There's nothing like beating the holy hell out of a man. Or two.

Negan doesn't need to command Simon to drive them back to the Sanctuary—he already knows what to do. That's why he likes him. Loyalty, compliance, efficiency, and no whining or shittin' backsass.

He lounges comfortably in the back of the RV, as it roars into the woods, his feet crossed. One of his leather-gloved hands idly twirls Lucille in one hand. She's red. Redder than sin, redder than a fresh coat of smudged lipstick.

Dripping wet. Just how he likes her.

"You did good, honey," Negan rumbles out, gazing her over with clear admiration. She's red through and through, but what glints off the twisting wire appears blackened in the moonlight. "So fucking good."

He's tempted to run his fingertips across her length, where it's less sticky, where's she firmer to grasp. Tease her in the aftermath of the climax, where others have been left sobbing in her wake. They don't know jackshit. They don't understand what it is to experience true pleasure, or a truer love than this.

If blood is what makes her alive, if that's what she and him needs… then more will come.

The hours deepen, yawning abyssal as the surrounding darkness outside the RV. Most of the lights within the Sanctuary turned off, and even lesser in appearance are the nighttime wanderers.

He ignores the swelling, hot tightness in his jeans, and ignores his wives already scattering after a gruff, low order to leave. Ignores Simon nodding at the doorway. He likes fucking Simon, when it suits him, when it feels right—whenever Negan wants a loyal, faithful man in his bed. None of his wives are loyal bitches.

No bitch will ever compare to Lucille.

She could rip him apart if she needed, with just a kiss. That's all it takes—one long, sweet scrape of her barbs against Negan's naked, willing mouth, and he'll be red too. He's considered it more than once.

His mouth, his tongue, red.

"The things you do to me," he whispers, cupping his groin and squeezing, Negan's legs spreading apart in a chair. Lucille remains unmoved on the table, darkened with blood and the cold, matted gore. "You're a filthy girl."



TWD isn't mine. So I've never read the comics, and I was just browsing around and found a section describing Negan's canon sexual attraction to his baseball bat Lucille (which obviously connects to his wife Lucille) and I couldn't get that out of my head? I MEAN I'VE WRITTEN DEAN WINCHESTER FUCKING THE IMPALA BEFORE. NOT A HUMAN VERSION OF THE IMPALA, JUST THE IMPALA. THIS IS NOT UNREALISTIC FOR ME TO TRY. I don't know what I've done, but I've done it. I wanted to know what would happen, and any brave soul exploring this or curious mind, or Negan/Lucille fan out there, I hope this entertained you immensely. Comments/thoughts are always welcomed, and even shrieks of "WHY THO?" or "NO!" are encouraged from you guys if that's your reaction aahahaha. Oh boyyyy.