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morallyinept · 1 month

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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.

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 | 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! 🖤

BODIES MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST

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morallyinept · 21 days

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Devotion - A Dieter Bravo x Curvy/Fuller body F!Reader One Shot

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

BODIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Whilst on vacation with your partner Dieter Bravo, you get snapped in your bikini by paparazzi, causing you to question and evaluate your body shape when others start to pick it apart scathingly. Dieter however, shows you that you're perfect just as you are.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x Curvy/Fuller body F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader in terms of ethnicity. Reader has a fuller, curvier body type. Dieter is a little bigger himself in this fic too, it comes with natural ageing.)

Word Count: 8.4k

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: Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/oral F receiving/Dieter worships your body/angst/self-loathing/tiniest mention of being sick after eating food, but it's not an eating disorder/people being cruel jerks online/comparison of bodies/Dieter just Dietering/we love all types of bodies in this house and won't tolerate any body shaming of any kind.

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 body type 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 | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Nestled along the powdery white sands of Bora Bora's coastline, a sanctuary in an exquisite overwater villa perches atop stilts above the glistening lagoon, a retreat of luxury and tranquillity.

A private deck is greeted by sweeping views of the turquoise waters that stretch as far as the eye can see. A staircase leads down to the tranquil sea below, where one can choose to swim, snorkel, or simply float in the heady bliss of the ocean.

Entering the villa through glass-panelled doors, an atmosphere of understated elegance greets the inhabitant. The interior is adorned with natural materials, from polished hardwood floors to intricately woven rattan furnishings, creating a seamless blend of modern comfort and traditional island charm.

The bedroom, with its plush queen-size bed adorned with crisp white linens, offers a haven of serenity and comfort. A canopy draped overhead adds a touch of romance, while sliding glass doors open onto a private balcony, where champagne can be sipped under the twinkling stars.

The bathroom is a sanctuary of indulgence, featuring a deep-soaking jacuzzi tub overlooking the lagoon, where one can luxuriate in a bubble bath while watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of pink and gold.

And it’s here, in the giant whirlpool tub, where Dieter Bravo finds himself, biting into the skin of your shoulder as he fucks into you from behind.

His panting growls fill your ears as he fills you deep, fingers moulding into the soft curves of your hips as he pulls you back onto him with each thrust.

“Fuck, baby!” He hollers, as your cunt clenches around him, squealing as you come and gripping on the sides of the slippery tub for leverage.

You’re pretty sure the other guests can probably hear you in their own water villas, but you don’t care. Instead you twist in the water seeking his plush mouth as his tongue slips between your lips.

“Do that again, come on my cock.” Dieter husks, teeth biting onto your bottom lip.

He thrusts harder, wheezing at the back of his throat as bubbles and water spill over the sides of the tub. You scream louder; his awed laughter cajoling as you come again, and he soon busts a nut of his own, hollering loudly himself as he fills you up.

"Yeaaaah! Oh fuck, yeah!" He grunts, sweaty forehead lolling against yours and smiling with a blissed out face.

He lights a post-coital blunt and smirks at you as he stretches out naked in the giant bed; hair a damp, ruffled mess and a puffed out pot belly that he strokes absentmindedly, a half hour or so later. He's gloriously naked and completely unabashed about it.

In fact, he hasn't put any clothes on since being here with you; the both for you encased away inside your private villa where you can rusticate like Adam and Eve.

“I hate my feet. They look like weird hands.” He says slowly, as he wiggles his bare toes and eyes the chubby, little pinkies suspiciously.

"You have cute feet." You giggle.

"No. Yours are cute. Mine are... Hobbit feet. Look."

He nods down to his feet and you laugh. "They are a little bit. Which Hobbit are you?"

"Samwise, d'uh." He says, toking deeply.

"You look more like a Pippin to me," you grin, as you flop down beside him on the bed.

Smirking, Dieter brings his large palm down on your bare ass as you lay on your front.

He groans in delight at the playful slap rippling down your shapely thighs. The damp, sticky remains of multiple orgasms on the sheets feel gluey against your skin in patches.

“Mmm,” he grunts as you lean up to kiss him, tasting herbs and smoke around his teeth. “Hey baby,” he smiles dreamily at you with pink, twinkly eyes.

"Hey yourself," you smile, as you kiss him some more.

This is the most relaxed you’ve seen him in a while, having a sixth sense for when living in La La Land gets a bit much for him.

He gets this twitchy, deer-in-headlights look about him and starts saying things like I’ve had a headache for days, I think it’s a brain tumour, or that piece of broccoli is watching me as you regard him staring at it as he moves about the room, and launching into a paranoid diatribe when he’s mixed too many substances together and doesn’t know which way is up.

That’s when you know it’s time for a time out. Whisking him away to a private sanctuary where he can detox, kinda, and eat some damn broccoli without trying to fight and chokeslam it.

Where he can indulge in some freaky sex with you, and the cute waiter who brought him a double, when he only asked for a single, and the next thing his cock is in his mouth and your fingers are in his ass as the three of you paint the room in bodily fluids.

It’s a much needed retreat for you both, adopting the mutually agreed upon rule of no phones or internet as you truly switch off and lock your devices away in the room safe, as you spend time fawning over the intimate fronds of your deepening relationship with A-lister Dieter Bravo.

Once a washed up has-been floundering in the gross LA gutter, now a three-time Emmy winner and on his way to the Oscars. Yet despite the three-sixty turn around in his career through some clever reshuffling of his publicists and agents, he still retains that firecracker ability to go off the rails on occasion, despite cleaning up his act somewhat.

You’ve been credited as the main reason for this transformation, a positive impact; a grounding force in an otherwise chaotic timebomb. The rarely seen lover, opting out of the spotlight through your own choice, and Dieter’s support of it.

Although he’s name dropped you in a few interviews when asked about his infectious happiness, snapped numerous selfies of you both loved up and nuzzling on his Instagram, and on occasion you’ll hang off his arm at an event in a dress that costs more than your first mortgage.

But for the most part, you do your own thing, happy to let him do his, and come back to the home you’ve both been curating together.

You met just like in a trashy Hallmark romance, standing in line to get a green juice in a trendy cafe in downtown LA, and it was love at first wow, as he swooned at you over the tip of his Raybans and grinned crookedly at you, gold earring sparkling like those mischievous eyes.

You’ve been hooked on this lewd rapscallion, with a heart of gold, ever since.

You had no idea who he was or what he did, and for a while, he kept it a secret; fearing that if you knew about his fame and bawdy past shenanigans, you’d disappear in a puff of judgemental smoke.

But you didn’t, instead supporting him and drawing a line between the fame and the reality, and became an anchor when he needed one to stop him floating too far adrift.

Dieter has never said the L word before, but when he did with you, around a mouthful of grilled cheese as you both sat in the dark watching Humphrey Bogart movies, (often Sabrina - it's his favourite) something told you this fuzzy-haired doof meant it.

He can’t keep his hands off you, grabbing and pawing at your voluptuous curves. Burying his face in your breasts that suffocate him, and an ass that won’t quit when he fucks it and watches it ripple.

He’s always been fantastically open about how much he loves your body.

Your weight fluctuates at the best of times, growing when you’re comfy, and you’ve never felt more comfortable than with Dieter. He paints you when you’re asleep, waking to find another portrait of flesh coloured brush strokes on another canvas that’s added to the collection of worship pieces he creates.

Anyone would think he was obsessed with you, but you don’t mind the attention he lavishes, especially when he pours paint over your breasts and gets you to smoosh them into the canvas board whilst he fucks you from behind.

He’s insatiable for you, and for once you feel like you can be yourself around him, truly. Comfortable to be naked and bare with him in your skin.

You’ve spent years with your thoughts drifting inward, grappling with the complexities of your body. A regular love-hate relationship, which leans more towards the hate more often than not.

It’s no secret that you’re larger and more curvaceous than the slender figures typically celebrated by society, and the usual, skinny types that had draped off of Dieter’s arm in the past.

Your body, adorned with generous amounts of curves, dimples and soft contours, bear the marks of a life well-lived and enjoying the over-indulgence of it at times.

But sometimes, you feel a pang of insecurity flood through you; your eyes drawn to the lithe forms that grace the glossy pages of fashion magazines.

Feeling itchy inside your epidermis at the actors that flock around you both at the after parties in their tight dresses that look like a second skin, and the endless scroll of social media feeds perpetuating the allusion, that to be beautiful, you must be thin.

You feel like the “fat woman” when surrounded by slender, flat-tummied make-up artists and stylists who flood your home when Dieter has an event to prepare for. In a world that seems to worship perfection, you can't help but wonder if your own body falls short of the unattainable ideal at times.

But Dieter doesn’t see it that way.

He's continuously lavishing you with affection and love, and unable to keep his big hands off you from day one. You’ve been with him long enough now to know he’s serious about you, respectful of your choices to remain out of the spotlight and trusting that you’re not just a novelty to him.

He’s changed because of you; cleaned himself up and become a better man, and that only imbues the sense of worship he gives to you daily.

As you gaze into Dieter's glassy eyes, you find yourself bathed in a warmth that transcends the superficial constraints of beauty standards. In his unwavering stare you see not judgement, but genuine admiration - a reflection of the love and acceptance that he has for you, curves and all.

He makes you feel invincible when he looks at you like this. But sometimes, it's hard not to let the insecurities seep in.

This vacation has been relaxing, enjoying one another in the privacy of the water villa, but Dieter’s attention span can only survive in enclosed walls for so long, and soon he’s itching to get out and explore.

He suggests the nearby market for lunch and the beach, and you agree, pulling on a suitable dress over your bikini, and rolling up his yoga mat to shove into your beach bag.

You stroll hand-in-hand through the market, packed with tourists and locals. He stops at stalls to admire handmade crafts through his giant, dark Raybans, and purchases cheap beaded bracelets that he adds to the collection on his wrist, and rambles at you in great detail about the craftsmanship of them.

You stop for refreshing guava and pineapple smoothies from stall vendors, pose for selfies by a tropical flower bush as he picks one and places it behind your ear, and after a mouthwatering shellfish lunch, you end the afternoon lazing on the beach together.

He gets a little handsy when he rubs sun lotion onto your skin, fingers slipping under your bikini top discreetly to tug at your puffy nipples as he sucks the oily skin on your neck.

"D..." You whine, as he pulls them in his between his fingers and whispers in your ear how fucking hot you are. You shoo him away, grinning, as he heads into the water for a swim, and you lay back to bake in the sun with your book.

You lick your lips a little while later as he emerges from the water; pale lilac swim shorts clinging to his thick thighs, unruly greying fluff slicked back. Sea water drips from his chin down his chest, that puffs out into a little swollen tummy of his own with a slot machine belly button. Dark hairs disappear into his shorts as he pulls them up, strolling out of the waves.

Dieter’s ageing in the most beautiful way possible, broad too in every sense of the word as the sun blesses him with a gorgeous bronze tan, and he catches you staring like a drooling chimp as he heads back towards you.

He flashes you those enigmatic teeth as he approaches, sand clumped around his ankles.

“See something you like?” He grunts, as he bends down to kiss you, hooked nose all wet and dripping salt water onto your lips.

“Maybe,” you say, his crotch almost in your face as he stands.

He's already pitching a tent in them as he smiles down at you with a razor-like grin.

“Did you know a sea cucumber ejects its intestines out in self-defense? It looks like a sea dick squirting all over the place. And there's lots of it, too.”

You laugh. “Did you see a sea cucumber in the water just now?”

“No. I just remembered seeing it on Nat Geo. Fascinating.”

“You’re so random, D.” You titter, dropping your book down.

"You love it." He says, wiping at his face with the towel.

"I do."

“You know-" he sits behind you on the lounger and pulls you back against his wet chest, “-there’s nothing stopping us from fucking right here. I could easily slip my cock into you right now.”

“D, the beach is full of people.” But you groan at the thought of it.

“Yeah, but the danger, the anticipation. It’d be hot, no?” He whispers, fingers dipping into the waistband of your bikini bottoms. “Just fucking you in front of all these people and they’d never know. You'd have to be really quiet, baby...”

“Dieter!” You hiss, bringing your legs up to stop him going any further.

“Alright,” he chuckles in your ear, running his fuzzy chin against your face.

"Is that a sea cucumber in your shorts or are you just pleased to see me?" You remark at the hard bulge poking at your lower back.

Dieter chuckles, all waspy inside your ear. “I'm still hungry. Let’s go back to the villa and you can sit on my face for a while.”

The vacation comes to an end after another week of fucking all over the water villa, and you both find yourselves on the flight back to civilisation, somewhat more exhausted than when you'd set off.

You turn on your mobile when taxiing towards the terminal, back on American soil, and listen to the pings as your phone catches up with life.

You scroll through emails as Dieter quietly snores beside you, mouth open and catching flies.

Smirking, you scroll through social media and stop, immediately feeling sick when you open a message from your friend titled have you seen this?

There’s a screenshot of you on the beach in your bikini from a pap site, something that doesn't surprise you much at all - it’s bound to happen now and again when you’re spotted with Dieter, despite booking somewhere off radar.

Renegade photos of the two of you end up on the socials all the time, and you pay them no mind, choosing to abstain from looking them up.

But what you don’t expect to see is the vitriol in the comments underneath the picture, from none other than Dieter’s fans.

You read the words fat and beached whale and pity fuck, standing out like they’re flashing red neon at you.

Swallowing as your throat runs dry, it gets worse the further you scroll. They make fun of your body, make remarks about your face, your hair, sense of fashion, even your ankles of all things.

Who is offended by someone’s fucking ankles, for Christ’s sake?

Every part of you is pulled apart scathingly in deep conversations that go on and on, blurring out the compliments that say you’re a cute couple by the ones that say things like she carries it well.

Carries what well?

You’re pulled in, instantly scrolling to Dieter's own Instagram page and clicking on the most recent picture he took of you both as you watched the sunset on your last night in Bora Bora.

You have the flower in your hair that he picked and put behind your ear, and told you how gorgeous you were as he snapped the selfie, his lips pressing into your cheek. Under the photo he wrote the caption my heart.

Comparing how his belly in his swim shorts looks gorgeous and sexy and how complete strangers want to lick it, whereas your tummy in your bikini is branded hideous and disgusting.

It’s liked by over five million people, and you grimace when you realise there are also thousands of comments talking about your looks there too.

How your shoulders are much broader than his, your thighs the size of tree trunks. How you must crush him when you fuck.

Who's the whale next to Dieter?

They speculate that you’re pregnant. Some of them are calling you a cunt or a bitch because you’re carrying his fictitious baby.

The unjustified hate just keeps coming and coming.

Can't believe he's with someone so fat.

She’s so gross.

She’s disgusting.

He's fucking her for a joke.

Dude must be high AF to fuck that each night.

I've seen glory holes better looking than her face.

He deserves better.

It’s a staged relationship. No way he’d look twice at her.

You thought you looked pretty in your dress. You were wrong, babe.

You feel like you’re going to throw up and nudge him awake.

“D,” you groan.

“Mm,” he mutters.

“Dieter! Wake up!”

“Wha-what?” He jolts as he comes to, wiping his mouth free of drool. “Have we landed? Oh, we're here. What time is it? Fuck, my neck. I think I've dislocated my shoulder sleeping in this damn seat. Why'd you let me sleep for so long?”

His bleary eyes look around the cabin as he sits upright in his seat with wild, fuzzy hair. He turns to you and baulks.

“Babe, what’s wrong?” He sees you crying silently into your hands. “Hey, what happened?” He reaches for your hands, but instead you toss the phone at him.

Confused, he takes it and smiles at the selfie of you both together. “What, you don’t like it? I think you look really gor-”

“Read the comments,” you all but choke out to him.

As he scrolls through the comments, his jaw clenches in anger; his grip on the phone tightening with each cruel word. You see his nostrils flare as he breathes in and clicks the phone screen off.

“Babe,” he shakes his head. “Fuck that shit, man. Ignore it. Bitches be cray and all.”

“That’s easy for you to say, they fucking love you!” You shake your head and scramble up past him, heading for the door as the other passengers begin to disembark.

"I'll get the luggage then..." He huffs to himself.

Despite Dieter’s reassurances, the words have already taken root in your mind, poisoning your thoughts with doubt and reuniting you with that old, reliable friend, self-loathing.

In the days that follow, you find yourself sinking deeper and deeper into a depressive spiral, unable to escape the relentless barrage of negativity that haunts your every waking moment.

It consumes you. Strangers, people you’ve never met and don’t know or what they look like, get into your head. You suddenly realise the power that words have.

They have jagged edges that cut into your skin and leave you bleeding, dying.

They cause your head to ache profusely and your nose to become blocked, and your eyes to itch from crying so much. You’re suddenly paranoid, of everything, everyone that looks at you. Second guessing all the time, wondering what they think when they look you over.

You withdraw from the world, retreating into the darkness of your own mind, where the echoes of cruel words reverberate back and forth like a never-ending chorus of condemnation.

No amount of love or support from Dieter can penetrate the thick fog of despair that envelopes you, leaving you feeling utterly alone and miserable.

You cancel pre-planned events, leaving Dieter to go alone, whilst you curl up under the duvet and don’t surface for days, and you realise that ignorance really was bliss.

You find yourself standing in front of the mirror naked when you finally brave yourself to have a shower, and are disgusted at what you see.

Highlighted before the glass, your reflection is a cruel mockery of the beauty you once believed you possessed. The soft glow of the vanity lights illuminate every curve and contour of your body, each line a stark reminder of your perceived inadequacy.

Your gaze lingers on your reflection, tracing the lumpy ridges of your hips and the soft swell of your hanging stomach, the fullness of your thighs and the rounded shape of your ass, with a mixture of disdain and disgust.

You grab handfuls of your flesh, rolling it in your grip, shaking your head as your eyes fill with water.

Looking away, you cover yourself up with baggy clothes that aren’t flattering. You put on Dieter's green robe over the top and belt it up and climb back into bed, sobbing.

How can he possibly find me attractive? Is he part of it? Am I really just a pity fuck?

The invasive thoughts begin to chip away at the solid foundations you thought you had. Crumbling them into doubt and paranoia.

Their words haunt you, spin around your eyesight for days until you're back torturing yourself and scrolling back through them all. You shut everything out except their words - you just exist in this tormented space in the bed - refusing to entertain anyone, including Dieter - with your phone doom scrolling, and nothing but self-loathing and misery.

It lasts on a repetitive cycle for days.

You try not to eat, taking to self-punishment and abstinance, but then that only makes it worse because you inevitably get hungry and order take-out. Far too much take-out.

And then once you've eaten it all, a small comfort that is fleeting, you force yourself sick, feeling guilty and even more wretched for enjoying the food that you love.

Until Dieter’s had enough of it all.

He throws everyone out of the house on the eve before Oscar’s night, refusing to partake in any more fittings whilst he knows you’re upstairs hiding from him and hurting.

Forehead pulling into tight wrinkles with guilt, Dieter stares at the dress the stylist has brought over that he knows you’ll look incredible in.

You were so excited when you first tried it on, and now he can’t help but feel as though he’s had some part in this; coaxing you to try and be someone you’re not just for the sake of the glitz and solid bronze statues plated in 24 karat gold.

But he can't help it, he wants to share this side of him with you. Wants you to be proud of him and to show you off, because you make him so equivocally happy. And for a long time, Dieter wasn't happy. Just floundering and trying to shape himself so he could fit into their moulds too.

He said he'd keep you separate from his world if that's what you wanted, and for the most part you did, and now he wonders if it's because of this - this pressure that society puts on people in the spotlight to maintain perfection.

And he can't help but wonder if he's put that pressure on you too in some ways.

It’s like cleaning out wounds with dirty fingers, festering and making it worse the longer you're hurting and allowing them to hurt you. And now, he trudges up the stairs, woolly socks making static on the carpet, with the dress dangling from the hanger over his broad shoulder.

He misses you. Misses your smile, your smell, your warmth. Your body wrapped around his. It's not fun watching movies by himself, sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms without you.

He's given you space, but he needs you. Needs you to see how fucking beautiful you are to him. And needs you to know he's not giving up on you, not now and not ever.

“I’m not going.” You grumble with a huff.

Knuckles rap on the bedroom door and push it open gently when you grunt at him to go away.

You watch him, with puffy eyes, as he hangs the dress bag over the closet door.

You shake your head vehemently.

“You don't have to. But... you promised me.” Dieter says, as he kicks at the foot of the bed gently.

His zig-zag sweater is knitted and bobbly on the arms when he crosses them over his chest. Triad tattoos inked into his skin peep out at you under rolled up sleeves.

“You wanna see it?” He offers. "Might make you feel good to try it on again?"

“No. I’m not wearing it. I’m not going and that’s that.”

Dieter kneels on the bed slowly crawling up towards you. “It’s my night, baby, and I want you there by my side.”

You sigh. “I can’t,” you whimper, trying not to look at him.

“Yes, you can. You know you can.”

Tears fall from your eyes making warm tracks on your cheeks.

“No, I don’t.” You say, sniffing.

“I love you.” Dieter says, reaching your face and sitting over your thighs.

His thumbs catch the tears and he kisses your face. “I fucking love you. You’re so beautiful and sexy. God, you're so fucking sexy. You make me so hard.”

He takes your hand and puts it over his cock that’s indeed rock solid in his shorts.

“Yes you do, see? Even when you're crying and wearing my shitty gown. You’ve always been so fucking sexy to me.”

A renegade smile tries to break free at the corner of your lips as he starts smashing down your walls with a sledgehammer. And his aim is pretty on point.

"When was the last time you washed this? It stinks," you say, looking down at the stained softness of his gown draped over you. You don't even want to know the origin of some of them.

“That’s it, there you are.” He encourages.

“You really think I’m sexy?” You whimper. “All this?” You say, confused as you point to your stomach.

“I love your body, babe. Every. Inch. Of. It.” He punctuates each word with a kiss over your face; on your nose, your forehead, your chin.

“Why? You could have anyone...”

“I don’t want anyone. I want you. I've always wanted you.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell in love with you. Hook. Line. And fucking sinker.”

“Dieter-” You choke and snivel.

He wraps you up in his arms. “Let me show you, baby.”

He unbelts his gown that you’re wearing, leaning forward to kiss your lips gently. Your fingers tangle in his hair, silky greying fluff, as he swirls his tongue around inside your mouth.

"You taste like flaming hot Cheetos." You smirk around his lips.

"I may have eaten three king-size bags. My ass and the toilet will hate me later."

"Is that all you've eaten?"

"Well, yeah. That and microwave oven pizzas... I'm kinda floundering without you. It really is selfish of you to not come downstairs and cook for me. Baby, I'm wasting away." He pats his little belly for emphasis.

You laugh, a deep and haughty chuckle, and he smiles at that.

"You're such a doof."

"Yeah, but I'm your doof." Dieter says as he kisses you, sighing into your mouth as his shoulders sag.

He pulls away and runs his thumb over your lips.

“I love your lips,” he says, licking over them and nipping them between his teeth. “Mmm, yeah. Fuck. Love it when they wrap around my cock too,” he hums.

You chuckle through wet eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah baby, I love how you look when you suck my cock. So fucking hot.”

“How do I look?”

“Like a fucking Goddess!” He chirps enthusiastically, and you can see that he really means it. "Better than Aphrodite, Dionysus... that-that pale chick riding in the clam-"

"Venus." You hiccup through a smile.

"Yeah. They haven't got shit on you, babe."

"Dieter," you stutter as he nuzzles into your face. He slathers wet kisses down your neck as you groan.

“I love these tits… fuck,” he groans as he squeezes them in his hands, sucking on the nipples as he pushes your t-shirt up.

“Mmm, D…” you whine as he flicks his tongue back and forth over them, until they become hardened pebbles in his mouth making you shudder and clench.

"Fucking perfect tits." He grunts. He kisses and licks down the deep valley of your breasts, smooching over your sternum.

“I love this belly,” Dieter says, with more kissing, licking and stopping to blow a loud raspberry into your belly button.

You cackle as he strokes and tickles your hips.

“Dieter!” You howl as he tickles harder.

“See, stunning!” He laughs, watching you cackle and squirm as you try to bat him off.

“Stop it!” You howl. "I'm gonna pee!"

“I love these little lines here,” he says, as he runs his tongue over the crinkled stretch marks around your lower tummy.

He kisses further down into the swell of your thighs, pulling your leggings down as he goes, revealing more skin for him to lavish.

"I love this freckle right here, and this one here, and this little guy over here… But this one’s my favourite, right here. Hi cutie,” he smiles as he kisses it.

You giggle like an idiot as he kisses over each freckle, mole and dimple in and around your thighs.

“And I fucking love this pussy,” Dieter groans as he runs his tongue up the slit of you over your panties.

You watch as he hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls them down, with darkening eyes smouldering up at you from between your legs.

His tongue runs on the skin outside your pussy lips, so close to your clit. He trails a hot, wet lap around and leaves you panting, begging. “Please, please…”

"What do you want, baby? You want me to kiss it?" He smirks as you nod, head all slack and mesmerised.

He spreads your lips and licks his tongue slowly up your slit, making you shudder as he swirls it around the bump of your buzzing nub.

“Fuck,” Dieter groans, reaching down to adjust himself. “I could just fucking come from eating you out,” his voice is muffled by doing just that.

Your head keens back into the pillows and you groan. Your fingers rummage inside his hair, twisting and pulling, as he laps you up.

He doesn’t shy away, nestling himself between your thighs so he can lavish you with deserved attention as he kisses all over your pussy.

Running his adept and hungry tongue back and forth over your clit before sucking it into his mouth and making those thighs quake and jerk around his face.

“D… Let me touch you.” You whine.

“There'll be plenty of time for that later, right now I’m happy just here. Right here..." He licks again, a long fat stripe up your seam, and you pant. "I want you to come all over my face, beautiful.” Dieter urges, rutting his hips into the mattress.

As the tension mounts within, you can feel every nerve in your body standing on edge, like a tightly coiled spring ready to burst. And then, in a moment of pure abandon, it happens. A wave of pleasure crashing over you; a surge of unfurling sensations that seem to consume you whole as you tumble through them.

He rubs over your clit, tickling it with the increasing pressure and speed from the pad of his thumb as he slips his tongue inside your hole and drinks you down. He hums around you, licking and sucking as he entices your body to just bend to his mouth.

And you do.

"Dieter! Fuck!"

Like a firework exploding in the night sky, a burst of light and colour leaves you breathless and exhilarated as he continues to lick and suck you through your orgasm.

You're a writing mess, groaning as you fill his mouth with more of your slick and clenching around his tongue as he fucks your contracting hole with it. As your body convulses with the force of your release, your thighs crushing further against his head, you feel a profound sense of relief wash over you, like a swampy weight lifting from your shoulders.

Bathed in a moment of pure ecstasy amongst the dread that’s consumed you; a fleeting glimpse into the freedom from it all.

"Fucking love this pussy," he mouths.

“Shit... I need you, D.” You gasp, your body buzzing for him.

You pull him out of his cargo shorts, hard and swollen in your palm. Just barely stroking across his soaked frenulum as he groans like he's been choked. The slick of his own drippings covering your fingers as you jerk him desperately.

“Fuck!” Dieter muffles into your mouth as you crush him in a kiss; teeth clashing with clumsiness at your haste to have him and cupping his balls.

You can taste yourself all over his furry lips and chin as he guides his swollen, weeping head inside your gorgeous cunt.

“Dieter!” You groan as he fucks into you, large hands roaming all over your body, squeezing, massaging.

“So fucking beautiful, baby.” He pants, burying his head into the ample swell of your breasts.

Your tits bounce wildly around his face with every thrust of his pelvis against yours, and he just whines and groans inside his happy place as he sucks on your nipples with eyes that stare up at you.

But it’s the love shining so deeply in his watery eyes that truly moves you - a love so profound, it seems to shimmer with unshed tears, reflecting the depth of his emotion.

“God, I fucking love your body, baby.” His words penetrate the barriers you’ve built around yourself, slowly chipping away at the walls of self-doubt and insecurity that has held you captive in a cage for days.

"I love you!" He gasps into your mouth.

As you look into his earnest eyes, you see no sympathy or pity, but genuine affection and admiration. You see a man that genuinely believes you’re beautiful.

A man that can’t get enough of your curves, and welted and dimpled thighs. Your stretch marks and tummy rolls. A man who’s not afraid to put his hands on you, who wants to show you off to the world and declare “she’s mine” at the top of his grizzled voice proudly.

You see a man who also has body hang ups of his own when he stares at himself in the mirror after hours of being preened and gussied up like a peacock for the world’s cameras.

Wrinkling his aquiline nose at his slick appearance, when all he wants to do is laze about in a grubby, green gown and broken crocs, smoke a bowl and eat bags of flaming hot Cheetos with you, whilst nestled in the comfy, safe place in your arms and cleavage where he feels most like himself.

He twists, so one of your legs is still hooked over him, his hand on your ass as he pushes into you as you lay on your sides facing each other.

And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

It’s a revelation - the realisation that you’re deserving of love and acceptance, just as he is.

His hands run all over your body, sliding up your back and fingers gliding down your chest delicately. He guides his cock back in, holding you in his other arm tight and kissing you.

Dieter whines into your face as he slips in, his eyes searching yours out to convey in unspoken words how good you feel squeezing around him.

You let your hips languidly bounce as he flexes his; both of you enjoying that heady rhythm without rush or eagerness to finish in a hurry.

“Mmm. Oh fuck, right there… oh fuck, fuck. This pussy, baby, you feel so good.” Dieter groans, eyes rolling back. “Amazing, amazing...” He babbles.

“Tell me,” you pant. “Tell me what’s amazing, D.”

“You. You’re amazing. Fuck I want you every which way. I-I want to fuck your ass again. Wanna have you in my mouth, swallow you all up.”

“Eat the world.” You grin.

“Yeah, eat the world.” He smiles. “My world. You’re my fucking world, baby.”

“Fuck, I love how you grip me so tight, baby.” He wheezes, fists punched into the pillow either side of your head as his hips do all the work.

A subtle roll and he’s on top of you again. Knees knocking your thighs open wider and sinking his cock into you deeper.

He kisses you as he slides in, filling you up with his love as you whimper into his mouth in sweet relief.

“Come on, Dieter, give me your cock. Like that, fuck yeah, like that.” You pull on his broad arms, legs wrapping around his chunky waist as his stomach slaps against yours.

Deep smacks of skin fill your ears as he fucks you harder. He wheezes as he breathes, panting into your face.

“Like this? Yeah?” He fucks you faster, drilling in quick, deep shunts; the headboard clattering against the wall loudly. "God!" He grunts deeply. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna come, baby!"

He’s weak for you. You can see it in his eyes, the vulnerability around the blown out glass of them as he comes and bites down on his lip through a laboured grunt. Spilling warm and thick inside of you, and you feel it pool and dribble out once he softens.

“Give it to me, give it to me. Give me all your come, Dieter!” You cry as you burst again - gold bokeh filling your eyes as the heat floods through your body.

Your spine twists, your back arching. Toes curling and ears ringing as you come around him.

“Baby!” He yells as he momentarily stiffens and strains before exploding inside of you.

He stays plugged in for a while, pelting your breasts with unrelenting kisses as he rubs his nose against your nipple, tasting the salt of your sweat on his tongue. Eventually finding your lips once more as he holds your head in his giant hands.

“How do you do that, D?” You ask breathlessly, afterwards.

“Do what?” He lays beside you, pants slowly dying down and nose nuzzling against your own.

“Make me feel so good?” You peep, timidly.

“The same way you make me feel so good." He hums out as you watch his eyes close, dark, fluttery eyelashes fanning out. "I’d probably still be in the gutter if it weren’t for you loving me.” He says quietly.

“Do you really believe that?”

He nods, his greying hair ruffling against the pillow. “Yeah. I do. You saved me, baby.” He says, with deep chocolate eyes lanced on you. “My brain scrambles when I'm with you, but in a good way.”

“I wish you could see yourself how I see you. Then maybe you’d believe it.” His eyes soften at you, a mixture of relief and gratitude washing over him. "I just want you to know how beautiful you are to me," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I never want to make you feel like you're anything less than perfect, because to me, you are. And I know I'm a bit much sometimes... but I really do love you.”

You don't try to unpick the sweetly soft truth that pours out of him in sincere revelations, you just listen with a smile spreading across your lips.

“I love you, D. You and your scrambly brain always make me feel beautiful.”

“From the first day I met you, I’ve always thought so.” He smiles, his thumb pulling on your bottom lip. "And I'm never wrong." He grins.

A wider smile escapes you as you lean in closer, your forehead resting against his, damp with sweat.

“I’m not gonna force you, baby, but please come with me tomorrow night.” He implores with soft eyes. “You’re gonna look so beautiful and I really want you there with me. We'll have a great time, you and me.”

Your response is hesitant, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on his pudgy hip as you struggle to find words. Unable to speak, like rust clogging in your throat as your mind recalls all the nasty slurs said about you online and the panic prickles again.

You want nothing more than to carry out stringent ablutions, cleanse yourself of the tarnish they’ve left inked under the layers of your skin with all the other jibes and taunts you’ve heard throughout your life.

It's hard not to let your body physically define you when physicality is so superficial in this world. There isn't anything that anyone has said that you haven't heard before, or said to yourself in your moments of dark masochism.

You've seen all the looks people give you, like you're an exhibit in a museum to be gawked at. Heard all the whispers and mean girl things that ultimately mean girls say in earshot.

You've spent years planning routes around rooms as you step in, avoiding scenarios where you'll have to squeeze yourself through tiny gaps or past people.

Accepting the fact that the dress you really like in the shop window won't be in your size. Slicking your thighs in layers of anti-chafe balm in advance when your friends want to go for a walk and you struggle to keep up.

And words cut deep.

You try to tell yourself it's jealousy. You try to tell yourself that they’re not real. Faceless drones sitting behind a screen with nothing better to do than tear you down, because you ultimately have what they want.

They want him, Dieter. But you have him.

A woman who is so far removed from themselves in terms of looks, that it's hard for them to comprehend and accept that he could genuinely want you and love you, and get turned on by you.

You breathe in slowly, trying to push down all the negative thoughts that try to worm their way back in.

And sometimes, it's hard for you to accept too.

But then he does things like this, makes you believe and accept it, because his love for you is real. It's so fucking real that it guts you. It's all you've ever wanted, someone to see you.

Will I have to suck in my belly? Will people see me doing that? Is the dress going to cling onto my stomach and thighs too much? What if my dress tears? What if I fall? What if I embarrass him?

But then you look in his eyes keening back at you, and he has this power to get inside your head and sweep them all away again into a dark corner.

“I promise you, you won't be alone. I'll be right there beside you, every step of the way." Dieter reassures.

Your eyes soften at his words, a glimmer of hope shining through the murky uncertainty. "But what if-"

"No 'buts', candy and nuts," Dieter interjects, headbutting you gently. "You’re stunning, babe. Inside and out. And I'll spend the rest of my life reminding you of that."

“The rest of your life, huh?” You smile.

“Yeah. If you can tolerate me for that long.” He snickers, eye creases crinkling.

“That’s a pretty big if.” You smirk.

“The biggest.” Dieter smiles, his big browns pleading silently and soft at you, and melting you further in the process.

You nod, smiling. “Okay. I'll go.”

“Amazing.” He croons with a satisfied yawn. “We got any KitKats left?”

“In the kitchen, I think. I’ll get you one.” You smile.

“Rockstar.” He mumbles, nuzzling further into the pillow.

You catch sight of him over your shoulder, his bare, round ass naked and furry as he adjusts and gets comfortable on the bed.

You pad down to the kitchen, not bothering to dress, and catch sight of your reflection in the dark pane of the window.

A wobbly silhouette at first glance, but as you look closer, you can see the sheen of sweat gleaming on your skin, the warmth that coats it from the afterglow of Dieter’s touch.

Your gaze lingers on your shapely form, but instead of scrutinising the perceived flaws, you find yourself noticing the things you’ve overlooked - the gentle curve of your smile, the sparkle in your eyes, the fact that you’re here, naked and comfortable to wander freely around the house again, whereas only a few hours ago you were wrapped up and hiding.

As you regard your reflection, something is different. The harsh judgement and self-doubt that has plagued you tirelessly has been replaced by a newfound, creeping sense of acceptance and appreciation.

A small glimmer, but it's still there nonetheless.

You turn, admiring your shape with a small smile lighting you up at what you see.

In this moment, you realise that you’re beautiful like he says - not just because of your physical appearance, but because of the love Dieter has for you that makes you see past any self-loathing.

His unwavering affection lifts you up when you sink, helping you to see yourself in a new light, as a woman worthy of love and admiration.

You come back into the bedroom and toss the KitKat on the dresser when you see Dieter snoring gently.

Your leg hooks over his puffy middle as you listen to his heartbeat. The soft thrum-thrum emanating in the pit of his chest soothes away any worries or fears.

You feel his thick fingers twitch against your skin, a silent snuffle as he breathes laboriously, lost in sleep.

Dieter Bravo sees you and loves you for who you are, so maybe, just maybe, you should try to love yourself, too.

It's the last conscious thought you have before you fall asleep with him.

“Does my pocket look okay? It looks weird, it’s doing shifty things. I don't trust it.” Dieter asks, as he looks in the mirror and fiddles with the silk handkerchief poking out the top of it.

You can feel the nerves radiating off of him in droves. His fingers twitch, rings clacking against every surface he passes. Lips gnawed on until they’re scarlet, despite the make-up artist slicking them with balm tirelessly.

“Your rebellious pocket looks fine.” You say, as you step fully into the room.

“Oh wow! Baby. Fuck, look at you!” Dieter turns, his whole face lighting up. “You look so good in this colour.”

“Yeah?” You ask, smoothing down the dress that fits you like a dream.

It hides a multitude of sins in your opinion, as you turn this way and that in the mirror - you’re satisfied with how you look.

“Yeah, your eyes really pop, wow!” He comes over to you, all perfectly coiffed curls blown out, and crushed velvet sleeves embracing you. “Fuck…” He says, eyeing you up and down.

He makes no effort to hide it when he adjusts himself in his pants so brazenly.

“You scrub up pretty well yourself, Mr Oscar Nominee.” You smirk, eyeing how good he looks in his suit.

A crisp shirt is open at the neck revealing an abundance of golden skin you long to lick and taste. He channels Adam Ant with the eighties romance of it all; lace sleeves hanging low and unruly from his jacket cuffs, matching velour Gucci loafers on with no socks, and wearing fitted pants that finish above the ankle.

“I’m so fucking nervous.” Dieter murmurs to you, quietly in the car on the way there. He rubs at his sternum with a large palm and keeps it there. "I need an antacid. And possibly a shit." He mumbles, belching quietly into his fist. "Fuck. I should've taken a shit before we left."

You giggle. “You'll be alright. Just breathe.” You reassure him, ghosting your nose over his. "I've got you, D."

“I’ve got you too, baby.” He promises, squeezing your hand and smiling at you. "God, you look so beautiful."

The cameras are flashing in your retinas as you walk the red carpet with him. The dress dazzles back, accentuating your curves and features, and looking at yourself once more in the mirror before you left, you were awash with awe at how good it actually made you feel.

He leans in for a kiss, but belches again in your face, and you chuckle as he laughs, embarrassed. "Sorry, sorry."

"At least your breath doesn't smell like Cheetos."

"No, but my sweat does." He chuckles, then turns to you. "Please, for the love of God, don't let me shit my pants."

You remember that feeling, coming back to you slowly as you stand tall and proud beside your silly man, who won't stop discreetly belching in the back of his throat like a toad where he's so nervous.

Where did that other woman go? She was lost for a while, pulled into the mud, but she kept moving, getting herself out of it once again. She has strength after all. They won’t drag you under.

Dieter is in awe of you too as you hold onto his hand, fingers interlocked with yours tightly, with his other on his chest holding in his anxiety - and nervous burps - whilst you smile beside him and support him on his big night.

You hold each other up with words unsaid. Pillars of strength when the other one needs it. With him by your side, looking at you the way he is now, you’ve never felt more beautiful and loved in your own skin.

The paps call you to look this way, gorgeous, as they snap your picture with him whilst you pose, growing more confident as Dieter holds you close, beaming at you.

The interviewers want to know all about your dress and compliment you beside him as he talks about his film, and then forgets about it entirely and starts talking about you instead with starry eyes, when he loses his train of thought.

Interviews pop up online of Dieter just dumbstruck at you standing next to him, peppered with heart-eye emoji's and the comments flood in under the photos and reels.

Look at how he looks at her!

They make such a cute couple.

She looks so beautiful in that dress.

Aww, he really loves her!

I want them to get married and have lots of babies!!

I hope he wins tonight, he deserves it.

She's so good for him.

I wish I looked that good.

But their words, no matter how kind this time round, won't matter. Because right now, nothing anyone could say could make you feel better than he does about yourself.

Dieter leans in, his arm sliding around your curvy waist, his voice husky and pouring liquid silk in your ear.

“Later on, I’m gonna fuck you in this dress, baby.” He promises, with a shit eating grin that’s just as gleaming as the devilish gold hoop twinkling in his ear.

“You better, it’s Valentino.” You smirk. “Gotta get your money's worth.”

Crookedly grinning at you, he places a lingering kiss on your glossy lips as the paparazzi go wild, snapping pictures of Oscar Nominee, Dieter Bravo, affectionately worshipping his Goddess for the whole world to see.

I really hope you enjoyed reading this story with Dieter, 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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DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fluff #every body is beautiful #bodies series #diversity #inclusivity #jett's writing

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