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americas-golden-boy · 3 years

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Worth a Thousand Words

Summary: “Steve Rogers, every inch of his All-American glory, was looking at her expectantly with that same boyishly mischievous expression he had been sporting the few times she had seen him up close. One that really shouldn't blend in so easily with the rest of him but was an integral part of his persona, or at least that's what she gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations about him she'd been subjected to hearing.

Because that was definitely what she had predicted, and definitely made all the sense in the world.”

AKA Steve has never talked to the woman that sits in the front row of his lecture hall twice a week but that doesn't stop his hopeless crush on her.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

Word Count: 3,159

She was being watched.

She had absolutely no proof other than a gut feeling, but the sensation of eyes on the back of her head burnt with a heat strong enough to brand her, and more than once has the skin of her arms and neck prickled uncomfortably with goosebumps despite the surprisingly warm temperatures of late fall.

It made her feel silly, really, and more than a little narcissistic, to think that anyone would invest time in watching her. She couldn't even write it off as the uncomfortable leering that she had been victim to on a couple of occasions she had gone off-campus at night.

No, it was the most random of times, in the most obscure places, always busy enough that she could never pin down the source of her unusual company when she chanced a scan of the area.

It's a Thursday night, and after three weeks of enduring this cat and mouse game she's found herself in, she's strongly considering just going up to each person in the common room when she feels the sensation tickle its way down the nape of her neck again.

Before she got the chance to weigh all the pros and cons of embarrassing herself, the cat made itself known.

By sitting right across from her at the otherwise empty table.

Startled by the sudden presence in front of her, her eyes snap up from the book they'd been buried in, the hand which had been steadily dictating her notes pausing in the middle of a line as her train of thought came to an abrupt stop.

Sharing her space with unfamiliar company was not an uncommon occurrence, for her or any of the other people that frequented the open areas available to students at all hours of the day, but at a little past 11 P.M., there were few people spread out across the expansive room, and even fewer reasons for anyone to sit so close.

She found herself being thankful for carpeted floors as the man abruptly pulled the chair out, spinning it around and sliding forward to straddle it all in one movement, draping his crossed arms across the back with a practiced sort of elegance that did not quite match the situation or his size.

And his size was, frankly, quite hard to ignore.

Her immediate response was to be intimidated by the broad expanse of solid chest and wide shoulders that made the chair look almost uncomfortably small as the muscles in his arms strained under the stretched material of his shirt—really it was almost another layer of skin, as tight as it was—to prop his chin on an open palm.

But then she met his eyes and—

Oh, she thought dumbly.

Steve Rogers, every inch of his All-American glory, was looking at her expectantly with that same boyishly mischievous expression he had been sporting the few times she had seen him up close. One that really shouldn't blend in so easily with the rest of him but was an integral part of his persona, or at least that's what she gathered from the bits and pieces of conversations about him she'd been subjected to hearing.

Because that was definitely what she had predicted, and definitely made all the sense in the world.

With the way his smirk grew, she had a feeling he was perfectly aware of the confusion he was causing in her.

Perfectly justified confusion, she reminds herself before any misplaced guilt can creep up on her, considering they had never interacted properly.

In fact, as she tried racking her brain for any reason he would have for approaching her, she came up with exactly zero. Possibly one, if he was trying to bum notes off of her for the lecture they shared two days a week.

Not that he made a habit of doing that to people, as far as she knew anyway, but she wouldn't put it past him to use his charm and prestige for his own benefit.

As unfair as she knew it was to him, her expectations of the widely popular were subpar at best, and considering his reputation stretched far enough that even she recognized him, he certainly fit into that category.

Seemingly satisfied that he had her full attention, he reached out the hand that he had been leaning on, smirk stretching out into a full smile, laugh lines pulling on his cheeks matching the soft crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

He really is handsome. It's almost unfair.

"(Y/N), right?" He said by way of greeting, breaking the near silence of the room with ringing clarity even with the low level of his voice.

The fact that he knew who she was added a fresh layer of bewilderment to the mix, and she couldn’t even begin to sort through the possible implications of him possessing that information.

Looking between his hand and his face, she placed her pen down and took it in her own, just a moment shy of an awkward pause before nodding.

His grip on her hand was confident but gentle, shaking it once before letting her retract it back into the safety of her lap, leaning on the top of his chair with crossed arms once again.

"I'm Steve, it's nice to meet you."

Of course, she already knows that, but isn't sure if admitting it would be awkward or a boost to his ego, and since neither one really sounded like a good option, so she opted for another weak nod of acknowledgment and a half-smile.

If her lack of response was odd to him, he did a good job of hiding it, face still as open and unfaltering as the moment he sat down.

"So, I admit, this is...odd. I'm sorry for disturbing your study session, I just haven't had a good chance to talk to you before or after class and I saw you while I was cutting through on my way to my friend's dorm so..." he trailed off with a soft huff of a laugh, eyebrows faintly pinching together with the slight tilt of his head.

He wanted to talk to me? She repeated to herself. He doesn't seem angry, so I probably didn't upset him unintentionally. Not that I would have had a chance to, I don't think I've ever even sat by him before.

There was a long string of questions that she'd like to unload on him but with the way his smile was starting to falter she decided to put them both out of their misery and settle for one to start.

Flipping the notebook laid out in front of her to a blank page she wrote as quickly as she dared, aiming for both speed and legibility, knowing from experience that her nerves can reduce her handwriting to chicken scratch if she wasn't careful.

Are you the person who has been following me?

She lifted the note for him to see, watching his eyes flick across the line before his eyebrows shot towards his hairline, wide eyes meeting hers as his hands rose to wave almost frantically in front of him.

"No!" He exclaimed, the sudden volume of his voice drawing a wince from the both of them as she glanced at the only two other students in the room, who had both paused to look over at their table.

Steve's head dipped in an apologetic nod in their direction before turning his attention back to her.

"No, I wasn't following you," he started, voice much quieter but not lacking any of the conviction of his initial outburst. "I promise, I really haven't been, I just—we have a class together, and we live in the same building. The campus is only so big, so I, uh, I see you around sometimes," he rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes dropping from hers briefly in a moment of sheepishness that was a stark difference from his usual self-assured bravado.

"Honestly I didn't think you would have noticed, and I'm really sorry, but my friends, they uh—" he continued on, his words beginning to come out in a rush of air— "when I mentioned wanting to talk to you they took it upon themselves to tell me if they saw you around. Trying to help me find an opportunity I guess. I would have made them stop sooner if I had known it was making you uncomfortable," he reassured quickly, taking note of her baffled expression.

All she could do was stare, eyes flittering around his face in an attempt to find a tell that he was lying. When she found none, she was honestly relieved, not just because he didn't seem to have any malicious intent, but also because she now had confirmation that she wasn't crazy.

Now that I know I'm not just paranoid, what is it you needed to talk to me about?

She flipped the notebook around once again, watching as he hesitantly turned his attention to it, his fear of a negative reaction clear as day across his face. It was endearing, really.

"I just wanted to—actually, if you don't mind me asking first, why are you writing your responses? I feel like I need to get my own pen out, breaking the quiet all on my own."

The question wasn't an unexpected one and she was frankly surprised it had taken him as long as it did to ask. That didn't stop the uncomfortable pang in her chest that usually came with that line of questioning. While it wasn’t necessarily uncommon for her to use a pen and paper to communicate, the select group of people that wanted to converse with her had more efficient ways.

I can’t speak. Most people don't know ASL, and I thought a text-to-speech app might be too awkward if you weren’t expecting it. Sorry.

And she was, really. While she knew it wasn't her fault, she also knew how tedious a transition process it could be for someone who had never held a conversation with her before to adjust to the pacing. Some people just weren't patient enough, or it made them feel awkward.

He read the note, and then reread it, and then read it once again. He gently worried at his bottom lip, releasing it as he opened his mouth, only to shut it once again as his lips pinched together.

He seemed to finally decide on what to say, straightening his shoulders a bit and clasping his hands together.

"So, you're...mute? Is that the correct term to use?" He asked , articulating his question slowly while watching her face.

She found the corners of her lips quirking up at his concern of possibly offending her. That alone was already more than she got out of similar exchanges.

I personally don’t mind it much, but it’s normally frowned upon. Non-speaking is your best bet.

She slid over the notebook, trying to gauge his reaction for a hint of how the rest of this conversation is going to go, if he didn’t simply excuse himself to avoid a situation that he most definitely did not predict or ask for.

And then felt like she would have tipped straight over from the way he beamed at her, if not for already being securely supported in her seat.

There has to be something wrong with him, she found herself thinking.

"Okay. I’m glad I didn’t offend you, thank you for telling me. I honestly don't know much about what to do to make this easier for you—" was he pouting now?— "would yes or no questions be better? I don't want to make you write a lot if you don't want to. Or...would you like me to leave?" By the time he reaches the end of his ramble, his nerves had obviously caught up to his mouth, head dipping and jerking his thumb in the general direction of the door leading to the outdoor walkway.

If anyone else had asked her that, she would have assumed it was asked as a chance for an out, a polite way to say, "I think it would be best if I left, are you going to let me?" But with the way he prefaced it so naturally with eager attempts at maintaining and extending their time together in a way that benefits her, she couldn’t find it in herself to immediately presume the worst.

In fact, the entire situation was so absolutely bizarre and random and Steve is staring at her with this disarmingly charming expression looking like he is about five seconds away from bolting for the door, and she just can’t help it.

She laughs.

~~~~~

She’s laughing.

Or at least that’s what he’s assuming, with the way her head tips back and the warm flush across the bridge of her nose spreads to her cheeks as she smiles. They’ve been in the same lecture and dorm for months and he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her face light up quite like that.

The sounds that push their way past her lips are short and clipped, raspy in a way that suggests disuse but warm enough to be melodic despite their discordant nature.

Just as suddenly as she started, she stops. Slapping a hand over her mouth, she snaps her head back down to look at him with wide eyes before quickly checking across the room where the last students had been sitting previously, shoulders slumping with obvious relief to find the seats empty.

For a moment he truly feels ashamed, because as wary as she seemed to be about the sound, he’s already dying to hear it again.

The hand that had been resting over her mouth moved to her brows, tilting down enough to hide her eyes from his view but not the harsh scarlett that was crawling across her visible skin, from the tips of her ears to the base of her throat. If he wasn’t feeling ashamed before, he certainly is when he has to cut off the burst of curiosity that cuts across his mind wondering how far the flush could go.

Shaking his head like it will physically remove the risqué thought, he reaches one hand forward to softly tap the table near her notebook.

“You okay under there? I’m not quite sure what I said, but there’s no one else in here but you and me.”

He feels like he’s done something very wrong and he’s not even sure where to begin to backtrack as he combs over his last statement.

She thinks you’re an idiot, you probably managed to offend her.

He really, really hopes that isn’t the case though, because he’s been trying to build up the courage to talk to her properly for months and while he’s become a bit better about socializing since he got back from the army, he’s still absolutely hopeless with women, something that Bucky likes to remind him of frequently.

The second Natasha found out why her attempts at getting him to go on blind dates were being shut down so quickly, she was absolutely ruthless in her ribbing, as harmless as it may have been.

Before he can fully consider standing to leave, she’s dropping her hand to her pen, meeting his eyes with a slight pull at the corner of her lips before leaning down to write.

Waiting for her to finish writing is the most nerve-wracking thing he can remember going through in recent memory, and the soft thump of his heel against the carpet is almost as fast as his heartbeat by the time the action even registers and he forces his leg to still.

Coming to a stop almost halfway down the page, her pen rests against the paper for a beat before she hastily caps it with a firm nod and pushes the notebook onto his half of the table.

This might be the most thorough rejection I’ve ever faced, he thinks sardonically, spinning the notebook around.

Then he reads the first line, and his head shoots up to look at her. He must look a bit ridiculous, if the growing smile on her face is anything to go by.

She gestures with a wave of her hand towards the notebook and he clears his throat with an awkward chuckle as he looks back down at the paper.

I would really like it if you didn’t leave. I’m sorry for laughing, but you’re just so nice I was surprised. I would be lying if I said I didn’t already know who you are, but I just didn’t expect you to be interested. This whole situation is very random but I think that’s the first time I’ve laughed out loud in a long time. I understand if you change your mind, or if I’m overstepping, but if it’s not too forward, I think I’d like to talk to you too. Maybe when it’s not the middle of the night.

~~~~~

As soon as she slid the notebook across the table she itched to grab it back. She nipped at the tip of her thumb between her teeth to fight the urge, pulling her other arm to curl around her stomach.

What if I misunderstood what he was trying to tell me? He seemed so nice but maybe he’ll regret it now that he’s actually been around me a bit. When was the last time you even went on a date? Oh god, he’s already reading it, maybe I—

“Are you busy tomorrow?”

She’s abruptly pulled out of her spiraling doubts so fast she gets mental whiplash, and she focuses back on him as she considers if she misheard.

He’s beaming at her again, the corner of his eyes crinkling and one side pulling on his cheek just slightly higher than the other, the same boyish charm from earlier peeking its way through. He tilted his head as he leaned in towards her, and the cage holding her butterflies was absolutely demolished, sending her heart fluttering at a pace that’s almost painful.

The question finally caught up to her at his expectant look, and with a shake of her head, he let out a satisfied hum and smacks the table lightly with both hands before reaching to grab the pen, scribbling down a hasty addition to the bottom of the page before putting both items back in her space.

Pushing himself to stand, he spun the chair back into its original position before addressing her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow (Y/N),” he said with a wink, walking backwards a few steps before turning and making his way out of the doors.

She stared at his retreating back with a small smile that only grew as she peered down at his note.

Steve

XXX - XXX- XXXX

Text me when you’re free, hopefully I’ll have enough time to learn to greet you properly next time.

#steve rogers #steve #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers imagine #captain america #captain america imagine #captain america fanfiction #marvel #mcu #avengers #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #avengers imgagine #avengers fanfiction #fluff #steve rogers fluff #captain america fluff #college au

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you-a-southpaw-doll · 4 years

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Buzzed - A Negan One-Shot

Summary: After an incident in the Sanctuary, Leigh takes matters into her own hands. What will Negan’s response be?

Warning(s): Language. Angst. Attempted rape. Violence. Death. Slight Panic Attack. Anxiety. Leigh being a badass. Negan caught off guard (no pun intended). Mentions of what could be considered self-harm. Daddy kink, but not really. You’ll see. Protective Negan. Fluff. Sexual Innuendoes. Puns (Sorry Not Sorry!). Happy ending. Not Beta’d. I just finished writing this and had to post it! Sorry for any errors.

Author’s Note(s):

I cut my hair myself, usually every 2 weeks, but no more than 3 weeks. I just can’t have my hair touch my ears; it makes my anxiety 10 times worse, and in a way, I kinda explain the reason behind that in this story. I was cutting my hair tonight, (it’s now 2:30 am, 5/24/2020) and I thought of this story idea and Negan’s reaction to the main character having short hair.

Also, if any of the warnings are triggering for you, please don’t force yourself to read. The last thing I’d want to do is trigger someone into having a panic attack. Feel free to give me any feedback, thoughts, questions, comments and/or concerns you have with the story. I love hearing from y’all!

As always, if you’d like to be added to my taglist, just let me know and I’ll happily add you!!

Word Count: 5,301. (A lot, I know, but I think it’s worth it, and I just couldn’t get everything I wanted across in less words, so enjoy!)

Relationship(s): Negan x Leigh Sullivan (OFC)

Characters: Negan. Leigh Sullivan (OFC). Simon. Dr. Carson. 3 unnamed Original Male Characters. Sanctuary People.

Taglist: @negans-network @prettyboynegan @mychemicalimagines @spnnnxangelsx @rockinkel21 @misskittycat02 @band--psycho@ofxallxwexlost @iron-halt @thamberlinawrites @ravenwings73 @lettherebepink @stoneyggirl

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Story Time:

Leigh’s P.O.V. ~ Then

They’d caught me off guard, for once.

Normally, I never let anything or anyone catch me off guard. Or at least...I tried not to. Due to having anxiety, I was usually hyper-aware of shit going on. But, today, my anxiety had eased off after the relaxing morning I’d had with my husband. We’d spent the morning, snuggled up in his big king-sized bed, just shooting the shit and goofing off.

He didn’t have to go out on a run today, so there was no need to rush the morning like we normally had to 95% of the time. Eventually, though, the day had to get started. Dwight came knocking on the door, interrupting our relaxation time, saying he needed my husband for something. Being the man my husband is, he grumbled, cussed Dwight out, and then got outta bed while apologizing to me for the interruption and assuring me we’d finish relaxing when he got back later.

After a kiss, and a soft “I love you,” he was gone. Off to do what he did. It was my day off, so I laid in bed for a little longer before I too got up, dressed, and made my rounds. As the top female Savior, something I’d worked my ass off, fought for, and took seriously, I said hi to who I needed to, did what I needed to, and finally, sat down under my favorite tree out by the greenhouses.

I laid my leather jacket on the ground next to me, leaving me in my usually black t-shirt, holey but patched up and well worn blue jeans, and faded brown leather boots. Strapped to each thigh was a holster. In the right one was my signature gun, a .357 Magnum, 6-shot revolver. In the left holster, I kept my handcrafted 6 inch blade that I made back when I was 15, well over half a decade, shit closer to a decade ago, considering I was almost 25.

Bending my knees, and pulling them close in a comfortable position, I propped up the notebook I usually kept in my leather satchel with two backup knives, an extra gun, ammo, and a spare notebook for work along with several pens and pencils. The writing equipment was a rare commodity these days, so I always kept them close to me.

As I was writing a story I’d started a few days prior, I zoned out just a bit, focusing on it. I’d started writing when I was just 12 years old, and kept the habit up, even now, 3 years after the world ended and the dead started walking back in 2020 after the Coronavirus outback after the new year, new decade had started.

I was writing, losing myself in the words I printed on the paper in my chicken scratch. I say chicken scratch ‘cause, well...that’s basically what it was. As a lefty, my handwriting wasn’t necessarily the best, and a doctor’s prescription note was probably more legible. It was a mixture between slanted and curved print and semi-elegant at times cursive.

But, it was my handwriting, and I could read it. My husband sometimes had difficulty reading it, but he’d always put his black-rimmed glasses on, and fuck if they didn’t make him look sexier than he already was. Because of that, I sneakily wrote a little sloppier when I knew he’d have to read something from my notes about the runs I went on.

It was all an excuse to see him with those glasses perched on his nose, giving him that sexy professor look. He thought they made him look ridiculous, but I loved it. Since I was writing and zoned out, I wasn’t nearly as focused on my surroundings. I didn’t think I had to be. The tree was my safe spot when I wasn’t with my husband.

The Sanctuary was a relatively safe place, and that was thanks to the rules that were in place. So, it’d make sense that I wouldn’t focus on my surroundings as much and relax a bit as I wrote. But, boy was I wrong. I just didn’t realize it till it was far too late. Before I realized what was happening, I was being punched in the right side of my face, slinging my head to the side, as my notebook and bag were jerked away from me and my hair was roughly pulled, jerking my head backwards.

I went to grab my gun and my knife, but they’d already been taken from me. My eyes flirted back and forth in front of me, trying to process what was going on. But, everything was blurry and I was dizzy from the hit. I could barely make out three men close to me, far too close to me. They were basically on top of me.

Fuck. One of them actually was. I could feel the weight of him straddling my thighs, keeping me from standing. I couldn’t hear anything as the beating of my heart flooded my ears. I tried to fight back as best as I could, but the other two men grabbed my hands and jerked them away from my body and pinning them to the ground as they shoved my upper body down.

When they jerked my arms away, I felt, more than heard, my left shoulder dislocate. I clenched my jaw. The pain wasn’t anything new. I’d been dealing with a shoulder that dislocates when I fuckin’ sneeze since I was 13 years old. The pain, when it happened, was now at a tolerable level since I was so used to it happening.

I didn’t cry out. I knew not to. Plus, the wasn’t the type of person I was. I knew what was ‘bout to happen. It, like my shoulder, was something I’d had to put with for years growing. It wasn’t anything new either. But, that didn’t mean it was enjoyable. It was anything but. I barely processed my jeans being jerked down my hips and past my knees.

I could just barely hear the men laughing and joking around with each other, talking ‘bout what they were going to do to me and wondering why the fuck I was wearing two pairs of boxers under my jeans. I watched them, as best as I could with my vision being what it was. When the blurriness faded just enough, I could make out their features and recognized them as members of the new group that was brought in last week.

Members I’d brought into the Sanctuary. Into my house. I dropped my head back down to the ground and groaned to myself. I let my body go slack, waiting for the perfect time. When the men realized I wasn’t struggling anymore, they laughed and the two dumbfucks holding my arms down eased up on their grip.

The man on my legs lifted himself up just enough push his own pants down. Their easing up on their grip was their mistake and ultimately what led to their demise. Since they weren’t paying attention to me, thinking I’d just given up, and instead focusing on getting their baby carrot sized dicks outta their pants, I was able to strike back.

I immediately brought both my hands up, fingers curled in to form perfect fists without worry of possibly breaking my thumbs, ignoring the protest of my left shoulder, and cocked both the men on my sides straight in the noses. I internally smiled at the sounds of their noses breaking and their screams of pain.

They stumbled back just a little bit, hands covering their faces as they clutched their noses in an attempt to stop the extensive amount of blood falling. Clearly, I caught the man on top me off guard with my actions and he was shocked for a moment. It was perfect. I bucked him up off me, managed to jerk my pants up as I stood.

All one fluid motion.

Since he was still obviously in shock at me suddenly fighting back, he stumbled, tripping, and falling backwards on the ground. He tried to scurry backwards as fast as as he could. Despite being 5’3”, I was able to stay with him. I slammed my boot down on his stomach, making him howl in pain and wheeze as he struggled to get the air back that i’d just forced outta his lungs.

I kept my foot on his gut, putting most of my weight on it, digging the worn sole into his abdomen. He let out a sad excuse for a grunt as I did. I just smirked. This fucked had no idea who he’d fucked, or tried to fuck with. I leaned down and started pummeling the shit outta his face, keeping him in place with my foot.

Since he couldn’t get fresh air back into his lungs because of the position of my foot, he was too weak to try and fight back. To say I was a little disappointed at not having a challenge, would be like saying the dead weren’t walking around. It was a lie. I was disappointed, and I fueled that disappointment in with the anger as I literally beat him to death.

He kept trying to apologize, tried to plead with me, to not kill him, but I didn’t give a fuck. He was ‘bout to rape me, and I’d had ‘nough of that in my life. I wasn’t putting up with it. I eased up just before I knew he was about to die. Gave him false hope into letting him think his words had affected me. I let him get one last breath in as I completely lifted my foot off his torso.

“Than-” He started to say, but I cut him off as I slammed my boot into his face, effectively crushing his skull.

“Don’t fuckin’ thank me, prick.” I muttered to him as I wiped my boot off on his once clean but now bloody clothes. “You fuckin’ ruined my goddamn favorite fuckin’ pair of boots, asshole.”

Before I turned away from him, I spit on his crushed skull. Since it was destroyed, I didn’t have to worry ‘bout him coming back as a dean’un. I was a little sad that I wouldn’t get to kill him a second time, but he’d gotten what he deserved. Turning to the other two dumbfucks, I repeated my actions, and did to them exactly what I’d just done to their friend.

I knew my husband was going to be pissed that I killed these men, instead of letting him do it, but I’d deal with that. I wasn’t going to let these fuckers back inside the relatively safe concrete walls of the factory that was the Sanctuary. By the time I was down stomping in the skull of the third man, I looked up, as I finished, and noticed that I’d gathered quite an audience.

Including Simon. The right-hand man, third person in charge of the Sanctuary. His, and everyone else’s, eyes were wide, and everyone was silent. I knew I was gonna be in trouble since they’d just seen me stomp the life outta three men, but I didn’t give a fuck. I had shit to do. I gathered up my weapons, my jacket, and bag after shoving my shit into it and stormed inside the Sanctuary, flipping everyone off, not wanting to deal with their gawking.

Not caring ‘bout my bloody appearance, I made my way to the commissary, needing to grab a few things before I went back to my room. I found what I needed: a new pair of jeans identical to the ones i was wearing, a new t-shirt, undergarments, a pair of boots and a special item, an unopened, brand new boxed set of hair clippers.

Once I had what I needed, I stormed up to the room I share with my husband, stripping down to my bra and one pair of boxers when i get there.

Leigh’s P.O.V. ~ Now

“What the fuck was that fuckin’ shit out there, Leigh?!?”

I sigh as I hear my husband storm into our room, the door slamming shut behind him. I look at myself in the mirror as I lay the scissors down on the bathroom counter by the sink and pick up the clippers. Turning them on, I don’t reply to my husband. Not wanting to explain to him what happened at the moment.

I stare at myself in the mirror as I bring the clippers up to my shortened hair. I press the #2 guard to my head and move it backwards from my forehead to the back of my head, sticking to the once familiar hairline I used to see and live by religiously. I watch as the hair falls, joining the rest of my once long, curly locks, on the floor by my feet. I use my fingers to guide my movements, making sure I don’t go too high and completely fuck up my hair.

Once I have the hairline visible, separating what I want to keep and what I want to shave off, I move the guard down below my ear and with practiced ease, I shave the sides and back of head, getting rid of the hair. Keeping an eye on myself, making sure I don’t fuck up my haircut, not that I would since I used to do this every 2-3 weeks, I watch as my husband steps into the bathroom.

I watch as his eyes nearly bulge outta their sockets when he sees me. I watch as the anger vanishes from his face and body, being replaced with worry, sadness, and a hint of curiosity. I watch as his eyes traveling over the reflection of my face in the mirror, taking in my black eye, bruised and split open cheek, covered in blood and even the nasty black eye I’m now sporting.

I watch as he slowly moves his eyes up to meet mine in the mirror.

“What...what are you doing?” He asks softly.

My left eyebrow shoots sky high as I look at him. My husband rarely says a sentence without cussing every other word. And yet...he just asked a simple question without one sentence enhancer thrown in.

“What the fuck’s it look like I’m doing? I’m cutting my hair.” I say. “Decided I needed a new fuckin’ look. Don’t you fuckin’ love it?”

I know I’m being Captain fuckin’ Obvious at the moment, and a bit harsh, but I’m not ready to tell him what happened. That’s for after I get done. Cutting my hair is the only thing keeping me from completely shutting down and giving in to the panic attack that’s trying to take over. I watch as he lets out a deep breath as he slowly steps into the bathroom, padding across the tiled floor to me.

He places his hands on my shoulders and I do my best not to flinch. But he still sees it and quickly lifts his hands off me, holding them up in a surrendering pose. I know he’d never hurt me, and he was the one to save my life after this shit hole of a world started three years ago. But, I can’t help it. The feeling of those fuckers’ hands on me, plus the fact that my shoulder is still dislocated, keeps me from wanting to be touched.

“Can...let me help. Please, sweetheart.” My husband’s soft drawl meets my ears.

“No. I need to do this myself.” I reply, tightening my grip on the clippers.

I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he swallows deeply and nods. I keep my eyes on his in the mirror and finish cutting my hair. It’s been three years since I’ve cut my hair, but the muscle memory is still there. It’s like riding a bike. My husband watches as I finish shaving the sides of my head down to where there’s just a bit of peach fuzz.

Switching the clippers off, I replace the guard with a #1 and go back over the bottom hairline on the base of my neck. Once I have that done, I take the guard off completely and just put the metal of the clippers to the back of my neck doing my best not to flinch at the burning heat coming off it as it meets my skin.

I take that little strip down so there’s no hair there, running along along the hairline on my neck. I use the blending guard and even out the area, making the hair have a fade. Replacing the blending guard with the #7, I bring it up to the patch of hair on my head, and trim it down. When I finish, my feet are covered with a mountain of what used to be the long, thick, curly hair on my head.

My neck and shoulders are also covered with the little strands of hair that I buzzed off. Setting the clippers on the counter, I run my hands over the buzz cut I now sport and take in a deep, shaky breath. I let my head drop down, pressing my chin to chest and take another shaky breath in after letting out one.

“Baby?” My husband asks softly.

I lift my head and look up at him. My eyes roam over the unzipped black leather jacket he’s wearing over his standard white t-shirt and down to the grey jeans he’s wearing, held up by two leather belts. I let my eyes rest on his feet, no longer hidden by his own pair of black combat boots, but rather a pair of white socks.

Taking in another deep breath, I bring my eyes up to meet his. I can see the worry swimming in his muddy water brown eyes. I shake my head as i start to take my bra off and push my boxers down, stepping outta them as the pool ‘round my ankles.

“I need a shower.” I mumble and step ‘round him to walk to the stunning shower we share.

I grip the knobs tightly as I turn the water on, as hot as it’ll go. I need to feel the pain of the burning water over my skin. If I don’t, I know I’ll give in to that panic attack that’s already on the verge of consuming me. Stepping into the shower, I glance back at my husband over my shoulder.

“You can…” I mumble.

He nods as he understands what I’m trying to say. I look away, for the first time since we met, and eventually became intimate, not wanting to watch him undress. I know that if I were to watch, I’d see those assholes tugging their pants down, and I don’t want that. I don’t want my husband to be mixed in with them.

Standing under the burning hot water, feeling it flow over and pelt my skin, I bring my hands up and tightly grip what’s left of my hair, tugging on it. I feel Negan step into the shower, behind me. I don’t have to look. I know he’s there. I can feel the heat rolling off his skin, along with the worry and helplessness.

He hasn’t seen me like this in three years, and even then, it wasn’t this bad. I blindly reach for the bottle of men’s body wash he and I share and I vigorously scrub my body with it. Trying to get the touch and the blood of those men off me. It takes four harsh washes and rinses before I even begin to feel clean.

Negan just stands behind me, leaning against the back wall of the shower. He’s giving me my space while still letting me know he’s right there if I need him. The bottle slips outta my hands when I go to pour more of the soapy liquid into my palm. I’d leave it there, but Negan gently reaches around me, picking it up.

I hear the bottle open and can tell he’s pouring some into his own hands. I figure he’s just gonna wash his body until I feel his soft and gentle touch on my skin. I flinch and tremble at first, but eventually give into the feeling of him touching me. He takes his time, gently washing me, letting me get clean for the final time.

Letting me know that it’s ok. That it’s over. That’s he’s got me. That he’ll take care of me. Neither of us say a word as he takes the removable showerhead from it’s dock and gently rinses me off after he turns the cold water on, letting the temperature of the water mix until it’s no longer burning, but rather warm and gentle.

He lets the showerhead drop and dangle as he turns the water off and steps out. I keep my eyes closed and feel him wrap a soft towel around me. I open my eyes and bring them to meet his, only to find him staring at my dislocated shoulder. He blinks and his tongue darts out just a little from between his lips.

“Want me to put it back in place, sweetheart?”

I nod slowly.

“Put your right arm ‘round my waist, baby, and I will.”

I follow his soft command and a moment later, I feel his palms against my left shoulder. He’s helped me pop my shoulder back into place enough over the last few years that he knows what he’s doing. I suck in a deep, shaky breath right as he pops it back into place. I bit my lip to hold back the whimper from the pain.

As soon as he’s done, he wraps both his arms ‘round me and just holds me close as I bury my face against his wet chest. We don’t say another word for a solid 10 minutes. He just holds me as we stand in the bathroom, water pooling ‘round our feet. Eventually, he gently scoops me up in his arms and carries me to bed.

Sitting down on it, he just holds me in his lap, not saying anything. I know it’s his way of helping me get outta the panic attack and also letting me know that he’s listening when I’m ready to talk. It takes me a hot minute before I get the words out, and even then they’re just a whisper.

“They...they were trying to rape me.”

I hear him let out a growl and his arms tighten ‘round me, protectively. That’s his number one rule. Rape is not allowed. Followed by the prohibition of abusing women and children. He doesn’t say a word, letting me continue. I tell him everything that happened, as I tremble in his arms. He just holds me close, softly rubbing my back and taking even breaths to help me subconsciously focus on keeping my own breathing even.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there, baby.” He finally murmurs after I finish recounting the events. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. They got what they deserved. I just wish I could’ve introduced them to Lucille.”

My eyes flirt over to the barbed-wire baseball bat propped up against the wall by our bedroom door. She’s surprisingly clean. I guess Negan didn’t have to dish out any punishments today. Only I did.

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you, though, baby.” He whispers in my ear.

I look up at him, confused. “Proud?”

He nods. “Mmhhmm. You shut that shit down, and kept your cool until you were up here. I don’t know how you fuckin’ managed that, but I’m not surprised. I heard what you did, heard how you described it, and fuck, baby. I wish I’d seen you go Rambo on their asses. You’re my badass girl. I’m proud of you.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. Despite the events of the day, and me doing what I did, my husband still manages to make me smile. He slowly brings one hand up, keeping it in my line of sight, and cups my good cheek.

“Will you let me send Carson up here to stitch your cheek up and get you checked out?”

His eyes search mine, waiting for my reply, and hoping I’ll let him. I nod against his palm, and he lets out a deep breath. He reaches over to the nightstand and plucks his radio off it. His thumb pressed against the side button.

“Carson. Get your fuckin’ ass up to my room now, and bring your bag. Fuckin’ now.” He growls into the receiver.

“Yes, sir.” Comes the doctor’s reply not even a moment later.

Negan then pushes the button down again and talks.

“Simon. Bring two plates of food up to my room. Now. And make sure it’s some good shit too.”

Simon replies in the affirmative and Negan sets his radio down. He looks back at me and places his palm back against my good cheek. A gesture that always makes me relax.

“Can I ask why you cut your hair?” He asks softly.

“I refuse to let another man tug me around by hair, guiding me to do his bidding, especially during a situation like earlier. It was a flashback to my dad doing what he did. It’s why I’ve also cut my own hair. It’s the one thing I about my body that I can control. So, I keep it short and no man will ever be able to use my hair against me again.” I say, the truth just spilling out. “Plus, having it touch my ears, always made my anxiety ten times worse.”

He knows what my dad did, and he’s known that tugging on my hair was a hard limit for me. So, he never did it, which is why I let my hair grow out. I felt safe around him. I still do. But, having long hair is just a liability, and I refuse to be put in that situation again. He nods in understanding.

“I’m gonna miss your curls, though.” He says. “And waking up with a mouthful of your hair in my mouth.”

I can’t help but giggle at that. It’s true. Most mornings, he’d wake up, sputtering to spit out the strands of my hair that ended up in his mouth as we slept next to each other.

“I left enough on top so you can still play with my hair, babe. And, there’s still enough to run your fingers through it.” I assure him.

“Can I?”

I nod and a moment later, I feel his fingers on his other hand stroke through my wet hair, lightly massaging my scalp as he does. I let out a soft moan at the feeling and lean into his touch on my cheek, closing my eyes. He chuckles as he plays with my hair.

“If that’s your reaction to me doing that every single fuckin’ time, I could get used to it. And I’ll just have to get used to having an even stiffer hard on from the soft moans.” He smirks as he looks at me.

I blush and open my eyes looking up at him. “You're my husband. I think I can manage helping you out with the baseball bat you have in your pants.”

He laughs softly. “Yea?”

I grin. “Mmhhmm. You’re fond of Lucille. I’m quite fond of your own bat.”

He grins, showing off his dimples. “I’m fuckin’ fond of you, baby. Have been since we first met in the woods. Why else do you think I got rid of the wives years ago?”

I try not to grin as I shrug. “It was the only way you were getting in my pants and scoring a homerun.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not the only reason, baby. It was because I love you, Leigh.”

I grin from ear to ear and turn my head to place a soft kiss to his palm. “I love you too, Negan.”

Before he can say anything else, there’s a timid knock on the door.

“Come the fuck in!” Negan calls out, holding me close.

Dr. Carson comes in. He’s no longer as nervous as he used to be when I first showed up. But he’s still a little nervous around the man. I’ve gotten Negan to ease up on the fear of himself he’s instilled in people, and gotten him to be nicer in the way he treats folks. He’s not the bat-wielding lunatic he was when we first met.

He’s the man I always knew he was.

A soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather.

My soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather.

After Carson checks me out, determines nothing’s broken, assures me that everything is good, and stitches my cheek up, he leaves. Negan helps me get dressed in a pair of his boxers under my new jeans and one of his shirts before he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. Simon comes in shortly after I finish getting dressed, holding a tray of food for Negan and I.

His eyes widen as he looks at me, taking in my new appearance.

“What, Si? Never seen a girl with short hair before?” I ask, teasing.

He shakes his head. “I have. I just wasn’t expecting you to have cut your own. It looks good on you, fitting.”

I smile. “Thanks, Si.”

Leaning up, I kiss his cheek and then kick him out before Negan can Lucille him for staring at me. My husband knows Simon’s like a dad to me, the dad I never had, and that there’s nothing there. He just gets jealous and protective over me, not liking other men to stare. And, for once, I’m thankful, given the events of today.

As we eat, Negan and I stay on the bed, me snuggled up to his side. When we’re finished though, I look up at him.

“I have to tell you something else.” I say.

His eyebrow raises and he looks at me, grining. “What’s that? You planning on buzzing anything else?”

I laugh and playfully slap his bare chest. “No, asshole.”

He pretends to be hurt and rubs his chest, grinning. “Damn, girl. That hurt.”

I laugh and kiss his chest where I smacked him. “Feel better, Daddy?”

He grins that dimpled grin again and nods. “Mmhhmm. Now, what else you gotta tell me, babygirl?”

I smirk. “Well, Daddy…you see...”

He growls low in his throat. “Don’t tease me, little girl.”

I giggle. “I’m not, Daddy.”

I bring my hand down to rub my tummy.

“You full from eating?” He asks, covering my hand on my tummy, rubbing what he thinks is a food baby.

“Nope. But, it’s nice to see you already rubbing my tummy. I can happily get used to this over the next 7 months.”

“7 months?” His brow creases in confusion for a moment before his eyes widen. “You...you’re...we’re…?”

I giggle and nod as I lean up to kiss him softly.

“Yes, honey. I’m pregnant.” I say. “I’m 2 months along, and found out a few days ago. I was working on a story earlier, and that was gonna be how I told you, but shit happened, so I figured I’d just tell you.”

He lets out a high pitched squeal that I never would’ve expected from him, and pulls me right back into his arms and his lap. His beard tickles my neck as he grins against it, placing a soft kiss there. I giggle and wrap my arms ‘round him. Like I said, he’s a soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather.

My soft, 6’2” teddy bear wrapped in leather and I’m his buzzed haired girl.

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backchatdiscourse · 4 years

Text

Christmas Without You

I’m so pleased to tell @innueendo that I am your Secret Santa for @dtfrogertaylor‘s tgic!!! Merry Christmas! I hope you like it!

Title: Christmas Without You

Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader

Word Count: 2.4K

Summary: Roger has promised to fly out to you for Christmas during a break from tour. But when there’s radio silence from him in the days leading up Christmas, you may have to make do spending your holiday alone.

A/N: Flashbacks are italicized.

December 24. 2 a.m. He said he’d call when he got to the airport. He’d let you know his flight plans. Maybe he didn’t want to disturb you. There was the time change, after all. Maybe he wasn’t flying tonight. He could board early on Christmas Eve morning and still get here. Besides, just because it was late here doesn’t mean it it’s late there. There’s plenty of time for him to board yet today. Yesterday, technically.

Six hour difference. Eight hour flight. So only two hours, really. Plenty of time.

You could call him. Two in the morning here. It’s only eight in New York. Still the 23rd. He might be on his way to the airport. You could miss him. Or worse, you could try to call him exactly when he tries to call you, and you’d miss his call altogether!

That’s probably stupid. Unless it wasn’t?

No. Stupid. You picked up the phone and dialed the number. Roger had left you a list of the numbers for all the hotels he’d be staying at during Queen’s American tour, as well as which dates he’d be at each. He’d phoned you two days ago when he’d checked in to give you his room number, and you’d penciled it in beside the phone number.

Your handwriting looked so different from his. His was almost a chicken scratch. It might not be legible had you not had years of practice deciphering it. Even his horrid writing was endearing to you. You missed him so much you could barely breathe at times. Now was one of those times.

Holding the receiver to your ear, you counted the rings until a cheery sounding woman with an American accent greeted you.

“Yes,” you replied. “I’m looking for Roger Taylor in room 1322.”

“I see.” The change in her tone was instant and sharp. You imagined you weren’t the first woman phoning the luxury establishment looking for one of the four boys. You bitterly wondered how many had also given the correct room number. “And what is your name?”

“Y/N.”

The woman paused, presumably checking a list. “Alright Ms. Y/N, I’ll patch you through.”

“Thank you,” you said, but she was already gone. The phone was ringing once more.

And ringing...

For minutes.

You slammed the receiver down.

An overreaction, you thought before picking it up once more. Likely he had already left the hotel and was on his way to the airport. On his way to you.

You dialed the hotel again, and once again were greeted by the same cheery woman turned harsh when she heard that it was again you, this time looking for John. You’d met John, whom Roger affectionately called Deaky, only once, but the two of you had hit it off. Roger had jokingly asked if you’d wanted to be set up. You hadn’t much cared for that joke.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Y/N, but you are not authorized by Mr. Deacon to contact him.”

“Wait!” you didn’t want her to hang up before you were sure Roger had left yet. “Can you please ask him if he’d be willing to take a call?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

“Please! I just need to know if Roger is on his way to the airport yet. May I please speak to John? For just a moment?”

“Mr. Taylor left the hotel over an hour ago with a young woman. I don’t know where he went. Good evening, Ms. Y/N.” And with that, the brusque woman hung up on you.

You hung your receiver back on the wall, blinking back hot tears. Instead of coming to visit you for Christmas as promised, Roger was out and about in New York City with some American floozy. Fine. That was fine. Roger could see whoever he wanted. You weren’t his keeper. You weren’t his girlfriend. And if he didn’t even have the decency to call and tell you wasn’t coming then you didn’t want to see him anyway.

He wasn’t worth your time, and you didn’t want to see him.

You didn’t want him to come. You didn’t want to see him.

Maybe if you kept telling yourself that, you’d start to believe it.

~~~

You woke up the next morning, feeling delightfully well-rested on Christmas Eve to a knock at your door. You looked over to your nightstand and found it was already afternoon. That would explain feeling well-rested. Another knock.

You sat bolt upright. Could it be? Maybe it was. He’d made it after all!

You sprinted through your apartment and threw open the door to find-

your neighbor.

Oh.

“You left your keys in the door,” he told you.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, pulling them out of the lock and feeling suddenly tired once more.

You migrated to the sofa and stared at the Christmas tree. Alone. On Christmas Eve.

You’d put up the tree in early December, also alone, hanging your favorite ornament front and center on the tree, a golden sparkling pair of crossed drumsticks you’d bought on impulse this year. You were going to surprise Roger with them this year if ever made it back.

He’d called you that first night and asked you to describe the tree to him in detail. The lights, the tinsel, the ornaments and their placement. “Is that creepy looking baby angel right up front?” he’d asked, as if you’d dare place his favorite ornament anywhere else. It hung just to the right of the new drumstick ornament, the only aspect of the tree you didn’t tell him all about. You were sure he’d appreciate the surprise.

If he came.

Decorating the tree with Roger had become a tradition in years past. Early in December, you’d put up the tree, hanging ornaments in turn, stringing the lights and the tinsel, and generally having an absurdly good time together. You have a photo somewhere of Roger making a stupid face with an ornament hanging over either ear and a pile of tinsel on his head in a sloppy crown.

The tradition had become important to you both, but held a special place in your heart specifically. Two years ago, when decorating the tree, you’d fallen asleep on the armchair and woken up, tied to the chair by a strand of lights.

You looked up to see Roger standing above you, with that troublemaker’s smile of his. Assessing the situation, you remarked, “You didn’t do a very thorough job. Lights only? What about the tinsel and the ornaments? What about the topper? What kind of crummy looking tree only has lights? This is slapshod work, Taylor.”

“I thought about it,” he said, “but you look gorgeous enough as it is. I don’t think my heart could take it if you got anymore beautiful.”

As quickly as the moment occurred, it was over. He was untying you, and you were decorating the tree together, just like always, and he was once again his normal self, sans flirting. It was fine, really. Roger was flirty, you knew, with everyone. But in that moment you found yourself seeing Roger in a new light. Not just your good friend Roger, but perhaps something more? You tried to calm the butterflies and ignore the notion, but it persisted. You had feelings for Roger. Your Roger. Your friend, who had never let you down.

Never until today. When you sat alone in front of a tree, while he traipsed around New York with some other girl.

~~~

Christmas Eve came and went, with no word from Roger.

On Christmas morning, you padded into the kitchen to fix yourself breakfast, feeling none of the excitement you usually felt on Christmas. You fixed yourself a full English breakfast, despite it not being one you enjoyed. You’d bought all the fixings before Roger blew you off. You wanted to surprise him with a meal from his English home after spending so many weeks in America and then spending Christmas away from home with you. You could hardly run out to the store today, though, so you suffered through the mess of beans, toast, eggs, and sausage alone.

After your meal, you resolved yourself to trying to call Roger again, despite the early hour there. Maybe you wanted to give him a piece of your mind, or maybe you were just a masochist, you weren’t sure which. You dialed the hotel, not realizing you were holding your breath until the front desk clerk answered. It was a different employee this time, for which you were grateful.

“Hello, this is Y/N, can I please reach Roger Taylor in room 1322?”

“Of course; one moment.”

And the line was ringing...

And ringing...

You were about to hang up when a groggy voice answered. “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.

You slammed the receiver down.

A tear rolled down your cheek this time.

How could he do this to you? How could he pick some strange woman over his best friend for Christmas. And worse still, how could he not tell you? It was bad enough not to come after he promised. After years of holiday traditions. But to do so without a word of acknowledgement?

Roger meant everything to you. You’d give up everything you had just to be with him today. But you clearly weren’t worth the time or the money or even a simple call. How could you have been so foolish as to believe you were actually important to him?

Well that was all well and good.

You stormed to the tree and ripped the drumsticks ornament from it, throwing it across the room in a blind fury of grief and embarrassment.

You refused to let that inconsiderate ass of a man ruin your holiday, so you found a Christmas movie on television and fixed yourself a hot chocolate.

“I’m out of mini marshmallows, sorry,” you told him.

“Unacceptable! How am I supposed to enjoy a hot chocolate without mini marshmallows?” Roger teased.

You rolled your eyes. “You’ll have to manage with the full sized ones.”

His jaw dropped in fake shock. “Full size? You’re mad, woman!”

You ignored him. “One or two marshmallows? I’m using two.”

“One and three-sevenths,” he answered immediately and seemingly in all seriousness.

You refused to look at him. If you looked at the earnest facade you knew he was fronting, you’d be certain to laugh. And the last thing you wanted to do was encourage him. You didn’t want him to see how he was affecting you, how his playful banter was making your heart beat faster.

“Roger Meddows Taylor, that is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Pick a normal number of marshmallows or do without.”

He made an indignant noise. “Don’t middle name me! And I will not! One and three-sevenths! That’s the amount of large marshmallows that equals the amount of miniature ones I’d prefer.”

“You are making that up and you know it,” you scolded, unable to keep the smile out of your voice. “I am not going to make a huge sticky mess trying to cut up a marshmallow into three-sevenths.”

“Well I don’t know what we’re going to do then, Y/N.”

You looked over and couldn’t hide your smile. As he beamed at you, you couldn’t imagine how he didn’t see the adoration in your eyes.

Willing yourself to ignore the intruding memory, you settled into your sofa to watch your Christmas film.

After it ended there was a second, followed by a third, and on and on. It was almost enough to keep your mind occupied. To allow you to forget how you were home alone on Christmas, abandoned by the one you wanted most to share the day with. Sometimes you could forget for a half hour or so, but then the clock would chime, reminding you that it was later and later, and he wasn’t coming. Or a scene would come up on screen, with a man and woman holding each other, or sharing a kiss under the mistletoe, and you felt hollow inside.

As the last movie ended, you checked the clock. 11:30 pm. You’d nearly done it. You’d almost gotten through the day. You’d live to tell the tale of the sad and lonely Christmas of Y/N. You internally chastised yourself for being so melodramatic. Plenty of people were worse off than just being ditched. Still, it hardly helped.

A knock at the door.

An all too familiar voice. “Y/N?”

Your breath caught. Momentarily forgetting your anger and depression, you ran to the door and threw it open.

“Roger!” you yelled, throwing yourself into his arms with such force that you almost toppled the both of you.

He laughed and held you in his arms. “God, Y/N, am I glad to see you. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

And with his admission, you pulled away, freshly reminded of your indignation. “Did your flight just come in?”

“Yes, I-“

“How could you do this to me?” you interrupted. “You put off spending Christmas with me, like you promised, in order to sleaze around with some sloppy groupie! You didn’t even bother to call! I spent the past two days angry and upset and you didn’t care! You ruined my Christmas, Roger Taylor, and now you show up at the last second like everything’s all right? Maybe you should just go.”

“Go? Y/N, what are you talking about? I flew all this way just to be with you!”

“At the last second! You never called me! And when I tried to reach you THIS MORNING some woman answered your phone!”

He paused. “Y/N, I’ve been traveling for two days. I don’t know who you spoke to on the phone, but I wasn’t there. I gave Brian my room when I left because it was nicer than his.”

Two days? Now that he mentioned it, he looked like hell. He had bags under his eyes, and his hair was greasy. His clothes were wrinkled and he looked as though he could barely stand.

You took his suitcase and led him to the sofa. “How did it take you two days to get here? Why didn’t you call?” You tried to make the second question sound as non-accusatory as you could, though you didn’t think you’d succeeded.

“New York was a nightmare. The worst blizzard they’d seen in decades, apparently. Almost every flight was cancelled. Everything else was delayed. I was in the airport overnight. I had to take a plane in the wrong direction just to get out. I flew west to Chicago and had to find a new flight out to Edinburgh and make a connection from there to here. I did everything I could to get here on time. I’m so sorry I couldn’t do it.” He was looking at you so earnestly that it was too much to handle. You had to break eye contact.

“You never called.” Your heard how small your voice had become.

“I know. I’m sorry. The phones at the airport were out of order. Most of the city’s phone lines were affected, I heard. Something to do with the storms. I couldn’t call from Chicago or Scotland. I didn’t have time. By the time I finally got my flights in order they were back to back. I almost missed one of my connections.”

“Oh.” You supposed that made sense. “But the hotel clerk said she saw you leave with some woman.” This came out far less as an accusation, and more genuinely perplexed.

Roger seemed confused for a minute before seemingly coming to a realization. “Oh! Well I don’t suppose it was any of her business, but I left the hotel with one of John’s girlfriends. Like I said, the city was a mess, so we shared a cab to the airport. Doubtful that we would’ve been able to get two.”

“Oh.” You felt like a fool, throwing around accusations and doubting that Roger wouldn’t be there for you if he was able. Your previous anger and sadness seemed to mingle with your newfound guilt and you once again felt your face grow warm and red from unshed tears.

“Oh, Y/N, no, don’t be upset!” Before you realized what was happening, he pulled you to him and planted a deep kiss on your lips.

You eventually pulled away, shocked.

His blue eyes stared deep into yours and you felt exposed, almost, as if the look alone was too intimate.

“Y/N, I would never, ever let you down like this if there was any human way to avoid it. I wanted to be with you today more than anything in the world. You’re the most important person in my life.”

“I am?”

“Of course you are.”

You sat quietly for a moment, unsure where to go from here. It’s what you’ve wanted for years, but you you never actually thought you’d get it.

“What’s this?” Roger held up the drumsticks ornament you’d thrown to the floor. It must have landed beside the sofa.

“It was a surprise for you, in honor of your America tour. I threw it off the tree when I’d thought you’d blown me off.”

He studied it with a small smile on his face. “It’s perfect. Thank you, love.”

Love. He’d called you that before, but it felt different now. Less casual, more sincere.

“Roger,” you said very seriously, “I love you so much that I’d cut a marshmallow into a stupid fraction for you if you asked me to.”

You both felt and heard his laughter as he pulled you into his chest.

“And I love you so much, Y/N, that I won’t ask you to.”

#tgic #roger taylor x reader #userinnueendo #merry christmas #jo’s trash

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all-the-lovely-newsies · 4 years

Text

What a Moment Can Do (Chapter Four)

What A Moment Can Do (Chapter Four)

Chapter One / On Ao3

Chapter Two / On Ao3

Chapter Three / On Ao3

Thank you guys for all the support!!

Summary: Crutchie visits Snyder

Triggers: Child Abuse, Pain, Blood, Verbal abuse, Physical Abuse, Swearing (please tell me if I forgot anything), Verbal Ableism (just one word I think)

(OR READ ON Ao3)

Crutchie did his best to stay upright as the guard dragged him down the long hallway. Doors lined the walls, taunting him, reminding Crutchie of just home many children called this place home. And if each room was as full as his- he shuddered- trying to push the thoughts away.

The hallway was unnaturally quiet for one that occupied so many children. Only the creaking of floorboards and the occasional scream or cry from behind one of the doors proving he wasn’t alone. With each scream, Crutchie winced and his mind wandered to all the possible reasons for the outbursts. Suddenly, the guard grabbed his shirt and gave it a quick yank, causing him to fly forward.

“Would ya quit hoppin’ and hurry up. I ain’t got all day,” the guard sneered. Crutchie just glared at the guard and continued to hop, which earned him a swift cuff to the back of the head. “I said stop hoppin’, you ain’t a rabbit”

“I can’t!” Crutchie snapped, sharper than he intended. He was rewarded by being thrown against the ground, a rippling pain shooting up his leg and hip.

“You’ll learn to shut your damn trap and show some respect, boy,” the guard jeered and stomped his boot straight into his ribs. He then lifted Crutchie back up by his collar so they were at eye level. “You’re lucky we’re on a time crunch here, ‘cause I can do a lot worse than that.”

(OR READ ON Ao3)

Crutchie swallowed deeply and nodded. “I uh, I need my crutch. Can’t walk without it.” The guard just let out a huff in response and proceeded to drag Crutchie down the hall. After a couple of turns, they stopped at a door with a plaque nailed to the top that read: Donald Snyder- Warden. Crutchie took a deep breath in an attempt to steady his heart that was about to leap out of his chest. The guard seemed to notice the change in demeanor and chuckled before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” came a deep voice from the other side of the door. The guard opened the door and Crutchie’s eyes went wide. The room was much nicer than any room he’d seen before. A large, wooden desk was situated in the middle of the room, covered in papers and trinkets, a bookcase and file cabinet behind it, and a singular wooden chair sat in front of the desk. Snyder raised his eyes from the booklet he was writing in. “Ah, Brooks, it’s about time.” Brooks shoved Crutchie forward and force him into the chair.

“Sorry boss, the kid’s slow as they come. Says ‘e can’t walk right or somethin’,” Brooks placed a hand roughly on Crutchie’s shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze.

“Well, boy?”

“I can’t,” he stated through gritted teeth, “I need my crutch.” Snyder’s eyebrows furrowed but then came to a realization.

“Ah, right. You’re the crippled kid.”

“I ain’t a-!” Crutchie yelled and promptly received a backhand and a glare from Brooks. Snyder’s disposition remained calm as he reached under his desk and came up with a crutch in hand. Crutchie’s heart sunk a bit when he saw a dark brown stain covering one side of it.

“I’d watch your mouth, boy”

“And I’d watch where ya put yer hands, ya schmuck,” Crutchie retorted and pulled his shoulder out of the guard’s grip. Brooks growled but didn’t respond as Snyder held his hand up.

“I don’t have time for this right now. You’ve already put me behind schedule and I gotta get to lunch,” Snyder pulled out a loosely bound book and flipped it open. Crutchie noticed the long list of names that were smudged and crudely written across the page, each accompanied by a chicken scratch signature and some other information he couldn’t make out. “Gotta name, boy?”

“Crutchie.” Snyder looked up from his book.

“Got a real name?”

Crutchie shrugged, “’s the only name I respond to.” Snyder mumbled something about ‘stupid street rats’ but scribbled the name down anyway.

“Last name?”

“Morris.” He wrote it down.

“Age?” Crutchie hesitated. He’d lied about his age for so long that the actual number evaded him. Apparently he took too long to respond because he received another cuff to the back of the head.

“Fifteen,” he spat out. Snyder nodded and scribbled down the information. The room stayed eerily silent for a while as he filled out more information.

“Sign here,” Snyder flipped his book around and handed Crutchie a pen. Crutchie leaned in closer to the desk to write something that resembled his name, he knew the basics of reading and writing, but with little practice, his handwriting was barely legible. As he was writing he glanced at the side of the desk and noticed a copy of The Sun. Upon closer inspection, his eyes lit up at the headline ‘Newsies Stop the World’, it read, accompanied by a large black and white picture of the faces he knew all too well. Before he realized what he was doing Crutchie smiled, let out a laugh, and grabbed the paper.

“Wouldya look at that?” he pointed to the picture, “That’s me! And-and-and Jack and everyone! We did it, Jack did it, I can’t believe it!” If Crutchie were to have looked up from the paper, he would have seen Snyder’s eyes widen with interest.

“These boys, they’re your friends?” His voice was deceivingly friendly.

“They’se my brothers.” Crutchie analyzed every inch of that paper. The way Jack stood proud and strong, the smiles worn by Blink and Mush who were beaming ear to ear, Race’s cigar clenched between his fingers and held high above his head. The one moment where everything was going right. The calm before the storm. The storm. Crutchie’s smile quickly snapped to a frown as he flicked his head up to meet Snyder’s eyes that held a spark and whose lips were curled into a wicked smile.

“So you’re close with these boys, huh? Especially that Jack. Jack Kelly, he and I go way back as well, y’know.” Crutchie could feel a lump gather in his throat. His hands that still gripped the paper and pen began to uncontrollably shake and he made an attempt to escape from the chair, only to be restrained by Brooks. “Well?”

“N-no sir, I’se-um-neva seen dem in me life. It’s this brain of mine. Has a mind of it’s own,” he stuttered out.

“Hmm, well,” an odd sweetness lined each of Snyder’s words, “why don’t you take that paper with you and maybe Brooks here can help jog your memory. Whatdya say Brooks?” Brooks smiled maliciously and nodded.

“Yes, sir I think that can be arranged.”

“I don’t know if I’d trust him sir, as he can’t even tie ‘is shoes right,” Crutchie tried to snap back in an attempt to regain some confidence. He turned around to see Brooks glancing down at his feet.

“You little.”

“Take it outside Brooks,” Snyder tossed the crutch at Crutchie, frowning a bit when he caught it. “I need my lunch.”

Brooks’ face turned beet red but nodded and forced Crutchie up and out the door. Crutchie gripped onto his crutch, glad to finally be able to get around on his own again. He took another look at the newspaper and wished that he could be with the boys again. What he wouldn’t give to hear Race and Albert’s bickering in the morning or to sit up on the rooftop with Jack, listening to his fantasies of Santa Fe. He’d love to hear just about anything other than the crippling silence of the hallway, broken up only by the clicking of his crutch.

In a moment he regretted thinking that as Brooks roughly shoved Crutchie up against the wall by his throat. His crutch went clattering to the ground as he focused his efforts on grabbing the arm that was constricting his breathing.

“I’ve had just about enough of you boy,” Brooks snarled, “You and that kid you see to care about so much.”

“Don’t…you hurt… ‘im” Crutchie managed to gasp out. He looked up just in time to see Brooks’ fist connect with his eye causing pain to ripple through his skull.

“You may think you’re tough, boy, but you haven’t seen half of what I’m capable of, and I’ll do it with pleasure. So keep running your mouth, keep testing me. I’d love to see what happens, especially now that I have the blessings from the boss. I will break you, oh ho I’ll break you, and I’ll love every minute of it. So I’d wipe that smug look of yours right off before I do it for you.” He gave Crutchie one more good shake before releasing him. Crutchie slumped against the wall, heaving and gasping for air.

“Get up.”

Propping himself against his crutch he gathered up the newspaper and followed Brooks back to the room. Crutchie glanced back down at the newspaper, he had to remind himself why he had to be strong, why he was doing this. He was so distracted that he didn’t realize when Brooks stopped in front of the door and shoved him inside.

Immediately Crutchie’s heart sunk as the door slammed behind him. A large group of boys surrounded the area where he left Eddy. He rushed past the group, ignoring the grumbles of protest as he shoved by. Crutchie winced at the sight, Eddy was curled in a ball, furiously coughing and spitting up blood next to him. There wasn’t even an attempt at getting his sleeve. Ten-Pin, who was kneeling next to the young boy, glanced up at Crutchie and shook his head slowly as he gently placed the back of his hand against Eddy’s forehead.

Crutchie slumped down next to Ten-Pin and looked at him anxiously.

“ ‘e ain’t looking too good. But ‘es been asking for you.” Crutchie nodded and leaned back against the wall, pulling Eddy into his lap. Ten-Pin let the two be and did his best to shoo away the crowd.

“Crutchie?” The voice came out strained just above a whisper.

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m here,” Crutchie’s voice shook. Eddy looked up at him and pointed at the newspaper.

“What’s that?” Crutchie held out the paper so he could see.

“It’s the newsies. We made it in the papes. Can ya believe it?” Eddy’s eyes lit up but instead of responding, he quickly turned away and let out another string of coughs, stray blood speckling Crutchie’s pants. The young boy whimpered and curled tighter into a ball.

“Look here,” Crutchie tried to distract him and pointed at himself in the paper,

“There’s me, and- and Jack and Race and Les- ‘es about your age- and Davey,” he continued down the line of brothers.

Eddy smiled, “Finch is the one who was afraid of the bird, right?”

Crutchie couldn’t help but laugh. “Yup, that’s him. You were listenin’ huh?”

Eddy giggled, “ A course! What a- what does the pape say?”

Crutchie took a breath, in all honesty, he didn’t get a chance to read it himself. He glanced at the headline, “Newsies Stop the World” he read aloud, “With all eyes fixed on the trolley strike, another battle brews in the city-”

“ You’se like those fancy guys in shiny uniforms. A real battler,” a voice perked up from the room.

“It’s soldier, idiot,” another proclaimed.

Crutchie’s eyes snapped up to see that he had once again gained an audience. A handful of boys were either sitting cross-legged or leaning in from their beds to get a piece of the information. The one who spoke up puffed out his chest, “My Pa was a soldier. Had a shiny medal and ev’rything.”

“Yeah? And what’d good that do ya? Ya still in here ain’t’cha?” piped up the boy sitting next to him. The first boy turned to punch the other and soon there was a scuffle on the floor. A ruckus quickly followed and a guard had slammed on the door to quiet them. When the two boys didn’t stop Fives came over from his bunk.

“Woah, hold on there Private!” Fives sneered pulled the two boys apart. “What we don’t need in here is us fighting each other, got that?” he stared straight at the boys and they quickly nodded.

“Sorry, Fives” they chorused.

“Now, I’m sure this kid’ll finish the article if you idiots would be quiet.” Fives cuffed the back of both boys’ heads and nodded towards Crutchie. Crutchie opened his mouth to thank him but was quickly silenced by a glare from the older boy. “Well”

Crutchie cleared his throat, “Uh- ehem- A modern-day David posed to take on the rich and powerful Goliath, Jack Kelly stands ready to beat the behemoth, Pulitzer,” he continued and was uninterrupted for the rest of the article.

By the time Crutchie finished many of the boys had lost interest, but Eddy’s eyes stayed fixed on Crutchie, clinging on to every word.

“Jack seems really amazing,” he whispered through a cough.

Crutchie sighed, “Yeah, he is. He really is. I miss him.”

“You could write him a letter.”

“Huh?”

“A letter, y’know. Sometimes my Ma would write ‘em to my Grams cause she lives cross da ocean. You could write Jack one, and we could give it ta ‘im.”

Crutchie smiled at the boy’s innocence. “ Sure Eddy, I think that’s a great idea.” He flipped through the paper until he got to a page with some blank space.

“You ready?” Eddy nodded. “Dear Jack,” Crutchie started, reading aloud as he wrote, “Greetings from the Refuge.”

TAGLIST:: (Let me know if you want to me added or removed)

@romeo-in-a-trenchcoat @klaineharmony @americasfavoritefightingthot @stripeconlon @jd-sammy @wingedprunepsychiclawyer @nerdgirl453 ( @waitin-makes-me-antsy

#Newsies #Newsies fanfiction #Newsies fics #Moment Fic #Crutchie #Crutchie Newsies #Newsies Live #DustyWrites #What a Moment Can Do #tw:Physical abuse #tw: verbal abuse #tw: blood #tw: ableism

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your-nms-preferences · 5 years

Note

(in case tumblr ate it again) wakatoshikun finding cute little notes and tiny snacks and gifts from reader addressed to him on his desk and shoe locker and everywhere he goes and getting really flustered?

Sorry for taking so long to respond, and thank you for sending this in! I’ve been wanting to write for Wakatoshi for a while now, and I finally have a chance to do it!

The letter flew out of this locker as soon as he had wrenched it open. Twirling through the air, gracefully descending to the ground. After a few seconds of it dancing in front of him, it made a soft landing. Just on top of his shoe, sliding off of it and onto the panelled floors below.

Wakatoshi, after a few moment’s hesitation, picked up the piece of paper. Looking upon it curiously, focusing on the heart sticker that was used to seal it shut. Was this supposed to be a love letter? Probably not, he doubted anyone would be able to like the most feared student on Ikemen Academy’s campus. Then, if not that, then what the hell was it supposed to be?

He worked his fingernail under the flap, tearing it open. There sat a sticky note that was much too small to fill up the entirety of the space inside. Now he knew it wasn’t a letter which talked about someone’s undying love for him. Even though he knew it wasn’t going to be one, he still had some lingering disappointment inside.

He gingerly took it out, and began to read it. The handwriting looked rushed, barely even legible, as if the writer had to hurry while making this. But, he still somehow managed to read it, no matter how terrible the font was.

‘Are you sure you aren’t lost? Because this school is far away from heaven ;)’

He wanted to stop reading then and there. But, for the sake of satisfying his curiousity, he continued reading.

‘Sorry for that. Anyways, you haven’t met me, but I just think you’re pretty neat! I don’t get why so many people try to beat you up. I hope the rest of your day goes great, and you get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow, there’ll be a special surprise on your desk from me! Hopefully, none of your classmates steal it before you get to it. So make sure to get there fast!

- From, a special someone’

That was where the letter ended, leaving him to wonder about who this special someone was. Was it one of his classmates, or an underclassman he had never noticed before? But, the words in the letter were just so unbelievably sweet. Unlike the empty threats he received from punks who picked fights with him, reprimands he received for his behaviour, nor the forced kindness when someone, who was so obviously scared of him, talked to him.

He remembered the ‘surprise’ they had mentioned in the letter, and anticipation bubbled up inside of him. He began to look forward to the next day, and he just couldn’t wait for the hours to pass. But, maybe this was a prank, a trick to bring his hopes up. God, he hoped that wasn’t it.

But, when the morning came, and he was the first to enter the classroom. He saw something, sitting in the center of his desk. Just waiting for him to go and pick it up. So, he bolted over to it as if his life depended on it, and swept it into his hand. Where another sticky note was placed on top of the gift.

‘Good morning! Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and I don’t really ever see you grabbing a bite in the morning. I know this isn’t the best thing ever, but it was all I had time for! I’ll grab you something better next time, I promise!

- From, a special someone’

Peeling back the note, he saw that it was just a simple pack of melon bread. And he could feel his heart warm up, and he had the sudden overwhelming urge to protect the sender of the letter with his very life. But, internally, there was a lingering doubt that there would ever be a next time. This was just a one time thing, where someone had pitied him so much that they had to give him something nice before they took it away from him.

Then it happened again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

After a while of being showered in gifts, snacks, and sticky notes filled with the sweetest words he had ever read, he realized that this wouldn’t stop. How could someone be this kind? To go out of their way to buy some food at the convenience store for him, taking time out of their day to write such delightful letters, even buying full on gifts for him. Bandages decorated with cartoon characters- they even managed to get ahold of the limited edition Pyo-kun ones- and even mini stuffed animals.

All of this, and he didn’t even know their name. He’d probably never seen their face, unless they were someone he knew, and they were just that damn good at hiding their identity. Maybe it was someone who never stood out to him in the crowds at school. He was just dying to know who it was, so he could thank them repeatedly for all they did for him.

That’s why he took things into his own hands, and trespassed into his classroom to pull an all-nighter. Which, believe it or not, wasn’t the worst thing he had done within the three years he had attended the academy. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be scared off when they entered the classroom and saw him looking like a hot mess from a horror movie.

The hours of the night drifted by, with him struggling to stay awake with every passing second. It was like there was lead inside his skull and it was pulling him down, tempting him to just flop on the floor, and fall asleep. But, if he did that, then the point of coming here in the first place would be defeated.

Just when he was on the verge of slipping into unconciousness, yawn after yawn escaping his mouth, he heard the door to the class slide open. He turned his head to the side, scrambling up from the floor, and trying to face the intruder properly. With a sheet of drowsiness slipping over his mind, he was barely able to hold himself up. But he managed, his eyes focusing on the person frozen in front of him.

And he saw you, gazing at him in shock with your mouth agape. In your hands was a full bento box, the meal you had planned for him on that day. While you stared at him with an expression of utmost shock.

Sleepily, he began to speak. “So, uhm.. You’re the one that’s behind all this.” His words were quiet, just barely above a whisper, and they were slowed. What else would you expect from someone who was running on just a few hours of sleep? After a moment’s silence on your end, he hoped that he wasn’t scaring you. Was he glaring at you, something about the way he looked? He really didn’t want to make the person who had been spoiling him run away.

You shifted your position, straightening yourself out. “Yep, that’s me!” You affirmed with a bright smile and a nod. “Sorry for hiding from you for so long, I kind of chickened out. I wanted to meet you, I really did! But I just couldn’t find enough courage to..”

You trailed off, looking to the side to avoid his gaze. He would have considered himself blessed if he got to meet you sooner, but thank heavens he got to do it now. Boy, you were even cuter than how you made yourself seem in the notes.

“A-Anyways! You’re here now, and I’m here too! So I guess I should give you the proper greeting you’ve been waiting for all this time.” You laughed awkwardly, scratching your cheek. Before holding out you hand for him to shake. “Hi! My name is {Y/N} {L/N}! The stranger, well not so much of a stranger anymore, who was sending you all these things all this time! Nice to finally meet you, Wakatoshi-senpai!”

A blush ran across his face, and he prayed that you wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark. He took your hand, a shaky smile creeping up onto his face. He held onto it a bit longer than expected, but let go once he saw how long he had been holding your hand for. He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. How did you talk to the person who had been pampering you with presents for months now? It was a hard question to answer.

“Ah- Um!” He spluttered out, trying to start some kind of conversation. “W-Well, ya give me no choice. How can I repay you? Can I buy you something, t-take you out somewhere? Or should I pull the same shtick as you and give you notes n’gifts in return? I r-really don’t know what to say, nobody’s really done this kind of thing for me before so..”

You hummed in reply, shaking your head at his suggestions. “Silly, you don’t have to give me anything in return! I just felt like it! And, you deserve a break from all the fights you get into. Unlike the punches people throw at you, it doesn’t hurt to receive something nice, and it doesn’t hurt me to give them to you!”

He choked on nothing, just too flustered by your words. He swore that this was all a dream, he probably just fell asleep, and you were just someone his mind thought up of. Just to make sure, he pinched his wrist. Biting his lip when he actually felt pain from it. That confirmed this was reality. It just felt like a dream.

“N-No, there’s gotta be somethin’ I can do for ya! I can’t just walk away from this and ignore all you’ve done!” He protested.

You blinked at his offer, tapping your index finger to your chin. “Why don’t we share this bento box I made! I mean, there’s only one pair of chopsticks, but..” You twirled the wooden utensils in your hand.

“That’s it? I don’t mind doin’t that.” He said, sitting down in one of the desks backwards, his chest leaning against the back of the chair. “Come on, let’s eat before class starts. Sensei will lose his mind if he sees us.”

With that, you practically skipped over to the desk, sitting directly across from him. Opening the box and feeding him the first bite, beaming all the while Wakatoshi tried to avert his gaze. Attempting to hide his obvious blush from you.

Kyouya sensei wasn’t all too mad when he caught you two in his classroom, fast asleep, and together in your own little world.

#notice me senpai game #skillshot labs #NMS #notice me senpai imagines #notice me senpai #notice me senpai x reader #delinquent senpai #delinquent senpai x reader #wakatoshi senpai #wakatoshi senpai x reader #nms x reader #psa i still dont know how tags work lmao #help im writing this at 2 am and i am barely functioning

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highjinks · 2 years

Text

my birthday is tomorrow

Tomorrow, I will turn 31 years old.

I started this silly blog going on 13 years ago in July of 2009. I distinctly remember starting it so I could chronicle my journey through college; a little something for myself to remember the ins and outs of me finally getting out of my hometown - of finally being able to figure out who I was and who I wanted to be. I was thrilled at the time; I was accepted into a premed program, hoping to become a pediatrician or pathologist. But after only one semester, I found myself packed up and back home at my absolute last choice of colleges and studying for an English bachelors instead. My anxiety did me in. So I lived at home, and my college experience was not the typical one. Regardless, I continued to chronicle everything here: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

My parents’ divorce is here. Falling in love for the first time and then the first subsequent heartbreak. The laughter, the tears, the drugs, and the alcohol. The uncertainties. The bursts of overwhelming happiness. Meeting my husband. Marrying my husband. It’s all here.

Ten years is an entire lifetime, and sometimes, I feel like I’ve lived more than just one in the last decade. Other times, I still feel as afraid and bashful as the 18 year old kid who started this blog.

I suppose it can be seen as kind of pathetic that I still write in here. I am not ignorant to this fact, but I like to think this has become no different than a paper journal. Despite multiple attempts, and much wasted money on beautiful leather bound journals praying the quality of the journal would coerce me into using it, I cannot keep a paper journal. After two or three painstakingly handwritten entries, where you can see my frustration building in the way my handwriting evolves from legible to chicken scratch, I give up and return here. My typing keeps up much better than my handwriting. Even sometimes I struggle to match my hands to my mind. As Sam says, I just think too much. Some things never change, even over a decade.

I hope I am making the 18 year old girl who started this blog proud. I finally got out of my hometown. I took 12 years, but I did it.

I live in Denver now - on the plains. The plains are disappearing by the day with “ticky tacky” houses being built within days, and I shouldn’t complain because I am, ultimately, part of the problem. “Transplants,” they call us. “Stop coming here. You’re ruining Colorado.” Colorado was never the top of my list, I promise, but I was, without exaggeration, given an offer I couldn’t refuse. And here I am, living right off of a major nature preserve where the buffalo roam and have families, and I was practically accosted by a bald eagle - twice this week. Then Sam sends me a security video from his job where, for the first time in my entire existence, I saw a wild wolf. Wolves were recently introduced, and Sam works on the real plains; the ones that haven’t been touched by civilization yet. The kind of plains where he has to wear a special kind of leather covering for his pants so the rattlers won’t strike him dead. Wolves are out there.

It’s still so wild on the plains, despite all of us transplants. When the sun starts creeping up in the east, and the sky becomes a bubblegum pink or smoky lavender, I can feel, for just a second, how beautiful it must’ve been when it was untouched, inhabited by a select few who cared for this land - worshiped it as it deserved. And when the sun falls back behind the mountains, when the navy skyline of the east coast begins to swell over the glowing gold of the grass, I feel like I’m standing between the two ends of the world. It’s hard to believe that the mountains aren’t the end of it all and the endless stretch of land to the east doesn’t just end at my childhood home. It truly is the middle. The middle of it all. No oceans. Mountains and grass, with the animals stalking us and outwitting us. This is still very much their land, and I am, undoubtedly, a visitor.

But Sam and I have discussed buying a plot up in Montana. Something ours; something we can keep wild. A little slice of Eden in this chaotic climb.

There’s talks of me already moving up in the company, which is hilarious to me. I don’t even know how I got here. I don’t even know how I could move up quicker.

I am starting a program and heading a project for my area - starting a mode of dialysis treatments that are only typically followed in Europe and Canada based on evidence based practice in order to help maintain residual kidney function and GFR, which in turn improves the mortality rate of people who are dealing with ESRD. It would be the first set of dialysis centers, in the entire national corporation, to do it. And I’m heading it. I’ve been at this job for 6 weeks. I’ve already met with the medical director, and he will be presenting my argument to the all of the providers in the Denver metropolitan area. Me.

I used to want to be a writer. I wrote once. I was published even. People bought my book. My mom still displays it in her home like a personal trophy of hers. I forgot I even had a copy. I only found it recently unpacking. Honestly, I think it’s my father’s copy. I never bought a copy of my own work. I guess I figured I was the one who wrote the stuff - why would I need to have a copy?

But when I wrote for this anthology, and I heard it was published and possibly ending up in the Barnes & Nobles on the West Coast where the publisher was stationed, I told someone who I cared about so much at the time out of pure excitement and, I suppose, to impress them.

And, if I remember correctly, they said, “I don’t worry about you. You’ll be famous one day,” or something very similar to that. It’s been years. And sometimes, when I am praised or highly regarded, I think of that. And I admit to sometimes wondering if they think about what I’m up to now, as neither of us have spoken to one another in 10 years.

In those 10 years, I had my heart broken - shattered - and I think it changed me for the better. I fell in love. I changed careers. I was married. I bought a home. I saw Europe. I saw Notre Dame burn, ashes raining into my hair. I pulled out chunks of plaster from my hair on the train, chugging back toward London. I brought home a dog. I traveled - seeing things I only imagined as a child. I lost. I loved more. I lost again. I was betrayed. I was appreciated. I built and painted and gardened, my hands cut and bruised. My knees pink and raw. My freckles spread across my face and my hair kissed red by the sun. I said goodbye - not once, not twice, but three times. I packed again. I drove across the country. We bought a new house, sold the old. And now I’m here. I could go over it and over it again, but I only realized today I will married to Sam for 4 years.

“Four years?” I said, and Sam looked at me, confused but nodding. “Already?” And he nods again. I feel like my wedding was a few months ago, maybe a year. I can still feel my knees shaking and the frog in my throat. I remember the champagne I threw back. I remember the sound of the violins. I remember the small wedding and the dancing afterwards. Four years ago already. And I’ve been a nurse for four years too. Four years. I’ve lived in 3 different addresses in less than 4 years.

I’m going to be 31 tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’ll be going to the Denver Zoo and then Meow Wolf - a large interactive art thing. I’m sure I’ll go out to dinner after with Sam with dinner with my family on Sunday.

I’ll be 31 tomorrow, and I’m realizing I think I am making 18 year old me very happy. I would believe she is relieved.

#personal

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