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sunlightmurdock · 7 months

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Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

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You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

@fia-thefirst @daggerspare-standingby @dempy @v0id-chaos @moonlight-addisyn @grxcisxhy-wp @shakespeareanwannabe @coconut152 @330bpm-whiplash @takemetooneverlanddd @princess76179 @loveofvernonslife @averyhotchner @trickphotography2 @sushiwriterhere @the-romanian-is-bae @atarmychick007 @talktomegooseman @xoxabs88xox @thedroneranger @roostersforevergirl @buckysdollforlife @abaker74 @blackwidownat2814 @kmc1989 @whatislovevavy @lonelywriter10 @s-u-t @topguncortez @callsign-joyride @rosedurin @86laura11 @theenorthstar @mygyn @growup-thatbeautiful @percysaidnever @katiedid-3 @its-the-pilot

#jake smut #Jake Seresin #Jake Seresin x reader #Jake Seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #Jake Seresin fic #jake seresin #Glen powell #Jake hangman Seresin #top gun: maverick

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adventuretimeaddict · 4 months

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#adventure time #Poll #lynn the person #adventure time au #fionna and cake #adventure time fionna and cake #Adventure time Lynn #Fern the human #fern #Grass Lynn

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strniohoeee · 3 months

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Hidden In The Shadows Pt. 3

Read part 1 and part 2 here

Pairing: Matt Sturniolo X Female Reader

Synopsis: It’s been a month and all Y/N keeps hitting is dead end after dead end. Not only that but she seems to have formed a friendship with the strange boy. Will this hinder her research??

Warnings⚠️: Nothing really tbh, anxiety inducing parts, talks of cults briefly, psycho Matt, oh and one last thing SMUT, submissive-ish Matt??

Songs for imagine: Lonesome Town- Ricky Nelson and This Haunted House- Loretta Lynn

⚠️This is an 18+ imagine so minors do not interact, or do??⚠️

Taglist: @gamermattsgf @lacysturniolo @franticroads @creamoncreamoncream2 @melanch0lybby @anlqq @cindylcuwho @nicksmainbitch @riverwritez @s7urnfilms (idk I might’ve missed some people🥺)

There’s a place where lovers go

To cry their troubles

And they call it Lonesome Town

Where the broken hearts stay

The rain trickled down the window as the pen in my hand ghosted over the papers scattered all over the small desk. My eyes glued to the rain, watching the dirt become mud and the grass drown.

Vigorously tapping the pen back and forth on the paper clad desk as my leg bounced quickly. Many thoughts running through my head, but none that could be placed properly.

I was a full month into my research and for some reason I was way more confused now than before stepping foot into this town. I thought I found out a lot more, but it’s either dead ends or more weird shit going on.

I was pretty much hanging out with Matt everyday, it took a while for his parents to warm up to me; but the more he brought me around the more they got comfortable.

What royally sucked was that I was becoming so close to them that I felt weird asking any questions about the dark history of this town. I truly felt bad and like I was hiding something from them.

Professor Wayne wrote to me pretty much everyday, and all I could tell him was how nervous I was to dig further. Scared to unearth something that might actually keep me trapped here.

Letting out a long sigh I slid back from the desk letting out a deep breath I didn’t know I was holding in. Slipping my slippers on, I shuffled down to the kitchen.

Opting once again for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with some water and some leftover popcorn from the previous night.

Sitting alone in silence at the table I let my mind wander. Glancing over at the back door as the rain pattered against it. I was feeling pretty useless right about now.

It’s so crazy how you can go from feeling invincible to pretty much a useless piece of shit. I felt like I had no purpose here. Endlessly wasting my time day in and day out.

I wasn’t sure if it was the shitty weather that made me feel this way, or if I was actually wasting my time. Rolling my eyes I took another bite of my sandwich. Blinking slowly as I chewed the thick piece that was in my mouth.

I used this time to look around the kitchen. I mean this was in fact an old house with…. I’m to presume many previous owners. Smiling gently my brain painted the image of an innocent family spending their holidays in this kitchen. Laughing, feasting, talking…. It’s so crazy how things come and go, including people.

My eyes scanned in front of me, and it was only then that I saw the gold reflection of a doorknob. My eyes lit up! How did I forget about the basement? A whole month here and I never once thought to check the basement.

Washing down the last bit of my sandwich with my water I placed my dishes in the sink before walking over to the door.

Grabbing the door knob I twisted and pulled, but to my surprise I was shocked by a thud. The door was locked. Shaking my head I walked over to the kitchen light switch flicking it on and I walked back over to the door.

My eyes squinted once I saw that not only was the door locked but the whole door had been painted over. A shitty light green might I add. It’s like when you move into an old apartment and maintenance repaints but they painted over light switches, the breaker box and even bugs….

“Ughhh everytime I think I find something it’s another dead end” I say out loud banging a flat hand against the door

But then I figured I could ask Matt to somehow break this door down for me. Sighing I dragged my feet back to the kitchen table sinking into the wooden chair. I threw my head back and groaned, rubbing my hands over my face

My head shot up as I looked at the kitchen walls…. That same shitty green color. My brows immediately furrowed and my back straightened.

To the naked eye this seems normal, but I remembered something. The listing didn’t show the kitchen being this color.

Scooting back harshly I bolted up the stairs rounding the corner as I ran into my room. Breathing heavy as I opened safari on my laptop.

Opening Zillow I went to the listing for this house, my eyes scanned the page before getting to the end.

“Last updated by realtor on 05/13/2023”

Rummaging through the papers on my desk I found my phone, opening up the phone calls I went back to May. I called Beaufort on May 16th…..3 days after the pictures were updated on the house.

Two and a half weeks is more than enough time to paint evidence over…. Especially incriminating evidence. I swear the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.

Opening a new tab I decided to search up this address and literally the only thing that came up was the Zillow page. This house is so fucking old and not a single thing pops up on it. The next best place would be the public library and lord knows if some weird shit went on in this house all those files would be burned or blocked out on the database.

Slamming my laptop screen down I ran my hands through my hair. I opted to go back downstairs. Swinging every drawer and cabinet door open in hopes I’d find the basement door key.

No surprise I didn’t find it, but I decided to take a knife and cut through the paint like that one scene in Coraline. And to make it even creepier I’m sure my fate would be ending up like poor Coraline….

Pulling and rattling at the door knob some more, I kicked the door once I realized I couldn’t get it open. And this wasn’t something I could go to Beaufort with….. I probably shouldn’t even be going to Matt with this, but whatever.

Feeling defeated, I decided to shower and relax for a bit. About two hours later my phone rang, and it was Matt calling from his bedroom phone. Can’t believe this guy still has a landline…. They really live like it’s the 80s here.

“Hello Matt” I said placing the phone to my ear

“Hi darling” he says on the other line, playfully rolling my eyes at the pet name

“You rang?” I asked as I looked at my nails

“Ahh yes, well you see I’m actually relatively bored this fine evening. Want to hang out?” He asked me

“I’m pretty bored myself. I’d love to hang out” I said as I sat up

“Alright sweetheart I’ll be over in like an hour, sounds good?” He asked me

“Yeah sounds great” I stated to him

Matt was so funny and awkward you could tell he didn’t really speak to girls because he didn’t even know how to end a call. He’d just hang up and I’d usually crack up laughing as I shook my head.

I decided to clean up my room. Hiding my paperwork and laptop under the bed. Thank god there was a skirting around it to hide everything or else I’d be royally screwed.

Sitting at my desk I saw Matt flicked his bedroom light to let me know he was coming over. I got up from my seat and headed downstairs. I held the door open as Matt made a run for it in the rain.

“FAST FAST” I yelled to him as he hopped onto the porch

“It’s raining cats and dogs out there” he said slipping his boots off at the front door

“Ew…you talk so old southern style” I said scrunching my nose up

“Well…” he said cocking his eyebrows at me while pointing down his body

“Sorry! Sometimes I forget you really are southern” I said laughing

“It’s alright darling, hope you’re hungry I brought dinner” he said holding up a huge lunch box.

“I actually am” I said nodding my head as we made our way to the kitchen table

“Okay so mama made her famous roast, with some carrots, corn and grilled potatoes” he said as he pulled the Tupperware out of the lunch box

“That sounds sooo good, tell your mom I said thank you” I told him

“Will do little lady” he said winking at me

I grabbed us some soda as he set our dishes out full of food. As we sat eating quietly he gaze often jumped over mine whenever he saw me look at him. I found it adorable…he was so nervous.

“I hope I didn’t put your mom out, you know like having her make extra food for me” I said cutting some meat

“Oh no, no worries…. You see mama thinks…. Well mama thinks we’re more than….more than just friends” he replies getting a bit shy and blushing

“Oh.. have you never brought a girl home before?” I asked, mentally smacking myself in the face for asking such a rude question

“Not since little suzie….but we were like 9. Swore we was gonna grow up, get married, have a family” he said giggling a bit

“And what happened to that?” I asked him

“Ahh her family decided to move right before high school started…never saw her again” he says swallowing thickly as he blinked rapidly

“I’m sorry Matt” I said taking a sip of my drink

“Oh it’s alright, it was just a foolish thing to think” he says laughing

“Since her…has there been no one else?” I asked him

“No. There’s no real time for that round these parts either you grow up as neighbors and end up marrying or you stay solo forever” he says shrugging his shoulders

“Seems a bit outdated” I replied back

“It is, but it's just the way it is” he says back

“But anyways, how are you liking Oklahoma so far?” He asks me as he sips his drink

“Other than missing my family and friends, I’m thoroughly enjoying it here” I said to him

“Do you plan on going back? Or having them visit?” He retorts

“I was thinking maybe for the holiday season they could come here, there’s plenty of room here for them” I said to him

“Yeah there is” he says nodding his head

“And speaking of plenty of space I remembered there’s a basement here. I can probably set a few friends up down there, except there’s one problem” I replied looking over my shoulder at the door

“What’s that?” He asks eagerly

“It seems to be locked and I can’t find the key, do you think there’d be an extra somewhere in this town?” I said looking back at him

“Oh you know the basement keys are universal, way back when they figured as a small town it would be easier to make the keys universal so if someone lost theirs then they could call their neighbors” he says as he cuts a piece of meat, as I began to have a lightbulb moment

“You don’t say” I reply sliding my tongue over my teeth

“Except only issue is as of recently due to termites and water damage the chairman’s from the towns had gone into every home, painting over the doors and locking them while also confiscating any keys. Just so that no ones tempted to use the basement…..that would be many lawsuits if something went wrong” he says looking up at me

“Ohhhh I see, wow that sucks” I said to him, mentally sighing in defeat. I literally could not stop hitting dead ends and it was killing me

After dinner Matt had helped me clean the kitchen up and helped me pack his mothers Tupperware away.

“I can’t thank you enough for dinner” I say handing him the last container

“It’s my pleasure darling” he says winking once again at me

“Wanna come up to my room?” I asked him as I dried my hands

“Yeah sure” he replied placing the lunch box down

We headed up to my room, turning the light on Matt plopped down on my bed letting out a loud sigh. Fluffing my pillow up he laid it against the headboard while leaning back

“I know I don’t have much here especially no TV, but I do have some books I bought from back home” I say to him shrugging my shoulders

“I wouldn’t mind reading” he says nodding his head

As I open my mouth to reply the power suddenly goes out

“What the fuck” I say out loud

“Anytime it rains even an ounce the power goes out. Faulty wires and old houses” Matt says laughing

“How do we fix it?” I asked him

“We don’t, it usually goes back up in like 3 hours. I’ll run to my house and grab some candles keep it bright until the power goes back on, and I’ll even keep you company too” he says smiling at me

“That sounds nice” I say to him nodding

As quickly as Matt left to get some candles, it was as quickly as he came back. He had a small duffle bag and he pulled out many candles and a box of matches.

Removing his sweater and placing it down to dry on the door knob, my eyes couldn’t peel away from how nicely that white shirt sat on his body….

Matt and I lit a shit ton of matches all over my room, it was now warm lit and very…..intimate might I add.

“I hope this is good enough for you” Matt says blowing out the last match

“Oh no this is perfect I honestly prefer candlight over artificial light” I said waving him off

He laughed and fluffed the pillow up before laying on my bed again. Propping himself up against my headboard as he crossed his legs over.

I sat next to him with my back against the headboard as well. Grabbing my copy of Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson I relaxed my shoulders before opening the book to where I last left off.

“I hope you don’t mind I started the book already” I said looking over at Matt

“Doesn’t bother me” he says nodding for me to go on

“My room belongs to an alien. It is a postcard of who I was in fifth grade. I went through a demented phase when I thought that roses should cover everything and pink was a great color” I read aloud as my finger ghosted the rough paper

Stopping I looked up, taking my bottom lip into my mouth and sinking my teeth into the flesh.

“Isn’t it crazy how fast we change” I said chewing the already shredded skin on the inside of my mouth

“I’m not even sure I know what change is” Matt whispers

Looking over at him I watch the warm light reflect against his blue eyes. And for a split second I swear I can see his past in them. Sad….lonely….misunderstood…..

“I’m just following the norm here. I’m becoming what every man becomes. I’m growing, but am I changing? I’m not when I’m the exact same as the ancestors who came before me” he states swallowing thickly

“Have you ever considered leaving?” I ask him

“And go where?” He asks

“You could always come to Vegas….with me” I state in a whisper

“But all I know is Pleasant Town” he replies shaking his head

“Well now you know me, I mean we could at least visit I can show you where I’m from like you did with me” I say smiling at him

“I’d like that a lot actually” he says nodding at me

But suddenly he grows cold and immediately his attitude changes

“That’s just a fairytale though. I belong here on the farm and taking care of my parents” he says firmly

“And no one’s saying you can’t do that, but at least vacation for a little bit” I say to him

Shutting my book I place it on the night stand as I give Matt my full attention.

“You can experience so many new things! See and do things you’ve never done before” I say to him tapping him on his knee

“Like what?” He asks laughing

“You can go to the Las Vegas strip, we can go shopping and we can go see where Elvis Presley used to perform, shit we could even get you a one night stand. I mean it’s Vegas you know what they say… what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” I say to him giggling

“Ehhhh” he says sounding hesitant

“Okay what about that plan do you not want to do?” I ask him

“The one night stand…. I’m not experienced with women” he says shyly

“What? You? You’re telling me in this whole town you’ve never been with a single girl?” I asked him genuinely shocked

“No…” he says once again shyly

“That’s alright, well let’s see you’ve at least kissed a girl right?” I ask him as he shakes his head no

“Held hands?” I asked raising my eyebrow and he shakes his head no once again

“Uhhh innocent flirting?” I ask

“No” he says laughing a bit

“That’s alright! We can…we can get you practicing now and this way you’ll be a champ in Vegas” I say laughing

“Practice?” He asks looking a bit unsure

I grab his hand and interlock our fingers as I look back up at him

“Holding hands… check!” I say smiling

Turning more towards him I place my hand on his cheek as I look into his eyes

“Can I kiss you?” I ask genuinely

“Yes ma'am” he whispers out breathlessly against me

Leaning in I peck his lips quickly

“What I did you’re also going to do okay?” I say to him and he nods

Leaning in again we both press our lips together, pulling away Matt looks at me before attaching his lips to mine again.

Shuffling over I straddled his lap as we pulled away, and Matt looked at me with doe eyes as his chest rose and fell rapidly. A dazzling blush across his nose and cheeks and pupils blown wide.

“Is this okay?” I ask him and to this he nods

“Darlin I don’t know what I’m doing, but just know I’m enjoying myself” he says to me as he licks his lips

“I can teach you some things, and don’t be afraid to stop me. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to” I say to him

“Okay” he says nodding vigorously

Removing my shirt I look over to Matt

“You can touch me you know” I say to him

“I don’t know how” he replied back

Grabbing his hands I placed them on my breast and his mouth hung open. Gently caressing them I moan against his touch.

It wasn’t long before Matt’s shirt was off and I was peppering kisses along his neck and down his chest. My bare chest against his warm skin. His breathing became rapid as his hands traced along my back.

“Please don’t stop” he breathes out as I look up at him

Raking my nails up and down his body I leave open mouth kisses along his warm skin as his hips buckle up against me.

“Pretty girl I need more” Matt moans out as his brows furrowed

Letting my hand caress over his growing bulge his hips fly up as he moans. Covering his face in the crook of his elbow.

“You don’t have to cover yourself for me” I say to him as I rub my hands up his torso

“I’ve just never done anything like this before I don’t want to embarrass myself” he says to me

“Listen my love I’m taking the lead tonight so there’s no need to feel pressured or embarrassed, and if at any point you want to stop we can” I say to him kissing his cheek

“Okay” he says swallowing thickly

Ghosting my fingers over his large buckle I unhook his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zipper down. I help him slide out of his jeans. Tossing them somewhere behind me on the floor

To my surprise he was in briefs rather than boxers which left little to the imagination. My cunt was actually clenching on nothing at the sight.

Ghosting my nails in between the waistband of his underwear. He lied against the mattress moaning and twitching. Begging to be released

Sliding out of my bottoms I straddled him once again. The only thing separating us was our underwear. Sliding up and down against him we both let out a load sigh

“Holy shit this feels so good darlin” he moans out looking up at me

Matt moves his hands up my thighs and to my breasts, lightly squeezing them as I moan and shutter against his touch.

“Kiss me please” he says desperately

Leaning down I kiss Matt, grinding down against him harder causing him to open his mouth. Which allowed me to slip my tongue in. For a moment it took him a while to get the hang of it, but soon after our tongues were fighting for dominance. The kiss was hot and messy and so so needy.

Releasing myself from him I leaned back, scooting back I slid his briefs down. His hard dick springing up as I bit my lip

“God you’re so hot” I said to him

“Oh sweetheart no one’s ever called me that” he says biting his lip

“I’ll scream it from the hilltops if I have to” I responded to him

Sliding my underwear to the side I gently rubbed the tip of his dick along my cunt. Both of our moans syncing together.

“Are you ready?” I ask him

“Yes maam” he says back grabbing onto my hips

Slowly I began to sink down on his length. The burn sent shivers up my spine. Both of our mouths hang open as my toes curl. Completely bottoming out I let out a load moan

Slowly bouncing up and down on his dick I allow him to get adjusted to the feeling.

“Holy shit Oh my god” he moans out as he watches me bounce up and down

“You feel so good” I moan out as I begin to grind down on him

“Oh my goddd” he whines out as I begin to feel his thighs shake

Bringing my hand down I rub my clit as I bounce on his dick. My thighs shake as I bring myself closer to the edge.

“Fuck Matt I’m so close to cumming” I whine out as my breathing becomes heavy

“Me too, oh godddd” he moans out as his torso begins to lift off the bed every now and then

Leaning forward I grind up and down, allowing my clit to massage against his pelvic bone. Without warning Matt opens his mouth and begins to swirl his tongue around my nipple, sucking and licking like his life depended on it

“Fuckkkk” I moan out clenching down on him

Within seconds I’m cumming all over his dick, shaking and moaning as I clench down on him. Continuing to ride out my high I feel Matt twitch

“I think I’m going to cum?” He moans out

Once again I feel his thighs shake and his lower abdomen tighten. And I hop off and just as I do Matt’s cumming all over his lower stomach. Whining and moaning as he comes down from his high

Heavy breaths and groans as he involuntarily twitches.

“Feeling okay cutie?” I ask him as I pet his hair and pull him closer

“That felt amazing, I’ve never felt that good in my life” he says looking up at me with puppy dog eyes

“And in time it only gets better” I say laying a kiss on his lips

We laid there for a little while talking and kissing and finally we decided to get up and get cleaned. Laying back down I read some more of my book. Until eventually we fell asleep and most candles had gone out by this point.

We fell asleep snuggled together, and at some point in the night we shifted opposite ways. But at around 2am I got up to use the bathroom.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I cracked my neck and back before standing up. Lightly walking from my side to around the bed, but before I could finish coming around I had stepped on something

Silently wincing I looked down, seeing some type of metal I assumed it was Matt’s belt buckle. Smiling and blushing to myself I bent down picking the item up, but to my surprise it was what felt like keys.

Running into the bathroom I shut the door, gently opening the shower curtain to let the moonlight come in through the window. I held the keys up. They looked pretty normal except for one.

It said “BASEMENT” on it and I blinked to make sure I wasn’t half asleep.

Peeing quickly I flushed the toilet and washed my hands. Sticking my head out of the bathroom I peaked over at Matt who was snoring peacefully.

Sighing I tip toed out of the bedroom and quietly down the stairs. I mean as quiet as I could….it was an old house. Lightly walking towards my kitchen thanking the lord for the moonlight coming in through my back door. I was able to see the basement door perfectly.

Sticking the key in lightly I turned it to the left, and heard a click. Silently cheering I turned the knob and opened the door surprisingly the door wasn’t creaky.

I figured I would go down , check it out real quick and go back upstairs. Placing the keys back where I found them.

Shutting the door behind me I felt for a light switch on the right side, and I flicked it on. In about three seconds I heard the faint buzz of a warm light turn on.

Stepping down the stairs gently I turned the corner. The basement looked really nice actually. It was pretty well kept for how old the house was. I didn’t see any water damage nor any termites, but hey who knows.

Walking in a bit more I saw large desks with papers everywhere and bulletin boards covered in papers and a lot of dust….

Walking over to the area I blew some dust around and even wiped it with my fingers. Looking to my right there was a lamp. Testing the odds it actually turned on illuminating the area for me a bit more.

My eyes squinted trying to read everything. My eyes scanned the bulletin board.

“Animal slayings”

“Cult rituals”

“Witch craft like sacrifices”

My eyes went wide. I finally was finding something… and the whole time it was in my house?

I looked to my right and that’s when I got a little bit nervous

“Suzie Buchanan, age 14, found slain in her father’s farm house”

Surely this couldn’t be thee Suzie Matt knew……

I mean that’s recent years? How would that even be in this house? I was becoming anxious with dread.

Looking down at the table I looked at the newspapers closely.

“Thomas Sturniolo released from prison”

“Thomas Sturniolo still being questioned about cult killings”

“Sturniolos back in town?” One read

These were all newspapers not from this town…. Something deeper was going on here….someone knew more than they were saying. There’s an outside source here and I haven’t known this whole time.

Flipping open the newspaper my eyes scanned the text.

“Thomas Sturniolos home 27 Field Drive has been purchased by his grandson”

27 Field Drive was this house….. my hands began to shake as I realized what was going on. This whole time I’ve been living in Thomas Sturniolos house. And there’s someone who knows about me…. My heart began to speed and I rummaged through more newspapers

“A new generation of Sturniolos” one newspaper read

Opening up the newspaper my eyes scanned the page

“Jimmy Sturniolo has now purchased 26 Field Drive, directly across the street from his estranged grandfather's home located at 27 Field Drive” it read

“What the fuck?” I whispered as a cold sweat began to take over

Scanning along the page some more

“Jimmy Sturniolo avoids questions from sources asking about his grandfather. Seen here with one of his sons Matthew Sturniolo covering his face” I read

My heart was thumping out my chest as I let the papers fall from my hands.

You know those scenes in movies where the protagonist is just standing still as the world around her moves and her hearing has gone clouded?? Yeah that’s me right now

Unbeknownst to Y/N Matt had snuck downstairs after realizing she was gone. Sinking down the stairs of the basement he watched the young woman shake in fear as she read the newspapers.

Shaking his head and mentally cursing himself out he quietly walked up behind her

I stood there in fear not really sure what to do. Pretend like nothing happened and wait till tomorrow morning to book it out of town, or book it out of town right now while Matt’s asleep??

Racking my brain for answers I stood there when suddenly I heard

“I’m so sorry” turning around slightly I was faced with Matt

“Wha-“ but before I could finish my sentence Matt charged at me

Grabbing the back of my head and holding a chloroform covered rag against my nose and mouth

And suddenly it all went

BLACK

The End

Don’t kill me for the cliffhanger😏. Had to spice it up a bit. Now I will be working the next four days, so I will try and work on Part 4 a little bit and hopefully have it up soon for you guys. I love you all so dearly 🥹🖤🖤

-J💅🏽

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets imagines #sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader smut #matthew sturniolo smut #matthew sturniolo x reader smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #Spotify

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toxophilitis · 7 months

Text

Mom's Naughty Daughter cont

CHAPTER THREE

When Lynn woke up late the next morning, she stretched, feeling very good. The lingering taste of her son's come juice was still in her mouth and there was a pleasant tingle between her thighs. She had come a lot the night before. As she bathed, she couldn't believe she had actually sucked off Bobby. She couldn't have done it if he had known who she was, she was sure. But with him believing she was Carolyn, she had felt more at ease. She could watch for him from now on. Maybe she would get his cock in her cunt next time. Putting on her robe, she walked downstairs and started for the kitchen. But the voices of her son and daughter brought her up short.

"Are you sure you didn't come into the bathroom with me last night, Carolyn?" Bobby asked.

"I didn't," Carolyn replied. "Then who was it?"

"You probably had a dream!" Carolyn said.

"If it was a dream, it sure was real," Bobby said. "I've never been sucked so hard in my life."

"Have you ever keen sucked off?" Carolyn teased.

"Well, not until last night."

Lynn heard her daughter laugh.

"I doubt that, Bobby! Mother isn't a cock-sucker, I don't think. If I had, been her you'd have gotten fucked, not sucked."

"Not Mom!" Bobby said.

"You don't think Mother fucks?" Carolyn replied. "You see how she dresses, those tight jeans and all. I bet she's fucking half the men on this ranch."

"Just because that's what you'd like to do doesn't mean that's what Mom's doing, Carolyn."

"I don't want to fuck half the guys here," Carolyn giggled. "I just wanna fuck Jake. That guy really turns me on."

Lynn gasped. So she wasn't the only one who wanted to fuck the foreman. She wondered if Carolyn had made any passes at Jake. She didn't feel any anger or jealousy toward her daughter. In fact, Lynn was pleased that the girl had such good taste in men.

She coughed delicately as she entered the kitchen. She stood near the sink and poured herself a cup of coffee. She felt their eyes on her, but they turned away as she sat down at the table with them. Glancing at her son, Lynn felt her lips tingle as if his cock was still between them.

"You two are sure quiet this morning!" she said. "By this time you're usually squabbling. You're not getting sick are you?"

In her mind she saw Carolyn's pretty, naked ass bouncing up and down on her brother's cock, her sugary cunt stretching around it.

"Anyone interested in a picnic today?" she asked. "It's a beautiful day for it."

"I don't have anything else to do." Bobby said.

Lynn noticed him glancing at her mouth and she ran the tip of her tongue across lips. Bobby jerked his eyes away, a faint blush on his face.

Carolyn was looking at her mother strangely and Lynn knew what was going on behind her daughter's lovely eyes. She resisted a wink, drinking her coffee. Lynn glanced down and saw that her robe had parted and her tits were almost exposed. Lynn glanced back at her daughter and their eyes locked for a moment. Then, slowly, Lynn covered her tits, still looking into her daughter's eyes. There was a growing tension between them as they prepared for the picnic. Lynn was aware of her son and daughter glancing at her speculatively.

"Why wear a dress on a picnic, Mother?" Carolyn asked.

"Because I seldom wear one," Lynn said.

"I think you're pretty, Mom!" Bobby said. "You should wear a dress more often."

"I might do that," Lynn said, smiling at her son.

There was a grassy place on the other side of an orange grove that they used as picnic grounds. The ancient trees shaded the place nicely. Spreading out the blanket, Carolyn and Bobby unloaded the food. Lynn sat on the grass leaning against the trunk of a tree, watching them.

Lynn drew one knee up, resting her chin on it. She closed her eyes, remembering the taste of her son's cock. His come juice had been especially sweet running so hotly down her throat.

With the pick-up unloaded, Bobby and Carolyn sat on the blanket. Lynn didn't know they were gazing at her exposed thigh, seeing the crotch of her panties. As she thought about sucking her son's cock, remembering her excitement at seeing Jake piss, Lynn became aroused again. She wasn't even aware that she was slowly caressing the back of her thigh.

Bobby's cock thrust against his pants and Carolyn placed her hand on it, rubbing. Carolyn saw the gleam in her brother's eyes and she leaned to his ear.

"You want to fuck her, Bobby?" she whispered. "Wouldn't you like to stick your cock in Mother's cunt? I bet you'd love to feel her hairy cunt on your prick, wouldn't you? You know it was Mother who sucked you off last night. Yes, it was Mother who gave you that blow-job."

"Quiet it, Carolyn," he hissed at her.

Carolyn was wearing a sun-suit made out of a stretchy material and she slipped a finger into the crotch, pulling it to one side.

"Look at this," she whispered lewdly into his ear. "This is a hot cunt too, Bobby. Would you like to fuck this cunt again?"

Lynn heard their whispering and peeked at them through slitted eyes. She saw her daughter pulling the crotch of her sun-suit wide, showing the hairiness of her young cunt. She saw, too, her son's cock harder with Carolyn caressing it. Lynn's foot moved, the light sound startling Carolyn. The girl quickly pulled the crotch of her sun-suit back and jerked her hand off her brother's cock.

"Let's eat," Carolyn said nervously. She knew her mother had seen what she was doing.

Suddenly Bobby grabbed his sister and shoved her over, climbing up on top of her and trying to pin her arms.

"Stop it, Bobby!" Carolyn squealed.

But he refused to stop. Carolyn began wrestling with him, squealing with pleasure. They rolled and thrashed about, twisting into Lynn. She started to get up but Carolyn grabbed her, pulling her into the wrestling match. Lynn began to laugh with them, both her son and daughter turning on her. They tickled her, making her shriek with laughter and kick her legs wildly. Her skirt hiked about her waist, her long legs and pantied hips exposed. Lynn gasped when her daughter poked at her cunt playfully.

Bobby left the fray, sitting back and watching, his eyes hot. He saw his sister make a playful grab for their mother's crotch and as Lynn scrambled to get away, her dress went almost to her tits. He saw the dark curls of her cunt hair swirling beneath her panties. His cock was throbbing.

"I thought I heard someone here," a man said.

Carolyn jumped to her knees. Lynn gasped, trying to shove her skirt down as Jake came out of the brush grinning. Lynn looked at the man, her face feeling very warm. She knew he had seen them wrestling, seen her flimsy panties.

He squatted on the edge of the blanket. Lynn's eyes dropped between his knees to the lump of his cock and she swallowed nervously.

"I'm always running people off," he said easily. "If they'd clean up after their picnics it wouldn't be bad, but I've always got to pick up their trash."

Carolyn saw the way her mother was looking. The girl stood up and motioned to her brother and they slipped away quietly. But the teenagers didn't go far. They concealed themselves in thick bushes near-by, turning to watch.

"I knew you were there last night, Miss Lynn," Jake said bluntly.

Lynn felt a shudder go through her and she stared at Jake.

"I guess you got a little excited," Jake went on. "I saw you sitting outside, Miss Lynn. And I heard you breathing and watched you go back into your house."

Lynn felt mesmerized by him. When he pulled her into his arms, she didn't resist. His mouth came down onto hers in a burning kiss.

In the bushes, Bobby stifled a giggle. Carolyn poked him, shushing him.

"I wanna see it," Bobby giggled. "I bet Mom is gonna get fucked!"

"I hope so," Carolyn murmured, opening her brother's pants and taking his cock out.

They watched their mother and Jake as Carolyn jacked on Bobby's cock. Kissing Lynn, Jake ran his hand up her thighs, shoving her dress up. Lynn moaned into his mouth as his fingers stroked the wet crotch of her panties.

"Ohhh, please, Jake," Lynn whimpered, trying to push his hand away. "Don't. Please don't. You don't know what you're doing to me."

"You want it, Lynn," Jake said. "You want to get fucked so badly. I know you watched me take a piss last night and I saw you wrestling with Carolyn and Bobby just now."

"I don't!" Lynn groaned then made a grab for his cock. "Oh, Jake, Jake!"

Carolyn and Bobby giggled softly as they saw Jake pull their mother to her feet, pressing her against his body. He lifted the back of her dress and cupped her pantied ass, squeezing the cheeks. They saw their mother rubbing against him, clinging to his neck.

"Let's get your panties off, Lynn."

Jake went to his knees and Lynn held her dress at her waist. Jake peeled her panties off and Lynn willingly stepped out of them. Bobby groaned as he saw his mothers bushy cunt.

"That's a nice pussy. Huh, Bobby?" Carolyn whispered.

"Yeah!" he grunted.

His sister pumped on his cock faster and Bobby grabbed the seat of her sun-suit. Carolyn wiggled her ass.

"What are you gonna do, Bobby?"

"Fuck you, Carolyn!" he hissed, slipping behind his sister's ass.

Carolyn mewled and braced her hands on her knees. Her eyes blazed at her mother and Jake as Bobby slipped his cock into her cunt.

"Oooo, fuck me, Bobby! Look at Mother! She's naked!"

But Lynn wasn't really naked. She had her dress flipped up at her waist and Jake was caressing her naked ass. With a grunt of pleasure, he shoved his face into Lynn's crotch, licking at her steaming cunt. Lynn yelped and grabbed the back of his head, grinding her hairy cunt into his mouth.

"Lick me, Jake!" she wailed. "Ohhh, lick my pussy! Suck it... shove your tongue up my cunt!"

Carolyn giggled, wiggling her ass while Bobby began to pound into her cunt. "Ohhh, fuck me, Bobby!"

Watching Jake sucking her mother's cunt increased Carolyn's desire. Jake's face was almost buried in her mother's hairy cunt and Lynn was trying to straddle his face. Jake held her naked ass in both hands and Lynn wiggled her hips about as his tongue plunged into the wet heat of her pussy.

Jake's cock was about to burst out of his jeans and Carolyn stared at the bulge with glazed eyes. Her little ass whipped in circles as her brother thrust his hard cock into her cunt.

"Jake, you'll make me come!" Lynn shrieked. "Your tongue... oh, God, your tongue is so long!" A shudder went through her. Lynn's ass tightened and a loud scream boiled from her mouth.

"I'm coming, Jake! Oooo, suck hard... fuck hard! Eat my cunt! Ohhh, so good!"

Carolyn groaned, feeling her brother's cock sliding in and out of her gripping cunt. She shook her naked ass about arching it into his cock.

"I'm gonna come, Carolyn!" Bobby choked, watching his mother's naked ass as Jake sucked at her cunt furiously. "I gotta come!"

His sister groaned as she came suddenly. Her young cunt clawed at his cock, the slippery lips of her pussy sucking him. Bobby rammed hard into Carolyn's pussy and his cock squirted deep into it.

Carolyn stuffed her knuckles into her mouth, holding back the scream of pleasure. Her vision blurred as she came and when she could see again, she saw her mother frantically opening Jake's pants. He had sprawled out on the blanket on his back.

"I want it!" she heard her mother groan. "Oh, Jake, I want this cock! I want to fuck your cock!"

She hauled his prick from his pants then reached in and pulled out his balls with a screech of delight! Lynn shoved her face down, her lips stretching wide as she pulled the head of his cock into her mouth. Carolyn and Bobby, his cock still inside her squeezing cunt, watched wide-eyed as their mother slipped her lips up and down Jake's cock. Lynn's dress was still at her waist and her rounded, naked ass swayed.

"You see?" Carolyn whispered. "It was Mother who sucked you off last night, Bobby!"

"I guess so," he said, awed.

Lynn sucked off Jake's cock, scrambling over on top of him, her ass gleaming in the sunlight. She squatted over Jake's throbbing cock and with a wild hiss of ecstasy she slammed her crotch down. His cock penetrated her cunt quickly and Lynn took it deeply. The lips of her hairy cunt smashed at the base of his cock and then she began to bounce, squealing and gurgling with ecstasy. Carolyn and Bobby, their eyes enormous, watched their mothers ass fucking up and down. Lynn squatted, fucking furiously on Jake's cock, pounding up and down in a frenzy, groaning and gurgling. The moist slaps of her cunt against the base of his long cock sounded loud in the otherwise quiet outdoors.

"She's a hot one," Carolyn whispered.

"I didn't know Mom was so sexy, Carolyn," Bobby gasped, his eyes fixed upon Lynn's naked bouncing ass. "She looks as if she's enjoying it."

"She is!" his sister moaned. "I just gotta try that cock myself!"

Not realizing she was being watched by her son and daughter, Lynn pounded Jake's cock furiously, arching her back, throwing her head up, squealing with ecstasy. Jake, below her, clutched at her tits, squeezing and massaging them. He watched her hairy cunt slamming down on his cock, then lifting up.

"Oooo! Jake, Jake!" Lynn wailed. "So big, so fucking big! My cunt is on fire, Jake! My cunt is melting, burning... oh, God, it's good!"

Lynn slammed down onto his cock, grinding her crotch, feeling the thick cock stretching her cunt. Her clitoris was smashed against the throbbing prick base. Her head twisted as she shrieked in ecstasy, her hair fanning wildly. Jake slipped his hands to her ass, cupping the cheeks.

"Lift up, Miss Lynn!" he growled. "Lynn, lift UP!" he groaned.

She raised her ass. Gripping the creamy checks. Jake held her up, thrusting his cock up and down, driving his prick in deep plunge after plunge. Lynn leaned over him, her hands on the blanket at his shoulders.

Carolyn and Bobby, still in the bushes, watched Jake's cock driving in and out of their mother's cunt, each upward bang making the cheeks of her ass ripple. They watched Jake squeezing her ass, the base of his cock glistening with the wetness of their mother's cunt.

"I'm doing it, Jake!" Lynn screamed. "I'm coming! Jake! Ohhh, God... so fucking good! My cunt... burning... I'm coming!"

As Lynn's cunt gripped his cock in waves of orgasm. Jake lifted her ass, banging his cock into her pussy fast, almost brutally. Lynn wailed louder. Through the tight spasms of her orgasm, she felt his cock throbbing powerfully and then he came. The thick come juice sprayed the satiny walls of her convulsing cunt, triggering a tighter orgasm inside her. She lifted her head, screaming like a banshee, her body rigid. Then, with a sob, Lynn fell, exhausted, on top of Jake.

Carolyn and Bobby remained hidden, watching Jake stroke Lynn's back gently, caressing her shivering ass. His cock slipped from her cunt, glistening wetly in the bright sunlight.

"I wish he'd hurry up and go," Bobby said.

"I hope he never goes," Carolyn said, her eyes bright as she stared at Jake's cock. "Not until I get some of his cock, too."

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blueywrites · 1 year

Text

turtle dove and the crow, part three

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: 18+. p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, hurt/comfort.

(I have not edited this yet, so please excuse any editing mistakes!)

PART THREE: WOLF LIKE ME (12.7K)

Feel me, completer

Down to my core

Open my heart

And let it bleed onto yours

Feedin' on fever

Down on all fours

Show you what all that howlin's for

Wolf Like Me - Lera Lynn ft. Shovels & Rope

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. They are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one.

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin.

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven.

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, Mama and Pa are already loitering there; you hurry down the last few steps, swinging around with a hand on the banister to fling yourself toward the kitchen and avoid keeping them waiting too much longer. The pie you’d baked with apples from the tree out back is still wafting steam from its golden, flaky crust, but when you test the glass dish with a little pat of your fingertips, you find it’s cool enough to snatch up with a handtowel plucked from the towelbar beneath the sink. Carefully, you carry it back to your parents, stealing a quick glance at their faces as you group together with them. They’ve dressed nicely— though not quite as fussily as you— and their faces hold the same impassive pleasantness that had been there yesterday when the occasion had been proposed to them by the wild-haired boy next door.

He’d stood in his muddy boots on the bristly mat, so adamant in his refusal to tell you what the matter was until your parents joined you that you’d had half a mind to think that something terribly grave had occurred. Your worry gave way to confusion once they arrived and Eddie, with uncharacteristic formality, extended an invitation to dinner at the Munson house for seven o’clock the following day.

Though his delivery was strange, the whole thing was no cause for alarm because you and your family had dined with Wayne at least once each season since before you could remember. But when your parents accepted politely, and Eddie looked then to you, his eyes held a promise unspoken in their umber depths. They were lightened to honey in the sunshine, glossy yet still deep and dark like a pool of rippling water. You had an inkling of what might set this occasion apart from others previous, but you barely dared to think it lest you be disappointed. Still, even without that certainty, you’d taken the time to dress your best, to rouge your cheeks and lips, and set your hair more carefully than usual, just in case that inkling came to pass. And you’d insisted on baking an apple pie to bring over for dessert, prepared to fight had your mother put up any protest, which she had not.

The walk across the grass to the house side by side with yours has never felt so long as it does today. The August air is heavy but dry from the day's heat, wafting with woodsmoke and ablaze with the rhythmic chirping of crickets that are emerging, drawn by the deepening light. And it feels laden with something else, too, as you crunch along the gravel path that connects the front of your property with the Munsons’. Perhaps it’s the promise you think you saw in Eddie’s eyes that wisps along the breeze, ruffling the leaves of the oak trees that stand tall and proud behind that red house. Or perhaps it’s your own unspoken revelation, the one that bloomed in the goat pen those days ago, filling your lungs to swell anew behind your ribs. The heaviness of that unknowable quality makes the walk to Eddie’s house feel long, but it is, in fact, over with quite quickly.

He does live just next door, after all.

You carry your sweet offering up to his porch with eyes fixed on the sturdy, weather-beaten door. There you pause to wait for your parents, and when they join you, your mother raps the doorframe smartly with unhesitant knuckles. They flank you like sentinels as you wait, lips pursing at the faint ruckus you hear behind that thick wood. It’s Ed thumpin’ down the stairs, no doubt, you figure, and your supposition is proven correct when just a moment later the door flies open, quick at first before being slowed with a jerk to a more respectable speed.

You can’t pretend to have chosen the dress you’re wearing for any other reason than the fact he’d mentioned it that day at the creek, but the way Eddie’s face goes slack— the way his dark brows melt into softness and his plush lips part just slightly as he marvels at the sight of you— makes it difficult to keep your composure in front of your parents. As does the sight of Eddie himself. Mama and Pa fade at the sight of him, and you can’t help but pause a moment to take him in, your eyes fluttering over his features like a gentle brush of wings.

Eddie’s curls, dark and rich like wood stain, look as soft and shiny as liquid silk where they spill over his shoulders, and your fingers twitch with longing as you imagine drawing them through those coils. His skin is radiant, scrubbed noticeably clean, and its paleness makes his freckles stand out stark in contrast, like a dusting of spicy cinnamon across the bridge of his nose. He’s rolled his buttoned shirt up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and broad, rough-hewn hands that are scrambling now to unburden you from the dessert you’d prepared.

You allow him to take it, offering a grateful smile. He returns it before ducking to the side to peer around you. “Evenin’, sir. Ma’am.” Eddie greets your Mama and your Pa almost reservedly, and the absence of his typical manic edge or teasing rasp feels odd but also makes a strange thrill thrum in your belly. He explains, “My uncle’s occupied there in the kitchen; dinner’s about finished. Just gotta set the table,” he adds, almost to himself, and you hasten to offer your assistance.

With just a hint of too much sweetness for comfort, you tell Eddie, “I can help you if you like.”

“Thank you.” Eddie’s cheek dimples in a soft, crooked smile. “And for the pie.”

You wave off his regard to keep your cheeks from pinking. “S’nothin.”

You’ve been inside Wayne Munson’s house on occasion since you were small, as have your parents, but Eddie still leads you along the wide worn floorboards and through the archway into the sitting room. This room is as it always is: green paint faded from the westward setting sun on the far wall, Wayne’s sagging armchair nestled in the corner, a hand-hewn coffee table and the striped couch with the crochet blanket draped over its back in a cascade of the merry yellows and oranges you know Wayne is partial to on account of the sunflowers. There’s a pair of eyeglasses on the side table near the armchair atop a magazine that is clearly Wayne’s, but the boot poking from half-beneath it, strewn carelessly as if it had been kicked off in a hurry, is clearly not. A faint smile crosses your face as you spot it, though your father’s loud clomping footsteps draw your attention soon enough. The sizzling of the stove is overtaken by your father’s friendly shout as forges ahead to the kitchen; the gruff warmth of two men greeting one another accompanies you as you cross the living room to join Eddie in the dining room.

You become mindful of what you’d offered when you see him clearing the runner and the simple centerpiece from the dining table, which dominates the middle of the room despite the tall hutch standing broad against the far wall. You hasten to help him, hovering nearby as he pulls open the hutch drawer. You catch your mother eying the dust on the ridge lining the hutch and prepare yourself for some remark on the matter, but in the end, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she merely watches you and Eddie futz with the silverware for a moment before leaving you to your work to survey the goings-on in the kitchen. You hear the conversation between the two men stall when she enters before continuing, making room for the new addition.

Eddie squats to retrieve the plates as you set out the placemats, lining them with spoons and knives side-by-side and forks placed carefully across from them, with space to nestle the plates in-between. You circle the table methodically, dropping piece after piece on your path as Eddie rotates in the other direction, crossing your path almost as seamlessly as if this is a practiced dance. It’s not something you’ve ever done together— meals typically don’t stand on such ceremony as this, and Eddie certainly doesn’t usually fold the linen napkins into careful squares before dropping them onto the white ceramic. But as you watch him nudge the fabric with the tip of his finger to straighten its crooked lines, his tongue tip peeking pink between his lips as he does, the chore feels distinctly domestic to you, like something that has happened dozens of times before and will continue again for countless more. That sudden uncanny inkling mixes with the feeling that swells up sometimes behind your ribs, which resurges when Eddie sidles up next to you and bumps you lightly out of the way with his hip.

“Watch it, you,” he pretends to grouse, lips quirking as he drops the napkin square onto the final plate with a flourish. “M’tryn’a set the table here.”

“Oh, and I’m not?” you retort hotly, but when he pinches your waist quick and playful, you can’t help the giggle that squeals its way from your throat. He dances back from your jabbing finger aimed at his side, curls bouncing as his face lights with a smile. Not to be deterred, you snatch up the napkin he’d just put down, and as it unravels from its square to prepare to strike him across the ribs, the familiar gravel of a throat being cleared— aged and croaky with years of tobacco use— has you spinning on your heel and hiding the evidence of your childishness behind your back.

The sight of Eddie’s uncle is wholly more welcome than your own Pa at the moment, though you still want to squirm as he regards you with a squint and a quirked brow. “Hello, Wayne!” you say brightly. You’re fooling no one; it’s an obvious attempt to distract him as you plop the napkin back onto the plate, letting it drop behind your back.

“Hello, y/n. It’s nice to see you.” Wayne doesn’t react as Eddie reaches slowly around you to fiddle the napkin back into a semblance of orderliness, though you swear his blue eyes— so different from Eddie’s in color but so alike in their expressiveness— are twinkling now as he carries the plate of fried pork chops to the table, setting them carefully down.

“Thanks for having us over for dinner,” you say, clasping your hands demurely in front of your lap. “It’s very kind of you.”

Wayne rasps a chuckle as he straightens, clapping a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder briefly before moving with characteristic creakiness toward the kitchen. “No need to thank me; it was all Ed,” he offers offhandedly before disappearing, unaware of how the comment stirs the hope within you to sweet and tender life.

The meal shared with your neighbors is pleasant. More than pleasant, in fact. The pork chops are crispy but tender, yielding easily to your knife; the sweet juice of the fresh corn snaps between your teeth as you bite into the cob, and the sliced tomatoes are buttery smooth and perfectly ripe. Wayne is seated to your right at the head of the table with your father beside you on the left, and you spend the majority of the meal eating and listening rather than speaking, more than content to let them bookend you with their familiar voices made more fervent in the company of friendly company not often seen. Eddie is seated across from you, and when you aren’t listening to the patriarchs reminisce about the drought of ‘36 and lament the inconvenience they’re suffering as a bridge repair forces them to travel in some roundabout way, you’re watching Eddie eat. You’re staring at him with a level of fascination that is almost unnerving, made clear as his brow furrows slightly when he catches your eyes fixed so firmly on him.

But you’re staring because it’s strange, the way he’s eating. You’ve seen Eddie eat many times, and he always does it with a certain disregard for common manners: borderline too-ambitious bites, mouth open more than it’s closed, fingers sucked of grease, crumbs everywhere. Yet, not so tonight. Tonight, every slice is cut to a reasonable size; every bite is measured and chewed thoughtfully; every swallow occurs before he speaks again. And Eddie is even using his napkin. It’s laid across his lap and, miraculously, lifted to his mouth every once in a while to neaten the corners of those plush pink lips before being replaced just as carefully

The empty space where that napkin is usually balled to the side of his empty plate is not the most uncanny thing, though. What is the most uncanny thing is the way your mother is actively engaging him in conversation about the 4H fair next month. Eddie tells her he plans to enter Merlin as a showhorse, and she nods across to you, donning a soft smile as she says, “Y/n’s really been makin’ strides with her embroidery ahead of the showin’. I think she’ll be ready.”

“She’s gettin’ real good, from what I’ve seen,” Eddie agrees eagerly, bobbing his head maybe a little too wildly. “Did she show you the hoop she’s makin’ for my uncle? The one with our family name in the middle?”

“I think so…” Mama’s head tips as she considers it. “That the one that has sunflowers on it?”

“And chicory flowers, too,” you pipe up, meeting Eddie’s umber eyes across the broad table, watching them soften to honey. Your Mama makes a sound of recognition and keeps talking, and while Eddie nods, replying politely, his gaze doesn’t stray from yours.

When bellies have been filled, and plates have been cleaned of all but the tiniest crumbs, you decide as a group to retire to the living room before indulging in dessert. Your hosts lead the way, and Wayne takes his customary place in his well-worn armchair, sinking down with a bone-weary sigh borne partly of creaking joints and partly of a belly swollen by overindulgence.

Your mother hovers near the archway, surveying the seating options demurely until Wayne notices and waves her easily toward the couch. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ed’ll park his seat on the floor, won’t you, son?”

“Oh,” she protests politely, “I’m sure we don’t mind—”

But Eddie has already flopped himself down in front of the hearth, leaning back on the heels of his palms and stretching his lanky legs toward the coffee table, perfectly content. As his foot bobs back in an easy rhythm, Mama’s eyes dart to the hole in the bottom of his sock near the toes, the way the white thread is worn gray and threadbare on the balls and the heel. Quick as a flash, they dart away again as Pa encourages her forward with a hand at the small of her back. Together they take the couch, your mother perching on the edge with her ankles crossed and your father sinking back into the cushions, leaning one elbow comfortably against the arm and letting out his own sigh to match Wayne’s.

You’re about to join Eddie on the floor when you notice, peeking from the corner of the long hall leading toward the back of the house, curves of spruce that beckon your excitement.

“Oh!” You make a sound not unlike your mother’s, though yours is borne of exuberance as you pick your way around Eddie’s legs. He grunts a light protest as you plant a palm atop his head to steady yourself while stepping over him, but you ignore it in favor of plucking the instrument from its hiding place, brandishing it in the air with wide eyes and a broad grin. “Look, Ed, it’s your guitar!”

“Yes,” he says, half wry as you toddle towards him, awkward and unwieldy in your inexperience carrying it. “That’d be my guitar, all right. Why, aren’t you the clever one.”

Your reply is quick and entirely cheerful. “You shush y’r mouth, Eddie Munson,” you say easily, depositing the guitar in his lap and taking a seat cross-legged beside him. In your peripheral, you can see Wayne leaning back in his chair, surveying you as his fingers stroke his grizzled beard, but your eyes are all for the man with wild curls and a teasing grin that stretches his plush pink lips as he glances over at you. “I was thinkin’ y’could play us some songs to pass the time before dessert.”

Eddie sighs beleagueredly, tipping his head back even while already lifting the guitar strap over his shoulders. “What next? Y’gonna ask me to sing too?” He slants another glance at you, chuckling as your eyes light up even further. You clutch his wrist, shaking lightly, only faltering slightly when you notice how hot and smooth his skin is underneath your fingers. The awareness tingles within you, and you snatch your hand back.

You play it off with characteristic banter. “D’you want some o’my apple pie?” you question him, quirking your eyebrows in challenge.

Eddie purses his lips, not quite pouting but close to it. “...Yes,” he replies, and you jerk your chin toward the guitar.

“Then get to singin’, mister,” you say hotly, though you can’t help but smile when Eddie pretends to clutch his heart and sway back as if wounded by your demands. A disapproving tut draws your eyes, and they widen when you see Mama’s narrow. She’s clucking her tongue in a way that means she is dissatisfied with your attitude and wants you to know it.

Your spine straightens under her silent gaze, and a prickle of shame needles across your shoulders as you clasp your hands in your lap. You look back at her contritely until she finally glances away; if anyone else notices the nonverbal exchange, they don’t let on, and the shame fades as Eddie begins to pluck the first few notes of the song he’s chosen to begin with.

Your mother’s reproach is quickly forgotten as Eddie’s warm rasp fills the room to accompany the twang of the guitar’s strings. The sound is untrained, yet melodic and pleasant nonetheless as he sings, “Well, they tell me, my dear, that you’re going; I will miss your bright eyes and your smile. For with you, you are taking the sunshine that has brightened my life for a while.”

Red River Valley wouldn’t have been your first choice of song for the occasion, though you must admit that Eddie sounds quite nice singing it. And it’s pleasant to watch him play, too: his long lashes dust the pale of his cheeks as he looks down at his fingerwork, and your gaze slides down the slope of his nose to the soft end, then down to the valley between nose and lip, then finally to the pink of his full lips as they form the words. “I have waited a long time my darling for those words that you never would say” A lock of curls behind his ear slips to drape over his cheek, and though your fingers itch to tuck it back for him again, you force them still in your lap. “And alas now my poor heart is breaking for they tell me you’re going away.”

Eddie repeats the chorus one last time and ends with a flourish of strumming, a smile stretching his cheeks wide as your Mama claps politely and her eyes wrinkle pleasedly. Your father is less enthusiastic, though he does nod absently when he sees you looking at him imploringly. “S’pretty good,” he offers, and Eddie accepts it graciously, resetting his fingers on the frets to regale you with some improvised playing.

He is quiet for a while as he plays, brow furrowed in concentration as he weaves chords and notes into a tapestry of story, not unlike the tales he’s long invented for you since you were merely children playing in the mud. You marvel for a moment at the fact that those broad hands, so rough and worn from labor, are able to create such sweet and delicate sound; you watch his long fingers dance along the frets, the way their strong calluses catch the strings and make them cry out in joyful feeling. His playing is unhurried and peaceful, but watching Eddie fills you with a thrumming sort of happiness that makes you want to join in— something you’ve never done before despite the many times you’ve heard him play.

That feeling bubbles over as his song eases into a brief silence, and you take the opportunity to ask if you can make a request. Eddie’s brows jerk in surprise for only a moment before he’s nodding quickly, perhaps a little too wild in his effort to encourage you. And though he rolls his eyes lightly when you tell him what you want, a smile still tugs at the corner of his lips as he begins a tune more jaunty and sentimental than the one he’d been playing.

You watch as he plays the introduction, waiting for his eyes to flash to yours promptingly before you begin to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Your voice is not as practiced as Eddie’s— though his is barely so— but it is clear of tone and gains steadiness as you continue, “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you; please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It becomes clear as you begin to sing this song why people sing songs. Which may seem an odd revelation in and of itself, but it’s something that you’ve just… never really done before. You may hum a tune to yourself as you complete your chores, or warble along with the record player, but that’s not the same as letting your own voice be the one to take the place of silence, to fill a room so full that you cannot be ignored. There is something vulnerable about that choice, and you feel that vulnerability in the itch at the base of your throat, where your skin is heating with the awareness that everyone can hear every crack or falter in your pitch. But as you sing the words out, emboldened by Eddie’s confident playing, you realize there’s a kind of wild disregard for perfection in the act, an impulsive freedom that feels very much like joy. And you see that joy echoed on Eddie’s face when he accompanies you for the final verse, his warm brashness husking up the clearness of yours in a way that sounds, not just good, but right.

Another smattering of applause follows your performance, and you bask in it; your knee seeks the side of Eddie’s thigh, resting there lightly, and though you don’t glance down at it for fear of drawing too much attention, just knowing that he is warm, and solid, and connected to a small part of you makes happiness perch high in your heart.

“If I could make a request.”

All eyes turn to Mama, who has now sunk back against the couch, not quite leaning against your father’s side but close to it. “How about ‘John the Rabbit?’ Used to sing that t’you when you were little. D’you remember that?”

Mama’s voice is just the same as it always is— even when it’s calm, the urgency of ‘get this done, knock it off, do this, not that’ is never quite gone. But her expression is buttery soft now as she gazes at you, and as you relax under its comforting weight, your body sags subtly toward the man sitting at your side. “Sure I do,” you tell her, “used to sing it to me in the mornin’, and that’s how I knew we were gonna tend the garden that day.”

Mama hums, beckoning you gently with her chin. “Why don’t you lead us in a round, hm?” She casts glances around at the men, adding, “All you gotta do is say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“‘Til the last line,” you pipe up, “then y’say, ‘No, ma’am.’”

Wayne chuckles, rubbing his palms along his worn blue jeans. “I reckon we can handle it,” he assures her in his slow way, and with that, Eddie strums a simple tune fitting of a nursery school rhyme.

You sing sweetly, “Oh, John the rabbit—”

“Yes, ma’am,” the rest call, and you smile through the next line:

“Got a mighty habit—”

“Yes’ ma’am.”

“Jumpin’ in my garden—” you pause for the others, who oblige you readily, before continuing, “Cuttin’ down my cabbage…” and yielding them the floor.

The leader is meant to draw out the next line, to twang the words at the end, and you sway in your seat as you faithfully follow. “My sweet potatoes,” you croon at Eddie, and he leans toward you as he answers louder than the rest,

“Yes ma’am!”

With each successive line, the delight inside you grows, and it echoes through the room, repeated on every face— man and woman, young and old.

“And if I live… to see next fall… I ain’t gonna have… no garden at all—” You heave a great breath, grinning as you throw your head back and chorus with the others,

“No… ma’am!”

Eddie strums hard and quick to end the song, and your giggle is joined by Wayne’s thick chuckle, and your mother’s polite humming, and your father’s hoarse bark of amusement. And when Eddie throaty, husky chuckles swallow up them all beside you, you think if you could bottle up this sound and keep it forever, you would. You certainly would.

When you return to the dining room, taking your seat beside your father, the air that fills the red roost is thick with the sweetness of shared company, almost enough to rival the flaky pie you’re all indulging in. It’s not the finest you’ve ever tasted, but it’s with a sense of pride that you watch the others enjoy it. Pa is gesturing widely with his fork as he discusses autumn arrangements with Wayne, how they might coordinate their harvests of hay and corn for mutual benefit. Mama is scooping up each bite slowly and chewing thoroughly, which you know means she is stalling to keep herself from devouring the whole thing in one fell swoop. Wayne is already on his second slice despite protesting, when he’d initially been served, that he couldn’t eat another bite. And Eddie…

Well, Eddie has eaten half his pie already, but in the last handful of minutes he’s been pushing the remainder around on his fork— not disinterestedly, as if he doesn’t enjoy it, but with a sort of jerkiness to the motions that belys some tension within him. You have half a mind to ask him what’s bothering him, but you don’t want to embarrass him in front of company. You bury down the tinge of worry, which is what must be kicking up your heart, what must account for the sudden tightness in your own chest, though it feels more akin to anticipation.

So you eat your pie, and listen to your father, and glance back and forth between Mama and Eddie until the latter finally sets his fork down with a clink that somehow, despite the lack of force, cuts straight through the conversation between Wayne and Pa. It lapses into silence, and your heart pounds harder as you watch a pink tongue swipe at plush lips and an adam’s apple bob in a pale throat before the brash voice of your best friend fills the void.

“Sir,” Eddie says, looking at your father, and a lump grows in your throat as the word wavers just slightly before recovering. “I hope it’s all right, me speaking out of turn, but… there’s something I need to say to you.”

There is a brief pause as all eyes turn to your Pa. He draws his napkin over his lips, and its drag smooths the severe lines around his mouth for just a moment before they spring back up again into place. “S’your house,” your father replies, not unkindly.

Eddie’s eyes dart to Wayne for just a second, and you follow them to see the older man gazing back calmly. When they return to your Pa, Eddie lifts his chin, keeping his gaze and voice steady. “We’ve lived next door to each other for just about ten years now. And in that time, I’ve gotten to know your family well, and you’ve gotten to know mine.” His throat bobs as he pauses. “Y/n and I grown up alongside each other, and maybe my opinion don’t matter all that much in the scheme of things, but I tell you humbly that, well, I think you both done a mighty fine job raisin’ her.”

Eddie looks at your mother beside him, who offers him a slight nod, but he doesn’t look at you. And good thing, too, because that feeling is swelling up to fill your throat so hot and thick, it’s all you can do to keep your chin from trembling. “I know y’don’t need me to tell you this,” Eddie huffs a breathless chuckle, “y’already know how good she is. But I think it warrants bein’ said that there’s somethin’ about y/n that’s special.” His chest expands with a bracing breath, and in that pause, you see it all in Eddie’s umber eyes. In the line of his brow, the gentle slope of his nose, the light flush of his cheeks, the strength of his jaw— all that he could ever say is there, written plain as day across his beloved face.

“Special to me, s’what I’m saying,” he clarifies, and the way his brow furrows just slightly in the middle— tugged up into an expression of sweet earnestness— has your heart beating so wild and fast you think it might leap out of your chest and into the cradle of his arms.

“Sir,” Eddie says, “I really care about your daughter, and I would like to ask your permission to court her.”

It’s what you hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for when you’d taken out the Fourth of July dress and adorned yourself in sprigs of lavender and rosemary. It’s what shone through Eddie’s eager smile when he opened the door to his home with his face scrubbed clean, waiting there for you. It’s the promise of forever stretched out over the expanse of a wooden dining table, where napkins were carefully folded into squares and pies were baked with fresh apples from the tree outside. Small acts of service committed by two sets of hands, each trailing love like fairy dust in their wake.

Pa clears his throat— not a sharp sound, more of a rumble of consideration as he leans back in his chair, gazing at Mama across from him. He nods his head slowly, thoughtfully, a gradual bobbing that continues as his tongue runs over his teeth behind his lips. It ends with a jerking of his brows and the smack of his lips opening as he replies,

“I appreciate your words, Edward, they’re very kind. But, no.” His eyes hold Eddie’s steadily. “I do not give you permission to court my daughter.”

Your father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even sound particularly bothered. And yet the pall that settles over the Munson’s dinner table is so oppressive that you feel your shoulders sink under the palpable weight of the silence following his denial. That heaviness drags like a rotten hand down the back of your neck; it melts to viscous ooze, seeping over your clavicle, sinking through your gingham dress and coating the swelling behind your ribs in suffocating shock.

Distantly, you hear Wayne stiffly ask your parents to accompany him into the living room. You feel your father’s chair scrape out beside you; you want to glance at your Mama’s face, but your eyes are stuck to the flakes of crust and the crystals of sugar dotting the linen napkin laid beside your plate.

It isn’t until you’re alone with Eddie that the heaviness sloughs off of you to slap like dead meat to the floor. Then you can raise your head and meet the umber eyes of the man who sits across from you, motionless and hollow.

As soon as you see the expression on his face, the feeling shifts in you; with an impatient jerk of your chair, you stand to crane over the table and take up his cheeks in your hands. His head is heavy, his neck loose and pliant, and you hold him steady as you speak quietly and intently.

“Okay, look, Ed—” You take a shuddering breath, letting it out through your nose, and it ruffles the soft curls that frame his jaw as he looks back at you blankly. You continue in an urgent whisper, “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll put up a bit of a fuss, of course, but if I fight ‘em too hard, they’ll look at me cross, and we won’t get nowhere. By all appearances, we should look like we accept their decision, all right? That’ll buy us time to figure out what to do.”

Eddie doesn’t react, really; nothing much on his face changes. But you know him too well, so you can see the subtle shifting there, how the dullness in his umber eyes edges into mournfulness. Defeat.

Your heart cracks.

His name whispers through your quivering lips. “Eddie…” Your eyes prick for him, for all the effort he put into making this night so perfect, and how it now had gone all sideways on him. On you both.

You don’t think much about what you do next. It’s instinct when you surge forward to kiss him hard, pressing your lips to his with all the fervency and yearning and love that swells within your body. Your heart thumps when you feel him respond, when his lips pucker and seek yours, when his trembling fingertips draw lightly down your cheek.

There is urgency and danger here in the dining room, but you hold the kiss as long as you can before your lungs begin to burn. When you pull away, gasping for breath, Eddie now looks more dazed than sad, and it both reassures you and feeds your fire.

“I don’t give a hoot what they say,” you whisper fiercely. “I wanna be with you, Ed. We been good at sneakin’ around before, and we can do it now, too.” You search his eyes, panging with hesitation for the first time as you scrape your teeth across your teeth before blurting, “I don’t wanna stop seein’ you. Do… do you wanna stop seein’ me, now that this’s happened?”

Eddie huffs— a small warm puff of breath that ghosts across your lips— and it’s wry and unbelieving but so incredibly soft. “‘Y/n.” His voice is a gentle rumble in his chest, earnest and hoarse. “Now that I had a chance to know you the way we know each other, I think it’d kill me dead to go back to how it was before. I could barely keep it together then. Can’t imagine doin’ it now that I’ve had you underneath me.” You shiver at the hot promise in his eyes. “‘Sides,” he adds, “I—”

The merciful floorboards warn you of the imminent return of your parents, and you fall back into your chair just in time to appear innocent as they reenter the dining room.

“Well!” Your father sighs the word in that tone people only use when closing something out— a conversation, a get-together, an engagement. You think he will continue, that he will turn to Eddie and perhaps offer an explanation, but that single word just lingers in the pause until your mother jumps in.

“Thank you for dinner, Wayne. Eddie,” Mama says politely, and Eddie manages to bob his head in a single nod to acknowledge her. Wayne has far more composure, accepting her thanks and exchanging a polite word about the next dinner.

Your father shakes Wayne’s hand firmly and then beckons you with a jerk of his head. “C’mon, missy, let’s leave ‘em to their evenin’.”

It would be odd if it weren’t that you understood what must have happened in the living room— that your father had explained his decision to Wayne, and that they’d managed to come out the other side maintaining, at the very least, a level of friendliness befitting neighbors.

So you follow suit; with as much decorum as you can muster, you rise primly and thank Wayne, casting one last glance at Eddie before you depart the red roost of the crows.

You wait until you’re back inside your own roost and your front door has closed behind you to turn on them, brow knit tight with righteous indignation. “Why did you deny Eddie, Pa?” you demand. “What’s wrong with him courtin’ me?” You can’t quite keep the heat from your voice; the outrage bubbling beneath the surface is too fresh, too hot as you remember Eddie’s beloved umber eyes, how the light in them dimmed.

Your father does not quail at your display; if anything, he grows taller, raising his chin and regarding you down the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I’ve been acquainted with Edward for damn near ten years now, and in that time, he has proved himself time after time to be frivolous and uncouth. That boy is entirely lacking in discipline.” In a rare display of restraint, your father does not raise his voice at you in the privacy of your home. Yet he is no less hardened for it; his words fall like heavy stones before your feet. “Edward is downright wild. Your mother and I have let you indulge in this little friendship with him, above all, on account of our respect for Wayne. But he is not the kind of young man I want courtin' my only unwed daughter.”

You could tell them that Eddie’s wildness is what fuels his heart, what makes him so passionate and imaginative and enchanting. You could tell them that he bought you a ribbon and scrubbed his nails clean, that he takes you to wildflower fields because he knows you like them and invents stories to make you happy. You could tell them that you love him, that you always have, that when you envision what your life will be like with your own house and garden, you can’t see anyone but Eddie Munson by your side.

Yet you fear to voice these things, to breathe life into them and then have them butchered just as quickly at your father’s hand. You glance at your mother, but her face is an impassive mask; you know appealing to her will get you nowhere, so you latch to the only thing you can think of. Despite telling Eddie that you will not fight hard for him since that will only make things more difficult, you find yourself unable to resist.

“But Pa,” you try for earnestness, “Ed is disciplined, don’t you see? Think of all he’s done for us ‘round the house, and with the fence and the kid. I think he’s been tryin’ so hard this past week to show you how serious he is about m—”

A curled lip is all the warning you get before being interrupted. “Never trust a man who acts just because he wants somethin’.” Your father finally snaps; his voice booms in the space between you. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he done or how he acted this week. It don’t erase a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.”

And you know by the way your Pa’s severe face has petrified into the hardest stone, echoed though less harshly in the wrinkles that line your mother’s eyes, that their decision cannot be budged.

Edward Munson cannot court you, and that is that.

But the fact is, you don’t need Eddie Munson to court you. You’re already his, and you give yourself to him as such.

When you wake the next morning, it appears to your parents as if your ire from the night before was nothing but a feverish dream. You slink around the house with your tail held high, coy as a barnyard cat as you dine with them at the breakfast table, making amiable conversation with your Pa and complimenting your Mama’s cooking without a hint of sourness. You complete your chores without complaining— well, without any more complaining than is typical of you. You sew the buttons on your Mama’s dress with the utmost considerateness and drop kisses on your father’s cheek each night before retiring to bed. This awards you certain freedoms, freedoms that you certainly wouldn’t be gifted had you carried on about their rejection of Eddie the way you truly wanted to deep in your heart.

You keep it buried— the indignance, the sorrow, the swelling you feel when you catch glimpses of him through the cracks in the fence. You cover it in pleasantness and obeisance so that they won’t suspect, and when you visit the stump rotted through to the middle and find the papers wedged inside, you exercise the privileges you’ve won through subterfuge.

“Nancy asked me to walk with her into town. She wants me to come with her to the dressmakers, so it might take a little while if that’s all right?” You ask your Pa as he’s repairing the sagging barn door, and his hammering pauses only long enough to tell you not to spend any frivolous money there.

It’s quite easy to agree when you have no real intention of setting foot in the dressmaker’s shop.

Instead, you dip off the road and trail across the far edge of the Wheelers’ field, picking through a copse of trees to access the adjacent clearing that grows wild and unkempt. There, you find a patch of clear earth, and now, you are dropping to your knees to gather your skirt up around your hips. You arch your back shamelessly to expose yourself, presenting your pussy like a cat in heat to the man behind you. When you feel his broad hands ruck your skirt up higher, you press your palms to the earth and dip your cheek to the ground, just waiting to be mounted. When Eddie notches his fat head against your entrance, you teethe the plush of your bottom lip. He presses steadily forward until he pops inside, stretching you tight around his girth, and when you mewl, he hisses in response. In one long stroke— a motion quick and trembling like the tautness of a bowstring, as if he can no longer hold himself back now that he has notched inside you— Eddie presses his hips up tight against your ass and groans out his relief at your joining. His relief echoes your own, manifest in the way your body goes lax: chin dipping to take its rest, shoulders sagging as your breasts mold to the unyielding ground, fingers drawing through strands of green as if yearning for dark coils of ink but settling for second best. Eddie sleeves himself within the wet warmth that welcomes him, and your muscles yawn a sigh of relief even as you flutter and squeeze around that which splits you open.

There, in the dirt and grass, you give yourself to Eddie on your hands and knees. Your face grazes the earth as you let him pound into you from behind, let him grip your hips and claim you with the little imprints of his fingers that he squeezes into your skin. You and Eddie have done gentle; you know what it is to lie with him on the creekbed or in the wildflowers, where time seemed to stretch and bend, and every moment could be savored. But not so now, when the only occasions you can see one another are in moments stolen through lies and trickery. Now, your need for Eddie is dirty and ravenous. You take what he gives you, and you give freely for him to take in return. Each whimper and grunt, each harsh slap of skin against skin, each wet shlick of his cock sheathing in your eager heat sounds to you like a triumphant cry of defiance.

A wicked seed within you relishes in the fantasy of your parents seeing what you are allowing frivolous, uncouth Eddie Munson to do to you. You know your Mama would be scandalized— her eyes would pop out of her head. You know your Pa would be furious— his face would go purple with rage. They refused to allow Eddie to court you, and yet here he is, fucking into you with abandon as you whimper and tremble for him. And you like it; you like the way he spears you roughly with his cock, the way your ass bounces lewdly against his hips, the way your belly tightens with sinful pleasure as he plunges deep and holds himself there, pressing hard to grind himself inside you. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him as you circle your hips, seeking for something more. You angle and work yourself on his length until you jolt, having suddenly found what you sought. That feeling sparks like wicked fire, burning low inside you each time he grazes against that elusive spot inside, and oh, how you like it.

"Please, harder, Eddie," you beg him, whimpering into the earth. "Please— you feel so good."

“Fuuuck,” Eddie groans, and the hoarse husk makes you shiver with pleasure. "Your pussy’s so sweet. So fuckin' tight and sweet for me, turtle dove. Fuckin’ love being inside your little pussy."

You moan, long and low, rocking back to meet him as he starts to thrust again, hard and fast. You've learned that Eddie has a filthy mouth, and each dirty word that drips from his sinful lips is both so mortifying and so arousing at the same time. As his fingers tighten on your hips, and his breath harshens into desperate pants, urgency fills you— an urgency to feel him reach the pinnacle he is approaching. You want Eddie to spill inside you, or on your flank, or into the grass, anywhere so long as you can hear the way he whines and moans from the pleasure you’re giving him. “That’s it, Ed,” you encourage him breathlessly, “just like that, just— oh— j-just like that, mmm—”

You pinch off a whine, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as his rhythm becomes stilted, uneven, desperate—

And then Eddie gasps raggedly, pulling out and spilling onto the earth between your spread legs. His hands leave you, and you scramble up to your knees, hole mournfully empty but heart so full. You turn as Eddie squeezes the last few drops of his seed from his flushed head onto the ground before catching you in one strong arm as you fall against him, cradling your cheek and kissing you deeply.

But like the kiss you shared in his dining room those few days ago, floorboards creak in the back of your mind, cutting this one short. They’re reminding you that you will soon need to return home and pretend not to know the taste of Eddie’s lips and the feeling of his arms around you.

And frankly, by the end of the first week, you are already growing tired of having to pretend.

It’s not that you give yourselves away because you don’t. Eddie waves at your Pa over the fence and skirts his eyes from you— never cruelly, only in the way you both had planned— and your father doesn’t suspect a thing. When Eddie brings over a pail of milk so you can churn it to make butter, Mama’s face is carefree when you pass it to her. But your desire is no longer contained to fields and creekbeds; it rises up in the night as your yearnings bid you dip your fingers beneath your nightgown. You draw them through sticky folds and dip them inside the well of your arousal, seeking the smoldering fire that burns within. But you can never make yourself feel the way Eddie does, no matter how hard you try.

So when you wake again in the middle of the night, this time, you light a candle, scratching a hasty message onto a scrap of paper. And the next morning, you fold your message carefully, tuck it beneath the waistband of your apron, and reach your arm up to the elbow into that rotted stump, leaving it there for Eddie to find.

The night air is heavy with humidity and the chirping of crickets and cicadas, but you leave the window open. You’re laying in your bed, breathing slow and even, staring at a thin crack in your plaster ceiling to keep your nervousness from overwhelming you. Your parents had retired to bed some time ago; you heard the creaking of the floorboards then, and now, if you concentrate, you can hear the chainsaw snoring of your Pa through both closed doors.

He is sleeping, and Ma is sleeping, and so should you be. But you are waiting— waiting for your best friend to climb through your open window and join you in your bed.

You are waiting for it, but your heart leaps nonetheless when you hear scuffling at the bedroom window. You sit up, and all at once, he’s there, dark eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight. Eddie’s form is near shapeless as he creeps toward your bed, but you would recognize him anywhere; his weight has never dipped the mattress beside you, but it feels exactly as you would expect when one knee sinks beside your calf, only to be joined by the other in the next second. Slowly, feeling around in the dark, Eddie settles his weight on top of you. He is heavy and hot as he presses you into the mattress with his belly and chest; his curls tickle across your clavicle, smelling overwhelmingly like his natural musk in the stagnant air of your bedroom. When he kisses you hello, his mouth tastes slightly sour, as if the heat of the long day and the exertion of scaling the side of your house has dehydrated him.

Eddie is heavy, hot, musky, sour, and here, here in your bedroom with you.

It’s everything you could want.

When he breaks your kiss, it’s all you can do to keep from pouncing on him. “Eddie—” you whine, nuzzling the firm bridge of your nose against the side of his as your hands seek the bottom of his thin shirt blindly, tugging insistently though ineffectually.

He shushes you gently, dropping a peck on your pouting lips before dipping to your neck to murmur against the soft skin there. “Shh—” his breath hushes warm and damp against your skin, and your head tips back of its own accord, begging for more. “You gotta be real quiet, turtle dove,” he whispers. “Don’t want anyone to hear us.”

Your breath deepens as his lips trail down to your collarbone, grazing kisses as he mosies his way down to your chest. In the humid dark, you feel his callused fingers pull down the loose neckline of your nightgown. Eddie says something, and you feel the vibrations of his words against the swell of your breast, but your heart which thumps wildly in your chest and the wooshing of your breath in your ears have rendered you effectively deaf.

“E—” You manage only the first soft sound of his name before his lips close over your nipple for the first time, sucking firmly. Your hand flies to his head as your body goes rigid; your mouth falls open in a ragged gasp as pleasure jolts straight down to throb between your legs. You squirm against him until he presses your hip down with one broad hand to keep you from rocking the bed, working the nub with his tongue and teeth until your gasping breaks into a faint but audible whimper.

You are dazed when he releases you with a wet pop, murmuring against your breast a little more loudly now, “I guess Harrington was right about that, after all. That bodes well.”

You wrinkle your nose as Eddie crawls back up your body to settle over you. Your legs open automatically to accommodate him, but you’re too preoccupied to fully appreciate the feeling of his hardness pressing against your inner thigh. Frowning lightly, you hiss in a whisper, “What’re you doin’ talkin’ to Steven Harrington, of all people?”

“Never you mind that,” Eddie whispers back, and he heads off your protest with a warm palm cupping the side of your neck, his fingers cradling your jaw. “The conversation is too delicate to discuss with a lady, so I’ll just tell you that… well, he told me to do what I just did, and you liked it, right?”

Though embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks, you nod your head jerkily, enough so he can feel it even if he doesn’t see it in the dark. “Okay, so… he also said there’s a spot.” His hand leaves your cheek to graze down between your bodies, ghosting lightly against the loose fabric pooled between your legs. “Somewhere I can touch you, down here, that’ll make you have a fit if I do it good enough.”

Your bewilderment rushes up in a tangle of sputtered and furious whispers. “Have a fit?! Ed, what on God’s green Earth makes you think I wanna have a fit?”

Eddie huffs. “It’s a good thing, y/n. He said girls really like it.”

Your skepticism is plain as you retort, “Oh, did he now?”

“Yes.” Eddie is uncharacteristically earnest and solemn, and that’s what finally gives you pause. When you’re quiet, he whispers, “I wanna make you feel so good, my sweet girl. If you let me. Will you let me?”

In the humid dark of your bedroom, with only the moon to glaze the side of Eddie’s pale face in cool, subtle light, you look into the darkness of his eyes and feel so many stirrings inside… anticipation, nervousness, desire. But in the end, it’s the deepest stirring of all that convinces you, the one that’s been growing slow and steady over the last ten years.

Trust.

You trust Eddie, more deeply than you’ve trusted any other person in your life, and that trust is what draws you forward into a tentative kiss.

Your lips part briefly from his before meeting again more firmly. Eddie rumbles low in his throat, and when his lips open to deepen the kiss, yours follow. You allow him to lick into your mouth, to draw his tongue across your teeth, to press closer until the way he’s kissing you is hot, deep, wet, and urgent.

When Eddie breaks away, his eagerness is plain in the panting of his breath, the quivering of his arms when you draw your fingertips down his biceps, feeling the hot skin there. “That’s my turtle dove,” he hushes against your mouth, and he sounds so proud and pleased with you that you can’t help but whimper.

Despite his eagerness, Eddie is careful when he climbs off of you to settle at your side, pulling you against him and turning you in his grasp so your back is to his front. Your head falls to the soft down pillow as you feel him work your nightgown up your body, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between you. There is the slightest relief from the humidity as your legs, then your hip, then your intimate places are exposed to the air, but you rush even hotter when Eddie’s lips find the shell of your ear so he can murmur, “Spread your legs for me, y/n.”

Trembling, you lift your knee, and his fingers catch against the plush of your thigh, pulling it back over his hip. He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your eye. “That’s it; good girl.”

Your breath shudders in your chest as Eddie’s fingers leave your thigh; you throb with anticipation as they ghost over your hip and tummy before dragging through the soft curls covering your mound. “Tell me when it feels the best,” Eddie whispers, resting the side of his temple on top of yours. The weight of his head is grounding as he begins to explore you slowly with one finger, dragging up and down with no apparent pattern to his movements.

As the moments pass, you relax in his grip, settling into the feeling of his finger dragging through your folds. He doesn’t seem to intend to put them inside you, and what he’s doing feels quite nice, pleasant, almost soothing. The crook of Eddie’s elbow rests against the curve of your ribs, and as your eyes slip closed, you seek his arm with your palm, stroking softly down to his wrist as it moves slowly between your legs—

You jolt as he grazes against something that makes pleasure fizz in a sudden burst, leaving your belly feeling hotter, tighter. As your hips jump, Eddie pauses, his breath catching as he tries to replicate what he’d just done. When it happens again— when pleasure sparks suddenly so might brighter than anywhere else— Eddie’s arm tightens excitedly around your side.

“S’that it?” his voice is a little too loud in his excitement, and you tightly clutch his wrist. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, though the urgency hasn’t left his voice. “That’s it, though, isn’t it? Feels better when I touch you there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice small and needy. Eddie dips his hand to draw a sloppy circle briefly around your entrance before returning to the apex of your heat— that place that had tingled when he licked you on the creekbed, you now realize, though the thought hadn’t crossed your mind until you felt that pleasure again. When he presses against it again, his fingertip glides much more smoothly now; it felt good before, but now it feels even better.

Eddie continues moving his finger slowly and lightly at first as he waits for your reaction, but when you don’t tense or pull away, his actions become more confident. Your pleasure builds under his careful ministrations; he works you slowly but steadily up into a frenzy of heaving breasts, muffled whines, and writhing hips. You begin to arch your ass back against him, grinding slowly, your tender skin dragging against the soft cotton of his pants until you find that stiffness like a brand against your cheek. You press hard against it, rolling your hips only a few times before Eddie grunts and pulls his hand from between your legs, shifting back away from you.

You know what comes next as you hear the rustling of his clothing; you take the opportunity to catch your breath as he works himself out of his pants, but the wind leaves you just as quickly when he presses back up against you, hard and silky smooth as he guides himself blindly, bumping against your wet, puffy lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with need, you lift your leg higher, whimpering breathily as you reach down between your legs in an attempt to help him. “Fuck’n… c’mon,” Eddie hisses, nudging first too high, then too low, and then—

Then he sinks right in.

It’s the easiest glide, the sweetest stretch, and simultaneously you and Eddie moan as he slides all the way home. “Oh, baby, baby,” he pants desperately against your cheek, “fuck, that’s… oh, my God—”

You reach up over your shoulder to bury your fingers in his curls, and when he pulses inside you, your breath hitches with the force of your desire, your overwhelming need to have him move. “Eddie, please…” you whine, nearly beside yourself, and his hand clamps to your hip like a vice, holding you still as he pulls out and pushes right back in.

You sag with relief as he wastes no time in beginning to fuck you, splitting you open so deliciously on his cock. Eddie pounds you over and over again like he had those times before, but what you don’t anticipate is how that hand on your hip slinks down between your legs again.

You strangle your cry in your throat as he finds that spot so easily as if he’d been drawn to it. You whimper through clamped lips as quietly as you can as Eddie presses tight little circles to your bud, pumping into you from behind. Your fingers wrench from his curls to clamp instead around his forearm; the tendons roll under your fingers rhythmically, and your pleasure begins to build so rapidly it’s nearly frightening.

"That's it, baby,” Eddie encourages you, “You feelin’ good?"

You nod frantically; something is tightening inside you, growing more than it ever has. "Gonna keep goin' til I get you there," Eddie promises breathlessly, panting out the words between his thrusts. "Don't care how long it takes. I got you, sweetheart. Want you to have a fit."

"Eddie," you whine quietly, dumbly; only his name can spill from your lips now. "Ed, E-Eddie, Eddie—"

Your pathetic sounds drive him to fuck you faster, and as he does, your pleasure tightens further, burning hotter, throbbing more and more until the urge to cry out overwhelms you.

Abruptly, you curl your shoulders forward away from him, snatching up the pillow and burying your face in the soft down to muffle the sound of your moans.

You’re still connected where it matters, though Eddie pauses in his movements when you draw away before he realizes what you’re doing. Your sweaty back is exposed to the air for only a moment before he’s following you, unwilling to tolerate any distance— his chin hooks around your shoulder as his hips rut against your ass and his fingers press circles into your clit.

"Bein' so good for me,” Eddie rasps in your ear, “using your pillow to keep yourself quiet so your parents don't hear the way I'm fuckin' you in your bed."

Your moans turn to quiet cries now, rhythmic and constant as your legs squeeze closed around his wrist. And he doesn’t falter; through the plush of your thighs, Eddie fucks you determinedly, thrusting into your fluttering pussy as you gasp and cry raggedly into your pillow. "My girl,” he moans. “They can't take you from me. No one can."

As that feeling builds and grows, instinct in your body takes over, guiding you where it wants to go. Mindlessly, you begin to grind back on Eddie’s cock, rolling your hips; he pulls his wrist from between your legs, holding onto your hip as he matches the rhythm of your movements. Almost desperately, Eddie drags his open mouth across your cheek, panting out his earnest desire for you. "Come on, turtle dove. That's it—"

With a soft, hoarse cry, you finally spasm around him.

The pleasure gapes like a yawn inside you before tightening and bursting outward in a tingling rush, flooding you with mindless euphoria. The intensity of the feeling would be truly frightening had Eddie not been right there behind you, holding you against the solid comfort of his body, whining into your hair. He pumps into you only a few more times before pulling out, and then you feel him spill against your flank. The warm spread of his spend paints your skin, the graze of his cockhead like a hot brand as he squeezes out every drop.

In the aftermath, there is a moment of dazed silence. The only sound that fills your humid bedroom is the chirp of the crickets and the rush of your breaths puffing in unison. When you’ve recovered enough, you break that silence to whisper emphatically, "Oh, Christ on a cracker, Ed, what in the hell was that?!"

Eddie snorts before burying his face hastily into your neck, muffling his chuckles against your skin as your cheeks rush with embarrassment. “Well, don’t laugh at me,” you insist, heating more when he lifts his head and snatches you up by the chin, smacking a firm, playful kiss to your cheek.

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, following up his kiss with two shorter ones before letting you go to wipe your hip off with the bottom of the shirt he’s still wearing.

Your body thrums with contentment, but when the mattress shifts as Eddie climbs carefully down to pull his pants back on, the moment becomes tinged with melancholy. Your eyes track the vague shape of his body for a moment before you whisper, “I wish you could stay, Ed.”

For a moment, all you hear is a heavy sigh, one that leaks with the sadness you’re both beginning to feel. “Me too, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers back. “Can I lay with you, just for a little while?”

The question transforms your sadness into a sharp and poignant swelling— pleasant but painful all at once. “Of course.” You reach blind fingers in the direction of his neck, and Eddie ducks closer so you can draw them through his curls— no longer silky like they were the night of the dinner, yet beloved even more for their frizziness. “I’d really like you to.”

As you laze with Eddie above your bedcovers, tucking your cheek against the side of his chest, sleep begins to swallow the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. Only vaguely do you notice when the bed shifts and the warmth pressed to your side unsticks from your sweaty skin, both a relief and a loss; you feel the brush of lips against your forehead and your closed lids, featherlight and delicate; you hear the scuffle of Eddie climbing back out the window to scale the side of your blue roost and return to his red one next door.

Sleep swallows the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. But, though Eddie cannot stay, a part of him is always with you, and it has been for some time now. The evidence of your love is nestled safe inside your body; it is an inevitability ten years in the making, now ten days conceived.

You wake the following morning with an overwhelming desire to have Eddie in your mouth.

Maybe it’s an odd urge to have so suddenly, but you suppose after your adventurousness last night, your curiosity to try new things must be piqued. You glance around your room, and the only evidence of Eddie’s visit is that your bedsheets more rumpled than usual, so you straighten them out before tying your housecoat around your body and wandering downstairs.

There you find Mama in the kitchen, who is busying herself with the stove until she notices you’re awake. “Morning!” Your greeting is chipper, and she returns your greeting with a smile. As you breakfast together, all feels usual aside from the absence of Pa at the table; she explains that he’s been speaking with a rancher some towns over about possibly purchasing a new horse. You flash with worry, but she soothes it with a pat of her hand atop yours. “Don’t fret. We’re not replacin’ Guinnie, silly girl,” she huffs with some amusement. “We all know that Pa might’ve bought her, but that’s your horse. I told him it’s high time to get one of his own.”

You sag with visible relief, and Mama’s huff turns to a chuckle. “I’m goin’ into town this morning to pick up some things,” she tells you. “You wanna tag along?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but falter as your belly burns with the sudden realization of this opportunity— Pa gone, Mama in town, Eddie just beyond the fence with the stump in between.

“I was actually thinkin’ I could work on my embroidery this morning,” you reply instead. “Finish the hoop for Mr. Munson, maybe.” You smile innocently. “Then I can start on my 4H hoop!”

There’s no reason for Mama to doubt your sincerity, so she doesn’t. And when, an hour later, you wave your embroidery hoop high in the air from your rocking chair as she sets off down the road, she doesn’t question the call of the turtle dove, nor the cackle of the crow that answers.

The hay in the barn loft is soft under your knees, providing a pleasant cushion while you satisfy your desire with kitten licks along the fat head of Eddie’s cock, kneeling between his spread legs. He tastes as you would expect, though you’d only been thinking about the taste for half a morning. It’s salty, a little musky from the heat, the same way his dark curls smell. Occasionally, beads of liquid shine at the tiny slit at the tip, and when you lick them up, they’re more bitter than the rest. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either, and the sounds Eddie’s making for you right now more than compensate for it.

When you flick your tongue against that dribbling slit, his breath hitches; when you lick a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, he moans. And when you swallow him down, engulfing him in the wet heat of your eager mouth, he gasps some strangled sound that makes you giggle around him.

Eddie’s hips jolt and squirm when you do, and your eyes pop open to find him looking nearly pained. “F— oh, f— shit,” Eddie finally settles on, and you would smile if you weren’t so full of him right now.

You’ve been exploring him in this new way for a little while, so your curiosity has nearly been sated. Nearly, because you have one thing yet to taste— his seed. And you really want to know what it will feel like to have him spill onto your tongue, to have that hot flesh jerk and pulse within you, to have him feeling just as good as he made you feel yesterday.

So you begin to bob your head, sloppily at first, uneven until you figure out the right angle that keeps your teeth from grazing him and making him hiss. You hum apologetically around him, and his plush lips fall open as you take him a little further while making that sound. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed prettily, his hair like dark ink spilled across the hay as he moans for you. “Shit, baby, that feels so fuckin’ good.”

You rush with satisfaction, growing more enthusiastic as you bob faster, grasping the base to hold him upright so he doesn’t flop around so much. “That’s it,” Eddie pants, “That’s— oh—”

His hand finds the side of your head— not moving you, just resting there as you work him with your mouth and tongue, like he wants to feel the way you’re doting on him. You ignore the soreness in your jaw when his panting gets heavier, and your gaze flashes up to lock on his face— eyes hazy, brow pinched, skin flushed down his neck as he gasps, “Don’t stop, I’m… I’m gonna—”

You moan when he moans, and as you do, Eddie’s cock kicks within the wet heat of your mouth, spilling his seed. It’s thick and tangy, warm but not hot as it spurts to coat your tongue, and you wait motionlessly until the jerking subsides and his fingers relax against your hair.

Pulling off is a little sloppier than you anticipate, and you chuckle as some of his release leaks before you can fully close your mouth. You catch it with a hasty palm, meeting Eddie’s fond, dazed smile with one of your own, albeit closed-lipped on account of your mouth being occupied.

As you swallow him down, using your other hand to wipe your bottom lip, you hear the subtle creak of wood below you.

Your only thought is that you don’t want to look. But whether you look or not, it does not change who waits for you beyond the ledge of the hayloft. It was with a perverse sense of satisfaction that you’d imagined Pa’s face would turn purple at the sight of you with Eddie, but you knew, were it to actually occur, that the horror you would feel would leave you reeling.

Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of Mama’s features. They are pallid, so contorted with the force of her seething rage as to be near unrecognizable, and somehow, that is worse.

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