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morallyinept · 1 day

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Adulation - A Marcus Pike x Alopecia F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: You've been dating and getting to know the handsome Agent Pike for some time, but there's still one last thing you've yet to tell him about yourself.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Alopecia F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity. Reader does not have hair on her head and wears wigs.)

Word Count: 7.7k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here

Triggers & Warnings: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/thigh riding/gentle dirty talk/Marcus is completely smitten with you.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: It's important to me that all types of readers are represented in my work, therefore this collection of stories is written for readers with REAL bodies. However, anyone can enjoy them. Whilst this story may not specifically represent your own personal journey, it is my hope that it resonates and offers comfort and enjoyment. The condition/disability mentioned in this story is not 'one size fits all' - everyone's journey is personal and unique, and I have undertaken as much research as I can to write accurately and respectfully. 🤎

MAIN MASTERLIST | MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

"We should try the sampler platter," Marcus suggests, his gaze lingering on the menu of mouth watering options. "That way, we can taste a little bit of everything?"

“Well, they say variety is the spice of life. I like your thinking, Agent.” You smirk as Marcus’s cheeks fill with blood.

You watch as Marcus sips from his wine glass, deep brown eyes meeting yours over the glass rim of dark berry liquid.

“You, uh… you look really beautiful tonight. You look so good in that dress. I can’t take my eyes off you.”

“Stop it,” you smile bashfully.

“Do you really want me to stop?” He teases, pouring out more wine into your glass. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.”

You feel your face warm with pleasure at his compliment, your heart fluttering with delight, skin flecking with goosebumps and tingles as his words make their way across it.

He always makes you feel like this with a simple sentence and look. Makes you feel… seen.

"Well, I thought I'd switch things up a bit," you admit, a hint of giddy laughter in your voice. "Gotta keep you on your toes, you know?"

His eyes roam over the sleek bob of midnight black, the sharp lines of the style adding an air of sophistication to your ensemble. Your hair shimmers in the gloaming candlelight, lending an aura of mystery and allure to your already captivating presence.

Marcus chuckles, leaning closer to you across the table. "You certainly have a way of keeping me captivated," he remarks, his eyes sparkling with a magnetising affection.

“I do?” You query, reaching for your wine glass.

Marcus's eyes widen in surprise, a grin spreading across his face as he admires you. "Yeah. I love it," he replies, his voice filling with genuine admiration. "It's different, but it suits you perfectly."

“Different good?” You query and a pang of worry flits through your veins, reminding you it’s constantly there. A trusty companion, alongside your long term friends, angst and fear.

“Yeah. It’s like I’m dating all these different women.” He chuckles at the absurdity of it, his cheeks glowing with warmth.

“Do you have a favourite?” You ask him, finger circling the rim of your glass and his eyes drop to watch it momentarily.

“Hmm. Let me think…” He smiles and you can’t help but be drawn into the way his lips curve up into a dimple on his cheek. A fleshed crescent moon that you’ve fantasised about tasting since the first time you saw it revealed to you.

Marcus Pike, FBI Special Agent in the Art Crimes Department, is the epitome of the perfect man, blending smooth determination with a profound appreciation for beauty and culture.

His sharp mind and keen eye for detail makes him a formidable agent, while his unwavering commitment to justice earns him the respect of his colleagues and adversaries alike. In the high-stakes world of art crime, Marcus stands out as a shining beacon of integrity and tenacity.

He approaches each case with a meticulous attention to detail, unravelling complex webs of deception and intrigue with adept precision and skill.

Whether he’s tracking down stolen masterpieces or uncovering elaborate forgery rings, Marcus's relentless pursuit of truth and justice never wavers.

But it isn't just his professional acumen that makes Marcus so extraordinary; it’s his genuine passion for art and culture that truly sets him apart.

That, and the fact he’s ridiculously handsome.

He has a deep appreciation for the beauty and significance of the works he seeks to protect, viewing each painting, sculpture, and artefact as a priceless treasure to be safeguarded for future generations. Marcus's love for art extends beyond the confines of his work, infusing every aspect of his personal life with a sense of wonder and curiosity.

And it’s where you first met him, in the serene halls of the local art gallery where you crossed paths with Special Agent Marcus Pike. Spinning on his polished heels to greet you with the softest brown eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, and how they sparkled at you instantly.

Harbouring your own passion for art and a keen eye for beauty, you work as a curator, carefully selecting and showcasing the works of talented artists from around the world as well as in the local vicinity.

Marcus, drawn to the gallery as a way of unwinding from his case loads, found himself captivated not only by the stunning artwork on display but also by the enigmatic presence of you. Colourful and striking; your clothes, accessories, and hair, all alive with vividness.

You both spent your individual free time exploring museums and galleries, studying the brushstrokes of the masters and marvelling at the stories behind each piece.

And when he wasn't immersed in the world of art, Marcus could often be found indulging in the delights of cuisine, tempting you with indulgent treats he started bringing to you on your lunch, innocently suggesting he thought you might like it, and recommending the best places to eat.

Until he boldly suggested you try them out with him.

But perhaps Marcus's most admirable quality is his unwavering dedication to those he cares about. He’s fiercely loyal to his team, always ready to go to bat for them in the face of danger or adversity.

And when it comes to matters of the heart, Marcus is a true romantic, believing in love with every fibre of his being and never hesitating to show his affection for those closest to him.

As you’d lingered in front of a particularly captivating painting, two lovers entwined in a dance of exaggerated colour, Marcus felt a flutter of excitement in his chest.

He turned to you, his heart pounding with anticipation as he mustered up the courage to ask you a question that had been on his mind since you’d first met.

His voice was tinged with nervousness and his words caught in his throat. "I know this might seem sudden, but would you like to go out to dinner with me? I'd love to continue our conversation over a meal, if you're interested?"

“Are you asking me out on a date, Marcus?” You’d asked with hopeful eyes.

“Absolutely I am.”

And you were interested. God, of course you were. Excited at the prospect of getting to know this incredibly gorgeous man some more.

But also, incredibly terrified.

The thought of dating had long filled you with a sense of dread and anxiety. How could you ever expect someone to love and want you when you struggled to love yourself?

Past experiences had let you down incessantly. The idea of revealing your secret to a potential partner filled you with a swamping dread, the fear of rejection looming like a dark cloud ready to break in the distance.

You’d spent years perfecting the art of concealment, hiding the bald patches beneath layers of carefully styled hair, until eventually the patches became an entirely bare head and you had no choice but to wear wigs.

But no matter how hard you tried to hide your condition, the truth remained - you were different. Convincing yourself that you were flawed, even unlovable for a while.

But deep down, you knew that you couldn't let fear dictate your life forever. Somewhere out there, you hoped, was someone who would see past your alopecia.

On your first date together, Marcus took you to a different art gallery, one of his favourites in the city, knowing your love for beauty and culture would be a perfect match for the setting.

As you both wandered through the halls adorned with vibrant paintings and striking sculptures, Marcus couldn't help but admire the way your eyes lit up with wonder and fascination.

He watched in rapt attention as you studied each piece with a keen eye, your curiosity piqued by the stories and emotions captured within the artwork.

You exchanged whispered observations and shared smiles as you explored the gallery together, lost in the magic of the moment.

Fingers accidentally on purpose brushing against one another until they interlocked. Lips inching closer until they finally met in soft hums of appreciation and want. Whispers that erupted into breathy giggles as you slipped into alcoves to explore those lips some more.

He complimented everything about you, your eyes, the way you taste and your hair, winding his fingers through the loose, flowing curls as they fell over your shoulder. Clearly unable to tell that it wasn’t your real hair, and that made it all the more devastating somehow.

You couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that chomped at your insides. Marcus looked at you with such openness and sincerity, yet you couldn't bring yourself to reveal the truth about your hair loss.

The thought of disappointing him, of shattering the illusion of perfection you had carefully crafted, filled you with guilt every time he smiled softly at you. How could you continue to deceive him, knowing that the truth would inevitably come to light?

As you continued to get close, your mind raced with thoughts of confession and consequence. You imagined Marcus's reaction - the shock, the disappointment, the inevitable rejection that would sure follow.

The fear of facing his judgement, of losing his affection, threatened to consume you whole. To the point you considered calling the whole dating thing off to save the heartache.

But you couldn’t abnegate yourself away from him either, drawn to him, by more than just your commonalities, which were growing in number and taste the more you shared time together.

The more he kissed you, held you close to him in his big hands, pressed you up against the warmth of him in a tight embrace, the more you just wanted him back.

Your dates had taken you both to bustling markets, where you’d sampled exotic street foods and danced to the rhythm of live music. You’d strolled hand in hand through tranquil parks, lost in deep conversation as you watched the sunset paint the sky with hues of pink and gold.

With each passing date, you and Marcus had peeled back the layers of your personalities, revealing your hopes and dreams to one another. Discovering shared interests and passions, as well as the unique quirks and idiosyncrasies that made each of you who you are.

He spoke of his previous marriage, divorced and left adrift on a lonesome island of singledom. Then he told you about a colleague he’d fallen for, but again it had left him facing the nights alone in his new apartment here in D.C. when she’d made another choice.

His talk of rejection stumped him for a while, those brown eyes pulled deeper into his skull as he contemplated, the scars still visible, and it melted the fear clinging onto your own shoulders somewhat.

You shared your own tales of heartbreak and there wasn’t much that you didn’t know about one another, revealing all your secrets and worries with ease.

Well, almost all of them.

Your finger winds through the cut length of the synthetic bob, one wig of several in your stylish armoury, and you swallow dryly, clearing your throat.

It’s been on the cusp of your tongue but never seems to become a whole word with sound and vowels. And terrifying repercussions should it want to be pronounced.

The waiter soon arrives with the sampler platter, a colourful array of small plates arranged artfully on a wooden board. Your eyes widen in delight as you survey the tempting spread before you.

As you both sample the various dishes laid out, around delightful hums of satisfaction, Marcus can't help but marvel at the diverse flavours and textures that dance across his palate.

He glances at you, a playful twinkle in his eyes, as he reaches for another bite, but holds it out to you instead.

"This is incredible, try this," Marcus remarks, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm as you lean in and taste it from his fork. You simply can’t resist him in any way.

“Delicious.” You agree.

You take a sip of your wine, a curious glint in your eyes as you look back at him.

"So, tell me something about you that I don't already know yet," you prompt, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

“You want a heinous dark secret, hmm?” Marcus teases.

“Sure. The more dark and twisted the better.” You giggle.

Marcus chuckles, a hint of nostalgia flickering in his gaze. "Well, you might not believe it, but I used to play bass in a band. I don’t think I've mentioned that yet," he confesses, his voice tinged with fond reminiscence.

Your eyes widen in surprise, your interest piqued. "Are you a secret metalhead, Marcus?”

“Well, not quite.”

“That's really cool," you confirm, leaning forward eagerly. "What was the name of your band?"

Marcus grins, his peepers glinting with excitement at the memory. "We were called 'Midnight Groove'," he reveals, a nostalgic smile playing on his pink lips. "And we were all about that funky, soulful sound. We played everything from classic rock to blues to jazz fusion."

Your lips curve into a smile as you imagine Marcus on stage, lost in the rhythm of the music, fingers plucking at strings. You glance at them around his glass, thick and you lick your lips.

"That sounds amazing," you remark, your voice filled with admiration. "I would love to hear you play sometime."

Marcus’s smile widens at your enthusiasm, his heart warmed by your genuine interest. "I'd like that," he says softly, his gaze locked with yours. "Maybe one day I'll dust off my old bass guitar and serenade you with some funky tunes."

“You don't play much anymore?”

“Disbanded. Work became all encompassing and we scattered. We stay in touch though. They’re a good bunch of guys.”

As the conversation and flirtatious looks flows between you both, Marcus leans in again, his eyes soft with genuine interest.

"So, tell me something about yourself that I don't know yet," he prompts, a warm smile playing on his lips.

His question hangs in the air, lingering between you like a taut thread of anticipation. Pulling tight, tight, tighter - until it snaps!

For a moment, you hesitate, your mind racing as you grapple with the weight of Marcus's innocent inquiry.

You search for something to share, something that will offer him a glimpse into your world without revealing the vulnerable truth you keep hidden beneath your wigs.

But try as you might, you find yourself at a loss for words, because he already knows everything. He knows where you grew up, how you got that little scar on your knee, who your first crush was...

He knows, he has to know right? It’s obvious. Has to be. The fact your hair is so different every time you see him is apparent that you wear wigs. He can’t be that naive or oblivious.

The weight of your secret bears down on you like a heavy burden, suffocating your ability to speak and leaving you feeling exposed and prickly. You look at him, eyes soft and lips smiling in playful anticipation of your secret you’ll reveal.

He knows everything about you. Everything. Except this one, tiny, completely significant detail you’ve deliberately left out.

As the silence stretches between you, Marcus reaches out to gently touch your hand, sending a jolt of warmth through your body.

"Hey,” the velvety feel of his thumb stroking over your knuckles makes you somewhat dizzy. “You don't have to share anything you're not comfortable with," he reassures you, his voice soft and grounding.

You contemplate ending it right here, before Marcus has the chance to discover it all.

Your mind flits between making up some white lie or excusing yourself to the bathroom and walking out, disappearing from his life without a trace. It would be easier that way, wouldn't it? Easier than facing the inevitable truth.

But as you look into Marcus's eyes, filled with warmth and kindness, you know that you can't bring yourself to hurt him like that. Despite your fears and insecurities, you can't bear the thought of losing him - not when he's become such an integral part of your life, not when you’ve come to care for him so deeply.

Your gaze falters for a moment, your mind racing as you debate whether to reveal it. It could change everything - you suspect it might. It has before, countless times before. A repetitive déjà vu you're doomed to live through on endless repeat.

You don’t want to tarnish Marcus with the same brush, it’s unfair. But you’ve walked this path before and it’s hard not to expect disappointment. People are such fickle creatures after all.

But the way he’s looking at you now, with deep brown eyes that reflect the candlelight, he softens your edges, makes the outline of your sight fuzzy and full of bokeh sparkles.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses over your features before you finally brave yourself to speak.

"Well, there's something I haven't really talked about before," you began slowly, your voice just above a trembled whisper.

And now you’ve started it’s unnerving to know how to finish.

“Do you wanna leave, go somewhere private and talk?” He asks, sensing your hesitancy.

“No, no, here is okay. Besides, if I don’t just come out and tell you now, I probably… won’t.”

“Okay.” Marcus says, his smile dipping a little. “Take your time. You can tell me anything, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezes your hand inside his to emphasise the point. And you instantly feel wretched for assuming that he would once he knows.

He’s done nothing but make you feel at ease since the moment you met. Make you feel awash with vibrancy. He sees all your colours, every single one and doesn't try to grey them out or tone them down. He really likes you for… you.

That’s all you’ve ever wanted, right?

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage as you meet Marcus's curious gaze.

"It's just... I-I have a condition called alopecia," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's why my hair looks different all the time. I wear wigs."

You pick up your wine glass, quickly downing the contents in two large gulps as your heart thuds inside your ears.

Marcus nods, the smile instantly returning. “Yeah, I knew that.”

You baulk. “Wait, you did?”

“Well, I mean, I didn’t know for sure that it was alopecia, but I suspected it was probably something like that.”

“Your detective skills precede you, Agent.”

He smiles. “No, I just pay attention to things I really like looking at.”

You smile back, any panic instantly falling from your shoulders.

“I didn’t want to pry. I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. I didn’t know for sure so didn’t want to assume. I've always admired your style. Especially your hair. It's so versatile - one day it's short and spunky, the next it's long and glamorous. I wish I had your knack for switching up my look."

“You look pretty fine to me, Marcus.” You say with a smile and his cheeks glow again.

“Either way, I kinda love all those different looks on you.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. They’re amazing and really compliment your personality,” he says and you feel warm at his admission.

Throughout your dates, your hair has been a delightful kaleidoscope of colours and styles, each wig a reflection of your vibrant personality and adventurous spirit.

On your first meeting at the art gallery, your hair was cascaded in loose curls of rich chestnut in soft waves that caught his eye as you moved. The subtle highlights danced in the gallery's dim lighting, accentuating your features and drawing Marcus's gaze like a moth to a flame.

On a spontaneous night outing to a live jazz club, you surprised Marcus with a playful pixie cut of platinum blonde, the short strands framing your face in a halo of light.

With each nod of your head to the rhythm of the music, your hair caught the stage lights and sparkled like a constellation in the night sky, mesmerising Marcus with its silvery glimmer.

As your dates blossomed in frequency, you continued to delight and surprise Marcus with your ever-changing hairstyles. From long, flowing locks of fiery red to bold, statement-making curls of electric blue, and shorter edgy styles, each wig you wear is a testament to your creativity and bright confidence, and Marcus finds himself falling more deeply for you with each passing day.

And he never queries why, just admiring and complimenting, and accepting that this is who you are.

“Do you mind talking about it?” Marcus asks.

“Not at all. I mean, not many people want to, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Compassion and understanding is often hard to compete with judgemental stares and whispering, you know?”

Marcus frowns. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through that. That must have been hard.” He says sincerely.

“The wigs help. Most people assume it’s a fashion choice.” You explain.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

He looks at you deeply. “Is it all over or just… your head?”

You breathe in. “Mostly my head. But for a while, I lost my eyelashes. I have hair… uh, elsewhere. But it tends to be really patchy so I keep it… trim.” You say, swallowing dryly as Marcus blushes.

“I’m uh… I’m sure it’s all perfect.” He surmises.

You smile. “My hair sometimes grows patchy on my head too, but it’s never long enough to grow out into full hair, if that makes sense? So I just shave it off. It’s easier.”

Marcus nods, listening intently. “What's your favourite wig that you have?”

You think about it for a moment. “The one I was wearing the day I met you.”

He blushes. “Yeah. I really like that one too.”

“Maybe I should wear it more often.” Tears well up in your eyes as you look at Marcus, overwhelmed by his kindness and sincerity.

“Hey,” he says, taking your hand again.

"I was so afraid that you’d be repulsed by me," you admit, your voice trembling.

“Why would you think that? I think you're absolutely beautiful. I’ve always thought so.”

“Oh, Marcus.” You sniffle, reaching for your napkin to dab your eyes before your mascara runs.

“I mean it.” He squeezes your hand again, wrapping his fingers around your own, his eyes filled with compassion. "Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me," he says softly, his voice filled with warmth. "But it doesn't change how I feel about you. You're still the same amazing person I've come to care about. I really care about you."

You look at him, his hand emanating so much warmth around yours. “Yeah?”

He nods, smiling. “Can I tell you another secret?”

“Sure.”

“I’m really falling for you, actually. Head over heels, completely and utterly.” He admits.

In that moment, the world seems to stand still as you process Marcus's heartfelt confession. A surge of warmth floods your chest, chasing away the lingering doubts and fears that have plagued you for so long.

"Marcus, I..." you begin, your voice choked with emotion. "I'm falling for you, too."

The smile that spreads across his face could outshine the sun.

With a soft exhale, Marcus leans in closer, his voice a tender whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

Marcus’s gaze locks with yours in a silent plea. "Would you... would you like to come back to my place after we finish up here?"

Your breath catches in your throat at Marcus's suggestion, your mind awash with a whirlwind of emotions and desires. The thought of being alone with him, of exploring the depths of your connection in the privacy of his home, sends a thrill coursing through your veins.

You can imagine him peeling you out of your dress, running his hands all over your skin. Asking you to stay with hot breath snaking in your ear because he wants to make love to you all night long. Wants to watch you buck and moan for him.

You’ve thought about it a lot at night, seeking satisfaction with your fingers and vibrator as your mind conjures up all the ways he can leave you satisfied. And you’d say yes, wanting nothing more than to let him fill you full of him, and then you’d have to take your wig off to sleep in his arms and-

“Oh.” Your thighs squeeze themselves together relieving some of that delicious anticipation, despite your mind penduluming between abject want and that familiar fear.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any wild expectations. Just some more wine and maybe a movie? Some cuddles on the couch?” Marcus tempts.

With a slow nod, you meet Marcus's soft gaze with unwavering determination. You can’t abnegate yourself. Especially when it’s apparent he still wants to spend time with you, despite now knowing entirely everything about you.

"Yes," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'd really like that."

“Me too.” He smiles at you with a soft beam.

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

You smile as Marcus talks along with the film Casablanca rolling across his flat TV screen. Changing his accent to match Humphrey Bogart’s, which makes you giggle, because it sounds nothing like it at all. Then he laughs with you, his chuckles sounding like wind chimes.

Wrapped in a cosy blanket, you nestle closer to Marcus, your head resting against his chest as you lose yourselves in the timeless tale unfolding onscreen.

Marcus drapes his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer with a gentle warmth that envelopes you in a sense of security and belonging.

Close up, Marcus exudes an aura of warmth and masculinity that’s impossible to ignore with each breath you inhale pressed against his broad chest. He’s dressed more casually now, exchanging his suit pants for casual grey sweats and his crips shirt for a looser round neck.

His scent mingles with the natural musk of his skin, creating a tantalising combination that stirs something primal within. You get whiffs of citrusy bergamot and zesty orange, base notes that are complimented by hints of spicy cinnamon and clove each time you breathe in.

You can smell the fruity tones of the cabernet on the soft warmth of his breath, cascading down your forehead onto your nose.

As you watch the movie together, your soft breathing mingled with the crackle of the fireplace fills the room with a sense of warmth and intimacy, something you’ve always craved with a partner. To just feel close and wanted.

Marcus will occasionally steal glances down at you, his heart swelling with affection at the sight of you relaxed and at ease in his arms.

“This feels so good.” You murmur into his shoulder.

“Yeah, it really does.” He agrees.

“Oh sorry, I was talking to Rick Blaine.” You giggle, his hand lowering and pinching your hip playfully.

“Oh really?” Marcus teases. “Shall I leave you and Rick to it then?”

You giggle some more and he pulls you in closer.

“He is really handsome, I’ll give you that. Maybe I’ll stay and watch.” He remarks.

“Kinky,” you smirk.

His chest heaves from another chuckle.

“He’s not as handsome as you, though.” You chirp, looking at him.

As you trace the lines of his face with your gaze - the strong jawline, the stubble-softened cheeks, the gentle slope of his nose - you marvel at the beauty of the man before you.

He’s a masterpiece in every sense of the word - a work of art crafted with care and precision, a reflection of the love and light that dwells within his gentle soul.

“Oh yeah?”

You nod looking up at him. “Yeah. Sexy too.”

He grins with twinkly eyes. “You think I’m sexy?”

“Really sexy,” you nod, leaning up to kiss him.

“I think you’re incredibly sexy.” Marcus says as he brushes his lips against yours. “Mmm, God… look at you.”

His tongue slips into your mouth, tantalising you into a willing submission inside his arms. It’s a kiss filled with tenderness and passion, a silent promise of love and acceptance that transcends words between you.

“It’s late,” you say softly, a dreamy relaxation settling into your bones, limbs warm from the wine and the snuggly blanket draped over you both.

Soft hums, hands that sweep up arms and into the back of his hairline, a nose that crushes against yours as you breathe into one another, you connect on deeper levels. You could kiss him forever.

“Yeah,” he glances over at the clock and it’s nearing midnight. “I’ll call you a cab., sweetheart.”

Looking a little bereft, he goes to move, but your palm on his chest stops him.

"Marcus, I... I don't want to leave, but-"

The thought of staying the night with Marcus is both thrilling and terrifying, for it means revealing your most vulnerable self - the woman beneath the carefully crafted facade of your wigs.

But every fibre in your body wants him pressed up close to you like he is now, holding you in his arms, skin on delicious skin.

You nod.

“It’s okay. I feel the same way. I'm nervous too."

"You are?"

"Because... you want me. It's felt like no-one really has most of my life. Second best." He says, his smile dipping.

"It's their loss, Marcus. Trust me." You smile.

"I really wanna hold you all night and wake up with you in the morning. Make you pancakes for breakfast.” He smiles again, brushing his nose against yours. “But I also don't want you to feel uncomfortable." He says, his fingers stroking against your cheek.

“But… when you’re ready, I do have something that might put you at ease.”

“What?”

“One sec.” He pushes off the blanket and disappears out of the room quickly.

You hear the thud of the stairs as he dashes up them and the shake again as he comes back down with something behind his back.

“Marcus-” You grin waiting for him to reveal it.

“I want you to know that I think you're beautiful, with or without your wig. And if and when you're ready to take it off, I'll be here for you, every step of the way. It changes nothing for me."

You smile softly at him.

“And I got this, for when you stay. I mean, if you want to. I hope you’ll want to. But I read some things about alopecia and some people said-”

“You read up on it?” You ask, your eyebrows rising.

“Yeah.” He hands it to you and your fingers stroke across a silken cap in a striking, deep sapphire hue.

“Marcus.”

The simple gesture speaks volumes about his thoughtfulness and care, touching you in a way you hadn't expected.

Tears well up in your eyes as you take the dainty cap from Marcus's outstretched hand, your fingers trembling with gratitude. It’s more than just a gift - it’s a symbol of his acceptance, his willingness to embrace every part of you, including your alopecia.

“I read that you might feel cold, when you sleep?”

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, wiping your eyes. “This is so thoughtful, Marcus.”

You’ve kept your alopecia hidden for so long, fearing rejection and judgement from those you care about. But Marcus's unwavering acceptance and understanding gives you a glimmer of hope - hope that you can be loved for who you truly are, wig or no wig.

"Thank you," you say softly, your voice tinged with emotion. "For being so kind and patient with me. This means so much much to me, more than you could ever know."

You look down at the cap, it’s colour bold and so pretty. Something so small, but means so much. A simple gesture that lets you know it's okay to be vulnerable.

To be yourself.

Marcus smiles, his eyes sparkling with affection. "You don't have to thank me. I care about you deeply, and I want you to feel comfortable and safe with me, sweetheart."

“I do,” you smile. “I really do.”

With a shaky breath, you make a decision. You know that you can't let fear hold you back any longer. Not when Marcus is right here, imbuing you with strength and desire.

Slowly, hesitantly, you reach up to remove your wig, unclipping it and revealing the smooth expanse of your scalp beneath.

Marcus's breath catches in his throat as he looks at you, eyes roaming slowly over your head and his heart swelling with admiration for your courage and vulnerability.

"Wow," he says. He reaches out to gently cup your face in his hands, his touch tender and reverent.

He places a soft kiss on the top of your head, lips pressed gently into the smooth, bare skin and it lingers before he pulls you closer - large hands resting gently on your hips as he glides his lips against yours.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice filled with sincerity. "Absolutely stunning."

"I'm really not," you whisper.

"You are to me. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

You feel his hands trail up your back and then disappear, the warmth from them now emanating on your cheeks again, thumbs stroking under your eyes.

“I think…” You begin with a breathless whisper.

“Yeah?” He breathes into your mouth.

“I think… I want to stay and for you to take me to bed, Marcus.”

“Are you sure?” He mouths against your cheek.

The subtle graze of his barely-there facial hair makes you hot under your skin. Your fingers clutch tighter around his shoulders, the material from his t-shirt bunching up there.

The little groan from the back of his throat is swallowed up as you breathe it down into your lungs.

“I’m sure. I want you.”

“God, I want you too.” He groans.

You don’t make it to the bedroom, instead straddling his lap right on the sofa as you kiss him with everything you have.

You help him out of his t-shirt, rolling it up and running your hands over his bronzed skin. Leaning in to trail open mouthed kisses down his chest, he unbuttons your shirt revealing delicate lace cups holding you in and groans audibly.

And you both laugh when he struggles to unclasp it.

“Fuck...” Marcus runs his mouth in a slew of delicate kisses over your cleavage, reaching around with nimble, yet trembling fingers to unclasp your bra.

"I think thas's the first time I've heard you curse." You snicker.

"I think the situation calls for it. My God... I can't believe how stunning you are!"

“What is going on back here?” He chuckles, and you help him out, letting your breasts spill into his face.

“God, look at those nipples.” He sighs hungrily.

“Put them in your mouth.” You husk.

Kissing and licking over your nipples you can feel the clamminess over your back as you sweat. His tongue draws tantalising circles around them and you could just come from that alone.

"Yes, ma'am." He sucks your nipple into his mouth, warm and wet as he swirls his tongue, giving each the attention they so deserve until they're hard and aching between the gentle pull of his teeth.

"Mmm," you groan in delight.

“Oh God, Marcus…” you whine, fingers tugging in his hair. You inadvertently rock your hips against his thigh, grinding softly on him. And he grunts glancing down at you doing it.

“That feel good?” Marcus asks as you moan softly, feeling the delicious grind of your clit catching against the fabric of his sweats.

“Yeah.”

He watches with rapt attention, his hands snaking their way around you and moving the henlm of your dress up round your stomach as you grip onto his shoulders.

“Mmm, feels so good,” you groan.

“You look so good doing that… fuck.” He whispers, losing his voice. “Use me, that’s it. Like that. Make a mess of me. Come on, baby.” Marcus urges, pressing desperate kisses to your throat.

Winding your hips, you clock the bulge straining in his sweats and palm it, and he hisses between his teeth. He feels big, thick and you groan as the pressure on your clit mounts.

He rocks you harder, faster as you grind and pant, moaning his name softly as you build. Your gasps are more throaty, your body tensing up, and he can feel it under his hands.

“Come for me, beautiful,” Marcus urges as you ride his thigh to a tingly oblivion.

Warmth spreads down your spine, laced with an aftermath of delicious prickles as your shudder and shake.

A dark patch is left on his grey sweatpants as your slick seeps into them.

“I wanna take these panties off. God, they're so sexy. Can I?” Marcus husks with dark eyes.

You nod and shimmy your hips so he can pull them down, laying you back on the couch as he parts your legs.

He licks his lips and groans at the perfectly bare pussy presented to him.

“Fuck…”

He strokes his fingers through your sopping folds, sucking on your nipples again as he slides his fingers up your slit, the pad of his finger pressing gently as you card through his hair.

“M-Marcus,” you whine as he teases your entrance with those thick digits, feeling you clench around just the tip.

He strokes his finger in and out as you lay there, leaving it in so you can work those muscles against it, clenching around him as you groan with desperate need.

He teases, slowly pulling it out and just as slowly pushing it back in again. Withdrawing and then adding another until he pumps them inside your aching cunt.

His other hand on the cushion beside your head inches closer, his thumb brushing against the smooth curve of your skin above your ear, and running his lips over your bare crown once more before resting his forehead on yours.

The slick of your pussy being fucked by his fingers echoes around you both.

“You are so beautiful,” he utters as he kisses you.

You tug at the waistband of his sweats, pulling them down over his ass to release his cock. Stroking the thickness of it in your palm as he circles your clit with his thumb, two fingers buried deep inside you and rubbing against that spot inside that makes your thighs shake.

“I need you, Marcus.”

“Mmm, you can have me, sweetheart. Anytime you want…” He croons, running his lips over your collarbone.

“Oh really?” You smirk.

“I’m completely yours.” And with the look in his eyes you believe him.

He is yours, yours to keep and love and grow old with if you want him - it's all there, deep in the golden swirls of his irises. A lifetime together; an irrevocable happiness that you’ve been searching for your entire life.

“Mine.” You repeat, pulling his face up and kissing him.

He lowers himself down, cock brushing against your folds as you groan. He pulls back to watch, teasing his thick head through those slick lips, watching as he slowly disappears inside them with a wet pop.

“Oh fuck…” he sweetly blasphemes, teeth griding tight.

He guides himself in, pushing gently with his hips as he crests through your tight hole. You’re so wet, dripping for him, that he slides in with ease.

You gasp at the thickness of him, the jolt as he runs his thumb over your clit as he slides in, cock filling you and stretching you around him.

His body is so warm and you can't stop touching him, stroking his skin and planting kisses all over it.

His lips move across your own, inking breaths and dizzy chants into the layers. “Feels so good, feels so good, feels so good…”

“Oh God,” you breathe.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, you feel really good.” It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before. Smooth and deep as he fills you up, connects himself to you on a level that transcends the basic intimacy of sex.

“I know, baby. God, you’re so tight. Ah, shit…” Marcus groans, eyes rolling back.

“Kiss me,” you plead, your tongue slipping into his mouth as he moves. Hips languidly rotating and thrusting slowly as he bottoms out.

You cry out when he does, fingers gripping into flesh, hot pants sinking into his pores.

“Can you feel me, right there?” He gasps, pushing himself as deep into you as he’ll go.

“Yes… God, yes!”

He watches as your eyes squeeze shut, how your teeth bite down on your lip as you moan and pant; feels how you clench tighter and more erratically around him the closer you get to your orgasm.

Your mouth chases his fingers, open and wanting as his thumb brushes down the side of your cheek and over your lips. Gentle, rhythmic strokes become harder and deeper as he’s utterly possessed by you, eyes rolling back and jaw slack as you feel every inch of him.

He squeezes over your ass, thighs, breasts, staring at you, completely captivated.

“You wanna ride me?” Marcus suggests with a coy smirk and apple flushed cheeks.

“God yes!” You hum excitedly.

You straddle him again and lower yourself down, his cock packing you out once more.

“Oh shit, Marcus!”

“Sweetheart-” he groans as you sit all the way down.

“Oh my God, that’s so deep,” you whine, your hands clawing at his chest.

You start to move, feeling so full and he groans looking up at you.

“Oh fuck, just like that,” he whines.

He feels incredible, looks stunning with his head thrown back on the couch as his cheeks keep that gorgeous pink hue and his rich cocoa eyes look deeply into you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” His fingers are felt on the back of your bare head, stroking softly as he kisses you. And it feels incredible to have him touch you so intimately like this.

You lick into his mouth making him smile and grunt as you ride a bit faster, his cock hitting you so deep with each movement.

He groans out when he feels you come around him, squeezing his cock tighter and making him work harder through it. Squeezing and contracting as your slick soaks him.

“God, you’re even more beautiful when you’re coming all over my cock,” he puffs.

“You’re amazing,” you pant.

“It’s all you, sweetheart. Trust me.” Marcus groans. “Can you take it a little harder?”

“I’ll take it anyway you want to give it to me.” You smile.

“Oh, baby.” He fucks up into you harder, loud repetitive slaps fill the lounge along with your sweet, caustic whines as you build. “There are so many ways I wanna give to you.”

“Tell me,” you hum.

He smirks before licking across your nipple, eyes looking up at you the whole time. “From behind… up against the wall… on the kitchen counter.”

“Mmm,” you whine. You reach down to stroke your clit, gasping as your fingers swirl around in the immense wetness down there.

“Mmm, fuck.” He groans watching you do it as he continues to push up into you. “Yeah. Stroke that gorgeous clit for me,” he grunts.

“How else do you want me?” You pant.

You can feel it, rising in your chest, glittering behind your eyes. The building as your peak finds you amongst the heady bliss.

“In the back of my car… handcuffed to my bed railing and unable to escape while I taste you for hours…”

“Fuck!” Your legs start to shake once more, your back arching and your breasts pushed further towards his face. You lean back, gripping onto his thighs, hips bouncing as you chase that feeling so gluttonously.

“Look at me, let me see you come again, beautiful.”

It’s almost unbearable, the way he looks at you, his eyes filled with so much adoration that it threatens to spill out of your own.

He gasps, panting with you, enthralled and enraptured as you come undone completely around him, and he swears he's never seen anything more stunning in his life.

He absorbs that moment wholly, when the euphoria takes over your face, as your raspy yells of his name fall into silk whispers around his face. How you continue to bounce with fervour on his cock long after the shakes have dissipated from your bones.

“That’s it, that’s it… Oh God!” Marcus whispers, mouth curving into an astonished arc as that dimple reveals itself again. “You’re gonna make me come, sweetheart.”

“I want you to.” You whisper. "Come for me, Marcus."

“Can I come inside you?”

You nod as you press your mouth to his, swallowing his tongue as his grip tightens around you.

He slows right down, sliding up into you with deep, purposeful strokes and you feel him twitch before he groans out, long and low as he comes.

Marcus pulls out, watching the pearly white fluid drip out of you, gathering it on his pulsing head and slips it back inside you.

You both mewl together as he does it, his face falling into your chest and sighing out.

“Wow…”

“Yeah.” You agree breathlessly.

“Stunning,” Marcus whispers as he runs his nose up your cheek and plants another kiss against your smooth crown. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

You smile, eyelashes fluttering against his jaw as you wrap him tightly in your arms, never wanting to let him go.

You know that right here, in this moment and held in the safety of his arms, you’ve found something truly special.

“You still wanna stay?” He asks you.

You nod, smiling with a satiated beam. “If you’ll have me?”

“I’ll always have you. And I’ll always want you.” Marcus says.

The cap feels so soft and silken against your skin as you nestle down into the soft pillows, and watch Marcus come back in from the bathroom.

Gloriously naked and crawling up the bed, he trails kisses up your legs, stomach and neck until he reaches your lips.

“Looks really good on you,” he compliments and you smile.

“Thank you again,” you say, pulling him close.

“Anything for you. I can’t wait to wake up with you in the morning,” he yawns, a lone finger trailing the rim of your cap and down your cheek.

“Flaking out on me already, Agent?” You smirk as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“Mmm, you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” Marcus grins, nuzzling into your neck and sucking it gently into his mouth.

He relaxes against you as you stroke patterns over his broad back.

This feels good. Really good. A feeling you definitely want to get used to as you take in the feel of him crushed on top of you, arms holding you close, his hair tickling the bottom of your jaw.

This right here, is all you’ve ever wanted. And Marcus is willing to give it all to you. You feel like you've hit the jackpot and can’t stop grinning.

“Marcus?” You whisper.

“Mmm?” He sighs softly.

“Thank you for accepting the real me.”

The gentle snuffles of his light snores soon fill the room and you beam, reaching up to stroke over the silk of the cap, smiling at how you’ve found such a caring and thoughtful man who thinks you’re incredibly beautiful.

And as you drift off to sleep, you're convinced you hear him whisper to you:"I love the real you..."

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Marcus, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

MARCUS PIKE MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal characters #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike smut #marcus pike fluff #bodies series #real bodies #diversity #inclusivity #every body is beautiful #jett's writing

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morallyinept · 1 month

Text

ADORATION - A Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader One Shot

Written as part of my B O D I E S Series 🤎

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: After some completely unexpected and devastating news, a long journey of loss and healing, Joel shows you how beautiful he still finds you.

Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x Breast Cancer/Mastectomy F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity, hair colour etc... However, Reader had breasts and hair before treatment. I've imagined Reader to be around a similar age as Joel, who is 56 when writing this, however Reader's age is not mentioned, so you can determine/imagine it's you, if you'd like to, bub.)

Word Count: 8.3k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶️ “You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Triggers & warnings: Mentions of breast cancer/double mastectomy/surgery/grief/loss/depression/body issues/illness & recovery/fear/mentions of death. Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks)/breast worship/Joel loves on you hard.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

MAIN MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

You’re whining, keening softly as your nose dusts the crown of greying curls resting just below your chin.

They tickle gently on the inside of your nostrils each time you inhale, smiling into the beam of sunlight that strobes onto the pillow, blinding you into a warm, balmy bliss.

Causing your body to spasm and jerk beneath him; little bursts of electricity soar with static, crackling down your spine. You arch your back, pushing your nipple further into his warm, wet mouth.

The insatiable pull around your nipple draws hisses from behind your teeth, eyes rolling back into the furthest reaches of your skull.

Your fingers press into the back of his cranium, cradling him close; losing yourself to the never-ending swirl of his tongue around that fleshy, hard bud as he tongues it, sucks it, nips it...

Hips grinding in a languid cadence against his crotch, a hard bulge catches on your clit as you grind against his cock; stiff and leaking into his faded, worn-out boxers.

Joel’s a self-confessed breast man. He likes pawing at your ass too on the very regular occasion, but he spends most of his foreplay time - and any time, really - latching onto your breasts like a hungry infant.

He likes to suck your nipples out of the puffy swell of your areolas on warm mornings when you wake nestled around him. Coax that stubborn left one out of it's invert with a probing, flickering tongue.

He loves to pinch the stiff, hardened peaks through your top when you're chilly to make you giggle and squirm against him. Feels closest to you when you sit together watching a rubbish film on Sunday evenings in his lap, and he casually has his hand up your shirt holding onto your breast like he would your hand.

It’s a comfort you both enjoy; a big, reassuring warmth holding onto you. He likes feeling the weight of them as they fill his palms, watching the bounce of them, mesmerized, as you ride on his cock vigorously.

Joel’s all up in your marvellous chest at any chance he can get. Sucking the pebbled teats between his lips, swirling his tongue around and around as you fist through his wavy locks and groan when he brings you to orgasm just by lavishing your breasts with his mouth - he loves how sensitive they are.

Especially the right one, it's almost as sensitive as your clit.

Just a few licks over it on this lazy weekend morning, has you panting and almost tearing the roots from his scalp as he squeezes the left one inside his deft fingers; flicking the nipple with his rough index pad and groping a lavish handful.

He’s rutting into you, on the cusp of just pulling his cock out of his boxers - that have seen better days - and slipping into his beautiful wife writhing underneath him; he can feel you seeping through the thin cotton against him.

Joel squeezes your breast again as he sucks at the other, humming at your moans. You croak out his name; each vowel rolling off your tongue with abject need.

Opening and closing his fist around the mound, grunting in rapture, he brushes his thumb along the underside, when he stops. Shiny nipple popping out of his wet mouth, with that furrowed brow pulling his face into a tight knot.

“Darlin’,” he says, with a pursed mouth; his heavy eyes falling to your breast, and his stubby thumb running under the obvious hardness of a lump. “Ya feel that?” He questions, gently.

You look down at him realising his pause.

“Why are you stopping?” You gasp, your hips still moving, slit making a sticky mess against his cottoned length.

You stop grinding, sitting up as you take your breast from him and squeeze all around it, slightly irritated at the interruption, until you find it for yourself.

You feel an unwelcome visitor nestled within the soft curve under your breast, inviting itself bluntly into yours and Joel’s lovemaking.

“God,” you say, his concerned eyes meeting yours.

A lump, no larger than a pea, yet heavy with the weight of uncertainty, that suddenly makes your blood run icy. Your heart pounds a frantic rhythm against your rib cage.

Fear, cold and unyielding, spreads poisoned rust through your veins as you trace its contours; your fingers lingering over the unfamiliar bobble of its terrain.

“It’s probably nothin’,” he reassures with a nod, with eyes so deep you could fall into them and never see light again.

"Yeah," you nod too, but your own eyes convey your trepidation.

And it’s enough to halt any chance of morning sex with your burly husband in its tracks, as you disappear quickly into the bathroom for a thorough inspection.

Disbelief, a fleeting hope that what your fingers trace is merely a figment of your imagination, or a cyst at best.

All weekend you fret and worry until you can call the doctor's office on Monday morning.

You can't count the number of times you touch it, prod at it. You tell yourself out loud that it’s probably nothing, like Joel suggests.

Yet, as reality sinks its claws into your rational thinking, fear takes root, gnawing away at the fragile threads of your composure.

Yeah. Probably a cyst.

Your breasts change all the time; lumpy and bumpy; they’re not as perky as they once were. Your monthly cycle sees them ache and weight heavy like granite blocks sometimes.

It’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. You tell your weary reflection, but she has a hard time believing you as she stares back with unblinking eyes.

When Joel doesn't put his hand up your shirt as you nestle into him during your Sunday night film ritual, that's when the tears kick in.

Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you don’t cry in front of Joel, but he’s not so easy to convince that everything's fine, and it’s just allergies making your eyes red, when he knows it’s not allergy season. Or that you have any allergies.

“S’alright to be worried, darlin’. But ya gon’ be okay.” He tells you he’s coming to the doctor with you.

You argue that it’s fine, but he's insistent with his brooding frown and pursed lips like he’s constantly chewing on a wasp. He tells you he loves you no matter what, and you’ll be fine and that’s that, as he squeezes your hand.

He pulls you close as you watch the film together spread out on the sofa. Still no hand up your shirt. You see the colour moving on the screen, hear the dialogue and music, but none of it sinks in. You’re staring at the TV completely blank.

He excels at making you think clearly, challenges your fears and helps you confront them with simple questions and words to get you to think differently. It’s one of the main reasons you married him. He has a level head.

And you don’t realise how tense you are until Joel rubs your back and you melt fully into his chest.

With more soothing words and reassurances, eventually you believe him that you’re probably being irrational and panicking over nothing, because Joel has this knack of waving a magic wand and making everything okay.

But it isn’t okay, not this time.

Within two weeks you have a mammogram and a biopsy after the doctor murmurs hmms and huhs at you.

You’re told not to worry as there’s only a two per cent chance that it’ll be cancer, as you’re stripped bare before the prying eyes of medical professionals and the cold embrace of diagnostic tests.

The loss of control over your own physicality is so fast, leaving you feeling exposed and deprived of the autonomy you'd once taken for granted.

Unfamiliar hands groping and prodding on your breasts replace Joel’s warm, tender ones, and you try to hold it together inside the sterile walls.

You break the moment he has you in his arms outside in the long, lonely corridor of the hospital and asks you how it went.

Joel throws himself into work on the construction site, and you throw yourself into a sinking depression, clouded with worry and worst case scenarios.

You’re sent home with stitches and painkillers after the biopsy, and all you can do is wait.

The invasion of a hostile takeover of your once jaunty mood hovers thickly in the air between you both at home during that time.

You do the one thing you shouldn’t and Google fucking everything. Survival rates, post-op images, types of cancer and all the dread that your eyes can take in until you can take in no more.

You then switch tactics and try to stay occupied and distracted. You play Joel’s old country rock playlist full blast, deciding to turn the house upside down and clean and bleach the shit out of every nook and cranny of it, until Joel comes home, eyes stinging with the fumes, and asks if you’ve lost your damned mind.

You smell bleach on your fingers for days after and it reminds you bleakly of the smell in the hospital corridors.

You lay in bed side-by-side at night, awkwardly staring at the ceiling, recalling how most nights you can hardly get enough of one another. But Joel rolls over and mumbles an exhausted goodnight to you, and you try your hardest not to cry; but the tears slip silently out the creases of your eyes anyway.

You’re called to come in for your biopsy results almost a week later, and the car journey there is deathly silent as Joel and you stare out the windshield and don’t say anything the whole way there.

Joel glances at you and you feel the weight of his ginormous hand on your thigh, squeezing it, and you barely register the sensation at first, turning to him as he squints in the sunlight as he turns the wheel.

There’s no casual flirting, no animated discussions about supper; no singing along to Bennie And The Jets together on Rock FM.

You watch the town pass you by out the window like it’s a stranger, equal parts numb and terrified.

The specialist takes a seat opposite you both, their gaze never wavering as they speak in a soft voice laced delicate with empathy, and you immediately know from the look on their face.

“It’s gon’ be alright, darlin’.” He says.

Although you’re unsure if it’s for your benefit or his, as his eyes remain focused on the road and glaze over in their emptiness somehow.

"I wish there was an easier way to say this, but the results of your biopsy came back, and I'm afraid it's cancer..."

Your breath catches in your throat, your world dangerously spinning out of control as the weight of those words settle over you like a suffocating shroud.

"Cancer? Two per cent…" You whisper, your voice barely audible above the rush of blood in your ears.

The medical speak jumbles your brain. Triple-Negative. Faulty BRCA1. Aggressive…

The words fade out and so do you.

But when you come back, you're looking at Joel; at his profile as he speaks. Mouth moving at the specialist with questions fired behind stunned snarls.

You're not sure where you go, or for how long, it’s just all muffled and quiet. Like being underwater, it fills your ears completely as you sink. Peaceful in a way.

The first time in weeks you’ve had any peace inside the tornado of your mind. It all stills.

He’s so beautiful.

You think it’s odd how a man can be deemed beautiful, like it emasculates him somehow, but it's the right word, you think. Beautiful, with heavy features etched with concern, yet softened by an unwavering love that radiates from his soulful brown eyes.

In the opaque light filtering through the window, you notice the creases at the corners of his eyes, the remnants of countless laughter-filled moments you’ve shared; your mind reliving through all of them in a handmade scrapbook decorated with glitter glue.

You can hear that little breathy snuffle he makes as he chuckles at something you say, whether it’s genuinely funny or moronic. His eyes, once bright with hope and joy, now glisten with unshed tears filling round shiny scleras, reflecting the tumult of emotions churning within him.

He talks, asks all the right questions you can't even form into comprehensible words. And somewhere through the falling, the tumbling, you love him even more for it.

You spend a quiet moment tracing the prominent curve of his nose with your eyes down into the way his lips will quirk upwards in a playful, crooked grin that never fails to warm your heart.

Yet now, they’re drawn down into a thin pout of worry; a silent plea for reassurance amidst the uncertainty that looms over you both.

Joel's a practical man, hands on. He needs to know. He needs to have all the facts and weigh up all the options presented to him like a gloomy spread of cards on the desk before him.

You can’t help yourself, reaching your fingers out and tangling them in the soft tendrils of his hair as you brush them behind his ear.

But you're fixating on his hair, once a riot of chestnut curls that framed his face with youthful exuberance, now bear the distinguished marks of time - strands of silver threaded through the greying curls that fall in gentle waves around his temples.

It’s almost like they’re greying further in front of you as you watch him now.

When was the last time he got a haircut?

Your fingers brush against the fuzzy, silken stubble that adorns his jawline and top lip, a tactile reminder of the physicality of your love, recalling the way he rubs it against your face, your inner thighs...

His jaw clenches slightly, a reflexive response to the weight of your shared anguish, yet his grip on your hand remains steadfast.

Your eyes drop to the calloused knot of thick, squeezing tendons and bone crushing around your own.

The look in his coffee bean eyes as you advanced towards him, stacked chest puffed out; filled with love and pride that you were his. You remember his speech, how he choked around carefully thought out words relishing that he’ll get to spend every waking moment with his best friend.

The gleam of his wedding ring and the feel of the warm metal is no longer perfect in its circumference as you trace your finger over the tarnish of it. It’s flecked with tiny scratches from his work.

You remember how handsome he looked in his snug-fitting tux as he waited for you at the end of the aisle scattered with rose petals.

You squeeze your eyes shut as you picture him looking down into your coffin, wearing the same tux; red eyes and snot falling from his nose as he collapses, wailing your name in haunted howls, and it’s enough to have you fleeing from your chair, with a spine-chilling scrape against the floor, in search of the nearest bathroom as your stomach lurches.

You barely make it, spilling your insides into the toilet bowl uncontrollably.

No. No, no, no…

The harsh fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting eerie shadows against the cold, tiled wall with you pressed up against it; your breaths coming in ragged gasps that echo in the hollow confines of the tiny bathroom.

Tears stream down your cheeks, hot and relentless, as the weight of the diagnosis presses down upon you like a suffocating lead blanket, threatening to engulf you in its darkness.

Panic claws at your chest, its icy fingers tightening with each heartbeat, squeezing the air from your lungs until you feel as though you’ll suffocate beneath its crushing weight.

You can't breathe as you fumble at your buttons on your shirt trying to loosen them.

"I got ya, darlin'. I got ya." He soothes. "It's okay. I got ya. Sssh. Just breathe. I got ya..."

It doesn’t take Joel long to find you at all. All tiny and cowering in the cubicle; sobbing wildly as you reach for him, and he pulls you to him and lets you shatter against his broad shoulders.

His voice is your anchor, pulling you back slowly.

It's not fair. You can’t leave him.

You slur something about fucking it all, you’re going to die anyway, right? Might as well go down swinging, before he takes the bottle from you, muttering fucks of his own, as he prods you back up to bed and wraps band-aids around your bleeding toes.

You don’t remember him picking you up and taking you home, or holding you all night.

You don’t remember him finding you in the kitchen at around two AM, drinking yourself stupid with broken glass around your feet, and his concerned tone asking you what the hell you’re doing.

You eventually fall asleep encased inside of his arms and inhaling the spiced scent of his skin, breathing it in deeply so you don’t forget it.

He makes you breakfast in the morning that you don’t eat, irons clothes for you that you don’t wear.

Buys you brightly coloured flowers, that he knows you love, to cheer you up. But you simply let them wilt and die on the counter top, not bothering to get a vase out for them.

You just sit and watch them die; their velvety petals shrivelling and curling before your eyes over the course of days.

Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.

That’s what the website says that you’ve been directed to. You realise this when you notice Joel and you haven't had sex since the day he discovered the lump.

You haven’t kissed either, not passionately anyway. Your breasts have been unloved and untouched by him, for what feels like weeks, when the man usually can’t bear to not grope or pinch them playfully when he holds onto you. Or sneaks up behind you when you're washing up the dishes, making you splash bubbles in his face.

In a bout of feverish desperation, you climb into his lap whilst he’s watching a game and nursing a bottle of beer on his day off, kissing him with wanton bites on his neck making him frown, as you push your chest towards his face.

It only kills you further when he shakes his head and tells you not like this, darlin’ before he lifts you off of him.

It creates an argument. You accuse him of not finding you attractive anymore, and he growls at you that you’re being ridiculous, before you yell even louder.

You don’t even know why you’re yelling or how you even got to this point. Nothing makes sense anymore.

And yet now, for the first time, you don’t know what he’s thinking behind that knot of muscles pulling his face taught; what he’s feeling, and it fucking terrifies you as you plead for him to talk to you.

You and Joel never fight like this. You always talk about things that bother you both. You've never heard Joel raise his voice in the whole entire time you've known him.

Honesty and open communication has always driven your relationship and come naturally between you both.

But instead, he leaves to let you cool off. You don’t know that he doesn’t go far at all. He just drives his truck round the corner and sits there in it, sobbing helplessly into his thick palms until it gets dark and he goes to a bar in town to drown his sorrows further.

You don't know that it kills him not being able to touch you; he wants to. Fuck, he wants nothing more than to ravish you, but he’s terrified he’ll hurt you, or will do something dumb that only his own mounting panic convinces him he’ll do.

For the first time in his life, Joel feels completely helpless.

It’s not fair. He can’t lose you.

“Let me see,” you prompt, and he drops the ice-pack to reveal a nasty black eye in the early stages of birth.

You find him in the kitchen late when he eventually comes back home, and making no effort to hide the fact he’s had a heavy drink.

He looks up at you, holding an ice-pack to his face and waiting for the tirade from you.

Red grazes orbit around his fist too, knuckle skin missing, you note. His eye is almost sealed shut with the swelling that’s a mix between blue and purple, in stark contrast to his golden face. Broken blood vessels litter the area, and he sniffs deeply before he speaks again.

“Ya should see the other guy,” Joel assures with a tight mouth.

He has a large dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles; an almost perfect, crescent like the moon in its waxing phase. But it’s hard to coax a smile out of him for it to be fully revealed these days; his mouth constantly twitches into a downward arch most of the time.

As you look at him, there’s an old man somewhere inside of his face; a burdened man, exhausted and on the verge of giving up entirely.

Cancer just doesn't affect you, it affects the people closest to you, too.

“What happened?” You query, tentatively as you dab at his knuckles.

“I lost my shit.” He replies stoically, as you tend and fuss over him whilst sighing.

You look up at him and as much as you want to be mad with him, you can’t - he’s hurting too.

Comprehension is a difficult task to begin to tackle. You ask so many whys - why me? Why is this happening? But fail to find an answer to any them.

Everything has been spun one-eighty and you’re still dizzy from the shock of your diagnosis.

Hours and soon days disappear from your life, like sand falling in an hourglass, as you try to fully understand what’s happening around you.

You feel as though meandering through a blur, your body robotically doing the things you're supposed to, but your mind not being fully coherent. Get up, eat, work, go to bed and so on. It ticks continuously whilst your limbs belong to that of a zombie.

Questions, thoughts and images... all blinking through you trying to piece it all together whilst you move stagnantly. But eventually the anxiety begins to chip into your mentality and inserts thoughts that you daren’t venture down.

The exact truth is staring you in the face, but try as you might to refute it, it’s plainly obvious and it begins to terrify you in ways that are new.

You have cancer.

It invades your dreams and deprives you of sleep. Tears make themselves acknowledged, at the most inconvenient of times too, like shopping in the grocery store, or typing at your computer at your desk at work, and trying to hide them from the prying world is a task in itself.

And you don’t realise it at the time, but Joel’s going through the same. Questioning, worrying, just as paranoid and stressed as you are.

And you both need to talk about it, you know you do, but yet neither of you can quite summon the courage to do so.

“M’sorry,” he says into your hair, as he pulls you in for a crushing cuddle against him.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, as quiet tears absorb into the plaid flannel pulled tight over his chest from your eyes.

But it's not okay. You have cancer.

Over the course of your discussions with the doctors, specialists and oncologists - and other medical professionals, whose names, faces and titles get lost in the swampy fog of your brain - the words ‘bilateral mastectomy’ are tossed around.

It’s clear the risks aren’t worth you keeping both of your breasts when they tell you you’re at high risk of it potentially coming back. To add another punch to the blow, they suggest removing your ovaries too, mumbling the words just in case.

Just in case…

You look at Joel, devastated. You’d both agreed that children were something you weren't both keen on having years ago, but it still feels like that choice of having an open dialogue about it is ripped from you.

When you agree it’s the best way forward, and he agrees too with a face that looks like he’s just had a lobotomy and doesn’t know where he is, a date is put in the diary for the surgeries and treatments, and it’s sooner than you think it will be.

There’s hardly any time to breathe and take it all in.

A day before the surgery and you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a face on as Joel comes in from work, sawdust caked in his hair and boots.

Your voice cracks as you explain that perhaps you should just call it time. Let him find someone else. You won’t be upset, you want him to be happy as you mutter incoherently about death and divorce, and death again, until he shakes his head defiantly and huffs loudly.

He reaches into the fridge for a cool beer and offers you one, but you don’t reply. He looks down at your face.

At the face that Joel affectionately calls butt face.

The beer fizzes over the top in a foamy eruption as he slams it down on the counter top.

“Ya really are an idiot, ain’t ya?” He says, slumping down heavily into the chair beside you.

“But,” you begin and he makes the butt face at you, with pushed out lips and squinted eyes. “You won’t want me anymore.” You whisper.

His face pulls serious as he drags your hand into his blistered ones. “I ain’t fuckin’ goin’ anywhere.” He grits. “And neither are you.”

“But-”

“Quit with the butt face, darlin’. In sickness and in health. Ain’t that what we promised?”

“Yeah, but-”

He shakes his head again, his stubby fingers finding their home on your face, catching renegade tears in the whorls of his fingerprints.

“What, ya think m’gonna not love ya anymore because ya ain’t gonna have any breasts, is that it?”

That’s exactly it, hit the nail on the head, and although you don’t say it, he knows. Damn it, he knows.

“Ya really think m’that shallow?” He clicks his tongue around his teeth.

“No, of course I don’t,” you shake your head. “I’m just… I’m scared, Joel. I'm really fucking scared.” You gulp.

“I know.” He says, pulling you into his lap and wrapping those big, strong arms around you. “M’gonna be right there, when ya wake up, okay? M’gonna bring ya home and we’ll get through this, together. You n’ me. One day at a time. Okay, butt face?”

It’s the first time in weeks you smile and the first time in weeks you kiss; a soft, but tentative peck against your lips, that still holds back somewhat.

Pushing your foreheads together you sigh out, unable to think about anything else.

Two operations, four and a half months of chemotherapy and three weeks of radiotherapy, and it takes months for your hair to grow back.

You remember recoiling in horror as it fell out in clumps a few weeks after the chemo started, until you decided to just be done with it, and had Joel shave it off for you.

He offered to do his own in solidarity with you, until you snatched the clippers from him.

“Don’t you dare!” You almost shrieked as you ran your fingers through his tufty curls, smiling. “You’re never getting a haircut ever again.” And he smirked at that.

“Yes, ma’am.” He'd said as he put them away.

You had woken, groggy and aching, to Joel's face smiling at you and pushing a water beaker to your lips. You looked down to see your chest covered in bandages and drains under your hospital issue nightgown.

It was an odd feeling, you didn't feel much of a difference in those first few, post-op days; weighted down by the drains and dressings, and in and out with the pain meds.

They shifted you out of hospital the next day to recover at home, and Joel took up the role of carer, doctor and home cook as he fussed and got you comfy on the couch in a suffocating fort of pillows and blankets.

After the ovarian surgery, you started taking aromatase inhibitors, which were an added nightmare as these treatments bring on an almost immediate menopause with your ovaries now gone.

No gradual decline - a full push over the fucking cliff, face first. You can’t bear for Joel to touch you when you’re burning up and sweating; soaking the sheets through completely that you fear you’ve wet the bed.

When you’re sick from the radiotherapy, he feels useless hearing you heave behind a locked door. All you can do is lay in bed for days, struggling to keep food down and sleep it off.

You're too weak and exhausted to climb the stairs sometimes, so Joel carries you in his arms up them, even though it kills his knees and makes him groan silently when it pulls on his back. But he still does it anyway.

There are more discussions as the treatments carry on. More options, more pills, more chemicals. More time spent feeling like sludge.

Your bandages and dressings finally come off and you see yourself for the first time in front of a mirror, and there are a few moments when you can’t feel anything. Like there’s no water left in your body to cry anymore.

You just stare at your reflection with the nurse hovering by your side.

They warned you you’d be left with scarring. The scars from the mastectomy extend across the skin of your chest either side and into your armpits where you had lymph nodes removed too. They’ll fade over time, but will never completely disappear.

They warned you they’ll also feel permanently numb. And they’re right, as you touch your mutilated body with shaky fingers, you feel… nothing.

It’s another loss to mourn, the loss of your femininity, of yourself.

And that’s the worst feeling of all as you stare at the mess of your chest that was once curved and bouncy and shapely like a woman ought to be.

Now you’re flat as a board and there’s nothing remotely feminine about your body now, you think.

You can feel the sensation of touch to some degree, but it’s nothing like before. No sensitivity, no prickly feeling that creates goosebumps, just completely numbed out.

And over the course of some weeks, you can feel odd sensations arise, like you’ll touch your chest and you’ll feel it under your armpit. Your body feels all out of sorts as it slowly heals.

You have options; you can have more surgery to build you a pair of breasts if you'd like, but that comes with more pain and recovery and you decide you’re done with that.

You can wear a padded or filled out bra, you can have a tattoo which you briefly consider to cover the scarring.

But you settle on remaining as you are for now. Overwhelmed by the options out there, when you truly believed there was nothing that could make you feel even remotely feminine again.

Maybe something pretty, like flowers…

And Joel nods at all of them as you ask for his input, but ultimately he just wants what you want.

You cover the scars up with layers. You sleep with long sleeved tops and no longer undress in front of Joel. You can't bear him to see you like this, not yet.

Each day you think will be the day when you garner enough bravery to show him, but don't.

It feels weird, like some days they’re still there, akin to a phantom limb. You find yourself checking your chest as you feel the familiar bounce of them as you run down the stairs, or go to grope them with the suds to clean in the shower and the loss devastates you all over again.

He reassures you, telling you that you're beautiful with sincere eyes, and there's nothing that you need to worry about. But it still niggles away.

That lone, renegade thought that he might not be attracted to you anymore when he sees them, suddenly becomes the loudest of all.

They say time is a healer. Patience, understanding. And Joel has been all these things and more.

He’s carried you above the surface of the muddy water when all you’ve wanted to do is drown at times. He’s the one who nudges you awake each morning with a nose in your cheek and reminds you to take your pills.

He’s the one who brought you a beautiful coloured scarf to wear on your head when you lost your hair. A gorgeous floral print that you admired with a smile at the intricate pattern of petals as you ran your fingers over the silk of it.

He’s the one who, despite working all the hours God sends, still comes home and makes you something to eat because he knows you might not have any energy to cook.

He’s the one who still tells you he loves you, no matter what’s going on under your tops and sweaters that swamp you in their bagginess.

It isn’t time that does it at all, it’s him.

You wake one morning, months after, as the sun pools in the bedroom, and look at Joel on his back, asleep and snoring gently.

Joel’s seen you at your absolute worst; your most vulnerable, and he’s still here. Resilient, strong. A man who puts others to shame.

A man that you still desire, and you want him to desire you, even if you’re not whole anymore.

You reach out and touch him, hand brushing over the swell of his golden belly to convince yourself he’s real. Soft, downy hairs around his belly button tickle your palm gently.

He stirs at your stroking, sleepy eyes looking down at you as he blinks, adjusting to the light.

“Ya alright?” Joel asks, and you nod with a smile.

“I love you.” You say to him and he blushes, like he always does at that. Pink capillaries coming to life in his cheeks.

“I love you, darlin’.” He confirms, clutching your hand and kissing across the knuckles gently.

His hair is a tousled mess, the greys on his chest seem more plentiful and it stirs something within you; something the intense and gruelling treatments haven't fully killed off.

You straddle him and lean over, kissing him, much to his surprise. Your hands roam over his soft belly, squeezing gently as he smirks around your lips, and yelps a little when you pinch a ticklish spot.

“Hey now,” he warns, as your tongue licks over his lips.

He hums out as his hands sweep up your back, cupping the back of your head as he slips his tongue inside your mouth.

To taste him again is divine as your body instantly relaxes onto him. He nips gently on your lip and you groan out as you feel how hard he gets underneath you.

You can’t help but subtly grind on him as he groans into your mouth.

You break the kiss to sit upright, heart thrumming in your chest as he looks up at you with those dark, molten eyes.

"I'm ready to show you." You say and he straightens up.

"Okay," he nods, thumbs stroking over your thighs gently.

Without hesitation, you lift up your top revealing the flat, scarred wasteland that is your chest now, that you haven’t had the courage to let him fully see.

For a moment, his face is completely unreadable and you consider reaching for your top to cover up again.

You hold your breath as his eyes wander over the puckered welts; you feel his fingers twitch against your hips.

He sits up on his elbows, eyes locked onto yours, licking over his lips slowly as his peepers follow the lines back and forth.

His eyes dip further down to the two, little dimpled scars from where your ovaries were removed, either side of your tummy.

“Don’t ya dare,” he says, as if able to read your mind.

And you realise that he can, in his own way. He’s always been able to see you even though you try to hide sometimes. He just has the patience to wait until you're ready.

He never pushes, he just waits, because he knows that eventually, you’ll crawl out from whatever hole you need to hide in for a while to deal, to process - whatever it is you need to do. Then you’ll come back to him.

And he’ll always be there aith open arms when you do.

Joel takes you in his arms, twists you so you’re laying on your back and he kisses you there without hesitation. Kisses gently where your breasts once were in the same way that he used to.

Runs his mouth delicately over the numbed skin, dragging lips and leaving wet tracks with open mouthed kisses.

You gasp out as your eyes fill with water, your fingers finding their rightful place, raking through his curls as he glides his tongue over every creased line of your scars.

“Joel,” you whimper, cradling him as you feel his hardness press up against your centre.

You can feel a tingle of the warmth from his lips on your skin kissing gently as your eyes pool. He looks up to see you crying.

“Baby, baby. Does it hurt?” He asks, worried.

You shake your head. “No. No, I can feel you.” You gasp, shaking. “It’s weird, but I can.”

“Where?” He asks.

“There, kind of,” you say, as he brushes his lips over the spot where your right nipple used to be.

He kisses you there and runs his tongue gently over the area making you shudder, and you feel the tingles again, strangely in your armpit.

It makes you giggle at how your nerves have patched themselves up all wonky, and he smiles at you, chuckling as he licks and tests all places that might have an ebb of feeling, with little kisses and watching your reaction to each one.

All the tension leaves your body, muscles relaxing beneath his gentle ministrations; breath steadying as you surrender to the intimacy of this moment.

Reaching down, you cup his swollen cock over his boxers, with the fraying elastic tickling your wrist.

“We really need to get you some new underwear,” you titter at the state of them.

He simply shrugs with a smirk. “I could just simply take ‘em off.”

You nod eagerly and he pushes them down over his hips as you stroke him; your palm sticky with him as he leaks undeniably into it.

“Ya sure?” He queries gently as you swipe him against your folds.

"Mmm, Joel." You groan at the feel of him as you pump him. "God, I want you."

It feels so good to have him touching you, so close. The weight of his body pressed into yours, crushing you again. How warm he feels against your skin.

“I fucking want you, Joel.” You plead, as you clutch his face in your other hand. His warm breath breathes life into your tired bones. “I don’t want you to be gentle either. I need you to fuck me, hard.”

“Ya so fuckin’ beautiful, darlin’,” he grunts as he pushes his thick cock head against your drenched hole.

You both groan out as he fills you, stretching you wide around him and pumping into you gently as you acclimatise to his girth - it's been a while.

You wrap your legs around his waist as he mouths at your neck; tongue trailing down to your chest and finding that spot again.

“Snug as a bug in a rug... damn.” Joel quips, his tongue running over his teeth and then shaking his hips from side-to-side, making you feel all those little movements as he furrows up so tightly in there.

He flexes his groin and begins moving back and forth inside of you, pressing on that sweetly, pinchy spot deep inside; slightly uncomfy and yet incredibly good at the same time.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you plead, gripping onto his arm skin, “fuck me hard, please…” You whine as he sets to ploughing you like you command and demand of him.

You’re so wet that the sounds coming out of your pussy are almost farcical, making you giggle and him grunt as they squeak and soak him. He slips out a few times trying to gain his momentum - it’s like a damn slip n’ slide.

Joel presses down on your knee, bearing his weight on it so you can’t shut your legs. Making you endure it - to ride that full gigantic wave smashing into your pussy and rising up through your body.

“Ya so fuckin’ wet, ya drenched.” He’s panting, beside himself with the state you're in. “Gushing for me already, huh, darlin’?”

Your eyes roll back into your head and he smirks as he fucks hard into you like you want.

“Like this? This how ya want it?”

“Yeah, Joel. Don’t stop!” You wail.

“Ain’t gon’ stop til’ ya come for me, baby.”

He only slows to lean in and kiss you as he pistons in deeper, winding those hips of his into you further.

“Joel…” you drone. It feels so good as he grinds, so deep.

“Darlin’ ya feel too good. Fuck, m’not gon’ last like this…” he whines with a panting smirk.

“Slow it down,” you moan as he grips a hold of your thighs and brings you back onto him slower, deeper.

He licks over your mouth clumsily, tongue swiping across your nostrils, grunting out loud as your pussy clenches around him as you shudder underneath him.

He watches with a smile, lighting up the contours of his heavy set brow as you come around him.

And it’s like staring at the sun for too long; his smile brands itself into the back of your eyelids - a permanent scorch that you never want to forget.

And you feel every inch of him like this. He fucks into you slowly; your breaths hitching and falling from your chest quicker as you both work to build you up again.

“Joel!”

He reaches forward, stroking his thick fingers over the marred scars; feeling the smoothness of healing skin juxtaposed with the slight roughness of the scar tissue.

He strokes up to your neck, pulling you upright gently as you cry out when his cock hits so deep.

“Like that, darlin’...” he croons, as he winds further into you. “Mmm, fuck!”

You tremble and shake uncontrollably as he brings you to another orgasm.

“There ya are, baby. There ya are…” Joel smiles, kissing over your nose and cheeks. "So fuckin' beautiful, ain't ya?"

And he’s right there with you, head pressed into yours, watching; feeling as you squeeze and contract. Feeling you tremble and shake.

Watching as your eyes water and you gasp; your hands squeeze around his biceps, nails digging in.

You claw at him. Pulling him closer as he whimpers. A ragged cry escapes from his throat as he drives his hips deeper and struggles to contain himself.

You feel his teeth on your shoulder, grazing and desperate to bite down through the flesh. Your nails rake through his scalp, twisting and pulling as you pant and groan.

He watches in awe at you shaking on the end of his thick cock, rattling about as he turns you out and finally has his way with his gorgeous wife again.

His eyes fall over your chest and he looks at you adoringly, tongue weaving across the scars again without hesitation. Planting kisses and mouthing over the scars.

“Oh God! Oh Fuck!” You holler.

Making you feel every thick, beastly inch of him, as he pounds up into your insides like a boxer taking his fury out on the bag.

Joel pulls you by the hips upright, as he rolls onto his back, so you’re now on top of him. Everything’s fluid, swift and in a blur.

He anchors you down by your waist, making you sit on him; making you unable to escape him.

“Holy shit, oh shit-shit! Joel!” You exclaim as you gasp and struggle to swallow as the frantic intakes of breath choke you. “Oh my God!”

“Ya can take it… ya can do it, that’s it. Ride it.” Joel encourages. “So fuckin’ beautiful when ya take my cock like this, darlin’. God damn."

He just keeps coming at you; powering and thundering through you, without any hesitation in letting up anytime soon. He’s a powerhouse of sweat and grunts, breathing like he’s dying; small, quick rasps and wheezes gurgle in the back of his throat.

You find your pace, pressing palms into his broad chest and letting your hips bounce, and it feels so damn good as the curve of his cock rubs in all the sweet spots deep inside.

You reach down and stroke your clit, groaning at the feel of it tingling wildly under your fingertips.

“Stroke that pretty clit for me,” Joel croons, hammering up into you.

You stroke and rub the sticky nub, and then bring your digits up towards your mouth, sucking and teasing your lips with your fingers, and he watches enthralled.

“Suck those fingers, darlin’.” Joel hisses. “Tell me how good ya taste.”

“So good,” you smirk. You push your fingers to his lips, and he sucks them too.

"Yeah, ya do. Taste so fuckin' good."

You feel his thumb circle over your clit bringing you closer and closer with each swish of his pad against it.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes. YES!” You pant, as he grips around your waist tighter.

“Ya want me to fill ya up, hmm?”

“I want all of you, Joel.” You whine, desperate for him.

“That’s it, grind on my cock. Just like that.” He coos; his lip caught between his teeth as he cranks you around, holding onto your hips.

Your head flops onto his shoulder, your hand gripping onto the other as your lower half powers through.

“Mmm, Joel... please!” You groan, feeling your body tighten and clench again.

“Ya close again, baby?” He wheezes in your ear. "Gonna come for me?"

“Mhm… so close.”

“Come all over my cock.” He encourages. “Soak it, I want it all.”

“Oh God!” You whine.

“So damn good, fuck,” he grunts as you move around and around, your back tensing. He rubs it fondly with his big hands. “Right there, that’s it. Oh fuck, that’s so sweet, darlin’.” He groans. “M’gonna come so deep inside of ya.”

You cry out; your body shuddering and trembling on top of him, and you feel him tense and grunt out on a long, satisfied sigh.

You come, your head expanding and your body floating; your cunt clenching around him as you milk him completely dry. Tingles flood your body, your back arches and you can see the sun burning behind your eyes again.

Unable to think or say anything, Joel kisses you; silencing you before you have the chance to ruin this moment by shrinking back or wrapping yourself back up and hiding your body away from him.

For one millisecond, he’s weak; just a sweaty mess of bewildered man meat beneath you. Joel loses himself inside the holistic spiral of your irises for a moment, unable to get out or find his way through the maze of them.

And part of him wants to stay lost in them forever.

He trembles as he rocks slowly, feeling himself empty and deflate with a final grunt of your name, and his shoulders sag in unison into the mattress.

You wrap your arms around him and finally collapse upon him and lay there for a few minutes, listening to nothing but his heartbeat thrumming in your ears, eventually slowing its pace back to its normal rhythm.

Joel looks down at you as you run your fingers across his scalp and it makes him shiver; goosebumps travelling down his spine at breakneck speeds.

You stop winding the curls, shifting and resting your head up against his as you catch your breath.

He holds you, kissing you gently over your eyelashes and cheeks.

“Ya more fuckin’ beautiful to me than you’ve ever been, ya know that?” He murmurs into your face.

"They made 'em neater than I thought they'd be." He says.

You feel his knuckles sweep over your chest gently, unafraid to touch you at all, and you feel like a weight as been lifted as he does it.

You watch as he traces the ridge of the scars delicately.

"Yeah." You nod. You lift your arm up so he can see them run into your pit.

"Do ya feel much pain still? I didn't hurt ya, did I?"

You smile and shake your head. "No. It's just mostly numb. Just feels different. I'm really happy that I could feel something when you kissed me. Even if it was in my armpit," you chuckle.

"Ya still fuckin' beautiful," he smiles, and kisses inside your armpit.

You smile bashfully, headbutting his chin gently as you try not to let the tears water your eyes.

“Look at me, darlin’.” His fingers tip your chin up to him. Thumbs smearing away any tears. “I mean it. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known. Fuckin’ balls on ya are bigger than mine.”

“I don’t know about that,” you say, reaching down to cup and stroke the soft swell of his between your fingers.

He groans, biting on his lip before his mouth finds yours again. "Ya tryin' to kill me?" He slips his tongue inside and tastes you all over again, his hands slipping down your back and groping your ass. “Ya so fuckin' sexy."

"You think so?" You smile.

"Oh, I know so. Ya always have been. Don't hide from me anymore, okay?"

"Okay." You breathe.

"Want ya sleepin' naked next to me again." He thinks for a moment. "Why don't I take ya out to dinner tonight? Anywhere ya want. If ya feelin' up for it?"

"You taking me out on a date, hmm?"

"Yeah. I am. Maybe put one of them nice dresses ya got on. I'll put on that shirt ya like. The green plaid one. Spruce myself up for ya."

"That's my favourite." You agree.

"Ya deserve to feel good, darlin'. Wanna take ya out. Show the world how fuckin' lucky I am."

You smile into his face. "What did I do to deserve you, Mr Miller?"

He kisses you again. Soft lips brushing against yours. "M’gonna keep loving ya. You n’ ya stupid butt face. Ya hear me, Mrs Miller?”

You nod, chuckling, safe in his arms; a place where you can feel safe and heal, and begin to feel like yourself again.

“I hear you.” You smile, as he pelts your face with swamping kisses in the warm sunlit bedroom. "I love you."

He smiles and he's never looked more beautiful.

“I love ya too, butt face.” Joel hums, as he crushes you to his chest and never lets you go.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Joel, and welcome your comments/thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog if you liked it so others can find it on their dash to read and enjoy too - thank you very much! 🖤

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