chronicallyonlinewriter

Ipso facto, shithead.

364 posts

For Your Love

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[As Long as You Follow] [People Still Listen to Fleetwood Mac in the Apocalypse]

Pairing: Joel Miller x OC

Words: 3,227

Summary: She liked him like this, craved it; him pinned beneath her thighs, a vessel steered by her desires. Intoxicating, when she deepened their kiss and then pulled away from him and he tried to follow her, head lifting off the pillow, lips seeking hers even when she was out of reach, his abdomen taut with strain. There was something thrilling about it; about someone so much bigger than herself, built like a storm with muscles that could overtake her in a moment, choosing restraint; something satisfying about those large, rough hands sliding along her skin, so gentle when they didn’t have to be.

Warnings: +18, MDNI, smut, oral sex, face-riding, unprotected PIV. Minor angst referenced. Age gap (Joel is 62, OC is in her mid-forties), my Joel is soft AF and loves his wife.

This is my first time posting something like this as a standalone. This is actually a scene from chapter 18 of As Long as You Follow, but also works as its own piece (in that you don't have to read the whole fic to understand this scene). Enjoy!

Dawn was barely a whisper when she crept back upstairs, her skin flushed with warmth, her head swimming from even the miniscule amount of liquor she’d been encouraged to drink. She shed her sweatpants with a clumsy grace, using the wall as an anchoring point, and then poured herself onto the mattress with a sigh, burrowing until she sank into the cool embrace of the bedding.

Unsurprisingly, Joel was awake, his eyes steady and observant as she claimed her pillow. “Hi,” she said quietly, and he quirked an eyebrow. She wondered how long he’d laid here just like this, waiting for her to return; wondered if he’d gone looking for her, or had been patient enough to assume she would come back on her own. But he didn’t resist her when she slid over to him, the cool sheet parting like water around her, pressing her warm skin against his. If he was surprised, he didn’t let on; he fell into her embrace easily, fingers sliding under her shirt to trace the delicate architecture of her ribs, his breath, a warm current, brushing against her cheek.

"Would you do something for me?" she breathed into the hollow of his neck.

“Name it,” was his immediate reply, though she let herself linger in the space between them for a little while longer; let him nuzzle into her hair, his hand gliding across her skin, gripping and cupping softly – let herself feel it, his love and affection. In the end, words were unnecessary. She tangled her fingers in his patchy beard, tilting his chin down so he could meet her lips. He responded instantly, his body tensing for a moment before relaxing completely against hers.

In the cocoon of his embrace, the night's unease unfurled and floated away, dissipating into the shadows. It seemed impossible to find anything to be scared of when they were just like this – because nothing terrible had ever happened to her when she was wrapped in his arms, and she knew with a sudden clarity that nothing ever would. “I love you,” she whispered, and then was filled with frustration because even this didn’t seem like enough to convey the immensity of what he meant to her, and all the ways he had reshaped her life for the better. He kissed her again, a gentle press of lips against hers, and then drew her close, his chin resting on the crown of her head.

“I love you,” he echoed. “Go to sleep, baby.”

And just like that, her mind stilled.

But she didn’t sleep. Whether intentional or not, she’d already given up on it. Joel slept, and she didn’t begrudge this of him, this man who gave so much of himself to everyone and everything – to her, to their family, to his community, nevermind the strain of his aging body. She closed her eyes, but sleep never found her, and when the sky began to lighten along its edges, cool and gray, and the birdsong began to trill through their open window, swept in with the breeze that stirred their curtains, she found herself still wide awake. The room was dim, the branches of the old oak outside casting a slow, hypnotic dance of shadows across the bedroom walls. She watched them shift and change, restlessness pulsing through her veins.

Joel stirred in his sleep, breaking their embrace when he rolled onto his back. She shifted onto her side when he did, taking him in as he lay bathed in the soft glow of the approaching day. He looked so peaceful, his features relaxed, his breath even and deep. She remembered doing this during their very first night together; remembered being so full of nervous energy that she hadn’t slept at all, all at once thrilled and terrified of this man that lay sleeping next to her, uncertain of where he would end up fitting into her life but so eager to find out.

For some reason, she could only hear Ellie’s voice in her head, her recollection of her own early days in Jackson; ‘I just didn’t understand why it was so easy for him – how, after everything we’d been through, he could just turn around and be okay. But I figured…he was pretending, you know? For me.’ And she wondered if he was doing the same thing for her, and had been since they got back to town – pretending, for her sake, holding them both together while she crumbled, replaying the familiar dance they'd performed again and again over the years. It unnerved her just as much as it flooded her with gratitude, and she found her vision blurring, his sleeping face glowing and fracturing before she blinked away these unexpected tears, and suddenly it wasn’t enough just to be close to him.

“Joel,” she murmured, a whisper drifting across their pillows. Her movements were deliberately quiet, slow as molasses as she rolled herself over, her hand reaching for him beneath the sheets until her fingers could trace a languid path across his ribs and the expanse of his bare chest. She watched his face as she moved, searching for any flicker of disturbance. “Joel,” she breathed again, his name stretched taut across her tongue.

Finally, he shifted; his features, pale and sculpted in the muted light that speared through their flimsy curtains, pulling tight, his mustache twitching above parted lips. Eyes that glittered like gemstones blinked open, a small, confused grunt leaving his throat.

“What –” The soothing cadence of her voice, the softness of her hand feathering back and forth across his ribs – none of it mattered; he lurched for an upright position, eyes darting around the room.

“Easy,” she whispered, gently pushing him back down; and he hesitated, but seemed to trust her enough to allow this, settling his head back on his pillow with a groan. “Sorry, just…was seeing if you were awake.”

“Am now,” he rasped, voice thick and gritty with sleep, though his grip on her hand was soft after he fumbled for it, squeezing it as it lay across his chest. “What is it?”

She answered him in movement; a soft, measured shift when she swung a leg over his hips, the sheets whispering against her skin until she settled astride him. There was an exhale of surprise, a breathed oh – that was immediately silenced when she captured his mouth with her own, a gentle conquest, her lips velvet against his. She didn’t linger in preambles, deepening her movements with quiet need, her tongue flicking past his teeth – and he hesitated, just for a moment, his hand adrift until it found its home on the curve of her hip.

She liked him like this, craved it; him pinned beneath her thighs, a vessel steered by her desires. Intoxicating, when she deepened their kiss and then pulled away from him and he tried to follow her, head lifting off the pillow, lips seeking hers even when she was out of reach, his abdomen taut with strain. There was something thrilling about it; about someone so much bigger than herself, built like a storm with muscles that could overtake her in a moment, choosing restraint; something satisfying about those large, rough hands sliding along her skin, so gentle when they didn’t have to be.

“Darlin’ –” She sensed his shift immediately; felt his hands migrate to the small of her back, urging her forward, but she shook her head – though she went to him, offering a rather chaste kiss, a fleeting touch of their lips that only seemed to frustrate him. He groaned softly as she continued an upward journey, peppering light kisses across the bridge of his nose, his brow, his forehead while her hands steadied themselves on his shoulders, holding him in place.

“Just lay back,” she said softly, pressing her lips against his again just to stifle any response he might have had. And there was something there; a puff of air that met her lips, a slight sigh that she felt echo through his throat, because her mouth went there next, nipping and licking as that sigh deepened to a groan. “Quiet,” she chided against his collarbone, and that groan turned into an amused scoff – but he did quiet himself, his hands following her, winding through her hair, twirling the golden strands between his knuckles. She felt the response of his body as her touch grew bolder, the stiffening of his chest and the clenching of his stomach when she softly, so softly kissed the half-moon scar above his hip, but his hands remained gentle, careful not to pull too tightly –

– until she descended too low, finding him already straining against his boxer briefs, and she kissed that, too; felt the twitch of his cock through the fabric right before he reflexively jerked his hips. His fingers tightened in her hair and then let go, and suddenly there were hands on her shoulders, gently trying to pull her back up, and she heard his voice rumble through the darkness, “Sweetness – you don’t gotta do that–"

And she knew, with a mix of tenderness and frustration, what he was doing – shielding her, protecting her in that endearing, infuriating way that was so innately him. But she had no use for his protection – not tonight, anyway. She shook her head, grasped his wrists firmly, and pried his hands away from her shoulders. She didn't release him immediately, savoring the moment, placing a lingering kiss on his knuckles before letting go. He responded with a sigh, his head sagging back against his pillow, his chest rising and falling visibly in the dim light; she saw the rhythmic expansion and contraction of his ribs sliding beneath his skin, felt the nervous jolt of his leg when she straddled it, her own heart pounding in her chest.

“I don’t have to do anything,” she murmured, her fingers teasing the waistband of his boxers, “but I’m not doing anything I don’t want to. Okay?”

She watched him carefully, moved slowly, pulling down the fabric until he sprung free, ready and willing despite the rest of his body’s hesitance. She knew that he was watching her, too; saw his eyes as two pinpricks of light glittering through the darkness, heard the sharp intake of his breath as her hand encircled him, warm and inviting – but she waited for him, waited for those eyes to flutter shut, for the quiet, gasped, ‘fuck’ that signaled his surrender –

– and there was something about it that was so familiar, so nostalgic. She thought about when they were first brought together; remembered that look on his face the first time she straddled him on that couch, mouth parted in surprise, eyes sparkling with shock and yearning – remembered the first time she took him in her mouth, the way he’d bucked his hips so harshly, overwhelmed by a sensation so new, so intense. He'd looked at her on her knees with an awe-struck reverence, as if she were the most precious treasure in the world, and that same adoration shone in his eyes now; his hand guiding the bobbing of her head while her lips sank lower, lower, every movement of her tongue causing a wonderful little gasp to push from his lungs.

There was an intoxicating power in witnessing this strong, capable man become something far more pliant in her hand, a profound pleasure in knowing she was the only one who could unravel him in this way. She enjoyed bringing him right to the edge, his strong legs quivering beneath her; knew that he was so close to bliss, because there was a steady stream of whispered Spanish cutting through the darkness – and she smiled around his cock, swirled her tongue along his salty tip, turning those words into an unintelligible groan.

He was beautiful, she thought; plush lips parted, trembling amidst the salt-and-pepper stubble of his jaw. His head tilted back, pressing into the pillow, the morning light tracing the contours of his strong jawline and glinting off the silver in his hair. She watched his tongue dart out to wet his teeth before a grimace of pleasure contorted his face, felt his fingers tangle in her hair while his other hand clenched the sheets, wrinkling the fabric beneath his desperate grip.

“Baby – hey, hey –” His hands were already in motion, before she could react; gentle but commanding, hinging under her arms and lifting her effortlessly – his arms guided her over his body, and though she longed to stay where she was she yielded to his touch, rising to meet his kiss.

And this, too, was beautiful; his lips eager to reclaim the taste of himself on her tongue, his arms encircling her waist, pulling her tight against him as his chest heaved, his words slurred against her lips, ‘god damn, woman – god damn –’ and she barely had time to feel pleased with herself, to savor her satisfaction before she was being moved again, and she was powerless to stop it, those same strong hands gripping her ribcage, lifting her with ease, then seizing her thighs. Her body responded instinctively to his urgent pull, a gasp escaping her lips followed by a startled shriek –

She was unprepared for the onslaught of sensation that engulfed her, his strong arms wrapping around the backs of her trembling thighs as he buried his face between them. She struggled to stay upright, fingers clawing until she finally managed to grip the edge of the bed’s headboard for support.

He was a man determined, her underwear nothing but a flimsy inconvenience, easily yanked aside so that his tongue could seek out her sensitive flesh, roving and licking and swirling and fuck, it was as though that tongue was made for exactly this; she was already unraveling, delicious waves of heat and pleasure rolling between her legs. When he constricted his arms around her and pulled her flush to his eager mouth, she gasped in blissful agony, his nose gliding along her sensitive bundle of nerves.

It took her a moment to find the rhythm in it; in the way he firmed and loosened his grip on her thighs, the press of his tongue at the crest of every wave created by the way he manipulated her hips - but she found it, she fell in line with it, and then she took control of it just as quickly, hastening her own movements, grinding herself against his mouth as she braced her arms against the headboard, every desperate press of his tongue like an electric shock that ignited every nerve ending in her body.

It was blinding, this release; washing over her like a cool wave as he feasted on her with unbridled hunger, unfaltering even as her hips stuttered, then stilled, until she had nothing else to give him; her entire body pulled tight as a guitar string, stretched to its limit and ready to snap –

She hadn’t even realized that she’d stopped breathing until the air came slamming back into her lungs; she gasped, chest filled with fire, pulse pounding in her throat, forking into her limbs – and before she could even begin to come down, he managed to wrap his arm around her back, hefting her away from him and rolling her onto her back as though she weighed absolutely nothing – he moved with her, crawling over her, a comforting, heavy weight pressing her into the mattress – and she didn’t fit, exactly; their limbs tangled, her head lolling over the edge, but it didn’t matter because there was his hand cradling her neck, holding her up; there were his lips meeting hers, slick with her own taste, and there was him, all of him, filling her senses, his muscles pressed against her –

He rooted himself inside of her in fiery stretch, and she welcomed it, brief as it was; sank her teeth into muscle of his shoulder and cried out with each thrust, unconcerned with the noise of it all because she wanted him to hear her, wanted him to understand exactly what he was doing to her – and when he unspools inside of her, it’s with a cry that was almost primal, that last stuttered thrust pinning her against their sheets, his legs taut, his breath hot on her neck.

He was stifling, when he finally settled; his skin scorching against hers, sweat pooling where their stomachs pressed together, dripping from his neck – and she didn’t care, dragging her fingers lightly along his glistening flesh and tangling them in his stringy hair, holding him close to her trembling body. He panted against her chest, one hand still gripping the back of her neck, the other searching for her unencumbered arm as it rested across the sheets.

“That was – supposed to be –” She drew his arm closer, their fingers interlacing. Her lips traced a path of reverence along his thumb, his knuckles, down to his wrist, punctuating each word with a tender kiss, “– about you – and just you –”

He groaned softly, shifting his head to rest his chin on her chest. “Christ, darlin’ – when’re you gonna learn?” Those dark eyes glittering at her through the sun's first tentative rays that filtered weakly through the curtains. His hand abandoned her neck, slipping under the curve of her lower back, and with a slight grunt, he pulled her towards the center of the bed, rescuing her head from its precarious position near the edge. It was a safe place, she decided; tucked against the hard plane of his chest, his fingers weaving through her hair, his lips a whisper against any exposed skin he could find: brushing her nose, pressing a lingering kiss against the pulse point of her neck. “It’s never just about me.”

She had known the illusion of love well before meeting Joel Miller – she was pretty sure of it, anyway. She’d been held before, just like this; felt the comforting embrace of a man’s arms around her, heard the assurances being made from lips loosened by their intimacy, their bodies slack and spent. She'd tasted the fleeting sensation of safety, and even believed it when it was promised to her – because she’d chosen to, because in the harshness of the QZs she’d called home for so many years, delusion was a wonderful refuge from reality. It was strange, maybe, that there was no choice in this now; no pretense, no manufactured hope while sirens blared outside and neighbors' screams pierced through thin, flaking walls.

In Jackson, the world was distilled to its simplest elements: there was only sunlight that streamed through her curtains, only birdsong that flowed through the open window. Only her husband, the man who put a ring on her finger and brought her back from hell again and again, who took her shattered body and rebuilt it with pleasure and showered her in the kind of love that she’d only encountered in the pages of books.

And when he kissed her again, and again in their sun-dappled bedroom, when he held her face in his hands and promised her that she was always going to be safe with him, it was the easiest truth she'd ever embraced.

For Your Love

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