✘ BASED OFF OF THE WILDCARD.
By night four, Negan had stopped leaving the ski lodge. While the masses were down at camp, he’d taken to going for the big guns because that’s where the real money was gonna be. Plus sharing a cabin with a buncha horny teens cramping his style? Nah, not his thing, not even a little bit. So he’d taken his truck up and set up his own camp. By week one, he’d had his entire room completely redone and was damn proud of it. By the first month, chances are this place was gonna be impossible to recognize from the shitstorm it had been.Still had a long ways to go, but he’d made a pretty impressive goddamn dent in matters, and by the end of the summer? People would be paying to come here, that’s how happy he was to stroke his own goddamn dick with how far things had come. But week two? Week two was throwing a wrench into the mix.
The ‘bloody’ pentagrams and messages written in graffiti all over the place had left him chuckling under his breath, delivering a commentary more to himself than anyone else, because he’d been alone when he first entered the lodge. It felt like having his own hood mansion with a stellar view, but the view no longer outweighed the lack of sleep. The fuckin’ school shrink had tried to come at him with pamphlets and words of encouragement after it all went down, and she’d rambled on about grief, but it was nothing he wanted to hear, especially not from anyone else. And yet, now he found himself wondering if being balls deep in Harley’s snatch had triggered something, because those sleepless nights? They were coming now, one after another. And he’d said fuck all at first, especially not after the third night because he knew what it looked like.
At first, it was denial. Well no, it was concern. He’d went out in his fucking boxers, the middle of the night with his bat just in case, and tried to find the source of the ghostly sobbing that kept escaping him with every step he took. How many nights was he going to get lured out to the woods? It took a lot to ruffle his feathers, but when it kept persisting? Always at the same fucking time? Was he fucking well losing his shit? On the fourth night, when it started all over again, he was awake, beer at his side as he sat in his fold up chair by the end of his bed, his bat wedged between his knees with pliers in one hand, and some barbed wire he’d found in the maintenance room unraveled in the other, cascading down and pooling on the floor.
The most logical thought was not ‘if someone’s fuckin’ with me, i’ll fuck ‘em right back, make ‘em shit their goddamn pants’, and yet that’s what he defaulted to because all other scenarios made him uncomfortable, wildly so and that wasn’t something Negan was too eager to deal with or mentally wade through and face. By 3:30 am, he was done. Barbed wire wrapped around the bat and looking beautiful as all fucking hell. Obviously he wouldn’t be playing ball anytime soon, but ping-pong was more his thing. Every time his phone would die out, the few seconds before another song played (classic rock because he wasn’t a fucking pansy), he could hear it. But what really caught his attention were the footsteps outside his door. Raccoon or? “Kid,” Negan began, pausing his phone so his voice could boom over the silence, echo throughout the whole fucking lodge. “I’m gonna warn you right fuckin’ now, I’m armed, so if you’re thinkin’a fuckin’ around with me, I’d advise you reconsider.” But he was already shoving himself up off the chair, donned in some sweats and a wife beater that were even too much for the heat, but he didn’t accidentally wanna barbwire his dick, and moving towards the door, new and improved bat in hand, and damn, didn’t she feel nice.
“What? You the one that’s been cryin’ in the goddamn woods, wakin’ me up every fuckin’ night?” Cause it wasn’t funny, and he was woke to the bullshit now.
“What kind of freaky shit are you up to at this time?” Stepping back from the door, he pulled it open and looked out into the darkness, the small gas lantern behind him illuminating his silhouette as he pulled the bat down, holding it in a far more defensive stance as if expecting something to come at him. Was that paranoia? Maybe. But fuck if he was going to take another goddamn chance.
