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“You want to act like a child?” Negan shouts, throwing open his door and slamming it viciously behind himself before stalking over to the passenger side of the cab.
Shhhhhhit, you think in the singular, painfully fleeting moment that you have left to realize that you have seriously fucked up. Running on days of barely any sleep and not having had time for breakfast before Negan was rushing you out the door, you had thoughtlessly — petulantly — been mouthing off to him from the moment the two of you had left for that morning’s run. After several dangerously snippy comments in a row, you finally crossed over into the No Fly Zone when Negan parked the truck a little ways back from the rest of the party and reminded you to stay behind him out there. You had repaid his protectiveness by mocking him. Him, of all people. Fuck.
“Oh, right. Stay behind the big, scary motherfucker with the baseball bat, cause girls don’t know how to protect themselves. Not like I survived out there for months without your adult supervision,” you had retorted sourly.
The words had spilled out before you could stop them. In that moment, a scene from an old nature documentary you had watched as a kid flashed through your mind’s eye: a group of penguins sliding down a snowy bank, helpless to stop their descent once they got going, and the sounds of you and your sister laughing and frantically shouting “No brakes!” in the background.
That was how your retorts felt this morning – as if you had waddled yourself right over the edge of a ski slope, and there were no brakes to be had on the way down. On a rational level, you knew that you were grumpy not only because of the ungodly hour and your empty, grumbling stomach, but also because of the fact Negan had questioned whether you remembered to load your gun. “Duh,” you had replied, earning yourself a warning look that you had, of course, blazed right past.
What was I thinking? you groan internally as he storms around to your side of the truck.
Belatedly, you shrink away from your door as he swings it open, but Negan’s gloved hand is already wrapping around your upper arm and roughly yanking you out. You just barely manage to catch yourself on his chest as he pulls you stumbling from the truck’s cab, and over his shoulder, you lock eyes with a bewildered Simon, who has stopped short a few dozen feet away with the rest of the scout party on his heels. The group of men looks on with obvious trepidation, but also more than a hint of interest. You feel a hot flush of embarrassment wash over you as Negan drags you around to the front of the truck, which at this point may as well be center stage.
“I’ll treat you like a goddamned child,” he continues, giving a rough shove to the small of your back to propel you forward. You break your fall against the hood of the truck and look back at him, the shock and hurt evident on your face. He had never raised a hand to you – you knew that was one line he would never cross – and yet here you are, being manhandled like a goddamned ragdoll. You’re sure he reads the hurt in your gaze, but a small, stupid part of you hopes that he also catches the glint of defiance as you straighten back up. I’m not going to fucking cower from you. Do whatever it is you’re going to do and get it over with, you want to hiss up at him, but the words catch in your throat at the stony look on his face. All you can manage is to fix him with a glare – one that you’re unfortunately certain reads more petulant than intimidating.
His usually warm chocolate eyes now regard you icily, his jaw set in that characteristic way that often sends even the most hardened Saviors scrambling to look busy. You can understand why as a nervous shiver runs through your insides.
“Belt off, now,” Negan demands. You falter, processing the command for a beat before opening your mouth to question him.
“Now, or I will rip it off you myself,” he spits before you can protest. Your hands shake with both anger and anxiety now as you undo the buckle and slide the leather ammo belt and holster out from your belt loops. Your mind races, but you school your face into an expression of meekness and keep your eyes cast on the ground as you surrender your gun and belt to him. Is he seriously going to take my only means of defending myself, make me rely on his protection? That's a dangerous fucking game to play just to prove a point.
Negan turns to set the belt aside on the hood of the truck before gripping at your upper arm again — though this time, your left —
and pulling you to his right side as he seats himself on the edge of the truck’s front bumper. You hover awkwardly by his side, confused as to what the hell is happening here.
Before you can open your mouth to ask, your world is turned on its head in one swift movement, and you find yourself eye-to-eye with the side of Negan’s left boot. You barely have time to process the fact that you are now bent over his knee before his thumbs are hooking into the back of your waistband, yanking your jeans and panties down to your thighs all at once.
“Negan!” you shriek, hands flying back in a short-lived attempt to pull your pants back up before he catches your wrists and pulls them together, easily binding both of your hands with one of his. You tug against his grip, but even with your full strength, it has no effect.
“You asked for this,” Negan chides, his voice gruff as his opposite hand delivers a sharp smack to your ass that stills your (admittedly futile) attempts to squirm free. Your mouth falls open in shock and pain, but no sound escapes. Smack. Smack. Smack. Another three rapid-fire swats set you squirming anew, and you find yourself dimly relieved that his leather glove softens the strokes, if only a little. What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
“Let me clarify something for you,” Negan continues, releasing your wrists to now hold you still with one large hand pressed to the small of your back. You attempt to push yourself up and off of his lap, but he simply swings his right leg over the backs of both of yours with an irritated huff, effectively trapping you once again. His gloved thumb fits to one of the dimples between your hips as you clutch at his ankle to steady yourself.
“You will not disrespect me again, especially in front of my men. In fact, the only fucking time your mouth should be opening while on a run is to tell me ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘No, sir.’ Is that clear?” He punctuates the given options with two sharp smacks, one directly over top of the other, and your eyes burn from the sting.
“Yes, sir,” you gasp, now clinging to his boot with both hands. Despite the fact his hand is now pinning you securely over his knee, the pain and embarrassment of your predicament leave you somehow desperate for something to hold onto, and you find yourself using the point of contact as some sort of grounding point.
“Because I’m feeling generous today —” smack “I’m going to give you one more chance —” smack “— to practice —” smack “— before the real deal,” Negan finishes, and you feel his hand shift, still applying pressure against the small of your back but tilting as he pulls off his opposite glove one finger at a time.
“Question number one. When I say, ‘Stay,’ you say —” he prompts.
“Yes, sir,” you repeat hurriedly, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation of the tenth stroke. It doesn’t come, but you hold your breath distrustfully all the same.
“Very good. Question number two. When I say, ‘Get behind me,’ you say—” Negan prompts again.
“Yes, sir,” you answer again. You can feel anxiety building in the pit of your stomach, knowing that the last stroke is inevitable no matter how correctly you answer him.
“Right again. Final question. When I say, ‘Give me your weapon,’ you say —”
The final stroke lands square in the middle of your ass, the spread of his large hand managing to layer it over top each of the previous nine all at once. You had willed yourself into silence throughout this humiliating display, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing you cry out, but Negan puts his full force into this final smack, drawing a pathetic yelp from you and apparently breaking the dam behind your eyes.
“Yes, sir,” you sob, tucking your face against his calf to hide the hot tears of humiliation that sting at your eyes as you hear scattered, cruel laughter rippling through the onlooking group of Saviors.
“Good girl,” he affirms, his voice softening as he smooths his opposite, still-gloved hand over your ass in soothing circles before tugging his right glove back on. You miss the glare he shoots his men, but the abrupt silence that falls over them does not escape you, and you can fill in the blanks yourself.
Negan pulls you up by the arm, far less unceremoniously than he had bent you over his knee to begin with, and positions you in front of him. Each of his hands wrap around your hips, holding you in place before him, but the punishing pressure has gone out of his grip now. His thumbs massage over your hip bones, sending a tremulous wave of arousal spreading through your stomach to your core.
The set of his jaw is still stern, but the cold glint in his eye is gone as he regards your flushed, tear-stained face.
“I’m sorry,” you choke out, painfully aware of how pathetic you must look to the group of his men behind you, shaking with sobs, jeans and underwear still bunched around your upper thighs, your bottom covered in Negan’s handprints.
“I know you are. Why are the rules important?” Negan prompts softly, tipping your chin up with thumb and forefinger.
“The rules keep us alive,” you recite dutifully, not daring to meet his gaze.
“That’s right. I keep you alive,” he adds, his eyes flashing with an unspoken warning not to forget as much again. You nod furiously, reaching for the waistband of your jeans before catching yourself and glancing up at him questioningly.
He nods a silent “go ahead,” his hands leaving your hips only long enough to allow you to cover yourself before returning again, gently squeezing there to command your attention.
Negan lowers his tone to a hushed whisper so that only you can hear, his gaze having softened considerably as the flare of anger died down.
“That’s my job, sweetheart. To keep you safe. Now, you know damned well I didn’t want to do that to you, but you cannot push me like that out here. Back home, behind closed doors is one thing — that shit is all fun and games, because you’re safe, and because these fuckers aren’t looking to me for direction. So I give you some slack; hell, I know that half the damn time, that smart little mouth of yours is only even running because you want my attention. Out here, you can’t play like that. Out here, it doesn’t matter what you want or what you’ve got to prove. Out here, I’m not just your husband, or your dom — I’m your leader, and you’ll sure as shit pay me my due respect, or you’re not going to be sitting down for a goddamn week. Is. That. Clear?” Negan repeats, his thumbs digging into the soft dip along each of your hip bones for emphasis.
You nod, sniffling, wishing like hell that you could crawl into his lap, hide your face in his neck, and simply be held. Another warning flashes across his face at your lack of verbal acknowledgement, and you rush to offer one last quiet, tearful, “Yes, sir.”
His gloved hands release your hips, giving your still-smarting ass a comforting pat-pat before he maneuvers you to one side and pushes himself to his feet. Reaching across the hood of the truck, he retrieves your ammo belt and holster, and, much to your surprise, gently helps you loop it back on, even pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. You find yourself too soothed by this display of tenderness to be embarrassed by it, and simply trail along behind him like a lost puppy, your gaze fixed on the ground. For the remainder of the run, you do your best not to meet the eyes of any of his men, but that doesn’t stop you from hearing their muttered jeers and innuendos.
“Now, where the hell were we?” Negan drawls with a grin, returning his attention to the awkwardly loitering audience as if nothing had ever happened.