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season 4 dean is like “i’m fighting demons” and the whole time the demons are just bisexuality. meanwhile season 4 sam is like “i’m fighting demons” and they’re real and he’s drinking their blood
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Did Brando de Sanctis have one of the most realistic developments on the tv shows history? The answer is: YES.
From: laughing and making fun of the gay person of the school because he actually enjoyes it… To (1*): actually realizes he was, in fact, gay but can’t accept it cause of his father and friends, his father would see him as some disgusting thing and his friends would stop talking with him and he will be alone (he thinks)… and even so, he wants to experiment kissing the gay guy of the school (in private, of course… no one can know). Annotation on 1*: I actually believe that Brando realized about his homosexuality in the summer between season 1 and season 2. How, we don’t know. I don’t think that Brando felt attracted to Fabio at all when he started kissing him and experimenting, he just did it cause he was the only gay guy he knew and he needed that kind of human contact. With time, he did feel attracted to Fabio and “felt in love”.
From: 1*… To (2*): Tries to hide the truth at all costs, but he knows he is hurting Fabio and feels guilty about it. He doesn’t wan’t to be that kind of person but he doesn’t know how to scape from it, and that creates big levels of anxiety on him.
From: 2*… To (3*): he sees how Fabio doesn’t want to know nothing more about him, he knows he is losing Fabio but he can’t fight his fears, so he end up falling in a big depression. He doesn’t want to get up from bed, he doesn’t want to go out the house, he doesn’t want to go to school, he doesn’t want to do absolutely nothing. He even doesn’t want to eat, he doesn’t want to take care of himself. Annotation on 3*: I think that it wasn’t only for Fabio, but for what his father did with that girl. Anyways, I think that this thing was like the closure for all the bad feelings he was having, and the prelude to the depression.
From: 3*… To (4*): getting pissed of beeing depressed and trying to act on it, moved by the idea of losing Fabio definitely if he stays at home more time. He does some moves to try to abandon the depression (like going out, going to school…), but he ends up falling on it again. Anyways, this time is different. He wants to get better, but HE KNOWS (and this is important) he needs TIME to heal. He even says NO to Fabio when Fabio wants to enter to Brando’s room, because HE KNOWS that HEALING is a work he need to do by his own. (AND MORE IMPORTANT: FABIO UNDERSTANDS IT AND DOESN’T PRESSURE BRANDO AT ALL). Annotation on 4*: It is huge how they represented that if you feel sad and apathetic, sometimes it is better not to see people and be on your own to get better. You don’t need to force yourself, not always.
From: 4*… To (5*) and the end: he accepted time ago that he was gay, he confronts his father about it and he finally feels better and stronger. He receives Fabio. And the happiness starts coming slowly, but fiercely.
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Ron is gently tapping the toes of his filthy shoes against the clean tiled floor, specks of dirt sprinkling with each clack of contact. There's a sharp pain in his back, and a duller ache in his chest, what has been a constant reminder of what could have been his fate-- yet ultimately hadn't.
Ron hasn't decided how exactly he feels about this-- he knows that, rationally, he should be grateful. Grateful that Michonne, for some reason that Ron can't even begin to understand, spared him. He's spent a lot of time trying to figure it out-- attempting to even brush the surface of why she'd even consider it.
Michonne must be crazy, Ron decides, especially once he catches a glance of Carl's face, or-- what's left of it anyways, while Denise is helping him change the bandage wrapped around his right eye.
It's not a pretty sight.
Ron thinks insensitively-- and selfishly, for that matter --that the bandage isn't doing its job well enough, that it should be bigger as to make this strange feeling of guilt pooling in Ron's gut fade away.
The guilt gets about 100 times worse once Carl's remaining eye, watering from the ache, catches Ron's. They both immediately look away from one another, it's awkward. Ron couldn't fathom it Not being awkward.
He ultimately decides that, despite everything, he feels eerily numb. He feels a whole lot of nothing, something must be wrong with him. Fundamentally, that is. All that was left of his family had just been wiped off the map and Ron couldn't seem to spare any more than a few tears.
He thinks he will once he leaves the infirmary, once it clicks that he doesn't have anything to come back to. Denise says that tomorrow he's gonna be staying with Maggie and Glenn, she says that they've already set him up a room to stay in, that some of his stuff has already been moved into it.
For some reason, this just made Ron feel worse, he'd grimaced as Denise had kept a smile on her lips, like she'd been trying to inspire hope.
Anyway, what Ron was mulling on now, strangely enough, was how he was going take care of this ginormous wound on his back-- of course, it was stitched closed and clean, at least for the time being, but Denise said he was going to have to clean it and put this antibiotic on it every day until its healed.
Ron wasn't exactly able to do it on his own, which was fine, because he could just ask his Mom---Suddenly this dreadful feeling washed over him when he was reminded that, no, actually, he couldn't.
Ron can't ask his mom, because she is dead. She wasn't coming back, and now he was alone.
...
It's been a week since both Ron and Carl were dismissed from the infirmary, which Ron had spent avoiding Carl as best he could, he'd been doing a pretty decent job, in his opinion, he hadn't had to look at the pathetically sized eyepatch over carls poor, mutilated face more than thrice now.
Ron expects to be able to keep up this scheme of evading Carl, of course, that's because he doesn't expect Carl to come to the Rhee(plus, now, an Anderson)'s residence, which he does, randomly, unexpectedly! one day.
Carl came over to the house when Ron was watching Transformers in the living room, trying to distract himself from the gnawing pain that has steadily grown in his back since last week, probably due to his failure to take care of his injury-- at all.
He'd tried to clean what he could reach, which wasn't much considering the lesion's less-than-convenient placing between his shoulder blades. He contemplated maybe asking Enid to help him, but that would just be awkward. Her being his Ex-girlfriend and all.
The front door had opened, to which Ron paid no mind, keeping his attention locked on the flashing colors in front of him, then he heard Carl's voice and Ron literally thought he’d given himself whiplash from how quickly he'd spun his head towards Carl-- then back around, before sinking as far down into the sofa as he possibly could, hoping that Carl somehow hadn't seen him.
Ron listens to Carl talk to Maggie about watching Judith while his dad goes on a supply run, which explains why he's over here.
Carl wasn't here for him, Ron breathed out in relief.
Given Ron's current run of luck, it doesn’t take very long before Carl is plopping himself down on the sofa right next to Ron, whose temporary bubble of relief was popped like a balloon. He tenses up and goes out of his way not to spare the other boy any sort of acknowledgement.
Carl has always been more polite, “Hey,” it’s mumbled and lame which makes Ron wonder why he even sat down here, he didn’t seem to want to chat anymore than Ron.
“Hi,” Ron blinks dumbly at Carl. He’s never felt so unable to speak properly in his whole life.
“Transformers 2007?”
“Think so.”
They fall quiet again.
“Uh,” Carl clears his throat uncomfortably, “How’s your back been?” he gets out slowly, Ron can tell he immediately wishes he hadn’t asked. Ron wishes he hadn’t either, embarrassment likely showing on his lips as they fall lopsided.
Ron's eyes flicker to Carl for a moment before they find the latter’s shoes, which Ron only now notices are mismatched. After a tick of silence, he realizes he’s been asked a question, which he’s also not too keen on answering honestly.
“It…could be worse,” Ron hopes the way his gaze lingers on the patched-over disfigurement goes unnoticed by the other boy. He figures it doesn’t when he catches Carl’s lips twitch the faintest bit.
Clearly, it could be worse. Worse was right in front of him, and it was kinda totally his fault.
He sorta wants to go back in time and force his back further into Michonne’s sword before she has time to pull it back.
Instead of moving on or dropping it, like Ron expects— or at least hopes Carl will do, he asks for a follow-up. Or a skeptical reinforcement.
“So it's okay?” He’s staring. Carl does that a lot, but now it's all the more searing. Intense.
He doesn’t trust Ron’s indifference, that much is apparent by how he attempts to subtly lean back and get a good survey of Ron’s condition based on how he’s slumped over, screwing with the material of his jeans.
Ron straightens up, triggering a sharp pain to shoot down his back, its quickly followed by a numb yet somehow painful tingling sensation. He manages a somewhat convincing expression, but the whole display is promptly betrayed by the crack in his throat as he speaks.
“Yeah, it’s cool.”
Carl squints, scrutinizingly.
Ron just shifts against the couch, making an effort to seem unbothered.
“Ron,” Carl starts slowly, listening to the other boy let out a small, acknowledging hum, “You should let me look at it.” but even he sounds unsure as he proposes it.
Ron doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, a familiar burn of defiance creeping up inside him, but it’s too weak to really take root. He wants to argue, to brush Carl off with a sarcastic quip, to deny that anything is wrong at all, but the ache in his back is so persistent now that it’s hard to ignore.
Besides, Carl is still watching him like he’s already made up his mind.
"I don't think that's—" Ron starts, but his voice falters when he sees Carl’s expression shift into something even more determined. Great. Now it’ll be even harder to blow him off.
Carl raises an eyebrow, his stare unwavering. "Come on, man," he says, softer this time but still insistent. "Just let me take a look."
For a split second, Ron imagines what might happen if he keeps resisting—Carl’s going to keep asking, maybe get louder, and he’s not sure he has the energy to spar with him over something so stupid. With a frustrated sigh, Ron finally gives in. His resistance crumbles—not gracefully, but enough to get Carl off his case.
"Alright," he mutters, eyes still fixed anywhere but on Carl.
Carl sits up a little straighter, clearly surprised by the sudden change of heart.
With a reluctant nod, Ron pushes himself off the couch, every movement sending another reminder of his injury shooting down his spine. He can feel Carl’s eye on him, assessing him, and it only fuels his annoyance.
The wooden stairs creak under their weight as they step up them, and Ron wonders sheepishly if blood seeped through his shirt. He hopes not, that would be mortifying.
They both step into the bathroom and Carl flicks the light on before lowering to his knees to dig through the cabinets under Ron’s sink, giving him space to settle himself on the toilet seat.
Carl tilts his chin up to face Ron, narrowing his eyes, “You gonna take your shirt off?”
Ron somehow forgot that was something he was going to have to do.
"Seriously?" Ron doesn't know why he's asking, how else was he anticipating this to go? When Carl doesn't reply, Ron, unable to tolerate the uncomfortable tension flooding the room, decides to keep talking.
"Take me out to dinner first." he tries to joke. It falls flat, not that the joke would’ve been funny in some other situation, anyway. Carl stares at him almost blankly, not even bothering to attempt feigned laughter of any sort.
…Right.
"...Okay," Ron mumbles after a moment, mentally slapping himself in the face before rolling his shirt up his gauze-wrapped torso, then off his skinny arms, now holding the bundled-up fabric in his lap. He's watching Carl dig through his bathroom's medical cabinet, thoughtfully pulling out different medical supplies.
Ron is now stuck with his eyes vacantly focused on the nasty side of the other boy’s face, the swelling seems to have gone down since Ron last saw it, Carl must've been taking care of it, Ron concludes. He thinks Carl doesn't look that bad, even with a quarter of his head blown off, but maybe Ron was coping, aware that he'd done irreversible damage to Carl's face.
Holding a softer washcloth, he looks up to where Ron is sitting on the toilet with his legs apprehensively pushed together. Carl stares for a moment, his face seems blanker than it used to, maybe it's just harder for Ron to read now that there’s less of it.
Ron's eyes flick away toward the plain, boring white wall of the bathroom, surrendering to his guilt.
The more he looks at the guy, the worse he feels.
Carl's knees pop as he gets back to his feet, taking a small step closer to Ron, and vaguely gesturing with his hands for Ron to turn and face the flower-patterned shower curtain.
Ron takes a short, subconscious breath in, puffing his cheeks out before tossing his legs around the toilet. When he turns his back to Carl, he slowly lets the air out of his cheeks, visibly deflating. For some reason, he’s still stuck on if Carl will notice it— as opposed to when —, like the guy’s not gonna be fixated on his back for the next who-knows-how-long.
They sit in a stuffy silence while Carl gently pulls the dirtied bandaging off Ron’s back, slowly unwrapping it and revealing the nuisance below. His movements pause for a moment before he continues.
Although Ron can't actually see the mess he’s caused himself, he gets a pretty good idea, feeling how the gauze wetly sticks to his skin as Carl peels it away. Despite how tender Ron can tell Carl’s trying to be, it still stings, and Ron has to suck in a breath to prevent himself from hissing out.
Once the bandages are all off and tossed in the bin, there's silence, not only in the sense that Carl isn't saying anything, but he's also not doing anything. It's a stillness that Ron probably could have made up, with his mind soaked with paranoia, but it goes on just long enough for him to know that he hadn't.
Ron thinks back to the last time he attempted to clean the wound on his back– trying to recall if there was still bruising from before his dad had been killed, but he couldn’t really be sure. Probably because over the years, he’d gotten accustomed to visually tuning out the discoloration across his skin.
What Ron is sure of, however, are the countless scars and his visually (and functionally) fucked up left shoulder. He knew Carl wasn’t dumb or oblivious enough to not come to the likely-accurate, humiliating assumption about how the scars found their homes there, scattered about his flesh.
His stomach hurts, all of a sudden.
There seems to be a flicker of understanding between them, a connection that feels more profound than the surface-level awkwardness of the moment. Ron vaguely recognizes that Carl isn’t judging him. Instead, it’s as if he’s trying to make sense of him.
But still, it pisses Ron off because it's like he's just admitted that Carl was right about his dad being a total asshole. He wonders if that's what Carl's thinking about, as he lightly tends the area around the wound with the cloth, now soaked in something alcoholic.
The sensation is less than pleasant, but again, Ron shouldn't be complaining.
He can’t help but to grind his teeth together, looking around the cramped bathroom for anything to occupy his mind with, then, Carl’s talking to him again.
“Transformers,”
Ron quirks an eyebrow when Carl doesn’t follow up with anything, “What?”
“Who’s your uh, favorite…transformer—?” He sounds unsure of what he’s talking about.
“Optimus Prime,” Ron blinks, “…Obviously.”
“Right.” Carl tries. This is so awkward. “I like the– err… Big yellow one.”
“…Bumblebee?”
Carl doesn’t respond for a moment, “Uh, Yeah?”
Ron quirks a brow, feeling the tension between his shoulder blades build up as Carl stumbles through the conversation. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, a hint of annoyance in his tone.
Carl doesn’t respond immediately, and the silence hangs heavy in the air.
Ron's just about to roll his eyes when a sharp sting spreads across his back, cutting through the dull ache that had been lingering there. He hisses involuntarily, the cloth biting into the sensitive skin around the wound.
It hits him then—Carl isn’t just making awful small talk. He’s distracting him.
Ron blinks, his mind catching up to the realization. Carl’s awkward, forced conversation about Transformers isn’t because he actually cares about giant robots. It’s because he’s trying to make this whole situation a little less unbearable for Ron.
The thought makes him swell with mixed feelings, the main one being Guilt.
Why was Carl helping Ron again? Probably because he’s actually a good person. Or he was crazy, just like Michonne. Maybe it’s contagious. Or something.
He grits his teeth, forcing his focus back to the conversation, or at least what’s left of it. “Bumblebee,” he repeats flatly, “Of course you’d pick him.”
Carl laughs softly behind him, and though there's still a persisting ache in Ron's back, he feels his shoulders relax just a little. The tension between them shifts, the awkwardness still there but slightly less insufferable now.
Eventually, Carl moves on from the alcohol-soaked washcloth in exchange for a sponge soaked in soap and water. Ron thinks the step is unnecessary but decides not to comment on it.
When Carl decides he’s done a well-enough job at cleaning the wound, he gets a hold of the clean roll of gauze he’d gotten from the medical cabinet, basically swaddling Ron with it as he rewraps the wound.
Ron’s mind drifts, feeling the odd contentment of being taken care of. It’s not something he’s used to. As Carl tucks the last bit of gauze in place, he takes a small step back, allowing Ron to spin back around and face him.
“I’ll be back again tomorrow to help with the antibiotic,” Carl says it so surely, like there's no doubt in his mind about it.
The certainty in his voice catches Ron off guard, but what surprises him more is the absence of dread that he’d expect to accompany such a suggestion.
Summary: You and Ron found a stash of weed just few miles outside Alexandria, and convinced Carl to join you both for a smoking session.
TW: Weed, suggestive themes, make out session, marking, shotgun smoking, Carl is inexperienced
You and Ron finally convinced Carl to leave his home and go to your hiding cubby just outside the walls perimeter. You and Ron had turned it into a cubicle with pillows, blankets, snacks, and a couple homemade weapons for when either of you needed a break from the new world.
Carl knew about it vaguely, but he had never set foot in it. When he did however, you could tell he was tense. The thought of getting high when something could go wrong nearly triggered a panic within him. But at the sight of the pastel plushies that you scavenged calmed him a little.
“Carl, it’s going to be okay. Y/N set little traps around the place. She’s actually quite good at it,” Ron assured Carl, motioning to a spot on the small love seat.
“Yeah,” was all Carl responded with, taking off his gun holster and hat.
Once the three of you were comfortable, you and Ron started rolling the joints. Ron took his time, and eventually had to take over for you. You had never done it before, and if it was too loose, you’d get more air than anything.
You turned to look at Carl from your spot on the floor. His arms rested on his knees while his head stood still on his knuckles. He was watching intently to Ron as he worked, observing the way his fingers moved naturally, gracefully, wrapping each thread of the herb with precision. Carl was entranced. It made you smile.
You had known for a while about Carls attraction, though he never said anything to you. It was easy to spot. You and Ron had talked about it, but he brushed it off.
“All done. Ready?” Ron asked.
“Finally,” you giggled, taking the smoke from Ron. Carl grabbed his hesitantly, holding it as if it were a disease.
“It will help you relax, Carl. I promise,” Ron assured before lighting his own. He took a deep drag from the smoke, letting it rest in his lungs for a few seconds before releasing it. He looked blissed out just from one pump.
Carl saw this and attempted to pull one before coughing it back up. His lungs weren’t used to it.
“Oh geese Carl. Are you okay?” You asked him, watching him double over. You rubbed his back gently.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to,” you said. You didn’t want to pressure him.
“I have an idea that might make it easier, Carl. Wanna try it?” Ron told him. Carl coughed one more time before saying, “yeah let’s try. It doesn’t taste so bad anymore.”
“Probably because you coughed it all up!” You giggled at him in disbelief. He smiled at you gently.
“Alright. If I make you uncomfortable though, tell me,” Ron’s words confused you and Carl both, but he nodded to confirm the promise.
Ron shuffled forward on his knees with his joint. He looked Carl in his eyes before taking his left hand, and dragging it across Carls chin, making their faces align. Their noses almost touching, Ron lightly breathed, “Open.” It was a silent command to Carl, and before he could finish, Carls mouth widened.
You could see that Carls breath was becoming heavy, making you feel something within. Something new. Ron turned to pull out another drag, then turned back, his eyes half closed, and nearly connected their lips to blow out the smoke.
Carl closed his eyes as he took in all the smoke Ron offered him. He did it so quickly that he jolted forward slightly, making their lips connect for a moment. Ron pulled back after a few moments, making sure Carl was okay.
He didn’t cough this time. His eyes were still closed as he released it all. It was one of the hottest things you’ve seen.
“Any better?” Ron asked, looking at Carl. His eyes pleading.
“Yeah…” Was all Carl could say. “Can we keep doing that instead, Ron?”
All three of you were high out of your minds, and you somehow ended up with your head in Carl’s lap, and Ron at his feet. You all were giggling and yapping at one another, bonding over the drug. It was always tense around them. Now it felt like home.
You were laughing at something Ron said when you noticed Carl looking at you with a dazed gaze.
“What’s wrong, Carl? Are you—”
“You’re so pretty, Y/N,” Carl sighed, bringing his hand up to wrap his fingers around a strand, tugging slightly.
“Carl?” Your breathing started to get heavy again, and you sucking in a breath before Carl bent down to kiss you.
It was short, but sweet. He tasted of weed, and you were sure you did as well. After pulling back from the peck, you forced your hands into his locks, pulling him back down. This time, the kiss was rough and needy.
While you and Carl were making out, Ron moved to to Carls left, watching with his mouth open slightly, taking in the view of his two crushes taking each others breath.
You both put so much into it that your lips started to bruise. Pulling back because you needed air, a string of saliva was the only thing still connecting you both. Panting, you felt his jeans below your head tighten, making you smile. He just sat there with dilated pupils as he whimpered slightly.
“What about little ol’ me, Carl?” Ron asked next to Carl.
Ron placed his arm around Carl’s shoulder and used his free hand to tilt Carls head to meet his. All they did was stare at each other for a while.
And then Ron asked, “Is this okay?” Quietly, gazing at Carls bruised, wet lips.
Carls shoulders sagged suddenly from need. Even though we had barely done anything, it was overwhelming for Carl. He whimpered a positive note, making Ron grin.
Slowly, Ron went in to kiss him. It was soft and gentle at first, but with the sounds Carl was making as you moved your head slightly to see better, you rubbed his jeans just right.
Ron took that chance to force his tongue into Carls mouth, making him jerk slightly. Ron moved with him, and you could see his eyes glazing with unshed tears. Ron devoured Carls moans as he stole every kiss from him.
You rubbed your legs together to try and get some friction, anything. You sat up, taking a seat on the other side of Carl, moving the collar of his flannel.
While Ron sucked the life out of him, you decided to give his neck some attention. Leaving wet kisses along the pale, untouched skin, marking any space you could reach, causing him to tilt his head to give you better access. The noises he made only encouraged you and Ron.
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apparently i only ever posted this on twitter and i proly wont put it on tiktok but here was my like vague cowboy rarl idea that i rushed to get my idea out there..
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
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