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Nothing ever goes the way it’s supposed to.
It’s fine, at least initially. A lot of effort goes into forging new alliances in the aftermath of the All Out War, rebuilding the Saviors after the ungraceful fall of their leader, constructing trade routes, et cetera. The walkers are manageable threats these days. Hell, they went nine entire months without losing someone to the fatal bite.
But then they do. Hilltop—namely Gregory—revolts… and loses.
Fights break out amongst the living. Rick often finds himself in the middle, scattering opponents, pulling people off of each other before injuries go beyond scrapes and bruises.
It’s sad, really, how that and Judith are his only forms of physical contact anymore.
They tried, he and Michonne. But she’s the first in which Rick experiences a relationship die a natural death. No blood, no corpses, no fighting. Just a slow dwindle of the spark between them until nothing is left but a cool, steady glow. Peaceful, but no longer warming. Aiding in light, but no passion, no intimacy.
I can’t lose you, he says to her.
I’m still here, Rick. We’re always going to be family.
It’s a small, albeit cold, comfort.
She stays in the same house. He moves into Carl’s old room; it feels as right as anything can. Michonne says she can stay there, but he refuses. She deserves her own space, he says, and he is able to find more comfort than pain being around Carl’s things, even finding the will to slowly put his few personal items left behind in a closet, tucked into a plastic bin for safekeeping. Eventually, Michonne stops trying to convince him. Their old room becomes wholly hers.
Judith still calls her Momma, and no one corrects her. No matter what else happens, Michonne will always be her momma, just like Lori’s memory is always that of her mother. They’re still family. They still love and look after each other, and they raise Judith with all the wholesome adoration they can possibly give her.
***
But Rick is lonely.
***
He holds no grudge when Michonne begins seeing one of the newer community members. His name is Cameron, a fiercely capable and gentle man. Rick swears to both of them that he’s more than fine with it when Michonne talks about asking him to move in. Cameron is kind and good to Judith. Rick has no complaints.
He’s just…
Alone.
***
Truth be told, Michonne is the last adult from their original group that he feels that familial bond with. Everyone else has scattered amongst the communities, helping them grow and survive. Aaron is around, of course, and he’s a good soul, but he’s always been closer to Daryl out of any of them. Occasionally, he and Rick will share a beer while Judith and Gracie chase each other around the yards, giggling and shrieking. But it’s infrequent at best.
Always so much to do.
Yet all the work in the world can’t keep Rick from reaching across his bed at night, enclosing his hand around the lack of warmth. He misses Michonne, but not in the way of a lover.
He misses cuddling, and gentle kisses, and soft endearments in the night, and the swell of heated passion between the sheets.
He misses having a lover, but there’s no time to spend on those sorts of fancies. Not for him.
***
The explosion damn near kills him. Rick doesn’t remember much after, or even after waking up. He’s told he sweated over days and nights of recovery, soiling bedsheets, screaming at random. Once, he comes to only to have his hand around Siddiq’s throat.
After that, the doctor never treats him without another person present. Rick doesn’t blame him. Safety in numbers and all.
But now he’s dangerous, even after a gradual yet full recovery. Only Judith is unaware and hugs him freely, leaving sweet kisses on his cheek. No adult gives him a comforting touch, though, and Rick can hardly even stand to touch himself for a long, long while.
***
Of course, this bizarre solitude leaves his newest, closest adult form of companionship in the shape of someone he despises so deeply that calling it a relationship, even from a clinical standpoint, is vile.
“Ho-lee shit, is that motherfucking bacon I smell? To what do I owe the goddamn pleasure?”
Rick rolls his eyes, setting the plate in its usual spot just outside the cell. No utensils—that’s a privilege their prisoner has not (and may never) earn. “Calm down. It’s veggie omelette and the ham about to go bad.”
Utterly unperturbed, Negan crouches on the floor. With no practical way to bring the plate into his cell without overturning its contents entirely, he is forced to eat with his fingers. Rick is mildly impressed that the other man manages to mold the omelette into a shapely enough form for consumption, rolling it like a taquito.
A few feet away, Rick sits in a high back wooden chair. Watching. Observing.
Judging.
As always, Negan finishes his meal before retreating to the shadows. No words spoken. Not even a thank you.
Negan almost never speaks anymore. Not unless spoken to.
But ever since Maggie declined to kill him, he’s opened up a fraction of a fraction.
“You suddenly into that poly shit now?”
A muscle in Rick’s jaw tics. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Negan snorts in that sandpaper-on-skin way he does. “I can still hear out that window, you know. Seems like your samurai lady is all sweet on another man. Unless… oh, shit, she cheat on you?” A low whistle rings out of the shadows. “Man, that shit stings, believe me.”
Purely to shut him up, Rick says, curtly, “My relationship status ain’t your business. But Michonne didn’t cheat. We split up.”
“Huh. Problems in bed? You’re getting up there in age. And hell, man, not everyone has my massive swinging dick, balls of steel, and stamina of a motherfucking racehorse.”
“You’re older than me,” says Rick primly.
He can hear more than see Negan’s leer. “I’d say you can ask my wives, but, aw, hell, we all know what happened to them. Just, poof, dispersed into the wild, praying they don’t die out there.”
Dryly, Rick says, “Even if they stuck with you out of some horrid reasonin’, it wasn’t your dick that kept ‘em alive.”
“Hey, you don’t know that. Hell, maybe one of ‘em’s carrying my miracle baby, and I got a lil tyke out there all fat-cheeked and—”
Having heard enough, Rick stands and pushes the chair back to its place against the wall. He kneels to retrieve the plate—and to his surprise, Negan’s suddenly right there. Kneeling on the floor. Staring right at him, filaments of light casting his bearded face into some odd, unhinged portrait of benediction and sin.
Negan’s voice is gritty between age and the slitting of his vocal cords, since healed but scarred, forever changed—perhaps the only part of him that has since.
“How long?”
Rick says nothing. He grabs the plate and makes for the door. Still, Negan being Negan, he always has to have the last word.
“Sucks, don’t it? When you think you know shit and find out you don’t know shit.”
It’s an echo of a memory past. Rick’s jaw tightens. He leaves and closes the door firmly, locking it behind him.
***
A year passes. Michonne and Cameron move out, though Michonne drops by daily to see Judith. Sometimes, Judith spends the night with her and Cameron. Rick has no complaints.
He’s still lonely, though.
On the weekends Judith is with Michonne, Rick bothers to pay Negan an extra visit. He counts on the older man not noticing, assuming the days blur together for him. For the most part, he seems to pull it off. Bringing down spare snacks: roasted wild nuts, dried fruits from winter, deer jerky.
Negan, being Negan, catches on eventually.
“Lonely night up there, sheriff?”
“It’s deputy,” says Rick without thinking. He frowns, struggling against a blush. “If the snacks are a bother, I can always stop.”
“Not saying that at all.” Negan attempts a drawl, but the justification is quick enough that Rick can’t quite hide a smile. “Just figured you must be bored if you’re visiting lil old me.”
“Ain’t nothing lil about you.”
It’s a mistake to say, because Negan flashes a vulgar grin. “You have no idea, Rick. But you can, if you want.”
Rick doesn’t bother taking back the tupperware bowl. It’s not like Negan can fashion a weapon out of plastic with nothing else to aid him.
***
He absolutely does not come into his palm that night, shuddering at the thought of how big Negan could be. He doesn’t, because that? That would be a horrible mistake.
Rick’s done making horrible mistakes.
***
Though he can’t fully tell the days and months, Rick gets a particular sense in his gut twice per year. Sometimes it’s more like an itch, an uneasiness. Inevitably, it curdles and spreads through his veins. He’ll suddenly crumple in the shower, sobbing silently into the drain. Or he’ll have no energy to get out of bed, unless Judith calls for him, and he drags his sorry ass out either way.
Twice per year. One on the anniversary of Carl’s death. One for Lori’s. Sometimes, it seems to fall in between, for the name of a man he hasn’t spoken of in years.
The second year without Michonne, Rick has no distractions. He practically begs her to take Judith for a few days. Fortunately, she’s understanding enough to do so with very few questions.
Unfortunately, it leaves Rick more time to mope.
He’s not even sure who he’s mourning. His late wife? His late son? His late best friend? All of it has become wound together, entwined in grief. Sometimes, it feels utterly endless.
Rick somehow gets his hands on a fifth of whiskey. He doesn’t remember much after.
He does remember crying.
He remembers dreaming about Lori, her face rotting as she swallows his tongue, and Carl, both eyes popping out of his skull and following him everywhere he goes.
He vaguely remembers sobbing on a cold dirt floor, and a warm, callused hand on the back of his neck. A rumble of a voice, the timber eerily familiar, and words that sound frighteningly gentle and understanding: Yeah, baby, let it all out. You miss ‘em. I know, darlin’. Let go, let go, you’re all right.
Rick wakes sprawled naked on his own bed, grimy from sweat, unshowered after a day in the gardens, hungover to shit but able to at least drink half a gallon of water before sleeping on the couch again.
He gives no further thoughts to the rough yet gentle hand that had been stroking his upper back, nor to the gentle murmurs from above as he cried into the dirt.
***
Rick avoids the cells for a week. Tasks the feeding of their prisoner to Gabriel.
But he can’t stay away.
Negan is his responsibility, after all.
***
“Rick?”
He doesn’t answer, placing the bowl of bland oatmeal on the floor.
“I missed you.”
Unlike before, the admission sounds… vulnerable. Rick swallows hard. Staring at his own hand, slowly releasing the bowl.
As an afterthought, he leaves a spoon behind.
Later that night, he finds the battered utensil in his sink. A white flag of sorts. One he doesn’t know how to feel about.
***
The vodka goes missing. Rick asks around, but it can’t be located. No one knows. No searches turn anything up.
Part of him has a feeling.
That part of him is in denial until D-Day.
***
It’s not just one bottle of vodka. It’s a dry bottle of vodka and an empty jar of moonshine.
Rick stares in disbelief at the scene before him. The bedpan, all but slop tossed against the bars, the stench of shit and piss coagulating in the air. None of it mattering at all, considering the pathetic sight within the bars. Coated in dirt, despite his shower just the night before. Face streaked with tears, sweat, mingling with the dirt to make mud streaks. Reeking of booze. When Rick steps even closer, he catches a whiff of bile, putrid.
Negan doesn’t even seem to notice him, curled on the floor. How he hasn’t thought to smash the glass must be a testament to how drunk he is.
Quietly, Rick locks the front door and slips the key into his front pocket. Then he fishes out the cell key, unlocks it, and steps inside.
“Negan.”
The other man doesn’t seem to hear him. Low, pathetic sounds spit from between his lips, his eyes distant and glassy.
Rick looses a slow sigh. “Jesus.” He carefully walks around the man, picking up the bottles. Setting them out of the cell, out of easy reach. Returning to the wrecked man’s side and nudging him with his boot.
Finally, Negan seems to register him. His shorn hair, his beard scraggly and too long, matted and reeking like everything else.
“The hell is this, Negan?”
A surprisingly strong grip on his ankle. Rick tenses, but Negan quickly gentles his hold, stroking the old leather like a lost cat. Well and truly pathetic.
Quietly, Rick says, “Someone’s gonna have to clean this mess.”
Negan sobs, a fresh wave of tears spilling out. It does strange, twisting, uncomfortable things to Rick’s heart. He sets his jaw, determined not to give in. All the while, Negan pets his boot with trembling fingers.
“... Lucille…”
Rick sucks in a sharp breath. He takes a step back instinctively, and is stunned when Negan shrinks back as well, cradling his hand to his chest as though freshly burned. He awkwardly, drunkenly scoots away, pressing his face into his dirty bicep.
Stumped, Rick remains rooted to the spot. He knows Negan has more than a couple screws loose, despite his frightening intelligence, but even this is a step too far. Has he always been crazier than they assumed?
It sparks a blister of anger. He snarls, “You got all piss-drunk over a bat?”
His words, in turn, spark life.
Negan roars, attempting a lunge, but too drunk to coordinate his body. He stumbles and falls to his face, still lashing out with flailing fists. Rick scowls, stepping away again—only this time, Negan somehow manages to lunge to his feet and grab a fistful of Rick’s shirt, knocking him back to the bars of his cell. Rick curses, grappling to shove him off. It takes him a good few seconds to realize that Negan isn’t fighting him, just clutching his shirt and bellowing.
“That’s not her! Fuck you, that’s not her! Lucille! She was everything!”
Through gritted teeth, Rick bites, “Let go, or I’ll—”
He doesn’t expect Negan to comply, much less for him to drop to his knees. Rick tenses again when the man grips the bars on either side of Rick’s legs, his grimy face pressed to one of Rick’s thighs. A wave of arousal followed by horror ripples through him.
But Negan just sobs against his jeans. If possible, he’s even more of a mess, snot dribbling from his nose and smearing on Rick’s clothing. “... my girl… L-Lucille… fuck.”
Slowly, it dawns on Rick.
Lucille the bat was an eponym.
Rick closes his eyes. Of course. That’s always what it was. The unhealthy attachment, the gendered reference… of course that’s what it is.
He feels like an idiot. But also more validated in considering Negan’s grip on reality, to an extent.
Without knowing fully why, he lowers his hand. Rests it on Negan’s head. He’s startlingly warm to the touch, the fuzz of his shorn, graying hair on the side of pleasantly soft. He dares not do much more, simply rubs his thumb over and over along the scalp. Eventually, Negan seems to cry himself limp, nearly dead weight against Rick’s leg.
Hoarsely, Rick says, “Come on. Get up.”
It’s a battle and a half to get Negan back to his bed, but when the man goes down, he stays prone. Breathing shallow but steady, face a mess. Swallowing another heavy sigh, Rick strips off his shirt and spits on it, wiping what he can from the grimy face below. Though the larger man’s eyebrows twitch, he doesn’t move otherwise, well and truly out cold.
Rick shakes his head. Spits into the cloth again, wipes more dirt and tears and crusted fluids away.
Before he leaves, he locks the cell and takes the bottles with him. In the morning, he’ll allow Negan another bath.
Just this once.
Anniversaries are only painful for anyone nowadays, and Rick isn’t entirely merciless. Not even toward his greatest enemy.
***
“Daddy, why you got water?”
Rick gives his daughter a puzzled smile. She’s drawing at the kitchen table, next to Gracie and Aaron. Gracie fists the crayon and scribbles while squealing. In contrast, Judith has begun to practice holding a pencil correctly, though it’s still awkward in her small fingers.
“Why do I have water,” he corrects gently. When Judith shrugs, his smile becomes more sincere. “The man downstairs needs a bath.”
Judith makes a face. Rick catches Aaron’s concerned look, but appears relieved when Judith says, “Daddy, the bogeyman isn’t real.”
Chuckling, Rick gives her a kiss on the head before he retrieves the heavy basin. “Then I guess downstairs is getting a good moppin’ today, sweetie.”
After a long, oddly serious look, Judith breaks into a smile. “You’re silly, Daddy.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Jude.”
“What’s a comphet?”
Rick has no idea why that makes Aaron laugh so hard. He decides to leave it be, taking the basin to the mythical man downstairs.
***
Having already dropped off clean clothes, Rick makes it to the prison without spilling a drop. It gets easier every time, since he’s about the only one who bothers attending Negan anymore.
Fortunate for him—not so much for the man in the cell—Negan is already huddled on the bed, head in his hands. The older man hisses when the cell clangs open. Bemused, Rick sets down the basin.
“Soap’s inside. Like always,” he says.
“Pissin’ hangovers,” mutters Negan. He rubs his face. “Didn’t miss that.”
I’m not here to entertain him.
Rick swallows the response that builds in his throat, instead stepping out. Closing the cell door again, locking it. “S’gonna get cold if you let it.”
Negan scoffs. “Yes, mama.” When Rick folds his arms, Negan shoots him a look that might be intimidating if he wasn’t in a cell or looking like actual piss and shit. And vomit. “You gonna stay for the show, Grimes?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Rick takes a moment to formulate a response. “If only to make sure you don’t drown yourself, yeah.”
He waits for a certain response. Something along the lines of, Don’t worry, I’ll give you a damn good show, free of charge. Instead, Negan is unusually subdued as he strips down. In the basin is a strip of cloth, a pumice rock, and a bar of soap, which Negan always puts to good use. Rick watches only to ensure the prisoner doesn’t harm himself. That’s all it is.
That’s all it means, when Negan scrubs his face clean.
That’s all it means, when Negan washes the vile residue from his scraggly beard, mumbling something under his breath that, by now, Rick knows by heart. Really gotta shave this shit.
That’s all it means when the man, still naked, spills half of the basin on the floor to clean the muck from the mess he made in the cell.
And that’s all it means when he stands—thinner than Rick remembers, always thinner—to pour the rest of the water over his head. Rivulets dripping from his beard, down his torso, winding through thick, coarse, dark hair, covering his chest and down his stomach and—
Rick snaps his head away, shocked at his own self. Once the final dump occurs, he looks away. It’s civilized. Human. Allows even someone like Negan a modicum of dignity.
He goes for the old mop bucket, sopping up the worst of the watery mess outside of the cell. Then, briskly, he says, “I’ll be back for the rest.”
Negan never replies to that. Not ever. So Rick is glad that his back is turned when the other man murmurs,
“Appreciate that, Rick.”
***
These nights, even back in his own room, having left Carl’s a warm memory space, Rick is alone. Always alone.
But… tonight, he’s not cold.
He’s feverish.
He locks his door, the first time in years. Strips down to his skin, desperate to cool off, but it does nothing. He could jump into the shower, turn the water down cold, but the fever will return with a vengeance.
The comforter is too soft; too much. Rick kicks it off the bed, stretches out on the cotton sheets. Still warm, too warm. He can’t sleep, can’t close his eyes, can’t think—
—a callused hand on the back of his neck, tucking his growing curls aside. “I know, baby, I know.”
Covers his face with both hands, breathing between them. Swallows, his throat dry. Thirsty. But not for a cool glass of water, more like—
—water dripping from shaking fingertips, a cloth caught between them, soap bubbling between the cloth and dark flush of hair, the peak of a nipple hardening.
Covers his mouth with his hand, shame burning his cheeks, spilling down his throat and chest. The other hand afflicted with a tremor as he cups his own pec, squeezes the supple flesh there. It’s his own hand, it’s hardly enough anymore… but it inspires him, sets off a bout of tingling through his core, because he does think, he does close his eyes…
—“Appreciate that, Rick.”
He can imagine Negan touching him like this, greedily, with heat. His own hand isn’t a replacement, but he can mimic, squeezing his own chest, panting softly into his own palm. Rubbing his thumb across his nipple, then harshly flicking it, until it’s hard and aches down to his cock. Rick bites his lip, sucking it between his teeth. Sore, swollen.
His nails lightly rake down his belly, the smattering hair. Glides around where he aches the most.
Down his thigh instead, hissing a sharp breath when he squeezes there. Will Negan be rough? Probably. But confident, and smug, and there’s a strange appeal to that.
God, I’m the one sick in the head now…
His dick doesn’t care, throbbing at the thought of the other man touching him. His blood rushes hot, desire and want watering down the shame.
He needs.
Trembling, Rick grasps himself, whimpering at the touch. It’s his own hand, damn it, why—?
No. He knows why.
It’s the dark gaze burning through him. Hateful, antagonizing, fire, soft, broken, tearful, lost…
It’s the idea of those acerbic lips on him, teasing, taunting, wet and warm. That damnable tongue finally leaving his mouth to lick along his skin, shutting that mouth up by offering himself.
Rick chokes down a moan, twisting his wrist on the slide back up. He turns onto his side. Need scorches him, the blankets beneath. Rubbing his thumb over the leaking tip, smearing pre-cum on the soft head, using that on the stroke down to wet himself. Slow and easy.
Grasping over his other pec, pinching the nipple. Jolts straight to his cock, and Rick presses his face into the pillow with a whine.
You’re all red, baby. Just for me?
Oh, Jesus, he can practically hear him now. Rick bites the pillow with a muffled curse. The hand teasing his own nipple lowers, fingertips grazing over his balls, already tight and heavy. He huffs into the fabric, hot breathes, swearing he can feel equally hot breath along his neck.
That’s it, fuck into that tight little fist for me. Let daddy watch.
Pleasure crackles through him like fireworks. Rick is drooling, panting wet into the pillow caught between his teeth. Cupping his balls, rolling them gently. Smoothing his fingers along his dick, over the head, creating that rippling feeling he loves so much. A rumble vibrates through him, almost like a lover pressing his chest against his back, banding him tightly.
Come for me, honey, just like this.
Rick’s thighs tense. He tugs on his balls, whimpering, trying to stave off orgasm. Not yet, just a little longer…
Aww, c’mon, you don’t wanna come? Wanna play a little more? That working for you?
Yes, yes, fuck, yes, it is, he wants it, wants to be teased, to feel warmth, touch, to feel wanted.
He wants someone—Negan—to run his hands over his body. To crave him, to hold him, to squeeze and feel. He wants to be explored, caressed, possessed. And in turn he wants, he wants…
Rick stuffs his fingers into his mouth. Fisting his cock, tonguing his fingers, tasting the salt of skin, feeling calluses. It’s not the same, but oh, the idea he can have his mouth so full, held so close—
I’ll give it to you, Rick, til you can feel me deep inside, carve out that tight little space just for me.
Rick rips his fingers free so he can fully cry out into the pillow. He spills over into his hand, warm stickiness making it easier to pump himself, wring out every last drop. Though his mouth moves, he doesn’t form sound other than his quieting sob. But even as he falls boneless to the sheets, he knows damn well what he would’ve cried out.
Negan.
***
Rick finds reasons to avoid the cell as frequently. Not stopping altogether, just… pulling back. Clearing his head.
It doesn’t help one bit.
Instead, his mind is fogged with wondering if he’s being fed properly. Does anyone bring him decent meals, or plain oatmeal? Hell, even oatmeal is better than nothing, he knows that. Still, he wonders and… he worries.
Fuck. He worries.
Then he does visit after a couple days away and finds Negan reading a book.
Rick’s never given him a book before.
“What the hell is that?”
Negan doesn’t look up from his position on the floor, back against the wall, one knee raised, book open. Eventually, he says, “It’s been a damn long while, but I hear people still call ‘em books.”
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes—and an even stronger urge to smile—Rick sets down a bowl of cut vegetables. “I know what a book is, Negan.”
“Huh. Didn’t take you for a reader.”
“You know cops still have to study, right?”
Negan snorts, turning a page. “No, I don’t know. Seems like they just pick up any old asshole to me.”
Rick folds his arms. “Yet they didn’t pick you.”
With an amused curve to his lips, Negan says, “Didn’t need to.”
“How’s that?”
Negan pauses. He dogears the book, then closes it. Sets it aside, as though concerned Rick might snatch it out of his hand. Casting a look at the bowl, he says, “I’ll be a good boy and eat my rabbit food.”
Frowning, Rick finds himself disappointed. To shake the feeling, he says, “Where’d you get the book?”
Negan stares him straight in the eye. He lifts a piece of celery to his mouth. Closes his lips around it. Bites down with a hard crunch.
Fuck. Rick has to look away before his errant dick can get any other ideas.
Archely, he says, “Now that you’ve got a book, I take it you’re sufficiently distracted enough throughout your day.”
Another crunch. “Oh, yeah. Reading about sixteen year-old werewolves getting it on really does it for me.”
This time, Rick can’t help the smile. He covers his mouth, rubs it, and clears his throat. “We’re, ah.” He gestures, still unable to quite look at the other man. “Buildin’ a greenhouse. Well. We were supposed to.”
“Mmm.”
“Plans, uh…” Rick hangs his head, trying to find the words. “They fell through. Got too few hands, not enough people.”
Negan says nothing.
Finally, Rick says, “Could use your help.”
“Not interested.”
Rick’s head snaps up. Negan is toying with a carrot slice, head turned toward the ceiling. Despite his lax posture, there’s tension emanating off him. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I’m not interested.” Negan enunciates his words like a teacher with an impatient student. “You think I really wanna be out there, working with people waiting to shank me in the nuts first chance they get? Naw. My happy ass is good right—here.” He punctuates the final two words with heavy slaps to the ground.
This man is unbelievable.
Exasperation wins out over tact. “Well, considerin’ I’d be the only one you work with, you can rest assured I’d be the only one goin’ after your nuts.”
Negan’s eyebrows shoot up at that. Willing himself to hold his ground, Rick swivels, hands on his hips, and stares him down.
Neither speak.
With gradual movement, Negan brings the carrot to his mouth. Taps it there, then takes a large bite out of it.
“All right… but I want something first, Rick.”
Tilting his head, Rick says, “Yeah? And what’s that?”
Negan grins. “Got any scissors up in that fancy damn house of yours?”
***
The fact Negan doesn’t even complain about being handcuffed to the chair is, in Rick’s mind, a good step.
“Damn, this is the kinda kinky shit I’m into. You keep these from your poh-lice days? I bet you did.”
Really, he should have expected that.
“Hold still,” is all Rick says. He takes a tuft of the scraggly beard. The thick snip of scissors is uniquely satisfying. “You don’t want another scar there, do you?”
Negan chuckles, head tilted to the side. “Hell, why not? Scars make a man sexy. You should know that. No? C’mon, it’s an old Hollywood trope.”
Wryly, Rick says, “Can’t say I’ve thought much of Hollywood in the past few years.”
The scissors snip, sharp metal, clipping hair that flutters to the hard floor. Coalescing into some rabid beast that might fit better in the wild, maybe even among the walkers. Rick’s done this to himself so many times in the mirror that he doesn’t even miss clippers, able to snip the roughness off and shape it into something that resembles a human being again. Someone who resembles Negan.
It’s strange, how his stomach both churns and flutters to see the angle of his jaw and chin again. When Rick touches the trimmed beard, angling Negan’s head up for a look at his handiwork, he earns something he never expected.
A soft, pleased sigh.
***
Letting him out is infrequent. It has to be, at least in the beginning.
Fighting to allow him out at all was like trying to extract every single tooth from a live shark. Let him out? You’re the one who said he’s never getting out! What the hell is this?
But Rick stands firm. They’re low on people. Their soil isn’t as fertile as Hilltop’s. They need a greenhouse.
“If you have a suggestion for anyone else without sacrificing all our other efforts to stock up for the winter, to stay safe, to stay alive, I’m all ears,” he says grimly.
Ultimately, they relent—but only if someone can keep a trained gun on him. Rick agrees.
Negan isn’t happy, but once he steps into the sun for the first time beyond his cell walls, all his gripes seem to melt like a warm spring warming.
For the first month, it’s once per week.
Slowly, Rick turns it into twice.
Then three times.
Then four, because they really need that damned greenhouse.
But also…
Well. A lot of good things are coming out of it. For one, Negan isn’t a half-bad carpenter… and if Rick is being shamefully honest with himself, the view isn’t that bad, either.
Hershel taught him what he knows of tilling the land, but Negan is the one possessing a deft touch with a handsaw. It actually shuts him up sometimes, considering the effort it takes to cut everything by hand. When their scavengers come by lumber, Negan gets to work with anything left over. They’ve had about half of the foundation and lower walls constructed.
In five months, Negan builds some of his prior physique back. It makes others nervous, but to Rick, it’s helpful… and, well.
Yeah.
“Hey. Rick. A hand, maybe?”
Rick shakes his head, sweat dripping from his hair. It’s starting to grow long again, but without anyone to really touch him, it’s not really a thing he worries about. “Gimme a sec.” He hammers the last two nails into place. Tests the sturdiness with his hand, then stands. His knee pops, and he hisses.
A mocking laugh wafts behind him. “You know I’ve been gettin’ the golden treatment when your shitty-ass knees are shittier and assier than mine are. I’m older than you, and I’m moving like a goddamn porn star in his prime.”
Rolling his eyes, Rick turns and joins him at the lumber pile. “Too bad the world ended. You missed your callin’ for Saggy Old DILFs #42.”
Negan flashes a wide, white-toothed grin. “So I’m a daddy, huh?”
Cursing himself inwardly, Rick says, “What do you need, help liftin’ this?”
“Well, I know how you like watching me flex my guns—”
“Negan.”
Still clearly amused, Negan obliges. “Gotta move the whole stack, sheriff. If we’re getting the glass you say we are, this is the space for it.”
Rick can’t argue with that.
They move the lumber, wasting no time on machismo in order to preserve their backs. By the end of it, Rick is sweating through his shirt, and Negan looks like he’s taken a shower under the sun. Both retreat to the shade of the house, sinking to their butts and resting.
“How’re you outta shape,” mutters Negan, rubbing his hand over his face. “I’m the one sitting on my ass in that damn cell most of my suddenly live-long days. Hell, I ain’t even gonna die fucking a porn star like my dreams.”
Despite himself, Rick smiles through a groan. “That’s your dream?”
“Used to be,” counters Negan. “Obviously, there aren’t much in the way of porn stars anymore.”
“Just die holding yourself, then.”
A sudden, loud laugh startles him. Rick looks over, but Negan isn’t even gazing at him, his eyes closed and a strange smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah,” he finally says in agreement. “That’s probably how it’s gonna go.”
Rick lowers his head, fingers twisting in front of him. It doesn’t have to.
He doesn’t say it.
***
Soon after, Alexandria has to deal with a small horde of walkers. Not unmanageable by any means, but thick enough that it takes them a few rounds to wipe them all out. Everyone’s exhausted, work has been waylaid, and, Rick is dismayed to find, no one’s fed Negan in almost two days.
The man is not happy.
“Jesus fuck, Rick, where’ve you been?”
Rick sighs, feeling dead on his feet. He has a small basket this time, his form of a quiet apology. “Walkers.”
“I knew that,” snaps Negan. He seems strangely irritable, and it’s not about the food, seemingly ignoring Rick’s offering of an orange to start. “I meant, where’ve you been? Have you even slept?”
His body aches too much for this. “Just eat.”
Scowling, Negan snatches the orange out of Rick’s hand. Even that brief, harsh scratch of unclipped nails sends a quiet shiver down Rick’s spine. He surprises his own self by dragging the chair closer to the bars, resting the basket within Negan’s reach.
The way Negan peels his orange is… well, fine, it’s nothing special. But Rick finds himself fascinated all the same. The hands that once wielded a brutal weapon gently rolls the fruit between his palms. One fingernail pierces the skin, peeling it away so well that the white strands inside all but fall with it.
While the other man eats, Rick takes a swig of lukewarm water from a small glass jug.
“You gonna share?”
Rick pauses, mouth still on the lip of the jug. He meets a dark, knowing gaze. A terrifying thrill tingles through him. It’s like Negan has seen into the filth of his mind and already intuits what Rick wants.
He first pauses to take another, smaller swallow. Then passes the jug through the bars. Negan’s fingers brush against his as he takes the glass from him. It’s electricity on his skin.
And the sight of Negan tilting his head back to slake his thirst has Rick’s blood roaring through his veins. The long line of his throat, the bob of that sharp bump, taut tendons peeking from beneath his freshly trimmed beard.
Rick shifts his legs, hoping to hide the slight burgeon of his arousal. If Negan notices he, for once, doesn’t comment.
He does, however, smack his lips as though he’s sampled a fine wine before handing the jug back. Rick moves to take it, but Negan doesn’t let go. Instinct directs Rick to look into his eyes.
A soft rumble: “Thank you.”
A hoarse, weak reply.
“You’re very welcome.”
***
The greenhouse can’t be completed before winter. It’s two men, working alone, with multiple setbacks. No one is surprised. The winter proves mild, which is a delightful surprise.
Spring blows in with a vengeance. It starts with bellowing winds. Trees falling, structures damaged, even the damn walkers seem pushed by the winds to compromise their walls. Day in and day out work. Rick barely has time to feed Negan as it is.
Then the rain comes. A light mist rapidly turns into a torrential downpour. They’re able to manage for two days before it’s clear that the water shows no signs of slowing. The sewers threaten to flood.
Which means the cell is in danger, too.
“No! Absolutely not. You are not bringing him inside to live with Judith!”
Rick is too frantic to argue… and, quite frankly, he’s not ready to introduce the two anyway. What he feels around Negan is his problem.
While Michonne and Cameron pack up Judith and her things for an impromptu sleepover, Rick bursts into the underground prison. The water’s already at his knees.
“Negan. C’mon, let’s go.”
The man shoots him a dour look, already soaked head to toe. Rick is a bit bashful to realize the open window allowed all the rain right in, much less whatever trickled through cracks and crevices.
Still, Negan follows him. They slog through the water, sloshing loudly. By the time they reach the stairs, wind is blowing sideways. Icy rain lashes at them. Rick’s cheeks sting, his hands aching. At one point, the wind whips hard enough that he nearly spears himself on the outside fence, only to be yanked back by a strong, broad hand on his jacket, hot breath against his ear.
“Watch it!”
Rick manages to drag them up the slippery stairs, into his home. The door slams behind them. He slides the lock in place, along with a makeshift deadbolt.
The wind howls. Rain spatters against the windows.
Otherwise, the house is silent but for their ragged breaths and water dripping to the floor from their sluiced clothes. Long gone are the days where electricity hums in the background. The world is stoic and silent out of the storm.
Hoarsely, Rick says, “Need a shower?”
It’s a statement in and of itself that Negan doesn’t snark back. Simply closes his eyes, groans while toeing off his soaking shoes, and says, “Fuck, please.”
What goes unspoken is that Negan is well aware where the shower is. Even so, he follows Rick upstairs; a wolf trailing after a docile, knowing lamb. The idea prickles Rick with a delight he hasn’t felt in… well, honestly, ever. He’s never been on this end of something so cerebral yet primal.
In the bathroom, he turns on the shower. As steam fills the room, he says, “I’ll get you a change of…”
He turns as he speaks. Words fail him.
Negan is already stripped bare, unashamed. And why would he be? Rick’s overseen an uncountable number of his basin baths. His wet pants, socks, underwear, and shirt are draping from the sink top. At first, he doesn’t seem to see Rick, opening the shower door and testing the water with his hand.
But then those dark eyes found his. For once, completely open and serious.
“Come on.”
Rick forgets his own shame, fingers fumbling with his belt, the buttons of his shirt. Clothes are shed, discarded with heavy, wet slaps to the floor. He steps into the shower behind Negan, presented with the other man’s broad, muscular back. Ripples of newly regained muscle under tiring skin, old tattoos faded to dark gray. Water cascades down his flesh, heat pinkening his skin. Long, dexterous fingers lather his gray-streaked hair—it strikes Rick as funny that it’s the same mixture Frankie makes for everyone. He wonders if Negan knows.
Then Negan rinses the suds from his hair. Scrubs his face. Turns to Rick, eyes molten. Looks him up and down, where his half-hard cock is obvious… as is Negan’s, twitching.
Rick can’t wait anymore.
He glides his fingertips over Negan’s face, into his wet hair, meeting him with a hot, open kiss. Strong hands eagerly pet and grope him, hungry for touch, drawing him closer. Rick is startled with the realization that he could cry, it’s so gratifying to be wanted like this.
He grapples for the soap, using it as an excuse to return the favor; to touch and explore and feel as much as he can without losing the intoxicating lust pouring between their mouths. Negan smooths his hands down until he’s groping Rick’s ass, squeezing his handfuls. It presses Rick tighter against him, adding friction to his swiftly hardening dick. He moans softly, face against Negan’s chest. Another squeeze—Rick gasps when a bold finger rubs over his tight entrance.
Negan groans. Finally speaks in a husky rumble. “Gonna let me fuck you?”
Rick throws his arms around Negan’s neck. Hoarsely, he says, “Need you to fuck me.” The way Negan’s heavy cock pulses against his stomach has him all sorts of giddy.
He vaguely recalls turning off the water (“What’s wrong, ‘fraid you’ll break a hip in here?” teases Negan, earning a scathing glare) and toweling off. At least, trying to, until Negan takes over. His damp chest presses against Rick’s back, his hands still finding ways to grope as he helps to dry Rick off. Except for his cock. The avoidance is obvious, especially when the taller man growls, “That’s mine tonight, baby.”
Even the simple pet name makes Rick whimper and leak.
Finally, Negan drops the towel. Both arms band around his torso, roaming his sides, his bushy face buried in his neck. Rick grasps his forearms for purchase. He’s dizzy. Oh, god, he wants.
Hot, wet kisses trail along his neck. He cranes his head to give the other man more room, biting his lip when Negan’s palm drifts down his belly. Rests there, just above his pubic bone… narrowly avoiding his erect cock.
“Where do you want it?” murmurs Negan.
A bittersweet pang blossoms in Rick’s chest. That he asks; that he worries.
He cares.
So Rick turns his head and meets his steady gaze with one of his own. “Take me to bed, Negan.”
When Negan turns him around, he expects another hungry kiss—not for the taller man to hoist him like he weighs as much as a bag of feathers. Instinct has Rick frantically wrapping his arms and legs around him. His face burns as his cock finds friction like this. Negan makes a pleased rumble, which encourages Rick to bite his shoulder.
“Ohh, darlin’, careful getting rough there. I bite back.”
Negan deposits him on the master bed. As he crawls over him, Rick’s arms are already open, eager to receive him. “I’m countin’ on that.”
He waits for the bite, but what he ends up getting is the pressure of chapped lips against his. A slow, swiping tongue between the seam of his lips, entreating, and Rick capitulates. Opens up again. Moans softly into the mouth trying to devour him.
But then that mouth is gone. Leaving him gasping, confused, before heated wet laps at his throat, his collar bones, his chest. Rick burns as Negan explores, lapping up soap and water and sweat, teasing his nipple until Rick gives a keening cry that audibly pleases the man intent on ruining him. All of Rick’s strength pours into not grasping hold of the other man and directing him where he wants. He can’t. The power imbalance…
Rick nearly yelps when prickly hair rubs against his lower belly. He watches, speechless, as Negan rubs his face along his lower abdomen, softened over the years, masking his core, but soft nonetheless.
“Gorgeous.”
To his astonishment, Negan stays there for a minute, kissing and nuzzling his stomach like a lover. And that’s what he is now, realizes Rick, a surge of wild affection fluttering through him. A lover.
His cheeks flame anew when Negan turns his attention to his cock. The fat, long tongue reaches out, licking along Rick’s length. He stutters over his words, uncomprehending. Negan chuckles. Not mocking, not at all, more like soft adoration, so at odds with who they are, who they were. Pre-cum beads and dribbles down his shaft, alternately embarrassing and arousing him all the more.
“Pull your legs up for me, honey.”
The pet names are going to kill him. Rick inhales shakily, curling his hands under his knees obediently and pulling back. It puts him all the more on display, but it’s hard to be too uncomfortable when Negan looks at him like that. Like he’s hungry, like he’s blown away, like he’s unworthy. With a small shift, Rick spreads his legs a bit more.
Negan groans. “Fuck me.”
“Maybe next time,” says Rick, almost shyly.
Barking a laugh, Negan presses a kiss to his inner thigh. Shifting to make himself more comfortable between Rick’s legs.
“Maybe,” he murmurs.
The first lick to his perineum has Rick jolting. Negan hums low in his throat, hands on the space between Rick’s upper thighs and ass, thumbs rubbing soothing circles. Another lick, this time a tease to his balls, and then down, hot and slow over his hole.
Oh…
Soon, Negan is eating him out with unexpected enthusiasm. Then again, he should have expected it, it’s Negan. The man is nothing if not wickedly unpredictable.
Negan groans loudly, lapping, pressing his tongue against the taut furl of muscle. It feels better than Rick could’ve imagined. He’s soon shaking, struggling to keep his legs in place while Negan tastes and explores and presses. At some point, Rick’s relaxed enough for Negan to press the tip of his tongue in, and he whines.
“Negan… Negan, please.” The other man only huffs out a small laugh, and Rick growls, releasing his legs to plant a foot on Negan’s shoulder and push him back. Negan looks up, spit coating his beard and cheeks, and Rick actually falters a bit at the sight. He gives himself an internal shake, firming his voice to a slight tremble. “Fuck me already.”
“Mouthy and impatient. You’re a certified brat, Rick Grimes.”
Rick rolls his eyes, leaning onto his side and opening the nightstand drawer. He pulls out a small bottle. It’s not lube, not as they once knew it, but it’s yet another creation of Frankie’s that he’ll have to profusely thank her for. The bottle is stoppered with a cork and wire. He pops it open, holding it out, a stubborn set to his jaw.
“Fuck me, or I’ll do it myself.”
A wry smile twists Negan’s mouth. Even so, Rick sees how his pupils have eaten up most of his shadowed irises. Accepting the bottle, Negan pours the watery lubricant onto his fingers, rubbing them together. “Finger yourself a lot up here?”
The sheer casual nature of his voice makes Rick bite his lip. His throat tight, he grits out, “When I’m thinking of you.”
“Yeah?” breathes Negan, leaning over him and pressing a kiss to the wet tip of his cock. Rick moans softly. “When’d that start?”
Honest, Rick murmurs, “Earlier than I wanna admit.”
Negan curses, prodding Rick’s hole. “I am gonna wreck you. This time, I’m gonna do it right. You’ll be screamin’ my name.”
Of course, he starts pressing his finger in right then, making it difficult for Rick to retort the way he wants. The words leave in a gasp. “W-we’ll see.” Negan sinks into him easily, and Rick groans, arching down onto him, knuckle-deep. “Oh, fuck.”
Soft, wet squelching sounds as Negan adds more lube. Though he’s merciless once he finds Rick’s prostate, grinning wildly at his elated cry, he’s also patient, twisting and spreading his fingers. Pleasure fizzes and bubbles in Rick’s gut. Negan’s very touch sears him inside out, and it’s not enough.
Heat envelopes him, scalds his skin. The strange whining and wordless begging are him, and he can scarcely believe it but for the way Negan fingers him open. Even then, even when three of Negan’s broad fingers aren’t enough, he pulls away, keeping Rick on the precipice. The sweet agony brings tears to his eyes. The fourth time Negan withdraws, Rick’s balls are maddeningly tight. He sobs.
“Shh, baby, shh,” croons Negan. Blessedly, he scoots forward. Rick hungers. His legs easily maneuver as though he’s done this before, sheer lustful instinct kicking in. Negan’s thighs rest under his ass, his broad hands still slick and petting Rick’s legs wrapped around him. He hovers there, a devastating fallen angel, dark eyes even darker than normal, his low husk even rougher. “Ready?”
Rick tightens his legs at the ankle, urging him on with it.
He’s wet, prepped, slick; he’s good; he’s so fucking gone. But when Negan’s slippery head nudges his entrance, Rick clenches on instinct.
Negan is astoundingly patient. Given their frantic kissing earlier, Rick thought he’d be more domineering. But no, his expression softens. Lips press to his, gently prying his mouth open. From then on, Rick’s moans are captured in Negan’s mouth, and he gasps air directly from Negan’s lungs when his lover begins to push in. The intensity ratchets up, tightening the spring coiling inside until Rick is ready to burst. Slow. Giving him breaks, trading whispers and kisses, one broad hand finding Rick’s and tangling their fingers, pressing to the mattress beside his head.
“More,” gasps Rick.
Negan obliges.
“More.”
A low groan; the gritting of teeth.
“Negan.”
And then he’s in, he’s buried, his thighs trembling against Rick’s ass. Rick unleashes a long, harsh breath, head collapsing back against the pillow. Negan must be big, because his ass burns, but there’s a unique, heady quality of feeling stuffed full like this. When he looks to the side, he finds their fingers still entwined. He squeezes Negan’s hand, tilts his head up for another kiss.
Negan watches him with a pinched expression. His voice shakes a little. “Gotta loosen up, Rick. Unless the plan was to run off with my dick inside and leave me bleeding out.”
A startled laugh shudders through Rick. Negan whines, actually whines, head bowed. The veins in his arms pop as he visibly fights for control. To not come.
“Fucker,” he hisses.
Rick breathes deep. Unwinds. Gives Negan’s lower back a soft nudge with his ankle, meeting his gaze again.
“Go.”
Negan draws back, slow, almost all the way out. Rick draws a breath in, just as slow. When Negan sinks in again, the burn is less, and Rick utters a soft cry as the thickness inside him grazes over his prostate. Small sparks fizzle along the edges of his eyes, glimmering, flickering, enough to escape his gaze and flee to the sky as new stars.
He is wholly, utterly unprepared for the slow pace Negan sets. His cock glides in and out, the burn fading to delicious friction. When Negan’s eyes close, Rick manages to growl out, No, look at me, and those eyes pop back open, holding his gaze with intent.
Rick has no plans to look away from this. None at all.
Which means Negan isn’t allowed to hide, either.
Negan fucks him at a steady, torturous pace. Pulling thin ribbons of breath from him, his broad chest caving in with each puffed exhale. Sweat, lube, sex. Negan tips his head down, stealing a slow, clinging kiss that makes Rick’s lungs tighten. He wriggles his hand free, using both to pet over the man fucking him, tangle in his thick chest hair, gripping the hair on his head and yanking Negan away when a purposeful stroke hits his prostate and makes him wail.
And the man adamantly refuses to speed up. He shifts, bringing Rick’s knees over his shoulders, and oh, fuck, now he’s reaching even deeper. Rick swears when he swallows he can feel Negan in his throat. He can’t say anything, though, because while Negan doesn’t go faster, his thrusts in are harder. Slick skin slapping slick skin.
The coil tightens. Simmering heat gathers and boils low in Rick’s belly. Desperation climbs him like a frightened mountaineer, scrabbling for footholds, reaching for a peak that Negan is losing control of holding over him. Neither are forming words anymore, eyes locked, breaths heavy and damp.
Finally, finally, Negan loses all pretense of control. He folds Rick over, gripping his ass, spreading him for an even deeper reach. Rick’s nails rake down his back, his whines becoming punctured cries as Negan thrusts, pushes, goes so hard that Rick has to place his hands on the wall to keep from knocking his head. The coil tightens. Pleasure bubbles with no sign of stopping.
“Fuck!” Negan barely gets the word out before he shakes with the force of his orgasm. Rick is in a desperate sort of awe, watching the man above shatter apart. Then any remnant of thought flees his mind as Negan fumbles for his cock and pumps him hard, fast. Rick’s leaking so profusely that there’s no need for lube.
Negan is still trembling on the tail end of his orgasm when Rick shrieks and comes. A litany of noises tumble out of him. The world heats, whitens, until he’s nothing more than the peak of his pleasure. His ankles slip over Negan’s sweat-soaked back, fingers digging into the edge of his mattress as he unloads all over his own chest and stomach.
Rick tries, fuzzily, to remember the last time he came that hard. He can’t.
Rain continues to lash against the house, splashing the windows with fat drops. The world outside his a dark, dismal gray, while Rick feels brighter than he has in months. Maybe even years.
“Stay,” he croaks when Negan slips out of him.
“Planned on it.” The terse reply is delivered with an almost sweet, tentative smile.
***
Rick comes to with the rain pounding on the window. He shifts, shivering as a tell-tale ache blooms inside. Outside, night cloaks the house, tossing everything into the darkest of shadows. Rick has to squint to find an outline of the matchbox, and he quietly fumbles for it. Lights it, and gets the nearest candle glowing. Enough light cradles the shadows for him to reach over and close the curtains, muffling the storm slightly, giving him privacy.
Giving them privacy.
He allows himself time to breathe now, soaking in the quiet and warmth. Rolls to his side, breath hitching when the soreness twinges deep and low in his back. He feels slick still, wet, and heat crawls across his cheeks as he reaches down and hesitantly circles his hole. Lubricant. Cum.
His cock is already half-hard.
Beside him, Negan sleeps, and it’s a sight Rick has never truly seen before. All his sneer and scowl lines softened, eyebrows lax, full lips parted with soft, rhythmic snores. Candlelight brushes burnished gold over the salt of his peppered hair, the flicker and dance of flame giving him a teasing edge even in sleep. Dark, thick hair tangles across his chest, down the plane of his stomach, settling around the base of his cock in full glory. Rick barely grazes his fingers along Negan’s dick and the other man shifts. Groans softly, gets hard, but doesn’t wake.
Wetting his lips, Rick shuffles cautiously in bed, leaning over Negan and taking the lube from the other nightstand. His fingers shake with anticipation as he dips them in, slicking them up nicely. The jar goes to the nightstand behind him, sticky.
Rick reaches down between his legs, prodding his sore hole with two fingers. Hisses an intake of breath. He’s sore but wanting, both flinching from his own touch and pressing his fingers in deeper. His hands aren’t quite as big as Negan’s, and he’s nowhere near as patient, but he tries to loosen himself. It doesn’t take long.
He’s not very quiet either, apparently, because Negan’s sleepy rumble of, “Rick…?” shoots lightning through his veins. Rick grasps Negan’s cock, reveling in his choked off moan when he coats him with what’s left of the slickness on his hand. “Mmm, fuck…”
Rick pulses inside and out as he straddles Negan. The other man’s hands automatically come to his hips, his eyes quickly losing their haze when he takes Rick in. “Jesus, baby, give a man a sec to wake up.”
Flushed head to toe, Rick whispers throatily, “You’re awake,” and sinks down on Negan’s cock.
Negan groans, shatteringly loud in the night. Rick swears he can feel him throb in response. The ache of being full so soon arouses Rick more than he wants to admit. He feels like he’s pulling himself apart in the best way, and watching Negan gasp and kick under him adds to the heady sensations. Oxygen is in short supply as Rick wastes little time rising up, and this time when he fucks himself down, he’s swiveling his hips, searching. Up and down, the lyrics of moans and whimpers and fucks littering the rapidly warming air around them, rocking, testing. When he finds that sweet spot he holds himself there and keens. Grinds his hips, making himself leak freshly. Negan swears profusely, and that’s saying something. Crescents of his nails bite into Rick’s hips, light pink welts raking down his thighs while the tendons in Negan’s neck strain with his visible struggle not to take over.
Part of Rick wants to say he takes pity on Negan, but really, he wants this for himself. Dark eyes lock with his, burning, quickly raking down to Rick’s swollen cock before going back up. Negan squeezes his thighs.
Rick is the one setting the pace now. Finding a rhythm, seeking purchase, thighs trembling with effort as he rides Negan in the candlelight. Sweat prickles under his skin, seeps out, dripping down his jaw and nose as he huffs and moans and keeps Negan’s gaze. If Negan so much as blinks, he doesn’t notice, too wrapped up in the sensations.
Then Negan hauls forward with swiftness. Nearly unseats him. Wraps an arm around Rick’s torso, sinks his opposite hand into his hair, and thrusts up into him with a gritted moan.
The little candle flame flickers as their frantic energy rises. Rick is swept up in a tempest, riding Negan’s dick, every muscle in his legs and core burning with the effort. He drops eager kisses over Negan’s face. His cheeks, his brow, his chin, his nose, his lips. When he ends there, Negan tugs his hair, groaning, licking into Rick’s mouth.
Both have their chests heaving, their breathing ragged. It’s almost impossible to speak, but Rick tries. “N-Negan… I want it… god, Negan, I—”
“Jesus fuck,” curses Negan against his mouth. His hold tightens, if possible, and he clamps the hand of the arm banding around his torso to Rick’s shoulder. Making it harder for him to ride, but easier for Negan to fuck up into him; easier for Negan to control the tempo. “Killing me,” he snarls, breaking into a ragged groan when Rick squeezes around him. “You’re… gonna fuckin’ kill me…”
It hurts to breathe. Lines of fire scrape down Rick’s throat, catching in his lungs and spreading. “Stay,” he gasps.
“I am.”
It’s a promise, one that tips Rick over the edge. He loses himself right then, clutching the other man close, crying out into his neck as hot cum spurts out of him almost violently. Negan holds him through it, sucking on his earlobe, kissing his jaw, clutching him so close Rick can feel his heartbeat. All of that is processed even as pleasure erupts through him, head to toe, making his extremities tingle.
He feels good. Almost sated. Almost…
Delirium has a stranglehold on him when Negan heaves forward. Rick’s head falls toward the foot of the bed, sweat and cum glistening on his skin, as Negan towers over him, still inside, looking like he’s the one touch-starved.
Because he is. He’s just like me.
Negan looks like he wants to say something. Like he needs to. His lips move soundlessly, his eyes pinched, his hips twitching as though trying not to fuck Rick right through the mattress.
He needs permission.
Still dazed, but with no regrets, Rick husks, “Inside me, Negan. Please.”
Negan makes a noise deep in his throat like he’s dying. He shudders, breathes deep. Closes his eyes briefly, opens them, searches Rick for something…
Then he hauls back. Fastens his hands to Rick’s hips. Starts fucking him like he’s running a marathon.
It’s so opposite what they shared earlier with the slow tenderness that it almost sobers Rick. He chokes on air, cries out on the second thrust in that strikes that perfect spot and has him cracking in spiderweb patterns. Sensitivity lights his nerves on fire, but there’s a deep-seated, pleasing ache that feels even better. A bruise Negan is leaving inside, a reminder of what this is. What has been.
What could be.
A bruise, yes, but there’s no anger in Negan’s eyes, no hatred. Only a plea, a prayer, as he unleashes ferociously onto Rick in the only way he seems to know how. Rick wails and clutches him, clenches, forces his eyes open into a squint so he can watch the other man fall apart above him. In him. For him.
Negan looks at him like Rick is his savior. There’s no doubt in Rick’s mind what that means.
So he arches up. Continues begging for it, scrabbling at him, fastening himself to Negan. Every muscle works to draw him in deeper. Negan looks so, so lost, and yet like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
Rick feels like he’s meeting an old side of Negan, untouched for years, untainted by the apocalypse.
He draws Negan down, panting into his ear, rasping his name. Negan groans, shudders, and spills into him. Rick keeps him close. Negan’s skin sears him where they touch. He holds him tight, as close as possible, raggedly murmuring how good Negan feels inside him, how deliciously wet he is. Words he’ll be embarrassed to look back on later, whilst Negan recalls it with a vicious yet tender glee.
For now, though, it’s just this. A connection they’ve both craved. One Rick can’t imagine losing.
Negan is barely conscious, still wrapped around him, when Rick whispers, “Stay.”
Nuzzling his throat, Negan mumbles, “Always.”