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[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Come Over

Alex Serian x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: Jeff Buckley and sex with a dash of a man having feelings. Warnings: alex's pov, smut, unprotected p in v, cum play, striptease, oral (f! receiving), fingering, shower, whiskey, i literally know nothing about this man so just go with it, cello and music references Words: 3,100

A/N: Entry #483 into Mallory adding Jeff Buckley's music into her fics. Listen to "Lover, You Should've Come Over," "Everybody Here Wants You," and "Forget Her."

Previous Masterlist

—-

Five miles today. The sweat is stinging as it drips into Alex’s eyes, his gray shirt soaked through with perspiration and effort. He’s ran farther today than he set out to, pushed himself up hills and steps, headphones blasting in his ears because the film score deadline looms, only three weeks left to compose forty minutes he's barely touched… but that’s not what’s constantly on his mind.

It’s you.

The memory of you across the room, barefoot in that silky, short robe of yours. How you left without saying goodbye, leaving him with just your name in the sex-heavy air.

He slows to a walk a block from the bungalows, tugging out his earbuds. It’s a scorcher, and the Pacific is doing nothing to cut the thick summer air. He feels disgusting, sweat drying on his skin, prickling under the sun. He needs a shower, some food he can muster out of his close-to-empty fridge, to lose himself in the stack of blank paper where music notes should be.

He slows as he approaches his place, because he hears something familiar. Your window is open, music drifting out of it that makes him halt on the sidewalk, right in front of your path. Jeff Buckley’s wailing “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over.” The ache radiating out of the speakers matches the ache that Alex feels whenever he thinks of you… that same damn feeling he just spent five miles trying to sweat out of his body.

He knows your name, he’s memorized it, grunted it aloud when he used his hand to get himself off in the shower this morning. Now you're playing this song, loud enough that he still hears it as he unlocks his door.

Keys are thrown on the console table, shoes are kicked off, and he peels off his damp shirt. He rests his haggard body against the shared wall, collects himself, and listens to the song fade out before it repeats, and he hears the longing all over again. Alex Serian knows something about longing, because it seems to be the only thing he’s been doing lately. He thinks about you with that dumb kid you brought home with you, in that showy vintage band tee and tattoos across his arms. He’s probably thinking about you too, thinking about how your eyes flutter open and shut when you’re close, the sweet sound of the gasp you let out before you shatter. Fuck.

He pushes himself off the wall, strips out of the rest of his sweat-soaked clothes, and heads to his black-tiled bathroom. He hisses when he steps under the cold shower head, before he lets the frigid water soothe his heat. He soaps himself, humming the melody of the song. It’ll be easy.

He changes into his customary practice clothes - only a pair of boxers - less clothing means less distractions. He pushes the blank sheet music out of the way when he sits at his computer and finds the song online.

Within an hour, he can play it. He figures out the arrangement easily… he’s too good at being able to master longing and regret. The song plays through a few times as he uses his quietest bow.

Then, he waits.

The clock ticks a quarter past eleven, and he settles into his chair, facing your wall. He plays the cello, filling his home with yearning as he wills it to spill through the drywall and doesn’t stop until there’s a knock at his door.

Of course, it worked.

He gets up, checks himself in the mirror, making sure he looks perfectly casual in his sweatpants and black muscle tank before answering the door. He actually wins the fight to hide his smile as the door opens. You’re standing there, in a teensy black dress, tiny straps across your shoulders. At your side, you have a vinyl record. You hold it up, Jeff Buckley’s photo across the cover.

"Figured we could listen and compare," you offer.

He steps back, opening the door for you to enter. "Come in."

He loves how you don’t hesitate, you just hand him the record and head to the couch.

“Want something to drink? Water, tea, whis—”

“Whiskey,” you say from the couch.

He pours two fingers of whiskey in a tumbler. You’re lounging back on the couch, one arm outstretched, legs crossed. Jesus, he likes looking at you in here. Your smooth curves on display against the smooth leather of his designer couch, the quiet confidence you exude in a dress that barely qualifies as clothing.

He turns to his stereo setup, complete with a vintage turntable and speakers that cost more than his first car. The needle drops, speakers crackling before the tight notes of the harmonium begin.

He sits next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours and hands you the tumbler. You take a drink, and he can’t look away from you, he doesn’t care if he’s staring. Your lips form around the glass, and he follows the swallow down your throat, thinking about how you’d look swallowing his cum. He’s trying to play it cool. Tries to treat it like it’s just another collaborative listen, peer to peer and all that. Just connoisseurs of fine heartbreak and timbre.

Buckley sings about being too young to know better, and you turn to him, hooking your leg over his to settle across his lap. His exhalation is totally involuntary, body instantly tightening as you straddle him. You lean forward, tip the tumbler in his direction, whiskey sloshing forward as it goes to his lips. He sees the glint in your eyes as he wraps his mouth around the glass and you tilt it just enough to let him drink. He swallows, staring into your eyes as the whiskey stings his throat. You take one last drink from the tumbler, and deposit it on the side table, then post your hands on his shoulders. He stares up at you, almost in awe, like you’re the physical manifestation of a beautiful song. He knows you can see it, how the wanting is probably written all over his face. His big, brown eyes have always gotten him in trouble.

You begin to move, atop him, hips rolling against him, keeping time with the pulse of the music. You tilt closer, lips against his ear. “I love this song,” you growl.

He goes to grab your hips, but you catch his hands and send them back to the couch with a knowing smirk. He doesn’t fight you. He gets the message. Your hands are the ones to roam across your body, up your hips, over your ribs, up your throat. You’re showing off, back arching, lip caught between your teeth as you writhe atop him. Can you feel how hard he’s growing beneath you? Can you tell how much he aches to have you under him?

He thinks you can.

You grip his hair, yank it a little, and tilt his head up, letting your neck press against his lips. He licks and sucks, breathing in the floral and citrus scent of your skin. You let out a small moan, your nails dragging across his scalp, and his groan matches yours.

The song ends. There’s just the crackling whirr of the spinning record. Then, a bass line beats a sultry rhythm.

You pull away and look at him like you’ve engineered the whole thing. Maybe you did. You pull your hands down your chest, over your hips, and stand all full of grace and intent. “You’ve performed for me,” you say. “Let me perform for you.”

Twenty nine pearls in your kiss

Alex sits back on the couch, lets his knees spread, and watches, full attention as you begin to sway in between his legs. You're moving like you know exactly what you’re doing, and he’s mesmerized, absolutely caught up, as your hips roll slowly to the music.

Your flame in me

Alex is strung tight, and his eyes begin to water from not blinking, especially when you turn, bend, and reach for the ground. He leans forward, leather crinkling as he moves on instinct, just to get a closer look as the hem of your little black dress rides higher and higher. He swallows a thick movement of need at the curve of your ass bordered by silky black. You reach and sway, dress riding all the way up, giving him a full look at your ass swaying, and he wonders how your skin tastes, how it’d feel to run his tongue along your smooth legs, across the curves of your ass.

He’s fucking hypnotized by you, his neighbor, dancing for him in his living room. All he can do is stare at the space between your thighs, mesmerized by the slick heat that’s glistening and gleaming between your legs. He wants to taste you. Wants to put his hands on you, wants your sweat and your cunt in his mouth, wants to see if you taste as sweet as you smell tonight. He’s played at Carnegie, the Musikverein, the fucking Philharmonie in Berlin, and he’s never been more focused than now: all of his energy straining into the few feet between your body and his lap.

Such a thing of wonder in this crowd

Your hips roll, hands ghosting up your thighs, skating over your smooth, bare skin. He’s aching, cock twitching in his tented sweatpants and when you face him, he sucks in a breath. You’re so fucking gorgeous. Your eyes are lust dark and hooded, lips parted, silky dress bunched around your thighs, and he can see just the hint of what he’s about to lose his mind over.

I know everybody here wants you

You climb onto the coffee table—some walnut piece from Herman Miller he splurged on to impress that actress—like you were made for a stage, so close now that Alex could touch you if he wanted to. He wants to, so fucking bad, but instead, he fists his hands atop his sweatpanted thighs, lets the burning heat pool in his belly, mouth hanging open as you arch your back and glide your hands over your body while the record spins on.

I know everybody here thinks he needs you

You anoint him with the most beautiful view as you roll the thin silk of your dress up your body, tugging it up and over your head. A shiver—a goddamn shiver in the middle of the summer—spasms through him, chest to groin, at the sight of you. You toss your dress at him, and he actually manages to catch it, bringing the warm silk to his nose and inhaling the scent of you.

You’re the hottest goddamn thing he’s ever seen, seducing him with every hypnotic bump of your hips. He thinks he can almost see the heat haloing off your skin as you move, keeping with the pulse of the music, body bare and beautiful.

And I’ll rise like an ember in your name

You’re performing, but even as you keep your eyes on his, Alex knows you’re only dancing for yourself, like some sort of temptress that just happens to live across the yard from him. You grind your hips into the air, hands cupping your tits, your nipples are so tight and sweet looking, inviting his tongue. You tug them both, twisting in time with the song, and the low moan you make, as you stare him down, makes him want to throw all of his self-restraint away. All he can think about is that small taste of you last time, how badly he wants to devour your cunt, make you scream his name.

I’ll be waitin’ right here just to show you

You don’t bother to warn him—you just step directly from the table onto the couch, both feet bracketing his thighs as the cushion dips. You roll your hips, slick and pretty cunt at his eye level, and the soft heat of you being so close almost undoes him right there. You cord your fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots to tilt his head all the way back. His eyes meet yours, and he swallows. The way you’re looking at him, like he’s all you’ve been thinking about, is so fucking hot, it makes him almost dizzy.

Your hands flow down the lines of his face, settling on the edges of his jaw, and you guide him right where he wants to be, pressing his face right into your wet cunt. He breathes you in, opens his mouth, tongue tasting the first strip of you.

“Fuck,” you gasp, grinding slow against his mouth. So wet. So in control. So fucking perfect. His nose presses against your swollen, soaked skin and he licks, circles, and dashes his tongue against your clit. You’ve got both hands gripping his hair, making little shuddering sounds, and he wants to make you cum like this—wants to play you to the very end.

Your legs begin to wobble, and he anchors you with his hands, sliding them up your thighs, thumbs digging in to your flesh to hold you still and open. He can hear you panting over the flick of the record, over the greedy sounds he’s making as he finally gets to taste you proper. He finds your rhythm, playing along to it, swirling his tongue, pressing it inside, bowing long and slow, then short and urgent. He feels the seismic shiver of you vibrating against his hands and tongue. You’re pulsing, reaching the crescendo of your orgasm, and he drinks you down, hands stretched across the globes of your ass, pushing you further and further against him. You’re moaning so sweet, so loud, so perfect, he wishes he could hit repeat on each breath that escapes you.

You have to steady yourself with both hands on his skull, hands grasping his hair. He licks you softer now, a gentle cleaning, giving himself one last taste as your hips roll one last time. He leans back, breathless, face wet, and looks up at you. There’s a thing called musician’s pride after an amazing performance, a natural high when the final ovation is taken, and he feels that right now. You look absolutely fucked.

Your body melts, knees giving out, and you slump down into his lap, chest to his chest. He throws his shirt off, needing to feel your skin sear his as you shudder with the aftershocks. Every part of Alex is thrumming, pulse loud in his ears, cock aching in its cage of designer knit. He holds you—not for long enough—until you pull away and smile, all feline and sexy and cool. Your knees pin his thighs, the heat of your cunt is so fucking close from the straining line of his cock. He wonders if you’ll notice the damp spread at the front of his sweats.

The song’s changed, long ago, and he only just notices it, he’s been so lost in you. Alex Serian prides himself on how finely tuned his body is, how he takes care of it like an instrument, but once you touch him, he feels like a student again, all inelegant and full of pleading tension. Your hand threads down his body, and when you palm his cock, he whimpers a delightedly shocked sound, and if he wasn’t so fucking horny and needy for you, he’d be ashamed. You hmph a soft smug sound in response and squeeze his cotton-shrouded cock.

You rise a little, and he tries to keep his composure no matter how much he feels like he’s shaking, as you grip the waistband of his sweats and tug. He lifts his hips obligingly, letting his hard cock escape the cotton. You lean back and look down, eyes on how hard his dick is jutting between you, leaking and desperate for attention. You drag one nail up the underside of him, and all he wants is for you to wrap your hand around it and play him. You do, your thumb circling the head and you fist him. Alex jerks forward at the wristy rhythm, moaning and groaning, an unknowable relief of feeling your touch again. It’s been too many days of thinking about you, of trying to forget you, of knowing there’s just a thin wall between you and his growing want for you. He brags about self-control, but with you, he feels it depleting each time you’re near him.

He’s leaking all over your hand, and he’s not sure if it’s sweat or precum. You seem to not mind the sticky mess he’s making at all. No, in fact, you welcome it. You glide the head of his cock against your cunt, swirling it against your eager entrance before you let the heat of you envelop his cock. You both gasp at the same time as you seat yourself all the way down, and you rock, adjusting to the size of him and the way he impales you.

You look like a fucking goddess atop him, and he groans, hands fisting against your hips, burying his face against your breast because he can’t look at you any longer, can’t cope with how much he wants you. Alex doesn’t know what the fuck this is, how it can feel so good with someone he barely knows. The most you two share is a wall and this hedonistic pleasure, and he’s so fucking lost in it. You’re so sure of yourself, never shy, not with the way you’re gripping his shoulders, working your hips, grinding your cunt along his cock.

He’s fucked, and you’re too busy fucking yourself on him, using his body like an instrument, to notice any of his inner desperation. You ride him, tempo wavering, like you’re testing the ranges of what either of you can stand. He hears it all. The beat of his heart, the rush of his own breath, the music’s still playing on the record player, Jeff Buckley singing to “Forget Her.” How could he? How could he ever move on from you? From this. From this need.

He wants you closer, wants to fuck you harder and make you remember that nobody else but Alex Serian can make you feel this way. He lifts you, arms around you tight, and half stands so he can lay you down on the cold wood of the coffee table. Your back arches in surprise, and he presses forward, still inside you, and fucks into you slow, letting himself leave the velvet warmth of you before shrouding himself back in your heat with long strokes. He searches for the cadence that makes you curl your fingers into his shoulders. There’s something almost holy in the way you look up at him, heavy-eyed, lips open, sweat making your skin glow in the late summer heat.

He reaches under your head, palm cradling the back of your head, anchoring himself and grounding you down. He can now fuck you with a new, desperate force the slap of his body against yours is louder than the music that spills out of his speakers. His forehead meets yours, slick skin against skin, bridge of his nose dragging a line along your cheekbone, and he loses himself.

Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his skin, and he grunts. His back is slick with sweat, and the pads of your feet are sticky against his skin. You squeeze him tight, harder, and he pistons into you, over and over, but you still want and moan for more, demanding, tilting your body up to meet him.

The coffee table squeaks beneath you, and he tries to keep his eyes open, stop them from rolling back in pleasure at the squeeze and pulse of your cunt. He wants to watch every flicker of your lashes, the slack of your jaw when his cock spears you deep. He wants to imprint on you, to have only his name and the memory of his cock stretching you echo through your memory. He grunts your name over and over, hissing, almost stuttering on lust, as he worships you and curses your pussy for being so perfect for him.

He’s so fucking close, gone is his button-up composure. His teeth grit as he presses into you and tries to stop the spread of ecstasy, but it’s too fucking late. He pulls out on reflex, barely makes it to the curve of your belly before he cums across your skin. His whole body burns with each sputter and shot of thick, white pearlescence that pulses out of him. He strokes himself, watching the mess pool beneath your navel.

He can barely think for himself, but he knows the performance isn’t over. You still need your finale. Alex slides to the floor, knees against the hand-knotted area rug, and drags you to the edge of the table. He wants to admire you like this, his hands wrapped around your thighs spreading them open, your heat and scent on full display for all of his senses, his own cum smeared across your skin. He’s wild, almost reckless as he gazes down at you, one hand running down your body. You’re writhing, hips undulating, trembling, and he can’t wait any longer. He buries his face in you, mouth wide open, tonguing you deep, lapping up every drop of desire you’re leaking for him.

You’re a symphony of noises, needy and high meeting melting and low. It’s almost musical, and Alex learns the notes of what makes you gasp and scream. He gives you two of his fingers, curling and dragging as he tongues your clit. Then, he gives you three, leaning back just enough so he can watch your body try to swallow his hand.

Your hands run along your body, smearing the mess he’s made on your skin, rubbing his drying cum across your body, pulling it up to your tits and smearing it all over your curves. He can feel you getting close, your pussy clamping his fingers, your breaths quickening. He doesn’t let you have it. Not yet. He goes slow, gently licking you with a soft reverence, lets you fall back down, then gets you right back to needy again, working you up, making you scream his name.

You’re wound so tight, and he’s tuning you to the right tension, building your pleasure with his lips and fingers. He lets you shatter for him, and you cum so hard your whole body shakes as you spill, pulse, and grind into his face. Your moan is a long, almost layered glissando that makes Alex think he’s found the answer to the weeks of uninspired scoring. It’s the best sound he’s heard. Nothing in Buckley’s catalog, not Bach, not even the ovation from the crowd at his last “Rite of Spring.”

He’s grinning when he peels away from you, and wipes his chin with his wrist. You’re a mess on the table, catching your breath, pleasure drunk across mahogany. He runs his hand along your body, hoping you won’t kick him off for touching you like this, gently, softly, as you gather yourself.

Fuck. He doesn’t want the night to end.

He stands, bends and scoops you up, arms around your back and under your knees, and you’re either too cum drunk, or you just don’t care as he lifts you from the table and carries you down the hallway to his bathroom. He sets you down on the countertop, the mirror against the black tile reflecting your overwhelmed body, you look ruined… but happy and satiated as he starts the shower.

You stand, still wobbling back and forth as he helps you in the shower, stepping in behind. The steam swallows your bodies, and you lean back against his chest, his hands and the water wash away the sweat and cum and music and sex of the night. You let him, humming low, eyes watching his reflection in the glass. When he’s done, he turns off the water and wraps you in his towel.

He doesn’t bother asking you to stay. He just walks you to his bedroom and peels back the sheets. It’s not lost on him how your apartment is just past the wall. That you could, if you wanted, grab your dress and walk across the thin patch of grass and be back in your space. But you don’t. Instead, you climb under the sheets, and he joins you. He thinks about the last time he let anyone sleep here, it’s been literal years, and here he is with his fucking neighbor.

He’s tentative when he brings his arm around your waist, and he almost wants to be angry at how well you fit against him when you settle. You fall asleep quickly, and he stays awake, listening to your soft breathing.

He watches you sleep, body curled and peaceful against the white of his sheets. He holds you for a long time, chest to your back. He’s not used to this. Not since it was enough to be good at things only for himself.

You hum a quiet mmm in your sleep, and he instantly recognizes it, the same timbre, same vibration as the drawn-out moan from earlier. He lies there listening and remembering until the pieces of melody begin to assemble. You exhale, shift, and he hears it again. It’s not a song yet, just a collection of notes.

He detangles from your sleepy warmth, sits up, grabs the legal pad and pencil that he always keeps in the bedside drawer. He sits, hunched, back to the headboard, one leg crossed across his knee, supporting the legal pad. He writes the hum, and then a harmony from it. Then a contour of your moan, and how it would sound on the cello, longer and drawn out. He writes your name at the top. The director and no one at the studio needs to know the piece is about you. He’ll just call it “Intermezzo” or “Motive (Theme in G)” or whatever simple title they’ll accept.

He works for an hour, then sets the pencil down, re-reads what he’s got. It might be the best sequence he’s written in years. He glances from the yellow paper of the pad to you, how tangled up in his sheets you are. Even now, the smallest sound from you alters his pulse, making him want to pin you back under him.

When the melody feels just right along his annotations and sides of notes, he sets the pad on his table and lies back. The bed welcomes his body, and he scoots closer to you, propping his thigh against yours. There’s nowhere left for his arm but to drop it over your belly, and he blames the too-late-hour on the tenderness overcoming him. He drifts off, letting the presence of you help him fall asleep.

That damn loud bird shrieks right outside his window, and he wrenches up in a confused bobble. He’s on his stomach, lines across his cheek from the pillow. He turns over, expecting you, but all that remains is the valley left by your body. He sits up, gets out of the bed, not even grabbing his robe and strides into his living room stark naked. Your dress is gone, and the record’s been taken out of the player.

He’s not sure what he expected… certainly not that you’d make him breakfast or stick around to wake him. Hell, he prefers whomever he brings home to leave easily and quietly. And yet, your disappearance seems to bruise him.

He goes back to his room, picks up the legal pad, and reads over the notes. Thanks to you, he’s finally figured it out. He’s never been more inspired in his life.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 1: Piece of Cake

Pairing: Joel Miller x Single Mom Reader Chapter Rating: G, right now. Chapter Summary: It's September 2003, and you're starting a new life with your son back in your hometown. You found your dream house; little did you know you'd find your dream man across the street. Chapter Warnings: no outbreak au, alternating pov, slowburn, joel's birthday, grown man with a crush, tommy miller being a menace, sarah's dad joel, lawnmowing, illness of a non-main character, lots of music references, joel saving the day, reader works at a record store, toddlers being toddlers, title taken from mudhoney's 1992 album Words: 4,500

A/N: Beep beep! New, redeeming Joel Miller fic coming through. This time we're rewriting Austin Joel's future. He gets to wear his working watch forever. Sarah lives, and nothing bad happens. This will be a very slow burn with lots of yearning and pining and almosts. My gratitude to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @sin-djarin, & @valevntine for dealing with meeeee and having to hear about this. I hope you enjoy! As always, comments, reblogs, and screaming are very welcome.

Goldenrod Lane Masterlist | Series Playlist

Masterlist

—-

You’ve driven past it four times in the past two days. It almost seems too good to be true. A little suburban home tucked away on a picturesque cul-de-sac. The Austin real estate market is in a buyer’s market, and you took full advantage of it.

Your perfect little house, with the blue siding and giant bay window. It’s modest—two bedrooms, a nice-sized kitchen, and a big yard for your son to grow into.

Your safe and sensible Subaru pulls into the driveway just after 8 AM on move-in day, and the cul-de-sac is peaceful in the autumn late morning.

You know some renovations need to be taken care of… the bathroom is ancient, showing its age with bright pink tile and a toilet to match, the carpet in your bedroom is still shag, and the backyard garden is only growing weeds. But, step by step, you’ll get everything cleaned up and make this house into a home. After six years in Dallas, you’re back home, back where you started, and you’re trying to tell yourself it’s not failure.

Your old boss, Stu, called at the right time, needing your help at the record store. It was a simple decision… a job you already knew how to do, your parents close enough to help you with Layne, and a fresh start. God knows you needed it.

“We’re home,” you happily chirp to Layne in the backseat, who’s already wriggling with excitement in his car seat. You get him out, hoist him onto your hip, and kiss the crown of his head, letting this small moment with your little boy help heal you from the past year.

You unlock the door to your home with a proud smile on your face. You’re going to make this work.

—-

"I think our new neighbors are here,” Sarah beams, purple backpack slung across her shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” Joel asks, tossing his tool belt into the back of Tommy’s truck, squinting against the morning sun.

He follows her eyes as the front door of what once was the Marleys’ house opens. You step out, your hand holding the small hand of a smiling little boy whose mouth is moving a mile a minute. You’re… beautiful, and he swallows thickly, stopping in his tracks. You’re looking down at the little boy grinning and nodding along to whatever he says. Joel recognizes the way you look down at him, like he’s your whole world. He can’t look away, even as he opens the door for his own world.

Tommy grins, leans in, and lets out a low whistle. “She’s cute as hell,” he whispers to Joel, with an elbow to the ribs.

His eyes stay on you, and all he can afford is a nod and grunt.

“Go ahead, introduce yourself,” Tommy teases, “or I’m gonna go over ‘n introduce myself.”

Joel shakes his head, eyes wide, lips together in a firm line. He’s not going to let Tommy anywhere near her if he can help it. “Gotta… Sarah’s gotta get to school now,” he says as an excuse, as if Sarah is ever on time when he’s depending on his little brother for a ride.

Tommy slides into the truck, and the ignition rumbles to life. You’re now kneeling in the grass, wiping something from the boy’s cheek. He wonders what brought you to this street, if there’s a dad still inside the house or already at work, or maybe your story is similar to his.

—-

Your parents arrive around noon, your dad manning the small U-Haul while your mom’s car holds a couple plants and more fragile items.

You and your dad team up to unpack the truck, and you’re a sweaty mess by the third trip. At least it doesn’t take long, and by the time you’re done, your muscles ache with an accomplished pain. You’re going to do it all yourself.

You have no other choice.

Your life changed only ten months ago, a week after Layne’s second birthday. Devon couldn’t “deal with” being a father any longer… or he fell in love with his band’s pretty new singer. Either way, he no longer wanted you… nor Layne.

You left your perfect downtown Dallas loft the next day, drove the three-hour trip to your parents’ home, and became the sole parent to your little boy. You promised yourself that night, lying in your childhood bedroom, holding your world, that you’d make it on your own. Move home, pick up the pieces, heal from the past, and start again.

Now, the blue house on Goldenrod Lane will be where your son will grow up happy and healthy. He’ll go to good schools, play in the park a street over, and only be ten minutes away from grandma and grandpa. Layne will always know he’s wanted.

It doesn’t take long to unpack and set the house up, it’s not like you have much furniture. The IKEA in Round Rock is calling your name. You take care of the most important room first… Layne’s. Your dad’s putting together Layne’s new bed, complete with sheets covered in construction vehicles. Your mom helps unpack and put Layne’s books and toys away as he “supervises” in the specific way a toddler can. You hang the decals of cars and trucks on the wall, and you note to yourself to draw roads, buildings, and the sky around them one day.

After your parents leave, the closest pizza place turns out to be good enough for dinner. You and Layne eat it on the new couch—your parents’ housewarming gift and watch a DVD of Elmo episodes. It’s certainly not a housewarming party, but it’s just right after a day like today.

That night, when you tuck Layne in, he tells you, “I love my new house, Mommy.”

You snuggle him a little longer than usual. At the end of the day that had the chance to be so much sadder, lonelier, or worse, you let yourself be okay and happy. You kiss him goodnight, and he’s asleep before you finish closing his door.

It’s so quiet now. The house is unfamiliar in the dark, full of new noises. The ancient thermostat ticks, the fridge compressor whirs loudly, and the wind occasionally rattles the back door. You walk the rooms, checking the locks, then head to your room. You’re used to an empty bed now, and sleep comes quickly.

—-

Joel’s sure the lawnmower’s been trying to die for three straight summers. He knows every trick to get the battered red thing to keep it limping along. Today, he chooses to swear at it. It stutters, hacking up the smell of grass and gas. He wants to lift the damn hunk of junk up and toss it into the Colorado River. This is the last thing he wants to be doing on a Saturday morning. He wipes sweat off his brow and grumbles.

Sarah bounds out the front door, oblivious to any type of strife, skipping down the step. She pauses, watching across the street, and Joel follows her gaze. The new neighbors are outside.

You’re standing in the sun, bare-legged in cut-off jean shorts and a baggy black tee, a coffee mug in your hand. Your kid’s on the grass, trucks splayed out in front of him.

Sarah sighs a little. “She looks so cool. We should go over and say hi. C’mon, Dad.” She yanks him by the wrist, and he has no other option than to be dragged into the street before he can protest.

You look up at the sound of footsteps, and you grin a tired but wide smile that Joel couldn’t look away from, even if he tried. Up close, he can see you’re in a tee with a Soundgarden logo in the middle of the chest, tiny holes across the worn shirt, because of course you like one of his favorite bands.

“Hi!” Sarah says, more to the boy than you. “I’m Sarah. From across the street.”

“I’m Layne!” the kid introduces, then points at you. “That’s Mommy.”

You laugh and introduce yourself with your actual name, and Joel lets your sweet voice repeat in his mind, until he realizes he’s just standing there in silence. “Joel,” he blurts. “I’m Joel. Also from across the street.”

You hmph a sound like you’re entertained by his nervous antics. “It’s nice to meet you, Joel,” you say, and he knows he’s blinking like an idiot.

Sarah’s already got Layne enthralled, squatting down to play truck versus tractor with him. Joel’s fingers patter at his thigh, trying to think of something, anything, to say. He’s not so good at the small talk stuff, especially when it’s with someone as pretty as you.

“It’s a good neighborhood,” he finally offers. “Safe. Quiet. Been here since Sarah was four.”

“It seems it,” you say. “We’re back in Austin from Dallas. It was never quiet there.”

“It’s quiet here,” he repeats. Christ, this is close to the first normal adult conversation he’s had outside of work in… years, and he’s pretty sure he’s screwing it all up.

“So, I’ve heard,” you jest.

Joel lifts his hand to the back of his neck, feels how hot it is when you smile. His eyes drop to your mouth, but snap right back up. Sarah was right. There is something cool about you. Maybe it’s the way you lounge on the step in the bright patch of sunlight, your smooth legs on display, your oversized shirt giving him a glimpse of your shoulder. Maybe it’s in the way you talk, quick and bright, but a bit of reserve there too.

“Well, uh, should go back.” He clears his throat. “Got yard work.”

“Aww,” Sarah groans disappointingly.

“You can stay over here, if it’s okay with your dad,” you offer.

“S’fine with me. I, uh, better get back to mowin’ the lawn. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks, Joel.” You gift him an amused smile, and he responds with a dopey, uneven nod.

His feet can’t move fast enough as he rushes back across the street, feeling like a damned fool.

—-

Sarah doesn’t stop talking. She’s fourteen, a Cancer, plays soccer, and loves butterflies. She can’t wait to be a counselor at the summer camp she’s been going to since she was eight, is into X-Men, and is amazing with Layne. Her giggle is high-pitched, and her comedic timing is sharp and a little sarcastic. She instantly charms you.

And yet, all you can focus on is her hot dad. Joel’s keeping busy in the front yard, mowing the lawn. You pretend to be present and listen to Sarah tell you all about Beyoncé’s VMA performance. Still, you’re locked on across the street watching her dad and the way his forearms flex on the mower handle, the way the sheen of his sweat shines under the sunlight even all the way across the street. You’re thankful for your dark-lensed wayfarers and how they block out your eyes following him and the steady back-and-forth as he turns at the end of each row. He stops to wipe his brow, pulling up his shirt to his face, gifting you a peek of golden belly, and you hide your gasp with an “oh wow,” to Sarah. The mower sound begins to fade as he makes his way to the backyard, and you mourn the loss of your show.

“Lemonade?” you ask Sarah.

The first thing Sarah does when she gets in your house is make a beeline for the small CD tower you have by the TV. She spins through it, fingers running down the spines of each jewel case.

“Pearl Jam, my dad’s obsessed. He has like, all their tapes.”

“I didn’t know Nirvana had this many CD’s.”

“Jeff Buckley! I have a picture of him on my wall.”

Sarah’s high-pitched squeal makes you jump as you put away the lemonade. “Oooh!” She pulls a CD out, Combat Rock by The Clash is thrust up into the air, her smile beaming behind it. “Can we listen to this?”

You walk into the living room with two glasses of lemonade and Layne’s lidded juice cup tucked under your elbow. “Of course.”

The opening chords blare.

This is a public service announcement with guitars!

“My dad loves them too,” she says, her head bobbing along to the jangly guitar and drum beat. She grabs Layne’s hand, and they spin in awkward circles, both laughing, and it’s genuinely the happiest and most alive your house has felt since you moved in.

Sarah still talks your ear off, even as the Clash plays. She tells you about school, her favorite movies (Legally Blonde, The Brave Little Toaster, the first Curtis & Viper), and her secret hope to one day dye her hair neon blue, but she’s pretty sure her dad will kill her if she does.

Layne toddles over, climbs on the couch, and lays his head in your lap, too tired to keep up with Sarah. You smooth his hair and wonder if he’ll end up a music nerd or a soccer kid. Sarah’s the kind of older kid who makes you hope he’ll end up like her one day.

Sarah tells you she should head home after “Overpowered by Funk” fades out and you tell her not to be a stranger. You watch from the front door as she crosses the street and talks to Joel, who's now bent over his lawnmower that’s flipped over in the driveway. She looks back at you, and his eyes follow. He holds a grease-stained hand up and waves. You return it and close the door, wondering what it would be like to listen to Joel’s favorite songs with him.

—-

“You’d love her CD collection. She’s so cool, Dad!”

“Oh! And she went to school for business management! She could probably help you get Miller Contracting even more established!”

“Layne’s named after the lead singer of Alice in Chains!”

Sarah doesn’t shut up about you all day. Not from the moment she plopped down on the grass after leaving your house while he struggled with the lawnmower, to eating the slightly burnt Stouffer’s Lasagna he forgot to set the timer for. Hell, even when he said goodnight to her, she had to mention that you also love the Curtis & Viper movies.

The inner quandary of whether it’s good or bad luck that his dream girl has moved in across the street from him makes him toss and turn in bed. He faces the dead plant that sits on his side table, then turns his back to it, staring at the exercise machine stroke closet, and the cluttered dresser. One day he’ll get his life, and this bedroom, together.

Can’t sleep. Stupid. He’s too old to be lying awake thinking about somebody he’s seen for all of five minutes.

You just looked like someone he’d like to know.

—-

“So, new records usually come in on Thursdays, the day before release, and they’re delivered in—”

“I got it, Stu, I worked here all through high school and my summer breaks, remember?”

“Sorry, mind’s just not the same.”

Everything else has changed since you last worked here, and yet River City Records is exactly the same. Rows and rows of records, paperbacks, used CDs, folded band tees, a wall of used VHS and DVDs, and posters upon posters ranging from At The Drive-In to ZZ Top are hung across the walls. The place hasn’t changed, and neither has Stu... though you see how much older he is, his beard is even whiter, his godawful tie-dyed tees hang looser on his skinny frame, and he coughs a hell of a lot more.

You instantly pick up everything, like six years haven’t passed. You man the register, restock, and recommend Mudhoney to a high schooler with raccoon eyeliner and a Nirvana pin.

You get twenty minutes of precious alone time when you leave work to pick up Layne from your parents’. The sun’s beginning to set, and as you pull into the driveway of the home you grew up in and get out, it almost feels like you’re back to being a teenager, especially when you pass the concrete slab near the basketball hoop that still holds your handprints. But then, you hear Layne’s high-pitched laughter and feel the past years and all of its ups and downs age you right back to where you are now.

Your family’s in the backyard, dad sitting in his beloved wicker patio recliner, mom at the patio table, with a book in her hand, keeping an eye on Layne, who’s busily dumping pebbles into a dump truck like it’s his job. Everything feels normal and domestically sweet, as if nothing’s ever gone wrong and you didn’t waste five years with your ex… like this is where you were always meant to return to. You take a seat at the table and tell your parents about your first day back at the record store. They’re happy for you, and even happier that you’re back doing what you love, letting the music you love surround you.

Your mom sends you home with a giant container of her famous triple chocolate chip cookies and some leftover pepper steak, “just in case” you’re too tired to cook. You see right through her, knowing she made double portions just to help you.

You smile when you pull into your driveway at dusk, kids are still outside playing as the sun begins to set over your suburban cul-de-sac. Layne’s going to learn to ride a bike on these sidewalks, learn to walk off a skinned knee, get grass stains all over his jeans here, and always know someone will be waiting at home for him.

Layne hops out of the car once you unbuckle him, and he's off, arms pinwheeling. You're still folding yourself out, diaper bag on one shoulder, your purse on the other, giant containers of cookies and pepper steak balanced in your hands. 'Layne!' you shout.

Layne doesn’t listen, in true toddler fashion. You hurry after him, across the lawn, fighting through the end-of-day exhaustion. You and all the contents in your arms nearly tumble, as Layne sprints straight for the street where the older neighborhood kids are playing basketball. There’s no real danger in a cul-de-sac, but the sight of your little boy barreling into the chaos makes the adrenaline spike inside you.

“Layne! Wait!”

He’s already past the curb, velcro’d light-up sneakers on the pavement, heading straight for the teens. The older kids are in the zone. One goes for a jump shot right as your son heads towards the chaos. All you can see is disaster, straight out of a mother’s worst nightmares. You’re fumbling with panic, half-running, shouting Layne’s name.

“HEADS UP!” Joel’s voice calls from across the street so loud and commanding, it freezes every kid in place.

He bounds out, fast, striding across the street quicker than you ever could move. He lifts Layne up, hauling him out of the way. Layne laughs, completely unbothered, like this is all fun to him and Joel’s just a broad human jungle gym. You want to cry when you catch up, especially when you see how gentle he’s cradling your son.

Your heart is racing, and you try to calm your voice. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Joel shakes his head, dark brown eyes serious under furrowed brows, but his smile is soft and comforting. “S’okay. Toddlers are going to be toddlers.” He holds Layne out to you. “Here, trade ya’.” He relieves you of the heavy containers and Layne’s diaper bag as Layne settles against you.

“I go fast!” Layne repeats, proud of himself. You nod, try to smile, and wonder if you’re a terrible mother or if this is just what parenting small boys is like.

“Thanks,” you say, a little bit of embarrassment heating your face and voice. Joel just shrugs with a half-smile, following you to your porch, where you lead him inside your home.

Other than his daughter and your parents, Joel’s your first guest, and when he steps into your living room, you’re aware of how empty the house is. No personality, no art on the faded beige walls, the only decor in the living room is a framed photo of you and Layne with your parents from last Christmas, and a pile of toddler toys in the corner. Layne’s already upended his bag of trucks, metal and plastic, clattering across the floor. You’re too tired to feign hostess, and you lean against the kitchen counter while Joel hovers in the threshold.

“Been in here once before, when Mr. Marley needed help moving his freezer,” he notes, as if you know every last bit of this house’s history.

You don’t answer, you just let him keep looking around as you grab a Ziploc bag, load it with cookies, and offer it to him. “Here. Take these, as a thank you, for, um, saving my kid… and my dinner.”

Joel eyes the cookies. “Really?”

“I insist.”

“Thanks.” He takes the bag and gifts you a soft, grateful smile.

You walk him out, allowing yourself to admire how his broad shoulders fill your doorway. For a second, when he steps onto the porch and turns back to you, you both just stare. His warm eyes search yours, the setting sun bronzing his skin even more golden, and you forget to breathe and think, but you do see a flicker in his eyes when he studies you.

“Thanks again, Joel,” you almost whisper.

“Course,” he half-smiles. “Sarah used to take off like that. She was a hellion. If you ever need any help, I’m right across the street.”

You mumble a thank you, your eyes tracking down to his strong arms.

Joel turns and walks away, and you let yourself imagine what it’d feel like to have his big arms wrap around you after a long day like today. But before you can dream too much, a large yawn escapes you, and Layne whines that he’s hungry.

—-

“Put that out,” Joel grumbles.

“Happy birthday to you.” Tommy flicks the cigarette out of the truck.

Joel buckles his seatbelt, and when he looks up, you’re outside, putting Layne in the car. You’re in a denim dress he swears is the color of the sky. It really is his birthday.

The truck revs to life, Tommy backs out of the driveway, honking twice when he passes your house. You jump a little, look up, and wave with a smile.

Tommy rolls down Joel’s window. “Hey neighbor! It’s his birthday today!”

You take a few steps forward, hand blocking the sunlight that’s lighting you so beautifully, Joel can hardly focus. “Happy birthday, Joel,” you grin.

Joel’s sure he can feel the deep, red blush taking over his cheeks, and all he can offer is a “thanks,” before Tommy drives off.

“Happy birthday to you,” Tommy repeats, with a shit-eating grin.

—-

“I take this pill for my blood pressure, and this one to keep my liver from shitting out,” Stu’s saying, holding up his Monday-thru-Sunday pill organizer.

You dig through stacks of trade-in CD’s behind the counter, armpit-deep in OK Go and Counting Crows, pretending not to notice his Gollum-like knuckles trembling as he pops open his Wednesday door.

“You need to drink more water,” you tell him. “The human body is like seventy percent water. Yours is at least half bong resin.”

You’ve been spending the past week reorganizing, re-cataloging, stacking, sorting, and calling distributors, and in between, listening to Stu half-joke about his impending doom. The place is a mess, but you’ve made progress: at least the bins are labeled, and the floor isn’t full of half-opened boxes and stray price guns. You’ve even found time to put up a display by the register. Women In Rock. A full spread of Patti and Janis and PJ and Karen O.

At four, you clock out, leaving Stu to take care of himself for the last two hours of store operation. You pick up Layne from your parents’, your mom and you fall into a quick routine of handoff, hellos, and I love yous before you head home.

You’re three streets from Goldenrod Lane when you spot Sarah, walking down the sidewalk, backpack and hair bouncing. You slow the car and roll down the passenger window. “Hey, Sarah!” you call. “You want a ride home?”

“Yeah!” she shouts.

You pull over, and she slides in next to Layne’s car seat.

“Hi Sar-uh!” he shrieks with delight, and she turns in her seat, grinning wide. There’s no awkwardness between the teen and toddler. She gets him.

“Why you walking home? Where’s your dad?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Double shift today. It’s his birthday, and he still has to work.” There’s an edge of betrayal in the way she says it, but she masks it with a smile.

“That’s a shame, working on your birthday is never fun.”

“He’s supposed to bring a cake at least, but I’m sure he’s going to forget.”

You look at her in the rearview mirror and see the slight sadness in her bright eyes. “Tell you what, if you’d like, we can make him some cupcakes. I haven’t had a chance to break in the new kitchen.”

“Really?!”

“Really.”

“Awesome! This will get me out of having to go to the Adler’s,” she grins widely. “She always bakes the worst cookies.”

“I know,” you say. “She brought me over a plate after I moved in. Who puts coconut in a ginger snap?”

—-

Another late night, another late shipment. Tommy drops Joel off at 10, an hour after he promised he’d be home. An hour after he was supposed to bring home a cake for his own goddamn birthday. His whole body aches, 16 hours of hard labor will do that. What a way to spend his 36th birthday.

Joel sighs, sticking the key in the door, happy to find it’s actually locked.

“You remembered to lock the door for once,” he notes to Sarah when he walks in.

She’s on the couch, magazine in her lap, and a chocolate cupcake half-eaten in her hand. “Welcome home,” she says, mouth full of cupcake.

“Cupcakes?” he asks, brows rising.

“Homemade cupcakes.”

“Mrs. Adler actually let you make something good?”

“Not Mrs. Adler.”

Joel freezes when Sarah says your name, and he can only respond with an “oh.”

Sarah reaches the tray out, and Joel plucks a cupcake from it. “Layne put the sprinkles on. Don’t worry, I helped him wash his hands before.”

He kicks off his boots, settles on the couch with a huff, and takes a bite. He hums at the first taste, and he can feel his exhausted body loosen just a bit, thanks to the lightness from your kindness. He can’t remember the last time someone’s done something this sweet for him.

—-

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[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 35: Beautiful

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: Joel now knows the universe did the right thing when it let him live again. He wasn’t being punished for surviving, no, he was given a second chance to do it all over again. Chapter Warnings: time jump, love, smut, sick child mention, joel miller #1 husband award winner, chapter made writer cry multiple times, happily ever after Words: 6,650

A/N: What started as an offhanded idea I had while making dinner has now turned into a full 200,000 word story about love, redemption, family, and healing (ofc). I hope I've done the character of Joel justice. I could never have done this without my beloveds @schnarfer and @mothandpidgeon and their unwavering support and links to my Google Docs. Feels crazy that we're here now, exactly 15 months after the first chapter. Thank you for being with me at the finish line. I listened to a lot of "Sidelines" by Phoebe Bridgers while writing this chapter. 💞

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

Spring, 2035

The bed is empty when you wake. Joel is already up and in his workshop. Your robe hanging on the hook is more frayed and faded than it once was, and you grab it, cinch the tie around your waist, and cross the hall to what was once Ellie’s room.

Behind the closed door, you can hear progress: a tool setting down, a drawer opening, the whir of the Dremel. When you step in, you see your husband, hunched in concentration over the worktable, his broad back to you, the white of his shirt stretching across his shoulders.

You wait for the Dremel to stop working before you greet him. “Happy anniversary.”

Joel turns, the dimple-deepening, eye-crinkling smile that makes you melt even after all these years lighting his face. “Hey, baby, happy anniversary,” he greets.

You look past him, at the progress laid across the worktable. “How’s it going?”

“Good, just have to finish some of the detailing on the lid.” He holds up a piece of wood, turning it to show the grooves of what he’s been carving. “See, I’ve got the beveling mostly done, but the chamfer edges need a finer grit, and I can’t rush that part.”

You still don’t know what chamfer means. You’ve heard him say it a dozen times, and each time it sounds more like a type of wine than some sort of woodworking term. But the way his voice sounds, all low and assured when he talks about the wood, like he truly understands it, makes you want to listen to him forever.

“Then I gotta double-check the rabbet joints. If I don’t get the fit right, the whole thing’ll warp once any type ‘a humidity hits it. And then JJ’s gonna be without a toybox.

JJ.

Patrollers had found him three springs ago, left in the car off an old, abandoned highway. Barely even walking at the age of around two years old. You had been called into the clinic on that day, your and Joel’s second anniversary, to assess him. He was so small and helpless then, feverish, weak, and malnourished. Dina had been tasked with taking care of him at the clinic, bonding with him in that maternal way as she nursed him back to health, and she just couldn’t imagine her life without him. Now, the almost-five-year-old is the light of her and Ellie’s life, as well as yours and Joel’s.

You walk over to your handsome husband, brushing the more-gray hair from his forehead, pressing your lips against his warm skin. The memory shows only for a second: Joel’s battered and bloodied body dying in the street. A stranger then, just a patient you had to save. And now his hands are covered in sawdust, and he’s building a toybox for a boy who calls him Grampa. It’s a miracle. “He’s going to love it,” you say softly. “It’s perfect.”

He tilts his head, looks at you with those big, brown eyes of his. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” you assure. “You made it for him… and we all know Grampa Joel can do no wrong.”

Joel’s face softens, those furrowed eyebrows of his loosening. He sets the toybox lid down, runs a calloused thumb over the edge he just smoothed. “Still not sure if I like the dinosaurs on the front.”

“What’s wrong with them?” you ask, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, resting your head on one.

“Look a bit foolish, don’t they?” “They don’t. JJ’s gonna lose his mind. He’ll probably try to sleep in the thing.”

The rumble of Joel’s chuckle travels through your arms draped around him. “Gonna be breakin’ all the rules just like his mama.”

“And he’s going to be just as stubborn as his grampa,” you say, kissing his cheek. “Now, come on, we have a party to set up.”

—-

Joel’s yard is alive with the happy shouts of children, the casual conversations of adults, and the cheerful chaos of a five-year-old’s birthday party. Today is your fifth anniversary, a day that once would have been shared only by you two. But this is the life you’ve built, and JJ’s birthday happily takes precedence.

Ellie’s over by the wooden playhouse Joel built for JJ, hands on her hips, smiling as she watches her little boy and Benji play monkey-in-the-middle with Benji’s little sister, Stevie. They’re all shrieking with laughter, and Joel takes all of it in.

When Ellie watches JJ, he knows the look. It’s one he recognizes from somewhere he’ll never return to. He’s had that same look. The kind of look that only shows up when you’re watching something you’d die for. She laughs at something Maria tells her, and she looks so goddamn young and so goddamn old all at once.

He remembers the night Ellie and Dina told him. Him and you, sitting across from them at the dining table. The way Ellie’s voice wavered, like she knew she was handing him something fragile.

“We want to keep him,” she’d said. “We talked about it. We want—we want to be his parents.”

Joel sat wide-eyed, watching the way Dina had squeezed Ellie’s hand. His heart had cracked open, but it wasn’t painful. It was something else. Something that felt like a beautiful, hopeful new beginning that feels rare in this world.

“You sure?” he’d asked. It’s what you ask when someone tells you they’re about to love something that could be taken away.

Ellie had nodded the way she always does when her mind is made up.

“We’re sure,” Dina had said.

And that had been that. The next day, Joel started on the toddler bed, and you began knitting a blanket with his initials, JJ, in bright blue.

He never once thought he’d be standing in his own yard on a spring afternoon, watching Ellie’s son chase a ball across the grass. He’d taught her how to shoot a rifle, how to clean it, how to hold it steady when her hands were shaking. Saved her from a man in a hospital who wanted to cut her open for the sake of a cure that never came. He heard her screams and pleas to get up, to survive. He’d made it halfway across the country with her, carried her through snow and fire and blood and confessions, and he’d done it all with little thought to it, because he loved her.

It was all worth it.

You walk over, in one of your light, spring dresses, a pale green, flower-filled soft fabric that falls just below your knees. You’re smiling at him, and when he grins back, he knows he looks like a goofy fool still head-over-heels for his wife, even after all of these years.

“I think we throw a good party,” you say, finding that perfect crook of yours as he wraps his arm around you. “The kids are having fun.”

“Mm, it is,” he agrees, kissing the crown of your head, breathing in the sweet smell of you, happiness, and spring.

JJ runs across the grass, Benji and Stevie hot on his heels, they’re both covered in grass stains and dirt. JJ trips over his own feet, flies and falls into the dirt. Joel’s heart lurches for a second before the kid pops back up, laughs, and keeps running.

“Tough guy,” you say. “Just like his Grampa.”

Presents are before the cake, and Joel watches, your arm wrapped around him. Ellie sits cross-legged with JJ in her lap. The boy oohs and ahhs at every gift he gets, even if it’s a half-filled box of crayons someone was lucky enough to scavenge. The toy box sits in the corner of the porch, wrapped in an old quilt. He got it done right before the party, needing it to be perfect as he sanded the edges one more time. Both the T. rex and Triceratops on the front are carved, complete with horns and tiny arms. Dina pushes the quilt-wrapped chest forward, saving his gift for last. Joel doesn’t know why he’s nervous about it… there are dinosaurs on it, of course the kid’s going to love it.

JJ tears at the quilt, and Dina and Ellie help him with soft directions. The toybox shows itself, honeyed wood shimmering in the sunlight. JJ stops in his tracks, palms flat against the top of it as he assesses the carvings of his two favorite dinosaurs. He claps and starts giggling, bouncing in Ellie’s lap.

Joel feels the relief flow through his whole body. He double-checked every pivot and edge, sanded it down uncountable times… he would’ve thrown the whole thing out and started again if he didn’t think it was perfect.

Ellie lifts her head, and Joel thinks he sees tears brimming in her eyes before she blinks them away. She sends him a silent thanks in the way she looks at him, then looks down at JJ. Joel nods back, with something that feels like pride and a wish that he could’ve done a thousand more things for her, for all the years of her childhood lost to FEDRA.

The kids are back to playing in the yard with all of JJ’s new presents as you and Dina walk out on the porch, a large, lopsided cake in Dina’s hands, homemade by you and her. It’s not nearly as well done as what Seth would make, but there’s love in every sweet ingredient. It’s perfect.

Dina gets a small smudge of frosting on her wrist, and she doesn’t notice. Joel watches you reach over and wipe it off for her, casual like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times.

Family. That’s what that is.

He’s loved seeing your bond with Dina strengthen and turn into something just as unbreakable as his and Ellie’s bond. You took her under your wing, showed her the ways of the clinic, and now she’s a full-fledged doctor, in whatever sense the apocalypse can make of the title.

JJ’s family surrounds him as he blows out his five candles, and when he closes his eyes to make a wish, Joel’s sure the boy’s wishing for something as simple as a new toy truck or maybe a different episode of Bob the Builder on VHS. The luck of the kid, growing up behind these walls and knowing nothing else now besides a warm home, two loving parents, and a comfortable bed.

—-

You collapse on the couch next to Joel once all the dishes are put away, and the madness of the birthday celebration has quieted down to just some leftover handmade streamers and the birthday banner you’re too tired to take down.

“Well, I think this was a pretty good party,” you say, sinking into the cushions, head finding the familiar groove of his shoulder.

Joel hums a low, happy sound, his arm coming around you. You can almost feel the sunbaked warmth of today still on him. “And a good anniversary.”

You sit together in the beautiful shared silence for a while, letting the hush of the night take over, the only sound present is the tick of the clock and the swish of Jefferson’s tail hanging off of his cat tree. The whole house smells like frosting and cherry blossoms that have started to drop their petals in the yard.

“You know what,” Joel rumbles against your ear. “This wasn’t how I planned to spend our fifth anniversary, but—”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “It was perfect.”

He smiles, and the golden lamplight catches the silver that threads through his dark hair, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the softness in his dark brown eyes that now lives there permanently. “Every day with you is perfect, every single day,” he says, looking at you like you’re the one who made it all happen.

The feeling Joel Miller has always been able to give you- that immediate race of your heart, the butterflies that swarm in your stomach- explodes. You turn to him fully, your hand coming up to cup the raspy side of his face, thumb tracing the heart patch at his jaw.

You lean in, kiss him, slow at first, the way you’ve kissed him a thousand times before, and yet it never gets old, never loses that spark. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, and he deepens the kiss. Your mouth opens for him, and your body answers him like it always does, like it’s the only thing in the world that will ever make sense, because it does. Because he’s Joel Miller, and you’re his.

His fingers curl into the soft skin at the nape of your neck, pushing your lips firmer against his, his tongue seeking into your mouth. A soft, wanting moan escapes you, and he swallows it down, like he’s starving for you. He’s always starving for you.

You’re starving too. You move, swing your leg over his lap, and drape yourself over him.

“Baby,” he groans against your mouth, his hands finding your hips, gripping you through the thin fabric of your dress.

You straddle, then press down, just so you can feel him through the layers. Hard, thick, straining against his jeans already, even after a long day like today.

“Five years,” you whisper, rocking your hips down, earning you a hiss against your lips and thick fingertips digging into you.

“Five years,” he echoes.

You kiss him again, tasting the cup of coffee he just had, and the remnants of the small slice of leftover birthday cake you split in the kitchen. Your hands push under the hem of his shirt, palms sliding up.

Joel pulls away, eyes gone inky with desire, staring into yours. “Wanna do this in our bed, not on the couch.”

You nod, already sliding off his lap and helping him up. He stands with a grunt, and you lead him up the stairs, shucking your dress off at the landing, your bra in the hallway just in front of your office filled with medical journals and herbs, and your panties just outside the bedroom you share with Joel.

The bed is warm when you lie atop it, bare and ready for whatever pleasure your husband wants to gift you. Joel’s eyes sear your already heated body; he stands at the foot of the bed, fingers flicking open his belt and the fastening of his jeans. He’s studying you like he still can’t quite believe it, that you’re real. “You’re mine,” he gruffs.

You’ve never doubted that. Watching his hands move through each button of his shirt, you assure him, “I’ve always been yours.”

Clothes fall to the floor, flannel and denim pooling in a heap; the bright moonlight gilds Joel in a silver brilliance, the scars of his body glowing in the light as he makes his way towards you. He leans over the bed, hand running along your body. “Pretty thing,” he says, all rough and full of awe. “Always so pretty.”

His fingers trail higher, sliding between your thighs. “Joel,” you moan, shameless in the way your legs spread wide open for him, and it makes his eyes flash even darker. There’s no bashfulness in you anymore, not when the man you love knows every inch of your body, not after all you’ve lived through together.

There’s no rush in the way he moves. It’s an almost lazy exploration of pulling pleasure out of you. He’s so, so gentle with you, in the way he spreads you, two fingers parted, pressing them through your folds, feeling, feeling how slick and ready you are. You’re already clenching around nothing, needy for him, hungry for the fullness only he can give you.

“Joel,” you beg, desperation dripping in the way you moan his name.

His fingers start to circle you, and your hips tilt up automatically, greedy and impatient, always needing more from the man you love. He hovers over you, folding his body down across the bed, one palm pressed into the mattress beside your hip, the other between your legs, lazily stroking, almost teasing in the slow way the pads of his fingers drag through your wet, needy cunt. You open even wider for him, letting him see all of you in the moonlight, your limbs restless, almost shivering. Dark eyes drink all of you in, and you stare right back, mouth parted, eyes open wide, unable to look away even as the heat starts to pour through your body.

He watches you writhe and quiver for him, cocky grin glinting across his lips. “That’s it,” he husks, ragged and growled, “such a good girl for me.” His thumb drags across your clit, slow and greedy and circling, and you can’t help the way you grind against his hand, begging for more. “M’pretty wife,” he adds, and you melt and ache and arch.

The urge to feel him is too much, you reach for his cock, wrap your palm around the solid heft of him, thick and hard and heavy in your grip. He thrusts into your fist, can’t help himself, matching the roll of his fingers deep inside your cunt, back and forth, slick and slow as you stroke him. You give it to him the way you know he likes it the best, twisting your wrist, gripping his head tight just the way he loves. Joel’s head tilts back, neck strained, and an almost feral rip of your name leaves him before he snaps his head back down to look at you.

You clench around his thick fingers, and he leans over, mouthing at your throat, licking across your neck, before he bites the sensitive skin there, not sharp, but firm enough that you gasp and your hand tightens around his thick cock. You jerk him slow and steady, loving how he’s already trembling, loving that you can still make him like this. Each time your hand moves, he’s pulsing, throbbing, and when he angles his fingers in you and hits that gushy spot that makes you lose your breath, your hips lift off the mattress as you keen his name.

Tight, firm circles are pressed against your clit, and your world turns into just Joel Miller and the shattering pleasure of his hand inside you, the warmth of his body hovering over yours, and the always present grinding, hungry need shared between you.

He looks down at you, his lips parted, sweat shining on his brow. “You gonna cum for me, baby?” His voice hums through you, that low vibration that can only make you nod as your breath stutters.

“Atta girl,” he croons, thumb swirling your clit while his fingers fuck you open and wetter. You’re nothing but a frantic heartbeat, tight fist, and wet pussy when you crash into your orgasm hard. You collapse and rise over and over again, staring right into Joel’s eyes as he lets you ride your pleasure, thumb stilling against your clit, as he slowly slides his fingers in and out of your cunt.

When you finally settle down, gasping his name, heart racing, Joel pulls his fingers free and drags your slick along the heavy length of his cock. You watch, barely able to keep still, body trembling and gasping.

He grips his cock and sets the leaking tip against your lips. You open right up for him, tongue flat to take in the taste of you and him and the shared years of wanting. The hot weight of him pools heavily on your tongue when you wrap your lips around him and take him into your mouth. He fucks shallow, keeping searing eye contact as you moan around his dick. “Jesus Christ,” he grits, head tilting to the ceiling as you take him deeper and deeper, his thighs tensing under your palms. You swirl and lick, let him bob out of your mouth until you suck him back in.

There’s a grunt, Joel’s hips stutter, and he pulls free. “Baby,” he huffs. “My back is killin’ me after today.” He laughs, a little ruined, a little low.

You scoot, then coax him down till he’s flat and settled in the bed. His back is barely against the mattress before you crawl up his big, tired body and straddle him. “Comfortable?” you ask, bending down to kiss him, and he grunts an affirmative against your lips.

His tongue seeks into your mouth, hands spreading on your ass to pull you down even closer against him. You rock against him, sliding your cunt along his cock, letting the wet tease of you slip along his length. You angle yourself and can’t help the smile when the wide tip of him catches and sinks into you.

“C’mon baby,” he urges, all doe-eyed and in awe of you even after all these years. You slink yourself all the way down, gasping at how good Joel Miller always makes you feel. You rise and fall languid and savoring as he kisses you, letting the high-pitched, needy growls of his escape into your mouth. You swallow each one, answering it with a moan against his plush lips.

You move together like it’s what you’ve only ever known, your body meeting his, the shared intimacy and peace of knowing your forever in this way. When you sit up, hands bracing on his chest, nails digging into the golden warmth of Joel, you feel the beat of his heart hammering against your palm and the way it always answers to you.

He drinks you down, tracking every way your body moves for him. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans. “Most beautiful thing I ever seen.”

You’re lit by his praise and love, moving faster, grinding down, writhing and shaking, clutching his broad chest as you cum so hard you fall forward, nails digging into his skin. Joel catches your cries of his name with his mouth when he kisses you, swallowing every moan and keen he pulls from you.

The bed groans when Joel starts to fuck up into you with the power an old man like him still miraculously holds. You lean your head back, just so you can watch him fall apart for you. He’s heavy-lidded, plush lips parted as they groan your name over and over; blissed-out Joel Miller is the most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen. He lets go of your ass only to clamp his hands on your hips, anchoring you so he can pull you down hard again and again, to take every last inch of him.

He cums with a long, guttural “fuuuuck,” fists balled tight at your hips, cock pumping and twitching inside your heat, as he loses himself in sweet, desperate pulses you can feel all the way through you.

You burrow your cheek into the warmth of his chest, listening to the hammer of his heart as his heavy hand slowly strokes your back. “Holy shit,” you gasp, and Joel chuckles a satisfied sound against your hair.

You roll off him and curl into the crook of his sweaty and sated arm, and he tucks you closer. It’s always so perfect, how easy it is to love your handsome, gruff Joel Miller. You could stay here forever, breathing in the smell of him, your home, and the fresh flowers beginning to bloom in the garden outside.

—-

The clinic is busy today. Joel steps in amongst the almost-full waiting room, nods at a few familiar faces, and turns left to take the familiar path down the hall to your office. He sits in his customary chair in front of your desk, and he waits and waits… a little too long than usual.

He peeks out of your office and catches Blake, the new nurse’s, attention. “She’s in surgery,” Blake tells him. “Complications with Mr. Lassiter’s appendix. She said it might be a while.”

Joel nods and returns back to your office, now settling into your chair, facing the door, the better to see you when you come in. Your desk is cluttered. Not messy, just lived and worked in. He picks up your notebook, leather-bound and soft, a rare find he was able to barter a couple of carvings for this past Christmas. Your name’s on the front, and he runs his thumb over the imprint of Miller.

The pages are already full of your handwriting, and he can hardly decipher it. There are whole sentences reduced to fragments he can’t parse. Perfusion adequate. Lateral incision. Diagrams are drawn, a torso with arrows, a hand with tendons mapped. There are plant names and measurements in the margins, long, complicated Latin words he couldn’t spell if it’d save his life. Each page is full of wisdom, and healing, care and dedication. He closes the notebook carefully, like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Jackson is lucky it has you. He’s lucky.

Time stretches, and Joel rests his eyes, but a busy clinic is no place for rest. He gets up, toes around your office, looking through the shelves full of books and journals. He finds a book on something called histology, flipping through it, his brain understanding not even 5% of what he’s seeing.

People pass the door, all with a place to go or things to do. Patients to exam rooms. Doctors and nurses to their next sick or injured case. But Joel doesn’t see you.

Until, finally, he hears the familiar soft, efficient cadence of your footsteps across the tile. You appear in the doorway. Sleeves shoved past your elbows, eyes a little sunken and hollow. The tired smile only comes when you see him.

"You're still here,” you say, surprise lining your tired words.

"Course I am.”

You close the door and lean against it, head tipping against the wood. "I'm sorry.”

"S’okay. Don’t apologize, baby."

“There were complications. But he’s stable now." You take a deep sigh. “His wife was crying when I updated her. It’s so hard when they cry.”

Joel stands and strides towards you, wrapping his arms around you, and you fall into him, forehead pressing against his collarbone. He smells the sweat and antiseptic on you, but underneath it there’s still the ever-present and sweet sage and vanilla.

"It’s been a long day," you whisper.

He kisses the top of your head, already feeling the way you let yourself unwind with him. He pulls back enough to look at you and meets your eyes. “You’re amazing.”

You blink. "I nearly lost him."

"But you didn't."

You softly nod, like you’re letting his words settle you.

Joel leads you to your chair, sits, and pulls you down into his lap. You fall into him willingly, melting against him.

He unwraps the zucchini bread Maria baked first. "Dessert first," he says. "You earned it."

You hum happily as he breaks off a piece and holds it to your lips. He feeds you another, and another, feeling the way you come back to life with each bite.

By the time you're both splitting the chicken sandwich, your voice already sounds peppier, and you’re yourself again, no longer the exhausted surgeon that walked through the door earlier.

When all the food is gone, Joel holds you, and you turn in his arms, head angling to kiss him. “I needed this. Thank you,” you whisper.

“Anytime, baby.”

You give him a final kiss before standing. “As much as I hate to leave, I should get back out there, it’s busy.” Your shoulders are already straightening, preparing to return to being a doctor.

He rises, and you leave him with a kiss before telling him you’ll see him later.

He grabs the empty tote and steps out of your office. Steven nods at him as he passes him in the hall with a patient. Wendy smiles and waves from the reception desk as she updates a chart. The clinic is still alive, people needing things, finding help, and you’re running all of it. He thinks of the nursery, the late tulips Sadie might have in the greenhouse. Something nice to surprise you, no occasion but this: you survived the morning, and he got to witness it.

He heads for the door and takes a left instead of a right to head to the nursery.

—-

You fight a yawn as you make your way out of the clinic. Joel’s in his customary spot, against the post with his arms folded. You’ve lost count of how many times the sight of him there has instantly soothed you after impossibly long days like today.

“Hey baby,” he greets, hand finding the small of your back like it always does as he leads you home.

The walk home is quiet. You’re out of work later than you wanted to be, but the sight of the sun setting behind the mountains and Jackson doing what it does every evening, winding itself down around you, helps remind your tired and weary self why hard days like this matter.

Your husband leads you to your big, white home, the sight of it is always a balm on days like these. Your pair of rocking chairs on the porch move in the gentle breeze, a blanket you knitted still draped over the back of Joel’s chair for the chilly spring evenings you share outside.

Joel helps you with your jacket as you kick your boots off. Jefferson jumps off the back of the couch and pads over to you. His soft meow beckons you to bend over and give him a couple of pets before you make your way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

You pause at the doorway when you see them.

On the kitchen table in a chipped blue pitcher are tulips. Their petals half-open, red and yellow. You stare at them and grin wide.

“Nursery had a few of them left,” Joel says from behind you, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t plan it. “Figured you needed something pretty today.”

You turn, press your face into the broad, familiar warmth of his chest, and he holds you, chin against your hair.

“Thank you,” you say, muffled against his shirt.

Joel squeezes you tight against him. There’s something about the beautiful simplicity of his gift. A man buying his wife flowers, just because she had a bad day. The world ended, and yet moments like this remain.

Dinner is just what you needed, comforting, hearty, and warm. Stew and leftover biscuits eaten at the kitchen table, with the vase of tulips in the center. Joel lifts your feet into his lap, massaging them with one hand while he eats with the other.

When you’re done, you sit at the table for a while, both of Joel’s hands now tasked with massaging your tired feet. When you get up and reach for his bowl, he tells you to leave the dishes in the sink, that he’ll take care of them tomorrow.

You move to the couch, plopping onto it and sinking into the cushions. Jefferson’s instantly in your lap, lying across it, rumbling purrs as you pet him. Joel’s arm is around you, and you burrow even closer against him as Lonesome Dove plays on the TV. Gus and Call are somewhere in Texas, bickering the way they always do. You’ve both seen it enough times now to mouth the lines.

You used to fall asleep to the rustle of infected in the treeline, the sounds of FEDRA’s brutal control in the QZ, but now you fall asleep to Robert Duvall, a cat on your lap, and the steady thud of Joel’s heart against your ear.

—-

This spring has been high on the sweltering scale, the mountains do little to shield Jackson from the hot rays of the almost-summer sun during the day. Joel passes the construction yard, lifting his hand in greeting to some of his old workers who all look hot and miserable. Honestly, Joel’s a little happy you, and the rest of the family convinced him to retire last year. At first, he wasn’t sure how he’d manage with all of his newfound time, but his grandchild has certainly helped fill his days.

JJ’s hand is tiny in Joel’s, and the boy doesn’t stop yapping. “Grampa, have you ever driven a bulldozer?” Joel chuckles. “Reckon I have.” “Did it have a big scoop? Was it yellow? Could it pick up a whole tree?” JJ’s voice pitches higher with each question, his fingers tightening around Joel’s. “Yes, yes, and yes,” Joel says, remembering the old world with housing projects and cul-de-sacs—that old world that now just exists in stories for the boy who holds his hand.

JJ tugs him toward the fence, drops his hand, and bolts. Joel knows exactly where he’s headed. You’re on your knees in the dirt, tending Sarah’s garden, and the boy is shouting your name before he’s even halfway across the yard.

You turn, a big smile on your face, and goddamn, you still take his breath away. You wipe at your forehead with the back of your wrist, leaving a smudge of soil across your brow. Your eyes squint up at them both with that smile of yours… the one that still, after all these years, makes him forget whatever he was just thinking about. He doesn’t know how it keeps happening, how every single day you find some new way to make him feel like the luckiest goddamn man on earth.

JJ drops to his knees beside you, his little body pressing against yours. Your arm wraps around him in that loving, doting way you’re so natural at, and you kiss the crown of his head in greeting.

“Grampa drove tractors!” he excitedly tells you.

“I know,” you answer, glancing up at Joel with a smile. “He was a contractor, meaning he’d always drive construction vehicles and build really big buildings.”

“Contractor?” JJ asks.

Joel’s knees pop twice when he crouches down beside you two, and he lets out a short grunt at the second one. The boy’s eyes are wide and waiting, wanting to know as much as he can. “Contractor’s what they called somebody who built things. Houses, schools, sheds. Anything folks needed. You’d get a call, show up with your crew and tools, and you’d build somethin’ from nothin’. Just dirt and plans. Couple months later, there’s a whole house standing where nothin’ was before.”

JJ’s mouth hangs open. “You built a whole house?”

“Built a lot of ‘em,” Joel answers. “Everybody loved contractors.”

You chuckle and shake your head. “They sure did,” you say.

JJ reaches out, runs his hand along the blooms of lavender in Sarah’s garden.

“You want to pick some flowers for your mamas?” you ask.

JJ nods, reaching towards a bright purple flower. “Can I pick this one?” he asks.

“The aster? Of course, sweetheart,” you say.

JJ reaches for the purple bloom, but stops. A small, orange butterfly has landed in the center of it, orange and white wings fanned open. JJ goes still, and you put a gentle hand on his arm. Joel watches the butterfly and feels something inside his heart flow before he can name it. Sarah’s voice through the years echoes in his head from the first wails of her tiny lungs as a baby, to her sweet, little voice questioning everything, all the way to her smart, teenage pondering.

“It’s so pretty,” JJ whispers.

Joel’s caught in a memory from many years ago. His Sarah, around JJ’s age now, picking flowers out of the Adlers’ garden, a butterfly just like the one in front of him now, landing on a flower. Her bright, proud smile as she stayed perfectly still and watched.

You lean closer to JJ and whisper, “Don’t scare it, hun.”

The butterfly flutters its wings before it lifts off from the aster. Joel watches it leave. It’s her, but it’s not her. Just a memory of his little girl.

He wishes his Sarah could see him now. What would she think of him now?

He’s asked himself variations of it a thousand times over the years, but never while kneeling in the dirt of a garden dedicated to her with his grandson and his wife, the lavender in full bloom, the sun warm as it shines down.

He thinks about the man he was when she knew him. A father with an okay-paying job, a mortgage, a pickup truck, and a future.

He thinks of the man he became after. The one who traversed the world with a gun in his belt and blood on his hands. The man who couldn’t look at a kid without seeing his own dead daughter, who lost himself completely in that.

Until Ellie broke him open, and you saved him.

He doesn’t know what Sarah would think of the man he is now. But he thinks she’d finally see the man she knew. The man that loved her, that held her when she cried, that taught her how to ride a bike and spool a reel onto a fishing line. The man that now knows to love is to be vulnerable and honest.

Joel now knows the universe did the right thing when it let him live again. He wasn’t being punished for surviving, no, he was given a second chance to do it all over again. Every day, and every moment, he’s reminded of what you’ve given him… this beautiful life.

—-

You don’t really think about the future when you’re safe inside it like you are now. Years will pass, days will blend, and time will be marked not by disasters and survival, but by increments of joy and growth. By the changing height of JJ as he grows, the way the fence behind the house sags a little more each spring after the long winters, and by the amount of white in Joel’s hair and beard.

You and Joel will live and love and heal one another in the same quiet and unthinking ways you do now. Every morning, there is coffee and his scratchy voice, and every night, there is his palm against the small of your back as you head to bed and a goodnight kiss before he turns off the lamp.

You’ll spend the rest of your days behind the walls of Jackson, healing your neighbors and friends. You’ll come home to the large, white house with the cherry blossom tree that now has your and Joel’s initials carved in it. You’ll watch your family and friends grow older. Sarah’s garden will bloom, and the memory of her will thrive with each seed you plant for her.

JJ will start to talk in full sentences, then full-blown stories. At six, he’ll break his arm falling off the treehouse ladder, and it’ll be you who fixes him up, while Joel fusses and busies himself building a better, safer way up the tree. At seven, he’ll ask you to help him make Grampa Joel’s birthday card, complete with WORLD’S BEST GRAMPA written across the top. At eight, he’ll carve his first wooden dinosaur with Joel, and it’ll sit on the mantle next to the copy of Lonesome Dove and the picture Ellie drew of you and Joel for your first wedding anniversary present.

You and Joel will get older with each season, the rain will make your bones ache, and on some days, you’ll both stay in bed just a little longer. Sometimes the days will be hard, or exhausting, or consumed by loss—patients you can’t save, loved ones you lose, whether from something as lucky as old age or the erosion of the world outside your safe walls. But no matter what, you’ll always have the beautiful miracle of being loved by Joel Miller. All thanks to you, he will live on, happy and healed.

—-

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Thin Walls

Alex Serian x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: She's back for more. Warnings: smut, protected and unprotected p in v, slight choking, ice play, masturbation, voyeurism, jealousy?, sleeping with two different men in one night, alex in a tuxedo, scotch, weed, barely proofread because all the blood has left my brain Words: 3,100

A/N: This is going to be a thing for me. I know it is. I know this is going to turn into a whole fucking thing because I just can't say no to a dude who's fighting the way he feels about someone. Jesus Christ. I asked my enablers friends if I should post this today, and they said yes, even though I literally have the final chapter of Healed in my drafts for tomorrow. Get ready to get sick of me, folks. In my humble, dumbass opinion... I think this is the hottest thing I've written? Gif used thanks to my talented and beloved @perotovar.

Previous Masterlist

—-

You don’t even know what he looks like naked.

Two weeks have passed, enough time for the shock of that night to dull, for any shame you held to fade and turn into something unresolved between your neighbor and you. There’s also been silence after eleven. Alex doesn’t play, and Alex doesn’t fuck. No cello, no woman gasping his name. You hate yourself for noticing the new schedule and how you can’t stop thinking about him.

Until Oliver.

You meet him at your friend’s art show, he’s handsome, funny, and instantly charms you. He at least pays attention to you and even knows your name.

You’re feeling bold, maybe it’s the negronis, your lilac short skirt and crop top, or the fact that you haven’t gotten off in over two weeks. You don’t hesitate to ask Oliver if he’d like to go back to your place.

The car smells like stale lemon, and the Uber driver’s playing some sad, twangy country song you can’t stand, but Oliver’s hand is warm as it rests on your leg. He tells you about his dreams of being a professional comedian. He’s cute, but not too cute, the kind of handsome that if your friends saw him, they’d send you a nod of approval. Good enough for a quick fuck.

As the car turns on your street, Oliver’s hand now rests at the top of your thigh, and you actually feel yourself begin to ache in anticipation. You’re giggly by the time you reach your bungalow, and Oliver’s palm stays on the exposed skin of your lower back as you dig through your purse for your keys.

Your hand stops when you hear the echo of footsteps behind you. Soft and rhythmic. You look up and over, just in time to see a shadow.

Alex. In a black tuxedo, holding his cello case, all debonair and gorgeous. You haven’t seen him since that night, and now he’s here, haloed by the streetlamp. He looks at you, and the only thing that gives him away is the split-second clench of his jaw before he begins to move again.

You turn back to your keys, unlock your door, and pull Oliver inside.

A joint is split between the two of you, kissing in between, sharing smoke and tongues as you try not to think of your tuxedoed neighbor just on the other side of the wall. Oliver’s grunts and groans as your hand runs up his leg tell you he really wants you, so you lead him to your bedroom.

You let him undress you, let him take in your body and call you beautiful. It feels… nice. Fine, really. The heat of his glare is a little warming, but it pales in comparison to the way Alex looked at you from the first time you knocked on his door.

You lie back on your bed, open your legs, and Oliver runs his fingers through your folds, definitely slimmer and clumsier than Alex’s thick, efficient hands. He’s hopeless at finding your clit, but you ooh and ahh him, hoping his cock will be a good enough lay to help you get off.

Oliver eagerly and clumsily undresses. You reach into your drawer and fetch a condom. Oliver rolls it on, and when he guides his dick in, it’s definitely slimmer than you wanted. He grins, like he’s been blessed by your pussy, and gently asks you, “Is this okay?”

You moan a yes for him, and he begins to move. Slow and savoring, not quick, passionate, desperate like the way Alex fucked you. Honestly, it’s so milquetoast and forgettable, your mind wanders off. No matter how much you want to be present, want to be here in your bedroom under cute Oliver, your thoughts are on Alex. He’s probably still in that tux, maybe he’s undone his bow tie, popped open the first few buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

It’s then that you hear the soft, muffled whine of cello through the thin drywall. The notes rise and fall on the other side of the wall. You close your eyes and open your thighs wider, as if you can let the notes slip in, past Oliver and fuck you. You moan, way louder than usual. Oliver believes your moan, and fucks you faster, desperate to be the one who’s making those noises escape you. But it’s not him. Of course it’s not. It’s Alex’s, keeping a tempo that makes each note drag you closer and closer to the edge of bliss.

Your moans duet with the music, and though your body lies in your bed, your mind and heart might as well have drifted past the thin drywall and into Alex’s home. It’s not the way Oliver moves in and out of you, or the sound of his slight whimpers and groans, but the faint music played by your handsome neighbor that nears your orgasm. You’re close, your eyes clenching shut, only picturing the ethereal glimpse of Alex you saw earlier. The memory of how full he made you, the rasp of his grunts, the warmth of his cum as it splashed across your skin. Alex, Alex, Alex.

Oliver feels you getting close, tries to seal his mouth over yours, but you tilt your head and move. Moaning loudly into the air as you orgasm.

The cello stops as soon as you let out the first, long moan.

Oliver finishes inside you, with a long gasp of your name, then rolls away. You get up, clean yourself, and tell him there’s a trash can by your dresser, almost feeling bad about how clinical you make it, but you just want your guest gone now. You’re already resigning yourself to the fact that nobody’s going to beat your hot neighbor.

When you return, now covered in the silk of your robe, he’s at the edge of your bed, still naked. Before your new neighbor, you probably would’ve invited him to stay the night, let him hold you all night, then wake up and get breakfast. Maybe you’d see how it all plays out and date him for a while. But that’s just not going to work now.

You smile, touch his arm, and say, “This was really fun.” His grin is full of pride, and he looks at you like he’s almost in awe of you. “So, I’ve got such an early morning tomorrow,” you say.

You see a hint of disappointment before he smiles at you. “I totally get it. You’re busy. I’m busy.”

He gets dressed quickly, like a good one-night stand.

Maybe you’ll text him; maybe you won’t. Either way, when you walk him toward the door, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him for coming. The door clicks shut, and there’s a moment of quiet.

Until your siren song starts to play again.

The cello.

It summons you.

You open your door, cross the small strip of grass, barefoot and only in your robe, hair still mussed and sex still on your skin. There’s barely enough time for you to ask yourself what the fuck you’re doing here before you knock on the dark wood with 2B in gold letters. It’s like he was expecting you, it takes Alex no time to answer the door.

You were right. He’s still in his tux… and the top buttons are undone. That cocky grin is there again, but there’s a hint of ferality and maybe… possessiveness as his deep brown eyes assess your barely clothed body.

“Play for me?” you ask.

He nods and lets you in.

You float to the couch on the waves of lust and need, skin burning hot as you feel him watch you. The couch dips, the buttery leather forming around your heated skin when you settle atop it. Alex picks up his drink from the table, a scotch on the rocks, big clear ice cubes tinking against the glass when he takes a drink.

He sits in his chair across the room from you, pulling the cello into his hold. He almost looks out of place, bare feet planting against the oak floor, tuxedo pants riding high. He’s the confusing mix of cocksure and casual as he plays the first note.

It’s lush, full of longing, and you bite your lip because he’s not looking at the cello. He’s looking at you.

You can’t even pretend you’re here for the music, and Alex knows that. You untie your robe, silk parting to reveal your collarbone, your breasts, and the way your thighs are already pressed together. He watches intently, playing his instrument flawlessly. So you keep going, letting your robe fall to the couch, spreading your legs to let him get a good look at you.

The cello keeps time with you, your fingers dragging over your soft mound, through your folds, brushing against your clit. You move with the music, let it overtake you as your hips grind against your palm and you dip your finger lower. Every whimper you breathe is for him to play against, and for his greedy, predatory gaze.

God, you’re so fucking wet, leftover from your orgasm from just fifteen minutes ago and the searing heat of your neighbor’s attention. You slide two fingers into your cunt, flutter them inside, and drag them along the gushy walls in time to the tremolo of his bow. The music pulls you, spreads your legs wide, cants your hips in the air as the cello player soundtracks your desire.

He plays fast now, the loose curl on his forehead springs up and down as his eyes stay planted between your legs. Every note is perfect, but you can see the way you’re affecting him… the unsteady breaths he’s breathing, the tremorous rise and fall of his chest. You’re so fucking close, one hand petting yourself, middle finger circling your clit, the other hand, two fingers deep in your pussy. You start to chase and chase, your orgasm floating with the notes just above your reach. You’re a trembling, wet, and loud mess, stretched out on your new neighbor’s couch.

It’s obscene how bad you want this, how bad you want to put on this show for him. You’re panting, lungs singing “close, close, close” when Alex stops the song suddenly, and you freeze, holding yourself right on the brink.

“Don’t stop,” he growls.

You listen, but go slower now, and rebuild your bliss. He stands, cello set aside, and takes his scotch with him. His bare feet move across the room to you, lowball glass hanging from one hand. He comes to the couch, looms over you, and you have to tilt your head back to look all the way up at him, all domineering in the low, golden light. He watches, sipping, as casual as ever in his only slightly off-kilter tuxedo.

You whimper, and he catches your jaw, tilts your face towards him. He presses the glass to your lips, and you taste the smoke and warmth when he pours it into your mouth. You swallow every drop, even if it burns, because the afterglow is so smooth.

He takes one last gulp, taking an ice cube into his mouth. He spits it into his palm, then traces it over your burning skin, a delicious shock of cold against it. The trail of wet and cold runs down your chest, circling each nipple until droplets fall down your breasts. A cold path is left down your ribcage, down your belly, past your mound until he runs the melting edge between your spread lips and right over your clit.

You gasp and laugh and moan all at once, breath catching when you see the wild devotion in his eyes. The ice falls to the floor, and Alex parts your knees wider, fitting his thumb against your clit. You’re nothing but heavy breaths, ache, and want. You feel like you’re going to melt just like the discarded chunk of ice when he brings his face low, flicking his tongue over your nipple, teeth scraping against it. You try to speak, try to tell him you’re close, but you’re so fucking powerless, especially when his long, thick finger joins yours. You almost sob, a perplexing gratitude for the pressure of his hand guiding your own further. He presses the tip of your chin with his other hand and makes you look at him, as if he wants your eyes wide open for this, wants you to remember just how fucking humiliatingly desperate you are for him.

“Go on and take it,” he gruffs in that frustratingly still velvety smooth voice.

You do, bucking into his hand, soaking his palm as the pressure builds and sends sparks up your spine. Your whole body seizes up in one long, almost-endless orgasm. He doesn’t even let you recover before he pulls your fingers out and raises your hand to his lips, tasting you, licking the sweet, sticky webs of your soaked desire off your fingers.

You reach for him, finding the outline of his cock, thick and hard through the expensive black pants. You slide your palm along the impressive length, squeezing him, savoring the way he grunts into the air.

He’s already ragged and wrecked sounding when he tells you, “Take it out, if you want it.” Your clumsy hands are at his belt, fumbling and trembling so hard you nearly snap the black, pearl button off. He stands, towering over you, yanking his pants open, and pulls his cock out. Jesus Christ, he’s gorgeous, all golden brown and huge, a fat vein latticed down the shaft, leaking crown so fat your pussy clenches at the promise of being stretched again by it. His hand wraps around his base, stroking it once, you fight your eyes from rolling into the back of your head at the sight of the drop of precum that he squeezes out.

“Fuck me,” you beg. “Fuck me.” You’re a broken record of need and desperation, wanting to be played by this beautiful, broad man and his big cock.

He hmphs, cockily getting off at the way you plead for his dick. You’re shoved back against the couch, and Alex splits your legs open, lining himself up with a hand on each of your knees. He presses his cock against your soaked, dripping core, running the thick head of it against your swollen clit. You’re so restless, yearning for the stretch and ache of him that you’re keening, almost crying out prayers of his name as he teases your cunt with his cock. And then, when his cock finally bestows heaven into your needy hole as he enters you in one thrust, filling your glossy pussy, you scream. He holds you there, splitting you open as he’s buried in you to the hilt. You’re locked at cliff, just breathing hard, as if savoring the impossibility of feeling this way again. You hook your ankles behind his waist, and he begins to move, slow at first, then faster, fucking you with the same furious, controlled tempo as he played the cello.

You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more alive, vibrating like a string as he plays you, every nerve screaming loud. His pace is brutal, his balls slapping against your ass as he curls you even more into him, his weight pressing against you. A curl falls onto his sweaty brow, and it springs just like before, up and down, up and down, keeping tempo with the way Alex slams himself in and out of you. He grabs your head with both hands, his fingers tight at the nape of your neck. His eyes are locked to yours, pinning you down, narrowing your world down to just him. There’s something in the way he’s cradling your head, rough and careful at the same time, that makes you burn even hotter for him. There’s an almost exposed tenderness in his eyes as he holds you and grips you, giving you no choice but to meet his black-coffee gaze.

You can barely breathe. But why would you ever need to? Not when you want this man to inhale you, consume you, and destroy you.

“You let that boy fuck you earlier?” he growls.

“Y-yes,” you shudder.

He slips his cock out and freezes, heavy breaths puffing against your face.

“You like it?” he asks, eyebrow arching slightly.

“N-no.”

It’s borderline uncomfortable the way your pussy is aching for him as he teases you with the heft of his tip against your eager hole.

He hmphs, trusty cocky grin showing up again. “He get to cum inside you?”

“N-no. C-condom.”

“Can I cum inside you?”

You nod, eagerly. “I have an implant.”

That’s what Alex wants to hear. He slams into you so hard it almost hurts, but fuck, the pain is exquisite, it’s exactly what you needed. Tears are leaking from your eyes as Alex owns your pussy. He reaches around, splays his hand across your throat. The grip isn’t tight, but just enough to make you utterly surrender to him.

You orgasm again, not because he tells you to, but because you can’t not. Every part of you twists and detonates, your pussy clenching and spasming around him. The sight and feel of you shattering makes Alex join your euphoria. He thrusts once, twice, then lurches and his cock erupts inside you. You swear you can feel every pulse and drop of him paint your walls. He stills, tremors wracking his arms as he balances above you, then nuzzles his face into your neck, sucking greedy mouthfuls of your skin.

Time stops. You unwrap your still-shaking legs from around Alex, as he settles over you, his weight pressing you deeper into the soft cushions. You don’t know how long you stay like that, both gasping, stunned by the hedonistic display shared between the two of you. He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you try to ignore the way it makes your heart race. He stands, tucks his cock away, and excuses himself, blinking a look of awe away before he turns.

You’re already back in your robe when he comes back out, holding a dark gray towel. He offers it to you, eyes moving down to your exposed, sticky thighs, but you wave it off and tell him you’ll just shower at home.

There’s a slight tilt of his head, as if nobody ever tells him no, or maybe it’s just an awkward bobbling of a nod. Either way, you tighten your robe and head for the door. “See you around, Alex.”

“Wait.”

You turn, and almost get mad at how frustratingly gorgeous he is standing in the middle of his living room with his sex tousled hair and furrowed eyebrows.

“I have a question for you," he says.

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

—-

A/N: Fuck my life, there will probably be more.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Healed, Chapter 35

The final chapter of Healed will be posted next Saturday, July 25.

This has been a 200,000 word, 35 chapter love letter to a character I've been in love with since 2013, and what a journey it's been. If you're still here with me on the Healed train after 15 months, or you got off at a stop, missed the train a couple times, or meant to buy a ticket... know that I appreciate you and all of the love you've given Joel and Doc.

See you next Saturday.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

After Eleven

Alex Serian x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)  Summary: Your neighbor plays his cello way too fucking late, and all you want to do is get off and get to sleep... Warnings: smut, masturbation, cello lessons, grey sweatpants, hot neighbor, voyeurism due to thin walls, bach, i have zero clue about this character but i want to fuck him, riding, unprotected p in v, finger fucking and sucking, like he HAS to be good with his hands right?!, written in a fevered few hours, i feel like that jon hamm gif Words: 3,000

A/N: Did I fuck off and ignore work for a few hours to write this? Yes. Am I going to have to pay for it by working tonight? Yes. Is it worth it? I don't know man, I'm horny af for this new character. Siri, play "Fresh Out The Slammer" because I feel rejuvenated in my delusional porn writing. Gif made by me because I'm that fucking insane.

Masterlist

—-

The notes mock you, mock the catch of your breath, the beat of your heart, the way your fingers move across your clit, pressing and swirling. You’re so close, and yet so far. Your trusty vibrator, rose, and grinder sit discarded on your quilt. The mournful music filtering in through the thin bungalow walls and windows is not helping. So close. So far. Your orgasm drowns again.

You slap your hand down against your stomach, killing the last vestige of your mood and roll off the bed. You just wanted ONE singular orgasm, something to take the edge off. But no, there’s a sad cello playing some sort of depressing, somber thing that just leaves you even more frustrated.

You check your phone and grumble. 11:39. Who fucking needs Vivaldi or Bach this loud after eleven?

Your new neighbor, apparently.

You don’t even bother to close your robe when you stomp out into the damp night. Your bare feet squelch in the wet grass, and you don’t care. The music gets louder when you get to your neighbor’s door. It’s nice? You guess. You don’t even know anymore.

You pound on his door. Three rasps. You give your neighbor time. Nothing. So you pound again. Until the music stops. Footsteps get closer, floorboards creak.

The door opens, just like your jaw drops. Dark hair slicks back from a face that the gods might as well have sculpted. Sharp cheekbones, strong nose, plush lips, big brown eyes. He’s in a black tank top, ridiculously broad shoulders escaping the flimsy fabric. His gray sweatpants hang loose on his hips. His whole look suggests either a strategic carelessness or a total lack of giving a shit. It might be due to how fucking horny you are, but your new neighbor could be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

His dark eyes size and assess you. Your robe. The flimsy, light pink tank top sticking to your skin, the short, barely there sleep shorts with tiny, green polka dots. Your hair’s probably a mess, your skin still damp with a sweat of frustration. He looks almost amused at the sight of you, but his eyes linger a little longer than propriety should suggest at your thighs.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Deep, kinda dark, like a freshly poured cup of your favorite coffee.

“It’s la—” your voice squeaks. You clear your throat, square your shoulders. “It’s late. Your music. It’s… loud. Some of us have to, you know. Sleep.”

He leans on the doorframe, folds his arms, and your eyes square in on the way his biceps bulge, the line of his forearms. “Sleep,” he says.

“Yes. That’s right. It’s past 11.”

“Didn’t think it was that loud.”

“Could you turn it down at least?”

A thick eyebrow arches up. “Guess these walls are paper-thin. I suppose I could use a different bow.”

There’s no shame in his voice, no apology, and it just irks you more. You wobble a bit in the way he looks at you, half wanton desire, half boredom.

“I’d… appreciate that.”

“Mm,” he says, and his lip quirks up in a maddeningly handsome smirk… like he knows he’s gorgeous and getting under your skin. “You best get back to… sleep,” he says.

You nod, because you have no other fucking clue how to respond under his heated, cocky gaze and the revelation that the music was being played by him and not a too-loud stereo.

The silk of your robe swishes across your hot skin as you make your way across the grass to your bungalow. You’re sure your neighbor’s watching you the whole way and you don’t dare look back.

He keeps his word, you can barely hear the music when you lie back down in bed. Fuck him for being beautiful. Your whole body is still reverberating from the baritone rasp of his voice. You press a pillow over your face and scream an annoyed sound into it, as the heat of his gaze still blooms across your body.

At least now all you can hear is nothing but the sound of your breathing, picking up when the heel of your hand slinks its way back between your thighs. Jesus Christ, you’re even wetter now. You’re leaking a frustrating hunger, the image of your neighbor’s big shoulders and golden skin playing in your mind. You imagine his biceps pinning you down and his thick fingers hooking against your waist as he pounds into you.

“Fuck,” you whisper, picturing his wide palm against your mouth. You wonder what he sounds like when he cums, is it as sad and tragic sounding as the music he plays?

God, it’s so easy now. Your body’s arching up, desperate to feel how soft his tank-topped chest is when it’s shoved against your chest. You can almost feel him, the weight of him atop you, his dark eyes searing into you as you edge yourself closer and closer. You’re pressing needy circles against your clit, your thighs tensing and toes curling. “Fuck, fuck,” you moan out, too loud for your own good and the silence of your own bungalow. Your hips are moving against your hand harder, faster, and when you think of that damned smirk of his and the way he’d watch you shatter apart for him, you orgasm, hard and hot and loud. “Oh fuck, godddd,” you moan. You don’t even care. You want him to hear it. Maybe he will, with the thin walls. Maybe he won’t, because he’s too busy playing that damned music. Maybe he heard a hint, and now he’s sat, frozen in his chair, bow in one hand, listening to your own symphony between the walls.

—-

Two nights of silence, and then you hear it… a loud cat-like moan around 11 PM. Followed by another high-pitched mew. “Aleeeeex,” the shrill sounds. “Oh god, Alex.”

So, your hot neighbor’s name is Alex.

A rhythmic thumping starts up against your wall, fast, brutal, not sweet. You can’t help yourself as you move towards the wall, listening in for any type of low grunt or groan, but there’s nothing… just a repetitive smack of wood against drywall and the squealing of a woman.

You roll over, turn on your speaker, and pick up your phone. You know the perfect song. You scroll to the B’s in your music, find Cello Suite no. 2 by Bach, and let the sad, melancholy play… loud.

The pace just behind the shared wall picks up, and the wails of the woman speed up, along with the tapping against the wall. Now it’s your time to smirk, take that, Alex, and whoever he’s decided to fuck.

And when the roaring sadness of the music slows and quiets at a point… you hear it. A long, low groan timed perfectly to the song, almost like he was waiting for it.

You feel the angry roar of want in your body at the sound of him and let the song fade out as you reach into your drawer and pull out your vibrator.

—-

The next night, the cello is back, at 11 on the dot. Louder. Like it’s back to mock you. You shake your head and smile, willing it not to bother you as you turn in bed and put a pillow over your ear, but even through the muffled down, you recognize the song. It’s Cello Suite no. 2, just like you played him last night.

Damn, he’s talented. You have to give him that.

By 11:30, he hasn’t stopped, and the cello almost plays like a siren song to you and your sleepy, horny frustrations. You step out into the night air, and you swear the cool air hisses against your heated skin. No robe this time, just you and your light blue silky, short nightdress, complete with the lace trim across your breasts.

You punch at his door again, then stand back, arms crossed. You’re sure your nipples are pressing against the thin fabric, and you don’t care.

He answers almost instantly, and good lord, he’s only in a pair of boxers and a loose, button-up shirt.

“You’re playing on purpose now, aren’t you?” you ask him, no greeting, just attitude.

“I need to practice. Figured you’d like to hear it.”

You snort. “So why that song?”

His hand rests against the doorframe and he looms over you. “Thought I’d return the favor of last night.” You roll your eyes and huff. “Thanks.”

He turns his head back to his living room, then back at you, deep brown eyes searing into you. “Come in. I’ll play you something else.”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not like you were going to sleep anyway.”

You don’t say anything, you just walk past him into his place. It’s neat, in order, vintage furniture with modern touches. His bow is discarded on the floor, the cello leaning against the wall.

He lifts his hand, guides you to his couch, a soft, buttery leather that dips when you settle on it, mindful of just how short your nightdress is. He bends to pick up the bow, and your throat goes dry as you stare at his ass. You blink yourself back to reality as he takes a seat and places his cello between his legs. God, his legs, strong and dusted with hair, he looks to be golden all over.

He begins playing. Something you don’t recognize, but it’s smooth and sultry. Your heart and body answer, heating and beating with each note of music that flows from the instrument.

Alex doesn’t look up, he’s transfixed by the music he plays, and you’re just as spellbound. You’re sure you’re breathing hard, sure your pulse is thrumming along to the song. You don’t know how long you sit like that, mesmerized by the music and the man. If this is how he looks as he plays, then you’ll surely sacrifice the nights of sleep, just to let this beauty out into the world.

His head tips back, neck straining as his head lulls back and forth, caught in the notes, and when he looks at you, dark brown eyes meeting yours, you know he can see the way your chest is rising and falling, the heat of your stare. He gifts you one of those damned smirks, but this time it’s different. It’s heated and full of desire. He watches you watch him, and you can’t look away. Every note he plays flows through you, from your ears to between your thighs.

Alex’s arm slows, the bow stopping, and the last warble of the strings escapes the cello. He sets the cello against the wall with reverence, his loose shirt gapes open as he turns, exposing golden chest and a dark line of hair. You try to adjust how you’re sitting, the leather couch sticking to you with the heat of your thighs.

His eyes roam over you, from your bare legs up to your chest, up, up, finally meeting your eyes again. He licks his lips, pink tongue against his plush bottom lip. He smiles, hot, knowing, painfully cocky. “Did you like it?” he asks.

You answer with a bobble of your head. Any type of words would just fail to be husked out of your dry throat. Goodness, you want him. You want him a way that’s almost embarrassing in the desperate, feral way you do.

"You want to try to play?" he asks.

You’re silent again, just another nod sent to him.

He pats his thighs, beckons you over, and you rise and pad towards him, going to exactly where he wants you. He parts his legs, and you straddle his lap, your back meeting his chest. You’re painfully aware of the silk of your dress clinging to the arch of your ass, the way your thighs bracket his, his skin meeting your skin. You move, hoping he can’t feel how wet you are for him, but you hear the small grunt, and you know he absolutely can.

He picks up the cello and sets it between both of you, the smooth wood is cool against your thigh. He wraps his arms around your waist, enveloping you in his strong arms, his chest flexing against your back.

You’re glitching, absolutely dumbstruck by how gentle and low his voice is as he places your fingers over the strings. “Here,” he whispers, guiding your hand to the cello’s neck. “Thumb here. Not too tight.” His hands are big and hot. His breath fans across your ear, and it makes you shiver.

“Now, try,” he says, handing you the bow. You attempt to make a song, but you’re so heady off the closeness of him that you’re too clumsy to do anything right. The bow draws across the strings, and it’s… like a car crash of a note, but he tightens his arms and chuckles low against your ear.

“Again,” he whispers, and you try. This time, the note is softer, a pleasant hum leaves the cello. “Good,” he says, lips grazing against your earlobe. He rewards you by letting his hand skim against your thigh.

There’s a shared hunger, an almost understanding, guided by the music and want that’s drifted between the walls. You melt and tense at the same time, and you feel the press of his cock against you when you tilt back and press yourself into him.

He slides his hand up, rucking up the hem of your dress. “You still want to play?”

You’re dizzy, barely holding onto the bow. “No.”

“Then set the bow down.”

You obey, letting it clatter to the floor. He takes the cello from between your legs and sets it aside while keeping you still locked against him, hand splayed against your belly. “Spread your legs,” Alex tells you.

You instantly spread, letting him slip his palm between you and trace your soaked pussy through the wispy layer of your lace panties. You almost lose it right there, hips jerking at the thick, callused fingers of his exploring the drenched line of your cunt.

He lets out a low, incredulous growl as he touches you, pressing his mouth to your neck, sucking at the skin. “Feel good?” he rumbles. “Yeah?”

“Fuccck,” you manage.

He smiles into your neck, slides his fingers into your panties, parts you, thick, middle finger slowly exploring before plunging deep into you. You moan, noisy and erupting, louder than any song he can play.

He fucks you with his hand, two fingers, thick and skilled, shallow then deep, giving you a pattern you’ll never guess. His thumb rubs circles on your clit, making you stupid with just how good he is at this. You’re sweating now, shaking, under the control of Alex’s possessive hands against your body.

He’s rutting and hard against you, whispering “that’s it, that’s it,” over and over as his fingers play you like an instrument he’s mastered.

You cum for him, so hard you shudder and squeeze. Head knocking back against his broad chest. He growls, licks up the sweat of you, holding you tighter as you ride and writhe against his fingers.

He pulls his fingers out, yanks your panties to the side, and frees his cock from the thin cotton of his boxers. You don’t know if you’ve ever wanted someone so bad before and when he brushes the fat tip of him against your accepting hole, you gasp at the promise of his size.

It’s one monstrous, behemoth of a thrust that makes your eyes flutter shut and all the air escape you. He fucks up into you hard, and you grab at his big hands, holding on as the old wooden chair frame creaks. He’s so fucking thick, overwhelming and rough, but Christ, the way your slippery cunt swallows him, it’s like he was fit for you. You ride him, back rubbing against his chest as he pumps in and out of you, the noise of your slick and his grunts crescendoing in the sex-heavy air.

He grabs your hips, planting both feet on the floor, and starts railing up into you so deep you let out a sob of his name. He’s rewarding and withholding at the same time, sliding all the way out, holding you above himself, letting you beg for him, until he plants all of himself into you. He slinks a hand up your body, thumb stroking your cheek before he sticks two of his fingers into your mouth.

You taste the sweet tang of your orgasm, tongue licking at the rough and ridges of his fingers. You suck, and he groans, bucking so hard the chair actually scoots back across the floor.

He must want to see you desperate and dumb, his other hand finding your moving between your legs, playing with you there. It only takes a couple strokes of his fingers against your puffy, needy clit for him to orchestrate your orgasm out of you. It’s shocking how fucking hard you cum for him, how white your vision goes, how the pulse of your body pulses a cacophony of beats. Alex fucks straight through your orgasm, cock spearing you as you whimper around his fingers and drip around his cock. But, he’s losing it now, panting into the crook of your neck, hips snapping so loud against you.

He pulls out, and you feel the slide of his cock head against your clit when he cums, thick, white ropes painting against your panties, your belly, the silk of your dress. You’re still floating high like the music notes he plays, a trembling mess in his arms when you lean your head back and can’t help but laugh. Alex chuckles, too. Both of you are sticky and soaked, pressed together, glazed in shared sweat and cum.

The cello sits unused, the bow on the floor. Alex’s forehead rests against your shoulder as he comes down. You think he’s going to say something smart and frustrating, but he just kisses your shoulder blade and tightens his arms around you.

So much for hating your new neighbor.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Goldenrod Lane Masterlist

Joel Miller x Single Mom Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: The little blue house on Goldenrod Lane is a fresh start for you and your son Layne. The handsome single dad across the street just happens to start showing up, fixing all the broken things in your life, and maybe even your heart. Warnings: no outbreak au, takes place in the early 2000's, alternating pov, eventual smut, ten year age gap (joel is 36, reader is 26), pining, yearning, joel's dad sarah, indie music, 90's grunge, toddler named after layne staley, new beginnings Chapters will have individual warnings.

Masterlist | Series Playlist

Chapter 1 - Coming August 1

—-

Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on updates to be alerted when a new chapter drops!

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 34: Everything

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: You close your eyes, tip your face up towards the setting sun of the last day of your honeymoon. It’s like you’re already imagining all of the quiet evenings you’ll spend out here. Maybe you’ll knit. Maybe you’ll read. Or maybe you’ll just sit and rock the night away, listening to the wind and community that you heal every day. Joel will be right there with you, his hand in yours, as the comfortable silence brings you peace. This might just be Joel’s favorite gift ever. Chapter Warnings: two people madly in love and being domestic, boggle, ellie and joel getting their happily ever afters, idk just cozy all over, smut, p in v, joel eating pussy because your girl is stressed Words: 4,500

A/N: One chapter left?! Hello?! My thanks to @mothandpidgeon and @sin-djarin for reading and dealing with me. Also, icymi, please look at the gorgeous art @valevntine created of Doc and Joel living their peaceful, happy life in Jackson. Thank you, as always, for reading and being so patient as I take my time on these final chapters.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

The walls of Jackson come into view, worn wood and dulled iron, and Joel feels so different as he rides through the same gates he’s passed through hundreds of times, because it’s never been like this… never with you seated behind him, arms around his waist, your wedding ring pressing against his stomach through his shirt. Never with the sweet and sun-drenched memories of the honeymoon still fresh in his mind.

Jackson has never felt more like home.

The guard nods, calls out a welcome, and says something about newlyweds as you both ride through the gates. Jackson opens before him… the roads, the buildings, the side streets, the sound of children playing—a life he’d thought was gone for good.

The gate reminds him of another return, another homecoming. Walking down the mountain after Salt Lake, blood stiff on his shirt, Ellie’s soft ‘okay’ radiating through his head as the lie took root. He’d carried that lie through these same gates, let it settle into the bones of his life here. That was the kind of homecoming where the ghost haunting you walks right beside you. But this is nothing like that, not when his second chance at life is sitting behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist.

Tommy’s waiting by the stables, leaning against the fence with that half-shit-eating grin that says he’s been planning something. He straightens when he sees you, waves a hand up, and shouts a “Welcome home!”

The sun is just beginning to set as you walk home through Jackson. People wave and nod, calling out congratulations as you go down the street. A woman from the mess hall shouts something about what a beautiful couple you make, and Joel nods, his hand on the small of your back. You reach back and squeeze his hand. Being seen with you, knowing others know about the love you share, will always be something he’s grateful for.

He still expects, sometimes, that this all can’t be real, that this is all a mirage of happiness and love, and he had truly paid the price. But you are real and at his side.

Joel’s lips twitch in a slight smile when he sees his house for the first time in a week, and he takes in all the signs of his life rebuilt: the Mr. & Mrs. Miller banner still hung across the garage, Sarah’s garden blooming bright and violet, and the surprise he spots before you do. 

There’s a second rocking chair on the porch. It sits beside his, a bit slimmer and taller than his, but the same dark, worn wood with the same gentle, comfortable curve to the arms—a perfect match in apocalypse terms.

“Oh my god!” you gasp, stopping in your tracks.

“Surprise,” Tommy says.

You beam all delighted and gorgeous at Joel. He grins in return before you bound quickly up to the porch, dropping into the rocking chair, hands running along the smooth wooden arms, and when you look up at Joel, your smile is so wide it’s almost like you were always meant to wind up right here in this chair on this porch.

Tommy claps Joel on the shoulder. “Maria’s idea. Figured she needed an actual chair out here.”

Joel nods, once in answer, and Tommy nods back. They’ve never needed more than that.

You close your eyes, tip your face up towards the setting sun of the last day of your honeymoon. It’s like you’re already imagining all of the quiet evenings you’ll spend out here. Maybe you’ll knit. Maybe you’ll read. Or maybe you’ll just sit and rock the night away, listening to the wind and community that you heal every day. Joel will be right there with you, his hand in yours, as the comfortable silence brings you peace. This might just be Joel’s favorite gift ever.

“Thank you,” Joel says, and Tommy’s smile says he understands everything those two words contain.

Tommy leaves you two with a last “welcome home,” and Joel settles next to you in his own chair, the wood creaking in unison with yours.

He thinks of those first times you joined him on the porch, you wheeling him out into the cool night air. The scent of pine and your sweet vanilla smell filling his lungs, a second chance he could breathe in. Even then, he thinks, he had loved you.

Eventually, you turn to him. “I want to see Jefferson,” you say.

When Joel steps inside his home, he takes the cluttered coziness in. The jackets on the hooks, wedding gifts still sitting atop the dining room table, a knitted mouse on Jefferson’s cat tree, the wooden animals he’s carved on the mantle, and the sage drying in the kitchen window. His house. Your house.

You don’t even get to call out for Jefferson, a meow bursts down the hall, the black and white streak comes tearing around the corner from the kitchen. He circles your ankle with an accusing meow, and you scoop him up. The cat rattles in your arms, purring so loud that Joel can hear it all the way from the doorway.

You bury your face in his soft fur. “Missed you too, buddy.”

Joel crosses the room and rubs a thumb along Jefferson’s chin. The cat leans in, green eyes half-closed in bliss.

You look up at him, Jefferson held in your arms, and your face bright with happiness and love. “We’re home.”

Joel nods. “We’re home.”

After all the losses, the narrow misses, the nights spent alone wondering if he’d ever feel anything but hollow again. And now this, a second rocking chair on the porch. A cat purring in your arms. Your eyes on his. Everything he’s ever wanted.

It’s good to be home.

—-

The clinic door is heavier than you remember. Your first day back. Your first day as clinic head. The title feels too big, too important, but you reassure yourself that Dr. V and the rest of Jackson believe in you. 

Patient after patient makes the morning go so quickly that you barely have a chance to feel overwhelmed. You check pulses, you listen to lungs, you make notes in your journal. Every person sends you congratulations, whether it’s for your new title or your new husband. By eleven, the rhythm is coming back. Your hands still know what to do even when it seems like your brain is still honeymooning.

When you take your lunch break, Joel’s already in your office, tote bag in hand, adjusting the small Jefferson carving he made, setting it just right under the lamp on the desk.

You walk into his arms, humming happily at the warmth of your husband. “My doctor. I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, low adoring voice meant just for you. “Really am, baby.”

You laugh a shaky sound. “I’m a little nervous,” you admit.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye. “Don’t be,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

You believe him, because he says it like it’s a fact everyone knows, like the sky is blue and water is wet, and you are amazing.

Joel pulls out two sandwiches, and you have your own private lunch date in your office. He tells you about all the construction updates from when you two were gone, and you tell him how the clinic fared without you.

When your short lunch time is over, he hugs you tight and kisses you so softly you almost forget that you have a whole afternoon left to get through. “See you at home,” he whispers against your lips before he leaves.

The day speeds through after that. More patients, more congratulations, more notes scribbled. And when the clock ticks to five, and you slip off the white coat, you’ve survived your first day as clinic head.

You walk home, messenger bag slung over your shoulder, and a wide smile on your lips that you don’t even try to hide. Because here is the thing, the thing that still feels impossible: you are leaving your clinic, and you are going home to your husband in your house. It’s something that used to be so ordinary, but now, it’s a miracle.

Your house is quiet when you open the door. No music, no guitar, no sound of Joel in the kitchen. Just the soft tick of the clock on the mantel.

“Joel?” you call, hanging your bag on the hook by the door.

“Up here!” he shouts from upstairs.

You follow his voice and find him standing in the doorway of what used to be your bedroom. He steps aside without a word and reveals that your old bed is gone and the room has completely changed. The desk has been moved to the middle of the room, with a chair pulled up to it. There’s a bookshelf in the corner, already filled with your few medical books and journals, their spines aligned by size that only Joel would have taken the time to organize. Under the window, there’s a small table holding a few of your potted herbs with a few empty pots for more.

“Wow,” you breathe and then repeat when you fully step into the room. Your own office.

Small tears begin to shed from your eyes when you turn and launch yourself at Joel. You hug him, pressing your face into his chest, and his arms band around you, squeezing you tight.

“Like it?” he asks.

You pull back, and the grin. “So much.”

“Wanted you to have a place to work,” he says. “Know you’re gonna be busier.”

“Thank you,” you choke.

He kisses your forehead. “You’re welcome, baby.”

You stand in your new office with your husband’s arms around you. This is what it means to be known. To be seen. To have someone look at everything in your life and build you your own space to help contain it.

You’ll spend hours at this desk. You’ll search your journals, write your notes, research, worry about patients, figure out treatments, and deal with the thousand small failures that come with trying to heal people in a world like this.

But for now, you’ll just stand here, held by your husband, in the quiet golden light of the evening and let yourself be grateful for this moment, this room, this man, and everything he’s given you.

—-

Joel can hear the pen working against the paper when he stands outside your office, with a cup of tea in his hand. You’ve been in there since dinner, three hours at least.

He knocks softly at the doorjamb, two taps of his knuckles, and you look up. The tiny smile you gift him leaves him briefly unable to remember what he came here for. You’re so beautiful.

Three books are lying open on the desk, pages marked with scraps of paper and your journal is a sprawl of handwriting. You’ve been busy.

“Figured you’d like a cup,” he says, setting the mug beside your elbow.

“Thanks, baby,” you say.

He hears the frayed edge in your voice and asks, “How’s it going?”

He moves behind your chair and places his hands on your shoulders, and as expected, you’re tight and tense. He rubs, working his fingers into your knots, and you answer his massage with a groan of relief.

Your pen taps against the journal. “I’ve narrowed it down. Is it GERD? Peptic ulcers? God, what if it’s her gallbladder?” You sigh. “It’s just… some of the best treatments aren’t available to us.”

Joel nods like he understands, though he has zero clue what you’re saying. But he understands the frustration in your voice, the way your shoulders are already tensing again under his hands. He works his thumbs deeper, feels a knot give way, and you moan a sound that makes that familiar heat pool low in his belly.

“I know you’re doin’ your best,” he says. “And everyone knows that.”

Your head bows, shoulders slumping, and drop your pen. “The text is beginning to swim,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

He spins your chair around. His bad knee protests with a familiar ache as he crouches, bracing his hands on the arms of the chair to crowd into your space. “Then, let me take you to bed,” he says, “and you can get up early tomorrow if you want.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” You’re up in a split second, clicking the lamp off. Joel takes your hand and pulls you down the hallway.

He lays you down on the bed gently. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been thinking about this since the moment you disappeared into your office tonight… especially when you’re only clad in a pair of flimsy pajama shorts and one of his old tees. Joel crawls across the mattress, propping himself over you. He could stare at you for hours, take in all of your beauty, and memorize every tiny, gorgeous detail of you. His wife, his future, his happiness, already melting for him, body rolling under his.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down, palm dragging up the length of your leg. He pushes your shirt up, baring your tits, and he leaves open-mouth kisses down your chest, your stomach, running his tongue in hollows as he makes his way down your body. He cradles your foot, presses a kiss to your ankle before he moves to your other leg, kissing his way back up the inside of your calf and your knee. He kneads your thighs, massaging the tension out, working his way closer.

“You work hard, baby, you deserve to relax,” he grits, lying down between your legs, face pressed in the cradle of your thighs. He breathes you in, all warm and musky and sweet, and he can’t resist you any longer. His tongue runs along your cunt, parting you with his mouth, a groan leaves him, eyes fluttering shut because he just can’t get over how good you taste, how perfect your body responds to his mouth. God, he loves you.

Your fingers twist in the curls of his hair, and he thinks to himself he’d like to skip the haircut he’s due for later this week, wanting you to always pull on the loose waves at the nape of his neck. He wills with every lap of his tongue against your clit for you to forget every patient, every worry, every page of the open books left on your desk.

You’re definitely forgetting, because you’re so greedy for him tonight, hands braced on his head as your hips roll. He lets you ride his face, he goes on and on, happily drowning in the taste of you and the desperate sounds you’re keening out. Your thighs tense around his head, and you gasp that little high-pitched noise that tells him you’re close. He groans against your puffy, needy pussy, and you cum with a gasp of his name, and god what a sound.

It only makes him want more of you. He kisses his way up your belly, up the hollow of your throat until his lips meet yours. You’re reaching, helping him slide his own pajama pants down, and he rests his cock right there in the crook between your legs, waiting, just looking down at you and your lovedrunk face, all soft with heavy eyelids and a little smile.

He runs his length along you, dipping in between your legs, covering himself with your desire before he slowly pushes into you. Christ, he loves the way you wrap your legs around him. His hand slides under your head, cradling you, tilting your mouth up to kiss him as he fucks you slow and deep, letting each thrust press out the last of your stress.

Your arms twine around his neck, nails digging into his back, and he lets you pull him closer, lets you bite his shoulder when he sinks his cock deeper into your heat. He buries his face in your throat, wanting to be as close to you as he can. Chanting your name, he tells you over and over how good you feel, how pretty you are, how he’d do anything for you, always.

You’re already tensing, another orgasm building, and when you shatter again, he fucks you through it as you sob his name all drowning and needy, it’s the only thing he wants to hear for the rest of his life. You clench and pulse around him, pulling him right to the edge, as his hips stutter, breath catching. 

Pelvis grinding against you, Joel cums, spilling inside you with a groan that rattles his whole body. He tightens then slacks, before he collapses against you, catching his weight on his forearms. He just breathes, face pressed into your neck, smelling the heady scent of sweat, sex, and you. Your heartbeat is hammering, and it’s a shared race.

“Joel,” you whisper.

He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Yeah, baby?”

You don’t answer with words, just a smile and a curl of your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. That’s enough of an answer. 

He shifts, rolling onto his side and pulls you against his chest. You tuck yourself against him, leg hooked over his hip. He strokes your back, kisses your forehead, feels the way your breathing slows. You look up at him, and he can see the relaxation in your face, the relief that wasn’t there before, and it fills him with a pride he’s only known since loving you.

“Better?” he asks, lips against your forehead.

You nod. “Much,” you giggle.

He smiles, arms tightening around you as he relaxes in the peaceful haze of this beautiful life he shares with you. 

—-

No huge disasters happen during your first few weeks at the clinic, just a lot of congratulations, patients, mysteries you can solve, and a steady build of confidence. By the end of the second week, you feel like you’ve earned the title of Clinic Head, and it stops feeling like your imposter syndrome might just swallow you whole. People tell you you’re doing well, and you actually believe them.

The routine establishes itself without fanfare. You wake up every morning to a kiss on your forehead and a cup of tea or coffee in Joel’s hand. He’s already been awake, adamant on making you breakfast. Most of the time, it’s eggs, sometimes potatoes, sometimes toast or bacon if they’re available that week. He always sets the plate in front of you, with another kiss against your forehead, before he serves himself. You both eat, you a little slower than he, and when he’s done, he scoots his chair back, watching you with that exact softness in his eyes that still, even after all this time, makes you feel loved and adored.

He walks you to work, carrying your bag, his hand against the small of your back or in your hand as you walk together down the road toward the clinic. He leaves you with a kiss, no matter who’s watching, and you watch him head to work, broad back moving through the crowd, standing out amongst your fellow Jacksonians. You don’t open the clinic door until he turns at the corner and raises a hand and sends you a wink in farewell.

Work is work. Every patient, illness, and cure is vital because it’s part of the thousand small ailments of a community trying to survive. You suture cuts, you set bones, you mix tinctures. There’s a rhythm of healing… hurried or slowed, you respond to every beat. 

Steven, Wendy, Linda, and Dr. V–whenever he pulls himself away from retirement–are a godsend. You’ve even taken on a couple of new apprentices, including—to your surprise—Dina. She shadows you with an intense focus, proving herself a quick study and a natural healer.

Most days, around noon, Joel appears in your office, lunch in a tote bag, and a doting smile on his face. You eat together at your desk, and you tell each other about your mornings. Ordinary things… things you never thought would matter to anyone. But they do. They matter to him, and you.

Some evenings you don’t leave the clinic until late, depending on the patient loads, but your home is always your salvation. Dinner cooked by one of you while the other sets the table. You wash dishes side by side, clean up the kitchen, and fold the laundry. Domestic bliss is in everything you do, especially when Joel is right by you.

The best parts of your day are once the sun hides behind the mountains, the curtains are shut, and the fire in the hearth is lit. The couch, a blanket pulled across both of your laps, Jefferson on your lap, purring as you pet him. Your shoulder is always home to Joel’s arm, hand resting against your skin, thumb tracing idle circles on your skin.

Sometimes there’s a movie playing on the TV, maybe if you’re lucky, it’s a newly scavenged movie from the library. Sometimes it’s a book shared between you two, or a single one in each of your palms. Sometimes Joel carves, and you knit, the sounds of your progress soundtracked across the living room. Sometimes you just watch the fire, or let your eyes trace the lines of Joel’s profile in the flickering light. You relish these nights, the particular peace of having nowhere to be.

It’s peaceful. It’s wonderful. Something you once thought had been burned out of the world along with everything else. It’s a simple, unremarkable happiness. A routine. An ordinary life built every day, in a house on a road in a town behind walls, with a man who makes you eggs in the morning and holds you on the couch at night, and transformed a bedroom into an office because he wanted you to have a place of your own.

This is enough. This is more than enough. This is everything.

—-

Boggle, Scrabble, Clue, Sorry. A stack of board games Joel has saved in the back of the closet for a rainy day… or a perfect housewarming gift for Ellie and Dina.

Their house sits only a short walk down two streets. It’s a narrow, gray two-story with blue trim and window boxes that you mention you’ll help Dina fill with herbs. It already looks lived in, with the glow of the lamplight and Sally looking out the screen door.

You knock on the doorframe. He stands at your shoulder, games under one arm, a wrapped stack of cookies in his other hand. He hears the scrape of a chair against the hardwood floor he just helped repair last month, and someone says something, then footsteps.

The screen door swings open, and Ellie’s face is wide and bright, clad in her trusty flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She looks happy, genuinely, ridiculously happy. Her eyes drop to the cloth-wrapped stack in his hands, and her eyes widen. Her mouth opens a little.

“Are those—”

“Gingersnaps,” you say.

“Oh my god. Get in here, come in, come in.”

Dina has set the table. There’s a cloth on it, candles lit in the middle, and there’s a savory smell of roasted chicken and sweet corn coming from the kitchen. Joel sets the games on the side table near the door and follows you in, taking in how much Ellie and Dina have already accomplished. There are already framed drawings of Ellie’s on one wall, a selection of carved horses Joel made for her on the mantel, and the scarves you’ve knitted for Ellie and Dina hanging from a coat hook by the door.

It looks like a home.

“Smells good,” he says when Dina comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel.

“Chicken,” Dina says. “And corn, and potatoes. Nothing fancy.”

“Nothing fancy is good,” you say, and Dina grins.

Joel settles into the chair at the table, you to his left. He watches Ellie move around her home with Dina, watches the way she leans against the kitchen counter while Dina dishes things out. It’s so different for her now.

He thinks about the strange arithmetic of family. Ellie wasn’t born his. She had a mother she never knew, she had Marlene, a whole history before she ever wound up in his and Tess’s hands. But somewhere between that and this table, something shifted. She’s now his daughter. There’s no other word for it.

He watches her argue with Dina about whether the corn is better on or off the cob, watches her take the last piece of chicken off the serving plate, and wipes her hands on her jeans.

His daughter.

His daughter, who, after dinner, has finished half the plate of cookies all by herself. Next to the half-eaten platter of cookies, Boggle sits on the table, and as Joel expected, he’s losing. Horribly.

He stares at the letters. They stare back at him. He writes down cat. He writes down act. He even tries tac. He stares some more.

He writes down tact. That’s probably three points. He looks over at you, and your pen is moving fast.

The timer runs out.

The reading off starts. You go first, a long list of words, and Ellie scoffs every time you read out a word she’d also found. Dina has a solid list. Ellie’s is shorter than she wants it to be, he can see it in the line of her jaw.

He reads his list last. Four words.

“That’s it?” Ellie asks.

“That’s it,” he nods.

Dina’s the first to laugh helplessly into her hand. You’re biting your lip with a hidden smile. Ellie’s shoulders begin to rock up and down as she giggles her high-pitched squeak. He keeps his face straight for a second, until he also breaks, and the sound of laughter fills the little house on the street two over from his.

You win. Of course, you win. You announce it, with your hands pumping in the air, and Ellie points at you and says, “Of course the doctor wins!”, and you thank her.

Joel watches all of it. He never expected to have this. A table with people he loves around it. His daughter reaching for another cookie that his wife baked for her.

He reaches under the table and takes your hand. You squeeze back without looking up.

Ellie hugs him tight when the night is over, his arms wrap around her, and his chin rests atop her head. “Thanks for coming over,” she says. 

“Of course, Kiddo, wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

He watches you hug Ellie just as tight, and promise her you’ll show her how to make the gingersnaps she loves so much. 

This is everything. He doesn’t know any better word for it. He doesn’t need one.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

The End Of Healed

I couldn't keep this art my beloved @valevntine created a secret for any longer. Please enjoy Joel and Doc's peaceful moment. (Peep that wedding ring. 🫦)

I cannot believe there are only two chapters left of Healed. This story has meant so much to me, and I'm so happy it resonated with so many of you. Please accept this beautiful art as an excuse for my lateness with chapters–I was on vacation for the first half of June, and I'm really taking my time with these final chapters as I want it to be a perfect ending for this story 30+ chapters later. I'll probably have more words and yapping after I post the final chapter, but for now, just know how much I love this story and YOU for reading.

Also, I showed my mom, and she asked if Doc was me, and I literally shouted "I WISH!"

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 33: Bright

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: He’s never felt so strong, so wanted, as he does when you’re under him and he fucks you through an orgasm, and then another, until your sobs echo across the meadow over the rain. He laps at the side of your throat, sucking the rain from your skin, and when he cums, it’s with a growl, teeth scraping your collarbone as he spills inside you. Chapter Warnings: only joel's pov, smut, unprotected p in v sex, unprotected anal sex, pussy licking, fingering, ass fingering, in the words of @mothandpidgeon "time for mallory's rain kink", sex in a meadow, restraints, soft dom joel, joel sings my favorite george harrison song because fuck you i can write what i want, come step into my delusions Words: 5,850

A/N: I vowed to finish Healed and post it all, no matter what's going on inside/outside this site, and I will keep myself to that. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon for her eyes and love, even if I eat frozen foods that should be cooked. Two chapters left.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

What is this freedom called? Joel hasn’t worn anything more than his boxers in days, and this morning it’s not any different. And you, goodness, you’ve been living in only your robe and tiny dresses, and it’s the best wedding gift he could’ve ever received.

He holds his second cup of coffee, a midafternoon treat, gifted by Ellie and Dina for the honeymoon, and when he glances out the window, he loses his breath. He’s seen you naked hundreds of times, but nothing ever prepares him for it. You’ve gone ahead and shucked your dress, opting to sunbathe naked on the porch. It feels like the sunlight is going to blind him—the way it shines off your bare skin, stretched out on an old towel.

Good god, he loves his honeymoon.

He reaches down, past the waistband, cups himself, cock already aching at just one look at you. You’re not even moving, just basking in the sun, eyes closed, ankles crossed, chest rising slow. Your wedding ring glints as you lift your hand to scratch at your sternum, and the pink-gemmed stone glows against your skin.

He watches, ogles even. You must feel his eyes on you, because your hand moves, smoothing along your thigh, then between your legs, all casual as anything, as if you’re not the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He toes open the sliding glass door and steps out onto the deck, coffee in hand, boxers tented with need. “Jesus Christ, baby,” he growls.

You open one eye, lift your face to the sun with a lazy smile. “Hi,” you say, and then—fuck him—you stretch your arms overhead, and his mouth waters.

He stares, quite rudely. You’ve got a bottle of oil in your hand… some sort of fragrant thing Wendy made you. You open it, pour a thin line straight down the center of your body, let it pool and run around your navel, then spread your palm wide and rub it slow, up one hip and down the other. Your hands trail up your sides, fingers running over your breasts, playing with your nipples.

He means for a chuckle, but it comes out as a whimper, and he’s already on the first step down when you lift your hand to stop him.

“Not yet, you’ll block out my sun,” you tease, hands dragging down your thighs, legs parting wider, heels dug into the towel to gift him a good look at your pussy. You pick the oil up, let a stream run down your stomach to your mound, it pools across your skin, and you rub it in, letting your fingers slip and trace circles across your cunt. You’re a slick mess for him, hips rolling as you begin to touch yourself.

He can’t help but stroke his cock, throbbing when he presses some relief into it, but you know… eyes snapping open, a temptuous smile on your lips. “No, baby. You can have your fun later. Just watch me.”

He wants to protest, but he’s never been so transfixed in his life. The restraint it takes to drop his hand is superhuman. You keep your legs spread, one hand circling your clit, the other splaying oil along your ribs and up to your throat, as if you were anointed. The pink wedding band beckons, bright against your finger as it moves over your pussy.

Coffee’s getting cold, but he holds onto the cup as if without it, he’ll float away from you. He’s sweating, feels like he’s shaking from the restraint, from the need to spread you wide open and know you.

You’re moaning, hips rocking up off the faded green towel. He’s obsessed with the way he can tell your whole body is clenching and releasing as you begin to fuck yourself with more urgency, panting his name. “Fuck, Joel. Fuck, Joel. Fuck, Joel,” floats up and out into the vast wilderness.

The muscles in his back and arms are so tight, he can hardly breathe, hand clenched around the mug, and his boxers grow wet from the steady leak of precum he wants to grip more and more out of.

“Do you want to fuck me, Mr. Miller?” you say it deadpan, head turned so you’re looking at him through your lashes.

He lets out a “Yes,” almost a bark.

“You want to put your cock in me, Mr. Miller?”

He nods, jaw too tight, tongue thick in his mouth. You keep up the torture, fucking yourself with two fingers, thumb pressing your clit. Your breathing turns into little gasps and you stare him down. You know exactly what you’re doing to him, it drives him even madder.

“When I let you. I want you to fuck me hard, Mr. Miller. Can you do that for me?”

He nods again, frantic now. “Anything. Just tell me what you want.”

You smile, lift your legs, and part your knees wide. The slick shine of oil and wet glistens, and you fuck yourself with two fingers, drawing them out and showing him how shiny they are.

“I want you to bend me over that railing,” you nod at the deck rail, “and fuck me hard. I want you to smack my ass, call me a good girl as you cum in me.”

He loses it and groans as his back turns to jelly.

Your face sets in determination as you slip your fingers out of you. You get on your knees, reaching your hand up. “Now, come here.”

His mug teeters on the edge of the table he tossed it on, coffee splashed across the withered wood. In two strides, he crosses the deck, takes your shiny fingers into his mouth, and tastes the sweet slick of you. You work his boxers down and off, and he grunts against your fingers when you take his hard cock into your mouth. Your tongue is warm and swirling as you suck him off, tasting his desperation for you. He hits the back of your throat, your chin shines with spit, hungry eyes staring up at him. Joel’s fingers slip into your hair, resting, anchoring himself to you. He can’t breathe, can’t even fucking think, his world is just this: the hot sun blazing down, the wet choke of your throat, your hands planted on his thighs, his fingers through your hair.

You pull off him, mouth leaking a sticky trail of spit and precum as you grin, tongue out, and slap his cock against it. It’s almost cruel in the way his legs begin to shake and he groans. He wants to beg, fall to his knees and worship you, his perfect bride, but you take his cock back, slower, letting the head of his cock drag over your tongue, sucking the crown. Joel’s hands tighten in your hair, and he can feel every muscle in his arm clench as he fights the urge to push farther, to fuck your mouth full of his cum.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck, you’re—” he chokes when you take him deep again and pull off with a gasp. His eyes grasp shut, and all he can see, hear, and feel is his need for you. He fights the pooling low in his belly, reaches for your shoulders. You read him, letting his cock drag out of your mouth, letting him haul you up and kiss you, sucking the taste of himself from your tongue and lips.

He picks the towel up from the deck, places it against the splintered railing, and bends you over it. The angle is perfect, your feet spread wide, your pussy presented to him like a masterpiece. He grabs the oil, pours a river down the crease of your ass, letting it cascade down across your pretty pussy. He runs his hands over you, smearing the oil across your skin, dipping in and out between your legs.

Back and forth, Joel rubs the head of his cock against your pussy, lingering through the oil and your slick. He pushes forward, just enough to rest at where you need him the most, his hands pressing into the cleft of your ass, pulling you open to watch himself rut against you, the tip of him kissing precum right against your hole. He smears it in, drags his hand across your ass before he pulls it away and delivers a sharp smack to it. The sound of his palm meeting your skin echoes across the cove. Your arms flex, head dropping as you moan.

He can’t help the incredulous shake of his head and the grin he sends to the sky when he pushes in and your tightness swallows him. You didn’t want slow and sweet, and he gives you what you want, setting a brutal rhythm, hands gripping your hips, pulling you back into each thrust. The towel scrapes against the bannister as you fuck against, just as desperate as he is. You’re a mess of sweat and oil, radiant and beautiful under the sun.

He slides his thumb up, pressing it against your asshole, circling it before rolling it into you. You gasp, arch your back, and ask for more. “Like that?” he growls.

“More,” you order again.

He grabs the oil, pours it over your ass until it drips down onto the deck. He rubs circles, works you open with his thumb, fucking both holes so hard the railing groans.

Your pussy pulses around him and he feels you cumming, cunt squeezing him so tight he has to grit his teeth and tell himself not to cum. “Good girl,” he snarls, “feels so good. Cum f’me.” His thumb delves deeper, stretching you as you flood his dick.

“Joel, please,” you gasp, babbling, “Joel, please I want… I need…”

He knows. He pulls out, letting the heft of him thump against your asshole. “You want me here, baby?” You nod, a slithering “yesss,” answers him.

He slides in slow, waiting for the stretch to go from burn to ache for you, but you’re greedy for him, pushing back on him, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved you more than in this moment. The sounds that leave you are otherworldly, high, and beaming. He covers your back with his chest, arms locked around your sticky, sun-warmed body, grinding your ass back into him, both of you rutting against the railing.

His hand snakes between your legs, rubbing your clit, your whole body loses tension, knees almost buckling as your muscles go slack and his finger rubs another orgasm out of you. Joel’s arms tighten around you, keeping you standing as he fucks you through it and past it, until he lets himself go, cumming so hard he feels as if he might collapse the whole deck. His hips stutter, and he holds you tight, unable to move as his cum floods your ass.

When he feels his breath again, he nuzzles your neck, sucking at the sweat along your skin. “Good girl,” he groans as he pulls out. “World’s best wife. Jesus Christ.”

You chuckle and slump against the deck before he gathers your cumdrunk body into his arms. He’s never felt freer in his life. Sunlight, the blue sky, the cool wind and the smell of pine needles. His beautiful wife blissed out and smiling in his arms. Joel thinks maybe this is paradise.

—-

This is all Joel Miller could ask for… a crackling fire burning by the cove and a beautiful girl in a pretty dress watching him play guitar. He sits in the half-dark, back propped against a wood stump, legs outstretched, feet at the edge of the fire circle he made. You’re a little ways off, on a quilt, knees bent, dress tucked under your thighs. He picks up his guitar, tries to tell himself he knows the song well enough to perform it and gives you a shy smile before he begins to play.

“All alone in this world am INot a care for this world have IOnly you keep my eyes open wideYes it's trueI live for you”

You tip your head back, eyes on the starry sky as you listen, a sweet smile spreads across your lips. He can’t remember a time he wasn’t trying to earn a smile from you.

“Not a thing in this world do I ownOnly sadness from all that is grownIn this darkness I wait for the dayYes it's trueI live for you

For many years I waitFor many tears I wait

All this time my thoughts return to youGive my love, that is all I can doWait in line till I feel you insideYes it's trueI live for you”

When the chords fade, you clap a delighted sound. “That was beautiful,” you say. He grins, heat rising into his cheeks, hating and loving that he still feels bashful when it comes to you.

For the next song, he picks a low, moody tune that he knows you love. He plucks the strings slow, and you instantly know the song.

“Underneath the bridge, the tarp has sprung a leak…”

He doesn’t expect it, but you join in, your sweet voice joining his, voices harmonizing as you both repeat “something in the way.” Your face is set in thought, the flames flickering over it as you lean forward, elbows on your knees, almost studying the moment, the feeling. The two of you, out here, under the safety of the night sky and a ring of flames. Joel’s voice gravels towards the end, letting you take over.

When he finishes, your smile’s brighter than the fire. “That’s my favorite,” you say.

“I know,” he grins. “C’mere.”

You crawl to him, and he wraps himself around you, arms tight, chin on the top of your head. Your sigh warms the hollow of his throat.

“Play me another, tomorrow?” you whisper.

“Every day,” he says, kissing the crown of your head.

—-

“Homebase to Love Shack, do you copy?” Ellie’s voice echoes, and Joel can hear the smug little smirk in her tone even through the distortion. Joel clips towards the radio resting on the countertop, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still wet from your shared shower.

He grunts, presses the button. “Yeah, we’re here. What’s up?”

Tommy’s voice comes on: “Morning. We’re headed your way with the delivery. ETA thirty… so be dressed.”

You wander into the kitchen, also only clad in a towel. “Who was that?” you ask.

“Tommy ‘n Ellie will be here in a half hour.”

Guests during a honeymoon really aren’t a thing, but Joel doesn’t mind. Gravel crunching under horse hooves announces their arrival. Joel steps outside and waves before heading over to help untie the saddlebags. You’re on the porch, and when Ellie sees you, she hugs you. Joel feels the warmth spread from his heart through his body as you pull away, and straighten her collar in such a maternal way.

The bags are left by the floor, and Tommy pulls a sack from the pack and lays it on the kitchen table, revealing sandwiches from the Tipsy Bison, wrapped in waxed paper and still warm.

You sit at the table, next to Joel and across from Ellie, and he sees the happiness etched on your face. It’s in the way your hand rests atop his, the way you listen wholeheartedly when Ellie talks, and the way you smile at all her jokes… even the bad ones.

“How’s Jefferson doing?” you ask, napkin wiping away the mustard on the edge of your mouth.

Ellie chews, then wipes her mouth on her sleeve. “He’s good. He and Sally are happy. But I know he misses you.”

“How’s the honeymoon? Do we gotta worry about y’all never coming back?” Tommy asks.

Joel laughs and shakes his head. “As much as I love it here, I miss our house… ‘n Jefferson.”

It’s a strange thing to feel so content in a world built amongst chaos. For so many years, every meal was wolfed down in silence, every conversation was quiet, every moment of happiness overshadowed by loss. Now, there’s laughter, and food, and light shining in through the windows of his temporary castle.

He watches you and Ellie, talking and giggling. He looks over at Tommy, also watching the scene with a similar dumb grin, Joel knows is plastered on his own face. “Thanks for hosting us, we’ll get out of here, leave you two lovebirds to enjoy the rest of your time.”

Ellie hugs you again as she and Tommy leave, and Joel gets a clap on the back from Tommy. “Radio if you need anything,” he says before he mounts up. “Anything at all.”

“We will,” Joel promises.

Tommy nods and turns the horse, Ellie falling in beside him, and they ride away.

You slide your arm around Joel’s waist, resting your head against his shoulder as you watch them go. “That was nice,” you say.

“Yeah,” Joel agrees. It was. A reminder of the life waiting for them when this perfect week is over… a life full of people who love them.

You stand there together until Tommy and Ellie disappear from view, then turn to go back inside, hand in hand, back to your perfect honeymoon.

—-

Joel wakes before you do, most days he usually does, but today he lets himself lie there and holds you in his arms. Outside, the sky is beginning to turn from pink to gold to blue, and the light gilds you in a dreamy glow. He gets lost in admiring his wife, how you look asleep, the soft, unfurrowed peace of your brow, the line of your lips. He never imagined having this, a woman and a life so soft, he gets to watch the sunrise as he holds his wife.

He could stay here for hours, but he has a plan. He’s careful not to wake you as he gets out of bed, goes to the kitchen and puts the coffee on. He makes a couple of sandwiches, packs some strawberries, and wraps up a few chunks of cheese before filling the thermos with coffee and tucks everything into a rucksack.

When he comes back to the living room, you’re just getting up. “Morning,” you yawn.

“Mornin’, baby,” he says, and you smile sleepily for him.

“Better get up, we’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Hmm?”

Joel shrugs. “Just wanna show you something.”

—-

There’s something about the way you hold onto Joel as he navigates the horse. Your arms are snug around his waist, your thighs squeezing with every jostle. If he had to pick one way to travel for the rest of his life, this would be it.

It’s a crisp morning, but the sun is climbing and warming the world. You ride through the pines and the hush of the forest, the only sound is the soft plod of hooves and the birds in the trees. The trees break into a clearing, and Joel can hear the gasp behind him when you see the bright meadow full of wildflowers.

The horse is barely pulled to a stop before you’re bounding off, already giggling and spinning amongst the wildflowers as tall as your knees. It’s almost painful in the way he watches you, the smile that breaks across his face is wide and unwavering, and his heart aches in the best way at the sight of the woman he loves joyous amongst a field of purples, yellows, and little stars of white.

He dismounts and spreads the blanket on a patch of soft grass. The rucksack gets unpacked, and brunch is spread out across the faded blue blanket. You’re already deep in the field, plucking flowers from the ground, soundtracking the day with your happy hum.

“Gonna bring half the meadow back to the clinic at this rate,” Joel teases, dropping down onto the blanket. You soon join him, leaving your bundle of flowers at the edge of the blanket. You tuck a flower behind his ear, and he pretends to scowl as you giggle.

Coffee, sandwiches, and cheese are enjoyed under the sunlight in a field of wildflowers swaying in the wind. Joel saves the best for last, picks up a strawberry, and lifts it to your mouth. You take a bite, and then kiss the pad of his thumb that catches the juice dripping down your chin. He pops the other half in his mouth, never taking his eyes off your stained lips.

He grabs a smaller one, nestles it against your lower lip so you have to open your mouth for him. Your tongue flicks it in, and you lunge forward, climbing into his lap to kiss him, sweet strawberry on your tongue and coffee on his breath. His hands plant low on your back, splayed possessively over the thin cotton of your dress, and you kiss him slow in a way that makes him almost feel drunk off of joy and sharing a special morning with you.

He studies the horizon. Storm’s brewing, he sees it in the way the grey clouds choke out the blue and roll in. He wraps his arms tighter, presses a kiss to your hair.

“Rain’s almost here,” he notes.

“Mm, could just wait it out,” you say, pushing him down onto his back, straddling his hips, hands sliding under his shirt, nails dragging up his sides. “I don’t want to leave.” You grind yourself against his jeans, making little gasps that have his cock straining for you, and he digs his hands into the curve of your ass, squeezing hard as you rock against him. “Plus, don’t you want to fuck me right here?”

Joel’s breath stutters. “You want me to?”

“Mmmhm.”

The first fat raindrops pelt the blanket. Joel’s never seen anything so beautiful, your face turned up to the gray sky, mouth open to catch the drops. Raindrops patter faster and faster as you grind, the picnic blanket wilting in the grass, starting to soak through from the downpour.

You unspool his belt, pop the button open, and drag his zipper down. Your wet hand wraps around his cock and gifts him a sweet, wet stroke. He grunts, jerks your panties to the side, finds you already soaked for him, heat searing him even through the rain, two fingers slide through your folds, spreading you, coaxing out those sweet whimpers that float out into the damp air.

Rain streams down your back, soaking your dress plastered to your skin, but you don’t care. You just grab the hem and haul it up and off, baring yourself to the empty world. You’re a tangle of soaked dress and thighs atop him, running your soaked cunt along him.

He surges up, twists and rolls you over, covering you, body hunched over yours, rain pelting down and dripping from his nose and chin to your. He noses at your jaw, sucking your bottom lip, then trails kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. Your breasts are glossy with rain, and he bites at your hard nipples, tongue circling, drinking the water from your skin. The rain makes you taste even sweeter.

You push your hips up, seeking his cock, and he easily finds you and sinks into you, slow and so fucking deep. He waits, groans into your breast, and you clutch his damp hair with both hands. The grass and wildflowers tangle around your bodies, the blanket a sopping mess beneath you. He thrusts slow, letting the pulse of you patter along with the falling rain. Your legs wrap around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back. Rain plasters your hair to your cheek and forehead, and you’re gasping his name with every drive of his cock. You’re keening under him, hands all over his back, clutching, holding, pulling.

He’s never felt so strong, so wanted, as he does when you’re under him and he fucks you through an orgasm, and then another, until your sobs echo across the meadow over the rain. He laps at the side of your throat, sucking the rain from your skin, and when he cums, it’s with a growl, teeth scraping your collarbone as he spills inside you.

He collapses atop you, huffing against your skin, rain washing over him and pooling across the divots. For a long time, you just float amongst the wildflowers like that, the storm subsiding over the two of you and the small world you can call yours.

When he finally rolls off, everything gleams in the aftermath. You reach for his hand, fingers twining. “I can’t believe it’s almost over.”

“Don’t say that yet,” he says, thumb brushing the rain from your cheekbone. “We got all day. All tomorrow.”

He wants to stay here, just like this, forever. You and him, both lying in a puddle, grass and dirt sticking wet to your skin, in a perfect meadow after a thunderstorm.

The storm slackens to a soft, foggy drizzle on the ride back to the cabin, and neither of you say much, trying to commit the memory of today to your hearts and minds.

—-

Once back at the cabin, you unload all of the flowers you picked while he ties off the horse. There’s a way in which you’re watching him untie the ropes and leads. He looks up, catches your gaze, cocks an eyebrow as he knots the rope and stows it. “Something on your mind, Mrs. Miller?”

“Just thinking.”

“Yeah? About what?”

You step closer, run a hand down his arm, fingers pausing at the rope looped. “I like the way you look handling these ropes.”

He stares at you, surprised, then grins. “That so?”

You nod.

He tucks the rope in his back pocket, grabs your waist, and pulls you in. “We can do something about that.”

He leads you inside and pours a glass of whiskey in the kitchen. You enjoy it together, staring into each other’s eyes with each drink. The empty glass is left on the countertop, and Joel escorts you upstairs to the bathroom.

It’s a team effort as Joel undresses you and you undress him. He turns the shower on, lets you step in first, watches from outside the large panels of glass. God damn, how did he get so lucky? You stand under the spray, water streaming down your face and shoulders, eyes half-closed as you let the warm water wash over you. He follows you in, crowding you up against the tile, hands roaming all over your body, washing away the mud and grass and wildflower pollen from your skin. You do the same for him, over his chest, down his arms, across his stomach. The care you show him, the gentleness of your fingers almost undoes him right there.

When you’re clean, he towels you off, walks you to the bed, and lays you down. The rope is already waiting, coiled on the table.

“I have an idea,” he says.

Your lips part, and he sees the hitch in your breath. You smile, a devilish smirk. “Show me.”

He ties your left wrist to the headboard, then the right, just loose enough that you can move a little, just tight enough that you can’t get free. He stands back, takes in the sight of you, arms stretched, wrists tied, body offered up like you’re his own gift.

He walks to the closet, grabs the blue bandana he usually keeps in his pocket and holds it up. “Can I?”

“God, yes,” you gasp.

He wraps the bandana over your eyes, ties it snug, and you gift him a moan before he’s even touched you. He kisses your forehead, your cheek, your lips. “You tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay.”

Joel takes his time, lets himself savor you, hands dragging down your arms, your chest, your ribs. He licks and kisses your nipples, bites gently at the soft skin of your breast. He trails kisses down your belly, nips at your hipbone, then kneels between your legs and spreads you open. You tremble, you’re so wet for him, and he wants nothing more than to get lost in you, drown in you, live in the heat between your legs forever. His tongue finds you, licking you, savoring and slow, tongue pressed flat against your clit, drinking down every moan and surge you bestow upon him. Your arms are spread tight, anchored to the bedposts, straining against the blindings, and it only makes Joel want you more.

He spits across your cunt, slicks his fingers and slides two in, slowly fucking you, pressing into you until you cry his name. Your hips are bucking, frayed pleas of his name leaving your lips.

Joel works you, one hand in your cunt, one hand pinning your hips to the sheet. He pulls away, lets his breath feather over your wet, swollen clit and grins. “Look at you, sweetheart. Can’t even sit still for me.”

He fucks you deeper, curling his fingers against the sweet, gushy spot that makes you squirm. You’re close, he can feel the strain, so he pulls out, denies you exactly when you’re on the edge for him.

You whine a desperate keen, yanking at the ropes. He loves how gone you are for him, how you beg for him. He denies you his fingers, but gives you his tongue, licking a broad stripe from your hole to your clit. You gasp, and he returns it with a hum into you as he sucks your clit. His cock aches, leaking against the mattress, but he ignores it… he’s having too much fun.

“Joel—fuck, I can’t—” you beg.

Every desperate shake, every bead of sweat, every taut muscle of yours only makes him want you more.

His fingers interrupt you, three of them now, stretching your tight hole. He doesn’t pump, only lets them settle and he just waits, feeling the way you clench, seeing how strung up your body is for him.

“I can’t,” you repeat.

“Oh, you can, sweetheart. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?” he growls, fingers twirling, thumb pressing against your clit. You tighten, flutter, and clamp, cunt gripping his fingers as you orgasm for him.

God, he wants that to be his cock so bad. He can’t take it anymore, he grips himself, stroking slow, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you.

“You look so good,” he gruffs. “I’m touchin’ myself, baby.”

That gets you, your body tightening as you give him an orgasm, shaking so hard the ropes creak. He watches your lips part, head thrashing, sweat and desperation slicking your body. You’re the most beautiful mess he’s ever seen.

He finally climbs up your body, kisses your mouth, lets you taste yourself on his tongue as he palms your thighs, pushes your knees wide, then folds you up so your calves press against the backs of your arms. You’re folded and wide open for him at the same time. “Can you take more for me?” he asks.

You nod all eager and desperate, so he gives it to you slow, watching your face as he seats himself inside your eager hole. You moan so loud he’s sure you’ve moved the mountains back, and he can’t help but groan at how perfect you feel wrapped around him. He fucks you like that, slow and steady, hands locked around your calves, folding you up. He whispers your name, tells you how good you are, how perfect your pussy is, how much he loves you.

He’s obsessed with the way you’re splayed out under him, hands bound to the bed, blue blindfold across your eyes, bottom lip captured between your teeth. Fuck, you’re perfect.

The bed creaks and the sound just makes him want to go harder. He pistons into you, lets his rhythm drum faster and faster into you. There’s a wet slap echoing across the vast bedroom, escaping out of the cracked picture window. Sweat drips from his brow, and his vision stays locked on where you take him, greedy and gorgeous, wet and swollen.

He leans forward, lets his weight press down onto your body, arms braced by your head, hands clasped around the crown of your head, holding you in place. Your breathing is wild, body and rope and pussy so impossibly tight.

You cum again, your whole body quaking under him, your voice hoarse with tears and Joel knows he can’t last, not with you like this. He pulls out, jerks himself twice, and cums all over your stomach and chest, white and hot, marking you as his. His legs want to give out, but he unties you first, peels off the blindfold, and gathers you up, kissing your wrists, your throat, and every salty tear on your cheeks. He rocks you in his arms, lets you come back down to earth, grounds you with each kiss and “I love you.”

The sun sets, and the cabin is filled with the smell of whiskey and wildflowers and sex. You lie tangled together, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart. He looks down at you, kisses your hair, and he feels it again—the peace, the rightness, the sense that maybe he deserves this after all.

—-

Every day of Joel’s life begins perfect now. Even on the days his knee aches, or he wakes up with a knot in his back, or his shoulder clicks when he reaches for something, the first thing he sees is you—warm, soft, still tangled in sleep. And every time he does, he’s reminded that he survived for this. Not just the world, but you, this impossible grace.

He slips out of bed in the early gray of morning, careful not to wake you and pulls on his robe. He pads into the kitchen, sets up the percolator, and leans against the countertop, savoring the ritual. The grounds, the gurgle, the first rich waft of coffee.

The early morning cold hits his face when he walks outside on the porch, but it feels good, makes him feel even more alive and present at this moment. The world is alive, and he’s alive, all because of the woman he loves.

The porch step digs into his thighs, but he doesn’t mind when he settles atop it. He thinks about all the things that should have killed him. Guns, fungus, loss, heartbreak. Things that haunted him every night before you. Anything could still happen, he knows it’s not a safe world by any means. But, he’s grateful to still be here, with you by his side.

You join him outside, robe cinched tight.

“Morning, baby,” he greets.

You smile, sit beside him, and lean your head on his shoulder. He holds out the mug of coffee, and you take it, hands brushing, eyes still half-closed.

Later today, you’ll head back to Jackson, back to the old world and its routines and worries. But for now, he savors you, the early morning, and the happiness you’ve given him.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Care For You

Din Djarin x Female Reader

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: You’re not sure how it happens, how you two end up on the ground, sliding in the mud, clutching at each other. His big hands lock your wrists above your head, pinning you to the moss and mud. You could slip out from under him easily, but you let him scan you, checking to make sure you’re okay, helmet tilting when he sees your racing heart in your chest. Warnings: Smut, mud, rain, Din uses that line from the movie, helmet stays on, gloves stay on, we only get Din dick glimpse, author used Wookieepedia. Not beta read because it just needs to be released so I can move along with my day. Words: 1,600

A/N: 🤷🏼‍♀️ I saw Mandalorian & Grogu while ovulating. I've had this idea half written in my docs with Joel, but once I figured out how good this would be for Din, well, I had to change it. This is partially based from my favorite sex scene (Emmanuelle IV nation, rise) that I've shared with some of you. Titles from the Marías song "Care For You" which is the hottest song/video in the world. Uhhh. Enjoy?

Masterlist

🌧️🌧️🌧️

It hasn’t stopped raining since you set foot on this planet. It’s a sheet of water, unforgiving and smothering, hammering down so hard you can hardly breathe, let alone see in front of you. The storm soaks you all the way through, your boots dipping deeper into the muddy ground.

You couldn’t move, even if you wanted to. The throaty and deep growl that told you “stay put” keeps you planted in the forest. You’re out, in the open, the clearing barely wrapping you in any sort of protection. You’re shivering, arms shaking, blaster held up as if your measly little pistol’s going to do anything to protect you.

Far away shots radiate through the tall trunks of the trees, coming closer with every sway of the foliage. Your breathing rattles when you gasp a wet, rapid suck of air. You want to call out for him, but you stay quiet and armed. Just how he likes you.

Another blast of shots echoes out into the air. Then a weird silence that seems to mute the cacophony of raindrops and thunder.

If he doesn’t come back, what the fuck do you do next? Do you even know where the ship is? And how the hell are you going to pilot the thing? You still feel like the bounty hunter’s little charity case, proving herself to the big, strong Mandalorian after you were left all alone when the Hutts ran your crew to the ground on Nar Shaddaa and your captain ditched you to save his own skin.

Your feet are growing numb, water trickles down your whole body, and you’re too anxious to get mad at yourself for not bringing your poncho. He told you to wait. So you do. Body quaking, teeth grinding. Every shadow looks like an enemy hiding in the bushes. You thought you’d have more courage with Din, that you’d be brave like him. And yet… all you want to do is get back to the safety of the ship.

A hunched shape breaks through the dense foliage. Tall, looming, broad, shiny.

Din.

Your blaster drops to the ground, and he says your name, speakers crackling just loud enough to hear over the rain. You slip in the muck as you cross the clearing.

“Din,” you whisper.

He bounds towards you, gloved hands gripping your arms, his armored shoulders rising and falling. The metal of his helmet clunks against your forehead, and he takes a moment.

“Are we okay?” you ask.

“We are.”

That unlocks you, and you choke on relief, collapsing against the Beskar wall of him. “I was scared,” you blurt to the dark T of the visor.

You’re not sure how it happens, how you two end up on the ground, sliding in the mud, clutching at each other. His big hands lock your wrists above your head, pinning you to the moss and mud. You could slip out from under him easily, but you let him scan you, checking to make sure you’re okay, helmet tilting when he sees your racing heart in your chest.

“Don’t be scared, I’ll protect you,” he thunders above you, pressing his body down, full heavy weight against you, the edge of his thigh armor digging between your legs. Lightning strobes and thunder cracks, and you’re flailing, greedy, grinding yourself against the hard edge of his armor. The rain still sheets down, droplets of it leaking down his helmet, tasting like precious metal and need.

He’s repeating your name, barking it almost, over the tinny speaker in his helmet, gasping it out. You clutch at his pauldrons, trying to bring him closer and closer to you. He’s heavy, but you’re slippery.

The world turns when he rolls, and you’re straddling his hips. The clasp of your soaked tunic is ripped open by Din, cold rain hitting your bare skin, and you welcome it to cool your burning skin.

His hands slide up your thighs, leather gripping hard, and he groans, that low, mechanical sound you crave. His visor is fixed on your breasts, the rain making your skin glisten in the flashes of lightning.

“This is dangerous,” you say, and yet Din’s hands pull you harder against him

“I’ll take care of whoever comes.”

He sits up, holding you against him, your legs twining around his waist. You grind, the soaked seams of your pants and the scrape of his flight suit sparking warm friction along your needy cunt. It’s almost primitive in the way you rub and moan, head tipped back, rain filling your mouth as his big, meaty hands grip your ass, moving you sweeter and deeper along him.

The mud squelches beneath you when he presses you back down into the ground, his helmet knocking against your forehead again. “Your heart,” he growls. “I can hear it.”

There’s a desperation shared between you, it’s been there from the first moment the dark T of his visor met your eyes. You tug at his flight suit, needy for his skin, but he stops you with his hand on your wrist. Instead, he slides his hand down your stomach, under the waistband of your pants, and you gasp when the leather finds your clit, thick finger pressing against it and circling. The rain continues to pour and pelt, washing the mud from your skin only for your writhing body to replace it with more, but you don’t care about the mess, not when Mando has you captured like this. You don’t care about anything now, just the way he watches you through that impassive visor.

“I want you,” you beg.

He tugs your pants low, exposes your pussy to the rain, to the unknown planet, and to him, not even pausing before grinding himself against you.

You wonder what he looks like when he sees you like this, naked body offered to him amongst the dirt and mud of the planet he landed on just a few hours ago. Are his eyes greedy? Does he lick his lips, craving the taste of you? You want to see his face, want to see his eyes, but you know you can’t… and it only makes you want him more. He groans and grunts, desperation through the speakers, and he rips down his flight suit, just enough to give you a quick glimpse of his golden cock.

The thick tip of Din nudges at your slick entrance, and when he pushes in, you see a galaxy behind your eyes. You moan, loud, an almost primal scream, and he answers it with a growl of “good girl,” like he always does.

He gives you all of him at once, shrouding himself in your wet heat, he doesn’t take it slow. There’s no time for savoring. It can’t take long out here in the middle of the forest. Later, after you’ve scrubbed yourself in the tiny shower of the ship, he’ll lay you down on the metallic floor and take his time… maybe even wrap a blindfold over your eyes and bestow the precious gift of his tongue between your legs, but for now, you have to be fast.

He presses you deeper and deeper into the forest floor, hands bracing on your shoulders, using you as leverage as his cock spears you. The Mandalorian overpowers you, makes you ache in the way he fills you, thrusting into you with the same rhythm as the quick thunderclaps overhead. Din’s breathing hard, fingers gripping you so hard you welcome the ache across your skin.

“Look at me,” he rasps, visor locked on your face, and you do, all soaked, crumpled, and ruined by his big cock.

Your back bows in the mud, mouth open to the rain, and his helmet presses into your forehead in the way you know he’s thinking about feeling your skin against his. Every tattered breath he takes through the speakers vibrates through your body, his tremors meeting yours as your cunt clenches around him. You wonder if he’s sweating under there, if his sweat tastes metallic.

You cum first, noisy and shameless and writhing, out in the middle of the forest. Your pulsing pussy drags him with you, and you can hear the panic of his own orgasm in the flatline of his breathing. He pulls out and gives you what you crave, the sight of his big, gloved hand wrapping around his fat cock, stroking his release out of him.

Thick white webs of the Mandalorian land across your wet body, the rain instantly washing away the cum he’s bathed you in. You’re panting, curses you’ve gathered from far-off planets escaping from your mouth as you come down, and for a split second you pretend he could take off the helmet, feel his plush lips against yours outside the privacy of his ship… but the moment never comes.

He rolls off, grunting, tucking himself back into his flight suit, all of the Mandaloian now shrouded and protected, while you lie splayed amongst the forest naked and shivering. He drags you over to him, gathers you in his arms, gauntlets pressing against your skin. He cradles your head against his throat, your face mashed up against the pulse point under his helmet, pressing into the scratchy flight suit.

You savor it, shaky and sated, his body heat radiating through the panels of armor. He traces the line of your spine with his hand, full of softness not many people know the bounty hunter is capable of.

“I care for you,” he finally says, hushed and flattened by the rain.

Your eyes close, and you memorize the sound, pulse slowing when you realize you're safe for once, because of the impossibly big, shiny bounty hunter.

“And, I care for you,” you tell him, his arms answering your confession when they bound you tighter against him.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 32: Luxury

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: This is your honeymoon. It’s such an absurd concept in the existence you live in that it almost feels fictional. A week alone with your husband, Joel Miller, with no responsibilities, no patients. Just you and Joel in this perfect, hidden place. Chapter Warnings: smut, joel jerkin' it, like i think this chapter is mostly just sex?, strip poker, uhhh more sex Words: 6,100

A/N: Hey. After this chapter, there are only three more left, feels insane to say seeing as this fic has been part of my life for over a year... but here we are. My thanks to @mothandpidgeon and @sin-djarin for their eyes and notes.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

The ride takes you a few hours away from Jackson, west and north. You’re in awe, out here, the silence surrounds you, reminding you how far you are from the hustle and bustle of your mountain town. There’s nothing but the sound of the wind breezing through aspens and the clip of the horse hooves on the sun-warmed ground. 

You’re plastered to Joel’s back, arms wrapped around the warm, worn fabric of his jacket that he wore just yesterday as he married you. Sometimes when the trail gets rougher and the horses jounce more, you’re jostled so close to him his shoulder blade digs into your cheek. Neither of you says a word, just enjoy the bright sunlight and the hush of the green world.

The trail forks and you take the overgrown part, the path rising before the trees part. That’s when you get the first glimpse of a cabin. But, cabin is not the word for this. It’s massive, a fever-dream lodge built by someone rich who wanted to live like a king of the woods. Thick, cured logs, the color of golden honey, are stacked two stories high. There are windows upon windows reflecting the sky and trees. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before.

“Oh my god,” is all you can offer.

“Our home for the week. We call it Patroller’s Secret Paradise,” Joel shifts in the saddle, turning to meet your eyes. “S’impressive, isn’t it?”

You melt at the thoughtfulness and the soft pride in Joel’s voice. “It is.”

Tommy and Jesse are already there, unloading the supplies from the packs. You swing off the horse first, reaching a hand out to help Joel down. When his feet hit the ground, you catch the wince across his face.

He still smiles, though. “Long ride,” he reasons, “but worth it.” Big, sun-warmed arms wrap around you as you marvel at the house. “They cleaned it all up for us,” he whispers. “Tommy and Jesse. Fixed it up ‘n stuff. Stocked it too.” His voice gets lower, catching almost. “Wanted it… to feel special for you… for us.”

It’s like a fantasy come true, and all you can do is stare and blink unbelievingly. “How did you...?”

“Tommy ‘n me found it years ago. Use it sometimes as a hideaway when we’re out scouting. Barely anybody knows about it.”

“It’s... I don’t even know what to say.” You shake your head, overwhelmed by the sight and the secret of it all.

“Got something else to show you too.” 

He leads you around the side of the house, down a stone path, broad shoulders block most of the view in front of you, but when he steps aside… you see it: a secluded cove, water lapping at the pebble-and-sand-lined shore. The sound of running water, from the stream feeding into the cove, might just be the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

“Joel... It’s perfect.”

“Follows all the way up to the lake,” he points. “Water’s crystal clear. We can swim.” His gold band flashes in the sun, and you follow it to the horizon, where tall trees flank all sides.

This is your honeymoon. It’s such an absurd concept in the existence you live in that it almost feels fictional. A week alone with your husband, Joel Miller, with no responsibilities, no patients. Just you and Joel in this perfect, hidden place.

“We’re gonna have a good week,” Joel says, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

A sharp whistle breaks the sweet moment. You both turn to see Tommy standing at the edge of the path, hands on his hips. “Got the horses unloaded, and we should probably head back before it gets too late.”

You walk back to the cabin, Joel’s arm around your waist. Tommy and Jesse are already mounting their horses, the pack animals relieved of their burdens. Tommy tosses something to Joel—a small black radio.

“Check in every morning, afternoon, evening, and night,” he instructs. “I’ll be here Wednesday to drop off more things.” He tilts his head, a wide brotherly grin spreading across his lips. “Other than that, y’all enjoy the week.”

Jesse nods respectfully and offers a smile and a “Congrats,” before yipping his horse into a trot.

You and Joel stand together, watching as they ride away. Tommy’s hand raised in a final wave before they disappear around the bend.

“Ready, baby?”

You nod, too overwhelmed for words. Joel leads you up the steps to the wide porch and pushes open the heavy front door. It creaks open and your jaw drops. 

You’ve never been anywhere like this. Everything here is decadent and huge, the foyer alone is massive. Golden wood is everywhere: the walls, the floors, the furniture. The floorboards almost look just polished in some places and ancient and sun-bleached in others. On your left, a wooden staircase curls, and you imagine the grand entrances that once happened here.

Joel holds your hand tight as you wander past the entryway. In the living room, the stone fireplace is the focal point, taking up most of one wall. There’s a ripped leather couch, sitting caddy corner, and a mattress lying on the floor already covered with a patchwork quilt and pillows.

And then, there’s the windows. You cross the room to them, the view outside is staggering. The cove, the mountains, and the expansive Wyoming sky. You feel like you’re on top of the world.

“I know it’s not much,” Joel says, his voice low with an almost uncertainty. “But I thought—“

You turn and catch him mid-sentence, and kiss him.

“It’s perfect,” you tell him. “Everything’s perfect.”

His smile is so slow and gentle, it makes you want to cry. “Happy honeymoon, Mrs. Miller.”

The tour continues, the kitchen almost feels like the owners just stepped out for groceries, frozen in time from almost thirty years ago. There’s a walk-in pantry, empty now, but you still like to imagine all of the shelves lined with cans and boxes. The counters are made of stone and still glossy, even under the smattering of dust.

You walk up the staircase together, hand in hand, and the steps hardly even creak. There’s a long hall, lined with doors. It’s almost as if you’re playing house, pretending at a life you never got to lead as you make your way through every room. 

The master bedroom sits at the end, windows taking up one whole wall with a king size four poster bed in the middle of the room. You run your hand along the mattress and grin. “This is the biggest bed I’ve ever seen.”

Joel stands in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, and lets you take it all in. “Figure we can sleep in here or downstairs, wherever you want. I just wanted to make sure you had a real bed.”

“Anywhere with you is good.”

He gifts you that shy smile of his, before his head tilts towards the bathroom. “Think you’ll like what’s in the bathroom.”

You do. It almost feels like you’ve been dropped in the middle of a museum exhibit titled “Wealth In 2003.” There’s a giant clawfoot tub set directly in front of a window. It gleams, all polished brass and bright white porcelain. 

“Do we have hot water?”

Joel nods. “S’also hooked up to the dam.”

It doesn’t take long for you and Joel to unpack your bags. The walk-in closet is palatial, and you place your simple and practical belongings in the drawers while Joel hangs his flannels and your dresses. It feels so strange, like you’re really on vacation, especially when Joel kisses you, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, big arms surrounding you.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark as they roam over your face. “Wanna go for a swim?”

—-

You slip off your shoes, burying your toes in the cold mud and smooth river rocks. There’s a new sensation shooting through your body, an almost relief in this action, like one of those moments when a patient pulls through, or you remember you’re safe and loved.

Joel lays a towel down, covering his pistol, still mindful that though this is paradise, danger can still lurk right around the corner. 

The daylight radiates off the water, and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt so warm and complete, especially as you watch Joel unbutton his flannel and peel off his white undershirt. You can hardly pay enough attention to slip your shirt and pants off, struggling especially when you lower your jeans down your legs as Joel does the same.

“Take it off,” he says, reaching for the hem of his black boxers. “All of it.”

You’re so quick to shuck your underwear, to feel this rare type of naked independence with the man you love. Joel’s all precious metals lit by this light. Golden skin speckled with bronze freckles and silver scars. 

You both wade in, hissing through teeth as the water creeps higher up your thighs, then stomach, then chest, until you’re both wading. Joel’s groan echoes through the water as his buoyancy gives him relief, and you anchor yourself to him, arms wrapping around his neck, letting your legs entwine. He lifts you, hands gripping your ass under water and gives you the sweetest, happiest smile. You grin back, unable to stop the glee coursing through you.

“We’re really here,” you say, unable to keep the wonder from your voice. “On our honeymoon.”

He groans and stares down at you, eyes heavy-lidded. “Told you I had a surprise.”

His smile meets yours when he leans in for a kiss. Your hand slides down his chest and the plush of his stomach, he’s already hard, and you stroke him once, slow, pulling away to watch his head tip back and his mouth go slack.

He groans and you laugh, until he captures your lips again. You make out lazily, floating in the water, your legs wrapping around his hips. You grind against him, letting the water slosh before he lines himself up, eyes locked on yours, and then pushes in. The water buoys you, makes it easier. He braces both hands on your ass and starts to fuck up into you, his teeth bared with the effort of keeping it gentle, but you can see how badly he wants to let go.

“Harder,” you say, and he does. He lifts you higher, so that you can ride him, your breasts bouncing above the surface. Here, there are no infected, no patrols, no alarms or obligations; there is just you, and your husband, and the endless blue of the water and the sky.

He cums with a low groan, arms squeezing you so tight it’s almost painful, and you follow, burying your face in his neck as your body shudders and then goes limp. You cling to him, Joel’s heavy breaths against your ear, and you chuckle at how perfect this moment is.

When you both trust your legs enough to finally stagger out of the cove, Joel wraps you in a towel, hands rubbing up and down your arms until goosebumps fade. He snags your abandoned clothes and slings them rakishly over his shoulder as you both stumble up the path back to the house.

—-

Inside the cabin, you check in with Tommy as Joel builds a fire in the massive stone hearth. You curl up together on the mattress, bodies still damp from your swim. He pulls the patchwork quilt up and tucks you into his side. Your eyes move from Joel to the sunset and back, neither of you says a word to each other, just trade kisses and sighs of contentment.

It’s only when your stomach growls when you get up. “I guess we should eat.”

You share a dinner of leftover pizza from last night’s celebration, sitting at the eight-person dining table as the mounted deer heads and golden-framed landscape paintings look down upon you.

When it gets too dark to see, you light a few candles and lie together on the mattress in the living room, naked under the quilt. Joel’s soft bicep is your pillow, his other hand traces circles along your stomach so gently it almost feels absentminded were it not for the way he’s studying your face.

“Happy?” he asks.

You nod. “Incredibly.”

Joel tells you about the day he and Tommy found the cabin, how it was so untouched they almost wondered if it was a trap, how it was easy to convince the council to let you two leave for a week, and how patrollers haven’t seen anything worrying around these parts in over a year. You feel overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of how Joel made sure to gift you this beautiful “vacation.” You don’t know what to say to thank him, so you just lean in and kiss him.

The kiss is sweet at first, but it deepens with every traded grunt and moan. Joel pulls you closer, and his chest rumbles against yours when you nibble against his pillowy bottom lip. He cups your cheeks, thumb stroking the curve of your jaw. The shivers of need follow his hands as they drift lower, grazing your hip, then your thigh. He gently rolls you onto your side, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the soft spot behind your ear.

“Get on top ‘a me, baby, wanna see my pretty wife.”

You oblige, straddling his hips, giving him a slow rut and grind, sliding your pussy along the heft of him resting against his stomach. His hands grip your hips, big brown eyes and furrowed eyebrows staring up at you. You feel like a goddess, lit by the candles and fire, and the heated gaze of dark brown eyes. Joel’s hand flows down your hip to between your legs, pressing his thumb against your clit, kissing it with the sweet pressure of his thumbprint. You fold over, lips pressing against his, tongue licking into his mouth. He grips himself, runs his weeping head against your wet, and you moan, hands cording through the waves of his hair.

“Fuck me,” you plead, hips lifting, hovering right above his cock. Joel lines himself up and your bodies work in tandem together when you sink down with a gasp.

“Christ,” he groans, head falling back against the pillow, neck corded with the tension only you can give him. You pull away and sit up, the pink stone of your ring flickering against his chest when you brace yourself. You rise, thighs trembling, then sink back down, hips gyrating to take all of him and his stretch. 

You’re still amazed at your fortune. Joel is your husband, yours to ride, yours to take, yours to love.

He lets you move at your pace, and when you lean back even more, pounding and grinding against his cock, greedily riding him, he lets out an incredulous chuckle. “Look at you takin’ all of me.”

You watch his face, the reverence there. Joel’s always loved you with devotion, but you feel a new edge to it, an almost worship. Maybe it’s the honeymoon, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re forever, but he looks at you like he’s found God. He grits out your name, brow furrowed and jaw taut. That vein on the side of his neck pulses, matching the flutter of your own pulse.

His hand cups your cheek, and you give his wedding band an impulsive kiss, pressing your lips to the gold as your bodies move together. The gesture undoes him. His eyes flutter, and his body turns uncontrollable, hips bucking up into you. “Jesus—” he gasps, “baby, fuck—”

You keep kissing the ring, again and again, letting your teeth scrape the metal just enough to make him groan. He wraps his arms around you and sits up, chest to chest, and you clutch at his shoulders as he thrusts harder into you.

You grind and ride, using his cock to fuck yourself into oblivion, totally blissed out. Maybe it’s the luxury of having nothing to do, nowhere to be, or maybe it’s the candlelight or the fire or the fact he’s finally your husband now.

Joel’s hands dig into your hips, pulling you down with each snap of his pelvis. You feel the stretch in your calves, in your hips, every nerve below your waist.

You’re so close, your clit riding the thick root of his cock. You keep your eyes locked on his, begging him to see you, to keep you here in this impossible, perfect present. He can’t look away either. 

Candles burn low, the fire dying to embers, and yet you both glimmer in the dark as this perfect moment becomes a world of its own. The pleasure and love are bright and hot, and when Joel tenses beneath you, his face burrowing in your neck, your name almost sobbed into the sensitive skin there, you cum with him. He fills you, thick and pulsing as you clench around him and breathe his name out.

Joel collapses back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. His cock throbs inside you, and you’re so full of his bliss, you’re sure it’s running down the seam of your thighs, but you don’t dare move. You nuzzle your nose into the fuzz of his chest hair, breathing his skin and sweat. Beneath you, his ribs rise and fall, slowing down, your body synced to his.

“Mrs. Miller,” he groans, lips pressed to the top of your head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You never thought you’d see a day like this, never thought you’d have a husband, or a honeymoon. Joel makes the world feel like it never ended, like everything that matters is right here, with his arms around you and his heart hammering against your ear.

—-

This morning might just be the brightest you’ve ever woken up to. The birds chirp outside, and the golden sunlight slanting through the cabin’s windows gently rouses you from sleep. Joel sleeps heavily, mouth open, one arm draped possessively across your ribs.

You lie there for a long time, just memorizing all the small, beautiful things about the man you love. You trace the line of his jaw, the crease at his mouth, the dimple that’s soft in sleep. You’ve woken up so many mornings like this, marveling at how handsome a man Joel Miller is, even in slumber.

No clinic waiting for you, no blueprints for Joel. Just this cabin, this bed, and your husband for seven glorious days.

You carefully shift out of his arms, pull on his discarded flannel lying on the arm of the couch, and pad into the kitchen. The percolator is filled and set on the stove, some ginormous hub that easily set the original owner back six figures. All of it seems like a part of the world that’s been lost for so long… from the matching appliances, to the shiny stone countertops, and the huge windows that look out amongst nature undisturbed.

You unwrap Joel’s trusty chipped owl mug, which you packed just yesterday morning, and fill it with black, bitter coffee. Your husband’s favorite thing in the world.

You settle on the edge of the mattress, and Joel stirs, his eyes slowly fluttering open, fixing on the coffee cup before they drag up to you. He smiles and stretches. “You’re an angel,” mutters, voice still half asleep. He rolls and rests on his side, a content smile lifting his lips, before his eyes turn dark. “Put the coffee down, it can wait. C’mere, Mrs. Miller.”

He makes love to you as the sun rises above the vast treeline and the perfect cove. It’s lazy and decadent the way Joel takes care of you, grinning up at you as you ride him again, growling out all the filth and adoration he knows you love—how you’re perfect, how you’re his everything, how you feel so fucking good, how you’re all he wants. When he cums, his big hands cup your ass, and he growls your name so loud it echoes off the walls of your vast, temporary palace.

You share the cup of coffee, tangled in each other and your perfect morning. 

—-

There’s a banditry of chickadees singing in the trees, and you look over at your husband, at his big bare feet, the lazy stretch of his thighs under the blue robe, the band of his wedding ring shining as he scratches his chest. He has never looked more satiated and peaceful than he does as he lets the sun dry him off. You’re spread across your towel, face and front heated by the afternoon.

The water was just as perfect today. You could get used to this.

“We should do this every day,” you say, the words floating up toward the clouds. “Just... this. Nothing else.”

You hear rather than see Joel’s smile. “We could,” he agrees. “Whole week’s ours.”

What a luxury to do nothing, to make your time stretch, to only tell time in kisses and smiles.

When you get too baked by the sun, you and Joel move to the mostly-covered part of the back patio. There are some holes and beams missing, but it shields the sun just fine.

You choose Joel’s lap as your seat, and his arms hold you tight against him. He picks up the book he’s been reading, yet another novel about cowboys in the wild west. “Read to me?” you ask.

He hmphs a sound and clears his throat. His voice rumbles that low level that makes every bad thing disappear. You relax in the crook of his arm, eyes shut, body humming with warmth and contentment. Old West violence and drama, gunmen and dusty trails unfold. He even does the voices. Low and tough for the outlaws, gruff for the aging sheriff, strong and powerful for the hero. You wonder if he knows how much it means to you, the way he tells you the story as he holds you. The slow cadence of his voice and the rise and fall against your head help you drift off.

You wake to the sound of him closing the book and the set of his arms around you. “You’re out,” he whispers against your forehead.

“Just resting my eyes.”

He chuckles. “Figured as much, baby.”

He burrows you closer to him, gently rocking you back and forth like the trees in the wind. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt so at peace before.

—-

There’s leftover wedding cake in the kitchen, and you’ve had it for lunch for the past two days. You’re atop the perfect marble countertop, legs dangling, Joel standing in between them.

He feeds you a bite. It tastes of chocolate and the memory of your perfect wedding. You hum an approval, and Joel watches you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world, even as there’s frosting on your upper lip.

“Good girl,” he grits.

You know exactly what he’s doing, and you let him, your legs sliding apart. He’s already sliding the edge of his thumb up inside your thigh.

“Ya’ know, you have frosting on your face,” he says, all smooth and deep. He leans in and licks it from the corner of your lip, then lingers at the seam, tongue pushing softly into your mouth. You taste chocolate and coffee and the wolvish smile he’s not even trying to hide. He grins when he pulls back, then grabs another forkful of cake, but he doesn’t bring it to your mouth… he taps it against your collarbone, splotching you with chocolate.

“Joel?!” You laugh, a surprised, breathy sound.

“Gotta get that too.”

He tongues the sweet off your neck, wide palms resting over your knees, prying them even farther apart. The fork clatters into the plate when he sets it aside, and then both his hands are under your thighs, hitching you forward. Your ass digs into the edge of the marble, and you yelp at the sudden movement, laughing and catching yourself on his broad shoulders.

Instinct overtakes you, because you already know where this is going, and you arch forward on the countertop, hands braced behind you. Joel’s lips are still sticky with frosting as he kisses you again, his body pressing against the cradle of your spread legs. He’s got you, strong arms caging you in, the heat of his chest pressing against you. But you can only focus on his fingers against the damp seam of your underwear, pulling them aside and dipping deep into your cunt.

You gasp into his mouth, startled but so ready for him. He grins against your lips, and you can feel him smile when you moan. He curls the pads of his fingers inside you, just how you like, so he can watch your eyes roll up for him. “Like that, pretty girl?”

You whine a yes as his thumb digs up to circle your clit. All the while, he feeds you cake. Another bite, this time smeared on his thumb that he slips into your mouth. You suck it clean, and Joel watches you greedily.

He stays close, kissing and biting under your jaw, salt and sugar on his tongue. Your ankles lock at his back, hips rutting against his hand, your wet coating his hand.

“Fuck, you’re so wet f’me.” 

You nod and arch for him, and he sets the cake plate aside. His thumb circles your clit, and you can’t even hold your own head up; you loll back on your elbows, blinking at the high beams of the ceiling, and wonder how it’s possible this man can know your cunt so well.

He keeps going, two, then three fingers, stretching you, and his eyes never leave your face. “There you go, baby. Squeeze my hand. Lemme feel you.”

Your cunt flutters and pulses, choking his fingers so hard he can barely move them. He growls a chuckle, pressing his mouth over yours, swallowing your moans and whines. You cum so hard you see gold behind your eyelids, the same gold of his wedding band that runs along your cunt. You sigh Joel’s name over and over, watching the way pride lights his face as you get off for him.

When you blink the light back into your vision, Joel’s already licking his fingers clean with a groan.

“Shall we get a bath, Mrs. Miller? Get the cake I missed washed off?” You nod and let him help you off the counter, shaky legs and all.

You and Joel spend the time it takes to fill the tub kissing. He gets in first, lowering the bulk of him slowly and settling against the porcelain before you get in, scooting back until your back meets his chest. The water laps and rises, sloshing over your bodies, and you’re caged in by Joel’s arms, bracketing the sides of the tub, his thighs sitting wide apart with you seated in between.

You hum as you feel the warmth of the sunbeams radiating through the windows. Outside is the cove, the pine trees dancing in the wind, and the invisible birds singing you and Joel songs as you relax. You inhale the steam, the luxury, the perfect moment you’re currently living in.

“Am I dreaming?” you ask, head lolling back onto Joel’s shoulder.

He laughs, kissing the crown of your head. “No, baby. S’all real.”

You’re not exactly subtle when you rub your ass across his crotch. It doesn’t take long for Joel to grow hard, cock pressed between your bodies. With a tilt and a tweak, you guide him between the slick of your folds. You arch up, then sink down, taking him this way… he fills you in such a different way, and you moan at the fullness. Joel lets out a groan, hips rocking up, pushing deeper until you’re flush.

His arms snake up under your arms, wrapping around your ribcage, fingers massaging and pinching your nipples, his mouth at your neck, tongue and teeth licking and scraping against your pulse. Water splatters against and out of the tub's walls when you rut against him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Joel breathes against your ear, his hand slinking lower down your body, thumb circling your clit as he fucks up into you.

The world outside of the tub begins to turn to a watercolor… green and blue, and sunlight swirling as you let Joel’s body bestow his luxury on you. He roars your name against your ear as he hammers himself into your cunt, flooding you with his cum. Your orgasm ripples through you, the waves of hot water and Joel’s cum getting fucked into you send you right over the cliff. The tub water ebbs and flows as you both shudder through your aftershocks, collapsed against each other.

When you finally trust yourself to move, you lift, turn in his arms, and kiss him until the water grows too cold, still unbelieving that this life is yours, and Joel Miller is your husband.

—-

Joel is hopeless at poker, hopeless at bluffing, and even more hopeless at hiding how much he wants you. There are cicadas revving in the trees, a wind brushing through the open windows, and the warm candlelight flickering gold. You’re at the dining table, clutching a crinkled hand of cards and biting back your smile. Joel sits across from you, hunched over his own hand, staring at the cards under furrowed brows. He’s barely even dressed now, wearing one sock and a pair of navy blue boxers.

You, on the other hand, are winning and still fully clothed. 

You did not expect playing strip poker with a grown man as competent as Joel Miller would reveal how abysmal he is at cards. You’ve beaten him every game, and you’re loving the trophies of more and more of his clothing being removed. 

Joel reveals his hand: two pair, not bad. But not enough.

Your straight flush is laid down on the table with an exaggerated little “boom.” Joel grunts and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Tough luck, baby,” you mock.

He pouts, scoots his chair back, bends down with a sigh, and takes off his sock. All that’s left is his boxers. The sock is tossed in your direction, and you avoid it with a duck and a chuckle and deal the cards.

A six, two nines, a Jack of clubs, and a King of diamonds. Nothing. You keep your expression neutral but Joel’s watching you like a hawk. No matter what you try to figure out, none of the cards work, and you finally lose to Joel’s full house.

“Well, well,” he growls, leaning forward, candles lighting all of his shadows. “Looks like it’s your turn to lose something.” His eyes flick up and down, possessiveness and desire inking them black.

You’re half drunk on whiskey, and the feeling of being in love, in a house no one else knows exists. You lean back and slip your shirt off. Joel’s eyes go wide and a greedy warmth spreads over his face. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

You stretch and roll your shoulders back and Joel’s nostrils flare. “This was a bad idea.”

Joel was right. It was a bad idea. His luck lasts for a single game, and your flush beats his three pair.

You squeal in delight, collecting the cards. “Deal’s a deal, Mr. Miller,” head tilting towards his crotch. “Take ‘em off.”

He stands slowly, hands planting at the waistband of his boxers. He inches the waistband down and all you can do is stare at his beautiful, wide, half-hard cock. The boxers fall to the floor, he steps out and lets you ogle. He’s all broad and powerful: the furrow of his belly, sprinkled with graying hair, the mass of his shoulders, the thickness of his thighs. The candlelight flickers over the lines of him, lighting the constellation of scars across his golden skin.

“Stroke him for each time you lost, Mr. Miller.”

He snorts, but he spits in his palm and wraps it around himself. It’s always a little overwhelming to see Joel like this, to luxuriate in watching the way his lips curl in a snarl as he thumbs the bead of precum from the head of his cock. He gifts you five long, slow strokes, and you’re pretty sure you don’t breathe through any of it.

“Keep going,” you say, your own thighs squeezed together, slick and desperate from nothing but the sight of Joel in front of you. He spreads his feet wide, starts stroking faster, eyes locked on you. He’s already huffing, chest heaving, the cords in his neck tight.

God, you want him in your mouth, want to taste the slick salt of the precum he’s leaking for you, but this is all part of the game. You want to watch Joel lose it again, naked in the golden light, putting on a show for you, his wife.

One hand grabs the edge of the table, while the other jerks himself, hissing between clenched teeth. He’s bent over the table, fucking his fist. “Baby,” he groans, all ragged and desperate.

“Yes, Mr. Miller?”

“Close,” whimpers out of your big, strong Joel.

“Then come here.”

He does, stepping to your fast, cock still in his fist. He looms over you, all big, broad, and hard. You’re so close now, you have a front row show. You marvel at all of him… the bead of precum on his slit, the way his balls draw tight, the flex and strain of his plush stomach.

So, you take your breasts in both hands and squeeze them together, showing him your intent. “Here?”

He doesn’t even answer, just grunts your name and shudders as the first thick rope of his pearlescent arcs up, landing on your collarbone, the second splattering across your tits and running down the valley between them. He keeps jerking, unable to stop, squeezing each pulse out, milking himself until he has nothing left, the last few drops clinging to his cock before he smears it across your nipple. “Fuck,” he growls.

Hands planted on the chair’s arms, he drops forward, gorgeous face right in yours. He grins with a low chuckle. “Fuck, baby. Feels like I won.”

—-

There’s a large boulder by the cove, the bright sun bakes it in the afternoon, making it the perfect place to rest your back against after enjoying the chilled water. You’re sitting against it, book in hand, while Joel sits next to you, fiddling with his guitar, strumming random songs and notes.

It’s odd, the lazy luxury of the past few days has almost made you forget all the strife and stress of the world, but there is still a reminder that you live amongst destruction. Joel’s gun goes with him everywhere, hidden in plain sight just in case, and you still turn your head whenever you hear a sound escape the heavy treeline. But the danger never comes.

There’s a sound of rustling to the left of you, and Joel instantly stops strumming, placing the guitar to his side and slowly reaching for the pistol… just in case.

But your fears are quickly tamped down by the sight of a herd of deer, approaching your secret cove. You watch them, both silent as they part their way through the tall grass, heads flicking to watch you and Joel, pausing for a moment, then ultimately deciding that you’re no threat.

Joel lowers the gun back to the ground, leans his head against your shoulder, and you watch the wild animals, safe in their peace and their own world.

Neither of you speaks until you watch the deer move back through the tall grass just as the sun begins to set. The sky is lit orange, with streaks of purple and pink all bleeding into each other and the horizon. It’s a sunset for the books.

"Never used to notice them much,” Joel muses, almost absentmindedly.

“Hm?” you ask.

"The sunsets."

"They were always there," you reply softly.

You feel his exhale before you hear it, his thumb rubs thoughtful circles over your knuckles. "Guess you just start seeing things differently when..." He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished.

When you almost die, perhaps. Or when someone saves you. Or when life gives you an unexpected second chance.

"Yeah," you agree, understanding what he doesn't say. "You do."

He takes your hand, finger brushing against your ring. “You changed m’life,” he whispers.

You look at him, his earnest eyes full of the rarest form of joy. Not the bright, guileless rejoicing of a life that’s never been wrecked. No, this life is the hard-won thing. “And you changed mine, Joel Miller.”

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 31: Luck

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: The breeze picks up as you make your way down the makeshift aisle between the chairs, and the air fills with pink petals. Cherry blossoms swirl around you, catching in your hair and on the shoulder of your dress, as if the tree itself is celebrating this moment. It’s so perfect it almost feels staged, but Joel knows better—he’s never had luck like this. Chapter Warnings: A WEDDING!, slow dancing, whiskey, tommy miller being sentimental, ellie with joel's tan jacket but it's good and not sad, joel miller in love FOREVER AND EVER, chapter made author cry multiple times while writing, wedding night sex because ofc Words: 9,100

A/N: It's happening?! Knowing how much y'all care about Joel & Doc and how excited for this chapter you are means the world to me. Thank you to @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon, and @sin-djarin for their eyes, thoughts, love, and tears.

Joel & Doc On Their Wedding Day

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

You’re awake before the sun’s even risen, as if your body knows not to waste a single minute of today. Joel’s sprawled on his side next to you, arm thrown across your waist. You lie there in the quilted hush of the morning and watch him, long eyelashes moving as he dreams, plush lips parted in slumber. Your handsome Joel, who in only mere hours will be your husband. 

The glow of dawn is just beginning to edge the mountains when you slip from his hold, careful not to wake him, and tiptoe to the window, wrapping your robe around you. The cherry tree is just outside, where you’ll soon stand, the branches of it wreathed in white and pink. This is the day you never imagined, the kind that feels too good to be true. Joel stirs, and you look over your shoulder at him. He settles with a low grumble, hand absently reaching out to hold you as he sleeps. 

Your eyes move to the bookcase, onto the faded yellow book between a copy of Gray’s Anatomy and a Texas guidebook. You walk over and pick up Lonesome Dove. The last read page is still marked at 776. 78 pages until the end, you and Joel haven’t picked it up in months. It’s become something of an inside joke between you and him, the book that’s never finished. Your finger traces down the cover, across the creased line, and the slight rip in it. Joel’s lived so many chapters, this book and you, just being a small part of his story. But this book has seen all of yours and Joel’s story… from the first time you cracked the spine, reading to the man you barely knew. To nights of shared domesticity, your voice telling him the tale of cowboys in the west while he recovered, as you fell for each other. Then, the night everything changed, when Joel pulled you into bed with him, and this old book fell to the floor as you learned what his lips felt like against yours. You don’t place the book back on the shelf, you leave it out, on the table next to the chair you used to read to Joel in. One day, you’ll finish it, together.

Joel and Jefferson are left stretched across the bed when you make your way downstairs. You step into the dining room, smiling at the sight of the beautiful chaos on your dining table. In only hours, all these disparate elements will come together in the yard, under the cherry tree and the arch Joel built with his own hands. You lean over a box of jars and smell the wildflowers Joel brought you. 

Soon. 

The kitchen is just light enough, thanks to the large windows. In a few hours, Maria will be here, ready to turn your front yard into Jackson’s hottest wedding venue. You fill the percolator with coffee and set it on the stove. This simple task that you’ve done so many times now grounds you, reminding you that even on your wedding day, some things remain delightfully normal.

A slab of butter goes into the pan heating on the stove, and you pad over to the fridge, taking out the steak you charmed Seth into giving you. When the steak sizzles in the pan, you think of the countless, quiet mornings like this, making Joel breakfast and providing for the man that you love. You’re going to have thousands more of these mornings, thousands upon thousands more opportunities to make Joel smile, to nourish him, to show your love through everyday acts like making a meal. 

Such mundanity as making breakfast used to feel almost revolutionary. To be able to give and love so openly, to get to build a life together, to fry a steak and some eggs on your wedding morning. There’s an almost defiance against the darkness that still lurks beyond the walls. 

A soft meow announces Jefferson’s arrival, and he stretches languidly in the doorway before coming over to investigate the source of the enticing smell. He purrs loudly, head tilted up, green eyes fixed on the stove.

“Morning, handsome,” you greet, bending to scratch behind his ears. “No steak for cats, sorry.”

Jefferson’s not the only one awake, you hear Joel’s footsteps on the stairs and turn. He appears, hair rumpled, eyes squinting, wearing his blue robe. He stands in the kitchen doorway and looks at you, as if you’re something he never thought he’d have. 

“Mornin’ baby,” he greets, voice still husked with sleep.

“Morning,” you reply, smiling as he crosses to you. 

His arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chest warm against your back. He dips his head, nose nuzzling the crook of your neck, and he breathes you in. You lean and melt, savoring the heat of him.

“Steak?” he asks when he peers over your shoulder into the pan.

“Special occasion.”

“Mm,” he hums directly into your ear before he kisses it. 

The food doesn’t take long, and when you place Joel’s plate in front of him, you kiss his cheek and sit across from him. Joel breaks the yolk of his egg and cuts a piece of steak, dipping it in the runny, yellow puddle. When he takes the first bite, he closes his eyes in appreciation, a long groan escaping. 

Jefferson rubs his body against Joel’s leg, catching his attention. “Hey, guy,” Joel murmurs, cutting a tiny piece of steak and dropping it to the ground for the cat. 

You eat slowly, savoring this moment and the food on your plate, the last quiet breakfast before you become husband and wife. Joel reaches across the table and takes your hand, thumb tracing the pink stone of your engagement ring. Soon, Joel will wear a gold ring you’ll trace during something as mundane and luxurious as breakfast with the man you love. 

—-

All it takes is one word uttered from you after you put the dishes in the sink.

“Bath?” 

Joel can only nod and follow you up the steps, unable to keep his eyes off the sway of your hips, the line of your legs, and the glow of your skin. Small details of the miracle of you in his life that he never takes for granted. 

The early morning light streaming in through the bathroom window is just enough to see. You fill the tub, checking the temperature with your fingers before you shrug your robe off. Joel can’t help it, his breath catches at the sight of you. No matter how many times he sees you like this, all naked and perfect, it still leaves him speechless. 

He hangs his robe above yours on the hook before he steps into the warm water. A grimace and a slight hmph escape him, no matter how hard he tries to fight it, when he settles into the water. You grab a glass jar filled with dried petals and herbs and sprinkle some of it into the water.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Peppermint for the inflammation, lavender for relaxation, and a little rosemary because it smells nice.”

The water laps against his skin, fresh mint rising with the steam, and he inhales the scent. His leg still aches from yesterday, he’s earned this soreness. It reminds him of his trip outside the walls, the lakeside secret, and the look on your face when he revealed the wildflowers to you. 

You hum when you climb in, sliding down, your chest against his. The bath is too small for two adults, but you make it work, like you always do. Your arms loop around his neck, cheek pressed just below his jaw. He breathes you and the healing herbs in, the sweetness almost undoes him there. 

You kiss him, wet and lazy, giggling when his beard tickles your chin. His hands rest on your back, fingers splayed, thumbs running up your spine. He could stay like this forever, with you melting against him, trading slow kisses. 

You pull back and smile. “How many hours?”

Joel glances at the clock on the vanity shelf, red numbers glowing in the mist. “Little over seven hours.”

You bite your lip and wriggle with excitement. “Seven hours,” you echo, straddling his lap, water gently sloshing around you. Joel’s hands move on instinct to your hips to steady you. 

There’s a bar of your homemade shaving soap on the edge of the tub. You pick it up and lather it in your hands, the smell of yarrow blooming from your hands. The foam is rubbed over his jaw, and you scrape it in little circles gently. Joel closes his eyes, transporting back to so many months ago, when he was just beginning to feel more like himself, when his hands were still too tremorous, and he was too weak to shave himself. He felt so much for you, even then… your beauty, grace, and care lighting an eternal flame only for you. His body was barely mended and still frail, and yet his heart raced for you. The gentle physicality of your attention, how careful you were, how you’d pause to check his face, your fingertips leaving little spots of fire where you touched it. 

Now, he watches you, the same care evident as you work slowly, scraping the razor down his cheek, wiping clean with a towel. You’re so close he can feel your breath against his lips. Now, he gets to take you in slowly and greedily, his eyes roaming your beautiful face as you focus. He wants to memorize the moment and stay in the warm intimacy of it. You’re focused, brows furrowed as you run the razor across his skin, trimming his beard to the perfect length. When you’re done, you lean in, brush your thumb along his jaw, and inspect your work. “God, you’re handsome,” you sigh. It’s so sincere it almost embarrasses him.

He grins bashfully, and you laugh at him. You set the razor aside and rinse your hands in the water, then slip further down his chest, body sliding against him. Joel kisses your forehead, hands moving over your back. 

When the water gets too cool, you stand first and step out of the tub. You turn, extending your hand to help him. Joel takes it, forever grateful for the support as he navigates the tub edge with his stiff leg. He wraps you in your faded purple towel and stays there, holding you in his arms, your bodies slowly rocking back and forth in the steamy bathroom that smells of peppermint. 

You both dress in the bedroom, Joel choosing a flannel and jeans, while you put on a light pink dress that makes you look even softer and more delicate. You’re so gorgeous, Joel has to remind himself to breathe. You look perfect enough to marry right now. 

There’s a loud thunk outside, and both of you cross the room to the window. Below, in the yard, a procession of wagons is arriving. People unloading chairs and tables from them. It’s not even that big of a wedding, and yet it looks as if Maria’s roped in whoever is available to help. 

“Of course, Maria’s already on it,” you say. 

“I better go get Ellie up then.” 

You snort. “Good luck.”

He reluctantly pulls away from you, heading for the door. Joel turns to take one last look at you. You’re still at the window, watching the organized chaos of the wedding preparation. In just a few hours, you’ll be his wife. 

—-

By the late morning, the house is in full wedding chaos mode. Wendy arrives with her arms full of makeup bags and hair brushes, rattling on about how beautiful a bride you’re going to be. You tell her to get set up in your old room and go to find Joel. He’s outside, helping Tommy maneuver the arch into place, and you watch as the two brothers position it perfectly under the cherry tree beaming with pink petals. You let them share a silent nod of approval after they rock it back and forth to make sure it’s secure. 

“Hey,” you say. 

Joel turns, a smile on his face. “Hey, baby.”

“Wendy’s here, and I’m about to get ready.” 

He takes your hand, leading you somewhere more private, to the backyard, and into the dilapidated gardening shed opposite Ellie’s garage. He closes the door behind him, draws you in close, and holds you for a long minute. 

“You ready?”

You nod against his chest. “Very.” 

You can feel the slight nervousness vibrating through his touch, you’re on the same frequency as him. You both want this badly. 

His lips brush against your forehead. “I love you,” he says against your skin. 

You tilt your head up, taking in every handsome inch of his face… the wrinkles, crinkles, sunspots, and scars. “Love you too.” 

You share a kiss, unhurried and sweet, one that says see you at the end of the aisle, and I already miss you. Then, Joel leads you from the shed to the back door, where he gives you one last kiss. “See you soon, Mrs. Miller.” 

You smile the whole way into the house and up the steps to where Wendy’s set up a miniature salon in your old bedroom. Brushes of all sorts and sizes are spread out amongst the desk top, quadrants of powders and creams are spaced next to each other. Small signs of the old world, from the ancient eyeshadow palettes, mixed with the new world, small pots of homemade pigmented lipstick. It feels so luxurious. 

Wendy is kneeling on the floor, sorting through her arsenal of makeup and muttering in a running monologue about which shade of blush will work best with your skin tone. “You need something that won’t get washed out with the sun,” she says, holding up two nearly identical pans of powder. “Also, do you want to do a bold lip? Or, maybe something soft and classic—” 

You cut her off, laughing, “I trust you, Wendy.”

The familiar sound of quick footsteps in the hall catches your attention. There’s a knock at the door. “It’s me,” Ellie calls.

“Come in.”

Ellie’s hair is styled much neater than it usually is, and she’s still in her regular clothes, you know she’ll change into something nicer for the ceremony later. Her eyes travel across the room, taking in the way it’s been turned into a makeshift bridal salon. 

“Joel forgot his jacket,” she explains. “He sent me to get it. Said he’s not allowed to see you.”

“I’ll show you where it is.” You lead Ellie across the hall to the bedroom you share with Joel. The bed is still unmade from this morning, the scent of the peppermint still lingers from your bath. Joel’s jacket is hanging in the closet, and you hand it to her.

For a second, she just stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, clearly wanting to say something but not sure how to do it. You make it easy for her. “Your hair looks really nice,” you tell her. 

Ellie shrugs, but she’s pleased. “Dina did it, said I can’t mess it up at all.”

“You’re both going to look amazing,” you say. 

She nods, and then her face gets serious. “I wanted to say, uh—" 

She stalls out, then tries again. “Joel never really said it, but I know it’s a big deal. You and him.” A breath, deepening her voice. “He does this thing where he tries not to show it, but he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

“He makes me happy, too,” you manage, throat tight, tears swelling behind your eyes, ready to tip over. 

Ellie nods again. “I guess what I’m saying is— thanks. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, kiddo,” you say, using Joel’s term of endearment for her without even thinking.

The familiar word unlocks something in Ellie, and she steps forward and wraps her arms around you in a tight hug. 

“I’m so glad he found you.”

That simple sentence contains so many layers. You know what she means… glad he found someone to love, glad he found someone who accepts who he is and what he’s done, glad he’s found someone who could save him. Tears begin to edge your eyes at the enormity of what she’s saying, at the almost blessing she’s giving. 

You squeeze her back. “Me too,” you whisper.

She gives you a quick nod, then turns and leaves, Joel’s jacket clutched to her chest.

You stand there for a moment, fighting back the tears that threaten to ruin whatever makeup Wendy is about to apply. When you return to your old bedroom, Wendy looks up from her array of supplies. “Everything okay?” she asks, noting your misty eyes.

“Everything’s perfect,” you assure, settling into the chair she’s positioned in front of the mirror.

Wendy stands behind you, hair brush in one hand, blush brush in the other, lifting like they’re weapons ready for battle. 

“Ready, bride?” she asks.

“Never been more ready.”

—-

Joel pulls at the sleeves of his jacket and adjusts the collar of his white shirt. He checks his pocket, double-checking for the piece of paper with the few sentences he wrote, just in case he forgets his vows. For a second, he’s nervous. Real nervous—the kind of nervous that makes his fingers numb. But he breathes deep, soon he’ll get to see his bride.

He remembers standing in a church decades ago, wearing a suit that didn’t fit, a heavy pit of dread inside his chest. It’s different now. There’s only a sort of rightness, a feeling like the years and every loss have built up to this perfect moment with you. 

He tries to look calm, though he’s sure he’s showing his impatience. He eyes the crowd—what passes for a crowd these days, maybe thirty people, faces he knows, some he even likes. A few he only tolerates for your sake. 

The day is perfect. The sky’s so bright and blue it almost hurts to look at. The soft, steady breeze brings up the sweet scent of fresh grass and spring flowers. He swears he can smell the bright purple flowers from Sarah’s garden across the yard. His eyes drift over to the small garden, just beginning to show signs of life. The purple aster bush is thriving amongst the small green shoots that are emerging like promises of beauty to come. The familiar pang in his chest shows the ache that sets in when he thinks of his daughter. She would have loved you. She would have been right here with him today, probably fussing over his outfit or teaming up with Ellie to tease him about being nervous.

There’s movement on the porch, but it’s only Jefferson claiming his spot on the railing, a small black bow tie that you knitted around his neck. It’s almost as if the cat’s fully aware of his important role in the proceedings, so dignified and yet so ridiculous. 

He glances at Tommy, who sits in the front row with his hands clasped in front of him. His little brother gives him a singular nod, and Joel knows he means it: you’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted, brother. 

There’s a hush over the crowd when Wendy walks out of the house and sends Ellie a tiny nod. Ellie takes her position and picks up her guitar, the same one Joel carved the moth into all those years ago. An awkward cord is played, but then it’s steady. She plays the old wedding march, not perfect, but with enough force and conviction to make Joel’s throat close up a little. 

Joel glances at Maria, who stands behind the arch, officiant for the day. She smiles at him, her eyes already shining. 

The door to the house opens. 

This is it. After everything. The loss. The violence. The near-death moments. The healing. The secret held. The forgiveness. This is the moment when his new life begins. 

He can’t move. You step out in a dress, so simple and bright, white with delicate lace atop it. It’s not elaborate or ornate, it’s so perfectly you that Joel can’t imagine anything more beautiful. There’s a single purple aster blossom in your hair. Around your neck gleams the ruby necklace he gave you for your birthday. In your hands, you hold the wildflowers he picked. 

His vision begins to blur, and Joel feels the tears form in his eyes. He blinks them away and takes a deep breath. You descend the front steps slowly and turn, your eyes meeting his. The small smile across your lips is delicate and confident, the look in your eyes is full of pure love. 

Every guest turns to watch you, faces lighting up with smiles and whispered appreciations, but Joel barely notices them. His focus is entirely, completely on you.

The breeze picks up as you make your way down the makeshift aisle between the chairs, and the air fills with pink petals. Cherry blossoms swirl around you, catching in your hair and on the shoulder of your dress, as if the tree itself is celebrating this moment. It’s so perfect it almost feels staged, but Joel knows better—he’s never had luck like this.

You stop at the front row, hand your bouquet to Dina, who takes it with a wide smile. Then you step forward to stand with Joel. Now he can see every detail of you, the shimmer on your eyelids, the rosiness of your lips, the brightness in your eyes. He wants to pinch himself, to make him realize that this is indeed all real. He’s never felt more alive.

—-

Your handsome Joel stands before you, his hands in yours. Cherry blossom petals dance around you, some landing on Joel’s shoulders and his hair. Maria’s words float through the air in the clear and confident cadence she’s perfected. “This is what we fight for every day. Not just survival, but moments like this.”

It’s almost hard to believe, this wedding isn’t part of a fairy tale or fiction, it’s real. He’s right here, with his lined face and rough-knuckled hands. He’s all you can look at, everything else is just background noise… the guests, the chairs, even the pink petals that fall. 

Maria nods to Joel to recite his vow, and he begins to speak after a quiet throat clear and a sigh of your name. “I promise to protect you. To stand by you. To love you for as long as I’m breathin’.” His thumbs brush against your knuckles as he speaks. “Ya’ saved my life in so many ways ‘n I’ll spend the rest of it tryin’ to be worthy of that.” 

You can’t help the quiet, happy sob that hiccups out of you. Joel’s never been verbose, he’s never needed to be. He lets his silent strength and resolve speak for him, but there’s a depth of his feeling in the gentle cadence of his voice, the slight tremble of his hands, in the way his eyes never leave yours. 

When it’s your turn, the words are easily said, straight from your heart. “I promise to heal you when you’re hurt, to support you when you’re strong, and to love you through all of it. I promise to make each day we’re together worth living, not just surviving.”

Joel’s eyes are filled to the brim with tears, and one falls down his cheek, charting its way down and dripping onto the tan of his jacket. 

Maria holds out her hand, and Benji rushes forward, placing both rings in her palm, a task he was very proud to do since he was told it was his responsibility. Joel’s wedding band is simple and golden, a miracle that it fit when Maria found it in the town safe. You slide it over his finger, and it gleams in the sunlight, a perfect tether to the love you share. He takes your hand in his and slips your engagement ring back onto your finger. 

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Joel’s already reaching for you, hands finding your waist before Maria can even say “you may kiss your bride.”

You fall into his lips, just like the first time he kissed you. It’s soft and slow at first, but then his hands frame your face, and his lips press harder. The crowd erupts, full of raucous joy. You giggle into his mouth, and when he pulls away, the smile on his face takes your breath away. Wide and joyous, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners, softening every hard line of his weathered face. You’ve seen him smile countless times, but never like this. He looks younger, more unburdened… like Joel without carrying the weight of the apocalypse on his shoulders. 

The next minutes are a blur: hugs and handshakes and all the faces you’ve come to know, some tear-streaked and some wide with smiles. Tommy slaps Joel on the back with so much force that he winces and laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe any of this is real. 

You find your way through the crowd to the porch and into the house, where Joel shuts the door behind him. Now it’s just husband and wife in the sweet silence of their home. He gathers you in his big arms, squeezing you tight. “Are you happy?” he asks. 

“More than I ever imagined,” you answer against the softness of his jacket. 

He leans down and rests his forehead against yours. “Me too, baby.”

—-

The music’s already pouring out of the speakers borrowed from The Tipsy Bison when you and Joel step back out from the quiet of your home. The neighbors don’t mind the noise. Today, they welcome it, this rare burst of unbridled happiness in a world that tries all it can to snuff out such celebrations.

Not only is the music pouring, but the drinks are already too. A makeshift bar stands near the porch steps, bottles of whiskey, wine, and beer lined in neat rows. Sometimes it pays to be Maria Miller’s in-law.

Ellie’s at the bar, and when she catches sight of Joel, she runs over, two glasses of whiskey in her half-covered by her tuxedo jacket hand, and reaches one out to Joel.

“Cheers, you two,” she grins.

Joel takes it, and with a tilt of his chin, raises it to her. “Thanks, kiddo,” he says. She knocks her glass against his, and they both take a slow sip. He hands you the glass and keeps his eyes on you, watching as your lips form around the glass. You tip your head back and take a sip, cough just a little, then put your hand to your chest. “Jesus, that’s strong.”

You gather Jefferson in your arms and kiss the top of his head, and Joel pets the chin of the cat he loves. The glass of whiskey is nursed in his hand, gold ring sometimes clinking against the tumbler. It’s a good whiskey, and it hits harder when sipped under the glare of new sunlight, new happiness. He’s not the youngest man at the party, but he’s the happiest, he’s certain of that.

You two don’t even get a chance to leave the porch yet, guests approach, offering congratulations that Joel accepts with nods and small smiles. His face isn’t used to the strain of happiness, it’s almost painful in the unfamiliarity. Dr. V shakes his hand firmly. Steven congratulates you and tells you to enjoy your honeymoon. Wendy hugs you both, her enthusiasm nearly knocking the two of you off balance.

The whole front yard has been transformed. Tables are scattered across the lawn, topped with candles and jars filled with flowers. A painted sheet hangs from the garage, it declares “MR & MRS MILLER” with flowers trailing along the edges. Ellie’s work.

People keep pressing in, offering handshakes, hugs, loud congratulations. Joel barely gets through a conversation before a new one starts. He lets you talk, lets you entertain, and be the glowing center of the universe. It’s hard to look away from you. His arm has set up permanent residence around your waist as you let people shower you with congratulations and compliments.

“How’re you holdin’ up?” he murmurs to you between well-wishers, his lips close to your ear.

“Perfect,” you whisper back.

The sun has begun its slow descent, and Tommy stands on a chair, clinking a knife against his bottle until the crowd quiets. "Alright, folks,” he announces. “It’s time for these two to have their first dance as husband and wife.”

Joel knew this was bound to happen, and yet he’s still nervous. He sure as hell doesn’t like a lot of eyes on him, but today isn’t about what he’s comfortable with. It’s about you and the beautiful thing you’ve built together.

He sets his glass down on a nearby table and holds out his hand to you. “Dance with me, Mrs. Miller?”

Your smile nearly buckles his knees as you take his hand, letting him lead you to the makeshift dance floor in the driveway. It’s not a polished wood floor, it’s not under a chandelier, it’s a crunchy gravel driveway lit by candles and some overhead string lights, but it might as well be the fanciest ballroom.

Joel nods to Jesse, who hits play on the song. He tugs you in close, his hand at the small of your back, palm splayed, thumb finding the seam of fabric where your dress zips. The deep, dulcet tone of Johnny Cash’s voice begins to drift out over the speakers, and Joel thinks it’s the most perfect song for this moment.

The first time ever I saw your face I thought the sun rose in your eyes And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave To the dark and the endless skies

He remembers that first time so clearly, even if he was in the midst of his convalescence. You, backlit by the sun shining in through the windows and the pink petals of the cherry tree. Your silhouette was all he could make sense of at first, eyes still adjusting to consciousness. Then, as his vision cleared, he awakened to your beautiful face, focused as you knitted beside the bed he lay in. He couldn’t stop staring at you, trying to assure himself that he was indeed still alive, that you weren’t some sort of divine being keeping watch over his broken body. He hadn’t known then that he was looking at his future, at his salvation.

“Do you like the song?” he asks.

You look up at him, every inch of your face bright, eyes glistening, smile blooming even wider than he knew you had in you. “More than anything.”

All around, the crowd watches, but Joel pays no mind to them. He doesn’t care that he’s not a good dancer, that his steps might falter a bit without his cane. You make it easy. You make everything easy.

Joel presses his lips against your forehead, whispering the lyrics against your skin. “And the first, every I lay with you. I felt your heart so close to mine. And I know our joy, would fill the earth. And last till the end of time.”

The crowd claps when the song ends, but Joel doesn’t let go. He kisses your lips, and you smile when you pull away, tiny tears tracking down your cheek.

For once, people aren’t looking at Joel and seeing all his losses, all his grief. They’re seeing what he has now, who he’s become… all thanks to you, his wife.

—-

The food is spread out on a long table, and it’s hard to believe it’s all for you. You said you wanted Italian food, and Seth and the kitchen crew surely listened. There are stacks of pizza, garlic knots swimming in butter, and trays of spaghetti.

There’s a table set apart for you and Joel, right next to the cherry tree. Someone’s even placed a fancy 3-tiered candleabra atop it. Your plates overflow with pizza and spaghetti. A simple meal, one that could almost be described as not fancy enough for a wedding, but for you and Joel, in the middle of an apocalypse, it’s perfect. You slide onto the bench beside Joel, and he keeps his hand on your knee at any chance he gets.

“How you feeling, Mrs. Miller?”

“Like I’m dreaming,” you admit.

“Not a dream. But I know what you mean.”

The music fades out, and Tommy stands in the middle of the yard. “I just wanted to say a couple things about my brother,” he starts. “Someone I’ve known my whole life, and in this world, I feel pretty damn lucky to say.” He swallows the lump in his throat, and his dark brown, almost familiar eyes find yours. “As y’all know, I—we, almost lost him just a year ago, but by some miracle he was saved… and now I feel as if he’s never been more alive. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” Tommy continues, earning a ripple of laughter from the crowd. “And I say that as a compliment. I’ve never seen him happier than he is now. So, let’s raise a glass for Joel and his beautiful bride. May they have this happiness for the rest of their time left on this earth.”

Glasses are raised, and the crowd roars in agreement. You see Joel swallow hard, the gold band on his finger glinting in the light as he raises his own glass and nods at Tommy. It’s perfect.

Then, to your surprise, Dr. V, your steadfast mentor, rises. He takes the same spot Tommy stood, and adjusts his glasses.

“In our world, we’ve learned to value all forms of healing. Sometimes that’s mending a wound, setting a bone. Sometimes, it’s bringing people together and giving them a reason to hope. You and Joel remind us that even after everything, life can be beautiful again. So on behalf of every broken thing you’ve fixed, and every patient who’s walked out of the clinic with a little more hope, thank you. We wish you both a long, long life together.”

You choke up at his words. Joel wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulls you in closer, and kisses the crown of your head.

You never thought you’d get to love and be loved.

You never thought you’d get to be celebrated.

You never thought you’d get a wedding.

How lucky you are.

—-

Everything around Joel is glowing. Candles flicker across every surface, string lights tethered from one tree to the next radiate, and his bride, held in his arms, shines the brightest. A classic oldie with a soft jazzy pattern sings how she’s in the mood for love as Joel, and you sway across the gravel.

He’s now part of one of those couples who move together on the dance floor, it’s something Joel never really even noticed, until he had you. It’s something he swore he’d never want, all the normalcy of couples and weddings and dancing, yet in this moment, he wants nothing else. He wants every night to feel like this, to have all these happy memories, no matter how tiny or huge, to end the same way, with your head against his chest.

There’s nothing left for him to prove. Nothing left but simple facts of his life: his legs and back always ache, his heart is full, and his wife is smiling up at him in the golden light of the evening. For the first time in so long, he lets the happiness settle inside. Lets his lips press to your ear, lets the wedding guests and music make him feel like he’s in one of those Technicolor movies you love, lets his hand flow from your waist to your back and run in small circles.

Two songs later, you and Joel gather behind a tall table, the too-big-for-30-guests wedding cake stands tall and chocolatey, as requested by Ellie. Atop the top tier sit the wooden figures Joel carved, a man and woman. Simple shapes, but handmade with each cut carved with love.

Maria hands him a silver-plated knife, probably scavenged from some abandoned mansion, kept polished and cared for because Jackson can celebrate. Your hand wraps around his on the handle, and you collectively cut into the cake. The crowd cheers, some whistle and woo. Cutting a cake is such a simple thing, and yet a cake means celebration, even more so now.

He slices the first piece. You balance it on the spatula then plop it on the plate, and for a second, he tenses, half-expecting you to start a food fight, but you just lift the fork and feed him a bite.

It’s good. Damn good.

You dab the corner of his mouth with your finger, licking the icing off and humming in appreciation. He returns the favor, pressing a forkful to your lips and watching you savor it.

Then, you lean in and kiss him, chocolate on your tongue, and there’s even more cheers from the crowd.

The music plays on, Solána and Jesse man the stereo, playing everything from The Cure to Roberta Flack to The Velvet Underground. Everybody flows to and from the dance floor as the sun begins to set behind the mountains.

Joel’s arms lock tighter around you, and you burrow even closer to his chest. You hum along to the song, softly singing “fade into you, strange you never knew.” The sound of it, pressed up against him, makes a sense of accomplishment unfurl inside him. Joel Miller finally got the girl.

His eyes meet Ellie’s across the dance floor as she and Dina slow dance. Her chin lifts, her cocky grin meeting his when they trade their victories across the other dancers. They both got their girls.

—-

You and Joel drift from tables to groups to the dance floor, making your way through the clusters of friends and neighbors that have come to celebrate you both. People stop you to talk, to hug, to laugh, or to ask you what it feels like to be a Miller now. Joel’s hand stays planted on the small of your back, he’s never farther than arm’s reach. When you leave one group, he’ll lean in and whisper how good you look or how much he loves you.

Dr. V finds you two by the drinks table, holding a glass of water. He looks at you over his spectacles, nods at Joel, then back to you. “I expect you to enjoy your week off. Don’t even think about the clinic.” You protest that you’ll miss it, but he waves a hand. “You’ve more than earned it. The town will still be here.” He shakes Joel’s hand, claps him on the shoulder, and says, “Take good care of her.”

Joel just nods, but you can see the pride in his face.

When the sun is completely gone and the stars blanket the sky, a couple of fire pits are hauled out and lit. People play cards at the tables, dance in the driveway, cheers and drink around the fires, and make memories, all because you and Joel fell in love.

The air gets that Wyoming night chill, and even though you don’t mention it, Joel feels you shiver and immediately excuses himself. He comes back with your favorite blue flannel of his, and he helps you into it. You don’t button it, you just tie it around your waist, grinning when you roll up the oversized sleeves on you. Joel grins too, eyes flicking up and down with a possessive look.

When “Heart of Gold” begins playing, Joel doesn’t wait for you to ask him to dance. He takes your hand and leads you to a patch of driveway, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your hand against his chest. He starts to sway, softly singing along with the lyrics, all rough and low, an almost growl.

You look up at him, and the firelight makes his eyes almost golden. You’re right there, suspended in a perfect moment with your handsome husband, dancing outside your beautiful home after the end of the world.

It’s well past everyone’s bedtime, and the party begins to fade as the fires die down to coals and the candle wax begins to pool on surfaces. You and Joel stay outside the whole wedding. He keeps his arm around your shoulders as you say goodbye to your guests, and you lean against him, never wanting to forget how tonight feels.

You’ll never have a night like tonight again, but you’ll have the rest of your life being loved by Joel Miller.

—-

After the last toast, the last dance, the last flicker of candles, the wedding is over. Joel stands in the doorway of his house, surveying the celebration still laid out across his yard: the arch still draped in flowers, glasses scattered across surfaces, stray flower petals strewn across the lawn. His eyes don’t linger on the mess outside for long. It’s late, and his body is aching in all the old, familiar places.

He closes the door behind him, and you stand in the foyer slipping your heels off with an oof of relief. There’s a silence after all the hours of music and laughter, and he welcomes it. He shrugs off his trusty, old tan jacket, it’s been through hell and back with him, it’s only right that it gets to be part of a day like today. He hangs it on the hook, then moves to the couch, plopping down on the cushions with a grunt. He bends over, sighs, and starts untying his boots.

You pad over, barefoot, your white dress trailing over the hardwood. You pull his flannel off, and then you’re dropping down atop him, back meeting his chest, the white of your dress spilling across his lap.

Joel wraps his arms around you, breathing you and the night in… all sage, vanilla, woodsmoke, and something sweet. Your head tips back, lips finding his, and you kiss him, lingering, with zero rush, like you know that you have the rest of your life to do this.

His hands slide up the front of your dress, palming at the lace stretched across your breasts. You moan, and the sound you make punches right through him, tightening something low in his belly. You rock atop him, hips rolling against the press of him.

“Still in your dress,” he mutters against your mouth.

“Mm.” You writhe again. “You object?”

He doesn’t answer, just buries his face into your neck instead, mouth dragging slowly across the slope of it, teeth grazing against your skin. You shudder, arching up into his hands, head falling back against his shoulder.

Outside, the wind moves through the cherry tree. The whole town is dark and sleeping, and none of it touches him here. Finally, he can have you all to himself.

“Mrs. Miller,” he whispers against your ear. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He loves the way you move when you know you’re about to get fucked by him. How your entire body orients towards him, eyes growing hungry and dark. You rise from the couch, offer your hand, and shoot him a smile that tells him you’ve been waiting for this moment.

Joel grabs a few extra candles from the dining room table and follows you up the stairs. He thinks about grabbing you, slinging you over his shoulder just to hear you giggle, but instead, he follows. He likes watching the sway of your hips as you take each step.

The bedroom is dark, but the bright moonlight shining through the window polishes the room in a silver glow. Joel lights a few candles, and the room lights, the flames gilding the room in aureate flickers.

You walk to him, and each step forward makes him go dry in the mouth. His bride shines. You’re so beautiful, he can hardly stand it. His hands plant at your hips, your hands wrapping around his neck. There’s a hum between you when he lowers his head and kisses you, tasting the perfect night on your lips. He wonders how he ever lived without you, how you’ve made him a new man, and yet embraced every scar he holds. It makes him dizzy and even needier for you. He can’t get enough. He kisses you slowly, hands moving from your waist to the small of your back.

Tonight, he wants to remember every second. He means to take it slow, savor every sweet moment and inch of you. But, you’re insistent, tongue sweeping into his mouth, hands fisting the front of his shirt. He chuckles into the kiss, and then the laughter dies when you nip his bottom lip, tugging just enough to make him groan.

He nuzzles along your jaw, trails kisses down your neck, and lets his tongue feel the flutter of your pulse. He never thought he could hold and touch something so precious, not in all his life. His mouth moves lower, lips pressing to the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your chest above the lace. You swallow a gasp, and Joel smiles against your skin.

His hands map down the body he treasures, the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, and he settles onto the floor with a grunt. He tries to fight, his joints protest, but he’s earned every ache today. He wants to worship you like this, and when he looks up at you, you’re haloed by the candles and moonlight. He’s mystified, almost dumbstruck by your beauty. You look down at him, hand sliding into his hair, fingers curling around his tendrils. He’s on his knees before you, a man at the altar, and he worships you, his wife. He’s sure he’s in heaven because you’re surely an angel.

He runs his hands up your ankles, your calves, your knees. He gathers the white fabric of your dress as he travels higher and higher up your thighs until it’s bunched up at your hips. That’s when he first spots the light blue little scrap of nothing and he freezes.

“Jesus,” he breathes.

Joel’s brain goes fuzzy for a second, only able to process the way it hugs your skin, the damp patch of wet already crowning your cotton-covered cunt. He leans in, hands bracing your thighs, and presses his face to the damp fabric, and breathes. You smell so fucking good, so heady and warm, inviting and ready for him. He lets his nose press, then pushes his tongue against the damp fabric, tasting the heat and desire. You shiver and he holds you, kneads the flesh of your thighs, and then licks again, up and down the cleft of you, tonguing at the seam of the thong.

He can feel the high keen you let out when he pulls the thin blue scrap aside, and his tongue laps at your clit. He sucks and licks, savoring you until you begin to tremble.

“Joel. Please. I just… I want you, I need to feel you.”

He gives you one last long, slow lick, just to hear you whimper, then rises. It’s not graceful. His knees crack, and the ache shoots up his leg, but he ignores it. Instead, his hands slide up your body until he can cup your face in both palms and kiss you, imparting your taste on your lips.

Your hands run along his chest. “I want to feel you,” you say, eyes and voice needy. He helps you with the buttons of his shirt, your fingers stumbling over the last two, his hands covering yours to steady them. The shirt falls, and you’re already moving to his jeans, the buckle, the button, and then the zip. He watches your face the whole time, the concentration across it, the want and the need. He steps out of his jeans, kicks them aside.

He reaches for you, turning you, finger trailing from your neck down the line of your spine. He finds the tiny zipper tab and draws it down slowly. It’s a small rasp that echoes through the room as the dress loosens. The beautiful lace falls down your body, landing on the floor, and you step forward out of the white circle. Joel grunts a deep sound of approval when he takes you all in. His bride, in the silver and gold of the bedroom he shares with you.

He sits at the edge of the mattress, and you stand between his legs, and all he can do is stare at you with awe. You reach back and remove your bra, and he arches forward, pressing his nose against the valley of your breasts, kissing your soft skin there as he breathes the scent of you in.

Joel hooks his thumbs into the sides of your little, blue thong, drawing it down and off. He leans back, hands bracing behind him on the mattress, just so he can look. He has to close his eyes for just a second, just to make sure this is all real. When he opens them, you’re watching him, lips parted, eyes roaming his face. Everything he’s gone through, the losses, the lies, the revelations, everything has culminated in this perfect moment.

You’re a masterpiece, and when you settle atop him, thighs pressing against his hips, he can’t imagine anyone luckier in this world. You’ve brought him back to life, made him believe in miracles and redemption.

“My beautiful wife,” he growls.

“My handsome husband,” you echo with a grin.

He flips you with a twist and a growl, landing you gently on the mattress. You’re spread across the gray of the sheets, limbs restless and waiting for him. He covers your body with his, settling between your thighs, your warmth meeting his. He kisses you all over, down to your chest. He latches onto your nipple, sucks, bites, soothes with a kiss.

He slides his hand between your thighs, groaning at how soaked you are for him. He collects it, wraps his hand around his cock, and drags the head of it through your slick. He can’t help the grit of his jaw, the fluttering of his eyelids. You’re so ready for him.

“Joel,” you moan.

He pushes in, slow, so fucking slow. Your body pulls him in, inch by inch, until his hips meet yours. He holds, forearms braced on either side of your head, forehead dropped to yours, and just breathes in the sweetness of you.

“Baby,” he groans, and starts to slink in and out. Long and deep. Hips rolling, drawing and pressing, savoring and clenching. Your legs lift and wrap around him, heels pressing into his back.

For so long, he shunned tender things, flinched away from being known. And then, you came into his life and changed it forever.

Joel drops his chest to yours, burying his face in your neck and breathes and moves. “Mrs. Miller,” he says into your neck. He moves deeper, harder, fucking you in long, sweet strokes, your cunt squeezing him. His spine fills with the pressure, thighs tightening, hips stuttering. He reaches between your bodies, thumb against your clit, circling it and you answer it with a desperate, sharp moan of his name.

You’re close. He can feel it, the grip of you, the way your hips lift to meet him. You’re whimpering his name over and over, tears filling your eyes at the overwhelming pleasure you’re giving each other. 

“I know,” he grits. “I know, baby. I got you, baby.”

He keeps the pressure, keeps the rhythm, keeps his eyes on yours even as his vision starts to blur. He’s full of pleasure, an enormous and inevitable feeling of bliss beginning to crest. 

You lose yourself first. Back arching, thighs clamping, pussy pulsing around his cock. He loses himself with you, driving in deep before he holds, whole body locking and he spills into you with a long groan that presses directly against your lips—

“Mrs. Miller.”

He stays buried inside you, shared aftershocks quaking between you as you breathe each other in. He begins to rock the smallest movement of his hips, slowly working his cum deeper into you. You’re a mess of wet between your legs, and he just wants to let himself drown in the love and desperation you hold for him for a little bit longer.

Joel never thought he’d get something like this, never thought he’d get to live past the world ending, let alone have a home, a wife, a life like this. He thinks of all the years lost, all the times he turned away from things that felt good because he was scared to lose them. If he lost you now, it’d kill him, but he can’t imagine living another day without you. Not ever again. —-

“Mrs. Miller.”

The growl of your new name pulls you from sleep. You’re caged in Joel’s arms, your back to his warm chest. You blink in the early morning light and roll to face him. His hair is a mess, his cheek is pillow-creased, eyes barely open but already crinkling at the corners when he sees your face.

“Good morning, Mr. Miller,” you brush the words against his mouth.

The smile that breaks across his face is the one you love most. Wide, the deep lines of it carving all the way up to his eyes. He looks like a man who slept well and woke up to exactly what he wanted.

He hums against your mouth when you kiss him. But he doesn’t let it last long.

He pulls back, smile planted firmly. “We should start getting ready,” he suggests, a pleased teasing in his voice.

You blink. “Ready for what?”

“Honeymoon.”

You stare at him. “Huh?”

He doesn’t answer, he just moves, rolls out of bed with only a small grunt, and crosses the room to the closet, totally unabashedly naked, besides his gold wedding band.

He pulls out a large duffel bag and a backpack.

“Come on, Mrs. Miller, we have a trip to go on."

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Save The Date

Saturday, May 2

For my lovely readers, a preview of the next chapter of Healed.

My thanks to @kenobiwanx, who was a dream to work with, for bringing my vision of Joel and Doc on their wedding day to life.

I love their wedding, and I hope you will too. 💞

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

A Year Of Healed

Heeeeey. A year ago today I posted the first chapter of Healed annnnnnd well, congrats to my flighty Gemini self for sticking with something for over a year. To all who have read, thank you. To all that have helped me (@mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, @forspringcleaning, @for-a-longlongtime, @sin-djarin), thank you. To Joel Miller for being hot, thank you.

Anyways, Joel and Doc's story isn't done, just yet and I'd like you to

Save The Date

Saturday, May 2 For the next chapter and a big surprise I'm excited to show you.

It all began, like so many ideas, in a group chat with @mothandpidgeon and @schnarfer. (lol just noticed I called him JOE)

Below the cut are some previews and more memories.

this makes me laugh.

~Vibes~ for the next two chapters.

And of cooooourrrseeee. Joel & Jefferson by my beloved vv @valevntine.

Seriously though, thanks for letting me get sentimental on main. I certainly treasure this story. 171,000+ words, 30 chapters, and countless smut scenes... we're healing Joel Miller y'all. 💞

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 30: Tomorrow

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: After everything you and Joel have been through together… saving his life, healing him, learning his darkest secret, and still choosing him, after building this life together… the actual act of marrying him seems like the easiest thing in the world. Chapter Warnings: wedding planning, maria plz be my best friend, smut, blow job, face sitting, p in v sex Words: 5,100

A/N: Thank you to @schnarfer and @mothandpidgeon, for all of the love, notes, and support they've given me, their wobbly fellow winged being.

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

You said goodbye to Joel this morning at the stables. Only this time, he was leaving, not you. His hands bracketed your jaw, palms cradling your face, thumbs tracing your cheeks as he leaned in and kissed you. “S’nothing dangerous,” he promised against your lips. “We’ll be back before sundown.”

You nodded and kissed him one last time before he swung himself onto his horse. There was a slight wince, you caught it, before Joel could quickly replace it with the stubborn hardness of his jaw that told you there was no way you were going to talk him out of it.

“Be careful,” you’d whispered, hand against his thigh.

“Always am.”

He clicked his horse into a trot and gave you one last look before following Tommy through the gates. Anxiety and pride pumped through your heart as you watched the gates shut behind them. Was it foolish to let the man you love leave the protection of Jackson the day before your wedding?

“You still with me?” Maria asks, pulling you back to the present… into Ellie’s old room, now a makeshift wedding supply storage room.

“Sorry,” you say, mind still drifting to the replay of Joel’s back as he rode away. You want to focus on the moment, the wedding tomorrow, but you still hold that anxiety, with all the things that could go wrong.

Maria catches you zoning out again. “He’ll be fine,” she says, knowing exactly where your mind has gone to. “Both of them are the most capable men here, and that’s even with Joel’s injuries.”

There’s always been a kinship with Maria, possibly from the first day you met her, and she instantly found value in your skill. But there’s a different kind of kinship now, a sisterhood built on shared history.

“I know they’ll be fine,” you say, glancing out at the arch now moved underneath the cherry tree. “I just wish it weren’t today.”

“Hey, when the Miller boys want something, they get it,” she says it with the exact certainty of a woman who’s spent years loving and dealing with the same strong-willed Miller genes as you. “Now come on, there’s a ton of boxes that need to get downstairs.”

The dining room table fills with more and more supplies as you and Maria carry the wedding supplies down the stairs, arms and legs growing tired with each trip. Soon, the dining table disappears beneath vases of all heights and colors, alongside jars wrapped in twine and ribbon. A cardboard box spills over with candles… some brand new, others half-burned from previous celebrations. There’s even a metal pail filled with fresh spring flowers that Sadie from the nursery was happy to provide.

“Feel like we’re close to being done,” Maria says, assessing the room. “How are the nerves?”

“Not bad, I’m just ready.”

After everything you and Joel have been through together… saving his life, healing him, learning his darkest secret, and still choosing him, after building this life together… the actual act of marrying him seems like the easiest thing in the world.

Maria’s eyes and her smile are warm. “You’ve been good for him. For all of us, really. And you’re officially getting the extended Miller clan tomorrow,” she says with a laugh. “God help you.”

Truth is, the Millers and Ellie have felt like family from the get-go, all of you brought together by your shared love and experiences with a gruff, caring, old man. Joel has given you so much, and tomorrow he’ll give you a wedding.

The to-do list grows shorter and shorter as the day goes... numbers and bullet points getting crossed out with each completed task. Maria’s a huge help, helping more than she needs to, and you suspect she knows you’d spiral about Joel leaving if left to your own devices. She’s spent the whole morning with you, being your right-hand woman.

The window outside the kitchen shows the silhouettes of the mountains against the blue sky. You pour yourself and Maria a cup of tea and imagine Joel and Tommy somewhere out there, two dark specks against the gold and green of the valley, riding together, communicating in that wordless Miller way. The overbearing weight of your worrying doesn’t sit with you anymore, the steady confidence that you hold for Joel settles in. He’s strong and capable, a man who’s beaten death, a man who’s survived.

You’re unplugging the stereo system, quietly swearing at the tangled nest of black and red cables, when there’s a knock on the door after lunch, Wendy stands on the porch, arms cradling a dark green sheet, white lace peeking out from the edges. You quickly usher her in… even though Joel’s miles away by now.

When the three of you reach your old room, Wendy lets the green sheet fall to the floorboards, revealing your dress hanging from a hanger. It glows with an almost ethereal radiance in the bright sunlight.

Maria gasps at the sight of it, hands clapped over her mouth. “Jesus. It’s perfect,” she says.

A white beacon of love covered in lace now hangs against the wood of your old closet. There’s something special about this moment. Three women of different backgrounds and stories, survivors of the world trying to end over and over again, looking at a beautiful dress that you’ll wear when you marry the man you love.

“And, that’s not the best part,” Wendy says, shrugging her backpack off and dropping it on your desk. “Something old,” she says, reaching in and pulling out a pair of white heels that look impossibly clean. They’re perfect… not too high and in your size. “Had these in the back of my closet waiting for the perfect time.”

She doesn’t stop there. “Something new and blue,” hand diving back in to reveal a skimpy scrap of light blue lace and hands it to you.

Your eyebrows rise when you hold up the barely there fabric, and Maria cackles with joy. “You’re going to kill my poor brother-in-law,” she grins. “I swear Benji was conceived the day I traded for a new thong.”

You place all of your wedding accouterments into the closet and take one last look at your dress before the three of you make your way downstairs. Wendy leaves first, smiling widely, telling you she’ll see you tomorrow to help you get ready, and when Maria leaves, she hugs you tight. “Never expected Joel ever to marry,” she says, “but I thank all of my lucky stars that he’s marrying you.”

—-

Joel can’t get enough of the air out here, he breathes in each breath deeper and deeper. It’s different outside of Jackson. Fresher. Cleaner.

He loves Jackson, it's given him so much, and yet he can't help but sometimes feel caged by the imposing walls… almost like he’s stuck back in the quarantine zone, but this time, instead of despair and survival, he’s happy and healthy. But there’s still something about being out here, the breeze blowing slightly across his face, the world wide and rolling before him. The mountains that surround him have been here far longer than Jackson has stood, than the cordyceps and the end of the world they brought, than humanity’s need to survive. He adjusts his weight with a grunt, trying to ease the dull ache in his leg when he pauses to look through the binoculars and scan the trees.

“You good?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah. Just the usual,” Joel says.

The two brothers ride along the ridge, following the trail along the lake that mirrors the bright blue sky. They follow a small offshoot, a babbling brook that leads to a small lake. It’s just how Joel remembers, and he smiles at the thought of showing you this secret place. Color is everywhere, random tapestries of bright wildflowers, dotting the meadows and trails in various hues. Tommy lowly whistles, pulling Joel’s attention to a herd of elk in the distance, drinking from the stream. Life continuing, adapting, surviving, just like them.

Soon, they reach the reason why they’ve come all this way. Joel smiles at the sight of it, this little hidden spot that very few people in Jackson know about. “S’perfect, just how I remembered it,” he says.

Tommy nods. “Mike and Chris will head out and get it all ready for you.”

The idea of you finally seeing what he’s done for you lights something inside his heart. It still amazes him sometimes how much he wants to please you. There was a time when he thought that part of him was forever gone, the part that took joy in making someone else happy, that planned surprises and looked forward to shared moments. But then, there was Ellie, who put salve on his old wounds, with each moment he made her happy; and then you, who healed him of all that ailed him, and made him want to always make someone smile.

He tsks his horse back into a trot, excitement bubbling in his stomach as he and Tommy begin the journey back toward Jackson. He can’t stop thinking about how by this time tomorrow, he’ll have stood beneath the cherry tree in his yard, watched you walk toward him in your wedding dress, and promised to be his for whatever years he has left.

After Sarah, after the outbreak, after Tess and the Fireflies and everything with Ellie, after being pulled back from death, he never thought he’d be here. Getting married. Loving and not just merely surviving. His leg begins to throb as the horses descend the steeper part of the trail. He’s used to this pain, it’s a constant for him, a silent companion that flares and recedes and never leaves. But he’s made his peace with it, because strangely, he’s almost grateful for it. Every twinge reminds him how close he came to never feeling anything again, and what he’s gained from his survival.

He’s gained you.

The days of recovery turned into weeks and months, and with each day that passed, Joel fell for you. First, it was your hands… changing his bandages, wiping away the sweat from his fevers, stitching what was broken across his body. Then, it was your voice… letting him know he’d be okay, reading to him, humming sweetly. Then, the sight of you… your beauty that he could see when he was finally able to open his eyes again, your smile, the stubborn hope across your face. The pain led him to you, and for that, he can bear it gladly.

Joel and Tommy ride in silence, before they reach the meadow a few miles before Jackson. Joel hops off the horse, wincing slightly when he lands on the soft ground. He pulls his knife out of his pocket and begins to collect the wildflowers blooming in front of him. Tommy helps too, pointing out the brightest flowers, and soon Joel builds a bouquet of healing just for you, his future wife.

—-

The ballpoint pen still works, even after all these years, and all of the wedding preparation notes fill your little blue notebook. Everything’s ready: the flowers, the candles, the jars, the vases, the dress. You’re bent over the list when you hear the familiar heavy bootsteps. You’re already up and moving before the door even opens. When it creaks open, Joel stands, all broad and handsome, framed in the doorway, backlit by the golden light of the setting sun. “Hey, baby,” he grins.

You don’t answer, you just meet him, wrapping your arms around him. He smells all outdoorsy and masculine and wild… like pine and sweat. You breathe him in, nuzzling close. One of his hands stays behind his back as the other pulls you in close, chin resting on top of your head.

“I missed you,” you breathe, voice muffled in his chest. You take a lungful, drinking the earthy musk of him in. “How was it out there?”

“Good,” he says, the pride in his voice lifting his lips with a smile. “Felt good to be outside again.” But when he moves, he winces and grunts. “Leg’s complainin’ about it, but...” He shrugs. “Was worth it.”

Your mouth opens to suggest he sit and rest, but he’s already pulling his hidden hand from behind his back. In it is a bouquet of wildflowers. You blink, dumbfounded, at the color, and the tears instantly spring to your eyes at the purple, yellow, and white. Yarrow, echinacea, and aster bloom from Joel’s hand when he reaches it out to you.

“Joel,” you gasp.

“Figured you could use a nice, big bouquet for tomorrow.”

Your nose buries in the flowers, and you inhale the sweet smell, imagining the sight of Joel amongst the flowers, selecting each one with the stubborn precision you know so well.

“They’re perfect,” you whisper, looking up to find his dark eyes watching you intently. You feel wobbly, overwhelmed by the love this man holds for you. You manage a “thank you," as the tears begin to fall.

He reaches out, hand against your cheek, thumb wiping at the tears. “You look real good with ‘em.”

His quiet compliment makes your heart swell with the love and adoration of his words. You turn your face to press a kiss into his palm before you move to find a vase. The perfect one waits on the dining table, and you fill it with water and carefully arrange the wildflowers.

“There,” you say, stepping back to admire them.

Joel comes up behind you, arms looping around your waist, chin on your shoulder. Together, you stare at the wedding landscape. The wildflower bouquet bright in the center, surrounded by candles, ribbon, and vases.

“Everything’s ready,” he whispers, a twang of awe in his deep voice. You turn, hands planting on his chest, and kiss him. When you pull away, you notice the exhaustion around his eyes, the slight sag in his posture.

“You should sit down.”

Joel doesn’t argue, which tells you just how tired he must be. You lead him toward the couch, where Jefferson’s curled atop it, and Joel drops down, boots and all, sprawling tiredly against the soft cushions. He sighs heavily, and you kneel at his feet, hands going to the laces of his left boot.

“You don’t have to—“ he starts, but you silence him with a look.

“Let me take care of you,” you say quietly. It’s what you’ve been doing since the day Maria led you from the clinic to his broken and bleeding body… and what you’ll continue doing for the rest of your life.

You ease the boots off his feet, setting them aside with a thunk against the floor. Your fingers skim up his calves, massaging through the denim of his jeans, feeling tension. The relief is instant, Joel’s head tips back, his eyes closing.

“Thanks, baby,” he groans. “Sore as hell.”

“I’m sure,” you say, thumbs digging into a particularly tight knot in his right calf.

“But it was worth it,” he says, cranking his head to look at you, a lopsided grin lighting his handsome face. “Being out there again, on horseback... felt like myself again.”

Pride swells in your chest. A year ago, Joel could barely even walk. Now he’s riding outside the walls, bringing back wildflowers for your wedding. It’s remarkable.

“I’m glad,” you say, continuing to massage his leg, determined to ease every bit of pain you can. “You deserve to feel like yourself again.”

His smile is soft, almost shy. “Was worth it, too, for the look on your face when I gave you those flowers. Can’t wait to see you holding them in your dress,” he sleepily says, his body already slumping even more into the couch.

—-

Joel’s been instructed to not open the door to your office. He knows the reason why. Your dress hangs inside. He doesn’t peek or even touch the knob. Some things are worth waiting for, and the sight of you, walking toward him in white, is one he wants preserved in all its power. He’s not a superstitious man; he can’t afford to be in a world where real monsters exist… but some old traditions feel worth honoring. A reminder that humanity continues, that rituals and ceremonies still have meaning even after everything that’s been lost.

Marriage.

It still feels a bit odd in his head, a memory of the past world. After Sarah’s mother left, he never thought he’d try again. Then the world ended, and such normal aspirations seemed foolish, luxurious even. Survival became the only goal worth pursuing. Then Ellie came into his life, and protecting her became everything. The idea of loving someone, of building a life with them—it was a fantasy from a world that no longer existed.

But you changed that. You, with your unwavering determination to save his broken body. You, who saw the worst of him—physically and morally—and still looked at him like he was worth loving.

Tomorrow, he’ll stand before whatever deity is left and promise himself to you. It won’t be legal in the old world sense—no marriage license, no official documentation. But it will be more real than any piece of paper.

—-

The sheets are cool against your bare skin as you wait for Joel, hair still damp from the shower you just had. You lie there, the room lit golden from the lamp, wrapping you in warmth and safety. Outside the window, the wind rolls in from off the mountains, shadows of the branches outside dancing across the ceiling.

You hear Joel before you see him. The familiar cadence of his steps, a dragging looseness to his left side. You know how sore he is, how he tries to hide it from you. You roll your head to watch him in the doorway. He’s stripped to just his boxers, hair also damp from the shower, a towel draped over his shoulders. Tingles light your body, nerves waking up at the simple sight of him. Sometimes you find it hard to believe how much you want him, seemingly a little more and more each time, but it isn’t just about the sex and the way he can give you all the pleasure in the world. It’s the way he looks at you, the way he holds himself, the way he’s given you a forever.

He grins, the crooked little half-smile when he takes you in, spread out on the bed, body already arching in his direction. He leans against the doorframe for a second, reverential eyes roaming you, face set in awe, like he sometimes still can’t believe you’re his.

Tomorrow, this handsome man will marry you.

You reach out for him, and he finally comes to you. The mattress sinks when he sits, reaching out to run his hand down your calf. He traces up your knee, your thigh, thumb circling on your skin. You feel every touch, every drag, every grip. You try to be patient, but you can’t.

You sit up, pull him toward you, and he lets himself fall. He’s so much bigger than you, but he folds easy, lets you kiss him first. Your hands burrow into his hair and tug him even closer. You pull, rolling him onto his back and he laughs a low, surprised sound, his hands planting on your hips as you straddle him.

“Hi baby,” he rumbles, brown eyes hungrily tracing your face.

“Hi,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his, teeth dragging over his plush, bottom lip. A low sound of need lets out of his chest, and you love how even after all this time he still wants you in the desperate way he does.

You kiss your way down, over to the scar on his shoulder, running your tongue along the raised skin of it before pressing your lips to his neck, nipping your teeth there. You kiss slowly down to his chest, pausing to rest your cheek against his heart. It thuds, strong and warm against your ear, and you stay there, letting the quiet knock of it anchor you, everything else falling away… your home, the wind, the protective walls. Nothing beyond this room, this man, this bed, the reminder that you too have survived, and that this is the reward for it.

You press a kiss into the hollow between his ribs, then another, slower over the scar over his abdomen. You can’t help but marvel again, at the map of him. The little mosaic of healed-over wounds and golden skin. Once he was a stranger, just a body on a table you needed to repair. Now you know every inch, every mark, every soft and secret spot of him.

The deep star-shaped scar on his stomach isn’t nearly as faded as his others, you can almost see the wood still sticking out of him when you lick around it. He flinches, then sighs when you kiss the center of it. You kiss every scar across his body, down his stomach, across his hip. You spot the slight tremble of him, chest rising and falling faster, cock hardening against your collarbone as you move lower. You look up at him, see the way his eyes have grown inky black, and you grin.

“Lift,” you softly command, and he does, all obedient with a grunt. You strip him of his boxers and he’s already hard for you, cock thick and flushed against his stomach. You run your hand along it, feeling the velvet heat against your palm, leaving a gentle squeeze at the root of him. He hisses, hips jolting up, and then groans long and low when you take him into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, one hand coming to rest gently on the back of your head, just holding, never pushing.

You circle him with your lips and tongue, slow, letting more and more of him slip inside your mouth.

Your mouth and hand work in tandem as you take your time, working him slowly, even as he begins to lose control. You take him deeper, his thighs tensing under your palms. You can feel him struggle to keep still, to let you tease and lick and suck at your own pace. You want all of him, the taste, the weight, the way he groans, the way he can’t keep quiet when you suck him just right. Your tongue swirls along the head and dips into the slit, collecting the salty, creamy bead there.

Every time you pull back and look up, his eyes are fixated on you. He bites his lip, jaw clamped so tight you’re sure it aches, and when you lick a stripe up the vein that runs along him, his head tips back hard into the pillow, neck muscles straining. Joel Miller, the gruff, immovable survivor, unravels under your touch, coming undone with each lick and suck against his big cock.

You take your time, wanting to memorize every second, every sound, every drop of precum he leaks, because tomorrow, you’ll be his wife. This is your last night unmarried. Not that it matters. He’s already been yours, maybe from the first moment you breathed life back into his lungs. But the tradition of it, the finality, makes you want to draw tonight and the pleasure out. You go slow, languidly stroking him with your mouth and your hand, letting your fingers curl and dance along his thick shaft, squeezing at his balls, teasing him until his cock is pulsing against your tongue.

You tongue his slit, collecting the bead of precum weeping from it and he gasps out all the air from his lungs. “Baby,” he pleads, “you’re killin’ me.”

You hum just to let him feel the vibration, and his hips buck, hand tightening against the back of your head. You glance up, meet his eyes, and he looks absolutely fucked-out. You feel powerful and adored, like a goddess that shines under the love and lust of Joel Miller. He’s always made you feel that way, worshipping you in bed and outside of it. You crave his devotion as much as you crave his hands, his mouth, his cock.

You take him to the hilt, swallowing around him, and he strangles out a “Fuck, fuck baby, you gotta—” and then he pants “Wait, wait, come here.” It’s an urgent growl, but he’s gentle when he reaches for you. You let his cock slip from his mouth, spit stretching between the head of it and your mouth and you crawl up, heat burrowing in your belly at the way he grabs your hips, steering you higher and higher with shaking hands. He doesn’t pull you up to kiss, he doesn’t stop at face-to-face.

Strong arms haul you up his chest until your knees dig into the mattress on either side of his shoulders. You’re poised above him, hands planted on the headboard to steady yourself, heart racing when you look down and see the worship shining out of his eyes. You’re an altar, and he’s the only congregation.

You’re glistening, wet pussy catches the golden aura of the lamp light, and he’s transfixed by it, hands bracketing your thighs, pulling you to his mouth. You go, letting him draw you to hover just above his lips. He keeps you there, breathing in the heady scent of your desire before he pulls you down, thick tongue starting with a deep, slow lick from bottom to top. He’s greedy and the jolt rips through you, body arching, hands white-knuckling the headboard, while his strong arms lock you down against him, unwilling to let you float away from the bliss. He groans at the taste of you, vibrations of his devotion scattering through your pussy and body.

“So sweet,” he muffles against your cunt, devouring you with no shame. He feasts in that thorough, methodical way you know he’s always capable of. Like a man who spent so long denying himself and now wants to make up for all the lost time. He’s rigorous in the way he prays to you, tongue lapping and licking, lips circling your clit. You rock against his face, grinding down, his muffled groans and your moans echoing off the bedroom walls. His hand slides up, palming your ass, the other clutched tight against your thigh. He’s insatiable for you, nuzzling deeper, licking into you and sucking.

You’re shaking, pleasure blurring everything outside of the sight of Joel between your legs, eyes closed, thick brows furrowed. You reach down, thread a hand into his hair and tug, he answers it with a groan, tongue flicking faster and harder. It’s all so much… the rasp of his beard against your thighs, the sweet ache of your cunt, the echo of his groans. You’re close, so close, hips stuttering, thighs clamping around his head. You’re trying to fight it, but he’s merciless.

Joel’s devotion pulls a burning hot orgasm out of you, and you gasp an almost sob of his name. You shudder, your tremulous body dissolving as bliss speeds through every nerve of your body. Joel moans against you, lapping every drop you give him, licking you through it, even when your body sags, and your legs tremble so hard you think you’re going to need help walking down the aisle tomorrow.

He helps you slink down his body, holds you atop him, and let you catch your breath. You melt and stare down at him, a wild, blissed-out smile deepening his dimples and crinkling his eyes. His lips and beard shine with you, and you lean forward to taste yourself on his tongue and lips.

Joel pulls away. “One more time out of wedlock?” he asks.

You giggle. “One more time.”

His cock sits, hard and ready for you and you grip him, stroking once before pressing the throb right against your entrance. His eyes are on you, unblinking, brown gone almost black.

It’s a slow sinking down on Joel’s cock, taking your time, every inch of him pushing in and stretching. The pleasure is sharp, teetering on an almost pain and you take all of it, until you’re bottomed out, his hips against your skin and you both gasp. You’re still, unmoving, just feeling, letting the perfect fit of your bodies connect.

He reaches up, traces your cheek with a thumb, his eyes soft and adoring. “My girl,” he says.

You fall forward onto him, breasts pressed to his chest, forehead against his, and kiss him, mouths pressed together, breaths traded as you rise and lower atop his cock. You roll your hips and Joel’s groan vibrates. You do it again, slower, and Joel grinds up to meet you.

Your back lifts, and you sit up, Joel’s hands clutch at your ass and you look down at him, watch the way his face contorts and his eyes travel down, pausing at your breasts, before roaming down to where your cunt swallows his cock. Nobody’s ever looked at you the way Joel does, nobody’s ever made you feel this beautiful and glorious.

“Can’t believe. you’re mine,” he says, palm cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple.

You move faster and Joel thrusts up, both of you heedlessly sharing and chasing your own pleasure. Your hands plant on his chest, his heart beating under a palm as you grind and twist circles. His hands grip your hips tight. His mouth has gone slack, sweat beading on his brow.

“Jesus, baby, you’re so—fuck—” he rasps.

You can’t say something back, all you can do is fuck him faster.

“That’s it, baby, just like that, you’re perfect, s’incredible, you’re—”

Joel won’t shut up, but why would you ever want him to? He grits your name and then he cuts off, jaw clenched, face twisted up like he’s in pain. You lose yourself right alongside him, every muscle tensing, whole body spasming as the pleasure climbs and crests. “Gonna… gonna,” you gasp, and then you’re gone. Joel’s right there, rhythm faltering, hips driving up into you.

“Me too, baby,” he groans, strained and strong. You dissolve as he cums inside you, his hot seed pulsing inside you as your cunt clenches every drop of him out.

You collapse onto him, lips pressed to his neck, both of you breathing and gasping, bodies shaking. Your cunt still flutters around him as you both come down. Neither of you move, swaddled in the peace and love you provide for each other. The thump of his heart beats a rhythm that might as well match your own. You lift your head enough to look up at him, his eyes are already on you. You’ll never tire of the way he looks at you… with hope, vulnerability, and joy.

“Tomorrow,” you whisper as if it’s a benediction.

He smiles. “Tomorrow.”

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 29: Life

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Chapter Summary: In this alternate life, you might have made a small family… coming to Sarah’s soccer games, helping her with science homework that baffled Joel, teaching her to bake cookies that didn’t end up burned on the bottom. You would have filled the gaps Joel never even realized were there. Chapter Warnings: construction corner joel, sick child, star wars, joel chopping wood, sweat worship, pit worship, smut, blow job, p in v sex Words: 6,800

A/N: Raaaaaaggggh. Joel Miller chopping wood. 🫦

Healed Masterlist | Healed Playlist | Healed, The Video Edit | AO3

Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

You hear the loud THWACK before you see it. The sound and its random timing have been a mystery to you since you turned down the street before yours. It echoes in the late afternoon air. Then, you turn the corner and see the glimpse of your house… and the source of the noise. Joel. Ax held high above his head, chopping up the sawed-off trimmings from the overgrown pine tree.

The sight pulls you forward. You move slowly, almost stalking the front yard from three houses down.

You’re sweating. It’s not just the warmer-than-usual spring weather. His back is to you, and you can see the fabric stretching across his shoulders, thin, light grey cotton straining from his broadness. The ax drops, wood splitting under Joel’s might, you almost feel it in your bones. You stop at the driveway. Content to just watch, greedy eyes taking in his solid frame glowing under the golden sunlight. His feet are planted wide, body steady, and all you can do is ogle.

You’re mesmerized by the way he works… the lift, the pause at the apex, the control he yields as the blade slices through the wood, the crack of splitting timber. It feels almost primal to watch him like this, the man you’ll marry soon, his strength and capability on display right in front of you.

“Hey,” you call out, finally breaking your show.

He turns, sweat lines marking his shirt, darkening the fabric across his chest and neck.

“Hey baby,” he says, smile deepening the lines of his face, streams of sweat running through them. He takes his glove off, swipes his hand across his sweaty brow, and you almost want to moan at the sight.

Three steps bring you to him, and he sets the ax down, wrapping his big arms around you. He smells like pine, hard work, earth, and all man. You inhale him before you tilt your head up and kiss him, tasting the salty sweat that’s trapped between his plush top lip and mustache.

“I can finish this later,” he hums against your mouth.

“No, no,” you pull away. “Finish. I’ll watch.”

You stand back, arms folded across your chest, watching him pick up the ax again. Joel’s smirk is knowing, almost as if he can tell just how wet you’re already getting. He lifts the ax, big muscles tensing under his shirt, and swings down. From here, you can see the slight jiggle of his arms, the grit on his face as he slams the ax down.

You fight the moan that wants to escape. Joel keeps working, smirk still plastered across his insanely handsome face. At one point, he lifts his shirt up to wipe at his brow. You’re sure he’s doing it on purpose, your brows flying up when you get a peek of his stomach. The tightness in your body is overwhelming, your thighs are too tense from squeezing together, and the pressure that’s been building is about to burst. You want to tackle him right here in this yard, but the damn neighbors. Jackson doesn’t need the scandal.

Fuck it. You take his hand and pull him towards the house. He chuckles an almost growl when he realizes just how much his hard work has challenged you. You speed up the porch, Joel’s just-as-quick steps following yours.

The door thumps shut, and you’re on him in a second, mouth dragging from his lips down his neck, tasting the salt slick on his skin, face burying against his shirt, breathing in the scent of him. Fresh wood, bitter grass, salty musk.

“Jesus,” Joel groans as your hands slide under his shirt, pushing it up over his stomach. You shove the fabric up, tug it over his head, toss it somewhere behind you, and then your mouth is back on him. Gravity and desire drop you to your knees, your hands already working at Joel’s belt buckle, fighting the stubborn metal and the want that trembles your hands. You’re more frantic than determined, fingers scrambling at his belt buckle.

“I’ll help, I’ll help,” Joel says, big hands reaching down to help anchor yours. He’s unhurried and casual, almost ignoring the fact that you’re on your knees, wide-eyed and craving his cock. The leather rasps through the buckle, the clink echoes through your body. He’s slow and teasing, his fingers go to the button, and he undoes it, coaxing the metal out of its hold, moving to the zipper next… splitting the metal teeth with a smooth pull down. You watch, unblinking, barely even breathing, transfixed by Joel doing it all for you.

He pushes his jeans down, just far enough for his hand to slip into his boxers, bringing out his cock just for you. The way he holds himself is so open, so matter-of-fact, that you feel your mouth go dry and seemingly wet at once. You barely even realize your tongue has slipped out, wetting your lips.

“This what you want?” Joel asks.

You nod. It’s all you can manage, still on your knees, eyes locked on his hand fisted around himself. His head is flushed, a single bead of precum glistens. You’re pulled forward, desperate for more and you lean closer, unable to do anything else but. You look up, needing him to see, needing him to watch and know exactly how much you want him.

You press your face into the dark nest of curls, breathing in that same distinct scent of Joel Miller. All man, musk, and work. You lick along the sweet length of him, making your way to the flushed tip, where you finally get to taste the bead of precum. You open your mouth wider, welcoming him into your mouth filled with drooly heat. The back of Joel’s head smacks the door, and he grits out a cursed, low “Fuck,” one of his hands tangling in your hair, holding you right there.

You edge forward, taking him deeper, willing your throat to open, letting him in as far as you can, your lips stretching around the wide girth of his dick. Joel’s thighs are meaty, the denim against them still warm from the sun… your hands dig into them, and you feel him, all tense muscle and brute strength. “Babyyy,” he drawls out.

You pull off, run your tongue from his swollen head to the wide base of his cock, tongue dragging down over his balls. You take one in your mouth, sucking the essence and sweat, moaning around it at the taste. You worship his balls, nose pressing into the seam of them as you lick and suck and kiss his warm skin. 

Joel’s panting, head thumping against the door, knocking and knocking as his big brown eyes watch you gargle his balls. “Fucking Christ,” he grits.

You pull away, smiling, and spit across his dick, before you take him back into your mouth. His fingers tighten, cording harder in your hair, guiding you as you bob and take him deeper. He’s panting for you now, hips jerking almost uncontrollably, one hand clutching at you almost like he’s going to float away if he lets go.

“You gotta stop,” he hisses, ragged and tense. “Or m’gonna cum down that throat. Need to fuck you—nyaaah.” He can’t get the rest of his words out when you take him all the way down your throat and choke around him. He gasps, “Baby,” sweat still sheening against his golden skin. “Please—I want to fuck you. Please.” He’s desperate, praying your name over and over, body rigid as he tries to fight you. And then, he shouts your name. All power and demand. “Please,” he softens. “Let me feel your pussy.”

You rise up, hands already working at your clothes. You’re moving so fast, needing him, that you’re not sure which garment you shed first: shirt, bra, pants, underwear. It’s a cascade of fabric falling to the floor. It doesn’t matter, not with the way Joel’s watching, his eyes dark and starving for you, breathing heavy as he takes you in.

He’s on you before you can think, spinning you until your back collides with the door, the wood chilling your back as his hot mouth overheats yours. He swallows your gasp, one hand palming your breast, thumb toying with your nipple until it tightens and thrums. The other hand drifts down between your legs, brazen callused fingers slipping through the slickness you’ve been spilling out. You’re embarrassingly wet, all done by his ax and the wood. “Look at you,” he growls, tongue licking into your mouth. “Soaked.”

Two fingers push inside, fucking you so slowly that it makes your legs tremble. He’s methodical with his fingers, sinking in and slinking out, running a line up to your clit to swirl around it before delving back inside.

“Joel,” you gasp, hands clinging to his shoulders.

He growls, a sound of all man and might, and then, suddenly, you’re weightless as he lifts you up against the door, strong arms wrapping your thighs around his waist. He does it so effortlessly, and you cling to him as he carries you into the living room. Joel lies on the couch, sinking into it with you held in his arms, your limbs loosening around him to settle next to him, face to face. He hooks your leg over his hip and you happily open for him.

Now, it’s just the couch, Joel Miller, and his cock nudging between your thighs. Up and down, he drags the thick head through your wet, collecting every drop and shiver and gasp you gift him.

“Fuuuck,” he breathes. Slowly, he keeps rutting his cock along your slick folds, and you’re tensing, tight and tighter, aching for him to fill you. But he only teases, watching you greedily show him every ounce of pleasure you can’t hide when you pant all uneven and ragged for him.

Bliss spreads through your body when he finally pushes in. That pressure and stretch, and the way Joel groans your name as his fingers bite into your hip, makes you already feel like the rest of the world has dissolved.

“God, baby,” he grits, brown eyes deep and adoring staring into yours.

You gasp, burying your face in the warm, swampy hollow of his armpit. His scent consumes you, making you dizzy off desire, all the while his cock drives deep, splitting you apart like the logs that lie outside in the yard. You huff, unashamed at how loudly you respire, nose pressed to the damp skin and bristling hair, helping to muffle your moans. The growl Joel makes when he realizes exactly what you’re doing… makes your cunt clench around him even more, drowning him in your wet.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you reach your apex, muscles coiling and spiraling, the pressure in your body drawing you tight, legs trembling. You know bodies… you’ve made it your life’s work to know them, heal them, and understand them better than anyone. Sometimes it feels like a thankless job. But when Joel Miller reads you, reads the way you tense or shiver or gasp, the way you grip onto him, suddenly all those hours of studying are worth it. This isn’t a miracle, but the way Joel treats you like you are one, the way he keeps you tight against him, fucking you deeper and rougher… that’s a miracle.

You’re gone, surrounded by all of the man you love, strong arms holding you, big cock stretching you, his scent drowning everything out. You scream into the salty dark of his armpit, hands around his neck, clinging to the dark strands at the nape there. Even with your eyes shut, light still distorts and shimmers behind your lids. Your pussy clenches Joel’s cock, milking him, pulling him towards his own release. He pulses then heats, his hot cum paints your walls, and he sighs your name all dreamy and totally fucked out. All you can do is lose yourself, farther and farther, burrowed into the scent of him and the heat of his cum.

The world slowly begins to gather again, all the pieces of your living room fitting back together, books and battered furniture appearing. Joel’s still got you, arms locked tight, and when you finally tip your head up, you see the sweat glistening down his cheek and neck, catching the gold of the evening light. You tilt, mouth meeting a drop at his collarbone.

He chuckles, his fingers flowing lazily up and down along the line of your spine. “Guess I should do more hard labor around you.”

You smile at him, lips meeting his. “Definitely.”

—-

The stack of off-white paper sits on the table. The pages aren’t perfect. Water spots dot the surface, some sheets are worse than others, but they’re all intact and usable… and in this world, that means they’re precious. Joel looks up from the stack, at you and Ellie, leaning in on opposite sides of the table, both of you bouncing ideas off of each other at a too-rapid pace for his half deaf ears.

Ellie picks up a sheet from the top, holds it up to the light, eyes traveling over every slight blemish, before she just shrugs and drops it back on the stack. You pick up a pen, double-checking the ink on a piece of scrap paper, then drag a sheet into your space. Joel finds himself staring at you, your bottom lip captured between your teeth as you concentrate.

Carefully, you write in simple, elegant cursive, something he thought was lost forever, at the top of the page: Joel Miller &

Next to his name, you add your own. Seeing your names together, written in permanent ink, as if they’ve always belonged together, makes his heart skip a beat. Your name and his, forever written on this precious piece of paper. The letters that make your name his favorite word in the world look perfect next to his own.

You glance over, catching his eye, and he pats your thigh, keeping his hand there.

“You’re next,” you say, pushing the sheet across the table to Ellie.

She pulls the page in and concentrates, focused only on the paper and the pen in her hand. She traces a border of flowers along the edges of the paper.

“This okay?” she asks, head lifting to look at you, pride and uncertainty in her curious eyes.

You smile assuringly. “Looks great.”

Ellie nods, eyes focused back down as she draws a small butterfly floating right next to Joel’s name.

Joel swallows. he feels the ache of grief and the gratitude of love as Ellie honors his little girl gone too soon. You must sense the quiet grief inside him, your hand finds his atop your leg, and you hold it tight.

Ellie glances up, and Joel gives a small smile to her that she returns before reaching for another paper.

“So, how many more of these?” she asks.

“Twenty,” you respond, already lettering out another pair of names at the top.

“And people used to send these things out?” Ellie asks.

“Oh yeah. Back before… people used to spend hundreds of dollars on wedding invitations. They’d have raised lettering, ribbons, layers of different papers, special envelopes lined in gold.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ellie scoffs.

You chuckle. “It was. People spent thousands on weddings.”

“So stupid,” she mutters. “I mean, I know, paper’s rare now, but even if it wasn’t, why waste it?”

“It was one of those things people were just used to doing. Used to have to send out invitations for Sarah’s birthday parties,” Joel offers. “First it was Sesame Street, then it was princesses, then soccer balls.” He picks up one of the completed invitations, admiring your and Ellie’s shared work. “We’d go to the party store, and she’d spend forever choosing the perfect one.”

“And are these perfect?” Ellie asks.

Joel lowers the paper and sees the question on her face. “It is, kiddo. S’perfect.”

You lean into Joel and trace your finger over one of the flowers. “It certainly is,” you echo.

When the invitations are all finished, and colored in sparsely with some watercolors Ellie sacrificed, they lay drying across the dining room table. Joel’s struck by how just twenty pieces of paper can mean so much to him.

“Good work,” you say to Ellie, putting your arm around her shoulder. Joel loves seeing you two like this, how easily the two of you interact. There’s a shared comfort between you, a friendship that’s developed even without his influence. Ellie trusts you, respects you. And you feel the same for her. “Think you earned some pie.”

“I do too,” she responds, shaking out her hand.

—-

Ever since you’ve accepted the offer to run the clinic, you find yourself pausing at the doorway of Dr. V’s office, taking in the sight of the weathered desk and the overfilled shelves of medical texts. Soon, all of it will be yours. The desk, the books, and the responsibilities. You’re both thrilled… and terrified.

Steven’s kind voice behind you pulls you from your reverie. “Big shoes,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You turn to him. “Quite.” “You’re gonna be great, and we’re all here to help. Plus, the students are coming next week to shadow. Three of them.”

“Good,” you nod. “We need the help.”

Wendy’s quick, efficient steps echo down the hall. Her searching eyes settle on you. “Patient for you, room 2.”

You nod and excuse yourself before making your way to the exam room. Eyebrows rising when you see the last name of Miller on the chart. The door opens, and Maria is sitting on the exam table, Benji bundled in her arms. His usually happy face is solemn, nose shiny, and running. Your heart immediately softens at the sight of the miserable child.

“Someone’s not feeling well,” you say, placing the back of your hand against Benji’s forehead. He’s warm—not terribly so, but enough for you to be concerned.

“Auntie Doc,” he pathetically says, little face set snotty with sniffles as he holds his arms out to you.

“Hey, bud,” you say, cautiously accepting his weak hug, mindful of the germy mess he is. His small arms wrap around your neck, hot cheek pressing against yours. “What’s happening?”

Maria sighs. “He’s had a steady fever, and his nose won’t stop running. Bad cough, especially at night.”

“Let’s have a look, okay?” you say, keeping your voice gentle as you check his ears with the otoscope. Slightly red, but not infected. His throat shows a similar redness when you ask him to open wide and say “ahh.” The thermometer confirms your initial assessment… a low-grade fever of 100.3.

“Seasonal cold. Nothing serious, but he’s gonna be uncomfortable for a few days.” You open a drawer, pulling out a few teabags filled with a blend of herbs that will help his symptoms. “Steep this in hot water, add honey if you have it,” you instruct, handing it to Maria. “Keep him hydrated and rested.”

Benji coughs, a wet, phlegmy sound that makes you wince in sympathy.

“I’ll stop by after work to check on him,” you promise, ruffling his hair gently.

“Thank you,” Maria says, gathering Benji back into her arms.

You watch them leave before moving on to your next patient, an older man with arthritis that worsens with the damp spring weather. Then a teenager with an infected cut on her arm, followed by a mother of three with exhaustion and headaches. You examine, treat, and note. Examine, treat, and note, allowing yourself a couple of breathers in between. You get through the rest of your appointments, thinking about the wedding, about Joel’s smile as he watched you and Ellie work on the invitations, how he wrapped his arms around you this morning and whispered, “Mrs. Miller,” before he kissed you goodbye.

By the time you slip into Dr. V’s office, dusk is already beginning to show itself outside the windows. You catch him mid-thought, as he mulls over a few files. His head lifts, weathered face breaking into a warm smile. “Come in, come in,” he gestures.

You step forward and hand him the invitation, watching as he adjusts his glasses to read it. “Hope your calendar’s empty,” you say.

He huffs a laugh. “Next month, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning forward. “I’ll stay here until a couple of weeks after the wedding. You have a lot going on, and I’d love to offer my help this way.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he nods. “You deserve to enjoy this time.”

“Thank you!”

“Of course.”

When you leave the clinic, you wrap yourself in one of Joel’s flannels and head straight to Maria and Tommy’s house. The spring evening is cool, but not too unpleasant. The spring weather feels like a miracle after the harsh winter.

Maria answers your knock with a smile and ushers you inside. Benji is asleep on the couch, clutching his beloved stuffed giraffe. You crouch beside him, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.

“Feels like his fever’s gone down,” you report quietly. “That’s good.”

“The tea helped,” Maria says.

She leads you to the kitchen, where she puts the kettle on. The house is warm and inviting, filled with small touches that make it a home… a hand-knit throw draped over a chair, a memorial chalkboard over the fireplace, your and Joel’s wedding invitation hanging up on the fridge, a vase of dried wildflowers on the table.

With two cups of tea, Maria settles across from you at the table. “So,” she says, taking a sip. “The wedding. Do you have everything you need?”

“Almost,” you say. “The invitations are done, and we’ve been working on the yard.”

“I already have people assigned to help set everything up,” she says. “You don’t need to worry about a thing other than being a bride.”

“That’s too much—“

“No,” she cuts you off with a firm but kind look. “You deserve the break... especially before you run the clinic. Everyone in town knows how hard you work. Let them help you.”

“Thanks,” you accept.

Just as you’re about to accept, the front door opens, and you hear heavy bootsteps across the wooden floor. Tommy appears, rifle slung behind his back. He removes the gun, double-checking it’s locked, then sets it atop the fridge.

“Hey sis,” he jokes, crossing the room to tap your shoulder.

“Not yet,” you say with a chuckle.

“Close enough,” Tommy smiles, pulling out the chair next to Maria and taking a seat.

“Was just talking about the wedding, and how we’ve got people taking care of it. She actually tried to tell me it’s too much.”

“Oh?” he asks, a playful hint to his voice. “Did you remind her she’s marryin’ a Miller, and with that comes special perks?”

“Was just going to get to that,” Maria says.

You sigh and take the last sip of your tea. “I’ll take all the help without a fight, you two, thank you.”

You check on Benji one more time, still fast asleep on the couch.

“I have tomorrow off. I’ll be back in the morning to check on him again,” you say.

They both thank you, and Maria even sends you home with a couple of homemade granola bars. Soon, they will be your family, though you don’t need a wedding or a husband to know how much they all mean to you.

—-

A water stain spreads across the ceiling, and Joel squints at it… adding another item to his growing list of repairs. He stands in what will soon be the living room of Ellie and Dina’s new home, it’s modest—three bedrooms, nowhere near as spacious as his—but it’s solid, sturdy, and most importantly, only two streets away from his home.

He looks around the living room, picturing how it will look when furnished. Maybe Ellie will put her record player in that corner, or her guitar might hang on that wall. He just hopes she doesn’t cover the wall in all of her ripped, worn band posters.

The front door wooshes open, and Ellie stands, Dina follows in behind.

“Holy shit,” Ellie gasps, turning in a slow circle. “It’s huge.”

“Bigger than the garage,” Dina notes with a smile.

Joel guides them through the first floor, pointing out the repairs that are not, half, and fully completed.

In the kitchen, Ellie plays with a stove knob, admiring how the black coils heat. “A full stove,” she grins. “Yeah,” Dina says, “guess you’ll have to learn how to cook.”

Ellie trails her fingers along the countertop, her expression one of wonder. “Our own kitchen.”

“Still gotta fix that cabinet door,” Joel points out. “And this floor section here needs replacing.”

Ellie isn’t even focused on the flaws. She‘s too busy opening cabinets, peering into empty drawers, and testing the door that leads to the backyard. Joel smiles as he watches every discovery delight her more than the last.

“Bathroom’s through there,” Joel points. “Got the toilet working yesterday, but the shower still needs some parts.”

Ellie disappears into the bathroom, and her excited “Holy shit!” echoes off the tile walls.

The tour continues, moving upstairs, where the work is a little less complete. Some walls still need drywall, some rooms don’t even have full electricity yet. Joel points out each bedroom, listing the repairs still needed, but neither Ellie nor Dina seems to care.

The main bedroom is the last stop. It’s spacious, almost as big as the garage, with windows on two walls. Ellie crosses to the east-facing window and peers out.

“I can see the garage from here,” she says, turning back to Joel.

He joins her at the window, and sure enough, the roof of the garage is visible between the trees.

“Guess we won’t be that far apart, huh?” Ellie softly says.

Joel fights the tightness in his throat. “Not far at all.”

There’s history in his words… the months of distance between them, the winding road back to trust, the near-loss that brought them together again. Now, this new house represents another chapter in their story, one where Ellie can have her own life while still remaining close.

This is where Ellie will build her future with Dina. This is where she might someday raise a child or two of her own. This house represents everything Joel once thought would be impossible… a normal life and future for a daughter that wasn’t born his, but has filled that empty hole in his heart.

—-

You love the mornings of your days off. Sometimes, you’ll visit Joel at work when he’s in the office. Sometimes, you’ll meander around town, nodding hello to fellow residents, stopping into the swap to see what’s been put out, or picking up some food from the co-op. This morning, you’re headed to Maria and Tommy’s, hoping Benji’s feeling better.

Maria answers the door after two soft knocks and welcomes you in. “He had a rough night,'“ she says, taking a sip of tea. Benji’s on the couch, curled under a patchwork quilt, his face dampened with sweat from his fever. His breathing at least sounds less congested than yesterday, but a couple of crumpled, used handkerchiefs sit on the table next to an empty mug of tea.

“How’s he doing?” you ask, keeping your voice as quiet as you can and setting your messenger bag down.

Maria sighs. “Better than last night, but he’s still pretty miserable.”

Benji’s forehead is still warm when you gently place your palm against his forehead. Still warm. His eyelids flutter at your touch, his glassy eyes open, and focus slowly on your face.

“Hey, buddy,” you whisper. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he croaks, though his voice suggests otherwise.

You pull your stethoscope from your bag, warming the metal between your palms before placing it against his chest. His lungs sound clearer today, the congestion loosening. Good signs.

“He’s improving,” you tell Maria, and you can see the tension of her shoulders loosen. She hovers nearby, watching with arms folded as you check his ears and throat. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“I really need to get a few things done at the office, and chase down a couple people about planting season. I understand it’s your day off… but, if it’s not too much to ask, will you stay here with Benji for a few hours?”

“Of course.”

Maria’s gratitude is effusive as she gathers her things. She kisses his forehead before heading out, thanking you yet again.

Benji drifts back to sleep, and the house sits quiet. You wander to the bookshelf, selecting a worn copy of Wuthering Heights before settling into the armchair near the window where late morning light is shining in. It strikes you how oddly domestic it is to be doing something like this… babysitting your fiancé’s nephew. Sitting in someone else’s house with a book in your hand, helping your soon-to-be family.

You’re only a few pages in when Benji stirs, making a small hmph of discomfort. “Aunt Doc,” he says, rubbing his eyes with small fists.

You immediately set the book aside and move to him, perching on the edge of the couch. His skin feels cooler now as you check his forehead.

“How you feeling?”

“Tired,” he yawns.

“Then sleep, bud,” you say, joining him on the couch.

Benji scooches towards you, resting his head against you. “Are you staying?” he asks, eyes already closing again.

“I’m staying,” you promise, arm wrapping around him on instinct, cuddling him closer to you.

Soon, Benji’s breathing evens out as he falls back asleep, small hand clutching a fold of your sweater.

You don’t mean to doze off, but the quiet house and the rhythmic sound of Benji’s breathing lull you into a light sleep. You wake to the sound of the front door opening, momentarily disoriented before remembering where you are. Benji still sleeps soundly against you, undisturbed by the noise.

Joel walks in, his eyes softening when he sees you cradling his nephew.

“Finished the walkthrough with Ellie ‘n Dina. Maria said I’d find you here,” he whispers, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “He’s glued to you.”

Before you can respond, Benji stirs against you, eyelids fluttering open. He yawns, looking around with bleary confusion before spotting Joel.

“Uncle Grumpy, I don’t wanna be sick anymore,” he pouts.

“I know,” Joel says, leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees to bring himself to Benji’s eye level. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come over to our house, ‘n Jefferson can help us take care of you. We’ll watch Star Wars.”

Benji’s eyes widen at the mention of his favorite movie. “Really?”

“Really,” Joel confirms with a small smile.

You help Benji up and into his jacket as Joel writes a note to Tommy and Maria, tucking it into the front door where they’ll be sure to see it.

Joel lifts Benji into his arms with a slight grunt and you smile at the sight. Skinny arms wrap around Joel’s neck while you gather Benji’s favorite stuffed giraffe and follow them out the door.

The walk to your house is short, you can’t stop staring at Joel and the tenderness in how he holds Benji, the way he speaks softly to him. It’s like seeing the version of the man you love that you never knew… Sarah’s dad Joel.

At home, Joel settles Benji on the couch while you fetch a blanket from the linen closet upstairs. You scoop Jefferson up from his nap on your bed, placing him on Benji’s lap as if you’ve appointed the cat his personal nurse.

“Hey, Jefferson,” he whispers, petting the black and white cat.

The yellow text begins to crawl up the TV when Joel presses play and you sit beside Benji on the couch. He leans against your side, eyes wide as he watches the movie. Joel settles into his recliner across from you, but his attention isn’t on the TV screen, it’s fixed on you and Benji.

As the movie plays, you absently stroke Benji’s back, feeling his body grow heavier as he relaxes. Jefferson purrs contentedly in his lap. Occasionally, your eyes meet Joel’s across the room. Each time, you find him watching you with that same intense look… not quite sadness, not quite happiness, but something more complex.

You understand without words what he might be thinking. This moment, watching you care for a child, feels like a glimpse into a different life, one that might have been in another world. It’s domestic and ordinary and utterly precious because of it.

Benji coughs, and you automatically reach for the glass of water on the coffee table, helping him take small sips. When you settle back against the cushions, your eyes finds Joel’s once more. This time, there’s something new in his eyes—a quiet certainty, a peace. Whatever he sees when he looks at you holding this child has answered some question you didn’t know he was asking.

—-

Joel can’t take his eyes off you. The way you cradle Benji against your side, hand adjusting the blanket around his shoulders, makes something deep inside him light. You’ve always been gentle—it’s what makes you such a good doctor—but seeing that love and care directed at Benji makes his heart beat heavily.

His mind drifts, conjuring images of what might have been in another life, one where the cordyceps never existed. He imagines meeting you in Austin, perhaps at a hospital where Sarah had fallen and twisted her ankle during soccer practice. You might have been the doctor who treated her, kind eyes meeting his across an examination room while his daughter chattered about her team’s almost-victory.

Would he have found the courage to ask you out then? Maybe you would have scribbled your number on the back of a care instruction sheet because you could read how into you he was. Maybe he’d call you that night, take you out to his favorite restaurant, wear the nicest flannel he could find in his closet.

In this alternate life, you might have made a small family… coming to Sarah’s soccer games, helping her with science homework that baffled Joel, teaching her to bake cookies that didn’t end up burned on the bottom. You would have filled the gaps Joel never even realized were there.

He can almost see it. You, sitting on the leather couch in his old living room, Sarah’s head in your lap as you both laughed at some comedy show Joel didn’t understand. You, in the kitchen of that house that now exists only in his memory, knowing exactly where everything belonged, humming along to the radio while you made breakfast on Sunday mornings. You, holding Sarah when she had nightmares, knowing just what to say to make her feel safe again.

Sarah would have loved you, Joel knows this. She would have looked up to you, confided in you about things she felt too embarrassed to tell her dad. You would have gone birthday shopping together for him, giggling about some inside joke while he pretended not to notice. You would have been there for all the milestones he got to witness and all the ones he missed—her first day of high school, first heartbreak, graduation.

That imagined life begins to sit heavily in his chest. It’s bittersweet… knowing that you and Sarah would have formed a bond as strong as any biological connection. You would have been the mother she needed, the partner Joel didn’t know to want until it was too late.

The front door opens with a soft click, and Joel has to slightly shake his dreams out of his head. Maria steps inside, her stern face turning into a smile when she sees you, Benji, and Jefferson curled together on the couch.

“Looks like someone’s feeling better,” she says, hanging her jacket by the door.

“Mommy!” Benji greets. “Jefferson’s taking care of me.”

“I can see that,” Maria smiles, crossing the room to feel his forehead. “And your fever’s gone. Looks like Aunt Doc knew just what you needed.”

You shift slightly, helping Benji sit up. “He’s been the perfect patient.”

Joel rises from his chair, stretching his stiff back. “Movie helped,” he adds.

Maria gathers Benji’s things—the stuffed giraffe, his small jacket—while Benji reluctantly says goodbye to Jefferson, giving the cat one last gentle pat.

“Maybe you could do some sleepovers at Uncle Joel and Aunt Doc’s house,” Maria suggests, helping Benji into his jacket.

Benji’s face brightens immediately. “Yeah!” he exclaims, then looks to Joel and you for confirmation.

“Anytime,” Joel says.

You nod in agreement, and the smile Benji gives you both is enough to make Joel’s chest tight again.

“Take it easy,” you tell Benji as Maria lifts him into her arms.

“Thank you both,” Maria says with a nod and leaves with Benji.

When the door shuts, Joel turns to you, and without a word, he crosses to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him. You fit perfectly against his chest, your head tucking under his chin like you were made to stand just there. He breathes you in.

“You’re amazing,” he says, letting a happy sigh escape him.

You chuckle and shake your head, modest as ever. “You’re the one who made a sick kid smile today.”

“Yeah,” Joel agrees, his lips quirking into a smile against your hair. “But mainly because I exploited his love of Star Wars.” 

"You're a good uncle."

"And you're a good aunt. We make a pretty damn good team."

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!