Ed Awareness - Blog Posts

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.