wraith 🦇

Daryl was shockingly sweet after that. He was less verbal after learning vulgar compliments weren't the way to go, but it turned out alright for you in the end. He began looking after you like you were his full responsibility. Making sure you were fed first, bringing home clothes specifically for you, along with any other treats he thought you might like. 

It was great, aside from him never making a move on you. He gawked like you were an alien when you started dressing for his gaze, Bobby Brooks shorts, pretty tank tops, even shaving your legs once in a while. But he never made a move. 

That simply wouldn't do. 

It was late one night and you'd slipped into his tent. 

“The hell you doin'?” He cursed, wiping the sleep from his eyes as you zipped up the flap behind you. 

“Can't sleep, Carl won't stop coughing.” 

You'd been sharing a tent with Lori and Carl ever since you arrived with T-Dog. It wasn't a complete lie, Carl was coughing up a storm, sick with some chest cold, but that wasn't the reason for your lack of sleep.

“I got some earplugs.” He sat up and began shifting through his bags. 

“No, it's okay. Can I crash here tonight?” You asked innocently, kicking off your casual flip flops that you saved for night time piss breaks or trips to get water. 

Daryl tried hiding his surprise . The stutter in his voice gave him away. “Uh, sure, I guess. S’long as ya dun snore.”

You behaved for an impressive amount of time. Lying in silence, not moving an inch, waiting for him to loosen up before quietly shifting backwards until your back was pressed up against his chest. 

His heart felt seconds away from collapsing in on itself when he felt you. He'd popped a semi when you'd taken off that big T-shirt he'd given you, and now it was bordering on a full on erection.

You waited until you felt his body relax, which took longer than you originally estimated, and then wiggled your hips. 

The reaction was immediate. He sucked in a breath through his nose and made this choking sound. He grabbed your hips, only for a split second before yanking his hands away like he'd been burned. 

You wiggled again, pushing back until the feeling of the outline of his dick against your ass was ingrained into your memory. 

It didn't take long to wear him down, not at all. He let out a strangled groan and rocked into you, his self restraint long since thrown out the window.

And then you stopped.

He nearly gasped at the loss of friction. The feeling was so devastating that it sobered him, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. 

“Wha-” he panted. His fingers loosened their hold on your hips and twitched against the fabric of your pajama shorts. “Why'd ya stah- stop?”

“I'm sleepy.” You said plainly, pulling the thin sheet up to your shoulders in emphasis. 

Daryl caught his breath behind you, struggling to make sense of it all through his confusion and disappointment. He grumbled something that sounded like it held an attitude, though sadly that was the extent of his protests. 

You needed more. You needed him to tear your clothes off and ravish you like the animal you knew he was. The Daryl that feverishly humped you like his life depended on it was cute, but you needed the Daryl that he was in his daily life. 

The only way you could think of was to force it out of him, even if it did torture the poor man in the process. 

You kept up the innocent teasing for a while. You took a break after Merle went missing, you knew your limits and his. You weren't a total selfish piece of shit. Only when you arrived at the farm and he began talking to you again did you resume your game of “teasing Daryl until he cracks”.

“How's it look?” You gave a cheeky smile as you turned in a circle with your hands on your hips. 

You'd put on the pair of green cargo shorts he'd found you. They weren't very practical, holding only four pockets, which was less than normal cargo shorts, but they were scandalous. The fabric hugged your ass tight enough to look damn near pornographic. 

“Didn't realize they were that tiny. Christ.” Daryl muttered with pink cheeks. “Jus’ give ‘em ta Beth. 

“Oh god. Can you imagine her face? That girl is still wearing pants in late summer. Her daddy would kill me.” You snorted and turned back to face him. “I'm keeping these bad boys. The fabric is soft. Wanna feel?” 

“Already felt em when I took em.” Despite his words, he set down his knife to free up his hands. 

“Give me your hand.” 

The poor boy was so eager to feel you that he practically threw his hands in yours. When you placed his palms on the sides of your shorts he seemed to snap to life, dropping the nonchalant attitude to rub his thumbs over the fabric covering your hips and thighs. 

You tried to keep the smug smirk off your face, and failed miserably. He was turning himself on just by touching the clothing that covered your pelvis. 

Suddenly, you pulled away, feeling your heart lurch in your chest at the way his face dropped.

“Thanks again. I've been needing new shorts.” 

“Yeah. Uh-huh. S'nothin.”

It went on like that for a while. 

One night you climbed into his tent again with the ruse of being cold, and he didn't mention the fact it was a warm seventy degrees that night. You were wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and panties, and made sure to make Daryl aware of this when you slid your knee over his thigh. 

Nothing happened that night either, nothing other than pretending to sleep while he palmed himself through his jeans. 

Another time you put on those green cargo shorts and offered to tidy up his camp, an offer he was quick to accept just so he could watch you needlessly bend over to grab random objects to place somewhere else. 

Once you even made out with him. Late at night in his tent, things got hot and heavy and you straddled him, wearing the same oversized T-shirt and panties, washed since then, of course. 

He was nervous at first, you could tell by the way his hands trembled on their way up your sides. You kissed him slow and sweet, nothing too extreme, not until he pushed his hot tongue against your lips. 

You let him in and groaned at the enthusiasm he showed. He kissed you like you were still teenagers, up in the loft of some barn hiding away from Daddy. 

“Shit.” He panted against your lips. He moved his hands down to your waist and pulled you down hard, groaning when he got that first taste of friction he so desperately craved.

“Slow down.” You breathed. Your body betrayed your words, your hips rolling down gentle and slow, just enough to feel the outline of his aching cock through your clothing. 

“Why?” He muttered before pressing another kiss against your lips. “Wha's stoppin’ ya? I got condoms. Glenn's got the pill. S'fine.” 

You pulled up and away from his lips. He looked so pretty beneath you all desperate like that. It still wasn't what you wanted. 

“I don't know, Daryl-” Your voice choked into a whine when he moved under you, the friction momentarily rendering you speechless. 

“Can't ya feel what yer doin’ to me? Huh?” He snapped his hips again, forcing out another whine. “S’all for you. C'mon now.”

“Not here Daryl.” You tried to keep your voice level and firm. “Not in some tent where we have to be quick and quiet.” 

“Le’s go somewhere then. Anywhere ya want, don't care. Tell me. I'll take ya.” 

Truthfully, that almost made you give in. But it still wasn't the Daryl you wanted to experience. He was desperate, but not desperate enough. 

“Not tonight, Daryl. It's too late and Shane's on watch. He'll have my ass if he catches us sneaking out.” 

Daryl growled in frustration, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Won't get caught.”

“Yeah, sure. Let's just wait another night.” You pressed a kiss against his cheek, innocent enough, contrasting painfully with the way you ground down against him one last time before sliding off.

Part of you started doubting your plan. Daryl was too reluctant, too full of self doubt, too terrified at the aspect of losing whatever fun thing you had going on by pushing your limits. Even though you had no problem pushing his. 

His patience amazed you. Any other man would've thrown you to the side after the first few times, or ignored your “wishes” and dove right in. He didn't know that's what you wanted. You couldn't blame him. 

How could you tell someone like Daryl “I want you to fuck me with enough desire and aggression to give a nun a heart attack”? He'd been too gentle during foreplay, too submissive, you were beginning to think he was a virgin. 

Maggie gave you a dress. You didn't know who it once belonged to, her or her sister, but it was one of the cutest things you'd ever laid eyes on. A pretty moss green that went right below your knees, laces up your stomach the same color as the dress, and thankfully, no sleeves. 

The domestic look had Daryl in shambles. You looked like a farm wife from a damn magazine, it took everything he had in him not to fuck you behind the barn like he wanted. 

He took you out that day. On a ‘food supply run’, as he called it. You weren't anyone's first pick for runs, which you understood, you were easily distracted. It was your biggest fault.

So when he asked you specifically, and you alone, you were barely able to contain your excitement. 

The first place you stopped by was an old farmers corner store to pick up enough food so you didn't come back empty handed. A few canned goods, stale snacks and three cans of soda. 

He left that in the back of the truck when the two of you stopped by a house. A very nice house, to your surprise. 

“Can't believe this place hasn't been trashed.” You commented while rummaging through the kitchen. “No more food, but there's some lighter fluid.”

“Hm.” Daryl grunted. After securing the front door he found you still in the kitchen, chewing on a mouthful of gum. 

You'd shoved about three long sticks in your mouth. “Want some?”

He eyed the gum wrapped in silver paper before taking it from your outstretched hand with a gruff thanks. 

It was hard to focus on, his heart felt like it was in his throat, it was hard to swallow, and his jaw ached from his aggressive chewing. He'd done everything you wanted, got birth control; condoms and plan B. He found this nice house that same morning, almost immediately after seeing you walk outside in that dress. He even cleaned up the master bedroom for you, dusting off the sheets and beating the pillows, opening the windows to air out the room. 

There was no way you could wave him off now.

Oh, but you found a way. It was a talent that needed to be fucking studied. 

You were digging through the dresser in the upstairs bedroom when he approached you. You ignored the sound of the door shutting and locking behind him, pretending to be very interested in the contents of the bottom drawer. 

His hands found your sides. Your skin tingled as he pulled you to your feet and pressed you against the dresser with his palm on your lower back.

He went to kissing the back of your neck. His lips were light and soft, contrasting the anxiety bubbling in his gut. 

“Hmm.” You hummed. He brushed your hair over your right shoulder and went back to kissing your neck, peppering them all the way to the point of your left shoulder. 

“Missed ya'.” He muttered, pushing his hips forward to drive home his point. 

You tried not to laugh with pity at the feeling. He was already hard? Poor thing. 

“We're supposed to be looking for food.” You chided playfully. You shifted your ass and earned a low grunt of appreciation for the friction. 

“Then why’re ya in the bedroom?” He challenged. When you didn't respond he smirked against the skin on your neck. 

His hands didn't wait for permission. He bent his knees so he could grab the bottom of your dress, gathering it in his fists and pulling it up and over your ass. He sighed at the sight, you were wearing the type of panties he'd only ever seen on a clothing rack or behind a screen. Black soft fabric, tight and with lace around the hem, hugging your curves just right. 

“Daryl, come on.” You chuckled, but made no attempt to move. “They're gonna wonder where we went.”

He laughed, the sound dry and humorless. “Don't give a shit. They'll survive.” 

“And what is it you wanna do so bad that's more important than feeding our people, huh?” You mused, placing your palms on the dresser he was pushing you harder up against. 

“Ain't my people.” He quipped and ground into you, dying to make you feel how desperate he was for you. 

You choked back a moan. “You didn't answer my question.” 

“Want ya. Right here.”

“Want me to what?” 

Daryl sighed and released his hold on your dress to grip your waist. “Wanna fuck ya nice an’ good. Make y’feel what y’been missin’.”

You groaned. Your grip on the dresser turned white-knuckled as he pushed against you again. 

“Yeah?” Your breath trembled past your open lips. “What else?”

Daryl pressed himself closer, until his mouth was right at your ear. “Wanna feel what ya’ been keepin’ from me. Taste ya'. Shove my dick in that pretty lil’ mouth n’make ya sorry.” 

His words had an obvious effect on you. Your knees trembled and your breathing was louder, more shallow. 

But he still hadn't cracked. 

The curiosity was eating you alive. You couldn't give in now, not when he was so fucking close. You turned to face him and gave a ghost of a smile, trying your best to look sympathetic.

“Maybe some other time.” 

His eyes widened and his eyebrows scrunched tightly together. His nostrils flared as his pupils darted over your face, looking frantically for the slightest sign telling him it was a joke. He looked hurt, confused, like you just slapped him in the face and called him a slur.

There it is. 

“You-” he choked out, “Y’aint serious?” 

You forced a nod. 

“Why?” The way he raised his voice sent a bolt of pleasure through your core, and you had to fight back a whimper. “Got everythin’ ya needed. Went through the trouble’a findin’ this place, ain't gotta be quiet, ain't gotta worry ‘bout walkers or someone hearin’, the hell else you want from me woman?” 

You couldn't stop yourself from whimpering. You bit your bottom lip and tried to steady your breathing, but when you stole a glance at his face and saw the expression held there your lungs shifted into overdrive. 

He looked so fed up. 

“What are you gonna do about it?” You whispered. 

Daryl sneered in contempt. “The hell can I do ‘bout it? Not gonna beg.”

You swallowed hard. You slowly shook your head, your chest rising and falling dramatically, your body still trapped between his arms, his hands on the dresser behind you. 

“Don't want you to beg.” 

You pressed a hand between his legs and he let out a strangled groan, his elbows swaying as they threatened to give out. You flexed your fingers to massage his length, and pulled away. 

His eyes shot open and just as quick his hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking you back to his bulge and nearly breaking your fingers in the process of shoving them down the waistband of his jeans. 

After unbuckling his belt he was able to cram your hand down deeper, forcing you to feel him. 

You gasped when your fingertips made contact. You didn't know a dick could get that hard. It felt just as firm as any other extremity. 

“Daryl.” You let out a long sigh as you gave a half assed attempt to pull your hand out. His grip on your wrist tightened. 

“Hmm?” The teasing tone of his hum made your clit throb. 

“We can't-” You didn't get to finish your sentence before he scoffed and picked you up. Like actually picked you up in his arms, bridal style. He threw you on the plush bed where you bounced a few times, and dove into you.

“S’enough.” He muttered. He pulled your dress up over your waist and looped his fingers through the sides of your panties. You thought he'd hesitate, take a look at the expression on your face and back off, but he didn't. He tugged them down your legs and tossed them off the bed in a random location. 

“Ain't some pussy ya’ got on a leash.” His fingers snaked between your legs, beelining for your cunt. He groaned in surprise, his eyes rolling back at the feeling. You were beyond wet at this point, his aggression had your folds like a slip n slide with lube instead of water. 

You bit back a moan. His fingers spread your folds, smearing your wetness around, his thumb pressing down against your clit. 

“Fuck!” You gasped. Your hips instinctively shifted to the side from the overwhelming sensation, but a firm grip on your waist quickly snatched you back. 

“Think y'can do whatever the hell ya’ want, and I'll jus’ sit back an’ let ya’?” He didn't give you time to answer. He pushed a finger inside you, and both of you hissed at the feeling. “Ffuck. Shit ain't like that no more, princess.” 

Any other time you would've snapped at the insult, but his finger digging around inside you had your mind blank. 

“Wha’s wrong? Huh?” He twisted his finger and you cried out. His voice was sickly sweet, something that should've pissed you off but only fueled your arousal. “Got nothin' to say?” His finger curled, a movement that held no thought behind it, though the way you gasped and arched your back had him repeating the action. 

Then he started mocking you. “Oh no, not now, it's not right, I'm not ready!” He scoffed in disgust. “Like ya’ a lot better when ya’aint speakin’.” 

Oh, god. You should be fuming. You should be spitting venom right back at him, but this is everything you'd wanted from him. It was all going according to plan. 

Maybe he knew that, or maybe he didn't. Either way he was behaving just as you'd imagined countless times, rough, mean, cruel and demanding. 

“C'mon, try a little bit.” He growled after leaning down to bite at your open neck. “Go on. Tell me it ain't the time. Tell me.”

You were nothing but a puddle under him. Your hands became too restless and reached up to grab at him, balling your fists in the back of his shirt.

Never in your life had a man treated you like this. No matter how bad you teased and gave subliminal signals. They would either indulge in your teasing, respect your wishes and back off when told to, or kiss and plead until you relented. 

Finally someone was fucking you like you had always wanted. Or, they were about to. 

The knuckle of his thumb had been digging into your clit for a good minute now, and despite how uncomfortable it could feel at times, you came quickly. 

You sucked in a sharp gasp and locked your legs around his waist, trying to pull his finger in deeper, or make his knuckle grind harder. 

Daryl groaned into your neck as you came around his finger. His hips jerked forward and bumped against his hand between your thighs, knocking his digit in deeper. You yelped, not expecting such a sharp sensation during your warm and soft climax. 

He withdrew his finger and you whined. 

“Sh-sh-sh.” You didn't think a hush could sound so condescending. “Got somethin' better. Gonna make you regret not takin’ it sooner.”

You said it before you could stop yourself. “You don't have it in you.” 

His eyes flicked up to your face as he pulled his zipper down, a look on his face that sent chills across your bare legs.

There was slight amusement, slight relief, as if someone finally gave him permission to show off and prove himself. Lips parted into a breathy smirk, tongue peeking between his teeth, and one eyebrow raised. 

Your eyes dropped to his pants when he pulled his cock free. It looked just as you imagined when you'd touched it only minutes ago, standing at full attention against his lower stomach.

You let out a sigh when you saw it reached his navel. 

Daryl leaned down until he was level with your pussy. You heard it before you felt it, the sound of him spitting, and then warm drool dropping right on your sensitive clit.

You squealed in protest, trying to raise yourself on your elbows, but he stopped you with a hand on your chest. With his free hand he smeared his spit over your already soaking folds, even going as far as to push some inside you with his finger. 

“Ew!” You gasped. 

You felt a tingle. Subtle at first, you just assumed it was the salinity of his saliva, and then more prominent. You were close to panicking until you saw the wad of white gum shoot out of his mouth, landing with a smack against the hardwood floor. 

At least you knew the source of the tingling. You swallowed your own gum, the same way you'd completely forgotten about.

The skin around your cunt buzzed when he slapped the tip of his dick on your clit, and you squirmed beneath him. He steadied you with the same hand on your chest. 

“Wait.” You inhaled deeply. He didn't wait though, he just pushed into your clenched hole, ignoring your whines.

“Ssss-shut up.” His voice trembled. He used his free hand to wrap around the base of his dick, holding it straight as he slowly pushed in further. 

“Y-you said you had condoms.” 

Daryl let out a loud groan as he sank into you. His right hand on your chest increased in pressure as more and more of his upper body weight bore down on it, forcing the air from your lungs. 

He was so thick, and it had been years for you. The burn was incredible, in such a pleasurable way that you should've felt ashamed to enjoy. You tried to moan, but nothing came out aside from a strained breath. 

“Ain't nothin' gonna make me feel rubber instead’a this.” He grunted. He rolled his hips forward and finally pulled his hand off your chest to roll the dress up and over your body. 

“F-Fuck.” His whimper was strangled in his throat. Being completely naked under someone who was fully dressed had you clenching around him, earning another whimper from said man. 

“Should feel ‘shamed, keepin' all this from me.” 

You didn't. Not one bit. 

“But I know ya'aint.” 

You furrowed your brows, momentarily stunned by his apparent mind reading abilities. He jerked his hips forward and your face fell slack, your jaw dropping and your eyelids falling shut. 

His thrusts were harsh, but far too slow for you to get anywhere. You grabbed his shirt and used it to pull him down, desperate for more stimulation. 

Daryl happily obliged. His breath was hot on your ear before he took the lobe between his lips, sucking and licking the flesh. You gasped as he bit down on it, and you could sense the smirk on his lips. 

“Daryl?” You breathed, the name breaking on your tongue with another thrust. 

“Jesus.” He groaned, thoroughly annoyed. He released your ear and pulled back to look at you, frustration evident on his face. “What?”

“Thought I was gonna regret it.”

Your words had his upper lip twitching and his eyes widening ever so slightly. 

“Yeah?” He huffed. “S'gonna be like that?”

He rose from your chest, shifting until he was sitting on his boots. His hands grabbed onto your hips and yanked you down on his dick, forcing a cry from your dry throat. It took him a few seconds to position himself, leaning back just a bit, his grip on your hips tight, and then he started fucking you in a ruthless pace. 

It wasn't what you were expecting. Your mouth dropped into a long gape and your eyes shot open as he pounded his pelvis against yours, driving his dick so deep it reached places your fingers never had. 

Each thrust had a gasp burning in your lungs, and those gasps quickly grew to embarrassing moans. Now that you were ashamed of. If you had the ability to stop it you could, but the way he was thrusting into you rendered you utterly unable to control yourself and the sounds you made. 

“Get up.” 

You weren't sure why he even spoke, because he was moving your body by himself before you could process his command. He pulled you to the side of the bed and turned you over on your stomach, bending you over and shoving his dick back inside you so fast you shrieked. 

Your feet flew up behind you, smacking against the back of his thighs. If you could've seen it you would've laughed. 

The new angle was paralyzing. His dick was no longer tilted against the spot under your stomach, the spot that had you a drooling mess seconds ago. Now it smashed against a deeper part of you, a part that had you groaning with each frustration fueled thrust. 

“Fuck.” Daryl groaned, his pace slowing to give momentary reprieve. He wasn't as young as you, and even though he was always out there doing a hundred times more labor intensive activity, he needed a second to catch his breath. 

There was still an itch yet to be scratched. While he regained his bearings you fought to think of a way to say it without actually saying ‘i want you to hurt me and fuck me till I cry’. You'd already humiliated yourself enough. 

When he began picking up the pace again, you reached for the hand beside your head and bit down on his knuckles. Not gently, either. You bit down so hard he could've ripped a tooth out with the way he yanked his hand away.

“The fuck?” His voice was barely below a shout. “Ya’ crazy bitch!” 

There was no retaliation besides a particularly forceful thrust, to your irritation. 

“You baby.” You managed to grunt out. “Barely bit you.” 

“Barley bi-” he scoffed, looking down at the hand he now had splayed across your lower back. There were deep pink imprints from your teeth over his index finger knuckle, and the skin around it turned a bright red. 

You felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, pulling your hand away from its grip on the bed sheets. Your heart hammered quicker than his thrusts when his breath tickled your skin, and then he bit you. In the same spot you bit him.

It wasn't nearly as hard as you bit him, but you still whimpered at the ache. 

“Point stands.” 

Daryl couldn't believe what he was hearing. His jaw set and he dropped your wrist. 

The smug smirk you'd been keeping to yourself fell when your hair was suddenly twisted in the fist of his right hand. With just that leverage alone he pulled your upper body up, and his left arm snaked around your torso to keep you flush against his chest. 

He yanked your head to the side. You gasped. 

“This what ya’ wanted, huh sweetheart?” He breathed against your ear and drew back until his dick nearly slipped out before slamming back in.  

“Mmm-oh god yes.” You blurted out between moans. 

“Jus' had to ask.” He managed a chuckle. 

“More.” 

He furrowed his brows, but kept up the slow and deep pace. He couldn't imagine what else he could give you. He was fucking you hard enough to bruise, he was pulling your hair, what, did you want him to start beating you? 

He dipped his head down to bite your shoulder, holding back just enough so that he wouldn't give you an actual wound. 

You have to consider that biting someone with enough force to actually break the skin takes a lot. Skin isn't like the flesh of a fruit. It's tough, and would require chewing to break through. So for him to stop right before that point meant he was biting you so hard you got blood blisters, and the pain was all you could focus on. 

Your wail of genuine pain had him pulling back like he'd been shocked. His thrusts slowed, and through ragged breaths he spoke, “Shit, m'sorry. M'so sorry.” 

“No.” You gasped. Your shoulder felt like it was on fire, and your walls cleaned around him in response. “So good. Feels so good.”

Daryl let out a huff in relief. “Ya’ weird as shit, yanno that?” 

“Mhmm.” You groaned, pressing your ass back tightly against him. “More.” 

He took a deep breath to steady himself and pushed you back down on your stomach. He had to work himself up to it, the idea intimidating. Once his thrusts were back to their former sharp pace he raised a hand in the air. 

You tilted your head to the side so your cheek was pressed against the blanket. When you saw his right hand held up, your heart leapt. You never nodded so quickly. 

Daryl ground his teeth together, glancing down at your ass, your face, and back to your ass again before smacking his hand against it. 

It was barely a love tap. 

You groaned, wiggling your hips and earning a moan from him in response to the feeling on his dick. 

He took the hint and gave another smack, harder, but still not giving that burn or satisfying ‘smack’ sound you wanted.

“Daryl, please.” You whimpered. “Hurt me. I'm not made of glass.” 

You barely got the last word out before he slapped you. Open handed, fingers spread and slightly curved to mold perfectly against your asscheek. You yelped and instinctively tried scooting up the bed, held back by his left hand on your hip. 

It clicked in his head then. No wonder people liked spanking so much. His palm tingled and he could see a faint handprint start to color your skin. And the way you reacted, that sound you made, your body trying to get away from him, it made his dick twitch. 

“Fuck!” You cried out after another hard slap. The pain fully distracted you from the ache in your shoulder, white hot pain spreading across your ass and up your spine. 

“Such a baby.” He meant it to sound patronizing, but he was still too amazed by the new turn on he'd discovered, and the words came out breathless. 

Your whimper bled into another cry as he spanked you again. 

And again. 

Again, again, until you were on the verge of tears, sobs bubbling from your wet lips as you tried to squirm away from him. 

As if you actually wanted to. Which you clearly didn't. You were practically gushing around his dick. 

He rubbed his palm over the deep red skin, barely soothing the blinding burn he'd left behind. “Goddamn.” 

“M'gonna cum.” You were literally drooling. 

He snapped his attention away from your ass and back to you. “Whaddya want, huh?” He quickened his pace once again, jolting forward to press his body against your back. You whimpered at the way he moved, his dick pushing deeper inside you. 

“More, please,” you stuttered, trying desperately to work your hand under your body, which proved to be difficult due to his weight on top of you. 

Daryl noticed and lifted your hips with his hands. He shoved your eager arm out of the way and rubbed your clit with his own fingers, fast and deep in a way he assumed you'd like. 

You moaned under him, arching your back, feeling him slip in further. It was as if he grew another inch every five minutes. Or you grew another inch deeper, and he was staying the same. Either way he was deeper, and it felt immaculate. 

The rise to your climax was slow, but powerful. You were fully prepared to gently tip over the edge and slide down in bliss. 

That was before he slapped your pussy. Then you fell down gasping. 

Daryl held onto your body like you were a wild mustang, trashing and twisting under him in ecstasy. He withdrew his hand and grabbed your hips again, resuming his brutal pace, clamping his teeth down on the back of your neck to keep your bodies anchored together. 

It took a while for you to come down from your high. When you did it was violent, the pure bliss smashed away by burning overstimulation. 

“Fu-uck!” You heaved in deep breaths. “Daryl s’too much, can't, wait!”

“Ever since that night ya’ came in my tent, blue ballin’ me like that,” he growled against your neck, “-been dreamin’ ‘bout havin ya’ like this. Fallin’ apart. Face full’a tears. Ain't stoppin now.” 

He wasn't bluffing. He didn't stop. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, ramming into your abused cunt, only slowing to shift in positions so you were on your back. 

The air felt amazing against your chest. Daryl ripped that feeling away with gnashing teeth, biting your hard nipples and alternating between sucking and pinching.

The house had to be surrounded by walkers by now. There was no way it wasn't, you were crying and moaning like you were getting paid for it. 

“Oh, god.” You wailed as another orgasm built up quicker than ever inside you. “Oh please, fuck, god!”

A jolt of pleasure shot through your core when Daryl's hands wrapped around your throat. 

Now, Daryl was no stranger to strangling someone. He'd choked plenty of people out before.

In fights.

He was unaware there was a different type of choking for pleasure. Instead of squeezing the sides of your throat with his thumb and fingers, he wrapped both hands around your neck and fucking strangled you. 

You squeezed your eyes shut so tight they ached as you came. Your orgasm had started off blinding, overwhelming every inch of your body, but Daryl's crushing grip soon muted the tail end of your climax and filled your ears with a deafening ringing. 

Daryl pulled his teeth off your nipple and panted against your ear. “Lemme cum inside ya’, sweetheart.”

You could barely process what he'd said. You forced your eyes open against the pressure induced burn, trying to find his face, only to see the side of his head. 

“Can't pull out.” He growled and released some of the pressure around your throat. Oxygen and blood flooded your head, leaving you dizzy and with black around the edges of your vision. 

“Can't, m'sorry. Oh, huh-  fuck!” His voice was strained as every muscle in his body tensed up. His hips surged forward, stuffing his dick balls deep to coat the end of your walls in his cum. “Mmm-fuck s’good. So good. Ohhh, Hah-” 

He choked on his moan. He moved his head, replacing his hands around your neck with his mouth, kissing and biting at the tender skin as he spurted ropes of hot cum inside you. 

Your body broiled under his crushing form. Your thighs relaxed from their clamped position, falling off his waist and dropping to the bed beneath you. Your lungs ached and your throat was raw, but your pussy buzzed so intently it felt like you had a vibrator pressed against it. 

“Oh, god.” The tone was full of dread and you forced yourself to focus on Daryl. 

“What?” You croaked. There was a stabbing pain in your neck from Daryl choking you out like you were a man his size. 

“Yer all fucked up.” He whined. He traced his fingers across your throat. “S’bad. Oh fuck.”

“Calm down.” You sat upright after he pulled back enough for you to do so, his dick dragging out against your trembling walls in the process and making you hiss.

“It's okay. I'll just tell em a walker got the jump on me. We've all seen them grab throats. It's fine.” You pressed a kiss to his worried lips. 

“Gonna tell em a walker did that too?” He pointed an exhausted finger at the bite mark on your shoulder, which was now in the early stages of a deep bruise, not to mention the blood blister in the shape of his teeth.

You laughed softly. “Fuck no. I'll just skip the tank tops for a week or two.”

That seemed to settle him enough and he nodded, moving to lay on his back. 

“That was amazing.” You broke the long silence. “Seriously. You're the first man to ever… you know.”

Daryl furrowed his eyebrows and looked up at you. “Huh? Y’never…?”

“No! I mean…” you sighed. “Never had a man make me come.”

Now he was at full attention, sitting upright and leaning back on his palms. “Nah, no shit.”

“I'm serious.”

He let out a light scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched you climb off the bed to grab your thrown panties. “Me too.”

You glanced over your shoulder as you stepped into them. “Really? You never…?”

He nodded, going back to biting his cheek. 

“How'd you last so fucking long?”

A cocky grin crept across his lips at the compliment behind your words. He was worried he didn't last long enough. And you just asked him how he held on so long.

“Jerked off like, ten fuckin’ times today.” 

That meant he knew he was going to fuck you today. Heat spread through your core again, despite how worn out you were. You smiled and climbed back on the bed to smother him with kisses. 

“You're so fucking hot.” You mumbled against his lips, which were moving weakly against your own. 

“Says the bitch that wouldn't fuck me.” He chuckled. 

“Just wanted you to make the decision for me. It's a lot hotter that way.” You hummed, pulling your swollen lips away from his. “It worked.” 

“Psh.” He rolled his eyes and began stuffing his soft cock back in his jeans. “Put yer clothes on. Place is probably crawlin' with walkers. Le’s get the hell outta dodge before anymore show up.”

Now that Daryl was in on your little game, you couldn't wait to play again. 

But hell, he wouldn’t mind shooting the shit with you either. You always got his humor and honestly, you were the only one who could make him laugh without trying so damn hard.

Instead of your home, he finds himself at a bar. Lucille was quick to call dibs on going solo to your parents house, not wanting to deal with Negan in front of friends. 

He left without another word, driving to the local watering hole like a man on a mission.

The bar is the usual kind of dimly lit place that doesn't ask questions. Negan doesn’t need questions tonight. What he needs is a drink and a distraction.

He settles onto a chair by the bartop and orders a whiskey, the burn of it going down smoother than he expected.

Lucille’s parting words echo in his head, the sharpness of her dismissal stinging all over again. The way she had shut him down so easily, almost like telling off a child. Negan can feel the frustration creeping back in. He could’ve used a laugh tonight but instead, he’s stuck here. 

Alone, as usual.

On a typical night, Negan hates how quiet the bar is. He can’t stand silences, everything about it gets on his nerves. The patrons are too tight to even cough up a quarter to play a song on the jukebox. It always feels like the kind of place where the air is thick with nothingness and every minute stretches on longer than the last.

Negan doesn’t have the luxury to brood over that on this particular night. Instead, the loud chattering of a group of girls fills the bar, cutting through the silence like a chainsaw.

Just a handful of them crowd around a table, all bright-eyed and wide smiles, laughing as though the weight of the world hasn’t yet found them.

His brow furrows as he watches them out of the corner of his eye. They’re not doing anything wrong but the racket they’re making feels invasive in the normally subdued space. 

Every time they laugh, the sound hits him like a hammer to his skull, ringing in his ears. It’s like a constant, steady hum of disruption. Negan can appreciate a little noise and some new life in the place, but tonight?

Tonight, it’s too much. It’s frustrating him. He takes another swig of his whiskey but it doesn’t quite block out their high-pitched, frantic laughter. 

One of the girls spills a drink, and the others burst into a fresh round of giggles, the kind that seems to echo through the entire room. 

He’s about to look away when another girl quickly picks up the drink and continues to say something. She's sitting across from the others, leaning forward and talking animatedly, her hands flying through the air with each word. 

One of her hands subtly goes to her thigh and she tries to discreetly yank down her dress. 

Negan wonders if women know they don’t need to wear tight mini dresses or the crop tops to get laid. But he supposes that’s the joy of being a  youngster. They do stupid shit, wear stupid shit, drink stupid shit. Some grow out of it while others still say stupid shit and end up drinking alone at a bar.

His eyes flicker over her figure. Negan can’t see her face, the angle of her head and the way her body is half-turned away from him hides it. 

Negan doesn’t mind. He can still appreciate her thighs and the curve of her ass from his seat at the bar. Her hair and back covers most of her upper body too so Negan can’t appreciate any titty action just yet.

His fingers drum against the bar and he catches himself, realizing that he’s staring. He quickly looks away, taking another drink of his whiskey as if the liquid will wash away whatever was just stirred up inside him.

In a way, Negan’s glad you’re not like that. You’re pretty without all the extra shit. Since elementary school, you've never been the type to crave attention or stand out in a crowd. Yet you're not the kind of introvert who keeps completely to yourself either.

You fall somewhere in the middle, comfortable with who you are without needing to put on a show for anyone.

There’s been plenty of times you’ve been the most entertaining thing to Negan at your parent’s dinner parties. He loves the witty remarks you toss his way and how you both quietly poke fun at the evening while the others remain oblivious. Those little moments are the highlight of his night.

But, of course, there are also those other times. When a careless comment from your father or mother hits a nerve and you retreat into yourself, disappearing into the background. Negan can always tell when that happens; the sharpness in your eyes dulls and the sarcastic remarks you usually offer him vanish. 

He wonders if you’ll be disappointed tonight, when it’s only Lucille who arrives for dinner. You make the dinners bearable for him but surely you reciprocate that feeling. Both of you are as thick as thieves in your own subtle way.

The woman he’s been checking out stands, saying one more quick thing to her friends before she turns and heads for the bar.

Maybe it’s because you’re already clouding his thoughts that seeing you in person hits him even harder. He’s imagined you a thousand times, with your quiet demeanor and the casual clothes you wear that make you almost invisible.

The mental image of you is so vivid, it’s like you’ve been etched into his mind… yet here you are, so different than that.

You do the same action that you did earlier, yanking down the end of your dress as it threatens to ride up your thigh. Negan lets out a gulp, not sure how he feels at the fact that he’s been checking out his friend’s daughter.

Turning back to say something to your friends, you let out a laugh as you clog along in your high heels to the bar. 

This is exactly what you needed. A night away from all your worries and stresses… and your parents. 

Besides, you're an adult now. You’re allowed to have fun! Whether that be crazy golf, drinking until you need your stomach pumped or smoking whatever. No matter how much guilt or pressure your parents try to put on you, tonight is yours. You’re no longer bound by their expectations. You can take a break from being the person they want you to be and just be.

Maybe that’s why the words “Lydia found out her boyfriend cheated so everyone was going to go over to hers and cheer her up!” came out of your mouth when you told your parents you couldn’t stay for dinner instead of “We all want to go out and down tequila shots!”.

Whether your actual reasoning would’ve worked or not, it doesn’t matter because they let you out with no more than a remorseful look as you left to help your heartbroken friend.

“Get more salt sachets!” a giddy Lydia calls out as you clip-clop up to the bar. 

You’re so caught up in your own little bubble of excitement that you barely notice the guy at the bar. You wait beside him, leaning on the counter and waiting until the bartender comes over. When you feel his eyes linger, you glance his way, wondering if you’ve found some fun for the night. 

You look over, pre-emptively batting your eyes lashes everything seems to slow down. There, standing just a few inches away, is Negan. Your dad’s friend. 

You freeze for a moment, excuses caught in your throat, as you realize that it’s not just the familiarity of his face that’s throwing you off. It’s the way he's looking at you. Negan’s expression is unreadable but the way his gaze lingers has a weight that catches you off guard.

You try to swallow the sudden lump in your throat. What is he thinking? How long has he been standing there? And why, of all people, did it have to be him?

You hate it. On one hand, you want to ignore him. Maybe give him a nod of acknowledgment before pretending like you’re not in front of someone you’ve known since you were a kid. 

But on the other hand, you know what Negan’s like and the last thing you want is for him to loudly draw attention to your… friendship? 

Ushering yourself closer, you hurriedly whisper “What are you doing here?!”.

Negan struggles to maintain his composure, forcing himself to keep his eyes on your face instead of letting them wander. 

“What am I doing here?” His jaw clenches as if readying himself to barrage you with questions “What are you doing here, dressed like that? Are you drunk? Do your parents know you’re here? I swear….”.

You scoff defensively, glancing down at the glass of whiskey in front of him. “Oh so I can’t go out with friends but you’re allowed to drown your sorrows?”.

Negan doesn’t even entertain your question, immediately waving it off. “That’s not the damn point,” he hisses “I’m not the one with my tits out and stumbling around a bar!”. 

He shoots some other patrons a glare as they try to eavesdrop, making sure they keep their eyes to themselves. You gasp, putting a hand on your chest. Maybe your dress is a lower cut than what you’d usually wear but your boobs aren’t about to pop out of the thing!

“You— you can’t talk to me like that!” despite how your face flushes, you stand your ground. You’ve always known Negan to be raunchy but not once has he ever spoken to you like this before.

"Can't talk to you like what?” Negan doesn’t give you the time to ponder that rhetorical question, crossing his arms as he continues to lecture you.

“You think you look appropriate right now? You think your parents would approve of this outfit?" his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“I’m out with friends, not at dinner with my parents!” You defend, deciding to add in your own jab “Besides, I thought you were at theirs tonight, having dinner with Lucille… not drinking alone”.

Negan can’t keep still. He’s too antsy, wanting to shake some sense into you but trying to stay cool in public.

With an elbow propped up on the bar, Negan points a finger at you “Watch it, before I haul your ass outta here”.

This is the closest you’ve ever seen Negan to real anger. Whenever he’s been at your house, it’s always been the aftermath of it you’ve witnessed. His sullen mood and Lucille’s small comments at him whenever the conversation allowed; both of them handling their simmering frustration in their own way. 

To not only witness his anger first hand, but to have it directed at you… you’re not sure if you want to pout or get on your knees right then and there.

You scoff, trying to seem unbothered. “Enjoy your drink, I’m going back to my friends,” you say it with just enough sass, turning to retreat back to your table.

You know it’s a pointless endeavour. 

Negan won’t allow it. And you know it.

His hand snakes around your upper arm, his grip firm but not painful. "Oh no you don't,” he tugs you back, urging you to face him again “we’re leaving. Now”.

You were hoping for a little more time here, a bit more back-and-forth, rile him up before hopefully breaking down those stubborn walls. 

“You can leave, but I’m not!” you snap, digging your heels in.

He leans in close, his anger flaring back to life as his voice drops into a dangerously low growl. “I’m not asking you, sweetheart, I’m telling you” the pet name slips out like a command, making something tighten in your chest. 

“You’re drunk, you’re dressed like a goddamn slut and you’re not staying in this bar another second”.

Is it bad you can feel the heat between your legs as he degrades you? How is it your dad’s friend, someone you kinda considered your own friend too, is calling you a slut so easily? And why does he keep trying to steal quick glances at your chest?

Heh, well, you know the answer to that last question.

Still, you play your part and you slap his arm. “Don’t call me that! Jackass” you say with a defiant huff.

His eyes widen but Negan doesn’t acknowledge the slap in the way you wanted him to. Instead of continuing to bicker, he grabs his leather jacket from the back of his chair and throws it on, his movements sharp. 

“Jackass?” he repeats, clearly not amused.

“Yes! You’re acting like a major jackass!” you fire back, though there’s a glimmer of amusement in your voice. 

Negan grins, that mocking, almost wicked smile spreading across his face as steers you away from the bar.

“Yeah, and you know what else I am?” he asks “The one dragging your drunk, barely dressed ass out of this bar before you make a complete fool of yourself”.

He starts tugging you toward the exit. “I had like… two drinks!” you protest, stumbling slightly to keep up.

But just as he’s about to drag you out the door, you use all the momentum you have to shove him into the door right next to the exit. 

The ladies toilets. 

Your friends giggle as you both disappear from sight, assuming you’re hooking up with the stranger. They’ve always known you have a thing for older men but little do they know who he really is…

Negan stumbles into the bathroom, his mind still trying to process how he went from the exit to somehow ending up in here instead. His brow furrows as he takes in the situation.

Before he can say a word, you speak, your voice steady but firm “Negan, I’m not leaving”.

He steps closer “Yes. You. Are. We’re leaving. Right. Now”. His hand shoots out to grab your arm, but you’re already one step ahead. You sidestep him, narrowly avoiding his grip.

“No!” you exclaim, more forcefully than you intended. Hoping to get through to him, you soften your tone, offering a sliver of vulnerability. “My parents don’t know I’m here… they think I’m just at a friend’s place” you admit.

Your words hang in the air, a soft confession of rebellion. But Negan’s response is as expected—he rolls his eyes, the action exaggerated as if he’s heard this excuse a thousand times before. 

“I don’t give a fuck if your parents ground you for a year!” He snaps, his voice low but intense “You’re not staying here dressed like that and acting like this”.

“Acting like what? Having fun?”.

His jaw clenches. “By acting like you’re only worth a quick fuck in the backseat of someone’s car,” Negan replies, the words carrying a weight that makes your stomach sink.

The insult stings, but you refuse to back down. With a small scoff, you shake your head and tilt your chin up slightly. “You’re telling me you didn’t do that when you were young?” you challenge.

Negan’s expression falters for a split second, his lips twitching as if he’s about to crack a grin but he maintains his steely expression. 

He exhales sharply through his nose, his stance stiffening. “I did it because I’m a guy,” he mutters, his tone clipped “so it’s different”.

“That’s misogynist,” you point out as you cross your arms, unintentionally making your cleavage more noticeable.

For a moment, you catch Negan’s gaze flickering downward before snapping back up to your eyes, his face strained. 

His lips press together in a tight line, his eyes briefly closing in frustration as he fights to maintain his composure. “Fuck, can you just…” Negan gestures vaguely at you “Cover up or something?”.

Without waiting for an answer, Negan turns away, running a hand through his dark locks. 

You let out a quiet sigh. “I didn’t bring a jacket,” you say flatly, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

He mutters something under his breath, too quiet for you to catch. With a dramatic huff, he whips off his leather jacket. “Of course you didn’t. On top of everything else, you want to get hypothermia too” His voice drips with exasperation.

Negan turns back to you, holding out the jacket, his eyes briefly look to your chest again before quickly darting back to your face, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You catch the slight pause, the way his gaze betrays him, but you choose not to acknowledge it— at least, not directly. You stare him down, not hiding the smirk plastered on your face. Then, in one swift movement, he practically hurls the jacket at you. 

“Here,” he says, the word a little too resigned.

Instinctively, you catch the jacket, but you don’t put it on. Instead, you hold it in your arms, letting it drape over them as you roll your eyes at his comments. 

“I’m not some delicate little flower,” you tease, your smirk becoming playful “maybe I like it rough”.

The words slip out without thinking, a little too flippantly, and you feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

Maybe those two drinks were enough to get you tipsy after all.

Negan’s eyes narrow at you and you can see the gears turning in his head. There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Maybe amusement, maybe disbelief, but before he can say anything, you catch the faintest hint of a smirk forming on his lips.

He steps closer, his imposing frame shadowing you as he leans in. “Damn, you’re something else,” he says, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place.

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the overwhelming presence he has, but for the first time tonight, you feel a small shiver run up your spine. 

“Rough, huh?” His words are like a threat, his tone smooth and dangerous.

Before you can respond, his hand shoots out, and suddenly, he has a firm grip on your hair, tugging it just enough to pull your head back. 

“Ow! Negan!!” You whine, your voice a mix of surprise and irritation. Good job at proving you like it rough.

He loosens his grip, but his fingers stay tangled in your hair, holding you captive in his gaze. He stares down at you, his dark eyes boring into yours. 

“You think I don’t notice how gorgeous you are?” he murmurs, his voice low, almost possessive “But this? Telling me you like it rough? Tsk, tsk, tsk”. 

Your heart skips a beat at the admission, and your eyes widen ever so slightly. The words settle in your chest, warm and electric, and for a split second, everything else fades away. 

Negan thinks you’re gorgeous. 

You can barely process it but you don’t get a chance to let the moment settle. His fingers tighten in your hair again, this time with purpose. 

“There’s a difference,” he growls, his voice rougher now, “between making eyes at some random guy at a bar and teasing a man who actually knows what to do with you”.

You swallow hard. His grip on you, the way he towers over you, his scent— all of it feels like a pressure you can’t escape. You can barely breathe.

“And you…” You pause, testing the waters “You know what to do with me?”.

And then, possibly the most un-hot thing happens. A toilet flushes. The sound is loud and sudden, causing you both to freeze. It comes from one of the stalls at the end of the room and it’s quickly followed by the drunken shuffling of feet and a zipping noise. 

Without a word, you and Negan lock eyes, an unspoken agreement passing between you in that single, charged moment. 

“Shit,” Negan mutters under his breath, his hand still tangled in your hair, but now pulling you toward the nearest empty cubicle with urgency. 

“Ouch!” you whisper, batting at his hand and making him untangle his hand from your hair. You barely have time to shoot him a glare before he’s guiding you into the small space, his body close behind you.

Just as the cubicle at the end of the room unlocks, the lock to your cramped cubicle slots into place with a soft click.

For a moment, you both hold your breath. You’re pressed together in the cramped space, his chest against your back, your bodies flush together.

You hear the drunken patron stumble, mumbling something unintelligible as they turn on one of the taps and start washing their hands. You both hold still, waiting for the heavy footsteps to move away. Negan holds you against him, one hand on your waist to keep you close. 

Although that’s not the only thing that’s touching you. 

It’s hard not to notice the unmistakable press of his semi-erect cock nestling against the curve of your ass. It feels firm yet pliant, a promise of things to come. 

Turning your head just enough to look up at him through your eyelashes. He doesn’t meet your gaze, too busy zoning into some spot in the stall door as he listens intently to the patron outside.

His brow furrows just slightly, the lines on his forehead deepening as he focuses. You can tell he's strategizing, weighing up different excuses in case he’s caught in the ladies room. Negan’s lips are pressed together, a slight tension around them, but it's not a scowl. 

Deciding you want some attention, you press your ass back slightly. You hear a grunt.

“You’re not making this easy on me,” he huffs. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck as he looks down.

Through the thin walls, you can hear the drunk go on their way, their footsteps slowly fading as they stagger out of the bathroom. The door swings shut with a final, echoing creak. 

As if to prove his point, Negan moves his hips forward, forcing his erection against your ass. He’s harder than you thought and you shudder at the mere size of the thing in his pants. 

He makes a quiet, pleased sound against your ear as his hand trails up your waist, teasing passing the side of your breast before settling on the back of your neck. 

“Fuck, you're responsive…” He pulls back slightly, making sure you can still feel him.

“Is that a good thing?” you ask softly.

He chuckles, his voice low and husky. “It's a dangerous thing, darlin,” he squeezes your neck teasingly “Nothing good ever comes from being too responsive... unless you're trying to drive a man wild”.

“Maybe that’s exactly why I’m trying to do” you push back against him again, this time bending your body slightly to really accentuate your ass.

Except all that does is encourage your dress to ride up your thighs again, stopping just before your ass. Grabbing his leather jacket from your arms, Negan tosses it up on the stall door before moving to your thighs.

Negan isn’t a one to waste time, especially when it comes to taking advantage of certain situations. Bringing both hands down to your thighs, he helps you dress by tugging it up in one swift movement. You let out a gasp as the cool, thankfully air conditioned bathroom making the skin on your ass get goosebumps.

“Negan! I-“ you move to turn away so he can’t see your ass but Negan’s one step ahead this time.

 Looping an arm around your torso, he makes sure you keep the squirming to a minimum. With his other hand, he brings it down between your legs and presses a finger against your panties.

He holds you in place, bent at the hips and ass against his crotch. You can feel the dampness of your panties against your heat. The wetness seeps into the fabric, making it stick to the lips of your pussy. 

“Fuck me, you are soaked!” with no qualms about modesty, Negan swipes the tacky panties to the side and gets a feel of your folds himself. 

You stop a moan from escaping, not wanting to be too eager. "Goddamn, you're a sticky little mess, ain't ya? All wet and sloppy, just fucking dripping” he teases your hole, momentarily pressing a finger to it but never dipping inside.

Hoping to gain some control, you go to stand up straight. The thoughts of looking into his eyes as he fingers you is more appealing than your view being the wall of a bathroom stall.

But Negan isn’t as fond of the idea. The arm looped around you quickly makes its way to your back, forcing you to stay bent. You let out a scoff as the side of your face smushes against the wall. 

“Negan, what the fuck?” You whine, blindly throwing one of your arms back at him “If you’re gonna finger me, at least let me enjoy it!”.

“Nuh-uh,” he grabs your arm and presses it against your back, restraining you before he continues his exploration of your pussy “I get to decide how the fuck we do this”.

You quieten down when you feel a finger trace your folds, spreading your wetness around. “You this much of a slut for every guy or am I just lucky?” He asks, chuckling at his own thoughts “Your friends were cheering like this is a usual thing for you”.

Before you can reply, Negan plunges two fingers deep inside your dripping cunt, his thumb grinding against your clit. “I— ah!” You mewl, trying to give a coherent response “N-no, never!”.

Negan picks up his pace, loving how you give in, basically slumping against the wall. “See, doll, I want to believe you. I mean, I don’t know that many sluts that get this fucking wet from just a little grinding… it’s shameful, really” he curls his fingers to hit the perfect spot, making your squirm.

“But in saying that,” Negan continues, his breath hitting against your neck as he leans closer “I don’t know that many modest gals that wear something like this”. 

Deciding you know better than to repeat your mistake and move again, Negan takes his hand off your back and paws at your chest instead. But in true Negan fashion, he needs to up his antics.

Tugging down the low cut neckline of your dress, you hear a ripping noise as he pulls at the fabric and forces it down past your bra.

“Huh… surprised your modest enough to wear a bra” he comments, quickly rectifying the situation. Without warning, Negan roughly shoves the bra cups up, freeing your tits completely. "Fuck, look at these," he growls, appreciating the sight of your breasts spilling out. 

The fingers he has working your hole pause and retreat, much to your disappointment. You take the opportunity to turn around to face him, starting to feeling a crick in your neck from being smushed up by the wall.

“Asshole, you tore my dress“ your voice is laced with frustration, although that may be from how much you want him to stop teasing and fuck you already. 

With an amused scoff, Negan goes to hold up his hands in surrender. His fingers glisten with your juices. “I’m trying to be a gentlemen here, doll” he chuckles as he defends himself.

You fight the urge to cover yourself, knowing that’s what he’s waiting for. He wants to see that shy side, to see you blush and get flustered. 

You glare at him instead “How is this being a gentleman?”.

“Well, I coulda just ripped it clean off, but I left ya some dignity,” Negan smirks, crowding you again. You’re left no choice but to back into the wall, holding your glare as you look up at him.

“And I've fingered ya before fucking ya which is pretty damn noble” he adds, seeing you battle between staying annoyed and wanting to blush. You open your mouth to complain but a loud moan comes out instead as Negan pinches one of your nipples.

He thumbs your hard nipples, chuckling as they perk up even more under his touch. “Damn, always knew you’d have a good pair on ya," he muses “fuckin’ perfect”.

Negan doesn't hesitate, leaning down to engulf one nipple in his mouth. He sucks hard, letting his teeth graze the sensitive bud as he kneads the other breast roughly. Groaning around your nipple, he switches to the other, assaulting it with the same fervent enthusiasm. 

With a grunt, Negan grabs your thighs and hoists you up, pinning you against the wall with his muscular body. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, arms going around his shoulders.

Negan grinds his still clothed cock against your bare pussy, applying just enough pressure to make you whimper. 

The rough denim of his pants provides no comfort, each thrust of his hips pressing his erection directly against your sensitive clit. "You feel that?" He asks against your tit “Want you to beg for it, gotta hear ya saying it”.

You have no hesitation. There is no reluctance to beg for him, not when you’re this close to getting what you thought would always be a wet dream. 

"Please, Negan, I need it!" you beg, your hips bucking against his pants in desperate attempts to get friction. “I’ve wanted you for so long, to fuck me in my bedroom o-or on the dinner table! Fuck, anywhere! I don’t care!”.

That seems to convince him. Reaching down and fumbling with his jeans, Negan has his cock out in record time. He grips the base, stroking it a few times as he lines it up with your soaked pussy. 

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, the tip barely peeking out from between your folds. Negan slowly eases in, allowing you to adjust to his massive size. 

You writhe and moan against him, trying to keep your body relaxed as he enters you. Trying your best to keep eye contact, you let out a string of whimpers as he fills you completely. 

"Damn, I actually fit," he says, stretching you out in a way you’ve never felt before. Negan pulls out carefully, as if testing the waters before plunging back into your needy pussy with vigor.

"Holy fuck, even tighter than I imagined. Built for my dick, aren't you?" he grunts, starting to fuck you hard.

Each brutal thrust of his hips drives his thick cock deeper into your pussy, stretching you wide open. "Fuck, you're so tight it feels like my dick is splitting you in half. Love it. Fucking love it" Negan rambles on and grabs your thighs, spreading them as wide as he can.

"Fuck, Negan... you're so..." you try to speak "ah!”. It’s all too much in the best way possible. That delicious ache of being so thoroughly penetrated, the feeling of absolute fullness with each deep thrust.

"More... fuck me more..." your hips arch up to meet his thrusts, trying to keep up.

Negan angles his hips upwards, hitting that spot inside you over and over as he pounds into you. "Look at me," He growls, "Look at me while I break you in half with my dick. You like that? You like feeling so stuffed?"

“I-I've never been this full before…” you say with teary eyes.

Negan notices your body tensing and shuddering beneath him, your pussy walls starting to flutter wildly around his thick cock. "Holy shit, there it is... Your cunt's squeezin' me like a fuckin' vice. You gonna cum on my dick?".

The pressure is building to an unbearable point, your entire body trembling as your orgasm approaches. Your mind goes blank, unable to answer his question as he hits that perfect spot.

Just as your orgasm hits, Negan feels your pussy clamp down around him like a silken fist. "Holy fuck..." you gasp, back arching as pure pleasure courses through your veins. 

Your entire body quakes, inner muscles milking his cock as you ride out your intense orgasm. You dig your nails into his shoulders, legs trembling uncontrollably.

Negan grunts, fucking you through your intense orgasm with deep, deliberate strokes. He can feel your pussy spasming wildly around his shaft, coating him in your slick arousal. As the last waves shudder through you, he finally pulls out, his cock glistening with in the light.

He lets you stand for a moment but you legs are so wobbly, it’s difficult to support your weight after that intense orgasm.

Before you can even catch your breath, Negan grabs your shoulder roughly and forces you onto your knees. Your body complies in an instant, unable to fight against such force.

Your knees ache as they hit the bathroom floor but that’s the least of your concerns. You look up at him in wide-eyed shock, lips parted as you anticipate him coming all over your face.

"Fuckin' hell, such a pretty face..." He strokes his throbbing cock with his fist, ready to explode.

But instead of aiming for your face, Negan aims his cock at your chest, unleashing a thick, hot load of cum all over your tits. He groans loudly as he paints your breasts with his seed, the warm liquid dripping down between your cleavage and seeping into the fabric of your dress.  

“Next time you’re either swallowing it or you’re getting a facial courtesy of yours truly” he informs you, although the only piece of information you truly savor from that is ‘next time’.

Doing the gentlemanly thing, he grabs some tissue from the toilet paper dispenser and hands it to you. You dab at your chest, knowing the dress is a lost cause and will probably have to be thrown out later. 

“Help me up?” You ask, somewhat shyly once you’re done.

Taking your arm in a much more gentle grip than before, Negan helps you up, subtly looking over your chest to make sure you’ve wiped off all of him. “You feeling alright?” he asks lowly, as if remembering the public place you’re both in. 

You blink, giving yourself a moment to calm, your body still humming with the aftermath. “That was…” you pause, collecting your thoughts, “...wow.”

A soft chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he slips his leather jacket off the stall door. “Well, that’s a better response than I expected,” he says with a smirk, draping the jacket around your shoulders and gently guiding your arms into the sleeves. Without a word about how the jacket nearly swallows you whole, he zips it up, pulling it snug to cover your chest. 

This is a completely different side to the Negan you’ve seen tonight. This is the Negan that gives you a small, reassuring smile after your parents throw some off handed insult your way. 

The two of you stand close, your breaths mingling. Slowly, the space between your faces narrows, as if drawn by some unspoken pull. You gently tilt your head, just enough to bring your lips into alignment with his. 

The kiss is a tender brush. Featherlight and hesitant. It’s the kind of kiss you’d expect before going at it like a bunch of animals… not afterwards.

The kiss lingers, still tasting of warmth and something unspoken. Pulling back just enough to rest your forehead against his, you can feel the soft touch of his lips still tingling on yours. You mutter against his lips, almost sheepishly “Can you drop me home?”.

His lips curl into a quiet smile, a slight glint in his eyes as he nods. “Considering I didn’t get to finish my first glass of whiskey, yeah I should be good,” Negan gives you a playful look.

Unable to help yourself, you give him a small smile. It’s not as seductive or teasing as the ones you have given him previously. In all honestly, it feels like Negan has fucked the seductiveness out of you– if that’s even possible.  

“... So this wasn’t some drunken mistake?” you ask coyly. 

Negan wraps an arm around your shoulders as he unlocks the stall door and carefully guides you out. ”Wear a dress like that the next time I’m at your parents for dinner and you’ll find out” he replies with a smirk. 

Besides his tousled hair, Negan still looks fine. He’s not dishevelled or out of breath or having trouble walking… all things you attribute to yourself.

Negan notices your state too, keeping his arm around you as you subtly leave the bathrooms and head for the exit. If it’s even possible, Negan pulls you closer, guiding you out like a drunk that’s had one too many. His presence is possessive in the gentlest of ways.

You give your friends a knowing look as you both leave, one that says you’ll explain everything later.

The sound of drunken chattering and laughter fades as you step out into the night, the streetlights casting a soft glow on the parking lot. 

When you reach the car, he opens the door for you with a small smirk, his eyes never leaving yours as you slide into the seat.  A few moments later, Negan slides into the driver's seat and the engine rumbles to life. 

The car doesn’t even get out of the parking lot before Negan’s hand finds yours. The ride home is quiet. He doesn’t say much, and neither do you, but the silence between you feels relaxed.

Every now and then, his thumb gently brushes across the back of your hand like a quiet reassurance. He doesn’t mention the contact, simply letting it linger. 

 The soft, rhythmic motion of the car becomes like a lullaby and with every mile, the weight of the night lifts just a little more. Every so often, you glance over at him, his face relaxed. When your eyes meet, he offers a smile and you sleepily return it.

Negan doesn’t pull up directly outside your house. Strategically stopping his car a little down the street, he sighs.

“Hate to say it but I’ll need that jacket back,” he gives you a once over, as if to memorize what his leather jacket looks like on you.

Fiddling with the zipper, you mumble “So I’m supposed to walk in there with a ripped up dress?”.

He laughs at that, shaking his head before reaching into the backseat. “Here, I know it’s dirty but it’s the best I can offer,” Negan hands you a sweatshirt. 

The sweatshirt is faded, its fabric softened from years of use. The sleeves are slightly frayed at the cuffs and a few small holes hint at its age. On the front, several dark oil stains mark where hands have wiped off grease, probably from Negan when working on his motorbike. 

But most importantly, it smells like him.

As you take off his jacket and put on the sweatshirt instead, Negan gives you some privacy and looks away. “Are you coming in too?” You ask, gently placing his jacket on his lap once you’ve changed.

Taking that as his signal to look, Negan gives you a sympathetic smile. “Not tonight, darlin,” he replies “think Lucille would chop my nuts off with your mom’s fancy silver if I showed my face”.

“You two are fighting that bad?”.

Negan shrugs “Same old, same old”.

You try not to fidget with the frayed sleeves of his sweatshirt, not wanting to pick at it right in front of him. 

“And… this?” You focus your attention at simply inspecting the sleeves instead of picking at them “I mean, I know you said it wasn’t a drunken mistake but still… I get it if you wanna pretend like it never happened”.

As much as you wanted quick reassurance, you’re met with silence. 

Negan leans back in his seat, taking his eyes away from yours and looking at the street. Up ahead, he can see the porch light on to your parents house. Although, he doubts Lucille will be leaving anytime soon. She’ll probably stay late, try to wait it out until Negan has drank himself silly and fallen asleep.

“Tonight shouldn’t have happened,” he says with little emotion “It ain’t right. I know it. You know it. Hell, anyone in a ten mile radius would call me all sorts of names if they knew about it…  fucking your friend’s daughter is a whole mess”.

You stay quiet, unsure whether you should just get out now.

“But shit, if you wanted to suck my dick right now, I wouldn’t say no,” he chuckles “it’s a fucked up thing to say but I wouldn’t mind something like this happening again”.

That puts a smile back on your face. Getting ready to leave, you say “Maybe if you come to dinner next time, I will suck your dick”.

Negan watches you with narrowed eyes. Of course you’d be able to make his dick twitch again, making him feel like a teenager that could get it up over and over again. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he warns as you get out.

“Good,” you hop out of the car, giving him one last flirtatious smirk before going “I hope you do”.

Closing the door, you strut along the pavement, your heels clicking as you go to your house. Walking has never seemed so hard, not only because of your shoe choice but from the aching in your gut and your legs wobbling more than you’d like to admit. 

Still, you try to do your best to walk straight, knowing Negan is watching. 

When you get to the front door, you give Negan one last glance before disappearing inside. He wait a few moments before starting up his car and leaving. 

The first thing you hear is a chorus of polite laughter from the dining room. Great, looks like they’re still in the midst of dinner. Before you have a chance to debate if you could get upstairs without them hearing, you hear your father call out your name.

“Is that you?” He calls out.

Reluctantly, you walk in, lingering by the doorway. Your parents to turn in their dining chairs to face you. Whereas Lucille has you right in her line of view. She offers you a gracious smile as you enter.

“I thought you were staying at Lydia’s tonight,” you mom says, eyeing your sweatshirt and what appears to be a skirt. Thankfully she doesn’t comment on how short it is.

“Eh, Lydia talked things out with her boyfriend so they’re back together again,” you lie casually “you know how they are; fight, break up and make up”.

Lucille casts her gaze down slightly, as if your words hit a little too close to home for her. You shift uncomfortably. 

“There’s some leftovers in the kitchen if you’re hungry” your mom says, blissfully unaware.

“I’m ok,” you give her a smile “I think I might just shower and head to bed early”.

“Alright,” she already waves you off, turning back in her seat “if you’re sure”.

You don’t linger, giving them a polite nod before leaving. It’s only when you turn to leave does Lucille look at you again. 

She’s never believed in coincidences. And she’s never believed you to be into repairing cars. She knows the faint stains on your sweatshirt, mainly because she’s the one who spent hours trying to scrub them out… only for Negan to reward her with new stains on the damn thing. 

Nodding along with whatever it is your father is saying, Lucille’s mind strays further and further from the dinner and to Negan instead. 

Something’s happened. What exactly, she’s not sure. But you’re involved and so is her damned husband.

—————

Part 2 can be found here!!

“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.

The Sanctuary was quieter than usual that night. The hum of the generators outside the window was steady, low, almost comforting — the kind of sound you stop hearing after a while. Inside Negan's room, the lights glowed warm against the cold concrete walls. The air smelled faintly of gun oil, whiskey, and her perfume — Negan's wife. One of many—yes, though everyone knew she was something different.

Negan’s favorite. His shadow. His echo.

The Sanctuary had seen dozens of women pass through his orbit — some trembling, some desperate, some pretending to love him to survive, some brave enough to show their annoyance. But she wasn’t any of those things. She never flinched when Lucille cracked skulls. Never looked away from the blood.

Where the others sought safety, she sought control.

She had arrived at the Sanctuary like a whisper — from where, no one knew. She carried herself like she had never needed saving, like the world had ended for everyone else but not for her. She was beautiful, yes, but not the kind of beauty that softened men — the kind that made them cautious, even afraid.

Negan noticed her the way a wolf notices another predator.

It wasn’t her face that kept him interested; it was her mind. She didn’t tremble nor cling like the others. She watched, like a hawk. She was attentive, like a predator. She understood things before he said them. When he punished someone, she didn’t turn away — she asked why he’d chosen that punishment, what it achieved.

Negan loved that about her, that she never recoiled from the blood, that her eyes always gleamed when others looked away.

From that moment on, she stopped being one of his wives and became his partner in cruelty. The one he trusted to be in the room when blood was spilled. The one who kept order among the others. The one he relied on if he wasn't there. The one who made the Sanctuary’s luxury look civilized when everything underneath was rot and terror. The only one —after him— to swing Lucille.

Negan adored her because she was the only person who didn’t need him to feel powerful.

She wasn’t calm where he was chaos. She was the spark that made it worse.

When Negan grew tired of speeches, when the world stopped feeling like a game worth playing, she reminded him what kind of king he was. She whispered things that made his blood boil — You saved them. You own them.

And he’d grin again.

She wasn’t his balance. She was his reflection, or perhaps his gasoline — the same hunger, the same darkness, just hidden behind perfume and soft skin. — and that balance made them lethal.

Where Negan took power by force, she did it by silence. By the tilt of her chin. By the way she could walk into a room and make the wives stop talking mid-sentence. The men didn’t know what scared them more — Negan’s grin or her eyes. Together, they ruled through pleasure and punishment, laughter and fear.

To her, the Sanctuary wasn’t a home. It was a stage.

And she was the only one who could play it better than him.

Although she never said it out loud, she liked it that way.

Power had a taste — rich, metallic, intoxicating.

And she’d been drinking it ever since the world ended.

She was sitting by the window, one leg tucked under her body, running her fingers idly through her hair and reading a book when the door swung open.

Negan’s voice filled the room before his body did.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart… you would not believe the day I’ve had.”

He looked different — still swaggering, still carrying that manic grin — but his shirt was spattered with dried mud and blood. Lots of blood. He dropped Lucille against the wall with a heavy thunk, the wood stained red and parts of skin — or flesh — too stuck in the barbed wire to clean. He took his leather jacket off and yanked it somewhere across the room, wiping a hand across his jaw, and laughing under his breath.

She didn’t flinch. She never did.

“Let me guess,” she said, her voice smooth, almost amused. “Another fool thought he could play hero?”

Negan’s grin widened. “Oh, darlin’, not just a one. A whole goddamn lineup of ‘em. Tried to play soldier, made a big show of it. So I had to remind everyone how things work.”

He moved closer, his boots thudding against the floor. His tone was light, but she could hear it underneath — that current of adrenaline, that rush he always came home with after a kill.

“Caught a few strays too. One of ‘em’s still alive.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “A redneck. Dirty. Stupid. But hell, the bastard tried to punch me.”

She smiled faintly. “A survivor.”

Negan’s eyes gleamed. “For now.”

He crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her to her feet. She tilted her chin up, eyes locked on his, studying that mix of pride and exhaustion.

Her smile deepened — slow, deliberate. “Good job, baby.”

He grinned at that. The words always hit him just right. “Damn right it was.”

He smashed his lips against hers. She didn’t pull away — she welcomed it, the way she always did after one of his victories. It was ritual, almost sacred in its corruption, him, drunk on control. Her, drunk on the man who embodied it.

Negan's hands roamed up her sides, rough palms sliding under her shirt to grip her bare skin. He backed her against the wall beside the window, the cool glass pressing into her shoulders as his mouth claimed hers again, deeper this time, his tongue thrusting against hers. She arched into him, her fingers digging into his blood-streaked shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one swift motion.

She nipped at his jaw, tasting his skin, her body already heating under his touch.

He growled low in his throat, yanking her shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor. Her breasts spilled free, nipples hardening in the air, and he wasted no time—his mouth latched onto one, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until she gasped. His hand cupped the other, pinching and rolling the bud between his fingers, rough enough to sting. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him there, her hips grinding against the thick bulge straining his pants.

His free hand reached up her thighs. He hooked his fingers into her panties, ripping them aside with a sharp tug that made her pussy clench in anticipation. Two fingers plunged into her wetness without warning, curling deep, pumping fast as he felt her slick heat coat him. “Soaked already?”

She moaned, her walls fluttering around his fingers, her clit throbbing as he ground his palm against it. Her hand fumbled with his belt, freeing his cock—thick, veined, and leaking pre-cum at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around it, stroking firmly from base to head, thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip.

He pulled his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth. “You taste like danger, darlin'.” Then he spun her around, pressing her chest to the wall, her cheek against the cold concrete wall as he kicked her legs apart. His cock nudged her entrance, teasing for a split second before he slammed in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

She cried out, the stretch burning deliciously, her pussy gripping him like a vice. He didn't give her time to adjust—his hips snapped forward, pounding into her with relentless force, each drive shaking her body against the wall.

They didn't give a fuck who heard.

She was Negan's favourite wife and everybody knew it.

The smack of his skin against her ass filled the air, mingling with her gasps and his grunts.

Her breasts dragged against the rough wall with every thrust, nipples scraping, sending jolts straight to her core. She pushed back, meeting his pace, her juices dripping down her thighs. “Harder,” she demanded, voice breaking.

Negan obliged, his pace turning rougher than before, cock dragging against her inner walls, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing circles fast and rough. The pressure built, coiling tight in her belly, until she shattered—her orgasm crashing over her, pussy spasming around him, milking his length as she screamed his name. “That's my girl,” he rasped.

He followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, flooding her with hot cum, ropes of it painting her insides as he groaned, body shuddering against hers. They stayed locked like that, breaths ragged, his cock twitching inside her as aftershocks rippled through them.

Finally, he pulled out, a trickle of their mixed release sliding down her leg. He turned her to face him, kissing her slow and deep, tasting the sweat and satisfaction on her lips. “Now that's how you celebrate,” he murmured, grinning that manic smile, and she returned it.

⟢──────────

The first light of morning filtered through the blinds, thin and dusty. The room was a wreck — clothes scattered, Lucille leaned against the nightstand, and Negan sprawled beside her with that same lazy smirk.

She lay on her side, tracing a finger idly along his chest. He stirred, grunted something that might’ve been a curse or a laugh.

“Stay,” she murmured, her voice soft but certain. “The world can wait.”

He cracked one eye open, and spoke with that deep sleepy voice that made her —secretly— throb. “Mmm, wish it could, sweetheart. But it’s already out there waitin’ for me to keep it in line.”

Her lips curved. “Let it fall apart for a few hours. You’ve earned a morning.”

Negan chuckled, that low, rasping sound that always made her smirk. “Tempting. But I got a prisoner needs feedin’. Simon’s supposed to handle it, but that jackass can’t do two things at once.”

She raised a brow, feigning mild curiosity. “The redneck?”

Negan grinned, rubbing a hand over his salt and pepper beard —possibly her favourite part of his body—. “You remember, huh? Yeah. Got him locked up downstairs. Stripped him, starved him, stuck him with that catchy little tune we play on repeat. Should break in a day or two.”

Her expression didn’t change. Just a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You and your toys.”

He laughed. “Gotta keep things interesting, sweetheart. Keeps the people in line.”

She stretched, the sheet slipping down from her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll come with you.”

Negan glanced over at her, smirking. “You? What for?”

“I’ve never toyed with one of your prisoners,” she said, her tone casual but eyes sharp. “Might be fun.”

He gave her that look — a long, amused one, like he was trying to figure out if she was teasing him or dead serious. “You are one twisted little thing, you know that?”

“Your fault,” she replied easily, leaning over to kiss him once before she stood, bare feet silent against the cold floor.

Negan laughed again, low and genuine this time. “Fine, darlin’. Come watch the show. Just don’t fall in love with the merchandise.”

She smiled over her shoulder as she reached for her clothes. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re still my favorite monster.”

⟢──────────

Morning light cut through the Sanctuary’s windows, thin and dusty. The place was alive — voices echoing down steel corridors, footsteps, the hum of labor.

And in the middle of it all, they walked.

Negan and his wife.

The king and his queen.

People froze when they saw them. Tools dropped. Eyes lowered. Men went to their knees.

She loved that part.

The weight of it — the hush that followed wherever they went.

Not out of respect. Out of fear.

She could almost feel it roll off them, thick and sweet.

Negan thrived on it, feeding off their trembling loyalty. He smiled wide, swinging Lucille against his shoulder, his steps long and careless.

They moved together like a storm front.

Simon caught up with them near the railing overlooking the main floor.

Negan's gaze flicked to the men packing crates below. “Everything squared?”

“Mostly.” Simon hesitated. “Except for your little pet project.”

Negan turned his head slightly. “Daryl.” The name came out like a bitter taste.

Simon gave a small shrug. “He’s still not talkin’. Barely eats. I can’t deal with him today — not with the supply run.”

Negan’s tongue clicked against his teeth. “Well, that’s a damn shame.”

She stood quiet beside them, listening — the faintest smirk curling at her lips.

Her eyes glittered when she said, almost too casually, “I’ll handle him.”

Both men turned to her.

Negan’s brow rose; Simon blinked.

She didn’t flinch. “You said he needs a push, right?”

Her tone was smooth, dangerous, sweet with challenge. “Consider it done.”

Negan studied her for a long beat — the corner of his mouth twitching, that slow, wolfish smirk spreading.

“My girl wants to feed the dog?” he said finally, a low laugh rumbling out of him.

He leaned in close, eyes dark with mischief. “Well be my fucking guest.”

Her grin matched his — wicked and knowing.

She turned on her heel and started down the corridor toward the hallway where the cell is, the echo of her boots snapping in the air like a promise.

Negan watched her go, shaking his head with a grin that was half amusement, half warning.

Simon muttered something about ‘bad ideas,’ but Negan just laughed.

“That woman,” he said, voice dripping with pride. “She’s my kinda crazy.”

⟢──────────

The corridor leading to his cell was colder than the rest of the Sanctuary. The air carried that damp metallic scent — rust, concrete, and old fear.

She liked it.

The guards at the end of the hall moved aside when they saw her coming. No questions. No greetings. Just nervous glances, and the click of a switch as the song playing through the speaker — that maddening, cheery tune — looped again.

We’re on easy street…

With one flick of her wrist, she cut the music.

Silence hit like a slap.

A deep, ringing quiet that seemed to hum against the concrete walls.

She reached for the keys that Simon handed her earlier, turning them inside the doorknob to reveal the prisoner.

Inside, he sat slumped on the floor, knees to his chest — filthy, bruised, naked, the air clinging to him like a punishment.

Daryl Dixon.

He didn’t look up right away. His hair hung over his face, his body a map of dirt and defiance.

A stale slice of bread hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Eat,” she said. Just one word. Calm.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Her head tilted slightly. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Something flickered in his eyes — not obedience, not yet, but a flash of calculation. His stomach growled, betraying him.

Finally, he reached out, slow and hesitant, taking the food.

She watched him eat.

Every motion.

The trembling of his fingers. The way he chewed, jaw tight, shoulders rigid — a man refusing to break even when every muscle in him screamed submission.

It fascinated her. The pride of it. The stupidity. The beauty.

“You’re smarter than they say,” she murmured after a while.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up.

She crouched slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, voice dipping lower.

“Kneeling’s not so hard, is it?”

His silence roared.

For a second, she thought he’d look up — maybe snarl, maybe beg, she didn’t care which. But he stayed still, jaw set, breath rough. She smiled.

Then stood, slow and deliberate, dusting invisible dirt off her jeans.

She didn’t move to leave just yet.

Something about watching him eat — watching the raw, reluctant way he gave in to the simplest need — pulled at her in a place she didn’t know existed.

Her eyes flicked to the hallway. “Hey,” she called.

One of the guards, a thin man with a rifle slung across his chest, appeared almost instantly. He looked nervous — they always did when she spoke directly to them.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Get him his little outfit.” she said. Her tone wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was something worse — casual. Like she was giving an order about the weather.

The guard blinked, uncertain. “Now?”

She turned her head slowly, one brow lifting.

He swallowed hard. “Got it.”

She looked back at Daryl. He still hadn’t spoken.

There was a cut along his shoulder, near his chest — old bandage browned with grime. She made a mental note to check that out later.

A few minutes later, the guard returned. She took the folded bundle herself without a word.

He had finished eating, his head hung forward, strands of hair hiding his eyes.

She stood over him — immaculate, pressed fabric against filth.

She tossed the clothes at him. The dirty fabric slapped against his face, sliding down into his lap.

He flinched — just barely. But it was enough to make her lips twitch.

For a breath, she waited, almost expecting him to throw it back. But he didn’t move. Just sat there, the orange A burning bright against the dull concrete.

“Better wear it before he decides you don’t deserve it,” she said, and turned toward the door.

The hinges screamed as she slammed it shut behind her — hard enough that dust fell from the frame.

The guards straightened when she walked past, but she didn’t look at them.

Inside the cell, silence fell again.

And for the first time since he’d been thrown in there, Daryl Dixon felt something new creeping under his skin — a kind of fear that wasn’t about Negan.

⟢──────────

Later that night, she sat on the edge of Negan’s bed while he paced the room, talking about the workers, about production, about keeping control. His voice was fire — loud, alive.

But she wasn’t listening.

Not really.

Her mind was still in that cell — in the darkness where Daryl Dixon’s eyes had followed her every move.

Negan stopped mid-sentence.

“You even listening, sweetheart?”

She blinked, meeting his gaze. That sharp, dangerous grin spread across his face — the one that always meant he’d noticed more than she wanted him to.

“What’s got you so quiet?” he drawled, moving closer. “You been thinkin’ about my pet downstairs?”

She didn’t answer. Just smiled, slow and devilish, like she always did when she was caught.

Negan laughed — a deep, raspy sound — and ran a hand through his hair. “Little bastard’s still got fight in him. I like that. Keeps the boys on their toes.”

“You said you wanted him to break.”

“Oh, he’ll break.” Negan’s grin widened. “They always do.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his — cold, bright, electric.

“Let me do it.”

Negan blinked, caught off guard for half a second. “Do what?”

“Handle him. The punishment. The breaking.” She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve got bigger things to run. Let me take this one off your hands.”

Negan studied her — half amused, half intrigued. “You wanna play jailer now?”

“I want to make myself useful.” Her tone was soft, almost purring. “You always said I had a way with people.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, leaning down until his face was inches from hers, “a dangerous way.”

She smirked. “Exactly.”

Negan’s grin spread slow, lazy, knowing.

“So you wanna feed the dog?”

“Maybe teach him a trick or two.”

For a long beat, he stared at her — assessing, curious, entertained. Then he laughed, a deep rumble that filled the room.

“Goddamn, woman,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re worse than me.”

She tilted her chin up. “You love that about me.”

He grinned wider, stepping closer until she could smell the faint mix of leather, smoke, and whiskey on him.

“Oh, I fuckin’ live for it.”

He kissed her — hard, rough — but her mind was still flickering between the fire and the dark. Between Negan’s heat and Daryl’s silence.

Between the man who owned the world and the one who refused to kneel for it.

And maybe that’s what she wanted.

To see what would happen when those two worlds finally collided.

⟢──────────

Morning in the Sanctuary always began the same — the chatter of workers, the low hum of generators, and the faint, mocking echo of Easy Street bleeding faintly from somewhere down below.

But this morning, she didn’t wait for permission.

She walked straight to the cell block, the guards straightening as she passed. No one dared speak her name — only the sound of her boots striking concrete. When she stopped in front of his cell, the music was still blaring.

She gestured to the man at the switch.

“Turn it off.”

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.

She nodded to the him again. “Unlock it.”

He looked uncertain — glancing between her and the cell door. She smiled sweetly, all venom and charm.

He had no choice but to obey.

The door creaked open.

Daryl lifted his head slowly, eyes burning through the grime.

She didn’t look away.

“On your feet.”

He hesitated, that same quiet defiance she’d seen before flickering in his eyes. It made her lips twitch — not in annoyance, but in delight.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she said, voice soft but lethal.

He stood.

She stepped back, letting him stumble forward into the light.

She turned and started walking, the sound of her boots echoing in the hall. After a few steps, he'd stopped following her. She looked back over her shoulder.

“You work for me now.”

He didn’t move.

“I said walk.”

He followed. Head low.

They crossed through the Sanctuary’s heart — workers pausing, wives whispering, eyes tracking every step.

Negan’s woman leading the prisoner.

Barefoot power leading broken defiance.

By the time they reached her quarters, she pushed the door open and motioned him inside.

“This,” she said, gesturing around the room — the neatly made bed, the bourbon bottle on the dresser, the low light — “is where you’ll be working. You’ll clean. You’ll serve. You’ll learn what it means to be useful.”

He just stared at her, breathing hard, jaw locked.

She tilted her head, amused.

“Don’t look so shocked. You should be grateful. Most men in your position are out there dealing with walkers or worse.”

Still nothing.

She smiled — that slow, dangerous curve that always preceded cruelty.

“You’ll start with the floors.”

When he didn’t move, she stepped forward, close enough that he could smell her — perfume, bourbon, smoke.

“You’ll move when I tell you to,” she whispered.

He clenched his fists, but the sound of her voice — calm, precise, unshakable — broke him more than shouting ever could.

Hours later, she sat on the edge of the bed, watching him scrub. The orange A on his back burned like a mark of her own making.

“Good boy,” she murmured, half to herself.

He froze.

“Something wrong?” she asked lightly.

He muttered something under his breath — too quiet to catch, but sharp enough to make her smile widen.

“Oh, I like that,” she said. “Still got teeth.”

When he finished, she said, “Shower.”

He hesitated in the doorway of the shower.

“Water’s there,” she said simply, leaning against the frame.

He didn’t move.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she clarified. “Can’t have you doing anything stupid. Safety measure.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. She was enjoying this — the way his jaw tensed, the way the word safety sounded like a lie from her lips.

Daryl's fingers gripped the hem of his worn shirt, his back to her as he stood there, the air thick with the scent of rust and damp concrete. He pulled the fabric up slowly, revealing the map of scars etched across his skin—jagged lines from old fights, an X-shaped scar on the center of his back, a testament to years of survival that twisted like lightning over his shoulders and down his spine.

She watched, eyes tracing every ridge and valley, the way the muscles in his back knotted under her gaze. The way his back tattoos looked slightly faded.

He didn't glance back, just let the shirt drop to the grimy floor with a soft thud. His hands moved to his pants next, shoved down his hips, pooling at his ankles. He kicked them aside, fully exposed from the rear, legs braced apart just enough to steady himself.

The humiliation burned in his chest, but he kept his face turned away, stepping toward the faucet without a word.

She didn't hide her stare, drinking in the vulnerability of his bare form, the way his body tensed like a coiled spring under the weight of her attention.

It wasn’t lust — not yet. It was power, fascination. Watching a man stripped down to nothing and still refusing to break.

The water was cold, spraying from the rusted showerhead in uneven bursts that did little to wash away the grime of his suffering.

Daryl kept his back to her, arms crossed over his chest as if that could shield him from the exposure. His skin prickled under the stream, soap bar clutched tightly in one hand while the other scrubbed hastily at his arms, his neck, avoiding anything that might invite more of her scrutiny.

Heat flooded his face, a deep flush that had nothing to do with the temperature—he could feel her eyes on him, boring into the scars, the curve of his hips, the subtle shift of his thighs as he moved. Every rinse felt like a surrender, his cock hanging soft and heavy between his legs, untouched and ignored, but the awareness of it made his stomach twist with shame and humiliation. He washed his hair roughly, suds running down his back in white trails that highlighted the old wounds, his breaths coming short and ragged. The vulnerability clawed at him, turning his defiance into something raw and exposed, like he was on display for her amusement, every drop of water a reminder of how little control he had left.

When he finally turned the water off, Daryl pivoted toward her slowly, his eyes wide with a mix of defiance and mortification, frozen like prey caught in the open. Both hands clamped down instinctively over his groin, cupping his cock and balls in a desperate bid for modesty, fingers splayed to hide as much as possible. The motion drew her gaze downward immediately, and a low, mocking laugh escaped her lips, sharp and cutting through the sudden silence —and let's be honest, that move turned her on more than she'd like to admit—.

“Aw, look at you, all shy and covered up like that,” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement as she snatched the bundle of fresh clothes from the nearby chair. With a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed them at him—shirt and pants tumbling through the air to land in a heap at his feet. Water still dripped from his skin, pooling around him as he stood there, cheeks burning hotter than the scars on his back.

Daryl snatched up the clothes with one hand still shielding himself, the fabric rough against his damp skin as he turned away again and yanked on the pants first, tucking his softening cock away with hurried motions, followed by the shirt that clung slightly to his wet torso. He avoided her glare burning into his back the whole time, the orange A glaring back at him from the material like a fresh brand, sealing his place in this hell.

“Better,” she said softly. “Now maybe you’ll remember who’s keeping you alive.”

⟢──────────

He’d just finished scrubbing the floor when the door swung open. The faint smell of bleach still hung in the air. Daryl was on his knees, shoulders tense, palms raw from bleach.

She stepped inside — immaculate as always, boots clicking against the wet tile. Except this time, those boots were caked in dried mud and specks of blood.

“Oh Daryl you would not believe the day I ha-”

He glanced up at them —obviously irritated— then at her. “Jus' cleaned tha'” he muttered.

It was the first time she'd heard his voice since he got here.

She stopped mid-sentence, her head tilting slightly like she hadn’t quite heard him right. “What was that?”

He didn’t look up again. “Said I jus' cleaned it.”

Her silence stretched thin — almost delicate. Then, a slow smile curved her lips, cold and amused. “Did you, now?”

She took another deliberate step forward, letting the mud grind into the damp floor. The sound was soft but sharp enough to make him flinch.

“You gonna complain about dirt now?” she asked, voice smooth as honey but burning at the edges. “In my room?”

He didn’t answer. His hands tightened around the rag, jaw flexing.

She crouched down a little, enough to make him meet her eyes. “You forget who you’re on your knees for, sweetheart?”

That word — sweetheart — hit like an insult. His glare flicked up, full of exhaustion and anger. “Ain’t cleanin’ up after you forever.”

There it was. The spark.

Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes shifted — a flare of wild satisfaction.

She straightened slowly. “Oh, you’re not?”

Before he could move, she grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet with surprising strength. The bucket tipped, water spilling over the clean floor.

“Guess we need a reminder,” she said.

Her fingers locked around his arm, nails digging through the thin fabric of his sleeve, and she yanked him hard enough to make him stumble. She shoved the door open, dragging him out into the hallway.

The guard outside looked up, startled. She'd moved too fast for him to even get a chance to speak to her.

Her pace was sharp, boots clicking against the concrete, and he had to keep up — half-dragged, half-shoved — until they reached the long corridor that led to the outside overlook.

The air out there was thick with heat and smoke. Below, the yard seethed with noise — the clang of metal, the growl of walkers, the hiss of molten steel. Prisoners in the same orange-marked rags as his were working the fences, shoving walkers against the wire, pouring melted metal over their thrashing bodies. The stench of burning flesh and rot clung to everything.

She stopped at the railing and pushed him forward until he was right against it. “Look,” she said flatly.

He kept his eyes down, jaw tight. The sight was too much — the agony, the screams, the way the others’ hands shook as they worked.

Her hand shot out, fisting a handful of his dirty brown locs, yanking his head back so hard his teeth clicked. “You see that? That’s what happens to the ones who don’t listen.” She hissed against his ear.

He said nothing, muscles straining under her grip, but his eyes stayed forward.

“You could’ve been one of them,” she went on, voice low, steady, cruel. “But look how lucky you are. You’re breathing. You get food. You get a shower. You get me.”

Her fingers tightened once more before she let go, and he exhaled through gritted teeth.

“Should be fucking thankful you ended up in my hands,” she said, leaning closer. “You see how lucky you are now?”

“You wanna complain about a goddamn floor now?!”

Down below, Negan’s laugh carried over the noise — loud, sharp, unmistakable. He turned toward the sound of her voice, that grin spreading across his face the moment he spotted them on the overlook.

“Well, would ya look at that!” he called, throwing his arms wide. “There’s my girl! Brought the dog with you too, huh?”

A few workers turned their heads, then immediately looked back down, terrified.

Negan started up the stairs, Lucille swinging lazily in his hand. He looked almost proud when he reached them — sweat on his neck, a streak of soot across his jaw, eyes glinting like a man too alive for the world he’d built.

“Well, ain’t this a damn sight,” he said, glancing at Daryl — filthy, tense, barely breathing. “You givin’ my pet a field trip, sweetheart?”

She tilted her head, “Thought he could use a reminder,” she said. “Some perspective.”

Negan chuckled, that deep rasp rolling up from his chest. “Oh, I like that. Perspective.”

Negan looked at Daryl before he turned back to her, eyes burning with approval. “You keep that mean streak, baby. Makes me hard as a goddamn bat.”

She smiled, slow, dangerous. “Maybe that’s why you keep me around.”

Negan laughed loud enough for the whole yard to hear. “Hell, that is why I keep you around. That and the way you look when you’re pissed. Christ, woman, I could watch you break things all damn day.”

He reached out, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, smearing a little ash across her cheek without caring. “Don’t tell me you dragged him up here ‘cause he mouthed off.”

She didn’t deny it — just smiled with that same quiet, vicious calm.

Negan’s grin widened. “Ah, that’s my girl. You do whatever you want with him, sweetheart. Long as he’s still breathin’ when I need him.”

“I’ll handle it,” she said, eyes locked on Daryl.

Negan turned her head towards him and leaned in, pressing a kiss against her mouth — rough, possessive, like the world didn’t exist beyond it.

She reached her hand to tangle in his hair, his adrenaline rush and her anger making the kiss hungrier and dirtier.

Daryl froze. The sound of the yard blurred in his ears — the metal, the screams, all of it muffled under the sudden, burning clarity of realization.

She wasn’t just some sadistic overseer.

She was his. Negan’s wife.

And standing there, watching them kiss while the world burned below, he finally understood what real hell looked like.

⟢──────────

The afternoon light poured through the slats in the blinds, a thin gold that caught on the dust in the air. She sat in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other, her short denim skirt riding up just enough to tease the edges of propriety. No panties, nothing beneath the frayed hem—bare skin waiting to be noticed. A glass of amber liquor balanced loosely in her hand, something that always seemed to quiet her mind after a long day.

The chair creaked when she shifted, tilting her head as her eyes followed him moving across the floor.

“Daryl,” she said finally.

His name cut through the silence like a command. He stopped what he was doing, turned just enough to see her without meeting her eyes.

She leaned back in the chair, stretching her legs out until the toes of her boots caught the light. The black leather was scuffed from patrols, dust caked into the creases. “They’re filthy,” she said. “Fix it.”

Daryl's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. Survival meant playing along, at least on the surface.

He dipped the rag into a bucket of soapy water nearby, wringing it out with a twist that made his knuckles whiten. Starting at the toe of her boot, he rubbed in firm circles, the leather warming under his touch as suds bubbled up.

His knees ached against the hard floor, but he focused on the task, wiping away grime with methodical strokes, buffing the surface until a faint gleam emerged.

She watched him as he worked — the slow, rough movement of his hands, the set of his jaw. Every motion carried that same reluctant obedience. He kept his eyes on the floor, polishing until the dull leather of one boot began to catch a faint shine.

She uncrossed her legs then, shifting in the chair with deliberate slowness, the skirt hiking higher as she planted both feet in front of him. The motion parted her thighs just enough, exposing the soft folds of her pussy—lips slightly parted in the humid air. Daryl's eyes flicked up involuntarily, catching the sight before his brain could catch up. Heat exploded across his face, cheeks burning crimson as his stomach twisted in a knot of shock and unwanted awareness. His hands froze mid-wipe, rag dripping onto the floor, and he jerked his gaze away so fast it made his neck ache, staring hard at the boot instead, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

She reached down and ran her hand through his hair, slightly damp from sweat but surprisingly soft. The sight of him on his knees infront of her knowing that he saw her pussy turned her on more than anything.

He froze for half a second before continuing, faster this time. She smiled, that small, dangerous curve of amusement that always meant she was winding him tighter.

“You’re rushing,” she said softly. She saw how flustered he'd gotten. It thrilled her. The gasoline to her fire.

Embarrassment flooded him, hot and humiliating, his cock twitching achingly in his pants despite the flush of shame. It had been years since Daryl had ever seen a pussy, and the closest he'd ever gotten was a magazine that Merle had given him back before the apocalypse. To say his heart was racing would be an understatement. He wished that somehow the ground would open up and swallow him whole than to be in the same room as her ever again.

He pushed to his feet abruptly, rag clutched in his fist, turning half-away as if distance could erase what he'd seen.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that echoed off the walls, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight. Leaning forward, she inspected her boot with exaggerated scrutiny, running a finger along the still-damp leather. “Oh, honey, these aren't shining yet. Not even close.” She said with something between sarcasm and pity.

“Get back on your knees. Now. And finish the job properly this time.”

He looked up, the faintest flash of frustration breaking through the quiet. She raised an eyebrow — a silent challenge — and after a long breath, he knelt again.

The sound of the rag on leather filled the room, steady and rhythmic. She sipped her drink, letting the silence stretch until it was unbearable.

She spread her legs a fraction wider, watching him scrub the other boot now, her pussy still on blatant display, lips glistening faintly in the low light. He didn't dare to look up again. No matter how hard his eyes were tempting him to—wait. Why was he tempted to?

“Better,” she said at last, her tone low and smooth. “You learn fast.”

He didn’t answer. But his shoulders were rigid, his movements sharp — as if he wanted nothing more than to be done with it, to get away from her gaze, and away from this feeling bubbling up inside him that he couldn't quite figure out.

She smiled to herself, leaning forward just enough that her voice brushed the air between them. “Don’t forget,” she murmured. “You work for me now.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t look up — but she could see the pulse in his throat, quick and uneven. And that, more than anything, made her smile wider.

⟢──────────

It had been weeks since Daryl first arrived to the sanctuary, and he'd been slaving away every day since. She never stopped taunting him, teasing him and breaking him day by day. And it was working. The tension that sparked when she walked in the room was impossible to ignore. For her, and for him.

The night was quiet — almost too quiet. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp filled the room, its glow licking at the walls, pooling over the mess of tools, wood, and scattered papers. The air smelled like iron and smoke.

She sat in the corner chair, legs crossed, a blood-streaked rag in one hand and her knife in the other. The blade caught the light each time she turned her wrist, gleaming dull red.

Across the room, Daryl was hunched over a half-built shelf, the soft rhythm of his hammer the only thing keeping time. She’d told him to build it — not because she needed one, but because she wanted to keep him busy. Keep him where she could see him.

He didn’t speak. He rarely did. Just worked, jaw tight, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes. Every now and then, he’d pause to wipe his hands or study the alignment of a board, and she’d watch him — quietly, steadily, like studying something wild in a cage.

Her mind wandered, though — to the sound of his breathing, the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, the veins in his forearms, the slight grey stubble that caught the light every so often, the defiance that still lived somewhere under all that silence. She was still watching when the knife slipped.

The cut was quick. Clean.

“Fuck–” She muttered, barely audible.

Blood welled up, slow and dark, tracing down her palm to her wrist. She hissed softly through her teeth, staring at the red spreading across her skin.

Before she could move, he was there — crossing the room in a few strides. He knelt in front of her without a word, snatched a clean rag from the table, and pressed it against her hand.

The contact startled her. His touch was firm but careful, like he didn’t know whether to help or to hesitate. His head was bowed, hair dripping shadows across his face, breath uneven as he focused on her hand.

She stared down at him, at this man who was supposed to hate her — supposed to want her dead — tending to her instead.

“Did I say you could touch me?” she asked, voice low, sharp.

He looked up just enough for her to see the flicker in his eyes. “Ye were bleedin’.”

Her lips curved, something between mockery and amusement. “You care now?”

He didn’t answer. He just let go, stood, and went back to his shelf without another word.

She watched him for a moment longer, then rose from the chair. “Clean that up,” she said, tossing the bloodied rag onto the floor beside him. The knife had been left behind beside the chair, still slick with her blood.

Then she walked off toward the bathroom.

The sound of water started — steady, constant. He could hear it, feel the weight of it in the silence she left behind. His gaze drifted to the knife.

It was right there. Inches away. The handle glinted under the lamplight, the edge of it catching a faint shimmer.

He could take it. He could end this. Her. All of it.

But something stopped him.

He didn’t know if it was fear or exhaustion or something worse. Maybe it was the knowledge that he’d never make it out alive — or maybe, deep down, it was that pull again, the one that had been growing heavier every day.

He dragged his hand down his face, exhaling rough and low, and went back to work.

The water came down hot, fogging up the cracked mirror and running red for a moment as it rinsed away the dried blood from her hands. She stood still under it, eyes half-closed, head tilted back. The sound of the pipes was the only thing keeping her grounded.

She should have been thinking about work — the next shipment from any of the communities, the next order, the next way to keep the place from falling apart. But her thoughts kept circling back to him.

Daryl.

She didn’t understand him. He’d taken every order, every threat, every cruel joke, and turned it into silence. Like his silence was a wall and she could barely dent it.

Today had been different, though. He’d moved when she bled. Not because she’d told him to, not out of fear. Instinct. Reflex. And that… bothered her.

She pressed her palms to the tile, watching water drip down between her fingers.

Negan would’ve called it progress. Said she was getting results. But this didn’t feel like victory. It felt like balance tipping somewhere unseen.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling hard, letting the steam blur everything until the world dissolved into nothing but noise and heat.

When she finally turned off the water, the silence returned — heavy and waiting.

And she realized she wasn’t sure anymore who was breaking who.

When she came out, the steam followed her. Her hair was damp, clinging to her skin, her shirt half-tucked, her movements slow and sure. She stopped by the table, eyes scanning the shelf he’d finished.

He looked up — and for the first time, his eyes didn’t hold anger. Just something quiet. Watching her. Then, briefly, his gaze dropped to her injured hand, now wrapped in white cloth. There was a flash of something like concern there before he turned away, pretending he hadn’t looked at all.

She caught it, though. Noticed every beat of it.

Then she noticed the knife — still there. Untouched.

A slow smile spread across her face. Not cruel this time. Not mocking. Just… knowing. Finally knowing.

“Good work,” she said softly.

He looked up, briefly. Nodded once.

⟢──────────

The dim light of the Sanctuary filtered through the heavy curtains of Negan's wife's private room, casting long shadows across the rumpled bed. She'd been stealing glances at Daryl all day—his rough edges, the way his jaw tensed under that poker face, the quiet intensity in his eyes that mirrored her own restless hunger.

Negan, ever the observant bastard, had noticed it. The way Daryl was barely spending anytime in his cell anymore. The way she always needed him for building a shelf or fixing a cabinet when there was always Simon or any of the other saviours.

Later, alone in their shared quarters, Negan cornered her against the wall, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned in close. “Darlin', I see the way you look at redneck,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. She smirked, but somehow there was still heat flooding her cheeks. “Is that so?”

Negan smirked, swirling his whiskey. “You two think I don't see that spark? Darlin',” he drawled, locking eyes with her, “You want the dog? Go ahead and fuck him if that's what you're cravin'. I'll watch. Should be a hell of a show.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What? Negan, you're... you're not jealous? Not possessive?”

He chuckled low, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Jealous? Darlin', I got multiple wives. Hell, I might even join in if the mood strikes.” He slapped her ass lightly, propelling her toward the door. “Go get yours.”

⟢──────────

It had been a few days since Negan’s offhand permission, and she hadn’t stopped finding reasons to touch Daryl.

A hand through his hair when she said it was getting in his eyes.

A thumb swiping the grime from his cheek when he came in from the yard.

A careless bump of her shoulder when they passed in the corridor.

Each time she tossed a quick comment—half excuse, half dare—and kept walking as if nothing had happened.

After a week of this torment, she had him cornered in her room again, casual as a cat circling a mouse. Her hands rested on his arms, her smile cocky and bold. “You know,” she said, voice low, “you could just admit you like it.”

Daryl blinked, jaw tight. “I… I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t lie to me, Dar” she interrupted, tilting her head. “I see it. Every time. Every damn time I touch you, your muscles go stiff, your chest… oh, you know what I mean.”

He told himself he didn’t like it. Repeated it the way you recite a prayer: She’s Negan’s wife. You don’t belong here. You need to find your way back to Rick.

But the words never stuck. They scattered every time she drifted close enough for him to catch the scent of smoke on her jacket.

The worst part was how normal it started to feel.

She’d give an order, he’d follow. She’d find a speck of dust on his shirt, brush it off, and the world would shrink to that one point of contact.

Then the moment would snap, and he’d remember where he was—what she was—and the guilt would burn hotter than the touch itself.

By the end of the week, the entire Sanctuary seemed to notice.

She didn’t whisper or hide it. When she called for him across the work floor, her tone carried like a whip. When she stepped too close, people pretended to be busy.

It was only a matter of time before someone told Negan. The thought frightened him. He didn't know yet.

That thought sat heavy in his stomach as he tried to keep his head down, but she didn’t stop.

And he couldn’t stop reacting.

⟢──────────

It was a day like any other in the sanctuary. Negan and his wife walked the sanctuary, asserting dominance upon the saviours. It thrilled her, her position of power. She liked how good it felt to be in charge. But it could never beat the feeling of having her own little pet waiting in her room at the end of the day.

She walked the corridor and slipped into her room, the door clicking shut behind her. Daryl was there, sitting on the floor knees to his chest. He'd do that often when he was done with whatever useless job she'd assigned him.

He looked up from the spot on the floor where he’d been sitting, surprise flickering in his blue eyes. The tension in the air thickened as she approached him, a playful smile curling at the corners of her lips.

“Hey there, Daryl,” she purred, her voice low and inviting, an alluring contrast to the harshness of his reality. She knelt beside him, her presence both intoxicating and dangerous “What are you doin’ sitting like that?”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as he took in her closeness. “Jus’ thinkin’,” he muttered, his voice gruff, but the way she leaned in made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Thinking? About what?” she echoed, a teasing lilt in her tone. Her fingers brushed against his forearm, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin.

He swallowed hard and pulled away, the heat of her touch igniting something restless inside him. “This... this ain’t righ’,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, though the way he leaned toward her suggested he was fighting his own instincts. Daryl knew he shouldn’t be drawn to her, not when she was Negan's wife, not when she was part of the very system that had imprisoned him.

“Why not?” she replied, her smile widening as she captured his gaze.

Daryl swallowed, his voice low and wary. “’Cause… Negan’s gonna come down on me if he finds out what you’re doing. I ain’t… I ain’t tryin’ to get myself killed.”

“Negan doesn’t mind. He thinks it’s cute, you know? You working so hard for me.” She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his skin, and the air crackled with unspoken tension. “He knows I need a little entertainment.”

Daryl got up and stepped back slightly, running a hand over his neck. “You’re settin’ me up, ain’t you? Some kinda trap.” He spoke almost in a yell.

For a long moment neither spoke. Then she sighed, half-annoyed, half-satisfied.

“You don’t believe me,” she said finally. “Fine. You want proof? I’ll get it.”

Daryl’s chest tightened. He didn’t like waiting. Didn’t like the way his pulse sped just watching her walk out of the room. But he stayed, frozen, standing like a mannequin beside her bed.

The minutes stretched long. He could hear muffled voices through the thin walls—Negan’s low, rumbling chuckle, her sharp, confident drawl. The sound made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t want to admit.

He rubbed at his cheek where her fingers had lingered earlier, the warmth of her touch still ghosting over him. Over and over he told himself: She’s Negan’s. She’s not yours. You don’t belong here.

But the words rang hollow, drowned out by the pull of her presence.

She returned a few minutes later, a sly grin tugging at her lips. Behind her, leaning in the doorway, was Negan, his arms crossed, Lucille resting casually against his shoulder.

Daryl’s chest tightened, and he stepped back instinctively. His mind screamed at him: she’s his. This isn’t real. He shouldn’t…

Daryl's eyes flicked to Lucille, a reminder of how he'd gotten here in the firstplace. It gave him unwanted flashbacks. His head screamed.

Run. Run. RUN.

But he stood frozen in place.

Negan’s grin was wicked, and his eyes sparkled with amusement as he stepped in and shut the door behind him. “Figured I’d join the fun. Don’t want my girl doing all the work herself.”

Daryl froze, caught between desire and terror. Every warning he’d drilled into his brain—she’s Negan’s wife, you’re nothing here—clashed violently with the heat pooling in his chest.

Negan's wife started walking towards Daryl, reaching her hands out to cup his burning face.

Negan followed her, silent as a shadow, settling into the chair in the corner with a nod of encouragement.

She was already on Daryl, pushing him back onto the bed. “Relax,” she cooed, straddling his lap, but his muscles were stiff as a board, eyes flickering between her and Negan.

Negan watched from the shadows, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Go on, Daryl. Obey the lady. Give her what she wants.”

Daryl's resistance crumbled under her touch—he obeyed, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Her lips crushed against his, tongue invading his mouth with demanding hunger. He groaned into her, his body arching instinctively. She broke the kiss to tug at his pants, freeing his hardening cock. It sprang up thick and veined, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slow and firm, feeling him throb in her grip.

He was sensitive, extremely sensitive. He couldn't remember the last time he'd touched his cock. It might've been way back at the prison. He didn't know. He didn't care.

She started slow, her grip firm and unyielding. Up and down she stroked, feeling every ridge and throb as he hardened fully in her palm. Daryl's hips jerked upward, seeking more friction, but she pinned him harder with her thighs. She twisted her wrist at the top, thumb smearing the slick bead over his sensitive tip, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “You cum when I say.”

He bucked again, a low “Fuck” escaping his lips as she edged him mercilessly. Faster now, her hand flying along his length, bringing him right to the brink—his balls tightening, muscles coiling—then slowing to a torturous crawl, denying him release.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving as he fought for control. She watched his face contort with need, reveling in the power, her own arousal building between her legs. Negan shifted in his chair, his eyes dark with lust and amusement.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing, she released his cock with a final, lingering squeeze, leaving it twitching in the air. Daryl panted, eyes wild and heart racing. There was nothing playing in his head other than how wrong this is, how he shouldn't feel this way, or even be here. But he his, and it made his heart skip a couple beats. Half out of fear. Half out of the intensity of this situation.

“Well come on,” Negan chuckled cruelly. “Be a gentleman and return the favor.”

Daryl's eyes darkened with need, but he nodded, sliding down the bed. She stripped off her jeans and panties, baring her curves, then positioned herself above his face, lowering her dripping pussy onto his mouth. His tongue dove in eagerly, lapping at her folds, sucking her clit with rough, hungry pulls. She moaned, grinding against him. He devoured her like a starved man. Sloppy, messy, hungry, primal.

Negan rose then, unable to stay sidelined any longer. He approached the bed, his boots thudding softly on the carpeted floor. Kneeling beside her, he captured her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue battling hers while his free hand roamed her body. Fingers pinched her nipples hard, twisting the hardened peaks until she moaned into his mouth, the sharp pain mingling with the pleasure from Daryl's relentless oral assault below. Negan's other hand slid down her back, gripping her ass cheek and spreading her wider for Daryl's access. “Taste how wet she is for us,” Negan murmured against her lips, his voice gravelly.

Daryl obliged, his tongue plunging deeper into her core, then retreating to circle her entrance before returning to her swollen clit. He sucked harder, the wet sounds filling the room as she rocked against his face, coating his chin with her wetness.

“God, yes... don't stop.” Her hands fisted in Daryl's hair, holding him in place as waves of building ecstasy coiled in her belly. The dual assault overwhelmed her—Daryl's hungry mouth devouring her pussy, Negan's teasing fingers on her sensitive nipples, his kisses swallowing her cries.

Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, snapping suddenly as she came hard, thighs clamping around Daryl's head as she grinded on his tongue harder. Juices flooded Daryl's tongue, he growled and lapped them up greedily.

She broke Negan's kiss and looked down at Daryl. His face was soaked, greying stubble soaked with her cum, lips shining, even his nose shining with wetness. And his eyes, oh his once blue eyes were half lidded and darkened with forbidden desire. In that moment, with her towering over him, and her taste still lingering on his tongue. He knew it, he was addicted.

She got off Daryl's face, and Negan got up stripping off his clothes with a grin. His own cock stood rigid, thick and ready. “My turn to play,” he said, lying back and guiding her over him. She straddled him reverse, her back to his chest, ass pressing against his hips as she sank down onto his length. He filled her completely, stretching her pussy around his girth as she rocked slowly, grinding deep.

Daryl knelt in front of her, cock still aching from the edge. She leaned forward, taking him into her mouth, sucking the head with wet, slurping pulls. Her tongue swirled around the shaft as she bobbed, hollowing her cheeks while Negan thrust up into her from below, his hands gripping her hips to control the pace. The room filled with wet slaps and muffled groans.

Daryl's hands fisted in her hair, grounding himself. The whimpers that poured out of his mouth were music to her ears. “Shit... gonna cum,” he grunted, pulling out just in time. Hot ropes of cum splashed across her tits, coating her skin in sticky white streaks as she milked the last drops with her hand.

Negan's voice cut through the haze, commanding. “Eat her again, Daryl. Make her scream.”

Daryl dropped to his knees, face burying between her legs even as Negan kept pounding into her from behind. He leaned in, tongue tracing her clit as she rode Negan, the angle perfect for him to lap at her while Negan's shaft pistoned in and out. Occasionally, Daryl's mouth brushed Negan's balls, inadvertently licking them gently every now and then, adding an extra layer of sensation that made Negan growl in approval. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She collapsed onto Negan, her back against his chest. Daryl's hands joined his mouth, fingers spreading her lips wider so his tongue could delve deeper, flicking and sucking with fervor. “Jus–just like that..oh fuck.. I'm gonna–” She screamed out as she came again, her pussy clenching around Negan as waves of orgasm ripped through her, her moans along with Negan's filled the room, walls fluttering and milking him. Her legs shook violently as her eyes rolled back.

Daryl's movements were relentless, still sucking her clit hard, overstimulating her to the point where she couldn't stop shaking.

“Fuck. yes.” Negan snarled, thrusting harder until he followed, burying himself to the hilt and flooding her with his cum, hot spurts filling her up.

She reached down and pullled Daryl's head up by his hair. His face was flushed and they both were gasping for air.

Daryl sank onto the bed beside her, every muscle in his body finally letting go. He felt like he could barely breathe, chest still pounding from the intensity of it all. He wasn’t supposed to feel this… alive, this warm, this… wanted. And yet, here he was, pressed against her, heart hammering in a rhythm that seemed impossibly right. She’s not just Negan’s wife… she owns him now, too. More than just being a prisoner or a work slave, and his brain had a hard time processing it.

She lay in the middle, caught between them, and the absurd perfection of it made her head spin. Two men. Both hers. Both here. How did she even get here?

She felt Negan’s arm over her waist, firm and possessive, and Daryl pressing closer, lips brushing her skin, and she let herself sink into the dizzying warmth, letting the boundaries blur. She could stay like this forever. Maybe she should.

Negan, still inside her, ran his fingers along her sides, possessiveness mingling with something he hadn’t expected—pride, perhaps, or satisfaction that someone else wanted her just as badly. Damn it, she’s his wife… but hell, it turns him on seeing Daryl feel it too. He could get used to this—both of them, like this.

He felt her shift between them, and in that simple motion, he understood: this wasn’t about control. Not entirely. This was something more dangerous, more intoxicating. Something that belonged to all three of them, tangled up in ways that didn’t make sense but felt undeniably right.

In the quiet aftermath, the three of them drifted toward sleep. Exhausted, tangled, and unsteady, every thought and heartbeat lingering on the others, a slow, heavy hum of satisfaction wrapping around them. It wasn’t just sex. It was possession, desire, trust, and something purely forbidden.

A/N: If you've reached this far, please tell me your opinion :) (i hope this doesn't flop)

also I'd appreciate it if u check out my fanfiction for JDM, it's linked in my bio :)

we're also gonna ignore the fact that the Tumblr 10 image limit made me change my dividers, and the fact that i suck at writing smut.

Your man returned to your tent that night like he did most others: slick with sweat and too tired for sex. At least not again, not with you. He would undoubtedly claim to have been checking the perimeter, standing guard like a good leader should, but any blind man in that quarry camp could’ve seen he was just boning Lori.

A lot.

You were really more offended that he thought you stupid enough to abide by his lies than the fact he was fucking someone else. That part wasn’t new—his dick never knew how to stay in one hole longer than a month or two—but in an apocalypse? With his newly-deceased best friend’s widow? That was low, even for Shane.

Which was why you felt no compunction yourself as you slipped quietly from your tent toward the water’s edge that night, pink vibrator clutched tightly in hand.

Useful little thing that it was, a six-setting suction device that worked wonders on your clit, even underwater. You figured since Shane couldn’t be bothered with you or your sexual pleasure so long as the former Mrs. Grimes was occupying his time, you’d make use of this sex toy instead and start really leaning into the “self care” you’d been craving for so long.

The water was warm all the way up to your chest, and the air around you tepid. You moved around, treaded in place, and finally reached comfortable bearings a couple yards from shore. You relished the solitude and silence.

The moment you felt the toy come to life in your hand, you couldn’t help but smile. Exhaling as you brought the tip close to your center.

“Shit.” Even the gentlest setting too harsh on your clit, you nipped your lower lip and bit back a whimper.

You swirled it lightly on your inner thigh, tried painstakingly as ever to acclimate yourself to the buzz of the rubber, but damn were you sensitive. Almost too tender to be touched, too ripe with excitement and aching for the feel of something on you, or in you, or just barely skimming the surface of your skin underwater.

A low moan escaped your lips the second the head drifted back to your clit. Your toes curled into rough, rocky terrain underfoot, and your breaths started to quicken. You made a gentle motion with your hips—a sweet, semi-circular thing you’d been doing over Shane’s lower half as long as you could remember—begging for more friction, needing more of that mechanical hum.

You pressed the button for a higher setting. The peaks of your pleasure soared to new heights.

You were helpless to the trembling of your knees and felt immensely grateful for the water’s aid in keeping you straight. You pressed the rounded tip of the toy even tighter to your core and didn’t heed a thing around you as you sighed several expletives under your breath. A jolt of bliss washed over your body.

Your eyes had just started to close in the first throes of that wild sensation, when a new sound startled you.

“Ya done pissin’ or what?”

You shot a look toward the shore and saw a slightly less-than cheery individual standing at the edge of it, the toes of his boots grazing the incoming waves.

You froze in place. You hardly knew what to say.

“Ain’t safe fer you out here ‘n you know it. Come on.” Daryl beckoned you with one hand and started to turn.

At what point was it appropriate to tell him you were naked?

You thought he could surmise from the fact you were neck-deep in the water and refusing to move that maybe something more was keeping you in. Daryl seemed clueless, however.

“I ain’t got all night, kid,” he snorted, “’f you don’t hurry, Shane an’ the rest of ‘em’ll be out and— ah.”

Ah.

At the last, he stepped on a pile of clothes folded neatly on the shoreline nearby, undergarments and all.

So this wasn’t a midnight swim or a late night piss at all, but a full-blown skinny dip. He should have known you weren’t the bikini type.

Awkwardly, almost begrudgingly, Daryl gathered what clothes of yours he could and chucked them closer to the lake. Then he turned on his heels and stalked up the beach without another word—fuming, it seemed to you. Once averted, though, Daryl’s face betrayed a look of horror. Like a parent who’d just stumbled upon a box of condoms in their daughter’s sock drawer after swearing she was still a virgin.

In the few short weeks since you’d been thrown together in this mess, Daryl had practically taken to you like family. He hated Shane ‘Shit-for-Brains’ Walsh most days, it was true, but the fact that you were you, and times were tough, and nothing seemed to occupy Daryl’s mind quite like the thought of keeping you safe, that he had to keep you close at all times. He just hadn’t imagined your proximity would turn this intimate so suddenly.

“Keep up,” he spoke more sharply than usual. Didn’t even wait for you to dry and dress completely before snagging your hand in his.

You glanced at your taut, hardened nipples poking up through the damp material of your tank top and suddenly wished you’d brought a towel. Or a bra. Your shorts, too, clung to your ass like a second skin and made you feel extra bare before Daryl’s eyes—even if he hadn’t spared a look at you once as you’d traipsed behind him through the woods.

When you tripped, he held you up; when you nearly ate shit over several rocky spots, he carried you over them. His eyes never strayed toward your body, though.

Once you’d made it to the clearing where your group had made camp, Daryl lowered you to the ground and still couldn’t find it within himself to look your way. You shuffled uncomfortably on your feet, now standing inches away from the tent you shared with Shane.

“Thanks for...that,” you said, flatly.

Daryl managed a curt nod.

Before you turned in, you decided to venture a look at Daryl’s chest, and you felt an influx of embarrassment. The taupe-colored cutoff he wore as a shirt was soaked with water. Instinctively, you brushed your fingers over the stain—as if touching it might dry the fabric, or else mask your humiliation at being the cause. You tried not to evince a hint of surprise at how sturdy he felt.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Daryl.”

You hadn’t thought any man was capable of looking more afflicted than Daryl did before, but somehow, incredibly, he appeared even more ill at ease when you touched him. You immediately retracted your hand.

“’S’okay,” he managed. He would’ve given anything not to be where he was, or who he was, at that moment.

Just when another apology leapt to your tongue—feeling even worse that you might’ve crossed a physical boundary you shouldn’t have—a twig snapped close-by.

You and Daryl jumped in your skin. You turned toward the source of the sound.

Shane was tugging his pants into place, pulling the zip up in haphazard fashion as he marched out of the woods.

He’d either been blowing Lori’s back out (again) or off to take a piss in the bushes. By the looks of his dazed and drowsy expression, you guessed it was the latter.

“Got a nice rack, doesn’t she?” Shane observed, careless as ever.

He walked past the two of you and unzipped the tent.

“I was jus—” Daryl started.

“Don’t care,” Shane cut in, “Goodnight.”

You were amazed at the level of nonchalance your fiancé exhibited. On finding you soaked to the bone and touching another man in the middle of the night, the old Shane probably would’ve laid Daryl flat on his ass.

But overprotective, possessive Shane was no more.

Before disappearing into the tent, Shane reached for your elbow. You barely got another glimpse at Daryl as you were ushered inside.

The tent was re-zipped in an instant, and you assumed Daryl would be quick to leave the scene, too.

You turned and saw Shane fumbling to unscrew the lid of his canteen. Taking several big gulps before re-fastening the top, tossing the jug to the side, and letting out a sigh.

“You get a look at the hard-on he had?” Shane chuckled.

You almost choked on your spit.

“What?”

“Pitched a tent in his pants bigger’n this,” he returned, gesturing to the polyester enclosure overhead. Then he got back to his feet, walked over to you, and kept going, in spite of your perplexed expression, “He must really wanna fuck you.”

You blinked up at him, unsure if you were more baffled by Shane’s serene demeanor or the fact that you hadn’t noticed Daryl’s boner. You decided to overlook the erection for the time being.

“And you don’t...care if he did?” Instantly chiding yourself for the twinge of indignation in your tone.

“Nuh-uh,” Shane said. His hands came to rest comfortably on your hips, and he seemed to be hearing your words without really comprehending what you meant. As usual.

If he picked up on the irritation in your voice, he didn’t show it. He just rolled the denim of your shorts between his fingers and pulled you closer.

“This,” he hummed, fingers sinking between your legs, “is not for him.”

And Shane was community dick. Made sense.

You didn’t attempt to conceal your annoyance this time as you rolled your eyes and pushed his hands away.

“Well maybe if Daryl asked nicely…” you trailed off, starting toward the bed.

Shane stopped you before you could. He took a firmer hold of your sides and showed the first real hint of jealousy in his eyes. You were almost glad to see it.

“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. Then, snaking his touch back down your legs—with the fabric of your shorts fisted in his hands this time—he continued amidst your quiet protests.

You were gripping his wrists, trying to keep them from moving any further. But Shane was insistent.

“He wouldn’t get to ask nicely, because I’d blow his fucking brains out before he ever got the—”

“Shane.” You were actively shoving his hands off now. You didn’t mind this envious side coming back to the surface, but you would not, under any circumstance, be Shane’s sloppy seconds the same hour he’d fucked Lori.

“No. You— you smell like—” you cut yourself off before the woman’s name could leave your lips.

“Like what?” Shane snapped. Suddenly intrigued to hear what you had to say.

You tried to wriggle out of his grip, but when you couldn’t, and when he pressed you again, you sputtered some nonsense about his drinking—how he reeked of booze, not Rick’s wife.

“Thought you liked it when I fucked you drunk,” Shane grinned, voice dripping with condescension, “Said it gave me stamina.”

You’d said no such thing. You groaned lightly as Shane managed to pull your panties and shorts, together, to your ankles. When he started to take them off at your feet, he hardly seemed to notice your nails dig in his shoulders, silently begging him to stop.

“Think I should invite Daryl back over? Let him watch me fuck you stupid?” Shane’s mouth was hovering close to your center, hot breaths fanning over your lower half.

In any other situation, you would’ve craved him here: on his knees, ready to suck and lick and dick you down like he always used to do. But things were different now, you had to remind yourself. Apart from the walking dead invading your world, there was no Rick in the picture, no semblance of platonic feelings between his widow and your fiancé—you felt physically sick at the thought of Shane touching you now. You tried to stand the instant he threw you on the bed.

“Shane, I don’t wanna—”

“Fuck? Yeah, I figured,” Shane shrugged as he tried to peel your shirt off your body.

“Then quit,” you hissed. You were starting to fear the fabric might tear if you held on any tighter.

When it seemed evident you weren’t going to give in on the top, Shane let go and turned to his pants instead. Pinning you down with one hand, he unbuckled his belt as you whimpered and pleaded that he stop. The sounds only made the mound in his pants more pronounced.

The two of you had dabbled in CNC before, but this was not that. No safeword, no fallback, no trace of consent between you, and to be frank, you were starting to get scared. The second Shane freed his cock from his boxers, you felt a surge of panic rise to your chest.

“Fuck— STOP!” Without thinking, you jerked your knee.

You hadn’t meant to hit his balls so hard. But you did. And he folded in half, seizing with pain, while you took that as your chance to slide off the bed, slip on your panties—and hightail it the fuck out of there.

Shane’s cries pierced the night air like a blade through rotted flesh. You stumbled, half-blind in the dark, and blazed a reckless path through the tents all around you. Weaving in and out of neighboring spaces, searching desperately for any lone, dim glow of a lantern to tell you someone was awake to hear your pleas if needed. But sadly, no tent was alight but yours, and the entrance to that was presently being torn open once more as Shane staggered out there himself.

“Y/N!” he bellowed.

In your haste, you’d tripped over Glenn’s knapsack. You scraped your knee, scrambled back to your feet, and tried with everything in you not to make a sound as you retreated further from Shane’s voice.

You probably looked feral, weaving in and out of tents with your knee leaking blood and your pupils grown wide with fear. You scampered fast across the rocky campgrounds and made a beeline for the woods.

Until Shane’s footsteps fell heavy mere feet away.

Quickly changing course, you dove for the nearest tent and ripped it open. When you slipped inside, zipped it up, and went crab-walking backward like a panic-stricken animal, you hardly saw much of anything else.

Had your pulse not been pounding in your ears and your gaze not glued to the front of the tent, you likely would’ve gotten a pretty good laugh at the sight behind you.

At the very least, a chuckle or a smile or a slightly sheepish blush would’ve been supplied in a second, seeing someone wide-eyed and holding his cock in a death grip just inches from your rear.

You’d unwittingly scrambled into the tent of a man who’d just been beating his dick off furiously to the thought of you—and there you were, sitting pretty in pure, unadulterated fear for the sight of your fiancé any second now. When you turned your head, your hand flew to your mouth.

“Dar— oh!”

Like before, your heads snapped in the direction of a new sound, quick to sense that it was Shane, and this time, you went crawling over to the archer without a second thought. Hardly noticing his pants were down, you leapt into his lap.

“Y/N—” Shane hissed as he tripped over something outside. You heard a clatter and a bang, the sound of a few curse words sputtered in vain, and a groan. Daryl’s arms snaked around your sides and pulled you closer.

“What’ve ya gone and done this time?” he whispered.

“Told him no,” you murmured back.

You pretended not to feel the singe of Daryl’s gaze boring straight through the side of your head. Then a little lower, to your near-bare lower half and shaking legs. It didn’t take long for him to piece together what had happened.

“Y/N,” Daryl started, far louder than you could bear. You shushed him swiftly, ignoring the flare of anger in his eyes that told you he was currently conjuring up fifty different ways to kill Shane and just aching to act on it.

“Don’t. Please,” you said.

“Did he—”

“No. I...kneed him in the balls before he got the chance.”

“Oh.”

Shane was pacing outside, like he knew you were somewhere close. He called your name every now and then, drew near enough to send you rigid with fear. Then Daryl would hold you tight, stroke your hair, or else just graze his lips on your shoulder to let you know he was there, and eventually, the fright would subside. You nestled yourself into that touch and felt something far kinder than fear for the first time in a long time.

You felt aroused.

Ever more inspired by the sound of Shane stewing, fuming outside within earshot and the nudge of Daryl’s member against your barely-clothed core. Well…you were tempted, to say the least. You just weren’t sure if Daryl would be on board for being your lightning-quick rebound fuck of the night.

You sighed as his hips moved gently against your own.

“You think maybe—” you started.

“Yeah?”

“—you might…tell me what you were doing before I barged in here?”

Even in the dark, you could sense a blush creeping up his neck. You loved to see a man like Daryl flustered.

“Oh, uh, that?” he said in half a chuckle. Glancing down at his groin and going back and forth between two thoughts in his mind, most likely. Tell you the truth or come up with a half-assed lie on the spot.

“Just…jerking off to you.”

He never had been any good at a bluff.

Your face visibly brightened in the dim glow of the tent. You tried not to let your elation get too far ahead of you, though, lest your voice raise above a whisper and draw Shane’s attention.

“Yeah? What about?”

Daryl never thought it possible for a woman’s enthusiasm in a question to turn him on, but yours did. He looked to your lips and swallowed, suddenly at a loss for how to answer.

“I…well…”

“You’re fucking dead to me, Y/N. If you don’t—”

Your fiancé’s voice was as close, and as terrifying, as it had ever been. You eased Daryl onto his back.

“Were you thinking of this?” you teased.

You made that soft semi-circular motion with your hips and watched a brand new face contort with pleasure. The footsteps outside hardly registered in your mind any longer, as your attention was singly focused on Daryl.

He fought a groan in his throat as you grazed your slick heat over his length.

You coated him with your arousal quicker than even you had expected. You knew you were turned on, but never had it been like that, where you were damn near dripping sweet nectar all over a man’s cock. You let a little whine leave your lips.

You couldn’t help it; your cunt rocked back and forth over Daryl’s fat, throbbing cock and made obscene sounds as you did. The archer’s hands found your hips and gently guided you up and down as his own moans struggled to break loose.

You could’ve stayed like that forever, you figured—if you hadn’t been so fucking wet that the head of his cock slipped inside of your heat the second you and Daryl bucked your hips together. An inch was quick to stretch to seven before you could think or blink or do anything else but groan in pleasure, and suddenly, he was bottoming out inside you.

“Fuck!” Daryl hissed.

“Daryl!”

“Daryl?”

Fucking Shane, of all voices you didn’t want to hear in that moment. Fortunately, he’d heard Daryl’s voice alone and not the sound of your moan, calling his name at the same time, for entirely different reasons, it seemed.

Daryl gritted his teeth as you bounced on his cock,

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for Y/N. You seen her, brother?”

Seen you, felt you, fucked you, yeah—he had.

Daryl closed his eyes and tried not to blow his load on the spot as you squeezed around him.

“No— no, I haven’t. Not since earlier,” he grunted.

“You sure?” Shane pressed, dissatisfied, “I heard her running around this way.”

You braced your knees against the ground and rode the man beneath you even harder, taking every ounce of resentment you felt toward Shane out on Daryl’s cock. Fuck if revenge sex didn’t feel nice when the object of your ire was standing right outside the tent.

You almost wanted to moan, wanted to whimper, but were quick to think better of it the longer you spent moving up and down his length. Seeing shades of lust in his eyes like never before, you just couldn’t bear the thought of having to pry yourself off any time soon.

Daryl sank his fingers into your thighs and sighed, leaving ten perfect crescents in their wake.

“Don’t you fuckin’ stop,” he murmured.

“Could ya— could you come outside and help me look?”

‘Come the fuck on’ seemed to be the silent, shared sentiment between you and Daryl as your bodies writhed fast against each other and your highs came close into view. You braced your hands against his chest and begged him not to answer with your eyes, but you also knew Daryl couldn’t not say something to him, either.

“I…I’m sure she’s fine.” Daryl tried, weakly.

He flipped you over so you were flat on your back, hands careful not to make much noise or cause you discomfort as he did. Cock never leaving your wet, greedy hole, he found it easier than ever to resume the pace you’d made above him—now pounding you quietly into his sleeping pad.

You gripped his back and, simultaneously, bit down on his shoulder to keep from letting out a shriek when he grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you. Tried not to whine when he hit it again. And again. And again.

Shane was growing impatient. Hovered close to the front of the tent so you could see the outline of his shadow.

“You got something better to do, Dixon?” he snapped.

Yeah, fuck your fiancée, Daryl thought with a smirk. You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him even deeper.

That light, airy feeling preceding ecstasy was close at hand. You wanted to give in—let the levee break and just relish the sweet sensation quick to follow—but you knew you couldn’t. Knew yourself too well to be a screamer not to hold on a little longer, until Shane had left.

But the way Daryl’s cock was pumping in and out of you at present made it hard, to say the least.

“Just…tired, ‘s’all,” Daryl groaned close to your ear.

“Tired from what?!” Shane jeered, “Wrist been hurtin’ from how hard you’ve been jerkin’ it to Y/N, huh?”

You almost burst out laughing. Daryl quickly cupped your mouth. Fucked you harder to shut you up.

And shut up you did; but not for long, you feared. The faster he pounded you, the more that coil in your stomach came to swell, and soon enough you might—

“Eat shit, Walsh.”

“Just help me out. Please.”

Daryl shook his head and fucked you harder, much to your chagrin. You didn’t want him to stop, but you needed him to, in truth, or that swollen thing inside of you just might get the better of you and burst. You pressed your hands to his chest and tried to whimper something softly, but Daryl just hushed you with his hand to your mouth and kept on at that breakneck pace. Your eyes rolled back, your legs started to shake, and if Daryl hadn’t had to tear his attention away to say something to Shane, he might have seen how close you were to blowing your cover…before it was too late.

With one more stroke inside your wet, sensitive hole, you felt a cord inside you snap and a flurry of wild, unbridled bliss take over, stronger than you’d felt in ages.

A shriek desperate to escape your throat, your teeth raked down Daryl’s flesh with the force of it, and, instinctively, the man yanked his hand away and yelped.

You hated to do it, but the feeling was just too good. Your lips parted to release one of the most lewd and obscene sex screams of your life—with Daryl’s name following over and over as you came.

Daryl’s eyes grew to half the size of his face, it seemed. Stilling inside you, feeling your sweet, hot juices flow down him in waves, he sat there and couldn’t quite decide if he was more turned on or terrified.

He’s pissed, you can tell. Not at you particularly, and, in fact, you’re the only thing that’s keeping the bubbling anger at the bottom of his stomach just that–still there but simmerming low enough to keep his head more often than not. These people, with their dinner parties and their haircuts and their leaving the tower empty, should be lucky you’re here. Glad that Rick has the opportunity to channel his dissatisfaction into this eye-rolling, ferocious stroke. Reserved only for you and the way your ass looks when it smacks back into him.

“They got not fuckin’ idea what they’re doin’ here, do they?” Rick growls the question quietly, not bothering to listen for an answer. He gets like this when he fucks you sometimes… growly and babbling with no filter, under a pussy induced trance. (His pussy Rick had declared one day.) “Deceivin’ themselves into thinkin’ they’re safe when they can’t even man their walls. But not you, though–nah, you get it. You get me, you help me… keep me sane ‘n warm. Make sure the group feels loved and secure, keepin’ us together. Keepin’ me together…”

Rick is panting, and you’re weeping out noises into his hand now; at his words and the slick gathering along his girth. Moving his other hand from your back, Rick wraps his arm around your front and forces you upwards. Groaning at the new angle, he quickens his pace with an exactness that weakens your knees. Desperate huffs of air peppering out of him, the man fucks you with a fervor that forewarns you to how close he’s getting. How badly he needs you to cream your mess while he’s stuffed inside you like this.

God, he’s huge. Rubbing against your walls with veins that track his entire length. Thick head stretching and punching you a total of four more times before he has to cover your mouth again, vacuuming your wails into his rough palm. He has to bite his tongue a few seconds after, the squeezing and gushing of your hole enough to milk out the thick, filling ropes of his cum. Rick grunts his way through it, cock pulsing hard enough to force his mouth open with unsteady groans. He gives you one last solid thrust before letting himself stay tucked inside your drooling heat.

“God,” Rick breathes, bending to bury his face inside your neck. He’ll explain the blood that rubs off onto your skin to whoever questions it with ease. Walkers. She handled it, though. Just like always. Shaking his head, he laughs a little. A bit calmer now that he’s fucked out his indignations. You’ve eased his troubles, just by being you. “Pussy like this doesn’t make much sense, darlin’.”

You let the quiet stand as your answer, Rick patting your side tenderly before easing out his softening cock.

Neither of you say very much as you regain your breaths. Rick pulls up your panties and cargos. You button and zip his jeans, the man barely letting you finish the action before reaching to cup your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks and he stares at you hard. Not blinking and watching you scan the mess of his face.

“Better?” You finally question, soft and already-knowing. Rick puffs a laugh, lips quirking with a half-smile. Sniffing, he nods… and then nods again because he’s completely certain of his answer.

“Mm-hmm… always am with you,” he eases out. “Didn’t rock ya too hard, did I?”

“Might need to hold your arm for the walk back,” you tease, pulling a wide grin from Rick. “But I think I’ll live.”

“Yeeeah, you better,” he drawls, moving to peck your lips. When you dodge the kiss, Rick pouts into a fake frown. “What, you don’t like me, now?”

A chuckle shakes his chest when you shove him away with a drunk grin. “You’re filthy.”

“You never cared ‘bout that before.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, turning and starting a half-hidden limp in the direction of the commune. “Changed my mind. Don’t like you.”

Rick takes two quick strides to meet your pitiful pace, swatting his hand right onto your ass, and smirking at the squeal you let out. You're nudged into his side, arm automatically looping with his as you keep walking. Keeping you close. Tight.

“Hm. Pussy says otherwise, sugar...”

Then, Rick's truck broke down. Dead battery. Daryl set out looking for one with enough juice to get you home when the first signs of a storm rolled in. Angry dark clouds and cold fat raindrops.

The only place nearby in walking distance was down a long gravel road. It was the smallest, but also the cutest, cabin you'd ever laid eyes on. It only had three rooms, one bedroom with a bathroom, and a large open living area that held a tiny kitchen and a couch with a fireplace.

“Get those windows boarded up.”

Rick was quick to spew out commands after the three of you busted through the front door, all wet and shivering. The wind was so strong it slammed the door closed behind you, blowing the curtains and causing stray paper to fly off their tables.

“Can't!” Daryl shouted. He stood behind you shielding his face from the rain shooting through the broken windows.

That's how you ended up in the bedroom. You sat shivering on the foot of the bed as Rick went through the dresser, looking for clothes to replace the soaking fabric you all wore.

Daryl slid the bedroom vanity in front of the door. He even went as far as to set the armchair on top of it.

“Can we just wait it out?” Your teeth clattered together as Rick tossed you a towel from the closet. You ruffled it in your hair and watched Daryl.

He was standing in front of the only window in the room, his arms crossed and his thumbnail between his teeth.

“Yeah, should ease up soon.” Rick sat on the bed opposite from you, drying his arms and hair with his own towel.

“Naw.” Daryl muttered. He finally turned away from the window and began drying himself. “Gonna be a few hours, at least.”

You furrowed your brows, looking down in your lap. This was quite the predicament. Stuck in a bedroom with two men, one you barely knew and were pretty sure hated you.

The other… Well, you weren't sure what Rick was to you.

Daryl wasn't right, but he wasn't wrong either. The storm did continue for a few hours, but it also didn't show any signs of stopping.

You glanced down at your watch and felt your heart drop. It was seven pm, and the sun would be setting very soon. Not that you could see much outside anyways, the clouds were thick and covered a majority of the sky.

Your voice broke the long streak of silence.

“Are we gonna have to stay here tonight?”

Rick and Daryl had known the answer to that question two hours prior. Neither of them wanted to be the ones to say it, but their lack of direct answers filled you in enough. Rick looked down at his revolver and Daryl continued staring out the window.

“Fuck.” You groaned, sitting back down on the bed. “I promised Maggie we'd watch season two of True Blood tonight.”

“That dog fucker show?” Daryl muttered around his cigarette. He was leaning against the wall next to the window, legs crossed at the ankles, cleaning under his nails with the blade of his knife.

“No Daryl, there's no dog fucking.” You sighed and he just mumbled in response, not looking up from his fingers.

Rick had made himself busy trying to prepare the room for the night.

He'd found a few hurricane lanterns and set two up on the bedside tables, and began anxiously ‘cleaning’. The room only had the bed, dresser, and bedside tables, so there wasn't much he could do besides look in the same drawers over and over.

At some point he went into the small bathroom and shut the door. He stayed there for a couple minutes, doing god knows what.

There were a few clothing items left by the previous owners. Daryl and Rick got some raggedy sweatpants, shirts full of holes that were a little too small for them. You were stuck with a massive piss yellow sweater and the ugliest pair of basketball shorts.

Anything was better than your soaking rags.

The storm had eased up a bit, but that didn't do much in terms of easing your boredom. The sun had long since set, your watch read ten-thirty, and neither man was very talkative.

“I'll take first watch.” Daryl was the first to speak in a while.

“No. I'll do it.” Rick protested. He'd been cleaning his revolver for the last thirty minutes. “I can't sleep anyway.”

“Yeah, well. Neither can I.”

You'd found a box of random items under the bed and had been looking through them while they bickered. A dead Gameboy, random PlayStation controllers, a few comic books, pieces to Monopoly, and an array of broken crayons. There was a pen and a notepad though, so you started drawing a caricature of Daryl.

Angry eyebrows, a cigarette that was half his height in his frowning mouth, and a speech bubble filled with hash tags for explicatives.

“Hey.” You nudged Rick's knee with your elbow. He sat on the bed above where you were, cross-legged on the floor next to your box of bullshit.

He looked down at the paper you showed him, and for the first time that day you saw his lips twitching up into a smirk. His eyes trailed over the paper and he grabbed it from you, bringing it up closer to his face.

“Is that Daryl?” He questioned, and you nodded, a grin splitting across your face.

“That's good.” Rick nodded, shrugging his mouth. “You got a real talent. Looks just like him.”

Daryl was too bored to hide his interest, so he stood from his spot under the bedroom window and walked over to you. He grabbed the notepad from Rick, and you could see his eyes narrowing as he tried to make out your scribbles in the dim lighting.

“Yeah?” Daryl looked up when he heard the two of you stifling giggles and laughter. “Think that's funny? Gimme that.” He snatched the pen from your hands and flipped the page, sitting down on the dresser and scribbling furiously.

The pad was tossed in your lap a minute later. Your eyes widened on the drawing.

It was obviously you. You had on the same sweater, but it went down to your feet instead of your knees, and you were standing beside a cat. The only problem was, the cat was three times taller than you, and you had the ugliest expression on your face. Your mouth hung open and you were nagging the cat about scratching up the furniture. It was based on a scenario that had happened the day before, with your cat back home, Daisy, who you had caught shredding the living room couch.

“Dude, what am I? Two inches tall?” You laughed, handing the paper to Rick. He covered his mouth to hide the smile, but you saw it through his fingers and stood to give him a shove.

“Right, sorry. Drew ya too big. Hold on.” Daryl came over and drew a new stick figure of you so small that it was the size of a real ant.

“Ooookay, fuck you.”

Daryl dogged the small notepad you'd tossed at his face, and started laughing. Actually laughing. Your smile grew softer as he and Rick began to joke. It had been a while since you'd seen either of them behave in such a lighthearted manner. It made the bare bedroom seem not so cold.

Eventually the curtains were drawn and the lanterns dimmed considerably. You'd claimed the only spot on the bed that wasn't lumpy or sunken, which just so happened to be the middle.

No other reason, promise.

For the sake of his joints, Daryl had given up trying to sit on the hard floor and joined you on the bed, claiming the side closest to the window. He'd made sure to put distance between you, so much so that he was nearly hanging off the edge.

Rick had a little more resolve than the other man and stood by the window for a bit, occasionally peeking out the heavy curtains to see the same amount of darkness as before.

“Thank god you showered this morning.” Rick grunted as he sat down on your left, knocking his boots together before he brought his legs up on the bed.

“Me?” You blurted immediately, already feeling the tiniest but of anxiety, Rick never teased you like that. He saved that for the men.

He gave a toothy grin and shook his head. “No. Him.” He pointed over your body to Daryl, who was smoking his third cigarette of the night. “Carol made him take his monthly shower after he came home covered in coyote blood.”

You giggled, glancing over at Daryl.

“Yeah. Laugh it up.” Daryl took a deep drag.

You kicked off your shoes and sat upright, taking off those god awful shorts while the two men continued to playfully insult each other.

Rick caught himself going quiet when he saw you pulling the shorts down your thighs, his mouth drying at the sight. Daryl quickly shot him a look, dragging his attention away from your now bare legs and back onto him.

You didn't notice a thing, but you wished you had. Maybe you'd have started grinding against him earlier that night.

You were the first to fall asleep, to no one's surprise. There were little things that you loved more in life than sleeping.

Curled up underneath the sheets that you'd checked twenty times for bugs, sleep came quick and easy for you.

The sweater you were wearing had become incredibly uncomfortable so you swapped it for Rick's hole ridden T-shirt, leaving him shirtless. The image of his bare chest and the muscles in his back almost gave you enough adrenaline to stay up the entire night, but Daryl's soft breathing and Rick's body heat beside you tugged you unconscious.

Rick was next to give in, he'd kicked his boots off and climbed under the sheets with you, not before sliding a pillow between your bodies, more for your consideration than his modesty. He didn't give a shit, but he was worried you might.

Daryl was last, and by complete accident. He'd meant to take the first watch but the sounds of rain on the roof, gentle thunder outside, and your soft breathing beside him had him out like a light.

Two hours went by before something woke Rick up. The feeling of pressure against his crotch.

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times in a struggle to see, but the room was too dark to immediately recognize his surroundings.

Once he remembered where he was he relaxed. He closed his eyes again and almost fell back to sleep when he felt it.

A gentle nudge of something soft and plush against him, something that made him well aware of the situation in his sweatpants. He was painfully erect.

His eyes opened again, but the room was no easier to see in. He could still hear the sounds of quiet rain and wind, and the new sound of Daryl's soft snoring.

Then you whimpered.

It was quiet, barely audible, and whiny. You were squirming in your sleep, the pillow between the two of you now between your knees, separating them to prevent the annoying feeling of bone on bone.

Your ass moved back against him again. He pulled his hips back, his dick immediately complaining about the loss of contact with a slight twitch. He clenched his teeth together and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep.

Think about cold showers. You're taking a cold shower, he thought, taking deep breaths. Cold cold shower. She's in a cold shower--- raw potatoes, grub worms, rotten walker flesh, her flesh, her ass is only a few inches away, snug in those cute boyshort underwear-

Daryl let out a sudden louder snort, startling Rick out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped open, only closing once he heard the earlier gentle snores return.

Your movements stilled and he was able to sleep once again, not without an iron will mindset.

You weren't sure how long you'd been sleeping when you woke up. You checked your watch, seeing the green glowing hands pointed at the twelve and nine.

It was only twelve forty-five.

You sighed.

The room had grown colder as the night went on, cold air seeping through the thin cracks in the walls and floorboards.

As a result of said colder temperature, Daryl had moved closer to you, be that in his sleep or on purpose, you didn't know. All you knew was he was there on your right side, his bicep warm and pressed against your upper chest.

Rick had also moved closer. So close, in fact, that his hand was on your waist, resting there like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. Your heart sped up when you realized this, and when he pulled you closer in his sleep you almost gasped.

He was hard.

Like, really hard.

You could feel it behind his sweatpants pressed right into your ass. His breathing was slow and deep, letting you know that he was definitely asleep, not that the knowledge did much to stop the arousal filling your chest.

You couldn't stop the whimper that sounded deep in your throat. Daryl's snoring covered it, or you thought it did. Rick stirred behind you and you heard the sound of him sniffing sleepily.

He had to be awake, you were sure of it. His breathing had become quiet, much different than the sounds of someone who was deep in sleep. He made no move to pull his hand away from your hip, confusing you even further.

Maybe he wasn't awake.

A lightbulb went off. You wiggled your hips, very slightly, only a few millimeters side to side. It was enough to gain a reaction from him, which let you know that he was definitely awake.

Rick's grip tightened on your hip.

Then he pushed into you.

There was nothing you could've done to prepare yourself for that kind of response. You sucked in a breath and felt your pussy throb. It was such a faint and quick movement, but you could vividly feel the shape of his dick pressing against your ass.

You heard movement behind you, the sound of his stubble scraping across his pillow as he moved his lips to your ear, speaking barely above a whisper.

“Stay still.”

Your eyes flicked to Daryls face.

You could barely see the outline of his head illuminated in moonlight thanks to the parting clouds. His nose pointed up at the ceiling, his lips parted as he breathed.

A wave of heat traveled through your body, starting in your chest and shooting down to your core. You felt that flipping sensation in your lower stomach and you whimpered again, rubbing your thighs together.

Rick inhaled deeply through his nose at the action. His hand shifted upwards, moving over your hip and splaying over the curve of your waist. He could feel you pressed against him, even if you weren't moving, and it made him groan faintly.

The sound of him groaning sent another spark through your core. You couldn't help it, you arched your back just enough to feel friction. You were too weak willed.

“Sweetheart.” He breathed, his forehead resting against the back of your hair to try and steady himself. “You gotta stop, please.”

He hated how desperate and wrecked the whispered words came from his lips. Hated how his dick was aching in his boxer briefs.

Hated how he was just as weak willed as you, his hips moving forward in a way that betrayed his words and stomped them in the mud.

You couldn't understand why you were so unbearably aroused. You weren't a teenager going through puberty. You've had partners.

Sure, you had a little admiration-fueled crush on the two men, but the way your body was behaving was animalistic. Your heart felt like it was going to burst through your chest and your pussy was soaked.

If only you had your vibrator that was back in Alexandria, you'd orgasm in five seconds, you knew that for a fucking fact.

Daryl muttered a nonsensical sentence in his sleep, his head lolling over in the direction of the window. His right arm rose to lay over his chest, and his left leg spread out in your direction.

His knee bumped against the top of your thighs, almost slipping between them.

You could've screamed.

You tried to stay still, really, you did. But the feeling of Rick pushing against you again, Daryl's knee nudging between your thighs, it was impossible. You moved your hips, intending on just pushing back against Rick but your action also succeeded in grinding down right on Daryl's knee.

Rick could feel resistance in your movement but his mind couldn't focus on anything but the feel of your plush ass pressing against his dick.

His blood ran cold at the sound of Daryl mumbling in his sleep again. He held his breath, waiting with baited breath to see if he'd stir awake.

Relief flooded his body after a moment of silence, and he pressed his face back into your hair. There was still a faint smell of shampoo or conditioner despite the earlier rain. The feminine smell made his dick twitch and he flexed his jaw.

You were caught between excitement and horror. Daryl's knee was wedged right between your thighs, and occasionally it would jerk up against you. Each time it would make you fight away a gasp, and make your clit throb.

Daryl was definitely asleep, right? If he woke up he'd roll over on his side, right? There was no way he was awake, pushing his knee right up against your pussy, right?

You reached down to grab Rick's hand, which was still resting against your waist, gripping onto his fingers for support. His fingers curled around your own and sent butterflies in your stomach at the feeling of comfort.

He hated himself for all of it, but in the moment, he felt like he didn't care. His hips rocked against yours, once, twice, the need to get relief clouding all judgment he was capable of having.

You couldn't help yourself either. Your eyes fluttered shut and you rolled your hips, soft and slow, against Rick's bulge and Daryl's knee. You'd tried several times to push it away, wiggle back further into Rick, but it was like there was a goddamn super magnet attached to your clit and his knee cap.

You bit down hard against your lip, trying to keep your voice from escaping. Everything felt so good, Rick dry humping his heart out, your clit buzzing, it all felt so overwhelmingly amazing that you hadn't even noticed Daryl's snoring was no longer present.

In the end, it wasn't enough, Rick was being too cautious. You needed more, just a little bit. You pushed back hard against him and heard his breath hitch in his throat. His hand gripped yours so tight it almost hurt, and he leaned into your ear.

“Movin’ too much. Stop.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. You shook your head, your lip trembling between your teeth.

“Can't.” You breathed. You physically couldn't stop, you knew that and Rick knew that. You were both so close to relief, you'd already gotten this far, there was no point in stopping now. No going back.

Rick swallowed hard as he felt his resolve break at the way you and your body pleaded. It was all he needed. His hips moved a bit faster, a bit rougher. His hand left yours and grabbed the string of his sweatpants, fingertips pinching the ends, hesitating only for a second before he pulled.

Time seemed to literally freeze when you felt him digging his cock out behind you. Your heart stopped, your breathing stopped, and so did the grinding of your pelvis. You couldn't think. It was suddenly all too very real.

You didn't expect Rick to do something like this. The dry humping, sure. He was horny and it wasn't really that big of a deal. But this? Tugging down your underwear? Spitting on his hand and stroking his dick to get it wet for you? It felt like a dream and way too terrifying at the same time.

“Sweetheart…” His hot breath against your ear snapped you back to reality. “You… you gotta be quiet, okay? Promise?”

You'd never nodded so quickly and eagerly in your life. Your heart felt like it was literally up in your throat. The tight knot in your core became more and more taut, and it trembled when you felt the hot tip of his wet dick bump between your folds.

Rick nearly came when he felt how wet you were. It was mind blowing, you were fucking soaked. The hot lube was covering your pussy and trailing down the side of your ass, reaching his hip bone.

You inhaled deeply when you felt him start to push in. You'd think with how wet you were it would be easy, but your muscles were wound tight due to the nearly paralyzing fear of possibly waking Daryl.

There was a bit of self disgust when you felt the weight of reality sinking in. The absolute pathetic degeneracy of what you were doing with Daryl right next to you.

That self disgust faded when Rick pushed into you.

Rick swallowed a groan as his cock dug up into you, your walls hot and soft and squeezing the life out of him. He could feel how nervous you were so he slipped an arm over your side, his hand reaching for your own again.

You moaned.

His hand broke from your grip and clamped over your mouth. Neither of you moved for a solid minute.

It was the longest minute in history. You could feel his dick twitching inside of you, your clit throbbing so hard you thought it was going to have its own little heart attack.

Your thighs absentmindedly squeezed against Daryl's knee, and you were sure you'd start crying.

Finally, Rick began moving. His breathing was growing heavy behind your head, his face burying back into the mess of hair in front of him.

His movements were slow at first. Tantalizingly slow. He waited until he was sure you could stay quiet before picking up the pace.

Your eyes had adjusted a fair amount in the darkness. You looked up to Daryl, finding comfort when you saw his eyes were still closed, but he'd stopped snoring long ago.

You dismissed it and grabbed onto the wrist of the hand covering your mouth, gripping tight for support.

Your right hand slipped under the sheets to rest on your thigh, but instead landed on Daryl's lower thigh. He must've been a very heavy sleeper, because he didn't react to it beyond the muscles tensing under your palm.

The sound that escaped Rick's lips had your eyes rolling back into your head. A trembling whimper. His movements grew quicker and deeper, his dick dragging your walls against him, pulling out every drop of arousal he could and thrusting it back in.

Your mind spun as all thoughts left your brain. There was nothing going on up there anymore, just dark blackness, the feeling of Rick fucking you taking over your conscious body.

His hand grabbed yours, the one on Daryl's knee, and pulled it away from you, to the right.

When your fingers brushed up against something warm and soft, you didn't question it. You didn't even question his fingers moving yours to wrap around his dick.

Your eyes shot open.

Rick's dick was still inside you. His right hand was still on your mouth, his left on the small of your back.

Daryl's eyes were open, and looking right into yours.

You went to jerk your hand away out of reflex, but his grip was tight, forcing your fingers to stay wrapped around his thick cock. Your eyes flew over him, fighting to understand what was happening, when had he woken up? Just then? Or was he awake when he pushed his knee between your thighs?

The orgasm that came out of nowhere pushed all those questions aside.

You moaned against Rick's hand as you came, no longer trying to be quiet, no longer trying to keep your hips still. Your thighs clamped down on Daryl's knee, grinding rough and quick.

Much to Rick's absolute heart-stopping horror.

He tried to muffle your moans, forcing his hand down painfully hard on your mouth, but it did little. He bared his teeth near your ear and hissed for you to stop, the sound sharp and jarring as it came through his clenched teeth, but then his eyes landed on the scene over your body.

Daryl using your hand to stroke his dick. Daryl with his other arm bent behind his head, his face tilted to the side to watch your expressions with parted lips.

It took Rick a few seconds to recover from the near heart attack. He almost lost his boner from the heart dropping adrenaline, but your wet walls spasming around him coaxed his hips forward.

Now that you didn't need to be quiet you pulled Rick's hand off your mouth and gasped down a lungful of air. Your mouth was hot and dry, and it was hard to swallow.

You couldn't take your eyes off Daryl, his eyes, the eyes that hadn't left your face since he woke up.

God, he was unbelievably sexy. The way he was so responsive to your touch led you to believe your hand might possibly be the first hand to touch his dick other than his own.

He grunted softly, his eyes finally falling shut after you gently squeezed the base of his dick. You'd be content to get him off with one hand like you had been for the past few minutes, but you couldn't resist the urge to give him his first hand job and blowjob.

“Up.” You panted. You curled your finger at Daryl, pointing up. He happily obliged and sat upright, scooting up towards the headboard until his lap was right in front of your face.

He seemed absolutely thrilled, ecstatic even. His once heavy eyes were now wide open, watching every move you made as you shifted your upper half so your mouth could reach his dick.

Rick was still thrusting with hesitation when you moved. He watched you lick broad stripes on the underside of Daryl's dick, and he couldn't help but glance at his face to see his reaction.

Mouth hanging open, eyes clenched tightly shut, his expression almost looked pained. His hands had found their way to your hair, gripping two handfuls as he began trying to move your head for you.

You slapped his hands away and grabbed his wrists, an action that had his eyes opening and looking down at you.

“Don't.” Your hot breath tickled the sensitive skin of his tip. He pinched both his lips shut between his teeth, nodding quickly, a shaky closed-lip moan rattling in his throat.

Rick finally got ahold of himself and grabbed your hips to turn your lower half on your stomach. He kept his dick inside you as he slid on top of you, his knees spreading to rest on either side of your thighs.

You were taking Daryl's head past your lips when Rick suddenly fucked you like he'd been wanting to the entire time. Both his hands rested on the small of your back, pushing your hips down into the mattress with all his weight to keep them firmly in place.

You gasped around Daryl at the feeling of Rick pounding into you from above. It was a comically drastic change from only five minutes before when he thought Daryl was asleep.

Daryl's wrists flexed in your hands where you had them pressed against his lower stomach. You knew he was only keeping them there in your grasp because he allowed it, and not because you were somehow strong enough to keep even a single wrist of his in your fist, let alone two.

It took a lot of effort on Rick's part to actually finish. Having Daryl in the room when you fucked was one thing, but having him making all that noise just from your mouth was another.

He was honestly more surprised that Daryl actually enjoyed sex acts than the fact he was engaging in them with him in the room. With no one other than you, a girl he almost never saw him interact with.

Rick had assumed Daryl simply wasn't interested. Incorrectly assumed.

Either way, having Daryl only a few feet away from him while he had his dick inside you was something he wasn't sure he enjoyed. But the way you clenched around him every time he pulled back was enough to make him forget about it.

Daryl was struggling to keep himself together. He had no point of reference, but he thought you were incredibly talented at giving head. You were giving it your all, sucking and licking like your life depended on it. It was impressive how well you were managing to concentrate on blowing him with Rick making such a mess of your pussy.

You couldn't be happier. You knew there were so many women back in Alexandria that would kill to be in your position, lying in front of the Daryl Dixon, lying under the Rick Grimes, both of their dicks inside you.

“Wa-wait.” Daryl suddenly sputtered and ripped his wrists from your hands to cup the sides of your face, giving a few gentle slaps with the tips of his fingers.

You looked up, not taking your mouth off of him. His expression made your pussy clench around Rick and he groaned behind you, the sound raw and deep. He shifted his hips and ground down against you, quick and rough, his tip jabbing deep inside you.

The ragged moan you let out reverberated through Daryl, and the hand you had around his base gave a trembling squeeze.

“M’boutta, Jesus! Hey, oh, godfuckindamnit-” Daryl's jaw dropped and his eyes rolled back, his head tipping backwards as he made that same pained expression and came down your throat.

Your hips were roughly jerked up from the bed, shoving you back on Rick's dick, and then his hands slipped under your armpits to pull up your top half.

It was hard to stay upright, but thankfully Rick was generous enough to provide you the luxury of his hands tight against your tits, keeping your back flush against his chest.

Oh, it was a goddamn shame Daryl had just come. The sight in front of him was something he knew millions would pay- no, kill- to see. You looked breathtaking. Rick had taken your shirt off some time ago, leaving you completely bare as you kneeled in front of Daryl.

He forgot to breathe as he watched your face, slack in pleasure. You were struggling to keep your eyes open and on him, something that made his softening cock twitch. All that struggling just to look at someone like him? The hell did he deserve to have someone like you looking at him like that?

Rick deserved praise for the way he supported your weight with just his hands, keeping your entire upper half pressed against his chest while he fucked you in desperate effort to finally get off. His dick felt raw from how long he'd been at it, his balls throbbing from the delayed orgasm, it was a wonder he was able to keep himself upright, let alone you.

“Daryl.” The way you whimpered his name made his cock jump back to life, and he pushed himself up on his elbows to look up at you, eager to obey whatever it was you were about to ask.

“Yeah?” He rasped as he stared up at you.

You'd placed your hands over Rick's and moved his fingers over your nipples, which he was pinching and rolling, something he understood without you even needing to ask.

“Touch me, please.”

You didn't need to ask twice. Daryl inched down the bed and kept himself propped up on one elbow, his other arm sliding over his chest to reach your clit.

Rick decided at that moment he definitely didn't like threesomes. Feeling you twist and hearing you moan due to Daryl's thumb rubbing against you made his chest and face hot, a childish reaction considering you and Rick were not a thing, and certainly not an exclusive thing.

He just wasn't good at sharing.

The silly jealousy led to him putting his all into pleasing you. His thrusts became slower but deeper, more forceful, knocking out a gravely groan from your throat with each one. His hands left your breasts to tangle in your hair, pulling it up into a makeshift ponytail with his fist being the hair tie.

Your skin buzzed when he pressed his face into your neck to plant sloppy kisses. He bit down and you whined, arching your back against him and tilting your head to the side to provide him better access.

Unlike Rick, Daryl didn't have a care in the world. His mind was completely blank as he stared up at you above him, oblivious to the way his thumb cramped from the constant circles he rubbed into you.

“C'mere.” You breathed, wrapping your fingers in Daryl's hair to urge him up and guide his mouth to your nipples.

Daryl's eagerness to please was one of the hottest things you'd ever witnessed. He took your right nipple in his mouth and went to town like his life depended on it.

He flexed his tongue, digging the firm and wet muscle around your bud, circling it the same way his thumb now circled your clit.

Your orgasm came screeching out of nowhere.

You cried out and gripped Daryl's head tighter, pulling his mouth firm against your breast as you came.

The feeling of your walls squeezing the life out of his cock finally brought about Rick's own climax.

He wrapped his fist around the hair bundled in his grasp and tugged your head to the side, baring your neck to his itching teeth, and clamped down as he gave a rough thrust.

You'd failed to notice that at some point Daryl had grown hard again, only noticing when he let out a ragged moan into your wet chest.

Your bleary eyes found him and caught sight of his hand quickly jerking himself. There was the flash of thick cum spurting out, long ropes coating the inside of your thighs.

“Fuck.” You slurred. Now that was the new hottest thing you'd ever seen.

Rick's teeth released their grip on your neck. He pulled back and let his head droop back as he caught his breath, his shoulders heaving with deep and ragged pants. He became aware of how uncomfortably sweaty he was. His chest and back felt soaked, and he dropped your hair to pull away from you.

You heard Rick plop down on the bed behind you, the springs creaking from his sudden weight dropping on it all at once. You were too busy admiring Daryl to pay attention to it.

There was a lazy smile on your face, your eyes half lidded and glued to his face. Even though the room was dark you were sure you could see how red his cheeks were. His lips were glossy and parted as he took in deep breaths, still wet from drooling all over your tits.

He could barely keep his eyes open, and with the way you had one hand cupping his face, the other brushing back his sweaty hair, he wasn't sure he wanted to. The sweet way you were looking down at him was just too hard to look away from.

The next morning wasn't as awkward as one would think, even though it was obvious Rick was having some internal battle on the ethics of what he'd done the night before. He'd never been in a situation where he knew he really shouldn't be doing something like that, so his lack of restraint was new knowledge he'd have to ponder over.

Daryl couldn't give any less of a fuck, that morning he gave you the whole princess treatment. Grabbing your now dry clothes, your bag, your shoes, and bringing them to you. Offered you the last of his water and opened every door you came across for you. He didn't say much at all, much like Rick, but his mood was clearly the exact opposite.

It was so sweet it made your heart ache.

“Hey.” Rick pulled you aside after you finally got back home, shooting Daryl a look to give the two of you privacy.

“Hi.” You smiled. The stern look on his face was cute.

“What we did-”

“Don't.” You stopped him, giving the man a tired smile. “It was the sexiest thing I've ever done and I'm fine with it being a one time thing, but don't ruin it and tell me it was wrong.”

“I wasn't going to say that.” His gaze had softened, but he still looked down at you with his hands on his hips like a disappointed authority figure. “I just don't want you to think it's okay to bring up if we're all alone again.”

“I'm not stupid.” You snorted, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “Won't bring it up again.”

He sighed in frustration, trying not to roll his eyes but failing. “No, it ain't that either. Let's just- next time,” your eyes widened, “not be as spontaneous.”

You grinned. “Alright. You got it.”

Daryl was nowhere near as reserved about the experience. You could understand Rick's point of view, conservative family man, that was probably the most extreme thing he'd ever done in bed. But Daryl, oh, you'd just changed his fucking world.

“Pst.”

You stopped in front of the bathroom to see Daryl nodding you over, lighting a cigarette as he stood near the door to his room.

“Hi.” You smiled after approaching him.

“You okay?”

You beamed at the question, shifting your pile of clothes in your arms. “Yeah, I'm okay. Are you?”

He nodded as he took the first pull, turning his head to blow the smoke away from your face. “Is, uh…” He nodded his head to the front door, where Rick still stood on the porch talking to a few people. “He alright?”

“He's fine.”

“Alright. Good.” He shifted awkwardly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the cherry on his cigarette before bringing it back up to his lips. “That somethin' you wanna do again?”

You pursed your lips in an attempt to hide the ecstatic smile that threatened to embarrass you, and nodded.

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh of relief and disbelief. There were a few seconds of silence, his eyes darting between his cigarette and your face. “With me?”

“Of course. Maybe next time just you.” You turned to head back to the bathroom but quickly turned on your heel and walked back to him. “Daryl? When did you,” you struggled to get the words out, ironic considering how bold youd been the night before, “you know, wake up?”

“Oh.” He grunted, his ears burning. “Dunno. While before.”

You felt a mix of embarrassment and relief. So he had pushed his knee between your legs on purpose. The thought had your stomach flipping and your face getting warm, so you gave a quick and polite smile before running off to the bathroom.

You've never let him in. Not once.

And still, every night without fail, he shows up like clockwork—barefoot and bloodstained, wife beater stained and torn, revealing a sliver of lean muscle beneath, reeking of smoke and obsession.

Slouched on your porch like a dying dog, scratching at the threshold with dirt-caked nails, mouth open and drooling thick, almost foamy, like hunger’s rotted him from the inside out. His voice is raw from begging. But tonight? Tonight he’s feral.

You've got one leg draped over the door frame, robe hitched up just enough to taunt, a cool glass of iced tea sweating in your hand while he writhes just inches from your feet.

“You cruel little thing,” he rasps, drawl dragging slow and syrupy, his tongue catching on the words like they hurt.

“Y’gon’ make me crawl again, huh? ‘Cause I will. I’ll fuckin’—I’ll get on my belly like a damn animal, just for a taste. Just for a breath of you, sugar.”

His jaw’s slack, saliva roping down his chin, staining the porch dark beneath him as he grips the floorboards hard enough they creak.

“Let me in,” he whimpers, voice cracked and desperate, eyes blown wide.

“Please, I—I cain’t stand it no more. I cain’t fuckin’ breathe without you. Let me in. I’ll behave. I’ll worship you. I’ll—I’ll starve if you don’t.”

Your just watch him, tilt your glass.

“You've lived thirteen centuries, and you're on your knees for a girl in a nightgown?”

He nods, drooling harder, trembling.

“Yes ma’am. I’d beg for thirteen more if it meant you’d finally say the word.”

You don’t answer him at first.

Just lift your drink—slow, lazy, like the heat has made you sun-warmed and lethargic—and watch the ice swirl against the cylindrical sides. Your lips part only enough for a sip, sharp and cold on your tongue, as his voice frays at the threshold like an unraveling thread.

The porch groans under his weight when he shifts, mouth still hanging open, chin wet with the thick rope of saliva that’s already puddled beneath him. He doesn’t even wipe it away anymore. Doesn’t flinch at the indignity. If anything, he leans into it. As if the sloppier he gets, the more beastly and broken, the closer he’ll be to what you want.

Not human. Not civilized. Just yours.

Your bare toes flex against the doorframe—propped up, exposed, painted peach—and his breath stutters when he sees them. His jaw works open wider like he might sink his teeth into the wood instead, like he’s fighting the animal thing in him that wants to bite something until it bleeds.

“You gone quiet, sugar,” he drawls, voice like gravel scraped against wood. “You plannin’ to kill me out here?”

You hum. Just a little. Low in your throat.

Then finally, finally, you lean forward just a bit, letting the hem of your robe fall loose from your thigh, letting him see the curve of it where the porchlight catches golden on your skin. You know what you’re doing. You always know.

“You look like shit, Remmick.”

He moans—moans—like the insult made him hard.

“I—I know, baby. I know,” he gasps, crawling an inch closer on his knees, voice choked with some terrible, trembling reverence. “I’d tear out my fuckin’ ribs if it meant you’d give me one more breath. Just one. I’m—I’m so close to bein’ bones out here.”

His hands drag slow across the floorboards, smearing blood and spit as he chases your shadow like it might feed him. His claws are cracked and dirty, black at the edges, clacking like dull knives as he reaches for you.

But he won’t cross the threshold. Can’t.

Not unless you say the word.

You drag one foot down, let it press lightly against his chest, the ball of it nestling into the place where his heart doesn’t beat. You feel the way he flinches at the touch like it hurts him, like your skin is too holy for his body to bear. He makes a sound deep in his chest—part growl, part sob—and his head drops forward.

He presses his forehead to your ankle. Worships it.

“You’re a goddamn sickness,” you whisper, soft and cruel.

“I am, baby,” he breathes. “You made me sick. Ruined me good, didn’t you?”

And oh, how he sounds ruined.

You tilt your glass again, watch the last ice cube swirl and crack, watch his tongue dart out as if he could taste it from the air. His pupils are blown, wide and dark and endless, and his mouth keeps trying to form the word please like it’s the only one he remembers anymore.

A breeze rolls over the porch, stirring the trees, carrying the scent of you—hibiscus lotion, clean skin, cool linen and blood beneath it all—and Remmick shudders like a dying thing. His hips roll into the floor like he’s fucking the air, like scent alone could push him to the edge.

“Let me in,” he begs again, softer now. “Let me in before I do somethin’ wicked.”

You lean closer, dragging your foot up his chest and under his chin, tilting his face up toward you like a command.

“You already are wicked.”

He smiles, wild and ruined.

“Yes ma’am. And I’d be worse for you.”

You let the silence stretch just long enough for his breath to hitch.

Then you pull your foot away and stand, letting the robe slip an inch lower on your hips as you do. He tracks the movement like an animal locked on prey, hands gripping the wood, teeth bared like he might bite the air between you.

But you say nothing.

You turn, walk back into the house, and the door swings shut with a slow, echoing click.

And Remmick?

He stays there on the porch, slack-jawed, drooling, whispering your name like a prayer he wasn’t meant to know, his muscles flexing as his arms come up over his head in desperation, thick and defined, his face pinched in pain, fractals of dying light dancing off the worn gold of his chain, off the sweaty creases highlighting his biceps.

| six months ago |

You didn’t move here expecting silence.

You expected a little mold, sure. Some creaky floorboards, maybe a wasp’s nest under the porch or a possum in the crawlspace. You expected the gnats. You expected the heat. You expected the isolation.

But not the silence.

Not this bone-deep, split-the-world-open kind of silence. The kind that settles between your ribs and listens to your heartbeat like it’s trying to time its own.

The house—your house now, left to you by some long-dead aunt you don’t remember—is old and sagging at the edges. It leans a little to the right. The paint is peeled and sun-faded, the porch boards bow like a tired back, and the front screen door barely stays shut unless you wedge a rock into it.

But the bones are good. The land is wild and wide and humming with secrets.

And the silence? You’ve started to like it.

Until one night, it breaks.

It’s not thunder. Not a tree branch. Not the slam of a car door or the high bark of a neighbor’s dog. It’s slower than that. Heavier. Like footsteps made of velvet and grave dirt, deliberate and soft, but too certain to be harmless.

You hear it just past dusk, when the sky is soaked in pinks and bruised purples, and the porch light buzzes weakly behind you. You’re sitting on the front step, knees up, the sweat from your lemonade collecting in droplets between your thighs. Your robe’s open at the chest. The heat has stuck it to the small of your back. You haven’t seen a soul all week.

And then—

“Evenin’, darlin’.”

You look up.

There’s a man standing just past the gate. Barefoot. Broad-shouldered. Dressed like a memory from somewhere you’ve never lived—boots slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and a face that looks like it’s been carved from heartbreak.

You can smell weathered leather. Wet pennies. Something faintly intoxicating.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

He’s handsome, you think, in a way that feels off. Like he walked out of a photograph too old to be yours. His hair is a mess, dark and sweat-matted at the temples. There’s a thin scar along his throat. He looks...starved. But not in the way that makes you pity him.

In the way that makes you want to keep your distance.

Still, you don’t get up. You don’t speak. The air between you thickens, trembles.

He tips his head slightly, a crooked smile cutting across his face.

“You look like you could use some company.”

You don’t invite him in.

You don’t say much at all.

Just glance toward the horizon, murmur something about supper, and let the screen door slam behind you before he can take a step forward. You watch through the curtains as he lingers at the gate, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to look harmless.

But you saw the way his eyes followed your legs. You saw how he noticed the sweat beading at your neck. How he inhaled when you passed him.

You lock the door that night. And the next. But he keeps coming.

First, it’s flowers.

Not from a store. Not anything wrapped in plastic or tied with ribbon. Just a bundle of wildflowers laid gently on your porch, still dusted with dew. You find them in the morning, no note, no explanation.

Then it’s peaches. Sun-warm and soft, their fuzz still clinging with bits of leaf and dirt. You bite into one and taste sweet nectar.

Then it’s a knife. Clean. Sharp. Ornate.

Then a book of poetry. Tattered, spine cracked, pages dog-eared with a name you don’t recognize scribbled inside the cover.

Then the sound of humming—just past the treeline. Low. Gentle. Almost...worshipful.

You don’t see him again for a week.

And when he returns, he stands on the bottom step like he’s been summoned.

You sit in the doorway this time, robe slipping off one shoulder. You’re not afraid. Not curious, either. Just...ready.

Ripe.

He keeps his eyes low. His voice is softer.

“You ain’t said my name yet.”

“I don’t know it,” you say.

He smiles like that hurts him.

“You don’t need it,” he says. “You already own me without it.”

It’s hot enough to peel the paint from the porch railing.

The air hums with crickets, thick as syrup, the kind of Southern heat that presses down on you like hands. Nothing moves. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not even the birds. The silence is alive—dense and waiting, like the breath before a confession.

And there he is. Again.

You hear him before you see him: the soft scrape of skin on wood, the faintest creak of a loose board under bare feet, the hitch in his breath when your scent hits him like perfume and punishment all at once. You left the door open tonight—not all the way, just ajar—and the porch light off. A single candle burns on the windowsill.

He doesn’t knock.

He never does anymore.

Just leans his weight into the frame, like even that much closeness is enough to tide him over for another day. But it’s not. You know it’s not. You can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. In the way he shifts his hips. In the way the wood creaks beneath his knees when he starts to lower himself.

You don’t speak.

You just watch.

The hem of your robe rides high on your thighs, your legs bare and smooth against the old floorboards, one knee bent, one foot outstretched. You could shut the door. You don’t. You could invite him in—but that’s not the game.

You’ve seen how he suffers.

And you love the way he suffers.

He’s filthy tonight. Shirtless and sweaty, streaked with soot and dry blood that canaled in the defined avenues of his abs, a bruise blooming along one side of his ribcage. His hair’s a mess. His eyes look hollow. His lips are parted, pink and trembling, like he’s been mouthing your name into the dirt all night long.

When he drops to his knees, it’s not a performance. Not anymore. There’s no seduction in it. Just ache. Just need.

He whispers something you don’t quite catch—your name, maybe, or the shape of a prayer that lost its way. You hear him drag his nails against the porch, slow and rhythmic, like he’s trying to carve your initials into the floor.

“I dreamed of you again,” he rasps.

His voice is shredded. Used up.

“You were wearin’ that white thing. The one with the lace at the top. You smelled like vanilla and thunder. You called me darlin’ and I almost cried.”

You breathe through your nose, slow and even, but your thighs shift. You don’t think he notices, but he does.

His eyes flick to the motion and he moans—soft and low, broken at the edges. He presses his forehead to the floor like it’s consecrated ground. Like maybe if he can just touch it long enough, you’ll take pity.

“Please.”

The word is wet in his mouth. He says it again.

“Please, I—I don’t care what you do to me. Don’t even have to let me in. Just talk to me, sugar. Just say somethin’. Let me hear your voice. Let me see you.”

You shift in the doorway.

Then you speak—finally—voice quiet and even, your glass catching the candlelight as you raise it to your lips.

“Why do you keep coming here?”

He whimpers.

“‘Cause I cain’t not. ‘Cause you’ve got me chained up in here—” He presses a palm to his chest, hard enough you can hear the bones creak. “—and I like it. I fuckin’ like it, baby. Ain’t that sick?”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you lean forward just enough to let your fingers curl over the frame of the door, letting your robe fall slightly open at the neck. His mouth opens wider. His pupils blow black like a hungry shark.

“You want to come in?” you murmur.

His breath catches.

Then he nods. Frantic. Wild.

“Yes. Yes ma’am. Please.”

You tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks. He’s confused by the question. Then hurt. Then desperate.

“Because I—I need you. Need what’s inside. I cain’t smell nothin’ else but you. You’re in my fuckin’ blood, sweetheart, and I ain’t never tasted you but it’s killin’ me just knowin’ you’re behind that door.”

He leans forward, mouth brushing the frame. His tongue darts out—not quite licking it, but close—and you see the briefest flick of the forked tip, glistening and trembling with restraint. He pulls it back like he’s ashamed of it, like he wasn’t supposed to let you see that part of him.

Your stomach flips.

You almost say it. Almost.

But then you pull back.

And he breaks.

He wasn’t always like this.

You remember that. You remind yourself of it often—because it makes this part better. Sweeter. Sicker.

Because once upon a time, he tried to play it cool. Casual. Almost charming. Leaned against your gate with that low, lopsided smile, said things like ma’am and pleasure to meet you and you sure keep to yourself, don’t you, sugar?

Now?

He’s a wreck.

On all fours.

Spit roping from his lips in long, trembling strands as he drags himself toward your feet like a dog that’s been kicked too many times but still comes running. His pupils bleed red, eclipsing the black. His shirt is gone. His nails are cracked and black at the edges, scrabbling over the porch boards in slow, shivering motions that match the tremble in his voice.

His mouth hangs open. Tongue wet. Forked.

You can see the way it splits when he pants—like he can’t decide whether to speak or taste or crawl inside you and live there forever.

He looks up at you through his lashes, and it’s not seductive.

It’s pleading.

Pathetic.

Eyes wide and glossy, like something half-feral and half-forgotten, a kicked-puppy expression clinging to him even as he drools down his chin. He’s shaking. His knees have long since gone raw from dragging over your porch, and he presses his forehead to the step just beneath you.

You tilt your glass. Take a sip.

He moans. Loud. Unfiltered. Buckling at the sound.

“God, please,” he breathes, his voice hoarse and slurred like he’s drunk on the smell of you. “Please, I can’t—I can’t take it no more, baby. You’re killin’ me. Killin’ me soft and slow and I fuckin’ love it.”

You shift, just enough for your robe to slide up one thigh.

His hands curl into fists. He bites down on a sob.

“I’ll be so good to you,” he whimpers, dragging himself another inch forward. “You don’t—you don’t know what I could give you. What I wanna give you. What I think about every night with my hand on my cock, prayin’ for a dream of your fuckin’ voice.”

You raise an eyebrow. But you don’t stop him. And that’s all the permission he needs.

“I’d eat it for hours,” he blurts, voice breaking. “I’d keep my tongue on you till you forgot your own name. I’d fuckin’ cry for the chance, darlin’. You don’t know what I’d do just to smell you on my face. Let me clean you up with my mouth. Let me keep you sweet.”

He pants like a sinner, sweating through the knees of his jeans, forked tongue slipping past his lips as he mouths at the space near your ankle. Never quite touching. Never daring.

“I’d make it good for you,” he groans. “Better than anyone. I’d hold you down or let you ride. Whatever you wanted. However you wanted. I’d tear my fuckin’ throat out if it made you wet.”

You stay silent.

Let him spiral.

Let him beg.

Let him drown in everything you’ll never give him.

His jaw hangs slack again, saliva pouring freely now, staining the porch with slick, twitching need. He doesn’t even seem to notice. His hips rock forward once—pathetically—like he’s rutting against the air just from being this close.

Then—

“Say it,” he croaks, wrecked and delirious. “Say the word. Just the once. Just once and I’ll die happy. I’ll let you ruin me every night. Let you bleed me dry, fuck me dumb, use me up ‘til I’m nothing but bones and thank you for it. I’ll be your thing. Your pet. Your meal. Just say it. Say it and let me in.”

You watch him twitch.

You don’t speak.

And that silence?

It undoes him.

He presses his face into the porch and sobs—one sharp, cracked sound that makes your thighs clench—and you think, maybe next time.

Maybe.

But not tonight.

It’s late.

Later than you usually sit up for him.

The air outside smells like wet bark and heat lightning. You’ve just bathed—skin still damp, robe clean, lips glossy with something sweet and sticky you let melt over your tongue before you opened the door.

The floorboards are still slick from the storm earlier, and the moon’s a thin thing, half-ash and half-bone. Somewhere in the trees, something howls.

But he’s louder.

He’s already there when you pull the door open, sprawled out like roadkill—on his side, one cheek pressed against the porch wood, arms limp at his sides, knees bent in. Like he dragged himself here and died at the edge of your mercy.

But when he hears the door creak, he moves.

Head jerks. Eyes flash. His nostrils flare, and he moans—low and open-mouthed, like he’s just caught your scent for the first time all over again.

“Sweetheart,” he gasps, trying to sit up and immediately wobbling, weak from hunger or lust or both. “Sweetheart, I—I dreamed you were gonna open it tonight.”

You say nothing.

He drags himself upright, kneeling again, hands in his lap like a penitent priest waiting for permission to sin. His thighs are slick with drool and sweat and something darker—something old. You don’t ask. He’s trembling.

You step forward.

And he growls.

Low. Feral. Possessive. His shoulders hunch, his nails dig into the wood, his tongue flashes out—forked, twitching—and he presses his forehead to the threshold like it burns him.

“You smell like soap,” he whimpers. “Like you’re clean and warm and wantin’. You did it on purpose, didn’t you? You always do.”

You kneel in front of him, robe gaping where the sash has gone loose.

He chokes.

You brush a knuckle down his cheek. He shudders so violently you think he might break apart at the seams.

And then you whisper it.

Soft. Small.

The word.

“Come in.”

He doesn’t believe you at first.

His body goes very still. Breath caught. Eyes searching your face for the trick. His mouth parts around a sob so sharp it cuts his throat on the way out.

“Wh-what?” he croaks.

“You heard me,” you say, voice low. “You can come in.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lunges.

Not with violence. Not with fury. But with such pure, starved need it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He collapses forward into the doorway like a beast finally slipping its leash, dragging himself across the threshold like it hurts—but in a way he wants.

He weeps.

On his knees again. Hands clutching your thighs. Mouth open and dripping against your bare skin as he repeats your name over and over, shaking, whispering thanks like a dying man kissing dirt.

“Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, fuck—thank you—”

His tongue presses to your thigh.

You twitch.

And he wails—the sound muffled against your flesh, trembling like a man who’s tasted Heaven and is terrified he’ll be dragged back to Hell. His arms wrap around your hips, pulling you down with him, until your knees hit the floor and you’re seated right there in the doorway with him cradled between your legs like a body in prayer.

“I’ll be so gentle,” he babbles, licking a stripe up your inner thigh. “I’ll be good. I’ll be sweet, sugar, I swear it—I won’t bite unless you ask. I’ll eat and eat ‘til you shake and sob and soak my chin and then I’ll fuckin’ beg for seconds.”

You let your head fall back, lips parted, robe slipping.

He sees it.

And loses what’s left of his composure.

He goes slow at first—painfully, reverently slow.

Tongue pressed flat to your cunt, hands gripping your thighs like lifelines, the tip of that sinful, split tongue tracing soft, teasing figure-eights just to feel you tremble.

And you do.

Every flick, every moan, every whimper he pulls from your throat drives him deeper into madness. He cries as he eats you. Cries. Big, open-mouthed sobs against your pussy as he whispers nonsense:

“So sweet—so sweet, fuck—never tasted anything like you—please, let me die here—let me drown—let me be your floorboard, your shadow, your fuckin’ leash, baby, I’ll be anything—”

You come on his tongue once, and he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even pause.

Just whimpers like your pleasure is sustenance, like your slick is water and he’s been crawling the desert for years.

You tangle your fingers in his hair. Tug. He moans into you. Grinds his hips to the floor.

“Can I fuck you?” he begs against your cunt. “Please, can I? I’ll go slow. I’ll go soft. I’ll make you feel worshipped. You want it rough? I’ll give you rough. Want it sweet? I’ll make you sob. I’ll bite your throat open and make you scream my name ‘til the walls crack.”

He looks up at you, face wet, chin slick, forked tongue flicking out like a serpent sensing the heat of your body. His eyes are glassy. Wild.

“Tell me I can fuck you.”

You nod.

He breaks again.

And then—

He crawls forward, palms flat on the floor, reverent and quiet. His cock is hard, flushed and weeping, twitching against his stomach. You see the way his hands shake as he guides himself to you. The way he groans—choked and low and obscene—when the head of it brushes against your entrance.

He looks up at you, panting. Lips parted.

“You sure?” he whispers. Like he’s asking permission to live.

You nod again.

“Then hold on to me, sugar,” he says, voice raw and trembling. “I ain't never comin’ back from this.”

And he pushes in—

Slow. So slow. Like he’s scared you’ll vanish beneath him. Like your heat is swallowing him whole. Like the walls of your body were carved centuries ago to hold only him.

He moans into your neck, hips stilling halfway through.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, voice shattered. “You feel like—like you were made for me. I’m—I’m not gonna last. I ain’t—please don’t let go of me.”

You clutch his shoulders.

He bottoms out with a sob, every inch of him buried in you, shaking like a man who’s finally come home. His forehead presses to yours. His hips roll once, reverent, like worship.

He doesn’t move at first.

Just stays buried to the hilt, mouth slack against your throat, breathing like a dying animal in your ear. You feel him twitch inside you—thick, hot, leaking—and for a moment you think he might cry again.

Then he growls.

Low. Deep. Possessive.

And moves.

One slow pull out—almost all the way—followed by a brutal thrust that slams your back against the floorboards hard enough to rattle the doorframe. You gasp. He moans. Loud. Open-mouthed. Obscene.

“Fuck,” he chokes, already shaking. “Oh, sugar. Oh, baby, you—you don’t know what you’ve done. What you let loose.”

He doesn’t wait for permission anymore. Doesn’t need it. You gave it the second you said come in.

Now he’s fucking like it’s all he knows how to do.

His hips snap forward over and over, wet slaps echoing through the open doorway, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue lolling out as he pants like a rabid thing. He braces one hand beside your head and the other beneath your thigh, holding you open, dragging you into every thrust like he wants to feel himself hit the back of you.

You’re soaked. Wrecked. Clawing at his back and gasping his name over and over like it’s the only prayer you’ve got.

“You wanted me like this, didn’t you?” he snarls, his drawl thick and guttural now. “Wanted to see me come undone. Wanted to see the monster in me. Well, here he is, sugar. Here I fuckin’ am.”

He grinds down. Deep. You cry out.

He smirks, wild and broken and high off the sound.

“You feel that?” he whispers against your mouth. “That’s me in you. Deep as I can go. You’ll feel me for days. I’ll make sure of it.”

And he does.

He fucks you until your legs tremble, until your voice is raw, until the only sounds are slick, messy, filthy. He presses his chest to yours, forehead to your jaw, panting through clenched teeth as he drives into you like he can’t stop. Like if he slows down, he’ll die.

You feel the sharp tips of his fangs graze your throat. His voice is wrecked.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Let me drink while I’m inside you. Let me be full, sugar. Let me be whole.”

You nod.

He doesn’t even hesitate.

His mouth opens wide and you feel the bite—sharp, electric, perfect—right where your neck meets your shoulder, and suddenly his hips are slamming into you harder, messier, feral, rutting through your orgasm as he drinks, drinks, drinks.

It hits you all at once. Heat. Pain. Pleasure so sharp it blinds you.

You come hard, clenching around him, and he sobs into your throat like it’s sacred, like he’s breaking apart inside your body.

You feel him twitch. His breath goes ragged.

“Gonna come,” he warns, voice slurred, tongue lapping at your skin between frantic, messy thrusts. “Gonna—fuck, sugar, I’m gonna fill you—gonna mark you—make you mine—mine—mine—”

And he does.

Hot and thick and endless.

He spills inside you with a guttural cry, hips stuttering, teeth still buried in your skin. You feel it pulse into you—claiming you, over and over, like his body doesn’t know how to stop. Like his need has no end.

He finally stills, trembling.

Still buried inside you. Still panting. Still moaning your name into the crook of your neck like he’s worshipping it.

And then—

He kisses the bite.

Soft.

Gentle.

His hands cradle your face like you’re glass, and for the first time all night, his voice goes quiet.

“You saved me,” he breathes.

And for once, you don’t correct him.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. The air has gone still, heavy with sweat and sex and iron and him. The storm’s long gone, but you can still smell the rain—sweet and earthy, mixing with the blood drying at your throat.

You feel it when he finally starts to move.

Just a shift.

The slow drag of his hand up your thigh, fingertips curling into the dip of your waist like he’s reminding himself you’re real. His body is still flush against yours, cock soft now but still inside you, holding you open. Keeping you full. Like he’s afraid pulling out will make the whole night unravel.

You reach up, bury a hand in his tangled hair.

He makes a sound—small, shattered—and curls tighter against you.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice hoarse and full of something too heavy to name. “Don’t make me leave. Not after that. I’ll—I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Your fingers stay in his hair, stroking gently. His body softens against yours.

There’s blood smeared across your neck, your chest, down your ribs. His bite still stings, the skin pulsing, raw—but it doesn’t hurt. Not really. It burns. Like a seal. Like a signature.

You glance down.

He’s watching you.

Eyes half-lidded. Glazed. Glowing, almost—faint and strange, like he’s lit from within. There’s a little blood on his mouth. More on his chin. But he doesn’t wipe it away.

You wonder if he’s ever looked more peaceful.

“You taste like sunlight,” he murmurs, dream-drunk. “Like nectar. Like the end of the world.”

You huff a laugh, quiet and breathless.

“Don’t get poetic on me now.”

“I ain’t,” he slurs, eyes fluttering. “Just honest.”

He nuzzles into your collarbone, forked tongue flicking lazily against your skin like he’s still trying to memorize it. His hands roam—slow, aimless, like he doesn’t know how to stop touching. One settles on your hip. The other slides beneath your spine and pulls you closer.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go,” he mumbles. “Not after this. You said it. You let me in.”

You nod. You did.

And you meant it.

He presses his nose to your pulse point, breath fogging across your skin. His lips ghost over the bite. He presses a kiss there, reverent.

“I’ll be good,” he repeats, softer now. “You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You want a house? I’ll build it. You want blood? I’ll bring you the whole fuckin’ town. You want me to rot on the floor again? I will. Long as I’m yours.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper.

And he moans.

Like the words filled him with something he’s never had in thirteen centuries.

You feel him soften completely then, sinking into your body like sleep. One leg slung over yours, one arm anchoring you to his chest, his cock slipping free with a wet noise that makes him groan as you shudder. Your body aches, raw and sore and claimed, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You know because the grip he has on you loosens—but only a little. He still breathes you in. Still holds you like something holy and fragile and violently his.

And you?

You stay awake a while longer, staring at the door still cracked open, the threshold now crossed, the air inside heavy with what you both became tonight.

The blood on your neck has dried.

The slick between your thighs has cooled.

But his body stays warm against you.

And outside, the sky hasn’t yet begun to lighten.

No birds. No blue.

Just that inky pre-dawn blackness pressing soft against the windows, holding the night still around you like a secret.

Because he can’t survive the sun.

You understood that part.

Confiding in one another when you called, texted, or FaceTimed just to see how one another’s day went, you knew the stress that came with school. It was something that was heavily prioritized by your family to get through and you did. College wasn’t for you much to your family’s disappointment but you chose to be thrown into the working world of New Mexico, just to get through but it was not a place you wanted to forever be stuck in. That was often expressed and you couldn’t be more than happy for Jimmy when he chose a city out of state.

Taking the drive either with Dezbah and Bryson, sometimes even Mrs. Gloria (Who no longer had warrants), or simply by yourself was the escape you needed. You loved the open road and being with Jimmy, it took time to figure it out and just to be together but now he wanted to call it quits. There really weren’t any warnings.

“So…I’m adding to that pressure?”

Jimmy clenched his eyes shut at your words, “No. I wouldn’t say that. Things have always felt right between us—

“Until it goes wrong,” you muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimmy questions, now pressing his elbows into his knees, leaning over in attempt to stop the stomachache that was now forming as he was having this hard conversation with you.

Huffing out a laugh, you shifted your body sideways so you can look at the short haired teen, “It was Rocky from the start between us because of uncertainties but I always said we wouldn’t know unless we tried. I wasn’t scared to love you. It was little childish shit, you letting people get in your head about us, me not speaking up about it and acting like whatever you did with other girls didn’t bother me, then playing around with Krista and I because you didn’t know what you truly wanted.”

“I chose you, though.” Jimmy voiced, hating that he put you through that.

It was always the three of you at the beginning until it unfortunately became two. You’ve always been around and just foolishly waiting. It’s not like Jimmy ever had a serious girlfriend before you, he just like entertaining the ones who wanted to have his babies and it sucked to watch. Plus you had a fling and then a serious relationship while just being Jimmy’s friend and it was obvious he never liked any of the dudes you dealt with. He just hid it, not well but at least he tried. When he suddenly kissed you at that party that night—granted he was high and it was a stupid game of spin the roaches in the bottle (it didn’t land on you but the girl next to you)—it confirmed everything that your heart’s been trying to tell you for the longest.

There was a reason that kiss needed to happen.

Yet you sat on that for a while and Jimmy showed interest in Krista.

“Then tell me why you’re choosing to break up with me and right before the holidays too? Just tell it to me straight, what’s the reason, Jimmy? I deserve to know why.” You exasperated, feeling your drumming heartbeat in your ears now.

Jimmy’s rubbing at his face now, the bags underneath his eyes felt heavier. He was going to say something that he didn’t mean, “I just don’t want to do this anymore. Once I go pro, I don’t think I can even trust myself around any of the other girls alright? It’s like you said, I went back and forth between you and Krista once. Who’s to say I won’t do it again?”

Shock washes over your body. You couldn’t believe the guy that you once knew would fix his mouth to say this to you. It felt unreal, like a nightmare that you needed to wake up from. Of course there was always the potential of groupies getting at Jimmy, it was the same back in high school but you thought he loved you enough, after everything not to disrespect you like this.

“…what’s the number one reason you fell in love with me then?” Was your response, which made Jimmy lift his eyes and flick to you.

Staring at you like this, was enough to break Jimmy’s heart. He hated that he was putting you through this again but he didn’t think he could keep up. It was all too much but that didn’t mean you were too much for him. It was everything else and he wished he knew how to communicate that better.

Jimmy Holiday loves you because you inspired him to be more than what he is. He loves you because you always made time for him, even with this newfound distance, he loves you for your patience, sense of direction, and your good heart. There were many reasons to love you, he’s said them before but today he couldn’t.

“If you can’t remember, then I guess you’re right, I don’t need to be here anymore. And we don’t need to continue doing this. I won’t let you sideline me again.” You say, feeling like you gave him more than enough time to say something, to be honest, and have some decency.

What changed?

Jimmy often got in his head about many of things, you can blame it on a lot but you thought you were past this. Experienced some growth but you couldn’t keep putting your mental health through this. As much as you love Jimmy, if he wanted out and just off the hurtful things he just said, then you had no problem being on your way. If that’s how he wanted it, fine.

You’re on your feet and it feels like Jimmy’s heart is being squeezed in someone’s fist.

“I…I’m sorry.”

You lift your shoulders, watery smile appearing on your lips as you deeply inhale. Stepping forward, you grip Jimmy’s shoulder’s, leaning down to place a kiss on Jimmy’s brow. He closes his eyes at your touch, struggling to swallow down the lump in his throat.

“Take care of yourself, Jimmy Holiday.” You whisper into the crisp air and just like that, you were gone just like the tumble of brown leaves on the ground.

He wanted to go after you, knowing that you were most likely going back to the dorm to collect your things and hit the road. Perhaps his biggest regret once he gets back to see all of your things no longer around, every trace of you gone but that certainly wasn’t true. Jimmy sits on the edge of his bed, staring down at the screensaver of you two just before his roommate enters back in the room, asking what’s up with him.

Jimmy can’t even get the words out himself, shaking his head with his fist going to his mouth and he clenched his eyes shut once more.

Whereas you’re on the road, leaving the mountains behind and venting to Dezbah on the long drive.

“Yooo, What the hell did you do?” Bryson quizzed, as soon as Jimmy took his sweet time answering the phone, coming back from the showers.

Jimmy lays back on his bed, phone pressed to his ear. “I lost, bro. And I think I’m about to realize just how much.”

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“Get a room” Don says, shoving Pinks shoulder and breaking his lips from your own. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, not the least bit ashamed by the small obsession with your boyfriend.

“We would if we could” Pink answers for you both, body still pressed against your own. You could stay trapped between him and these lockers all day.

“It’s getting old always seeing you two suck face, save it for after school” Kevin says and you laugh, hugging your boyfriend close.

“You guys yell at us then too, so what I like to show my boyfriend how much I love him” you say, tone innocent and soft cheek pressed to his chest as you wrap yourself around him.

“I love you more” Pink says, lips finding your own again and both Kevin and Don wave their arms, eyes rolling as they walk away from the both of you. Uninterested in watching you two suck face.

You happily and shamelessly make out with your boyfriend against the lockers, never tiring of how his mouth always tastes faintly of cherries and weed. Butterflies erupt in your stomach as his tongue trails along your bottom lip, slowly slipping into your mouth and curling against your own. When your fingers tangle in his hair you wish more than anything you were somewhere other than the school halls.

“Alrightttt” Slater’s familiar voice cuts you off, laughing against each others mouths at your clearly stoned friend who passes by.

“What do you say we skip class?” Pink whispers and you smile, arms wrapped around his form as you think of his entirely welcoming El Camino parked in the parking lot.

“I mean we’re already late anyway” you whisper back and he only grins, knowing that had answered his question. His arm wrapping around your shoulders as he guides you out of the school, ducking away from the sight of teachers.