Warnings: Anything that youâve seen in The Walking Dead, i guess. itâs all in the tags
desc:Â
He looked like a wild animal and spoke in choppy sentences, but Ron Anderson couldn't help but like him. Ron and his friends, Mikey and Sophia, are Saviors under the management of Negan. When what starts out as a normal trip to Junk Yard turns sour between the bat-wielding leader and Junker Lieutenant, Rick Grimes, the Saviors take a certain prisoner that Ron ends up caring for in more ways than one.
New book out on my Wattpad, if youâre interested!
Itâs a chronological chapter book based on Carlâs arrival in Alexandria to Ronâs death. It is Rarl, so if thatâs not your cup of tea, sorry. Each chapter is based on a letter of the alphabet, so if youâre interested, give it a read! Thank you!
Can you do a fanfic where Carl and Ron are in the line up with negan, and carl fears for ron's life (After Abraham and Glenn are killed). and when Negan thereatans to kill Ron Carl breaks down! Of course the ending is fluffy.
warnings: gore, swearing
âIâm gonna beat the holy hell out of one of you,â Negan had said, voice dripping with obvious pleasure at seeing them at his batâs mercy.
It was a lie. Two people were dead now, not just one. Abrahamâs skull was split, red hair matted with blood, while Glenn was simply unrecognizable. Maggie kneeled by him, sobbing uncontrollably. Negan didnât bother her; he knew she was harmless in the state she was in.
âWoah!â He howled into the crisp night air, his being the only voice apart from the choking cries of the Alexandrian people. âAinât that fun?!â He grinned, turning full circle to look at the tear-stained faces of the group, pearly whites bared in sickening joy.
âTwo for one!â
No one laughed, not even the Saviors. They simply watched, hoping to witness one more bloody decapitation. Carlâs eyes were stinging with tears he wouldnt let fall, eyes focused on the dirt as he listened to Ron retch beside him, unable to stomach the scene before him.
âCome on blondie,â Negan said, boots crunching gravel as he sauntered his way over to the teens, eyes narrowed in pride at the reaction he could get out of the weaker stomaches. âGrow a pair.â
Ron choked up the last of the bile in his stomach, coughing as he raised his gaze to meet Neganâs. Carl silently begged him to stay quiet, begged him not to say anything that would get him killed, end with him on the ground like his family.
âYouâreâŠâ Ron shuttered, spitting the sick taste from him mouth, tears streaming his face. â⊠A sick bastardâŠâ
The last word hung in the air like a hairpin about to drop, and Carlâs whole body seemed to freeze, dread coursing through every part of his body.
And Negan laughed. âDamn, kid! Does blondie wanna play some fuckinâ ball, too?â He lightly gripped his bat with one hand, and feigned a swing at Ronâs head, as if lining up his aim.
Carl broke.
The noises that escaped his throat were unlike any other, and they had Negan staring. He cried, and he cried, begging the monster that stood over him to leave Ron alone, to take him instead. Everyoneâs eyes were on Carl as he uncharacteristically wailed into the dirt.
âPlease,â He howled, âP-please donât- hurt my baby! Please! S-stop- I-â
Negan tipped his head to the side a little, slowly crouching down in front of Carl, all thoughts of hitting Ron leaving his mind as he took interest in the previously stoic boy having a melt down.
âWow,â He crooned, watching the one eyed boy whimper and sob into the ground at his boots.
âWhat a show this is. No, Iâll leave your precious little âboyfriendâ. This is just way too interestinâ.â He laughed loudly, making Carl and Ron flinch.
Negan stood.
âWell, on that note, Iâll be making my leave! I seem have made a lasting impression on even the bravest, it seems! Come on boys! Pack up!â He roared at the saviors and they sprung into action, loading into cars quicker than they had come.
Carl and Ron just held onto each other, buried in each otherâs embrace.
[Summery: Ron starts to open up to Carl after Enid breaks up with him, and Carl returns the favor.]
[Rating: Mature/Teen]
[Warnings: Swearing, A tiny bit of sexual stuff towards the end but not much, detailed death recollection]
Usually, I'm relatively good at worming myself into the minds of others and understanding their vague motives. Most of the time, it's easy to see a stranger's true intentions just by the way they hold themselves and how they speak. The eyes are a huge giveaway as well. Liars are distant and look shiftily at you as if waiting for you to call their bluff, while truthful people tend to want to be close and make constant eye contact.
I know that Ron Anderson is supposed to be a filthy liar, just like his father. My dad tells me to keep my distance, Mich reminds me to watch my back, and Ron's body language screams liar. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't get close.
Yet, I want to believe him. Especially now, watching him through the window, sitting on my porch in the middle of the night, head bowed against the darkness.
I shouldn't go out there, I know it's asking for trouble, but I still unbolt the front door, as quiet as possible, and step out into the humid night air.
I know he's been crying, even before I see his face. I hear his sniffs and I see his shoulders shaking.
He must know I'm there, as I shut the door, yet he doesn't move an inch, simply sits quiet, as if he's been waiting for me.
Moving over to him, I sit beside him, hanging my feet over the edge of the porch, just as he is. It's strange how he doesn't tell me to get lost, doesn't cuss and spit names at me. He just sits.
"Enid broke up with me," He said, after a moment of silence.
I don't reply. I don't know how to reply to something like that. It seems like such a little thing to me. She wasn't dead, she wasn't bitten, she was just backing off from Ron. Ron looked sick to his stomach, and he was messing with a pack of cigarettes that sat in his lap.
"You can have her, now. I'm giving you permission."
"I don't need permission," The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself, and I quickly add to it as he looks at me angrily.
"I-I mean, I don't want permission. Enid is her own person, I don't want to own her. She doesn't want to be owned. I don't want her, anyway."
A moment of silence passes before Ron laughs, rubbing his face with a pale, shaky hand.
"I've seen you two sneaking off-"
"We were just outside. We weren't doing anything, Ron. Just talking. She likes it out there, but everyone needs someone to watch their back. Even you."
Ron's expression sours. "I don't need anyone," he said, checking his pockets for a lighter, and giving up when he didn't find one. I pull mine from my coat pocket, producing a flame with ease. We make eye contact.
"Of course you do," I say softly, and he lights his beaten cigarette, offering me one as well. We smoke in silence, shoulder to shoulder.
"Why'd she dump you?" I ask after a few puffs, and he responds with a shrug.
"Pretty obvious, isn't it? I mean, I wasn't the best boyfriend in the world, was I?"
"No," I agree, tapping my cigarette in my fingers. "A little bit overbearing, in my opinion, but it was understandable. You were worried."
He nods along with my words, brown eyes finding interest in his worn out sneakers.
"I don't think I love her," He admits. "I just want to keep her safe. She deserves to be safe."
It's agreeable enough. I didn't really see the love between them; just a mutual caring. Enid never did strike me as the loving type. Even when she was around me, she never does anything that crosses the boundary of friendship, even if she was very physical in showing it.
"That's fine," I tell him. "Sometimes, it's better that way. You both might be happier now," My hand finds his shoulder, and I make a move to stand up, but he looks at me, and his dark eyes stop me. He holds me with his gaze, my wrist trapped in his grip.
"I don't really want to go home alone," He says, and I'm quick to offer my assistance.
"I can walk you-" But, he interrupts me.
"Can I stay? The night?"
It takes me a moment to digest his request, but in the meantime, I don't pull away, and neither does he. The only noise in the air is frogs croaking and crickets chirping, and slowly, I nod. I really shouldn't trust him in my home, but I remind myself that Alexandria was his home first, and to him, I am the guest. He seems to trust me to an extent, and it's only fair of me to give him a chance.
"Yeah," I say, as I nod, helping him stand as well. "You have to be quiet, though. I don't want to wake up Judy or Dad. Both of them are really jumpy."
"So are you," He adds, as we step inside the exceptionally cooler house. Humidity still clings to our damp shirts, and I make a mental note to offer him a fresh change once we get to my room.
"Yeah," I say, once more, slowly sneaking across the living room and to the stairs. "I know."
We make it to the second floor without interruption, yet once we start down the hall, Michonne exits my dad's room.
It shocks me, but only for a moment. It makes sense. They have been very close lately. I try to hide the surprise on my face and open my mouth to explain the teen boy lurking behind me, but she just places a finger to her lips, shushing me quietly.
"Judith is finally asleep..." She whispers, seemingly unperturbed by the extra presence in the house, and I don't stick around any longer to question her. Taking Ron's wrist in my hand, as he'd done to me, previously, I march past Mich, muttering that Ron would be staying the night, so as not to leave her in the dark on the situation. She doesn't object, simply going downstairs, undoubtedly for a midnight snack.
"Your room is small," He comments as I open the door. He wasn't wrong; I'd chosen one of the smallest rooms in the house, in the hopes of not having to bunk with anyone else. Tonight was an exception.
The clock, on the wall, above my dresser, proved that it was close to 1:30 in the morning, and slowly, I began to question why Ron had rathered stay with me, of all people.
"Is everything at home okay?" I ask carefully, and calmly, so as not to make him panic and scramble for an answer.
"Yeah," He says, fiddling with a knife that was set on my bedside table. It's nothing special, but the handle is wooden and engraved with signs that I carved years ago. It's interesting to look at. I know he's not being truthful, but I don't push him for answers.
Pulling a blanket and pillow off my bed, I lay it out on the wooden floor, gesturing for him to take my spot on the squeaky cot. He doesn't argue, sitting down on the mattress with a squeak of rusty bed springs.
My room isn't exactly clean. Dirty clothes scatter my room, most stained with the brown blood of walkers. I peel off my sweaty shirt and toss it to the ground, making my way to my dresser.
"Do you want a change of pants, too?" I ask, my back to him as I dig through my clean clothes.
"Yes," He responds stiffly, but I toss him the spare clothes as I tug on my own fresh t-shirt. He grabs them clumsily and takes a look at them. They're ratty; an old pair of gym shorts and a gray shirt that the residence of Alexandria had scrounged up for me.
"Where are you going?" He asks as I make my way to the door. I'd figured it was pretty obvious and I quirk an eyebrow at him, jabbing a thumb at the door over my shoulder.
"I'm leaving the room so you can change."
He looks embarrassed, and just nods as I shut the door behind me with a shake of my head, making my way down the stairs and to the kitchen, where I find Mich, drinking from a chipped mug.
"Coffee?" I ask, "At 1 AM?" She gives me a sly smile, chuckling.
"You know it's my favorite, Carl. We're lucky to have the coffee beans here. It's a luxury."
I wrinkle my nose. To me, the bitter drink is disgusting, but it does wake you up in the morning. Mich must have a night watch on the wall.
"So, are you going to explain the blondie upstairs?" She asked, finishing off the coffee and setting the mug in the overflowing sink.
"He's been going through some things. I figured it was a good time to clean the slate with him. He's pretty lonely, from what I've gathered."
"I figured it was something like that. Just be careful, alright? I know you will, I just..."
"I know," I say, arms folded across my chest. Mich grabs her leather coat off the table, making her way to the front door. "Please don't wake your father. He had a long day."
"I wasn't planning on it," I mutter as she leaves, making my way back up the stairs, to my bedroom.
What I didn't expect to find when I opened my bedroom door was Ron shirtless, pawing through my desk drawer. He has the gym shorts on, though they are loose on his hips. He is very skinny, and I can just see his ribs under his pale skin as he pulls out a small box of ammo from the drawer, eyes widening slightly as he realizes what it is.
"What are you doing?" I'm sure I meant to sound angry, but the words come out as curious. Never the less, he drops the box out of fear and the small cartridges go everywhere. I jump at the noise, hoping no one else had heard.
He was quick to start asking questions, pointing to the encased bullets on the wooden floor, shameless in being caught.
"Those are bullets, right? Do you have a gun? Can I use it?"
I shush him quickly, bending down and scooping up the bullets handful after handful, putting in back in the box.
"I do, but I'm not supposed to."
I find myself confiding in Ron, ever after I find him snooping through my things. "Why would you need to use it?"
"I'm just asking, I mean... I feel like I should learn. No one knows what might happen, or when it will happen. If those walls came down-"
"I get it," I snap. "Just, help me clean these up, and we'll talk about it."
It took us close to 15 minutes to pick up every single bullet. My hands smelt metallic afterward, and I'm sure his did as well. Wiping my palms on my pants, I turn to look at him. He gazes back, eagerly.
Slowly, I reach under my bed, pulling out a shoe box. He kneels to the ground beside me. Inside are my handgun and suppressor, along with a half full mag. He opens his mouth to ask more questions, but I hush him once more, screwing the suppressor tightly onto the gun to show him.
"Does that stop it from making noise?" He asks as I let him hold it.
"Somewhat; it still makes noise, but not enough to attract many walkers. It doesn't fool the living, though, so you still have to be careful where you shoot it."
The Beretta fits snuggly in Ron's palm and he turns it over in his hands, eyes wide as he examines the gun up close.
"What's this made out of?" He asks, tapping the makeshift suppressor with his pointer finger.
"Metal baseball bat," I say, leaning back on my heels. "My dad and I made it. It's not the quietest one I've ever made, but it works well enough. My dad has one he made out of a flashlight. It's pretty fucking sweet."
Ron looked up again. For a moment, you could pretend we were talking about something normal, like video games or cars, like kids, back before the world went to hell. I wish we were. Life would be so simple. Instead of sneaking into my house, late at night, Ron and I might be good friends, having a sleepover like regular kids. But, then I remind myself, I wouldn't be here, in Virginia, if not for the infection. I'd be back in Georgia. I'd be home.
He hands me the gun back, and I quickly remove the suppressor, stuffing it back into the shoe box and pushing it back under my bed.
"We should get some sleep-"
"How many people have you killed with that gun?"
His question feels like a punch to the gut, and at first, I'm unsure of how to reply. He's so blunt. He doesn't dodge around the truth like other people; he's straight up and honest.
"I don't know," I answer truthfully. My throat feels clogged as I remember my own mother, remember leading her through the endless maze of the prison, and eventually, to her demise. It aches, as I recall watching her fall unconscious, and putting a bullet in her skull before she could die and turn. I've used that gun, the monster under the bed, many a time.
"A lot," I reply. He stands, crawling into my bed, expression of earnest not faltering. I also get up, turning the overhead light off before laying down myself.
"You're brave, Carl." He says as I lay down, and I swallow down laughter.
"I'm serious. You know how to protect your family."
"Some of them," I hear my own voice crack, and I silently curse. Despite the sudden mutual trust between us, I really don't want to seem weak in front of Ron Anderson.
Sleep finds Ron quickly, and I am left alone in the dark, exhaustion pressing down upon my eyelids as I attempt to drift off. Thoughts of the Anderson boy float to the surface of my mind as I shift, rolling over so my back is to the underside of the bed; where the gun is stored. I must lull myself into a doze, because before I know it, I'm dreaming.
It's not a good dream. It makes my muscles tense and my teeth grit. Looking back on it, it will be hard to recall, but I know it's about my mom. She haunts my dreams regularly, and often, I relive shooting her. I relive shooting a lot of people; my mom, the boy at the prison, more of the governer's people. There's too many to count on my fingers. I can't fake being heartless in my sleep, and before I know it, I'm lashing out as someone attempts to wake me from my restless slumber.
As my fist makes contact with someone's lower jaw, they make a grunting noise and pain spikes in my knuckles. Forcing my eyes open, I attempt to steady myself, but my breath is coming in sharp gasps that I can't seem to control.
"Jesus christ-" Ron is clutching at his cheek, eyebrows furrowed in anger as he wheels back around to stare at me, but whatever insults he has prepared, die in his throat. I'm not sure what's made him stop until I feel the hot tears on my face.
My hand flies to my own face, and I wipe the salty tears away, trying to inhibit the childish whimpers that are escaping my throat. It's far from embarrassing. I'm humiliated, watching this boy, who called me brave only hours ago, stare at me in shock as I sob like a baby.
"Hey," He mutters, kneeling back down to eye level with me, leaning forward on his knees.
"Hey, stop that. It's not that big of a deal, I'm fine, I-" He reaches our for my shoulder, but I push him off, unsure if I actually want to explain my nightmare to him. He doesn't relent, though, instead, holding my wrist tightly.
"Did you have a shitty dream? It's okay if you did. I won't judge you."
I can only nod, free hand still clamped over my mouth as bits and pieces of the dream come back to me. Cutting her open, aiming the gun, pulling the trigger. It flashes behind my eyes, every time I blink, and I feel my limbs going weak.
Ron holds my other hand as it falls from my mouth, and the cries I'd been choking down slip past my lips. He doesn't back off, but he doesn't make me uncomfortable, either. Instead, he rubs small circles on the back of my hands with his thumbs, scooting closer a little at a time.
"Take deep breaths, Carl. It was just a dream."
But, it wasn't just a dream. I did shoot my mother. I did kill her. The sickening feeling in my gut and chest seems to swell, and as it does, I cry even harder. The blond boy's hands are in my hair, and my head must be in his lap because I'm looking up at him. He's hushing me softly, and a warm sense of content seems to overcome the swelling in my chest. It's odd, looking at his pale face through the blur of tears in my eyes. He looks concerned, staring back at me. He looks at me without pity, but with care and understanding. I can make out a bruise blooming on his lower cheek, and I feel guilty.
"I'm sorry," I croak, "I hit you-"
"Don't worry about it. Are you okay? You have to breathe, you're holding your breath." He tilts his head slightly to the left, and I can feel his hand still in my hair. He's right, I'm trying to stop my tears by repressing my breath, and it's making my chest ache even more. I force myself to exhale and inhale a few times, over and over. My hands shake and I feel a little nauseous. A pounding is starting at the base of my skull, and I'm sure it'll turn into a wicked headache in due time.
Helping me sit up, Ron sits in front of me, just as he did before.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I'm unsure if that would be wise, but something about Ron Anderson is so alluring, that I feel if I was going to tell anyone about the night horrors I experience at night, it'd be Ron. He seems so benevolent in his actions towards me, ever since our talk on the porch. It's strange, yet comforting.
I attempt to speak, choking yet again as I try to form the words that summarize my traumatic dream. He doesn't push me any further, instead leaning forward and wrapping his thin arms around my chest. His head finds it's way to my collar and he rests it there in the crook of my neck.
He's very warm to the touch, and comfortably so, as I ease into his embrace, eyes shut tightly as he rubs my back. My breath starts to steady, and his free hand returns to my mop of hair, running his thin fingers through the knots.
"Thank you," I'm whispering to him quietly, thankful for his presence in my room. I usually have to calm myself by taking a long, cold shower or by sneaking out of the house in the dead of night to take a walk. It feels so much safer here, in Ron's arms.
He leans back ever so slightly, looking me in the eyes. He has the biggest brown eyes I've ever seen, with flecks of gold and green scattered in them like stardust in the sky. The tightening in my chest returns, but not out of sadness or fear. He leans in ever so slightly and kisses my cheek. It was an odd sensation. His lips are chapped, yet so soft and they graze my freckled skin as though even he is unsure of his own actions.
My heart is back to beating a mile a minute, but I know that, deep down, I don't want him to leave. He tries to pull away, looking embarrassed, but I have a handful of his shirt, and I'm tugging him back into our hug.
"Don't let go," I squeak, and I almost don't recognize it as my own voice, but I don't have much time to dwell on it, because he's kissing me again, just under my jaw bone. His lips leave trails of fire in their wake, and I'm practically frozen with shock, unsure of how to react past this point. I'm scared. Not scared for my life or for others around me, but I'm scared of messing up what I'm starting with Ron.
God, though, it feels amazing.
Tentatively, his kisses make their way up to my mouth and with a moment's hesitation, he pecks me quickly. And then again. And again. And soon, he's kissing me fully, and I can taste him. I can taste him on my lips and in my mouth, and I think it's my favorite flavor. He's eased me to the floor, hovering over me. My hands are on his hips, and I don't ever want to let him go. I'm never going to let go.
His hand slithers up under my shirt and he's touching every inch of me, eyes hooded as he looks at me between kisses that he plants on my exposed throat.
"I've wanted to do this for a while now," He comments as his hand trails down my stomach, over my gunshot scars. His words seem to light a fire in me. He's wanted me, Ron has wanted me. His mouth crashes back into mine and he nips at my lips, biting playfully.
I don't have time to think about my dad sleeping in the room next to us, or that Ron had just broken up with his girlfriend, or even that my sexuality is defiantly being questioned by this whole ordeal. I only focus on Ron. Ron's lips on my skin, how Ron's blond hair curls perfectly and falls in his face, how Ron is making me feel. His body is pressed flush to mine and we're groaning. His lips latch onto my neck, and I know he's leaving marks, but I don't care. I kiss back, peppering him wherever I can reach.
"Fuck," I sigh as he presses our bottom halves together, and I'm seeing stars. Pleasure is bursting in lights behind my eyes, and my hands are under his shirt as well. It's heavenly; Ron is heavenly.
Even after our energy fades, and we climb up into my bed, snuggling under the sheets, I'm still in awe of him. He's made me feel truly loved for the first time in a very long while.
In the beginning, I did not judge Ron fairly. No one did. I didn't quite understand his aggressiveness towards me hanging out with Enid, despite him not truly being affectionate with her. I understand now.
Fear comes in many shapes and forms. Nightmares, distance, anger. There are many forms. Tonight, I believe that Ron and I overcame a fear; the fears of being alone. But, already, as we fall asleep in each other's arms, I know that this will end painfully for one of us. In the end, I will not be able to keep my family safe, but in the meantime, I will try with everything I have.
Okay so.Request! Smuuuut. Where Rick walks in on them fucking and yells because he wont believe Carl is gay but Michonne tells Rick to calm the fuck down cause she ships them. đSorry its very awkward! Love your blog!
This was pretty fun to write, thank you!
nsfw under the cut
My dad never exactly had âthe talkâ with me, considering the world had come to itâs inevitable end. Even when we found the prison, even after the claimers, even after joining Alexandria; it never seemed to cross his mind that I was 16 years old and I was growing up fast. I wasnât stupid, though. I knew what fucking was, how it was done, and that it felt fucking fantastic. I also knew that I wasnât into chicks.
Being gay and hiding it was probably the most difficult part of it all. I had to sneak around more than usual and pretend to like the girls in town when I was asked about it. Close calls came all too often, especially since Ron Anderson was involved.
I came out to my dad by complete accident. Iâd had absolutely no plan to tell him about my boyfriend, but apparently, fate was against me.
It started at school, if you could even call it that. We spent 3 hours a day at âSchoolâ, a room with about 10 makeshift desks, a mouse problem, and no ac. We snuck in there on a whim and with a need for a particular steamy make out session.
Our mouths were open and his tongue was trapped between my teeth. Iâm not sure what came over me. I was usually the carful one; never engaging in sexual activity, or even kissing, when there was a chance of getting caught. My hand snaked down the front of his pants and I knew by the look in his eyes that I wasnât about to leave it there. He shuffled me over to the largest desk in the room, which was actually what looked like a wooden fruit crate with a chair beside it. We were ripping clothes off like they burned, skin glistening in the dark as he laid be down on top of the desk, yanking my pants and boxers off in one fluid movement.
He was inside me within 5 minutes, groaning and moving over me, jeans around his ankles.
Iâm not sure how long it went on like that, but it wasnât too long, because we were still going. My legs hooked over his hips to allow him to move faster, and I had one hand in my hair, the other gripping the desk so as not to lose my balance.
We must have been loud; thereâs nothing else to it, because light filtered into the room as the door opened, and Ron instantly fell over me so as to hide my naked body. My eyes peeking over his arm, and I was horrified to find my dad and Michonne in the doorway. Mich looked embarrassed to have caught them, but Rick looked furious.
He said nothing for a moment, before clearing his throat.
âGet dressed. We need to talk.â The door slammed. It was a few minutes before we gathered the courage to leave the darkness of the âSchoolâ. We found Mich and Dad waiting outside, silent with disagreement hanging in the air. Ron looked completely shocked and scared, and I did, too. It wasnât everyday I was caught with a dick in my ass, by my own dad. It was awkward. Very awkward.
Michonne spoke first, âYour father is under the impression that you have been âlyingâ to him.â
I instantly open my mouth to snap back. He had the nerve to yell at me about lying?
âHeâs not exactly the most truthful person in the fucking world either-â Michonne cut me off, brows knitting.
âEnough.â
Ron looked ready to shit himself, and I fumbled for his hand, hoping to get some sort of comfort from him.
âThis shit needs to stop,â Dad spoke gruffly, gesturing to our interlocked fingers with a look of disgust. I felt a weight drop into my stomach as I stared at him in that moment, trying to comprehend exactly how much of a dick my father actually was.
âWhat?â
âWe donât have time for-â
âWe donât have time for love? Really? Because, you and Mich seemed to have a HELL of a lot of time for it last night! All I could hear was-"
Mich, now reddened with embarrassment, yelled again.
âENOUGH.â We fell silent. She took a deep breath, straightening up and gathering her thoughts.
âCarl is old enough to know who he loves. It is not his fault that he didnât tell anyone; just as it is not his fault that heâs taken an interest in boys. Rick, you need to think this over. Carl has at least SOME control over himself, despite what you want⊠I see absolutely nothing wrong with their relationship.â
And with that, she gave Ron and I a warm smile, and with blooming joy in my chest, I was yet again reminded at Mich would always have my back. My dad nodded slowly, taking deep breaths as if calming his temper.
âYouâre right,â He said, uttering a small apology to us, before leaving briskly, as if as humiliated as we were. Mich held her arms out, and I hugged her tightly. Slowly, Ron creepy up behind me, and joined in the hug.
Desperate times called for desperate measures, and these were desperate times.
Climbing the tree outside Ron Anderson's house was difficult for Carl, seeing as secrecy was key to the entire plan. If he was caught in the act, respect for him would certainly dwindle. This could not happen, especially when someone's survival might depend on him, some day. No, it was best that his hormonal urges and action be swept under the rug. Or shoved up a tree.
He scaled the small oak, branch after branch, until he reached eye level with the window. Now came the waiting game; Carl's LEAST favorite game. Patience was not a virtue for the eldest Grimes child, and after about 10 minutes, he was squirming with boredom. Nothing. Ron was doing nothing but lay on his back upon his bed, comic resting over his face.
Thoughts of climbing back down the tree and making a new plan floated to the surface of Carl's mind, but he was brought back to reality by movement inside the room he was peeping on. Ron sat up with a yawn, sliding off the bed and shuffling out the door, undoubtably to the bathroom across the hall.
He returned, only 3 minutes later, jeans left unzipped and unbuttoned.
A lump formed in Carl's throat as he clutched at his branch for dear life. The plan was working. It was actually working.
Ron's thin hands shucked his jeans down from around his hips, and he pulled them off the rest of the way with jerky movements, trying to rouse himself from his groggy nap, exposing his pale blue briefs.
Carl couldn't help but notice the bulge, mouth flooding with saliva.
"What are you doing?"
Carl almost fell from the tree at the voice, practically breaking his neck as he whipped his head around, searching for it's source. Below him stood Ron's younger brother, Sam, a toy sling shot in his hand, hand digging in his over stuffed pocket for another acorn.
"S-sam? Oh, uh, I'm-"
The boy's hazel eyes narrowed slowly at the pale, sweaty teen that clung to the tree outside his brother's window. Like puzzle pieces, it clicked in his mind and a wicked smile began to bloom on the 11 year old's face.
"You're gross..." He said, lowering his voice. Carl paled considerably more.
"No!" He whisper-shouted, before faltering.
"P...Please don't tell anyone, Sam. I'll- I'll get you tons of cookies from Carol or..."
"Just cookies?"
Carl gawked at the small blond boy, shocked that this little kid was actually BLACK MAILING him.
"I mean... I can get you brownies, too, or..."
"My mom makes me brownies. She makes the best brownies."
That was true, Carl thought. Jessie's brownies were to die for, but he needed to convince this devilish child to not tell ANYONE about his peeping, let alone his older BROTHER.
Sam removed an acorn from his swollen sweater pocket, toying with it without Carl noticing.
"Really, I'll get you anything you want. You like video games?"
"No."
"Oh." Carl said, before Sam pulled the rubber band sling back on his slingshot, sending the acorn flying at his brother's window.
There was a moment of dead silence after the loud tapping noise alerted Ron to Carl's presence. The boys stared in horror at each other from either side of the glass, unable to move.
Caught in the act. Ron's eyes bulged as he stood in the middle of the room, naked except for his boxers. Not much was left to the imagination.
Carl dropped from the tree quickly, not caring when he landed on the hard ground without grace. All he wanted to do was get far, far away from Ron Anderson's judgmental and horrified gaze.
Sam's laughter was still audible, even after Carl had run 2 blocks. Â
OMGONG I LOOOVE your stories on wattpad! The AHS Carl motel thingy one, and your the one that writes the art club one right?? Pretty pretty please update!!! I love them!
Yup, i write Art is Dead. Iâm going to try to updated soon, I promise. <3Â
Description: Ron, Enid, and Mikey made a friend through an old 'game'.
A/N: not really rarl, but my gf wanted me to write thisÂ
Sleeping over with friends wasn't normally so worrying. Ron had fidgeted anxiously as Enid pulled out the Ouija Board, having heard all the superstitions over the lettered slab of wood. It varied each time. Either demons or possession, burning in hell or eternal bad luck. The board was just bad news, he'd assumed. Not anything to mess with. It just wasn't worth it, curiosity or not. So, obviously, watching his friends set the damn thing up made Ron Anderson uncomfortable, to say the least.
"Is this a good idea-? You know what, I'll answer that for you guys," Ron began. "No. No, this is NOT a good idea. Like, AT ALL-"
"Stop being such a pussy, Ron." Mikey and Enid laughed as they lit the last pumpkin spice candle that Mikey's mother owned. 'To set the spooky mood,' Enid had said.
The board was ominous, the dark lettering painted by hand onto the marbled wood of the base. It was simple really; numbers across the top, the alphabet in the middle, and along the bottom was "Hello, Yes, No, Goodbye". It was ridiculous. Ghosts? Who even believed in ghosts, besides crazy old people and that one creepy ass kid at school? No one.
Once the lights were turned off and the only thing allowing the teens to see through the dark was the Hallmark candles, Ron began to really panic. Enid and Mikey put their hands on the planchette and Ron gave one last groan before grudgingly placing his thin pale fingers on the smooth pointer.
 After what felt like forever, the board piece began to inch over to the 'Hello'.
"Are you doing that?" Ron squeaked.
"No.." Enid hissed, before being interrupted by Mikey's giggles.
"Ohhh, spooky ghost-" He said before Enid took her hands off the board to smack him.
 "You little shit! We agreed not to move it!" "I couldn't resist!"
A smile curved Ron's mouth,and he absentmindedly kept his hands on the planchette. He didn't even notice it twitch, staring at his friend's argue and swear. Then, he saw it. His hand had slid all the way over to the 'S', and then the 'T'. He just gaped, ignoring Enid and Mikey still cussing at each other.
'U', 'P', 'I', 'D'...
"What the fuck?" Was all Ron said, interrupting their argument. All three looked down at the board.
Enid crouched down, but did not touch the planchette again.
"What'd it say?" She asked, sounding excited. Ron wouldn't have fucked around like Mikey, he was too skittish to mess around with the board.
"Stupid," Ron said, eyed wide as dinner plates.
"What?"
"It said 'Stupid'."
There was a moment of quiet, their breaths in the air, before Mikey spoke again.
"Well, that's fucking rude."
"Shut up! It's moving again!"
Ron watched in horror as the planchette slid to the goodbye. Enid wasn't having it, and quickly spoke again.
"No, please stay! Mikey is annoying as fuck, ignore him. What's your name?"
Ron didn't dare move his hands, his fingertips hardly touching the board piece at all. The idea that a GHOST was covering over the three of them, guiding Ron in this horrible game was just absurd, but here he was, playing along. The pointer slid over to 'No'.
"Why not?" Enid scowled, sitting on her knees, pulling her ponytail tighter on the back of her skull. "Never mind- Okay. Let's start SIMPLE. Are you a boy or a girl?"
It moved slowly from the 'no' to the letter 'm'. "Okay, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Mikey looked annoyed. "I call bullshit."
"It's 'M' for male, you fucking douche nozzle." Ron snapped, rolling his eyed, being sarcastic even through his crippling fear.
"Do you know that you're dead?" Enid was getting curious.
"Wow, way to be insensitive, Enid. You have so much empathy." Mikey folded his arms, sitting crisscross.
The pointer moved to 'yes'.
"Well that's good, I guess. Did you die in this house?"
It didn't move for a few seconds before starting to move to letters. The teens echoed the letters as they came, reading aloud.
"O... U... T... S...I...D...E." They seemed to harmonize through the dark room.
"Outside? What, did you die of heatstroke?" Mikey laughed.
"Yeah, I'm SO insensitive." Enid glared across the board at Mikey.
"I'm trying to shed some LIGHT on the situation, E."
"Guys, it's still talking!" Ron snapped at them, eyes not leaving the board.
"C... A...R..." But, then, it stopped, leaving them with the single word. A sort of sadness seemed to hang over them as they all exchanged looks. Car. A car crash, maybe even a walking pedestrian.
"Sorry." Mikey said, voice low and soft.
"How old are you?" Ron whispered. The pointer moved again to the one and then the five.
Another moment of silence was held for the dead kid. It felt stuffy in the room.
"Well, this is Mikey," Enid said, pointing to the black haired boy and then to Ron. "This is Ron, and I'm Enid."
It began to spell again.
C, A, R- It looked like it was spelling out the first word again and Ron's stomach dropped, but then it moved to the last letter.
 - Carl Grimes is a Junior in Alexandria County Highschool. He deicides to quit Football to follow his true interest in Drawing, making a few friends along the way.Â
Carl Grimes walked down the empty left-wing hallway of his small town high school, the only thought in his mind being "Iâm missing football practice for this." Normally, Carl would be more than happy to ditch his loud coach and rambunctious teammates, but today was different. School had ended about 15 minutes ago and instead of heading to the gym to change out for his weekly scheduled 2 and a half hours of burning muscles and aching lungs, the quiet junior had taken the route to the fine arts hall. This was the opposite of where a football jock was expected to be seen, despite Carl being absolute shit at the sport his father was so fond of. His blue eyes flicked from classroom door to classroom door, looking at each plaque that displayed each roomâs number. 17⊠18⊠19⊠His sneakers squeaked in the empty hall that was usually bustling with the students of Alexandria County High School. 20⊠21⊠22⊠He ran a hand through the long hair that framed his jaw, fighting the anxiety boiling in his stomach. 23⊠24⊠25. Carl Grimes stood in front of Classroom 25 with fear upon his shoulders that was much too heavy for such a simple situation. The art room was unlocked, but he hesitated to enter, bowlegged knees turned in on each other as he chewed the tips of his fingers in thought. Why was he so nervous about just attending the after school art program? There wasnât anything degrading about art. Yet Carl was still nervous, reaching for the doorknob and opening the old wooden door.
Carl wasnât sure what he was expecting, but it wasnât the sight he was met with. Three kids were in the brightly decorated room, along with one teacher. The teacher, Mr. Hemings, was leaned back in his stained desk chair, clicking away on his dinosaur of a PC, playing his usual game of Solitaire. The kids were all staring at Carl. The one girl in the room looked unhappy, plugged into her earbuds, brown hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head as she sat with her mud caked boots propped up on the nearest unoccupied chair. The second kid had dirty blond hair, a thin build, and appeared to be mid-critique of his 3rd friendâs sculpture. Last, but not least, was a chubbier boy with black hair and a mischievous smirk with his hands delicately creating a horrifyingly accurate model of a penis out of grey, wet clay. The awkward silence went on for a painful 5 seconds before Carl cleared his throat and spoke.
âU-um, is this⊠art club?â His voice cracked slightly. The grumpy girl scoffed, hooded eyes gazing at him, half amused, half scornful.
âUnfortunately.â
Carl was unsure of what to do, so he just stood awkwardly in the doorway, eyes skipping around the room, taking in every strange aspect of it. It was very bright and colorful, which didnât make Carl feel like heâd fit in very well. Windows lined the back wall, letting afternoon light filter in. There were large tables scattered about the room at random intervals. The whole set-up seemed very careless, and yet, natural. The walls that werenât occupied by windows were covered by either paintings, cupboards, or bookshelves that were piled with âHow-Toâ books and stuffed with art supplies. There had to be a million paintbrushes in this room and twice as maybe art pencils.
âMikey, put your penis away.â
The dark haired boy cracked up, resting his head on his desk as the blond boy giggled. The girl didnât seem amused, still scrutinizing Carl with strikingly green eyes.
âArenât you Carl Grimes?â She asked. Both boys looked up, suddenly interested. Of course, everyone would know him as Rick Grimesâ son. His father was a sheriff in this small town where everyone knew everyone.
âYes.â Carl nodded, slowly walking into the classroom, knuckles white as he gripped the strap of his backpack that was slung over his shoulder. He sat at a table that wasnât covered in drying artwork and set his bag in the empty chair beside him.
âAren't you on the football team? Youâre a linerbacker, right?â The girl was still staring at him from across the room while the blond boy playfully smushed the clay dick. His friend feigned screams of horror and sadness.
Carl just nodded, repeating his previous answer. He slowly pulled a loose leaf piece of lined paper from his bag, not exactly wanting to show off his sketchbook to the group of kids.
The blond boy got up, sauntering over to Carlâs table while picking stray bits of clay out from under his fingers nail.
âCarl, huh?â He gave Carl a pearly white smile which reminded the sheriffâs son of the other kids on his team. Handsome, confident. This impression of this boy only lasted for a split second because the boy only said âIâm Ron-â before not only falling over, but taking at least 2 chairs with him. Carl just watched in happen, unsure of whether to help âRonâ or spare yhis poor kid the embarrassment.
His dark haired friends howled with laughter as Ron got up quickly, face red as a tomato as he leaned against the table.
ââŠAnderson. Ron Anderson.â
His friends continued to laugh their asses off and Ron turned slowly, glaring daggers at them. Carl couldnât help but snort. âDick-boy over thereâs name is Mikey and the asshole tracking mud all over is Enid.â
âDick-boy?! Ron, it was YOUR idea to make the damn th-â Ron cut him off, obviously embarrassed.
âMikey knows his way around clay and Enid sure as hell knows to vandalize a wall with a can of paint and a lookout. I paint.â He nodded, crossing his arms proudly. Carl got the sense that Ron Anderson may be a little full of himself.
âSo, what do you do? You donât seem like the type of guy that is even into art. Like, at all.â
Yet another nod from Carl. "I draw," he said.
âYeah? You any good? Can I see?â He smiled slowly, but it seemed full of pity; as if he didnât really believe that Carl, a known jock, had any artistic talent. Anger bubbled within Carl as he gazed at Ron.
âIâm an amateur,â He said, wanting to deter Ron from any high expectations. Not that he had any to begin with.
âArenât we all?â coughed Enid.
Ron ignored her as Carl slipped a thick, bound sketchbook from his messengerâs bag, handing it over to Ron. Ron just sat, carefully this time, and opened the book to the first page. Carl couldnât watch Ron look through his private drawings. Most pages were folded over so no one could open it nonchalantly and see something Carl didnât want to be see. Ron seemed to respect the folded papers, unlike most people who had ever seen inside Carlâs sketchbook. Maybe he knew what they meant.
âWow, youâre⊠Actually not bad. Your figures are a little stiff, but apart from that, youâve got most of the anatomy down pat. Your faces are good, too. Damn, how do you get the noses like that? I suck ass at noses!â
Carl cracked a weak smile as Enid and Mikey sat at Carlâs table, beginning a debate on the best technique for drawing noses. Carl thought that maybe, just maybe, art club was a good idea.
âRon gets Rick and Michonne alone and asks for their blessing for him to marry Carl. Ron is super nervous though. Carl is somewhere else and doesn't know Ron is doing this.â - Â transparentvoidcherryblossom
I enjoyed writing this, it was very cute!!
warnings: none
 Getting the two in a quiet place at the same time, not to mention alone, was proving quiet difficult for Ron. Heâd asked many a time for a moment in another room, but it hadnât ever exactly worked out. Today, though, was going to be different. Ron got up in the morning and slipped out from under his sheets and covers, so not to disturb his sleeping boyfriend. The long haired boy didnât get a good rest very often. It was better to let him sleep. He quietly padded across his carpeted floor to his bathroom where he cleaned up. His bed head was untamable, per usual, but he did his best to brush the wild curls into something resembling decent. He then brushed his teeth and scampered from the small bathroom to get dressed. Carl sat up grumpily and gazed through his one eye at him, blinking away the sleep.
 âWhyâre you up so early..?â He queried, rubbing his thumb along the corner of his mouth to rid his face of any dried drool.
 âNo reason,â Ron lied, just hiding his smile.
 âItâs like six, RonâŠâ Carl laid back down in the pile of warm pillows and blankets. âJust come back to bedâŠâ
 âBaby, I got somewhere to be.â Ron walked over, planting a kiss on his tired boyfriendâs cheek. âIâll be back..â
 Waiting was excruciatingly painful. It had only been about 10 minutes, but it felt like at least an hour. Standing outside, Ron spent his time pacing and rehearsing what he was going to say. He surfaced from his own thoughts when he saw them approaching; Michonne and Carlâs dad, Rick. With his heart in his throat and butterflies in his stomach, Ron greeted them quietly, shoving his hands into his pockets.
 âAlright, Anderson..â Rick said, halting a good distance from Ron, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping his head. Michonne was less intimidating, giving Ron a smile, but he was still nervous.
 âI have to ask you - both of you - a question...â He fiddled with his sleeve, eyes down cast in embarrassment.
 âItâs⊠complicated, and Iâm -â
 âSpit it out.â Rick growled, getting annoyed. He had places to be.
 âI wanted to ask i-if I could - If you could give me your blessings...â He said, looking up at the two now shocked faces.
 âI want to marry Carl.â
 Michonne slowly smiled and cheekily punched Ron roughly on the shoulder. âOf course you can!â
 âWait-â Rick began to interrupt when and Michonne pulled Ron into a side hug, the thin boy slack jawed with surprise. Michonne gazed at Rick, expression threatening, even with the smile.
 Rick thought twice about what he had originally intended on saying.
 âIf⊠If you think it will make him happy.â
 Ron slowly smiled.
 âThank you so much, Mr. Grimes! You wonât regret this!â Ron dodged around the older man, running off down the street in a fit of happiness.
 Rick couldn't help but give a small smile as he watched the young, happy boy run.
Okay so I saw a thing full of prompts and I thought one of them perfectly fit rarl because of the whole apocalypse situation. "They have to be quiet but one of them has the hiccups"
Here you are, i really like this idea, itâs cute
no warnings!
Hicc.
The noise made Carl flinch and turn around, giving his boyfriend a reproachful look. Ron pulled a defensive expression before the noise slipped out for a second time.
Hicc.
âReally?â Carl hissed through his teeth, trying to stay quiet to avoid the walkers that theyâd run into on their walk through the forest. A good ten were staggering around and crunching leaves; a lot more than Carl wanted to handle with only Ron at his side, whom he was supposed to be teaching to use a knife.
Hicc.
Ron desperately tried to stop the noises by covering his lips with the palm of his hand but, the noises still slipped out, only muffled slightly. It didnât seem to be drawing the walkers in to their hiding place behind a particularly large rock, but every time the noise met the air, Carl jumped, on edge.
Hicc.
Once they were free of the threat of walkers, the undead herd of corpses having moved on from their neck of the woods, Ron couldnât resist bursting into a fit of giggles with a few hiccups thrown in. After a moment, Carl joined in laughing, too.
A funny rarl oneshot where Ron and Carl spend the day at the pond but Ron gets sunburn REALLY bad. Carl can't stop laughing and joking about it and poking it but in the end it's cute and fluffy?
sure thing â€ïžâ€ïž here you go.
no warnings except some irritated skin and a bit of pda
Ron winced away from Carlâs prodding fingers.
âItâs not funny,â He said as his best friend laughed at him.
âItâs very funny.â
Carl was amused by the patchy red blotches on Ronâs shoulders, arms, and face. The younger boy was tanned and freckled, sun kissed where as Ron was strawberry red and very angry. His shoulders peeled and his back itched. Carlâs touching and giggling was not helping in the slightest.
âItâs really not. It hurts bad.â
âOh, donât be a big baby, Anderson. A little sunburn wonât kill you.â
The teens had spent the whole of yesterday down by the pond; one of their favorite places to hang out. Unfortunately enough for Ron, It had a blazing hot, cloudless day.
Carl sat behind him, rubbing some kind of âaloe vera infusedâ lotion on his back. Heâd claimed it would make Ron feel better but, it was only burning, at this point.
âYou should have worn sunscreen,â Carl said, for about the 15th time.
âYes, Carl! I know that now!â
Carl just smiled, kissing the back of Ronâs neck to calm his irritated boyfriend.
âItâs okay, I still love you, even if youâre red like a tomato.â
Ron scoffed, turning around to look at Carl with a sarcastic smile.
âGolly gee, thanks CarlâŠâ
The younger boy only smiled and kissed the tip of Ronâs red nose.
