Xuebing Du
$LAYYYTER

⁂

No title available
Misplaced Lens Cap

Andulka
DEAR READER
will byers stan first human second
Stranger Things

JBB: An Artblog!
tumblr dot com
occasionally subtle
YOU ARE THE REASON
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
almost home

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
cherry valley forever
styofa doing anything
h
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from France
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Australia
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Argentina

seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from France

seen from United States
@hung3r-twink
Slim for Him. It’s what He likes.
No sir, I’m not hungry.
No food today, babe. You don’t wanna regain, do you, now you finally look hot.
being hungry makes me so horny omg
A little something inspired by this post!
--
You’re perched beside me on our battered old couch. My body is curled, fetal and defenseless, into the hollow at your side. You let your head droop onto my shoulder, the crown of your hair brushing my neck in lazy, affectionate flurries, while the TV flickers something neither of us are watching.
Your left hand comes to rest on my belly. It’s embarrassingly empty, and you must feel the tension because you press the palm in deeper, then begin to trace circles. At first the arcs are feathery—almost apologetic, as though my stomach were a sleeping pet you didn’t want to jostle awake. But when I sigh happily, you’re emboldened. Your hand works in firmer, larger spirals, kneading the skin over my navel in a rhythm that makes the hollowness inside me yawn wider.
Out of nowhere, my belly lets loose a shudder. Not a polite, ignorable grumble but a deep, rolling complaint that fills the space between us with its need. Your eyes go wide in mock horror. “Wow,” you say. “is there a direwolf trapped in there? Should I be wearing chainmail?” You poke my side and I yelp, more at your words than the poke itself. I want to explain the hunger, but also to keep it to myself, as if my need could be tamed by sheer force of will.
You keep at it, the rubbing, the teasing. You say, “Can you imagine all the food that would fit in there?” Suddenly you’re narrating an imaginary menu: “A bakery’s worth of cinnamon rolls. Piping hot pizza with layers and layers of cheese. Oh my God, and fries. Truffle fries, the kind with the skin still on.” Each item you conjure seems to land inside me with a wet slosh, my stomach gurgling in eager approval.
You don’t stop, not even when my face is burning, not even when my hands flutter self-consciously over your own on my skin. You laugh, not unkindly, and I try to smile through the embarrassment, but you can tell I’m flustered.
You lean in, so close I can smell the dregs of your peppermint ChapStick and the hint of laundry detergent clinging to your hoodie. I tighten my core, willing it to stay silent, but the gurgle that follows sounds almost human in its longing. You’re delighted.
“God, you’re starving,” you say, and your voice is half sympathy, half triumph. Your hand strays a little lower, where the muscle and soft meet. “You’re adorable when you’re hungry.”
Someone who's stomach is so obnoxious they've completely tuned it out. Meanwhile you're struggling to maintain eye contact as their gut is roaring.