Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world had burned around him. Smoke hung low in the sky like a permanent dusk, the streets empty but for the occasional scavenger or the distant groan of the dead. Carl moved through the ruins, heart thudding—not with fear this time, but with the ache that had been coiling in him for days. He was alone. Too alone. And every thought, every pulse in his veins, screamed Rick.

He ducked into a shattered building, the broken walls casting jagged shadows across the floor, and let himself drop to the dusty ground. His hands itched, slick and trembling, fingers brushing over himself as if he could summon Rick here with just the memory. His cock was wet already, slick from his own anticipatory need, and he groaned, the sound swallowed by the hollow shell of the building.

Carl’s mind conjured him perfectly: Rick, chest broad, hands calloused, hair falling slightly into his eyes as he stared down at Carl like he was both punishment and reward. The image sent shivers through him. He could feel Rick’s lips ghosting over his own, the brush of teeth against skin, the low growl in his voice as he murmured things meant to mark him, claim him. “You’re mine,” Rick would say. “Don’t fight me, Carl. Not now.”

His fingers moved faster, wet and slick, imagining the rough, insistent press of Rick’s hands against his thighs, dragging him closer, controlling him completely. Carl’s breath hitched. He pictured Rick kissing him hard, teeth grazing, tongues colliding, hands gripping his ass, pulling him flush against the heat of his body. The apocalypse didn’t matter here—nothing mattered except the way Rick would take him, claim him in a way the world outside never could.

Carl leaned back against the rubble, one hand still stroking, the other clutching at the air as if he could hold Rick there. “Please,” he hissed into the dust, words muffled but trembling, “fuck me, take me… don’t stop.” The fantasy was cruel and exquisite—Rick’s voice, low and commanding, his words dirty, harsh, turning Carl inside out before he even touched him. “You like that, don’t you?” Rick would growl, hands pressing harder, cock hot and relentless, fucking him with nothing but possession and power.

Every stroke brought Carl closer, slick fingers sliding, his body arching, hips lifting, desperate for more of the phantom touch he could never fully have. He imagined Rick’s mouth trailing down his chest, teeth grazing, lips sucking bruises into skin that would last for days. His own wetness coated his hand, warm and sticky, his cock throbbing as every fantasy tightened like a vice around his spine.

Carl’s thoughts blurred with sensation. Rick’s hands on him, his mouth, the rough words—“You’re mine, you’re so fucking mine, Carl”—and the world outside the crumbling city didn’t exist. Every nerve ending was lit with fire, every moan swallowed by the broken walls. He pressed harder, faster, slick fingers dragging over himself, imagining Rick taking control completely, dragging him to the edge again and again.

And then the release, violent and consuming, ripped through him. His body convulsed against the cold rubble, cock slick with his own need, mind ablaze with Rick’s imagined possession, voice in his head still whispering, growling, claiming. The apocalypse could burn the world around him, but inside him, inside the storm of his obsession, Rick was there. Always there. Dominant, cruel, and impossibly real.

Carl slumped against the wall, chest heaving, wet fingers slipping from his cock, mind still looping on every imagined kiss, every grip, every dirty word. He didn’t care about the chaos outside. He didn’t care that this world was broken. All he needed was that memory, that fantasy of Rick taking him, marking him, owning him. And in the emptiness of the apocalypse, it was enough to burn, enough to make him ache and crave again.

Chapter Text

The road stretched endlessly, a ribbon of asphalt swallowed by the night and the occasional glow of distant fires. The others were asleep—quiet, exhausted, lost to dreams in the back of the truck—but Carl couldn’t sleep. His body was alive with a tension he couldn’t shake, every nerve ending thrumming with anticipation.

Rick was behind him, just a few inches away, the heat of his body radiating through the thin barrier of cloth. Carl could feel the steady rise and fall of Rick’s chest as he slept—or pretended to. His mind, restless and unyielding, imagined what it would feel like if Rick wasn’t asleep at all. If those big hands weren’t pressed casually to the seat but instead cupped him, owned him, marked him.

Carl’s skin tingled at the thought, slick with the memory of every rough touch, every lingering glance, every silent claim. And then, impossibly, Rick shifted. Just a little, subtle, like he was rolling closer in his sleep. But the movement was deliberate, teasing. Carl’s cock hardened immediately, slick and sensitive under the fabric of his jeans, dripping preemptive need he didn’t even try to hide.

“You’re so wet for me,” a voice murmured near his ear. Low. Rough. Deliberate. Rick’s lips barely brushed the shell of his ear, but the words cut through Carl like fire. His body jumped, fingers digging into his thighs, his breath catching as if the words themselves had hands, had teeth, had the power to claim him.

“Look at you,” Rick whispered, voice husky and intimate, so close Carl could feel the heat of his breath on his neck. “So slick…so ready. Do you want me to touch you, Carl?”

Carl didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His body betrayed him, slick and trembling under his own hand, cock hard and aching, the rush of need coursing through him. His mind painted it all: Rick’s lips trailing down his shoulder, teeth grazing, warm hands spreading him open without a touch yet, just the promise, the command, the ownership.

“Don’t even think about moving,” Rick whispered, and Carl shivered violently, twisting slightly against the seat, fingers brushing his own slickness, the friction making him whimper. “I want you to come for me. Just from my words. Can you do that, Carl?”

Carl’s eyes widened. The world outside—the burnt roads, the distant moans of the dead, the sleeping bodies around him—slipped away. Every inch of him screamed, cock pulsing wet and hot in his jeans. He bit back a moan, heart racing, trembling as Rick’s whispers continued, dragging him closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re mine,” Rick murmured, breath tickling his ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “So fucking mine. Can you feel it? Can you feel how much you need me? Don’t fight it…just come for me.”

And he did.

Carl shuddered violently, legs tensing, chest arching, cock slick with his own release, fingers trembling on his thighs. His body convulsed against the seat, trembling and quaking, utterly undone by the low, commanding growl of Rick’s words. He hadn’t touched Rick. Not even once. Yet his body had betrayed him completely, slick and hot, pulsing in a way only obsession could produce.

Rick shifted again, rolling back just slightly, asleep—or pretending. Carl slumped forward, chest heaving, mind still ablaze with the memory of the whispers, the slick heat pooling between his legs, the ache that wouldn’t fade. Outside, the world was broken, collapsing, on fire. Inside, Carl was entirely consumed by Rick—by the promise, by the obsession, by the dark thrill of being marked without a single touch.

And he knew, that he would crave it again. That just the sound of Rick’s voice, low and dirty, would be enough to make him slick, trembling, and utterly his.

Chapter Text

The room smelled like old leather and whiskey, a faint hint of sweat lingering from when Rick had been there hours earlier. He sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders tense, back straight, fingers drumming nervously against his thighs. It was a ritual by now — the way Rick commanded the room, controlled the space, even without saying much. Carl didn’t know why he let it get to him so much, why the mere thought of Rick hovering close made his pulse spike and stomach knot.

Rick was in the corner, cleaning something meticulously, though Carl knew it was a performance. Always precise, always slow, always reminding him that Rick’s focus could snap to him at any moment. The energy in the room hummed like a wire, thin and taut, ready to snap. Carl shivered involuntarily, not from cold, but anticipation.

“You ready?” Rick’s voice was low, calm, but threaded with that dangerous edge Carl had come to recognize — the one that made him obey without question.

Carl swallowed. His hands were sweaty, palms sticky against his thighs. “Yeah… I’m ready,” he said, though his voice betrayed the small tremor in his chest.

Rick’s eyes softened for a fraction, and Carl nearly melted under the glance. Then Rick was over him, tall and broad, presence pressing into Carl in a way that made it impossible to breathe fully. His hands rested on Carl’s shoulders, heavy but not cruel. Carl’s stomach knotted, a strange mix of fear and excitement building behind his ribs.

He felt Rick’s fingers brush against the skin of his chest, tracing a path he could not ignore. Every nerve ending seemed to ignite at the touch, heat crawling up his spine and down to places he couldn’t name aloud. The clamp was in Rick’s hand now, a small, cruel thing, gleaming in the dim light.

“Remember what we talked about?” Rick murmured. His voice was almost a growl.

Carl nodded, unable to speak. The memory of the last session, the edge of pain and pleasure blurring together, coiling tightly in his stomach, surged forward. He felt his body respond even before the clamp touched him.

Rick leaned closer, letting his breath ghost over Carl’s ear. “If it hurts too much, you tell me. But don’t lie… you know the rules.”

Carl’s chest tightened, heat spreading from his core up through his throat. “I know,” he whispered. His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t dare move away. He wouldn’t.

Rick’s hands settled on either side of his chest, and Carl froze as the first clamp pinched over his nipple. Sharp. Pain flared, then folded into a pulse that was almost intoxicating. His back arched slightly, shoulders trembling. He clenched his fists, trying not to moan, trying not to give Rick the satisfaction of knowing just how much control he had over him.

“You like that?” Rick’s question was rhetorical, his hand ghosting over the other side now, fingers brushing Carl’s skin lightly.

Carl swallowed hard, chest rising and falling faster than he could measure. “Yes,” he breathed, voice tight, clipped, controlled. But the word was meaningless. Every nerve in his body screamed something more honest.

Rick’s other hand moved deliberately, placing the second clamp with careful precision. Carl flinched, but only slightly, a sharp gasp slipping past his lips. The sensation was electric, stretching him across the divide between pain and pleasure. His nipples throbbed, pinched and insistent, heat pooling in his chest and radiating outward.

Rick pressed closer, his body heat enveloping Carl’s back, and Carl felt every inch of the man pressing into him. The weight of presence, the inevitability of control, made his skin buzz. He could feel himself growing slick, tense, and achingly alive under Rick’s hands, each movement meticulous, deliberate, practiced.

“You’re doing really well,” Rick murmured. “Even when it hurts. Good boy.”

Carl swallowed against the knot in his throat. The praise, soft as it was, sent a thrill through him like fire racing along a wire. Pain and pleasure coiled together, the clamp sharp and insistent, and he bit his lip, trying to control himself. But he couldn’t stop the tremor in his thighs, the slick heat building low between them, the way his body leaned into Rick’s shadow as if seeking permission.

Rick’s hands roamed now, tracing along his shoulders, down his sides, gentle but impossible to ignore. Every stroke heightened the tension, made the clamps bite harder, made Carl shiver in ways he hadn’t expected. He wanted to push back, pull away, tell Rick to stop, but the voice in his head screamed for the opposite — for Rick to keep going, to hold him, to command him.

The room seemed smaller now, the walls pressing in, the weight of Rick’s gaze tangible, pressing down on him in tandem with the physical sensations. Carl’s body was responding in full, taut and trembling, heart hammering, breaths shallow and quick.

“Fuck,” Rick whispered suddenly, voice low and rough, leaning closer to press against Carl’s shoulder. The word vibrated through him, resonated along the sensitive nerves, and Carl gasped, chest jerking.

The clamps pulled insistently, reminding him of every nerve ending alive in his body. Pleasure and pain merged, sharpened by Rick’s steady hand, his control, his presence. Carl felt like he might shatter, like the taut wire of his own tension could snap any second, and he wanted it — needed it — more than he’d admit.

Rick’s hand moved lower, tracing along the curve of his hip, thumb brushing lightly. The subtle contact, teasing and patient, made Carl bite his lip harder. Every movement was calculated, deliberate, meant to push him to the edge without falling over.

Carl’s hands fisted in the cushions beneath him. He trembled, half from fear, half from anticipation, body tight and trembling under Rick’s touch. The clamps drew sharp cries from him now, gasps that he tried to suppress but failed to. Rick didn’t stop, didn’t apologize, didn’t comfort him in the traditional sense. He just was — relentless, dominant, knowing. And Carl let him be, let the sensations take over, let his body betray the control he tried to keep in his voice and mind.

“You’re mine,” Rick murmured against his ear. Not loud. Not showy. Not possessive in a typical way. Just an anchor, a reminder of everything Carl had surrendered in these moments. Carl shivered violently, chest taut, nipples burning deliciously, pulse racing.

The slow, unrelenting attention kept him teetering on the edge, every nerve ending alive, sharp as knives. He could feel his body responding with a need that scared him, yet thrilled him, making him ache in places he hadn’t expected.

Rick leaned back slightly, letting the intensity ebb for just a moment, and Carl exhaled shakily, heart racing. Every exhale was a confession, every shiver a surrender. He felt raw, exposed, alive in a way that had nothing to do with the outside world. Only Rick. Only this. Only him.

And even as the sensation continued, the clamps still biting, the ache still blooming, Carl felt a strange, delicious sense of trust. Not love, not forgiveness, not safety — but trust. That Rick would guide him through it, keep the chaos controlled, and let him feel every sharp, delicious edge of sensation without breaking.

Carl’s chest heaved. Eyes half-lidded. His body buzzing, every nerve alive, the mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming and addictive. He had never felt so simultaneously fragile and powerful, so seen and so controlled.

Rick’s presence was everywhere — weight on his shoulders, warmth against his back, hands that could punish or pleasure with equal precision. And in that moment, Carl understood the paradox: he hated himself for wanting it, for craving it, for responding so completely. And he loved it all the same.

The night stretched ahead, a tight coil of anticipation, every second a lesson, every touch a reminder of who commanded, who yielded, who survived the tension that raged between them.

Carl’s breath came in shallow, ragged pulls, chest heaving, nipples throbbing under the clamp’s unyielding grip. Every nerve ending screamed, every inch of him alive, and he realized he would do anything — endure anything, surrender anything — for these fleeting, perfect moments where Rick’s control met his own raw, aching need.

As Rick’s hands moved over him again, teasing, brushing, commanding, Carl felt it all: pain, pleasure, dominance, surrender, and a strange, undeniable tethering that left him trembling, shivering, trembling again. He was wholly, utterly, alive — in a way no apocalypse, no chaos, no survivor’s instinct could ever prepare him for.

Chapter Text

Carl’s hands trembled slightly as he held the delicate fabric up to his chest. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the old ceiling fan, and the soft scrape of his fingers against the silky material. It felt foreign against his skin, strange and intimate in a way that made his pulse pound harder. He glanced at the door, almost expecting someone to walk in—but he knew. Rick was there. Always there. Watching.

He bit his lip and let the fabric slide over his shoulders. It clung, teasing, brushing against his nipples in a way that made him inhale sharply. The mirror reflected his reflection, and he couldn’t tell if he was looking at himself or at the idea of someone seeing him this way.

He had never done anything like this before. The lace, the softness, the way it hugged him—it was thrilling. Terrifying. And then there was Rick’s presence, silent but heavy in the air. Carl didn’t need to see him to know that Rick was there, maybe leaning against the wall, watching every tiny movement, every subtle shift in his body. It was as if the air itself carried Rick’s gaze straight to him.

He shivered, partly from the silk against his skin, partly from the awareness of being seen. Carl’s hand lingered at his hip, tracing the edge of the panties, feeling the way the material stretched, molded, and pressed against him. His reflection was both him and someone else entirely—someone he could only be in secret, under Rick’s gaze, feeling the heat of his observation burn across his chest and down his stomach.

“Looks… good on you,” Rick’s voice broke the silence. Low, rough, deliberate. Not touching, not near, just watching and letting Carl unravel under the sound of it. Carl’s breath caught. He could feel the words settling against his skin more intimately than any hands ever could.

Carl’s eyes darted toward the door, then back to his reflection. He could feel the pull of wanting—wanting to be seen, wanting to be approved, craving the awareness that Rick’s eyes were on him. It was a strange, intense mixture of shame and excitement, and Carl’s hands shook as they moved over the lace again, this time more deliberately, exploring the feel of the fabric.

Rick’s gaze was heavy, palpable, a pressure that didn’t touch him but weighed all the same. Carl could sense every thought, every reaction, every flicker of heat that moved under his skin. He pressed the panties against himself, feeling his body respond, unable—or unwilling—to resist.

“You’re… fucking perfect like that,” Rick’s voice rasped, low and commanding without ever raising in volume. The words didn’t demand anything of him, and yet they did. They demanded submission, attention, focus, complete acknowledgment that he was being watched. Carl’s chest heaved, and he forced himself to stay standing, to keep moving, even as every nerve screamed for release.

The mirror reflected his arousal in ways that made him bite down on his lip to hold back a whimper. He could feel Rick’s presence like a hand resting on the small of his back, even though Rick was physically nowhere near him. It was in the tension of the room, in the way his body reacted to the sound of the other man’s voice, the imagined weight of eyes tracing every inch of him.

Carl’s fingers moved lower, tracing the edge of the fabric, feeling the smooth curve, teasing the way it pressed against him. He tried to hold his composure, but the knowledge that Rick was watching, waiting, seeing him like this, made it impossible. He shifted slightly, testing the fabric, letting the lace brush over his thighs, over his hips, and the reflection in the mirror made it all look deliberate. Exposed. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

Rick didn’t say anything for a long moment, just the quiet scrape of his boots against the floor, subtle, deliberate. Then his voice cut through again, soft but heavy with intent. “Don’t stop. I like watching you like that.”

Carl froze for a heartbeat, the sound of the words igniting something deeper in him. He could feel heat pooling low, a magnetic, electric tension threading every nerve in his body. The lingerie felt impossibly soft, impossibly intimate, and under Rick’s gaze, it was consuming. He pressed himself a little closer into the mirror, testing, showing, willing Rick to see every reaction, every shiver, every subtle rise of his chest under the lace.

The thrill of exposure was overwhelming. Carl knew he shouldn’t be enjoying it this much. He shouldn’t be letting himself feel this. But he couldn’t stop. His hands roamed over the silky material, over his body, over the curves and hollows the fabric revealed. He imagined Rick’s hands—no, not hands. Not now. Just eyes. Watching. Approving. This was enough. More than enough.

Carl’s breaths came faster, sharp and shallow, each one echoing slightly off the walls. He tilted his head back and caught his own reflection, the subtle flush on his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the way the fabric clung to him, and it was like seeing himself for the first time in an entirely different light. It wasn’t shame or fear—it was hunger. Craving. Submission wrapped in control he had never known he could feel.

Rick’s presence was relentless in its quietness. He didn’t touch. He didn’t command. He simply existed, heavy in the room, watching Carl explore himself, teasing him with the weight of his gaze. Every movement Carl made, every subtle shift, was for Rick. And Carl knew it. Knew it, and responded in ways he didn’t fully understand, ways that made heat flare, pulse race, body tighten with a delicious, torturous need.

“You don’t even realize how good you look,” Rick said, voice low and deliberate. “Like you were made for this. For me to watch.”

Carl bit down hard on his lip, the words almost painful, almost unbearable. But they weren’t cruel—they were a pull, a tether, a string winding tight around his mind, his body, his attention. He pressed the lace against himself again, imagining Rick’s eyes moving over every inch, feeling the invisible pressure of observation like hands pressing where he dared not reach.

The mirror reflected the dance of desire: Carl, delicate and exposed, his muscles taut, chest rising and falling, skin flushed, body trembling under unseen weight. He let his fingers explore the lace again, tracing, teasing, testing, and each touch sent ripples of heat shooting through him. Rick’s presence was a storm in the room, silent, relentless, consuming, and Carl couldn’t look away.

Rick’s words came again, soft and low: “Don’t hide anything. Show me all of it. Every shiver, every twitch… I want it all.”

Carl’s breath hitched. His body obeyed in ways his mind hadn’t fully consented to, moving deliberately, exposing every reaction, every shiver, every subtle gasp. The lace felt impossibly soft, impossibly intimate, yet it was Rick’s gaze that made it unbearable, exquisite. He could feel the tension threading through his thighs, through his stomach, through the small of his back. Every nerve was on fire, alive, screaming under the weight of being seen, being watched, being desired.

He let himself sway slightly, hips shifting, testing the reflection, testing the reaction, imagining Rick’s eyes tracing him, tracing the lines and curves, drinking it in. The humiliation and thrill mixed, bitter and sweet, sharp and tender. Carl’s body ached, burned, pulsed, and yet he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. He had never felt so alive, so completely owned by the simple act of being watched.

Rick didn’t move. He didn’t touch. He didn’t even step closer. But the weight of his observation, the intensity of his quiet, heavy presence, was more intimate, more invasive, more consuming than anything Carl could imagine.

Carl pressed the fabric harder against himself, letting the lace slip slightly, feeling the tease, the tension, the way his reflection showed him everything. His body shivered under the weight of it, trembling with want, need, excitement, submission, and anticipation. Every flicker of arousal, every subtle twitch, every gasp was for Rick. And Carl knew it, felt it, responded to it, and in that, he was completely undone.

“Good,” Rick murmured, almost a sigh. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

Carl’s chest heaved. Heat pooled low. Every muscle was taut. He was utterly exposed, utterly seen, utterly alive under the gaze that consumed him. And even though Rick didn’t touch, didn’t intervene, didn’t claim, Carl felt owned. Felt marked. Felt utterly, deliciously observed. And it was enough. It was everything.

Every subtle movement, every exploration, every gasp, every shiver was a silent offering to Rick’s watchful presence. And Carl gave it freely, completely, desperately, knowing he would never feel like this, never be like this, with anyone else.

The mirror held him. Rick held him. And in the heavy, quiet, intoxicating tension, Carl realized he never wanted it to end.

Chapter Text

Carl could feel the warmth before he even saw it. The candle’s flame flickered low, casting soft golden shadows across the room. The scent of wax and something muskier—Rick—hung in the air. Carl’s chest tightened with anticipation, his pulse thrumming hard in his ears. He was acutely aware of every inch of skin exposed, every nerve alert, every tiny twitch of sensation waiting to be claimed.

Rick’s eyes were fixed on him, dark, calculating, patient, and utterly consuming. He held the wax candle like a weapon, or maybe a promise. Carl’s cock throbbed at the sight, slick and aching under his hand, glistening wet with pre, and he swallowed hard, trying to steady himself.

“Don’t move,” Rick’s voice rumbled low, commanding yet calm, and Carl obeyed instantly, his body rigid in anticipation.

Rick tilted the candle, letting a single drop of hot wax fall. It hissed faintly as it touched Carl’s chest, the heat sending a jolt straight through him. Carl gasped, fingers clutching the edge of the bed, the sudden burn mixing with the heat pooling low, slick and eager. His cock twitched beneath his jeans, and he could feel himself dripping, desperate for more, yet wanting to endure, to give himself over completely to Rick’s control.

Another drop, and then another, tracing a deliberate path across his skin. Carl shivered violently, every nerve screaming with the exquisite sting and heat. The wax hardened quickly, cooling almost instantly, leaving a small, sticky burn that made him arch into it involuntarily. Rick’s eyes never left him. They followed every shiver, every gasp, every slick bead forming on his cock, each movement mirrored in Carl’s reflection of heat and desire.

“You like that, don’t you?” Rick murmured, stepping closer, his presence heavy, pressing in without touching. Carl’s breath hitched. His cock pulsed hard, slick and wet, straining toward him, aching for more.

Carl’s hands trembled, brushing over his thighs, feeling himself slick, warm, and responsive, every nerve alive under the combined weight of wax and Rick’s gaze. The teasing, the watching—it was everything. Every drop of wax that landed sent him closer to the edge, yet Rick held him back with just words and the intensity of his eyes.

“Stay still,” Rick said again, voice velvet and steel. Another drop fell, this one just grazing the tip of his cock through the thin fabric of his jeans, and Carl’s knees nearly buckled. The sensation was overwhelming. The heat, the slickness, the ache—all focused, sharpened by Rick’s patient, dominant observation.

Carl bit down on his lip, struggling to control the groan that threatened to escape. His cock was throbbing now, slick and wet, hard under his jeans, every nerve on fire from the combination of wax, anticipation, and Rick’s commanding presence. He tilted his hips slightly, desperate for release, yet held back, wanting to earn the next drop, the next command, the next delicious jolt of pain and pleasure.

Rick moved around him like a predator circling, eyes never leaving, each step deliberate, each glance a silent claim. He brought the candle closer to Carl’s inner thigh, tilting it so the wax would drip along the smooth skin. Carl’s breath caught, slick pooling low, a shiver running through him as the hot wax kissed his skin. He pressed against it instinctively, hips rocking slightly, cock slick and desperate, and Rick’s eyes darkened, pleased.

“Good,” Rick said, low, rough, approving. “You’re doing exactly what I want.”

Carl shivered under the praise, letting himself go a little, hips moving with the rhythm of his arousal. The wax continued to fall, each drop precise, each hiss and sting feeding his need. He felt both pain and pleasure in tandem, burning and pulsing, and his cock responded immediately, slick and sensitive under the heat and pressure of anticipation.

Rick’s hand hovered just above him, teasing, a promise without fulfillment, and Carl’s breath caught. His body was slick with sweat now, every movement slick and deliberate, his cock twitching violently, desperate and aching for attention, for release. But Rick didn’t touch, didn’t intervene—he simply watched, and that was enough to drive Carl wild.

The candle moved again, trailing drops along Carl’s stomach, his chest, teasing the sensitive skin under his nipples. Carl moaned involuntarily, slickness pooling even more, heat radiating out in waves. Each drop burned briefly before cooling, leaving a trail of red-tinged heat that made him arch instinctively, cock slick and straining toward Rick, yearning for release under the weight of the gaze that consumed him.

Rick leaned close, whispering in a voice that sent shivers down Carl’s spine: “I could watch you all night. Every slick twitch, every gasp, every shiver… yours, all yours.”

Carl’s fingers dug into the bed, holding himself steady even as he ached to let go. His cock pulsed hard, slick and wet, every nerve electrified, every thought consumed by the sensation of wax, heat, and Rick’s unwavering attention. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely owned by the dark, slow, deliberate control Rick wielded without ever touching.

“More,” Rick murmured, almost a growl, and another drop fell—this one tracing the curve of Carl’s cock through the thin fabric, sending a jolt of pure, torturous pleasure straight through him. Carl’s body arched, slick pooling, cock throbbing violently, but he stayed, trembling, obeying, savoring every second under Rick’s gaze.

He wanted to move, to touch, to press, to lose himself—but he couldn’t. Not yet. Rick’s control, his eyes, the slow drip of wax, the heat, the ache—it all held him in place, suspended between desire and restraint. Carl was slick with need, with sweat, with anticipation, completely consumed, every muscle taut, every nerve alive under the combination of pain, pleasure, and obsession.

Rick finally stepped back slightly, letting Carl’s body cool under the flickering candlelight. Carl’s chest heaved, cock slick and leaking, thighs trembling, skin flushed and hot. The wax hardened, leaving trails across him, marking him, claiming him in ways deeper than touch could ever achieve. He looked at Rick, eyes wide, desperate, still burning, and Rick’s gaze softened just enough to promise more, to promise continuation, to promise domination without intervention.

“You’re mine,” Rick said, low and certain. “Every slick gasp, every shiver, every ache… all yours for me to watch.”

Carl swallowed hard, slick still pooling, cock pulsing violently, trembling with need. He had given himself completely under Rick’s gaze, and even without touch, he felt owned, marked, and completely undone. Every drop of wax, every hiss, every subtle motion had bound him to Rick’s presence, to the slow, consuming erotic tension that made him ache for release yet kept him under control.

He let himself sink back, fingers brushing over the hardened wax, cock slick, wet, and still pulsing with anticipation, knowing that Rick’s eyes would never leave, that his presence alone was enough to consume him entirely.

He didn’t want anything else.

Chapter Text

The forest pressed in around him, shadows twisting between the trees, the damp scent of earth and pine thick in the air. Every sound—the rustle of leaves, the distant snap of a twig—made his heart race, but it was the awareness of the man behind him that had him trembling. His cock strained against the fabric of his jeans, slick already, anticipation pooling low in a heat that refused to be ignored.

He felt Rick before he saw him—a shadow detaching from the dark, circling him with that predator’s patience that always left Carl helpless. Every nerve in his body screamed. He was exposed, yet somehow safe under the weight of Rick’s gaze, eyes dark, calculating, glinting in the pale moonlight.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” Rick’s voice rumbled behind him, low and teasing, carrying the authority that made Carl’s chest tighten. “Already dripping for me, before I even touch you.”

Carl shivered, slick leaking along the seam of his jeans, cock throbbing. The shadow stepped closer, warmth radiating from Rick, his breath rough against the back of Carl’s neck. Every instinct screamed to bend, to obey, to surrender completely.

“Turn,” Rick commanded. Carl obeyed without hesitation, hands trembling at his sides. The moonlight revealed Rick fully now—eyes hungry, every glance tracing Carl’s slick, taut body. Rick’s hand hovered, teasing along his chest, igniting sparks that ran straight through him.

“God… you’re so wet already,” Rick murmured, fingers brushing lower, over the cock he knew was straining. Carl groaned, hips pushing forward without thought. The grip on him tightened just enough to make him ache, to heighten that delicious torment.

“You’re mine tonight,” Rick growled, low and possessive. “Every twitch, every gasp… all of it belongs to me.”

Carl’s body trembled, cock throbbing under the pressure of his jeans, slick pooling, reacting to every brush, every word. Rick pressed closer, heat pressing against his hip, a dangerous promise in the dark.

“Bend over the log,” Rick ordered. Carl’s hands gripped the rough bark, fingers digging in as his body arched instinctively. Cock throbbing, slick leaking freely, he was desperate—needing the touch, needing Rick.

Rick circled him, slow, deliberate, eyes drinking him in. Fingers traced along his spine, down his arms, teasing inner thighs, brushing over wet, slick skin. Every movement set him on fire, tethering him to the dark, consuming desire Rick demanded.

The weight of Rick pressed against his back suddenly, cock grinding lightly, slick coating the seam of his jeans. Carl gasped, hips rolling against him, craving more, every nerve igniting under the combination of pressure, heat, and dominance.

“You’re so fucking ready for me,” Rick murmured, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. “Every slick drop, every pulse… I can feel it.”

Carl’s hands clenched the log, body trembling violently. Rick’s hands were everywhere—rough, commanding, yet teasing, tracing the slick seam along his cock. He was dripping now, utterly exposed, every inch alive with need.

A sharp tug brought him to his knees, jeans partially peeled down, cock exposed, slick and aching. Rick’s mouth hovered for a heartbeat, eyes dark, hungry, then finally, contact—teeth and lips pressing, teasing, tasting, drawing him toward delirium.

“You feel so good for me,” Rick rasped, voice low and wet against him. “So slick… all mine.”

Carl could barely respond, lost in the sensation, cock pulsing violently as Rick’s mouth worked expertly, pushing him to the edge, every nerve screaming. Hands gripped his hips, angling him, pressing hard again, cock brushing his ass through the jeans.

“You’re so ready,” Rick whispered, rough and commanding. “So fucking ready for me. Take it. Take me.”

Carl’s release came in a shuddering rush, slick dripping freely, heat pooling low, body trembling, utterly consumed, utterly owned. Every nerve alive, every gasp mirrored in Rick’s dark, possessive eyes.

And in that night, in the shadows of the forest, Carl wanted nothing else.

The forest seemed to close in around them, shadows wrapping tight like a cocoon of heat and darkness. Carl’s body was slick, trembling, every nerve ignited, every muscle tensed beneath the deliberate weight of Rick pressing into him. His cock throbbed violently, slick dripping freely, staining the dirt beneath him, each pulse mirrored in Rick’s low, possessive growl.

“You’re mine,” Rick whispered, voice rough, dark, holding command. “Every twitch, every gasp… all of it belongs to me. Do you feel it?”

Carl’s hands clawed at the earth, desperate for something solid to ground him, but there was nothing—only the hard, unyielding presence of Rick behind him, grinding, teasing, claiming. His hips rolled involuntarily, cock straining, dripping, slick spreading down his thighs. Every brush of Rick’s body, every calculated touch, sent sparks up his spine, igniting him further.

Rick’s hands were relentless. One gripped Carl’s hip, tilting him just so, pressing him flush against the hard shaft that burned insistently against his ass. Another traced the slick seam of his cock through his jeans, fingers dragging teasingly, deliberately slow, every stroke leaving Carl gasping and trembling. The low hum of Rick’s growl vibrated through him, a tether pulling him deeper into the dark rhythm of dominance and surrender.

“God… you’re soaked for me,” Rick murmured, teeth grazing the sensitive shell of Carl’s ear. “Every drop, every pulse… I can feel it.”

Carl arched, slick spreading, dripping freely, thighs quivering, desperate for more. The rough bark beneath his hands dug into his palms as he pressed back, chasing the friction, the contact, the heat that Rick pressed into him with every calculated movement. The man behind him was a storm—unyielding, commanding, intoxicating.

“Take it,” Rick whispered, voice low, rough, a command wrapped in lust. “Take all of it. You’re mine, Carl. All of you belongs to me tonight.”

Carl’s hips lifted instinctively, grinding against the hardness pressing into him, slick coating him, warmth pooling, desperation burning through him. He gasped, voice breaking, as Rick shifted again, pressing fully, cock brushing the slick heat of his ass, sliding just enough to make him shiver violently. Every nerve felt alive, every tremor and gasp mirrored in Rick’s dark, possessive eyes.

Then Rick’s hands gripped his hips, lifting slightly, angling him, and without warning, pressed in fully. Heat, slick, and pressure collided as Rick slid inside, slow, deliberate, claiming him in a way that made Carl’s knees buckle, fingers clutching at the dirt, body trembling with pure need. The stretch was exquisite, consuming, and every sharp inhale, every gasp, every slick twitch of his cock became a testament to Rick’s control.

“God… fuck, you’re so perfect for me,” Rick growled, low and wet, pressing his body harder, grinding, guiding, dominating. “Every slick inch, every pulse… all mine.”

Carl’s body shuddered, slick running freely, every nerve a live wire of sensation. He pressed back, desperate, seeking more, his mind a haze of heat and friction. Rick’s rhythm was deliberate, cruel, perfect—cock pressing into him in a way that left him trembling, gasping, lost entirely to the dark, erotic dominance surrounding him.

“You feel so good,” Rick murmured, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of his neck. “So slick, so wet… all mine. Do you feel it? You’re dripping for me, Carl. Every drop is mine.”

Carl moaned, hips rolling, cock pulsing violently, slick running down and pooling. Every touch, every command, every brush of Rick’s hands sent him closer to the edge, every gasp tethering him tighter, deeper, to the man behind him. He was utterly consumed, slick, trembling, fully surrendered to the relentless, dark heat surrounding him.

Rick’s movements shifted, faster now, grinding with deliberate force, hands gripping hips, cock thrusting deep, claiming every inch. Carl’s knees shook violently, slick dripping, body alive with exquisite torment, every nerve screaming. He arched, moaning, pressing back, desperate for release, desperate to feel every inch of Rick inside him, to be claimed, marked, and dominated.

“You’re mine,” Rick growled again, voice low, rough, possessive. “Every pulse, every twitch, every gasp… all of it belongs to me. Look at you… lost in me, dripping for me. That’s mine, Carl. All of it.”

Carl’s release tore through him like wildfire. Cock pulsed violently, slick dripping freely, warmth pooling low, every muscle trembling, every nerve alive with the intoxicating pressure of dominance. He gasped, pressed back against Rick, body convulsing, slick running down his thighs, lost entirely to the dark, erotic rhythm of control and surrender.

Rick followed him over the edge moments later, grip tightening, thrusts slowing, grinding into him one last time, marking him, claiming him, until the tremors in Carl’s body began to subside. The forest swallowed their ragged breaths, their slick, their heat, the low growls and moans that echoed into the night.

Carl collapsed forward into the damp earth, slick coating his body, chest heaving, trembling, utterly consumed, utterly claimed. Rick leaned close, pressing a warm, heavy weight against him, hands still roaming, voice low and possessive.

“You’re mine,” Rick murmured again, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Every inch, every pulse, every gasp… mine.”

Carl shivered, letting himself sink into the warmth, the heat, the slick, the dark possession. He was lost, dripping, trembling, fully consumed. And he didn’t want anything else.

The night held them, dark, wet, slick, and alive with the slow, heavy rhythm of dominance and surrender, until only the sound of their gasps, their slick, and their racing hearts filled the forest. Carl was utterly, deliciously Rick’s.

Chapter Text

The night hung heavy on the house, a humid Georgia dark that pressed in through the cracked window of Carl’s room. The air smelled faintly of pine and gun oil. Outside, the wind worried at the porch boards, and somewhere a lone cicada rasped its endless, ragged song.

Carl lay awake on his back, staring at the ceiling. The flashlight on the dresser cast a weak halo over the room, just enough to see the edges of his boots and the faint scuff marks on the wall. His shirt clung to his chest — not from heat, but from the weight in his gut that had never really left since the war. Sleep didn’t come easy anymore. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard echoes: gunfire, shouts, Negan’s laugh. The old world had gone quiet, but the noise still lived inside him.

He rubbed a thumb along the band of the blindfold resting beside his pillow — black cloth, worn soft from handling. Rick had given it to him two nights ago. Said something about trust. About how sometimes you had to learn to surrender a sense before you could control it. Carl hadn’t known what to say then. Still didn’t. He just kept it close, like a question he hadn’t found the answer to yet.

The floorboards creaked in the hallway. A pause, then another step — measured, deliberate. Carl’s chest tightened before he even heard the door.

Rick didn’t knock. He never did anymore. The door eased open, letting in a sliver of gold from the lantern down the hall. His shadow stretched long across the floor, shoulders filling the frame.

“You still up?” Rick’s voice came low, rough with whiskey and weariness.

Carl pushed himself upright. “Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

Rick closed the door behind him, the latch clicking soft but final. “Figured.” He stood there a moment, eyes scanning the room like he was taking inventory — walls, window, the gun on the nightstand. Finally, his gaze landed on the folded cloth in Carl’s hand.

“You keepin’ that close for a reason?” Rick asked.

Carl shrugged. “Didn’t know if you’d come back for it.”

Rick moved closer, the floor creaking under his boots. “You think I give you somethin’ like that just to take it back?”

The question hung between them, weighty and quiet. Carl shook his head. “No.”

Rick stopped at the foot of the bed. The lantern light carved deep lines in his face — older now, harder. The kind of hard that didn’t soften, even for family. “You remember why I told you to use it?”

Carl swallowed. “To learn control.”

Rick nodded slowly. “And trust. Two sides of the same damn thing.” His voice lowered, almost a growl. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Carl hesitated, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up. “Yeah. I do.”

Rick held out his hand. “Then put it on.”

Carl’s pulse jumped. He hesitated only a second before swinging his legs off the bed and standing. The fabric felt cool in his palms, almost damp from his sweat. He lifted it to his eyes, tied it behind his head. The world went dark.

The shift was instant — sight gone, breath loud in his own ears. He could hear every little sound now: the rustle of Rick’s jacket, the scrape of his boots, the creak of the old floorboards as he moved.

“Good,” Rick murmured. “Now, breathe.”

Carl inhaled, slow. The air smelled like dust and whiskey and pine soap.

He felt rather than saw Rick move closer — the warmth of him, the way the air changed. Then a calloused hand brushed his shoulder, firm, grounding.

“Too tight?” Rick asked.

Carl shook his head.

“Alright then.”

Rick’s fingers slid down to his wrist, gripping it — not hard, just enough to hold him there. “You flinch every time somebody touches you now. You notice that?”

Carl swallowed. “Yeah.”

“That’s not how we live. You keep doin’ that, the world eats you alive. You gotta know when to fight and when to stand still.” Rick’s breath was close now, hot against his ear. “Can you stand still?”

Carl nodded, though his throat felt dry.

Rick’s thumb traced slow circles against his wrist. “You’re doin’ fine. Just listen. The house. The wind. My voice.”

Carl focused. The world sharpened into sounds — the hum of the lantern flame outside the door, the whisper of fabric when Rick shifted, the faint rasp of his own breath. Every noise hit harder, clearer.

Rick’s hand left his wrist, trailing up his arm, over his shoulder, up to the knot behind his head. He didn’t untie it — just rested there. “When you can’t see, you find other ways to know what’s real. You feel it. You listen.”

Carl nodded again, muscles tense under his skin.

Rick leaned in, his voice a low murmur. “That’s it. Let go of what you think’s comin’. Just feel.”

The words sent something cold and hot all at once down Carl’s spine. He tried to breathe steady. The room smelled stronger now — wood, sweat, and faint ash from the lantern outside.

Rick stepped around him, slow, boots dragging softly. Carl could picture it even in the dark — the set of his jaw, the way he carried authority like armor.

“You ever think about how much you still don’t see?” Rick asked. “Even when your eyes are open.”

Carl tried to answer, but his throat caught. “Sometimes.”

“That’s why we do this. Not for games. Not for fear. So you remember what trust feels like.” Rick’s tone softened, then hardened again. “You keep that, no matter what else this world takes.”

Carl’s chest ached. He wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out was, “I’m tryin’, Dad.”

Rick was silent for a long moment. Then: “I know you are.”

A hand came up, resting against the back of Carl’s neck — steady, warm. Rick’s thumb pressed lightly at the base of his skull, grounding him.

“You’re strong,” Rick said. “But strength don’t mean lockin’ everything down. It means knowin’ when to let go.”

Carl exhaled shakily. “I don’t know if I can.”

Rick’s voice lowered, barely above a whisper. “You already are.”

He stood there behind him, their breathing syncing — slow, uneven. The silence turned heavy, intimate. Carl could feel his father’s heartbeat in the air, in the floorboards.

Rick’s other hand came up, turning Carl slightly toward him. Fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, guiding, not forcing. “Trust,” Rick murmured again. The word carried more than one meaning now, thick with history and pain and something unspoken neither of them dared name.

Carl’s fingers trembled at his sides. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Rick stayed close — too close — but didn’t move further. He just waited. The kind of waiting that made every breath count.

Carl realized then that the point wasn’t control. It was the space between it — the held tension, the proof of restraint.

Finally, Rick stepped back, slow enough that the air seemed to rush in to fill the gap. “That’s enough for tonight,” he said quietly. “Take it off.”

Carl untied the cloth. The room flooded back in — dim light, shadows, the faint flicker from the hall. His eyes stung from the shift.

Rick was watching him, face unreadable. Something in his eyes looked almost proud, but worn down too. “You did good,” he said. “Next time, you’ll breathe easier.”

Carl nodded, throat thick. “You’ll tell me when that is?”

Rick’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile. “You’ll know.”

He turned to leave, but paused at the door. “Get some sleep, son.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Carl standing there, blindfold hanging loose from his fingers. The room felt bigger now, emptier. He sat back on the bed, staring at the dark window, heart still thudding.

He thought about the sound of Rick’s voice, the weight of that hand on his neck. About how trust could feel like surrender and safety all at once. How sometimes you had to walk right up to the edge of something dangerous just to remember you were still alive.

The night pressed in again, quiet except for the wind.

Carl lay down, the cloth still in his hand. He closed his eyes, breathing in the faint trace of whiskey and pine that lingered on it.

When sleep finally came, it was light, uneasy — but it came.

Chapter Text

The room smelled of sweat and old wood, the dim light from the broken window casting jagged shadows across the walls. Carl’s heart was hammering in his chest, every beat a drum of need and fear. He pressed his back against the rough surface, feeling the cool hardness bite through his shirt. Rick’s presence was overwhelming—he leaned close, heat radiating off him, a predator closing in. Carl’s stomach twisted, a mix of anticipation and desperation, knowing there was no escape.

“Carl…” Rick’s voice was low, hoarse, commanding. Each word seemed to scrape across Carl’s skin like fire. Carl shivered, tilting his head back, eyes half-closed, drinking in the sight of Rick’s storm-dark gaze. His hands flexed against the wall, nails scraping against the splintered wood as the tension built between them.

Rick’s hands were suddenly on him, strong, sure, pinning him with possessive insistence. Carl’s body reacted instantly, slick heat pooling between his legs as Rick’s fingers brushed across him, teasing, testing. The room seemed to shrink until it was only them, only the wet slick press of desire that made Carl moan despite himself.

“God, you’re so wet,” Rick murmured, voice rough, and Carl’s stomach tightened at the accusation, at the praise, at the raw hunger in it. He could feel Rick pressing closer, the hard, undeniable proof of him pressing against Carl’s thigh, and he gasped, tilting back into the wall, surrendering to the sensation.

Carl’s hands tangled in Rick’s shirt, pulling him closer, needing that friction, that dominance, that desperate heat. Rick didn’t hesitate—he pressed his cock against Carl, slick wet and impossibly hard, and Carl’s breath hitched, chest heaving. Every nerve screamed, every muscle coiling tight, desperate for release, for the heat of Rick taking him, marking him, owning him in that dark, confined space.

Rick’s lips found the side of Carl’s neck, biting, sucking, leaving bruising marks that made Carl groan, hips lifting, pressing, needing more. The wall scraped against his back as he was pushed harder, held tighter, the friction making everything ache. Slick slid along slick, warm, wet, and unrelenting, and Carl’s fingers dug into Rick’s shoulders, into the material of his shirt, desperate for anchor, for control even as he lost it completely.

“God, Carl, you’re mine,” Rick growled, voice thick with lust, and Carl whimpered, feeling it in his chest, in his core, in every inch of him. He pressed back, meeting Rick’s thrusts, letting the wet, slick heat of their bodies collide, their rhythm frantic and desperate. The wall caught every slam, every push, every shuddering press of skin against skin, amplifying the intensity until it was almost unbearable.

Carl’s vision blurred with pleasure and need. Rick’s hands roamed, marking, squeezing, teasing, driving him closer and closer. Every slick, wet press of skin against skin sent shockwaves through him, and when Rick’s grip on his hips tightened, when he slammed harder against him, Carl lost himself completely. His moans echoed off the walls, ragged, desperate, and all-consuming.

“Fuck… Rick… don’t stop…” Carl gasped, voice breaking, body trembling as the tension built to a maddening peak. He could feel himself tipping, could feel the slick wet friction, the hard press of Rick against him, and when Rick thrust one last time, holding him against the wall with an almost violent insistence, Carl shattered. Heat and pleasure roared through him, body convulsing, gripping Rick like a lifeline, every moan a surrender, every gasp a confession.

Rick followed almost immediately, groaning, pressing against Carl as he released, slick and hot, over him, over them both, the intensity of the moment echoing in the cramped room. Carl sagged against the wall, breathless, shaking, skin flushed and glistening with sweat and slick heat, but alive in a way that burned brighter than pain or fear. Rick held him close, chest pressed to back, their bodies slick and warm, the room quiet except for ragged breathing and the thrum of desire slowly fading into a sated ache.

Carl leaned into Rick, letting the wall support him as his mind reeled, heart still hammering, body still trembling with the aftermath. The desperation hadn’t fully faded—it lingered, a raw, unbroken thread between them—but there was a moment of peace, of closeness, that made everything worth it.

He could still feel Rick everywhere—skin, hands, lips, cock pressed against him—and he knew, deep down, that this darkness, this possessive, desperate need, wasn’t going anywhere. It was theirs, shared and consuming, a slick, wet, unrelenting bond forged against the wall.

Chapter Text

The streetlights were half-dead along the cracked stretch of road outside the safe zone, their weak yellow glow flickering like breath held too long. The wind carried the smell of rain and rust. Carl leaned against the wall of an abandoned building, heart hammering harder than it should. He told himself it was the danger—anyone could be out there. But that wasn’t the truth.

Rick was a few paces away, watching him. Not touching, not speaking—just watching. And that was what did it.

There were people moving at the edge of the square: scavengers, guards, a few survivors trading what was left of their wares. Every now and then someone would glance toward the alley, see nothing, and keep going. Carl’s pulse throbbed in his throat. The air between him and Rick was charged—every breath drawn felt like defiance.

Rick stepped closer, boots scuffing the dirt. His voice was low, meant only for Carl. “You sure about this?”

Carl nodded once. He couldn’t trust his voice. The thrill that came with the risk—the idea that they could be seen, that someone might notice the tension between them—burned hotter than fear.

Rick’s hand brushed the wall beside Carl’s head, close enough that Carl felt the heat of him. “You need to know when to stop,” Rick murmured. It wasn’t a warning so much as a tether, something that kept Carl grounded even as his nerves screamed to bolt.

The sounds of life outside the alley blurred—the clatter of metal, the low hum of conversation, the faint call of a sentry. Each one made Carl’s heartbeat stutter, made him hyper-aware of how close they were to being noticed.

He could almost see it: someone turning, catching the angle of them in the shadows, the way Rick’s body shielded his, the tension that hung like electricity. The thought sent a sharp jolt through him—half terror, half exhilaration.

Rick leaned in, his breath brushing Carl’s ear. “They’d see everything,” he said softly. “They’d know exactly what you want.”

Carl swallowed hard. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The risk was the point. The possibility of being seen—of exposure—made every second feel stolen, dangerous, alive.

When Rick finally stepped back, the distance felt unreal. The night air hit Carl’s skin like water after fire, cooling him, grounding him. But his mind was still spinning, replaying the nearness, the sound of Rick’s voice, the ghosts of unseen eyes that might have lingered just long enough to know.

He pushed off the wall and joined Rick, their shoulders brushing as they walked back toward the compound. Nothing about their pace or posture betrayed what had passed in the shadows. Yet Carl could feel it—a pulse between them that wouldn’t fade, a secret that had almost belonged to everyone.

Chapter Text

The alley was empty, silent except for the distant hum of the generator. Shadows stretched long across the cracked pavement, broken only by the flickering light of a nearby streetlamp. Carl pressed his back against the cold brick, heart hammering so hard he thought it might escape his chest. He could feel Rick’s eyes on him, dark, heavy, hungry. It made him shiver.

Rick stepped closer, boots scraping lightly against the concrete, his presence filling the narrow space. Carl’s breath caught. He felt the heat radiating off Rick, could sense the coiled strength in every line of his body. The tension was unbearable, thick enough to taste.

“You ready?” Rick’s voice was low, gravelly, commanding. Carl swallowed, nodding, though his throat was too tight for words.

Rick’s hand pressed against the wall beside his head, trapping him, holding him in place. The gesture wasn’t violent, but it was absolute, and Carl felt a thrill shoot straight down to the base of his spine. He leaned into the touch, chest rising and falling, slick heat pooling in the groin that Rick’s presence seemed to ignite with impossible speed.

“You feel that?” Rick murmured, voice just above a growl. “That need… all over your body?”

Carl moaned softly, a trembling sound he couldn’t hide. His hands itched to touch, to pull Rick closer, and he felt slick moisture spreading between his thighs at the thought of Rick’s control.

Rick leaned down, lips brushing the curve of Carl’s jaw, trailing a burning path to his neck. Carl tilted his head back, shivering, letting the contact wash over him. Every nerve in his body was alive, every hair standing on end. Rick’s hand drifted lower, fingers brushing along the waistband of Carl’s jeans, teasing, testing. Carl’s breath hitched, hips pressing forward involuntarily.

“You’re mine, you know that?” Rick’s voice was rough, filled with hunger. “Every inch.”

Carl nodded, unable to speak. His cock throbbed hard and slick inside his jeans, and the friction of the tight fabric against the wall only made it worse. Rick’s hand closed around him, steady, strong, grounding, while the other rested flat against the brick, keeping him trapped, exposed. The mixture of pressure and release made Carl shiver violently.

Then Rick shifted closer, chest pressing into him, and Carl felt the undeniable weight of him. He could smell Rick—cigarette smoke, sweat, something earthy that made his head spin—and the sight of his cock pressing against Carl’s thigh, slick and hard, made him ache to touch it.

Carl’s fingers fumbled at the belt, trembling as he unbuttoned, the anticipation building with each small movement. Rick’s hands never left him, guiding, controlling, a constant reminder that he was completely, utterly at Rick’s mercy.

With a low, ragged breath, Carl leaned down, lips grazing the tip of Rick’s cock through the fabric. Rick groaned, sharp, low, and it vibrated straight through Carl’s chest. Heat pooled in his stomach, slick anticipation dripping as he finally freed Rick from his pants, taking him fully in hand.

The first brush of his lips against Rick’s length made him gasp, the taste and heat intoxicating. Rick’s hand gripped his hair lightly, guiding him, encouraging him. Carl worked slowly at first, teasing with lips and tongue, savoring the feel of Rick’s cock slick and hot against his mouth. Rick’s hips jerked forward, sending shivers down Carl’s spine, slick heat pooling between his own legs.

“You like that, don’t you?” Rick growled, fingers tightening in his hair. “God, you take me so well.”

Carl swallowed around him, letting his lips slide, tongue flicking, savoring every groan and shudder from Rick. The alley seemed to shrink around them, the shadows pressing close, the risk of being seen sharpening every sensation. Carl felt alive, slick heat flowing through him as he worked, desperate to make Rick moan, desperate to feel that dominance pressing down, trapping him, consuming him.

Rick’s hands roamed now, one cupping Carl’s face, tilting his head, guiding him as he sucked and licked with growing intensity. The slick warmth of his own arousal pooled between his thighs, mixing with the need to please, to obey, to submit. Every gasp, every growl from Rick drove him harder, faster, desperate to feel Rick’s pleasure through his own lips, through the tremor that ran from Rick’s hips down to his own spine.

“You’re fucking perfect,” Rick hissed, hips pushing into his mouth. Carl moaned, slick heat pooling, throat tight, mind spinning with desire and need. He took more, lips sliding down, tongue teasing, hand stroking, slick fingers gliding along the hot, heavy length in rhythm with his mouth. Rick’s cock throbbed, slick and slick, wet with pre, and Carl’s lips swirled around him, tasting, savoring, submitting.

The wall dug into Carl’s back, the rough brick pressing through his shirt, the cool surface against his sweating skin grounding him even as every nerve screamed for more. Rick’s hands gripped his hair, guiding, holding, commanding. Every gasp, every grunt from Rick sent shivers of slick heat down his own body, making him wet and aching, desperate, completely lost in the rhythm of giving.

Rick’s hips jerked violently, cock pulsing in his mouth, and Carl responded without hesitation, tongue and lips and hands working in concert as Rick let out a long, shuddering groan. Slick warmth coated his tongue, his hands, dripping down his fingers, and Carl shivered, mind spinning, heart hammering, feeling the undeniable power of this moment—of giving, of pleasing, of being seen only by Rick and Rick alone.

As Rick’s breathing slowed, Carl lifted his head, slick dripping from his mouth, chest heaving. Rick’s eyes darkened with satisfaction and hunger as he pressed closer, hands still resting possessively on him. Carl’s own body was trembling, slick heat pooling, arousal lingering in every nerve, but the ache of satisfaction made him weak, pliant, and utterly devoted to Rick’s touch.

“You did good,” Rick murmured, lips brushing Carl’s ear, voice low, hoarse. “Fucking good.”

Carl leaned back against the wall, slick and trembling, and let himself feel the heat of his own need mingling with the satisfaction of pleasing Rick. The alley was quiet again, shadows stretching long, but the intensity between them lingered, sticky, hot, and unbroken. He knew the memory of this—of being pressed against the wall, slick and wet, submitting entirely—would haunt him, consume him, and thrill him again and again.

Rick pulled him close, chest pressed to back, hands roaming still, and Carl melted into him, feeling the heat, the slick, the desire, the possessive ownership that had claimed them both. The night held them, dark, secret, alive, and utterly theirs.

Chapter Text

Carl lay beside Rick on the edge of the bed, the faint hum of the ceiling fan mixing with the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Rick had finally surrendered to sleep, his chest rising and falling in a pace that Carl could feel in the pit of his stomach. The sight of him like this—vulnerable, unguarded—ignited a hunger Carl had spent weeks trying to ignore.

He watched the lines of Rick’s face soften in slumber, the frown from earlier battles erased by the unconscious peace that cloaked him. Carl’s fingers itched to trace those lines, to leave marks, to feel the weight of him beneath his hands. He had always been drawn to Rick’s presence, but seeing him asleep made that desire sharper, more intimate, more impossibly raw.

Carl shifted closer, careful not to wake him. His hand hovered over Rick’s shoulder, tracing the curve of his neck, down to the collarbone, memorizing every ridge, every slight imperfection. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, his pulse accelerating as he imagined what it would feel like to press himself against this sleeping body, to have Rick’s unguarded form beneath him.

Rick shifted slightly in his sleep, a soft groan escaping his lips, and Carl’s breath hitched. That small sound was enough to break some of his restraint. He let his hand drift lower, brushing against the taut plane of Rick’s abdomen. His fingers traced the line of muscle, the ridges beneath soft skin, teasing and exploring as if memorizing every detail before moving further.

Carl’s cock ached, pressing against his own thigh, needy and impatient. He could feel his body reacting to the power of watching Rick like this—helpless, unaware, yet entirely his to worship. He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to the side of Rick’s neck, careful to keep his touch feather-light. The taste of salt and skin, the warmth of his breath, made something in Carl snap with need.

He let his hand wander further, sliding beneath the waistband of Rick’s sweatpants, feeling the heat there, imagining the rise and fall of Rick’s body in time with his own arousal. Carl’s fingers brushed across the hardening length, tentative at first, testing boundaries, savoring the tension between desire and restraint.

Rick murmured again, a soft, half-formed word that made Carl shiver. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the curve of Rick’s shoulder, trailing kisses along the path he had traced with his hands. Every shiver, every subtle movement from Rick, sent waves of heat through Carl’s body. He was on fire, desperate to touch more, to taste more, yet the thrill of Rick being unaware, of him being asleep, made every second intoxicating.

Carl’s hand moved with more confidence now, cupping and rolling, teasing and coaxing, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He watched Rick’s chest rise and fall, imagining the sounds that would escape him if he were awake, imagining the surrender he could coax from him if Rick knew just how much Carl wanted him.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the fan and the soft sound of Carl’s own breathing. He leaned down, pressing himself against Rick’s side, feeling the warmth and weight of him, letting himself be consumed by the erotic thrill of having Rick so close, so unaware, so completely exposed.

Carl’s fingers moved with more urgency now, exploring, teasing, coaxing every inch of Rick’s body awake under his hands. He kissed, licked, and nipped along the contours of Rick’s shoulders and chest, delighting in the way the unconscious man reacted with tiny shivers, murmurs, and shifts beneath him.

His own cock ached unbearably, pressed tight against the sheet, and Carl couldn’t resist the temptation any longer. He moved lower, his lips and hands tracing the path of Rick’s body, worshipping him, feeling him, learning him in ways that only a sleeping lover could allow. The intimacy was overwhelming, raw, and utterly consuming.

Rick shifted again, deeper now, groaning as if in response to a dream, and Carl’s own moans broke free. He pressed harder, let his desire take control, letting every touch, every kiss, every caress feed the growing fire within him. The thrill of the forbidden, the erotic tension of Rick being asleep, heightened everything—every nerve ending was alive, every pulse racing.

Carl couldn’t stop himself. He moved fully between Rick’s legs now, hands and mouth working in concert, worshipping him, teasing him, dragging him closer to an awakening that would shatter any remaining control. He bit and kissed and traced, reveling in the power of the moment, the intimacy of being the only one who could touch Rick like this.

Minutes stretched into eternity, and Carl felt himself on the edge, trembling with need, desperate for release, desperate for more. Every shiver, every soft groan, every tiny movement from Rick beneath him drove him further, deeper into obsession, into desire, into the consuming heat of his own lust.

Finally, with a shuddering cry, Carl let go, his body trembling as he rode the wave of his own release, still pressed against the warm, sleeping body of Rick. He sank down beside him, breathless, sweat-slick, and spent, heart racing, savoring the lingering warmth, the closeness, the raw, unspoken intimacy of the moment.

Rick stirred slightly, rolling onto his side, but Carl froze, holding perfectly still, savoring the way Rick murmured softly in sleep, unaware of the storm that had passed over him, unaware of the worshipful hands that had explored, cherished, and taken him.

Carl lay there, chest rising and falling, mind spinning with desire and satisfaction. He pressed a final kiss to the back of Rick’s neck, whispering his reverence, his obsession, his need into the quiet night. And for the first time, he let himself drift, wrapped in the intoxicating thrill of having Rick entirely, if only for this stolen, perfect moment.

Chapter Text

The safehouse still smelled like smoke. The last gunfire had died days ago, but the scent clung to the walls, buried in the boards and his clothes, in Rick’s jacket hanging by the door. Every time the wind pushed through a crack, it carried back the ghost of what they’d done to survive.

Carl sat on the floor with his back against the cold stone, watching the pale afternoon light crawl across the room. He had patched the bullet hole in the window with tape, but a thin whistle still came through. It sounded almost like a breath—shallow, human. He wished it were.

Rick was across the room, methodically cleaning his rifle. He didn’t speak; he rarely did anymore. The rhythm of the brush through the barrel was steady, almost meditative. Each stroke seemed to draw something tauter between them, a silence that hummed with things unsaid.

Carl’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He’d been in worse fights, but something about the last one—how close Rick had come to not getting up—had lodged deep in his chest. He’d seen his father figure, his commander, his anchor stumble and bleed in the dirt, and something in him had fractured.

“Stop fidgeting,” Rick said quietly, not looking up.

Carl froze. “I’m not.”

Rick’s eyes lifted then, calm but sharp. “You are.”

The words weren’t angry, just certain. Carl swallowed hard, the movement audible in the hush. He wanted to argue, but his throat refused. Rick’s gaze held him until the restlessness drained out of his limbs and left only a pulse of heat and shame.

He dropped his eyes. “Sorry.”

Rick went back to his rifle. “You’re not a kid anymore. You don’t need to apologize for being scared.”

That hit something raw. “I wasn’t scared.”

Rick’s hands stopped. “You were shaking, Carl.”

“I said I wasn’t.”

Silence again. The whistle at the window filled it, a thin, reedy sound.

When Rick finally stood, the air in the room seemed to shift with him. He crossed the space slowly, not threatening, not gentle either. Just inevitable. Carl looked up at him, heart hammering. The older man’s shadow fell over him, blotting out the stripe of afternoon light.

“Stand up,” Rick said.

Carl did. His legs felt hollow.

Rick’s eyes searched his face for a long time. “You almost got yourself killed back there. Running into the open like that. What were you thinking?”

“I was covering you.”

“You were dying for me,” Rick corrected softly. “And I didn’t ask you to.”

The words should have stung, but they didn’t. They just sank in like water into dry ground. Carl’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

Rick stepped closer. “Don’t do that again.”

Carl nodded once. His chest felt too tight for breath.

Rick’s voice dropped lower. “Look at me.”

He did.

For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside seemed to fall away—the whistle of the wind, the ticking of the old clock, even the ache in his ribs. It was only them, the space between them stretched thin as thread.

Carl’s thoughts spiraled: he should say something, explain, deflect. Instead he found himself lowering his gaze again, not out of fear, but because it felt impossible to meet Rick’s eyes. His body moved before his mind caught up—one knee touched the floor, then the other.

Rick didn’t tell him to kneel. He didn’t have to.

Carl bowed his head, breath shallow. The floor was cold beneath him, grounding. He could hear his own pulse, could feel the roughness of the wood under his palms. It wasn’t obedience so much as confession—this was where he’d always ended up, between defiance and need, pride and wanting to be seen.

Rick’s boots came into view, dust-stained and silent. For a long time nothing happened. Then, a faint shift—the sound of cloth, the weight of a hand on his shoulder.

“Why are you down there?” Rick asked quietly.

Carl’s voice caught. “Because I need to be.”

Rick’s thumb brushed once against the side of his neck, the motion almost tender. “You think kneeling makes you smaller?”

Carl shook his head. “No.”

Rick’s hand lingered. “Then what does it make you?”

Carl didn’t know how to answer. He closed his eyes instead. The heat rising in him wasn’t shame anymore, not exactly—it was recognition, something that lived in the space between them and refused to fade.

Rick exhaled, a sound somewhere between frustration and understanding. “You don’t have to prove loyalty like this.”

“I’m not,” Carl whispered. “I just… don’t know how else to stay steady.”

The hand tightened briefly, then let go.

Rick took a step back, and Carl felt the loss like a sudden draft. He opened his eyes. Rick had turned away, standing by the window now, the light framing the lines of his shoulders.

“Get up,” Rick said softly.

Carl rose, slow, uncertain. His knees ached, but his mind was strangely clear.

Rick looked over his shoulder. “We can’t keep breaking ourselves just to feel alive.”

Carl managed a faint smile that wasn’t really one. “Seems like the only thing we’re good at.”

Rick’s mouth twitched. “Maybe. But I’d like you to learn something else.”

“What?”

“Peace.”

Carl almost laughed at that, but the sound died before it left his throat. Peace was a word that didn’t belong to their world anymore. Still, the way Rick said it—soft, tired, hopeful—made him want to believe.

They stood in silence again. The light was fading, turning gold around the edges. Dust motes drifted between them, lazy and fragile.

Finally, Rick spoke. “You can stay here tonight. Get some sleep.”

Carl hesitated. “What about you?”

Rick’s gaze flicked toward the door. “I’ll keep watch.”

Carl wanted to argue, to insist they share the burden, but he didn’t. Something in the quiet between them told him that was the wrong kind of strength. He nodded instead.

He lay down on the old cot in the corner, the springs creaking under his weight. Rick moved back to the window, rifle resting loosely in his hands. The dying light painted his face in pale gold and shadow.

Carl watched him until his eyes grew heavy. Just before sleep took him, he whispered, “Thank you.”

Rick didn’t answer. But his silhouette shifted, the faintest nod against the windowpane.

Carl let himself drift. He dreamed of dust and sunlight, of kneeling in a world that no longer demanded it, and of someone standing close enough to lift him up when he finally could.

Chapter Text

The safehouse had once been a pharmacy. Shelves leaned sideways like snapped ribs, bottles scattered and clouded with dust. Carl moved through the aisles with a flashlight, careful not to make noise. Rain bled through the roof in thin silver lines; outside, thunder rolled somewhere beyond the broken town.

They’d stopped here because Rick said they needed supplies, but Carl knew it was more than that. Rick hadn’t spoken much since the ambush on the road, and silence had a weight to it now, like the air before a storm.

Carl swept his beam across a shelf marked PERSONAL CARE and froze. Half-hidden under shattered boxes was a small, sleek cylinder, smooth plastic dulled by grime. He reached for it before thinking.

The thing felt out of place—too intimate for a world built on survival. When he brushed away the dust, a faint blush crept up his neck. It was some relic of another life, one that still whispered of touch and need.

Footsteps echoed softly behind him.

“Find something?” Rick’s voice was quiet but carried that edge of command he never lost.

Carl’s stomach tightened. He turned, holding the object half-hidden in his palm. Rick’s eyes flicked down, caught the shape, and lingered just a second too long.

“Put it down,” Rick said, not harshly—just low, unreadable.

Carl hesitated. “It’s… just a battery light or something.”

Rick stepped closer. The beam from his own flashlight cut through the dim and landed right on Carl’s hand. There was no mistaking what it was now.

“That’s not a light.”

Heat prickled across Carl’s skin. “Yeah. I know.”

The rain outside deepened, drumming on the roof. Rick reached out, and for a heartbeat Carl thought he’d take it from him. Instead Rick’s fingers stopped just short of his wrist, hovering, like he was waiting for permission or restraint.

“You should throw it out,” he said finally.

“Why?”

Rick’s jaw flexed. “Because it’ll mess with your head. Things like that… they belong to another time.”

Carl’s grip tightened. “Maybe that’s why I want to keep it.”

That hung in the air between them, thick and awkward. Carl didn’t even know why he’d said it—maybe to see if Rick would flinch, maybe because he wanted a reaction at all. Rick only looked at him, unreadable behind the scarred lines of his face.

“You think it makes you feel human,” Rick said quietly.

Carl’s throat worked. “Doesn’t it?”

Rick took a long breath. “Sometimes remembering how we used to live hurts more than forgetting.”

Carl looked down at the object, thumb tracing its smooth curve. “You ever miss it? The way people could want things without being afraid?”

Rick’s eyes softened for the first time in weeks. “Every day.”

He reached forward then, not to take it but to close Carl’s hand around it. “Keep it, if you need to remember.”

Carl swallowed hard. The contact was brief but burned through him. Rick’s palm was warm, calloused, grounding.

For a moment, neither moved. The rain outside filled the space where words should have been. Carl could feel every inch of distance that still separated them and every unspoken thing pulling them closer.

Rick withdrew his hand, turned toward the doorway. “Let’s get what we came for.”

Carl followed, the strange artifact heavy in his pocket. He felt raw—like something inside him had been named without a sound.

---

They made camp upstairs that night. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of rain and wood rot. Rick sat by the window, rifle propped on the sill. Carl lay on the floor near the faint glow of a lantern, turning the small cylinder over in his fingers.

He thought about what Rick had said—about remembering. The world had taken so much that even the idea of touch felt dangerous. But sitting here, listening to Rick’s steady breathing, Carl realized danger wasn’t the same as wrong.

Rick spoke suddenly, voice rough. “You still have it?”

Carl looked up. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, “You keep it because it reminds you you’re alive. I get that.”

Carl nodded slowly.

Rick’s gaze stayed on the dark outside. “Don’t let it own you, though. Desire’s supposed to serve life, not replace it.”

Carl wasn’t sure if that was warning or confession. He studied Rick’s profile—the scar along his jaw, the faint tremor in his hand where light caught the edge of his wedding ring, long since dulled.

“I don’t think it’s about replacing anything,” Carl said softly. “It’s about… not forgetting how to feel.”

Rick’s eyes flicked toward him, and for an instant they both forgot the ruined world beyond the window. There was only the warmth that lived in memory, the fragile humanness of being seen.

Carl lowered his gaze first. “Goodnight, dad.”

Rick’s voice came after a beat. “Night.” He stopped himself, catching the word, and let out a quiet breath.

The lantern hissed. Carl turned on his side, the relic tucked under his palm like a heartbeat. Outside, thunder rolled across the hills, echoing through the hollow town.

He listened to the rhythm of rain and the faint creak of floorboards where Rick shifted his weight. There was no safety in the world anymore, but there was this: two survivors remembering what it felt like to be almost whole.

And in that fragile quiet, Carl understood that sometimes wanting something—no matter how small, how forbidden—was the closest thing to being alive.

Chapter Text

The dim light of the shelter cast long, ominous shadows across the worn walls, the air thick with a tension that was as palpable as it was dangerous. Rick stood over Carl, his presence dominating the small space, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and something darker, something more primal. Carl knelt before him, his head tilted back, his eyes wide and defiant, yet there was a flicker of something else in their depths—a spark of fear, of submission, of a need that mirrored Rick's own.

Rick's hand fisted in Carl's hair, pulling his head back further, exposing the length of his throat. Carl's breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound that echoed in the silence. Rick's other hand moved to cup Carl's jaw, his thumb brushing over the stubble, a touch that was both gentle and possessive, a promise of what was to come.

"Look at you," Rick murmured, his voice low and dangerous. "So pretty and so damn stubborn. You think you can handle this, don't you? You think you can take everything I give you and still come out on top."

Carl's eyes flashed with defiance, but he said nothing, his jaw clenched tight, his body trembling with a mix of anticipation and fear. Rick's grip in his hair tightened, a silent warning, a demand for submission. Carl's lips parted, a soft, involuntary gasp that sent a jolt of desire straight to Rick's cock.

Rick's free hand moved to his belt, his fingers deftly unbuckling it, the sound of leather against metal filling the air. Carl's eyes darted to the movement, a flicker of understanding passing through them. Rick's cock sprang free, hard and throbbing, a testament to the depth of his need, his desire to dominate, to claim, to own.

He fisted his shaft, his hand moving slowly, teasingly, his eyes never leaving Carl's face. Carl's gaze was locked onto the movement, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, his body trembling with a need that matched Rick's own. Rick stepped closer, his cock brushing against Carl's lips, a silent demand for more.

"Open up, my pretty girl," Rick growled, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Show me how much you can take. Show me how much of a man you really are."

Carl's lips parted, his eyes never leaving Rick's, a challenge and a submission all at once. Rick's cock slipped into his mouth, inch by inch, filling him, stretching him, a claiming that left them both breathless. Carl's hands fisted at his sides, his body tense, his jaw working as he took Rick deeper, his throat constricting around the head.

Rick's hips began to move, a slow, steady rhythm that built with each pass, his cock sliding in and out of Carl's mouth, his hand still fisted in his hair, controlling the depth, the pace, the pleasure. Carl's moans vibrated around him, a symphony of submission and need, of a desire that went beyond the physical, beyond the boundaries of their world.

Tears streamed down Carl's cheeks, a mix of pain and pleasure, of a surrender that was as complete as it was profound. Rick's thumb brushed over the wet tracks, a gentle, almost reverent touch, a acknowledgment of the depth of Carl's submission, of the trust he placed in Rick, in this moment, in this act.

"That's it, my pretty girl," Rick murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Take it all. Take every inch of me. Show me how much you want this, how much you need it."

Carl's eyes watered, his vision blurring, his body trembling with the effort of taking Rick deeper, of pleasing him, of submitting to his every demand. Rick's hips moved faster, his cock sliding in and out of Carl's mouth with a wet, sucking sound, his hand tightening in Carl's hair, his other hand moving to cup his jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheek, a touch that was both gentle and possessive, a promise of more to come.

Rick's orgasm hit him like a storm, a wave of pleasure that consumed him, that left him shaking and breathless, his cock pulsing as he spilled his seed down Carl's throat. Carl swallowed every drop, his throat working, his eyes locked onto Rick's, a silent promise of devotion, of submission, of a love that transcended the boundaries of their world.

As Rick pulled out, his cock still hard, still throbbing, Carl's lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glazed with pleasure and something more, something deeper and more profound. Rick's hand moved to cup Carl's jaw once more, his thumb brushing over the stubble, a gentle, almost reverent touch.

"You did good, my pretty girl," Rick murmured, his voice soft, a rare moment of vulnerability that spoke volumes more than any words ever could. "You took it all. You took everything I gave you and you came out stronger for it."

Carl's hand covered Rick's, his fingers tangling together, a silent promise of understanding and forgiveness, of a love that would see them through the darkest of times. "I love you, Dad," he whispered, his voice raw and hoarse, a testament to the depth of his submission, of his devotion, of his need.

Rick's eyes softened, a rare moment of vulnerability that spoke volumes more than any words ever could. He leaned in, his forehead resting against Carl's, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating in sync. In that moment, amidst the chaos and the danger, they found a peace, a connection that transcended the harsh realities of their world.

As they pulled apart, Rick's hand moved to cup Carl's jaw once more, his thumb brushing over the stubble. "I love you too, Carl. More than words can express. And I promise you, I will always be here for you. No matter what."

Carl's smile was soft, a rare glimpse of the boy he once was, the boy he still was beneath the tough exterior. "I know, Dad. I know. And I promise you, I will always be here for you too. No matter what."

Chapter Text

The light came through the cracks in the boarded windows in thin, dusty lines. It made the workshop feel like a cage — or a confession box. Every sound seemed too loud here: the click of metal, the scrape of a file, Rick’s slow breathing behind him.

Carl sat at the table surrounded by pieces of a broken rifle. The weapon had belonged to someone else once, someone who hadn’t survived the last ambush. He was trying to make it whole again.

“It’s not lining up,” Carl muttered, squinting through the dim light. He turned the small, cold piece in his hands — a new part he’d scavenged from an old medical bag, a connector that looked close enough to fit the chamber. But close wasn’t enough.

Rick moved from where he’d been leaning, footsteps quiet but heavy. He came to stand over Carl’s shoulder, the air around him carrying the faint scent of smoke and oil.

“Show me,” Rick said.

Carl handed him the barrel. Their fingers brushed; just that contact made something pulse through him, quick and uneasy. Rick didn’t seem to notice.

He examined the part, turning it once in the light. “You’re forcing it.”

“It should fit,” Carl said.

Rick set it down. “It’s not about what it should do. It’s about what it can handle.”

Carl frowned, not sure if Rick was talking about the gun or about him. “I’ve done this before.”

“Yeah,” Rick said quietly. “And sometimes you crack the casing doing it.”

Carl looked back down at the weapon. He could feel Rick still standing close behind him, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “So what, I just give up on it?”

“Not give up,” Rick said. “Find the right piece.”

The words stung more than they should have. Carl gritted his teeth and tried again, sliding the metal into the slot. It resisted at first, then slipped too quickly, misaligned. He cursed under his breath.

Rick’s hand came down over his, steady and strong. “Slow down.”

Carl froze.

Rick guided his hand, adjusting the angle just slightly. “It’s all about pressure,” he said. “Too much, and you break it. Too little, and it won’t hold.”

Carl could feel the roughness of Rick’s skin against his. Every nerve in his hand seemed to light up. He focused on the metal instead — the tiny, deliberate movements, the patience it demanded. The piece slid in, clicked once, then locked perfectly into place.

“There,” Rick murmured.

Carl exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. “Guess you were right.”

Rick’s hand stayed over his for a moment longer than necessary. “You just needed to trust it.”

Carl turned his head slightly. “Or trust you?”

Rick’s eyes met his, steady but unreadable. “Same thing, sometimes.”

The silence between them thickened. Outside, the wind rattled loose shutters. Inside, the smell of gun oil and dust pressed in around them, heavy with memory.

Carl looked back down at the weapon, the newly fitted part gleaming in the low light. It was beautiful in its own way — precise, balanced, something fragile turned strong again.

Rick stepped back finally, his shadow moving away across the floor. “Clean it up. We’ll test it when the rain stops.”

Carl nodded, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had shifted between them.

The rain didn’t stop until evening. By then, the safehouse had gone quiet except for the occasional groan of wood and the distant hiss of water leaking through the roof. Carl sat by the window, the rifle resting across his knees. The repaired piece gleamed faintly in the lantern glow.

Rick came up beside him, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked tired — not from work, but from thinking too much.

“How’s it holding?” he asked.

Carl tilted the weapon to show him. “Feels solid. Like it was made for it.”

Rick smiled faintly. “Funny how that happens sometimes.”

They stood there in silence for a while, listening to the rain. The moment should’ve been ordinary — two survivors, a working gun, another night endured — but it wasn’t. The air between them hummed with something unsaid.

Rick finally spoke. “You did good work.”

Carl looked up. “Because I listened?”

“Because you learned when to stop forcing it.”

Carl nodded, fingers tracing the cool line of metal. He wanted to say something — something about trust, about how Rick’s presence steadied him in ways nothing else could. But the words wouldn’t come.

Rick set the rag aside and leaned against the wall beside him. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said.

“Not always.”

“None of us are.”

The rain slowed outside, tapering to a soft, steady drip. The world felt smaller in that silence — safer, somehow.

Rick turned toward him, voice low. “Get some rest.”

Carl nodded but didn’t move. “You ever think about what’s left of us? The parts that still fit, after everything?”

Rick’s gaze softened. “All the time.”

He pushed off the wall, resting a hand briefly on Carl’s shoulder before heading toward the doorway. “And every time, I figure we’re lucky. Still finding a way to hold together.”

Carl sat there long after Rick was gone, listening to the echo of those words. He looked down at the weapon again, at the new part nestled perfectly where it hadn’t belonged before.

Sometimes, he thought, it wasn’t about finding the exact match. It was about shaping what you had until it fit.

He ran his thumb over the metal, feeling the faint warmth left from his hands and Rick’s earlier touch. It wasn’t just a repair. It was a reminder — that some things, once broken, could still work. Maybe even better than before.

Carl leaned back, eyes closing, the sound of the rain a slow rhythm against the roof. He felt the exhaustion in his limbs, the quiet pride in his chest, and beneath it all, the strange, steady awareness of connection.

When morning came, the storm had cleared. Rick was already outside testing the rifle, the air sharp and clean. The first shot cracked through the empty sky, echoing across the fields like proof.

Carl stepped out onto the porch, watching the smoke curl from the barrel. Rick looked back at him, nodded once — a wordless acknowledgment, a shared understanding.

The gun had held.

So had they.

Chapter Text

Carl's world had always been one of chaos and survival, but the dynamic with Rick had evolved into something far more twisted and visceral. The apocalypse had stripped away the veneer of civilization, leaving only the raw, primal instincts that drove them both.

Carl watched as Rick approached, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that had little to do with food. The world outside was a wasteland, but inside their makeshift shelter, a different kind of hunger was stirring. Rick's presence was a constant, looming threat, and Carl found himself both terrified and inexplicably drawn to it.

"Carl," Rick's voice was low and commanding, "come here."

Carl obeyed, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what was expected of him, and the knowledge both repulsed and excited him. Rick's hands were rough and calloused, a testament to the harsh life they lived. They gripped Carl's shoulders, pulling him close.

"Look at me," Rick demanded, his voice a growl. Carl met his gaze, seeing the reflection of his own fear and desire mirrored back at him. Rick's eyes were dark pools of need, and Carl felt himself drowning in them.

Rick's lips crashed down on Carl's, a brutal and possessive kiss that left Carl gasping for air. He could feel Rick's hardness pressing against him, a stark reminder of the power dynamic between them. Carl was the submissive, the one who yielded, and Rick was the dominant, the one who took.

Rick's hands roamed Carl's body, rough and demanding. He pulled at Carl's clothes, tearing them aside in his haste. Carl's skin was marked by the apocalypse, scars and bruises that told the story of their journey. Rick traced them with his fingers, a silent acknowledgment of the trials they had endured.

Carl's breath hitched as Rick's mouth moved to his neck, biting and sucking. The pain was sharp and sudden, but it only served to heighten his arousal. He could feel Rick's teeth against his skin, a warning and a promise all at once.

Rick pushed Carl down onto the makeshift bed, his body covering Carl's. The weight of him was comforting and oppressive all at once. Carl could feel Rick's erection pressing against his thigh, a throbbing reminder of what was to come.

Rick's hands explored Carl's body, rough and demanding. He gripped Carl's hips, pulling him closer. Carl could feel the heat of Rick's body, the hardness of his desire. He arched his back, offering himself up, a silent plea for more.

Rick's fingers found Carl's entrance, probing and teasing. Carl bit his lip, stifling a moan. The sensation was intense, a mix of pleasure and pain that left him breathless. Rick's fingers pushed inside, stretching and preparing him. Carl clenched his fists, his body tensing as he adjusted to the intrusion.

Rick's mouth moved to Carl's ear, his breath hot against his skin. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice a low growl. "Always mine."

Carl nodded, his voice caught in his throat. He was Rick's, body and soul, a truth that had been forged in the fires of the apocalypse. Rick's fingers moved inside him, a rhythm that was both torturous and pleasurable.

Carl's body ached with need, a deep and primal hunger that only Rick could satisfy. He reached for Rick, his hands grasping at his back, pulling him closer. Rick's body covered his, a heavy and comforting weight.

Rick's cock pushed against Carl's entrance, a slow and steady intrusion. Carl gasped, his body stretching to accommodate him. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that left him reeling. Rick's hips moved, a slow and deliberate thrust that sent waves of sensation through Carl's body.

Carl wrapped his legs around Rick's waist, pulling him deeper. Rick's movements became more urgent, his hips thrusting with a fierce intensity. Carl could feel the tension building, a coiled spring ready to snap.

Rick's hand found Carl's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pleasure that left Carl gasping. He could feel his orgasm building, a wave that was threatening to crash over him.

Rick's movements became more frenzied, his body slamming into Carl's with a ferocious intensity. Carl could feel the tension in Rick's body, the coiled spring ready to snap. He reached for Rick, his hands grasping at his back, pulling him closer.

Rick's body tensed, his movements becoming erratic. Carl could feel the warmth of Rick's release, a hot and pulsating sensation that sent him over the edge. His own orgasm crashed over him, a wave of pleasure that left him gasping and trembling.

Rick collapsed on top of Carl, his body heavy and sated. Carl could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart. He wrapped his arms around Rick, holding him close. In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of them, entwined and sated.

As they lay there, Carl couldn't help but wonder what the future held. The apocalypse had changed them, twisted them into something dark and primal. But in the end, they had each other, a bond forged in the fires of survival. And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Carl found himself in a moment of unexpected vulnerability. The world had become a brutal, unforgiving place, yet amidst the chaos, an electric tension crackled between him and his father, Rick. Carl's young, lean body tensed with a mix of fear and anticipation as Rick, the seasoned survivor, approached with a predatory gaze.

Rick's presence was commanding, his movements deliberate and precise. Carl's heart pounded as he grappled with the complex emotions surging within him. The harsh reality of their surroundings faded, replaced by a raw, primal need that demanded attention. Carl's breath hitched as Rick's rough hands grasped his hips, pulling him closer. The slick, damp heat of their bodies pressed together, a stark contrast to the cold, unforgiving world outside.

Carl's mind raced, a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. He had always seen Rick as a figure of strength and authority, a man who navigated the dangers of their world with unyielding resolve. But in this moment, Rick was something more—something darker and more intense. Carl's body responded to Rick's touch, a visceral reaction that was both surprising and undeniable. The roughness of Rick's palms against his skin sent shivers down his spine, a sensation that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Rick's breath was hot against Carl's ear, his voice a low, guttural growl. "You're mine, Carl," he whispered, the words laced with a dangerous edge. Carl's stomach clenched, a mix of fear and desire coursing through his veins. He knew that in this world, strength and dominance were everything, and Rick embodied both. Carl's body yielded to Rick's, his muscles relaxing under the firm pressure of his hands.

The world around them blurred, the constant threat of the walking dead fading into insignificance. Carl's focus narrowed to the intense, almost painful pleasure that Rick's touch elicited. Each movement was calculated, designed to push Carl to the edge of his endurance. Carl's breath came in ragged gasps, his body slick with sweat as Rick explored every inch of his skin.

Carl's body arched against Rick's, a silent plea for more.

Rick's cock pressed against Carl's thigh, a hard, insistent presence that left no room for doubt. Carl's body responded, his own desire growing with each passing moment. The world around them seemed to fade, replaced by the raw, primal need that consumed them both. Carl's mind raced, trying to make sense of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

Carl's heart raced as he tried to understand the complex emotions swirling within him. The harsh reality of their surroundings seemed to fade into the background, replaced by a raw, primal need. Carl's breath hitched as Rick's rough hands grasped his hips, pulling him closer. The slick, damp heat of their bodies pressed together, a stark contrast to the cold, unforgiving world outside.

The world had taught him to be strong, to be resilient, but in this moment, he felt a vulnerability that was both terrifying and liberating. Carl's body yielded to Rick's, his muscles relaxing under the firm pressure of his hands. The intensity of their encounter left him breathless, his body aching with a need that was almost painful.

As they lay entwined, the world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the raw, primal need that consumed them both. Carl's mind raced, trying to make sense of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. The world was a harsh, unforgiving place, but in this moment, they found a strange, almost fragile connection. The intensity of their encounter left them both breathless, their bodies slick with sweat and desire.

Chapter Text

The sun was low, spilling gold across the broken streets outside the safehouse. Carl leaned against the cracked windowpane, watching dust float in the rays like tiny fireflies caught in amber. The world beyond the walls had fallen quiet, but inside, his thoughts screamed.

Rick moved through the room with quiet purpose, stacking supplies on the table. Every motion was deliberate, measured. Even in his casual movements, there was a precision that made Carl’s chest tighten. He had tried to ignore it for weeks—tried to chalk it up to the stress of survival—but the pull was undeniable.

Carl’s hands twisted together, the weight of his own awareness pressing down on him. He felt exposed, though no one had touched him yet. Just watching Rick, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the subtle play of light across his face, made him aware of every inch of his body.

“You’re quiet,” Rick said, not looking up. His voice carried that calm authority that always made Carl feel like a kid caught in the middle of something bigger than himself.

“I’m thinking,” Carl said, keeping his eyes on the dust motes. “About what we need to do next.”

Rick finally looked at him, and Carl froze. The gaze was sharp, assessing, as if he could see right through the careful walls Carl had built. “Thinking’s good,” Rick said. “Just don’t let it freeze you.”

Carl swallowed hard. He wanted to speak, to tell Rick how often his presence made him feel unsteady, how every glance left him raw. But the words refused to come. Instead, he shifted his weight, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Rick moved closer, footsteps soft against the worn floorboards. Carl could feel the heat radiating off him before he saw it fully, and his pulse jumped. He wanted to look away, to regain control, but the magnetic pull rooted him in place.

“Do you know why you’re tense?” Rick asked quietly, tilting his head.

Carl shook his head, though his stomach knotted with recognition. “I… don’t know.”

Rick’s expression softened, but the intensity didn’t fade. “You think too much about what you feel instead of what you do.”

Carl’s breath caught. The words were simple, yet they cut through the carefully maintained walls inside him. He realized he had been holding everything in—desire, frustration, longing—because he didn’t want to give Rick the power of seeing it.

Rick stepped closer still, close enough that Carl could feel the shadow of him on his arms. “Sometimes,” Rick said slowly, “letting someone see that… that’s the only way you survive this world intact.”

Carl’s hands were sweating, fists clenching. The air between them hummed, thick with unspoken tension. He could feel the pull of needing approval, of wanting to be noticed in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years.

He moved slightly backward, testing the distance, but Rick didn’t retreat. Instead, he shifted just enough to match him, a mirror in silence and posture. Carl realized he had nowhere to go; not really. And part of him didn’t want to go anywhere.

Rick’s eyes held his for a long moment, and in that gaze, Carl saw something that made his chest ache. It wasn’t just attention. It was assessment, recognition, challenge. Carl wanted to crumble, to admit everything that had been gnawing at him. But he swallowed, forcing his pulse to steady, forcing himself to breathe.

“You’re trying too hard to be careful,” Rick said finally. “You don’t need to hide from me. You don’t need to pretend.”

Carl’s lips parted slightly. He wanted to argue, to deny, to pretend that the feelings didn’t exist. But all the effort of keeping them locked inside crumbled under the weight of Rick’s gaze. His chest rose and fell unevenly.

“I’m… not pretending,” Carl whispered. His voice was raw, small, almost inaudible.

Rick took a measured step closer. Carl could feel it in his bones: the gravity, the unspoken command, the sense that nothing he did would go unnoticed. He wanted to step back but didn’t. There was a strange, dizzying safety in that restraint—Rick’s presence was both a challenge and a shield.

“You’re tense,” Rick said, softer now. “But you’re alive. That’s what matters. Everything else…” His words trailed, leaving the rest unspoken.

Carl’s throat tightened. He realized the truth of it: he wanted more than just approval. He wanted the recognition of his own vulnerability, the validation of the chaos inside him that had been building for years. He wanted Rick to see it—and maybe even respect it.

The silence stretched between them, unbroken except for the faint creak of floorboards and the occasional whisper of wind through the cracked windows. Carl felt the hum of awareness, of every heartbeat, every rapid pulse of blood under his skin.

“You’re thinking too much,” Rick said again. “But you’re also learning. And learning takes time. Especially here.”

Carl nodded, chest tight with a mixture of relief and longing. The tension didn’t leave entirely, but it shifted—less a coil ready to snap, more a steady pull, an undercurrent. He could still feel Rick’s proximity, the warmth and strength that pressed against the edges of his consciousness.

He wanted to say something, anything, that could articulate the complicated swirl of emotions inside him, but all he could do was let the moment stretch. Rick’s presence alone was enough to teach him patience, restraint, and awareness of what it meant to be seen.

Finally, Rick moved back slightly, giving Carl a fraction of space, though the charge in the room didn’t dissipate. Carl’s chest rose and fell more evenly now, though the tremor lingered in his fingers. He realized he had survived this moment—not by force, but by acknowledging it, by letting it exist without collapsing under it.

Rick spoke, almost conversationally now. “Go rest. You’ll need energy tomorrow.”

Carl exhaled, long and slow. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Rick nodded once and moved toward the doorway. Carl remained where he was, leaning against the window, staring at the dust in the golden light. He felt the pulse of his own awareness in a way that was almost overwhelming, but it was not fear. It was something new: recognition, desire, and the steady knowledge that he could withstand the pull of this world—and of Rick—without breaking entirely.

As Rick disappeared from the doorway, Carl allowed himself to feel the quiet satisfaction of endurance. The tension lingered, yes, but it no longer pressed him into panic. Instead, it hummed, a reminder that some things were worth the effort to navigate, to survive, and perhaps, one day, to embrace.

Carl closed his eyes and let the golden light spill across him, grounding him, filling him, marking him as someone still alive in this fractured world, someone capable of facing tension, desire, and the weight of being seen.

Chapter Text

The Georgia air was thick with decay—wet earth, rusted metal, the lingering scent of gunpowder from a firefight hours old. Carl moved through the shadows of an abandoned gas station, fingers tight around the grip of his pistol, his boots crunching over broken glass. His dad was a silent weight behind him, close enough that Carl could feel the warmth radiating off him, the steady rhythm of his breath.

They didn’t speak much these days. Words had become scarce, weighed down by too much blood, too many deaths. Sometimes silence was easier.

But tonight, the silence was different.

Carl felt it in the way Rick’s gaze lingered on him, heavy and unreadable. Felt it in the way his own pulse kicked up when his dad’s hand brushed his shoulder in passing, fingers rough with calluses. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it—this thing between them, simmering just beneath the surface. A hunger, raw and unnamed.

The safehouse was a hollowed-out storefront, the windows boarded, the door reinforced with scrap metal. Rick secured it behind them, the deadbolt sliding home with a finality that made Carl swallow hard.

“You should get some rest,” Rick said, voice low. His hat was tipped forward, shadowing his eyes, but Carl knew the way his jaw clenched, the way his knuckles whitened when he was holding something back.

Carl didn’t move. The dim light from a single lantern painted Rick in gold and shadow, casting the lines of his body in stark relief. He was older now, harder, the apocalypse carving him into something ruthless. And God, Carl wanted to taste that edge.

“I’m not tired,” he murmured.

Rick’s gaze flicked up, sharp. There was something dangerous there, something that sent heat pooling low in Carl’s gut.

A beat of silence.

Then—

Carl didn’t know who moved first. Maybe he did, stepping into Rick’s space, close enough to feel the hitch in his dad’s breath. Maybe Rick was the one who reached out, fingers tangling in Carl’s shirt, pulling him in.

The kiss was bruising. Teeth and desperation, Rick’s stubble rough against his mouth, his hands dragging Carl flush against him. Carl gasped, gripping Rick’s shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

It was wrong. It was everything.

Rick’s hands were everywhere—up his shirt, down his jeans, calloused palms mapping skin like he was trying to memorize him. Carl arched into the touch, breathless, dizzy with want.

“Dad—” His voice broke, choked off when Rick nipped at his throat, a sharp sting that made him gasp.

Rick didn’t answer. Just dragged him backward, shoving him down onto the makeshift bed—a pile of scavenged blankets, musty with age but softer than the concrete floor. Carl landed with a grunt, his hips jerking up instinctively when Rick climbed over him, pressing him down with the solid weight of his body.

Carl had imagined this more times than he’d admit. Fantasized about it in the dead of night when the world outside was silent except for the groans of walkers. But reality was better—Rick’s mouth hot on his skin, the scrape of his teeth, the way his hands pinned Carl’s wrists above his head like he couldn’t trust him not to run.

(He wouldn’t. Not from this.)

Rick stripped him slowly, methodically. His hands were steady even when Carl’s trembled, tugging his jeans down his thighs, his boxers after. The air was cool against his exposed skin, but Rick’s gaze was molten, burning him alive.

He didn’t ask if Carl was sure. Didn’t need to—Carl’s cock was already hard, leaking against his stomach, his body writhing under the weight of his father’s stare.

Rick spat into his palm, slicked himself up, eyes never leaving Carl’s face.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

Carl barely had time before Rick was pushing in, slow but relentless, stretching him open on a sharp exhale. It burned—fuck, it burned—but Carl arched into it, nails biting into Rick’s back, dragging him closer.

Rick groaned, low and rough, hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt. Carl whimpered, legs locking around his waist, heels digging into the small of Rick’s back.

The rhythm was punishing. Rick fucked him like he was trying to carve himself into Carl’s bones, each thrust deeper, harder, until all Carl could do was cling to him, gasping nonsense into the crook of his neck.

He came untouched, white-hot pleasure ripping through him, his back bowing off the mattress. Rick followed soon after, spilling deep inside him with a ragged groan, hips stuttering.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was their harsh breathing, the distant shuffle of walkers outside.

Rick finally pulled out, rolling onto his side beside Carl, one arm slung over his chest. His fingers traced idle patterns on Carl’s skin, sticky with sweat and come.

Carl turned his head, met his dad’s eyes.

Rick looked at him like he was something precious. Like he was the only thing left worth saving in this dead world.

Carl closed his eyes.

(Wrong. Everything.)

Outside, the dead moaned.

Inside, they held onto each other.

Chapter Text

The world had long since stopped making sense. The dead walked, and the living rotted from the inside out. Carl had learned that lesson early—too early. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the things he’d wanted in the dark.

The humid night clung to his skin, sweat beading along his nape, rolling down his spine. The prison walls were supposed to keep them safe, but safety was an illusion. The only real thing left was hunger—the gnawing, unrelenting kind that had nothing to do with food.

He’d been watching him for weeks.

Rick.

His father.

Carl clenched his jaw, teeth grinding as he pressed his back against the cold concrete of the showers. The water had run out days ago, but the room still smelled of mildew and rust, the scent thick in his throat. He could hear the steady drip of a leak somewhere, the slow, rhythmic plink of water hitting tile like a countdown.

Then—footsteps.

Carl’s breath hitched. He knew that gait, the familiar drag of boots that had walked through hell and back.

Rick stepped into the dim light of the showers, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the floor. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, sweat glistening on his collarbones, and his hair was a mess of damp curls. He looked like sin wrapped in desperation.

Carl’s mouth watered.

"Didn’t think anyone would be here," Rick murmured, voice rough from exhaustion, from something deeper. His eyes flicked up, locking onto Carl’s. The weight of that stare pinned him in place.

"I—needed a minute," Carl lied. His pulse hammered under his skin.

Rick exhaled through his nose, shoulders dropping as he leaned against the opposite wall. The space between them was thick, electric. The air smelled like salt and heat and something dark.

Then, Rick’s fingers went to his belt.

Carl’s gut twisted.

He didn’t look away as Rick undid the buckle, as the leather slid free with a quiet rasp. His jeans hung low, the outline of his cock visible even in the shitty light.

Carl swallowed hard.

"You gonna watch, or you gonna help?" Rick’s voice was low, dangerous. A challenge.

Carl’s body moved before his brain caught up.

He crossed the space in two strides, fingers curling into Rick’s shirt, pulling him close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. Rick’s hand caught his wrist, squeezing hard enough to bruise, but Carl didn’t care.

Then—heat.

Rick’s cock was heavy in his hand, thick and slick with precome. Carl’s throat tightened as he stroked him, slow and filthy.

"Fuck," Rick gritted out, hips jerking forward. His other hand tangled in Carl’s hair, gripping tight, forcing his head back. Their eyes met, and Carl saw something broken in his father’s gaze.

Then—warmth.

Rick shuddered as he came, streaks of gold spilling over Carl’s fingers, dripping onto the tile between them. The sound he made was raw, ragged, like a man torn apart.

Carl licked his lips.

The world was dead, but this?

This was alive.

Chapter Text

The world outside the walls of Alexandria had always been hungry. It gnawed at the edges of things fences, flesh, the fragile lines between who they were before and who they had to be now.

Carl felt that hunger inside him too, an ache that lived deeper than the hollow of his missing eye, deeper than the bruises on his ribs from last week’s run-in with a pack of roamers. It was an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a fire that refused to smother, no matter how much blood he spilled or how loudly he screamed into the dead air.

And then there was Rick.

His father was a storm—always moving, always needing. The sharp angles of his face had only grown harder over the years, his knuckles perpetually split and scabbed. He was violence given shape, and Carl had learned to match him, step for step.

Tonight, though—tonight was different.

The house was silent except for the creak of the floorboards beneath Rick’s boots as he crossed the room, the low hiss of the lantern burning too bright. Carl sat on the edge of the bed, his back tense, his fingers clenched in the sheets. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, heavy as a hand around his throat.

"You’re shaking," Rick murmured.

Carl wasn’t. But he was holding his breath.

Rick stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing into Carl’s space. A calloused thumb brushed the nape of his neck, rough and familiar. "You gonna let me take care of you or not?"

The question wasn’t really a question.

Rick’s hands moved with the same certainty they did when he reloaded his revolver, when he buried his knife in a roamer’s skull. He pushed Carl forward, pressing him down over the mattress, his palm splayed between his shoulder blades.

Carl’s stomach tightened. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears.

The first touch was always the worst. Or maybe the best. Rick’s fingers worked open the waistband of Carl’s pants, dragging them down his hips, exposing the curve of his ass to the cool air. A shiver tore through him, involuntary.

Rick exhaled through his nose—low, amused. "Still jumpy."

Carl gritted his teeth. "Fuck you."

Rick’s hand smacked across his bare thigh, sharp enough to sting. "Watch your mouth."

The pain was a bright flare, a reminder of where the lines were. Carl swallowed, his fingers digging harder into the sheets as Rick spread him open.

Then—

A tongue, wet and warm, dragging slow over his hole.

Carl’s whole body jerked. His knees slid against the mattress, his breath coming in ragged gasps. It was too much, too raw, the slick heat of Rick’s mouth pressing into him, working him open like he was something delicate.

But he wasn’t.

He was a weapon. He was Rick’s weapon.

Rick groaned against him, one hand gripping Carl’s hip hard enough to bruise as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into him with a rhythm that made Carl’s vision blur.

"Shit—" Carl choked out, his voice breaking.

Rick pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips shiny with spit. "That good, huh?"

Carl didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Rick’s thumb replaced his tongue, rubbing slow circles, stretching him just enough for the first finger to slide in alongside it.

The stretch burned. Carl’s back arched, his muscles tensing.

"Relax," Rick growled, pressing deeper.

Carl squeezed his eye shut. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this—wouldn’t be the last—but every time, it felt like being ripped open. Like being remade.

Rick added a second finger, crooking them just right, and Carl’s hips bucked, a punched-out noise tearing from his throat.

"Fuck, Dad—"

Rick’s other hand clamped over his mouth. "Quiet."

Carl nodded, biting his lip as Rick scissored his fingers, working him wider. Every thrust jolted through him, sparking heat low in his gut. He could feel Rick’s breath against his damp skin, the scrape of his beard, the way his mouth curled into something like a smile when Carl trembled.

Then Rick’s lips were on him again, sucking, licking, his fingers still buried deep.

Carl was going to break.

His cock was hard, leaking against the sheets, but Rick didn’t touch him there. Didn’t give him what he really wanted.

Not yet.

Rick’s teeth grazed his rim, biting down just enough to make Carl cry out before soothing the sting with his tongue. The mix of pain and pleasure was dizzying, the push and pull of it burning through Carl’s veins.

He was drowning. He was alive.

Rick pulled his fingers free, wiping them on Carl’s thigh. "You ready?"

Carl exhaled, shaky. "Yeah."

Rick didn’t make him wait.

Chapter Text

​Carl gripped the cold steel of the rifle, its stock digging into his shoulder. The air in the abandoned warehouse was thick with dust and the metallic scent of old blood, a smell that had become as common to him as damp earth. He was positioned on a rusted catwalk twenty feet above the main floor, his eyes scanning the shadows. He wasn't a boy anymore; he was a sentry, a shield, a soldier in a war that never ended. But even now, years into the apocalypse, he still felt the crushing, suffocating weight of his father’s eyes.

​Rick was below, moving with the heavy, purposeful stride of a man who believed he carried the sun on his back. He was stacking boxes of non-perishables, each movement efficient, his silence more dangerous than any shout.

They were alone on this run, a necessary evil after their numbers had dwindled following the last major skirmish. Carl preferred the runs with Daryl or Michonne—they gave him space, treated him like the capable fighter he was. Rick, however, treated him like a piece of glass perpetually on the verge of shattering.

​“Carl,” Rick’s voice cut through the stillness, low and rough, barely louder than a whisper. “Check the south wall again. And keep that scope lower. You’re silhouetted.”

​Carl’s jaw tightened. He adjusted the angle, knowing his father was right, but hating the immediate, inherent authority behind the command. Everything Rick said was an order, rooted not in dialogue but in the absolute decree of the patriarch. In this world, that wasn’t entirely wrong, but it felt like a cage around Carl’s growth.

​I know what I’m doing, he thought, the unspoken rebellion a physical ache in his chest. I’ve killed more than half the people who rely on you.

​He focused on the wall, the crumbling brick, the deep shadows where rats or something worse might nest. His heart thumped a slow, steady rhythm—not of fear, but of readiness. He was waiting for the inevitable, whether it was the click of a safety being released or the groan of a walker.

​They’d found the warehouse three days ago, a stroke of luck that had given them a temporary reprieve from starvation. But they knew they were pressed for time. They were deep in territory claimed by the Saviors, and every moment they spent loading supplies was a calculated risk.

​Carl shifted his weight, and a small, almost imperceptible creak of the rusted metal followed.

​Below, Rick froze instantly. He didn’t look up; he didn’t even breathe. The sound was swallowed by the cavernous space.
​Damn it, Carl swore internally. He knew Rick was listening, not just for threats outside, but for his own son’s mistakes.

​“Stay put,” Rick mouthed, barely moving his lips. He drew his Colt Python, the familiar weapon appearing in his hand like an extension of his own will.

​A shadow moved rapidly across the main floor, too quick and too low to be a walker. It was a man, small and wiry, dressed in scavenged motorcycle gear, and he was holding a short-barreled shotgun. He must have been hiding in the office alcove near the front dock.

​Carl saw him first. The man’s eyes were darting from side to side, missing the silent, unmoving Rick by the stacks of boxes. The shotgun was aimed randomly, nervously.
​“Hey!” the man yelled, his voice echoing shrilly. “Drop the stuff! It’s mine!”
​Rick didn’t move. He became stone, allowing the distraction of his silence to work.

​Carl, however, had the height and the clear shot. He tightened his finger on the trigger of the scoped rifle. He could end this now, cleanly, before the man even realized where the threat was coming from. It would be a shot of efficiency, of pure necessity.

​He saw the flicker of movement in the corner of the man’s eye the scavenger finally registering the large figure of Rick Grimes. As the shotgun started to pivot towards Rick, Carl heard his father speak, not yelling, but stating a fact: “Don’t.”

​And then, Carl heard a new, terrifying sound.
​It wasn't the sound of the scavenging man. It was the distinct thud of a door being kicked open outside and the rush of multiple boots hitting concrete. They weren't alone. This wasn't a lone scavenger; it was a distraction, or maybe just incredibly bad luck.

The moment the main door slammed back against the wall, at least three more men poured in, all armed, all wearing the tell-tale ragtag uniform of a rogue crew.

​The first scavenger, suddenly emboldened by his backup, leveled his shotgun at Rick.
​Carl acted instantly, dropping his aim from the scavenger's head to the man's chest. He didn't wait for Rick's order—he couldn't.

​CRACK!

​The shot boomed, deafening in the enclosed space. The scavenging man jerked backward, the force of the bullet throwing him against a metal shelf. The shotgun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling, showering sparks and dust.

​But the moment the shot was fired, everything descended into chaos.

​Rick roared, moving out of cover and engaging the newcomers. His Python barked twice, sharp, concise cracks that sounded like shattering ice. Two men went down. The third man, reacting with trained speed, dove behind a forklift, raising a submachine gun.

​Carl was already cycling the bolt, pulling his eye back to the scope. He searched for the machine gunner, but the forklift provided solid cover.

​“Carl! Cover me! Move to the back dock!” Rick yelled. He was firing from the hip now, using the stacked supplies as cover, forcing the last man to keep his head down.

​Carl scanned the catwalk railing below him. The drop was survivable, maybe ten feet, but the landing would be loud and awkward. He had to cross the thirty feet of rusted metal to get to the fire escape leading to the ground floor.

​He took off running, his boots pounding the metal grating. Rick’s voice followed him, laced with a desperate urgency he hadn't heard in months. “Carl, keep firing! Keep him pinned!”
​He slid to a stop at the edge of the catwalk, chambered a new round, and aimed over the top of the railing. The machine gunner briefly exposed the top of his helmet as he tried to get a better angle on Rick.
​
This is it. Do not miss.

​Carl inhaled, held his breath, and squeezed.

​CRACK!

​The bullet struck the concrete floor just inches from the man’s elbow, kicking up a blinding shower of grit and sparks. It wasn’t a hit, but it was enough. The man yelped, pulled his arm back, and flattened himself against the floor, his firing suppressed.

​Carl didn't wait to see the effect. He dropped his rifle and holstered his secondary pistol, grabbing the cold ladder rungs of the fire escape. He descended with practiced speed, the metal groaning a metallic protest. He hit the ground running, dodging a scattered pallet and racing toward the rear loading dock, Rick’s intended escape route.

​He burst into the dock area, finding the wide steel door bolted shut. He looked back just in time to see Rick dive behind the stacks, reloading the Python. The silence was brief, strained.

​Then, the machine gunner opened up, the sound an earsplitting BRRRRT that chewed through the air and ripped huge gouges out of the boxes where Rick had been standing moments before.

​Carl ran to the deadbolt, twisting the heavy iron handle. It screamed in protest, but the bolt retracted.

​“Dad! Go!” Carl shouted, shoving the heavy door outward into the alley. He stepped back, drawing his pistol, providing cover from the opening.

​Rick appeared in the doorway seconds later, covered in a fine layer of white powder from burst flour sacks. He paused, not stepping out, but standing as a guardian in the frame. His eyes locked with Carl’s, intense and raw, holding that familiar mix of fear, pride, and total, unyielding expectation.
​“Your cover was good,” Rick breathed, his voice hoarse. “Move.”

​He didn't wait for a reply, just shoved Carl out into the relative safety of the alley and followed, the heavy door slamming shut behind them with a final, echoing crash, silencing the threat within. Carl leaned against the cold brick, watching his father immediately check his perimeter, his breathing harsh and quick.

​Carl looked down at the pistol in his hand, his knuckles white. He hadn't needed his father's instruction, but he had needed his father's trust. In the chaos, there was only coordination, a brutal, automatic dance they both knew by heart.

The weight of authority was still there, but in the heat of the gunplay, Carl had finally found his own space to move within it, and that, he realized, was the only freedom they would ever know.