Title: “Make the World New”
Pairing: Carl Grimes x Male!Y/N
Setting: Post-apocalyptic sanctuary (Alexandria-like, peaceful moment in the world of The Walking Dead)
The nights were finally quiet again.
Not the kind of quiet that meant a storm was coming or walkers were sneaking through the fence, but a real silence—soft and unthreatening. Alexandria had been rebuilt in the years since the wars ended. People planted gardens, kids played ball in the street, and lovers like Carl and Y/N could finally lie in bed without fear gnawing at the edges of every breath.
Carl’s hand brushed over Y/N’s bare back, his palm warm and callused, fingertips trailing slowly up to his shoulder blade, then down again like he was memorizing every inch of skin.
“You’re doing it again,” Y/N whispered, smiling into the pillow.
Carl leaned in closer, nose nudging his neck. “Doing what?”
“Tracing me like you’re trying to learn me by heart.”
Y/N turned to look at him. The faint glow from the cracked blinds framed Carl’s features—the shadow of stubble on his jaw, his tousled hair falling into his face, and that single piercing blue eye. The other, hidden by the eyepatch, never made him look broken—just hardened. Beautifully so.
Carl tilted his head. “What?”
“You’re staring at me like I’m gonna disappear.”
Carl smiled softly, brushing hair off Y/N’s forehead. “You don’t disappear. You anchor me.”
Silence settled between them, but it was comfortable now. There’d been a time when silence meant too much unsaid. But not anymore.
Y/N sighed. “You ever think about the future?”
“All the time,” Carl said without hesitation. “With you. Always with you.”
Y/N turned onto his back and looked up at the ceiling. “What do you see?”
Carl took a deep breath. “Us. In this house. A garden out back. Maybe chickens—”
“Of course chickens,” Y/N laughed, “you and your damn eggs.”
“Hey,” Carl chuckled, “fresh eggs are gold.”
There was a beat, then Carl added quieter, “And maybe… a baby.”
Y/N’s eyes shifted to him slowly. “A baby?”
Carl’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. A comment here. A soft suggestion there. But tonight, his voice held a kind of reverence. Longing.
“I know we can’t... biologically,” Carl added quickly, sitting up a bit, “but there are ways. Surrogates, adoption—hell, Michonne always said the world needs more good dads.”
Y/N reached for him, fingers curling around Carl’s wrist. “You really want that?”
Carl’s hand turned so their fingers interlaced. “I want you. And a future that’s more than just survival. I want messy breakfasts and baby cries in the middle of the night and us arguing over names until we fall asleep on the nursery floor.”
The air thickened, heavy with intimacy.
Y/N’s throat felt tight. “That’s… a lot to imagine.”
Carl leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth. “We’ve earned imagining.”
They lay there a while, hearts slow and steady, a quiet kind of joy between them.
Later that night, when Carl had fallen asleep with his arm draped protectively around him, Y/N slipped out of bed. He padded quietly across the room, careful not to wake him, and sat in the old armchair by the window.
The moonlight hit just right, and his thoughts wandered.
Not a maybe. Carl wanted it. With him.
Y/N exhaled, long and slow. His fingers dragged down over his stomach as he stared out the window, his mind painting the image—Carl holding a small bundle, baby pressed against his chest, whispering soft nothings while rocking them to sleep.
The thought made Y/N’s breath catch.
His hand drifted lower, over the front of his sleep pants, mind hazy with the image of Carl’s voice, Carl’s body, Carl’s words from earlier—
"I want messy breakfasts and baby cries."
Y/N bit his lip, hand sliding beneath the waistband. The chair creaked slightly under his shifting weight, but he couldn’t stop. His cock throbbed against his palm, already leaking from how intense the image was. He imagined Carl whispering praises, imagined him pressing kisses to his stomach, telling him how good he’d look swollen, how he’d take care of him every second—
A shiver went down his spine as he rubbed his thumb over the sensitive tip, stifling a moan.
He squeezed his eyes shut, chest heaving as he jerked himself slowly, teasing himself with the vision of Carl pressing him into the mattress, whispering, “Gonna put a baby in you, even if it’s just pretend. Gonna fill you ‘til you can’t think straight.”
Y/N bit his wrist to muffle a sharp gasp, hips twitching upward.
The orgasm hit hard and sudden, warmth spilling over his hand as his muscles tensed and then released, his mind blank with release and the ghost of Carl’s hands on his hips.
He slumped into the chair, flushed and breathless.
“I knew it,” came a soft voice from behind.
Y/N’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest.
He twisted around, and there was Carl, leaning in the doorway, sleepy-eyed but smiling.
“Jesus—” Y/N started, but Carl was already walking over, crouching in front of him.
“You should’ve woken me.”
Y/N flushed, unable to meet his eyes. “Didn’t mean to... Just couldn’t sleep.”
Carl’s hand found his knee, squeezing gently. “Were you thinking about it? About us? The future?”
Y/N nodded, embarrassed. “You make it sound so real.”
Carl leaned up and kissed him slow, deep, hands sliding up Y/N’s thighs. “Because it is real. Every time I look at you, it’s all I see. A life. A forever.”
Y/N’s heart felt full and tight. “Even if we can’t make a baby the traditional way?”
Carl grinned. “Baby, the way you moan my name, I could believe you’re carrying already.”
Y/N burst out laughing, slapping his shoulder. “Shut up.”
Carl leaned in again, this time whispering, “You wanna try? Just pretend?”
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through him.
“You’re serious?” Y/N asked, voice a little hoarse.
Carl’s voice was low, teasing. “Wanna fill you up, baby. Breed you full. Even if it’s just in our heads.”
Y/N shivered. “You’re filthy.”
Carl kissed him again, slow and wet, hands sliding over Y/N’s hips, tugging him forward until he was straddling his lap. Their cocks brushed, and Y/N groaned, already half-hard again.
“Shhh,” he murmured, “Let me worship you.”
Carl carried him back to the bed, laying him down with the kind of care reserved for glass. He took his time—kissing every inch, worshiping every scar, every freckle. His mouth lingered over Y/N’s stomach again, whispering things like “You’d be such a good daddy,” and “Wish I could see you round with my kid.”
They didn’t rush. They rocked slow, Carl inside him, foreheads pressed together, hands tangled, breath shared. When they came, it was with Y/N sobbing into Carl’s chest, whispering, “I want it too. I want all of it.”
The next morning, they sat at the breakfast table, hands around mismatched mugs.
Carl reached across and squeezed Y/N’s hand. “So… chickens first?”
Y/N laughed. “Chickens first.”
Carl grinned. “Then the baby.”
Y/N squeezed his fingers. “Then the baby.”
They started researching. Michonne helped. Maggie offered advice. Even Ezekiel, bless his dramatic soul, said, “The kingdom would be honored to help bring joy into your lives.”
Carl beamed every time Y/N read through adoption pamphlets or asked about surrogate options. They set up a spare room. Carl painted a mural of wildflowers on the wall, even though he claimed to suck at painting.
Some nights, they didn’t even speak. They just lay together, Carl’s hand resting on Y/N’s belly like he was already imagining it full.
And every night, before sleep, Carl whispered:
“I’ll give you a world worth living in.”
Because Carl Grimes wasn’t just a survivor. He was a builder. A dreamer. And he dreamed of him.
