#writing diversity

[cepheusgalaxy]

How to write diverse casts: a tip

A. Do your homework

B. Ask people who know better than u (people who are a part of the group you're writing) and are willing to share information

C. Don't be annoying. Some people don't want to lecture you in spoon theory or binder safety for ur characters and you gotta ask someone else

#writing tips #writing diversity #writing advice #writeblr #writing

[novlr]

Do you have suggestions on how to write a severely verbally and socially disabled character (think a condition that's sort of a fluent aphasia & autism combo) without being unintentionally offensive?

This is a great question, and something that's very important to talk about. And one of the first questions I think it's important for every writer to ask is "Why should I be the one to tell this character's story?" People write about disability, neurodivergence, and mental illness for a variety of reasons, so if this is a story you want to tell, then it's important to make sure those reasons are the right ones. You should never use a character's condition as "flavour."

If you've asked yourself that question and determined that this story is important to you, and you are the right person to tell it, then the next steps are to make sure you approach your character with the sensitivity and respect they deserve. When writing about disability, neurodivergence, or mental illness, these steps are absolutely essential:

Know the condition you are writing about: There is no catch-all imaginary condition that you can use to represent a character respectfully. To be truly respectful of a character, their experience, and their condition, you must specifically know what condition you are writing about.

Listen to real voices: Read as many first-person accounts as you can get your hands on. Don't take third-party advice at face value. Instead, immerse yourself in the stories of the individuals affected by their condition. Their voices are unique, individual, and each will have their own experiences. Listening to their stories openly and with honest intent is the best place to start.

Do your research: Take the time to thoroughly research your character's condition. Understand the symptoms, challenges, and experiences associated with it. Consult reputable sources, read personal accounts, and consider reaching out to individuals with lived experiences or advocacy organizations for insights. But make sure that any individuals you plan to reach out to are open to the emotional labour involved in helping you tell that story.

Avoid stereotypes: Be cautious not to rely on stereotypes or generalisations when portraying your character. Remember that individuals who share a condition are diverse, and their experiences and abilities can vary greatly.

Write the character, not the disability: Your character is an individual with their own personality, hobbies, strengths, and weaknesses. Consider their background, interests, and other aspects of their identity to create a well-rounded and authentic portrayal that is more than just their condition.

Get feedback: Once you've written the character, find sensitivity readers with similar experiences to read over your manuscript. Their perspectives can help you identify any unintentional inaccuracies or stereotypes and provide suggestions for improvement.

The language you use to represent your characters is incredibly important, so here are some resources to help you ensure you're respectful in the way you talk about them:

The Disability Language Style Guide from the National Center on Disability and Journalism

The Language Guide from PWDA (People With Disability Australia)

The Conscious Style Guide has lots of resources and articles to help get you started

#writers #creative writing #writing #writing community #writers of tumblr #creative writers #writing inspiration #writeblr #writerblr #writing tips #writing disability #writing references #writing resources #creative writing resources #writer resources #helping writers #write respectfully #writing advice #writing reference #writing diversity #writer

[hussyknee]

K. J. CHARLES, I LOVE YOU.

...

— Wanted: A Gentleman, K. J. Charles (2017)

That's the emotional thread that runs through the whole novella, coupled with his conflicted love for the Conroys' daughter he helped raise. It runs in parallel with Swann's own shackles of ursury and exploitation, which, while not comparable with Martin's bondage, still inspires his empathy and compassion.

Cesar Picton

Black Georgians: The Shock of the Familiar

FUCK YOUR BRIDGERTON-ASS WHITE LIBERAL DIVERSITY-COOKIES REPRESENTATION. THIS IS HOW YOU WRITE BLACK AND BROWN PEOPLE. We've always been here, bitch. Pay attention and be curious about our interiority for once.

#she's so confident writing characters of colour and their struggles #i wish she'd include a little bit of their culture as well but the fact that they've assimilated into whiteness so much #while never being accepted as fully british is a big part of it #mimi matthews does a slightly better job but she doesn't have as many black characters and she's not this polished and clever #she's quarter indian though #kj charles #wanted a gentleman #black british history #queer historical romance #interracial romance #writing diversity #black representation #black history #slavery #anti blackness #british history #book recommendations #book recs #knee of huss

[kimyoonmiauthor]

Useful free tools for writing.

More of the incidental tools that I find useful, regardless of how one usually writes that are often known in the writing community, but you might not know?

One Look dictionary

Reverse word look up. You know when you're getting stumped on a word you kinda know, but only can get the definition of, or you want to make sure your 3-word phrase can't be said more succinctly? Yeah, this resource should help. (The underline is a link)

Google Docs

I should note that after about 100K words, it starts to struggle. But it's good for editing, collab work, spreadsheets, and also keeping track of your previous drafts so if someone says, "But, but you plagiarized from me," you have a log saying you didn't, so you can say, "you likely took from me."

And so on.

Libre Office–because not everyone wants to deal with Google Docs or can afford Microsoft office. It also has a recovery function, so if it crashes, you can get your words back. (Microsoft Office often doesn't?)

Use it for formatting your manuscripts. For the editors out there, accept ODT format. This is absolutely free and sometimes it doesn't port well.

Rhyming dictionaries–yes, they exist. The slant rhyming is also useful. There are slant rhyming dictionaries too.

The almighty square bracket. []

To all of you discovery writers out there that can't afford Scrivener. This is the tool for you. You've written and dumped all this information into the text that shouldn't belong there, but you want to keep it. What do you do? You square bracket it.

If not that, there is also the curly bracket if you need a sub category. {

It's great for:

Editing notes.

Please expand this note to yourself.

Examine this phrase later because you moved on, but it doesn't sound right.

Cataloging important information you might need at a later date.

Info dumping that you want to break up.

Storing long descriptions you want to use elsewhere.

You're too lazy to catalog in your world building notes great information.

You have ADHD and some other idea has occurred to you, but it's totally off topic. Square bracket.

To avoid plagiarism 'cause you forgot you pulled a source.

If you're one of those super detailed people, you can also color code it. The reason is that both curly and square brackets almost never show up in manuscripts. <> sometimes does, but also often doesn't.

The best part is no matter your program, format, or keyboard, you have it.

Note that this doesn't work for Japanese as well, but Japanese also have access to {} which is why I noted it here.

Spreadsheets

You need to make a calendar for your planet and need the quick calculations.

You need to make a morpheme list for your mythical language.

You want to delineate gender quickly.

This usually comes with Google Spreadsheets, Microsoft Office and Libre Office. But writers often (me included) forget they exist.

But they are useful for more than number crunching. And some writers use them for plotting too.

For Fantasy/SF writers: Donjon:

The whole website, but particularly the Fantasy Calendar maker is useful.

Google Search: Quotes.

You want to fact check a quote. Or you got distracted and forgot to put in the citation information.

To be or not to be

is horrible search for. So what you do is this: "To be or not to be."

And you might get Will Shakespeare.

BTW, Goodreads is a horrible horrible source for finding out where quotes came from. Make sure you have the actual page number/place it was said with the surrounding quotes.

Equally, the -[item] is also often useful when you're searching.

You're looking up say... Kimchi, and you want search results that don't have napa in it You would type "kimchi -napa"

You are researching... I hope, I hope.

Public domain books: Project Gutenberg

You need a back issues of Gustav Freytag's Dies Techniks des dramas.

You need the quote from Anne of Green Gables.

You want to check if this Winnie the Pooh quote is in the earlier or later works because of public domain issues.

You need to read The Art of War for the tenth time.

You need to read Machiavelli's The Prince, because you are writing politics and war.

This is the place to find it. Sometimes, sometimes it is public domain, but it's not in there.

Library

Libby (app), for example. Sign up for it. Get a library card and you'll save yourself money. Some countries don't have one, but for the ones that do, you can read print books and consume audiobooks at home.

Often self-pubbed books are on there too. If you have an amazon account then you can use the kindle app with it.

Sometimes you can also go to university libraries and though you can't check anything out, you can use their catalogs to look up things. You sometimes have to be there, but often they give links to free resources in their catalogs and might be easier to use than JSTOR. You don't have to be a student. Just be respectful of the people there, and try to put the books back where you found them. (usual library stuff).

This will save you going to Hawaii for the University of Hawaii, for example, because you know they have some awesome East Asian resources.

#writing diversity #free tools

[draconicsplendor]

“Only mention a character’s disability when it’s relevant” so like... all the time??? You’re agreeing that I should mention it all the time because it affects literally every aspect of their life??? You want me to weave it into the story to such an extent that it would not be the same character or the same story if the disability wasn’t there??? Cuz like I was already doing that but thanks for the pointers lol

#writing #writing diversity #writing disability #creative writing #roach.txt

[em-dash-press]

Do you have any advice for writing about characters with different body types? How do you incorperate body positivity and body insecurity into your writing? Ty!

Hey! Writing characters with different body types is so important. It’s another aspect of diversity in fiction that needs addressing. I’m going to go into weight first and disabilities next. 

Writing Fat Characters

My first piece of advice is to learn how not to write fat characters (I’m using the term “fat” and not other terminology to reclaim it as a neutral term and not further stigmatize it). In a vast collection of books and stories, fat characters are often/have often been introduced by immediate physical descriptors. There are a few issues I have with this:

It immediately boxes that character into a trope (the “fat character”) without giving any character description that other characters would get (noting the mannerisms that display their personalities, their interests, etc.) 

It’s often an info dump (readers want to get to know the characters, not read a bio on them. You can read more about info dumping here.)

Bringing up weight first and character traits second can also be the launch pad for subconscious biases. It’s worth checking how you introduce your characters to see if the wording is neutral or flattering, rather than passing judgment or using a stereotype to get the introduction out of the way.

You can read more about subconscious biases in creative writing here.

What if you’re writing a fat protagonist and their weight is important for a theme? You can and should absolutely describe their body type in ways that seem natural for the character. They might use their preferred terminology to set up their character arc (body positive terms, neutral terms, negative terms, or none at all). 

If their size isn’t essential to the plot or theme (it isn’t a story that includes a distinct message about body positivity/acceptance), then you could keep the descriptions limited to the ways they’d normally reflect on themselves. Like if they see someone who looks like them on screen so they fall in love with that movie.

Personally, I think the most empowering way to write fat characters is to write about any other aspect of their lives. There are so many (good, bad, horrible) books on people losing/gaining weight, struggling with self-acceptance, etc. Skinny people get to read about protagonists that experience everything other than that. Fat people deserve those stories too.

However, it depends on what story you have in mind and the many factors that play into your identity as a writer. This post has way more insight into writing an insecure character, which would apply to more situations than body weight as well. That might apply more to your question if my answer isn’t what you’re looking for.

Other issues to keep in mind:

Avoid writing the “fat friend” trope just for the sake of making your cast of characters more diverse. (More on that here.)

Avoid introducing a fat character in positive terminology strictly because their curves make them sexy to another character. (More on that here.)

Read up on other archetypes if you think you may have inherent biases (like we all do because society is like that). (More on those here.)

Writing Disabled Characters

Likewise, you should read up on tropes that prevent disabled characters from having positive and equal representation in fiction. (These are sometimes called ableist tropes, if you want to dive into your research.)

You can reflect on your existing characters or character ideas to see if they fall into any of these tropes:

A disability turned a character into a villain

The villain is the only character with a disability (think: the villain with an eye patch)

A disability turns into a magical ability (more on that here) that exists solely to make the disabled person redeemable or accepted

A disability that occurs only to cause a character’s growth arc, which disappears after they’ve learned a lesson

A disabled character who only becomes attractive to another character after getting rid of their disability (think: Yennefer’s transformation in The Witcher)

That’s not to say characters with disabilities can’t also be villains or have magic powers. It’s just that the disability itself shouldn’t be the cause/reason for those things. The characters should be the antagonist or have magic powers for separate reasons while also having their disability. 

This blog post has some great advice for writing disabled characters in a respectful, inclusive way:

Research the disability you have in mind for your character to better understand what it’s like to live with it/write that lived experience accurately

Don’t treat disabilities like plot conveniences (“I need a reason for this character to become bitter, so I’ll give them XYZ disability from XYZ accident” etc.)

Create an identity that includes but does not revolve around their disability. People are always so much more than one aspect of themselves.

You could also follow this tumblr, which posts exclusively about writing characters with disabilities. The various perspectives/pieces of advice could be helpful for whatever story you have in mind!

Incorporating Body Positivity Into My Writing

I always try to make my stories as diverse as possible, but that doesn’t always come naturally. We all have inherent biases that we work on every day. Here are a few ways I approach body diversity in my writing:

If I have one or more characters that come to mind, I write them down and any plot ideas they inspire. Then I pause and ask if all of those characters look like me. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t.

When they do all resemble me—in skin tone, gender, body type, age, or abilities—I make modifications to add diversity to their roster. While doing so, I keep any of their related plot ideas in mind. Will their modifications change their world view, how they interact with their world, or how I want them to grow? The answers change how I research them and ultimately, the story I end up writing.

In another situation, I might have a strong idea for a protagonist. They might be super vivid, but I have no ideas for any other characters in the story. I always intentionally build diverse characters in that situation.

It’s a practice I once had to remind myself to do at that point in my world-building process, but now it comes naturally. It’s also okay if you need to remind yourself to create more diverse characters at first. Writing stories can include habits that we have to work on as we learn better ways to write.

I’ve also made my work more diverse by focusing on the body-focused experiences I’ve lived through. Sometimes I want to write about those things to process my history.

Last Notes

A few important last things I want to add—

The most important thing to take away from this is to face your nerves/fears head on. No one will ever have personal experience in every body type or ability that humans could possibly have. That shouldn’t stop you from writing diverse characters!

Research as much as you can and read as many diverse stories as you can. You’ll pick up ideas along the way that will greatly inform your writing.

Below are some resources I’ll leave you with! I hope this answered your question. If not, please reach back out!

Diversity in Fiction: Writing the Character You’re Afraid to Write

Writing Outside of Your Identities

Seven Easy Tips for Writing a Diverse Story

#writing diversity #writing diverse characters #writeblr #writing tips #writing resources

[zenaidamacrouras1]

Please do include (at least) one of the common misconceptions in all of your future fics kthx ily 🥰

Isn't that a fun idea! Here is the link to the Wikipedia common misconceptions! I am definitely considering re-editing old fics to sneak them in!

Randomly, because I was a really big fan of books that had something you could find on every page as a kid, here are things I try to make sure all of my fics include:

A correction of a common misconception from the Wikipedia list (this is new and hasn't happened yet)

a character who is trans or nonbinary,

a person on the aro / ace spectrum,

at least two people of color, and ideally they interact at some point,

two women who talk to each other (aka the Bechdel test)

a person who English isn't their first language

a person speaking in a language that isn't English

character with a disability / complicated health history / neurodivergence

a character with a low income/working class background

mention of someone licking or wanting to lick Bucky

comparison of Bucky to a mermaid

This isn't a fancy formal list, if people have identities I should consider adding, please share, I'm interested! I don't always succeed, particularly in my short fics that only have two characters that speak. I don't work that hard at it, I just sort of double check when I am half way through writing a fic and sometimes go and re-write if I've forgotten to make my fic look like the real world, or forgotten to mention a reference to Bucky as a mermaid.

#checklist #writing diversity #side note I spend a lot of time thinking of MCU characters I can headcanon as nonbinary please share your headcanons!

[erindromeda]

An Essay on Writing Diversity into your Characters

When you're making OCs, or writing something, you might want to feature some diversity. Be it sexuality, gender identity, disability, neurodiversity, any such things! Some people might have a sort of internal checklist for this stuff, and that can be ok, but I much prefer being completely at the mercy of my own creations.

Example: today I remastered a drawing of an old OC and realised that although he was originally a cis guy, he is now clearly a he/they enby. I didn't consciously change my mind. I just drew them again and oh look at that. It's like my own OC came out to me.

I don't make the rules.

I don't have an internal diversity checklist when I make characters. I do not sit down and say "hmm i think i will draw a character who is autistic today"

I simply draw or write the character and sometimes as I'm putting them together, or even just thinking about them down the line, they hit me with

T H E V I B E S

and much like with actual people discovering themselves, sometimes it takes several years for my OCs to realise they are subject to

T H E V I B E S

Here's another example: I have an OC in a sci-fi universe and I've worked with him for upwards of 10 years now. And I remember, about 7 years into continuously thinking about him I was like "ohhhhh I see why you're like that, it's because you have T H E V I B E S and you're actually pansexual!

I felt like I'd really gotten to know my OC that day. Which is odd, considering, like, I created him, and am in full control of everything. But actually, I'm not in full control. I did not choose for that OC to be pansexual, I simply found this out one day.

This is why I use phrases like "I've worked with this OC for 10 years", as though I'm in some collaborative project with whatever fictional creation I'm brainrotting over. It really helps with making these characters breathe and feel genuine, and also I get moments like this.

and I think that's the best way to have some very super genuine feeling diversity in your OCs or other such creative works. If you checklist that stuff, you run the risk of it feeling like you've checklisted it, and trust me, all us super cool and tubular gay, trans and/or disabled people can tell if you're phonin' it in for brownie points.

I am not the way I am to fulfil a quota, so if you want to have genuine feeling diversity, your OCs can't be that way either.

Make them asexual because oh, you guess physical intimacy just isn't their scene.

Make them have ADHD because, yeah, they WOULD probably post an essay on writing diversity after getting back on their medication.

Make them feel real. Make a character, and see if they have

T H E V I B E S

You'll know it when you see it.

#oc artwork #OC #writing #creative writing #writing tip #diversity #writing diversity #diversity tip #THE VIBES

[official-audio-aesthetic]

Maaan.. every time I or someone else asks about writing diversity, there's always people who right away assume & feel the urge to chime in with how "people never write for the story anymore" or how it's "propaganda"/a virtue signaling tactic for more views/followers, etc.

I honestly just want to add depth to my characters by understanding more cultures, struggles, & experiences outside of only my own. I want to explore, challenge, & expand my understanding & connection to humanity by listening to others different to myself. Alongside doing research in my own time. I believe it's beneficial to expanding the possibilities & potential for world building and depth of characters. Not mandatory, but beneficial.

It also is a personal part of my experience growing up, surrounded by diversity, loving it, feeling at home in it, but not knowing much beyond my own culture & experiences.

When I ask about diversity, I'm not stopping there for my character creation & world building. That is just 1 of so many other factors, traits, etc. Tbh, my stories, plots, etc came first and remain first as my main focus. I'm only recently adding more layers in a variety of ways because I love the feeling of my world & characters becoming more alive. I don't want to just write a story, I want to build a world & feel like I'm getting to genuinely know & learn about the depth of people different to me. I want to feel like I could realistically live in that world. That is my joy in creating.

#story building #writing #character creation #diversity #writing diversity #audio aesthetic #venting #rant #expressing myself #audio aesthetic comics

[calciumcryptid]

I don't know much about religion, but I have a query I would like to inquire.

There are religious holidays/events where there is a certain timeframe one is allowed to eat in while the rest of the time is fasting, correct?

How romantically intimate would it be considered if during one of those religious holidays/events Person A would wake up in that eating time frame and grab some home cooked food and head over to Person B's house so they can eat together during that eating time frame?

Or would that be offensive?

#religion #writing diversity #i sincerely want to know

[folksonomy]

Interdependency is a core concept in disability culture. Disabled people rely on others for support and, often, survival. In my own case, I need to ask for help when waiting for planes and trains, as I’m unable to hear announcements from the loudspeakers. For most of my childhood, I relied on my brother for help with navigating situations in which I could not hear, or in which I felt unsure and apprehensive. What if this awareness of dependency were translated to an able-bodied world, challenging conventional understandings of individualism and autonomy? Perhaps more people would acknowledge that not only do we depend on other humans for our survival, but we also depend on oxygen, water, bacteria, birds, trees and bees. Perhaps there would be greater understanding that, if we lose our support networks, both human and non-human, we will not survive.

What would happen, I wonder, if emergency services drew on disabled people’s knowledge, experience of interdependency, and capacity for adaptation? What if systems were created to ensure that disabled people were put first, and not last? What kind of world would exist if disability was taken for granted, rather than tacked on? - Jessica White

#disability #writing disability #writing diversity #accessibility #Jessica White #writing

[kimyoonmiauthor]

LeRoi Jones: Black Arts Movement

https://www.jstor.org/stable/3205500?seq=3

DAPHNE S. REED LeRoi Jones: High Priest of the Black Arts Movement. (1970)

Honestly, I'd heard about Black Art as a singular thing, but never the Black Arts Movement. (My education in the US mainly set out to hold black people as a token but look, we did diversity this year, rather than study movements within POC communities in art) On the back of my own ignorance, I'm posting this JSTOR article because it's likely if I never heard of it, that a lot of the people out there never heard of it. And buried in these mentioned plays might be transformative works that might help someone who is equally ignorant to study or find a story structure we've forgotten? Just a thought. It's a JSTOR link, so it's free to sign up, but you still have to sign up. I like the framing of it as a struggle for civil rights, because that asks so many questions when we often in school got the plays in my school that either showed Black struggle, but wasn't that challenging to white people, or we got white person tells about Black struggle (!@#$, do we have to read To Kill a Mockingbird again 'cause my classmates don't want to read or write?). But these plays according to the author were made and framed specifically to challenge white notions of slavery, etc, and argue for specific things. I find that part fascinating. What makes things resonate, acceptable, not acceptable, there is so much one could do with this in a teaching environment. I'm interested in the question of resonance of an art piece over time too.

I'm sifting through journals now. TT Antigone. I think I've lost her.

#black history #story theory #story structure #diversity writing #diversity #writing #writing diversity #Black Arts Movement

[shylilbunny15]

Writing Prompts Tips/Ideas:

Melanin Characters

Not just melanin characters, but also add some spice and true spirit to them. It's not right to stereotype them either. Slang is not always their dialogue, but proper and grammatically correct English as well.

Give them hobbies.

Remember, no stereotypes or "I normally see them do this/ I think they would do that".

Every being is different and varies from one another.

A few tips:

What is the character's name?

(Isabelle, Leon, Mitski, Reina, Mesirae, Hazel, Dawn, Luther..etc the names don't have to "sound or fit melanin people" anyone can befit any name).

How do they act?

(Shy, Distant, Musical, Whiney, Whimsy, Perverse, Wise, Calm, Rankling, nostalgic, Breathtaking, Giddy, Angelic, Stuck-up, Hard-headed, ignorant, Arrogant, annoying, daredevil, silly, Respectful, Disobedient, Introverted, Imaginative, Integrity, Strong-willed.. etc)

Quirks!!!!

Plays with their hair when nervous; palms sweat when they are excited; looking up or avoiding eye contact; scratching when embarrassed; twiddling fingers; King/Queen of pet peeves; biting their nails; playing with their lashes; Smiling when they're confused or as a coping mechanism.

You get the point, I'm sure. I'm only saying that when you write about melanin Characters, give them meaning, a life, make them a character. Not the stereotypes you often see in anime/mangad and TV shows. It's good to show culture as well.

All in all, every character should have a good description, a proper role and introduction.

#writing #writing things #writing prompts #Black MC #black characters #black main character #BLM #writing snippet #writing challenges and prompts #fic prompt #Diversity #Writing Diversity

[jvlianbashir]

"the creator said in a reddit thread -" "the official twitter account posted that -" "the actors confirmed in a livestream that -"

i don't care and that's not real to me. put it in the text.

#for fun stuff like 'this character's favorite food is meatballs' im like cool but for worldbuilding and stuff? nah #i do understand some nuance with writers or w/e who were held back by corporate teams on confirming a character is gay or something #and wanting to talk about their hopes and intentions #but this is rly about the opposite with creative teams wanting the points for diversity or plot choices #or world building without putting it in the actual story #esp if its bc they just didn't want to piss off bigots or can't write well #sw giving backstory on the sith fleet situation in a TWEET will always be infamous to me #not st #doctor's log

[writingwithcolor]

It wouldn’t be historically accurate for my story to include BIPOC!

This is an argument often made about European-style fantasy media like Game of Thrones, Lord of the Rings, and Disney’s Frozen. Audiences, often white, assume that due to the majority-white setting, adding any visible number of BIPOC to the story would be unrealistic.

What these critics fail to realize is that BIPOC do in fact live, and have lived, in these settings, and records of BIPOC presence in places assumed to be majority-white have been buried, written out, or not taught due to white supremacist and/or colonial bias in the field of history. There are historical European settings that were far more diverse than is often portrayed. Consider:

The Moorish Empire exerted an extensive influence over life and culture in Southern Europe from Spain from 711 to 1492

The Ottomans were heavily involved in European affairs up until the treaty of Karlowitz in 1699, but still considered a part of Europe even through the 19th century

The sheer size of the Roman Empire ensured the continued movement of people from various backgrounds within the Mediterranean well until the end of the Byzantine Empire.

“Historical accuracy” should not be used as an excuse for media to be exclusively white in its casting. While there are places which are or were predominantly white, there will always be factors like global trade and immigration that bring multiculturalism to their doors.

And even if the presence of a certain demographic is unrealistic for a certain setting? Consider that we’ve accepted far worse inaccuracies in historical fiction in the name of artistic license. Consider that our understanding of human history is, and will always be, incomplete.

Further Reading:

Historically Diverse London, “Historical Accuracy,” and Creator Accountability

Making a Black Pride and Prejudice Resonate

---

This Q&A is an excerpt from our General FAQ for Newcomers, which can be found in our new Masterpost of rules and FAQs. If you're new to Writing With Color and/or want more writing resources, check it out!

-Writing With Color

#writing with color #writeblr #representation #poc representation #history #historical fiction #historical accuracy #writing advice #writing tips #writers on tumblr #diverse books #diversity matters #faq

[morallyinept]

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

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #tw breast cancer #tw cancer #tw illness #tw medical #bodies series #every body is beautiful #real bodies #real love #diversity #inclusivity #jett's writing