Modern Day Steddie Who Are Really Into Kpop, Eddie Fell Victim To The Pop-punk To Kpop Streamline And

modern day steddie who are really into kpop, eddie fell victim to the pop-punk to kpop streamline and steve started being obsessed after he found eddie’s spotify and saw him listen to itzy at 3am,

and eddie asks steve out with exo-cbx blooming day bc he’s a sappy romantic

(the line i mean is “so baby can u be your boyfriend, can i?”)

*based off this awesome art right here by @chocoarts - the sketch on the left in particular :)

It doesn’t take long for Steve to get used to Eddie’s raised-by-wolves levels of affection. The hair chewing and the shoulder nibbles and the freckle licking. It’s never classified normal stuff - definitely not stuff he ever did with dainty Hawkins High girls, that’s for damn sure.

But still, it takes no time to get used to it. Full on expects it, by now. The most notable time that Steve is expecting it is on their one year anniversary.

Two months prior to the Big Day, Eddie's spontaneity and Steve's boredom led to an impulsive stick-and-poke tattoo on Steve's forearm. Eddie wanted to give Steve a simple crown. Told him it was to reclaim the stupid nickname from high school, make it his own.

'Overthrow all the teenaged bullshit. Kick trauma in the metaphorical ass.' Eddie had said after completing it, smiling up at Steve. 'It's what kings do best.'

After that day, Steve decides to add on to his impulsive tattoo and surprise Eddie with it. He gets one small bat, just like the ones on Eddie's arm. Gets it right next to the crown, side-by-side. The same way they all fought together a while back.

As soon as Eddie sees the addition, he tackles Steve, linebacker style. Steve is ready for it, totally braces for the aggressive affection. Fucking loves it. Expects it.

However, Eddie doesn't just stop there. Oh no. He climbs up Steve's body, tightly wrapping his arms around Steve's neck. Wraps his legs around Steve's upper arms even tighter.

Which... how the hell did Eddie get so flexible? And when the hell did Eddie get so flexible? Like, yeah they do some semi-contortionist stuff in the bedroom, mostly when they're hyped up on sugary soft drinks.

But this? This is... new. Wild.

He clutches on to Steve like he's a goddamn tree trunk. Some rare tree species that's in grave danger of being chopped down from the rainforest or whatever. He’s making lots of pleased sounds, singing maybe. Hard to tell for sure.

Steve holds Eddie firmly, hands underneath his thigh, his back, anywhere that he can get a solid grip. Keeps him safe from whatever corporate bulldozer that dares to take down their weirdly amazing love.

"Shit, I'm crazy about you." Eddie nuzzles into Steve's hair. "Like... totally and completely."

Steve laughs, comes out a bit strangled from the way Eddie is clinging to him. "Guessing you like it, huh?"

"Duh." Eddie slides off, connecting their hands on his way down.

"It represents-"

"I know what it represents." Eddie interrupts, his expression softens from the reminder, the difficult topic they're both skipping around. "You don't have to say it."

He does though, Steve has to say it. Needs to say it the same exact way Eddie had said it to him two months ago.

Because yeah, they act tough about what went down that night. But that doesn't mean they should just be stuck in a cycle of Acting Tough. Pretending to be okay all the damn time.

So Steve takes Eddie's arm, the one that's covered with tiny bat silhouettes. He holds their two arms together and carefully brushes over each tattoo design. Tells Eddie to reclaim the stupid scars that litter his body.

"Fight off all the inter-dimensional bullshit. Kick trauma's metaphorical ass." Steve smiles up at Eddie, who suddenly looks serious, focused. "It's what heroes do best."

"Steve." The seriousness is wiped clean off of Eddie's face. It's quickly replaced with a gentle grin. Relief reaching over his furrowed brow. No more worry lines. No more grimace. He looks at ease. Content, maybe.

And as much as Steve enjoys making Eddie feel content, he wants him happier right now. So he switches up the energy, tries to lighten the mood a little. Steve hooks his fingers into Eddie's front pockets, readying to pull him in.

It's predictable, been his go to make-out move any time they're standing up. This is a special fucking day, however, and that calls for a Special Edition Make-Out Move.

So Steve digs each hand deep into Eddie's pockets, wiggles them around a bit. Watches Eddie's cheeks go pink, blotchy red in some places. Steve moves all of the coins and lint and questionable items out of the way, making room.

He takes deep breath, then yanks the seams at the very bottom of each pocket, flipping the material inside out. Sticking straight up from his jeans.

Eddie is all red now, flushed down to his neck. "What the..."

Steve tugs on the flipped out pocket seams, jolting Eddie closer. He lands on Steve's lips, colliding a bit roughly. For a second, they're too busy smiling to kiss properly. But Steve slides his hands up Eddie's chest, around his neck, scratches the tiny hairs on the back of Eddie's head, and that's it. That's all that it takes for them to get lost in the kiss.

Eddie's mouth opens, biting the center of Steve's bottom lip. Breathes out the warmest air as he lets go, returns to a softer approach. Steve licks over the spot, soothes the pulse that Eddie left behind.

"That was... different. " Eddie laughs. He swipes his tongue over Steve's cupids bow, traces an outline until Steve is laughing too.

"Bad different?" Steve asks.

"Not at all." Eddie shakes Steve by the shoulders like he’s nuts for asking such an outrageous question. "Besides, different is right up my alley, babe."

"I'm highly aware."

"Didn't realize I was such a bad influence on your freakier side."

"What can I say?" Steve shrugs, steals one of Eddie’s rings to twirl around his finger. "I'm very easily persuaded."

They head over to the couch, kissing haphazardly as they flop down. Eddie tugs and twists at the fabric of Steve’s shirt, stretching it out. Wrinkling it. Steve couldn’t care less if it gets ruined because Eddie will be the one ruining it.

Eddie sighs into the kiss. Not a sexy sigh either (which are obviously Steve’s favorite of the sighing variety). It sounds more shocked. Disbelief or something.

Steve angles his head away from the kiss to see that Eddie’s eyes are open, wandering all over Steve’s face. It’s pretty cute, seeing Eddie too busy just staring to even shut his eyes mid-kiss. Like his schedule is too jam-packed up with Gawking, has to multitask during their make out sessions now.

"Kinda can’t believe it." Eddie finally says, still staring.

"What?" Steve stares backs. Makes it a staring contest. Doesn't tell Eddie though cause he wants to win.

Eddie motions toward his pockets that are still turned inside out. "After one whole year, you still keep me on my toes with shit like that."

"I do?"

"Sure do. You're something else, babe.”

"I am?" Steve blinks.

Damnit, he lost the one-sided staring contest.

“Yup.” Eddie nods, transitions to chewing on a chunk of Steve’s hair like he always does. Sometimes, he’ll make mooing sounds. Especially after sex, when he’s at his goofiest. Most comfortable.

It’s fucking unreal how Steve has learned all of these quirks. How he waits for them, anticipates them. Every bit feels familiar to him now.

"You're unexpected in all the best ways, Harrington."

Steve tries not to gush at that compliment. It's not one he gets often.

Eddie stops chewing on Steve’s hair to kiss his cheek instead. The kiss is powdery-sweet, miles away from his usual eagerness. Still perfect somehow. Just like the weird stuff is somehow perfect too.

That's kind of who they are together. Weird and unexpected.

In all the best ways.

One day, seemingly out of the blue, Max starts calling Steve "Skippy".

No one knows why, no one knows where it comes from. And no matter how many times they all ask her to elaborate, she never does. She never tells them why.

They look to Steve for clarification, but even Steve is confused where it comes from.

Until one day she calls him "Skippy", then pointedly looks between him and Eddie, that mischievous quirk of her lips growing and one eyebrow arching slyly. It clicks then, for Steve, and he sinks back into the couch, blushing and grumbling under his breath about not having any privacy with these kids, jesus christ.

Because.

Max got the nickname from that one night a few weeks ago when she hadn't been able to sleep, so she'd wrapped herself in her blanket and slipped out of her front door to sit on the porch. She found that breathing in the shock of the cool night air helped ground her. Helped give her something else to focus on.

So that night she'd snuck outside, quietly so she didn't wake her mother. The Munson trailer was just a hop, skip, and jump away, and from her perch on her front steps she had the perfect view of it. And of the maroon Beemer parked right out front (as it so often was these days).

And of Eddie and Steve where they stood just outside the door. Where Steve's hands cradled Eddie's face, and Eddie's arms embraced his waist.

Where they were kissing.

It hadn't lasted long, just a short, sweet little thing. But when they two of them broke apart, they'd shared these shy looks, matching smiles curling their mouths. And, though it was too dark for Max to see, matches blushes painting their cheeks too.

They'd shared a bit more conversation that Max couldn't hear either, then one more fleeting kiss before Steve started to back away. He laughed as Eddie stepped forward, following him, and he'd put his hand between them, pressed it against Eddie's chest to stop him. Steve shook his head, and said something else that made Eddie pout, but reluctantly take his own step backwards.

Steve paused at the top of the stairs, watching Eddie retreat back to his front door. Eddie had blindly felt for the knob behind him, so he didn't have to look away from Steve, and when he found it and pushed the door open, he'd slowly slipped back inside. He paused in the archway, hanging onto the door, and had said something else (another goodbye, Max thought), and he'd waved one last time before the door finally closed.

Steve stayed put through it all, watching with stars and hearts alike in his eyes (not that Max could see those either, but if she knew Steve, and she did, they were definitely there). After the door shut, he lingered still, until he finally turned away.

He'd hopped down the stairs, and then, to Max's shock and absolute delight, god damn skipped the entire way to his car.

She'd had to stifle her laughter into her hand so as to not draw his attention.

Thus, "Skippy" was born.

But, after the initial surprise at finding out that Max had been (unintentionally) lurking in the shadows, Steve found that he didn't really mind the silly little nickname. In fact, he kind of loved it.

Because that night had been the night of Steve and Eddie's first kiss. That night had been the start.

A really good start.

And Steve kind of loved the reminder of that.

People debate if Eddie or Steve would say ‘I love you’ first, but I propose an alternative perspective where they both say it long before they start dating and confuse the hell out of everyone, including themselves. 

Almost dying could put your life into perspective. 

When Eddie awoke in his hospital bed with his uncle at his side and the late afternoon light shining through the window blinds, he was struck with the kind of death-bed revelation reserved for men sentenced to dangle from gallows or grit worn teeth down the muzzle of guns. He was alive, despite the assumed certainty of his death hours or days before. 

Eddie let Wayne hold him, despite how much it hurt because the pain reminded him he was alive, that he’d made it out on the other side. Without thought, Eddie told Wayne he loved him. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but he couldn’t remember the last time it’d happened. 

They were long past the first few tumultuous years when Eddie had moved in with Wayne. Where they’d tiptoed around each other and waited with bated breath for their shared peace to go wrong. Eddie hadn’t been used to living in a household where he didn’t have to walk on eggshells to get by and Wayne wasn’t used to looking after himself, let alone a kid. 

They’d since found their rhythm, but it wasn’t often either man voiced their affections. Wayne showed his love. He didn’t speak it. That was just the way he was. Eddie didn’t share the man’s reservations, not anymore. His adolescents was a wave that had long since crested, and all care for others’ opinions had been thrown out the window. He wasn’t shy with his love, but his proximity to death made him reckless with it. 

When Dustin appeared at his bedside not long after, looking as though he were staring down a spectre, Eddie knew he had to do something. He leaned over, ruffled Dustin’s hair and told the kid everything was going to be okay, that he loved him. 

When the whole mess had died down and Eddie was able to come out of hiding, he showed up in Gareth’s garage at the usual time for band rehearsal. He was bombarded by a mess of limbs and an earful of questions. He told them his well-practised lie then muttered how glad he was to be back, how much he loved those stupid sons of bitches, because he did and they should know it. He’d never told them that before. 

What Eddie hadn’t expected was to fall fast and hard for Steve Harrington. Eddie wasn’t one for fast affection or grand romantic ideals. He had his head firmly attached to his shoulders, thank you very much. He knew fast love was just infatuation. You were falling for the idea of a person, not the real deal.

He knew it was stupid and yet at seeing Steve sprawled out on the floor of his trailer, in front of their shitty Philips Color TV, his usually styled hair mussed, Eddie thought he loved him, which was a terrible thought because it meant Eddie had to tell him. 

Keep reading

Part 1 (italian is italicized text for easy writing)

The first time Steve hears of Eddie, it's only in passing. A quick note, like one of the many insignificant subjects his grandmother breaches in their frequent calls. 'the neighbours cat snuck in again', 'old man richie from across the street helped me mow the lawn', 'I think I have a new favorite customer. His name's Eddie'

Steve's never bothered to keep up with Mama Ricci's favorites because they change at least once every month. A novel name from the trickle of new people sucked into the family air of her quaint little restaurant– which, considering how much he'd spent there while growing up, now feels unimpressive.

So Steve simply hums to show he's listening, flips through a magazine with his phone pressed between an ear and a shoulder, while Robin unloads the content of her cart for the bookstore cashier. Mama Ricci is still speaking when he catches the panicked look on his best friend's face. One glance at the way her hands are patting down her pockets and Steve instantly remembers the brown wallet he'd seen on their kitchen counter an hour ago.

"Nonna" He says, tucking the magazine back into its little rack. Mama Ricci stops mid rant, and Steve slips easily into the comfortable lul of their mother tongue. "I have to go. l'll call you later."

It's on a friday evening when Steve finally realizes what is happening.

His phone is on speaker, balanced atop the spice holder while he maneuvers around the kitchen. Robin's seated at the island and is clicking on her laptop keyboard a little too frantically to match the report she's supposed to be writing. But she's listening too, because she always is. Her italian is a lot better now, almost fluent even, but she still tends to acutely tune in to all conversation she has access to.

"Eddie came in again today. You remember Eddie?" Mama Ricci is saying. There's a dreamy lilt in her voice that Steve might have noticed if he wasn't too busy frowning at the slightly bland taste in his mouth. He plucks a few spices from the holder, careful not to topple his phone over in the process.

"Your new favorite customer" Steve answers, even though he doesn't actually remember. He's only guessing because that's usually the right answer. Mama Ricci sounds pleased so he knows this instance isn't any different.

"Yes. He's the sweetest thing. A ball of sunshine that one. You should see him smile dear, he gets these precious little dimples and oh Steve, you'll love him."

And there it is.

Mama Ricci goes on to say more, but Steve isn't listening anymore. Because his eyes are wide with recognition, ears perked from the ominous words 'you'll love him'. He snaps his head back to stare at Robin and isn't at all surprised to find her already staring back, because of course she'd heard it too. Her expression mirrors his shocked one for only a second before a sly grin takes its place.

Steve knows immediately that she isn't going to be of any help.

He's careful when he chooses his next words, but not too careful because really, they've been over this.

"Nonna. You're not setting me up with one of your customers."

There's a sound like an exasperated sigh from the other end of the phone, and Mama Ricci takes on a stern tone, a contradiction to the softer register of her voice as she switches to english. It's something she only does when she knows she has an audience.

"Robin." Mama Ricci starts.

"How many successful dates has Steven been on in the last month?"

Robin, the cold-hearted bitch that she is, doesn't even hesitate.

"A whopping total of zero maam."

Steve hates them both so so much.

"See Steven? You need all the help you can get. And I promise you Eddie is an angel."

An angel. Steve can picture it already, can infer from all the previous suggestions his grandmother had offered in the past. The quiet girl who had been pleasant but couldn't even meet his eyes, that one law student that had complimented her dress, the repairman who'd given her a discount for the broken sink because he thought she was sweet. All angels and all poor people passing by for some food and getting a lot more than they'd bargained for the moment she pulled out her wallet photo.

"Nonna– listen." But Mama Ricci isn't listening, because if she listened then this conversation wouldn't be happening in the first place.

"It's different this time I promise. I think I finally understand your type." Steve really doubts it, because if she even knew a little bit about his 'type' then this situation wouldn't be nearly as dire. But there's no room for argument. Not when she gets like this. She'll keep pressing until this Eddie guy either stops showing up or Steve meets him and makes his lack of interest very clear.

As expected, Mama Ricci doesn't relent. Every one of their calls is plagued with 'Eddie this' and 'Eddie that'. 'Eddie plays the guitar, he's in a band.' 'Yknow Eddie works 2 job, isn't he so responsible?' 'There's this game Eddie really likes, I don't know how to pronounce it though-' 'Eddie reads a lot' 'Max let Eddie braid her hair today, he's so good with her' 'Eddie gave me a ride home.' Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Steve's painted a clear picture of this guy in his head by now. He can imagine the poster child, the perfect son, not unlike himself when he'd been younger and still under the control of his father's expectations. Steve visualizes the tucked in shirt, bright eyes, gentleness, inexplicable kindness. Probably also blatant heterosexuality.

"Nonna" He expresses on one of such calls. "You don't even know if this guy likes men. Stop pestering him."

To her credit, Mama Ricci sounds stuck when she says "Huh. That is true." , and like the idiot that he is, Steve thinks that maybe, maybbbee she's finally ready to drop it.

"It's for you." Robin says a week later, when he walks back in from his evening class with a dead phone and a raging headache.

Steve brings the phone to his ear and the first thing he hears is

"Good news Steven. He likes men."

Much as Steve is numb to the appeal of the restaurant, it's only in that way one gets when they take something for granted. It's his second home, the place he's spent half of his life in following his mother's death. Every summer brings with it the initial relief of stepping into a place he hadn't even realized he missed. Old routines come back. Waking up early in the morning, breakfast with Nonna, driving to the restaurant.

Both he and Mama Ricci still press a kiss to the pad of their fingers when they arrive, place it over the small framed picture of Elisa, late mother and daughter, behind the register. Every shift before they go about their day.

Most summers Robin comes with him, but she's interning at a speech therapy place this summer. Steve expects to feel the dramatic absence of her ever present company, but they still call and daily so it's bearable.

The first 2 weeks are calm, having not yet reached their busier days. Steve notices a very prominent lack of any Eddie character, for which he is eternally grateful. He's enjoying himself so far and would rather delay the inevitable confrontation as much as he can. It's surprising that even the Mayfields seem to like the guy, and the thought alone of someone perfect enough to thaw the cold front of Max Mayfield in such a short time gives Steve the slightest pang of jealousy.

So yes, delayed confrontation is great.

Still he's prepared the process in his head already. Apologize first for any discomfort Mama Ricci might have caused, politely let it be know that he isn't interested– if this person shows an interest that is– and go on along with his day. Easy peesy.

Steve's going over the steps again behind the counter, grumbling it under his breath in annoyance because he's more than a little pressed today. He's being petty and he knows it, but it doesn't matter. The hairnet sits a little crookedly on his head, coating his best feature in an unattractive bluish mesh. Steve hates the net with every fiber in his body. But Mama Ricci's always been big on enforcing it for whoever steps in the kitchen (minus Max because she isn't there enough).

But with the fresh wound of her favorite customer's recent absence, she's also made a point to argue that since no one in her restaurant is ever his type, it shouldn't matter what he looks like anyways. Which yeah, it's true, but somehow extra annoying. It's a piss poor argument to fall back too, but Mama Ricci's always been just as petty as him. Steve's pretty sure it runs in her side of the family cause his mom was like that too.

He's very much still sulking when the bell above the front door rings, and Steve is in the process of taking on his bored customer service tone, hands already finding the notepad in the small apron wrapped around his waist, when he sees him.

Straight out of the hot summer air, there's a light sheen of sweat on the guy's forehead. His long brown hair is tied up in a wild bun, likely to lighten the impact of the heat, and it does wonders for the pretty mix of roughly boyish but gentle features. He's fanning himself with a roughed up notebook, other hand airing out the collar of his sleeveless band tee. The guitar pick necklace around his neck jostles with the action and brushes slightly against one of the many rings decorating his long, slender fingers.

His arms are lined with various tattoos, and the black lines bleed into the parts of his chest that Steve can see. Ripped jeans that show more skin than fabric, worn sneakers with enough scribbles to appear almost entirely black.

Fuck, Steve thinks when they make eye contact. Because this guy is all kinds of hot and it is definitely too late to yank off the ridiculous hair net without being too obvious.

But Steve also knows that he's got other good features, hairnet and dumb apron be damned, he can still pull this off. He's been accused enough times of being overly confident, blatantly shameless even– as Robin likes to say– so this isn't new. Dry spell or whatever, Steve knows damn well he's still attractive enough to elicit at least a little bit of a response. If this guy is into guys that is, but that's a hill he'll cross when he get there. Call him pathetic but he'd be satisfied with the smallest sign of interest, subtlety's never been his thing and his brazenness has gotten him laid enough times to not be entirely useless.

Which is why Steve puts on his most charming smile as the guy walks towards the counter. He's got a strange look on his face, this guy. Like he's caught between trying to piece together a puzzle while simultaneously marvelling. But in Steve's books, marvelling is good. Definitely an encouraging sign.

'You've got this Steve, like clockwork', Steve tells himself as he leans forward on the counter, tone a pleasant drawl as he says. "Good afternoon, what can I do for ya?"

The guy just stares.

The silence drags long enough to throw Steve a little off kilter. Cause sure he loves every bit of attention, especially from someone straight out of his more deviant fantasies, but it's starting to get just a little spooky. So he clears his throat.

The guy blinks, looks slightly embarrassed as he parts his lips to speak.

But then the kitchen curtains swing open and there's a very loud and very perky squeal of "Eddieee!"

Mama Ricci rounds the corner with the speed of someone well beneath her age, and in seconds, has the guy wrapped up in her tiny frame. She pulls him down to kiss the air beside each of his cheek, and grins widely.

Steve is still trying to process what the hell is happening while the two slide into easy conversation. The guy– Eddie– sneaks nervous glances over at Steve as Mama Ricci leads him away, but it's only when he's forced into a chair that everything finally clicks.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking shit.

Holy terrible, lactose intolerant Buckley after 2 pints of ice cream level shit.

This can't be happening.

But it is, because Mama Ricci is clapping excitedly and gesturing over at Steve who must still look like the very definition of an idiot just standing there, gaping.

It's hard to decipher whether he's impressed or insulted at the fact that is grandmother's picked up a guy of this level more easily than he's picked up anyone in months. Since petty stubborness is second nature, Steve inevitably settles on the latter. Hot guy or not, he's not giving Mama Ricci the satisfaction of this very obvious win.

So Steve turns and ducks under the kitchen curtains, wills his mind to get a hold of itself so he can begin building resistance to the grandma stealing hot ass man who is apparently also into guys. Fuck.

Mama Ricci joins him almost instantly, and he can't help but wonder if she'd jogged over with how quick she gets there.

"Steven" She hisses in italian, effectively startling Mrs. Mayfield who's tending to something on the stove.

Mama Ricci pulls him down, much like she'd done minutes ago with Eddie. Except instead of air kisses, Steve gets the hairnet yanked out of his hair. Her boney fingers are frantically trying to tidy up the strand as she speaks.

"Take this ridiculous thing off. Your hair's one of your best features."

And Steve has to audibly gasp because the fucking hypocrisy.

She's not wrong though, but dammit. He's not supposed to be letting her win this.

Steve can't ponder too much on his sworn rebellion anyways, because for all her tiny little grandma-ness, Mama Ricci is surprisingly efficient. She buzzes around the kitchen and in record time has a tray of iced water in her hands, which she pushes instantly into Steve's chest.

It takes years of experience working busy hours not to let the liquid spill all over him as Mama Ricci pushes him out of the kitchen. He glares at the curtain that falls close behind him, tries to get back in but is blocked by a very determined looking grandmother. He can hear Mrs. Mayfield wheezing in the backgriund, thanks the heavens that Max is in school right now because he'll be dying otherwise.

"Go. He asked for water. Take his order while you're at it." Mama Ricci says from the doorway.

They're definitely making a bit of a scene now, and Steve knows it'll only get more obvious the longer he stands there. So he bites back the very long string of opinions he's dying to express, and forces on a smile.

When he turns around, it's just in time to see Eddie duck his face away, one leg bouncing slightly under the table. Jesus. He must have seen all that and is definitely judging them now. Not that Steve can blame him.

It doesn't matter though, he tells himself. He isn't trying to get with a guy reccommended by his grandmother anyways. No matter how much he'd lowkey love to climb all over said guy. There are plently of hot people out in the world, and this attraction is bound to fade with time and more hookups.

But then Steve slides the tray of water on the table, tries to look uninterested as he slips out his notepad and asks for an order. Eddie leans back in his seat, scratches the back of his neck and says "What do you reccommend sweetheart?". And he's got on this stupid smile, definitely cheeky, but with a subtle hint of something bashful.

Steve decides at that moment that he hates everyone and everything.

Because Mama Ricci had been so right about those dimples.

And apparently about his type too.

Steve is fighting a losing battle and he knows it.

i might do 1 more part to this but cant promise i'll tag anyone else besides the people already tagged because its lowkey too much work :') we shall see tho

@maya-custodios-dionach @newtstabber @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @electrick-marionnett @trikigirl271 @yes-im-your-mom @justanothergirlwithobsessions @mars-the-witch @moviebuff90 @misguideadghosts @raisedbylibrarians