Irresistible Danger

The Hangover

Waking up the next morning was, to say the least, painful. Blinking open crusty eyes, you let out a groan as what felt like a bolt of lightning went through your skull. At first there was confusion, followed by the certainty that you were dying. Then memories resurfaced, and you remembered who the culprit was: Jameson.

You sat up in bed, which caused the room to start spinning and your stomach to drop. Nope, your subconscious moaned. Fuck this, you're going back to sleep. Lying back down, you allowed yourself to drift unconscious, hoping that when you next woke up, the pain would be gone.

This plan was only partially successful. You weren't sure how late it was when you next opened your eyes, but this time the room didn't spin when sitting up. Head still throbbing, but less intense than before, you finally felt able to try moving without fear of toppling over. Absolutely parched, you drug yourself out of bed and over to a small crate that held some necessities and snacks. Grabbing a bottle of water, you practically inhaled the lukewarm liquid, thinking that H2O had never tasted so amazing in your entire life. The lingering aftertaste of whiskey was still in your mouth, causing you to slightly gag and reach for the toothbrush and toothpaste in another crate. Taking a small swig of the remaining water, you inserted the tooth brush into your mouth and scrubbed until your teeth felt squeaky clean and all you could taste was mint. Unwilling to walk down the hall and to the bathroom just yet, you spit the toothpaste-water back into the bottle before recapping and throwing it in the trash can.

Grabbing clean clothes out of the same crate that had held the toothpaste, you started to lift the grey t-shirt over your head when a random thought hit. This was the same shirt you wore the first time you kissed Negan. Huffing out a laugh, and then also a groan at the resulting throb this caused your head, you wondered if the shirt was jinxed. Perhaps you should start calling it your "snogging shirt".

With this thought, it was as if floodgates had opened in your brain, and all of the events of last night came pouring to the forefront, hitting you with a tidal wave so strong that you had to stumble back over to the bed and sit down. You thought back to everything that had happened in Negan's room, from the shots of whiskey and him laughing over Trixie and Dwight, to him confiding in you about Ken and then turning you down when you begged him for sex. Groaning again, this time more from embarrassment than pain, your brain replayed the make out session frame by frame. How he had let you kiss him again despite his supposed no-kissing rule. How his chest hair had felt under your fingers and his denim-covered cock had felt between your thighs. The sensation of his soft yet also delightfully rough beard tickling your chin as he whispered against your lips in that deep, raspy voice. Heat spiraled in your stomach and traveled lower at the memories. He had warned you in this very room only a few days ago that he wouldn't bring up sex again, not unless you begged him for it. Whelp, your dumb ass had gone and done just that.

You were still a little surprised that he had turned you down without letting things go very far. Sure, you knew Negan valued consent, as shown by his no-tolerance policy in regards to rape and sexual assault. But after weeks of trying to get in your pants, you hadn't expected a couple shots of Jameson to be such an effective cockblock. Although, now that it was the next morning, you had to admit that he'd been right: you had definitely not been sober and definitely would've blamed the alcohol for any sexual activity. Which would've been even more embarrassing than the current situation of blaming the alcohol for causing you to beg and grind on his lap.

Head still throbbing, you got back off the bed and peeled off your clothes, which somehow all had the lingering smell of whiskey on them. Thank god you owned a second pair of jeans. They were a little tighter than the pair you typically wore, and had a long, horizontal tear that ran across the back of your left thigh a couple inches below your ass, which was another reason you preferred not to wear them unless necessary. They were the pair you had worn when arriving at the compound, the tear a result of getting caught on a branch out in the woods with Tim and Maria. Tim, the asshole, had made more than his fair share of comments about the thin strip of upper thigh that was showcased by the tear. However, it was better than putting the other jeans back on and risking someone smelling the whiskey. There was no way in hell you could explain to Ben why you smelled like alcohol. Guess you'll be doing laundry again sooner than expected.