she hesitates. The flicker that passes across her crinkled eyes is brief, but you see it, and the hush of her voice tells a story all its own. "Don't come down for nothin'," she murmurs intently. "No matter what y'hear. Just stay in your room 'til the morning. Hear me?"

You can feel yourself wilt further into exhaustion with each passing moment. "Yes, Mama," you croak in dutiful agreement.

The press of her cool palm against your warm, sticky cheek is brief. It lingers only long enough for you to barely realize it has been offered. But that fleeting sensation keeps you alert enough to drag yourself up to your bedroom, softly shut the door, strip off your dress and chemise, and pull on your thin nightgown before relinquishing yourself to the sunken mattress. At that point, you cease to tick, like the final tines have plinked within a wound music box. You have landed on your back atop the covers, and there you will stay until you can summon the strength to turn onto your side.

Though you are tired, sleep does not come to offer a reprieve. Instead, though your eyes begin to strain, you stare at the crack in the plaster above your head. It's the same one you traced while waiting for your crow to land on your windowsill yesterday, yesterday, yesterday. Yesterday beats in the useless yearning of your heart, trailing down your temples to pool in the hollows of your ears.

Yesterday, Eddie held you in your bed until you fell asleep. Today, he never would again.

Heavy footsteps rouse you, and you jolt awake.

At some point in the afternoon, outside your conscious memory, the slow leaking of your eyes had finally ceased. Blearily, you curled into yourself, tucking your wrists beneath your chin and finally drifting off into unconsciousness. Now, your bedroom is not the way you remember it. It's dizzying at first when your eyes pop open not to the crack in white plaster you'd expected but instead to the sight of your bedroom window. The outside is dark beyond the gauze curtains. The air now hums with the dusk song of cicadas.

You have little time to orient yourself before the heavy footsteps that woke you yield to the squeal of a door hinge. Your neck is stiff when you lift your head, attempting to blink the strain from your eyes.

Cast in dimness, Pa looms over you like the shadow of death.

Your father is typically imposing, but his visage is made even more severe by the lack of light. His long face appears to be carved with crags, which harshen the snarl of his brow and turn the wrinkles of his sneer into jagged gashes lining his thin lips. What little light remains glints off the bony line of his nose and the flash of his hard, unyielding eyes. He stands unmoving as if etched from obsidian; the only feature to betray him as man and not stone is the ticking of his square jaw. A muscle there jumps erratically, twitching out its silent fury.

Eyes wide, heart fluttering, breath quick and shallow, you lay still as a prey animal hoping to escape a predator's sight. That is no use. Quick as a rattler, Pa's hand strikes out, and the yawning hollowness inside you becomes an uproar of fear flooding your throat.

He takes firm hold of your arm, thick fingers like a vice pinching your skin. When he tugs at you roughly, you let him maneuver you to the edge of the bed. You keep yourself limp and unresisting because, now that you've been caught in his jaws, you know he'll only bite down harder if you don't. And you even shimmy to assist him, fingers twisted tight in the hem of your nightgown to keep it from dragging up your legs. Preoccupied with maintaining your modesty, you're unprepared to be dragged beyond the footboard; you lurch off the bed in an ungainly slump, and your knees clunk painfully to the hardwood floor.

A shock of pain shoots up both of your legs, and you muffle your reaction with lips pressed tight, following the silent command of your father's grip as he insists you turn to face the mattress. He drops you only once you're kneeling how he wants you, and the loss of his clamped fingers is a relief. Feeling begins to return to your arm as blood flows freely again, and a dull throb starts up in the place he'd gripped you.

Yet that's nothing compared to what you know is coming when you hear the metallic clink of a buckle. It's followed by the unthreading of his belt, which shicks through the loops of his blue jeans with a drag of denim and a snap of leather breaking free.

Moments pass in agonizing silence as you wait for the first crack of the belt. Everything inside you tightens in preparation for the pain to come— your muscles, your bones, your heart, and your spirit. You brace yourself, thighs quivering as you hold so perfectly still despite how your skin has begun to dew with nervous sweat. As you hold that stillness, you can even detect the sting of your mother's milder punishment throbbing in time with the pulse that thrums within your tense body.

Your head has just begun to sag when Pa's voice grates loudly like the grinding of stone, gruff and hoarse. "Y'pologized to your Mama for your behavior?"

You rush to answer. "Yes, sir."

"Y'ever gonna dare sneakin' around under my roof again?"

"No, sir."

A grunt follows your reply. It sounds satisfied enough to untwist a little of the fear inside you. "Y'ashamed of yourself for what you done with that piece of trash? You regret lettin' him," he pauses so the spit of his words might sting you worse, "ruin you with his filthy hands?"

Unbidden, Eddie's face blooms in your mind's eye: wild curls of soft dark frizz, crinkled eyes lightened to amber in the sunshine, soft nose dusted with cinnamon freckles, pink lips stretched wide in a smile that makes your heart squeeze even in your memory. You see him there, your beloved crow, and your chin trembles with the truth. You manage to steady it so that your second lie of the day can come out strong. "Yes, sir."

But perhaps, in your remembering, you hesitate a second too long, because your answer is quickly followed by fire cracking across the crease of your thigh and cheek.

You yelp with shock and pain, reeling as the contact burns through you, beginning as a white-hot ache before dulling to a throb. You tremble, breathing shakily as your father mutters, "I'll make damn sure of that."

Pa belts you across your buttocks and thighs, attempting to scald that shame into you with the cruelty he wields by his hand. But the whip of the belt is not the same as the lashing of your mother's words in the kitchen; it could never be. Not when Eddie's face has bloomed before you, bathed in summer sunshine. Not in this place, where the bunching of your fingers in the bedspread only makes you think about strong arms around your middle, soft breath on your cheek, and the tickle of wild curls against your shoulder.

Your father feasts on the cries he draws from you. He takes them as evidence of your guilt and shame. But you're fortified by the memory of Eddie's strong body cradling you in this bed, the breadth of his wide palm on your mound as he brings you to the pinnacle of pleasure, holding you snugly against him when you fall into surrender.

Harshness could never drive out reverence. Pain could never drive out love.

Pa might leave you welted and whimpering against the footboard, but he can never make you waver in your devotion to Edward Munson.

That's not, of course, due to a lack of trying. Because try he does. Pa efforts to cleave you from Eddie in any way he knows how. He begins with a belting and continues the next morning with a visit to your neighbor, Mr. Wayne.

He's over there 'til midday, which you know because you do not rouse from your bed until he returns. You'd lain there on your side for the entirety of the morning, wrists again tucked beneath your chin, but legs straight since curling them made the throbbing in your bottom and thighs sharpen to a burning ache. Throughout the morning, you stared out the window, watching the light crawl steadily up the red siding of the house next door.

You stirred only when Mama came to tend you. She didn't speak, but you could sense her sentiment in the mild soap and damp cloth she used to wash you, in the gentle pat of a soft towel against your cleansed skin, in the earthy spice of the calendula salve she dabbed on your welts. After she was done, your nightgown fluttered back into place around your hip and flank with the lightest touch. You nibbled on the toast sweetened with butter and honey she left for you on the bedside table, but you did not quit your bed.

This was not the first time Pa had taken the belt to you for some indiscretion, but it was by far the harshest. That's evident as the painful throbbing in your lower half intensifies when you prop yourself up on a palm, testing how it feels to sit up. Your father finds you in the midst of this endeavor: leaning gingerly on one flank, your lips pressed tight and pale.

You glance toward him warily as he bullies open your bedroom door, and he squints back but doesn't acknowledge your pained expression. "Get y'rself presentable," he grunts. "You're comin' with me next door."

Humiliation, it seems, is the next tool Pa has decided to use to cleave you from Eddie. You know it isn't unreasonable to ask you to apologize to Mr. Wayne for your inappropriate behavior. In fact, now that you've had time to reflect on your actions, you even want to apologize to your neighbor. You cannot— will not— denounce your devotion to Eddie, but you do regret disrespecting Mr. Wayne. He's a man who has been nothing but kind and patient with you and his nephew throughout all the years you've known him, and to think you'd wounded him with your actions makes your throat thicken with genuine regret.

So you dress hastily in your loosest, lightest frock and spend the majority of the time Pa affords you sitting at your writing desk, crafting a missive of carefully-chosen words you hope will convey to Wayne the depth of your sincere contrition. It takes some scratch-outs and restarts, but by the time Pa returns to retrieve you, you feel satisfied with what you've written.

You expect to apologize to Mr. Wayne for the offence you have caused him, and you expect to make the apology in person, so you don’t hesitate as you follow your father into the red house. It is also unsurprising that Pa would watch you deliver that apology. Knowing his nature, it's expected that he'd want to ensure your efforts are satisfactory. But you do not anticipate the way Pa ushers you through your neighbors' house, one palm pressed flat to your back to keep you from retreating when you see Eddie sitting next to Wayne at the dining room table.

Eddie doesn't look any worse for wear, not in the way you feel after enduring Pa's punishment last night, but he isn't unaffected by yesterday's events. He's wilted like a shade plant left too long in the hot sun: limp curls clumped at the ends, broad shoulders slumped, pink lips sagging at the corners. His umber eyes are smudged with purple in the hollows of their sockets as he stares down at the table. He doesn't look up as Pa urges you forward.

Your heart seizes at the sight of him, stalling as familiar, hungry want mixes with poignant, thrumming sadness. The impulse to rush to the table and throw your arms around him, to bury your fingers in his curls and cradle his face to your breast, to feel his hot arms crush you against him— all comfort, all sweetness, all desperate relief— is nearly overwhelming.

To resist is worse agony than any strike of leather, but resist you must. Pa's firm hand on your back demands you stand behind the chair across from Mr. Wayne; all the while as he maneuvers you, you will your crow to look up. He doesn't, though you can tell he now knows you're here. You see it in the tightening of his brow and the twist of his plush lips, which pinch with the effort to keep himself at bay.

Pa scrapes a chair out, settling himself heavily down into its seat. Standing beside him, you fidget with the crisply-folded letter, pinched fingertips crawling slowly along its edges as you pour all your will and longing into a stare that Eddie refuses to return.

The stalemate ends as Pa clears his throat loudly, growing impatient. "Go'n, now," he prompts, crossing his arms and kicking his feet out under the table in a scuff and thump of heavy boots.

You steal one more lingering glance at Eddie before dropping your eyes to your hands and unfolding your letter. It is silent at the table as you turn it right-side up to read from. You lick your lips and take a breath to steady your nerves before beginning.

"Dear Mr. Wayne," you begin, reading in a cadence reminiscent of your schoolteachers' voices— melodic, perhaps too overly-expressive. "I want to tell you that I am so very sorry—"

A lump rises suddenly in your throat, and you falter; you begin again, speaking a little faster, though you can't disguise the tiny tremble that has emerged. "I am so very sorry for what I've done to disrespect you. I have been carrying on in a shameful manner…."

The apology becomes a blur as you race to complete it before losing your composure. As you express your remorse and acknowledge your wrongdoing, the shaking of your voice only worsens; by the end, your chin is wobbling hard enough that your teeth start chattering.

"Tha's all right, dear," Wayne interjects, gruff but not unkind. Never unkind. "I kin what you're tryin' to express. 'ppreciate your apology."

You nod jerkily, accepting the reprieve gratefully. You fold your letter back up with trembling fingers and pass it over the table to your neighbor, who tucks it away in his pocket.

With a jut of his chin, Pa motions to Eddie. "S'your turn now, boy," he says, and there's enough vitriol roiling there beneath the surface to more than compensate for Wayne's lack. Pa's shrewd eyes dart to you. "Sit down now."

You don't dare disobey, though your stiffness and pinched expression bely your discomfort as you perch gingerly on the edge of the chair. Eddie rises sharply, and your gaze catches on the clench of his broad fist at his side, how his ruddy knuckles have blanched with the force of his grip. You know they'd tightened at the sight of your pain, and a sudden surge of longing nearly leaves you breathless.

You'd urged Eddie to look up at you when he'd been seated, but now you know why he didn't because neither can you, now that the positions are reversed. You can't look up at his face and see the expression there. It's hard enough to hear his voice as he apologizes to your father for touching you without his permission, for the deep offense of wanting you when he'd expressly been told he wasn't allowed because he was too wild and frivolous, and that he'd proven himself as such for what he'd done with you in the hayloft.

At the end of Eddie's apology, Pa grunts his acceptance. Then, he informs you in no uncertain terms what now will happen. It is the result of his lengthy discussion with Wayne this morning; in the end, they both agreed on certain truths moving forward, and they share those with you now.

They tell you that you and Eddie have been stripped of your freedoms and grounded for further notice. That you aren't to attempt to see or speak with one another. That you should begin thinking about your separate futures and leave this silly summer romance behind. That you are both lucky they are benevolent enough to allow you to continue living side-by-side without sending one or both of you away.

You are bidden to acknowledge the rules, and you intone your obedience, as does Eddie. And when Pa is satisfied that you have been sufficiently cleaved from the boy across the table, you are herded back around the tall fence and deposited onto your property.

Having seen the defeat written across your miserable face, Pa leaves you to your own devices. You choose to sit beneath the apple tree, hissing at the lance of pain that races up your buttocks and into your spine as you thump down into the grass. Stubbornly, you ignore the low throbbing in favor of deciphering the storm inside you.

Under the apple tree, a billow of emotion spreads within, complex and layered, filled with contradictions. Because what you've done is indeed wrong, and you know that. But to take the depth of your relationship with Eddie and reduce it to an indiscreet romp, a careless mistake, an insignificant dalliance chalked up to the folly of youthful impulse…

Well, you know this also. Down to your core, you know that that isn't right. And no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set.

Twelve days ago, the intimacy you shared with your crow came to fruition in a wondrous way. As you pass your days in solitude within your roost, that wonder begins to transform you. It starts with a letter.

Though the tall fence running the length of your adjoining properties keeps you apart from Eddie, and your parents' watchful eyes prevent any wandering from your front porch, one minor breach remains in those steadfast defenses. It's the tree stump rotted straight through, the only place where the grass of your backyards mingles to become one. Secrets are concealed there, announced by the innocuous song of two woodland birds: the turtle dove and the crow.

You don't hear the call the day following your public apologies, or even the day after that. It comes on the third day while you're sat on a stool in the goat pen, working down the nanny's final teat with one hand. Milking her has been slow and steady work, impeded because her kid is leaning against your flank, content so long as you keep one hand on his small bristly side. His tiny tail beats rhythmically against your skirt as her milk rains hollowly into the metal bucket with each pull of your pinched fingers. And when the stream has turned to a dribble, you hear that unmistakable sound: a deep, harsh 'kaa-kaa-kaa' that has your heart pattering instantly against your ribs as your head whips of its own accord toward the fence. You strain to see Eddie through those tiny gaps, but you're too far away for the gesture to mean much. Your eyes dip to second best— that familiar stump, gnarled and weathered gray, splintered but surprisingly soft and spongy to the touch as if it would give way under a heavy hand or foot. You cannot see into the dark crevice at its base, but you know what now awaits you there.

You want to throw yourself to the ground and reach elbow-deep into that damp space, dirt and dress be damned. But you know the second you leave the bucket unattended, all the milk you'd painstakingly gathered would be claimed by the kid. You squeeze out the teet a few more times— perhaps a bit too hastily, since the nanny flicks her ears at you— before snatching up the bucket, bringing it to the kitchen to strain with cheesecloth and tuck into the icebox, leaving the bucket and soiled cloth in the sink out of sight. I'll wash it right quick as soon as I check the stump, you assure yourself. You couldn't possibly wait another moment longer to see what Eddie has left for you to find.

You're thrumming with impatience and excitement as you pop the screen door back open, struggling not to rush toward your prize and draw suspicion from anyone who may see you. Thankfully, a furtive glance around the yard ensures you are alone, and with nothing else to impede you, you quickly gather up your dress and kneel before the stump to claim your offering.

You reach past the blanket of fertile green moss that skirts the stump's base, mind flicking through the possibilities of what you might find in there. It will surely be a scrap of paper, but what will its few words convey? Will Eddie beg you to join him at the creek one last time? Tell you he's enlisted someone's help, an emissary of sorts, to go between you so you can speak again? Will he express his longing for your body's closeness? His pain at your separation?

A fluttering thrill blooms low inside you, cautious and sweet, fearful in its intensity. Because another wondering crosses your mind before you have the good sense to prevent it, and that wondering is this:

With an acknowledgment, perhaps, of how unideal the timing and the method is… will Eddie finally put words to the truth you see in that soft expression that graces his features, the one that's only come out for you, only you, only ever you?

Your fingertips graze thin smooth paper nested in a cradle of grass. As you pull your arm out of the stump, you can imagine it so plainly, written in that familiar scrawl: three words to turn a scrap into the most precious of treasures.

But the paper that comes out is not torn hastily from the corner of a brown paper bag as it usually is. Instead, you’re holding a folded piece of stationary, lightweight and crisp white, though its edges have soaked up some dirty dampness from where it has been hiding.

You don't have the luxury of time needed to examine the emotions that stir at this unexpected sight; you need to get to safety first. You tuck the letter beneath the band of your pocketless apron, fumbling with the bow at the small of your back to tighten it. There the paper stays, pressed against your stomach as you return to the kitchen to wash the bucket and cheesecloth. You lay them out to dry, then pass by your mother in a brush of fabric down the narrow hallway. Lightheaded, heart thumping, you creak up the stairs to your bedroom, closing your door and releasing a woosh of held breath. You sink to the floor in front of it, pressing your back to the wood. In lieu of true privacy, this position keeps someone from bursting suddenly in on you before you can conceal what you're doing. With that assurance, you shift forward, untying that tight bow and letting the apron fall across your legs, revealing a flutter of crisp white.

That stirring of emotions returns full force as you run your thumb along the bottom edge of the paper, wiping the collected dirt absently on the hem of your dress. As you unfold it and Eddie's penciled scrawl is revealed, the first wave of your emotion crests to sting sweetly in the corners of your eyes.

The letter isn't particularly long. It doesn't wax poetic about your grace and charm or meander through the hills and valleys of your shared story. It little matters when you can hear Eddie's teasing rasp in every sentence, see his wild beauty in every word, and feel his firm touch in each uneven scratch of letters into the page.

My Dove, Eddie murmurs against your temple, and you sigh, melting with the sticky sweet honey as he voices his claim on you. His Dove. That's what you are.

"Yes, Eddie," you whisper into the stillness of your empty bedroom, lids low, lashes heavy as you read the next line.

First things first. Don't you even think about writin' me back. You hear me? Plush lips curl as your besotted expression falls into a pout, and you hear the rasp of his laugh as he cradles your face in his broad, rough palms. S'not that I don't wanna get a letter from you, you know. I just can't have you in any more trouble. It nearly killed me to see how you were hurtin' on account of me. Umber eyes crinkle, and his thumb brushes the corner of your lip. Promise me you'll listen for once.

You regard him sullenly for a moment. "Fine," you grump, and the crooked smile you're rewarded with softens the edge of your frustration.

Eddie regards you fondly. I know you don't wanna. But you will anyway, 'cause y'can't help but do what I say now that you're all gooey over me.

You flush with heat, bashful but pleased, twisting your lips against the dopey smile that wants to come out for him. Now that that's settled, he snarks, making you yearn to kiss the knowing tilt right off his lips, I want you to know that… well, I really am sorry for makin' a mess of things for us. Maybe if I'd done different, we wouldn't be where we are right now. No use dwellin' on it or nothin', because what's past is past. But I screwed it up for us, and I don't know what to do to fix it, and I'm just sorry, Dove. I really am.

"Oh, Eddie—" His name is a soft, feminine sigh of anguish as the sting returns full force, burning insistently behind your eyes. You grab up his hands, squeezing them tight; the paper wrinkles in your grip. "Eddie, you didn't make a mess of anything. It's not your fault at all, what's happened."

He stares at you mournfully, dark eyes heavy and sad, continuing as if you hadn't spoken. And I know it's only been a few days since I seen you, but I miss you something fierce. S'like my arm's been cut clean off. His lips quirk up just slightly in the corners. And you'll say that's just me bein' dramatic as always, but I mean it. It really does hurt me that much to be away from you.

Eddie's curls brush your cheeks as he gathers you close to him, pressing his nose to the top of your hair. Wish I could hold you. Be there for you, take care of you. But I guess this's all I can do for now. He breathes in deep, and your heart twists sweetly in your chest at the feeling of his breath there— a cool inhale, and then warmth puffing in short bursts when he murmurs, You know you're my best friend, but you're so much more than that. Y'always have been. I told you I'd never let anyone take you from me, and I intend to keep my word, no matter how long I gotta wait.

Your first tear falls, and Eddie's arms tighten around you. He presses a kiss to your hair. In the meantime, he rasps, quiet but sure and brash as always, if you find yourself missin' me, or if you're havin' a hard go of it, or if you just wanna remind yourself where I am. All you gotta do is call for me, Turtle Dove. And when I call back, what I'm really sayin' is, 'I'm here. I'm here, and I ain't goin' nowhere.'

On the page, there's a gap of space and a scratched-out word, and you can feel Eddie's adam's apple bob in a gulp. And if I'm missin' you, or… or if I'm havin' a hard go of it. If you still want me the way that I want you.

The final line of the letter begins to fuzz while you stare down at it, expanding in a bloom of dark-on-white as more tears flood your eyes. But you don't need to see it; the words have already been etched into your heart.

Will you call back to me? So I know you're here, and you ain't goin' anywhere?

Those two questions close the letter; there is no signature. After all, when two like souls flutter their wings and settle themselves to perch together on a shared wire, names become nothing more than an afterthought.

Paper flattens to the wooden floor. It crinkles as you press against it with your palm, leveraging yourself up to your feet blindly as your stirrings finally overtake you in a rush of tears. They flow over as you lurch around the footboard to the windowsill, pushing the gauzy curtains heedlessly aside; they catch the corners of your lips as your fingers twist the stiff window hinge, and your smile stretches in time with the window's jerky progress up the frame.

September air floods in, ruffling gauze and soothing over your forehead and cheeks. The humid heat of summer has finally broken, leaving mugginess a thing of the past. And it's into that air, scented with crisp wind and the first dry musk of fading leaves, that you call for your crow.

Your first coo isn't as graceful as usual because your voice is choked by sorrow and joy combined. But you do not let that stop you. You call out your bedroom window again and again, as loud as you've ever been, eyes fixed on the stoop at the back of the red house. You call and call until the door springs open there, and a crow hops out onto the stoop. As you look down upon him, tears run in trails that drip off your chin, and your cheeks begin to ache with the force of your smile. You cup your small hands around your mouth and call again.

'Turr-turr-turr,' you sing, mimicking the melodic trill of the turtle dove.

This moment will not quell your stirrings. As more days pass, they will billow ever more intensely and change ever more quickly as the transformation continues inside you. Your bitterness and your temper are still to come; you have not seen the last of your aching.

But, for right now, this is all that matters. A pale face tipped up toward the sun, a cloud of dark curls tossing wild and untamed, a boyish whoop of relief and adoration, and the love that swells within you— still unspoken, but no less true.

#td&tc #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x fem!reader #farmer!eddie munson #farmer!eddie

490 notes · View notes