CONQUEST • Negan

Chocolate

Within the thirty remaining minutes it had taken for us to arrive at the Remmington Outpost, Negan asked me a total of three times what was wrong.

And on each occasion, I repeated the same two words; I'm fine—offering him a smile in hopes he would drop the concern.

But then he would follow up with, you don't seem fine, and I would tell him, I'm just tired.

I was anything but tired, still riding off the high of an orgasm I never should have taken from his tempting body. An orgasm that never should have even been possible.

I knew if I wasn't careful, this could become a new addiction of mine, albeit a more healthy one. A healthy addiction I could never again share with Negan simply because of how utterly wrong it all was.

I had ground my body against the man who had not only killed Glenn and Abraham, but also tortured Daryl and continued to oppress my friends, until I fucking came. I just had an earth-shattering, impossible orgasm against Negan's hips.

No. I was definitely not okay.

And he knew it.

What didn't help matters was the fucking pitiful, wounded look in his eyes every time he looked over at me, only further proving that he knew I was rebuilding a barrier between us, brick-by-reluctant-brick. He knew that tonight wasn't some illuminating turning point between us. He too, must've heard the harsh thudding of a gavel sentencing us to this tragic awareness of what could beautifully thrive and exist between us, if only we weren't us. If only I wasn't his unwilling captive belonging to an oppressed settlement, and he wasn't my captor who joyfully oppressed said settlement.

I was forced to slam that door of possibility shut, to place padlock after padlock into place, and ignore the promise of something exciting and invigorating rattling on the other side, begging to for entry to reck its havoc on my life and my finely—although unsteadily—constructed morality.

It was a fucking mess.

It was so unbelievably wrong.

I mean, why was this even a conundrum to me?

The guy gives me an orgasm—albeit an earth-shattering, world-altering experience—and all of a sudden I'm battling against the decent, obvious choice here (acting like it never happened and just going on hating him) and the urge to collapse into his arms the moment we got to the Remmington, only to demand he carried me to the nearest bed where he could show me all of those so-called tongue tricks.

It was absurd what my life had come to. Really, it was.

I wasn't exactly known for my ability to resist self-indulgence, or for owning any form of self-control, but in this case, I recognised that this was no longer a hurdle to get over, nor a battle to be won. My attraction and desire for Negan was now officially a motherfucking war. All because he had given me some pretty promises and made some lewd innuendos, and there I was, like a feral, mindless animal in heat, mounting him. Like, what in the actual fuck is wrong with me?

Too much, that's what. Too-fucking-much.

My mind was too busy whirling, trapped in a storm of conflict and self-hatred, to even notice when we had parked within the Remmington compound, or when we had made it inside with our bags.

I'd followed wordlessly behind Negan as he slowly led me to the room I was to sleep in, almost as if he was trying to draw out the minutes in my company. Or maybe that's just what I wanted to hope, the realisation forcing me to mentally slap myself for being so pathetically desperate.

His voice was quiet and gentle, as if afraid to unsettle the ghosts that dared to linger these violence-stained halls, whilst explaining that the furniture was new and everything had been refreshed. I knew it was to comfort me, but despite Clodagh's indifference and Negan's reassurance, it still felt wrong to be here.