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i stuff my mouth full of cherries. say, this is the taste of love, and i will choke on it.

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Dean had always shared sheets with little Sammy.

Dad lugged around the same bags with the same clothes, the same products and the same sheets for years. He’d bought Dean - or more like bought them - a dark navy set of full sized sheets the first time they’d moved into a house that dad promised they’d stay in for .. ‘a while’.

And when they left that house and went back to motels for a few months, the navy sheets stayed in one of the go-bags untouched until they needed them again for a bed that didn’t come with hotel sheets.

Sammy got a set of grey ones when they moved into a house that had two twin beds in the same small room. Dad bought them as a full set, and told Sammy that it was just in case they came by a place big enough to have their own rooms so they could maybe have their own beds. And so that if they didn’t, the two could switch between the navy sheets and the grey sheets.

So, that’s what they did. ‘Dean’s sheets’ (that were really always ‘Dean and Sammy’s sheets’) got to be ‘Dean’s sheets’ — ‘Sammy’s sheets’ got to be ‘Sammy’s sheets’. And when they left that house and shitty town, ‘Dean’s sheets’ and ‘Sammy’s sheets’ became ‘Dean and Sammy’s sheets’.

Dean liked it that way. He liked that his sheets got a break to keep them alive longer. He liked that he got to sleep in sheets that were once ‘Sammy’s sheets’ that Sammy slept in for months at a time (without really ever washing them). And he liked that even after months of being ‘Sammy’s sheets’, and after years of ‘Dean’s sheets’ somehow still being ‘Dean’s sheets’ - they were really ‘Dean and Sammy’s sheets’ now, and dad and Sammy acknowledged them as such.

It was different than Dean’s clothes. Sammy always got all the clothes that Dean grew out of and Sammy grew too quickly into. Yes, Dean liked to see Sammy in them. But most of his clothes were clothes they picked up cheap from resellers and thrift stores off of arterial roads in dreary towns - so a lot of ‘his clothes’ were really ‘used to be some rando’s clothes’. Dean really did like it when Sammy could fit comfortably in the one sweatshirt dad had actually bought brand new for Dean, and the hoodie became ‘Dean and Sammy’s’ just like everything else.

It’s been five months since Dean’s touched the bag where ‘Dean and Sammy’s sheets’ live in. They’d spent the last three in a motel off of an interstate in Montana. It smelled like beer and cigarettes and more often than not, burning plastic. Sammy hated it there, and Dean really didn’t prefer it.

They were in Southeast Arkansas now. They’d gone straight there, minus a two day stop in Kansas that Dean knew better than to question. It was a decent town they’d found, one close to a high school. Dad had let Dean drop out when he’d turned eighteen in January, but refused to let Sammy. Dean was half the influence on that decision.

Dad also managed to find them a house to rent - and unlike the previous one, they got their own twin beds again.

Dean’s trying his best not to grin as he carries the bag up the steps to the house, knowing neither sheets had been washed since well before the last time they were used - and that dad won’t have time to bring them to the laundromat today.

He fails at holding back that smile the second he gets to Dean and Sammy’s room and flops the bag onto his bed, catching Sammy’s attention.

Dean unzips the bag, and Sammy rolls his eyes softly, “I don’t even remember whose is whose anymore.”

Dean feels something hot and heavy in his gut hearing that. It’s how it should be. Really, in a way he’s annoyed he does remember which was his and which was Sammy’s in the beginning. But, in another - the much darker and worse part of him, is excited about remembering.

“Think yours were the navy, Sammy.”

Sammy shrugs, and picks them up wholeheartedly believing him because why would Dean lie about something like that? Not to mention, Sammy’s taken a liking to the darker colors of blue - and by total accident, Dean’s been wearing more grey. It probably also helps that the last time they’d shared a bed, the navy ones were the last to be used, and Sammy was the one to make the bed.

Dean only feels more dizzy with that reminder, staring down at the grey sheets once Sammy turns away to set his bed.

The grey sheets had been marinating in the bag, unwashed since the last time Sammy used them, and sitting next to the unwashed navy ones they’d used in the last bed they slept together in that required them.

He bites his lip and digs the heel of his foot into his other to try and distract himself with pain.

Dad turns the corner and steps into their room a second later, “You two want dinner?”

“Yeah,” Sammy turns right away, letting the corner of his mattress fall in favor of rushing up to dad.

When Dean doesn’t move, they both turn towards him, “you comin’, Dean?”

Dean shrugs, “gonna finish unpacking,” he widens his eyes a little as if gesturing to some of the more abnormal hunting supplies that they kept from Sammy. “Sammy’ll pick somethin’ for me. Won’t you, Sammy.”

Sam nods, “Sure.”

They leave the room, and Dean stays stock still until he hears the front door slam closed and the truck doors creak open.

He sighs once he hears the gravel under the tires shift out of the driveway, and turns towards the zipped open bag.

Dean’s a perv. He’s gross, and disgusting, and always will be because he gets off on his little brother. His smell, his body, his bratty personality and the idea that maybe one day Dean might just get the chance to have it all for himself in even more selfish ways than the way things are now.

Sammy had said it himself when he was little. The boys were made for each other.

Dean and little Dean just took that a little more dirtily than a big brother should’ve.

But Dean can’t help it, and what Sammy doesn’t know can’t hurt him.

He lifts his arms and grabs at his shirt, pulling it off so hard he hurts his neck a bit. He discards it somewhere on his bed and then fists the grey sheets out from the bag, other hand grasping at his belt and pulling the leather from the buckle as uncoordinated as Dean gets.

He’s not even made it the full four steps over to Sammy’s bed before he’s shoving the grey sheets into his face and inhaling like he’s been deep sea diving without an oxygen tank.

All things Sammy flood his nostrils and his lungs, and he feels floaty and fiery, and full of Sammy like he’s taking up all of Dean and Dean’s not even Dean anymore he’s just a vessel for Sammy to take up space in.

His cock twitches in his boxers, and he does nothing to keep himself from getting off — getting his hand under the waistband and gripping his cock in what feels like way too long but he knows is just seconds.

There’s a hint of Dean’s deodorant on the sheets, and he knows its from sitting next to the navy set that he too slept in last. But Sammy’s little bottles of shampoo and conditioner that he got to have that were different from dad and Dean’s that one time is littered in the threads. Notes of that heady smell that Sam carries with him when it’s hot out and they’ve been in the truck all day drives Dean’s prick the rest of the way hard, and he greedily pumps it, tightening his hand at the base where he can briefly perfectly imagine Sammy’s hole tightening around him and his ass going flat against Dean’s thighs.

He even thinks he can smell the slightest bit of that stupid kids toothpaste Sammy used to use because he hated the strong taste of dad and Dean’s.

Dean’s a horrible brother. The smell of Sammy shouldn’t have him jacking off and so close to the edge already. But it’s been a while since Dean’s gotten off, and the sheets smells so damn good, and Dean’s brain is even better at making up all kinds of fucked up scenario’s where Sammy’s kissing up his bare stomach, or down it to find the patch of brown hair at Dean’s base. Dean thinks he’d like the smell of him too, huffing at it where his open, wet mouth is so close to Dean’s dick.

He’s panting bow, desperately sucking in air through the bunched up sheets pressed to his nose and mouth - probably creating a wet patch where he exhales.

It must be the lack of oxygen to his brain because his dry hand has never felt better, his hips moving on their own to grind into his closed palm and his shoulders shivering when the same callous on his finger brushes a sensitive spot near his tip over and over again. He wishes desperately it was Sammy’s tongue - or even because of the jolt of pain he gets from it when it starts to be too much - one of Sammy’s canines.

His stomach tenses and he breathes in one last big breath of everything Sammy, picturing his little brothers bare chest coated in the same kind of sweat he can smell on the sheets just stronger and wetter like Sammy’s some oiled up pornstar with a set of soft tits for him to rub his cock between.

The thought of that on its own, and the way he rubs the head of his cock is enough to make that coil in his groin spring with release. He groans desperately into the sheets, fisting them tight to his face so all he smells is Sammy as he spurts into the palm of his other hand.

When he opens his eyes all he can think of is how grateful he is he didn’t get any spunk on Sammy’s sheets.

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Voltron Biker AU - back when I got inspired by a lot of biker thirst traps on Insta 🙈

Hi-res tablet wallpaper version on my Patreon for Polaris members: Link

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Redraw • Voltron S02E01 • This episode is so inherently intimate with the way Shiro and Keith are talking to each other through their intercoms while Keith is coming to Shiro's rescue. Both are in danger and still worry about the other one, asking "what happened". 😩

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Possessive

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"𝙎𝙖𝙢𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙮𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙙𝙖𝙮. 𝙃𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙣"

- 𝙅𝙤𝙝𝙣 𝙒𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙟𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙖𝙡

𝙎𝙖𝙢𝙢𝙮 𝙩𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙥𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮.

He walked towards Dean.

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Voltron Biker AU - back when I got inspired by a lot of biker thirst traps on Insta 🙈

Hi-res tablet wallpaper version on my Patreon for Polaris members: Link

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Carl, half asleep on his side with his back to Negan. Negan, who has an arm under Carl and can feel his heartbeat in his side under his tits.

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Imagining the first hunt where John decides Sam can be left alone. He would be maybe… what? 9 or 10? Dean, old enough to be actual backup, and Sam would just be in the way, so dad says “Sam, you’re staying here.” And Dean pauses, wants to object, but dad needs backup and Sam is definitely old enough to be alone by now, Dean was younger when dad started leaving him alone.

Sam, looking up from his homework, eyes flitting between dad and Dean like he’s waiting for Dean to say something. But Dean can’t say anything, doesn’t have anything to say. He can’t say he doesn’t want Sammy to be alone because that’s stupid, that’s not how hunting works.

So Sam says, “can’t I go stay with Uncle Bobby? He’s only a few hours away, I can take the bus–“

But Dean stiffens, and dad bristles, because dad and Bobby had a fight, and Dean knows they’re probably not going to go back to Bobby’s for a while.

Dad says, “No. You’re old enough to stay on your own.”

And Sam knows that that tone means no fighting, dad’s already made up his mind, so he drops his eyes back down and his shoulders come in, and Dean itches to say something, to say look dad, he’s still just small, we can’t leave him here.

But dad’s gone back to his guns, and Dean has more rounds to pack, and he knew this day was coming, even if he didn’t- even if Sam was still so tiny, just his baby brother, who still couldn’t hit every single target when he practiced.

When they leave, Sam stands at the door, next to dad’s duffle, like he’s hoping dad will forget and pack him up in the back too. But dad hasn’t forgotten, and he crouches down to meet Sam’s eyes as he goes over the list he’d always given Dean before he left. Lock the doors, keep your head down, keep the gun close. Check the salt lines. When dad checks in, he calls once, then hangs up, calls again.

He leaves Caleb’s number on the fridge, even though Sam memorizes every phone number they learn the second they hear it.

Dad waits for Sam to repeat everything back to him, in his high, shy voice, and then pats him on the shoulder, says “be smart, Sammy.” And takes the duffle to the car.

Sam looks at Dean, his little fists clenched at his sides. Dean’s tall now, taller than some adults, and Sam has to crane his neck up to look at him.

Dean drops his backpack to pull him into a hug, wraps his long arms around Sam’s thin shoulders. Sam grabs him around the middle, holds on, hides his face in Dean’s chest.

They stand there too long, long enough for dad to get impatient and honk, and Dean startles away.

Sam’s blinking fast, pretending not to have been crying, and Dean pretends not to have seen.

“It’s only three days, Sammy. Lock the doors, do your homework, we’ll be back before you know it.”

Sam blinks at him, nods, looks like he’s about to say something, and Dean prays he won’t, that he won’t, because if Sam asks him to stay, he will, and then they’ll have to do this all over again the next time. Just rip off the bandaid.

Sam doesn’t say anything, just stares at Dean as he picks his backpack up. Follows him like a shadow when he goes through the door, then he stands in the doorway, watches Dean trudge up to the car, slide into the passenger seat.

Dad’s looking, too. He doesn’t look nervous, doesn’t look worried, and of course not, he wouldn’t leave Sam alone if Sam wasn’t ready.

Sam looks small, in the door way, clutching onto the doorframe. He doesn’t wave when the car starts, just keeps standing there. Dean turns around in the front seat when they start driving away, watches Sam stand there until they turn a corner.

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junkyard dogs

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Just brotherism kiss💗

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if you think i'm pretty (put your hands on me)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65123083

ship: cegan

words: 6,753

rating: explicit (mind the tags)

genre: hurt/comfort, smut

Negan leaned forward, put a hand between Carl's shoulder blades, whispered, "Hey—" and was immediately cut off by a sharp, hiccuping sob and Carl's back jerking away in a flinch, like it was another strike from the paddle. The breath he let out was a near-soundless staccato falling from trembling lips, and each impossibly small sound felt like hot knives buried to the hilt in Negan's stomach.

...Did I hit him too hard?

In which Negan hasn't the faintest idea of how to be a responsible Dom, Carl doesn't know how to advocate for himself, and neither of them could communicate if they had a gun to their head.

But they make it work.

What was supposed to be just a repost to AO3 with maybe like. A bonus scene nearly doubled in size. It probably doesn't hit the same prompts anymore. C'est la vie.

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AAUAUFHAAH

Special Children :: All Hell Breaks Loose

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Sam smiling like a babygirl while being manhandled

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Carl with constant bruises over those sharp hip bones from constantly being bent over banging into countertops

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"Common Sense (Ain't So Common)"

(inspired by this post by @vivi-fucking-slays, written for Cegan Bingo 2025) [@ceganbingo]

Trigger warnings: badly negotiated BDSM, dubcon (in that a safeword is ignored, albeit unintentionally), crying, subdrop, violence (a barfight, mentioned) and uuhhhh I think that's it? Negan is his own trigger warning? Hit me up if I missed one

NSFW, natch.

Enjoy!

_____________________________________

"C'mon, kid. At least cry a little."

Negan wasn't stupid, he could see the fat tear tracks rolling down Carl's cheek, mixing at his jaw with the drool that kept leaking from around that black bit-gag in his mouth. It was meant to add some insult to injury, that was all.

They'd been at this for hours. Which seemed fitting, considering the amount of buildup to it. Negan didn't know why Carl had been acting like such a bitch all day, all one-word answers and one-eyed glares, body language taut and closed off. He didn't have a goddamn clue what made the kid think it was okay to go to the pool hall without him, without his permission, where all those creeps and stupid jackasses roamed like coyotes (he would know), and he sure the hell didn't know how it got to Carl hauling off and punching somebody in the face and starting one of the nastiest scraps that Negan had ever had to drag him out of.

(But he'd lying if he said he didn't find the last bit kind of hot. Even if he got a couple bruises of his own.)

(…okay, especially because of that.)

He didn't know any of this, because Carl wouldn't respond to him the whole drive home: no exlanations, no apology. Just slouched over in the passenger's seat, arms folded, looking positively fucking petulant.

But hell if he wasn't going to find out.

Sometimes Carl got hardheaded. And sometimes that meant needing to break him back in. Which was both awesome (god, sometimes he remembered how pissy and recalcitrant Carl had been when they first met and his jeans got a touch tight—what a hot little number he'd been, it was nice to get a taste of that again sometimes) and infinitely goddamned frustrating because he was still at a loss for how they got there.

But whatever. They came home, he patched Carl's knuckles, inspected the bruises on his face, the busted lip that was still sluggishly bleeding into a cotton ball (God help him, the urge he had to bite it and make it worse), tried not to let his resolve soften at that downcast gaze and pink cheeks as he held his hands and turned his head this way and that, and when he was sure nothing was broken or in any more need, he led Carl into their bedroom and told him, "Get on your knees."

And Carl went without a word, so apparently he knew how badly this needed to happen. Didn't even take the time to take off his eye bandage, like he normally would before a scene, especially a punishment.

And it was going well. Carl had been a pretty tough nut to crack, at first, but Negan had their favorite paddle in his hands now, rich-colored wood with a leather-wrapped grip. Carl had long ago been knocked from his hands to bracing with his forearms with the force of it, and between the current implement and the swats Negan had given him with his bare hand, Carl's rear was blossming in multiple shades of deep red and pink. Negan was playing the long game, wearing Carl down like sanding a board, to hopefully reveal the patterns swirling around in that head of his. And if it kept him a low level of warm and sore for a day or two afterward, made him reluctant to sit, maybe it would settle him. Or at least remind him not to bite the hand that paid his car note and put a roof over his head.

So when Carl started to cry, silent tears dropping to the floor, he thought they were getting somewhere. So he let his mouth run, indulged himself, since surely Carl was listening now.

"Don't know what I'm gonna do with you," he mused, punctuated his sentence with a sharp little smack that made Carl's hips jerk forward. He hadn't moved from his hands and knees, even without restraints to reinforce the position (good boy, just like we worked on). "You've been disrespectful, you've been rude as all hell, getting anything out of you today has been like pulling fuckin' teeth—" Smack. "I don't know when I ever gave you the idea that it was alright to fuck off and get yourself hurt but God as my witness, honey—" He laughed, slightly less sincere-sounding than he meant it, and adjusted the angle of his swing for those sensitive spots at the tops of Carl's thighs, right under the full curve of that gorgeous, heart-shaped ass. "—I will be disabusing you of that notion right now."

Smack!

That one landed harder than the previous. Carl made a sharp noise and his posture tensed before it began to slump. Negan tsked disapprovingly, ran the edge of the paddle up between Carl's thighs, surely collecting some of the wetness that had to be running down his soft skin by now. "Hop up. All fours, now. You know better." Carl struggled visibly, but he got his legs back under him, and when he was sure Carl was settled and in no danger of toppling over, Negan started again.

"I cannot begin to tell you—" Smack. "—how disappointed I am—" Smack. "—in your behavior today." Smack. Carl shivered once, soft little noises escaping around the bit in his mouth that sounded pretty similar to I'm sorry and please, which to Negan was a good sign—when Carl started begging for his punishment, that was usually when they went a bit harder, really immersed him in the way he was feeling, then started to wind things down. Then Carl would go into his arms, still teary-eyed, thank him, and they would watch reruns of Bonanza on the TV until the boy fell asleep snuggled up into the space next to his partner, content in the knowledge he was adored and forgiven. They didn't talk about it much, but Negan knew Carl knew, because he would approach the next day with a lighter air, maybe even a sense of relief.

So he let it go for a few more good swings, maybe seven, the sharp sound of paddle on skin interplayed with Carl's muffled pleas for more, and when the final one hit, Negan set the paddle down on the ottoman at the foot of their bed, ran his fingers along the edge of it as he went, and knelt down beside Carl to take the gag off.

"Baby. It's over." He undid the fastener and reached under to receive the bit. Carl took a moment to drop it out of his mouth, and Negan set it aside. He went to put his hands on Carl's face, to thumb away a few of those tears and tip his head up for their eyes to meet, but Carl swayed off to the side, ended up lying down kind of hard on the floor. Poor kid, he was probably exhausted; Negan didn't see any more light filtering in the blinds, so the sun must have set while they were working. Well, that just meant he'd heat them up some leftover spaghetti for supper, maybe even eat it sitting up in the bed after he rubbed some salve into Carl's newly-red areas, and they'd turn in early.

Negan's pleasant prediction of their plans for the rest of the evening cleared out a bit when Carl curled in on himself, drawing his hands up close to his chest and locking his legs together. He was still, so still, and so quiet for what felt like ages but was probably half a minute at most, then his shoulders started to shake.

Negan ignored the slight tightening in his own throat, and called out to Carl, "Did you hear me, kiddo?" He reached out to him, and his fingertips had just barely brushed bare shoulder when the poor Carl-shaped heap on the floor drew in a hard, shuddering breath, and what came out sounded like it hurt, harsh and wounded as Carl hugged his middle and huddled up against the floor like he was weathering a tempest.

Carl…didn't cry like that, and the wrongness of it twisted in Negan's gut. He didn't tend to make a lot of noise, didn't like to have attention drawn to it, not even when he was really hurt. They had just recently gotten to a point where he could cry outside of the bedroom in front of Negan.

Negan leaned forward, put a hand between Carl's shoulder blades, whispered, "Hey—" and was immediately cut off by a sharp, hiccuping sob and Carl's back jerking away in a flinch, like it was another strike from the paddle. A frown pulled at Negan's lips and he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth, like he did when trying to untie a complicated knot or when he was dropped into a difficult match on one of his games.

Did I hit him too hard?

Surely not, Carl had taken much harder hits with a smile and then presented his mouth eagerly.

The why could be figured out later, Negan quickly decided. Carl would have to be calmed down before they could have any kind of conversation. Right now, Carl didn't want Negan to touch him. Which made that difficult. But he couldn't just leave him there on the floor. It couldn't be comfortable, and it was probably cold.

When Negan stood up, he didnt miss it that Carl leaned just so in his direction, and when he walked away toward the bed, he heard Carl shift, turning his head to hide his face further against the floorboards, crying harder as if it just confirmed something to him, and holy hell if it didn't make Negan's heart feel just a bit like he was gonna bleed to death.

"I'm coming back," he said, almost involuntarily, though he wasn't sure Carl could even hear him, all wrapped up as he was in his distress. "Just hang on, killer, I'm coming."

He pulled the black throw blanket off the foot of the bed, soft and comfortingly heavy, brought it back over to the pale form in the middle of the room. He held it open like he was trying to catch something, some small animal, got back down on the floor with a soft grunt as his joints protested loudly (Maybe I'm getting too old for this shit), and gathered Carl up into his arms.

He was so cold to the touch, and once Negan lifted him up and had a hold of him proper he noticed the fine tremors running through Carl's thighs, his back, his hands where they were still held tight against himself. He'd always been sort of little, even with the firm muscles wrapped around his lanky frame and that last good growth spurt he swore he got at twenty but no one seemed to believe him, but Negan really couldn't think of a time Carl had felt and looked so fucking small to him.

"C'mere."

He sat back, Carl's pliable form in his lap, and propped the boy's head up on his shoulder. He smoothed down that soft brown mop of hair where it leaned on him, and was self-conscious, privately, at how much of a relief it was when Carl turned his face to press into his T-shirt, hot tears bleeding through the fabric. "There you go." He rubbed Carl's upper arm, his back too, trying to get some friction going to aid in warming him up, and it seemed like big, firm touches were alright for now, because Carl didn't try to pull away. Not that he really seemed to have the strength to.

He hadn't stopped crying, not by a long shot, but after a minute or two he didn't sound like he was being actively tormented anymore. Just…like his heart was breaking into a million pieces. They sat like that for a bit, Carl softly whimpering into Negan's chest, hands finally loosening enough to grasp at his T-shirt, and Negan rewarded him for the gesture by kissing the side of his head, pulling another soft, gasping sob from the raw, injured thing balled up against him.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he cooed, his voice a soft rumble in his chest, as he slowly rocked the two of them back and forth. "It's gonna be okay, look. It's over. You're not in trouble anymore, babydoll, nobody's mad at you."

"…you're not?" It was the first time Carl had spoken this whole time, all strained and wavering, and Negan knew his throat just had to hurt after all that. That didn't make a whole lot of sense to Negan—punishment was just that, and it was over when it was over. That was a big part of their whole deal. Of his rules.

"Of course I'm not. You did something stupid, you got your ass torn up. That's how it works, and it's done. I'm not mad." There was a brief, guilty silence, and then he asked, just in case, "Did I get too rough on you?"

Carl went still in his arms. "No." Yes.

"You tellin' me the truth, Carl?" He was more serious this time, used his name this time, though he didn't think he'd ever regretted something as quickly as that when he felt Carl's chest jerk in a convulsive, sharp breath like he'd been slapped and felt his hands cling to the hem of his shirt.

"I didn't mean t—disappoint you," he gasped. He was starting to shake again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…" He pressed his face back into Negan's shoulder, and the tears came heavy again, where they'd started to taper off.

Oh.

Ah, hell.

"Carl. Look at me." It took some coaxing, some nudging, but he got Carl to lift his head, and with one hand he brushed that overgrown fringe to the side. "Get that hair out of your face, I wanna see you." Carl's face was all flushed, smeared with tears, and his lips trembled hard at the corners with how he was trying to get a hold of himself. Any other time, it'd be a really pretty picture, and Negan felt a flush of annoyance at his traitorous-ass dick trying to stir. "I was disappointed—" and he winces internally at just how crushed Carl looks, he isn't supposed to look like that. "Shh, shh. Let me finish. I was disappointed. Because I expect you to know how valuable you are. And I want you to act like it. I was disappointed, because you know better, you know to nut up and tell somebody what's going on with you. So runnin' off, starting fights, hiding from me…"

"I know." Carl dropped his head, but he looked back up when Negan's hand bumped his chin. "I'm sorry."

"If 'you know, you know,'" There was a whiff of teasing in Negan's voice, just barely, in case Carl was still too sore to recognize it, "then why'd you do it?"

Carl fell quiet, looked down at his lap, and for a second Negan thought he'd have to ask again, but then he shook his head, long hair swaying with the motion.

"I don't know. I don't…I didn't feel good. All day, I don't know why. I just woke up feeling…bad. Like I was bad. And off, and I don't know, I just wanted to do something about it. I wanted you to do something about it."

"You wanted me to punish you." It was a statement, not a question. The pieces were starting to slot into place.

"I thought I did." Carl's voice was thick with unshed tears. "I thought I did, and then we got home, and you took care of me, and I felt better. But I still had to take it, and—and I tried, but then you said you were disappointed, and everything hurt—so bad, and I…" His voice pitched up and broke. He gestured, a little helplessly, and when he went back down into Negan's chest, Negan practically crushed Carl up against him, let him hide there.

"I got you. It's alright, I got you," he mumbled into Carl's hair."You did good, darlin', real good."

When Carl spoke again, it was uneven and between fresh sobs, seemingly uncaring what he sounded like, focused on just getting it out when he said, "I tried—to tell you to stop. I wanted you—to stop, I wanted to say sorry—but I couldn't."

There weren't many times in Negan's life that he felt like the stupidest son of a bitch to breathe air, but the realization that he'd never even talked about a nonverbal way of getting out of whatever shit they were doing at the time definitely made top three, easy.

They were going to have to talk about it. No way around that. But…Carl yawned between sniffles and sighs, and Negan had the feeling all he wanted right now was to eat, maybe to shower, and to go to bed, tucked up against him where he should be.

He hugged Carl tighter, if that were even possible, pushing an awkward squeak out of him. And it took too fucking long, he knew that and kicked himself for it, but he did manage to say, "I'm sorry," and hell if he didn't pack as much sincerity into it as he knew how.

They stayed on the floor longer than they probably should have, until Carl was just wiping his eyes from time to time and squirming from the discomfort of being in the same position too long. Which, sitting on a freshly-paddled ass probably didn't help. Negan had a feeling they'd both be walking sort of stiff for the rest of the night.

Before they got up, though, he took Carl's face in both his hands and kissed him on the lips, real soft and sweet, thumbs stroking both his cheeks, and Carl leaned up into it like he'd been waiting on it all day.

"Let's get your hoodie, get some water in you, and maybe some dinner," Negan said, when they finally parted a moment later, Carl looking much more dazed and content—until he went to get out of Negan's lap and paused. He seemed to mull something over, eye narrowed, then looked so utterly and completely unimpressed that it made Negan grin out of pure conditioning.

"Are you seriously hard right now?"

"Probably."