Series: Bend Until You Break [link to part 1, part 2]
↓Tags below cut↓
dominant Light Yagami / submissive Matsuda Touta / begging / praise kink / first time blow jobs / gagging / frotting / showering together
AO3 link here
─── ⋆⋅ ♱ ⋅⋆ ───
They never did compare the notes.
Tomorrow had come and gone quietly, and then it had slipped into a string of days that all felt the same.
Matsuda kept the papers close, poring over them whenever he could—on his breaks, late at night, hunched over his desk until the numbers blurred and his eyes burned.
Each time he thought he’d found something worth bringing up, self-doubt crept in just as quickly. Maybe Light would explain it better when they finally sat down together. So he waited, and tried not to let Light's easy avoidance get to him.
He's busy.
In the meantime, he learned how to keep quiet. He smiled through meetings, the edges strained to those who looked close enough, laughed just a hint too late. More than once, Aizawa’s gaze lingered on him a second too long—or is it just in my head?—or Ide voiced a concern that struck uncomfortably close, and Matsuda felt the words climb up his throat before he forced them back down. It tasted like bile.
Trust, he reminded himself every time. Light had trusted him with this.
Even when Near seemed to be closing in, puppeting them right under their noses. Even though Matsuda is terrified that their ignorance only makes them easier to control.
The nights were the worst. Sleep came in fragments, the notes folded and unfolded until the creases softened, coffee stains adorning the edges. But still, Matsuda chose silence. He believed, earnestly, that waiting was the right thing to do.
A splash of hot coffee burns his hand. He hardly flinches, nerve receptors sluggish with exhaustion. He sighs and pours two cups: one for himself, and one for Light.
The other cups he had set out remain empty. He's too preoccupied to remember to fill them. Because today—today will be the day he grows a pair and tells Light that he's ready to compare notes.
As ashamed as he is to admit it, most of that burning motivation to comb through such an extensive amount of information stemmed from a painful urge to please Light when they reconvene.
Good work, Matsuda. I didn't expect you to be so thorough.
The idea sends a shiver down his spine, chased quickly by guilt. Wanting Light’s approval this badly—using his trust as fuel for that thrill—leaves a sour taste in his mouth. But it doesn’t stop him.
He makes his way down the empty hallway, footsteps a hollow echo around him. He checks his watch. Its 05:30.
The others won't arrive for another thirty minutes. Usually, he enjoys the peace of the early morning. Today, he can't stop glancing over his shoulder, shoulders rigid with tension.
The office door opens with a creak. He glances around the empty room—grey, peeling wallpaper, stiff couches that seem to swallow up most of the space, file cabinets stuffed to the gills—before stepping inside and setting the coffee down on the desk that Light usually occupies.
His self-designated space is pristine, not a paperclip out of place, with precisely organized folders stacked together and pens laid in a perfect line. Matsuda is careful not to disturb it.
He's rubbing his tired eyes and contemplating another quick check over Near's files when the receiver on the other side of the room suddenly crackles to life.
He practically jumps out of his skin, hand instinctively flying for the gun in his belt. When his mind catches up with the fact that there's no threat, he slumps in relief.
“Task Force headquarters. This is Near.
“The person who arrived first this morning, please respond.”
The staticky voice is calm and monotone.
Near?
He glances around one last time, as if trying to confirm he really is the only one here, before he hurries over to answer.
His finger hovers over the button on the microphone for a moment—stupid, why is he nervous?—before he presses it down.
“Uh—this is Matsuda speaking.”
The sound of dull clattering on the other end, then:
"I see. Let's talk, then."
Matsuda leans in, palms a bit clammy with anticipation. After spending the entirety of his week hyper-analyzing the young investigator, he feels weary speaking with him.
“Before we continue: please confirm something for me. The Shinigami described by Mello… is real, correct?”
Matsuda blinks, swearing under his breath. Near got to Mello before they did? He fumbles with the receiver to answer.
"Y-yes, but—wait. Mello? Are you with him?"
A measured pause.
"No." Matsuda hears a muted clack on the other end before he starts again.
“We managed to apprehend him briefly and question him before he escaped. He told us several things of interest, including the existence of Shinigami.”
"Oh." He cant think of anything else to say, throat tight. What else had Mello handed over? How exposed are they? His stomach clenches.
“With that confirmation out of the way, I can move on to the matter I contacted you about.
“There is a rule written in the Death Note that, according to Mello, is fabricated.”
Matsuda goes rigid.
"Fabricated?" He repeats, dumbfounded. "Which one?"
"Using process of elimination, the most likely rule to be false is the clause stating that a user who fails to write a name within thirteen days… will die.”
Another clacking sound. Matsuda's blood goes cold, air leaving his lungs in a rush.
“You understand the implication, Matsuda-san. If the rule is false, any deductions that relied on it must be reconsidered.”
His knuckles are white on the microphone. "I-I'll tell the others."
Will he?
"Please do. I imagine we’ll speak again once you’ve discussed it."
The line dies, silence a dull roar in his ears.
He stays frozen in place for a heartbeat.
Then he’s on his feet, chair scraping back as his thoughts scatter in a thousand directions at once, stomach turning at the implications of Near's poisonous words.
A fake rule. A fake rule?
He forces himself to take a breath.
Breathe.
He wipes his damp palms on his slacks and downs a mouthful of bitter coffee, barely tasting it. Focus. There’s an obvious first step. Of course he needs to tell Light.
But… should he tell the others, too?
This is dangerous information. Part of him screams that the Task Force shouldn’t be blind to something this big, feels nauseous at the idea of staying quiet—but… part of him hesitates. The part of him that’s spent days combing through Near’s files, that can see the trap before it springs.
The part of Matsuda that Light trusts.
So, he decides on no.
It all seems too deliberately designed to cause panic, hinged on an untested rule and Mello's less-than-reliable word. Panic that would conveniently point towards someone who has proven himself innocent time and time again.
Charging in blind is what he usually does, what Near is expecting. This cannot be one of those times.
He takes a slow breath, unclenching his fists. Light trusted him with those confidential files, so he can trust him with this, too.
He’ll tell Light first, let him decide how to bring it to the others.
He feels like he should be reassured, but a rock settles heavy in his gut. Cold, seeping through his skin to the tips of his fingers.
Keeping secrets costs him.
He stiffly settles back down onto the couch, taking out his laptop for some idle work while he waits for the others. His fingers shake on the keyboard, and he can't stop glancing at the receiver, as if it would spark to life once again and the voice on the other end would tell him it was all just a joke. Unsurprisingly, it remains silent.
It isnt long before he's nodding in greeting to his colleagues as they file in one after the other. He doesn't say a word to any of them. He's scared something in his tone will give him away.
Instead, he buries himself in the laptop, trying to appear more busy than he is. He's not sure if the others will buy it, but nobody mentions anything anyways.
He can practically feel the moment Light arrives—a heavy gaze burns into his side profile, unmistakeable. Matsuda doesn't even glance up, he can't. Looking at Light feels like hurling an accusation, broadcasting every thought in his head to the entire room.
He curls his fingers into the couch cushion beneath him instead.
Gradually, the heat of Light's eye passes, taking far longer than usual to disappear. He reminds himself to breathe, but it doesnt do much to soothe his nerves. It feels as though Light can read right through him.
By the time the afternoon has rolled around, Matsuda has hardly moved from his spot. Every word spoken has been carefully measured, every expression trained to neutral, and it's beginning to grate on his composure. His back aches from sitting in the same position. His lips are chapped. He taps his pen against the table, over and over again.
Over the course of the last hour, the distance between him and Light seems to be shrinking—so much so that Matsuda sometimes feels him at his back, a constant awareness prickling warm at the nape of his neck. He can only take so much.
Eventually, he gets up to stretch his legs, unable to take it any longer. He needs a break from the stifling atmosphere, from the heavy weight of secrecy held close to his chest.
He walks down the hall. In the corner of his eye, a cockroach scuttles out of sight. When he looks to see where it went, its disappeared. He wonders if his exhaustion is making him hallucinate, finally catching up with him.
He drums his fingers on the desk, the printer whirring and clicking at a maddeningly slow pace. Irritation prickles—shitty printer—and as he's about to give up on it, the creak of the door snaps his attention sharp.
Footsteps follow, stopping only inches behind him. A brand of heat along his back.
"Matsuda," he greets, hand casually coming to rest on the printer—trapping him. The sharp scent of aftershave fills the tight space. It's suffocating.
Captivating.
"Oh, hey, Light." He clears his throat as he turns to face him, back hitting the edge of the desk when he tries to inch backward. It digs into his spine.
"You've been acting strange today." He cuts right to the chase, eyes narrowed, searching his face. Matsuda's pulse jumps under the scrutiny.
"H-have I? Sorry," he apologizes, chuckling nervously. He keeps glancing towards the door. What if someone catches them like this, whispering back and forth like they're hiding something?
Well, they are. Hiding something, that is. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much.
I'm doing the right thing.
He attempts to move, only for Light to step closer, boxing him in with both arms now.
"What's wrong?" He asks, concern lacing his tone, voice dropped to a quiet murmur. His brows are pinched with worry, lips pursed.
Matsuda's heart squeezes in his chest. He hates avoiding Light like this, worrying him, but he can't risk messing up such a delicate situation. The only way to do that is to keep his distance, just for now.
"I'm—fine," he assures. "We should talk later, though. Alone."
Light tilts his head, considering. His hair curls softly around his ears. Matsuda almost cant meet his eyes.
"…Tonight, then," he finally decides. "We can continue this at your apartment."
Matsuda's eyes widen and he nods again. He tugs at his watch, neck tingling with a slight blush that he scolds himself for, feeling silly.
"Okay. Tonight," he confirms, swallowing, and Light appraises him one last time with those painfully sharp eyes before releasing him.
He swipes the papers from the printer, fumbling in his haste to leave. He holds them close to his chest like a shield as he makes his exit.
Light follows soon after. A shadow in his wake.
I need a drink, he can't help thinking, longing for the beer in his fridge at home. He would do anything right now to ease the vise locked around his chest, squeezing tighter and tighter as he nods to Aizawa and Ide and settles beside them.
He just wants to do the right thing. Even when it burns down his throat like bile.
So he smiles, lets the jokes fall flat, and pretends everything is normal.
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Light is scarcely ever as impulsive as he has been with Matsuda. Somehow, it makes sense. Matsuda doesn’t need plans—he just happens. That, in its own strange way, is part of why Light indulges him.
And it’s not like being a bit reckless has cost him anything. On the contrary, he seems to have gained something quite valuable.
He always imagined Matsuda would flourish in his New World. He simply never expected to see proof of it so soon.
"No. God, no, I didn't—could never—doubt you." Matsuda’s eyes are wide and desperate. He almost steps forward, then aborts the motion at the last second, locking himself stiffly in place instead.
Light lifts his gaze slowly, lashes low over his eyes, and breathes out through his nose as though steadying himself. Maybe he's putting it on a bit thick, but Matsuda wouldn't notice anyways.
“I believe you,” Light says, quiet and thoughtful. He softens his shoulders. “Of course I do.”
Matsuda practically deflates, sighing heavy through his nose at Light's reassurance.
Light smiles, lips threatening to curl into something sharper, before he smooths it out as quick as it had appeared.
“I knew I was right to trust you, Matsuda. If this had fallen into someone else’s hands…”
He lets the thought fade, watching the praise land. And the thing is—it isn’t even a lie. If Aizawa or Ide had taken that call, Light would be scrambling right now, forced into damage control before he’d had time to think.
How fortunate that he “trusted” Matsuda.
Sweet, loyal, catastrophically blind Matsuda.
He closes the distance between them, resting a soothing hand onto Matsuda's stiff shoulders.
“You did the right thing. The last thing the Task Force needs right now is false suspicion tearing us apart.”
He exhales shakily, nodding.
Near is becoming a worse problem than anticipated. A persistent thorn in his side he can’t quite remove. And Mello? How convenient that he “escaped” under Near’s nose. No—Light is certain they’re working together now, circling him, probing for weak points.
He swallows down the irritation and lets his hand drift reassuringly along the curve of Matsuda’s shoulder.
Matsuda protected him today. Beautifully. The threat still looms—Near is like a dog with a bone. But now he's lost the advantage of surprise, and Light intends to make the most of that.
“We need to handle this carefully.” Light’s hand slides from Matsuda’s shoulder up into his hair, fingers threading through the dark, silky strands. Matsuda leans into the touch, nodding.
"I… I agree." He smiles a little, brief, and then his eyes drop to the floor, lip drawn between his teeth. Light follows the familiar motion, the one that says Matsuda is untangling his thoughts, seeking easy reassurance. Light patiently waits him out, idle fingers in his hair.
Finally, before the silence can grow teeth, Matsuda looks up.
"Shouldn't we warn the others? Before Near calls again?" There’s something nervous—almost desperate—in the way he inclines his head, fidgeting as if bracing for rejection.
Light hums, then tugs him closer until their bodies are flush. Matsuda’s ears glow a soft pink in the dim light.
“I can handle that,” Light murmurs, tilting Matsuda’s chin up with practiced gentleness. “There’s no reason for you to be worried."
At last, Matsuda’s shoulders sink, relief opening his expression. The cost of keeping secrets shows in the shadows beneath his eyes, the chewed-through skin of his lips. And yet he held fast, refused to let Light down.
Perfect.
His fingers curl a little bit tighter in his hair.
“But as for tonight, you need to sleep,” he says, tone settling into something firmer, redirecting. “You haven’t been getting enough. I can see it.”
He brushes his thumb along Matsuda's jaw, and Matsuda glances away.
"I—I have a hard time sleeping," he admits, jaw tightening where Light's thumb rests. Light tilts his head to catch his eye again.
“Of course you do. Stress like this…” His fingers slip downward, adjusting the rumpled fabric of Matsuda’s collar as if only trying to neaten it. “…it wears you out.”
But instead of straightening it, he hooks the top button. A subtle tug. The shirt loosens at the throat, exposing the curve of Matsuda’s collarbone. Light’s fingertips linger there, tracing lightly, enough that it suggests the gesture is intentional.
Heat curls in his stomach at the shiver it elicits.
Matsuda is looking at him like he’s the only solid thing in the room, and after today—after proving himself so obediently, so loyally—Light finds he doesn’t mind giving him attention.
Better yet, any doubts and questions have melted away like morning dew, burned off by Light’s hands and honeyed voice. That’s how it should be. Light intends to handle whatever comes next himself, under the simple assumption that he will lead and Matsuda will follow—no questions asked.
Matsuda sucks in a sharp breath as Light eases open the second button… then the third. The blush creeps down his throat now—soft and timid, impossibly tempting.
The desire that hits Light is sharp, rising quick and heady, mingling with the sharp trace of Matsuda’s cologne. In moments like this, it’s difficult to claim that everything he does is strategy alone.
But he would never admit to that.
"Light,” Matsuda breathes, the sound soft, borderline pleading.
It sends a subtle shiver down Light’s spine, fingers curling tighter in his hair as he guides his head back just slightly—enough to let him close the distance between their mouths.
Matsuda responds instantly. His hands grip at the back of Light’s neck and shoulders, seeking something solid and reassuring. He’s trembling. Light can feel the faint quiver of his body through his own chest.
Light takes his time with the kiss, slow and sure, coaxing. He works open the buttons until Matsuda’s shirt slips from his shoulders and falls soundlessly to the floor.
His palms glide over the newly exposed skin, tracing the line of his abdomen, the dip of his waist, the muscles along his back. Matsuda shivers under every touch, leaning into every guided movement.
Light hums against his lips, pleased at how responsive he is.
He drags his fingertips up the length of Matsuda’s spine, feeling his chest stutter in response, before settling a hand at the base of his neck.
Matsuda’s eyes flutter half-lidded, lips parted, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. Light smiles indulgently, drinking in the sight he makes.
“Relax,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the short hairs at nape of his neck. “You’ve been wound tight all day.”
Matsuda swallows hard, nodding almost imperceptibly. His hands slide down to Light’s chest as if afraid to lose contact, fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.
The way he looks at Light—trusting and needy—goes straight through him, feeding something sharp and possessive inside him.
Light presses another soft kiss to Matsuda’s lips, then to the corner of his mouth, then lower along the line of his jaw.
“You don’t have to think,” he whispers against his skin. “Just listen to me. Let me take care of you.”
His hands slide to Matsuda’s waist, guiding him backward until his hips meet the edge of the small kitchen table. The soft thud pulls a quiet sound from Matsuda’s chest.
He dips his fingertips just below his waistband, teasing, questioning. He can feel the heat of his growing erection just out of reach—all from a bit of kissing.
“So reactive,” Light observes. “I barely touch you and you’re already like this.”
Light exhales a soft laugh, amused. “Shy?” he teases, tilting Matsuda’s chin back to meet his gaze.
He watches as a slow, burning blush spreads across his chest, and it only drives the ache between his thighs harder.
Matsuda shakes his head, a feeble denial, lips caught between his teeth. Yet his eyes betray him as he struggles to maintain eye contact. The sight is unbearable, stirring an insistent heat that makes Light grind up against him.
They gasp together, Matsuda’s fingers tangling in Light’s hair as his back arches instinctively, seeking the friction, drawn as if by magnetism.
“Look how much you affect me,” Light purrs, voice low and roughened with want. He catches Matsuda’s wrist, guiding his trembling hand down, pressing his palm firmly against the rigid line of his cock through his slacks.
Matsuda’s breath stutters like he can't quite believe it; his fingers shake, then tighten, squeezing just enough to make Light’s hips grind forward with a hiss. The pleasure spikes hot and urgent, and Light has to sink his teeth into the soft skin where Matsuda's neck meets his shoulder to muffle his groan.
“F-fuck…” Matsuda chokes, voice breaking as Light sucks at the fresh mark, pulling heat to the surface until the skin blooms a vivid red.
His hand flies to Light’s hair again, gripping tight as Light trails slow, hungry kisses down the center of his chest.
Light drags his tongue along the dip of his sternum, teeth grazing sensitive skin as he moves lower still—across the faint lines of twitching muscle, the trembling plane of his abdomen.
Matsuda sucks in a tense breath each time Light finds a new spot to tease, body tightening in anticipation when Light reaches his navel. He follows the dark line of hair disappearing beneath Matsuda’s waistband with the tip of his tongue, savoring the way Matsuda claws at his shoulders.
When Light looks up at him through parted bangs, Matsuda freezes, eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted around uneven pants. The sight of him like this, undone and desperate, has Light smirking.
He sinks to his knees.
The motion alone makes Matsuda’s thighs tense around him. Light presses his cheek against the hard outline straining against Matsuda’s slacks, closing his eyes for a brief moment to feel the heat of it through the fabric. When he exhales, Matsuda’s hips jolt like he can feel the warmth directly on his skin.
Light tilts his head and presses deliberate, open-mouthed kisses along the length of the imprint, tongue slipping out in short sweeps that leave damp spots darkening the fabric.
Matsuda chokes on a moan, one hand buried in Light’s hair while the other white-knuckles the edge of the table behind him. His thighs are rigid.
"Light—please,” he gasps. His hips twitch helplessly, barely held back by restraint that looks seconds from breaking. The need in his voice is raw and sweet, so much so that Light can taste it. He wants more.
Light drags his mouth along him again, relishing the way Matsuda’s cock twitches under his tongue. The heat radiating through the cloth is intoxicating, and the thought slips through his mind—
Has Matsuda imagined this before?
Has he ever touched himself while thinking of Light on his knees like this, lips parted, breath hot against his cock? Has he pictured Light’s mouth wrapping around him, imagined himself spilling over Light’s tongue while Light held him steady by the hips?
He can see it. Matsuda’s head thrown back, face flushed, breathless and shaking as he comes, pitifully whining Light’s name.
His own cock is heavy in his slacks at the imagery. Losing patience, he works his belt free and opens his zipper, shuffling closer until the head of Matsuda’s erection nudges at his lips.
One glance up finds Matsuda's eyes fixed on Light like he’s afraid to blink and miss something, his cock pulsing with heat and already leaking shamelessly against Light’s mouth.
Light hesitates, a shallow uncertainty clouding him for the briefest of moments. It's so brief he's sure Matsuda misses it.
How hard can it be?
If Matsuda can do it, surely it isn’t difficult.
He tentatively curls his tongue around the head, just tasting, just testing. Its bitter and salty, just unpleasant enough to make him pull back and readjust. Then, he schools his expression and eases forward, taking more. His eyes sting as he takes him deeper, breath thinning through his nose.
He focuses on control—on not embarrassing himself—but its hot in his mouth, heavy, and by the time it hits the back of his throat he's gagging despite himself.
Matsuda's hands are fisted in his hair now. Even through the haze, Light registers the tremor in his hips, the effort it takes for him to not thrust.
Light pulls away with a wet cough, cheeks burning. A tear leaks from the side of his eye that he wipes away with an irritated swipe, and before Matsuda can say a word he leans in again—more determined this time.
"L-Light," he gasps out, hands tightening. "It's—It's okay, you dont have to—"
Light cuts him off by swallowing him again, stubborn, choking around him until the words dissolve into a broken groan. He forces himself to relax, flexing his tongue, breathing hard through his nose. Saliva trails down his chin and throat, undignified.
Still, it doesn’t last. After only a few movements he’s pulling back again, gasping, coughing, frustration flaring sharp.
Matsuda tugs his hair, forcing his head up. He looks utterly debauched. But his eyes are clearer now, a humiliating edge of concern shining down on Light.
Matsuda flushes, shy even now, and takes himself in hand. Light knows his own face must be bright pink, hates it—and yet his heart is pounding, stomach fluttering as Matsuda stares down at him.
The focus in his eyes clouds over again, gaze dragging from Light’s mouth to his chest as his strokes turn faster, rougher.
“Light, Light,” he whines, grip on his hair tightening with every pump.
He opens his mouth without thinking, looks up through his lashes, and knows the effect it has by the way Matsuda’s breath stutters.
The embarrassment melts into something hotter. Needier. A craving to keep Matsuda looking at him like this—like Light is the only thing that exists, like even his messy, unpracticed attempt at a blowjob is the best thing he’s ever felt.
Matsuda's knees quiver and his strokes grow disjointed, hips kicking. He keeps Light in place, torn between throwing his head back and watching him with his cock inches from his face.
"Please, Light, please—" he's begging now, as if Light isnt the one on his knees, blushing with lust and residual embarrassment as he looks up at the older man. His first instinct—beautiful and innate—is to beg for permission, even when Light is practically handing him the reins.
That’s what finally drives Light’s hand to his own zipper. He wraps his fingers around himself, stroking in time with Matsuda, startled by how good it feels, how fast it pulls him toward the edge.
"Please what, Matsuda?" He asks, voice more breathless and strained than he intended.
Matsuda's shoulders curl, fingers digging into Light's scalp as he bites his lower lip so hard that blood wells on the swollen flesh.
"Can I—please, please can I come?" he gasps.
Light is already dangerously close. Matsuda’s willingness—his almost unconscious readiness to give up control— is dizzying. Light barely has to do anything at all because Matsuda is more than willing to serve himself up.
Light chokes out a broken sound as he pinches himself hard at the tip, halting his own release with a hiss.
"Light," Matsuda trembles, thighs shaking, sweat sliding from his collarbone to his flushed chest. "Im—oh, Im so close—"
Light catches his wrist. Matsuda jerks, instinct flaring, and then stills. He could keep going.
He chooses not to.
Instead, he whines, low and pained, discipline holding. Its so pitiful it has Light's pinched erection pulsing.
“No,” Light breathes. “Not yet.”
He rises, Matsuda hauling him up by the wrist. They're both shivering when Light kisses him again, swallowing Matsuda's pathetic whimpers. Light manhandles him to the couch, pushing him into the cushions with ease. Matsuda doesnt resist.
Clothes are stripped away in rough, clumsy motions. Skin meets skin, hands everywhere, bruising grips and heated mouths. Light barely remembers what this was supposed to achieve in the first place.
He pins Matsuda down, spits into his palm, and wraps his hand around them both—but it’s awkward, too tight, not enough room.
He huffs, growing impatient, until Matsuda covers his hand with his own. Broader, calloused, easily encompassing his hand. He strokes them together, slick and obscene, their cocks sliding hot against each other.
He squeezes Light’s hand and cock with a firm, unthinking surety, and it steals Light’s balance outright. Matsuda catches him, an arm solid around his back—effortless and strong.
The low sound of another man’s pleasure, the weight of his grip, the mingled scent of heat and cologne; there’s a quiet thrill in it, in fucking a man. So different from the chore-like sex with Misa.
Its an urge he’s long learned to disguise. But not now, not with Matsuda.
Their kiss is messy, more like frantic panting into the others mouth than a proper kiss. Matsuda's whimpers are driving him fucking crazy.
"Light, I'm close—please." Its thin and pitiful, and his cock is throbbing so hard against his own, so close to the edge he's surprised Matsuda hasn't just come yet.
But he couldnt tell him to stop, not even if he wanted to. Because his little pleas and disjointed strokes have his control snapping now. It's all too much, and suddenly he's tumbling over the edge embarrassingly fast.
He sinks his teeth into his shoulder as he comes, eyes rolling. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes into him until he cant tell up from down and all he can focus on is the ecstasy and the faint sound of Matsuda following close behind.
It takes a minute for the bliss to dissolve into something more akin to awareness. For a long moment, there’s nothing but panting.
Warm spurts of white coat their hands and Matsuda's chest, trickling down Light's forearm and onto his abdomen. Some of it even managed to hit Light's chest—he's unsure who it came from.
Matsuda blinks, registering the mess, cheeks coloring. "Hold on, let me get some tissues."
But instead of moving to let him up, Light sighs and keeps him in place with another kiss. It’s soft again—simmering. Matsuda relaxes into it, careful to keep his messy hand from brushing against him. Light appreciates it.
When they part, Light tilts his head. “Why don’t we shower?”
Tissues wouldn’t be enough to keep him from feeling sticky.
When Matsuda ushers them to the bathroom, it becomes apparent that he isnt as stringent on organization as Light is. He sheepishly kicks aside some strewn clothes near the door; Light gives him the grace of pretending not to notice.
The bathroom is cramped. Their shoulders brush as Matsuda checks the water temperature, though he seems to lean closer than necessary. The pink on his ears betrays him.
Matsuda is never as subtle as he likes to think he is.
They step beneath the spray of the shower when it finally warms enough. Light takes Matsuda in as they face each other: he looks content, eyes half-lidded, any residual anxiety dissolved into the steam steadily curling in the air.
Light is pleased, but the feeling doesn’t settle cleanly. Matsuda is calm, unguarded—exactly as intended—and Light notes, detached, how little effort it took to get him there. The thought should reinforce his sense of control. Instead, he feels careless. He doesn’t like not knowing where intention ends and want begins. Matsuda isn’t meant to confuse him.
"Here, let me help," he says, regaining composure when he sees Matsuda reach for the shampoo. He smiles sleepily when Light takes it from him and squeezes a generous amount onto his palm.
He leans into Light's touch like a wilting flower to sunshine. Light massages his scalp—its soothing, but efficient and quick. Just enough to wash him clean, no lingering touches.
He rinses and repeats with conditioner, running his fingers through dark strands. The only sound that passes between them is the spray of the shower and Matsuda's yawn.
When he's done, Matsuda turns to face him, swiping wet hair away from his eyes until he can see Light, glowing with gratitude. He looks like a wet puppy, earnest and disarming, not even realizing it.
Light blinks, looking away.
Matsuda offers to return the favor, which Light promptly declines.
"No need," he says as he works the soap into his own hair. It smells like Matsuda. His throat feels dry.
He can feel eyes on him for the rest of the shower.
They towel off in silence and redress. Matsuda tugs on sweatpants and a t-shirt, and Light his suit. He doesnt bother with his tie.
On the couch, he situates himself just close enough that Matsuda can lean on him if he so chooses. Of course, he does.
Again, silence stretches. Light glances at him. He's already half-asleep, eyes drifting closed seemingly against his will, as if fighting to stay awake.
Before he tries to stave it off again, Light speaks up.
"You've done well, Matsuda. You should sleep now." Its permission, and Matsuda accepts it with a smile tugging at his lips.
"I won't let you down," he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. He takes Light's hand, intertwining their fingers. Light allows it, even though he should probably leave now.
"I know," he says. It's equal parts wishful and adamant, because he refuses to imagine him as an investment that won't yield returns.
This will be worth it.
Soon enough, Matsuda's breaths even out, warm puffs of air tickling Light's collar. He's heavy on his side, a warm line of contact seeping beneath the fabric of his suit.
Light waits a minute, maybe two, before he gently extracts himself from Matsuda's side. He lies him down on the couch, careful to keep him from stirring, and then covers him with a blanket.
He reaches to turn off the lamp, hesitates, and then looks back at Matsuda briefly. He's breathing deeply, lips parted, damp hair framing the angle of his jaw.
He flicks the lamp off and leaves.
Tomorrow will prove to be an eventful day, and he cant afford to wait around.
─── ⋆⋅ ♱ ⋅⋆ ───
A/N: I appreciate everyone's patience. I'll be honest guys, this was physically painful for me to write. Im having a really difficult time with real life stuff, and this fic isnt really easy to write.
I really, really want to finish it. I really think that I could finish it, too. My issue is that Im stuck with it right now. I have the first scene written for the next chapter, but after that? Its so difficult to know what to do next. I feel like ive overwhelmed myself and have set too high of standards for myself, and so im suffering as a result.
I guess there are 2 options here. Im not sure which one im going to pick yet.
A) I take awhile to finish this fic. Im talking months, because real life shit is making it really hard to focus on this fic and making it into what I want it to be. I dont want to have a shitty end.
B) Someone else picks it up and finishes it. I can give them the unfinished scenes and my general notes/ideas and they run with it on the condition that I get to beta and edit it. Id be more than happy for them to take it their own direction given what I have.
As of right now im on option A. Im going to wait things out, and see if things get better. See if I finally figure out how Im going to finish this fic. I know exactly how its supposed to end, its just the getting there thats the issue. I want to be able to make something im proud of, so Im going to wait it out. Wait for my real life to stabilize, wait for my inspiration to hit me again and rekindle.
If this doesnt happen, Ill go for option B. If it gets to the point where option B cant happen, then Ill write out my general plot points and post them here for you guys to see, along with the unfinished scenes. I wont leave you guys on a cliffhanger, is what im saying lol. No matter what, you guys will get resolution.
Anyways, all that rambling aside, thank you guys so much for the patience. I feel so guilty for not being able to give you guys the best that I can in a short time frame, because I know exactly how it feels to be a reader when an author starts to flag out. It sucks to not see the resolution of a fic you like, and I dont want to leave everyone hanging.
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request anon here! feel free to do what you please with my thoughts lolol
post Kira wins au, domestic life…a few years in the future? Or the direct aftermath? Not sure when but Id love to see how their day to day life be like. how does Matsuda rationalize it/cope? Does he take the shinigami deal? what’s the sex like
Or, light corrupts matsuda in the task force and gets him to take the shinigami deal. or…just more of pathetic matsuda wanting scraps of attention from light (knowing or not knowing he is kira)
Hi anon! I wrote up a snippet set years after Kira's takeover for you :3 More notes at the end!
"Reading You"
Matsuda Touta/Light Yagami | 2.1k words | ⚣
Rating: Explicit [18+]
↓Tags below cut↓
dominant Light Yagami / submissive Matsuda Touta / praise kink / a bit of fluff / gagging / blow job / pathetic Matsuda basically
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
They don't really live together.
Light lives in a high-end condominium in central Tokyo—secure, discreet, and strategically located, the tasteful luxury a natural consequence of his salary as chief of police.
Matsuda owns a small condominium apartment near HQ. Its far more modest than he could afford, but its practical, close, and exactly as used as he’d suspected it would be.
Because no, they dont live together, but Matsuda's apartment is as pristine and untouched as the day he bought it.
He considers this as he brews the coffee, wondering if its time he finally sells the place, if its time to say out loud what they both aren't saying: they live together.
Instead, he inhales the rich scent of the brewing grounds as it fills the kitchen, filing the thought away for a later date. It can wait; days off don’t come often, so he plans to make this one count.
He carefully pours two cups: dark and simple for himself, a brew steeped with a cinnamon stick for Light. He uses the stick to stir idly at the liquid, steam curling into the still air.
Soft morning sunshine spills between the slats of the blinds, oozing onto the counter space and brushing against Matsuda's fingertips. He allows the warmth to caress his skin for a few quiet moments before he's whisking the drinks away.
Tile gives way to polished hardwood as he steps from the kitchen into the living area. Light’s jacket drapes over the back of a chair, Matsuda’s notebook lies half-open on the table, and their shoes sit neatly at the door, side by side.
Matsuda smiles sleepily at the sight. Light is always so meticulous; yet the small, relaxed traces he leaves behind make the space feel strangely intimate. Vulnerable.
And he chooses to share that with Matsuda.
His chest clenches with unbidden feeling.
When he shuffles into the bedroom—their bedroom?—Light is leaned lazily against the headboard, reading. The silk of his nightshirt brushes low across his collarbones, glasses perched on his nose, pages turning with a relaxed rhythm.
He looks so effortlessly beautiful, with slender fingers curled around the spine of the book, full lips pursed in focus, hair swept elegantly to the side. Matsuda's breath hitches—he could never be immune to Light.
"Good morning," Matsuda finally says, almost hesitant to break the moment.
Light looks up, his eyes flicking around with that familiar, almost paranoid quickness before settling on Matsuda and softening imperceptibly. Like always, being the center of Light's focus sends a faint warmth rushing to his head.
"Good morning," he says, voice rough with sleep, hair catching the sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains as he tilts his head. He shuts the book and sets it aside, bidding Matsuda closer with just a flicker of his expression.
He takes the cup with graceful hands, humming with satisfaction as he sips. Matsuda just stands there, dumbly, watching him. Because how could he not?
His lashes flutter, faintly obscuring the honey-gold color of his iris, cheeks painted a dusty pink when the warmth of the drink settles on his tongue. A stray lock of hair curls at the curve of his jaw, almost asking to be tucked away behind his ear.
Would Light mind if he did so? Sometimes its hard to tell. He doesn't like being treated gently. Only on rare occassions does he allow that.
His daze is dispelled when Light quirks a brow, amusement tugging at the edge of a smirk.
"Ah– sorry, can you repeat that?" He stammers, laughing a bit nervously. He sips on his own coffee to chase away the heat in his face, but judging by the look Light gives him, it doesnt.
"Its okay. I just said thank you." He shakes his head, bordering on exasperation, but its offset by the decidedly… fond expression hes wearing.
Matsuda still isn’t used to it—to catching those minute shifts in Light’s expression that betray his thoughts and feelings—and he’s even less used to reading unguarded affection there.
Light’s affection is a fleeting thing—or maybe it isn’t, and Matsuda just isn’t as good at reading him as he thinks, because he’s been kept around this long, hasn’t he?
Longer than any of his other confidants, longer than any of his other relationships, even. Surely he's overstayed his welcome, outlived his use.
He can’t lie and say he hasn’t waited, breath held, for his heart to seize in his chest at least once over the years. But it never has. And somehow, impossibly, he’s still here.
And Light is still gazing at him with eyes hes still learning to read. He doesnt think he'll ever learn them perfectly, not like how Light can read him.
"What are you thinking so hard about, Matsuda?" He asks, shifting closer. They're sitting side by side now, a line of warm contact that seeps through the thin fabric of Matsuda's shirt.
"Its… nothing," he answers, taking another sip of the coffee to occupy himself. Its not a complete lie—he just doesnt exactly know how to put what he feels into words. He's not so eloquent.
Light narrows his eyes, ever so perceptive, but doesn't push it. Instead, he takes the cup from Matsuda's hands and sets it down next to his own on the nightstand. Then, he tilts Matsuda's head to face him with a finger to his jaw.
His breath catches at the motion, throat working around a nervous swallow. His previous thoughts dissipate into nothingness, burned to dust by Light's piercing focus.
"Don't think so much," he says—no, orders—but its needless. Because Matsuda suddenly isnt thinking at all. He licks his lower lip, throat suddenly dry. Light tracks the motion with pupils that eat away at his iris.
"I-"
His words are swallowed before he can even attempt to say them, Light's mouth meeting his with an invading tongue that tastes like spicy cinnamon and coffee. His breath leaves him in a surprised gasp.
Teeth gently tug on his bottom lip, hands run smoothly into his hair, and they pull until he's whining into the kiss.
Matsuda's fingers tremble where they rest on his shoulders, brain fizzling into embers.
Light licks into his mouth at a languid, controlled pace. Savoring. Maddening. Sliding his tongue slowly against Matsuda's and turning his spine into liquid heat.
Light kisses like he intends to control, and Matsuda is helpless against it. He wants to be controlled.
He submits to Light's greedy mouth, easily positioned in just the right ways for Light to devour him, precisely and deeply, deeper still.
Just as the heat pools hotter and hotter below his navel, twisting his insides into a tight fist, Light pulls away. He chases his mouth with hazy eyes, teasing at the hem of his shirt before he's forced to stop by a rough grip at the back of his skull that says, heel.
He grits his teeth, hissing in equal parts pain and painful disappointment. He bites back the surging burn in his throat, eyes squeezing shut, and he finally goes slack.
He's shivering all over, well-honed discipline the only thing keeping him solidly in place, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his pants to resist the temptation of disobedience.
Light hums in a pleased way that says good, Matsuda, and it makes the restraint worth it, to hear Light so pleased with him.
When Matsuda opens his eyes, Light is studying him, flush high on his cheekbones, mouth so close he can feel every breath. He seems terribly amused at the state he's worked Matsuda up into—a shivering, panting mess—and his lips curl into a mean little smile.
"Someone's eager this morning," he murmurs against his lips.
Matsuda comes back to himself just enough to feel embarrassed. He exhales shakily, nodding, looking anywhere except Light's knowing eyes and willing his humiliating half-erection away.
He hates how easy he is. But Light seems to love it.
Light chuckles when he squirms. Its a breathy sound, bordering on delighted. Matsuda swallows thickly and squeezes his thighs togeher, hiding his shame.
He knows Light can see right through him, that Light knows how riled up he is and how easy it was to get him there—still, he tries to maintain some sense of dignity.
Light would never allow that, though.
He pries his legs open with a firm hand, meeting no resistance. He never does.
"You know I dont like it when you do that," he sighs, brushing the inside of his thighs with featherlight touch. The muscles flex and quiver from the attention, making Matsuda suck in a sharp breath.
"Sorry," he says, voice just on the edge of breaking, swollen lip caught between his teeth. Light likes him because he's disciplined, because he's obedient—and yet, he still manages to mess it up. His chest tightens.
"Let me make it up to you," he says, before Light can answer him. Light narrows his eyes, as if deciding whether to be offended or amused. He seems to settle on something in between.
"Go on," he finally says, and Matsuda feels like he has permission to breathe again. Light leans back and waits, hair slightly tousled from the earlier kiss. He manages to look flawless anyways.
Matsuda slowly situates himself between his thighs. His movements are hesitant at first, unsure as they hover, until Light nudges at him with an expectant glare. A warning.
He knows better than to be warned twice.
His heart kicks in his chest and he rucks Light's shirt up in a rough, bordering desperate movement. Scarred, broad palms brush across smooth skin, greedy with desire. Light's breath hitches under his hands, pleased.
Emboldened, Matsuda drags fingers under his waistband, teasing at the delicate skin beneath with calloused fingertips that have Light shivering with anticipation.
Arousal tugs low in his gut, building and building because when Light is like this—pupils blown wide with hunger, panting hot as he looks down on him—it sends Matsuda's head spinning with exhilaration, with the burning need to please.
He feverishly tugs the fabric down and fuck, his cock curves hot and pink onto his straining stomach, unhindered by any underwear. Matsuda's tongue goes heavy in his mouth at the sight.
"Fuck, Light," he breathes, hands trembling where they grip at his hip hard enough to bruise.
His eyes flutter shut and has no choice but to take it all when a hand at the back of his head, fisting his hair, guides him to the crown of his cock and shoves the length down his throat.
Light cries out, and so does Matsuda, choked and muffled around the intrusion. He has to force his jaw and throat to relax when Light begins grinding relentlessly—making sure the forgiveness is earned.
Drool trickles down his chin and a tear threatens to spill from the corner of his eye as he's forced to choke again and again until his nose is pressed against Light's golden brown curls.
He's lucky his gag reflex has been mostly trained out of him.
Light thrusts his hips up and uses both hands to keep Matsuda's head where he needs it. The sounds are obscene and wet, intermingled with choked off groans from Light and Matsuda's strangled breaths between each brutal stroke.
Fingernails scrape his scalp and his face burns, vision scattered with dark dots around the corners. He rocks helplessly into the mattress, seeking friction, anything to relieve the aching heat between his legs.
It feels so good, feels so good to be good enough to use. His jaw is aching and it feels good because Light is the one using it, mindlessly rutting like he was never as put-together as he seemed.
"Yes, Matsuda, good, fuck‐" Light is incoherent, and he sounds distant and underwater. Matsuda can only keep his jaw unhinged, tongue pliant, and nothing else. He can only take it, and that's exactly what he does.
He does until Light is throwing his head back and coming in hot spurts down his throat, pulsing straight to his stomach. He doesn't even taste it, can't even really feel anything, fingertips numb and tingling. He holds Matsuda in place until he's satisfied, then pulls him off with a hiss.
He coughs and coughs and sucks in big gulps of air, head rushing, arms giving beneath him and landing him in a heap on top of Light. He cant feel his tongue or his jaw, but he can feel the saliva trailing down his throat, cooling before it reaches the hollow of his collarbone.
"Shh…" is the first sound Matsuda registers when the oxygen returns to his brain. Then, gentle fingers brushing his hair in soothing strokes.
"Light?" His voice is utterly wrecked. The stroking pauses for a fraction of a second, and Matsuda's breath stalls—
"I forgive you," Light says, thumb sweeping across his cheekbone. Its comforting, familiar, and the forgiveness seeps into his skin in a wave of warmth-relief.
He knew Light would forgive him—he always does.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
A/N: Im so sorry ive been MIA lately guys. First I was sick, and now class is starting back up again—but Im working through everything, slowly but surely! Im also having a bit of writers block, so these snippets and requests help!
That out of the way—this snippet is just a taste of their (rare) day off. Usually, they're at HQ directing daily operations and managing investigation teams. They use their high ranking positions to keep the heat off of them, obtain classified info, and orchestrate things behind the scenes. Its a demanding double life...
As for whats next, I will be writing some drabbles, or maybe snippets (really depends on motivation), that answer some more of ur prompt (like how he copes and the shinigami deal). And im definitely going to be moving onto ur 2nd prompt soon :3
For now, though, I hope you like what I wrote until then!! Thanks so much for the request!
bottom Light Yagami / top Matsuda Touta / dominant Light Yagami / submissive Matsuda Touta / praise kink / begging / anal sex / first time blow job / gagging / porn with feelings
AO3 link here
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
When he was younger, he longed for a challenge. The endless slog of being the brilliant student, the obedient son, the picture-perfect brother; it was boring. Exhausting and boring because nothing is more exhausting than being bored.
He wanted– no, he needed something greater for himself. He knew that– unlike his peers– he was capable of reaching heights that most people could only dream of even brushing against. He was capable and wound as tight as a bowstring, ready to snap at the first opportunity of something more.
Then he wrote his first name in the Death Note, his neat handwriting an executioner's axe, and he exacted justice for the first time.
Suddenly, the thrill he so dearly sought after was handed to him on a silver platter, and his purpose revealed itself to him with startling clarity. And anything or anyone that tried to obscure his purpose was against humanity itself—a threat to the beautiful future he could so clearly envision.
L Lawliet was one of those threats. At first, it felt more like a game than a power struggle. Dancing with L was what made the Death Note thrilling. But the longer that time drew on, and the more complex their dance got, the less Light felt endeared to their game.
L Lawliet was too clever and cruel, and it was always going to be either him or Light. They both knew that. When L flew too close to the sun, came too close to sabotaging Light's fragile climb to the top, it was over. L was greedy, and he wanted to condemn humanity to suffering, and that was his downfall.
Now, six years later, he finds that he's rather tired. His games with L are long over now– he's no longer that naive teenager who constantly ran in circles to chase a thrill. And he finds little joy in chasing after Mello and dodging around Near.
His perfect world is within reach, and he's so, so tired of having to play these games to achieve it. He's impatient and frustrated, and tired.
He cards his fingers through his hair, his back aching with tension, and he can feel the beginning of a headache pounding at the back of his skull. The other task force members chatter wearily as evening descends, but Light largely tunes them out.
His eyes skate over the endless names and numbers on the paper before him, their untimely deaths courtesy of Misa. Rapists, murderers, terrorists; each one deserved their fate, and yet he must treat them as victims. Bile rises in his throat.
Sick people. Sick, disgusting monsters who needed to be cleansed, and it was his divine purpose to do so. Sick, vile, insidious–
"Hey, Light-kun!"
Light blinks and turns to face the interruption, mildly irritated but easily able to pass it off as weariness. Upon seeing Matsuda's warm brown eyes sparkling in his direction, waiting for a response, Light forces a smile in acknowledgement.
"Yes?"
Matsuda's previous close-lipped smile grows into a beam at his attention. Matsuda is easy to please like that– easy to read, too. Even with such a glowing expression, tired lines edge his eyes and his lips.
Since Light's father's death and Mello's subsequent escape, the morale of the task force has sapped. Light included– though for a much different reason.
Mello is a wildcard, and his escape has effectively torn control from Kira’s hands, something that's left Light reeling for weeks now.
"Wanna go out to drink with us tonight?" Matsuda offers, hopeful, but likely expecting rejection. Light doesn't usually go out with the task force, not that they go out much anymore anyway.
Light considers for a moment, but mostly just for show. He's already decided.
"Sure, Matsuda-san. Thank you for the invite," he accepts politely. It's a good opportunity to strengthen morale and reinforce some goodwill toward Light.
Who knows? Maybe Light will actually allow himself to relax a little, too. Being so tightly wound up will make him vulnerable to mistakes, after all.
Matsuda blinks in surprise. "Oh- yeah, no problem!" He fidgets with his watch, looking delighted, then waves Light over. The other men are already heading out.
Light stands and stretches, putting his work in order before joining Matsuda, who waits for him at the door.
"I'm surprised you're joining us," Matsuda begins, his cheek dimpling with a small smile as he follows Light outside, "I mean, sometimes it seems like you never stop working."
Light pauses and glances at the man beside him, whose brow is slightly furrowed in concern.
Heart on his sleeve, Light thinks, a passing thought.
"Ah, well, even I need a break sometimes," he replies, shrugging casually. Matsuda hums agreement, his excitement obvious in his springy step. He keeps sneaking semi-anxious glances Light's way, like he thinks he'll run off at any moment. Light finds it amusing.
They finally catch up to the others and continue their walk to an old, dingy bar. Light isn't a drinker, but he enjoys it occasionally, especially when it loosens the tongue of whoever he is with. So he bears with the less-than-remarkable bar and goes inside, Matsuda close behind.
They sit at a table away from most of the noise and settle in. The overhead lights are dim and they flicker occasionally, and the table wobbles when they make any sudden movement.
Light ends up between Aizawa and Matsuda.
He orders some Shochu on the rocks, and he idly takes sips of it as he observes the men around him, occasionally chipping in on conversation when expected.
Aizawa is subdued and doesn't drink much, explaining that he can't stay long because his wife wants him home early. Mogi is stoic as always, but entertains conversation with the others more easily than before the drinks.
Matsuda, predictably, is already boisterous and excitable. He chats it up with everyone at the table about anything and everything, fidgeting with his watch and mussing his black hair as he bounces from topic to topic.
"I've been watching Papadoru! recently and-"
"Have you heard the new-"
"I'm not a big fan of them, but I do-"
"Aizawa! Surely you-"
As the alcohol kicks in, Light finds himself watching and listening to him the most.
His eyes burn with delight when he passionately describes new pop albums, he worries his lip when he thinks he's said too much, he grits his teeth while waiting for a half assed reply, and he's so painfully genuine and obvious.
Despite his exhaustion, despite how much the case has taken from him, despite how much he must resent this job, he still radiates idealism. Trust. Hope.
He can't seem to find it in himself to feel anything but strangely endeared as Matsuda's dimpled grin fills his peripherals.
"Have you guys watched-" he begins once the conversation lulls, a sheepish, drunk flush peeking from beneath his disheveled collar.
Ide, who had been glancing at Matsuda with an exasperated expression, let out an obnoxious sigh that interrupts whatever else he was going to say.
"Jeez, Matsu, do you ever get tired?" It could've sounded teasing, and maybe it was supposed to be, but from the way Matsuda tenses up, it clearly hit a nerve.
The flush on his neck crawls up to his cheeks, and he scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"Yeah, sorry..." he tapers off and laughs a little before taking a sizable gulp of his alcohol, probably for an excuse to do something with his nervous hands.
Light stays quiet, enraptured by the scene. Matsuda stares down into his cup while the other men continue to chat, heedless of his embarrassment.
Light feels his lips curling into a smirk, but he suppresses it and sips on his second glass of Shochu instead. Matsuda can be quite interesting after all.
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Matsuda is piss drunk. It's clear that he has no self-control when it comes to alcohol– but Light could've guessed that. Matsuda is compulsive and emotional, so of course he struggles to control his intake.
Matsuda's weight is thrown across his side, but being tipsy himself, he isn't as irritated as he would have been sober. Aizawa had left a bit ago, and Mogi is just now excusing himself, leaving only Light, Matsuda, and Ide at the table.
Over the course of the evening, the bar had only gotten more chaotic and crowded, and it reeks of alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat. Light is nauseated by it.
Ide looks only mildly disappointed as he gestures to Matsuda at his side. "I’ll walk him home. Done it before anyway." He grumbles and stretches as he gets to his feet, but Light waves him off.
He finds himself strangely mindful of the man beside him, in a way he never has been previously; he's fascinated by his wide-eyed positivity that beautifully contrasts with his pitiful insecurity.
Maybe it's the alcohol? Maybe the weight of Mello's escape is getting to him more than he thought? Nonetheless, Light wants to walk Matsuda home.
"It's alright, I can handle it," Light assures him. Matsuda huffs in his ear, his warm breath fanning across Light's neck. Light's fingers tighten imperceptibly around his glass.
"I can... I'm fine- serious..ly. I can walk m'self home." With great effort, he pushes away from Light and tries to stand, but only manages to shuffle back in his chair a bit. He seems to have the motor skills of a noodle.
Light thins his lips at the pathetic sight, shifting to aid Matsuda in the herculean task of standing up.
Ide hesitates and asks again, "You sure?"
Light nods at him and hoists Matsuda's arm over his shoulders, holding him under the armpit. He sags against Light, heavy as a dead weight, and Light struggles for a moment before gaining his footing.
Unlike the mess of giggles that Matsuda was when he was tipsy, he's actually quite miserable drunk. He keeps mumbling to himself and gazing longingly at the floor.
"Alright. Try not to be a handful, Matsuda," Ide says once he sees that Light has the man situated in his hold. He bids them goodbye, disappearing into the dim crowd.
Light's eyes narrow thoughtfully at Ides' words, acutely aware of Matsuda's muscles subtly tensing against his own as he said them.
"Light-kun, I'm s'all good, sorry- I can walk." Light tightens his grip when he starts to squirm, and he drags the older man to the front against his protests.
"Matsuda, please. Just allow me to help you," he drops the honorific and puts on his concerned, polite voice to coax him into listening. Things will go a lot smoother if Matsuda just listens to him.
He makes one last attempt to untangle from Light and then gives up. "'M sorry, Light.." he murmurs, so quiet that Light can hardly pick up on his words even as they brush against his hair.
When they finally get to the front, he momentarily releases Matsuda to dig in his pocket for money. Not that it matters much, anyway, because he stays slumped over on Light regardless.
A woman with a black slicked ponytail takes Light's cash with a nod, and then Matsuda attempts to take his own wallet out with fumbling motions.
Light grabs his wrist, stopping him. His pulse is erratic against Light's fingertips.
"I paid, we can go now," Light assures him.
Matsuda tries to protest, but doesn't try to escape Light's iron grip as he maneuvers them outside. The cool, biting air soothes the sweat on the nape of his neck, and he sighs in relief, glad to finally escape from the stifling atmosphere of the bar.
Matsuda straightens up a little. The warm light of the bar behind them shines through the strands of his dark hair, contouring the ridge of his cheekbone. His irises are invisible, engulfed by his dilated pupils, and when he catches Light staring, he adjusts his collar sheepishly.
Light's throat feels dry.
"Thank you- Light, thank you for paying for the drinks... Seriously, you didn't hav- thank you, sorry," he stammers, evidently trying not to slur his words and failing.
Matsuda's earnestness, paired with his wide, thankful eyes, stirs something in Light's stomach, vastly overcoming any agitation at his antics.
"You don't need to thank me. Let's just get you home, alright?" Against his better judgment, he risks brushing Matsuda's bangs from his eyes. The touch is brief– by all means, just a kind gesture from a friend. Matsuda smiles gratefully, oblivious to any growing ulterior motive.
"Okay," he concedes, his eyelashes fluttering as he looks away. Light smiles.
The trek to his apartment is mostly uneventful until they end up having to sit on the curb of the sidewalk while Matsuda fights off nausea.
He apologizes incoherently as Light settles with him, looking embarrassed and frustrated. He refuses to meet Light's eye, opting to bury his face in his hands while he shivers from the cool air.
Light has already sobered up by this point. He expects to be irritated, fed up with playing caretaker for a grown man when he could be working to find Mello or gather info on Near. In the past, he would've been exasperated by Matsuda's foolishness, cursing him in his mind.
And yet, now, as he rubs between Matsuda's shoulder blades to soothe the nausea, he feels oddly… satisfied. As if seeing Matsuda in such a state– fully reliant on Light– is feeding something in him. As if having to focus on him instead of scheming is a welcome reprieve rather than an inconvenient distraction.
He relishes the way Matsuda tries to compose himself and fails, the way he clearly wants to disappear into the ground and hide away from his gaze. It intrigues Light.
"Think you can walk again? We're almost there," Light says, quiet, gentle. He needs to handle Matsuda like a fragile thing, something that can fracture with the merest dismissal.
A long moment of steady breathing passes before he nods absentmindedly and stands, using Light's arm for assistance.
He clumsily loosens his tie once on his feet, tugging it away from his throat as if it were suffocating him. Light allows himself to follow the movements for only a second. His slender fingers, the slope of his Adam's apple–
Then, he looks away, and they continue to his apartment.
Matsuda thanks Light about a hundred times over by the time they reach his door, where he stands on the welcome mat and waits patiently for Matsuda to fish the keys from his pocket.
When he finally does, Light quickly snatches them from his fingers, brushing against him briefly as he does so. Matsuda blinks dumbly, probably not even realizing that the keys are gone from his grasp, while Light unlocks the door for him.
He promptly returns the keys to Matsuda's pocket and opens up the door for him.
Matsuda pauses as his mind catches up. "Oh, thanks!" He smiles widely, cheeks dimpling. Then, as quickly as he seemed so full of enthusiasm, it evaporates.
"Again– so sorry. And also thank you again.. I hate that I didn't– I just wish you didn’t haveta, well, see me like.. this. Just embarrassing, especially cause– well- especially cause it's you," he rambles, trying to string together something coherent, but only getting more tangled in his words as he goes along.
Light quirks a brow as he deciphers his words. "Especially because it's me?" He repeats, prodding the man even though he already has an idea of what he will say.
Dragging out the interaction even though it's unnecessary, and he could be doing something more important, but somehow, Matsuda seems like a much more pressing matter..
Matsuda shakes his head wearily with a laugh, "Of course! You're really.. I admire you, Light. I think anyone would."
The words are genuine, but Light is a little disappointed. Despite being nothing but a nonsensical fantasy, he almost wishes Matsuda had blushed with his words, or averted his eyes to hide deeper desires.
Instead, he just smiles at Light and squeezes his shoulder. Friendly.
Light decides he wants a different reaction.
Before Matsuda can go inside, Light abruptly blocks the entrance to his apartment and intrudes on his personal space, their chests brushing. He can feel the rise and fall of Matsuda's breath against his skin.
“I'm flattered that you feel that way, Matsuda. I have a lot of respect for you as well,” he replies, his voice dropping low as he looks up at Matsuda through his lashes.
Matsuda looks surprised as the words and sudden intrusion register, and once they do, a delicious pink blush touches the tips of his ears, eyes widening just a fraction. Light drinks in the response, pleased and tempted to push and do something vastly out of character, but instead, he steps back and straightens.
Fragile.
“Goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow morning,” Light says with a knowing curl of his lip. Matsuda stays frozen for a moment– he opens his mouth, then closes it, then settles for a quick “thankyougoodnight!” as he escapes inside.
Light smiles. He decides that he needs someone like Matsuda to focus on right now– someone trustful and predictable that he can understand with no underlying scheme or game attached.
How refreshing.
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Light is usually first at the HQ in the mornings. Either he's up bright and early and gets to the place first, or he's waking up hunched over his paperwork. Either way, he's there before anyone else.
Today, he's not.
A very tired-looking Matsuda is waiting in the lobby when he arrives. In one hand, he holds a beverage carrier with four cups of coffee in it, and in the other, he holds one cup.
Despite his slightly mussed hair and tired eyes, his suit is pristine, like he put extra time into making sure it was perfect.
When Light walks in, he straightens immediately, and the hand holding the single coffee trembles the slightest bit.
“Good morning, Light-kun,” he starts, “I grabbed everyone a coffee on the way here.”
He offers the coffee in his hand to Light, an apologetic smile on his face.
Light accepts it, the warmth seeping into his palm. “Thank you, Matsuda-san. That's very thoughtful of you.”
“Of course,” he says, looking both relieved and pleased.
Light doesn't step back after taking the coffee. Instead, he applies the barest amount of pressure on the man's composure, openly studying Matsuda's face, eyes languidly tracing his features.
Matsuda shifts under the sudden scrutiny, his throat moving around a swallow. His skin is sickly pale, and a light sheen of sweat on his forehead reflects the overhead fluorescents.
“You must've felt awful this morning, yet you went through the effort to get here early with coffee for everyone,” Light finally speaks. He sips on the drink, humming appreciatively.
Light wants him to see that he recognizes his effort, his kindness, unlike the others whom Light knows will brush him off the second they take their coffee. But not Light.
Light can give him the validation he wants. Deserves, even.
Matsuda shrugs, looking flustered, “Ah, it's nothing, Light-kun. I mean, it's the least I can do after last night.”
Light frowns in feigned concern.
Secretly, he's pleased Matsuda went through so much effort to work through what must be a nasty hangover just for Light's approval.
A desire for approval, especially from the man he admires– it’s something Light can so easily twist for his own benefit.
“Well, take it easy today, alright?” Light says, smiling kindly.
He steps back as the other men arrive and– as predicted– take their coffees from Matsuda with hardly a mumbled “thanks” thrown his way. Matsuda doesn't look surprised, but he looks vaguely deflated for a moment.
Then, he's smiling again and following the men while humming a chipper tune and badgering them with frivolous questions as if the moment never happened at all. It only looks slightly forced.
He never expects anything in return for his kindness, never holds anything against anyone. Matsuda is like that. He's genuine and compassionate with no ulterior motive, hardworking and honest for the sake of it. He really is that simple.
Matsuda is exactly the kind of man Light is building this new world for. The kind of man Kira is happy to sacrifice for.
Happy to reward.
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Matsuda stirs awake.
He blinks blearily at the ceiling as he comes to awareness, neck aching and head pulsing with the residual pains of his earlier hangover headache.
For a moment, he's disoriented. He expected to open his eyes to the familiar sight of his bedroom's broken ceiling fan and cheap TV, but instead, he's greeted with the pristine wallpaper and dimmed lamp of the headquarters office.
He's on the couch. The last thing he remembers is being hunched over his laptop, staring at files, while Light sat a polite distance away doing the same. Matsuda had been determined to stay late, to make up for his drunken behavior the night before.
Shit, he mentally berates himself, did I fall asleep?
He registers the tingling numbness in his arm first, then the slight shifting of a warm weight slumped across his side.
He goes rigid, inner thoughts evaporating. He flicks his gaze down to see soft brown hair resting on his shoulder, castaways tickling his cheek.
The shadows cast by Light's lashes tremble on his cheekbones, the dim lamplight illuminating the gentle slope of his nose. His full lips are slightly parted, and he expels short puffs of breath onto Matsuda's chest, lightly stirring the fabric of Matsuda's shirt with each exhale.
Matsuda's heart skips a beat at the sight, throat going dry. His physical reaction surprises him; proximity to Light has never affected him so sharply before.
He knows Light is a handsome young man– anyone with eyes could see that. But, as a man himself, he hasn't ever paid much attention to it. Not in the way a woman would.
But right now, well, he has no choice but to pay attention to Light's beauty. It's practically beaming in his face like a spotlight, the force of it sending his head spinning.
His eyes unconsciously trace the sharp line of Light's jaw from his ear to his chin, trailing upward to his parted lips adorned with a pronounced cupid's bow, then to his long lashes that obscure the brilliant brown eyes beneath them.
His stomach flutters.
Acknowledging that Light is attractive doesn't mean he's actually attracted to him, right?
Matsuda grimaces at such an inappropriate idea, dismissing it even as his face burns and his ears rush with blood. That's just ridiculous– admiration isn't the same as attraction.
Matsuda considers putting some distance between them so he can compose himself. He can't think straight with Light practically right on top of him.
But Light is effectively pinning him to the armrest of the couch, and Matsuda can't move without waking him up. He can't bring himself to do that. Light is probably exhausted. He wouldn't have allowed himself to fall asleep on Matsuda otherwise.
He rests his head back again, despite the way his neck protests with stiffness, and he sighs quietly.
Once his pulse has slowed to a reasonable pace, he chances another look down at Light. He wears a serene expression, looking peaceful, and Matsuda realizes he hasn't ever seen Light's face without the perpetual thoughts and ideas circulating in his brilliant mind– not until now.
He looks much younger like this. Or maybe he just looks his age, and most of the time, the weight of the world on his shoulders ages him.
It makes Matsuda's heart ache. Light has undoubtedly suffered the most out of anyone in this case, in more ways than Matsuda probably even knows, yet he still bears the overwhelming responsibility without complaint.
Matsuda admires his tenacity, but it also deeply concerns him. He wishes he could do more for him, wishes he could be as genius as L was, so Light would trust him to bear even a fraction of the burden he carries.
He feels so useless.
Light shifts again, causing Matsuda's breath to catch. His stomach flips awkwardly as he tenses.
Please don't wake up, please don't wake up-
Against his wishes, Light's eyes flutter, and he blinks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. His hand unwittingly comes to rest on Matsuda's thigh as he pushes himself upright, still terribly close. The touch burns through the fabric of his pant leg.
“Matsuda?” he murmurs tiredly, not straightening and shoving away from him like Matsuda half expected. His voice is rough from sleep, ghosting across Matsuda's cheek.
“Yes?” he answers, voice steady, even as wave after wave of his earlier, less-than-platonic thoughts suddenly begin tormenting his brain against his will. He grips the armrest.
“What time is it?” Light asks, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. Now that he's sat up, Matsuda is offered the view of his loosened shirt collar that dips just low enough to expose a sliver of his clavicle.
Matsuda clears his throat nervously, glancing away from the tantalizing sight. He has more respect than this! He scolds himself internally before replying.
“I- I'm not sure. Hold on.” He tugs his arm from where it's pinned behind Light, forcing him to move. His hand disappears from Matsuda's thigh, and he puts some distance between them, but they're still close enough that their knees brush. Matsuda shivers at the lost warmth of Light's palm on his leg.
“It's 03:24,” he says after squinting at the watch on his wrist, the numb tingling sensation waning now that blood is flowing properly again. His profile burns with the acute awareness of Light's attention.
“I apologize if I made you uncomfortable,” Light says, “I'm not sure how I ended up falling asleep on you.” He sounds concerned and a little embarrassed, and he looks away when Matsuda tries to meet his gaze.
“No, not at all, Light! It's not a big deal. You must be very tired, I get it.” He scrambles to assure him, almost reaching out on instinct, but stopping himself– it's already awkward enough. He wrings his hands instead.
Light faces him again with an uncharacteristically timid smile. “Thank you for understanding, Matsuda.”
Then he purses his lips, visibly thinking before continuing, “I've been having some trouble sleeping lately. Misa and I are… well, we aren't on the best terms right now,” he admits.
Matsuda blinks in surprise at the news– after all, they seemed like such a picture-perfect couple– and at the fact that Light feels comfortable sharing something so personal with him. His heart jackrabbits at the sudden trust being handed to him.
“Oh? I'm sorry to hear that. Are you guys breaking up?” he asks, his voice still quiet, almost a whisper. As if speaking any louder would break the fragile bubble surrounding them, would break Light's sudden vulnerability.
He really doesn't wanna fuck this up.
Light sighs wearily, leaning back onto the couch until he's staring at the ceiling. “I think so. We just aren't compatible, unfortunately,” he explains. Matsuda nods at his words, understanding.
“I get it. I've been there before, too. Don't be too hard on yourself. Sometimes things just aren't meant to be.” He shrugs, “Either way, you don't have to worry much. You're still a young, handsome man. You won't have much trouble meeting a nice woman. Same goes for Misa.”
Despite being what Matsuda thought was a fairly neutral response, Light reacts with a wince, his jaw tightening.
Matsuda freezes, confused and a little panicked– how had he fucked it up already? He rapidly thinks and re-thinks over the words and can't, for the life of him, figure out how they would upset Light. He worries his lip between his teeth, about to say something more, try to salvage whatever he messed up-
“Can I ask you something?” Light interrupts his wild inner turmoil, sitting straight and turning to face Matsuda completely. Matsuda mirrors him automatically, sensing the seriousness in Light's tone. Worry clenches in his chest.
His eyes are dark in the dim light, his mouth in a thin line, and his hands are clasped together with white knuckles in his lap. This kind of expressiveness is uncharacteristic of Light– this entire situation is. Something serious must be troubling him.
“Yes, of course,” he says immediately, waving for him to continue.
“What if I don't want to be with a woman?” He asks, expressionless, studying Matsuda's face as if weighing any reaction he may have.
Matsuda gives him a questioning look. “What? Like, you're not interested in dating?” He blurts, confused at what the big deal is, but relieved all the same. He's not sure what he expected, but it wasn't something as bland as that.
Light looks exasperated.
“No. I am interested, just not with women.”
Oh.
Oh.
His brows raise in shock, and he blinks dumbly at the implications. Suddenly, his blood is rushing up to his face, and his relief is quickly turning hot. He isn't sure why. This doesn't mean anything really; it has nothing to do with Matsuda. But his stomach is flipping anyway.
Light likes men? What kind of men is he interested in? Has he been with a man? Does anyone else know? Why tell me?
His thoughts are an incoherent mess, crashing into one another stupidly, questions and ideas and weird feelings intertwining and pulling apart. He's been silent for at least a minute straight, but it only feels like it's been a few seconds, and Light is still watching him and waiting for a reply.
He swears he spots a tiny, imperceptible curl of Light's lip in a smirk before it disappears as if Matsuda had imagined it.
“Do you think differently of me, Matsuda?” Light prods, brows furrowed in worry, averting his gaze in shame.
Matsuda's brain finally kicks back into drive, and he emphatically shakes his head, unwittingly moving closer to get Light's attention back on him.
“What? No! It's none of my business, why would I care who you're interested in?” Matsuda flounders, only stuttering over his words once as he races to explain.
None of Matsuda's business. It's none of his business who Light takes to bed. None of his business who gets to run their hands through his soft brown hair, who gets to touch his full pink lips, who gets to trail their fingers across the curves of his biceps…
His throat is dry, and he grits his teeth in frustration, trying fruitlessly to dismiss these pointless desires. They're absurd, and he feels guilty for even thinking such things when Light is being vulnerable. God, he's acting like a fucking pervert!
Light slowly turns his attention to him again. His pupils are dilated, focused solely on Matsuda. He feels like a pinned butterfly, carefully being inspected, utterly transparent under his eyes. It makes his breath halt in his lungs.
The moment is suspended in the air, ready to drop and break or be handled and put away.
“That's good to know,” Light says simply. Matsuda isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed that Light seems to be putting it away. The tension in his shoulders relaxes a fraction.
Then–
“Have you ever thought about it?” Light abruptly continues, casual, and Matsuda goes rigid once more. Light is teasing him– a cat playing with a mouse.
Matsuda takes the bait anyway, laughing awkwardly and scratching at his too-tight collar. “Um, being with a– a guy?” He stalls, “No, not really.”
He wouldn't have been lying if he had asked him a few days ago. But right now he's lying through his teeth, because the admiration he's held for Light has clearly been steadily evolving into something more– something that is only just now being fully realized under Light's suffocating gaze.
Light grins like he sees right through him, fox-like with sharp eyes and glinting, white canines. All traces of his timid facade have vanished. He's almost unsettled by it, but more… pressing concerns have his attention.
Like how the heat of Light's palm has returned to his thigh, and the space between them has considerably shrunk within the last couple seconds. His head swims with the trace scent of fading, rich cologne, tightening his throat.
Oh shit. His stomach swoops dangerously, and he makes a strangled sound at the sudden proximity.
It all feels unreal, like he's still sleeping and he's going to wake up with an embarrassing hard-on in his bed any moment now. He must be catching the wrong signals. Light would never, not with him!
“Is that so?” Light wanders aloud, the words brushing against Matsuda's skin, making a chill race up his back. “So why are you blushing?” He stares pointedly at Matsuda's collar, then drifts upward to his cheeks and tips of his burning ears. Matsuda resists the urge to turn away, to hide.
“Light, please,” he begs, his voice strained. “What are you– what do you want me to say?”
“The truth. You're always very honest, Matsuda– with your words,” he says, slowly, calmly, “and with your body.” His hand tightens on Matsuda's thigh. “Right now, one is lying to me.”
Matsuda's breathing is heavier now, adrenaline spiking through his system at an alarming pace. He's struggling to keep up with his composure, while Light looks as serene as ever, his lips curled temptingly.
“Sorry, are you– am I– am I getting the wrong idea right now?” He manages, every muscle taut, steeled for a scornful laugh and rejection and a what the hell, Matsuda? You idiot.
His chest is clenched, his fingers gripping the couch cushion while his heart stutters. He feels very small.
Light begins to laugh, the sound utterly crushing Matsuda, enough to send the breath whooshing from his lungs as if he'd been punched. Of course, he's getting the wrong idea. What a dumb question! He wants to sink into the ground as the laughter subsides. He breaks their eye contact in shame.
“I can't answer that unless you tell me what idea you're getting,” he finally says, tilting his head curiously, bangs obscuring his eye. Matsuda's stomach turns.
“Can you stop messing with me?” he growls, beginning to squirm away, to escape this humiliating situation. As he makes to stand up, a hand suddenly pushes into his chest, shoving him back into the cushions.
He gasps, shocked, staring up at Light's face hovering above him. They're almost chest to chest, his heavy breathing a sharp contrast to Light's steady breaths that tickle the hair on Matsuda's face. He's crushed beneath Light, his face caged between one arm and his chest pinned with the other, every point of contact simmering Matsuda's skin.
“I'm sorry, Matsuda,” Light says, smiling kindly. “I got carried away. I guess I just couldn't resist teasing you.” The hand bracing his chest moves, weight shifting to the other, and Light trails his fingertips up the side of Matsuda's throat and jawline. The touch leaves goosebumps in its wake.
Every thought in Matsuda's head is consumed by Light.
“It was cruel. Will you forgive me?” He asks, whispering, leaning forward. Their faces are painfully close.
Matsuda swallows dryly, enthralled by the sight of Light above him, trapping him, suffocating him. “Yes.” It's all he trusts himself to say, twitching under his grasp.
Light hums in acknowledgement, his eyes glittering with pleasure. “You're so forgiving.” He murmurs, almost absentmindedly, fleetingly. He continues, louder, before Matsuda can say anything to that. “No, you're not getting the wrong idea.”
The stinging humiliation of rejection, already mostly soothed by Light's firm body on his own and his apology, is appeased completely by the confirmation.
Thrill erupts through his flesh, white hot and sparking like a live wire, overwhelming in intensity. His hands begin to literally shake at his sides.
“Oh, fuck,” he curses, breathless, feeling smothered, and fuck, Light is lazily closing the gap between them with half-lidded eyes, lips tantalizingly parted.
Matsuda isn't patient.
His shaking hands find purchase in soft hair, and he's surging up to meet Light halfway, lips crushing against his recklessly.
A shocked sound emits from the back of Light's throat, swallowed up by Matsuda's eager groan as he switches their positions with ease, pushing Light backward into the cushions. His blood rushes in his ears, desire so thick it makes him pant into the kiss.
Fuck, he can't believe this is happening to him right now. Incoherent disbelief swirls in his mind, even as Light nips Matsuda's bottom lip and reciprocates his ferocity while hardly skipping a beat.
His beautiful, soft hair tangled in Matsuda's fingers, the firmness of his muscles desperately arching into his own, his tongue sweeping the seam of Matsuda's mouth. It's all real and happening, and it's so hot it makes Matsuda's head spin.
I'm kissing Light Yagami-
Light rucks Matsuda's shirt up, smooth hands slipping beneath the cloth and groping at every inch his fingertips touch, grip bruising and unforgiving. Matsuda shivers, a pathetic mmph! noise escaping him when Light sucks his tongue as his hands caress and squeeze.
Matsuda tugs at the silky strands of his hair in retaliation, tilting his head and deepening the kiss with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Light pulls away, panting for breath. His lips are shiny and swollen, blush running from his cheeks to his collar, looking enticingly disheveled.
Eager, Matsuda seizes the opportunity to press hard kisses across his jawline and down the curve of his throat, biting and sucking gently at the sweet skin beneath his tongue.
“Ah!” Light jerks at the sensation, tilting his head back involuntarily, inviting Matsuda to continue ravaging his flesh with teeth and tongue. The sweet sound clenches his chest, arousal pooling in his groin. He pops one of the buttons on Light's shirt with shaking fingers-
And then he writhes in Matsuda's grip, inadvertently grinding his thigh into Matsuda's growing erection. Pleasure sparks behind his vision.
“Light, fuck– hah..” his hips cant forward against his will, grinding against the friction, and his eyes squeeze shut. His cock throbs pitifully in his pants.
“Sorry..” he gasps out against Light's hair, about to reposition so that he wasn't humping Light like some kind of mutt– how embarrassing!
But Light stops him, forcefully grabbing his hips and pinning them to his thigh. He looks at him with wild, dark eyes.
“No, no. Don't apologize, Matsuda.” He's breathless. “You're doing good.” He emphasizes his praise by pushing his thigh upward, applying delicious pressure to his erection. Matsuda jolts, voice choking, the friction coupled with the praise sending wave after wave of heat under his skin.
Light captures his mouth again, desperate, fingers tugging at Matsuda's dark hair from the root. Matsuda fumbles blindly at the buttons on Light's shirt again, mostly distracted by Light's insistent tongue against his own.
His fingers graze tantalizingly against goosebumps as button after button pops from Light's shirt. Light hums, the sound deep in his chest, reverberating through Matsuda in a pleasant thrum.
“I’m– doing good?” Matsuda huffs between kisses, impatient to hear it in that breathless tone of his again. Matsuda feels his grin against his mouth.
“Very good, Matsuda,” Light obliges. His voice is a purr, syrupy and indulgent, caressing Matsuda's ears and pouring luxurious heat down his spine. The sound of his name on Light's tongue is divine. And Light– brilliant, picturesque Light Yagami– praising him? Calling him good? It gives Matsuda a euphoric rush like nothing else, igniting a fire in his stomach.
It makes him weak and desperate, and he finds it hard to believe he could refuse anything Light asked of him right now, tightly wound around his finger as he is.
Light's breath hitches when Matsuda finally uncovers the bare expanse of Light's chest. It rises and falls quickly, shiny from sweat, his nipples erect. His stomach heaves, muscles rippling with the movements, and just below his navel, a brown, curly happy trail disappears under his belt.
Fuck, he's so perfect. He wishes he could say it, could tell him how beautiful he is, but the words die on his tongue. They just don't feel adequate enough, and he doesn't trust himself not to say something utterly ridiculous.
He buzzes with need, anxiously reaching to touch the pale stretch of skin before him. But Light intercepts him first, much to Matsuda's dismay, his fingers twitching longingly.
“Take off your shirt,” Light orders, gripping him tight around his wrists. Matsuda swallows hard, hesitant, heart skipping. But when Light's eyes narrow, watching, waiting– he nods quickly in assent.
Satisfied, Light releases the vice grip on his wrists and relaxes, leaning back as Matsuda sits up.
He awkwardly starts by loosening his tie and tossing it to the side, acutely aware of brown eyes following every movement. Then he stiffly gets to work on the first button, trying and failing to undo it until his third try. Then the second button, then the third.
He inhales sharply as he keeps moving down, pulse erratic, and he risks a glance at the man below him. Light's lip curls into a nearly imperceptible smirk, gesturing for Matsuda to continue. He manages to look unbothered, even with blush dusting across his love-bitten neck and chest.
Fifth, sixth, seventh button…
He squirms uncomfortably, stomach flipping. He's never really felt physically inadequate like this before. Women have complimented his physique in the past, and he's never doubted them, always feeling quite confident in his own skin.
Until now, when Light is staring up at him with his observant eyes, and suddenly his nerves are almost halting his movements. Now he's thinking about how long it's been since he last hit the gym, how much time he's spent hunched over a computer rather than taking care of himself, and overall realizing how much he's let himself go over these past six years.
Hell, he hasn't even been in an intimate situation with anyone in many, many years.
He worries his lower lip between his teeth and finishes unbuttoning, allowing the shirt to fall to the ground, exposing his bare torso. He looks down at Light, shivering at the cool air brushing his overheated skin.
Light isn't meeting his eye. Instead, he's painstakingly studying every inch of flesh on display, expression giving nothing away.
Matsuda's face burns with self-consciousness, and he wonders what Light could be thinking, what he sees when looking at him.
“Come here, Matsuda,” he demands, voice low, signaling for him to get closer. Matsuda obeys, bracing himself on either side of his head. Their bare chests brush, and the contact makes it difficult for Matsuda to stay upright and steady. He waits for more direction, waits for Light to give him some kind of verdict, like he's a gem being appraised.
Light reaches out to gently stroke his jaw, the tips of their noses skimming. He licks his lips and then tilts his head up, kissing him slowly, working against his mouth in a tender rhythm.
Matsuda sighs appreciatively, which turns into a shocked little sound when Light sits up and maneuvers him into a sitting position.
He ends up in Matsuda's lap, knees on either side of his, their hips pressed together. Light's erection strains against his own, forcing Matsuda to stifle a whine bubbling in his throat. They're flush against one another, heaving in sync as the intensity ramps up again.
Matsuda bites at Light's lips, forcing them open, sliding his tongue against Light's. Light reciprocates, tasting him, groaning in appreciation, and swallowing Matsuda's little sounds of pleasure.
Light pecks the side of his mouth when they break momentarily and then buries his face in the crook of Matsuda's neck. He kisses behind his ear and sucks the lobe between his teeth, causing Matsuda to writhe helplessly beneath him, clutching at his shoulders.
“You have nothing to be insecure about,” Light whispers between featherlight pecks on his throat, sounding almost reverent. Matsuda flushes, grinding his hips into Light's, a gasp leaving them both at the action.
Light sits up and grabs Matsuda's jaw, forcing their faces close, panting into each other's mouths. “Hah, Matsuda, you're killing me,” he gasps out, squeezing Matsuda's jaw and rolling his hips. They groan, cocks hot against each other, frantically straining against the fabric and throbbing.
“Shit, Light–!” his eyes roll back into his skull, fingers digging painfully into Light's waist as he repeats the movement, steel grip on Matsuda's face unyielding even as he moans and twitches and gyrates on his lap.
Light Yagami is moaning in my lap.
He grits his teeth, a fresh wave of arousal pooling in his dick, leaving him dizzy and holding onto Light like a lifeline.
Light brushes his hair from his face and leans in. “Do you want to fuck me?” Light asks, lips grazing the shell of his ear, his hold slacking. Matsuda sucks in a breath, muscles jumping at the question. His aching jaw feels distant from the electric thrum in his rushing blood.
Light rarely uses vulgar language. To hear it uttered in such a filthy way, murmured against his skin in his seductive, honeyed tone, sets his nerves on end, desire pulsing.
He can't find his voice, so he nods, probably looking like an idiot, but he also can't find it in himself to care much, not when his cock is flush against Light's and Light just asked him to fuck him.
Light shakes his head.
“Talk to me, Matsuda. Tell me what you want,” he says, serious. He ghosts a hand over Matsuda's pec, then squeezes, thumbnail stroking his nipple.
“Ah-...” Matsuda arches into the touch, startled, delicious tingles flooding from the brief contact.
Light smiles at the reaction, teeth glinting wickedly. He wastes no time in taking the nipple between his pointer and thumb, pinching and rolling it in his fingers. Matsuda hisses through his teeth, clenching Light's waist harder, unconsciously thrusting into him. Sparks of pleasure drown his coherent thought, Light's gasp and now stuttered ministrations urging him to tremble and squirm.
“Light– nnngh…– please,” he begs, throbbing painfully. The friction is too much and not enough all at once– fuck, Light could make him cum in his pants at this rate. He flushes in humiliation at the idea, panting hard, gazing up at Light pleadingly.
“Please, what?” He prods, grinning, and it seems like he can't resist leaning forward and biting down his chest, his fingers still torturing his sensitive nipple. Matsuda whines, trying to escape the overstimulation– but he's pinned in place as Light's tongue flicks across the unattended nipple, laving it with swirls and gentle bites, punctuating each move with rolling hips that make them both keen.
Matsuda fists his hair, pulling at it, but not hard enough to pull Light away while he torments him. “Please–! Light, I wanna fuck you, please,” he implores, twitching uselessly against him, burning hot with embarrassment.
Light smiles in satisfaction against his chest, leaving him with one last kiss across his swollen nipple before sitting straight again.
He seemed deceptively calm only moments earlier, but now his hands are moving at a frantic pace, grappling with his belt like he can't get it off fast enough, betraying his growing desperation.
Matsuda hurriedly gets to work on his own belt while Light shucks his to the ground with a clang. Matsuda's hardly pulled the belt from the loops of his pants when Light is on him again, mouths working against his, their teeth clashing.
Light struggles to kick his pants and boxers off, especially while on top of Matsuda and urgently making out with him, but he manages somehow. Matsuda is close behind, Light giving a helping hand.
When they pull apart, a string of saliva breaks between them. His heart jackhammers against his chest– they're completely bare, flush against one another, breathing hard.
Light leans to his discarded suit coat, muscles stretching luxuriously as he does so, and grabs something from the pocket. When he returns, he has a small bottle of lube in his hand.
Matsuda blushes bright pink as he comes back to himself a little bit. “Wha- Why did you have that on you?!” He gawks.
Light smiles slyly, looking up at Matsuda through half-lidded eyes, “Just in case,” Is all he says.
He has half a mind to think about the implications of his words, but instead, he finds his attention being consumed by Light pouring the lube onto his fingers and reaching behind himself.
His stomach flutters viciously at the sight of Light panting on his lap, working himself open, tightly bracing himself on Matsuda's shoulder. His twitching cock grazes Matsuda's with every shifting movement, his lips are parted in concentration, and his wiry muscles gleam temptingly with sweat as he strains to keep upright.
Matsuda is awestruck, vision narrow, and brain fuzzy. He massages his hands across Light's flexing muscles and brushes his lips in featherlight kisses on his jaw in assurance. Light gasps in his ear, breath hot on his neck, his legs shaking.
The anticipation claws at Matsuda, his cock aching for contact, jumping every time Light's brushes it, helplessly searching for friction. Matsuda trails his hands up his chest and down his stomach, feeling every ridge and line, but never quite touching Light's straining cock– no matter how tempting.
Light finally stops and pours more onto his hand with trembling fingers, and he wraps his palm around Matsuda's dick. Matsuda thrusts into it instinctively, the tight fist finally giving him the relief he's been seeking, heat coursing up his stomach from the groin. He cries out pathetically.
He's about to fuck into it again when Light lets go. He quivers at the loss of contact, eyes fluttering open when he realizes he had them squeezed shut.
He's greeted with Light's scrunched brows and intent focus, his swollen lower lip clenched between his teeth. A stray drop of sweat runs down the side of his face, dripping onto Matsuda's chest, his bangs swept wildly out of his eyes.
He's again struck with Light's beauty, even in such a debauched state– no, especially in such a debauched state, with a heaving chest and a desperate tongue and dark, lustful pupils focused solely on Matsuda.
Then, the head of his dick is being led to prod at Light's puckered hole. He has to force himself to stay still against the urge to thrust, to take him down to the hilt and fuck him wildly into the cushions with his nails scratching up his back and pretty mouth crying into his ear–
He hisses as Light takes him in slowly, wet heat encompassing the head deliciously and tightly.
“Fuck, Light,” he whines, fingers digging painfully into the meat of Light's shaking thighs. Light inhales sharply, finding purchase in Matsuda's hair as he sinks lower. Matsuda is met with little resistance, and he slides in deeper, the sensation nothing short of heavenly.
Matsuda grits his jaw, breathing heavy through his nostrils, thigh muscles twitching with need. When the irresistible heat finally clenches fully around his cock, Light's breath hitches, and Matsuda has to squeeze his eyes shut against the intensity.
“God, I’m– I'm not gonna last long,” Matsuda admits, already feeling agonizingly close to the edge, his voice strained. It's humiliating to say aloud, to confess to Light how long he's been obstinate, how little it takes to push him to the edge, how much Light is affecting him.
“That's okay,” he pants, already beginning to move, "that's okay, Matsuda.”
Matsuda makes a strangled sound and takes hold of his waist, leading his slow movement upward, then back down, thrusting to meet him each time. Matsuda sets a gentle rhythm, despite how agonizing it is, afraid of hurting the man in his lap. He anxiously watches his face for any signs of discomfort, eyes rolling back against his will, and then instantly finding Light again.
Light's expression is pinched, his breathing stuttered, fingers on Matsuda's scalp twitching.
“C’mon, Matsuda, hah, I won't break,” he huffs, urging him on, “C’mon.”
Matsuda obeys, thrusting harder, even as it sends him skittering precariously towards the edge. He has to actively concentrate to avoid tipping over, desperate to make it last, to make Light feel good.
Light jerks in his lap, crying out beautifully and collapsing onto him as Matsuda hits the sweet spot. The sound has Matsuda keening and tightening his already bruising grip on Light's waist. Light's cock bounces with the movements, brushing his chest and stomach with each thrust, smearing precum in its wake.
Light shakes in his clutch, gasping, and when he somehow straightens to look Matsuda in the eye again, Matsuda almost comes on the spot, pleasure radiating throughout his body so fiercely he has to bite his tongue to keep under control.
His skin sparkles with sweat, slick against Matsuda, his tense muscles flexing with movement, and his face is slack in pleasure– so uncharacteristic on Light that it takes his breath away. Matsuda's whines grow more frantic and pleading, his motions erratic now.
“You feel so good, Light, I-I can't– oh my God,” he chokes out, burying his face in Light's chest as he fucks into him mindlessly, unable to stop himself. The pleasure is mounting uncontrollably, electrifying and fiery in his pumping blood.
Light strokes his hair and hushes him, “Don't stop, don't– just keep going like that, Matsuda, hnng-!” He forces Matsuda's face up to look at him instead of hiding in Light's chest.
“I wanna–ah– watch you cum, okay?” He demands, to which Matsuda promptly obeys not even a second later, head thrown back, body jerking, hips stuttering as he shoots his load. He keeps pumping carelessly, slower and slower, shuddering, mouth open in a silent cry. The pleasure is white hot, a sharp pinpoint that undulates under his skin and then softens into pleasant waves.
Light's inches from his face when he opens his eyes again, jaw still held in his forceful grasp. His pupils are blown wide.
Cum drools from Light and onto Matsuda's thighs. Matsuda heaves, feeling fuzzy and warm, but Light isn't done. He tugs Matsuda on top of him and drags him into another kiss. Matsuda is still dumb from his orgasm, so he struggles to reciprocate at the same frantic pace that Light is kissing him with.
“Put me in your mouth,” he says, biting his lower lip, trembling with need. “Please.” His cock is swollen with precome beading at the tip, achingly hard and twitching between his legs.
Hearing his plea grounds him from cloud nine, and he quickly obliges, sucking on his chest and abdomen as he descends. He feels guilty for leaving Light so desperate, and aims to solve it as swiftly as possible.
He kisses between his thighs, much to Light's whining frustration, muscles tensing beneath his hands. Light reprimands him by grabbing hold of the back of his skull and forcing his face to his cock, ending any teasing.
Obviously, Matsuda has never done this before. But surely it can't be that difficult? He looks up at Light, who is pinning him with a dark gaze, and he takes a deep breath before taking the tip into his mouth.
The taste is salty and bitter, but strangely pleasant to Matsuda, simply because it's coming from Light. It's hot and heavy and leaking onto his tongue as Light impatiently guides him lower. Light alternates between tilting his head back in pleasure and looking back down at Matsuda, panting sweetly.
He's a little past halfway when he gags, tears forming at the edges of his eyes. Light's grip on his hair tightens; a warning not to move.
Fuck, I'm gonna die, he thinks as he sputters.
“Relax, Matsu, you can– hahh– you can take it,” he assures him. He rests his unoccupied hand on Matsuda's throat, gently massaging it, encouraging him. Matsuda chokes but tries to comply, forcibly relaxing the muscles of his contracting throat.
“G-good,” he praises, pushing in deeper with no resistance, “Good, Matsuda– breathe through your–” he shudders as Matsuda accidentally constricts his throat around his length again, choking, before forcefully relaxing again.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, tangling his fingers into his scalp and abruptly pushing him down to the root, clearly unable to resist. Matsuda tries not to gag again, determined to please Light, but he's unable to stop himself, drool running down the sides of his mouth and down Light's thighs, mixing with his drying load. He burns with frustration.
Light pulls him up for air, and he gasps and sputters, taking only a moment to breathe before trying again without any prompting, intent on making this good for Light, intent on hearing deserved praise from him in his fucked out voice.
Light jerks in shock when he takes him again, this time in one motion, and then he resumes leading Matsuda with a gasp of approval.
Matsuda is dizzy from the lack of oxygen, from the focus it takes to keep from gagging as he's used like a toy. He doesn't have to do much work other than that, Light being the one thrusting into his mouth, merciless in his chase to orgasm using Matsuda's throat.
Distantly, Matsuda is thrilled by how much Light is losing his composure. Pristine, put-together Light, fucking into his mouth like a rutting animal in heat. And, God, the sounds he makes are nothing short of beautiful. Strangled, desperate sounds that seem like they're wrung out of him against his will.
“Hah, fuck, Matsuda, y-yes– good– like that, yes, you're perfect,” he's incoherent at this point, cock swelling in the wet heat of Matsuda's throat. Matsuda can hardly breathe, his vision narrowed onto Light as he throws his head back and exposes the length of his neck that works around his cries.
“You’re so good, M-Matsu, so fucking honest– so perfect,” he praises, sounding desperately fervent.
Matsuda trembles, heat coursing through his veins at his flattery, and moans along the curve of his dick as he thrusts it in. Light cries out– “ah, shit!”– and hot cum spurts down Matsuda's throat.
Light holds him down, riding through his climax, Matsuda's throat working to swallow his load as it gushes in small waves. Light's hips jerk upward involuntarily in the aftershocks of his orgasm, and his grasp slackens, allowing Matsuda free.
Matsuda sputters and coughs, oxygen rushing to his brain again. Dizzy, he collapses onto Light, face in his sweat-slicked chest. They both breathe hard and lie in boneless silence.
A minute or so passes, the cool air drying their sweat, cum, and saliva to their skin. The un-fucked part of Matsuda's brain is waiting for Light to sit up and push him away, waving him off now that he got a good fuck. After all, it seems like Light orchestrated this, and now that the thrill of the chase is over, surely he's done?
Light finally moves, and Matsuda half-heartedly braces himself. But then Light's arm comes to rest across Matsuda's shoulders in an embrace, his fingers combing through the sweaty strands of his hair. Warmth blooms under Matsuda's skin, and his breath catches in relief at the simple action.
“You okay?” Light asks, sounding tired but worried, “Sorry if I… if I pushed you too hard.”
Matsuda positively beams against his chest, "I'm okay. Don't worry.” His voice is raspy and scratched to hell– already his throat is sore. Against his thigh, he swears he feels Light's limp cock twitch.
He tucks that information away for now.
Light strokes his scalp and then rubs soothing circles on his shoulder with the pad of his thumb. Matsuda melts at the tender gestures and hums, pleased, his initial doubts fading. But still, there's one more thing.
He works up the courage to ask, biting his cheek nervously, “So… is this a one-time deal?”
Light pauses his movements, then his chest rumbles under Matsuda's ear with a chuckle. “Do you want it to be?” He asks, patient, resuming the soothing. Matsuda shakes his head.
“Um, no, I was hoping it wouldn't be,” he admits, laughing a little. Light gently squeezes his shoulder.
“Then it doesn't have to be,” is all Light says to that. He sits up, bringing Matsuda with him.
His confirmation sends tingles throughout Matsuda's body– pure joy and excitement that this was going to happen again, that Light is interested in him.
Light smiles, almost shyly, a stark contrast to his earlier fox-like grin, and helps Matsuda up.
“Let's get cleaned up.”
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
Light had already sent a quick email to the task force members informing them that everyone should take the morning off before his hookup with Matsuda.
Presumptuous, isn't he?
He holds Matsuda to his chest, burying his face in his hair, inhaling his salty scent. The man is already asleep, the steady rhythm of his breathing even and deep. They make it work on the couch somehow, snoozing the early morning hours away.
Light feels satisfied, his ever-gnawing hunger satiated for now. It's peaceful.
After constantly fighting to survive—always trying to outdo an opponent, always on high alert, always chasing victory—Matsuda feels like a refuge.
It's never anything like that with Matsuda– sweet, simple Matsuda. Things are exactly how they seem with him, a rarity in Light's life.
Matsuda is a man worthy of Kira's New World. Light hopes he will be there with him to see it, as hopelessly naive as it is. But he allows himself to be naive for once, in these early morning hours with Matsuda on his chest, snoring gently. He can deal with the rest later.
FIN
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
A/N: I cant believe this ended up being 10k words... I genuinely did not expect it to be this long when I was writing it lmao.
Anyways, ive been obsessed with this niche pair since I've discovered it. I hope this fic will transfer my obsession to you now, so I can read more fics and see more art of them. Im BEGGING!!!
Comments are very appreciated, I would love to talk to fellow matsulight enjoyers :3
torture / violence / blood / suggestive / Kira wins AU
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
The fabric wrapped around his head is torn off with a rough tug. He blinks, dazed, skull pounding as he glances around in confusion.
A blurry silhouette steps into view. He blinks a few more times, nausea roiling in his stomach, and when his vision finally adjusts, it narrows in on cold, dark eyes.
His throat works around a dry swallow—it feels like sandpaper.
"You're awake." The voice comes from somewhere behind the man. It’s patient and soothing, a sharp contrast to the silent threat standing before him.
He cranes his neck, seeking the source of the voice, but its no use—a burning pain branding his wrists stops him, his spine arching uselessly against the back of a chair.
He looks down—zip-ties dig painfully into his flesh, turning his knuckles white.
He gasps out a labored breath, heart kicking into his sore ribcage like a jackrabbit. His mind races with confusion, grief, terror.
"Relax. We just have a few questions for you."
He jerks his head up, panic shortening his breath, as a young man with honey-brown hair emerges from behind the silent figure. He takes his place beside him, and though the other man’s eyes remain cold and empty, a brief, unsettling softness betrays itself when they settle on the brunette.
The brunette smiles. It's an empty expression.
Something cold settles in his gut. The pieces slide into place with sickening clarity, burning through the fog in his brain.
"Kira," he spits, stomach churning, vocal cords scraped raw. He knew it before he even said the name—felt it in the innate wrongness that lodged in his chest the moment he saw him.
"I'm not answering any of your questions," he hisses, writhing against the painful restraints, each movement weaker than the last.
The other man finally speaks up. "You will," he says simply, gaze settling back onto him. His words are laced with ice cold conviction, a boot crushing a stubborn ember into the pavement.
A chill of foreboding runs down his spine.
“Who do you report to?” Kira asks, brushing past the implied threat with a casual tone more suited to polite conversation than a kidnapped interrogation.
He stays silent, throat tight.
"Ichiro Mori."
He winces. The name hits him like a slap, and dread coils in his gut. Kira knows his name—of course he does.
There was no version of this that ended with him walking away. The panic burns down into something harder—resignation edged with defiance.
"Ichiro," Kira says again, firmer, "tell me who you report to."
Ichiro stays silent, swallowing down the nausea. Kira sighs, as if he expected this.
"Matsuda." He says the name like a command, and the other man straightens to attention.
Ichiro presses further back into the chair, stomach churning as the man—Matsuda—steps into his space. A quick glance down reveals a knife in his hand.
"No," he says, shaking his head, struggling against the binds. "Stop, get away from me—"
A calloused hand grips his own now, against all of his thrashing, holding his thumb in place. He gasps out, fingers flexing uselessly in Matsuda's grip, wrists burning with effort. Matsuda hardly blinks, pupils engulfing his iris.
He looks more like a shadow than a man.
"Silence has consequences," Kira says, voice soft as he watches Matsuda closely. He wears a perfectly detached expression on his face.
The hard, cold tip of the knife nudges the skin beneath his fingernail, a promise and a threat. His muscles strain, eyes squeezing shut in horrified anticipation.
With mechanical precision, the blade plunges under the nail with the ease of a hot knife through butter, prying it out of the flesh slower than necessary. It burns like hot iron, radiating down his arm in agonizing waves.
He chokes on his saliva as he cries out, teeth tearing into his lip. His stomach curls with nausea and he heaves, body shivering violently.
When his eyes flutter open, Matsuda is holding his nail between his fingertips.
"F-fuck!" He gasps, teeth gritted together in barely-contained agony.
Matsuda releases his thumb now, leaving it throbbing and weeping, and takes his pointer finger next. Ichiro bites his tongue, hard. Blood drips onto his pantleg.
"So, who do you report to?" Kira asks again, patient.
Ichiro refuses—once again—to answer, even as the blade inches beneath his fingernail every second he hesitates. He won't—can't—give Kira what he wants.
Kira waits a few more seconds. When he still stays silent, he raises a skeptical brow and then nods. The white hot pain returns a second time—no amount of steeling himself can dull the agony of having the nail peeled from his finger once more.
His eyes roll, and he has to choke back vomit as Matsuda meticulously pries his finger apart.
Two bloodied fingernails litter the floor now.
It takes two more for him to finally crack.
“Morioka,” Ichiro chokes out, eyes streaming with hot tears. “That’s who I report to. Please—please stop!"
The words barely leave his lips before the guilt and shame are raging in his chest, burning hotter than any pain he’s endured thus far. He heaves, shuddering, body slick with cold sweat.
He wishes, hollowly, that he were stronger.
He looks up as Kira steps closer, his head tilted. “You’re leaving someone out,” he says mildly. “You should know better than that.”
For a moment, his words don't register past the throbbing in his skull. The room tilts when they do.
He knows. Kira already knows.
A violent shudder seizes him; he sobs, despair knocking the air from his lungs. Still, he doesn't say another word. He’s already surrendered Morioka—just one name—but even so, he refuses to confirm the rest.
“I—I won’t—say any more,” he gasps, trembling. “You already know everything you need. You— don’t get anything else from me.”
Kira looks down at him sympathetically through dark lashes.
“You can stay silent if you like,” he says softly. “It won’t change anything—but it will hurt to try.”
His vision goes dark for a brief moment as a searing jolt of agony registers in his nerves—he cries out, body going stiff in shock. The blade is thrusted cleanly through the tendon of his pinky finger.
Hot liquid gushes from the wound—its fucking severed.
Matsuda’s face melts into shadow as Ichiro’s mind falters, his dark, unflinching eyes the only thing that manages to pierce the haze.
Ichiro doesn’t know how many fingers it took to satisfy Kira. It all passes in a red blur of agony and choked sobs. By the end, his hands are numb, his vision is spinning, and his lungs fail to draw a proper breath.
By the end, Ichiro is a failure.
Because even the strongest resolve can be crushed beneath Kira's heel, and Ichiro is a fool for believing he could survive it.
Matsuda has his hair clutched in a tight, unyielding grip, exposing the line of his throat. He doesn't have the strength to resist, nor does he have the desire to. This can end now.
Kira has a hand rested on Matsuda's shoulder, slender fingers laid gently on the red stained fabric. They're leaned close together, an intimacy between them that borders on repulsive for Ichiro, making his stomach twist.
Kira looks down at Ichiro and smiles. It looks genuine this time.
"You've helped me more than you know," he says. Ichiro swallows back bile.
For the first time, Matsuda’s stoic mask slips, replaced by something faintly human when he moves to stand in front of Kira, as if shielding him. He's… smiling, just a little. Its sickeningly sweet, out of place on his shadowed face.
Ichiro doesn't have time to think much more of it.
"You don't need to get bloody," is all Ichiro hears, the voice soft, and before he can even blink he's gurgling, choking on his own blood.
It splatters across Matsuda's face, bright red on his pristine, white collared shirt. A stray droplet trickles down the side of his jaw and onto the hand that still lies on his shoulder.
Ichiro coughs and sputters, shivering all over. His blood is so hot on his skin, but he feels so, so cold. He draws in pained breaths, each one a strangled gurgle.
His vignette vision falls on Matsuda one last time. But Matsuda isn't looking back at him.
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱
The man slumps forward in the chair.
Light watches him idly, more focused on the muscles tensing beneath his grip.
"Good job, Matsuda," he practically purrs against the shell of his ear, breath stirring the hair that rests on his cheekbone.
He studies the splattered blood that decorates the countours of his face, eyes languidly tracing it to the collar of his shirt.
Only a drop stains his own hand—courtesy of Matsuda.
He hums in satisfaction. Matsuda is correct that he doesn't enjoy getting dirty—he much prefers the Death Note to more physical business. But blood has never looked more tempting than it does now, when it adorns his most prized weapon.
He tilts Matsuda's face in his direction with a finger hooked beneath his jaw. His throat works around a swallow as their gazes meet, and Light's mouth curves in a slow smirk.
Matsuda's breath hitches as he leans in, noses brushing. The scent of iron overwhelms him, dizzying and sharp—a fitting complement to Matsuda's ruthless efficiency.
This close, Light can see the glistening red of blood clinging to his lashes, trembling there with each shallow breath.
Something hungry smolders low in his gut as he closes the last inch between them, heedless of the blood. His lips barely graze Matsuda’s before he's pulling back.
"Light, wait—the blood-"
Light fists a hand in Matsuda’s hair and drags him closer, silencing him with a forceful press of their mouths.
A muted sound dies between the kiss, surprise stealing his breath as his eyes squeeze shut. His lips respond a beat too slow, and Light punishes the hesitation with a sharp bite—blood stings his tongue with copper. Ichiro’s, or Matsuda’s. He can’t tell.
He should feel nothing but revulsion—and he does—but its steadily swallowed beneath the heat, beneath the thrill of another job well done.
He pushes Matsuda back, away from the hapless corpse in the chair and into the wall behind it. Matsuda stumbles, hands finding purchase on Light's waist, anticipation in his quivering hands.
They separate only long enough to gasp for air, red-tinged saliva stretching thin between them.
"Do you enjoy being so ruthless?” Light asks, his voice velvet-soft and breathless, shaped precisely to undo him—judging by the tighter grip around his waist and the way his breath catches, it does.
His lips curl and he teases down the column of his throat with slow, deliberate kisses and nips that taste like iron.
Matsuda opens his mouth to answer him, but it dies in his throat when Light sucks on a particularly sensitive spot beneath his ear. Instead, he only manages a choked little mewl. Its a pitiful sound, stoking the embers of Light's simmering arousal into a steady flame that licks at the base of his spine.
"You're really sick, you know that?" He mocks lowly, tongue tracing the shell of his oh-so-sensitive ear. Matsuda shivers, flushing scarlet beneath the flecks of blood.
Tantalizing.
Light licks his teeth appreciatively, hand sliding from Matsuda's chest to the tense, twitchy muscles of his abdomen. With the other, he squeezes his bicep hard enough to bruise. There’s a grim satisfaction in wielding a weapon so meticulously honed.
Light would take nothing less.
His fingertips dip below his waistband and Matsuda swallows hard. "What kind of monster gets off to torture?"
As if to emphasize his point, he traces the heavy bulge in his boxers, giving him no friction or pleasure with such a light touch. Matsuda's hips kick and he pulls his touch away, making him squirm.
"Light," he whines, pupils blown wide and desperate, exactly how Light likes them. The same eyes that, only moments before, had glittered with the promise of a cold death.
"Shhh…" he soothes, pinning his restless hips to the wall, thumb dragging across his raw lips. Matsuda stills at once, obedience settling into him like a reflex. Light’s mouth ghosts across his in approval.
"I like you like this, Matsuda," he murmurs it against his lips, enjoying the way they tremble. And he means it.
Watching him with Ichiro felt like witnessing a performance stripped of all pretense—ruthless, pupils blown with a single, terrible focus. There was nothing human left in his stillness, and Light would be lying if he said it didn't thrill him to his core.
Matsuda is a loyal hound of sharp teeth and drooling maw, and Light relishes in being the one to tug on his leash and bring him to heel.
Tension lies suspended in the air between them, coiled tight and ready to snap the moment Light pleases. Matsuda's body is hot and pliant against his own, it would be so easy to put him in his place right now…
Though tempting, Light instead releases him and straightens, leaving the shivering man braced against the wall for support.
"Clean this up and meet me at HQ," he orders. "Bring wine."
He intends to celebrate with Matsuda in a much more dignified, luxurious manner—not in some dingy safehouse with an unwelcome third party.
"…yes, Kira."
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
AN: Here's another matsulight snippet while you wait for pt 2 of Something Simple
I was inspired by @elenscaie 's violent Matsuda snippet, so go check out her account! :3
He isn't sure if it's the consistent phantom ache on his neck or if it's just the sheer image of Negan's canines that's the problem. Maybe it's the heavy weight of the Alexandrians who are depending on him, every burden his own to bear.
Either way, he feels like a walker. Directionless and disjointed.
As soon as Negan rounded up the other Saviors on the scavenging hunt that day, he dropped Rick off at Alexandria. He didn't even spare him a glance, opting to make cheerful conversation with the other passengers after throwing them the first aid kit. They looked strewn out and near death, but that didn't seem to deter Negan's relentless chatter.
His jolly behavior almost seemed forced, in a way.
Rick had stumbled through the gates, looking pale, but he waved off help in favor of going home and resting, insisting he was alright. The doctor was busy, anyway, and he didn't need to add to that growing queue of people.
The growing queue of people that could've been helped by the medicine at that overrun urgent care.
Their assurances that he did his best fell on deaf ears; he was an utter failure. A joke of a leader and father, if you ask him.
Alexandria needs antibiotics desperately. Both The Sanctuary and Alexandria are dangerously low on medicinal supplies.
But, unlike the Saviors, the Alexandrians are dealing with a lethal illness that suddenly struck the town with the force of a tsunami. It's flooding the doctors office and plaguing every citizen with a deep sense of unease and despair. It's written on everyone's face.
The town is weak, withering under the pressure of disease, but it's also slowly getting crushed under Negan's heel. Rick is like a lapdog at Negan's beck and call. It's humiliating and helpless.
Their deal is simple: the Saviors would spare their doctor to Alexandria if the Alexandrians worked with Negan to get weapons for the Saviors. And, if they got lucky, they could even take half of any medicine they found on runs ("A very generous fuckin' deal!" as Negan had said).
But only a few are healthy enough and prepared enough to go on these runs. Already, they were running thin. So Rick has been taking the bulk of the responsibility, tirelessly scavenging with his enemies and scraping together valuable weapons to meet quota and keep the deal going.
Rick tosses for the final time in bed before sitting up, grumbling as he rests his head in his hands. He longs for Michonne's presence by his side, but he hasn't risked it. The mark on his shoulder is too obvious; he doesn't want to have any confrontation about it with her. Hell, he hasn't even confronted himself about it.
It's swollen and bruised and bestial with two ragged punctures parallel from the other.
He's still grappling with the idea that Negan is.. not human. It makes sense, given how soulless he is, but he thought it was just metaphorical until now.
It's not the craziest thing he's come across (although it is up there), but it's still deeply disturbing. He doesn't know if he should tell anyone or not, and he's perpetually debating with himself about it. Would it put anyone he told in danger? Negan didn't tell him to keep it quiet, but it's not like he needed to.
Rick knows better than to say anything. When Negan sunk his fangs in and fed from his veins, an unspoken agreement was signed in Rick's blood.
Thinking about it is enough to start a dull ache behind his eyes. The whole thing was so weird and he can't deny how strange he felt from it.
His mind is incessant, constantly pushing unwanted images of that day to the forefront of his memory.
Negan's teeth on his skin, his tongue lapping at the sore flesh. His bloody smirk.
He involuntarily shivers, wrapping the covers around him tighter. This is getting ridiculous.
He swallows dryly, feeling hot.
His skin is too tight, clothes too restricting. He can smell pine and leather and blood, feel muscles pushing him against cold metal, taste the desire.
He shoves the thoughts away, rolling out of bed, the stinging on his shoulder threatening to remind him of what he's trying to forget.
It's late, but he needs a shower. A cold one. One that can wash the heat on his skin down the drain.
The involuntary reactions of his body stir anger and bewilderment in the depths of his chest, colliding together in a sickening swirl of pain. He feels smothered.
He can't stand this, can't stand being at Negan's whims like this even when he's not here. It makes him sick. He runs his hands over his face and staggers to the bathroom.
He exhales sharply through his nostrils, looking into the mirror and leaning over the sink. His face is rosy with humiliation. Tousled curls frame his face messily, and a vein threatens to pop on his forehead.
He shakes his head and turns the shower on, discarding his clothes and stepping into the cold spray. He hisses at the shock, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes. The heat in his stomach and groin dissolves slowly, too slow for his liking.
Negan would be laughing at how pathetic he is.
The thought is unbidden, abrupt, and should've been infuriating. But Rick realizes with growing horror that it was having quite the opposite effect.
He puts his face beneath the cold stream of water and pats his cheeks as if he's trying to wake up from a nightmare.
The sleep deprivation is getting to me. Negan is an actual blood drinking monster, and Alexandria is dying. I'm going crazy.
He breathes out, long and heavy, water running in rivulets down his back. He's being eaten alive by Negan.
He shudders. His fingers find their way down his torso, hesitant, warm despite the cold droplets of water. He pauses just above the crest of his pelvis, breathing heavier than before. The images of him were making it difficult to dissolve the arousal, even in the cold shower.
He moves his hands away with great difficulty and digs his fingertips into the fat of his thighs.
He can't be weak like this. He's already failed in so many ways. He can't let Negan have this above him, too.
He huffs in frustration and finishes the rinse, towel drying his hair as he steps out. He glances at the bruise on his shoulder in the mirror. Feeling too weary to get more gauze, he decides to just go to bed without the dressing.
Negan is coming again tomorrow. He needs to sleep.
His nightmares are filled with the savage gleam of fangs.
•
He stands on his porch with Judith balanced on his hip. The warm afternoon air and sunlight are almost sufficient enough to make him forget what has him anxious.
Judith babbles happily in his arms, and he coos at her, affection in his gaze. He brushes her soft cheek gently.
"Hey, Rick, can we talk?"
Rick looks up to see Michonne at the bottom of the steps, sheathed sword slung lazily across her shoulder. Her thumbs are hooked in her belt loops and she meets Rick's eyes with a concerned line between her brows.
Rick's lips thin into a line, unsurprised. Its not like he can avoid her forever. He knows that. But he wishes he could.
He sighs and nods, gesturing her over, resigned to the inevitable.
She scoops Judith from his arms, caressing her hair and bouncing her idly on her hip. Rick's heart aches at the tender sight.
He wonders what could have been between them--what could still be between them--if Rick could just.. get himself together.
"I know a lot has been weighing on you recently. I just.. want to know if you're okay. Or, at the very least, how I could help," she finally says, looking up from Judith to Rick. Her skin shines with the golden sun beaming down behind her, illuminating her soft features drawn with worry.
He doesn't reply for a minute, content to soak in the domesticity of the noon, stalling only a little. She allows him to.
"I won't lie to you and say I'm alright, Michonne. Things 'round here... they've taken their toll." he confesses, leaning back on the stair railing, weary.
"But it's nothing I can't handle. Nothing we can't handle." he adds, the sharpness of his jaw ticking with resolve.
Michonne regards him carefully, observant and sharp as usual. She purses her lips in a skeptical manner.
"You've been distant patricularly after scavenging the urgent care center." Rick tenses up, pointedly avoiding her eyes at the observation. His throat clicks.
She barely knows half of it.
She continues, eyeing his reactions, "I know you're taking it hard, not being able to get the medicine. But, Rick, these people are looking to you right now. Im looking to you. You need to take care of yourself."
She trails off, voice strained. She distracts herself by tending to a cooing Judith as she waits for his response.
Rick knows he's been off. He knows it's obvious, but it still stings to hear it. He runs his fingers across the coarse hairs of his stubble, a nervous habit.
"I know. I know and I'm.. I'm sorry." he apologizes, earnest. He shifts on his feet, causing her expression to soften.
"I know you're trying. You've stretched yourself thin and you need to rest," Rick opens his mouth to argue, but she silences him with a look.
"Stop it, Rick. You need to rest so you can be your best for the people. For all of us. You're not the only capable person here. You can't seriously believe you can do this all alone." she says firmly.
"Negan won't like that." he reasons, tone bitter, as if Negan's name alone is making him ill. Her lip curls slightly at the mention of him.
"He can learn to live with it." her eyes burn with fiery resolve, and she nods to herself. Rick doesn't know if Negan would buy that.
And it's more than just what Negan says. It's about the fact that Rick can't live with himself if he allows his people get hurt doing something he could do alone.
Any response he might have made is interrupted by the grumbling sounds of vehicles approaching the gate. Michonne and Rick exchange knowing glances. The familiar rumble of the Savior's engines makes his skin crawl.
"I'll go meet him. Just take care of Judith, okay?" she puts her in his arms before Rick can protest and is already hurrying away.
Judith begins fussing, and he has no choice but to take her inside while Michonne handles Negan. His stomach curls as Negan's booming voice begins its tirade at the town entrance. No doubt is he looking for Rick.
He sets Judith in her high seat and begins tending to her. Outside, the voices reduce to muffled, intangible sounds. He feels uneasy.
Will he think I told Michonne?
He wets his lips and wipes his palms on his jeans, casting an occasional glance to the door as if someone was going to break it down any second.
He's in the midst of spoon feeding Judith some applesauce when the door opens, creaking on its hinges. Coiled as tightly as a spring, he has to relax his initial reaction to attack, careful to put the applesauce down as to not spill it on Judith.
"Dad, hey. Negan is- uh, he told me to come get you. I can take Judith." Rick's heart settles at the sound of Carl's familiar voice, only to sink once again at his words.
He expected this.
Carl shuffles inside, looking apprehensive. Rick kisses Judith on her head, softly, before moving away.
"Alright, Carl. Thanks. Make sure she finishes her food." he walks to the door and pats Carl's shoulder affectionately on the way out. Carl relaxes a fraction at his touch, casting him a small smile.
Pride swells in his chest, and he can't help but linger at the door for a moment to watch Carl care for Judith, gentle and sweet. This is what he's fighting for. His children. Alexandria's future.
Reluctantly, knowing he can't procrastinate for long, he pulls away and jogs down the steps, hurrying to the gate entrance.
He hears Negan as he approaches, as vulgar and colorful as usual.
"Whew, this place just warms my soul. I gotta get a damn vacation home here!" he whistles and twirls his bat like a baton, chuckling to himself as he mock admires the houses around him.
When he catches sight of Rick appearing from around the corner, he grins widely, adding, "Preferably, one that looks right into the bathroom window of ol' Ricky." He emphasizes the words by licking his lips hungrily. His eyes glisten with a predatory gleam, pupils dilated, the same look he gave Rick before shoving him against the car.
Rick fixes him with an unamused look, although his thoughts make it difficult to keep his head on straight.
Fishhooks tug in his skin. A deeply rooted primitive instinct shrinks at the full attention of Negan, as if something were innately wrong.
Negan, undeterred as ever, slinks over to Rick with the grace of a cat, dodging any Savior or Alexandrian in his way. Not that he has to do much work for that because everyone gives him a wide berth.
His all-encompassing presence is feverish, threatening to devour Rick in one bite. Rick feels the urge to run.
"Rick, Rick, Rick... it's the man of the hour! I was worried you wouldn't show up and I'd have to come get you myself!" he winks at him and throws an arm over his shoulders. Rick grimaces at the casual contact, tilting his head away from Negan.
The adjustment away from him causes his shirt to slide ever so slightly off his collarbone. Just enough to reveal the bruised flesh. He doesn't notice, but Negan sure as hell does.
A pleased sound rumbles in his throat, akin to a purr. Absently, he swipes his thumb across the exposed mark.
Rick stiffens, eyes widening, shoving Negan back and fixing his shirt back in place before anyone else can see it. Negan doesn't resist, throwing his hands up in a surrender gesture, a wry look on his face.
Rick mentally chastises himself for forgetting to bandage it. If Michonne had seen it...
"Rick, your fine people have told me that you're on break right now. Is that so? Last time I checked..." he looks around, examining every person paying attention, and then continues, "I'm the god damned boss here. Not you, not samurai lady, no one but me."
Rick fights to keep a neutral expression, probably failing as his pride burns his throat.
He waits for Negan to continue, not giving a response.
"Alright. Round up the scavenging groups and get ready to leave." Negan distinguishes the tense moment, ordering his men around and turning away from Rick. Rick swallows his growing irritation and burns holes in Negan's back with his intensity.
Negan's muscles are effortlessly highlighted underneath the gold of the sun, rays licking at the curves of his leather shoulder blades that flex with each spin of Lucille.
Negan suddenly turns to face Ricks direction one again, meeting Rick's steely gaze. A shark-like grin dances across his features. Hungry.
"And as for you, sweetheart, you're coming back with me to The Sanctuary." Negan proposes. He leans back onto his heels, smug, tongue between his teeth.
Rick is slack jawed.
"What?! What are you talking about?" Michonne's explosive voice interjects before he can even register Negan's words. She marches up to Negan, leaving behind the small group of people she was speaking to moments prior.
Negan's eyebrows raise at the outburst, turning his attention on her. His grip on Lucille is ever so slightly tighter than before.
Rick bristles, ready to jump to Michonne's defense if needed, unsure of which reaction he could expect from Negan.
He's about as predictable as a firecracker.
Amusement seems to win out this time, thankfully. His grip relaxes once again, and he shrugs his shoulders. The tension in Rick's muscles dwindle a fraction.
"Wow... you seem real mad that I'm giving you exactly what you asked for. God, I'm way too fuckin' generous to you ungrateful fucks." Negan scoffs, propping himself up on Lucille, running a hand through his gel slicked hair.
Michonne balks. "You're taking him hostage! You can't do this, we have a deal." she argues, standing protectively near Rick. She's buzzing with energy and barely restrained fury.
Negan shakes his head in over-exaggerated exasperation, looking around with wide eyes as if to say, "This chick is crazy!"
"No, darlin', quite the damn opposite, actually. I'm giving him a once-in-a-lifetime ticket to luxury for the duration of his break. You should be thanking me right now." he sidles up next to Rick, much to Michonne's chagrin, and Rick decides to speak up. He doesn't want Michonne to have to speak for him.
"It's fine, Negan. Let's just go scavenging. I'll go grab my things-" he begins, trying to move away. Lucille promptly blocks his path, barbs hooking the front of his shirt.
"Nope! I've already fuckin' decided and I'm not changing my mind. Your little girlfriend was insistent that I let you get some rest, and who the hell am I to deny the samurai lady her request?" he wiggles his brows at her, teeth flashing with menace. Rick watches the canines with growing caution, anticipating a deadly protrusion through the gums.
Michonne is positively fuming, opening her mouth to speak again when Rick puts a hand on her arm to stop her. She glares daggers at the man before them, but complies with Rick's silent command.
Rick meets Negan's look unflinchingly, expression carefully composed. He weighs his options, subtly gnawing on the inside of his lip as he does so.
Negan waits patiently, whistling a nonchalant tune and surveying his men bustling about.
"How long?" is all Rick asks, feigning ease. With great difficulty, he relaxes his tense posture, rolling out the muscles. Negan glances at the movement.
Negan wants him to react. It's all apart of their special game of cat-and-mouse.
He has no idea what Negan is trying to get at with all of this. A small part of him is curious. How far is Negan going to take it?
"Don't entertain him, Rick." Michonne steps in once again, but Negan ignores her.
"Two days, how 'bout that? A weekend getaway with your ol' pal Negan." to give credit where its due, he really does look like he's greeting an old friend at some kind of demented high-school reunion.
Rick has to make a conscious effort to remain visibly unaffected. But the questions in his mind make it increasingly difficult.
Two days, doing what? Sitting around at The Sanctuary while his people waste away in Alexandria? He boils at the notion. But what choice does he have?
Negan observes him for a few seconds longer, evidently waiting for a reaction. Rick gives him none. Somehow, this still pleases Negan.
"Rick, can we talk about this?" Michonne pleads, placing herself in the middle of the two men. Negan rolls his eyes.
"No. Like I said, I've already made up my damn mind. You two have got five fuckin' seconds to say your heartfelt goodbyes and then we're hittin' the road." he pouts his lower lip in a dramatic pantomime of tragedy, twirling Lucille dangerously close to Rick's face.
Rick doesn't waste any time. "Take charge while I'm gone. Please take care of Judith and Carl, and don't let Carl do anything stupid." he rushes the words out. He has so much to say to her, unable to make it count.
"I'll be here." she promises, voice firm. Loyal in spite of her qualms with the situation. Steadfast in her faith in him. He chokes down a sudden swell of emotion. He is so immensely grateful for her and has no idea what he did to deserve her support.
She must see it in his expression because she reaches forward to squeeze his bicep in reassurance. They share a meaningful look.
It's only two days, but in an apocalypse, it might as well be years. There's no guarantee in this world anymore.
Their moment is promptly disrupted by a suffocating weight being thrown across his shoulders once again. He stamps down a snarl.
"Alright, pity party over. Let's go." Negan manhandles Rick away from Michonne with more force than necessary. He bears with it.
Michonne gives him one last nod, brows set in conviction. Rick knows the Alexandrians are in good hands. But it doesn't make it easier to leave.
Once they're out of earshot, Negan leans in real close to his ear and whispers conspiratorially, "You two knockin' boots?"
Despite the blatantly inappropriate question, the hairs on the back of his neck raise at the proximity, tingling.
Rick sneers at the inquiry, bristling more so at his bodily reactions than at Negan's quip itself.
Negan chuckles heartily, but his fingers subtly tighten their grip and find their way to the tender spot on Ricks shoulder, applying pressure. Pinpricks of pain intertwine with pleasure. Rick hisses at the sensation, a fire lighting in his stomach.
At the gate, Negan releases Rick, much to his relief. The relief is short-lived, however, because moments later, a featherlight touch on the small of his back is coaxing him outside. Rick almost jumps at the unexpected touch. Tingles surge up his vertebrae.
Negan simply nods to Eugene, who is currently manning the gate, and strolls his way out, side by side with Rick as if he didn't do anything.
Rick seethes and focuses on the crunch of gravel beneath his boots to ground his unwinding composure.
If there's one thing hes good at, it's looking composed when he isn't.
"Head out." Negan commands the scavenging groups awaiting his orders, resting Lucille on his shoulder as he watches them depart.
Then, with a chivalry like demeanor, he guides Rick to the remaining vehicle. His gait is confident and borderline cocky.
Rick, by contrast, is stalking around like a paranoid veteran. Negan follows his movements with growing amusement, much to Rick's dismay.
"What's on your mind, Rick?" Negan asks once they're both situated in the car. He not-so-subtly glances at the concealed bite on Rick's shoulder.
Rick burns as if kissed by embers at the bold implication. He wonders if Negan can hear his heart rate spike, or if he can somehow taste the endorphins rippling like a current in his bloodstream. A monster like him probably could.
Maybe it's his imagination, but he can see Negan's nostrils flare when his heart thumps harder on his chest.
He shakes the ridiculous thoughts away before answering as concisely as possible. No need to get friendly.
"Nothin'."
Negan huffs. "I get that you're not much of a conversationalist, Rick, but God damn. You're on vacation for cryin' out loud, when's the last time you could say that?" Negan gestures wildly as he says so.
Rick only grunts, resting his head on the cool glass of the window, watching as the birds scatter to the treetops, startled at the sound of a running engine.
Negan's knuckles turn white on the wheel, and Rick braces himself for the inevitable burnout of Negan's short fuse. But, mercifully, Negan seems to reign his control back in.
"Answer me when I talk to you." Negan says. His tone leaves no room for questioning.
Is this the hill I'm going to die on?
He can taste the bitter tang of resentment on the back of his tongue like bile. Everything is a power struggle when it comes to Negan.
"Sorry." he manages to say through clenched teeth, fingertips digging into his palms.
Negan only responds with a simple "hmph" and a long, uncomfortable silence ensues.
For a long time, Rick can only adjust himself in his seat over and over again as his mind hurtles through topics at a break-neck speed he can't keep up with. From Alexandria to The Sanctuary. From the Saviors to Alexandrians. From Michonne to Negan. From the deadly disease to the doctors. From his home to his impromptu 'vacation'.
To Negan again. To his teeth, to his fangs, to the blood on his mouth, to his lips on Rick's throat-- Rick halts himself right there, not daring to move. What if Negan can read minds?
He sucks in a sharp breath, shame and other more foreign feelings swirling in his head.
He swears he can see a knowing smirk on Negan's face in his peripherals. But maybe that's just his face all the time.
He shifts his attention to the twinkling spikes on Lucille, counting each one, visualizing in painstaking detail the blood on every point. To remind himself of the monster he's sitting beside. To remember why these strange feelings are completely and utterly wrong.
And it works. Revulsion roils through him in waves, and Rick has to fight back nausea.
It has to be the exhaustion getting to his head. He's taking this too seriously. He's just stressed and exhausted. The way he feels right now doesn't mean anything..
Warmth on his thigh snaps him back to reality, and he glances sideways, startled.
"Earth to Rick! We're home." Negan squeezes, quickly but bruisingly, and releases him when he has Rick's attention. The ghost of his fingertips singe where he touched.
He gauges Rick's reaction to the intimate action, visibly satisfied with whatever he sees. Heat threatens to climb the back of Rick's neck.
Rick swings the door open, a little too quickly, desperate to put some distance between them. He stumbles out less than gracefully. How long had he been zoned out?
He can hear the beginnings of a chuckle from Negan, but he cuts it off by slamming the door shut.
He opts to scans his surroundings.
The Sanctuary is a blight on Earth. It's industrial and angular and far from anything welcoming. A complete eyesore.
Of course, that's the point.
Chain-link fence secures the perimeter, decorated with tethered walkers to ward off the dead and intimidate the living. Spikes coated in rotted flesh and viscera guard the weaker blind-spots where the look-outs can't see and tired looking workers scatter about like ants.
The smell of metal and death accompanies the sight.
Rick already can't wait for this all to be over.
"Not as pretty as Alexandria, but twice as efficient," Negan brags as he slithers next to him, Lucille at his leather flank.
"What are you expecting me to do here, Negan? What are you getting at with this?" Rick at last sounds the questions plaguing him. He feels helpless here, angry at being torn away from his people. His people who need him right now.
He looks at Negan expectantly, impatient.
Before Negan can answer, a man with a scarred face appears around a corner and begins speaking to him. Rick vaguely recognizes him as one of the men he's scavenged with before. Rick listens curiously.
"A fight broke out during one of Simon's pickups. One of his men killed a boy." The man briefs Negan on the situation, pointedly avoiding saying anything that might be advantageous to Alexandria, to Rick's displeasure.
Rick waits in silence, arms crossed. Idly, he studies the creases in Negan's leather jacket, the alluring sharp lines of muscle undulating beneath it. He has just enough presence of mind to look elsewhere.
Negan pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration at the news. He pulls the other man aside and they speak in lowered tones for a few moments. Rick strains to overhear, but only catches irrelevant pieces of the conversation.
Negan then claps his back and says, "Thank you, Dwighty-boy. I can always count on you."
Dismissed, the man--Dwight--only glances at Rick before walking off to tend to whatever Negan wanted him to.
"As you were saying, Rick?" Negan prompts. He leans onto his bat lazily.
"Why am I here?" he reiterates, annoyed. He thinks back to Carl and Judith, restless at the idea of them alone.
"Jesus, haven't we already been over this? You're here to relax, of course." Negan disguises his growing irritation with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes and then gestures Rick to follow him.
Rick knew he wasn't going to get an answer out of him just by asking. He's just going to have to go along with whatever messed up game Negan is playing.
He reluctantly trails after Negan, stopping at a railing that overlooks a mass of people and stalls, rustling and clattering about like a beehive.
Negan quirks a brow at Rick in a "watch this" kind of way, then bangs Lucille against the metal bars.
In a domino effect, everyone who looks up and notices Negan get down on their knees. The people who didn't see Negan watch their peers kneel and follow their example.
Soon, the once bustling room is silent and on its knees. Rick is disgusted.
Negan, on the other hand, is basking in it. He prods Rick with a huge smile on his face, catching his lower lip with his teeth.
For a split second, the arc of Negan's canines looked unnatural. He isn't sure if he's seeing things or not, but before he can think any further on it, Negan is speaking to the crowd.
"I'm here to announce that we have a very special fuckin' guest here for the next two days and if you see him, you better treat him like he's my god damn second hand man." his voice rings clear throughout the warehouse, echoing off the bare walls and reverberating.
Rick doesn't react to the blatant humiliation attempt, but internally, he's shrinking. The people kneeling don't even look up.
Negan purses his lips, letting the silence permeate. His shoulder brushes Rick's, just enough for Rick to notice. Rick glances sideways, but Negan is still looking to the crowd.
"Get a good look at him and then get back to work." he orders, brief and to the point but nonetheless intimidating.
Rick grits his teeth and bears with the heat of dozens of eyes on him. The people are back up and moving again.
"Get used to living like a fuckin' God."
Rick despises how Negan puts himself on such a pedestal, and he sneers at his words. It's arrogant and oppressive. A monument of his hubris. His Achilles heel.
"Seems more like living like a dictator." Rick observes boldly. He has to call it like he sees it.
Negan quirks a brow and then laughs heartily as if Rick were his personal jester, causing Rick to scowl.
Negan squeezes his shoulder, brushing against his goosebumps; he lingers for just a moment too long before he ultimately pulls away. His fingertips graze his collarbone on the way down.
Rick knows he's doing it on purpose at this point.
Negan knows what he's doing to Rick. Something beyond plain teasing. Whittling away at his sanity with a chisel.
Negan sighs and stretches, arms above his head, his shirt riding up and revealing a sliver of skin with a tantalizing happy trail leading to the waistband of his jeans. He catches Rick's line of sight and winks.
Rick has the decency to look embarrassed.
"Take a picture and it might last longer, darlin'," he slides a tongue in his teeth in a cheeky grin. The pet name makes Rick cringe, stomach flopping from being caught ogling. He swears that he didn't mean to look, honestly, but it's not like Negan will let him explain anyway.
God, is Negan always this insufferable? His lip curls with scorn and disgust and he shakes his head.
"Let me give you the grand tour. You're quite the lucky man, Rick, being shown around by the boss himself." he says with flourish, gesturing to himself. Rick remains unimpressed. Negan, of course, doesn't care.
After trailing Negan like a lost puppy for the better part of an hour or so, the novelty is growing old on Rick. Not that there was much novelty in the first place.
The entire time, Negan showers him with innuendo and vulgarity, throwing in the occasional physical contact that somehow always manages to throw Rick off guard.
At some point, Rick had to start tuning out his endless babble to preserve his own state of mind. He had tried to memorize the layout of The Sanctuary for strategic purposes, but quickly realized after one too many turns that The Sanctuary is a neverending maze.
He tunes back in when he finds himself at the entrance of a fancier room furnished with couches, a bar, and a TV. The room is lit by incandescent bulbs, the atmosphere bordering on cozy if it weren't in an industrial hellscape.
It's a striking distinction from the majority of the compound. If Rick has to guess, he's reaching the part of the tour that only a few get to experience.
Lucky me. he thinks sardonically.
The room isn't void of people, however. A group of women are dispersed throughout the room, lounging in short dresses with wine in their palms. He takes in the scene with a questioning purse of the lips.
Is this a harem or something?
His suspicions are, unfortunately, confirmed as he has to stand witness to Negan drawing a brunette woman into his arms. He plants an obscene kiss to her mouth.
Even worse, he has the gall to cast Rick a wry smile as he does so, eyes on him despite the woman in his embrace.
Rick stands uncomfortably, sucking his teeth and hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. His mind conjures the image of Negan when he had him pressed to the car, his lips brushing against his neck. He bites his tongue, fighting the urge to turn away.
They draw away from each other after a needlessly long kiss that almost makes Rick roll his eyes.
"Ladies, this is Rick." he motions to Rick unceremoniously. "He's my extra special guest. Rick, these are my beautiful wives."
Wives? His nose scrunches in disgust briefly, which he schools into a neutral expression.
Negan draws away from the woman, and all of the eyes in the room are on Rick now. They seem faintly curious, but don't ask any questions. They just nod politely and continue what they were doing before, much to his relief.
The brunette woman approaches Rick as Negan grabs a bottle of wine and pours himself a gracious serving. The red liquid fills the glass, disturbingly close to the image of blood in Rick's mind.
He has to blink the thoughts away.
"My name is Sherry. It's nice to finally meet you, Rick." The woman introduces herself with a small smile. Her cheeks are touched with blush, and her eyelashes are darkened with mascara. She smells like shampoo and light perfume.
Rick nods in greeting to her. He can't help but feel sympathy for her situation. Is Negan forcing these women to be his wives?
The notion is repulsive.
He elects to ask Negan later, giving him the tiniest benefit of the doubt. It's not like he can just ask in front of all the women outright. Causing a confrontation is a good way to get killed.
"It's nice to meet you, too." he replies, curt but polite nonetheless. Negan is sipping on the wine as he maneuvers back to them.
"Mind holding this for me, darlin'?" he asks Sherry, handing her the glass. She nods and takes it from him.
Negan smiles gratefully and begins to strip off his jacket.
As he does so, Rick swallows hard and looks down at his shoes. He doesn't want his eyes to wander more than they already have; he's embarrassed himself enough.
He soothes himself by focusing on the fact that one day, he's going to kill Negan. And none of this humiliaton will have mattered; none of these thoughts or feelings will have any merit because Negan will be gone, wiped away like the nasty stain he is.
This unwanted lust is a product of his hatred, he decides. There's a dangerously thin line between hatred and lust, after all. He's only a man at the end of the day, driven by carnal desires and unable to distinguish between two passionate emotions.
It doesn't have to be anything more than that.
Negan discards the jacket onto the bar table and settles into the couch, patting the spot beside him. Assuming he's waiting for Sherry, Rick settles on leaning back into the wall, resigned to dealing with whatever awkward shit Negan is about to make him see.
Negan snickers and spreads his arms out on the top of the couch, his biceps flexing in the process, pale skin reflecting the warm glow of light.
"Rick, come have a seat. You're as wound up as a fuckin' virgin on prom night." Sherry takes a seat next to Negan, the opposite side that he patted, and gives him his wine back.
Rick's eyes widen a fraction before narrowing, clocking Negan's intentions and dreading them. Hesitantly, he trudges over to him, stiffly taking the spot on Negan's left side. He perches himself as far away from Negan as he can be on the modest sized couch.
The other women chatter amongst themselves casually. Rick is thankful he doesn't need to interact with more people than he needs to, at least.
On Negan's part, he's undressing every woman in the room with his gaze shamelessly, catching their eyes and winking like some kind of cheesy rom com protagonist. If Rick wasn't so uncomfortable, he would laugh.
Sensing his eyes on him, Negan abruptly stops his ogling to frown at Rick.
"Jesus, can't even wind down in a room full of my beautiful wives? Y'know, Rick, I'm startin' to think you're battin' for the other team." he looks sly, tone dropping an octave toward the end of the sentence, his left leg pressing against Rick's.
The suggestion makes Rick fully blush for the first time that afternoon. He has to fight to not hide his face in his hands, the tips of his ears burning red.
Rick has never really thought about his sexuality. He's never needed to. He's just.. always been attracted to women.
But obviously, things have been different recently. He would die before admitting that to Negan, though.
He isn't sure if the exhaustion excuse cuts it anymore.
Rick splutters and shakes his head adamantly, trying to scoot further away but failing.
At this reaction, Negan's face lights up like a kid in a candy shop to Rick's horror. Negan chuckles lowly and raises his brows.
"I'm just messin' with you, Rick." he taunts as Sherry leans into him. He strokes the locs of her hair and catches it in his fingers. He gives Rick a meaningful look, knowing.
Rick feels sick at the sight of it, wanting to snarl and lash out at him for being so fucking arrogant.
"I can't stay for long, Sherry, I've gotta show Rick to his room. But if you want to see me tonight, you know where to find me." he talks to her with a velvety voice, a voice meant for her ears only.
But Rick is in earshot, and Rick suspects Negan is fully aware of that fact. He shivers, unsure if it's from irritation or something else.
Negan glances back at Rick only briefly as he and Sherry finish having their hushed conversation. Negan's leg brushes Rick's occasionally, which Rick pointedly ignores, even though it makes his muscles jump every time.
Rick decides to watch one of the women read a book while he waits, uninterested in whatever else the two were talking about and wanting to focus on anything except the warmth on the side of his thigh.
A few minutes later, Negan is standing up and snatching his leather jacket and Lucille from the bar. He motions for Rick to follow and says his goodbyes to his "wives".
When the door shuts behind them, the majority of the light filtering through the hall is cut off, engulfing the two men in relative darkness. The air is colder somehow, more restricting in the darkness than the light. More intimate.
Rick can't bite his tongue for long.
"What's the deal with that?" he accuses. He tilts his head questioningly, fixing Negan with narrowed eyes.
"What are you talking about?" Negan plays dumb, strolling along with Rick. He looks momentarily surprised that the usually silent man is finally talking, regarding him with a shrewd eyebrow raise.
Rick suffocates in the silence before finding his words.
"Your... 'wives'. How does that work?" he treads the topic mindfully, not wanting to set Negan off.
He's too tired to fight if he needs to, and he can't afford to be reckless. Not when his people are waiting.
"Why? Are you interested?" he wiggles his brows and sways into Rick's personal space, unable to resist making him squirm.
Rick leans away, his mouth set in a firm line as he crosses his arms as a physical barrier. "I'm serious."
Negan sighs, backing up, evidently following Rick's train of thought.
"Not that it's any of your god damned business, but I'll tell you because I don't want you to get the wrong idea." he prefaces. Rick waits, expectant. The echo of their boots bounce off the barren walls, resonating around their isolated silhouettes, reminding Rick of how utterly alone the two are right now.
"They give me blood in exchange for awesome fucking privileges. Simple as that." he states, not breaking his stride.
"The sex is just a bonus; they choose it. Turns out, fangs are lady killers." he remarks, flashing a winning smile at Rick, which Rick deflects with a glower. "Not that the general Savior knows this, of course. To them, it's just prostitution. Sex in exchange for privilege."
He shrugs nonchalantly. The stray light bulbs flickering above them cast a menacing shadow behind Negan, long and dark, reaching out to Rick with outstretched claws. Rick subtly shifts farther away from him.
Admittedly, Negan's sound reasoning is a relief to Rick. At least there's one line that Negan won't cross. He chews on the idea for a moment longer until Negan speaks up again, voice startlingly clear in the silence.
"Well, did my elevator pitch convince ya?" Negan bats his eyelashes in Rick's direction, once again trying to close the space Rick very deliberately put between them.
"Convince me of what?" Rick scowls, scratching his stubble, meeting Negan's manic gaze.
"Becoming one of my wives." Negan deadpans, without missing a beat.
Rick almost trips over his own boots, coughing into a fist to compose himself from the slip-up.
They both halt their steps. Rick straightens, coming face to face with him, holding his breath.
They're so close that Rick's brain stutters in place, unsure of how to function. This close, the idea of killing Negan is suddenly not so appealing anymore, replaced by a need for something just as passionate, but much different.
"Judging by the way your heart just started racing, I'd say it did." Negan's grin splits his face hungrily, the curve of his smile sharp as a knife point. "But I'm patient enough to wait for you to admit it."
Rick gapes at the presumption, unable to believe what he's hearing and also subconsciously trying to make his heart go silent.
This arrogant bastard.
"What-"
"Here's your room, darlin'. You know where to find me." he cuts Rick off, echoing his earlier words to Sherry. Rick has a distinct feeling, though, that they were never meant for her in the first place.
He's so close, Rick can almost taste the sultry words from his mouth.
Negan then turns on his heel, sparing Rick one last wink. The sound of whistling disappears down the hall, and a whoosh of air fills the empty space Negan leaves behind.
Rick stands in stunned silence for a few seconds, blinking dumbly.
Did Negan just come onto me?
He opens the door to his room and slams it shut behind him, not even bothering to look around as he finds the bathroom.
He doesn't dare look at himself in the mirror. He doesn't want to see what he looks like while he's seriously considering Negan's blatant offer.
He splashes his face with cold water, a frantic tremble in his hands. Maybe this will wake him up from whatever nightmare he's dug himself into.
But not even the cold is enough to shock away the temptation, heat tingling where Negan's words fanned across his face.
He sighs sharply, barely drying his face off before kicking the door open and collapsing onto the bed. Cold droplets cling to the edges of the curls framing his jaw.
He groans, shucking his clothes off and tossing them on the floor. When he's down to his boxers, he slips under the covers.
He just needs to sleep this off. Whatever this is will pass. He just needs to get through tonight and tomorrow so he can go home and lead his people again.
He twists under the covers and closes his eyes, resolute.
.....
....
...
..
He turns, unable to escape the growing heat pooling in his groin. He bites his lower lip, hard, hands twitching. He holds the sheets to steady them.
He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, thinking. He tries to focus on anything else. His breathing, the weight of his body on the mattress, anything. But he keeps getting dragged by the ankle right back into his wild current of thoughts, choking and drowning in them.
...Maybe he just needs to get this out of his system.
It's wrong, he knows that, but a selfish part of him just wants this neverending burning to finally go away. He just wants to be able to sleep.
He tries to justify the allure of the other man with useless, selfish excuses. All he can think about is the grace with which Negan moves, every step confident, always taking what he wants. The confidence of a predator stalking its prey.
The gouges on his neck burn.
Rick is disturbed to find that his inhibitions have slowly been whittled down into nothing with every touch and jab and innuendo Negan has thrown his way. Every justification has become easier to accept. Every fantasy easier to justify.
Whatever it is that is so intoxicating to Rick about Negan doesn't matter. All that matters is that it's enough that he's willing to throw away his reservations to taste more of it.
He wants to taste Negan's impulsivity on his tongue, feel the flex of his muscles, smell the heat of sex. He wants to tear Negan apart, pull him to pieces, and see his own fury reflected in Negan's pupils. Two opposite ends, united in their pride, united in their fury. Not as different as Rick may like to believe.
His hand has trailed its way down his torso, achingly slow. His breath is labored, chest heaving, head tilted back, spine arched. He slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, setting his jaw, and he traces the hard length of his erection.
He takes himself in his calloused hand and squeezes. He groans through his teeth, dizzy, imagining a certain set of canines...
He strokes steadily at first, but his movements get more desperate within seconds.
He tries, fruitlessly, to keep Negan out of his head. But he's invading every bit of Rick, exactly the way Negan intended. All consuming and bloody, hovering over him with claws and teeth.
He thinks about the brushes of contact between them. The electricity crackling between them when they're angry, neither man willing to swallow their wrath. He thinks of the day that Negan fed from his vein and shoved him against a cardoor, reckless and frenzied.
The vulnerability they both unwittingly found themselves trapped in, at the others whim.
His voice in his ear and the tight, bruising grips he subjects Rick to. Rough.
The friction doesn't feel like enough. His hand doesn't feel like enough. He keeps chasing his peak but it's always just ahead of him, teasing him with a familiar wolf-like grin.
Fuck. He aches and throbs, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, following the phantom touches of Negan's fingers.
He whines in frustration, letting go of his swollen cock. It twitches against his stomach at the loss of contact.
He runs a hand over his face, flushed. He writhes uncomfortably, hips grinding the air, his stomach rolling with unreleased pleasure.
Defeated, he pulls his boxers back on. He sits for a long minute with a throbbing, insistent boner. He knows he's on a knifes edge right now, about to make a decision he's going to regret, as fragile as glass.
He crosses the threshold as soon as he begins putting on his clothes again, tugging the denim up his thighs.
Thrumming with anticipation, he gets up and trudges out of his room, leaving his shame behind as he shuts the door.
●
All day, Negan has been completely blue balling himself. Every hint he threw at Rick was like talking to a brick wall. Gaze always fixed ahead, unflinching. Carved in marble, perfect but indifferent.
But Negan knows better than to take him at face value.
The brushes of contact made Rick's heart flutter like a trapped butterfly. Hints of blush would crawl up his throat temptingly with each innuendo. And God damn, the look on his face when he implied Rick was gay is unforgettable.
He wishes he could print it out and hang it on his wall.
Negan is a patient man, despite what it may seem like. He's content to chip away at Rick's resolve with sweet talk and touching. Having Rick in his arms is worth waiting for, he decides.
He licks his canines, feeling their sharpness. Theyre protruding with arousal. Damn, thinking about Rick like this is gonna make it hard to sleep.
He wonders if his offer to Rick was a step too far. He's afraid he came off too strongly, breaking the fragile attraction Rick was building toward.
But he was getting antsy after a whole day of having the stoic man trail behind him, subtly blushing like a shy girl. Can you blame him?
He imagines the curve of Rick's throat and the steely eyes he always fixes him with. Like Rick can't tell whether he wants to kill him or fuck him. He hopes it's the latter.
Jesus, he's hard as diamonds now.
Groaning with annoyance, he flops onto his mattress. He's hungry.
He's always hungry for blood, of course. It's a constant in the back of his mind, always aware of beating hearts in his vicinity, always aware of the crimson rushing through the human veins surrounding him. It's icy and hot all at once.
It takes enormous self-control to be a monster. He can understand the walkers to an extent.
But it's not just blood he's hungry for right now. He wants so, so much more than that. Something darker and sicker.
He wants Rick. Hes wanted him since he had him on his knees before him and hes wanted him even more since he sucked the blood from his veins, vivid and brilliant.
He couldn't believe his luck when he was presented with a perfect opportunity to bring him to The Sanctuary, although he knows the decision was mostly malicious.
Still, he's never claimed to be a saint.
He just wants to grab his pretty fucking curls and force his--
Negan pauses suddenly, sitting up.
Thump, thump-thump, thump...
Negan's breathing slows to a halt as he listens.
Am I imagining things right now?
A very familiar heartbeat is wandering down the hall. Closer to his door. He can practically taste arousal in the air, and he's (almost) positive it's not coming from himself.
A crooked grin forms on Negan's face once the shock wanes. He can't believe this. He's on the edge of his bed now, coiled up and ready to pounce. His senses cast outwards and encircle Rick's presence, teasing him.
When a hesitant knock finally sounds at his door, Negan has to force himself to not look too excited. He saunters to his door, takes a breath, and opens it with a devilish smirk.
Unsurprisingly, there Rick stands. He's giving him those intense fucking eyes that he loves and it takes serious control not to grab him and sink his teeth in right then and there. His throat constricts, fingers itching to take and take and take.
"Well, hello there, cowboy, what brings you her--" his arrogant welcome is abruptly cut off as Rick shoves him backwards, kicking the door shut behind him. Negan's brows shoot up to his hairline, his hands instinctively flying to his belt where he usually keeps a dagger.
His surprise and instinctual attack is muffled by Rick's mouth on his own, his hands roughly gripping the front of his leather jacket and tugging him forward to deepen the kiss.
Pure, raw electricity surges through Negan. Rick's bold, overzealous heat clutches onto him with want and need, dizzying in its intensity. He groans into the kiss, grinning, fangs hooking Rick's lip. Rick shudders and opens his mouth in invitation, which Negan doesn't hesitate to take.
Negan is always taking. He takes and takes until there's nothing left, still never quite satisfied. He has every intention to do the same with Rick.
Just like he imagined earlier, he tugs at Rick's curls with reckless abandon, relishing the way Rick comes undone in his hands. His throat tingles with the taste of Rick, the heady, masculine scent of him. They pull away briefly and Negan devours the sight of his dilated pupils and messy hair and blushed cheeks, inhaling the warmth he exudes.
Bloodthirst and lust battle in a frenzy. He finds the same battle mirrored in Rick, albeit his bloodthirst is obviously different. He wonders if Rick is going to fuck with as much intensity as he fights, and the idea lights him up like a firework.
"Fuck, Negan, you did this all on purpose." Rick growls, breathless, pinning Negan up against the wall with his chest pressed tightly against his own. His touch is none too gentle beneath Negan's shirt, feeling up his muscles, groping and squeezing. His calloused fingers leave goosebumps in their wake.
Negan slides his leg between Rick's and takes advantage of Rick's momentary fluster at the sensation to switch their positions.
"Maybe I did." he murmurs into Rick's throat. His lips, being so close to the arteries of his neck, have his fingers trembling in Rick's hair. The rush of arousal makes it hard to stay in control of the more predatory instincts driving his actions. The tips of his fangs tingle at the proximity.
Rick's pulse is pumping hard under his touch, much to Negan's pleasure. His mouth waters, craving more. He grinds his knee against Rick's groin again, swallowing up his moans with his mouth. Rick's tongue grazes the points of his fangs and he shivers.
Rick forces them apart and begins desperately pulling off his shirt, which Negan gladly helps him with, eager and restless. As soon as it's off, Negan is all over his bare chest, nipping at it and sucking, not quite breaking skin, too manic to stop and admire.
His fingers find the bite on Rick's shoulder, and he swipes his index across it, causing Rick's muscles to jump against his lips deliciously. Negan chuckles, the sound growling and dark.
He harshly manhandles him to the bedroom as he parts from his chest to kiss him again.
He can't get enough. His entire being is encompassed by Rick, making it hard to keep a grasp on himself, making it hard to even remember where he is. Rick bites at Negan's lips, nipping at the swollen flesh and clutching Negan's thighs. Negan trails his fingers up each rib, taking pleasure in every gasp it draws from him.
Rick ends up on his back on the mattress, hair framing his head like a halo, his heart stuttering with Negan's scrutiny.
"Take your shirt off." Rick orders, pulling Negan out of his admiring by yanking him forward and on top of him. Negan feels hot at the command, head rushing, still reeling from the shock of the situation.
He allows Rick to help him shuck his shirt off, discarding it on the floor. Rick's hands are all over the bare expanse of skin. Negan's breath hitches in his throat as he grazes the scar on his stomach, warming the cold skin with his touch.
"Who's the boss here, darlin'?" Negan teases, but he likes the push and pull that is Rick, his strength that rivals his own. He likes the impatience he's seeing, such a stark difference to his typical iron demeanor. Always content to wait. Until now.
Rick scoffs, "You'd have to kill me to make me submit to you." he challenges, fingers already working on Negan's belt. His heart rate betrays his nerves. Negan tastes it.
Negan grins and grabs his wrists, pinning them above Rick's head and halting his progress on his belt. Rick struggles against him helplessly, unable to do much with Negan's weight on top of him. Like a trapped rabbit in the jaws of a fox. Negan purrs.
"You already have." Negan whispers, making him squirm, gasping when Negan's fang grazes the sensitive area between his neck and ear. He kisses down the column of his throat, trailing past his collarbones, making the threat of his teeth known.
Rick groans, grinding his hips up against Negan's, seeking friction. The blood rushes through Rick's body with fierce heat, his face pink with the exertion. Unable to resist much longer when the blood is so freely rushing, Negan tests the water, fangs snagging the surface of Rick's chest.
Negan's throat catches with the feeling, his grip on Rick's wrists suffocatingly tight. Rick's heart is beating faster, internally struggling against his base instincts to make it all stop. To fight or to run.
Even though it takes every fiber of his being, he waits for Rick's approval, breath fanning across his chest.
It's a bad idea to feed when you're in the throes of passion like this, but it's not like he's thinking straight right now. Rick's breath stutters.
Echoing his words that feel like they were said so long ago, "Bite me."
Negan doesn't have to be told twice.
He sinks his teeth in, head spinning as blood gushes onto his tongue. The taste is just as rich as he remembered, a satisfied groan leaving his lips. It invades every tastebud with a frightening ferocity. He can't help but gulp it down like a starving dog.
He feels like he's hurtling off a cliff, like air is rushing past his ears and he's plummeting closer and closer to the ground.
Rick bucks up into Negan again. The pleasure sends tingles through Negan's legs, and paired with the high of blood, it could be enough to make him faint. He loses himself in the frenzy, lapping, latching, drawing more blood from the vein.
There's a reason why he doesn't feed when he's having sex. He can't control himself.
His grip on Rick's wrists must've loosened from the euphoria because Rick is wrenching him away by the jaw now, his hold unyielding and abrasive.
That's the difference here. Rick's strength. His ability to manhandle Negan when he gets out of control. Negan's head buzzes, and they're clashing teeth again, Rick's tongue swiping the blood off his lips, following the trickle of blood down his chin.
Negan doesn't even register that he's on his back now. He's kicking off his boots with Rick, neither of them letting up on their desperate grabbing and kisses.
Rick has a handful of Negan's hair, tugging it similarly to how Negan tugged his own as he sits up. Red stains his chest and chin, a feral look in his eye.
Negan decides he likes this look on him.
He pauses his frantic groping and looks down at Negan, appraising him, painstakingly analyzing him inch by fucking inch. Negan is tracing up Rick's vertebrae in the meantime, flexing his shoulders and licking the residual blood on his chin.
"Like what you see, sweetheart?" Negan looks up at him through his lashes, the beginnings of a smirk on his face. His voice is velvet, unsteady as he comes down from bliss.
"I wish you didn't have to look so fucking good." Rick finally says, borderline pained to admit it. Negan quirks a brow, unapologetic, pleased at Rick's reluctant praise.
Rick shakes his head as if banishing any doubts and he resumes his work on Negan's belt. Negan catches a nipple in his fingers, savoring Rick's shiver and gasp from the action. He's like putty in Negan's hands, involuntarily arching into his touch.
He finally pulls the belt free, throwing it to the side with a clatter. Negan sits himself up, interrupting Rick again, connecting their lips as he starts working on Rick's belt.
Rick's hands impatiently try to find the buttons on Negan's jeans while he does so.
Negan can hardly keep himself up straight, still reeling from the arousal and blood. Rick takes advantage of this and pushes him down again, running his hands down Negan's chest. His jaw is set, and his brows are furrowed in concentration.
Negan chokes down a whine, simultaneously turned on by Rick's dominance and annoyed by it.
He finishes taking off his belt for Negan and tosses it aside. The anticipation shared between them coats the air with enticing thrill, difficult to breathe under.
"Fuck, Rick.." Negan mumbles, eyes lidded as Rick leans forward and kisses down Negan's chest, leaving bites along the way, as if mimicking the touch of Negan's fangs. Negan's hands find purchase on Rick's ass, and he squeezes the firmness of it, causing Rick to curse against his stomach.
Rick's kisses lead him to the waistband of Negan's jeans and Negan's hands have found their way up to Rick's hair once again, tugging.
Rick looks up at Negan through his lashes and he keeps eye contact as he kisses his V-line and slowly starts pulling down the denim. Negan's mouth feels heavy, his tongue swiping his teeth, dick throbbing in his jeans.
Negan's hips jerk involuntarily. Rick smirks at him, the rare sight breaking Negan's skin into goosebumps.
"Shit..." is all he manages to say as his pants are yanked off in one smooth motion. Exposed to the air, he exhales sharply, his cock twitching against his stomach.
A blush crawls up Rick's face as he takes in the sight of it, as if he didn't expect it. Negan's stomach quivers at the sight.
"Come on, Rick. Show me what that mouth is good for." Rick's face burns red to the tips of his ears, his heart rate spiking. Negan revels in it, twisting a curl in his finger, lazily pulling it and watching it bounce.
"First time?" he prompts, grinning.
"Just shut your mouth, Negan." Rick snarls, but it has no bite. Something tells Negan that Rick likes the sound of his voice.
That's good, because Negan does, too.
The idea of being the first cock in Rick's mouth is undeniably hot to him. Judging by the way Rick eyes him, suddenly unsure despite his previous confidence, it definitely is the first time.
Negan's crooked smile lengthens, and he takes a hand full of Rick's curls and guides him to the tip of his swollen erection. He watches, hungrily, as Rick takes it into his mouth, hesitant and shy.
He grits his teeth to prevent shoving his face all the way down, anxious to feel his mouth. But, as it turns out, he doesn't need to push Rick's head around after all.
"Rick, fuck..." he manages to gasp out as Rick eagerly swallows down to the root. The tight, wet mouth around his cock, throat constricting the tip, has his muscles jerking and his head tilting backward. Rick chokes, gagging, eyes watering as his fingertips dig into the flesh of Negan's thighs.
Negan barely has the presence of mind to pull him back up to let him breathe. He splutters as he surfaces, hot breath fanning across Negan's groin. Negan can't wait for long, impatient, gripping Rick's hair and forcing him back down. He looks down at Rick's teary-eyed face, pleasure radiating down his cock, throbbing in his throat.
Rick doesn't resist. He moans as he's forced down, choking again, and the vibrations have pre-cum already beading at the tip of Negan's cock. His thighs clench beneath Rick's fingers, his vision zeroed in on Rick and Rick only. The tears on his face. His glistening curls. Negan's spine arches.
"Rick... Jesus christ, fuck. You're doing great, just... just like that, Rick." he encourages him, voice a trembling mess. Rick's unpracticed tongue only makes it feel that much better.
He gradually finds his rhythm, bobbing his head in time with Negan's thrusts, his choking subdued. Negan isn't gentle, even though he tries to be. It's just so difficult when it feels so fucking good.
Just as he's cresting his finishing point, he forces Rick off of him, saliva dribbling down Rick's lips. He shivers, cock jumping, begging to be finished off. He bites his lip hard enough to draw his own cold, dead blood.
He's not done yet.
He has to make a conscious effort to not finish on Rick's pretty face when he looks up at him.
Rick, dazed from loss of breath, doesn't protest when he's pushed to the side.
"Take off your jeans, darlin'." he demands, reaching to his nightstand and yanking open a drawer. He fumbles around and grabs a bottle of lube, drawing himself up onto his knees.
Rick's jeans are on the floor beside Negan's. He's panting from the blowjob, mouth open temptingly, wiping the saliva from his chin. Negan takes in the sight of the bare man laid out next to him, momentarily forgetting whatever he was doing.
Holy fuck.
His skin is glistening with sweat, flushed chest rising and falling heavily in time with his pants. His torso is muscular, every curve and angular line a testament to his power. Old scars litter the surface of his skin in tantalizing lines, and Negan finds that they get him going. Who doesn't love a man with scars?
His neglected cock bounces in the air, the tip blushed, leaking slightly. Negan sucks his teeth at the image.
Rick goes red from the scrutiny. Cute.
Suddenly starved, he's situated between Rick's legs and gripping the meat of his thighs, running his hands up the sides of his body and tracing every scar. He's fucking beautiful. Every God damn bit of him.
Rick trembles from his touch and he returns the favor by sliding his hands up Negan's back and shoulders.
"I'm gonna fuck you, Rick." Negan says plainly, throaty voice in Rick's ear, tickling the hair around it. Rick hums in approval, heartbeat ever present in the back of Negan's mind, spurring him on.
He presses a chaste kiss to Rick's temple and leans back, applying a generous amount of lube to his fingers. Rick watches, cautious, vulnerable at Negan's disposal. Negan's heart clenches in his chest.
Negan gently applies pressure to Rick's entrance. Warmth encompasses his finger as he pushes in slowly, patiently. Rick squeezes the sheets beside him and sets his teeth, squirming.
Negan hovers above him, faces close, and he kisses the corner of Rick's lips with unprecedented gentleness. A small part of him chastises himself for being so intimate with a quick fuck like this, but something about the way Rick whines makes it hard not to feel a little soft.
Thankfully, Rick is too busy taking a finger up the ass to read into any of Negan's tender behavior.
"Relax, baby." Negan whispers against his mouth. Rick shudders at his words, obediently relaxing around Negan's finger. Steadily, Negan curls his finger, quivering with arousal at Rick's soft whimper.
Rick nods, which Negan takes as a signal to add another finger. He does, stretching the man below him at an aching pace.
His fangs are heavy in his mouth, his cravings for Rick's pierced flesh as urgent as ever. He forces himself to be patient, even though he's practically scorching with the desire to rut into Rick like a crazy animal.
Rick must see it written all over his face.
"Hurry up." is all he says, sliding down onto Negan's fingers, panting. He clenches around Negan eagerly, and he fixes him with a desperate look.
Negan hums, granting his request and slipping in a third. He picks up his pace now, pumping in time with Rick's movements. Rick's hips jerk upward, seeking friction pathetically, cock barely grazing Negan's stomach.
Negan's own cock is throbbing with anticipation, brushing against Rick's. He pulls his fingers out as Rick's movements become more hurried and desperate. A whine reverberates through his chest.
"Hah... fuck. Hurry up and fuck me, Negan." Rick growls, head tilted back into the pillows. Negan practically purrs.
"Gladly, darlin'."
He squeezes more lube into his palm, and Rick grips his thigh relentlessly. Negan moans shamelessly, cursing under his breath as he strokes himself from root to tip. He shudders and can feel Rick's eyes on him, hungry, wanting.
He doesn't keep him waiting.
He presses his tip to Rick's ass, his cock pulsing at the contact. He intends to go slow and give Rick time to adjust, but is interrupted with a sharp peak of pleasure as Rick wraps his legs around Negan's torso and forces him inside.
Both men cry out, holding the other with enough force to leave marks. The pure bliss of the warmth around his cock, of Rick clenching tightly around it, has Negan shaking like a leaf. His curses are swallowed up by Rick's mouth.
Roughly, he begins to thrust up into Rick, who is gasping out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, stretched wide for the man inside him. He bites down on Negan's shoulder to cope with the intensity, and Negan grabs his jaw and forces his head back down into the pillows, maintaining eye contact.
"I wanna watch.. wanna watch you while I fuck you." he huffs between groans, his hold on Rick's face iron-like. Rick nods, unable to speak, breathing hard and flushing a deep red.
They grind into each other wildly, Rick fucking himself onto Negan in time with his strokes. Negan clumsily takes Rick's neglected cock into his free hand once he has the composure to think, thumb swiping the tip. Rick's mouth hangs open with quick breaths, hips grinding into his palm.
He finds purchase on Negan's back, and he rips at the skin beneath his nails, enjoying the way Negan hisses in pain and squeezes his jaw tighter.
It's not pretty by any means.
It's harsh and desperate and a constant push and pull like opposite ends of a magnet trying to connect. Their sex is angry and frantic and passionate, each trying to get one over the other, trying to take more than the other.
Hands tug and squeeze and tear, teeth leave marks and bruises, and muscles strain.
Negan is rapidly approaching his orgasm, movements sloppy and disjointed. The only thing he can focus on is Rick's baby blues, rolling into his head with dilated pupils. His senses are overrided with every gasp of the man below him.
All he can feel is the heat of Rick wrapped around his cock, all he can hear are his breathless moans, all he can taste is his blood and skin, all he can smell is sex.
Rick isn't faring much better. In fact, he seems to be reaching his peak much faster than Negan.
"Fuck, Rick, I want you to cum for me, baby." Negan manages to gasp out. He strokes the cock in his fist, encouraging Rick with praises that make his dick throb in Negan's hand.
"Be good for me, Rick."
Rick's eyes widen a fraction before squeezing shut, brows furrowing and his head tilting backward, exposing the swollen marks on his throat. He clenches around Negan's cock and his muscles tense, nails clawing down Negan's back.
Negan's breath is labored. He thrusts up into Rick, pouring out borderline nonsensical praises as he does so.
"Shit, Negan--" he spills over Negan's fist, cum spurting over his stomach and managing to reach his chest. His cock pulses and the muscles in his stomach jump as he rides out his high, crying out.
Negan only lasts a few more seconds after that. The image of Rick coming undone is so immensely hot to him that he couldn't possibly last any longer.
His vision blots out, heat surging through his body like lightning, and he's suddenly biting down, hard, rich iron rushing into his mouth.
Holy fucking fuck fucking shit.
High doesn't even come close to describing the cloud nine Negan is on. Every muscle in his body is scalding, his brain hums in time with the pump of Rick's vein, his flesh vibrates with startling electricity. He doesn't even know his own God damned name. Euphoria is a burning hot bliss in the depths of his stomach, churning, begging him for more. He's a slave to himself, a slave to blood, a slave to Rick.
He doesn't feel it when Rick tears him off.
When he comes to, he's slumped on top of him with blood trickling down his chin, heaving. The heat of Rick's body and the rapid heartbeat in his chest reassures him that he didn't kill him during his frenzy.
He drunkenly props himself up to get a look at the man he's crushing and notices that Rick was--and still is-- stroking his back in soothing circles while he rode out his orgasm.
They look at each other through half-lidded eyes. Rick seems to hesitate for a moment, as if contemplating something, before briskly brushing his lips against Negan's. The timid contact is just as thrilling as the intense fucking, if you ask Negan.
Jesus, he didn't know Rick was such a romantic. He finds that he doesn't mind it, though.
He takes Rick's face in his hands, caressing the stubble, returning the tender gestures. Rick noticeably tenses up, and Negan almost stops, worried he might scare him off during the afterglow. But, to his relief, he relaxes into the touch again.
Reluctantly, Negan tears himself away from Rick to grab a couple of tissues. They're silent as he cleans them both up, Rick settling into the mattress, basking comfortably. He dabs at the sore bite wounds on Rick's chest, gentle, but Rick still hisses at the stinging.
Negan opts to put his boxers back on, as does Rick, and he shuffles to the bathroom to grab a first-aid kit.
When he comes back to his room, he finds Rick half asleep under the covers, eyelashes fluttering when he enters. The sight is so... domestic. Negan's throat feels tight, and he coughs it away.
"Get up, darlin', you don't want those getting infected." he warns, pulling the covers away, even though he wishes he could slide underneath them and hold Rick instead.
He must be tired out of his mind to be so soft.
Anyway, he can't let his favorite leader die on him because of a couple of bites. That would be an embarrassing way for Mr. Badass to go out, he thinks.
Rick huffs in annoyance but doesn't protest when he begins to disinfect the bites, evidently too tired to really care.
He just bears with it, like with most things.
Negan observes Rick, knowing this is a rare, vulnerable moment that he will probably never have with him again. He wants to cherish it, fleeting and sweet, hold it close to his chest.
He never knows if the next time they meet will end with the other dead or not.
He notices that Rick is doing much of the same as him, observant.
"What're you thinking?" he asks as he finishes patching him up. He stretches tiredly, leaning back onto the mattress and slithering under the covers. Rick purses his swollen lips, quiet for a long moment.
"I'm thinkimg about sleep." he answers, yawning, clearly dodging the actual question. Negan considers pressing it but ultimately decides to let it slide. He's too tired to do any prodding right now.
He opens an eye and waits to see if Rick is going to get up and leave, expectant.
But, surprisingly, after seemingly battling with himself for a tense minute or so, Rick settles back beneath the covers and rolls over.
Negan has to resist taunting him over it, knowing his big mouth will ruin this rare opportunity. He elects to draw him into his chest instead, cautious.
Rick's muscles tense up, but he doesn't move away. Instead, he presses himself into him, his heart skipping a beat. Negan hums with satisfaction into his curls, grinning, and Rick responds with a sigh.
Rick sleeps the full night for the first time since Negan shoved him up against that car.
Nothing will ever be the same.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
a/n: wow, that ended up being a lot longer than I expected... I just had so many things I wanted to address and get out into the open. I hope this didn't disappoint :)
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The hunger is insatiable. It is ceaseless. It burns like frostbite and coils around consciousness until one is driven mad.
"Negan?"
He's suddenly acutely aware of the silhouette hovering above him, the space between them suffocatingly close as his senses return.
He's panting, hand clutching his abdomen as crimson trickles down his fingers.
Fuck, this is bad.
His head spins and aches. Cold slowly seeps through his wound, and he finds that he craves the warmth of the blood before him. His canines burn with the taste of Rick's adrenaline coating his tongue, and he's finding it increasingly hard to breathe. Fuck.
"Damn it, Negan! You need to get up!" He grabs Negan's wrist, roughly pulling him up as they both stagger toward the exit. Behind them, the dead groans and stumbles after them, filling the enclosed space like a rotten flood.
"Shit.." Rick is cursing under his breath while Negan gathers his bearings. The sticky blood on his hand is enough to make his stomach twist.
He grips Lucille in his hands, ignoring the fire growing in his midsection, and swings, bashing the head of an incoming walker.
Foul, rotting blood splatters across Rick's chest from the impact. One arm is supporting Negan and the other is shoving away the dispatched walker. His jaw is tight, brows stitched together in focus as sweat trickles down his temple and sticks his curls to his skin. Faintly, Negan considers catching the droplet with his tongue..
His thoughts are rudely interrupted as a walker charges from some unknown hiding spot, jaw hanging open and snapping.
Negan is really beginning to regret leaving his companion unarmed as he swings again and again through the ache, vision fogged. It's not like he expected to be in this situation in the first place, but he should've known his luck only stretches so far.
Their desperate dash for the door leaves no room for cursing any longer. Both men are consumed in an urgent battle for survival, leaning on the other for support, locked in a dance that guards their backs. Negan is gasping for air by the time Rick manages to drag them outside, slamming the door shut behind them and cutting off the stench of corpses and mildew.
Nearby, straggling walkers jerk unnaturally toward their direction at the ruckus. Rick is bearing his weight against the metal doors, gritting his teeth from the thuds of hungry walkers on the other side.
Without hesitation, Negan grunts and forces himself to cover Rick from the incoming stragglers. Rick fumbles with a pole at his feet, trying to grab it without moving from his position, but it's hard when the sun is setting and the casted shadows are blocking his already sweat-filled vision.
"Damn it.." He's murmuring to himself, straining.
Negan isn't paying attention to his predicament, though. Rather, he's quite caught up in his own struggle against the growing horde of walkers trickling closer.
His shoulders burn, rotting flesh sloughing off the barbs of his bat at each hit. And God damn it, he feels starving. Even the foul blood was looking tempting at this point.
Curling his lip in disgust, he takes another walker down and whirls around to face Rick.
"We need to make a damn run for it." Negan says needlessly. Their openings are getting narrower by the second.
Rick finally manages to lock the door in place as Negan snatches his wrist. He doesn't argue with Negan, probably because he couldn't talk between gasps even if he wanted to.
Negan stays close to Rick, wielding Lucille like a shield as they dodge rubble and the dead. Each strike sends a sting of pain across the open gash on his stomach, crawling along the seams of his flesh in painful tingles. He grimaces, leaning onto Rick.
Rick is doing his damnedest to be useful, but is clearly irritated at his reliance on Negan's protection. He cuts his eyes at Negan more than once, as if to say, "this is your fault, asshole." Negan almost feels satisfaction at his rebelliousness, but it's short-lived as he is forced to--yet again--bash the brains of a walker in.
The men are back to back in a sort of dance for survival. Every second is an uphill battle, but somehow, they make it work. Negan bashes, bracing for support, and Rick kicks the walker backward. Their rhythm is smooth and efficient.
Negan can feel the flutter of Rick's pulse against him, can hear the way his heart thunders in his chest faster and faster, can taste the fear emanating off of him in waves... Despite his assistance keeping him balanced, he's almost a hindrance with how much he's distracting Negan.
He strains to maintain control over himself. The pain festering on his stomach is begging him to bite and find relief in the sweet blood pumping through Rick's ever-so-tempting jugular. The way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his muscles tense against his own..
Focus.
He swallows hard, forcing the thoughts away. It's been a long time since he's had to control the darker parts of himself so fiercely. It's easier to let it get what it wants, and it makes him stronger. Or so, that's what he's convinced himself.
He wonders what she would think of him now. Struggling against his primitive instincts like an animal, like a soulless monster. In the recesses of his mind, he sees his own reflection staring back at him through her glassy, dead eyes.
Colliding with the passenger door forces him back into the situation at hand. He's scrambling to grab the door handle, kicking the dead away and flinging himself into the seat. He slams the door shut with a sickening crunch, blood splattering across his face.
Rick had already jumped the hood and was in the front seat, shoving a walker away by the chest and shutting the door. Without hesitation, he starts the car and floors the gas.
Negan slumps back into his seat, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Rick's knuckles are white on the wheel as he maneuvers away from the horde, skidding the car around and onto the road. The rapid lurches of the vehicle has Negan groaning and gripping the console, gritting his teeth.
The horde disappears into the smog behind them, a mere smudge in the distance. Only when not a single bit of the dead could be seen did Rick finally let up on the speed to conserve gas.
A bloated silence fills the space between them.
Not much to talk about after you almost had your ass handed to you, Negan supposes.
Rick opens his mouth and closes it again, as if thinking better of whatever he was about to say.
Well, there goes the idea of peace and quiet. Not like Negan is much for tranquility, though.
Negan already has an inkling of what's going on in his head and decides to beat him to the punch, a lazy smile playing across his lips. He stares at the stern line between Rick's brows.
"Gonna complain about not havin' your pistol, sheriff?" His voice is a bit too strained for his liking, and he frowns. The comedown is making it harder to act as blasé as usual.
And besides, he should be healed by now. Right?
Reluctantly, he spares a look at the dark spot on his stomach and confirms it; only a small portion is scarred. The rest is still a mess of sticky, clotted blood and dirt. He mentally curses himself for not feeding today.
He unconciously follows the achingly slow movements of Rick's chest, his heartbeat steady and strong, a sharp contrast to it's panicked thumping earlier. He isn't sure which he likes better. He runs a tongue across his lower lip.
"We almost died." Rick finally says, disrupting his train of thought. He's evidently trying to hold back a tirade. His eyes are fixed ahead of him, not sparing Negan a glance, and his jaw visibly ticks.
Negan lets out a long sigh, massaging his temples.
On one hand, he knows that keeping Rick unarmed was stupid. Especially in unknown territory.
But on the other hand, he didn't want to admit he was wrong. And, to be fair, before they were separated from his other two men, Rick had no reason to be armed.
Finally, he is in no place to be making any kind of demand. Negan is the boss, after all.
He tries to speak. He opens his mouth, inhales, and...
Nothing.
Suddenly, his vision is blotting out at the edges and everything is spinning. He chokes down the rising nausea and curses under his breath. This is bad.
"Pull over." He manages to gasp out, leaning on the cardoor. Something in his expression must've given away the urgent nature of the situation, because Rick didn't hesitate before obeying.
If Negan wasn't fighting to keep himself under control, he would've felt a twinge of satisfaction at that fact.
"I'll get the first aid." Rick, as brief as ever, is already outside, opening the backdoor and rummaging through the duffelbag.
Negan shakes his head and splutters. He has no fucking idea how he's going to fix this.
"Rick."
Rick doesn't respond, instead appearing at the passenger door. Negan catches his eye flitting to Lucille, as if considering grabbing her, and despite the circumstances, he smirks.
He fucking loves the way Rick wants him dead. It lights a fire under his ass, for sure. But, of course, Rick wouldn't do it. Because he needs Negan.
Rick knows it, too, because he looks away just as quickly as he thought of it. As long as Negan has the upper hand in their deal.
It's almost a shame when he doesn't rise to the moment. Not like he would've survived long, anyway. But it still would've been fun. He sighs in disappointment.
Rick leans forward with gauze in hand, unaware of how careless hes truly being, and Negan stops him by catching his wrist.
Bad idea, once again, because now he can feel Rick's pulse speed up beneath his fingertips. He bites back the growing sense of urgency in his throat.
"Rick, that's not gonna do anything." He admits, dropping Rick's wrist (which takes an enormous amount of self control, thank you very fuckin' much).
"What are you talkin' about? We need to get this patched up before it gets worse." Rick's gaze is steely and annoyed.
"Just get back in the car and drive. I'll catch up." Negan orders, hoisting himself out of the seat with a grimace. The proximity with Rick is enough to make his mouth water. He needs to go, now.
"What the hell? I'm not gonna leave you here while you're bleedin' out. You'll die." Rick insists, stepping in front of Negan to block his way. Negan has to take a steadying breath before speaking again. Heat is pooling in his stomach and every bit of his senses are zeroing in on Rick. His eyes, his hair, his skin, his mouth, his heart.
"Now is not the fucking time to start questioning me." His voice is rising with irritation at Rick's blatant disobedience. And his teeth are feeling heavier and heavier every moment.
He doesn't know why he's protecting Rick like this. It's really stupid. Maybe I'm a good guy, after all. He almost scoffs at the thought.
To be honest, he isn't thinking straight. It's as simple as the fact that he doesn't want to kill Rick right now. But at the same time, he's writing his death certificate by telling the only source of blood in miles to leave.
Battling with himself, he begins weighing his options. He's on a ticking time bomb right now, muscles taut, head spinning, poised for attack. He opens his mouth to speak when Rick interrupts him.
"Your teeth..." He trails off. He doesn't step back, but a faint look of alarm is making it's way on his face. And his heartbeat is increasing steadily, much to Negan's delight and horror. The rhythm thuds against his subconscious over and over again, enticing in it's predictability. Negan has to tear himself from the sensations like ripping off a bandaid before he can form a coherent response.
"Well, in a world where the dead come dancing back to fuckin' life, is it really that surprising that there's other strains of the same god damned curse?" Negan's voice is shakier, deeper, almost bestial in nature. He's involuntarily sizing Rick up like a serpent about to swallow it's prey whole, attuned to his every move.
God damn it, he feels insane. The air is crackling with energy, with fire. He wants to bite. He looks back at Rick again, risking a step closer. Rick doesn't move.
He must sound crazy. But the proof is right in front of his pretty face in the shape of two razor-sharp fangs protruding from his gums.
"What.. do you need." Rick says after a tense moment. He looks cautious, as if he's dealing with a wild grizzly bear. He keeps his eyes on Negan's, hazel on blue.
"I need blood." He forces out, trying not to breathe in, trying not to smell the warmth of life that Rick so freely exudes. He licks his canines languidly. This is a bad idea, but he can't fucking bring himself to move.
"Okay. Okay.." Again, his eyes flit briefly to Lucille and then back to Negan.
He's watching Negan closely, nodding to himself, taking the situation in stride. It's hard to be skeptical about monsters when the dead can come back to life.
"You need to bite me."
"I can't."
"But you have to, don't you?"
Negan doesn't answer. Rick is unwavering and stoic, but his pulse betrays his growing discomfort.
Thump, thump-thump..
"This is dangerous." Negan says, watching his curls catch in the breeze and his skin glisten temptingly beneath the weak sun rays. It's almost devastating how pretty he is.
"Will you kill me?" Rick asks, biting his cheek, the only visible sign of his nerves. He hasn't moved an inch.
"I don't want to." Negan replies, and he has to take a moment to ground himself by thinking of anything but Rick.
He wants to think rationally.
The rational thing to do is to kill Rick and drain him of life so he can be on his merry way like usual. But Negan hasn't always been the most rational, after all.
"Bite me." Rick breathes the words with a startling finality. His face flushes with red, his heartbeat quickening like a hummingbird, his breath stuttering slightly. His stern expression doesn't change, dignified despite the situation, composed even when tripped up.
It's that patient, freezing ice that gets Negan going. The fact that Rick always seems like he has all the time in the world to get what he needs. The antithesis to Negan's fiery impulsivity.
Fuck, Negan couldn't say no. He couldn't deny himself this and be couldn't waste this opportunity.
He'd be lying if he said he never fantasized about it before.
He switches their positions and pushes Rick into the car, bearing his weight against it as he clutches Rick closer to him. He isn't thinking anymore, not really.
It's all just instincts at this point. Something he's done his entire undead life. But, distantly, he relishes the heat of Rick's skin on his, the way he gasps but doesn't resist, the way he clutches Negan just as tightly.
Negan has a fist of Rick's hair in his gloved hand, tugging his sweet head back roughly. He trails his tongue down from beneath Rick's ear to the base of his neck, right where his shoulder begins. His canines catch skin on the way down, causing Rick's skin to burst into delicious goosebumps.
A more sober part of him wants to kiss the area just before he bites. To make Rick tremble from his tender touch.
He decides against the impulse, confused at the strange idea. Jesus, there's no need to act all soft about this.
He bites down into the soft flesh. At this point he doesn't even notice Rick groaning and pressing against him, panting. All he can feel and see and taste is blood.
The sharp, intoxicating remnants of adrenaline flood his mouth, pumping out from the vein. Crimson iron stings his tastebuds divinely. He almost chokes on it. The taste is rich and complex and beautiful, much like Rick himself.
He laps at the edges of the wound, holding Rick in place, heaving, clutching onto him like a lifeline.
Warmth thrums beneath his skin, slowly building heat in his chest and stomach. Nothing rivals the euphoria of human blood.
His muscles relax and tense, regaining energy and strength. His focus sharpens to a pinpoint, senses cast outwards and in all at once. Thrills trickle down his spine in lazy tingles.
Rick's hands are pushing at his shoulders frantically. He doesn't notice. Everything encompassed by blood and blood only.
"Negan.. stop, stop!" Rick sounds tired and weak. His pulse is slower against Negans lips. He can't find it in himself to care. He doesn't even know why he cared in the first place when Rick tastes so good.
He tightens his grip on his struggling prey, latched on, biting down harder. Rick cries out, fighting more fiercely now.
The fear and adrenaline make him much more desirable. And the struggle is enough to drive him wild.
"Negan!" He grabs Negans jaw with unprecedented force, wrenching him away even as Negan grips him and hisses.
As soon as his fangs slip from the flesh, lucidity begins setting in. He feels drunk, unstable. Warm. Guilty. He rubs his jaw where Rick grabbed him.
Rick is panting, pressing down on the slick bite.
Negan's rests his head on the cool metal of the car behind Rick to gain balance and composure. His fingers are still laced in Rick's clothes and hair. He swallows hard, crimson dribbling down his chin. Neither speak.
"Are.. you alright?" Negan finally asks, softly twisting a stray curl with his index finger. Rick slumps against Negan, looking pale.
"'M alright.." He responds, quiet.
Negan tenses at the sensation of fingers gliding down his stomach. His muscles jump beneath Ricks fingers. Negan looks down, entranced, not daring to break the fragile moment. Rick's touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
He slides them under the hem of his stained shirt and lifts. Negans breath hitches in his throat.
All that remains of the gash is a raised, ugly scar. It's jagged but smooth to the touch. Rick traces it, mouth hanging open a little as if he can't believe his eyes.
Negan recovers from the surprise and shoots him a cocky smirk smeared with blood.
"Fuckin' cool, right?" He raises his eyebrows, grin lengthening, canines flashing.
Rick doesn't reply. Instead, he pushes Negan off of him and puts some distance between them. Negan is surprised he didn't do that sooner.
Not that he's complaining.
Rick looks a little unsteady on his feet, and a prickle of remorse stings his throat. He coughs a little, feeling slightly awkward.
He doesn't want to think any further into the situation than he already has. His mind keeps flashing blatantly inappropriate images of Rick pressed up against him, at his mercy, comically submissive.
He can never tell the if something is blood lust or just plain old lust. He feels weirdly vulnerable.
He chooses not to think on it and instead stretches luxuriously, not offering Rick any assistance. He's been too soft on him anyways. He catches Rick out of the corner of his eye following Negans movements carefully, blushing when Negan notices.
"What, scared I'm gonna getcha? Don't look so damn disturbed, Rick, you look like you saw a ghost!" His signature grin is back in place like it was never gone. Like the moment they had never happened. Negan almost mourns it. Almost.
Rick picks up on his nonchalance and meets it with his own stoicism, much to Negans disappointment. He grimaces as Negan slaps him on the back good naturedly and tosses him the discarded gauze.
"I'll drive us. Catch yourself a nap, cowboy." He winks at Rick, savoring his dour expression, and hops in the drivers seat.
He eyes Rick as sidles into the passenger seat and moves to press the gauze to his shoulder. To the bite.
To his bite.
He sucks his teeth at the vivid memory of his blood on his tongue. Of Rick Grimes' blood on his tongue. The aftertaste lingers, and he finds that he doesn't mind.
Hell, he should bleed him out into a freezer and make some Rick Grimes popsicles. Perfect as shit for hot summer days.
He doesn't bother to hide his staring as Rick uncomfortably prods the wound. He wonders, idly, if it'll leave a scar. He bets it will.
He's positively delighted at the idea. He only feels more delighted when he watches the same thought dawn on Rick as well. His face flushes and he grunts, taping the gauze down and rolling his shoulder.
"Ready to roll?" Negan chirps.
"Let's just go." He huffs.
▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎
A/N: This is a pretty short one, but don't worry! This is only part 1. I realized halfway through writing this that I had too many ideas to fit into a single oneshot unless I wanted it to be egregiously long. So, I'm going to split it into 2 parts. And I also wanted to write the next part in Rick's POV.
He was already at his wits end, and it had only been... what, a few minutes? The glare of the relentless snow didn't make it easy to keep track of time, anyway. In fact, the situation as a whole was actively working against his psyche, grinding against it until he couldn't tell left from right or up from down, much less how much time had passed.
"What's with that sour face, Rick? Looks like you've caught a whiff something real nasty!" The low whistle is what finally narrowed Rick's focus back to a point.
That point, of course, being the only damned thing that was occupying the dull space he had found himself trapped in.
Negan.
Eyebrows raised, his canines flashing as he rested his stupid bat by his side. A menacing gleam of barbs adorned its surface, matching the sadistic glee in its owners gaze. Razor sharp.
Rick swallowed dryly, unamused as he began pacing the confined space for the hundredth time, pointedly staying silent and averting his eyes. An annoyed sigh and a groan followed as Negan collapsed onto the tattered couch behind them.
"Jee-sus christ, Rick, you're burning a god damned hole in the ground with that pacing. Sit the fuck down." Negan kicked his boots up onto the derelict coffee table, and Rick could practically feel his gaze boring into his profile.
Fury, helplessness, and defeat threatened to swallow Rick whole. The cold air felt suffocating, the walls felt too thin but too all-encompassing simultaneously, surrounding him. The situation couldn't be more dire, and pure agitation was clawing it's way up his chest with reckless abandon at Negan's devil-may-care attitude.
"I won't say it again, Rick." Irritation laced his words. Rick's jaw ticked at his tone; however, this wasn't a hill he wanted to die on. Reluctantly, he sat next to the leather clad man, body stiff and muscles taut.
"Good," was all Negan said, his signature grin clear in his voice once more. Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, mouth dry, mind racing as he grappled with the situation.
He needed to get out of here. He needed to get back to Alexandria and see his children. See his people. The snowstorm hit fast and hard, unexpected with its ruthlessness, and despite his own dire circumstance, he could only focus on Alexandria.
Mercifully, Negan was quiet. But not quite relenting on being a bother, clearly, as Rick could still see him in his peripherals with a grin on his face, staring directly at him.
He assessed his immediate surroundings once again, ignoring the heat of the other man's attention.
They found themselves in a small, brick shack at the end of a cul-de-sac. Perhaps a man cave before the world went to shit. It was furnished with a couch, a coffee table, a smashed TV and some scattered tools on the floor. An old rug was beneath their feet on a rotting wood floor, and a sleeping bag was rolled up and stacked in a corner.
The saving grace of this place was the wood burner with a couple of old logs in it. Enough for a fire--even if it wouldn't last for long.
What really riled Rick up about this whole thing, though, was the reason they were there in the first place. Look no further than the asshole situated comfortably next to him right at that moment, acting as if nothing in the world was wrong.
He would laugh at the audacity if he wasn't so angry.
Negan had strolled up to Alexandria that very morning with his band of thugs at his beck and call, whistling a jaunty tune as he called for Rick. It wasn't time for a pick up. No, Negan was there on his own accord, spouting some nonsense about needing to have "man-to-man time" and the importance of "building a bond".
In other words, he wanted to force Rick to scavenge for resources with the Saviors when Alexandria was already stretched thin. It was a sick power play, a punishment for coming up short on the prior pickup, and Rick knew it.
Well, look where it got them. Separated from the other Saviors during a run in with the dead, and trapped together when the weather decided to turn on a dime.
When the burning on his cheek didn't let up, he tightened his fists and turned to meet Negan's eyes. Rick's mouth drew into a thin line.
For Negan's part, he looked like a cat that got the cream, positively pleased as Rick turned to face him.
"Well, look who's here after all that manly fucking brooding," he said, tongue sliding between his teeth, "and damn, I can't ever get sick of those angry fucking eyes. God, I would be shaking in my boots with fear if the cold wasn't already doin' me in."
"Are you done yet?" Rick cut him off between clenched teeth. The suffocating fear of the danger they were in was enough to make him bold.
But Negan just could not have that.
Grin turning strained, he suddenly lunged forward with unforseen speed and gripped Rick's jaw with bruising force. His fingertips bore into the soft flesh of Rick's cheeks, his face curled into a snarl, and his breathing steadily grew heavier.
"Now, Rick, just 'cause it's only you and me in this damn shit shack doesn't give you the god damn fucking right to talk to me with that god damn fucking tone." Rick's pulse fluttered weakly against the grip, his eyes widening with alarm as he instinctively grabbed Negan's wrist. The space between them felt too constricting and Negan felt way. Too. Close.
Blood rushed through his ears.
Negan scanned his expression and waited, breath fanning hotly across his face. And Rick couldn't breathe beneath it.
"...I-Im sorry," he forced out, "Negan."
He couldn't afford to be foolish. Not when his people waited back home. Not when Carl and Judith waited. He fought to grasp his self-control, reigning in the storm thundering in his veins. He met Negan's eyes with a steely ferocity.
He reminded himself that he was at the disadvantage here; not only was he unarmed, but there was virtually no benefit to killing Negan right now even if he was. The Saviors were just waiting for their moment to punish, sniffing for blood in the water. And if he returned alone with the weapons on Negan's belt, Alexandria would have hell to pay.
Something in his expression must have satisfied Negan, because he released Rick--none too gently--with a sigh. Rick rubbed at the place where Negan had dug his fingertips and suppressed a grimace.
"Well, Ricky-boy, it looks like it's just us while we wait out this shit storm." he chuckled with unrestrained mirth, previous fury evaporated in an instant. The flips in mood were enough to give a guy whiplash. A long moment of silence followed.
"Lighter?" Rick finally said with a clipped tone. The rays of sunlight filtering through the windows were weakening at an uncomfortable pace. A shudder ran down his spine at the implications.
The distance between them didn't feel far enough, so Rick stood up to approach the wood burner. Negan followed his movements carefully, like a cat stalking its prey, his grin lengthening.
"You know, darlin', in case the fire thing doesn't work out..." he lets the words linger for a moment before continuing, letting Rick choke in the silence, "I know lots of ways to get warm that'll just tickle your damn balls." Negan winked at him and Rick let the innuendo roll off his back with annoyance, a disgusted expression on his face.
"Lighter?" He reiterated, presenting a palm in front of Negan's face. Negan scoffed.
"Mmm.. it's in my pocket. Go ahead and get it, Rick, I'm sure you don't need my help." If it was even possible, he managed to look even more smug than before. Rick balked.
Leave it to Negan to make such an awful situation worse. Resentment bubbled beneath the surface of his skin and Rick knew that Negan could see it, and was prodding it on purpose just to see how far he could push it.
He wanted to make him snap, just to force him right back into obedience. Every word he said, every movement and action-- they were specifically designed to torment Rick.
"This is ridiculous, Negan. Just give me the lighter." He kept his stance firm, palm out, expectant. He wondered if this would be the hill he was willing to die on, and honestly, it might have been. There was no way he was going to go digging around in Negan's pockets.
Negan rolled his eyes, shifting into a more comfortable position as he sank back in the couch.
"You're too fuckin' serious, Rick, that's your damn problem. You always look like I pissed in your fucking cornflakes. Jesus." He grabbed the lighter from his pocket and pushed it into his palm, lingering there too long for comfort.
Flushing angrily, Rick turned away and got to work on the fire.
The fire burned at a steady pace as the sun drifted below the tree line. A warm glow saturated the dull surroundings in orange and red.
Anxiously, Rick was once again looking outside the window, as if gazing through the frosted glass panes would present a solution. Wind whistled through unseen cracks in the walls, and the cold was pressing more urgently upon the two men huddled in the shack.
Negan had taken to snoozing on the couch, but even he was stirring with hidden anxiety and clearly struggling to sleep through the biting cold.
Rick struggled to pull away from the freezing windows, but he soon succumbed to his own instincts and was drawn to the fire. Despite the warm layers he donned, it didn't feel like enough. A hollow feeling of dread was carving it's way through his stomach, leaving him feeling desolate as he sat in front of the burner.
He found himself desperately missing the warmth of his bed in Alexandria, the thick comforter surrounding him and the heat of Michonne by his side. He shivered at the thought.
He must've looked like a kicked dog. Hell, he felt like one. Locked in a shack with his mortal enemy and the weapon used to kill his friends. It was enough to make him feel ill. Negan's overpowering presence was a constant in the back of his mind. Even when he was fortunate enough to be withheld from his rambling, he wasn't fortunate enough to forget he was there.
No matter the distance, trapped with him or not, he could never forget him. Weary at the idea, he leaned back onto his palms.
"What're you thinkin' about, Rick?"
Rick jerked forward with a start, almost hitting his head on the burner as Negan appeared behind him like some kind of sinister spirit. But instead of the freezing cold of a demonic presence, Negan's presence was hot and encompassing and right fucking behind him and almost touching his back.
His mind stumbled ridiculously as he froze in place.
"Wow, did I scare ya? You about seared your pretty face off in that damn furnace. Whew." Negan leaned impossibly closer. Not any closer than he had ever been. Not crossing anything he hadn't before. But the warmth of his breath ghosting over his ear caused Rick's breath to hitch.
Rick felt disjointed and caught off guard. The freezing cold was almost held at bay by Negan and he couldn't find it in himself to draw away like he usually did. He reasoned that he had no choice anyway-- he was basically trapped against the furnace and Negan, and unless he wanted to burn his face off he couldn't move away.
Negan hummed behind him, chest rumbling with the sound. Rick was as taut as a bowstring from the proximity.
"You're like talking to a brick wall. Not only are you hogging all the fuckin' warmth, you aren't even a good conversation. I'm bored out of my god damn mind!" If Negan recognized that Rick hadn't moved, he didn't acknowledge it. Something told him Negan probably didn't want him to move away because he was too cold, but was too prideful to admit it.
He felt a little smug at the idea. In the recesses of his mind, the parts of him that weren't completely dominated by Negan were screaming at him to grab his face and shove it into the fire. It was so easy, so fucking easy, and Rick felt his fingers tremble with temptation.
"It's fuckin' cold, Rick." Negan's hands ghosted over Rick's waist and his voice dropped lower. His voice sounded questioning, shivering with the cold, and Rick's breathing was strangely labored. He bit the inside of his cheek so hard that blood spilled over his tongue with a metallic sting. All of his previous thoughts felt distant and distinguished.
He was cold. Freezing. The fire was warm, but it just wasn't warm enough. His mind was already malfunctioning with exhaustion and anxiety. He couldn't trust his voice. The smell of leather and blood and smoke--of Negan--was almost nauseating with its intensity and he was suddenly so, so aware of his subtle leaning backward.
His throat clicked with anticipation as Negan's breath grew heavier and he knew--just fucking knew--that they were both holding out in some kind of mental battle. And hell, if he didn't feel like he was losing just like in every fucking dick swinging competition with Negan.
"Negan." His voice was quiet. Steady. He couldn't tell if it was a warning or a plea.
A plea for what?
He shuddered, and Negan's breath stuttered like he was too afraid to move. The sore spots on Rick's jaw that Negan imprinted onto him were beginning to burn.
"Jesus-motherfucking-christ, Rick, you can't talk to me like that." Negan finally responded, voice borderline strained. A long moment of thick silence filled with the sounds of breathing and fire passed.
Rick felt sick. His skin tingled with something strange at the sound of Negan's breathless voice. He wanted to believe it was disgust, and maybe part of it was, but a sicker part of him was all too aware.
Not only was Negan.. well, not only was Negan, Negan, but he was also a man. And these- these feelings were frighteningly similar to feelings he had only ever experienced towards women. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity. He was going insane.
Negan hadn't moved an inch, emanating delicious and tempting warmth that smothered Rick's inhibitions.
"It's cold." Rick felt like he was surrendering some invisible battle between them as soon as the words left his mouth. The moment he said them, Negan's hands were on his waist in a way they never had been before.
Sure, Negan had dragged him around town with an arm slung on his shoulders in some kind of humiliation ritual hundreds of times. He had also laid the innuendo on thick a myriad of times to Rick with a shit eating grin on his face.
But this was startlingly different.
His hands were eager and ruthless and trembling. It was enough to make Rick hold his breath as blood rushed to his face.
Negan gripped his ribcage without any hesitation and pulled him back onto him. Into the jaws of the waiting beast. A surprised noise from Rick, but no resistance. His chest was flush against Rick's back, muscle on muscle, the heat almost unbearable.
Negan's nose traced the shell of his ear, his lips dangerously close to his jaw where his fingertips had once gripped with fury.
"This isn't right." He said.
"Even if you're fucking freezing to death?" He replied, quick and heated.
Rick struggled to think straight. His skin felt too hot and constricting but too cold and freezing and not tight enough and Negan didn't feel close enough.
"It's your fault, Negan." His voice had no bite to it. He was panicked at his desires and the way he was pressing back into Negan's grip and he just wanted to blame it on him because it was all his fault.
Negan stiffened almost imperceptibly and Rick braced himself for the anger, almost hoping for it just to break the tension. To snap him out of it all. But Negan just laughed that stupid fucking laugh, low into his ear.
"Turn around, Rick. I wanna see those baby fuckin' blues and I wanna see them right fuckin' now." He demanded. He sounded hoarse as he trailed his fingers achingly slow down Rick's sides, a trail of fire in their wake.
He wished he could say he fought, but he would be lying. A thrill ran down his back and straight to his stomach at the command. He steeled himself and turned around in his grip even though he knew it was a horrible idea. Hazel met blue.
Negan looked serious, dizzyingly so. His brows were drawn together in focus, jaw tight, fingers antsy. The heady feeling of arousal was enough to make Rick faint. He strained against his jeans, and he finally allowed himself to acknowledge the way Negan's hard length was pressing against him. He didn't know who moved first.
Teeth and tongue and lips were clashing hungrily against one another in seconds.
Reckless and stupid but really, really good.
Rick's head spun. He gripped the front of Negan's shirt with one hand and he tangled his hair with the other. Negan grinned into the kiss, allowing Rick to push him to the floor as his hands guided Rick's hips into his own. Rick gasped into his mouth and Negan forced his tongue into the opening. They both groaned at the contact.
Rick bit down on Negan's bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, his stomach fluttering with satisfaction as the tangy copper flooded his tongue. Negan grunted in surprise, his grip bruising as he changed their positions and blanketed the smaller man beneath him.
He was panting as he withdrew, a string of red saliva connecting them as he looked down into Rick's blown out pupils and flushed cheeks. "Fuck, you little asshole." His tongue ran heatedly along the split on his swollen lips. "You like to bite? You like it rough? Fuck, Rick."
He practically purred Rick's name, gaze dark with lust as his lashes fluttered and he took in the sight before him.
Rick couldn't take the scrutiny. He couldn't stand any pauses to think about what he was doing right now. He just wanted to be warm.
He reached up to grab Negan's face gracelessly, but he intercepted Rick's wrist midway. He pinned it to the ground above his head, hard.
"Jesus, baby, I know you're eager, but you gotta breathe." His tone was borderline mocking as a self-satisfied smirk played on his lips at the helpless Rick beneath him.
"Negan, just shut up and- and get this over with." Rick finally growled the words out, glaring daggers at Negan. The warm glow of the fire licked at the contours of Negan's jaw and cheekbones, highlighting the painfully handsome visage before him and he felt so god damn strange noticing it.
"No, Rick, that's not how this is gonna go, baby. No. I don't wanna get anything "over with" or whatever the fucking hell. I want you to want this just as fuckin' bad as I do." He paused, leaning forward to the other mans throat, lips brushing against his Adam's apple. He met no resistance.
"And you're gonna tell me you want it." His knee slid up between Rick's thighs, applying the barest amount of pressure, causing Rick to squirm.
"I.. I shouldn't- shouldn't be doin' this." Despite his words, he snaked his free hand to the other mans thigh, gripping it hard.
"Tell me what you want, Rick. You're drivin' me up the fuckin' walls right now." As if to emphasize his point, he grabbed the hand at his thigh and guided it to the rock hard erection he was sporting through his jeans.
Rick didn't reply, voice caught in his throat as his fingers twitched against Negan's dick. His exhale was stuttered, any reply swallowed up by Negan's lips on his jaw.
"Answer me, darlin'." Negan spoke against his skin, teeth tracing the sensitive flesh. Rick tilted his head back, curls fanning around him. "Use your damn words with that pretty southern drawl and fucking answer me."
"Hah.. just, please don't stop." He paused, adding, "And stop talking." Rick sounded firm and steady, surprising himself.
He wanted Negan to shut his mouth so he could maybe pretend this was absolutely anyone else, but fat chance that would happen with how much Negan loved the sound of his own voice.
Negan hummed in surprise and backed away from his light kisses on Rick's throat. Rick almost whined at the loss of contact before he met Negan's gaze.
"I would, Rick, really, I would. But you just get harder and" he applied more pressure with his knee, and Rick groaned deep in his chest, "fuckin' harder every damn time I speak. You like my voice, darlin'? You're practically creaming your damn jeans from it."
He smiled ear to ear, eyes shamelessly undressing Rick as he seductively purred every word. And, to his horror, Rick discovered that Negan wasn't lying.
He felt shame burning the tips of his ears and pool in his stomach, repulsed at himself from the realization. Every attempt to replace the domineering man with Michonne was pitifully distinguished within seconds, and a darker side of him knew that that was exactly what he wanted.
His thoughts were halted by Negan's lips on his own again, his pinned wrist released as Negan's hands dipped below the hem of his shirt and ran along the warm expanse of skin underneath. Negan moaned in satisfaction at the sensation of Rick involuntarily bucking his hips upward into Negan's.
"I'd strip every last fuckin' bit of clothes off of you if it wasn't colder than a snowman's dick right now." He growled as he punctuated his words by pinching Rick's hard nipple, rolling it between leather gloved fingers.
Rick couldn't answer, too busy writhing at the sensation of Negans teeth on his collarbone and fingers on his chest, a sharp gasp the only acknowledgement. His own hands roamed beneath the shirt of the man above him, over every groove of muscle and every curve.
It was so distinctly different from the soft curves of a woman. Negan was sharper, hairier, and every angle seemed to want to cut his fingers. He found that he liked it, even though it was so different.
He liked the way Negan's beard scratched against his own, the way his voice rumbled in his chest, the way light caught every angular feature on his face and the way his strength rivaled his own.
He gritted his teeth as Negan's deft fingers trailed away from his nipples and down his abdomen, tracing the V that dipped below his waistband. Rick was panting hard, chest rising and falling heavily from the teasing.
He didn't stop to think, instead succumbing to his desires as he grabbed Negan's face and kissed him. Negan groaned, teasing the skin beneath his waistband, bracing himself with one hand next to Rick's face.
He swiped his tongue across Rick's lips, tasting, humming as he did so. He nipped at the swollen flesh, and he pulled away from his teasing at the waist to grab Rick's jaw sharply. Negan pushed Rick's head back, breaking the kiss. Then, he forced a leather finger into his mouth.
Rick choked back his surprise at the gesture, eyes fluttering open. Negan ran the tip of his finger across each tooth, achingly slow. Rick shuddered, grinding up against the knee at his crotch.
"There you go, that's it." He coaxed with a faux gentle tone, his movements betraying his desperation as he pushed the finger deeper into Rick's mouth. Rick complied, taking it in his mouth and swirling his tongue around the leather. It tasted like Negan.
"You're doing so fucking good for me, Rick." Negan trembled at the unflinching eye contact, panting. The praise was enough to make Rick weak in ways he didnt want to unpack.
He used his other hand to finally begin unbuckling Rick's belt. Rick strained, exhaling sharply as Negan pulled his finger out of his needy mouth and gripped his jaw, pushing his head back into the floor again. The aftertaste of leather stung his tongue.
His nerves felt alight with sickening heat, undeniable thrills pooling in his stomach at the forceful movements of Negan. Had he always just wanted someone to put him in his place? Make him forget his own name with white hot pleasure and lust? Praise him and degrade him all at once?
He felt so wrong. A part of him knew Negan had won again, a sick game he was going to hold over his head. A secret that only they shared. The hatred he felt for the man was hard to distinguish from the burning lust thrumming through his veins. It heightened every touch, every groan, every bite and every movement. Something about it being wrong only made it feel hotter.
When Negan managed to yank the belt off and pull the waistband down just enough to expose him, he wolf whistled low and long.
"Well lookie here, cowboy. You been holding out on ol' Negan?" Rick struggled to hold eye contact, embarrassed at Negan's thorough scan of his crotch, twitching with need he didn't want to voice.
"Fuck. You have no fucking idea how long I've been waiting for this, baby. Its better than I ever could have fuckin' dreamed." The once unbearable pet names were now lighting a new fire in Rick. He trembled, fingers twitching with need.
"Negan." He panted, and Negan's eyes snapped to his own, burning. The intensity was hard to breathe under.
"Keep saying my name like that, Rick, and I promise to work you nice and good until you can't fuckin' think straight." Rick's throat clicked at his words, and he found that he really, really wanted that.
"What's takin' you so long?" He challenged, jaw aching at Negan's relentless hold. Negan chuckled, tongue running slowly across his bottom lip as he scanned Rick's body at an aching pace.
He released his face, and Rick's skin tingled. He couldn't get enough air, every breath filled with Negans heat. He swallowed hard, following Negan's movements.
He unbuckled his own belt, whistling along the way, an act of nonchalance that contrasted strikingly with the obvious boner straining his jeans. Rick rolled his eyes and squeezed Negan's thighs, secretly enjoying the muscles rippling under his fingers as he waited.
He couldn't get over the ordeal even as he actively engaged in it. Thinking with your dick is always sure to put you in shitty situations that you regret in the morning. He just couldn't muster up the strength to care. It had already gone this far, he was already going to regret what happened, so he might as well get something from it.
Negan didn't keep him waiting long. He exposed himself without flinching, his dick twitching and he groaned in satisfaction. Rick couldn't help but feel annoyed at the self-assured look on his face, so sure about how good he looked. And he had every right to be so sure. Because the sight of his curved, intact, thick length was enough to provoke a whine deep in Rick's chest.
The tip was flushed pink and swollen, and Negan didn't deny himself any attention. With slow, languid strokes, he worked himself from root to tip, tilting his head back and moaning breathily. Rick could have sworn he heard his own name on Negan's breath as he did so.
Rick fought to keep his hands still, but couldn't stand it as he watched Negan pleasure himself so shamelessly above him. He spat in his own hand and caught Negan's attention as he squeezed himself.
"Hah.. f-fuck.." He had always been a vocal lover, but he tried desperately to tone it down around Negan. He didn't need to stroke his already inflamed ego anymore than he already had. His eyes rolled back as he stroked himself, feeling Negan watching him like a hawk. He pressed his free hand against his mouth to muffle the pathetic sounds he was making.
He felt rather than saw Negan lean forward to grab his hand and yank it away from his mouth, choosing to swallow the noises with his own lips. Between heated kisses, he wrapped his hand around Rick's busy hand and squeezed deliciously.
"You're so fucking hot fucking into your fist like this for me, baby. I can tell you've wanted this just as much as I have. Fuck, Rick..." His rambling was cut off as Rick used his free hand to squeeze Negan's dick. Negan gasped, groaning with approval as kissed down the column of Rick's throat, biting hard enough to draw blood.
"You're...hah... gonna leave marks, Negan." He managed between strangled breaths. The sensations of his hand squeezed and guided by Negan on his dick had pre-come beading at the tip, every pump making him curse. The coil in his stomach was tightly wound, burning hot, taut.
Between every lick of abused flesh, Negan responded, "Fuck yeah, I am." He could feel the teeth of his smile as he said so. "Now say my name, baby. Tell me how god damned good my hand is making you feel, wrapped around your fucking cock, Rick."
Every vulgar word made him throb. The voice he hated so much was moaning and stuttering with each breath, barely restrained pleasure beneath each word, and he loved every bit of it.
"Negan, f-fuck.. Please don't- don't fucking stop. You're making.. me feel so good. Wanna feel your cock against mine." He gasped out, the tightly wound coil burning hotter.
"Is that right, Rick? Fuck.. how could I say no when you beg so pretty.." He groaned and complied with Rick's demands, taking both of their cocks in his fist and pumping, pre-come and saliva smoothing the way.
"Look at me, Rick. I wanna fuckin' watch when you come undone for me." He ordered, hips jerking against Rick's, movements more desperate.
Rick obeyed immediately, locking eyes with him, eyebrows drawn together as Negan worked every little noise out of him. The feeling of Negan's hot cock pumping against his own was driving him wild, the tightness of his fist that he senselessly fucked into causing his eyes to roll.
"Ah... fuck.. you're gonna make me cum, Negan. Fuck." He wasn't sure what exactly was spilling from his lips anymore, his focus fully consumed by the man boring into his gaze and jerking his hips onto his own. He wanted to tilt his head back and squeeze his eyes shut but he fought it in favor of obeying Negan's earlier commands.
Negan wasn't coherent either, his own words a string of nonsensical praises ("good, so good for me"), curses, and Rick's name. Rick knew he wasn't faring much better. Despite the overwhelming pleasure, neither looked away from the other.
Negan's face was tightly drawn, focused, hair tangled in Rick's fingers. So fucking handsome that it twisted Rick's heart.
One final thrust and a "good boy" was all it took for Rick to come undone. His toes curled in his boots and he writhed, white hot pleasure scorching beneath his skin as he bucked upward and spilled over Negan's fist and dick. His focus was sharp to a point, every feeling both too much and too little, his heart thrumming against his chest faster and faster as he rode out his high.
Negan wasn't too much longer, either. The sound of his name on Rick's lips as he climaxed was enough for him. He shuddered violently as he jerked forward and came onto his fist and Rick's stomach, eyes rolling, groaning and twitching under Rick's fingers on his thigh. Rick noticed, faintly in the haze of his climax, how beautiful he looked.
The energy drained from him, thoroughly blissed out, he collapsed next to Rick. He pressed a sloppy but gentle kiss to his temple as he did so, surprising Rick as he came back to his senses.
Both men were breathing hard, lingering on the high of an orgasm, and they were still looking at each other. The cold suddenly didn't seem to be as pressing of a matter anymore.
Flushed, Negan licked the remainder of their cum from his fist, grinning tiredly as he did so. The space between them smelled like sex and smoke and leather, and Rick could have drowned in it as he hungrily watched Negan's movements.
He swiped a finger through his cum on Rick's belly, and slowly pushed it into Rick's mouth, watching with fascination as he licked it up. Rick's tastebuds were invaded by the bitter, salty tang of Negan's cum, and he felt strangely turned on by the lewdness of the situation.
He waited for the rush of post nut clarity to hit him, dreading it, but it was staved off for just that much longer as Negan leaned forward and captured his lips in a much slower, sickeningly sweet kiss, caressing Rick like he was the only man left in the world.
Rick sighed heavily, exhausted, but returned the kiss despite himself. He wished he could say he was imagining Michonne when he did so, but all he could focus on was the scratch of Negan's beard and the smell of him and taste of him.
As the fire crackled out, Negan buckled them both back up, blessedly silent. The afterglow of sex clung to his cheeks and his small smirk. Rick, on the other hand, had the tale tell signs of sleep written across his features as he slumped against Negan and his warmth, eyes half lidded.
"You know, Rick, there's only one sleeping bag." He sing-songed knowingly, "And it's probably best to huddle for warmth." He added on, needlessly.
Rick groaned in exasperation gainst Negan's chest.
"Alright, Negan, get the damn sleeping bag." With a chuckle, Negan obliged, and Rick was saved from regret for now as he drifted off to sleep, pressed against the chest of his mortal enemy.
END.
--
First oneshot I've ever written, lmk if it sucks or not. Hopefully it's not too ooc, I tried to keep it as realistic as this scenario could be 💀Also the first time I've ever written smut LMFAO help me
In the rare moments of stillness that Light and Matsuda catch together, Light often finds himself struggling to maintain his rigid, cold veneer. Vigilance is second nature to him — his focus razor-sharp, his eyes constantly scanning. He’s fought far too long to reach this point to risk losing everything to something as foolish as complacency.
It’s bad practice — he knows that — but even so, he can’t quite resist the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his attention drifts into a pleasant hum when he is completely alone with Matsuda.
Trust is a delicate thing. It’s not something he gives freely — doesn’t truly give at all. Everyone has the capacity to turn on a dime.
But Matsuda is, predictably, the exception.
Matsuda has proven, time and time again, that he is the closest to pure loyalty a man can reach. He’s thrown himself recklessly into danger in split-second decisions to spare Light even the barest of harm, sometimes even against Light’s orders (of course he was reprimanded for such actions, but the sentiment is unmistakeable).
And when it came down to it — when the choice was between Light and the Task Force — he chose without hesitation. He turned against the very people he once called his own and killed them in that warehouse to save him.
Matsuda is utterly and shamelessly devoted to him. Not just to Kira — but to Light.
He’s told Light before, in a quiet moment like this, that his entire life has revolved around him for longer than he even realized. Years dedicated to catching Kira. Years admiring Light. And when both identities inevitably merged into one, he understood that he had been devoted to Light in many ways for a very, very long time. It only felt natural that his life should turn out this way, with Kira at its center.
So Light gives him his vulnerability in return.
The only person he can let his guard down around, the only person he exposes his back to — it’s reckless to trust someone so completely, but Matsuda isn’t just anybody.
His thoughts falter as Matsuda’s fingertips brush a stray lock of hair from his cheek, achingly gentle, as if touching something sacred. He always touches Light like this, like he’s afraid he might shatter if pressed too hard. His fingers tremble as they trail down to his jaw — the very same fingers Light has watched gouge eyes and pull triggers without a second of hesitation.
“I’m not going to break, Matsuda,” he finally says, breaking the silence as his eyes flutter open.
Matsuda’s cheekbones are dusted rosy pink in the warm lamplight, lips parted in thought as he studies him. If it were anyone else looking at Light this way, he would feel disgusted at the audacity — but it’s Matsuda. Matsuda with his borderline reverent gaze. Matsuda with his calloused hand that finally loses its hesitation and cups his face with intention.
“I know,” he answers quietly. “But I just… I want to be gentle with you.” The pink on his cheeks deepens, creeping to the tips of his ears.
Light sighs, the sound fonder than he intended. He rests his hand over Matsuda’s and traces the ragged scar across his knuckles. He doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through the other man, lashes fluttering — he’s always been so easily undone by the smallest things, even after all this time.
Slowly, Light lifts Matsuda’s hand and presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, a ghost of a kiss over his racing pulse. Maybe, right now, he wants to be gentle with Matsuda too. Everything is always such a rush, always a chaotic and filthy business. But here, in this quiet space with only the two of them — safe in the way he only is when alone with Matsuda — he allows himself to be gentle. To take his time.
He would deny this softness later, even to himself. He would dismiss the way Matsuda’s adoring gaze warmed his chest, the way he felt at ease in the aftermath of their shared intimacy. But right now, as he trails featherlight kisses up Matsuda’s arm, relishing his stuttered gasp and eager squirm, he allows himself to enjoy it.
Matsuda is his to enjoy, after all.
─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───
I drafted this up while writing part 2 of Something Simple
Its nice to take a break from a bigger project and write little drabbles like this — I hope you guys enjoy and thank you for the patience while waiting for part 2! :3
