Bad Bad Ritual | CEGAN

The clock has stopped ticking, nothing romantic has been said

Carl stepped into the warm spray of the shower, closing his eye and sighing in relief. Alone. He was finally, blessedly alone.

He ran a soap slick hand down his chest, down the dip of his sternum, over the concave of his stomach, to lightly wrap around his half-hard member. The teen drew a quiet breath between his teeth at the sensation and started stroking, nice and slow like he liked. He had the time, Judith was with Michonne, his dad had gone scavenging with Aaron, he could take as long as he wanted.

While he got himself off, he tried to conjure up someone to get off to. He usually went with one of two imaginary people-a pretty woman with wide hips and nice thighs and long hair, and a guy, a dad type with nice arms and a little soft around the middle-people that he would've found warm and comforting. He'd always sort of leaned towards a male preference, so he went with the guy this time.

Carl allowed himself to moan quietly as he pictured the guy wrapping him in a strong embrace, crushing him to his chest as their lips crashed together. In his mind, he whined and rolled his hips against the man, whispering please under his breath for him to touch him, make him feel good. The man had big, rough hands that felt so so good on his aching flesh.

Just as he was getting there, a phrase, a memory, seeped into the fantasy "All you have to do is ask...I'll make you feel good." The voice was grating to his ears and he tried to push it away and bring back the good, safe fantasy. Then his own voice echoed around his head "...please...please, Negan, make me come..." Then the other voice again "Gladly, sweetheart." Carl spilled over his own fist as the last syllable taps against the roof of that filthy mouth.

"Fuck..." Carl cursed and started rinsing himself off.

He couldn't seem to get off anymore, at least not without thinking about him. That pissed him off entirely. It wasn't that he couldn't come, but every time he did, Negan's face, his voice, his gaze, penetrated the cloud of orgasm he was floating on like an arrow and made everything come crashing down, ruining the whole experience. Maybe it was part his own fault this time, having chose to fantasize about an older man.

He had tried everything, looking at porn, reading dirty novels, even tried swapping hand jobs with another older man a few doors down, but none of it was helping. Dark flashes of polished leather, the scent of gun oil and earth, the weight and heat of a much larger frame settling on top of his own, kept flitting through his mind like a foreboding swarm of black birds.

It had been a month since he had last seen Negan and that was not long enough as far as he was concerned. If he never saw the asshole again, it would be too soon.

He still couldn't quite believe what had happened between them was real. He knew it was, but still, that last time in the foyer...it was almost as if Carl had wanted it. There was no denying he had gotten off on it, not just physically but watching Negan fall apart all because of him had been something else. It made him feel powerful somehow and the memory made his heart race and his stomach feel sort of queasy.

And of course, thinking of that only made remembering their first time inevitable. That memory still made his skin crawl, made him scrub hard at his skin with disinfectant soap until it turned pink and stung. He could remember Negan's voice, the cruelty in it, the way his hands had felt like heavy shackles holding him down, the pain of being breached.

To put it bluntly, he was a mess. A mess of self-loathing and hatred and confusion.

There was only one thing left to do about it-he was going to have to go back to the start of all this, to find and cut out the root. The thought alone had bile rising to the back of his throat. He was going to have to go see Negan again.