#sorry if this is totally misinterpreting /!

[queer-reader-07]

coffee theory and the disparaging of aziraphale’s character

ok y’all buckle up, we’re finally talking about why coffee theory not only disparages aziraphale’s character but would cheapen the story.

this is a meta i’ve been trying to write for ages now because i know i have Thoughts but trying to communicate them in a coherent and not passive aggressive way is… difficult to say the least.

i have a few main points i’m gonna touch on in this post:

1) why coffee theory disparages aziraphale’s character and removes him of his agency

2) why it would cheapen the story

3) how it underestimates neil’s talent as a writer

4) why the implications of it irk me

ok. let’s get into this.

firstly, a run down of coffee theory for anyone who’s managed to miss it. coffee theory basically states that the metatron drugged/manipulated the coffee he gave aziraphale such that the coffee was what led to aziraphale making the decision to go to heaven. (i.e. he wasn’t himself, he was under the influence and that’s why he did what he did)

why coffee theory disparages aziraphale’s character and removes him of his agency

look. i understand that aziraphale’s decision to go to heaven and take up the position of supreme archangel hurt. i understand that a lot of y’all were angry at him, and many of y’all still are angry with his decision. that is so totally valid and i’m not saying you’re wrong for being upset.

but what i do have to say is this: you can be angry at him while simultaneously acknowledging that his decision makes sense in the context of his character. those two truths can coexist without contradiction.

i think that a lot of people (myself included) have this unconscious tendency to view characters through our own warped perceptions of them rather than their actual character. like we all have our own headcanons about the characters and media we enjoy, but sometimes they get away from us and we start projecting complete headcanon onto real actual canon plot.

so let’s talk canon for a minute. the show has shown us time and time again that aziraphale fundamentally believes Heaven is good. he knows the angels are mean or bad sometimes but he thinks that capital H Heaven is good. that God’s plan is good. he believes that being an angel makes you good.

“i know the angel you were.” “you’re a demon you lied.” “you’re the bad guys.” “we’re hereditary enemies” “there is no our side”. aziraphale believes that being an angel and being on the side of Heaven is what makes you good. yes he knows crowley is good but aziraphale thinks it’s because of his past status as an angel. that it’s in spite of his demonic nature.

aziraphale believes that with the help of someone good (properly good, not pretend-y good) Heaven can be perfect and good and share that goodness with humanity. and he’s been given the opportunity to do that, alongside crowley no less!

aziraphale doesn’t fully understand how corrupt Heaven truly is. and nobody can get that across to him. not even crowley. miscommunication is an issue between them, yes. but it’s not the only issue. aziraphale fundamentally believes in Heaven, and crowley does not.

so of course aziraphale chose going to Heaven and being in charge because now he can truly enact change. his decision makes so. much. sense.

and coffee theory? coffee theory would strip aziraphale of all his depth and complexity as a character. it would say “yeah he has this long history of being hurt by this institution but his faith in it is so strong that he was willing to leave the one being he loved most in the universe behind if it meant fixing the institution and creating a safe future for him and his lover. but actually he just got drugged lol.” like. how utterly disappointing would that be? it strips him of his agency, it strips him of his complexity, it makes him boring. and boring is one of the worst things a character can be.

aziraphale is allowed to be a complex character. he’s allowed to make decisions you don’t like. in fact i think he should. that’s what happens in stories. especially in good ones. characters make decisions you don’t like all the time but what matters is if the decision makes sense. and aziraphale’s decision makes all the sense. no matter how upset it made you, it checks out.

why it would cheapen the story

look me in the eyes when i say this: most of y’all would probably hate coffee theory in practice because it is such a cop out plot twist.

coffee theory fundamentally disallows complexity to aziraphale’s decision to leave earth. it makes it a “oh no he was drugged!” situation instead of a “he has a lot of shit to work through and he’s hurting and the being he loves is hurting and the world is gonna end and he needs to work on himself before he can save the world properly.” situation.

coffee theory is bred out of the knee jerk instinct to say aziraphale was completely wrong and crowley was right and “i need to explain away aziraphale’s decision because he would never hurt crowley!!!”

y’all. i love aziraphale, do not get me wrong. but have we been watching the same show? aziraphale has hurt crowley, multiple times. he’s said many hurtful things. and it all comes back to the same reason: he believes Heaven and angels are good, and demons and Hell are bad.

it’s all connected. and i want to see the show acknowledge all of that. push it to the surface and let them confront it all. not brush away the hurt with some cheap “he was drugged!” plot twist. it’s boring and disappointing.

how it underestimates neil’s talent as a writer

neil is a good writer. i’m not gonna entertain arguments about this, if you like good omens you like neil’s writing. (and i highly suggest you read his other novels). and if there’s one thing i’ve found in my time reading neil’s books it’s that everything is intentional.

how much time does this fandom spend dissecting every single frame of the show because we know nothing is accidental? that is not a good omens specific thing, it’s in all of neil’s works (at least the ones i’ve read). neil is incredibly intentional in what he does, and in my experience he doesn’t rely on cheap plot twists.

he can plot twist the ever living daylights out of you but it will never be a cheap cop out like “he was drugged!” and acting like coffee theory is actually plausible is frankly an underestimation of what neil is capable of as a writer.

why the implications of it irk me

can we all just agree that the fandom likes crowley more? and that whenever aziraphale does anything slightly complex it’s often times either met with “oh nonono here’s this reason that doesn’t allow him any complexity” or “i hate him!!!! (also doesn’t allow complexity)”

you can adore crowley. i adore him too, i relate to him very deeply. but i love aziraphale too and i’m kind of tired of how frequent the aziraphale slander is.

and coffee theory, if i’m being honest, feels very much like y’all just can’t handle aziraphle being anything more than “silly little gay angel running the bookshop”. it feels like people just can’t handle the fact that he has his own motivations and feelings and that he truly thinks he’s doing the right thing.

and it’s to the point that you need to convince yourself he was DRUGGED so that you can accept his decisions?? y’all. did we watch the same show?

[lighthouseas]

*THIS IS NOT A VAGUE POST ABOUT ANYONE, THIS IS JUST A GENERAL COMMENT.*

something i think that the entire byler fandom as a whole really needs to understand is that. we are not all going to agree. there is never going to be a consensus. if you see a headcanon you don't agree with, that doesn't automatically mean that the person is terrible and needs to be flooded with hate . it just means that it's a headcanon that you don't personally vibe with !! and that's ok.

ive just been seeing so much of this lately; people being sent hate because they have different opinions. if i don't like someone's vibe ? i just block them. it's easy. but like. fandom is supposed to be fun. some of yall just need to take a step back and breathe for a second because not all headcanons/theories/analysis you see and personally disagree with are terrible and awful

bottom line: guys. please chill out.

[secretlyhuntokar]

I love you Alice Isn't Dead I love your happy and satisfying ending but also the Knowledge that at some point a few hundred years in the Future a new Story will have to take place one way or another

[hellhoundlair]

So we know Jack likes to imitate dean, right? What if when Dean is absent (literally even just for a supply run or to a bar) Jack thinks it's his job to step up and be the Dean of the bunker because he thinks sam can't cope without dean. So sam starts to think its a bit strange that whenever dean is out Jack keeps trying to get him to eat and asking him how much sleep he's getting and hovering in his room, but he's kind of used to it from Dean after all these years so it doesn't feel that out of the ordinary to him. But then Jack thinks, dean would do anything for sam so that means I should do anything for sam too even if it would make him unhappy. So he thinks he's helping sam get more sleep by bringing him tea before bed that's laced with whatever drugs they have in the bunker and he doesn't tell anyone what he's doing because dean would just do what's best for sam without asking for permission so why should jack. And dean is pissed because how the fuck is the kid getting sam to sleep more when Dean himself hasn't been able to do that? And he's already suspicious of Jack so he makes sam sleep in his room with him (gen or wincest whichever you prefer, it feels so much more fucked up as gen or pre-wincest though) and Jack becomes convinced that well if dean won't drug sam to help him sleep then maybe he's not willing to do anything for sam like I would

(I'm so sorry this is so long and so weird)

do not apologies for being a free thinker. this concept is weird and good and also i love the creepiness of it. ill be honest i didnt pay very close attention and have never rewatched the jack era of the show so excuse me for inaccuracies but i rly want to expand or contribute to this idea because it has such good creepy weird unsettling potential.

i think at first it would come of as completely innocent. a little funny but endearing. like when a kid want emulate a parent and tries to try to take care of that parent the way their parent takes care of them. jack genuinely fretting over sam not taking care of himself and making steps to take care of sam instead. its cute until it becomes a bit too much. it gets weird. sneaking pills into sams food (ur mind <3), reading though his phone and forging texts and being affectionate in a way that sam doesnt usually see from jack. and his attitude stopping the second deans back every single time. i also love the idea of dean to be extremely suspicious of jack and protective of sam in this scenario. ironically, deans "jack is a monster and we need to be wary of him" attitude would drive sam towards excusing jacks behavior more and defending jack instead.

i also like to imagine that either sam and dean r in an unconventional platonic relationship type thing where they have their own rooms but sometimes they sleep in the same bed and cuddle and come across as a couple. OR. wincest but no one knows, they sleep together and go on covert dates and are physically close when no ones around (or when they think no ones around. its harder to be sneaky with jack in the bunker)

and jack has picked up on that dynamic and also tries to fill that space for him. lingering touches, brushing sams hair out of his eyes undressing him for bed when hes limp from the sleeping pills, playing with sams hair while hes asleep. and every time sam catches it a spike of panic goes through him. and whenever sam tries to ask jack why hes doing that or tell him its not appropriate jack hits him with the "you and dean do it. why cant i?" and theres so many reasons why but sam cant tell jack that with dean its different, because jack will get depressed about not being able to fill deans space. and in the case of a wincest scenario he absolutely cant tell his adopted son that dean and him are only affectionate like that because theyre fucking. jacks already overly attached to sam and telling him ''incest is okay and i partake in it all the time'' is not a good idea when jacks already pushing boundaries. dean and him shouldve really thought through how their unconventional nature of their sibling relationship would affect the development of a child before they ended up coparenting one together.

[sickgraymeat]

what about.. marcy trying to teach bonnie how to play an instrument

Her trumpet playing in Bad Timing suggests otherwise (or that she's overcome this, at least when feeling confident) but I feel like Bonnie would struggle with the breath control aspect of wind instruments

[privatejoker]

[technicolorxsn]

who is your 2am cookery muse??

bit confused by the wording here sorry ^^' I'm guessing this is related to the oc ask game I rbed so I'm gonna guess the question is which one cooks at 2am the most? biggest midnight snacker?

angelica has really bad insomnia and sleeps very lightly, so she gets up to eat most often, but rarely actually cooks, mostly just snacks

sometimes rj will "forget" leftovers at callies or if theyre staying over and happens to wake up at the same they might cook something simple for her

angelica does like cooking during the day, though! she wishes she had the energy to do it more often

[poppyseed799]

I feel like life series fanon jimmy is kind of mischaracterized and there’s an easy way to make sure you’re doing it right: he has a lot of unearned confidence

[palms-upturned]

.

[flufflecat]

Hi everyone. I just want you to know I’m thinking about crowley supernatural. Sorry. (◠ᴥ◕ʋ) (●__●) (ー_ー゛)

[lottieratworld]

.

[trentskis]

arsenal fan here: we didn't do ourselves any favours that second half, the goal didn't feel like it was coming but the ref was piss poor, not even a glance at obvious fouls. Ref had enough energy to card the arsenal coach bench but couldn't even peak when saka/Jesus were being pulled to the ground. We aren't the only team to have the ref against us at some point this year but doesn't mean it didn't happen. hopefully we bounce back at the Emirates next

i completely agree, as i said in my tags on the other ask its one of the clearest examples of poor refereeing i have seen this season, so many clear cut fouls and penalties that went completely unpunished - when benjamin was pushed over in the box was literally the most obvious penalty going and still nothing for it. for me saka's yellow was uncalled for, saka is consistently treated unfairly by referees and its so disappointing. also think it was so bad how long it took for any southampton players to get a yellow after they repeatedly fouled players, esp the player who was mauling jesus for the whole game and whoever put his hand on kt's neck gjdjf???? actually so bad lol, but we still drew and we will defo bounce back and the atmosphere will be amazing next weekend 😚

[songouda]

i keep thinking about how i'm portraying goku while shipping him with my s/i and i feel kind of bad because i think if i were really in the db world and in a relationship with goku, he would treat me just like he treats chichi (WHICH ISN'T A BAD THING but it's more like he would be kind of unaware of how his actions affect mozz and would constantly run off w/o saying anything and be kind of rude) which makes me sad

but then i remember these are my toys and i get to play with them the way i want to so i get to make goku 100x more love dovey with mozzarella than he actually is with his canonical wife and that while goku might still forget to tell me things when he's running off to save the world and/or train, he would try his best to remember and at the very least would entrust someone else (like piccolo or krillin or chichi herself) to inform me of what's going on. he also hangs out with me allll of the time and never wants to leave my side and we go everywhere together and live happily ever after :o)

[musiclovingmoth]

god can be found in the cicada

was reminded of the cicada genus zammara today and looked up the name origin. according to this french natural history atlas of hemiptera, "zamar" (זָמַר) is hebrew for "singer."

i looked up the word further and i think it specifically means instrumental music in praise of god. a couple sources say it can also mean to cut or prune. there was also this theological blog post that discussed a scriptural instance of this word. david, who was so burdened by something and unable to keep his focus on god, broke out into song mustering all of his strength and praised god despite it all. in doing so, he was able to cut away or sacrifice his earthly concerns for god.

i'm not religious at all so i don't know the context of this passage or how well that guy interpreted it, but it felt like a fitting interpretation for cicadas too. they spend anywhere from 2-17 years underground, dig themselves back up, break through their skins (molting itself is dangerous and results in a lot of mortality whether by predators or failure to molt properly), and sing their tymbals out at the decibel levels of construction equipment despite exhausting heat, predators, and parasites. they also only live for a couple weeks as adults. obviously animals don't experience the same mental stress that we do, let alone think about the future or have religious inclinations, but they extol their song generation after generation in the face of all they have to go against.

so in a way, cicadas have also cut away most of the life they've spent and the outside forces of the world, and devote themselves to song with one purpose. and hopefully it gets a part of them carried on and continuing that song til the twilight of that species, and maybe even beyond.

[psalm40speakstome]

A gritty emotional heartbreaking portrayal of immigrant experience, North Korean refugees and choosing to live in spite of EVERYTHING

Person writing review:

“A soapy”

Me:

[urhoneycombwitch]

mean mouth

foreword: and if I said Eddie liked when you talked a lil' mean to him. what then. n e ways. just a little exploration of his early-day sub tendencies. I generally write Eddie as older but since this takes place in some nebulous time before s4 u can think whatever u want +18. ‘unnamed freak’ is Jacob. punk band name was not thought of by me but isn’t it great <3

cw: gn!reader w/breasts + V, oral (R receiving), unprotected PiV, soft!dom(ish) R, Eddie subbing from the top 😎, gotta-be-quiet-when-we-fuck trope my beloved

wc: 3.7k

____

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

Eddie’s a blur of motion in the little trailer kitchen, knocking against your knees where you’re propped up on the counter (not entirely helpful but, in his words, ‘much-needed eye candy for the chef’), closing cupboards with a bang and talking animatedly over the hiss of onions cooking.

Your boy is loud, always has been, and tonight is no different- he’s crowing and cackling, recounting a particularly genius foible that he’d orchestrated during last night’s campaign, wooden spoon dipping in and out of heated pots over the stove like some crazed frizzy-haired potions master. 

“And then.” He punctuates with a jab of the spoon towards you, a long drip of spaghetti sauce narrowly missing your leg- you flinch and squeak in alarm, but Eddie just grins wildly, eager to get to the punchline. “Red rolls a natural. Fucking. Twenty.” 

“Holy shit!” Your smile is wide, natural and easy for him- Eddie’s excitement is infectious. 

“I know!” Eddie spins back to the stove, plunking the wooden spoon back into the simmering sauce before opening the oven. Heat from the broiler rises in a mouth-watering cloud of herby smell, and Eddie reaches for the metal sheet of garlic bread, still talking. “Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it. And then I- shit!”

You don’t put the pieces together until Eddie’s spinning away from the open oven, whole body moving with the force of his hand being shaken in the air- he’d touched the roiling-hot metal with his bare hand.

“Oh, shit, babe-” Sliding from the counter, you nudge the oven door closed with a foot, reaching out to assess the damage- but Eddie’s a whirlwind, jumping up and down, swinging his injured hand around in jerky movements, howling in pain.

It’s kind of freaking you out, ‘cuz you can’t tell if he’s playing up or if he’s actually got a third-degree burn. The voice that comes out of you is commanding, one that you rarely use, firm and louder than his hollering. 

“Eddie, for fuck’s sake- stand up and let me see it.”

That seems to do the trick. Eddie’s eyes snap to you, pausing mid-hop, and you take advantage of his semi-stillness to snatch his wrist and drag him towards the sink. The water runs cool and you turn his palm over in both of yours, breathing a sigh of relief when the pink welt across the bridge of his hand doesn’t have any blisters.

“Under the water,” you instruct, pushing at his silver-link braceleted wrist until he gets the memo, letting the flow from the tap ease the burn.

Eddie hisses through his teeth, and then goes quiet for the first time in ages.

There’s a few moments of this strained silence as you watch his hand carefully, color leaching back into his palm until you notice Eddie’s looking at you sideways.

Your shoulders hunch in a bit, arms crossed over your chest as you take a step back, misinterpreting his look as wounded. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just-”

“Hey, whoa, no-” Eddie’s hand automatically reaches for you, dripping water on the floor until he remembers his injury with a wince and plunges it back under the tap. “You don’t have to apologize for that. At all. Um.”

His left hand, the uninjured one, braces against the linoleum, ringed knuckles creaking as he shifts his stance. He sounds uncomfortable, and you’re about to start apologizing again until he lifts his head, eyes twinkling- “You were so bossy. It was totally hot.”

A shocked laugh burbles out of you, unsure if he’s joking or not- when he shifts his weight again, your gaze flickers down to the zipper of his dark jeans- he’s fully hard. 

“Oh my god.” Split between amusement and mortification, adrenaline from seeing him get hurt fizzing through your veins, you laugh again- this time, sardonic, into your hands, shaking your head. “Jesus christ, Eddie.”

“Can’t help it.” He’s close to whining, hips pressing flush into the cabinet, partly to relieve the ache in his groin and partly to toy with you. “Goddamn. Sound so sexy when you tell me what to do-”

There’s a teatowel hanging from a nearby rack; you snatch it up and whip it at Eddie’s shoulder, playful and irritated as you snap, “Shut up.”

“Oh, yeah, just like that, baby-” Eddie’s fake sultry voice earns him another towel-whip, this time at his neck- he squawks, ducking to avoid another blow while still keeping his hand under the water.

“Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous,” you announce with finality, slinging the towel over your shoulder and turning on your heel. “I’m gonna get the burn cream. Try not to cum or die while I’m gone.”

His bright laughter follows you all the way down the hall.

___

The next time it happens, it’s sort-of on purpose.

Eddie’s glowing with a post-show rush- a local business convention meant Corroded Coffin got to play for a nearly-packed room. Nevermind the fact that their Bruce Springsteen cover was the one bringing in the most applause; Eddie’s always been able to feed off the energy of a crowd, and tonight was a riotous success.

The Hideout is loud but your boy is louder, as per usual. There’s sweat curling the baby hairs at his temples, bright spots of flushed pink in his cheeks from the round of whiskey you’d bought the band as a congrats. 

He’s making a toast to his laughing bandmates, to beautiful you, to any nearby drunk who will listen, proclaiming his lust for life with one boot on the well-worn table in noble pose.

“And to Bev, the best of us-” Eddie tips his half-empty glass towards the nearby bar, shouting over the din of the jukebox and lively chatter, “-may your sharp-tongued wit live on!”

Bev pauses service to flip him off, and Eddie collapses back into the comfort of your arm over the booth’s top, grinning when the band trio of Jeff, Gareth, and Jacob nearly fall out of their chairs with laughter.

It’s always hot to see Eddie in his element, and tonight’s not an exception. He turns to lean into you, looking down the slope of his pretty nose like he knows why you’re staring.

A charming wink precedes, “Come here often?” but his flirting is interrupted when Jeff gets up for another round and bumps the table- whiskey sloshes over the side of Eddie’s cup and coats his hand in stickiness. 

He swears viciously, yanking out his bandanna to wipe at the mess while you laugh over the rim of your own glass at him. “Real smooth, babe. Good thing you killed it on stage, otherwise I might not take you home.”

Eddie’s eyes light up, inhaling for another cheesy line to wow you with when his gaze flicks past you and his face falls. 

Across the table, Jacob mutters, “Oh, shit,” and Gareth glowers.

Following their eyelines, you look over your shoulder to see Nico Hawley, frontrunner of Hawkin’s own punk band (the Scumshots), enter through the front door in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

When you turn back to Eddie, he’s already twisting the damp bandanna around his rings. The usual softness of his doe-brown eyes are now flint-sharp, and with a rush of panic, you remember the last time Eddie and Nico ran into each other; the night had ended with you back at the trailer, holding a cold pack to Eddie’s split lip, which he’d received from engaging in what he referred to as “friendly fisticuffs”.

There was nothing friendly about the way Eddie stood, then, to his full height, dark and imposing with his big mane of hair and leather jacket. The other Corroded boys won’t start any shit themselves, but will absolutely back Eddie up (fearless leader, resident shit-starter, instigator extraordinaire). 

Time’s running out for you to get a handle on the situation, Eddie already moving to slide past you out of the booth when you snag his left jacket sleeve in a tight grip.

The first yank you give stops him in his tracks; the second, more intentional tug gets his face level with yours, Eddie’s hardened stare giving way to confusion as you pull him into your space. 

In that same authoritative tone, you pin Eddie in place with a fistful of leather and command, low, right in his ear to be heard above the bar noise, “Don’t. Sit down and be good.”

At first, you’re not sure it worked, because Eddie’s just staring at you- slightly slack-jawed, pretty pink o mouth as his gaze flickers to your lips, back up to lock in your gaze again.

And then, by some miracle, Eddie obeys. Like a well-trained, marvelously-behaved dog. He’s back in his seat with a jolt to the booth, hand curling around his whiskey again. 

Curls spill and shift around jacketed shoulders as he shoots the rest of the glass, adam’s apple bobbing, other hand slipping to cup your thigh hidden from view. “It’s not worth it,” he announces to the rest of the group, sounding strained, staring at the bottom of his empty glass, knuckles white with force.

Jake sighs, relieved, but Gareth scoffs, tipping the neck of his beer across the table to point, goading Eddie with  “Since when have you been the one to take orders?”

“Shut up,” Eddie shoots back, blood returning and redistributing enough from where it had all rushed south, enough to defend you and himself against his drunk bandmate. “We’re already on Hop’s shit list, asshole, can’t be catching any more charges for stupid fuckin’ bar fights.”

Nico had disappeared into the throng of people at the bar while your group has been arguing- probably for the best that he’s out of eyesight. Unperturbed by Gareth’s comment (he likes you fine, he’s just grumpy from the alcohol and itching for a fight), you sip your drink and give him a shameless wink. 

Underneath the tabletop, Eddie’s palm flattens over your jeans, fingers dipping to toy with the denim seam hugging the fatty plush part of your inner thigh. You shift your hips, subtly, feeling flush with heat and power. Just a couple of words and you have him eating out of your goddamn hand. 

Jeff returns, setting a handful of beers in the middle of the table. “Saw that shitstain Hawley at the bar. What’d I miss here?”

Gareth swoops in with accusatory explanation, seizing another bottle out of Jeff’s hands. “What you missed is Eddie’s balls on a leash-”

“Jealous you don’t have someone at home to tie you up, Emerson?” Eddie’s dig comes swiftly, lips quirked in a smile around the rim of his drink. 

There’s a raucous burst of laughter, Gareth’s curly mop of hair gets ruffled playfully, and everyone eases back into celebration, all while Eddie’s thumb edges closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

___

The next time, though? Totally on purpose.

There’s a sliver of gold from the hallway light spilling under Eddie’s closed door, left on in case Jeff or Gareth needed to use the bathroom during the night. 

And despite the fact that two of his bandmates are passed out on the couch and floor just a short walk away, Eddie’s hands are exploring the length of your body under the sheets like he’s got plans to map you with his tongue. 

“We- ah- can’t.” Your whispering scold is interrupted with a sharp gasp when Eddie nips at your neck. “No fooling around. Not when we have guests.”

His left hand drips over the swell of your breast, squeezing and kneading, your nipples perking to attention (traitors) underneath the bra you haven’t yet had the chance to take off.

Eddie adopts your quiet tone as he speaks between kisses that trail further down your body, not outright ignoring your weak protests but not doing much to combat them, either. “Mmm. Got me so worked up. Been driving me crazy since the bar, y’know that? ‘S cruel, baby, can’t just talk mean and expect me not to act on it.”

“Wasn’t mean,” you counter, hands shifting automatically to wind through the soft locks of hair tickling at your stomach as Eddie continues his path downwards. “Didn’t wanna have to patch up a split lip. Had to make you behave somehow.”

The vibrating groan Eddie gives against the soft skin of your stomach tickles; when you squirm, shushing him again, his hands slide to your hips, pinning you in place. 

Nose to your navel, warm breath fanning across the strip of skin just above the band of your panties, Eddie sounds strung-out already, close to begging. “Please, baby. I’ll be good. Make it so good for you. I’ll be quiet-”

His head snaps up at your sudden gasping laugh, chin perched on your tummy as he scoffs. “What, you don’t think I can keep quiet?”

“Eddie Munson, you couldn’t be quiet to save your life.” Your hands migrate to his cheeks, squishing them together fondly as he grins around your touch, his thumbs working circles at your bare hips. 

“Ye of little faith.” In the dim light of the room, Eddie’s teeth are a flash of white before his mouth dips to press against the wet patch at your underwear.

“Fucking… shit-!” The expletives fly out harshly, only because you weren’t expecting the wet stripe of his tongue against your clothed folds. Head dropping back to the comfort of your pillow, you get one hand in Eddie’s hair again, the other finding its way to twist at the sheets.

You can feel his smile, equal parts smug and sympathetic as he coos saccharine to your inner thigh- “Now, now, angel. Gotta be quiet.”

Not willing to lose the fight, you focus on clamping your mouth shut, eyes closed in concentration- even as Eddie slides your underwear down and off, a quick flash of blue fabric before it’s swallowed by the floor’s darkness. Even as he seals his lips over your clit, sucking hard like he’s been deprived of your taste for too long.

When his tongue breaches your entrance, a soft gasp escapes, one that has your head turning sideways to grab some pillow with your teeth. 

Eddie brings the wetness from your entrance up again, spreading it over your pulsing clit, nerve endings fizzing bright and hot in your stomach from the attention.

On instinct, your right leg kicks out, jolting with the spasm of pleasure- Eddie’s quick, though, taking advantage of the movement to find a new hold at the back of your thigh; rings biting cold, he pushes until you bend for him, your knee now pressed towards your chest.

“Gonna make it so good for you.” Eddie’s mumbling pussy-drunk rambles into your cunt that’s now on display, dragging his nose through the slick that weeps out of you, all for him- “So wet for me, angel. Fuck’s sake. This all for me?”

As if he doesn’t know. The hand that isn’t busy holding you open trails up your thigh, middle finger teasing at your entrance before slipping inside, no resistance thanks to the river of slick that rushes to greet it.

There’s a soft squelching noise as Eddie adds a second, curling them up, stroking against that tender gummy spot that always skyrockets your pulse. 

The noise is almost enough to give you pause; feeling wild and flush with heat, your hand tightens in the crown of Eddie’s hair, eyes popping open as you prop yourself up on an elbow to give a strangled hiss of warning through your teeth.

Eddie senses your unease, pulls his fingers and mouth out and off (a travesty), softening the blow by giving a placating kiss to the top of your mound. “Shhh, sweetheart. S’okay. You hear that?”

Past the noise of nighttime crickets from the nearby cracked window, past the hum of the kitchen, you hear it as Eddie crawls back up- distant, tandem snores from the boys in the living room.

“They sleep like the dead. Like rocks,” Eddie promises, settling his weight into his hands planted on either side of your head, hair creating a curtain around your faces as he leans in. “So we can get our rocks off.”

“That was awful.” You kiss him anyways. He tastes like you, earthy and warm and wet, saliva mixed with your arousal as the kiss turns sloppy.

Eddie rocks his hips forwards, the friction from the fabric of his boxers making you both gasp into each other’s mouths. He’s achingly hard, cock leaking and smearing precum through the cotton; there’s a hurried, manic shift as you both work to strip the last pieces of clothing from yourselves, his boxers and your bra following your underwear from earlier into the dark of the room.

And then Eddie is sliding his cock through the folds of your pussy, slicking up the sizable length as much as he can before the tip nudges at your entrance; Eddie’s arms tremble with effort as yours wrap around his shoulders, soothing with a kiss to his cheek- “Lotta talk about keeping quiet, Munson. That’s all it was? Just talk?”

Now that his mouth isn’t intent on making you fall apart anymore, you’ve got some breathing room to tease. To be the one to work him up. Tucking a curly lock of hair behind his ear, your fingers trace adoringly over his temple before sliding to grip the back of his neck. “Gonna prove me wrong, hotshot?”

With this new proximity, you can see Eddie’s eyes- fixed intently on yours, black pupils nearly eclipsing the soft amber of his irises. He looks slightly feral, sweat sticking his bangs in place, lips parted, spots of pink staining his cheeks. 

As if he doesn’t trust himself to speak, Eddie’s near-silent as he slides himself in to the hilt, jaw dropping as the warmth from your walls encompasses him completely.

The chained guitar pick around his neck tickles between the valley of your breasts. He pants, chest heaving, not daring to move yet; your breath stutters. You can feel him in your throat.

“So big,” you murmur, an honest reaction but one that has Eddie’s brows drawing together, a little whine escaping as his hips jerk forward, reflexive to your words.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” 

Eddie’s voice, strained though it may be, is on its way to regular volume. At the back of his neck, your hand flexes, a warning as he begins to rock steadily into your tight heat. 

“Gotta be good.” Biting back your own groan, you sling your leg over his waist. At this angle, you can press your heel to the dip of his lower back. “Be good and quiet for me and I’ll let you come in my p-”

His hips snap forward, audibly, subsequent wet noise obscene, filling the room. Eddie moans into the curve of your neck before your sentence is even fully formed- “Jesus, baby. Oh my god. Can’t say stuff like that, gonna come too quick-”

His cock fits along the contours of your cunt like you were made for him, ridged tip dragging against that same sensitive spot of your front wall with each pull and thrust.

Eddie’s forehead thunks into yours as he rolls it back and forth, mindlessly. All the tease has melted out of his voice: it’s been replaced with a lust-filled rasp, rock-salt and deep. 

Your voice, however, is all tease, still hushed but laced with mischief despite your mounting pleasure. “Yeah? Gonna come in my pussy?”

It’s almost not fair and you almost feel bad, seeing the way Eddie fights to make his gasp silent as the channels of your cunt clench in answer to his fucked-out expression. With his next thrust, Eddie loses the battle- a hoarse, blissful moan much too loud spills over and out into the quiet room. 

Moving quick, your hand slips from the back of Eddie’s neck to his mouth, palm flat over the plush of his lips.. The commanding tone comes easy this time (with practice, you’ll surely be a natural).

“Eddie. Be. Quiet.”

Usually, Eddie’s got stamina enough to prioritize your pleasure, making sure you’re taken care of at least twice before he even thinks of himself. Tonight, though, he’s already been straining in his jeans for hours, unbearably turned on from your earlier sharp words, pushing the limits of desperation.

Your words, once again, do the trick. Eddie’s cock pulses, and he comes hard, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your hand, chorus of whimpers successfully dampened. His dark brows knit together, eyes pinched shut, nostrils flaring with each stilted breath.

He’s so fucking hot when he comes, hair a riot around stormcloud eyes that open to take you in. Even prettier when he’s coming down, leaning into your hand for support before you take it away, guiding and encouraging him to lay down.

Eddie collapses, carefully enough that it doesn’t jostle you, but still with his full weight. The crown of his head radiates heat against your chin. 

His arms wrap solidly around your middle as he whispers (he’s learning) in croaky fragments, “Jesus fucking H. I think you just broke my brain. Smashed it into a million little pieces. Never come so hard in my life. I’m in love with you.”

The laugh you give him is quiet but golden, the rise and fall of your chest causing his head to bounce a bit (but Eddie could die happy between your breasts so he doesn’t mind). “See? It’s worth it to listen to me, sometimes.”

“You’re so smart. Gonna do whatever you say, forever and ever. Cart-blank.” And then he’s pushing up onto his elbows, keeping his face level with your left breast so he can suck your nipple into his mouth, gently worrying his teeth over the peaked bud.

Previously tangled in the sheets, your hand flies up to grab his shoulder, nails digging in. “Fuck. Fuck, Eddie. That’s good. And- ah- it’s ‘carte blanche’.” 

He leaves the comfort of your breast with a sigh. “Whatever you say, princess. Gonna let me fuck you some more? Your turn to be the loud one.”