You know those nights you toss and turn, too tired to sleep but too tired to get up?
Those muggy hours where your brain does aerobics while you desperately count sheep, and then the pink mass between your ears suddenly lets you doze off five minutes before your alarm but it's the deepest sleep you've ever been in?

yeah?
Sucks, don't it?

The morning light burnt my retinas as I snapped back to reality. Ope there goes gravity.

Carson quickly silenced the blue, battery powered clock that screamed on a thick stack of patient notes, mouthing me a sorry before he slouched away again to do something that seemed very important. Like chug morphine.

The pain was almost gone, lingering with just a dull throb from under the splints.

Christ, the Sanctuary was bustling.
A rush of men marched past the windows with pikes and crowbars,
gaggles of washer women and cleaners and characters stranger than fiction getting on with their routines, diesel and oatmeal on the air as spades clinked, doors barged, and a mousy little woman with glasses and school books rushed through the courtyard as if she was late.
Were there kids here? And who on earth was wearing high heels?

The clop caught my attention, a sound I hadn't heard in so long.
It was coming closer,
and closer,

and not from outside.

The double fire doors to this 'hospital' flapped like they did in westerns while I wondered if I was still high as fuck.

Big doe eyes, a tight little cocktail dress, dark hair in soft waves with a very polite face of make up, a fresh set of clothes hanging over her arm.

She nodded at Carson, who, with his arm discreetly out of my view, slipped her a packet of very tiny pills.

Who the fuck was this? The First Lady of King Kong castle?

After making sure she didn't rattle, stuffing her tablets down the front of her bra, the woman smiled at me sweetly, hands clasped together in front as she tipped her head to the side. "You must be Honey, right? I've been sent to collect you."

What the heck to think? Because I thought it all. None of it probably right as my jaw hit the damp and sweaty bedding.

"I told you my names not Harley, get it right, Arat! How'd you like it if I called you A rat? Huh, Scabbers?" I pouted at the Saviour who told me to fuck off quietly, her arms crossing tightly as she shot us both death daggers.

The First Lady laughed, tucking back her hair that looked like it had just been styled, a very breathy, sweet sound as she raised her brow,
she looked good, for a survivor in a factory lead by a mass murdering kitten kicker.

Her entire image was, considered.

"Who are you?" I swung my legs off the side, remembering not to be so rude as I stared at her tanned arms, and wondered how she got a dress like that to fit,
and at the heels which must have been very uncomfortable,
and the lack of tights on her legs,
and her red lipstick,
and on top of that, wondered how the fuck she found foundation that matched her skin tone.

She caught my gaze, waving to catch my attention, she was young, too. "I'm Sherry."

Well, Sherry seemed nice enough, and I couldn't help think why Baseball would send her my way. Maybe I could use her to get the hell out of Dodge. Hostage style. She was obviously someone important.

I scratched my neck, throwing off my blanket as she popped out her pack of Lucky's.

"Sherry? Fancy that, we're both named after very calorific food stuffs. My Gran used to drink sherry mixed with honey before she peed in the bath and lost her bottom dentures." I tried to run my hands through my hair, realising that was impossible.

Her smile showed her nice white teeth as she held a smoke out to me, "then me and you could do great things, we have both if you fancy some?"

"Grandma's and dentures? You guys really are livin' the highlife." The soles of my feet hit the floor before I remembered my immodesty. "I'd get out but I have a bare arse. And Harlan looks disturbed enough already."

Sherry giggled this time, tapping her forehead as she sashayed up to me and put the smoke in my hands. Well, it really wasn't a sashay, she just knew how to walk in them. "Don't worry, I've brought you some spare clothes."

I looked at the offering she flopped over the rail, clean denim jeans, a comfy black sweater,
but the bra and knickers I poked with my pinkie didn't even look like they could kill a fly, a shade of scarlet I wouldn't have worn even before the end. "Do I wear these or floss with them? Fuck running away from the dead, I'd split myself in two if I sneezed."

Sherry scoffed, wincing at the imagery with a shrug. "Yeah, it's either the floss, or I can loan you some nipple tape? And I won't tell you about the last girl who went commando."

Dressing with splintered fingers wasn't the easiest thing in the world to do as I toppled and twisted and did the pant dance, probably looking like a drunk turtle as I grunted and finally shoved my head through the sweater.

"You decent?"
"Uh—huh. Do you think you could pull this down before I suffocate?"

Sherry twisted on her heels, helping me pull down my sweater.

"Am I going to the gallows? Shall I bring my duelling pistol or sword?" I sighed, enjoying the feeling of fresh, warm linen a little too much. "Or am I a sacrificial lamb and this all ends like Wicker Man?"

She inspected my nails, curious at the scars left by Lucille, and I didn't miss the long look over she gave me, I'd had the same looks loads of times, in job interviews. "Negan told me to bring you to him. Don't ask me why. You really are flavour of the week."

Flavour of the week? My brow popped. Questions eating me alive.

"Trust me. You're lucky." The First Lady swept back her mane, running her hands down her dress as she shook herself into action. "But first you need a shower. And a comb. And no offense," her painted finger wagged my way, "but deodorant, too. People are complaining."

She didn't give me time to think as her dainty hand rested on my back, pushing me forward.
I waved at Carson, he waved back, the doors swinging again as we stepped into the open.
People passed, giving us, or more likely her, a wide birth, Arat on our tail.

I shuffled a little closer, tone just a whisper.
I had no idea if she was an ally, but I had to try. "How safe is this place? How many rooms? And where's the main entrance? How many men doe—."

Sherry cleared her throat loudly, whipping me back by my elbow to shove me in a lonely corner, the guards face wrinkled like a stretched rubber band. "Don't ask. There's too many eyes. And you won't be the one punished for it."

Sherry waited for me to give up, hands tight on my upper arms.

I got the message, nodding before she ushered me on.

We walked for what seemed like an hour, deep in the belly of the grey, concrete beast, until we got to a lush little room opened with her key.

Painted blue, a cosy little bed in the middle, and fuck—with a goddamn ensuite.

"Is this your room?" I asked her, wondering in to look from the window.

Closing the door on Arat with a conversation I couldn't hear, Sherry finally lit her smoke, sparking mine with her pink zippo as she leaned on the ledge next to me. "No. I live higher up. But this was probably a managers when the factory ran, that's why there's a bathroom, there's only three private ones, the rest of them use the communal."

So I really was getting the treatment, huh?
And she had said 'them', meaning again, my new pal Sherry was someone more important than the common folk.

"What do you do for him? All dolled up like that? Some sort of ambassador for the other communities? A madam?" I'd finished half of the Lucky already, tipping the ash in the fake plant.

She didn't answer, staring at the blonde man with Daryl's cross bow who hollered an order at the unfortunate punching a biter in the face.

Snapping the lip of the lighter up and down as her face turned to me, the First Lady practically sighed. "What you did was brave, but really stupid. Everyone's amazed you're not dead. That only means one thing, he has plans for you. Or he likes you."

"Because I'm a hostage—." I needed that shower fast as I closed my eyes to the nicotine rush. "He can't kill me bec—."

"Hostage or not-." The way she rubbed at her temples said it all. "He will. You don't know him. For the sake of your family, for anyone you love, any friends you've got left. If you won't do it for yourself, do it for them. You can't win. Pull your head from your ass and be an adult with a brain."

Trucks were pulling into the entrance.
A lot of them.
At least fifty soldiers piling out like it was a fucking clown car, goodies in the cab.

I realised my lip was bleeding as she rested her hands on my shoulders. "Hold on tight, be patient."
Hands gripped tighter, her second smoke billowing from her nose. "And understand, the worst hasn't happened yet. Anything you think was bad, it only get's worse."
What had he done to her? And why was she dressed like that?
The First Lady left me to think, rooting through the cherry wood draws.

"Here's some towels." Fluffy. Clean. Four little cloud coloured ones were over my shoulder.
Sherry had slipped back into her sweet little persona. Whatever she really was hidden expertly underneath.
"Can I trust you with this?" She asked sternly. Holding the razor out of my reach.

I rolled my eyes at the plastic bic, it would probably cut my wrists better than my bush.

"It's a three minute ration, but I can give you twenty, only if you use water when you need to lather and rinse." With that, Sherry plopped down on the bed, glancing at her watch. "And the door needs to stay unlocked."

Honey had scrubbed until her skin was red, until the filth running down the drain was drinkable.
One leg left unshaved, the razor clogged, her hair stinking of fruity apple punch with traces of coco—vanilla, in a cloud of steam and deodorant, mouth frothing with toothpaste as she scrubbed her teeth furiously,
she swiped the little mirror to see her reflection.

"Honey? Are you okay? It's been an hour."
The Alexandrian ignored the knock on the door, she couldn't hear it.
And she didn't notice when Sherry barged in.

Honey flinched at the hand on her bare shoulder, The First Lady stepping away to avoid any punches—
but spitting out the burning paste and throwing the brush in the bin, Honey nodded rapidly. "Uh—huh. I'm fine. Well, more like fifty percent I don't know and fifty percent I don't care."

They shared an awkward laugh as the slightly older woman picked up the comb and teased away the last of the knots. "We can't keep him waitin'. You best get dressed now."

Honeys face dropped soon as she turned her back—
Sherry was taller, but with no weight to her,
this corridor was lonely, there was no one around,
and all she would have to do was break the window, and tell Dwight, give me the keys, or Sherry takes a tumble.
⋯。。....

I just couldn't do it.
Because under the war paint and hair and pretty complexion,
Sherry looked as miserable as me.
And here was the big one—
She hadn't done fuck all to deserve it.

I shivered when we got to baseballs private corridor.
Sherry looked tense, too.

I was wearing fresh clothes again—
not ones I'd choose,
Levi jeans wrapped my thighs, a fitting black top with the v—neck a little too low tucked into the tight waistband,
and Sherry had fixed my hair into something more acceptable than wet—dog chic after smearing ultra fancy moisturizer on my mug.

"Whatever he asks you to do, just do it." The First Lady suddenly choked, sucking her lips like she wished she hadn't said anything.

The weight was back in my stomach, tiny hairs saluting on my arm as I stared hard at his door.
She had been right. I didn't know him. "H—he said there's no forcing here—." Why was I stuttering?

"No." She drawled, hand on mine as she smiled sweetly, whispering in my ear. "But making you make a choice when there's no other fucking choice to make, that's something else. He won't kill you if you say no, he can just make you regret it."

My brain was doing summersaults trying to keep up.

She looked nearly urgent at the sounds coming from his room, eyes darting to check for shadows. "If you behave he won't even touch you, but your stay here, for however long it is, gets a thousand times easier if you say yes."

Sherry knocked three times, rearranging her hair as she dabbed her face with a blotting tissue.

"Say yes to what? Joining him? Is this some sort of collar sizing?"
"You could say that."

⋯

"Here we are." Sherry was cool and calm and calculated as she strut into the wolf's cabin.
Nothing like the girl before.
And she patted my back, like a school teacher with a child suffering from belly ache.

Hell, I wasn't as nervous when I tried to kill him.

"Christ, finally. I thought whatever was left in my balls would be dust by the time—."
I covered my ears like Negan had spat a flash—bang, the pretty woman's smirk stretching red with infinitely fine lines.

Who wants to hear about his balls so early?

Baseball was on his feet, ignoring me completely save one paltry glance,
he looked excited. Suspiciously so. Like we was edible—
Holy crap. We was.

Dark hair slicked, leather jacket pristine, scruff now close shaved away, along with the king shit attitude, he drawled in that dumb, whiskey cured voice, "if it isn't my favourite girls." Ugh, that grin—
I was sick of it already.
If I wasn't seeing things, I could have swore Sherry was standing a little behind me.

And Negan seemed to notice too, orbs narrowing—"my drop dead gorgeous wife, come the fuck over here and kiss your husband."

WhT? TWF? 

-- -.-- / .--. ..- ... ... -.-- / ... .- -.-- .. -. --. / .-- - ..-.

I didn't mean to gasp, or grip my elbow, or let my eyes travel up and down her all over again like the time I found out my asexual cousin got a boyfriend before me.

He noticed.
He liked that.

In the midst of my scrambled monologue, my face almost behind my shoulders, Sherry walked like a superstar straight into his arms.

Oh, he made a show of it.
A crushing hug, twisting hips, even more violently twisting lips that locked in a wet tongue kiss, exaggerated moans and all as he caressed her cheeks, and then her cheeks.

Man, this room—
I obviously didn't look too hard when I tried to ice him,
the bitch must have had a decorator, because it was luxurious.
Three massive puffy sofas, zebra rugs galore, potted plants and super shined mirrors, clocks that worked, built in wardrobes, shelves.
And a bookcase. Huh. Even nicer than the four poster bed and lush black drapes.

The smooches continued, ignorant of my discomfort.
I told myself it was the misophonia creating a knot in my belly,
that the niggling was nervousness,
and absolutely nothing to do with the way a pair of smug eyes flashed over Sherry's shoulder to see if I was watching.

Soon as our eyes caught, he held up his finger to me, deepening the face sucking.

I was worried this was actually going to turn into full blown fucking as my cringe bubbled over into dry coughing.

"Not in front of the kid, baby." Negan pulled back, his gloved hand on her face.

Sherry only wiped her lips as all of her husbands attention was focused on me.

"Honey badger!" He greeted me, coming my way with wide open arms and a belly full of fuckery.

"Honey bun," he was only an inch away, looming over me, one hand on his heavy belt buckle as he swiped at the bun on the top of my head. "Aww, you're blushing."

Gravity sucked me to the spot as he plucked out the bobble, twisting it on his finger before he flung it away.

Hair fell all the way down my back as he purred in appreciation. "Damn, now you look like that chick from the Grude. Heh. You know, if she was a sexy British chain smoker with a constant frown and premature wrinkles."

I noticed Sherry give me her little look, shaking her head discreetly as baseball walked over to a hyper—polished table.

I smelt it first, a hundred different blends of perfection tickling my senses as the apocalyptic sandwich to end all sandwiches was shoved under my nose.

"Would you like some?" He teased. I was getting tired of looking up. My hands on my hips as I glared—
at the sandwich.

I reached for it, the fat piece of dough spilling with filling almost touching the ceiling as he put it out of my reach.

He laughed, Sherry rolled her eyes. Shredded cheese falling on my shoulders.

My teeth were about to crack before he cooed, bread poking at my lips as he licked his own, "go on," he whispered, "wrap your tongue around it. Take your little t rex hands—."

I gulped as he pretended to correct himself, "hand."

Now his face was shades malicious as his tone turned into thunder clouds, "and, shove it all in, make sure to swallow or you'll choke. I can't give you what you need right now, nah, you're not willing yet, but I can give you what you want."

Sherry had planted herself in the crook of the sofa, watching through the mirror.

I don't know how long we stared at each other for, but I looked away first. 

Baseball scoffed, head tilted as he took one big bite. "It's ham, with cheese, omelette and pickles, some fucking chorizo and fresh, warm butter, and this shit is sourdough—."

I guess he was a polite enough eater as he pretended the chow was ecstasy, "let me guess, you wanna say somethin' between fuck no, or go fuckin' fuck yourself you fuckin' fucker?"

I stepped back, he stepped forward, until my arse bumped against a table.

He cupped his ear for my reply, shaking his head at his wife. "What the fuck did you tell her? She's all wooden and shit. Who the hell turns down a Dwight Deluxe? Did her soul spin down the shower drain? Is that why she looks like she's had a stroke?"

I opened my lips, a pickle shoved straight in it. Fuck, I hated pickes. 

He chuckled at my disgusting chew, bending down on his knees to simper at my throat with a barely there whisper. "Or did you leave it in your Whirlpool when it fell out between your duck lips? You might find it somewhere between your left tit and that wolf tattoo."

Mushy pickle nearly dropped from my lips as my cheeks burned nuclear, the evil little nucleus of his batting black eyes begging me to try.
Son—of—a—bitch.

Yeah—he did his cocky chin thrust, head bobbing side to side as he threw up his hands and shoved the sandwich on the tray.
"What—fuckin'—ever. Fuckin' Honey. Rude."

All it took was a curl of his finger before Sherry came to his side, his paws hitched over his hips. "I'm not gonna lie, this little shit, she scares me. I just don't know what she's gonna do next, screech, jump out of the window and use her tits as wings, scratch the man balls she's been hidin', spit that salty phallic shaped vegetable right back in my face—."

I thought I was gonna pass out at the barrage. Sick. Seething. Ready to launch at his eyes before he sighed and finally gave up.

He's married?! Shit. 

"Sherry, baby. I want you back here tonight. Because I am so hard right now if I smacked my dick over her thick fuckin' skull—." Sherry looked at Negan who pointed to me,
I looked at Sherry,
The good, bad and the ugly style as we all looked at his finger, "even she would fuckin' pass out," he exhaled dizzily.

He smooched his wife one last time, "like you'll be doing after that I do that thing you like. Now, go tell the others to freshen up, make their lazy asses wash the dishes or somethin', because we have a visitor—." Negan winked, slapping her backside as she sauntered off. "I want this one."

Sherry nodded, strutting past me, her hand meekly touching my elbow,
and the door closed. 

Yikes.

"Well, princess. What are you waiting for? A fucking formal invitation? Sit. Don't be shy." He flopped down, spread out like a king admiring his empire as I plopped down on the opposite sofa.

Man, I was self conscious, holding a fluffy ass pillow in front of my tummy, I really hoped he liked his women svelte and beautiful, at least I'd be safe.

Remember, always check your surroundings. Look for entry's and exits, look for the shit in your environment that you can use as a weapon and the shit you can use for cover, always be aware of that shit and never let your guard down, unless you want to be reamed by a bag of giant dicks.

I noticed Lucille propped up against the sofa.
The only escape was the one door—no wait. There was another to the right of his bed, what was through there? A sex dungeon?

There was a heavy crystal paperweight, too, lounging on the desk, that caught my attention, the perfect weight to knock a man out cold.

"You're good, baby. I'll give you that." He drawled. "You keep me on my toes. Fuck, if I was twenty years older you'd give me a cardiac arrest."
Baby?
Who the fuck did he think he was?
All steepled fingers and eyes like slivers of barbed wire.
But—
I don't think I could ever get over that voice, such a lovely voice.

"I know what you're fucking doing," he changed the cross of his legs, drawling that extra bit longer, the cheek I leaned on my palm shooting away to do something embarrassing with tassels.

Oh, God. Was I staring again? Blushing? Were my nips hard?

"I'm not doing anything." I bit, counting the stripes on the rug. "I'm sat here breathin', is that a crime?"

"After what you did, it should be. And you're not playing I spy with my murderous eye something that knocks Negan out cold?" He changed the cross of his legs again. "What did you think I meant?"

I was thankful for the interruption as a knock came at the door.
Negan grit his teeth, hollering a vicious come the fuck in.

"Your order, sir." Joey practically shivered, half way to pissing his pants as he settled down two food trays on the table between me and boss man.

"Thank you Fat—motherfucking—Joseph." Baseball growled, tongue sucking across his teeth.

But Joey was glancing at me,
maybe nervously,
he just stood there, like he needed permission to leave.

"Why the hell are you staring at her like she's a fucking alien?" Negan asked, hands up as he slouched back. "Does she look like an alien? I mean, technically she is, but that attitude towards immigrants is unacceptable. Orrrr do you wanna ask her for a date?"

"No." Joey croaked. Shanking his head.

Negan touched his chest, tinkering digits over barb bitches handle. "No? Why? Is she not good enough?"

Joseph stuttered, inching away little by little. "N—no. Y—I mean—."

Baseball cackled with that signature laughter, elbow on the rest as he wiped at his eyes. "Fuck, Honey. He's burnt you so bad you look like a rotisserie chicken. Rejected—."

He stood up, punching Joeys chest before he pulled him into a head lock, "by Fat fucking Joseph."

I rolled my eyes, rubbing my face on the pillow.

Joseph was laughing, but Negan wasn't, his arm unfurling from his underlings broad shoulders. "Get the fuck out."

Why would he treat his men like that?
As the door opened and closed faster than Simons zipper, Negan got back down to business.

"As I was saying. You're playing I fucking spy with my murderous fucking eye, something that could knock Negan out cold." He got his bat, transfixed with her as he breathed from his wet, parted lips, "she really doesn't like you, hell, it took hours for me to calm her down after she'd been in your shit stained hands."

I wondered who the fuck Lucille really was to him as he laid her ghost on the table. "I want you to apologise."

"Apologise?" Spit shot from my mouth. "To a—."

I didn't forget what Sherry had told me. Or how that bat had brained my crew. And really, I didn't have a choice as I gave myself an Indian burn. "I'm sorry, Lucille. I won't touch you again."

I heard his exhale, bottom lip vanished in his mouth as he shuffled to the end of his seat. "Now, kiss and make up. Or she might just grow legs and kill you in your sleep."
I searched his face, pleading silently. No, no, no, no, no.

Negan thought about it, he really did, before his paw swiped through the air. "I'm fuckin' with you, she would tear off your face. And I enjoy lookin' at it, it's expressive as hell, like a Picasso, after it's rained."

Never in my entire existence had someone gave me so many nasty, back handed compliments. I didn't get it. Did he like me? Did he hate me? Was he attracted to me? Or was I such good sport he didn't know himself.

Fuck this.

"What did you need me for?" I asked, level, calm, heart hammering in my chest, yes. But I managed not to stutter as I placed my pillow down and sat up straight, like a big girl.

"We'll get there," he purred, being a big girl was a little hard as hungry eyes flickered up my form. My boobs were too big for this top. My thighs a little thick in these ridiculous jeans. Still I didn't waver, fuck, I'd been around Merle, and he never learned my name, it was just sugar tits.

"So, you hungry doll?" Negan teased, taking his own tray to dash his fork around uninterested. 

Helle-lujah. "No, not really, I've had some of the best dog food sandwiches I've ever tasted. And that military macaroni gave my jaw abdominals. So I can soldier on for a while." Ouch, did I just screw myself, I sucked back my tongue, trying to look cutesy.

"Fuck it, I'll eat it then." He shrugged.

"No!" I surprised myself with the instant caw, him as well as the fork stopped half way. "Actually I'm feeling a bit peckish, I might as well eat it, you know, but at the same time, I don't want you blowing away with a light breeze."

With a chuckle that licked me a little too sweetly, he stood up to place it on my lap, damn, it was horrid to have him over me, of course, he was doing it on purpose, oh, look, I'm bigger than you, baby. Smiling at my slunk into the now warm fabric.

Soon as he sat, I chowed down. Sick textured stew had never tasted as good, the gravy spilling down my chin before I mopped it down with the bread roll. Honey the piglet, Honey the hungry, I didn't give a shit the crumbs were on his sofa.

"Damn, they should call you Yuri with how fast you bend spoons."

Fuck you.

"Put it down. Now."

o

The rebel and the ruler's eyes met over the still steaming bowl,

she just had to do it, stick in one more spoonful as she sucked her fingers and wiped them on the jeans he'd specifically told Sherry to bring.

He'd never actually heard someone living growl before, what the fuck, was she raised by dogs? Because she was good at it, if she even realised she was doing it at all,

and she did a little snarl too when his finger dipped into her bowl, vanishing into his mouth.

He picked out a particularly unlucky piece of potato, flicking it back into the dainty bowl,  "heh, looks like the Chinaman's eyeball."

It couldn't have worked better if he'd tried as she dashed to her stretching toes, everything bleeding out like the slough from her stitched wounds. "It was you fuckers who started this! Is your attention span smaller than your dick? We made something, we've fought tooth and fucking nail to have made it this far. All the people we've lost, all the suffering. And you think you can just waltz into our lives and shit all over it! You'll pay for—."

"SIT THE FUCK DOWN."

The entire Sanctuary was quiet,
so quiet the rotter's were listening with the hush that fell over the place,
or maybe he had just shouted so loud he'd deafened everything within a thirty kilometre range.

"Sit down." He growled, their noses touching. "Right. Fucking. Now. You manic little bitch. Or I'll show you just how fucking crazy I am."

He twitched, actually twitched, his world in kaleidoscope colours as she jabbed him right back.

This shit was over, he was going to strangle her, his hands were coming up, face set and severe as they came up to latch onto her wind pipe.

The glass table, the second one brought from storage this week, shattered in a storm of wood and wire and the ferocious spasm of flesh, Lucille had shattered it, the tiny shards sprinkling like fairy dust over the floor,
it sounded like wind chimes in a hurricane.

And when he'd finished, he was panting, back bent, the insides of his cheeks leaking blood.

Honey stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, her splintered fingers flying through the humid, hot air as she smacked her lips and sighed, gesturing at the glittering carnage, "fuckin' great, wreck it Ralph. Look at this shit, just because you don't clean it up doesn't mean you should keep ruining things."

Why wasn't she dead? He shook his head, so close to the loss of his composure as fireworks danced across his vision.

"Are you proud of yourself? Or you gonna give me the," Honey mimicked a man, kicking her toes through the shards, "oh, look what you made me do. Like every fucking dude with a penis ever. You entitled man child twat."

His fist slung back.

"Oh. Go on, beat me the fuck up, I've had worse from better." Honey chuckled, pointing to the swollen apple of her cheeks. "Why don't you bring in your crew so you can tag team, fuck make a day of it, Negan and his ball slappin' bitches at it again."

And Negan had finished speaking before he realised he'd said a word. "Honey. Should we just hate fuck?"

He saw the one solitary moment her dark eyes widened, just before the melt of her muscles, a burning sensation pouring down her throat.

And the wind sailed from his lungs as she pounced at his face.
Was she fighting? He thought, she was fighting, kicking like a bronco as he caught her t—shirt and swung her around, her back crushing against the poster of the bed.

She crumbled as his lips met hers, one long sigh,
her nasty little hand pulling at his hair,
he worked through the sharp bite, grasping the back of her neck until the teeth turned to tongue and she raked nails down his shoulders.

A leather gloved hand yanked viciously at her damp curls, thrusting up her head, one that moved quickly to her throat as her paws seized the lapels of his jacket.

Honey danced on her tip toes, dizzy and breathless as the wild vanished into a sloppy surrender,
she tilted her head,
he deepened her doom,
his hands grabbing at her hips before he wrapped her thighs around his waist,

little fucker—that dirty fire was in her eyes and he wanted to play with it,

with a tug of his hair she stuffed his face in the crook her neck, eyes hitting the back of her head as he sucked at that sweet little spot that made her squirm,
his hips crushing harder, lips crushing harder, the treasonous ache in Honey's belly spreading to parts she'd almost forgotten about as she finally let her heat slip down to catch his filthy friction.
"You wanna put a hanky over Lucille's head?" She whispered, keening at the punishing kiss and the rough, squeezing hands sunk in the meat of her backside.

"Fuck you, Honey." Her feet hit the floor as he spun her around, bending her against the poster as he kicked her legs apart, "I'm desperate to put something over my head. Let's hope it's not got teeth."

⋯。...。

God forgive me.
I wiped at my mouth with the crook of my elbow.
I was sick. I needed help.
I needed putting out of my misery.

Spinning around, I pushed him away with all my might.

"Holy fucking fuck." His face glowing, eyes this fuck glazed amber, he kicked at the shards on the floor. "News at fucking eleven, you need a visit to the dip shit training centre because—. Fuck, I'm actually speechless."

I'd just given him the bazooka of fuck you Ricks.

"Don't ever do that again," I warned, glued to the paint work. "Move out of my way, I'm goin' home. I'll fuckin' walk it. Hell, I'll ride there on the back of a rotter."

I didn't know what I'd just done.
Why the dick I did it. Hell, I'd just gone and made an enemy of Sherry now.

"You can't walk away from me, I am fucking everywhere. I am fucking everyone." He hissed as I tried to open the door.

It was too warm in here.
I could still smell his wife's perfume, my face itchy from his stubble, him in my mouth as I prayed I had no evidence left on my neck. 

He slammed the door shut. On me before I could scream as I hugged under his arm. 

"No one is comin' to save you. You belong to me now. You will do as I say, you work for me, you don't have to enjoy it. I know its a big, bitter fucking pill to swallow—." He roared, swiping the corner of his lips. 

Worst of all, I had fucked up more than Andrea. And unlike her, I deserved a few bullets from a Colt Python.

I froze in his shade, shivering under the arc of the windows, he was looking at me different now, searching, wondering as he let me limp away. "But you will gulp that bitch down and then thank me for it, because I am the one who's keeping you alive."

Something told me not to speak as he simmered with holy hell. "You breathe my fuckin' air."

And I couldn't believe it was the same man from thirty seconds ago, now he was a dry, inflamed, grudge bearing motherfucker that salted any fury I had left.

"Maybe, they're relieved your gone," he whispered, "maybe I did them a favour. Because if they cared, any one of them, they'd come for you."

I withered as he only smiled, "if any of them were men who wanted to protect you from all the nasty shit out there,"
His palm turned my face so I looked through the window, "they'd offer themselves in your place."

Over the courtyard, class was in session. The same mousy woman I'd seen with the text books writing something on an old white—board.

I couldn't move away, trapped between the window and his body as he swept back my hair and rested a hand on the cill. "You've been kicked to the curb, princess. You've been abandoned, like one of those little dogs that can't decide whether they want to hump the couch or chew on grandma."

There was sand in my throat, not even capable of a parched whisper.

"Here's what I'm gonna do," Negan began, "I'm gonna take you back to Alexandria, and I'm gonna ask if anyone wants to trade places, but not before I take a piece of their bodies and fucking feed it to you, then you can explain why you cost Blazin' Hot her fucking feet."

I shook my head, no breath in my lungs. Turning on my toes to face him. 

"Fuck it," he laughed, his shrug knocking me backward, "I'll have to kill one of them. Because you're really gettin' the wrong message about me."

"I understand, please." I turned, the shivers visible now.

"You think you can keep fuckin' up so cata—fuckin—strophically and then look at me like that," he tsked at the tears in my eyes,  "and I won't do shit?"

"I'm scared." I bit, looking politely at his boots in a show of submission. "I've got no one left."

"I know." He laughed. Stroking the underside of my chin. 

"You are alone." He whispered, his thumb pad on my teary lips. 

"I know."

"No one is comin' for you." He leaned a little closer, stroking my stinging cheeks.

"I know."

"But you said one little thing wrong, sweetheart. You have me."

Blood rushed in my ears, tips of my fingers tingling as he spun me around—
The mousy teacher was passing out pencils as his chin rested on my shoulder. "But if you piss me off one more mother—fuckin'—time I will take the greatest pleasure in annihilating what ever fuckin' loyalty they have left to you when you get them killed."

My hands were grasping the cill, eyes glued closed.
"I won't kill you. I don't enjoy killing women—." Rick had warned me, he had warned me, Simon, Sherry, Dwight, too. If I got them killed, I couldn't live with the guilt.

"—But I can make it so you really wish you was fuckin' was," he knew he had won already, licking what was left of me as he gave me a mocking frown, "—I can make you live with gettin' your precious fuckin' Maggie gettin' lowered in the ground."

He only grinned wider at my dry—heave.
Dramatic as fuck with his pinballing eyes,
how could he joke about that? "And she'll be in a coffin', because she'll be fuckin' dead."

Finally finished, castrated, trampled, set on fire and pretty much fist—fucked, I gave up as he slapped my backside. "Yahtze. Now, on to the fun stuff. Unless you wanna jump me again?"