You’d think this group would have more freedom when it comes to owning your own house, owning your own weapons and food. No. You fucking share it. Maggie Greene, the Widow they call her. She’s nice, was nice.

Yeah until she basically kidnapped you and kept you as hers. No one questioned it, no one ever dared questioned why she kept you as her pet. She ruled and owned Hilltop, so if anyone asked or gave her a look she’d kick them out.

She met you chained most of the time to her bed post, because the last time you tried to escape, you figured out your way around ties. (Not that she minds you escaping, she loves the thrill of it. And she knows you love her thigh choking)

Rules are unspoken, and unpredictable. She’s rather mysterious herself, so she decides what’s best for you, and what you do when free from the chain. You know one rule you must follow. Never ask her for anything

She gives you what she decides is best for you. You want food? Here, take my scraps of leftovers. Want water? Here, drink out of a dog bowl. Wait and let her decide, even if it isn’t perfect. Be fucking grateful.

Even after a few months of this you can’t help but twitch every time she slams open the door. Always pissed about something, whether it’s a poor run, another prisoner to yell at, or literally being looked at wrong.

"Come." She demands immediately, striding in the apartment. The first thing you notice is the the flesh wound, seeping red into the bandage tight her arm. Her jaw is clenched, gaze flinty when she angles her head to look at you. Something unreadable flashes behind her eyes, eyebrow cocked at your stunned stillness. Then, she sighs. Unlocks your bonds—yanking on your chain like a puppy trawling after its owner. “Sweetheart. I’m not in a habit of repeating myself.” Her voice is low, rolling in that dangerous, drop-off drawl.

Listen, or draw blood.