#lupienne

“I’m not a good man,” Rick Grimes warns me. I look at him.

He’s looking back at me. Looking down on me lying down in my sickbed. The doctor told me to speak. Fuck him, fuck him to death in a pool of his own blood. If I want to speak, I will.

I speak: my hands are cuffed but I finger the stitches on my throat.

This is how I tell Rick Grimes he’s a lying little fucker. I want him to see the grin on my face through all the muck and the dried blood, and he does see it. His face pinches until he’s frowning down at me.

“I did that to prove a point,” he says.

-

Olivia leads me to my new cell. It smells of bleach and a long night of scrubbing. Nothing but a cot, a bucket and a stool. Looks a hell of a lot fucking better than any ripped lean-to I’ve spent the night in. Behind us stand Rick’s men, and Rick’s sniper, and Rick’s samurai, always fucking watching.

“Here,” Olivia says needlessly. She pushes the cell gate open with graphite-stained fingers. I spare a glance at her bitten nails, the gentle curve of her palm. It’s my first day out of the infirmary after weeks of recovering from my favorite wound, weeks away from touch that isn’t a probing needle or a soft swab of peroxide.

I step into my new home. My eyes meet Olivia’s through the bars. The dumb little shit of a doctor told me I still shouldn’t be opening my mouth at this stage, so I compensate with a glance at her cleavage and an obnoxious waggle of the eyebrows.

Horrified, she slams the gate when she’s locking me in and marches out with her friends. Rick’s warrior women stay behind to make threats. I don’t give one travel-sized fuck. It’s like static on the television, like a progress report on how far the fucking paint has dried.

-

I count the days in prison. Words can’t fucking express how goddamn cold it is down here, and I’m pretty damn fucking creative with my words. If it wasn’t for my constant masturbation, I don’t know how I could have generated enough heat to keep myself warm at night.

It’s a grueling experience. Dante’s Inferno and a Moby Dick audiobook rolled into one - painful and boring - until, for the first time, I hear the door click open and closed and the tapping of a cane on the stairs and then suddenly it’s a Crichton paperback with how my heart goes fucking haywire trying to pump blood back into my brain at the prospect of seeing another person.

Rick limps out of the shadows, down the stairs. His tired eyes are more tired than usual, both from the fucked knee and the lack of sleep from rebuilding civilization after a war.

He’s gripping his cane too hard. I unconsciously give the stitches on my throat a tender stroke. We view our disabilities very differently.

He slumps against my cage for a quick breather. I want to pull him in, throttle him to death and stuff his bones in the cracks in the cement. I settle for standing as close as possible, letting my joy shine through my face.

“Hi,” I mouth at him. I can feel my pulse jittering. I wonder if he knows Morse code like I do. Maybe we can talk like that if my vocal chords never heal.

“Hold your hands out,” is how he greets me. I do as he asks. Familiar cuffs click around my wrists with the chain looped around the outside of the bars. His keys jiggle in the lock.

Rick Grimes is in my cell and I can’t touch him.

He sweeps the area, neatly and methodically turning over every piece of furniture. Looking for makeshift weaponry or rope. Escape plans, as though I have the heart to try. I don’t feel like feeling insulted today, so I let it slide.

I’m half sunk into my thoughts, half drunk with the sight of him. Nobody has talked to me for the longest fucking time. At this point, any interaction is welcome.

Suddenly, his hand is on my shoulder. I jump. He doesn’t stop. From my shoulders, to my arms, then my back and my chest, my thighs, my calves. He’s frisking me, I realize, like some kind of cop.

I hunch over, trying not shake. I have been with eighteen women. Not one of them has made me quake with a firm grip to the deltoids like he does. It’s fucking ridiculous. But then again, that was from before the fucking apocalypse turned me into this. This fucking fallen king Aragorn bullshit. Rick’s touch is nothing special. The circumstances are.

The cell door swings shut, the lock clicks. Rick is in front of me again, gesturing for me to reach out so he can unlock my cuffs. I don’t cooperate. He huffs. A little huff of annoyance.

My plan works - he grabs my hands in his one hand, somehow manages to unlock my cuffs that way. Hook, line, sinker. A small victory. (Fucking asshole.)

He leaves quietly. His cane taps angrily(grinds, really) on the concrete, all the way up the stairs and out the door.

-

Rick’s in my cell every few days, then, doing his two-minute inspection, then his fifteen-second shakedown. If I grin secretively enough, fifteen seconds becomes thirty seconds. He’s a paranoid man, is Rick.

Two minutes, thirty seconds of heaven every Wednesday and Sunday, and hell in between. It becomes routine for him to wear holes in the floor with his cane, for me to try to use my words and fail.

On a Friday, I wake up from a sweaty nap, yawning and scratching my midriff. Carl Grimes is sitting on a crate outside my cell, watching me with that eye of his.

I grunt at the barest minimum decibel and shoot finger-guns at him. He ignores me. “Mom told me to go talk to you, so here I am.”

My eyebrows raise at the word ‘Mom’. Who? His mother is dead.

“She says she gets what Dad means, but she doesn’t agree. At least, not all the time. So do I. There’s no point in keeping you alive. It’s been months, but I still don’t get it. If you could… I want you to see all the people we buried. We had to dig ditches outside the wall. Father Gabe ran out of holy water three times. It smelled so bad. Dad didn’t want anyone there who hadn’t fought a walker before, but they insisted. A lot… a lot of people threw up.”

I watch him warily, trying not to roll my eyes. As if he hasn’t killed enough of my men, added onto the Sanctuary walker defenses. As if his father hasn’t forced us to burn our bodies without the pleasantries of even a one inch fucking grave.

“I still want to kill you,” Carl tells me, “but I can’t say that, or Dad will get mad at me.” He self-consciously pulls his cowboy hat down on his head and leaves.

-

On a Monday, I’m busy staring at the ceiling, making friends with shadows on my wall, Matchbox Twenty playing endlessly in my head, when I hear an unfamiliar set of feet on the stairs.

It’s Andrea. Her rifle swings heavily from where it’s strapped onto her back. I can see her freckles in the candlelight. Twenty years ago, I was fucking girls like her in dingy gas station bathrooms, waiting for Lucille to text me back. Somewhere in the depths of my secondhand pants, a giant cock stirs.

“I get it,” she says to me. “It doesn’t mean I don’t fucking despise you. You better be grateful that Rick Grimes is a good man.”

We have ourselves a little staring contest. I’m surprised she’s taken time out of her day to talk to me. She’s a very busy person. She’s Rick’s right hand, after all, even when his physical right hand has been cut off at the wrist. Well, I think as her blue eyes bore unflinchingly into mine, that’s the one thing we can agree on.

-

Michonne comes to visit me right after Andrea. Those two are almost inseparable. I wonder idly what the lesbian term for a beard is. Make a mental note for the spank bank.

Right now, she’s turned away from me, inspecting the lone candle on the table in the corner. I snort at the sight of her tacky sword. It’ll break, one of these days, if she keeps using it like a claymore. Not that I know shit about swords - I’m just mentally babbling trying not to think about the fact that she can, and probably will, kill me.

“They’ve found a fishing community, with working boats,” Michonne says. I look up, surprised. She’s playing with the candle fire. “I’m leaving,” she continues.

What the actual fuck? Why on fucking earth is she telling me this? Is it because I can’t tattle to Rick or Andrea? What the fuck?

She quietly pads up the steps. Leaves me scratching my head.

Rick and Carl come down, a few hours later, looking for her. They find nothing, of course. I shrug when Rick squints at me.

-

Carl sneaks back in when he’s sure that Rick is gone. There’s some things better left unsaid with these two, I fucking suppose. The Grimeses: can yak on and on all the live fucking long, but when it comes to things like, uhhh, me, ho-ho, family secrets all around like some kind of medieval fantasy thriller drama.

“Michonne took care of me when Dad couldn’t,” Carl says. “She can take care of herself. She was fine on her own for a long time.”

I watch him pensively. Is he Jon Snow or Robb Stark?

“But Dad… he just worries. He’s already worrying about every goddamn thing on Earth. And then Michonne has to leave. Just when we’ve almost picked ourselves back up again…”

Obviously Michonne wants to run away from some shit for a while. And who is Rick to deny her, right? At least Carl’s stopped looking, though I bet he’s going to get into some fucking trouble for that shit. Fucking Rick, being such a hoity-fucking-toity Ned Stark. Honestly.

-

So Rick gives me his Wednesdays and Sundays, Carl has an irregular schedule treating me like his own personal diary, and Olivia is here everyday with a new candle, cleaning out my shit bucket and handing me my food without a look or a word. A routine forms. It’s slightly comforting, but I’d rather have touch. Better yet, a hole to fuck.

Eventually, I’ve healed past the point of making sounds only dogs can hear. I wake up one day and I can grunt like a caveman. Not quite Axl Rose, I decide. More like Nick Drake stuck inside a shipping container full of pillows.

Nevertheless, I’m bouncing off the fucking walls with excitement. Forget stir crazy - it’s like I’m living in an electric mixer of pure energy and I’m a particularly handsome carton of whipping cream.

Rick comes back to me after two days. I act nonchalant when he cuffs me to the bars, but I’ve been vibrating much too much. I feel like carpet, all fuzzy inside and out, like a carpet that’s been rubbed the right way, because as soon as he’s behind me I’m drawn to him, subtly trying to touch him. Line up his front flush with my back.

His hand alights on my right shoulder, then my left. I’m wearing a t-shirt so he doesn’t bother to check my arms. I mourn.

I’ve gotten thinner, I wonder if he’ll notice. He’s getting softer in the cheeks without me to suck half his blood out. It’s a good look on him. Not that I give a shit.

When his hand runs down my back, I unabashedly let out a little moan. He jerks back in surprise, in the process accidentally brushing against my ass. I moan louder. He stumbles back, then, breathing hard. I bust my gut laughing in tiny little gasps just imagining the look on his face.

“Dad?” yells Carl from upstairs. “You okay?”

Rick doesn’t respond. The stairs creak. “I’m okay, Carl,” he yells, finally. “Go on home.”

“Alright.” The stairs creak again.

Rick’s breathing has evened out. He’s contemplating what to do, I think. I don’t expect too much. Rick is not only a prick, but also a prude. Prick the Prude.

“I can’t decide if you’re just pulling my leg or actually trying to get me to fuck you.”

My blood runs cold.

“Both,” I blurt out.

It’s not because it’s him. It’s not. I need a piece of ass and I don’t mind if it has a cock or a cunt above it. How fucking long has it fucking been? Three, four months?

I look at him over my shoulder. He’s closer than I thought. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips under his growing beard. Those tired eyes don’t look as tired as usual in the candlelight.

I hold my breath. He moves forward, one step plastering his front across my back. Brings his hand around my body to place his fingertips on my abdomen. Almost as if by accident, his hand drags down to stop on top of my half-hard dick. I exhale.

“Like this?” he asks nonchalantly. His breath sears the back of my neck like dragon fire. I’m getting honest-to-god goosebumps.

“Fuck yeah,” I gasp out. I never in a million fucking fucks thought this would ever happen. In wet dreams, maybe, but not in fucking real fucking life. Holy cunt.

“Good to know,” he rumbles into my ear. He then peels himself off of me and exits my cell, locking the door behind him. In a flash, my cuffs are unlocked and he’s tapping his way up the steps while I gape after him.

Rick Grimes is a fucking cocktease.

-

Of course I jack off to thoughts of his hand on my dick. I’m a man. It’s only natural. And also kind of sad, but I don’t let that stop me.

Olivia arrives to deliver my breakfast while I’m doing this. I’m sure she probably figured it out when she stepped into the house, but she still shrieks and drops the tray at the sight of me sitting on my cot, back against the wall, pumping away in my pants. Maybe she thought I’d stop when I saw her. Nope.

“What the fuck!” She yells. I think I can see tears in her eyes. She’s covering them, though, so I can’t be sure. “You fucking psycho! I’m getting Rick!” She’s not moving. Probably in shock.

“Rick, f-fuck,” I echo with newfound, still raspy, voice. “Hmmmm Rick, Rick’s tight ass, yes, yes, oh god.”

“Don’t say his name! Oh my god!” Olivia is frozen on the stairs, fumbling for the railing with her eyes squeezed shut.

“Andrea, yes,” I groan instead. “Yeah, swallow me whole, you dirty bitch.” Of course, by this time, I’ve long since taken my hand out of my pants already. Now I’m just watching her as she runs out.

I’m a fucking asshole, I know. Olivia is a real lady. Didn’t deserve that. But, by god, there’s nothing to fucking do around here.

Rick limp-stomps a few minutes later into my basement. He’s alone and pissed. I wish I could say that my bullshit made him lose his limp, but that’s way too fucking cliché to even consider.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he starts off in a low growl. I’m turned on already. “You’re not getting your breakfast or dinner. Olivia will come down here and you will apologize and give her your best fucking wishes because you won’t be seeing her for a few weeks.”

I start forward on my cot. A few weeks? I don’t get to eat for a few fucking weeks?

“I’ll be bringing you your meals from now until the foreseeable future.” I try not to laugh. She didn’t tell him then.

It’s almost night when Rick coaxes Olivia to come down and listen to me rasp out an apology. She glares at me with unbridled, unchecked, no preservatives added, hate.

“I’m really fucking sorry, Olivia, that was a shitty fucking thing to do. The truth is that I’d already beaten my meat before you even got here.”

Her face twists even more. She must think I’m a snake with an overactive trouser snake.

I hold my hand out for an apologetic handshake. She looks down at it with disgust, shakes her head violently, and leaves.

“I’ll miss ya,” I roughly call after her. Rick is staring keenly at me like he can see something I don’t.

“What?” I ask him. He doesn’t answer.

-

Carl the Oblivious visits me later that night.

“Dad was so mad the entire day. He wouldn’t tell me why.” More secrets, then. “I’m… not going to make it about myself. I just wish he’d tell me things sometimes. I’m almost twelve, I can take it.”

I hum. “Look, kid,” - he jumps at the sound of my gravelly voice - “every fucking body knows you’re tough shit. You’ve seen shit, you’ve fucking grown up in this shit world seeing shit every goddamned day. Your dad… I bet he doesn’t want to turn you into someone like him. Someone like me. But you’re going to fucking turn into someone eventually. No fucking matter how much he tries and avoids it. He’ll come around.”

Despite his surprise, Carl replies. “It’s been years since this all started, Negan. You don’t know how many times he’s tried to shelter me. It’s a whole thing and all. I understand - he doesn’t want me to grow up too fast. I’m not looking for advice - I get it already, I talked with Mom and Michonne and Maggie and Jesus… I don’t need advice on my Dad. I just want to bitch and moan about it.”

“Oh,” I say. My mouth quirks into a smug v. “Anyway, you don’t actually want to fucking know what got your Dad pissed. That shit’s between, me, him, Olivia, my hand, and my dick.”

The look on his face: fucking priceless.

-

Soon enough, I can talk again. Sure, my voice peters out every now and then, but I can talk. The cunthole doctor visits me, tells me I’ll be back to normal in no time. No fucking shit, asshole! I can talk!