MDNI- age in your bio or youāre 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 whoās 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 thereās anything specific you need tagged, please donāt hesitate to ask!
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.
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Syl, you seem like such an effortlessly cool person. You're so kind, funny, and an incredible writer. I look forward to it anytime I see you post. š¤
Xoxoxo
Lofi!!!!!!!! Thank you so much??!! This is so sweet oh my goodness š„ŗ I love being mutuals with you!!! Youāre one of the kindest and coolest people on this site fr š
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.
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okayā¦ā¦.. I barely felt that one. I feel like I tricked myself somehow. whatās the catch here huh??? (ice and numbing antiseptic wipes are the catch for anyone who could use the info)
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.
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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.
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ex-husband!steve harrington x fem!reader
(18+; MDNI; 3.9k words)
It's been two years since you divorced your ex-husband.
You get called back to Hawkins for his father's funeral.
cw: second chance romance; angst; character death; hurt/comfort; making out at an inappropriate time; hopeful ending!!!
-> thank you to @keeryspullman for letting me torture u in dms with this! follow up at some point. maybe. hehe <3
masterlist || divider by @/strangergraphics || ao3 link
Youād never expected to find yourself back in Hawkins.
Not in the two years since your divorce, not since you saw your ex-husband for the last time as the two of you left the courthouse, refusing to make eye contact or even attempt an amicableĀ goodbye.
(To be fair, whatĀ doesĀ a person say to their newly minted ex-husband after fighting with him for years to stop working so much? To let you in? After you gave up and decided enough was enough? What do you say to a man who, even as you signed the finalized paperwork, you still werenāt sure you could live without?)
(You hadnāt managed to figure that one out in time.)
But then you got the call from Robin in the middle of the night, panicked and crying and breathless as she says,Ā āSteveās dad died a couple of days ago, and I know you guys havenāt talked in forever, but heās really falling apart and I donāt know what to do and he wonāt talk to me and Mr. Harringtonās funeral is today andāā
Thatās all you needed to let her know that you would make the hour and a half drive up from Indy, kicking out your date that slept over the night prior and packing a bag in a massive rush, only remembering at the last minute that youāre about to attend a funeral, that you need to beĀ dressedĀ for a funeral, andā
And you make it back to Hawkins by ten, a black dress on and pearl earrings that Steve once gifted you hanging from your ears.
The town is the same as you left it. Still small, still aging, still quiet. Everything that you thought youĀ hadnātĀ wanted in life, and everything that you found yourself yearning for once you got your apartment above a restaurant on Mass. Ave and a shiny new job at a bank downtown.
For a moment, you almost let your muscle memory take over, to guide you towards the northeast end of town to the white, two-story cottage with a fenced in backyard and hydrangea bushes spilling out everywhere in the summer. The kind of house, the realtor had said, that wasĀ perfectĀ for raising a family, with its tall ceilings and big windows and creaky stairs, ready to withstand everything from the small pitter-patter of feet across wood floors to the slamming of doors from teenage fueled angst.
The house that you know Steve still lives in, even two years later.
But you donāt let old instinct take over. Thereās enough heartbreak being back in Hawkins as it is.
The funeral home sits in the center of town, the one that Will Byers was once memorialized in before he was found alive just days later, and sits opposite of the place the MAC-Z used to sit.
(The place where Steve had been released from military custody to you, and the place where he had dropped to one knee and asked you to marry him just minutes later.)
(The place that you had said yes through your confusion and tears, because he disappeared forĀ weeksĀ without a word, and youād only had a thirty minute warning from the military to come collect him.)
(Steve never told you why he had been held in custody.)
(You never asked.)
You park down the street and make your way through the well-worn sidewalks, carving out the same path that you used to take with Steve in that summer after the two of you graduated high school, hand in hand whenever he had a free moment from Scoops.
(A summer that, as you recall, had been cut short by a mall fire and grief and the three weeks you spent by his side in the hospital, worrying and fretting as you slowly watched the swelling around his eye go down. A summer where too many people died, Steve had to be kept under observation in case of a brain bleed, and in the aftermath, he became more cagey than ever.)
A sea of mourning black surrounds the pristine white funeral home as you make your way closer, the crowd surging towards the ornate double doors, and itās only then that you spot him.
Steve.
Steve Harrington in all of his glory. His hair is a little shorter than you remember it, a little less styled, and thereās new laugh lines crinkled along his eyes. But despite the differences in the man you once knew and the man in front of you now, heās still the same Steve heās always been with a soft look on his face and a steadiness to his broad shoulders despite the occasion.
And like a moth to a flame, he meets your gaze through the mass of people. His brown eyes widening with recognition as his face does something funny, like heās not sure whether to laugh or cry or both, and you canāt help but offer him a small smile.
He smiles back.
The moment is cut short when someone calls his name, and with one last, lingering look in your direction, he disappears inside.
You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, before slipping into the building after him.
You find a seat in the very back of the hall, away from the congregation of people you once knew, the people you once considered family. There will be time to greet your former mother-in-law later, when she doesnāt have Robin on one side and Steve on the other, and thereās no part of you that has any desire to run into Dustin Henderson whoās lingering near the front.
(Not after the last time you talked to him, two months after you filed and he went from begging you to not go through with it to insulting you when you told him that you unequivocally wereĀ notĀ going to stop the proceedings.)
(Two weeks later, Steve had found out what happened and forced Dustin to apologize, but you never quite stopped nursing that wound.)
Itās a beautiful service, really. Not that youād expect anything less from the Harringtons. Friends of Dannyās give their eulogies, colleagues talk about his business prowess, until finally, Laura and Steve step up to the dias side by side.
You can tell, even from a distance, that Laura isnāt quite holding it together the way you know she wants to. The way sheĀ needsĀ to, really, because Laura Harrington has always prided herself in being put together and in charge, a matriarch in a family full of nothing but men for generations. You can tell that Steve notices, too, by the way he squeezes her arm and pulls a paper from his pocket, spreading it along the wooden surface of the podium.
He searches the crowd for a moment, and his eyes settle on you in your seat in the very last row. Youāre not sureĀ whatĀ heās looking for, but whatever he derives from seeing you, it has his shoulders relaxing. And quietly, hesitantly, he glances down at the paper and begins his speech.
His voice is strong and steady as he reads, the same soothing timbre to it that heād once used to calm you down after nightmares and hard days at work. A reassuring quality to his tone, one that could makeĀ anyoneĀ relax, as he talks about his earliest memories with his father ā little league games, vacations to the Harrington beach house, morning spent snuggled between his parents ā to his early twenties and learning how to navigate adulthood with his fatherās guidance.
(He skips past the teenage years, the ones where you first entered Steveās life. The arguments with his father about his future, the worries about his past, the stress that he might neverĀ amountĀ to something. The period of time where resentment had swelled up so much between the two that it bubbled over constantly.)
He talks about the last conversation he had with his father, only a week prior, where the two of them had sat in the backyard of Steveās house. And Danny, never a man with much to say, had clapped Steve on the shoulder and said,Ā Iām proud of you, Steve. Truly.
You donāt miss the way Steve surreptitiously wipes his face.
āAnyone who met him would tell you that he was a complicated man,ā Steve says. āBut at the end of the day, no matter what other role he filled, he was my father. All I can say to that is thank you, Dad, for loving me even when I didnāt think you were, andāā He pauses, clearing his throat. āIāll miss you, and I hope youāre resting easy now, wherever you are.ā
The funeral ends and everyone is ushered to the graveyard, where Steve serves as one of the pallbearers and stands strong as Laura finally crumples into his side.Ā
You hang further back once again, away from the prying eyes of anyone who would ask too many questions, and you lose sight of him when the crowd migrates to the reception in a local church.
Thereās part of you that wants to seek him out, to offer him your condolences and ask if thereās anything you can do, butā
Your eyes catch on Laura standing in the corner by herself, gazing at a family portrait of her and Danny and Steve from Steveās childhood, and you cross the room without thinking, falling into place next to her with a quiet, āHe was a good man.ā
Laura blinks at you, though she doesnāt look surprised to see you there. Happy, maybe, but not surprised.
āDanny loved you, you know,ā she says, apropos of an actual greeting, like this isnāt the first conversation youāve had with her since you filed for divorce. āNever stopped talking about how get togethers werenāt the same without you beating him at cards.ā
āIām sure heās having a big laugh that this is what got me back in Hawkins,ā you say. Her lips twitch up. āHe couldāve just asked, honestly. Spared us all the dramatics. I wouldāve come for less.ā
The corners of her eyes crinkle together the same way Steveās does, and she draws you into a warm hug with shaking hands, the smell of her floral perfume overwhelming your senses.Ā
āIāve missed you,ā she whispers.Ā
You feel your throat grow tight. āIāve missed you, too.ā
You stay like that for a few moments, letting her rock you back and forth and draw whatever comfort it is that she needs from your bones, until a throat clears and you look up to see the familiar face of Robin Buckley. You pull away from Laura and offer Robin a small smile, one that she easily returns, and you know that the two of you will catch up later when she squeezes your arm.Ā
āMrs. Harrington, letās go get some food,ā Robin says.
Laura rolls her eyes, but lets Robin loop their arms together. āSteveās had her on āMom watch,āā she tells you conspiratorially.
āWell, thereās worse company to be had,ā you say. āRobin always has a few jokes on hand, at least.ā
āThatās what Iāve been saying!ā Robin says, and you let yourself bask in the raspy warmth of her voice for a few moments before stepping out of their way. And just as sheās slipping past you, she stops to whisper in your ear, āHeās in a private room down the hall.ā
You stare at her, surprised, but she only leads Laura across the room without further acknowledgement.Ā
You shouldnāt go. Honestly, really, itās a bad idea as it is ā meeting him surrounded by people was one thing, but aĀ privateĀ audience with your ex-husband isā
(Your feet are moving across the floor before you can even finish the thought.)
The hallway is quiet and empty, the conversation from the reception hall only a quiet buzz compared to the pounding in your ears as you slowly and methodically check each room you come across until finally, at the end of the hall, you spot one with the door cracked open.
You press your palm flat against the wood, the hinges creaking in protest as you ease it open just a bit wider, and find Steve sitting on a couch, leaning over his knees with his face pressed into his hands.
He doesnāt move.
The door clicks shut behind you.
You settle on the couch next to him, silent and waiting for something āĀ anythingĀ ā to tell you what to do. Any cue or sign from Steve or God or anyone who will listen, because your hands are shaking and your throat is dry and Steveā
Steve. Strong, brave,Ā kindĀ Steve, who once held you as a doctor stitched up an ugly gash in your leg, is hiding his face as his shoulders tremble, trying to pretend like his tears arenāt catching in his throat.
āI want to be left alone, Dustin,ā he mutters. āJust five minutes.Ā Please.ā
You bite down on your lip and, quietly, say, āIām not Dustin, but I can give you space.ā
He jerks up, tears still coursing down his face, and stares at you with wide-eyes, his voice little more than a whisper when he says,Ā āOh.ā
You smile. āHey.ā
āYouāre here,ā he murmurs, full of wonder, as if heās trying to figure out if youāre real or simply a mirage.
āYeah,ā you say, just as quiet. āIām here.ā
It starts with his brows pressing together, then his jaw clenching. He presses his eyes shut, his nose flares, and you pull him into your arms before the first hiccuping sob has a chance to billow out.
He doesnāt fight you, only wraps himself more firmly around your waist as he buries his face into your chest, his back heaving from unrestrained grief and everything left unsaid between the two of you. He cries and cries and cries, letting everything out until heās stripped down to his rawest form, the image of a man held strong for far too long finally letting himself fall apart entirely.
You let him.
You smooth your hand down his back and card your fingers through his hair, comforting him in the way you only know how.
(The only way youĀ learnedĀ how, back in those first few, fraught hours after the mall fire back in ā85. Back when youād sat in the waiting room, leg bouncing, waiting for anyone to tell you that he was okay. Waiting for his parents to catch a flight back from their beach house in North Carolina, waiting for a nurse or a doctor to come out, waiting for aĀ signĀ that your boyfriend was going to make it.)
(And when youād finally been allowed into his hospital room, heād grinned, all boyish charm and bloodied teeth, like it was no big deal that heād been hurt.)
(It was the first time youād seen him so injured.)
(It was nowhere near the last.)
āItāll be okay,ā you whisper. āIāve got you, Steve. I got you.ā
The front of your dress is completely soaked through, but you find that you donāt quite care. Not when he lets out a heart shattering, āIām sorry, IāmĀ soĀ sorryāā
Your entire body freezes.
āIām sorry, Iām sorry, IāmĀ sorryāā
āSteve?ā You press at his shoulders, suddenly desperate to see his face. āSteve, what are you talking about?ā
He pulls back, and for a moment, heās the eighteen year old boy who smiled at you with a swollen eye and a split lip, tutting affectionately when you sobbed into his shoulder. Heās the boy who pulled you into his strong arms, uncaring of the IV line he was surely at risk of tugging out, and said,Ā I know, I know, Iām sorry. Iām so sorry, honey, I know that I scared youāĀ
āFor everything,ā he gasps out. āFor keeping things from you, and ā fuck,Ā cryingĀ on you ā and I know youāve moved on, but I just ā god, Iām so sorry for everything, for the divorce and the secrets andāā
(And your heart breaks all over again, because can anyone everĀ trulyĀ move on from Steve Harrington?)
āSteve,ā you murmur, brushing a thumb down his cheek. He tilts his head just a little bit more into your palm. āItās okay.ā
āItāsĀ notĀ okay,ā he insists. āI mean, fuck, I kept so much from you, and everyone told me not to and I drove you away andāā
āSteve.ā
He falls silent.
āI forgave you a long time ago,ā you say. āYou donāt need to worry about me, okay?ā
(Itās the same thing that he said to you before disappearing off the face of the earth for weeks. The same words that he whispered as he held you close in the doorway of your apartment, his arms trembling as he murmured all of his love and affections into your ears, like he only had one more chance to tell you. Like he wasnāt sure heād ever see you again.)
(Itās what he said before disappearing for twenty-five days, nine hours, and three minutes, leaving you alone as the earth heaved and shook and groaned, when it felt like the entire planet was once again at risk of falling apart, and you thought that you might die without ever getting to see his face once again.)
(And itās what he said just minutes after the military released him back to you, seconds before he dropped to his knees and desperately said,Ā I canāt live without you, will you please, please marry me? Iāll do anything to make you happyā)
āYour father just died,ā you gently say. āYouāre allowed to worry about yourself for once.ā
He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to push back, but you watch the fight leave his body. He gives you a wobbly smile, you give him one back, and for a moment, you can let yourself pretend that you hadnāt thrown eight years down the drain in the matter of a single night.
(That last argument still haunts your dreams. The way your voice cracked as you begged for him to let you in, to let you understand. How his fists shook when he said,Ā Canāt you see that Iām doing this for you?Ā The calm resolve you felt when you realized with an icy clarity that the two of you were too stuck in your ways to change.)
(The moment, nearly a year later, when you realized that you werenāt quite sure if you wanted to change into a new person without him.)
(Looking at him now, you think he might feel the same.)
You let out a sigh and draw him closer, resting your forehead against his the way that you always did, letting the feel of stubble rough up your palm.
His breath catches.
You peek at him through your lashes to find him searching your face with barely disguised desire.
You want to laugh. Truly, you do, because if there was ever a wrong time and place to feelĀ desire,Ā it would be your ex-father-in-lawās funeral, but you canāt help the timeworn flame deep inside of you from flickering to life once more, a fire thatās only ever been maintained by Steveās careful hands.
āHoney,ā he says hoarsely.
You swallow, tilting your chin just a bit closer.
Thatās all the encouragement that he needs.
His fingers grip your waist, dragging you across the cushions and into his lap, and itāsĀ needĀ that has you tangling your hands with his hair. Need to be closer, need to be with him, need to beĀ oneĀ with him.
(Need to remember what itās like to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around your skin, whispered promises of nothing ever hurting you, swaddling you as you drifted off.)
āTell me to stop,ā he begs, his hot breath ghosting your skin. āTell me to stop right now, and I will. I swear, I will.ā
āDonāt stop,ā you say, and he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own.
It feels like coming home, in a way. Kissing him, feeling him under you. Like stepping into a soft memory, carried along by hands that have long since learned the tune ofĀ you,Ā held by a man who had dedicated so much of his life in pursuit of the knowledge of who you were, inside and out.Ā
Like your body had been held in stasis for two entire years, frozen in time, only able to come back to life with the key he held in his heart.
You giggle into the kiss, suddenly elated, as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, teasing for more.
And you give it.Ā God, you give him more. Youād give him the world, if you could, and suddenly youāre crying, your heart twisting, because you wasted so much time, because you were so,Ā soĀ stupid, becauseā
āIāmĀ sorry,ā you gasp into his mouth. āI shouldāve listened to you, I shouldāve trustedāā
āNot your fault, honey,ā he assures, pressing a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. āI kept so much from you ā thereāsĀ soĀ much I need to tell you, andāā
AndāĀ
Thereās a knock at the door.
āSteve?āĀ Robinās voice, hesitant and unsure, calls through the wood.Ā āAre you in there?ā
He drops his head against your shoulder and lets out a world weary sigh.
The doorknob turns, and you donāt even have time to gather yourself or launch yourself across the couch, to pretend like Steve doesnāt still have his body wrapped around yours, before Robinās peaking inside.
āOh,ā she says dumbly, eyes wide as she takes the two of you in.
Your face burns with embarrassment.
āUh, Steve,ā Robin begins, clearing her throat uncomfortably. āYour mom is asking for you. What⦠do you want me to tell her?ā
āIāll be there in a second,ā he says. āJust give me a minute, Rob.ā
Robin nods, and with a lingering look towards you, shuts the door behind her.
The two of you stay frozen like that, your legs still wrapped around his hips, his forearms still pressed into the small of your back, untilā
A shocked laugh escapes him.
āFuck,ā he says, releasing his hold on you to scrub at his face. āFuck, Iām sorry, I have to go check on my mom, but later ā can we talk? Later? Are you staying in Hawkins, or were you planning on going back toā¦?ā
āI packed a bag, but I wasnāt sure what my plans were,ā you say. āI can stay, though. We can talk. I thinkāā
I think we need to talk.
āCome over,ā he says, an urgent strain to his voice. āTonight. Please.ā
āOf course,ā you say, because after everything, thereās no way you can deny his request. āOf course I will, but you shouldāā
āYeah, I know,ā he says, already beginning to shuffle you from his lap, keeping you steady as he settles you onto the cushions once more. āI know, just ā you mean it? Youāllā?ā
āIāll be there,ā you say. āI promise.ā
He smiles, soft and true, and presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, as though heās leaving the promise of somethingĀ moreĀ for you to chase later.
And as you watch him leave, your heart pounding against your ribs, you let hope blossom inside of you once more.