#old navy denim]

[grub-s]

now we are TALKING. i’ll see how big it’ll get with what i have and make a throw for mum (she is collecting lovely quilts & granny square throws)

[britneyshakespeare]

Dresses that are nice but they're only made to fit you if you're 5'5 T____T

[hazeltailofficial]

NWT Plus Size Cropped Jeans

*NEW WITH TAGS*

Size 24

$35

Click here to visit my closet Hazeltailxo on Poshmark

*USE CODE HAZELTAILXO TO SIGN UP & RECEIVE $10 CREDIT*

@hazeltailofficial / hazeltail on youtube / hazeltailofficial on tiktok / hazeltailofficial on ig

[scientologisabethmoss]

fat girls really be out here needing a monthly jeans budget. it's legit no joke having to replace two pairs of jeans for like $30 to $45 a pop every three to four months!

[renoblu]

Hooked up my niece’s vest. Custom for the Cool Kid.

[itzcandyq]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet:

OLD NAVY. Women’s sweetheart pants. Size 8

[plinkcat-gif]

hee hee

[suziwest-coatcollection]

[omgthatdress]

An Analysis of the Ubiquity of Mall Brands in the late 1990s to early 2000s, or

I Fucking Hate These Guys

by OMG!thatdress

If you were a tween to teenager from roughly 1997 to 2004, chances are, you were left with profound life-long trauma caused by someone wearing Tommy Hilfiger, Abercrombie & Fitch, Ralph Lauren, Nautica, American Eagle, The Gap, Old Navy, or, if you were came along a little later, Hollister or Aeropoastale.

I cannot overstate to my young followers how over-saturated these brand names were in teen culture at the turn of the millennium, the extend to which EVERYONE was wearing them, and yet, in a weird way, how light the imprint they actually left on fashion history was.

Watching iconic teen shows of the era, you don't see any of them because a.) TV teenagers tend to be way cooler and more stylish than awkward and desperate real teenagers actually are, and b.) these brands were all copyright protected, which kept their names and logos off the airwaves.

Look in a middle school yearbook, however, you'll see it. Look at your aunt and uncle's high school photo albums, you'll see it. Ask any late Gen X or early Millennial. It was real and it was fucking awful.

The big question is why? Why? WHY, GOD WHY?! There's a lot of answers to that question.

First of all, I'm going to cite this absolutely wonderful article from Collector's Weekly about why everyone's grandma had a hideous orange couch in the 70s, and give the most simple and straightforward answer: it's what was available.

This is when the concept of online shopping is still very much in its infancy, and the hub of American consumer culture was still your local mall. If you needed new clothes, you went to the mall. And guess what stores were at every local mall? You guessed it.

For the second answer, I'm going to dig up this utter relic from the early days of internet meme-ing, that has nonetheless stuck with me and had a profound impact of my understanding of how popular fashion works:

I'm pretty sure that the reason Abercrombie & Fitch manages to survive as a brand today rests solely increasingly middle-aged Millennial men whose sense of style has refused to evolve past the shit their mom bought them in high school.

And why the hell would they? Nobody wore Abercrombie because it made them stand out or feel special. I'm still pretty convinced that nobody actually *liked* the aesthetic or thought the clothes actually looked good. You need not look past the basic color palette to understand these were not brands meant for uniqueness or self-expression.

While Britney Spears pranced around stage in her iconic neon colors and body glitter, American teenagers existed in a never-ending hellscape of washed-out neutrals, faded denim, and American flag primary colors.

All of which served its exact purpose: it was safety. It was a way to appear cool if you didn't want to go through the ordeal of actually having a personality or a sense of style. Which, of course, goes back to point number one: it was just shit you bought at the mall because you needed clothes.

It wasn't enough to save you once the school bully caught that whiff of autism and/or queerness on you, but it was enough that you could blend into the herd and pray no one ever noticed you.

Underneath it all was a very subtle undercurrent of class and classism: to wear mall brands was to declare to the world that you could indeed afford to shop at the mall. It meant you weren't, god forbid, poor.

Status symbol clothing goes back to the invention of clothing itself. The concept of brands as status symbols is still very much alive and well, its just more limited to actual luxury brands nowadays. One need look no further than your favorite high-end children's clothing website to see that rich parents still very much think it important that you know their five-year-old is wiping its boogers on Versace.

None of these brands were actual high-end luxury brands, but they still advertised and presented themselves as such. Their ads featured signifiers of "all-american" (read: White) wealth: yachts, skiing, horses, beaches, shirtless dudes with chiseled abs playing verious sportsballs.

The color palettes and cuts mimicked the preppy "Ivy" style of the New England old-money elite, along with their hobbies and lifestyle. You may not actually own a horse, but you can wear a polo shirt. You may not be able to run without breaking your ankle, but you wear the same shirt as the dude holding a football in the ad.

It was an elitist, White and skinny image that didn't age well into the diversity and body-positivity of the 2010s.

In 2003, a lawsuit was filed against Abercrombie & Fitch alleging systematic racial discrimination. People of color were rarely hired, and if they were, they were given jobs in the back, away from customer view. In 2005, the U.S. district court approved a settlement of $50,000. A few years ago, Netflix released the documentary White Hot: The Rise and Fall of Abercrombie & Fitch which admittedly I haven't watched yet because my hatred runs too deep to remind myself of its existence.

It was a hatred of Abercrombie & the (white, thin, neurotypical, heterosexual) conformity that it represented that drove me screaming into the loving arms of Hot Topic and Linkin Park. Jordan Calhoun wrote an excellent article for the Atlantic about his experience growing up poor and Black and not fitting in to the Abercrombie aesthetic.

I would be very remiss if I didn't bring up the "urban" mall brands of the early 2000s: Fubu, Sean Jean, Ecko, Baby Phat, among others. They were favored by Black teenagers and White teenagers who wanted to be Black. I know there's a lot to be said about these brands, but I'm too Caucasian to really be able to talk about them with nuance. Maybe someone else will, and I will be very happy to listen.

As much as I hate Tommy Hilfiger, I really do have to give him credit for recognizing the incredibly lucrative "street wear" market and selling power of hip-hop. While most of these mall brands kept their image sparkling White, Tommy made Aaliyah his brand ambassador and regularly appeared in the wardrobes of popular rap and R&B artists of the time.

It'd be very easy and very reductive to say that the changing ideology of the 2010s was the downfall of preppy mall brands, but really, the thing that truly killed them was the downfall of the mall itself. Shopping habits changed, and logos and brand names no longer held the power they once had.

The moral of the story is that being a teenager is fucking hell, and these popular brands both offered the safety of conformity and a status symbol to hold over the heads of the poor and uncool. The irony is that everyone who hated them as teenagers (read: ME) and the freaks who grew up to truly love the power of self-expression through personal style (read: ME) became the truly cool people. If you wore Abercrombie you grew up to vote for Donald Trump.

GO GOTH. PREPS SUCK. THE END.

[appocalipse]

never mine ✧ eddie munson

bartender!eddie x fem!reader • old friends to lovers • chapter 01 • 3.5k words

ೃ ✦ ✧ ∗ ❥ ҉

Summary: After everything that had happened with Vecna and the Upside Down, Eddie Munson left Hawkins as soon as you and the rest of your friends managed to clear his name. And you understood why Eddie and his uncle had made that decision. Truly, you did; Eddie's innocence had been proven, yes, but Hawkins was a small town and some people would always turn up their noses at them. It didn't mean you didn't miss Eddie, or think about him over the course of the next decade. Somehow, in your heart, you always felt that one day you would meet him again. The last place you thought that would happen, though, was at a bar — that Eddie, now in his early thirties, owns in New York.

ೃ ✦ ✧ ∗ ❥ ҉

It isn't the type of bar you usually frequent.

For starters, it's tucked away on a relatively quiet street in Brooklyn instead of being one of those swanky, pop-up bars you've gotten used to seeing all over Manhattan since moving here from Boston last year. Also, it's more rustic than sleek, more dark than trendy, its exterior walls adorned with faded red bricks, its small windows lined with black frames. It seems almost like an anachronism among the new construction that has been sprouting up all over this part of the neighborhood.

But even before you get close enough to see what the sign reads, something about this little place feels oddly familiar. In some intangible way, it reminds you of a time you left behind when you moved here: your years spent growing up in a sleepy Indiana town named Hawkins.

And maybe it's just because it's clearly about to rain — the air wet and misty, as though a storm is coming — but right now, for reasons you can't explain, you feel compelled to enter.

So you take a deep breath, open the heavy wooden door and step inside.

The inside is as rustic as the outside, with one long bar stretching across most of the space, booths running along the adjacent walls, and several tables scattered in the center beneath the glow of dim, gold lights. A jukebox quietly plays 'In Bloom' by Nirvana at the back. And just like outside, everything feels achingly familiar, a wave of nostalgia you don't quite understand crashing into you so intensely that you have to grip one of the barstools tightly to steady yourself.

"One sec, doll. Be right with ya!"

He's not really looking at you when he says those words. He's got his back turned, hands busy preparing a drink at the far end of the bar, head just barely visible as he hunches over to scoop ice cubes from the metal container beside him. You can't see much from where you're standing — he's wearing a denim jacket rolled up to his elbows, hair pulled up into a messy bun at the top of his head — but there's something about his voice, sweet yet gravelly, something about what little you can see of his face that makes your breath catch in your throat.

And then he straightens up, turns around. And you both freeze, staring at each other.

Eddie Munson.

It's impossible. But it's him; the same Eddie who sold you weed a couple times your senior year of high school. The same Eddie you grew to call a friend before he left Hawkins without even saying goodbye. The same Eddie whose name still leaves a dull ache in your chest if you think about it too long.

Ten years later, and he's somehow more handsome than ever, all grown up. His hair is a little shorter, curlier than you remember. He's wearing dark-wash jeans and a navy Henley beneath his scuffed leather jacket. That playful expression you once found so adorable is now made even more endearing by a small scar across one eyebrow. And those eyes — a warm brown, expressive as always — are locked onto yours as his lips part, slightly agape.

"Y/N?"

Your heart pounds in your ears when you nod. It's hard to tell what emotion lies behind his gaze, but after a few seconds of staring at you like this, he slowly places the drink he was preparing down on the bar countertop and all but runs toward you, a giant grin lighting up his face.

He nearly knocks you off your feet with the force of his hug, pulling you tight against him.

But you're not complaining.

You cling to him just as tightly, your cheek pressed against his chest. The scent of cedar and tobacco mixed with something else — something unmistakably Eddie — overwhelms your senses as he picks you up a few inches off the ground and spins you around with an excited laugh, making you wrap both arms around his neck for stability.

"Jesus Christ," he exclaims, setting you down before gently taking hold of your shoulders. "I can't believe it's really you."

For the briefest moment, it almost feels as though you've gone back in time, returned to 1986 — the year everything changed forever — right after defeating Vecna for good and before Eddie moved away with his uncle, Wayne, just days before you followed suit to leave for college.

And it seems impossible — ridiculous, really — that you should both be standing here, in this bar in New York of all places, years and years later. So you just stand there blinking, speechless, trying to make sense of it all with the most stunned smile plastered across your face.

"I—"

"What's going on out here?" someone yells from the other side of the room. "For fuck's sake, Ed, if you're gonna flirt with another customer, do it a little more quietly."

At that, Eddie drops his hands from your shoulders and turns toward the woman speaking, more amused than you've ever seen him. He playfully sticks his tongue out at her before giving you a wink.

"Sorry about that," he chuckles.

The woman leans forward a little bit, squinting as though she can't quite believe what she sees. Then a smile stretches across her face, too. "Wait, aren't you–"

"Yes," Eddie interrupts. "It's her, Dottie."

The woman — Dottie — seems to be in her 50s, with shoulder-length blond hair streaked with gray and a sleeve of colorful tattoos on one arm. When she strides toward you, she's wearing an easy smile that crinkles the corners of her green eyes, extending her hand to you over the bar.

"Hey there. I'm Dorothea, but everyone calls me Dottie. You must be the girl that Eddie—"

Eddie quickly steps in between you. "We were just catching up, actually," he explains. "Do you mind giving us a few minutes to ourselves? Great, thank you."

He doesn't give her time to respond; Eddie kisses the back of Dottie's hand and grins, then wraps his fingers around your wrist as he drags you behind the bar, through a set of double doors leading to a stairwell.

"Mind the step, sweetheart, it's a little steep," he cautions, keeping a tight grip on you as you both ascend the stairs.

And maybe it's because you're just getting over a breakup, but your stomach flutters from the nickname, from the way his thumb draws gentle circles into your skin.

This isn't the first time he's called you sweetheart. You don't know why it affects you differently now.

"Where are we going?"

He doesn't answer until the two of you reach the top of the stairs, at which point he drops his hand from your wrist and faces you.

"Well, here we are!" he announces, stretching out his arms and turning in a full circle. "Home, sweet home."

You blink as you look around, realizing you're standing inside an apartment — presumably Eddie's — whose open floor plan means you can see straight into the kitchen and living room.

"I can't believe you live here," you mumble, more to yourself than anything else.

A large black sofa sits opposite the TV, a coffee table littered with beer bottles, candles and an ashtray between them. There's a little dining room table for four beside the couch, across from the galley kitchen where the counters are covered with dirty dishes. But despite the mess, everything still feels very... cozy, somehow. Welcoming.

Eddie chuckles, reaching behind himself to loosen the hair tie at the base of his skull. A few tendrils fall loose across his forehead as he tousles his hair, then combs his fingers through it. You feel something twist in your abdomen, your breath hitching in your throat.

Fuck, you think. That's distracting.

"Yeah, me either sometimes," he says with a shrug. "But it's got a roof, a bathroom and a bed. It used to be Dottie's, but now that she and Wayne are married, she decided to move in with him instead."

"Your uncle got married?"

Eddie nods, and the expression that settles in his features softens as he talks about his uncle.

"They met at the bar. Got hitched a few years ago, have a little place not far from here. It's cute, really. Like a little love story for old folks or something. But yeah, this place is all mine now. Not bad, huh?"

Your heart aches a little hearing this — not because you're sad that his uncle found love (you do feel happy for him), but because you hadn't realized how much you've missed in the last decade, how much of Eddie's life you weren't around for.

Still, you smile.

"Not bad at all," you agree.

Eddie's returning grin is more hesitant this time. As if he wants to say more, but he's unsure of how.

"I missed you," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Because you had; so much more than you ever knew was possible. Even when you'd only grown close to him for a few weeks before he moved away, he had managed to make such an impression on you that his absence became a wound you couldn't quite heal, no matter how many years passed.

So for the longest time, you told yourself that he'd probably forgotten all about you anyway, since he never tried to contact you after he left. It was easier that way, somehow. Better than waiting for something that would never happen.

"Me too," Eddie breathes, voice so quiet you might have imagined it. "Me too, sweetheart."

For a second, you can't breathe.

When you do, you inhale his scent, a hint of weed and tobacco mixed with cedar. His cologne, then, you suppose. And there's something entirely new, too, something that belongs uniquely to him.

You stare at Eddie, trying to find the right words, but all you can manage to utter is:

"Really?"

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. Maybe concern, too.

"What? Why do you seem surprised?"

"No, I just–" you trail off, thinking. "I dunno. I guess I just...figured you wouldn't even remember me after so long. It's been...what? Ten years?"

"You thought I didn't remember you?" he asks incredulously, and those deep brown eyes widen a fraction.

You bite your lip, sheepish. "I don't know. Maybe. A little bit," you confess, looking away.

Eddie exhales a half-chuckle.

"Sweetheart, you're — Jesus — you're not exactly easy to forget," he utters softly, almost like he hopes you won't hear.

You can't help but laugh at this, although your cheeks immediately warm up, burning like fire. "Says you."

There's something almost bashful in the way Eddie smiles, his gaze cast downward as he reaches for a strand of hair and curls it around one finger.

"Don't you wanna sit down?" he asks. "I'll get you something to drink. Any preference?"

"Whatever you're having is fine," you reply, still a little overwhelmed by everything that's happening as he gestures for you to take a seat on his sofa.

"Alrighty. Just wait here. One sec."

As you make yourself comfortable on the black leather, you notice several framed photographs atop the mantle of the fireplace. Most of the pictures depict Eddie with people you've never met — a tall, handsome black man, a blond guy, a girl with short, spiky hair and a tattooed arm — but the one you can't look away from is a smaller frame with a picture of you, Dustin and the rest of your friends squeezed tightly together, the sun setting behind you.

It was taken after you beat Vecna in 1986. Before Eddie moved. Before you did, too. Everyone in the picture looks dirty and exhausted, but there's also an air of celebration hanging over all of you that you can clearly see just by the wide, gleeful smiles stretching across your faces.

"It's a real shame you ever doubted it, by the way."

Eddie's voice pulls you out of your reverie, and you turn around to find him already halfway to the couch. He's holding two beers in his hands.

"I wasn't—I didn't mean to pry or anything," you explain, your heart beating a little faster.

He shrugs as he hands you one of the beers and takes a seat beside you, close enough for you to feel his thigh press against yours.

"Nah, it's okay," he assures, his gaze traveling to the picture you were examining a few seconds ago. "That's a good memory."

You nod in agreement as you bring the bottle to your lips. It's cool and refreshing against your tongue, but not as calming as you need it to be.

"I'm sorry for just barging in here, by the way. I don't actually know why I came in the first place, I just... felt like something was pulling me in," you tell him.

And it's true; that strange sense of familiarity that tugged you forward earlier today has started to fade, now replaced by a comforting warmth that feels like coming home.

Eddie snorts a laugh before taking a swig of his beer.

"Sorry, I'm just making it weirder and weirder, aren't I?" you groan, leaning forward to place your beer on the coffee table.

Eddie sets his down, too.

"No, you're not, sweetheart," he soothes, taking one of your hands in his and rubbing a calloused thumb over your knuckles. "Why would you think that?"

You can't look at him when you answer.

"I don't know, I just... I spent years wondering about what happened to you after you left Hawkins, and then I randomly show up here, and now we're just sitting on your couch like we haven't spent ten years apart? It feels insane."

There's something unreadable in the way he's looking at you, then.

"You look really pretty, by the way," Eddie says.

Your heart is thumping so loudly you worry he can hear it.

"Oh yeah?" you tease with a grin, desperate to hide the fact that you can feel yourself blush all the way up to the tips of your ears. "Prettier than when we were twenty-one?"

The grin he flashes you is bright and lopsided, playful.

"Way, way prettier, actually," he drawls.

Your brain seems to malfunction after this, his words playing on a loop, over and over and over again inside your head. And all you can do is return his smile, feeling a pleasant heat pool in your belly that has nothing to do with alcohol. "Eddie Munson, are you flirting with me?"

He laughs at this — a genuine, low chuckle.

"Depends. Is it working?"

Yes, you think.

"Not at all."

"Liar," he smirks before raising the hand he's still holding and pressing a kiss to its back. "Then yes, I am."

Your breath catches in your throat, a thrill running down your spine as Eddie holds your gaze with a small smile. But then it fades, replaced by something more serious as he absentmindedly traces a pattern onto your palm with his fingertip.

"Can I ask you something?"

You nod. He lets go of your hand.

"If you're here, does that mean you're also living in New York?" he asks, eyes filled with a cautious hope as he stares at you. "Or did you just happen to be passing through on vacation?"

"I moved here a year ago," you tell him, biting your bottom lip. "I can't believe you're really here. What are the chances, right?"

It feels like some kind of cosmic joke. And while you never quite stopped hoping that you and Eddie might meet again someday, you didn't expect it to happen like this. In a bar. In New York.

Ten years later.

"Fate works in mysterious ways, huh?"

"You sound like an old man."

He chuckles at your teasing tone before bending forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him.

"I just—this is gonna sound totally lame, but..."

Eddie trails off, chewing on his lower lip as he searches your eyes.

"Go ahead," you urge gently.

He runs a hand through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his face as he takes a deep breath.

"When I left Hawkins, I felt like a fucking idiot because I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to you. Not really, I mean. And I—shit, I really wanted to. More than anything. So... the reason why I left without saying anything was because I was scared that if I saw you one last time, I'd lose my nerve and not leave at all. And...I know, I know it's dumb, because we had only known each other for a couple of weeks, but—"

"It's not dumb," you assure him. "Not to me, at least."

It's one thing knowing someone for a long period of time and losing them. But when you grow attached to someone so quickly, so suddenly — like you did with Eddie — it leaves an emptiness behind. Something you can't quite fill, nor begin to explain to anyone else without feeling as though you're speaking nonsense.

"It's not?"

"No. Not at all."

And you wonder if he can see the vulnerability in your eyes when you reach forward and brush your fingertips over his. It's all you dare to do, all the courage you can muster, but he responds by uncurling his own and sliding them between your palms. His hand feels warm, smooth. Cold where the silver of his rings touches your skin.

"I never forgot you, you know? And I—" he stops, and you watch him swallow hard. "Shit. Sorry. You're gonna think I'm a creep."

"Try me."

The smile on his face is shy and endearing, his cheeks flushed pink when he admits: "Sometimes I have this...dream."

You cock your head to one side, curious. "What about?"

"About you."

Eddie glances down at his hand in yours, studying it for a moment like it's the most interesting thing in the room.

"Mostly about that night you saved me. You know, from the bats."

"I didn't save you," you protest. "I just...I got lucky."

He scoffs, shakes his head like that's the most preposterous thing he's ever heard.

"Sweetheart, I was half dead when you showed up. If it wasn't for you, I would be completely dead right now."

You glance at Eddie's side, where you remember him having an angry, festering wound when you found him. You wonder if the scar is still there, if it bothers him.

"Maybe," you concede, and his smile returns. "So you dream about that?"

"Among other things. Yeah."

Your heart hammers in your chest as you consider what those other things might be, his gaze intense upon you as you nervously wet your bottom lip with your tongue.

"Other things?" you repeat.

"Other things," he confirms. "I might tell you about 'em sometime if you play your cards right, though."

"Oh, right," you muse, pulling your hands away from his with a soft chuckle. "This is you flirting, isn't it?"

"So what if it is?" he asks, grinning as he leans back on the couch cushion.

You don't miss the way he looks at you, the same way he used to in high school whenever he was trying to get under your skin, to rile you up. And it seems that — even after all these years, with you all grown up, both of you in your early thirties — he hasn't lost his touch.

"So what if it is," you echo.

Eddie raises both eyebrows, smirking. "Guess you're gonna have to come back sometime if you wanna find out. You know, just to be sure."

"I—" you hesitate, realizing you hadn't considered the possibility of leaving before, too caught up in the whirlwind of seeing him again after so long. "Shit, yeah, I should...I should go, I've kept you long enough as it is. I should let you get back to work—"

You move to stand up, but a gentle hand on your arm stops you.

"Wait," he pleads, voice soft. "Do you...have anywhere you gotta be? Anywhere you need to rush off to?"

"Um—" you look down at the floorboards, shifting your weight from foot to foot. "Just my bed? It's getting late. Well, not really, but...it will be soon?"

The tension slowly eases from Eddie's body as he relaxes, his expression becoming playful.

"Are you asking or telling?" he teases.

You sigh.

"I don't wanna intrude."

"You're not. At all," Eddie says firmly, his words a promise. "Besides, you still have a lot to catch me up on. So you can tell me all about whatever boring day job you landed now that you're living the big apple life, and I'll tell you about my band, which has a gig tomorrow, by the way, so you're definitely coming to see it."

"Wow, you're bossy now," you point out.

His eyes gleam as they hold yours, and when he speaks, his voice is husky, full of mischief.

"You have no idea, sweetheart."

[satorusugurugurl]

My Little Milk Cow

Summary: You and Satoru go to a Halloween party at a local bar with some friends. Only to get a little too into character~!

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x AFAB!Reader

Warning: language, role-play, breeding kink, nipple play, sex, unprotected sex, creampie, (a little animal play idk guys)

Word Count: 2.1K

A/N: Kinktober day four: Dress Up: Cowboy!Gojo! God to be on his farm! 😩🩵

“Oh my god.” Utahime laughed out loud as she took one look at your costume.

“What’s so funny?” You laughed along with her as Shoko wrapped her arm around Utahime, her eyes glancing you over with a roll of her eyes. “Not you too, Sho!”

“Sorry, you just look—udderly ridiculous.”

“I couldn't agree more. Oh, by the way, someone was looking for you earlier.” Utahime sipped on her beer. “His name was Old McDonald.”

“Oh yeah, he has a farm!”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your tight cow print top. “Hardy-har bitches.” They could tease you all they wanted, but you felt so confident in yourself. You were wearing a spaghetti strap form-fitting cow print top and matching pants. The horn headband matched your makeup, and you wrapped a finger around the tail attached to your pants. You, indeed, were as cute as a button.

“Why? Just why?”

“I wanted to match with Toru. It's a couples costume!”

“Why is he? A bull?”

“Oh Utahime~ you really lack imagination, don't you?”

That cocky voice belonged to none other than your boyfriend. A boyfriend you were having a hard time looking at this evening. And no, it wasn’t because he looked like a dork in his costume. It was the complete opposite. He looked too good in his costume.

Tight denim jeans hugged his long, lanky legs, which were tight enough to see the bulge in his pants. He wore a turquoise cowboy belt adorned with silver. Your eyes trail further up along the dark navy blue and black plaid shirt he is wearing, three buttons undone, giving you the perfect view of his collarbone while the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his toned, veiny forearms.

His outfit was perfect when it came to his body. But holy fuck, looking past his neck had you biting your lip and clawing at the floor to stop yourself from jumping on top of him. He smiled, his pretty lips curling up and showing off his dimple. All the while motherfucker tipped his black cowboy hat forward, blindfold, securely in place, hiding his beautiful eyes from the world. Not to mention, his ass was perfect, plump biteable perfection! Satoru was so good-looking all the time. But tonight, he looked like a whole-ass feast. You couldn’t believe that this man, who looked like he was hand-picked to be in the newest Western film in Hollywood, was your boyfriend.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Gojo!”

“Yikes~ sorry!” he draped his arm over your shoulder, pulling you close flush against the side of his body. “But what do you think? I’m a cowboy, and she’s my little milk cow~”

“Milk cow?” Shoko snorted, returning her attention to the bar and signaling the bartender to refill her shot glass. Just as she turned back, Satoru quickly looked around before reaching around your body and grabbing both your breasts that were straining against your shirt, giving them a firm squeeze.

The most embarrassing sound left your lips before Satoru could open his mouth to joke around. You moaned out loud in the middle of a busy bar. Shoko choked on her shot, alcohol spurting out of her nose. Utahime gave you a look that was plump and full of judgment. Denial settled in your stomach like a large meal as Satoru hummed incredulously behind you.

You struggled to find the words to justify the sound that left your mouth. But there was no coming back from that. From those sounds that left your mouth. All you could do was look away as Satoru’s warm hands released their hold on your breasts, slowly grazing your skin as he moved them to grab your upper arms. Your bottom lip quivered as his fingers slowly slid up and down your arms, teasing your pretty skin as he inched closer to your ear.

“Ooh, my little cow seems like she's sensitive here.” His knuckles barely grazed over your chest. “Need me to milk you~?” from the twitching bulge pressing against your ass, you knew what he meant. And you weren't doing any better with the wet, slick coating the inside of your panties.

“Yes, please.”

The drive back to Gojo’s estate was full of heavy petting and kissing. You were practically waiting each other up, barely making it inside of the house as Gojo pinned you up against the wall growling against your swollen lips. You were dizzy, as he pressed his knee between your legs bringing it up to grind against your throbbing core. Your body was on fire, every touch ignited more need in you. Especially when his hands found your breasts again.

"Oh, baby. You're getting full, aren't you?" He purred, moving a hand up to his head to slick back his long, white fluffy hair. "I can take care of that for you. I think my way would make it feel better."

"It would?" You asked, whimpering softly.

Gojo nodded before he bent down, setting his broad shoulderto your waist, lifting you over his shoulder and carrying you to the bedroom. "I'll fix it, baby~" You whined, thinking about the sweet pleasure that was going to come to you soon.

"Shh, it's alright, sweetheart." He gently put you down on the bed, kneeling in front of you. "I'm going to make it all okay, baby." Toru pulled your top up and over your head, growling at the large black bra that squeezed your tits. "Oh fucking Christ.”

You looked at your breasts. "It’s a push-up bra." You said, tossing your head back. They jiggled. “I really feel like I'm a cow."

They were so sensitive, and with each jiggle, your hardened nipples brushed over the fabric of the bra, making you shiver. All of this was because of Satoru. Damn him and his devilishly good looks!

Gojo growled at the sight of your pretty tits as he pulled your bra down. "Oh? You are my little milk cow, huh? Don't worry, baby, I'll drink all that milk for you." He smirked as he grabbed both of your tits, pressing them to his face and licking at your hardened nipples.

God, you tasted so good, it was almost criminal. Your sweat, the smell of your body wash, and your natural taste had Gojo feeling drunk even without drinking a drop of alcohol. He groaned. He was swirling his tongue around the sensitive buds, thinking about how good your milk would taste if you were pregnant. Maybe he should knock you up for real, make you his little milk cow.

You gasped, feeling his tongue working extra hard against your nipples. It was as if he was genuinely working to draw out nonexistent milk, wishing it would coat his tongue. God, he looked so good, blindfold still covering his eyes as he feasted on your breasts. He really looked like a cowboy. He was acting like one, too, raw, honest, and massaging you as if he truly wanted to milk you against his tongue.

You were losing yourself, getting caught up in the fantasy, so you blurted out the only thing your mind could think of.

"M-Moo!" You shouted out loud before seizing up, hesitating for a brief moment as your cry registered to your ears. God, what were you thinking? Did that seriously just come out of your mouth?!

Satoru had paused completely, looking up at you in shock, lips still sealed around one of your nipples for a split second. After that initial shock passed, he reached up. You watched as his long finger hooked under his blindfold, tugging it down, revealing dark, lust-filled eyes. The crystalline cerulean blue orbs fluttered back as he let out a groan you’d never heard before—a groan of pure, unadulterated need.

"Fuck!" He didn't know if he had ever been that hard in his life. His cock strained hard against his pants as he pressed you down against the bed, sucking desperately at your tits like a starved man at his last

"M-Mhmm!" You moaned in pleasure and relief. The more he sucked, the less pressure you felt. "T-Toru, so good, baby.”

Satoru groaned as he sucked harder, tasting how sweet you were. "Fuck, I could cum just from this."

"Mhmm, don’t cum too soon." You said, biting your lip and tugging it between your teeth. "I want to cum with you.”

Toru smirked down at you when he squeezed your tots like he had back at the bar. Imagining them being swollen with milk, god he needed to breed you. "Want me to make you feel even better, little cow?” You groaned, running the pale of your hands down his shirt, your fingers grazing over the material seductively.

"Yes, please, Master.” You cooed, sliding your hands down further, cupping his hard cock. "Will you give me your milk now?"

Gojo hissed in pleasure, pushing you into the mattress as he ground his hips down against yours. "Inside your pussy, Sweetheart? I'll give you a baby if you want. Then I could drink your milk."

Hearing him say that had you shivering at the idea of him breeding you and knocking you up. Fuck why did that sound so good?

"Yes! Fuck I want Toru!" You said, watching him grind against you. "Fuck, I want to have your babies!”

“Ask me then.” He reached down, unbuckling his belt and unzipping the almost too-tight blue jeans. “Ask me to breed you.”

“P-Please! Please breed me!”

Satoru couldn't hold back; he roared in need, ripping both your clothes off before flipping you over and mounting you. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, Sweetheart.” He rubbed his tip against your already wet entrance.

"Good," You mewled out, grinding back against him. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

With another growl, Toru hissed as he forced his cock fully inside your tight wet pussy. "Nnngh!!" You threw your head back. “Fuck! Fuck you’re so wet and tight?!” He whispered in disbelief at the feeling of how wet you were.

"A-Ah of my god, fuck!" You gripped the sheets, nearly cumming already.

“Heh~ I’m so good I’ve rendered you speechless?” Satoru questioned, holding your hips tight before beginning to slam into you. "Fuck, you feel so good."

"Oh god, Toru," You said, looking back at your boyfriend. The smell of clean linen and musk had you craving more of him. You wanted everything he had to offer you. "Fucking breed me, baby."

Toru's eyes snapped open at your request. Hearing such dirty words combined with his already throbbing cock. Had him on edge already. He growled, sinking his teeth into your shoulder and making you gasp as he slammed into you with all of his might. The headboard slammed against the wall as he slammed in and out, in and out of your pussy. The wet, squelching sounds bounced off the walls of your bedroom as he lost complete and total control over himself.

He needed to breed you. To knock you up. Fuck he needed it and wanted it. Those thoughts, the raw, primal, animalistic need to procreate with you, pushed him further. In that moment, with his cock slamming in and out of you, as you screamed, eyes rolling back, hands gripping the sheets. Satoru reached around, finding your breasts. He squeezed them, pinching and pulling at your nipples.

“T-Toru!” He watched as one hand released your grip on the sheets, darting between your legs and rubbing your clit as you approached your orgasm. “C-Cu—” Your words were cut off by a scream as your walls clamped down on his cock mid-thrust as you came.

“Nnngh!” Gojo clenched his teeth in a loud but surprised whine as he came hard inside of you, pumping you full of his cum. "Fuck!! S-Sweetie! Fuck ooooh~!! Fuuck!!"

You whimpered, moaning as you slowly came down from your orgasm. You were giggling as he kissed up your neck with a growl as he rolled you over, pressing you flat against his chest. Panting roughly, you looked up at his flushed face. "Wow, someone was pent up, weren't they.” You questioned, only to receive a smack on your ass, drawing out a squeak from you.

"Fuck you got me cumming like a fucking teenager."

Gojo groaned, his head falling to rest against the pillows as he wetted his lips. “It’s all your fault moaning like that in the bar.”

“Oooh, right, so sorry, my boyfriend is super fucking hot.”

“Ooh, I’m ‘super fucking hot’?”

“Yeah, the hottest cowboy I’ve ever seen,” Gojo whined as you slowly pushed yourself up, rolling your hips against him, watching his abdominal muscles twitch as his hands rested on your hips. “So hot~ I think I’m going to take him for a ride.”

“Well, by all means.” He reached for the nightstand, grabbing the hand he had been wearing earlier off of it. He plopped it down on your head before placing his hands under his head with a drunken smirk. “Giddy-up cowgirl.”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @msniks @lana18918

Kinktober Tag List:

@candy-s72

[hog-choker]

i’m almost positive it’s impossible to find someone who dresses well and who you also wanna fuck. like i feel like all those cute well dressed couples you see on insta have to be manufactured. like made in a lab. and it’s like you always see cool well dressed people with actual style and shit and then their partner is just a polar opposite goblin style wearing old navy denim and on clouds running shoes like WTF where can you just find someone who also dresses well or at least knows what vintage is like curated shit not shit you found at a thrift bin like it doesn’t even have to be the same style just STYLE IN GENERAL like i hate it and while in his second phase, he will sometimes raise his sword up high to his side, appearing to empower himself. Dozens of large flaming skulls will then come raining down from the sky, with the bulk of them homing in on you. At this point use the Great-Serpent Hunt skill in order to stagger him and interrupt the casting, as it takes a good 3-4 seconds before going off. These skulls explode after a short delay upon reaching their target or impacting with the ground. Time your dodges or sprints properly to avoid damage. This phase persists for a long time and Rykard will continue with his regular moveset as the skulls rain down. If not killed after a while, he will end this phase by raising his sword up high with both hands, channeling the flames in the sky into the blade, culminating in a giant overhead cleave.

[hazeltailofficial]

NWT Plus Size Cropped Jeans

*NEW WITH TAGS*

Size 24

$35

Click here to visit my closet Hazeltailxo on Poshmark

*USE CODE HAZELTAILXO TO SIGN UP & RECEIVE $10 CREDIT*

@hazeltailofficial / hazeltail on youtube / hazeltailofficial on tiktok / hazeltailofficial on ig

[nyc-looks]

Leila, 31

“I’m wearing Collina Strada x Reebok sneakers, Dauan Jacari denim skirt, an old cotton t-shirt I cropped to give it a new life, Wray vegan leather jacket, Puppets and Puppets bag, an Old Navy scarf I bought in high school, a Toast jewelry lapis pearl choker, and a pearl and lapis hair clip by me. My style is driven by comfort and ease, but also by feeling strong in my body. Honestly, I’m just silly at heart so I love a weird item that makes you look twice. I’ve been particular since I was quite young, proportion and lines have to hit just right. I tend to find specific pieces I love and wear them down to the bone. I enjoy the challenge of wearing the same look over and over, but tweaking it and bringing something new every time. Those items are all pieces of my former life coming together to create the now. Something about that is really wonderful to me.“

Apr 5, 2024 ∙ West Village

[steviewashere]

Make a Home Out of Hurt

Rating: General CW: Death of a Grandparent, Mourning Tags: Post-Season 4, Post Canon, Grief/Mourning, Established Relationship, Alternate Universe — Future Fic, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Sad Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Absent Parents, Steve Harrington Mom is Okay, Steve Harrington's Dad is an Asshole, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Moving in Together

Had an evil little thought. Also, all these Fenton bunnies I mention are real! My nana collects Fenton. (She's alive, don't worry, but I thought about her the other day and it spiraled into this.)

🏡—————🏡 We’ve already seen this neighborhood, Eddie thinks, but won’t say.

Even though they have. They’ve driven by the same three houses. Yellow, pastel pink, and navy blue. White door, white door, brown door. Bushes and bushes and a bushel of red roses. One garage, no garage, no garage but large driveway. He’s seen them. Over and over and over.

And each time they pass the last one, the leather of the steering wheel squeaks. And each time, Steve makes a muffled sort of noise. And each time, Eddie wonders if resting his hand on Steve’s shaking shoulders would anger him or mellow him. And each time, the car gets just a little slower as Steve loses his control more and more.

We’ve already seen this neighborhood, Eddie continues to think, but knows he’ll sit here with those words. He’ll sit in the passenger seat. Window cranked as far down as it’ll go—half-way since Dustin busted the actual mechanism. Beemer’s been through a lot, so it’ll be here for Steve’s end all breakdown, too. With the radio volume low, playing the same double-sided tape on repeat, flipped by Eddie because Steve’s hands have been shaking: The World We Knew by Frank Sinatra. Because it was her favorite. Nana’s favorite. Nana Harrington’s favorite.

On the fifth drive through, Steve finally parks the car. At the end of the long, slow winding driveway. He looks out the windshield, hollowed and not quite here. With limp hands in his lap. Messy, greasy hair he couldn’t bother to style. Eye bags so heavy, Eddie barely believes he can hold them on his face.

Eddie can follow his line of sight. To the edge of the white picket fence, worn down a little with age, scratched up from the curled nails of an old brown dog, carved with her son and daughter-in-law’s initials, and eventually stained with yellow handprints from baby Steve. Yellow because, as Steve has echoed, “Lello, Nana. Lello like your dress. Your favorite!” Well, Steve’s favorite too, he just won’t acknowledge it’s because of his nana. Eddie knows that the paint has faded a bit since then, given that it’s been fifteen years since Steve’s had hands that small, but Eddie can see him. In his little white and red striped t-shirt, hidden by a pair of nicely pressed denim overalls, white sneakers, and his mom’s bobby pins in his hair—something she did because it just wouldn’t stop growing so fast and thick. Or so Eddie’s been told.

He’s been told a lot in the last week. Since the call came through the landline of their apartment. Since Steve had gone silent and collapsed to his knees and wailed, screamed even. Since he dressed himself in a suit that fit well, but looked out of place on his curled in body. Since…since the obituary was finally in his hands at the funeral, and he got so sick in the church’s restroom, Eddie had to drive them home in a daze—a quarter worried, a quarter tired, and half hanging by a thread. He thinks he’s heard everything, but what is love if not more than everything? If not all the words in every language, all known objects and unknown, every species and race and sexuality and identities combined?

He’ll hear everything. Until their old and grey and forgetting everything.

“There used to be a tire swing on that tree,” Steve states flatly, pointing at the weeping oak in his nana’s front yard. It’s crooked like it’s been kissed by the wind. A lot withering because the weather’s been harsh on her. Grey against the navy blue of the house’s siding.

I know, sweetheart, Eddie wants to say, so soft it gets lost between them. Instead, “Yeah? Bet it was a good tire, too,” he coaxes, still soft, all sweet. Even if he’s heard it each time they’ve passed by.

Steve nods once in his peripheral. Sniffs. “Yeah,” he states wetly, “one of the expensive ones. She didn’t want it to pop under me. Didn’t…She didn’t want me to stop using it.” His head dips down, looking at his fingers, where they’ve begun to absently trace the seams of his jeans. “I stopped,” he whispers shamefully. “You think she got mad because I stopped?”

“No, baby,” Eddie answers honestly. “I think that she was happy you used it at all. Think she was always just happy to see you, Steve.”

A sharp intake of breath next to him. “I used to come over here when my parents were gone. Or when they’d scream at each other. Or when…when they’d forget I existed,” he relays, quiet as a mouse. “When they’d forget, Nana would open the door and kiss my cheek and make me something to eat. I was always too skinny. So she made me casseroles,” he explains, a wisp of a smile. Gone in the blink of an eye. “She’ll never make ‘em again, though. She won’t—”

“Steve,” Eddie calls gently, a small warning. A siren before the tsunami. 

“—Love me again,” Steve sobs, “Nana won’t love me again.”

“Oh, baby,” he breathes. Eddie steps out of the car, rounds over to the driver’s side, and yanks the door open. Carefully, he unbuckles Steve, scoots him so that his legs dangle over the side, and pulls him down into a gentle hug. “Baby,” he coos. “Just get it out, honey. I’m right here. We’re right here. I’ve got you.”

And Steve cries. Again; though Eddie’s lost count. He squirms against Eddie’s chest. Head nestled to his neck. Crying big sounds that sound too large, even for his adult body. Sounds that carry boats, that poison with oil spills, that home orcas. He slobbers onto Eddie’s skin, grand globs of hot spit that gargle in his throat before launching from his mouth. His unshaved stubble scratching at the side of Eddie’s face—where his skin is sensitive and smooth and will most definitely be raw with Steve’s aching.

He sobs until there’s no more tears. Until he’s a whimpering, shivering mess on Eddie’s chest. Bunched up and small and fisting Eddie’s t-shirt like a lifeline. Squeezing the fabric in his hands like two lemons.

Eddie runs his hands up and down Steve’s spine. From the small of his back to his hunched shoulders, squishing him. He sways them ever so gently like the rustle of the old oak tree. Hums something incoherent and unrecognizable. If only to get Steve to stop shaking.

“Eds?”

“Hm?”

He takes a long, slow breath. Breathes out, “Why’d she give me the house?”

Eddie pulls them apart. One hand on the middle of Steve’s back, the other cupping his left cheek. Swiping at the tacky tracks from his tears. “I’m not sure, baby. Maybe she loved you so much that she wanted you to have it? To always be safe there?”

“Shouldn’t she have given it to my dad? I don’t…” Steve’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, his mouth frowning. “I don’t deserve her house?”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie sighs. “She chose you for a reason. You, Stevie. Not anybody else. Just you. If she wanted to give it to her son, she would’ve. But she didn’t. She thought of you, put you in the will, and now it’s yours.” When Steve doesn’t respond, Eddie gives him his moment of silence. Running his palm up to Steve’s shoulders. Pressing his thumb into his supple skin. “You may never know her intent, but she probably had a reason. It was a home you came running to, where you felt safest, where you felt…loved. Grandmothers always have this air to them, like they just know things about you before you say ‘em. Maybe she just knew you needed her and her space before you even realized.”

Steve sniffles. His eyes are still wet. Bloodshot and tired. Rumpled all the way around, exhausted and quiet. “She used to play with me in the yard.”

I know, Eddie thinks once more. He goes with the topic change though, if that’s what Steve needs.

“And when we played hide and seek, she always made sure to look until I was found. Because she didn’t want me to feel forgotten, her words.” Steve’s fingers are fidgeting with one another again. Picking at his fingernails, peeling at hangnails. Eddie moves down and takes them, rubbing soothing circles into their backs, just so Steve doesn’t harm himself on top of everything. Steve continues, hushed, “When I’d stay the night, she would sleep with me. Hold me close to her. Scratch my back and scalp and tell me stories…all the way until I fell asleep.”

“Kinda like I do, huh?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Think that’s why I feel so loved and safe with you.”

And Eddie hasn’t cried, not really, not yet. But this may be it. Because he knows, beyond everything, that Nana was special to Steve—so special that just one negative comment, one complaint, one little fuss about her was enough to get you shunned by him. He’s seen it play out with Dustin, he’d been banned from coming over for two weeks. And with El, who didn’t understand quite yet, but had lost conversational abilities with Steve for two whole days—ergo, the Silent Treatment.

This means something. It means everything. Eddie kind of wants to cry about it.

But he reigns himself in for now. Because Steve needs him like water. For somebody to just be there and be present and be patient. Through it all.

“You wanna head inside,” Eddie offers, “I’ve got the key in my pocket.” He gestures loosely to the inside of his vest, the safest pocket near his heart. When Steve nods, Eddie leads them inside silently. Opens the door first, per request made by Steve days prior. Sets his shoes by the front door—not told to, but just out of respect. Hangs up his jacket, his vest. Takes Steve’s jacket, too. Unties his Nike sneakers. Smacks a quick kiss to his cheek. And then he waits by the front door for Steve to say or do something.

The first thing he does is gasp. Eyes roaming the hallway, the living room, and the fireplace that connects the kitchen and living space together. He takes a few tentative steps before stopping in front of a tall, full China cabinet.

“Her Fenton bunnies,” Steve breathes.

Eddie slowly approaches behind him. Wraps an arm around his waist, tugging him into his side a little. “Are these the ones your mom was talking about on the phone?”

“Yeah. I just…Didn’t think my mom was telling the truth,” Steve murmurs. “She told me Dad didn’t want these. Takes up room or whatever. But they’re so pretty here, how could you not want these?” His left hand reaches for the knob of the cabinet. Twisting it gently as to not rattle the glass shelves. With the doors swung open, the bunnies under the cabinet’s lighting are free to touch. And so Steve picks one up, carefully in his hands like it’s alive. Maybe it is, Eddie thinks for a moment, alive with her spirit.

He breathes silently by Steve as he investigates the glass item in his hand. Running his thumbs over the ears. Down the smooth back.

“Satin glass,” Steve states, “It’s like touching the fabric, which is so weird. Nana used to talk about it all the time, but I never believed her. She never let me touch. You wanna?” He holds the bunny up to Eddie’s face. In offering, for him to pet. So he runs a slow thumb down its back. And sure enough, soft as silk, cold to the touch. “All of them are here.” He replaces the silk, purple bunny on the shelf. Picking up a chromatic shifting one next. “Carnival glass,” Steve explains, “it’s heavier than the other one, feels like. But so shiny. Think Nana used to say it was amethyst or something, but that might be what the color shift is called?”

“You sure listened to her well,” Eddie murmurs, “know a lot about this.”

Steve chuckles, a little choked to Eddie’s ears but he makes no comment. “Yeah, I guess I did. Mom used to say that I had selective hearing. That I listened when it was something I cared about.”

“And you cared a lot about Nana,” Eddie concludes.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, “cared a lot about Nana.” He sets the carnival glass bunny back on the shelf. Standing idle in front of it all, taking it all in. “She has one upstairs, in a different glass cabinet. It glows green under the special blacklight upstairs. Said it was radioactive.” He chuckles again. “I gave her that one. As a gift for Mother’s Day in…I think ’77? Mom helped me pick it out—she was nice about the bunnies, about finding this stuff. She loved Nana, too. And she…” He laughs low in his chest and Eddie blossoms a little at the sound, unheard in so long. “Mom would pull out the long box of tissue paper and gift bags from the crawlspace. She’d unfold the prettiest gift bag—this one was a little brown one, covered in peach colored peonies. Stuffed some off-white tissue paper in that one. Wrapped the little yellow—well, it was supposed to be yellow—Fenton bunny in bubble wrap, covered it up with a bunch of caramels. Gave it to Nana, and she squealed! Apparently, she already knew it was radioactive? Thought it was the best gift ever. Which, ouch Nana, I gave you other bunnies for Mother’s Day, c’mon.”

Eddie snorts. “Maybe that’s what earned you the house? That radioactive bunny was probably the key to her heart,” he jokes. Though his stomach turns at the possibility it wasn’t appropriate to make.

Steve laughs loudly, though. Shaking his entire body with it. He slips his hand into Eddie’s back right pocket, sighs, and leans against him relaxed. “Dad should’a tried harder if he wanted Nana’s heart,” he comments, “all it took was a damn bunny.”

“Among other things, I’m sure.”

“Probably,” Steve sighs. “I think she was just excited to have a grandkid. She had a weird relationship with my dad. They didn’t get along very well. So maybe she was sorta…trying again?”

“Stevie, I think she just loved you. There doesn’t have to be some grand, deep meaning behind it. I think she just loved your company. How your laugh fills a room and your smile is seen from across the yard. And how you’re always polite, despite having reasons to not be. Maybe because of your terrible puns and how awful you are at quoting Shakespeare? You charm everybody, Steve,” Eddie monologues. “There’s not a reason to not love you.”

For a moment, the room falls completely silent. Distantly, there’s the slow tick of a wall clock. A few birds singing out in the backyard, where the bird bath probably is—only known through Steve’s memories. A slight hum from the radiator. The cars passing by on the main road just around the corner. Hawkins is quiet when there’s mourning; maybe it’s felt through the whole town, through the soles of Steve’s socked feet, from the beating of his ever love absorbent heart.

She died November 7th, 1993. Just a few days ago. Maybe it’s the anniversary of Will Byers going missing that Hawkins is feeling. Maybe it’s just tragedy. It’s love persevering—even in the most dire of situations. Where Joyce Byers was screaming about where her son may be, all those mismatched theories, and the ways in which the town thought she was crazy—even when they believed her and cried over her son’s body being pulled from the water. Where Will is actually thriving now. Where Sandra Harrington no longer is, though she was a fixture in several communities and families, Steve’s own being included.

“How’s your boy doing?” Wayne asked the day after her funeral. Eddie had shrugged, admitting he wasn’t sure because Steve had gone terribly quiet and sick. “Tell him I’m sorry. That he has a home with us. That he can come over and cry and I’ll make him hot cocoa. Alright, Ed?”

God, even Wayne knew. And there was silence after his condolences.

There is so much silence.

Until, finally, Steve asks, “Will you live with me here?”

“Wh—What?” Because surely he didn’t hear that right.

“Live with me here,” Steve repeats, a little more urgent. “I don’t think I can handle this place alone. And…I know how to use her gas stove. I can make you the spaghetti dish she used to make. And the casseroles she used to bake. We can open up her recipe box and I’ll teach you how to make her apple pie—the one she gave me for your birthday two years ago?

“And we can read your Lord of The Rings books on the porch on the bench she has out there? Grill in the backyard when we have everybody over. Robin can have the room that used to be my nursery. We can…We can live our lives here.”

Stunned, Eddie gapes momentarily. Before gripping harder at Steve’s waist, drawing him closer even when there’s no more room. Two solid bodies connected from shoulder to foot. “Are you sure, Steve? You don’t wanna—“

“You’re my family, Eds. I have loved you since that bullshit in ’86. We have seen each other through our absolute worst. Of course I’m sure. Of course I want you here,” Steve swears. “I know what I’m getting into. Even if it hurts to look around here right now. But you’ve been here by me through one of the worst heartbreaks I’ve ever experienced. I want you here—preferably always.”

“Stevie,” Eddie breathes. He reaches out with his free hand and cups the right side of Steve’s face. Swipes over his glistening cheekbone. Under his shadow beaten eye. The tickling brush of Steve’s bottom eyelashes on the tip of his thumb. And he kisses him tenderly, with every word he could ever imagine to say, all emotion he could ever feel, with an intensity seen in atomic bombs. He pulls back to see Steve’s eyes closed. Flushed and bright in the cabinet’s full white lighting, doors still open, and fragile glass bunnies as witnesses. Promises, “I want to, Steve. I want to be here with you. Through it. All of it. As long as I get to love you.”

And on his thumb there are fresh tears, gone cold but skin scalding. Steve’s lips trembling with silent cries. His eyelashes fluttering. Him and him and him. Beautiful and raw and open. Gentle like flowers and strong like wind. Aching and romantic and with a heart the size of the universe itself. Because Steve Harrington is everything—

Or so his nana has said. But Steve doesn’t know. And that’s Eddie’s own secret.

“Okay,” Steve mutters, “make a home with me, Ed.”

🏡—————🏡

[sunlightmurdock]

Older bf Bradley picking up young gf from the bar drunk

Ugh omg him pulling up to the bar in his bronco and doing his strutty little slut inside wearing a pair of faded jeans and an old navy t-shirt. You’ve dragged him out of bed to be here, the plan wasn’t for him to see you tonight, but he’s here anyway because you asked him to be.

He squints a little, standing about a head taller than most of the people in this bar already, scanning the crowd for you. Once you clock him, you’re easy to spot. The pretty one in the short skirt, beaming and waving him over.

He walks over to you and kisses the top of your head, sliding his arm around your waist and pulling you in against his side with a cool, “Hey, baby.”

He’s relaxed as you giddily introduce him to your friends. Even as they tease him, asking him questions about his career and his muscles — just to embarrass you. He pinches your side playfully, his lips quirking up into an amused smirk as one of them makes a joke about his size.

You stretch up and throw your arms around his neck, whining, “Guys, stop — let him be.”

Once all of the interrogations and goodbyes are finally done, he’s leading you outside with his thick palm holding onto yours. You grin as you press against his side, cuddling up against him.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” You tell him happily, squeezing at his palm. Bradley turns his head, smiling as he looks down at you. He knows from just the look in your eye exactly why you text him asking him to pick you up. “You look so, so handsome tonight.”

“You’re drunk.” He tugs your hand forwards and grabs your hips, making you gasp as he walks you back until you’re bumping into the blue paint of his passenger side door. You grin up at him, letting your teeth drag slowly along your bottom lip, giving him a certain shake of your head.

“Nu-uh.” You smile, mischief embodied as your fingers trail along his torso. He presses his chest into yours and grabs the back of your thigh, pressing himself between your legs and rocking that thick denim against the bare skin under your skirt.

“You’re trouble.” He corrects, a knowing smirk on his lips. Your grin grows as you stretch up quickly and press your mouth to his. He follows you down into the kiss, crowding you against the side of his truck, letting you grind down against his jeans.

“Maybe.” You giggle, breathing excitedly against his lips.

He squeezes hard at your thigh, chuckling softly as he leans in and kisses you once more, more deeply this time.

“You want to stop for food before we go home?” He asks you, giving your thigh one more soft squeeze before he lowers it back down until your feet are both firmly on the ground. You shake your head, reaching up to kiss him again, unable to reach as he straightens up.

“Just want you.” You tell him softly, pushing your fingertips under his shirt to feel the warm ridges of his skin.

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head and pulling you away from the door to open it. “Not tonight, baby girl. Step up for me, watch your head.”

You scowl, settled into your seat as he closes the door and walks around to his side. He plants himself in his seat and looks across at you, amused by the dejected look on your face.

“Got something to say?” He teases you.

You look across at him. He stares at you as you guide your hair back off of your face, twisting in your seat and starting to lean over the centre console, looking up at him through your lashes. “No…”

Bradley watches your fingers work the button on his jeans, brows raised. He cups your wrists in one hand and stops you instantly, turning the keys in the ignition with the other.

“You been thinking about my cock in your mouth, honey?” Bradley asks, his arm stretched along the back of your seat, neck craned as he reverses out of his spot. You swallow, pressing your thighs together as you give him a meek yes. “How about my mouth on that pretty pussy?”

“Bradley…” You whine at him.

He chuckles, reaching across and squeezing your knee. “Come on, you drag me out of bed after midnight and I don’t get to be a little mean?”

Both of you already know that if you’re still as eager for him at home as you are right now, he’ll give in to you. He’s been thinking about it all day. So, leaning back in your seat and parting your legs, you decide to be a little mean yourself.

Bradley’s eyes struggle to stay on the road, glancing across as you shimmy your underwear down your legs. He watches as you trail your fingertips under the cover of your short little skirt.