#cuisse fine

[fitnessmith]

Menu perte de poids pour homme ( + conseils pour perdre du gras )

NOUVEL ARTICLE 👉 La perte de poids pour homme + la vidéo sur le "physique naturellement atteignable". Lien en bio @fitnessmith ou sur mon site fitnessmith. #muscu #fitness #fitfrance

Est-ce que les hommes perdent du poids de la même manière que les femmes ? Quelles sont les meilleures stratégies pour un homme qui souhaite perdre du poids ? Voici mes conseils en tant qu’ancien homme en surpoids. Si vous souhaitez perdre du poids, que vous êtes un homme et que vous êtes motivé, voici mes conseils pour passer à l’action. Différences de perte de poids entre hommes et femmes Si…

[gingerlurk]

Lovers' Crest | Chapter 11: The Question

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: You ask Din a question that changes everything.

Word count: 5.9k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), post season 3, SMUT, here we go, fingering, unprotected PiV (be safe), creampie, multiple orgasms, soft & tender.

--

A few days have passed and you’ve worked yourself into a state. You just couldn’t stop the wondering.

You were bound to be curious, right? He would have said something if it was not an okay thing to do. That was his way.

After pacing a couple of times with wringing hands and a racing heart, you decide that just asking the question is innocent enough. You press an only slightly shaking hand to your side, where the plaster seal holds your wound and the man’s bare hands had stroked you so carefully.

It’s just an innocent question.

So you check the kid is still sleeping, for no other reason than he was really tuckered out from the day, and approach the back of Din’s form as he moves the fresh supplies about the cabin.

He doesn’t seem to notice you, so you clear your throat. His helmet turns.

‘Um.’ You shift your feet.

‘I think we were a bit zealous with the fruit,’ he says. Pushing two overloaded bags into a rack, they barely fit. ‘Not sure we will get through it all.’

‘Oh,’ you give a nervous giggle. Giggle? What the fuck is wrong with you? ‘I’m sure kiddo will have no trouble devouring it all.’

‘Mm.’ He continues shoving the bags into place. You watch his able hands draw a loop of webbing through the rack and tie a deft knot.

Hands… Hands! His hands. You give yourself a mental slap and step up. ‘Din?’

‘Mm?’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ He must hear something in your voice because he turns and faces you square on. His broad frame glimmers in the dim light floating in from outside and you can tell by the tilt of his helmet that you have his full attention. Gods, he can make you feel so fucking exposed.

‘When I came to…’ You stop, huff a breath and go again. ‘After the treasury and the-- and the carbon freeze…’ You rub clammy palms on your thighs, pushing the memory of the burning chill away. ‘When I woke up, you, you were—’ Gods, fuck, just fucking ask him!

He hasn’t moved or gestured for you to go on. You think he might be holding his breath.

‘You were treating my injuries and,’ you stare down at his hands, held stiffly at his sides, ‘I don’t think you had your gauntlets on.’ You say it in a rush and look up a little further to his forearms. ‘Or your vambraces.’

The items in question are reflecting the sun into the hold, the light having shifted lower as you dithered around your point. You lose focus for a moment.

‘That’s true,’ Din whispers into the silence. You almost miss it. ‘The stitcher gauge is very fine. I had to be precise or I could have overdone it and burned you. So, I thought a direct hand best.’

‘Ohh, oh- okay. Th-thanks for that.’ Thanks for that? Unhinged.  

‘And,’ you push on. Your eyes dart lower for a second then back up to Din’s motionless visage. ‘I don’t think you had your cuisse on either. Your-- your thigh armour.’ You make a weak gesture to his lower body then lock your arms across your front, willing your heart to get out of your throat and back into your chest. ‘When I, uh,’ you stare up at the ceiling, ‘when I grabbed hold of you – because of the pain, I mean – I didn’t feel it there.’ You should just die right now.

‘In order to reset your shoulder,’ he says, ‘I had to lean my knee into your hip. I did not want the beskar to cause any more harm.’ Is his voice raspier than usual? Even deeper, somehow?

‘Right. You did a great job.’ You release your arms and swing the shoulder in question back and forth a couple of times. ‘Feels good.’ Are you out of your mind?

‘That’s good.’

Silence.

‘You had a question?’

‘Yes! Yes I did. Uh…’ You swallow the driest mouth you’ve ever had. ‘So my question being, it didn’t seem to concern you when I came to. Like, you weren’t worried having pieces of your armour off in my presence. I thought, you know, with the creed and all…’ Just get this over with and you can go sprint into the forest and throw up. But then he takes a step toward you and gives a long exhale. The sound makes your body flush all over. Without your volition, your thoughts and nerves rush to your core – igniting a pulsing need.

‘That is still not a question, but yes. It did not worry me.’ His voice has reached a gravelly tone that you let wash over you, finding the calm amid the sonic velvet. ‘My armour is a part of my religion and I hold it as sacrosanct.’ He touches a hand to his cuirass. ‘But the Creed speaks of only the helmet being removed and my face being seen. It does not forbid removing my armour in the presence of another, though I would only do so when needs are an absolute must.’

He drops his hand to his side. ‘Or when I am with one that I trust.’

Holy shit. Heart is climbing up your throat and into your mouth. You lick your lips.

‘Okay, so, here’s my question,’ you clench your fist once then reach out and take hold of his hand. You lift it up and with your other hand ghost your fingers over his. You have an urgent thought, look up at him. ‘To be clear, I’d never ask you to take off your helmet.’

‘I know.’

‘Ever,’ a hard shake of your head.

‘I know.’

‘But, can I take off this glove?’ You stare directly into the dark T of his visor. He leans to you.

‘You can.’

Molten, burning desire coils in your belly. A graphic mental image of stripping him bare and climbing him like a tree flashes white hot in your mind. The things you want to do to him, and let him do to you. Thought upon thought tumbles through you. This hand you’re holding touching you all over, finding your aching need, pulling your juices from you in an endless stream. These huge fingers—

‘Start here,’ he says gently, and you realise you’ve been stood stock still staring at his hand in yours. He lifts his other hand to the edge of the vambrace by his wrist and releases a catch. The metal of the two armour pieces, warmed by him, come away with a clunk. He drops them onto the bench beside you. Then waits.

You grip two of his gloved fingers and draw the garment toward you. You blink back the moisture gathering at your eyes so you can take in the sight of millimetre on millimetre of skin being revealed to you. When the glove has dropped to the floor, you push your fingers into his to entwine them. He spreads his own and lets your digits link. Gods, but they feel so soft between your calloused ones. With your other hand, you circle his wrist and start to push up the long sleeve up his forearm, greedy to see more, touch more. But he flinches.

‘Sorry! I’m sorry,’ you make to draw back but he tightens your joined fingers together to hold you still.

‘No,’ he whispers. ‘It is not you. I’m just, I have not felt– for a long time…’

Of course, you think. This is the most touch-starved man in the galaxy. 

Lick your lips again, bite down on the corner of your mouth. Look up to him.

‘Okay,’ you say. ‘Why don’t you lead? Just, you can touch me instead for a little while? If you like?’ 

‘I would like that.’ It’s nothing but a low rumble to your ears.

He unclasps the armour from his other arm and tugs the glove off. It gets tossed to the side, almost carelessly, then both hands reach for you. You decide to stay still, not spook the wild creature in front of you. You make another choice and let your eyes fall closed.

You’re so glad to be wearing only a singlet when each hand moves to your wrists and slowly, gods so slowly and tenderly, start to skim up, up. Fingers caress your outer forearms as each thumb presses a little into the soft, paler flesh heading toward your inner elbows. There, he circles each arm, holding them in a grip that has you spinning again into fantasies of things to come. You hope. 

This is where you become aware of Din’s breathing. You open your eyes and see his chest rising and falling in bursts. Fast, harsh gasps hit the modulator of his helmet.

‘Din,’ you whisper, not moving a muscle. ‘It’s okay. It’s me. Breathe.’

He gives you a nearly imperceptible nod and takes a moment to fill his lungs a few times. When he’s ready, his right hand moves from your elbow, up to your shoulder and splays there across your upper chest. His thumb rests at the base of your throat but you barely notice its experimental nudge there as his fingers curl under the strap of your top and rest underneath it. His whole hand is pressed flush against your skin.

It’s so fucking reverent you want to cry.

Then he pushes the fabric off your shoulder and down your arm, mirroring the action on your other side until your shoulders and decolletage are bare. Another long, agonising pause as he holds you there makes you feel like you’re going to astral project with tension. Your eyes look up to lock on the visage facing you – then all at once it snaps between you.

He grips your arms tight and pulls you into his chest. The hard, plated beskar seers your skin as you lift onto your toes toward him. Gripping onto his elbows over his clothed sleeves to stay steady, you nuzzle into the arched curve of his helmet, pressing your nose to where you imagine his cheek could be.

He moves, walking you backwards into the cabin.

When your calves back into the bed, Din brings his hands to the hem of your top. You raise your arms and drop to the mattress in one motion. The fabric rustles up and off for Din to toss to the side. Chest bare, you lean back to let him look at you.

The black sights of the visor stay steady on your body as he stands over you. But his hands start to move on himself. To his shoulders, his chest – clasps and buckles are released and one item after another is drawn away. 

It’s like watching a God work at himself.

You rise from your elbows to your palms when he tucks his hands under his midriff and starts to rip at fasteners, tugging the top half of his flight suit loose. Huh, you think, you didn’t know it could be a two-piece.

And then all thought stops. The outfit opens down the middle and you stare as, oh gods, oh gods, oh gods, he drags it out and off his shoulders. Letting it thump to the floor.

As you expected, he’s broad and hard. The muscles carry the easy definition of a fighter like himself, powerful but swift. They twitch and flex as your hungry eyes roam everywhere. Soft hair dusts his chest and funnels into an inviting trail down over his stomach and into his pants. What really captures your attention is the taut, pulsing veins highlighting his neck and collarbones, tensing beneath your gaze.

You take in each other for a beat. Then he seems to read your mind and drops to his knees between your legs. You sit up as he leans forward and gently, slowly, with hands moving to arms and with small reassuring nods from Din, the two of you come to be pressed together. Chest to naked chest. You rest each hand on his generous shoulders. His arms circle to your back and he tilts his helmet to rest over your shoulder, the delicate skin of his neck pressing there. So achingly tender.

Wait here. Wait for him to move. 

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, he does. Hands move to your front, sliding across your ribs and barely hesitating before cupping your breasts. He gives an experimental squeeze and teases at your peaked buds. You fall onto your back to give him full access.

His fingers find your lips. You suck them in and let your saliva coat as much as you’re able. Satisfied, he moves them back to your tits, letting the slick slide back and forth over your nipples. He’s brushing, pinching and squeezing with a pattern and pace that is so intuitive to your arousal you’re now sure he’s inside your head.

You’re pushing your chest into his ministrations, feeling every single tug and twitch shoot a jolt of pure pleasure to your pussy. It’s soaking your clothed thighs more and more but doing exactly zero to slake your cravings. You squirm and cry out, pawing aimlessly at chest, arms, helmed face.

‘Fuuhhhh,’ you pant. ‘Fuck, Din!’ 

At that he presses his face to your chest and draws it down your body, hard and cold forehead dragging over the skin between your tits and down your belly. His helm presses firmly on the belt at your pants, as if in protest, and you shudder with every inch of muscle as he continues down. He lays his forehead to rest directly against your clothed throbbing cunt.

You think you’ve gone insane when you swear you hear him inhale there. Can he smell through that thing? Shut up.

With his helmet pressed there, breathing in and out heavily, he whispers, ‘Mesh’la.’

You can’t help yourself. You thrust your hips up, a white-hot pulse reverberates in your cunt and you keen. It feels profane.

But he freezes. 

Your eyes shoot open and you look down, a tinny shred of fear licking at your arousal.

You’ve ruined everything.

He moves away from your centre. No… you whine.

But he leans up, climbing onto the bed beside you, nudging you further up the mattress and settling at your side. He’s gazing at you and you’re not sure where his eyes are focused. It just feels like everywhere. His hands, which moved from your chest in his descent down you, now roam, uncertain.

He speaks.

‘What—’ an exhale. ‘What would you like me to do? Tell me.’

You shiver at the sound of his delicious voice. Working hard to compose yourself enough to speak, you say, ‘Just, just keep going with your hands? Whatever you want to do. Whatever you want. Just please don’t stop.’ 

A hand grips at the buckle of your pants; your legs tremble. ‘This?’

‘Fuck, please.’

It is quick work. You hike your hips and raise a hand to assist the worn material in sliding down your legs. You hadn’t gripped its waistband yourself, but Din has your underwear as well as your pants hooked in his fingers and they both shift down and off.

Now you’re naked and the bare hand of the Mandalorian is dragging a slow, punishing course up your entire leg. Little skitters of pleasure race ahead, gathering and creating a crescendo of sensation to release tides of wet bliss.

You think you may die as his fingertips trace a path to where you need them. Please touch me. You make a silent prayer. Touch, touch, touch.

It feels like he’s within you already. Without pausing, the index and middle fingers push in and up, separating the soaking folds around your entrance. He doesn’t even pause there, sensing your momentum, and pushes them right into the hot, clenching flesh.

The ecstatic moan that pushes up from your chest is nearly drowned out by a ragged groan from Din. You both writhe together as he works his two fingers in, draws back and circles, then pushes back in, settling into a pumping action that curls up, up.

‘How much I have wanted this, mesh’la,’ he sighs. ‘You would have no idea.’

Oh, you have some idea. ‘I—' That’s as far as you get. The pad of his thumb finds your clit.

After all the anticipation, all the yearning, all the tender build up – it’s all you need. The orgasm that rushes toward you is a wave that crests in your belly and breaks into every part of you, rising to the very crown of your head where you’ve thrown it back with mouth open in an O of ecstasy. 

You open your eyes to see Din watching your face, fingers still seated inside you, and he’s murmuring, ‘That’s good, that’s so good. Fuck, so beautiful. So gorgeous. Can I do that again? Gods please, let me do that again…’

You wiggle your hips some and hiss at the intensity flickering across your whole pussy. His hand flexes there but doesn’t resume stimulating yet, waiting for you. You sense a pressure on your thigh and wonder how in the stars you hadn’t noticed his bulging erection before now, pushing as it is into your shivering flesh. You reach a hand, pausing at his sharp inhale.

You rest your palm on your leg, just by where he’s pressed into you.

‘Yes, Din,’ you say, hoping in all the worlds that you’re making eye contact with him. ‘Yes, you can, over and over, as much as you want. For- for as long as you want. And… can I?’ You glance down, then back up.

He presses the top of his helm into your forehead and you’re awash in his ragged breathing and tiny groans. As he begins to move inside you again, adding a third finger and immediately setting a renewed fire that will not take long to blaze, you feel him nod against your face.

It’s only a little fiddly as you reach around the arm working at you to open up more of his flight suit. It would be easier if he pulled his hand away for a moment, but you don’t think that’s up for negotiation, so you just push and tug until – oh, oh gods, oh fuck – his smooth, gorgeously hard cock is pressing into your skin.

You take him in hand and revel at the weight and thickness of him. You greedily explore his entire length, circling fingers over the head, wrapping your palm around him and moving down, running knuckles through the coarse hair there, and back up. You drink in every little strangled moan he gives you, senses flooded, skin sizzling with desire.

He shifts, slipping his other hand under your neck to pull you closer. You move a little to your side so you’re facing him more, and you jerk each other off. You press your lips into the cool metal of his helmet and he lets you.

He’s figured out that a thumb rubbing at your clit is going to end you the fastest, so he focuses there. But the hand cradling your head also finds a spot just behind your ear and strokes there unconsciously. That’s what really undoes you again. You cry out into the unyielding curve of beskar, and hear him muttering again, ‘yes, y-- s- so perfect, so fucking perfect…’

You lose rhythm stroking him, but he seems to be enjoying it anyway, hips jutting up into your hand and legs locking with yours to find purchase. Groaning, you drop your face to his neck and collarbone and mouth hungrily there, resetting your pace again as you feel his body start to tense. His breathing becomes short and ragged and you can feel his head pressing hard into the bed just above you.

‘F-, uh, Fuuuh, please, please,’ he’s begging you, losing his damn mind. ‘I’m going to- going to- do you want me to—’

‘Let go, Din,’ you moan into his skin. ‘Let me make you cum.’

Your side and stomach are suddenly slippery as he spills on you like a shot. You let him rut there into the hot mess you’ve made of him, taking the last as he stills. In the midst of his shuddering release, his hand still locked on your cunt creates enough friction for a third shimmering climax to wash through you and you writhe into his palm.

Never in your life had you felt so sated. 

A distressed ‘ Ehhe! ’ pierces the bliss you’d lost yourselves in. A gentler, ‘buub,’ follows. You each disentangle and sit up, listening.

‘The kid!’ Din says, starting to pull at his pants and move to stand, but you reach for him in slight panic. You can’t handle the thought of seeing him cover up, close in again, just yet. 

‘No, no, it’s okay. I’ll go,’ you say, laying a hand on Din’s shoulder and guiding him back down. ‘Please, please just, stay like this. I haven’t… haven’t had enough of this just yet. Okay?’

He hesitates, but stops trying to tuck himself away. You glance down and see he’s still half hard. Maybe… you think.

‘Besides,’ you say with a wink. ‘I can get dressed faster.’

Thank all the worlds, he relents, relaxes his hands and watches you stand to pick your clothing off the floor. You give him one final look and duck out to check on the child.

Just a few minutes later, you slip back into the cabin and your heart bursts.

Din is fucking naked.

While you’d been out he’d shucked off the rest of his flight suit and boots and now lay in the centre of the bed, one arm raised behind his helmet and the other over his middle, self-consciously stroking at his taut abdomen.

You gape for a moment, willing yourself to speak.

‘He was just thirsty,’ you croak out, raking your eyes up and down his body. His legs. His fucking thighs. ‘Out like a light again.’

Din doesn’t say anything, just reaches a hand for you. You check his cock, still half hard, resting against his belly. Gonna change that first, you think.

You grip the hem of your singlet and, as leisurely as you’re able, draw it up yourself, revealing just an inch of skin at a time. Din’s head rises slightly as he watches. You pause just as you’re about to bare your breasts again, do another check, getting there.

In the time it takes to tip your head back and draw the garment over you to drop it back to the floor, Din has raised up onto his elbows and he’s rock hard and twitching.

Okay, no more time wasting. You move into action, unbuckling and shoving your pants down your legs as you climb onto the foot of the bed, crawling to him. He leans forward and takes your upper arms into his hands to yank you all the way up. Your nose bumps his helmet again as you straddle his hips.

Hands come up to grip either side of your face, fingers caressing that area by your ears you apparently love and thumbs nudging at the edges of your mouth. You part your lips and let him work them in, licking and sucking at every point of contact. They taste of leather and salt and you.

You’re holding your naked cunt directly above his groin and you let it sink down so it rubs against his shaft. Slippery and so, so smooth. He moans. He pushes into you for a moment but then stills, huffing hard short breaths.

‘L- love,’ he pants, looking down between you. ‘I have to help you- ready- first--’

‘I’m ready,’ you whimper, near losing your mind at the endearment. ‘Gods, I am. I’m ready. Are you?’

His thumbs leave your mouth and he nudges your face so you focus on the visor right in front of you. He tilts his hips just so, so that the head of his cock slips perfectly to sit at your entrance. You can feel how slick you are, feel how much your body wants this gorgeous, throbbing cock to take you apart.

‘Yes,’ he rasps. ‘I want you so m- hhn!’

You take him in one long luscious sinking of your hips, not stopping until your seated flush against him. The burn feels good, the pressure at your cervix talking to your body and promising imminent bliss. 

You look down at Din, he is silent but you can see the veins on his neck straining and the hollow of his throat dipping and peaking. He’s still holding your head, and as he shifts his hands you expect them to come to handle your hips. But he traces your neck and shoulders, bringing them instead to your tits, cupping them and thumbing your nipples.

He holds the rest of his body still, waiting for you, letting you choose the pace. You decide to make it long and languid to start. Settling your knees on the bed and hands braced by his shoulders, you draw yourself back up, slow and delicious. Let yourself feel every millimetre until his head is cresting at your entrance again before sliding back down.

That finally elicits a desperate, shaky groan from behind the helmet. An unintelligible string of ‘s’good, ahh- ama--, fuuhh—’ tumbles forth. You do it again, and a third time, feeling yourself covering his cock in your juices, slicker and hotter each time.

On a downward thrust you collapse into his chest, holding his sides and moaning, ‘Gods, god- You- you were made for me, Din.’ You keep him deep inside you, the pressure of his pelvis on your clit connected by a razor of pleasure to the pressure of his tip at your cervix. The sensation of being split wide open causes sparks to careen around your core.

Groaning and panting into your ear as you work yourself on him, Din braces his feet and pushes his hips up, giving you just the angle you need to reach for the peak and tumble over it. You shudder and gush around him, latching lips onto a muscled bicep and moaning into his skin.

At that he does move to grip your hips. He brings his knees higher and holds you tight. You release your mouth long enough to utter a string of begging nonsense, telling him to take you hard. And he does, he fucks up into you with wild fervour, slamming your spent hips down onto his cock. There’s nothing between your bodies but sweat and your release as he loses himself in you. You regain enough strength to set your knees and move to meet each of his thrilling thrusts.

You start to wonder how much longer he’ll last when his hold changes from pulling himself in to pushing you away. You’re confused at first but then he bursts out, ‘Gonna c--, uh, fuh, huh—’

He’s trying to pull out, so you whisper, ‘Cum, Din. Let me feel it, now, pl—! ’

A guttural ‘uhhnhh’ fills the air as he spends himself into you. His hands, the fingers of one locked to the small of your back and the others digging into your ass, could puncture you to burst. Heat and electricity already crackle across your body but the warmth of his seed turns you to cinders. 

Your mingled pants and gasps settle the inferno you’d created together as the walls of the cabin reform, bringing you back into reality.

‘Wow,’ you breathe. ‘That was…’

Din moves a hand to the side of your head and carries it up to be level with his, bumping your foreheads together. He sighs, long and hard, ‘It was.’

‘Yeah,’ you agree.

Even though there’s a pinch tugging at your hips, spread wide over his, you don’t feel a want to move at all. He seems to feel the same, his relaxing cock staying seated inside you. You let yourself imagine you’re one and the same, connected and bound, melted and merged.

Through your glowing haze, you feel a thump thump thump against your chest. Not your heart. His. It’s hammering.

‘You okay?’ you ask, trying to study that T visor like it has the answers to existence.

He presses his head back. You picture his eyes screwed shut and his teeth clenched, trying to will himself to calm. No clue what he looks like but it still feels vivid and real to you.

‘Yes, I am,’ he rasps. Gods, you can finally revel in the gorgeousness of that voice. ‘I am okay, I swear.’

‘Um, good?’ you say when he pauses there but doesn’t relax.

‘Yes, just,’ he murmurs, moving hands back to where they were right before you’d penetrated yourself on him – either side of your head and his thumbs seeking entrance to your mouth. You oblige and kiss and nip and lick at them with hunger.

He stares, ‘Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful.’ He moves a palm across your mouth and you lave into that too, pouring your lust into consuming whatever he can give you.

Though you’re not too lost in the feeling of making out with his hand that you don’t notice the return of pressure on your pelvic walls. No way, you think.

You push yourself up, give a lazy tilt of your hips to circle there. The feeling of him swelling inside you is absolutely intoxicating. You circle again and grin down at him.

He sits up and pulls you close, closer, starts to gently move your bodies together. It’s not long before momentum takes hold. You rock into each other as hands explore and caress everything in reach. His card through your hair, grip the back of your neck, wrap around your waist and run up and down your thighs. Yours draw nails across broad shoulders and chest, cradle his helmet, trace the lines of his abdomen and clutch his arms for purchase.

He’s mumbling something but it’s incoherent and you’re just chanting his name, minds gone.

You reach for your fifth, telling him you’re close, so close… Gods, Din. 

‘It’s yours, mesh’la,’ he grits. ‘Let it be yours-- it's all yours.’

‘Fuh-- huh!’ Sound sticks in your throat. He murmurs quiet affirmations and praise as you’re awash in bliss. Just as the exquisite feeling ebbs, Din rolls you both over to fuck you down into the bed before going rigid. He sighs through it, then stills.

You can’t physically hold your hips open anymore so you nudge and stroke at him until he moves off. He pulls you to his side and wraps you in an embrace. You tuck in, stroke and caress neck and chest and bicep.

After a very generous stretch of lounging into him, you excuse yourself to the fresher to clean up a little. Just a little though, the slippery feeling of his release twice over too delicious to not hold onto a little more. When you return to the bed, he has a similar thing on his mind.

‘Cyar’ika,’ he starts. Pauses. Sighs and goes on. ‘I am not sure how to ask this, but…’

You stop him, curl back into his side and play a hand coyly over the gorgeous planes of his body.

‘Got the implants years ago,’ you say, just above a whisper.

‘Oh, okay,’ he says, skimming his knuckles up and down your side. 

‘Yeah,’ you blurt. ‘Nobody wanted precious heiress knocked up before her time…’

Why’d you say that? You want to push that all away as quickly as you can, so you climb onto him again, finding him ready and willing beneath you.

--

This is where Din wants to live for the rest of his days. Laying on his back, arms looped around you and your head nestled against his chest. Your hand rests over his heart and you are gently pushing a thumb back and forth. It’s heaven.

But something still hangs in the air between you. The two of you had pushed through much of the veils of doubts and fears you’d been stringing up since meeting, trying to protect yourselves from the intensity of this feeling. Even the last few days, after everything, you’d been dancing around each other, waiting for the right time, the right way…

Now that you were pressed skin to skin, all he wants is to let you in.

‘I am… so sorry, mesh’la,’ he says. You tip your head up to him with a curious mm ? ‘For before.’ You lower your gaze again. Okay, still some distance needed for this. But you nestle a little closer, tucking your face into his neck. Keep going…

‘For how I acted, how I treated you. The things I said, I should have known better. Understood… But I was…’ A heavy sigh, just say it. ‘I was afraid. I thought I was losing…’

The words won’t come, so he settles for rubbing your arm instead.

A long, quiet moment stretches out between you. You make small motions against each other, a caress, a squeeze. You talk each other through the things you cannot say.

‘I’m sorry too,’ you finally say. He wishes you didn’t feel the need; it was all his fault. ‘Guess I was afraid too… I was just starting to feel… at home, out here. Having a past I’ve tried to get away from collide with the present I’ve been wanting so badly to… to hold onto. I just--’

He moves a hand to stroke at your hair. 

Your next words are whisper quiet. He’s so glad his helmet sensors are still dialled up or he wouldn’t have caught it, ‘Been so long since I felt any sense of home.’

His response is possibly way too much, way too soon, but it feels so right he just lets himself say it. ‘You’ll have a home here. Always.’

Back to silent communication for a moment, letting touch do the telling.

Then you laugh lightly and the tension eases some. ‘You realise that means you can’t go anywhere, right?’

As if he’s ever going anywhere else, but he asks anyway, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’d be stranded!’ You finally lift your head to look at him, eyes twinkling. ‘No point being on the best ship in the verse if I can’t go anywhere.’

There’s so much to process in that sentence, he focuses on the simplest. ‘You can’t… you don’t know how to pilot?’

You shrug, ‘Never did have a chance to learn.’

He sits up a little, leans away so he can see you more. ‘You could pull the Crest apart and put it back together in a day, but you can’t fly it?’

‘Do pilot and mechanic mean the same thing to you?’ you ask, smiling wider.

‘Well, no. But I thought… given everything else…’ 

You keep looking at him, eyes flicking across the motionless mask as if you’re reading every thought in his head. Slowly, the look shifts from one of amusement to something deeper – softer and hungrier.

He doesn’t know how to say what he wants to say, so he settles for the next best thing. ‘Want me to show you?’

You grin, flop your head back onto his chest and hold him tight. ‘More than anything.’ 

Yeah, this is where Din wants to live for the rest of his days.

--

Prev | Next

[swampstew]

It's October! SPOOPY TIME ~ *throws ghost shaped confetti* ~ I am so excited to start this fun event! Reminder that this is a costume contest that YOU can vote in on October 29~ Vote for my mans, he worked really hard🥺

Character: Eustass "The Sexiest Captain" Kid Summary: Kid is going to steal the show away with his costume. He's a known murderer after all, and he's going to slay this contest as this villain everyone loves to hate. Word Count: 1,031

“OI! KILL! Get in here!” Eustass Kid angrily yelled from his room. He stared at his hulking form in the floor length mirror he had stolen from some place or another, eyeing the material laid over his body as he tried to piece together his idea.

The door pushed open as his best friend came through, hauling some pieces of metal behind him. Piling it next to Kid’s desk, Killer finally sized the redhead up, tilting his head as he inspected the idea Kid was toying with.

“When you said you wanted to be Sauron, I kind of assumed you’d go all in with an impressive armor -plated outfit. The helmet is coming out fine and I got the materials for the spikes but…what exactly are you trying to do here?”

Kid rolled his eyes, “It’s a costume CONTEST, Killer. I need to appeal to all of the judges.”

“I see. So you’re going for…skanky horror?”

“More like monstrously fuckable.”

“Well you’re on the right track. I’ll leave you to it.”

With a nod, Kid took the helmet prototype off his head, pulled the metal sheet plates from his body, and stepped out of the floor-length mesh skirt he pinned together.

His plan was to go as his favorite character. The baddest bastard in all of literature – Sauron Thee Lord of the Rings. He already knew the judges had personal tastes and preferences, and if he could hit all of them he knew he’d be the undisputed winner. Alvida liked to gawk, Buggy liked flashy, Mihawk liked weapons, and Crocodile just showed up for the party but had a soft spot for the classics.

The contest was in a few weeks so there was no time to fuck around. With a determined look on his face, Kid gathered his scraps and blueprints, spread his materials on the long work table, and grabbed his hammer to begin flattening the steel.

Strike upon strike echoed in his room as Kid worked. First, he flattened the metal sheets and used his body to shape the plates of his armor around his muscles, making sure to bend the metal to heavily emphasize the contours of his jagged edged form. When all the individual, scandalously modified armor components were formed, he welded the units together to create his costume – it consisted of: an extreme crop top plackart with connecting pieces for the pauldrons, couters, vambraces, spaulders, and rerebraces; tassets and extremely short cuisses that stopped mid-thigh for his groin; greaves for his legs; the helmet and bevor; the mace; and jagged additions to his sword.

Next was making the imposing spiky pieces that decorated the helmet, shoulder plates, thigh plates and shoes. Kid took thicker pieces of metal and manipulated their shapes to his design: long, wicked looking slats that could slice you up if you didn’t watch out. He also made spindly spikes in varying sizes, making much more than he would probably end up needing. Kid then soldered each addition to the base of the armor; the smell of iron, tin, and fire leaving a heavy odor in the air that lingered even with all the windows open.

The weeks passed as he worked on his project a little every day, determined to meet his deadline and take home the prize. Kid poured his sweat and blood into shaping, sanding, buffing, smoothing, shining, painting, and sealing each individual piece of his costume. The only time he asked for help was when he needed Heat to sew fabrics together. Kid might be able to bend metal to his will but not even he could thread something as small as string to needle with his thick, clunky fingers.

At long last the day of the costume contest arrived. The crew was pre-gaming and helping each other dress for the party. Kid didn’t want anyone to see him until he was fully dressed, locking himself in his room to shower and get ready.

With freshly dried hair that he didn’t bother to style, Kid placed his trusty welding goggles on his bed as he looked at his outfit. With a confident grin, the redhead dropped his towel to the floor.

Slipping on the first layer, Kid pulled tight black shorts over his underwear, the ends of the cotton spandex shorts had been sewn together with the mesh fabric to create leggings that he could tuck into his amor-plated sabatons. He pulled on a long-sleeved, extreme crop top made of the same cotton spandex and mesh, which did nothing to hide his nipples. Eyeing the way the mesh made his muscles look, Kid started the next layer.

Pulling up the tassets that were reminiscent of his belted war kilt, the cuisses sat comfortably over his thighs and looked menacing with the slats and spikes, as did his greaves. Over his torso he put on the customized plackart – it ran down to his forearms right over the mesh, covered his collarbones but stopped short just above his pecs. Stepping into the metal plated boots, Kid’s outfit was nearly complete.

With a quick hand, Kid swiped on burgundy lipstick and heavy, smoky black eyeshadow. From the closet he pulled out the new fur cloak he had Killer dye from maroon to black, snapping the clasp in place to hang from the backs of the pauldrons, between where the jagged spikes were soldered into the steel. Brushing his hair back he slid the helmet over his face, the generous gaps in the visor were just enough to show a passing glance of his makeup. Taking a step back, he pulled out a bottle of posing oil to make his exposed muscles gleam, rubbing it deeply into his skin.

For the final touch, Kid picked up 10 pointed claw rings he made with the extra metal he had, sliding each over his fingers where they sat snugly. Grabbing his sword and mace, he walked back to the mirror and gave himself a final verdict.

Frightening. Deadly. Slutty. Scary.

Perfect✨

With a grin and some badass poses, he took a few selfies with the cam-snail before he left the room. Roaring out to his crew, “Alright let’s crash this party Kid Pirates style!”

[chicinsilk]

US Vogue July 1950

The epidermis from the thigh to the toes is dressed in a fine patina thanks to the deep-toned emulsion of Baume de Germaine Monteil; "Bronzed Beauty Balm. Free toenails are lacquered with Chen Yu's "Coral Fan." Black leather sandals by Bernardo are tied with delicate pink kidskin ribbons. On the floor, within reach, a bamboo lipstick case, a new shot of elegance by Lucien Lelong.

L'épiderme de la cuisse jusqu'aux orteils est habillé d'une fine patine grace à l'émulsion aux tons profonds du Baume de Germaine Monteil; "Bronzé Beauty Balm. Les ongles des orteils libres sont laqués avec "Coral Fan" de Chen Yu. Les sandales en cuir noir signées Bernardo sont attachées avec de délicats rubans en peau de chevreau roses. Au sol, à portée de main, un étui en bambou pour rouge à lèvres, nouveau shoot d'élégance signé Lucien Lelong.

Photo Erwin Blumenfeld vogue archive

[fanfoolishness]

Ill-fitted (The Bad Batch)

Crosshair prepares for his first mission after the fall of Kamino, but something feels wrong with his armor. ~1000 words, set during the beginning of The Solitary Clone. A study of angst, guilt, and denial (AKA the Crosshair special).

---

The new armor is identical to his last set, down to every detail; the slight asymmetry in an inner seam, the pleasing snap of the cuisses joining the knee plates, the hue of the green transparisteel of the visor.  Crosshair straps his armor over his blacks, piece by piece.  Vambraces, pauldrons, cuirass, greaves.  He is methodical and careful in this, as he is everything, and slowly, finally, he begins to feel a soldier again.  

Except… the armor rubs across the shoulders, a centimeter loose.

He frowns, ducking his head, rolling his shoulders.  He shrugs experimentally, but the armor still sits wrong.  

It is a small thing.  Nearly imperceptible.  Wrecker would have never noticed the difference.  Echo would have gone back to the armor’s specs.  Tech would likely have found a clever way to alter it on the fly.  Hunter would have --

His nostrils flare, lips narrowing.  Crosshair shakes his head, face twisting into a grimace.

He must have put it on slightly crooked.  The armor is exactly the same make and design as before.  There is no reason it would have changed.  He stands up straighter, jutting his chin out, tugging at the plate around his neck.

Still loose.

Perhaps it’s not the armor.  Perhaps it’s him.

The hunger gnaws at him, a raw pithing agony --

He tries pacing the platform to distract himself, but it’s getting harder and harder.  He’s so tired now, and the platform pitches and bucks around him, spinning dizzily in the Kaminoan downpour --

He holds out a weak hand to the ship in the distance, and through his haze he can see every tendon mapped, the sharp jutting of the knuckles, the sickly translucence of the skin --

Crosshair swallows.  Medical cleared me.  He’s fine.  They told him he was fine.

He decides to ignore the loose fit across the shoulders.  He will take it to the armory after this mission; he’s due to meet his new commander soon, and there is no time for something so trivial.  Rampart’s dig about his unreadiness to command again flickers in the back of his mind, but he ignores that, too.  If this is what they ask of him, he is ready to comply.

He reaches for his helmet, places it squarely on his head.  His vision swims green.  The visor, perfectly narrow and rectangular, shifts his sight and trains his focus.  

But there is still no extra cutout for his right eye.  Before Kamino he had submitted four requisitions asking for an alteration to the helmet, and all had been denied.  He stifles his disappointment.  They have their reasons, he is certain.

Though Crosshair still remembers working with the Kaminoans and his squad, pooling ideas and designs for customized armor and weaponry that would make their enhancements shine.  They’d been feverish with excitement: Wrecker crowing about materials with increased durability and explosive resistance, Hunter sketching out endless designs for the knife in his gauntlet, Tech waxing rhapsodic about the helmet and goggle system he’d been dreaming of for two years.  Crosshair remembers his own requests, his voice steady and sure, filled with the proud certainty that he knew his own abilities and exactly how to boost them.  

They’d had their requests granted, every one.  When the new armor arrived they’d stayed up half the night in their barracks, gleefully trying out every modification until the regs shouted at them to keep it down.  

He reaches up and touches his left pauldron.  His gloved fingers brush over its smooth edges, perfectly alike to the right.

They have their reasons….

He picks up his rifle.  A replacement 773 Firepuncher, its balance inspired, its weight and heft as familiar as his own arm.  He should feel whole, holding it.  Restored.  Ready to be of service again at last. Yet its weight in his hand does not steady him the way he had expected.

He pushes past the feeling.  No matter; the mission calls.  Desix and his new commander await, and with them an opportunity to serve the Empire.  He opens the door to his room, ready to take it.

The hallway outside his quarters flows with regs in white and black.  They march lockstep down the corridor, their boots a steady rhythm like a heartbeat.  It irritates him, the sound unpleasant in his ears.  He follows at his own pace behind a squad of ten, keeping his gaze down on the floor, and his ill-fitting armor rubs against his neck.

The First Battle Memorial towers above him.  He spares it barely a glance, its sea of names having little to do with him, and situates himself near one end to await the meeting with his new commander.  He slips off his helmet and stands stock still, tucking the helmet beneath one arm as he rests the butt of his rifle against the floor.  

More regs hurry past him, ready to go where they’re needed.  They have their orders.  He has his --

Good soldiers follow orders.

Good soldiers follow orders.

A pressure building in his head, a voice he doesn’t recognize but knows within his bones, the order -- he was meant for this -- they all were -- why don’t they see it?  An ache, confusion, anger rising in his chest, a ringing in his head, what’s happening to him -- 

All he ever wanted was to be a good soldier --

His shoulders slump slightly.  He’d done what needed doing.  He would have done it without the chip, if they’d have asked.  He’ll prove it.  What’s loyalty, after all, without action?

You weren’t loyal to me.  

But they hadn’t seen it that way --

His chest aches, heavy beneath his ribs, and it has nothing to do with the fit of his armor.

Crosshair stands silently beneath the great memorial, the golden light softening everything in view.  The regs march on past, side by side, footsteps echoing in the vast hall.  He shifts his weight and draws himself up to his full height.

He stands alone.  The shadows pool around him, and he waits to go and keep the peace.

[abridurif]

Et puis, au fond, est-il nécessaire que je parle aussi directement de moi ? Il me plaît bien davantage de me décrire dans les caresses que je réserve à mes amants. Il s’en fallait de peu que ce nouveau Jean ne devînt Mignon. Que lui manquait-il ? Quand il pète, à bruit sec, il a ce geste de fléchir sur les cuisses tout en gardant ses mains dans ses poches et en tournant un peu son torse, comme s’il le vissait. C’est le mouvement d’un pilote à la barre. Il refait Mignon, de qui j’aimais entre autres ceci : quand il fredonnait un air de java, il faisait un pas de danse et plaçait ses deux mains devant lui, comme si elles eussent tenu la taille d’une cavalière (à son gré, il faisait cette taille plus ou moins fine, en écartant ou rapprochant ses mains toujours mobiles) ; il paraissait ainsi tenir encore le volant sensible d’une Delage sur une route presque droite ; il paraissait encore être le boxeur agité, qui pare à mains plates et agiles son foie ; ainsi le même geste était commun à bien des héros, que Mignon devenait tout à coup, et il se trouvait toujours que ce geste était celui qui symbolisait avec le plus de force le mâle le plus gracieux. Il faisait de ces gestes merveilleux qui nous mettent à leurs genoux. Des gestes durs, qui nous éperonnent et nous font geindre comme cette ville dont je vis les flancs saigner des coulées de statues en marche, avançant sur un rythme de statues que le sommeil soulève. Jean Genet, Notre-Dame-des-Fleurs, Éditions Gallimard, 1951, p. 169, 170

[lovestitch-game]

While most of the game follows a sewing and general textile theme for pulling together the world, the rest is all wish fulfillment, and weapon designs are definitely falling into the latter category.

I want to avoid stereotypical JRPG weaponry for Lovestitch; no swords, rods, staves, or daggers allowed, save for the Relic Needle and Scissors which are like swords. I've been trying to come up with my own things that better fit my imagination, but it's been a struggle to come up with more than four potential ideas.

I'm tired of the way claw weapons are stereotypically set up, where the blades are positioned on the back of the hand and thus mew mostly have to keep mewr fist closed to wield them, so the most wish-fulfilling weapon design will be claw gauntlets. As the name kinda hints at, the blades or puncturing points are on the digits/fingers rather than extending from the back of the hand. As a plus side, mew can mix up your slashes with punches too! It's the weapon class i've put the most thought into

Next up are weapons i can't really easily describe with a short name, but it sorta fits the theme of the claw gauntlets: weaponized leg armor. The way i envision them in my head is that the armor goes from upper thigh to the bottom of the shin and the expected damage-dealing spot is on the shin. Since these are plushies fighting, they've got no shin bones to worry about and this is as good a weapon as any. I want to call them something like "combat greaves" but that excludes the the cuisses which are still important for kneeing attacks.

All the remainder of the ideas are weaker than those two. I had mind to go with an idea where weapons and armor slots would all be the same and the armors mew equip could be for damage or defense and it was up to mew to balance them but the more i thought about it the more it either limited weapon ideas or forced the need for more armor slots.

I COULD make an armor slot for shoes specifically and then make a weapon that's essentially ice skates weaponized but then I'd have a shoes armor slot to deal with.

I could keep it down to head, body, arms, and legs for armor slots but then I'd need a decently varied pool of weapons to put in there. All this not to mention that i haven't even come up with a magic focused weapon yet! There's much idea work to be done to get this system fine-tuned and i'm still working on it!

[marchwardenofmordor]

Chapter three of my fic is not prose, but a poem, about the Marchwarden rizzing up Sauron.

The Sin-Eater

An elf hailed from Nan Elmoth deep

A story for to tell,

Roamed he up to Thangorodrim to

Pay his tithe to hell.

“Wherefore camest thou all the way here?”

Proclaimed the left hand of the dark,

“I’ve come for thee, and thou alone,

And beg it of thee; Hark:

I was begat of rotten womb,”

He started his grim song,

“And burst out through my mother’s flesh

All twisted, pale and wrong.

Not quite a coffin birth, a birth,

A death, but only one;

My matron mother screamed her last,

Though would not let alone:

For in her final throes saw she

A pair of golden eyes,

So beautiful and terrible,

Swelled with the fruits of lies.

She saw blackened earth holding up

The fairest golden tree,

But not the light of Laurelin;

The light belonged to thee.

And nestled underneath that tree,

A white-grey elfin knight;

Who sang a song into the roots

And laid beneath its light.

He only sang a song, a song,

A song, cut through the night,

And shivered the tree of its leaves,

Come naked in his sight.

And so he bent down at the knee,

The foible to his toe,

And then he made to elven lands,

As fast as he could go,

He hunted, ate his fill, his fill,

His fill, yet still he craved,

Eating sins through tender flesh,

A new path set and paved,

And when his business there was done,

Returned he to the tree,

And found instead the fairest man,

Crowned with a white rose three.

And so he took him by the hand,

Took him by the horn,

And laid him down the mountainside,

And prick’d the palest thorn.

So lush, so saccharine and fine,

Was the figure of his Lord,

Worth more than all the gold in Erebor,

More than a dragon’s hoard,

So was the fruit of truth, of truth,

Of truth, to bend a bough;

An earthly knight bent to a god

And sings the softest vow.

A vow of reverence, he said,

A-whispered by his skin,

To elevate his lord to grace,

To slay his every kin.

So zealous in his love is he,

In tenfold to the rest,

His heart is but a bird, a bird,

On a rod within his chest.

For there he pledged himself to him,

A promise by his sword,

“But would you not rather have this?”

So sang his bonnie Lord:

He pulled a ring of gold, of gold,

Of gold, and while t’was fair,

“‘Tis only half as fair, my lord,

As the rings that curl your hair.

I’d rather twist those in my hands,

And kiss each shining lock;

I’d rather bend my head for you,

Upon a bloodied rock;

I’d sooner turn within your arms

Into a lion bold,

I’d rather lay a while with you,

Than take your ring of gold.”

And you would twist within my grasp

And sayeth unto me,

“I cannot love nor feel no joy,

What can I offer thee?”

And I would bow my head, my head,

My head upon thy breast,

For I would love thee endlessly,

And pass your every test.

For you could turn within my arms

Into a great wolf dire,

And I would hold you fast and warm,

And I would feel no ire.

Then you could turn within my arms

Into a shadow cold,

And I would shield thee from the sun

‘Til I am frail and old.

Then you could turn within my arms

Into a festered pile,

And I would yet proclaim my love o’er every rock and stile,

I’d stroke to find those eyes, those eyes,

Those eyes of golden fire,

And then you’d turn within my arms

Into my funeral pyre.

And I’d leap o’er the flames, the flames,

The flames, I’d leap them thrice,

I’d leap them ‘til you licked my flesh,

I’d leap ‘til my demise.

And then in death, I’d be a wraith,

My soul tied unto thee,

And I would never want for rest:

I’d love thee endlessly.”

The bright one paused with faltered mien,

His countenance so fair,

And he has come down from his throne

To meet the pale one there.

“If you would be so kind, so kind,

So kind, to host me in your court,

I’d serve thee ever faithfully,

My just and golden Lord.”

Then Mairon took him by the arm,

Took him by the cuisse,

“I would have you stand by me,

My loyal, noble beast.”

But what he did not dare to think,

Which in his guts did churn,

Was that he’d ere long fall in love,

And be loved in return.

[klausfromkalos]

(@kalosianseelkie) Ask game! Kalosian or Galarian is fine~

C: Comfort

1. How do they sit in a chair?

F: Fun

1. What do they do for fun?

J: Joy

3. Are there any songs that bring them joy?

Thanks ! Gonna be Kalosian !

C1: J'aime bien m'assoir avec les jambes croisées, que ce soit au niveau des chevilles ou des cuisses

F1: Jouer avec mes Pokémons ! Ou courir avec eux. Parfois j'écris

J3: Ouais ! Bienvenue dans la Secte, par La Secte Phonétik, ou encore Cheri Cheri Lady, par Modern Talking

[xtrathinbodygoal]

Souviens toi

Souviens toi de ces réveilles, tu vois ton ventre plat, le calme dans ta tête, la paix.

Souviens toi de ton corps délicat, tes bras fins, tes cuisses fines, dévoilant alors tes jambes interminables

Souviens toi, les crises de boulimies n’existaient pas, le sucre était loin

Souviens toi, cuisiner était un plaisir

[pensees-noires]

09/10/23

Coucou tumblr.

Encore un week-end où je n'ai fait que manger. Au moment où je t'écris je suis entourée de tous les déchets de ce que j'ai mangé aujourd'hui.

En fait j'ai compris, je ne serai jamais cette fille qui est "naturellement belle". Je ne serai jamais cette fille qu'on prend en photo sans prévenir et qui sera belle. Je ne ressemblerai pas à ces filles d'Instagram qui ont l'air irréelles mais qui existent pourtant bel et bien. Moi aussi j'aimerais qu'on pense de moi que je suis irréelle tellement je suis belle. Mais je ne suis qu'une fille perdue entre ses 16 et 21 ans qui combat toujours les mêmes choses. Je déteste voir des vidéos et photos de moi d'avant. Je déteste voir comment j'étais et je me déteste de ne pas avoir vu que j'étais fine parce que maintenant je suis vraiment grosse et je me déteste tous les jours. Je me sens tellement pas à l'aise dans ce corps. Je veux même pas en parler I. parce que je sais que c'est pas simple pour lui et que ça doit être impossible de gérer ça. J'ai eu tellement honte quand il m'a montré le beurre parce qu'il pensait que c'était mes colocs qui l'avaient mangé mais non, c'était moi. Quand il est parti l'autre jour je me suis goinfrée sur tout ce que je voyais. Des tranches de salami, chips, miel et ce fameux beurre. Evidemment je ne le lui ai pas dit parce que j'ai trop honte. Et je sais que ces discours sont bienveillants et ils me font généralement du bien mais ça fait mal d'entendre un "il faut diminuer tes doses, tu manges peut-être encore un peu trop" (et je sais de quoi ça peut avoir l'air mais il le dit avec toute la bienveillance du monde). Pourtant j'ai l'impression de pas manger beaucoup quand je fais pas de bêtises. Peut-être que si j'avais pas arrêté de me faire vomir depuis aout, je serais fine maintenant.

J'ai passé mon week-end à manger et à chercher des médicaments forts pour maigrir mais ils coutaient tous si chers. J'en ai marre d'avoir mal au ventre à cause de mon pantalon. J'en ai marre tumblr. Je fais que pleurer parce que ce combat me consomme trop d'énergie. Parfois j'ai l'impression que je vais enfin guérir de ce trouble de merde mais la seconde d'après je me retrouve à dévaliser le placard. Je souffre tellement de tout ça. Je le réalise moi-même pas. J'ai tellement peur de prendre encore plus de poids, de devoir encore acheter un pantalon une taille au dessus. Ca fait un an que j'essaye de perdre du poids sainement et j'ai eu des rechutes, j'ai perdu un peu puis encore des rechutes et finalement, même si j'ai perdu un peu de poids depuis 2 mois, j'en ai quand même repris depuis 1 an donc au final ça revient à 0 voir même -5.

Pourquoi je peux pas être comme toutes ces filles fines? Je demande juste ça. Pourquoi je galère autant. Même les vidéos des filles qui ont perdu plein de poids en 1 an ne me motive plus. Je les admire mais je me sens si mal parce que les vidéos que j'avais faite de moi pour ensuite montrer mon évolution sont tellement ridicules parce que tout ce que j'ai fait c'est prendre du poids. J'étais plus fine sur ces putains de vidéo alors que j'étais censée faire une suite où j'étais plus fine!!!!! Si je finissais ces vidéos je passerai juste de fine à grosse et c'est honteux. Je l'ai jamais dit à personne mais c'est tellement de honte ça. Et je voudrais pouvoir accepter ce poids en plus et me sentir belle et m'assumer mais je me DEGOUTE.

Je suis tellement fatiguée d'être ce que je suis. J'en peux plus de voir ce ventre rond. Je veux plus le voir. Je veux retomber dans cette spirale à me faire du mal, à me faire vomir, à rien manger et c'est tout. J'étais pas heureuse mais j'étais mince. Je veux de nouveau avoir cet écart entre mes cuisses, rentrer mon ventre et voir mes côtes.

Je veux plus de ce corps.

[mysadecstasy]

Naviguer

Naviguer sur les pierres mousseuses Naviguer sur des vagues d’écume chaude S’égarer dans ta peau de perles brûlantes Sentir tes cheveux ruisseler sur ta grâce Epaules contre épaules Sous le ciel criblé Etiré comme les impossibles efforts Ciel où miroitent nos rêves d’enfants Epaules contre épaules Dans l’herbe grasse des montagnes Au son des grillons et de nos cœurs tambourinant Exaltés comme la mer Mer sublime qui vient fouetter le phare inamovible Phare de nos amours dans la tempête Phare brillant dans la nuit épaisse La nuit dévorante de la chanson douce Douce chanson de la rive presque intouchable Où l’on aborde qu’avec grande déférence Rive des extases insubmersibles Sur la côte découpée au tournevis Echarpée comme un soldat mort Infiniment belle de circonvolutions Entre forêts d’or et pierre lunaire Ocre et jaune Tombant en falaises dans les eaux glacées Eaux glacées ensevelies d’embrun salé Toi et moi Epaules contre épaules Allongés sur la fin des temps dans une alcôve rocheuse de la plage sans fin Face à l’éternité d’où tout arrive Brûlants et fiers Audacieux et mordants d’une rage sainte Une rage qui hurle la vie comme un possédé Et l’amour entortillé à nos pieds Qui nous étreint maintenant jusqu’à la poitrine Par fines touches caressantes Petites aiguilles de félicité Il pénètre les cœurs abasourdis Les cœurs enragés de soif Et crie son nom jusque dans les cimetières de pierres grises Balbutiantes telles le dernier souffle Pierres en mousse Erodées de chagrin Entre les fleurs fanées de décembre Résonne le chant de l’autre rive L’impossible rive Le dernier espoir Pour la transcendance des âmes dépouillées Autre rive amère Nue et glaciale comme l’enfer Je repense à la mer Et aux phares qui s’égrènent sur la côte comme un chapelet de lampions Mer avide Mer aride Mer dévorante Eternité sublime Ô mer Jusqu’à l’horreur des regrets que l’on poignardera dans la résurrection Résurrection des cœurs meurtris Immortels cœurs suppliants leur dû sous le soleil sans voix des possibles De toutes ces petites possibles douceurs Ces détails impalpables Comme l’odeur du café le matin remontant de la cuisine à la mezzanine Le côté velouté de ton sein errant sous ton chemisier azur Tes fossettes qui se creusent quand dans mes bras tu te jettes Le soir Après le labeur Avant la grande œuvre La vie à deux sur les remparts de l’exaltation suprême Extrêmes égarements des vérités ancrées dans une réalité diaphane Comme un voile sur la beauté des rêves endormis Des rêves exquis que l’on chérit comme des trésors Rêves héroïques comme la grande Rome Encore sous le drap se dessinent tes cuisses chaudes Brûlante est l’odeur des corps dans la petite chambre rose Sous le lustre de cuivre Derrière les lourds rideaux c’est la pinède endormie Respiration langoureuse de la nature assoupie sous la lune Résurrection des cœurs meurtris C’est toujours la famine pour les amoureux insatiables Toujours la famine quand ta peau exquise frôle la mienne Et après quand la lumière s’éteint et que ton visage disparaît soudain C’est comme une petite mort Un grand arrachement qui me remue les tripes Trop soudain Ton visage reste imprimé un instant dans mes yeux galvanisés Et plus rien Jusqu’au lendemain où je le cherche dans tes cheveux emmêlés Et toute la nuit je te serre contre moi avec la force du désir comblé Avec tout l’amour qui jaillit sans cesse de mon ventre affamé

[courbesetbleus]

contre plongée marine

sur cuisses fines

comme huitres qu'on affine

[nyon-suisse]

La liposculpture, à la différence de la liposuccion classique, ne se limite pas à l’élimination de la graisse localisée. Elle est une véritable technique artistique qui sculpte et affine le corps pour améliorer l’harmonie globale de la silhouette. Sous l’expertise de la Docteure Teresa Rotunno, chaque intervention est soigneusement planifiée et exécutée pour offrir des résultats sur mesure, naturels et durables. Découvrez comment cette méthode innovante peut transformer votre silhouette.

1. Qu’est-ce que la liposculpture ?

La liposculpture est une technique avancée de remodelage corporel qui utilise la liposuccion pour éliminer les graisses localisées, tout en mettant l’accent sur la définition des contours du corps et la mise en valeur des formes naturelles.

Objectifs de la liposculpture :

Sculpter le corps en éliminant les amas graisseux indésirables.

Définir les contours musculaires, comme les abdominaux ou les bras.

Redistribuer la graisse prélevée pour créer ou accentuer les courbes souhaitées, par exemple augmenter le volume des fesses, des hanches ou des seins.

Offrir des résultats plus subtils et esthétiques qu’une simple réduction de graisse.

2. Les zones traitées par la liposculpture

La liposculpture peut être réalisée sur plusieurs parties du corps pour un effet harmonieux et équilibré.

a. Zones où la graisse est retirée :

Abdomen : Création d’un ventre plat ou d’abdominaux sculptés.

Flancs et hanches : Réduction des poignées d’amour pour une taille fine et définie.

Cuisses : Affinement de l’intérieur et de l’extérieur des cuisses.

Bras : Réduction de la graisse pour des bras plus toniques.

Dos : Lissage des zones graisseuses et réduction des bourrelets.

Menton et cou : Élimination du double menton pour une mâchoire mieux définie.

b. Zones où la graisse est réinjectée :

Fesses : Amélioration du galbe et du volume (technique Brazilian Butt Lift).

Hanches : Accentuation des courbes pour une silhouette en sablier.

Seins : Augmentation naturelle du volume mammaire (alternative aux implants).

Visage : Rajeunissement et comblement des creux pour une apparence plus jeune.

3. Pourquoi choisir la liposculpture ?

a. Résultats naturels et personnalisés

La liposculpture est conçue pour sublimer la silhouette en respectant les proportions naturelles du corps. Contrairement à d’autres méthodes, elle offre des résultats subtils et équilibrés.

b. Double avantage esthétique

Élimination de la graisse indésirable dans les zones où elle est excédentaire.

Réutilisation de la graisse pour augmenter ou sculpter d’autres parties du corps.

c. Pas de corps étranger

La graisse autologue (votre propre graisse) est utilisée, éliminant les risques de rejet ou d’incompatibilité.

d. Résultats durables

Les cellules graisseuses retirées ne reviennent pas, et les graisses réinjectées qui survivent au processus de cicatrisation restent en place de manière permanente.

4. L’approche unique de la Docteure Teresa Rotunno

a. Expertise chirurgicale reconnue

La Docteure Rotunno possède une vaste expérience en liposculpture et en remodelage corporel. Sa maîtrise technique et son sens esthétique garantissent des résultats précis et harmonieux.

b. Consultation personnalisée

Chaque intervention commence par une évaluation approfondie pour comprendre les objectifs du patient et analyser sa morphologie.

Une attention particulière est portée à l’harmonie globale, pour s’assurer que les résultats respectent les proportions uniques du corps.

c. Technologie de pointe

Utilisation d’équipements modernes, comme la liposuccion assistée par vibration (PAL) ou la liposuccion laser, pour des résultats précis et une récupération plus rapide.

Techniques atraumatiques pour maximiser la survie des cellules graisseuses réinjectées.

d. Suivi attentif

La Docteure Rotunno accompagne ses patients à chaque étape, de la consultation initiale au suivi postopératoire, pour garantir une expérience fluide et satisfaisante.

5. Déroulement de la liposculpture

a. Consultation initiale

Analyse détaillée des zones à traiter et des zones potentielles pour la réinjection.

Discussion des attentes du patient et simulation des résultats attendus.

b. L’intervention

Anesthésie : Locale ou générale, selon les zones traitées.

Technique :

Extraction de la graisse : La graisse est retirée avec précision à l’aide de canules fines.

Purification : La graisse est traitée pour éliminer les impuretés et préserver les cellules graisseuses viables.

Réinjection : La graisse est réinjectée dans les zones ciblées pour sculpter et améliorer les contours du corps.

Durée : Entre 2 et 4 heures, selon l’étendue de l’intervention.

c. Après l’intervention

Port de vêtements de contention pendant plusieurs semaines pour réduire les gonflements et favoriser une peau lisse.

Reprise des activités légères après 3 à 5 jours, activités sportives possibles après 4 à 6 semaines.

6. Résultats attendus

a. Résultats progressifs et durables

Les résultats sont visibles dès la réduction des gonflements, environ 2 à 3 semaines après l’intervention.

Les contours définitifs apparaissent au bout de 3 à 6 mois, lorsque la graisse stabilisée s’intègre parfaitement.

b. Silhouette sculptée et harmonieuse

Une silhouette plus élancée, avec des courbes et des contours naturels.

Une amélioration globale de la confiance en soi grâce à un corps redéfini.

7. Sécurité et suivi

a. Procédure sécurisée

Réalisée dans un environnement médical certifié et conforme aux normes les plus strictes.

Techniques atraumatiques pour minimiser les risques et accélérer la récupération.

b. Suivi attentif

La Docteure Rotunno assure un suivi postopératoire rigoureux pour s’assurer de la cicatrisation et de la satisfaction du patient.

Conseils personnalisés pour maintenir les résultats à long terme, notamment sur le maintien d’un mode de vie sain.

8. Pourquoi choisir la Docteure Teresa Rotunno pour une liposculpture ?

Précision et expertise : Une chirurgienne renommée pour son approche artistique et technique.

Résultats sur mesure : Adaptés aux besoins et aux attentes spécifiques de chaque patient.

Technologie avancée : Utilisation des meilleures techniques pour optimiser les résultats et la récupération.

Approche bienveillante : Un accompagnement personnalisé et attentif tout au long du processus.

Conclusion

La liposculpture, réalisée par la Docteure Teresa Rotunno, est une solution innovante pour sculpter et redéfinir la silhouette avec précision et harmonie. Grâce à son expertise et à son sens artistique, elle offre des résultats qui subliment la beauté naturelle de chaque patient.

Prenez rendez-vous dès aujourd’hui pour une consultation personnalisée et découvrez comment la liposculpture peut révéler le meilleur de votre silhouette.

[gedjub]

281124 le processus jubilatoire

291124 moquerie : doigt chausse-pied !

301124 Hibernacle

041224 Écrire une histoire qui avance comme le taxi de Helmut dans le film que Fritzemann m'a montré ("... night"?). En commençant par écrire un conte/ un récit survolé, fluide et général, jusqu'à la fin, puis insérer des passages détaillés, temps ralenti.

081224 Imaginer de la magie, c'est gratter ce qu'on appelle le réel pour y en découvrir.

+ Le bruit d'ailes des débris qui, en débit lent, tombent en lambeaux... La beauté de ces guirlandes qui pendent en tombant dans l'eau et puis, plates sur la surface flaccide, face au ciel sévère qui les a puni de n'être rien plus de solide, gisent en glissant vers le fond de l'infini dégradé des dégâts des eaux...

091224 Eso - Asi - Eso me gusta - Asi me gusta - Es asi que me gusta - Eso

+ Schnarschloch (Josias)

101224 Toi l'homme fort, bats-moi, bats mon corps qui te tend, prends-moi la tête et jette-la contre toi, joue à la joie d'être contre moi, bloque ma tête entre tes cuisses, fais le sourd, enferme-toi dans ce rôle de prison dont je sors et dans laquelle tu croupis toujours.

111224 Dans un petit vase noir sur mon bureau, un bouquet de ciseaux qui penchent.

121224 You know what, let me hold you in my eyes, for now, let's let time breathe, between you and I, let's leave some space, between our arms, before we....

+ Letmedrawthat.com service je dessine tes fantasme pour remplacer le porno.

141224 some of mine, beautiful invisible plural

161224 non "prends-moi dans tes bras" mais "rattrappe-moi".

181224 "Monument" répété comme rythme

211224 "[blank] ou comment rebondir" comme titre. "Rêves et réflexions souples et réutilisables". Parti pris. C'est comme Räumung vor einem neuen Geschäft

221224 Et le ciel est en corbeaux, je me transforme en corneille

+ La mer n'est rien, la Terre n'est rien, mon corps est tout, tout petit, le mur énorme s'écrase dans ma vue, motifs minuscules, motifs grand comme tout, rien n'est, rien qu'un tout, j'ai cligné des yeux, ça m'a fait réfléchir, tout est moyen, plus rien à dire.

(Petit dans la chambre de maman)

+ Mes coups d'œil ratissent larges, je souffre de longues vues. Dans la rue, ça ne s'arrête plus, même si je clos les marges : les détails sont à toute profondeur et l'invisible omniprésent, et les sentiments, et les erreurs de jugement. Pour calmer le regard, ferme les yeux... Rien ne sera mieux puisque l'esprit part au quart de tour à chaque pas, tu ne vois pas mais tu n'es pas sourd, ni insensible, rien ne s'efface, tout est passé au crible de ma peau si fine, et sèche à en pâtir, tant que pour sentir la moindre ruine d'un autre être il me suffit d'être là.

[lagenevoise]

Le microneedling est une technique de médecine esthétique non invasive qui utilise un dispositif équipé de micro-aiguilles pour créer de minuscules perforations dans la peau. Ces micro-perforations stimulent le processus naturel de régénération cutanée et augmentent la production de collagène et d’élastine, deux protéines essentielles pour une peau ferme, lisse et éclatante. Voici les résultats que l'on peut attendre du microneedling, les améliorations visibles, et les précautions à prendre.

1. Quels résultats peut-on attendre du microneedling ?

1.1. Amélioration de la texture de la peau

Lissage des irrégularités : Le microneedling aide à réduire la rugosité de la peau en uniformisant sa surface.

Peau douce et souple : Les micro-perforations stimulent la production de collagène, ce qui rend la peau plus lisse et plus souple.

1.2. Réduction des cicatrices

Cicatrices d'acné : Les séances régulières de microneedling permettent d'atténuer les cicatrices légères à modérées en favorisant le renouvellement cellulaire.

Cicatrices chirurgicales ou traumatiques : Bien que les résultats soient progressifs, cette technique peut réduire leur apparence avec le temps.

1.3. Réduction des rides et ridules

Rides fines : Le traitement atténue les ridules autour des yeux, des lèvres ou du front grâce à la stimulation du collagène.

Rides plus profondes : Bien que l’amélioration soit moins marquée, elles peuvent également paraître moins visibles.

1.4. Amélioration de l’éclat et de l’uniformité du teint

Teint terne : En stimulant la microcirculation et le renouvellement cellulaire, le microneedling donne un effet "bonne mine".

Taches pigmentaires : En combinant le microneedling avec des sérums éclaircissants (comme ceux à la vitamine C), les taches brunes peuvent s’atténuer.

1.5. Réduction des pores dilatés

Les micro-perforations aident à resserrer les pores dilatés en stimulant le collagène autour des follicules pileux.

1.6. Amélioration des vergetures

Sur les zones comme les cuisses, les hanches, le ventre ou les bras, le microneedling peut améliorer l’apparence des vergetures en stimulant le tissu cutané sous-jacent.

2. Quand les résultats sont-ils visibles ?

2.1. Après la première séance

Un léger éclat immédiat est souvent visible, dû à l’augmentation de la circulation sanguine.

La peau peut paraître plus lisse et mieux hydratée dès les premiers jours.

2.2. Résultats à moyen terme

Les améliorations significatives (réduction des rides, des cicatrices ou des taches) apparaissent généralement après 3 à 4 séances, réalisées à intervalles de 4 à 6 semaines.

2.3. Résultats à long terme

Une amélioration continue peut être observée sur plusieurs mois, car la production de collagène se poursuit après les traitements.

3. Avantages spécifiques du microneedling

3.1. Non invasif

Contrairement aux traitements plus invasifs comme les lasers ou la chirurgie, le microneedling ne nécessite pas d'anesthésie lourde ni de temps de récupération prolongé.

3.2. Polyvalent

Il convient à tous les types de peau, y compris les peaux foncées ou sensibles, qui sont parfois limitées dans leur choix de traitements.

3.3. Compatible avec des sérums

Les micro-perforations permettent une meilleure absorption des produits appliqués pendant ou après la séance (vitamine C, acide hyaluronique, etc.), maximisant les résultats.

4. Limites du microneedling

4.1. Résultats progressifs

Les améliorations se font progressivement, nécessitant plusieurs séances pour atteindre des résultats optimaux.

Ce n’est pas un traitement unique et définitif, mais un entretien régulier peut prolonger les bénéfices.

4.2. Traitement limité pour les problèmes graves

Les cicatrices très profondes ou les rides prononcées peuvent nécessiter des traitements complémentaires, comme le laser fractionné ou des injections de comblement.

5. À quoi ressemble la peau après une séance ?

Rougeurs temporaires : La peau peut être rouge, semblable à un coup de soleil, pendant 24 à 48 heures.

Légère desquamation : Quelques jours après la séance, une fine exfoliation naturelle peut survenir.

Sensation de chaleur ou de tiraillement : Ces effets sont normaux et disparaissent rapidement.

6. Précautions pour maximiser les résultats

6.1. Avant la séance

Évitez l’exposition au soleil et l’utilisation de produits irritants (comme les rétinoïdes) pendant les 48 heures précédant la séance.

Consultez un professionnel pour évaluer si le microneedling est adapté à vos besoins.

6.2. Après la séance

Évitez le maquillage pendant 24 heures pour minimiser le risque d'infection.

Hydratez intensément : Utilisez des crèmes apaisantes et hydratantes pour soutenir la réparation cutanée.

Protégez votre peau : Appliquez un écran solaire quotidien pour éviter l’hyperpigmentation.

6.3. Nombre de séances

En général, 3 à 6 séances sont recommandées selon les objectifs (rides, cicatrices, etc.).

Des séances d’entretien tous les 6 à 12 mois permettent de maintenir les résultats.

7. Pourquoi choisir le microneedling ?

Le microneedling est un traitement polyvalent qui s’adresse à un large éventail de préoccupations cutanées. Il offre une amélioration naturelle de la texture, de l’éclat et de l’uniformité de la peau avec peu de risques et un temps de récupération minimal. Idéal pour ceux qui recherchent un traitement efficace sans interventions lourdes, il peut être combiné avec d'autres solutions esthétiques pour des résultats encore plus spectaculaires.

En résumé, les résultats du microneedling incluent une peau plus lisse, plus ferme, et un teint uniformisé. Bien que les résultats soient progressifs, ils sont durables et peuvent être optimisés par un entretien régulier et de bonnes pratiques post-traitement.