dead boys don’t say no
. . .in which you’re Carl Grimes undead boyfriend
1,237 words
hurt/vague comfort, crude, no smut.
you were beautiful once. it was the first thing carl had noticed when coming to alexandria, even with his guard up.
he hadn’t seen many people his age around for so Long, and he was a teen boy.
it was only natural you were quickly put on a pedestal as the shining star in carls sky, the Apple of his eye, the goddamn light of his Life. . and all those cheesy things.
where one of you went the other wasn’t far behind. scavenging? side by side. reading comics in carls room? legs intertwined. just Strolling the neighborhood? hand in hand.
both of you knew the cruelties of life outside of the wall and took supply runs Very seriously.
that’s why it was such a surprise when Carl came back with blood on his shirt and no You by his side.
everybody from his dad to deanna had tried to pry it out of him, but the most they got was a solemn shake of his head and a press of his lips.
there wasn’t a Body to mourn over, or a big family to miss you, but people still tried. your empty gravesite even got the odd flower from someone besides carl.
when he started being more closed off no one blinked an eye. he’d just lost his Boyfriend, and people were giving him space to grieve.
and then when he started going to some place no one could find him for hours? still, no one thought more than grief to blame.
rick and michonne were off doing their leadership duty, keeping the people safe while judith was being taken care of by carol.
the house was quiet. still. Carl had been lying in bed all day, feet kicked in the air as he read comic after comic. no one expected much from him right now besides coming down to eat. after all, it’s only been a Week since that day.
eventually, after he grows restless, he decides to get up and with a comic in hand and a place in mind.
carl was quick to make himself all pretty, AKA brushing his hair out and putting on a new flannel, before thumping out of his house.
he walked around the backs of the houses, not feeling in the mood to talk to anyone or receive those Pitying looks of theirs.
people bustle around, making life better, Helping others, but what good is it if you’re not here?
he makes it to the far edge of the neighborhood undetected. a vacant house sits at the end of the street. he spares a weary glance around before walking up the porch.
the house is Empty but perfectly pristine, all but begging to be used by a happy family.
humming to himself he scours the pantry, only a few cans of soup or packets of saltines still there from his earlier visits.
he decides on chicken noodle soup, slipping it to sit snuggly into his jeans front pocket, his feet on wooden floors the only sound.
the basement is a bit more hidden, almost looking like a storage closet from the outside. he thumps down the stairs like he’s been down them 100x over.
the smell of Rot and Mildew hit before anything. he’s learned to grow used to the scent, maybe even Fond towards it.
just in case, he settles one hand on the holster at his hip before pushing the metal door before him open.
muffled snarling and growling sounds out in the little room, then, there You are.
like some fucked up sort of dog he’d attached a rope to the wall and tied it tightly around your stomach. it’d broken off Once before he’d learned to apprehend your hands and mouth at all times.
“you’re gonna chafe your wrists at this rate,” carl muses with a tilt of his head, slender fingers tugging at the belt of his around your wrists.
the rope pulls taut as you attempt to lunge at him, mouth moving behind the bindings, arms uselessly held out.
he just smiles and watches, knowing it’s unlikely you’ll get out but Loving that you still have fight in you even now.
from being chained up 24/7, the skin there is faring better than expected. it’s once soft, smooth appearance has decayed, leaving it wrinkled and peeling back like a wrapper to the wet muscle hidden beneath.
he clicks his tongue but doesn’t loosen the belt, because why would he when you can’t even Feel it? plus, he doesn’t need your hands.
your skin is slowly greying as are your hazy eyes that flutter every which way. the large bite that’d been taken out of you had been patched up, but always weeping red.
to him you’re still same old you, just a bit different.
“i brought you some Food.” he informs you, pleased as pie with himself. he holds out the can of chicken noodle soup for you to inspect. your greying feet scrape uselessly against the floor.
he takes that as Interest and pops the can open by the tab, Slowly approaching as to cradle the side of your face.
your head snaps to the side, mouth still moving like a teething animal. the fabric restraining you wet and smelling of rot.
“this is your favorite, remember?” carl asks rhetorically. bringing the can closer to your nose. you try lunging again, the metal can catching just a Scrape of your nose, which makes a wrinkled piece of skin fall into the stew.
carl simply blinks, looks down into the can, and then back up to you. well, maybe you’ll like it better that way, you never eat this stuff anyway.
Gently, cautiously, he pulls the bind away from your mouth. you snap your rotting teeth, drool and blood wetting the skin underneath.
he doesn’t seem to notice it as he brings the can to your mouth, hand holding the bottom. your teeth cling against it, chicken noodle soup falling to the floor with wet splats and snarling.
he coos, even rubbing at your messy chin with his flannel before you try to lunge again. “don’t be bad, now.” he reprimands you sternly, reaching around to wrangle the fabric back up.
it’s like fighting a child, your head going every which way in protest. he gets it up with a bit of fight but No nibbling.
he places the remaining food at your feet in case you want it later.
two fingers coax your cold face towards him, wanting to make sure not more than a bit of flesh had been harmed even if Nothing can really harm you now.
he leans in slowly, eyes falling closed with a lingering kiss to the fabric binding your mouth, not wanting to risk another Accident by taking it off. you taste like rot and blood. like Roadkill.
he pulls back, staring at you, maybe hoping true loves kiss will turn you back. it doesn’t. he turns back around to the corner of the room.
plopping himself down, knees drawn to his chest, he pulls out the comic book he’d brought. every now and again he’ll glance back up at you starry eyed.
the room is perfect to lounge about in for the rest of the day, away from everyone else with the sound of your Cute little snarls to accompany him.
he loves you, and nothing’ll ever stop that.
AN:if this flops i’m gonna just delete it and pretend it never happened
criticism welcome/encouraged. read my other stuff here. requests open