Body Image - Blog Posts

anyway i looked up the post about seeing your grandma's boobs and tumblr has deleted the screenshot of the story where the finnish dude says that americans are "like that" because they haven't seen their grandma's tits

good job tumblr 👍

Light.

“He’s my muse, a beautiful man. So perfect. I can’t find any imperfections, superficially and internally. He was made, crafted from the Gods. They knew that a woman like me would fall for a man like him. They created him for me. Oh my god I look like an obsessed fan.”

I’m his partner in crime. Whenever he’s got a mission I’m there to help him. I can see him in action. Can you imagine how lucky am I? 

I write and sing and talk about him.  

I do so many things for him. 

“You are infatuated with him.” 

How do you know? The answer is No. 

And I’m married to him. 

I admire him. He inspires me. Brown, dark eyes. Dull eyes. Staring at me. Or more like glaring. He hates me. 

I try to give him my light. He doesn’t wanna come in. I tell him: “turn your light on”. He doesn’t wanna love me. 

He yells. Not at me. He doesn’t raise his voice to me. He knows. I’d bash his head on the wall. 

He yells. To himself. Because he assumes it’s his fault. But the light isn’t on. 

Come in. Turn the light on. They crafted you for me. Why can’t you understand it? Do you accept it?

You will always be tied to me. I won’t ever abandon you. How could I? I can’t even imagine it. 

Let’s talk about it again. Now try to turn the light off. Can you come in? 

Did you know there’s a way to leave me? 

Oh you are so divine. I do adore you. I hate you. Je te déteste.  

I cherish your rare smiles. Le sourire. 

Excuse my French. Fuck it, no don’t. I studied it and turned myself purely French for you. I can’t make a mistake.  

Would you want to forget me?

You are a puzzle. You don’t drink alcohol. No beers, no whiskey neat and no vodka. You cherish Russian poetry. You’d recite it to me every night, I’d listen to you till you’d fall asleep. I’d remove the book from your hands and lay you in the bed, covering you with a soft plaid. Watch your sleeping face until my eyes close to sleep. And dream about you and I. 

And I say that I’m not in love with you. Ha, even I laugh with my stupid bullshit. 

Demons took my kindness for weakness. Think about it. Were you a demon? Or was I a succubus? 

You were the incubus and I the succubus. Yes, we torment each other at night, at the same time and moment. And I love it. 

I shall tell you the truth: You took my kindness for weakness, used me like a rag doll and I loved it. 

I used you too. Treated you as if you were my true love. I had no right. No right to force you to cherish me. And still, you did it. You took my kindness for weakness and I didn’t complain. Because you are my man. 

You caress my face. You touch my plumpy lips while murmuring words in russian. Perhaps you are insulting me, but it doesn’t matter to me. I get to feel your calloused fingers. That arouses me. It makes me sick, I want to smash your head on the wall. 

You are on a mission. I’m your accomplice. You interrogate the bastards and I shoot them in the head. No hesitation. I read your eyes and understand that I have to move. 

Your light is on at that moment and I don’t say a thing. I don’t want to ruin that moment.

Come over and stay with me in the garden. Read me some Russian poetry and I will prepare some Medovik for you. You are allergic to honey. 

It’s simple, I love you. 

You touch my curves. You adore them. You are addicted to them. And I take care of you every night, you touch me. Your touches are soft. Your hands are cool, I shiver. Oh please come in. 

It kinda makes me laugh. We love each other. We hate each other. We deteste each other. We honor each other. We are addicted to each other. But what are we?

We are married.  

The Hawt Spring

This tiny little inn is built around a magical hot spring. The spring has one simple magical property: as long as one is physically bathing in the spring, or a pool conected to it and filled with its water, they seem more than naturally physically attractive. To everyone.

The caretakers no longer allow mirrors at the Hawt Spring, and have a firm limit on how long they allow people to stay. Because otherwise, one can poison one's body image, or lose the ability to find beauty in ordinary people.

If you get on their good side, the caretakers might tell you about all the newlywed couples who would honeymoon at the Hawt Spring before there were rules, and come away ready for divorce, after getting too used to how each other looked while bathing in the Hawt Spring. They would begin to see each other's real bodies as "ugly."

Nowadays, newlyweds are banned from the Hawt Spring, by official decree.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CAJGgrsgotb/

I'm a little late to the party, but HAPPY LESBIAN (or WLW) VISIBILITY WEEK!

Tumblr Tuesday: Women Loving Women in Art

It's Lesbian Visibility Week, an excellent time to be celebrating women who love women. Give it up for the sapphics, their muses, and the gorgeous art that honors them.

@greenfinchg:

@ripleylarue:

@femmegrey:

@mimimar:

@onzze:

@yinza:

@emiuli:

@flora-valleyy:

@karlovycross:

@circusbutch:

@jaxalope:

@drizzledrawings:

@suwisuwii:

@gibbarts:

@bearybutch:

Struggles

TW: talk of self starvation

This year I've even struggled with my body image, I know I'm a beautiful girl and I've always been told as such but even then it's hard to feel happy in my own body because social media portrays women as very skinny even though it's not healthy or safe and I fell victim to it's trap, I didn't like how my stomach looked and so I would sleep when I felt hungry.

I would deflect it when my mum brought it up and I craved that feeling of starvation, it was amazing even though it wasn't healthy, I didn't even like my body when I was underweight, it felt like I would never be happy with myself, and being honest with myself, the company I had made it worse... I had a 'friend' who would constantly talk about how she hated her body, we looked very similar and so I learned to hate my body from her and the media, if you know me in real life you would know that I am a very bubbly person and I used that as a shield to hide behind, nobody would ever think I doing anything bad to myself if I seemed always happy and it worked like a charm.

I hated every imperfection, I hated my stomach, my skin, my stretch marks that you can barely even see but I would always find something to hate about myself, I have really only brushed on the topic of this with one friend, my mother doesn't even know I felt like this, I would like to keep it that way as she has enough on her plate. I have learned to love myself and it's been a long journey, it's still not over, I have learnt that the body I have is beautiful and perfect the way it is and I feel like others should too, it's a long journey but it's so worth it and I hope that anyone who's read this is able to love themselves for who they are, yourself worth is not how you look, its how you act, behave and interact with others, if anyone is judging you for your appearance then that's a tell tale of what kinda person they are and let me tell you one thing, their not a person you want to be around!

Remember you always come first.

My body is not your debate.

how many big booms for sexy sonic??

my name is literally baby no money so please don’t ask me to pay for dinner…..but some people call me alex. sometimes i make music and videos, but cosplaying has taken over my mind, body & soul and i don’t know what’s next for my future im not a psychic (but i know a few on etsy.)

if you message me there’s a 99% chance i’ll reply. sometimes a diva has to get his beauty sleep > bagelgloryhole

I hate when people comment on my body.”Wow you are so tiny”or “You need like 20 cheeseburgers”.Like no just shut up.I don't comment on your body do I.You don't know if the person your commenting on has low self esteem or body issues.Just shut up.Stop saying I need to eat more.Stop trying to shove food down my throat.Leave your comments to yourself.I don't tell you to eat less or eat more so why tell me to.Just shut up.

Whether someone finds you attractive or not, you are still worthy. You’re still a human being and, even though it’s hard, you shouldn’t base your self worth off of what you look like and how people perceive your body. It doesn’t matter. Attention to body, wether positive or negative, still shines a huge light in the body and even when people mean well with body positivity it can still be harmful. Body’s are just vessels for your mind and, while you should treat them with respect because they keep you alive, don’t judge yourself based off of it.

My Perfect

L x Chubby Reader

A.N: ( See even though im like late I STILL POSTED! im on like grind yall but, this man so fine I'm like i must write my deepest soul wrenching words about him)

I'm not perfect.

That's it. I tried every day as a kid to be perfect; pretty hair, small frame, soft voice everything to look desirable to others I tried to be. In high school I needed to be bold, thicker but not too thick, tall but too tall; never speak overly passionate it was a turn off, don't wear too much makeup it's like I'm a slut, and never can venture out and find a comfortable look for me. I never let the girl inside eat.

I wasn't berated though? Yes, I got stares when I wore something sitting and people saw my stomach, like yes mothafucka I got a stomach y'all thought it was a huge ass pot in my shirt? Yes, I did get the ' I'm sO cOnFideNt!' talk when I ate something like fruit, who doesn't like pineapple? When shopping I had looks of could I fit this or that and nobody ever comforted me when I would cry about not fitting jeans.

I was never perfect. But he never cared.

*Back to when Light didn't find the Death Note yet*

Log In: June 23, 2017

" What are you having for lunch?" was asked by my closest coworker, Maria she and I was friends since our college days when cramming information about law, statistics, and for some reason Shakespeare; we were forever. I turned to her in this damn rolling chair that was obviously not made for a girl with that thang back there, I mean why is half my leg practically on the floor? I thought about it for a second.

" I could go for quick burger, what about you?

" That's fine! Also did you finish your report? I didn't even get to..." I just stared at her though my head in space, Maria turned to see what I'm looking at and she saw a strange man walking inside the room.

" Um...I don't think he works here?"

" Is this when we got to fight for our lives? I don't have no weapon."

The man tall, dark unruly hair not curly though it looks like a one of those emo people from the 2000's like my chemical romance vibes, he has a homeless man look on him...its kind of sexy thought but, he doesn't work here?

We watch him while towards us and goes to the head manager cubicle that two rows ahead of us. We look at each other and look down acting like we're working but, we really being nosy. We hear only indicant chatter and the strange man's voice, his name is Riuzaki? Or Rukai? I don't know and our manager asked again, and he ignored the question and started talking about something different. Kind of rude but, with the way our manager is I'd do the same; Maria looks at me and looks at the time and tells me it our lunch break so, we both get up and I make sure to push down my jacket a habit I did as a teen to look slimmer, we walk out and down the little pathway to the front of the office when we get close to the strange man I turn my head down, his eyes immediately traced to me and he stared at me and he turned, kind of weird his eye contact was intense!

We walked over to the company lunch places inside it's a tiny burger spot filled with American dishes; we haven't really eaten there so we decided to try it out since it was also raining. Maria order first, a chicken salad with extra chicken and cheese with a large drink and dessert then it's me, a cheeseburger with fries and a large drink with a cookie; we wait a bit and sat down at a two-seat table and we talk about the sight we just saw.

" I wonder if he's trying to get a job here? "

" For what though? we ain't got nothing available yet."

" What if they fired somebody!? I heard but I didn't hear from department C that somebody was overusing company resources and they got let go."

" Omg, who?" Maria was going to say but we hear a buzz, and our food was ready we grabbed a tray and the person who gave us our orders gives me a look, ya'know the look of ' Breaking that diet huh?' Its common but still is annoying so I mean mug him back and he backs off. Sitting down we talk about our topics of choice like vacations, fashion trends, the latest news when the man from earlier comes down; didn't even see him till he pulled up a chair beside me and stared. Like what?

" Oh, Hello!" I introduced myself and Maria does the same, but how says nothing and stared at me.

" Are you going to eat that?" He points at a strawberry cookie I got, I look and shake my head "no' even though I was saving it I give it to him and smiled. He takes it and thanks me and then turned to Maria and asked how she feels about the company. Now, Maria is a sweet girl but, if she can't say her opinion without lying so she tries to say it's wonderful but, he caught on.

" Don't lie. I'm not going to do anything."

" Oh! but I'm not! really it's a won-"

" Your eyes turned up, when some people lie, they eyes turn up to think of somethings. Your hands turned over into a clasped position saying you're more of nervous than calm when I asked."

She's shocked and so am I, he takes a bite of the cookie and then looks at me to which I look away and he stares at me; deep black eyes pierced into, and I just look away because if I looked back what if he jumps me and I gotta kick and scream like that would be so embarrassing!

" Are you nervous?

" No, never"

" Hm...You look uncomfortable" He continued eating and I looked at Maria with a head tilt.

" So, what's making me uncomfortable."

" Your clothes, your shoes are hurting your feet by the way you walked quickly, and you have the heels of them off" He responded quickly, and I was shocked I mean he didn't lie. I just look and Maria excused her and mouthed ' Whoop his ass' and went to the bathroom, so now it's just us. We look at each other and I just shook my head and began eating again. He just looks at me and then turns his body towards me completely.

" What?"

" Do you like your position here?"

If I had the choice between working here and $20, I would pick $20 and a bag of skittles, it has it benefits from time to time but it not worth the headaches and long hours and I tell him just that. He hums and says nobody ever been that honest and I could care less, I listen and eat when he asked another question.

" If you're really don't like how you look why don't you change it"

It wasn't even a question it was like a statement like he knew, he knew from when he stared at me, he watched me. I look at him shocked and I just chuckled and threw the rest of my food away and left, texting Maria that I got sick. Walking away I see him get up and follow me, so ignored him; he just walked beside me and just looks either at me or around him hunched over like he finna throw up. Like what compells somebody to say that? Did he think I'm the one to try to play around with thing you'll get a good joke ooutta me? I should've shoved that damn drink up his stuck up ugy big headed-

" Your mumbling"

"...ok"

" If what I said made you mad just say it"

" If I did I'll go to jail for man slaughter."

He just chuckled, even though I'm pissed he sounded a little smexyyy but, I'll still beat his ass. I keep walking towards the parking lot, and he grabbed my arm asking can he be honest.

" I mean if back there wasn't honest I don't know what is"

He just stared (he got a staring problem) and began talking about how he meant that he saw me adjusting my jacket a habit he saw a lot of girls do when they want to look slimmer, then he saw the look his manger gave us me when I walked past, he said it was in utter disgust. As he went on all the insecurities from the past came again the girl inside of me just began to show, I looked at him blank, my hands started to sweat, my thoughts ran through me like a train, and I couldn't hold it anymore as a sob slipped through like butter from my mouth. I wiped my face and took a deep breath.

" Being a girl in Japan is hard, being black in Japan is harder, being a fat girl and black in Japan is like a war zone every day in my mind. From stares, to the so called ' complements', to everything inside growing out of me is like a constant war zone. Having men look at me like a 3rd class citizen is the problem, having girls treat me like I'm beneath them was the problem and no one had a problem with it."

" But who could care? It's not like I can change what they say with the attitude they expect from a black girl. I'm not perfect but, they wanted me to be and how am I going to achieve that? Huh?"

I stopped for one second and he just said nothing, all the bottled-up feelings I've had just overwhelmed me and I overshared.

" I think your perfect"

" Lying is a sin ya'know"

" Then good I'm an atheist. Your look is perfect."

How can somebody look perfect? With a body like this, my skin to people in this country are like a permanent plague, and my hair is just a warning to them on its own. I am not perfect, but he thinks I am. He's trying to help me feel better and it's not going to work.

" If this is perfect then-'

" You're not going to believe something if you denie it so much."

This man says that beautiful is different to everyone, like what people grew up with which is skinny, fair skin, and cute people they think it's a standard and everyone that's not all three of those traits are ugly. He said the way I feel is how he felt as a child he was never built manly, he was always so small and skinny people thought he was sick. It never bothered him; he seemed wiser as a kid then the whole world at its years; I couldn't even disagree with any statements I always found how people views change when they see unique things or common things and associate them with ugliness or beauty.

" For a homeless man your very smart"

"...I'm not homeless."

" Oh...then why you dress like you've seen a clothing store in life."

" I have seen a clothing store. I just don't see the appeal of dressing up."

He's an emo hippie. But nevertheless, I just listen and make my own few points. We continued walking and he stops me again.

" What's your name?"

" Reader Last Name, and your?

" Call me L"

' Hello L"

" Hello Reader"

Now we walk in comfortable silence, by the time I'm by the garage L asked for my number, his contact now ' Emo Hippie' and mines?

'My Perfect'

A.N: ( i finshed! I love this one because i feel this irl about my body type but, i got over it and it's kind of hard to write L's dialogue without making him sound rude because he's only nonchalant. But, let me know if you like it!

Random off topic rant but how come Australian news channels (and probably other places to idk) will run so many stories like “obesity in children under 10” “fruit juice is increasing kids weight” “more young kids are overweight” and then turn around and be like “body image issues in teens?” “Must be social media’s fault”

A LOVE WITHOUT EDGES

a moment of vulnerability with art, where insecurity meets devotion. he finds you battling with your reflection and reminds you that your body is a temple he worships with reverent hands and whispered truths.

pairing: husband!art x fem!reader / vulva-bodied!reader

warnings: body image issues, mentions of disordered eating patterns, cunnilingus, body worship, emotional vulnerability

note: hi, lovely human. this is just for you. i know how heavy it can feel—carrying all those thoughts about your body that no one else can see. the way mirrors become battlegrounds. the way numbers on a scale start to feel like verdicts. but please, hear me: your body is not a problem to fix. it is not too much or not enough. it is not wrong. your body is yours, and it is good, even on the days it feels like a stranger. you deserve to live in a body that is safe. that is fed. that is held with tenderness—even if only by your own hands for now. you deserve joy and rest and love that doesn’t ask you to shrink to receive it. and you deserve help if you’re hurting. if you’re struggling with disordered eating or body image, please know that you’re not alone—and that healing is possible, no matter how far away it feels. you are loved. you are worthy. exactly as you are, right now, in this moment.

if you or someone you love is struggling with an eating disorder, please consider reaching out:

National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) Helpline: 1-800-931-2237 (Monday—Thursday: 11am–9pm ET, Friday: 11am–5pm ET) or visit nationaleatingdisorders.org for chat support, resources, and help.

be gentle with yourself today.

with love, elowyn ♡

You've been avoiding the mirror for weeks now. Dancing around it like some fragile, dangerous thing that might shatter and cut you open if you look too long. The bathroom light feels too harsh these days, revealing every curve you've come to despise, every soft edge that wasn't there before. You've been wrapping yourself in oversized hoodies — his hoodies — drowning in fabric just to feel less visible to yourself. Just to breathe without the crushing awareness of your own skin.

Art notices. Of course he fucking notices. How couldn't he? The way you flinch from his touch when his fingers graze your stomach. The way you turn the lights off before undressing. The way your eyes dart away when he looks at you too long, too lovingly. He sees everything — the skipped meals, the clothes that hang off you differently now, the shame that clings to you like a second skin. He watches you drift through the house like a ghost haunting your own body.

This morning breaks across the horizon in shades of amber and gold, casting long shadows through the windows. You stand barefoot on the cool tile, having crept in while Art was still sleeping. Steam from the shower clouds the glass, creating a hazy filter over your reflection, but not enough to obscure what you see as flaws. Your fingertips trace the curve of your hip, the softness of your belly, the places where your body refuses to be what you want it to be.

You don't hear him come in. Don't notice the door opening, the soft padding of his feet against the tile. Your focus is singular, devastating — cataloging every perceived imperfection with clinical precision. The war inside your head drowns out everything else.

“Baby." His voice cuts through the silence, deep and warm and achingly familiar. You startle, arms immediately crossing over your body, a shield. An instinct. "What’re you doing?"

The question hangs between you. Simple. Devastating. You can't answer him because the truth feels too pathetic to voice aloud. Instead, you reach for the towel hanging nearby, wrapping it around yourself with trembling fingers. "Just getting ready for the day," you lie, the words bitter on your tongue.

Art doesn't move from the doorway. His eyes — those eyes that have always seen straight through you — hold yours in the mirror. He's leaning against the frame, hair still mussed from sleep, wearing nothing but boxer briefs slung low on his hips. There's something unbearably tender in his gaze. "You've been doing that a lot lately," he says softly. "Standing here. Looking at yourself like that."

Your throat tightens. Something hot and painful builds behind your eyes. "Like what?" The challenge in your voice is weak, transparent. You both know what he means.

Art crosses the bathroom in three strides. He comes to stand behind you, not touching, just present. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Like you're looking at a stranger," he answers, his voice dropping lower. "Like you're trying to find something wrong."

The tears come without warning, hot and sudden. You turn away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of yourself breaking open like this. "I don't wanna talk about it, Art.” The words come out choked, strained through the tightness in your throat. You move to push past him, to escape back to the safety of baggy clothes and avoidance.

His hand catches your wrist. Not restraining, just connecting. "Hey," he whispers, drawing you back toward him with gentle insistence. "Look at me." When you don't, when you keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor, he tips your chin up with one finger. "Please."

You meet his gaze reluctantly. He's looking at you with such naked concern that it makes your chest ache. "I don't know what's happening," he continues, thumbs brushing away tears from your cheeks. "But I know you're disappearing. Right in front of me." His voice cracks slightly. "You won't let me touch you anymore. You won't let me see you."

"Because I don't want you to," you whisper, the admission tearing from you like something physical. "I don't... I can't..." The words falter and die on your lips. How do you explain the civil war happening in your head? The daily battle with your own reflection?

Art shakes his head, somehow looking both devastated and determined. "C’mere," he says quietly, taking your hand. He leads you back to the bedroom, the early morning light painting everything in soft focus. He sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls you gently between his knees.

You stand there, clutching the towel like armor, feeling exposed despite being covered. Art's hands come to rest on your hips, warm through the terry cloth. "Do you remember," he begins, looking up at you with those devastating eyes, "what you said to me after we lost the championship my second year coaching?" His thumbs trace small circles against your hipbones. "When I couldn't even look at myself?"

The memory surfaces, crystal clear despite the years between then and now. Art, devastated after a brutal loss, questioning everything — his abilities, his choices, his worth. You'd held him through the night while he unraveled. "I said that failure isn't who you are," you answer softly. "It's just something that happens."

“You told me," he continues, his voice dropping to that low register that always makes your heart skip, "that my worth wasn't measured in trophies or titles." His fingers tighten slightly on your hips. "That I was more than one moment. More than one loss." His eyes never leave yours. "You need to hear that now."

Something breaks open inside you. A dam bursting. "It's not the same thing," you protest weakly, even as tears spill down your cheeks again. "This is... it's my body, Art. It's me."

"No," he says with sudden fierceness. "It's not you. It's the house you live in." His hands slide up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing away tears. "It's the vessel that carries you. The body that lets you move and feel and live." He leans forward, presses his forehead against your stomach through the towel. "The body I fucking worship."

The raw honesty in his voice steals your breath. You feel his hands move to the edge of the towel, hesitating there. "Let me show you," he whispers against your skin. "Let me remind you."

Everything in you wants to run. To hide. To wrap yourself back in layers until you can't feel the weight of your own skin. But there's something in his eyes — not pity, not obligation, but devotion. Pure, aching devotion. Like you're sacred. Like he wants to build an altar at your feet.

With trembling hands, you let the towel fall.

Art's breath catches audibly. His eyes travel over you slowly, reverently, like he's seeing you for the first time. Like he's memorizing every inch. You fight the urge to cover yourself, to hide the softness of your belly, the fullness of your thighs, all the places where your body has changed. Instead, you force yourself to stand still under his gaze, vulnerable and exposed.

"Do you know what I see?" he asks, voice rough with emotion. His hands come to rest on your waist, thumbs brushing over the curve of your stomach. "I see the body that keeps you alive. That lets you laugh and cry and breathe." He leans forward, presses his lips to the soft skin below your navel. "I see the body that carries you through this world. That lets you dance with me in the kitchen at midnight."

Each word feels like a balm, soothing something raw and wounded inside you. Art's hands slide up along your sides, mapping you with careful attention. "I see the body that holds mine at night," he continues, his voice dropping lower. "That wraps around me when I'm cold. That fits against me like it was made for me."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, in his touch. "I don't recognize myself anymore," you admit in a whisper. The truth you've been running from for weeks. "I look in the mirror and… I don't know who I'm looking at."

Art stands slowly, his hands never leaving your skin. He towers over you, all lean muscle and focused intensity. "Then let me show you what I see," he says, guiding you gently to lie back on the bed. "Let me remind you."

He kneels between your legs, spreading them with gentle hands. There's something almost religious in the way he looks at you, in the careful reverence of his touch. "This body," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your inner thigh, "is a fucking masterpiece." His mouth moves higher, breath warm against your skin. "Every inch of it." His fingers trace patterns on your stomach, your hips, your thighs — not to arouse but to appreciate, to honor.

You feel the hot press of tears behind your eyelids again, but different now. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Art works his way up your body with lips and tongue and gentle hands, kissing each place you've learned to hate. The curve of your belly. The softness under your arms. The fullness of your thighs. He worships each part with the devotion of a true believer.

"The way you move," he whispers against your ribcage. "The way you breathe." His mouth moves to the underside of your breast. "The way your skin tastes." His tongue traces the curve of your nipple. "Everything about you is perfect."

You shake your head slightly, eyes still closed. "Don't say that," you whisper. "You don't have to pretend—"

"I'm not pretending." The fierce conviction in his voice makes your eyes snap open. He's looking at you with such intensity that it steals your breath. "I have never in my life pretended with you." His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet. "This body," he says, circling your clit with gentle pressure, "is the one I fell in love with. The one I wake up for. The one I dream about." His fingers slip inside you, curling perfectly, making you gasp. "The one I worship."

His mouth follows his hand, replacing fingers with tongue. He settles between your thighs with practiced ease, with hungry devotion. There's nothing performative about the way he eats you out — it's pure, unadulterated worship. His hands grip your thighs, holding them apart, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. His tongue works against you with dedicated precision, drawing patterns that make your back arch off the bed.

"Art," you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. The sight of him between your legs — the absolute focus in his eyes, the way he looks at you through his lashes like you're his religion — undoes something inside you. Something tight and painful begins to unravel.

He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His eyes never leave yours as he works you higher, as he brings you toward the edge with practiced skill. When you come, it's with his name on your lips, your body arching toward his mouth. He stays with you through it, gentle but insistent, drawing out every tremor, every aftershock.

Only when you collapse back against the sheets, boneless and breathing hard, does he rise up to hover over you. His mouth is slick with you, his eyes dark with want. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. "You feel like home."

His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "This body," he whispers, voice low and fierce, "helps you breathe. Helps you feel. Helps you love." His forehead presses against yours. "This body carried you to me. It lets you hold me when I need you. It lets you move through this world being the person I love more than anything."

Tears slip from the corners of your eyes, trailing down into your hair. "I'm trying," you whisper, voice breaking. "To see what you see. I'm trying."

"I know, sweetheart." He kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. "And I'll keep showing you. Every day. Until you can see it too." He settles beside you, gathering you against his chest. "Your body is changing because it's alive. Because it's growing and adapting and breathing." His fingers trace patterns along your spine. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. For the first time in weeks, you don't feel the need to hide. To disappear. The war in your head hasn't ended, but there's a cease-fire, a moment of peace. In the circle of Art's arms, under the weight of his devotion, you find a moment of respite.

"Stay with me," he murmurs against your hair, arms tightening around you. "Come back to me." His lips brush your temple. "Let me love all of you. Not just the parts you've decided are acceptable."

You nod against his chest, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Art holds you like that as morning light fills the room, painting everything in shades of gold. He holds you like your body is precious. Like it's worth protecting. Like it's his greatest privilege to touch it, to love it.

And for now, for this moment, that's enough. It's everything.

"I love you," you whisper against his skin. "Thank you for seeing me."

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing against your forehead. "Always," he promises. "In every version of you. In every body you inhabit." His voice drops to a whisper, fierce and certain. "I’ll always see you."

The morning stretches on. The light shifts across the floor. And for the first time in weeks, you breathe fully, deeply, without the crushing weight of your own gaze. Art holds you through it all, steady as a heartbeat, unwavering as faith.

In his eyes, in his hands, in his worship, you begin to find your way back home.

What is this shit? ‘Correct cellulite’, ‘a body positivity spa’? I don’t think so. It’s fine if this is the kind of stuff you enjoy doing, y’know if it makes you feel good about yourself, that’s wonderful. But when you show a model that’s ribs are showing(who is very beautiful but I’m proving a point) and pressure you by saying stuff like ‘get started on your bikini bod’. That’s not body positivity, but instead spreading body negativity. I can wear a bikini with my stomach rolls and rock it! So any girls that see stuff like this and feel bad about yourself, just know its BS!

I Keep On Hopin' (We'll Eat Cake By The Ocean)

author:

Dandy

summary:

Azul isn't in class, and he isn't answering his texts.

The twins point him to the back of the dorm, to a door labeled "Ocean Access."

Jamil thinks he may be walking to his doom.

(What he finds is so much better.)