#exercise crawl

[saving-word-crawls]

Workout Crawl

By: SamNotSammy

Many of you may be stuck inside this month, but that’s no reason not to flex your muscles, both creative and physical. This word crawl combines both, for the ultimate writing experience. There are two ways to do this crawl: either do the exercises suggested by each step and do the writing, or just do the writing.

Start with a warmup. Write for 5 minutes. Do some jumping jacks if you’re feeling it.

Don’t forget to stretch. Take your total from the five minute warmup and stretch yourself by trying to beat that total.

Cardio is vital! Get your heart pumping by writing an exciting scene. Write 300 words as fast as you can.

You’re getting stronger already. Do some push-ups to improve your upper body strength. Either count how many push-ups you can do in a minute or roll a die. Multiply that number by 100 and write that many words.

Really push yourself and dig deep. Attempt a 50-headed hydra. If you succeed, pat yourself on the back and write 200 more words. If you don’t hit 500, write another 500 words as training for next time.

Dance aerobics are a fun way to get yourself moving! Put on your favorite song to dance to and sprint to the end!

Don’t forget about your core. Write for 20 minutes and do an abs circuit

Do some squats. Strengthen your word total with 300 more words.

Challenge a friend to a race! Do a 10 minute word war against someone. If you win, write 150 words. If you lose, write 450.

Cool down with a brisk walk. Write 300 words.

[scribblewise]

A friend suggested rock climbing to me as a physical sport to try out, and honestly I'm very interested. There's a place fairly nearby that's, in terms of gym membership, not a totally outrageous cost. But still, the poor in me is saying no: find a core workout that's fun and much more affordable. Pilates and yoga and shit is out, that stuff is just not fun. I can't do a workout that's not fun. It has to be a means to an end.

So my brain came up with this: get some padded work gloves and kneepads and maybe a soft helmet and set up all the furniture in my home like an obstacle course to crawl around. First normal-ways, but then, halfway through you flip over and do crab crawling all over the place. This sounds very fun to me. But also rock climbing sounds fun. Maybe I'll try both.

[divinekangaroo]

Whilst waiting for my drawing program books to arrive, a couple of days ago I drew this shitty 3-minute artline scribble of my kids cuddling on the sofa.

Today I found out my son took it to his school to show off to all his friends and his teachers because he loved it so much, and I’m like:

…are you proud of me son?

*him gone bashful* yeahhhhhhhhh

[thecglcatalog]

Crawling Practice in the Baby Gym

Build strength in those dimpled thighs with the Crawl-Ee-Ciser!  Perfect for enhancing busy baby’s ability to get around on their knees — without turning them loose unsupervised — this all-fours alternative to the treadmill is all about strengthening the thighs and lower back so littles can serve you better as cute-bottom crawlers and doggy-style dandlers!

Crawl-Ee-Ciser locks baby’s front in place but lets little legs pump busily … and vibrates, too!  Here’s how it works:

An integrated collar strap attaches baby’s neck to the central post, which can slide about or be secured to the floor with its optional anchor foot.   Either way, it swivels so baby can swing its backside back and forth, and it has a sturdy thread eye for securing wrists, too! Then, each lower leg secures into a connected slider … and it’s exercise time!  

Built-in rewards, too, as each slider’s wheels power the movements of a deep, rumbling no-batteries vibratory bulb.  Set the bulb against little one’s genitals, and your slave can pleasure itself by moving the thighs past each other, building up grace and speed in crawling actions.

Each Crawl-Ee-Ciser comes with a matching pair of nipple bells.  Anchor its foot inside a small closet to create the perfect crawling-practice cage … or in a corner so baby’s bottom swivels sadly from wall to wall while it faces the corner for time-out … or in an open space so your cute crawler can go in silly little circles!

[stillgotglitteronmyteeth]

God i hate having to give my opinion on any piece of art no matter the media cos it almost systematically makes me feel like im underqualified or dumb and definitely should shut up

[likeadevils]

Claire… why do you know so much about the beatles

oh baby that’s not even scratching the surface of the thing i can tell you about those four fucking weirdos

[carrionsflower]

bro i would not wish vertigo on my worst enemy

[dovesnest]

-

[thelovelybitten]

bad news: I'VE FUCKING EXPOSED MYSELF AS A SOUTH PARK FANFICTION WRITER TO MY PROFESSOR BC I FORGOT TO REPLACE STAN'S NAME IN THE VERY LAST PARAGRAPH HBGHBSDBGKSDBKJGBSKJBSKBBKSBGBBGIBI I'M GOING TO OFF MYSELF

good news: i got a 95 on the assignment

[lopmon1234]

[chloelouygo]

I bought a linkin park cd today and my mum has already stolen it for her car-

[miraeism]

food as of late feb 24 (featuring some roasted veggies, homemade carrot cake with carrots I chopped up super small by hand because I don’t own a grater, a kerala style egg curry, homemade gnocchi pasta, homemade bread that I fucked up a little and ended up tasting like sour dough, burgers made with said bread, and a thai inspired salad with fried tofu jalapeño crushed cashews roasted potatoes and chickpeas as well as a peanut sauce dressing!)

[autumnhobbit]

mediocrely did two stretching routines today

[datacorn]

The evolution of Social Anxiety.

[10bmnews]

Sharpen Your Mind With These 5 Simple Somatic Exercises

Last Updated:June 26, 2025, 19:35 IST Somatic exercises focuses on increasing the body awareness and releasing physical tension through mindful and gentle movements. These exercises calm the nervous system and improve the body-brain connection. (AI Generated Image) Staying focused and remembering things can be hard these days. But memory isn’t just about the brain; it’s also connected to the…

[tobeholyistobeempty]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

find part two here.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you���re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”