Hello,

So..the Walking Dead kink Meme has pretty much eaten my life. I spend entirely too much time on it :). This was a fill for the following prompt after "Nebraska" aired:

Rick, still riding that alpha male high, goes back to the farm and puts Shane in his place.

This is not my OTP (heh, that's definitely Daryl/Glenn), but I put out a request that peple challenge me to fill prompts of their choice, and this one got picked. I did my best.

For the purposes of this story, let's just assume that Rick wasn't stupid enough to bring Randall back to the farm. Either he put a bullet in the kid's head if he was feeling kind, or he just left him there if he wasn't.

The ride back to the farm is made in complete silence. Glenn tries once or twice to start up a conversation, but gives up after the third time he's met with just a wall of stony quiet. The boy curls up in the back seat with the shotgun across his lap, and Rick can feel the burn of his stare on the back of his neck. Wondering. Questioning. Worrying.

Rick knows he should say something, try to explain his actions. Explain why he just shot two men- two more survivors in this world that feels more and more like it belongs totally to the dead-in cold blood. He knows Glenn will believe anything he says, will take any reason and wrap it around himself like a shield. He can't bring himself to speak, though.

His head is still buzzing, his pulse roaring in his ears and drowning out any coherent thought he might be able to impart to Glenn. His skin feels stretched too tight across his muscles and a burning, aching flush is skittering up and down his spine. Adrenaline high, and deep down he knows he should be trying to calm down. Should be taking deep breaths and trying to cool the tension coiling like a snake, low in his belly but the truth of the matter is he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want to calm down, doesn't want to take slow, measured breaths and look at things with a cool, logical eye. He's tired of it. So tired of trying to play the long game, to make every decision the one that keeps his people safe, keeps them ahead of the monsters that dog their heels. He's crumbling under the weight of the responsibility. The eyes that follow him everywhere-bright and hopeful and begging him to lead them and then darkening with betrayal and reproach when he makes the wrong decision are suffocating him.

Tonight he had acted instead of reacted, just let his instinct and his gut rule him and God it had felt good. He knows he should be worried about that, that he shouldn't feel good about killing two men...but he'd seen them. He'd seen the flat, hungry look in their eyes, the speaking glances they'd shot each other as they pressed for information. He'd seen men like that in his years as a cop, and he knew what they were capable of. Hershel had understood, had seen the same things Rick had. The old man had just nodded at him gravely over the puddling blood, accepting Rick's decision with no recriminations. Glenn would understand, too...and if he didn't, Rick would find the words to make it okay for him. Just not tonight. Not tonight, while the blood was pounding through his veins and the rush of doing, of taking control and acting to protect his people, his family, was buzzing in his chest.

He pulls into the yard in front of the farmhouse, and almost before he's brought the car to a complete halt, Hershel and Glenn are spilling out. The whole group rushes out of the house to meet them, relieved cries and questions filling the night air. Maggie all but collapses into Glenn's arms, even as Patricia grabs Hershel's hands and starts leading him up to the house. He is about to follow when he gets a good look at Lori's face, and his heart almost stops at the fresh cuts and bruises marring her features.

She leans into his embrace tiredly, her voice low and rough as she recounts what happened, and his arms tighten around her convulsively as he realizes how close he came to losing her, to losing them.

"The baby?" he whispers, cradling her face in his hands and trying to ignore how fragile, how delicate she feels beneath his fingers.

"I'm fine...we're both fine," she assures, shaking out of his grip and winding her hands around his wrists. "Shane brought me back." There is something in her voice, something careful and hesitant, as if she is trying too hard to keep her voice neutral. Her eyes dart downward and his own gaze finds that of his oldest friend's over her head.

Shane is leaning against one of the posts on the porch, watching him and Lori with an intense, hooded gaze. To the casual observer, Shane is relaxed and open, but Rick is not the casual observer. He reads the coiled tension in the other man's shoulders, can see the warning glinting in that dark gaze.

And suddenly the roaring, pulsing thing inside him, that demanded he draw his gun and protect his people is back in full force.

He's known. He's known for a long time that this has been coming. The same signs that told him what had happened between his wife and his best friend when they'd thought him dead have been telling him that Shane is spiraling. Maybe it's the pressure of their day-to-day fight for survival. Maybe it's that the fear and the grief has finally become too much. Maybe it's just that Shane has always had this...wildness, this darkness inside him that needs to be channeled and Shane is finally no longer up to the task himself.

Whatever it is, Rick recognizes it and sees it for the threat it's become...and it is long, long past time he deals with it.

He kisses Lori on the forehead gently, before he steps away and lightly pushes her towards their tent. She bites her lip, glancing between him and Shane before she seems to slump in on herself. She gives his hand a final squeeze before she moves off into the darkness. Rick watches her go for a moment before he very deliberately turns and looks at Shane.

He doesn't speak, doesn't wave. He just stares until he sees Shane start to bristle, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Then he jerks his chin in the opposite direction of their camp, out past where the RV is parked. He turns and strides away, confident that Shane will follow like he always has.

Like he always will, even if he's been starting to think different lately.

He walks quickly, his feet carrying him towards the fields on the other side of the RV where they can have a modicum of privacy. He glances up to the roof of the RV as he passes. Daryl is sprawled on the lawn chair set up for watch, his crossbow sitting easily across his legs.

The man nods down to Rick as he passes, flinty eyes darting back towards the house as Shane's heavy steps become audible. Daryl's gaze finds his again, and Rick thinks he sees a hint of approval when he nods again, raising one eyebrow in a subtle question. Rick shakes his head, refusing the implied offer of backup. He spares a thought to be glad it's Daryl on watch right now. The man won't interfere, won't let any Walkers sneak up on them...and Rick's sure he can keep his mouth shut.

He paces himself out into the field-not so far as to be out of Daryl's line of sight, but not so close that it won't be just him and Shane having this conversation. He slows up after a couple of minutes, finally stopping well ahead of the treeline. He listens to Shane's footsteps, crashing and crunching through the tall grasses and weeds. He turns just as Shane catches up to him. His oldest friend is just standing there, hands tucked casually into his pockets, as if there is nothing wrong. As if they're just going for a walk together like when they were kids. Rick freezes for a moment, and Shane smirks at him. A curl of the lip as familiar to Rick as any expression that has ever sat on his own face and the thing that has been twisting in his chest since the bar-since the hospital, since Atlanta, since the CDC, since Sophia, God Sophia-suddenly howls.

He is moving before he's even consciously aware of it, his fist snapping forward and crashing into Shane's jaw.

Shane's not expecting it, and his head snaps to one side. He stumbles back a few steps, his hand going to his jaw, and Rick bounces on his feet a little. He knows Shane, knows this man as well as he knows himself, and the explosion that's coming is going to be spectacular. Shane shakes his head, a thin stream of blood trickling down from his lips. He bends down, resting his hands on his thighs, and spits a mouthful of red into the dirt. When he looks up at Rick again, that same insufferable smirk is on his face.

"So we doin' this now?" he asks, cocking his head to one side. Rick just clenches his jaw, his eyes narrowing. Shane spits again, the smirk twisting into something angry and ugly.

The charge, when it comes, is pure violence. Shane rushes him like an angry bull, head down and shoulder thrown forward. His teeth are bared and Rick clamps down on his immediate instinct to throw himself at Shane just as violently. He's never been able to win against Shane when it comes to pure, brute strength. 'Built like a brick shithouse,' their football coach had said of Shane in high school, laughing in admiration. Shane was the guy who mowed through any offense like it was tissue paper.

But Rick was the quarterback.

He sidesteps at the last possible instant, snapping out a short, sharp kick at Shane's hamstring as he blows past. "Fuck!" Shane hollers as he goes tumbling into the dirt, rolling with the momentum of his fall to come up on his feet again. He's breathing hard, blood and spittle dribbling down his chin in a steady stream, something absolutely crazed glinting in his eyes.

It's Rick's turn to smirk, the thing in his chest practically purring in satisfaction now. The buzzing adrenaline is still coursing through his veins, but now it has a focus. "Well, c'mon," he taunts, and Shane should know better. He does know better, but this is the result of over twenty years of friendship, of being just as close as any brothers. No one will ever be able to get to them like each other, be able to burrow under their skin, exploit every weakness.

Shane takes the bait, an inarticulate roar of pure rage tearing out of him as he charges again. It's graceless and clumsy, all of Shane's usual planning and forethought straight out the window. Rick holds his ground this time, waiting til Shane has committed to the rush, til he can't adjust his course an then this time he throws himself forward. He comes in low and tight, throwing all his weight into a swift uppercut that catches Shane right in the throat. It's a powerful punch, and Shane's own momentum slams him into it even harder.

For the second time in as many minutes, Shane goes down, but this time he doesn't roll, doesn't recover. He hits his knees, skidding across the earth. He rolls to his side and gags sickly, clutching his throat. Rock presses his advantage, dropping to his knees so that his legs cage Shane's hips and shoving the man over onto his back. Shane swings at him wildly, as maddened as a wounded animal at this point. Rick grunts as one flailing fist connects solidly with his ribs, but he's not losing the upperhand here. No way.

His fist cracks against Shane's face again. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood spurts from Shane's nose, mixing with the blood, dirt, and spit already crusting his jaw. His face is a ghastly mess and he tries to surge up against Rick. Shane punches again, this time connecting with Rick's cheekbone and the pain of it is blinding. His head rocks to one side but he doesn't let up. He won't.

He keeps punching. His fists thud into Shane's body over an over-ribs, head, jaw, neck. His knuckles split open on Shane's teeth and he doesn't let up. The dark, swirling emotion that has been singing through him since the bar-since he woke up in a world gone crazy-whips into a frenzy and every hit is pure anger. Pure fear. Pure frustration.

He keeps hitting until he can't even tell where his fists are landing. Until Shane's clumsy attacks die off, until he goes still beneath Rick. Only when he can't feel Shane moving anymore does he let up. He leans back. His cheek is throbbing in time to his racing pulse an he can already feel one eye swelling. Shane's face is a mask of blood and bruises and they are both gasping for breath. They are frozen for a moment, just staring at each other...and then they are both moving at the same instant.

There is nothing tender about the kiss.

They lunge at each other like attacking wolves, crushing their mouths together in a way that is no less violent than the knock-down, drag-out fight they'd been having less than thirty seconds ago. It's too much teeth and sloppy angling. The iron tang of blood is thick in their mouths. It's like everything else between them...too intense, too close, too much.

Rick growls, low in his throat, when he feels Shane try to take control of the kiss, try to leverage himself out of his prone position. He's not having it. He pushes himself forward, raising one hand to rest against the worst of the bruising on Shane's jaw. Without warning, he digs his thumb into the tender flesh. At the same time, he stops pushing against Shane's weight, forcing the other man to either retreat from the kiss or use his hands to support himself in the awkward, half-reclining position.

For one endless moment, he feels Shane freeze in indecision, feels the hard muscle under him coil and bunch as though readying for a fresh attack. The moment breaks, though, and Rick feels the resistance flow out of the other man. In an instant, the surging anger and frustration that had carried him through the night so far changes to arousal. Hot and aching and spiking through him like lightning. His cock twitches in his pants and he attacks Shane's mouth again.

There is still nothing tender about it. This is not about tenderness, about love. That has always and will always be for Lori and Lori alone. This is heat and darkness and the wildness that seems to have swallowed Shane whole, the wildness that needs to be brought to heel before it destroys them all. Rick ravages Shane's mouth for another few seconds, before he shoves the other man away.

Shane falls back against the grass, already working at his belt, kicking his boots off. Rick just watches for a moment, and knows that if it was anyone else, anyone else in the whole world, Shane would have killed them by now. Only Rick has ever been able to force Shane to back down, only he has ever been able to temper Shane's stubbornness. Rick is the only man on Earth who has ever been able to lead Shane anywhere and it is about damn time Shane remembers that. Shane kicks his way free of his jeans and underwear, and he's already half-hard. His cock is swelling, twitching and jerking with every heave of Shane's chest, the tip starting to gleam wetly in the moonlight. Shane should look broken, bruised and bloodied and so achingly hard for the touch that had beaten his face to a bloody pulp just seconds ago, but Rick knows better. There's still that gleam of defiance in Shane's eyes, a challenge that Rick has tried and tried to ignore. He doesn't think Shane even knows what he's challenging Rick for. All he knows is that Shane keeps looking at him-at his family, at his position in the group, with hard, envious hunger. Shane keeps looking at him to prove something, keeps looking at him like he's waiting to see just how weak Rick is in this new world.

Rick's not weak. Never has been, never will be and if Shane wants him to prove something, by God he will.

He jerks at his belt buckle while Shane fists his own cock, sliding his thumb roughly over the head and just watching Rick with that same hard gaze. He undoes the buttons on his jeans as Shane's breath is quickening. The other man is biting down hard on his bruised and torn lips, refusing to give Rick the satisfaction of hearing him moan. That's fine.

He rucks his jeans halfway down his thighs, hissing as the material of his boxers drags across his dick. He's hard, leaking, tiny jolts of pleasure sparking through him where the cotton rubs against his heated flesh. Shane's eyes dart to his cock, and God it's been years since they've seen each other like this. Been like this. Not since they were teenagers, still discovering their bodies with drunken fumbles and hesitant explorations that stopped as soon as they landed steady girlfirends.

He doesn't give Shane time to look, to get lost in memories of how it was. That isn't how it's going to be.

Rick doesn't waste any time, reaching down to twist his fingers in the sweat-soaked, bloodstained material of Shane's shirt. He can feel the hard muscles bunching underneath the thin material, the coiled tension. Shane is wound tighter than a watchspring. He pulls at Shane's shoulder, urging him up and over onto his hands and knees. He backs up a little to give Shane room to move and he can feel the minute hesitation in Shane's movements, the consideration. The heat winds tighter, low in his belly when he feels the indecision pass, when Shane acquiesces and turns over.

Shane is quivering, little tremors running through his body in such waves Rick might think he was afraid were it not for the proud jut of Shane's erection, bobbing wetly between his legs. He is heaving like a bellows, tiny grunts and groans working their way from his throat. His t-shirt is stretched taut across the muscles of his back.

With a growl, Rick shoves the shirt further up Shane's back, running his hands over the sweat-slick flesh. He lets his fingers stroke down the path of Shane's spine, down over the man's trim waist as it tapers down into perfectly muscled hips. Finally, he curls his hand into the dip of Shane's hipbone, letting the tips of his fingers just barely trail down to brush the top of Shane's groin. The other man's body jerks under him, his hips stuttering forward In a tiny thrust as a deep groan is finally wrenched from him. Rick's mouth twists, not so much a grin as a feral baring of teeth. He pulls hard against Shane's hip, shifting his position slightly. He swallows roughly, working up a good bit of saliva, before spitting into his hand, smearing as much wet on his hand as he can.

He plasters himself against Shane's back, reaching down between them to nudge at the firm globes of Shane's ass. Shane jerks again, but this time the hesitation melts away almost instantly and Shane spreads his legs wider. Rick snakes his free hand around Shane's waist, bracing his arm on the rippling muscles of Shane's stomach and gripping the thick, flushed length of Shane's cock. He grips the hardened flesh gently, just barely grazing the head with his thumb as he works the first knuckle of one of his fingers into the tight heat of Shane's body. He goes slow...spit and precome are no substitute for lube and he doesn't have to ask to know Shane hasn't done anything like this since they were teenagers. Despite everything, he doesn't want to cause Shane serious damage.

He is not gentle, though.

Shane hisses at the intrusion, but Rick keeps pushing in. He twists and crooks his finger, knows it has to sting, has to burn, but the tight, tight heat is giving way and he's able to slide in another finger. His own cock is throbbing, trapped between his stomach and Shane's back, and he drops his head against Shane's shoulderblades, sinking his teeth into the slightly rough expanse of the back of Shane's neck. Slowly, he begins to work his hand up and down Shane's cock, squeezing the head the way dim memories and locker-room bullshitting tell him Shane likes it, swiping the roughed pads of his fingers over the head before trailing down to caress the sac. Shane gasps underneath him, and he twists his fingers inside Shane a little more harshly, searching and seeking until he can finally slide them almost all the way in. At last, his fingers graze against the spot he's looking for.

Shane surges back against him with a shout, his cock jumping in Rick's hand. Relentlessly, he pushes in again, rubbing against that spot again, pushing against it as he works Shane's cock harder, keeps going until Shane is writhing underneath him, fucking himself back on Rick's fingers as he moans out loud.

Abruptly, Rick pulls away, pulls his fingers out, and Shane actually whines a little, turning to look at Rick over his shoulder. Sweat is pouring down his face, the damp Georgia air and their activities creating a bubble of almost unbearable heat around them. Rick holds the other man's gaze deliberately as he spits into his hand again. He slicks his cock up as best he can, saliva mixing with pearly drops of precome beading around the head.

He doesn't waste time.

He keeps staring into his friend's dark eyes-darker than ever, pupils blows so wide he looks drugged with arousal-as he lines up his aching erection with Shane's entrance. He keeps staring as he snaps his hips forward, sheathing himself in glorious, tight heat in one quick go and Shane finally screams. He drops his head almost instantly, muffling the sound against his shoulder and Rick should care, should worry that someone will hear and come to investigate...but he doesn't.

Let them come. Let them see. He's past caring, and all that matters is the sensation of tightwethot that surrounds him. He holds himself still for a moment, giving Shane a breath to adjust, but he can't hold himself back for long.

The pace he sets is brutal. There is no other word for it. He slams into Shane as hard as he can, the slap of skin hitting skin seeming as loud as a gunshot in his ears. Shane falters beneath him at first, and the sound that breaks out of the man's throat is more pain than pleasure. All to soon though, Shane is thrusting back against him, meeting his rhythm.

Rick shudders, his hands scrabbling for leverage on Shane's hips, blunt nails scoring the skin of his flank and leaving raised ridges of angry red. He finally finds purchase in the slick of sweat and digs his nails in harder, wanting to bruise, wanting to break the skin. He angles his hips up a little, searching for that spot again that made Shane lose it so totally.

He knows what he wants now.

Shane's whole body is rocking with the force of Rick's thrusts, but he still tries to shift all his weight onto one hand so that he can reach down and touch himself. Rick intercepts the move, shoving Shane's hand away from his erection and he swears Shane mewls. He takes Shane in hand himself, and he can feel the tension thrumming through the other man's body, knows what Shane needs to bring him over the edge. The other man drops his upper body low, resting his weight on his elbows and Rick just keeps going. Finally, finally, he hits that little bundle of nerves and the effect is almost electric.

Shane bucks back into him, desperate, his muscles clenching around Rick's cock in the most delicious way and he keeps thrusting, keeps hammering against Shane's prostate with every movement even as he starts stroking Shane again, moving his hand in time to his thrusts.

Shane is a wild thing beneath him, nearly mindless with pleasure and he can feel it, feel the other man breaking beneath him. He knows what he wants and finally, after one particularly brutal thrust, he gets it.

"Please!" Shane grunts out, his voice desperate and wanton and broken. "God, Rick...please, Jesus, please! Almost there, please brother..." The words are ragged, dragged out of the depths of Shane's soul and Rick comes with a shout. His hips lose their rhythm, stuttering haphazardly and Rick swears his vision whites out a moment. Shane's breathless pleas for release, for relief, are a mantra in the night air and all it will take is a few strokes, just a little friction.

Rick lets go of him.

He drops his hold on Shane and pulls out of him without care for the burning drag it has to create. Shane cries out, wordless, desperate denial as Rick shoves him forward. He gets shakily to his feet, the aftereffects of his orgasm sparking through his body, but his eyes are steely and unforgiving as Shane turns over, gasping for breath and staring up at him in shock.

Rick jerks his boxers and jeans back up, barely taking the time to button them as he bends down, leans in close to his oldest friend's face.

"Get yourself together," he hisses, his voice low and cold, full of warning and they both know he isn't talking about Shane's current state of undress. "An' you better remember this the next time you start wonderin' if I'm strong enough to take care of business around here."

He doesn't wait for an answer...just turns on his heel and stalks back up the way they came. Back to the lights of their banked campfires and Lori's waiting arms, leaving Shane hard and leaking in the dirt.