torturingpeople

[torturingpeople]

This game has so many great quotes amiright

[torturingpeople]

all these gay girls are like "wow i want a big lady to step on me" but where is the love for short girls stepping on you? short girl intimidating you with her presence and body language alone until you fall over and she steps on you?? short girl taking down a girl who's much taller than her and making her submit??? where's the love for my shadow of the colossus bitches???

[torturingpeople]

Subtly hinting to my moots I want to dm them or maybe get their discord by staring really hard through the screen

[torturingpeople]

highly specific meme for the evil yuri rp occurring between myself and @torturingpeople. the scoundrel has one braincell and it is devoted entirely to getting on his knees and whimpering whenever a hot lady orders him to do anything ever

[torturingpeople]

[torturingpeople]

La Mode illustrée, no. 11, 12 mars 1865, Paris. Toilettes de Melles Rabouin, 67 r. Nve. des Pts. Champs. Coiffures de Mr Croizat, 76 r. de Richelieu. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

Description de toilettes:

Keep reading

[torturingpeople]

edison is going through an epithet change

henceforth he shall no longer be the sybaritic laureate. he is now the plastic courtesan! yay!

i've been mulling over his epithet for a while and i decided that i'm going to change it. mostly because the 'laureate' part doesn't have much of anything to do with his character at all. he wrote poetry occasionally but he wasn't ever poet laureate and didn't do it often enough for it to be a focal point in his career. and sybaritic seems a bit too esoteric/surface-level for my liking in terms of his adjective

therefore i decided to change it. "plastic" in this context can have many interpretations (which i very much like), which can mean perfect on the surface yet ultimately superficial, materialistic/linking to excessive consumption and others' reliance on his services through their abundance, moldability and linking that to wines' control and conditioning of his personality and career etc etc. like i said very versatile. and courtesan is self-explanatory which i think works better considering he is a) one of wines' intimates, and b) anything else seems a bit too vulgar for an epithet

actions going forward will be changing his tag to '#the plastic courtesan' (i'll leave the old posts under '#the sybaritic laureate' for the sake of not wanting to go back and change it all) and changing his epithet on my pinned post

[torturingpeople]

a PSA from the Grubby Urchin Butler himself!!

[torturingpeople]

Bats getting glamour shots

[torturingpeople]

Two-part evening dress, Maison Clergeat, Paris, 1898-1900

Silk satin called “Charmeuse”, wool and sequin embroidery, lace flounce, muslin, taffeta lining. Gift of Madame Solange Granet, in memory of her cousin, Madame Montaudon, née Le Grain-Eiffel.

[torturingpeople]

i caved. i had to do it. also featuring a red bandages version as suggested by @forlorn-plushie. is it more or less cunty? vote now on your phones!

20 notes and i'll make a no-bandages edit /hj

[torturingpeople]

pondering my modern au scuba

[torturingpeople]

What are some of your favourite design details about your OCs? Particularly the minor and easily overlooked ones that only you think about.

[torturingpeople]

The cosmogone lights finally snuff out. Eager as ever, the patrons attending the event hush each other, clasping at each other to convey the need for silence as everyone's eyes fall to the stage. The entire venue is dark, save for the gleaming candles on each table. A limelight shines upon empty space, at the head of the Parlour's main stage.

"Looking for me?" calls a sensuous voice, from the backs of everyone's heads. There is a simultaneous diversion of attention, to where everybody came from.

As the limelight turns back, to the entrance door, it takes on a red hue; there stands Edison Hollingsworth, hand poised to wave seductively, lips curled into the most perfect, alluring smile. He is adorned in a bodysuit pressing his organs and meat into all of the right places, giving him the illusion of an hourglass — the one-piece itself is bejewelled in all sorts of expensive semi-precious stones, gleaming in an illustrious, deep, wine red. In his hands are two large feathered fans about three-quarters the size of his body, dyed in the style of a peacock, if a peacock had been drenched in blood and sent into the world as a crimson variant. Similarly are these feathers sprouting from his equally ornate headdress and waist, as a tail would, as if he is a delicately-decorated ornament to be hung upon a Christmas tree. Upon his legs, despite the feathers curling around the hem of the garment in that signature plum purple, are the Parlour-branded stockings that every Parlour-goer has come to recognise, touch and strip off.

It is tassels, jewels, silk, feathers and velvet galore. A performance as dramatic as it is bewitching commences.

Even how he struts down the aisle, the light following his every move, is inherently sensual (there is a sensuality about him unshakeable, naturally) and the manner in which he carries his body seems to have a pertinent disregard for his ligaments, bones or muscles, and how they may take issue with being contorted for the pleasure of his viewers. As his backup dancers filter onto the stage to support him when he reaches it, oft does he go to interact with them: a tango here, with one; falling against another; then he begins a story with one of the other suited males, in which he seduces it with his tail-feathers, much like a bird of paradise would dance to find a mate. He trails the tips of his fluffy tail beneath his chin and wraps his feather boa around the man, then is whisked into a kiss, then dropped to the floor to fall onto his back in a dramatic, theatrical manner. He leans up, on his spread knees, staring up at the man that catches his jaw in a gloved hand, running a thumb along his wet lip. As soon as it started, the lewd scene is over — he is back to the shamelessly bewitching dance, all over again.

Slinking from the stage with a sultry expression, the only time he falters is now. It is brief, scarcely noticeable, and only visible in the manner in which he steps, which loses its vivacious confidence for just a moment. And then it is as if that moment never existed, when it meets Mr. Wines gaze, and all of the faltering seen at the candlestick phone is as absent as his apprehension itself. He bats his eyes in a coquettish way, and shakes his tail-feathers like the mating bird he is, and in the blink of an eye, Mr. Wines is pulling him in closer, pressing his body against its own, hanging its cowl over him. Edison's lips part, but he says nothing, and continues with his specialised routine. The boa is thrown around its gargantuan form, feathers tracing the folds of its cloak. He tilts his head in a manner that runs his headdress' plumage beneath its snout, listening acutely as it lets out a sound akin to purring.

Gently, it begins to run its long, slender tongue along Edison's neck, before leaning back and setting him on the floor again. "Go," it whispers to him, its voice far huskier than usual.

Edison tilts his chin to the floor, smirking in sultry amusement. "Ashamed?"

Mr. Wines pulls him closer by the arm, the tip of its snout peeking from beneath its cowl. "Seduced," it corrects lowly.

That is as long as the conversation lasts. Edison keeps his eyes on it as he continues his performance through to the end, an unshakeable vitality thrumming through him, perhaps fuelled by the unwavering stare he gets from the Master's table. It is like a thread of energy, connecting them, letting them feed off each other inexorably, giving the other just what they need. (It seems so, anyway — if there was anything otherwise ringing true, then Edison is a good actor, and far better at concealing his discomforts.)

When he finishes the dance, leaned against his dancers luxuriously in a pose befitting his position, there is a round of raucous, dirty cheering that starts up, where roses and money and cards and all sorts of items end up on the stage for him to take. Briefly, he stands, to take a rose thrown by a gentleman and run it along the man's chin alluringly, winking in a manner suggesting further interest. And, just like that, he disappears behind the curtain, though not without a wave to Mr. Wines in the meantime.

It is a performance for the ages. Every performance of his is a performance for the ages. That is what Mr. Wines has crafted — the perfect work mule.

[courtesy of the doomed toxic yuri rp ongoing with @thegreatyin]

[torturingpeople]

🎤 daily scheduled Yin oc posting time

I like how oc posting has not only become daily but (apparently) scheduled

[torturingpeople]

because u keep clicking on the card when it pops up in your opportunity deck u silly

[torturingpeople]

ok part 2 of my pondering. i've been thinking a lot about cosmogone and how the wiki says images of cosmogone make pictures seem "idealised and sentimental" and how specific game text states that a picture "threatens to make the viewer fall in love on the spot"... i think there is a market for this

i'm thinking specifically of using cosmogone in a tanning bed-esque style to enhance youth and beauty. going to a cosmogone salon and being in a little pod, claustrophobic as ever, in which you decide it is worth the sacrifice to bathe in glorious cosmogone light. you look in the mirror and, my god, you've never looked better. you're right back in your prime (wherever you perceive your prime to be, anyway) and you have this gorgeous orange glow. you're sun-kissed again. or, perhaps, for the first time, if the sun has never kissed your skin.

you're hooked. it's a cure-all! everyone else has been complimenting you on your skin, on your eyes, on your hair, how you look like you've been plucked from an old portrait, how you're simply perfect. you can't tell your secrets, though. the procedure is still experimental. god knows what could happen. well, not only god -- you're about to find out.

the more you go, the more incongruous you feel with others' perception of you. your eyes get accustomed to the cosmogone light and it doesn't seem to have the same sparkling, glittering, sunshine-y effect it used to. you look just like the same old you, a thousand echoes down. everyone else is still absolutely enamoured with you, telling you about how your eyes gleam like the beloved sun they had to leave behind, about how they remind you of any lovely past memory they come up with, but you don't remind yourself of your past youthful years anymore. you are just you. everyone else but you can see perfection.

and the longer this goes on -- the longer you drown yourself in the past, in nostalgia, in what once was -- the less you focus on the future. no, you just have to retreat back to the time that was better. here is awful, and the years you've already lived... if only you hadn't taken that for granted. if only you had used that time when you had the chance. do you remember what you did recently? does it matter? does anything in the present matter, anymore? why would you need to remember any of that? all you need to do is remember the past. remember your youth. always be youthful and fun. always be perfect. the past is perfection, right? everyone respects you, everyone wants to be you, everyone is thrilled to see you. that's all you need.

you just wish you could see it for yourself, is all. and you can't remember what you were supposed to be doing when you walk into a room. you should probably lay off the cosmogone. but you're not when you want to be.