bring forth his sac

“Ok, first tip for when you’re slobbering on some man meat. Just because your mouth is the main focus doesn’t mean you can’t use your hands too!”.

You let the video you found online play in the background as you try to tame your hair. You have one thing on your mind tonight. The last time you saw Negan, after he gave you a fucking of a lifetime, you made him a promise. The next one of your parent’s dinner parties that he attends, you’ll suck him off. And damn right you plan on keeping that promise.

Pulling out your clothes, you dump your options on to the bed. You have to be strategic about this. Slutty but not too slutty. Modest but in a sexy secretary way, not like a nun.

“Make eye contact! And no, I don’t mean with his third eye! Guys love it when you got their… y’know… haha! …God, I hope this doesn’t get demonized but y’know, their sausage in your mouth and you look up at them”.

You cringe at the fake laughing the video is filled with. The only reason you’re watching this is to make sure you give Negan the best blowjob of his life. Where, you’re not sure yet. Under the table sounds hot but isn’t practical. Dragging him to your bedroom is way too suspicious. 

The video continues as you think. 

“And don’t forget, be enthusiastic! Take charge! Just because he’s the one getting off doesn’t mean he needs to have complete control… although that can be fun too. Huh, maybe I should do a video on not gagging next”.

Your attention shifts to a long-sleeved top. It doesn’t show much cleavage but it’s snug enough to stir the imagination. Pairing it with a skirt is non-negotiable. You already know a skirt is a must, especially if you want to give Negan easy access.

With a sigh, you reach over and turn off the video. Useless. The advice wasn’t wrong but it wasn’t the almighty best blowjob of his life material you were hoping for.

You glance at the outfit laid out on the bed. You slip them on, smoothing the fabric over your hips as you turn towards the mirror.

Not bad.

You had planned to try a few other looks, maybe something a little more casual in case this one didn’t feel right. But before you can assemble the second outfit, a cacophony of voices creeps under your door.

They’re here.

You freeze for a second. The moment’s no longer theoretical. Negan’s in your house… and so is his wife. Your name rings out, your mother’s voice carrying it. “Come say hi” she calls, her voice already in host mode. You take one last look in the mirror, fix a stray hair and open the door. 

The hallway is buzzing with life. Negan stands near the entryway, his presence commanding but relaxed in that way only he can pull off. He barely glances your way, offering a polite nod before turning his attention back to your dad, who’s already launching into something about cars. 

Lucille, on the other hand, pulls you straight into a hug the second you’re within reach. “Look at you, gorgeous! All dolled up!” she says, bracelets clinking on her wrists. You manage a smile and hug her back, slightly overwhelmed.

Everyone starts moving deeper into the house, your dad talks Negan’s ear off and your mom is caught in a flurry of Lucille’s questions about what’s for dinner. Overlapping voices bounce off the walls. You try to hang back for a second but you’re forced to move along with the chaotic current.

And then you feel it. A hand brushes against your waist and gives a brief, deliberate squeeze. It’s fleeting but you know it’s him. 

The second Negan saw you, he knew the night was going to be trouble. That outfit didn’t have him fooled. The way that top hugs you, the sway of your skirt. He barely let his eyes linger as you’re swept into the kitchen with the other ladies. Tonight, you’re a woman on a mission and damn if he didn’t respect the hell out of that.

“Honey,” your mom blindly shoves a fistful of cutlery in your direction, not bothering to look up from her work on the kitchen counter. Even with the whole day to prepare, she’s somehow behind schedule and only whipping up the batter for dessert now.

“Help set the table,” she politely orders. You know there’s no room for debate, taking the array of forks and blunt knives.

You don’t mind helping out, especially when you see Negan and your dad in the dining room already. Where Lucille has wandered to, you’re unsure. Maybe the bathroom, or maybe she entered the kitchen a few moments after you left, barely missing each other. It’s like there’s a constant rotation in and out of each room. As if to prove your point, when you enter the dining room, you almost bump into your dad as he leaves. 

You don’t waste your opportunity, not knowing any many times you’ll get to be alone with Negan tonight. “Your sweatshirt is inside my bedroom, by the door, in a bag,” you keep your voice low as you set the table “I can get it if you’d like to put it in your truck”.

You figured he’d appreciate the gesture. Straight to helping sort this shit out. Not trying to get in his pants straight away or acting as if nothing happened. Simply being practical. 

Negan gives a soft scoff but you can’t quite tell if it’s amusement or annoyance. “That’s all I get?” you almost melt as the smirk he gives you as he whispers “No hi, how are you? How’s your dick doing?”.

A mischievous smile plays at your lips. You shrug casually “Well, since you asked… how is it?”.

“Missing you” Negan answers, not missing a beat.

You try to ignore the flutter in your stomach. “I haven’t forgotten about my promise,” you mention, watching out of the corner of your eye as Negan rounds the table to you.

“Neither have I” he practically growls, crowding behind you. “The other morning, I woke up with my dick about to explode just thinking about it,” he nuzzles against you, pressing a light kiss to the side of your neck.

Despite needing to stay alert, your eyes slowly shut. You savor his scruff against your neck, making the sensitive skin tingle.

Negan isn't as aggressive as he was that night at the bar but he isn’t very soft either. It’s like he has a natural roughness to him, the way he kisses, the way he fucks. All of which you know a little too well.

Bringing your comfort to an end, you hear your mother laugh, probably at something Lucille is saying. Negan must know it too as his lips leave you. 

“My sweatshirt is in your room?” He repeats.

You nod immediately “In a Target bag, yeah”.

Negan moves away from you, back to his casual position at the other side of the table as you hurriedly finish setting the cutlery. He goes to speak again but before Negan can get a word out, your mother is bustling into the room with a hot bowl of mashed potatoes.

“New recipe!” She announces to Lucille, who trails in after her. You try not to catch her eye. 

“Instead of the usual spices, I tried being more adventurous with my potatoes” Your mother rambles. 

Lucille simply nods along, her eyes studying you instead. You barely said hi to her when she first got here, despite how friendly she was to you. All Lucille got was a smile she can only describe as pitiful and now you won’t even look at her. 

She goes to examine Negan’s body language next but when Lucille turns, she’s met with empty space. Like a ghost, he’s vanished.

“And I actually listened to the recipe this time and put honey in with the carrots!” Your mother prides herself on her skills “Carrots… oh shoot, the carrots!”. Much to your horror, your mother darts out of the room and back to the kitchen, leaving you and Lucille alone.

A beat of silence. 

Another. 

It’s only when the silence stretches a little too long do you finally lift your eyes to meet hers. She’s smiling.

“I like your skirt,” she says, her voice soft and strangely warm. “I used to wear things like that all the time when I was your age”. 

You offer a small shrug “Thanks. Honestly, I kinda forgot I had it”.

She lets out a light laugh, as if you’ve both been part of some unspoken mischief. Well, maybe you both are but if Lucille found that out, you don’t think she’d be laughing. 

“It’s a bold choice for daylight,” she says “I almost wore a dress that short today, but I came to my senses before stepping out the door”.

You're not sure whether to laugh with her or lob the nearest utensil across the table. Something about how she talks feels like both an invitation and insult.

“Negan liked it though,” she adds, her lips curling into a teasing smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The comment lands too precisely. It’s enough to make you wonder if Lucille knows or if everything she says now feels like an interrogation thanks to your own guilty conscience. You force a smile, lips pressed into a thin line and you offer a silent ‘thank you’ to the universe when your mother’s voice floats in from the kitchen, calling your name.

Lucille’s smile lingers, soft and undisturbed, as you retreat. She doesn’t so much as blink. The image must remain untouched: the perfect wife with the perfect life, part of a marriage that still radiates that golden glow of first love. At least, that’s what she tells herself. Now, if only she could track down her damn husband to complete the illusion.

Lucille moves with practiced grace, her heels silent on the floor as she slips out of the dining room. She skirts the kitchen without a glance, already knowing if Negan were in there, she’d have heard his laugh by now, booming and obnoxious as always when he's trying to charm someone. Either you or your mother. The uncertainty around which one makes her queasy. 

The bathroom door hangs open. No voices float down the hall. No telltale murmur of sports stats or banter with your dad. Her brow twitches. Where the hell did he go? As she passes the front window, something outside catches her eye. A flash of movement. Bingo.

Negan shuts the car door with a thud, leaving the bag with his sweatshirt on the back seat. Thankfully, he’s already decided to grab the opportunity to have a cigarette while outside, giving himself the perfect alibi as Lucille steps out the front door.

“Hey” she plainly says, walking down the porch steps.

“Hey yourself,” Negan mutters, flicking his lighter to life. The cigarette catches and he takes a long drag, eyes half-lidded as if this were the most peaceful moment he’d had all day.

Lucille doesn’t return the ease. “You already need a smoke break?”.

Negan lets out a dry laugh that doesn’t quite make it past his throat. “Nope. Just figured I’d come out here and take a shit on their lawn” he answers sarcastically.

Lucille doesn’t suppress any part of her reaction. The breath she exhales is sharp. Her arms fold across her chest, shoulders drawn tight. The eye roll is textbook. And none of it is subtle.

 “Can you not for, like… the two hours we’ll be here? That’s all I ask” she snips back. She pauses for a moment, sniffs and then sighs “Now you’re going to stink”.

He shrugs, glancing toward the house with vague disinterest. “The place already smells like someone cremated a vegetable patch. I doubt my cigarette’s gonna make the top ten list of offences”.

Whatever fantasy Lucille has been holding onto, the white-picket fences and synchronized laughter, begins to waver and fray around the edges. Her lips press into a tight line.

“Just put it out and get back inside,” she says, already turning on her heels.

She doesn’t wait for his reply. If she stays out here any longer, she’ll lose whatever thread of control she has left. The door swings shut behind her.

Negan watches the smoke curl up from his cigarette, then exhales a slow stream of it through his nose. The evening has already been a pain in the ass. Now, it’s worse. If he had been thinking about dragging you somewhere quiet before, that thought’s locked in now.

Guilt doesn't hit as hard when all he gets from his wife are barbed jabs and a cold shoulder. Maybe he’s not innocent either. He knows his jokes have a way of biting back but hell, lately it feels like even breathing wrong is a crime.

They’re fucked, really. Negan knows it and deep down and he assumes Lucille does too. But how can either one of them back out of the marriage now when they’ve sunken so much into it? A mortgage, a house, loans, debts. Damn, Negan really needs your sweet mouth around him now. The perfect distraction from the hole he’s dug himself.

You try not to be obvious as you look for Negan. He’s not with your dad or in the dining room. You haven’t seen Lucille either which gives you an odd feeling of dread, knowing they’ve both disappeared. But before you have to worry for long, your mother calls for everyone to get seated for dinner. 

You settle into your seat, subtly ensuring the chair next to you remains vacant. You're not confident (or stupid) enough to give a Negan a handy while everyone is having dinner but a little touching here and there shouldn’t hurt, right?

Even when your mother sits at one side of you, you still have some hope as Negan and Lucille enter. You don’t let it interfere with your plans, the empty space on your other side holding your hope. His eyes meet yours and you feel like a tween going through puberty as you instantly smile. But that’s when the free chair beside you scrapes against the floor.

Like a bewildered animal, your head snaps in that direction to see another smile. Lucille. Again. 

… Great.

“This seat taken?” she asks, already sitting down.

Like some sick nightmare, Negan has to sit in front of the two women in his life: you and his wife. He tries not to be awkward about it, selfishly not meeting your eyes as Lucille badgers you with questions.

"Got a boyfriend yet? I’m sure there’s a line of them after you,” she compliments “When I was your age, it was boys, parties, always out with friends. Life never slowed down”.

She barely takes a breath before continuing.

“Have you thought about moving out? Getting your own place? I did it around your age, had a place with a few girlfriends. It was wild. Eventually it felt like home, like it was really mine. Maybe it’s time you tried that too. Not just yet, I guess, but hopefully soon, right?".

You spear a forkful of greens and chew with exaggerated focus, nodding along as if Lucille’s barrage of personal questions hasn’t just lit your cheeks on fire. Sure, because still living with your parents is something you want to be quizzed about! 

Thankfully, or maybe unfortunately, Lucille moves the conversation on to your mother instead. “How would you feel about it? Think you would get empty nest syndrome?” she asks.

Negan tries not to wince as he eavesdrops, pretending to listen to your dad shittalking his co-workers. People say Negan’s the brash and direct one but goddamn, he knows Lucille can come straight out with it sometimes.

He sees it happen, so slow and subtle, and yet the most obvious thing in the room. Your posture, once open and lively, now folding in on itself like a page being creased. The spark behind your eyes has dulled, replaced by that quiet look people wear when they’re trying not to feel too much. You’re retreating and something about it twists in his chest in a way he didn’t expect.

Negan hates it. Hates that look on you. Hates that Lucille’s running her mouth without a clue, and that he’s just sitting here, watching it happen.

Without thinking, he shifts in his seat and slides his foot across the floor under the table. Just a small nudge. A silent gesture. He hopes it lands gently against your ankle, enough to catch your attention without making a scene. 

His way of saying ‘I see you, baby’.

But the contact he makes isn’t with your foot. 

Across from him, Lucille doesn’t say a word. Her smile doesn't change, and her tone stays light as she continues chatting with your mother. Negan feels the light pressure in return. A slow and smooth, gentle graze up the side of his calf. He exhales, just a little, the knot in his chest loosening.

In his mind, this is your way of answering him. A quiet ‘I’m okay’. 

He doesn’t look at you directly. Just a small, sweeping glance. But what he sees only deepens that warmth: the way you're acting completely natural, your face still quiet but softer now, as if you feel it too.

Negan doesn’t realize that it’s not your foot gently stroking his leg under the table. Nor does he see the barely there smile playing at the corners of Lucille’s mouth as she continues her conversation, pretending nothing is happening. Her leg remains where it is, answering a call Negan isn’t actually posing her.

Remaining completely oblivious, you chew mundanely on your food. You pray you’ll get a chance alone with Negan, trying to come up with different excuses or scenarios that would allow it. Unable to help himself, Negan steals another glance your way. His gaze is gentle but full of something far too close to longing.

He doesn’t even realize the softness in his expression, the unguarded affection carved into his features. It’s the kind of look no one gives their wife after years of a marriage built more on duty than desire. It’s the look of a man who’s found something he thought was long gone. Hope. Lust. Yearning.

And Lucille sees it.

At first, she’s still convinced the foot under the table means what she wants it to mean. Her leg lingers against his, her smile patient and waiting for him to respond. Anything. A smirk or a quick look her way to confirm the game she thinks they’re playing. But when she follows the direction of his gaze and sees who it’s truly meant for, something shifts in her.

The realization comes slow. She watches the way Negan looks at you and her stomach turns. There’s no flirtation in his eyes when they land on you. No coyness. Just a quiet ache of something raw, real and undeniably not meant for her.

Her smile falters. It’s small, almost imperceptible but it’s there. The first crack in the polished exterior. She blinks, refocuses on her plate, and subtly draws her leg back under the table, leaving a space between her and Negan where, for a brief moment, she thought something still lived.

Negan still hasn’t noticed. His eyes going from you to the occasional nod and look in your father’s direction as he pretends to pay attention. 

You only look up because the scrap of your fork against your plate feels too loud. The hum of overlapping conversations blurs into the background as your gaze lifts, landing on him. Negan. Goddamnit maybe dropping your fork and getting under the table wouldn’t be such a bad idea. 

At this point, any apprehension you felt about sucking him off is long gone. Now you just want to unzip his pants and get it out.

The rest of dinner unfolds in a muted haze. Your mother and Lucille carry most of the conversation, chatting about mutual friends and upcoming functions, their voices a constant thread weaving through the meal.

Across the table, Negan and your father exchange low, obligatory small talk. Work, sports, something about the grill. You mostly keep to yourself, quietly eating while nodding politely whenever your mother or Lucille pulls you into the flow of conversation.

After the plates are clean of any food, the table begins to empty. Your father claps Negan on the back and steers him toward the living room, already launching into some half-hearted commentary about the game that’s on. Negan goes with him, disappearing into the living room as your dad shuts the door.

Your mother, ever the hostess, is already stacking plates, humming to herself as she bustles into the kitchen. You follow with a handful of glasses and Lucille trails behind, offering to help put things away. You nod along, moving through the motions of cleanup while the conversation floats around you.

But you’re not done yet. You still have a dick appointment you’re determined to get to. You catch a moment and begin to meander towards the hall when your mother notices your slow edging towards the door. 

“Honey? Where are you off to?” she questions but thankfully doesn’t give you enough time to answer, already continuing the conversation on her own “Just leave the boys alone, ok? You know what they’re like when it comes to sport”.

She turns to Lucille, having already lost interest in you. “They act like they’re in their own personal conclave! And I don’t mind it, it gives us some peace and quiet but do they always have to hog the tv?”.

You slip out before Lucille replies to her. Unfortunately, you know your mother is right. Going into the men while they’re in sports mode won’t achieve anything. Actually, all that will do is make you more horny since you’ll be in his presence again. So instead, you haunt the hall, hovering so you’ll hear any movement. Maybe then you can coax him into your room.

In the living room, your father leans back into the couch with a low grunt, beer in hand, eyes on the muted game on the television. Negan sits beside him, feigning interest. His gaze drifts towards the door. Negan can feel himself getting antsy but he knows he has a role to play.

“Jesus, you see that throw?” he commentates on the game, chuckling “Kid’s got an arm like a rocket launcher but that defense makes me think he has shit for brains”.

Your dad laughs, and the two keep the steady rhythm of back-and-forth, Negan tossing in his usual sarcastic jabs and colourful commentary. 

But every few minutes, his eyes stray toward the door again. Negan knows he needs to see you, to feel you. Being as casual as possible, he stands with a stretch. 

“Alright,” Negan says “Think I’ll go see what the ladies are up to, ask how long ‘til dessert’s ready”. Your dad waves him off, paying more attention to the game than Negan slipping out.

When Negan goes out to the quiet hallway, he breathes a silent sigh of relief. He needs a moment to slip away, to ease the itch under his skin with a quick smoke and silence. Laughter can be heard behind the closed kitchen door. It’s the kind of sound that should feel warm but only makes him feel out of place.

He slides a hand into his pocket, fingertips brushing the worn edge of his lighter when he hears you.

“Hi,” is all you say, almost shyly.

That’s already enough to make Negan want to scoff. You’re a lot of things but as you displayed the last time he saw you, you ain’t shy. 

“Tonight’s not really going how I expected” you admit.

Negan assesses you carefully. “So you weren’t expecting dinner and a headache?” he says, voice low and a little rough. He doesn’t have to glance toward the kitchen for you to catch his meaning. The nattering, the laughter, neither wife has let up.

You shrug, the slow curl of your shoulder borders on playful. “I mean, I was expecting a headache,” you murmur “just not from them”.

A faint ghost of a smirk graces his face. “Not exactly the easiest place for a… quiet moment,” he mutters. 

You huff a soft laugh through your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “A few minutes of privacy is all we’d need” you reply in a teasing tone.

That brings out his smirk unapologetically. “Just a few minutes? Someone’s confident in their abilities” Negan muses. 

A few minutes. It doesn’t sound like a big ask but apparently it is. With your dad planted on the couch and the kitchen full of wine-soaked commentary and stories that won’t end, every chance keeps slipping through your fingers.

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to call your name. Instead, you notice something at the end of the hallway. 

The bathroom door cracked open. 

You look back at Negan, a spark lighting behind your eyes. “What about in there?” you ask, tilting your head towards it. Your voice is just above a whisper now, conspiratorial. 

His eyes follow your line of sight, then return to yours. For the first time all evening, it feels like maybe the night isn’t a complete loss.

That glint in his eyes sharpens, like he’s been waiting for the green light that he didn’t think would actually come. “You serious?” he questions, already angling his body toward the door like gravity’s working in your favor now.

You don’t answer, the flash of a promiscuous look being enough. Turning on your heels, you hear Negan already moving behind you, both of you making a b-line for the bathroom. 

A hand brushes against your lower back to urge you forward, or maybe to steady himself from the thrill of it. A burst of laughter echoing from the kitchen makes you almost break into a run. Negan must feel the pump of adrenaline too as he nudges you along. 

You slide inside first, turning quickly to pull him in behind you. He catches the handle just before it clicks too loud, easing it shut with the care of someone defusing a bomb. Then the lock turns with a soft yet satisfying snap.

Your heart flutters and you try to convince yourself it’s the adrenaline and not the nerves of giving a bad blowjob. But you don’t let it deter you. This isn’t the time to get hesitant and coy.

Like that video said, be enthusiastic! Time to put your money where your mouth is… well, put his dick where your mouth is actually.

Negan took charge the last time and so you do what you can to set yourself up as the one controlling things this time. Getting down on your knees, your hands latch on to his belt as you look up at him.

“I’ve been waiting for my dessert,” you purr, slowly tracing a hand down to his bulge. 

Negan sucks in through his teeth, back hitting off the wall. He can see you’re eager, that’s for sure. And so he keeps his hands by his side, letting you have your fun first. 

He groans at the pressure of your hand giving his bulge a small squeeze. “Fuck me…” he whispers, trying to compose himself already. With a deep breath, he asks “You sure you wanna do this?”.

“I made a promise, didn’t I?” You reply with a smile, slowly unbuckling his belt.

“Fuck yeah you did,” he keeps his voice low, hands twitching to bury into your hair.

Popping open the button of his jeans, you tug down the zip. There’s a nervous excitement in your stomach as you unwrap your present, the tips from the horrendous video linger in the back of your mind. 

Pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough, you free his stiffening cock. Negan can feel his lust dulling his inhibitions. All signs say to stop and yet he can’t help himself growling out a command to you.

“Suck”.

Slowly, you bring your mouth to the tip. You remember to use your hands, holding the base as you lick the smooth head. "Sweet Jesus..." he hisses through clenched teeth, watching as your tongue teases the sensitive tip. 

"Baby," Negan groans, hips shifting forward slightly "Less teasing, more sucking. Time's a-tickin'.”

As much as he loves this, he knows your time together is limited. His hands can’t help themselves anymore, going to your hair as if there’s a magnetic pull. 

You take the tip and just a bit more into your mouth. You suck gently, applying light pressure as you pull back, letting the head slip out of your mouth with an audible pop. You repeat this motion slowly, taking as much as you can into your mouth.

Negan watches as you try to take him deeper, your cheeks hollowing out as you suck. He's too big for you to deepthroat but he loves how your lips stretch around him.

When you tighten your grip, wrapping your hands around what you can’t get into your mouth as you bob your head up and down, Negan thinks you might suck whatever measly soul he has straight out of his dick.

His eyes roll back slightly, enjoying the sight of you working him. "That's it," he encourages, hips instinctively moving in sync with your mouth "just like that". He groans, his hand guiding your head gently. You gag, more of him having gone into you than you anticipated. With a slight splutter, you pull back and breathe. 

“Sorry” you quickly wipe away some spit threatening to dribble out of your mouth. "Shh, it's okay," he whispers "but fuck sweetheart, I'm gonna cum in your mouth if you keep doing that”. 

You give a smirk, regaining your breathing. Holding his cock, you lick up the underside, feeling Negan’s hands tighten in your hair.

“But you promised me a facial” you pretend to pout before focusing on sucking the tip again.

"Fuck I know..." He watches hungrily as you suck the head, his balls tightening. His grip in your hair starts to guide you faster as he yearns to cum and paint that pretty face of yours.

"Suck harder, I know you can… where’s the fuckin’ slut from before gone, eh?" Negan pants, that degrading man you met at the bar starting to come out.

You give a small moan, staring up at him. His cock goes further back your throat again but this time you try not to gag, concentrating on sucking him off. 

You’re a walking contradiction and Negan loves it. Big innocent eyes looking up at him, but with the eager  mouth of a whore that just got a hundred bucks.

"You look like you should be on your knees taking communion, not sucking dick,” his voice drops an octave, watching your lips stretch around him "Choke on it?".

You blink for a moment, tears almost running down your face as you take in his request. Going as far down as you can, his cock fills your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You feel your throat convulse but you hold position. 

A strangled noise leaves you but it only makes his dick throb. “Y’could be a world class slut, you know that?” With lust taking over, Negan’s hands pull your head down further. 

Drool pools in your mouth, overflowing down your chin. Despite your brain hardly functioning, you gently cup his balls with your hands, trying to do as much as possible for him. Holding position for a few seconds, you pull back, spit following you as you catch your breath again. 

"You’re killing me..." Negan groans as you pull back, letting you catch your breath before diving back in. His hands guide your head, setting a pace that's fast but shallow.

"Keep looking up at me like that,” he orders “wanna see you take it”.

As you concentrate not gagging, you can feel the wet warmth between your own legs building. Each shallow thrust of his hips, each taste of pre-cum, makes your core ache with desire. Your panties become damp as your arousal grows and you can't help but press your thighs together.

"Fucking beautiful," he says, his voice thick with lust. It’s like Negan can’t decide what he wants. One moment he’s pushing your head further down his dick but the next he’s pulling your head back so he can see your tear-streaked face better. You don’t mind though, trying to catch a breath whenever you can.

You don’t hear every word he says, the noises coming from your own mouth distracting you. " …pathetic slut..." you hear him say, before he corrects himself “... my pathetic slut“.

The words only encourage you. Your hands work in tandem with your mouth, knowing you can’t possibly have much more time with him alone. Surely someone will come looking for one of you soon. Or someone will need to use the bathroom.

He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head down harder onto his dick “Open your fucking mouth wider”. You try to do so but you gag around him.

"Take it, baby, I know you can" he growls, pushing your head down further despite your gagging. His hips start moving, fucking your mouth roughly. Each thrust resonates through your entire body. Thankfully, your gagging eases but you can still feel your reflex attempt to trigger with each thrust of his dick.

"Shit..." Negan sees the mess he’s making of you. The spit. The tears that naturally come with gagging so much. And he can only fantasize about the mess in your panties.

Pulling your head back sharply, his length slaps against your cheek. You give a small whine as he does, having little time to process what’s happening as you follow his orders.

"Open," He grunts, fisting his length tightly “Wanna see how much I get in”.

Your mouth stays open, tongue out and ready to catch his cum. You don’t have to wait long until you feel the ropes of warm cum landing, but not just on your tongue. Negan paints your face.

Cheeks. Nose. Chin. Lips.

“That’s it” He approves, giving a few final strokes before squeezing out the last drops onto your tongue.

You don’t need a mirror to know you look a mess and the laugh Negan let’s out seems to confirm your thoughts. "You look like a damn porno" he says.

Letting go of your hair, he brings a hand around to your face, spreading the cum by your mouth around your lips. You take the opportunity to suck his thumb, licking the cum off and swallowing all he had given you.

You let it go with a small pop, mimicking the same treatment his dick got. “Was it good?” You ask, your hoarse voice surprising you.

"Was it good?" He repeats, chuckling deeply as he stuffs his softening dick back into his pants. "You're fucking kidding me, right? Look at you. You're a goddamn mess” He gestures to your cum-covered face, a smug grin on his face. 

You're unsure whether or not that answers your question, or if any of it is a good thing. Negan sees the cogs turning in your head. ”You took that like a pro, sweetheart" he assures you, gently helping you up onto your feet.

Not done teasing yet, you gather other spurts of cum from your cheeks and lick that off your fingers next.

“Thanks” you shrug, playing off how relieved you are. 

Negan grins widely, impressed by your dedication. “You’re a fuckin’ keeper, you know that?” He drawls, reaching a hand out to ruffle your already messed up hair. It’s strange to feel such a platonic action after he’s just fucked your face but that’s who Negan is, you suppose. 

One minute you’re being chastised for wearing provocative clothing. The next, Negan is tearing your dress off in a public bathroom. One minute you’re slut or whore, the next you’re ‘sweetheart’ again. 

The only constant so far is bathrooms. That makes you pause for a moment before saying “We have to stop doing this by a toilet. It’s weird”.

He barks out a laugh at that, quickly covering his mouth. Negan waits a moment, waiting for someone to come see what’s going on. But when no one interrupts, he continues “You stay at, uh… what’s that friend of yours name again? The one you lied to your folks about being with the last time?”.

“Lydia,” you answer, turning on the sink tap. Catching a look of yourself, you’re surprised you don’t look half bad. Maybe stained looks good on you. 

“Right, you sleep over at hers often?” He asks, taking his time as he buckles his belt.

You carefully splash some on your face “I guess, yeah… why?”.

“So if you told them you were staying at hers some night, they’d believe it?” Negan asks “No questions asked?”.

You nod, eyes meeting his and you try to manage your hair. The smirk says it all.

“Huh… all I’d need to do is feed Lucille some shit and we could have a night away somewhere, finally get you alone without sneaking around”.

Your body screams at the idea but you try not to show your excitement. “You’d have to pay for the hotel room though,” you say snarkily “I think that’s the least you could do”.

He laughs again, lower this time. “Careful baby,” he gives you ass a firm smack as he passes for the door. The sting makes you jolt, half from the hit but half from the way he’s already slipping away.

You always knew your time with him came in fleeting, stolen slices. But that doesn’t make it any less confusing. Or any easier.

“Wait,” you blurt out, the word catching before it’s fully formed. Negan freezes, one hand resting on the lock. Slowly, he turns his head back to you.

“What about me?” you ask, voice quieter now. He doesn’t answer straight away. Letting it linger for a moment, the anticipation builds.

Negan lets out a low whistle. “Oh, sweetcheeks,” he drawls, voice dripping with that infuriating charm “You know I wanna eat that pussy like it’s my last meal but…”. He clicks his tongue, mock sympathy curling in his tone. “Time just ain’t on our side, honey.”

And just like that, he slips out the door with maddening ease, leaving behind a whole lot of unfinished business. You let out a huff.

He called you a whore but at least they get paid. All you got for your efforts was a smack on the ass and a bare face, most of your make-up having washed away with his cum. 

Negan knows your type, knows you’d probably jump him if he didn’t leave the bathroom. One taste of dick and you’ll be wet all day. The thought alone makes his dick throb again, already missing your mouth.

Going back into the sitting room, your dad is like a statue, in the same position as before. Negan gives a grimacing tight lipped smile, as if he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Sitting back down on his spot on the couch, Negan apologizes “Sorry if I smell like smoke”.

He’d rather your dad think he was having a cigarette outside rather than face fucking the man’s daughter. Your dad waves off Negan’s faux concern, mumbling the moments of the game he missed. Negan sinks into the couch comfortably, knowing that as long as you don’t make it obvious, you’ve both gotten away with another escapade. 

Still in the bathroom, cool water runs over your wrists as you try to bring your heart rate back down. You smooth a hand down your top but thankfully everything looks fine. Small mercies there’s not drops of Negan splattered all over your outfit.

The click of the doorknob spins your stomach before your brain can catch up. The door swings open and your mother steps in, mid-sentence on about wine refills when he sees you.

“Jesus!” she yelps, hand flying to her chest “You scared me half to death!”.

You whip around, just as startled. “Sorry! I—sorry, I mustn’t have locked it” you blabber.

She narrows her gaze, scanning your face like she's the Terminator instead of your mother. Subtle, trained and looking for anything out of the ordinary.

“You okay?” she asks.

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I just needed a minute. I’m feeling a little weird” You gesture vaguely toward the sink as if it can be your alibi. 

She frowns, but not suspiciously. You thank whatever higher power there is when her tone seems more concerned. “You feeling sick?” she presses.

“No, no. I’m fine,” You say too fast before shrugging, deciding that maybe you shouldn’t deny a good excuse “I mean, maybe, I just feel kinda strange y’know?”. 

She studies you for a moment longer. You’re fully dressed, your hair’s in place, and nothing smells like guilt or sex. Just a hint of soap and whatever dignity you managed to salvage.

“Well,” she sighs, brushing past you to grab a hairpin from the vanity. “Don’t lurk in here too long. I was about to serve dessert if you’re up for it”.

You nod again, giving a sheepish smile you hope might look weak in a sickly way. “Yeah, I think I can muster up having some cake”.

She gives you one last glance and then steps out, leaving the door open this time. Giving yourself a quick look, you silently tell yourself to keep it together.

You’re glad to see how refreshed you look. Maybe slightly breathless. And looking sort of flustered. With your panties sticking to your pussy with how wet you are. But you’re still holding it together! 

…Barely.

Squaring your shoulders, you walk out of the bathroom as if you’re going up to the frontlines of a war. Voices and clinking dishes subconsciously call for you from the dining room.

It feels a little weird to walk, your pussy practically dripping and making each step feel like another ride down the slip and slide between your legs. But you carry on nonetheless, ready to act as boring and normal as humanly possible.

The moment you round the corner, you spot an empty chair at the table and (more importantly) who’s beside it. Negan sits back in his seat, fingers curled loosely around a can of soda. 

He’s laughing at something Lucille just said as she stands with a knife in hand. Whether he’s laughing because she’s actually funny or he’s fearing for his life, you can’t tell. 

Even if Negan is a little affected by what happened five minutes ago, it doesn’t show. Not in the way his mouth curves lazily around the rim of his can, or how he only glances your way without missing a beat.

You slide into the seat next to him, carefully letting your leg brush his under the table. Lucille gives you a slight look but you can’t tell if it’s because you sat next to her husband or if you look more flushed than you initially thought. Well, if she wanted the seat, she should’ve moved faster instead of just standing there. You snooze, you lose.

Your mother bustles in from the kitchen, wearing oven mitts and holding a tray that sends waves of warm sugariness through the room.

“Hot out of the oven,” she announces proudly, placing the cake in the center of the table “Chocolate, just like old times”. 

Lucille lights up as she passes the knife, letting your mother do the honors. Once she’s sat down across from you both, she starts to gush “God, remember when you used to make this every weekend? I’ve been dreaming about this!”.

Your mom beams, already cutting thick slices while steam curls up from the soft centre. Your father’s voice calls faintly from the other room, a low rumble over the TV. “Pass on dessert! Game’s getting good!”. Typical.

Your mom rolls her eyes affectionately. “He’s glued to that couch,” she mutters, placing a plate in front of you.

You thank her, then glance sidelong at Negan. He finally meets your eye. Just for a second. You get no smile. No words. Just that look. That quiet, smoldering acknowledgment of what no one else knows. You lower your gaze and pick up your fork. 

The cake is warm and melts on Negan’s tongue. Still, it’s not the sweetest thing he’s wanted to taste tonight.

He chews like it‘s delicious, nods appreciatively at your mother’s proud smile as she tells them about how she found the recipe somewhere. Negan isn’t sure where though, he was too busy thinking about your pussy when your mom said that part of the story. 

He doesn’t look at you much. Negan knows it’s ridiculous but he’s sure Lucille can smell it off of him. The lies. Deception. She’s like a goddamn cadaver dog when she picks up the scent of something being awry.

Every now and then, he risks a glance your way, just to see the way your lips part around the fork in a way he knows all too well. He clears his throat and takes another sip of his drink, hoping the fizz will ground him. It doesn’t.

As delusional as it sounds, Negan was hoping to fuck you again. Now he sees that was just a wet dream. You both had your moment in the sun, where you turned his world upside down and gagged around him like there’s no tomorrow. 

He shifts in his seat, trying to play it off his own dirty thoughts. He adds a lazy comment to the conversation, a dry “Mmhmm,” and “Yeah, taste’s great”. Lucille nods along and Negan hopes he’s doing enough to convince her he’s listening.

But no matter how much he tries, his mind isn’t on the cake. It’s on the bathroom and on what he didn’t get enough of.

Lucille dabs the corner of her mouth and launches into a story from years ago. Negan nods at the right moments, even chuckles once or twice. But under the table, his hand edges across to your soft thigh.

His fingers splay out and spread across your thigh possessively. You shove a piece of cake into your mouth to stop yourself from smirking. You may have it bad for Negan, but it certainly feels like he can’t get enough of you either.  

Trying to act natural, you slowly open your thighs under the table. It’s difficult to look bored above the table, while below you're trying to angle your body in such a position that gives Negan access to everything.

His thumb draws circles on your inner thigh, inching closer to what he really wants. He keeps his focus on your mom, conversing normally as his hand inches dangerously close to your panties.

Nodding your head, you add “Yeah, I remember hearing about that”. Although neither your mother or Lucille directly acknowledge your participation, already jumping to some other old memory.

Negan acknowledges you though, under the table. His middle finger nudges its way around your damp panties and smoothly slides down your folds. You eat your cake casually, lowering your head so neither woman will see the pleasure in your expression. 

Like a man on a mission, the finger glides through your obvious wetness until it reaches your entrance. The finger teases your hole, pressing gently before slowly sliding inside. He enters you effortlessly, your wet pussy eagerly greeting him. His finger curls slightly, hitting that sweet spot deep inside of you.

Both of you look like the definition of calm, neither one of you letting on what’s happening. Negan keeps his arm low, making sure all the action occurs below the table cloth so that the others can’t tell his arm is angling towards you.

His finger moves with agonizing slowness, barely withdrawing before pushing back in deeper each time. He's not fingering you aggressively or quickly like he might if you were alone; instead, he's drawing out each stroke deliberately slow and shallow to torture you silently.

He snaps you out of your quiet tranquility with a compliment. "I have to say, this cake is fucking amazing,” he looks directly at your mother, a wide grin on his face as if he doesn’t have his finger in her daughter.

She waves away his compliments before Lucille steals her attention “You’ll have to give me the recipe”. It acts as the perfect distraction for Negan to add another finger inside you, stretching you out. 

“Anyways, dinner has been great but we should really get going soon” Lucille glances Negan’s way before showing off her sympathetic smile to your mom.

But your mom doesn’t catch the smile. Instead, her eyes land on you. Breathless with your mouth slightly agape. And worst of all… hardly eating your slice of cake!

"Are you feeling okay?" she asks concernedly.

Negan’s movements stifle but just for a second as you come up with a reply “Yeah— I think I’m just feeling a little flushed”.

His finger suddenly shifts upwards, finding your swollen clit and applying pressure. You have to fight to keep your breathing steady as pleasure shoots through you. Your eyes flutter briefly closed before you regain composure, trying not to squirm visibly in your seat. 

Your core tightens with impending release. With aching thighs, you do the one thing your body is begging you not to. You move your legs away from Negan and abruptly stand up, nearly knocking your chair back. The movement forces Negan’s hand to fall away, loosely dropping to his side. Your skirt whooshes slightly but it looks as though that’s been caused by your abrupt movement and not Negan’s hand. 

“Actually, I think I might lay down for a while,” you announce, eyes darting to each person “I don’t feel so good”.

Your mom simply nods, taking your excuse at face value. “Ok, I can save you some cake for later” she assures. Her eyes follow you out, giving Negan the perfect opportunity to bring his hand up to the table.

His fingers are coated with your wetness but before the others can notice, he uses his hand to pick up his last piece of cake on his plate and pop it into his mouth. He deliberately licks each finger, letting out an exaggerated groan of approval as you leave.

That asshole. Surely he wasn’t trying to make you cum. He knew you’d pull away in the end. That you’d be the one to disrupt your own pleasure. As if you had a choice.

You’re only in your bedroom a few minutes when you hear the goodbyes begin.

“We’ll have to do this again soon!”.

“Next time, I’ll make brownies!”.

“Just make sure the next time it’s not on the same day as the game, ok?”.

You’re not called to say goodbye. After all, you’re too ‘sick’ or ‘faint‘ or whatever excuse is most believable to your mother. With a huff, you flop on to your bed. Your panties are still sticking to you but now all you have is yourself to fix that problem. Rolling over on to your side, you mutter “Fucking asshole…”.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

Lucille doesn’t start talking until they’re nearly home. Negan doesn’t press her. He can feel the weight of whatever she’s building up to and figures it’s only a matter of time before she lets it out.

“She looks at you weird”.

Negan makes a low sound in his throat. It’s not quite agreement, more like he’s trying to figure out where she’s going with this. He silently hopes the next name she mentions is your mom but of course, it’s your name that leaves her lips. 

“It’s like she just… watches. Everything. But especially you” Lucille explains “You haven’t noticed that?”.

Negan raises an eyebrow. “So she’s the one doing all the watching but somehow you’re catching every second of it? Sounds like you’re doing a fair bit of eyeballing yourself”. He gives a short laugh, hoping to deflect her unease with a joke. It doesn’t work. She responds with a scoff, all sharp edges.

“I’m being serious”.

“Yeah and I am too,” he lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug, eyes still on the road “so she’s not a chatterbox. Whatever”.

Lucille quietly stews for a few moments. Negan hopes he’s almost in the clear when he turns down onto their street, but peace is a fickle thing.

“I bet she’s got a thing for you.”

He rolls his eyes instinctively. “Nice to know you think I’ve still got universal appeal, honey,” he replies dryly as if it doesn’t stroke his ego.

He pulls into their driveway. Their little house, slightly run-down but comfortably familiar, greets him with its tilted porch steps and overgrown lawn. Never has crooked suburbia looked so inviting.

He tries to use Lucille’s next stewing period of silence to make his escape out of the car, swiftly turning off the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Do you know the last time I went to theirs, she came back from her friend's place wearing your sweatshirt,” Lucille watches his movements pause at that revelation. “Wouldn’t know how she got that, would you?” she questions.

Negan looks to her, tongue running along the backs of his teeth as he thinks.

“I gave it to her as a souvenir after I fucked her, is that what you want to hear?” he shoots back “Jesus fucking Christ, Lucille, is this going to be it now? Is she the next woman I must be fucking?”.

It’s shitty, he knows. But Negan also knows the best form of defense is attack. Or, at least it’s always worked out for him that way.

Lucille physically shudders at the idea of that, her voice raising as she argues back “Well, you were definitely eye-fucking her tonight at the table. Right in front of me!”.

Negan snorts. “Before or after you tried to embarrass her in front of everyone?” his tone is sharper now “Because what you call eye-fucking, I call trying to make sure she didn’t burst into tears in the mashed potatoes.”

Negan hopes none of the neighbors are passing by. Even with the two of them still in the car, he’s sure anyone passing by would be able to hear their raised voices.

“You really think I didn’t just toss her that sweatshirt the last time they came over here for dinner? Maybe when I was showing her shit in the garage? That ever cross your mind?” His voice tightens as he adds, “Or was I fucking her in the back of the car then too, Lucille? You tell me since you apparently know everything”.

“You're twisting my words!” She argues “All I’m saying is she obviously has the hots for you and you being friendly will give her the wrong idea”.

To Negan, this feels like a win. A messy, backhanded one but still a win nonetheless. Lucille has shifted from accusing him directly to blaming it all on you, like she’s just trying to warn him of your supposed crush.

“Fuck, it’s like I can’t even talk to you anymore,” Lucille mutters, rubbing a hand down her face, not caring whether it smears her makeup.

“Not without accusing me of fucking somebody” Negan jabs back. 

That’s enough for Lucille, undoing her seatbelt carelessly and kicking open the car door.

Ding!

Negan feels his balls tighten when his phone dings with a message. But if his balls are telling him one thing, it’s to lean into the mess.

“Want to check that?” Negan pulls his phone out of his pocket, waggling it as Lucille gets out of the car “Could be her, maybe she’s sending me a nude”.

Lucille doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just slams the car door hard enough to rattle the windows and throws a middle finger over her shoulder as she storms towards the house.

Negan watches her go, expression flat. He knows he’s going to be in the shitter for the night but when he opens up the notification, he thinks it might be worth it. There to greet him is a text he assumes must be you.

“I don’t have that many books,” you protest, giving Gabriel a smile despite an avalanche of paperbacks threatening to slide off a nearby shelf.

Gabriel doesn’t argue, simply nodding his head as he looks around at the piles. “If you say so,” he concedes before clearing his throat. “Well, I have another for your collection, if you don’t have it already” he says, holding up a paperback.

You squint at the title. Of Mice and Men. A quiet hum escapes you as you rise. “I’ll take it,” you say, stepping over piles of books to him.

“And in response, I was hoping to borrow one of your own?” he requests.

“Oh, sure!” You gesture for him to take his pick.

You guess it makes sense for Gabriel to want a book. Everyone needs some entertainment these days. That’s why you collect so many books, trying to keep them all in pristine… or at least, above average condition. This is all you have now. 

Any electronics that still worked after the world ended, started to deteriorate after the first few years. Crafting is good at keeping people busy but supplies are scarce and hard to come by nowadays. But books have stayed.

For you, books have always been close by.

Gabriel browses for a few moments. You take the opportunity to put his copy of ‘Of Mice and Men’ aside, knowing you’ll dive into it later on. He stops by one of your shelves, picking out another classic.

“The Great Gatsby,” he reads aloud “Huh… I wish we had the old movie of this somewhere”.

You shrug “Well, you’ll have to make do with the book for now”.

Gabriel turns the book over in his hands, flipping through a few pages before nodding to himself. “Yeah, I’ll take this one if you don’t mind” he says, tucking it under his arm.

“Perfect, just make sure to return it when you’re done,” you reply, getting back to your book spring cleaning “it’s a favourite of mine!”.

Gabriel gives you some quick reassurance before heading on his way, leaving you with your mountains of books and a new read for you to get into later.

Once you make the room look somewhat tidy, you spend some time helping out around the community; finishing a few chores and chatting with familiar faces. Eventually, the day winds down and you get some time to relax.

Just you, your book and the golden hour light pouring through the window.

You reach for ’Of Mice and Men’ and crack it open, the comforting scent of aged paper welcoming you as you settle in. It’s a short read but you know it’ll keep you hooked for the evening. After that, it’s back to whatever’s next on your growing list of reads or re-reads.

The opening pages draw you in easily. You read slowly, letting the rhythm of the words settle into your mind. The outside world and all of its problems fade away. But then, just a few pages in, something catches your eye.

At first, you think it’s just another student’s annotation. Plenty of these old books still carry traces of classroom days, underlinings and scribbled notes meant to prep for long forgotten quizzes. You don’t mind it too much, seeing it as a testament to the book’s past life.

But this note is different. It’s not the underlining of some symbolism or the explanation of a metaphor.

I’ve seen better writing in porn

You scrunch your nose up at the note written into the margin. More so at the fact that it's written in pen. At least if it was pencil, you could erase it. But now the commentary of some bored high schooler is cemented into this classic.

A few pages later, just as one of the characters, Lennie, begins to ramble about his dreams of having rabbits, you find the next note lurking there.

Drinking game. Take a shot every time this guy brings up rabbits. You’ll be dead by page 20

You snort involuntarily and take a sip of water in ironic tribute. The handwriting is blocky and bold but surprisingly neat. Hard to believe it’s the writing of some high schooler that was too busy writing commentary instead of listening in class. Maybe they never got to sit the test on this. Maybe the world went to shit before they ever could.

When the rabbits are mentioned yet again, you’re greeted with another note from your invisible co-reader.

Why is this fucker obsessed with rabbits like they're made of crack??

Crude but a valid question, you suppose. The sun sinks lower and the shadows stretch long across your room. You keep reading, letting the story pull you in deeper. Every so often, like clockwork, the mystery annotator returns. 

A quip. A question. A full-blown rant.

In a weird way, it feels nice to get someone else’s input. It’s like having a book club with a ghost, someone from long gone.

You have tried in the past to start a book club in Alexandria but it never seemed to stick. Either you couldn’t find enough copies of the chosen book for everyone, something big would happen and make everyone lose interest or, most exhaustingly, the discussions would be boring. 

No one wanted to have a deep discussion about the book nor would they be as unfiltered as your invisible pal. They just wanted to read as a shallow distraction. Nothing more.

As you continue, some of the notes surprisingly make you chuckle, like when a character simply referred to in the book as Curley’s wife is introduced.

Only woman in the book and she's written like a walking HR violation. Real progressive shit.

By the end of the book, you're left satisfied but it seems the other reader didn’t think so.

Boring.

That’s the last note written into the final page, abrupt and dismissive. You don’t blame them. After all, when the world was still whole, maybe a slow-burn tragedy about doomed dreams wouldn’t really hold a person’s attention. 

Knowing it’s time you get some shut eye, you find a spot for the book on your shelf. You give a silent goodbye to the other reader and turn off your light.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

It takes a few days for Gabriel to return your copy of ‘The Great Gatsby’. 

“Hello?” He calls out, book in hand. Thankfully, he spots you relatively soon this time, most of the book stacks having found their homes on various shelving units.

“Hey!” You flash him a smile, taking your book back as he hands it to you “Thanks for returning it”.

“It’s no problem at all,” Gabriel replies before he hesitates again “but I was hoping for maybe another? I don’t have any books to trade this time—“

“That’s not an issue,” you cut in warmly “take your pick! I know they’ll be safe in your hands”.

He gives you an appreciative smile before drifting toward the shelves.

You pause for a moment, curiosity itching at the back of your throat before finally spilling out. “Actually, I was wondering about that copy of ‘Of Mice and Men’ you found,” you say, trying to sound casual “Where did it come from?”.

Gabriel glances over his shoulder, hand resting lightly on a worn paperback. “Rosita picked it up on a run,” he tells you “she knows I’m always on the lookout for books, so she passed it my way”.

You take his explanation at face value, assuming it was once a school or one of the early quarantine zones where Rosita found it. Gabriel stops, tilting his head slightly as he pulls another title free.

Twilight.

“Do you have the whole series?” he asks, half-serious, half-teasing.

You let out a laugh “I do, actually”.

There’s a smirk playing on the man’s lips, one you're not quite sure that you’ve seen before. You’re not used to seeing Gabriel look so… mischievous? Suspicious? You can’t tell.

“This was every teenage girl’s dream before, right?” He asks, wanting to make sure he has the right book “With the vampires?”.

You nod, before correcting “Well, either their dream or their idea of a cringe infested nightmare… depends on who you ask, really”.

That convinces him. “Perfect, I’ll get it back to you shortly” he promises, already walking out the door with a pep in his step. 

You watch him leave, something wary and amused tugging at your expression. Gabriel reading Twilight. Of all the titles he could’ve chosen.

You stroll alongside the shelves, ‘The Great Gatsby’ cradled loosely in your hand and fingers absently flipping through its worn pages. Your eyes scan for a gap among the spines, somewhere Gatsby can slip back into place. 

Humming to yourself, your glance down at the book for a brief second. You freeze when you see it.

Pen.

Your fingers still mid-flick, the page caught halfway in motion. It’s hard to miss, the dark block letters staring up at you. Opening up the book properly, you find a note written across the paragraphs detailing Gatsby’s lavish parties.

He’s trying to make up for something. Small dick?

“No…” you murmur, eyes narrowing as you recognize the writing. The same bold scrawl from ‘Of Mice and Men’, now bleeding across the pages of ‘The Great Gatsby’, like graffiti on a historic monument.

You flip through more pages in a panicked flurry. 

Definitely has a small dick 

The pen is everywhere, overconfidently trailing alongside the text. 

Maybe he’s got a chode

And then to what drives you over the edge. As if the words alone weren’t enough. There, between the lines of Gatsby’s gilded world, your anonymous commentator has decided to try their hand at illustrations. You stare, slack-jawed, at a particularly detailed drawing.

“Jesus…” you mutter, horrified. The pained groan you leave out sounds animalistic. How are you supposed to read this book in a month's time, a year’s time, or a decade’s time when drawings of Gatsby’s alleged micro-penis fill the pages!

You feel cold as you connect the dots. The first book came to you by Gabriel. And now here’s your copy of ‘The Great Gatsby’ vandalized within an inch of its life after being with Gabriel. Your fingers tighten around the book as panic blooms. 

Edward and Bella don’t stand a chance!

You snap the book shut, discarding it on a shelf and making a beeline for the door. There’s no time to waste. If ‘Twilight’ isn’t already covered in tiny vampire caricatures and snide remarks about sparkling skin, it will be soon.

You burst outside, eyes scanning your surroundings. It’s difficult to tell where Gabriel will be this time of the day. The church is the obvious place to look but if he’s already visited you, there’s a good chance he’s doing the rounds and visiting a multitude of people.

You check the usual places. The storage rooms are empty. Siddiq is the only person in the doctor’s office, calling after you to take a breath when he sees how panicked you look. Eugene, who’s on watch by the gates tells you he hasn’t seen Gabriel all day. There’s no sign of him by the vegetable patches, where all you get is confused stares.

You try everywhere. A growing mix of dread and irritation gnaws at you with each empty room. By the time you finally spot him, coming down the porch steps of Aaron’s home, you're ready to combust.

Gabriel looks up just as he reaches the last step, hearing your approaching footsteps. His face brightens instantly, completely unaware of the storm he’s about to walk into.

Gabriel greets you with the same polite smile as always “Hey! Going for a walk?”.

You stare at him, deadpan, the image of a doodled Gatsby dick still burned into your retinas. You speak with the strained calm of someone clinging to the last thread of composure.

“I, um…” you begin, forcing your tone into something resembling polite conversation “So, I was just putting my book back on the shelf when I had a look inside…”.

You trail off, giving him the opportunity to confess. Gabriel nods and waits for you to continue.

“I found notes,” you say bluntly “and drawings, graffiti all over my book”.

He straightens a little. “Notes?” He repeats.

“Yeah, and the same handwriting was in the ‘Of Mice and Men’ copy you gave me,” you huff, trying to keep yourself composed “my books mean a lot to me and I don’t appreciate you scribbling down your own—“.

“Oh I didn’t do it!” He immediately protests, holding his hands up in surrender.

You blink. “What?”.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking sheepish. “I haven’t written anything into your book,” Gabriel clarifies “in fact, I haven’t even read the books you’ve given me”.

You scoff, unsure whether you believe him or not. “Well, if you didn’t vandalise my book, who did?”.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Negan stretches out his long legs. Another day in this shithole hell, and another pain in his back from the slab they call a bed.

He’s hoping that if he gets some good behavior brownie points then they’ll upgrade the bed. After Negan complied and stopped his hunger strike a few months ago, they allowed him a shave and some entertainment. Now, he plays along. Nods when they want him to, keeps his mouth shut when it counts.

If he keeps this up, maybe they’ll toss him an extra pillow sometime in the next decade.

The window’s cracked open but the world outside may as well be dead. There’s no hushed conversations to eavesdrop on or shouting matches to chuckle at. Just dead air that’s sometimes interrupted by the sounds of passing footsteps. 

Already feeling his boredom setting in, Negan turns to his first line of defense. The last time he played with a ball that wasn’t anatomically attached, he was teaching snotty teens the basics of basketball. Now, a scuffed old baseball is his private form of salvation.

He tosses it into the air. Catches it. 

Tosses. Catches. 

Tosses. Catches. 

Tosses… and what a surprise, he catches it.

The rhythm is comforting but maddening. After what feels like the thousandth throw, Negan exhales hard and lets the ball fall onto the mattress with a thud.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, right outside his window. “Let me in,” it’s a woman. 

Negan straightens up, eyes narrowing as he peers out the slit of his window. No one on the main street of Alexandria. She’s not in the open, which means she’s already down here, near his cell and speaking to one of the guards they have on constant duty.

There’s a low murmur, then the sharp huff of irritation. “I’ll be in and out in a few minutes, just let me in,” Negan hears her say in a firm tone.

Negan smirks. Whoever she is, she’s stubborn, He doesn’t recognize the voice but that doesn’t mean much nowadays. His contact with the outside world is so minimal, faces and voices blur like hazy dreams. 

Maybe you’ve been in Alexandria for years and lived through all the shit he’s done. Or maybe he’s just some urban legend to you until now.

You have to threaten to get Michonne before the guard even considers budging. There’s a long pause and then the creak of hinges. The door opens.

You step inside, resisting the urge to storm through like a reckoning. It’s a small room. Cold without feeling it. Damp in a way that’s just in spirit. Dark despite the window.

Negan tenses as you close the distance. This is new. There’s no hesitation as you walk right up to his cell, you don’t linger or have an internal debate with yourself wondering how close you should get. You walk up like you’ve done it a hundred times.

Most people keep their distance. They know that if he tried, Negan could reach through the bars and that he would if given a good enough reason.

But you? You’re different. And that alone puts him on edge.

“I know you have it,” you say, staring up at this supposed monster and trying to square your shoulders “so just… give it back, ok?”.

Negan studies you through the bars. He doesn’t recognize you. That alone sparks a flicker of hope that you might be the one person in Alexandria who doesn’t see him as a walking ghost story. Or worse, you do know him and Negan simply doesn’t remember the part he played in wrecking your life.

“Give what back?” he asks, voice more rugged than he expected.  

You don’t answer instantly. Instead, your eyes sweep over his cell, cataloging the bare essentials of his existence. It’s sparse. No curtains on the window, no signs of comfort or color besides a single hanging plant dangling from the ceiling. You can’t help but wonder what he had to do to get that small touch of life.

It doesn’t take long to spot what you came here for. There, resting crookedly atop his thin mattress, is ‘Twilight’.

Your arm moves before you can stop it, slipping through the bars as you point. “That,” you say, “That’s mine and I want it back. Gabriel had no right to give it to you”.

Negan doesn’t even need to look. Pretty lady pointing at something that isn’t him? Has to be ‘Twilight’.

Trying to bury the embarrassment of you even seeing him with ‘Twilight’ in his possession, he lets out a long sigh as he takes a step, reaches over and picks up the book. Negan was saving it for later, hoping to chip away at the evening with a few pages of guilty pleasure.

You let your arm fall slowly to your side, that rational side of you reminding yourself of the danger. 

“Well, apologies for kidnapping your book,” he drawls out “wasn’t exactly something I had in mind when I asked Gabe for some light reading”.

He’s speaking but his voice barely registers. You’re not hearing him, not really. How can you when your eyes lock onto something far more alarming. When Negan picked up your book, he revealed something else. Right behind where your book was, a black pen lays. 

You're too late. 

Before the spiral can fully pull you under, Negan moves again, jolting you back to the present. He lifts the book, extending it toward you and ready to pass it through the bars with something that might resemble genuine remorse… or the desperate yearning to have a connection.

You imagine the damage already done; sparkly dicks drawn in the margins, snide comments scribbled between lines of romance, the word ‘boring’ scrawled across every other page.

Both of your hands reach out but it’s not for your tainted book. They land on his chest, palms flat, shoving with more frustration than force.

“You asshole!” you snap, smacking at him again “You already ruined it, didn’t you?”.

Negan stumbles back, caught off guard. Not by the strength of the hit as such, but by the sheer absurdity of it. There’s been plenty of times Negan has been shocked in his life. For both good and bad reasons. But for some gal to walk in here, demand her book back and just start hitting him? Not even hitting on him, but instead slapping at him like a cat batting away a toy? 

“What the fuck?” He grunts, an automatic grin spreading across his face. How can he not smile when this is the most exciting thing that’s happened in months?

“I was giving it back!” Negan laughs in surprise, holding the book up like a peace offering “What the hell crawled up your ass and decided to possess ya?”.

“I see the pen, dumbass,” you snap “you’ve vandalized it, I know you have!”. Your arms flail in pure frustration, smacking useless air as you press yourself against the bars, stretching like you might defy physics and actually reach him.

Negan watches the display, brows lifting in amused disbelief.

He’s seen crazy before, he’s lived through enough versions of it. But this? This might be a new brand entirely.

“Vandalized?” he echoes with a scoff, flipping casually through the pages like he’s checking for damage he doesn’t regret. “I’m just jotting down my thoughts and shit. That’s what dear old Gabe wants, y’know. Reflection. Rehabilitation… all that shit”.

“I don’t give jackshit what Gabriel wants!” you shoot back, finally backing off the bars with a frustrated huff “Just don’t do it in my books!”.

Despite stopping your assault, you keep your gaze sharply on Negan as you continue “Besides if your deep deep thoughts consist of Gatsby’s dick, and Of Mice and Men liking bunnies, I don’t think people need to hear them”.

A slow, dawning light crosses Negan’s eyes before suddenly, it all makes sense to him. “Ahhh,” he says softly, lowering his gaze to the book still in his hand. He turns it over, almost gentle now “I’m fuckin’ up your books, huh?”.

Bottling your anger, you give a firm nod. “So give it back” you say, arm sliding through the bars once more. He notices that.

You’re the only person who’s done that. Reached through the bars over and over without hesitation. No fear of him or the stories they tell about him.

You don’t treat him like a bomb. You treat him like a man, one who still deserves to be scolded.

“No,” Negan decides, shaking his head “I’m just gettin’ into it”.

“No?” You repeat, baffled “you don't have a choice in this, this isn’t something you can just… refuse to do!”.

Negan gives a lazy shrug, already settling back onto his bed as if he has the final say.

“Well, I am refusing,” he says the words slowly, before quickly adding “And it ain’t like your little arms can reach me anyways, sweetheart... that’s just how it is”.

Your jaw drops. “What? No! This is not just how it is, give me the book!”.

But he’s already tuning you out, putting on a whole performance just to twist the knife. Negan cracks open ‘Twilight’ to the dog-eared page he left off at and lifts the pen with mock gravitas.

He taps it against his bottom lip like a scholar deep in thought.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “I swear, if you write in it,” you say, your voice low “If I see you so much as scribble a single letter, I will make your life worse than this cell ever could”.

After a threat like that, how could Negan ever possibly continue to ignore you? He chuckles, cracking a smile as he flicks to the first few pages of the book. “Alright then, I won’t scribble a damn thing,” he concedes, although his quick compliance makes your stomach twist.

“I’ll just read out what I’ve already jotted down” he carelessly flips back to the start, the spine of the book bending as he goes.

“Ah! Here we are…” Negan’s eyes scan the page before drifting over to the margin where he reads his note out loud “Bella’s hating on the rain as if it personally shipped her off to live with Daddio”.

You stay silent. Your arms don't flail nor does your mouth start snapping. It’s a slow, hollow processing, like someone watching their childhood home burn down in real time.

“Negan,” you finally say, your voice a brittle mix of disbelief and deep, heartfelt disappointment. “Please tell me you didn’t actually write that in my book”.

He doesn’t say a word. Instead he simply turns the book slightly in your direction and lets the blocky, dark ink along the margin speak for itself.

“That’s not even funny,” you protest, the sting in your tone louder than the words.

Negan tilts his head, jaw tight with mock contemplation. His tongue fidgets with one of his teeth like he’s weighing whether to double down. Of course, he does.

“Huh,” he mutters, casually flipping to the next page “okay, well, how about this bit? She’s rambling about her dad…yada yada yada”.

Negan waits a beat, letting you mentally catch up before he reveals his zinger. He clears his throat and reads “Translation: her dad is a walking flannel shirt who communicates solely in grunts and disappointments”.

Negan looks up when the silence starts to drag. “How’s that one land?” He asks.

“Not much better than the first,” you say, your tone deflated. If this is how Negan used to torture people who crossed the Saviors, you understand why they were so feared. It wears you down, like you’re an unwilling audience member in a terrible open mic night that just won’t end.

Your sigh is heavy, years older than you.

“Can’t you just… read the book?” you ask bluntly “You’re so obsessed with making shitty jokes, you’re not even reading it properly”.

“I am reading it,” Negan snaps back, like you’ve just accused him, a prisoner for horrendous acts, of a felony “they’re vampires and shit… not exactly a high concept”.

You groan, dragging your hands down your face.

Negan just beams, proud as ever. “Look at us. Known each other for five minutes and already arguing like an old married couple” he muses before turning sultry “Y’know I had a few wives but I’m pretty sure they all divorced me once I got thrown in here, so I am open for business”.

Your sneer is automatic. 

The book slides from his lap and onto the mattress, forgotten now that he has you in his crosshairs. “I’m just saying,” Negan continues, spreading his arms in mock innocence, “these bars? They ain’t a problem, baby. I’m flexible enough to squeeze a certain something through and still make you feel good”.

You physically recoil. “Oh God, don’t even start that, I can smell you from here”.

Negan grins like it’s Christmas morning. “That’s not sweat, darlin’. That’s the pheromones you’re smelling”.

“Really? It’s not sweat and-“ you don’t get to finish that thought. Gabriel’s voice slices through the air, sharp and panicked, as he yelps out your name. It’s music to Negan’s ears though, finally a pretty name to put to the hot and very pissed off face.

You pause, turning just enough to glance at Gabriel, confusion knitting your brow.

“When I told you where your book was, I didn’t expect you to come and get it,” Gabriel blurts out “I assure you, I’ll return it to you in the morning, or if you want it now, I’ll ask the guard to handcuff Negan and I’ll go in and…”. 

He trails off when you hold up your hand to silence him. You’re not about to wade into a round of interruptions and backpedaling.

“He’s already ruined it,” you say flatly, not even sparing Negan a glance “So actually, Gabriel, you’ll need to replace the book”.

It’s not a big demand. Hell, if you really wanted to, you could find another copy on your next supply run. But this? This is his mess. And he can clean it up.

Gabriel doesn’t argue back, a trait a certain somebody could learn. “Alright, I’ll get you a replacement as soon as I can” he says and with this newfound resolution, you go to leave.

“Awh, sweetheart, don’t go yet,” Negan calls after you, his voice laced with mock sorrow “we were just getting to know each other!”.

Gabriel gives Negan a stern look, as if he’s a camp counsellor trying to keep an unruly child in order. You ignore the both of them, and the guard still stood outside. The sound of your footsteps fading away makes Negan’s jaw clench as he purposefully ignores the glare Gabe is sending his way. 

The most interesting thing to walk into his life in years and it’s already over. And no, Negan isn’t talking about the book.

If Negan knew the books were yours, he would’ve tried harder with his commentary. Maybe let you know how long he can last and trace his own fine instrument to let you know what you’re missing out on. Nevertheless, pissing you off might just be the most fun Negan’s had in months.

“What did you say to her?” Gabriel asks in a stern voice before quickly changing his mind “Actually, I don’t want to hear it”. Negan doesn’t even look at him. Instead, he’s staring at the space you stood in just seconds ago.

Despite his contradictory statement, Gabriel still waits for some kind of explanation. When none comes, he sighs. “She didn’t have to come here. She was doing you a favor with her books, and now she’s walking away upset because you can’t stop turning everything into a game” Gabriel scolds.

“Mm,” Negan hums, leaning back against the wall with his head tilted “You done?”.

Gabriel’s lips press into a hard line “You’re impossible”.

“Yup”.

But his tone isn’t smug. Not really. Because even as Gabriel scoffs and leaves him to stew on his decisions, Negan’s not feeling the usual thrill he gets from pushing buttons. No victory lap. No verbal finisher. He’s quiet. Still.

For a minute, you made him forget. Forget the walls. The silence. The eyes that always look at him like he’s a weapon buried but still loaded.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t pity him or preach about reformation. Instead, you yelled and argued. You treated him like a person. A real, flawed, pain in the ass person. And for the first time in a long time, Negan didn’t feel like a prisoner or a monster in a cage. He just felt human.

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

Gabriel brings you a new copy of ‘Twilight’ within two days.

You expected it would be easy enough to find. Turns out, raiding any half-decent house with a teenage bedroom guarantees at least one paperback of the book, usually sandwiched between broken headphones and a tube of long expired lip gloss.

You flip through the pages slowly. Untouched. Bare. No ink scrawled in the margins. No smartass commentary wedged between paragraphs. No deeply unwelcome yet somehow entertaining questions about vampire anatomy. 

You’d be lying if you said Negan hasn’t crossed your mind these past few days. That dim, stifling little cell of his. The way he leaned on every syllable like it was some punchline he’d been saving just for you. That smug grin. His need to always have the last word, even if it meant warping your book into a cringe stand-up routine.

He is a pain in the ass. No question about it but he’s a strangely entertaining one. You’re not quite sure if you’re ready to admit he’s an endearing pain in the ass too.

You lounge on the couch, thumb still brushing against the edge of a page, your thoughts drifting. It’s not pity you feel for Negan. Or sympathy either. Maybe it’s curiosity. The weird ache that comes from walking away from someone you swore you wouldn’t waste time on, only to realize you kind of miss the ridiculous back and forth.

Negan was like that obnoxious neighborhood kid your mom warned you about. The one with scraped knees, a permanent smirk and a slingshot full of bad ideas. The one you were told to avoid but couldn’t help peeking at from the window when things got too quiet.

And right now? Things feel too quiet.

With nothing better to do, no chores left or walkers to kill, you find yourself flipping back to the beginning of your new copy of ‘Twilight’. Chapter one.

The day passes faster than expected, maybe because your mind keeps drifting to a certain someone instead of anything useful. You finish another chapter when an idea creeps in. Is it a good one? Probably not. But since when has that stopped you?

You dig out a pencil. Find an eraser. No ink, no damage, just temporary thoughts that can vanish with a swipe. A peace offering.

You head to the cell with your own copy of immortal teen romance under your arm. When you get to Negan’s little room, the guard doesn’t put up much of a fight this time. A raised eyebrow and snarky look is enough to get you inside.

Negan is right where you left him. His head lifts when he hears the door, curiosity flickering like a match behind those dark eyes. And then, recognition.

His grin doesn’t take long to appear.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice like it’s been warmed by the sun… despite the dimness of the room “If it isn’t my favorite critic”.

You don’t indulge him. Instead, you lift your copy of Twilight, holding it up in one hand. In your other hand is a stubby pencil and a well loved eraser. You cross the room slowly, ignoring his amused look.

“How far are you?” you ask, nodding toward the book that still resting beside him.

Negan raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Bella just realized Edwards wants to suck on her” he answers.

“Sounds like you’re skimming”.

“I’m reading it,” he insists, lifting the book and giving it a theatrical shake “Just absorbing the thing through sheer willpower and boredom”.

You don’t smile but the corner of your mouth betrays you. 

Holding out your hand, you reveal the pencil and eraser in front of him. You don’t stick your hand through the bars of his cell but they’re close enough to show you’re not afraid. “Trade” you order.

He stares at the items in your hand for a beat and then narrows his eyes. “Trade?” he repeats.

“For the pen,” you clarify, before laying down some ground rules “You’re not allowed near ink anymore. You’re too dangerous with it”. Negan doesn’t move right away. He tilts his head, studying you the way a fox studies a closed henhouse. 

“What, you worried I’ll start writing my woes into the margins?” he scoffs, not entirely understanding where you’re going with this.

“I’m worried you’ll draw dicks in the margins,” you reply “This way, you still get to make your dumb little notes without defacing private property”.

Negan chuckles and as much as you hate to admit it, his eyes practically twinkle. “You come in here with a gift and an attitude. Should’ve brought snacks too, then you’d be my dream girl” he shamelessly flirts, never missing the opportunity. 

“You’re exhausting,” you mutter, but you hold the pencil out a little further, making it tap against the bar. “Take it or leave it”.

After a pause, he sighs, reaches under his pillow, and retrieves the infamous black pen. He weighs it for a second, like he’s considering keeping it just to be difficult. Then, with surprising ease, he leans over and passes it through the bars to you.

As if this is a hostage swap, Negan stretches out his other arm. He never stands properly, just reaching over enough to take the pencil and eraser before plonking back down onto his slab of a bed. He takes the pencil and twirls it between his fingers like it’s a cigar. 

“You know,” he muses, “this might actually be worse for you. You’re giving me a second chance”.

“It’s not a second chance,” you correct “It’s a… y’know, a…” You trail off, trying to steer away from words that would go straight to his ego.

You’ve started to recognize the pattern of Negan’s logic. Call it a second chance, and suddenly he’s boasting about how you’re secretly into him, how this must be about sexual attraction and blah, blah, blah.

So instead, you shrug “I’ve been wanting a book club. And it’s not like you’re going anywhere anytime soon”.

“Book club?” he repeats, like you just suggested forming a knitting circle with walkers “What the hell even is that?”.

“It’s where two or more people read the same book and then, get this, talk about it” you gasp sarcastically.

He squints at you “Like… out loud?”.

“Yes, Negan. Out loud. Conversation. Discussion. Not grunting”.

He crosses his arms and already starts to scrutinize “Sounds boring”.

You ignore the jab. “You can borrow my books, but there are rules. Pencil only for notes. And you erase them after you tell me what you thought”.

“Erase?” He snorts “What, afraid I’ll corrupt the sacred text?”.

“Afraid you’ll write something dumb in ink and ruin it forever, yeah,” you jibe back “just like my other books, jackass”.

He chuckles, shaking his head “Man, you’re weird”.

“Book club is optional,” you remind him “you don’t want the company then I’ll take my ‘Twilight’ and go”.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Nah, nah, I’m in… as long as we don’t read every fuckin’ ‘Twilight’ book”.

“But they’re the easiest to find,” you point out, having already made up your mind that you’ll torture Negan with the entire sparkly vampire franchise.

He grins, eyes narrowing as he studies you. “Goddamn, you’re a sadist” he concludes with the shake of his head.

You ignore the comment and sit on the small stool on your side of the bars. It must be where his plentiful of visitors make themselves comfortable and so you do the same.

“Now seriously, how far are you into the book?” You ask, thumbing your own copy.

Like a student, Negan picks up his book and flicks through to give you an exact chapter. “Bella knows he’s a vampire now,” he tells you “but she wasn’t that freaked by it… handling it better than me if I was a 16 year old finding out some pensioner wanted to suck me. She’s lasted longer than me, I would’ve high tailed it outta there by now”.

You snort at that, the idea of this harsh and violent man hauling ass to avoid Edward Cullen. “So killing walkers or innocent people is fine but you draw the line at vampires?” You question.

He smirks, then glances down at the book, fingers brushing the edge of a dog-eared page.

“Yeah, well, we all got our limits,” he replies, waiting a beat before looking deeper into the question “But I guess I get what Bella’s feeling and shit. Wanting someone so bad it scares you. Feels like that’s all Bella’s doing; trying to make sense of wanting something that probably isn’t good for her”.

You feel a flush crawl up your neck and try to hide it with a shrug. “I always liked that part, actually. The wanting and the danger of it. That little ache behind every conversation”.

He looks up at that, eyes locking on to yours as he watches you a little too closely. His brow raises slightly “Didn’t peg you for the tortured romance type”.

You smirk “Didn’t peg you for a reader”.

He laughs almost goofily as he concedes “Touché”.

You clear your throat. “Anyway, you better be ready to talk about themes and character arcs once you’re done. I’m not doing all the emotional heavy lifting here”.

Negan chuckles softly but it fades into something gentler. He nods and his eyes go down again.

“I can do that,” he says. “Talk. About books. About… stuff”.

There’s something in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not smugness or sarcasm, just something open.

For a second, you see him not as the man people warn others about, but just a man. Tired. Still trying. Maybe even good in his own broken way. And against your better judgment, there’s a flicker of something in your chest. Something warm and extremely inconvenient.

You don’t say anything. Just sit and watch as Negan tests out his new pencil. He scribbles with it, his hand curving as he sketches.

Negan glances up at you, the smallest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. He holds the book up to you and you see in pencil, he’s drawn a crude image of a dick.