[A/N] Hello dear person who decided to check this story out! I wanted to put my own Negan story out there, so here it is. There can never be too much Negan/OC. I hope you enjoy!

Warning: this chapter contains violence and gore, hence the M rating.

"And you. Are. It!" Negan says, pointing Lucille at me. I close my eyes in defeat, a sole tear escaping them. I know what this means. I'm about to be beaten to death, and I won't lie: I'm terrified. I'm too scared to open my eyes again, scared to look my killer in the eye. So I try to listen to the rest of his speech. Hell, what else can I do? He now seems to be addressing the others. "You can breathe. You can blink. You can cry. Hell, you're all gonna be doing that."

I open my eyes, and see Negan raising Lucille over his head. I hear a bloodcurdling scream, only to realize it came from my lips. My throat now raw and dry, my heartbeat pounding in my ears and my eyes squeezed shut again, I'm awaiting Lucille's impact and I quickly wish for my friends to be alright.

Then it starts. A terrible crunching sound. The horrific explosion of pain. The ringing in my ears. The white, blinding light behind my eyes. My world is pain.

But I am alive.

I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. I see spots but I can clearly make out Negan, towering over me, watching me with wide eyes and a slightly opened mouth. The bloodied bat hanging loosely from his right hand. The cocky smile that was on his lips a minute ago is nowhere to be found.

I turn my head to the left, where the pain seems to emanate from. Despite the fogginess of my mind, I notice my head is fine. Lucille's blow did not land on my head, but on my left shoulder. I feel strangely detached as I look at my own mangled left side. The shoulder received the brunt of the blow, judging by its clearly dislocated state. Pieces of flesh hang off, pulled loose by the barbed wire. Deep scrapes run along the length of my arm, stopping just below the elbow. Steady streams of blood pour out, coloring my arm a deep red, dripping from my fingertips, staining my clothes. The ringing in my ears is slightly subsiding, and I hear my friends whimper and cry for my mutilation.

Negan seems to have shaken whatever had come over him, and suddenly says, "Alright, change of plans, folks," effortlessly resuming his disgustingly charming yet dangerous exterior. "This one," he gestures toward me, "is coming with me." The whimpers and cries of my friends grow louder. I look at them, each bearing a desperate and defeated look. Apologetic they cannot save me. I look each of them in the eye, willing them to know that it is not their fault. That I love them. I look at Rosita on my right, the greatest friend I could have wished for. I look at Daryl on my left, my silent, strong yet sweet companion. I whisper, "I love you," looking them both in the eyes once more. Rosita sobs and Daryl bows his head down in sorrow, shaking.

Negan walks toward me, his hand extended out. "Get up now, darling." I don't take his hand and try to get up by myself, but white-hot pain shoots through my shoulder. My vision darkens and my knees buckle, and I fall over. Negan catches me by my uninjured arm, his smirk taunting me. "Let's get this show on the road." He calls out to his Saviors. "Oh, and Rick?" He says, that grin on his face again. "Try any shit, give me any less than half, and you'll receive this beautiful arm on your doorstep," he says, stroking my mutilated arm with his fingertips. I wince and try to move away from him but his grip on my other arm is unwavering. "Aside from that, you," he gestures toward the rest of the group with Lucille, "are free to go. But remember: We know where you live. We own your front door." Once the group is sufficiently intimidated, he leads me to the RV with an infuriating hand on the small of my back. I look back at my friends. This might very well be the last time I see them and for that, I cry silent tears.

I belong to Negan now.