I Don't Know What Canon Is. Just Tumblr And Ao3 ❤️

That’s his dad!!

The ✨️Genders✨️ of the Pedro Pascal Cinematic Universe:

Asshole (affectionate)

Babygirl (derogatory)

Babygirl (affectionate)

Slut

Sugar & Spice | Joel Miller x Reader

This is a follow up to Soft & Sweet. It can be read as a standalone, but it is highly encouraged to be read as a sequel!

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You lose your virginity to Joel Miller.

Warnings/tags: MDNI. Foul language. Alcohol consumption. Drunken behavior. Arguing. Implied age gap (no numbers specified). Insecure Joel. Soft Joel. Loss of virginity. Reader is not clueless, just inexperienced. Praise. Dirty talk. Pet names. Joel guides reader through it. Oral (f receiving). Fingering. Unprotected p in v. Mentions of pain during sex. After care. Unbearable fluff. No mentions of body type or race, except slight implication reader is shorter than Joel. Platonic Ellie x Reader.

Word count: 9.8k (i’m sorry??)

soft!joel collection masterlist.

a/n: i am so thrilled to be sharing this with y’all! i’ve been working so diligently on it, and i’m really proud of the final product. special thanks for my bea @cupofjoel for reading so many parts of this and listening to me ramble on and on about ideas. tbh, we have also decided game joel suits this story a lot better, but if you’re imagining hbo joel, he canonically has long hair for this. see pic above. ty all for all the support on part 1!

You went on your date.

Two weeks after sharing your first kiss with Joel Miller, and you had yet to cross paths with him again. The excuse was air tight: Maria was only weeks away from labor which meant neither she nor Tommy were on the patrol routes. Times shifted, and for the next month, you and Joel would be on separate schedules. You knew it wasn’t permanent, that he would have no choice but to face you in a few weeks. But something about the way he averted from your gaze within Jackson’s wall, the quick pick up to his feet whenever you would accidentally cross paths in the town square, had your stomach in a knot.

Joel was avoiding you.

At first, the realization devastated you. You spent days cooped up in your room when you had no other necessary duties, ashamed of the tears you let stain your pillowcase. Your chest lingered with an unfamiliar ache that had once been ignited by his lips, but was now a throbbing reminder of a moment shared and lost. You pitied yourself, and it was sickening.

Then, you were angry. How dare he? Who did he think he was? Even if it was just any old run of the mill kiss, you didn’t think his respect for you would reduce that drastically. To not even acknowledge your presence? It was like a knife to the back. And after dwelling with that demon for some time, you came to realize you had two options: to face him or pretend it never happened.

The former was out of the question.

Therefore, you reduced yourself to compliance. Life couldn’t stop over a momentary lapse of judgment, and while reluctant, you decided to accept the invitation of drinks at the Tipsy Bison. Noah was nice enough; tall, slender, and dazzling hazel eyes that lit up when he smiled. You had met him at the market one afternoon, recognizing one another through a few mutual acquaintances. There were only a handful of people around your age group in Jackson, and everyone knew everyone, for the most part. It was something of a worst nightmare. But assimilating was survival, so that following Friday night, you found yourself sitting across from him in a booth towards the back of the bar, a heavy pour of vodka and seltzer water filling your glass.

Thank goodness for alcohol was what you spent most of the evening thinking. Noah was the kind man who loved to talk, mostly about himself. And while you were content on listening to get yourself through the evening, you couldn’t help but feel bored. Anxiety filled your stomach then; was this how Joel felt when you talked his ear off on patrols? 

Fuck. Why were you still thinking about him? This excursion had been a means of forgetting about him and the disappointment of his attitude towards you. But the thought of him only seemed to increase when you realized the company of the man before you was even more disheartening than Joel’s blatant rejection of you. 

You felt nothing for Noah. Not anywhere near the way you felt for Joel, seeming to burn from the inside out at the mere thought of him. 

When your date came to its natural conclusion, Noah offered to walk you home to which you quickly declined, using the excuse of needing to use the restroom and not wanting to keep him waiting so late. Truthfully, you did not want to be alone with him. The expectant connotation the idea held rubbed you the wrong way. Not like it did with Joel. You would welcome a secluded space again with him. 

As soon as you were able to convince Noah you would be fine and bid your farewells with the exchange of an awkward hug and forced smiles, you ran into the bar's bathroom, immediately seeking the sink to splash cold water over your burning cheeks. This was ridiculous, and if you couldn’t get yourself together soon, you were sure you would lose it. You stared at yourself in the mirror, scowling. Something had to give. 

Marching back out into the crowded room, you made certain Noah had left before seating yourself up at the bar and ordering another drink. Drinking alone; bleak, but effective. And by your third vodka soda, you were feeling much better. Invigorated, even.  To the point where you strode right out of the bar, a bit of an uneven waver to your step, and down the main strip of town. Impulsive and intoxicated, you decided you had every right to protect your sanity, your wellbeing, your heart. 

You were going to give Joel Miller a piece of your mind.

Joel didn't know how badly he wanted you until he had you. 

A moment so brief, and yet, it was ingrained into the depths of his very soul. How was he supposed to have said no to you? He knew how; he was a grown ass man, and should have had more self control. He should have been more adamant in his denial of your request. Should have ended the conversation before it even started. But the moment you flashed him those somber doe eyes, he knew he was far too weak to listen to any sort of rationale. Thus, the feel of your silken soft lips buzzed on him for days to come. He had the curves of your body mapped out on his hands, even though they only touched you for a short while. And your scent. It hung around him like a cloud, a drug he got addicted to off of one hit. 

He needed to clear his head. Therefore, when Ellie asked if she could spend the night at Dina’s, Joel happily obliged. A quiet home to himself. There was nothing Joel Miller enjoyed more. 

He settled himself on the couch, keeping only the glow of a lamp on as a source of light, a glass of whiskey he had traded for in hand. He swore he would only drink it on special occasions, but the week's torment proved it necessary. Closing his eyes and leaning back against the cushions, Joel was prepared to will himself to sleep if that meant he could have a moment of reprieve, but as soon as he was beginning to find his peace, a harsh knock pounding against the front door sent him startling to attention. When it came for the second time, he jumped to his feet, pacing towards the door with visible annoyance to his wrinkled brow. 

“You’re gon’ wake up the whole damn neighborhood if you keep knockin’ so—”

He halted his surly rant when the door swung fully open, and Joel was shocked to see you standing on his front porch with a bitter look in your eyes. He breathed your name almost questioningly, as if he couldn’t believe it was actually you standing there. A figment of his imagination haunting him for how often he had thought about you over the week, entertaining the idea, for a split second, that you may not be real. 

But then, your hands were on his chest, shoving at him until he stumbled back from the doorway, and you were stomping into the house, uninvited. 

“The hell are you doin’?!” he barked at you. Joel had never witnessed such a blatant display of indignation from you, at least never directed towards him. To barge over here, unannounced, and show such clear disrespect— 

“Why are you avoiding me?!” you screeched, and his agitated expression instantly fell.

Oh. 

He saw it then, the bloodshot look in your eyes, the sweat to your brow. He could smell it, the alcohol mixed with your natural aroma he had convinced himself he could still sense around him the entire week. But now, it was here. At his doorstep. Drowning him, consuming him. 

Joel sighed heavily. “Jesus, you’re fuckin’ wasted.” Clearly, that was the wrong answer, because as soon as he said it, you were lurching after him again. But before your palms could make contact with his chest, Joel grabbed at your wrists, stopping them mid air. 

Okay, so you were an angry drunk. Great. 

“Cut it out,” he seethed, taking a step forward to tower over you. You were looking up at him fiercely, and he hated how much he loved the heated look in your eyes. He would never admit it to you, but Joel rather enjoyed your attitude. It was endearing. Cute. Whenever you went on your seemingly endless rants during your patrols together, he often found it hard to conceal the smirk that would creep onto his lips at your relentless slaughter of whoever had pissed you off lately. The tremble to your bottom lip that he noticed now, however? That he was enjoying a lot less. 

He kept your wrists in the confines of his hands when he spoke. “M’not…not avoidin’ you.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He wasn’t necessarily doing it on purpose, and the shift in patrol schedules made it an easy out. But Joel knew it wouldn’t be that simple. You were far too smart, and he respected you far too much to lie to you 

“Bullshit,” you slurred, hands balling into tiny fists against his chest. “You–you don’t even look at me. You walk away from me when you see me in town. And–and you won’t, won’t talk to me.” Your words were a sputtered mess, coming out through trembling lips that fueled tear rimmed eyes, leaving Joel to frown deeply at the sight. Oh, sad drunk was worse. So, so much worse. 

It was true, he hadn’t spoken to you once since he kissed you that day in the safehouse. The question of why was one he couldn’t seem to answer; maybe he was worried he overstepped, regardless of how adamantly you asked him to. Or even more frightening, he was afraid that you regretted it. That you may never look at him the same way again, the only partner he could even remotely imagine tolerating was now going to be taken away from him over his foolish, selfish indulgence.  

“You–you kissed me, and–and now y-you don’t want me anymore.” 

Joel’s brows furrowed instantly, and he couldn’t help himself in the way he dropped your wrists from his grip, bringing his hands up to cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. He studied your tear filled eyes with an intense focus, a pain coursing through his gut at the way you looked up at him, sniffling back the growing tears. Joel had seen you cry before, but never at dealing of his own hand. It ate him alive with guilt. “Hey,” he said sternly, but calmly. That was why you were upset? So troubled over it that you got yourself drunk before coming to his doorstep to confront him? It was supposed to be easy for you to tell him things, tell him everything, but he had made you feel otherwise. More guilt. “That just ain’t true,” he whispered, catching one of the tears that cascaded down your right cheek with the pad of his thumb. 

Joel had never spent this much time so close to you. Save for the moment in the safe house and this one, he didn't think he had ever touched you. He never had any reason to. He was unprepared for how strong the urge to keep touching you was, wallowing in the hope that he never had to let go. 

“Yes, it is,” you argued shakily, your once intense tone losing its strength as you gave way to your emotions. God, he felt like a dick. Joel knew how your brain worked; you probably spent the better half of the week meticulously worrying over what you could have done wrong, when in reality, it was his own compulsions Joel was concerned about. 

“Darlin,’” he breathed, trying to keep his tone as even as possible. “You’re…not thinkin’ right, it's late, why don’t we talk about this in the mornin’?” He really didn’t want to argue with you, and if he was going to, he at least wanted to hear your thoughts in a clear state of mind. Contrary to what you may believe in the moment, Joel did give a shit about what you had to say. 

“You’re just gonna avoid me again,” you muttered, the pout to your bottom lip only increasing the sharp pain of guilt in his gut. 

“No, I won’t.” 

“Yes, you will.” 

“No,” Joel stressed, squeezing your cheeks tenderly between his hands until your lips pursed. Your tears had subsided, but the gloss over your eyes was still present. He so badly wanted to ask what he could do to soothe away your sorrow, but his attention was quickly deterred when you slumped forward with a deep huff, languidly wrapping your arms around his torso and burying your face in his chest. 

Initially, Joel froze. This was…new. Despite the large step of kissing you, Joel had never embraced you. The feeling was odd, foreign. He hadn’t hugged anyone other than Ellie or his brother since, well, since the world went to shit. His hands tingled in mid air, body gone ridgid at your sudden closeness. But eventually, he willed himself to relax, trying not to overthink the moment and gradually wrapping his arms firmly around you, one at your waist, the other at your shoulders, pressing you gently into his chest. The alleviation of all his tension was instantaneous. 

“Why don’t I walk you home?” he whispered, letting his fingers paint gentle circles against your scalp. He loved how soft your hair was.  

You shook your head, still nuzzled into his chest. “Don’t wanna go home,” you muttered, and Joel felt his stomach tighten in what he could only decipher as anxiety. That pesky little pest, always gnawing at him from the inside out. 

He could tell by the heaviness to your body and the weight in your voice the alcohol was catching up to you, fatigue nearby. He contemplated the predicament for a good long while, using the time to relish in the warm and comfortable affection of your shared embrace. 

“Alright,” he replied, his voice nearly as low as yours muffled in his shirt. Joel knew it wasn’t the best idea to let you stay, but he was also quickly discovering just how difficult it was for him to deny you. You were both playing a dangerous game. 

Wordlessly, Joel led you up the stairs with one hand at the small of your back, and the other at your bicep for stability. Your steps were heavy, and he noted the way you would lift your hand every few moments to rub at your tired eyes. He couldn’t help but find it painfully adorable. 

There was no harm in you sleeping here, right? He would lead you to his bed, help you get settled, and dutifully take the couch. There, he could spend the rest of the night reeling over his questionable judgment. 

Guiding you up the stairs, Joel made sure to flicker the big light off before maneuvering you into his bedroom. He got you safely seated at the edge of the mattress before you finally gave way to your weak muscles, snorting under his breath at the way you unabashedly splayed back against the mattress, groaning and squeezing your eyes shut. He knew that feeling all too well. 

“Want somethin’ else to sleep in?” he asked, observing the undoubtedly uncomfortable jeans and white button up you’d spent your evening in. But you were already shifting on the bed, curling into a fetal position with your head nuzzled into the pillow he usually slept on. You reached for the covers, pulling them absentmindedly around your body, mumbling a nuh uh. 

Joel sighed. Well, he wasn’t going to get anywhere else with you tonight, that was certain. So instead of dragging out your consciousness any longer, he carefully approached the side of the mattress, adjusting the sheets so they laid nicely over your huddled body, gingerly swiping a strand of hair that had slid over your eyes back away from your face. He stared at you for a moment then. Even in the darkness, he could make out your soft features; long eyelashes tickling your cheeks, lips slightly parted with gentle puffs of air. He didn’t indulge himself in watching you sleep for too long, but he was a bit alarmed at just how long he could have stood there, content in observing such a mundane activity. Of course, it was only because it was you partaking in it. No one else could make dreams look as peaceful. 

He steadied his hands on the mattress, leaning down to press a ghost of a kiss to your temple. “Sweet dreams,” he whispered, leaving the door cracked just the slightest when he left the room. In case you needed him. In case you wanted him. Even if, like it had been so many times before, it was just to have someone to talk to. 

Joel didn’t know how much he missed the sound of your voice until he heard it again.

Sharp, searing pain is what you were awoken to. Mostly behind the eyes, radiating through your skull and throbbing in a way that had you struggling to open them. But just as you were able to get a good squint, the sheer shock of your environment outweighed the pain. You shot up with a gasp, frantically looking around and grasping at the unfamiliar bed sheets until it hit you. You were not in some stranger's bed. 

This was Joel’s room. 

The scent of it alone could’ve told you so, but as you blinked away the lingering fatigue, the night came back to you in pieces. Your less than thrilling date with Noah. Your decision to drown those sorrows with some hefty drinks, which was quickly followed by the even more foolish decision to stomp your way over to Joel Miller's house and tell him off for kissing you then ignoring you for two weeks. 

Oh fuck. 

You cradled your head in your hands. What did you say? Even worse, what did you do? You were a notoriously emotional drunk, and while you couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact words you chose to give Joel, you knew they couldn’t be good. 

Immediately, you began looking around for an escape plan. You could use the window; it was the second story, but these old houses weren’t built too tall and Joel’s yard was covered in grass. Maybe he was still asleep? The front door seemed like a much less likely option. But just as you began contemplating the escape, your eyes quickly fell to the bedside table where a glass of water and a worn bottle of ibuprofen sat. Below each item was a scrap of paper that read drink me and take me, respectively. 

You felt that warmth rush into your chest again. Leaning over, you picked up the slips of paper, running your fingers over the scribbled penmanship. There was something incredibly intimate about him leaving you a handwritten note, and you couldn’t help but savor the feeling. Maybe this was proof alone that you didn’t embarrass yourself too bad last night. 

You reached over for the water and pills then, popping two into your mouth and chugging back the cool liquid when you heard the creak of the bedroom door. You froze, eyes wide over the rim of the glass as you watched it crack open, Joel’s head peeking through seconds later. 

His own brows shot to his forehead. “Oh,” he said quietly, pushing the door open the rest of the way to stand still in the doorframe. “You’re awake.” 

You quickly swallowed the rest of the water, setting the glass back on the table, and attempting to smooth back some of the hair in your face. You probably looked like a mess. Meanwhile, the morning suited Joel. You had never seen him so lax; charcoal sweatpants hanging deliciously on his hips, coupled with a black t-shirt that hugged his body a little too well. His usually tame curls were messy, and your fingers ached with the instinct to touch them. This was certainly a sight you could get used to. 

“Yeah,” you breathed, opting to fiddle with your nails below the sheets instead. “Thank you, um…thank you for taking care of me.” 

He shoved his hands in his pockets, giving you a few gentle nods. “‘Course,” was all he said, and you felt like you could scream. You couldn’t read him, couldn’t decipher the thoughts behind those intense eyes. The anticipation of his mood was almost too much to handle, and before you knew it, the incessant anxiety was taking over. 

“Joel,” you whispered after a long moment, watching the way his brows quirked at the sound of his name. And then, just like they had done so many times before, the flood gates opened. “Joel, I’m — I’m so sorry. I don’t, I don’t know what came over me. I went on that stupid date, and it was just, just awful, and I was mad at you, and didn’t know how to handle it–”  

He held up a hand to cease your prattling, and you did, shutting your mouth and opting to chew on the inside of your lip instead while you anxiously awaited his voice. 

When he dropped his hand, he sighed a heavy sigh, slowly making his way across the room to the bedside. Wordlessly, you shifted over, giving him the space to sit down at the edge of the mattress, turning over his shoulder to face you. The sudden proximity had you tensing. “If anyone should be apologizin’, it’s me.” It wasn’t what you were expecting him to say, but you didn’t interrupt. Something in the way his countenance faltered told you this kind of conversation wasn’t all that easy for Joel. 

You felt the air leave your lungs when he looked up at you through hooded eyes, the utter remorse in them palpable, honest. “You trusted me with somethin’ personal, somethin’ special, and I — I broke that trust.” Your heart ached in your chest, and you felt guilty for ever assuming he was incapable of owning up to his mistakes. “And m’sorry,” he concluded. All you could do was stare at him, trying to process his earnest apology. Even though it filled you to the brim with adoration, it still didn’t answer why he had avoided you in the first place. 

“Do you regret it?” you finally whispered, barely audible. You were afraid of the answer. “Do you…do you regret kissing me?” 

The knot returned to his brows. “What? No.” His hand was on your thigh over the blankets then, and you felt your entire body ignite in response. He gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “No, not at all.” 

Taking a brave leap, you carefully placed your own hand atop of his, savoring the familiar roughness. “Then why haven’t you talked to me?” The way your eyes bore into one another, you weren’t sure if you had ever looked at Joel this long. At least not while he was looking back. You thought you would be afraid of the intensity, but quite the contrary. Your bodies had shifted closer to one another on the mattress, like magnets. 

He released another heavy sigh, dropping his eyes to your touching hands. His fingers twitched the slightest bit, and you used the opportunity to slip yours between them, curling them over the top of his hand. You gave him a squeeze back. It’s okay, you wanted to tell him. You can tell me. You can talk to me. But you were patient, knowing Joel was the kind of man who needed to come to you in his own time. 

“‘Cause I– I didn’t expect to like it as much as I did,” he admitted quietly, so quietly you almost missed it. He still didn’t look at you. “And when I felt the way I did about it…I panicked. Didn’t know what the right thing to do was, didn’t know what you were thinkin’ about it all...” His words trailed, and you considered them for a long moment. 

Didn’t know what you were thinkin’ about it all. 

What were you thinking? So many things, too many to count. But right there, sitting in Joel’s bed with his hand on you, his body and breath so close, all you thought about was the good. How good you felt when he kissed you. The bad and ugly melted away with your sadness, your anger. 

“I think…” you started after a beat, your voice almost as soft as his. “I think that I haven’t stopped thinking about it for a single moment since it happened.” 

His eyes were on you again, but this time, there was questioning to them, as if he was searching for any sign that your words were less than sincere. You didn’t give him a second of doubt. Instead, you dragged his hand across your lap and settled it on your hip. He watched you intently, compliant to your ministrations. You used the opportunity to scoot forward again, his hip touching up against your thigh. 

“Yeah?” he asked, quietly. 

“Yeah,” you breathed.

Then, Joel Miller stole your second kiss, and it was just as magical as the first. 

The hand that wasn’t on your hip came to cradle the back of your neck, teasing his lips against yours with a delicate brush before giving you the feeling you craved most over the past two weeks. It bursted inside of you like a goddamn bomb, coating your belly in warmth. 

You leaned into him, gripping his arms, then his shoulders, holding yourself steady. His kiss was slow, and deep. Savoring every second of your lips. This time around, when his tongue taunted your bottom lip, you parted them. He tasted like coffee and something sweet, and you quickly found it was one of the most delectable tastes to ever touch your tongue. 

You were starting to feel hot. Still confined in the clothes you wore the night before, you became acutely aware of the situation. Alone together. In Joel’s bed. With his hands and lips on you. You wanted to feel him everywhere all at once. 

“Joel,” you sang during a brief break of air, nails digging into his shirt. He continued to steal quaint kisses, only humming in response. You snuck one of your hands up into his hair, mimicking his hold on you. “I need you…I need you to touch me.”  

This seemed to get his attention. He stilled, pulling back only enough for his nose to bump yours. Dark, brown, beautiful eyes blown wide to study you. 

“Darlin’,” he whispered, giving your hip a tender squeeze. “We shouldn’t, I mean, I—you’re—”

You knew what he was insinuating. You didn’t have to say it out loud for Joel to assume. 

You’re a virgin. 

“I don’t care,” you rushed out despite the bubbling anxiety in the pit of your stomach. It had to happen eventually, why not now? Why not with Joel? 

You saw him bite at his bottom lip, his gaze ravenous even in the midst of his hesitancy. “I just…I wanna make sure you know what you’re askin’ for.” 

“Tell me,” you whispered against his lips breathlessly, tugging at his curls to keep him close. “Tell me you feel nothing for me, and I’ll stop. I’ll stop pushing it.” 

Joel groaned, the kind that suggested the frustrating restraint of desire. “You know I can’t do that, sweetheart.” You knew. God, you knew, but that didn’t stop the rush of heat from darting to your core when he admitted it.  

“Then please,” you begged, slinking your arms fully around his shoulders to pull yourself up. You hovered over him, lips barely dancing atop of his. “Please touch me, Joel.” 

There were a few more beats of reservation until he simply couldn’t help himself any longer. He stood from the bed, bringing you to your knees with him at the edge of the mattress. Your hands never left him, engulfing yourself fully around his neck, his own steady at your waist, holding onto it for dear life. Then, he was kissing you again with an increased intensity that knocked the wind out of you. 

Everything suddenly became overwhelming, the heightened awareness of your body and the way he maneuvered it foreign and exciting. You were unable to mask the whimper that escaped you when his lips abandoned yours for your jaw, your neck, finding a deliciously sensitive spot at the base of your throat and sucking on it gingerly. Your head lulled back in a daze, and you felt his hands slip under the hem of your button up, tickling at the skin of your sides.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he muttered into the crook of your neck, his hands traveling further forward until they were toying with the buttons on your shirt. “Can I take this off, darlin’?” 

You nodded frantically, unable to quite find your voice. You scooted back a bit, giving him space to manipulate his fingers down the front of your shirt, carefully popping each button. When the fabric fell open, Joel seethed a shit under his breath. You weren’t wearing a bra, the cool air peaking your nipples. You felt the heat rising on your skin at the way his eyes took in every inch of you, careful fingers pushing back the collar until the shirt slipped off your shoulders.  

No man had ever seen you naked. Well, not purposefully. With the group you traveled with before you ended up in Jackson, it was inevitable to reveal yourself a time or two, changing or bathing in such close quarters. You thought you would be bashful, maybe even uncomfortable. But with the way Joel was looking at you, eyes full of nothing but careful adoration, you felt exhilarated. 

“Lay back, babygirl,” Joel instructed softly, the new pet name making your heart flutter in your chest. You obeyed his wish, carefully shuffling yourself until you could lay your head back onto his pillows, watchful eyes following him as he sauntered over to the end of the mattress. 

He moved with such diligence, a man of many years who seemed to have perfected just living in the beautiful state he inhabited. You watched him with the same intensity as he rid himself of his own shirt, revealing his sturdy chest and plush belly. Your mouth watered with anticipation when the mattress dipped, Joel crawling up the empty space to settle himself between your legs. 

Bare chest to chest, your skin was on fire. You looked up at him wide eyed, suddenly in a suspension of disbelief. This was happening. Really happening. The fantasies you had worked so diligently to shove deep down inside you manifesting before your eyes; you would have been content to never see them flourish, as having Joel Miller by your side in any shape or form was a reward, but this? This was so much better. 

He leaned down, pressing the softest kiss to your parted lips. “You okay?” His forearms rested on either side of your head, and when you nodded, he brought a single hand down to toy with the strands of hair at your temple. “If we’re gonna go any further, I need you to talk to me, darlin’. Think you can do that?” 

You nodded again, and he gave you a knowing look, a small smirk quirking up on his lips. “Sorry,” you squeaked. “Yes…yes, I-I can do that.” 

Talking. Talking was good. Nerves were inevitable, and hearing Joel’s voice would soothe you through it. Dampen the fears, the inexperience, the insecurities. 

“And if you want me to stop,” he continued, his lips returning to your fiery skin, trailing barely there kisses down the expanse of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands grasping at his bare sides. “You tell me right away.” His kisses littered your throat, your collarbone, all the way to your breasts where they ghosted over your nipples, aching for attention. “Understand?” His lips wrapped around one of them then, and you arched off the mattress with a gasp. 

“Y-yes,” you mewled. Maybe talking was going to be much more difficult than you expected. “I-I understand, Joel.” 

“Good girl,” he praised softly, and good god if it didn’t shoot straight to your core, which you were now vividly aware was pressed up against the growing outline in his sweatpants.

He continued his descent, gracing your skin with his feathery kisses and stopping just short of the waistband of your jeans. The discomfort from sleeping in them was quickly replaced by the discomfort below them. You were dripping. 

“Do you touch yourself, pretty girl?” Joel whispered against the skin below your belly button, bringing a hand down to slowly undo the buttons on your jeans. “When you’re all alone, do you make yourself feel good?” 

You had your arms splayed to either side of you, unsure of where to touch, to grab, fingers balled into fists. His question alone drew another whimper from you, and you heard the zipper on your pants go down. 

“Yes,” you answered honestly. You had done your fair share of exploration over the years, always in private, and always just enough to get you over the edge so many seemed to talk so highly about. But you never felt this hot with your own hands.

Joel hummed in approval. “Good. That’s good. Lift up—” he said, giving your thighs a light tap. You lifted your hips from the mattress, allowing him room to shuffle the fabric off your legs. You assisted him towards the end, fluttering your feet until you could kick the jeans to the floor. Within seconds, he was back between your thighs, this time straddling his shoulders as he settled further down the mattress. His face was inches away from your cunt, now only protected by the thin cotton barrier. 

“And when you touch yourself,” he continued, fingers tracing the softest shapes on the outside of your thighs, over your hips. You could feel his hot breath through your panties, and it made you squirm. “How many fingers do you use?” 

The subject matter was crude at its core, but something about the words coming off Joel’s lips made them sound completely earnest. Like he wanted to know, needed to know. You weren’t sure how much longer you could last without his attention where you needed it most. 

“Two. Sometimes, maybe three, but I like—” Your chest heated with embarrassment. You had spoken so openly about so many things with Joel over your months as partners, but never anything like this. 

His brows perked up in interest from between your legs, continuing the teasing caresses of your thighs. “What, darlin’?” He placed a kiss on the inside of your left thigh, and you could’ve sworn you saw stars. “What do you like? You can tell me.” 

Your breath was no longer your own, heaving uncontrollably. Sweat rolling on your temples. He certainly knew how to work you up.

You bit your bottom lip. “I like…I like to rub my clit,” you whispered, wincing at the way the vulgar words sounded coming out of your mouth. But Joel practically growled below you, eyes closing momentarily. 

He leaned forward, breathing in your core and running his nose along the patch of dampness. That was when your hands abandoned the sheets, instinctively coming up to grab at his curls. “Oh, baby,” he hummed, hands leaving your thighs to curl his fingers into the waistband of your panties. “Yeah, I can do that. Promise to take real good care of you.” 

And you believed him, which had you wasting little time in lifting your hips again, allowing him to strip you of your last piece of clothing. He took a moment to rake his eyes over you before leaning back down, your glistening center clenching around nothing as the cold air tickled the flesh. 

“So beautiful,” he murmured, guiding the crux of your knees over either shoulder. 

You were fully exposed to this man, for the first time ever to the eyes of another, and yet, you had never felt more exhilarated. You wondered if that was simply because it was Joel. No one else in this fucked up world could make you feel so comfortable as to bare your heart, soul, and body to them. 

“Joel, please,” you begged again, this time, giving a bold tug to his hair. “Please.” You needed something, anything he would provide you. 

He didn’t keep you in anticipation much longer.  He wetted his lips before his head dipped between your legs, warm tongue licking a slow strip across your outer lips, all the way up to your clit that stood taut, moving the tip of his tongue in calculated flicks. 

“Oh, fuck!” you shrieked, eyes screwing shut and hips bucking up off the mattress. Joel was quick to combat this, sturdy hands gripping you by the hips and bringing you back down to earth while he paid mindful attention to your swollen clit, just like you asked him to. 

But it was much different having someone’s mouth on you. Joel’s mouth. The familiar coil in your belly built much quicker while he suckled on the sensitive bud. “Joel,” you moaned, to which he hummed in response, sending the most delectable vibrations through you. “More. Your fingers, please.” 

He never took his lips off of you when you felt the pads of his fingers prod at your hole, already leaking with desire. You anticipated his fingers to be much larger than yours, but when he sunk his two digits in, the stretch was satisfying. The way he worked up your arousal aiding in how easy it was to slowly pump them in and out, curling up ever so slightly to find the spongy spot inside of you. 

You couldn’t quite process it; the attentiveness, how effortless it was for him to listen to your needs. Word of mouth had given you a low standard of expectation for your first experience, but something told you Joel would exceed every string of disappointment. 

He began to quicken his pace, the flex of his forearm curving his fingers up into that sweet spot with precision, leaving your toes to clench and your thighs to squeeze around his head. You were singing his name like a prayer, the only word you could find as your abdomen tightened, a subtle tremor cursing through your legs. You craned your neck up from the pillows, compelling yourself to find the image of him nestled between your thighs. And fuck, was it glorious. His hooded eyes were already on you, pupils blown wide, breathing frantically through his nose while his lips continued their ambush on you. You quickly brushed the stray curls from his forehead, wanting to have a clear view of his eyes when your jaw fell slack, the euphoric high starting at your core and bursting out over the rest of you. At first, you couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. But Joel kept working his tongue over your clit and his fingers inside of you through your orgasm so adamantly that your head flung back, thighs clamped around his head, and a lewd moan echoed off your lips. Thank god no one else was home, as you were pretty sure the neighbors could hear how good Joel Miller was making you feel. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh fuck.” You were a sputtering mess while he teetered you towards overstimulation, but soon enough, his sucking turned to gentle kisses, and his fingers slowed their assault. When he dragged them out of you, you could hear the sound of your slick. And when you finally had the energy to peer down at him, you could see his patchy beard covered in it, too. But Joel was as much a taker as a giver it seemed, for when he pulled his face away from between your thighs, you watched him bring the glistening digits up to his lips and suck them clean. 

He grinned down at you when he popped them out of his mouth. “So damn sweet, darlin’.” This had you giggling, a mixture of inevitable embarrassment and bliss. You brought your hands up tiredly to cover your heated cheeks, but Joel was having none of it. He dragged them down, replacing them with peppered kisses to your nose, your forehead, your cheeks, until he landed on your lips, joining in on the soft laughter between each peck.

It was cathartic. Sharing in such joy after a moment of such intensity. You had always thought sex needed to be this serious, meticulous act. That didn’t seem to be the case with Joel; he was the same him, you were the same you. And that was enough. 

Hovering above you again, you wrapped your still shaky legs around his hips. His hands were back at your hairline, now doused in sweat, carefully pushing back the pieces that stuck to your skin. 

“You okay?” he asked softly. 

You nodded. “Yes.” You snaked a hand in between the two of you, mimicking his soft caresses to the saturated patches of hair on his jaw. “More than okay.” 

You were fucking incredible. On cloud nine, in fact. Every worry of the day, week, month seemingly lost to the euphoria that was Joel’s hands on you. 

“We can stop at any time if it’s gettin’ too much,” he reminded you, and you knew the terse look in his eye came from nowhere else but concern. 

Your brows pulled over your eyes, pouting up at him. “I don’t wanna stop,” you muttered, tracing your finger over his jawline. “Do you want to stop?”  

“No, fuck. No, sweetheart, ‘course I don’t wanna stop,” he reassured you. “I just want you to know that even if we don’t go all the way…that doesn't make this a failure.” 

You could’ve cried right then and there. This man. This stoic, brooding man who you had spent so much time avoiding your feelings for might have been the sweetest, gentlest man you had ever encountered underneath all of that heavy armor he insisted on carrying. You wanted to help him with the weight, take as much of it as you could muster onto your shoulders, and free him of his worries and pain. 

You took a deep breath, swallowing back the lump in your throat and bringing both hands up to cradle his cheeks. He looked you in the eye, focused. “I want to feel this with you,” you spoke softly, never faltering from his deep gaze. “I trust you, Joel. With everything I have.” 

Taking a leap of faith, you trailed your hands from his cheeks all the way down his torso until your fingers fiddled with the tie on his sweatpants. You gave it a tug, letting the stings fall open. He watched you, and when he felt the still of your hands, took it upon himself to slowly peel back, shuffling to the edge of the mattress to rid himself of his pants. 

When they hit the floor, your lips parted in a sharp inhale. Joel Miller carried every trait of a man who was well endowed, but to see the sacred part of him up close was an entirely different experience than imagining it. Thick and already leaking with precum, you were enamored by the dark vein that ran along the underside of his cock, standing proud and eager against his lower stomach. You tried not to let your eyes linger on it too long when he crawled back up to you, settling between your legs. You felt another rush of arousal when his warm cock laid up against your core. 

“I’m a little nervous,” you whispered, scared that if you admitted it too loud, he would change his mind. 

That couldn’t be further from the truth; you knew so when he graced you with that subtle, doting smile. The kind that just reached his eyes enough for you to see the little crinkles at the edges. 

“I know, baby, but I promise I’ve got ya. It’s just you and me, okay?” You nodded slowly, suddenly overcome with unexpected emotion again. Your eyes glistened, the tenderness of his voice healing something deep inside you. “If we’re bein’ honest, I’m a little nervous too.” His grin only increased upon your reaction, looking up at him as if that was the most ridiculous thing in the world. “S’been a long time for me.” 

Oh. You suppose you never thought about it that way. You gave way to the moment, leaning up to press a quaint kiss to his lips. “You and me,” you echoed his words and his smile. 

He returned the gentle kiss. “Hold on to me,” he instructed, and you brought your arms back around his neck, keeping him close. He reached between your bodies, and you felt the tip of his cock run across your awaiting folds. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, tensing in anticipation. “Relax, baby. S’gonna feel a lot better if you try to relax.” 

You heeded his warning, taking in a deep inhale through your nose and out through your mouth. “Go slow, please,” you whimpered. His forehead touched yours when he nodded. 

“I will,” he promised, nudging the tip of him against your hole, still slick with arousal. And you were grateful for it when he notched himself inside of you, eliciting a gasp from the both of you. 

You knew it was just the tip of him, but that didn’t stop your eyes from rolling back. Warm and firm, nestling perfectly inside of you. You welcomed the intrusion, continuing to focus on your breathing. “A little more,” you urged him, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of neck. Joel was panting right along with you, and despite the growing lust, kept his promise of taking it slow. He guided himself an inch further, then another, another, until you were digging your nails into his scalp, a whine coming through gritted teeth. 

The stretch stung, but his pace kept it bearable. You did your best to stay perfectly still, worrying if you moved too much any way, the pain would worsen. Tears began to prickle at your waterline, a combination of discomfort and every overwhelming emotion coursing through you. 

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he praised, lips tickling the shell of your ear. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So, so good.” 

His genuine words made you want to do better, sending little flutters through your stomach. It was astonishing the way his words alone could inflict such a response from you. 

After a moment, you were able to relax into the intrusion. Eyes still shut, you nudged your nose up against his. “Just…just do the rest all at once,” you squeaked. The sooner, the better. Dragging it out would only elongate the process of getting it over with, and you couldn’t wait any longer to cross the threshold. He was still for a moment, and then, placing a steadying hand on one of your hips, Joel sheathed himself fully inside of you, filling you to the brim. 

Your lips fell open in a wail, the tears that lingered at your eyes falling over your cheeks. Joel’s delicate lips were on your neck, leaving kisses and whispering words of encouragement. 

“M’gonna stay just like this for a minute,” he said after a moment, your walls involuntarily fluttering around him, getting use to the sheer size of him. With every passing moment, you willed yourself to unwind, focusing on the sound of Joel’s breathing. 

You took your time, only opening your eyes when you really felt ready. You found Joel had lifted his head from your neck, already looking at you with tender concern. “It’s okay,” you panted, nodding slowly, sniffling back the tears. “I’m…it’s not so bad.” It was only then that you realized how full you felt, full of Joel. He was reaching a depth of you otherwise untouched, the thought alone having you clench around him. 

He grunted, and you noted the twitch of restraint in his focused brow. “You can move,” you said, bringing a shaky hand up to push the sweat-clad curls off his forehead. 

He looked at you hesitantly. “Are you sure—”

“Joel,” you hummed, carefully tilting your hips up, inviting him in. Another shared gasp. “Please.” 

The thrusts began as gentle rocks of his hips, never pulling too far in or out, just enough to explore the feeling of him moving inside of you. The pain was no longer the instigator of your tears — it was the intensity of Joel’s eyes, looking down at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. 

Then, he was grinding into you in languid strokes, the sound of slick skin singing in the air. Gradually, you got used to the fullness, anticipating it every time he would pull out of you before advancing forward. Soft grunts fell from Joel’s lips when he’d hit the deep spot inside of you, something about the sounds he made sending shivers down your spine. 

But the real pleasure came when he reached a hand between your conjoined bodies, finding your neglected clit, and circling the two of his fingers around it. 

The moan that fell from your lips was obscene. Oh. Oh, this was new. Suddenly, the pain was a dampened after thought; the feeling of fullness mixed with the sensation of his fingers rubbing at your sensitive bud sent your body alight. You didn’t even notice how vocal you had become, wanton whines and increased panting, until you felt Joel’s lips at your ear again. 

“Yeah?” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “That feelin’ good baby?” 

So good. Oh, it was so fucking good. You wanted to tell him, scream it at the top of your lungs, but your voice was caught in your throat, too overwhelmed by the newfound ecstasy. Your ankles had mindlessly latched around his back, too hellbent on keeping him deep inside of you to let go. 

When the circling of his fingers picked up, so did his thrusts. The weight of his heavy balls slapped against you, nestling up into the same spot his fingers found earlier, leaving you to arch off the mattress. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he growled, teeth grazing your carotid. “You feel so fuckin’ good around me.” 

You were a whimpering mess, legs starting to tremble again around him. “More, Joel,” you breathed, not even quite sure what more of you were asking for. “P-please, I need more.” 

He seemed to understand, because before you knew it, he was rutting into you quicker, deeper. The curve of his cock worked into you, somehow finding the right spot inside of you every single time. Your body moved on its own violation, hips grinding upwards to meet him in the middle of every thrust. The litany of your moans and his grunts sung through the air like sweet music, and you thought you may have never experienced life before the way you did in that moment; body and mind completely consumed by another, this feeling forever Joel’s to give you for the first time. 

You were burning from the inside out, unable to keep up with the way your body gave way to the pure euphoria coursing through you, until the pressure in your belly was too much to bear. Your toes curled, legs trembled so hard that they fell limp around him, a fire traveling through you from your point of connection. 

“Oh god. Oh fuck, oh fuck — uungh — Joel—!”

He held you through the entirety of your second release, stronger than any you had ever experienced. You clenched around him feverishly, coating his swelling cock in your honey. Your head thrown back, you felt the tickle of his hair against your neck as he buried his face into the crook, the sputter of his hips growing sloppy as you milked him towards the edge. You weren’t even down from the high when his hand abandoned your clit, quickly pulling himself out of you and giving himself a few steady pumps. You opened your eyes just in time to see the way his lips fell apart and his face contorted in beautiful bliss before he was spilling himself onto your stomach. 

You had low expectations for your first time, always had. The idea of finishing not even a pressure you bothered to burden yourself with. It would be easier to pretend it was something magical, extraordinary. A fluke, even. But the truth was…it was just Joel. 

You and me. 

His words continued to ring true. And when you both settled your breathing, finding each other again in the exchange of wide, wondrous eyes, you slowly fell back into the soft fit of laughter. Pure contentment. A happiness long abandoned to a world that robbed you of any glimpse of achieving it. 

When he kissed you then, soft and sweet, you knew he felt it too.

The rest of the morning was spent in a domestic stupor. You spent a good chunk of time basking in each other's arms, curled up against Joel’s chest, tracing the shape of every scar you could find. You didn’t press him for their backstories, instead, choosing to admire the character and history they gave him. 

When you both finally found the strength to get up, he suggested a shower. At first, he was content to let you go alone, offering to take one after. But the glint in your eye and the pout at your lip told him you had other plans, and soon enough, you were both crammed into the small space. It didn’t bother you, giving you ample excuse to have your arms around him and feel his hands on you. 

He washed your hair, the soothing circles of his fingers nearly aiding you back to sleep right then and there. Of course, he was stubborn in letting you return the favor, so you settled for a gentle massage to his shoulders while he worked his fingers through his curls. 

He offered you some of his clothes, considering yours reeked of alcohol and sweat from the night prior. One of his flannels and clean pair of sweatpants, which you rolled up to avoid tripping over. 

He graciously invited you downstairs, offering to whip up some breakfast and get a pot of coffee started. There was something undeniably sexy about Joel in such a casual setting. You had never spent this much time in his house, normally only stopping by for a brief moment to pick up something you had left behind on patrol or drop off a menial item Ellie asked to borrow. 

The air was different now. Something palpable shifting, and it was equal parts frightening and exhilarating. You felt like you were glowing.

You had so many questions. So many doubts. Hopes. Afraid that if you pushed them too soon, you would risk the chance of losing an opportunity for something altogether. So you kept your mouth shut, opting to sit atop the counter next to the stovetop while Joel cooked, savoring the scent of brewing coffee and freshly washed hair. 

When the pot dinged, Joel reached in the cupboards for two mugs, and just as he poured yours, handing it to you, the front door slammed open then shut. You both froze. 

“I’m home!” Ellie’s voice shrieked, followed by the sound of her shuffling about and approaching footsteps. 

“Shit,” Joel muttered quietly under his breath, bracing a hand against the counter. You turned your head towards the kitchen entryway just as she approached it, the guiltiest look on both of your faces. 

The thud of her backpack hit the wooden floor, and as soon as she looked up, her eyes began to process the sight before her. She fluttered her gaze between the two of you, damp haired, disheveled clothes, tired eyes. Not even a beat later, a brazen grin spread across her cheeks. 

“Well, well, well,” she tsked slowly, folding her arms across her chest. You bit at the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from laughing, maybe crying? Both. You could see Joel going rigid in your peripheral, knuckles white against his own coffee mug. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a slumber party.” 

You literally snorted out a laugh, immediately bringing your hand up to smack over your mouth and nose at the sound. 

“Ellie!” Joel barked, but the teenager remained unfazed. She flashed you her knowing smirk before her eyes were back on Joel in torment. 

“What?!” she feigned innocence. “I’m just sayin’, it’s about fucking time you two stopped dancing around each other. It was painful to watch, seriously.” 

“Oh my god.” When you looked over to Joel, his face was bright red, jaw set tense while he glared at the girl in plain irritation. You couldn’t help but find it utterly adorable and quite amusing. “Would’ya just…just go to your damn room or somethin’?” 

Ellie simply continued her coy stare while she leaned down to pick up her pack, slinging it over her shoulder. She turned to you then, putting on her best polite facade and bidding you a proper good morning, to which you returned, both quite giggly. Just before she slipped out of the room, she stopped short, peeking her head back in. 

“Oh, hey,” she chirped towards you. “They’re showing a new tape in the barn later. And this one —” she gave Joel an aggressive point, “has patrol duty. You wanna come with me instead?” 

You had experienced your fair share of activities with Ellie. You were friends. The age difference could not diminish the joy the girl brought to you and so many others in Jackson; she was a firecracker, reminding you a bit of yourself at that age. A breath of fresh air to the community after months of stiffs who had nothing better to do than gossip or stir up trouble. 

And yet, the nonchalance of her invitation — as if it was the clearest thing in the world to her in that moment, that embarrassing, unexpected moment — made your heart swell. 

You smiled back at her, nodding. “I’d love to.” You would love to spend time with Ellie. Joel’s Ellie. Undoubtedly the most important thing in the world to him, and she wanted to share her evening with you. 

As she puttered out of the room, you waited until you heard her door shut upstairs before your eyes were back on Joel. His own were an array of annoyance and embarrassment, to which you returned with a reassuring smile. 

He went on to mutter something about that kid being the death of him, and you let him. Let him grump away as he continued the breakfast preparations, otherwise casual over the intrusion. He wasn’t ashamed that she saw you, caught you both like this. The realization of it all consumed you rather rapidly. As you watched him tend to you in his kitchen, his home, you felt a bit of that worry dissipate into more hope. 

And for the first time since Joel Miller came into your life, you could truly imagine what it would be like to be his.

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The First Time It's Safe - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

umm mdni please

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 5.89k

series masterlist | main masterlist

It’s early.

The kind of early where the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath—no light through the window yet, no birdsong, just that quiet, weightless stillness that only exists in the hours before morning fully arrives.

You’re curled against Haymitch, tucked beneath the blankets, the warmth between you slow and steady. One of his arms is draped around your waist, heavy in a way that feels grounding. Protective. His chest rises and falls behind you, breaths deep and even, but not quite asleep.

You’re not sure who moved first, but at some point in the night, you ended up like this. Close. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that scares you if you think too hard about it.

His voice breaks the silence, low and rough with sleep. “You ever think about it?”

You blink slowly, not turning. “Think about what?”

A pause. Then, “What it looks like. After all this.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Sometimes.”

He shifts behind you, nose brushing the back of your neck like he might be trying to hide in the space between your skin and your spine.

“What do you see?” he asks, quieter this time.

You exhale, not quite sure how to answer. “Not much. Nothing solid. I think it’s more about how it feels than what it is.”

He hums like he understands.

“I think about waking up slow. The kind of slow that doesn’t come with guilt. A place where the air doesn’t taste like ash. Just… peace. A little bit of green outside the window. A kitchen that smells like home cooked meals. Maybe someone humming off key.”

You feel him smile into your shoulder.

“I could live with that,” he says.

You nod, just once. “I don’t need anything big. I just want something that doesn’t hurt.”

His fingers twitch against your stomach. “You deserve that.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not without saying more than you’re ready to.

So instead, you settle deeper into the warmth between you. Let his arm tighten around your waist. Let the silence stretch.

Eventually, he murmurs, “If we had all that… what would you grow?”

You smile into the pillow.

“Mint. Maybe violets. Something soft.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh, something that settles in your bones like safety.

The quiet settles again, but it isn’t heavy. Just soft. Breathing. Like the world is still deciding what it wants to be this morning.

Your fingers trace slow lines along the arm he’s wrapped around your middle. It feels safe. And that—that—is the strangest part. Safety’s always been something you survived around, not something you sank into.

And yet—here you are. Pressed to Haymitch Abernathy like he won’t let the sun touch you wrong.

You shift just enough to glance at him over your shoulder.

“What about you?”

His brows twitch like you’ve tugged him out of a thought.

“What do you see?” you ask. “In the future. Not in general. Just… for us.”

He stares at you for a moment. Not startled, not annoyed—just watching. Measuring the weight of the question, maybe. Or wondering how honest he’s allowed to be.

“For us?” he repeats.

You nod.

He looks up at the ceiling, his breath pulling in deep. You can feel the slow exhale against your back.

“I see mornings,” he says eventually. “Ones that don’t feel like punishment.”

Your throat tightens.

“I see you. Sitting on my porch. Complainin’ about the neighbors. Even if there aren’t any.”

You laugh once—small and a little shaky.

“I see you in the kitchen,” he adds, voice a little quieter. “Not cooking. Just there. Always there.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says the next part.

“And I see myself… still waking up scared. But less often.”

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Not when your heart is beating so loud in your chest it feels like it might give you away.

Haymitch shifts then, just slightly, his thumb brushing along your hipbone under the blanket. “That too much?” he asks, like he’s already bracing for the answer.

You turn toward him, slow and careful, so you’re facing each other. You tuck your hand between your chest and his and whisper, “No.”

He looks at you then.

And for the first time, he doesn’t look away.

You don’t look away either.

Not when he holds your gaze. Not when you see all the fear he tries to tuck beneath his mouth, his silence, his sarcasm. You just… stay there. Letting the moment stretch between you. Letting it be real.

Your fingers shift over his chest—gentle, aimless. He doesn’t flinch.

And then, almost without thinking, almost like it slips out of the place you’ve been holding it too long, you whisper, “I love you.”

His breath stutters.

You keep your eyes on his.

“You know that, right?”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But he’s listening.

You press your hand flat against his chest, right over the place where you can feel the heartbeat you’re pretty sure you’d die to protect.

“I love all of it,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure. “Even the parts you think are too much. The mess. The quiet. The sharp edges and the soft ones. I want all of it. I want you.”

Haymitch swallows, his jaw tight.

“I don’t care if it’s messy or loud or complicated. I don’t care if you have bad days or if your past still fucks with your head or if you wake up needing silence more than my voice. I just—” You inhale sharply. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide any of it from me.”

His hand comes up to your cheek—slow, shaking, unsure.

You lean into it.

“I don’t need you to say it back,” you say softly. “Not if you’re not ready. That’s not what this is. I just…” Your voice drops. “I want you to know. That you’re loved. That you don’t have to earn it. You already have it.”

And then you stop talking, because your throat’s too tight and your chest aches and you’ve said all the words that matter.

Haymitch is still watching you.

Still silent.

Still holding your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just keeps looking at you like he’s seeing something he never thought he was allowed to touch.

His thumb strokes along your cheekbone once, and you swear you feel the tremble in it. His breath is shallow, and his eyes are too bright, like he’s fighting something—maybe himself, maybe the version of him that’s always whispered it was safer not to feel anything at all.

“I don’t…” he starts, then swallows hard. “I’m not good at this.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just press your hand over the one on your cheek and wait. No pressure. No fear. Just there.

“I’ve only ever said it to one person,” he says, voice low and raw. “And I watched her die.”

You nod slowly, eyes stinging. “I know.”

“And for a long time, I thought… if I said it again, it’d mean I let go of her. That I—” His voice cracks. “That I didn’t mean it the first time.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his fingers slipping from your cheek to your jaw, to your throat, to your collarbone—like he’s grounding himself in the feeling of you being here.

“But I didn’t let go of her,” he says finally. “And you didn’t make me.”

You breathe out, slow. Careful.

His voice is barely audible now. “You just… gave me something I didn’t think I could have again.”

You whisper, “Haymitch—”

He leans forward before you can finish, presses his forehead to yours, and exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet and fierce. “I love you like all-fire.”

You inhale sharply—because you know what that means. You know what those words cost him. What they carry.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, and he keeps going, his voice a little steadier now, “I love you when I’m sober. I love you when I’m not. I love you when you talk too much and when you won’t talk at all. I love you when I don’t know how to say it. I love you when I do.”

Your chest shudders, tears sliding down your cheeks as you whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close, burying his face in your neck.

And for the first time, you both believe it.

You don’t say anything when he pulls away from your neck to look at you.

You just look at him. Let the quiet hold between you, let his words settle somewhere under your ribs, where they feel too big to hold and too precious to drop.

Haymitch’s gaze flicks down to your mouth. Then back up.

He shifts forward like he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed—like if he moves too fast, you might vanish. But you don’t.

You stay.

And then you lean in first.

The kiss is slow.

No pull. No push. Just lips brushing. His nose nudging yours. Your hand sliding up to his jaw, thumb resting near the corner of his mouth.

His hand finds your waist, fingers curling there like he’s not just holding you—he’s bracing himself.

You kiss again, and this time he lingers.

His mouth parts slightly against yours, breath warm and unsteady. Not from want—at least not only from want—but from how much this is. How much it means.

You shift closer without thinking, until your chest brushes his, until there’s no space between your knees and his thigh. His arm wraps a little tighter around your back.

And still, the kiss stays sweet.

Like the first inhale after holding your breath too long. Like morning light through a half-open window. Like home.

When you pull back just far enough to look at him, his eyes are heavy-lidded and soft in a way you’ve never seen before.

You don’t say anything.

You just touch his face—thumb across his cheekbone, palm over his jaw—and let yourself look at him. Really look.

He leans into your hand like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

And then he kisses you again.

Slower. Deeper. No pressure behind it, just more of him.

You press your forehead to his when it ends, both of you breathing a little harder now, hearts thudding quietly between your ribs.

No urgency.

Just this.

You lose count of the kisses.

They blur together—slow, open-mouthed, quiet. Not desperate. Not performative. Just his breath and yours, lips brushing in steady rhythm like the world outside the bed has stopped spinning.

Haymitch shifts slightly, and the mattress creaks beneath you as his weight starts to come forward. He kisses you again—deeper this time, one hand sliding from your waist to your back, guiding you gently down until your spine sinks into the mattress.

His body follows. Careful. Slow. He braces himself with one arm beside your head, the other still wrapped around your side. He’s not heavy, not pressing down—but he’s there, and he’s close, and your body freezes.

Just for a second.

He feels it.

His lips still, just a breath away from yours, and he pulls back just enough to see your face.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and steady, nothing but warmth in it. No shame. No accusation. Just a gentle check-in.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

But he stays still. Watching you.

You take a slow breath. “I’m okay,” you repeat, softer. “Just—just not used to the softness.”

His brows twitch. “Too much?”

“No,” you say instantly, hand reaching for him, fingertips curling against his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “It’s not too much. That’s what I mean. I’m just not used to it not being too much.”

His gaze softens.

You swallow. “It’s never felt… like this.”

Haymitch shifts his weight just enough to free the hand between you and cradles the side of your face with it, thumb brushing along your jaw.

“Then we do this slow,” he says. “And we stop whenever you need. And you don’t have to be anything you’re not.”

You nod. Your throat is tight.

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Even more careful. Not because he doubts you—but because he wants you to feel safe.

And somehow, that undoing is the most overwhelming thing of all.

You whisper against his mouth, “Thank you.”

He kisses the corner of your lips.

“For what?”

You smile—small, wobbly. “Not rushing.”

His lips twitch like he wants to smile too, but all he does is kiss you again. And again. Until you melt back into the mattress, your legs parting to cradle him without even thinking.

His hand stays on your cheek the whole time.

Like an anchor. Like a promise.

His mouth never strays far from yours.

Even when the kisses shift—deeper now, slower still—he keeps coming back. Brushing your lips like they’re something sacred. Like he’s checking in every time.

Your fingers slide along his ribs, up the curve of his back, fingertips catching on the faint ridges of old scars. He shudders under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“Still okay?” he murmurs against your mouth, his hand cupping your jaw.

You nod, breath warm against his lips. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just makin’ sure.”

His hand dips down then—just to the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t push. Just rests there, palm flat, waiting.

“Can I…?”

You nod again. But he doesn’t move.

He waits until you say it.

“Yes,” you whisper. “You can.”

He lifts it slowly, careful not to rush, watching your face the entire time. And when he pulls it over your head and tosses it gently aside, he doesn’t look right away—not at your body. His eyes stay on yours, like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still with him.

You lie back against the pillow, half-naked now, chest rising and falling a little faster.

He swallows.

“Still good?”

You nod, eyes shining. “Yeah. Just…”

“I know,” he says. “We go slow.”

His hand slides along your side, warm and wide, not squeezing—just holding. You arch slightly into his touch, and he kisses the hollow beneath your jaw. Then your collarbone. Then just above your heart.

He lingers there.

You whisper, “You can touch me.”

His breath stutters.

He shifts above you, brushing your hair back with both hands like he wants to see everything—but only if you let him. His palms settle just beneath your shoulder blades as he leans down and kisses you again—mouth soft and open, a little messier now, like the carefulness is starting to melt into comfort.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers slipping through his hair, and he groans quietly into your mouth like the weight of your touch undoes something deep in him.

You part your legs a little more—not rushed, not inviting more than you’re ready for. Just letting him in. Letting him settle.

And he does. Laying over you like you’re something he’s allowed to rest on.

He kisses you again.

“Still good?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Are you?”

“I’ve never been this good,” he says.

Your shirt is gone, but the rest of you is still clothed—your soft sleep shorts clinging to your hips, warm and slightly rumpled. Haymitch is still in his sweats, the fabric dragging low on his hips, bare chest pressed to yours like something holy.

He’s kissing you again—slow and deep, but not greedy. Just full. Full of everything he hasn’t said in words. Full of the way his body trembles a little when your hands roam down his back, fingertips slipping beneath the waistband of those old, worn sweats.

His hips shift gently between your legs, the cotton of your shorts and his waistband the only thing keeping him from pressing fully against you. It makes you gasp—that closeness, even through clothes, even with space left to cross.

He pulls back immediately.

“You okay?” he asks, already still, his voice low and careful. “Too much?”

You shake your head, breath catching. “No. I just… it feels real.”

He nods slowly, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Can I take these off?” he asks, fingers gently toying with the hem of your shorts.

You nod again—but then stop yourself. “Yes. Please.”

He leans in and kisses you once more, then shifts down slowly, sliding the fabric down over your hips, his hands steady and unhurried. He kisses your thigh when he gets them past your knees, then again when he pulls them free completely and drops them off the side of the bed.

You’re left in nothing but your underwear, the air cool against your skin but your body warm—flushed from the closeness, the way he looks at you.

Haymitch pauses, still kneeling between your legs.

“You still with me?”

You nod, eyes glassy.

He presses a kiss just above your knee. “Tell me if that changes.”

Then he leans back just enough to shove his sweats down—slow, one hand on your leg to steady himself. He drops them off the bed, not making a show of it, just removing distance.

Now it’s just you and him. Skin and breath and cotton between your thighs.

He comes back over you, settling carefully between your legs again, the press of his boxers against your underwear making both of you gasp.

You arch into him, instinctive, chasing the pressure. He groans softly against your neck, his hips stuttering just a little.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… you feel like everything.”

You press your cheek to his, fingers sliding into his hair.

His arms wrap around you fully, pressing you chest-to-chest, his hips moving again—slow, tender, grinding gently against the throb between your legs. The fabric catches just right, just enough, and your mouth parts in a breathless moan.

“Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice gone soft. “Still okay.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—longer this time.

And the way he moves against you—not fast, not hard, just present—makes your whole body hum.

The friction is steady now.

Haymitch’s hips roll against yours—slow, deep enough to make your breath catch, but still clothed, still soft. The heat between you simmers just under the surface. It isn’t frantic. It isn’t even needy. It’s devotional.

You moan quietly when he presses down just right, your underwear damp and clinging now, the front of his boxers warm and soaked with it.

He kisses you again—this time slower, deeper. He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s trying to learn what your mouth is like when you sigh, when you whisper his name, when you forget to be afraid.

His hands are moving now—down your sides, across your waist, up your ribs. Exploring. Not groping. Just touching.

His palms splay over your stomach, your sternum, the soft swell of your breasts. Careful and curious, like he’s never been allowed to touch anything this soft.

“Still good?” he murmurs, mouth brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice breathless. “It’s good. You’re good.”

You run your fingers along his back, over the strong curve of his shoulder blades, down to the dip of his spine. He shudders when your nails graze gently over his skin.

You whisper, “Can I touch you more?”

He nods against your skin. “Please.”

You roll your hips slowly, letting him feel the way you pulse under him, and his body jerks—just slightly, just enough to let you know he feels it all.

His hand comes to rest between your breasts, not pressing, just lying there—warm and steady.

“Never thought I’d get this,” he says quietly.

You lean up and kiss his throat.

“You have it.”

He cups one of your breasts fully then—warm palm against bare skin, his thumb brushing slow over your nipple. You gasp, arching into the touch, and he pulls back just enough to watch your face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, lips parted. “That feels… really nice.”

His mouth quirks. “Nice?”

You huff a laugh, cheeks hot. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him again, smiling against his mouth as his hand keeps moving—down your side, over your hip, sliding between your thighs where your underwear is damp and soaked through.

His fingers brush over you there—gentle, not pressing, just feeling how wet you are for him.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

You gasp again as his finger grazes your clit through the thin fabric, hips jerking.

“Still good?” he asks, still checking, still watching.

“Yes,” you moan.

His forehead rests against yours as he keeps touching you, slowly, like he’s learning how to love you. Not just where—but how.

And it’s not until your legs fall wider around his hips that he whispers, “Can I take these off?”

Your breath is already shaky when you nod.

Haymitch kisses you once more, deep and slow, then starts to slide down your body—pressing kisses to your chest, your ribs, your stomach. You go still beneath him, not tense, but not loose either.

Your thighs twitch as he settles between them, his hands resting gently at your hips.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t touch you yet.

Just waits.

You try to speak, but your voice comes out thin. “You don’t have to…”

He looks up at you immediately, his hands still steady on your hips. “Don’t want to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You bite your lip, heat rushing up your throat. “It’s not that. I just…” Your eyes flick away. “I’ve never had anyone do that without it being—”

You stop.

But he already knows.

His thumb strokes over your hipbone, warm and patient. “Without it being about them?”

You nod, barely.

His eyes soften. “This isn’t about me, honey.”

Your throat tightens.

“It’s about you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off gently—his voice warm and sure as his hands start sliding your underwear down.

“Let me take care of you.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh as he says it, like a vow.

“Okay?” he asks, waiting with your underwear halfway down your legs, not moving until you nod.

You do.

“Okay.”

He finishes pulling them off, slow and reverent, and then he’s back between your thighs—settled and steady, his hands running soothing strokes along the backs of your legs as you tremble just slightly beneath him.

You cover your face with one hand, overwhelmed.

He presses a kiss to the top of your knee. “Hey.”

You peek down at him, heart thudding.

His voice is soft. “I want you to feel good. That’s it.”

You nod again.

He kisses your inner thigh—once. Then again. And then his tongue finally drags over you, slow and warm, and your whole body shudders.

You cry out softly, your hand flying from your face to grip the sheets instead.

Haymitch groans into you, low and wrecked, his hands holding your hips steady as he licks again—deep, slow, deliberate—like he’s savoring every inch of you.

He murmurs something against you that you can’t make out, but you feel it in your bones. In the way your legs fall wider. In the way your breath catches every time his tongue flattens just right.

You sob his name once, and he answers by sucking gently at your clit, just once, just enough to make you whine and arch off the bed.

“Still okay?” he whispers, voice rough, lips brushing your skin.

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He keeps licking like he’s been waiting a lifetime to show you what it’s supposed to feel like.

And for the first time, you believe it’s okay to fall apart.

He keeps his mouth on you like it’s the only place he’s ever belonged.

No rush. No show. Just slow, reverent worship—his tongue dragging steady over you, his hands strong and gentle as they hold you open like you’re something sacred.

You can’t breathe right.

Not because it’s overwhelming, though it is—but because he’s the one doing it. Haymitch. The man who doesn’t let anyone close. The man who looks at you like softness is allowed to survive in his arms.

You sob his name again, hips lifting into his mouth, thighs trembling as he flattens his tongue and presses, circling exactly where you need him, slow and devastating.

He groans into you when you grind against his mouth, like your pleasure alone is enough to wreck him.

“H-Haymitch—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I think—I think I’m gonna—”

He pulls you closer.

“Let go, honey.”

And you do.

It hits all at once—sharp and hot and so full, your body locking up with a cry that punches out of your lungs. You writhe under his hands, thighs clenching around his shoulders, hips jerking as your orgasm takes you.

He doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking through it, swallowing every sound, every twitch, every sobbed-out breath until you’re squirming from the overstimulation and trying to push him away, your fingers weak where they find his hair.

Only then does he pull back.

He kisses your inner thigh once, then once more, and rests his cheek against it like he’s not quite ready to let go.

You’re still shaking, your chest rising and falling fast, your whole body wrecked in the best way.

He kisses your leg again, murmurs, “Still good?”

You nod, breathless. “Better than.”

He lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, the look on his face somewhere between awe and ache.

And then he says, “You want more?”

Not greedy. Not expecting. Just offering.

You reach for him, still dazed, voice barely steady.

“I want you.”

You say it with your fingers curled around the back of his neck, your thighs still trembling, your chest flushed and bare. And Haymitch doesn’t move right away—doesn’t pounce, doesn’t rush.

He just stares at you like the whole world has narrowed to this bed, this breath, this choice.

Then he leans up, slow and quiet, and kisses you like he’s telling you thank you without words.

You pull him into you. Chest to chest, skin to skin, slick heat where your body’s still pulsing, still open from his mouth. He settles gently between your legs again, resting some of his weight on his elbows so you can feel him everywhere—his breath, his heartbeat, the shaky tension in his muscles from holding back.

His cock is thick against your thigh, still trapped in his boxers, and when you roll your hips just a little, he groans into your mouth.

But he still doesn’t move.

Not until he whispers, “Last one. You sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

He brushes his nose against yours. “Say it, honey.”

Your voice is soft, steady. “I want you to make love to me.”

He exhales shakily then presses one more kiss to your lips before shifting back to slide his boxers off.

You follow, eyes wide, breath catching as he settles over you again—bare now, and so beautiful in the early morning light you almost forget to be afraid.

His hand finds yours between your bodies, fingers tangling like he needs the anchor.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You nod. “More than.”

He reaches down, slow and careful, guiding himself to you. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance—hot, heavy, slick with your arousal—and you gasp as he starts to press in.

It’s a stretch. Not painful. Just real.

You suck in a breath, thighs tensing.

He freezes. “Too much?”

You shake your head, clutching his hand tighter. “No. Just… I’ve never done this and felt safe before.”

His whole body softens above you.

“Then we do it right,” he murmurs. “Slow. Steady. You tell me the second you need anything.”

You nod, eyes locked on his.

And then he pushes forward—inch by inch, giving you time to feel every part of it, every place where your body opens for him. You gasp once, then moan, then arch into him as he finally bottoms out, chest pressing to yours, both of you shaking.

He holds still, forehead against yours, your breath mingling.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel like home.”

And for the first time in your life, it does.

The first movement is slow.

Just his hips rocking gently, barely pulling back before easing forward again. It’s not deep yet—not really—but it’s enough to make you breathe harder, to make you clutch his back and gasp into his shoulder like it’s the only way to stay grounded.

Haymitch groans softly, like even that much undoes him.

“Still okay?” he whispers against your cheek, voice frayed at the edges.

You nod, whispering back, “Yeah. It’s so good.”

So good doesn’t even cover it. Because it isn’t just about how he feels inside you—though he fills you perfectly, thick and slow and warm—it’s the way he moves.

Like he has nothing to prove.

Like there’s no rush, no point in fucking you fast when he can stay here, when he can press his chest to yours and feel your heart race with every gentle thrust.

“Let me know if anything changes,” he murmurs. “You just say the word and I stop.”

You shake your head, holding him tighter. “Don’t stop. Just… keep doing it like this.”

He kisses you. Tender. Messy. His hips begin to move more fully now, the strokes deeper, still unhurried—but enough to make your body melt under him, your thighs falling further open, your breath turning into quiet whimpers with each press of his cock.

“You’re so soft,” he says against your mouth, like he can’t believe it. “So fuckin’ warm.”

You moan, breathless. “You feel so good inside me.”

His rhythm falters, just for a second. Then he picks it back up—still that steady, loving pace, but now with a little more weight behind it. Like every slow thrust is driving the truth in deeper.

You reach up and cradle his face, pulling his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” you whisper again. Not because you expect it back. Just because it’s real. Because it lives in your bones now.

He thrusts deeper, his breath catching.

“Love you too, honey.”

He presses in again, and you sob out a moan as his hips grind perfectly at the end.

“Oh, god—” you gasp.

“That feel good?” he asks, voice rough, low, tender.

You nod, body arching, and he does it again. Slow, deep, circling his hips just right.

Your legs tighten around him as your body starts to tremble.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “aren’t you?”

“Yes—please—Haymitch—”

He kisses you again, one hand sliding between your bodies to gently rub your clit as he keeps thrusting, slow and perfect.

“Come for me, honey. Right here. Let me feel it.”

Your whole body pulls tight.

His thumb circles your clit with gentle pressure, just enough, just right, and his cock keeps moving slow and deep inside you, hitting that place that makes your breath stutter and your fingers claw gently down his back.

You whisper his name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

And then—you break.

Your body arches, thighs trembling, mouth falling open as the orgasm hits you—hot and slow and endless. You feel yourself pulse around him, your body clenching so tightly around his cock that he gasps, the sound punched right out of his chest.

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, voice ragged, lips dragging over your cheek. “That’s it. God, that’s it. Just like that—just like that.”

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays deep. Still moving, still holding you, his thrusts rougher now—still slow, but not calm anymore. Not careful. Like your body unraveling around him has undone whatever control he had left.

You’re still shaking, your body wet and sensitive, but you keep whispering, “Yes—please, Haymitch—”

He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before—half-strangled, half-helpless—and slams into you once, twice, then stays there, buried as deep as he can go.

And he comes.

Hard.

His body seizes over yours, one hand gripping the pillow near your head, the other cradling your thigh as he shudders through it—long and slow. You feel him twitch inside you, feel the heat of him spilling deep, and your body clenches again like it wants to keep every bit of him.

He collapses into you—not heavy, just close, forehead against your neck, breath shaking.

You wrap your arms around him and hold him there.

Neither of you speaks.

Not yet.

There’s only the sound of your breaths tangled together, your hearts still racing, your bodies still joined.

After a minute, he shifts slightly—just enough to lift his head and look at you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, almost reverent.

You nod, smiling, your eyes glassy. “More than okay.”

He doesn’t move to pull out. Doesn’t even ask.

He just presses his lips to your cheek and whispers, “Stay with me.”

You curl your fingers into his hair and whisper, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Haymitch’s body is warm and heavy over yours, his breath brushing your collarbone, your fingers tangled in his hair. Neither of you moves—not because you can’t, but because there’s nowhere else to be.

The sky outside has started to shift, that pre-dawn blue softening toward something gentler. A little gold peeks through the window, painting your skin in morning.

He’s the first to speak after a while, his voice low, rough from sleep and sex and something softer.

“You sure you’re okay?”

You nod slowly, nose brushing his temple. “I’ve never felt safer.”

His body eases even further into yours, like he didn’t know how much tension he was holding until you said it out loud.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your neck. “You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”

“I meant it too,” you whisper. “I want all of you. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.”

You feel him smile against your skin—crooked and quiet and real.

Eventually, he does shift, just enough to slip out of you. You wince at the emptiness, at the sudden cool air between your legs, but then he’s right back, curling around you, pulling the blanket up over both of you like he needs you covered, held, his.

He kisses your shoulder. Then the crook of your neck. Then the spot behind your ear that makes you hum.

You murmur, “I think I’m in love with you.”

He grumbles against your skin, “I already told you I love you. Stop trying to win.”

You laugh, turning in his arms to face him. “I just like saying it.”

He runs a hand over your hair, down your spine. “Then say it again in a few hours. After we’ve slept for a decade.”

You rest your forehead against his, letting your nose brush his, letting your whole body sink into his warmth.

“Okay.”

He kisses you one more time, slow and sleep-soft, and then you both let yourselves drift.

Wrapped up in the sheets. Wrapped up in each other.

By the time the sun crests over the hills, you’re already dreaming.

And for the first time in a long time, it’s good.

Next Part

The mockingbird, the jabberjay and the mockingjay 🕊️ inspired by this post by @fromevertonow

nothing, just tolkien originally writing down the hobbit because his son christopher kept complaining that he'd change the details from night to night and then christopher later being so crucial in taking tolkien's notes and turning them into fully written novels of worldbuilding. loving someone to the point of creation and then having them help you finish the job.

snoopy pngs!

i went to a tiny counterserve diner once and accidentally poured sugar instead of salt all over my hashbrowns and was eating them sadly anyways. the waitress took them away and started making me another one and I tried to protest, but she just snorted and said "we're not catholic here". now every time i'm doing something painful out of obligation i think about how that is not repenting, this body is not a catholic establishment, there is no nobility in suffering.

@snakes.n.roses on Instagram ♡