Rules, rules, rules. The life that Negan built was cramped with regulations. You were fully aware that every good behavior came with access to necessities, every favor came with a desired luxury, and every crime came with a very specific consequence. But in order to understand this new civilization, you had to delve deeper into his code. Your father always reminded you, "To beat anyone in a game, no matter what that game may be, you have to know the rules inside out and backwards." Of course, at that time, you were a grungy, angsty adolescent who despised restrictions. Before the world went to absolute shit, you viewed laws and social mores as malleable. You lived by your own moral code and conducted yourself in balanced way--divergent but careful. Though you discreetly flipped a big, fat middle finger at authority, the rule makers would still give you the benefit of the doubt. You weren't a delinquent, you were a free spirit. But in Negan's territory, your method of survival was learning the clockwork of the New World Order.
You listened studiously on the plush couch in the Playboy Mansion--taking mental notes as he explained the rewards and responsibilities of his harem...or the "Negan's Cock Fan Club," as The Saviors called it. "So those foxy fucking brauds serve one purpose in order to live comfortably. You obviously know what that single purpose is. Once they 'give it up,' they've signed themselves over to me. Sex equals automatic wife. I suppose it's a bit like consummating a marriage. But romance, intimacy, candle-lit dinners, roses and all that corny fucking femmy bullshit isn't a part of it. Attachment causes a big fucking load of trouble." Negan folded the cuffs of his dress shirt, revealing his strong, sinewy forearms. "The 'No Kissy-Kissy' rule is in place to avoid any sort of clinginess," he elaborated while stroking his bottom lip with his thumb.
He was so close, you could practically taste him. Licking your own lips as you watched him subtly tease, you responded, "Which scares you more? Your wives getting clingy with you or you getting clingy with them?"
He sighed and ran his fingers through his silver beard. "I don't get attached, doll," he murmured. "Do I pick favorites? Sure, if the chick gets fucking wild in the sheets. But do I get down on one knee for that bitch? Might as well get in line to be fucking neutered."
You chuckled and flicked the ashes of your cigarette. "It's funny, you sound a lot like me."
A smile raised the corners of his mouth. His gaze appeared condescending. "Oh yeah, Miss Independent? You fucking disproved that statement in the boxing ring."
You shrugged your shoulders and took another drag. Playing dumb was the only way to get a glimpse inside this man's mind. "What do you mean?" you asked, trying to sound earnest.
"You know what I fucking mean, hon. You just don't want to admit it." He adjusted the buttons on his shirt, unveiling his firm abdomen. His deliciously musky aroma drowned the smell of your cigarette smoke. "I thought your fucking Hulk-Mode temper was your tragic flaw. Now, I believe it's your pride."
Aware of his intentions, you sought to end the prying. "If this is about Dwight, you're mistaken. He's just another Savior, like the rest of them," you said, attempting to hide the blush in your cheeks.
He raised his dark brows and inched closer to you. "You expect me to swallow that shit you just fed me? I know what tears look like, hon. And you were crying like a fucking baby when I handed that pistol to you," he growled. "That was a damn-grade-A example of attachment."
You exhaled a cloud of smoke, and it billowed around your head like a halo. "Negan, why can't you admit that my 'interactions' with Dwight make you uncomfortable?" Crossing your arms, you pelted his own words at him with a smug smile on your face. "That's a damn-grade-A example of pride."
Negan shook his head and scratched the back of his neck in careful consideration. "Sweetheart..." he began in a patronizing tone. "I may be mean-ass motherfucker. Hell, I may be a 'tyrant,' as you so fucking eloquently put it. But I'm only looking out for your best interests. Dwight's a piece of delinquent scum. But he's an obedient piece of delinquent scum, which makes him pretty fucking helpful. But he's a shifty fucker who'll change sides quicker than you can say 'fickle-ass-fuckery.' Blink and you'll miss it."
Dwight's tender smile flickered like a flame behind your eyes. His teal irises made your soul weep. The way his cheeks would become flushed around you like a nervous, little school boy...Negan's words didn't convince you. They angered you. "So that's why you'd call him away while we were working together. That's why you slandered him to get a rise out of me. And that's why you chose him as my opponent. Not because you're worried that he'll screw me over. Oh no...you're worried that he'll screw me." Spitefully, you took another puff of your cig and blew smog from your nostrils like a fire-breathing dragon. Aiming for his face, you silently laughed at the notion that you were killing him slowly with your second-hand smoke. "I'll admit it, I'm attached. And no, for the last time, we're not fucking. Dwight's my bestie whether you like it or not. Jesus, you're like a fucking teacher trying to separate the two class clowns!"
Negan released a hearty laugh, which shocked you. You were expecting a brutal rebuttal. Instead, he chuckled and smiled, fondly. "I still remember dealing with those smart-ass kids, back in the day. Goddamn right, I separated them. Those fuckers were a little less ballsy when they weren't side-by-side."
Choking on the last drag of your Camel, you stared at his handsome grin in awe. "You were a...teacher? Are you fucking kidding?"
"Swear on my mother's grave," he said through a laugh. "I was a gym teacher. 'Guess some of my methods came in handy after the walker-pocalypse."
You couldn't believe what you just heard. And THAT information will come in handy when dealing with you in the future. Thanks, Negan, you mused. For a second, you envisioned him as a fitness educator--less silver in his espresso hair, a black, under armor T-shirt clinging to his broad chest, biceps bulging in his sleeves, athletic shorts revealing his toned legs, sweat glistening on his brow, a whistle clutched in his tempting lips... Before you started to drool over the naughty creations of your imagination, you snapped back to reality. Your core was still tingling with maddening warmth and yearning. "Th-th-that explains the baseball bat," you stammered. Recovering from your brief, tantalizing distraction, you returned to the argument. "But look, D and I are not smart-asses screwing around in the basketball court. As for all this attachment bullshit, I can handle myself. If Dwight does screw me over at some point, I won't throw a bitch-fit. But you, Negan..." Extinguishing your cig with one hand, you placed the other on his knee.
His eyes glowed dangerously and he bit his lip. The heat of him...that overwhelming heat transferring from his body to yours...
"What about me, doll?" he inquired, seductively.
Hiding your childish anxiousness was NOT possible. Gulping and cracking your knuckles, you replied, "I know you're envious. I can see it when you hover over the cafeteria, the grounds, the workshop, wherever we happen to be. You're not that hard to read. And you know what? Jealousy is a tell-tale sign of attachment. So before you go pointing out my tragic flaws, look in the mirror, first. Thou shalt not covet, Negan."
His smile warped into an intense scowl, and his eyes narrowed. He placed his hand on yours, pressing it to his knee firmly. An edge of sternness sharpened his gravelly voice. "Don't start throwing that fucking Exodus shit at me. When I say I'm looking out for you, I fucking mean it. Attachment is risky fucking business. It's exactly why Amber's walker-chow."
You seethed as he stared into your soul. His grip was tight on your hand, and it was massive in comparison--completely covering your own. Fighting your boiling temper, you inquired, "You knew she was going to try to run back to her folks, and you did nothing? How could you be so insensitive?"
"That country bumpkin was destined to be lunch if she stayed on that fucking sorry-ass farm. Her and the rest of her kin were defenseless, ignorant fucks--basically living under a rock. They had no clue how to fight, scavenge, or even kill a biter properly. Hell, I fucking saved her. And how does she thank me? She bitches me out, refuses to work--which is why she took the wife option to begin with--sleeps with Mark, the family's fucking farm hand, and runs off only to be fucking eaten, anyway! Fuck-FUCKETY-Fucking-FUCK!" He was more than infuriated. The grip of his hand vibrated in anger. His jaw clenched. Amber wasn't the reason for his outrage; he didn't seem mournful. Rather, he cursed her foolishness, but you knew he was disappointed in himself for not being able to protect her. Stroking the bristles on his chin, he breathed heavily. "Love makes you do stupid shit," he sighed and shook his head as if he were accepting responsibility for Amber's demise. Negan was a strict, meticulous perfectionist. Incidents like these were the faulty cogs in his world that he magnified. Whatever went wrong, it seemed like he'd beat himself up behind closed doors.
Wow...he's actually pretty torn up about this, you pondered. Your eyes softened after his bitter tirade ended. His forehead wrinkled in anxiety, and you brushed a couple of stray locks from his hairline. "It's a confusing force of nature, isn't it? Sure, we all know it makes us act childish. Depends on how you harness those emotions." There was a loss of sharpness in your voice as you gently ran your fingers through his hair. The hostility in the air subsided. He looked so...did you dare say vulnerable?
"What do you know about love anyway, kid?" he chuckled. He averted his gaze in this moment. "You're hardly over twenty."
"I do know a thing or two about love...and I'm nearly twenty-three," you corrected his assumptions. "Just like your no-kissing rule, I have my own rules to avoid connections."
"Is that why you won't publicize your fucking name?" he laughed and released his grasp on your hand. His golden eyes questioned yours. "Seems like we're not that different after all, Nameless."
You stood up and paced about the room, investigating your surroundings. Studying the decorative knick-knacks that crowded the lounge, you stated, "I only tell those I trust." Approaching one of the delicately carved, white bookcases, you noticed a collection of vinyls. Fingering through the albums, you heard Negan get on his feet.
"My guess is that you hide it because it's some fucking weird, flower-child name. Something like River or Moon or fucking Dandelion," he chuckled and untucked his button-down shirt.
You winked at him as he cleaned your ashes from the tea-table. "Can't be any weirder than the name 'Negan,'" you retorted, shuffling through the dusty records.
"Fucking excuse me, No-Name. It's not weird. It's uncommon," he argued with a cheeky grin.
Eyeing a vintage turntable next to the shelf, you selected an album. The Kooks, Inside In, Inside Out, you read, and your eyes sparkled in delight. You held up the record and turned to Negan. "Mind if I...?"
He raised his eyebrows and walked over the the turntable. "Go right ahead. I'll show you how to work one of these--"
"I know," you snipped. You lowered the vinyl in its place and flipped the switch on the side.
"Fucking feisty, aren't we..." Negan crooned with a smile.
Dropping the pin onto the record, you adjusted the volume of the scratchy track. A bright, care-free guitar riff broke the silence. You recognized the song immediately.
So did Negan, apparently. "Can't believe you're a fan of The Kooks! I fucking love this song," he exclaimed, pleasantly surprised by your taste in music. He snapped his fingers to the beat and hummed along to the lyrics. "I'd always play this shit during Phys Ed, just to piss off my students!"
"Do you know the words?" you laughed and began to sway your hips.
Negan flashed his pearly-whites and chimed in at the refrain. He sang in a warm, slightly raspy timbre, "You only go around, round, round. You only go around, round, round..."
You giggled at his enthusiasm. "Well listen to you!" He slyly winked at you, and your laughter filled the room.
The light, airy song fluttered from wall to wall as the two of you tapped your feet and sang along. You looked at him shyly, from time to time, as he'd sing a verse in that beautifully low, mellow voice of his. After a couple of jangly verses, he suddenly grabbed your hand and twirled you around. Your eyes widened in exhilaration, and you giggled wildly. He pulled you in, placing his hand on your hip as you placed your own on his shoulder. The two of you danced as if you were at a 1950's sock-hop. He spun you a few times, picked you up without warning, and swung your legs through the air. Clutching on to his dress shirt, you gasped in shock at his dancing skills. He was actually quite talented, and he made you feel as light as a feather. A glow illuminated his face, and his eyes glimmered with warmth. There was about a minute left in the song when he boisterously belted out the lyrics, "JACKIE BIG TITS!" You let out a peal of laughter as he dipped you and twirled you as if you were a ballerina. But then, just as the song was drawing to a close...he gazed into your eyes with both hands on your tiny waist.
You paused, confused as to why he ceased to dance. "What is it?" you asked with your arms wrapped around his neck. Still breathless from your "moving, grooving, slipping, and sliding," your gaze traced from his crow's feet to his dimples.
He ran his hands along your curves and titled his head to the side. Looking absolutely spell-bound, he rubbed his thumb against your bottom lip, sensually. "I'd like to solve the puzzle..." he murmured. His eyes were half-closed, and he leaned in close to your face. His breaths were deep and soft.
"The puzzle?" you whispered in a trance, and you licked your lips. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and your cheeks grew searing hot. Your palms were sweaty in nervousness, and that torturous tingling sensation spread through your sensitive skin.
He cupped your face and lightly touched his lips against yours. "The jig is up, Jackie," he whispered. You felt his beard brush against your chin as he said this, and your knees grew weak. The jig was up. He could read you better than you originally thought--like a goddamn book.
He figured it out. Your breath hitched. "W-what? How did you..." But before you could speak, he pressed his lips to yours. A wildfire blazed in your core. Your whole world stopped. Bolts of lightening carved static paths through your veins. Negan's soft, delicious lips engulfed your every thought.
What's happening? Oh my god, is this really...you could barely think. His lips massaged yours. The light touch of tongue made you shiver. His rough hands slowly traveled to your thighs, then up to your breasts where he brushed his fingers over them teasingly. You hushed a moan in your throat as his tongue tickled your own. Feeling his firm chest, you gingerly let your hands explore his body. So strong, so powerful...you could feel the intense rhythm of his heart. He pressed his hips against yours, and you could feel him thrusting ever so lightly. His heat, his hardness, his sexy sounds...it was all dangerously addictive. Hungrily, he nibbled on your lower lip, and you whimpered in pleasure. An excited growl built in his broad chest, and his touch grew more daring. He slid his hands beneath your shirt and massaged your silky, smooth skin. Your hips gyrated against his, and you could feel yourself losing control.
It was all happening so fast. I want...I want... He couldn't detach his lips from yours. Picking you up, he aggressively wrapped your legs around him and carried you to the couch. Throwing you onto the over-stuffed cushions, you bounced and gasped. Removing his shirt hurriedly, he kissed your neck--the sensation of his teeth nipping at your skin made you pant. Involuntarily, you ripped off your own shirt and invited him to touch you. Raising your hips as he straddled your body, you guided him where you needed him most. Sliding his hand along your waistband, he asked in a husky whisper, "What do you want?" You thrust your hips as his fingers dove into your panties. His hardness pressed relentlessly against his zipper. "Tell me what you fucking want..."
Squirming as his fingers played with your pussy, you felt how drenched he made you. His feather-light ministrations caused you to groan and buck desperately. Your toes curled in anticipation. "Negan..." you sighed in an unusually high-pitched tone. "I need..."
He unbuttoned his pants, and stroked his length seductively through his boxers. His sounds of pleasure resonated between your thighs. "What do you need?" he whispered. He looked so deliciously thick.
I NEED you inside of me, Negan! Right fucking now! Don't fucking hold back! Tacitly, you begged and screamed and cried for him to fill you.
You were dripping wet as he drew circles around your most sensitive spot. Your breath grew ragged with want. His pupils dilated, making his eyes transform into black orbs...thirsty and craving the feel of you. Before he had a chance to rip your pants from your shapely legs, your pesky thoughts returned to haunt you.
Wait...sex equals...oh FUCK no!
Though his legs locked you in place, you soon scrambled free and recovered from the heady tingle you felt when you were beneath him. He was still in an enticing daze as he looked at you. "What is it now?" he sighed, studying your expression.
You grit your teeth, grabbed your shirt, and swiftly pulled it over your head. "What do you fucking think, you tricky, little fuck?!" you hissed. Your eyes were darts, and he was the the dart board. "Consummating the fucking marriage, are we? Hell no!"
Negan jumped to his feet and attempted to embrace you, but you flinched and swatted his hands away. "Doll, I don't want to screw you over. I want you!" he exclaimed with pleading eyes.
"Shut the fuck up!" you yelled. Glowering at him, you snarled with your fists clenched. "I'm not going to be a fucking pawn in your game, Negan. Don't fucking try it. I know how this shit works, and I don't want anything to do with it! I'm not a fucking toy!"
"No, hon, I'm not trying to..." He placed his hands on your hips cautiously. Attempting to calm you with a kiss, he leaned in, and you snapped. You pushed him against the book shelf with all your might, leaving him bewildered by your strength. The room rattled as you fumed.
You dug your nails into his chest and growled, "First of all, you know my name now. So why don't you fucking use it instead of those fucking sexist nicknames, yeah? Second, you can't fucking fool me. The only person who's trying to screw me and screw me over is you. Not The Saviors, not Dwight...YOU! Any more tricks, and you'll never see or hear from me ever again!" Tears fell from the corners of your eyes as you glared at him. Confusion clouded his expression. His eyes screamed in distress.
"No...that's not...you didn't let me...I can explain..." He couldn't even form a proper sentence.
Slamming your fists against his abdomen, you pulled yourself away from him and stomped to the door. "Go fuck your other play-things! And if they won't have you, then go fuck yourself!" you shouted, vehemently. You yanked the door open and left in cyclone of rage. In your peripheral vision, you noticed him placing his head in his hands. He didn't appear to be angry. His demeanor was riddled with regret.
"Wait, Jackie!" he called after you.
"That's fucking No-Name to you, PRICK!" you screamed as you strut down the hall, furiously.
Fucking serves him right. Deal with those blue-balls like a big boy, Negan. This isn't a game...this is WAR. You huffed and spouted unintelligible nonsense all the way to the cafeteria. Punching the railing as you descended the staircase, you spotted Dwight. He looked up from one of the long tables and smiled at you--waving you over. "Thank god," you praised under your breath. "Boy, do I have a story-and-a-half for him..."
And then you realized: Holy shit...Negan broke his own rule. With me.