Negan had given up on all things pretty, because the world had turned too ugly to bear pretty things anymore. He had created his empire from fear and blood, decorated it with stolen things and brought the men to their knees and their women to his bed.
The women – they’d been pretty before, perhaps; but whatever charm they may had possessed in the past had been watered down and rinsed off by the cynicism this world was fueled by, and Negan thought of them as little else other than silly-uniformed trophies he kept to remind his men that everything they had ever owned, now belonged to him.
It wasn’t a very good life, nor simple: it was a life, however, and Negan tried not to mourn the pretty things he missed.
Delicate and pale wrists, unwillingly kneeling while obviously taut with fury; that pink, young mouth sneering in the darkness. And then, that delightful blue and spiteful glare behind all that pretty hair.
The moment Negan set his eyes on the boy, he had been gone, and with the boy in his room, he couldn’t resist anymore.
He needed to see that face, bare.
It was mesmerizing; that gruesome hole amidst all that pale skinned beauty. He looked like a delicate china doll someone had played too roughly with and tossed in a corner where it had gathered dust and resentment.
God, he was so fucking beautiful.
It had been so easy to get Carl to want him.
Beneath that hostile surface Negan found a touch-starved, fucked up boy who licked up anything Negan gave him; praise, insults, come. Carl swallowed it all and asked for more, and Negan grew addicted to biting bruises into those creamy thighs; to mark him up and draw filthily whines from that milky frail throat.
Negan had Carl wearing lace panties beneath his clothes. He got hard watching the kid walk around with his badass machine gun; watching him talk to his father like everything was business as fucking usual; like he wasn’t wearing naughty little girl’s lingerie that Rick’s worst enemy had gotten for him beneath those layers of flannel.
Later, Negan would shove those skimpy little panties to the side before eating the boy out - he’d drool over that pink sweet pucker and dine on him like he would a feast; Carl’s high-pitched pleas for more making him heady like wine.
Carl would come on his tongue, his fucked out little voice whimpering Daddy, yes, daddy fuck.
Negan would find himself with a lapful of long-limbed teen; clinging to him like Negan had hung the moon itself, and Carl would toss his pretty head back and moan like a whore when Negan nibbled at his throat, jaw, his ear; on the edge of his morbid eye-socket.
“Love you” Negan whispered, tracing the tip of his tongue across the unseeing flesh.
He hadn’t planned to say it, not at all. He hadn’t even realized how much he fucking down-to-the-bones meant it until Carl gasped against his ear and came, wordlessly and untouched.
That’s when Negan said it again. “So fucking much,” he breathed shakily against the socket, his arms tightening around Carl who trembled in his arms.
“Why?” Carl’s one eye leaked tears, and Negan lapped them up, traced his tongue over the salty wet skin and drank the boy down.
Negan said: “Cause you’re the only pretty thing left in this shitty world.”