Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Sanctuary never slept, but it sulked in the heat.

Night should have brought reprieve, but the sky had locked itself into a furnace, stars smothered under a blanket of damp haze, the air thick enough to choke on. The generators hummed, restless and metallic, as if the whole place were sweating. Down below, the echo of boots scuffed the concrete, the occasional murmur of voices kept to whispers—no one wanted to waste breath.

Negan lay sprawled on the mattress in his quarters, sheets twisted like restraints around his legs, bare chest gleaming with a sheen of sweat. The fan overhead did nothing but push the hot air around, as lazy and useless as the men who claimed they could fix it. He’d threatened them earlier, voice sharp as a whip, but even he knew there was no fixing the weather.

Heat made everything itch. His skin, his patience, the edges of his mind.

Negan ran a hand through damp black hair, pulled in a fistful, let go. He turned his head, stared at the ceiling. Shadows swam and shifted like they might crawl down and smother him. Every sound was amplified—the drip of condensation from the pipes, the metallic creak of the ceiling fan, the thump of his own pulse against his temple.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

Instead came him.

Rick.

Always Rick.

Frost-blue eyes that could pierce through smoke, blood, lies, through Negan himself. Raven curls damp against his forehead, lips drawn tight until they weren’t—until they parted just enough to bare his teeth like an animal that couldn’t decide whether to bite or kiss.

Negan swallowed, throat thick. He rolled onto his side, pressing his palm to his mouth, stifling a sound that threatened to crawl up from deep in his chest. A laugh, or a groan, or something worse.

Because it never stayed clean in his head, never stayed simple. It was never just Rick’s face. It was Rick’s face looming over him, boot at his throat, pistol at his temple. Rick’s breath at his ear, whispering a sentence that could end him, or start something else entirely.

Negan’s hand slid down his chest.

The heat was unbearable, like his body wanted to combust. He shoved the sheet aside and lay bare, cock heavy, swollen against his thigh, sweat slicking the curve of it before his hand even closed. His breath hitched when it did, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, the word catching at the back of his teeth.

It wasn’t supposed to be this. Rick was supposed to be his enemy, his mirror across the battlefield, the one man who could keep up with him. Negan had spent a lifetime mastering men, bending them, breaking them. Yet Rick—broken as he was—had teeth that still sank back into Negan’s skin.

Negan stroked himself, rough, not gentle. Heat and sweat made it easy, hand sliding wet along the length of him. He pictured those eyes again—icy blue, narrowed, searing—and his hand squeezed tighter, punishing.

He imagined Rick straddling him, pressing him down into the mattress, curls dripping sweat onto Negan’s throat. Those lips—Goddamn lips—pressed close enough to kiss, or to rip him open. Negan could almost feel the phantom weight of teeth on his jugular.

The thought made him groan. Low, guttural. He stroked faster, hips jerking up into his fist, cock slick now with a mix of sweat and precome. Every slide dragged sparks through his nerves, as if pain and pleasure were tangled into one knot.

Negan’s head rolled back against the pillow, throat bared to the ceiling. His mind twisted the fantasies tighter, darker. Rick with his hands around Negan’s neck. Rick with his mouth against his ear, whispering filth in that low Southern growl, promising to end him, promising to take him apart piece by piece.

Negan’s cock throbbed at the thought, slick spilling over his fist.

He tried to slow down, to breathe, but it only made it worse. His mind doubled back, showing him flashes he couldn’t stop. Rick pinning him, Rick fucking him, Rick splitting him open with the same fury he wielded on the battlefield. Rick kissing him so hard it felt like dying. Rick killing him so soft it felt like love.

Negan’s hips bucked, hand dragging faster, grip iron tight. His breath tore ragged through the hot air, filling the room with sharp sound.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Negan hissed into the emptiness, voice cracking rough. “Blue-eyed bastard. You’d fucking—” His jaw snapped shut around the rest, words strangled into a growl.

The heat pressed in, suffocating. The room blurred. All that was left was the slick slide of his fist, the ache coiled low in his gut, the phantom weight of Rick’s body above him.

Negan’s muscles seized, back arching off the mattress, and he came with a hoarse, strangled sound that filled the dark. Hot release spilled over his stomach, his fist, his thighs. Sticky, wet, a mess spreading across sweat-slicked skin.

For a moment there was only the echo of it—the hum of the generator, the fan’s useless creak, his own ragged panting.

He lay there, cock softening in his messy grip, chest heaving. The ceiling didn’t look any different, but it felt like it watched him. Judged him.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away, strings of come clinging to his knuckles. He wiped it absently across the sheet, leaving a stain that would remind him later, when the heat hadn’t broken and sleep still wouldn’t come.

But the worst part wasn’t the mess.

The worst part was the silence after, when he could still feel Rick’s ghost in the room. When the ache in his chest was sharper than the one between his legs.

He turned onto his side, curling in against the heat, against the emptiness. The sheets stuck to him, damp, reeking of sweat and sex. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter. Rick was there either way.

Rick, with those frost-blue eyes.
Rick, with lips that could kiss or tear.
Rick, with a hand that could choke the life out of him—or keep him tethered to it.

Negan let the ghost stay.

Because in the end, he didn’t have a choice.

Chapter Text

The air burned.

Heat clung to the Sanctuary like a punishment, the walls sweating, the ground shimmering under the swollen weight of a late summer sun. Negan stepped out into it with his lieutenants flanking him, boots scuffing gravel, the stink of gun oil sharp in his nose. Dwight. Simon. Gavin. Regina. They followed, brittle with tension, each one caught between bravado and the itch of fear.

Rick was waiting.

A convoy of cars lined up outside, bristling with barrels and men, Maggie and Ezekiel shadowing him like saints at his shoulder. The coalition. The militia. Whatever the fuck they wanted to call themselves, they’d gathered their broken toys and brought them here to his gates.

And there he was—Rick Grimes.

Blue eyes narrowed against the glare, sweat dampening the curls plastered to his forehead. He stood like he always stood, wounded but upright, a man who’d been carved down to nothing but sinew and stubborn fire. Even at this distance, Negan could feel the gravity of him, the charge.

Negan let the smirk slide into place, swagger in his stride even as his heart beat hard enough to crack a rib.

“Well, shit,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “I’m sorry. I was in a meeting.” His voice rolled over the gravel like thunder, the casual drawl coating the tension. “I see you got your little mudflaps with you. So I’m not exactly feelin’ a reason for us to try throwin’ lead at each other. I care about my people. I don’t want to just march them into the line of fire because I want to play ‘my dick is bigger than yours.’ It is. We both know it. But I’m also comfortable enough to accept the fact if it wasn’t. I’m certainly not gonna let my people die over that shit... like you’re about to. So, Rick, what the hell can I do for you?”

Rick’s voice carried, low and hard: “No. I know who you are. Listen, you five.” His eyes didn’t leave Negan, not once, but his words knifed sideways to the lieutenants. “The Saviors inside. All of you have a chance to survive here. To survive this. You all can live if you surrender. Can’t guarantee it any time but now. Right now.”

Negan tilted his head, grinning, but inside—Goddamn—he wanted to take that voice, that tone, and drag it over his skin until he bled. The authority, the fury, the promise underneath every syllable: I’ll break you. I’ll fuck you. I’ll kill you. It didn’t matter which, Negan wanted them all.

“So they surrender,” Negan echoed, theatrically casual, “and you and your little piss patrol don’t kill them. That sounds like a good deal! What about me, Rick?”

His heart clenched around the question. It slipped out filthier than he meant, dripping with a hunger he couldn’t bury. Say it. Say my name again. Tell me what you’ll do to me.

Rick’s answer was a blade to the gut: “I told you. Twice. You know what’s going to happen.”

Negan’s cock twitched in his pants.

The heat, the sweat, the eyes of everyone around them—none of it mattered. All he could hear was that voice, rough as gravel, intimate as breath against his throat. I’m gonna kill you. It was the closest thing to love he’d ever been given.

The air tightened. The question wasn’t really about survival or victory. It was the tremor in his own need, the almost shameful awareness that his cock was straining even as his leg flexed under the sun, that the ache between them—between him and Rick—had nothing to do with mercy or hatred.

“I do,” Negan admitted, still smiling, though his jaw was tight. “I do know what’s gonna happen. You don’t. You have no idea the shit that’s about to go down. Let me ask you something, Rick—do you think you have the numbers for this fight? You don’t.”

Rick’s face hardened, jaw flexing, a muscle ticking. Then: “You’re gonna make me count.”

He chuckled, cruel. “Okay. Okay. I’m counting.” His voice rang out across the yard, steady, merciless. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven.”

A gun cocked.

Gunfire erupted.

Chaos swallowed the air.

Lieutenants scattered like roaches under floodlight, boots pounding back toward the steel doors. Bullets tore into the Sanctuary’s walls, windows shattering, ricochets screaming off concrete. Walkers in the distance wailed, drawn like moths to the sound.

Negan moved, but not fast enough. Pain tore through his leg—Rick’s bullet, clean and merciless. He went down hard, gravel biting into his palms, his breath yanked out in a hiss. He dragged himself behind a sheet of corrugated metal, back slamming against it as the storm of gunfire continued.

And through it all, Rick.

Rick advancing, gun spitting fire, eyes locked on him with that frost-blue fury. Rick shooting not to wound but to end, every round hammering into the metal that shielded Negan, sparks and shrieks flying with each impact.

Negan’s cock swelled, throbbing in the prison of his jeans.

It was unbearable—the violence, the focus, the intimacy of it. Rick wasn’t just shooting at him. He was aiming only at him, every bullet a declaration, every shot a confession. Negan’s breath tore ragged from his lungs, sweat pouring, cock straining against denim.

He pressed harder into the metal, feeling the vibration of each impact tremor through his spine, into his hips, into the thick ache between his legs. His hand clawed at his thigh, not daring to free himself, but grinding, pressing, chasing the friction like an animal.

Rick shouted something—Negan couldn’t hear it over the roar of blood in his ears, but he didn’t need to. He knew it was for him.

Negan’s hips jerked. The damp heat in his pants spread, precome slicking him, wetting fabric, every movement agony and bliss. He bit down hard on his lip, copper tang flooding his mouth, eyes rolling back.

Negan’s chest shuddered. His cock hardened in protest, jeans tight over the rising heat. He pressed a hand over the denim, but the friction was too sharp, too consuming. He was alive in a way that went beyond the fight, the bullets, the screaming. Rick’s intent was a living thing, reaching out, claiming him.

Bullets screamed. Rick snarled. The world narrowed to that single line between them—predator and prey, mirror and mirror, hunter and hunted.

Negan came untouched.

It ripped out of him sudden, savage, his cock spilling hot and wet into his jeans, soaking the fabric, his thighs, his hand pressed uselessly over the mess. His whole body seized, back arching against the metal, a strangled laugh-groan tearing from his throat.

He sagged down, trembling, cock still twitching against the ruin of his pants. The smell of cordite and sex tangled in the suffocating air, sticky and obscene.

Gunfire slowed. Voices barked. Somewhere, Gabriel was dragging Rick back, shouting about the plan. Negan barely registered it. His chest heaved, sweat and come slicking him, pain burning in his leg.

And then—one more sound.

The click-whirr of a camera.

Negan lifted his head just enough to see Rick framed in the chaos, instant camera in hand, snapping his picture. A trophy. Proof. A claim.

Negan’s laugh came cracked and broken, low in his chest. He pressed his head back against the metal, eyes sliding shut, cock softening sticky in his ruined jeans.

Even bleeding, even shaking, even covered in his own mess—he’d never felt more owned.

Rick had left his mark without even touching him.

Chapter Text

The wreckage groaned around him. Metal bent and creaked in the heat, the husk of some old car catching the late sun until it burned red as if fresh from a forge. Negan lay half-slumped against the twisted frame, sweat pooling at the base of his spine, the sting in his leg spreading sharp with every pulse of his heart.

Blood seeped hot through torn denim, already clotting into something tacky, something that bound him to the ruin beneath him. He looked at the mess—his mess—and exhaled a low laugh that cracked dry in his throat.

Christ.

It wasn’t the first time pain had felt like a lover’s mouth on him. Sharp. Demanding. Claiming. But this—this was different. The leg throbbed steady, a beat he couldn’t separate from the lingering afterglow in his cock. His hand still smelled faintly of himself, of slick, of what he’d wrung out in the dark before the walls gave in. Now the air reeked of oil and rust and blood, but the memory clung, and with it came him.

Rick.

The bastard had carved himself into Negan’s mind with all the precision of a knife pressed into woodgrain. Those frost-blue eyes, catching light like ice splintering across a river. That hair, dark curls matted with sweat and dirt, a prophet’s crown or a martyr’s. A mouth that could kiss the hollow of his throat—or tear it out with his teeth.

Negan pressed his palm down harder against the wound. Pain flared, vivid, and his breath stuttered out in something like laughter, something like a groan. His hips shifted against the metal, scraping his back raw, and all at once the throb in his leg wasn’t separate from the pulse between his thighs. It was the same rhythm, same hunger. Violence and desire braided tight.

He thought of Rick’s hands. Callused, scarred. Hands that had gripped a Colt with biblical certainty, that had strangled, struck, dragged. Hands that had pulled a child close, once. Negan had watched him with Judith, the careful way he’d cradled her, and thought—there’s mercy in him still. He’d watched him slit a man’s throat the next day and thought—no, there isn’t.

And somewhere between those two truths, Negan had fallen.

His vision swam. Too much blood lost, too fast, or maybe just the goddamn heatwave still pressing down like judgment. Sweat slicked his chest, caught in the hair there, ran in crooked lines across his ribs. His cock twitched heavy against the denim, half-hard again, ridiculous in the wreckage. He let his head fall back against the metal, eyes closing against the glare, and let himself picture it.

Rick standing over him.

Rick with his gun aimed steady, lips drawn taut, that sheriff’s face all carved out of stone. The kind of face you could beg against, bruise against. Negan imagined him pulling the trigger, imagined the bullet cracking bone, spraying what little blood he had left across the gravel.

And God help him—he came closer to shuddering from that thought than from his own hand minutes ago.

Negan shifted, bit back a grunt as the wound screamed, and laughed low through his teeth. A broken, dark sound.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew death wasn’t clean. He’d seen too many faces slacken into nothing, too many corpses piss themselves in the dirt. But in his head, when it was Rick, death became something else. Something fevered, ecstatic, almost holy.

He thought about Rick bending close instead of pulling away. About those frost-blue eyes softening, a hand pressed flat over Negan’s throat not to kill, but to feel. To measure how close he was to ending. About Rick’s mouth at his ear, whispering scripture or filth—Negan didn’t know which it would be, didn’t care. Both burned. Both scarred.

The heat pressed down. His blood steamed against the wreckage, the scent iron-rich, salt-metal and life leaking out of him. He pressed his palm harder still, smearing red across his fingers, and thought how easy it would be for Rick to kneel here, to cup his hand over Negan’s, to decide in a breath whether to let the blood slow…or let it flow.

That was what turned him on, what kept him restless in the night until he broke his own skin just to feel something—not knowing which Rick he’d get. The executioner or the father. The savior or the ghost.

Negan’s hips shifted again, denim dragging raw over him, cock swelling despite the grit, despite the pain. He pressed back into it. Grunted. Let the pain crest and ride him the way a man might ride a fever, knowing it burned but wanting it deeper.

A crow called somewhere distant. The sound cracked the silence like a whip. Negan opened his eyes, found the sky above painted a raw, merciless red. The world felt emptied out, gutted, nothing left but heat and ruin and blood—and him, still breathing, still wanting.

Rick’s face filled his mind again.

Negan smiled, bitter as salt on a wound. “You’d like this, wouldn’t you?” he rasped to the wreckage, to the ghost he couldn’t shake. “Me laid out, bleeding, half-hard, half-dead. You’d stand there with that look—like you can’t decide whether to put me down or put me under you.”

His voice broke low, nearly a growl.

“Fuck, Rick. You’d do both.”

And the thought of it—that violence, that mercy tangled together—dragged him over the edge once more, pain and lust fused, body trembling in the ruin, leg bleeding out beneath the furnace sky.

Chapter Text

Night pressed down over Alexandria like a heavy, damp cloth, and the heatwave had no intention of letting go. Every breath felt thick with the residue of the day’s sun, every movement sluggish, weighed with sweat and dust. Rick sat on the edge of the crumbling lookout wall, knees drawn up, boots crusted with gravel and dried blood. Beside him, the instant camera lay like a cold, silent witness, its click still echoing faintly in his ears. He held the photo of Negan between rough fingers, tracing the blurred edges of that bloodied, defiant smirk as though it were some dangerous charm he could not resist.

Rick’s chest tightened. He thought about the bullets, about the way Negan had pressed against the corrugated metal, twisting, cursing, breathing—always breathing, always alive. He replayed it again and again: the way the man had shifted under fire, the tautness of muscle beneath sweat and grime, the way he had laughed even as the world screamed around him. He didn’t know, couldn’t know, what had passed through Negan’s body after the bullets, what thoughts had crossed his mind, what he had felt. That uncertainty burned with the heat of anticipation, sending pulses through Rick he refused to name.

Guilt rose up, heavy and sharp. Abraham. Glenn. Their faces burned like embers behind his closed eyes, reminders of what was owed, what had been stolen, what he should demand with cold precision. He was supposed to hate Negan, to want him dead, to avenge them both. And yet… and yet there had been something else, unnameable, a tug in his chest, a pull in his gut that went beyond morality or justice, beyond fear or hate.

Rick thought of Negan’s voice, harsh and rough, rasping over the clamor, threading menace and something almost intimate between the words. He remembered the curl of that smirk, the glint in the eyes even when bullets tore through the space between them, and imagined—he could not help himself—the warmth, the press of that body, the scrape of stubble against imagined skin, lips moving in a way that might claim him without ever touching. He had never been near that closeness, had never felt it, had never known what Negan could be in private or unguarded. That gap—the unknown, the possibility—twisted inside him like smoke, hot and suffocating, teasing and impossible.

He traced the photo with trembling fingers, imagining the slick of sweat on Negan’s skin, the tension of muscles, the subtle shiver of exertion, the tremor of breath. His own body betrayed him, coiling tight in denial, pulse beating through his thighs, cock pressing against denim that felt suddenly too heavy. He reminded himself of duty, of vengeance, of the ghosts of his friends. He reminded himself he could not, must not, give in to the pull of this fascination. And yet, the heat pressed harder, demanding to be noticed, impossible to ignore.

The voyeurism—the act of observing, imagining, filling the gaps of the unknown—burned like a private fire. Every imagined twitch, every shiver, every silent gasp became a secret theatre where he alone watched. Memory and desire tangled, inseparable, a river of thought and pulse flooding the same channel, and he could not pull them apart. He could not stop the ache that pressed low in his gut, a reminder of the impossible, unclaimed intimacy he had never experienced, could not yet have, and might never dare pursue.

The photograph felt impossibly heavy, weighted not by paper but by what it suggested: Negan alive, defiant, vulnerable in ways no one else had the right to see. Rick traced the edges, fingertips brushing against imagined contours of muscle, imagining the heat, the slickness, the tremor beneath skin he had never touched. He didn’t know what had truly passed through Negan’s body, had never touched him, never kissed him, never been in that space—and the very impossibility made it more potent, more dangerous, more consuming.

Rick’s chest ached with contradiction. The man who had killed his friends, who had terrorized his people, who had mocked him, who had pushed him to the edge—this same man had ignited in Rick a memory of potential intimacy, a pull toward the forbidden, unclaimed, and imagined. He lowered the photograph to his lap, fingertips lingering, brushing over lines that might have been the press of muscle, the curve of neck, the slick of sweat, the tremor of anticipation. The ache was real. The pulse between his legs was real. The craving to watch, to witness, to be near without permission, without presence, burned in him like fire.

Outside, the night was thick, heavy, still. Cicadas droned endlessly, the faint trickle of a fountain somewhere cutting through the air. Rick opened his eyes slowly, sweeping the courtyard, imagining Negan somewhere inside the Sanctuary, alone, thinking, maybe replaying the count, the fire, the bullets. Perhaps imagining him, perhaps alone with himself, twitching in secret, pressing, adjusting, lost in thoughts Rick could only conjecture. The thought made his stomach knot tighter, made cock harden in denial, slick with anticipation he refused to name.

The line between duty and desire frayed, blurred at the edges, until Rick could scarcely tell which was which. He touched the photograph again, brushing against the imagined wetness, the tremor beneath muscle, the curve of jaw, the slick sheen of sweat, the tiny spark of arousal that might have passed unseen. He told himself it was impossible, that he could not be turned on by a man he had never touched, a man who might never respond to such a thought. And yet, the ache between his thighs, the tension in his gut, the heat climbing his chest, said otherwise.

He lingered on the photo, replaying the night in his mind, filling the unknown with imagination, with anticipation, with assumption. Every imagined twitch, every shiver he could conjure, every silent gasp, every clench of muscle became a secret theatre where he alone watched, a performance in which only he had entry. It was intoxicating. It was unbearable. And it was forbidden.

Rick swallowed hard, chest tight, fingers pressing again to the edges of the photograph as though he could feel what had not happened, what might have happened, what could only exist in imagination. The voyeurism—the act of imagining, of claiming with his eyes, of tracing without touch—was a thrill he refused to admit, even as it left him trembling.

He imagined Negan in the dark, replaying the count, the impact, the heat, the presence of Rick’s gaze. He imagined him twitching, alone, perhaps thinking of the bullets, perhaps thinking of him. The possibility alone was enough to make Rick’s pulse spike, to make his thighs clench in denial, to make every nerve ending alive with lust and restraint. He would not name it. He would not surrender to it. And yet, it consumed him.

Rick closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall, the heat of the night pressing into him, sweat sticking to his skin, boots scuffing the gravel beneath him. He felt the edges of himself fray, between revenge and longing, between hate and desire, between morality and want. The photograph rested on his lap, heavy, weighted with everything he could not see, everything he could only imagine, everything that burned in him without permission.

Chapter Text

Negan shifted against the cold concrete floor, the warehouse around him smelling of rust, rot, and the sharp tang of iron. His leg throbbed with a slow, burning ache, the bullet wound Rick had left still raw and angry beneath the makeshift bandage. Blood seeped through his fingers when he pulled at the cloth, slick and wet, warm and metallic against his skin. He tasted it reflexively, the copper biting at his tongue, and a low, guttural groan escaped him.

He closed his eyes and let the memory come unbidden. Rick, standing over him, gun smoking, eyes hard and unflinching. He had aimed with precision, no mercy, no hesitation. And somehow, here he was—bleeding, but alive. The thought made his cock twitch in the dark, slick with the mingling of arousal and blood.

Negan pressed the cloth harder against the wound, tasting the salt on his lips. His fingers slick with his own blood traced over the tear in his flesh, dipping into the wet warmth and bringing it to his mouth. The pain was sharp, punishing, but it mixed with a strange, twisted heat that made him shiver. He imagined Rick kneeling beside him, hands firm and exacting, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, and the image made him ache in ways that had nothing to do with mercy.

He slipped a finger into the wound, tasting the iron again, letting it linger, letting the sting pulse into his veins. His cock was wet, hard, slick against the ache of his leg, and every beat of pain was like a rhythm calling him closer to the edge. Shadows stretched across the concrete walls, twisting around him, but all he could see was Rick—smoking gun in hand, calm, deadly, inevitable.

Negan’s fingers went slick with his own blood, tracing the edge of the wound, and he groaned softly, dipping them into his mouth. The taste was sharp, metallic, alive. He imagined Rick pressing closer, mouth brushing over the bite of the cloth, tasting the same copper, the same heat. Every pulse of pain, every twitch of his body, became a conversation between the wound and the fantasy.

He slid his pants down just enough to expose himself, cock slick and wet, aching in time with the burn in his leg. His fingers explored, smeared the blood along his shaft, dragging the sting and warmth together into a slow, grinding tension. He imagined Rick’s hands instead of his own, pushing into him with precision, thumbs pressing against the rawness, mouth tasting, teeth grazing.

The fantasy shifted easily in the dark. Rick was methodical, deliberate, kneeling over him, gun resting at the edge of his side, almost forgotten as he explored the wet, warm heat of Negan’s blood, the slick touch of cock and fingers. Every pulse, every groan, was mirrored in that imagined mouth—sucking, tasting, claiming without mercy. The warehouse’s shadows seemed to pulse along with him, the cold floor and concrete walls a stark contrast to the heat spreading through his body.

Negan pressed his palm against the wound, feeling the sting sharpen and the warmth spread. He imagined Rick biting at his shoulder, pulling at him, tasting the pain and blood simultaneously. The fantasy bent reality into something jagged and sharp, something that made his muscles tense, his cock slick with his own wetness, and every exhale a moan half from pain, half from need.

His fingers traced over the edge of the bandage again, pulling free streaks of blood and bringing them to his mouth, tasting the copper and imagining Rick moaning low at the same. The thought twisted him, made him shiver, made him rock his hips against the cold floor, wet and slick and desperate.

Negan’s eyes were shut tight, body slick with sweat and blood, and in the shadows he felt Rick there—leaning over, gun resting near, hand on his chest for balance as he tasted, explored, pushed and pulled. Every imagined movement was measured, relentless, leaving bruises in the mind, heat on the body. Negan whimpered, slick fingers sliding along his cock, dragging the copper taste into the ache.

He imagined Rick’s lips closing over his fingers, sucking hard, wet and hot, tasting the iron and the burn. The fantasy didn’t linger on tenderness; it was precise, dark, thrilling in its danger. Every beat of pain in the leg, every slick, wet touch of blood and cock, drove him further, groaning as the tension spiraled, raw and electric.

Negan pressed himself into the dark, feeling the pulse of his own blood and the heat of imagined hands and mouth, slick fingers tracing wet paths down his cock, the burn in his leg intensifying, feeding the rhythm. The gunshot, the pain, the slick taste—all of it merged into one raw, uncompromising sensation.

He gasped when the fantasy brought Rick closer, pressing the barrel of the gun near, teeth grazing, lips sucking, taking the copper from his fingers. Wetness and iron, slick cock and hot blood, melded into an unbearable ache. Every groan, every twitch, every shiver was fed back into the fantasy, thickening the heat, making his body slick, tight, and trembling.

The warehouse faded almost completely. Shadows became fingers, slick and wet. Blood became liquid fire along his skin and cock. Pain and lust mingled seamlessly, his leg throbbing in time with the ache in his body, and Negan let himself ride the edge, trembling, slick, slick with his own heat and blood.

Finally, exhausted, trembling, and drenched in his own iron-sweet sweat and blood, he sank back fully against the cold concrete. Cock still slick and wet, fingers sticky with copper, the wound throbbed, raw and alive. The warehouse was silent, save for the drip of blood and the echo of his own ragged breaths.

Rick’s face lingered in the shadows, sharp, precise, lethal. Negan didn’t need him there—he didn’t need him to touch him, just to mark the memory, leave the wound, leave the ache, and let him taste it, live it, revel in it.

He sucked his fingers once more, tasting the iron, tasting the slick wetness of his own body, tasting the fantasy that had made him tremble and groan in the dark. Blood, pain, cock, heat—they were all tangled now, inseparable, perfect in their dark, horrifying way.

Negan shivered, letting the last of the tremors pass, whispering into the dark, “Rick… always you,” tasting the words on his bloodied tongue, slick and wet with copper and desire.

Chapter Text

Night hung over Alexandria like a dense, wet blanket, heavy with the smell of dust, sweat, and smoke from the day’s fires. The heatwave hadn’t broken, and even inside the safehouse, the air was thick, clinging to Rick’s skin, making every breath taste sharp and metallic. He leaned back in the creaking chair by the table, half-empty bottle of whiskey in hand, the glass sweating in the humid darkness. Every swallow burned like fire sliding down his throat, loosening muscles and thought alike, leaving behind a warm, dangerous haze.

His eyes drifted toward the walkie-talkie sitting on the table, black and silent, a lifeline and a threat all in one. The memory of Negan’s face, that twisted, defiant smirk framed by sweat and blood, haunted him more than it should. The man he had shot in cold calculation, the man who’d bled beneath the sun and yet survived, was alive somewhere, probably cursing, probably thinking, probably waiting. And Rick couldn’t stop thinking about him either.

The whiskey slid deeper into his blood, warming his chest, and with it came the pull he’d been trying to ignore. Hate, duty, revenge—they were all tangled, knotted together with something else, something sharp and dangerous that made his pulse thrum in his thighs. The memory of Negan’s body twisting under the shot, the way he had glared at him, teeth gritted, cocky even in pain, stayed in Rick’s mind, coiling heat low and insistent.

Rick drained the glass, the burn crawling down his throat and settling hot in his stomach. He rested his forehead on the table, fingers curling around the walkie-talkie. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He imagined pressing the button, heard Negan’s voice in his head, felt the weight of the man’s stare even though he was miles away, and his hand trembled.

“Don’t,” he whispered to himself, but the word tasted like ash.

And yet, he pressed the button.

“Negan,” he said, voice low, roughened by whiskey and heat, almost a growl, almost a demand.

Static hissed back, and then, slow and deliberate, that unmistakable voice cut through the interference.

“Well, well, Rick,” Negan drawled, smirk apparent even across the crackle. “Ain’t this a surprise? Can’t get enough of my voice, huh?”

Rick’s chest tightened. He set the bottle down, leaning forward, gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles went white. “You think you’re funny,” he said, though his voice was far from steady. “I should be watching you bleed right now.”

“Oh, you shot me, didn’t you?” Negan’s tone was teasing, dangerous, velvet-coated menace. “Right through the leg. Damn near made me dance for it.” There was a pause, a slow, deliberate inhale. “And now you’re talking to me… alone… at night.”

Rick’s pulse spiked. He could feel it in his jaw, in the tight coil of his thighs, in the heat pooling low. Every nerve in his body buzzed with awareness, the dangerous intimacy of hearing that voice without the barrier of skin and distance, but feeling it stretch across space and static like a wire that could shock him at any second.

“You survived,” Rick said finally, keeping his tone clipped, but there was an edge that betrayed him. “I made sure.”

“Mmm,” Negan hummed, slow, teasing. “You made sure… and yet, here I am. Alive. Thinking about it. Thinking about you.” His words sent a shiver down Rick’s spine, low and urgent, the undertone of threat and desire curling together in a tight, dangerous spiral.

Rick swallowed, finger brushing the walkie-talkie button again, the heat of it burning through the plastic, anchoring him to the temptation. “You think you’re going to toy with me over this?” he asked, voice low, ragged with a kind of tension he hadn’t let himself acknowledge before.

“Oh, I ain’t just thinking,” Negan said. “I am toying. You’ve got your whiskey, your guilt, your… what is it?” He chuckled, low, teasing. “The way you can’t stop thinking about me, even when you should hate me? That’s what I’m toying with.”

Rick’s hand flexed on the table, pressing down so hard he could feel the bones strain under his fingers. The room felt smaller, the shadows pressing closer, and his chest throbbed with a mix of arousal, anger, and the sharp sting of something he couldn’t name. Every thought of Negan’s body twisting under the bullet, the heat of his sweat, the defiance in his eyes, came unbidden, and it ignited something low and dangerous in him.

“Don’t,” Rick said again, sharper this time. “I’m not… I’m not—”

“Not what?” Negan cut in, smooth, dangerous. “Not curious? Not turned on by the idea that I survived because of you? Or maybe despite you?”

Rick’s throat went dry. His pulse throbbed in his ears, heat crawling down his spine, across his thighs. He pressed the button again, voice tighter, lower. “I—don’t want this. I’m… I’m supposed to hate you.”

“And you do,” Negan said softly, but there was steel beneath it. “You hate me enough to watch me bleed, enough to want to mark me, enough to… fantasize, maybe?” There was a pause, a slow, deliberate inflection. “You imagine me bleeding for you. You imagine what it’d be like if I were here, right now, letting you close the gap between… between hate and something else.”

Rick’s fingers tightened on the walkie-talkie, the static buzzing in his ears, pressing into him like a pulse. The idea was… terrifying. And thrilling. And utterly wrong. “You think I’m imagining things?” he said, voice raw. “You think I want… that?”

Negan laughed, low and hot, a sound that twisted through Rick’s chest and down into the pool of heat he couldn’t name. “Oh, I know you want it. I know the pulse, the tension, the way your body betrays you with every thought of me. You’re sitting there, alone, thinking about me, thinking about the sting of my blood, the weight of me under your hands… thinking about what you’d do if you were close enough.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. His cock throbbed beneath his jeans, heat pressing against the denial he forced down with every ragged swallow of whiskey. He couldn’t—he shouldn’t—let himself go there. And yet, Negan’s voice slithered into him, a predator in velvet, coaxing, dangerous.

“You don’t know me,” Rick said, low, almost a growl. “You don’t get to—”

“Get to what?” Negan purred, dark and sharp. “Get to make you ache for me? Get to make you question if hate is the only thing that’s left? Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t. Doesn’t matter. You feel it. And you know it. Admit it, Rick.”

Rick swallowed hard, chest tight, heat coiling low. He leaned back, letting his head drop against the chair, eyes closing. “I… I feel it,” he admitted finally, voice rough, almost choked, the truth dangerous and raw. “I feel… something. Something I can’t—shouldn’t.”

“Mmm,” Negan said, slow, deliberate. “There it is. That’s the sound of a man acknowledging he’s alive… and maybe he’s alive because of me, or despite me, but either way, he’s trembling and thinking of me. Thinking of what I did to him… and what I could do next. Dangerous, huh?”

Rick’s grip on the walkie-talkie tightened. “You think this is a game?” he said, voice low and sharp. “I’m not… I’m not some kid you can toy with.”

“I know that,” Negan whispered, venom and velvet mixing. “That’s why it’s fun. You’re the one standing there, in the middle of all the fire and death, holding the button, wondering if you should call me… and now you have. And you did. And here we are. Both dangerous, both alive, both… aware.”

Rick’s head fell back against the chair, pulse hammering in his ears, heart thudding low and tight. The fantasy and the danger collided, the memory of him shooting Negan, the weight of the gun, the heat of the leg, all pressing against him. The tension was unbearable, sharp, like a knife tracing along nerves that wouldn’t let go.

“Stop,” Rick whispered, almost to himself. “Stop… before this goes too far.”

Negan chuckled, a slow, dangerous sound. “Or maybe it should go too far. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe this is what war feels like when it isn’t just bullets flying, when it’s not just survival, when it’s… something else. Something darker.”

Rick’s pulse stuttered. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the table, the bottle of whiskey rolling slightly beneath his fingers. The ache in his chest, the heat low and pressing between his thighs, the dangerous pull of Negan’s voice—it was intoxicating, terrifying, thrilling. And he didn’t want it to stop.

For a long moment, silence fell over the line, broken only by the faint hum of static and the distant night sounds of Alexandria. Rick’s hand trembled slightly, the whiskey and the tension coiling tight. Finally, he pressed the button again, voice low, breathy.

“Negan…”

“Yeah, Rick?” The answer was smooth, velvet and threat, dangerous and deliberate.

Rick swallowed hard. “Don’t… don’t think I’m letting you win. I’m… I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking,” Negan echoed, slow, deliberate. “About what? About how to get revenge? Or about how much you’d want me to be here, pressing against you, tasting the heat of what you’ve made me?”

Rick’s chest tightened, eyes closed, pulse hammering, and he didn’t answer. Silence stretched, heavy and dangerous, then Negan’s voice, low and teasing: “I like it when you can’t answer. That’s when I know you feel it.”

The line went quiet again, and Rick let the button go. His chest heaved. He let the heat settle, though the tension remained, thick and dangerous. Every nerve in his body still thrummed, every memory of blood, bullets, and defiance danced in the shadows. The pull between them—hate and desire, danger and obsession—was real, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

He poured another shot of whiskey, watching it glint in the dim light, and whispered under his breath, “Damn you, Negan… and damn me too.”

Outside, the night pressed on, heavy and silent, while inside, Rick’s pulse kept time with a dangerous, forbidden, unnameable desire.

Chapter Text

The night had a taste of iron, acrid smoke rolling through the barn like it owned the space. Rain drummed on the tin roof in erratic bursts, each drop echoing against the wooden beams, vibrating through Negan’s chest. His leg throbbed, a hot, stabbing ache where Rick’s bullet had torn through muscle and sinew, but adrenaline made him numb and sharp at the same time. He limped forward, dragging Lucille in his hand, its leather-wrapped handle slick with sweat. The wood felt familiar and heavy, a comfort in the chaos.

His breaths were ragged, lungs burning from the sprint across the muddy courtyard, bullets whistling too close behind him. He could hear the crash of barricades outside, the distant roar of his men and Rick’s — the war, the fire, the hunger for survival all colliding like knives in the dark. And through it, one thought burned hotter than anything else: Rick. That bastard, that flawless, infuriating bastard who had left him alive with a hole in his leg.

Negan pressed himself against the shadowed wall, spine against splintered wood, and let his eyes adjust to the moonlight. Every plank and nail, every drop of rain on the roof, was a part of this chase, this hunt, this violent dance. His fingers brushed over Lucille, tracing the grip, imagining the power he could wield with it, imagining Rick’s chest beneath it if only he dared. But he didn’t dare — not yet. Not when his body was slick with sweat, his wound throbbing, every movement dragging pain across his nerves.

A scrape of boots across the wet hay caught his attention. His pulse spiked. That sound. That rhythm. That dangerous, commanding heartbeat of a man who could end him in a heartbeat, and yet… he wanted him here. He wanted the chase, the thrill of being cornered, of being hunted by someone who could kill him and probably should. His mouth went dry, the copper tang of old blood from his leg clinging to his tongue as he licked his lips.

“Negan.” The voice cut through the chaos, low, dangerous, ragged with exhaustion and fury. “You think you can keep running?”

Negan smirked despite himself. “Ain’t about thinking, Rick. It’s about surviving. You’d know something ‘bout that, wouldn’t ya?” His voice was rough, ragged, coated in the sweat and grime of a man still alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

Footsteps approached, careful, deliberate, boots pressing into the wet barn floor. Negan shifted, leg screaming at him, dragging Lucille along, leaving streaks of mud and blood across the wood. The metallic taste in his mouth made his stomach churn and pulse with heat he refused to name aloud.

Rick’s shadow fell across the broken planks. The man was mud-slick and gun in hand, sweat dripping into his eyes, and every detail hit Negan like a punch. The furrowed brow, the tight jaw, the way his chest rose and fell with barely contained fury… Negan wanted it all. Wanted it raw, wanted it dangerous, wanted it like a wound in his chest he couldn’t lick clean.

“Leg still hurting?” Rick’s voice was low, teasing, a predator enjoying his prey. “Or is it the rest of you that can’t take it?”

Negan hissed through gritted teeth, smirk twisting into something more wolfish. “Pain’s kinda… addictive. Kinda like your company.” He could almost hear the smirk in Rick’s throat, imagine it curling against his skin.

The first movement was sudden, a blur of muscle and adrenaline. Rick lunged, pushing Negan against the wall with the force of a hurricane, boots sinking into hay and mud. Lucille banged against the wood, a hollow, metallic thud. Negan grunted, wincing at the impact of his own leg against the beam, but his hands flew instinctively to Rick’s chest, grasping, pushing, trying to maintain balance, trying to taste the heat in this collision of bodies.

Blood met sweat immediately — Negan’s wound smeared with grime as Rick’s hand pressed him harder, pressing into him like he owned every inch, and Negan felt his cock tighten, slick and wet, betraying him in the dark. He groaned, a low, rough sound, tasting the copper tang of his own blood and imagining Rick tasting it too. The heat, the danger, the raw edge of survival — it twisted into something impossibly intimate.

“You don’t give up easy,” Rick growled, lips just inches from his ear, the musk of sweat and blood intoxicating. “Not like I thought you would.”

“Wouldn’t wanna disappoint.” Negan hissed, leaning into the press, feeling the slick warmth of Rick’s hands sliding against him. The barn shook with the echo of distant gunfire, but here — here it was just the two of them, tangled, alive, dangerous, every breath thick with anticipation.

They grappled, teeth grit, hands clawing, arms pressing, bodies slick with mud, sweat, and blood. Lucille swung free in Negan’s hand, not used to hit, just an extension of him — a threat, a warning, a promise. Every impact of Rick’s chest against his own wound made his leg pulse, pain bleeding into desire, agony folding neatly into need.

Negan hissed, head tipped back, feeling the press of Rick’s body, the rough heat of him, the cock-hardening truth that his own life might end in the next second, and he wouldn’t mind. Wouldn’t mind if it ended here, in sweat and blood, in fire and rain, with Rick’s hands and eyes and presence consuming him completely.

“You think this is a game?” Rick’s voice was low, dangerous, lips brushing his shoulder, every word sending shivers down his spine.

“It’s survival,” Negan rasped. “Yours and mine. Ain’t much difference when it comes to it, is there?”

Rick’s grip tightened, pressing him against the wall again. Negan’s fingers dug into mud, into wet hay, trying to anchor himself, but the pull of Rick’s presence — lethal, tempting, overwhelming — was stronger. His chest heaved, cock slick, heat and desire pooling in his thighs, the metallic tang of blood teasing his tongue. Every pulse of the leg wound mirrored a pulse between them, and he couldn’t tell which drove him harder: pain or want.

Their faces were inches apart, breaths mingling, dripping sweat and rain, mud and blood, and for a heartbeat, the war and the firefight outside ceased to exist. Only the press of skin and the sharp taste of iron on lips, the dark promise of something neither would name aloud.

Rick’s hands traced, gripped, tugged — pushing, holding, testing. Negan’s fingers traced along the rough plane of his chest, over the soaked fabric, sliding over sweat and grime, feeling the taut heat of muscle under skin, and the slick warmth pooled lower. He hissed, a ragged, dangerous sound, tasting the copper, tasting everything alive and bleeding, tasting the pull between them neither could deny.

“You want this?” Rick whispered, breath hot, teeth grazing the shell of Negan’s ear. “Don’t lie.”

Negan’s eyes darkened, heat and pain twisting together. “I want you,” he admitted, the words a growl, a confession, a challenge. “Every part of it. Every drop of blood, every damn moment you touch me.”

Rick smirked, dangerous, unyielding, a predator who didn’t need to answer because the action said it all. He pressed harder, hips grinding against Negan’s wounded leg, and Negan groaned, slick heat pooling, blood dripping onto the floor, onto Rick, and the sensation of it — the life, the danger, the intimacy — was a drug he couldn’t resist.

Negan’s head tilted back, lips brushing against Rick’s jaw, tasting him, tasting the mix of iron, sweat, and wild need. Lucille swung loosely in his hand, a promise of violence, of ownership, of control — but right now, it was useless. Nothing mattered but Rick, the slick press of skin, the slick wet copper of blood and want, the way every touch sent shivers down his spine.

The grapple didn’t stop. Teeth scraped, nails dug, hands slid across skin and soaked fabric. Every motion was survival, every gasp was lust, every drop of blood a covenant between them. They moved as one, violent, desperate, alive — until finally, with a heavy groan and the press of bodies slick with heat and iron, Negan realized he was trembling not from fear, not from the wound, but from the proximity of Rick, the impossibility of it, the dark promise of what might come next.

And then, in that half-second before the kiss, before surrender, before everything blurred into raw, animalistic desire, they froze, faces inches apart, breaths ragged, bodies trembling, hearts pounding in time with the storm outside. The barn was silent except for the rain, the distant gunfire, and the ragged sound of two men teetering on the edge of something neither had dared to name — and the blood between them, thick, warm, undeniable.

Negan’s fingers brushed the side of Rick’s neck, slick with sweat and mud and something darker, tasting the iron on his tongue, tasting the pull, and knew — whatever came next would change everything.

The room smelled of iron, rain, and sweat, thick and oppressive. Negan pressed Rick harder against the wall, feeling the heat of his body, slick with mud, blood, and adrenaline. The gunfire outside was a distant drum now; here, it was only them, pressed together, hearts hammering in time with the storm and the chaos still raging beyond the timbered walls.

Rick’s chest heaved under his fingers, eyes dark, lips parted, chestnut hair plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat and rain. Negan’s hands slid over the wet curves of him, tracing the line of his collarbone, dragging over his chest, down to the slick, tight denim that did nothing to hide the truth beneath. His cock twitched at the press of Rick’s thigh against his, slick and wet, his own arousal leaking down his leg, mingling with the copper taste of blood from the wound in his side.

“You’re such a goddamn tease," Negan growled low, teeth grazing Rick’s jaw, breath hot against skin.

Rick shivered, a low groan escaping him. “Don’t… don’t make me…” His words caught in his throat as Negan’s hands moved lower, dragging fingers over the denim, slick heat already seeping through. Every touch of Negan’s rough, calloused hands made him harder, tighter, trembles running through his body in anticipation, lust, and fear.

Negan grinned, teeth flashing, and yanked Rick’s hips closer.

The first kiss was violent, hungry, teeth grazing lips, tongues tangling. Negan tasted Rick — sweat, rain, copper tang from scratches and abrasions, and the sharp, undeniable pull of lust. Rick gasped into the kiss, hands clawing at Negan’s back, nails digging into muscle, hips pressing up instinctively, slick heat pressing against Negan’s own cock, slick and wet from blood, sweat, and arousal.

“Fuck,” Negan muttered, letting his hands roam, dragging Rick’s shirt over his head, exposing the pale, sweat-slicked chest beneath. Every muscle was taut, every shiver, every pulse magnified in the heat of the barn. He pressed his thigh between Rick’s legs, feeling the twitch, the slick, wet hardness pressing, and hissed low. The ache of his own wound made him sharper, more dangerous, more animalistic — every pulse of pain amplifying his need to claim Rick fully.

Rick groaned, slick heat pressing against Negan’s leg, eyes wide, chest heaving.

Negan silenced him with a rough press of lips to throat, teeth grazing, tongue tracing, tasting the sweat and copper, the salt and heat of him. He moved his hands lower, palms pressing over denim, fingers slipping in to feel the slick wet hardness beneath, dragging slick fingertips over cock and balls, teasing, pressing, testing. Rick’s moans were ragged, breaths short, trembling, his body arching into every touch, into every press of Negan’s palm against him.

“Fuck.....” Rick gasped, hips jerking instinctively, slick wet cock pressed against Negan’s thigh, the friction almost unbearable.

Negan grinned against his skin, tasting the word, tasting him, sliding fingers lower, brushing over the wet denim bulge, letting the slick wet warmth seep through his fingers. “You like that, huh? Like the way I touch you?” He pressed harder, rubbing, dragging, teasing Rick’s cock, watching him flush, watching him tremble.

Rick’s hands clutched at Negan’s shoulders, nails digging, back arching off the wall, moaning low.

Negan shifted, wet fingers dragging between Rick’s legs, slick heat coating them both, thumb pressing over the tip, slick wetness already seeping between his fingers, mingling with the copper tang of the earlier scratches and the sweat dripping down his thighs. He grinned, cock twitching, hard and slick, pressing against Rick’s thigh again, dragging him closer, forcing him into the friction.

Negan growled, hips pressing up, cock slick and wet, dragging along the slick heat of Rick’s body, teasing, pressing.

Rick moaned loudly, legs trembling, chest heaving. “Yes…” His words were desperate, wet with arousal, slick and hot as he bucked instinctively against Negan’s thigh.

Negan’s grin widened, teeth flashing, eyes dark and hungry. He dragged Rick’s jeans down, exposing him fully, slick wet cock throbbing, balls tight, ready. Every pulse of blood in Negan’s own leg wound made him sharper, more dangerous, more insatiable. He positioned himself, cock slick and wet, pressing at Rick’s slick wet entrance, teasing, dragging the tip along the slick heat, tasting the flush of arousal.

“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” Negan muttered, dragging slick fingers along Rick’s length, pressing against the slick wet heat. He leaned close, lips grazing the side of Rick’s neck, teeth just teasing, tongue brushing, breath ragged.

Rick shivered violently, slick wet hands clutching at Negan, pressing into his shoulders, hips jerking as Negan slid the tip inside, slow, deliberate, every inch a mixture of pain, pleasure, heat, and blood-adrenaline. Rick gasped, cock slick and hard, pressing up, meeting Negan’s rhythm instinctively.

Negan hissed low, the wound in his leg sending a sharp pulse up, mingling with the slick wet heat pressing against him, blood, sweat, and desire twisting together. Every thrust was calculated, rough, dangerous, necessary.

Rick moaned, slick wet, body trembling under the harsh, brutal intimacy. Every sound was a surrender, a confession, a release. His cock pressed against Negan’s leg, slick and wet, every motion of their bodies a sharp blend of pain and desire, every gasp a promise and a plea.

Negan’s hand slid over Rick’s slick wet chest, dragging nails along muscle, thumb pressing over nipples, drawing moans from him that were wet and ragged. Every pulse of their rhythm pressed heat, blood, and sweat into a shared, dark, erotic space. “Fuck… God… you feel so damn good, Rick."

Rick’s back arched violently, cock slick and throbbing, slick wet cum trailing as Negan’s thrusts grew harder, faster, each one deliberate, pushing him closer, dragging him into a dark, dangerous, bloody ecstasy. Negan groaned, cock slick and wet, his own pulse mingling with Rick’s, every inch of him slick with sweat and blood, pressing, claiming, devouring.

And then, with a sharp cry, a shiver, slick wet cum coating Negan’s thigh and dripping onto the floor, Rick came apart under him, body trembling, slick and hot, moaning, gasping, pressed impossibly close, all heat and surrender.

Negan’s groan joined his, cock slick, wet, pulse racing, thrusting once more, slow, deliberate, marking Rick as his own in every slick, bloody, wet motion. When he finally collapsed against him, panting, sweat and blood mingling, he kissed Rick hard, teeth grazing, tongue sliding, tasting every slick drop of him, tasting the heat, the lust, the raw, dangerous intimacy they had just shared.

They pressed together, slick, wet, blood and sweat and heat, panting, trembling, but neither saying a word. The barn smelled of iron, rain, and their bodies, a testament to survival, war, and the forbidden, undeniable connection that had just ignited between them.

Negan’s hand traced Rick’s slick wet back, thumb brushing over the tense muscles, cock still slick against him, and he whispered low, “This… this changes nothing outside,"

Rick’s chest heaved, slick wet hair plastered to his forehead, nodding, not trusting words. The war still raged outside, blood and fire and bullets all around, but in this barn, in this moment, in the slick wet dark heat and blood and sweat, it was only them — predator, prey, hunter, and willing victim — tangled together, raw, dangerous, and impossibly alive.

Chapter Text

The morning light was too clean for what lived in him.

It crept through the curtains of his room in Alexandria — soft, golden, merciless — illuminating the bruises like proof. They spread across his shoulder, down his ribs, the edges of his hips where fingers had gripped too hard. Each one was a memory his body refused to forget, a map of something he couldn’t name.

Rick stood before the cracked mirror above the dresser, bare to the waist. Sweat gathered at his temples. The heatwave hadn’t broken; the air was thick enough to choke on. His reflection looked like someone else — gaunt, sunburnt, the ghost of a man still at war.

He touched one of the bruises, and the ache pulled a sound from his throat that wasn’t quite pain.

Negan’s face flickered in his mind — the way his mouth curved around every taunt, the gleam of his teeth when he smiled, the darkness that came after. The barn. The storm. The gunfire swallowed by the sound of their breathing.

He told himself it hadn’t meant anything. It was survival, or anger, or something nameless that belonged to the war. But when he tried to believe that, his pulse betrayed him.

“Get a grip,” he muttered.

The voice didn’t sound like his. It was quieter, hoarse, the voice of someone begging.

He turned from the mirror, dragging a clean shirt over his head. The cotton stuck to his damp skin. The scent of smoke still lingered on him no matter how many times he scrubbed it away — gunpowder, sweat, iron. He’d brought the war home with him.

Outside, the town was quiet. The crops shimmered in the distance, heat bending them into waves. Children laughed somewhere near the wall, and that sound — something so normal — made his chest twist.

He wasn’t built for peace anymore. Not after what he’d done. Not after what he’d wanted.

Rick sat on the edge of the bed and let his elbows rest on his knees. His hands were shaking. He told himself it was exhaustion. But the truth pressed behind his ribs like a fever — a pull that wouldn’t let go.

Negan was alive.

He should’ve finished it. Shot him again. Put an end to that voice, that grin, that man who ruined everything. But when he closed his eyes, he could still feel the heat of his breath, hear that low laugh, the one that crawled under his skin and stayed there.

He’d looked at Negan and seen his enemy.
Then he’d looked again and seen himself.

The thought made him sick.

He rubbed his palms over his face, as if he could scrub the memory out. Behind his eyelids, the barn replayed itself in pieces: flashes of rainlight, the smell of blood, the pressure of another body against his, too close, too human.

That closeness had been its own kind of violence.

He rose suddenly, as if movement could burn it off, and crossed to the window. Alexandria’s walls stood tall in the haze. Beyond them was the world he couldn’t control — Negan’s world, still breathing somewhere out there.

The thought made his stomach clench. The wound he’d left in Negan’s leg — he saw it again, the way blood had soaked into the dirt, the way Negan had smiled through the pain like it was a secret between them.

“Son of a bitch,” Rick whispered.

The glass fogged under his breath. He leaned his forehead against it, letting the heat of the day and his own heartbeat merge.

Negan was supposed to haunt him like a warning. Instead, he haunted him like a memory he couldn’t let go of.

Rick turned away and crossed the room, boots echoing on the floorboards. He needed something to do, anything. He thought of checking on the guards, the perimeter, Judith’s room — anything to drown out the noise in his head.

But his eyes fell to the table near the bed.
The walkie-talkie sat there, small and silent.

The same kind they used in the field.
The same kind Negan’s men carried.

For a moment, Rick just stared at it.

It would be easy. One button. One voice through static.

He told himself it was tactical — that reaching out was part of the plan. Information. A move in the game.
But that was a lie, and he knew it.

What he wanted was the sound of Negan’s voice. The rhythm of it. The darkness threaded through it. The sound that had somehow found its way into his veins.

He reached for the walkie, then stopped halfway, his fingers trembling above it. His pulse thudded hard, too loud in his ears.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

But his hand didn’t listen.

When his thumb pressed the button, the static hiss filled the room like breath.

Nothing.

Then, faintly, a crackle. A voice, rough and low, half-amused.

“Didn’t think you’d miss me this soon, sunshine.”

Rick froze. The sound of him — even across distance, even through broken signal — felt like a hand closing around his throat.

“Negan,” he said. His voice was steadier than he expected. “You’re still breathing.”

“Always a disappointment to you, ain’t it?” Negan chuckled, low and dangerous. “But you and I — we don’t die easy. Guess that makes us special.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. “You’re not special. You’re just another mistake that needs cleanin’ up.”

“Oh, darlin’, if you were tryin’ to convince me, you wouldn’t have called.”

Static crackled again — sharp, intimate, like the sound of teeth on bone.

Rick swallowed hard. “I should have shot you.”

“You should have,” Negan said softly. “And yet here I am. Limping, bleeding, thinkin’ about that look on your face when you pulled the trigger. Like you wanted to hate me so bad you forgot how.”

Rick’s breath caught. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Negan’s laugh was quiet, unsteady. “That’s where you’re wrong, Rick. I know exactly what you are. You’re the only one left who still remembers what it means to be alive. Everyone else is pretending.”

Rick’s hand trembled around the walkie. “You don’t know what alive means.”

“Sure I do.” Negan’s tone turned almost gentle, like a secret. “Alive’s what we were in that barn.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Rick wanted to smash the radio, to tear it apart, to erase the sound of that voice. But his thumb stayed on the button, pressed down, as if breaking the connection would break something else too.

“You stay away from my people,” Rick finally said, low and hoarse.

“Wouldn’t dream of touchin’ ‘em,” Negan murmured. “But you? You keep dreamin’ of me.”

The line went dead.

Rick stared at the radio for a long time before setting it down. His hand was shaking again.

Outside, the heat pressed against the windows. Somewhere, a hammer struck metal, steady and hollow.

Rick turned back to the mirror. The bruises stared back at him — purple, fading, undeniable. He wanted to see punishment in them, but all he saw was proof.

Proof of how far he’d fallen. Proof that even hate could start to feel like need.

Outside, the sun was merciless, the world dry and bright and burning.
Inside, he was colder than ever.

And somewhere out there, Negan was smiling.

Chapter Text

Night pooled in the corners of the Sanctuary like oil. The generators were down to their last can of fuel, and every lamp gave off a low, amber pulse that turned the windows into mirrors. Negan sat in the office that used to belong to a foreman—metal desk, busted radio, walls of glass that looked down over the factory floor. A hundred empty eyes stared back at him from the reflection.

He’d sent everyone away hours ago. The Saviors knew better than to linger when his voice went quiet.

The leg throbbed again. A deep, slow ache that pulsed with his heartbeat—Rick’s bullet still burning through him in memory and flesh. He’d wrapped it himself with a strip of torn flannel, dark now with old blood. The jeans clung to his thigh where the fabric stuck to the wound, and every step made him feel the tear inside. He liked that pain—it was proof he’d survived Rick’s hand.

The white T-shirt he wore was thin and sweat-damp at the collar, half-tucked, creased from where he’d been leaning against the desk. His leather jacket was tossed aside on a chair, waiting like something half alive, half relic. The sleeves of the shirt were pushed up his forearms, skin smeared with dust and dried blood.

He looked at his reflection in the glass—ghost of a man framed in amber light, jaw sharp, beard streaked with gray. The cotton stretched across his shoulders when he moved, catching the slow pull of breath. He wondered if Rick would picture him like this—casual, wounded, still refusing to kneel.

“Bet you’d look,” he muttered to the reflection. “Even if you didn’t mean to.”

The walkie on the desk gave a faint hiss as the generator sputtered. He hadn’t turned it on since that night. Their conversation still looped in his head—Rick’s voice half-cracked with drink and guilt. Negan had heard the tremor under the words, the part Rick hadn’t meant to show. It had been the closest thing to touch they could manage across miles of static.

He stood, testing the weight on his bad leg. Pain shot up through him, sharp enough to make his breath catch. He didn’t stop. The ache felt honest. The ache was something Rick had left him.

Outside the glass, the floor of the Sanctuary was a skeleton of a world that used to make sense. The catwalks hung over puddles of dark water, the machines silent. Somewhere below, a few guards were playing cards by flashlight. He could feel their presence without seeing them—men who still called him “sir” because they didn’t know what else to believe in.

He leaned against the window, palm pressed to the cool glass. The air smelled of oil and rain. The hum of the generator made the pane tremble beneath his hand. Every sense was sharpened—his own breath, the beat of blood behind his eyes, the slow pulse of the wound under denim. He thought of Rick again—how the man had looked at him in that barn, eyes wide, furious, terrified, wanting.

Negan tilted his head, murmured to the glass, “You see me now, don’t you?”

He imagined Rick somewhere in Alexandria, sitting on his porch with a bottle, radio in his hand, pretending not to listen. He pictured the man’s face—creased with shame, mouth half open like he might speak his name again. That was the real exhibition: knowing the image would reach him whether the radio was on or not. The connection was under the skin now.

He pressed his palm harder against the glass. A bead of blood leaked through the edge of the bandage, warm against the cool night air. He traced it with a finger, drawing a small arc on the window, a red smear that caught the light. The gesture felt private, ceremonial. This is me, still breathing. This is what you did to me.

Down below, one of the guards shifted. The flashlight tilted up for a second, catching the edge of the glass. Negan didn’t move. Let them see, he thought. Let them wonder. He was a myth to them as much as to Rick—half man, half story.

The ache in his leg deepened, and with it came that old electric hum in his nerves, the one that made pain and memory blur. He imagined Rick again, standing close, gun between them, eyes daring him to breathe. The image came too easily; it always did. He could feel the pull in his stomach, the pulse that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite desire—something hung between. Exposure as confession. Violence as the only language left that either of them understood.

He whispered into the glass, “You shot me, Sheriff. You left me breathing. That’s on you.”

The reflection stared back—smile thin, eyes tired. A man performing for ghosts.

Negan turned, limped back to the desk, and grabbed the walkie. The weight of it was familiar, solid. He thumbed the switch once, listening to the static fill the room. It was like hearing breath on the other end.

“You still awake out there?” he asked the silence. “You always were the type who couldn’t sleep.”

Only the hum of the generator answered. Maybe Rick was listening. Maybe he wasn’t. The point was the act itself—the risk of being heard. That was the exhibition, too.

He sat again, blood drying at the edge of the bandage, his pulse slowing. The radio hissed once, faintly, as if some ghost of Rick had sighed through it.

Negan leaned back and let the sound wash over him. It was almost tender, in a brutal way—the whole world watching, the glass walls reflecting his every flaw, and somewhere out there, one man seeing him exactly as he was: ugly, wounded, still alive.

He let the words slip out, barely above a breath. “You can look, Rick. I don’t mind.”

The generator coughed, the lights flickered, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw another figure in the glass—broad shoulders, haunted eyes, a hand lifting toward him. Then it was gone, just his own reflection again.

Negan smiled, slow and quiet. He reached for the bottle he’d hidden under the desk, twisted the cap, and took a long drink. The liquor burned like disinfectant, like memory. Outside, thunder rolled over the ruins of the city.

He raised the bottle toward the dark window in a kind of toast.

“To being seen,” he said softly. “To still being here.”

Then he drank until the glass blurred, until the reflection stopped looking back.

Chapter Text

Smoke crawled along the rafters of the Sanctuary like something alive. The battle had broken the world open again—gunfire, screams, the thump of bodies hitting the concrete. The air tasted of ash and cordite.

Negan moved through it like a ghost wearing human skin. Lucille was heavy in his hands, the barbed wire slick with rain and blood that wasn’t his. His leg screamed with every step, but the pain only steadied him. It kept him inside his body, kept him from falling into the noise.

Around him the Saviors were faltering. Shouts carried through the smoke—orders, pleas, dying breaths. He could hear Rick’s people too, close now, pushing through the wreckage. Every sound fed the rhythm in his skull: one more swing, one more heartbeat, one more chance to make the man who started all this look him in the eye.

Then he saw him.

Rick stepped out from behind a burned-out truck, hatchet in one hand, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. His face was streaked with grime and fury. Behind him the battle blurred, reduced to echo and flame.

Negan smiled, thin and humorless. “Well, hell. Sheriff himself.”

Rick didn’t answer. The hatchet gleamed once in the firelight before he lunged.

Steel met wood. The first clash was raw sound—Lucille cracking against the hatchet’s edge, sparks jumping between them. They broke apart, circled. Negan felt the tremor in his bad leg but forced it steady.

“You brought this,” he said, voice rough. “Every corpse on this floor’s got your name written across it.”

Rick came at him again. The hatchet sliced the air close enough for Negan to smell the iron off it. He blocked, shoved, felt the jar of bone on bone. Rick hit hard, wild. The man wasn’t fighting for victory anymore, only for the right to keep breathing.

They locked up close—Rick’s forearm pressed against Negan’s chest, Lucille caught between them. For a heartbeat, they stopped moving. The world shrank to breath and heartbeat, two men who’d lost everything that made them different.

Negan’s voice dropped to a growl. “You think mercy’s gonna save you? Mercy’s a myth, Rick. It’s a story we tell so we don’t have to look at what we really are.”

Rick pushed off him, swung the hatchet. The blade caught Negan’s sleeve, ripped fabric, drew a thin line of blood along his arm. Negan didn’t flinch. He came back harder, Lucille arcing through smoke, catching Rick’s shoulder. The crack of impact echoed like thunder.

Rick staggered but didn’t fall. He met Negan’s eyes—no fear, just that same dead fire.

Negan felt something twist in his gut. Rage, admiration, grief—he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “You just don’t quit, do you?”

“Neither do you,” Rick spat.

They collided again, a mess of fists and grit. Negan slammed Rick against the truck, metal groaning under the weight. The hatchet clattered away. Rick drove his knee up, caught Negan’s thigh—pain flared, hot enough to blind. Negan answered with a head-butt that split both their brows.

Blood ran into his eyes. The world swam red. He could taste copper and rain.

He shoved Rick back and raised Lucille high. For a second he thought he’d do it—end it right there, crush the man’s skull, finish the story. But the image froze him: Rick on his knees, the look in his eyes not fear but recognition.

It was too close to what Negan saw in the mirror.

He lowered the bat an inch. Breath tore out of him. “You kill me, you get to be me. You know that, right?”

Rick wiped blood from his mouth. “Then maybe I deserve it.”

For a long moment they just stared at each other while the battle raged unseen around them. Somewhere distant, the Sanctuary’s fuel tanks exploded, lighting the sky. The shockwave rattled the ground beneath their boots.

Negan’s laugh came out broken. “Mercy,” he said again, almost to himself. “You keep talking about it like it’s real. But look at us.”

He swung Lucille sideways—not at Rick’s head, but at the truck beside him. Metal caved in with a scream. The message was enough.

Rick picked up his hatchet, shoulders heaving. “This doesn’t end with words.”

“No,” Negan said. “It ends when one of us stops lying about what he is.”

They moved at the same time—Lucille rising, hatchet flashing. The weapons met in midair, sparks bursting like stars. Both men staggered back, the recoil singing up their arms.

Sirens of gunfire wailed from the east side of the yard. Both turned instinctively toward the sound: Saviors falling back, Rick’s people pressing forward. The war was swallowing them again.

Rick backed away first. “Next time.”

Negan wiped blood from his eye, grin twitching at the edge of exhaustion. “Oh, there’ll be a next time, Rick. Count on it.”

Rick vanished into the smoke.

Negan stood there a moment longer, Lucille heavy in his hands, breath rasping in his throat. The wound in his leg burned like a brand. Around him the world was burning too.

He looked down at the bat, at the wire glinting red and black. He whispered, almost tenderly, “Mercy’s a myth, sweetheart. But maybe that’s why we keep chasing it.”

He turned back toward the heart of the Sanctuary, where his people were still fighting, and limped into the firelight.

Chapter Text

The battlefield smelled of smoke, blood, and wet earth. Somewhere in the distance, fire devoured the Sanctuary, licking steel beams and the husks of vehicles. Negan limped through the ruin, Lucille dragging a line in the ash behind him. Every step set his leg screaming, a hot reminder that he was still alive—still dangerous.

Then came the click.

A metal whisper that made him freeze.

He turned his head slowly, and there was Rick, crouched behind a wrecked Humvee, the hatchet gone, replaced by a pair of handcuffs dangling from his fingers. The faint glint of steel caught the firelight like a predator’s eye.

Negan grinned, a thin, humorless thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, hell. What do we have here? Tokens of victory?”

Rick didn’t answer. He stepped forward, deliberate, measured, the kind of calm that comes from standing on the edge of survival every single day. “You’re done, Negan. One move, and I’m ending this.”

“Been thinking about you,” he said softly, voice low, almost a growl. “About all the ways you make me feel alive, even when you’re trying to kill me.”

Rick flinched at the words, but didn’t move. That defiance—it was exactly what kept him interesting. Exactly what made him worth this little ritual.

Negan advanced slowly, letting the weight of the bat fall harmlessly to the floor. His hands were steady, deliberate. He circled Rick once, like a predator marking his prey, watching every shift of muscle, every flicker of hesitation.

Negan’s mind ticked over it like gears grinding. Handcuffs weren’t just restraints. They were a promise. A tool of control. And control—that was his language. He could feel it in his chest, the thrill of the game still alive even as the world burned.

“Is that so?” he said, voice rough as gravel. “You think these little toys are gonna change the truth, Rick? Mercy’s is a fucking myth, and you? You’re still choking on it.”

Rick advanced, slow but unyielding, cuffs held low, ready to strike or bind. Each footfall pressed Negan back a step, and for a heartbeat, he allowed himself to admire the precision, the relentless focus. That fire in Rick’s eyes the one that had driven the world to hell was still there. Unbroken.

Negan swung Lucille lazily, more to test than to strike. Sparks jumped where it kissed the scorched concrete. “You’re good, Sheriff. Too good. You think chaining me up is justice. But chains… chains are stories we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night.”

Rick didn’t speak. His silence pressed against Negan like a vice. He moved in close, cuffs glinting red and black in the dying firelight. Every inch of space between them was tension, a cord stretched taut across the ruins.

Negan felt the old thrill—the one he’d almost forgotten in the chaos of the fight—coil in his gut. Survival was a game, and Rick had the first move in this round. The air between them hummed.

Then Rick snapped the cuffs open with a practiced flick of his wrist, and the sound rang like a bell.

Negan’s grin widened. “Oh, we’re playing then. Fair enough.”

Rick lunged, cuff first. Negan caught it midair, spinning it in his palm, the metal cold and heavy. It pressed against his chest, and for the first time, he let himself feel the weight—not just of the handcuffs, but of the war, of all the bodies, all the screaming, all the fire.

“You think this ends with metal?” Negan asked, voice low, dangerous. “It doesn’t. It ends when one of us stops lying about who he really is.”

Rick swung again, and this time Negan had to duck. Sparks flew as Lucille met the Humvee’s metal again. The impact rattled his teeth, but he could feel it—the rhythm, the heartbeat of the chaos. He could hear it in Rick’s steps, in the tilt of his shoulders, in the slight flare of his nostrils. Both of them, exhausted, bleeding, burning, bound to the same madness.

Negan twirled the cuff again, testing its chain against his wrist. “Chains,” he muttered, almost to himself, “they’re funny little things. You think they bind someone else, but usually… they bind you.”

Rick’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not bound to anyone. I’m not you.”

“Not… yet,” Negan said softly, and in that quiet, everything paused—the fire, the smoke, the distant cries. Just the two of them, standing on the edge of the world they’d created, staring at each other.

Rick lunged. Negan pivoted, swung Lucille, and caught the cuff on the bat, the metal clattering. The movement was fluid, practiced, almost ritualistic. Sparks flew, smoke curled, and the fire mirrored the chaos in Negan’s chest. Rage, respect, exhaustion—they all coiled together, impossible to untangle.

Negan caught Rick’s gaze. “You could cuff me right now,” he said, voice hoarse, “and I’d let you. But do you really want me that quiet?”

Rick hesitated, the cuff dangling. Sweat streaked his face, blood smeared across his forehead. “I want the truth,” he said.

“The truth,” Negan repeated, letting Lucille hang low. “Is you and me? We’re two sides of the same coin. You cage me, I’ll teach you how to lock yourself inside. And when this is done, you’ll know exactly what it means to lose mercy.”

Rick stepped closer, the cuff brushing Negan’s wrist. For a moment, just a single heartbeat, Negan let it touch him. The fire reflected in both of their eyes. They were exhausted, battered, and yet neither of them was broken. Not fully. Not yet.

“Maybe we’re not different,” Rick said quietly, “just… trapped.”

Negan’s grin cracked again. “Trapped,” he repeated, and for once it wasn’t a joke. “Yeah… maybe. But trapped can be… fun. Depends who’s holding the key.”

The two of them froze as a distant explosion shook the ground beneath their boots. The Saviors’ screams, the shouts of Rick’s group—it all surged around them like waves. The battlefield was reclaiming its chaos.

Negan let the cuff drop, the chain swinging against his leg. He twirled Lucille once more, watching Rick’s reaction. Every inch of this fight—the metal, the fire, the rage—was a lesson in control, in survival. Not mercy. Not justice. Only power, and the illusions we cling to.

Rick stepped back, hatchet back in hand, ready to continue the war.

Negan inhaled smoke and ash, his lungs burning. He could feel every fracture, every bruise, every line of exhaustion on his body, and it was beautiful in its own grotesque way. “Next time,” he rasped, voice low, “we finish the game. Chains, bat, blood—doesn’t matter. I’ll see you then, Sheriff.”

Rick’s silhouette vanished into the smoke. The handcuffs clattered one last time as Negan picked them up, turning them in his palm. They were a reminder, a promise, a symbol. Not of restraint, but of what this war had made them—mirrors of each other, bound to a story neither of them could escape.

Negan limped back toward the heart of the Sanctuary, Lucille on his shoulder, handcuffs dangling from his other hand. The world was a burning pyre around him. Mercy was gone. Truth was all that remained. And he grinned, blood and smoke streaked across his face, because he was ready for it.

“Mercy’s a myth,” he whispered again, almost tenderly. “So are we.”

Chapter Text

The world had gone quiet again — that ugly kind of quiet that only came after a gunfight. The smell of metal and smoke lingered in the air, crawling through Negan’s nose, sharp as guilt. His leg still burned where the bullet had gone clean through. Every heartbeat pressed against the wound like it was trying to claw its way out.

He sat back against the wall of the ruined feed store, teeth clenched around the pain. The war had eaten through everything — bullets, men, patience — but not him. Not yet.
And not Rick goddamn Grimes.

Rick was across from him, tied to a beam, wrists raw from the rope. Dirt and blood streaked across his face like war paint. He’d stopped trying to talk hours ago. Negan figured that meant he was listening now, whether he liked it or not.

Negan spat blood, the copper taste mixing with dust. “You got a hell of a shot, Rick. I’ll give you that. Almost took my leg clean off.”

Rick didn’t answer. Just stared. Eyes blue and bright with hate, like he’d burn the whole world down if he could take Negan with it.

Negan grinned, though it hurt to do it. “C’mon, you can gloat a little. You did shoot me.”

Silence.

The storm outside rolled low over the horizon. The last of the daylight slipped through the cracks in the boards, painting the floor in rust and shadow. The ropes creaked when Rick shifted. He wasn’t looking at Negan anymore — he was looking past him, at the bat lying on the ground where Negan had dropped it.

Lucille.

Negan followed his gaze and felt the weight of it — not the bat, but the thing between them. All the blood. All the losses. All the twisted, damned respect.

“You still think you’re the hero in this story,” Negan said, voice quiet now. “You still think kneeling means losin’. That it’s weakness.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. His breath came out ragged. “You want me on my knees, you’re gonna have to make me.”

Negan smiled slow. He liked that edge. He liked that fight. It was what made Rick Grimes worth breaking.

He pushed himself upright, dragging the bad leg behind him. Every step was fire in his thigh, but he didn’t care. Pain made things real. Pain was proof he was still here. He stopped in front of Rick, close enough to smell the blood drying on his shirt.

“Funny thing, Rick. You already made me kneel once.” Negan’s grin faltered for half a heartbeat — memory flashing behind his eyes, the moment the bat slipped from his hands, the sound of his own breath when he thought it was all over. “Now it’s your turn.”

He leaned down, fisting a hand in Rick’s hair, forcing his head up. The motion was rough, not cruel — almost reverent. Rick’s breath caught, muscles tensing against the ropes.

“You think I like this?” Negan murmured. “You think I want it this way? Nah. I wanted you to stand beside me, man. Two kings. But you don’t share power, do you?”

Rick’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. “Neither do you.”

That laugh — harsh, low, real — ripped from Negan’s throat before he could stop it. “Ain’t that the truth.”

The sound of rain began against the tin roof, slow and cold. Negan crouched, ignoring the screaming in his leg, until he was eye-level with him. They were close enough to feel each other’s breath, that charged air thick with everything unsaid. It wasn’t hatred anymore. It was something heavier.

Negan’s voice dropped. “You want to know why I win, Rick? Because I understand what kneeling means. It’s not about surrender. It’s about survival. About knowing when to stop fighting and start thinkin’.”

Rick’s eyes flickered, a moment of confusion. Then anger again. Always anger.

Negan let go of his hair and stood, dragging the rope slack with him. “Get up.”

Rick hesitated.

“I said get up, Rick.”

Rick pushed to his feet slowly, breathing hard. Every muscle screamed rebellion, but his body moved anyway. He stood there, shoulders squared, blood running down his temple. Negan stared at him for a long time.

“You look like hell,” he said softly. “But hell suits you.”

Negan took the knife from his belt — the same one Rick had tried to grab earlier — and cut the rope from around his wrists. It fell away, leaving angry marks behind. Rick didn’t move, didn’t rub his skin, just stood there waiting.

Negan nodded toward the ground. “Kneel.”

Rick’s jaw flexed. “No.”

Negan stepped closer. “Kneel.”

Rick didn’t flinch when the knife came up — not toward him, but toward the beam behind him. Negan slammed it into the wood, inches from his head, the sound splitting the air like thunder.

“Kneel,” Negan said again, quieter this time.

Rick’s eyes met his, something raw and human flashing there. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t obedience. It was understanding. The kind that comes when two men have stripped everything away — mercy, pride, hate — and what’s left is just survival.

Slowly, painfully, Rick sank to one knee.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

Negan felt something twist inside his chest. Victory, maybe. Or something worse.

The rain outside turned heavier, running down through the holes in the roof, dripping onto Rick’s shoulders. He stayed there, head bowed, breath shallow. Negan looked down at him and didn’t feel triumph. He felt... seen. Exposed.

“This ain’t about power anymore,” Negan said. “It’s about what comes after.”

Rick didn’t answer. His voice was gone, but his eyes burned with the same impossible fire.

Negan limped closer, the echo of the knife still ringing in his ears. He reached out — not to hurt him, not to humiliate him — but because he needed to touch something real. His hand brushed Rick’s shoulder, rough, tentative, like grounding himself.

The tension between them hummed — violent, fragile, and almost holy in its own twisted way.

Rick finally looked up, rain running down his face. For one heartbeat, there was no war. No bat. No bullets. Just two men who refused to die for anything but what they believed in.

Negan drew a long breath. “That’s enough,” he said, voice cracking just once. “Get up.”

Rick rose slowly, eyes never leaving his. He was still breathing hard, still furious, but something had shifted. Neither of them said it, but they both knew: this wasn’t over. It never would be.

Negan stepped back, the ache in his leg pulsing with every heartbeat. “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, Rick Grimes.”

Rick’s answer came low. “Takes one to know one.”

The storm outside broke open then, drowning the silence in its roar. Negan turned away, limping toward the door. The shadows swallowed him for a moment before he looked back.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t miss.”

Rick’s voice followed him through the rain. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Negan smiled to himself, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. The pain in his leg throbbed in time with his pulse, sharp and alive. He liked it that way. It meant he could still feel something.

He looked out at the horizon — fire, smoke, and a war that refused to die — and thought of Rick on his knees, the look in his eyes, that impossible mix of defiance and choice.

Negan didn’t know if it was mercy or madness that made him let him live. Maybe both.

Either way, it was enough to keep the war burning.

As he limped out into the storm, he knew this:
the world didn’t need gods anymore.
It only needed men who knew what it cost to kneel.

Chapter Text

Negan hated silence. Always had. It left too much room for the things he didn’t want to think about — the ghosts, the regrets, the sound of his own breath when the world went still.

Tonight, there was only the hum of rain and the quiet rip of fabric as he tore a strip from what used to be his jacket. His leg throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull, savage rhythm that reminded him he wasn’t invincible after all.

He sat on the edge of a metal cot in one of the old warehouses outside the yard. The place smelled like rust and rain-soaked wood. A single lantern burned on a crate beside him, throwing shadows that shook with every flicker. The light caught the blood seeping through the bandage wrapped around his thigh. It was too red. Too fresh.

“Goddamn you, Rick,” he muttered.

He didn’t know if he meant it as a curse or a prayer.

The bullet had gone clean through, but it still needed cleaning — infection didn’t care who you were. He set the knife on the crate, cleaned it with whiskey, and poured the rest over the wound. The burn hit like fire. He hissed between his teeth, gripping the edge of the cot hard enough to make the metal groan.

He’d taken worse. Still, something about this wound felt different. Personal.

He could still see Rick’s face when he pulled the trigger. No hesitation. No satisfaction either — just purpose. That same dead-set will Negan admired and hated in equal measure.

He dipped a needle in the whiskey next, threading it with a bit of fishing line. His hands were steady. He’d stitched up plenty of people — soldiers, Saviors, himself — but doing it alone was a different kind of hell. Every jab of the needle was a reminder: he was bleeding because of Rick Grimes.

He chuckled low under his breath. “That son of a bitch.”

The laugh turned into a grunt as he drove the needle through skin again. He didn’t stop. Pain was part of it — the cost of keeping on. And Negan always paid his debts.

When he was done, he sat back, sweat dripping down his temple, and looked at his work. The stitches were ugly, uneven, but they’d hold. He cleaned the area again and tied the fabric tight around it. The pain dulled, but the ache lingered — deep, steady, alive.

Negan leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. The lantern’s light flickered across the rafters, painting the room in shifting gold. He thought of Rick kneeling. The image wouldn’t leave him. The way the man had fought it — and then given in. Not out of fear, not really. Out of something deeper. Understanding, maybe. Or resignation.

Negan didn’t know what it was, but it had burned itself into him. Every time he blinked, he saw it again.

He poured another mouthful of whiskey, swallowed, and let the warmth spread down to where the pain lived. “You just had to get under my skin, didn’t you?” he said to the dark.

The rain outside thickened, drumming against the roof in steady rhythm. The sound was almost soothing. Almost. He closed his eyes for a second and let his head rest against the cold metal behind him.

He remembered Rick’s voice — the rough, steady way he said Wasn’t trying to. The honesty of it. The goddamn gall. Negan couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch him again or laugh.

He did neither.

Instead, he reached for the knife, running a thumb along the edge. The metal caught the light, a gleam like lightning before a storm. His reflection was warped in the blade — bloodshot eyes, bruised jaw, a man who’d lost too much and still refused to stop.

He wondered what Rick saw when he looked at him. A monster, maybe. A rival. Something he could kill and finally feel peace.

Negan smirked. “You don’t get peace, Rick. Not with me.”

He set the knife down again and adjusted his bandage. Every movement pulled the stitches, sent a spark of pain up his leg, but he didn’t shy from it. The pain made things clear. It cut through the fog, through the noise. It made him feel something real.

That was what Rick did, too. In a world that had gone gray and empty, Rick still burned bright enough to hurt. Negan couldn’t decide if that was hate or something else entirely.

He picked up Lucille from where she leaned against the wall. The barbed wire glinted faintly in the lantern light. He ran his fingers over the bat’s worn handle, tracing every nick and scar like old memories. “You remember him, huh?” he murmured, talking to the bat like he always did. “He’s the only one that ever made me think twice.”

The silence answered him.

Negan laughed softly, the sound more tired than amused. “Guess that says somethin’.”

He laid the bat down across his lap, leaned his head back, and let the rain fill the room. Every drop felt like it was counting something down — moments, regrets, whatever came next.

His thoughts drifted again to Rick. The way he’d looked up at him, rain dripping down his face, fire still in his eyes. Even beaten, even kneeling, Rick had never looked small. Negan respected that. Maybe too much.

He remembered the tremor that had run through him when Rick finally knelt. It wasn’t victory he’d felt. It was... recognition. Like staring into a mirror and seeing the one thing he couldn’t kill — himself, reflected back in someone else’s eyes.

Negan reached for the whiskey again and drank until the bottle was light in his hand. The warmth blurred the edges of his thoughts, but it didn’t quiet them. He looked down at his leg, at the ugly wound, the dark blood still seeping faintly through the fabric. He thought of Rick’s bullet finding him, clean and perfect.

“Could’ve killed me,” he said aloud. “Didn’t.”

He turned that thought over in his head, like a coin catching light. Mercy, or mistake? Negan couldn’t tell.

He stared at the lantern flame for a long time, watching it waver. He thought about what mercy meant in this world. He’d killed men for less. He’d preached about strength, about order, about the way things had to be. But Rick — Rick lived by something else. He broke the rules and still stood tall. It pissed Negan off. It also made him curious.

He dragged a hand over his face. “You’re in my goddamn head, Grimes.”

Outside, thunder rolled across the distance. The storm wasn’t done yet. Neither were they.

Negan’s eyes drifted shut. He didn’t sleep, not really. He just let his mind hover in that space between exhaustion and wakefulness, where the lines blurred and everything felt raw.

He saw flashes — the road, the bridge, the faces of the dead. Rick standing among them, blood on his hands and that same look in his eyes. The one that said he’d do it all again.

Negan understood that look too well.

He woke with a start when the lantern sputtered. The storm had passed, leaving only the drip of water from the eaves. His leg throbbed, stiff and swollen, but the bleeding had stopped. He tested his weight on it, grimaced, and decided it would hold.

He picked up Lucille again, testing the balance. Still good. Still right.

Negan stood there in the half-light, listening to the quiet hum of a world still burning beyond the walls. Somewhere out there, Rick Grimes was moving too — planning, fighting, maybe even thinking about the same damn moment.

The thought brought a strange calm.

Negan smiled — small, private, dangerous. “We ain’t finished, not by a long shot.”

He blew out the lantern, letting the dark swallow the room. His pulse beat steady in his ears, matching the ache in his leg. The pain would fade eventually. The memory wouldn’t.

As he limped toward the door, he paused once, glancing back at the cot, at the dried blood and the torn fabric and the faint outline of where he’d sat.

“You’ll kneel again, Rick,” he said quietly. “And maybe next time, I’ll understand why it matters.”

He didn’t know if it was a promise or a curse. Maybe both.

Then he stepped out into the night, the wind cool against his face, the world still and waiting. He tightened his grip on the bat, the weight of it familiar and steady. The storm was over for now, but the war — their war — was only just beginning.

Somewhere inside the ache and the silence, Negan smiled again. Because for the first time in a long while, he felt alive.

Chapter Text

Rick stood in the doorway, his silhouette a dark promise against the fading light. The room was a ruin, walls crumbling, floorboards creaking under his feet. Negan sat in the center, his chair a throne carved from the remnants of a once-grand parlor. Lucille rested across his lap, a silent promise of violence and control.

Negan's fingers tapped the taped handle of his bat, slow and steady. He wasn't nervous; he never was. He knew Rick would come. He always did. The tension in the air was thick, a mix of anticipation and dread that clung to every breath.

Rick's eyes, blue and intense, cut through the shadows, locking onto Negan with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. His gun was steady, aimed squarely between Negan's eyes, a steel promise of retribution. Sweat beaded at his temples, and his shirt clung to his chest, damp with exertion and the weight of their shared history.

Negan tilted his head, letting the pressure of the gun dig into his forehead. He welcomed it, wanted it. His blood hummed with a mix of danger and desire. The room seemed to shrink, walls leaning closer, air thick enough to choke on. Dust stirred in the slats of light cutting through the broken boards. Nothing outside mattered. Not the war. Not the people waiting. Just this—two men locked in orbit, circling the same gravity.

Rick's gun trembled against his skin. Negan pushed into it harder, daring him. "Go on, Rick. Kill me. Or kiss me. Either way, you're fucked."

And Rick's eyes—Jesus, those eyes—burned like a fuse running down, nothing left but the inevitable fire.

Rick shoved, hard. Negan stumbled back, teeth scraping against the corner of a splintered wall. His hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Rick's wrist, twisting it so the gun clattered to the floor. Metal bounced once, twice, then still.

"You think you can just come in here, brandishing that thing like it makes you a man?" Negan spat, voice low, fierce. "You're trembling, Rick. Every damn hair on you is screaming it."

Rick shoved again, fists balled. "I'm not here to talk, Negan. I'm here to end this."

Negan laughed, dark and cruel. "End what, exactly? The war? Your sanity? Or the fact that you can't keep your hands off me?"

Rick's teeth clenched. "You're insane."

"Insane? Ha. That's rich coming from the man who's been plotting to kill me for months while his dick's wet for the very same bastard."

Rick's hand shot out, catching Negan by the collar, shoving him into the wall. Boards groaned under the weight of their bodies. "You're a monster."

Negan pressed close, chest against Rick's, smirk in place, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. "And you're my favorite kind, Grimes. Angry, desperate, just enough to make me want to fuck you senseless before I let you hate me."

Rick jerked back, eyes flashing, and punched the wall beside Negan's head. Wood splintered. "I'm not yours!"

"You already are." Negan's voice was a growl, a rasp, crawling along Rick's spine. He grabbed Rick by the hips, shoved forward, grinding into him. "You can deny it, fight it, swear to God you'll never touch me—and I'll still have you. Every time. Always."

Rick shoved back, hands everywhere now, scrabbling at Negan's shoulders, chest, face. "You think I want this? I hate you!"

Negan tilted his head, letting the defiance hit him like a flame. "Hate me all you want, cowboy. Hate me while I fuck that little spark out of you."

Rick's laugh was bitter, broken. "You're unbelievable."

"And you're unbelievable when you're trying to fight me." Negan's hand slipped down, fingers brushing the curve of Rick's hip, thumb grazing the belt. Rick jerked, startled, spine arching.

"Negan—don't—" Rick hissed, voice tight, control breaking, anger tangling with need in ways that made Negan grin like a devil.

Negan leaned in, lips brushing Rick's temple, hot, rough. "Oh, you're already too far gone to talk about what you 'don't.' Feel that? The fire under your skin? That's me, Rick. I'm the fire you can't stomp out. I'm the heat in your chest when you want to punch me through a wall and your cock's twitching anyway."

Rick shoved again, violent, desperate. "You—fuck—you're—" He choked on a growl. "Goddamn it, Negan!"

Negan took it all in, eyes dark, teeth flashing. He moved closer, chest pressed hard to Rick's, hands roaming like claim markers, tracing the tense muscles, the trembling fingers, the straining line of his cock through denim. "Goddamn right. I am. And I'm about to prove it to you."

Rick bit down, teeth scraping Negan's shoulder, and it was enough. Negan's fingers dug into his waist, pulling him flush, hips grinding together. Heat exploded, sharp and immediate.

Rick shoved, twisted, trying to get space, but Negan's hand curled around his throat for balance, thumb pressing under the jaw, fingers brushing hair and collarbone. "Stop fighting me with your hands. Fight me with your mouth."

Rick's head jerked back, eyes wild. "I…hate…you!"

"And yet…" Negan's lips brushed the side of his mouth. "…you're here."

Rick's fists faltered. One hand twisted into Negan's hair, tugging hard, nails scraping scalp. The other clutched his jacket, shoving, pulling. Bodies slammed together again, knocking a chair over, dust rising like smoke.

Negan hissed, low, teeth catching on Rick's earlobe, dragging him close. "Tell me you don't want me. Say it. Say it with that fire in your eyes, with the hard fuck-me you can't hide."

Rick's voice broke, rasping. "I…don't…want…you!"

Negan laughed, biting, tasting, feeling the jerk of Rick's body against him. "God, you're full of shit. You're soaked, trembling, straining, and your cock's screaming my name like a whore."

Rick's hand clenched Negan's shoulder, knuckles white, jaw locked. "You're insane."

"I told you that already, cowboy." Negan pressed his mouth to Rick's neck, biting, tongue dragging over teeth marks he left on earlier skirmishes. "And you? You're insane for letting me in. Letting this happen. Wanting it so bad you can't admit it."

Rick shuddered, hips jerking involuntarily, shaking like he's on the edge of control. "You're—" breathless, broken, "—you're gonna regret this."

Negan's laugh was low, dangerous. "Regret? Maybe. But not yet. Not until I fuck every ounce of that goddamn rage right out of you."

Rick growled, fists slamming into Negan's chest, pushing. But Negan was unyielding, laughing against his lips as their bodies collided, twisting, jerking. The fight blurred into heat, into tension so raw it hummed between every nerve.

Negan slid a hand down, fingers brushing over the waistband, teasing, letting the friction build. Rick hissed, biting the corner of his mouth. "Stop—"

"Or what, Rick?" Negan murmured, lips brushing along the jaw, teeth grazing. "You gonna punch me? Bite me? Cry?"

"Fuck…you…" Rick's words dissolved into a strangled growl as hips jerked again, cock pressing hard, betraying him.

Negan's grin widened, teeth gleaming in the dim light. "There it is. Admit it. Hate me, want me, and you're mine whether you like it or not."

Rick shoved, twisting, trying to push away—but Negan followed every movement, body pressing, hands claiming, teeth nipping, teasing, dragging fire across skin.

Negan could feel it—the sharp edge of desperation, the flush of want. Rick's chest heaving, cock straining. His body betrayed him. And Negan…he drank it down, slow and greedy, wanting every ounce of it.

The fight was a taut wire, crackling, snapping. Every shove, every bite, every hissed insult only built the tension higher. Until finally…Rick faltered. Just a flicker. Just enough.

Negan pressed forward, voice low and raspy, a whisper on a knife-edge. "Enough talk. Let's see if you're as good on your knees as you are with your fists."

Rick jerked back, eyes wide, mouth opening to protest, but the heat in him, the trembling, the need…Negan could see it. Smell it. Taste it. And it was delicious.

Rick’s defiance cracked. Just a fraction, a tremor in his stance, a hitch in his breathing—and Negan pounced. Hands wrapped around hips, pulling him flush, chest pressed against chest. He could feel Rick’s cock straining, hard and desperate, even as he tried to shove him away.

“Fucking finally,” Negan rasped, teeth grazing the curve of Rick’s jaw. “You can fight me, push me, call me a monster…all you want. But that little body of yours? Tells me a different story.”

Rick jerked, twisting, trying to shove, but Negan was relentless. His hands slid lower, palms pressing hard against Rick’s ass, thumbs brushing over denim, tugging him closer, grinding. Rick hissed, sharp, ragged. “Negan…don’t—”

“Don’t what, cowboy?” Negan’s voice was dark, low, a growl vibrating against Rick’s ear. “Don’t tell me I’m about to fuck you senseless? Don’t tell me your cock’s already crying for me?”

Rick’s hips bucked, betraying him. He shoved back with his hands, but his body arched, craving. “You’re insane…fuck…you’re insane,” he gasped.

Negan grinned, teeth flashing. He leaned forward, mouth hot on Rick’s neck, biting, dragging teeth along skin. “Damn right I am. And you? You’re insane for wanting this.”

The first tug of denim and leather, fingers slipping under the waistband, and Rick hissed, a broken sound, hands clawing at Negan’s back, at his chest, at the air. Negan cupped him, thumb brushing the slit, teasing, dragging the heat over slick skin. Rick shuddered, thighs quivering, hands scrabbling over Negan’s shoulders, hair, chest, anywhere to anchor himself.

Negan pressed forward, cock straining, hips grinding into Rick’s ass. He could feel Rick’s hardness against him, stiff, needy, protesting with every movement. “Jesus, Rick. You’re soaked. You’re mine whether you like it or not.”

Rick tried to push away, twisted in resistance, but Negan captured him, one hand clamping around the throat, the other palming, gripping, dragging him flush. “Look at me,” Negan whispered. “Look at me while I fuck that stubborn little ass of yours.”

Rick’s breath hitched, eyes wide, fury and need colliding. Negan silenced him with teeth against the jaw, lips dragging, nipping, marking. And then he was inside, cock pressing, sliding, filling, hot and impossibly hard. Rick hissed, a broken sound, hands clawing at Negan’s back, at his chest, at the air.

Negan growled, driving in, slow at first, teasing, then harder, faster, catching Rick’s hips and dragging them flush against him. “Scream. Bite. Call me a bastard. Call me everything you want me to be.”

Rick’s head dropped back, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut. Negan laughed, harsh, hot, hands digging into ass and waist, dragging him close. Rick’s hands tangled in hair, pulling, trying to push away, but hips bucking betrayed him. Every shove of Negan’s cock into his ass, every bite, every low growl, drove him higher, hotter.

Negan pressed harder, grinding in, feeling Rick’s slick coating him, hearing the ragged cries, seeing the flush of skin, the flare of nipples, the tilt of his head back, mouth open, jaw tight. He pulled back just slightly, letting Rick writhe, teeth clashing, chest rising and falling in panic and want. “Say it. Say you’re mine. Say it while I fuck you hard enough to make you scream.”

Rick’s eyes snapped open, fury and heat mixing, but not a single word escaping his mouth. “That’s my boy,” Negan rasped, cock dragging deep, hips slamming. The parlor shook with the force of their bodies, fists hitting walls, boards creaking, dust scattering like sparks. Rick’s legs wrapped around him, clinging, twisting, pressing Negan in deeper, needing every inch.

Negan’s hand slipped from the throat to clutch ass and waist, pulling him flush, driving in harder, faster. Rick’s chest heaved, voice breaking, hands clinging, legs quivering, cock twitching, spitting hot need against Negan. Negan hissed, teeth nipping shoulder and neck, groin grinding, cock deep, slick coating them both.

Rick’s climax hit like a storm, shuddering violently, crying out, hips jerking, nails digging into Negan’s back, pulling him close. Negan growled, tightening, dragging Rick into him, letting him ride it out, every thrust punishing, every groan, every tremble of body, every curse coating them in fire. His own release followed, cock pulsing, spilling, hot and heavy, hips still grinding, chest pressed flush against Rick’s, tasting, smelling, marking.

When the world stopped spinning, both men collapsed into each other, hot, breathing, slick, and trembling. Rick’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, head resting against Negan’s shoulder. Eyes closed, chest heaving, body still quivering. Negan’s fingers ran through hair, tracing the marks he’d left, lips brushing a shoulder, down the curve of neck, teeth grazing a cheek. “You hate me,” he murmured, voice low, harsh. “And you’ll never admit how much you needed this.”

Rick’s only answer was a ragged exhale, a shiver, a tightening grip around him. Negan smiled, bitter and dark, still hard, still claiming, still wanting. “Good. Keep hating me. Keep wanting me. Because I’m not letting go.”

The parlor was quiet. Sunlight through splintered boards. Dust hanging in the air. Two men, spent, slick, trembling, entwined in sweat, hate, obsession, and something dangerously close to care. Or maybe just possession. Negan pressed a kiss to the top of Rick’s head, teeth grazing lightly, savoring the shiver it pulled. “…You can scream tomorrow. Curse me tomorrow."

Chapter Text

The world was holding its breath.

Negan could feel it in the way the wind moved — slow, careful, like it didn’t want to wake something sleeping too close. The fields outside the old gas station were nothing but scorched grass and bent metal. A week of rain had washed the blood away, but the memory of it clung to everything.

He’d come alone, or at least that’s what he told himself. The Saviors didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to explain. Some meetings didn’t belong in the daylight.

The front window of the gas station was shattered, the glass still glittering in the dirt like frost. He leaned against the rusted frame, favoring his bad leg, and took a slow drag off a cigarette. Smoke curled in the cold air, tracing the shape of his thoughts — sharp, shifting, never still.

Rick would come. He always did.

Negan didn’t know what he wanted from this, not really. Maybe a truce. Maybe a fight. Maybe something uglier. He only knew he couldn’t stop thinking about the last time — the house, the rain, the silence after. The kind of silence that changed things.

Bootsteps crunched on gravel before he saw him.

Rick came out of the tree line like a ghost, rifle slung over his shoulder, face drawn tight with exhaustion and intent. The beard was thicker, the eyes the same — steady, storm-colored, hard to look at for too long. His jacket was torn, his hands raw. War had carved him down to the bone.

Negan flicked his cigarette away. “Well, I’ll be damned. Grimes.”

Rick stopped a few yards away. “You’re limping worse.”

Negan smirked. “And you’re still a smartass. Guess we’re both consistent.”

They stood like that for a while, the war hanging between them — invisible, waiting. The smell of oil and rain clung to the air. Somewhere in the distance, a crow called. Everything else was quiet.

Negan broke the silence first. “Heard you pulled back from the west road. Losing ground?”

Rick’s jaw flexed. “Heard your outpost burned.”

Negan laughed under his breath. “So we’re both bleeding. Romantic, ain’t it?”

Rick didn’t answer, but his eyes flicked over Negan like he was measuring distance — not in feet, but in trust. Or maybe in memory. Negan saw it, that flash of something he couldn’t name.

“Why’re you here, Rick?” Negan asked finally. “Don’t tell me it’s diplomacy.”

Rick looked past him, to the horizon where the storm clouds were breaking apart. “Didn’t come to talk.”

“Yeah,” Negan said quietly. “Didn’t think so.”

He took a step closer, the boards under his boots creaking. Rick didn’t move back. The distance between them was close enough now to smell the dirt and gun oil, the sharp tang of blood on old fabric. Too close for enemies. Too far for anything else.

Negan tilted his head. “You gonna shoot me?”

Rick’s hand tightened on the strap of his rifle. “If I wanted to, I would’ve.”

“That’s the thing about you, Rick. You always could, but you never do.”

Rick’s eyes cut to his. “You saying I’m weak?”

Negan’s voice dropped. “I’m saying you’re human. And that’s what makes you dangerous.”

For a second, neither of them breathed. The wind moved through the broken door behind them, stirring dust and dead leaves. The air felt heavy, like it remembered the last time they’d shared a room — the quiet, the closeness, the way it had ended without ending.

Negan broke eye contact first, just long enough to glance toward the road. “You ever think about what comes after this?” he asked. “After the guns. After all the noise.”

Rick’s reply was slow. “There’s no after.”

Negan gave a low hum, half amusement, half something darker. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to give up hope.”

Rick took a step closer. The light from the broken window hit his face, and Negan saw it then — not hopelessness, but exhaustion. The kind that ate through bone. “You don’t get it,” Rick said. “I’m not the same man you met.”

Negan smiled, small and tired. “Neither am I.”

They were close now, almost shoulder to shoulder, the space between them filled with everything that hadn’t been said. The war had burned away the pretense, left only truth behind — sharp and bare.

Rick looked at him like a man measuring the weight of his own choices. Negan could feel the pull, the same twisted current that had drawn them together before. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t even understanding. It was need — the kind that came from two people who’d seen too much and were still standing.

Negan’s hand brushed Rick’s sleeve when he moved past him. Not a grab, not a command — just a touch, light as breath. Rick didn’t flinch.

“You came here for somethin’,” Negan said quietly. “So did I. But maybe it ain’t what we thought.”

Rick turned his head, voice low. “You think this means anything?”

Negan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Means we’re still alive.”

The words hung there, simple and final.

Outside, the clouds broke. Sunlight spilled through the cracks in the roof, catching dust in the air like ash. For a moment, the world didn’t look dead anymore — just waiting to see who would make the next move.

Negan stepped back, watching Rick. He could read the tension in every line of him — the fight still coiled tight beneath the skin, the same fire that made him unstoppable. Negan knew that fire. He’d lived by it once.

“You should go,” Negan said. “Before somebody sees you.”

Rick hesitated, eyes still locked on his. “You’ll tell them?”

Negan’s grin was sharp but not cruel. “What, that we had a little chat in the ruins? Nah. Let ‘em wonder.”

Rick exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. Then he turned toward the door.

Negan watched him go, sunlight flashing off the rifle at his back. Something inside him twisted again — not regret, not victory, just that same ache he couldn’t name.

When Rick reached the edge of the road, he stopped and looked back once. Their eyes met across the distance — a line drawn and redrawn a hundred times. Then he was gone, swallowed by the trees.

Negan stood there for a long time after, the sound of the wind filling the silence Rick left behind. He picked up his bat, resting it against his shoulder, and let out a slow breath.

He could still smell him — sweat, dirt, gunpowder, rain. It clung to the air, to his memory. Too vivid to forget.

Negan turned toward the road at last, his leg stiff but steady. The war wasn’t over, not even close. But something in it had shifted. The lines weren’t as clear anymore. The hate wasn’t either.

As he walked, he thought about the look in Rick’s eyes — the way it said we’re the same without needing words.

Negan smiled to himself, a small, dangerous thing.
“See you soon, Grimes.”

The wind swallowed the words, carrying them across the fields toward wherever Rick had gone.

In the quiet that followed, Negan kept walking one man, one wound, one ghost he couldn’t stop chasing.

Chapter Text

The burned-out house sat at the edge of a long stretch of dead trees. It had once been two stories, maybe more, but now only the stone shell remained. The roof had caved in long before he found it. The air smelled like ash even when the wind shifted away.

Rick had built a small fire in the middle of what used to be the living room. The flames chewed on damp wood and spat like an animal. He kept feeding it scraps anyway. The warmth hurt his face, but the cold behind him was worse.

He hadn’t spoken in two days.

The others thought he’d gone south to scout, maybe find new routes through Savior territory. They didn’t ask questions when he said he needed to go alone. Michonne had looked at him too long before he left, like she knew there was something else underneath, but she didn’t stop him. Maybe she was tired of trying.

Now, sitting cross-legged on the warped floorboards, Rick stared at the fire until the orange blurred into white. His hand ached where the skin had split from the recoil of his pistol. His leg throbbed where the bruise from Negan’s kick hadn’t faded.

Negan.

He said the name in his head like a curse, but it didn’t sound like one anymore.

The fire snapped. For a second it looked like a face — dark eyes, half a grin, smoke twisting into the shape of a mouth that said his name back. Rick rubbed at his eyes until the image disappeared, but the sound stayed, low and dragging through his memory.

He leaned forward and jabbed the poker into the embers. Sparks jumped up and scattered over the floor, tiny suns burning out before they reached his boots.

He remembered the smell of oil on Negan’s jacket. The sound of him breathing when they fought. The way silence fell after.

Rick cursed under his breath and pushed himself to his feet. His knees cracked. He paced the room twice, then stopped in front of the fire again. The shadows climbed the walls like water.

He tried to think about Alexandria, about the faces he was fighting for. Judith’s laugh. The way Carl used to scowl when he gave him orders. But the images slipped. Every time, Negan’s face cut through — the smirk, the eyes that saw too much.

He pressed a hand against the wall. The brick was cold and rough. He wanted that cold inside him, to smother the heat running under his skin.

Outside, a few walkers moved through the field, their sounds carried by the wind — that low, broken moan that never stopped. It should have calmed him. It was a familiar kind of noise, the background hum of the world now. But it only made him feel more alone.

He sat back down. The fire had burned low again. He tossed in another piece of wood and watched it catch.

For a long time he just listened — to the crackling, to the pulse behind his ears, to the faint rasp of his own breath.

Negan’s voice came back easy. You don’t get to walk away from this, Rick.

He didn’t know if he was remembering or imagining it. Maybe both.

He thought about the way Negan had looked at him in that ruined house — not like an enemy, not like a man about to die. Something else. Something that had stayed.

Rick clenched his fists. The skin over his knuckles pulled tight. He told himself it was just exhaustion, just war. People got twisted when they lived too long in the dark. But when he closed his eyes, the heat from the fire crawled up his neck, and it felt too much like touch.

He opened his eyes again. The firelight was shaking. The air shimmered with it, and for a second he saw Negan sitting across from him, sleeves rolled, a line of blood down his cheek. The vision moved when Rick breathed.

Rick whispered, “You ain’t here.”

The image smiled.

He picked up the poker again, but his hands were shaking now. The metal was hot. He pressed it to the floor beside him and watched the wood darken and smoke. The smell filled the room, sharp and thick.

He thought about pressing it harder, watching it burn through, watching the shape it would leave. A mark that meant something, proof he was still here.

The thought scared him — and he didn’t move.

Instead he leaned closer to the flame. His hair caught the heat and curled at the edges. His face was wet, though he hadn’t felt the tears start.

He said Negan’s name once, just to hear it in the air. The sound broke in half before it reached the walls.

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off. He couldn’t tell if it was weather or gunfire.

Rick dragged a hand down his face and stared at his palm. Ash stuck to the skin, fine gray dust. He rubbed it between his fingers until it disappeared.

He remembered the weight of Negan’s hand around his wrist during that last fight, the roughness of it, the way it had steadied him even while shoving him away.

He hated that his body remembered.

The fire coughed and flared. He watched it climb and shrink again. Every breath hurt now, like he’d swallowed smoke.

He told himself he’d leave at dawn, rejoin the others, finish this war. He said it out loud, to make it sound real. But even as he said it, he looked at the fire and knew he’d stay a little longer.

The flames licked higher, casting red across the black walls. The house looked alive again for a heartbeat — breathing, flickering, remembering.

Rick leaned forward, palms open to the heat.

He whispered, “You ain’t winning.”

The fire hissed back, louder, bright enough that he had to look away.

He sat there until morning, until the flames died down to embers. When he finally stood, the room smelled of smoke and sweat and something else he couldn’t name. He kicked dirt over the coals, but the heat still bled through the ground.

Outside, the air was cold. The sky was gray. He started walking toward the road, his breath fogging. Behind him, a thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney and twisted into the wind, disappearing east — toward Sanctuary.

Rick didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

The Sanctuary was too quiet.

Negan hated quiet. It made him hear things — boots scraping where there weren’t boots, the hum of the generators going thin, the breath of men waiting for orders that hadn’t come yet. Quiet meant weakness, and weakness spread faster than infection.

He limped down the hallway, Lucille hanging from his hand like a question he didn’t know how to ask. The stitches in his thigh burned with every step. Rick’s bullet had gone through clean, but it still throbbed whenever the weather turned.

He told everyone it didn’t bother him.
He told himself it didn’t bother him.
He lied both times.

A few of his men were playing cards near the loading dock. They snapped to attention when they saw him, faces pinched with that mixture of fear and admiration that had built this whole place. Negan grinned — the expression automatic, sharp enough to draw blood if you touched it.

“Relax, boys,” he said. “Not here to bust your chops. Just checking you’re not wasting perfectly good daylight.”

They laughed, the nervous kind, and he kept walking.

Outside, the sky was the color of old iron. Somewhere beyond those trees, Rick was out there licking his wounds and planning his next move. Negan could feel it — that restless energy between them, like a wire pulled too tight.

He should have killed him.
Should have, but didn’t.

Instead, he’d let the man crawl away, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Rick’s face when he did — defiance, disgust, something close to understanding.

Negan found himself on the catwalk above the yard. Below, a group of workers was moving crates into one of the trucks. One of them hesitated, dropping a box and spilling canned beans across the dirt.

Negan didn’t shout. He just watched.

Another worker bent to pick them up, faster than he needed to, and Negan saw it — that flicker of obedience born from fear. It should’ve satisfied him. It didn’t.

He turned away.

Inside his quarters, the walls felt too close. He sat on the edge of the cot, ran a hand over his jaw, and thought about service — what it meant, what it didn’t. He’d built his kingdom on it: people doing what they were told, trusting that his way kept them alive.

But it wasn’t enough anymore. Not since Rick.

He wanted more than obedience. He wanted understanding. Wanted Rick to see that his way worked, that order beat chaos, that his rules made sense in this wreck of a world.

He laughed under his breath. “Hell of a thing, wantin’ a man like that to follow.”

The sound echoed in the metal room, thin and ugly.

Negan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The leg wound ached again, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He thought about the moment the bullet tore through, the shock of it, the way he’d stayed standing out of sheer spite. Pain reminded him he was alive, and alive meant dangerous.

A knock came at the door.

“Boss?”

“Yeah.”

Simon stepped in, shoulders hunched, face pale with the kind of news no one wanted to bring. “Our outpost near the quarry — they pulled back. Rick’s people hit ’em hard. Took half the supplies.”

Negan exhaled slowly. “Half.”

“Yessir.”

He smiled without humor. “Good. Let him have it. Let him think he’s winnin’.”

Simon frowned. “You sure about that?”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Negan stood, gripping Lucille like a cane. “Because when a man like Rick starts to believe he’s winnin’, that’s when he stops listenin’. And when he stops listenin’…” He dragged the bat along the floor, the sound low and steady. “…that’s when he’s mine.”

Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

When the door closed again, Negan stared at the wall. There was a map tacked up there, marked with circles and lines — the movements of both sides, red ink bleeding through the paper. His gaze settled on one small mark where he guessed Rick might be.

He imagined walking into that space, the smell of smoke and dust. Rick standing there, jaw tight, eyes stubborn as ever. Negan giving an order and watching him hesitate, just long enough to know he’d heard it.

That was the thing about control. You couldn’t take it; you had to make someone give it.

He sat back down, flexing his hand. The memory of Rick’s grip came back — rough, unyielding, but not afraid. Negan respected that even as it burned him up.

Outside, thunder rolled. Rain followed, hitting the metal roof in uneven bursts. Negan listened, the rhythm reminding him of gunfire, of boots on wet ground, of men kneeling because he told them to.

He whispered, “You’ll come around, Rick. One way or another.”

The lights flickered.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it off the edge of a candle. The flame trembled, smoke curling into the air. For a moment he saw Rick’s face in it — tired, angry, too human for the monster this world needed him to be.

Negan took a long drag, exhaled, and let the smoke blur the image.

When the cigarette burned down, he stubbed it out on the table, stood, and called for Dwight.

“Get a message to our scouts,” he said. “Tell ’em if they see Grimes, they don’t shoot. They bring him in. Alive.”

Dwight hesitated. “Alive, huh?”

Negan smiled. “Alive. Man like that’s gotta learn how to follow before he dies.”

Dwight nodded and left.

Negan stayed where he was, watching the door until it stopped moving. Then he limped back to the cot and sat down again, the pain in his leg flaring. He welcomed it. Pain meant focus.

He imagined Rick again — that stare, the way he never looked away even when he should. Negan grinned, slow and mean.

“Gonna teach you, Sheriff,” he muttered. “World don’t run on mercy. It runs on men who know when to kneel and when to stand.”

The wind outside howled through the broken siding, carrying the smell of rain and rust.

Negan leaned back, eyes half-closed, and listened to it until the noise almost sounded like a man breathing close by.

He didn’t sleep.

When dawn came, the yard below was slick with mud. His men were already moving, loading trucks, checking weapons. Negan watched from the catwalk, silent. Every order he gave carried a weight that settled somewhere deep inside him.

He thought of Rick again, somewhere out there, probably staring at his own men with the same exhaustion, the same stubborn fire.

Two leaders, same world, different rules.

Negan rested both hands on the rail and smiled to himself. “We’ll see who follows who.”

The rain eased. The generators kicked back to life. The sound filled the air again — the hum of control, of people waiting for direction.

Negan stood straighter, the ache in his leg forgotten for the moment.

The war would start up again soon. When it did, he’d make damn sure Rick heard him loud and clear.

Chapter Text

Negan sat on the edge of a ruined bathtub, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. The house had no roof in places—black ribs of timber showing through the soot-stained ceiling. Rain had come through at some point and dried, leaving the air smelling of wet ash and rust. He could hear the wind through the broken windows, nothing else. No trucks. No Saviors. No gunfire. Just the lull.

His leg still ached from the bullet Rick had put there. It twinged when he shifted his weight, a sharp reminder of what passed for loyalty these days. He liked the pain—it kept him awake, reminded him there were still debts between them that hadn’t been settled.

Footsteps on gravel. He didn’t move.

Rick’s shadow came first, long across the doorframe, then the man himself. Beard untrimmed, eyes hollow from too many sleepless nights. He looked like he’d been walking alone for a while, maybe just to see if the world still remembered how to burn. Negan didn’t say a word. Just watched him come in, dust swirling around his boots.

Rick stopped a few feet away. “You were expectin’ me?”

Negan smiled around the cigarette. “I don’t get surprises anymore, not from you. Thought maybe you’d come finish the job.”

Rick’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I should.”

“Maybe you should,” Negan echoed. “But you won’t.”

Silence stretched between them. Rick’s eyes flicked over the wound in Negan’s leg, the faint limp he didn’t bother hiding. The guilt was there, barely veiled—Negan saw it the way you see heat rising off asphalt.

“You alone?” Negan asked.

Rick nodded once. “Ain’t safe to be seen. Not with you.”

“Didn’t ask if it was safe. Asked if you were alone.”

Rick didn’t answer that. He just looked at the ruined walls, the blackened floorboards. There was something about the place—like they’d both already died there once and forgotten to move on. Negan ground the cigarette out on the edge of the tub, stood, and took a step forward.

“You came all this way for what?” Negan asked. “Confession? Revenge? Little quality time with your mistakes?”

Rick’s breath came short. “You think you know me that well.”

“Oh, I know you just fine,” Negan said. “Better than you like. You come here when you should be back with your people. You come here when you’re supposed to hate me. What’s that say about you, Rick?”

Rick flinched as though struck. He moved suddenly—hand at Negan’s collar, shoving him back against the wall. Negan didn’t resist. The plaster cracked behind his shoulders, dust raining down. Rick’s knuckles pressed white. Negan could feel his heart hammering through the fabric.

“Don’t,” Rick said.

Negan’s voice dropped low. “Don’t what? Don’t talk? Don’t see you for what you are?”

Rick let go and stepped back, like he’d touched something hot. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Negan tilted his head. “I know you keep showin’ up when you should be runnin’ the other way. I know you look at me like you want me dead but can’t quite picture it. That’s knowing, Rick.”

Rick turned his back, pacing the room, boots scraping over the soot. “You’re poison,” he said.

“Yeah,” Negan said softly. “And you keep drinking.”

The words hit, and Rick froze. The light from the hole in the roof caught the edge of his face—half shadow, half flame. Negan stepped closer, slow, deliberate. The air thickened between them.

“You remember what it felt like,” Negan said, voice a rasp now. “That quiet after everything else stops. You and me. Nothing left but the noise we make.”

Rick’s shoulders rose, then fell. “You don’t stop, do you?”

“No. Not with you.”

Negan brushed past him, close enough that their sleeves touched. He could smell the smoke still clinging to Rick’s clothes, the salt of sweat. He wanted to reach out, but didn’t. Instead, he leaned by the shattered window, looking out at the grey horizon. “How’s Alexandria?” he asked, like the war was just a story they both read once.

“Standing,” Rick said.

“Good. You built it. Be a shame if it came down ‘cause you can’t decide what side you’re on.”

Rick’s mouth twisted. “I know my side.”

“Sure you do.” Negan’s laugh was low, rough. “You tell yourself you fight for them. But you and me—we fight ‘cause we don’t know how to stop.”

Rick’s voice broke through the quiet: “You think I came here to hear you talk?”

Negan turned back, eyes catching the dim light. “No. You came ‘cause you knew I’d understand.”

They stood there for a long time, neither moving. The house creaked. A piece of burnt timber gave way somewhere in the hall, sending a cloud of soot across the floor. Rick stared at it like it might swallow them both.

Negan crossed the space again, slow. Every step made Rick’s jaw clench tighter. When he was close enough to feel Rick’s breath, he stopped.

“Say it,” Negan murmured.

Rick shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ to say.”

“There’s always somethin’. You keep comin’ back. There’s a reason.”

Rick’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t push me.”

Negan smiled faintly. “That’s the only thing I know how to do.”

He reached up—not to grab, not to strike—but to touch Rick’s chin, a single slow motion that froze both of them. Rick didn’t pull away. His pulse jumped once, hard, under his jaw. Then he stepped back, breathing hard.

“You think this is somethin’ it’s not,” Rick said. “You think there’s control here. There ain’t.”

Negan tilted his head. “No? Look at you. You’re still here.”

Rick’s eyes burned now, that same look from the field, the one that made men hesitate before pulling the trigger. “You ain’t got me,” he said.

Negan shrugged, that lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

For a moment, it seemed like Rick might swing again—fist, gun, something. But he didn’t. He turned instead, walking toward the door, steps heavy. Negan watched him go, that uneven limp in his own leg mirroring Rick’s uneven breath.

When the door creaked open, sunlight slanted in—dust turning gold for a heartbeat before fading. Rick stopped in the threshold.

“This ends,” Rick said without looking back. “Next time, it ends.”

Negan’s voice followed him, low, certain. “You sure you want it to?”

Rick hesitated, then stepped out into the light. His shadow slipped away from the doorframe and was gone.

Negan stood there a while, staring at the empty space where he’d been. The cigarette taste was still in his mouth. He rubbed at the scar on his leg, felt the ache return. The pain was grounding, real. It reminded him that Rick Grimes was still out there—somewhere between enemy and mirror image.

He sat back on the tub, pulled another cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. The smoke curled up through the holes in the roof, into the dying sky. Every drag felt like a memory—hot, rough, unfinished.

“Next time,” he said to the empty room, voice barely above a growl. “We’ll see who ends it.”

He leaned back, eyes closing, listening to the quiet outside. The war wasn’t done. Neither were they.

In that stillness—the lull between battles—Negan realized the truth he wouldn’t say out loud: he didn’t want it to end. Not yet.

Chapter Text

Smoke hung low in the trees. The night was full of cracks and flashes—gunfire bouncing through the skeletons of burned houses. Rick moved through it like he was wading through water, every sound wrong, every heartbeat loud. His people were out there somewhere. So were Negan’s. But right now, there was nothing but the dark.

He ducked through a broken doorway, shoulder scraping brick, and stumbled into blackness. His hand hit a wall slick with soot. The firefight raged outside—close, then far again—until the noise thinned, replaced by the ringing inside his head. He blinked, tried to adjust to the dark. Couldn’t see a damn thing.

Then a sound—soft, too close. A breath.

Rick froze. The silence between bursts of gunfire stretched. He turned his head, listening hard. It wasn’t echo. It was someone in the room.

He reached for his gun, fingers brushing the holster. Before he could draw, a voice came low and quiet, familiar in the worst way.

“Easy, Sheriff.”

Rick’s throat went dry. “Negan.”

“Yeah,” came the reply, calm, steady, like he’d been waiting there all along. “You found my little hideout.”

Rick’s finger tensed on the trigger. “You followin’ me?”

Negan let out a breath of a laugh. “World’s burnin’ down, bullets flyin’ every which way, and you still think I got time to chase your ass? Guess it’s just bad luck.”

The floor creaked. Rick turned toward the sound, but the dark was total—no shape, no light, just voice. The firefight outside flared again, red light slicing through a window for a heartbeat, enough to catch the glint of Negan’s eyes before the dark slammed back in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Rick said. He couldn’t tell if he meant the house, or him, or both.

Negan’s steps were slow, careful. “Neither should you. But here we are.”

Something cracked above them—roof beam shifting under the weight of wind or fire. Dust fell, dry and choking. Rick coughed, blinked grit out of his eyes. When he looked again, nothing.

“You hurt?” Negan asked, closer now.

Rick shook his head, though he knew Negan couldn’t see it. “Fine.”

“Good,” Negan said. “Would hate to drag your sorry ass outta here.”

“Wouldn’t let you,” Rick said. He kept his voice steady, but the dark made it feel thin. Every sound was too close. The smell of gunpowder and ash pressed in on him.

Another flash outside—white light this time, sharp enough to paint Negan’s face for a split second. Blood at his temple. Sweat streaked through soot. Then gone again.

“Your people shootin’ blind,” Negan said. “Mine too. Ain’t nobody knowin’ who they’re hittin’ anymore.”

Rick said nothing. His pulse was loud in his ears. It was easier to hate Negan when he could see him. Easier to picture the bat, the grin. Now, just a voice. Low, steady. Almost human.

“You hear that?” Negan said quietly.

Rick frowned. “What?”

“The quiet between shots. That’s the part that gets me. Never lasts long, but when it does…” He let the words hang.

Rick’s hand was still on his gun. “You talk too much.”

“Somebody’s gotta fill the silence.”

A crack of gunfire, closer this time. The wall behind Rick splintered, showering him with dust. He dropped low, half crawling across the floor, hand brushing broken glass. Negan moved too—he could hear the scrape of boots, the rustle of a coat. Then another explosion outside, brighter, shaking the walls.

Rick flinched. His ears rang. When the echo faded, he realized he couldn’t hear anything else. Just the pulse in his head. No shouts. No steps. Even Negan was gone for a moment—no voice, no breath. The dark pressed down like a weight.

“Negan?” he called, voice rough.

No answer. He blinked hard, tried to focus. Couldn’t tell up from down. His hand hit something solid—an arm, warm and rough. He pulled back fast.

“Still here,” Negan’s voice came, close enough to feel on his skin. “Relax, Sheriff.”

Rick didn’t. His body was all tension, muscles wired for fight or flight. “Stay the hell back.”

“Maybe I will,” Negan said. “If you stop soundin’ like you’re about to blow a gasket.”

Rick’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know what I’m thinkin’.”

“I know enough.” Negan’s tone softened. “You’re out here in the dark same as me. Can’t tell where your people are. Can’t tell where mine are. You think you’re still in control, but you’re not.”

The words hit deeper than Rick wanted them to. He tried to stand, hit a beam with his shoulder, cursed under his breath. Negan’s hand caught his arm, steadying him without force. For a heartbeat, they stood like that—motionless, blind. The sounds of war outside seemed far away now, swallowed by the dark.

“You lettin’ go,” Negan said quietly.

Rick pulled free. “Ain’t lettin’ you touch me.”

Negan’s laugh was barely there. “Didn’t ask for permission, Rick. Just keepin’ you on your feet.”

Rick turned away, groping for the wall. His fingers found the edge of a windowsill, rough with splinters. He leaned there, breathing hard. The smell of smoke and Negan’s sweat mixed in the air, sharp and heavy. He hated how close it felt.

“I should kill you,” Rick said.

“Then do it,” Negan replied. No fear in it. Just calm, like he’d already accepted it. “Ain’t the first time you’ve tried.”

Rick’s hand tightened on the gun again, but the words rang hollow. They both knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger now. Not like this. Not blind.

Another sound cut through—the crack of wood giving way, then silence again. Rick’s pulse thudded in his throat. He could hear Negan breathing somewhere behind him. Not moving. Just there.

The dark became something alive, shifting around them. He couldn’t tell how long they stood like that. Minutes, maybe hours. The firefight moved farther off, replaced by the occasional echo of a dying engine or a man shouting in the distance.

Rick finally spoke. “You always find a way to get in my head.”

“Don’t gotta try,” Negan said. “You do that all on your own.”

Rick’s voice dropped low. “You think I want this?”

“I think you want somethin’. You ain’t sure what yet.”

Rick turned. “You’re wrong.”

Negan stepped closer. “Maybe. But here’s the thing—I’m the only one willin’ to tell you that.”

The air between them felt charged, thick enough to taste. Rick could make out the shape of Negan now, faintly outlined by the dying firelight outside. His coat torn, his face half-hidden. He looked like a ghost that refused to leave.

“Next time we meet,” Rick said, “I won’t hesitate.”

Negan smiled faintly. “You keep sayin’ that.”

Rick exhaled, long and hard. “You keep givin’ me reason to.”

Another silence stretched out, this one different—less about war, more about what was left when it ended. The dark wasn’t total anymore; faint orange flickers danced through the window, dying embers from some unseen fire. It painted Negan’s features in half-light: tired, grim, alive.

Outside, the shooting had stopped. The world was holding its breath.

Negan shifted, limping a little. “Guess that’s the end of the show.”

Rick nodded, though he wasn’t sure what came next. “You go your way, I go mine.”

Negan tilted his head. “Sure about that?”

Rick didn’t answer. He stepped past him, boots crunching on broken glass, and stopped at the doorway. The moon had come out behind the smoke—faint, pale. He could see just enough to know the field outside was empty now. No living bodies. Just the smell of fire.

Behind him, Negan’s voice came low. “You ever wonder what happens after all this?”

Rick looked over his shoulder. “Don’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Negan said softly. “That’s what I thought.”

Rick didn’t wait for more. He stepped out into the open air, the smoke curling around him, the world too wide and too quiet. The sound of his own breathing was loud again, louder than the gunfire had been. He didn’t look back.

Negan stayed in the doorway for a long time, watching. Neither man said another word.

When Rick finally disappeared into the treeline, the night closed over them both, and the burned-out house sank back into silence.

Chapter Text

The air in the house was colder now, a few days after that night in the absolute dark. The war was like a fever that spiked, then broke into a chilling sweat, but the infection always lingered. They’d traded blows, lost ground, gained ground. Now, it was a silent, festering wound. Negan hadn’t sought out the building, but when his patrol route took him past the charred remains, he felt the pull. The house was a scar he couldn't stop tracing, a monument to the only honesty he seemed capable of having anymore.

He stepped over the broken sill, boots crunching on the soot and glass. The sun was out, but up here, under the half-collapsed roof, it was a deep, charcoal gray. It felt cleaner than the Sanctuary, which was rotten with fear and whispered rebellion. This place was clean of expectation. It was where Rick Grimes let the Sheriff die for an hour.

He was waiting, but he didn’t know who for. His own people were scattered, licking wounds. He kept his gun loose, ready to raise it, but his mind wasn't on the war. It was on the space the exact spot where he’d stood close enough to Rick to smell the adrenaline and the frantic, animal fear.
“Knew you’d be here.”
The voice was rough, low. Not a shout, just a statement. Rick.

Negan turned slowly, a thin grin already pulling at his mouth. The Sheriff was framed in a broken window, the weak daylight outlining the tense line of his jaw. He looked like he hadn't slept, eyes dark and heavy. He was holding an axe an obvious threat, a lie they both participated in.

“Don’t look so surprised, Rick. You left a lot of yourself here, same as me. Didn’t want the Saviors to find your little secrets, did you? Thought you’d come back to sweep up your shame.”

Rick didn't move. He held the axe like it was part of his arm. “I came back to finish it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Negan let his hand drop. He wasn't drawing his gun. He wanted this closer. “You had your chance the other night. Blind, in the dark. Didn’t pull the trigger. Tell me why. Was it too much like killing a Walker, too easy? Or was it because you missed me the second I walked out?”

Rick took a step inside, and the ruined floorboards groaned. “I want to see your face when you die.”

“Flattering,” Negan scoffed, the word flat. “You want to see me, Rick. That’s what it is.”
The charge came, a straight line of pure, desperate rage. The axe came up not a swing for murder, but a thrust toward Negan’s chest, a statement of intent. Negan sidestepped the blade, catching Rick’s forearm and twisting it, shoving the Sheriff hard against the nearest wall. Brick and plaster sprayed. Rick grunted, but didn’t let go.

“Careful, Sheriff,” Negan said, his voice dropping low. “You want me dead, you gotta be sharper than that.”

Rick pivoted, swinging the axe in a wide, desperate arc. Negan ducked under it the wind of the blade on his hair and punched Rick hard, low on the ribs. A wet, painful cough.

They fell into a furious, clumsy grappling. This wasn't combat; it was a desperate attempt to tear through the other man’s skin to find the nerve ending that held the guilt. Rick shoved him away, stumbled back, then threw the axe aside. It clanged against a metal beam and fell into the dust. He came at Negan with his fists, but his focus was erratic punches aimed at the face, the next a desperate grab for Negan's throat.

"Why here, Rick? This is our little spot. You miss me that much?" Negan drove his knee into Rick’s stomach, then grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, forcing his eyes up. "Tell me what you really want."

Rick bucked, his breath ragged. "To watch you burn."

Negan threw him down to the floor, landing on top of him. The air was knocked out of Rick, a guttural sound of pain. Negan’s weight settled, heavy, pinning him.

They were face to face. Negan’s hands were on the collar of Rick’s shirt, knuckles digging into his neck, holding him in place. The smell of sweat, ash, and desperate exertion was overpowering. The rage was fire, but it inverted. The fight had achieved its goal: it had brought them closer, two bruised, desperate animals in a den.

"You're not going to kill me," Negan whispered, staring at Rick’s wide, trapped eyes. "Not now. Not like this. We're beyond that, Sheriff. You hate me, but you need me. Look what you do to me. Look what I make you do."

He eased the pressure, shifting his weight. Rick’s hands moved not to punch, but to claw at Negan’s coat, pulling him closer, a raw, undeniable hunger.

Negan let Rick strip him. The Sheriff's movements were urgent and rough a frantic need to peel back the layers until they were just two bodies, equal parts dirt and desperation. When Rick finally tugged down Negan’s pants, freeing the heavy weight of his cock, Negan let out a low, satisfied sound. The tension in the air was so thick it was slick.

“That’s it,” Negan rasped, grabbing Rick’s face and forcing his mouth down in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. He tasted the metallic tang of shame and swallowed it like a dark sacrament.

He broke the kiss, dragging Rick down to his knees. “Your turn, Sheriff. Tell me what you need.”

Rick’s eyes were locked on Negan’s cock, already thick and straining. “Make me forget,” Rick choked out.
“Forget?” Negan scoffed. “No. I’m going to make you remember. Everything.”

Rick didn't flinch. His mouth closed around the length of Negan’s cock with a familiar, brutal intensity. His desperation was palpable a harsh, focused need that was both demeaning and intoxicating. Negan watched his own hips start to buck, the pleasure a tight, painful spike that drove the cold, hard control right out of his mind.

He pulled Rick up, the breath tearing from his own chest, and spun him around, pushing him forward, chest pressed against a splintered support beam.

"No more kneeling, Rick. Not here. Not for this."

Negan reached out, his hand finding the only intact item in the room: a tall, cracked, soot-covered full-length mirror leaning against the back wall. He guided Rick toward it, his hands rough on his waist.

“Look,” Negan commanded, his voice dark, close to Rick’s ear. “Look at us. Look at what we are.”

Rick’s body was shaking, but he didn't resist. Negan stripped the rest of his clothes, his hand trailing down the tight, tense muscles of his back, pausing to pinch the pale skin of his ass. Rick gasped, the sound muffled against the wood.

Negan took his time, running a generous amount of slick over his own hand, coating his fingers until they shone in the dim light. He pushed one finger deep into Rick’s ass, easing past the tight resistance, then a second, and a third, stretching him with painful, slow insistence.

Rick let out a low moan, not of pleasure, but of pure surrender. He pressed his forehead against the beam, his knuckles white as he gripped the wood.

“You’re so tight, Sheriff,” Negan murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. “Like you’re trying to keep it all in. All the hate. All the war. You can’t.

He pulled his fingers out, leaving Rick raw and exposed. Negan’s own cock was heavy, pulsing with readiness. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, driving his erection hard into Rick’s ass, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful, explicit thrust.

Rick’s groan was short and sharp, immediately stifled. He arched violently against the beam.

“Look, Rick…. Look at the mirror!” Negan demanded, his voice thick with the moment

The glass reflected the scene back to them: Negan, exposed and brutal, driving his body into Rick’s tense, exposed frame. It was raw, ugly, and absolute. Rick’s eyes were wide in the reflection, staring not at Negan, but at the grotesque image of their shared, secret violation.

Negan started to move, slow at first, then building a crushing, rhythmic pace. He gripped Rick’s hips. Each thrust was a brutal denial of everything Rick stood for, every lie they told their communities.

“You hate what I did to your people,” Negan grated out, pounding deep into Rick’s heat. “You want to punish me, don’t you? Take control, Rick? Make me pay for the blood on my hands!”

Rick’s voice was a broken whisper, thick with exertion and shame. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can!” Negan hissed, burying his cock so deep Rick cried out again. “It’s what you crave. Punish me! Punish the monster you keep coming back to!”

The demand unlocked something primal in Rick. His back muscles bunched, his hips started to buck, matching Negan’s thrusts, turning the act from a violation into a furious, mirrored effort. He was taking the pace, giving back the pain.

Negan felt the release of control a profound, shattering relief. This was what he needed: not the dominance, but the penance. He needed Rick, the good man, the Sheriff, to take the whip and strike.

Rick’s nails dug into the wood of the beam, and he let loose a guttural sound that was half growl, half sob. His body was slick with sweat and the slick, rubbing against Negan’s. They were a single, grinding engine of self-destruction.

In the mirror, their faces were distorted masks of effort and need. Negan focused on Rick's reflection, on the pure, devastating shame written there, and it drove him harder, faster. He felt the tightening deep inside Rick, the muscular grip of final surrender.

It was too much. The pressure was building, impossible to contain. Negan slammed into Rick one last time, a shattering, endless thrust, and groaned his release, emptying his cock into Rick’s depths.

Rick followed moments later, a loud, ragged cry of pure, agonizing climax, his body shuddering against the beam. He collapsed against the wood, utterly spent, his energy drained completely.

Negan pulled out, his cock slick and pulsing, and dropped to his knees, his forehead resting on Rick’s damp, heaving back. They stayed like that, two men breathing the same poisoned, ash-filled air, their connection a painful, undeniable tether.

After a long minute, Negan slowly rose, his legs trembling. He didn’t look at the mirror again. He started dressing, pulling the layers of the monster back on.

“Same time, same place, next week,” Negan said, his voice now calm, cold. He was the monster again, the one who controlled the world.

Rick didn't move, just lay there, naked and broken against the ruined wood.
“I won’t be here,” Rick finally whispered, his voice hoarse, thick with emotion.

Negan paused, his hand on the doorframe. He looked over his shoulder. “Yes, you will, Rick.”

He knew it was true. He walked out of the house and back into the war, leaving the Sheriff to gather the pieces of himself in the reflection of a cracked mirror.

The scent of his own sweat and the acrid smoke of the war-torn air clung to Negan as he drove, the Sanctuary miles away but the metallic, bitter tang of the house and of Rick still coating his tongue. The adrenaline had curdled, leaving behind the cold, hard clarity of a man who’d just done something both unforgivable and utterly necessary. He hated the necessary things. They stripped you of the illusion of choice.

​He was back on the highway, a long, cracked ribbon of asphalt that led straight to the decaying, fortified steel cage he called home. He’d walked out of that house and put the monster back on, layer by calculated layer. The calm, cold command he’d issued to Rick “Yes, you will, Rick”

It was a promise of bondage that applied to himself just as much. He needed Rick there next week, not for the pleasure, but for the penance. Rick was the only scale in this burned-out world that could weigh the true horror of his existence and find it wanting.

The Sanctuary loomed up in the distance, a massive, unholy monument built from hubris and fear. Whispers met him at the gates, thin, desperate things that clung to the shadows not of fear for him, but fear of him, and fear of the outside.

The war was turning the compound into a pressure cooker.

​“The perimeter’s been pushed again, Negan,” Simon’s voice, oily and too loud, cut through the din of the courtyard. “They hit the west wall, fire and heavy ammo. Two workers gone, eight Walkers brought in.”

​Negan stopped, but didn’t turn around. He focused on the grime layered on the floor, the pathetic trail of grease and dried blood.
​“And what did you do, Simon?” Negan’s voice was flat, devoid of the usual charm, resonating with a dangerous stillness he rarely allowed.

​“I reinforced the position, of course. Increased rations for the fighting crews, decreased the others to maintain stability. We’re holding.” Simon sounded proud, a jackal boasting of holding a scrap of meat.

​Negan finally turned, a slow, deliberate motion that brought his eyes to Simon’s face not the fake, wide-eyed fury he used for the masses, but a piercing, bone-deep disappointment. He felt an urge to slap the smug calculation right off Simon’s face, not for the failure, but for the easy cruelty. Rick would hate that. Rick would fight that. And that, right now, was the only moral compass Negan had left.

​“Rations for the others go back to normal immediately,” Negan stated, the voice a low, heavy chord of authority. “I didn’t build this place to watch our own starve to scare them straight. I built it to keep them alive. You understand that, or do I need to introduce your thick skull to a new policy director?”
​Simon flinched, the slight tremor in his jaw a visible crack in his loyalty. “Understood, Negan. It’s done.”

​Negan dismissed him with a curt gesture. The moment Simon was gone, the weariness hit him. He didn’t go to his quarters. He went to the balcony that overlooked the inner courtyard, a place of public display and cold isolation.

​He watched the faces below. Dwight was down there, pale and watchful, moving supplies with a controlled efficiency. He was a snake, loyal only to the idea of his own survival, yet somehow more honest than the rest.

​Look at us. Look at what we are.

​The memory of the mirror flooded his vision Rick’s wide, shamed eyes staring into the glass, his own face a mask of brutal, necessary fulfillment. That’s what he was. The beast that kept the smaller, weaker beasts in line by being worse than they were.

​The irony was a hot, sick taste in his throat. He had demanded that Rick punish him, had driven himself deeper into Rick's ass to feel the friction of Rick's fury, the muscular conviction of the Sheriff's body fighting the very act of surrender. He sought Rick’s hatred as a form of grace; Rick was the only one who could truly condemn him.

Lucille, his wife, had given him comfort, silence, and an uncomplicated love he cherished, but she offered no condemnation. She couldn't. Rick, however, offered both the hatred he deserved and the desperate lust that made the hatred true.

Negan ran a hand over his tired face. Three days of three hours sleep if he was lucky. His note to the author was accurate: the trouble started the minute the thought of Rick became an anchor and a shackle, the moment he realized his meticulously constructed life the marriage, the rules, the showmanship was nothing but a dollhouse built to protect the frightened boy who didn’t want to be his father.

​He had become the monster to save his skin, and now only Rick’s pure, agonizing shame in that broken mirror could save his soul.

He’d scoffed at the religion then, but now, standing over his dominion, he understood the context. Abiding was what he craved: an end to the endless, tiring war. And he only felt that elusive, terrible peace the abiding when he was deep inside the one man who wanted him dead.

​He pushed off the railing. The monster needed to sleep. He needed to rest so he could face the war and, more importantly, face the next appointment with the man who was slowly carving the "good" out of him with a desperation equal to his own.

​He walked toward his room, the sound of his heavy boots echoing in the corridor, each step a confirmation: he was Negan. He was a monster. And he would see the Sheriff next week. He had to.

Chapter Text

The cold came back first. Not the sharp, killing cold of the winter wind, but the creeping, internal chill of utter exposure. Rick lay flat on his back, the splintered wood and powdery ash of the floor pressing into his skin, and the world was nothing but a low, ringing silence.
He wasn't moving. He couldn't.

The effort to simply draw breath felt like hauling a coffin lid shut. Every muscle fiber was screaming, but beneath the physical exhaustion, a deeper, more profound fatigue had taken hold. It was the exhaustion of the soul, of having nothing left to give, not even the will to hate.

Negan was gone. He knew it because the air had thinned, the oppressive, heavy scent of leather and brutal confidence having finally retreated, replaced by the mundane, dying smell of burnt wood and dust. The absence was immediate and absolute, leaving Rick entirely alone with the wreckage.

He stared at the ceiling or what was left of it where thin strips of the evening sky showed through the gaping holes. The stars, indifferent and cold, pricked the blackness. He didn't want to move. If he moved, he would have to acknowledge the floor beneath him, the place where he had just been fucked into a final, humiliating surrender.

“You want to punish me? Take control, Rick! Make me pay for the blood on my hands!”

The memory of Negan's voice, thick and guttural with demand, was a branding iron across his mind. It wasn't the words themselves, or even the power dynamic.

It was the terrifying, undeniable truth they contained: that deep down, in the blackest pit of his exhausted morality, Rick had wanted the penance as much as Negan had. He had wanted the total, mind-numbing destruction of the Alexandrias leader, the man who was supposed to be the moral architect of a new world, leaving only the animal, the desperate, broken thing that crawled to its knees for a moment of absolute non-existence.

He turned his head slowly, the gritty ash scraping against his cheek. His eyes landed on the only witness left in the room: the mirror. Cracked, soot-stained, leaning drunkenly against the corner beam. It reflected the distorted, monstrous image of what had just occurred, a truth far uglier than any lie he told himself.

He saw the pale skin of his chest, the faint scars there, and the line of filth streaked across his abdomen. The memory of the glass of Negan's hands on his hips, locking them together, forcing his eyes to stay fixed on the tableau of their shared violation made a fresh wave of nausea hit him.

Look at us.

Look at what we are.

He felt a deep, wrenching tremor of shame and a bitter, self-lacerating realization: he hadn't just been fucked; he had been witnessed. He had been forced to watch the death of the man he thought he was, reflected back at him in shattered glass.

The memory of the climax was a violent, involuntary shudder through his body.

Negan, pounding into him, demanding rage, demanding control, demanding the punishment Rick was too broken to deliver. And then, the final, shattering thrust the overwhelming sensory overload that had stripped away every last pretense.

Rick had been silent for most of it, his sounds choked down into the wood beam. But at the end, when Negan’s roar of release filled the room, demanding a mirrored response, Rick hadn’t been able to stop it.

It wasn't pleasure. It was the sudden, overwhelming, forced orgasm a betrayal of his own body, a final, total submission. The release had felt less like climax and more like the ripping out of a nerve, a loud, agonizing cry that wasn't about sensation but about the crushing, absolute defeat of his spirit.

It had been an agonizing, shattering expulsion of every last ounce of fight, of control, of morality he possessed. He hadn’t chosen the climax; Negan had taken it, commanded it, forcing his body past the point of resistance until the nervous system simply rebooted in a spasm of involuntary surrender.

He was a good man. He had a family, a community built on the strength of his broken promises. And yet, here he was, naked and used, his body still trembling from the climax forced upon him by the man who had murdered his friends.

“I won’t be here,”

“Yes, you will, Rick.”

The certainty in Negan’s voice was the cruelest truth of all. Negan knew the shape of the hunger, the contour of the dependency. Rick’s hatred was too vast, too absolute to simply kill Negan in a field; it required this slow, ritualistic destruction, this mutual annihilation that took place in the hidden rooms of ruined buildings.

He finally moved, every muscle protesting the action. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, the chill of the soot-covered floor hitting his skin with renewed force. His clothes discarded, forgotten, smelling of dirt and war and something worse lay scattered.

He reached for his pants, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't grasp the denim. He was dizzy, the room swimming, a sickening mix of physical depletion and mental vertigo.
He pulled the pants on, then the shirt, the rough fabric a necessary barrier against the exposed reality.

The movement was clumsy, the act of covering himself a desperate scramble for the identity he had just shed.
He looked at the mirror again. It was still there, a fractured rectangle of judgment. He had to destroy it. He couldn't leave it as a monument to their depravity.

He stumbled toward the far corner, his bare foot crunching down on a piece of broken glass. He barely felt it. He reached out and wrapped his hand around a piece of wood a thick, fire-damaged chunk of a doorframe that lay nearby.

He raised it, the weight heavy in his hand, and swung it with the last reserves of his wasted strength. Not at the mirror itself, but at the beam it leaned on, sending a shockwave through the wood. The mirror shuddered, then pitched forward, slamming face-first into the floor.

A muffled crack the sound of glass shattering into a thousand smaller pieces, the truth broken down into manageable, tiny lies. He stood there, panting, staring at the back of the shattered mirror, the job done. The witness was blind now.

But the image didn’t disappear. It was etched behind his eyelids, the look of his own face in that final, involuntary spasm of release. He hadn't just given in; he had been taken completely, his body co-opted for Negan's perverse need for penance, for his own self-loathing.

He grabbed the gun that had been tucked into the wreckage, checking the clip with rote, mechanical movements. He was the Sheriff again. He had to go back to Alexandria, back to the walls, to the people who depended on him to be whole, to be strong, to be good.
He was none of those things. He was a man who reeked of ash, sweat, and another man's come, a man whose body was still tight and bruised from the violent intimacy he was supposed to abhor.

He walked to the doorway, stepping over the shattered glass of the mirror's carcass. He stepped into the night, away from the stench of the ruin, the cool air hitting his face.
The world outside was still the same: cold, dark, waiting for the morning. But Rick was changed, diminished. He had been taken to the absolute edge of his capacity for suffering and had broken not with a scream of defiance, but with a spasm of involuntary release.
He didn't know how he was going to walk through the gates of Alexandria.

He didn't know how he was going to look Carl in the eye, or Michonne. He didn't know how to carry the weight of a man who was no longer in control of his own body, who was now bound not by chains, but by a shared, traumatic dependency.

Negan knew the depth of his shame. And that knowledge was a leash that Rick was now dragging, one that would inevitably pull him back to the shattered truth of the burnt house.
He started walking, away from the silence, toward the war, knowing the true battle was no longer outside the walls, but inside his own skin.

He had to find a way to become the leader again, to rebuild the man who had been destroyed in the reflection of a broken mirror. But the raw, aching reality of the forced climax was a physical proof of his total defeat, a secret that Negan held in the darkest corner of his mind, and now, Rick held in the deep, sickening shame of his own.

The walls of Alexandria rose up out of the darkness, a comforting shield that now felt like a prison built to contain a rot. Rick stopped a hundred yards from the gate, breathing hard, forcing his limbs into a semblance of normal movement. He couldn't go in smelling like smoke and exertion. He rubbed the soot from his face with the collar of his shirt, scrubbed his hands on his pants, a futile attempt to erase the evidence. The dirt was external; the stain was internal.

He was the leader. He had to present the solid front the granite jaw, the steady eyes. The man who made the hard choices and carried the impossible weight. But beneath the denim and the pistol, he felt hollow, a raw, exposed nerve ending. Every bruise, every ache from Negan's hands felt like a betrayal.

​He gave the familiar signal. The gate creaked open, just enough. The guard, a young man named Bruce, nodded, his face tired but relieved.

​“Rick. Thank God. We were worried. Simon’s crew was spotted near the supply run route.”
​“We dealt with it,” Rick lied, his voice gravelly, forcing the words out. “Perimeter check?”
​“Everything secure. Quiet night. Went straight in, boss.”

​Rick nodded, walking through. The sight of the well-kept houses, their home, his home. A world that was whole, oblivious to the filthy, ruined truth he carried inside him.

He didn’t head to the council house or the armory. He walked straight toward the home he shared with Michonne. It was the most dangerous place in the community, the place where he was supposed to be the most exposed, the most loved.

​He opened the door quietly. The house was dark, the only light coming from the single lamp left burning in the living room. He heard the slow, steady rhythm of breathing from the bedroom. She was asleep. He needed to get to the shower, to scrub this rot off him before she woke.

​He slipped off his boots in the hallway. The floorboards creaked beneath his weight, a sound that amplified the guilt. He moved toward the bathroom, a shadow desperate for obliteration.

​“Rick?”

​Her voice. Low, warm, awake. It stopped him dead.

​He closed his eyes, fighting to control the sudden, sickening lurch in his gut. He turned slowly, putting the wall at his back.
​Michonne stood in the bedroom doorway, framed by the darkness. She wore one of his shirts, the material soft and large on her, her dark hair a beautiful, protective cloud around her face. Her eyes, wide and searching, instantly found his.

​She didn't move to hug him, didn't rush him with questions. She simply looked, and in that gaze, Rick felt the full, terrifying pressure of her perception.

​“Where were you?” she asked, her voice quiet, but carrying the weight of all the risks he took, all the secrets he kept.

​He opened his mouth to lie on patrol, checking the route, checking the lookout but the words lodged in his throat, thick with the phantom taste of ash and violation. The memory of them fucking of the sound he’d made, the way his body had failed him was a raw, screaming current beneath his skin. He couldn't let her touch him, not yet. He wasn't clean.

​“I was… out. Followed a patrol too far. Didn’t want to worry you.” He managed to keep his gaze steady, leaning on the practiced cadence of the leader.

​But Michonne didn’t believe the words. She never did. She took one step closer, closing the distance, and the change in the air was immediate. She wasn't just his partner; she was his anchor, the one who saw the depths of his darkness and still chose to hold him. And tonight, he feared her sight more than any blade.

​Her eyes flickered over his face, cataloging the exhaustion, the unnatural tension in his jaw. Then, her gaze dropped to his chest, lingering on the subtle, clumsy way he was holding himself, protecting the ribs Negan had hit, the abdomen he'd driven a knee into.

​“You’re hurt,” she stated, not a question, but a quiet, irrefutable fact.

​He shook his head, too quickly. “It’s nothing. Graze. Needs cleaning.”

​She didn't respond to the lie. She simply reached out a hand, and the simple, silent gesture of her impending touch made the blood freeze in his veins.

If she touched him now, she would feel the unnatural rigidity of his muscles, the faint, lingering scent of the ruined house, the invisible mark of Negan’s possession. She would know that the man standing before her was broken in a way a bullet or a Walker bite couldn't fix.

​“Go shower,” she said, her voice soft, but firm, her hand dropping without contact. She had read his panic, though she hadn't voiced the cause. “I’ll get the kit. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

​The reprieve was sudden, absolute. He nodded, unable to speak, and turned, escaping into the sterile safety of the small bathroom. He turned the water on, scalding hot, the noise a temporary shield against the silence of the house and the accusation in Michonne's eyes.

​He stripped quickly, stepping under the spray. He scrubbed his skin until it was red and raw, focusing on the smell, the grit, the invisible evidence of the violation. The water ran black with ash and dirt, but the stain, he knew, was inside the bone.

​He was trying to clean the orgasm off his soul, and the futility of the effort felt like a new wave of agony. He was supposed to be the one protecting the world from the monster. Instead, he had allowed the monster to climb inside him, to possess his very core, and to witness the moment his control was irrevocably shattered.

​When he finally emerged, wrapped in a towel, the exhaustion was profound. He found Michonne sitting on the edge of the bed, a first aid kit open on the nightstand. She looked at him, and the pity in her eyes was almost worse than the fear.

​“Come here,” she murmured.

​He walked to the edge of the bed, but he kept his distance, standing stiffly. He was Rick again. The leader. The man who had everything under control. He just had a "graze."

​“I’m fine, Michonne. I just need to sleep.”
​“Sit. Let me look at you.”

​Her voice was gentle, but her will was absolute. He sat, rigid, on the very edge of the mattress. As she reached for his side, her fingers, warm and infinitely capable, tracing the bruising beneath his ribs, he flinched a tiny, involuntary spasm of pain and, worse, memory.

​Her hand paused, not pulling away, but simply resting there, her touch an unbearable pressure on the locus of his defeat.

​“What happened, Rick?” she whispered, her eyes fixed on his, demanding the truth he couldn't afford to give. “Tell me what you did out there.”

​He couldn't meet her gaze. He stared at the wall, at the shadows, at anything but her knowing, loving eyes. He was the good man. He was here partner. He had to maintain the lie.

​“It was just a fight,” he rasped, the lie tasting like ash. “A bad one.”

​He would not tell her about the soot, the mirror, or the sound of his own defeated cry. He would not tell her that the only thing keeping him from falling apart was the terrible knowledge that he had to be ready, next week, for the sound of boots on glass, and the certainty of Negan’s voice.

Chapter Text

The silence of the house was different tonight. He noticed it the second he pulled the truck to a stop three blocks away and started walking. It wasn’t the natural quiet of the ruined world; it was a tight, synthetic vacuum, the quiet of a pulled trigger.

A week had passed. A week of Simon’s veiled insolence, of dwindling supplies, of the relentless, exhausting grind of maintaining the lie of the Sanctuary. A week of sleeping three hours and waking up with the scent of his wives perfume stuck in his throat, and the image of a cracked mirror behind his eyes.
He didn't need to check the time. His body, bruised from the war and wired by the need for this particular, destructive ritual, knew it was time.

Negan stepped over the broken sill, boots crunching softly on the fine ash and fragmented glass that now littered the floor. The moon was a quarter sliver, thin and cold, giving the room a harsh, charcoal light that did nothing to soften the edges of the ruin.

The first thing he registered was the mirror. Or rather, the lack of it. It was gone from its leaning spot against the far beam. Rick had obliterated the witness, reducing the testament of their shame to a field of tiny, reflective shards face-down in the dust.

Negan registered a flicker of something near satisfaction not because the memory was gone, but because Rick’s shame was so potent that he was driven to destroy physical evidence. It confirmed the depth of the violation, the reality of the bind.
The second thing he registered was the absence of sound.

Rick was here. Negan knew it in the strained quality of the air, the way the shadows felt too heavy. But Rick was better hidden this time, deeper in the structure, waiting.

Negan didn't call out. He didn’t use the taunts. Tonight, they weren’t two leaders playing a verbal game; they were two predators meeting in a common kill box.

He moved silently across the room, his weight shifted to the balls of his feet. He carried his sidearm not Lucille a heavy pistol he kept holstered low. He didn't draw it, but his fingers rested lightly on the grip, feeling the cold, familiar weight of the tool.

He stopped where their fight had started, near the shattered plaster. He inhaled, testing the air. Ash, dust, a metallic tang of ozone from the recent fighting, and something else, faint but unmistakable: the stale, humid smell of trapped human scent, sweat barely dried. Rick was close.

Negan tilted his head back, letting his eyes adjust to the deep shadows near the collapsed staircase. He could feel Rick watching him. The silence was the real weapon, thick and suffocating, waiting for the first wrong move.

"You broke the furniture, Rick," Negan murmured, his voice low, almost conversational, a dark counterpoint to the quiet.

"That's not very sustainable of you. Now we don't have anywhere to watch the show."
A heartbeat of silence. Then, a soft click the unmistakable sound of a safety coming off a gun. It came from directly above him, in the skeletal remains of the second floor balcony, where the joists held a precarious patch of flooring.

Negan smiled, a thin, ugly thing that never reached his eyes. This was the opening move.

He didn't look up. He didn't move his feet. He simply drew his pistol, fluid and fast, and brought it to bear not on the floor above, but straight ahead, toward the thick concrete beam that supported the main structure.

Crack.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, a single, violent eruption that felt like a tear in reality. The bullet hit the concrete, spitting a fan of dust and stone shards toward the ceiling. It was a clear statement: I know where you are, and I can shoot through the floor.

The response was instantaneous and desperate. Rick dropped from the balcony, not through the hole Negan had anticipated, but from the far side, landing with a muted thud in a crouch behind a stack of charred rubble. He was holding his own weapon, an automatic rifle, and it was aimed straight at Negan’s head.

They were frozen, twenty feet apart, both men standing in the posture of executioners, both knowing that neither would pull the trigger yet. Not until the ritual was complete.
Negan kept his pistol steady, resting the weight of his wrist against his thigh. He let the silence return, letting the echo of the gunshot dissipate.

"Aggressive," Negan breathed, his smile widening, genuine and predatory now. "I like it. You came ready to kill me this time, or just ready to make me flinch?"

Rick didn't answer in words. His eyes, dark and haunted, burned in the moonlight. He lowered the barrel of the rifle maybe an inch a silent acknowledgment that the killing shot wasn't the goal. He was here for the penance, just like Negan was.

"That's right," Negan whispered, the sound intimate. "You left a little piece of yourself here last week, cowboy. And you came back to find it."

He holstered his pistol, the click of the latch loud in the renewed quiet. It was an act of deliberate, total vulnerability, a calculated risk that placed his life squarely in Rick’s hands. He was forcing the decision: execution, or absolution.

Rick's knuckles were white around the rifle grip. He watched Negan, his breath coming in ragged, shallow pulls. Then, with a jerky movement born of exhaustion and total self-loathing, Rick slowly, reluctantly, lowered the rifle until the barrel pointed at the ash-covered floor. He didn't drop it he placed it gently, carefully, leaning it against the rubble stack.

The tension broke, not with a roar, but with a sudden, devastating slump in Rick's posture.
Negan didn't move for a long moment, allowing the space to breathe the new, sickening energy of surrender.

"Good boy," Negan said, the words soft, entirely devoid of threat, yet more possessive than any command.

He walked forward slowly, deliberately, boots crunching the ash, closing the distance that the war had ripped between them. Rick didn't flinch until Negan was right in front of him, close enough to smell the cold, clean scent of the Alexandria air clinging to Rick’s clothes, fighting the deeper smell of the ruin.

Negan reached out, his hands moving with an unexpected tenderness, and cupped Rick's bruised, unshaven face. Rick's eyes closed instantly, a profound, shuddering surrender.
“You tried to wash it off, didn’t you, Rick? Scrubbed until the skin broke. Doesn't work that way. I'm under your skin now."

He felt the familiar shame radiating off Rick, the shame that was his key, his tether. He leaned in, his mouth finding Rick's, not in a desperate kiss like last week, but a slow, quiet press of lips, tasting the bitter, metallic exhaustion.

He pulled back, his eyes locked on Rick's, waiting until the Sheriff’s eyelids lifted, revealing the raw, dark pits of need.
"We don't have to talk," Negan whispered, their faces inches apart. "We don't have to break the silence."

He pushed Rick, gently, backward until the Sheriff's spine hit the cold, hard face of the concrete beam. This was their altar, the place where the only honest transaction in their lives occurred.

Negan’s hands were methodical, almost surgical, stripping away the armor. He tugged Rick's shirt open, buttons popping softly, the sound muffled by the thick fabric. He ran his calloused palm over Rick’s scarred chest, feeling the ragged rhythm of his heart beneath the ribs.

The urgency of the moment was internal, a silent, frantic scramble to annihilate the unbearable tension built up over the week. They moved with a shared, desperate economy of motion, peeling back layers of clothing, the sounds of fabric sliding against skin minimized, absorbed by the dust.

When Rick’s pants were down, exposing the tight, pale skin of his ass to the cold air, Negan knelt, not in reverence, but in the posture of a hungry animal. He pulled Rick’s hips forward, pressing his body against the cold concrete.

Negan didn't use a lubricant this time. The environment, the risk, the cold it all demanded a harsher reality. This wasn't a cushioned pleasure; it was a rough, abrasive penance.

He used his saliva, thick and warm, wetting his own cock and then running his finger, cold and brutal, deep into Rick’s tight, unwilling opening.

Rick gasped, a low, choked sound that died instantly in the silent room. He grabbed the beam on either side of his head, his knuckles white, fighting the impulse to scream. The silence was the real demand. They couldn't be heard. The war was too close, the threat of detection too absolute. Their intimacy had to be quiet, shameful, hidden even from the dead.

Negan drove his cock in slowly, painfully, burying himself to the hilt, feeling the immediate, intense clench of Rick’s muscles around him.

The pleasure was a sharp, focused spike, purified by the pain and the shared silence. Negan rested his forehead on Rick's shoulder, taking a moment to breathe in the scent of his skin and salt, exhaustion, and something vital and fiercely alive.

He started moving, his hips rocking with a slow, controlled rhythm that was designed not for speed, but for maximum penetration and maximum emotional degradation. Each thrust was an accusation, a reminder of last week’s defeat.

I am here. You brought me back. You need this.

Rick was quiet, a low, constant guttural whine muffled against the rough concrete. He wasn't resisting; he was enduring, enduring the invasion, enduring the shame, enduring the truth that his body craved this brutal, absolute control.

Negan’s hand came up, finding the back of Rick’s neck, the coarse, short hairs there. He grabbed a handful and pulled Rick’s head back, forcing his throat into a vulnerable line.

“Look at the room, Rick,” Negan whispered against his ear, his voice rough. “Look at the ruin. Look at what we are building here.”

Rick’s eyes, wide and terrified, flickered over the broken walls, the shattered window. He was a good man, being violently built into a weapon of self-destruction.

The rhythm deepened, becoming faster, more desperate. Negan could feel the tremor starting in Rick's thighs, the immediate, overwhelming rush of blood and heat that betrayed Ricks feigned control. He was so close to breaking, and the anticipation of that shattering surrender was the only purity Negan had left.

He drove in harder, slamming into Rick’s heat with a violent, possessive thrust that was aimed straight at the heart of Rick’s control. Rick’s entire body went rigid, his nails scratching desperate lines into the concrete beam.

The sound Rick made was just a breath, a long, tearing whisper of surrender, a sound that Negan absorbed entirely, pressing his mouth against Rick's neck. The shuddering, involuntary release that followed was silent, swallowed by the cold, dark air. Rick went limp, his body sinking against the beam, spent and utterly defeated.

Negan held him there, sinking his own hips deep, waiting until the last tremor faded. He felt the cold, familiar satisfaction settle in his gut the calm after the storm, the temporary peace bought at the cost of Rick's soul.
He pulled out slowly, the wet, sliding sound a small, obscene violation of the silence. He didn't look back at the room. He didn't look at Rick. He simply moved to the corner where his coat lay.

He was dressing quickly, pulling the monster back on. The silence was now heavy with the profound fatigue of two men who had just survived something terrible, but necessary.

Rick was still leaning against the beam, exhausted, pulling his clothes up slowly, methodically. He wouldn’t be able to look Negan in the eye for a week.

Negan picked up his pistol, checking the chamber, the click of the slide echoing in the dead house. He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at the shadow that was Rick.

“See you out there cowboy.” Negan stated, the voice now cold, flat, the control reasserted.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He didn't need one. He knew the cost, and he knew the need. He stepped out of the burned-down house, leaving the Sheriff to gather the pieces of his shattered composure, and walked back toward the relentless, exhausting lies of the Sanctuary. He had bought himself another week of sleep, paid for with Rick's humiliation. It was the only currency that mattered anymore.