When U Get This, List 5 Songs U Like To Listen To, Publish. Then, Send This Ask To 10 Of Your Favorite

🎶✨when u get this, list 5 songs u like to listen to, publish. then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (positivity is cool)🎶✨

Haha, I love this. Lately, my top jams (in no particular order) have been: 1.) Put Your Back Into The Oar - Amon Amarth. 2.) Offer Your Light - Devin Townsend Project 3.) Holy Ghost - Bent Knee 4.) Running Up that Hill (Cover) - Nightrider, Affiance 5.) Horizon - Pigeons Playing Ping Pong

Hello girlies and non binary frens!

New price sheet? No! New Theme!

The prices are the same, but the vibe is different ✨✨

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As for now, twitter has been banned in Brasil (where I live), besides tumblr, that app was my main way to find and contact clients and also show my work.

For that reason, I'd love if you could help me out by reblogging this post and also helping people know that I can't use twitter anymore.

Thank you so much always and we will not panic!

END OF DISCLAIMER

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

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Words: 1,911

Summary: He could have lived in this moment forever, if it was possible; just stayed with her in their sunlit little room, all wrapped up in the sheets and their heavy winter quilt, the fan above their heads humming gently as he ran his hands along every part of her that he could reach, palming her curves and pinching her flesh just to make her giggle.

Warnings: +18, MDNI, smut, unprotected PIV. Age gap (Joel is 62, OC is in her mid-forties), post-outbreak featuring Jackson! Joel, who is soft AF and loves his wife. This is actually my post for WIP Wednesday - I was tagged by @bumblepony and @march-flowerr, and thought I would just post the first few pages of the epilogue of As Long as You Follow as a preview, because it is fun and sweet and a little smutty. Just like before, you don't have to read the fic to understand this scene.

The morning bloomed just like so many others did – with the sun’s persistence bursting through their curtains, flooding the bedroom with light well before its occupants were ready to greet the day.

Today, however, Joel woke before his wife. He shifted gently beneath the sheets, careful not to disturb her. For a few precious moments he simply gazed at her, her form bathed in the warm glow of the sunrise. He reached out, his fingers tracing the strands of her hair, soft and curled and shimmering silver and gold between his fingers. Though her back was turned to him he could still make out the elegant curve of her cheekbone, the subtle flutter of her eyelashes, and he hoped that if she was dreaming, it was at least a good one. 

He patiently waited for her to stir, a slice of the sun slowly creeping across her pillow until it laid square over her eyes, a bright spotlight, and he chuckled at how, even in sleep, she seemed to protest this intrusion; brow knitting together, lips moving but no words escaping, then a slight moan as she turned to bury her face in her pillow. That was when he moved in, sliding across the sheets and wrapping his arms around her, folding her against him. 

“Mornin’, Mrs. Miller,” he mumbled into the nape of her neck, his voice hoarse with sleep, and she groaned something back that he didn’t quite catch, his good ear pressed against the pillow, though when she turned her head to look at him her eyes were soft, her lips curved into a sleepy smile.

It was an impulse he couldn't resist, his hand cupping her chin, drawing her closer until his lips could claim hers in a kiss, never mind the sleep in her eyes or the fact that neither of them had brushed their teeth – needed, the way his other hand drifted, gliding over the curve of her ribs, tracing the dip of her stomach before slipping lower, seeking the heat between her thighs – magical, how immediately she reacted to this, arching against him, keening, her head knocking back against his shoulder as her hands jolted up to clutch his forearm.

It was loose work, sloppy the way his fingers moved against her, swirling and stroking as she whimpered, every sound met with his lips muffling her. He loved this version of her in his arms; skin glittered with perspiration despite the chill in the air, those sharp little gasps when he curled his fingers, sliding them inside of her; the way her thighs clenched around his hand as she unraveled, panting and open-mouthed; how she so eagerly lapped at his fingers with her tongue when he slid them past her lips, her hips already rutting against him –

He tugged at the waistband of his own boxers, springing free from the dark blue fabric and immediately slicking himself with his hand and the saliva she’d given so freely. It was almost no effort at all to slot himself against her entrance, pressing his tip against her slickness, sliding it back and forth a few times just so he could hear those gasps again, feel her shoulders pushing against him – and it’s heaven when he finally pushes within her, those first thrusts slow, steady, taking his time to work into her; though she was ready for him, warm and inviting and guiding him with her hips, and they settled into a rhythm – lazy, languid, no real need to rush.

It couldn’t have been a more perfect start to their day, the cadence of their bodies, the gentle slap of skin against skin building to a crescendo until his hips stuttered and he had nothing more to give her, surrendering to the bliss of release. She melted against him after, still connected, their chests rising and falling in unison, her hand reaching back just to thread through his hair. 

When the stars in his eyes began to fade, they were replaced by her skin, curtained by her hair and marred by the scar on her shoulder – and instinctively he pressed his lips against this, too, because that was his habit, now; to only show love to the parts of her that had known violence, and she made a pleased sound deep in her throat because that was also habit, the pleasure she derived from his unwavering adoration of every inch of her.

He could have lived in this moment forever, if it was possible; just stayed with her in their sunlit little room, all wrapped up in the sheets and their heavy winter quilt, the fan above their heads humming gently as he ran his hands along every part of her that he could reach, palming her curves and pinching her flesh just to make her giggle. She rolled her shoulder, turning to face him a little more fully, kissing him again and mumbling against his lips, “Good morning to you, Mr. Miller.”

“Mmhmm,” was all the energy he had to respond to this, though he kissed her back, lingering a little longer this time, tongue sweeping against her teeth as she sighed, stretching her legs long against him – and he wished he was younger now, wished he could follow through with the urge to grab her leg and hoist it over his hip, to drive himself into her again, deeper this time, with more urgency – but he wasn’t young, and he never would be again. He had to be content with this: the softness of her lips, the warmth of her body nestled against his beneath the sheets. “Just wanted to give you a good sendoff.”

“How kind of you,” she sighed, and finally she broke away from him, immediately drawing a little groan from him when she slid her hips away from his limpness, that extra bit of sensation that he always tried to put off until he absolutely couldn’t avoid it anymore. She twisted herself around in the sheets so she was facing him, instead, hooking her leg over his waist and nudging her head under his chin as he embraced her. “You’re only making it harder for me to leave this nice, warm bed, though.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, slipping his hands down to cup at her hips, giving them a firm squeeze as she huffed in surprise, “that’s unfortunate. For you.”

He loved her laugh; loved for the opportunity to kiss the delicate center of her throat when she threw her head back, dragging the tip of his nose against her soft skin, nudging against her chin until he was able to capture her lips with his own again. “Maybe you should play hooky today,” he murmured, and she groaned in frustration.

“I wish,” she sighed, and that was that; she lifted her head, squinting through the morning sunbeams toward their alarm clock, then fell back onto her pillow with something of a dramatic moan. But she only lay there for another moment or two, slipping out from under their quilt with her arms wrapped around her, flesh already goosebumping in the chilly morning air; and he watched her go with far too much appreciation, her bare legs padding across the bedroom until her willowy form, draped only in a thin sleeping tank top, disappeared into the bathroom.

He’d only begun to disentangle himself from the warm confines of the quilt when she reappeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her shivering body, one hand pulling her hair down from a hasty topknot. She began to dress herself quickly, and he decided to settle back and enjoy the spectacle of it; the towel dropping to the floor, the faded green panties being shimmied past the divots of her hips, an incredibly mismatched pink sports bra tugged over her shoulders – and she caught his eye in the mirror next to the dresser, cocked an eyebrow at what he realized was a rather dreamy expression etched across his face.

“What?” she demanded, though there was a smirk playing along the edges of her lips. “This doing it for you?” She spun around, tugging at the thick bottom band of her bra, wiggling her finger through a small hole in the seam. He chuckled, pulling himself up against his pillow.

“Anything does it for me,” he corrected her. “Don’t matter, s’long as it’s on you.”

“Flirt.” It was a gentle chide, but it brought her to him anyway; she sauntered a languid path to his side of the bed, and he was reaching for her even before she nudged a knee to the quilt – and then she was astride his hips, one leg swinging over him, and she was so warm from the shower, tiny pearls of water still dripping from her collarbones and shimmering like diamonds misted into her hair, though her skin still pebbled finely from the cold, raised and textured along her thighs where his hands traced firm paths. 

“I wish I could stay here all day,” she told him, her words as soft as her lips when she gently pressed them against his – she tasted like sage, piney and sweet, from her homemade toothpaste, smelled like lilac from her soap. 

His hands roamed, so large and rough against her softness, and for a moment – just one fleeting moment – he entertained the thought that maybe there would be more to their morning together; his body was certainly was eager for it, excitement coiling in his stomach, her long legs quivering on either side of him – but she pulled away from their kiss, sighing deeply and slumping back. “I have to go,” she told him, and then she groaned again when he followed her, arms wrapping around her waist as his spine straightened, the coarse bristles of his mustache brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck. “But I need something from you before I do.”

“Name it,” he mumbled, his teeth gentle against the edge of her jaw. 

She framed his face with her hands, her fingers cool against the heat of his skin, and her eyes were very serious as she gazed down at him, glinting and bright in the morning light, a mosaic of gold and emerald and amber. “I’m taking your long johns.”

“The hell you are.” But she somehow slipped away from him in a blur of movement, rolling from his hips and practically dancing her way over to the dresser, yanking open a drawer and triumphantly extracting a pair of his long underwear – his favorite pair, no less, red plaid and cotton, by far the softest and least-tattered set he owned – which she then held up as though they were a trophy, wiggling her hips expectantly. He grunted in annoyance, sinking against his pillow. “Woman–”

But he was powerless against her – and she knew this, smiling at him even as she unfastened the row of buttons in the chest and then stepped through the legs, pulling them up and over her body. They were loose on her, baggy in the hips and shoulders, but she didn’t seem to mind it. “Cozy,” she reviewed, giving him a small spin, and he shook his head wearily.

“Fine,” he relented, waving a hand dismissively. “Just bring ‘em back in one piece – and the woman in ‘em, too.”

She laughed, fingers fumbling with the buttons. “I’ll do what I can.”

Because you deserve it for having written such a wonderful, heart-wrenching, uniquely amazing story. ♥️

Yall. Yesterday I started reading Lay Bare the Bones of the Earth by @march-flowerr and I’m already on chapter 8. I’m OBSESSED with it. Literally haven’t felt so immersed in a fic in SO LONG. 😭🥰 fic writers will always amaze me!

Also Tommy in this fanfic?! Chef’s kiss omg

them

FINE here’s an ellie wip