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Wife Wanted

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Location: Highway 83 — Campbell, VA

Negan’s POV

Shit got boring.

It was just a fact of life. A sprinkle of death here, and some action there managed to punch a hole in the lifeboat; but once it was all said and done and he had that shit patched up, life went on being this shit-void of a waste of time. 

Lucky for him. He had a wife to break up the monotony. 

One for each day of the week. 

A foursome on Monday.

Anal on Wednesday. 

And if he really wanted something to combat the monotony—The Pussy Parlor on Saturday.

Negan liked to compare life to a lifeboat simply because you were either drowning or surviving in this life. He thought the analogy was profound. 

Depressing, yet profound. 

And then there was him, he liked to save people. Pull those who were drowning onto his lifeboat, you could say. Call it the nurturing gene, but he liked to provide for his people. Whether they saw it like that or not, he did his best. It was all in the details, the small things that people tended to overlook. Shelter, warmth, and clean clothes at cost. He was a damn good leader. Still, he digressed. 

The sun had begun to set along with a layer of grime and guts over his beloved leather jacket and Lucille was no better. His poor baby had started to wear over the years, the grains of wood carried this dullish burgundy color no matter how many times he polished her.

Around him, his men worked dutifully to carry out his orders. His rules. He loved when shit was all nice and tidy, and in-between the lines. They’d come from a massive haul just twenty miles east of the factory, an abandoned mini-mall that held furniture and some other shit he’d find a use for. 

“A big, fat A+, Simon.” He’d done the majority of the grunt work on this collection, which Negan could appreciate for what it was. Not so much ass-kissing, but an actual sense of obligation. “A round at The Pussy Parlor,” He smirked, “on me tonight.” 

Fuck that, he was feeling generous, and maybe just a little sentimental. Over the years, Simon, the little fucker, had actually grown on him. “You know what? I’m feeling generous, and maybe just a little sentimental. Why don’t you go for two nights, slugger?” He clapped Simon on the back in passing. The day was done and in the meantime, his dirty girl needed a good cleaning. 

Simon’s response came low, stilted, “Nah, I’m good.”

Negan paused, a hand on the RV door. It took him a moment to understand that someone, Simon, of all people, was actually turning down free pussy.

“Nah, I’m good?” He mimicked the words, his head cocked like he couldn’t quite understand or maybe he just hadn’t heard right. He couldn’t have. Slightly lower, he murmured, “What the hell?” Negan was a caretaker and The Pussy Parlor was how he cared for Simon. 

Simon had never refused his care.

“Simon,” He called louder after a second try, and it took Simon a moment to turn, his figure having been folded over a pile of paper he’d held poised on the hood of his truck. He looked defeated, like a man without a purpose. 

One.

   Two.

     Three delayed seconds before Simon answered, “Yeah, boss?” 

Negan paused, reassessing his approach, “Nothing.”

His grip on Lucille slackened. It was odd. To see someone one way, until suddenly they weren’t. He considered that maybe he’d wanted to see Simon the way he was before this one came along. He wasn’t sure. How hadn't he noticed it before? The blank stare. His hollow voice. 

Simon was a dead man walking. 

For once, Negan didn’t know whether to attempt a rescue or ignore the body in the water.

One thing was clear, Simon was drowning. 

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 17, Room 30

Reader’s POV

You live in a small room with your little brother, aunt, and cousin. Some would say you should be so lucky to have so many members of your family alive and breathing. This life had taken more than its share of loved ones from others, sometimes wiping out entire bloodlines in a day.

You hated yourself for wishing them all dead. 

You’d fallen into a routine since you’d arrived at the Sanctuary two years ago. At four am, you’d rise before the sun and eat a meager breakfast of half a granola bar and a cup of lukewarm water. When 4:30 am came around you were elbows deep in piping hot water, the metal grates of a washboard slowly numbing the tips of your fingers. By the time the sun has risen, you’ve already completed the mandated twenty-four loads of laundry. You have thirty more to go. You work through lunch, the need to scrounge every single point to pay for your family’s expenses weighing on your mind. 

You tell yourself, hunger is a state of mind.

When the big, metal clock above your head chimes 9:00 pm, you're permitted to leave. All day you’d walked the distance between the metal basins and clotheslines, carrying heavy loads of laundry almost a quarter of a mile both ways. You have blisters and the soles of your sneakers have long since worn thin, and the tired you feel is bone deep. Maybe deeper. You have this theory that when you die your soul will remain tethered to this place, you’ll walk the metal halls of this factory forever tired. 

At 9:15 pm, you climb seventeen flights of stairs and walk the long hall to Room 30.

Your personal hell.

Your Aunt’s sourer expression of disapproval immediately greets you at the door. “Y/N, I've been waiting for you to start dinner.” She ushers you in without a word, her bony fingers digging into your back as she directs you toward the small, portable stove in the corner of your room. Without a word, you prepare four plates with meager portions of chicken you’d bought from the market. 

“You’re late,” She accuses. "I guess you had more important things to do than take care of your family."

The rest of your family members trickle in before you can retort. Though, you’re not sure you have much to say. 

“Chicken, again?” Marley softly whines as she dramatically throws herself onto the twin bed you share with her. Most nights she kicks you in the ribs. You have bruises. “We had chicken yesterday. The smell makes me want to hurl.” She pouts. 

“I know, sweetheart.” Your aunt soothes her gently, rubbing a hand at the small of her back. “Y/N, will look for something else tomorrow. It’s her day off.”

“Okay,” You acknowledge them both. 

You work six days a week, but it feels like seven. 

“I want beef,” Marley states. “I’m craving beef.”

“She’ll get beef,” Your aunt answers before you do, “and some fresh fruit. Right, Y/N?”

Marley is sixteen, but your aunt still coddles her like she’s six. You wish sometimes that your aunt would coddle you. Yet, all your receive is back-handed compliments and stale affection. She has COPD, which she claims keeps her from working. Her medication alone takes more than half of your paycheck.

“Okay,” You blink. “Dinner’s ready.”

Your brother, Bradley, doesn’t speak much. Still, he nods in thanks when you pass him a plate and doesn’t complain about the repeated item on the menu. He's eleven, but you’re sure that his soul is broken. Marley pushes her plate away in protest, covering her face with thin sheets as she groans and stretches out on the bed. That leaves you to eat on the floor. 

When you’re sure that the others have settled into their meals, you allow yourself to sit for the first time all day. Your bones seem to settle and groan in thanks. This time is yours and you allow yourself to simply be. Head bowed over your plate, you say a silent prayer before taking a small bite of chicken. It’s a shame you can’t taste anything. 

The heavy silence of the room is punctured by the periodic scraping of plastic silverware on styrofoam plates until it isn’t. Marley abruptly sits up, fists tightly clenched to her belly. Her eyes wide, she says, “I'm pregnant.”

It takes you a minute to process the announcement, your cousin is only sixteen. Her only task is to go to the makeshift school alongside your brother. It's that simple. 

Bradley is the first to speak. “Are you fucking stupid?”

You aren't sure whether to be shocked at the fact that he's actually spoken for the first time in two years or his use of an expletive. He hasn't learned that from you. 

“Fuck off, you mute, nobody was talking to you.” Marley spits.

“At least I’m not a stupid slut that spreads her legs,” He shouts, his face reddening with the effort it takes for his voice to project. You're sure the neighbors are hearing every word. “We can hardly afford to eat, and now you’re pregnant?”

Aunt Susan’s eyes begin to water, her hands twist nervously before they come up to cover her mouth. As they continue to bicker, she moves to slowly stand by the small window in the room. She takes a deep breath, then another. And another. She wheezes. You hope she'll die, it would be one less mouth to feed.

The room feels smaller than usual. Cramped. Suffocated. Still, you think. You’re always thinking. Always calculating how you’ll provide for your family, and soon they’ll be one more mouth to feed. One more responsibility for you to shoulder.

Marley’s mouth puckers as she fights back tears, her face ashen, “It’s not my fault. Y/N, I…”

“Stop, stop.” The heavy sigh that falls from your lips is more than enough to let on that you’re tired. You’re so tired. “Just stop fighting.” You plead.

No one protests when you say, “I’ll look for another job.”

Her back still turned, Aunt Susan adds, “Y/N will fix this. She always does.”

Tired.  

You’re so very tired. 

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Main Floor

Reader’s POV

You’re four weeks into your job search when you decide to check the bulletin board on the main floor of the factory after work. 

There aren’t many high paying jobs at the Sanctuary. Being placed in the gardens or kitchen upon your arrival was akin to winning the lottery. You had it all. Adequate points and access to fresh food. No one ever gave up those jobs unless they died, and even then they were passed down to relatives.

You’d gotten stuck with working in the laundry department the first day you’d arrived and two years later, that’s where you’d remained. Still, you hoped. 

The Sanctuary ‘bulletin board’ is nothing more than a brick wall plastered with flyers from buyers and sellers, inquiring of needed trades and services. You hope to have a quick glance and head back to the room as the others will be waiting for you to make dinner. 

The board is crowded, even for this time of the night, and you have to work to push your way through the gathered bodies that point and whisper at something you can’t possibly perceive over the heads of others. Though, you understand the whispering when you finally reach the front of the crowd. Someone had pasted the entirety of the board with flyers. They overlapped one another, but distinctly, they all read in typewriter font:

WIFE WANTED

Looking for a warm-bodied woman to share the bed of a badass Savior. 18+

NO STD’S!

See Negan for an appointment. Serious inquiries only.

At the bottom of every flyer in almost illegible writing, someone had written: Oral experience preferred.

Is this a cruel joke or a sickening answer to your prayers? You’d had minimal interactions with the Saviors, but from what you’d seen they were all filthy and savage looking. This was clearly a death sentence or Negan’s idea of a sick joke. You’re not sure what to make of this, but the crowd does.

Someone in the small crowd mumbles, “I hear he’s offering unlimited points, fresh food, and shower privileges.”

“I ain’t no one's whore.” Comes a lowly retort close to your ear. “I don’t care how hungry I am. A whore is a whore, and I ain’t it.”

A whore.

That’s what you’d be if you even considered applying for the job. You won’t. You have more respect than that. You’ll beg your boss, Christina, for more hours. You’ll never sleep again if that’s what it takes, but you're not a whore. 

So why is your heart crashing against your rib cage and your head spinning?

“It’s better than being in this shithole.” A stout man at the front of the crowd shakes his head regretfully before turning and leaving, but not before he says, “If I had a pussy—I’d use it for some good.”

He’s right, you think. 

Your hand shakes as you pull a flyer down from the wall, your resolve hardening with each moment that you entertain the thought. You hardly bat an eye at the others who whisper and point at you, because you know you’re doing what you need to do to provide for your family. 

The thought follows you all the way up to the third floor of the factory where you know Negan's office is located.

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 3, Negan’s Office

Reader’s POV

Prostitution.

If they ever asked how far you’d go to care for your family, you now know, you’d say: “Prostitution.”

The answer is very simple and you’re surprised its taken you this long to get to this point. You could be a whore if it meant that you could provide for your family. 

The walk to Negan’s office is shorter than you remember, but maybe it’s for the best. You lack the necessary time to talk yourself out of this spur of the moment decision. It’s disgusting and scary—you’re probably mere seconds from being gang-raped, but still, you continue to move further. And why? For a burden you shouldered. For a family you hated.

When you get to Negan’s office door there are two heavily armed men standing guard, they scrutinize you and eye the flyer in your clenched fingertips before knocking twice at the door. You’re pretty, you know this. Once there was a time where your calendar was booked with engagements on weekend nights. Still, you have the sudden urge to vomit at the thought of humiliation and rejection. What if Negan didn’t like what he saw? You weren’t sure what you wanted the outcome of this interaction to be, but now you had the unnatural urge to feel wanted. 

The Savior, the one with a burn covering half his face cracks the door at Negan’s urging, “Yeah, I think we got one.” He seems surprised. You are, too. Surely you couldn’t be the first?

Negan’s voice playfully filters out into the hallway. “Is she hot, Dwight? And be honest, I don’t want to waste my motherfucking time. The last one was fugly.”

You think it odd for someone to be this cheerful, especially when life was just a shit-void of a waste of time.

Dwight gives you a once over, lingering on your breasts specifically. “Yeah,” He finally calls out, to which you’re strangely relieved. “She’s decent. Stacked, too.”

“Hot damn. Well, send her in.” He calls out and you swear that your heart skips a beat. Of all the foolish and single-minded things to do! You should walk away and let Marley and her baby starve. You should march back to your room and demand she handles her own misgivings. You should—

Dwight holds his hand out, gesturing you inside the cracked door. He smirks when he says, “Good luck.”

You should leave, but you don’t. 

“Well, look at you.” Glittering brown eyes collide with yours once you’ve frantically taken in your surroundings. Negan’s office is all plush carpet, heat, and filtered air. It’s enough to leave you unsettled. You’re used to filth, sloppy seconds, and poverty. “Don’t be shy, doll. Come on in.” His grin is abnormally white and blinding. He’s the predator and you're prey, you realize. “I don’t bite.” Somehow he reads your concern on your face.

The door shuts behind you, cloaking the room in an air of finality. You have no choice but to keep moving further. To provide for your family. 

“Dwight said you were stacked and, holy shit, I didn’t believe him at first. See, his ex-wife—and my third, Sherry—has the tiniest tits and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t know a good pair even if they hit him in the goddamn face. Yet, here you are with a nice pair of tits and an ass to boot? Goddamn,” He licks his lips, pausing. “Why aren’t you sitting?”

“Oh, yes.” You rush to take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his large oak desk. The thought that this is essentially a job interview and you're screwing it up weighs heavily on you at the moment. “Um, sorry. It’s just a lot to take in.” You add hastily.

Wordlessly, Negan leans forward, his lanky frame folding onto his arms as he gazes at you considerably. You can practically feel his eyes roaming every exposed part of your flesh and you have the sudden urge to tug at the neckline of your ratty dress. 

“Shit,” He drawls after a minute of silence, “you’re right. Where are my manners, doll? It must be a lot to take in.” His eyes glow with an untold secret, but his expression hardens minutely. “Let’s get the boring shit out of the way, shall we? See if you even qualify,” He offers.

“Okay, yes.” You wring your hands nervously in your lap, praying he can’t see. “I’m ready.”

Outside, you can hear Dwight and the other nameless Savior, shifting quietly and talking. Clearly, nothing bad would come of answering a few questions? And if you didn’t qualify you could just ask for a few recommendations while you were here. The thought comforts you. 

“Age?” He inquires, clicking a pen and pulling out a spare paper from a drawer in his desk. 

“Twenty-three, I think.” You meekly reply.

Negan seems satisfied with the answer, humming slightly in approval as a small dip forms between his brows while he writes. It gives you time to study his features. He’s handsome when his piercing eyes aren’t folding you into submission. Very handsome, you hesitantly note. 

“Family?”

“Just my brother, aunt, and cousin.” You list quickly, before hastily adding, “Oh, and a newborn baby.”

He looks up, brow cocked. “Your baby?”

“Oh, no. No,” You backtrack quickly. “It’s my cousin’s baby, um, she’s having a baby in a few months.”

“Babies are expensive,” He only notes before lapsing into silence. He scribbles a couple of more lines before he reaches into his desk with a grunt, pulling out a pair of black-framed glasses. “Much fuckin’ better.” Without another word, he returns to writing.

Your heart had been pounding in your chest since you’d stepped into his office, but as the minutes peel away you start to realize there are no impending dangers in your future. Only rejection or acceptance. If Negan does not find you suitable, you’ll be left to your own devices and judging by the clock on the wall, you’d only be a few minutes late to prepare dinner. 

Finally, he comes to life, giving you his full attention with a slight smirk on his face, which you're unsure whether to take as a good or bad sign. He reclines in his chair, folding his long arms behind his neck as he prepares to speak, “Alright..?”

“Y/N,” You quickly interject.

“Y/N,” He nods. “I like you so far, and you’re a good candidate. The position entails a set number of points to keep your family comfortable, as you know. Four people, that can work. Hmm, I’ll have to get you checked out by Doc, which might take a few days to make sure you're clean, but you’re a good candidate.” He finishes. “Definitely a good candidate for Round Two.”

Round Two? Your heart immediately sinks at the prospects of having to compete with more woman. Prettier, less tired woman. You want this position now, and more than anything. The thought of what that entails doesn’t even cross your mind when you say, “I’m a virgin. I’ve never slept with another man and I promise you, sir. I’m clean.”

A pause. You both know virgins are a rarity. 

Negan softly places his pen down on his desk,  it’s clear you have his full attention. “A virgin? Now that is just what Simon needs to cheer his ass up…” His smirk unfurls into a full-blown grin. 

“I can be a great wife,” You bargain, hating that you have to sell yourself. “I’m obedient and I can cook, too.”

“All great qualities of a wife,” Negan bats away your words with a wave of his hand, “but can you suck dick?”

Your mouth puckers at his vulgarity, slightly taken aback by his bluntness. “Excuse me?”

“Listen, I know Simon,” Negan attempts to placate, his grin still firmly wedged in place, “and he loves getting his dick sucked. I need to make sure he’s provided for. You see, Y/N,” Negan stood, rounding his desk and throwing himself into the chair next to you. “I can tell you want this.” He placed a hand over his heart, his cheeks dimpling as he spoke. “Hell, I want this, too. My balls are just tickled pink by this plan, but I’ve got to make sure it’s properly executed. I can’t just give this to the first badass chick who walks in here. So I ask you again, how are your dick sucking skills?”

You think back to the flyer, remembering the line: Serious inquiries only.

How many people had walked through his door and claimed they were serious only for them to leave. You were serious, or at least, you thought you were. 

Negan’s grin wavers at your hesitancy and he seems genuinely disappointed when he says, “Damnit, I had a good feeling about you. Dwight,” He calls louder, “send Frankie in.”

“Who’s Frankie?” You ask numbly. 

Another applicant?

“One of my wives, doll. You’ve gone and got my dick all hard.” He leans in as if he has a secret to tell. “If it’s any consolation, if I didn’t have seven of my own, I’d take you on as a wife. You’re stacked,” He shrugs. “Still, I need someone who will deliver when it’s time to deliver.”

You tell yourself, there is a time and a place for hesitancy and now isn’t it. You’re so close to taking this step but your limbs refuse to cooperate and your lips have gone numb. It isn’t long before there’s a knock at the door and Negan calls for her to come in. It turns out, Frankie is a leggy redhead in a fitted black dress. Way prettier than you. She barely glances in your direction before she’s standing between Negan’s parted legs. 

“You gon’a stay, doll? Because I love when people watch,” Negan smirks, shrugging indifferently as Frankie kneels at his insistence. From the corner of your eye, you watch as she meticulously untucks his shirt from his waistband, slowly undoing his leather belt and removing it from his jeans. 

You’ve gone this far, what’s a little farther?

Before you can fully process your actions, you’re on your knees, shoving Frankie out of the way; for which, she protests with a low curse. Your fingers shake, so much so that you have trouble gaining a grip on the zipper of Negan’s jeans. Distantly, you observe his hand coming into your line of vision. He envelopes your tiny hand with his own and together you draw it downward. You meet his eyes from under a hooded gaze, unsure of what to do next. 

“Don’t be like that, Frankie.” He pulls her encouragingly close until the scent of her perfume envelops you, lilac and something sweet. “Teach her what I like.”

Frankie braces a delicate hand on your shoulder, leaning close until you feel her breasts pillowed against your back. You’re on your knees about to orally service someone for the first time in your life, something that they both notice. Frankie senses your uncertainty, taking charge and tugging at his jeans until Negan lifts his hips to assist her. 

His hard cock springs free and you swallow hard. It’s intimidating. Larger than most, you assume, and leaking angrily from the head. 

“Grasp the base,” Frankie urges quietly in your ear, “he likes it when you’re rough.”

You’re not sure how to be rough, but you reach out with your left hand anyway. Negan’s cock is hot to the touch, simultaneously hard and soft beneath your fingertips. Above you, he releases a stuttering breath.

“Good, now squeeze it, harder,” Frankie coaches, “Now move your hand up and slightly twist at the top. No, like this,” Her dainty hand covers yours, guiding your motions as you touch him together.

“Goddamnit,” Negan huffs, he works hard to keep his eyes trained on your actions but the urge to close them is overpowering. “Good shit. Just like that, doll. Put your goddamn mouth on me,” He urges.

Frankie’s there to hold your hair back, encouraging you to avoid using teeth. Don’t bite, you mentally note before there's pressure at the base of your skull, urging you downward. 

He tastes clean, you’re relieved for that. You’re unsure if you should touch him with your tongue, so you keep it out of the way, bobbing your head over his length and squeezing the base until he orders, “More tongue, ugh. Fuck, just like that.” Your tongue flickers along the underside of his cock, unsure until you become emboldened by his gasps. It’s comforting to know you hold some power. “Such a pretty cock sucker with a hot fucking mouth. Frankie, make her moan on me,” He grips a fistful of your hair, guiding you along his length at a faster pace than you're comfortable with.

You don't have time to protest before a bolt of pleasure shoots up your spine at the feeling of a finger pressed between your spread legs. Your attempt to close them is futile, Frankie moves closer, nimbly slipping two fingers into the front of your panties and pressing firmly down onto your clit.

“There—it—is!” Negan’s choked gasp is drowned out by your choked moan and as he brutally fucks your mouth, cutting off your airway; you tremble in Frankie’s surprisingly strong grip. She doesn’t dare go near your entrance, instead, pinching your bundle of nerves and strumming it softly. “Fuck, that feels heavenly! Shit, I’m too goddamn close.”

Abruptly, Negan's pulls his cock from your mouth, holding you by the crown of your head as he empties his release onto your face. It’s a warm and sticky mess that catches on your eyelids and drips from the tip of your nose.

You think that nothing worse can make you feel more degraded, but as his warm cum dribbles down your chin, Negan leans forwards and pats you on the head like a puppy. Eyes glowing, he says, “Congrats, doll. You’ve got the job.”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 4, Frankie’s Room

Reader’s POV

As soon as she points you in the direction of the bathroom, you go lurching forward, vomiting what you presume is Negan’s DNA into the toilet bowl. It doesn’t take long for Frankie’s presence to materialize at your side. She pulls your hair from your face, letting you cry in peace.

“I’m a whore,” You cry. “A big, ugly, cock sucking whore.”

“So I guess that makes me a whore, too. Right?” Frankie hums softly, leaving your side to run the bath water as you continue to heave into the toilet. The world seems to tilt on its axis, sending you further spiraling into chaos and disarray. It’s an alarming thing, to not know yourself.  To be so unsure of any and everything that it makes you want to crawl from your own skin. 

“No, but—” She hands you a glass of water and you take it, watching her pour various concoctions into the tub. Bubble bath, bath salts, and dried flower petals. To you, these items seem as if they should be locked away in a museum. For her, she tosses them into the tub as if she has a thousand more.

She catches your look. “I like baths, it's my thing. And you’ll find a thing soon, Y/N. Simon will bring you back all the pretty things your heart can wish for, you’ll see.” Her lips curl softly in thought. “Stand.”

You push yourself to do as she asks, unbothered when she lifts your ratty dress over your head and discards it. She tugs at your sports bra next, and you’re ashamed when she notes the soaked crotch of your panties before she pulls them down your legs. You step out of them.

“What does it mean if I liked it?” You finally ask. 

She takes a moment to answer, fiddling with the taps and beginning to strip from her own clothes. You resist the urge to look, though you can’t for long. She’s beautiful, primped, and clean edges. You’re a mess coming away at the seems.

“It means,” She urges you into the hot water and you go willingly, “that you liked it, Y/N.” 

The warm water is heaven against your skin, and once she settles across from you; Frankie pulls a bowl and a razor from one of the shelves nearby and pats your knee. It takes her a few minutes into shaving your left leg before she continues speaking, your appendage balanced against her knee. She seems unbothered by her nudity or the fact that your toes brush against her breast as she runs the razor along your skin.

“I don’t like to think too hard about what my emotions mean,” She shrugs, dipping the razor into the bowl. “It’s dangerous, don’t you think? The why and the how... All I know is that the sex can be rewarding if you let it be. Simon will fuck you and bring you things. He’s not a selfish lover. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“My family will be provided for,” You meekly admit as she switches to your other leg. “That's all I want.”

"Good," She nods, "you should start viewing this relationship as a transaction. It'll hurt less if you do."

It helps, but it doesn't necessarily take away the hurt that you feel when you think about your parents watching you from Heaven. It pains you to think that they're watching you sleep with men for points and neglecting Bradley. You're barely surviving this life. Or had you died a long time ago?

"Ok, finished. Let's do that bush." She points to the thick patch of hair between your legs as you begin to protest. “Up on the ledge, hun. Come on, we're both women. Y/N, Negan wants you hairless.” With limited options, you rise from the warm water and onto the ledge of the tub.

“Does he always get what he wants?” The question is rhetorical, yet, she answers it.

“I suspect that you won’t see the last of Negan,” She parts your legs, studying the overgrown hair before reaching for a can of shaving cream. The feeling of her hands on your private parts creates this mixture of embarrassment and heat in your belly that you attempt to ignore. 

“What do you mean?” You ask instead. 

“Negan has this complex. He’ll take what he wants because he thinks that he deserves it.” She starts to explain. “But you’re in luck, he's giving you to Simon so you'll have time before he starts sniffing around again. He likes to fuck," Frankie clarifies.

"So he's going to...?"

"Want to fuck you," She finishes. "And probably while Simon watches."

What had you signed up for? A lifetime of being some plaything for other men to pass around and fuck?

"Why?" You choke out.

"Because he's Negan, hun. And he needs to prove that he's still in control. I hope you like girls, you'll be seeing a lot more of me." She smirked. "I'm his favorite and I suspect that after tonight he's got a fantasy he wants to carry through."

"I don't know what I like," You distantly remark.

“There,” She sets the razor done, gazing appreciatively at your bald sex, “such a pretty pussy.”

Embarrassed at her remark, you close them. 

“Don’t be like that, Y/N.” She quietly admonishes. "We’re friends now.”

“I’ve never had a friend like this,” Your legs fall lax in thought.

“We’re sisters in arms,” With both hands bracing your knees apart, she leans closer to examine your sex. “Have you ever had an orgasm?”

“It’s been a while,” You admit.

“I can tell,” She softly teases, closing your parted legs with a small laugh. “Why don’t we get you to bed, and in the morning we’ll get you some new clothes.”

She stood and left without a backward glance, leaving you to finish your bath and cry.

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 4, Frankie’s Room

Reader’s POV

Despite the fact that Frankie tells you to sleep, you’re unable to. There is this unspoken disagreement between your heart and head. They war against one another, your eyes shut and Frankie’s soft breathing in your ear. Subconsciously, she’d moved in her sleep to cradle your stiff form. An arm thrown of your stomach. A leg softly brushing yours. You’re used to sharing a bed but this one is too soft, too comfortable. The clothes that she gave you are too new, not worn to the threads. 

“Y/N, you’re thinking far too loudly. Your thoughts woke me up.” Frankie stretches beside you, slowly awakening.

“I’m sorry,” You say, because what else is there too?

You smell like her, too sweet and too flowery. The thought unnerves you. And you think that if you were to look in the mirror now, you’d find that in the middle of the night pieces of you had fallen away never to be found again. 

“Don’t be, today’s a big day for you.” She murmurs. Her hand dips into the waistband of your pajama bottoms, rubbing firm circles into your hip. “Simon comes back from his run today and you get to meet him. That’s exciting, isn’t it? Do you have a thing yet?”

“Not yet.” You murmur back. She’d told you to consider what you’d like to have brought back from runs and you weren’t prepared to think that far ahead. “I haven’t really thought of myself as a person who needs things in a really long time…”

She hums in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek before an incessant knocking at the door pulls the two of you apart. “That should be breakfast,” She acknowledges. 

“Ladies,” Negan practically croons as he saunters through the door. His dark eyes seem to dance with delight when he takes in your intertwined position. He lingers for far too long and you hate yourself for not seeming to care. You’re more put together after last night and it’s nice that someone notices. “Y/N, you look a shit-ton more sexier than you did last night on your knees, and that’s saying something.”

He places the tray full of breakfast food on the nightstand before he takes a seat at your bedside, the smell of pancakes and bacon filling your senses. 

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” He smirks, watching your eyes stray.

“Really good,” Frankie interjects. She practically climbs over you, grabbing a plate and pressing a quick kiss to Negan’s lips in passing. “Did you get the syrup I like?”

“I did,” He smirks, accepting a bite of bacon from her. Negan chews thoughtfully for a moment before patting you lightly on the knee. “Doll, welcome to 'Day 1' of the rest of your new life. Hell, you can think of this as a goddamn orientation if you’d like, just think of Frankie as the model employee that you want to be. Do you see that? The way she takes care of me without even a conscious thought. That’s what Simon needs. Can you do that?”

“I can be affectionate, too.” You nod. 

“Good. Show me,” Negan orders, his smirk still firmly etched in place when he says, “I’d like a good morning kiss.”

“Oh, breakfast and a show,” Frankie mumbles around a mouthful. “Do carry on.”

You don’t bother to protest or make excuses about morning breath, something tells you that he wouldn’t even care. You find yourself rising onto your knees to crawl the short distance that puts you in his close proximity. He’s freshly showered and clean shaven, only a slight stubble beneath your fingertips when you cup his jaw. You can do false affection. But if Frankie is anything to go on, you’re unsure how long it will take for it to become genuine. She seems to care just enough to get by and if you’re wise you’ll do the same.

He takes possession of your lips when you’re in the midst of willing yourself to just do it already. Their warm and surprisingly soft, yielding against your own as his warm tongue slips into your mouth. Just for a moment, the sound of your inner-dialogue turns to white noise and there's nothing left to do but move to an unspoken rhythm. Negan pulls you onto his lap where his hands travel the expanse of your bare legs, gripping them tightly to bring you firmly against his cock which strains against his jeans. 

“Like this?” You speak between hushed breaths, trailing across soft skin to press your lips close to his ear. Frankie gives you a thumbs up over his shoulder.

In the tenth grade, you were voted ‘Most Likely To Overachieve’.

“Mhmm, every second I spend with your sweet ass in my hands reassures me that I made the right fucking choice. There ain't nothing more that I love than being right, little girl.” He grips your ass tighter for emphasis, releasing your lips and trailing down your neck. He takes a peaked nipple that strains beneath your thin top, lapping at the bud with a deep grunt that echoes between your thighs. “I need to stop before I ruin Simon’s gift. If I didn’t love that bastard so goddamn much, I’d fuck you right here…” He trails, releasing you. 

“Eat and I’ll talk.” You do as he says, grabbing a plate and plopping down beside a smirking Frankie. “I’ve had Simon on a two-week trip. Good shit, I know. It’s given me enough time to get everything ready and the last thing I needed was Y/N. Here's to not settling.” 

“Here, here.” Frankie cheers.

“Thank you, baby.” Negan briefly pauses. “I’ve thought long and hard about this, pun intended, and I realize that Simon needs someone to take care of him. He doesn’t need six wives to juggle—”

“Um, I resent that.” Frankie lifts a fork, protesting, “I’m a fucking angel.”

“You're not the problem, babe. It’s Tanya if I’m being mighty fucking honest.” A pause. “Where the fuck was I? Oh yeah, I’m going with a traditional approach. One woman. One brand spanking new apartment. He needs someone to fuck and someone to actually talk to. Someone who his ass can actually stand! It’s so simple, yet so goddamn perfect it might actually fucking work.” Negan crosses his fingers, practically bouncing in excitement. 

“So you want Y/N to be an actual wife?” Frankie clarifies. “Share a bed and cook him dinner?”

“Fucking genius idea, huh? He needs a wife, a real one.” He makes sure to enunciate. “I have real intentions here, baby. Y/N won’t be some fuckhole, she’ll be an actual goddamn wife.”

“I can do it,” You quickly cut in. “I’ve taken care of my family for this long. I can take care of a husband. I can do this, Negan.” The words seem bland on your lips and even Frankie seems doubtful. These aren’t good signs, but still, you persist, “Whatever you want or think he needs, I can do.”

“I know you can, doll. I handpicked you myself.” He gloats. “You’re the sexy little cherry on top of my kick-ass plan.”

“It’s crazy enough that it might actually work.” Frankie finally adds with a shrug. “I'll have her ready and placed as you asked…”

“T-minus three hours until I make fucking history. Goddamn,” Negan claps, “I’m so fucking pumped!”

“There is one thing that I need before we, um, do this,” You begin, ignoring your racing heart. “I have to see my family.”

_______________________________________________

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 17, Room 30 

Reader’s POV

You’ve never been away from your family for this long. You should be happy to see them, but you aren’t. Just the thought of knocking seems to suck the life from your body because you know it will be the equivalent of opening up Pandora’s box.

“What the fuck are we waiting for?” Negan’s presence is easier to disregard with each second that you spend with him. His words coax you from your inner-musings and bring you back to the forefront of reality.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…” You hand repeatedly brushes the doorknob. You can hear them on the other side of the door, living, and carrying on without you. What did they eat for dinner? Surely, they had eaten? “What do I say to them? Bradley doesn’t speak much. He keeps everything bottled up and I’m afraid that this will push him over the edge. He’s so silent, I almost forget that he’s suffering, too…”

“You say the goddamn truth,” Negan interrupts your rambling. “What they do with it is their own damn choice. On with it, woman…”

He raises a gloved hand, knocking twice with a cheerful whistle.

“Damn it, Y/N. I thought you’d finally up and left us after everything I’ve sacrificed for you…” Your aunt starts, but faintly trails when she realizes who’s standing behind you. “Y/N, you’ve brought a guest?” She fiddles with her hair nervously, stepping aside and leaning heavily on her cane. 

“Don’t mind me,” Negan steps past you both with a small laugh, absentmindedly twirling Lucille. “I’m just here on a favor. Shouldn’t you be at school?” He addresses your brother’s slouched figure.

“Shouldn’t you be running this place?” He quips.

“Bradley, behave.” You admonish.

“Nah,” Negan smirks, taking a seat beside him. “I like this kid. Wan’a hold her?” He offers him Lucille.

“Y/N, can I speak to you. Over there, please?” Your aunt’s touch makes you want to crawl out of your skin. You pull away, taking a seat next to Marley instead. You hate your aunt. It's all her fault, after all. 

“No, this is something that we all have to discuss and it’ll be easier if I just say it once.” You begin quietly. “I’ve found a new job. I made a deal with Negan and he was nice enough to let me come tell you all. The type of job that it is, um, it’s a live-in position so I won’t be here to make dinner or buy groceries. Bradley,” Your brother dips his head in acknowledgment, though his eyes continue to shift between you and Negan. “I’m going to put the points in your name. You’re in charge while I’m gone. I trust you, okay?”

“Okay,” He answers quietly.

“You’re the girl who took the wife position, aren’t you?” Marley shifts uncomfortably beside you on the bed. “You took it because I got pregnant and because you’re struggling to feed us. Why else would he be here?” She gestures to Negan. 

“Yes,” You can’t help the flatness of your voice. There isn’t a bone in your body that thinks you should coddle her. She needs to face the harsh reality that is going to be her life. “Maybe you’ll think twice before getting pregnant again.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault.” She turns actively defensive. “No one asked you to go whore yourself off to the highest bidder. You could have gotten a real job, you know.”

Your aunt steps forward, a hand clutched to her chest. “Wife position?” She whispers. 

“Get out of your bubble, mom. He’s been looking for a wife for one of the Savior’s.” Marley so helpfully replies. Her expression has hardened, lips puckered in thought. You think, if only her mother didn’t baby her so much she’d be able to take general criticism. 

“A badass Savior,” Negan tells your brother. “I’m a nurturer, is all. It’s kind of a funny story, actually. Maybe I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“You’re too happy.” Bradley only comments. 

“Well, I really can’t blame you, Y/N.” Your aunt’s voice is low, yet, harsh in the painfully quiet room. “I told you to get a job and there isn’t much you’re good at...I shouldn’t be surprised when you resort to whoring yourself off as a solution. Goddamn shameful,” She mutters. 

There’s a long lapse in talking and you realize they're all staring at you. They expect you to break down and cry, to scream and protest. You won’t. You’ve come too far to be the weakest one in the room. 

“I should get going. Bradley, I love you.” You stand with stiff limbs and slowly cross the room, Negan following close behind. The minute you shut the door behind you, close Pandora's box, you can breathe again. 

“You know what I see?” You turn to Negan expectantly. “A room full of ungrateful fuck-heads. I mean, goddamn, that lady is a piece of work. I like the boy, though.” He turns suddenly thoughtful, filling the hallway with only muted footsteps.

“She’s wasn’t always that way.” You admit, hating that you still feel the need to defend your family. “I’ve come to accept that there’s a before and after with people, you know? And in the after, she’s this scared shell of a woman who picks at me to deal with…” You find yourself waving your hands to and fro, unsure how to phrase the things you tried so hard to suppress. 

He stops and so do you. You’re left looking at each other and you wonder what he must see. Can he see the pieces of you that you’re trying so desperately to hold onto? Can he see you failing? “I can kill her if you want? Only takes half a minute, three if I'm horny.” He offers.

“No, it’s tolerable. Really, it is.” You continue, wiping at your eyes and biting at your lip. Hard. “You’re going to think that I’m crazy when I say this, but I love them. At least, enough to not walk away.” Your gaze strays to the rows of shut doors that flank you on each side. All of them seem to mock.

“Y/N,” Negan steps closer, a warm hand cupping your chin to bring you leveled with his gaze. “I think you’re really goddamn beautiful when you’re falling apart.”

Your smile is faint and riddled with holes. You are in pain, but there is nothing you can do to fix it. Stepping back from his grip, you say, “Come on, let’s get on with your badass plan. I want to meet my husband.”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23 [Your (New) Apartment]

Reader’s POV

Just as you’d suspected. There are pieces of you that have gone away, some in the middle of the night and others while you’d walked alongside Negan’s looming figure. They've probably rolled beneath the bed or got caught in a drafty corridor. Either way, they are pieces that you will never reclaim, and as you slip on the lacy white bra and garter set, yet another part of you disappears. 

Frankie knocks at the door, softly inquiring, “Hey, babe? Are you done yet? Need any help?”

You can’t help but retort under your breath, “I need help alright.”

You’re cynical, sue you. 

With a soft sigh, you open the bathroom door and step into the furnished studio—your furnished ‘home.’ It’s still odd to think of it like that, but Negan had assured you to make yourself comfortable. How can you? It’s spacious, plenty of windows with a small kitchen and a makeshift living room to match. You’d gotten only a glimpse at the bedroom, a  section of the wide room separated by a thin privacy screen. It’s just too much. 

“You look so freaking delicious, Y/N! Oh, give me a twirl.” Frankie coos and squeals, manipulating you to her heart’s content. “I am so jealous of your figure.” She sighs. 

Doubt is a vicious being. It crawls into your head, concealing itself behind other thoughts. What if he doesn’t like you? He hits you, demeans you and rejects the entirety of this situation?

“Okay, let’s go over the game plan.” Frankie clasps her palms with a soft laugh. “Oh, look at me. I’m a total control freak, aren’t I? Negan is going to talk to Simon for a bit—you know? Ease him into the idea. He should be up any minute now. I swear Simon’s going to totally freak; he’ll love you.” Frankie looks reproachful, but she hides it well. You, however, are familiar with suppressed emotions. “Just sit on the bed and look sexy, ‘kay? I’m sure he’ll love you.” 

Frankie quiets, mulling over something in her head, and even going so far as to open and close her mouth several times. Finally, she shakes her head, smiling daintily and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I should go, Y/N. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure, Frankie.” 

It’s still pretty early in the morning. As if the feeling of wearing lingerie isn’t strange enough, the harsh light of day seems to make it worse. You’re aware of every roll of fat, every bruise, and scar that adorns your skin. You find yourself readjusting your pose every several minutes, fidgeting with your hair.  

Seconds drip into minutes before they collide with hours. Your eyes droop as the mid-afternoon sun comes and goes. You want to look for Frankie and ask her what’s happening, but you’re too afraid to move from the bed. Eventually, you decide to rest your eyes. A quick nap won’t hurt anyone.


In that hazy moment between sleep and consciousness, you think you’re in your old room, the TV droning on in the background and your homework splayed across your bedsheets. Dinner’s probably ready. Dad will be home soon. 

You open your eyes intent on telling your mother that you hadn’t meant to oversleep, you’d had a long day. It’s then do you realize where you are. Your parents are dead, and your social class is less than ideal. You’d sold yourself for some makeshift currency. 

It’s late and your unsure of how long you’ve been asleep. The apartment is colder now, and you have nothing to stave off the chill. Rising and correcting the sheets, you search the dressers in the room for something warm. Your new wardrobe is lacking, nothing comfortable for you to wear. Negan had made it abundantly clear that it would be Simon’s responsibility to take care of you. You pick a faded concert t-shirt that hits just below the knees when you slip it on. It’s Simon, you can tell. It vaguely smells of cigarettes and something musky, not entirely pleasant. You tell yourself that you’ll take it off before he gets here. 

With nothing left to do you decide to prepare dinner. Maybe he’s eaten, or maybe he hasn’t. It’s a gamble, yet you choose to roll the dice. To your surprise, the fridge is stocked with several cold cuts and some produce from the Sanctuary’s garden. You get the sense that Negan does care for Simon. He just has an odd way of showing it. 

You get to work quickly, seasoning some chicken breasts and baby potatoes before popping them into the oven. As you wait for them to cook, your thoughts stray. It'd been too long. What if Simon had gone and run away after Negan had—?

The sound of the doorknob turning is enough to pull you from your hysteria, and before you can call out Frankie’s name, he’s here. You’re standing in his shirt, half-naked in the kitchen. Oh god. You pray for the floor to swallow you hole, surely God can grant you that much after the shit he’d put you through.  

Simon smiles dryly. “I hear tonight’s our wedding night.”

Swallowing hard, you attempt to smile, but you’re pretty sure that it’s more of a grimace. With a heavy sigh, Simon kicks the door closed and drops a box by the door. He seems at a loss, so are you. 

The timer on the oven goes off. 

“Do you like chicken?” You blurt out.

He shrugs off his coat, hanging it on a nearby coat rack. “I could eat.”

He seems tired and not in the way that a good nights rest can presumably fix. That at least you have in common with your husband. Husband. You have a husband. You find yourself bouncing on the balls of your feet, flitting around the kitchen in search of plates and silverware just to avoid the intrusive thoughts.  

“Any beer in the fridge?” He’s taken a seat at the small table. 

His words though gruff hold this unmissable lull as if he’s half awake. He’s a lot to take in. Much taller than you, and muscular too. A stark contrast from Negan’s sinewy stature. You can tell he spends his days heavy lifting, by the way, his biceps flex beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“Oh, um,” You shake your head, “let me look.” 

You open the small fridge and find a dozen of repurposed beer bottles deep in the back. Reaching for one, you’re suddenly aware of your lack of clothing. The hemline of Simon’s shirt rises just above the swell of your ass, and you hope that by some miracle he hadn’t noticed as you rush to cover yourself. 

He does.

Unabashed, he locks eyes. There’s only a distant flicker of interest behind dull irises. 

“Huh,” Simon reclines, taking the offered beverage as he continues to assess you passively. “Negan and I have different…tastes. I was sure he'd have you in some lacy getup, some ostentatious bullshit.” He drawls after chugging half the bottle.

“It’s underneath,” You admit, setting a plate in front of him. He spears a piece of chicken, taking a hesitant bite. "Good?" He grunts his approval, shoveling a generous helping into his mouth and hunching over his plate. Despite the oddity of the moment, you’re flattered by his enthusiasm. 

You start to think that you can do this, it’s nothing that you haven’t done before. Caring for others is easy; taking care of yourself is much harder. “This is nice…” Your words trail, motioning to the room. “Negan seems to care for you—or not?” At his dubious expression, you quiet.

Simon sets his fork down, clasping his hands in his lap. His eyes drift upward to the ceiling, and you want to see what he sees, you want to know why he can’t seem to look you in the eyes for more than a handful of seconds at a time. It’s always over your shoulder, inches above your hairline. “And I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep.” 

Your brow furrows, “Kurt Vonnegut?”

He pauses, actually looking at you—not through you. 

“I used to read,” You offer, “when I had the time.”

“You mean when everything was beautiful and nothing hurt?” He takes a swig of his beer. 

 “It’s certainly fitting. I like this quote, um, let me see—” Spearing a piece of chicken, you chew it slowly in an attempt to buy yourself some time. “How nice—to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.” You recite clumsily.

You’re rewarded for your effort. Simon smiles, and it’s this tentative emotion that gives you hope and breaks your heart all at once. “I need to take a shower,” He slowly says as if he’s testing each word. 

“Okay,” You agree readily, desperately needing a moment alone. “I’ll clean up.” 

When the bathroom door closes you allow yourself to breathe. A slow, steady breath followed by a sharper, shallow inhale. He’s just like you. The same hollowed gazed and silent suffering. You know it all too well. What makes everything worse is that you can see yourself with him, caring for him like you wished someone had cared for you. You could fix him if the desire arouse and learn to like spreading your legs.

Everything hurts. 

“You okay?”

Wiping your eyes, you softly retort, “Define okay.”

“Depressed.”

Your smile is tentatively genuine, and you quickly finish washing the last plate, setting it in the drying wrack. You turn to face Simon. Oh. He’s only dressed in a towel, and the sight of him makes your breath hitch. A water droplet from a strand of his hair drips heavily, falling and trailing down his broad chest. You avert your gaze, Frankie’s words from before taunting you. All I know is that the sex can be rewarding if you let it be.

“I’m not sure how to do this,” He admits.

“Neither am I, but then again, I’m speaking about life in general.” The statement is more candid than you’d initially meant it to be, but in the process, you seem to gain more of his trust. Another piece of his wall falls, and the shutters behind his eyes rise just a little.

He looks away, saying, “I tried to get out of it, even threatened to leave…” 

“…but Negan doesn’t take no for an answer.” You assume, fiddling nervously with the hemline of his shirt. “Why don’t we just focus on getting through the night, okay?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not putting up with some bullshit so that Negan can sleep better at night. I don't need a damn wife. If I need my dick sucked that’s what the Pussy Parlor is for.”

You were ignorant for thinking doubt was the superior emotion. Jealousy lashes at your chest, encasing your heart in a viselike grip. With everything to lose you, you make another reckless decision, tugging his shirt over your head and baring yourself to his eyes. Your bra goes next followed by the matching panties. The garter stays. 

“I could learn to like you, Simon. I bet you could, too. Or at least, tolerate me.” He eyes your figure appreciatively. Encouraged, you take a hesitant step forward. Two steps and then the smell of his body wash, sandalwood, and warm pepper envelops your senses. “Why you? Why us for that matter?”

“Why anything?” He finishes the quote. “Because the moment simply is.”

His hand reaches out, merely a brush just inches above your navel. To your awe, the skin beneath his hand constricts. You softly sigh, enjoying the touch. Simon grows emboldened by the noise, drawing a curved path along your hip. His hands slow. “I’m so tired,” He admits.

Your hand covers his, bringing it to your breast. “I know, so am I.”

Slow, tentative steps grow emboldened, and then you're leading him towards the bed. This isn’t the way you pictured your first time. You hadn’t had a stereotypical fantasy of candles and flowers, but at most, you’d figured that there'd be an exchanging of names. 

“This really your first time?” Simon stands between your parted legs, a hand gripping his towel.

You nod.

He drops to his knees and before you can protest it—his mouth is there. No one had ever touched you like this, and up until now, there’d been doubt about your ability to even enjoy sex. You cry out from the sharp curl of heat that unexpectedly forms in the pit of your belly as his tongue draws slow circles across your clit.

S-simon!” You’re gripping and tugging at his hair, unsure if you want him to stop or continue. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It’ll hurt less.” He pauses. “Trust me on this.”

Your legs fall lax. 

“You won’t hurt me?” 

His facial hair teases the sensitive skin of your folds as he buries his tongue in your sex.

“No,” He answers, only it’s a hum, and he says it against your inner thigh.

He seems to want to devour you, drawing low grunts from you in the process as his tongue explores every last inch of skin. There’s strong pressure on your stomach; then you’re lying on your back. 

Simon’s searching tongue travels lower, tasting the crevice of your ass. It’s crude and embarrassing, but the act pulls a high pitched moan from your lips. When your back arches and you're least suspecting, he pushes two fingers into your entrance, stroking your inner walls. Your fingers intertwine in his hair, keeping him there. It’s pleasurable, and the pain is brief. You want more fingers — more of him.

“Please?” You don’t recognize your own voice; it’s high pitched and needy. He soothes you with his tongue, offering another finger. You’ve never been this full before, and the thought excites you. “Simon, please!”

He’s crawling up your prone frame before the words even leave your mouth. He reaches for a pillow, and you lift your hips so that he can place it underneath you. It brings your hips level with his and the thickness of his member against your aching, wet folds. Nervous energy mixes with the heat in your belly as he grabs the base of his cock, lining it up with the entrance of your sex. 

“Fuck me.” You urge. “Fuck your wife.”

There’s a steady pressure and something you can only describe as a deep ache in your pelvis when he presses forward. You hadn’t gotten a chance to see him fully naked, but by the feeling alone you can tell that he’s big. He fills every inch of you until your impossibly full, rolling his hips until he reaches your hymen. “Shit, you're so goddamn tight.” He mouths against your ear. “You hurt? Cause I can—”

Your heels dig into his lower back, unceremoniously breaking your hymen and sending him sprawling atop you. There’s a sharp pain, but its nothing unbearable and seems to dull when you urge him to move. With a loud curse, his head falls into the crook of your neck. He snaps his hips forward, sending you several inches up the bed in the process. 

The feeling of being fucked is too foreign, too new. You doubt that you’ll orgasm, but you can see what this eventually could be. Low oaths in your ear. The wet slapping of your bodies, and Simon's coarse chest hair against your sensitive nipples. 

A fresh round of wetness coats his cock, and his thrusts falter.

“Tight, little snatch.” He traces the skin behind your ear with his tongue. “Tell me how it stayed so tight for this long.”

“Simon,”  You faintly moan as he fucks you harder, his strokes becoming choppier when you experimentally clench your inner walls. You do it again, this time lifting your hips so that he nudges your cervix and you practically choke on the fullness. 

Simon pulls out abruptly, shooting thick streams of his release onto your stomach before collapsing onto your chest. There is heavy breathing and racing hearts in the aftermath, and for once that's all there is; no underlying emotion, no attempt to escape.

"I’ll take care of you; you'll see. It's what I do best.” Your hands move to brush strands of hair from his eyes. 

Simon raises his head from where it rests between your breast. “And who takes care of you?”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

“I hurt you?”

“No, just sore.” You admit.

He saunters to the toilet completely naked and promptly urinates into the bowl. You’re no better, and it seems that after completing sex acts on two completely different men you’d gone and lost your self-preservation. It was freeing in a way. Wetting the washcloth in the sink, you press it between your legs, carefully balancing on the edge of the tub blatantly nude. The cold water is a welcomed sensation, combating the soreness you know you’ll feel tomorrow. 

“I know that it wasn’t the ideal first time…”

“No, it was fine. Nice,” You add.

Silence. 

He tries again. “I didn’t mean what I said, and I can tell it fucked with your head.”

Inquisitively, you look up from probing yourself only to scrutinize him. He has faint traces of blood smeared across his abdomen, and now that you think about it there’s probably blood on your sheets too. You’ll have to do the laundry soon.

“That thing,” Simon gestures, “about caring for yourself.”

“Well,” It’d been a long time since someone had inquired about your well being, “you’re right about it fucking with my head, but I’m used to getting fucked. At least with you, it’s enjoyable.” You find the words rolling off your tongue with ease.

He actually laughs this time, offering more than what you'd come to realize is a rare smile. You find yourself joining him, and in the process making a pleasant discovery. Some things are like riding a bike; you never truly forget how to do them. 

“You want a shower? Washcloth ain’t doing shit for you, and I bet the steam would help.”

“Join me?” The words fall from your mouth before you can even ponder their origin. Maybe it’s just that you don’t want to be alone. Not everything has to be overly complicated. “You look like a murder scene.”

The shower in your new bathroom is spacious, a small bench built into the wall still leaving enough room for you both to comfortably stand. Simon fiddles with the faucet, stepping under the stream of water while you study the small shelf of bath products, some are his, but most of them have been left for you by Frankie.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m just not sure how to do it,” You admit. How do you become this person that cares for such trivial things—rose or peony body wash?—when you were worrying about where your next meal would come from only days before? “How to be a whole person.”

“My momma used to say some shit about getting dressed with a smile each morning, said it helped to see the version of you that needed to be strived for... I for one think that’s bullshit.” Simon presses a hand to your shoulder, urging you to sit on the shower bench. He reaches for a bottle of body wash—peony—and pours some of it onto a washcloth. “Showers are a good place to start, at least I think they are. You even feel bad after a hot shower? It's pretty damn hard. Let me try?”

You offer him a limb.

He stoops, taking your left leg and softly running the rag over your knee.

“A lot of men would be angry with being backed into a corner like this.” You watch him thoughtfully. “I guess a part of it is that I’m still waiting for you to lash out at me, I thought…” You're at a loss for words. “I’m not sure. I just didn’t expect this.”

“I’m not most men,” He retorts. “Or at least, not anymore.”

“What changed?” His expression turns pale, a conflict forming behind his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“I tried to kill myself a month ago.” Simon starts, taking your other foot and running the washcloth between your toes. “We’d run into a group on the road. Four men. I’m doing the usual, going back and forth with my hand on the trigger when I just freeze, I hop in a random truck, and I’m just driving and driving and driving and driving…” His voice trails. “Until I’m driving towards this cliff. I break—hard—because who the fuck wants to off themselves without at least a few words, you know? And I’m just sitting there thinking, ‘what have I done, what have I done’… Who the fuck am I?” He spits. “I used to be a fucking Marine, and now I’m this...this...”

“It’s your before and after.” Placing your hand on his shoulder, you hope to console him. He seems lost, stuck between the present and a painful memory. You know what that’s like. “It’s the versions of yourself before and after the world fell apart, they never fully leave you. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and I forget where I am. I’m me—I’m the before and not some slave to...” You don’t realize you’re crying until he’s wiping the tears away. “Keep going,” You sniff.

“That makes sense.” Simon agrees, a look of concentration on his features as he works to catch the rolling tears. “I’m sitting there practically shitting myself for something I’ve done a thousand times. I liked killing; I liked the Pussy Parlor and drinking booze till I passed out—’til I didn’t.”

“What did you do?” You whisper, and you’re unsure if he hears you over the stream of running water.

“I pressed down on the gas, and the car didn’t move,” He smirked. “A book had gotten caught beneath the pedal, so I pick it up and read the whole damn thing.”

You wiped your eyes. “What book was it?”

Call it morbid curiosity.

Lord of The Flies. I like the comparisons that William Golding made to human beings and animals. It’s a revelation.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Finished the entire thing and drove back to the factory. Pretty soon I was reading everything that caught my interest. Maybe everybody in the whole damn world is scared of each other."

"John Steinbeck said that, right? The man’s onto something." You shrug, seeing the irony. 

"There’s this quote I found in Wuthering Heights that made me look real hard at the man I’d become—Terror made me cruel." He gazes at you with thinly veiled approval. "I just read until shit made sense again.”

You have your hands thrown around his neck before you realize it. There’s this feeling in your chest that makes you want to yell and shout all at once in an attempt to expel it. Someone knows. Your thoughts are abuzz. Someone gets it, revels in it. 

Simon returns the embrace, hands trailing along the wet skin of your lower back, catching the tiny pieces of you that loosen and threaten to fall away.  

“Y/N,” It’s the first time he’s said your name. “I can take care of you if you’ll let me.”

Your lips find his, pressing a kiss to the soft skin before you can second guess your intentions. Simon’s tongue trails along the plumpness of your lip, biting into the soft skin and suckling it gently before lifting you into his arms, urging your legs around his waist. The tiles of the shower are cool against your back, the water having turned cold. You hardly pay it any mind as the head of his cock prods at your entrance. 

“You sore?”

“I want it.” You assure him.

Simon fills you with one deliciously deep thrust, mashing his hips against your mound so that his coarse pubic hair teases the folds of your sex. He pauses a moment, letting you adjust to the fullness so that the pain subsides, and your arching and rolling your hips when he presses deeper. The walls of your pussy contract as he searches for that particular spot, slamming you against the tiles and stealing your breath in the same instance.

“Harder, Simon. You won’t break me,” You pant. A long drawn out moan falls from your lips when Simon sucks the sensitive tip of your breast into his hot mouth. “I think I’m going to…” The words get caught in your throat as you’re unable to describe the slick heat that pulses from between your legs. Your toes curl, the fluttering of your walls turns to a deep pulse. 

“Fuck, your pussy is going to be the death of me.” He briefly enjoys the fluttering on his cock before promptly pulling out and dropping to his knees, burrowing his face between your legs. With a sharp cry, your release floods his tongue, and he hums with an appreciative groan.

“Simon, um," The world tilts and spins, "I don’t think I can stand on my own.” 

He carries you to bed, carefully drying you off and tugging another one of his t-shirts over your head. “Can you read to me?” You ask. 

“Yeah, I can.” He quickly moves from the bed, digging into the box by the door and retrieving a small paperback. He holds up Lord of The Flies. “Seems to fit the occasion.”

You readily agreed, settling into the crook of his arm as he begins to read, opening the book to an ear-marked page. “Ralph chose the firm strip as a path because he needed to think, and only here could he allow his feet to move without having to watch them. Suddenly, pacing by the water, he was overcome with astonishment. He found himself understanding the wearisomeness of this life, where every path was an improvisation, and a considerable part of one's waking life was spent watching one's feet…

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

The following morning, you awoke to the sight of Simon slipping from beneath the sheets. Outside the window, the sun is a dull grayish color,  streaks of orange emerging just beyond the horizon. You’d slept for longer than you usually did and the feeling you awaken with is unusual. You've never been this well rested, so alert and present. You wonder how your family is fairing. 

“Are you leaving?” You ask, your voice groggy from sleep. "I can pack you something to go?"

The muscles in his back flex, undulating as he stretches. “Negan gave me the day off to — fuck my wife raw.” He indicates quotation marks. 

“I think that’s been accomplished.” Sitting up in bed, your gaze falls to the stained bed sheets. The soreness between your legs isn’t so bad, but it’s enough to think you’ll be walking different for a day or two. “I’ll make something for breakfast.” You offer.

“That sounds nice, and I could use the day off,” He admits, shrugging on a pair of jeans. “Been working my ass off to keep my mind off of things, but now…” His eyes trace the length of your exposed legs when your back is turned. 

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” He answers.

There’s a couple of eggs in the fridge and a loaf of bread in the bread box upon a further investigation of the kitchen. While the eggs are frying you allow yourself to gaze unseeingly out the window. There’s a lovely view of the trees which is a pleasant change from the concrete wall in your previous room. Across the apartment, Simon takes an assortment of books from the box he'd left by the door and begins organizing them in some unspoken order.

It’s a readymade type of domesticity, but it’s comfortable. Toasting some bread in the pan, you carry two plates into the makeshift living room, setting them down on the small coffee table. 

“Tell me about yourself.” Simon settles beside you, digging into his eggs with an appreciative groan. "Thanks for breakfast." He adds.

Your heart twinges, you can't remember the last time someone had thanked you for anything. 

“What do you want to know?”

A pause.

“Everything.”

“I have a brother,” You confess. “He’s the reason I took this position, but I also support my aunt and her daughter. My cousin is having a baby,  and we could barely afford to eat as it was. She’s practically a child too. One of your Saviors got her pregnant.” It’s easy to unload your problems when a person is willing to listen. No one ever listens to you.

“Who’s the guy?”

His shoulder brushes yours and your suddenly aware of his proximity. He could have chosen to sit anywhere, but he chooses right beside you.

“I’m not sure,” You shrug. “I’m at work most of the day so I never saw them together.”

“I’ll find out; make him take responsibility.” Simon grunts around a mouthful of bread. “Probably one of the new recruits.”

“Really? You can do that?” He gives you a look. “Sorry, stupid question. That would be helpful, and maybe then I can afford to buy Bradley some new clothes.” 

It's a relief and a happy realization that he meant what he said last night. He'd take care of you. A rush of appreciation folds over you like the tides. You need to show him how much this means to you.

“Can I try something?” You urge him to take a seat on the sofa, tugging at the button of his jeans. He doesn’t stop you. You’ve heard that blowjobs are his favorite.

In broad daylight you’re able to marvel at his impressive cock, it’s quite large, a prominent vein running along the underside. You brush it gently with your thumb. His hips jump in response. He’s bigger than Negan. A fact that you’re sure pisses both of them off. 

“I can’t believe this was in inside me.” There’s a hint of fascination in your voice.

Wryly, you think, your virginity is showing.

He grins appreciatively, wrapping his palm around yours so that you’re both stroking his member to a rhythm that he finds enjoyable. You study each movement, each flick, and a twist of his wrist. You want to please him, take care of him in the best way possible. You’re his wife now.  

Simon is smooth beneath your tongue, and slightly salty. The taste is surprisingly pleasant. Taking more of him into your mouth, you force your throat to relax. The tip of his cock sliding down your throat. He murmurs and curses. You’re going purely off of instinct, but the power is addictive. You’ll learn what he likes, eventually. 

“Your mouth is a goddamn dream,” He hisses, fisting handfuls of your hair as he moves your mouth along the length of him a bit faster. “Is your pussy getting wet? Do you like sucking my cock? I could blow my load right now and still fuck you; you're fucking irresistible.”

A tight knot forms in your belly as he blatantly fucks your mouth, his words going straight to your core. Humming in agreement, your fingers trail the expanse of your tummy, burrowing between your thighs. You’re dripping between your legs, and soon your fingers are gliding across the slick surface of your clit. “You touching yourself?”

You release him reluctantly with a sucking pop. "Mhmm, yes."

He’s dragging you onto his lap, manhandling you with a force that makes moans of encouragement drip from your lips. His calloused fingers run paths of tickling heat across the surface of your skin, bringing you chest to chest so that he can feel your nipples pebble with each heaving breath you take.

“You’re a fucking tease, Y/N. The imprint of your nipples against my t-shirt, the hint of ass when you bend over.” He grips it for emphasis, and you can only pant and whine when he drags your pussy across the shaft of his hard cock.

“Please, Simon.” He grinds up into your sex, mashing your lower halves together. Your slickness readily coats his cock. You test the words as they come, never one to be particularly vocal. But you can learn for him. “I need you to f-fuck my p-pussy. Stopping teasing me, and fuck me already.”

His hips thrust upward at the same time that he pushes your hips downward. Your head drops, fingers digging into the cushion as you savor the little bit of pain that comes with the rush of pleasure when he fills you so suddenly. You’ll never get used to his thickness, and you know that you’ll always savor those first few moments of sex. 

Your eyes open, wanting to watch the rapturous expression on Simon's face as he fucks you. Instead, you blink twice. Once more. Negan’s standing by the doorway. He gives you a thumbs up, biting his lip in apparent glee before holding a finger to his lips.

“O-oh, just like that.” Your hips buck, spreading your legs and pushing your hips into Simon's lap. "I can't get enough of your cock." You can't help but sigh the truth.

Negan’s grin widens. 

Unknowing of Negan's presence, Simon bluntly drags his nails down the length of your spine, leaning forward in the process so that his cock bluntly nudges your front wall. Your toes curl, weak gasps falling from your lips. It's too much. He tongues and bites a nipple through the fabric of your shirt, and that’s when you remember you’re only half-dressed. Negan’s presence doesn’t even cross your mind as you discard the shirt, tossing it somewhere to the side as your hips rise and fall. Your hands press against Simon's chest until he reclines against the couch cushion. With a balancing grip on his knees, you bounce along the length of his member. You're fucking him. All the while, two sets of eyes remain trained on your breasts.

It’s a dangerous path to walk but you find that you like being the center of attention. No. You relish in it. The heat between your leg pulses as you grind your clit, once, twice onto Simon's lap. He latches onto a nipple, the feeling like nothing you’d experienced as your orgasm envelops you. The entire time your eyes are locked with Negan until the intensity of your orgasm makes you clench your eyes shut. 

With a breathless moan, you collapse onto his chest.

"One second," You pant. "Just let me rest."

A slow clap fills the room.

“I hate to interrupt before Simon gets his nut, but I came to visit the newlyweds.”

To your surprise, Simon rolls his hips languidly. He’s unbothered by Negan's presence, doesn't even bother to glance in his direction. 

Should you cover your breasts? Probably, yes. Cover your breasts. 

“Shit, Y/N, don’t do that.”

“It’s okay, Bunny.”

Your hands slowly drop, giving Simon a look of inquiry. 

His thumb brushes a peaked nipple, a soft smile on his face. “Yesterday, before you made me dinner, you did this little bounce with your feet.”

“I remember.” You tentatively say. "It's fitting."

“Don’t mind my horny ass; I’m only here to observe.” Negan quickly crosses the room, collapsing onto a chair. “Sometimes a genius has to admire his goddamn work.”

“Look at me,” Simon coaxes. 

You’re unsure of how you’re meant to feel. Maybe depraved. The idea of Negan joining intrigues you. Simon rocks his hips, sinking deeper into your sex. It makes a sloppy sound, the wetness from your release having seeped down your thighs and drenched his lap. “You’re all wet.” You note.

“S’kay.” He seems to sense that you’re vulnerable. That you need to be held closely. His arms engulf your frame, pulling you so that you’re cradled against his chest as he begins to pound you.  He clutches your shoulder, keeping you in place. “Better?”

“Y-yes.” Your lips part, a breathy moan filling his ear. “I want you to cum inside me. I want to feel it.” You clench your inner walls around his stony cock in encouragement. 

“Shit, Bunny, I can’t.” He pumps his hips a handful of times, pulling you off his lap and urging your head downward. You force yourself not to think, only concentrate on the act of catching every drop of his cum on your tongue. Negan cranes his head, appreciating the view of your ass and pussy that your arched back provides. “That’s it, baby. Ugh, swallow every fucking drop.” Tonguing the head, you moan slightly as the taste of you and him bursts across your tastebuds. 

Simon pats your bottom, and you take that as your cue to relent, sitting up and immediately reaching for his t-shirt. Simon tucks himself into his jeans, tugging you onto his lap. 

“Terms of endearment, already?” Negan drawls. “I’m impressed with your work, Y/N.”

Gripping the exposed skin of your upper thigh, Simon says, “You might’ve found the only female I’m able to tolerate.” His hands slowly begin to massage and knead the skin. “She reads too.”

“You look better?” Negan notes. "Happier?"

“I feel better,” Simon confesses. “Guess I’m indebted to your nosy ass.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Negan boosts, "but I'm also here on business. The Kingdom is late on their last..."

Their conversation gradually turns to a dull buzz as your eyes droop, head slipping into the crook of Simon's neck. His arms instinctively tighten around you, a sigh of content forming on your lips. It's when you've slipped into dreamland does Negan take the time to study the slope of your nose, the unruliness of your hair. His expression turns thoughtful.

Simon doesn't miss it, his grip tightens further.

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Courtyard

Negan’s POV

What. The. Fuck.

He was fucking jealous. 

He’d never admit it, not even with a gun to his goddamn balls, but you were something that he wanted to possess. You were a nibbling thought, an infatuation he couldn’t shake. He wanted what Simon had—and Simon had you. 

Negan hated to admit it, but maybe his plan had gone a little too well, and in the process of making Simon happy, he’d realized just how goddamn unhappy he was. What use were the Pussy Parlor and the occasional fuck up the ass if the days just ended the same way? Him, alone in his bed. He didn’t want canned affection. 

What did it all mean?

Goddamnit! 

His grip on Lucille tightened as he allowed the sudden realization to sink just below the surface of his skin. It itched, taunting him. You taunted him. You weren’t his, and that drove him fucking crazy. 

You’d been doing laundry in the courtyard when they’d returned from a run. You’d promptly abandoned the sheet on the clothesline and flung yourself into Simon’s arms. Negan had sat there and watched as Simon had spun you around, a genuine smile on his lips before tucking a wildflower behind your ear. You'd smiled and laughed at whatever Simon had whispered in your ear, returning his kiss and beckoning him towards the factory.

Negan was a nurturer, and yes, he thoroughly enjoyed the act of caring for his people; but the job was a thankless occupation. Well, he'd change that. He was the motherfucking boss after all. 

One thing was for sure. 

It was time for him to collect his dues.

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

“Are you sure? What if you’re late?”

Simon swallows your protest, sealing your mouth with his and working his hands beneath the fabric of your shirt. His t-shirt. His hands trace the expanse of your spine, the product of his actions, a shiver that always seems to find its way to your core.

It’s early and you had planned to make him breakfast before he left, only for him to interrupt. 

Mentally you say fuck it, dragging him closer by his belt loops so that the bulge of his erection presses harder against your sex. The kitchen counter is cool beneath your bare ass as he works the t-shirt even higher up your body to expose and capture a peaked nipple. 

“You are so fucking irresistible in my shirt, Bunny. You know that?”

His words make you giggle. He says that almost everyday, but it’s a welcomed compliment. He’s so good for you it almost hurts to think about you’d almost missed out on. 

Tightening your legs around his waist, you quickly help him undo his belt, freeing his cock so that the tip brushes against your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

Simon fills you with one harsh thrust, bottoming out and flexing so that you feel him so deep that you have to grab the edge of the counter for stability. 

“So good,” You sigh.

“Yeah?” He quickens, grabbing your fleshy bottom to tilt your pelvis upward. He sinks deeper and you cry out. 

“Yes, Simon. Oh, yes…” Dropping your head back against the cabinets, you succumb to his wandering fingers and stroking touches. His whispers and near silent taunts press against your ear, taking you closer towards the edge. “Touch me. Right here.” You guide his hand between your legs, brushing the place where you meet. “I need it.”

His thumb brushes your distended clit, rubbing firm circles into the little nub. You mewl at the sparks of heat that drip down your spine and collect in your core. He fits so well, fills you to the point where your breath stops every time he nudges your cervix—you can’t image there’s anything better than this. 

“C’mere, Bunny. Bend over for me.” He helps you off the counter, pressing himself tightly against your ass while you bend at the waist. 

“Guide me inside you.” He orders.

With shaky hands you do as he says, brushing the underside of his cock and guiding it between your legs until he presses against your entrance. You roll your hips, feeling that sharp spasm of pleasure that always chases away the pain as he gradually stretches your inner walls. It’s an intense feeling that always incites this greediness from somewhere inside you and on instinct you find yourself fucking yourself on him, taking without care.

He likes that, immensely.

Simon’s hand falls heavily on the curve on your ass, taking your mewling plea as a good sign. He does it again, encouraging you to take what you so desperately desire. The sounds of your coupling fill the room as he takes possession of your hips, helping you move along his cock. 

“I’m close,” You whimper.

His grip tightens. A warning. “Hold it, baby. Not yet.”

“I can’t. Oh, Simon.” Your walls begin to flutter against your own volition. It’d only been till recent that the both of you had realized orgasming in tandem could be such a beautiful thing. "Please. Please, hurry."

You feel his cock contract and lengthen within you. His voice is in your ear, urging you to cum on his cock and it’s all too much. You detonate. 

“Shit, Bunny.” Simon hisses, the feeling of you milking his cock is almost enough to tempt him into spilling inside you. He pulls out instead, painting milky streaks across your ass. “You really want my cum don’t you?”

He turns you in his arms, smirking at your drunken smile.

“Maybe someday, huh?” You ask.

He presses a quick kiss to your pouting lips. 

“Someday.” He breathes. “Just not today.”

“So the thought of kids doesn’t scare you?” Your face contorts into a look of awe. You’d been joking, and completely understood Simon’s aversion to unprotected sex. 

He pulls his head back from the crook of your neck. “Does it scare you?”

“Not like I thought it would.” Biting your lip, you elaborate. “I’m very good at taking care of others, I’m sure our kids would be no different.”

The words slip from your mouth too easily, and they’re out in the open before you can take them back.

“What the hell is this?” The front door colliding with the drywall makes such an ugly sound that you let out a heart-wrenching scream. “Some freaky-deaky? My goddamn favorite. Don’t get dressed on my account, doll.” 

Against Negan’s protests, you slip Simon’s shirt over your head and resume fixing your husband’s lunch. You were used to Negan barging in. It was Negan’s world, the rest of you were just living in it. Though, a part of you can’t tell whether or not you’re grateful for the distraction or just annoyed. 

“Hi, sweetie.”

“Frankie,” You cheer, pleasantly surprised. It’d been almost two months with Simon and you’d hardly seen her for the duration of that period. “What are you doing here?”

“She’s been begging me to see ya, doll.” Negan interrupts. “Figured you two could spend the day diddling each other or whatever chicks do when they’re alone.”

“We like to talk about our goddamn feelings,” Frankie sighs lowly.

Kissing Simon goodbye, you pass him a bagged lunch and cut Negan off mid-protest when you pass him one of his own. 

There isn’t time to pick Simon's brain or backtrack on your comment about having children. However, there is an overabundance of time to overthink. 

“Can we talk?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” You startle from your inner-musings. “About?”

Frankie takes a deep breath and its only then do you realize her wilting exterior. 

“It’s about Negan.”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

“Oh, honey. You’re not making any sense.” You murmur, doing your best to wipe the tears that rapidly fall. 

In the short time you’d known Frankie she’d been this seemingly impenetrable character — nothing bothered her. To see her so frail and lost unnerves you. Admittedly, your emotional growth had been stunted somewhere along the last handful of years. You weren’t sure how to comfort her as she sobs in your lap. 

“It’s still early,” You say, helping her onto her feet. “Why don’t we lay down?”

Smoothing back the bed sheets, you help her get comfortable, tugging off that the godforsaken black dress and fetching her one of Simon’s t-shirts. After rationalizing that he won’t mind it, you help her dress. 

“I’m tired,” she mumbles.

“Get some rest.” You urge. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Her head lifts from the pillow and she reaches her arms out, softly pleading, “Lay with me?”

By nature, you’re an early-riser. You’re uncomfortable with the idea of being essentially stagnant, but you join her anyway and take a book from the large stack on Simon’s nightstand. Your friend needs you, and it’ll be nice to spend the morning relaxing for once.

“Have you found your thing yet? You know...that thing that Simon constantly brings back for you when he’s on runs. What is it?” Her head settles in your lap while you take a comfortable position propped against the headboard. 

“I think books. He leaves them on my nightstand with a wildflower tucked between the pages. Yesterday was Wuthering Heights with a purple orchid.” You confess, wiping away another tear that clings to her eyelashes.

“Someone’s in love,” Frankie teases, though her eyes are shut when she does it. “I can hear the smile in your voice.”

Hushing her, you turn to an ear-marked page and find your place, losing yourself in Catherine and Heathcliff’s doomed romance. Outside your window, the sun gradually rises. The entire time Frankie sleeps uninterrupted and you think, whatever has been bothering her must be keeping her up at night.

It’s only when you’ve gotten to the part of Wuthering Heights where Heathcliff has made up his mind to run away, and the sun is beginning to set does Frankie begin to stir.

“I’m all sweaty.” Her words are heavy with sleep as she stretches languidly, kicking the covers off with her feet. “I feel gross.”

You felt the same but had been too afraid to move in case you’d wake her. 

“How about a bath? And then I’ll make dinner — is chicken, alright?” You ask, getting out of bed and trudging into the bathroom.

“Oh, I’ve been craving chicken. Can you make it spicy?” she pleads. “With peppers, and maybe potatoes?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” You say, laughing at her enthusiasm. You were excited to have your first dinner guest, even if that meant Negan would most likely be in attendance too. 

Fiddling with the taps until the water runs warm, you dump in some lavender scented bubble bath and even sprinkle in some bath salts. It’s Frankie and you know that she’ll appreciate the effort. 

She wanders into the bathroom, placing a soft hand on your shoulder. “Join me?” she mumbles. “I don’t want to be alone.”

You readily agreed. A bath would be nice.

Frankie quickly sheds her clothes, stepping into the warm bathwater before you undress and join her. The tub is a comfortable size but she wants you close so you sit behind her, your legs cradling hers.

Resting her head against your shoulder she softly exhales, “Missed you, Y/N.” 

“Missed you, too.” 

Silently, you worry for your friend’s sake. She usually isn’t this quiet, but you force yourself to be patient and reach for a loofah, squeezing some bath gel onto the puff. She lets you manipulate her limbs as you slowly wash each arm and what you can reach of her legs.

“I’m pregnant.”

Your hand stills. 

“Sweetheart, really?” Your mouth drops. “And it’s Negan’s? Oh, I meant—!”

“No,” she sniffles, “I get it. I’m so fucking screwed, Y/N. I mean — it’s Negan.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand.” You gather her in your arms, rocking her softly as she cries. Although, she has a point. It’s Negan, after all. “It’s not like we have condoms just lying around, and I’m sure he’ll be excited once he gets over the initial surprise.”

You gaze over her shoulder and sure enough, her stomach is slightly rounded. Just the smallest amount, but it’s there if you know what you’re looking for — it could just as easily be played off as eating too much.

“I love him,” she admits softly. “I can’t help it. It’s not supposed to be like this. I'm not supposed to love him! When I see him with the others…a part of me dies a little, and I want to run away from it all.” 

“I’m so sorry, Frankie.” You hug her tighter around her middle, just below her breasts as her head bows and she softly sobs. Pressing a kiss to her spine, you ask, “What can I do to make it hurt less?”

“You can’t make the hurt stop, it’s just something that a person has to feel.” You feel her swallow heavily, her chest heaving as she attempts to control her breathing. “I want a do-over,” she whimpers. 

“I know, sweetie. For a very, very long time, I wanted one too.” Slowly, you coax her out of hunched position so that she lays lax against your chest. Taking the discarded loofah, you run it along her front, soaping her stomach and running it between her breasts. “You can sit here and wish for something that isn’t even feasible or try a different approach. Whatever you do, I’m here for you.”

“I’m usually his favorite, you know? But this past week it’s either Amber or Tanya, and I’m just alone with all this.”

“You’re not alone,” You softly rebuke, turning her chin so that she looks you in your eyes. “I’m here, okay? What happens next…we’ll figure it out together.”

“You mean that?” Her eyes briefly flicker to your lips, the air from her soft exhales brushing against them. “I think you’re the first real friend I’ve had in a long time, Y/N.”

Your first thought, when her lips gently brush against yours, is that they're much softer than Simon’s. It’s not a bad observation, just different. You’re used to Simon’s greedy kisses and possessive handling, but Frankie’s all soft edges and light strokes of her tongue. Emboldened by this discovery, the tips of your fingers brush along the underside of her breasts, holding her closer.

“Please, Y/N?” Her fingers entangle with the hairs at the nape of your neck, fusing your mouths together. “It’s just me.”

“I know.” You’d never done this before, never been with a woman, but that hadn’t stopped you previously with your other sexual endeavors. While one hand reaches to tease in-between Frankie’s breasts, the other submerges beneath the bubbles, seeking out her clit and teasing it with your thumb. She shudders in your grip, her chest arching. “It’s just us.” You agree.

Her mouth drops open, soft cries leaving her lips as you pinch and roll an erect nipple between your thumb and forefinger, simultaneously working her harder between her legs. It isn’t long until she’s crying out her release, hips rocking against your fingers that mimic what you'd seen Simon do only last night.

A slight blush slowly unfurls across her heaving chest, and it's earth-shatteringly beautiful. 

“Well, look at this shit! Simon,” Negan calls. “I. Was. Right. Chicks do diddle themselves when they’re alone.” 

He leans against the open doorway with a shit-eating grin. “I love being right,” he finally remarks.

Simon pokes his head through the doorway a somewhat eager expression on his face. “Did I miss it?” Negan nods, obviously pleased with himself. “You’re a bastard — you know that, right?”

“If I had said something they would have stopped,” Negan shrugs.

“Simon, a towel?” You ask, rising out of the water and holding your hands out.

If they were back that meant that you’d been in the tub for longer than expected. You usually had dinner ready by this time, and maybe it’s the fact that today has been an emotional rollercoaster, but you hated to think you weren’t being as proactive as you usually were. 

Simon crosses the room quickly, wrapping a towel around your waist before hoisting you out of the tub. “I missed you, Bunny.” His lips linger along your collarbone, inhaling the scent of lavender on your skin. “You missed your husband?”

“You were all I thought about,” You promise. 

He presses his lips to your ear, a faint grin lingering in his words. “Even when you had your fingers deep in Frankie’s pussy?”

Pecking his lips, you tease, “Even then. I might have used some of your own — tricks.”  

“I’m making chicken and peppers.” You announce to the others. Negan’s in the process of helping Frankie out of the tub. He swats her ass in passing, lowly snickering — you can’t help but roll your eyes. This is the man who’s about to be a father. “I hope you’ll stay, Negan.”

“Doll, you spoil me.” He drawls, taking his eyes off of Frankie’s breasts to ogle yours. “And it seems, my wife, as well. Maybe next time I’ll get to watch?” He hints.

“Me too,” Simon tacts on.

Completely ignoring them, you usher Frankie past Negan’s towering frame and fetch a pair of your pajama pants for her to wear. It gets unusually cold in the apartment at night, but you’re used to it so you go about making dinner in nothing more than a t-shirt. It’s an easy decision as every person in the room has seen you naked.

“Thank you, babydoll.” Passing Negan a beer, you take a seat on the arm of his chair while the chicken in the oven cooks. It’s extra spicy tonight. “I have to admit I’m a little of jealous of what he has here.” He motions to Simon who’s helping Frankie pick a record from his extensive collection.

“It’s pretty obvious,” You admit, letting him pull you onto his lap. 

“Damn, really?”

You nod because he’s Negan and he’s particularly transparent when it comes to these things.

“I’m flattered, but you knew that.” Lowering your voice to a whisper, you press your secret close to his ear. “I think I might love Simon.” 

Your heart races with an uncontrollable fear of what he might do with the information you’d willingly given him or the idea of Simon possibly overhearing.

You can’t help it. Your lips are particularly loosened by the free-flowing alcohol. 

“Babydoll, it’s pretty damn obvious.” It’s his turn to laugh, his hand lightly stroking up the back of your naked thigh. With a delicate sigh, you lean against his shoulder, absorbing his body heat. It might be odd to an outsider but in a roundabout way, you loved Negan, too. He’d given you Simon and unknowingly, a chance at a better life. “You sure it ain’t Stockholm Syndrome?”

“Our circumstances are unique,” You allow, taking a swig of his beer, “but it’s more than that. He takes care of me and checks in on Bradley every other day. When he rushes out in the morning, he gives me these soft morning kisses that linger on my lips long after he’s gone. They’re all I can think about. They’re how I mark my days. My mother used to say that those types of things don’t come along too often. He’s my person, Negan. You ever feel that way?”

Before he can offer a response, Simon interrupts, cupping the nape of your head and dragging his tongue along your bottom lip. With a soft whine, you open for him, entangling his tongue with yours while your hands wander into his short locks, holding him to you.

“We get it, Simon. She’s yours,” Negan grumbles, his hips shifting beneath you, pressing the bulge of his erection against your ass.

“Damn straight,” he slurs. 

He’s only three beers in but you notice he’s pulled out the hard stuff — tequila — which he only does for special occasions. Simon offers Negan the bottle before pulling you into the kitchen. His hands immediately wander up the hem of your t-shirt, palming your bare ass as he rolls his hips, thrusting his rapidly hardening cock against your heaving stomach.

“That turned on, huh?” You gasp when he grants you some reprieve.

The timer dings, alerting everyone that the chicken in the oven is ready for consumption.

“Finally,” Frankie groans, patting her stomach. “Feed me.”

Detangling yourself from Simon’s arms you quickly plate the chicken and peppers while Simon, ever the dutiful husband, pulls homemade condiments from the fridge and sets them on the living room table. 

The past several days you’d been doing the unthinkable — reminiscing of the past. It’s dangerous territory and years ago, at the beginning of all this, the act would have crippled you. But now it’s all you can do and what you find yourself doing when you gather in the makeshift living room for dinner. Simon sits by your legs while you take one half of the couch, Frankie takes the other half, and Negan settles back against the recliner. There isn’t a television to drown out the conversation, only Bob Marly softly crooning from the stereo. 

Too much had been taken from you, many pieces of your fragile form had fallen apart never to be seen again. But for the first time since you’d lost your parents and the weight of the world had fallen onto your shoulders, a piece of you is reclaimed. More than that — possibly two. 

For once, amongst a scheming Negan, a drunken, affectionate husband and a massive secret — you feel tentatively whole. 

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

It’s late but the conversation never wavers and neither does the steadily building tension.  There’s an unspoken agreement that passes through sideways glances and exchanges between wandering hands. It doesn’t make you any less of a wife to want this, crave this, but still, you worry for your friend’s wellbeing. 

The amber liquid in your glass sloshes against the rim as you set it off to the side, crawling on your hands and knees until you’re hovering over Frankie’s prone form. She’s not drinking like everyone else and has made several trips to the kitchen to discreetly dump her drink. 

Dragging your lips along hers, you whisper, “Hi, love.”

The corner of her mouth flickers upward, a partial smile.

“You’re drunk, sweetie.” 

“Just a little,” You admit, shifting your body so there’s no pressure on her belly before you settle atop her. “As it turns out, I’m oddly affectionate when I’m tipsy.”

“Negan’s feeling especially affectionate tonight, I think.” She notes, hands fisting the fabric of your shirt. 

The fabric bunches, bringing the hemline just a little higher up your thighs. 

Lifting your head from where it’d been resting between her breasts, you give her a look. “I won’t do anything if it makes you uncomfortable. I’ll make him leave or fake an illness.” The thought of what tonight might do to her is more significant than fulfilling a fantasy or repaying a debt. 

“It’s just us, Y/N.” Her hands still. “Simon?”

You can’t help the sly grin that unravels across your face. “He likes to watch — and be watched.”

Just another part of your husband that you’d come to love.

The conversation in the kitchen ceases, the clinking of glasses fade until they’re just a distant buzzing in your ear as Frankie leans forward, tracing the seam of your lips with her tongue.

“Holy shit, Simon! Look at that,” Negan bellows. He’s louder than usual — it’s probably the Gin. “Our wives are getting freaky right under our noses.” 

The couch cushion dips behind you, the warmth of Negan’s hands searing into your hips as he urges you onto your knees, breaking your embrace with Frankie. 

Simon stumbles over, throwing himself into the recliner. His eyes are ablaze as he watches you — his wife — sandwiched between two other individuals. “Whatd’ya think, Bunny?”

You pretend to think, fingers wandering under Frankie’s shirt. Her skin is like warm silk beneath your fingertips. Negan’s fingers dig impatiently into the fleshy skin of your ass, no doubt leaving half-moon indentations. The tension in the room is on the cusp of cresting — it builds in your chest, getting locked in your throat. 

Negan’s hand falls heavy onto your skin, catching the curve of your ass. The sting cuts through your inner-dialogue and unfurls a wave of heat that pinches your groin. It’s a growing ache that demands attention from anyone — any touch or caress could send you toppling over the edge into this place that would surely meld the lines between common sense and selfish desires.

“I think it took you long enough, Negan.” You gasp, struggling to find purchase as he rolls his hips forward into your ass, mimicking sex. 

Simon snorts at the comment, his hand palming the bulge between his legs. 

“I don’t do virgins, babydoll.” Negan wrestles with his belt, freeing his cock and pressing forward so that your ass cheeks cradle his member. “Too clingy, but I can’t lie — I’ve been dying to fuck the shit out of you.”   

His fingers move with purpose, pulling soft mewls from your lips that seem to incite something within Frankie. She comes to life beneath you, melding your lips together as Negan’s fingers delve between your slick, lower lips. 

“Jesus, you're fucking soaked.” He cursed. “Did you get that way by kissing my wife?”

Frankie steals your concentration, offering a whine of frustration that reverberates against your tongue as she tugs your shirt overhead to pinch and grope your breasts. 

“Answer him, Bunny.” Simon’s voice is gruff and riddled with lust. 

He really, really loves to watch.

“Mhmm, yes.” Your back arched — torn between the two pairs of wandering hands that pull you in different directions. 

“You want him to fuck you, Bunny?”

“God, yes.” You hardly recognize your own voice as you rasp out your plea. 

The sounds of your heavy pants, Frankie’s soft, sucking kisses, and Negan’s low curses fill the room but you work hard to concentrate on your husband. 

“Ask him,” Simon bites out, his fingers flying to his own belt until he’s out and throbbing in his own hand. He fists his cock, thumbing the angry looking head. “Tell 'em you want your pussy filled with his fat cock. Just like that.” He orders.

“Simon, you flatter me.” Negan practically sings. “Go on, doll. Stroke my ego.”

“Fuck me, Negan.” You swallow hard, pushing your breast into Frankie’s mouth as she switches to the other. “Fuck me with your fat cock. Now, please — ugh!”

He fills you so suddenly, shoving his dick into your slick passage with a wet squelch. He’s different from Simon, less considerate of your own needs. Negan takes his own pleasure greedily with a bruising grip on your ass, bouncing you off his cock while he fucks forward. It’s not making love; it’s purely surface level affection — simply a hard fuck.

“Good pussy,” He grunts between thrusts. “I sure know how to pick ‘em — huh, Simon?”

“Sure do,” Simon pants, his gaze trained on Frankie’s mouth as she tugs a nipple between her teeth, gently nibbling. 

Negan pauses, raking a fistful of hair to bring you onto your knees, back-to-chest. 

“Frankie, baby,” He practically purrs, the vibrations seeping into your core. Your hips twitch, sinking further down his shaft. “Get naked so Y/N can eat your sweet pussy. It’s only fair — ain’t it, Y/N?”

You whimper weakly, head spinning from the tight grip he has you in but also the idea of being so uninhibited, so desperate to do whatever he says while Simon watches completely enraptured. 

Quickly, Frankie sheds her clothing, scooting farther up the couch and spreading her legs so that you have an unobscured view of the wet, puffy lips of her pussy. 

“You ever lick a girl’s pussy?” Negan hisses in your ear, tongue tracing a sensitive spot along your neck that makes your inner walls clench around his shaft. He shifts, pushing back against your ass. “Fucking answer me, Y/N.”

“No.” You mewl, eyes darting to Simon’s. 

“You’re in for a treat. Frankie’s pussy is lip-smackin’ good. Spread ‘em, baby.” He orders her. “Let Y/N lick your tight, little cunt.” 

With shaky fingers Frankie delves between her legs, spreading the swollen lips of her sex. Negan guides your head between her legs and you allow a finger to trace a line along the seam of her inner-thigh, marveling at the stream of arousal that drips from her entrance. 

She trembles beneath your touch, her fingers entangling with Negan’s at the crown of your head as you envelop her hardened clit withing your mouth, softly suckling. You’re going off of pure instinct but she seems to like what you’re doing, bucking her hips as your tongue slides deeper into her heat. 

She’s surprisingly sweet on your tongue and with that comforting thought, your inhibitions fall away, lapping at her opening in hopes of getting more of her on your tongue. 

“Shit, that’s a nice fucking image.” Bracing one hand at your waist and the other on the back of the couch, Negan reaches beneath you to cup a breast, the pebbled nipple grazing his palm. 

His cock twitches inside you, the sight of his wife and you together has quickly become his favorite sight. The fact that your walls clench around his dick every time Frankie gives a particularly loud moan isn’t helping either. His rhythm falters and he’s tempted to let the flutters of your inner walls carry him past the finish line, but he knows that’ll only piss Simon off and create a shit storm.

So instead he savors the vice-like grip on his cock and the way you so lovingly handle Frankie before pulling out, fisting his cock so that he comes in thick reams across your lower back the same time you curl your fingers upward to bluntly hit that spot inside Frankie that sends her arching off the couch. 

“Oh — oh, shit! Yes,” She pants and her mouth opens in a perfect ‘o’  the same blush blossoming across her chest. Glossy eyed and drunken smile, she bites her lip and giggles, looking suddenly bashful. “That was really good. I think you might be better than Negan.”

“Gotta piss.” Negan mumbles, stumbling into the bathroom.

Your jaw aches and you’re sure that Frankie’s wetness is smeared across your chin but that doesn’t stop Simon from reaching for you, pulling you onto his lap. His cock is hard and leaking against your inner thigh, so you roll your hips and guide the tip to your entrance. 

He fucks you with sharp, upward thrusts that quickly fill the room, the sound of your loud cries mingling all the while. You chant Simon’s name like a prayer, digging your nails into his back as he brings you to the edge. Frankie watches, her head cocked and fingers slowly brushing her nipples into firm peaks. 

“Fucking cum on my dick, Bunny.” He’s clutching you so tight that you can hardly breathe. Chest to chest you share the same air, taking what he offers so eagerly. “Take my cock. You liked getting fucked while I stroked my dick?”

Your walls clench unexpectedly, pulling more expletives from his lips. His arrogant laugh fills your ears, he’s teasing you but you’ve earned it.

“Yes, yes! Oh, god. I'm close.” You pant.

“Let it come. I’ve got you.” As if to justify the statement his grip on your waist tightens, mashing your pelvises together.

Your mouth falls open, a long drawn out moan escaping as you orgasm envelops your tummy, crawling up your spine. To your surprise, it triggers Simon's, and he doesn’t pull away. He lengthens and contracts, spilling his warm release within you as your inner walls milk him so viciously. 

“Oh, we’ve made a mess.” Pulling away, you gape at where you’re still joined, watching his cum leak from between your legs and slicken both your upper thighs. “Simon?” You tap him once but he’s practically comatose.

Across the room, the door nosily bangs against the drywall. 

“Fuck,” Negan slurs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “What I miss?”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

You’re being watched.

The sensation urges you to wake, and you do so, stretching your limbs and nudging the body curled against your side. Frankie mumbles a protest in her sleep, her brow furrowing as she dreams of something fleeting. Hushing her, you smooth away the furrow and kiss her cheek, watching her settle.

“You’re good at that.” 

Negan’s hushed tones break the silence of the room. He lays on the other side of Frankie, a considerable distance between them with an arm tucked beneath his head.

“What?” You ask.

His expression turns thoughtful. 

“Making people feel important and shit, like they need your attention.”

Your eyes search for Simon. He’s passed out on the couch softly snoring.

“What’s really on your mind, Negan?” You’re not in the mood to deal with his vague bullshit, especially so early in the morning.

“You sure you love him?”

It’s only five words but you know what he’s insinuating, and while Simon doesn't seem necessarily concerned with Negan’s infatuation, you were tired of playing coy. 

“Cut the bullshit, Negan. You don’t want me, you want the idea of me and maybe if you weren’t walking around with your head up your ass — you’d see that you have what you wanted all along.”

The mattress shifts with Frankie’s weight as she turns in her sleep, moving towards Negan. 

“I’m really that transparent, huh?” His hand brushes her cheek, watching as she leans into his touch. 

“Simon knows you.” You say, sitting up so that you can look him in the eye. “It’s not my place to ask, but I want to know — are you capable of actually loving someone? Me?”

It's hard to make out his expression in the dark, but you imagine that it's as conflicted as his voice sounds.

“I think you’re beautiful, and that I could learn to love you.”

“I love you, Negan.” You admit, rising onto your knees so that you can place a kiss on both his and Frankie’s lips. “How could I not? It’s just that I love Simon more.”

“I could take you from him.” He threatens, only the words hold no heat.

You find yourself shaking your head. 

“You won’t.”

He considers your statement, shaking his head in agreement. 

“You think I could do monogamy?” He scrubs his face roughly, head tipped towards the ceiling and eyes clenched shut. “Fuck one person for the rest of my life?”

“Simon and I are married and we just happily fucked you and Frankie. Being committed and in love doesn’t mean everything that it used to. It’s about finding what works for both of you. Look at me,” You urge, reaching for his chin so that he has no other choice but to look in your direction. “You need to understand what you want, and quick before you lose her.”

He dips his head forward quick, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“I’m not cut out for that shit; I only end up fucking everything up.” His gaze falls to Frankie who’s sandwiched between you both, a small smile playing on her lips, oblivious to the inner-turmoil rolling off him in waves. “Disappointing them, it’s all I’m good at.”

“You haven’t disappointed anyone but yourself, Negan. Before, remember? This is the after.” Smiling encouragingly, you place a lingering kiss on his lips and stand. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go fuck my husband. The only man that can actually make me cum.” You scoff daintily, slipping from beneath the covers.

"I was drunk," He grumbles, already drifting back to sleep, Frankie curled against his chest. 

You stumble towards the couch in the dark completely naked, Simon’s soft breathing helping to guide the way. He’d fetched a blanket sometime in the night, a thick quilt to help stave off the chill. Slipping beneath the sheet, you’re immediately cocooned in Simon’s warmth. Inhaling his aftershave, you nuzzle further into his chest, pressing your limbs against his for warmth. 

Simon wakens with a sharp exhale, the cold skin of your toes brushing against his ankle. 

“Hey.” He blinks blearily, wrapping a hand loosely around your waist. “You okay?”

“Can’t sleep without you,” You murmur, slipping a hand into the waistband of his jeans. 

“Want me to warm you up?”

“Already doin’ it.” Your hand wraps around the shaft of his cock, softly stroking. “You remember earlier?”

You’re referring to him finishing inside you without any protection. You’d fallen asleep wondering if that had been his way of consenting to have a baby. Call it buyer’s remorse, but you weren’t sure pregnancy was what you wanted, at least not now. 

“Yeah,” He grunts, hips pressing against your hand. “I’ll get you the morning after pill later, can’t hurt doing it one more time…”

“Kay,” You agree. “I’d like that.”

“You really mean that? No babies?” He shifts, bringing you onto your side so that you’re facing him, noses brushing and lips pressing reverently against one another. 

Arching your back, you stifle a cry to keep from waking the others as Simon drags his nails along your spine, teeth raking against your pulse point.

“Yes,” You whimper. “I like just us.”

“Just us,” He agrees. “Take me out, Bunny.”

He follows the demand with a rough squeeze of your ass, bringing you forward onto his now straining cock. The fabric of his jeans drags against the folds of your sex, teasing them until they begin to swell and slicken with your arousal. 

And maybe its the stillness of the room or the precarious position you’d found yourself in, but you reach for him with trembling fingers, intending never to let him go. He presses against your entrance, fingers hooking your leg over his hip so that he can bury himself within you with a firm thrust, but then it’s so very tender  — as if he senses that’s something you need to. 

Simon.”

One word, but it’s enough.

“I know.” His hand falls to the base of your spine, bringing your pelvises together in a slow grind as he rides you. You can feel every ridge and vein against your inner walls, vaguely discern the muted outline of his face, and the way the corner of his mouth pinches when he nudges that spot that makes your walls clench. “I know,” He vows.

Wet fingers trail across your heaving belly, fitting between the empty places to press against where you’re joined. It tightens in your belly, to an overbearing heat that makes you pant and whine. 

“You’re gonna cum on my dick, aren’t you?” Your attempt to stifle your cry falls short; he seems to want to pull these noises from you, uncaring of garnering an audience. “Answer me,” He growls lowly. 

“M’coming,” You gasp, hands clawing at his shoulders as your world seems to teeter on the end of something powerful. 

“Let it come, baby. I’ve got you.” He promises, lips brushing your damp hairline.

There’s something in his voice that makes you want to come undone, fling yourself off that cliff that will send you spiraling into this unknown abyss. This time is deeper and more meaningful than any other time you’ve had sex, and you’re so sure that it means the things you want it to mean to him already.

In the aftermath, you’re a sweaty, tangled mess. The blanket is almost suffocating you with its warmth. You can’t bring yourself to care; you're too busy committing this moment to memory because on this couch, cloaked in darkness and slick with sweat — you realize that he loves you. 

“Why don’t we get away for a  little bit?”

You shift in his arms, studying the darkness where you assume his eyes to be. 

“Are you serious?”

“A honeymoon, yeah. Just us,” Simon promises.

"Just us."

Chapter Text

Location: Oceanside — Cabin 22A

Reader’s POV

It wasn’t something that you did often — remember. There wasn’t a point, at least to you. Not when everyone you’d ever loved or crossed paths in your lifetime was now a walking husk — dead or alive — it didn’t matter. 

Only, the past few days there’s been a subtle shift, and all you can do is recall. The first time it happens it’s during the long car ride to Oceanside, a hand upturned and hanging outside the window, caressing the air that slips through your fingers. You’re abruptly brought back to the summer trips you’d taken as a child, and the smooth leather of Simon’s truck transforms into the nylon of your mother’s hatchback. It’s dizzying.

It’s only hours later on the small shore that hugs the edges of Oceanside with the water lapping at your ankles and the distant calls of seagulls do you recall your brother’s first beach trip. You’re thirteen and Bradley’s only four and he looks so very tiny compared to the vast openness that the horizon exudes. His hand reached for yours, tangling his tiny, delicate fingers with your own.

I’ve got you, Bradley. Don’t be scared, okay? I’ll always have your hand.

There. Right there. That’s the moment you became his mother because the helplessness you'd felt the moment he reached for you, scared and small, the bubbling worry in your chest, it had never quite gone away. 

Of course, there are other realizations that come with recalling. 

It all comes back in an instant, and it’s all there among the tears you’d wept for those Unicef commercials on TV when you were only five and the lunches you’d offered to the homeless on your route to school. You are inherently selfless; it’s who you’ve always been. You haven’t been losing pieces of yourself; it’s more than that. You’d sunk further into the tendency to put others before yourself. You’re still here, all of you. 

You survived, managed to retain an integral part of your being.

The thought brings tears to your eyes, clouding your vision so that the moonlight streaming from behind the clouds becomes fractured and the ocean water a murky smudge. 

“It’s late, Y/N. What are you thinking about?”  Simon’s hands materialize around your waist, pulling you against his chest and away from the railing that you’d been leaning against.

“Everything and nothing,” You admit. “My family, mainly.” 

“Still haven’t found the Savior that knocked up your cousin,” he says, hands dragging past the hemline of your nightgown to smooth across the skin of your upper thighs, warming you. “I’m close, though.” 

“It’s not that, not really.” You shake your head, blinking away your tears. “It’s Bradley. I haven’t been good to him, just the bare minimum.”

“That’s not your fault, Bunny.” 

Simon’s lips skim the back of your neck. He presses them there, hard, so that the heat of the embrace sinks below the surface of the skin, lingering.

You want to protest because it is your fault, because however unconscious the decision had been you’d made a choice to resent your brother and had neglected him. Were you actually entertaining the idea of having children last week when you already had one starving for attention?  Instead, you settle for pulling Simon closer, absorbing the heat of his bare chest against your back to chase away the chill in the evening air.

“What are you doing up?” You ask.

It’s sometime past midnight and in only a few hours you’ll have to make the trip back to the Sanctuary. 

“Couldn’t sleep without you,” he mumbles.

“I don’t want this week to be over either,” You agree, sensing the longing in his voice. “We could stay here forever. Go back for Bradley and some of our things, and make this place our new home.”

While Simon had already had the run to Oceanside planned days before he'd suggested the idea of a honeymoon, Negan had graciously allowed you to come along and extended the trip to a week-long stay at the neighboring community. The time out of the factory had done you good, both you and Simon. He seemed lighter, was more playful with you and hadn’t stopped smiling since the first time he’d chased you into the water.

You're only partially joking about the suggestion to move, but Simon’s answer surprises you. “Someday, yeah. We’ll get a cabin by the water, right there.”

He points to the empty plot of land a couple of miles down the shore before fingering the thin strap of your top and tugging it below your breasts to fondle and pinch your nipples.

The air in your throat catches as you glance around for any witnesses, stepping out of the puddle of your dress that pools around your feet. “Right here? What if somebody sees us?” You ask.

“I’ll be quick.”

He urges your legs further apart as a warm weight settles at the base of your spine, bending you over the railing. The woods digs unforgiving into the softness of your belly, but the anticipation and the heat of his breath on your shoulder surpasses the feeling. 

“Having you like this, out in the open with your pert, little ass and your beautiful thighs on display has been my favorite part of this week,” he confesses into the column of your throat, dragging his tongue across the skin, teeth sinking into the already tender and bruised skin. 

“God, Simon.”

His thick fingers trail across the expanse of your mound, cupping your sex and traveling lower to press against the bundle of nerves. You half-expect him to rub your clit, tease the nub into a hardened little point until your legs quiver and shake but he travels lower to your opening. 

“That’s right, baby. Say my name just like that,” he goads.

Simon penetrates you with one finger, curling it upward so that the callused pad strokes the roof of your inner walls. It’s instant, a dense heat that seems to punch you in the gut as his speed increases, the evidence of your arousal dripping into his palm. Your fingers grip the railing, bracing yourself against the next onslaught of sparks that claw at your spine. Hips bucking, you press against Simon’s erection that digs into your lower back.

Ung, right there — just like that!” You whimper before realizing that this pleasurable feeling feels different from the others. “I think I have to pee, Simon. Stop, please.” 

He ignores your protests, curling his fingers upward and nudging that same spot. Head tossed back, and eyes clenched shut you have no choice but to brace yourself as you succumb to the feeling, gushing down your thighs and Simon’s hand as his groan fills your ear and he fucks you through it. 

“You didn’t piss yourself, baby. You ejaculated,” Simon corrects, playing in your wetness. 

“Mhmm, okay.” You’re practically boneless and you sag against Simon, letting the ocean breeze cool your skin. 

“Fuck, Bunny. Open your eyes and look at this,” he orders. “You’re all over my hand and your clit is completely erect.” 

You do as he says, studying your engorged clit, the puffy lips of your pussy and the head of Simon’s cock which now nudges in-between your thighs. 

“It beautiful,” You murmur, thumbing the silkened head and dragging your fingers along his shaft. “Are you going to fuck me now?”

“You want it, huh?” he teases. “Thought you were scared of getting caught?”

He cants his hips forward, coating himself in your wetness and bluntly hitting your clit. 

“If you don’t fuck me I’ll scream,” You warn. “Make everyone think you’re attacking me and not fucking me like you should be.”

He snickers, mouthing at your neck and sucking on the skin as the head of his cock presses at your entrance. “Who am I but my wife’s humble servant?”

Rocking his hips forward, he lets the natural undulation of your inner walls take him further into your core. Your back bows, his sudden grip on your neck folding you backward so that he sinks deeper, fucking you with even strokes. His free hand crashes down onto your ass, soothing the sting and using the leverage to pull you back onto his cock. You’re begging, you dimly realize, promising him anything if he’ll take you harder, circle his hips a little faster.

“Greedy, little slut,” he hisses. “I should be used to it after this week, since you’ve practically taken my cock on every available surface.”

“I am.” You nod, dragging in sharp shards of air as the knot in your belly tightens. “I’m your slut.”

The feeling of his wet thumb on your anus makes you pause until you force yourself to relax, welcoming the intrusion.

Simon circles the tight ring, pressing his finger deeper as his thrusts become choppier, his words a soft hum. “That’s it, Y/N. Take it, baby. I know you can.”

He establishes a rhythm that makes your mouth go dry, coherent thought leaving your mind as you cum around his member, ass clenching around his thumb that fucks you. Your releases splashes down your legs, and with a heavy pant, Simon pulls out, draping your back and sandwiching his cock between your body and his as he ruts against you, spilling his hot release onto your lower back. 

“Simon, I love you.” With a whimper you collapse into his arms, allowing him to pick you up and carry you to bed.


Location:  Highway 83 — Campbell, VA

Reader’s POV

The morning sun is a faint thing of the past into the fifth hour of the drive back to the Sanctuary. The cabin of Simon’s truck vaguely resembles a rotisserie oven, and the short cotton dress you’d donned for the trip makes you feel like you’re overdressed for the occasion. 

“Can’t be less than an hour. We’ll have a cold shower and then go visit Bradley, okay?”

You glance up from your paperback, absentmindedly brushing a bead of sweat that rolls off the tip of your nose and hits the pages as you study your husband. He’s predictably coated in a sheen of sweat but seems unbothered.   

Simon's hand falls from the wheel, caressing the calf which rests in his lap from your strewn position on his bench seat. You try your hardest to not succumb to his thinly viewed innuendo and the way he’s grown a soft spot for your brother. You’re meant to be mad, maintaining the silence you’d dedicated hours to already. It’s just—

There’s something about the heat that makes you so goddamn horny, and it appears to have the same effect on Simon. The sole of your foot now and then brushes against his semi-hard erection. Wanting to be cruel, you nudge it with your toe. Hard.

“Don’t start something you aren’t willing to finish,” he says by way of warning, glancing out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m a big girl, thank you," You retort.

Your foot presses harder again the bulge of his crotch, massaging the shaft with your toes as you pretend to return to your reading. Simon honks twice and the cars in front of him slow to a stop. It’s a signal you’d learned this past week; it meant ‘take 15 minutes’.

“C’mere.”

He tugs you forward by your foot, and you go sliding down the length of the seat, your back flush with the interior. He practically falls on top of you, fumbling between your legs as his mouth bites your nipple through the fabric of your dress. Your hands, on instinct, go for his jeans, pushing them down to free Simon’s member so that he’s leaking and throbbing against your thigh.

He fills you without warning, using the door as leverage just above your head to fuck you into the leather seats. It’s quick and messy, and your orgasm begins to shudder through you without so much as a hint. You’re sure that the others can hear you from where they’re parked feet ahead, but it doesn’t bother you as it should. You’re so consumed in each other that everything else just blurs and fades away.

At least, that’s how it is for you.

Mid-fuck, you find yourself blurting out the words that have been hammering at your skull all morning: “You didn’t say it back.”

Simon pauses the rocking of his hips, eyes wide and confused as they fly open to study your face. “What?”

“Yesterday,” You trailed. “Or earlier this morning…”

“Yeah?”

The underlying emotion in your words bubbles over, choking you so that you have to pause and swallow it back. “I said I loved you, out loud and you didn’t say it back. I know you do, so why didn’t you say you loved me back?”

Simon abruptly pulls away like you’ve burned him, pushing himself into his pants and buckling his belt.

“If I said I loved you back, I’d be lying,” he says bluntly, looking anywhere but at your face. “I know, isn’t that enough?”

“That’s not true,” You accuse, straightening your dress. “You love me, I know it.”

“I want to love you,” he admits. “Ain’t the same thing, though.”

“Simon,” You gasp. 

He sighs low and heavy, head falling onto the steering wheel as the cab of the truck drips heavy with tears and unsaid words.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” He pauses. “Besides that.”

“You'd still do it, wouldn’t you? Kill yourself,” You accuse, realizing what he’d been insinuating this entire time. “I can’t be enough, not even a reason. You wan’a plan a future and build a house, yet you can’t say you’d love me? You’d do all that only to leave me?" 

His response is harsh, biting. “You expected your pussy to cure my depression magically?”

Your head whips back as if he’d slapped you. “Don’t talk to me like that. Actually—”

“Y/N.”

“—don’t talk to me at all. Not until you figure out what you want.”

You clamber out of the truck barefooted, the soles of your feet screaming in protest from the hot pavement. The heat drinks your tears seconds after they fall, leaving you with an itchy dry feeling on your cheeks.

“You okay?” Arat asks once you open the door to her jeep, climbing in. 

“Define okay?” You mumble glumly. 

She snorts, starting the car when Simon honks. “Depressed.”

“Not me.” You sniff. “I’m not the one who needs help.”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Here & There

Reader’s POV

Arat’s car is still in motion when you throw yourself out of the moving vehicle and into Negan’s arms. His face, an easy grin, drops when he gets one look at your grief-stricken expression before you’re reaching for him, burrowing into his chest. 

He sighs heavily, gathering you into his arms. “What did that bastard do?”

“He doesn’t love me back,” You whimper, your arms tightening around his neck as your tears dampen his neck.  “I don’t understand. We were doing so well.”

“Shit, sweetheart.” He settles you onto your feet, wiping your tears. “Let me knock some sense into the bastard, just give him some space. Go stay with Frankie until I sort this mess out.”

“I should go then,” You say, mostly speaking to yourself. “I need to get my stuff before he comes.”

“I’ll handle him,” he assures you. “This is my fault, and I’ll fix it.”

You aren’t sure how you make it to your room. It’s a blur, a thin film of tears settling over the surface of your irises so that you stumble through the halls, blindly searching until you find your apartment. You pull clothes from your dresser in haste, grab the souvenirs from your drawers, before hesitating by the door, grabbing the copy of Lord of the Flies that Simon had gifted you weeks ago. 

You hate the thought of leaving Simon and can only imagine what he’ll do when finds out that you left. The shame and the guilt form a ball in your stomach, pressing heavy against something that causes a wave of nausea to curl in your throat. 

It isn’t fair of you to leave, not when he’s suffering from something you can’t control. If the roles were reversed, you’d want him beside you regardless. It just hurts so much to think that one day you might wake up to find him gone. You didn’t deserve half a life, and Simon’s right, you have to admit. You want him to mean it when he tells you he loves you.

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You find Frankie’s room quickly, rasping at the door with your possessions haphazardly spilling from your arms and your heart in pieces. She looks stunned to see you in tears, barely holding it together. You only have to mumble Simon’s name before she’s ushering you inside. 

Frankie smells like home and comfort, everything you wanted from Simon, only in a smaller, feminine frame. 

“I want to understand, but how can I…how…” Your words fall clumsily from your lips as you explain to Frankie the conversation that had quickly turned heated between you and your husband. 

“How can you love them without giving pieces of yourself away.” Frankie sighs delicately, understanding. She’d been wondering the same thing for years. “I’m sorry, love. You know you’ll always have a place with Negan and I, right?”

“Did he finally pull his head out of his ass?”

She seems hesitant to discuss it, but with a few encouraging words from you, her face breaks into a brilliant smile. “We’re taking it slow, but he’s gotten rid of the other wives. He came to me, and he cried, Y/N, I couldn’t believe it, but he said he wanted to try for me.”

No matter how much you love them, you can’t help the jealousy that burns in the pit of your chest. “Did you tell Negan about the baby?” You ask.

“Not yet,” she says, looking down at her hands. “I don’t want to break him if that makes sense. Negan’s fragile in a way I can’t explain. He needs to feel like he’s in charge otherwise…”

“Otherwise he’ll lash out, and you lose the actual, level-headed Negan,” You finish, knowing his habit of blowing up. “I’m happy for you, Frankie. You deserve to have someone love you.”

“So do you,” she pleads. “Give Simon some time to collect himself. He’ll come back to you when he’s ready. He’s isn’t clueless, and what I mean by that — he’s not Negan.”

You choke out a watery laugh at her thinly veiled annoyance because, in all actuality, it took several years, eight wives and a baby on the way to convince him to try settling down. 

“Why don’t you cool down with a shower and then we can go down to the consignment store,” Frankie suggests, the back of her hand brushing away the tears you hadn’t realized were still falling. “I’ve been dying to look at baby clothes with my baby’s godmother — I hear she has great taste.”

"Really? Oh, Frankie. I'm flattered, honestly." For the sake of everyone but yourself, you bottle your emotions, putting them on a shelf in the far corner of your mind to revisit later. “I love you,” You say, wanting to hear it said back. 

Her lips brush feather soft against your damp cheek, murmuring words of encouragement.  “As I love you,” she assures. “Come on. I’ll shower with you.”

She’s gentle with you as she guides you to the shower stall, stripping you of your clothes slowly and pulling you beneath the stream of water. Frankie’s considerate, keeping the temperature of the water somewhere between cold and lukewarm so that it soothes your blistered skin.

“Look at that,” You coo, pressing your hands against the small swell of her belly that hadn’t been there a week ago when she steps into the stall beside you. “You’re growing so beautifully.”

Her hand reaches for your arm, running the soft rag across your skin with thoughtful strokes. “Every morning I wake up, and it’s like I’m slowly losing access to my body. My breasts are bigger, my hips are wider, and I’m not sure how to make it stop. I don't know who I am,” she admits.

“Maybe you’re supposed to embrace it,” You suggest, wanting to employ your new philosophy. “It’s the art of giving yourself to people. You’re not losing pieces of who you are — just giving in to them.”

“That sounds like motherhood,” she agrees, “and everything-hood.”

You lapse into silence, the only sound, the water hitting the shower floor in rivets as Frankie continues to manipulate your limbs to run the cloth along your skin. Simon crosses your mind, and unwillingly, your heart clenches at the thought of loving him. Did you? The first moment it had gotten rough you’d run away.

“Frankie?” She hums in acknowledgment, working the cloth farther up your inner leg. “Do you think I could have acted…better?” You ask.

“A part of human nature is looking back on everything with a sense of regret,” she says after a pause. “He has depression, Y/N, but that’s not an excuse to treat you the way he did. As selfish as it sounds, you were right to walk away. Simon never had a reason to address his problems until you walked into his life, and he needs to do that now if he’s serious about a future with you.”

“Okay.”

And there isn’t much to say after that, there aren’t words that can describe the way that place in your chest aches, a dull throbbing that pulsates when you breathe.

“More than okay,” Frankie says, hoping that you’ll believe her.

You don’t. 


Location: The Sanctuary — The Consignment Store

Reader’s POV

You should be used to the stares by now, the murmuring of the others as you move through the main floor of the factory. Bradley is only a couple steps in front of you and Frankie, skipping across the concrete floor and acting his age for once, oblivious to the people who stop and point. 

He’d been excited to see you after your week long absence and had questioned where Simon was in the same breath that he’d greeted you. Soon after, he'd dropped the questions when you’d explained your intended destination, a location that he now equated as an opportunity for new toys.

"I'm going this way," Frankie mumbles, too eager to wait.

"The toy section," Bradley cheers.

Before he gets a chance to run off between the industrial shelves, you grab his hand, the overwhelming need to have him close shadowing everything else. “Stay close and get something nice, okay? Come find us when you’re done.”

He’s so eager to break away from your embrace, a portion of his body facing the direction of where you know they keep the toy soldiers and deflated soccer balls, but you need him to know. “Bradley, look at me,” You demand. He does after another hasty glance over his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know,” he says, breaking free from your grip and running towards the shelves before he skids on his heels, rushing back to you. “I love you too, Mom.”

He presses a clumsy kiss to your cheek, his skinny arms entangling around your waist to squeeze you hard, a testimony to his words. Your arms reach for him instinctively, to hold him close and savor it all; but he’s already pulling away, disappearing around a corner.

Mom.

You eventually find Frankie along the far wall of the store, the aisles questionably missing any stragglers which you’re quick to point out when you reach her side.

“I bribed Debbie to keep the others away.” Frankie holds up a pink onesie in question. “Do you think I should just guess or find something gender neutral?”

“You know that once Negan finds out you’re having his baby, he’s going to go overboard and clean this whole place out, right?”

“Yes,” Frankie sighs, putting it back and reaching for a green bib that reads ‘daddy’s angel.’ “Or he throws me out on my ass and I set up shop with you and Simon.”

"Not likely. It's Negan we're talking about."

"Help me look anyway, Y/N. Something unique, but nothing tacky either."

"Oh, God. Now I know why you made me the godmother, between you and Negan this kid doesn't stand a chance of normalcy." You scoff at her pickiness.

"I wish they had a shirt that says: 'Watch out! My dad's a sociopath.'  Something fitting," she agrees.

You go back and forth through the aisles, trading barbs and making fun of your significant others as you criticize every article of clothing that crosses your path. By the time you reach the end of the extensive shelves the only thing in Frankie's hand is a black onesie that's baseball themed. 

Ironic, you both acknowledge.

"Oh, fuck." Frankie pauses suddenly, a hand covering her mouth. 

You've never seen her move so fast and on instinct, you move to go after her until you realize you'd be leaving Bradley behind. 

You're just putting back the onesie that Frankie had dropped, she'd been on the fence about it, when your brother finds you.

"Hey, B. Ready to go?"

Instead of answering, he looks around at the aisle like he's working out a puzzle. He'd been excited to see you, clutching an inflated basketball to his chest, but it's forgotten for now. “Frankie’s having a baby. With Negan?” he asks curiously.

Smart boy.

You nod hesitantly. “You can’t say anything because it’s a secret and he can’t know. Not now, at least. It would mess everything up.”

He squints at you, rolling the ball in his hand. “Things would go a lot better if adults just told each other how they felt.”

You return the onesie to the rack, ruffling Bradley’s hair and urging him towards the exit. “It’s that simple, huh?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “Then you wouldn’t have to be scared of what the other person thought because you’d already have an idea of what they’d say, and if you didn’t, then they’d be there to tell you it’s all in your head, and you knew all along.”

“When’d you get so smart?”

“This week, while you were off kissing your husband,” Bradley smoothly answers, making you guffaw and roll your eyes because he’d probably right. Exposure to your family members tended to age a person. “Can we get something to eat?”

“You hungry?”

Bradley’s eyes avert from your gaze. “Aunt Susan says that Marley needs the extra food because she’s growing a human. I told her that she’s technically rewarding her daughter for spreading her legs.”

After everything you’d done for your family, they continued to undermine you at every turn. There wasn’t a moment where you hadn’t given your aunt everything she’d asked for with hardly a complaint. 

One thing.

You’d asked her one thing — to take care of Bradley, and she couldn’t even do that.

“Be nice,” You admonish, despite the desire to agree with him. “I’m back now, and I’m not leaving without you again. Let’s get you something to eat, and I’ll talk to Aunt Susan when I drop you off.” 

“Aunt Susan doesn’t listen,” he protests.

“Well, there’s the flaw in your philosophy, B. Some adults don’t listen — you have to make them listen.”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Negan’s POV

He’d be the first to admit he was a nurturer, but the last to willingly explain why that was. Although, anyone with an imagination could quickly deduce his childhood, where all origins of characters began and died in the same breath, was where the root of his problems began.

A drunk daddy who came home and beat him and his mama every night. 

Check.

A handsy neighbor who was eager to take advantage of a pissed off teen roaming the streets after dark with no parental supervision.

Check.

A learned, destructive cycle of behavior that he was destined to repeat in adulthood.

Fucking check. 

Negan had been through hell, and yet, he’d retained the need to care for the people he called his own. Yeah, he’d put a bat through a fucker’s head in the blink of an eye and let a young girl sell herself for some points but it was for reasons, good reasons and that had to mean something about his character.

He was tougher than most (maybe numb was a better word) and for that reason, had never considered suicide as an option. He just can't comprehend it, and that’s part of the reason he keeps failing Simon, has to keep going back to the drawing board every time he sees his friend slipping.

But Negan's beginning to get it. He’d given Simon everything, except a reason to live. The man needed motivation.

He considers all this as he stands at Simon's door, wiping the tears that are falling from his eyes. 

It was the thing he loved to hate about himself.

Crying made him seem like a weak bitch, but man, oh man, did it feel good to hit the decompress button and pour out everything that was building inside him when it all got to be too much.

Maybe that’s what Simon needs, Negan briefly considers, a good cry.

He rasps at the door, listening to the muted footsteps on the other side. 

It’s all too much for some people, and you shouldn’t fault them for that. Just help them along as best as you can.

It's Negan's new philosophy and he plans to stand by it.

The door opens, Simon looking expectant and disappointed all in the same instance. That is until Negan’s fist connects with his jaw — hard. Simon’s head snaps back from the force of the blow, and he's stumbling, falling as the wind whooshes out of his stomach from the shot that Negan lands to his gut. 

Simon's on his back before he even realizes it.

“Swallow, fucker.” Negan’s beside him as he attempts to gain his bearings, a grip on his chin until he’s sure that Simon does just that. They're bitter on his tongue without any water. Pills. “This is your intervention.”

Simon moans. “Did you have to hit me?”

“These are anti-depressants,” Negan says, ignoring him and taking up residence on his chest, straddling it to show him the bottle. “Doc will have a new bottle waiting for you in thirty days and if you miss one dose— I’ll know, and you'll wish you had killed yourself. Then when I'm finished with you, I’ll bury you and take Y/N as my second wife. Tell me, you understand.” A pause. His voice is lower, trembling. “Cause I’ve got nothing left to give, brother.”

Simon stops struggling at his words, blinking blearily up at Negan’s raw expression of concern. It makes his heart twinge and his stop clench so severely it brings a tear to his eye. The tear runs hot along the side of his face, landing on the concrete floor beneath them as he confesses, “I don’t know, man. Sometimes it feels like I’ve got nothing else to give.” He turns his head away, the shame in his belly boiling.

“Meds will help,” Negan says, falling off his chest in favor of the spot beside where he lays. “Just got’a give it time.”

Simon doesn’t bother to move. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Negan snaps, suddenly annoyed by Simon’s weakness. They’re both crying, so he assumes that makes them both weak bitches. “Have I ever made you feel like I wasn’t there for you?”

When Simon doesn’t immediately answer, Negan turns so that he’s lying on the floor too and they’re shoulder to shoulder, practically breathing the same air but not touching. 

“After the second wife,” Simon starts, “you didn’t need me. It wasn't just us anymore, and you always had to have some woman in between us. Someone else fucking me while you watched, but never us...”

Negan’s brow furrows as he considers their relationship that predated the creation of the Sanctuary. “It was comfort,” he settles on saying.

“I liked our comfort,” Simon admits. “Not saying it was a cause, but it was a reason.”

“Y/N isn’t a reason?”

Simon swallows hard, holding back more tears. “I want her to be.”

“So let her be, man.” Negan laughs tiredly. “Sometimes I think that life would be a lot easier to deal with if we just told each other how we fucking felt. There wouldn’t be any of this anxiety bullshit because we’d already know what the other person would say — and if you weren’t sure you could ask and they’d be there to tell you what you needed to hear all along.”

They don’t talk for a while or even move as others pass the open door in the hallway, just stare at the cracks in the ceiling until Negan’s words linger and take on an abstract form.

“Where’d you get that?” Simon finally asks. “It sounds too good coming from you.”

“Bradley,” Negan confesses. “Been hanging out with the kid while you were gone, and I have to admit he’s on to something.” He reaches out, brushing Simon’s fingertips with his own. “I told Frankie that I was jealous of what you and Y/N had.”

“Have,” Simon corrects.

“That’s for you to fix, brother.” Negan gives him a look. “But anyway, she asked me to define ‘what’ and I just stared at her — cause ‘what’ is a pronoun, you know? Then I realized she’s asking me to define what I see. I say love because you love Y/N, Simon. You might not be able to say it yet, but you show it.”

“I do.” Simon finally decides, carefully, like he’s searching deep for the truth. “I just don’t want to get her hopes up.”

“Crush ‘em before they get ‘em up. A classic move,” Negan agrees.

“What did Frankie say afterward?” Simon asks, wanting to know how his story ends. 

“She asked me to explain myself, and I told her I was looking for a wife for you that modeled her and the things she did for me. Patient and understanding — someone used to dealing with bullshit. I'm listing off all this shit when I realize I only know what love is because it's been staring me in the face this whole goddamn time. Frankie loves me. Not tolerates — loves,” Negan enunciates, “and she trailed after my sorry ass for years while I fucked other women and used her. The least I can do is try.”

“You’re not going to fuck it up,” Simon says, studying his profile as Negan continues to study the ceiling. The doubt is written all over his face.

“How do you know that?” Negan begs the question in earnest. “Between you, Frankie and Y/N… You’re all seeing this thing in me that I can’t.”

“You care, and that’s more than enough, Negan. Sometimes you have a fucked up way of showing it, but you do.” Simon rubs his jaw to prove the point.

“I did tell Y/N I was going to knock some sense into you — literally and figuratively.” Negan smirks, getting up off the floor, dusting his jeans. “Look at me, a man of my word.”

“You talked to Y/N?”

“I’ll bring her by tonight,” Negan assures him, “she’s with Frankie. Get yourself cleaned up before then.”

Feeling lighter than he has in years, Negan leaves Simon on the floor. He’ll be there for a while if the throbbing in his knuckles is anything to go on. He loves Simon, and yet, he loves Y/N, so it only makes sense he levels the playing field. Now they're both hurting equally. 

Negan heads to his office, intent on getting some work done in the meantime. Only, once he rounds the corner, it’s clear that nothing will be getting done judging by the small crowd that had gathered by his door during his absence.

“Boss,” Arat says, by way of greeting, “they've been waiting to see you. They said it's urgent.”

“Yeah?” A cool exterior on the surface, but inside he’s trying to name the face. “You’re Y/N’s aunt, aren’t you?” Negan finally assumes.

It’s hard to recognize her with the oxygen mass covering the majority of her face but that kind of resource is top-tier, and there’s only so many that can afford it. Negan’s starting to paint a picture of the old hag. She’s an opportunist, and her daughter isn’t far off.

“What seems to be the problem, ladies? I don’t have all day,” he warns, wanting to keep the entirety of this, whatever it was, short. “Susan, right?”

“Yes, sir.” She nods shakily. They're both nervous. “Go on, Marley. Tell the nice man what you saw.”

“Y/N,” the girl starts. “I saw her in the baby aisle today and I heard her tell Bradley that they had to keep quiet because if anyone found out everything would be ruined. She was nervous, looking around a lot.”

It’s laughable, borderline crazy but he still has to ask, “…and just what in the fuck do you think you’re getting at?” 

“Y/N is pregnant.”

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 4, Frankie’s Room

Reader’s POV

"But the sun's nearly set!”

"I might have time—"

They walked along, two continents of experience and feeling, unable to communicate. "If I could only get a pig!”

"I'll come back and go on with the shelter.”

They looked at each other, baffled, in love and hate. All the warm salt water of the bathing pool and the shouting and splashing and laughing were only just sufficient to bring them together again.

Your eyes smoothly, methodically follow the line of words across the page, chasing and absorbing the interaction between Ralph and Jack. You found their innocence compelling, their revelations, raw, yet profound. But even when you were pages deep in another world, your mind always found its way back to Simon.

He’d underlined the entire passage even though it was your copy of Lord of The Flies, compelling you to consider the significance of the passage to him carefully. Despite the misgivings you held for how he'd handled his depression thus far, you couldn’t help but think that it had made him a more soulful person. He was, for lack of better words, in tune with the suffering of others. 

And after hours of reading, tucked between the sheets, you could understand him better. It was therapeutic to lend your attention to someone else’s suffering, attempt to see your problems through the eyes of another. You couldn’t fault Simon for his initial retreat into literature, but you were hoping that he’d understand it wasn’t a cure — only a buffer that prevented him from dealing with his disturbances. 

With a soft sigh, you thumb the page, turning your attention back to the boy’s conversation as you continue to stave off sleep. You’d promised Frankie, who was currently locked away in her bathroom, voiding the contents of her stomach, that you’d wait up for her before retiring to bed. 

The small lamp on the bedside table illuminates the pages of your book, casting shadows off the walls and spilling light beneath the bathroom door — a testimony to your commitment despite how the minutes were bleeding into an hour. 

“Y/N, I’m gonna shower! I feel gross,” Frankie calls through the door.

“Take your time,” You call back, suppressing a yawn, content just to let your mind wander.

This week had been, despite everything, one to remember. You’d been relieved to understand the nature of your past so that you could reconcile the present. It didn’t hurt as it did before, knowing what you know now. 

So if you had to wait for a broken man to fix himself, to see the world as you saw it now, you could. So it goes. Life had been a cruel, demanding teacher, and its first lesson had been patience; patience for those who deserved it — who didn’t squander it and hoard it like a discarded book on a dusty shelf. 

You could give that much to Simon, but your family, your supposed blood, was another story that kept you from entirely moving forward. Memory can make a thing seem to have been much more than it was. Was there any value in the word? In the faded memories?

Your family members had been mysteriously absent when you’d returned Bradley to their apartment, so that meant you had the night to consider a way of dealing with their deceit. Simon would know what to do, but he wasn’t here now, and there was a chance that he wouldn’t be in the future. 

Your family was your problem, and you’d find a solution.

The doorknob to Frankie's room rattles shortly after you return to your book, the sound of Negan’s foot colliding with the metal following soon after. He releases an ugly laugh, letting his eyes roam the room so that they eventually land on you. “Honey, I’m home.”

Or, you think, you could let the solution come to you.

“You’re awfully excited tonight,” You idly observe. “Did you just kill someone?”

“Five, actually. A personal best,” Negan gloats, kicking the door close and strolling towards you. “But you know, Y/N, discord of any kind gets me excited.”

“You’re a sadist.” You shrug. “We know this.”

His hands grip the edge of the bedsheets, and he drags them away, baring the expanse of your legs to his lustful gaze. You’d dawned your usual attire for bed: Simon’s t-shirt and a cotton pair of panties. “Au contraire, my dear. This particular facet of information should excite you as well.”

“Me?”

Negan hums his affirmative as he settles on top of you, kicking his boots off as he goes. His warm weight is a welcomed distraction from your internal angst. 

“Yes, you. The only question is what you’ll do for it. ”

Intrigue strikes you as Negan’s wandering hands begin to coax back the heat that Simon had abandoned earlier. The hemline of your shirt rises higher, the tips of his fingers brushing along the swell of your breasts. “What do you want?” You breathe.

“It’ll come to me,” he murmurs seconds before his warm lips capture yours. 

You yield to him, the palms of your hands pressing against the dip of his spine to pull your lower halves closer. He eagerly returns your desire tenfold, pushing you into the mattress with a deep rocking of his hips that tease and appease you all in the same instance. 

Negan’s always been cunning and manipulative. It only makes sense that he’d be the same in bed, gripping handfuls of your ass and biting at your breasts as you throw your shirt somewhere across the room in exchange for supposed information.

“Attagirl,” he grins. He pinches the crotch of your underwear, pulling them down your legs to discard them. “Let’s get these off. I think I’m getting some ideas.”

The fabric of his jeans brush along your bare legs, wringing a needy moan from your throat as he pushes them down his legs in haste. You’re hypersensitive. Aware of everything. The way your breathing comes in hot little puffs of air across your lips, Negan's soft words of encouragement, and the fact that the shower water had stopped running seconds ago in the bathroom. 

The warm head of his erection nudges the button of your sex, and he coaxes a soft mew from your throat when he parts your folds, toying and playing with the wetness between your legs. Your hands join him, stroking along the underside of his shaft as he rolls his hips forward, teasingly penetrating your entrance. The product is little, sharp sparks of pleasure that dance along your spine. “Austin Porter.”

You blink blearily up at him. “What?”

“One of my Savior’s, but also known as your cousin’s baby daddy,” he states proudly, leaning back on his heels and palming his dick. “Now turn over ‘cause I've earned my reward.”

“Wait, how’d you find that out? Simon’s been trying for so long, but—”

Negan flips you onto your stomach, only half listening as he eyes the puffy lips of your sex. He’s hoping that if he times this right he can get Frankie in bed, too. “It’s been over a week since Frankie let me fuck her, you know that? You think declaring our love for each other would make her drop her panties — no ma’am,” he states, interrupting you.

He falls between your legs, pressing his knees against the backs of your thighs so that your spread lewdly; all the while, caught between vouching for Frankie’s recent aversion to nudity and inquiring about the paternal figure of your cousin’s baby. 

“I’m hoping you’ll help with that,” he hums close to your ear. 

“Negan,” You finally protest, curiosity coming out as the victor and trumping your arousal. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“How?”

He presses forward, the meat of his cock sinking into your clutching, wet walls which immediately hugs him in a sloppy embrace. You’re soaking.  It takes him a moment to process your question, and even then, the words are choppy and broken as he takes you from behind. “Oh, fuck… Yeah, she told…me ‘bout an hour ago…”  he recalls. 

"An hour ago?" You repeat.

“What the fuck, Y/N?” Negan spits out the words, finding himself flat on his back as he finally catches his bearings. It’s understandable since he'd been balls deep inside you only seconds ago. “I was balls deep three goddamn seconds ago — what the fuck just happened?”

It’s the idea of your cousin being anywhere near Negan, surely with your manipulative aunt in tow, that has you practically seething with anger. 

“My family,” You spit, already searching for your clothes.

“What’s going on?” Frankie peeks her head through the bathroom door, naked except for the towel she clutches to her chest. “Y/N?”

“My family, Frankie. What else?” You're barely holding back your contempt when you turn to Negan in search of more information. “There’s always something more with them, Negan! So tell me, what did she say?”

Negan looks thoughtful as he sits unabashedly naked in bed.

“Nothing unusual,” he admits slowly. “Actually, wait — all the bloods still rushing back to my head — she did say that you were pregnant. I chalked it up to straight bullshit.” 

“Why?” Frankie steps forward, hesitant. “Why would she say that?”

The look of panic on her face garners Negan’s attention, and when you refuse to meet his eyes, he's immediately on high alert. “She said she saw Y/N holding a onesie or some shit and that she was telling Bradley to keep quiet because it would ‘ruin everything,'” he recalls.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, begging someone to say something first and shatter it. Your head is still spinning from the image of your cousin in your head, predictably smug and petulant when she so eagerly delivered the information to Negan. What had they expected him to do with you? Toss you on your ass, thereby cutting out the middle man?

You were done, absolutely fed up with their bullshit and you swore to yourself this would be the last opportunity they had to take advantage of your selflessness. 

“I know that look,” Negan cackles, his arm around Frankie who’s eyes glisten with unshed tears.

You’d missed their reconciling — just one more thing your family had ruined for you.

Your feet carry you across the room, and Negan immediately wraps his other arm around your waist, and you know that talk of your family would only spoil the moment. 

“You are going to make amazing parents.” Your assurance is more for Negan’s nerves rather than Frankie’s. “Even if you make a couple of mistakes, they still turn out great. Look at Bradley. They’re magical like that.”

Your hand smoothes across the muscles of Negan's back, and they contract under your touch. Instinctively, he returns the small contact, running his thumb along your waist in firm circles, seeking your comfort. 

“Between us, there’s no way we can fuck this up,” he tells Frankie, turning her body so that he can marvel at her baby bump. “Shit, baby. You could have just told me a week ago. I know I’m not the greatest when it comes to emotions, but I would have tried for you.”

“I know that now, Negan.” She rolls her eyes, swallowing his lie like a bitter pill. 

You both know he needs this.

“Girls,” he grins, his mood cresting. “I guess you can call me daddy now, we’re having a goddamn baby!”

“You won’t be grinning when you’re covered in shit seven months from now, daddy,” Frankie teases, laughing at the way his expression drops so suddenly. Her hands tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling their foreheads together. “You’re going to do so great.”

“You’ll be patient with me?” he murmurs, the tremor in his voice betraying his bravado.

“I’m new to this too, we’ll be patient with each other,” she reassures him, “and the good news is we have a godmother who is an expert on all things baby.”

“Yeah?” Negan turns to you, hopeful.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You promise them both. “You’ll see, in five years you’ll be looking back on all of this and thinking how time can make you into an ‘after’ without ever realizing you were a ‘before.’”

“You and your damn philosophy,” Negan says. “In five years, I better know how to pull out ‘cause I can’t handle more than one kid.”

“In five years I want my tits to still be perky,” Frankie adds.

You stay questionably silent, their eyes burning small holes into the side of your head. They know what you want to say — need to say — they’re just waiting, ever patient until they don’t have to be. 

“In five years, I’d like to be living in a world where my aunt is dead.” You bite your lip. "I want to kill her tonight."

“Fuck, yeah!” Negan presses a sloppy kiss to the underside of Frankie’s chin. A goodbye. “Let’s go for six. I’m in the mood for discord.”

Strangely, so are you.

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 17, Room 30

Reader’s POV

“Do you remember that day?” Negan’s voice is a low hum in your ear, a lull. Almost a song, and yet, borderline a taunt. “I thought you looked so fucking beautiful with your heart in tatters, clearly crying out for someone to give a shit. But I was wrong, wasn't I? You weren't falling apart, were you?”

He keeps one hand on your shoulder, holding you in place — the other grips Lucille in a loose hold.

“I want Simon.” Your voice is calm, innocent. Child-like. 

“You’ll have him. Later,” he promises. 

The metal door blurs, coming in and out of your vision. You can hear them, your family, from behind the door — can practically picture them getting ready for bed. Oblivious.

Negan’s erection presses tightly against your lower back. He’s excited, undoubtfully, and as he cants his hips forward, working himself to a steady release, you smile.

“Take Lucille, baby. That’s it,” he moans as you take her. 

She’s heavier than she appears. 

“Remember what I said? Wait for me while I hand Bradley off to Arat.” He smiles against your neck, teeth scraping against the skin. 

“Yes, Negan.”

His smile deepens, and you can feel it, the dark energy that he feeds on that makes him capable of doing these things. Just for one night you can be here with him and do this, too.  

“Simon likes to read to me at night,” You say softly, remembering, “There’s this book The Canterville Ghost, and there’s this quote: Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace.”

You know it by heart because its one of Simon's favorite quotes. 

“You think she’ll be at peace when she's dead?” You ask him. “She used to be so loving, and sometimes I wonder if she misses that.”

“I don’t spend much time thinking about death, but it has to be abstract, right? It’s everything and nothing, a beautiful end,” Negan decides. 

“A beautiful end,” You murmur, agreeing. 

He reaches over your shoulder to knock, three hard rasps as he whistles low. It’s a cheerful tune in contrast to the dark outcome soon to be set in motion. The anticipation sends a cold heat creeping up your spine, and you wait with bated breath as the door swings open.

Bradley regards you curiously with sharp eyes, making it so that you have to arrange your features into a smile carefully. “Hi, B. Get your backpack, okay? You’re coming with us.”

“Where?” he questions.

“We got you a new room down the hall from your sister, kid. Time to grow up,” Negan interjects. 

“My own room,” Bradley parrots excitedly. “Cool!”

Satisfied by the tidbit of information, he rushes back into the room and begins to collect his things under the watchful eye of your other family members. They’re uncharacteristically quiet, having listened to your exchange. Then again, Negan’s presence has that general effect on people. 

Another part of you would like to believe that it’s because they sense what follows Bradley’s absence — Lucille an indicator. 

Before he can leave, you stop your brother by the door with his meager possessions in hand, looking to the world like it's his first day of school. Your heart aches, thinking of your parents and what they must think of you. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll get breakfast.”

“Remember what I said,” Bradley requests, matching your false smile with an easy, genuine one of his own. “If you’re honest, things get a lot easier.”

“You were right,” You agree. 

“I always am.” 

“Come on, kid.” Negan guides him by the shoulder, giving you a look in passing. “Let your sister get some things off her chest.”

The door closes with a small click, but it feels louder somehow.

It’s soothing to know that this is how it ends. You pass Lucille thoughtfully between your hands, taking in their apprehensive expressions. Not with a big climax but with an insignificant noise. It’s fitting. 

“Y/N—”

You cut your aunt off. 

“So this is how you treat me after all these years? Years of you taking from me when I had nothing left to give. I carried this family — me! I never asked for anything but your support, and you couldn't even give me that.”

“Not everything is about you,” Marley says. “You think that everything is about you when it’s not — no one asked you to do anything for us.”

She flinches, realizing that she'd misread the situation when you turn your angered expression on to her. 

“It wasn’t my fault that your father died, Marley. He didn’t have to come for us, but he did, and he was a good man for that. You’re the one letting her lies cloud your head. God forbid you actually do something for yourself, let alone think! It’s almost like we’re in two different worlds you ungrateful, whiny brat.” You spit, looking upon her in disgust. "Grow the fuck up, and quick."

You were referring to the very beginning when the dead rose, and no one had a grasp on the situation. Your Uncle Liam was a brave man, who’d refused to evacuate the state without his brother’s family. It had been just you and Bradly by the time they’d arrived at your home enveloped in flames. He’d never made it out of the house. 

Your aunt shifts in her chair, the wood creaking out low and long. Grating. She looks so small with her oxygen mask obscuring her face. It doesn’t matter. She practically radiates hate and resentment. “After everything we've lost, you owe us that much. To provide for us,” she sneers. 

“I owe you nothing. If anything, you owe me!” You soften your volume, thinking of the neighbors who share the same wall. 

Quietly, you say, “Floor 12. Room 17.”

When no-one moves you repeat yourself, firmer. 

Marley wrings her hands, glancing at her mother nervously. She reads the room, her eyes falling to Lucille in your hand. “What is that?” she finally asks.

“The room of your baby’s father.” You look upon her, not feeling pity. He’s twice her age. “He’s expecting you. Go!” You order her when she doesn’t move, frozen in place. “Or you can stay and watch your mother die.”

The tension in the room is stifling, beads of sweat rolling along your spine. The dress you wear is tight, and it absorbs it all — the hurt and the pain that oozes from your pores.

“You’re a disgusting slut.” Your aunt spits. “A disgrace to the family name.”

“And you undermine me when my back is turned,” You quip, "so maybe we can both stand to improve a little."

Negan takes that moment to enter the room. He’s spilling with glee, rubbing his hands together greedily before clapping. Your aunt winces at the noise. Good,” he says, “I haven’t missed the finale."

“Marley was just leaving,” You say.

She stands dutifully, intimidated by Negan’s presence. 

Negan presses against your back, having crossed the room. You feel his hands wrap around your waist, his erection snug against the curve of your spine. “You're gon'a do perfect,” he purrs softly in your ear. “Raise Lucille higher. There we go, you have to treat her right. Like you would a lover. I like to start with the crown of the head. It’s the soft spot, and it paralyzes them. It’s easier when they're still.”

You take Negan’s advice, shivering delicately at the way his lips brush your ear as he speaks. With shaky steps, you approach your aunt. Her reaction is instant. Predictable. She pleads for her life, but it’s all merely a dull roar in your ear.

The first blow is easy, like lying to an old friend. Your aunt's skull makes a sickening crack, and she chokes on a gasp, blood pouring from her scalp. Her blood and brain matter spray across your dress in slow pulses, but you continue to bring Lucille repeatedly down onto her head until there’s nothing left of her; letting out your frustrations. 

Sure there are other ways you could have dealt with her; but this is revenge, plain and simple. 

When it’s done, and the room is no longer filled with her garbled screams, you come back to your body, welcoming Negan's eager kiss. “Fucking shit,” he mutters against your lips, “you’ve got me fucking hornier than a motherfucker, baby. Let’s get out of here and get you cleaned up. I know for a fact that Simon misses you and he owes you an apology.”

One thing is clear: picking up that 'wife wanted' poster was the best decision of your life.

Chapter Text

Location: The Sanctuary — Floor 5, Room 23

Reader’s POV

Simon’s in the process of nursing a beer, a copy of The Grapes of Wrath dangling in his other hand when you cross the threshold of your apartment with Negan on your heels. You take a running leap, garnering an amused noise from the both and Simon catches you with no problem, hoisting you higher into his arms so that you’re able to thread your legs around his waist.

“I’m really fucking sorry, Bunny,” he whispers in your ear, the scruff of his beard tickling your neck as the heat of his words settle against your skin. “I’m taking meds, they’ll help. I’ll get better.”

“I know. I believe you,” You assure him, incredibly grateful for Negan’s intervention. “I’ll work on being patient, too. I promise that I’ll never run again.”

“It hasn’t even been a full day,” Negan points out. “You were only one floor below him this entire time, jeez.”

Pointedly ignoring Negan, you pull Simon into a lingering kiss. He tastes of the beer he’d been drinking, the alcohol having an undertone of oranges that dance across your tongue when he explores your mouth. You pour your feelings into the kiss. Your love for him and regret for leaving, despite how close you’d been the entire time.

“I still love you,” You whisper. “Nothing’s changed. Let me show you that, please.”

The act of telling Simon about your family takes a backseat to his heated hands on your ass, and Negan’s penetrating gaze. 

“Alright, enough of this reunion bullshit,” Negan drawls, watching as Simon finally lets you onto your feet. “Y/N’s been teasing me all night and I’d like to finish what I was promised.”

“Yeah?” Simon looks between the two of you, clarifying. Negan’s taken up residence on the edge of your bed, lazily reclined like a cat that’s patiently waiting for his cream. “You want the both of us?”

“I do,” You breathe.

He pulls you into another kiss, tongues slowly dragging across one another as he grands handfuls of your ass, pressing his stiff erection against the softness of your belly. A dead giveaway for how much he likes the idea.

“Right here,” Negan orders. He’s already sitting up, a hand palming at the sizable bulge beneath his jeans. His legs are spread obscenely wide, an invitation.

Simon walks you forward until there’s nowhere for you to turn without brushing either of there limbs. They’d trapped you between Negan’s parted legs. 

As if a silent agreement passes between them, their hands meet at your thighs, dragging the fabric over you're head so that you’re left standing in nothing but a lace thong.

You’re suddenly grateful that you’d agreed to Negan’s suggestion when Simon releases a pleased groan, running his hands across the silken material that covers your mound, cupping it. They work in tandem, Negan taking your upper half, tugging and rolling your nipples between his fingertips.

Your head falls back against Simon’s shoulder, enjoying their roaming hands as soft cries of encouragement leave you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Simon urges you on as he slips into your panties, dipping his fingers into your wet sex, fucking you slowly with two fingers. “Just feel it.”

“Does that feel good?” Negan wonders, tugging harder at your aching nipples that he'd coaxed into little nubs. “His fingers fucking your sweet pussy?”

“Yes, yes — ah,” You gasp. “Don’t stop.”

He chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You aren’t sure whose hands reach for the scrap of lace, tugging it roughly down your thighs. It’s a storm of calloused fingers and demanding, silent commands that find you completely bare, the evidence of your arousal glistening on your inner thighs. “Look at that, Negan. She’s already dripping for us,” Simon coos. 

“She can do better than that. Right, baby?” Negan quips, cupping you behind the knee and  arranging you to his liking, making it so that the arch of your right foot rests along the side of the bed frame. You’re subsequently, spread and dripping. 

“Please,” You can only beg as he begins to move.  

Negan's fingers drag along your clit and your body’s reaction is instantaneous, your folds swell, becoming slick and sensitive as you steadily coat his fingers with your wetness. Slowly he fingers your entrance in the same instance that Simon presses himself tightly against you, his belt buckle scraping along your lower back. Your stomach muscles contract when he drags them downward, meeting Simon's fingers and—

“Oh, fuck. Fuck — yes, yes!” You cry out, a whiny pitch escaping your lips. It’s borderline unrecognizable, foreign. You’d never heard something so sensual and needy, unashamed of your want. 

“Hot damn, Simon. I told you. Look at this creamy, little pussy,” Negan boasts. “C’mon, Y/N. Get yourself there, baby. We’ve got you.”

Your hips pitch forward in response to his goading, fucking yourself on both of their fingers as the heat in your spine collapses, spilling into your belly and consuming everything in your lower half. They fuck you through your release, Simon grip around your waist the only thing keeping you standing as your walls clutch at them desperately. Sharp spasms of pleasure cramp in your lower belly as Negan ruthlessly attacks your g-spot, bumping knuckles with Simon who’s content to watch you squirm. 

They laugh as you try to get away, your pussy oversensitive and dripping pitifully, like they're sharing an inside joke. Simon’s fingers, now coated in your wetness, swipe across your erect nipples. You shiver delicately, mewing in protest. 

“How does she taste?” Simon asks.

Negan’s hands bunch your breast together so that he can drag his hot tongue across both of your nipples at the same time, sucking them into his mouth harshly. “Fucking shit,” he groans, “like peaches and  goddamn cream.”

Simon nuzzles your neck, similarly deciding, “Sweet to the bone.”

Smacking his lips, Negan rises so that they're both towering over you, matching drunk smiles on both of they're faces.  “Be a good girl, Y/N, and get on your knees. It’s our turn.”

You stumble onto your knees, seemingly boneless, watching as they both go for their belt buckles in unison. The sounds of their zippers are seemingly loud in the otherwise quiet room. Periodically, a whimper escapes your lips as your sex pulses around emptiness.  

Simon hushes you, stepping closer so that the head of his erect cock brushes your chin. “It’s okay, Bunny. You’ll get more soon.”

Negan taps your chin, a silent signal. He’s eager, throbbing in his own hand and there’s a glint in his eyes when he watches your jaw go lax, watches the way Simon guides himself into your mouth and moans at the feeling of your slick tongue along his length. 

“How does she feel?”

“Tight and wet,” Simon grunts, “just as good as her pussy.”

“We’ll get there,” he assures him.

Negan reaches for your hand and you obey, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. He immediately pushes into your grip, fucking your hand until you take pity on him and take him into your mouth, slicking him so that your hand will glide smoothly across his erect skin. It’s ironic that they call you needy. Simon releases an uncharacteristic whine low in his throat, pushing your head back onto his cock so that you’re simultaneously working your mouth around him while stroking Negan. 

Taking lungfuls of air minutes later, you hold them both in your hands, watching as they squirm and pant in your grip. 

“Stick your tongue out, gorgeous,” Negan manages to bite out. 

They groan in harmony, eyeing your pink tongue as it flickers out between your lips which are swollen and shiny with spit. The fleeting thought of what you may look like to an outsider crosses your mind. Unabashedly naked and spread, humping the heel of your foot as they take turns fucking your mouth, rutting against the side of your face and neck when they become too impatient. 

“Just like that, Y/N,” Simon taps the tip of his cock against your tongue, earring a throaty groan from Negan. “So fucking good, sweetheart.”

“Shit, that looks like heaven. Let me feel,” Negan grunts. 

There’s a slight burn in your cheek from the stretch of holding them both in your mouth but it’s worth it, studying them from behind hooded eyelids as they delight in the feeling of their dicks rubbing against one another, the tip of your tongue teasing the underside of their shafts.

Negan’s inherently cruel, reaching down to harshly pluck at your tender breasts and delighting in the way your moans feel against him. Your finger yourself, hoping for some relief as they use you relentlessly. 

You’re already feeling fucked out by the time Negan presses forward, claiming every ounce of your personal space and balancing you precariously on the edge of the bed before his cock is buried so deep inside you that you taste him. You actually feel that you might choke on the feeling of him fucking you, your spine practically rattling with the force of his thrusts. 

Your pussy makes obscene noises which are drowned out by Negan’s guttural cries. He’s slurring out practically nonsense, the entirety of his focus on where his cock disappears into your body and the feeling of Simon rolling his nipples between his fingers. Static. It’s overwhelming, black sprawls out from the corner of your vision like lightning, obscuring your view of the white-knuckled grip you have on the sheets to keep you in place.

In contrast, Simon’s hands are feather light against your skin, turning you onto your back and lovingly parting your folds. His weight presses you into the mattress, a hand for support just above your head so it’s like he is fully embracing you. Soft kisses drop along the nape of your neck, your collar bone. His tongue is a soft heat that keeps you tethered from sinking below the surface of a cresting wave of blindingly white pleasure. 

“Doing so good, Bunny,” he murmurs. “Can you take more of us?”

You can’t find the energy to make your lips move. He somehow understands what you want despite that, pressing against your entrance and taking you with deep rocks of his hips. It’s obscene how wet you are, each time he moves the shiny wetness on his thighs and belly catches your attention. He fucks you like he loves you, never fully pulling out like he’s afraid to leave you. 

The second that the rolling of his hips falters and your name stalls on his tongue, you fully understand the nature of his relationship with Negan. 

“Just as tight as I fucking remember,” Negan groans, tipping his head heavenward. He has a bruising grip on Simon’s waist, a hand curled around his shoulder, keeping him in place. “Shit, Simon. You must be the luckiest man in the world right now — getting your tight ass fucked while you're balls deep.”

It’s scary how much you delight in watching Simon fall apart in Negan's arms. The breathy whimper he releases when Negan’s fully seated inside him is enough to have your walls threateningly flutter. 

Simon's eyes flash dangerously. “I won’t last like this.” 

“Got all night,” Negan manages to say. 

It’s deliciously filthy, obscenely lewd watching Negan fuck Simon. The slapping of their skin picks up once they're comfortable, having found their old rhythm and they move against each other like starved lovers. 

Your fingers urge Simon's face out of the crook of your neck where it'd fallen. He’s absolutely beautiful like this, giving love and being loved; skin flushed and his pink lips pouty and swollen. You lovingly trace the features of his contorted expression, caught between pain and lust, fighting hard to keep his gaze from fluttering closed as he watches you watch him get fucked. 

Wordlessly, you guide his mouth to your breast, keeping him in place by the nape of his neck. As Negan fucks forward it’s a chain of events, sending Simon furrowing deeper into your walls. He’s fucking you all by extension, delighted by the sheer power of having two people at his will. 

The telltale signs of Simon about to cum are violent, he bucks his hips forward and back again, bringing his ass flush against Negan’s groin as his cock swells inside you.

“Hell no, Simon. Don’t be fucking selfish,” Negan scolds, obviously used to this. “Gotta make sure your wife gets her own, too.” He returns his mouth to your breast, guiding Simon’s tongue back to your breasts. 

You’re on fire, the flames lapping at your skin, threatening to incinerate you. You let it, allowing the feeling of Simon’s teeth sinking into the swell of your breast to throw you into oblivion as he paints your insides with hot reams of his cum, collapsing onto his elbows where he remains in Negan’s grasp. 

You moan pitifully when Simon slips from between your legs, and Negan bends him further over the bed, fucking him brutally as Simon's softening cock swings between his hips. The weak curl of heat in your belly surprises you and with shaky fingers, you play with yourself as you watch Negan finish, teeth buried deep in Simon’s neck.

It’s quiet after that. 

“Are you, okay?”

Simon’s concerned gaze clouds your vision and you release a shaky, breathless laugh in turn.  Negan’s already kissing a path across your hipbone, his curious tongue lapping at the collective wetness dripping from between your legs. “I’m anything but okay,” You answer, fighting to find the words. “I’m living.”

Chapter Text

Location: Oceanside — Cabin 33 B

Reader’s POV

Years later you lived in a cottage right at the edge of a small beach, tucked beneath swaying oak trees. 

You’d fallen into a routine since you’d moved to Oceanside three years ago. Habitually, you were an early riser, so that much hasn’t changed. When the clock hands reach 4:30 am, you’re awake and slipping from beneath the bedsheets. Most days you’re awake before Simon. 

Feet padding along the wood floor of your cabin, the act of grabbing your usual cup of tea and retiring to the porch is instinctive. You don’t, however, because today is different. There was a bonfire last night. Bradley isn’t in his room, clearly having not obeyed curfew.

For once, you’d been liberal and had let Simon convince you that Bradley had earned the right to go off with his friends even though his recent behavior had begged to differ. 

At sixteen, he’d taken on a rebellious streak. It was something you tried to understand. Inevitably his angst had to surface someday; he’d repressed so much as a child. 

Months later, you were still getting accustomed to his backtalk and moodiness. He’d always been mature for his age, lecturing adults on how to act and be forthcoming with their feelings since he was eleven. It's a shame that somewhere in his teens he must have said fuck it.

“Simon,” You hiss, marching back into your bedroom. “Wake up! Your son isn’t in his bed.”

Your husband doesn’t awaken fast enough to suit your needs, so you shove him roughly, pulling the sheets from his hands when he blindly reaches for them. “I swear to God, Simon—! He’s done it again, and I’ve had enough of him blatantly ignoring us,” You say.

“He went to a party last night, Bunny. Let the kid live,” he grumbles, already shifting to your side of the bed in an attempt to get away from your manhandling. “When he gets home, he’ll deal with the repercussions of his actions.”

“You won’t be saying that when he comes home with a pregnant girl. Let the kid live?” You huff. “I’ve had enough of his shitty attitude — you know he came home last week smelling of alcohol, right? He’s grounded. Straight to guard duty and right back to his room — I'm done, Simon. I’m serious this time.”

Simon often teased you for your inability to chastise Bradley properly. All it took was for him to call you Mom, which he usually volleyed between that and your name, and you were putty in his hands. 

“Come back to bed?” he asks, ignoring your empty threat. 

“No,” You snap. “I’m going to sit on the porch and wait for him to get home. He’s not going to spend the day avoiding us again.”

Without another word, you leave, slamming the door. You meant it when you said you were fed up. It was exhausting raising a teenager, especially since most nights you were up wondering where he was. You were so close to tying Bradley to his bed just to have a day of rest. 

But, you think, as you make your cup of tea, maybe you should feel grateful for the problems you have now. You don’t starve, haven’t worked in years, except for the usual household chores, and had no overbearing family members in sight. 

Of course, your life hadn't been perfect. There were many times over the past five years that you’d struggled in your relationship with Simon. There’d been times when he refused to take his medicine, had slipped into bed, and hadn’t resurfaced for weeks. But you’d stayed true to your word and had helped him find his footing. It had made you closer in the end with Bradley sprinkling in his two cents here and there. Through and through, you were a tight-knit family. 

At 5:00 am, more or less, Simon stumbles past the screen door making a b-line for you with a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s shirtless, usually is for a majority of the day, which Negan teases him about a lot. Even though it’s a solid bet that you could catch Negan shoeless, toting a fishing pole at any point in the day when the sun is shining.

Oceanside had done wonders for them both.

Retirement. It’s fitting. 

“Y/N, you need to relax. Every second spent unhappy is a second you could have spent smiling.” 

You smile slightly as he echoes Bradley’s words from when he was younger. He’d tried to be there for Simon, lend him words of advice. 

“What happened to our sweet boy?” You wonder. 

“What happens to all of us,” he shrugs.

You sit in silence, Simon's arm around your shoulder, lending some heat in the cool morning air. The smell of sea salt is comforting, so is the sound of the water repeatedly kissing the shore. The sun is beginning to peak beyond the horizon, the dark sky becoming a muted grey under your watchful gazes. Finally, Simon shifts, pulling a book from behind one of the pillows on the outdoor couch. It's all routine.

“Where did we end the last time?” Simon directs the question at your stomach.

The baby in your belly stretches, you assume, and your hand drops to smooth across where she’d nudged you. “I think she’d like you to start at the beginning. It’s her favorite,” You explain.

Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy,” he read from The Giving Tree, “And every day the boy would come, and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest. He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches, and when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree.....very much.”

Simon pauses, leaning so that he can press a kiss to your protruding stomach. “Like I love your mother,” he confides to his daughter like you can’t hear him.

Your hand affectionally runs through the hairs at the nape of his neck, completely enraptured by the love you have for him. To be here, using the path you’d taken, was a story in itself.

“I think we’ve both given each other a lot,” You point out. “A great love and a beautiful life.”

“Its taken us a lot to get here.”

“All the more reason to consider it beautiful.”

He hums his agreement. “Two kids — albeit one of them is losing his shit right now — and a wife that has been patient with me when I haven’t deserved it. Its more than I can ask for and I’m still not done paying you back.”

He didn’t owe you anything for staying by his side, but despite your protests, he’d gone above and beyond. This cabin was in the exact same place he'd pointed at all those years ago on your honeymoon. He’d done the majority of the work by hand, and the small touches spoke volumes. 

Bradley’s room.

The three empty rooms in the same hall that hinted at an uninterrupted forever.

“I love you so much,” You promise him. 

The crunching of sand and twigs pulls you away from your husband, and to his credit, Bradley doesn’t seem shocked to see you and Simon sitting on the porch. In fact, he’d expected it and rehearsed a lame excuse.

“I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” he starts. “After the bonfire, a bunch of us just…fell asleep on the beach.”

“Were you drinking?” Simon asks bluntly. 

Bradley shakes his head no, looking down at his feet. He’s barefoot, which isn’t unusual.  

“Did you go beyond the walls?” 

“You know I wouldn’t,” he protests.

It'd taken five years of parenting, but Simon had a distinctive way of making Bradley confront his wrongdoings without necessarily rubbing his face in them. “Really, B? How can we take your word? The way you’ve been acting lately, it’s not a reflection on your character. Your mother is very concerned, and there are some things we need to discuss before you ruin a kidney. So, sit down — cut the bullshit and just talk to us,” he finishes, reminding you that despite getting older, he’s still Simon. 

Bradley takes the offered space that Simon creates when he shifts to the side. No one speaks immediately, letting the soft wind and the sounds of the waves fill all the empty spaces.

My, oh my. How everything has changed. 

It’s worth mentioning that Bradley doesn’t smell of stale cigarettes or whiskey like he’d been for the past month. Just Oceanside. 

“How do you feel, right now?”

“Okay,” Bradley answers.

It’s a rehearsed answer that you’re used to him giving you lately. But if his red-rimmed eyes aren’t from drugs than you deduce that its because he’s been crying. You get it, but Simon’s been it.

“Son,” Simon sighs, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “That word doesn’t leave much to the imagination. I think it cheapens the exchange of a genuine conversation and restricts us from letting others in. In other words, you’re fucking yourself over twice.”

“I’ve been confused,” Bradley allows, backtracking. 

“I don’t understand why I feel…" He clears his throat, his hands worrying the fabric of his t-shirt. “Sometimes, I feel…not good. It’s like I’m mad at myself and everything, and my mind forgets to tell me why that is. I know we have it good here. I know you guys love me. I have friends and a cool job, but sometimes it's just not enough…” 

His words stutter, and he takes in a jagged breath. Even though he’s more than proved that he’s capable of taking care of himself, it's nice to know that he still needs you. His tears dampen your shirt, Simon’s shirt, but you don’t mind.

“…and you feel guilty for not being something you can’t right now.” Simon’s hand comes down firm onto Bradley’s shoulder, lending his support. “We’ll work on what you’re feeling. Talking helps, B. We’ve all been where you are, and I can’t promise you that the feelings you’re feeling will just magically disappear with a handful of pills. What I do know for sure is that every time you start overthinking, or you’re in your head, you can always come to one of us and we’ll help you as best as we can.”

“We love you, B. Please remember that,” You add, thinking that Simon had said it better than you ever could.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been a shithead lately,” Bradley suddenly apologizes, making you and Simon laugh at its randomness. 

“Yeah, well. You’re grounded,” You assure him. “Guard duty and straight home for two weeks.”

“That’s fair,” he nods, turning his attention to the discarded book on the coffee table. “The Giving Tree again?”

“It’s a reminder that sometimes you can be too selfless.” You shrug, rising with Simon’s assistance. “I should get breakfast ready before—”

“Howdy, neighbors!”

Negan’s bellowing voice is, and you still can’t believe it, nothing in comparison to the cries of his twin daughters. They’re, to put it lightly, the product of Negan’s style of parenting. 

“Alright, you little rugrats.” He quickly passes his newborn son to Simon before picking both of the girls up that had been relentlessly tugging on his pant legs. He tosses Emma over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, hoisting Elle onto his hip. “I said, I can’t carry you all. How many arms do I got, Elle?”

“I can’t count,” she’s quick to fire back.

“Well, damn. Learn faster,” Negan grumbles. “What are they teaching you at school?”

“Hey,” You greet him. “Where’s Frankie?”

He rolls his eyes. “If she’s smart — Mexico.” 

“I thought about it this morning,” Frankie admits, making her presence known. Unlike Negan, she’s wearing shoes. “Then I remembered that they’d probably eat you alive and wear your skin as a coat.”

“Auntie Y/N,” Elle cuts in, looking at you sweetly. “I want some goddamn bacon. Now, please.”

“Daddy,” Emma chimes, mirroring her sister’s tone and kicking her legs so that Negan almost drops her. “Can I have some fucking pancakes? Pretty please?”

“Okay, but, they’re polite — are they not?” Negan questions defensively before anyone can comment on the vulgarity of his daughters.

With Frankie’s help, you’re able to get heaping plates of bacon, eggs, and pancakes on the table. Your spacious kitchen feels incredibly tiny with so many moving bodies in it, and the twins are yelling over each other because their father is Negan and that’s all they now, but it isn’t suffocating. It’s routine. 

This is your life. 


Negan’s POV

This is everything, Negan thinks, trailing his eyes across the expansive kitchen. His kids are going bat shit crazy, fighting over the last piece of bacon and Y/N’s doing her best to break them apart. It’s futile, but he appreciates the effort. He appreciates you, in all honesty. You're glowing; motherhood suits you. 

Simon’s got his youngest, Liam, rocking him by the bay window with a tenderness that’s still foreign to see. Regardless, Simon’s dripping with life. He’s isn’t drowning anymore. Frankie’s taken to doing the dishes, her attempt at damage control. Miraculously, she still loves him too, even though he's pretty sure he's turning their kids into little sociopaths.

This is more than he deserves, but then again, maybe it isn’t.

A product of his childhood, he’d spent his whole life trying to take care of people. Sure there were times when he’d lost sight of that, lost the vision of why he’d created the Sanctuary and had lent carnage to others instead of a hand; but in the end, he'd acknowledged his failures and grown from them. All things considered, he’s an expert now on the art of giving a shit.

Nudging Bradley’s shoulder, he speaks low so that only the kid can hear. He’d been informed of his blatant cries for help by Simon over the past several weeks. What kind of godfather would he be if he didn’t step in and lend some advice? A shitty one. Especially since he knew where a life of unaddressed problems led.

Maybe he could spare Bradley a couple of years of feeling like a constant failure. Like it was his responsibility to embrace all the shitty emotions that came with life and bottle them up until he exploded and became what was technically defined as a serial killer. 

Bradley looks expectant. “Yeah, Uncle Negan?” 

“Remember a really long fucking time ago? I promised you that when you were older, I’d tell you the story,” Negan begins, knowing that Y/N might kill him for this. Though, he promises he’ll give Bradley the watered down version of the story. “You know — how your mom-sister met Simon?”

The kid nods, more curious than apprehensive now that he realizes he’s not about to be lectured for a second time today.

“Well, its time you heard my side of the story, it’s a good one I promise. By the end of it, you’re going to realize that being pissed and refusing to handle your bullshit is pointless. Moral of the story: you’re inevitably hurting the people that give a shit about you.”

Bradley leans back in his chair, thoughtful. “Is Dad gonna be pissed that you told me all this?”

Over the years they’d only given him pieces of the story to appease his curiosity. 

“Probably.” Negan waves him off. “Anyway, it all began with a poster…”

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