cinched tight

So this is a totally useless rant, but as a skinny girl, I’m getting extra, extra tired of fat-shaming.

I work for a corsetier at a Renaissance Faire. We sell corsets. Not flimsy bullshit costume corsets; like real, durable, waist-training corsets. Today a woman came in with her boyfriend, so I helped her pick out a corset and try it on. While her boyfriend—who was decidedly enthused about the whole corset thing—sat watching me lace her in, he told me, grinning, “Of all the good jobs at the Renaissance Faire, I think you have the best.”

I shrugged in agreement. “I touch butts and reach down cleavage all day; I mean…” Because we like to be a bit rakish at the Faire, and, y’know, it’s true. Tying people into corsets pretty much invariably requires getting handsy.

The couple laughed at that, and the boyfriend said, “That’s the job I would want!” But then he chuckled again and said, offhand, “Or maybe not; while we were looking at the racks, there were some pretty big sizes on there!”

Our sizes are all done in inches, and the biggest we make is a 46. And you’d better believe our large sizes sell. For a second I wasn’t sure what to say to the guy’s comment, but I answered him casually. “We get a lot of beautiful big ladies in here.” Because we do. “We make corsets for real women, not Barbie dolls,” I added. Wasn’t trying to be smart, just kind of tossed it out there because that’s the line we like to use when people ask about larger sizes, and because, again, we do.

The boyfriend went quiet at that; I didn’t think anything of it, I just kept on lacing. A moment later, he said, a little awkwardly (but sincerely enough), “Didn’t mean to be offensive.”

I quickly smiled and brushed it off, said he wasn’t, said I was just saying. (Don’t want to make the customers uncomfortable, you know?) And that was the end of it. His comment had rubbed me the wrong way, but it wasn’t a big deal. Now, I wear a 20-inch corset. I’m a few cup sizes short of being one of the Barbie dolls. Like his girlfriend, I’m one of the “hot chicks”; he doesn’t have to worry about offending me by implying that I wouldn’t be fun to poke and pull at.

Honestly though, of all the people I fit sexy technically-undergarments to in a day, fat girls are maybe my favorite people to lace up. Because they are just so damn happy that we have stuff that fits them. They are so damn happy that the corsets we make in their sizes are all the same pretty, shiny colors and cool flower/dragon/skull/etc. prints that the smaller corsets are, not ugly beige and boring “granny” colors. They are so goddamn happy that at least one (of several on the grounds) corset shop carries things that they can wear, that they actually want to wear, and that they look fucking awesome in. This is only my second season working, and we’ve fit 60+ inch waists and double-K busts. The only people we’ve ever had to tell sorry, we don’t have anything that fits them, are twelve-year-old kids.

It’s half-wonderful, half-heartbreaking how excited those women get. Women who say with sad smiles, when we ask if they want to get fitted, “Oh, no, you don’t have anything that fits me,” and then are stunned when we’re 300% confident that yes we do, and we have options. Women who can’t stop smiling and looking at themselves in the mirror after we’ve got them laced in.

I had a lady last week whose waist I measured (cinching the tape tight, as per procedure) at 41 inches—honestly not all that big. So she picked out a 41-inch corset to try on. I could tell halfway through getting her laced that it was going to be a bit big for her, so I mentioned it and said she might do better to try a smaller size. She started crying on the spot. She was so overwhelmed; she couldn’t believe someone had just told her that a 41 was too big. She told me about how hard clothes shopping was for her, how her mother would tell her she needed an XXXL instead of an XXL, how she had recently lost weight but still couldn’t wear certain colors because they didn’t fit or she wasn’t confident enough.

She did end up getting her corset, and after I checked her out she asked if she could give me a hug, so we ended up standing there hugging each other for a minute. While we did, I told her, “Do not ever let anyone tell you any bullshit. You are gorgeous.” She said, “I have a new boyfriend and he keeps telling me that.” I told her he was right, and to just keep telling herself she’s gorgeous; it was okay if she didn’t always believe it, but to keep telling herself anyway. (That’s how I talked myself through shit when I had bad anxiety.)

We all know fat-shaming is bad. The stupidity, fatphobia, and misogyny of it has pissed me off since I first became aware of it. But working with clothing, especially as figure-hugging and precise as corsets, has given me a new perspective on it—how much it affects people and just how shitty it is. Like, what does it say that I had a grown, only average-big woman crying into my shoulder because she was so overjoyed not to be the uppermost extremity of what a manufacturer can clothe?

My job rocks and it’s really rewarding, but sometimes it highlights some of the ugliest shit about society. I’m so glad I work at a shop that’s not bullshit about body types and operates with more people in mind than just scrawny white chicks like me. The fat women I work with are a ton of fun to lace up, and they’re so much more than their size—they’re cool, they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re sweet, they’re great to talk to, and yes, they’re hot. I’m so damn done with them getting short-changed and shamed by petty fucks who refuse to make them nice clothes, who refuse to even try to work for them, who refuse to consider them pretty. This whole rant was useless and won’t get read, but I had to vent because it’s been driving me nuts.

So actually, screw you, random dude. Fat girls are the highlight of my job.

Sick Day

This is for @rowanismybae who is super sick and I can’t take care of her from so far away so this is the best I can do. Hope you feel better soon Milly!

Rowaelin - super fluff

Of course. The day of the ball - the huge party for Lysandra’s birthday that Aelin has been planning for months - of course she had to wake up sick. Rowan had told her. He had tried warning her that the stress of the planning and the countless hours of making invitations would lead to her body breaking down. Aelin had just been hoping it would happen after the celebration.

She knew it the moment she woke up, before she had even opened her eyes. Her throat stuck when she tried to swallow, and her chest tightened every time she took a breath. Queen Aelin is sick, but there is no way she is letting her King know. Today is not the day for ‘I told you so’s.

So, Aelin cracks open her tired and most likely bloodshot eyes, squinting against the harsh light coming in from the window. She stifles a groan as she sits up, her limbs feeling heavy. Standing on wobbly legs, Aelin attempts to walk towards the closet. Perhaps if she can get dressed and out of their chambers before Rowan wake up, he won’t find out about her dreadful state. Through sheer willpower and stubbornness, Aelin is sure she can make it through the day.

Sniffling the whole way, Aelin makes it to her closet, picking an outfit that will not cinch her already tight chest, or hinder her stumbling legs. Looking down at herself, Aelin sighs. It’s not the most queenly thing she could be wearing, but it’ll do until she needs to get ready for the party.

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Sterek Week 2017: Partners In Crime

Art by @beerwolves, Ficlet by @fear-frost

“Stiles! Behind you!”

Swinging his bat in a wide arc, Stiles spun around, aluminum connecting with the gremlin-pixie monster as it leapt into the air, razor sharp claws aimed at his back. The little bloodthirsty fuckers were everywhere - swarming up the walls, screeching across the floor, and slinging any piece of loose debris the rotted old house had to offer. “That one totally doesn’t count!” Stiles yelled over his shoulder where Derek’s back was once again pressed to his.

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Sleepsack Punishment

This account is true. The names have been omitted to protect the guilty.

The night before, I had made fun of a television program he was watching. This evening I was told I would be kept out of the way and punished by being laced up in the leather sleepsack instead of watching television. If I couldn’t say something nice, I wouldn’t get to watch TV at all! I was in the mood for a couple of hours of heavy bondage, so I went along with it. Little did I know how much the punishment would exceed the crime.

It was about 9:30 p.m. when we went down to the cell - a small storage room off the furnace room in the cellar. I’ve installed cushioned flooring and extended it partway up the concrete walls. The door is heavy wood planks, and there’s only one small window, up by the ceiling and glazed with frosted glass. I was wearing only tight leather chaps and a leather cockring. I took the sleepsack down from its hanger and laid it out on the floor. The sack is all leather, with a leather lining and an attached hood. I was also to wear a second hood inside the sleepsack’s hood to reinforce the sense of confinement. I sat down in the spread-out sleepsack and inserted my feet into the bottom of the bag.
First the leather hood with attached blindfold and gag was laced on. Then I lay back and slid my arms into the sack’s sleeves. The sack hood was pulled over my head and the face cover snapped down. My face was now just blank leather with only a couple of grommets for breathing. The sack collar was buckled snugly around my neck. The sleepsack was zipped up from my ankles to throat. Then he laced it, cinching the cords as tight as they would go and tying them off at several points up the front of the sack. As he laced it, he pulled on the cords hard enough to lift me part way off the floor, using my weight to tighten the cords. When he got to the section from my waist to my chin, he sort of bounced me against the floor to knock the air out of me. With each thump on the floor I gasped, and in the instant when my lungs were empty he’d tighten the laces down. After several fierce yanks to make sure there was no more slack to pull out, he tied off that section of cord. By the time he was done, I was a glossy black leather mummy.

Double-hooded and blindfolded, I couldn’t see when he turned off the light and could barely hear the light switch click and the door close. I was so turned on I knew I would cum if I moved at all. I wanted the experience to last. I just lay there perfectly motionless for a while until the orgasm urge subsided. The universe was nothing but darkness and leather completely enclosing me. All my worries, thoughts, stress and even my identity were let go. All that existed was the tight encapsulating leather and the leather cock gag invading my mouth. Eventually I squirmed a little to feel the tight leather rub against my naked skin. It felt so good that I struggled for quite a while gasping and moaning around the gag. The layers of leather creaked and sang together.

After a while I found myself lying still and resting. It took a while for me to catch my breath as the sack was so tight I could not take a full, deep breath. I had broken a light sweat, and the leather clung and sealed to my skin, holding me even tighter and more immobile. There was a pressure point around my head, and it was growing uncomfortable. I became frustrated and started really struggling against the sack; rolling back and forth and writhing violently, groaning and cursing around the black leather penis gag filling my mouth. Finally I tired and just lay there. I noticed the discomfort was gone, the hood must have shifted a little, but the damp leather was holding me tighter than ever. I couldn’t move my arms in the sleeves or even my fingers. That made me hard again. I alternated between lying there resting and humping against the smooth leather lining of the sack. The laces pulled the sack into folds over my cock. By squirming and thrusting I could work my hard cock into one of the folds. It was like being jacked off by a pair of soft leather gloves. I had to keep stopping so I wouldn’t cum. I wanted that sensation to last as long as possible.

Sometimes I thought I could hear through the part-way open window a car passing outside. I wondered how the people in the cars might react if they knew they were within a few yards of someone helplessly encased and imprisoned in leather. What if someone had heard my gagged groans and called the police to investigate? Could one of the cars be a police cruiser coming to the house? I might soon be discovered by a couple of cops in tall boots and leather jackets. Would they insist on letting me out, or would they just laugh at me and leave me to stew in the predicament I had gotten myself into? I moaned and writhed at the idea of the humiliation.

If I lay still, I could faintly hear a clock striking far above me, like it was in another world. I heard it strike once at one point. I had lost all track of time, and didn’t know if that was 12:30, 1:00 or 1:30. Finally I heard it strike 2:00 a.m. That started to freak me out. I wondered when I would be released, and if he had fallen asleep in front of the television. That thought set off a kind of fit of struggling in earnest. This was no longer a fantasy. I was tied up for real, and I was trying to get loose for real. I squirmed and kicked, flopping back and forth on the floor in fear and frustration, trying to fight my way out of the skin-tight black leather bag. I grunted and cursed around the leather cock that was jammed in my mouth like it was raping my face. I went crazy for a while, jerking and twisting violently and uncontrollably. The sweat stinging my eyes inside the hood brought me back to my senses. I knew escape was impossible. I stopped bucking and lay there for a while, catching my breath and resting, trying to calm down. I may have dozed a little, floating in the darkness of the cell.

After a while I heard the clock strike 3:00. That told me I was truly fucked. He had fallen asleep for sure. I had already been tightly tied up in the escape-proof black leather sleepsack for over five hours, and now there was no way of telling when I would get out. All I could was wait until he woke up and remembered where I was. I struggled more feebly on the padded floor, groaning around the cock gag. I squirmed reflexively. It still felt good, but I was beyond getting hard again. I lay back on the padded floor and tried to get as comfortable as I could. The night might only be half over as far as I was concerned. All I could do was wait and endure, encased and tightly laced up in leather. I was looking forward to a very long night.



Spotted this hot DILF at a farm show.  Dam near cummed in my jeans!  Can we say 100% American beef!  Tight Cinch jeans, belt buckle,  and cowboy boots.  Dam love to spend a night in bed with him!

anonymous asked:

Steve sees one of the Avengers falling and managed to catch them. You mind a reaction to each one or a likely few who find their position unexpected ( Tony annoyed by the bridal position and threatening Steve to put him down please!)?

“I swear to God, Rogers, if you don’t put me down I’m hiding your dentures!”

Steve couldn’t help the canary eating grin on his face as Tony’s muffled yelling became more insistent. “What was that, shell head?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “I didn’t hear ya.” 

“Dammit, Rogers!” 

The expressionless face of the Iron Man suit stared up at him, entirely contradicting the pissed off man inside it. Tony had found out the hard way that naturally occurring lightning was nothing like Thor’s and was more likely to short-circuit the suit than give it a 400% power boost. He’d dropped like a lead weight and, much to his annoyance, right into Steve’s arms. The genius had been yelling ever since, the compromising position of the ‘bridal carry’ far too embarrassing to put up with. Of course, Steve couldn’t pass up the opportunity for revenge. 

“Put me down!” 

“What’s the magic word, Tony?” he pressed, not even bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. 


Steve pulled a face and shook his head. “No, that’s not it.” 


Steve will always equate the F.R.I.E.N.D.S. episode ‘The One with the Blackout’ to Natasha. It had started with a friendly game of paint ball and a weak tree limb. Steve had heard the branch snap just in time to avoid it, looking up to see what had caused it to break only for something to land on his back. Natasha, ever so graceful, clung to Steve’s back like a scared cat. The angle of the fall had caused one of her legs to hitch up on his shoulder while her other wrapped around his waist, cinched tight enough to keep her from the ground. Her arms, having been all but useless during her trip down, now gripped at his t-shirt to keep herself upright. In Steve’s defense most people would be startled by something like this and spent nearly a full minute trying to dislodge whatever it was before he heard her voice. 

“Jesus Christ, Rogers, stop!” Natasha snapped, struggling to regain the grip she had lost during his flailing. “It’s me!” 

Steve institutionally reached behind him to boost her up like one would with a piggyback ride, but only managed to get a rather firm grip on her ass. “Oh God, Tasha, I am so sorry,” he panicked, grabbing hold of her legs instead to keep her steady. 

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, slowly lowering her leg from around his waist to the ground. “How ‘bout this,” she started, swinging her other leg free, “I won’t talk about you grabbing my ass if you don’t talk about me falling out of a tree. I don’t need to give Barton any more ammunition.” 

“Sounds fantastic,” he sighed in relief. “Wanna double up and get Tony?” 

“Does Ross have a problematic understanding of what a healthy relationship is?” 

Steve cocked an eyebrow. “Yes?” 


Thor, Crown Prince of Asgard and God of Thunder, was terrified of swans. This fear had been forged during the one and only time Tony had tried teaching him golf, the god finding the white birds that flocked the course amusing and wanting to pet one. It ended with 12 stitches and a vow to never cross paths with the animals again. 

He had kept to his vow till a particular mission found them in Central Park. It had been a short fight, no longer than an hour, and the god was feeling a little bit disappointed. In an attempt to make himself feel better he begun retelling the stories of his youth, emphasizing on the parts that were especially daring and brave. 

Now, the Avengers loved Thor, it went against their nature not to, but there were only so many stories they could hear before wanting to strangle the man. Which was why none of them warned him of the swan waddling up behind him. 

He had been half way through the tale of how he and The Warriors Three defeated a Mountain Giant when he heard the dreaded sound. 


All 300 pounds of Thor threw itself at the closest thing, which happened to be Steve. 

Being one of the few who could actually lift the man, Steve was more amused than annoyed at having the god wrapped around him. “Thor, calm down, it’s just a-” 

“That vile creature has tasted my blood and wishes for more!” he snapped, adjusting his grip on the Super Soldier so his legs were wrapped tighter around his waist. “Someone vanquish it!” 

No one had the heart to tell him that it wasn’t the same swan. 

“Maybe it just wants to be friends?” Sam offered with a snicker, trying his hardest not to completely break down. 

“Nay, Son of Wil,” Thor denied, his eyes never leaving the swan. “It is vengeful and blood thirsty animal that will tear me limb from limb till I-” 

A butterfly had caused his sudden stop, the insect fluttering by just a few inches away from the swan. An almost childish glean had entered the bird’s eyes and with another honk waddled after the butterfly, its tail feathers ruffling as it went. 

“Yeeeeeeeah,” Clint dragged out. “Totally blood thirsty.” 

Thor’s cheeks flushed with his embarrassment and he detangled himself from Steve. “My apologies, friend Steve,” he muttered. “I lost myself for a moment.” 

“Happens to the best of us.” 

Imagine getting married to Sebastian. You’ve been primping for hours, and you’re finally ready - your hair is perfect, your corset cinched tight. Your father pulls the veil over your face as you hear the string quartet start to play. The doors open, and you immediately lock eyes with Sebastian, the man who is about to be your husband. The nerves you felt just moments ago all wash away; nothing has ever felt as right as this.

Requested by anon <3

my head is filled with ruins (most of them, i built with you)

Kastle Christmas gift exchange for @itsybitsylemonsqueezy

(or: Karen and Frank slowly reconnect after the events of TP. Featuring some angst and hurt/comfort with an eventual happy ending. :) Also on ao3. I hope you enjoy, and have a great holiday!)

Karen sinks back into her routine like she’s trying to hide in it, like if she tries hard enough she can avoid thinking and can just be. It’s dark most mornings when she leaves for work and if she’s lucky she’ll actually make it back to the apartment, fall asleep in her bed and not at her desk. Even when she’s not at the office her fingers are never far from her laptop, keeping her busy, keeping the quiet from settling in.

There are some things she can’t avoid. She watches the news, knows that something happened at the carousel but isn’t convinced she’s ready to hear what. He’s alive, he’s alive - and in the rare moments she thinks his name or pictures his face that’s as far as she allows herself to go. She let him go once before. She can do it again.

(She keeps the roses. They brighten up her room and sometimes, without thinking, she finds herself running a hand over them, the petals soft and smooth between her fingers. She plucks one from its stem, tucks it under her pillow and sleeps without dreaming.

There’s a petal hidden between the pages of the book she’s reading, another slipped down into the pocket of her coat. It’s not enough, it’s not enough but it’s something.) 

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The Difference Between Tayuu/Oiran (Historical Edo era High-Class Courtesans) and Geisha (Historic and Modern Performing Artists/Entertainers):

Here, I will explain the aesthetic and cultural differences of the Geisha and the Tayuu/Oiran courtesan. Geisha work as entertainers in the modern world. Prostitution was made illegal in Japan in 1959, though Tayuu (known today, and ever since the decline of the Tayuu line in the 1700s, as Oiran) entertain today sans-sexual favors. 

**Please note: though historically, Oiran were working within the sex industry, neither modern Oiran nor Geisha have anything to do with said industry 


  • Make-up: While the white face and red lips are a feature of both courtesan and Geisha, their overall look is different. Oshiroi/Shironuri white powder is used, just like actors do in Kabuki theatre.
  • Dance and Music: Dance is one of the most important things a Geisha trains for. Her rigorous schedule is based around not only clients, parties and performances, but around her strict and traditional dance classes. Many Geisha attend dance classes until they are elderly and continue to perfect their skills, if they hadn’t retired! The shamisen, hand drum or flute are also some of the things Geisha learn, and Jikata Geisha (special Geisha who are trained in music and singing) provide music for a Geisha’s performance at parties (called Ozashiki)
  • Kimono and Obi Belt: The kimono worn by Geisha are very specific and are worn based on many factors, which include the status of the geisha (apprentice geisha (Maiko) have very different kimono from the older, professional geisha (Geiko) in that Maiko are by default more “child-like” and elaborate, with many bright colors and ornaments, while a Geiko wear more even-tones that are simpler but more womanly and elegant.) or are colored and designed by season and occasion. A Geisha’s kimono has about 5 layers of undergarments, tied to the Geisha to create the outer shape of the silk kimono. The obi belt is many meters long and is tied in the back, and takes the strength of another person just to tie it! Maiko wear their obi belts trailing behind them to accentuate their cuter, “youthful” appearance as it makes them appear smaller, while Geiko wear their obi belts tied into a tight, neat box. These kimono are tied together to allow a Geisha to dance and perform and are made to pair elegantly with each dance performance. If the belt were tied loosely in the front, as a courtesan Tayuu/Oiran’s is, then the geisha would be more limited in their dance and it would mask their subtle, minute movements. It is all a true work of art, and each kimono is unique to the Geisha (excepting the kimono used for some dance performances or ceremonies).
  • Hair Ornaments and Footwear: A Maiko wears many finely detailed hair ornaments–many are made of intricate silk designs. Each ornament is hand-crafted by Kyoto artisans and are very valuable; not only in terms of expense, but to the Maiko herself. Ornaments change with seasons, ceremony and rank-changing. A Geiko wears simpler ornaments like tortoise shell style combs and sometimes jade pins, though the ornaments are not limited to those designs. New Maiko wear six-inch high clogs called Okobo, though more experienced Maiko and professional Geiko can wear glossy leather Zori or Geta sandals, depending on the weather/preference.
  • Hair of Maiko and Geiko: The Maiko wear about six different hairstyles, made up of their own hair, within their time as an apprentice (these are–
  1. Wareshinobu–her first hairstyle
  2. Mishidashi–hairstyle for the ceremony of her debut
  3. Ofuku–”Coming of Age” hairstyle; becoming a more senior Maiko
  4. Shimada–used for dance recitals (and it used to be a traditional hairstyle for married women!)
  5. Katsuyama–Used for the annual Cherry Blossom Dances (Miyako Odori) in the month of April
  6. Sakkou–The hairstyle worn by a Maiko for her final two months before debuting as a professional Geiko/Geisha!

Geiko wear their natural hair underneath a wig, in a style referred to as Shimada

  • Geisha as Entertainers: Geisha are trained from their beginnings in the arts of Dance, Music, Tea Ceremony, and are well educated in the cultural arts. They are expert conversationalists; flattery and sake-pouring, along with lively and educated conversation are what Geisha bring to Ozashiki (the parties/events within the Ochaya teahouses). Contrary (extremely) to popular belief, Geisha are not and were never a part of prostitution or the sex industry. Ozashiki are a place for customers–who are not only men, but women or families, wealthy tourists, famous folk or groups of businessmen–to unwind and experience the traditional arts that Geisha have kept alive.

Tayuu/Oiran Courtesans:

  • Make-Up: The Oshiroi/Shironuri white make-up paired with red lips is used much like a Geisha’s. Red accents to eyes, eyebrows and cheeks are also used by both women.
  • Entertainment and Music: There are only about 5 active Oiran entertainers in the “flower town” district of the Kyoto Hanamachi. These women are trained in the traditional arts just as Geisha are–historically, Oiran were high-class Tayuu and were trained in music, flower-arrangment, calligraphy and social arts, but with the added aspect of sexual favors. These women were elite and had the power to personally reject a client. Today, Oiran, though few, exist as historic actresses and as entertainers very much like a Geisha. These women both keep Japan’s history alive.
  • Hairstyle and Hair Ornaments: The hairstyle of an Oiran courtesan is called Datehyougo–as you can see it is an extremely elaborate hairstyle much different than the styles Geiko and Maiko wear. This difference is important, as the Datehyougo hairstyle has perhaps little or even nothing to do with Geisha or their culture. The ornamentals of an Oiran’s hair are a plethora of combs and picks, arranged by rank/status of the courtesan. 
  • Kimono and Obi Belt: Much confusion surrounds the tying of the obi belt between Geisha and courtesans. It’s simple, really: Oiran had their intricately designed obi tied elegantly, though loosely, in the front of their kimono. This was so that clients receiving favor from the courtesan could undo the kimono. Geisha on the other hand, keep their kimono on, tie their obi in styles on the back and are cinched up tight around the Geisha to hold everything together. Their kimono have many more layers than the Geisha–all in an Edo-period fashion. The overall style promotes a more “loose” looking aesthetic, which was very erotic in it’s time. 
  • Footwear: While Okobo and some Geta can be very tall, the footwear of an Oiran can come in the form of 15 cm high, black lacquered Geta. During the Oiran Dochu (Oiran walking parade), an Oiran can be seen walking with her many attendants, swinging her tall Geta out to the side smoothly with each step. It is very beautiful to see!
  • “Attendants”: A big difference between the Oiran and the Geisha is that while Geisha have “younger sisters” whom they take under their wing as apprentices, Oiran have what are called child attendants. These children traditionally were apprentices who would attend to and shadow the courtesan, and who would later be initiated as courtesans as well. 

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you learned something! :)

- @crylie

“When he tightened his fist, it caught. His arm was torn violently to the side, enough to nearly wrench it from his socket. Ritsu yelped,

But the noise Teruki made was worse.

It was something wet, rasping, forced from his lungs. The blur solidified. Teruki stood, his knees just a bit bent, his hands raised and digging at his neck, forcing their way beneath the tie cinched tight at his throat.”

Took some creative liberties from the fanfic A Breath of Trust by @phantomrose96!

proudlyunicorn  asked:

9 karlenaaaaa

karlena, playing footsie

Kara doesn’t think she’s ever been arm candy before.

She says as much to Lena who laughs and leans across the back seat of the car, laying her hand lightly on Kara’s thigh.

“You aren’t arm candy, Kara,” she says. “I invited you because I need your intrepid reporting skills and quick wit to get me through this dinner.”

She flits her eyes from Kara’s face to her high-heeled feet, gaze lingering at the slope of her cleavage, at the lean flex of her calves, before smiling, coy and red-lipped. “It doesn’t hurt that you are an absolutely gorgeous date.”

Kara grins, tilting sideways in her seat, ducking her head to reach Lena across the suddenly vast distance of vinyl upholstery between them. She nuzzles into Lena’s neck, finding the floral perfume dabbed lightly at her jaw, mouths kisses along the hard line of Lena’s throat.

Lena eyes the partition that separates them from the driver before sighing softly, a light exhale falling from her parted lips. She tilts her head back, fingers tangling loosely in the hairs at the nape of Kara’s neck, careful not to muss the intricate braids that curl along the crown of Kara’s head.  

Kara, emboldened, nudges in harder, nipping teeth at Lena’s neck, one hand curling at her waist. Lena makes a small noise of surprise low in her throat, pulling back, fingers moving to splay at Kara’s jaw.

“No marks,” Lena says, tone controlled, even. But her eyes, dark-lashed and half-lidded, fix at Kara’s mouth. The quick tempo of her heartbeats, dampened by cloth and the distracting rush of city traffic, promise later, later, later.

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Dean x female hunter, reader insert

Warnings: SMUT/NSFW text (if you’re not 18, come back when you are!), mild canon typical violence, adult language

Word count: about 2,100

A/N: Hey y'all!! Sorry it’s been awhile, writer’s block has been killing me! But hey, here’s a little something I finally got around to posting! Hope you enjoy it, cause I spent way too much time trying to get it finished!

This was written for two challenges! The first is for Jenn’s Birthday Challenge! Happy birthday @avasmommy224!! Here’s your SMUT, my quote was, “We must all face the choice between what’s right and what’s easy.”

The other challenge is Katie’s 1K challenge!! Congrats on the followers milestone @casbabydontgoineedyou! My quote was, “Just let it be, we’ll figure it out later.”

Be sure you’re following these two amazing writers, they are totally worthy of your attention!!

Here’s my masterlist for more stories!



You were sure he’d be furious. You’d jumped in and now you were a bloody mess. If history had taught you anything, it was that Dean Winchester was going to be livid with you. You’d never hear the end of how reckless and dangerous your actions had been, even though you’d saved his ass. Fighting with each other, both of you spewing venomous words, at each other’s throats for hours, was the only way the two of you knew how to release your frustrations and break the always building tension in your friendship.

When Sam had yelled that he needed more time to find the artifact keeping the ancient vengeful spirit around, you dashed into the grand hallway of the mansion where the older brother was being tossed around like a rag doll. The ghost suddenly appeared above Dean, her white Victorian dress billowed around her as she plunged her hand into his chest and he screamed out in agony. Instinctually, you yanked the iron candleholder off the wall and swung it unceremoniously through the woman’s torso and she vanished momentarily.

“Hurry it up, Sammy!” you yelled over your shoulder, before you were violently throw by an unseen force into the wall. The impact was severe enough to shatter the large stained glass window above. You threw your arms up to cover your face and the shards showered down on you, nicking your exposed skin.

The malevolent spirit reappeared, rushing forward, her hands closing in around your throat. She slid you up the wall, fingers crushing your windpipe as your feet dangled inches above the ground. The sound of Dean screaming your name was starting to fade as the blackness began to creep in the edge of your vision. Just as you were about to lose consciousness the ghost erupted in a flash of sparks and flames before disappearing altogether. You came crashing back to the floor, gasping for air.

“Son of a bitch…” Dean was rushing to your side, kneeling haphazardly over the broken glass that surrounded you. “Dammit, Y/N, I thought I told you to stay with Sam…” he said, examining you.

“Yeah, and let you become ghost chow? You’re welcome…” your voice was hoarse, but still forceful. You knew he wasn’t a fan of bringing you along, the two of you spent almost as much time fighting each other as you did fighting evil, but frankly you didn’t give a rat’s ass what he thought. You’d been hunting long before you met the Winchesters and Dean’s shitty attitude wasn’t going to stop you now.

Rather than arguing with you, as you expected, he simply grabbed you by the hands and stood, pulling you up with him, “Come on, let’s go get you cleaned up.” His unusual calmness made you worry. Fighting is what you and Dean did best and you weren’t used to him conceding this easily.

Once on your feet, you winced painfully as a sharp pain pierced your left side. You lifted your shirt to find a large piece of glass embedded at least two inches deep into your skin right below your last rib.

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You love me for the mask that I put on.
You love the cold, smooth porcelain perfectly melded into my skin. You love the flawless marble eyes, you can worship them like the smooth stone walls of the church.
You love the complexity of the web that I spin around you. You watch me weave them, every strand another trap and I’m cinching your skin tight with new pins to hold it all together.
I wonder why you never ask to escape. I wonder why you just stand there, in a trance, and the world around you turns more and more into a mesh of lies, darkening every inch of the reality you’ve ever known, until it starts suffocating the sunlight seeping through the edges.
I wonder why you let me in, in the first place. All I have are scissors for hands and I’m terrified of touching your wings.
You love this darkness. You love the way the shadows spill over you, bleeding into every inch of your skin.
I wonder when you’ll realise that I’m more cracked edges than porcelain. More clay than marble.
The mask is a facade to hide the monster that I am.
I’ve kept you in the darkness for so long, I wonder if you’ll ever love me when you see me in the light.
—  Tamarind Fall; Writing prompt: You love me for the mask that I put on but can you love the real me?

featherstorm77  asked:

consider: sheith cop au, keith rides a motorcycle and is reckless

this is a screencap redraw of one of my favorite old school gundam wing fics, and the exact opposite of what you asked for, but i hope you enjoy it anyway lol.

been living in the fast lane | vld | sheith | 4k | au, action, hurt/comfort

Keith takes the ride of his life. Shiro loses his mind

“Uh, hey? Guys? Why is this box ticking?” Hunk asks over the radio.

He’s on the other side of the warehouse, opposite where Keith is directing clean up. Drug busts are nasty, every time, even when they go point-by-point according to plan. There are too many variables, like the bloody gash Lance is currently sporting over one eye. The medics have him propped up in the corner, applying field dressing; he’ll live, but no one wants to meet a bullet face-first like that.

(Shiro is going to yell at him for it. He always yells when they do something to make his hair go more grey.)

“Ticking how?” Pidge asks over the comms.

Hunk hums. “Like bad ticking? Like something that’s on a timer, and I really don’t want to be here when it stops?”

Keith has only been paying half attention to their conversation, busy counting boxes and marking off paperwork, like that’s going to head off the five days of reports that bookend every case, but ominous ticking sets alarm bells off in his head. The operation they’re dismantling is slick and professional and definitely not above booby trapping a warehouse just to fuck with their day. With everyone’s day.

He shoves his paperwork off on the nearest grunt and runs over to where Hunk is nervously hovering over his cardboard box. “What have we got?”

Hunk motions at the box and looks at him a little helpless. “A box?” he offers. 

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anonymous asked:

Maybe a GaaraXSakura with “You need to stop leaving dead bodies in my kitchen" ?

A heavy thump resounds outside Sakura’s door.

She pauses, caught in the middle of making matcha, before sighing and stowing the tea kettle on the stovetop. She should be used to this by now but, then again, it’s just cresting four in the morning and she hasn’t had her caffeine yet. And witchcraft is difficult with an unfocused, sleepy mind. Sakura cinches her robe tight around her waist as she moves to the backdoor, making a lazy gesture to disable the wards.

She pulls open the door, frowning down at her doorstep. It was obscured in a tangle of multiple limbs, far more than those of a human or even an arachnid. Deep gold ichor pooled beneath the scaled brown body. Her eyes go wide.

A beholder.

How the hell did he kill a beholder?

She snaps her fingers, freezing the body’s decaying process. With a little bit of focus and the slightest bit of strain, Sakura teleports the body to her workshop.

She then moves back into her house, leaving the door wide open as she pours the hot water over the matcha. As she adds a dollop of honey, Sakura feels a presence shift behind her.

“Tea?” she asks, not even looking up.

The scent of copper fills her nostrils as Gaara steps into her peripherals. Sakura turns slightly, seeing the gold ichor splattered across his knuckles and dripping down from his mouth. Sakura presses a hot cup into Gaara’s hands.

“As much as I appreciate it,” Sakura begins, “You need to stop leaving dead bodies on my doorstep.”

Gaara’s eyes narrow and Sakura reads the feral, deadly intent there. It doesn’t scare her in the slightest.

“Put them in the workshop instead,” she says, popping a kiss against his cheek.

She turns back to preparing her own cup with a hidden grin as Gaara’s cheeks flush deeply. Sakura raises her cup to her lips, grinning darkly as the ichor mixes with the matcha as she drinks it down, down, down.

anonymous asked:

can you do hcs about dating kenny? :0


  • Late night talks: He loves staying up to the ‘serious’ part of the night (you know the one) and having really deep, meaningful conversations. During these he really opens up, not minding the vulnerability. Throughout various conversations he reveals the motives behind constantly wearing his parka, how he feels about his family situation, his alternate identity of Mysterion, what he hopes for in the future, and eventually explains the curiosities of his relationship with death.
  • Messing with his parka: He secretly loves fighting over (and eventually letting you win) his hood always being cinched tight. He finds it especially adorable when you pull a sneak attack on him, pulling down his hood to give him a kiss.
  • Cuddling: Though he tends to be quite perverted, he has a soft spot for cuddling under any circumstance. He often wants you to lay your head on his chest. He also tends to wrap you in his parka with him. He provides an abundance of top of the head kisses and cute whispers each and every time you cuddle.
  • PDA: He tends to deny it, but he loves PDA. Something about showcasing his love in public makes him feel empowered, and making the other guys jealous is just a bonus.

Aaaaaand I think I’ll stop there for now. If your thirst for Kenny isn’t quenched (mine never will be), go ahead and ask for more and I’ll get around to them in a while.

The Price 6/?

Summary: A visitor brings news of the goings on in Misthaven.

an: Recommended listening this chapter: Bishop Briggs - “Wild Horses”, Clairity - “Don’t Panic”, Woodkid - “Iron”

tagging @artielu, @jadeddiva, @kmomof4 @dreadpirateemma, @the-captains-ayebrows

Chapter List: One/Two/Three/Four/Five

Chapter Six

Her footsteps echo down the corridor as she leads him out of his rooms, winding their way through parts of the castle he’s explored before, past a grand ballroom and the library and the kitchens, until the scenery becomes less familiar, the uneven winding staircases leading him towards a destination he’s not quite sure of. It’s the middle of the bloody night, their only light the bobbing orbs along the hallways, glowing into life as they move along, snuffing out behind them the further they go.

She’s still in the clothes she’d worn to dinner, the jacket tight across her shoulders, her boots clattering against the stone floors, and he wonders, not for the first time, if the woman ever sleeps.

He’s surprised not to receive an immediate response to his silent query - whatever has happened, it has left her distracted enough not to pry into his thoughts, or at least too tired to answer his benign questions. There is a sense of relief in knowing that she isn’t constantly in his mind, and yet, he almost feels disappointed to get no response from her.

She is silent, and it gives him far too much room to mull over things, like the pinch of her face while she’d watched him tug his boots on, like the thrumming magic, not his own, filling the rooms and corridors like wildfire, consuming the air as they walked. Like the dream.

Already pieces of it were falling away, but he remembered just fine the call of the ocean behind him, and the desperate pull to find his brother. The taste of gunpowder is strong against his tongue, still, and the tang of blood sticks in his nostrils, but worst is the terror of not knowing whether the attacker had gotten to Liam.

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Regency AU Teaser

…it needs a name. I’ll get back to you all with that. 

In which Prompto, a common stable boy, finds himself dragged into the world of masquerades and social events by Prince Noctis and Earl Scientia. He expects to be out of sorts, to struggle to get by, and instead finds himself growing close to Lord Amicitia, the ill tempered, scarred friend of his patrons. 

Crossdressing, that isn’t regarded as crossdressing, way too much time spent describing clothes. 

“I look completely ridiculous.” Prompto declared, hands out to the side as one of Noctis and Ignis’ servants pulled the ties at the waistline of his dress, cinching it tight. He was standing on a pedestal, in front of a mirror, and had been for what felt like hours at this point, as he was primped, dressed in layer after layer, and now was being tied securely into the gown.

It was a beautiful dress, layers of delicate, sunflower yellow fabric that flowed and rippled as if he was wearing something made of water. The front hem stopped just above his shoes, letting the soft white slippers peek from under it, and in the back it poured out into a train that pooled all around the pedestal. Another servant was fiddling with it, lifting it to shake and pull it carefully, fanning it out to lay nicely; like this Prompto could see it extending back a good foot or two, a puddle of muslin sunshine. The fabric was hand embroidered with silver thread along the bottom edges as well as at the small cap sleeves and the neckline, groupings of peacock feathers and small leaves. The high waist was further defined by a thin silver ribbon.

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