#TD&TC

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part one

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+. oral (f!receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, breeding kink.

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | epilogue | playlist

PART ONE: THE HOLE IN THE LEAVES (15.1k)

And the sweat will roll down our backs

And we’ll follow animal tracks

To a tree in the woods

And a hole in the leaves we’ll see

The bright baby eyes of a chickadee

Animal Tracks — Mountain Man

“Mama!” 

Your call flattens in the August heat, weighed down by thick, humid air and the drone of the cicadas chirping outside the open window over the sink. You cup your hands around your mouth to make sure she hears you; you don’t want her to accuse you of galavanting if she finds you gone. “I’m gonna take Guinnie out now!”

You drop your hands and wait for an answering call, scrambling to pick the broom up where you’d leaned it against the wallpaper as you hear the brisk shuffle-thump of her footsteps approaching the kitchen. She appears in the archway, hands on hips and eyebrow cocked.

“Y’finished sweepin’ yet?” she asks you, turning a discerning eye to the floorboards to search for any errant specs you may have missed.

“Yes, Mama,” you reply obediently, knowing better than to even think of sassing her. You know if you sass her, there’s no way you won’t end up confined to your room for the remainder of the day, less supper and having foiled your own plans before they’ve even begun. “I was just looking to take Guinevere out to the field with a blanket and my book now I’m finished with my chores for today.” 

Her discerning eye flicks from the spotless floor to you, and you resist fidgeting with your dress's cotton skirt under her sharp gaze, which lingers for a moment before she humphs. “Fine, then,” she says, and you’re about to beam before she continues as if returning to a subject you’d been discussing before. “And I mean it, missy. Y'arent to go off with Wayne's boy anymore, y'hear?" She shakes her head in preemptive consternation. "Off in the woods gettin’ up to God-knows-what. It ain't appropriate at your grown age.” The irrythmic tapping of her foot and the exaggerated hunch of her back as she leans toward you would be almost comical if it wasn’t for the injustice of the accusation.

You purse your lips but swallow your indignation when one of her brows goes skyward— a clear warning. “No, Mama,” you concede. “I’m just goin’ to read by myself, I swear it.” You widen your eyes hopefully. “Would it be all right if I fill a canteen with sweet tea to take with me? Please?”

Your mother straightens slowly, face twisted as if considering, and you nearly sag in relief as her hands leave her hips and she folds her arms beneath her ample bosom instead— a clear indicator that she’s easing now. “That’d be fine,” she says, and the snap is gone from her voice. You lean the broom carefully against the island counter and spin to quickly collect your tea from the icebox and the canteen from where it hangs near the screen door. 

As you sling the canteen over your shoulder along with your knapsack, you hear her mutter, “Speaking of, that boy desperately needs a haircut.” She squints at you. “Think y’could convince him to trim that mop? Wayne’s been tryin’ for years, and he only seems to listen to you.”

“Oh, no, Mama,” you say sweetly, hands clasped behind your back as you face her, edging in tiny steps back towards the door— that screen that stands between you and freedom. “I couldn’t possibly.” Blindly, your hand finds the handle, and she's still eyeing you as you turn it and slip out. 

Unimpressed, she humphs, but the screen door is already snapping closed behind you.

“Be back before sundown!” she shouts, but you’re already bounding down the back porch steps.

“I will!” you call, but the cicadas have already drowned you out as you skip toward the paddock. “Thank you for the tea, mama!”

Your mother is a woman of few mistakes, but she’d made one today. She told you you’re not allowed to see Eddie, and you’d sworn to obey her, and that was that. But her mistake lay in not asking you to show her your hands. 

Because she made you swear not to see him, but she hadn’t see your fingers crossed behind your back.

You haven’t spoken to Eddie yet today, but you know exactly where he’ll be. 

He’d called to you this morning; you heard it through your cracked window, where the white embroidered curtain swayed as the cackle of a crow cut through the early morning heat yet to fully settle in. You knew what the sound was right away: the call you’d come up with together five summers ago that meant to check the stump. You glanced toward the open door across the hall, the room beyond its threshold empty and still. It’s a miracle you haven’t been caught yet, that none of the adults have cottoned on that the caw of the crow sounds an awful lot like a certain brash mischief-maker’s voice. You crouched down to the open window in your nightgown and coo’d your own answering call, the call of the turtle dove. Your musical voice is loud in your ears, but it needs to be in order to reach the red house across the way, separated by a sea of shorn grass and the thick wooden fence between. 

Over these five years, none of the adults have cottoned on that the turtle dove always answers the crow, either, and for that you’re grateful.

There was a pause of silence following your melodic coo. Your hair rustled in the slightest breeze whispering through the cracked window, puffing like a cool sigh against your skin as you turn your ear toward the opening and wait. You waited, and waited, oh, so patiently… 

And then you heard it: a quick and faint whoop-whoop of boyish delight that, like always, made you shake your head and snort.

Later that morning, you’d put the kitchen scraps out for the goats and edged alongside that thick wooden fence towards the gnarled stump that rests between your family’s farm and the Munsons’. It’s almost dead-center, nearly bisected by that wooden demarcation, but you claim a sliver more and never cease to remind Eddie of that fact. ‘It’s my stump,’ you declare, triumph in the corners of your smirking lips. ‘I’m just allowin’ you to use it out of the grace of my heart, Eddie Munson.’

This morning, you’d reached deep inside the hole, the one that’s rotted straight through to the other side. The one which, if you’d crouched to peek, would offer you an unobstructed view to the grass field of Eddie’s yard, identical to the one you occupy, differing only in its status as his homestead and not yours.

But you didn’t peer through that opening. Instead, you reached your arm in blindly up to the elbow, feeling around for the note you knew would be wedged inside. When your fingers brushed smooth paper, you pinched it and pulled it quickly back, casting a furtive glance around the yard to ensure you were still safe from watchful eyes. With nimble fingers you unfolded and read the note quickly before tearing it to shreds, cupping it in your palms and letting it free to be scattered in the wind.

The note had been memorized almost as soon as you’d read it. Its instruction was simple; you and Eddie have developed a sense of brevity in your message-leaving, writing only as much as necessary to communicate what is needed. Today, it had read, ‘three after noon, hop’s, creek.'

At three o’clock on the dot, you ride Guinnie out to the treeline and hang left, picking your way to the edge of Mr. Hopper’s property which just kisses the corner of the Munson’s farm opposite your family’s land. Eddie is already waiting for you there, nestled in the ferns, hand shading squinted eyes as he sits astride his horse Merlin. You guide Guineveire to meet him in a trot, but she ignores you when you pull the reigns to slow her, too eager to approach her friend. You sigh in exasperation but can’t help but smile when the two horses nicker softly and nudge their faces alongside one anothers’ cheeks.

They make a strange pair, these two. One gargantuan blue roan, his haunches coiled thick with muscle, downy gray and speckled with deep spots of dark to match his mane, tail, and socks; and one pale blonde palomino, stomping daintily as her cream ears flick when the other knocks her with his neck a bit too hard in his enthusiasm. Merlin and Guineveire— a mismatched pair, just like the ones who named them. Yet it little matters when Guinnie sways forward, leaning fondly against her larger companion and, incidentally, drawing you closer to the boy astride him. 

Eddie lightly kicks you in greeting once Guinnie makes a slow circle and comes to stand alongside Merlin rather than let her face be flicked by his tail, which twitches away the flies that came to investigate while he and Eddie waited for you. Eddie’s feet are bare and dirty, his trouser hems rolled sloppily above the ankle, and you grimace at him as you swipe dirt off the top of your foot where he’d left smudges on your bare skin. He interrupts before you can work yourself up about it, asking, “J’your ma make you sweep the whole house?”

“No, just the kitchen. I must be doin’ somethin’ right this week because she barely even fought me when I told her I was takin’ Guinnie out. And—” You lift the canteen near your thigh, shaking it so the liquid sloshes inside. “I brought us sweet tea.”

Eddie stares at the canteen with exaggerated rapturous relief, his reply a dramatic sigh. “Good, ‘cause I’m so parched I could drink a lake.”

So quick it’s almost automatic, you unthread the strap and pass the canteen over, watching as he unscrews the cap and throws his head back to gulp it in huge, desperate swallows. And he must be thirsty, because as you watch his adam’s apple bob while he guzzles the still-cold tea, you can see full beads of sweat dripping down the pale cords of his neck to disappear beneath the collar of his white work shirt. The top two buttons have been popped open for some hasty relief, the bottom hem still half-tucked into his trousers but rumpled now from heat and disregard, scrunched around his suspenders. You wonder how long he’d been waiting for you; sitting still like this for just a short while has already made the heat almost unbearable, and the sight of Eddie’s thick curtain of heavy, dark curls is enough to make even you feel hotter.

Eddie’s mouth pops from the canteen with a ragged gasp, lips blushed pink and shiny before they’re concealed behind a hasty swipe of his forearm as he wipes off his mouth and passes you back the canteen. You take a small swig yourself, careful not to let any spill on your dress as the sweet liquid fills your mouth and cools you fractionally, not enough to truly combat the thick, hot soup of the air. Capping the canteen, you ask, “Did you bring our book?”

The answer is written in the sudden sheepishness of your best friend’s expression, and yours flattens as he confirms it. “Nah,” he says, more rueful than dismissive. “I forgot.” 

His brows pinch when he sees how clearly crestfallen you are to hear it; he angles quickly to appease your disappointment, adding, “But I did nip some of the cookies Ms. Willard left for Wayne.” You barely have time to brighten before he’s scrunching his nose, saying, “I think she’s actually sweet on ‘im,” like the thought makes him want to scrape the words from his tongue.

You swat at him, and Merlin chuffs disgruntledly when Eddie leans back to avoid you. “Stop that!” you chastise him. “I think it’s darling.”

Eddie is unrepentant, brown eyes lit with the hazy gold of afternoon sun that glints in them mischievously as he doubles down rather than relenting. “It’s disgusting. I might chuck if I have to think about them all wrinkled and bumpin’ uglies.” Before you can retort, he tilts his face at you, coaxing in a sing-song, “The cookies are lemon and lavender— your favorite.”

Your lips fall open in delighted surprise as you anticipate the crumble of tart lemon and sweet, earthy lavender on your tongue. Such a treat truly is your favorite, and mama never bakes so indulgently except for special occasions. Eddie beams at you, his mouth split in a fond, lopsided smile at the sight of your happiness, and his smile washes away any lingering reproach you feel at the insinuation that Ms. Willard would carry on in such an inappropriate way with Wayne. She may be aged and unmarried, but she’s still a lady.

It takes a moment to realize that, in your enthusiasm, you’ve begun wiggling your hips, the hem of your dress pulled tight over the saddle as more bare leg inches out when you swing your feet in little kicks of glee. You realize it when you watch Eddie’s eyes dart down to your exposed calf for a split-second and then back up to your face, his broad grin softening to something stickier, something forbidden and decadent like the cookies he’d stolen for you to share. 

It’s not the first time Eddie’s looked at you like that this summer. His gaze has been lingering a little too long for some time now, his fingers a little too eager to graze and tease, his breath skating a little too close along your cheek when you’re alone. And when you’re not, he’s a little too eager to position himself beside you when you’re seated at the table with others, to shout and cackle and make himself big so you’ll look at him across the room at a party, to act the fool in front of crowds of townsfolk if only to hear you giggle, however slight it might be. 

Not to say that his manner is entirely new. He’s always been a handful since the day he moved in next door ten years ago— wild and frenetic, brash and mischievous, quick-witted and imaginative, restless and wanting and oh, so hungry for something, only heaven knows what. It took no time at all for you, at eight years old, to befriend the odd boy on the farm beside yours. There was something about Edward Munson that appealed to you. He was too much for many, but he was never too much for you— to handle, to temper, to thrive beside. And because you were the only one who Eddie felt truly understood him, he’d quickly become covetous of your attention, and you of his. You wanted to know him, and he wanted to know you. And over years of playing pretend, celebrating birthdays and running errands in town, exploring the landscape beyond your farmsteads and rescuing one another from boredom, sadness, and the ire of your adults— giving just as much as you receive— you feel you know Eddie Munson as deeply as one friend can know another.

But the attention Eddie has paid you lately is not the same as it’s been in years past. You feel that difference in the pit of your belly when his eyes catch yours across the room, in the tingling of your skin as his fingertips graze it incidentally, in the flutter behind your ribcage when the sun shifts and the softness of his nose or the slant of his jaw or the ruddiness of his knuckles looks suddenly more captivating than it had the moment before. But it’s not the sun that’s made it so; it’s not Eddie’s features that have suddenly changed. It’s a feeling inside you, growing restless and wanting and oh, so hungry for something that both thrills and scares you in equal measure.

So when Eddie’s eyes hold yours a beat too long, you quickly look away, lifting one side of Guineveire’s reigns so she’ll turn from where she’d been comfortably lazing her head against Merlin’s. Your horse rouses, alert now as she feels the shift in your energy, the way your thighs tighten against her sides in preparation for what you have planned. “Come on,” you say, tossing Eddie a smirk over your shoulder as Guinnie snuffs in anticipation, hooves shifting against grass and fern. “I’ll race you to the crik.”

Any protest about unfairness from Eddie is drowned out by your joyous whoop as you snap the reins and Guinnie takes off like a bat out of hell. Merlin may be stronger than Guineveire, and Eddie more wild than you, but no one rivals you in conviction once your mind is set. 

You’ve set your mind to beating Eddie, and so you do. You beat him by almost a full minute, heart pounding and hair mussed as you emerge from the thicket to the welcome sight of the creek. Down by the bank on the right, a towering weeping willow steals all of the attention; its branches dip full and low over lazily flowing water, the edges of those leafy tendrils grazing its surface like a languid caress. You’ve been here many times before, sometimes with Eddie and sometimes without, and the sight of the ferns tapering to short clover in the clearing between forest and water and then to cattails at the bank’s edge is as familiar to you as the back of your hand. 

You’re suddenly glad to have beaten Eddie to the creek for a reason other than bragging rights: dismounting Guinnie exposes enough knee and thigh beneath your dress to thoroughly scandalize your mama, even with a copse of trees and two farm-fields between you. You don’t much care how unladylike it is to travel astride in a dress as opposed to sidesaddle— you’d rather hike up your skirt than try to navigate through the woods sitting so insecurely, but it does force you into a rather compromising position for a moment as you climb down. Thankfully, no one is around to see it, other than the chickadees trilling in the branches of the willow, the turtles sunning themselves on flat river rocks, and the bullfrog croaking inside a dead log at the water’s edge. You lead Guinnie over to the trunk of a nearby cedar, and you’re still tying her off when Eddie bursts from the trees, huffing and swiping errant leaves from his hair as Merlin wanders over toward you and Guinnie independent of his rider’s direction.

“Took you long enough,” you sass, pursing your lips against a smug smile when Eddie grunts sourly. 

Eddie swings himself down to the ground, his pale forearm flexing as he catches Merlin’s bridle to keep him from tossing his head impatiently. “Yeah, I know, I know, you beast,” he mutters, and though he glowers, there’s a touch of fondness in it, apparent as he smooths his hand so carefully along Merlin’s powerful neck. “You’ll be all snug next to your girlfriend in a jif. Just wanna get this saddle off’ya first.”

As if falling into a practiced routine, you and Eddie prepare your lounging space for the afternoon. He tends the horses while you clear rocks and twigs to lay down the woven blanket in your knapsack. Wordlessly, you take Guinnie and Merlin’s saddles from him, laying them across the mossy boulder at the edge of the clearing; wordlessly, he passes you the canteen and the paper bag of cookies, and you carry them over to the blanket, laying them in the clover nearby. You’re watching how the light plays through the leafy canopy above you, casting shadows that dance on the weave of your blanket when Eddie lopes up from behind, brushing past you in a rustle of cloth and a blaze of body heat before flopping down unceremoniously onto his back in the middle of the blanket.

Your voice comes indignant and quick at the sight of his filthy toes. “Ed, your—”

With a jolt, he snatches his feet up where they’d been threatening your blanket, shimmying himself down until he can bend his knees and plant those filthy toes in the soft clover instead. He tucks his hands under his head, closing his eyes and nestling in with a contented sigh as you lay out much more carefully beside him. As soon as you’re prone on your tummy, skirt fanned across your calves and elbow grazing the side of his buttoned shirt when you prop your chin on your fists, you’re eyeing him expectantly. Your gaze roams his peaceful face, unconcerned about the tick in his brow as you demand, “Tell me a story.”

Eddie cracks his eyes just barely to slant you a glance, and their umber is nearly concealed by his long, dark lashes as he drawls, “Can’t a man who’s spent the whole day breakin' his back take a moment to rest, you pesky woman?”

You’re entirely unphased by his snark. “Firstly,” you challenge him, “you spent a good part of the day futzin’ around on your guitar, and don’t you try to argue the point ‘cause I heard you playin’ over the fence. And secondly, you’re the one who forgot to bring Don Quixote. I wanna hear a story about knights and dragons and princesses, and it’s your responsibility to deliver,” you finish haughtily. 

Eddie sighs heavily, pretending to hem and haw just to get a rise out of you. It doesn’t take long for his frown to melt into a grin when you play along, kicking your feet in the air and raising your voice to be heard over his griping. “And now you gotta put in a giant and a windmill just ‘cause you’re vexing me!” 

“Fine, fine, Christ Almighty,” he relents, and you drop the charade immediately, walking your elbows over to angle toward him for optimal listening, your eyes trained on his pale face. 

 Almost effortlessly, Eddie begins to weave you a tale about knights and dragons and princesses as his eyes go far away, watching the puffy-clouded sky, and your eyes go gooey and soft, watching him. His gaze flicks to yours when the giant and windmill each are introduced, his plush lips curling when you smile at him, inordinately delighted that he’s humoring you even though he always does. The buzzing hum of August’s voice sings along as he regales you, the sounds of the forest a welcome melody to accompany the theatrical accents he gives to each character. 

The longer he goes, the more animated Eddie gets, and it’s almost— almost— enough to forget just how hot it is today. While the creek offers some indirect relief, cooling whatever slight breeze occasionally wavers through the fronds, the humidity and sun are formidable beasts, palpable and oppressive as they crowd in against you and Eddie both. Eventually, Eddie’s gesturing and facial expressions grow visibly weaker as his bangs begin to stick to his glistening skin and sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. The dampness pops along your skin, too; the nape of your neck begins to itch, and when you swipe at your upper lip, the heel of your hand comes away wet. 

It’s clear when Eddie’s voice cracks that it’s time to take a break. Your dress's fabric clings uncomfortably to your skin when you twist to grab the canteen, passing it to Eddie first, who takes two conscientious sips before promptly handing it back so you can loosen your sticky tongue and soothe your own throat. You snatch up the cookies next, your stomach growling as you see the evidence of their decadence— the bottom of the paper bag has grown dark as it soaked up their butter, making your mouth water with anticipation. You reach eagerly inside to pull out two cookies, passing them into Eddie’s waiting palm before taking one of your own.

You nibble as you sit up, crossing your legs underneath your skirt, your knee pressing into Eddie’s hip as tart lemon and earthy lavender burst within your mouth, the cookies more dense and sweet than you’d even remembered. You don’t stifle your moan of satisfaction as your head tips back and sags in bliss, lips puckering so you can keep chewing though they want to smile. 

“That good, huh?” Eddie’s voice is hoarse, warm and teasing, but you don’t bother to reply, entirely taken in by your favorite flavors. Instead, you just nod and impulsively stuff the entire cookie in your mouth.

The rasp of Eddie’s barking laughter has you huffing amusedly through your nose in turn as you dig in the bag, swallowing a little prematurely but resolved in savoring this next one. You eat the second cookie much more slowly, gazing out at the creek as it undulates in little swirls of blue and green and white, unrelenting in seeking its way around whatever may jut into its path— a branch stuck between rocks, a tangle of leaves caught in strands of rivergrass near the shore. It’s a comfort to see it flow so steadily, endlessly churning and ever-changing, but nevertheless a reliable constant you can return to time and again.

The second treat tastes just as good as the first, and you lick the crumbs from your fingertips as you glance down at Eddie once you’ve finished. He has eaten his cookies lying down, one hand propped beneath the splay of his dark wild curls and the other resting on the flat of his tummy. In between them, marring the white of his half-unbuttoned shirt and stuck against the skin exposed by that gaping triangle, is a conspicuous heap of golden-brown crumbs. The mess is entirely unsurprising, considering how sloppy Eddie often is, but the result is no less distasteful for it.

You scrunch your nose and lean over him, planting one palm in the space his bent elbow makes beside his ear and briskly swiping the other along cotton and damp skin. Your chuckles color your admonishment as you exclaim, “Sit up if you can’t help but make a mess of yourself! You’re such a pig, I swear—!” 

 Eddie surges up, capturing your wrist in a grip light enough to break if you were to want to. “Take it back,” he says warningly, and when he tilts his head this time, the glimmer of mischief in his eye tells you it’s not to coax you. A thrill alights in your chest at the promise of the game, the way his long fingers circle your wrist so easily. 

A giggle squeaks out of you before you declare loudly, “Never!”

Your gleeful shriek echoes off the willow and the cedars, the creek and the clover as Eddie grapples with you playfully. You try to fist one of his suspenders with your other hand, but the attempt puts you at his mercy; he uses that advantage to bully you down flat to the blanket, though even in this semblance of roughhousing Eddie’s attempts are light and easy, nowhere near the latent power coiled in his biceps from years of chopping wood in winter, tilling earth in spring, and hacking hay in fall. Husky chuckles rain on your skin as you squirm and wiggle in his grip, not really trying in earnest to escape until his hand leaves your shoulder and dips instead to your waist, fingers digging with devilish precision into the most ticklish parts of you.

Your glee turns to desperate gasping and involuntary, wheezing giggles as Eddie tickles you mercilessly while you try harder to buck away from his touch. Your attempts are entirely ineffectual, and the sensation of his deft fingers writhing against your ribs and the soft of your waist coupled with the stifling heat of his body where he has you half-pinned beneath him to keep you from escaping, has your face utterly burning with discomfited hysterics.

He doesn’t let up until you call for mercy, though at the first stuttered “St-stop—” that falls from your lips, his fingers immediately cease their cursed torture. Boneless, exhausted, your head tips back against the blanket as you heave for air, the fuzz in your head from lack of breath slowly dissipating as Eddie’s palm drags firmly and briskly up and down your waist, rubbing away the residual ticklish sensation almost contritely. 

Once you’ve gotten your bearings and recovered your senses, you realize that while Eddie has stopped tickling you, he hasn’t moved from his position half on top of you. His belly presses into yours with each breath, firm and solid just like the rest of him, and you can smell the evidence of the August day clinging to his dark curls where they’re pinned against your nose: the sour tang of sweat, the earthy snap of tobacco smoke, the natural musk of his body, and, beneath it all, the scent of wild rain, of summer wind and petrichor, subtle but heady like an approaching storm. That feeling within you stirs, awakening at the press of his solid weight across your ribs and breasts, but the heat of him, while in some ways welcome, makes the heavy August humidity edge beyond extremely uncomfortable to utterly unbearable.

You express your discontent with an exaggerated shimmy of your shoulders; Eddie stirs, grunting as you make his resting place unpleasant to continue resting on. “It’s too dang hot for wrestling,” you gripe, “get offa me, you big oaf.”

Eddie’s head pops immediately from your shoulder, his nose nearly brushing yours as he pins you with a wide and eager stare. The gleam in his umber eyes should alarm you, but all you feel is that stirring inside again until his breath ghosts over your lips when he declares proudly, “Then let’s go swimming.” 

His face shines like it’s the best idea he’s ever had, but exasperation floods to stifle that warm stirring within you. Eddie pouts when he sees your face contort skeptically, pink lips poking petulantly at your immediate resistance. “Eddie,” his name is mostly a sympathetic sigh, “I can’t. My mama would roast me alive, you know that.”

Your best friend’s eyes narrow at your tone, and you suck your lips into your mouth almost apologetically, knowing Eddie really doesn’t like it when you treat him like he’s simple. The remorse fades when he quirks a brow, glancing down at the slick skin of your throat and collarbone exposed above your neckline before teasing, “You’re already roastin’ alive. You’re sweatin’ like a whore in church.”

Your indignance is instant and fierce. “Edward Munson! Well, I never—!” You shove him bodily off of you, and he lets you, rasping with easy laughter as he leans on a palm to the side of you, looking down at your burning face with a smirk. 

Eddie is smirking, but you know he doesn’t mean to call you a whore, that he only really says things like that because he likes to goad these reactions out of you. And you’d keep playing his game— keep being angry at him— if it weren’t for the way the light was filtering through the leaves, playing on his frizzy curls and lighting them beautifully amber at the edges. If it weren’t for the way his collar had fallen further open when you’d been roughhousing, exposing more of his pale chest as it bunches around his suspenders, making him look more like the cover of some two-cent romance novel than the sloppy farmboy he’s always been. If it weren’t for the way he's looking down at you— you lying prone on your back with him beside you, towering over you from your vantage point, with that sharp jaw and the plush curl of his lopsided smirk and the veins popping on the forearm he’s braced on, his skin flushed pink beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. 

Your anger dissolves at the sight of these things, and if it had remained, perhaps this next conversation would have gone differently.

You lean up slightly, your eyes sliding from your best friend’s face to the scenery behind him. The slow journey of the creek’s water over rocks and sticks, the soothing sound of its trickle and flow, the sight of those willow leaves dragging against its smooth surface… 

It looks so mouthwateringly refreshing.

With the lack of your anger comes mournful regret. “I can’t go home soaking wet,” you lament, and your tone makes your internal conflict clear.

Your eyes slide reluctantly from the creek back to Eddie, and you see a peculiar look cross his face. “I mean,” he says, hesitating for the briefest moment, “we could just take our clothes off.”

You blink at him, thrown entirely for a loop at the outlandishness of that suggestion, rendered mute as you try— and fail— to process it. In your muteness, Eddie keeps talking, as if he’s working it out to himself while he speaks. “Yeah. Ya know, that could actually work. Could swim for awhile, cool down, get out, dry off with the blanket.” He grins. “Bet we’d even air dry in no time in this heat.”

The proposition is absurd. It’s entirely inappropriate, and just… just lying there, staring up at Eddie’s face as he leans over you, makes your skin feel suddenly too tight for your body. You sit up abruptly, folding your knees and wrapping your arms around them. When Eddie clocks the look on your face, he huffs, his voice going a little sharp in defensiveness. “What? What's wrong with that? We've been friends for ages; I’d say we’re way past the point of gettin' embarrassed.” He snaps and points at you, shaking his finger as he gets on a roll. “‘Member when you came to me all upset because you bled through your dress and had to turn your apron around to keep your ma’ from seeing? I even helped you get the blood out. Didn’t I?” He doesn’t give you a chance to confirm or deny before continuing smugly, as if he’s got you beat, “And I showed you that nasty wart on my toe when you asked me to, even though I really didn’t wanna. See? Like I said, no reason to be embarrassed.”

You’d stopped listening at the mention of his wart, craning your neck to try and see his foot where it’s tucked against the clover over the edge of the blanket. “How is that now? Is it still there?” you ask earnestly. Eddie just snuffs a wry breath through his nose; his curls sway as he shakes his head. 

“Uh-uh. Already showed y’once, I’m not doin’ it again. Plus, you’re provin’ my point.” He smiles at you crookedly, digging his toes further into the clover to hide them before eyeing you smugly. And you can’t fault his logic when you’d walked right into it like that. 

“Yeah, I guess,” you reluctantly agree, to which he adds,

“Plus, s'not like I haven't seen you nekkid before.” 

You can’t help but scoff at that. “Yeah, when we were, what, eleven? It's different now.” 

The smugness on Eddie’s face melts; his eyes fill with that stickiness from before, like when he looks at you a little too long. His voice a quiet murmur, Eddie asks you, “What makes it different now?” 

The question could be answered easily enough. Because we're grown. Because you're a man now, and I'm a woman, and it wouldn't be proper. But after this summer's changes, and with that feeling awakening in the pit of your belly— wanting, yearning, hungry— you can tell that it's more loaded than that. Suddenly, the air feels heavier than it was just a moment before, thicker with something other than summertime humidity as you stare into Eddie’s umber eyes. Nervousness dances along your limbs, but it’s not that terrified kind of fear— it’s closer to anticipation.

Rather than answering the question directly, you avoid it, lifting your chin to reply as nonchalantly as you can, though you feel anything but. “Fine.” 

Eddie’s eyes bug out. “R-Really?” 

His immediate shock makes you rush hot with embarrassment, feeling caught out and self-conscious. Your voice bursts from you in defensive indignance as you drop your knees, crossing your arms tight beneath your breasts. “You cannot be serious. You're the one who proposed it, Ed!” 

He scrambles to keep you from getting upset, brow pinched and eyes wide in a different way. “No, no, I…” He flounders for a moment, looking at a loss. “I just didn’t… I didn’t think—” 

With a sharp shake of his dark curls, face scrunched as if to clear the cobwebs from his head, Eddie cuts himself off. He blinks at you silently for a moment, finally saying, somewhat more hoarsely, “We can do it. I wanna do it.” 

You watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob as his eyes scan quickly down your cotton dress, lingering in your lap, though the swaths of fabric conceal even the innocent outline of your legs. A pulse of heat tingles low as his gaze sweeps over you, and you resist the urge to jam your hands down to cover yourself, feeling exposed though there’s nothing to see. Fiercely, you warn him, “Just keep your back turned ‘til I get in the water, or I'll whoop you." 

Eddie snorts loudly, countering, “You really think you could whoop me?" 

“Yes,” you snap back sassily, your faux-confidence deflating slightly as you add, “...if you let me.”

You smile at the warm chuckle he rewards you with, but when Eddie starts peeling his suspenders down, your heart seizes in your chest. The anticipation feels a little more like fear now that you’re confronted with the reality of what you and Eddie are about to do. You pop to your feet, rocking on your heels and fidgeting with your fingers, and Eddie’s brows jump when he looks up and registers your nervousness. Your voice wavers slightly as you ask half a question, letting it trail off into implication. “Are you gonna, um…?”

“Yeah, no, yeah,” he says quickly, scrambling up and wiping his palms on his trousers. Haltingly, cheeks pink, he rushes, “I’ll just… I’ll go behind the willow. Meet you in there.”

“Yep,” you say, the word bitten off a little too short in your awkwardness. “‘Kay.”

“‘Kay,” Eddie echoes, shooting you a sheepish smile before hurrying off in that direction. Only once he’s ducked behind the willow trunk does the hammering of your heart begin to calm, that nervousness settling back to anticipation, though it’s a little queasier than it was before now that there’s nothing technically stopping you from preparing to swim.

You kick off your shoes first— the simplest to remove— and, with a deep breath, you begin to undress. 

With trembling fingers, you undo the buttons on your dress and peel the sticky fabric from your arms and decolletage. Your silky chemise comes next, and you aren’t sure whether to be grateful or rueful that in the summer, you’re wearing so few layers. It’s an odd sensation to feel the sun on every part of you— the small of your back, the valley between your breasts— as you fold your chemise and neatly tuck it between the bodice and skirt of your dress to maintain modesty before laying them both on the blanket. 

And that’s it, then. The chickadees titter in the branches, the turtles sun themselves on flat river rocks, the bullfrog croaks in the dead log at the water’s edge, Merlin and Guinnie nicker gently at the edge of the clover clearing— and in the middle of it all, you stand there, buck-naked as the day you were born.

It feels distinctly uncomfortable at first, being naked anywhere but in your bedroom or bathroom back at home. You half-suspect your mama to come barreling out of the trees, ruddy-faced and angry as the devil to drag you back to the farm by your ear and lash you, both with words and with papa’s belt. But as the seconds tick by, and you begin to settle into the feeling, the weak breeze that wavers the fronds whispers along your sticky skin, tickling you pleasantly. You look towards the creek— the whole purpose for your nakedness— and you begin to covet the sight of the flowing water, to imagine how it will slither against your ankles and knees, cradling your body in cool refreshment. Discomfort eases; eagerness at the thought of that relief takes its place.

It doesn’t take long for your eyes to stray to the thick trunk of the willow overhanging the creek. You imagine Eddie behind it and begin to ponder all sorts of questions. What does he look like underneath his clothes? Is he lean? You’ve seen the muscles on his arms and back earlier this spring when he’d take off his shirt to work in the field as the weather got warmer; you couldn’t see much, though, as you had nary a birds-eye view from your distant bedroom window, and no way could you have chanced trying to peep over the fence. You find yourself wondering now, Are his thighs as muscular as his arms seem to be? Are his calves? Do the freckles across the bridge of his nose echo on other parts of his body this late in the summer, maybe on his shoulders? 

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him bare— seven years, give or take— and you know you can’t reliably compare what you’d seen then with what he looks like now; Eddie’s more man than boy lately. The nature of your wondering changes. What does a bare man look like, anyway? You’ve never seen one. Naturally, a question follows: Has Eddie seen a bare woman before? 

That wondering flusters you, and you can only begin to think about why before heat is rushing to your cheeks and you need to abandon the thought. Unconsciously, you go to smooth your skirt, but your hands hit the flesh of your thighs instead, unencumbered by clothes. You glance down and your breasts are there, sloping gently from your chest, your nipples soft in the warm humidity. It makes you wonder how Eddie’s chest has changed, whether he has hair there now. It can’t be thick if he does, or you probably would’ve seen it from the window. Does he have hair any other places? You suppose he probably does, since you’d grown hair under your arms and between your legs when you reached your maturity, too. You only barely conceive a thought about what lies between Eddie’s legs, and that flusters you so thoroughly that when you press your palms to your cheeks, your skin feels hotter than you imagine the surface of the sun must be.

You wonder then if Eddie is thinking about you and how your body has changed in the same way that you’re thinking about him. It makes you self-conscious to picture him imagining you beneath your clothes, drawing his own conclusions about your shape, and then glimpsing the truth of what your clothes conceal. No one has seen your naked body except for mama and your older sister, who couldn’t give two hoots what you look like, and the thought of someone looking at you and being disappointed in what they see is a crushing thought. Not that you think Eddie will see your body, really, but you can’t help but—

A sudden whoop, wild and boyish, startles you out of your thoughts, and with a blur of pale flesh and dark curls, Eddie takes a running leap into the creek. 

The dramatic smack of Eddie’s body against the water has you bolting for the willow tree, your hands colliding with rough bark as you peek around it, beratements hissing through your teeth. “What a reckless, stupid idiot you are, Eddie Munson!” The words are cutting, but the crinkle of your brow and the squeezing of your chest bely the true meaning behind them. Your breath catches as beats pass without any sign of him, anxiety rising until his head bursts from the surface of the water, fixing you with a waterlogged but manic smile as you peer at him from the other side of the trunk, body shielded from his view.

The only way you could possibly convey the depth of your vexation and relief is by childishly stomping your foot, and you do just that. “Gosh darn it!” you shout, face all screwed up, “You’re so—! Ugh!” You stomp again. “You coulda hit your head on a rock and drowned!”

Eddie ignores your shouting, dark curls plastered to his cheeks that round with the force of his joy. “Git over here!” he calls, “It feels like heaven in here!” He laughs raucously, disturbing the water as he swishes his arms through it in boyish delight.

Seeing his joy and yearning for that refreshment for yourself, you put aside the tightness of your worry for him. “Turn around!” you call, and obligingly, Eddie straightens and does, showing you the plane of his pale back and the wet tendrils of his drenched curls covering his shoulder blades. “And no peeking!” you tack on, snorting as you hear him slap both palms over his eyes, though the gesture warms your heart nonetheless.

You edge down to the bank, keeping one hand on the willow’s trunk as you test your footing. The bottom of the creek bed is a little slippery with stones but mostly soft with peat and algae, and the water feels so rapturously cool on your ankles that you sigh audibly in relief once both feet are in. You wade further toward the center of the creek until the water reaches the tops of your breasts, at which point you finally toss a glance in Eddie’s direction again. 

Even with a few feet of distance separating you, knowing Eddie is naked underneath the water has your nerves churning up again; you duck down so that the cool water covers your clavicle, making sure your breasts can't be seen before you finally call out to him again, much more quietly now with your proximity. 

“Okay,” you say, chewing on your bottom lip, “you can stop covering your eyes. My virtue is protected,” you joke, though it comes out a little more tremulously than you had hoped. 

Slowly, Eddie’s jutting elbows straighten as he drops his hands from his face, and your eyes dart over everything you can see— the chapped ruddiness of his elbows, the veins in his arms, the bend of the skin at his waist as he begins to turn around. And then you’re just looking at his face as it emerges— the curve of his ear, the darkness of his hair, normally a frizzy stormcloud around his head but now flattened silkily against his jaw; the hollow shadow between his jaw and throat, the softness of his nose, the beads of water clinging to his dark brow. 

And then, all at once, Eddie is facing you. His umber eyes never stray from your face, not glancing for a peek of exposed skin, though you’ve ensured barely any can be seen, just the tiniest sliver of the tops of your shoulders, plus your neck and face. Not much he hasn’t seen before. Nevertheless, he doesn’t try— doesn’t attempt to look below the water to see what your bare body looks like. He’s a gentleman, perfectly adhering to your instruction not to peek, but you can’t decide if you’re more relieved or disappointed by his compliance. 

For a long moment, there’s just the sound of the creek flowing between you as you look back at Eddie. He's taller than you, and he isn’t hunched; he’s standing tall, seemingly unconcerned about you seeing what flesh is exposed above the water. Your eyes glide over the water running off the ends of his curls and down his pale chest, making little ripples when they slide into the creek where they belong. You remain composed until you notice the dusk of his nipples beaded with water, hard and puckered in the water’s chill. Your eyes widen slightly as the sight awakens that hunger again, and you blurt the first thing that comes to mind in an effort to keep him from noticing your reaction. 

“Oh, my word, this is so refreshing!” you say, perhaps overly enthusiastic, your smile a bit too broad as it aches in your cheeks. “Probably the best idea you've ever had, in fact. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

Eddie’s brow twitches in confused amusement at your exaggerated cheer, but he blessedly decides not to comment apart from saying, “Think that’s the first time you’ve ever willingly apologized to me.”

“Mmm…” you pretend to deliberate, wobbling your head back and forth. “Yeah, maybe,”you reply, chuckling to lighten the mood. 

But your laughter weakens, going a little uneasy as Eddie wades closer, head tilting like a curious hound. “You didn't get your hair wet,” he observes, and you glance up like you’d be able to see it atop your head. 

“I don't wanna get my hair wet, Eddie,” you say, an edge of warning in your voice already. Because you know Eddie Munson, and you know that, though the observation had sounded entirely innocent, those umber eyes are already gleaming with mischief.

“Awww,” he goads, and the word goes husky with laughter as he sees the alarm on your face, the way you tense warily as he edges closer. “Come on, turtle dove. You gotta go under.” 

“No, Eddie.” You attempt to be firm, glaring at him in an attempt at intimidation. “It'll mess it all up and it’ll never dry in time—”

“Here,” he says lightly, disregarding your protests as his smile goes wolfish, “I’ll help you—”

Quick as a copperhead strike, Eddie makes to grab for your arms. But you’d been prepared for this— you dodge backward, squealing and splashing him directly in the face. 

Eddie halts and sputters, running his hands roughly over his eyes and dragging them down the expanse of his face. And you know— you know— with how Eddie’s wolfish smile goes manic and wild when it’s revealed again that now, you've really done it. 

Desperation drives you as you begin to scramble backward, wetting the ends of your hair in your haste to get away. He pursues you almost languidly, with a sense of confident assurance that has you crumbling and grasping for your final defense, which is to declare shrilly, “Edward Munson, don't you dare. I swear on all things holy—”

When Eddie lunges for you, you know with a sense of certainty that you won’t be able to escape the cage of his hot hands as he traps you, holding you firmly around the upper arms. In fact, you don’t even try very hard at first— you just let him grab you, freezing in his grip as if in hope that your compliance will convince him to take mercy on you. But then, with a bright grin of triumph, Eddie begins whipping his head side to side, shaking his curls to coat you with water like a dog. 

You brace your palms on his chest and push then, crying out in dismay as you feel the droplets rain down on your hair and face. “Eddie!" you protest, but as you squint at him, you begin laughing— laughing at how silly he looks doing that, laughing at the fact that he could’ve easily shoved you under the water but has chosen to do this instead. You're laughing, and then Eddie starts laughing, your voices overwhelming the sound of the cicadas as they bounce off river rocks and cedars, filling the August air with your shared joy.

Eddie is still holding you, still shaking his head, though more slowly now, as you suppose he’s likely getting dizzy. And this becomes one of your games— you press your palms harder against his chest and his fingers tighten around your upper arms, pulling as you push, keeping a careful equilibrium in maintaining distance. 

You maintain distance until, with the river water and sweat combined, your slippery hands slide on his chest. 

One moment, you’re pushing and he’s pulling, equally and carefully matched in strength to continue your game. The next instant, before you can think or react, you’ve lost purchase. Eddie has no time to think or react, either; not expecting that sudden lack of resistance, he tugs you bodily against him. 

Suddenly, his hot skin is everywhere, slick and firm and soft all at once. A ragged gasp rips from your throat as you’re overwhelmed by sensation: your hard nipples rasping against the dusting of hair on his chest, your nose now smushed against the hollow of his throat, the entire length of your body buzzing with the utter foreignness of feeling someone else's bare skin touching your bare skin. And there's something else, something inexplicably hotter than the rest of Eddie’s body, somehow hard and silky soft all at once where it presses between you against your belly. You’re uncomprehending for only a fraction of a second before it becomes very obvious what it must be.

Oh.

Oh.

You spring apart from him at the same time that he releases you, no more than a second after the impact, though it had somehow felt much longer than that in the moment. Your face floods with searing heat as you stare at him, barely registering the look of wide-eyed, visceral horror on Eddie’s face as your heart pounds in your ears. His mouth is moving, but you don’t hear it— you’re consumed by the feelings flooding your body, reeling from shock and mortification but also from dizzying, fluttering euphoria. Because that feeling inside you— the one that hungers for something more with the boy standing across from you, who's still blathering something you can’t hear— has now had a taste of what it yearns for. Liquid heat pools low in your belly, pulsing much more intensely than the typical tingle you feel when thinking about Eddie in this way, rushing up to buzz through your body until your pupils dilate and you burst with heady need.

Eddie’s dismayed rambling eventually becomes discernable above the pounding of your heart. You register distantly what he’s saying— “I'm so sorry, oh fuck, please, i-it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—” but all that matters is that he's babbling, hysterical, face contorted and fingers fisted in his curls in a way that must be painful. And how can you talk to him like this? How can you even begin to think when he’s yammering on in such a way?

So you stomp forward, grab the back of Eddie’s neck and yank his face into your outstretched palm, which clamps over his lips. “Eddie Munson,” you huff, ignoring the way his lips feel against your palm as he keeps trying to speak, though you suspect it’s more in befuddlement now than remorse as his eyes are wide as kitchen saucers. “Would you just shut it for one dang second?” 

All at once, Eddie’s stifled speech ceases, and his lips grow still against your palm. You sigh, relieved to have finally put a stop to that noise, but the look on Eddie’s face pierces you, holding you fast.

He looks terrified.

Eddie looks more scared than you’ve ever seen him, his brow scrunched up tight, his eyes so dismayed that they appear glassy with unshed tears. It pierces you deeply to see him looking at you this way, tugging behind your ribs until your chest aches like the deepest bruise. Your brows marry in the middle, crinkling up as your eyes go big and soft and sad for him. “Eddie,” you whisper, cracked with compassion at the sight of his distress, though fear and longing have knit you up just as tightly inside. And though you let go of the nape of his neck, you don't pull your palm away from his face. Instead, slowly, tentatively, you shift your hand to Eddie’s cheek, dragging against his warm skin in a slow, crawling path as he stands stock-still, watching you like a deer in headlights. You pause for a long moment, just holding Eddie’s cheek, before your trembling thumb lowers, petting featherlight along his cheekbone.

It’s not something that can be explained away by one best friend attempting to comfort another after a mortifying accident. Your thumb traces Eddie’s cheekbone once, twice, and then again, prodding against the boundary of your friendship in a way that cannot be ignored. Stroking Eddie Munson’s cheekbone is the scariest thing you’ve ever done because on the other side of this choice can be effusive bliss or rending sorrow, and nothing in-between.

Your breath is shallow as you wait for Eddie to react— to say or do something, anything, to indicate what he’s thinking. Because he doesn’t look scared anymore, but you can’t place the look on his face, either. You’ve never seen it before. And then slowly, as if he’s half afraid to move and shatter the illusion, Eddie’s hand emerges from the surface of the creek, droplets running down the length of his forearm and falling in little ripples back into the water as he reaches up and brushes his fingertips so gently, so lightly, against your collarbone. It’s a graze of skin you can barely feel, but you tremble nonetheless.

“Eddie,” you whisper again, but compassion doesn’t crack your voice this time. 

Wanting does.

Eddie swallows thickly, voice hoarse and choked with the weight of what he is about to ask. “C-can I kiss you? Please?”

There is no hesitation, only sweet, euphoric relief when you nod, and then your best friend is kissing you.

Fluttering, dizzying desire bursts in your belly when Eddie slots his mouth against your mouth; all you can feel is warm wetness as his breath flows down to mingle with yours in your lungs. It isn’t tentative, or questioning, or timid when Eddie kisses you, grabbing up your face and moaning past your teeth as if he’s never wanted anything more in his life. Your fingers scrabble for purchase along his muscular shoulders, clutching slippery skin as you whimper and move your lips frantically against his. The heat of his skin and lips contrasts with the cool slick of the water enveloping your bodies from the chest down, and the sensation makes you break out in goosebumps that he soothes with restless stroking of his broad palms over your arms and back. You’ve wanted to touch him like this— be touched by him like this— so desperately that your bones cried out for it, and they sing in praise as Eddie hikes you up against him, kissing you insistently, crushing you so tightly to his body that it’s almost uncomfortable. But it’s exactly what you need— your breasts pressed up against his chest, your belly heaving into his as you gasp and kiss and lick into his mouth, brain fuzzy, body following only instinct. Eddie’s palms find the small of your back, clutching you close as he angles his muscular thigh between your legs. You whine, body electrified with the feeling of his hands pressing your hips forward until that place between your legs rubs against him, sparking delicious friction that seems to be the physical culmination of that hunger inside you, never before explored.

When you undulate your hips experimentally, mimicking the movement Eddie has coaxed you to follow, his palms leave the small of your back to pull you closer, wrapping you up in his firm embrace. With how tightly you’re pressed against him, you can feel that the hardness trapped between you is even hotter and stiffer now against your hip, and it makes that hunger flare in the pit of your belly, desiring more, more, more. You’re panting, overtaken as Eddie licks across your bottom lip, and you whimper; with shaky fingers, you reach down beneath the water, seeking blindly between your bodies until your fingertips brush against the very tip of that hardness. 

You stiffen in surprise as it jumps against your belly; abruptly, Eddie pulls his mouth from yours but doesn’t retreat completely. He continues to hold you, chest heaving, staring into your eyes for a dazed moment before his lips crack and his voice leaks out hoarsely. “Have you ever lain with a man?” 

Your cheeks heat at the brazenness of the question, but considering the position you’re in— pressed up against him, having just been rubbing yourself along his thigh and feeling his hardness dig into your hip— you suppose talking about this is far less brazen than you’ve already been today. Mutely, you shake your head. “Have you,” you ask, “with a woman?” 

After a moment, Eddie nods. Your stomach falls; you feel yourself grow sour with jealousy, and Eddie misinterprets the sudden pinch of your brow. “We don't have to,” he says quickly. “We don't have to do anything you don't wanna. Hear me?” 

He cups the side of your neck, gently, so gently, wetting the hair at your nape as his calloused fingertips brush there. His tender touch eases your sourness, and you think instead about his assertion, about the implication of what you could do with him— what you could allow him to do to you. And you know how it works. You've seen geldings mount mares before, however ineffectually; you know the wheres and the hows and the whens of it all, though your knowledge is all theoretical and in no part practical. 

But when you think about Eddie’s hot stiff flesh still pressing against your hip, about that hardness sinking between your legs, you can’t deny you’re curious. And with him… you feel safe. You feel cherished. And part of you can acknowledge how you've been yearning to know him in this intimate way for a long time.

Since the beginning of summer. 

Since before that. 

Maybe since always. 

“I want to,” you tell him, and at last, all the hesitation melts from Eddie Munson’s face. He smiles, and the stretch of his lips is sticky, forbidden, and decadent; the softness of his umber eyes is filled with simmering heat. Your best friend has been looking at you like this all summer, and you finally know what it means.

Eddie goes first, guiding you to the edge of the creek. As he does, little by little, the water recedes from your bodies, revealing more and more of his pale skin as he climbs out before you, planting his feet and holding out his hand to help you up after him. You set your smaller hand in his, and his grip is unwavering as you use what he offers you to climb out onto soft clover.

On the bank of the creek beside the weeping willow, you see all of Eddie for the first time. He is tall, lean, and still a little gangly in the length of his arms and legs like he’d been as a child, but far more solid now, with firm muscle from toiling on his family’s farm. His shoulders are broad, his neck strong, his waist narrow but padded with a healthy layer of soft fat that fills him out more than you remember. The hair on his legs and arms is sparse, same as it is on his chest, but it thickens near his belly button in a trail leading downward before spreading low on his pelvis. 

He’s at the very tail end of that transition from boyhood to manhood. And there's one part of him that's very much man— it's staring you right in the eye between his legs. Ruddy, curved, nestled in that dark thatch of untrimmed curls. You pulse with desire as you see it, heat tingling low as you shift on your feet; nevertheless, your eyes jump sheepishly from there to his face as if you’ve done something wrong.

But Eddie merely looks back at you calmly, allowing you to look at him. And when his eyes drag over your exposed skin in turn— over your breasts and soft stomach, your hips and pillowy thighs, over the curls between your legs, and even over the gentle curve of your calves where they meet your bony ankles— he looks so in awe over you that you resist the urge to cover yourself from his gaze, not wanting to take it from him.

You aren’t concerned about dirty feet or cookie crumbs when you lay with Eddie on the blanket again, the heat of his body radiating against yours as he stretches out beside you. When he cups your jaw to meet your lips with his, you relax into his touch with an ease that feels like passing through the threshold of your back door and feeling the weight of the world leave your shoulders.

Eddie’s tender touch feels like coming home.

As Eddie kisses you unhurriedly like he’s savoring every brush of tongues and smack of lips, your fingers wrap around his wrist where he still supports your head, thumb stroking against the firm veins on its tender underside. And he was right— it takes very little time for your bodies to dry in the heat, though the water in his hair lingers. Damp and cold, it brushes against your cheeks; you try to ignore the tickle, but after some time you huff sharply through your nose, pulling your lips from his with a wet pop. “Your mane’s a menace, Ed,” you say dryly, huffing again when he grabs the ends of his curls and tickles them across your neck. You scrunch your head to your shoulder, giggling through your protest. “Stop that! Be nice!” 

Eddie grins, sticky and thick again. “I am being nice,” he murmurs, dropping his hair and cupping the back of your neck to pull you closer as he descends on your lips more intently now. He rolls you over onto your back, and his hair becomes nothing more than a vague nuisance as Eddie���s kisses trail from your lips to your jaw, nipping and sucking on their path downward to draw out little breathy moans and sighs from you. He kisses from your throat to your clavicle, from the valley of your breasts to the edge of your ribs, his cold curls dragging against your nipples as he travels lower on your body. You watch him with curiosity as his lips trail over your belly button and down to your hips before he finally settles between your legs, which part only enough to make the barest amount of room for him. He glances up at you, thumb ghosting over your curls. "Can I taste you here?” he asks, eyes dark like liquid smoke, pupils nearly swallowing the iris. He stifles a groan in his throat as he looks back down, rasping, “Bet you taste so sweet." 

The suggestion feels distinctly naughty, and you rush with mortification at the idea, but above that is the hunger and the heat tinged with unmistakable excitement. “Okay,” you say, voice small, and Eddie rests his chin lightly against your pubic bone, folding his arms across your hips, very clearly ready to wait and follow your direction. 

Gently, he tells you, “If you don't like how it feels or want me to stop, just say the word, okay? I mean it.” 

“Yeah,” you reply, lips curling in a smile as your chest flutters. “Okay, I will.” 

“Okay.” Eddie nods, his chin dragging against your skin as he unfolds his arms and looks down again. More hoarsely, he says, “You’re gonna have to spread your legs.” 

Slowly, you do, heart thumping as your thighs peel apart and you expose yourself to his gaze. You want to squirm in discomfort with how intently he’s looking at you, but the heat on Eddie’s face, the unadulterated excitement and want that shines in his eyes as his plush lips fall open, is undeniably thrilling. You suck in a tiny gasp when his breath ghosts hot against that intimate place, a whimper escaping at the anticipation of his mouth on you. And then there’s the faintest brush of his wet tongue, snaking just slightly between your lips; you hiccup and moan, thighs twitching against his shoulders.

“S’it ok?” Eddie’s voice puffs against your heated flesh, cooling the place he’d just licked, and you exhale shakily, pushing out your confirmation.

“Y-yes,” you say, and after a brief pause, Eddie licks you again, and again, moving his tongue more boldly with each pass. He tips his chin down, lengthening the strokes of his tongue, dragging low to high for the first time; he groans deep in his throat, and you jolt as it buzzes against your lips. “Knew it,” he mutters to himself, voice tight with desire, and you moan as he wiggles his face in closer to you, his nose parting your folds.

 It feels so good, his mouth on your special place; it begins to satisfy the hunger inside you in a way you’ve never felt before, not even when you’d dragged yourself against his thigh. You relax into the feeling as he laps at you, wet tongue broad and flat as it drags against your pussy, sparking pleasure with each pass. And the sight of his curly head between your thighs makes you bloom warm over your whole body, your belly buzzing for more, more, more. 

“Eddie,” you moan, unable to fully articulate your desire but attempting to in the way his name falls so hot and sweet from your tongue. “I want you, Eddie, please…” 

He lifts his face from between your legs to press feverish kisses up your slit to the top of your mound. You tense when he digs his nose into your curls and inhales there, breathing deeply against your hair and skin. A whimper eeks from your lips as you squirm inside with self-consciousness, legs tensed to remain still. You worry suddenly about how you must smell, how the August heat and the creek may have made you unpleasant in some way. But when Eddie’s chest rises and falls with a heavy, contented sigh, and he wraps his arms beneath the backs of your thighs, your self-consciousness fades; when he nuzzles against your curls, dragging his cheek along your mound so affectionately, you positively melt. 

“Are you sure?” Eddie murmurs, lifting his head to peek up at you. You push onto an elbow, and he kisses the pudge of your tummy as it folds when you sit up. Smiling softly, you tuck his curls behind his ear, touch lingering against the side of his face. 

“Yes,” you say, so light and delicate but oh, so sincere, “Eddie, I really want it. I want you to…” you trail off, biting your lip. His eyes darken. 

“You want me to fuck you,” Eddie says, voice hoarsened but also sticky and thick and sinfully sweet like honey. You rush with feeling all over again— shock at his language, mortification at the crudeness of it, but also thrilling anticipation that tingles low in your belly, mixing with the heat and tightening to an aching need. You nod, gasping, “Yes. Yes, I want you to do that.” 

Eddie’s moan rumbles low in his throat, and you feel it against your inner thighs where they’re pressed against his chest. He drops one last hasty kiss to your belly before unwrapping his arms from around you. You lay back against the blanket as he climbs up your body, spreading your legs so he can settle between them. Your brow pinches when he mounts you, his pelvis pressing flush with the juncture of your hips and his hardness wedged between you. He stares down at you, and the curtain of his thick curls seems to conceal the two of you from the rest of the world; the cicadas and the creek fall away as you meet his eyes.

His face is flushed, his lips swollen and wet, but his eyes are wide with concern when he shifts his weight to one hand to stroke back your hair with the other. "It might hurt at first," he says, voice soft, and you nod.

"I know," you reply, and he traces the side of your face with his thumb before lowering from his hands to brace his weight on his forearms. You take a shaky breath as his belly brushes yours with his new proximity, your vision filled only with Eddie’s pretty face. 

"But,” he continues, “I'll take care of you, okay?" He shimmies his hands under your shoulders, tucking you closer to him, and as your bodies press lightly together, you can feel him trembling. "I'll take such good care of you,” he rasps, “Always will." 

Your breath hitches in your chest, lungs burning as you well up with some emotion. Not hunger, not desire, but something more poignant. Something soft, like the down of a feather. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Yes,” you say, and your hand trails up his back, tracing the warmth of his skin almost reverently as you lift your chin to kiss him softly.

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, voice wavering as he sways his hips, untucking one hand from beneath your shoulder to reach down between you. You spread your legs wider as you feel that stiffness shift, poking against you as he maneuvers it down to line up with your entrance.

Eddie kisses your lips so tenderly, and he pushes in slowly, so slowly, but nothing he could do could prevent the pain you feel when the head of his cock pops inside your entrance. He freezes as you gasp sharply at the intrusion, your lips clamping tight in a belated effort not to alarm him, though the crease in your brow tells the whole story. Eddie looks pained to see you in pain; he rains kisses down on your face, and you tangle your fingers in his damp hair to ground you as he waits until you’ve relaxed to begin moving again. As soon as he does, though, the sharp sting returns; it continues as a burning and insistent pain while Eddie stretches you open in a way you’ve never felt before. 

He starts and stops as many times as you need until his hips are flush with yours and he’s seated fully inside. He’s panting, one hand fisted in the blanket as he tries to stay so perfectly still, wincing and murmuring against your hair, "Aw, hell… I'm sorry, y/n. I'm so sorry it hurts… Don't wanna hurt you—" 

You whimper, tucking your face against his neck, and he strokes soothingly up and down your waist with his other hand until your body has adjusted and the burn has faded to a barely a pinch. You kitten lick the salt from his throat, and you enjoy the way he shivers. “I'm ready, now, Ed.” 

He lifts his head to examine your expression. “You sure?” 

“Yes,” you reply, and after a moment where his eyes dart back and forth between yours as if to check for any hesitation. He rocks his hips slightly, not pulling out, just testing to see how you respond to him moving. When you sigh with relief, he sighs with relief; when he rocks again, and you bite your lower lip, he swipes along his with a tiny dart of his pink tongue; and when you buck your hips up lightly against him, Eddie groans deep in his throat, a guttural sound of deep want that makes your chest rush hot and your nipples prickle up tight.

Eddie fucks you languidly in the heavy August heat, the chorus of cicadas blending with the soft moans and panting breaths you hush against one another’s faces. Your bodies slowly grow slick with sweat again as you move together, lips exploring lips, hands exploring skin, the steady, even rocking of his hips predictable and soothing. The slide of Eddie’s warm skin against yours, the rasp of his hair, the slick of his hot mouth against your lips, and the pressure of his hard cock inside you all build until you begin to tingle low in your belly again. As you sigh and whimper against his mouth, licking against his teeth, Eddie pushes in suddenly deep, pressing his pelvis tightly to yours and rotating his hips. Your breath catches as the head of his cock brushes against a spot that makes that tingling tighten. "Yeah?” he husks, his lips brushing yours, “That feel good?" 

“Mm-hmm,” you hum, “please, don't stop.” Eddie keeps circling his hips slowly, pressing tight and groaning in satisfaction as you wrap your arms around his back, seeking to be closer. When you rotate your hips in time with his, his pubic hair rubs sparks against that sensitive spot above your opening. You whine open-mouthed, eyes heavy and glazed as you stare into his, rubbing your nose against the damp skin of his cheek. 

He nudges into your touch, murmuring, “You want more?” 

“Yes,” you pant. “More.” But when he stops circling his hips, falling still, you're quick to pout, protesting with a frown, “That's the opposite of more—” 

His hips jolt back and forward suddenly and sharply, and your back arches as he punches a moan out of you, cutting off your protest. He smirks knowingly as you cling to him, fingernails scrabbling for purchase on his sweaty back. He begins fucking you at this faster pace, a little rougher than before, and it is the more you wanted. It's more, more, more. 

“Oh, fuck,” Eddie grunts, “you feel so good inside. So tight and warm.” You whimper at his words, blooming with heat as he adds, “Wanted to do this for so long.” 

You manage a question even under the onslaught of his pounding, desperate as you are to know the answer. “H-How long?” 

Eddie’s hips falter slightly, continuing more slowly as his adam’s apple bobs. He hesitates for a moment before answering, “Since the Fourth of July party at the Byers’ when you wore that new dress.” 

You scrape your teeth against your lower lip, looking up at him with big eyes, and his head falls to your shoulder as he chuckles wryly, his hips stilling entirely. “Aw, hell. Y’look at me like that, and I can’t…” Eddie huffs, and you shiver as it puffs hot and damp against your neck. Without lifting his head, more quietly, he says, “Wanted to be with you like this ‘lot longer than that, if I’m bein’ honest.” 

You burst with flutters at the revelation— low in your belly, high in your chest, tingling in your fingertips, tightening in your scalp. The feeling is hot and hungry, soft like feathers. You gasp a shaky breath to reply in a whisper that wavers with the depth of your emotion. “Me too.” 

Eddie’s moan is broken and vulnerable as he presses a hot, urgent kiss to your throat, trailing desperately up to your mouth. He cups your face, fingers pressing in against your cheeks as his hips begin to slap with fleshy smacks against your spread thighs, his cock moving hard and hot and insistent deep inside you. And more than ever before, that feeling— the hunger, the coil in your belly, the heat between your legs— is building to something new, something intense, something that looms over you as it begins to tighten and tingle between your hips. 

It scares you. 

Your hands flutter and tap at Eddie’s shoulders as you whimper his name differently from before. "Eddie. Eddie—" 

The urgency in your voice gives him pause, and his hips fall instantly still as he cups your face, tilting your chin up as his eyes dart over you restlessly. “What’s wrong, turtle dove?” 

Your heart leaps at the nickname, and he must see the way your eyes soften because his fingertips draw gentle and featherlight along your brow, a touch of comfort and reassurance. "I don't know what's happening. I feel... strange." 

His alarm is instant. “Does it hurt?” He asks, tinged with urgent distress. "Am I hurting you?" 

"No, no," you soothe your palm along his jaw, and he lists into the heel of your hand when you cup his cheek. His concern makes you rush warm with pleasure in a different way. "It feels… I think it feels good," you clarify, feeling strangely ashamed like you shouldn't be talking about this. "But it's just… odd, I guess." 

Eddie’s face softens to match yours. "It's okay, it's supposed to feel that way.” 

Uncertainly, voice small, you ask, “You promise?” 

Eddie pulls from your hand cradling his cheek to mash his nose to the side of yours, and the huff of his chuckle brushes sweetly over your lips. It's not exasperated or amused. It's nothing but fond. Almost, you’d say, if you didn't know better... almost loving. "I promise. Never led you astray yet, have I?" 

“Well—” you start to hedge, but when he pokes your cheek aggressively with his nose, you give up the game and giggle. “No, you never have,” you say, and it’s not teasing, not wry. It's nothing but fond. Almost, you'd say, if you didn't know better... almost loving. 

Something shifts then as Eddie begins to move inside you again. There’s a certain inevitability to it as his hips pound into yours, his cock pumping hard inside you as you rock your hips to meet him. “Wanna make you feel so good, turtle dove,” he tells you, and you drink in the sound of his voice. You feel dazed, drunk, almost, entirely caught up in the feeling of Eddie all around you, inside you, tangled not just with and in your body but also with your soul.

“It does feel good,” you tell him, voice soft and thick with feminine desire. “Feels so good, Eddie.” 

Your encouragement spurs him on; his hips pump harder, his breath harshening with the effort. The inevitability grows more imminent as you feel the evidence of his exertion— the slick of his sweaty chest against your breasts and his tummy sticking to yours, the way the unrelenting rhythm of his hips begins to falter just slightly. “I’m getting close.” You look up at him, and his eyes are wide and hazy, his bangs clinging wetly to his forehead— it’s pink, with one vein throbbing over his left brow. You’re thinking idly of licking along that vein when Eddie interrupts you with a husky question. “You wanna take my seed?" 

Caught up in him entirely, you can envision only one answer. You moan at the idea, nodding frantically. "Yes, please, please, Eddie—" 

He groans gutturally at your enthusiasm. "Shit, yes. Gonna fill you and fuck it up into you all deep—" 

You whine at the filthiness of it, the forbiddenness of it, but mostly with a deep yearning for him to possess you entirely, for him to spill inside and for you to know that, even when he pulls out of your body, some of him will linger for longer. 

Eddie’s forehead dips to yours, pressing against it lightly, and you pant into his mouth. You keep your eyes open and wide, wanting to see everything— every fleck of gold and brown in his eyes, every pore, every freckle, every strand of hair in his brows, every line at the corner of his eyes. Every tiny detail of his beloved face. You watch that face start to twitch and contort, and you thrill deep in your chest. “Ed, are you about to—?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m… oh, fuck—” he whines into your mouth and you gather him closer, tangling your hands in his curls as he huffs and his hips press tight against your thighs. You swallow his stuttered groan like it’s the only sustenance you need as Eddie reaches the pinnacle of his pleasure.

There’s a burst of reciprocal pleasure low in your belly when you feel him pulse and spill inside you, and as the rocking of his hips slows, your burning need and pleasure fade to a pleasant buzzing warmth. You’ve not reached that pinnacle yourself, but you are content nonetheless as Eddie falls still, panting and spent in your arms. You are sweaty, hot, and sticky in a way that would, in any other context, have you grumbling and seeking relief. But here, with Eddie’s heavy weight on top of you, his arms curling around your body to hold you close to him, and his cock softening inside you, you couldn’t muster a grumble if you tried.

Eddie rolls you onto your sides but doesn’t relinquish his grip on you, and you hold one another other until his seed starts to leak between your thighs. You stir then, and he looks down at you as you glance towards your tangled legs, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “I should wash up,” you say quietly, and reluctantly, Eddie loosens his arms so you can rise and pad over to the edge of the water. 

You’re about to crouch to cup water in your palms when a broad hand finds the small of your back, the light touch almost reverent. “Let me,” Eddie says quietly behind you; you turn, looking up into his face as he offers to cleanse you of his seed. That poignant welling of emotion, soft like the down of feathers, fills you toe to tip as he gets on his knees before you, cupping water in his palms and gently washing your sticky folds until your skin has been thoroughly cleansed.

Eddie Munson washes you off between your legs in the creek, and it feels almost more intimate than having relations with him. 

When he straightens up, you make to walk back toward the blanket, but when he lingers near the water’s edge without following, you pause and look at him curiously. Eddie pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, fidgeting as his eyes flick between yours before the words burst out of him. 

“Y’know you're my girl now, right? If you wanna be,” he adds quickly, and the blush of his cheeks, the sudden sheepish nervousness in his expression tugs at your heart.

But it’s such a silly question— if you wanna be.

Of course, you wanna be his girl. You’ve coveted Eddie Munson’s attention since he was that eight-year-old boy, odd and awkward, gangly and wild, your new neighbor next door. You’ve yearned to know him and be known by him as deeply as a best friend can, and now you’ve begun to know him in a way that, somehow, feels even more right than that.

You’ve wanted to be Eddie Munson’s girl for what feels like your whole life, now, or close to it.

“Yes,” you say, sticky and sweet and so utterly enamored with the boy standing beneath the willow at the edge of the creek. “I’ll be your girl, Eddie Munson.” 

Eddie beams so bright and beautiful that your breath shudders in your chest, a poignant squeezing of your ribcage that only intensifies as he says with reverence, almost like he can’t believe it, “You belong to me, and I belong to you.” 

You kiss him again, wrapping him up in your arms as he sways you happily back and forth. You wish it would last forever, but with a lurch in your belly, you realize the light casting Eddie’s curls in a deep amber glow is more than golden now— it's edging on orange. Hastily, you pull against his grip, and he releases you as you groan with dismay, “Aw, hell, Ed. We gotta race the sunset!” You bounce on the balls of your feet, shaking your hands by your sides as anxiety tangles in the pit of your stomach. “Mama’ll skin me alive if I’m not back before sundown!” 

Eddie’s eyes dart to the sky, widening with equal alarm. “We’ll make it,” he says breathlessly, “I got the horses, just get your clothes on!” He lurches around the willow while you rush to the blanket to pull on your rumpled chemise and button your dress, smoothing your hair and slipping on your shoes just as he’s miraculously finished saddling both horses, already dressed. You’re impressed until you hurry closer and realize Eddie’s suspenders are twisted thrice each and his shirt is buttoned one-off from the top. 

You sigh and tug him closer by the trousers, and he stumbles as you briskly unwind his suspenders and rebutton his shirt. 

“Much obliged,” Eddie pants breathlessly, his lips curled in a delighted smile as you tend to him. His beam widens when you duck your head, going shy under the intensity of his gaze; Eddie cups your cheeks and kisses you wild and hard, leaving you dazed for a moment as he hoists himself deftly onto Merlin’s saddle. “Betcha I’ll beat you back,” he says, towering above you atop his giant horse— your best friend, roguish and mischievous, clever and brash, beautiful in the deepening light. 

A wicked grin blooms on your lips as you look up at him, grasping hold of Guinnie’s mane and cantle to pull yourself up smoothly beside him. “Betcha you won’t,” you counter, and with a squeeze of your thighs, you rise to the challenge. 

You ride Guinnie hard and fast through the forest, racing Eddie until you both burst together from the treeline onto the field at the edge of Mr. Hopper’s property. In the distance, you can see the tall fence that separates your farmstead from his, the red house that he calls home sticking from the earth beside the blue shingles of your own, in permanent company with one another. You expect Eddie to call the game over now, but he tosses a smirk over his shoulder at you, his curls whipping as Merlin rears and gallops on, spurred by a whoop of boyish delight.

Your legs will be sore tomorrow, and between your legs will be sore too. But as the sun sets on this August day and you ride through the fields, chasing the young man you cherish, and the bugs erupt in puffs like clouds from the tall grass, you’ve never felt so known, nor so damn alive.

#blueywrites #TD&TC #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fics #eddie munson x fem!reader fluff #eddie munson x f!reader #stranger things fanfiction #st fanfic #eddie munson imagine #farmer!eddie munson

[theprinceandthewitch]

I actually will not watch another animated show or live action series. Not so much because of the very real threat of the plot getting cut to bits - but because most writers do not understand what is actually important to the story. TOH in general is a really good example of this lol.

#they did not have to go to the human realm and the draining spell +TC being released could have been the season 2 cliffhanger #season 2 could have ended on a cliffhanger of the gang failing to stop TDS on time and TC being released by King #season 3 could have been games TC plays with the cast with Luz's prize being that he stops the draining spell and effs off to another world #but no teehee the characters have to go to a realm where they sit on their asses for months and do nothing #BRILLIANT

[droptmastyx]

British cars show, Sanford FL.  MG T-series goodness.  

#automotive #vintage cars #British cars #MG cars #MG-TC #MG-TD #MG-TF

[sanjanasinghania1]

https://www.registrationwala.com/knowledge-base/news-other-businesses/blog/what-s-the-difference-between-tds-and-tcs

What Are the Variances between TDS and TCS?

There are two forms of indirect taxes which may get confused with each other at times, namely TDS and TCS. TDS is collected at the source of income. Whereas, TCS is paid by the seller that collects it from the buyer during the period of sale. Want to know more? Visit our post

#Registrationwala #TDS #TCS #TaxDeducted #TDSvsTCS

[keytec5322]

TDS AND TCS

#keytec #institute #nangloi #excel #tds #tcs #computerclasses #computerskills

[legalvistaar]

New Section 43B Clause अपने Creditors को नहीं किया Timely Payment तो देना होगा Purchase पर Tax

New Section 43 B CLAUSE H of the Income Tax Act introduced by the Government in Budget 2023 and it is applicable for the FY 2023-2024 and AY 2024-2025. According to this Section, if you have purchased goods from enterprises registered under MSMED Act, 2006, then, you have to make timely payment to its creditors otherwise delayed payment shall be disallowed and you have to paid tax on such delayed payment.

If you want to share any query, then, Contact Us:LEGALVISTAARCONSULTANTS Mob. No. 8267801110 Email id: [email protected]

#gst #incometax #company #msme #accounting #legalvistaar #legal #taxupdates #gstupdates #trademark #TDS #TCS #Tallyprime #LLP #Vyapari

[infinityservicesblog]

Section 194O of the Income Tax Act

Section 194O of the Income-tax Act, 1961 deals with Tax Deducted at Source (TDS) on payments made to e-commerce participants. It was introduced in the Union Budget 2020 and came into effect on 1st October 2020.

Here's a summary of the key points of Section 194O:

Who is responsible for deducting TDS? 

 E-commerce operators like Amazon, Flipkart, Meesho, etc., are responsible for deducting TDS at the rate of 1% on the gross amount of sales made through their platform by sellers (e-commerce participants).

What transactions are covered? 

The TDS applies to sales of goods, provision of services, or both facilitated through the e-commerce platform. This includes professional and technical services as well.

When is the TDS deducted? 

The TDS is deducted at the time of crediting the seller's account, irrespective of the mode of payment, or at the time of making payment to the seller, whichever is earlier.

Threshold limit: 

There is no threshold limit for e-commerce companies. They are required to deduct TDS on all transactions facilitated through their platform. However, for individual/HUF e-commerce participants, no TDS is deducted if the gross amount of sales during the previous year does not exceed Rs 5 lakh and they have furnished their PAN or Aadhaar.

Purpose of Section 194O: 

This section aims to improve tax compliance by bringing e-commerce participants under the TDS net. Many small sellers operating on e-commerce platforms often miss filing their income tax returns. By collecting TDS at the source, the government ensures that some tax is collected upfront even if the seller doesn't file their returns.

I hope this summary is helpful. If you have any further questions about Section 194O or its implications, feel free to ask!

Gaurav Sharma

8878797882

[email protected]

Infinityservices2018.com

#income tax #gst refund #gst billing software #gst registration #gst services #TDS #tax deducted at source #TCS

[kudosstartup]

Empowering Entrepreneurs: KudosStartup's Comprehensive Business Solutions

In the dynamic landscape of business, navigating through legal and financial complexities is crucial for entrepreneurs. KudosStartup, based in Dehradun, emerges as a reliable partner, offering a range of services that streamline business operations and ensure compliance with regulations.

1. CA Firm in Dehradun: Expert Financial Guidance

KudosStartup boasts a team of skilled Chartered Accountants in Dehradun, providing businesses with invaluable financial expertise. From managing accounts to offering strategic financial advice, their professionals play a pivotal role in helping businesses make informed decisions.

2. Business Registration: Laying the Foundation for Success

Starting a business requires a solid foundation. KudosStartup facilitates seamless business registration, ensuring that entrepreneurs comply with legal requirements and start their ventures on a strong footing. Their experts guide clients through the process, simplifying complexities associated with registrations.

3. GST Services: Navigating Tax Compliance with Ease

Navigating the Goods and Services Tax (GST) landscape can be challenging. KudosStartup eases this burden by offering GST services that include registration, filing returns, and ensuring compliance. By staying abreast of the latest GST regulations, they help businesses operate smoothly within the tax framework.

4. Trademark / IPR Protection: Safeguarding Intellectual Assets

Intellectual Property Rights (IPR) are invaluable assets for businesses. KudosStartup aids in the process of trademark registration and IPR protection, safeguarding the unique identity and innovations of entrepreneurs. This proactive approach helps prevent potential legal challenges and ensures the long-term viability of intellectual assets.

Why Choose KudosStartup?

Holistic Solutions: KudosStartup offers a one-stop-shop for all business needs, providing entrepreneurs with a comprehensive suite of services.

Local Expertise: As a CA firm in Dehradun, KudosStartup understands the nuances of local regulations, ensuring businesses are in full compliance.

Client-Centric Approach: The team at KudosStartup is committed to understanding the unique needs of each client, tailoring their services to foster growth and sustainability.

In conclusion, KudosStartup stands out as a reliable partner for entrepreneurs, offering expert guidance in financial matters, business registration, GST compliance, and intellectual property protection. By choosing KudosStartup, businesses in Dehradun can embark on their journeys with confidence, knowing that their legal and financial foundations are in capable hands.

#ca firm #tds return #CA #tcs return #taxreliefservices #taxreliefhelp #taxquestionshelp #trademark registration #taxproblemhelp #taxi service #trademark renewal

[mygstrefund]

Are you navigating the complex landscape of Tax Collected at Source (TCS) and Tax Deducted at Source (TDS) refunds? Look no further! Our expert solutions offer a streamlined approach to maximize your financial returns.

#tcs refund #tds refund #gst refund

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part two

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, breeding kink, threats of animal violence (there will be no animal violence in this fic).

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | epilogue | playlist

PART TWO: REAL LOVE, BABY (9.9k)

I’m a flower, you’re my bee

It’s much older than you and me

I’m in love, I’m alive

I belong to the stars and sky

Let’s forget who we are for one night

We’re not animals, baby

It’s the people who lie to themselves

Real Love Baby— Father John Misty

Somehow, the knock on the front door the next day comes as a surprise.

Maybe it shouldn't have; maybe you should've risen expecting Eddie to call on you first thing in the morning before you'd even brushed all the tangles from your hair. You hear those three sharp knocks while sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, slowly nibbling on a piece of toast slathered with butter and homemade apple jam and still rubbing the crust from your eye with the other hand. You frown towards the front door, suspicious, at first, that the sound may have been a hallucination borne of your sleep-heavy mind. But when you hear it again, you rush forward in your flimsy nightgown, grabbing your Mama's housecoat from where she'd left it hanging over the stair railing and wrapping it around yourself as you hasten to answer the door. The thought of a visitor seeing you in such a state brings a little self-conscious heat to your cheeks, though the coat protects your modesty; still, there's no alternative. Pa's already out working, and Mama's started on the weekly washing, which typically takes her nearly the whole day and can easily put her in a gruff mood. The last thing you need is to start the day off on the wrong foot by making her answer the door.

You reveal your visitor. And though the sight on the other side of the screen still separating you might be a surprise, the way Eddie's face brightens so eagerly when he sees you - his features all lit with handsome delight like he's seen the thing he desires most in this world - tells you the whole story. 

You can't help the sappy smile that plucks at your cheeks when he pulls the screen door open, letting it thump to prop against his hip as he removes the final barrier between you. Eddie looks a dream haloed by bright summer sunlight, dew darkening his loafers as he stands on the mat at the threshold of your door. Your eyes trail from his shoes upward, skating over bony ankles which lead to long pale legs and ruddy knees exposed beneath the hem of smart beige shorts. His button-up shirt sports a checkered pattern and is practically wrinkle-free, and there isn't a smudge of dirt on him— not on his pale forearms, nor his neck, nor his rosy cheeks. And what's more: his hair looks freshly washed, curls bouncy as if the water from his bath has just finished evaporating off them, leaving his bangs soft-looking and slightly frizzy as they ruffle in the early morning breeze. 

"Hi." Eddie's voice isn't at all sleep-hoarse when he greets you— in fact, it's downright chipper to match the sparkle in his umber eyes.

"Hi," you echo, still sleep-hoarse yourself but sweet all the same. Eddie's curls rustle again with another gust of light wind, and your fingers itch to reach out and feel that softness for yourself.

Before you can, you feel Mama's presence looming as quick-shuffling steps halt right behind you. Eddie's spine snaps a little straighter as he sees her over your shoulder; he tucks his hands behind his back like he's standing in a military line. 

"Good mornin', ma'am." His broad smile is oozing with charm, and you have half a mind to peek behind you to see if it put a chink in your mother's stony expression, considering the way it makes your own heart squeeze in your chest.

"Good morning, Edward," she says, not quite stiff but with a hint of wry amusement. 

Clearly, his charm doesn't work as well on her as it does on you, but Eddie perseveres nonetheless, asking politely, "I was wonderin', given it's Saturday and all, if maybe y/n would be available for a while this morning? I was hopin' to read to 'er from this book—" 

He pulls the hardcover from behind his back, presenting it to your mother with a flourish. She cranes forward to peer at the cover— a knight on horseback firmly gripping a lance, with the words Don Quixote embossed overtop— but she merely leans back, resting on her heels rather than taking it from him. Eddie finishes his sentence hastily. "—if that's all right with you, ma'am."

You do turn to face her then, eyes wide and pleading. "Oh, Mama, can I? I really wanna know what happens next." Your face flashes with hopefulness as a sudden idea occurs to you. "And I can practice my embroidery, too, to get ready for the showin' at the fair."

Caught between your hopefulness and Eddie's earnestness, your mother relents quickly in the interest of hurrying this business along. "Go'n get yourself dressed, now," she instructs you. "I'll not have you sittin' on my porch in your bedclothes for the neighbors to gawk at."

With a bright beam directed toward the boy before you, you spin and hurry up the stairs before your Mama can change her mind.

When you emerge onto the front porch— dress thrown on, hair hastily brushed, embroidery basket in hand, cheeks rouged from being pinched between your fingers as you rushed down the stairs so as not to keep Eddie waiting— it's to a symphony of late summer in the early morning. The squeaky creak of the weathervane and the trill of birdsong punctuate the light air, which is scented by the heady perfume of the hydrangea bushes framing the base of the porch. You take a moment to breathe them in, letting the air rush into your lungs— dry, not quite crisp, but not as heavy with humidity as yesterday. This August morning is sunny and bright but mostly still and quiet; it's early yet for the dirt road beyond your front yard to be anything but empty, save for the occasional motorcar mosying in the direction of town. 

You glance automatically toward where you assume Eddie will be, but the two rocking chairs to your right are empty; you glance to the left and see that Eddie has chosen to sit on the wicker couch instead, nestled into the corner against the floral cushions. Your expression shows your curiosity about his choice, and an easy, lopsided grin accompanies his explanation. 

"Well, I thought about sittin' in the rockin' chairs like we normally do," Eddie tells you, one arm slung across the back of the couch and the other dangling the hardcover from loose fingertips, "but I changed my mind on account of my voice."

He pauses, eyes twinkling with mirth as your nose scrunches with predictable puzzlement. "Your voice?" you question, and his smile widens.

"Tha's right," Eddie declares, leaning forward and crinkling his brow in an exaggeration of earnestness. "M'voice is just so tired from that story you made me tell you yesterday. Y'know, you really twisted my arm with that one, turtle dove. Really took a lot out of me, weavin' you that yarn."

The rasp of Eddie's voice sounds just the same as usual— no more throaty or hoarse than normal, like he's claiming. You cock your hip and plant your unoccupied hand there as you raise a skeptical brow, but he ignores you. And that voice of his is still warm with brashness as Eddie falls into a cadence somewhere between smug and teasing. "So you got to sit close to me, y/n, if you want me to read to you from this here book. You don't wanna wear me out by makin' me speak too loud, now, do you?"

Eddie raises his arms, the book dangling shakily now in his grip as he wiggles all his fingers, beckoning you over. You twist your lips against a pleased smile, an affectionate tingle stirring behind your sternum as you sigh theatrically. "Holy moly, Ed, you really are such a wuss," you pretend to grouse. "The things I do for you."

Eddie's face brightens as you pad over, bare feet skimming the porch floorboards worn soft with age. You hesitate for a moment near the leftmost cushion before choosing the middle. As you sit down, Eddie shifts his body so that, in the position he's facing, you have no choice but to lean back half against his chest and half against the cushion, your embroidery basket in your lap. The floral cushions are scratchy, but Eddie's shirt is so smooth, as is his hot skin where his arm is thrown along the back of the couch behind your shoulder as if encouraging you to nestle into his side. You give into the temptation, relaxing into his chest, which is firm and yet soft. You and Eddie shift and shimmy a bit until you're both comfortable and ready to take up your activities; as you pull out your embroidery needle and choose your threads, Eddie props the book against his knee, his loafer braced on the wicker edge of the couch seat. 

And with that, Eddie begins to read to you from the book he'd forgotten yesterday. Yesterday, you'd been disappointed by that fact, but now, you couldn't be any more grateful.

It's still hot, but as the minutes tick on and the sun rises higher in the sky, the day remains not as hot as yesterday. The breeze keeps you comfortable as it plays with the pages of Don Quixote and the edge of the fabric peeking from the embroidery hoop in your hand. You move the needle in and out, in and out, and it weaves like the cadence of Eddie's voice as he reads to you, lulling you into contentment. That contentment stretches like a cat when he runs his calloused thumb lightly against your upper arm, the rough pad catching the skin there. Its path is stuttering, slightly uneven because of it, but you just lean into him more, humming as it relaxes you. And Eddie smells so unbelievably good— clean like laundry powder and hay but musky like tobacco and the salt of his skin. His voice rumbles in his throat and chest, smooth and even and practiced as he lets the words dance from his lips to create pictures in your mind as your fingers twist and pull the needle without much conscious thought.  

And every once in a while, Eddie's words will fade into silence like the light of a firefly. He'll turn his head to let his dry lips skim your temple before returning to his book, his voice picking up again as if he'd never interrupted himself. Each time is abrupt, as if a sudden impulse has caught him; sometimes, he even stops speaking right in the middle of a sentence to whisper his lips against your smooth skin. It's a light touch, gentle as the beat of a bird's wings— reverent and sweet, a graze that has your heart turning in your chest with the utter rightness of it.

After some time, the deep grumbling of an engine draws your gaze to an approaching truck, faded blue and familiar. As it rambles up the drive and rolls to a stop before the red house next door, you can see the curve of Eddie's uncle's shoulder and the plaid of his gray shirt just barely visible through the smudged side window. The puttering engine silences, and you smile and wave as he pulls himself from the driver's seat like he's made entirely of creaking joints before slamming the door shut behind him in a rattle of steel. "Mornin', Mr. Wayne!" you call, wagging your arm high in the air until he spots you. He crosses around the front bumper to trudge up the steps toward the front door, throwing you a brief wave before pulling the straw hat from his head and rubbing the sparse hair that encircles the bald spot on his crown. Once the door has thumped closed behind him, Eddie lets the arm slung across the back of the wicker couch fall heavily upon your shoulder, and you giggle as he wraps it around your clavicle to pull you tighter against his chest. "What're you makin' there?" he asks, peering over your shoulder.

You hold it up to show him the thread dangling from the N of the completed 'MUN' stitched in the left half of the hoop's center. There's the suggestion of a flower below it— a large deep brown circle with a smattering of butter-yellow petals beginning to surround it, along with a few deep green leaves. "I'm makin' it for you," you say, and when Eddie lets his chin drop gently against your shoulder, your cheeks heat despite yourself. "You n' your uncle. See? It's gonna say 'Munson' in the middle. And I'm puttin' sunflowers on account of the ones growin' on your side of the fence." You turn your face toward him but can't see much more besides the curve of his cheek and the pink of his lips, which look, unfortunately, very kissable right now. You glance away and lean your temple against his instead to avoid temptation. "What's your favorite flower, Ed?"

You can feel the stretch of Eddie's smile in the subtle shifting of the skin at his temple before he turns his head to face you. "How are you just the sweetest girl I ever known?" Eddie murmurs against your cheek, kissing you there before leaning back against the wicker couch again, pulling you with him. You sigh, melting into his side. "I dunno," he says offhandedly, his thumb back to trailing along your arm, and you shiver as goosebumps pimple under the scratch of his warm skin. "Always kinda favored chicory flowers. They're like the color of the sky on a clear day. No clouds make the sun brutal while you're workin', but y'can't deny it looks nice like that."

It's quite sentimental coming from your wild best friend, and you stifle a sudden giddy giggle as you pull your bare feet up onto the cushion, tucking your knees beneath your skirt, which brushes low on your ankles as you fold up. "What?" Eddie snaps playfully. "Y'ask me what flower I like the best and then y'laugh at my answer?" His breath huffs indignantly against your shoulder. "I take it back. You're the yuckiest girl I ever known."

Your giggles spike at that, growing in intensity, which is clearly the opposite of what Eddie wanted because the warmth of his arm withdraws abruptly from around you. "The yuckiest?" you question through your laughter, nose wrinkled skeptically. "What're you, twelve?"

You twist to face him, and as you do, Eddie's fingers ghost loosely along your shoulder, brushing to remove some invisible dust as the sour pucker of his lips draws into a smirk. His brown eyes glint with a sudden spark. "I think you know quite well I'm not no twelve-year-old anymore, turtle dove," he murmurs, and the sensual timbre of his voice conjures a spark of heat that makes your thighs press together beneath your dress.

"I don't hear no readin' out there. What are you two schemin' up now?" Your Mama's voice calling from beyond the window screen right behind the couch, harsh from shrillness and warning but not outright angry, has you immediately springing apart and scrambling to take your activities back up— Eddie, the neglected book discarded against the wicker arm, and you, the neglected needle dangling from your embroidery hoop. 

You hear the creak of the front door not long after, which Mama pushes open with one ample hip, searching with her foot for the step down she knows is there but can't see due to the heavy load of laundry in her arms. It's mounded in a large wire basket, and an occasional drop of water splatters to the wooden porch as she finds her footing and steps down.

Eddie is suddenly a flurry of activity beside you— the book thumps discarded onto your thigh as he clambers up off the couch with an offer spilling eagerly from his lips. "Here, let me—" 

He takes the loaded basket from your mother's arms, ignoring her hems and haws of polite protest. He bounds down off the porch, leaving her with a faint smile of gratitude as he strides briskly toward the laundry line to the side of the porch. 

Your Mama's voice draws your attention from his lanky form as she addresses you, saying, "I need you to go to the store for me this afternoon; fetch me a few things."

You're nodding before she's even finished speaking. "Of course, mama," you reply dutifully. "I'd be happy to. Just tell me what you need."

Her approval, clear in the softening of the crows' feet beside her eyes, brings you sweet nourishment. "Thank you, dear. I'll make you up a list—"

"Oh!" Eddie's quick interjection draws both your eyes— hers hawkish, yours doe-like. He plops the wire basket of laundry in the grass beside the clothesline and toddles over, ducking his shoulders to the side, brows tugged up innocently as he looks at your Mama. "You know," he says, "my uncle's been needing a few things from the general store, too." He glances from her to you and then back. "Maybe y/n and I could go together? Use his handcart for the flour sack?"

Eddie shoots your Mama another one of his award-winning smiles, and while she doesn't quite melt like butter— not in the way you do— you soon find yourself mosying down that dirt path, dragging the handcart behind you, paper list clutched in your fingers as Eddie whistles your way into town.

A scant few hours later, you're walking back down that path in the opposite direction, handcart filled with the spoils of your bounty, your apron pockets newly laden too. In town, you'd checked down Mama's list one by one: purchased some meats from the butcher, then canned vegetables, a sack of flour and a smaller sack of sugar at the general store, plus some laundry soap to replenish what had been used up today and some chewing tobacco for Wayne. Eddie had, in fact, stretched the truth in saying that Wayne had been aiming to go to the general store too, but you couldn't begrudge him the fib. 

It wasn't the only thing he'd fibbed about, too. Rather than using the handcart to tow the heavy bag of flour, Eddie had very adamantly insisted on loading all the smaller purchases in there so you didn't have to carry them, hefting the heavy sack onto one shoulder with ease. You can't deny that the display of strength— his bicep flexed, one ruddy hand holding it in place, but his expression showing no sign of strain as he lopes easily in stride with you— sent a stirring straight to the deepest parts of your belly. And your best friend seems to know it, too; when you cast him a glance laden with the honey of your want, he smirks back at you, preening at the sight of your appreciation, though a bashful blush also dusts his nose. 

Soon enough, your familiar blue and red houses loom back into view, and the rusty metal frame of the handcart squeaks its way along as it trails behind you. As you tromp up the path to your home, dropping the handle of the handcart and snatching up the perishable paper sachets of meat as you mount the stairs, Eddie follows you with the flour bag. He's still whistling like he had when you'd first left, none the worse for wear after walking and shopping and hauling that heavy sack all the way back home for you. 

You meet your Mama in the dining room where she's polishing the silver— spoons, knives, and forks are all laid out in orderly rows on the tablecloth, and her eyes widen with brief surprise when she sees how Eddie has the flour bag slung over his shoulder. "Where d'you want this, ma'am?" he asks politely.

"In the pantry— just through here. The door's on your left."

Eddie disappears through the archway, and your Mama rises from the dining room table to assess the meats you'd bought, nodding in approval as she takes them from you to put in the icebox. You bring in the other items, depositing them into their rightful places to another approving nod from your mother. 

"You did good," she says. "Both of you." 

Before she can return to cleaning the silver, you dig in your apron pocket for the purchase that you're most excited to show her. You smile as your fingertips skim silk, but you reach past it, seeking the three round disks instead and pulling them out to spread in your palm and show her.

Your last stop in town had been to the tailor's, where you searched for a button to repair the one missing on Mama's favorite house dress. You'd been disappointed not to find a perfect match for the original buttons, but since they were just a few cents each, you'd decided to buy enough to replace all of Mama's buttons. You pull them out and show them to her, face bright with innocent pleasure.

"I got you these, Mama. They were just a few cents each from my allowance," you tell her. "I know you were real sad when you lost the button off your dress, so I was thinkin' I could sew them on for you. And I got enough to make 'em all match, too."

You can feel Eddie's heavy footsteps stop right beside you, but you only have eyes for Mama— your Mama, whose face has crumpled in a rare show of sentimentality. "Why, y/n!" Your name comes out in a hush of awed breath, soft as the silk in your apron pocket. "That's very sweet of you, honey. You din't have to do that."

"I wanted to," you assure her genuinely, and the brush of Eddie's hot elbow against your arm, which lingers long enough to let you know it wasn't accidental, pleases you just as much as the affection on your Mama's face.

"Ma'am?" 

Mama glances from the buttons on your open palm toward Eddie, her face smooth and unburdened as he continues somewhat hesitantly, "I'm not presumin' to know what you have planned for the afternoon, but I was wonderin' if it would be possible for y/n to come with me on a quick ride?"

When she merely stares at him without replying— not shutting him down, but not encouraging him either— Eddie stuffs his hands into his pockets, rocking on his heels as he continues quickly. "Jonathan Byers told me there's a field bloomin' full of wildflowers still this late in the season. Said he happened upon it just this week. And I was thinkin' maybe she'd like to see it, considerin' how she really likes flowers."

You blink at Eddie, noting the cautious optimism on his face. You wonder if he knows it's a bold request— asking you to go out after reading with you all morning, not to mention alone and unaccompanied. And you think, judging by the way his eyes crinkle just slightly in a subtle wince, maybe he does, though you aren't sure that wince would be noticeable to anyone but you, who has gazed at your best friend's face more often than anyone in the world, except perhaps Wayne. 

It's a bold request— bordering on too bold if you had to make a supposition. Yet, now that the question has been asked, it cannot be swallowed back up again.

Mama's face hasn't quite soured, though it has lost some of that warmth from a moment ago as her discerning eyes scan first Eddie's face and then yours. And as her words echo in your head— 'Y'aren't to go off with the Munson boy anymore; it's not proper at your grown age'— you anticipate the same sentiment to fall from her thin lips.

Your Mama offers the second surprise of the day.

"One hour," she says, brows raised nearly to her hairline as she levels you with a loaded look. "Go'n visit the flower field and come straight back. No dawdlin’, no galavantin’. You hear?"

The shock that races through you is rivaled only by a sharp welling-up of giddiness that you fight valiantly to keep from showing on your face. "Yes, Mama," you reply obediently, managing to keep that quivering excitement from leaking into your voice. "I promise. I won't even take Guinnie so's to save time. I'll just grab my bloomers." You glance at Eddie, and it's much harder not to react when you see the eager sparkle in his eye, the one he can't quite stifle even in your mother's presence. Your suggestion comes out in a rush of words, bending up at the end like a question. "Go'n get Merlin ready, 'n I'll meet you by the truck?"

You want to run, to race up the stairs to your room, rip on your bloomers, and fling yourself from the window in your impatience to reach the ground. You're able to contain the impulse long enough to see Eddie jerk his chin in a nod before you turn away, lifting each foot and setting it down deliberately, walking with measured steps toward the staircase. But once they're out of sight— once you've let Mama and Eddie slip from view behind the wall and placed the first foot upon the bottom step— you can't quite keep a giggle of utter delight from slipping out as you abandon the pretense of calm and rush up to your room.

Merlin's hooves thump softly as he treads over grass and dirt, and your hips sway in time with his haunches as you lean against the broad, strong back of your best friend, cheek pressed to the linen of his shirt. It's warmer now than it had been on the walk back from the general store, and that heat is sinking into your muscles as the sun glows upon the top of your head, turning your eyes heavy and your body languid aside from the grip you have on Eddie. Your arms are wrapped snugly around his middle, your hands locked around your forearms, and his arm is tangled up between. Eddie's skin is a little rougher than yours, his arm hairier, and his hand calloused and dry and practically burning hot, but it's a welcome contrast. There's something about the way Eddie has wedged it between yours as if to ensure you won't let go of him, something that makes a certain feeling stretch and curl around your ribs and sternum, nuzzling the same way your cheek does against the plane of his shoulder— affectionate, appreciative. Content.

You're content to hold Eddie and let him guide you, eyes closed as Merlin continues at a gentle trot until a potent aroma hits you. It's the soothing comfort of honeysuckle and the untamed spirit of milkweed, mingling like a melody of sweet and earthy notes that dance in the air.

You've arrived.

It's as your eyes pop eagerly open that Eddie pulls back on Merlin's reigns, and the muscles of his back roll against your breasts, flexing in a way that is unintentionally erotic. You feel a pulse of heat low in your belly, but Eddie remains ignorant of your reaction. As Merlin slows to a halt, he swings himself down without hesitation, looking up to offer you a hand, unaware of how the sudden loss of his warm strength leaves you almost bereft. Still, you let him help you down, and momentarily, the allure of his closeness is superseded by the allure of the place he's brought you to. Your breath catches in your chest at the sight of the field, which is somehow more stunning than you had expected it to be.

The gold of black-eyed susans and the pale sun of yellow coneflowers mix with the purples and blues of wild indigo and ironweed; soft white milkweed floats like clouds among the tall grasses and ferns, and cardinal flowers dot amongst them like tiny spots of flame. The air is thick with the gentle hum of bees and the chirping of crickets nestled within the foliage, and the field is surrounded by a thick copse of shadowy elm and hickory trees. All of the landscape is bathed in the deepening orange of the setting sun, casting the landscape in a warm glow that seems to both deepen and enervate its wild beauty.

As the wind picks up, the sea of wildflowers ripples like a living, breathing organism, swaying as one, beckoning you and Eddie with its dance. And you accept its offer; you cast a smile overflowing with joy toward Eddie, and without any further fuss, you plunge into that living sea.

As you make your way through, the gentle swaying of the plants brushes against your bare ankles, rustling and catching on the fabric of your skirt and apron. You let your fingertips trail along velvety petals and ticklish grass, feet sinking into the soft earth still warm from the heat of the day as you trail a meandering path through the foliage. You are aimless in your destination, drawn by the beauty of the field you're bathing in, until, on a whim, you stop, spinning on your heel to find Eddie only a few steps behind you. The grasses of the field part like water to make room for him beside you.

Your earlier excitement has simmered to deep affection, sticky and thick like honey as the setting sun glints in Eddie's umber eyes, lightening his curls to deep caramel. "Ed," you murmur softly, "thank you for bringing me here." You suck your bottom lip into your mouth as he draws closer until his scent mixes with the sweetness of the sea surrounding you both: the warm smoke of tobacco, the brightness of laundry powder, the musk of a summer storm. 

"'Course, turtle dove," he murmurs, and it's curious that you're both speaking quietly despite being the only ones here, as if afraid the sudden sharp sound of your voices will wake you from a pleasant dream. Eddie ducks his chin, peering at you from behind the curls that slip past his ear to drape near his cheek. "I'd hoped you'd like it."

"Of course I like it," you reply, half-exasperated but still soft. "This is… well, this is the prettiest thing I've ever seen, I think."

Eddie doesn't reply; instead, he drifts closer until you can feel the heat of his body against the peaks of your breasts and the brush of his linen shirt against your apron. He reaches out, and you think those long fingers will wrap around your hip or sink into the curve of your waist, caressing you softly. But they don't. Instead, they dip into the pocket of your apron, seeking the item still left inside— the one the tips of your fingers grazed when you searched for the new buttons you'd purchased for your Mama. And you watch Eddie pull out a line of silk, which unravels to spill open from its roll.

While you'd perused the buttons at the tailor's shop, Eddie had drawn his calloused fingers through the display of hair ribbons near the counter. He'd skipped over waxy pinks and cloying yellows, lingering longer while considering deep amethysts and verdant greens. In the end, though, he'd chosen white— shiny white like a dove's feather. "So you can wear it anytime you want," he reasoned when he presented it to you, "'n you don't have to fuss over whether it matches your dress or whatever silly nonsense you women worry about." He'd grinned wide when you smacked him lightly for that remark before rolling the ribbon carefully up and slipping it into your apron pocket to join your own purchase.

Eddie's fingers are long and ruddy, cracked and calloused; his palms are dry, broad, and strong, accustomed to brutish work and the roughness required of a man of his trade. Yet when he reaches behind your neck, fitting the cool silk of the ribbon against the nape before drawing the sides carefully forward to wrap around your throat, his touch is as gentle as the brush of fuzzy down against your delicate skin. His tongue peeks pink between his lips as he slowly and carefully ties the ribbon into a bow, tightening it just enough to keep it snug without it pinching you too tightly. You hold your breath as he adjusts the loops, eyes locked on your neck until his hands drop and that umber darts up to meet yours. 

A corner of Eddie's lips crooks in a lopsided smile, and one of his dimples comes out to greet you. "You're pretty," he tells you, and you flood with more of that sticky-sweet honey as you brush your thumbs against his jaw, fingers splaying over his cheekbones to pull him into a gentle kiss. 

When you break from his lips, what happens next becomes an inevitability.

Eddie avoids the spiky petals of black-eyed susans as he draws you down to the grass, his lanky limbs nestling into the colorful sea. He settles you on top of him, and your knees press into the warm earth as he gathers your long skirt in his hands and you pull his shirt hem from his shorts, pushing it up his belly to reveal the divet of his belly button and the dark hair that trails downward to lead below his waistband. You work the button open unhurriedly as he searches for your skin beneath your dress, grunting as he encounters your bloomers. You breathe a chuckle as he pulls them down sloppily, releasing his pants to help him; he helps you in turn until your undergarments are finally discarded in the tall grass beside you, and his are pushed down far enough to reveal the semi-hardness of his thick length, which lazes comfortably against his abdomen. As you finally settle down on him, hot skin against hot skin, Eddie cups your face to pull you into a kiss. 

Eddie's kisses are deep, warm, and wet, drawing you into him until between your legs beats in time with your heart. Your hips begin to shift against him, seeking friction to relieve the ache, and as your arousal increases, so do your kisses grow more frantic— sloppier, less careful, more needful. He bucks up into you, swallowing your slight whimper as his hands snake beneath your skirt that has fanned to cover your lower halves, skimming up your thighs to take firm hold of your hips. He maneuvers you slightly until his hardness slots right into the slippery heat of your lips, his erection pressed flat against his belly as he grinds you down onto himself. 

A haze of desire blankets you as you move atop Eddie in the grass; your mind creeps with it, fogging until there's nothing but the feeling of his body, solid and warm beneath you, and his lips, firm and soft against your mouth. You move by instinct, rolling your hips until you're moving yourself equally as much as he's moving you. Your hands seek his curls, burying just above his ears as you grind down on his cock until you're writhing, whimpering, leaking, cream easing that slide and dripping down to coat his balls. 

The ache inside you that was sated by the feeling of Eddie's hardness against your heated flesh returns, insisting that you be filled. You drop staccato kisses to Eddie's lips before leveraging against his ribs to kneel up straight, gathering your skirt and apron in hasty hands to reveal the place where you will soon be joined. You lift your ass as Eddie grasps himself, fitting the fat head of his cock between your sticky lips; you shift until it stops bumping against you and instead nudges slightly inside where it belongs.

When you sink down onto him, and Eddie stretches you open this second time, it doesn't hurt as much as the first, whether because you've already experienced this or because you're distracted by how his face contorts with the pleasure of feeling you engulf him. There's still a pinch, but it's expected now; and as you fall flush with his pelvis, you only pause briefly before you begin to move again with him now inside you. 

You don't move expertly, far from it, but you allow instinct to continue guiding you. Your thighs cradle Eddie's hips as you begin to rock gently together, the mutual sounds of pleasure mingling to join the chorus of nature around you. You're enjoying the sight of him below you when he wraps his arms around your back, drawing you down flat against his chest as he takes over moving for you, pumping his hips up into you. Due to the angle, his movements are slight but still pleasant, and you enjoy the way he can now lavish you with kisses— brief tender pecks that land on your nose, your cheeks, the corners of your lips, your chin. Eddie kisses anywhere he can reach, picking up speed until you're giggling, and then he smiles, eyes crinkling with the force of his delight at your happiness. You return the gesture, pressing your hands against his ears to keep him still so you can pepper him with affection until he's giggling too. 

"Don't eat me up," he teases you, gently pulling your hands from his ears and weaving your fingers with his.

"You're the one eatin' me up, Ed!" you return playfully, and he hums as he draws your hands toward his face. He kisses each finger, umber eyes locked unwaveringly on yours, and your chest stirs with tenderness at the gesture; he presses his hands into the grass near his ears, shifting you with him to lean forward. 

"Use me," he murmurs, his voice a sensual hum. "Press down on my hands."

You follow his direction, using the leverage to lift yourself so you can move more boldly on top of him. As you do, you watch the pleasure begin to grow on Eddie's face— the crease of his brow, the haziness of his eyes, the flush spreading on his cheeks and throat, the plush pink of his lips that pucker around white teeth as he bites the bottom one, earnest and wanting as he stares at your face. The signs of his pleasure increase yours, as does the rocking of his hard cock snug inside your tight heat, a combination that soon has you panting, your head lolling loosely as you look down at him. Eddie's abundant curls are splayed across grass and flowers, dark tendrils that paint the yellows and blues and purples with a spillage of beautiful ink. The skin of his face and neck is pale as it always is but sun-kissed in the late summer, freckled from days spent working the fields. The sight of your best friend beneath you increases that tingling and throbbing between your hips, and with it, the movement you can manage in this position is soon no longer enough to satisfy you.

You pull your fingers from Eddie's grip so you can brace your hands on his chest instead, leveraging a new angle that has your hips rolling snugger against his. An eager groan rumbles in his throat and pushes through those plump lips, and Eddie's fingers plunge beneath your skirt to take hold of your thighs, squeezing restlessly as you rock on him. "That feel good, Ed?" you ask, voice quiet and high but hoarsened with need. 

"Yeah, baby," Eddie rasps, "feels— feels so good—" 

Your pussy flutters at the praise, and Eddie grunts, eyes widening in surprise as he blurts, "Oh, fuck me, you're— shit—" 

"Mmm—" The filthiness of Eddie's mouth makes you moan, whiny and pathetic, and you try to stifle the sound behind a bitten lip. 

Immediately, his hand leaves your thigh to find your mouth as he hisses, "No, sweetheart, let me hear you— wanna hear you."

His thumb presses insistently on the plump of your bottom lip until you release it, and he rewards you by caressing that rough pad sensually across its softness. You whimper again, and the sound passes high and sweet through the open seam of your lips as he drags the bottom one down, his index finger pressing under your chin to keep you where he wants you. You rock your hips a little faster as you watch him stare at your mouth, his eyes hazy and deep, almost hypnotized, as he plays with your lip. The movement of his thumb remains languid, slow and meandering. That is, until it wanders almost incidentally past your teeth to press lightly against your tongue.

Whether it's the unexpectedness of the action or the fact that you can feel him inside you in two places now instead of one, the feeling of Eddie's calloused thumb against your tongue makes you moan and shiver with an acute burst of pleasure. Almost instinctively, your lips close around it, cheeks hollowing slightly as you suck; you watch Eddie's eyes widen, pupils visibly blowing as you wrap a hand around his wrist, holding him there so you can suck on his thumb as you ride him. He moans, voice higher and hoarser than before, more breathy and uncontrolled; the sound spurs you on until you're rocking harder, mindlessly obeying your body, behaving the way it wants to behave. And your body wants you to suck on Eddie's thumb, to move until you're bouncing slightly on his cock, ass slapping rhythmically against his thighs as he gasps and stutters, "Holy— that's it, please— please d-don't stop, sweetheart, don't stop—"

And you've only lain with a man once, but the way Eddie's fingers are digging into your hip; the way his hand pinches your chin as you suck and lave his thumb; the way the tendons stand stark from the flushed, mottled skin of his throat, the way the rapid rise and fall of his chest has begun to deepen— they tell you what all women know as their men's pleasure begins to tip toward inevitability. You whimper, your own pleasure flaring at the knowledge of what's approaching, and the sound is muffled around Eddie's skin; you pull Eddie's thumb from your mouth, nuzzling against his knuckles and ignoring the fatigue in your thighs and hips as you say his name. "Eddie," you call, sweet and needy, your yearning evident in the honey that drips from your tongue. "Eddie, please, I want you."

It's a vague request borne of shyness, but Eddie knows what you mean. "You want my seed again, y/n?" he husks, voice hoarsened with desire for you, for what you request of him. "You want me to empty inside you?"

"Yes, yes—" your reply is a rapturous sigh of deep wanting; when he hears it, Eddie huffs harshly, rutting up into you in time with your bouncing once, twice, and then again—

And the inevitability comes to pass.

Eddie pulls his fingers from your grasp to squeeze your hips with both hands; he presses you down hard onto his cock as it jumps and pulses inside you. You hear him moan, the sound hoarse and high, and you sing along with him, sweet sounds of satisfaction that only subside once the warm flood of his cum has coated you entirely inside and the tensing of his muscles has relaxed to leave him a boneless heap beneath you. You lean forward hastily, hands dragging up his shirt to fist in the collar; instantly, as if he is of the same mind, Eddie's broad palms drag from your hips up your back to tangle in your hair. 

And then you're kissing him desperately. 

His still-hard cock slips out slightly as he hauls you against him, and you feel the leakage of his seed as it spills from your pussy to coat his balls, but neither of you care. You kiss Eddie, and he kisses you, hungry for the intimacy felt in the caress of one another's lips, the drag of one another's tongues, the sweetness of one another's breaths that slip into your lungs.

You and Eddie kiss until the fervency of your shared desire dips like the waning sun into gentle affection again. You notice that the light around you is dim as you calm; the sky has sunk past orange and blue to deep violet and pink, the oaks and hickories now nothing but shadows, signaling that it's time to return home. 

Now that you're both sated, Eddie presses a chapped kiss to your forehead before releasing you from the welcome cage of his arms. And when you finally rise together, looking down at the place you'd chosen to express your devotion, the imprint in the crushed flowers forms the shape of a single body— as if you and Eddie have become one person, forever connected, eternally entwined.

Eddie Munson never does anything by half. 

Now that he'd discovered what acts of service would afford him with your parents, for the next week, he makes himself quite abundant. You begin to predict the sight of those dark curls bobbing towards you from next door in the late morning or afternoon, brown eyes alert and hands ready to assist. When he's finished with the tasks around his own farm, like aiding Wayne in irrigating and fertilizing the corn fields or mucking out the stalls for Merlin and his uncle's horse Sally, he'll toe off his loafers on the front door mat and poke his soft nose around the corner of the foyer wall, seeking for somewhere he might be needed. In the past four days, Eddie has repaired the bottom step of the staircase, the one that always creaked so loud no matter how gently you stepped on it; tightened the joists on the banister to stop it from wobbling; patched and painted the wall where Pa'd cracked the plaster slamming the back door open too hard; and hung the mirror that had been propped in the corner of your bedroom since you'd brought it home since Pa'd gotten too busy to do it for you. Mama hovers in the doorway, watching like a hawk as Eddie works in your bedroom, her body half-shielding yours behind her, though the gesture feels less like protection and more like a boundary you cannot cross. But Eddie just measures, carefully hammers in the nail, and grunts when he lifts the heavy iron frame; he steps back, squaring his fingers and squinting as his tongue pokes between his lips. After a brief perusal, he drops his hands and expression, seemingly satisfied, as he turns towards you two to gauge your assessment. 

You beam brightly at him from behind your mother's shoulder, and it doesn't take too long for Mama to nod. "Looks good there," she says, warmer than you've ever heard her when speaking to or about your best friend. "Thank you, Edward."

"It's no trouble, ma'am," he replies, and the look of pride— the gentle pleasure that blooms across his face to hear your mother's approval— just makes you sink that much farther into the depth of your feeling for him.

If Mama suspects or questions why Eddie has been so helpful the past week, she doesn't share her concerns with you; and once she's voiced her thanks so explicitly, Eddie turns his attention toward slaying his next dragon.

It's about a week after you'd read together on the porch that he finds his chance. You're in the goat pen, refilling the metal trough with water from the well while your father works in the field beyond. "I know," you murmur consolingly to the gray-furred kid hiding behind your legs. He's cowering, eyes rolling, his small mouth open in a near-continuous bleat drowned by the growl of the tractor. "I know you don't like the sound. I'm sorry."

Your words do little to quell his distress; as you finish pouring the water from your bucket into the trough, he doesn't move to join the others, standing with his legs splayed wide and his back arched. He bleats and cries incessantly, staggering after you a few steps when you begin to drift toward the gate. "Okay, okay," you say, your sympathy for the animal winning out against your desire to keep busy lest you face your Mama's reprimand for idling.

Abruptly, the aggressive growl of the tractor subsides to a puttering hum and then, shortly, to silence. You glance toward the expansive field to find it all shorn now, the hay cut to flat and dry before it can be rolled into bales next week. You watch your father hop down from the tractor, his face contorted in a wince as the smallest goat in the pen continues bleating despite the lack of noise from the tractor. Where your Mama is short and ample, your Pa towers tall and narrow, stretched out like a beanstalk, with wiry limbs and a tightness about his manner that manifests in severe lines around his mouth and across his brow. 

"That damn bleating's drivin' me up the wall," your Pa grouses. "Kid's 'bout to get tossed in the crik if it doesn't stop that infernal noise-making." 

Your voice bends up imploringly, distress clenching in your chest at the idea. "He's just scared o'the tractor, Pa. He can't help it." He scowls, but his rebuttal is interrupted when Eddie appears from alongside your house, heading straight for you both. You and your father look at him, and your eyes rove over his form— he's dressed in overalls, his pale skin shiny with sweat and ruddy from the heat, though it hasn't dulled the warm umber of his eyes.

"Hi, Ed," you greet him, the cloud of your worry broken up by the brightness of his sudden appearance. 

"Afternoon," he greets you both, flicking his sodden bangs out of his eyes with a jerk of his head. "Been fixin' up my uncle's fence on the far side opposite your property," he explains, gaze locked on your Pa, "and I've got some leftover planks. Was thinkin' maybe you'd like me to replace some o'your oldest ones. It wouldn't be any trouble."

Your father pulls off his cap and rubs the sweat roughly from his weathered forehead. His brows flash as he fits it back on smartly, and his voice is much less gruff than before as he replies, "Well, if you're inclined to spend your afternoon workin' on my fence, Edward, I certainly wouldn't stop you."

Eddie nods, sweaty curls bobbing as he stuffs his hands into his overall pockets. You can tell he's trying not to look too chuffed, but the dimple at the corner of his mouth betrays how much he's pleased with your father's answer. "Happy to hear that, sir," he says, and his gaze quickly flashes to you and back. "I'll grab the boards and such. Be back over in a jiff."

Your Pa nods and watches him leave; once he's gone, both pairs of eyes, father and daughter, turn back to the kid, who has wedged himself between the wooden shelter and the wire fence of the pen, disinterested in food or drink. He's still bleating, though not quite as loudly now, but the way your father's eyes narrow at the sound of his pitiful cries has that anxiousness crawling up your throat again. "Pa," you say cautiously, chewing your bottom lip as a vein twitches in his narrow forehead. "I'm sure he'll quiet down soo—"

Before you can even finish the sentence, your father has stalked forward, snatching up the struggling kid in a splay of kicking legs. "No, Pa," you whimper, earnest in your protest but half-hearted in your delivery as that anxiety condenses to a thick lump at the base of your throat. "Please don't throw him in the crik; he's just a baby."

Pa rounds on you, eyes steely, brow furrowed deeply with consternation and stress. "I told you, y/n. It's been days of this now, and I can't abide it no more."

Your lip wobbles as you stand there, watching helplessly as he maneuvers around the other goats in the enclosure, heading towards the fence.

It's when he's almost reached the gate that Eddie turns the corner of the house again, carrying a few boards under one arm and jingling with each step as the nails in his overall pocket sing to announce his arrival. Pa halts just at the edge of the goat pen as Eddie looks up, his face instantly creasing with confusion and concern as he takes in the sight before him: your father, holding a struggling, bleating kid, scowling down at the gate that he can't open with his hands occupied as they are, and you, wringing your hands behind him, shoulders drawn up and eyes big and wet, very clearly distressed.

"Boy—" Pa jerks his chin at Eddie, motioning toward the gate with his elbow. "Help me get this open so I can be rid of this infernal racket once and for all."

Eddie lowers the boards to the grass, and while he doesn't dare disobey your father's command, you can see from how his eyes dart that he's thinking quickly. "He been cryin' long?" Eddie asks casually.

"Been days now, ever since I started up with the tractor to prepare for harvest," your father grunts. Eddie nods slowly, eyes tracking the kid's knobby legs as they swing wildly. You watch with bated breath as his brow furrows; slowly, so as not to spook the animal further, Eddie reaches out and gently wraps his ruddy fingers around the kid's front left leg. Impatience leaks in a growl from your father's mouth. "What're y'doin', Edward? Open the damn gate." 

He says Eddie's name like a warning, and your heart leaps in your chest, but Eddie merely peers closely at the hoof for the briefest moment before letting the animal quickly go. And had it not been for the earnest seriousness in his voice as he meets Pa's eye calmly, the question Eddie asks next would have made you faint. 

"If I can make him quiet, sir, would you still wanna throw him in that creek?"

The goat is still struggling in your father's hold as he squints at Eddie for a moment, his expression half-contorted as if he's undecided about whether to tell him off. Your heart thumps hard, your sweaty fingers wringing as the two men face one another— your father is nearly a head taller than your best friend, but Eddie doesn't cow to the intensity of his stare. Instead, he stands tall, shoulders solid and proud but brow unfurrowed. Not defiant. Just not acquiescent, either.

Rather than replying, your father merely steps back and drops the kid to its feet, not altogether kindly. He wrenches the gate open himself, stalking through and slamming it behind him; it bounces back open, and you rush forward to block the exit as he heads straight for the house.

His shout carries back to you, crisp on the wind. "If it ain't quiet by the time I'm back, I won't bother with the crik. I'll just wring its scrawny neck."

And with that, he disappears into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him. 

Now alone, you and Eddie meet eyes, but there is no secret smoldering or shy smiles now. Instead, Eddie slips into the pen, brown eyes wide and solemn as he crouches to his knees in the dirt. "It's okay, little fella," he murmurs, one calloused finger stroking lightly between the kid's horns. "We're gonna help you feel better."

"What's wrong with him, Ed?" you ask, shaky with adrenaline and distress as you see Eddie pull a small penknife from his overall pocket.

"Don't worry, turtle dove." Eddie's voice is just as gentle as he looks up at you, and the soft kindness there makes you want to snatch up his face and press kiss after kiss to his lips. "He's just got a rock stuck in his hoof. That's all."

Your breath shudders out shakily as you watch Eddie take hold of the goat's leg, moving slowly and surely so as not to startle him. It squeaks out another sharp sound as he lifts its hoof; the kid's leg bends at the knee as it wavers slightly while trying to balance on its other hooves. 

But when it comes down to it, the whole affair is really quite quick work. Eddie works the penknife carefully between the stone and the horn of the goat's hoof, jimmying it slightly until the object comes loose and falls to the dirt near his knee. He drops the kid's leg, and immediately it backs up, scuffing its other hoof against the ground in agitation. 

Eddie is unbothered by its display of hostility. "There ya go." He picks up the small rock, tossing it out of the pen to land softly in the grass beyond. "Now you'll feel much better."

A potent mixture of relief, guilt, and gratefulness fills you as the kid falls finally silent. Relief that he'd be okay now. Guilt that you hadn't thought to check for another explanation for his bleating. But strongest of all is gratefulness— gratefulness that Eddie was able to stand up to your father when you cowered away.

"Thank you," you say, soft and sweet as you gaze into Eddie's umber eyes.

"No trouble, y/n," Eddie replies, his lips tilting with a lopsided smile, one cheek dimpling with the fondness of it.

For a moment, you gaze at that familiar pale face framed by dark, sweaty curls. The face of your best friend, the person you adore most in this world, whose wild restlessness— the fervency of it— is rivaled only by the depth of his care for you and the kindness that leaks obstinately through despite the world's attempt to stifle it.

You gaze at Eddie, at the face you've known for ten years. And in that moment, you realize that you love him.

In your backyard, standing in the goat pen, you swallow thick, welling with love for Eddie Munson. But you are unsafe from prying eyes that may be peering through the kitchen curtain; your voice is silenced by the threat of that screen door swinging open unexpectedly. So you do the only thing you can think of to show Eddie that you've realized you love him.

You brush the dirt off his knees, swiping the dark earth away with patience and diligence until the soft denim is clear blue again.

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