Chapter Text
The Ford Crown Vic hummed along the two-lane road, windows cracked to let out the heat. The smell of fast food clung to the cabin — grease, salt, ketchup in little paper packets strewn across the console. Rick was behind the wheel, left hand loose at twelve o’clock, right hand balancing a burger wrapped in foil. He chewed slow, still talking with his mouth half-full. It had been like this for weeks— every other word out of him was 𝘕𝘌𝘎𝘈𝘕.
“Man’s impossible. Left his boots right in the doorway again, nearly broke my neck gettin’ up for work. Told him he’s got to stop leavin’ ‘em there. You know what he says? Says, ‘If you wanted neat, you should’ve picked a librarian.’ Then throws me down on the couch with the damn boots still on, laughin’ like the fool he is.” Rick’s grin was wide, blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked like a man talking about the best thing that had ever happened to him. Shane slouched in the passenger seat, picking at the bag of fries between them. He dipped one into Rick’s open ketchup cup, real slow, watching for the swat or the scowl that never came. Rick didn’t even notice, he just kept talking, voice with that warm voice, soft around the edges in that way Shane only heard when Rick was talking about Carl. Or now — about the Negan guy.
“Didn’t think I’d ever meet somebody like him,” Rick went on, chewing, thoughtful. “Loud as hell, stubborn as a mule, got more opinions than the whole damn church combined. But he’s… he’s it, Shane. He’s the one. Thinkin’ about askin’ him.” Shane froze mid-bite. “Askin’ him what?”
“To marry me,” the other cop said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Why not? Never felt this way before, not even with Lori...” The words landed heavy. Shane shoved another fry in his mouth, chewing hard, dark eyes on the road. “Hell, you talk about this guy more than you talk about Carl, man.” Rick chuckled, tossing the empty burger wrapper in the bag. “Don’t be jealous. You’ll meet him soon enough and get the charm. He keeps askin’ about you, wants to see what kind of man’s put up with me all these years. Calls you my work-wife.”
“Work-wife,” Shane muttered, half a laugh, half a growl. “Guess that makes you the husband, haha?” Rick smirked. “Guess it does.”
Shane didn’t answer. He just shoved more fries in his mouth, dipping them in Rick’s ketchup, letting the salt and vinegar burn his tongue while he stared out the windshield and wondered what kind of bastard Negan really was. A P.E. teacher with a record, if the rumors were true. Assault charge dropped. A man with fists and a temper. And Rick, the always following the rules Rick, loved him? Talked about him like he was one of the world's wonders? Shane couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t make sense of why Rick never once looked at him that way but Rick kept on, oblivious. “Carl likes him and that’s what matters. Boy needs somebody who can make him laugh and chill and Negan’s good at that. Makes me laugh, too, to be honest.” Shane swallowed hard, fingers greasy on the paper bag. He wanted to say something — anything — but the words sat like rocks in his throat.
The radio crackled before he could try. “Unit 15, Unit 15, be advised. Suspect vehicle northbound, possible homicide, black sedan, eighty-five miles an hour and climbing. Roadblock requested, I-85 interchange. Repeat, all available units respond.”
Rick straightened in his seat, already tossing the food bag to the floor. “That’s us.” Shane wiped his hands on his thighs, flicked on the sirens. “Let’s move.” The Ford roared, lights cutting through the hazy morning. The world shrank to asphalt and radio chatter, the pulse in Shane’s ears keeping time with the engine. Rick grabbed the mic, voice calm as ever. “Unit 15 responding, ETA three minutes.”
They sped down the stretch, sirens wailing, Rick running through the plan like always. “We’ll set up at the median. If he doesn’t stop, we spike. You stay behind the door, I’ll take the right flank.”
“Got it,” Shane said, jaw tight, hands white-knuckled on the wheel. He glanced at his partner — steady, focused, the kind of man who made the chaos feel simple. For one stupid second, Shane thought about Friday dinner, thought about maybe saying yes when Rick invited him over again, meeting this Negan face to face. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺? 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩-𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘕𝘌𝘎𝘈𝘕.
They rolled to a stop at the interchange, cruiser angled across the lane. Rick got out, crouched low behind the door, pistol drawn while Shane mirrored him, eyes on the curve of road where the sound of the engine was building like a storm. The black sedan burst into view, weaving, wild. Rick shouted, “Stop! Police!” But the driver gunned it harder, metal screaming, tires squealing.
Gunfire split the air. Shane ducked, firing back. He heard Rick’s voice — “Stay down, Shane! Stay—”
Then the sound he’d never forget: Rick’s body hitting asphalt. He turned in time to see him spin, blood blooming across his shirt, eyes wide with shock. “Rick!” Shane roared, scrambling, firing until the sedan skidded into a ditch. He was on his knees beside his best friend in the next breath, hands pressing hard against the wound, blood hot and slick between his fingers.
Rick’s lips moved, a sound caught in his throat. Maybe it was Negan’s name. Maybe Carl’s or Shane’s. He’d never know. “Stay with me, brother!” Shane begged, voice cracking. “You hear me? Don’t you leave me, come on!” Sirens grew louder, other units closing in. But all Shane saw was Rick’s face, pale and fading, his blood soaking Shane’s hands.
***
The same morning Negan woke to the weight of Rick’s arm slung over his chest and the sunlight cutting gold through the blinds. The world outside was all distant lawn mowers and birds, but inside it was just breathing, soft and slow, and the way his pretty cop boyfriend’s fingers always curled up in his chest hair while he slept.
He ran his hand down Rick’s back, still half-asleep, feeling the steady thump of the man’s heart. Rick looked younger in the mornings, the hard lines on his face softened, long lashes dark against his cheek. Beautiful, Negan thought. Didn’t matter how many times he saw him—every time, it hit him just as hard. Rick stirred, murmured, “Negan…” half a question, half a plea, and Negan smiled, kissing the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his throat. He loved how needy the blue-eyed man was at dawn—soft, open, trusting him completely.
He rolled Rick beneath him, weight heavy, cock already thick between them and Rick arched up with a sigh, hands sliding under Negan’s shirt, fingernails dragging across his skin.“I got work, you know,” Rick whispered, but he was already spreading his legs, pulling the older man in closer, voice rough with want. Negan grinned, low and hungry. “Yeah, and I’m sending you off with a limp, sweetheart.”
He kissed Rick slow at first, tasting sleep and toothpaste, biting at his bottom lip until Rick moaned, body twisting under him, that flush blooming high on his cheeks. His hands were everywhere—Rick’s waist, the flat plane of his stomach, thumbs brushing the soft trail of hair that led down, down, to where Rick was already hard and leaking. He stroked him, slow and teasing, grinning as Rick’s hips bucked, needy. “C’mon, Negan,” Rick groaned, voice barely more than a whimper. “Don’t tease—”
Negan just smirked, spit in his hand, slicked both of them, pressing his cock against Rick’s. He rutted slow, grinding their lengths together, making Rick shiver, gasp, beg. He rolled his hips, dragging out every little noise he could wring from Rick, loving the way the smaller man clawed at his back, biting his shoulder, half-wild. Negan hooked Rick’s legs over his arms, pressed in, the thick head nudging at his entrance.“You ready for Daddy, baby?” he murmured, voice deep and rough. Rick nodded, now with wide baby blues and desperate, breath stuttering while gasping. “Yeah, always.”
Negan pushed in, slow and deep, savoring every inch, watching Rick’s mouth fall open, head tipping back. He filled him, hips flush, hands braced on Rick’s thighs. Rick clung to him, legs trembling, tears at the corners of his eyes. The older man started slow, savoring the drag and heat, the way Rick’s body opened for him, perfect and greedy, taking everything. He fucked him steady, deep, rolling his hips just right, until Rick was gasping, babbling, “Don’t stop, please, Negan, fuck—right there—don’t—” Negan leaned in, kissing Rick hard, swallowing every sound, every breath. He pounded harder, fucking him into the mattress, sweat slicking their bodies. Rick’s hands fisted in the sheets, eyes wild, desperate. Negan reached between them, stroked Rick’s cock in time with his thrusts, pushing him closer, closer. “That’s it,” Negan growled. “Take it, Ricky. Want you to remember this all day every time you sit down on that pretty ass of yours.” Rick came first, shuddering, mouth open in a silent cry, body jerking. Cum spattered his stomach, sticky and hot. Negan didn’t stop—he kept going, thrusting harder, making Rick twitch and whimper, overstimulated, cock still leaking, body trembling under his boyfriend’s hands. Negan fucked him through it, chasing his own edge, whispering, “Love you, Rick. Fuck, I love you so much. Gonna make you mine every single day for the rest of my goddamn life. Gonna marry your stubborn ass one day.” Rick smiled, dazed, pulling the other man down for a kiss as Negan came inside him, groaning deep, hips jerking. They finally relaxed together in a tangled mess, chests heaving, sweat drying on their skin and Negan stroked Rick’s sweaty curls, kissing his temple, heart so full it hurt. “You know you’re it for me, right? The one as cliche of a shit it is....the one.” he whispered. Rick grinned, sleepy and sweet. “I know, Negan. You’re it for me too.”
Negan thought about the ring he’d hidden in the sock drawer, the words he was practicing in his head. Soon, he told himself. Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. He watched Rick get dressed, kiss him goodbye, promise he’d be home for dinner. Negan just smiled, watched him walk out the door, not knowing it might be the last time.
***
Everything buzzed— hospital lights, air vents, Shane’s teeth grinding in his jaw. He was standing by the water cooler, half in and out of his own body, his hands stained with Rick’s blood and dried to a tacky brown. He hadn’t changed his shirt, this was the last thing on his mind right now. Didn’t want to let go of that last moment, even if it meant he kept seeing his best friend and work partner hit the pavement every time he blinked.
He heard the doors bang open before he saw him. Negan supposedly. The infamous boyfriend, the reason Rick was always smiling at the damn station, the one his friend couldn’t shut up about. Shane expected—he didn’t know. Something more forgettable and boring or maybe he just wished so. What he got was a man a good half a head taller than him, built like a brawler, almost black hair peppered with silver, scruff like he hadn’t slept, biker leather jacket over a battered white T-shirt. No visible wounds, but his big hazel eyes were red and wild and already looking for trouble. The man clocked Shane at once, zeroing in on the blood, the badge, the haunted look. His voice hit the room like a shotgun blast. "So you must be Shane?
“Yeah. And you’re Mr Smith, I guess?” Negan didn’t answer at first. He looked the cop up and down, taking it all in—the uniform, the mess. His mouth twisted, jaw ticking, but something else flickered there, too. Fear. Desperation. Grief. “Just Negan, keep the official shit away. Where the fuck is he?”
“ICU. They’re sayin’ he’s stable. Doc’s in with him now. Lost a lotta blood, but they got it stopped. He’s—he’s a fighter.” Negan’s eyes darted to the floor, then back up, voice sharp. “Stable. Does that mean awake like he’s gonna walk outta here, or just that he ain’t dead yet?”
“Don’t know yet. He’s out cold. They… they’re keepin’ him under. Might be a while.” Negan let out a sound—half-laugh, half-growl—so loud a nurse behind the desk flinched. He paced a tight circle, breathing hard, and for a second, Shane saw him fighting not to punch something. Then the older man stopped by the chair, slamming his hand down hard enough the cheap plastic rattled. “You tell me, how the fuck am I supposed to look his boy in the eyes tonight? Say what, ‘Hey buddy, your Dad got shot. Your old man’s a hero. Might be a ghost by morning, but you know, that’s life.’ You ever had to tell a kid somethin’ like that, Officer?”
“No. No, sir. I just called Maggie Greene. She’s keepin’ Carl for the night. Didn’t say nothin’ more than there was an accident. Didn’t know what else to say. Figured… figured you should be the one.” Negan ran both hands through his hair, turning his back, shoulders heaving. The jacket creaked, straining against muscles pulled taut as wire. He was big—bigger than Rick, bigger than Shane—but looked lost in the ugly green light, like a man who could shatter if you touched him wrong. He spun back around, voice cracking, too loud for the quiet hall. “You said you were there. You supposed to be his partner, right? Why the hell wasn’t it you on that ground? Why not you bleedin’ out, where were YOU?” Shane took it—didn’t even flinch. The guilt was a stone in his chest, choking him out. He shook his head, looked down at his bloody hands. “I was there. Right there beside him. We both got out, Rick was always a step ahead. He—he took the front and told me to cover the median. I should’ve been faster. Should’ve—” His voice broke. “He’s my best friend. My brother. I would’ve taken the bullet if I could’ve.”
Negan pressed both fists into his eyes, muttering curses Shane couldn’t quite hear. For a moment, neither man moved, the silence punctuated only by the beeping of monitors down the hall.
Finally, Negan slumped into a chair, elbows on knees, face in his hands. His voice came out rough, muffled but clear enough. “You were there....damn, forget the crap I said it's just...all I see is RED. Motherfuckin' red! You know why, you were there and I failed him. Staying useless at home useless, FUCK!"
“Hey, hey...tell you somethin', he never shut up about you, you know. At work, drivin' me crazy some days. You made him happy. Happiest I ever seen him, don't talk like that.” Negan looked up, something savage and grateful all tangled together in his eyes. “He makes me happy, too. Or did. Shit. Shit, I can’t—” His voice cracked again. “How the hell am I supposed to do this? How the fuck am I supposed to be the one to tell that amazing boy his dad might not wake up?” Shane moved closer, out of instinct, needing to do something, anything. He reached out—stopped himself. His hand hovered, then dropped. “You don’t gotta do it alone, I’ll help you. I swear to God, whatever you need. I’ll stay here all night if I gotta. All week, however long it takes, that's what Rick'd want.” Negan just stared at him, chest heaving, jaw tight. Then, like a storm breaking, he let out a noise—half-sob, half-laugh—and covered his face with both hands. Shane could see his shoulders shaking, raw grief tearing through the bravado. He didn’t know what to do since the man was pretty much a stranger, so he just stood there, helpless, heart pounding. “I just want him back. That’s all. I just want him back...”
***
Shane pulled up slow to Rick’s house—Rick and Negan’s house, he reminded himself, though it never felt right in his head. The paint was still peeling on the porch rail, the blue truck was gone, and the yard needed mowing. Somebody ought to take care of that, but not today.
He killed the engine and sat for a minute, hands gripping the wheel until his knuckles ached. He could see Negan through the front window—moving slow, one hand cradling a mug, the other braced on the counter like he’d fall over if he let go. There was something wrong about the way the taller man filled up the kitchen, too big for it, too loud for all that quiet. Shane told himself this was the right thing—hell, the only thing. Rick would want someone looking out for his man, would want him to step up, be a friend, a protector. Someone’s gotta keep him together until Rick wakes up. Gotta keep this house standing, even if it kills me. That’s what he told himself, anyway. But as he got out, feet crunching in the gravel, he knew damn well it was more than that. He couldn’t get his best friend's boyfriend out of his head, not since that night at the hospital—tall, wild, hazel burning eyes. Didn’t matter that it was a man, another alpha man from the appearance, that he was Rick’s, that he’d never known him before that unfortunate day. None of it mattered. Not with Rick in that hospital bed, and Negan alone in this too-quiet house.
Shane rapped on the door, then let himself in—nobody ever locked it since Rick fell in a coma. The house smelled like coffee and sweat, a hint of gun oil and something sharp, not quite bleach. It smelled like Rick, like Negan, like the life Shane kept losing and couldn’t let go. Negan looked up, eyes red, beard longer than usual, wearing a gray T-shirt and boxers like he hadn’t bothered with pants in days. The mug in his hand was Rick’s—blue, chipped at the rim. “Hell it's you again, Walsh? Thought maybe I left the stove on, and the damn fire department was comin’ to finish the job.” Shane grunted, trying for light but coming up hollow. “You should lock your door, man. World’s still full of assholes.” Negan barked a short, joyless laugh. “Ain’t nothin’ left in here anybody wants.”
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘭𝘪𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵....Shane thought as he hesitated in the doorway, awkward as hell. The kitchen table was cluttered—mail, hospital forms, a half-eaten sandwich, a bottle of whiskey half-empty. Negan looked like he hadn’t slept, eyes bruised and narrow. The TV was on in the living room, volume low, some old western playing to nobody. The cop finally cleared his throat. “Brought you some dinner. Fried chicken, couple sides. Figured you might not want to cook.” Negan eyed the bag like it might explode. “You come over here to feed the pets like a good Samaritan, or you got a real reason?” Shane bristled, but kept his tone steady. “Just checkin’ on you, Negan. Somebody’s gotta. Tell you what, Rick’d skin me alive if he thought I was lettin’ you sit here starvin’.” Negan grunted, collapsing into a chair, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, well. Rick’s not here, is he?” His voice cracked, just for a second while Shane set the food down, watching the man try to pull himself together, failing in little ways—shaky hands, shoulders too tight, jaw clenched like he could grind his teeth to dust.
He wanted to say something—needed to say something, to do something. But every time he opened his mouth, all he heard was his own selfishness echoing back at him. He wanted to ask if Negan had eaten. If he’d slept. If he needed anything. But what he really wanted was to put his hands on the man—feel that hot body, that strength, that wildness up close. What he wanted was for Negan to look at him like he mattered, like he was more than Rick’s friend.
Negan poured a shot of whiskey, downed it in one swallow, then stared at Shane with tired, unblinking dark hazel eyes. “You ever think about how fast it all goes to hell? One minute, you’re making breakfast, thinking about rings and dumb shit, next minute, you’re here—wonderin’ if you’ll ever see him smile again.” Shane’s chest squeezed, pain and want tangled up together. He sat down across from Negan, pushing the food over. “Eat somethin’. You’ll feel better.” The words sounded fake, but it was all he had.
The older man ignored the food, just stared at his hands. “You ever loved somebody that much, Walsh? Like, so much you can’t breathe, can’t think straight?” Shane’s jaw worked, heart thumping. He wanted to say yes—wanted to say 𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰𝘰 or 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦—but the words turned to sand in his mouth. He swallowed, forcing a weak smile. “I got close but never quite made it.” Negan let out a long, shaky breath. For a moment, he looked ready to break—then he pulled himself together, the mask slipping back into place. “Yeah, well. Guess we all got regrets.” Shane watched him, feeling the pull in his gut, the need to protect, to fix, to have. He told himself again that he was here for Rick, for Carl, for the family. But the lie felt flimsier every time he told it.
He got up, grabbed a plate, and started dishing out food, because it was the only thing he could control. Negan watched him, eyes hooded, something unreadable on his face. “You’re a real Boy Scout, you know that?” Then the cop smirked just to lighten up the mood as much as possible at that moment. “Just missin’ the uniform.” They both almost smiled. For a second, the world tilted back toward normal but it didn’t last. It couldn’t. Not with Rick gone from the house and the two of them circling each other, both half in love with a man who might never wake up, both halfway to losing themselves.
Shane put the plate down in front of Negan, sat back down, and waited. The quiet between them felt like the whole world holding its breath. “You gonna stay awhile? Or just cause you were Rick’s friend that doesn't mean you'd bother with his old man. Go ahead, have some fun, buddy, you're not obligated...”
“But I want to, so I’ll stay...for as long as you need.”
Negan didn’t thank him but instead he just started to eat, slow and methodical, as if he had all the time in the world. Shane watched him—hungry, guilty, wanting—and told himself he’d do it all again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. Anything to keep Negan from falling apart. Anything to keep from admitting how much he wanted him to look up and ask him to stay forever.
***
Now Shane was laying flat on the guest bed, staring at the ceiling, hands laced behind his head, listening to Negan’s footsteps cross and recross the hallway. He heard the toilet flush, the faint click of the fridge, the heavy creak of the leather couch as Negan finally sat down with a bottle and whatever was left of his nerves.
Shane couldn’t sleep. Not with the smell of Rick’s fresh aquatic cologne in the sheets, not with Negan’s voice echoing in his head—𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘩? 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦? He’d lied, of course. Or maybe not. Maybe Rick was close, closer than anyone had ever gotten. But his blue-eyed, curly-haired, beautiful and righteous best friend the second-best thing. The runner-up. 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯' 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯. 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯' 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨..
He tried to shake it off—he’s Rick’s, he’s grieving, you’re here to help, that’s all—but it wouldn’t stick. The moment he saw Negan at the hospital, all six-feet-something of him, bloodshot eyes, jaw hard as steel, Shane’s insides had flipped. He’d never seen a man so alive and half-destroyed at the same time. Shane couldn’t decide if he wanted to fix him or break him down further, fuck the grief out of him or just hold him till morning.
Maybe Rick knew, he smirked and felt sick both. Maybe that’s why he never let us meet. Knew what’d happen the second I laid eyes on him. Hell, maybe he was scared I’d take him away. Or maybe he wanted it. Maybe he wanted me to keep Negan company while he was gone. That’s loyalty, right? Taking care of your partner’s man? Shane almost laughed, disgusted at his own logic, but he couldn’t let it go.
He closed his eyes and let the images run loose. Negan leaning back on the couch, all that bravado finally slipping, mask gone, voice cracking as he begged for comfort—not from Rick, not this time, but from Shane. Maybe he’d laugh it off, make a crude joke, say, “C’mon, baby, gonna tuck me in or you just gonna stare all night?” Maybe Shane would sit next to him, too close, hands on Negan’s knee, slow and careful, just like he wanted. And then, in his head, it turned—Negan’s face going soft, lips hot and eager, hands pulling Shane in by the hair. He’d press up, all heat and stubble, thighs strong around Shane’s hips, cock hard and thick, grinding until the younger man could barely think. He wanted to fuck Negan until the man couldn’t remember his own name let alone Rick’s, until he was loud, wild, begging. Or maybe—fuck—maybe Negan would take him, pin him down, show him how a real man made love, all rough grip and filthy talk, sweat dripping, Shane whimpering for it. God, he’d let him. He’d let Negan do anything.
He bit his lip, hand drifting down, palming his hard cock through his boxers. No shame in it. Nobody around to see. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯’ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯’ 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨.
He stroked himself slow, thinking about Negan’s hands—big, rough, calloused. About how Negan would sound, what he’d say, if he’d grunt and curse or just growl “fuck, yeah, take it, baby” into Shane’s ear. He thought about flipping Negan over, fucking him deep, making him scream for it, or dropping to his knees, swallowing his cock down, letting himself be used, ruined. Both. All of it. He wanted it every way.
He groaned low, arching his hips, coming hard into his palm, imagining Negan’s hand tangled in his hair while he was between those long legs and heels were digging into his lower back, the man’s voice ragged and real. "That’s it, baby. Give it to me, just like that! I'm yours, not Rick’s..."
After his ejaculation, Shane lied there in the dark empty, heart pounding, breathing slow. He told himself it was just stress, just grief and a coping mechanism, just what men did to cope. He told himself he was helping, being loyal. But he knew the truth which was simple, he wanted Negan more than he ever wanted anything, Rick included. Maybe he’d always wanted him, even before he knew his name or his face and it was God's work. And one of these nights, Negan would need him for real. And Shane’d be right there, ready, willing, and hungry as hell.