#he only wears the shapewear occasionally

[wheredidalltheusersgo]

Here's the reference for "The Aftershow" Alejandro's body with and without the shapewear

[theuchihabitxh]

Day 3- So soft for me

Summary: Kakashi is trying to prepare you a nice meal, but he suddenly changed his plans.

Warnings: SMUT so MINORS DNI*, established relationship, cunnilingus, squirting, Kakashi knows how to cook, fem!reader, shinobi!reader

*dni means do not interact so please leave if you are a minor, thank you for being responsible

Length: ~1350

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You open the door to your shared apartment. Since it is pretty late in the evening you expect Kakashi to be already home since his duties kept him within Konoha’s perimeter lately. The compression garments you are wearing on your lower body are starting to feel uncomfortably against your skin, almost feeling the way it was digging in your flesh. Being a shinobi your attire had to be not only comfortable but also aid your fighting style, however on days like this where your duty doesn’t send you far from home you choose to wear the shaping garment under your attire for a more dainty and feminine look.

After you make your presence known and are presented with a loud hum from the bathroom you go straight to the bedroom to change into something more restrictive. You start undressing by taking off your flak jacket, your top, your pants and finally- your shapewear and underwear. You hastily throw the garments around the room- something you know Kakashi would later scold you for- and hurry to take on a pair of comfortable panties and an oversized t-shirt. As you were fumbling around to find a pair of sweats in the lowest drawer, you heard Kakashi’s reflexive knock on the door. You were together for about 2 years now and he still found himself unconsciously knocking whenever entering a room.

“Hey Y/N what you wanna eat tonight I can make either-” he choked on his words at your sight. Ass up in the air, innocently rummaging through the lowest drawer mumbling something about cleaning. The t-shirt was giving him the perfect view of your pantie-clad ass and thighs.”-kabayaki style fish or barbeque” he whispered the last part to himself as he wiped his hands clean on his ‘kiss the chef’ apron. His eyes trailing the form of your legs from the ankle up to the black lace of the underwear, he found himself frowning.

“The fish sounds really good-” you were interrupted by cold fingers softly tracing along the skin on the back of your thighs, goosebumps raising all the way up to your ears. You stand up and turn to face a confused and maybe slightly annoyed Kakashi.

“Why do you have all these red marks all over you? It looks as if you folded your skin or slept on a very crumpled bed, and I’d like to believe it’s none of the above since you just arrived home.” His eyebrows were furrowed and his fingers kept following the red lines, all along your plush legs and way up to your soft tummy. His voice was calm as ever but it was laced with concern and fear.

“‘Kashi, it’s just the shapewear I have-” you point a dainty finger towards the guilty piece of clothing and he follows the direction of your index with his gaze “- it gets really tight after a day of work but it really makes my legs and tummy look smaller and pretty”. His eyes were fixed away from you, pondering his options.

You don’t even have enough time to properly finish your explanation before your lover picks you up unceremoniously over his right shoulder. You squeal in response to his actions not knowing what to expect further. “Hatake Kakashi put me down right now!” you felt blood rising under the skin of your face, suddenly the colder air of the room hitting your exposed backside. You clawed pointlessly at his back but he seemed to be having other plans.

He slapped your left asscheek and then the back of your thighs making your squirm more while he started moving closer to the bed. “Well honey, I wanted to prepare you a nice meal but you seem to have tempered with mine. Now, I suggest you stop resisting or I’ll have to be rougher-” he slaps your exposed cheeks again making you squeal but not enough to even sting”-than I’d like to be.”

And with that he drops you on the bed, both of you a laughing and giggling mess as he starts pestering kisses all over your face. “Look what you did, you made the chef upset, now I’ll have to dine without you.” He kissed his way all the way down to your navel where he started nipping and tucking the soft flesh between his teeth. You inevitably start wanting more and more and start whimpering slightly. He inches painfully slow to your throbbing core, before he stops the painfully hot trail of kisses.

He settles between your thighs resting his face lovingly on one of your inner legs smirking like an idiot. The awfully intense eye contact makes you hide your face in your hands. He chuckles darkly before he manhandles your legs in a mating press and starts digging his face in your sopping wet pussy.

“Kakashi-” you wailed in vain. His name was leaving your mouth like a mantra, he was making your mind go fuzzy from all these feelings. He was licking long tantalizing strips from your weeping hole all the way to the bundle of nerves that he loved grazing with his teeth before closing his mouth and gently suckling the bud.

As the white haired jonin was increasing his pace, his blunt nails were digging crescent marks in the plush of the back of your legs, occasionally removing a hand only to bend your body even more to slap the roundness of your ass. Your legs started quivering uncontrollably he abruptly removed his mouth from your core, making you desperately whine and whimper.

“You are beautiful, this pretty ass- and, and everything about your soft skin it just makes me-” he makes a point by slapping harder your cushiony behind and raking his nails on the length of your hamstrings; your body overly sensitive still on the edge of an orgasm convulsing at every ministration, fat tears threatening to escape any minute.

“Oh- Oooh!” You trash around when he licks his lips still tasting your juices all over him, and easily slips two long digits inside of you, hitting your g spot perfectly. The band in your lower abdomen only seems to be tightening as he keeps praising how lush your skin is, how strong your legs are, how your ass jiggles when he buries himself to the hilt, how well everything fits in his hands when he squeezes and pounds you mercilessly.

“Kakashi I-I’m… ” Everything was just too much and it felt so much more than ever before.

“Oh fuck” Kakashi’s breathless and raw voice hit your ears and you toppled over the edge of your orgasm. It was violent, making you gush all around his apron and hand, soaking the sheets underneath the both of you. Your eyes were open wide, pupils dilated, a thin layer of sweat was shining on your face and some of your hair got trapped in the stickiness of it. Your chest was heaving as you gasped for air in your desperate attempts to apologize for the mess made, but then something struck you.

Not only were you still a whimpering mess, but so was your lover, his body hovering over yours in an attempt to regain his own breath, face scrunched up hiding into the crook of your neck whispering a string of curses. He carefully removed his hand from your heat and probed your lips with the pads of his fingers. In your half hazed state you obeyed his demand opening your mouth to suck his fingers clean with fervour.

The way his face flushed, eyelids fluttered and his hair was tickling your neck as he stood up was rather obscene. That’s when it hit you. The tent that formed before in his pants, half-hidden by his apron was gone, making you reach an innocent hand to grab at it. What you didn’t expect was the wet and sticky patch you felt underneath the flimsy cloth piece. Your eyes widened in disbelief as he lowered his gaze hiding his embarrassment.

“Oh ‘Kashi, did you?” He kept silent for a few moments as he rested his head on your belly, snaking his hands to snuggle around your waist.

“I’m not lying when I tell you how beautiful you are.” he sighed as he felt your nimble fingers grounding yourself in his silvery-white locks.

[hardcoreprocess]

Derse fashion cultures are some of the most ornate and rigidly policed of all three kingdoms. Featuring shapewear, layers against the cold, and very specific coloration to separate royalty from the the noble class as well as the common folk, it’s a nation where the wrong cut of glove could spark rumors of your relations to this or that person.

Despite this, the fashion is not “fast” and the adjustments are not shifting with the seasons. For some twenty years, throughout the lifetime of Ambrosius and Redevioux, the cultural rules of color and accent and how to hold your fan while courting a young noble have remained as they are, strict and adored by the populace. As stated before, Derse is a nation that loves to gossip and spread stories, leaping at any opportunity to sell secrets or perceived flirtations of their betters to news scholars. Additionally, because the south is notoriously cold even in the deep valley of the Heartland, cloaks and capes and other grand ways of keeping warm are common even among the lowest dregs of society.

Ambrosius wears the expectations of the Dersite court like a circlet of thorns, just as heavy at the Obsidian Crown will one-day sit on her head. Many layers to accentuate her hips and shoulders. In both Derse and Prospit, weight is an attractive trait in a woman, since Prospit worships the fertility aspect and Derse sees it as protection against harsh winters, therefore the future Queen is lauded for her thick thighs and soft belly with garments that exaggerate and flatter her form. Think big sweeping skirts with climbing collars and the occasional open clavicle to display her chest’s stretchmarks.

Redevioux, conversely, wears a combination of armor and courtwear as the commander of the blood witch battalions. Padded shoulders, padded hips to make him appear stockier, tight sleeves to accentuate his muscled arms, and low-heeled boots with gloves nearly as tall as his sister’s. Of the two, his clothing will always be more practical because of his duty to war and movement, but his embroidered coats of arms and furred cloaks are a sight to behold, extravagant enough that he’s been mistaken for his father’s ghost at times.

Both twins are, naturally, armed. Redevioux wears a sword openly strapped to one hip, and Ambrosius conceals several knives on her person for the sake of protection. They are the only members of Derse permitted to wear fuchsia. Close-toed shoes, boots primarily, rule the fashion of Derse alongside the expectation to be armed and warm. The result: sex is rarely an outside affair, the chill not permitting it, but undressing anyone is a sensual act and Dersites adore tales of nobility getting it on in their finery.

All these rules make Prospit a bitch to visit.

[desai73bryant-blog]

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[gaiatheorist]

Knickers.

I’m collapsing in on myself again, it’s cyclic, in-part seasonal, and in-part circumstance, I’m always more withdrawn in the winter, and the additional layer of anxiety/paranoia about being on benefits is having an impact. I’ll come through it, I always do, I’m just mindful of the fact that I’m having more episodes of “Don’t want to.”, and more internal arguments about what I need/want to do.

Pulling myself out of myself, and into the world, I need to do that, but I won’t run at it head-on, it’s a slow re-build, I need to take small steps, and test the stability of each before I move onto the next. There will be external challenges at Christmas approaches, and well-meaning, but intrusive peripheral contacts insist I “can’t” be alone on Christmas day. I can, and probably will, the ex’s family ‘do’ Christmas, the boy and I will pick a random day during his uni winter break for him to unpack the boxes of assorted gifts and nonsense. (Must remember to order some pork pies, in case he wants to do the ‘Hogfather’ pork pie and sherry thing again.) 

One of the nonsense items will be delivered over the next couple of days, a pack of enormous old-man underpants, a nod to the running joke that his friends used to call him ‘Grandpa’. He’ll probably throw them at my head, he’s unlikely to say “Oh, how splendid, mother, a pack of high-waist Y-fronts, just what I ALWAYS wanted.” He has a strange habit with his underpants, he’ll ‘hide’ them, and we’ve only recently unpicked that his practice of wrapping his pants in some other garment when he brings them down to wash only applies to worn pants, he’s fine with me hanging his washed pants to dry, but he doesn’t want me to acknowledge the existence of worn pants. Strange young man.

Knickers have been in the news, first the rape case in Ireland, where it was argued that the 17 year old girl’s choice of underwear indicated availability, and now the furore about a Marks and Spencer window display. Both articles made me angry, for similar reasons, the pants-prescription of how women ‘should’ clad their undercarriage. The whispy bit of lace on the 17 year old was assumed to mean she was ‘open to’ sexual contact, and there, in the M&S window-display ‘Must-have fancy little knickers’ for women, next to fully-dressed ‘male’ mannequins. 

In the wake of some genuinely unpleasant internet to-and-fro over International Mens Day earlier this week, I’m being very careful not to ‘blame’ men for women’s choice of underwear. It’s advertising and the media projecting the notion that ‘we’ feel more confident in fancy pants. I can’t say how uncomfortable male underwear is, I don’t have the external bits that need tucking into supportive undergarments, or go flapping about loose in less restrictive ones. I’m trying to think of any advertising campaigns for man-pants I’ve seen, and I can’t bring any to mind, maybe Kate Moss modelling Calvin Klein? Man-pants are marketed differently, there’s the possibility that those of you with penises are pressured to pack them provocatively as well, and I just don’t know about it. It’s 4am on a Wednesday, I’m not going to Google man-pants for research purposes, they’ll spring up in my Facebook feed ‘targeted’ adverts, like every other thing I buy, or look at. (Yeah, thanks, Amazon, I just bought a mattress, and now you’re showing me other mattresses, how many do you think I need?) 

Pants-pressure. The struggle is real. I spent my teenage years with a constant wedgie, and occasional bouts of thrush due to wearing cheap g-strings. ‘Big knickers’ were for grandmas, and a visible knicker line didn’t bear thinking about. I still have some lacy little numbers in my pants-drawer, but they were intended for practicality, not provocation, some of my work-dresses were form-fitting, Lycra, so I could move rather than mince, a Spandex silhouette is unforgiving of underpants. (Flashbacks, to an old manager once pointing out a colleague’s VPL, and my ex loudly observing that a larger lady at a function had ‘six arses’, this is not about examples of stupid men, nobody ‘made’ me wear genital floss all those years.) I’m ‘going out’ at the start of next month, and there’s the possibility that I’ll root to the back of the drawer for a pair of pants that aren’t Asda 3-for-£5 cartoon character ones. Or not, I could just stay slob-comfy in jeans, nobody’s going to see my pants. 

‘Treat yourself’, ‘feel confident’, the media message appears to be that wearing pants that have gone a funny colour in the wash, or just seen better days in general won’t do at all. Knickers to that, I don’t need to splash out on skimpy things, or throw money at matching sets, my eyebrows don’t match, if my underwear matches, it’s probably accident rather than choice. Do I feel more ‘confident’ in a properly-fitting bra? I’ll let you know if I eventually have one, for now, there’s a small selection of Primark ones that near-enough fit if I feel the need to wrestle my bosom into submission, mostly I don’t bother, bras are not the most comfortable of garments.

We’ve come a long way since corsets and crinolines, but we’re still besieged by this bullshit that we ‘should’ clad ourselves a certain way, FOR ourselves. It’s my aesthetic issue again, I don’t ‘need’ to present myself as attractive, it’s not an attribute I value. The internet seems to think I should, judging by the ‘targeted’ adverts for ‘shapewear’. Fine, I’m not altogether happy with my shape just now, but compressing the additional bits with elastic won’t make me ‘feel amazing’, it’d make me feel uncomfortable, leave whacking great big lines all over me, and possibly infringe the trades description laws once the damned things were off, and I revealed ‘the truth’ of a 41 year old body. I have a pad of fat on my belly, that happens in winter, because I’m less active, the cold flares my arthritis and Raynaud’s, moving is painful. My breasts aren’t as perky as they once were, and have a tendency to wander off in the direction of my armpits when I’m in certain positions. I’m 41, not 21, this is the truth of me, if I truss it up, the padding or packing all ends up on the floor, hopefully my tits won’t follow, but I’m not about to pick a fight with gravity.

It’s a me-thing. I don’t do ‘pretty’, and it infuriates me that society in general still can’t grasp the double standard that people are encouraged to dress a certain way, and then criticised for it. I don’t do ‘feminine’, that’s my choice, based on some negative life experiences, most of my outer clothes are either from the men’s section, or unisex, I’m tall-for-a-female, and oddly proportioned, my thighs are too long for most standard-fit skirts and dresses to sit at a ‘respectable’ level. The ‘tall’ sections in women’s clothing tend to assume that the extra inches of height also mean I’m broad, I’m not, I’m just ‘long’, and I’ve given up on finding clothes that don’t do that weird empty saddle-bag thing around my hips. I do construct my outer layers to conceal my curves, I’m aware that I do it, I don’t want to be ‘seen’ as female, that’s my preference, and I wouldn’t force it on anyone else. The media, or society in general does push its preference, though, men should dress like ‘this’, and women like ‘that’. It’s jarring that, in the wake of a teenager’s knickers being presented as evidence of consent, that we’re still being encouraged to wear ‘sexy’ underwear, ‘for ourselves.’ 

There might be women out there who do ‘feel more confident’ in certain types of lingerie, but my feeling is that they’ve been taught to do that, by society’s version of ‘dress to impress’. We all have the media messages to look younger, more attractive, anything else is the cardinal sin of ‘letting yourself go’, in this presentation-preoccupied age. 

It makes not one iota of difference to any other human what’s underneath my trousers, on any given day it could be a pair of Batman pants, a scrap of lace, or minging old knickers that have gone funny in the wash. (I haven’t quite crossed the Frank Reynolds line yet, but if the kid throws the Y-fronts at me, it could be an option.) What covers my crotch doesn’t confer consent, and I’m not impressionable enough to believe that ‘Spanx’ or an extortionately priced matching set from La Senza will change my life. Murky waters, where women do as they’re told by their magazines and the media, and are then placed at risk of being called out as whores for what they wore.