MDNI- age in your bio or you’re blocked. || this blog is ANTI-AI. get that shit outta here. || please respect my guidelines.
about: syl. 33. they/she/he || just a queer, cripple punk babe who’s a crafty bitch, and certified pain in the ass to society.
jsyk- this is a side blog, follows and likes come from @infraredparadise
links: masterlist // AO3 // ko-fi // letterboxd
most recently finished series: tramps like us (gator x fem!reader) - sequel to part time soulmate, full time problem
current WIPs/series: fascination (mortician vampire!steve x mortuary assistant!fem reader) ON HIATUS.
this started as (and primarily still is) a stranger things blog, but has become multi-fandom over time.
big fan of: hurt/comfort tropes, horror films, anything cute and creepy, paramore, befriending bodega cats, witchy things, studio ghibli, DIY or die, vampires, gaming, and chasing the aurora borealis.
I tag everything (or try to) so if there’s anything specific you need tagged, please don’t hesitate to ask!
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The key to writing good fanfiction is to harbor a deeply humiliating desire, and the trick there is that even pretty basic and societally-accepted desires like “being held” and “being wanted” CAN and WILL be humiliating if they’re intense enough. Become so estranged from human connection that the idea of someone playing with your hair fills you with yearning so deep you feel like you’re going to throw up and you will write some banger fanfiction. It might have some other consequences too but idrk about that.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: old money!steve, waitress!reader, slow burn, enemies-ish to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
The card room is full of men old enough to be your father.
Some are old enough to be your grandfather.
They all call each other by their last names and gamble away more money in a single hand than you make in six months, all while finding the time to tell you you'd look prettier if you smiled.
The tips are obscene, though.
So you smile.
You refill glasses before anyone has to ask and laugh politely at jokes that haven't been funny in thirty years.
You pocket your tips. You move on.
Until one Thursday, someone new walks in.
He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.
Maybe not older at all.
He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.
He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.
The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.
Old money.
Of course.
Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”
You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.
He glances up as you set the glass beside him.
Unfortunately...
He's somehow even better-looking up close.
His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.
Rich boy's got a nice face.
Shame about everything else.
His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.
“Thanks, honey.”
Then his attention drops right back to his cards.
You blink.
Honey?
Who the fuck is this guy?
He's your age.
Maybe younger.
You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.
You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.
Trust-fund asshole.
Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.
Fuck that guy.
· · ·
Well.
Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.
Disgustingly good.
He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.
For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.
So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.
You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.
Serves him right.
By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.
Everyone's in a foul mood.
Everyone except for seat four.
You set another Woodford beside him.
“Thanks, honey.”
He smiles, this time.
The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.
Huh.
Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.
Asshole.
· · ·
The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.
You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.
You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.
It's all hundreds.
A lot of hundreds.
You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.
Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.
You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.
“Hey! Um, excuse me!”
He turns.
“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”
His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.
He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.
A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.
“Did I?”
“...Yeah.”
He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.
“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”
“No?”
“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”
You laugh, because that's insane.
To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.
To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.
“I... I can't take this.”
His brows pull together again. “Why not?”
You stare at him.
“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”
He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.
Smiles, just a little.
“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.
He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.
One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.
“You're here Thursdays, right?”
It takes you a second to answer.
“...Yeah?”
His smile comes back.
“Great.”
He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.
“I'll see you next week, honey.”
And then he's gone.
· · ·
He comes back the next Thursday.
And the Thursday after that.
By week five, you've learned his name.
By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.
By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.
One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.
You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.
You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”
“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.
“Then why are you doing it?”
He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.
“Gets me an extra five minutes.”
“Five minutes?”
“With you.”
He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.
And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.
· · ·
After that, Thursdays become a little easier.
The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.
But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.
He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.
He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.
He always arrives ten minutes early.
Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.
Always calls you honey.
You learn little things about him.
That he tips everyone far more than necessary.
That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.
That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.
That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.
(You never tell him you figured that one out.)
You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.
Instead, he asks about you.
Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.
You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.
That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.
Special.
You never quite believe it.
· · ·
One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.
The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.
You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.
Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.
He waits until you look up.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.
Which is new.
And, admittedly, a little adorable.
You set your money down.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”
You eye him suspiciously.
“With you? Depends.”
A small smile pulls at his mouth.
“Fair.”
He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.
“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”
Tap. Tap.
Two soft taps against the bar top.
You bite back a smile.
“Would you let me take you to dinner?”
You blink.
“...Right now?”
“Yeah.”
“It's midnight.”
“Late dinner, then?”
His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.
Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.
“What?”
You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
You look back at him, pursing your lips.
“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”
He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.
Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.
“In a good way or a bad way?”
You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.
This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
i think gator probably got his first grey hair at like. 25 years old
and it threw him for a loop because fuck you mean he’s goin’ grey (he has one. singular. grey hair. like relax)
nevermind that it’s the stress that’s doing it
and after everything with his dad and with munch, he’s a little more grey than he realizes because, well, he can no longer see himself
and the first time you notice the silvery tinge to his hair one morning as the sun catches it while he’s drinking his coffee by window over the kitchen sink, you point it out and he gets all upset, like you rubbed him the wrong way, ‘cause he’s too young to be goin’ grey at 30
so you let it go. you don’t mention it again until a while later, he’s 34 now and he’s definitely inching more towards salt & pepper than brown
you mention it one day when he says he wants t’see if he still looks good with his hair slicked back, like he used to wear it
you get some pomade and the clippers and cut his hair the way he used to wear it, and you tell him yes, it still looks sexy as a silver fox
and you almost expect the attitude, the clipped responses
but he just smiles to himself and pulls you closer
‘cause it just means he’s getting to grow up and grow old with you
there’s very few things that drive me up the wall in fandom as much as this weird new assumption that fandom is primarily a space for younger people that older folks are only accepted into in a trial basis if they promise to centralize and accommodate younger fans, and further, anything else is creepy and predatory. IT’S OKAY FOR ADULTS TO PRODUCE CONTENT FOR OTHER ADULTS.
if I have to read “women in their 30s” used as an insult one more time I swear I’ll - step away from that user and just hang out with the other grownups who consistently create good content because I’m also an adult and too busy comparing car insurance to fight with teenagers on the internet, but goddAMMIT I’ll be annoyed
i know i say this often but i cannot say it loud enough: people who comment on fics, people who reblog posts and engage with fanworks are the people who generate community and without them fandom would be nowhere, so truly thank you for your presence, you make the world go 'round <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
