#yeah okay so i actually bit a chunk out of a soap bar

[insteadoflight]

the soap

bar on my desk looks like candy, and i wonder if 

lately i’ve been feeling happy, in a way where the emotion isn’t a bubble about to pop and slam me hard into concrete but rather a swell of a wave, bringing me to sea, and when i’m riding it i forget drowning is imminent. 

i am riding the wave and i feel alive and--

nothing, nothing, nothing can stop me and 

i can bite it, and it is very soft,

drowning

is not as bad as a crash into asphalt, since there is no pain, no breaking bones. just slow drifting, surrounded by bubbles and salt and fading sunlight. 

and my teeth leave an imprint, and why not bite through the whole thing?

[amymel86]

darling, won’t you lay with me in the mess that we both made

Chapter 1 of my messy, soap opera-esque gold-digger!sansa who’s married to Reggie T and ends up mistakenly sleeping with her step son, ex-con!jon lmao...

Read on AO3

Jon felt the need to rub at his eyes. It was like he was seeing a mirage or something. Seriously, if the corny pick up line, ‘what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this’ hadn’t been written for this exact situation then Jon doesn’t know any other more fitting. Not that he’s going to actually say those words to the redhead who just parked her cute little butt two bar stools away.

He takes a swig of his beer as he eyes the expensive looking heels on her feet and the figure-hugging pastel coloured dress she’s wearing. It suits her. It’s pretty like her eyes and her hair. Fuck – even her lips are pretty. A pretty shade of pink that he’d like to see wrapped around his cock.

Shit.

Jon clears his throat and looks away, resolving that he really needs to stop the habit of letting his mind wander down salacious avenues, especially when he’s in a public place. The thing is, when you’ve been used to spending a big chunk of your day alone in a prison cell, you get pretty good at entertaining yourself to pass the time.

It’s not like that out here – out here he almost feels over-stimulated. Even here at Hobb’s, an absolute dive of a bar, and especially after seeing an angel like that redhead two stools away. Jon finds he can’t bring himself to avoid looking at her for too long, so he turns and sees that she’s greeting him with a downright heart-stopping smile.

“Hi,” she says, leaning his way a little as she puts something into her fancy little bag. She scoots across to seat herself on the stool next to his.

Is this really happening? Jon hasn’t actually talked face to face with a woman that wasn’t his parole officer in...well... what felt like a really long time. He glanced around, still not quite believing that this gorgeous creature had in fact walked into this kind of place. “Hi yourself,” he says, taking another slow sip from his beer bottle. The woman’s crystal blue eyes rake him over as he drinks, aware that he’s watching her too. It felt a little odd to be so brazen about literally eye-fucking a stranger but... well, she started it.

The redhead must be pleased with what she sees because the smile she gives him is full of beautiful sin. “Can I get you a drink?” That’s what you do when you’re talking to a pretty woman, right? It’s been so long, Jon thinks he’s plum forgotten.

“I’ll have a lemon drop please,” she says grinning and tucking some of that gorgeous copper red hair of hers behind her ear.

Jon leans in, pleased when she mimics him and their shoulders brush. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, miss, but this here establishment don’t seem to be in the business of makin’ fancy cocktails and the like.” He points with the lip of his bottle to behind the bar. “The best you could hope for is beer, whiskey or tequila if you’re feelin’ exotic I reckon.” Jon turns his head and finds his new lady-friend to be very, very close. He likes it. She smells like moonblossoms.

“I better have a tequila, then,” she says with a twitch of her lips. “You should too.”

“You celebratin’ somethin’...miss?”

His fancy new bar companion pauses then, seeming to deliberate. “Yes,” she finally says, “I guess I am celebrating. And you can call me Alayne.”

“Jon,” he nods and offers his hand. She takes it, making Jon lick his lips at just how soft her skin is. It’s been a mighty long time since he’s felt anything so soft. He wonders what the skin of her thighs would feel like beneath his hands. He releases her from his grasp regretfully and signals for the barman to pour their shots.

“And what about you, Jon?” she asks, “are you celebrating anything tonight?”

His gaze drops to her berry pink lips again. “I sure hope so, Alayne,” he says, liking the way she wiggles a bit on her stool at that.

They chat a while. Alayne seems a little evasive at times, but that’s alright. Everyone has their secrets Jon guesses. He doesn’t mind admitting to himself that he’d like to take a peek at hers though. Besides, he’s not exactly laying himself out like a library book for all to read either. “Visiting distant family,” he answers when she asks what he’s doing on Dragonstone Island - which is sort of true.

He’s sure kept his father at a distance at least. And that’s the way Jon had preferred it all his life. But now – now – Jon had to swallow his pride and try to connect with the asshole. You see, when you’ve worked for a drug cartel and have just got done serving your prison sentence, folks don’t seem to be clamouring over each other to offer you an honest job. On top of that, he owes his boss, Mance a serious sum of money for not only the car he totalled when he was trying to shake off the cops, but the full duffel bag of profits they found in the trunk when they finally caught him.

This is how men like Mance get people to stick around and be loyal. Jon didn’t want that, he wanted out. He didn’t want to have to return to crime to work off his debt, so instead he’s swallowing a whole lot of sour pride and is gearing up to pretend to be that son that Rhaegar Targaryen so desperately wanted him to be all these years.

You see, Jon’s dad is loaded. We’re talking ‘loaded-loaded’. And Jon knows that the man has been desperate for his son to step into his shoes and learn from him before finally taking over the family business.

Whatever.

As long as he pays off Mance and starts afresh with a new, totally legal life, he can manage to suck it up to daddy-dearest for a few years. Even if his father is an utter prick.

He’s not going to go into all that here with Alayne, although there is one aspect that he feels is only fair she’s aware of, should anything come of this chance meeting. He looks down to where her pinky finger is gently stroking against his there on the bar. God damn, she’s a flirty little thing. “So, uh,” he says, pulling his hand away and clearing his throat, “I should probably tell you something.”

She sits up straighter at that. The barman brings them another round of tequila shots and Jon forgoes the salt and lemon and just necks the liquor, welcoming the burn down to his chest. “I... well, I’ve just got out from doing time,” he tells her, just ripping it off like a band-aid and not quite knowing what to expect from it.

She blinks at him. “Oh.”

Jon’s not sure what to make of that ‘oh’.

“What did you do?” Alayne pulls her hand away from anywhere near his and Jon supposes that’s a fair reaction. He could be a sex offender for all she knows.

“I moved some stuff around.”

“Drugs?”

“Hm-mm,” Jon pauses to down the last of his beer.

“But you’re not involved with any of that anymore?”

“No, ma’am.”

Jon watches as Alayne let that new bit of information sink in. She seems to be staring at his face, either trying to see the truth or catch a lie, he’s not sure. Whatever she finds there, she looks to be satisfied. “Well, we all have our sins,” she said, knocking back what must be her fourth shot.

Jon felt his lips pull into a grin. “Is that so?” he said, letting his eyes touch on every inch of Alayne that he could. She was just so damned beautiful to look at.

“Uh-huh,” she nods, mirth dancing in her crystal blue eyes as she slides a hand up his thigh. “How do feel about committing a sin with me tonight, Jon?”

He didn’t mind her giggling when he whipped out his wallet faster than anyone could humanly blink, slamming a wad of bills down on the bar and hollering to the barman to keep the fucking change. She grabbed him by the hand, and to his surprise, led him to one of the bar’s restrooms.

Alayne locks the door behind them and Jon wastes no time in pushing her up against the thing, her breathy giggle swallowed by his hungry mouth. It felt good to press his body up against hers, it felt amazing to have her hands in his hair, and it felt absolutely fucking fantastic to be the one making this gorgeous woman moan into their kiss and hitch one of her mile-long legs over his hip and grind against him.

“Fuck!” Jon hisses, moving his body against hers. “You’re so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Perfect.” He’s blabbering now as his mouth moves to the creamy skin of her throat. Alayne lifts her chin to allow him access to suckle as his hands skim up and down her curves. She hums contentedly like a pussycat purring from the attention it was receiving.

And Jon would gladly give her all the attention she wants.

She ducks then, nipping lightly at his earlobe – an action that causes him to buck his hips against her. “You like that, baby?” Alayne whispers, grinding harder, rubbing herself on the straining erection in his jeans.

Jon groans. “I like everything about you, sweetheart.”

“Do you have a condom?”

Shit. Does he? It’s been so long, Jon’s forgotten. He fumbles for his wallet in his back pocket, his hips still pressing into her. “Yeah,” he says with huge relief as he holds up the shiny silver packet he found tucked away inside.

“Oh thank the Gods!” Alayne says giggling before peppering his lips with more kisses.  

“How do you wanna do this, love?” Jon asks, looking around at their limited options.

Alayne slips from his grasp and moves to the sink. “Over here,” she says, grinning at him from over her shoulder as she leans forward, hands braced on the white porcelain. “I want you to fuck me from behind,” she turns her head back so she’s facing forward again, her mischievous eyes watching him from the reflection in front of her. “And I want to watch you in the mirror as you do.”

Seven fucking Hells, OKAY!

Reaching under the skirt of her dress, Alayne begins to pull a pair of cotton-candy-pink panties down her legs and Jon finds himself standing there in a bit of stupor from just watching her do so. She unhooks the flimsy-and-yet-expensive-looking scrap of fabric from around her stiletto heel and then looks as though she’s not sure what to do with it. Jon comes to his senses and reaches out, taking her underwear from her hand. “These are mine now,” he tells her, stuffing them into his back pocket and liking the way her teeth sink into her plump bottom lip.

Jon growls and drops to his knee behind her. Looking a little puzzled, Alayne makes a move to turn around. “What are-?” Jon silences her with his hands reaching out to her hips to keep her in place, facing the mirror.

“Future-me will be pretty pissed if I don’t take this opportunity to get a taste,” he tells her, pushing her dress up over her hips to reveal her naked flesh. Her ass is perky and round and Jon just wants to bite it if he’d being honest, but that’s not what he meant. He hears Alayne’s breath hitch in her throat from above when he guides her to bend over the sink and lift one leg, resting her knee on the cold porcelain. Jon moves forward and allows himself a playful nip of one of her soft cheeks before he begins to nuzzle at her thighs, all the while his rough hands skimming up and down her long, creamy legs.

He takes a long lick with the flat of his tongue and groans to himself, his eyes fluttering closed. “Fuck, you taste good.” She shudders at that and moans when he dives in for more of her, pressing his face as close as he can get while he finds her clit and swipes his tongue from side to side over it. “Mmmm,” he says, a deep, pleased rumble muffled by her pussy. Alayne sucks in a breath and starts rocking back and forth over his mouth which only served to make him repeat the noise. Jon mouthed and slurped and latched onto her little bundle of nerves to suck and make her squeal. He could die right now, here in the restroom of Hobb’s bar and die an extremely happy man. No Mance, no rich daddy to suck up to, just this Gods-damned angel of a woman who’s allowing him to taste her pretty little pussy.

“Unmmm...Jon, oh Gods!” he can hear her moan as she continues to grind against his mouth. Fuck! Has he ever been this turned on? He doesn’t think so. He’s going to have to stop before he makes a mess in his jeans.

Jon reluctantly stands and looks over Alayne’s shoulder, into the reflection of her hooded blue eyes in the mirror. Her lips are parted and she’s panting a little. The image is a very, very pretty one. “You sure about this?” he asks. “You’ve had a few drinks and-“

“I’m sure,” Alayne tells him, peeking over her shoulder. “Please, fuck me, Jon.” She pushes her ass back to bump against his still woefully clothed erection.

“Yes, ma’am,” he grins, wondering how fast he can tear into that condom packet.

[infiltraitor-n7]

After Alchera, herons and hamsters

I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | VIV | X | XI |  ao3

Here is a sliver of time, snicked from the shockingly small amount they had been given, that he could never shake the feeling that he hadn’t hoarded properly, that he had wasted, seconds spilling over the edges as he carelessly assumed seconds would turn into minutes into hours into months into years into the rest of their lives, as if time were a rifle with an endless clip—

Watching a vid, blue light flickering across the white walls, under a blanket even though they were both sweating, slick skin sticky where they pressed into each other. The sharp planes of her shoulder were hard under his cheek, but she absently ran her fingers through his hair and he didn’t want to move in case she came back to herself and stopped. The hamster, toted around with Shepard anytime she knew she’d be on shore leave, huddled in its wheel, framed by the window.

The marines on the screen encountered the enemy on foot and one performed a particularly graceful move that broke her opponent’s neck, the snap vivid through the speakers. Shepard made a happy, satisfied sound.

They had worked out a deal: for every action vid Shepard wanted to watch, they watched one of Kaidan’s soap operas. He never understood why someone whose job it was to kill would want to watch actors pretend to do it in their downtime.

“It’s soothing to see the fake,” she had said.

“The fake?”

“Yeah, when they do something impossible, that would never actually work in life, but the music is swelling and everyone is good looking and the good guys win.”

“So good guys winning is fake?”

“Oh yeah.”

“We’re the good guys, Shepard,” he had said, and she had looked at him with that expression he could never read.

“You’re a good guy,” she had finally said, curling her palm around the back of his neck.

“So I’m not gonna win, huh?”

“S’why I’m here. To make sure you do anyway.”

He had stared at her, but she had just turned back to watching, making pleased noises every time the bullets found their mark.

He had worried that she would be bored watching his soaps, but she seemed to take as much satisfaction from watching the characters break each other with words as she did when they used weapons.

“That was fucking clever,” she had said, after a particularly well-played villain machination that ended with the love interest turning their back on their true love.

“I thought you liked seeing the good guys win?” he had asked.

“Yeah but it’s a soap, right? There will be a happily-ever-after, but it doesn’t mean shit unless our couple goes through some shit.”

He had snorted, and the music had swelled.

Now, in this remembered sliver of time, she suddenly jerked, as if she had seen something in her periphery (even when she was resting, she was watching), and she sat up, neck stretching as her eyes searched for the movement. He made a little sound, a hitched breath of complaint, and he reached for her but she said, “Look,” and he looked.

A heron sat perched on the balcony railing on the other side of the window.

They watched in silence, the vid paused, as the large bird tilted its head, as its wings shifted, as the moon’s reflection from the water dappled across its hunched form.

“I’ve never seen one in real life,” she whispered.

“There are a lot around here. The orchard is in the middle of a wild bird refuge,” he murmured back.

“That fucker is majestic.”

“You think that until you hear it squawk. Their calls are not exactly pretty.”

“Don’t ruin the illusion, Alenko.”

The hamster in the window must have finally seen the bird then, because it started running frantically, the clattering of the wheel spinning shattering the silence. The heron lifted, flapped, and sailed out into the dark.

“Good job, Captain Ham. If that had been a frag grenade, you’d be dead,” she informed the hamster.

“At least you get to keep your illusions for a while longer,” he said.

She reached out and picked up her beer bottle, offering him a swig. “Let’s drink to that.” She smiled, and pulled him down onto her shoulder again, rough fingers dragging through his wild hair as gunfire filled the room again.

Now, standing in her apartment on Arcturus, Kaidan wonders if the hamster’s frantic, futile running hadn’t been some kind of metaphor, as his heart thuds in the silence. In his mind he fingers that sliver of time, bracing for the inevitable cut as he traces the moment’s contours. He steps cautiously, as if the place is rigged with trip mines, but then jerks to a halt as he notices that the small space doesn’t smell like her— but why would it, when she hadn’t been in this apartment in months, in over a year maybe. The air filtration system had probably sucked all scent of her from the confined space and been pumping in neutral, recycled oxygen through all those seconds minutes hours days he had spent with her across the galaxy.

He had gone to her attorney, and he had learned that she had left him everything, somewhere between their gunfights and careening across distant planets, Wrex blowing chunks in the back of the Mako, between their frenzied fucking in the downtimes and their laughter in the canteen as Ash and Garrus arm-wrestled and Tali recorded for posterity and credits changed hands as bets were won and lost. Somewhere in between she had written a will and he knows now that her betting wasn’t just for laughs— when she scored at the casinos, she’d set aside sums for investment, and she had a fat pile of financial assets that she had never touched because she was busy saving the galaxy instead of spending credits.

He stands now, in her private space that doesn’t smell like her, hands loose at his sides, wondering about all the things he’ll never know about her. He knew that she had grown up poor on Mindoir. Maybe that’s why she had been so careful with all of her careless winnings— that reckless compulsion to win, tempered with the fear-propelled need to save the results.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know why he has come here. He has no plans to empty the apartment, and he has no plans to live in it. The attorney had given him the access codes per Shep’s will, and he had avoided even thinking about them. But today he woke up and found himself standing in front of the door, his arm lifted so that his omni-tool could do its thing. He had stopped, chest shuddering as terror began to garrote him. People swept past, going about their normal unfucked lives, and he struggled to look normal while his throat choked itself. He called Ishida.

“Kaidan.” His shrink squinted at him through the vidscreen.

“Hiya.”

“You look like shit, what happened?” He tilted his head, and Kaidan knew he was looking at what was behind him, his clever mind ticking through possibilities.

“I’m at Shep’s apartment.”

Ishida just waited.

“I’m scared,” Kaidan cleared his throat.

“Of what?”

“Dunno.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Yeah.” Kaidan rubbed the back of his neck. He watched Ishida watching him, and felt the terror slowly bleed out of him. After a few minutes, he could think straight. “I guess I was afraid of how much it’s going to hurt to step inside there and see all of her things, and,” he paused, breathed. He made a little flailing gesture, but of course Ishida couldn’t see it— the movement  just waved the vidscreen around. He continued. “See all these bits of her that I never knew about while she was alive. See her things when she hadn’t prepared for me to see them, you know? Like I’m trespassing, or something.”

“But it’s not her apartment anymore. It’s yours,” Ishida said.

“Yeah, but—”

“She must have wanted you to see what was in there. She wouldn’t have left it to you if she hadn’t.”

Kaidan didn’t respond. He thought about Shepard saying that she was always prepared to— he blinked. That she was always prepared to die. At any moment. That it was just her job.

“Okay.”

“Do you want me to meet you there? I know your ass is all alone out here, so if you need someone to be with you, I can take the time out of my exceedingly busy schedule to hold your hand,” Ishida said evenly. Kaidan snorted. Somehow he had gotten used to how his therapist said the rudest things in the most genteel tone of voice.

“No. It’s fine.” He took a deep breath. “I can do this. Thanks, Doc.”

“I know you can,” Ishida said, and then promptly disconnected.

Kaidan squared his shoulders, and entered the apartment.

Now, he shakes his head again. He inhales deeply, but it just smells like Arcturus always smells. He is surprised to see the place is filled with plants. Vines and ferns and cacti and some little bushes with delicate little flowers blooming. She must have some sort of automatic hydration system, because he knows no one has been in here since before her death. He had no idea she had any interest in botany. He drifts further into the apartment, notices how the plants are pretty much the only decoration so far. No art. No personal knick knacks. Just a riot of green, and dishes strewn across the kitchen counter. The lack of Shepardness after all that fear of falling apart in her personal space is almost like a punch to his solar plexus. He sags and moves towards the bedroom.

As he turns, he spots a pile of clothing stacked sloppily in the corner. He blinks, then almost breaks his knee against the coffee table in his frantic scramble to reach it.

“Fuck,” he chokes, hopping a little as he grabs the first garment his hands touch and shoves his face in it.

He gasps and hears himself laughing, shrilly. The hoodie stinks. Like cigarettes . He pauses. Sniffs again. Like cigarettes and… tequila? But also, underneath, like her. She never smelled like flowers, or fruit. She just smelled like her. Skin and sweat and gun oil and coffee. He is laughing because of course her dirty clothes reek of some shitty bar and of course they’re piled in the corner and thank the universe or the Goddess or whoever else that she was such a reckless slob sometimes because now he is pulling the hoodie over his head and it is stretching painfully across his broad shoulders but he’s surrounded by Shepard’s smell and he can almost feel her lying beside him on the floor, hungover as hell, both their mouths dry and horrible with morning breath, and her laughing in his face anyway, throwing an arm around his waist and saying, “Fuck it’s too early.”

“Really, if you think about it, time as we measure it planetside has no meaning in space,” he would say. “No early, no late.”

“Bullshit. It’s too fucking early for you to be philosophical. I have a headache that makes me sympathize with your biotic ass headaches and I don’t like sympathizing,” she groaned.

“Uh, the proper term is migraines, and no matter how crazy you’ve partied in the past, you have no idea how bad they are,” he placed his index finger on her nose and tapped. “No. Idea.”

“Not. Helping,” she bit out, tapping his belly with her knuckles before sloppily kissing him.

Now, he knows he would probably look unhinged if anyone were watching, but he drags the rest of the clothing back into the living area and spreads the pieces around himself. He bunches up a pair of her cargo pants and lays his head on them, curls in on himself right there on floor, arms around his knees, and he breathes, and breathes, and breathes.

He slips into sleep.

He dreams he is watching a flock of herons in space from the Normandy’s deck, wings eclipsing swathes of stars. He is confused because he has never seen herons fly together; they are always alone, perched gracefully at the edge of the water, their grating calls wrecking the peaceful view. Shepard is there, but for some reason her hair is shorn, her neck exposed, and he wants to run his fingers up the soft down on the back of her head—he reaches to fist his hand in the longer tufts on top and pull her back to kiss her, but she twists away and begins to unbolt the window, one bolt at a time, each chunk of metal hitting the deck like seconds ticking on an antique clock. He realizes she’s going to detach the window and dive in among the birds out there in the vacuum, and there is nothing he can do to stop her but he doesn’t know why. All he can hear is a hamster wheel spinning and the bolts striking the floor, one after another.

He jerks awake, and his back hurts, because he is on the floor. He is crying again, arms and legs flung out, his shoulders aching from the stretch and reminding him how hunched over he has held his body for months. He clutches at the sweatshirt and yanks it up to his nose and inhales, and the reasons behind the bar stench soaking the fabric make him cry harder, because he wonders now, even if she hadn’t died over Alchera, maybe he would have lost her in another way— to red sand, to the bottom of a glass, to her own twitchy fingers and filthy mouth and fragile neck and reckless disregard for her own safety. He can’t believe himself, how many seconds minutes hours days months he wasted believing that the time they had was an infinity clip, that he had all the time in the universe to learn all the things he didn’t know about her, instead of exploiting each ticking moment like the digits counting down on a time bomb. He hates every nanosecond he spent not looking, not asking, not demanding, not licking, not inhaling. The regret is crushing the meat of his heart, the self-loathing drenching him like an oil spill. His shrink said to just feel it. So he feels it. He keeps the hoodie’s neckline pulled up over his nose, like an oxygen mask, as his breaths come hard and ragged, and he lets his body throb with the missing of Shepard.

Eventually, in time, the time he burns through so carelessly, he stops crying—the inside of the sweatshirt is slick with his snot and tears. He sits up. He gathers the clothes he had spread all around himself and takes them to the little washing unit and puts them inside and hits the button before he can change his mind. He keeps the damp and now truly disgusting hoodie on as he turns to face the empty apartment, to begin sifting through the layers of Shepard’s life, a clumsy archaeologist amidst the ruins of her abandoned things.

[dharkness-bdbrw-blog]

The Creeper

Zo: ~The taxi drove through a neighborhood of houses that I’d never even known existed here in Caldwell. I stared out the window like a frickin tourist, craning my neck this way and that to take in all the sights.~ Are you sure we are going the right way? ~The cab driver assured me that we were going straight to the address that I’d given him.~ Ooookay then… ~I stayed silent but felt the nervous butterflies rolling in my stomach. Why would anyone who lived in a house like this want to hire out to some part time agency? They usually had a full staff of servants all to themselves. The car stopped at the end of the lane and I looked out to see a huge, older style mansion, complete with a security gate. This couldn’t be right. I looked down at my clothes and groaned. This job wasn’t going to last long, I just knew it. First impressions were everything and I was screaming club whore right now. Well, I better just face the music and get this over with. It might be a short trip. I could see me calling a cab to get the hell out of here real soon. But I couldn’t make this guy wait for me because I didn’t know how long I would be. I paid him from some of the money that Dhark had left on the counter for me. That man was just too sweet. Too good to be true, if I was being honest with myself. There was something wrong with him. It was just how my luck played out. I’d find out later that he was some kind of criminal that just got out of doing hard time or something like that. I shrugged to myself and pulled up my big girl panties. No sense worrying about shit that hadn’t happened yet. I taught myself that one a long time ago. With a near constant run of bad luck that always plagued me, I learned to live in the present. I straightened my outfit as best I could and walked up to the intercom box next to the security gate. I hit the call button and waited nervously, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Yes?’ An impatient voice came over the speaker. I touched the button and leaned in probably further than I needed to for them to hear me.~ I think you are expecting me? I’m from the maid service. My name is… ~I didn’t get a chance to tell them my name. There was a loud buzzing sound and I heard the lock disengage.~ Well okay then. ~I grabbed the bars and tugged them open.~ My name is Mary Frickin Poppins. The evil version of the Disney one. I’m actually here to kill you all while you sleep. ~I laughed to myself and sashayed my little ass on up the gigantic driveway. ‘Fuck these assholes’ was already firmly in my head and I planned on keeping it there. Attitude was everything and I would be damned if these people made me less than awesome simply because they had money. I held my head high as I walked up the steps. I reached for the overly large knocker but didn’t need to bother because the door swung open in front of me. ‘Welcome.’ The stuffy butler guy that answered the door clearly was not actually in the welcoming mood. His eyes said everything that his mouth didn’t. He viewed me as something like gum that stuck on the bottom of your shoe. He sniffed the air as if I stank to high heavens and then immediately turned his back on me. Rude! ‘In there is a proper uniform. Change quickly. There is much work to be done.’ He pointed to a side room that looked more like a closet. Hell, it probably was. Asshole! I tucked in the urge to punch the old man out and went into the room silently, though I had to bite my lip to do it. ~

~I looked at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that. This was what they called a uniform! It looked like the super slutty version of a french maid’s outfit. The kind that you would buy for Halloween if you were a whore. It pushed up my boobs and set them on full display while leaving my ass practically hanging in the breeze. Don’t get me wrong, I looked good. I looked damn good but that didn’t mean that I wanted to prance around like this. Maybe for Dhark I would… The thought had me blushing. I nearly had a wardrobe malfunction when there came a knock at the door. I squeaked and tucked the girls back inside, yanking and pulling at this ridiculous get up to encourage it to cover more of the goods. ‘I trust you are properly attired.’ It was the old butler guy again. I stuck my tongue out at the closed door.~ If that’s what you want to call this skimpy outfit… ~I sucked it up and opened the door. I got a quick once over and then he nodded. As if I needed his stamp of approval. ‘I will take you to the library.’ He handed me a feather duster, to complete the stupidity of my costume, and turned to leave. ‘There are many books that require frequent dusting. There is a ladder on the side that will slide around to the higher shelves.’~ Okay then… ~A ladder?! Was he fucking serious? There was no way in hell I was climbing anything in this stupid get up. He stopped in front of an open door and motioned me through it. The first thing that I noticed was the fireplace at the far end. A fire was crackling away even though it was really too hot for something like that to be necessary. I turned to say something about it and found that the butler was gone. Fuck it. I shrugged and went to work dusting the books nearest me. The room was large and lined floor to ceiling with tons of old books. I didn’t even stop to read the titles after the first few that were clearly in a different language that hurt my head to even look at. ‘You ARE a lovely one…’ I’m not even ashamed to say that I let out a scream and dropped my duster. Holy shit, there was some creepy dude sitting in a chair by the fire. How the hell had I missed him before? He looked to be in his late forties, with gray around the temples. There might have been a time when he was attractive but he’d clearly let his body go to pot. ‘Go on. Pick it up.’ It took me a minute to realize that he was referring to the duster. Hells. I’d dropped the damn thing. This equated to something like dropping the soap in prison. I just knew it did. There was no good way to pick up the stupid thing. Even bending at the knees, I would still end up flashing something. I scowled at the offending object and turned my side to the stranger. Bend at the knees, keep your back straight, you can do this. No tits and ass are going to flash this creeping creeper. I suddenly remembered the call to my boss. Yeah, okay, it was falling into place now. I was the newbie who called in late to work so let’s send her to the icky man’s house cause he wants to get his voyeur on. Nasty. And my boss was going to hear an earful. I had half a mind to walk out right then and there but something stubborn in me said that I could finish the night’s work. I turned my back to him and continued my work, oddly aware of his eyes burning into me. Then he was suddenly behind me. A movement so quick and quiet that I would have never seen it coming. I screamed out as he pushed me against the shelves. Something sharp nicked my neck and I felt his tongue slide over the spot. ‘You are not entirely human. Are you?’ I didn’t give a shit what the hell he was blabbering about. I grabbed the biggest, thickest book I could find and swung it over my shoulder to smack him right upside the head. That got him off of me, quick fast. I spun around and clocked him again, this time on the bottom of the chin. His head flew back and I could tell he bit off a large chunk of his own tongue because his mouth was bloody. I wasted no time getting the hell out of there. I ran like the wind, pausing only long enough to grab my purse on the way out the door.~ #TheCreeper #BDBRW

[batbloodhoney-blog]

Bringing Up the Bodies

I’m going to apologize in advance for how long this chapter is, and it’s a bit boring. I’m just getting through things to get to the good stuff. Thank you for reading!

Chapter Five: Unusual Feelings

Naomi's knees shook uncontrollably as she sunk into the large bath. The gym showers she had surpassed had surprised her; she wasn't expecting much when she was told she could use a bath, she was expecting a hose and cold water and crude remnants of shared soap. When she saw small travel sized bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash and towels, she thought she had died and gone to heaven. After the world went to hell, she didn't think she'd ever experience a real bath.

"You have to be quick," Margo said softly, helping her sit in the lukewarm water, "Negan doesn't like for us to bathe too long. We have to save the bathwater for the garden."

Naomi only nodded; she tried wrapping her thin arms around herself, trying to hide as much of her scars as she could, but found it useless. Margo didn't say a word as her eyes scanned Naomi's body; all she could think was how badly she felt for the tiny girl. She wanted so badly to help her now that she saw how obedient, quiet and kind she was; even though she couldn't speak, she still thanked her and said please. Margo was definitely baffled by her, surprised the abuse she undoubtedly suffered didn't turn her into a cold and dark person. All she could say about Naomi is “she’s one of a kind.”

"Do you need me to help you wash?" Margo asked her.

Naomi shook her head, taking the small bar of soap and white cloth hand towel, and began to foam it up in the water. Naomi turned to Margo, setting the bar in the water, and signed Thank you, causing Margo to smile.

"You're welcome. I'll be right outside the door," Margo stepped away, "if you need me, knock on the wall three times and I'll be in. Do the same when you're finished."

Naomi gave her another nod and watched her leave the room. Once she was alone, Naomi took a look around her; the room was off white, looked clean but she suspected it wasn't good enough to eat off of; there was a drain in the middle of the floor, two showers across from her, open without walls or curtains. She tried to think of what this place had been before it became the Sanctuary. As her mind began to wonder, she remembered that she couldn't just sit and think like in the days before the dead took over; Negan didn't like for anyone to bathe too long. From what Margo had told Naomi while showing you around the lower levels of the Sanctuary was that Negan was not to be crossed or messed with; sure, he's a reasonable man, but he was not a man to be trifled with.

Washing her body quickly, minding the freshly healing bruises and cuts, she set the towel out the tub and grabbed the small bottle of nondescript shampoo and then the conditioner, making sure to wash her hair as quickly as she could. As she set the bottles back outside the tub, she grabbed the wash cloth to clean her face. As she did so, her fingers rolled over the raised skin on her forehead...the few minutes of feeling like the world hadn't turned to shit and that she was a normal woman again had shattered.

The painful memories ran through her mind; the sickening things that were done to her and the pain she endured, she couldn't believe it happened. She counted every moon she saw when she was set outside of the Wolves cabin, tied to the nearest tree like a dog, one man watching her every night after she was passed around like a rag doll. They had even fed her like a dog, giving her scraps of whatever they had found and eaten first; old fruits peels and half cans of actual dog food or canned goods. Sometimes they wouldn't feed her at all; that's when they were at their worst.

"Naomi?" Margo's sharp raps in the door outside made Naomi jump in the tub, "Everything okay in there?"

Naomi dropped the wash cloth outside the tub and sunk under the now cold water, rinsing her head and face. Once she surfacego was already beside the tub; "Everything okay?" She asked once again.

Naomi nodded, signing, I'm sorry.

"It's okay, you're new here so there's no need for Simon or Negan for that matter, to know you took a bit longer than the others," Margo lent her hand out to her. "C'mon, honey, we need to get you dressed and back to Carson before he has a heart attack."

Naomi's knees wobbled less as she got out the tub with Margo's help. She tried to dry herself off but couldn't do much without leaning against the tub and Margo. Margo sighed to herself, "I’ll get the chair. I'm making this harder than it should be."

Margo still seemed to keep a small smile, helping Naomi sit against the rim of the tub, a white towel wrapped around her body, and left the room to get the wheelchair. After a moment, Margo returned, helping Naomi in the chair and proceeded to help her dry off, then wrapped her hair in another towel. 

"Think you can get dressed?" Margo asked.

Naomi nodded slowly, again, her insecurity rose, her entire body beginning to turn red. Even though Margo had seen all of her, every moment she was nude, Naomi felt insecure. Margo could see the nervousness in Naomi's eyes, again sighing, mostly to herself.

"You want to do it yourself?"

Naomi nodded again, feeling like a child. Margo rubbed her arm, leaving the room, only to return a few seconds later with folded clothing. She set the clothes on Naomi's lap and sent around her to push her towards the sink. 

"I'll stand outside," Margo murmured. "Just knock if you need me, okay?"

Margo didn't wait for Naomi to nod, she stepped out, standing just outside the threshold, listening for any disturbances. Naomi let out a small breath and set the clothes on the counter; she noticed there was a brand new tooth brush and toothpaste on the counter top next to the faucet. These were things she never thought she'd see again; the whole idea made her stomach knot and her eyes burn.

Forcing the thoughts way, she shook her shoulders as if they would drop off her and began to look at the clothing. A pair of tiny pink underwear with a cartoon unicorn on the backside, a pair of dark gray sweats that looked way too large for her, a bra that she was sure was for a 12 year old girl going through puberty and a white v-neck t-shirt. Shakily, Naomi managed to slip everything on without too much trouble and rapped her fist on the sink.

"Are you decent?" Margo hummed as she turned.

Naomi gave small nod, reaching for the board set aside on the counter; she began to write; the sweats are a bit big, but not too bad.

"Yeah, the wives get first pick out of everything so we only had a few things left...mostly men's clothes and little girl clothing. Do the underwear fit?"

Naomi nodded, her cheeks turning a harsh pink. She set the board aside and moved to begin brushing her teeth. Margo placed her hands on Naomi's shoulders, calmly and warmly...almost motherly. The entire action made Naomi's throat swell up suddenly; the emotion she felt hit her like a train, a flood, so many things hitting her all at once.

Her hands shook as she held the toothbrush and toothpaste in each hand; her heart beating fast and loudly in her already near deafened ears. She could hear Margo speak but couldn't make out the words over her heart and the blood rushing like a river in her ears. The entire world seemed to stop and blur; every action took too long to do and her head wouldn't stop blurring the lines between the past and the present.

Feeling a firm squeeze on her shoulder blades, Naomi shook her head, the tears gushing down her cheeks like a river. She didn't understand, neither did her companion, who was trying to tell her kind things to keep her spirit up. The emotion was too much, simple little actions were too much for her brain to handle; she had dropped her toiletries and placed her hands against her face as she began sobbed.

Finally, Margo's voice cut through the heavy rush of blood and pounding in her ears; "You're okay, honey. You're okay. Take a deep breath, Naomi. Deep breaths."

Naomi sucked in as much air as her trembling lips and tighten throat would allow, her hands falling in her lap, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. It took minutes before she could breathe easily again, and the fatigue of tears and exhausted filled her body and mind.

"Are you okay?" Margo knelt in front of her, her hands on the arm rests of the wheelchair.

Naomi shook her head, her fingers moving slowly to reply No, I'm not. Margo understood, watching her shake and move her hands just above her chest.

"You will be," Margo grabbed her hands gently, laying them in her lap again. "I promise you, you'll be okay."

The words were hard to believe; Naomi had been telling herself the same thing for more than 70 days, after getting her face carved, after being manhandled and raped, even after being beaten and kicked into the dirt. She didn't understand why she suddenly didn't believe it.

•

"Those sonsabitches," Simon cursed under his breath, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly, white-knuckling it.

"We taught them a lesson they won't soon forget," Negan said giddily. "No need to curse, Simon, my boy!"

Moments after picking up cargo was one of the few times Negan felt happy. He felt content, like returning home from a shopping trip with his family; though he couldn't exactly call the men following behind him in large trucks as his family. Simon, his right hand man, he was family, but he dare not say it out loud; but having Simon there felt like he was returning home with his brother.

"You shoulda killed him," Simon mumbled.

Negan smiled, "Ripping a chunk of his leg off is enough...he'll suffer first then he'll die. Lesson learned for Sir Ezekiel or whatever that prick thinks he is," he sneered at the last bit. "His men won't even think about fuckin' shortin' me again."

The Kingdom were always trying to short Negan and the Sanctuary. He knew they were testing him, seeing what they could get away with; Negan had let it go once or twice, but after the third time, he couldn’t turn a blind eye. He didn't know what game they were playing, but they needed to know Negan always knew how to win, how to level up. He always brought the biggest men in the Sanctuary when he went to pick up from the Kingdom; every other week one of the men from the Kingdom had to be taught a lesson, one that didn't seem to learn from long. One man had his jaw dislocated, another had his arm broken twisted and broken with bare hands, and a few others were beaten; the latest had to be taken down with Lucille.

Chunks of flesh and pieces of denim were caught in Lucille's barbed wire; Negan picked the pieces of the man's jeans out the wire with his gloved hand, deciding to make it easier on Fat Joey to clean. As he did so, his mind suddenly brought up Naomi; the prickly, bloodied wire reminded him of her sickly thin body covered in welts and deep scarring. His stomach seemed to drop, the happiness slipped away, and all he could see in his head was that tiny, scarred woman, curled up in the hospital gurney, looking like one of those dead fucks that surrounded them.

Simon could sense the air around the cab change instantly. Negan was thinking deeply and thinking of something that was tormenting him; the air always grew tense when he did. His facial features grew tight, lips tightened and his brows furrowed deeply; Negan is an easy man to read when he was thinking and not smiling, taunting someone. He was a hard man to crack, except when it came to him zoning out; usually this only happened when he was alone or with Simon; Simon was the only person that Negan could let his guard down just a little.

"What's up, boss?" Simon question nonchalantly, breaking Negan's deep thoughts.

Negan didn't look up, his fingers still pulling apart the fabric from Lucille's tight barbwire; "That fuckin' girl," he mumbled lowly, but his voice picked up after a moment, "that prick who had her, he still askin' to be let out?"

Simon hummed in response, "Every goddamn minute. Those fuckin' Wolves," he sneered, "they abandoned their camp. They ain't have much, sick motherfuckers."

Negan finally looked up at Simon, lips loosening to smirk, "You gotta soft spot for her?"

Simon shrugged, his eyes focused on the road ahead, "Its just...fucked up...she's tiny and she can't talk, can't fight back...feel bad for 'er."

"She ain't dead," Negan replied happily, again, he was growing content, "she's gonna recover, we'll teach her how to fight back, find those fuckers, torture 'em 'n let little darlin' have her revenge."

Chuckling, Simon nodded in agreement, "Yeah...sounds like a plan."

•

"How was your trip?" Carson asked Naomi once Margo returned with her.

Naomi swiped her board and wrote, Great, I'm going to cook. She decided to leave out her emotional breakdown in the bathroom just a half hour before.

Carson finally smiled upon reading; he had grown a soft spot for her and to see her just a bit happy made him happy in return. After seeing how badly she had been treated, it was nice to see her look excited about something. It seemed the small amount of time Naomi had spent with him made him grow fond of her.

"Simon give you the job?" He asked.

"Yep," Margo answered for her, "we just gotta get her healthy and then she'll be an official Savior."

The word Savior made Carson's smile fade; he wasn't fond of the being called a Savior. The men around here didn't seem much like saviors to him, more like monsters and thugs. Carson dare not say his thoughts out loud.

"That's great," he exhaled. "Let's get you to bed and back on IVs, I'm sure Negan will want to see you soon."

Naomi's heart seemed to shoot into her throat; Negan. He frightened her but at the same time she was beyond grateful for him. Margo had said he was tough and unforgiving and didn't take kindly to disrespect. She was afraid she could do something that ward off his nice guy demeanor; she knew men like him, kind one second then angry and vengeful the next. 

Naomi shook off her thoughts, trying to focus on climbing into the hospital bed with the help of Margo and Carson. Margo had tucked the cool sheet over her body, then looked up at her, noticing the nervousness in Naomi's eyes. She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, noticing a the small scars on her cheekbone, "Are you alright?"

Naomi nodded slowly, thanking her, then grabbed her board, Thank you for taking care of me, I appreciate it more than you know.

Margo smiled, "Well you're wonderful company, Ms. Naomi," she patted her hands, "I'll be back soon to check on you."

Margo stepped away, waving goodbye as she left the room. Naomi felt nervous again, her eyes following Carson as he mumbled to him, reattaching her IV, giving the saline bag a squeeze.

"Did you eat?" He questioned.

Naomi nodded, writing, soup and toast

"Did you manage to eat it all?"

Shaking her head, she cleared her board, I finished the soup and a few pieces of one bread

Carson hummed approvingly, "That's good, at least it's something. You feeling okay? Any aches or pains?"

Naomi shrugged slightly, writing on her board, my head kinda hurts and my back Humming again, Carson crossed the room, filling a Dixie cup with water from the far sink, grabbed a bottle of pills and headed back, "Take one now and we'll see how you feel in a few hours. It's Tylenol. Harder stuff is locked up with Simon."

He handed her the pill and the cup; Naomi placed the pill in her mouth and then took a sip of water. She let out a soft sigh after swallowing and laid back, her hand coming up to rub her forehead. Her rough fingertips rolled over her scar, having forgotten all about it; her face burning red at the thought of everyone having seen the crude W carved into her head. Margo had brushed her hair, braiding it back, but hadn't said a word about the scar; she must've seen it, Naomi thought, oh god, what she must say and think about me!

"It doesn't look too bad," Carson said suddenly, breaking her thoughts, "it's not as deep and the skin didn't raise like you'd think."

Naomi looked at him, her stomach rolling; despite what he had said, she felt embarrassed and upset. Carson placed his hand on her wrist, pulling her hand away from the scar, "It really isn't as bad as you think, Naomi."

As he let her hand go, she grabbed her whiteboard, writing, It’s still there, it's never going to go away.

Before Carson could respond, there was a sharp knock on the door; they both looked up, seeing a woman with honey brown skin, her thick black hair was in loose curls; she wore a tight red dress and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. Naomi frowned slightly, wondering why she would wear such a thing at a time like this; she looked as if she had just arrived home after a date and kicked her matching heels away.

"I need a test, doc," the woman muttered shortly as she entered. "I need it before Negan gets back."

Naomi blinked at the woman, wondering if she was his wife. She has to be, Naomi thought, she's very beautiful. The woman didn't seem to acknowledge Naomi there, her eyes focused in on Carson.

"One second, Sarai," Carson replied turning away from Naomi.

Sarai entered the room fully, closing the door behind her; only then, as she turned back, did she seem to notice Naomi there. Her brows rose as her eyes fell on Naomi; Naomi began to feel her cheeks burn again, she bowed her head, hoping to hide her scar.

"You new here?" Sarai questioned as she made her way over to the bed.

Naomi looked up, her eyes met Sarai's; she looked at Carson, who was shuffling through a drawer, then back at the beautiful brown skinned woman at the edge of her bed. She nodded slowly.

"What's your name?" Sarai asked as she sat the end of her bed, facing Carson.

Naomi cleared her board and wrote, I'm Naomi...Negan found me.

Sarai smiled, her front teeth shining brightly; literal pearly whites, Naomi thought. "I'm Sarai. I'm wife number two...or probably number one soon,” she added, a small frown formed after.

Naomi’s brows furrowed slightly; she remembered hearing Margo mention "the wives" but hadn’t gotten any other explanation. Sarai raised a brow back at her, "No one's told ya yet?"

She shrugged, seeing Carson turn around out her peripheral vision. Neither woman had a chance to exchange more before Carson handed Sarai an unopened pregnancy test box. Sarai stood, her eyes leaving Naomi's; "Thanks doc. I'll be seeing you soon."

Carson exhaled, "Lets hope not. You girls need to get him to wear those condoms."

SMirking, Sarai gave a roll of her eyes, "You try telling him anything when he starts to think with his other head."

Sarai left the room with that, no formal goodbyes or waves; Naomi felt an unusual wave of nausea and sadness cover her. Her stomach tossed and turned. She wasn't unsure why or what caused these unusual feelings.