LOVE is DEAD [RARL]

12

The two boys bickered all the way home, swerving carelessly all over the road, barking with laughter and petty insults. Only when they reached Carl's front door did conversation turn serious.

"You should come in," Carl said, keeping his balance on the railing as he watched Ron with glazed eyes.

"What'd'ya mean," Ron asked, eyebrows raising at the brunette's implications.

"You know," Carl shrugged. "Do what we do best?"

"Thought you didn't want sex," Ron whispered softly, moving in slowly to kiss the boy who was just a drunk as he was.

"Exceptions can be made given the, uh, circumstances." Carl answered before Ron's hand slid over his neck, and he began to kiss at the corner of his mouth.

The actions sent a buzz down his spine that went straight to his groin, thanks to the alcohol, and for Ron, the feeling was mutual.

They had both completely forgot about-

...

"Rick?"

Rick Grime's shot up in bed, Michonne's hands easing over his chest to calm him.

"Rick, there's someone down stairs."

"Probably just Carl getting somethin' to drink," He said, trying to blink sleep from his eyes, except as soon as the words left his lips, the front door slammed and there was a grunt of a struggle as something was thrown against it.

He slipped out of bed quickly, suddenly alert, Michonne hot on his heels.

The crash of something being knocked over echoed through the house and the noises continued; the squeaks of wet sneakers on tile, hushed whispers and mutters, grunts of what he assumed was a fight. It had his nerves on edge as he exited his room in just his boxer shorts. Michonne was as dressed as he was, downed only in her underwear and an oversized t-shirt.

Rick wasn't sure what he expected to find when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Perhaps Carl HAD snuck out.

Maybe, he'd brought that Rose girl home, and they were having a bit of fun.

It was all understandable, he could see it happening. Carl had that rebel streak in him that reminded him of himself in his younger years, but upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, his view of Carl was changed forever.

Carl Grimes, his son, was thrown up against the closed front door, legs hoisted over the hips of the troublesome Ron Anderson, locked together at the middle.

Rick backed up quickly, reversing a single step up the stairs, attempting to regain his composer as Mich stared at him in confusion.

...

Carl had to give it to Ron; for someone who'd done multiple shots before just stealing the entire bottle, he sure knew how to have wall sex.

He was panting on Carl's neck, bouncing him on his hips in a way that had the brunette gasping for air. Their clothes weren't even all the way off; Ron's pants were unzipped and unbuttoned enough to get his dick out, and Carl's pants were hanging off one shoe, both of the converse still intact.

Fingers scraped at the back of Ron's neck and through his hair as Carl hung on to his shoulders. It was ecstasy; Ron's thrusts hit deep, and it would have ended fairly quickly for the both of them if not for Rick's voice ripping through the gasps and pants.

"Carl?"

Ron slammed Carl flat to the door, muscles tensing even more as panic settled within him, but it was only for a moment before he back off quickly, dropping Carl harshly.

The wind was knocked out of Carl's lungs and he could feel Ron attempting to yank his pants up in vain. Despite his vision spinning, he saw the blurry forms of his father staring from the stairs, rigid with shock, and Michonne, of a friend from work. Well, more than a friend now, he assumed.

"Get out of here," he choked at Ron. He felt like he was going to puke, and as soon as the slam of the door signaled Ron's leave, he did so, rolling onto his stomach, upchucking all over the welcome mat.

"Carl," his dad said again.