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itneverendshere · 4 months ago

Note

reader maybe having a dad, like jj’s? very manipulative and controlling, sometimes it’s physical. and he comes out unexpected while rafes there

okay so i was planning to write off her parents as dead but this made me change my mind a little, hope you enjoy <3

wash the sins out of that house - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

The sound of cartoons played low in the background, mixing with the faint clink of a fork against a plate.

Rafe leaned back against the worn-out couch in your sister’s living room, watching as you flipped pancakes at the kitchen counter. Your sister’s kid, Milo, was glued to your leg, like always, babbling about some superhero show. The smell of breakfast filled the house, making it feel more like home than his own ever did.

Every little thing you did just made him fall more, if that was possible. He was always looking at you like that, like you were some kind of miracle.

It wasn’t just how good you were with Milo or how much you cared about everything and everyone. It was how much weight you carried without ever complaining, how you made everything seem easy even when he knew it wasn’t. You’d been staying here ever since the storm ripped through your house a few months back.

Your sister was cool. Single mom, strong like you, but in a quieter way. She worked double shifts, and left you to help with Milo most of the time. Not that you ever complained, even after the long shifts, you loved to babysit. You were used to this shit—being the rock. Probably why you hadn’t freaked out when your house got leveled. You just rolled with it, found a place with your sister, and moved on like it was no big deal.

He’d been staying over more and more, crashing on the couch when he was too tired to drive back to Tannyhill. At first, it was just because he wanted to be near you when you couldn’t sleep over at his. But now… it felt like more. Like he could see himself living with you right away.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching him staring like an idiot. “You good?”

“Yeah,” He cleared his throat, leaning forward. “You need help or something?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you flipped another pancake. “You? In the kitchen? That’s rich, baby.”

“Hey, you never complain about my pancakes.” He shot you a grin, but it faded when Milo tugged at your shirt, asking something in that tiny voice of his.

You crouched down, your voice soft as you reassured him, “Mommy will be back soon, okay? Just a couple more hours.”

You looked so at ease like you’d been raising kids your whole life. It did something to him—watching you like that. This tough, independent woman who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit, just… melting when you talked to Milo.

Rafe swallowed hard, not really knowing what to say. Every time he tried to picture your future together, it got fuzzy. Not because he didn’t want one. He already told you he did. But because he wasn’t sure if he deserved one with you. His life had been a mess half the time.

He’d hurt people. Done things.

But when he was around you, he didn’t feel like that entitled spoiled guy anymore. He felt like someone who could be better. For you.

The front door slammed open, and immediately, something was off. Rafe’s eyes shot from Milo’s cartoons to the guy who’d just staggered in. He could smell the booze before he even saw his face.

Who the hell?

You froze. The spatula in your hand hung mid-air as you stared at this man like you’d seen a ghost. But this wasn’t a ghost. This guy was real, and from the way he was swaying on his feet, he was about to make himself a problem.

“Some fucking daughters y’all are,” the guy slurred, his voice rough and soaked in alcohol. “Not inviting your old man over while he’s in town.”

Your dad? That was your dad?

Rafe’s mind spun. You never talked about your parents and he’d never asked because he wasn’t stupid. He could tell it was a touchy subject, just like his own dad was sometimes, so he never brought it up. He assumed they were gone and you only had your sister. He never imagined this.

Not once had you mentioned your dad. And now here he was, stumbling through the door like he owned the place.

Rafe shot up from the couch, every muscle in his body tightening. Who the hell did he think he was, barging in here like that? You didn’t say anything right away, but your whole posture changed—your back straight, your pretty face like stone. You looked like you were bracing for something, and he didn’t like that one bit.

“Dad,” you said, flat and cold. “What are you doing here?”

He gave this ugly laugh, a mix of drunk and mean. “What, can’t a father check in on his daughters? Or are you too good for your family now?”

You didn’t even flinch. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there, still as a statue, while Milo clung to your leg, eyes wide, just as confused as Rafe felt.

Rafe stepped forward, putting himself between him and you. He didn’t care if this guy was your dad. He was drunk, stumbling, and saying things no father should be saying to his kid.

“Who the hell are you?” Her dad’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing, like he was sizing me up. “Rich boy? Boyfriend?”

He squared his shoulders, staring him down. “Rafe.”

“Rafe,” he repeated, laughing like it was some kind of joke. “Of course. She’d find herself a rich boyfriend. Always looking for the easy way out, huh?”

He had some fucking nerve walking in here, talking to you like that. Like Rafe was ever going to let someone run you down. He didn’t know anything about your relationship with your parents, but from the look in your eyes and the way you were gripping the edge of the counter, he was starting to get the picture. This wasn’t the first time your dad pulled something like this, clearly.

You grabbed his arm before he could take another step. “Rafe, don’t.”

Your voice was low, almost pleading. Not because you were scared, but because this was deeper than just a drunk guy running his mouth. This was something you’d been dealing with for years, and your boyfriend was just now getting a front-row seat.

Your dad sneered at you. “That’s right. Tell your little boyfriend to back off. You’re not so tough now, are ya? Always thinking you’re better than me. Always looking after your sister’s kid like you’re some kind of hero. But you’re not. You’re just like your mother. Weak.”

That’s when Rafe felt it. That surge of anger, that need to hit something.

No one talked to you ike that. No one.

He could feel his fists clench, chest tightening. He was ready to throw your dad out himself. But your hand tightened on his arm, and he looked at you. Really looked at you. You seemed tired, like you’d been through this a thousand times before, and you didn’t need him to step in. Not right now.

“Let him go,” you said quietly. “He’ll leave when he’s done.”

Rafe didn’t want to back off. Every instinct in him was screaming to throw this piece of shit out on his ass. But something in your voice, something in the way you were looking at him, made him stop. You weren’t asking for help. You were asking him to let it go. For now.

He swallowed the anger and stepped back, though he kept myself between you and your dad. He wasn’t leaving you alone with this guy, no way in hell.

Your dad’s sneer didn’t falter. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He swayed a bit before heading for the door, muttering under his breath. “Ungrateful little—"

The door slammed behind him, leaving the room dead quiet. The kind of quiet that made you realize just how loud things were a minute ago.

You exhaled slowly, like you’d been holding your breath the whole time. You turned back to the counter, flipping the pancake like nothing happened. But Rafe could see the way your hands shook just a little.

He stood there for a second, still running through everything that just went down. He’d never seen you like that before. And he didn’t like what he saw.

“Baby,” he said quietly, stepping closer.

You didn’t look at him. “He does that sometimes. Shows up, drunk, says whatever he feels like saying. Then he leaves. Same thing for as long as I can remember.”

Rafe didn’t know what to say. His mind was racing, trying to wrap around the fact that this was your life. You’d been dealing with that guy for who knows how long, and you never said a word about it.

“That’s not okay,” he said finally, his voice rough. “That’s not normal.”

You sighed, finally turning to face him. “Yeah, well. Now you met the whole family.”

You didn’t know what else to say.

There wasn’t much to say. This was just how things were for you. Your dad was a mess, and you’d learned to deal with it, ignore it even. There was no fixing this. Not really. At this point, it didn't affect you or your daily life that much.

“I should’ve asked,” he said, his voice thick with guilt. “About your family, I mean.”

I shook my head, feeling the weight of it all. “I wouldn’t have told you,” I admitted. “Probably would’ve said he’s dead.”

You didn’t want to be that girl—the one with family baggage so heavy it crushed everything good in your life. You didn’t want Rafe looking at you like I were fragile or damaged. It was bad enough that you were as broke as it got. You’d just gotten used to him wanting to help, to be a little less independent, to let him take care of you and spoil you every once in a while.

This though? You never wanted him to find out.

But now… he knew. He knew what you came from. And you couldn’t hide it anymore.

“I don’t care,” Rafe said suddenly, breaking the silence. Like he was trying to convince you and himself at the same time. “I don’t care about your dad. I care about you.”

You could feel his eyes burning into you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you kept your focus on the pancakes, the routine keeping you distracted. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, no matter how hard you tried to stop it.

“I just… I didn’t want you to see that,” You finally admitted, your voice small and raw in a way you hated. “I didn’t want you to know how messed up everything is.”

Rafe moved closer, his body warmth seeping into your side as he leaned against the counter next to you. He didn’t try to touch you, though, and you were grateful for that. You weren’t ready for that.

Not yet.

“Messed up? Baby, have you met me?” He let out this soft, disbelieving laugh, but there wasn’t any humor in it.

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes. And there it was—that soft, almost sad look he got sometimes when he thought about his family. About how his mom left and how his dad never really let him in. Ward Cameron was friendly enough with you, and he wasn’t a complete asshole to his son, but he was absent, not really caring about keeping a constant connection with his kids. It hit you then that maybe you two weren’t so different after all.

Maybe that’s why you worked.

But still, the shame stayed. The feeling that now that he really knew you, the ugly parts you kept hidden, he might not stick around. Guys like him didn’t stick with girls like you, right? Despite him doing the exact opposite until know.

“This changes nothing, okay?” he said, his voice softer now, almost like he was trying not to spook me. “Not with me.”

He wasn’t looking at you like he was about to leave. His eyes were steady, clear. He didn’t look freaked out or like he regretted being here. He just looked… real. Like he meant every word.

“This is a mess, Rafe. You saw it.”

“I don’t care,” he said, like he needed you to hear him. “I don’t care about any of that. None of it changes how I feel about you. I love you.”

You bit your lip, turning your attention back to the pancakes because if you didn’t, you were afraid you might cry. You weren’t the crying type, but after everything, your dad showing up like that, and Rafe not running for the door—it was a lot. Too much, maybe.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix anything,” you said softly, flipping the last pancake and turning off the stove. “You can’t fix my dad or the way things are. I don’t want you to try.”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Rafe said, stepping closer to you now. “I’m just… I’m here. With you. That’s all I want.”

You felt his hand brush against yours, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if you were ready to be touched. But when you didn’t pull away, his fingers laced through yours, and the warmth of it broke through the dread thad settled over you since your dad walked in.

Finally, you turned to face him, and there it was—that look in his eyes again. The one that said you were more than enough, that he saw you, really saw you, and wasn’t running for the hills. You knew him like the plam of your hand now, and he wasn’t bluffing. He never lied to you.

Your heart did this weird thing, like it flipped and dropped all at once. It was still a little scary to hear him say that. Scary because it meant he was sticking around, and as much as you it scared that was exactly what you wanted. For him to stay.

Because you loved him just as much, and you didn’t mind reminding him every day.

Milo broke the silence, tugging at your shirt again. “Is time f’pancakes now?”

You couldn’t help but smile at the innocence in his voice, the way he had no idea what had just gone down. You bent down to scoop him up, holding him close, the warmth of his growing body keeping you sane in the moment.

“Yeah, buddy,” you said softly. “It’s time for pancakes.”

Rafe watched you, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This is why he knew you’d be a good mom one day. He kept that thought in the back of his mind every day since you gave him the bracelet on his wrist.

The way you picked up Milo and smiled—it calmed him down. The whole scene was so you—taking care of things, keeping it together even when everything around you was a mess.

“Eat up, kiddo,” you said, ruffling his hair as he dug in with way too much syrup.

Then you glanced at Rafe again, your smile still lingering but more reserved, like you were still processing everything.

Milo was halfway through his second pancake, syrup smeared all over his little face, when he looked up at Rafe with those wide, innocent eyes.

“Hey, Rafey, we go park after?”

You were clearing the plates from the counter, and Rafe caught the quick glance you shot his way. You had a shift starting in an hour, and Milo probably knew it too, even if he wasn’t saying it.

He leaned back in his chair, wiping a bit of syrup off Milo’s cheek with the corner of a napkin. “The park, huh? What’re you thinking, swings? Slide?”

Milo grinned, syrup dripping down his chin. “Both! And the big jungle gym! You said I was big enough for it now, 'member?”

He laughed, remembering the time a couple weeks back when Milo had looked at that massive jungle gym like it was Mount Everest, and Rafe told him he was totally ready to conquer it. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

You shot him a look as you grabbed your bag, ready to head out for your shift. “You sure about this?” you asked.

Rafe waved it off. “Yeah, no problem. Milo and I got this.” He grinned at the kid. “We’re gonna hit the park and maybe even stop for some ice cream after if your mom’s cool with it.”

Milo’s face lit up like Christmas morning, and you laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re spoiling him, baby.”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but deep down he liked how easy it felt, like this was where he was supposed to be. “Eh, he deserves it.”

You walked over to where Rafe was still leaning against the counter, and without overthinking it, you leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

“Ewwww!” Milo groaned dramatically, scrunching up his face like he just witnessed the grossest thing ever. “Why do you always gotta kiss him like that?”

You and Rafe both burst out laughing, and Rafe shook his head, ruffling Milo’s hair. “Get used to it, bud,” he said, still smirking. “She’s gonna keep doing that.”

“Not in front of me,” Milo said, still looking completely disgusted but clearly loving the attention. “It’s so gross!”

You grinned and gave Rafe a playful tap on the chest. “Guess we’ll have to start sneaking around now.”

Rafe chuckled, pulling you in for another quick peck. “I can live with that.”

Milo let out an exaggerated groan, dramatically slapping his hands over his eyes. “Ugh! I’m never getting a girlfriend if that’s what you have to do.”

“Good,” you said, shooting him a wink. “No girlfriends until you’re thirty.”

Rafe laughed again, and Milo just sighed, completely over it. “Can we just go to the park now? Please?”

You shook your head, smiling at how easily the moment turned light again. “You two have fun. I’ll see you later.”

You headed out the door, the sound of your nephew still groaning in the background making you smile as you went, promising yourself you’d answer whatever questions Rafe had about your parents, the second you two snuggled up in his bed at night.

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yueruuu · 1 month ago

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A commission for KitsuNight on Deviantart!

Character: Nelly, a streamer who loves pancakes and boozes (no more allowed sadly :()

#bloated stomach #pregnant #pregnancy #pregnant art #preggie #pregnant kink #pregnantbelly #belly k!nk

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rustedhearts · 7 days ago

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when you come in the cold (troubled!steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: steve succumbs to his demons, and you reflect on your past with him as his present comes to an end.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy

☆ the sinner ☆ the library

tags: reader is given an insert name “rebecca” because i hate y/n (biblically, “rebecca” means “to tie firmly”); addiction; death; angst/hurt, literally no comfort, their daughter's name is not butterfly, it's just used to refer to her.

recommended listening: house in nebraska, amber waves, and onanist by ethel cain (because that's what I listened to while writing this and we should all be miserable when we read this)

somewhere in the midwest. november 2011.

Wind whistled through a crack in the bedroom window. They rattled in the cold seasons, but you learned to sleep right through. Eddie used to complain, rubbing his eyes in the morning and complaining of poor slumber after a particularly nasty storm. But he watched you shrug and your daughter maintain oblivion at the breakfast table, both perfectly accustomed to sleeping through the night no matter the weather or storm.

He learned a few months in just why that was.

But tonight, you were all sleeping soundly. Contently nestled under layers of clothes and blankets. Eddie's arm weighed down on your waist. A ray of moonlight bled over the tops of your plaid-covered toes.

At 11:33 that night, a particularly sharp howl broke through the window and woke you. You shot up, knocking Eddie's arm away and rustling the bed pillows. The alarm clock blinked in small red numbers. You massaged your head, suddenly pounding. One glance over Eddie's blanketed mound showed the curtains in the midst of a billow. The great oak tree in the front yard bobbed against the night.

Still, as you sank back down and blinked up at the ceiling, you could not quite stop feeling a pulsing in your head. A lump in you throat, hard and obstructive. A sensation in your chest like someone was holding you upside down. It all felt off. Something was wrong.

Your first thought was Butterfly, asleep in her bedroom across the hall. You had just swung your feet free from their confines and touched them to the floor when your phone rang on the nightstand.

You answered it quickly, unwilling to wake the rest of the home.

"Hello?"

"Rebecca? It's Sheriff Peters."

You pressed your heels firmly to the cold floor. It shot through you like a spurt, reaching your mouth where you brought your fingers to hold.

Squeezed your eyes shut tight. "Yeah?"

A heavy sigh. You moved your fingers to your head and felt it pulse again.

"The Harrington kid…”

Scrunching your eyes closed tighter, a picture flashed of 21-year old Steve. Chestnut tresses soon to be shaven by a stint at County right before his 22nd birthday. Dirt tracks on his bare arms. Oiled-dipped rag tucked in the back pocket of his Levi’s. A smile bright as the sun around a cigarette. A beam of afternoon light across a pair of freckled cheekbones.

“…well...he's gone, honey."

29-year old Steve slumped on the front steps of the old house. Thinner, greyer, sunken in. You went to tell him about the hearing. How Eddie was adopting her. Steve dug two dirt-caked fingers in his eyes. A cigarette withering between them. Track marks on his long arms. Holes in his shirt.

A shell of the man you knew.

“Rebecca?”

Your own sharp sniffle jolted you awake. “Y-yeah. Um…h-how did…”

Hooking your chin over your shoulder, you found Eddie still fast asleep. Silver light kissing his cheek. He spent the day making pancakes and coffee and giving your daughter piggyback rides around the house. She got antsy in the cold, always aching for playtime in the sun. She still didn’t understand that it wasn’t always warm.

She didn’t understand that some things went away.

“Uh…we found some stuff. Coulda been the booze, coulda been the drugs. It…it wasn’t pretty the last couple a’ months, kid.”

A whimper bubbled through your throat, wrapped around a dollop of vile snaking its way up. You brought your knees to your chest and hugged them tight.

“He’s at the house?”

“They’re takin’ him off now, but…yes.” Sheriff Peters sounded pained. There were voices and sounds of movement behind him.

The chirp of dispatch walkies. The slam of squad car doors. The shriek of gurney wheels. Of ambulance latches. A siren carrying him away. You didn’t want to close your eyes and picture the white sheet they’d take him in.

So you kept them open. Watched the shadow of a tree branch paint the bedroom wall.

“They’re just…they’re gonna need you to come ‘n identify him. Protocol. Everybody knows you…well…”

A breath shuddered through you, then out. You must’ve started to shake, because Eddie, who didn’t even wake for the storm, shuffled in bed. Jerked like he was pushed, sat upright and laid a hand on your arm.

“Baby, whas a’ matter?”

“O-okay,” you wept into the phone. Your cheeks were warm and wet and you could taste something sweet on your tongue. Everything felt swollen and wrong and rotten.

The world felt suspended. Time felt suspended. Like watching a creation of your own life, but not living in it.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Sheriff Peters whispered.

You hung up the phone.

Eddie had never heard someone wail the way you did that night. Like someone in the war who just lost their son. Like someone being torn apart arm by arm. It sent a terrifying panic through him like never before.

He folded his arms around you and held you against his chest to stop the shaking. Shushed you and rocked you and pet your hair when you began to sweat. As your phone fell to the floor, he noticed the most recent area code. The Sheriff’s personal number. A number he came to know well.

He knew this day was coming. Knew it was soon when he saw Steve stumbling through town. Knew it wasn’t long before he just couldn’t do it anymore; and not even the thought of getting better for that little girl in the room down the hall could save him anymore.

“Oh, God, baby,” Eddie murmured into your cheek where his lips pressed while he swayed. “Oh, God.”

Your daughter slept through any storm. Thankfully.

☆ ☆

November 17th, 2006

Dear Diary,

It’s freezing here. An early winter, they said. It might even snow. Steve’s out with his father, hunting. I miss him so much and I don't really know why. He's not very kind when he's here. He's been especially mean lately. Quiet, but mean. Maybe he doesn't realize how much it hurts when he won't look at me.

Is it wrong to imagine the kind of man he could be? To pretend he's someone else when I talk about him? When they ask about him, if they don't know him, I can come up with all these lies. He's kind, he's romantic, he's sweet. They don't know the difference.

There are instances when these things are true. When he's tired, or he's hurt. I think he's sweetest when he feels guilty. When I find his wallet thick with a fresh wad of cash and there's blood on his coat. When he makes a mess and I have to clean it up. When he takes it too far. He can be so sweet then. Tender, even.

He's never soft, but he can be very tender. I wish they could know that.

But maybe that's our secret to keep to ourselves. The things that happen in this cold and hollow house.

I think I hear his truck pulling up. What a strange thing, how alight my body feels when he's near, no matter what.

☆ ☆

The hospital morgue was quiet. The creak of steps through the tile above you, the swish of doors flapping open, then closed, the soft shudder of your own breath stuttering out of you. Those were the sounds of the last place you'd ever see Steve.

A crumpled tissue sat permanently under your nose on your trudge down the hall. It caught the thin drippings of a morning full of unconsolable sobs.

Each time Eddie poked his head into the bathroom, where you stationed yourself on the bath mat against the tub, you broke down again. His poor attempts at comfort were futile. Every stroke of his hand over your hair, each glance of welled-up doe eyes, every soft murmur and gentle shush—it sent you right back over the edge.

But the sound of her delicate voice through the bathroom door truly tore you apart.

What's wrong with mommy?

Mommy's just not feelin' too good today, bug. You wanna go color her a picture?

Why couldn't he have gotten better for her?

It's a thought you tried to swallow down as the sheriff lead you into the room. It was sour and thick on the way down, like trying to swallow a lemon candy whole. Though, perhaps that was the scent of the cleaner they used to mask the underlying smell that'll never leave this room.

Death.

The chemical acidity immediately swelled in your throat, urging you to throw up. The sheriff's hand on your back moved in slow circles. It didn't even register to feel bad about it when you shrugged him off. He understood.

After all, they all knew Steve.

The sheriff stood near the door, eyes on his feet while you approached the metal slab.

The sheet billowed toward his chest, caved in with freed weight. His skin marbled in the cold, in death. Like the pale surface of deli meat, splotched with discoloration. His eyes were closed.

You felt your lips move to confirm what they all knew, but no sound registered. The sheet moved slowly back over his face until only the silhouette of his nose stared back at you.

☆ ☆

November 2008

Dear Diary,

It's strange, being without him every day. Especially as the world creeps toward winter. For some reason, I find myself aching for him most when it's cold. Maybe because it was his favorite season, winter. Winter when it was frigid and bare and empty and he had an excuse for slinking away. "Nothing better to do than get into trouble," he used to say.

They all think I'm so weak, the way I keep crawling back to him time and time gain. Mama says I'm pathetic. That if I can't see what kind of man he is after all that, I never will, and he'll get away with murder. But hasn't she ever loved someone terrible? Doesn't she know how it feels? To be someone's light? To be the only thing someone who doesn't love, loves?

He might not say it often, but even everyone can admit it. Steve loves me.

But, something's felt different lately. When I lay with him, it feels like laying with a stranger. I don't think we can do this anymore. Not unless he wants to be better.

That's like asking a wolf to forget its nature, isn't it?

☆ ☆

For some reason, all you could think the entire fast-paced walk back to your car was: idiot.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

You slammed the door, got behind the wheel, and pounded your fists on the leather.

Idiot, idiot, idiot. Why did you do it? She's just a little girl. This wasn't who you were.

You jammed the keys into the ignition and slurped the snot back into your nose. Fucking idiot. The car rumbled to life, yellow headlights splicing through the grey afternoon. Goddamn idiot.

With every grumbled syllable, you began to hiccup. Hyperventilate. The car died back down under a trembling hand, sitting still in the hospital parking lot.

You leaned forward and pressed your head to the steering wheel. The leather was cold against your skin. Your breaths shuddered out in puffs of white. Closing your eyes squeezed free more tears, plopping out in hot, fat drops across your lap.

Closing your eyes materialized a Steve that hadn't been alive for a very long time. A healthy Steve, sun-kissed skin and cords of lean muscle, steady hands and green-flecked eyes full of life. He crumpled as time went on. Caved in on himself. You remember having to tip your head back to look at him that very first day.

But the last day, he looked at you through the mesh of your screen door. He seemed almost a child on your front steps, banging with fists that could barely clench together. Wobbling back and clutching the railing to find footing.

I wanna see her.

The camo Carhartt swallowed him whole then. The camo Carhartt that used to block his shoulders and swaddle you by the zipper. It drooped at every odd angle. It felt like another man's token of a life no longer lived.

I'm her father.

He once told you that he thought if he'd been given a different man for a father, he might not have turned out this way. Murmured in the rosy rise of another day, when the one before it had been spent screaming at each other until your throats were raw and more plates were unusable—when you had another bag packed at the door, and Steve came shuffling back in with a bunch of limp-stemmed daisies.

His arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. His skin was so warm. His lips scraped over your forehead in wintered appearance. He said if what happened to him as a kid never happened, he'd be on the other side of the town line. But you wouldn't love him like that, would you?

As he looked up at you from the bottom step of your front porch, bleary-eyed and red-nosed, you thought about your daughter wishing for a different father. You thought about your daughter on the other side of the town line, saying if she'd just been born to a different man, she wouldn't have ended up like this.

Not until you get better, you told him.

And you shut the door on his slumped shoulders, suddenly too small, under a too-big coat.

Would she remember him? It was the next thought that churned in your mind as you lifted from the wheel. Pressing on the brake to turn the key and start the engine, you thought about the corners of her mouth that curled like his. Would she ever know that? Would she recognize that in photos, tucked under your bed until she got older?

When the gear clunked into drive, and the left turn signal clicked to a steady beat, you found yourself thinking about that beastly silver truck. They'd impound it, no doubt. His last prized possession, the last piece of his former life left unscathed.

Your heart squeezed in mourning for the four-wheel possession as you rolled into the road, jostling over buckled pavement and snow mounds.

How odd, to mourn a vehicle you froze and sweat and cried in. How odd, indeed.

☆ ☆

November 2009

Baby's first snow! Butterfly looks so sweet all bundled up in her little coat. Like a little doll, all squished cheeks and snug buttons to her chin. She hates her boots and keeps trying to kick them off, but they make the cutest little imprints in the backyard.

Steve put money in the mailbox again. Sometimes he leaves little notes on the envelopes, each more eligible than the last. "For diapers" or "for you" or "for her" or sometimes, just "I'm sorry." They used to make me cry, but now I don't even want to look at them. Every pair of boots and every new coat buttoned snug to her chin is purchased by me. The money tucked into crumpled envelopes scrawled with his handwriting, a smaller amount each time, goes into a box in the back of the closet. Maybe she'll get to go to college one day. Maybe she'll have a better life than Steve and I did. That's the hope, isn't it? That she turns out better than we did.

I try not to think about where he got it. Or the fact that every time I see him, he looks worse than the time before. I know he's using and I know it's bad. They still called me every time he got busted until I told them to stop. Phone calls at 3 a.m tend to wake sleeping babies, and I can no longer trek out in the middle of the night to save him anymore. And maybe I could no longer stomach hearing "heroin" and "Steve" used in the same sentences.

But Butterfly looks sweet in her coat, purchased by mommy. I take pictures for Steve, hoping one day he'll see them with clear eyes.

Just like the box of cash in the closet, there are things waiting for a future, grown-up Steve.

☆ ☆

Her body hurtling toward you came like a stop-motion, stuttered and slow. She flung into your knees, accustomed to your waiting arms, and you braced her with a palm to the back of her damp head. From the bleary looks of it, she'd spent the day running amok with Eddie. But you couldn't stop to process the mess. It passed by like a cloud, something barely even acknowledged.

"Hey, bug." It came from your own mouth but took a few extra beats to hit your ears. You only felt your jaw working up and down to form the words.

Eddie watched your eyes glaze over the him, the room, your daughter—time. You were in your own state of it, meandering aimlessly through the front door. He took the purse sagging at your side and placed it on the hook beside the door. He slid his hand around your waist and pulled you the rest of the way inside.

"Wanna get mommy a pair of pajamas to wear?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah? You pick, okay, bug? We're gonna give mommy a little bath time to warm up."

Her little feet pattered up the steps overhead. Like raindrops on a car roof. Your eyes flickered her way just in time to catch a flash of purple tulle, prancing around the banister.

"Come on, honey," Eddie cooed into your ear, the same octave he used with Butterfly. It felt like he was across the room, calling through a closed door.

He had one arm around your waist, one hand against your arm. Bracing like you'd just come home from surgery. Waiting for your body to give out.

She brought a pile of red fabric placed on the closed toilet lid. Eddie thanked her, ruffled her hair—just like Steve's in thickness—and told her to pour the bubbles into the rushing water. It all came like radio static, like words creeping through interruption. You thought your fingers were cold. They certainly hurt, curled into tight fists at your sides. Eddie had to pry them open so you'd stop shaking.

Your coat came off first, unzipped and dropped to the floor in a noiseless thud. Sleeves slipped off your arms, fabric slipped over your head. Butterfly was gone when you turned, a mess of muffled noise and clattering across the hall. Playful chattering and five year-old pretend. You found a dark blob of woodgrain and let your vision swallow it until the room fizzled away around it. Eddie tugged your jeans over your hips and peeled them off your legs.

"Alright, step, step. Sit down—there you go."

It was warm then. It burned a moment on your toes, the stinging sensation of when cold meets hot. It dulled when the warmth touched your calves, your hips, your stomach, wading under your breasts. Eddie lowered you back against the porcelain. His hand was a big warm gust of wind over your head.

Big brown eyes blinked slowly in the white light of afternoon. He was sitting on the floor beside you, arms tucked over his knees. How long had he been there? How long had you been home? Did you lock your car when you parked it? Were the keys still in the engine? You don't remember coming home.

"Do you want me to stay?" he asked.

You don't remember replying, but he was standing anyway. He lingered a moment, swaying on the bathmat. You stared through his leg into the door. He thought he might have to manually turn your head to bring you to life. But he busied himself with scooping your clothes off the floor, putting your pajamas where you'd find them before he reached the door.

It thumped closed and you placed your hands over your face. Steam emanated from your flesh, tendrils licking the frost-bitten surface of your cheeks. Did they smell like lemon cleaner, or did the stench of the morgue just bury itself in your nose? Would it go away? You lurched with rising bile just once, hunched into the bath water. Butterfly chose lavender bubbles.

Don't go, honey.

You dropped your hands and let them sink into the water. You could not open your eyes and see another moment of this new world. How different the colors seemed when someone you loved was not here to fill them in.

You can't leave me.

☆ ☆

"Hey, bug."

"Are you feeling better, Mommy?"

She was warm, recently-bathed and bubblegum-scented. Eddie brushed her teeth, plopping her on the step stool to sing the "tooth song" in the mirror. He rummaged through the dinner mess left in the kitchen while you padded across the hall into her room, where you slipped into her bed against the soft pink glow of her nightlight.

"A little," you whispered, placing your head on the pillow beside her. "Mommy's just a little sad."

She bunched her hands under her cheek and blinked at you in the darkness. "Why?"

You mimicked her, feet hanging over the edge of the bed, hers tucked under the blankets. "Someone I used to know died."

She searched your eyes, lashes tapping. Her hand came out to touch your arm, where it sat in gentle pressure. You smiled at her, feeling the dryness sting with wetness again.

"Will they come back?"

You swallowed and it clicked in your ears. A teardrop plopped against her pillow. You swiped at it and smiled again.

"No, he won't. But, I'll always remember him. I hope you will, too. I'll show you his picture tomorrow, would you like that?"

Butterfly nodded. You nodded back, reaching out to smooth your hand over cheek.

"He looks kinda like you," you told her, and matched her toothy grin with one of your own.

"Really?"

"Really. Come on, bug, snuggle in."

She wriggled into your arms and pressed her cheek to your chest. It was the slow and even rhythm of your breaths, and the perfume clinging to your clothes, that sent her to sleep. You let your eyes close, your breathing slow.

In the darkness, Steve's amber eyes blinked goodbye.

In the morning, you'd pull the box from the closet and show her a photograph over ten years old. She wouldn't see herself in it just yet, but one day she would.

#rolly!#troubled!steve harrington #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington angst #steve harrington hurt/comfort

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ddejavvu · 1 year ago

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mei! can you write a little hangman trying to corral and take care of his drunk gf?? im a lil tipsy rn and thinking abt it

tw for mentions of getting sick

"Bradshaw," Jake taps his fellow aviator on the shoulder, two beers in hand, "Where's my girlfriend?"

"Phoenix took her to the bathroom," Bradley informs Jake, "She was feeling a little queasy, I think."

"Shit," Jake groans, shoving both beers into Bob's unsuspecting hands. The WSO blinks bewilderedly, but passes the drinks to Fanboy and Payback when they invite him over to the dartboard.

Jake shoulders his way through the crowd, beelining for the women's restroom and slapping a hand over his eyes before pushing the door open.

"I'm not trying to see anything," He calls out, standing in the doorway, "I just want to know if my girlfriend is in here."

He hears a distressed groan from you to his left, and Phoenix calls out, "It's just us, Hangman. You can come in and open your eyes."

He does as instructed, finding you crouched on the floor inside the third stall. Phoenix is behind you, your hair gathered back into her hands as you hover expectantly over the toilet.

"Nothing yet," Phoenix fills your boyfriend in, "I think it's less about the booze and more about the bottomless fries."

"Gotcha," Jake nudges her away to take her place, swooping your hair up again when it falls over your face, "You've been snackin, huh baby?"

"I didn't eat that many," You swear, but Jake knows practically any amount of the bar's greasy french fries can be vomit-inducing, "I want- I need water."

"I got it," Phoenix heads for the door, "Don't let her eat any more, Hangman!"

Jake's confused until you reach for your purse and retract a napkin stuffed with fries.

"Hey- hey! No," He takes them before you can eat any of them, chucking the handful into the toilet to deter you, "Baby, what are you doing? Those made you sick."

"But they're so good," You lament, "Jake, they've got the garlic salt on 'em, and- and I want more!"

"But they're too greasy for you to handle right now," He smooths a hand down your back, "Baby, you can't eat those when you've been drinkin', that's why we're in here. You can have some on Friday night, m'kay? You can be DD."

"I'm not even sick anymore," You grumble, all of a sudden struggling to your feet. Jake backs out of the stall so that you can stand, but your drunk mind seems to envision a velcro patch covering Jake's chest, and you stick your own matching one to it to throw your arms around his neck.

"I want food," You inform Jake, and he leans in to kiss you despite your beer-breath, "I want something big, and- and greasy, and meaty, and-"

"How about pancakes?" Jake offers, ringing his hands around your waist in case you decide you're going to lean your full weight on him, "We can head to Denny's, it'll only be a five minute drive."

"Do they put garlic salt in their pancakes?" You wonder, gazing at Jake like he's a prophet. He's not, but he thinks he knows the answer anyway.

"Uh," He chuckles slightly, glancing at the door when Phoenix returns, a glass of water in her hands, "I don't think so, darlin'. Here, drink that," He pats your back, releasing his hold on you so that you can take the cup from Phoenix, "All of it, honey, then we'll head for Denny's. Okay?"

"Mhm," You nod around the rim of the glass, the sound echoing slightly as you gulp down the water.

"Takin' her for pancakes," Jake locks eyes with Phoenix, "I'm gonna go get her purse, can you supervise?"

"Hurry up," She nods towards the door, "Fanboy's a nosy drunk, I'm pretty sure he already rooted through her stuff and found a tampon."

"Christ almighty," Jake scoffs, storming out while you chug down the rest of the water in your glass. He does, in fact, find Fanboy seated by your purse, inspecting a plastic-wrapped tampon with bewildered eyes.

"It comes out of the plastic, dipshit," Jake demonstrates, popping the applicator off and stuffing it back on after they've gotten a good look, "Phoenix was right, you are nosy. You wanna inspect her lipstick, too?"

"Oh please, we see that all the time." Rooster drawls, yanking at Jake's collar and revealing a deep pink kiss mark against the base of his neck. The pilot grins beneath his mustache, collecting the coins from your wallet that Fanboy had counted to occupy himself and handing them off to Jake, "Just be lucky he didn't go through your wallet, Hangman, he would have found those nudes you keep in there."

#jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin fanfiction #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #hangman #hangman x reader #hangman x you #hangman x y/n #hangman fanfiction #hangman imagine #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin imagine #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x you #jake hangman seresin x y/n #top gun x reader #top gun maverick x reader

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