#‘bad boyfriend bob dylan’ yeah no kidding

[pinkdanko]

cant stop thinking about when in 1965 reporters asked bob dylan if his relationship with joan baez was romantic or just friendly and he was like “yeah, we’re just friends” and then later went on to say “you can’t be wise and in love at the same time” when explaining why he didn’t return the favor of inviting her on stage to perform with him and treating her like she was generally nonexistent during that time

[okaybutlikeimagine]

Harringrove + Live Aid

Okay (this is so long) but IMAGINE a pre-S3 situation (where Billy and Steve got together some time after S2 bc Billy found them and helped them fight while he was looking for Max)(bc MONSTER FIGHTING BOYFRIENDS and that’s all i have to say on that) and imagine Billy hearing about Live Aid and NEVER having been to a concert before (“Seriously? Never?” “I’m poor, Harrington. I tried to sneak into a Grateful Dead concert once but the police were crawling all over the parking lot busting people with weed.” “... Grateful Dead? Really? Aren’t they like… an old hippie band?” “Shut up, Harrington.”) and he starts absolutely GUSHING over the idea of being able to see Black Sabbath and Judas Priest and Eric Clapton and Led Zeppelin and yes, even Santana (bc he kicks ass) and Bob Dylan and Joan Baez (bc his mom was a hippie and even though he has some deep-seated anger and sadness in that department, he grew up listening to the ~~classics~~ of the hippie generation and he can appreciate their presence greatly)

And Steve… Steve listens to Billy gush and complain and whatnot about this for maybe… a day? before he’s figuring out how to get tickets. He’s figuring out how to get tickets before he even knows the rest of the line up, which he’s actually very excited about once he sees it. Simple Minds? Madonna?? The Cars??? Duran Duran????? Fuck yeah.

and tickets are….. expENsive. Steve only gets paid like $3 an hour so he’s gonna have to start saving now but maybe by the time they come out, he’ll be able to buy tickets. He doesn’t let on to Billy that he’s gonna do it. but he does. it’s $35 for random tickets but $50 for tickets with better seats and, call Steve crazy, but he wants to get Billy those better seats bc the boy has never been to a concert, plus some of his favorite bands are playing???? he’s getting them those good seats. He doesn’t need those new ray bans coming out on Friday or that new stereo he was saving up for. and when they come out he rushes to the ticket place nearest them, sending apologies into the ether to Robin who’s gonna have to work by herself for a little bit bc the tickets came out by surprise and he needs to go if he’s gonna get them. and when he finally comes into work, 2 tickets to the biggest concert in their lives in his back pocket, he immediately grabs a grumpy and confused Robin into a hold and spins her around, singing Don’t You (Forget About Me) and ignoring Erica Sinclair’s irritated yelling in the process.

and he does the same thing with Billy when he sees him next. he grabs him and he spins him around and he kisses his cheek and his forehead and his nose and he kind of misses on a few and gets his closed eyelid but it’s fine bc every bit of Billy’s precious face is kissable and they’re going to the biggest concert in their lives! But he doesn’t tell Billy. he just lets Billy get irritated and push him off. he lets Billy call him crazy right before Steve pecks his nose. he lets himself admire the blush that crosses Billy’s face.

But when… when the damn monster comes back; when Steve gets stuck in that weird underground basement of the mall being sought after by Russians; when Steve gets his face smashed in by them; when Billy incurs some serious injuries after that monster tries to basically eat him alive…. Well… 

Steve tells Robin about the tickets first. Robin’s heart lurches for him but she pokes Steve’s shoulder gently and calls him a sap for doing that for his ~~boyfriend~~. She says he HAS to tell Billy, even though it might break him even more, bc keeping it a secret is only going to eat away at Steve and hurt Billy if he finds out. She helps Steve sell the tickets after Jonthan and Nancy refuse to take them, saying they’d feel way too bad about going when he and Billy can’t.

Steve tells Billy the next time he goes to visit his near bedridden boyfriend and Billy is quiet and doesn’t talk much for the rest of the day but what he does say is: Hey… now we get to watch Queen on TV.

Steve smiles sadly.

But as soon as Billy gets enough strength, he basically attacks Steve with kisses and hugs and the cutest fucking nuzzles and Steve doesn’t think it’s real for a second but Billy Hargrove is nuzzling his nose into Steve’s neck and the space behind his ear and thanking him a million times over. 

And when it comes time for Live Aid, the boys are a touch sad, but only a touch, bc Steve has invited everyone over to his house to watch it on his big TV screen bc his parents are STILL away on vacation. So everyone is here, even Hop and Joyce and Murray and Alexei bc this is the biggest concert in decades (and yeah, Hop and Joyce saw bits and pieces of the coverage on Woodstock but LiveAid is massive) and…

It’s so fun. It’s more fun than Billy has had in a long time and he’s spent the better portion of the last year getting fucked into oblivion by King Steve Harrington, so that’s definitely saying something.

And as the broadcast goes on, as El and Max and Nancy jump and dance to Madonna, as Joyce tears up over Joan Baez and sings along with her, as Hop sings all the words along w/ Crosby, Stills, and Nash, as Alexei shows a very surprising interest in Run D.M.C., as Robin shushes everyone during Elvis Costello’s version of All You Need is Love and sings the little “babadadada”s along with him, as Mike and Lucas serenade El and Max VERY LOUDLY w/ “Can’t Fight This Feeling” along w/ REO Speedwagon, as Steve joins Dustin and Will in an air guitar contest along to Bryan Adams’ “Kids Wanna Rock” that Murray is the judge of, as Billy nearly cries over every Beach Boys song bc it reminds him of warm, summery beach days w/ his mom back in San Diego, as Steve gives a very heartfelt performance of “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” to which Lucas and Mike and Max and Robin throw pillows at and boo (and which Billy gets irritated at bc he wants to watch his boyfriend sing and dance, goddamnit)...

As they have more fun than Billy thought would ever be possible w/ all of these typically irritating little losers… Billy completely forgets that they had a chance to be there and see half of these people in person.

It’s not until Queen comes on that Billy is actually glad they weren’t able to make it to the concert. Billy is on the couch w/ Steve, Will, and Jonathan. Max is at his feet. They’re all glued to the screen and by the time Freddie starts singing, so is everyone else. Will is breathless through Radio GaGa. Joyce gasps when everyone in the audience starts clapping in unison. They all yell along with him when he starts his call and response. Billy is tearing up and Max gives him shit for it. Billy kisses Steve during We Are the Champions. Max and El make gagging noises and Jonathan covers Will’s eyes in jest. Steve apologizes to Billy that they couldn’t make it to the concert, and Billy admits quietly that this is better than seeing it live. When Steve asks him to repeat that Billy tells him to shove it.

Billy and Hop shush everyone as Eric Clapton plays. Jonathan nearly hyperventilates over every song by The Who. Robin pulls Billy and Steve up to dance with her and Will and Max and El when Elton John comes on. Joyce and Nancy fangirl together over Hall & Oates.

And when it’s over, the kids start to argue about their favorite parts.

Dustin: “I think the best part was-”

Max: “If you say anything other than Queen, you’re wrong”

Mike: “C’mon El, Rick Springfield isn’t that hot…”

El: “He has a pretty face and his hair is fluffy.”

Lucas: “Jonathan, who was that band you were super invested in??”

Jonathan: “The Who? I have all their albums if you wanna borrow some.”

Will: “Tommy is the best one, Lucas. For sure.”

Lucas: “Yeah? Can we listen to it? I liked the pinball song.”

And Billy’s heart is full and he can’t believe how fun this was and he slips out the backdoor to the porch w/ Steve and makes out with him against the wall bc “fuck Harrington, that was amazing.”

“Music really turns you on, huh?”

“Shut up, I can’t kiss you when you’re talking.”

[theyearoftheking]

Book 1: Carrie

I wish I could write you a melody so plain

That would save you, dear lady, from going insane

That would ease you and cool you and cease the pain

Of your useless and pointless knowledge...

-Bob Dylan

I first read Carrie seven years ago as part of the Rory Gilmore reading challenge (sense a trend yet?). Despite reading a handful of books in the challenge, I quickly gave up because the prospect of reading Finnegan’s Wake was just too much. Even as an English major, I just can’t stomach Joyce. But I digress, and promise to stick with this challenge until the bitter end. Besides, I have a blog. I’m obviously big time now.

Carrie was first published in 1974 and the overriding theme for me was relevance. What’s old is new again, human beings never really learn lessons and bullying is a tale as old as time. Let’s do a deep-ish dive, shall we?

The book opens with a pretty embarrassing scene set inside high school hell: the girl’s locker room. Carrie is showering after gym class, and gets her period for the first time, blood streaming down her legs. She’s scared as hell,and has no idea what’s happening, because she was raised by an evangelical crazy woman. Her classmates lose their shit, begin throwing menstrual products at her, and yelling, “plug it up!” 

So cringy. 

But on the bright side, this didn’t happen during the age of social media. This would have made Snapchat, Insta, TikTok, or whatever social media thing the kids are into. But you could still see it happening in 2020. Hell is other people, particularly high school girls of a certain bitchy persuasion. 

After this humiliating moment, Carrie heads home to lick her wounds, and wonder why her mother, Margaret, never talked to her about menstruation. Her mother informs her, “And God made Eve from the rib of Adam...Get up, woman. Let us get in and pray. Let’s us pray to Jesus for our woman-weak, wicked, sinning souls...” 

At this moment, my blood ran cold. This statement should sound like the ramblings of a crazy person. But instead it reminded me of another matriarch...

Yeah. Michelle Duggar of 19 Kids and Counting, and Counting On fame. Michelle with her crazy eyes and crunchy perm, who believes women shouldn’t be cutting their hair, wearing pants, or bikinis, or any article of clothing that might entice men to think wicked thoughts; because apparently women do nothing but illicit sinful thoughts in men. It would be funny, if it wasn’t for the legions of fans and multiple babies she and her evangelical brood keep popping out on their living room couches with alarming frequency. We won’t even get into the whole, “covering up the fact her son molested several of her daughters and brushed it under the rug, because... Jesus”. 

Shudder. 

After Carrie’s locker room situation, the school administrators try to punish several of the girls responsible for the tampons/pads attack. One of the ringleaders, Chris Hargensen is a right little bitch, and sends daddy into the principal’s office to plead on her behalf so she won’t miss prom. He and the principal get chippy with each other, and Mr. Hargensen says, “I don’t intend... to sit here and listen to a tissue of half-truths or your standard schoolmaster lecture, Mr. Grayle. I know my daughter well enough...”

This whole interaction between Mr. Hargensen and Principal Grayle cracked me up. Millennials (of which I am not) get a bad wrap for not being held accountable for anything. They are stereotyped as special snowflakes who need participation trophies, and their parents make excuses for all their bad behaviors. 

Bro. 

Tale as old as time. Need I remind you this book was published in 1974? 

Ok, Boomer?

The story progresses with Sue Snell, one of the ringleaders of the Plug It Up debacle feeling guilty for her actions, and convincing her boyfriend, Tommy Ross to ask Carrie to prom. Tommy loves Sue, and agrees to do it. Carrie sews herself a crushed velvet prom dress, her mom repeatedly calls her a slut, and Carrie ends up looking beautiful. I imagine it much like Rachel Leigh Cook’s “startling” transformation in She’s All That. 

 Tommy and Carrie go to prom, and he realizes she’s actually kinda pretty, which makes her worthy of his respect. The crushed velvet dress gets all the compliments, and the night doesn’t start out as a total disaster. Well, bitchy Chris Hargensen isn’t having it. She convinces Billy Nolan, her greaser boyfriend, to pull off some kind of spectacular prank at prom to put Carrie in her place and remind her of her station. 

Billy and his crew of greasers go to a local farm, kill two pigs, and collect the blood. Later on at prom when Carrie and Tommy are announced king and queen, Chris pulls the cord rigged to the buckets of pig blood, and douses them both. Carrie loses her shit, and uses her telekinetic powers (did I forget to mention that’s a thing she has?) to blow up the school, kill her classmates and destroy the lovely town of Chamberlain, Maine. After prom, she walks home, where Michelle Duggar, Mama White is waiting with a knife, and stabs Carrie in the chest. Carrie uses her powers to slow Michelle Duggar Mama White’s heart down, until she’s dead. Then (with the knife still stuck in her chest), Carrie heads back into town to finish her reign of terror and kill Chris and Billy. Then she dies. 

And they all lived happily ever after. Well, Sue Snell kind of does, since she’s one of the only ones to make it out alive. No good deed goes unpunished, am I right? 

A few notable, funny moments... 

1. Early on in the novel, a reference is made to a letter Michelle Duggar Mama White wrote to a friend in Kenosha, Wisconsin. How did Steve decide on Kenosha? Such a strange city in Wisconsin to choose... Did he look at a map and randomly pick a city? Had he made a stop at the Mars Cheese Castle once and it left an impression? Did he throw a dart at a map of Wisconsin? Does he know Kenosha doesn’t have an especially high evangelical population? So many questions. As a Sconnie Cheesehead Homer, I’ll be keeping a Wisconsin Mentions tally throughout the challenge. 

2. At one point in the novel, a fictitious scientific article compares the genetic-recessive characteristics of telekinesis to hemophilia. Hemophilia is referred to as, “King’s Evil”, I couldn’t help with wonder if Steve threw this fact in here just to use the term, “King’s Evil”. Random observation 

I enjoyed re-reading Carrie, and still find it relevant and timely. And I think it speaks to King’s talent as a writer that he’s able to create a character like Carrie, who blows up a whole damn town and kills almost everyone, and you still feel sorry for her. She’s not quite a villain, but she’s not far off. 

In summation:

Total King Wisconsin Mentions: 1

Dark Tower References: 0

Book Grade: B+

Now, time for Salem’s Lot. It’s been on my to-be-read list for quite a while, and I’m looking forward to diving into it. Be patient, it’s 700 pages, compared to Carrie’s 290. 

I should mention, I’m reading all of these books in actual BOOK form, no e-books. I find when I use my Kindle, I get distracted by marathon games of Candy Crush, and lose focus. But with an actual book? No candy to be crushed, no FB messages to check, no cute dog pictures to upload. 

Speaking of dogs, Steve has Molly, The Thing of Evil. I have Biscuit Beast the Beagle. 

You can see her handiwork here on a bookmark a friend was nice enough to bring back from The Stanley.

 Beagles... to know them is to love them. 

Until next time- long days and pleasant nights, readers!

Rebecca

[lolalexturnerlol]

Drifter (Negan x reader)

Lil somethin somethin kind of inspired by the song drifters by the delphines. I want to say there’s going to be two parts, but there could be three. Who knows. Certainly not me. 

Warnings: bit of angst, bit of fluff, swearing, depressed reader (there’s never any mention of the actual word, but there’s a lot of self deprecation and negativity) if any of this is a possible trigger for you, please proceed with caution. 

I’m a drifter, honey

i’m a tumbleweed tumblin’ from town to town

I ain’t got no home town just a town where I was born

I’ve been movin baby

Since my legs, they hit the ground

Until I hit the curb driving 105 and it shot my body down  

You tend to get cabin fever.

Not in the sense that you’re ever cooped up. You hate being indoors, you’re always outside and always going exactly where you want, whenever you want. It’s not like there had ever been anything holding you back. No, the cabin fever hits when you’ve been in one place for too long. It doesn’t feel right. You haven’t stayed in one place since you were eighteen and running from a bad home life and even worse boyfriend.

It might be boredom. Maybe it’s just the realisation that you’ve used up everything in a place. You know the people, the streets, the coffee shops and the train routes. Maybe it’s the crippling fear of having anyone too close that causes the itching in the balls of your feet and the impulse to pack your meagre belongings and get the hell out.

This town though - this town, smaller than any you’d been in -is different. And you can try to hide it, act like you have no idea why you feel the burning desire to stay just a week, a month more in this tiny town. But you know, that your whole reason for staying in a deadbeat town like West Elizabeth, Carolina, is in your kitchen in your floral dressing gown, gazing at an old Jamie Oliver cookbook through his black rimmed reading glasses.

“Y/n, y/n come in here.”

You walk into the kitchen, socks slipping against the polished hardwood. “What is it now?” you ask laughingly.

He throws the book down on the kitchen bench, grinning. “Oh, come on, I’m just trying to make you dinner for once. Not my fault this recipe is bullshit.”

With a giggle you move forward, tugging the spatula out of his hand and discarding it on the counter. "Forget dinner. Let’s just order pizza or something.”

He wraps his arms around your waist, his head dipping down to look at you. “Don’t like my cooking or something?” he chides.

“Just plenty fond of my kitchen being unsinged. Pizza. I’ll pay.”

The grin makes an appearance on his face, that charming, dimpled one he’d given you the very first time you’d met him. “Can never say no to you, can I?”

You pull away from him, jaw breaking laugh bubbling at your lips. “Pepperoni, yeah?”

“What else? I’ll choose the movie.”

A week used to feel like forever

Now it’s only 7 days I hate to bum the last one from you, friend

You know I’ll get you back when I come through again

“Hey, Carl.”

The teenager smiles, blushing a little at your attire. Or rather, lack of it. “Hey, y/n.”

“How’s your dad?” You ask, handing him a twenty dollar bill. “And Judith?”

You don’t stop to question what the fuck your doing. First name basis with the pizza boy and his family? Asking how his kid sister is? You don’t do that, it’s it far, far too personal.

“They’re both good.” He grins impishly, getting back on his bike. “Michonne’s been asking for you, wondering when you want your next kickboxing lesson.”

“Tell Michonne I’ll stop by tomorrow. Keep out of trouble, kid.”

“Always do, miss.” He yells as he pedals away.

Inside, Negan is stretched out on my little couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. He beams up at you as you walk in, chucking the pizza on the coffee table. “What are we watching?”

“Monty Python.”

You sit down on the couch, and he slings your legs over his, and once again, like always, you’re tangled up, head on his chest and his on top of yours. Your bodies are pressed against each other to stay on the couch. His thumb rubs absentminded circles in your thigh, and you can feel his body shake when he laughs.

You’re so used to this now. The cuddling, the affection. You haven’t cuddled in years, since your high school days. But with Negan, it doesn’t feel silly and forced, like it had back then. It feels correct. It just fits.

And it’s terrifying.

You push those thoughts from your head. You don’t need to deal with them. Not now. You don’t need to ruin this.

You feel his nose nudge at your neck, lips leaving trails and teeth nibbling little marks.

“Negan,” you laugh, hand on his chest, “we haven’t even started the pizza. Or the movie”  

“Forget the fucking pizza.” he growls, grabbing the slice of pizza from your hand and tossing it back  in the box. “And the movie.”

With a scorching kiss he throws you pins you onto the couch, body coming down to cover yours. And just like that, your previous thoughts are gone. Because the though of leaving always tends to disappear when Negan is around.

I’m just a drifter on the run I’m just a wagon wheel rollin’ on

Maybe someday I’ll unpack my bags and I’ll stay

But I’ll always see you when I come through that way

“You ever think about leaving?”

It’s a rainy day, overcast and drizzly. Negan’s 87 Chevy pickup is parked on the edge of a little sand dune, overlooking the stormy water. There’s a Bob Dylan record playing from the beat up sound system, a greasy brown paper bag filled with hot chips sitting on top of the front dash.

“Why, you thinkin’ about skippin’ town or soemthin?” His joking demeanour never drops. He shifts his arm a little bit, jostling my head tucked under him.

“No.” Liar. “I mean, It’s just - I don’t know, it’s a small town. Surely you’ve thought about getting out of here before.”

He’s silent, and you start to panic. Surely he hasn’t caught on to how you’re feeling. Surely he hasn’t cottoned on to your want, your need to get out of here. Surely -

“I have.” His answer interrupts my inner turmoil. “But I like it here. Been here for twenty years, don’t see much sense in moving on now.”

Maybe it’s the fact he’s so much older than you. Maybe it’s the fact that you’d never settled in your life. You were born into a shaky, semi-permanent life. How are you meant to settle when all you know how to do is move?

“Why are you asking me this, doll?”

And there it is, the million dollar question. “Been here for nearly a year.” You can’t look at him now, even though you can feel his eyes burning into you. “Haven’t stayed in a place longer than six months since I was eighteen. That’s ten years of moving around, Negan. I guess I’m just not used to this.”

He’s silent, and it scares you. He never moves his arm from around you though, never moves to push you off him. You finally look up at him, you have to know what he’s thinking.

You’re shocked at what you see. His eyes contain an ocean of tenderness and love, the smile on his face conveying what no words ever could.

“You’ve had it tough.” He tells you softly. “Must be hard to trust anything around you enough to stay.” He shakes his head, chuckles quietly. “But god damn do I feel honoured to be the the one you try with.”

Th thoughts come to me then, like they often do.

You don’t deserve him. You’re going to pull him down.

A week used to feel like forever

Now it’s only 7 days I hate to bum the last one from you, friend

You know I’ll get you back when I come through again

Your one year anniversary in West Elizabeth is a strange thing. Negan had everyone you knew gather at the diner in town - the very one you’d met him at a year ago today. Michonne is there, your kickboxing teacher and friend, with her partner Rick and his two, Judith and Michone. Maggie and Glenn are there with their newborn. Tara and Rosita, the girls you work with. Daryl, Negan’s best friend. There’s other people too, people from this little town that you’ve grown close to - something you’re not sure you’ve ever done in your life.

They all come, carrying smiles and bottles of alcohol and well wishes.

All it does is shock you.

You’ve become so attatched to these people. You can easily say you love a lot of them.

You love Negan.

“Y/n, you look so good tonight!”

You look up to see Maggie standing in front of you, Tara by her side. You give her your best winning smile, wrapping your arms around her in a hug. “What about you? You look fantastic.”

“Oh, please.” Maggie rolls her eyes, but she’s still grinning ear to ear. “I just had a baby.”

“Baby or not, you look beautiful.” You turn to Tara, unusually dolled up for the night. “And you, look at you. If I wasn’t taken I know who I’d be going home with.”

Tara laughs, giving my shoulder a shove. “Who says I’d go home with you, loser.”

You sit, and you eat dinner with the people who’ve come to mean something to you. And it’s so nice, joking and laughing with people who know you, care about you, and for an hour, maybe two, you let yourself slip into that familiarity, the warmth of it all.Because you know it on’t last long. 

And Negan, god, Negan. He sits by your side the whole night, hands linked, stealing chaste kisses whenever possible. You feel cherished, so absolutely loved.

And you want to bask in it. Let all of it in, let it seep into your blood and your whole body. But you know you don’t deserve it. You know that Negan, this sweet, caring, potty mouthed gentleman, is only wasting time with you around.

“I can’t believe you did this for me.” There’s a smile on your face, and you feel happy. But it’s an empty feeling, like it’s covering up waves of other, deeper things. It makes you feel guilty. You don’t deserve to have that deep down happiness anyway. 

Negan brings your linked hands to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to your knuckles. “Of course I did. You deserve it.”

As nice as the sentiment is, you know it’s not true. 

People start to filter out, and eventually Negan calls it a night, dragging you with him out to the truck. In the chilly night air, he presses you up against the faded blue metal, grinning against your neck.

“Have a good night, baby?” He husks. 

“The best.” And it’s not a lie. It’s one of the best nights I’ve had in a very, very long time. You still feel heavy though. And no amount of good nights could change it.

He pulls away from your neck, tawny eyes gazing straight into yours, like they’re stripping you bare. “What are you thinking? You’ve got that tone in your voice. You wanna know something.”

I want to curse how well he knows me. I take a deep breath in. Let it out. In. Out.

“Do you ever think there’s more out there for you? I mean, I’m so much younger than you, did you ever think you’d end up with someone like me?”

My words spark that look on his face. The unbearably intense one that gives me chills, makes me feel like he can see right into the depths of my soul. “I’m lucky to have you.” He tells me lowly. “Ain’t a lot of good I’ve done in my life. But when I’m with you, none of that matters.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the noise of it drowning out everything else. You zero in on Negan’s face, his adoring expression, his loving eyes that normally make everything so much better. But tonight, all they do is unsettle you.

You don’t deserve him, y/n.

“Kiss me.” You breathe out. Because it’s all you can do right now. 

His lips are on yours. Warm, passionate, loving, soft. He’s all you could ever hope for. All you’ve ever wanted from anything in your life. But with that comes the fact that he’s everything you don’t deserve. You part from each other, breathless. 

He beams down at you, grabbing you by the waste for once last kiss. “Come on, let’s get you home. I’ve got a whole other celebration in mind.”

I’m a vagrant, darling I’m a castaway, a renegade, a vagabond

But you know that I ain’t too strong when it comes to leaving you behind

We had 40 oz. We had let it bleed and blonde on blonde

I’ll sit through one more song

Before it ends I’ll be gone

The next week is tense.

You want to act like Negan doesn’t realise the shift in you. But you know he’s not stupid. He knows, he’s sensed it. But he’s giving you space, like he always has. He’s thinking you’ll go to him when your ready, like you always have. But it won’t be like that this time. You don’t want to bother him anymore.

It’s like you’re moving in autopilot. Like you’re not even aware of what you’re doing. You don’t think about it. But in five days, all your belongings have been packed into the boot and backseats of your car, the little house you’d come to call home stripped bare.

You want to leave Negan a note. Explain everything as best you can. But you know that you shouldn’t. If you owe him anything, it’s a proper explanation, face to face. At the very least, you have to tell him in person.

You know this, and still, you can’t bring yourself to. So when you’ve finished packing the very last box, you send him a text. It’s three in the morning, so you know he won’t get it until he wakes up. By then you’ll be long gone.

I’m sorry, but I’m leaving. I love you, and I won’t drag you down.

You sit on the back porch, making your way through a pack of cigarettes, telling yourself this is what you need to do. Move on. You’ve done it plenty before. You can do it again.

Wandering through the house that has been your home for the last year, you run your hands over the kitchen counter. You’ll miss the cicadas, a noise you’d hated when you first arrived. You’ll miss the far off sound of the ocean, of waves crashing against rock. You’ll miss the sound of Negan’s breathing lulling you to sleep.

“Y/n? Y/n!”

Out of everything you might’ve been expecting to hear at that moment, the front door slamming open and Negan’s panicked voice calling out your name is the very last thing.

He runs into the kitchen, stopping abruptly when he sees you. Your heart falls to the floor at the look on his face. At the fact that he’s even there at all.

“Y/n? What’s going on? What was that text about? And where the fuck is all your stuff?!”

You feel tears spring at your eyes. This isn’t how this was supposed to go.

“I’m leaving, Negan.”

He blinks, mouth popping open - then slamming shut. It might’ve been funny in any other situation.

“What in the fuck do you mean, you’re leaving?” He’s angry now. Hurt, confused. I want to take all that away from him, take away the space between us and fall into his arms.

But I won’t. I can’t.

“I mean I’m leaving Negan, what more do you want?”

“What more do I want?” he splutters incredulously. “ An explanation would be really fucking nice. You can’t leave because your scared y/n! Don’t let go of this just because you won’t grow some balls and face up to your fucking issues!” There’s a vein popping out of his forehead, a fire in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. This isn’t the two in the morning, quiet kisses fire I’d grown to know. This is anger, pure and terrifying.

The tears have fallen now, marking their way down my cheeks. “There’s nothing you can do, Negan. I’ve made my mind up. You’re just going to have to deal with it.”

“Deal with it? Deal with it?! Are you fucking serious, y/n? I love you, I love you so fucking much, and all I get is ‘deal with it’?”

I snap now. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. I didn’t want to hurt him. That’s the last thing I wanted. But this is the only way he’ll understand.

“Don’t you fucking get it, Negan? Hasn’t it gone through your thick fucking scull. I refuse to stay here and drag you down. I won’t fucking do it. I’m leaving. And that’s it.”

You’ve never regretted anything in your life. Not leaving running away from home. Not leaving a single place since then. But there’s something now that you’ve never felt before, deep down in your heart, dragging all the way down to your stomach. You try to ignore it, as you walk out of those doors and down the steps, even as you cross the border into Georgia, the boot filled with your belongings. But the guilt is eating you away, the sadness causing you to pull over more than once.

But you don’t stop. You won’t. Because you’ve down the right thing. You have to have done the right thing. And if that means you never see the man you love again, then so be it.

A day used to feel like a lifetime

Now it’s no different than the rest I’ll just roll on roll on from town to town

Until I’m six feet underground  

I don’t even know if this even makes any sense at all rip me

feedback would be mucho appreciated 

[musevassal]

Papa on Tickling

Papa. My grandfather. I've mentioned him here a couple times before. (Once funny, once sad.) He was full-on German. And by full-on, I mean full-fucking-ON. Born and bred Prussian aristocracy: a real Von from Berlin. I'm not bragging, it just is what it is, and very relevant to who he was. Unless you've been pinned under the gaze of a man who's had that kind of upbringing, you can't really understand what all comes with that. In his world there was a crushing system of cruelty and trauma, so-called discipline, applied to children. To create men, the psychotics of the ruling class, to wield privilege and power for the state. This is how the Europeans dominated, and the Prussian system was their template. At the age of sixteen, Papa had gone to war to fight for Germany in World War Two. Captured by Americans, he spent a few years in a POW camp in England. He said the camp wasn't as bad as I might have heard (the fake Nazis in today's lockups have nothing on the real ones that were in those camps); since he was Luftwaffe and a Von, the hero fighter-pilot aristocrats took him under their wing. When he was released, he returned to Germany to find his family dead and their properties clamped down behind what would later become the iron curtain. Nothing left. Riches to rags. A while later, he met and knocked up my grandmother, moved in with her family (also displaced persons, DPs, from what is now Poland), and sold radios he built from scratch and newspapers to get the money to move to Canada with his (then) three kids. Luckily for me, Canada and age had mellowed him by the time I came around, because I spent a lot of time with him when I was little. I really worshiped him. My parents were typical hippy types with very few consistent boundaries, and he quickly became the authoritarian in my life that I looked to for stability. Later, I would hear about how he used to be from my mother and aunts. About the terrible, regular beatings he would lay out as a matter of principle. But he was forbidden from laying a hand on my sister and me, upon my mother's threat of his being banished from our lives, and he never did. His voice, however, that vehicle of his displeasure, was all he ever needed to reign me in. There was no fucking around with this man. Even so, he loved us deeply and taught us what he could. He was a giant in my formative years. Now, as I just mentioned, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents' “farm:” a small cattle ranch in northern Alberta. There were always a lot of relatives there too. My grandparents had five kids and both of my grandmother's surviving sisters followed her to Edmonton. I was the eldest grandkid, so as I aged there were always cousins underfoot, like noisy, mobile pylons. There were two uncles, Nick and Dave, both in the family by marriage (although at that time, I suppose, they were just boyfriends), who dominated my early life at the farm. One in a good sense, and another not so much. Both were macho, 70s, hairy, manly men, and very physical. Uncle Nick was, and is, one of my favorite uncles. He was around a lot, dating my youngest aunt who was probably about eighteen when all this happened. Some of my earliest memories are of great fun with Uncle Nick on the big sofa in my grandmother's living room. He'd read to me and also do that snuggle-wrestling that toddlers and young kids love so well. He was great at it too; a big bear of a man who was both strong and gentle. He did, however, discover that I am insanely ticklish. He never pushed it too far, but he did throw a good tickle into his repertoire. As I got older, there was less snuggling and cuddling, and more serious wrestling. That was a lot of fun, but he never failed to give me a good tickle as the finish to a pin. I didn't like that part of it, to be honest, but it also wasn't too bad. Definitely worth suffering through as a price for the wrestling. Then there was Uncle Dave. He was different. He started dating one of my mom's cousins, and was more of a toxic masculinity type. I was about four or five years old at this point, and I guess he observed how ticklish I was during one of my wrastles with Uncle Nick. This seems to have piqued a predatory impulse in Uncle Dave. Uncle Dave was never around so much, but when he was, he would track me down and forcibly tickle me to that point where I would want to die. For way too long. It was sadistic and horrible. There was never any pretense of fun as a lead in to it either. It was always just a straight up, dominating physical assault right from the second he got his hands on me. The big problem with Uncle Dave's tickling was that it ruined the fun time I would have with Uncle Nick. Now there was trauma connected to tickling. After Dave's treatment, when Nick tickled me, gentle as he was, I went straight back into the same place where I wanted to die. It was now intolerable. So I bit Uncle Nick. I remember pretty clearly that I felt safe with Nick, and made the conscious choice to practice biting as a defense I thought might work against Uncle Dave. I figured out pretty quick that there was no way to stop me curling up into a ball around some part of a leg to get my face into position to attack. I don't think I bit Nick hard, but he got the message. He looked a bit wounded, but he stopped tickling me after that and didn't hold it against me. He's a good man. The next time Uncle Dave came to the farm, I was ready. I didn't avoid him like I had been before (he always cornered me anyway): I sat down on the living room tickle sofa and waited for him. I don't remember exactly what I was thinking, but I was fiercely determined that this was going to be the last day he tickled me without paying a price for it. Sure enough, Dave zeroed right in on me and got to work. His big, strong hands pinned me down as his fingers drilled into my armpits and ribs. I didn't hesitate either. I turned into him and turtled; sliding my chest and head down his leg until I reached his calf. Then I got a good hold around his leg and bit his calf as hard as I could, for as long as I could. I don't think I actually bit him for long, since he yelled really loudly and wrenched his leg free of me. If I recall correctly, my teeth rather hurt from his flesh getting yanked out from between them. I don't know if he was bleeding, but he probably was. Reared on good, tough, German sourdough bread, I was. Strong jaw. I look up at Uncle Dave and he is white with rage, his fist clenched and raised up behind him. I don't think I even had time to get afraid before Papa, my grandfather, was in the room. He had been at the dining room table in the adjacent room, doing his paperwork. “Vas is zis?” he asked in his normal, quiet, terrifying way. “Your grandson bit me!” yelled uncle Dave. Papa gave this a measured think, with his usual inscrutable expression. “Did he?” Papa finally said, turning his gaze to me. I met his gaze, thinking the equivalent of, “well, fuck it, at least it was worth it.” But there was just the slightest twinkle in Papa's eye that let me know everything was going to be okay. And something new, that hadn't ever been there before. Respect. Papa turned his gaze back to “Uncle” Dave, and I'm sure there was no twinkle there for him. Probably something closer to what Bob Dylan referred to as, “steel-eyed death.” “And vat were you doing ven he bit you?” Papa asked. “Tickling him.” This earned another thoughtful, pregnant pause. This time with a slow nod of judgment at its finish. The Patriarch had reached his decision. “Vell, if he bites you ven you tickle him, maybe you shouldn't tickle him.” Dave didn't like that one bit, there was no doubting that. But he only met Papa's eye for a second before he deflated and got the fuck out of there (while he still had the legs to carry him). Papa just gave me another quiet look, this time with a friendly little nod, and went back to his seat at the head of the table to return to his paperwork. He had not said another word. Now that I think about it, I do believe that shortly after that he started teaching me the game of chess. In thinking about this whole exchange now, as a father myself, I wonder at my grandfather's approach. He was always right there. He saw everything. And he never stopped it. As a child in that position of being victimized, it never occurred to me that some adult might be looking out for me. That someone would come to my aid. I just assumed that to be victimized in that way was my role. Because, clearly, it was. That is, until I figured out a way to protect myself. Then, and only then, my grandfather extended his protection. I was never beneath his notice; he had simply made the decision not to intervene. So what was his lesson to me? You're on your own. When it comes right down to it, you can only rely on yourself. And if you're going to let someone treat you this way, then that is how you are going to be treated. But, when you figure out the right lever to protect yourself, when you've finally had enough and make that proverbial prison shank, at that point I'll have your back.

Maybe it wasn't a good lesson, in certain senses of the word. But it was definitely an important one. Oh, yeah, and Dave never tickled me again either.