Carl’s thin and lovely fingers are curled around Negan’s hand, his head pressed to his shoulder, when suddenly grinning he jolts upright, says:
“Let’s get—fuckin’ married.”
Negan’s mouth twitches. “We’re already there, remember?” he says, and flexes his hand.
Carl exhales like Negan’s the one being perpetually difficult and knocks his head against his shoulder. “No, like—like again. Like we could just—we could go get married like right now. Again.”
Negan makes a show of looking at the clock on their bedside table with pointedly raised eyebrows. “It’s almost three in the morning, sweetheart—”
Carl’s lower lip comes out. The pretty pink line of it a little bruised at the edges from Negan’s own teeth; he cannot help reaching up to run his thumb across it. Carl looking up at him through his eyelashes is very seductive and amused, a wry little grin tugging at the mouth as he bites gently at the pad of Negan’s thumb before pulling away:
“Here, Neegs. Like, at the house. Like, in our kitchen. Or whatever.”
It’s the most Negan’s heard Carl use the word ‘like’ in a string of sentences. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is; when the kids at school do it Negan wants desperately to go find the English teacher and bash her brains in but Carl with his voice rough from Negan’s dick and his hair a mess and his face flushed and his thighs still shaking a little and a spot of come on his chest just makes it sound—fuck. Hot. Like he does everything.
“Okay, kid,” Negan hears himself saying. “Let’s get married in our damn kitchen.”