#shuffled around some lines a nd punctuation and yes it will happen again walked home reading THESE COMMENTSSSS THANK YOUUUUUUUUU

[eddiemunsonbignaturals]

saying grace

a slow morning— declarations— breakfast in bed. 3.8k words

eddie munson x reader smut, 21+

cw: pussy slapping, not choking but like if ya squint sure, oral without protection, lmk if there’s anything i should tag otherwise

heat.

stuffy stillness; warm, stale air; the scent of clove and tobacco on his breath, of your rosemary hair oil; itchy sweat prickling the button of your nose and your scalp; long, fine hair sticking to your cheeks and forehead; and damp plush—

you take sensory stock, counting all your fingers and toes as your claw yourself to consciousness, up through this syrup-trap pit of sleep. your sweetheart, your Eddie, stirs behind you as you stretch your legs and he closes the steaming gap between you, pressing as much of his skin to yours as possible.

you feel like a raw boulder, like a bag of sand, each 100-pound limb still too heavy to fight off the massive blanket your legs are tangled up in. some sunlight makes it through the thick shag of the blanket, and your humid little bubble glows a deep dreamy orange. you feel a different warmth in your chest that melds you to him, and you wonder if you’ve been here for decades, wonder if you’re really carved from sunwarmed stone.

you feel Eddie’s breath, a deep sigh gusting hot over your brow. his chin is resting on the top of your head. the hair sticking to you isnt yours; the silk scarf you sleep in feels as secure as ever! as in: its slid only halfway off your head, only mostly useless. but it is still snug enough to keep your curls back and off your face. you know your sweat is reverting the blowout further, but can’t bring yourself to give a shit. his arm anchors you to the bed by your waist. you try to sit up, but he’s not budging.

he’s started to “snore” at your gentle attempts at slithering out of the cocoon you’ve built for yourselves, and your eyeroll must be audible.

the slide of your free arm up towards your head where the blanket ends, just under his nose, selfish bastard, takes a whole minute; the slow crawl of your opposite-side leg to the bottom edge of this impossibly large goddamn blanket takes two. you abort the first mission and try to roll away from this chest glued to your back, but he finally abandons sleepy pretense and grabs your wrist in his notably dry hand. there’s a vent up there you can’t reach, and it makes your search feel even more dire. your eddie isn’t moved.

“don’t remember givin’ you clearance f’r travel.” gravelly, you think. so, his throat’s dry too. when he speaks, you feel the rumble through your whole body like you’re made of jello.

“don’t remember fucking asking,” you mumble, still sleepy. then you sigh, too. you don’t want to unstick from him, duh, its too comfy here frying alive, but you’re afraid if you don’t move now that you never will, and also maybe your teeth are actually growing moss.

“i’m roasting. eddie. edward. eddie, i’m dying, i’ll die.” his next shitty fake snore rattles your teeth its so loud, and then he doesn’t speak again.

yeah, fuck the scarf. eddie groans, annoyed at your fidgeting, but the sound lilts and lightens happily as you reach up to snatch it off with another huff. its basically soaked, and he’s pulled back to bury his face in your now exposed cloud of hair. he moans into it then pushes his pelvis slowly into you, then back, then forth again to settle.

it all feels so good, he feels so good; its too hot. but you’re too in love to even think of peeling all this skin apart. you’re rubbing against him where ever you can, toes gliding along his calf, hand sliding up and down his thigh, legs rubbing together like a joyful little cricket, and you feel the dark chuckle rumble in his chest as you wiggle your ass back—as if theres a centimeter of room left between you.

now, you’re realizing with a giddy thrill that he’s naked, that his cock is smushed between his stomach and your back. you’ve let a man into your bed, love a man in your bed, you cannot believe it. you have to get out of this oven or you’ll fall back to sleep like this—have to shower and brush your stale tongue, have to hydrate, have to figure out your hair, plan the day ahead.

or, not. no, you dont have anywhere you’d rather be, actually. you flex your glutes, he sighs, and you mull on how your purpose in life might end here: on your side wearing eddie munson like a backpack, his knee bent and nestled between your thighs, his heavy arm depressing your waist. his downy forearm is pressed up under your arm and between your breasts against your sternum, and eddie’s broad and callused hand is clasped tenty around your wrist. god, he’s everywhere, you can taste him from last night, smell yourself on his hands. of course you can’t leave, and he tightens his grip on you with the top arm while he winds the one outstretched under your head around your neck, forcing your chin up and back, snuggling even tighter.

but still, “it’s, hoooot,” you whine, and you shoot your free hand out into the world outside and flip the edge of the blanket down and over your hips as far as you can fling it.

fuck, yes, oxygen. you gulp the blessedly cool air into your lungs and wake up for real as if you’ve splashed water on your face; it tickles your nose.

he gasps at the chill, and you both shiver together at the splashing relief, but your little jolt ends while he keeps up writhing against you. you hum into his elbow ditch, eye closed against your sun-bright room, and kiss each little bat there in turn, then lap up the skin before it dries of his salty sweat. he feels your tongue in his sensitive funny bone like its between his legs, and he squeaks at the tickle. so cute, so fucking cute. you reach your free hand back to take inventory of him and keep up licking and suckling at him, up his arm and down as far as you can crane your head. but eddie releases your trapped forearm and intercepts, capturing the questing hand against your chest where his once was.

even with both hands full he tweaks a nipple somehow and you jerk, moaning only a little in pain. you’re twisting your head back to face him, but he’s tightening his grip, so you give up. “le’mme up,” you say to his bicep, and he lets out another ripping bear-snore.

the sweat cooling where the sweet chilly air rolls across your body is refreshing, and you smack your lips again and swallow against the drymouth. “need water, munson, come on.”

munson hums, faux thoughtful, and grinds his stiffening length against the rift of your ass. you do arch for him, you do sigh, but you hope he doesn’t feel your heart skip, and he says, “I think I know what you need, princess,” and releases one of your hands, freeing his own to drag roughly over your tit, then your stomach, then down between already spreading thighs. with the pillow-arm now braced across your collarbone he rolls you both a bit, just until he’s mostly on his back and you’re a little on top of him, both half-facing the ceiling.

the sweat, the heat, should be uncomfortable, unbearable, but eddie squeezes the luscious chunk of your thigh just at the apex ‘til you wince a bit, and its a different heat entirely that wipes your mind of practical thought. he shakes it just to watch you jiggle, then massages his way down to your knee, spreading you open.the cool air against your sex makes you shiver again— he might be able go feel the goosebumps as they shake you.

those ripples of movement through you make his cock jump, and his hand’s on the outer thigh now, dancing its way to the back of your knee, then hitching it up so your foot falls between his legs.

eddie groans again, short and deep like its wrenched out of him at the slide of his cock against your back, his slit already leaking a snail-trail along the curve of your bum.

“okay, good morning, baby.”

he asks, “can we make a mess?” and you answer by sinking your teeth meanly into his rounded bicep. its supposed to be, “yes please,” that’s what you say, but its muffled by all his ivory flesh in your mouth. eddie hears your accommodating, “yeph, pleaph,” and sets out to prepare his breakfast.

he’s hooking his foot around you knee and trapping your leg open, the prickly scratch of his hair lighting up your sugar-sanded skin like tv static. you press into him for the sensation, and before you can register how fucked you are, he tucks two fingers between your lips and spreads them, exposing your inner folds and swelling clit to the cool air. you hum a breathy ‘uh huh’ around his chewed and reddening arm as he rubs a v-shape up and down your wet lips, and he’s a little distracted with how the sound nudges him on, the little high breath it pulls from him. he’s like a furnace, his exhaust against your face makes you struggle against his grip again.

you’re torn between staying latched and turning to gnaw on his tongue instead, but anyway you repeat your encouragement—‘mm-hmm, mm-hmm!” —right there, exactly right, thank you. its like you’re innocent in this, just answering the rhetorical of his sure fingers. then, after like, eight passes? you realize he’s fucking around with you.

eager now, blood pumping a bit faster, you hump into his palm and he shushes you, so you do it again, and he laughs into your hair when your hips leave the bed to chase him. you grow bolder in your need for him every day, he can’t believe how lovely you are, that you’ve let him see you want him so bad. its a long way from the ice-queen he met all those months ago. but you’re still biting him, slithering your tongue along the seam of his locked elbow, needing the occcupation. not hard, not to bruise, jaw loose enough that he can hear it more clearly when you tell him, “listen, listen— i need water. le’mme up!”

no, actually. he doesn’t think he will.

you can hear the smile. “well, which one is it? you need me more? this?” he says, dipping just a bit below your hole and swiping up, making you twitch hard, “or water?” oh, please. “f-mmm,” you start, but he stills his hand over your heat and cups it like he’s shielding you, a warm cover. he’s got you, you’re safe and held, even trapped in purgatory.

then, “release me, heathen,” he has the nerve to order, so now you’re biting down with intent to harm, force increasing incrementally. he feels you try to fuck up into him again, and he’s running out of time before you break skin. eddie flexes his thigh— gets his heel into the mattress, in what you realize too late is preparation— his leg still traps yours down, a bit of a stretch burning in your inner thigh and hips and making you leak, coating your ass, and your other leg can’t unbend fast enough to close before he pecks your cheekbone through your fluffy hair and then delivers a burst of punishing sharp taps against your clit. the wet slap makes you jerk and squirm as if shocked, heat burning over your cheeks anew. you’re almost shy, now you’ve been scolded.

almost. you’re caving your stomach, curling in against the sting, trying to avoid another onslaught and sinking deeper into the heat building in your stomach, and at last you release his arm with shock, your high choked cries stutter and echo through his head, go straight to the root of him—‘ah—hah- ah!’ they’re forcing your mouth open enough for him to adjust so you can’t take another bite out of him, tighter now so you can’t turn your head.

free now, eddie slides down past your button again and you gasp as his callous catches it on the way down. scratchy, so so good, almost like new. you’re shaking one leg a little, craving more friction, so he dips into the well of sap leaking from your aching pussy, then back up to press lightly against the underside of your clit, swiping left and right, then around and around, no real pattern or rhythm. just reveling in the clicking and squelching of your running wetness.

but he takes pity upon your next raspy, “please? baby, please,” and slows his already slow circles, pulls out from between your slit. “still thirsty,” he concludes, and you’re asking so nicely. you’re so sweet for him in the morning, it seems, so much more willing to melt instead of sharpening, more ready to ask for what you need. he’s gentle in gliding up and down your outside lips, pressing down on them, then releasing your leg and arms together. he drops a kiss to your shoulder and moves to sit up, not breaking all contact, but you miss him behind you already. you grab his hand without thinking, suddenly worried he’s leaving the room but he doesn’t break your grip, just squeezes you back, kisses the corner of your growing pouty frown, and sits up to dangle over the foot of the bed, swinging his legs to lay behind your back.

you’re finally unrestrained but don’t move, can’t, except to press your thighs together and rock them side to side, sliding the two halves of you against each other. you knead idly at one breast, and ghost your finger tips across both nips, watching his body bend, his muscles move beneath his skin. you wait as he sits back up holding your full carafe of water and chugging it. he grips the fancy glass pitcher with both hands and gulps down half the volume, and you recall how he had scoffed at it when he visited your room the first time. you think of the meadow you laid in together, in a position just like this: facing each other, legs extended behind one another, fingers clasped in your weird handshake. like you’re about to play a hand clap game, like he’s going to read your palm. so comfortable hunched together from almost the beginning.

you take the carafe, and gratefully sip as fast as you can for a while as he watches your throat move, you naked chest rising and falling with each breath. his wide brown eyes chase the errant water droplets streaming down your jaw, dripping into your lap. he takes his time checking you out, following the line of you down for a bit, then movement catches his eye. you’re flexing your toes, content, and his hot hand finds your clammy ankle to cradle it, and the warmth spreads up through you, down to your soles. soothing, perfect. outside the bubble of that blanket, you’re colder again than he is, but he’ll let you decide to cover up if the spirit moves you.

he smooths up and down your leg, just because he can, because he knows this familiar ease still sends chills into you, primes you. you announce to yourself, “we have to like, get up and do something. can’t just sit here,” then you’re vulnerable, twisting at the waist to place the mostly empty vessel on your nightstand with both hands; eddie isnt one to waste an opportunity.

“that’s what i’m saying! time for breakfast.”

he’s tying back his hair, smoothing his damp bangs all the way back and lying down. you still haven’t placed the water jug yet— even empty, its solid and bottom-heavy— as he bounces to scoot down the bed, pressing his chest against the strawberry skin of your bum and thick thighs, you exclaim your vexation, almost dropping the thing down and then looking over your shoulder.

“eddie, jesus! can you act like,” and the question is forgotten as he slices his hand between your legs again, widening a gap big enough to fit his head through. your own sense leaves you— your eyebrows shoot up, your smile feels feral, but you let yourself be rolled half on your side again so he can lay more on his back, get one arm under your leg, and hook one hand around the outside of your thigh, hoisting you a little over his shoulder. you think of his rings, of what almost happened. then hes yanking you towards him with a satisfied grunt, so your ass is flush against him. he whispers his thanks at your sex, licking at the oozing evidence of your arousal— “there you are—” and he kisses your pussy with tongue, sucks one lip into his mouth, then the other, lets out a stuttering groan of relief like a starved man at banquet.

“eddie, jesus, eddie.” its a ragged plea, you sound wretched to your own ears, and you don’t know what you’re begging for. maybe a moment to breathe, maybe you just want his name in the air, want him to know how much he kills you, wants his —either way, his chest soars with it, abs flex to the beat. he lives for your pretty mouth around him, even like this. he wants to say, you slay me, you’ll never get it, on your sweat and soft laughter and scowls, i’m sated, but he says:

“s’ no time for saying grace, baby, save it,” and his mouth barely moves around the warning, too focused on lining up his nose against your weepy slit and taking in a big cool breath of air before pressing it in and smothering himself. he wants to kick himself when your giggle is cut short, because its he that robs you of breath when he puckers his lips around you ripe clit and sucks only lightly. you make up the difference when you squeeze his head between your thighs. he’s so at home, its silly.

the press of your thighs, the press of his against your back helping to prop you up. his lovely head peaks only a little past your tummy from this angle, and he sighs happily when your fingers rake through the front of his flattened curls, scratching at his scalp. he’s humping the air like a dog, and you just want to feel him. you reach behind again and this time meet fired iron, the generous sheath of flesh easing his way against your palm. he keens into your pussy as he devours it, hips already stuttering a bit as his eyes screw shut, as you squeeze him at the base of his thick, perfect cock, feel it jump as he knees you gently in the back. you pump it with as much dexterity as you can manage. you start words and can’t finish them, pitch climbing higher and higher as he licks you out and pants into you, pushing you further and further out of orbit.

“f—, sh—, gahh— eddie, mmm eddie yes, please, just like th—hng,” that’s you, trying so hard to sing his praises and failing. he’s too much, this early, and it’s knocking you out.

you work his length, and you’re pulling back the hood of it all and swiping the considerable pool of gelly cum around and around the head of him when he spurts hot a wet across your arm, trembling. you know its not over for him though, not nearly, but you abandon tricks and agility for something simple, letting him fuck your tight hand and twisting a bit, gasping.

he loves you, he loves you, he loves you, and he could live off the creamed honey you’re dripping down his chin, grinding into his face. he presses the message into your heat, with the knob of his nose carving the way through your folds, slurping and suckling to your rhythm. so sensitive, so responsive, he opens his eyes to watch your perfect tits tremble and bounce as your body jerks in time with his work. his tongue is almost too slick as he laps at you, flicking back and forth where you like best just under the crest of your puffy clit, so he presses harder, puts his whole face to work. it says, yes, princess, take whatever you need, fuck yourself on me, i’ll take care of you as long as you allow it.

you didn’t vocalize through the great long huffs of breath you heaved out at first, chest rattling, or moan aloud at the feeling of his nose burrowing deeper and lower with each swipe up and down and up again. but now the pressure is deepening in your gut, the snake of ecstasy curling and twisting you up inside as eddies evil tongue goes impossibly wide and flat, spreading your nectar all about, and he then narrows as he presses into the opening of your cunt. you can feel him testing you, not quite pushing in even though you know he feels you clenching around nothing, sucking him in, asking him in, and he won’t go yet. you’re panting now, and losing patience. you need his tongue inside, and have to say so. “eddie, for fuck’s sake,” and you pull on his scalp when you feel him giggle against you. “eddie, hah- please baby, please can i have it?”

baby, finally, “hmm?” you know he wants you to say it, so you have to, you have to push past the last shreds of prudishness and say to the room, “eddie, baby, please. would you please put your tongue in me? i need it, fuck me? fuck—“ and you hiccup another gasp, and let out a long solid whine as he pushes his tongue and two fingers into your sobbing hole, curling them in opposite directions to spread you open and search for the other buzzer, the vulnerable spongey spot inside you that set your whole body aflame.

he’s gripping your leg so hard it almost hurts, then sliding that hand up to cup one breast without looking, and with the fingers inside massages your spot relentlessly. your abs are seizing and your leg begins to spasm, you don’t have it in you to force quiet the short needy gasps he’s fucking out of you, breathy pants that each end in a whine almost like a question.

in the haze, as you approach your precipice, you grab his hand and make him reach up high to your mouth, where you suck two of his thick square fingers between your lips and bite down, just to keep him still. he presses down against your tongue and sparks dance behind your eyes with impending release.

you just need something to occupy your mouth while you come, he had said once. to shut me up? you had wondered, but no—he was right, when you couldn’t talk, or wouldn’t, you wanted pressure. every hole filled at once, to feel full, covered in him. and he could only oblige, ever the gentleman. you’re saying his name around his fingers, crying it,

and then the trembling reaches its zenith, and you’re bending your body around him, pouring into his mouth like a doomed ray of light around a fresh black hole, fucking his chin like its the last thing you’ll ever do. his gravity pulls you in so profoundly that you’re scared you might scatter into nothing. your gripping his hair so hard you know it has to burn, and the deep buzz of his moans, so throaty and mean they’re more like growls, run through you so deliciously it shakes you in the nape of your neck, curls your toes.

his mouth stays the course, but when the plunge of his fingers stretching you to bursting is joined by his thumb finally breaching the gate of your vicegrip asshole, soaked and winking, a thousand thousand tons of your being condense into an inch of space, your universe turns to one bright burst of white heat as you come all over him, gushing around his agile tongue and fingers with a cry that rips rough through your throat, sobbing high and tight.

you draw your knees up to your chest with him still between them, and he moves his mouth against your pussy still, kissing out of you slowly. then, panting himself, he watches his star collapse.

back against the bed, one arm draped over his legs and the other still clasped over your panting open mouth, shocked ‘o’ of your lips shiny with drool. he doesn’t have to pry your legs open because your limbs are back to jelly, and he doesn’t have to shield his arms from your teeth, because you’re still coming back to the world when he lays his weight on top of you, elbows by your ears holding him up. he coaxes you with kisses, reminds you, “come on, danishes,” and strokes your hair back and off your neck as you spread your legs to wrap around him, feeling his hardness settle wet under your drenched thigh. you come back to him with a deep breath and a soft whistling exhale, eyes fluttering open, and he’s kissing the teary corners of your eyes and grinning. not smug or gloating, just happy.

you say it together as he leans in to press his lips to your slick forehead, “love you,” and you can’t help but roll your eyes. he shivers at your nails along his back, your lashes on his cheek.

all your little tasks can wait, you think again. he looks at you like he has the world in his arms; you close your eyes and thank whoever’s listening for bringing you home.

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