Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13077699.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Walking_Dead_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Carl_Grimes/Rick_Grimes
  Character:
      Carl_Grimes, Rick_Grimes, Daryl_Dixon, Carol_Peletier, Sophia_Peletier
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Porn_With_Plot, i_tried_to_make_it
      cute_and_plotty, Idk_what_happened, Parent/Child_Incest, First_Time, I'm
      Going_to_Hell, Pining, flangst, Daddy_Kink, But_only_a_little, does_that
      make_it_better?
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-12-20 Words: 7890
****** as long as you love me so ******
by Miyai
Summary
     It's almost Christmas, they're visiting friends for the holidays, and
     Carl's pining. Rick mostly just wants to build a snowman.
Notes
     For L. 'Cause nothing says Happy Birthday quite like badly written
     Christmas porn.
     Title from 'Let it snow' because clichés are clichés for a reason.
See the end of the work for more notes
„What about this?“ Carl asks. He's holding a up a book about proper hunting
techniques, complete with a step-by-step guide to correctly skinning a deer.
Sophia shakes her head, her blonde hair bobbing. “Nope. That looks like Hunting
101. Daryl knows what’s what already.”
“Guess you’re right,” Carl says and puts the book back. He's starting to regret
that he agreed to help his friend to find a proper Christmas present for her
stepfather. He is kind of salty that he and Rick were spending their precious
alone time at Daryl and Carol’s anyway. North Dakota is perfectly fine, he
guesses – especially with all the snow he never gets to see in Georgia.
Still: Carl has been looking forward to some quality time and maybe even
cuddling on the couch in front of the Christmas tree with Rick. And other,
decidedly inappropriate things might have also crossed his mind late at night
when he was lying in bed and couldn't fall asleep. That's sadly not more than
wishful thinking though.
But still. One can dream. So yes, he mourns his fantasy of a quiet little
Christmas together. That would now have to wait another year, just because Rick
had decided it would be nice to go away for the Holiday season.
Fat chance of one-on-one time with them staying at Rick’s friends’ place, Carl
supposes. At least they get to share a bed. To think Carol had been so
apologetic about it, and Carl had to fight hard to keep the happy grin from his
face as to not clue his dad in about his son's decidedly non-platonic feelings
towards him.
So yes, the situation this year is unusual, and Carl is unsettled by it. The
Christmas shopping is stressing him out even more.
In all the rush, the planning and the panic regarding flights, times, prices,
yadda, yadda, yadda, he hasn't gotten around to searching for a present for
Rick. What do you get your father when you also start drooling whenever said
father enters the room?
A blowjob, his brain supplies helpfully. Thanks, brain. Carl flushes and avoids
Sophia’s questioning look.
“You okay?” she asks. He nodds, but doesn't elaborate further.
“Do you have any idea what to get your father?”
He chokes, coughs, and she gives him another concerned look.
“I don’t know. He doesn’t have time to read a lot with his shifts and the
house, so a book is out.” Carl scans over the piles of books on the tables in
front of them. “I don’t wanna buy him a thriller or something anyway. He always
says he gets enough of that when he’s on the clock.”
“Sounds rough,” Sophia says. “You wanna check out some other stores?”
In the last hour they've steadily made their way through most of the tiny mall,
and Carl doesn’t have a lot of hope for the few stores left .
“Sure”, he says anyway.
*
The next store is one of those messy places that claim to sell things for cheap
but then everything is either honest to god crap or more expensive than
advertised.
In the midst of terrible kitchenware and too big spoons, he finds it. First, he
blushes at the mere thought of getting it for his dad. Yes, there had been
moments in the months before where he could have sworn he felt his father's
gaze on him, sliding over his body, appraising. Carl just isn't sure whether he
would risk everything just because of a hunch though.
Sophia glances over his shoulder, giggles. “That thing? That's amazing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Isn't it a bit...” He has no idea how to
finish that sentence.
Sophia shrugs. “It's just a joke, right? What's the harm?”
She's probably right. It doesn't have to mean anything. Carl looks down at the
light purple coffee mug in his hand that proudly, in bold pink letters with a
heart around the words, proclaims: #1 Daddy. What's the harm, indeed.
He grins.
*
When he and Sophia come back to Carol’s house, dusk has already fallen. The
whole suburbian street lies under deep snow and the concrete is glimmering,
covered by a thin veneer of ice. Sophia maneuvers the car carefully into the
driveway, and they get the bags out and go inside. Even that short moment, the
way from the car to the door, has Carl shivering. He's wearing much too light
clothes but, to be fair, he didn't have a lot of experience with colder
regions. That is to say, none at all. And they just arrived this morning after
all.
Inside the house, Sophia shouts a greeting which is echoed back from the
kitchen at the opposite end of the two story house. To their left is the living
room, warm and cozy with an amazingly huge fireplace and the TV set with two
big couches.
Carl takes the bags upstairs and then makes his way to the kitchen. Daryl, Rick
and Sophia are sitting at the table in the center of the room, Carol bustling
around at the kitchen counters, preparing dinner for tonight. Candles are
burning, and it smells like hot cocoa. Carl smiles. Maybe, just
maybe this Christmas won't be as bad as feared.
“Hey, son,” Rick says when he spotts Carl in the doorway. “Everything packed
away?”
Carl nods, trying to ignore the violent, immediate reaction in his stomach just
because Rick is talking to him, for fuck's sake. He sits down, sighing at the
relief of being able to rest his legs.
“Oh yeah, the shopping was really successful.” Sophia laughs into her mug of
hot chocolate.
“Carl, would you like some cocoa as well?” Carol asks.
“Hold your horses,” Rick says, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “I was about to
head out for a walk in the snow. Gotta take in the sight while I can. Carl,
d'you wanna come with?”
Carl thinks. On the one hand: warmth, cocoa, relaxing his tense muscles. On the
other: his dad.
“Yeah, okay,” he says. It's not even really a choice.
*
Carol lends them warm coats, scarves, hats and gloves, and sends them out into
the cold with a reminder not to be late for dinner. Then they're off into the
white wonderland. Carl can't help the tingle of childlike excitement in his
belly when it starts to snow softly, the snowflakes dancing to the ground, slow
and unhurried, turning the atmosphere magical.
He glances at Rick, illuminated by all the Christmas decorations and the street
lights. He honestly has never seen anything better in all his life.
Rick notices his look and smiles gently. “This ain't too bad, now, ain't it?
Snow on Christmas. Never thought I'd see the day.”
Carl looks away, shrugs. “It's okay I guess.” He doesn't quite manage to sound
aloof, and he's sure his dad can hear the underlying happiness.
“I know you were not crazy about spendin' Christmas up North with your old man
and his friends,” Rick continues. “But I thought it might be good for us,
y'know, getting away from everyday life a lil'.”
“Dad, it's fine, honestly.” And it is. Here, with Rick out in the snow – it
doesn't get much better than this.
They walk on for a few minutes, down the street towards a little cluster of
trees, the silence between them comfortable and mutual. The crunch of the snow
under their feet is the only noise disrupting their own quiet bubble.
„You know what I've always wanted to do?“
Carl looks at his father. They have arrived at the little circle of trees,
still near the end of the street, the houses in sight, and yet secluded. It
feels even more like true winter here, the snow falling quietly, the light from
the street barely reaching them, but it's not dark, the white wonderland around
them reflecting and throwing everything in stark black and white.
“What?” Carl asks, the silence already turning too long, heavy. It's hard to
breathe when his dad is watching him so intensely, a strange quality in his
curve of his mouth, in the jut of jaw under the salt-and-pepper beard.
Carl could tell many stories about things he has always wanted to do, and all
of them feature his father. All of them would most likely send Rick screaming
into the night.
“Build a snowman.”
Carl gapes. “Oh my god, dad, seriously?”
“Now, what's wrong with that?”
“That's so lame” Carl says, “seriously. How old are you?”
Rick chuckles, rubbing his hands together for warmth. Carol has given him
fingerless gloves, and Carl can only imagine how cold that just has to be.
“C'mon, son,” Rick says, not about to be deterred. “I've never done that when I
was younger, though I always wanted to. It's gonna be fun, I promise.” He gets
down on his knees, already beginning to roll the snow into a bigger ball.
“Whatcha waiting for?”
Carl sighs for show, the long-suffering son, and sits down next to Rick. Cold
and wetness seep through the denim at his knees almost immediately, and he
sighs again, for real this time.
“You can roll the head, and then maybe look for some twigs and things to give
the poor fella arms and all.” Rick seems very focused on his own task, so Carl
complies without complaint.
The snow is flaky, light and powdery, and it's harder than Carl thought to get
it to stick together. His fingers in the gloves feel clumsy and awkward. When
he looks over at his dad, Rick looks calm; happy. His face seems so different
in the moonlight, ethereal, glowing; white surrounding his silhouette. He's
beautiful, and suddenly Carl can't stand this anymore, the atmosphere, the
quiet tranquility and Rick's unwavering presence right next to him, them
working together as a unit.
So he does the only thing he can think of: he shoves snow down his father's
jacket. Rick squawks and falls on his ass, indignant and not very dignified,
and Carl tries to muffle his laughter at his father's expression.
Rick looks at him like he can't believe Carl would dare. But when he sees his
son laughing, a smile creeps onto his face, and then turns into a smirk.
“You little shit,” he says, getting up slowly, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“You're gonna regret this.” Carl already does, but he's also strangely excited.
“I'm not too old yet to teach you some manners,” Rick warns.
Carl scrambles up, tries to run, but he's too slow. In the span of two long
strides, Rick has caught him, the momentum propelling them both forward. They
land on the ground, Rick heavy on top of Carl.
“No,” Carl tries to beg, giggling, but his father shows no mercy. He stuffs
snow down Carl's front, chilling and unexpected. Carl squirms and Rick doesn't
stop, keeps grabbing more snow, both of them caught up in the moment.
“Do you yield?” Rick asks, and Carl shakes his head, too busy trying to not
swallow the snow to talk.
“Y'know,” Rick says conversationally as he takes another handful of snow, “you
brought this onto yourself.”
Under him, Carl is skittering on the edge of hysteria; happiness and arousal
and fight instincts and mirth all mingling together, and he struggles for air.
This is too dangerous a game to keep playing for too long; when he looks at
Rick from under snow-lined lashes he already feels too exposed, like his
adoration is on clear display, easy for Rick to spot, and he can't let that
happen.
So he rasps “stop”, going against his hormones that clamor to keep writhing
under his father just to feel his solid weight. “I give up, okay? I give up.”
Rick laughs and doesn't move, heavy and hot atop Carl. “I'm sorry, I didn't
catch that. What?”
Carl gasps, close to crying from overload, tears gathering in the corner of his
eyes. “I yield. I yield!”
“There, now that wasn't too hard, was it?” Rick is still not moving, and the
moment seems to slow down, their faces so close together, their hot breaths
visibly mingling in the cold air. Carl is breathless still but for a very
different reason now. He is getting lost in his father's eyes, and he all of a
sudden doesn't want to get up ever again, wants to stay like this for eternity.
Rick is watching him with an achingly gentle expression, and then he leans even
further down, his forehead against his son's. “Carl” he whispers, raspy and
low, and Carl's eyes slide shut, and he knows, he knows he's tricking himself
into believing but it feels like his father is gonna lean even further down any
second, is gonna connect their mouths -
What Carl gets instead is the cold air that replaces Rick's body on top of his,
and he shivers in disappointment, feeling the cold again. Rick has backed off,
is getting up. Yet he's avoiding at Carl's eyes, turning away from his son that
is still lying in the snow, panting.
“We should get back,” he says, and Carl has to swallow his bitter regret. For a
precious second it felt like Rick really was gonna go for it, but that's over
now. Their little window in time has passed.
So Carl gathers himself up and silently follows his dad back to Carol's house.
Still the snow keeps falling.
*
Only once Carl gets back inside, takes of his thick jacket and soaked trough
jeans, does he realizes how cold he actually is. He has to keep from shivering,
his teeth close to chattering. Rick doesn't look much better, wet hair and blue
tinged lips.
Carol fusses over them, gets them blankets and ushers them into the kitchen.
“Really, Rick, you should have known better,” she says as she re-heats the
chocolate on the stove.
“Soaked to the bone, for fudge's sake. You two are lucky if you don't catch a
cold, two days before Christmas.”
Rick looks suitably chastised. Carl just shivers under his blanket, slung over
his bony shoulders, even with the dry, soft sweatpants Carol gave him out of
Daryl's closet.
“M'sorry,” Rick says. “It kinda got outta control.”
Carl snorts. That's one word for it. Also: if he wasn't so preoccupied right
now, Carl would laugh his ass off at the way Rick seems to shrink under Carol's
disapproval. His dad's friend looks more stern than Carl has ever seen her
before.
“Where are Daryl and Sophia?” Carl asks into the silence.
Carol sighs, put-upon. “Probably up in Sophia's room, playing those gosh awful
games again. Zombiekiller, or something. Daryl' right obsessed with it.” Her
tone is chiding but the soft smile gives her true feelings away.
Carl's glad Carol has found someone new, after her no-good first husband.
Daryl's also an old friend of Rick's and that's how he and Carol met. Carl
remembers Rick being sourly for a week when they decided to move out of state
together, effectively leaving their friend behind.
“You want to join them?” Carol asks, but Carl shakes his head no. He can smell
the hot cocoa now, and he's not about to miss it twice though the air between
him and Rick is still weird. His dad hasn't really looked at him since their
tussle in the snow.
“No, I'd rather have some of the hot chocolate, if that's alright, ma'am” Carl
says, a rare occasion where he himself lets some Southern twang slip into his
words.
Carol laughs. “Of course. Just give me some of the mugs on the table. Maybe dry
them by hand first, I think they might still be wet from the dishwasher.”
Carl and Rick, who has remained suspiciously silent these last minutes, both
turn simultaneously, gathering up the clean mugs from the kitchen table where
they've presumably been drying. Silence settles over the kitchen, only broken
by Carol humming to herself while she stirs the pot, oblivious to the tension
in the air.
Rick and Carl both work side by side, quick and efficient, when it happens,
clichéd and inevitable: they both reach for the same mug, their fingertips bump
into each other. Electricity sparks between them, almost painful, and the
porcelain tumbles to the ground, shatters audibly.
For a second, they simply look at each other, their eyes wide, something
definitely crackling between them, impossible tension. Time stops, and Carl is
so close to reaching out, throwing himself at Rick and risking it all, his
fingers twitching, Rick's gaze so intense on him -
“Oh dear.” Carol interrupts their moment, amusement and light reprimand mixing
in her voice. Carl feels a pang in his chest when Rick takes a step back, away
from him.
They both apologize profusely, but Carol just tsk-s at them, and shoos them out
of the kitchen. “Just sit on the sofa, I'll bring you your drinks. Try not to
break anything there.”
They slink off to living room, awkward and dragging their blankets with them.
They sit on the couch in silence, and Carl's about to say something, anything,
when his dad speaks
suddenly. “I'm sorry.”
“What?” Out of all the things Carl expected to hear, an apology is not one of
them. “Why? What for?”
Rick frowns, searches his face for – something, Carl has no idea. He looks
strangely intense,
considering he has a red wool blanket with Rudolph the Reindeer printed on it
draped over himself.
“I don't – making you uncomfortable, somehow? It's just – one minute, we were
out there in the snow, and then I felt like you were angry at me the next
moment.” He lays his hand on Carl's shoulder, squeezes it through the thick
fabric. “So, whatever I did, whatever boundaries I overstepped – I'm sorry.”
Carl wants to laugh in his dad's face, and maybe cry a little. So that's how it
is, how Rick experienced the whole situation. So fundamentally different, but
it shouldn't come as a surprise. Carl wants to laugh at his own naive
stupidity, his impossible hope.
Angry is the last thing from his mind right now. Disappointment, yes. Anger,
no. And here he thought he and Rick were on the same page, when in reality he
was as mistaken as Rick.
He wants to shake his dad's hand off, can't stand the burning of shame deep in
his stomach that it provokes at the moment, but he doesn't want Rick to think
that he had done something wrong either. So he stays where he is, scoots closer
on the couch, and allows Rick to settle his arm over his shoulders.
“M'not angry,” he mumbles into his blanket, avoiding Rick's eyes. “Just –
there's some stuff, and I – but I'm okay, so...” He trails off, hopes Rick gets
the sentiment. He risks a glance.
His father is smiling at him, hesitant yet comforting. “Okay, kiddo. But if
something comes up - “
“I know,” Carl says.
Carol brings them the cocoa, steam curling up from the Christmas mugs, and they
turn the TV on, burrowing into the couch, warming up. Carl steals a few more
glances at his father but Rick seems perfectly relaxed.
Carl sighs.
*
Dinner comes faster than expected.
Carol made casserole, and they're all sitting in the kitchen, munching happily.
Carl especially. It's been years since Lori left him and Rick to disappear from
the face of the Earth, and since about then Carl hasn't had a mother certified
home-cooked meal. Rick tries, oh does he ever, but it's just not the same.
He's tuned out the conversation around him, too preoccupied with his food. He
only listens up when Carol says, “You're sure you don't wanna come with us,
Rick?”
Carl looks at Sophia, lost, and she explains. “To the movies, you dummy.
Weren't you listening?”
“Honestly? No. The food is just too good.”
Carol smiles indulgently at him and scrapes the pan out onto Carl's plate. “You
eat as much as you want, honey. God knows you need it. Rick, you have to take
better care of your son,” she chides lightly. “There's nowhere near enough meat
on his bones. A growing boy needs proper food, no all the take-away kind I'm
sure you've been feeding him.”
Rick ducks his head, mumbles something about the shifts down at the station.
“So?” Sophia asks. “You wanna see the movie with us? Rick's not going, but
that's not stopping us.”
Carl considers. He'd rather stay here with his dad, even though the atmosphere
was still kind of weird between them.
He declines, and nobody seems to take issue with that, Sophia chattering away
happily about some other topic already.
*
The Peletier-Dixons leave soon after dinner. Rick and Carl decide to watch a
movie in the living room, but halfway through Carl's starting to yawn
surreptitiously. Of course Rick notices right away.
“You wanna head upstairs?”
Carl wants to say no, but another yawn overwhelms him.
His dad smiles. “Let's go to bed.”
That sentence alone wakes Carl up again. He knew they were sharing a bed, but
after today, it seems a much different prospect. He just hopes his body doesn't
develop a mind of its own in the night and sleep-cuddle his father or
something.
The thought is pleasant, and he feels guilty immediately after.
He's suddenly not so tired anymore. Still, he follows his father upstairs,
butterflies dancing in the pit of his stomach.
*
Rick goes into the bathroom first, and Carl sits down on the edge of the bed
they're gonna share tonight, fresh underwear clutched in his hand. He jiggles
his leg, he can't help it. He's so nervous, even though there's no real reason
to be. What happened outside in the snow – wishful thinking, certainly, like
every time. He sighs. His stomach stubbornly doesn't want to calm down, and it
makes him even more jittery.
When Rick comes out of the bathroom in a rush of warm, humid air, Carl doesn't
look up, can't face his father. He shoulders past him and locks the door with a
sigh of relief. The air in here is even hotter, and so steamy everything's kind
of hazy. Rick must have showered with water almost hot enough to scald.
Carl lets a slow breath, forces himself to relax. Everything is fine, he tells
himself; everything is perfectly normal. The moment in the kitchen between him
and Rick? Delusions, wishes warping his perception. Nothing happened.
Nothing will happen. The thought is disappointing but Carl forces himself to
accept the truth. He's the only one here fucked in the head.
He quickly sheds his clothes and gets under the hot water, prays Rick didn't
use all of it.
The shower is not as calming as he had hoped, and after a few minutes of
standing under the spray of water, getting tenser by the second, Carl gives up
and takes himself in hand. Maybe this will help
him settle down, soothe his frayed nerves.
He jerks off fast and perfunctory, muffles his moans with his free hand, and
doesn't even try to not think about Rick when he comes.
*
When Carl returns from the bathroom, his dad is already in bed, the small light
above his head not doing much to make him seem less appealing. The soft
lighting highlights his quietly good looks, the angle of his cheekbones, the
salt-and-pepper beard framing his delicious-looking lips. He is holding a book
in his hands, leaning against the headboard, seemingly trying for non-chalant
but failing at it.
Carl's face is suddenly heating up. He's closed the door, tried to be as silent
as possible. What if his dad heard him still? There may have been instances
where Carl has thought about that, before today, entertaining the idea of it
while he was touching himself (and getting off on it), but now that it might be
have actually happened he's not sure how he feels about it.
Nothing to be done about that now, he tells himself. The embarrassment pinking
his cheeks does not really fade though.
“Don't forget to turn off the bathroom light.” Rick's friendly reminder
startles Carl. He tries to cover it up with a cough and goes to do just what
his father suggested.
When he comes back this time the situation that presents itself to him has
changed yet again. Rick has put way his book and has shuffled down the bed to
slip under the duvet, obviously just waiting for Carl to get in next to him.
And oh, isn't that just a sight to cherish. It looks almost like a husband
waiting for his wife to lie down beside him in their marital bed. Carl can't
help the little flutter of satisfied excitement that tingles through him at
that particular thought. He immediately feels bad about it afterwards.
He turns away from his father, strips off his shirt and his jeans and finally
his socks. He's not entirely sure that the way his father's breath catches when
he lifts the fabric over his head, inevitably exposing his back to Rick, is
only the product of his imagination. Still, it's probably just wishful
thinking.
Rick lifts up the duvet for Carl, and he snuggles into the downy softness of
the bed. His father exudes warmth next to him, like an oven, and he can't help
thinking that it's the Georgia heat he has soaked up his entire life so much
that he now is like a private, little sun for Carl.
He snorts and dismisses the overly cheesy thought. Maybe he should stop
watching chick flicks when he thinks his dad is asleep next to him on the
couch.
Carl doesn't know what hes waiting for, exactly, but he can't help the short,
sharp sting of disappointment when his dad just says “goodnight, Carl”, turns,
and switches off the lamp. The darkness falls over them like a second blanket,
and only now allows Carl himself to sigh, longingly. Maybe the absence of light
around him will swallow his frustration up before his father hears.
He doesn't know what he's expected, really. Seems like he was wrong, about what
was building between him and Rick, about what he thought, for a short moment,
might finally come to a head between them, outside in the snow today. The
notion hurts, more than he cares to admit.
He sighs silently again, turns onto his side, back to his father so that at
least he won't try to make out his features in the dark, search for the
familiar slope of jaw, the upturn of Rick's nose, and hurts even more.
Maybe he's just a dumb kid after all, and now here he lies: next to his dad,
the object of his affections, and he aches so, so badly. Maybe, yeah, maybe he
deserves it, even. This hurts more because he thinks it might be true. In love
with his own father – what else should come of this than pain, heartache? He's
not a little kid anymore, he should have known better. Should have stopped it
before it grew into this. But he can't help it. He never could: The monstrosity
that used to be his pure, filial, platonic love is out of the cage now, and
clawing up his insides, and he doesn't stand a snowballs chance in hell -
Everything grinds to a halt when Rick lets out a grumbling sigh next to him and
then turns towards Carl onto his side, wrapping his arm around his son and
pulling him into his body, essentially spooning him, cuddling him close. Carl
thinks for a second that Rick is asleep, must be, but then his father asks, “Is
that okay?”, and Carl's heart skips a beat or two.
He swallows, attempts a verbal affirmative, but his voice has left him so he
just nods. His pulse is going frantic suddenly, heart trying to beat its way
out of his bony, teenaged ribcage. Up close, his father feels even more like a
furnace, warming Carl's back, the heat slowly working its way through his body
until he's almost too hot in Rick's arms, under the heavy duvet, and he feels
an answering kind of warmth in his boxers. He doesn't know if his dad notices.
He stops breathing for a second when Rick's hand begins a journey from its
comfortable, exciting place on Carl's belly, going up, up, up, the exact
opposite direction of where Carl needs it, so tortuously slow he might implode,
before his father's hand settles over his heart, pressing into the steady beat.
He feels Rick breathing into his neck, his lips close to the skin, and it's
doing less than nothing to dispel the tension that has settled in Carl's bones.
It's a low hum, steady and persistent, and driving Carl absolutely mad. His
father's other arm slides under the side of his head, cushioning it. Carl is
close to just rubbing his cheek against the bunching muscle like a cat, to
breathing in the smell of Rick's skin, maybe even digging his teeth in gently
to elicit some kind of response.
A minute passes, then another, and Rick isn't moving anymore, seemingly content
just to hold Carl close for the night. And while the teenager might appreciate
the sentiment any other time, he wishes for his dad to just make a move
tonight, dammit! All this body contact, the build-up – for nothing? Fuck that.
The tender cradle Rick holds Carl's body in might be interpreted as completely
innocent, innocuous, from an outside point of view. Yet nothing about the
tension in the air, almost like an electric current between their bodies, seems
particularly parental or platonic to Carl. This is as much of an affirmation,
encouragement as he's ever going to get concerning the thing between the both
of them. Now or never.
Decision made, he presses further back into Rick's arms, pulling his leg over
Carl's, and fitting his own hand over his dad's, pressing into the inviting
space between his fingers and interlacing their fingers. He smiles to himself
when he hears Rick hmmmm into his neck, and a moment later sweet, soft kisses
are being pressed into the dip of his skull just under his ear. Carl didn't
know butterflies and fireworks and all that stuff wasn't made up – but there he
is now, and about ready to crawl out of his skin with how much he wants Rick to
just do something.
In a last ditch effort to avoid death from adolescent sexual frustration, he
scoots back until his ass is flush with Rick's crotch, and just kind of
wriggles into it. Not very dignified, but it gets the job done. Rick's grip
tightens, and his groan, however suppressed, is startlingly loud in the silence
of the room. Carl hopes his father knows what he's trying to say here. And
then, he finally, finally does.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and gritty, heavy with arousal. At least
Carl hopes that's what it is.
And yes, a thousand times yes; he's never been more sure of anything in his
life. So he just stays right where he is, and nods. He opens is mouth to
reassure Rick further, and the whispered “Yes, Daddy,” slips out of his mouth
before he can stop it. Dammit, not what he had in mind for the very first time.
A helpless curl of pleasure spreads in his belly at the words, but his father
probably won't be amused. There are just some lines Carl's sure his dad doesn't
want to cross, and he'll be glad if Rick doesn't run for the hills.
Behind him, Rick stiffens and Carl could punch himself. Now he's ruined
everything, hasn't he? He should have waited with that, maybe forever, and -
Rick downright growls, his hand slipping under Carl's shirt so fast it takes a
second for him to register the possessive sprawl of fingers on his belly, the
drag of Rick's calloused hand unexpectedly erotic.
“You can't just drop a bomb like that on your old man,” his dad groans,
sounding agitated with need, and apparently it's the luckiest day of Carl's
life since Rick doesn't seem to plan on stopping what they started. Quite the
opposite, if the intensity of the grip he has on Carl is any indicator.
Excitement explodes in Carl's veins, bubbling under his skin. There's nothing
left to hide now. All the rules and limitations are broken, and Carl feels
free, relieved. But also very, very horny.
He hopes the fact that he takes Rick's hand from his stomach, guides it to his
mouth and sucks two fingers in conveys the sentiment accordingly. The digits
seem somehow bigger than thought in his mouth, fat and rough against the soft
texture of his tongue, and he moans around them.
“Killing me here, kiddo,” Rick whispers but makes no attempt to free his hand
from Carl's grip. Instead he rocks his hips into his son's ass, letting him
sense the hardness between his legs, their skin still separated by two sets of
fabric. When he eventually tugs his fingers out of Carl's grip, the teenager
whines at the loss, dismayed. Rick chuckles darkly, breathless.
“Shhh, baby, y'just have to let me get myself sorted out, 'kay?” His accent
gets deeper, more pronounced, when he's aroused, and Carl wouldn't exchange
that knowledge for anything in the world. Rick nudges his head in warning,
extricates his other arm from under Carl's neck to slip it under his body at
waist-level effortlessly, and Carl realizes suddenly, with startling clarity,
how easy it would be for his dad to just toss him around however he wanted, his
own body still light and lithe. The thought is so scorching hot it takes him a
second to notice Rick's fingers, the ones belonging to the arm under Carl's
torso, tapping his bottom lips gently, asking for entrance. He opens his mouth
obediently, gratified when he feels Rick shudder, and sucks like his life
depends on it.
His dad's other hand can't seem to settle on one part of Carl it wants to be
touching, everywhere and nowhere at once, like his dad just can't get enough,
and it's making Carl crazy. Then Rick lets his hand wander back under Carl's
shirt, stroking and caressing, caressing and stroking, and rucking Carl's shirt
up in the process until the first whisper of cold from outside follows Rick's
hand in its path, and now it's Carl's turn to shiver. Rick's lips are wandering
over his neck, alternating gentle, wet pressure with nipping, teasing bites.
It's good, it's great, but it's not enough, not even close. His mouth separates
from Rick's fingers with an audible plop, obscene and just what Carl wants.
“More,” he whines, has only half a mind to notice how he's already begging,
just a few minutes in. They haven't even done anything, not really, and he
feels wrecked.
He groans when Rick cups him in his underwear, warmth seeping through the thin
fabric, and applies a bit of pressure. Carl could cry. It would be so much
better if his boxers would just magically disappear.
“Wait, just let me -” He tries taking off the constricting piece of clothing,
his motion slow and dumb with arousal, and he has some problems navigating in
the tiny space under the covers, his and Rick's limbs irrevocably entangled,
perfect obstacles.
When he's finished, Rick is chuckling right next to his ear, and Carl grins
despite himself. That could've been so much easier. He nudges Rick pointedly,
urging him onto his back, turns in his arms, curling over his chest. His
father's eyes are shining bright in the dark, beacons of safety, love. His
grin, not completely obstructed by the darkness, is slow and warm. “Hey there.”
“Hey,” Carl smiles back, feeling giddy and dopey and daring all at the same
time. He leans in, and Rick meets him halfway, the first contact of their
mouths slow and careful. Rick breathes in deeply like he wants to inhale Carl,
swallow him up whole. He wraps his hand around Carl's nape, bringing their
foreheads together.
“Are you really sure about this?” he asks, and Carl appreciates his dad asking,
he does, but haven't they covered that?
So he just cups Rick's face with one hand and leans back in, desperate for
more, and hopes his father gets the message and they can get it on already.
They exchange languid kisses for a while, keeping it slow and sweet because
Rick won't budge, takes his time exploring Carl's mouth like he wants to learn
him from the inside out. Carl yelps when, suddenly, Rick grabs his ass, and his
father chuckles into their kiss.
“Well, I'm definitely wearing too many clothes if we're really doing this,”
Rick says. Carl couldn't agree more, although he can admit to himself that he
likes it like this too: him naked, vulnerable, trusting his father completely,
while Rick is still wearing his shirt and boxers for bed. Maybe they can do it
like this next time as well, and maybe he'll even try to convince Rick to keep
on Sheriff's uniform for that...
He snaps himself out of thoughts about the hat his father always wears (and
handcuffs, can't forget the handcuffs!) because he doesn't want to miss any of
what's happening now, finally. He sits back, gives his dad room to extricate
himself from his clothes, and then sinks back into Rick's body, his deliciously
warm skin.
Rick cups his face, but doesn't say anything, doesn't make a move, and Carl
squirms.
“What?” he asks, but Rick just shakes his head.
“Nothing, darlin'. You're so pretty, is all.”
Warmth floods his cheeks, and Carl has to look away, pleased in an embarrassed
kinda way.
“Now, don't be like that, it's jus' true”, and Rick peppers kisses all over
Carl's neck, tickling yet erotic with the drag of his beard on Carl's skin. He
sighs happily, and Rick hums in response.
“I'm glad we're alone tonight” Carl whispers, and Rick chuckles into his neck,
making Carl shiver.
“Can't imagine what woulda happened if we weren't.”
Carl looks at Rick, a smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth, suddenly
devious. “You just would've had to keep me quiet. I imagine you'd be quite good
at that, Daddy.”
His father groans, grips his arms tight. “Don't give me ideas, sweetheart.”
Carl moans loudly when Rick bites down lightly on the sensitive skin of his
throat. Their quiet moment is over, dissipating, and in a flash he's panting
for it again.
“Daddy, please, oh God.” He can feel Rick's dick twitch against his thigh at
the words, hard and hot, and he whimpers. “Do it, please.”
Rick turns them, pressing Carl into the mattress and starting to kiss down his
body. Throat, clavicles, nipples, just under his bellybutton, and Carl gasps,
shocked arousal, when Rick licks at the tip of his cock, spreading Carl's legs
with large, calloused hands so he can settle between them.
He buries one hand in his father's hair, trying to guide him back down, but
Rick looks up at him, fixing him with his gaze. Carl can only imagine what kind
of picture he must make; flushed and disheveled under his father's hands and
lips.
“I'm sorry, babe,” and Carl loves loves loves how his dad can't even settle on
one endearment as if it just isn't enough, “I didn't bring anything. Do you -”
“Bags, under the bed” Carl shoots back. While Sophia had already moved on to
the next store, Carl had hurried into a drugstore, buying all the stuff he
can't at home where everyone knows him and, most importantly, his dad. “The
small one, with the – oh!” Rick takes him into his mouth again, and he bucks up
from the bed.
He hears Rick's hand rustling under the bed, and then a quiet “ha!” from where
his father is situated between his legs. But the expected sound of the plastic
cap opening doesn't come, and Carl is about to ask when his dad grabs both his
thighs, wriggling down the bed, and puts Carl's legs over his shoulders. He
lets go of Carl's dick, and travels further down. He's not gonna -, Carl
thinks, is he?
Oh, but then Rick does, and Carl almost shoots off the bed when he feels his
tongue down there. He whimpers, not sure whether he likes it but willing to
give it a try if Rick wants that.
“Are you – sure? You don't... oh... have to,” he tries to tell Rick, but the
pleasurable scratch of beard between his legs keeps distracting him. Rick
kisses up his thigh again, digs his teeth softly in.
“I want to. Are you okay with that?”
And really, if Rick asks like this, even pulling out the puppy eyes, there can
only be one answer. So Carl nods, trembling from the inside, grasping at the
sheets, and Rick resumes his task.
When his tongue breaches Carl, it's over. He moans, and comes all over his
stomach, surprising himself. It's like his body is so much on overload he
didn't even notice the spike in pleasure. He blushes when Rick lifts his head
from between his thighs (what a sight), smirking at Carl.
“Shut up,” Carl says, feeling squirmy on the inside.
“I didn't say anythin', baby.” Rick holds up the bottle of lube. “Ready for
more?”
“I might pass out,” Carl warns, but he nods.
Rick laughs and pops the cap open. “Now you're just flattering me.” He warms
the lube between his hands, but it's still cold when he begins fingering Carl,
starting with two from the get-go.
Carl is already so wet down there, his father's spit drying on his thighs, and
he writhes, impatient, jostling Rick. He may have come already but that doesn't
impact his feeling of urgency. They don't really know when the others will come
back so they should hurry up. They've wasted enough time moving at glacier's
speed at the beginning.
“More” he begs, wriggling on Rick's fingers, and sighing when his father
complies, spreading his fingers and scissoring them inside Carl. It's so
different from when Carl does it to himself, another angle, and Rick's fingers
are so much bigger. When his dad brushes over his prostrate, he moans again and
digs his feet into Rick's back, urging him on. His dick is starting to come
back around again.
“Pushy” Rick chides, and pulls his fingers out. Before Carl can complain, he
hears the crinkling of a condom wrapper, and his heart skips a beat. It's
happening. Finally. Then it really registers what he's hearing.
“Why?” he asks, and Rick stops.
“What?”
“We don't need a condom. You're clean, I know, and I am anyway.” He wants to
feel Rick, nothing between them. “Where did you even get that?” He didn't buy
any, and why would he? It's not like he was counting on having sex tonight. He
blushes at the thought, weirdly enough, the reality of it sinking in. He's
gonna have sex. With his – with Rick. Wow.
“If you're sure.” Rick's scrutinizing him, maybe checking whether Carl is as
nonchalant about this as he tries to appear. Carl just nods, bashful now, the
heat still burning in his
Rick crawls back up Carl's body, mindful not to contortion his son's legs any
further, and kisses him, hard. “If something doesn't feel good, or you're
uncomfortable, if you want to stop at any time -”
Carl smiles at his father, going for reassuring. “I know, Daddy. I trust you.”
Now can they please get it on?
Rick seems to get the message, and he scoots back, wraps Carl's legs around his
waist, gives them a quick, gentle squeeze – and then. Then Carl feels him,
right at his entrance, and he can't suppress a shiver.
For all that he's waited, hoped for this: It's all surprisingly simple. Rick
inches into him, careful and slow, and it's so good, the fullness, the slight
burn, senses overload, and Carl's eyes flutter shut against his will.
“Oh” he manages, weakly, when Rick bottoms out. ”Daddy, I - “ He can't fully
encompass the feeling, wouldn't know how to describe it, how to tell Rick -
But his father doesn't need to hear him utter the words. “Yes, baby” he says,
“me too”, and he sounds as awed, as breathless as Carl feels, shuddering but
staying still inside him.
Time slows down, a serene moment in the hurricane. Rick cups Carl's face
tenderly.
And then he begins thrusting. Later, Carl won't remember what exactly happened,
or have sense of time for the whole thing. He just remembers the heat, his
father's warm hands and hot whispers in his ear, filth and endearment equally.
He remembers taking Rick's hand, amid moaning and trying to pull his father as
close as humanly possible, and laying it on his throat, and Rick rests it there
the whole time, not choking, not even squeezing, just a reminder that he could,
and that is what makes Carl come undone in the end.
Rick is growling into his ear, “my boy, my perfect little boy, just take it,
sweetheart, be good for Daddy”, and Carl is clawing up his back, so so so
grateful that no one but them is home to hear the soft mewls and moans that
spill from his own lips.
“Dad, oh God, Daddy!” He's close, shaking and desperate.
Rick is nailing Carl's prostrate on every other thrust, and Carl can feel his
dad's smug smile, so unusual from his mild-mannered father, on the sensitive
skin of throat.
He moans when Rick finally wraps a hand around his neglected cock, trapped
between their stomachs and reduced to occasionally getting some almost not
there friction, and he's not above begging.
“Yes, daddy, like that, please, please...”
Rick's jerking him at the same speed he's fucking him, and it's all to much
when he twists his hand on the upstroke, skillful and merciless. “What're ya
waiting for, baby?” His voice is a low growl, and then he just bites down into
Carl's neck.
Carl literally shouts and comes all over the stomachs, and still Rick keeps
drilling into him at break neck speed. His dad must be close, too, and all Carl
can do is hold on for dear life, already over-sensitive all over and close to
crying and he still wishes it would never stop.
All good things must end, though, and finally Rick comes, buried as deep as
possible in his son. He stops moving completely, just shudders and twitches,
and Carl holds him tight, his arms slung around his dad's shoulders now,
motionless.
Rick groans, deep and satisfied, and lifts his head. “You okay?”
Carl bites down on a happy giggle, smiles happily (and dopily, he fears) at his
father. “Never been better.” He's a little out of it but he manages to drop a
small peck on Rick's lips anyway. “You?”
Rick laughs. “Never been better, darlin'.”
Untangling and getting everything straightened out is a messy (and sticky)
affair, but they manage. They clean up in the bathroom together, stealing
glances and smiling. Rick gets them some fresh sheets from unknown whereabouts.
God knows what he's planning on telling Carol. Carl doesn't ask.
He just snuggles down into his dad's embrace. Everything else can wait until
tomorrow.
*
End Notes
     The working title for this was 'A Christmas Carl'. Just FYI.
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