Summary: In the aftermath of Alexandria's fall, Carl Grimes finds himself ensnared in Negan’s Sanctuary, where their volatile dynamic blurs the line between power and intimacy, forcing Carl to navigate survival, resistance, and unsettling revelations about himself and his captor.
Warnings: Graphic violence, depictions of death, mentions of torture and scarring, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, emotionally charged and sexually suggestive themes, captivity, mentions of disordered eating and injury, explicit language, and mature content. It's not that deep, though!
I
Carl’s breathing was steady despite the blood pumping in his ears. His steps echoed down the long, dimly lit hallways of the Sanctuary, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. He kept his eyes ahead, his focus unwavering even as the walls seemed to close in around him. Every shadow was a threat, every corner a new uncertainty. Yet, he didn’t falter. He had no choice but to face the man who’d taken everything from him.
The room at the end of the hall was guarded by two Saviors, each armed and stone-faced. They didn’t speak, didn’t question his presence. They merely opened the door and stepped aside, ushering him into the lair of the beast.
Negan was already there, lounging in a chair with Lucille resting across his lap. His grin was sharp and predatory, like a wolf welcoming its prey. His eyes, dark and glittering, raked over Carl with a deliberate slowness that made the younger man’s skin prickle. The silence stretched, the air heavy with tension.
“Holy fuck fucking fuckety fuck! If it isn’t the prodigal son,” Negan drawled, his voice a low rumble that filled the room. “Come to play house with Daddy?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied Carl like a puzzle he was determined to solve. “Or are you here to try and kill me again? Because if that’s the plan, kid, you might wanna rethink it.”
Carl’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “You said you wanted to see me.”
“That I did.” Negan gestured lazily to the chair across from him. “Sit down. Let’s have ourselves a little chat.”
Carl hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stay on his feet, to keep his back to the wall. But defiance alone wouldn’t get him out of here alive, and he knew it. Slowly, he sank into the chair, his posture stiff, his hands resting on his knees.
Negan’s grin widened. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He leaned back, his gaze sweeping over Carl with a mockery of affection. “You know, you’ve got guts, kid. More than most. That little stunt you pulled with the gun? Bold as hell. Stupid, but bold.”
Carl didn’t respond, his silence as much a shield as a weapon.
Negan chuckled, the sound low and throaty. “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m trying to give you a compliment here. You’ve got fire, Carl. A spark. I like that. I like that a lot.”
Carl’s stomach churned at the way Negan said his name, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting it. “What do you want from me?”
Negan’s smile softened, just enough to be disarming. “I want to understand you, kid. You’ve got this whole ‘lone wolf’ thing going on, but I can see the cracks. You’re not as tough as you pretend to be. Not yet.”
“And you think you’re going to fix me?” Carl shot back, his voice cold and sharp.
Negan’s laugh was sudden and loud, filling the room. “Fix you? Shit, kid, I’m not in the business of fixing people. I break ’em. And then, if they’re lucky, I put ’em back together the way I want.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Carl’s gaze never wavered, but inside, he felt the weight of Negan’s presence pressing down on him, testing him, measuring him.
“You’re a puzzle, Carl,” Negan said finally, his voice quieter now, almost intimate. “And I do love a good puzzle. I’m going to figure you out. Piece by piece.”
Carl’s throat was dry, but he forced himself to speak. “Good luck with that.”
Negan’s grin returned, wider than ever. “Oh, I don’t need luck, kid. I’ve got time. And I’ve got you.”
Carl’s heart pounded as Negan rose from his chair, towering over him. The man’s presence was suffocating, a heat that burned without ever touching. Negan’s gaze lingered, heavy and unyielding, before he stepped away, leaving Carl alone with the weight of his words.
II
The first night Carl spent in the Sanctuary wasn’t sleepless, but it was close. His room was sparsely furnished: just a narrow bed, a table, and a single chair. The walls were painted a dull gray, and the air smelled faintly of oil and sweat. It wasn’t much, but it was a far cry from the horrors he knew lurked outside the door. He didn’t have to wonder if someone might burst in during the night, Negan made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate his Saviors laying a hand on Carl.
Carl hated how that knowledge gave him even a sliver of comfort.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. His gun was gone, stripped from him the moment he walked through the gates. Without it, he felt exposed, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t since the early days of the apocalypse. His thoughts spiraled back to Negan’s voice, low and teasing, playing in his head like a loop he couldn’t escape.
"I break ’em. And then, if they’re lucky, I put ’em back together the way I want."
The words were a threat and a promise, and Carl hated how they made his stomach churn.
A sharp knock on the door broke his reverie. Carl stiffened, his instincts screaming at him to brace for the worst. The door creaked open, revealing Negan leaning against the frame, his grin as lazy and dangerous as ever. In one hand, he held a plate of food: eggs, greasy and glistening, with a slice of stale bread.
“Room service,” Negan announced, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He set the plate on the table, his movements unhurried as he turned to face Carl. “You didn’t show up for dinner. I figured maybe you’re not a fan of eating in the cafeteria with the rest of us common folk.”
Carl glared at him, his jaw tight. “Not hungry.”
Negan chuckled, shaking his head. “Bullshit. Everyone’s hungry, kid. Question is, what are you hungry for?”
Carl didn’t answer, his silence as much an act of defiance as it was self-preservation. Negan, undeterred, stepped closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over Carl. He crouched down, bringing himself to eye level with the younger man.
“You know,” Negan drawled, his tone conversational, “there used to be this guy here... Toby? Tobias? Something like that. Little weird, always quiet. One day, he chokes to death eating eggs. Can you believe that? Fucking eggs. I mean, there’s a hundred ways to die out there, but this guy chooses breakfast.”
Carl said nothing, but his lip twitched, a flicker of something that might have been amusement. Negan caught it instantly, his grin widening.
“There it is,” Negan said softly, his voice dropping just enough to make Carl’s pulse quicken. “A little crack in that armor. You’ve got a sense of humor in there somewhere.”
Carl scowled, pushing past Negan to stand by the table. “What do you want?”
Negan rose slowly, the movement deliberate, like a predator stalking prey. “I want you to stop pretending you’re a stone-cold badass. You’re good, kid. Don’t get me wrong. But I see the cracks. I see the fear.”
Carl’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Negan’s laughter was low and rumbling, filling the room like a physical presence. “Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second. You’ve got guts. But fear? Fear isn’t about me. It’s about what you’re hiding from yourself.”
Carl turned away, his shoulders tense. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Negan moved closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t I? You walked into my home with a gun, ready to blow my brains out, and now here you are, eating my food, sleeping in my beds. What’s that say about you, Carl?”
The name lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. Carl’s breath hitched, his heart pounding in his chest. He hated how Negan’s words wormed their way under his skin, picking apart the walls he’d spent so long building.
“Fuck you,” Carl muttered, the words quiet but venomous.
Negan stepped back, his grin returning, sharper now. “Atta boy. Get mad. That’s the fire I like to see.” He gestured to the plate on the table. “Eat something. You’re no good to me if you waste away.”
Carl didn’t move until Negan was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. His legs felt weak as he sank into the chair, staring at the plate of food like it was a trap. But hunger won out, and he took a bite, the grease and salt coating his tongue. It was the first time he’d eaten in what felt like days, and he hated how good it tasted.
Negan’s voice echoed in his head, soft and mocking. “What are you hungry for? Not egg fried rice, I hope!”
III
The Sanctuary was a kingdom, and Negan its unchallenged king. Every corner bore his mark, every whisper carried his weight. Carl hated the place, its stifling control and the smirking bastard who ruled it all. But he hated even more how easy it was to find patterns, to fall into routines that felt normal. The monotony dulled his sharp edges, and that terrified him more than anything.
Negan, of course, didn’t miss a thing.
“Look at you,” he said one day, leaning against the frame of the cafeteria doorway as Carl picked at a plate of beans and rice. “Playing house. Makes me wonder, are you settling in, or are you just biding your time?”
Carl didn’t look up. “What’s it to you?”
Negan stepped inside, his boots heavy against the floor. The room wasn’t crowded, but enough eyes flicked their way to remind Carl that every moment here was a performance, a spectacle directed by Negan.
“Maybe I like to keep tabs on my guests,” Negan said with a grin. “Especially ones who’ve got the balls to try and kill me.”
The tension was always there, humming under every word. Carl ignored it as best he could, but sometimes it swelled, sharp and electric, impossible to escape.
“You don’t scare me,” Carl said, his voice low.
Negan chuckled, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But here’s the thing, kid, you think fear is about what’s out there.” He gestured vaguely toward the world beyond the Sanctuary walls. “Walkers, psychos, bad luck. Nah, real fear? That’s in here.” He tapped his temple. “And here.” He pointed at his chest.
Carl wanted to laugh, to dismiss it, but the way Negan’s eyes locked on his made the air too heavy to breathe.
“Why are you even talking to me?” Carl asked, his fingers curling around his fork. “What’s the point?”
Negan leaned forward, his grin shifting into something darker, more intimate. “Because you intrigue me. And maybe I’m curious to see how far you’ll bend before you break.”
That night, Carl couldn’t sleep. The flickering light of the lantern cast shadows on the walls, shapes that felt like ghosts pressing in. His father would have told him to stay strong, to remember who he was and what they fought for. But here, in this suffocating place, strength felt like an illusion.
A soft knock at the door jolted him upright. He didn’t answer, but the door creaked open anyway. Negan’s silhouette filled the frame, a looming presence that Carl had come to resent and, if he were honest, dread.
“Thought you might be up,” Negan said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. He carried something in his hands: a cigar box.
Carl tensed. “What do you want now?”
Negan smirked, setting the box on the table. “Relax, kid. I’m not here to bust your balls. Figured you could use a distraction.”
He opened the box, revealing a deck of playing cards and a few mismatched pieces of what might have been a chess set.
“Seriously?” Carl said, his disbelief cutting through the tension.
“What, you don’t know how to play?” Negan teased, pulling out the cards. “Come on. Little mental exercise never hurt anyone.”
Carl hesitated, suspicion warring with curiosity. “Why?”
Negan shrugged, his grin softening into something almost genuine. “Because I want to. And because I think you could use something other than brooding all night.”
Against his better judgment, Carl sat down. They played in silence for the first few rounds, Carl’s focus on the cards a welcome reprieve from the swirling storm of his thoughts.
But Negan, as always, couldn’t leave well enough alone.
“Your old man ever teach you this?” he asked, his tone casual but probing.
Carl’s jaw tightened. “No.”
“Figures,” Negan said, laying down a winning hand. “Bet he was more the ‘teach you to shoot first, ask questions never’ type.”
Carl slammed his cards on the table, his anger boiling over. “You don’t know anything about him.”
Negan didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Instead, he leaned back, his grin fading into something colder, more calculating.
“I know he left you alone in a world that eats kids like you for breakfast,” he said softly. “And I know you’re still here, which means you’re either lucky or just stubborn as hell.”
Carl stared at him, his hands trembling with the force of holding back tears he refused to shed. Negan watched him for a long moment, then stood, gathering the cards.
“Game’s over,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Get some sleep, kid.”
Carl didn’t move until Negan was gone. When he finally crawled into bed, the sheets felt too heavy, the air too thick. Sleep came eventually, but it brought no peace.
IV
The Sanctuary was quieter than usual. A storm brewed outside, thunder rumbling in the distance like a warning. Inside, the tension between Carl and Negan reached its breaking point, a volatile mixture of defiance, curiosity, and something neither of them dared name aloud.
Carl stood by the window of his small room, staring out at the rain pelting against the glass. His reflection stared back, hollow-eyed and weary. He barely flinched when Negan let himself in, the door creaking open to reveal the older man holding two glasses and a bottle of bourbon.
“Figured we could use a nightcap,” Negan said, setting the glasses on the table.
“I’m not drinking with you,” Carl said, his voice flat.
Negan chuckled, pouring the amber liquid into both glasses. “Suit yourself. But trust me, it’ll warm you up better than that piss they call coffee around here.”
Carl didn’t move from the window, his silence both a rebellion and an invitation. Negan sat down, swirling the bourbon in his glass before taking a sip.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “I’ve been thinking about this whole little arrangement we’ve got.”
Carl finally turned, his gaze sharp. “What arrangement?”
“This back-and-forth we do,” Negan said, smirking. “You pretending you’re not impressed by my charm, me pretending I don’t notice how much you hate that you don’t hate me.”
Carl’s stomach twisted, anger and something hotter flaring in his chest. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” Negan said, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m not wrong.”
The room felt too small, the air too charged. Carl stepped forward, his fists clenched. “I’m nothing like you.”
“No,” Negan said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You’re better.”
Carl froze, caught off guard by the softness in Negan’s tone.
“That’s why I’m giving you a choice,” Negan continued, standing up and walking to the door. “You can stay here, keep fighting me, keep letting this place eat you alive. Or you can walk out that door and see what the world’s got left for you.”
Carl stared at him, his heart pounding. “Why would you let me go?”
Negan smiled, but it wasn’t the smirk Carl had come to expect. It was quieter, sadder. He brought his head close to Carl, his lips inchesa way to his ear. Carl barely had time to react.
Then Negan whispered.
The next morning, Carl stood at the edge of the Sanctuary gates, a small pack slung over his shoulder. He's not a Saviour. No. He didn’t look back as the gates creaked open, didn’t wait to see Negan watching him from the shadows.
The road ahead was long and uncertain, but for the first time in months, Carl felt like he could breathe.
Back inside, Negan leaned against the gatepost, Lucille resting on his shoulder. One of his lieutenants approached, their expression cautious.
“You really think he’ll make it out there on his own?”
Negan grinned, his eyes following Carl’s retreating figure. “Kid’s a survivor. He’ll be fine.”
And though he’d never admit it, a part of Negan hoped that someday, their paths might cross again.
The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Carl Grimes, Negan,
Relationships: Carl Grimes/Negan
Language: English
Words: 3,603
A split second of tenderness amidst the chaos.
The First Time
Carl sat on the creaky porch of the old house, staring out at the darkening world. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky streaked with bruised purple. Carl’s fingers absently toyed with the frayed hem of his shirt as his mind drifted, caught between memories and the harsh present.
It had been a few weeks since he'd joined Negan's group. The adjustment hadn't been easy. He wasn't thrilled by the situation, but he was learning, or at least surviving. Negan, unpredictable and larger-than-life, seemed to be everywhere. Carl had always kept his distance, never fully letting his guard down, but there was something about him that Carl couldn't quite shake. A magnetism that pulled at him, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.
Carl had stepped outside to clear his head, needing a moment away from the chaos, when he saw him.
Negan appeared in the open doorway of the house, his silhouette sharp against the dimming light. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ember glowing faintly. He wasn't wearing his usual leather jacket. Instead, he stood there, bare-chested, the sheen of sweat on his skin from working outside. Just a pair of faded jeans clung to his waist.
Carl's gaze involuntarily followed the way the muscles of Negan's back shifted with every movement. The sharp line of his ribs was visible beneath his skin. Carl tore his eyes away, but not before a wave of heat rose to his cheeks. He shifted uncomfortably on the porch step, trying to distract himself.
The air between them thickened with an electric tension, and Carl told himself to stand up, to walk away. But his body remained frozen. He couldn't look away as Negan flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot.
Then, Negan turned, and their eyes met.
"Everything alright, kid?" Negan's voice was rough, casual, like the situation wasn't loaded with a thousand unspoken things. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Carl's throat went tight, and he swallowed hard, fighting to find his voice. He nodded stiffly, hoping it would be enough.
Negan's gaze lingered on him, dark and knowing. Carl felt it, a strange warmth creeping into his chest as Negan's eyes dipped lower, a slow sweep that made Carl's face burn.
And then it hit.
Carl felt a sharp, sudden pressure at the bridge of his nose. He winced instinctively, and before he could react, a drop of blood dripped from his nostrils. He froze, mortified. His fingers brushed the skin around his nose, trying to stop the bleeding, but the sight of the blood only made him more self-conscious.
Negan didn't move immediately. Instead, he watched, a dark amusement dancing in his eyes as Carl's hand came away stained with red. The air between them seemed to press in, Carl's pulse loud in his ears. The blood, Negan's proximity, the panic. it all crashed together in Carl's chest.
"You good?" Negan's voice softened, but there was still something amused, something predatory underneath the words. His eyes never left Carl's, studying every tiny movement.
Carl wiped his nose, desperate to hide the blood, but it kept coming, hot and thick. He felt it trickling down to his lips, the warmth of it against his skin. His body stiffened, the rising embarrassment gnawing at him. He didn't want to look weak, not in front of Negan.
"Yeah. Just-" Carl's voice cracked, and he couldn't finish the sentence. His face felt like it was on fire.
Negan's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming. "First time seeing me without my shirt, huh?" His voice was low, teasing, and Carl could tell it wasn't a question, but an observation. Like Negan already knew exactly how it made him feel.
For all the things Carl had survived in this broken world, all the horrors he had faced, he suddenly felt incredibly exposed. He wanted to run, to get away from the burning heat in his chest and the blood on his face, but Negan's gaze held him in place, invisible but unbreakable.
Carl cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away, but the dizziness swirling in his head made everything spin. His breath felt shallow, and his hand, which was still pressed against his nose, trembled. He wanted to seem tough, to appear unaffected, but he was anything but.
"Shit," Negan muttered, his tone changing, still rough, but with an edge of concern. He took a step forward, and Carl didn't move, not even sure if he could.
Before Carl knew it, Negan was beside him, looming over him. With surprising gentleness, he tapped his calloused finger against the blood on Carl's upper lip. His touch was strangely soft, and Carl's breath hitched, his chest tightening in response to the unexpected closeness.
"You need to drink more water, I think. I don’t know" Negan said, his voice rough but with an undertone of something softer, almost tender. He wiped the blood from Carl's face with the back of his hand.
Carl's eyes dropped to the ground, too embarrassed to meet Negan's gaze. The bleeding had slowed, but his nose still throbbed, and it was the heat spreading across his face that made everything feel like it was slipping out of control. It was just blood. He could handle blood. But Negan made everything feel so much heavier.
"You need some help with that? Or you want to keep going at it yourself?" Negan's voice was lighter now, but there was no mockery in it, only amusement, as if he enjoyed seeing Carl flustered.
Carl finally lifted his head, but when he spoke, his voice came out hoarse. "I'm fine," he muttered, though even he wasn't sure if he meant it.
Negan's smirk deepened, his eyes appraising Carl with that unsettling, intense gaze. Without warning, he placed a hand on Carl's shoulder, squeezing it briefly before stepping back. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Carl's system.
"Alright, kid. Don't go getting too worked up over it. Not the first time I've seen someone faint over my looks." He winked, the playful tone never quite reaching his eyes. "I'll leave you to it."
Carl didn't respond. As Negan turned and strode back into the house, his long steps echoing in the quiet night, Carl stayed where he was, his heart still pounding. The dizziness lingered, the mix of confusion, embarrassment, and something else, a strange, tight feeling in his chest, refusing to fade.
When the door clicked shut behind Negan, Carl sank back against the porch railing. His hand still pressed against his nose, and the blood had stopped, but the strange sensations in his body hadn't gone away. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath.
The weight of the moment hung in the air like a shadow, thick and unrelenting.
The Second Time
The days bled into one another. Carl had started to settle into the rhythm of life under Negan's rule, strange, unpredictable, but somehow consistent. The constant tension that hung in the air, the uneasy quiet that followed Negan's every move, had become something Carl hardly noticed anymore. It was like background noise now, a hum in the distance.
Still, Carl couldn't shake the image of Negan from his mind, the way the man moved, the way he carried himself. It wasn't just the bruising confidence that radiated from him; it was how his presence seemed to fill every space, swallowing everything else up. Carl hadn't expected it, but he found himself looking for him more and more.
It wasn't supposed to matter. But it did.
One afternoon, Carl was in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets for something to eat. His head ached dully, a product of too many sleepless nights and questions that never seemed to have answers. The house was eerily quiet, too quiet. He hadn't seen Negan since breakfast, but Carl could feel his absence pressing down on the room like a heavy weight. The silence didn't feel right. It was unsettling, and it only made Carl wonder where Negan had gone.
Carl pulled out a can of beans, cracking it open with the jagged edge of the lid. He didn't bother heating it. He just needed something to dull the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.
He was halfway through chewing the first spoonful when he heard footsteps, heavy, deliberate.
It was as if his body had already known. A part of him had anticipated Negan's arrival before his brain registered it. Carl's muscles tensed, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he turned, just in time to see Negan step into the kitchen.
Carl's mouth went dry.
Negan was standing in the doorway, one hand resting casually on the frame, the other holding a beer. He wore that same faded, unbuttoned shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that covered his forearms. As he brought the bottle to his lips, his biceps flexed, the tattoos moving with him, rough designs inked into his skin like a map of his life.
Carl's gaze involuntarily lingered on the tattoos. They weren't just random marks; they told a story, one Carl wasn't supposed to care about. But he did. The curiosity itched at him. Who had Negan been before everything?
It wasn't supposed to matter. But it did.
Carl shifted uneasily, his face heating. He didn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he shoved the spoon into his mouth, focusing on the cold beans to distract himself from the fact that Negan was still standing there, taking up all the space in the room, like he owned it.
"Eating alone?" Negan's voice broke through the silence, rough but casual, as always.
Carl didn't answer immediately. He couldn't. His throat felt tight, and his pulse hammered in his ears. The discomfort, the strange helplessness he felt in Negan's presence, made his hands shake.
Negan took another sip from his beer, his eyes narrowing as he looked Carl up and down. "You sure you're alright? You're looking a little pale.”
Carl could feel it before it happened. The familiar twisting in his stomach, the blurring at the edges of his vision. The sharp ache at the bridge of his nose flared, insistent.
No. Not again. Not now.
But his body betrayed him.
He pressed his hand to his nose, feeling the blood start to pool beneath his fingers. It was slow at first, but then it came faster, dripping over his lips and down his chin, staining his shirt.
Carl cursed under his breath. Not again. He wiped frantically at his face, but it didn't stop. It kept coming, hot, sticky, impossible to ignore. His heart raced. His head spun. He tried to focus on anything other than the fact that Negan was still standing there, watching him. His gaze felt like it was burning through the room.
"You've got to be kidding me,” Carl muttered, his fingers fumbling uselessly, trying to stop the bleeding.
Negan was there before Carl could react, stepping forward with the same deliberate ease that made his presence impossible to ignore. His boots creaked on the floorboards as he approached, his figure looming over Carl like an inescapable force.
"Shit, kid,” Negan muttered, his tone unexpectedly serious. He extended a hand, hovering near Carl's face, unsure of how to help. Carl's breath hitched. The blood was still pouring, but it wasn't the blood that made his chest tighten. It was the way Negan looked at him, like he wasn't just seeing Carl. He was seeing everything. Every flicker of panic, every tremor in his hands.
"Let me help you,” Negan's voice softened. It was the gentlest Carl had ever heard him speak. Before Carl could pull away, Negan's hand was on his shoulder, steadying him.
Carl couldn't help it, his body leaned into the touch, even as it terrified him. He was acutely aware of the heat that seemed to spread between them.
Negan didn't wait for Carl to speak. With surprising gentleness, he wiped Carl's face clean with a cloth from the counter. Carl's heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn't from panic this time. It was something else, something unsettling, yet strangely comforting. His thumb brushed along Carl's chin, wiping away the last trace of blood. Carl stood frozen, unable to move, all of his attention on the way Negan's fingers lingered on his skin.
Negan's eyes flicked from Carl's face to his eyes, the depth of his gaze making Carl feel both exposed and... protected. It was a confusing mix, unsettling yet strangely comforting.
"Better?” Negan asked quietly.
Carl nodded stiffly, too embarrassed to speak.
For a brief moment, silence hung between them, thick with something Carl couldn't quite name. Negan sighed, as if considering something, before speaking again.
"You're not gonna faint again, are you?” he asked, his voice gruff, teasing. "Wouldn't want you passing out on me. Not after all the trouble it took to clean you up.”
Carl's eyes darted up to meet Negan's, and for a split second, it felt like the air was charged between them, thick with something Carl couldn't define. Negan didn't look away. He didn't mind the silence that stretched between them.
Then, without warning, Negan's thumb brushed lightly across Carl's lips. The touch was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make Carl's breath catch in his chest, heat flooding his face.
"You're good now,” Negan murmured, his voice low and teasing, but there was something darker beneath it, something Carl couldn't ignore.
Carl wiped his nose again, trying to focus on anything other than the heat that was spreading through his chest. Negan was still close, still watching him with that same dark amusement.
"You wanna try not getting yourself in a bloody mess next time?” Negan's voice softened, though it still held a teasing edge.
Carl nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.
Negan gave him one last glance before turning toward the door. "Alright. I'll leave you to it. Just... don't make a habit of this, alright?”
Carl watched him leave, his heart still racing.
The Third Time
He’s seen his fair share of blood.
He’s seen Negan spill even more, far more and too much.
It’s not the blood.
Carl couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way, this strange, tangled mess of anger, confusion, shame, and something else that lingered just beneath the surface, dangerous and unnamed. He hadn't meant for it to happen. It wasn't supposed to happen. But it had, and now the more he tried to push it away, the more it gnawed at him from the inside, sharp and relentless.
It had been days since he last saw Negan, and that unnerving absence only made things worse. Carl couldn't focus, couldn't think about anything but the memory of that afternoon in the kitchen, when Negan had stood too close, when he'd wiped the blood from Carl's face with a tenderness that had felt completely out of place. Something had shifted in that moment, Carl was sure of it. But what? And why did it feel like it was only getting more dangerous the more he thought about it?
It didn't help that Negan had started appearing at the most unexpected times, always slipping into his line of sight, his presence like a shadow that lurked just at the edges of Carl's awareness. Every glance, every smirk, felt like a challenge, like a question Carl didn't know how to answer. And that infuriated him. He hated how easily he was distracted by Negan, how his body betrayed him every time the man so much as looked at him.
It was late afternoon when it happened again. Carl had been sitting alone in the sitting room, flipping through an old book he found in the attic. An autistic teenager solving the mystery of a dog’s death-or-murder. It was nothing important, just a distraction, something to keep his hands busy while his mind spiraled. The words on the page barely held his attention. But that didn't matter. It gave him something to focus on when the world around him felt too oppressive.
He didn't hear Negan come in. He rarely did. Negan had a way of entering a room without making a sound. By the time Carl realized he was there, the man was already leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a lazy smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
"Lost in thought?” Negan's voice was smooth, silk over gravel, the kind of voice that made Carl's skin prickle and his pulse spike.
Carl's heart skipped. For a moment, he couldn't trust himself to speak. The words were stuck somewhere deep in his throat. He nodded stiffly, trying to hide the rush of heat that flooded his face. His eyes stayed glued to the page in front of him, but he could feel Negan's presence like a weight in the air. He knew the man was moving closer, the sound of his boots scraping softly across the floor.
"What's got you so deep in that book?” Negan's tone was teasing, almost too casual, like he was inspecting Carl's reaction, looking for something to exploit.
Carl clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the words, the meaningless lines in front of him. His forehead was damp with sweat. His hands were trembling. He couldn't look up at Negan, not when his body was already betraying him.
"I'm fine,” Carl muttered, his voice rougher than he intended. The lie felt heavy in his mouth, but he had to say it. He needed to believe it. He needed to convince himself he wasn't about to lose control again.
Negan didn't answer right away. Carl could feel the weight of his gaze, like it was weighing him down, stripping away the mask he'd spent so much time building.
"You sure about that?” Negan's voice dropped, the teasing edge fading, replaced with something darker. It made Carl's stomach flip.
Before Carl could react, Negan was closer, closer than he expected. The man's presence filled the room, suffocating, pulling Carl into his space like an invisible force. Every nerve in Carl's body screamed for him to pull back, to put distance between them. But he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.
The air between them thickened, charged with something Carl couldn't name, something he didn't want to acknowledge. Negan reached down, his fingers brushing Carl's shoulder before sliding up to his jaw, a familiar touch, but this time deliberate, slow. The way Negan lingered, like he wanted Carl to feel the weight of the moment, to understand this wasn't some accident.
Carl flinched when Negan's thumb brushed his bottom lip. It sent a jolt through him, igniting a burn that spread across his skin.
His hands started to tremble. The pressure at the bridge of his nose flared again. No. Not now.
"Not again,” Carl whispered under his breath, barely keeping his voice steady as he closed his eyes, feeling the blood begin to pool, hot and sticky, dripping down his lips.
Negan's gaze flickered to the blood on Carl's chin, his amusement darkening. He crouched in front of him, tilting his head just slightly, eyes studying Carl with a strange mixture of fascination and something else Carl couldn't quite grasp.
"Shit,” Negan muttered, his voice rough, almost softer than usual. "You really can't keep it together, can you?”
Carl clenched his fists, trying to hold onto what little control he had left, but it was futile. His body was already betraying him, reacting to Negan in ways he couldn't control.
Negan wiped his thumb gently across Carl's chin, collecting the blood, slow and methodical. Carl flinched again, but this time, he didn't pull away. His body refused to move.
"God, Carl,” Negan murmured, his voice a whisper as his thumb wiped the blood once more, this time slower, almost soothing. His face was too close, close enough that Carl could feel the heat of his breath. It was too much. The moment stretched out between them, thick and suffocating.
Carl's pulse pounded in his ears. Negan's hand cupped his cheek, fingers calloused but gentle. "You really ought to learn to control yourself,” Negan whispered, lips brushing the edge of Carl's ear, sending a shiver through him.
Carl's body burned. His mind couldn't keep up. And before he could even process what was happening, Negan's lips were on his skin. He licked the blood from Carl's chin, the shock of it rattling Carl to his core. The heat of his tongue, the softness of his lips, it was too much. Too intimate. Too close.
Carl gasped, his body frozen. His breath came out ragged, strangled. His mind scrambled to make sense of what just happened, but he couldn't.
Negan pulled back just enough to meet Carl's eyes. There was no teasing in those eyes now, no amusement. Just something dark, something knowing that Carl couldn't shake.
And then, just as softly, Negan kissed Carl's forehead, a quick, light touch that left Carl reeling.
"You'll remember this,” Negan whispered, his breath hot against Carl's skin. “You’re welcome.”
Carl's world felt like it was crumbling, but in that moment, he couldn't find the strength to push him away.
Negan straightened, his hand brushing Carl's hair back. He stood up, offering one last glance before walking away without another word.
Carl's heart was still racing, his mind spiraling. He sat frozen in place, the blood still staining his chin.
The Walking Dead (TV)
Characters: Carl Grimes, Negan, Rick Grimes, Michonne
Relationships: Carl Grimes/Negan, Rick Grimes & Michonne
Language: English
Words: 2025
(AU - Carl lives)
Years after the war ends, Alexandria is rebuilding... and so are the people in it. Carl Grimes has always seen the world a little differently, and when he finally confesses to Michonne his secret, it sends ripples through their found family.
What follows is awkward honesty, playful banter, and surprising healing as Carl, Negan, Michonne, and Rick sit down for the world's weirdest dinner and rediscover that love, strange, inconvenient, and real, might just be what survives.
Carl sat on the porch of Alexandria's newly rebuilt community center, elbows resting on his knees, fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. The sun had begun to dip beneath the treetops, casting long, honey-gold streaks across the road. Alexandria looked peaceful now, almost too peaceful. Like it didn't remember what it had lived through.
But Carl remembered. He always would.
Beside him, Michonne rocked gently in one of the handmade porch chairs, sipping from a chipped ceramic mug that was steaming, if only barely. Whatever was in it wasn't quite tea, not anymore, just boiled rainwater and some hopeful handfuls of leaves smelling vaguely like mint. It wasn't about taste, though. Rituals mattered.
Her eyes scanned the quiet street, watchful as ever. But it was her sidelong glance that told Carl he wasn't doing as good a job hiding his nerves as he thought.
"You alright, kid?” she asked, voice low and dry, like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway. "You look like you're about to confess to murder.”
Carl barked out a short, nervous laugh. "I mean… not murder, but you're not wrong.”
Michonne arched a brow and set the mug down on the porch rail. "Spill it, Carl.”
He hesitated, just a second. But in that second, all the fears he'd shoved to the back of his mind came clawing to the surface: fear of rejection, of disappointment, of breaking something he couldn't fix. But Michonne had never been the type to judge with words first. She'd listen. She always listened.
Carl took a breath. Then another. And before he could change his mind, the words tumbled out.
"It's Negan.”
"What?”
"I'm dating Negan.”
Silence.
A single bird chirped from the nearby woods, like it had been waiting for the moment just to make it even more awkward.
Michonne blinked, slowly. Once. Then again. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. Then: "Negan. Like… Negan Negan.”
Carl winced. "Yeah. It started slow, and weird, and... okay, yeah, it is weird. I know that. But he's… he's changed, Michonne. Really. He's not the same guy from before. Not who he was when he had the bat and the swagger and the bullshit speeches.”
She stared at him, unreadable.
Carl pressed on, voice quiet but steady. "He makes me laugh. He listens to me. He sees me like… like I'm a person, not just Rick's son or the one-eyed kid with the tragic past. I don't know when it happened exactly. It just… did. And I fought it for a while. Thought it was just guilt or trauma bonding or... I don't know. But it's real.”
The silence stretched a little longer, but it didn't feel as cold anymore.
Michonne turned her gaze back to the horizon, exhaling slowly. "Carl, I don't like it.”
Carl flinched. "I know.”
"You know what he did. To all of us. To your dad. To you.”
"I do,” Carl said softly. "But you also know I always saw something different in him. Even back then. When I was just a dumb kid talking to a guy in a jail cell. I could've hated him. Probably should've. But I didn't.”
She gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Yeah. I remember. You had this annoying habit of seeing the best in people, even the ones who didn't deserve it.”
Carl gave her a crooked smile. "He deserves it.”
Michonne resisted a smile herself. "Guess you still do.”
Silence again, for just a few couple of minutes. Carl's heart sank.
"He's not just anyone, Carl,” Michonne said, her voice tight with something she wasn't saying. "He killed Glenn. Abraham. Almost killed your dad. And after all that, somehow… you found love there?”
"I don't know if it's love yet,” Carl admitted. "But it could be. And… isn't that what you guys wanted? When the fighting stopped... wasn't this the whole point? Finding peace? Finding people again?”
Michonne didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, and for a brief moment, he saw the faintest shimmer in her eyes. Not quite tears, but close. A history too heavy to carry but impossible to forget.
Then she reached out, took his hand, and squeezed it.
"No, I'm not gonna tell you to stop,” she said. "Because I trust you. And I love you enough to accept that you know your own heart. Even if it's choosing someone I wouldn't have picked in a million years.”
Carl didn't realize how much tension he'd been holding until it released all at once. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a breath that bordered on a sob. He leaned into her, wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug.
"Thank you,” he whispered.
She returned the hug with one arm and muttered into his shoulder, "He better not screw this up or I will bury him in the garden.”
Carl laughed, loud and real, chest loosening with every breath. "Duly noted.”
They sat like that for a while, the sun slipping further down, painting the sky in streaks of orange and lavender. The sounds of Alexandria in the evening filled the silence... distant laughter, a door creaking open, the low rumble of Eugene talking too loudly about compost.
It was peaceful.
It was strange.
And it was okay.
Eventually, Michonne pulled away, giving him a firm look. "You telling your dad next?”
Carl nodded. "Yeah. Negan's coming by tomorrow. We're gonna do it together.”
She sighed dramatically. "I should stock up on aspirin.”
Carl chuckled, brushing his hair back. "He'll be cool. I think.”
Michonne narrowed her eyes. "Rick is many things, Carl. Cool is not one of them.”
Carl smirked. "You used to think that was charming.”
"Yeah. Until he left me to go save the world with no return date. Now I'm just annoyed.”
They both grinned. And in that moment, Carl felt something warm settle deep in his chest. Not just relief, but something closer to peace.
Not everything was forgiven. Not everything had to be. But some things… some things could be accepted. Grown into. And maybe, just maybe, even cherished.
Rick's house was still the same old bones, even after all the rebuilding. The wooden beams were worn smooth now, sanded and stained with care. The new windows let in more light, and the fireplace, once barely functional, had been restored with bricks from a collapsed school building a few miles out. It was warmer here, both in temperature and spirit. Still, the tension in the living room tonight could be sliced with a blade.
Rick sat in his patched-up armchair, beard trimmed but still a little wild, strands of silver gleaming under the low lamplight. His revolver wasn't on the table, but Carl was 98% sure it was in the drawer beside him. Just in case.
Negan stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him. No leather jacket. No Lucille. Just an old flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and the familiar look of someone trying not to make too much noise in a bear's den. Which was ironic, considering how loud he used to be.
Carl sat on the edge of the couch, trying not to bounce his knee too obviously.
Rick's eyes went back and forth between them, lingering on the way Carl's hand rested beside Negan's on the cushion, close enough to touch, but not quite. A long, quiet moment passed. Then Rick rubbed his chin and asked the question Carl had been bracing for.
"You're sure?”
Carl didn't hesitate. "I am.”
He glanced sideways, caught Negan's gaze, and reached out, lacing their fingers together. Negan didn't even flinch. Just squeezed gently, grounding him.
"It's real,” Carl added, voice firm.
Negan offered a small smile, crooked like always, but softer than it had ever been in the old world. "Hey, Rick. Before you say anything, just know: I know I'm lucky. Lucky he even talks to me, let alone…” He looked at Carl, his eyes full of something surprisingly vulnerable. "I won't mess it up.”
Rick didn't answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and gave Negan the kind of long, squinting stare he used to give random newcomers at the gates.
Carl could feel Michonne watching from the arm of the couch, one eyebrow halfway to the ceiling.
Then Rick sighed dramatically, rubbing at his jaw. "Damn. Thought I was more your type, Negan.”
Negan froze.
Carl blinked.
Michonne snorted.
"…Come again?” Negan asked, laughter bubbling at the edges of his voice.
Rick shrugged. "What? I've got the salt-and-pepper thing going on. Got that grizzled charm. Don't act like you never looked.”
Carl groaned. "Dad.”
Michonne nearly spit out her drink. "Rick, wha-”
Negan burst out laughing. Not his old theatrical cackle, but something sharp and delighted and real. "You know what? If things were different, sheriff, maybe you'd have had a shot.”
Carl buried his face in his hands. "I can't be here for this.”
Michonne wiped her eyes, shaking her head. "This is so not the direction I thought this would go.”
Rick leaned forward, expression settling into something more serious, but not angry. Not even cautious. Just a little tired, and a lot thoughtful.
"Look,” he said, turning to Negan. "I still don't like what you did. That's not something I'll ever forget. But… I've seen the way you've changed. You didn't just rot in that cell, you helped. You stayed when things got hard. And if Carl sees something good in you, after everything? That means something.”
Negan nodded once. "It should. I owe him more than I can say.”
"You owe a lot of people,” Rick added, not unkindly.
"I know,” Negan said. "And I'll keep paying. Every damn day.”
Rick gave a slow nod, then looked at Carl again. "You're happy?”
Carl squeezed Negan's hand again. "Yeah. I am.”
Rick leaned back again, his face easing into a quiet smile. "Then I'm good.”
It was that simple. No fireworks. No speeches. Just something heavy lifting off the air.
They sat together for a while after that, conversation trickling in, low and meandering. Michonne eventually brought out a half-decent casserole made with potatoes, wild greens, and something Eugene swore wasn't possum. Negan helped carry the plates and even asked Michonne about her garden, though she still watched him like she was mentally measuring a six-foot grave.
Rick, surprisingly, cracked a few more jokes, at Carl's expense, mostly. "I always figured you'd end up with someone quiet. Maybe a librarian. Instead, you bring home the guy who used to swing a bat at people's skulls. What happened to subtle?”
Carl just smirked. "Guess I inherited your taste in dramatic men.”
"Touché.”
Later, as the night deepened and shadows stretched long across the walls, they stepped outside for fresh air. The sky was clear, stars littered like glitter on black velvet. Over the trees, a massive moon was rising, eerie and beautiful.
"Blue moon," Rick said, looking up.
"In June,” Michonne added. "Old superstition says it's the time for cleansing. Reckoning.”
"Also romance,” Negan muttered.
Carl raised a brow. "You read that in a gardening almanac?”
"Nah,” Negan grinned. "I just make shit up. But it sounds right, doesn't it?”
They all stood there quietly for a moment, watching the strange moon glow over the safe walls of Alexandria. The past still lingered, always would. But in that hush, the world didn't feel heavy.
It felt light. Playful. Forgiving, maybe.
Michonne handed Negan a bowl of mashed potatoes with a slow side-eye. "You get one chance with him. One.”
Negan raised the bowl like a toast. "Understood. And for the record, I'd die for this kid. But if you ask me to weed the squash beds again, I might fake my own death instead.”
Carl laughed, leaning into Negan's side. "Deal.”
And somewhere behind them, Rick muttered, "Still can't believe I lost out to him.”
"Rick,” Michonne warned.
"What? I'm just saying, I had the jawline. The beard. The skills. I was a package deal.”
"Dad, go to bed,” Carl groaned, cheeks pink.
The laughter followed them all the way back inside.
