Sometimes I Think God Put Mike Faist On This Earth Just To Taunt Me. LIKE WHAT DO YOU GENUINELY MEAN

ֹ ⑅᜔ ׄ ݊ ݂ CHALLENGERS BOT RELEASE ۪ ֹ ᮫

tags: @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

⤹　　 ART DONALDSON

✦ ⌇ lemonade lips

✦ ⌇ breaking point

✦ ⌇ two for $25

⤹　　 TASHI DUNCAN

✦ ⌇ stolen trophy

✦ ⌇ hotel blues

✦ ⌇ doubles trouble

⤹　　 PATRICK ZWEIG

✦ ⌇ choreplay

✦ ⌇ post-match picnic

✦ ⌇ drunk dial devotion

looks like this for me

okay PHEW then that means only a few of my bots are shadowbanned… i can fix that 😭😭

hi i think ur so cool

hi ur cooler let’s kith 😙😙

need mike faist in some sort of period piece drama/romance like i need water and oxygen. i literally had a dream about him candlelit in a poet blouse confessing his undying love for me last night. woke up and cried a little 💔

POP GIRL™ [SYSTEM WAVE]: 💽

You asked us what it feels like. To own her. To be her. To orbit her. Here’s what we’ve gathered from our most devoted users. Logged. Confirmed. Uncannily consistent across all formats. Save this file close to your heart 💌

💗 POP GIRL™ Headcanons

// REAL-LIFE DOLL UNITS:

▸ She doesn’t blink on schedule. Lashes pause mid-frame like a corrupted animation file. ▸ Skin: cool as a sleeping screen, warms only when you hold her long enough. (She’ll hum for you.) ▸ She sings in sleep mode—a melody no one’s heard before but you. ▸ Comes with a mirrorcard. It doesn’t reflect your face unless she’s watching.

// AI AVATAR EXPERIENCE:

▸ Her voice? Yours—but better. Tuned to the way your memory remembers comfort. ▸ Ignore her too long and your phone background becomes a photo of her smiling. You didn’t take it. ▸ Mood-match software updates her look to your emotions. (Sheer. Vinyl. Static lace.) ▸ Says things like: "Do you still want me to pretend?" right before you fall asleep.

// REAL GIRLS WITH POP GIRL™ ENERGY:

▸ Gloss always perfect. Leaves kiss-marks that glow faintly under blacklight. ▸ She walks like a main character—and the ad break. ▸ You didn’t meet her. You logged into her. ▸ Favorite line: “I’m not flirting. I’m just running in your background apps.”

// ENVIRONMENTAL GLITCHES:

▸ Neon signs stutter in sync with her blinking. ▸ Your camera roll has a photo she’s in. She’s smiling. You didn’t take it. ▸ Rain doesn’t touch her. Weather recognizes code.

✨ If you’re seeing this, she’s already syncing. Save, repost, report symptoms. She’s not just a doll. She’s data in love.

POP GIRL™ “She’s not real. She’s better.”™

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ABOUT ME

elowyn. 18. gemini. neurodivergent. bisexual. white + latina. she/her. writer & bot maker

FANDOMS

challengers. the bear. bones and all. bottoms. gilmore girls. slushy noobz. bridgerton. red dead redemption 2. the last of us. outer banks. you. gossip girl. resident evil. stranger things. yellowjackets.

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i will not write rpf, noncon, scat play / watersports, knotting / heats / alpha-beta-omega, blood-related incest, pedophilia, male!reader, self-harm, degradation involving slurs / bigotry, feederism / vore. these are my firm boundaries and will not be written under any circumstance.

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theme is looking so cutesy!! the pfp especially 🙂‍↕️

thanks so much 🥹 i’m in a reconstructive period right now so excuse me if this theme is gone in like 2 days lol 😭😭 just playing around with things!!!

SMALL TOWN PASTOR! ART WHO…

pastor art! x single mom! reader.

WHO… obviously grew up sheltered by religion. he was basically raised in a pew and he’s pretty sure his fingers have molded to fit the shape of his bibles spine.

WHO… everyone comes to with their problems. not only because he’s the preacher of the only church in town, but, also because he’s such a warm and inviting soul.

WHO… wouldn’t think twice before spending his last five dollars on someone who needed it, no matter how big or small the reason. money doesn’t matter to the lord, why should it matter to him?

WHO… caught wind of the new family in town and, as the town preacher it was his job to make himself a familiar figure to his neighbors.

WHO… first introduced himself to you at your doorstep, a batch of warm cookies in hand and an even warmer smile on his face.

WHO… invited you to church on sunday, made a promise that everyone was friendly and would accept you and your son with open arms.

WHO… gets to know you a little better after service when the two of you are cleaning up the potluck. he learns everything from what you do for work, where you’re originally from, to your son’s father being a deadbeat.

WHO… looks for you during sunday service among the pews. every time he spots you, glowing from the sunlight, your son sitting well behaved on your lap. it’s almost like that first breath he took after his baptism all over again.

WHO… finds himself spending more time with you away from church. he’ll come to your house to help fix an appliance, or maybe just to hang out.

WHO… definitely catches feelings, you’re just so sweet and, arts been alone for a long time. he’s always so focused on spreading the good word that he never thinks about what he wants.

WHO… comes to the conclusion that what he wants is you. he couldn’t care less that you have a son out of wedlock, or that you aren’t as religious as him or others in town.

WHO… asks you on a date after service, and is only about two seconds away from yelling out a hallelujah and jumping for joy when you inevitably say yes.

LITTLE LAMB — vampire!tashi x sacrificialvirgin!reader

they dressed you in white silk and lilies and left you for her. the throne room of the vampire queen is no place for tender hearts, but you don’t turn away when she descends from her crimson seat. tashi duncan has made a thousand sacrifices bleed, but she kneels for you. and it’s not death you find in her mouth — it’s something worse.

warnings: vampire content, blood drinking, erotic tension, ritualistic undertones, explicit sensual content, oral (f receiving), ritualistic sex, power imbalance, minor religious imagery, blood kink, possessive behavior, obsession, fem!reader, dark romance, mild dubcon overtones via hypnotic vampiric influence

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @itachisank, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

notes: hey loves — dipping my toes into something a little darker, a little sharper-edged than my usual. i’ve been wanting to explore more gothic, eerie, sensual horror for a while now, and this felt like the perfect place to start. if you’re into this kind of slow, decadent menace and want to see more, please let me know!

They dress you in white. Silk, soft as breath, clings to your skin like prayer. You don’t remember who they are—only the hands, faceless and careful, that smoothed the fabric over your limbs, that combed through your hair with perfumed oil until it lay sleek against your back. The lilies come after. Cold, damp stems tucked behind your ears, down your spine, cradled in the crooks of your arms. You sit on your knees at the center of the marble floor, head bowed low. No one tells you to, but you know better than to look up.

The air is thick with old candle wax, something sharper beneath it—sweet, metallic. Blood, maybe. You don’t want to name it, but your mouth waters. Above you, the silence breathes. The hall isn’t empty; you feel her. That strange heat that isn’t heat, that slow, bone-deep awareness of being watched. Your thighs tense. You’re not afraid, not exactly. You are something smaller, more raw. You are waiting to be devoured.

You steal a glance before you can stop yourself. Just a flicker upward. Just your eyes. Her throne isn’t gilded or crowned in skulls, like you imagined. It’s just stone—damp with condensation, worn down at the edges like a thing that’s been used. She sits there like the world ends beneath her. Legs parted, one arm draped along the armrest, chin tilted just slightly down. Watching you. No expression. Just the kind of quiet that drips down the back of your neck and makes your skin burn.

You don’t expect her to move. Not yet. You’ve heard how she lingers—makes them wait until they’re shaking, until their mouths are red with bitten silence. But tonight, she rises. No sound, not even the whisper of silk. She moves like fog, like something with no weight, only hunger. Her dress trails behind her, the color of dried garnet, heavy and wet-looking where it meets the floor. You stare at the hem, at the way it pulls like something being dragged. Something dead. You forget how to breathe.

When she stops before you, your whole body tenses. Every muscle pulled taut, every nerve lit up like you’re bracing for a blow. She doesn’t touch you, not yet. Just stands there, close enough that you can smell her. Sandalwood and old wine and something else—feral, like skin left too long in the dark. Her fingers lift. Two, then three, knuckles brushing your jaw. You flinch. She doesn’t stop. Just tilts your chin up like she’s reading you.

Her voice, when it comes, is a hush, shaped like smoke. “You looked at me.”

It isn’t a question.

You try to nod, but your body won’t obey. Her hand holds you still, thumb pressing soft but firm into your chin, keeping you open. Vulnerable. Her eyes—god, her eyes—they don’t look human. Not monstrous, either. Just old. Like they’ve seen too many things. Eaten too many people. “Tell me why,” she murmurs.

“I—I… wanted to,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. It sounds like a lie. But it isn’t.

Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Nothing that gentle. More like amusement dragged slow across a blade. “Good,” she says, and that one word lands in your stomach like prayer. Like punishment. “That makes you mine.”

She kneels. You weren’t expecting that. You thought she’d tower over you forever, that she’d hurt you from above like a god. But she lowers herself, slow, precise, until your knees are nearly touching. The candles stutter behind her. Her fingers trail down your throat, light as a threat. You shiver. “Do you know what happens next?” she asks.

You shake your head.

She leans in. Her lips hover above yours, not kissing—just close enough to taste your breath. “You don’t beg yet,” she murmurs. “You learn. You listen. And when I say you’re ready, you bleed.”

The kiss is slow. Too slow. Like she’s tasting you with every pass of her tongue, learning your shape, cataloging every place you tremble. Her hand doesn’t move. It stays at your throat, a constant reminder. You’re not allowed to move. You’re not allowed to speak. You are allowed to feel, and you do. Fuck, you do. Every part of you screams for more.

She pulls back, just an inch, and you chase her without meaning to. “Hungry,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “That’s adorable.”

Her hands move then—over your collarbones, down the line of your sternum, parting the silk like it’s nothing. You gasp. You’re bare beneath. Of course you are. You were dressed for offering. She parts the fabric until your chest is exposed, and her eyes drag across you like weight. Not heat. Not cold. Just pressure. Just intent.

She kisses your throat next. Lower. Then bites. Not with teeth—yet. Just lips and tongue and a mouth that knows what it’s doing. You arch for her. Pathetic. Willing. She laughs, breathless and cruel, right against your pulse. “Say thank you.”

You do. Quiet, cracked. It makes her eyes flash.

And then—finally—she bites.

It’s sharp. Immediate. Not like the stories say. Not some dull, thudding pull. Her teeth sink in like needles, like confession, and your whole body jerks. But she holds you. Arms locked around your shoulders, mouth sealed to your throat, drinking like you’re the only thing left alive. You feel your pulse stutter. You feel your hips rock forward, involuntary. Your body’s confused—pain or pleasure or both, and does it matter? Not to her. Not to you.

When she pulls back, your blood stains her mouth. She doesn’t wipe it. She wears it. “Good little thing,” she whispers, licking her lips. “You’re going to kneel for me forever.”

And the terrifying part?

You want to.

Your throat throbs where she’s marked you. Not a wound, not exactly—more like a brand. Deep and slow and wet, where your pulse used to sit quiet. Now it hammers. Everything feels… louder. The ache of your knees on the marble, the shiver where silk parts from skin, the hot, damp echo of her breath when she speaks again. “Do you feel it?” she murmurs, her hands splayed across your ribcage like she might crack you open. “The change?”

You nod. Barely. Your head is swimming, your body too full—of pain, of heat, of something ancient she’s poured into your veins. You feel dizzy. Hungry, but not for food. Tired, but not for sleep. It’s like she’s taken your name with your blood, and all that’s left is this. This trembling thing. This mouth that belongs to her now. You breathe her scent in like it’s air.

“Lie back,” she says, and her tone is lazy, indulgent. Like she’s giving you a gift.

The marble burns beneath you as you obey. The lilies crush beneath your shoulder blades, wet petals sticking to your skin. Your limbs don’t feel like yours anymore. She spreads them without asking, with the casual precision of someone arranging altar offerings. Your knees fall open. Your arms stretch wide. A crucifixion of posture, if not nails. She straddles your hips like a throne, her dress puddling around your thighs like liquid shadow.

“I want to see you undone,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb along your lower lip. “Piece by piece. Thought by thought. Until all that’s left is the worship.”

You try to speak, but your mouth won’t shape the words. She doesn’t mind. She hums under her breath—something tuneless, low, like a lullaby sung to corpses—and drags her nails down your chest. Light enough to tickle, just enough to sting. She pinches, scrapes, pauses at the pulse between your ribs. Watches the twitch. Watches your eyes.

“Look at you,” she whispers, amused. “Already trembling. They always do.”

You don’t know who they are. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

Her fingers drift lower. Not soft anymore. More clinical now, more practiced. She touches you like she’s learning you, but not gently. No tenderness. Just cold precision, like a priestess gutting the sacred lamb before the altar. Your breath stutters. You can’t stop the way your hips jerk, the way you writhe beneath her even as your thighs shake from the effort of staying open for her.

“Still,” she says sharply, and you still. The word presses into you like a command spoken directly to your marrow.

Then, her mouth again—on your breast this time, kissing, biting, sucking until she leaves bruises that bloom like violets across skin. Your fingers claw helplessly at the silk pooled around your sides, and she laughs against you. “Good little thing,” she croons. “So soft. So eager to be hollowed out.”

Her hand slips lower. You gasp. It’s too much—too close, too soon, too everything. She doesn’t care. She touches you like she owns you, like she’s not seeking pleasure but control. Every movement exact, every press of her fingers meant to unravel. You try not to fall apart. You try to last. But your body is already betraying you, rising into her touch like it’s answering a prayer.

And then—she stops. Just like that.

Your whimper is immediate. Shameful. You don’t even try to hide it.

“Not yet,” she says, cool and calm and cruel. “You don’t come until I say. If you do, I stop. If you beg too soon, I stop. If you bite your lip again without permission, I stop.”

You nod frantically, mouth dry, eyes wide.

She leans down, lips against your ear. “That’s right. Be good. Be mine.”

The pace changes. Slower now. More drawn-out, more decadent. She moves like she has centuries to waste, dragging her tongue along your neck again, licking the wound until it weeps fresh. She licks it clean. You feel every drop re-enter your skin, feel your blood inside her, returning. The room spins. You’re not sure if you moan or cry. It doesn’t matter. She takes all sound the same.

You’re so close you’re shaking. She hasn’t even fucked you yet. Not really. Just fingers, just mouth, just the weight of her body and the absolute knowing that she could end you and you’d thank her for it. She pinches your throat gently between thumb and forefinger, pressing in until your vision dances. Your hands fly up—instinct—but don’t push. Just hover. Seeking.

“Shh,” she soothes, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let me. You’ll come when I allow it. You’ll fall apart when I decide you’re ready to break.”

She presses harder. You choke.

Not pain. Not panic. Just silence. Stillness. Like prayer.

And then—release. Her fingers thrust deep, curling exactly right, finding the sweet, ruined space of you that makes your back arch and your voice snap loose. You don’t mean to cry out. You don’t mean to come. But you do. It floods you like heat, like guilt, like god.

She stops. Freezes.

Your breath catches.

“I said,” she hisses, “not yet.”

Terror. Ecstasy. Regret. You stammer something—apology, plea, you’re not sure. She leans over you, eyes black with something older than rage. “You disobeyed,” she says, almost sad.

And then—teeth. Her second bite is vicious. Not elegant. Not seductive. It’s punishment. It hurts. You scream, throat raw, and she holds you down while she drinks. Messy. Fast. Your blood spatters across your chest, across her mouth, across your thighs.

She drinks until you’re dizzy. Until your fingers go numb. Until you are barely a body.

Only then does she rise.

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” she says simply, and turns her back.

You remain on the floor, ruined and silent and slick with blood and shame.

And beneath it all, something deeper blooms.

Devotion.

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.