eddie munson my beloved

He’s silent when he approaches, his body consuming the space between. He lets the floorboards speak for him as they creak and groan beneath his weight. Not that you need the alarm when the hairs on the back of your neck rise to attention the moment he’s near. 

He pauses behind you. 

You feel it. His watchful gaze, patient and observant, and yet, it penetrates the barrier of normalcy that encases your movements. 

The pressure of his presence looms ever closer as you put away the last of the clean dishes. You don’t bother turning around, you don’t even have time to try as the warmth of him settles across your back.

He’s getting better. You never even heard the wood squeak in those three short steps he took. 

A gasp catches in your throat, kicked off course by the feeling of his hard cock pressing against you. It twitches restlessly, confined in a prison of soft fabric and propriety.

His hands move freely, exploring without direction, grabbing without inhibition. In a controlled collapse, his shoulders hunch and more of his weight comes down on you as his nose rests in the crook of your neck. His chest rises and falls with every deep inhale, like a hunter relishing the scent of a fresh catch. 

But soon, he tires of barriers, of flimsy fabric so withholding, he has to grit his teeth not to tear it to shreds. He searches for heat, for softness. He reaches for skin, palms slyly slipping beneath your shirt, kneading and memorizing. 

He hums, approving of the shudder that rattles through you. Then, with one hand anchoring your hips, the other slides up your spine, slow and reverent like he’s counting the vertebrae with every inch. 

Fabric rides up, bunched at his wrist as he finally stops between your shoulder blades. Gently, firmly, he pushes, until your arms bend and your elbows rest on the counter top. 

He grunts—mindless and appraising—before dropping his attention lower. There’s a complete lack of hesitation in the way he moves, like this is owed to him. Like you’re owed to him. 

His measured confidence feels like a lit match falling so delicately onto something incendiary. The quiet, certain way he moves your panties aside ignites flames across your body. You’re burning beneath his touch, heat pooling so deep, so hot, it almost chills you. 

The weight between your shoulder blades stays, but he lets go of your hip. It’s during that small respite that you hear the rustle of cloth, and it’s like the room holds its breath. 

You direct your gaze to the kitchen counter, grounding yourself in the familiar pattern. Never before have you observed the speckled laminate so closely. 

Then, a noise, frail and wanton, peels from your throat as his cock glides easily through your folds, spreading you open, collecting the evidence of your body’s permission and painting him with its shine. 

His name tumbles from your lips before your mind solidifies the order. He doesn’t respond in words, only movement. Only the blunt pressure of his length sinking into you, burrowing deep in one merciless stroke. 

You cry out, arms going limp beneath you as your body surges forward. No longer able to hold yourself up, your chest drops onto the cool surface, and the rounded edge of the counter fits between your ribs with a dull ache. Despite your fall, you can still feel his palm on your back, possessive, controlled.

His other hand finds your hip once more, nails biting half-moon marks into your skin as he pulls out slowly. Though, he wastes no time pushing back in, beginning a pace only meant for him, for his pleasure. 

Because that’s what all of this is for—

Him.  

He needed you. He sought you out. 

He watched, waited patiently. 

He was gentle in his attack. 

And now, he enjoys the spoils of the hunt: the splendor of your strained sighs marking the snap of his hips with every hitch, the wet, encapsulating warmth of your walls clenching around him, squeezing his length like you mean to keep him there. 

It’s bountiful. It’s earned. 

He grunts and groans with a dizzying ferocity, words too grand a thing to emit when your body sings for him. When you’re bent over, letting him take, and take, and take. Your moans and weak mewls battle the sound of skin slapping, the sound of hunger being sated by long, punishing strokes and a cock angled just right. 

“E-Eddie!” Your voice is shrill and your fingers strain for grip on the flat surface. 

The fullness is almost too much to take. The second of reprieve when he pulls out is a tease, a seedy taunt, before the walls of your cunt are battered once more, his thick length plunging back in. You pulse around him, clinging to every thrumming vein, trembling violently when the ridge of his head catches on your entrance during a particularly broad stroke. 

It’s like he can read your mind, can hear your whirring thoughts of too much and too big because his palm traces down your spine, settling on your ass as he uses both hands to spread your cheeks, allowing him to burrow even deeper.

“Oh, God!” you wail, gasping as he speeds up. Your body rocks violently, powered by the strength of his hips. “E-Eddie, p-please!”

He practically growls in response, giving a harsh squeeze to your supple flesh before landing a stinging smack. His breathing is wild, unbalanced and raucous—just another sound joining the salacious symphony that’s resonating across the kitchen. 

Your head drops to the counter, hot breath fogging against the surface as your parted lips form desperate pleas. His rhythm begins to falter, and your words grow louder. 

“P-Please, please, please—f-fuck! Eddie! Ple— I need— Ah!”

He knows what you’re begging for. 

It’s your bounty from the hunt. Your reward for being such sweet prey. For letting him take.

You hear a strangled noise, something ripped from deep within him, and you know he’s close. Loud, rumbling groans slice through any attempt at language. Even curses die before they ever fall from his tongue.

Then his hips stutter, and he stays inside you a moment longer before pulling out, only to sink back in with a jerking motion, like his taut muscles are the only guide to his familiar movements, like his brain has long since abandoned him. 

He’s losing it, weighed down by reluctance, he stalls inside you, not wanting to leave your heat. His body compromises, once-powerful thrusts devolving into mere ruts as his hands fly across your skin, seeking purchase, seeking softness. 

All it takes is one small whimper from you, something that sounds like another plea, and he’s crumbling, drowning beneath the waves of pleasure coursing through him as he spills into you. 

Finally, your reward has come. You feel it: the twitch of his length, the fullness, the warmth. 

He shivers, collapsing onto you as he stays buried, ensuring his claim on the deepest parts of you. 

After a while, his breathing evens out and his heartbeat syncs with yours, only then does he pull out. It’s a slow, teasing drag, leaving you in discontent as your walls pulse around nothing. You must’ve made a noise at the movement because he leaves a delicate kiss on your neck. A small thing. Barely there, but it makes you dizzy.

There’s the rustle of fabric again, and you can feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting. You straighten up, lifting yourself from the counter, your shirt gliding back down your body. Slowly, his release begins to leak from you and you squirm. He hums, pleased as your thighs clench. 

Still, he doesn’t utter a word. He just does what he always does and leads you to the bedroom. He walks steadily, matching your pace as you navigate the halls of your home on wobbly legs. 

It’s routine, how he lays you on the bed, reverent and quiet. Observing. Relishing the way you instinctively spread your legs, making room for him, displaying yourself for him. 

The bedroom is where he worships. Where he takes care in plucking you apart, piece by piece. On plush covers is where he cleans you. Meticulous and devout, he cleans the mess he made. Until your muscles spasm, until your breath races and your eyes water. Until you’re made new beneath his tongue. 

“Pretty,” he finally speaks, rumbling and low into your folds.

Masterlist

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A/N: Heyyyyyyyy :) Feels like I haven't written in forever because of midterms and life shit. Be sweet and lmk if you enjoyed this <3

—

Your car rolls to a stop, gravel crunching under the dusty wheels. Throwing it in park, you unstick your thighs from the leather seat as you laze your way out of the vehicle, already moving slowly under the hot Indiana sun.

"Well, hey there, farmer Eddie," you tease, jingling the keys in your sweaty grip. "How're the crops this year?"

Eddie doesn't move from his crouched position, hovering in front of a comically small picket fence, half-painted white. You watch his head shake, knowing there's a wide grin on the other side.

As you meander closer, you start to notice the various colors staining the jean material of his overalls. Leaning just over his shoulder, you watch his steady, ringed hand glide the thick-bristle brush over the wood.

"Oo, Picasso!"

He snorts, tilting his head to get a good look at you. You glance down, meeting his bright eyes. 

"If I remain silent, will you just keep coming up with new ways to make fun of me?"

"Oh, you don't need to be silent for that," you say, knocking your knee into his bare shoulder. "Just gotta exist."

He chuckles, ducking back down to blot the brush into the tin full of white paint.

You suck in a shuddering breath when you see a couple frizzy, unruly curls hang low in his eyes—wisps that escaped the low bun on his neck, trapping the rest of his mane. It takes everything in you not to brush the strands out of his face, to not lick your lips at the way sweat has dampened his bangs into dainty bundles resting on his forehead.

You gulp, clearing your throat.

"So, who's got Eddie 'The Perpetually Unemployed' working?"

"Wayne," he says, answering quick and easy, like painting the small slats of wood a singular color has captured all his attention.

You nod, deciding to settle onto the grass next to him.

"Ah. So not just a passion project? You're not really turnin' all 'Little Trailer on the Prairie’?"

Eddie chuckles, glancing at you once more before going back to his work.

You try to ignore the way the fond glint in his eyes seems to release a swarm of butterflies in your stomach—an annoying byproduct of years of tension masquerading as friendship. Because that’s what you are—friends. Just friends. Close enough to know everything about each other, but not close enough to know the others’ touch.

"Nah, not yet. I'm savin' that for when I receive your dowry and we can finally get this horse ’n wagon on the road," he teases, laughing at his own joke.

"Hey, now," you warn, throwing him a lighthearted glare. "I'll have you know, I can really rock a sturdy country fabric. You weren't there in sixth grade theatre class—I had all the boys beggin' to churn my butter."

A choked laugh catches in his throat, born from the urge to scoff in shock. "Ew! Okay, no more talking from you today. And absolutely no more use of the words boys or butter, especially in the same sentence."

You giggle wildly, throwing your head back and rocking into his side. "But-but, how will I annoy you to death?" you whine, jutting out your bottom lip. "Will I just have to settle for the old-fashioned murder route? That’s so overdone."

Lukewarm liquid coats your nose when Eddie suddenly swipes at you with his brush, swatting you like a misbehaving cat. Your face scrunches in a playful wince as you squirm under the odd feeling.

"You wish you could be rid of me. Me and my hot, tight, little body," he smirks, shimmying his shoulders your way. 

Flames lick at your cheeks and you’re certain the sun and moon are gossiping about the warming you’re inflicting upon Mother Nature, all from the effect of his teasing. Forcing indifference, you wipe your nose clean before smearing the remnants onto his overalls.

"Yeah, I do. So!" You sit up straight, eagerly leaning into him. 

"What're you workin' for nowadays, a nickel an hour? Oh!” Your brows lift excitedly. “If you make it to three nickels, can you buy me a drink from the soda pop shop?" Fluttering your lashes, you put on your best fifties dime-piece lilt. "I surely would appreciate it, big daddy!"

"Aaaand that's strike two," he nods, like he expected nothing less of you. "And for your information...it's a dime an hour."

A shocked laugh leaves your parted lips, but before you can respond, Eddie grumbles some more.

"Had to argue for that much. Wayne said the roof over my head should be payment enough."

You snicker at the sudden rouge to his cheeks, watching with rapt attention as he tries to fight off a smile.

Finally, you take a look around, noticing the comically small picket fence bordering the rest of the grassy property, like a proper fence, not just a barrier for bunnies, which, admittedly, is what it looks like right now. But you see the vision. Kind of.

"Why does he want this, anyway?" you ask, vaguely gesturing to the rest of the enclosure.

Eddie sighs, taking a break from painting to wipe his hands on his pants and flex his fingers. Rolling his shoulders back, he lets his head loll in your direction.

"I don't know. I think he thinks it'll up the property value—at least visually. Not like we're ever gonna move out of this shit hole. But I guess we're gonna be the shiniest, smelliest shit in the hole," he grins, bobbing his head closer to yours.

You huff an amused breath through your nose, leaning away from where he encroaches on your space. Because even all sweaty—smelling of boy, fresh cut grass, and paint fumes—he still makes you dizzy. Although, that may be the fumes. Either way—with the humidity being as suffocating as it is, you don't need to choke on his intoxicating scent too.

Reaching in front of his now-crossed legs, you grab the brush he left in the tin, scrape the excess paint off, and scoot a little to the left—finding an unpainted slat of wood.

"Can't be that hard," you mutter, commenting on the way he seemed to be laser-focused since you arrived.

"Alright, then. Let's see it, Van Gogh," he tips his chin at you, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

You start at the top, moving downward in small strokes, but your hands quickly stall when you hear Eddie's disgruntled reaction.

"No, no, no, no! What are you, nuts?" His voice jumps an octave on the insult, brows tightening to make a deep valley on his forehead. "That is horrific technique, sweetheart! Forget the ear, if Van Gogh had brush strokes like that, he would've gone for the hand—and rightfully so!"

A scoff tears from your throat, diving into the air and creating ripples in the tension. You pull away from the post, holding the brush out to him. “Fine, you do it, then.”

But instead of taking the tool, he only shakes his head. “Nuh-unh. How will you ever learn if I just do it for you?” 

“Oh, please. When am I ever gonna need to paint a fence in my life?” you argue, cocking your head at him, sporting your best unimpressed look.

He clears his throat, glancing at the fence post in front of you.

You roll your eyes. “Besides right now.”

Jerking his head back, Eddie shoots you an indignant glare. “Uh, you don’t expect me to paint our prairie home all by myself, do you?”

“Sorry, I’m an old-fashioned gal,” you shrug, throwing him a saccharine smile, sarcasm dripping from the corners. “I was raised to believe men do the boy-jobs and women have the babies.” 

Your smile grows at the way he ducks his head at the mention of babies—the insinuation of you having his—and the way he tries to shake off the blush on his cheeks.

“No, sorry. No self-respecting prairie wife of mine is gonna paint like that.” He gestures toward the streaky, drying finish. “It’s your lucky day, sweetheart. You’re gonna learn how to be a multi-hyphenate prairie wife!”

Grumbling a quick, condescending, “Oh, that’s a big word for Eddie,” you begrudgingly accept his guidance—the heat of his hand on yours, the pressure of space shrinking between the two of you. 

With his chest pressed to your side, warmth radiating off of him in crashing waves, you let him move the brush in long, careful strokes. 

“Alright, the trick is to really take your time. Slow and steady wins the race here.” His words devolve into a low timbre as he regains focus. “We don’t want any lines in the paint, wan’ a smooth finish.”

With Eddie frighteningly close to you now, you’re acutely aware of the small puffs of air cascading over your cheek. If you move—if you even twitch—you’re certain you would melt under the caress of his soft lips.

“L–Like this?” you ask, hypnotized by the way his hand guides yours in perfect control—all serenity wrapped sweetness. 

Hunching under the constraint of his bare skin against yours, you black out a little from how you can nearly taste the sheen sweat coating him, the way it makes your mouth water. 

But he doesn’t allow your posture to stay uncomfortable for long. Suddenly, his other hand stills at your lower back, pressing into you, holding, like he’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart at the seams—the seams he’s ripping. 

“Yeah, just like that. Good, that’s really good, sweets.” 

His gravelly voice floats into your ear like dancing music notes, playing the prettiest melody. You gulp, feeling hotter than the surface of the sun, especially where his palm burns through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Clearing your throat, you fight back a shiver when the fingers wrapped around your hand dig into your palm, almost like he’s trying to hold you, but instead of threading his fingers with yours, he maneuvers the brush from your grasp. When your mouth falls open in an earnest attempt to question him, he seems to take pity on your inability to sound anything out. 

“Gotta get more paint on there,” he murmurs, the smallest, most devilish hint of a smile corrupting his doe-like features. You have half a mind to ask him if he’s doing this on purpose, but you decide against it. You’re not sure how stern you can appear when you’re trembling under such small touches.

When he returns the brush to you, he lets his hand stall on yours a second longer, starting the motions for you once more. You try to keep as still as possible, paint as straight as you can, but his overwhelming presence has you nearly squeezing your thighs together. 

“You’re shakin’, baby,” he drawls, a quiet laugh leaving his grinning mouth as he stares at the side of your face with an unyielding look you can’t quite place. 

A bead of sweat drips down your temple; you’re burning up under his rapt attention. But ever the gentleman, he lets your hand go for a split-second, only to swipe the salty droplet away. When he notices your uneasy grip, he gently smooths his palm up your forearm, leaving a wave of goosebumps in its wake.  

“Take it slow. Yeah, there you go. Good, good girl.”

This time you can’t stop the hitch in your breath. But when you see his wicked grin widen in your peripheral vision, you drop the brush in the grass, opting to elbow him in the ribs.

Almost like you’ve been freed from a fugue state, you jump up and away from him. “You’re doing this on purpose, asshole!”

Your heaving chest and angry, breathless words seem to have no effect on him. At least not the intended effect, which would preferably be shame for messing with you. 

But instead, Eddie only blushes wildly, throwing his head back in a raucous fit of laughter. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It was just so easy! I mean, you almost moaned when I put my hand on your back!” 

A disgruntled frown sours your features, and you turn to the freshly painted posts in front of you, dragging your hand down the wet surface area.

“Hey! That was a lot of work!” 

His cry goes in one ear and out the other—you’re too focused on smearing your covered palm across his face and shoving his head until he tips backward, falling into the nearly-full tin of paint. 

“Jackass!” 

A/N: Thoughts? <3

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