You stared at yourself in the mirror, your gaze momentarily flickering to the door you’d locked before turning back to yourself. The shower had long since been forgotten as you gazed at your bare figure in the mirror of the skeleton brother’s bathroom. Back at your old apartment, you’d given away all but one of your mirrors, and seeing yourself on display was making you feel sick.
You could barely handle looking down at yourself when you were changing, let alone being forced to see your entire body in the hyper-lighting of the skele bros bathroom.
You wanted to look away, but you were having trouble doing so. Your eyes hadn’t seen your full body in so long, not even last night, when you’d been bare in Sans’ bedroom. Now, however, it was nearly impossible not to stare.
You pinched at you bare hips, glaring at the sum of flesh gathered there with a surge of discontent. Your eyes trailed over your form reluctantly, taking in every little imperfection without a trace of forgiveness.
Your gaze lingered on your thighs, and the faint stretch marks there which you’d gotten during puberty. Your mom had pointed them out at the lunch table recently, when you’d worn your favorite pair of shorts. They’d mostly faded from the ugly red they’d been when you were younger, but standing in the bathroom in nothing but your undergarments, they stood out like snow in july.
You glanced away, feeling your eyes begin to sting.
Next in your analysis of yourself where your hips and stomach, both of which you nearly always hid behind an oversized sweater or hoodie. There was too much flesh, there, despite your best efforts to cut down.
You bit your lip.
You remembered the time your sister had put away half the food on your plate when you were twelve. When you had asked why, she’d shrugged with a less than discreet glance at your figure. Or when your mom had informed you that you couldn’t wear your favorite shirt because it showed off too much skin, and who wanted to see that?
You’d stopped eating for a week, after that.
Your arms were not as toned as you would like. Your baby fat had never quite left your face, and your smile showed off the gap in your teeth your braces had never quite been able to fix.
Your entire life people had stared at you without ever seeing. All they saw was how you looked, and how much skin you were showing, how much makeup you were wearing, how tall you were, how much you weighed, and how you dressed. Some of it was good, and some of it was bad, but you never failed to overlook the bad. How could you, when someone was constantly at your ear telling you how little you measured up?
You’ll never look as pretty as they are.
Your own mother thinks you’re ugly, and she’s your mom.
Who would want that?
You hugged your arms over your chest as your eyes finally settled on your face, only to realize with a start that you were crying.
“whatcha doin’, sweetheart?”
You cursed violently at the sound of Sans’ voice right at your ear, and you stumbled backwards away from him as you clutched at your chest. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet.
“shit, kid, sorry. i, uh, didn’t mean to scare ya,” Sans quickly backpedaled, holding up his hands in front of him like a shield. You didn’t even care, however, wiping at your eyes furiously as you tried to hide the fact you’d been crying. Your face burned with shame as you shrunk in on yourself, trying to hide as much flesh as your would with your arms. It wasn’t as if Sans hadn’t seen you undressed before or anything, but you just weren’t in the mood to expose yourself at the moment. He’d just stare, and you were so sick of people looking at you and only seeing your body.
“Maybe knock next time, Sans?” you managed after a moment, meaning your words to be light and humorous. However, your voice cracked besides yourself, which was something that did not go by Sans unnoticed. He froze, finally taking in the tears on your face and the way you were curled in on yourself.
“hey, you okay, sweetheart?” “Yeah, I’m alright.”
You were lying, and Sans was not an idiot. His shit-eating grin slid off his face.
“shit, kid, i’m sorry, it was just a joke.i didn’t mean ta upset you,” He stammered. You’d never responded to his scares like that. “i, uh, saw your clothes outside, and, um, thought you might be showering and would maybe want a little compa….”
You stared sharply at your toes, refusing to let the tears fall from your tratious eyes. You didn’t trust your voice anymore.
There was a pause.
You glanced up at him with a convincing smile. “Hey, it’s okay! I’m fine, I told you.” Your eyes glimmered, and your dimples gnawed at your cheek as you laughed it off.
Except that’s not what you did.
What you did was start sobbing.
Sans was on you in an instant, his sockets wide and his hands flying over you as he checked for any harm that had come to you to procure such an abrupt spurt of tears.
“shit, kid, what is it? are you- did something happen? are you hurt? did anyone- what happened? are you okay?”
You shook your head, hugging your knees to your chest. Sans cursed under his breath.
“did someone hurt you?”
You shook your head yet again, shuddering as your fingers clutched at your eyes. You didn’t want him to see you crying. You didn’t want him to see you at all.
“did i hurt you?”
“No,” you managed, burying your face in your arms.
“what happened, then? c’mon, sweetheart, talk to me.”
“It’s stupid,” you replied shortly, pulling your hand away from his grip. He was firm, however, and kept you still.
“you’re fucking crying, that’s not stupid. you’re crying and i don’t know why, and that’s not stupid.”
“I’m crying because- because I’m sick of being me, okay?” You suddenly burst through your tears, your voice coming out a little garbled from the emotion clogging your lungs. Sans seemed momentarily taken aback, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself now that you’d started. “I’m so sick of looking at myself in the mirror and seeing someone I hate looking back. I hate people looking at me and only seeing how I look. I hate my thighs, and my skin, and my neck, and my cheeks, and the stupid bags under my eyes. I hate my smile, and my boobs, and my stomach. I fucking hate it, Sans, i-”
You cut yourself off with a broken sob, hiding your face in your arms as you curled in on yourself a little tighter. Wet, hot tears streaked down your face and burned at your eyes.
It was just too much.
The next thing you knew Sans was wrapping his arms around you, hugging you so tight all the breath was knocked out of your lungs. You tensed for a moment, before throwing your arms around Sans yourself and burying your face into the crook of his vertebrae.
He rocked you back and forth in his arms, holding you tighter and tighter as he whispered assurances and genuine murmurs of comfort into your ears. He told you how much he loved you, and how perfect you were. He told you how much he cared about you, and how lucky he thought he was you’d ever even looked at him. He ran his fingers through your hair and told you that you meant the world to him. He looked you in the eyes and kissed away your tears with so much reverence and sheer love you felt as though you might cry again, and you were anything but a whimp. On the contrary, you were one of (if not the) strongest people Sans had ever met, which he informed you firmly. He’d never once thought you were anything less than perfect, and anyone who dared to think otherwise was either blind or an idiot. You were incredible. He loved every single inch of you, and wouldn’t trade you for all the naps in the world.
He didn’t bring it up again, after that. He just gave you one of his shirts and pulled you into bed, where he turned on your favorite TV show and ran his fingers through your hair. He’d always been a decently affectionate person, but ever since then he’d begun to express it more and more often.
You certainly didn’t feel perfect right away, but that was alright. You figured even if you didn’t love yourself, Sans had more than enough love for you to cover for it.
Here’s the combination of several asks, all of which I have been wanting to answer for a while.
You guys are beautiful, okay? Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I used to have a lot of body image issues (mostly because of things family members had said to me) and it had gotten to the point where I had stopped eating because of it. Don’t do that, guys. Don’t let people make you feel like you’re anything less then incredible. What do they matter, anyways? You shouldn’t be judged because of how you look, whether it be good or bad. So what if your nose isn’t straight? It’s still the most damn adorable thing in the world. So what if your face is round? You’re still fabulous. So what if you’re short? You can give better hugs!
Okay, let me try again! What do you think about a good ol' #10?
(10 - body swap)
So. Huh. His nose really was that big. Not that he didn’t know how he looked, not that he hadn’t looked in a damn mirror before, but this was rather different. Not only because his hair, of course, parted on the other side now.
He felt a hand on his waist, large, warm, and very gentle. He shivered inside. It did feel good, like Hux always said it did.
Hux was going tentatively — maybe getting stalled by the reality of his own body facing him, just as Kylo had been with his face. Hadn’t Kylo always said “I like you,” and meant Hux’s shape?
He leant in to kiss, and closed his eyes. I hope he appreciates now how soft his lips are. Seemingly he did, kissing back eagerly. So that’s how it is. Smug vain boy that you are, Armitage Hux.
He trailed a hand down his back, in the way that he liked, and felt Hux murmur in appreciation, pressed close against him. His own ass, though, was not as soft and round as the one he was used to.
“Touch me where you like to be touched,” he said, and it was strange to hear Hux’s clipped tones coming out of his mouth. Out of not his mouth. His own mouth was the one he was breathing against, the one he had been kissing.
“If you do the same,” Hux said, and Kylo could feel the shock in him, at hearing that voice.
He smiled to himself, and moved his hand up onto his, his, chest; onto a nipple that already stood proud from the curve of a warm, yielding pectoral.
“I thought you already knew how I like to be touched,” he said, rolling it between his fingers.
Ianto came into the boardroom, a handkerchief held over his mouth and nose.
‘That won’t do you any good,’ said Owen. ‘Holding a hanky over your nose isn’t going to protect you against this kind of thing.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Ianto replied. He showed them the handkerchief – it was full of bright red spots. When they looked back at him, his face was flooded with anxiety. ‘What’s going to happen to us all?’
Something In The Water by Trevor Baxendale (Torchwood Novels #4)
Oh no! Poor Ianto.
… also there’s something endearingly old fashioned about Ianto using a hanky.
Don’t have my tablet..or a mouse…so here’s a badly colored sketch of what I hc this dumbass to look like. Hopefully I can hook the tablet up tomorrow or something…laptop touchpad is not good for…anything.
My dad is sitting and doodling in a My Little Pony colouring book with my two-year-old kid. He drew a blue sun, and when she coloured over it with her red crayon, he said, “now it’s a red dwarf and it has killed everyone in its solar system.” She nodded solemnly.
I know this nose art is for the Bad Batch, but I can’t help but imagine another Clone Unit with a stronger claim on the Senator as a mascot. (And how much Anakin would FLIP THE FUCK OUT)
… And it looks like the paneling repair will have to wait, as his General’s boots appear next to his head beside the transport’s landing gear. He pushes himself out from under the machine on a dolly, flat on his back.
“What is THAT?!” his fearless leader yelps, pointing dramatically, emphatically upwards and towards the nose.
He scoots out farther, past General Skywalker’s legs, and props himself up on his elbows to take in the three-quarters-finished pinup Hardcase has been taking such pains with for the last four hours.
“Morale booster, sir. Couldn’t do something clever like the 104th and their Plo’s Bros or anything, so–”
“So you chose SENATOR AMIDALA?!” Did his voice just crack? It did.
He shrugs. “Sure. She’s been through enough hell and high water with us.”
“She’s a SENATOR!”
“And she’s a keen eye with that blaster,” he reasons, jerking his head up to the painting, and the flawlessly detailed replica of the Senator’s favored sidearm, primed to fire and held at a jaunty, confident angle. He even got the chipped paint over the trigger guard right.
“Got the looks for it too!” Hardcase yells down from where he’s shading in a long bare stretch of thigh, pausing to vigorously shake his can of spray paint. “We might finally be able to give the 327th a run for their money, with General Secura and all.”
“GENERAL SECURA is half naked on the nose of a transport?!”
“What? No!” Of course not, that’s just tasteless.
There’s a clatter from up above as Hardcase puts his paints down and leans over the scaffolding, a hand wobbling skeptically. “Well… Technically…”
“She’s in her usual outfit, y’know, with the–” Rex explains, and zig-zags a finger down from his head, mimicking the General’s lekku straps. “–and the leather pants.”
“It’s just a little leg, Anakin, I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”
Oh thank all the stars and little planets. Backup. General Kenobi steps up beside his former Padawan to admire the paint job himself. “Excellent work on her hair, Hardcase,” Kenobi continues, tilting his head.
“Thank you, sir. Run a probe with some white and a little metallic gold through the wet paint, gets it to streak so the shine looks real.”
General Skywalker is starting to do that thing where he puffs up like an angry coppi lizard and splutters furiously while he tries to think of something else to be upset about. He can hear Fives rolling his eyes from the opposite side of the transport. General. Honestly. If you’re trying to keep a relationship secret, openly displaying your klik-wide jealous streak is not how you do it.
“The 212’s is worse, anyway,” Kenobi muses idly, as Hardcase carefully adds the supposedly “very distinctive” freckle high on the Senator’s hip, just below the split in her modified favorite Council dress. Skywalker starts to go wide-eyed at that, because his sabacc face out of genuine combat is complete sleenshit, and startles when his master continues.
“She’s on the 212th transport too?!”
“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. We can’t have duplicates, that defeats the purpose,” Kenobi says, in that too-reasonable tone he takes on when he’s deliberately fucking with his former Padawan.
“'Cept Master Ti,” Echo yells, from somewhere inside the paneling he and Rex had been working on.
“Except Master Ti, yes,” Kenobi agrees, and shrugs. “But that’s to be expected. Rather like how so many people have that arm tattoo of a heart with the ribbon that says ‘Mom’.”
Rex personally knew of at least eight other clones that had that exact tattoo, though the ribbon was usually striped like Master Ti’s headtails, and nods agreeably. That seems to have sufficiently diverted Skywalker, or at least confused him.
“Then how is it worse?” Skywalker asks, a little desperately, then his face lights up completely with slightly malicious anticipation. “Is it the Duchess?!”
Oh boy. Rex looks up at Hardcase, who is biting down on his paint-splattered fist to keep from laughing, as General Kenobi gets that look.
“Certainly not,” Kenobi says sternly, and waits a full beat to drop his bombshell. “It’s me.”
Skywalker just stares.
“Though I’m reasonably certain Duchess Kryze had something to do with it, given the way I’m half falling out of my robes.”
Now he looks vaguely green.
“Or it’s some perverse joke of Master Windu’s. It seems his style. Cody refuses to tell me.”
And before Skywalker can come up with anything else to protest, Kenobi adds:
“Besides, Senator Amidala loves it. Hers, I mean. I haven’t asked her about mine.”
Apparently even Jedi can choke on air when sufficiently surprised. But really, where did he think they’d gotten the preliminary sketches from?